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be-ready-when-i-say-go · 2 months ago

Text

methodology

when it comes to studying you, being exactly what you need, joe is a fucking expert. he is a man of the facts, of the results tried and true.

a finale.

sleepyhead--passion pit

pulldrone--ethel cain

fem!reader insert. CW: 18+ content (smut heavily described, fingering [fem receiving], back shots, unprotected sex in an established relationship), BDSM dynamics described.

sub!joe masterlist | joe burrow masterlist | main masterlist

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Joe considers himself a man of science.

A man that’s calculating and aware—always aware even when it’s painful to be aware, when it’s easy to be aware, when Joe doesn’t even realize he’s being aware. A job he’s doing 24/7. He likes the tangible. Though the intangible fascinates him, makes him feel the wonder of a child again, Joe is a man of the facts, of the calculus and precision in execution on the field and off it too. He knows how you like to dress, knows that you hate turtlenecks because they make you too hot. He knows that you like your canned drinks high up in the fridge door and he likes down low—so there are corners that are never filled with condiments even when there’s no aluminum or plastic left to fill the empty pockets.

He is a man of the precise outcome thanks to observation, hypothesis, testing, and results. A man of science.

So when he returns to the house and it is still, though the washing machine whirs, and the scent of a candle permeates—light and warm as it reminds him of freshly laundered sheets and hot chocolate over the distinct smell of disinfectant—he takes his shoes off at the door with no questions. No hesitations.

Because that’s what he should do, what he’s supposed to do. The floors don’t look wet. However, Joe’s been here before, knows you’ve probably spent the mid morning sweeping, and mopping, scrubbing at corners Joe wouldn’t have thought to clean. He knows when he settles the grocery bags into the kitchen, he’ll need to wipe down any crumbs that may fall.

You started the morning easy—breakfast before some light dusting. Joe took the trash out to the bins. He double checked the list he started the night before about what was needed around the house. He collected your dry cleaning that you’d been meaning to drop off for three weeks but seemingly never got around to. A task Joe thinks you forget so often because you’re never in the closet longer than it takes to grab the outfit he picked should he have done so or longer than you need to assemble your own fit for the day.

He took your car, had the mats cleaned, took it through the car wash, gassed it up. Meandered to the cleaners, stopped by the florist for an order that he’d pick up on his way back home, went to the grocery store, collected the flowers and returned home to the smell of the candle burning and freshly cleaned floors. The only thing missing Joe muses is the sound of music. But the stairs groan just as he sets the vase onto the kitchen island, a soft clack of the glass meeting the marble.

Your hum trails over to Joe first. Hears you as you grow closer and closer, even over the rustling and rummaging of the brown paper bags. You would and have thrown a fit if Joe forgets a reusable tote bag and uses plastic bags. He doesn’t want a repeat of that—the cutting side glances, the harsh huffed exhales. It’s an attitude that never lasts long, but the annoyance pulls at your lips, brings your whole face down. The look is stern, worse than a look he’s ever gotten because of a dropped pass, or a wobbly spiral. A look that makes Joe want to hide and he’s never wanted to do that—not even with his own parents.

Joe could call it an obsession-his desire to do things just right for you, perfect for you. But he won’t. It is a sacred trigonometry, a practice and ritual that he studied over and over again until he could recite it. Eyes closed, in the dark, Joe is not obsessed. He is only studying. He is only calculating. He is only testing and observing, stowing away, a quiet stewardship. You are his and he’s going to do everything, every little thing in his power to keep it that way, do you right by you. For all that you do for him.

It is only fair. The scales can never, and should never be, out of balance.

Your palm presses into the back of his neck, thumb falling to one side, your pointer and middle finger trailing up into his hair, the rest falling to the opposite side of his neck. Your touch engulfs him. Not just his neck, but everywhere. He feels the tender touch radiating down every inch of him.

“How’s your neck?”

Joe woke to a burning in his neck and shoulder, not helped by the way he slid off your chest in his sleep. Or maybe you slid away from him. You both run hot and though Joe loves to press his face into your sternum, nose brushing against the soft edges of your breasts to sleep, inhaling the scent of you, it’s rarer now for that position to last through the entire night. Someone, usually you, gets too hot. But Joe can survive it, and would live right there in the valley of your breasts between the hard bone of your ribs and the soft tissue. He wants to live there. Though there is beauty in the fact that even in your sleep, even if you two slip apart, the other is not too far behind. Joe finds you, even in his sleep. You find him, even in yours. Always touching, even if it’s just the drape of an arm over a waist.

However, the awkward angle caught up to Joe and his neck and shoulder ached when he woke. He was up first, even when he didn’t have a reason to be. He tried to work it out himself under the steady stream of hot water. It worked enough for Joe to continue on, get dressed, let you rouse awake on your own while he did some morning stretches. But the ache didn’t go away totally. It held on in protest, and probably out of spite too. All throughout breakfast, as he got ready to go out, the ache pulsated.

The muscle of his shoulder jumps a little when the flat of your fingers turns into the bony press of your knuckle. It doesn’t hurt like a hot fire. It aches, a low grade sting. The pressure is nice but it reminds earnestly that he hadn’t worked whatever it was—a knot, a strain?— fully out.

“Still stiff,” Joe murmurs.

“Thank you for the flowers,” you comment, still behind him. Your second hand joins in, pressing at the opposite side. It gives with relative ease thankfully due to the muscle not being constricted totally. “Want me to try and work it out for you?”

Your fingers press firmly but not maliciously over his shoulder, down towards his chest before you do the three finger press back down towards his shoulder blades and back. Each press is a test, watching, waiting, assessing. When you press at the juncture of his neck and shoulder, Joe lets out a soft huff at the tension, at the sting.

“If you don’t mind after we get the last of this put away,” Joe whispers around your soft apology.

“Sorry, baby. I don’t mind.”

It’s quiet work as you pick up the other bag—avocados and onions that you asked for resting inside of it amidst the bag of jasmine rice, green chilis, jarred salsa. The pantry door is silent as it opens and clicks softly close after all the items are tucked away. The last pieces that remain all go upstairs—toilet paper, more travel sized toothpaste tubes for travel Joe knows you have coming up next week, a lightbulb to replace the one that finally went out in his office.

“Meet in the bathroom,” you command softly after the two of you reach the second floor. You slip the package of toilet paper from between his ribs and arm, hand stretched out for the small toothpaste.

There’s no fight in Joe. So he hands it all over before he nods. Joe turns into his office, the shuffle of the plastic alerting him that you’re walking further down the hallway. It takes no more than two minutes to unscrew the burnt out bulb from the base and screw in the replacement. He anticipated that the upstairs hall closet would still be cracked open. That you’d be still rummaging to get the package onto the shelf.

But the hallway is empty.

He carries on though, to the bedroom through the closet into the bathroom. Like he was told and you’re leaned up against the sink. Your vanity stool pulled out and situated in front of you. Joe settles into the seat, his back to you. “Other way.” It’s a soft ask. “Face me.”

A hum crawls out of his chest and he turns bit by bit until you fill his vision. The baggy t-shirt cropped, the athleisure shorts high waisted, and yet, the gap between both garments reveals a strip of your belly. Enough skin to show and tempt, but not enough to give away the whole game--a couple inches at best.

“Spread,” you state, your bare foot tapping at Joe’s ankles. He takes notes that the deep red polish is just starting to chip. The weather’s breaking again—spring giving way to summer.

“I’m going to make a pedicure appointment for you. Get those toes back in tip top shape,” Joe comments as he eases his legs open wider, gaze raising to watch your movements.

You started doing pedicures at home in the winter with Joe picking the color—a nice ritual on his days off during the season for you to both take things slow, have intentional time together in the midst of hectic schedules and responsibilities. But Joe knows it’s not the same as going to the salon and does want you to have a little treat too.

You slip your ring--the ring--off your left ring finger, hanging it on the small metal heart shaped hook Joe installed. There’s one here in the bathroom, one in the kitchen, one in the laundry room, and one in the home gym. A safe place for sapphire decorated ring rest--a pear shaped cut sapphire in the middle, two crescent moon blue gems on the side with diamond accents at the top and bottom of the pear cut gem. Joe had it custom made as a set, the band still tucked away in a separate box hidden away between the rolls of his socks. Not that he needs to hide it anymore. Not now. But Joe likes the secret. Likes having just one more thing up his sleeve.

“The toes thank you,” you hum. “Still need you to pick the color though.”

“I’ll tell Veronica when I book the appointment,” Joe agrees, referencing your nail tech by name.

“I wait with baited breath to see what selection you will make.”

The oil has a sweet floral smell. Over the echoing as you rub your hands together, Joe catches the soft lavender scent. He doesn’t waste another second and eases his t-shirt up and over his head. The cotton drops to the tiled bathroom floor without sound. Your thumbs and fingers pull damn near expertly at his flesh, a steady thumb over and tug, thumb over and tug.

“How’d you know?” Joe asks in a whisper. He means about this neck, but can’t get the words out over his lips. You’ll understand though, here what he’s not saying.

As you slip in closer to his body, he takes hold of your thighs, easing his thumb over the skin and muscle. Joe didn’t say one word about his neck to you at all. The two of you laughed instead in the kitchen while cooking. Joe drizzled blueberries into the pancake mix. You whisked at eggs. There were kisses, sweet little pecks stolen between rounds of laughter and the click of glasses frames meeting because there’s few times that you both wear them. And there’d been not a single word about how his neck and shoulder ached.

“Saw you rubbing at it all morning.”

Now that—that Joe did do. He did try to quietly work at the ache between pancake flips. Your fingers ease over his skin, skirting around something. The tips of your nails—almond like he likes— are gentle. “Didn’t want to worry you,” Joe answers though no question has been asked verbally. He can feel it though in the slight pause of your work.

“I’ll always see it though.”

It’s the only warning you give before your work resumes. The flat of your knuckles dragging over the muscle now. Not digging, but smoothing out. A deep steady pressure from just below his ear down and out over his shoulder. It hurts in the same way foam rolling out his thighs from practice hurts in a way that lets Joe know it’s working. And fuck, if it’s not working.

Joe drops his head into your shoulder, a low long groan pulled out from his chest. His nose scrunches up, fingers aching to curl into your thighs to ease the sting but not giving into the desire. He focuses on his breathing, counts his inhales and matches that to his exhales. Willing his muscles to ease at your work rather than tense like they so desperately want to.

“I swear you were an athletic trainer in a past life,” Joe huffs when the passes stop.

His exhaled relief echoes in your exhaled laughter. “I watch videos.” Your arm settles into his left shoulder, meets around his back at the right side of his neck.

Joe peels his head out from the comfort of you. His brows meet in the middle of his forehead. But part of him is sure he hallucinated the sentence. “You watch videos?” Joe asks. You nod, two bobs of your head for the affirmative. “Why are you watching videos?”

“Just in case. Now, rest into me. Not done yet.” You pat at your chest, the coax for Joe to settle in.

There’s a sincerity on your face, the pull of determination over your features. It was his job to love in those quiet ways. It was your job to love in those loud ways. And maybe Joe’s been quantifying this all wrong from the start. Or maybe, just maybe, as he watches over your face, the truth is somewhere between--that the two of you have been learning to love each other in quiet and loud ways the entire time. That rather than just one way or another, there’s been the slow seep of your preferred love languages melting together in a single sentence: I watch videos.

“So you watch videos,” Joe concludes. He likes the way it sounds, likes what it means—that you’re watching, and calculating, and collecting just like he was.

There’s another coax—a soft pat, pat of your fingers into your bones. It’s hardly an inch-half at best-but Joe eases into you more. His head resting now into the crook of your neck. The thumping of your heart reverberating through your bone and tissue and against his eardrum. The tip of his fingers dance along the bottom hem of the shorts over your soft skin. You hold Joe’s head close to your body. Your breath wisps down over the tips of his ear. “Did you sleep on it wonky?”

“You left me hanging,” Joe laughs.

“I probably got hot.”

“I’ll make the room a freezer next time.”

“No, you just need to leave my boobs alone.”

When you release his shoulder from between your fingers, Joe eases down, taking a gentle graze at the meat of your breast over the shirt. “Never,” he whispers and then straightens back up.

“I want a bite of your ass next.”

“I think that can be arranged.” The end of his retort is squeezed out around his hiss. The aching again, the sign that whatever you’re doing is working.

“I know, baby.” The softest coo in your voice washes over him, from the top of his head down to the bottom of his feet. You know that it hurts. You know that it’s working. You know that if Joe could’ve worked this kink out himself he would have. You know if even if he did, you’d still notice his discomfort.

The hold is the worst part. The deep-and now digging-hold is absolutely the worst part. But your voice soothes from above, the countdown slow but not agonizing, “Five, four, keep breathing, two, one.”

You release the point, heel of your palm easing up and down over his shoulder and neck. No pressure or weight, just the slide--an attempt to ease the ache. Joe inhales again. Just under the lavender of the oil he catches the hints of your lotion. The earthy edge of something sweet, like shea butter or coconut. Joe knows the bottle by sight, but can’t recall the scent right now. All he can do is just inhale, take in the scent of you and singe his nostrils with it, tattoo it onto the interior of his lungs.

“Don’t want to overwork it. So we’ll stop there.”

Joe gives a test roll as he eases away from your body, works his neck side to side and then around. It pulls less. Still thrums low, a weak and thready pulse of pain, but nothing like this morning. “It’s a bit better. Thanks, doc.”

“I’ve been promoted. Does it come with a raise?”

Joe snorts as he laughs, hands splayed around your waist. “Your raise is hanging on that wall.” He nods over to the ring.

Your gaze doesn’t follow, doesn’t need to. Joe thinks he’s caught you more in the last three weeks staring down at your left hand more than he’s ever seen. Granted, no engagement ring was there prior. At least Joe knows he made a good choice. You and him studied rings—fleetingly, in passing, in giggles under the bed sheets as something to pass the time but always knowing it was on the horizon eventually. When out in new cities, Joe would stop by jewellers there, send you pictures of rings he thought you might like, FaceTimed you a few times just to get your thoughts. But he was cataloguing. No solitaire settings, no silver, no rose gold. Sets were better since the wedding band would need to match with the engagement ring. No square cuts. Nothing too bulky. He was storing it all away. You liked the idea of a colorful stone, but nothing clashy. Had to be classy and elegant.

Joe wanted something sentimental and a little bit bold. He wanted a stone and a metal that would be durable. Wanted something that rang so thoroughly of you there would be no mistaking it. Joe stumbled into sapphire while in LA. Bored, he found a small local jeweller while searching for something to do. And there in the case a sapphire ring sat, not the one Joe had made, but a gold ring with a sapphire circular starburst in the middle and he knew right then and there what you needed, what would be right for you.

The press of your lips is soft, no longer the pecks from the morning. These are deeper as you wind your arms around his neck. A kiss that’s filled with comfort and warmth, a kiss that makes you hum just a little as you pull away. “I like that raise. A lot.”

Your nails trace down over his chest, a reverent touch—methodical as you go. Joe grins at the slight tickle. “You also like that I’m shirtless right now too.”

“Sue me,” you laugh, “for thinking you’re hot.”

“Don’t tempt me with a good time.”

“I think it’s in my job description actually.”

Joe traces his nose along the line of your jaw, grinning into your skin. “I don’t think that’s in the hippocratic oath.” He seals the sentence with a kiss along the muscle up to your cheek. “Thank you. For helping.”

“You don’t have to thank me. I’d always help.” Because you always see him. Always. And he always sees you.

His hands fill with your ass, a tight and bruising grip, before he kisses you again. Because Joe is always going to say thank you. It’s the way it’s supposed to go. Neither one of you has to do any of this—there are a thousand fates. But you are here in his hands. He is embraced by your arms. Joe simply would never choose anything else but this. Not when he can taste the peppermint you snuck at some point after he left on your tongue. Not when you hum into him, a sound full of content—at ease with everything.

The chime is faint—a series of three beeps that denote the washer is done. Joe knows that the clothes should be changed promptly. That undoubtedly, there’s a second load waiting to be washed while the first one is dried. But he lingers on the press of your lips for just a moment longer, swipes into your parted mouth, to savor. To swallow you down if he could. To be swallowed down if he could be. Only to be rewarded with such sweet revelry when you moan into his mouth, fingers tangling up into the threads of his hair.

It’s only a stool he’s on. Just big enough for him to sit and not feel like he's falling off the sides of it, and definitely not big enough for the two of you. He briefly wonders about the weight limit as you hitch one knee up over his hip. You break the kiss though, forehead pressed into his. “We’re not breaking furniture. I’m not going to break furniture, even if I really want to.”

Joe laughs. “Fair. I’ll go switch the laundry over so we don’t break furniture. Well, not today at least.”

“The forecast is cloudy for the rest of today actually, so who knows.”

“Chances I’m willing to take.”

Joe follows your movements, bent over his seated frame. But gets distracted, follows the line of your spine down to the meat of your ass—a glorious sight if he’s ever had to say so himself. It’s a playful tap, should hardly sting, and your laughter confirms it. You straighten back up, his shirt tossed over your shoulder, your arms folded over chest. He can tell you’re not wearing a bra but Joe doesn’t mind that fact. Your arched brow dares him. A silent threat. Joe’s a man of tried and true results. He doesn’t reach for the shirt. Just waits, his hand out, palm up, for his shirt to be returned.

“Laundry won’t change itself.”

There’s no need to ask. Joe won’t be getting his shirt back. He scoots back the stool to stand, and when he does, he can only grin. “Enjoying the show?”

“Just keeping an eye on your neck.”

