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bittykimmy13 · 2 years

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Whiskey and Wine (18+)

A Dark Future AU Story

Synopsis: Cliff and Zia’s undeniable sexual tension finally spurs her to make her move while they share a drink. But is Cliff ready to embrace his feelings, or will he close himself off for her protection?

Word count: ~10k

Co-written by the lovely @marydublinauthor 💕

🚫Warning: Explicit sexual content (consensual). Minors DNI 🚫

Not long after being more acquainted with Cliff, Zia learned that he had very different associations with the full moon than she did. Full moons for him meant hunts. Gashers, witches, bloodthirsty creatures that drew power on the brightest night of the cycle.

Thankfully, Sylvia had made him at least somewhat aware that fairies were just as entranced by the full moon without being the bloodthirsty type—a solid percentage of them, at least.

The first full moon after equinoxes and solstices drew out the most passionate revelries in the safe house. Music, dancing, firelight, and food until the moon vanished from sight. This year’s autumn revelry had more newcomers than ever—rescues and wanderers who had found themselves a home, a place where they wouldn’t have to hide for fear of capture.

There was joy and lighthearted chatter around every corner, but Zia soon slinked away when she realized that—once again—Cliff wasn’t coming.

After a brief and fruitless search of the main rooms, Zia veered toward Cliff’s car in the surrounding woods. He cycled through vehicles frequently, but he always parked under the same tree a calculated distance from the main building. He often came here for a reprieve from feeling as he so lovingly put it—a giant ogre crashing the party.

Zia dipped lower through the branches. The engine was off and the front windows were rolled all the way down, letting in the crisp evening air. Cliff’s strong frame was slumped back in the driver’s seat, a glass of bourbon at his lips. He spotted her mid-swig, eyes fixing onto her with that eerie vigilance of his.

Cliff barely reacted as Zia landed on the steering wheel. His comfortable silence meant she was welcome. For a short while, she joined him in contemplative quiet. She understood why he liked it out here. The woods were serene as they settled into the evening. The remaining greenery of summer still clung to the intertwined branches overhead, scenting the air with dewy freshness. The encroaching shadows must’ve felt more like old friends to him after all his time working in the dark.

She broke the silence in a gentle voice. "Dinner turned into quite the event.” When Cliff stayed quiet, she stole a sidelong look at him. “I’ll be honest, I was expecting more of a fuck off, let a guy sit in peace kind of greeting,” Zia went on, puffing up her shoulders to imitate his gruff tone. “You’re getting soft.”

To her delight, this finally goaded a reluctant smirk out of him. “I could hear it was you coming,” Cliff said. When she threw him an inquisitive look, he suddenly lost the ability to look her in the eye. “You fly in bursts. You take these little pauses, always looking around before you pick your route somewhere.”

He seemed almost embarrassed by the observation. She willed her heart to stop stammering like a baby hummingbird. He had memorized her flight pattern.

Cliff cleared his throat. “So, is Taylor telling that same tall tale of hers?”

She groaned dramatically. “Only to every soul that will listen. I must’ve heard a dozen times by now how she made the ancient magics proud with her bravery in drowning the guards in white.”

Cliff chuckled in his throat. “You forgot about the sea monster.” He quirked his eyebrows as he refilled his glass with another half inch.

“Of course. How could I forget about the mighty sea monster?”

They shared another laugh. She leaned out, catching his eye.

“It might be good for you to relax with everyone tonight before Erik returns tomorrow.” Her stomach churned anxiously at the thought. Everything would change once the plan was solidified.

Cliff shook his head. “Enjoy it for me.”

“And leave this bucket of fun? I don’t think so.” She folded her legs on the steering wheel and wiggled to make herself comfortable. She was hoping this would make him smile again, but his expression darkened instead.

“Honestly, Zee, you shouldn’t have come out here in the first place.” He glared out into the woods. “Don’t give them more to talk about.”

“Oh. Don’t listen to them, Cliff.”

“I’m not worried about me.”

She recoiled at the rise in his voice. Their gazes locked hard and knowingly. She wasn’t deaf to the tasteless gossip that circulated around the safe house—usually from new rescues that had been too abused to see anything but wickedness in any human being. Even their own savior.

She hadn’t known that he had heard too.

She would catch her name on hushed voices in the kitchens and in the dormitory hallways. The disgusted glances at her when she left his bedroom after a healing.

More infuriating, the way they would speak of Cliff. He saved them from captivity and they declared him a sadist, convinced he was forcing Zia’s abilities and using her for his own pleasure behind closed doors. It was only a matter of time, many were assured, before he got bored of Zia and picked another victim from the lot of them living there.

The lewd monster and the human-loving whore. What a pair.

“It’s just petty gossip,” she offered in a weak voice.

“It’s not fair to you,” Cliff said. “It’s all fucking ridiculous.”

“I don’t know… The one about you being the devil’s nephew is pretty amusing.”

His expression remained stony, and he still wouldn’t look at her, so she flew to the window. Zia landed by his arm to lay her hand on his knuckle.

“Hey. Fuck them.” She squared her jaw, daring him to muster the audacity to say otherwise.

Zia lowered her gaze, observing her hand on his. She didn’t want to admit that some of the whispers rang with truth. How often she wished Cliff would ask her to stay after a healing. To pull her back with need in his eyes and invite her into his bed.

But he always let her leave afterward.

Zia gave his knuckle a reassuring pat and put some space between them. She nodded at the glass in his hand. “Can I have some of that?”

Cliff debated at length. “Not this.”

She snapped her wings open as he moved to get out of the car. He rummaged around in the trunk and returned with an unopened wine bottle.

She frowned at the elegant label. While she didn’t know much about human wine, she certainly had never seen Cliff carrying something like this around. The moment he opened the bottle, the drink’s sweetness filled the air. With a practiced hand, Cliff poured a little wine into the cap and held it out to her.

“Since when do you drink anything but whiskey?” She carefully took the cap in her arms.

Finally, the faintest hint of smile flickered on his face. “I drink water. Sometimes.”

“This is not water.”

He shrugged. “What? I’m just making up for drinking your stash of Liam’s wine.”

“You were doing me a favor, believe me,” she snorted. Gazing down at the full cap, she willed her heart to stop doing backflips at the thought that he would go out of his way to get his for her.

His hand lifted toward her, quick but steady, and he pushed the wine closer to her. “How ‘bout you try before you start thanking me? It’s a French port.”

She took a sip, and her eyes widened with delight.

“There you go,” he said. “At least you’re not twisting your face up like you usually do with my drinks.”

“The bar is low,” she said playfully.

“You don’t know what you’re talking about.” He went back around to the driver’s side to grab his whiskey from the cupholder, then made his way to the front of the car to take a seat on the hood.

Keeping her short bursts of flight to a minimum to protect her drink, Zia flew to him without spilling a drop of wine. He rested the back of his hand on his lap, opening up his palm. Smiling at the invitation, she took a seat.

“You really like it?” Cliff asked. His tone was nonchalant yet carefully composed. His index finger tapped a quick rhythm on his glass.

“It’s delicious.” She pretended not to notice how his hand relaxed beneath her. Taking another taste of the wine, she shook her head. “I can’t believe you’d go for something so fruit-forward.”

Another smile flickered. “I gagged on the sample they had at the store, so I knew it’d be perfect for you.”

“Hey! I know you’re not saying I have bad taste.”

“I’m sure your taste is just fine.” He gave her a lingering look—one that might have gone unnoticed if she wasn’t always looking for it. That quick way his eyes scanned up and down her body before he caught himself. The spark in his gaze vanished before it could fully form.

“You’re sweet, you know,” she said, lifting the cap to her lips.

“You might be the only one who thinks so."

Zia spoke thickly around her next swig—stars, this stuff was good. “You know what? Maybe that's not a bad thing. I kinda like the idea of keeping some of your secrets for myself."

"Really?" He gave a pleased chuckle. "What else?"

She leaned back, hugging the cap to her front. Maybe she was a human-loving freak for enjoying the way she had to crane her neck to see his face.

“Oh, I can’t give it all away. Then you’d know.”

“Should I be worried?”

“Very.”

Cliff lifted his eyebrows. “Maybe I’ll have to pry it out of you.”

His skin against her folded legs suddenly felt unbearably hot. Do it, she begged silently. Pry, grab, hold, take.

“How do you imagine you’ll do that?” she asked.

“Dunno. You are pretty intimidating. Guess I’ll be sleeping with one eye open tonight.”

She chuckled softly and sipped again, slower. Whatever human vineyard this came from, it was strong. “Hey. You should try this again.”

“You’re a sadist,” he groaned.

“Maybe you’ll like it this time!”

“Uh-huh.”

His hand moved off his lap, ferrying her towards his face. He set his glass aside to take the cap from her and put it to his lips.

Zia gasped and lunged. “I said a sip! You’re drinking the whole thing!” she said, giggling. She leaned over the gap between his hand and his face, wings taut against her back.

“This is a sip for me,” Cliff said smugly, voice a rumble around her.

She braced her hands against his jaw while he twisted away to dodge her half-hearted attempts to thwart him.

“You’re an asshole.” She finally wrenched the empty cap away from him, grinning breathlessly.

“Hm. I did like it a little better that time.”

His deep voice sent pleasant shudders through her belly, and Zia lost interest in the cap when she found herself still so close to Cliff’s face. Her hands were still on his chin for balance.

She didn’t think about it—she always thought too long. And it wouldn’t take much this time. She shifted her palm flat against his skin until it found the corner of his mouth.

With sacred slowness, she traced Cliff’s lower lip. He was so soft here, a delicate contrast to the prickle of his cropped beard. His jaw went slack and his breathing stopped. She had to remember to breathe herself. Zia felt his thumb rest on her waist. She could smell the whiskey and wine on his tongue.

He lowered his hand without warning. In a blink, gravity had whisked her to a seat in his palm and she found herself staring at the hem of Cliff’s leather jacket instead of his oh-so-kissable lips.

“I’ll, uh, get you a refill,” he mumbled.

“Cliff, wait!” Zia flew into his path. Her voice cracked with desperation. “Wait, please. Can… Can we talk?”

“There’s nothin’ to talk about.”

“You know that’s not true!” She chucked the cap aside, where it clattered inconsequentially onto the hood of the car. Her breaths shuddered as she faced him now. It was too late to pull back. And she didn’t want to.

“I… I know you feel this thing between us. It’s been there for a long time and we’ve never talked about it, and I think we should.”

He didn’t say a word, and it was so much worse than any cruel rejection she had conjured in her dark daydreams. Hot tears swam and blurred her view of him, but she saw Cliff’s shoulders sag.

“I’m sorry,” Zia said. “I’m not trying to upset you. Maybe this is selfish of me, but I’m just so… tired. I’m tired of pretending I’m not completely in love with you.” She rubbed at her puffy eyes with her sleeve. “Please say something.”

“Zee, we can’t,” Cliff muttered at last.

“Why?” she croaked. “Because we’re different?”

“It doesn’t matter how I feel. It’s irrelevant.”

“Bullshit!”

“We’re fighting a fucking war,” he bit out. Her breath caught. There was fire in his eyes, but not the kind she’d hoped to see. “The people I’m closest to wind up dead, while I have to stick around and pick up the pieces without them!” He clutched a hand to his chest. “I make space for people, and then… and then they’re gone, and that space never closes. Do you understand? You’ll be next if you’re not careful.”

“You think I don’t know how that feels?” she said, more pleading than angry. “Cliff, there’s a war with or without you. Why should that stop us?”

“Because we could have days—hours—left at any given moment. And there is no us.”

Her heart gave a very tangible twinge at the venom laced behind the words. “I don’t care. I want to spend every single last minute with you.” Zia flew closer insistently, even when he averted his gaze. “Don’t we deserve to be happy? To feel good?”

He shook his head. “I don’t,” he said softly. “And anyway, you deserve more. Much more.”

Her jaw clenched painfully. “Is that supposed to be inspiring? Putting everyone else in the world before yourself doesn’t make you a hero. It makes you afraid to live. Stop punishing yourself and realize that this— all this giving up and being scared that you’ll find happiness—is worse than losing it.”

Cliff said nothing, staring hard at the forest floor like he was trying to memorize the scattered leaves. He seemed determined to look at anything except for her.

All her longing gathered into a single, agonizing point, determined to make him understand. “What does all this mean, then? I don’t believe you feel nothing for me. All these months… The way you bring me close enough to touch, but pull me back the moment I reach out. The way you relax when we’re alone, but your heart beats faster the closer I get.”

“You don’t know what you’re talking about,” he snapped, green eyes wet when they flashed dangerously at her.

“I can hear it now.”

She inched forward and opened her senses. Sure enough, his powerful heartbeat was fluttering nearly as fast as her wing beats. Slowly, she approached his mouth and floated a hand up to touch his lower lip. He shuffled back a step, and she followed. Her hand made contact. He breathed in sharply, stopping in his tracks like he was rooted in place.

His stillness shattered when she leaned in to kiss him again. The tip of her nose barely grazed his upper lip before Cliff tore away. He paced back to the car, putting what felt like miles of space between them with each step.

“Please, Zia. You’re making it harder.”

"Am I just supposed to live with all of these almosts between us?”

He pivoted sharply. In her pursuit, she almost slammed into his chest. “You think this will make you happy, but you’re wrong,” Cliff said.

“How do you know?” she shouted back, anger seizing her. “How do you fucking know unless you just…”

“Zia, stop! Fix your fantasy on someone else.”

She recoiled. His barked words were like a knife to her chest, and it hurt to breathe as she stared. His hard expression flickered, and he looked like he wanted to apologize—but clamped his mouth shut firmly instead.

“So, what?” she asked, voice thick and pathetic. It was hard to look at him. She had been so sure, and now she felt like perhaps there was a stranger standing before her. Perhaps she didn’t know Cliff at all. “Everything that’s happened. It’s meant nothing, is that right? Leading nowhere.”

Cliff’s eyes shuttered. "I've been careless. I'm sorry." His jaw ticked like forming the words was physically painful.

But he didn’t recant them. Didn’t apologize. She inched away from him.

Slowly, the fire flourishing in her chest flickered down to a pathetic ember. She sniffed harder and wiped her tears on her gossamer sleeve; it was all but ruined now, not meant for so much moisture.

“I think you should leave,” Cliff said quietly.

Downcast, she sank lower in the air. Zia glanced back the way she’d come. Dusk was barely clinging to the sky, and stars began to wink between gaps in the forest. The safe house was lit warmly on the third floor, its familiar grounds shimmering faintly behind the veil of fortified glamour. She’d have to go in the roof entrance to avoid being seen like this.

She’d go back missing a piece of what made her world so whole and certain.

"I'm really sorry I brought it up," she said. She tried not to let the anguish deep into her voice. He owed her nothing. “Stars, I feel so fucking embarrassed.”

His brow knit. “Zee, I…”

“It’s fine. Obviously, I misread… everything.”

“Are you okay to fly?” Cliff asked after a beat.

She ignored the question, wiping her eyes so she could see a path through the trees. “Thank you again for the wine.” She departed as fast as her wings could carry her. Whatever Cliff said in response, if anything, was lost to the midnight wind rushing in her ears.

In her bedroom, Zia stayed awake until early hours of the morning, hoping he might come back and recant everything.

Knowing he wouldn’t.

There were no fatalities on their side, but Zia had seen the blood seeping through Cliff’s sleeve before he got into his car. She had been frozen for a moment before giving into Oliver’s urges to get her inside Erik’s vehicle.

Four rescues, all of them ironsick and huddling together like they might die if separated. A few sprains, bent wings, and cracked ribs from their captors’ rough handling. She made short work of those injuries, but there was little she could do about their glassy stares.

Normally, she at least tried to offer reassurance, to coax their names out. But even Yarrow was doing a better job at that while she flitted back out to listen closer to Erik and Cliff’s rumbling tones.

“Go on,” Cliff was saying. “Get them to the safe house. I’ve got plenty to patch myself up with in the car. I’ll see you soon.”

Erik didn’t argue. He gave a curt nod and started for the driver’s side of his car. “Call if you’ve got any tails.”

Zia wavered. Even from a distance, she could sense that the wound was deep. Not life-threatening, but painful. Cliff may have been skilled at masking his agony, but even without her senses, she caught the twitch of his mouth trying not to grimace. The brief tremor in his arm. The hard blink of trying to put all that hurt behind a wall.

“Zia?” Oliver was by her side again. “Snap out of it—we have to go.”

“I’m going with Cliff.” The words flew out before she could stop them, but she didn’t try to take them back. “Tell Erik to get going. We’ll catch up.”

Oliver didn’t move. “Are, uh… Are you sure you’re alright for this?”

Zia started for Cliff’s car. He wasn’t looking at them, pulling his door open. “Why wouldn’t I be?” she said, hoping that would be the end of it.

“I dunno what happened the other night,” Oliver said, only a wingbeat behind her. “But he’s been acting weird. I can—”

“It’s too deep for you,” Zia said, pausing at a hover and whirling to flash him a look. “Just go.”

He stopped in front of her, eyes narrowed. His fists curled at his sides. The air crackled with static. He set his jaw and finally backed off. “Fine.”

The headlights of Cliff’s black mustang snapped on. The growl of its engine followed, alerting her that she needed to move quickly. Zia summoned a gentle glow to her skin as she hovered in front of his windshield, a soft contrast to the inky darkness. The driver’s door cracked open, and in a fluid motion, she flew inside.

Steely gaze on the road, Cliff barely paid her mind as he peeled out after Erik, and silence took hold. They had both remarked on the comfort of these quiets at times—familiar enough with each other’s company that there was no expectation, no need to speak sometimes. Particularly after a mission. They could simply be.

This silence was stale. Since she'd confronted him two weeks ago in the woods, these had been more frequent—all of them unbearably awkward.

“Are you pulling off soon?” Zia asked.

“Yeah. I saw a good spot on the way up. Isolated, no streetlights. Completely out of the way.”

A laugh lodged itself in her throat. “I think you just described a serial killer’s wet dream.”

It was a little less than ten minutes before she saw Erik’s car pull off towards a highway while Cliff veered onto a winding, unmarked road. The trees blurring in the window were craggy and unwelcoming. Houses became sparse, then nonexistent as the forest thinned. A lake came into view—she had seen it from a distance many times in her flights surrounding the safe house, but never so close. Certainly never at night.

He parked in the shadows near the shore, where driftwood cluttered a dark line of sand. She was glad when he stepped outside—the smell of the water was soothing.

Zia jerked back to attention when Cliff gave a harsh grunt. She whirled to find he’d pulled out the remaining part of the blade that had been embedded into his left tricep. He chucked it into the driftwood thoughtlessly.

“Fuck, Cliff, sit down,” Zia exclaimed.

The smell of his blood was already stronger as the wound seeped freshly.

“Hope that fucker rots,” Cliff said, wincing as he sat by the water. He let it lap at his boots while he removed his jacket and button-up to give her access.

Zia conjured the spell in a blossom of cerulean light between her palms and thrust it towards the twist of severed skin and muscle. “I’ve spoiled you if you’re this nonchalant about a six-inch knife in your arm.” She stole a look up, unable to see more than the underside of his clenched jaw. It slowly relaxed as his agony ebbed.

He said nothing. The only sound that escaped him was a quiet sigh. Even with the wound closing, it still looked brutal with his lost blood still smeared on his arm. The scent was all too familiar.

Thought you’d be better at keeping your blood in by now. She thought about joking, but couldn’t bring herself to try. It would have been effortless two weeks ago.

Once the knife wound was taken care of, she flitted around him to address the less urgent cuts and scrapes. She eased his bruises before they could fully form.

And still, the heavy silence remained, pushing on her from all directions until she thought she might suffocate. He may have opened the car door for her, but maybe their proximity was just routine at this point. Maybe he regretted letting her this close again. Maybe she should have let Oliver take this one instead.

“It was too deep for the others to heal,” she said, pausing at a long, thin gash on his forearm. She wasn’t sure if the justification was for him or for herself, but it left her feeling pathetic all the same. “I know it hurt, and I… I just wanted it done right.”

He looked down at her, but they didn’t lock eyes; his gaze roved her up and down, fervently taking in the state of her. “Thank you,” he finally said, voice soft.

