#she has a drawer where she shoves all her notebooks to keep track of them

[i-didnt-do-1t]

Man I love Katherine So Much

[prettyyoungandbored]

Becoming Mrs. Wayne [The Dark Knight] Seven

Pairing: Christian Bale!Bruce Wayne x OC

Summary: Demetria Gallagher knew her cozy life would change the second she became engaged to Bruce Wayne. But what she doesn’t know is she’s getting more than what she agreed to. (I am trash at summaries.)

Warning: This chapter contains description of a heavy panic attack. Please read at your own risk.

Taglist: dragonballluver, disgraceful-marvel-trash, barikawho (Let me know if you want to be tagged in this!)

Author’s Note: A chunk of dialogue in this chapter comes from the movie and has been expanded on to fit the storyline. 

Previous

“And when exactly is your mother planning to visit us?” Monsignor O’Malley inquired as he followed Demetria. 

Demetria snapped a photo of the hallway before looking over her shoulder. “Most likely next month. Once I send her the photos , she’ll work on drafts and whenever she comes, we can all sit down and discuss how to go about the process.” She snapped her fingers. “You know what, I have her business card with me because she sometimes does work in Gotham City.” 

She pulled out her wallet from her purse and handed Monsignor O’Malley the thing off white card. “She’ll be happy to answer any of your questions and or concerns.” 

He smiled as he took the card. “This is awfully generous of you, Ms. Gallagher. We can’t tell you how grateful we are.” 

“It’s the least I can do,” she waved her hand. “Both Bruce and I want to make sure you, the sisters, and the boys are taken care of with whatever you need.” She paused. “How are the boys doing?” 

“They’re wonderful.” 

“Oh good! I was actually wondering if I could go say ‘hi’ or-.” 

“Unfortunately the boys are on a field trip with the sisters.”

Demetria nodded understandingly, trying to hide her disappointment. “Absolutely.” Then an idea hit her. “Do the nuns teach the boys?” 

“Some do. We’ve been thinking about incorporating more schooling into the boys schedules, but we’re a little short staffed and not all the nuns feel comfortable teaching certain subjects.” 

“I’d love to step in,” Demetria offered. 

Monsignor O’Malley raised an eyebrow. “Oh? What is it you would teach?” 

“I’m excellent at English. All levels. I was a TA my senior year of high school. I even minored in it in college.” 

Monsignor O’Malley nodded his head, impressed. “Well, if it doesn’t interfere with your schedule-.” 

“I don’t have one,” she laughed. 

He chuckled. “Then I suppose it’s something we can try out. Are you free next week?”

Her eyes lit up. “Absolutely!’ I would love that!”

Before she could say more, the sound of her phone ringing cut her off. She gave Monsignor O’Malley an apologetic smile as she dug into her bag. “Excuse me one second.” 

She glanced down to see it was a reminder that she had to start getting ready for the fundraiser. 

“Please excuse me, but I’ve got to head out,” Demetria said. “Remember, if you have any questions, you have my number as well as my mom’s.” 

“Of course. I also look forward to discussing you working here.” 

“I do as well.” 

The two shook hands and Demetria headed out of the orphanage.

She had taken Bruce’s Cadillac XLR, seeing as it was the only semi-low-key-looking car he owned and the only one she didn’t get anxious driving. She wished he had owned something a little less glamorous for trips like this, hating how it made her look, but it was what it was.

As she she opened the driver’s side door, she noticed a photographer snapping her from the distance. The two stared at each for a moment, acknowledging just what was going on. She exhaled softly, mentally reminding herself to keep it together.

Since her essay was published, the media outlets had backed off a bit. The Gotham Times were still insistent of doing a piece on her and published one on her, but it turned out to be a dud as no one close to her would speak to them with the exception of her former News Director and the Head Booker, her other boss. It also helped that a local mob boss was mysteriously killed and the news decided to fixate on that. 

She gave him a quick, tired smile before she slid inside and closed the door, driving off.

===================================================

Back at the Wayne Penthouse, Bruce adjusted the cuffs of his pristine white dress shirt as he made his way down the stairs. 

Alfred wrapped up his conversation with the party planners and turned his attention to Bruce. 

“I think your fundraiser will be a great success,” Alfred remarked. 

“Why do you think I want to hold a party for Harvey Dent?” Bruce questioned, almost annoyed at the thought of it. 