Keeping an eye, he’s sure. But Joe slides past and starts towards the laundry room. Sure enough, a second basket is waiting—towels, pillowcases, at the top of the full basket. The first load is a mixture of his clothes and yours, but he’s careful as he pulls the items out, keeping an eye out for anything delicate that can’t go into the dryer.

The door to the dryer clicks close. Joe stares ahead, setting the temperature and cycle time. He’s not sure when you slipped into the laundry room, rather silently, he must admit. But Joe can feel your heated stare on his back. Eyes that stalk his every move, as he loads in the bath towels and the sheets, as he adds in the detergent, reaching for the plastic cap on the jug before squeezing at the knob at the bottom to dispense the liquid.

He can feel you everywhere. Has always been able to do so.

Rather than being anxious about it, rather than worrying about why you’re staring, Joe continues on, setting the cycle on the washer, pressing for fast spin and a heavy soil level. The machine dings and chimes with every press. You hate the washer. Wanted something that had the agitator in the middle. But this washer hasn’t crapped out on the two of you yet, so it remains. Joe knows when you’re doing laundry because you curse at the machine every single time. Any chance you get.

The machine starts after Joe’s long press to the start, the lock falling into place to seal the door shut. Like deer on roads with headlights flashing, Joe freezes at the slide of your palm over his lower back. Feels every point of your ten digits as you climb up his spine. Unlike prey that knows when it’s going to be eaten, that danger is present and wants to fight to survive, Joe gives in. He can’t move. Even if he wanted to, your palm is such a comfort over his shoulder blade he simply could not and cannot resist it.

He hums, skin and sinew melting into your touch. “Should I ask the occasion?” The question stumbles off Joe’s lips when your hands skirt over his shoulders, tracing teasing lines over his abdomen.

“Just love you, that's all.”

The ring is warm—your body heat shared with the metal. But Joe feels it, the thin press of the band around his skin. He likes the added bite and scrap of the band over his skin, a way to say his without any words. A way to show devotion even when he’s thousands of miles away. Your lips are soft over the lines of his middle back, a series of pecks into his spine.

“Telling me I need an occasion to love on you?” you quip. It’s a little biting, like you want him to challenge him.

Joe’s a man of the facts. This is not a need. You don’t sound like you need it. A jest all the way through. “No, I’m not saying that.”

Because Joe’s not a fool. He’s not a fool in the slightest. But he is a sucker for you. Wouldn’t dream of saying no to you as you tease the tips of your nails along the band of his shorts. If Joe ever wondered if his default was fight or flight, he’s learning with you, like this, the graze of your teeth over his skin, he can only melt. He can only let his eyes flutter close as your hand slips down further not into his underwear, just over him, a heavy press that makes his lower stomach swirl with anticipation.

“Missed you. When you left.”

The confession is nearly drowned out by the guzzle of the washing machine, finally adding in the water into the drum. Joe blinks the laundry room back into his vision. But he hears it, the almost crack in your voice. His spin is smooth, one arm lacing around your ribs and waist. “Just went to the store, baby.”

And sure, there were other stops and things too, but he’d only been gone two hours top. Joe watches, tracing over the lines of your face, the perfect pout of your lips. You promised not to go looking on social media anymore. He trusted you; doesn’t think there’s anything so far that proves to the contrary.

The question though is primed on his lips, ready for him to ask it. Joe doesn’t get the chance to ask it as you’re stretching up, holding his face like it might break if you press too hard, like he might shatter. You hold him like the moment might fall into dust. “Just missed you. Left before I could plead my case to tag along.”

The pout is tiny and amusement dazzles behind your eyes. Joe laughs, slipping his hold lower around you before hoisting you up and placing you on the washer. It rumbles and shakes beneath you, tickles at Joe’s bones while he traces the apple of your cheek. “You’re telling me you wanted to run errands with me?”

“I love running errands with you, Joe. You know this.”

He does know that. Because he loves it too. Joe found himself reaching for the passenger seat, to rest his hand on your knee, but you weren’t there. Joe Burrow is a fucking sucker for you and he doesn’t care what soul on earth knows that fact either.

“You were the one that suggested divide and conquer as the strategy,” he grins, knows he’s poking the bear.

“I know. It was before I realized I’d miss you.”

His fingers thread the loop of your ear, cupping your face before he eases the inches closed. Your sigh is content into his mouth, a purr that crawls down his chest. It pools at the bottom of his feet, fills him from the bottom back up again. “Well, I’m right here,” he whispers against your lips. “And we have time.”

Because the responsibilities won’t be neglected, they’ll just be regulated to the backburner temporarily. Whatever else that should happen will have to wait. You lay claim to Joe’s mouth—a greedy kiss as you pull him in further and further into you. He teases at the skin of your thighs, tracing the lines of you up and underneath the shirt. He doesn’t even need to ask, doesn’t need to tell you to show him just how much you missed him because it’s in every kiss, in the trail of your fingers over his skin.

Your palm presses into the front of his throat, not hard enough to do anything, just a cupping and Joe grins in the kiss, hums at the the feeling of your kisses down his jaw. He trails his fingers over your forearms, defenseless and bare as you kiss down his skin, over the tender muscles you just worked over. Your nose works into the juncture of his neck and shoulder. The inhale is deep, echoes around the growl of the dryer.

“God.”

It’s one word, but falls heavy with ache from your lips. You moan into his neck, fingers squeezing just a hair as you slip closer to the edge of the washer, legs winding around his waist as you do so. The press is not enough to cut off his air. Joe can still get a deep inhale. It’s just enough pressure to remind Joe that you could. If you really wanted to, if he asked, if he begged you could restrict the airflow, make the top of his head go fuzzy.

His fingers are digging into the squish of your waist, to keep himself at bay, grounded. Because he’s here in your shared home—in the laundry room, on the first floor. But your mouth is hot. Your touch is searing, going to leave blisters in the wake, and Joe can’t think of anything else he could want. Except maybe the whine of you cumming, the huffed and strangled moans that you push out from your chest when he’s sucking at your nipples, teasing the sensitive bud of yours with the tips of his fingers. He wants that too and he’ll get to it. He will. Just for the moment, for the sliver of time, he wants to be here, pinned to the floor with your hand around his throat, your mouth working sloppy kisses across his chest.

“Off, please,” he hums, letting his eyes flutter open, curling the hem of your t-shirt into his fists. He’s not going to take, not going to rush, or lead. That’s not his style, not here, doesn’t need to be his style here. Joe’s going to be clear, going to ask for the thing he—you.

He’s mortal, human, devoted to you. And God, is he ready to show you his devotion as you peel the cotton off your torso.

The shirt slips to the floor with thought or care and Joe never hesitates, is never unsure. Not with you in his hands, not with your nipple suckled between his lips, not with the delicate tease of your nails, or the shaky exhaled moans that echoes between your bodies. There’s never a need for insecurity here. It serves no purpose here. There is only you and him. The heat of your bodies. The taste of your skin. Your fingers in his hair, tugging, pulling, taking.

Claimed without selfishness. Offered up with enthusiasm. Understood without judgement. Compassion with dedication.

A benediction.

There’s no salvation needed here because nothing is lost, not to Joe, not with you. He could never be lost. Could never need saving from another being or creature. Not with the flesh of you in his mouth. Not with the pads of your fingers easing over his nipples, stirring at the hot delicious stew of arousal in his lower gut.

There is the hum. The satisfaction of bruised lips from kisses, wet chins, and slicked over fingers. Joe’s teasing between your slit, collecting the juice of you from that holy center. Knows that when he swallows, when he drags his fingers over his tongue he’s going to get his fix. If such a thing as God exists, and if such a thing as sin is fathomable, Joe wants every sin he’s ever committed to involve you.

Because when, or should he say if, he ever goes to Hell, he does not ever want to forget the way you taste, the way you smell, the way you say his name in a command, slip the roots of his hair between your fingers and ease his head back. He wants to remember the way your skin looks with the slight sheen of sweat and his saliva. Joe is going to commit to memory, engrave into the grooves of corneas, the way you smile at him, clean his lips with the pad of your thumb before pulling on his bottom lip.

This, here, in his hands in gospel. You are text. You are prayers. You, and only you, could damn him, could save him. Could crucify him. Could starve him of every thought. Make him bleed and beg.

Your grin is slow and menacing. “Open.”

His jaw falls before Joe can think twice about it. You ease his fingers, still delved under the cotton of your panties up and towards his lips. His tongue rolls out of his mouth with ease, knows you want him to taste you like this. But just before his fingers touch by the work of your ministrations, you tilt his head back, easing your head forward. “My mouth is salivating watching how badly you want this.”

Because fuck if Joe doesn’t want to taste you. His groan echoes up his chest. “Need it,” is all he can get out over his lips. God, does Joe need it.

“Want an appetizer first?”

It crosses his mind that this is the appetizer, but he sees the gleam, the edge and itch of your hips on the washer, like you need him to say,

“Yes.”

Both your hands cradle his head. Joe keeps still, tongue out, mouth open. Your tongue crawls out of your mouth, a wad of spit teasing the pink tip. Joe watches every second that he can, as the glob of spit eases down, gravity taking over. The trail of spit falls slowly, creeping down to his tongue. When it lands, when your tongue curls back up and you beam at him, he pulls his tongue back in, drinks down the spit with a hum. Feels the dopey grin as it slinks over his face—a taste of you. Not the taste. Yet, it dances over his buds, sinks into him that it’s still you.

“And the chaser,” you purr, bringing his fingers back to his lips.

This taste of you is heaven in the most sinful way possible. All Joe can do is give in, close his eyes at the taste of you. Fuck, does he love the taste of you.

Joe loses himself somewhere between the suckling he does at his own fingers and the dig of your nails into his shoulders. The shorts you wear have been eased away--his doing or yours doesn’t really matter. All that does is the way you whine in his ear, the way your body shakes at the work of his fingers in you, thumb teasing over your clit, and the rumble and spin of the washer. There’s a perfect synchronization of the echoing of your arousal pushed between the webbing of his fingers and the hitch of your breathing. A sound Joe pleads with himself to never forget, to remember, remember, remember, remember.

Remember the way you choke on his name. How you coax him.

“So fucking good to me,” meeting with the “Only you can do this to me. Make me ravenous.”

All circling in his brain, all swirling, making his cock ache that he’s the one doing this to you, for you. That only he makes you feel this way. Assured at every step, every juncture, that it is Joe. Always him.

Your pussy pulsates around his fingers. The telltale sign that your orgasm isn’t too far behind. And Joe does not let up. Only keeps going. Only keeps trying to commit to memory the way your brows pinch together. The way you smile even around the slight grimace. The way you watch him--a mixture of pride and delight painting over your face.

Like you wouldn’t have this any other way. Like this couldn’t happen any other way.

And if Joe’s honest, it couldn’t. Should any one thing move, or be different, this dynamic would shift and it wouldn’t work. If you hadn’t bumped into him in that cafe, if you hadn’t handed over your business card with, if you hadn’t scribbled down your phone number to pay for the spot you left on his shoes after jostling his chest, if Joe hadn’t been bold enough to call you thirty seconds later, you two wouldn’t be here. Joe wouldn’t be working you to the brink of your orgasm on top of the washer, begging into your neck, “Going to make you cum. Make you feel so good. Don’t you worry. Need just as much as you do. Going to give it to me?”

Even in a thousand universes, with a thousand and one fates, there is only one fate that places you both here and Joe would pick this fate, the dance of you and him like this—hungry and committed, insatiable and honored—a thousand and two times over.

He would change nothing. He’d ask for nothing else. Why would anyone mess with a fate as good as this one?

Joe is a man of science, knows just how much pressure is too much, know just how rough you like it. He knows when and how you’re going to kiss him. He knows how you’re going to take him—and at times how he’s going to take you at your request— just by the glint in your eyes. By the way your smile curls more to the left than to the right. Knows that one orgasm won’t be enough. Knows he’s not satisfied with just one either when it comes to your pleasure.

Knows that he set the washer’s ‘Fan Fresh’ setting on for a fucking purpose.

Your orgasm is guttural, all expletives before his name and it is deep. Your stomach quakes, arms shaking around him as you come. You’re not down long, even with Joe’s fingers inside of you. He can feel you dripping down his palm still. You only take a beat, maybe two, head pressed into his shoulder.

Inhale, two, three. Exhale, two, three, four. Joe counts the seconds and then your head rises, kisses scattered over his freshly shaven face. “Do you think that table’s strong enough to handle us?”

Joe thought having the folding table in the laundry room was silly at first. But it proved useful so it never felt like he was stopping a task to move rooms between the clothes drying and them getting folded. The table’s probably not wide enough to lay you across, or meant to support your combined weight. But it is, hopefully, sturdy enough.

“I think we’re going to find out,” Joe whispers back, hoisting you yet again. “From behind?”

Part of Joe wants to hear you say it. He knows it’s going to sound heavenly from your lips. But the other part of him, of this dynamic is about the explicit permission. He doesn’t want to do anything that you don’t want. Just wants to make sure that his calculations are indeed correct, like checking homework to the answer key. It’s important to Joe; it’s important to how the two of you operate.

“Please, from behind.”

This time when Joe sets you down, it’s feet to the floor, your back to him before you ease yourself over the table top. Leaves Joe with a perfect fucking view of your ass and spine, god such a perfect fucking spine. It only takes a few seconds to slip his shorts down. Only a few more seconds for him to ease himself out of his shorts and boxers.

“Sure?” Joe asks, eases over you, bent to press three kisses along your spine.

“I want you to take me.”

The growl pushes up Joe’s throat. Just what he needed to hear. It’s easy to slide in, the slick of you sucking him in. The quick contraction of your cunt makes Joe almost stutter. The table taps, taps, taps, with the rhythm of Joe’s hips. You are everywhere. Wrapped around him, beneath his palm, echoing off the solid wood table top back into his ears. And Joe wants to drown it.

“Fuck, Joe, you’re holding back. Don’t hold back. Want it rough.”

I missed you. Joe will make sure you can’t miss him. Not now. Never again.

His thrusts are relentless, the harsh echoing of thighs meeting, of your ass smacking into his pelvis. It drowns out the rather loud gurgle, and spin, and whir of the machines behind the two of you. All Joe catches is the clap, clap, clap, around your muffled exhales with your cheek almost resting against the wood.

But you want it rough and Joe’s going to deliver, holds you by the back of the neck, so you stay perfectly arched for him. Not a hold strong enough to hurt, one Joe thinks a gentle breeze could break, but you stay there, let him hold you there, with the perfect echoing of your bodies meeting over and over and over again.

The metal legs scrap against the floor with the heavy blows. Your voice a chanted chorus, “Yes, yes, fuck, just like that.”

“Shit,” Joe hisses, feeling your cunt convulse around him. Your orgasm blinding him, but clearly not you. It’s tight, makes him almost stop.

“Don’t you fucking dare,” you commands, cheek now pressed against the wood. You still clench, making him work for each stroke. “C’mon, baby. Need you to let go. Come for me. Earn it.”

With teeth gritted, Joe can only work slowly through the pulses. Earn it. God, does Joe want it, want to coat the inside of you with his seed, make another move to call you his like that. Joe moves slow and deliberate, changes the angle that he’s working at, holding his hand full of your hips and drives into you, one slow punctuated thrust at a time.

Earn it.

“C’mon. Right there, right fucking there,” you hum.

“Fucking hell,” Joe cries, feelings how tense his thighs are, are close he is to the edge. He’s teetering on it. Toes slipping off the ledge.

“Make a mess of me.”

God, is he. God, he will. Over and over again, he would. As many times as you’d let him, as many times as you’d want it. Joe knows he’s going to unravel, feels the thick tension, the twist of his stomach go around, and around. So close, he’s so fucking close. One more thrust. Then another. All shaky, and stuttered, his body hot, begging for the release.

“Please,” he whimpers. To whom and for what he’s begging, Joe doesn’t know. He can only tell that he’s at his end, at the very very end.

“Let go. Give in to me, baby.”

Permission.

As he comes, Joe’s sure he’s lost his head for good. He’s not sure he’s actually breathing. He’s not sure his lungs know their job or if his brain does either. There’s only the heat of release, a feeling that eases down his spine. Joe melts into the feeling, careful not to fall into you, and holds himself over you, his palms pressed into the table on either side of your head--your bodies still joined. His last few waves of his orgasm make his stomach jump.

The room is a ringing of labored breathing. The drag over his arm is light and Joe’s slow to blink himself back to reality. As he does, there’s you, resting on your elbows, teasing shapes over his forearm. Easy loops and letters, I <3 U etched into his skin with invisible ink.

“Love you too,” he heaves.

Joe’s lost time. He always loses time with you. It could be ten minutes, could be an hour that it takes for the two of you to duck into the first floor bathroom. The aftermath always feels a bit hazy, far away and Joe knows it’s the drop, every piece of him used up and now he’s trying to get through with depleted reserves.

Time starts to feel a bit more real after you ease him onto the couch. The glass of water is cold and keeps him aware. The shuffle of your bare feet over the floors gives Joe something to anchor onto, to listen out for. The dryer clinks open. There’s a few minutes of relative quiet and then something clicks close again. He’s not paying that much attention--just enough to know things are opening and closing.

The basket of the clean clothes makes a thwack against the floors. “Don’t touch it, mister.”

The warning is not needed twice. Joe stays on the couch, dropping his head into the cushion. “Do you need help?” He’d dreg up whatever he could muster to assist.

“Basically done now!” you call back to his question.

A couple minutes later the cushions to his right sink and Joe turns, spying you next to him again. “We have a table for folding laundry, you know?” he asks with a teasing grin on his lips, watching you tilt the basket towards you for the clothes inside.

“It’s currently closed for disinfecting. Need anything else? Your neck okay?”