“Yeah, well.” She decidedly focused on the healing. “Thanks for saving my life again, too.”

Saving her didn’t seem the right way to describe it. Her attacker had been beaten into a shape that was scarcely human. In her effort to usher the captive fairies away, she’d been cornered. Cliff had swooped in like a vengeful titan—the result of his blade strikes into the man’s neck and eye were still splattered on Zia. The blood was slowly drying from bright crimson to rust, stiffening her clothes.

She landed on a partially submerged branch, careful not to drench her wings as she gathered handfuls of water. Her wrap top and trousers were ruined, but she scrubbed vigorously at her hands, her arms, under her fingernails. No amount of cleansing could erase the feeling of hot blood spraying her face. The smell of the human’s sweaty skin as he’d loomed with that grim surety. She raked over and over with all her might, until frustrated tears stung and her skin began to throb.

“Hey. May I?”

She jerked her head over her shoulder. She felt the tension in her body—it must’ve shown with the way he was looking at her. Cliff was reaching for her, and she spotted a little alcohol wipe packet in his other hand.

“Yeah,” she mumbled. “Fine.”

His hands smelled like lakewater and metal, but it was quickly masked by the awful disinfectant. Zia wrinkled her nose, turning her head away. She caught Cliff smirking at her behalf overhead as he shuffled her on his bent knee.

It used to be nothing when he perched her here.

Pungent as it was, the thin cloth he rubbed over her arms and hands felt thorough. The pale fingers began to resemble her own again.

Cliff glanced at her face. “Close your eyes.”

Something in her obeyed without question, even if the deep tones made her insides shiver with anticipation. He dabbed gently at her forehead and cheeks.

“When I saw him reaching for that iron, I lost myself for a second,” Cliff’s voice rumbled softly. His touch was suddenly slow, utterly unhurried. “I was so scared I was about to watch you die.”

She swallowed hard. After the brutality of the rescue, his touch was like heaven.

“Felt like my body was frozen solid,” he went on, rubbing at a spot on her neck. “Like I couldn’t get to you fast enough.”

“But you did,” she reminded him.

“Yeah. I guess I just needed to say it.”

Zia fluttered her eyes open. They’d kept their distance for weeks, but there were no shields around him now. And the way he was looking at her… She had died a thousand little times since he had refused her. Falling into his familiar green eyes would make her foolish; it would make her willing to make it a thousand more.

“I’m sure even you could muster up more pleasant dreams than this,” Zia joked half-heartedly. She brushed herself off and flexed her wings. Taking to the air, she flew towards the car and waited for his familiar footsteps to follow.

Only, he didn’t.

“You know they’ll never let you live it down.”

Cliff was on his feet, but still facing the water. Like they were here on holiday, in no rush at all.

She screwed up her face. “What?” Zia called.

“Even at the safe house. Every day, it’ll be new bullshit. They’ll talk, and it will be fucking awful. It’ll undermine this position you’ve fought for, the life you built yourself here.”

Her stunned silence spread between them, seconds stretching. This silence was different—not awkward, but electric.

Zia held his gaze cautiously as he turned to face her. Her throat closed up. Would he really be so cruel as to do this to her twice?

She gritted out, “The others will be waiting on us, Cliff. As it is, we can barely sneeze without someone starting a new rumor, so—”

“It’d never work.” He took a step toward her, but not like he was aiming to leave. More like she was his destination. “I drink too much.”

She clenched her jaw and held perfectly still. “That’s true.”

“And I dunno if you’ve noticed, but I’m an asshole in the mornings.” Another step closer.

“Also true.” She wet her lips and gave him a wry smile, tempted to end this stupid game yet too stunned to do anything except play along. “But I like your morning voice, so try again.”

“Yeah? Well, how ‘bout the way that you’re a healer and I’m a killer?” This time as he prowled nearer, the vulnerability in his eyes took her off guard. As though he might shatter if he scared her off. “How are you okay with that?”

“I’ve lost count of how many of us you’ve saved. Of how many times you’ve saved me alone.” She pursed her lips. “And I’m not perfect either, you know. Sometimes I’m so anxious, I throw up. It’s not pretty.”

He chuckled. “Now that might be the deal breaker.” Then he closed the rest of the space between them, and they were nose to nose. His gaze searched her face, her ruined clothes, every inch of her. “I’m afraid, Zee,” he said, quieter. “I’m scared shitless of… all of it. There are a lot of people who’d wanna make an example out of us.”

She drew back slightly, bracing her heart with steel and thorns. “I thought there was no us.”

His jaw squared hard. He lifted a hand, letting his fingers uncurl to graze at her limbs without altogether taking her out of the air. He left ample room for her to fly away, and when she didn’t, he closed his hand into a fist. She heard a gasp tear out of her, feminine and laced with arousal.

“I want to be selfish.” His voice shook like he’d been punched, its resonance losing none of its power at the closeness. His grip tightened on her. Cliff paused then and frowned, eyes flickering to his boots. “What I said the other night—I’m sorry.”

The fragile pieces of her heart quivered fearfully—was this pity? It was hard to erase the sting of that scared, angry boy in the woods. But there was possessiveness in this touch, a wildness to his eyes.

“We don’t have to do this,” Zia murmured. “Cliff, you don’t owe me anything.”

“I love you.”

“What?”

Cliff pried her chin up. “I love you.”

With torturous slowness, he leaned in to kiss her.

While his lips were pressed to hers, the entire world stopped. Everything was starlight. Zia felt her body light up as Cliff’s grip tightened again—mine—while she grasped at his chin instinctively.

Cliff pulled away to look at her. He was smiling—incandescent and happy like she hadn’t seen him in years. Happy from kissing her. From loving her. Zia beamed back, dizzy and breathless and vaguely aware of confused tears slipping down her face.

“I don’t wanna hurt you,” Cliff rasped. “But I want you. I want you so badly, it burns.”

His hand opened so she was curled in his cupped palm, and he looked over her like she still might change her mind and fly away at any moment. They stayed near to the other, catching their breath though they hadn’t moved at all.

“I guess that settles it,” Zia croaked finally.

“What?”

“That rumor about you being a decent kisser.”

His expression twitched. “Oh, I can do better than decent, honey.”

Zia got on her knees and cupped his chin in her hands. “Show me.”

She plunged into a second kiss and Cliff responded in kind.

His lips were soft enough to caress her skin, yet fierce enough to steal the breath from her lungs. The fervor of his kiss pushed her back against his fingers. She could hardly budge, but she didn’t want to. She would have been satisfied to stay pinned by his mouth for hours.

She couldn’t begin to count the number of times she had daydreamed about this moment, and not one of her fantasies could do it justice.

When Cliff pulled back a fraction of an inch to take a breath, Zia grinned. “Alright, you’re more than decent, I’ll give you that.”

She sat up higher on her knees and pounced, peppering his jaw with kisses. Before long, her face was pink with tiny scrapes from his beard, but the little stings let her know that this was real—this was happening.

Cliff didn’t idle, not even with her all over him. He tilted his head down and pressed deep kisses to her neck and clavicle. His lips parted, and teeth gingerly brushed her shoulder. She leaned into the sensation, wishing it were less gentle. He complied, giving her shoulder a nip.

The softest whimper fluttered past her lips, and Cliff stopped at once.

“Too much?” He was still so close, his lower lip brushed her breast when he spoke.

She shivered. “Not enough.”

That drew a chuckle out of him. “Good,” he all but growled, arousal tangling with need.

A soft sound surrounded them suddenly. Zia stiffened, worried that someone—anyone—was intruding upon them. Cliff brought her closer and gazed around raptly.

A drop splashed on Zia’s shoulder, and she realized that rain was beginning to patter slowly around them. Relaxing, Cliff strode closer to the car to check the mirrors and their surroundings. No one was around for miles. No tails.

Only them.

He lifted her higher and brought his gaze back to her. His other hand returned, fingertips brushing the outside of her thigh delicately. She still laid prone, more than ready to pick up where they left off.

“Hang on,” he muttered. Then he was on the move again, ushering her to his shoulder as he headed around to the back of the car

A blanket came out of the mess in his trunk, which he arranged on a soft, grassy patch near the lake’s bank. With the rain light enough to spare her wings, Zia didn’t wait for an invitation. She zipped down the moment the old fabric was settled to land promptly at its center. Sighing happily, she laid out on her back with her arms folded carefree over her head.

She grinned breathlessly when Cliff crawled over her, his powerful frame all but blocking out the overcast sky. She positioned her body to say yours for the taking and was pleased he seemed to understand intuitively.

They said little. Happy, feverish kisses was the only language that mattered now; touches that starved to make up for lost time that could not be stolen back.

Without pausing in his affections, Cliff tore at the holster strapped around his waist. The weapons at his hip and strapped to his thigh fell heavily to the ground. When he drew back to sweep them aside, Zia was afforded another view of his powerful torso straining under the simple tee. The ache between her legs throbbed when he caught her watching him intently—and grinned.

He was back on her. Zia twisted to grab a fistful of the collar of his shirt and pull hard.

“Off,” she panted.

Cliff‘s soft chuckle rumbled into her side. “Yes ma’am.”

He drew up on his knees to pull the tee over his head. Bared to his waist, he paused there- letting her look. Zia propped herself up on her elbows, catching her breath. Her wings twitched as she took him in. Familiar, yet never hers.

She took to the air, skirting up along his navel and toned abdomen until she reached the middle of his chest. She placed her pale hands on his skin. She had healed bullet wounds and burns and gashes from this very spot. Beneath her fingers, his heart pounded the same chaotic rhythm as hers.

She craned her neck to meet his watchful gaze, not minding how small she felt from the odd angle. She pressed a lingering kiss to Cliff’s chest. Another, and another. A low, whooshing sigh escaped him.

One of his arms shifted, and a hand reached for her, like he couldn’t bear to not be touching her. She held still in front of his chest and took a second to admire the simple movement. Off to the side, she could see one of the tattoos that wrapped around his bicep. The ink’s edge was warped from injury and healing, never quite the same. She always felt sorry when she couldn’t heal with his tattoos intact.

Now, it made her heart flutter happily to think of those flaws as loving proof of her healing.

As his hand came up from underneath, his palm stopped just short of her dangling feet. She peeked up at him curiously. He stared back hard, his gaze making tiny, almost imperceptible movements up and down her body.

“What is it?” she asked.

Cliff finally moved his hand up all the way, turning it as though he meant to take her into a fist again, but his fingers stayed loose. His thumb lightly touched her belly, while his index finger traced the small of her back. Her insides quivered, aching for more.

“Been wanting this for so long,” he said in a low voice, “I think I’ll wake up if I make another move.” His exploring touch became delicate, like she was made of rare, spun crystal.

She let her weight settle into his hold, her wings slowing to a soft flutter. He turned his wrist, tipping her onto his palm. His other hand approached, a fingertip tracing up along her waist and the curve of her breasts.

His fingernail plucked at the neckline of her ruined top, pawing to get underneath. She nodded fervently, desperate to shed her clothes and forget about the rain of blood. While she urgently pushed her trousers down and kicked them off, the efforts of Cliff’s fingers resulted in a sharp rip of fabric. She froze on her back, letting her arms fall on either side of her as he peeled the rest of her top off and left her bare.

Cliff’s effortless strength left her gaping up at him, while he stared back at her naked body, just as entranced.

He shook his head disbelievingly. “You’re so perfect. Like a dream.”

“Do you want me to pinch you?

“You can do anything you want to me.”

She giggled and ran her hand along his palm—it was solid and it was him. She smiled and tried to ease his worries. “It does feel surreal. I keep telling myself this is real, too. Keep reminding myself that I don’t have to… to keep myself together when you do the simplest things.”

His eyebrows hiked up with intrigue. “Like what?”

She sat up slowly. “Oh, I don’t know. It’s silly.”

“Tell me.” His hand propped her higher. The insistent smirk spreading on his face would be the end of her. “Like when I do what?”

She pursed her lips, face beginning to get hot again. Finally, she peeked up from under her eyelashes. “Like when you have a drink. And I’m so, so jealous that the glass gets to touch your mouth.”

A soft, crooked smile spread across his face, masking the touched expression that furrowed. He nuzzled in close again, scruffy chin resting against her shoulder. Thrilled goosebumps rose more readily now that she had no clothes to protect her from the contact. “Oh, I see. You wanna be my little sip of something?”

The rasp of his voice came in a silken decibel she’d never heard him use. Zia opened her mouth to answer, but what came out was an incoherent stammer.

Cliff lowered her to the blanket and got up to rummage in the trunk again. Her heart skipped a beat when he returned with a half-finished handle of whiskey and a glass he’d scavenged from the safe house attic. His own emergency kit, he had called it. He filled the glass generously and sat back beside her, shooting her a look that was equal parts sinful and curious.

“Thirsty?” His finger tapped the rim of the glass. “C’mere.”

Zia hovered awkwardly over it for a moment before taking a delicate seat on the rim with her legs tucked along the glass. The fumes hit strong, its amber contents lapping at her ankles.

“Like this?”

“Perfect.”

“This is good for you?” she lifted her eyebrows curiously, hoping her grin would hide the edge of anticipation in her voice.

His gaze rested on her, half-lidded like he was already drunk at the very sight of her. “I feel like I should be careful telling you everything I’ve imagined,” he said. “The things I want to do to you.”

Cliff brought the glass up before his mesmerized gaze. Turned it this way and that in the moonlight like an appraiser considering a piece of art. She was so exposed, so vulnerable, but his stare left her lightheaded with the sway she had over him.

“The idea of having you all to myself… Anytime, anywhere. Even here.” He drummed a finger on the tumbler. Grinned sheepishly. “It drives me crazy.”

In the midst of stupid, stupid happiness, Zia’s smile flickered.

“What?” he asked, frowning at her.

She wiped at the tears that misted. “It’s nothing. It’s just… All this time.”

Cliff shared her sad, knowing smile. Soldiers’ smiles.

He kissed her, and she felt the silent promise to make up for lost time in her bones.

When they paused to breathe, he dipped his little finger in the whiskey and brought it towards her. She instinctively sucked the droplet off his fingertip and watched arousal flood his face. She didn’t wince. The flavor was so much more pleasant when it tasted of him, too.

When she’d sucked every remnant from him and more, she glanced down into the whiskey and dropped in without another thought. It wasn’t as cold as she’d expected, but the sensation of being in his drinking glass sent a shot of nerves through her body. It was strange, dangerous, wonderfully intimate.

“Fuck, Zee…”

She gripped the rim of the tumbler facing him, up at chest level, breathless and feeling utterly pinned as his teeth grazed his lower lip.

“Should we see if you taste as good as you look?” Cliff murmured.

He didn’t wait for her answer.

He bridged the drink to his mouth. A strangled yelp escaped her as she was sent tumbling forward at the slightest tip of his wrist. Cliff’s perfect lips filled the opening of the glass—a peek of white at the rim.

Zia set her hands on his upper lip, her quick breaths turning into exhilarated pants. Whiskey rushed past her, trying to tug her along as it vanished into his mouth. She resisted the pull but did not lean away entirely, allowing herself to get soaked all the way to the top of her head. She leaned in and kissed him like fire fueled her.

She moaned his name the way fairies prayed to the stars. His answering growl made the air around her rattle.

He stopped drinking, but he didn’t go anywhere. His lips moved from the rim to her face to lavish her with kisses. The tip of Cliff’s tongue glided along her cheek delicately, like he wanted to savor her skin under the drop of whiskey he was licking up.

The moment he left her cheek, she ducked to scoop whiskey into her hand. It was no more than a few droplets to him, but she still tapped on his lower lip with her other hand.

“Open,” she said.

He did as he was told, and she slipped her liquor-soaked hand past his lips. He went rigid for a second, then melted at once when he tasted her fingers. His lips closed softly, tugging her arm in deeper until she was caught up to her elbow. His teeth settled around her forearm to keep her in place as he sucked the whiskey off her skin.

Heat sang in her veins, leaving her dizzy with ecstasy.

For a second, she wondered if this could be nearly as good for him as it was for her, but that question was put to rest when she heard the little moans burying themselves in his throat each time his tongue probed her arm.

When he released her, his mouth immediately returned to the glass rim. He took another drink, tipping it all the way back until Zia had to brace her arms on his upper lip to keep from falling out. Cliff drained it all away and swallowed it in a single gulp. He righted the glass, and Zia was left clinging to the top—his last remaining sip.

He studied her like he was memorizing the way she looked, making her dangle there as his eyes moved over the sight before him - a sight crafted just for him. Thankfully, he didn’t make her wait long. His strong fingers returned to dip in and scoop her out. Zia kept her wings tightly folded against her back, molding herself to the plane of his calloused palm, blissfully powerless as he kissed the remnants of liquor from her skin.

“Did I get it all?” he asked.

Zia patted the space between her breasts. “More here.” She tapered off with a delighted shriek as he pounced to oblige. “And here.” Every ache from time lost eased when he was touching her.

Cliff pried himself off her. His hand flexed around her, adjusting to her splayed out form. He brushed her damp bangs aside with a careful touch from his other hand. The look on his face was so kind and adoring, Zia once again felt her chest seize up on the verge of emotion.

That gentle touch migrated to her neck, to her chest. Cliff circled her breasts purposefully, focusing on the hardened peak of her nipples.

She beamed up at him, touching her own body and watching the need, fucking need, build in Cliff’s face. He had to adjust himself to accomodate the straining in his jeans before he reached again. He moved like a man taking what he wanted, but there was something undeniably reverent in the way he nudged her legs apart for a better look. He dragged that sinful finger down from her bare belly to her clit.

“You’re already so wet,” he gasped. Those green eyes whispered good girl and he applied pressure into her. Stars and fire stirred inside her. Zia moaned and clamped her thighs around her hand.

Cliff chuckled. “So sensitive.”

She laid her hand on his, urging more pressure. “Only for you,” Zia said.

He slowly started to rub, and she guided him into a faster rhythm. Past her knees, she watched his face. He looked hypnotized, yearning for more. “I want to be inside you so bad,” he breathed.

She panted. “Harder.”

Obliging, he pressed so hard that he pushed her back on his palm. He leaned in closer, eyes glittering. “I would fucking ruin you.”

His finger abruptly pulled away. She was on the verge of begging for it to come back, but his face pushed all the way forward to replace it. With no hesitation, he dragged his tongue down her body and shoved it between her legs.

A cry leaped out of her throat as she buried her fingers into his palm. She arched her back and frantically moved her hips up and down with the wet warmth of his tongue. She tried to push back, but his tongue alone was enough to overpower her. Thrilled goosebumps raced up her arms as he eagerly ate her out.

“You taste amazing.” His whisper was hot on her inner thighs.

“I thought so.”

Minutes passed, and too wired to lay back any longer, Zia rolled onto hands and knees and crawled across his palm, right up to his fingers. She shoved her legs through the spaces on either side of his middle finger. She crossed her ankles around it and swayed back and forth experimentally.

“God, Zee,” he chuckled weakly.

A knuckle pressed against her lower back, nudging her harder against his finger. With that, she began to grind her hips, the sweet ache deepening through her core.

Her perch shuddered slightly and she heard the hurried movement behind her of Cliff fumbling with his jeans. His sigh of relief when he plunged his hand down to grab himself. Zia gripped his finger with both hands to deepen her thrusts, determined to be as impactful as anyone he’d ever bedded.

As she savored the warmth and solidity of the digit between her legs, an image flashed through her mind in bursts. She imagined they were intertwined in her bedroom—the same size. He mounted her on the bed and his cock filled her instead of his finger.

She moaned his name loudly. His thumb sloppily pressed into her back, both a comfort and a demand. She glanced over her shoulder, fully attuned to his desperation. “Beg me for more.”

“Please, Zee,” Cliff said breathlessly. “You are… the most incredible thing on earth.”

She heard him shift again with purpose, and it wasn’t long until he grasped under her arms, dragged her onto her back in his palm again. She delighted in his easy strength. He took what he needed all the time. Finally, he was taking her.

“Spread your legs,” he murmured, as though she had to be asked. He smiled sincerely at the sight. “You’re all I ever want to taste now. Fucking unbelievable.”