“I assumed it was your usual reason for socializing beyond myself and the scum of Gotham’s underbelly to try to impress Miss Gallagher.” 

“Very droll, very wrong,” Bruce responded, glancing up for a brief moment. 

Alfred looked over his shoulder for a moment, noticing the party planners were not in the room. “Have you considered telling Miss Gallagher what it is you’re doing at night?” Alfred inquired in a voice low enough for Bruce to hear him. 

Bruce glanced up. It wasn’t the first time this conversation came up between the two. “Soon.” 

“Before or after you say ‘I do’?” 

“When the time is right.” 

“Perhaps she should truly know what she’s getting herself into.” 

Bruce stopped in his tracks. “What are you implying, Alfred?” 

“Miss Gallagher has given you every ounce of herself.” 

“Who says I-.” 

Bruce’s attention was caught by the low sound of the television. He looked over to find GCN airing what appeared to be a figure of Batman, hanging with a rope around it’s neck on a building.  The lower third read “BATMAN DEAD?”

Demetria walked down the stairs and into the living room, tightening the belt on her cozy white bathrobe when she saw Bruce and Alfred staring at the tv. Curious, her eyes darted to the tv when she saw the lower third. 

Her blood ran cold with disbelief and shock, heart dropping into her stomach. 

The camera cut back to GCN anchor, Mike Engel. 

“Be aware, the image is disturbing,” he warned. 

The camera then cut to a man dressed in a cheap Batman getup, his plump cheeks spilling out of the cowl. He was sat on the floor of what looked like the back kitchen area of a butcher shop with a silver cart and a large pieces of animal meat hanging behind the victim. He had his hands tied behind them, his face lowered to the game. 

“Tell them your name,” the camera man said in a menacing, sing-song voice. 

“Brian Douglas,” the fake Batman answered weakly.

“Are you the real Batman?” There was a childish, teasing tone in the voice behind the camera to a point where it was menacing. It was almost as if whoever it was took immense pleasure in this man’s torture. 

“No.” Brian was barely hanging on. 

“No?” the voice repeated back, almost in a whine to mimic Brian’s pain. 

“No.”

“No?” The voice giggled. An arm reached over and pulled the cowl off Brian. “Then why do you dress up like him?” The camera pulled back, the arm dangling the cowl in front of Brian. The voice laughed a stomach curdling “Woo-hoo-hoo-hoo!”

“Because he’s a symbol...that we don't have to be afraid of scum like you,” Brian retorted with a slight bit of courage in his weak tone. 

“Yeah. You do, Brian.” The hand grabbed the side of Brian’s face, the camera coming in close. “You really do.”

The hand pulled the top of Brian’s head as the man whimpered. The hand turned back and stroked Brian’s cheek. “Oh, shh shh shh.” 

Demetria shook her head, her stomach growing weak. Bruce’s eyes fixated on the TV, his expression stone cold with eyes colored in disbelief. 

“So,” the voice continued on, “you think the Batman's helped Gotham? Hmm?”

Brian didn’t respond. 

“LOOK AT ME!” 

The roaring voice caused Demetria to jump back, her hand slapping on her mouth. 

The camera swung around to reveal the person behind the voice, the sight causing Demetria to yelp, “Jesus Christ!” 

The red smeared smile was complimented by his chalk-white foundation and accentuated the long scars on the sides of his face. Two lazily painted black eyeshadow covered his eyes and he revealed his dark yellow teeth. 

“You see, this is how crazy Batman's made Gotham. You want order in Gotham, Batman must take off his mask, and turn himself in.”

It was something behind the clown that Demetria recognized. A memory popped up in her mind, her jaw dropping at the realization. 

“Oh, and everyday he doesn’t, people will die. Starting tonight. I’m a man of my word.”

As the camera switched around, the man let out a menacing cackle as Brian screamed in the background. Demetria, overcome with her realization and the man’s grim promise, hurried up the stairs, Bruce and Alfred watching her. Bruce turned off the television and glanced at Alfred who shot him a look. He gave the old man a nod, indicating the message was received.

In their bedroom, Demetria grabbed a notebook from her nightstand as well as a pen. She began writing hurriedly, her cursive handwriting slightly smudged from the pen. Upon finishing, she ripped the page from her notebook and folded it. She reached back into the drawer, grabbing an empty envelope and shoving the folded paper in there. She licked the envelope, sealing tightly with her fingers and placed it back into the drawer. 