Joe doesn’t give a fuck about his neck anymore. But he rolls it side to side. No pulling. For now. “Ask me again in an hour. You still didn’t get a bite of my ass.”

You push at his hips with a bubble of laughter. “Turn over.”

Joe’s laughter escapes him in tufts as he gives into the shove some but not totally. You’re not totally able to move him out of the way. His size and weight help him stay put. At best you’d get his hip should you try for a bit now. “Too late. My ass is firmly on this couch.”

“We’ve got plenty of time.” Your nails ease over his scalp, pushing back some of his hair. “I’ll be here folding laundry in the meantime if you need a quick nap.”

The sapphires catch the afternoon sun through the blinds, a deep twinkle casted in his vision as he watches the ring shake and dance with your movements. There’s plenty of time. His body does feel heavy. Like it always does. The drop doesn’t feel as steep as it could be, or has been at times, so he doesn’t think he’ll be down for long.

The wet bottom of the glass against his thigh is helping too. Gives him something to latch onto but he does want to go under. Wants a protein shake and a nap. But maybe not in that order. First he wants you. Joe sets the nearly empty glass to the coffee table before burrowing into your side, head falling into your lap. Tucks his hands under your thighs.

“Twenty minutes?” It’s a low ball but just enough.

Your arm settles around his ribs—the weight easing his breath deeper into his lungs. The basket shuffles and in his fuzzy vision, Joe watches you set your feet up on the very edge of the coffee table. “How does an hour sound?”

Every second with you sounds, “Perfect.”

#joe burrow #sub!joe #joe burrow x reader #joe burrow smut #joe burrow fanfic #joe burrow imagine #joe burrow series #h writes

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nosnet · 26 days ago

Text

Past Lives (4) – Meet Me in St. Louis

by J. D. Dennis

Time Period: Early 2027

Perspective: Vyx & Flidais, April & Vince, Al & Donnie

Rating: PG-13

Content Warnings: Drama, hard conversations, lots of talk about death, characters are in situations, there’s lots of therapy, also cheese puns

Word Count: 22,816

Comments: Stop 3 – St. Louis! The Prince & her council were actually made for a different campaign, No Vacancy, and Jason was part of a campaign that died before it got anywhere (also the DM is a bitch, so there’s no respect for it anyway lol). That’s the beauty of Vampire, though – everyone is reusable with the right perspective! But this chapter does in fact feature Al getting smacked by therapy, a conversation between Vyx and Flidais that I only realized was a long time coming as I got here, and Vince finally gets caught up on life.

They weren’t sure who actually noticed it first.

They’d made decent time getting out of the mountains, once they’d gotten the belt back on the bus; it hadn’t taken very long to get everything back together, and as soon as the engine turned over, they were gone again, ripping across empty, snowy highways at speeds the bus was not entirely suited for. Maine had led back down into New York state, and they’d turned West from there, pushing through Massachusetts and West Virginia into Ohio and beyond. Once they’d crossed the Appalachian Mountains, the highway had opened up into flat land and empty abyss, with nothing on either side for miles and miles. They could see building storms in cities they wouldn’t reach for hours yet, tiny farms spotting the otherwise empty landscape.

Vyx remembered traveling those roads on a bike, years previously, the ability to just open up the throttle and go for it something they itched for as they witnessed the endless expanse in front of them. The bus wasn’t exactly fast, other cars passing them without issue, meaning the landscapes changed slowly; they could see for miles in every direction, interrupted only by the occasional bank of trees, empty farmhouse, or distant city skyline, and their visual of the world without the speed to see it all was boring, and that only made them want to cross the distance as quickly as possible. It was something in between a sense of nervous fear that being in the open left them defenseless, and the itch to just run that they hadn’t been able to satisfy for a long time. Sometimes, it just felt good to let everything go, to let the world speed past them without having to fret, without having to really pay attention to the emptiness beyond them.

That nervous fear, however, was apparently not unfounded, and it settled in harder as they moved through the flatlands towards their next destination. The bus, days later, trundled up a long bridge, crossing the Mississippi River - which served as the state border between Missouri and Illinois - passing the St. Louis Arch in the distance, a grand vision signaling their arrival, and something in Vyx’s stomach dropped as they did. They briefly looked to the others, and found that, of the faces they could see, none of them seemed delighted; this was strange, considering they’d finally reached their destination and Vyx knew nobody wanted to be stuck in the bus any more than they had been already. It meant that, whatever the hell they’d noticed, the others had noticed as well; was it the traffic? Had they seen someone they knew? Or was there an aura in the air they could all simply feel? They weren’t sure exactly what it was, or who picked up on it first, but clearly, the whole bus could feel the sinking suspicion in Vyx’s stomach that things weren’t going to go well - and then a black SUV slid into the lane next to them, quietly and without preamble, and their hackles went up at the sight. Was a black SUV necessarily dangerous? No, but there was something going wrong, they knew it, and they weren’t going to be caught off guard by it.

“Uh, I think we have an issue.” Will said, from the driver’s seat, and that had the party all but springing to the front, peering out the side and front windows like if they could just cut the top off the bus, they could see well enough to determine the problem. It wasn’t hard to figure out the issue, luckily – as they reached the bottom of the bridge, and the stoplight there, a second SUV slid into the lane to the right of the bus, and Vyx could tell the two cars were trying to keep pace on purpose. This wasn’t coincidence, this was herding. “The GPS says we need to go right, but they’re not letting me turn.”

“They’re Kindred.” Flidais supplied, her eyes flickering to something almost entirely white for a second while she checked the cars with Auspex. It was a good thing to have, and sometimes, Vyx wished they’d done more to learn it – the rest of the time they were grateful they’d found people to keep around that knew it better than they did. Molly’s appreciation of her ghoul, Claire, who’s strength was specifically in Auspex, was something Vyx suddenly understood. “Vyx, what happened last time you were out here?” Flidais asked, turning her eyes quickly to her partner, knowing that this wasn’t action but a reaction to something Vyx had done.

“I really don’t wanna talk about it.” Vyx said with a grimace, trying to calculate a solution and finding most of the options predictably bad. They hadn’t exactly made friends in St. Louis – though, to say they’d made enemies was presumptuous as well. They’d simply left a bunch of people pretty unhappy with how they’d acted and hadn’t ever apologized. For most people, that would have meant not visiting when they were in town, or a brusque conversation if they did meet, but apparently for Kindred, even just being unfriendly was a slight – either that, or there was more to Vyx’s story. “Uh, short form, I made a bit of a mess a little further West, and when I fled this way, I wasn’t exactly a peach to the local fiefdom.” They pursed their lips, watching the other side of the light turn yellow, knowing theirs would turn green and knowing Will had few options in a bus. Fighting them in the bus wasn’t it, as most of the windows didn’t open, and they couldn’t race them, either. “Just… follow them, for now. They’re probably going to get us to stop somewhere – we can figure something out then, when we know what they want. Maybe kill them, if we think we have to.”

“If it’s just that they wanna talk to you, I’m okay with letting them.” Vince said, one of the few in the back who hadn’t gotten up to gawk at the SUVs trapping them. Apparently, he wasn’t particularly worried – though, admittedly, the man had been blood bound to one of the most powerful Kindred left alive, and had been there to witness her equal getting shot in the face with a rocket; very little frightened him, at this point. It didn’t help that he’d already died, so it wasn’t like they could do anything worse to him. The light turned green, and Will allowed himself to be guided by the cars, going straight back onto the highway and traveling for a moment, the SUVs carefully keeping pace. “It might be they want to make sure you’re not causing more issues, which like. I wouldn’t fault Kana for doing that, so I can’t fault anyone else, either.”

“If they are going to kill us, however,” Al added, skeptical. “We should be ready, just in case. I don’t know how much trouble you got into out West, but I know you. The fact that you won’t talk about it means it’s bad. Not saying I want to know, exactly, but if it’s that bad, we have to be ready for them to try and kill us on sight.”

“If they were going to do that, they’d have fired on the bus.” Vince replied, lighting his cigarette languidly. He inhaled, letting the smoke collect around the lights and making the whole room a little foggy. “I might be able to make a car vanish, but I doubt that I can make this bus vanish, so it’s not like we have great egress. Not to mention, they know this city better than we do and this bus turns like a boat, so it’s not like we could lose them if we wanted to. We’re sitting ducks, and I don’t know about y’all, but I wouldn’t skip the opportunity to take out a Kindred in our position if that was my intent from the start.” He paused. “Though, I mean, I probably could make the bus vanish; technically I’ve made a whole building not be there anymore, but I haven’t tried it before and duress isn’t a good time for learning, y’know? So it’s better to assume I can’t.” He shrugged. “Point being, they have no expectation that we’d actually follow, and we have no real method for avoiding them otherwise, so if they wanted to kill us, they probably would have tried by now. The fact that they haven’t says there’s a different plan, here.”

“I’m with Vince.” April said, softly, making all heads turn to her. “I don’t think they’re trying to kill us. Kindred aren’t really… subtle about that kind of thing. There’s something else they want, and we should at least find out what. Then we can decide if fighting them is actually worth the trouble.” She shrugged. Vyx sighed.

“Yeah, alright, it’s not like I want to kill them. That would cause so much more trouble, anyway. Will, follow their lead and we’ll see what they want before we decide if we’re going to try and kill them first. But, if we get the vibe they’re here to kill, we are shooting first.” They shook their head, watching as the SUVs carefully guided the bus to an exit, pressing it off onto a lonely side street. St. Louis wasn’t a particularly large city, as far as down-town was concerned, but it sprawled outward from there, strips of businesses and re-zoned residential areas hidden behind billboards and advertisements and signs for all sorts of things. It felt industrial, which made sense, considering it was a port town before it became the city it was. The bus was guided off the highway, turning down a dark road with struggling businesses on all sides, before being turned further down a dark road that ended in a gravel lot, where it pulled up sideways to park across multiple spaces. The SUVs pressed the bus into the lot, pulling up at the entrance and closing it off, parking in such a formation that the bus wouldn’t have been able to exit again, leaving them without a way out.

“Here goes nothin’.” Vyx said, rolling their shoulders and stepping off the bus. They didn’t have their rifle, but there wasn’t a need – they were too close for it to be useful, for one, and they had enough power in their ability to tear people limb from limb that it honestly didn’t matter if they had it. It wasn’t like anyone would expect a Malkavian to bend blood and bone, after all, and the split second that occurred when expectations didn’t match reality was long enough for someone to lose a hand. They crossed their arms, watching a young woman step from the front of one SUV – she was dark haired, with almond eyes and pale-golden skin and a pursed set of lips that said she wasn’t exactly vibing with the whole meeting, either, but she was here anyway – followed by another young woman, who hopped from the other SUV’s passenger seat. The other woman had bubblegum pink hair and a sports jersey on over shorts so short they almost weren’t visible, and she carried a bat over her shoulder like she wasn’t just planning on hitting a few baseballs across a field, but a few skulls, too. “So.” Vyx said, opening their arms to the pair. “I figure you wanna talk? Phone-calls are definitely my preference, but we can do this here, if you’re really itching for it.”

“We don’t want to talk.” The pink haired woman shrugged, and Vyx could tell there were others, cronies probably, lingering in the car and just behind it, ready for a fight. Something about their setup said they were more scared of Vyx than Vyx was of them, or at least they were more concerned about the other’s unpredictable actions, at any rate. That this whole charade was because they thought Vyx was the biggest threat there – which was flattering, if a little misplaced. “The Prince, however, does, so you’re coming with us. Let’s not make this hard, okay?”

“You’re the one herding us to a back lot in the middle of fucking nowhere – which, if this was the easy option, I don’t want to know the hard one. You could have just tapped on the window and asked us to meet the Prince and we would have obliged.” Vyx grumbled, a little affronted by the request being given as it was. Were they planning on seeing the Prince before they left town? Probably not, though they were definitely supposed to. They weren’t planning on being in town long enough for it to really matter, honestly, and it felt a little overkill that they’d been herded out of downtown just to be told they had to meet the Prince. All they wanted to do was grab their box and go, but they could play a little politics – they just wished they’d been asked nicely. “Lemme guess – Sheriff, and then Scourge?” They asked, pointing first to the dark haired woman, and then to the pink haired one. The one in the jersey laughed.

“Other way around. I’m the Sheriff, here – call me Ginny. That’s Val, she’s the Scourge.” Ginny gestured to the other woman, who bared her teeth as though to prove that point. They were sharp, but not Gangrel sharp, and Vyx could tell, somewhere in their brain, that Val wasn’t any of the punchier clans. She seemed to glitter in the pale moonlight, but it was hard to tell the exact cause. The blood-visions came on slowly, sometimes; something about their separation from their sire, or Cain, meant that the blood wasn’t entirely consistent in how quickly the twisted visions arrived, or how much they covered. Some people, like Donnie, they saw immediately – but Donnie never hid who he was, where the Sheriff seemed to like being underestimated and misinterpreted. However, after only a few minutes, Vyx could at least tell that, while Ginny seemed to embody a version of Ray, the NYC bruiser they knew best, Val seemed to be entranced with the concept of combat and blood. Toreador, maybe, while the Sheriff was definitely a Brujah. The rest would probably come to them later, when they weren’t focused on not dying, and when they’d gotten the others to open up a bit. “Regardless, we can’t wait all night, so. Let’s get moving, shall we?” The Sheriff added, when Vyx hadn’t agreed to jump in the car immediately.

“Can I ask why?” Vyx asked, looking at Ginny with a curious expression. “Like, we were gonna visit, but we hadn’t even gotten into town yet. Hard to comply to the rules when we haven’t been given a chance, y’know? What have we done to make you so jumpy? I mean, besides being moving targets for the city’s well-trained sight-hounds.” Vyx said, referencing the shift of their vision, the way it seemed both girls were suddenly just greyhounds, chasing because they’d seen movement and not because they really desired the catch. Ginny made a confused face, like she hadn’t expected the Malkism, but that was the crux of having not existed before – sometimes, it took a minute for the visuals to catch up.

“Well, we have to make sure you’re not a threat to the city, considering your forays out West. That’s why.” Ginny snapped a bubble of bright pink gum, which she’d been chewing aggressively, the pink sticking to her now wet nose, and the crack almost made Vyx jump, because it felt like a threat. That if they didn’t comply, the baseball bat bully would snap them just like she snapped the gum, that they wouldn’t just hear the crack of her gum if they didn’t do as they were told. It didn’t help that the Malkism from before had Ginny a little on edge, her teeth bared in a canine growl. “Last time you blew through here, you left destruction in your wake after making a huge mess out in Kansas. We almost lost one of ours, and that’s not even getting into what happened in Wichita. We can’t have that again, so the Prince wants a chat to make sure everything’s clear and you understand where we all stand. So, unless you want to protest, here’s what’s going to happen – you’re going to get everyone off the bus, and we’re going to take you in. Separately. Two with me, two with Val, two in the bus.”

“Why go to the effort? The bus holds everyone just fine.” Al asked, stepping out onto the stairs before hopping down to the ground. They could hear the conversation from inside the bus, and that meant that they’d filed for the door at the words – it wasn’t like they wouldn’t comply, honestly, they just wanted to know why - with Al in front, trying to back up the one person left who actually sort of wanted to date him. It wasn’t worth trying to hide, considering they weren’t exactly thinking of fighting, yet, and it wasn’t like surprise was really on their side regardless. Val growled, baring sharp teeth at him like the question was stupid, and Vyx saw her teeth were perfectly symmetrical.

“The Prince knows who you all are. You don’t exactly get to save the world, as the rumors say, without getting noticed.” Val’s voice was a snarl, clearly the least pleased about the tack of the conversation; it was a strange sound to hear coming out of a young woman that otherwise looked so demure. She honestly looked like she’d have preferred to just kill them right then and there, and it was uncanny. “And she knows better than to let you all have time to plan all-together. You’re less of a problem when you’re separated. So you, smart-ass, and the bruiser behind you are coming in my car.” She pointed to Donnie, and then Al, gesturing them over.

“The sad looking one and your blue-haired hacker friend are coming with me.” Ginny gestured to Vince, and then to April, who looked startled that she was recognized as a hacker. Al made sense – he’d been running the NosNet after Pip’s demise, and that meant Ladykiller1337 had made a name for himself on the web. April, however, had kept herself clear, as far as she thought. She hadn’t even used her old screen-name since the war. “Yeah, we know what you do, Sxull. We’ve been watching the coast since 2018 – if that broke bad, we would have been next on the list, so we paid attention, and then you all did what sounded like a bunch of impossible bullshit and we kept paying attention. You’re not exactly the next big thing, but you’re more well-known than you think you are. Which is why we’re not letting you or your hacker friend ride together.” Ginny shrugged, at least not so mad about it as to be mean like the other woman; to her, this was practical, not personal. “That means you and your redheaded girlfriend can stay in the bus with the driver.” Ginny gestured to Vyx and Flidais, and Vyx looked back, only just catching a weird look on Flidais’s face at the words. Something about it stuck fast, like a dart in their chest. “Since you’re who the Prince wants to talk to, we figured leaving you in the most noticeable vehicle was probably the right move, not to mention keeping your friends at arm’s reach.”

“And don’t think about running off, or vanishing the thing, either.” Val added, like she had to cover the bases all the same. Clearly, they knew someone was a Malkavian, considering they knew someone could have vanished the bus. “Or we’ll kill one of your friends, and since they’re going to be separate, you won’t even know which one. Hope you don’t have favorites.” She grinned, something wild and feral, like she dared Vyx to try something, her canine features twisting slightly. Vyx sighed, looking to the others to see where they stood. Al looked a little miffed, but not particularly worried, as this wasn’t exactly abnormal for Kindred; Donnie looked worried, but only the normal amount, which didn’t signal much. He was worried about a lot of the things Vyx did, one way or another, and this was no exception – not to mention, his job was to be their bodyguard, and it would be hard to bodyguard them from a different car. Vince seemed calm, though he hardly was anything but, after dying; apparently, having been to the other side, he simply didn’t care if he went again. April looked the most nervous, likely due to their knowledge of her screen name throwing her off. Flidais, however, was strangely steeled, her earlier face all but gone like she’d never had it, her eyes boring holes into Val’s head like a threat that needed to be understood.