The return of his tongue was a drug, and she knew she was already addicted. It would be easy to lose herself - but she was just as generous as he was.

“Cliff, wait. Wait, I want to—“

She sat up, combing her mussed green bangs off her face. She leaned over the edge of his palm and peered down at the treasure promised below his belt line. “I want to be on you. Your turn.”

For the first time, uncertainty clouded Cliff’s face. “No offense, but are you sure?”

Zia rose on her knees, cupping his chin and peppering him with slow, sensual kisses. “Please, I’ve imagined it a hundred times in my head. I know exactly what I want.”

“A hundred times?”

Zia chuckled softly, gripping at his palm. “Are you shy?”

He bit his lip, caught between lust and concern as he pulled back to look at her. "I just don't want you to think you have to." His expression was sweet, but he was practically vibrating with impatience. "I don't want you to think like I expect it, or—"

“Cliff,” she said in a softer voice, forcing him to lean in. She crawled closer to the edge of his palm, eyes locked on his. She wiggled her ass for good measure. “Hurry up and fucking ruin me.”

That was all the convincing he needed. He removed his jeans without further argument. Zia's breath caught. He was erect already. He lowered her hesitantly, like she might change her mind. But once she was close enough, she gave her wings one short flutter and all but threw herself onto his cock.

Cliff shuddered with pleasure, and she felt every inch of it. A moan rumbled above her like thunder. His hand stayed, fingertips braced on her waist to steady her as she spread her legs and straddled him.

"Stars," she murmured, running her hands up and down his hot skin experimentally. "I can feel your pulse." She shivered, almost unable to believe that the fervor of his pounding heartbeat was because of her.

Perhaps it was wrong of her to feel some sort of ownership as she squeezed his width with her thighs, felt his cock respond in kind. Cliff gripped her in place as he laid back on the blanket. She couldn’t see his face, but she could hear pleasured, breathless noises pass his lips. Like he was starved for her. Like maybe he’d been fantasizing about this a hundred times, too.

When he was settled, Zia immediately began to worship. She licked at the firm, tender skin and ground her hips into him. Precum dribbled to meet her, and she savored the taste of him. The smell of musk and sweat and fresh grass in the air. She felt on fire, connecting to the decadent tension between them. Months of desire, all present here.

Cliff’s hand nudged beneath her ass and legs, boosting her higher. “The tip,” he said. “Keep going.”

She obeyed as swiftly as any of his commands on a rescue, bending down to kiss and drag her tongue along the delicate area. Cliff shivered so hard, Zia had to squeeze him to stay seated, which only heightened the reaction.

He cursed and said her name like a prayer. Despite all the rumors about them, despite all their past partners, she knew Cliff had never done this with anyone before. Neither had she. It was strange and intoxicating to be someone’s first again.

With the help of Cliff’s insistent fingers, she reached the tip and wasted no time in pressing her lips and tongue all over. He was so hard and slick, her feet kept scrabbling on his fingers to keep from slipping down. She’d be sore, and she would relish every moment knowing why.

Cliff was trembling, breathing in sharp gusts that could have belonged to a hurricane. From where she was, she could hardly comprehend the enormity of him. And yet, she was the center of his universe right now. Another wave of crippling pleasure crashed over her at the thought that she’d all but incapacitated him despite not even being the length of his cock.

Pushing her body harder, she climbed up and managed to sit on the tip, hugging it tightly with her thighs. She didn’t need his hand, and he was attuned to her movements enough to understand that too. He began to stroke himself while she held on tight and thrust her hips in time with his rhythm, each push becoming more forceful.

“You can feel me?” she asked between gasps.

He couldn’t even answer, but he gave a moan of affirmation. As his hand moved faster, the other cupped behind her to keep from falling. She almost wanted to push it away. Struggling to stay astride him while they both lost themselves in ecstasy was half the pleasure.

When she tipped her head back, she swore she could see stars winking through the clouds. Zia thought of every simmering glance they had shared on missions, in passing in the safe house halls, driving in his car with the wind whipping through her hair. The path of every fleeting touch now clear, imbued with more meaning. The way he had looked after her, carried her to bed after Liam had hurt her last year. Cliff’s brutality, his kindness. She thought of the night he had dragged himself into the building, sopping wet and filthy after losing Sylvia and Jon and emerged headstrong back into her life.

Hers.

Little sparks of harmless magic flickered on her fingertips as her orgasm coursed through her and she gripped Cliff with everything she had. The stars above seemed to burn.

“Zia,” Cliff panted. “I… I’m gonna…”

“It’s okay.”

He started to scoop her out of the way, but his movements seized and lost direction. She expected him to come with a roar, but instead he did so with a final soft, gasping sigh. Some of his impressive release painted her face and body, making her flinch her eyes shut for a moment.

The shock was already wearing off when Cliff’s hand closed fully around her dripping body. The world spun as he adjusted, tucked himself back into his jeans and boxers and rolled onto his side. He brought her up to eye level, breathing hard.

“Shit, I’m sorry.” Cliff cleaned some of the cum off with his thumb, then used the hem of his discarded shirt to dab at her more thoroughly.

“Please, don’t worry,” Zia said. She shifted in the cave of fingers and palms, leaning our past the fabric towards his face. She drug her finger through some of the cum on her navel and sucked it off. It was far more preferable to being soaked in blood.

Hunger flickered back to life in Cliff’s gaze at once. “Don’t start again,” he said, raptly watching the path of that sticky little hand. “We’ll be here all night.”

She laughed. “Well, that sounds nice.”

With aching gentleness, Cliff kissed her face, her cheek, the crown of her head. Zia felt tears slip out when he hugged her to his cheek for a long while - just holding her. There was so much still unspoken, but she could hear it clearly as the solidity and warmth of him bled into her every cell. You are treasured, protected, wanted.

Pulling away, he brushed her jawline with tender adoration. Zia closed the remaining space between them and leaned her forehead against the space between his eyes. She rose on her knees to stroke the bridge of his nose.

“Feels wrong to be this happy,” he mumbled finally.

“I know. Fight through it.”

Cliff gave the soft, rumbling laugh that she loved. He turned onto his back and tipped her onto his chest. He watched her settle before easing into his back. Zia curled up under the perfect heaviness of his hand that settled onto her like a blanket.

A pause drew out for a while. They stared at the sky and let the peace of the forest wash over them.

“I love you so much,” Cliff said softly.

Her breath caught. It was so sincere, and it didn’t sound like a revelation to him. She had been right that he had been suffering as much as she had. She brushed her fingertip over his chest, tracing invisible runes while her mind raced over and over with his words.

“After all that, I would hope so,” she said with a weak chuckle.

He squeezed her gently. “I’m sorry I didn’t let myself say it until tonight.”

Zia stared at his skin, contemplative. “How long?”

“Since you didn’t give up on healing me the night I came back alone. I didn’t know it then—I wasn’t in the right mind to make sense of anything I felt. But the moment I realized I love you… Remember when I came back from that raid outside of Columbia?”

She scoffed. “How could I forget? You dug two bullets out of yourself with a knife!”

“They were iron.”

“With a knife, Cliff! Really!”

His laugh rumbled again, assuaging the echoes of frustration from the memory. He stroked her hair. “You yelled the whole time you healed me. I don’t think I’ve ever heard so much profanity mixed in with a spell. It was impressive.”

“You love me because I yelled at you?”

“You were so pissed. Like… like I really meant something to you. I wanted to kiss you then. To hold you just like this. But…”

She sighed. “I know the rest.” She rubbed her cheek against his chest, savoring the nonstop heat that bloomed from him. “And now we’re here, and it was… fine, right? Probably top ten?”

He hummed, noncommittal. “Yeah, I powered through.” His hand lifted to pinch her side playfully. He took advantage of her flinch and slipped his ring finger between her thighs, feeling the remaining wetness of her pleasure. “You loved it,” he said roguishly. “I can still taste how much you did.”

She giggled, giving his finger another sinful squeeze with her legs. “I can’t argue with the evidence.”

Pulling his finger away, he rested his hand heavily upon her again. His thumb stroked her wings, pausing to rub slow circles between her shoulder blades.

“Can we stay here for a while?” she asked, even as the rain began to fall harder.

His fingers curled, holding her closer. His. Hers.

“For as long as you want,” he murmured.

It was easy enough for Cliff to find a dry set of clothes for himself in the car. After picking through the fairy-sized clothes he had available, Zia was left wearing an oversized shirt that was just long enough to serve as a dress. She made a mental note to update the stash of supplies he took on his rescue missions.

Cliff swore she looked absolutely adorable, and though she griped, she couldn’t deny the coziness of her makeshift clothing as she snuggled into Cliff’s neck for the rest of the journey to the safe house.

However, when the headlights began to illuminate familiar tree patterns, uncertainty took root in Zia’s heart. Cliff pulled the car into one of his usual spots and cupped a hand around her as he got out.

She felt his neck stretch as he tipped his chin to glance up at the windows. Faint glows drifted past the glass here and there. A few seemed to pause, focused on the two of them down below.

Zia swallowed hard, her mood sinking further. “You want one of us to head in first? So it doesn’t look like—”

“No.” His hand pressed her harder against his neck, fingers curling to keep her secure. “We’re heading in together.”

A breathless smile spread across her face, relief and elation fighting for dominance. She tilted her head to kiss the side of his index finger.

Erik and Oliver and a few of the night shift guards were talking in low voices in the refurbished sitting room. Cliff stopped in the doorway long enough to find that Bristel and Yarrow had already taken the rescues to the dormitories. They were recovering as well as they could be expected to.

Bypassing the offer to join them for a drink, Cliff walked the route to his room, knowing the path with hardly a light to guide his way. Zia followed. In his doorway, Cliff angled his head, stepping back.

“Stay with me tonight?”

Zia grazed a hand along his jaw as she flew inside. “I guess I can cancel my plans.”

The door shut and another squeeze of his perfect touch found her legs. “Might wanna cancel them for the next few nights, babe.”

((Authors’ note: Thank you for reading, and we hope you enjoyed!! What was your favorite part? 😘))

#gt #g/t #giant tiny #g/t writing #gt writing #mywriting #n/sfw #size difference #cliff #zia #shot in the dark #dark future au #whiskey and wine #gt angst #g/t angst #spicy gt story

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marshmallow-phd · 4 years

Text

Catching Rain

Part of The Untamed - EXO Wolf Universe

Genre: Wolf!AU

Pairing: Minseok x Reader

Summary: You were more than satisfied with your life. You attended a nice college, had nice friends, a nice boyfriend. That’s what your life was: nice. You weren’t looking for anything more, so what were you to do when this seemingly harmless boy walked into your life and turned your nice little world into one much more dangerous?

Part: 1 I 2 I 3 I 4 I 5 I 6 I 7 I 8 I 9 I 10 I Epilogue

You parked on the side of an empty back road, careful not to stop in any spot that might be muddy. It hadn’t rained for a few days, but with the weather lately, you couldn’t be too careful. The last thing you needed was to have to call Erik and confess to him that you did indeed go out to the woods to take pictures and were now stuck in the mud and needed his help.

A small part of you felt guilty. His concern wasn’t completely unfounded. If he’d had gotten hurt working on a backdrop by himself, whether by falling off a ladder or being hit by a light, you would be hesitant about him doing it again. But each of you were your own person, right? Independent not codependent?

Okay, it was probably time to lay of the self-help books for a while. You took one modern philosophy class and it had been a downward spiral from there. Perhaps it was time to give the supernatural genre a try.

The trees smelled intoxicating. Mixed with the humidity in the air, it was the kind of scent that could outperform even the most expensive of perfumes. It was an aroma that surrounded you, engulfed you in its arms the further into the woods you went. The peaceful smile that pulled on the corners of your lips were automatic, involuntary. Not that you would fight if you could. Despite the rumors of wolves running around, you were comfortable here.

Deep within the forest, a wide, oval clearing full of browned wildflowers rested. Bits of green here and there tried to break through the foliage that had died during the harsh winter. Their odds of making it through might not have been great, but you admired their tenacity.

These clearings were common in the woods and yet, they were your favorite places to capture. From one angle, it could seem like you were lost in a fast labyrinth of Mother Nature. Another, a prairie that belonged to another region entirely. The possibilities were endless if you really thought about it. And each clearing, you’d discovered, was unique within itself. Its shape, the plants it held, the thickness of the grass. You knew you hadn’t found every one yet, but you were determined to someday. For now, though, you would have stick with this particular clearing that you had visited before, as it was close to the road for a quick getaway, should you need it.

Sliding the bags off your shoulder, you crouched down and dug through until you found your notebook. The pages were unlined, which allowed you to right down your thoughts and ideas at odd angles. To you, it gave the otherwise somewhat boring inside a more artistic aesthetic. The plain leather cover was soft in your hands, worn from the amount of use and abuse you’d put it through. It wasn’t exactly common for photographers to write out their ideas before shooting. Some drew out the scene they wanted to capture, trying out different angles in their imagination. Most didn’t do any sort of prep like this at all. But you preferred to write it out, especially since most of your ideas tended to come at the most inconvenient times. Scribbling down half-coherent words tended to be quicker than a sketch.

After a quick review of your latest ideas, you tossed the notebook down and turned on your camera. You took several test shots, adjusting each settling until you came to the look you were searching for. Long shots and close ups, you photographed nearly every square foot of that clearing in order to get that one picture. That one picture that took everyone’s breath away, that made them stop and tilt their head every which way in order to take the scene in at all possible viewpoints. You wanted to them to see the world the way you did.

So in tuned to what you were doing, you hadn’t noticed the pair of eyes watching you from the shadows. They gave off the faintest glow filled with curiosity as they hovered in the air. You snapped a few photos in their direction, still unaware of their presence, and then lowered the camera to look back on the shots. At first, when you clicked through the pictures, you didn’t notice the tiny amber dots that blended in with the foliage. But by the fourth picture, you stopped.

Never before had you been scared by this place. Then again, the only animals you’d ever encountered before were rabbits and deer and other mostly harmless critters. These did not look like the eyes of a friendly Disney sidekick. Ice ran down your spine. You couldn’t run. If it was a predator, that would only encourage it. So, you tried to remain as still as possible while lifting your eyes to the spot that the animal was hiding. Perhaps there was a chance that it wouldn’t sense your fear and would take your stare down as a reason to walk away.

No such luck.

The leaves under its paws rustled as it stepped forward into the sun.

A tannish wolf with a long black strip down its back revealed itself. But it didn’t look menacing. In fact, though you might have been fooling yourself, it seemed almost… curious? Confused? It was hard to read the expression since you couldn’t fully compare it to a human. With slow, thoughtful steps, it came closer. You tried to remain still, tried not to move. The strain was causing your legs to tremble slightly. Now, you felt tremendously stupid for not listening to Willa’s warning about wolves. Was this considered an ironic moment? You weren’t entirely sure since language arts had never been your strong suit.

Unable to keep you upright anymore, your legs gave out. At least you landed on your butt with your camera hanging safely around your neck. Your fingernails dug into the dirt next to you as the wolf came closer, still at that same cautious pace. Harder and harder, your heart pounded in your ears. The wolf paused for a few seconds before continuing on. Could it hear your terrified pulse? Silently, you said your goodbyes as the wolf erased all space between you. Its muzzle nudged your cheek, coming to a stop near your ear. It sniffed deeply, then jumped back.

Your eyes widened, somewhat relieved that it hadn’t pounced, but also confused. Why wasn’t it attacking? Why did it look spooked?

The wolf sat back, head tilting back and forth as it studied you. It made no threatening moves or sounds. The tips of its ears perked up and it let out a sound that was eerily similar to a scoff.

“I guess you’re not hungry then?” An odd thing to say out loud to an animal that couldn’t talk, but you blamed it on the shock of the whole situation.

The wolf responded with a short puff of air before lowering itself down to its stomach.

This was… surreal. All the other animals you’d ever encountered had either kept their distance or ran away at the slightest sound. And yet, here was this wolf, laying in front of you, not vicious or aggressive. It was almost… cute, in a way.

“You’re a strange creature,” you said out loud. The wolf apparently took that as a sign to come closer. Crawling on its stomach, it took came to the point where it was almost able to rest its head in your lap-

The shrill sound of your current favorite song ripped through the air. You gasped, jumping up to your feet and running to your bag where you desperately searched through the pockets until you found your phone. It was Willa.

“Hello?”

“Hey, where are you?”

“I, um,” you glanced at the wolf who had jumped up to its feet. “I got bored so I’m just out driving around. Why?”

“Jiyoung called and asked last second to switch shifts at the coffee shop and so I’m free for the evening. And I’m hungry.”

You laughed a little at her not-so-subtle hint. “Alright. Give me twenty minutes to get back to the dorm. How does brick oven pizza sound?”

“Like heaven.”

“Okay, then. See you soon.” You ended the call and looked up, meeting eyes with the wolf. It never broke contact and in turn, gave you a bit more bravery. Lifting up the camera, you snapped a single shot of the wolf. “I’ll be back.” A strange promise to make, but you said it anyway. You wanted another encounter with this mysterious creature. Gathering up your things, you hurried out of the clearing and back through the trees to your car, still sitting on the side of the road.

It took less than twenty minutes to make it back to the university. Back at the dorm, Willa was lying on her bed, scrolling through her phone mindlessly. She sat up as soon as you came through the door.

“Fun drive?” she asked.

You shrugged. “It was fine.”

“No exciting scenes to snap?”

Her tease made you roll your eyes. “No, not really. Now, come on. I thought you said you wanted to eat?”

Not missing a beat, Willa jumped up from the bed, snatched up her purse, and pulled you out of the room, contemplating out loud which signature pizza sounded good.

Minseok growled as he ran through the forest. How he could have possibly lost those three was beyond him. Being unable to find them now was even more stupefying. They were loud, how could he not know which direction to take? He had to be careful. This part of the forest was close to the back roads and Junmyeon was worried they were being spotted too often. If the three them weren’t paying attention-

Click. Click. Click.

Minseok brought himself to a halt at the strange sound. There wasn’t any sort of pattern to it, but there was an underlying shuttering that seemed vaguely familiar. Too curious to just ignore it, Minseok headed in the direction e suspected it came from. Once he found the answer, he’d go back to finding the others.

The sound led him to one of the many clearings in the woods. A person wandering around the area taking pictures seemed to be the source, a camera in their hands. You appeared to be alone. Odd since not many ventured out in the forest by themselves. The isolation didn’t seem to bother you, though as you carelessly went about your task.

Staying in the shadows, Minseok watched your back as you continued to photograph the nature around you. Something… something strange was tingling in his shoulders, like the muscle beneath the skin had fallen asleep. Without prompt from him, his paw moved forward. He should be leaving. Be gone before you spotted him. But he couldn’t do it. Something told him to wait.

That’s when you turned around. By the way you kept taking pictures, you hadn’t seen him. It wasn’t until you lowered the camera to review the film did you freeze. And you weren’t the only one.

Something in Minseok’s world snapped when he saw your face. His muscles contracted, shivered and ached.

Go! an inner voice urged. He tried to turn his body in the opposite direction of you, but failed. Not that way! He had no choice but to obey. So he stepped closer to you. Your eyes snapped up, meeting his own. In his chest, his heart accelerated. What was this? What was going on?

Slightly fighting each movement, Minseok broke out from the tree line and into the clearing. It was obvious you were frightened. And he was breaking all the rules by revealing himself. Logic could not win, however. He kept walking. Even after you fell backwards, he was only able to pause for a brief second. Your rapidly beating heart was loud in his own sensitive ears. But he wasn’t so sure that it was completely out of fear. He needed to be closer. So closer he went. The whiskers of his muzzle brushed against your cheek, sending a lightning bolt through his body. He took in your scent and reeled back.

You smelled human. You were human. But… there’s something different about you and he couldn’t fathom what it might be.

“I guess you’re not hungry then?” you said oddly.

Minseok laughed. Well, as much as he could with this ribcage and these vocal cords. Overwhelmed, he adjusted to a more comfortable position. The feeling in his chest was almost all consuming and it weighed him down. He’d seen plenty of humans on his runs, but this had never happened before. Was this something that would only happen because he was in his wolf form? Or would he still feel like this if he saw you on two legs?

With a glimmer in your eye, you sighed, “You’re a strange creature.”