Just as she went to close the drawer, she heard the door unlock and grabbed her anti-anxiety meds.

Bruce entered the room.

“Everything ok?” he asked, gentle concern laced in his tone.

She waved her hand. “Yeah, yeah. Just that video was, uh, pretty overwhelming to watch. I’ll be fine in a few minutes.” 

He eyed the pilll bottle in her hand. “You know you should probably put that in the medicine cabinet in the bathroom.”

She chuckled. “You’re right. I’m just used to putting them in nightstand drawer. But considering we’re having a bunch of random people over, I guess you’re right.” She paused, a smirk playing on her lips. “Should I leave some viagra in a little bowl for our older guests trying to impress their much younger dates?”

He sat beside her on the bed, smirking at her. “I don’t have any because I don’t need it.”

She hummed, patting his leg. “I wouldn’t say that.”

He pulled her close, his breath hitting her lips. “Not funny.” 

“Oh, but it is. It really is.”

She gave him a chaste kiss, nuzzling her nose against his. “You think maybe we should cancel this party? I mean, I don’t think it’s safe.” 

“We’re going to be fine,” Bruce reassured. 

She sighed, realizing there was no point in changing his mind. “Then I guess I better continue getting ready.” 

He chuckled. “Well, don’t get too excited, sweetheart.” 

“It’s just...” she stepped back, “I don’t know.” Her fingers toyed the robed belt. “I figured you’d cancel the party and we could spend the night in here...” She continued to move back toward the bathroom area, throwing off the robe to reveal her naked body to him. “And I’d let you do whatever you want to me. But since you won’t cancel it...” She shrugged. “Oh well.” 

Bruce could feel his pants grow a little tight and he was ready to have her pay the price. His hungry eyes stayed on her, like a lion ready to pounce on it’s prey. “You get back here. Right. Now.” 

She shook her head. “I have to get ready.” She pointed to the tent in his pants. “I suggest you take care of that situation before you leave this room.” 

She grabbed the robe from the floor and closed the door behind her, locking it so Bruce wouldn’t try anything. 

She exhaled and ran a hand through her damp hair. She wasn’t sure how long this party would last, but she had to make sure Batman got her letter. 

==================================================

Bruce waited outside near the helicopter landing pad, his hands in his pockets. He watched as the navy blue sky took over the sunset, but once he turned his head, his breath was taken away by an even more beautiful sight. 

Demetria walked out on to the helicopter landing pad, her black hair in an updo with long, curled strands of hair framing her face. Her navy blue gown was strapless with a subtle reverse sweetheart neckline, and hugged her small curves just right before flowing out on to the floor.  Her makeup stayed on the subtle side with her eyeliner and mascara accentuating her warm, emerald green eyes and her Goldilocks lips were the perfect shade of pink. 

“Is it too much?” she asked, stopping in her tracks. She put a hand on her stomach, feeling the knot inside tightening. Her face fell into a panic. “Oh shit, it is, isn’t it?” 

He shook his head, his thumb grazing her cheek as he smiled at her adoringly. “You look incredible, sweetheart.”

Color filled her cheeks as her pink lips curved into a bashful smile. “You don’t look so bad yourself, Wayne.” 

His lips gently crashed on to hers as he cradled the side of her face. For a moment, as they relished in their kiss, the world was still and time froze. Neither of them could remember the last time they shared such a moment, but they truly savored it while they still could. 

Bruce pulled back, resting his forehead against hers, his lips hovering over hers. “For the record, you still owe me from before.” 

She hummed against his lips. “I’ll take it into consideration.” 

He smirked at her. “You’re lucky I like you. C’mon, let’s go.”

He took her hand in his, leading her onto the helicopter. The pilot helped her up first, Bruce following right after. As the two sat in the back, Demetria turned to him.  “What’s the point of doing this again?”  

He took her hand once again. “Grand entrances are fun. Plus, wait til’ you see the view from above.” 

He felt her latch on to his arm as the sound of the choppers roared in. Soon enough, the helicopter began rising, the weight of the ground lifting. As it took off into Gotham City, Demetria watched the twinkling city below her.

As childish as it seemed, Demetria felt like Jasmine did on that magic carpet with Aladdin. Seeing Gotham from a bird’s eye view, the city looked beautiful and peaceful. 