“Alright, alright. Can I ask where we’re headed, so we all just know? Like, I know Will’s a good driver and you’re used to the city, but I also know Kine drive like dicks, so if we get cut off or turned around I wanna make sure we’re all heading to the same place and you don’t get too much of an itchy paw thinking we bailed.” Vyx asked, and after processing that paw did not reference being a southpaw, Ginny briefly looked to Val, like they needed to confirm this was a legit question. She got a shrug, so she shrugged in response; if Val didn’t think it was a problem, it probably wasn’t.

“Union Station.” She replied, the information not necessary to keep hidden. The Prince’s office was generally public knowledge. “We’ll meet you outside. Try and keep up – if you’re too far behind us, we might have to take drastic measures.” She gave Vyx a wink – something that said they weren’t planning on being mean until they absolutely had to, so as long as Vyx wasn’t trying anything shifty, they’d be fine, but she needed to impress the threat on them anyway – before turning to the car, only looking back briefly to assess whether her intended cargo was actually getting in with her. Vyx watched their friends reluctantly load into the SUVs, Donnie’s final look one of concern, hovering slightly at the bus door like they weren’t entirely sure they liked where things were going – but then all the doors closed, and they didn’t have a choice anymore.

Flidais was already on the bus when they returned to it, and Will didn’t hesitate before getting back on the road, trying to follow the SUVs as best he could. Vyx settled into the booth on the bus, putting their arms on the table and their head in their hands, sighing deeply at all the shit they were in. It wasn’t really worth fussing over – they’d get to the Prince, and they’d talk, and they’d somehow get the hell back out of it again and they would be fine. That was how it always went down, anyway, and they had to trust in that – besides, there were other things bothering Vyx more. Notably, the face Flidais had made had stuck fast in Vyx’s guts like a meal they couldn’t turn into blood, churning in the pit of a stomach they hadn’t used properly, ever. They looked up at Flidais, who didn’t look at them, staring out the window instead as they rolled slowly past buildings and business and other cars. Traffic was gridlock, for a moment, and things were going slowly, so they had time. Vyx inhaled, and exhaled, preparing themselves for a question they knew they had to ask and didn’t honestly want to.

“Hey, Flid?” They asked, softly, and that drew the other woman’s attention to them and for a moment they hesitated. Something about having Flidais’s full attention felt like getting a full stare down from a Federal Agent – there was something about the way she looked at them that said getting her full attention wasn’t something people did when they wanted to walk away from whatever the hell was going on. But Vyx had to press, anyway, or they’d explode, and considering exploding had been part of the original problem, they didn’t want to make it worse. “What was that face? When Ginny said you and I were staying on the bus. You made a face. You don’t normally make faces. What’s up?” They asked, looking at Flidais with something that was not unlike pleading; they didn’t care if it was bad or not, now that they’d noticed they needed to know. Flidais’s face turned, slightly, towards something pained and something sour and something like they’d asked what the explosives in her hand were and she honestly hadn’t wanted to mention having any in the first place. She, also, sighed, and the bus trundled forward in traffic.

“I didn’t want to do this right now, exactly.” She said, softly, monotone, the lack of effect to her voice disconcerting for once in Vyx’s life. “But… I’ve been thinking, and… I want to break up.” She let the words settle, the pauses in her words not from nerves or distress but helping think of the right things to say, and she looked at Vyx like she’d expected to have killed the other. Like she expected this to do more external damage than internal. Vyx didn’t balk, just furrowed their brows, like they weren’t sure why this was the big deal Flidais was making it out to be. They weren’t particularly strict about things, after all. “When you asked me out, Vince was still gone.” Flidais started again, like she needed to justify her words. “Now that he’s back… It wouldn’t be fair to you to keep this alive when he’s the only person I really want. It’s just taken me a while to realize it.”

“Yeah, I get that.” Vyx shrugged, and that actually had surprise crossing Flidais’s face. She’d expected the other to be more… not necessarily angry, but something more than perfectly okay with things. “No need to act like you stabbed me, though. If you don’t wanna do this anymore, sure. I’m okay with that. Like, we’ll need to go over the details of what that means, but I’m not going to try and tell you that you can’t. What’s important is that you’re happy, however the hell that pans, and that means accepting this, too.”

“I was worried you wouldn’t want to be friends, after this.” Flidais said, and besides the concept that her, worrying, was funny, it wasn’t really a funny statement and Vyx managed to control their snort of laughter at the idea. Flidais frowned, briefly concerned Vyx wasn’t taking things seriously, but the bus took a fairly sharp turn fairly slowly, and that unseated her enough to dismiss the frown. “I didn’t think you’d want to keep me around, considering I was alright dating you until Vince returned. I know what it’s like to feel less important, especially suddenly. Plenty of people came to see Konrad when I was in charge, and weren’t happy he wasn’t around. If I’d been asked if any of them were my friends, I wouldn’t have considered yes an option.” She sighed. “I still want to be your friend, Vyx. I just don’t want to lead you on.”

“Flid.” Vyx let the chuckle out that they’d held in earlier, the whole stress feeling almost silly – though they understood. They were the only one in their own head, after all, and they could tell Flidais hadn’t predicted the easy mood from the conversation, which meant she couldn’t have known Vyx’s actual feelings. They sighed, leaning a little as the bus took another turn that threatened to push the whole thing over. Driving a top heavy vehicle in a tightly packed city wasn’t easy. “I know this was probably really hard, and I just wanna say, I’m like… proud? I guess? That you did it? That feels weird, though. Like I’m your parent.” They shook their head. “But this wasn’t ever going to be a problem. Like, I’m poly. I can’t really be a dick about things, y’know?”

“Not being friendly isn’t the same as being a dick.” Flidais said, softly, like her concern wasn’t exactly abated by Vyx’s words. “You could have still been Vince’s friend and simply not wanted t’see me, and that would be fair.”

“No, it wouldn’t be, ‘cause that would be like pretending what we had before, or what we are now, isn’t something special.” Vyx said, softly, and that had Flidais’s full attention again. They leaned forward on the table, putting their elbows down and resting their head in their hand again. “Think of it like this: the whole getting close to someone thing is like a spectrum. On one end, you got hatred, and then neutral, and then you start getting into being friends.” They lifted their head, gesturing on the table as though to indicate the spectrum they were discussing. “Past friends, things get really blurry, ‘cause after friends you get relationship but that’s not really well defined, y’know? Like, I have a relationship with Vince, ‘cause he’s my brother. I love him, as a brother, but we’re definitely not at friends anymore, but we’re also definitely not dating.” They gestured to a part of the spectrum towards the middle when they said friends. “The thing to pay attention to is there’s like, thresholds. There’s the one where you know a person so intimately well you can’t ever unknow them, and there’s the one that’s like, physical intimacy. Most people think once you’ve hit the physical intimacy one, you’re dating, but that’s also not a thing, ‘cause there’s a bunch of different boundaries to navigate, and sometimes friends are more intimate and partners are less.”

“Vyx, you know how little experience I have with this kind of thing.” Flidais said, trying to follow and finding it hard. Vyx knew what she meant, of course – she’d been a young man during the first World War, and then she’d been Konrad’s little project; he wasn’t exactly a good role model for how to interact with normal people, and then she’d had Vince and the world had collapsed so nothing else mattered. They paused, regrouping to try and figure out an easier way to talk about things.

“The point is, before that knowledge threshold, friends are like… people you get beer with after work. Occasional bowling buddies. Not the guy you call when you get into a big accident, or you need a cat sitter for a week, or you need a ride to the ER, right? Not the people you rely on in an emergency, or the people who need you, too. Like, those are friends, but differently.” Vyx paused, trying to make sure Flidais was following, and that, at least, seemed to make sense. “After you cross the knowledge one, and you know things about that person, that friendship gets more intimate, right? ‘Cause you know things about them. You know who their parents are and you know their favorite food or where they like to buy their clothes. You know what scares them at night and what makes them happy and who they turn to when they’re lost.” They paused, again, watching Flidais’s face until they were sure she was following. “In that space, the difference between being friends and dating is just about where you’ve set the boundary of physical intimacy, y’know? ‘Cause friends hug, and talk for long hours, or whatever. Some friends are more comfortable with more, but that’s also starting to get into being in like, a Queer Platonic thing, which is why this is so hard to define, y’know?”

“A what?” Flidais asked, furrowing her brow.

“Queer Platonic relationship. Where you’re like, really close and probably could be dating but you’ve set the boundaries of physical intimacy to stuff that’s still reasonable for friends.” Vyx waved a hand, like that wasn’t the point. “The point is, you and I are past that threshold for knowledge. I know you. Way too well. And I can’t walk that back. You can set the boundaries for us wherever you want, so we don’t have to date. We can walk it back to hugs and nothing else, or we can walk it back to no physical intimacy at all, and that’s fine. But we’re past the point of being beer buddies, and that means that it would take quite a lot for you to do something that would actually ruin this friendship.” Vyx chuckled, watching Flidais’s face soften, but she pursed her lips again anyway, confused.

“Konrad said most people don’t stay friends with their significant others after breaking up.” She said, softly, and Vyx rolled their eyes. Of course Konrad was involved – he had been in Flidais’s head for long enough, after all. “I think he was trying to convince me Vince didn’t want me as a friend, either, but I can’t shake what he said.”

“One, you’re taking advice from a dude who thinks throwing a wake for a man he killed is enough of an apology. Especially when the dinner table was made from our friends.” Vyx sighed, shaking their head, and Flidais cut her eyes away as though to acknowledge that Vyx was right without having to say it. Unfortunately, they were, and Konrad had, in fact, thrown them a wake for a man he killed and had them sitting on other friends of theirs, who he’d made into chairs. He wasn’t exactly the man to go to for relationship advice. “Two, you’re taking advice from this dude about me. If you think I’m most people, we have a bigger problem.” They chuckled. “But three, a lot of people who aren’t weren’t actually friends with their partners. A lot of people, queer, straight, or otherwise, go straight from acquaintances into full on dating without crossing that knowledge threshold, or any threshold, first. So they’re making out with a bowling friend, and when they learn their bowling friend is more complicated than what can be conveyed over a beer in between sets, they bail, and they aren’t friends when they do, ‘cause they never were friends like that. The people who actually stick together are the people who were friends before they dated, or become very good friends while they date. So maybe take what Konrad says with a grain of salt. He’s not running with a good sample size.”

“So, we’re… okay?” Flidais asked, turning back to the topic at hand, and Vyx shrugged.

“I mean, as long as you’re willing to acknowledge that we’re not going to be beer buddies after this, yeah.” Vyx shrugged again, watching Flidais’s face to make sure she understood. “You and I had something neat, but it didn’t work out. That happens. But since I can’t walk back knowing you, all we’re really doing is readjusting where the boundaries are to something you’re more comfortable with. As long as you can acknowledge that’s what’s happening, we’ll be fine.” They paused. “’Cause if you try and make us beer friends again, then it’ll fall apart. That’s what happens with other people. They try and unknow a person they know too well – maybe they didn’t like what they learned or maybe it wasn’t meant to be and they know more than they want to - or they try and diminish what they had before, and it’s easier to keep taking steps back once you’ve started pulling away than it is to admit you maybe pulled back too hard.” They paused again, getting up as the bus took a corner, swaying with the motion and heading for the small kitchen they had in the front room. Tucked away in a back drawer was a pack of American Spirits – Donnie had tried to hide them so Vyx didn’t smoke them all before he came back. It wasn’t entirely effective, but he tried. They pulled it out, sliding one out of the pack before replacing it again, so he didn’t know they’d found it. “The people who think you can’t be friends after dating think being friends is only a stepping stone on the path to romance, not that you should also be friends with your intimate partners.”

“I’m glad we’re okay.” Flidais said, giving Vyx the closest approximation to a smile she could manage. “I just… I don’t know what I feel for you, Vyx. I think you’re right that it’s more than I feel for other people, like Molly. But it just… you’re cute, and you’re kind, sometimes, and you’re funny. But I look at you and then I look at Vince and it’s like… it’s like thinking a single bulb bathroom is bright and then turning to look at the sun.”

“Hey, you don’t gotta explain it to me, I’ve noticed.” Vyx laughed, lighting the cigarette. “You look at Vince and it’s like the whole world just falls away. Sure, I was hoping I could share a smidge of that attention, but I’ll settle for keeping you around as a friend, anyway. I can’t promise I won’t lay on you, but if you decide you wanna keep shifting the boundaries around, just tell me and I’ll oblige. I might be a bit of a brat, but I’m not a bastard.” They shrugged. “The important thing is that we’re on the same side, no matter what. ‘Cause it would really suck if you were like, yeah, let’s break up, and also I’m not going to put one in that Toreador when she snaps.”

“She’ll learn that she needs to keep her hands to herself.” Flidais said, and that was a threat, one that brought a smile to Vyx’s face. Was it weird? Absolutely, just a little. Change always was. Especially change that sort of came out of nowhere, though it had likely been on the other woman’s mind for a while even if Vyx had only just noticed. But they were still friends, and they were still close, and that’s what honestly mattered.

“Yeah, or they’re going to learn that I’ve kind of redefined what it means to be ride or die.” Vyx chuckled, looking out of the front window as the bus pulled up to the station. One SUV was already parked and clearly empty, having taken a shortcut they hadn’t seen. The other, however, wasn’t present, and Vyx sighed. “Well, we’ve lost a car.”

“I wonder who’s it was?”

~*~

“Hey, so.” Al started, from the back seat; he was talking to Val, the angry Toreador sitting in front of Donnie with a scowl on her face that would have made Konrad look happy, in a tone that said this wouldn’t help much. “Do you eat?”

They’d been in the car all of five minutes, but that was all it really took for Al to determine that maybe it was better if they stopped. The thing was, they’d been shuffled into the car without so much as a word, so there wasn’t any chance of any kind of Plan A, let alone B or C, and that made Al a little uncomfortable. He’d been a spy, before, so he was pretty used to figuring out his bullshit on the fly, and he knew he could get himself out of the scrape if it was needed; Donnie, however, hadn’t been, and his leg was bouncing like he was three hours late for a smoke break and he looked ready to launch himself out of the window the first time the car slowed down. They needed a plan, something concrete, just to keep the man calm – it probably didn’t help that Vyx was in a different car, specifically the bus, and not in there with them. Al was pretty sure that was actually a punishment for other people; Vince had been relatively capable of taking care of himself, once he’d learned how to fire a gun, and Vyx was the same man except with twice the confidence and maybe a little less self-preservation. Al was sure they’d be fine, but he could tell Donnie hadn’t ever had that experience, and until they’d given him the chance to see they weren’t going to explode without him, the other Kindred clearly thought his presence was necessary to keep them safe. It was only a matter of time before someone got decked, and Al was in fist-range.

“Yes, Why?” Val snarled, turning her head only slightly to catch Al’s expression. Having been KGB, she didn’t really frighten him much, and he just put on a kind of sleezy, sheepish grin, the kind of thing one would find on a snake oil salesman who was about to drop the recipe to keep his knees intact. Donnie snapped his head over to Al, like he really wanted to know the reason the other man wanted to make them go slower, something wild about his eyes, just a little. Stressed wasn’t cutting it.

“Well, one, I know I still eat, being a ghoul and all, and I’m fucking starving and I dunno about you, but letting me get way too faint before we get back isn’t really the best option, if you get what I’m putting down here.” Al quickly spun the lie, watching Val’s face carefully. They said they’d been paying attention, but how much attention was really the question. Did they know he’d been sired, a few years before then? “Imagine, me, stepping out of this car and just collapsing ‘cause I’m so faint, right in front of my current girlfriend? The one you really wanna talk to? Not a great look, honestly.” Al offered up the excuse, and while Val watched him with something like skepticism, she didn’t question his lie. It almost looked like she’d read his aura – sometimes Kindred eyes flickered or flashed when they used Auspex and hers seemed to flicker, just once – but Al had made sure his aura didn’t read anything other than ghoul, even after being sired. He wasn’t about to go around telling people he’d changed. Donnie furrowed his brows, like he wasn’t exactly sure what Al was playing at, and Val seemed to catch the confusion – so Al quickly pivoted. “Besides, Shortstop over here is fifteen seconds from tearing someone apart – which, considering you’re in the front and I’m back here and he doesn’t look like he’s showing that much discretion, someone is gonna be me – but a cigarette and a good slice of deep-dish pizza might---“

“You serve me that nightmare you people call pizza and I will drown you in it.” Donnie snarled, something uncharacteristically mean for him, rounding on Al physically as he did so, the snap of his head coming straight from the sheer stress he was under. He immediately pulled back, recanting on his intensity, like the snap was something totally out of the blue, but Al didn’t let him recoil too much – that was their ticket to the outside, after all. If he could get Donnie riled up, they would have to stop, and then they could regroup, form a plan, check their weapons, and Al wouldn’t have felt quite so unprepared for everything. So he held both hands up in a show of fake deference.

“Woah, hey! See, look, I’m gonna be back here with missing teeth for suggesting we get pizza just because we’re a couple hours south of Chicago! It’s not like I suggested something weird, like anchovies, or pineapple. It’s just deep dish, Donnie; you act like it’s an insult to your city that someone decided they wanted more sauce than they did cheese—“

Al knew he was pressing. Al knew there would be a reaction. He was still surprised as hell when Donnie grabbed one lapel of his overly-large Hawaiian shirt, which was white with hamburgers printed on it, and pulled back a fist like he was actually going to throw hands.