Taking that as sign, he tested the waters and pulled himself across the grass with his front paws, closing the gap between you.

A song suddenly cut through the air and forced him to a stop before he could rest his head in your lap - an action that he was itching to try out. You jumped up with a gasp and ran to the bags resting at the bottom of a tree. Frantically, you searched the pockets until you found the source of the noise, answering the call.

“Hello?”

“Hey, where are you?” asked a female voice on the other end.

“I, um,” you glanced over him, making him jump to his feet. Will you tell your friend the truth? “I got bored so I’m just out driving around. Why?”

He almost let out a sigh from relief. Talk of an overly friendly wolf would be bad, especially if it spread through town and more people ventured into the woods to try and encounter him.

“Jiyoung called and asked last second to switch shifts at the coffee shop and so I’m free for the evening. And I’m hungry.”

You laughed. “Alright. Give me twenty minutes to get back to the dorm. How does brick oven pizza sound?”

“Like heaven.”

“Okay, then. See you soon.” You hung up the call and met his eyes again. Impulsively, you took one last picture of him, which he didn’t shy away from. “I’ll be back,” you promised softly.

Minseok could no longer feel the ground beneath him. He just stood there, watching as you ran through the trees in the direction of the road. When his senses came back to him, he noticed a small brown square hidden among the tan grass. He went closer to inspect what the object was. It was a notebook.

It must be yours.

Scooping the leather-bound book in his mouth, he took off after you. Following your scent through the forest was easy – it stood out like a pink flower in a sea of green grass. But he wasn’t quick enough. He caught the sight of your tail lights far down the road. He would have to keep a hold of the notebook until he saw you again. You did say that you would be back.

Or you could track her down?

Minseok shook that thought away. How would he ever explain that without giving away his true nature?

Giving up for the time being, he turned around and decided to head back to the house. There was no way he could find the others now. And with you gone, the elated feeling disappeared, leaving him weighted as if he were being dragged down into the earth. Each step was anchored down. It took him much longer to get back to the farm house.

Several other members were scattered about the house, either working on their studies or clowning around. Your notebook tucked between his clothes and held close to his chest, he headed up to his room. After a quick shower, he got dressed once again and sat on the end of his bed. In his hands, he flipped the notebook over and over. He contemplated opening it. But that would be invading, wouldn’t it? But he wanted to find out about you.

So he pulled open the cover.

Inside, in the top right hand corner of the first page was your name. He smiled, saying it softly over and over. It felt… right on his lips. Your face hovered in his mind. It fit you so well, like a jacket tailored with perfection.

The nature of wolves was an odd kind. There was a constant urge to belong. To belong to a pack and then… to belong to a person.

Ever since he was young, he was told about how someday he find that special person whose soul was connected to his. Fate predetermined who that person would be and no one could ever fill the void that existed until that person came along. Ordinary humans would never experience that kind of feeling, that kind of love. The type of love for the wolf that could only be given by one person.

A mate.

Was that what you were? None of his brothers were mated. They were all free – some taking more advantage of the situation than others. Occasionally, they would joke about who would be first. Some thought it might be Yixing, given his soft heart and the genuine warmth he radiated. Others liked to joke that it would be Baekhyun or Jongin, the big serial daters of the pack. Minseok, though, had his money set on Jongdae. That wolf had barely been able to give in to the call of the pack when he first joined them all. He was verbally against the idea of mating, more so than anyone else. Opening up to people was not a strong suit of the younger wolf and Minseok couldn’t wait to see what kind of journey that would be once he was forced to.

Minseok would have been the last person on everyone’s mind for the mated list. Not for any malicious reasons, just because he didn’t venture out very much beyond school so the odds of meeting someone new were low. Or so he thought. He liked being out at the house, being home. He was the very definition of “homebody”. Ironic that he ended up meeting you out here.

Knock, knock, knock.

He looked up and quickly hid the notebook beneath his pillows, just in time before Junmyeon, the alpha, peaked his head in. “Minseok?”

“Yeah?”

Junmyeon looked back towards the hallway. “Yeah, he’s in here!” he yelled. “Tell Jongdae to stop worrying!”

Minseok laughed. Naturally, they leave him behind but then they get worried. He was the eldest, always looking after the others. And yet, oftentimes, it didn’t feel like that.

Where he thought that might be the end of the checkup, Junmyeon, instead, closed the door behind him and sat down on the bed beside him.

“Everything okay?” he asked.

Minseok nodded. “Yeah, of course. Why?”

“I saw the look on your face when you came in,” Junmyeon explained. “You looked troubled.”

The two of them weren’t the closet out of the whole pack. In fact, there were times where it was awkward between them, the role of the alpha and the role of eldest clashing at times. But other times, he was the best one to turn to.

“What do you know about the mating aspect of us?”

Junmyeon pursed his lips, thinking. “The mating aspect? Only the basics, really. That when you meet that one person, that’s it. And you’re supposed to live happily ever after.” He laughed at the cheesy line, releasing some of the tension.

Minseok couldn’t help but laugh along. It died out soon, though, as his mind went back to his current dilemma. “They always say you just know after one look. Do you think that’s right?”

“Yes, I do,” the alpha confirmed. “That’s all it takes. You feel it in here.” He tapped his chest, right about his heart. “Minseok? Why are you asking about this?”

He weighed his options. If this wasn’t what he thought it was and the others found out, he would never hear the end of it from them. But having someone validate his theory would ease some of the strain.

“I think I found her.”

#exo #exo wolf au #exo wolf!au #minseok x reader #kim minseok #xiumin #exo werewolf!au #exo werewolf au #exo series #exo fanfiction #exo fanfic #exo supernatural au #untamed wolf universe #Catching Rain

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optimistic-dinosaur-nacho · 4 years

Text

Bloodshed AU

Chapter 5

Warnings: Nudity, Gore, Language, Violence Summary: Steve Rogers works in a research and tech company in New York. He’s been digging into myths and footage on a creature known as the werewolf. Vicious as they are, he hunts them. With a lot of failures, his team thinks he’s crazy. He may prove them wrong.

Prologue Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Chapter 3 Chapter 4 Chapter 5 Chapter 6 Chapter 7 Chapter 8

Characters (Bloodshed Seven)

The day had grown cold as the ice slowly melted during the day. They were sure by tomorrow the snow will wet the ground and Y/N could hang by the coastline with Bucky.

They may not swing that day, but she would love to watch the ocean wash up on the shore and retreat back to the dark sea.

She followed Bucky through the snow, shifted into their wolf forms as they scouted the area. Freely to roam the area after the hunting season had ended, they hoped no one was out here tonight.

Someone did.

Took a step onto the trail he once came through with a woman. Steve had his backpack on his back while his truck was parked in the side of the road. He hoped those people who lived down the trail won’t find his truck and call the police, invading their property. He walked down the trail—the one his father took him down for the one night.

His heart beat against his rib cage like thunder in his ears. His breathing was getting difficult to keep at a steady pace.

Flashlight in hand, it barely shined light to the outer woods. He kept it on the trail and that was all he could see.

The fear of turning around made him tense up. This fear always got to him. He would’ve wished he woke up in that bed in the motel. This all as a nightmare but he felt the cold. He felt the metal flashlight in his hand.

He could see his breath appear in front of him. His long hair covered his ears but he still felt the cold bite at them. He needed to find that spot or at least a sign of those Godly beasts.

He did bring a weapon. A hunter’s knife and a gun.

Even at the slightest sound, he’d reach for one of them. He kept moving. Maybe a mile down, he found a familiar spot. He could hear his father’s stories in that exact spot.

Those howling behind him when he was a kid. He looks around and turns to where he did hear the howling for the first time. The direction he heard it was actually where that family’s house was. Somewhere in the North, he heard that howling with his father and that led to the family’s house.

That house looked new to him. He would’ve saw it as a kid when they returned back home up the trail. They must’ve been new. Steve wondered if the family heard about the werewolf stories. Things that rotten in the snow and dirt. Those hunters, too.

No one found them yet.

Steve gasps and whips around when a howl was heard. It lasted for a good long 10 seconds before ending. He gripped on the flashlight. Of course, normal wolves roam the area and he knew some could play tricks and just make him go crazy.

Wolves were bigger than domestic dogs, but werewolves are larger than wolves. Their paws were almost the size of a bear’s paw, regular wild dogs were the size of your palm almost.

Steve heard the howl after the other. He knew those were close. His turned off his flashlight and he was drowned in the darkness. The only light source was the cold moon.

He started to run. He felt chills. His heart beat against his rib cage again and the dread began to raise every second. He was reliving the dream— but he wasn’t running away from a werewolf.

He was running towards one.

If he got closer, he’d have to lay low. He grabbed the knife from his pocket and ran. He met the edge of the hill. Immediately, he slid down on his hip. Meeting the bottom of it, swiftly he stands up and continues to run.

He stopped.

Something made him stop. He looked around. Silence. The forest was awfully silent. His breath came out as large huffs as he looks around almost in fear but desperation.

Y/N rushed through the woods and came to a stop. Shaking off her snow mane, she looks around. The howl rumbled through her throat as she released the long howl into the night.

It lasted for a good long 10 seconds before she lowered her head. They were patrolling tonight. Making sure no hunters were around. She heard a howl from her right.

Bucky.

He howled out as a clear over in the South. The next one to her left.

Ada.

Y/N went to head back to the cabin once she let out a short howl till something picked her scent. The smell triggered the feral inside again. With a harsh snarl, her eyes glow bright blue as she chased after the scent and ruffled the snow.

Steve continued to look around. His chest heaving up and down as he stood in the snow. Trees surrounding him. Shit. His heart began to hit against his chest again. The tightness in his chest began to make him choke on the air.

His eyes began to feel blurry.

Breath.

The fear of being in the forest alone without no sign of people. He needed to head back. He turns. Whipping around every second to the smallest sounds. His hand shook, fingers barely holding onto the blade in his hand.

He started to not think straight. Thinking there were snarls around him. Either behind or deeper in the forest.

Y/N stopped and felt their presence just over the hill. Her cold blue moon eyes watch the shadow of a man. She couldn’t be caught. Not from what happened last time. The smell made her want to sneeze, snarl but she held it in.

The man turns, she was unable to see the man’s face when she ducks into the brush.

“Who’s there?” The man called, her ears turned to the sound of his voice. Demanding for her to come out. She would. The sound of a long howl made her turn. The man did as well.

Steve panicked towards the long howl. He jumped when something moves in front of him and the sounds of it scattered away. What the hell was that?

He walked over to the sound with the blade in hand. He reached for the gun and also held it in his hand. He whipped around the brush and saw the snow pushed down by some weight.

He knelt down, making sure to look both ways. He found the trail. Something was watching him. He realized the movements of it, is that it turned away and ran off.

Just after the howl. Steve lifted his head up and saw the blue moon stare down at him. He needed to be back at the motel before someone finds him and arrests him from trespassing basically a crime scene.

The Volk Forest park had been closed down because of it. Who knew if Sheriff’s were in the area. He stood up and pulled his phone out. No service whatsoever, but he took photos. Using the flash, he got what he can gather and headed back to the trail.

Going back to his car.

Y/N rushed towards the sound of Roman’s howl and she jumped down to be on the side of the mountain. Jumping over the rocks and catching a few slips on the way. She hears yipping. All five wolves together and she jumped down, Bucky looks over and she rubs her head against his as a hi and ruffled her mane, looking at Roman.

His eyes were the usual burgundy red. If angered, bright red. None of them liked him angry in this form. He snorted at the pack, “Anything near the creek?”

Y/N looks up. She was the one by the creek. Whoever that man was, she didn’t want to tell them that someone was in the woods. Her blue eyes gleamed up at him, “Nothing.”

Roman looks up and snuffles, “Ada and I will head back. Around dawn, if you’re still out here, return back.” Ada and Roman low growled at each other before they jumped off the rocks and ran into the woods.

Tatum yips in a playful way as he pounces on Randall. The brown wolf growls and drops Tatum to the ground. Bucky looks at Y/N and snuffles at her, “Let’s go.”

Y/N and Bucky scattered off into the woods to go on a late night run and possibly a hunt.

“I’m craving moose,” Bucky says, running beside her. Y/N low growls, jumping over Bucky, “Unless you want a antler to the skull, be my guest.” The small snap of a twig, Y/N comes to a stop and so does Bucky. They both kneel and look over the hill.

Spotting a lone deer in the open. Y/N looks over to Bucky, his tongue swiping over his muzzle and she noticed his eyes go feral to the smell of the deer. Y/N’s flews lift up to show her pearly white razor sharp teeth as a low growl erupted from her throat and they leaped towards their dinner.

Steve jerks from his bed, inhaling sharply as he does. His skin layered in beads of sweat, he tried to calm his fast heartbeat and he turns to his phone on the nightstand.

His phone beamed with the time and his background the same since he got it. It was around 5 in the morning. He needed to go out. Maybe grab breakfast somewhere.

Getting up, he took a cold shower. Relaxing his muscles under the water, he closes his eyes. The growling echoing in his ears. He flinched when he felt the familiar pinch in his forearm and he opens his eyes to look at his arm.

Nothing.

That nightmare. That same red wolf chasing him in the forest. He remembered it biting into his forearm and the feeling of it being ripped out, his eyes still looking down at his own flesh being mauled by the beast.

Steve didn’t want to think of it any longer and turned off the shower.

He got dressed in a blue tee and a dirtied flannel, jeans and boots thrown on. He wanted to talk to someone who knew this town. So much of it changed but it was familiar places when he was young.

Steve took a step into the lobby, hearing the man at the desk mutter things behind the counter.

Steve knew this man was some psycho. He guessed maybe that girl was one, too. He leans on the counter, “Excuse me?” He says. The man continued to mutter things as he turns to the back.

Steve looked over to the wall and his face drops. Photos of wolves, men holding up hounds that were twice their size. Also there was a picture of the World War II. Pictures of men mauled in the forest. Steve never turned his head, but his eyes looked over to the old man who continued to mutter.

“Excuse me,” Steve says more louder. “Huh?” Erik jumps and turns around, he spots Steve, “Ah, sorry. I was just-uh...” Steve points at the photos on his walls.

“Big fan of the forest?” Steve asked. Erik squints at the photos, he nods, “Oh, yes. The Volk forest is one of the biggest forests in Oregon. Some say it’s like the Aokigahara Forest, the forest in Japan?”

Steve’s arm was on the counter as he leaned against the wall, listening, Erik turns to him, “You know, the ‘Suicide Forest’? Thought it’s not a sea of trees. Volk is a Russian word for Wolves.”

Steve was interested in his story. Has he seen one? Steve points again, “Have you seen... you know... werewolves?”

Erik grins, “I’m sure hunters have, yes. Me? No, I believe in them. I’ve been researching for years. Years and years of research till someone came to our lab and they took all of it. Some police or Men in Black! We never gotten names from them. Said what we were doing was very unlikely and not appropriate. Bastards,” He mutters.

Steve nods. Erik shakes his head, “That Rogers guy was closer than anyone else. Until he was mauled. Or murdered, you know what I mean, kid?” He says, turning away. Steve stood there feeling a bit unease.

He tried to shake it off, “Is there any diner around here?” Erik grunts when he lifts up something in the back. He comes over to the desk again, “Yeah, of course, one of the best diner’s in town! Just take that street down there and you’ll see it!” He says.

Steve turns to the direction he pointed and nods, “Thank you.” After that, Steve went to his truck. Driving over there, he parks his car on the sidewalk. Stepping out of his truck, he glances down the street and then over to the small alleyway beside the diner.

He saw a familiar ride. Two Harley-Davidson’s motorbikes were parked on the side. One with a wolf sticker and a long scratch mark of a wolf’s claw. He didn’t pay much in mind about those stickers and headed inside.

The diner was half full, greeted by a blonde woman in a apron below her waist as she smiles up at him. “Hello, welcome to Bobby’s Diner, what would you like?”

“Just a coffee, thank you,” He slides her a 10, “Keep it.” The woman gives him a smile as she slips the 10 into her pocket, “On it,” She winks. Steve gives her a small grin as she walks off to grab him a coffee.

“Shut up, come on let’s get out of here,” A woman spoke, Steve turns to see the couple walk over and he recognizes them quickly. “Hey,” Y/N says, Steve seem to feel relieved to see her again. He didn’t know why.

“Didn’t think to see you so quickly,” He jokes, Y/N grins. “Well, it’s Bucky and I’s favorite diner. The coffee here’s great,” She says. Steve looks up to see Bucky stand directly behind her like a guarded dog. If he were one, he’d start growling.

Steve shrugged the thought off, “I hope, I just came here to grab one,” He says. Y/N smiles, “Well, if you want... Bucky and I were heading to the coast, go near the ocean and watch it. If you want.”

Steve thought about it. He barely knew them. He knew the answer when Bucky was never removing the death eyes away from him. Steve shook his head no, “No, it’s okay. You two go, I actually need to visit someone today so...”

Y/N nods, “Oh. Okay, well...” She glances at Bucky, “We’ll head out then.” Steve smiled at her and once she winked at him in a goodbye, his smile dropped.

The hint of blue gleamed in her eye as she walked off. It was visible in the dim lighting in the diner as if someone shined headlights on those retro reflectors on the roads.

There was barely any light. And she never had eyes close to being that kind of color. He watched them head out to their motorbikes, laughing as they did. Y/N was the first to ride off. Steve watched as Bucky looks into the diner to glare at Steve.

Then he road off after Y/N.

“Sir?” The woman spoke, Steve turns and sees her hand him his coffee, “Thank you.” She nods and walks off, leaving Steve there to ponder what just happened.

“Bucky! Stop!” Y/N shouts, Bucky had his hands on her waist as he jokingly lifts her up to hover over the waves. He laughs and places her back on her feet, “I’m kidding,” He says. She shoves him back as they walked along the coastline. Trees and rocks in the distance.

Bucky points, “You see that cliff?” Y/N looks over to see the huge cliff with a peak that is a hundred foot drop into the ocean, he grins, “That cliff points directly at Japan. Some call it Whales Peak.”

“Why Whales Peak?” She chuckles. Bucky turns to her, “Cause if you follow where the peak is pointing, you’d see whales pass by. And one actually got washed up here. Took them a while to put it back in the ocean.”

Y/N quirks up her brows, “Wow, Mr. Smart guy. Didn’t take you as the nerd one in the pack.” Bucky shrugs, “It’s all about Google.”

Y/N laughs and bumps her shoulder into Bucky causing him to laugh as well. The two threw rocks in the ocean, chased each other along the shoreline. The sun was setting on the ocean. Bucky stood beside Y/N and watched her look at the ocean.

Seeing her eyes reflect the sun’s shine. Her gentle smile as her hair flew in the salty wind. He grins.

Steve stared at his hands, looking up to her with the soft eyes. “You should be proud of yourself, Sarah.” His mother glances over to where his eyes landed, seeing the photos of her and his old man.

One with Steve and his father going out fishing. Sarah turns, “I’ve had the best life I could ever imagine, son. But my only regret is that you didn’t have that much from your father and I.”

Steve turns away from the photos and stares at his hands. “What is it, dear?” She grumbles. Steve looks up to her, “For the longest I can remember is that I just wanted to do what was right,” He says, “Guess I’m not quite sure what that is anymore. I thought I could throw myself back in... follow orders, serve... it’s just not the same anymore.”

Sarah takes his hand, “You and your father are always so dramatic,” She chuckles. Steve grins at her. “And I understand, son. From where you are now... I’ve gotten calls from your friend Natasha. She told me how many missions you’ve all done and saved millions of people. You’re making a big difference.”

Steve grips her hand gently in his, “I just wish I could go back,” He whispers. Sarah gently smiles at him, “I know, Steve... But all we can do is to start over.” She placed his and her hand on her stomach, “Your father is proud of who you’ve become. You’re a good man. Though this world is filled with unexpected things. And your father with his... folktales that scared us half to death.”

Steve and her both laugh at that.

Sarah hums softly, “From what I heard on how you got here, you must be desperate for something. And it wasn’t me,” She says. Steve sighs softly. His mother knew how to find the lies behind the eyes. He lowered his head.