Bruce relished in watching his fiancé’s amazement, hoping he could make her feel this way for the rest of their lives. 

She looked over at him. “You were right. This is incredible.” 

She scooted closer to him, leaning back on his shoulder as she continued to look out the window. Bruce pressed a kiss to her temple, reaching his hand over to hers on her lap, clasping them. 

Both stayed in the moment, wishing they could stay like this forever. 

But once the helicopter scoured every inch part of Gotham, it was time to descend back onto the landing pad. 

Bruce helped Demetria off the helicopter. Her eyes shifted to the once empty ballroom which was now filled with a large crowd inside staring at her. Her chest grew heavy, palms sweating.

“They’re staring at us,” she told Bruce. 

He took her hand. “They see how you beautiful you look”. He gave it squeeze. “Remember, I’ve got you.” 

She nodded and exhaled softly as the two made their way inside. 

She followed him as the door opened to the gala room. All eyes stayed on them. She flashed a closed mouth smile at partygoers until her eyes met Harvey’s. It wasn’t until his familiar, warm smile that hers became more genuine and honest. 

“Sorry we’re late,” Bruce announced. “Glad you started without us!” He let go of Demetria’s hand, clapping his together. “Where's Rachel?!”

Demetria eye’s turned to Rachel, who cringed slightly. 

Bruce motioned to her. “Rachel Dawes- my oldest friend. When she told me she was dating Harvey Dent, I had one thing to say... ‘the guy from those god-awful campaign commercials? 'I Believe in Harvey Dent?' Nice slogan, Harvey.” 

As the crowd chuckled, Demetria’s smile faltered even more. She was thrown off by the Bruce that was speaking. It was like the second his hand left hers, he’d become another man. He’d become like everyone else in the crowd - pompous and slightly arrogance.

He’s putting on a show for them, she thought to herself. This is not the real him.

“Certainly caught Rachel's attention,” Bruce went on. “But then I started paying attention to Harvey, and all he's been doing as our new D.A., and you know what? I believe in Harvey Dent. On his watch, Gotham can feel a little safer. A little more optimistic. But what he’s done for Gotham isn’t just the only good thing Harvey Dent has done.”

He then shifted his tone and his gaze, now looking at Demetria who’s heart dropped to her stomach. 

“Harvey convinced his good friend from college, Demetria Gallagher, to move to Gotham,” Bruce continued, smiling at her. “It’s because of Harvey and Rachel that I was introduced to the love of my life.” 

The crowd let out a collective “aw” as Demetria gave him a small smile.

“I spent years thinking I’d never find the ‘one’.” He turned back to the crowd. “I figured if I’m never gonna find her, why not have some fun? And I did.”

The crowd laughed. Demetria rolled her eyes, shaking her head.

“Then I ran into Rachel having a lunch with this beautiful woman and I couldn’t help myself. I asked her three times to have dinner with me.” Bruce shifted his attention to Demetria, taking her hand in his. “While I will never know who or what convinced you to say ‘yes’, all I know is that from the moment I left that dinner, I knew this witty, kind, beautiful woman was who I was going to spend the rest of my life with. Demetria, to say you are my heart and my soul is simply not enough. There will never be enough words or adjectives or uses of symbolism to describe how much you mean to me and how happy you make me. I love you more than anything.”

The crowd, once again, “awed” as he pecked Demetria’s cheek. He then grabbed two glasses of champagne off the server’s tray, handing one to Demetria. He then  turned back to the crowd, raising his glass. “To-.” 

“I just want to say something really quickly,” Demetria spoke up, putting a hand on Bruce’s shoulder. “If that’s, ok?”

Bruce smiled, her sudden burst of confidence bringing him pride. “By all means.”

She turned to the crowd. “You all know Harvey as your DA, but I know him as  my confidant, my greatest friend, and above all, my family. He’s also my get out of jail free card, but that’s neither here nor there.”

Everyone laughed as Harvey shook his head. Demetria turned to her best friend, her smile fading a bit. 

“Harvey, you’re selflessness and dedication to making Gotham City a safer one for its citizens is not just admirable, but also inspirational. You fight for the voiceless, the scared, and for those who want to make their home a better place. You’re one of the reasons Gotham has a brighter future.”

“So get out your checkbooks and let's make sure that he stays right where all of Gotham wants him,” Bruce toasted. “All except Gotham's criminals, of course. To the face of Gotham's bright future- Harvey Dent.” 