“Enough!” Val’s voice was loud, or at least it seemed that way, reverberating through the back of the car, and everything suddenly settled. Al was familiar enough with the blood’s ability to contort the mind, and he could tell the pall that fell over the car was her use of the blood instilling a sense of calm into the situation, and while he could have resisted it there wasn’t any point in trying. Donnie’s fist didn’t lower, but he didn’t have it tensed anymore, the intent of swinging it no longer on his mind but no need to move instilled in him, either. Val looked furious, scarier than a decent amount of Kindred Al had met, if only in the fact that he was sure her rage was only just contained. “We’ll stop for burgers. I’ll order and you’ll get what you get.” She snapped, and Al kept his hands up where they had been, now a show of deference to her more than Donnie. “But if either of you so much as twitch like you’re going to cause a mess for me I’m sinking you in the Mississippi and Ginny will not fucking care.” She threatened, and Al nodded, knowing how serious she was. It wasn’t like he could do much else – the blood was invasive, touching his brain like a lover, telling him that calm agreement was the only right answer. “Tell me yes ma’am if you follow.”

“Yes ma’am.” Both men intoned, only partially of their own volition, the idea of saying yes ma’am both something they wanted to do, considering agreement was getting what Al wanted, but also partially because saying anything else felt like it would physically hurt. With a snap, the wash over the back of the car retreated, and Al felt like he could move again. It helped that Donnie unclenched his fist from Al’s shirt – blessedly, he didn’t pull too hard, which would have revealed the SMG in a holster under Al’s arm – leaving behind a fist-shaped indent in the fabric, leaning back against the other door and staring out of the window like if he could just see Vyx standing outside, the world would be right again. Val gave them both a stern look, before leaning back in her own seat, telling the driver to head to somewhere called Stacked – which he immediately took a turn, peeling off from the caravan without question.

The place wasn’t too far from the bulk of downtown, and they drove in silence for the entire time, Donnie fuming against the window and Al trying not to feel like he’d just caused more issues than necessary. Did he really need to bring up pizza? Maybe not, but he knew Donnie was a New Yorker, and like most New Yorkers, he had feelings about pizza from other locations, Chicago being one of the most notable. All Al wanted was to rile the man up just enough to make his life seem like it was under threat – he could tell this wasn’t an attempt to kill them, so if he’d wound up dead, that would actually cause them more issues. He’d just said the wrong things – at this point, however, he was used to it. It was okay if Donnie hated him – most people did, after all.

“Alright. I’m going inside to order. Dick’s sticking with the car. If either of you leave his sight, that’s it. Got it?” Val asked, once they parked. Al nodded, which was enough for her, and she launched herself out of the car with a vigor that said she honestly didn’t want to be around them, either. Donnie followed suit, throwing the door open, and he beelined across the street to a small park that sat, lonely, in the late evening. Al pushed the door open, catching the eyes of the driver, Dick, who nodded that the park was fine enough, before he followed at a slow pace. By the time he arrived at the park, Donnie was halfway through a cigarette and clearly aiming to smoke through the rest of his pack as quickly as he possibly could. Al didn’t say anything for a long moment, simply settling in next to Donnie languidly, hitting his vape and quickly checking his SMGs. Now that they weren’t in total sight, he could confirm the contents were tracer rounds; he didn’t always load tracers, as he wasn’t always fighting vampires. Donnie didn’t look at him.

“Why the hell are you like that?” Donnie asked, finally, finishing the first cigarette and tossing it into an empty fountain nearby. Al quirked a brow, tucking his guns carefully back under the shirt; it was why he always wore oversized shirts, after all. It was hard to pin the line of an SMG down under a shirt that was at least one size too big, especially from a shirt that was meant to fit big in the first place.

“Like what, not picky about pizza?” Al asked, rolling his eyes a little at the perceived question. He knew it probably wasn’t what Donnie was asking, but avoiding bad conversations was a reflex. “I’m Russia, Shortstop. I simply don’t hate deep dish. Sometimes you just want sauce, y’know?”

“No, I mean this shit.” Donnie gestured to Al with a waved hand, voice almost raised, like he was trying not to build too much through his words but he couldn’t fight the anger in his voice at the re-mention of pizza or Al’s shitty, snotty tone. Al furrowed his brow, not expecting Donnie to keep trying – most people didn’t put up with his persona long enough to clarify their questions. “The whole asshole thing. Why the fuck are you such a dick to everyone?”

“Do you want the technical reason?” Al asked, actually somewhat serious, but it seemed his response only frustrated Donnie more, like the idea that there was a technical reason felt like bullshit. Al shrugged – he didn’t need Donnie to actually believe him, but the expression looked like he at least wanted to hear it. “When you’re a dick, that’s all people see. What they don’t see is the trained KGB Op who just got us out of the car, away from our captor, and in a location where we can talk privately, which, you’re welcome.” Al shook his head, hitting his vape again and letting the smoke fill the space in front of him. It smelled a bit like pickles, though it was also strangely sweet and kind of sickly in its own unique way. The bottle in his pocket was labeled Pickle Rick in sharpie, which said enough about the flavor, or the maker, even if Al didn’t actually like Rick and Morty. He thought it was boring and idiotic, but like most things, he liked the assumptions people made about him when they realized he vaped pickle juice labeled after the show. “People underestimate me when they think they can read me in an instant, and they don’t realize I’m handing them a faked pamphlet and letting them go for it.”

“Yeah, but you do that with everyone.” Donnie was starting to soften from his anger, just a bit, because that did, kind of, make sense. Al was a spy, and spies did a lot of bullshit that normal people didn’t for their work – it just didn’t make sense that he’d want Donnie to underestimate him, too. “Like, fuck, dude, if I wasn’t aware that this was at least kind of a bit, I wouldn’t have hesitated back there.” Donnie gestured to the car, where the driver leaned against the side door, watching them. “If it was just because you want people to think you’re nothing but a piece of shit, why the hell do you keep it up when you’re with just us?”

“I figure it’s probably how you already feel, so why try and do anything else?” Al said, something kind of bitchy to his tone, and he turned away from Donnie, trying to catch the sight of the water and trying not to look at anyone, Donnie especially. That had Donnie softening further, the anger vanishing and replaced with something like pity and something like curiosity; Al was, clearly, an extremely broken person hiding behind a mask, but he was so shattered that Donnie couldn’t begin to piece together who he’d been before he’d been smashed into bits. It was a weird sensation, because Donnie was still mad – he wasn’t letting the pizza thing go just yet, not to mention Vyx still wasn’t there and he was still doing a shitty job of being their boyfriend or bodyguard and he couldn’t let that go – but the pity was sobering. “It’s easier to assume most people think I’m a jackass from the jump and play to it than try and change their minds. Most people hate me anyway, and there’s nothing I can do to fix that.”

“Why would you think people hate you?” Donnie asked, lighting the new cigarette. He paused a moment, considering them, before passing Al the pack; Al denied the offer with a hand, holding up his vape like that was sufficient. Did he like the pickle flavor? A little. But even that was part of the persona, part of the bit. Al was simply layers and layers of deception, one over another, until there wasn’t anything left but the lies he told, after all. If there was a real person under the mask, Donnie couldn’t see it.

“Damn.” Al chuckled, but it wasn’t a chuckle like Donnie had told a funny joke but like Donnie’s words were a funny joke, and one Donnie wasn’t in on. “Vyx said they ran you through the basics – you heard what I did, right? The whole sided with the wrong guy, betrayed all my friends, partner definitely thought I killed him for his whole ten year death stint? That shit?” Al asked like he was trying to jog Donnie’s memory, like if the man just recalled Al’s crimes, he’d agree. “Most people we meet were there for that, and I didn’t exactly make friends. If I assumed I was well loved everywhere I went, I’d be setting myself up for disappointment every time.”

“Vyx told me the big picture stuff.” Donnie said, agreeing that at least that was true, pulling hard on the cigarette and letting the smoke out slowly. It was calming. “But I also don’t care.” He paused, casting a look to Al and finding that comment garnered, of all things, shock. Al clearly had no concept of anyone not caring. “I wasn’t there for any of it, so it’s not for me to judge. You did what you probably thought was the right choice, or hell, the only choice, if the stories I’ve gotten say anything, and I can’t judge. The only thing I can judge is that from the moment you and I met, you’ve been a massive dick to just about everyone, including the people who are trying to give a shit about you.”

“Ha ha, very funny, Shortstop. Nobody’s out there trying to give a shit about me.” Al’s response was catty, bitter, angry, and Donnie felt the pity in his stomach turn solid like a weight and settle there, heavy. It almost made him angry, how callous Al was, but he had to tamp back on the feeling, because it would only serve to prove Al was right. That he was universally hated by everyone they’d met.

“Yeah?” Donnie’s question caught Al’s attention, the way he said yeah like he knew something Al didn’t and wanted to know if that was the other man’s final answer. “So the short, pink haired enby who you chased away and who came back anyway is just nobody?” Donnie clarified, and that, at least, had Al looking a bit sheepish.

“They’re different.”

“No, Al, they’re not.” Donnie corrected, flicking the ashes off his cigarette before taking another long draw. “Look, here’s the thing. I don’t give a shit what you did, or didn’t, do during the war. Betrayed people, shot someone – everyone I know has been fucked up by that shit, y’know? I might not have known Molly before the war, but I’ve talked to her a couple of times and I can tell she’s been changed just from that, and I can feel it in the way the rest of you interact. You’re not subtle.” Donnie shook his head, giving Al something like a smile, like it was almost funny that people thought they were hiding the trauma from him. “You hardly look at Vince, like you’re still mad but also like you still feel guilty. April looks at him like she keeps seeing a ghost, and sometimes I see the looks she shoots you. Somewhere between bitter and impressed. You’ve all done some shit. None of you are different.”

“Yeah, and that means that everyone thinks I’m shit, that’s the point I’m making.” Al tried to interrupt, but Donnie shook his head, rolling his eyes a little at the protest. Like if Al could just take the conversation and turn it back to how he was right, he wouldn’t hear the end of it.

“Vyx very clearly thinks you’re not that bad.” Donnie corrected, gesturing at Al with the lit cigarette like he was using it to prove his point. “And honestly, if anyone in our polycule should think you’re shit, it’s them. They told me what you did.” Donnie paused, there, letting that settle over Al like a weight. Donnie watched Al’s expression fall into something almost like shame, which seemed to be a rare emotion. “I don’t give a shit what you did before the war. What I do give a shit about is how you’ve treated them. And I know the asshole shit’s a persona, because now that they’re back, you’re night and day with them. You’re like a real fucking person with them.”

“They deserve it, for the hell I’ve put them through.” Al said, softly, and Donnie sighed. The self-deprecating was predictable, and maybe a bit deserved, but not really prudent to the conversation.

“Then why the hell can’t you be a real person for the rest of us?” Donnie asked, finally letting the exasperation of the situation come through, and Al finally looked up at him like he’d asked a real question Al honestly didn’t have an answer to. “You trust them, right? They came back, so you trust them.” Donnie paused, waiting for the protest, and when none came, he continued. “And they trust me, and Vince, and Flidais, and April. So why the hell do you keep treating the people they trust with their life like we’re just outsiders that need to be kept away?” Donnie put his hands out, like he was offering up something different, and Al didn’t respond, turning away to vape pickle-sweetness in the other direction. Donnie sighed. “Like, fuck, man, doesn’t it get tiring, being like this?”

“What, the persona?” Al asked, and Donnie nodded, which actually brought a laugh to Al’s lips, a breathy chuckle like the question was funny because the answer was obviously. “Kinda, yeah. There’s a lot to remember, sometimes, y’know. Layers and layers, some people know some things and other people know other things.” Al shrugged, like that was the price of the persona, having to track all the details for so many separate people and keeping them all separate. Donnie furrowed his brow, an honest curiosity to his face.

“Then why are you still doing it?” Donnie asked, softly, and that seemed to hit Al like a truck. “You’re not fooling us, you know. I could tell it was a persona from the moment we met, mostly. Everyone else knows you. Why the hell are you doing something so exhausting for a group of people who already know you’re not a dick and who prefer when you’re not?” Donnie let the question settle, and there wasn’t a response; Al simply pulled on his vape, leaning against a nearby tree. Clearly, the words had brought some thoughts to Al’s mind, and he wasn’t entirely sure how to process them, so they rattled around in his head in a way that said he wasn’t going to get an answer that night, if even that week. Donnie figured that was good enough, at least; it was better than just ignoring it. “Just… think about it, okay? And maybe chill it on the pizza thing.”

“Hey, to be fair, I did want you to get mad.” Al popped back into his usual self, though Donnie could tell that something had taken root in Al’s brain, his tone a little less shitty than before. He’d been softening, Donnie had noticed, but this transition from ass to something more palpable was noticeable in the moment. “Should have just said the Yankees sucked, huh?”

“That wouldn’t have mattered.” Donnie chuckled. “That was Ray’s thing. Trust me, I’m already there, you don’t have to say anything.”

“You know they’ll be fine, right?” Al asked, looking up at Donnie with an expression that was almost something like comfort. Like he was trying to tell Donnie something important that he really needed, in the same way he’d told Al something important in return. “Vyx, I mean. They’ll be fine until we get there.” Al paused, watching Donnie cast his expression back to the road, and he sighed, seeing the way he had previously responded – avoidant, disbelieving – in Donnie’s shoulders. “For one, Flidais is there, and if you want someone who’s intense about protecting her own, that’s Red for ya. Not to mention, they’re Vince’s twin, and that idiot managed to get on the wrong side of the worst people and somehow walk away from every interaction. The amount that I’ve almost watched that man die is significantly higher than most people, and Vyx knows how to do that shit intentionally.”

“Yeah, that’s fair.” Donnie sighed, trying to let the worry go and finding it cling to him anyway like a wet swimsuit to his legs, down to the part where he could tell it would chafe if he kept trying to push through it. “I just… I’m their bodyguard, y’know? I’m doing a bad job.”

“Oh, no, you’re doing a great job.” Al chuckled. “You’re at murder and they haven’t done anything yet – we called that prepared in this business. Just save that energy until we get there. Then you can start pushing people’s faces in. Trust me – you think Ray frets when Molly’s in another room? Or does he simply swing the second he needs to and lets Molly dictate when that is?”

“He frets when Ryan’s away.” Donnie clarified, and that brought a snicker to Al’s lips. “Swinging Bimbos has a line item in the budget for floor tile replacement, since Ray can wear a line in the floor from pacing when Ryan’s out of town. Molly tries to make sure he stays busy, but things fall through, you know.�� He shrugged, and Al grinned at him like this was the kind of juicy gossip he wanted to hear.

“Yeah, well, first, that’s hilarious. Second, you’re not even remotely that neurotic, so comparing yourself to him like that isn’t healthy.” Al chuckled. “And I know a thing or two about unhealthy coping behaviors.” He shook his head, hearing the door to Stacked open, Val coming back out of the building with two bags of burgers. “Speaking of, I, uh. I don’t actually know if I can eat this, so we might have to employ some very unhealthy coping mechanisms to keep me from ruining my lie, here.”

“I’m not kissing you.” Donnie said, simply, watching Val storm over to the driver. She looked pissed, but she always sort of looked pissed, and the driver didn’t look particularly upset by her mood, so it likely wasn’t much past normal. Al snorted at the words, watching the driver gesture with his head for them to return, starting that way and turning to look at Donnie as he did.

“Oh, god no.” Al cackled. “I was thinking more throw me out of the car. Considering Flidais did that once as a ghoul, I’m totally capable of taking it. And we’re not going to be going half as fast.” He turned back when Donnie started to follow, talking to the space behind him. “If I look like I’m gonna hurl, just reach past me, crack the door and push me out. I can roll, I’ll be good.”

“Let’s just hope we don’t need to get there.” Donnie said, with a sigh, following Al behind. Was he less stressed? Maybe a little. Sure, he believed in Vyx, and he believed Al when he said Vince’s track record was pretty solid, but ultimately, it came down to trust. He had to trust Vyx to be okay while he was gone, and it while it wasn’t something he was going to get good at quickly, this was good practice.

Besides, considering throwing Al out of the car was funny enough to distract him.

“Look, all I’m saying, Shortstop, is that there’s a balance between cheese and tomato and some New York City eateries skimp a bit on the sauce.” Al jumped right into a conversation they hadn’t been having as he approached the car, clearly covering up their actual topics, and Donnie didn’t have to act to let his face fall into anger again. Sure, he knew it was a persona, and there was something different about it when it wasn’t aimed at him, but it didn’t mean he liked the topic being about pizza, still. He had opinions on pizza, and Chicago didn’t rate in the positives. Al didn’t let the conversation continue, turning briefly to give Donnie a wink that said as much before turning back around to Val. “There’s the Burger Queen! Took you long enough. What’d’ya get?”

Donnie climbed into the car, watching Al take the bag as he followed them inside, the car door closing and cutting them off from the world again. Al cracked the paper, peering inside, and the groan he let out was so overblown it was clearly part of the running gag Donnie was now privy to. “Uh, fair warning, BQ, onions make me gassy as shit. But hey, you wanted to order, right?” Al asked, and that actually brought a chuckle to Donnie’s face, and the snicker had Al smiling like he was suddenly glad Donnie was in on their private joke and something in the Brujah’s chest bloomed into a feeling that might have been the precursor to friendship.

Maybe he could deal with the persona, he thought, as they rode off towards Union Station – as long as he was in on it.

And as long as it didn’t make them way too late, either.