“Was I the reason you came here, Steve?” She asked. Steve lifts up his head, she shook her head, “No point in lying if I already caught you. I can see it in your eyes.”

There was no point now. She was right. If Natasha found out about why he actually came here, she’d drag him by the ears and hair to rip him back to New York.

Steve pierces his lips together and looked down to her hands on his, “I just need the truth to come out,” He says, Sarah shuffles her head to fully look at him as she laid on the hospital bed. “I have to find answers on what happened to dad and kill these-”

“Steve,” She gently pulls his hand closer, “These things aren’t true. These beasts... they don’t exist. I don’t want to lose you because of these stories,” She says.

“You’ll be humiliated,” She says.

“Our family was already humiliated from the very beginning, mom. Do you remember how many people surrounded our house? Calling us wackos? You’ve seen Joseph, he was mauled by an animal-”

“Steve, please... I know,” She says, “I just want you to be careful. We’re not sure who those people who did that. People who thought he was a freak and they killed him for it.” He shook his head, closing his eyes, “I know. I know,” He says.

Sarah frowns, “I don’t want to you lose you. And I want you to understand that. Okay?” Steve lifts up his head and softly nods. He watched as she stared at him with the soft but sad smile.

His tilts his head, “What?”

Sarah lifts up her hand and places it on his cheek, “You look like your father. You have his eyes. His hair.” Steve smiles sadly and placed his hand over hers on his cheek.

“I love you.”

“I love you, too.”

I needed some mother and son bond in this chapter. Some Captain America: The Winter Soldier lines and a one from Defending Jacob. “You have his eyes.” I just love those movies and I love this story.

TAGS:

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scribbleb-red · 5 years

Text

Hello Ghost (An Afternoon Andreil AU)

After college, the Minyard-Hemmicks sell up in South Carolina and Andrew is signed by the Baltimore Bombers.

He buys a house on the outskirts of Leakin Park, it's pretty grand but he has a vision of inviting his family to stay, one day, perhaps.

The house is also more than a bit run down (which is why Andrew figures it was a good price).

He starts to fix the place up. New paint. New floors. New windows.

But then weird stuff starts happening.

Food he was sure was in the fridge disappears. Stationary and paints will vanish from almost under his nose. Tools go missing only to reappear somewhere else. And clothes too (he is sure he brought his favourite black hoodie with him from SC, and Aaron swears he hasn't got it...).

He starts to hear noises - not loud, just like shuffling, sliding, sometimes like a door is creaking open.

Andrew has nearly done the ground floor when he thinks he's found the answer - navy paint paw prints - all across his freshly stripped and varnished wood floor.

He won't lie, they're kind of cute. The creature must have knocked over the feature-wall paint.

But then, one day after practice, he comes home and takes off his headphones and he's sure he can hear humming. Whatever animal the pawprints came from, he's sure most of them won't know Bohemian Rhapsody.

He creeps up the stairs, it's pretty tatty up here still. The only room he's really bothered is his own. There are rooms he's barely opened since he arrived - particularly the one that looks like it once belonged to a kid (the yellow clown wallpaper *has* to come down soon).

The humming is coming from the main bathroom.

His hand hovers over the handle.

He presses down.

The door swings open.

He swears he sees a flash of red. Blue eyes in the mirror.

But when he pushes inside, nothing and no one is there.

"The actual fuck??" he mutters.

The actual fuck is right.

Over the next few weeks Andrew becomes increasingly paranoid. Summer has bled into autumn and he is pretty sure he's being haunted.

There is a ghost in this house. There is a ghost in these walls.

He talks to Aaron who just shrugs and tells him to call an exterminator if he has rats in the walls. Andrew is sure there aren't rats in the walls. That's not what he's hearing. Rats don't have nice tenor voices that hum Queen and Blue Oyster Cult through the piping.

He talks to Nicky, who freaks out because omg Andrew you have to get out before the ghosts turn violent Andrew, you don't know what kind of ghost it is Andrew, what if you piss it off by accident Andrew. Maybe you can get an exorcist Andrew. Or salt? Isn't salt bad for ghosts?

He calls Kevin, who frowns down the line.

"Are you okay, Minyard? Not getting rattled now you're in the pros?"

No, Andrew is not rattled. He's doing fucking great for the Bombers.

"Then get some sleep and... maybe call Bee?"

Great so Kevin thinks he's mad.

He calls the estate agent last. Though really he should have called them first.

"There's something wrong with this house," he says. "Tell me what's wrong with this house."

"Oh dear." The estate agent is very anxious. "I'm so sorry, Mr Minyard. I thought everyone knew."

Turns out everyone except him did know. Andrew's grand house that he got for basically pennies was once the home of the Butcher of Baltimore. Andrew missed the memo though, too busy getting his brother clean and surviving the mood-meddling, court-prescribed drugs at the time.

"I'm so very sorry," says the estate agent. "I'm afraid there's nothing we can do now, but I do know a good geomancer who could feng shui the property for you."

Andrew slams down the phone.

So he has a ghost in his house.

Probably a murder ghost too.

Fuck.

He decides that if he's going to get rid of his ghost, he's going to have to figure out what exactly the ghost is taking, when and why. He starts keeping track in a little notebook. He quickly notices something even weirder than the missing stuff though.

The ghost takes food - not a huge amount - but enough each week. It's mostly fruit and vege, the occasional protein bar. If Andrew makes smoothies from fruit, the ghost will take some. And sometimes the ghost will make smoothies itself and leave half for Andrew.

The ghost launders any of the clothes it borrows. Not everything is returned. But socks will miraculously reappear. So will tshirts and sometimes jumpers. The black hoodie has not made a reappearance. But his woollen winter jumper does, with the elbow holes freshly darned.

The ghost showers. Andrew has noticed more than once that the bathroom mirror is misted and the towels damp when they shouldn't be.

The ghost leaves red hair behind, long curls of it.

The ghost is probably not a ghost. Or if they are, they're a very very corporeal one.

He decides maybe - just maybe - he could lure the ghost out.

After a shower one day, he writes on the misted mirror: HELLO GHOST.

The next day, the ghost leaves a reply: HI HUMAN.

Andrew frowns and scrubs the note away.

He goes out to buy clothes for the ghost - no need for them to nick his favourite stuff if they have their own right?

He leaves the bag in the bathroom and writes: THE BAG IS FOR YOU.

The next day he sees: THANK U.

The day after: CAN I HV A TOOTHBRUSH?

Andrew buys one, even though the ghost writes like a fuckboi.

When he comes home from a long weekend of away matches, the toothbrush is used and wet. There's a Smiley on the mirror in the the mist. Andrew scowls. And he realises the ghost is near - because there's a shuffle, a sigh & for a second he's sure the shadows behind him move.

Andrew and the Ghost fall into a rhythm.

Sometimes when the ghost needs something there will be a note on the bathroom mirror. Sometimes when the ghost is thankful, they'll leave homecooked left overs in the fridge for Andrew, presumably made when he's at practice.

Aaron asks him one day if he solved his rat problem.

"It's a ghost problem,” Andrew tells him. “But yes, something like that."

For Christmas, Andrew goes to visit Nicky and Erik in Germany.

It's three weeks away and he's so anxious about the flights, he forgets about his little ghost in the walls.

He packs in a hurry. He turns off the lights. Turns down the heating. Locks the doors.

The holiday itself is good. Nicky is thriving now he's back with his boyfriend and Andrew almost feels bad that he kept Nicky from being this happy for so many years. Almost. Because he wouldn't trade those years with Nicky and Aaron for anything.

He goes home, content.

As soon as he opens the front door, he knows something is wrong.

It's freezing cold. So cold his breath is vapours on the air.

There's a smell too, stale and fetid. Like old fruit.

And that's when he sees him, the ghost.

The ghost is a boy, but he certainly looks half dead.

He's sprawled on Andrew's new sofa. He's all bones. Emaciated to a point where he looks childish. His skin is sickly pale. His hair is dank and plastered to his forehead. His eyes are closed.

Andrew drops his bag and the ghost's eyes flutter open, just a slither before closing again.

The ghost is sick. Incredibly sick.

Andrew calls Aaron.

"My ghost is sick," is the first thing he says. "He has a fever. I don't know what's wrong with him."

Aaron doesn't pretend to understand, he just lists off ways to bring down a fever. "I can be there in the morning," he tells Andrew. "Just --"

-- Aaron stops short. He can't tell Andrew to keep a ghost alive can he?

Andrew does what he can. He lifts his ghost up into his arms, wrinkling his nose at the sweaty, sick smell rolling off him. He's far too light and far too small.

Andrew tucks him into his own bed.

He finds a can of fizzy lemonade and brings it upstairs to the ghost. He's barely stirred but as Andrew cracks open the can, the ghost lets out the tiniest of whimpers and it breaks Andrew's heart.

Carefully, he nudges the ghost awake and helps him to drink some of the lemonade.

"Bring up his sugar levels. Make sure he has plenty of fluids. Anything cold to bring down his temperature."

It takes nearly an hour for the ghost to drink the lemonade.

Andrew doesn't sleep that night. Doesn't stop applying cold flannels. Checks his temperature every 30 minutes.

"You better not become a real ghost, Ghost," he warns the boy in his bed. "I want my fucking hoodie back."

Aaron arrives and it’s a good thing he's just finished his rotation in the ER because Andrew's ghost is a young man with one of the worst cases of pnuemonia he's seen in a while. He calls up a professor and explains why he needs a prescription for a variety of medications.

He's able to get them within the morning and they set Andrew's room up to be a hospital bed minus the bleepity-bloopety machines.

Andrew finally sleeps when Aaron forces him to - but only for a couple hours before he's back at the ghost's side.

Two days go by.

Ghost wakes up.

For all that he looks like he hasn't eaten a full meal in his life, his eyes are the most striking Andrew has ever seen in his life. They are coldest blue, like a winter's sky.

"Hello Ghost," Andrew says.

"Hi Human," replies the ghost.

Ghost recovers slowly. He sleeps a lot. Andrew cooks for him. Makes him eat soups and broths and slowly reintroduces solids.

Turns out when Andrew left, he'd locked Ghost inside with only enough food in the cupboards for a week.

Ghost managed to make it last 12 days.

But with the heating off, Ghost had shivered his way into sickness.

Andrew asks him how the hell he's been haunting his house when he's clearly not a ghost. Ghost frowns.

"The walls," he says. "He built the walls too thick so they could hide escape routes."

"The Butcher?"

Ghost nods. He's so pale. Andrew presses because he knows there's a secret here and Ghost finally admits: "He was my father."

The pieces fall into place as Ghost recovers. His name is actually Nathaniel but every time Andrew uses it, Ghost flinches.

Andrew moves Ghost out of the walls where he used to hide and into the house.

"Why didn't you leave after your father died?" Andrew asks one day over hot chocolate and coffee.

They're curled up on the sofa, their feet overlapping but nothing else.

"Because he didn't die," Ghost says. "He was killed."

And out comes the story of how Ghost lived in the house as his father's prisoner. How he was trapped and how he was punished the few times he tried to escape.

There are scars, Andrew has seen them. They make sense now.

"My mother escaped though. With millions that belonged to my father. A couple years ago my father killed her... my uncle came in retribution. He killed my father. I was there." Ghost's voice is thick and raw. His eyes won't meet Andrew's. "He said he'd come back for me."

"He never came back," Andrew fills in the next line.

"No."

"But you stayed."

"I've barely been outside before. I never... I had rations stored and I figured, it was safe here at least, now he was gone."

"And then I arrived."

"Yeah. And it was kinda nice. Being your ghost."

Andrew chest feels warm and full. "You're still my ghost," he says after a minute.

And it's true. This boy from the walls is going to haunt Andrew forever - and he doesn't even mind.

Andrew learnt to live in increments, one breath at a time, one minute, one hour, one day. He'll teach Ghost to do the same, over years.

They'll find a human name for Ghost. They'll settle on "Neil", a name untainted by the father who hurt him or the mother who left him.

They'll cook together in the evenings, brushing against each other in whispers.

They'll fall asleep together on sofas and then, later, in their shared bed.

They'll move house together one day, when Andrew transfers to another team.

One day Andrew is lying in bed next to Neil, tracing patterns over freckled skin and taut muscles.

"I meant to ask, what was with the pawprints that time? With the paint on the floor?"

And Neil looks puzzled, then smiles. "Maybe it really was a ghost."

THE END

#andreil #andrew minyard #neil josten #neil is a ghost #or is he?#Andrew might be being haunted #But only Nicky believes him #Neil haunts the walls #ghosts #ghost story #The Haunting of Baltimore #Soft I think #I'm never sure is something is soft or sad tbh #I listened to a lot of MFM stuff in the wall episodes and this happened.#aftg

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mxliv-oftheendless · 5 years

Text

Green Wounds, Ch. 1

Well, here it is: THE MALEFICENT AU! I am SUPER excited to be writing this story, guys! It’s gonna (hopefully) be freakin’ awesome! (Btw I’m using this picture to give a general look of what Starchild looks like when he’s older, even though it doesn’t make sense for this chapter. Also because that cape is bitchin and comes up later) Hope you guys enjoy!

“A man that studieth revenge keeps his own wounds green.” —Sir Francis Bacon

Let us tell an old story anew, and we will see how well you know it.

Once upon a time, there were two kingdoms, that were the worst of neighbors. So vast was the discord between them, that it was said only a great hero or a terrible villain might bring them together. In one kingdom, Jendell, lived folk like you and me, with a vain and greedy king to rule over them. They were forever discontent, and envious of the wealth and beauty of their neighbors. For in the other kingdom, the Moors, lived every manner of strange and wonderful creature. And they needed neither king nor queen, but trusted in one another.

In a great tree on a great cliff in the Moors, lived one such spirit. You might take him for a boy, but he was not just any boy. He was a faerie.

In his tree, lying on his back, a young faerie boy had his hands raised up in the air. All of the boy’s skin was pale, but his face was pure white, except for the red of his lips and a single black star over his right eye. His long, curly black hair was splayed out along with a set of black wings. Although the boy was young, his wings were already magnificent to look at, all black and made up of glossy black feathers. They were at the moment spread out lazily around him. The faerie boy wore clothes of different shades of purple, but no shoes.

The boy’s fingers twitched and waved, and wisps of light purple magic flitted around them, drifting upward and pushing two dolls made of leaves and branches up further into the air. The faerie boy smiled as he watched the dolls spin around in the air, arms attached together so they looked like they were dancing.

The sudden sound of a breaking branch made the boy stop and look up. Up above him, he saw that one of the smaller branches was bent out of shape, perhaps broken from the weight of the many leaves. He quickly abandoned the dolls and got up, his wings stretching out to help him balance himself. He crawled up a larger limb of his tree until he was standing in front of the broken branch. The boy closed his hands over the break and closed his eyes, concentrating. Light purple wisps of magic curled out from between his hands, and the bent branch slowly straightened out again. The boy opened his eyes and took his hands away; the break was gone. The boy smiled. “There you go,” he said to the branch.

He turned from the healed branch and took a couple steps, before looking out at the beautiful kingdom he called his home.

And his name was Starchild.

Smiling brightly, Starchild leaned forward and jumped off the branch. As he fell, his wings unfurled out behind him, lifting him up into the air. Starchild flew through the Moors, feeling the breeze on his face.

It is said that Starchild received his name from what happened at his birth. It was said that the stars in the sky all shined down upon the baby faerie, blessing him with the star over his eye.

“Good morning, Bill!” Starchild called to a wood creature as he flew past. “I love your cap!”

Bill smiled and tipped the said cap at the faerie as he flew on.

Although Starchild had no parents, he found he didn’t need them to live a happy life. His heart was still bright as the sun, unable to give nothing but kindness and love.

Starchild came to a shallow pool, where three fat creatures were throwing mud at each other. As he neared, a blue one held up a handful of mud at him.

“No,” Starchild shook his finger at him threateningly, but still smiling slightly. “No, don’t you dare!”

Grinning, the blue creature threw the mud at him. Starchild ducked, and the mud flew over his head and splattered all over the face of a goblin. The goblin turned and started yelling at the fat blue creature.

Starchild laughed as he flew away. “Hah! You missed me!” he crowed.

He flew on, bidding good morning to the various creatures he saw. At one point he did a large loop-the-loop, shouting “Woo-hoo!” in joy. Laughing, he flew through a waterfall, the spray dampening his hair and clothes, but sliding right off his wings.

Starchild’s home was one of peace and joy, and even as a child he knew he wanted to see it stay that way. For he loved the Moors above all else.

Sudden twittering voices made Starchild look down at an island in the middle of the lake, where he saw a small crowd of creatures gathered. Floating in the air were three tiny fairies, wearing clothes that were pink, green, and blue; they were respectively Vinnie, Erik, and Tommy. The troubled looks on all the creatures’ faces was enough to make Starchild swoop down and land in front of the fairies. “What’s going on?” he asked Vinnie.

“The border guards discovered—” Vinnie began, but Tommy interrupted.

“Why do you get to tell him? I want to tell him!”

“I want to!” Erik piped up, but went unnoticed.

“There are rules, Tommy,” Vinnie said to him. “I tell this time, you tell next time. The border guards—”

“No,” Tommy interrupted again. “You told last time, so I get to tell this time, and Eric tells next time.”

“Tell me what?” Starchild interrupted. They were all sweet fairies, but they sometimes squabbled over the most ridiculous of things.

Vinnie rolled his eyes at Tommy. “Ugh, fine!”

Tommy smiled and nodded. “Thank you.” He turned to Starchild eagerly. “Starchild, the border guards—”

“The border guards found a human thief at the Pool of Jewels!” Erik interrupted excitedly. There was a pause in which Vinnie and Tommy glared at him, and he realized what had happened. “Uh, oops. Sorry.”

Starchild’s eyes widened at his words. Without a word, his wings unfurled and he took off, the ensuing gust of wind sending the fairies flying in all directions.

Erik righted himself and looked after Starchild in annoyance. “He’s always in a hurry with his big wings. Stupid big wings…”

Vinnie worriedly watched Starchild fly away. “Humans here… I hope there’s not another war.”

-*-

When Starchild arrived at the Pool of Jewels, he saw two of the giant tree guards that guarded the borders of the Moors standing in the water, pointing their spears at the forest beyond the pool. Starchild landed on the rock between them and looked out into the forest. The tree guard on his left, Gene, turned to him and spoke in the language of the tree creatures.

“I’m not afraid,” Starchild replied confidently. “Besides,” he turned back to the woods, “I’ve never seen a human up close.” He looked out into the woods, and spotted a cowering figure in the shadows. “Come out of there!” he called.

There was a moment’s pause, then a young male voice called back. “No! They’re gonna kill me! Besides, they’re hideous to look at!”

Gene growled. Starchild’s mouth dropped open in shock. “That’s extremely rude!” he said indignantly. He turned to Gene and smiled. “Don’t listen to him, Gene. You’re classically handsome.”

Gene nodded and grunted a thank-you. Starchild turned back to the woods. “It’s not right to steal, but we don’t kill people for it. Now come out.” He made his voice sound more authoritative. “Come out right now!”

It surprisingly worked. There was the sound of footsteps, then a small human came into the light. He had long, straight black hair and a rather thin face. He was dressed in shabby clothing, and as he stared at Starchild his eyes went from Starchild’s face to his wings, looking rather intimidated.

Starchild tilted his head at him. “Are you fully grown?” he asked.

“Er, n-no,” the small human replied.

Starchild turned to Gene. “I think he’s just a boy,”

“You are, too,” the boy replied, cautiously stepping closer. “I think.”

“Who are you?” Starchild asked him, trying to make it sound like more of a demand.

“I’m called Ace. Who’re you?”

“I’m Starchild,”

Gene spoke to him, reminding him about the jewel the boy—Ace—had stolen. Starchild nodded. “Yes, right.” He turned back to Ace. “You have to give it back.”

“Give what back?”

Starchild gave him a withering look and held out his hand. After a pause, Ace sighed and went for a pouch hanging around his neck. He opened the pouch and took out the jewel he had stolen, and tossed it to Starchild. Starchild caught it, admired it for a moment, then turned and threw it back into the pool.