Everyone toasted and took a sip of their champagne.

As the crowd went back to their party, Bruce turned to Demetria.

“I’m going to go outside for a bit,” he told her, pecking her cheek. “Make yourself comfortable.” 

She opened her mouth to protest but it was too late - he’d wandered off. She sighed, wondering how he could he just leave her to fend for herself at their first gala together. She took a sip of her champagne, giving up and giving in to the situation at hand.  

“You’re a very lucky woman,” an elderly woman marveled. “And quite adorable. I bet Martha would’ve loved you.”

“Thank you, that’s so kind,” Demetria remarked. “Were you a friend of hers?”

“We were both on the chair for many charities. Such a wonderful woman. If you’re interested, I would love to bring you aboard some of them and get you acquainted.”

“I would love that! I’m actually working with the boy’s home and helping them with renovations and whatnot.”

“How wonderful!”

“I’ve also expressed interest in helping them with schooling and whatnot.” 

The gleam in the woman’s eyes softened. “Oh...really, now?” 

“Yeah, I would love to do some teaching.” 

“She’s going to do a fantastic job,” Harvey remarked, chiming in. He threw his hand around Demetria’s shoulders. “Those kids are going to be well looked after thanks to her.”

“I don’t doubt that,” the woman agreed before walking off. 

Demetria turned to Harvey. “I think she realized I wasn’t one of them.” 

“Who cares?” he shrugged. “But forgetting that, you’re seriously going to become a teacher?” 

“I brought it up to Monsignor O’Malley about the possibility of teaching English. Besides, it would give me something to do that I actually like. You know, talking to them about novels and what it means to express yourself in your writing.” 

“That’s fantastic!” Harvey remarked. “You would be perfect for that.” 

“I hope so. How are you handling this...whatever it is?” 

He sighed. “I’m...just here. How about you?” 

“I wanna go into my bedroom and go under the covers and wait til’ everyone leaves.” 

“Well for what it’s worth, you look beautiful tonight.” 

“I’m working with what I’ve got.”

“Bruce is very lucky.”

“Yeah, he should be. But he decided to give up on the party.” 

Harvey furrowed his eyebrows as Demetria motioned her head to the outside. He then turned his head, the two watching Bruce and Rachel engage in what appeared to be an intense conversation. 

“What do you think they’re talking about?” Demetria wondered aloud. 

He quickly glanced over and took a look sip of his champagne. “Probably nothing.”

Her lips curved into a smirk as she eyed Harvey. “Don’t be jealous.”

“I’m not.”

“You’re getting defensive.”

“And you’re annoying me.”

“After that heartfelt speech I gave, that’s the thanks I get?” 

“It was alright.” 

She punched him in the shoulder, causing him to cringe. “Asshole. I gave a beautiful speech.”

He rubbed his shoulder. “Well, hopefully it will be just a nice ad one you’ll give at my wedding.” 

Her eyes widened. “Shut the fuck up. You proposed to Rachel?” 

“Not yet. I’m planning to.” 

Her mouth hung open as she leaned in close. “Holy shit, dude! When?!” 

“Well first there are some things I gotta-.”

“So you two are friends, yes?” another female guest inquired, cutting him off. Her arm was linked with a man who looked at least 20 years older than she did.

Harvey and Demetria turned to her. “We most certainly are,” Demetria agreed, pinching his cheek. 

“So how long ago did you two date?” one man remarked, chuckling. 

Harvey and Demetria’s eyes went wide.

“We never have,” Harvey answered.

The man elbowed Harvey, laughing. “Aw, c’mon son. It’s alright.” 

“He’s basically my brother,” Demetria said. 

The man shook his head as he and his concerned date turned away. Demetria and Harvey turned to each other.

“Oh my god these people suck,” she giggled to Harvey. “At least they’ll fund you.”

“Yeah, I could give a shit,” he retorted. 

“Mind if I steal him for a bit?” Rachel asked, chiming in. 

“By all means,” Demetria motioned. 

Harvey and Rachel went off when Demetria  noticed Bruce still standing outside. She made her way out.

“Doing ok there?”

Bruce turned to her, smiling. “So far, so good.” 

“I love you but you’re not the best liar,” she chuckled, her fingers gently combing his hair. “Babe, if you want to leave, say the word and we’ll sneak out. We can go anywhere.” 