~*~

Vince wasn’t exactly how they managed to arrive first when they were in a caravan of three that all left at the same time, but he’d been blood bonded to an Antidiluvian, so he was used to things being strange.

They’d arrived at the Union Station fairly quickly, as Ginny’s directions were impeccable and managed to avoid even the worst of the traffic, darting through the tight streets like they owned them. She was a native of the area, and it was clear from the way she got the driver to cut through back streets, though it meant they lost the bus and the other SUV within moments. Vince had no expectations for their destination, honestly, considering he’d never been that far West and being dead for most of a decade didn’t help much, either, but the building that they pulled up to was definitely something else. He took a moment to stare up at it as they piled out of the car, craning his neck to see everything, and the place they’d arrived at was definitely impressive. Union station was an old, stone thing, with whitewashed masonry and a red roof, stained glass windows and a clock tower looming over them, a Ferris wheel turning slowly in the distance, bright against the darkness of the night. It felt like the meeting of old and new, which was a perfect place for vampires to hang out. Vince scanned over the building, and he could see the distant trains, disembodied and faint, still moving in and out of the building, the long smoke stacks and trails of black smoke fogging up the air. Luckily, being dead for a decade hadn’t killed any of Vince’s skills in interpretation, so he was sure that the faintness meant it wasn’t a train station anymore, just that it had been at one point. It did mean that, when they opened the front doors and stepped inside, seeing people in droves was a surprise.

What Vince hadn’t known, or realized, was that there was a party going on, but that became quickly apparent as they headed inside and towards the back of the large entrance hall. While the space was massive, due to its previous life as a train station for a fairly popular port town, it was still chock full of people – mostly Kindred, if a quick scan of auras told Vince anything – most of which were sporting some kind of wine-adjacent drink. The Prince was throwing a shindig for some reason, and it was popular. Vince whistled, following Ginny towards the back, where a bar stood, almost lonely in the sea of voices and bodies. The stools were empty, most people moving on after getting their drinks and nobody wanting to hang around the area, and Ginny stopped there, leaning on the bar top. To Vince, she looked like a wolf wearing a jersey, something that looked a little like a Disney villain but with the capacity to really tear them apart.

“Okay, so.” She said, and she spoke a little breathlessly, like things had gone wrong in some capacity, and while she’d expected things to go wrong, she still hated having to do that part of her job all the same. “Val apparently needed to stop, and the bus is also lagging behind a bit. I’m going to go back out and see if I can coordinate their arrival. You two, stay here.” Ginny patted the bar top, before gesturing to the bar as though to say right there. “Far as I can tell, you’re both the responsible ones in this coterie of yours, so I don’t imagine you’ll get up to much, but the bartender has my number, so don’t try anything.” She raised an eyebrow, and Vince shrugged.

“Ma’am, to be real here, I’ve been a functional form again for… a couple of days. Trying things isn’t really on my to-do.” Vince shrugged, pulling up a stool and settling down. April settled in next to him, a little nervous but taking his lead, which seemed to be enough – Ginny gave the bar one last slap, a sign that she was good to go, and all but zoomed over to the other end, leaving Vince and April alone with their bartender. The man was a bit of a hipster, with long, brown hair and a brown jacket and the kind of frown that said that, no matter what they ordered, he would probably be personally offended by their taste. Vince wasn’t putt off by the visage – he’d dealt with angrier. Besides, there was only so much he could be intimidated by a teddy bear. “Hey, barkeep. What’s on tap?”

“For your kind, we have V, both the Black Label varieties as well as the new Austere line.” The bartender hardly changed his inflection from generally bored, pulling a few bottles from behind the bar. One was a dark red bottle with a black label and red writing; the other two were green, both with black labels, but the writing was gold with different colors under the name, indicating the different varieties – things like Blond Mix and Raven Locks and Death by Chocolate. “Austere just released last holiday season. It’s meant to be kind of a spiced wine. Not sure it works on its own, but a few mulling spices help.” He gestured, and Vince pulled the bottle closer, something strange on his face, like he was seeing an old friend for the first time.

“I’ll take the Austere, then. Just… two glasses is fine, I kinda want to keep the bottle.” He grinned, and the bartender shrugged, pulling two wine glasses from a relatively empty rack and setting them down in front of them. “Can we run a tab?”

“The Prince is covering all drinks. You’ll know if you need to pay me.” The bartender shook his head, like these plebeians that didn’t know they didn’t have to pay were getting on his nerves, before he stepped away to take care of another customer. Vince didn’t pay him any mind, running a thumb over the paper label, letting his hands travel up the bottle to the cork. He was intimate with it, gentle and tender - he held it, stroked it, like a lover. April made a face, like she wasn’t entirely sure what Vince was doing with the bottle but she didn’t exactly like it without the context.

“Do you need like, a moment?” She asked, concerned, and Vince finally turned to her like he’d forgotten she was there, a cackle escaping him as he realized what it looked like. It didn’t help that he had his hand wrapped around the bottle’s neck in a way that was maybe a bit more intimate than one should be with a bottle.

“Oh, no, sorry.” He chuckled, uncorking the wine and pouring two quick glasses with a hand that was surprisingly practiced, considering he’d been dead a decade. He’d clearly done his part learning to pour wine. “I just, uh. I actually made this wine label? Way back in the day. V was my idea. Y’know, V for Vince.” He shrugged, rolling the neck of the bottle to catch any drips like a man who’d spent time behind a bar before – which, he had, he’d been the bartender at Geometry before anyone else, after all – and setting it back down, just within reach. He could still see the label, and that was enough. It was prettier than he could have imagined, and while he wasn’t exactly a man who wanted progeny, he understood the urge to produce something that would outlast him. “I made it ‘cause Kana was super picky about what she drank, being a Ventrue, so I went, hey, wouldn’t it be neat if there was blood wine where you could actually tell from the label who’s in it? ‘Cause we’d drink but she wouldn’t know so it was always a gamble. So then we have the Black label, where it’s all code – Blond, right, or Raven for hair, or Chocolate for skin color, stuff like that - and then I guess it’s expanded from there.” He chuckled, but it was a sad thing, something that said time was an ever present specter that constantly chased down everything he did. While it was good to see it had outlasted him, having it escape his control was also a little off-putting. April pulled her wine to her, watching him curiously. “A lot’s changed.” He added, softly, and she nodded, a realization coming over her as she did.

“Has anyone told you what’s happened, since…?” She paused, unwilling to say the word that he died, because he hadn’t, not really. Dead people, really dead people, didn’t sit around and talk and recount stories and feel emotions. It made it weird, putting a threshold on since he died, considering he was sitting there watching her and that meant he was clearly not dead – but he had been, and it had almost been a decade. Vince shook his head, pulling the wine to his face and smelling it first, like he wanted to appreciate his hard work. Even if he hadn’t designed any Christmas wines.

“No. I mean, I got a little from being dead, but then Molly brought me back and I came… literally straight to the bus. I haven’t really learned much.” He sighed, letting his shoulders sink softly. What he did know wasn’t great – speaking to other dead people meant that other people had to be dead, after all. “I know… I know Bella’s dead. So’s Anthony. I got to talk to her, on the other side of things. She said we won.” He paused, looking to April, who had also brought the wine to her nose. It smelled like spices, but also copper.

“We did.” April confirmed, taking a sip. The bartender was right – it wasn’t quite there, but with some additional spices, it probably would have made a great mulled wine. Vince probably would have made better. “It wasn’t easy, but we did it.”

“How?” Vince asked, and April turned around, leaning against the bar, trying to think. It was hard, remembering things that happened almost ten years previously, even if the impact of those moments hadn’t ever left her.

“Well, this is all like, third hand, since I wasn’t really there, right?” April clarified, giving Vince a look that said that if her knowledge contradicted other people’s, that was probably why. She’d been a ghoul, back then, and the group had decided it was better to leave the squishy, almost Kine behind. “But I’ve talked to people enough to kind of put it together.” She paused, trying to make sure the events were right in her head. Third hand information was hard to collect. “So, we had all that stuff in City Center Park, right? You were there for that.”

“I did get shot after that, yeah.” Vince chuckled, the brief flash of heat in his face almost making him wince. For them, it had been nearly a decade. For him, it had been all of five minutes, and he could still smell the gunpowder and hear the crack of the rifle and feel the pain spreading through his face, and the Tempest loomed in the background like a distant storm, and he shook his head, taking a long swig of wine to tamp down on the visions. It was difficult to get lost in the spirit with the strong taste of spice and copper in his mouth. April didn’t linger long.

“After that, everyone went into the Shadowlands, and from what I heard, it was… stressful, and then it wasn’t?” She shrugged, like she didn’t have better words, but Vince accepted it. “I think the plan we made, in the hotel, went really well, actually. I’ve kinda gathered this all from various people, but Konrad and Dr. Straub and Marie didn’t actually go into the Shadowlands until the first team had been in for a second, and apparently that was the kicker.” She chuckled, like it was almost funny. “Apparently, Marie was Malkav. I asked Konrad about a lot of this right after, ‘cause I spent some time in New York, and he confirmed – Marie used that one Auspex thing, the Psychic Assault thing, on Eldest, and that just ashed her. When that happened, that was it, the ritual couldn’t continue and it all went to bust.”

“Oh damn.” Vince had to hold back a chuckle himself, though his was less mirth and more the shock of hearing the woman that had plagued his memory for three years had just been dusted like nothing by another Antediluvian who had possessed his friend, and that the action had thus ended the entire war. It was kind of a lot. “Wait, if I’ve walked away from that power before, does that mean I’m better than Eldest?”

“Or luckier.” April shrugged. There were too many variables to really know for sure. “Either way, it didn’t last long after that. When they came back out, you were… well.” She paused, letting out a soft breathe. It was hard to talk about, honestly. There hadn’t been anything left except his rifle, his jacket, and the story from the others, which had described an unknown sniper. “Al said your cigarette was floating, that you’d left it behind somehow, but I think he was just in shock. I mean, one minute he’d left and the next he was back and you were just gone, so I can understand if he just saw things and didn’t get them.”

“Oh, the cigarette thing is just like… a thing.” Vince said, struggling for words. He pulled a cigarette out of his pocket, holding it lightly between two fingers. “I’ve kinda figured that out on the bus, actually. Marie did it, once – I think she was probably kinda Malkav at the time. Martha tried to shoot it out of the air regardless. We couldn’t ever figure out how she’d managed to make it float, and like, I couldn’t tell you for beans how I’ve managed to make it float sometimes, but I can?” He held the cigarette out over the counter, watching it for a second before letting go. It hit the counter lightly, bouncing once. “I can’t do it if I’m thinking about it, though. It makes it hard to demonstrate.”

“Yeah. Sure.” April sighed. Did she believe him? Mostly. Malkavians really were a different breed – she knew they had trouble lying, so it wasn’t like he was telling her a fib, but cigarettes simply didn’t float. “Regardless, I heard he went kind of on a bender trying to figure out who took the shot, but if he found an answer, I haven’t heard it. I think the idea that you could come back tempered his need to find out.” She shrugged. “And then, of course, you didn’t, and depression killed the rest, I guess. I heard through the grapevine something about it being a Banu-Haqim that actually took the shot, but if that’s the case, nobody’s come forward to claim the kill. Which would be weird if it was actually a real hit, so I think maybe someone got a little bit too trigger happy and you weren’t actually on the docket.”

“Eh, maybe. It was a war. Indiscriminate killing was absolutely the name of the game and I did step out into the open without checking first. As a sniper myself, I should have known better, honestly.” Vince shrugged, unfazed by the idea of his murderer being still on the loose. “Besides, I was a problem, even if I wasn’t on a hit list. I’m surprised only one Assamite even took a shot at me – if that’s even the Clan you’re referencing. I figure it is, since isn’t their guy in the chair Haqim?”

“They go by the Banu-Haqim now, yeah. Apparently the other term isn’t something they’re particularly keen on, and we’re trying not to make too many new enemies. I think it was part of the results of the civil war that happened.” April took another sip of wine, swirling it around in her glass. “Haytham’s in Concord, if my information serves. There’s a couple refuges from the war hiding out there right now. Something about therapy? Hell if I know for sure.” April shrugged. “Al’s been keeping an eye on their outgoing messages. Someone named Clarity keeps sending reports out to someone else in Turkey, but they’re all mostly about the mental health of their three charges – someone they keep calling Deathstroke, someone they keep calling Poison Ivy, and someone they’re calling Harvey Dent.”

“Someone really likes DC Comics, huh? Or they’re a Malk, just babysitting.” Vince offered, gesturing with the glass.

“I think they just like comics. If they were a Malk, I wouldn’t be able to read their reports as well – they’re way too coherent.” April shook her head. “I know Dent’s referencing Haytham, though. I mean, Two-Face? You couldn’t get more heavy-handed if you wanted to.” She sighed. Haytham had been on their side, sometimes, but not always, and the way he switched between the two said that loyalty wasn’t really his strong suit. Or, at least, he was easily swayed. Sometimes, it was nice knowing he was easy to convince, but there were always downsides. “Far as the reports go, they’re doing alright. No idea who the other two Banu-Haqim are, but Al’s only been skimming the reports and then passing them on to me to catalog. Apparently, he was tracing a bunch of different names right before Vyx came back, one of which might be there, and even though he gave up on the effort, he didn’t remove the trace on their Wi-fi. Better to keep it, just in case.”

“Considering, it’s probably not a bad idea. Keeping your pulse on the assassin clan is always a good thing. Then, you at least know who’s pissing people off.” Vince shook his head, pouring himself another glass of the wine. For all it tasted a bit bad, he didn’t mind it. He could still taste food, after all, and he liked his wine a little bitter. “What happened after? I know Greensboro was probably a mess for a while, considering Dodge got offed by… oh god, was it Dhakir? I think it was Dhakir. And I know Dennis didn’t make it.”

“Oh god no. Kana’s taken up the mantle of Prince, now.” April delivered the news, and the brief look of delight on Vince’s face was enough proof that this was a good thing. Kana was his best friend, after all, and she made a decent leader. “Sven’s Sheriff, Nakamura’s the Scourge. Kana sired him, after the war. She actually asked for most of us remaining ghouls to be sired, which is why I’m here like this.” April gestured to herself, and Vince quickly flickered into Auspex long enough to see that she was, in fact, a vampire, where before she’d been only a ghoul. “Molly helped me find a sire in her friend Rita. I don’t know if you ever actually met her.”

“I don’t think I did, but something about her feels… close. Like… like her name’s been carved in a tree I sat under as a kid, y’know? I’ve seen her name and I know her presence and I’ve touched the hands she’s touched, but there’s so much distance between us that won’t ever really get covered. If that makes any sense.” Vince pursed his lips, trying to describe the feeling. It was hard enough to interpret for himself what he saw in his mind’s eye when he thought of Rita – trees and darkness and this touch of something otherworldly, like sunlight he could actually feel – let alone translate it for someone else. “Like, if we weren’t vampires, I’d assume she was the dead matriarch of a family I knew really well, ‘cause it feels like I should know her just from who I do know, but I just never got the chance to actually meet her.”

“Well, you know Martha, right?” April asked, trying to piece the connection together. If Vince had a hard time getting the words to feel right, April had a harder time making sense of them, having no exposure to the blood like Vince did. “Martha’s sire, Rosemary, was Rita’s wife? So maybe that’s what you’re feeling.” She shrugged, unable to understand it. Clearly, there was something deeper going on, something very Malkavian in tone, and she was simply unequipped to handle it. It didn’t help that Vince nodded along to her answer like that made perfect sense. “I’m a Lasombra, now. It’s been… an adjustment.”

“I figure. Brujah to Lasombra is a jump.” Vince shook his head, turning to actually face her. “You said Al was sired? That’s news. His aura reads ghoul still, but I honestly shouldn’t have expected anything less from him.”

“Yeah, but… I don’t think it’s my place to tell you who sired him.” April pursed her lips. “If he hasn’t told you, I don’t… I don’t know if he trusts me, yet, but I know if I told you who his sire was and he didn’t want me to spill that information, he wouldn’t trust me ever again.”

“Yeah, fair.” Vince sighed. “I’ll ask him later. The blood isn’t---it’s not really helpful for you all, y’know.” Vince put his hands out, like he was watching the words pool in the space between his palms and like if he just massaged them a bit, he’d made something that sounded like a sentence. “Some people I saw who they were, who they really were, like, instantly. Like Damon. Damon was a storm cloud from the moment we spoke. But some people were just… confusing, I guess, even for the blood? And then there’s people I get to know really well, and the blood sort of fades out when I do. Like knowing someone intimately overrides the truth of what I see.” He shook his head, turning to April with an expression that was simply sad. “I think maybe people would trust what I say more if the blood actually behaved properly, but it just… it’s not consistent, right now.”

“I mean, you were dead.” April shrugged. “Dying changes things, y’know? And it’s been nearly a decade.” She shook her head, and Vince shrugged. If it really bothered him, he didn’t let it show much.

“We all have our adjustments to make, I guess, huh?” He asked, raising an eyebrow to indicate his use of her words was intentional. She shook her head, but she had a smile on her face, something that said she didn’t mind the connection. “So, Sven’s Sheriff, Nakamura’s Scourge. Anyone else in the upper echelon that I should know?”

“Uh, well. Dan’s still the Brujah primogen.” April grimaced, and Vince also made a face, almost spitting his wine out as he did so. Neither needed to elaborate on why that was funny, as they both knew – Dan wasn’t a Brujah, not anymore. “I think Kana figured that, as long as people weren’t asking questions, it wasn’t that big of an issue. And it’s not like Dan causes problems, so as long as people aren’t getting curious, I think the plan is just to leave it as is.” She shrugged. “Damon’s running Winston, which he has since renamed.”