“All right. Now come on.” He flew over to where Ace was standing and turned to enter the forest. Behind him, Gene grunted, asking where he was going. Starchild turned back to him briefly. “I’ll be right back, I promise.” He turned to Ace. “Let’s go.”

“Where are you going?” Ace asked him.

“I’m taking you out of the Moors. Humans don’t belong here.”

As they walked through the forest, Starchild leading with Ace behind him, Ace spoke up again as they reached the edge of the Moors. “If I knew you were just gonna throw it away, I would’ve kept it.”

“I didn’t throw it away,” replied Starchild matter-of-factly. “I delivered it home. As I’m going to do for you.”

When they reached the standing stones marking the edge of the Moors, Ace looked out at the human kingdom that was many, many leagues away. On the horizon, Starchild could see a large structure with multiple jagged points to it. “Someday, y’know, I’ll live there,” Ace said, pointing to the structure. “In the castle.”

Ah, so that’s what it was. “Where do you live now?” Starchild asked curiously.

At that, Ace’s head lowered slightly, and he looked rather sad. “In a barn,” he replied.

“So your parents are farmers?” He was about to ask what that was like when Ace shook his head.

“No… my parents are dead.”

Ace looked back out at the castle, while Starchild felt sympathy rise in him. After a moment, he said, “Mine too,”

Ace turned from the castle to him. For a moment, the two boys stared at each other. Then Ace said, “We’ll see each other again,”

He began to walk off. Starchild couldn’t help but stop him once again.

“You really shouldn’t come back here, you know. It’s not safe for a human to be here.”

Ace paused, then turned around, looking at him inquisitively. “What if I did come back? Would you be here?”

The question caught Starchild off guard for a moment. After a moment he answered, smiling slightly, “Maybe…”

Ace formally extended his hand for Starchild to shake. Starchild stared down at it, then reached out to grab it, completely forgetting about the iron ring around Ace’s finger.

The sudden burning pain made Starchild wrench his hand back. “Ah!”

“What’s wrong?” Ace asked in concern.

Starchild hissed in pain and held his hand, running his thumb over his palm as the pink skin slowly healed itself. “Your ring,” he said to Ace. “Iron burns faeries.”

Ace looked down at his ring. “Oh… I’m sorry.” Starchild assumed he would offer his other hand, but instead Ace took the ring off his finger, turned, and threw it as hard as he could. It flew into the air and out of sight. Smiling, Ace turned back and offered his hand again. Starchild looked at him for a moment, then reached out and took it. They shook hands, then Ace turned around to leave. “I like your wings,” he said.

Starchild smiled and preened slightly at the compliment. “Thanks,”

“See you around, Starshine,” Ace said as he walked away.

Starchild frowned. “That’s not my name!” he called after him.

“Starshine sounds better!”

After watching Ace walk away, Starchild smiled and turned to re-enter the Moors. He thought about the young human boy he’d met for the rest of the day. And that night, he stared up at the canopy of his tree and smiled as remembered how Ace had thrown away his ring without a second thought.

Starchild thought about how Ace had cast away his ring, he who had so little in the world, so that their hands might touch again, and his heart was moved. Thus, did the young thief, who had hoped to steal a jewel, steal something far more precious.

-*-

For the next few weeks, Starchild went to the edge of the Moors, waiting for a while each day to see if Ace would come back. Sadly, he saw nothing of the young human boy. Then one day as he flew to his usual spot, he finally heard a voice.

“Starchild! Starchild!”

Starchild peered through the trees, and grinned happily. There was Ace, standing between the standing stones and looking into the Moors, trying to catch sight of him. Starchild decided to surprise him, and flew quietly over his head and landed behind him. Ace jumped and whirled around, making him smile wider.

“Well, well… after all these weeks, look who came back,” he said.

Ace gave him a lopsided smile. “I thought it worth the risk. So… what do you do for fun?”

They ended up flying over a river, with Ace holding onto Starchild’s foot as he flapped his wings so that Ace’s feet were submerged in the water. Ace was shouting, while Starchild laughed even as he flew awkwardly due to the extra weight. Eventually, Ace’s fingers slipped and he fell into the water, his clothes and hair getting drenched. Starchild flew above him, laughing musically as Ace picked himself up, spluttering.

Ace looked up at him, mock-glaring. “Hey, that wasn’t funny!”

“Yes it was,” Starchild giggled. Ace scooped up a handful of mud from the river and threw it at him. It splattered all over the front of Starchild’s purple tunic. “Hey!” Starchild looked down at it in shock.

Ace laughed. “Now that was funny!”

Starchild narrowed his eyes at him, then swooped down to the river. He grabbed his own handful of mud and threw it at Ace. Soon both boys were incredibly muddy and still tossing more mud at each other, shouting and laughing.

Ace and Starchild became the most unlikely of friends. And for a time it seemed, in them at least, the old hatred between the men and faeries had been forgotten.

“Why don’t you ever leave the Moors?” Ace asked him one day. They were lying on their backs in a clearing, looking up at the clouds.

“Because it would be dangerous,” Starchild replied easily. “Your kind hates mine.”

“I don’t hate you,” Ace argued, sitting up.

Starchild sat up as well. “Well, of course you don’t. But other humans do; humans are always invading the Moors. That’s why we have Gene and the other border guards. And that’s how…” he trailed off, realizing what he was about to say.

“That’s how what?” Ace asked curiously.

Starchild drew his legs up to his chest and pressed his chin to his knees. “That’s how my parents died. Well, everyone says that’s how, anyway. They were defending the Moors from invading humans, and were killed.”

Ace fell silent. For a moment, neither of them spoke. Then Ace laid a hand on his shoulder. “I’m sorry,” he said quietly. “Do you miss them?”

Starchild shrugged. “I never even knew them.” How did you miss that which you never even knew?

Ace was silent for a moment, then he spoke again, sounding more optimistic. “Well, when I become king, we can change all of that.”

“Really?” Starchild looked at him interestedly. “Would we be able to do that?”

“Of course we would! I’d be king; I could do whatever I wanted.”

“We could really unite the kingdoms?” Despite not understanding how kings and rulers worked, Starchild was growing more excited at the thought.

Ace grinned at him. “Sure! We’d do it together, Starshine!”

Starchild grinned back, for once too excited to care about Ace’s nickname for him. A chance to unite the two kingdoms, and bring an end to the constant conflict—that sounded amazing.

One thing Starchild loved above all else was singing. He would sing to all the younger creatures of the Moors, after they begged him to do so of course, and he sang for Ace as well.

“A naoidhean bhig, cluinn mo ghuth. Mise ri d’ thaobh, O mhaighdean bhan…”

Starchild’s eyes were closed as he sang the ancient lullaby of the Moors. He loved singing this song; according to those who had known his parents, it was a song they had sung to him as a baby. Whenever he sang it, it made him feel just a little bit closer to the parents he had never known.

“Ar righinn oig, fas as faic. Do thir, dileas fhein…” The sudden touch of a hand lacing their fingers together made him trail off, and he opened his eyes.

Ace sat beside him, watching him sing and listening with a look akin to awe. The look on Ace’s face was making Starchild’s heart beat faster, and for a moment he just gazed at it.

Ace squeezed his hand. “Keep going,” he whispered.

Starchild smiled, a little shyly, then closed his eyes and kept singing. Their hands stayed linked together.

As it will, friendship turned into something else. And on his sixteenth birthday, Ace gave Starchild a gift.

“Close your eyes, Starshine,” Ace said to him. Smiling slightly in anticipation, Starchild obediently shut his eyes.

He felt Ace take his hands, and his heart began to quicken slightly. And it beat ever faster when he felt Ace press his lips to his own in a kiss.

When Ace slowly pulled away, Starchild half-wanted to pull him back and kiss him again. Ace smiled at him, in the way that made Starchild’s heart flutter. “Y’know what that was, Starshine?” Ace asked.

“What was it?” Starchild breathed.

“That… was true love’s kiss.”

Starchild’s heart swelled. He leaned in and kissed Ace again, eyes fluttering shut once more as the sun set behind them.

Ace told him it was true love’s kiss.

But it was not to be.

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awackyphdinadorkable · 5 years

Text

Snippety snip for that Pearl Harbor AU I keep obsessing about... for reasons.

As mentioned in this post, I can’t stop thinking about an AU based on the Pearl Harbor movie… to the point that I started writing something even though I really shouldn’t, but I can’t stop thinking about it (obsessing about it…) because it gives me massive Cherik feels, what can I say?

And all those wonderful gifs people keep creating for the Paris Proposal scene in Dark Phoenix (thank you all so very much for this!!!) only ever sent me more into dem feelz mode. So yeah, I’ll make y’all suffer with me with (VERY drafty) cheesy kiddy Cherik stuff for now since we’d definitely explore those boys throughout the years in that Pearl Harbor AU for ALL of the pining.

*salutes*

——————————

There once was a young man whose father made him wings so he could fly. Feathers and wax and wood brought together to bring into the sky what otherwise was bound to the earth. A man grew wings. Like a bird, Icarus soared up into the sky.

Yet, the higher he flew, the warmer the sun, the softer the wax became.

He flew higher than any man had ever done.

And perhaps even higher than some birds dared to reach, even though they are the princes of the sky, the kings in small whose only limit is the sky itself.

He did the impossible, made it possible, bound it down, made it smaller, brought it down to the earth by bringing himself so much up higher.

He made man fly.

He conquered the air where so many generations before him had conquered the same grounds below over and over, drawing invisible boundaries in the sand, which was a cheap magic trick at best, nothing compared to what he achieved with wood, wax, and feathers.

He discovered a land no man knew, no man could divide or claim, because the sky belonged to no one, won’t ever belong to anyone, as fleeting as it is, as fast as it drifts away, as vast and unending it shall forever remain.

He tasted the freedom of a man who left everything behind except for himself, except for the sky and the sun shining within it, breaking through the clouds, sending a golden glow across the wings a father gave to his son to conquer, to discover, to see.

And as high as he flew, so deep he fell, leaving no more than a father weeping at his tomb, and a name to pass into legend, a myth to last for many generations yet to come, inspiration for a great many tales and stories meant to warn us, caution us, towards the height of hubris.

And yet, against all warnings, people decided to climb into the sky again… and again… and again. Wax and feathers became canvas and wooden machinery. Wood and canvas became metal. And metal, despite its weight, against all odds, learned to climb higher than any solid element should ever reach.

Or so one would think.

And yet, people kept falling from the sky, knowing what had happened to this young man, having learned his story, his tale, his name, knowing how deep he had fallen, knowing the warnings – and ignoring them.

They kept falling from the sky and rising again… and again… and again.

Which begs all but one question: Why does man want to fly?

The answer? Over that the philosophers will likely continue to agree to disagree.

But if there is one thing people seem to agree upon regarding the matter, it’s this:

Flying means freedom.

Up in the sky, there are no laws, no rules, nothing to hold you down, nothing to hold you back. There is just the air and the clouds and the birds and the sun – and you, brave yet foolish man, trying to climb higher than all those before you tried to reach before.

And only if you fly too high, only if you let pride and hubris gain victory over the sweet taste of freedom, does wax turn fluid, does canvas tear, and metal shriek, to teach you the limits of your own nature once more, down on the ground below, leaving nothing but unmarked tombs, only few of which will pass into legend.

But if you allow the winds to carry you, if you give yourself to the sky, to its vastness, its limitlessness, there is nothing to hold you back.

And yet, us humans? We are no birds. We are no creatures of the sky.

We are no princes or kings of this most curious space without a place.

We are always bound to return to the ground below eventually.

In the end, we trade freedom for a landing place.

For a home.

That is where we began.

That is where we return.

That is where we end.

Each and every time, even when hubris claims us viciously, it is to this earth that we return.

So why does man land and not keep flying, if given the chance?

And there seems to be just one answer:

Because the price for freedom is responsibility, is trust, is family.

The price for freedom is having something to return to.

The price for freedom is being bound to something, someone, a thread attached to your ankle, never pulling you down but always connecting you to the dust from which you rose and to which you will return.

You may no longer be as free as you were, as free as the princes of the sky, forever up in vastness, without limits, but at the very least, you will know that, on the ground below, this one yet powerful truth that the sky cannot give you:

You are not alone.

——————————

“You know we shouldn’t be doing this. We shouldn’t even be here.”

“And you should know that I don’t care.”

“If someone catches us…”

“We run. Now c’mon, Charles! Don’t be a chicken!”

“I am no chicken, Erik!”

“Then come and prove it!”

Charles wrinkles his nose, his lips curling into a petulant frown. No, Charles Francis Xavier is most certainly no chicken, and he would rather die than leave his best friend under the belief that it is so. Yet, they shouldn’t be out, not at that hour, not outside, and certainly, nowhere near the hangar.

The young boy doesn’t get to ponder that for much longer, however, as Erik takes a hold of his wrist and pulls him along, the way Erik always does. And if Charles were honest with himself, he’d have to admit that he likes to be pulled along by Erik, away from the mansion, away from a house with too many rooms and too much space. He particularly likes it when Erik pulls him over to the house at the far end of the property where he and his mother live. It’s always warm there. There is not too much space for someone to fill who walks inside. And the moment either Erik, his mother, or the two of them are there, Charles finds that the house is just about perfect because there is someone in every room. There is light and the smell of burned candles and sourdough bread.

Oftentimes, Charles wished he lived there instead of the sometimes, very often, far too large estate with too many rooms and too few people to take up the space within. While he never knew another house to live in, Charles still finds himself scared of shadows behind vases that look like people he can only faintly hear whisper somewhere, distantly, and make him want to run away and never look back. He never has the urge to run from Erik’s house, though. He always feels welcome there, and he knows every small object, every shadow, in the flickering light of a dozen candles.

Erik’s mother is kind and has a soft voice that puts Charles mind to rest whenever he comes through the door, giving Charles the most curious feeling of coming home when he knows his home is the large building at the other end of the property. And she always smiles so brightly when Charles comes to their small house with some flowers he plucked in the gardens for her in hand, which makes it all the better. There is warmth in that small house where there is cold in the residence his family lives in. So yes, he’d wished that one of these days, he could allow Erik to pull him all the way to the house, one last time, and then never go back to the mansion.

Not that this is ever going to happen, of course. Charles knows that.

However, more than anything, he’d want to have Erik around him all the time. As many hours as they spend together, just as many more Charles would want to have Erik around him.

Because Erik means adventure.

Erik means excitement.

Actually, the name Erik means “eternal ruler” in Old Norse, alternatively from the Germanic word “Ehre” for honor and the Proto-Germanic word for “king.” Thus, Erik means “the honorable king.” At least that is what Charles read in one of the many, many books at his disposal, back when Erik and his mother first came to Westchester. He was very interested in this small family the moment he got to know Erik’s mother through her work in the house, so much more than Charles was with his studies – for the first time in his life. Because they had such a lovely accent and their presence on the estate held the promise of a companionship Charles didn’t know until he found it in Erik.

So yes, Erik actually means something along the lines of an honorable, eternal king, which Charles finds fitting enough, but that is not what Erik means to him.

Erik, to Charles, means getting out of his study, away from his home tutors, away from his books, even though Charles loves those dearly.

Erik means being outside.

Erik means sunlight and rolling on the grass and dozing off until his mother calls him away for dinner.

Erik means sneaking into each other’s rooms late at night, and listening to songs.

And above all, Erik means flying.

“I still can’t believe your father had that plane and no one ever told me!” Erik roars as they steal inside the hangar. Charles tags along, only looking back over his shoulder once. It can’t be helped anyway, he knows that much, too.

Once Erik made up his mind, his resolution is absolute.

Once inside, both let go and roam around, though the two boys soon gravitate towards the same object. Erik’s smile broadens as he approaches, stroking the smooth steel with his fingers.

Erik also means steel, means metal, tin, gold, silver, copper, all of the elements that can be drawn with the power of a magnet.

His friend often says he can hear metal, and Charles has no doubt in his mind that Erik can. After all, Erik never lies to him. And the way he touches metal, Charles knows for certain that he can hear a song no one else can hear. There are those times when Charles wished he could hear it, too, but then again, Erik also told him how hard it is at times, to keep himself together, not to lose composure, not to let the song ebb into this world and move metal objects by accident and get someone hurt.

Charles knows that song too well himself, albeit a different stanza and melody. While he cannot hear the song of metal, Charles hears other things, voices, and sadly, they are not nearly as often soft singing voices that come from the stroke of metal or Erik’s mother humming German nursery songs while she is cooking dinner. In fact, the song he hears often scares Charles, because there are too many voices, singing at once, never creating harmony but discord, growing louder and louder and louder until he can’t even hear his own voice inside his head anymore.

However, Erik means reassurance and calm, and that helps a lot.

Because they are together. And so long they are together, Charles knows he has someone who knows this song and who understands how tired one can grow of having to listen to it, having to ignore it.

They are together.

And together, they are never alone.

Sometimes, life can be that simple.

“Well, my stepfather does not appreciate me going here,” Charles says, standing one step behind Erik, not yet daring to reach out to the plane shining far brighter in the light than it should have any right to do. Because it’s far too tempting to ignore.

Erik turns around to Charles with a huff. “Does he appreciate anything other than you studying?”

“… Money?”

“That doesn’t count.”

“Then no.”

“See, and that’s why that guy is a lost cause,” Erik huffs, waving his left wrist in the air, before clapping it against the side of the airplane. “Look at this beauty. If you can ignore that for money’s sake, you really don’t deserve having it.”

“My grandfather actually used to fly one in war, I think. My father not, at least that is what Mother said,” Charles recounts. His father was a scientist, though he died shortly after Charles was born, leaving only ever so vague memories and washed photographs from his mother on his mind.

“Your people are odd.”

“I know.”

“You are odd, too.”

Charles nudges him in the side with a pout. “Hey!”

“I like that about you, not about them, but your oddness… it’s alright,” Erik sniggers.

“Why, thank you, Erik. I like your oddness, too.”

“Much appreciated.”

And while it’s said in sport just now, it holds more truth than most would ever come to comprehend. Because they are not like everyone else, but between them, that never was a problem. If at all, it only ever brought them closer together.

“So now. We gotta get in!”

“I still don’t find this a good idea,” Charles argues.

“Which is why I am leading this operation,” Erik says, pointing at himself with his thumb. “Do you see a ladder somewhere?”

Charles snorts at that. “Don’t you know as the head of the operation?”

Erik rolls his eyes at him before going around looking for one. Charles spots it with ease and puts up the ladder with a thud to announce his little victory. “There you go.”

“One can always count on you, Charles,” Erik laughs, clapping the slightly shorter boy on the shoulder, before grabbing the ladder with the other hand. “I get to sit in the front!”

“Why?”

“Because I am older.”

“Just by two years.”

“Still older by two years.”

“But I am smarter.”

“I am taller.”

“Which means you’d better be in the back so I can see,” Charles points out. Erik looks at him for a long moment, curling his lips in a pensive frown before answering, “… I can make myself smaller.”

Charles leans his head back with a grunt. “Just get in.”

Erik smirks before climbing the ladder, quick to hold out his hand to help Charles get into the back of the biplane’s passenger seat. Charles accepts reluctantly, but then again, Erik always pulls him along, so why would that be any different.

Once both are seated, it feels like a whole new world opens before their eyes. As many hours as they pretended to be pilots flying over the green grass of the Westchester Mansion, it should be little surprising to anyone that this is what the two want to do for the rest of their lives.

“That’s the best thing ever! And one of these days, Charles, we’re going to fly it,” Erik croons, moving his hands over the controls excitedly.

“Well, not if you asked my stepfather.”

“Who says I’m asking him?”

Charles shrugs. “True again.”

Erik also means simplicity. Charles tends to overthink things at times, because there is just so much on it, not just his own melodies but so many others, that he finds it all the more calming to have someone around him with a mind as clear as Erik’s.

Erik wrinkles his nose as he pats the steering arm. “You know, as great as it is, we are lacking scenery. Do you think you can help with that?”

“You want me to?” Charles blinks at him.

“Wouldn’t be asking if I didn’t, genius.”

Charles smiles before pressing his fingers to his temple, concentrating hard on the images of a blue sky with brightly white clouds. He calls to mind the flight show Erik and he went to last year, which firmly cemented their opinion that there was no other place but the sky for them. And it is this image he manifests not just in his mind but also in Erik’s.

With Erik, Charles doesn’t have to hide his abilities. He even lets him try some things, lets him train by touching his friend’s mind to learn how to do it right. Charles does the same when it comes to Erik learning to move metal – Erik can move whatever objects he wants to see fly in the air so long they are alone, and Charles sees to it that whatever he may end up breaking is replaced before anyone can notice.

Between them, they can be who they are.

And in that way, they are as free as the birds in the sky.

And so, Erik means freedom.

“That’s it! Just like at the show!” Erik shouts, clapping his hands on his thighs as he watches the scenery Charles creates, now with airplanes soaring through the sky. “You’re getting so much better at this, Charles! Amazing!”

“Attack from the left!” Charles yells, allowing for a red biplane similar in design to the one they sit in to cut through the clouds and opening fire on them. Erik roars as he throws his body to the left, moving the plane away from the bullets inside both their minds.

“Oh, that was close! We gotta make a loop next!” Erik croons.

“Here it comes!” Charles warns him. Inside their heads, the plane goes higher and higher, perpendicular to the ground, all the way until blue fades into white and even that powerful red plane can’t reach them.

Erik throws his hands up in excitement. “This feels even more real than last time! I feel like we are moving, Charles!”

What both boys missed in their little flight show is that Erik’s movements and lack of attention to his own powers led to the metal blocks to stop the plane from moving having been swept out of the way and setting the plane not just into motion but also into action as the rotors start to turn and the engine begins to roar.

Charles looks down, noticing that he did not create that inside their minds by any means. “Because we are!”

“As I said, your act’s gotten really good, Charles!”

“Erik, I mean it, we are moving!”

Erik looks down, snapping out of the illusion back into the reality of them rolling through the hangar. “Oh oh.”

“Push the brakes!”

“I am trying, it’s not working!”

“What?!”

“I can’t push them down!”

“Not tall enough after all?”

“Charles!”

“Then use your powers! Make it stop!”

“It’s too big!” Erik insists.

Charles looks around frantically as he sees them approaching the doors at a growing speed.

“The doors!” the younger boy screams. “Open those!”

“That should work!” Erik yells back before focusing all of his attention on the already ajar doors, which need just one shove in the right direction. However, after the first attempts of waving his arms, nothing much happens except for the doors rattling loudly.

“Erik! You have to open them!”

“I am trying!”

“You can do it!”

Erik screws his eyes shut and tries another time, waving his arms left and right, and at last, the doors move away so that the plane can pass through.

“Well done!”

“We’re still not out of trouble yet.”

“What do we do?”

“You hold on tight, Charles!”

They roll out onto the grass. Erik takes a hold of the lever and pulls it up as they reach the edge of the mound.

“We’re so dead!” Charles screams, screwing his eyes shut.

And yet, he feels so much alive right at this moment. Because when he opens his eyes again, he no longer sees the ground, he sees the treetops and the sky beyond it, climbing higher and higher and higher.

“We are flying!”

“But how do we land that thing?”

“I don’t know! You tell me, you are the smart one!”

“I didn’t read a book about that!”

“Oh oh!”

“Try to turn it so that we land on the grass, Erik!”

“Right!”

Erik manages to turn the machine, though the flight down is not just bumpy but nearly shakes both boys out of their seats.

“Hold on, Charles!”

“Have no intention of letting go!”

They scream at the top of their lungs as the plane plunges down, keeps hopping over the grass, whirls and turns. Metal shrieks, the boys scream louder, but at last, the plane comes to a halt, smoke flying up into the sky to which they now also belonged, however short.

“We are not dead, are we?”

“Not yet,” Charles gasps, but then turns his head. “Though we might be in a minute from now.”

Erik frowns. “What?”

“CHARLES FRANCIS XAVIER!”

Charles lets his head hang low as his stepfather rushes up the hill to where they are, well aware that there is no way of escaping him now.

“Maybe we should have landed in the trees after all,” Erik comments with a tight grimace.

“Maybe we should have just stayed up in the air,” Charles mutters as both climb out of the biplane. Kurt Marko is there long before they touch the ground again, his face furious and dark, almost as dark as Charles knows his thoughts to be. Charles tries his best to stay away from his stepfather, but there seems to be no way of helping it just now.

“What on earth were you thinking?!?” his stepfather curses, glowering at Erik, then at Charles. The younger of the two steps forward fast, well aware of what is at stake right now.

“I wanted to see grandpa’s plane and took Erik along. I convinced him to climb in, but somehow, the brake blocks moved aside and we just… started to fly.”

“Started to fly? Started to fly! The thing doesn’t switch itself on at will.”

If only you knew, Charles thinks to himself. There is a great many things his stepfather doesn’t know and wouldn’t understand even if he knew, which is all the more reason for Charles to share his gifts and Erik’s gifts with no one other than Erik.

He ignores his best friend staring at him, well aware that Erik does not appreciate it when Charles gets himself into trouble on his behalf. After all, it had been Erik’s idea, but Charles knows his father to be more cautious around him, because Charles is his father’s son, and that may have been the only man Kurt Marko ever admired in his entire life, hoping to find in Charles what he once saw in Brian Xavier.

“It was an accident, Sir,” Charles tells him as mildly as he can, not wishing to aggravate his stepfather any further. Because that man is like a bomb, always short before detonating.

Kurt narrows his eyes at Erik, then at Charles. “You will never do that again, young man, you hear me?”

He seizes Charles by the elbow and pulls him closer to himself, away from the airplane and from Erik. And it feels so different from how Erik pulls him away, because he actually pulls him along.

“Let go!” Charles shouts, struggling against the tall man’s grip, but his stepfather only ever tightens his grip and makes Charles looks up at him. “Did you hear me? I want an answer, young man!”

Charles bows his head, his dark curls falling into his eyes. “Yes, Sir.”

“Now! You will come back with me – and you will go back to your studies. I shall be damned if you throw your father’s gifts away by flying a metal can!”

“Yes, Sir.” Charles bites on his bottom lip. He loves studying, he loves reading, but he hates to be forced to stay inside because his stepfather believes he has to become a certain kind of person, based on the heritage of a man Charles only knows from his mother’s blurry recollections. Charles is quite sure that the man Kurt Marko wants him to be is nowhere close to the man Charles himself wants to become.

Because the man Charles Francis Xavier aspires to be has a best friend and spends time inside and outside. It is a man who studies hard but runs even harder. And it is certainly a man who will fly a plane one day, and hopefully, for the rest of his days alongside his best friend.

“Your father would be very disappointed in you right now!”

“Yes, Sir.”

“And now to you!” Kurt seethes. “If I catch you doing such a thing like that ever again, be sure I will have you and your mother removed from the house!”

“Leave Erik out of this! It was my idea!”

“You are quiet now!” Kurt snaps, turning back to Erik. “This will have consequences, but I am willing to overlook it this one time.”

Erik only ever glowers at him, which Charles may appreciate but would rather have him not to do, well aware of what is going through his stepfather’s mind as he catches sight of the way Erik keeps looking at him.

“I will talk to your mother at once to see about it that she punishes you for this duly. Now get out of my sight before I forget myself.” Finally, Kurt Marko shakes his head, looking back at his stepson. “Now move.”

“Ow!” Charles can’t help but cry when he twists his arm in just the wrong direction. He can hear Erik’s shout inside his head before it leaves his best friend’s lips, cursing himself for having let him notice.

This is always such a trouble.

Because Erik means protectiveness to the point that it hurts – Erik mostly.

“You are hurting him!”

“You are supposed to shut your mouth!”

“You are hurting him!” Erik repeats, balling his fists. “Let go of him!”

“You don’t get to threaten me or lecture me on how I raise my stepson. Now out of my sight!”

“Erik,” Charles tries, but he already knows it to be a lost cause.

“Leave him alone, I said!”

Kurt Marko is momentarily frozen when Erik just lunges himself at him, holding on to the man’s leg and punching against it in the vain hope to protect his friend from harm.

Charles knows he has to act now or never, thus sending the loudest shout he can into his friend’s mind.

Erik, stop!

Erik looks at Charles in shock.

Erik, now!

Reluctantly, he lets go of Kurt’s legs, unfolding himself slowly, very slowly. His eyes remain on the man towering above him at all times, ready to lunge again if Kurt so much as moves. Charles loves his friend for it, he truly does, but he really wished he didn’t in those situations, because Charles knows what his stepfather is capable of, and there is no way in this world or any other where Charles would let Erik suffer the whims of this man.

Charles can feel Erik mentally protesting when he lifts the fingers of his free hand to his temple and concentrates as best as he can, not liking to either go to that dark place he knows he is headed to or doing what he is about to do.

But for Erik, Charles would do anything, always.

Charles’s hand is slightly shaking as he concentrates, something that doesn’t go unnoticed by Erik, but the younger boy ignores it, only ever looks his stepfather right in the eye, leaving the man unable to look anywhere but him, to see anything but him, whereas Charles just sees an abyss behind the man’s eyes.

“I am going with you right now. Nothing happened,” Charles says slowly.

“Nothing happened indeed,” Kurt agrees, his lips moving slowly as he straightens back up, having forgotten those last few seconds, leaving only the dull anger behind for a flight gone wrong.

Charles allows his stepfather to pull him not along but away.

“Bye, Erik,” he calls over his shoulder, offering the most sympathetic grin he can muster.

“I will see you later, Charles.”

Erik never means goodbye. For some reason, Erik never says it to him, instead only ever letting Charles know that they will see each other again.

And in that way, Erik means hello again instead of goodbye for Charles.

——————————

Charles sighs as he sits up in bed, trying to concentrate on the notes he is supposed to have memorized by tomorrow but failing quite miserably. Because when he looks at the page, he sees white clouds and a blue sky, and him and Erik soaring through it.

However, those images don’t last long as the abyss appears again, the one Charles barely moved Erik away from before he could fall into it. And just as fast, the young boy hears voices he doesn’t want to hear, his mind far too open after he had to spread it over him and Erik when they took their first flight. Charles pinches the bridge of his nose, trying to sort through the baritone building up in his ears, wanting to ignore it but finding it incredibly hard tonight.

There is no way he will memorize any of this by morning, that much is for sure.

When his window opens on its own accord, Charles whips his head around. “Erik! You are not supposed to be here! Aren’t you grounded?”

Erik climbs in, the way he does almost daily, perfectly ignoring the protests, which he does nearly just as often.

“Technically, I am still on the ground of the property,” he points out with a smirk.

Charles rolls his eyes as Erik hops into his room and shuts the window again. Erik’s abilities make sure that he can just climb up the rain gutter without any such effort, and of that one thing Charles is fairly sure: One of these days, Erik will know how to fly even without an airplane.

The smile fades from Erik’s lips the moment he looks back at Charles sitting on the bed with the notes in his lap. “Did he do anything to you?”

“He wouldn’t go much further than that,” Charles assures him, adding with a huff, “I am his precious boy, after all.”

Things look differently for his mother, and looked very differently for his stepbrother. Charles can still recall those dark times, sitting propped against the wall, knees drawn up to his chest, listening, feeling everything, as though it was his own skin bruising, tearing at a blow, a kick. It was only ever Erik who saw the marks that weren’t there and rubbed them and stroked them to make Charles feel better again, never telling him that it was just inside his head and that it wasn’t real, understanding that it was real for Charles.

If not for Erik, Charles wouldn’t have found the strength to convince his stepfather to send Cain off to a boarding school instead of continuing the older boy’s torment. And for what it seems, Cain since turned his back on the family, never wishing to return again. Not for holidays, not even for a generic birthday card.

Charles can’t say he terribly misses him, since Cain took the violence his father brought upon him out on Charles, leaving bruises and cuts that anyone could see and that made Erik so furious that he became perfectly quiet. And Charles knows that Erik’s anger is the most dangerous when it is quiet.

Because Erik means calm before the storm.

“I’m sorry for… you know.” Erik taps his index finger against his temple. “I know you don’t like doing it.”

“Because it’s dangerous. I can’t handle it quite well just yet… I just knew he’d hit you next thing. Couldn’t let that happen,” Charles sighs, sitting back down on the bed.

“I’m not that fragile, Charles.”

“That doesn’t mean I want you hurt,” the younger boy argues.

In fact, Charles realized that Erik being hurt feels much worse than him being hurt, because when Erik is suffering, Charles doesn’t just feel Erik’s pain but also the pain he feels for him.

“I don’t want you hurting either,” Erik replies faintly.

“I know. It’s alright. And anyway… today was definitely worth it.” Charles smiles at him, and Erik can’t help but mimic the curve of the lip because yes, this was one of the best days of their lives just yet, no matter how it ended.

Because they flew, they flew for real, and not just inside their heads.

Charles sighs as he draws his knees up to his chest.

“How many?” Erik asks quietly, to which Charles only ever shrugs.

Erik means knowing, too, because he knows Charles in ways no one does, sometimes even better than Charles seems to know himself, and that despite the fact that Erik doesn’t have the ability to look into other people’s heads.

“You’re not mad, Charles. That’s everyone else’s thoughts inside your head, always remember that.”

Erik also means reassurance.

There was a time when Charles thought he was going insane, and he wouldn’t tell anyone, not his mother, not his stepfather, not even Erik. And that even though he normally tells Erik everything.

Erik found out, though, noticed when Charles acted differently during their games and didn’t want to come outside as much as he used to. Charles tried to hide it, but he never did well hiding from Erik. And once Erik knew, he demanded of Charles just this one thing: not to hide that gift and what it came with from him. Charles stuck to that. And when Erik started to hear the song of metal, he didn’t hide it from Charles either. It was an agreement, a promise, which brought them even closer together than they were anyway.

Erik also means that he is going to be alright. Erik always makes sure of it. He assures Charles that the voices are real, yes, but that they aren’t his but those of everyone else. Erik let him hear his own thoughts so Charles would know that yes, this wasn’t just him, and no, Erik wouldn’t abandon him because of it, not ever.

And neither did Charles when Erik started moving metal objects with his mind for the first time.

They promised after all, and you have to keep promises, right?

“They won’t stop shouting, though, the voices, I mean,” Charles moans, leaning his forehead on his knees. “They are very loud tonight.”

“That bad, huh?”

Charles shrugs.

Erik also means worry. He worries about Charles a lot. More often than he’d like to at times. Because Charles can very well handle himself, thank you very much. While he is glad for the support Erik provides, for the kind words, the reassurances, there are those moments that leave him wondering how two years of age apart can make that much of a difference in Erik’s mind.

Because he knows for a fact that, to Erik, those two years make a huge difference.

“Well, I bet it’s been acting up a bit because of earlier,” Erik ponders, chewing on the inside of his cheek.

Charles looks up at him, resting his chin on his knees, offering a small smile. “It’ll pass, I’m sure. It always does. So you needn’t worry.”

“I still do.”

“I know,” Charles exhales. “Nonetheless, I believe you should go back home, Erik. Your mother certainly doesn’t like that.”

“She won’t come into my room before she fixed up breakfast in the morning. She doesn’t know I am here,” the older boy argues.

Charles snorts at that. “Erik, she always knows you are.”

“Oh?”

“You are not that well covering your traces, you’re really not,” Charles informs him.

Erik frowns at that. “Hm. And still she lets me go?”

“For what it seems.”

“See, then there is nothing to worry about with me staying here,” the older boy concludes.

“Unless my stepfather comes in here.”

“I’ll just lock the door and make for the window,” Erik argues. “Like last year, when we had the first snow.”

Erik also means stubbornness, for better or worse. He is particularly stubborn when it comes to protecting Charles and wanting to be right. And since Charles believes himself to be right at least just as often, if not more, they often end up fighting over who is right and who is wrong.

“Fine, then,” Charles sighs, tired of fighting for today, because the voices are growing louder and he would actually much rather sleep than listen to the lady in the neighboring house yelling at her cat because her husband is out drinking with “that bunch of floozies” from the bar in town, seemingly expecting an answer the feline Charles is sure won’t provide it.

“What’s the radio saying?”

“People talk too much to their pets.”

“I suppose they just want someone who doesn’t talk back.” Erik shrugs.

“Where’s the fun in that?” Charles wonders, because the best thing about talking is having someone to talk to and argue with, at least to his mind. He loves talking to Erik most certainly, and even when he gets annoyed at Erik wanting to be right, he would always rather have an argument with him than go on with his studies in silence, only ever hearing ladies shouting at their cats alone.

“I wouldn’t know,” Erik answers. He picks up Charles’s notes and puts them on the bedside table as he kicks off his boots. Then he climbs into bed and pulls Charles along with him so that Charles’s back rests against his chest and the back of his head comfortably sits close to where Erik’s heart is beating at a steady rhythm. The movements are familiar to them both, having grown into a routine over the past years of their friendship. Almost automatically, or at the very least without a conscious thought Charles could pick up, he starts to run his fingers through Charles’s soft curls.

“If he comes in, you will be forever grounded, I hope you know that,” Charles warns him with a smirk, already easing into the comfort only Erik knows how to provide.

“Well, so long I am grounded here, I don’t see any trouble. I have no intention of leaving Westchester in a lifetime,” Erik announces.

“I think you and him have very different definitions of the term ‘being grounded’.”

“And evidently, he is wrong.”

“You just want to be right.”

“I am definitely right when it comes to him.”

“True again,” Charles sighs, wrinkling his nose.

“Forget that all for now, Charles,” Erik then murmurs softly. “Just focus on me.”

Charles smiles as he closes his eyes, sinking into the clear and organized mind of his best friend. Erik always knows how to shut out the voices in his head, leaving only his own soft humming behind. Sometimes Erik sings it but mostly just hums it oh so softly, though he never tells Charles what the words mean. And Charles stopped asking long time because it’s all too soothing, thus reckoning that something so good can be left as it is without trying to take it apart by his thirst for knowledge.

Sometimes, the world is so much clearer when he lets himself be led into a comfortable dark where there is just a soft hum, assuring him that someone is there with him every step of the way. It is the one darkness Charles feels comfortable letting himself be pulled into, because it always leads into Erik’s arms.

And Erik means serenity.

And in his dreams, they always fly together.

And so, simply put, Erik means everything to Charles.

#cherik #charles x erik #charles xavier #erik lehnsherr #cherik au #pearl harbor au #because I have feels #and I don't know what to do with them #mkay?#also #I am messing with all of the timelines #because yeah #they would chagne each other's history GREATLY #do I know anything about flying?#nope #do I know shit about military?#nope again #do I still obsess about it?#you bet I do

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wheel-of-fish · 6 years

Note

modern Leroux au where after Christine escapes instead of dying Erik opens the Old Friends Senior Dog Sanctuary

I needed to jump-start my writing with something completely random, and this prompt has been sitting in my inbox for a year and I just barreled through it in one sitting. I stopped just short of fulfilling it completely, but what I wrote is open-ended enough to allow for a hopeful future, I think.

TW for suicidal ideation.

His affairs were nearly in order now. He’d always been meticulous about record-keeping, and it served him well on a night like this, when his insides were rent, his heart dashed to pieces on the floor.

No: an inaccurate metaphor. He had offered up his heart freely, knowing full well it would end him, end his life—but she, that golden-haired wonder: her life would start anew. And she was all that mattered.

His will had long been drawn, his papers organized and accessible. The only thing as yet unsettled was his manner of exit from this earthly plane.

All day, his shaky, cadaverous fingers had grazed the prescription bottles in his medicine cabinet; the pistol normally kept locked in its case; the shaving razor he scarcely had cause to use, save for the few sparse hairs that grew at his upper lip. The quicker, the better; yet a severe mess would certainly prolong the sale of the house.

Once again, he found himself taking stock of the medicine cabinet.

The doorbell sounded, and he stiffened. It was nearly eleven, and he was not expecting company. Surely…surely she would not…?

He opened the door to a dark-skinned and sunken-eyed man with a five o’clock shadow, his broad arms straining under the weight of a large, grizzled hound.

He was in no mood for inquiry tonight. “Ah, Ismael,” he said. “You appear to have mistaken my home for a kennel. Do come back when you are mutt-free.” He attempted to shut the door, but Ismael caught it with one foot and barreled into the house, where he lowered the dog onto the floor in one corner of the living room.