“Oh god, that man’s ego didn’t even take a dent from the war, did it?” Vince sighed. He and Damon weren’t… friends, though he was under the impression that Damon didn’t realize that yet. The not-quite-a-Tremere clearly hadn’t read all of Vince’s notes, or he would have seen the various times Vince wrote Damon is extremely frustrating and I don’t like this. It was often. “Has anyone caught on, yet, to his, uh. Problem?”

“No, but there’s been no shortage of drama.” April rolled her eyes. Damon was definitely not a man for subtle. “The Chantry’s been through it – there was this whole coup thing, which was a mess. Not exactly weird for the Tremere, but it means the whole Chantry’s been restructured from the ground up. And, from what I heard tell, Vyx also ripped him a new asshole on your behalf. Apparently, he added a few things into your context so he didn’t look like quite a bad guy.”

“Ah, yeah, that makes sense.” Vince also rolled his eyes, but less at Damon’s shitty actions and more at the idea that anyone thought it would work. “Wildly, I have more memory access from the war now than I did back then, not less. I was wondering why I had two versions of the same memory. Unfortunately for him, getting yelled at ‘cause I wouldn’t let them murder my husband was traumatic enough that it’s been burned into my very brainfolds.” He shrugged. “Glad to know someone came after his ass. Honestly should have done that myself earlier, but we were trying to organize several hundred Kindred for a war.”

“I think everyone is realizing we should have yelled at Damon earlier for his bullshit. Including Sven. Apparently, when he found out Damon had tampered with your memories, he was pissed. To call what they went through a rough patch is taking it lightly.” April rolled her eyes, and her whole head, at the whole situation. “Oh, in the good news, not everyone is dead. Molly went and raised a few people who didn’t make it through the war, but some people weren’t accessible. Sven’s got most of his kids back, Malvern’s fine, brought back a couple others. The one Malk from Raleigh, Alice, the kid? She didn’t come back, and Dodge was also apparently MIAwhen Molly went looking.”

“Alice is probably my bad. She was guiding me through the spirit, like the Virgil to my Dante.” Vince chuckled. “She also didn’t seem like she wanted to go back. She was Malkav’s childe, after all. The blood really got to her.”

“Yeah, though Molly didn’t also try very hard with her. I think she did it just ‘cause Alice’s childe, Sadie, the cute kid, asked, and Molly’s apparently a sucker for a sweet child’s face.” April took the bottle from Vince, pouring herself a small amount more of the blood. It gave her something to do with her hands. “Oh! Nakamura asked Kana to marry him. They tied the knot in 2019. Kana was a little upset you didn’t get to come back for it, but there was something about her immigration that she just didn’t want to deal with that needed her married and quickly.”

“Aww, I’m proud of them.” Vince’s face split in a smile that was, really and truly, proud of the two of them. He’d been there when they’d first found Nakamura, Kana’s new husband, and he’d watched them every step of the way. Knowing they reached the inevitable conclusion made him feel nice inside. “And I’m glad they didn’t wait ten years just so I could be there.”

“Well, rumor has it that Martha and Jess have been engaged for a billion years, but Martha’s been waiting for you, so they haven’t gotten married yet.” April got a chance to give Vince a raised eyebrow, and the man’s face seemed surprised at the names being used, let alone the situation. “I’d make sure someone tells her you’re alive again before too long. They’ve been waiting long enough.”

“Oh yeah, I’ll definitely get on letting her know as soon as we’re home.” Vince breathed out, something soft and sweet and adoring at the mention of Martha’s name. The man had two friends, as far as April understood – one was Kana, and the other was Martha. Everyone else was either just an acquaintance, a partner, or a prospect towards something greater. But Martha was special. “God, you know, I just realized, when we get home, there won’t be a war on.” He said, turning to April with an expression that was almost a little afraid. “The fuck am I going to do? I’ve been embroiled in this Pip bullshit from before I was even sired.”

“Well, as far as I know, the position of Seneschal has been kept open, just in case a certain someone decided to come back and grace us with his dumb smile.” April delivered the news, and Vince looked at her with a furrowed brow, like he didn’t understand. Malkavians. April sighed. “Kana thought you’d work well as her Seneschal, so she hasn’t filled the position yet. I don’t know how long she was going to wait, but apparently at least a decade. So you technically have a job when you get home, if you want it.”

“I mean, I’ll take it, but… what’s a Seneschal?” Vince asked, his expression of confusion not changing, even with her explanation. “I recognize the name, ‘cause I think there was one in London? But that was a cardboard cutout of a man in someone else’s pants, literally, and I never really figured out what the hell he did other than cause us problems.” Vince chuckled, and April watched him for a long second, processing his lack of knowledge. She’d forgotten, somehow, that it had been a decade, and many places hadn’t had all three of their Council seats filled when Vince had visited. In the times since, more places had found uses for Seneschals, and had replaced their Sheriffs and Scourges as necessary to keep the positions intact – but Vince wouldn’t have known that. She sighed.

“Seneschals act in the Prince’s place for stuff that isn’t all that important. You’d be like the first point of contact for Neonates, or you might go with the Sheriff somewhere to like, ensure the Prince’s orders are carried out to the letter, stuff like that. Kana’s also been talking about having you declare edicts and other stuff, mostly ‘cause nobody we know actually has the position filled that does that.” April shrugged, only pausing at the look on Vince’s face – it was one that said she knew a lot more than he’d expected, and he wasn’t sure how she’d found out. “I’ve done some research. After the war, I started trying to catalog who got promoted where and what changed, power-structure wise. At first it was just ‘cause Kana was a little in over her head and she asked me to help her out, but then other Princes and Bishops and Barons were emailing my burner, asking if I could forward them the information, and I did, but only in exchange for the same information from their city. But that meant I had to know what everyone did.”

“I mean, it definitely sounds like a job I could do.” Vince shrugged, but there was something like delight in his face, like the idea that he had not only a job but friends that gave enough of a shit about him to save him that same job for over a decade was honestly incredible to find out. He picked up the cigarette that had been on the table since he’d dropped it, putting it between his lips and pulling out a lighter. The bartender didn’t stop him, nor did he look like he cared either way. “That’s all I did during the war, after all. Talked to people. Surprisingly, it went well, though I’m not really sure how.” He chuckled.

“Honestly, Vince, it’s kind of made you a legend, a little.” April said, softly, and Vince looked at her like she’d suddenly grown another head. She chuckled, because honestly, it was as strange as it was funny. “I mean, look at what we did, Vince. We managed to take vampires from five countries and like, four states, and convince them the world was ending. We put Tremere and Salubri on the same side of the war and they managed to not kill each other. You looked at Dracula and asked him to fight and he said yes. Vince, you met Cain!” April’s voice rose as she spoke, and she stopped herself at the statement, noticing how many people were actively looking at her and realizing that shouting about Cain probably wasn’t the best idea. She took a breath, controlling herself. “And then you died, and it… sort of took off. Now you’re something special, I think.”

“It wasn’t just me, though.” Vince said, taking a long draw off the cigarette. “Like, minimum, I wouldn’t have made it that far without Dan, or Kana, or Nakamura, or hell, Al.”

“Yeah, but it’s also really hard to convince anyone that Damon Wellington was palpable enough as a person to do what you did.” April countered, and that had Vince holding his hands up in concession of the point. “Like, look at who did the traveling, Vince. You really think people are gonna look at Kana, Dan, Damon, and Martha and think anyone other than Martha actually did the heavy lifting?” She asked, and that had Vince holding his hands up a little further, as though she didn’t need to drill the point home. “Regardless, most people consider you the, uh… mouth, I guess, of that group, so they slot your successes with people into your victory pile. Pulling you as Seneschal isn’t just sound for your friendship, but it’s politically good, too. Any Kindred who were around before the war will know you as the guy who talks big game and gets things done.”

“Oh god, are we sure I should take that? I don’t want to disappoint.” Vince laughed. “Convincing people to join me is like trying to make the cigarette hang in the air – I’m not exactly sure how it’s done, and I know I can’t do it on purpose.” He shrugged, shaking his head. “It’s not your problem, though, so I’ll just talk to Kana later. We’ll figure it out. Hell, maybe I can learn on the job.” Vince shrugged again, turning to lean back against the bar, cigarette dangling from between his lips. “But hey, that’s something good that came out of this mess, right? It could be worse. We could have a lot more dead.” He paused, turning to his wine glass and lifting it towards April, a silent gesture for a toast, and April lifted her glass to join him. “To those of us who made it, and those of us who didn’t.”

Vince took the cigarette from his lips, holding it in the air next to him as he skulled his glass. April didn’t down hers, just taking a long drink, setting it down on the counter when Vince set his down. They didn’t say anything else, not for a long moment, Vince staring off into the middle distance as he’d come to do so often, watching the ghosts dance behind his eyes. This place was full, and even April could tell – places with history had shadows that moved, shifted, danced, even if she wasn’t in tune with the spirit like Vince was. Luckily, they didn’t wait much longer, as the door to the other end of the train station burst open, Val the first figure to enter, followed quickly by Donnie and Al. Vince sat up as they arrived, pushing himself from the seat quickly to go make sure everyone was okay.

The cigarette hung lightly in the air where his hand had been, his fingers having simply let go without noticing. It didn’t fall. April stared at it, reaching out like if she just put her fingers around it, she could find the wire or the beam of light causing the illusion. Nothing happened, even when she plucked the cigarette from the air, inspecting it closely, finding no strings or anything else that could have caused it.

“Oh, shit, thanks!” Vince’s voice broke her from her thoughts, his fingers lightly plucking the cigarette from her hand as he quickly returned, having realized he’d missed something in leaving. “Glad we didn’t set the bar on fire. C’mon, though – Donnie’s back and the bus is apparently pulling in behind them.” He patted the bar, and April pushed herself to her feet, looking briefly at the space where the cigarette had been before. She shook her head, following after Vince and leaving the bar behind.

Like most things, it was better not to dwell on it.

~*~

They’d been shuffled off to a back room of the Union Station as soon as the bus arrived, like if they left Vyx alone in the party for more than a handful of minutes, someone would die. Vyx considered it a little overkill, of course, but something in their stomach started to sink at the way they were treated; their experiences out in Kansas hadn’t exactly been public knowledge, a bunch of things best left dead and buried where they had been laid, but they’d mentioned clarity and Wichita before and the longer Vyx thought, the more concerned they got that the topic wouldn’t be something they’d want to discuss.

They’d only really told Martha, back when they’d been in Paris. Everyone else was in the dark.

The room they were brought to was an old clerk’s office, from back when the place had been a train station; most of the furniture looked period to the time, like the Prince had decided it was better to leave the vintage pieces rather than replace them, and with the rest of the decorations, it was clear that the vintage look was intentional. Old riverboat photos and the kind of shipping memorabilia one would probably find on display in a museum hung on the walls, and a library shelf of books took up one wall. If it hadn’t been for the modern computer on the desk, Vyx would have assumed they’d gone back in time.

The Prince sat behind the desk when they entered, and she didn’t move as they did, nor as Ginny stepped forward, pressing Vyx to the front of the pack. The Prince, as far as the others could see, was honestly unremarkable beyond being conventionally pretty; she was blond, doe eyed, short, skinny, a heart shaped face and a hand that knew how to do the kind of eyeliner that made her look more like a celebrity than someone kind of homey and plain. But Vyx could see something in her that was sharp, dangerous, her teeth knives like a shark, her fingers almost webbed. She wasn’t a Gangrel – she didn’t smell like dog, and even those Gangrel that weren’t dogs often smelled like dog, especially when wet, and considering she lived on a river Vyx would have expected the smell otherwise – but she was a woman who knew water like the back of her hand, possibly obsessed over it, and she was considering Vyx like she was trying to judge if the other could swim.

“I appreciate that you were willing to cooperate.” She said, considering Vyx up and down slowly for a moment before giving the party behind them a once over. It was hard to tell who it was that she saw that seemed to make her nervous – there was no way to tell if it was Flidais’s unmoving, unwavering stare, the half-snarl on Donnie’s lips from the fact that Ginny’s hand never left Vyx’s back, or Al’s furrowed brow and crossed arms that made her lips twist like she was expecting a fight – but she crossed her arms, turning her eyes back to the Malkavian in front of her. “Natalie Williams, Prince. I hope Ginny was able to explain the situation.”

“She said you wanted us to be… clear.” Vyx repeated, giving the space a once over with their eyes. “Clear as a ship’s bell, probably? Or the water on a still morning. You can pick the metaphor that suits, or sails.” They paused, indulging briefly in a snicker at their own stupid pun. The Prince didn’t so much as blink, which told them that she definitely wasn’t in a joking mood. “Clear about what, well, that wasn’t clear enough, y’know.” They tried again, but their jovial attempt fell flat, and they deflated a little, as Natalie didn’t even broach a smile.

“You came through here, a few years ago.” Natalie started off on what was clearly the topic of the evening, leaning down under her desk and producing a safety deposit box, which she set on the table. “You left this behind.” She paused, putting a hand on the box, and the way Vyx looked from it, to her, with something like hope told her everything she needed to know – this did, in fact, belong to them. “However, you also left behind two of my men torpored, and the word out of Wichita was that there was no problem and nothing happened.” She paused again, narrowing her eyes. “Now, here’s the issue: putting two of my men down like that isn’t nothing, and your new friends out West are clearly trying to be subtle to help you avoid consequences. Unfortunately for you, that’s not good enough. I need to know what happened.”

“Can’t you ask… uh… Jason, was it? I think?” Vyx asked, dropping a name no one else in the room seemed to know. It didn’t inspire the confusion the Prince had expected, however; instead, she watched Donnie shift, like Vyx’s tone of light concern was enough to already have his hackles up, and she watched Al press a light hand to his arm as though to tell him wait for it. Natalie sighed, dropping her shoulders and rolling her eyes. Coteries.

“I did. He won’t speak on it. He says something happened, but that you should come with a glowing recommendation and that I shouldn’t worry much about it.” She paused, giving the whole group a once over, as though to make sure they knew she was addressing them, specifically. “The glowing recommendation got you in this room unharmed. But I run a harbor; people move in and out of my city every night, and I know every. Single. One. I know their business, length of their stay, who’s side they’re on, all of it. Except for you. So, fill in the blanks.” She held her hands out, and Vyx shifted from one foot to the other, glancing over their shoulder.

“Do I---do I have to do this here?” They asked, but the frown they got in return said yes, and that their discomfort at telling the coterie was, actually, part of the situation. Telling the authority about ones crimes wasn’t ever meant to be a comfortable experience, after all. They rocked on their heels. “Look, like. I get it, you wanna know and I definitely am super willing to tell you, but I haven’t---we haven’t--- I’ve traveled, a lot, and I haven’t exactly gotten around to giving all the dirty details to everyone, and I-I dunno, maybe finding this out under duress in a strange town isn’t the best way to do this?” They asked, begged, just a little, nervous, turning back to the polycule like that was the real problem there – like telling Al, or Donnie, or Flidais, or April, was the actual issue and they didn’t give a shit whether the Prince knew or not. But Natalie grinned in a way that said the answer was yes, here.

“Whether or not your complicated coterie survives this story isn’t really my issue, unfortunately.” She shrugged, leaning back in her chair, watching Vyx carefully. “Now, details. Unless you want to have to explain that someone died out here because you wanted to be tight lipped with a Prince---“

She finished her words, but the sentence was cut off, still, as Val slammed into the wall with a sudden and unyielding force – notably, Donnie’s forearm, which he had jammed against her throat in a pin that said I dare you, his speed unmatched. He held her against the wall, turning his head slightly in Natalie’s direction as though to emphasize the point – nobody was dying in that room if he was still able to move, and they’d have to be better than that to catch him.

“Can I actually offer some advice?” Al stepped up, hands in his pockets, shoulders easy, but Vyx could tell he was weighing the idea of checking an SMG, just to let them know he came in armed and they didn’t think to stop him, the mistakes they made piling up like fresh snow on a cold road. A wreck was becoming inevitable. Natalie turned her eyes to Al, who took her severe frown as a response. “One, I would be extremely careful who you threaten.” He paused, taking his vape out of his pocket and ripping a hit off of it, the pervasive smell of pickles invasive and off putting. Ginny made a face, and that had Al smiling – it meant she was distracted with his asshole persona and not paying attention to where his guns were. “Shortstop’s been a bit pent up this whole visit, considering you ripped not only his significant other, but also the person he’s supposed to be body-guarding, away from him without warning. Man’s a loose cannon.” He paused again, watching their faces – significant other definitely had Ginny’s face flinching, just for a second, which told him everything he needed to know about the fact that they didn’t. “Two, if you’re going to play like you know who we are, maybe don’t give up on your due diligence half way.”

He stepped up, placing an arm on Vyx’s shoulders, leaning there, casual and easy, letting a hit from his vape invade Natalie’s personal space over her desk. “’Cause if you did actually know us like you play that you know us, you’d know two things: one, this isn’t a coterie, this is a polycule, and two, not even being dead stopped us from sticking together the first time. Unless you’re, I dunno, swinging with the power of Cain behind your hands, I’d say you should keep them to yourself.” He raised an eyebrow, the explicit threat in his voice, and Donnie, for his part, pressed Val against the wall a little tighter. He wasn’t hurting her – honestly, he was ignoring the fact that she seemed to like it, honestly – but she also wasn’t able to move, which definitely pissed her off. Al turned to look at Vyx, giving their opposite shoulder a squeeze. “And unless you like… killed Cain, I wouldn’t worry about chasing us away, babe. We’ve kinda done that whole thing before and personally, I like this better.”