“He’d do better with a towel or something under him,” said Ismael. The dog blinked up at him sleepily. “I found him limping outside a convenience store, and it would’ve been cruel to leave him.”

“So you brought it here? Are you mad?”

“What shelter would be open this time of night? Besides, they’d probably just put him down. He’s not exactly a spring chicken.” Indeed, the creature’s dark coat was thin and coarse, and it bore the drooping salt-and-pepper jowls of a hound long past its prime.

“Can’t you keep it?”

“You know I’m allergic, Erik. I believe I’m developing hives as we speak.”

He shifted uncomfortably. “Ismael, this is…not a good night.”

Ismael frowned, his gaze sweeping over the room. “Why? Did you have plans?”

Erik hesitated. “No,” he said, licking dry lips. “Not exactly, but—”

“Good. I’m going to go home and dose myself with Benadryl. I’ll call in the morning to make arrangements.” And with scarcely a goodbye, the Iranian left him alone with the malodorous canine.

Tense with irritation, Erik circled the unwanted visitor where it lay, weakly panting, on his hardwood floor. Note to self: write Ismael out of will.

The dog watched him through half-shuttered eyes eerily similar to his own: not quite brown, with the golden warmth of polished amber. It was matted and dirty, with dried blood crusting one side of its muzzle, and he shuddered to consider the extent of the bacteria spreading to his living-room floor.

He fetched a faded bath towel, and with some effort, he moved the dog onto it. He had not the strength nor desire to get up, so he settled cross-legged beside the creature, knees akimbo, leaning back on outstretched arms and flattened palms.

“I can only guess at what has befallen you, my friend, but it seems you’ve been all but forsaken.” He laughed cruelly. The dog lifted its head, sleepy but attentive enough, ears twitching at his every word. “Perhaps you’d pinned your hopes on a second chance, but things do not work out that way. Not for invalids like us. We die alone.”

His arms trembled slightly in the ensuing quiet. The dog would be put out of its misery soon enough, and so, too, should he put himself out of his own. Why delay any longer?

With a tired sigh, the dog rested its chin on his knee. Erik looked down, stunned, as it fell asleep, their respective bodies warming at the point of contact.

And then, suddenly, neither was alone.

#mothlightfilm #idk it's probably not great but #i needed to shake things up a bit #so i can get back to my chapter #i hope #phanfiction #writing prompt #(in)box five #angst

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plainandgeneric · 2 months

Text

Impressions of Erik and Christine, in the garden through the archway.

#phantom of the opera #poto #erik poto #christine daae #e/c #shadow creature erik au #angel #plainandgeneric draws

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theairportau · 5 years

Text

the airport AU, part 130 by rjdaae and hopsjollyhigh

Previous parts: 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10, 11, 12, 13, 14, 15, 16, 17, 18, 19, 20 21, 22, 23, 24, 25, 26, 27, 28, 29, 30 31, 32, 33, 34, 35, 36, 37, 38, 39, 40 41, 42, 43, 44, 45, 46, 47, 48, 49, 50 51, 52, 53, 54, 55, 56, 57, 58, 59, 60 61, 62, 63, 64, 65, 66, 67, 68, 69, 70 71, 72, 73, 74, 75, 76, 77, 78, 79, 80 81, 82, 83, 84, 85, 86, 87, 88, 89, 90 91, 92, 93, 94, 95, 96, 97, 98, 99, 100 101, 02, 03, 04, 05, 06, 07, 08, 09, 10 111, 12, 13, 14, 15, 16, 17, 18, 19, 20 21, 22, 23, 24, 25, 26, 27, 28, 29

—

ERIK

Her voice wraps around him, gleaming silk ribbons that catch light like prisms and send stars scattering across his vision; he shuts his eyes for the sake of focusing on the piano below his fingers. Still, it sits like a reassuring arm across his shoulder. This is why he believed in this voice; it isn’t technical perfection, but there is some unteachable passion in it, something that he doesn’t even understand himself. Her voice stirs something deep inside of him, the frail pieces that he has locked up for their own protection, things that he has forgotten himself capable of over the course of a too-long life. It is a wall so industriously built that he had thought it permanent, but when she sings, it is as if she is chipping out a window. A window that may someday become a door, that may someday bring down that wall- it’s too soon for all of that, but his heart throbs with things that he can’t name, and he is too caught up in the wonder and beauty of it all to be afraid of the freedom, the sudden ease of breathing. As if he’d been holding his breath, not just for a few minutes, but for decades of his life.

He is quite convinced that he could listen to her sing forever, especially this joyous passage. It almost feels like an intrusion, but at the very least, the words of Vaudémont’s interjection feel right-

“Yes! It’s true! You speak the truth!”

The conviction in his voice- she has brought him the truth, bathed his dim world in light; perhaps, like Vaudémont, he had begun this journey as a teacher, as though he knew more than her- and every day, she has pushed him, challenged him, changed his way of looking at the world. His way of looking at her. Vaudémont had been arrogant, to assume that this young woman knew any less of the world than he did; he had been unchanging in his ability to perceive the world until Iolanta described the way she saw it.

These things come to him rapid-fire, moments of clarity that hit him and spark at him before fading back into the background, before thought sinks away and the music rises up again.

Oh, you’re right! In your heart shines the great torch of truth, and before it, our earthly light is fleeting and pitiful!

Any light he’s ever seen has paled in comparison to the radiance that seems to bounce between them now, the vibrating energy that draws the song forward and through towards its conclusion; at some point, he finds, he must have half-stood up from the bench, too restless to sit, hunched over the keys. He lets his eyes close again, focuses only on each tandem breath, living inside these final moments, if only to avoid dreading the end of the song.

---

CHRISTINE

The song could only ever have been a duet. There’s no real gap between the end of Christine’s verse and the beginning of Erik’s. No room for a breath, had a single person attempted to sing both parts; no span of time that could have been measured in blinks of an eye, or the quickest beat of a frantic heart.

Standing just behind her friend, Christine freezes in that nonexistent space between her voice and his, gaze caught like a snared rabbit by the glinting wire of the mask—conscious thought scrabbling uselessly in the dust as emotion leaps and wrestles with instinct, twisting her heart into a tangled, choking knot.

Only to snap just as suddenly, sawn apart by the razor edge of the moment itself.

Vaudémont’s words describe a light within Iolanta; Christine’s own heart feels more like the moon as Erik’s voice floods over her again, the warm blaze of a star that she can only hope to reflect. Yet, there can be no disputing the faith, the absolute certainty of the sound that fills her ears; she shivers as bright wings lift her from the ledge on which she had been so precariously perched, raising her beyond the reach of the tempting whispers of the abyss below.

As if pulled by the same force, Erik rises partway from the piano bench, blocking her view of the sheet music; though, the markings on the tablet screen have long since ceased to matter. The song soars onward, hauling her feet off the ground even as she races joyously after it. It’s like gripping a kite string in a hurricane—a strong line that stretches through her, taut as it runs from head to heel, dredging her voice from the deepest part of her soul.

“But, to be like you, I would like to see the light of the sun!”

Music flows through them, around them, between them—living in the solid vibration of the piano, in the breath of their each shared note, like some kind of symbiotic creature; making *them* somehow more alive by its presence. Maybe this, she thinks, is the reason most operas are sung-through: who could bear to write silences into a score, knowing that they would be signing the death warrant of something so precious?

Yet, even as their own song flies inescapably towards its conclusion, Christine finds no pain, no tragedy in the beautiful, soaring phrases. To its last breath, the heart of the music beats without regret, unrestrained and fearless. What she’d taken for death is instead a triumphant ascension—Faust’s Marguerite taken up to heaven, borne in angels’ arms.

Her heart aches to recognize how lost she had been: to have seen a sunset, and believed that it meant endless night; to have resigned herself to a lifetime of stumbling with only a candle to guide her, when she had merely to wait for the return of morning. It’s disconcerting, unsettling, her view shifting like a sudden landslide—like Iolanta’s first terrifying, dazzling glimpse of the blue sky after agreeing to have her vision restored.

The light in the basement is dim, soft, as Christine opens eyes that she doesn’t remember having closed. The late afternoon sun trickles in through the single high window, like the glow that must have streamed into the mouth of Lazarus’ cave. Painting warmth and shadow with the same brush, it shines dully on the weathered body of the piano, on Erik’s shoulders, which shake slightly as he stands over the keyboard, driving the final chords from the instrument in a dynamic clash of sound. Her eyes well up to see him so transported—the thought occurring to her that she might not have been the only one to learn something in this ‘lesson’.

Silence comes too quickly.

Despite herself, despite knowing better, Christine can’t help the residual flare of panic that hits her. For a moment, it’s as if she’s forgotten how to breathe, desperately and irrationally uncertain of how to survive in a world from which music has disappeared again—like a life ring slipping from the hands of a drowning person.

Then, her friend takes an unsteady breath of his own; in it, she hears the first note of all the other songs they will sing together.

Tears spill over, running down Christine’s cheeks as she leans forward, fighting herself for every inch—tears that fall in tiny, dark spatters on the back of Erik’s sweatshirt when she finally lets her forehead come to rest in the gap between his shoulder blades.

---

ERIK

Dust specks hang still in the warm beam of light filtering in through the tiny basement window, as if the whole world has frozen with them. The silence is choking after the brilliance of sound, and Erik feels frozen in place. His mind is foggy, and the thought of speaking or moving is so distant- as it stretches on, the familiar weight of anxiety begins to settle around him again. What to do, what to say, how to react to something so utterly unique and fantastically beautiful- how will they ever interact the same way again? How can they go back to a casual lesson after something like this? He knows that Christine must have felt it as well; it wouldn’t have worked if Christine hadn’t felt it. They had ceased to be separate individuals- just for a moment, he had lived outside of himself. He can hardly remember how to breathe; how is he supposed to guide a student?

His worrying doesn’t have to last long. His muscles tense instinctively at the unexpected touch of someone at his back- he goes frozen with the effort of suppressing old reflexes. The largest piece of him would whip around to confront a person coming from behind, touching him unexpectedly, but Christine’s presence, especially in that moment, seems to have quieted those impulses.

What is she? He can’t place her, never has been able to- she has landed in his world with the brilliance of a falling star, and all the blinding confusion. Some hidden part of him, something that he has scarcely acknowledged since childhood, makes its presence known around her. It demands attention- it overwhelms him with a need for affection that contradicts everything else he’s ever learned about human touch.

When the initial fear fades away, when his muscles relax and he lets out a long breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding, all that’s left is a warmth at his back, and somehow, it feels like seeing a pinprick of light after years of fumbling in some dark and twisting cave. He straightens slowly, moving away from her just for a moment, just so that he can turn around, and at the sight of her, he is helpless to contain it. All the years of learned caution and fear succumb to the person inside of him who has been, for an entire lifetime, struggling to reach out.

So he reaches out. Without calculation or hesitation, he reaches out, and his arms find their way around her shoulders, and he steps closer to her until her forehead just barely touches his chest. He’s tall enough that, even with his head bowed, he doesn’t touch the top of her head; his arms are long enough that they nearly encircle her completely. His heart beats its quick and frantic rhythm, and he doesn’t bother attempting to push back the tears that spring to his eyes.

It is only when it is done that he realizes exactly what he’s doing- he trembles at the sudden proximity, the proximity that he has caused,and his muscles start to tense again, though he stays frozen in space. This is wrong! A voice beats and screams in the back of his head-wrong! and he his breath escapes him in almost a hiss- but he wants it! Something in him wants this proximity, demands to know why he can’t have this. There’s a tremor in his shoulders, and the air feels thin- and he recognizes his expectation; with a sucking black hole of dark and yawning certainty, he tenses and waits for her to push him away as he battles with himself- why can’t I be close to a friend?

Have you forgotten what you are? Is she only your friend?

His eyes clench shut, and gasps as he chokes on the sob at the back of his throat. He is fixed, paralyzed in the wake of his hasty decision. He can only wait for what he knows is the same inevitable rejection that has pushed him into himself in the first place. She doesn’t owe him this- and if he were stronger, less selfish, he would back away and send her home to Sweden this moment.

“Jag är ledsen,” he chokes, his voice utterly transformed from a few moments ago. Despite his words, his arms remain around her.

---

CHRISTINE

From the first night they met, she has thought of Erik as a kind of angel. To Christine, there’s no other comparison that could be drawn in such heartfelt lines; no deeper possible expression of her wonder and gratitude. How else could she ever describe it? To have this remarkable person come into her life at a time she least expected it, offering help just when she needed it most. If one of the angels from her childhood stories had manifested itself in front of her, wings and all, its appearance could hardly have seemed any more unlikely of a miracle than the simple chance of her and Erik’s paths having crossed.

After years of leaning on daydreams, Christine lets her head rest upon a shoulder that is utterly human—tense, uncertain, but solid and real where her brow presses gently against it—and knows that she would never trade it for one with feathers.

There are so many reasons for caution. Things that she is already aware of; things she may never learn; things that she could guess if she only allowed herself to try. They crowd at the back of Christine’s mind now, pooling like shadows in the depths of a cave—shrinking away from the radiance of her joy.

Her strained neck relaxes into Erik’s back as she senses the tension leave him, smearing tears between her face and his sweatshirt; the ridges of his scarred skin disappear beneath the heavy fabric, but the faintest hint of warmth seeps through, soothing the overwhelmed aching of her head. There’ll be time later to remember how complicated things actually are: time to worry—about him, and herself, and the past, and the future. For now, Christine finds all the reassurance she needs in the rise and fall of his back as he breathes: a reminder that she isn’t alone; that the wonder of this music has been real; that she has someone to *share* it with.

Then, just when things seem steadiest, they tip: Christine flinches at the sudden emptiness of the cold air against her cheek, her eyes opening in surprise as Erik steps away.

There’s just enough time to doubt herself; just enough time for her to gaze at the damp marks her tears have left on the back of his sweatshirt, as if she were a lost traveler trying to retrace her footprints—wondering what wrong turn had been taken; which path might yet lead back to safe ground. But as her friend turns around, facing her for the first time since they sang together, there’s no time to seek an answer—no need to even look for one, as one finds her on its own; enveloping her the way Erik’s wiry arms closing around her shoulders.

There’s a moment, a fraction of a second, as she stares wide-eyed into the front of the sweatshirt, in which Christine feels certain that she is about to speak. A reassurance; a question; a phrase of gratitude—she’s not sure which. When her mouth opens, though, all that comes out is a soft, stifled breath; a gentle sound caught somewhere between a gasp and a sigh. Somehow, it’s fitting: a word not devised or spoken by her mind (which runs in wild circles, still struggling to make sense of the black wall that has appeared hardly an inch from her face, and the gentle weight around her shoulders), but by her throat, her lungs, her heart itself. Like the silent syllables formed by her hands as they twitch upward, her arms lifting towards Erik in a way that could have been instinctive if it weren’t so *deliberate*.

Words don’t seem to belong in this moment any more than they had when they were singing—not even ‘hug’ itself, entirely wrong for the stiff, tremulous arms that encircle her.

Christine’s own arms fall limply back to her sides as her thoughts finally catch up with her, her hands curling, nails biting into her palms.

How many times has she wanted to hug him? How many times has Erik become overwhelmed by far less? Now, she can tell that he’s crying. Can hear it—can *feel* it, wrapped as she is in his dark shadow. This is the closest she’s ever been to him, closer than his boundaries had once seemed capable of bending; yet, even with the gap between them narrower than ever, there’s room for doubt. Christine tilts her head up, the tip of her nose brushing against the soft fabric of the sweatshirt, but gains only a useless glimpse of the underside of her friend’s jaw.

He shudders again, and she feels it as if it had reverberated through her own bones. His arms seem so terribly brittle; though he’s chosen to wrap them around her, can she be sure that it won’t frighten him—won’t *hurt* him—if she tries to do the same? Tears hit the back of Christine’s neck as she leans her forehead lightly against his chest again—taking no more than has already been given to her; risking no more than Erik himself has put at stake.

Waiting for him to push her away, she realises with a sudden, sickened jolt.

She’s been so careful, has tried so hard to be the friend that she thinks he wants—has done her best to avoid making him feel uncomfortable, or pressured, or any of the things that have seemingly caused him to distance himself from everyone else who has tried to be there for him.

But where has it gotten the two of them?

And who has she really been trying to protect?

She feels Erik draw a breath, the syllables rattling in his chest as he offers her a ragged apology. The only apology that she sees necessary is her own. But though her heart aches, Christine finds that she can’t force the words from her throat. Maybe they’ve been said too many times already; maybe they simply have no place here.

She has learned so much from Erik in their short time together. About singing, and music; language, and cats, and people. But maybe she should have paid more attention to the very first lesson of their friendship, that night in the airport when she accepted his offer to stay in Paris: that, even when the odds seem impossibly high, there are some risks worth taking.

In the shaking of Erik’s shoulders, she can feel the weight of the gamble he clearly believes himself to have made—a bet that she doesn’t intend to let him lose; as her arms once more begin to lift, Christine can only hope that her own fears are just as unfounded.

But, after all, sometimes there are angels.

Her hands slowly venture upward, hovering blindly in the air behind Erik’s back—tentative; gathering courage. But then, finally, her fingertips settle on his back. If she’d thought that Erik couldn’t possibly become any more tense, she’d been wrong. But despite the startled frisson that cuts through him, drawing another strangled noise from his throat, he makes no move to separate himself from her. And that’s enough: with a sudden unrestrained desperation, Christine’s arms tighten around corrugated ribs, her face turning to press itself against a chest that seems cushioned more by fabric than flesh.

It’s one thing to know that he is dangerously thin by looking at him; it’s another thing entirely to measure the terrifying extent of it within the span of her own arms: her embrace loosens almost instantly, as if in fear of breaking him, and she shifts her head away from the bruise that she has remembered too late—but she doesn’t pull away; doesn’t let him think that that was ever her intention. As her palms smooth gently across the ridges of his back, she only wants to hold him tighter—to soothe away all of the hurt that he has suffered, in the way that she knows only a hug can; to finally *be* held by this person who has become so important to her.

“Det är okej,” Christine says, finally making a concession to speech as Erik’s heart continues to beat frantically against her ear. “Det är okej, vännen.”

(illustration by rjdaae) ---

ERIK

As a child, Erik can remember slapping his mother’s hand away from his shoulder- rare as her affection was, it was better to not have it at all. He had distanced himself from touch, written it off as something childish that only weak people depended on. He knows somewhere that it has always been a survival instinct, but his reaction has not changed since childhood- contempt for any sentimentality in relationships.

It had been easier to cope with anger than to fear rejection. His mother’s drawn, pitying face- he hated looking at it nearly as much as she hated looking at his. Eventually, she had stopped attempting to touch him completely- a relief on both of their parts. He had given her the excuse she needed, and he had believed himself free of that need for physical affection.

In most ways, he has not grown from that belief in the decades he has spent away from his childhood home. And the sense of completion he feels with his arms around Christine threatens to bring that carefully constructed idea, the idea that he has cultivated for his own self-preservation for almost forty years, tumbling down around him.

It has been difficult, in the past, to regard himself as a member of the same species as others. It has been difficult to regard them as alive at all. There has always been a degree of selfishness attached to his survival. Depending on himself only has meant keeping others at arm’s length wherever possible. Khan’s presence in his life was the first chip in his armor.

He can feel the rhythm of Christine breathing down to his core. She is to him as the moon is to the tide; every small movement she makes pulls him along with her.

He is transfixed by every detail of her, down to the wisps of her hair that brush the backs of his hands. She is so steady, steadier than anything he’s ever held onto in his life.

His breathing shifts automatically in time with hers; for a moment, nothing exists other than the movement of her hand over his spine. Things are still, and quiet, and his mind is empty, won’t allow him to ruminate on what lines may be crossed here. The quiet murmur of her voice sets him at ease.

“Merci,” he says in response, his voice barely a whisper. There is nothing else to say- it’s like some sort of intoxication, being held like this. He doesn’t know what else to express to her, or how to even begin to say any of it, and his mind feels stuffed with cotton, too blurry for any reasonable thought process. Just for this moment, there is only quiet, and against every instinct, he finds himself wishing it could last forever.

---

(Part 131)

#/airport au

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