“Ha, yeah.” Vyx chuckled, turning back to Donnie. “QB, can you put her down? I don’t think they’re gonna focus if their Scourge is a piñata.” They chuckled, and Donnie shrugged, pulling back just enough to let Val off the wall – but not enough to free her, as he knew she would probably stab him if given half the chance. Vyx shrugged, because that was good enough. “Thanks. And… look, I just… I don’t like this story, alright? Which is why I didn’t say anything the first time. I… I know we do a lot of weird stuff, but this isn’t one I’m proud of.” They paused, turning back to the Prince, who had an expression that was slowly realizing that she’d played with Kindred out of her depth and hadn’t noticed. “So, context, do you know what the Madness Network is?”

“No. Though I am aware it is something used by Malkavians. I don’t employ Malkavians.” Natalie’s tone said distaste, likely for the whole clan, which was sort of expected by then. She clearly wasn’t Vyx’s biggest fan.

“So, it’s like… Imagine a radio station, right?” They started, trying to form an explanation that made any sense and watching Natalie’s expression to see if it landed. “You change a channel and suddenly there’s a new voice talking and telling you stuff, but instead of one voice per channel all of the voices are all speaking all on the same channel and you have to really focus to make one stand out, and there’s like hundreds and hundreds of them. If you’re a Malk, and you’re decent with the blood, accessing it is easy. Tuning in isn’t hard – tuning out, however, varies. Malks who don’t really use the blood much find it easier to just ignore it all.” They paused, pressing their fingers together in front of them, and Al reached down, taking their hand with his own. It was a comfort, and they appreciated it. “I’m not---I’m weird. I think that’s about as clear as that’s going to get, and that’s not ‘cause I’m being cagey, that’s ‘cause I don’t really get how I came to be here and trying to explain something I don’t get isn’t easy.”

“Short form: I died. A very powerful necromancer went to grab me back and grabbed them instead.” Vince added, like he wasn’t sure why people were hemming and hawing over the explanation when it really was that simple. “Took me a minute to get better, so they got the run of the limbs until I did, and since I was the man in charge until then, they basically didn’t exist before that.” He shrugged. Natalie looked at him like he’d lost his fucking mind, but Vyx held up a hand to try and bring her back in.

“The important part is that I don’t… know my own mental voice.” Vyx said, and that was a revelation that hit the rest of the party, though not as poorly as Vyx assumed it would. Mostly, they saw more pity than anger or fear, even if they’d just admitted they didn’t know what their own thoughts sounded like. Al squeezed their hand harder. “I was out in Kansas, just taking the open road for what it’s worth, right? And I stopped in this… bar, I think. Dive bar, somewhere. And the voices. There were so many, and unfortunately for me, I can’t… I can’t turn the Network off. The radio station stays on, no matter where I am. When I’ve got people around me, people I know, it’s easy to ignore the voices, stay on track. But when it’s quiet, or I’m alone, it’s… its all I can think.”

“What do you hear right now?” Ginny asked, somewhere between trying to vet Vyx’s words and curious as to the condition. They paused, furrowing their brow for just a second.

“Uhhhh… I think someone has gotten a Budweiser frogs chorus going, ‘cause that’s what I hear, but it’s definitely more than one voice.” They shrugged, and Ginny nodded, like she understood what they meant. They tried not to let it be too off putting – it was always strange when someone understood a Malk without further context, but it was also always better not to ask. “Regardless, I was alone, out in Kansas. And I… I heard a voice. It was… it was so angry. It wanted someone to die. Then… the next thing I know, I’ve got a knife in the guts of someone I don’t know and I’m covered in blood.” They held their hands out, like they still remembered the exact moment, the smell of heady copper on their hands, the way they wanted to lick it from their fingers. “I remember someone… tried to tell me something. Words. I didn’t hear them, everything was still so loud, so bright, and then I think… I think he touched me, or he went to touch me, or something, and I just… I snapped.” They looked up, something serious on their face. “I’m going to leave the rest of that unsaid, ‘cause I’m not admitting to anything, but I figure you can guess.”

“And Jason said this was nothing?” Natalie asked, almost like she was about to race down to Wichita herself and give Jason a piece of her mind. Vyx shrugged.

“I mean, the first guy wasn’t me. The second guy attempted to grab a frightened jackal twenty seconds after it made a kill – not really sure what anyone expected from that interaction besides the way it went.” They shrugged. “Shitty part to me has always been the… the fact that they weren’t my thoughts. Jason agreed. And he saw me ruin that second guy. So like, I don’t know, if you have beef with how he runs his shit, take it up with him?” They shook their head, waving it off. “Honestly, maybe don’t. Shadows want to hang in shadows, and the worst thing you can do is throw a bit of light on them, y’know? And I figure you don’t wanna beef with neighboring cities over stuff that didn’t happen to you.”

“Why my men, then?” Natalie asked, but something in her had softened. Maybe it was the explanation that suited her tastes. Maybe it was the fact that, even though Vyx had all but admitted to diablerizing someone out in Kansas, not a single member of their polycule looked even remotely surprised, let alone angry or perturbed at the idea. Fighting a group of Kindred who were very okay with eating other Kindred was not the play, really ever. Or maybe it was the sinking realization that she was dealing with Kindred that were above her pay-grade, and their benevolence was not guaranteed.

“They tried to catch a running fox, duh. Like, I was just trying to make it out as far East as I could, as quickly as I could. I wasn’t planning on stopping. But your dingdongs decided to try and play bad cop, worse cop and I didn’t have time to entertain their roleplay fantasies.” Vyx shrugged. “Maybe you should tell your people to leave well enough alone sometimes. They definitely didn’t take the hint.” They patted their pockets, looking for a cigarette, and found their own pockets empty; at the sudden frown on their face, not one, but two packs of cigarettes launched from two different pockets – one, a pack of American Spirits, the other a pack of Marlboros that had seen better days – followed by a flameless lighter. They caught the first two packs in a cradled arm, and the lighter in their other hand, quickly stuffing the Marlboros in their pocket and fishing out an American Spirit, lighting it.

“I feel like that should be what you wanted, though.” Al added, taking Vince’s lighter back from Vyx and tossing it back to him; he caught it deftly, pocketing it without even looking. “You have your explanation, you know this was definitely a one-time thing, and also definitely not your problem. Now, if that’s it, I think there’s a safety deposit box we need to take back to a certain bus parked outside.” Al gestured, and Natalie sighed, realizing that this really was all she was going to get. It was better than nothing, at least.

“You’re welcome to open it here, if you would like. I’d prefer if you didn’t take the box.” She patted the metal box, which had the key taped neatly to the top. “I apologize if this meeting caused you any inconvenience. You understand why I had to know something.” She added, like that would excuse her transgressions. The deference was interesting, having heard that she was in a room full of diablerists who didn’t care much what their fellow did, but Vyx wasn’t taking it lightly. Any deference was good.

“Yeah, I get it. Maybe next time, though, just like… knock? Ask?” They chuckled, stepping up to the desk as Natalie stepped back from behind it. She headed for the door, a flick of the hand summoning Ginny to her side. She paused, leveling her stare at Donnie, who carefully released Val from the hold he’d kept her in. She’d been on the ground, but unable to move, and it was only with Natalie’s careful nod that he let the Scourge go. Vyx turned, watching them all head out, Natalie pausing only once, as though to look upon the room one last time before the explosive devices she was leaving behind destroyed it. “No worries, we’ll keep things the way they are. I didn’t put guns in this one.” They chuckled, and Natalie shook her head, leaving them alone in the room with the box.

Vyx posted up behind the desk, using the key to unlock the box as they did so. Donnie, free from his job holding the most dangerous person there against the wall, settled himself against Vyx’s side, putting his arm over their shoulder as though he was daring anyone to separate them again. They leaned into the touch, only pulling away when Al also stepped up to their other side, putting his arm around their back; they didn’t mind being in between their two main partners, honestly, and it was a big comfort to feel them there after so long without them. They’d done well to not think about it after they’d left, but Wichita had been a mess and it had haunted them for a long time – so now, having it forcefully brought back and used against them was a lot, and it had them trying not to sink into something strange and melancholic. They shook their head, reaching out to snap the box open, trying to dismiss the errant thoughts that the whole thing brought up.

A cheese hat, big and made of very squishy foam, all but launched from the box, hitting Flidais in the face as she stepped up to the desk. Vince, who had stepped up behind her, snickered, and the warning look she shot him said that he only got away with that because it was him and that if anyone else had dared, she would have more hands than she knew what to do with.

“Wisconsin.” Vyx said, like that explained things. It, strangely, did; at least, no one asked any further questions. “This box was sort of my collection point for a bunch of different middle America stops. It was easier to have one place right in the center that I could kinda come back to, y’know? I don’t remember where I got the cheese hat – I think there was a festival or something - but I know this is from up in the middle of nowhere,” They paused, pulling out a small piece of paper, only a little bigger than a playing card, which they pocketed before anyone could read. It looked like it had a lot of text on it, but there wasn’t any way to read it before they slipped it away. “Talked to a fortune teller up in Spring Green. She was clear, that was only for me.” They chuckled, reaching back in and digging around. “And there’s this shirt, which is from a restaurant in Milwaukee.” Vyx produced a t-shirt, which had two columns; one had the label of 7pm, with Mission Briefing written neatly on a bullet point line, while the other had a designation of 3:32am, labeled Missing Briefs and written poorly and not on the bullet line. It had a further label below the lines that said it came from a place called Safehouse. “It was spy themed. I technically got this for you, Al, but you weren’t really speaking to me so it’s been… here.”

“Honestly, I’d say I’m flattered,” Al said, his tone indicating a little sarcasm as he held the shirt in front of him, “But really, you nailed it. I can’t even be mad.” He chuckled, a genuine thing, reaching back around to give them a hug as a sign of thanks. “Claire might be, but that’s not your problem or mine.”

“I hope you didn’t buy this shirt for me.” Donnie said, pulling out a different shirt. It was from a place called Art of Pizza, out in Chicago, and Al hid a snort behind his new t-shirt at the sight of it. Vyx snagged the t-shirt, shaking their head with a chuckle and pressing a kiss to Donnie’s cheek as though to apologize for making him touch the thing in the first place.

“No, I didn’t. It was free. And before I met you.” They stuffed the offending t-shirt under one arm, digging through the box further. “I just wanted pizza and I figure it’s easier to judge once I’ve actually had it.” They paused, looking up to consider their newly formed opinions on Chicago style pizza like they finally had to pass judgement. “Personally, I don’t like tomato sauce enough for deep dish. But also my experience with tomatoes has been primarily Vince’s mother’s cooking.” They gestured backwards, and Vince shrugged, lighting the end of his old cigarette and blowing the smoke towards the ceiling.

“She would definitely be offended by Chicago pizza, but I think she’d probably be offended by most American cooking.” He chuckled. Vyx shook their head – his mother was from Spain, and had opinions on things like tomatoes, they remembered, and definitely would have opinions on American food - pulling a third t-shirt – this time with the phrase I heart you on it, but the heart was actually a pictograph of a pterodactyl – and putting it with the pizza shirt under their arm. They also produced a pair of glittery men’s underwear, and this they held up for a moment, like they couldn’t actually place where they came from, until the memory hit them and they broke into a smile.

“I didn’t realize you were shopping for all of your partners while you were out here.” Flidais said, her tone an attempt at something like humor but lost in both her cold fish attitude and the fact that she hadn’t stopped looking at the door – where they could tell Val still lingered, a bodyguard making sure they didn’t leave with anything important - with a promise of death for making Vyx go through an emotional situation in front of her. It didn’t matter if they’d broken up, she was still deadly protective of anyone she considered a companion. Vyx snorted.

“Oh no, I got this from a gay florist before I saved his orgy-camping trip from the rain. But I think that’s a story for later.” They put the underwear with the shirts, furrowing their brow at the things still in the box. There were quite a few items left, and they were growing increasingly small and increasingly strange. “I don’t know how I fit all of these things in this box.” They said, pulling out three jars; they were all labeled with a brand that was recognizably Amish, with one being pickled okra, one being pickled pigs feet, and one being pickled radishes. The radishes had been opened, if the sound of the pop-top said anything. They also pulled out a puzzle box, handmade and old and strange, setting that aside. “Like, I know I jammed the hat in there last minute and I knew it was going to launch when I put it in there, but I think maybe I found a liminal space, here.” They said, pulling out a gauntlet from a suit of armor and putting it on the desk. “There’s so much.”

“Where did you find armor out here?” April asked, picking the gauntlet up and examining it like it was probably the strangest thing yet. It was older, not newly made, clearly the craftsmanship of a previous century, though it wasn’t tarnished or rusted or used. Vyx looked up at her like they had to sort through everything to recall where they’d gotten the thing, holding a small Santa ornament in their hands; it was a Santa, but it was also a mermaid.

“Well, that gauntlet is from a castle in Ohio, but if you ever want a helmet, go to a Loves.” They said, gesturing with the Santa. “I don’t know why, but that truck stop chain sells armor.”

“Middle America.” Vince shrugged, again, stepping over to the table and taking the Santa from Vyx’s hands, gesturing with it. “It’s just like that. Like, I could ask if you visited around Christmas, since you have a MerSanta ornament, but I basically know you didn’t, ‘cause Middle America just has this stuff around, right?” He asked, and they nodded, taking the Santa and wrapping it in one of the shirts. It was just small enough and just fragile enough that they didn’t trust it un-protected.

“Yeah, there’s a whole fucking town named Santa Claus in Indiana, so they have a store that’s year round. Christmas decorations, three-hundred sixty something days a year.” They set the ornament and shirt aside on the desk, pulling a magnet from the side of the metal box where it had stuck fast; it was for a place called Scoops, which seemed to serve ice-cream. They pried it off the side of the box, holding in between their thumbs like there was something reverent about it. “Oh! Ha. I, uh. Well, you all just heard I got a glowing recommendation from a guy out in Kansas, right?” They asked. Al narrowed his eyes, like bringing that back up when they were alone was actually something he was waiting for.

“You said his name was Jason?” Al asked, and they gave him a look that said don’t, even as he returned the look with maybe a bit too late.

“Al, we’re not getting into this.” They said, with a sigh. “Look, his name’s JasonLancaster.He was the Scourgewhen I was there. He… found me, face deep in this dude – who he said was kind of a prick, so I sort of did him a favor, I think – and he took me back to his place, got the story, and got me out. There’s no need to go like… digging into his business, okay? He’s not a threat.” They said, and Al shrugged, taking a hit off his vape but blowing it away from the party as a whole.

“I won’t antagonize him. But I am going to check him out when we get back to a laptop. We can’t just leave unknown variables hanging out, aware that you’ve eaten a man, and just assume that he won’t ever use that against you.” Al replied, and Vyx rolled their eyes, giving in before it became a thing. He was right, after all – they probably did need to check Jason over, just to be sure they hadn’t fucked themselves by trusting him.

“Fine, fine. Just. Leave him alone, okay? He wanted to hide.” They looked back to the magnet in their hands, shaking their head. “He’s just all shadows and he doesn’t like being in the light, I could tell. Regardless, I maybe sort of snagged this from his fridge, since it looked like a good place to snag a bite if I came back through and I knew I wouldn’t remember otherwise, so… if you do end up turning the flashlight on him, maybe don’t? Mention that I stole his magnets?” They chuckled, and Al rolled his eyes at them, but in a way that said sure, babe. He wasn’t going to tell Jason they stole what was, really, a beaten up, shitty magnet from a local ice-cream joint out in a state he didn’t think they’d ever visit again anyway.

“Weren’t you kicked out of Seattle?” Donnie asked, taking them away from their moment regarding the magnet and back to the present. He had a business card in his hands, one he’d fished from the bottom of the box, and Vyx reached out, taking it from him. It was for someone named Deacon, listing Seattle as a point of contact for him. They sighed.

“I was.” They said, handing the card to Al, who gave it a quick once over and then pocketed it. Yet one more problem to deal with when he had a computer again. “Think Seattle’s Best Nosferatu wanted to be cute and left it for me after I crashed a party of his. I’m not supposed to go back, but I don’t think there’s anything against us contacting him again, especially since this seems like an invitation.” Vyx shrugged, picking up the box and turning it upside down, just to be sure that nothing else was in there. It was empty, their things spread across the table. “That’s it, though. Now we just have to get all of this stuff to the car.” They chuckled, trying to pick things up and finding the concept of carrying around jars, t-shirts, and a cheese hat difficult. Vince, helpfully, put the cheese hat on his head.

“Yeah, I think we really should brie leaving.” He said. Every face in the room turned to him with the same kind of dour look Flidais normally carried, and he grinned, sheepishly. “What? A good cheese pun isn’t going to do any parm.” He said, and he ducked an imaginary punch, which was mostly the look on Al’s face as they split the contents of the box between their hands, heading for the door. “And hey, they’re only going to get feta as we go!”

“Vince, I will stab you.”

“Would that mean you cut the cheese, then?”

“Vince.”

“I bet you think I’m just a munster with all of these puns.”

“Alright, that’s it, we’re leaving him behind.”

“Maybe it’s cheddar if I just go.”

Vyx laughed, watching Al run after Vince as they made it outside, the other man holding the cheese hat to the top of his head as he raced for the bus, unwilling to lose it. Donnie chuckled as well, wrapping an arm around their shoulders as they made it to the bus. “I don’t know, the fact that they’re talking feels like a gouda thing.” He said, and that earned him an elbow to the ribs before a kiss to the face.

“Don’t make me throw you off the bus, too.” They chuckled, and he laughed, and for a moment, things were good. Maybe, they thought, hauling their things onto the bus and dodging Vince as he ran off it, Al in hot pursuit with a real knife in his hands, Vince laughing hysterically as they blew past – maybe it was even a gouda thing.

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