“Tempting,” he remarked, smirking. “Where do you propose we go?” 

She cocked her head back, shoulders shrugging. “Anywhere. We could literally get in a car and go anywhere we want.” She paused. “Anywhere you want.” 

Bruce’s body turned to face her, giving her his full undivided attention. She set her glass down on the railing. 

“While I think it’s sweet that you threw this for Harvey, I don’t want to be alone in a room with people I don’t know let alone give a shit about. I would rather be with you in the middle of nowhere where we don’t have to pretend we’re people that we’re not.”

His smile faltered, his eyes going to the ground. Demeteria shoulders tightened, fear creeping into her now uneasy stomach.

“What’s the matter?” she asked.

“There’s something I have to tell you.”

She tried to swallow the lump in her throat. “What did I do?” 

He shook his head. “No, you did nothing wrong. It’s...” He sighed. “I never want to keep anything from you.” 

“What have you been keeping from me?” she questioned, her voice low 

He scanned the area as well as the inside of the ballroom. Realizing he wasn’t the safest, let alone most secure place, he leaned closer toward her. “I’ll go in the bedroom and grab a couple things. Go tell Alfred we’re heading out. We’ll meet at the elevator, alright?” 

“Bruce-.” 

He kissed her cheek and made his way inside. Bruce pushed through the crowd, fielding attempts of conversation from partygoers. She threw her hands up in defeat as an annoyed exhale left her mouth. 

“At least we’re leaving,” she muttered under her breath.

========================================================

In their bedroom, Bruce grabbed a set of keys for one of the cars from his safe in their closet. Realizing it was probably best to bring her anxiety med, he went into the medicine cabinet only to find it wasn’t there. 

He then remembered her saying she always kept it in the drawer in her nightside table. 

Figuring she put it back, he went over to it and opened the drawer and there it was. When he pulled it out, he noticed an envelope underneath with ‘For Batman’ written on it. 

He quickly glanced back at the door to make sure the door was closed. He then set down the bag and opened the envelope to find a handwritten letter.

My Night Friend ,

There’s something you need to know about that viral video of the copycat. 

I recognize the kitchen in the video. It’s the Fatted Calf on East 28th. A guy I briefly saw in college worked there and I hung out with him in the kitchen while he was closing up the shop. 

What people don’t know is that there’s a secret room. The guy told me the owner had it made to be used as a bomb shelter back in the day. It’s located right beside the freezer. If you can get into the boss’ office, there’s a special key inside a safe that can open the door. The Joker may be taking shelter in there. 

Take what you will with this information. I hope it serves you well.

Sincerely,

Your Rooftop Friend 

Bruce’s couldn’t believe what he was reading. His fiancé, the love of his life, was helping the Batman. The severity of the situation as well as time the huge piece of information made him realize he needed to get both of them out of the penthouse and into the Batcave. He could explain everything to her there. 

Shoving the letter into the bag, he zipped it up and made his way to the door when something on the security camera screen made him stop. 

It was The Joker followed by some henchmen. 

He threw the bag in the closet hurriedly, closing the door, and made his way to the party. Seeing Harvey Dent close by talking to Rachel, he figured he’d had enough time to get Harvey to safety and then grab Demetria. 

He came up behind Harvey, putting Harvey in a headlock as Rachel’s eyes widened in fear. 

“What the hell are you doing?!” she exclaimed. 

“They’re coming for him,” Bruce said, using his Batman voice. “Go grab her and get yourselves to safety.”

========================================================

Demetria spotted Alfred near the wall area. She made her way over, catching the old man’s attention. 

“There you Miss Gallagher,” he greeted. “Are you having fun?”

“I feel like a zoo animal. I’ve had more people stare at me than actually talk to me. Anyway, Bruce and I are heading out.” 

Alfred chuckled. “You and Master Wayne are a truly perfect fit.” 

She eyed the room before leaning closer toward Alfred. “Alfred, he said he had something he’d been meaning to tell me. Any idea what it could be?” 

Just then, the sound of a single gunshot silence the room. Everyone turned, including Demetria and Alfred, to see The Joker, the man from the video, enter the ballroom with his posse of men behind him wearing clown masks. 

“Good evening ladies and gentlemen,” he greeted in a sing-song voice. 

His posse pointed guns at the crowd, a silent order to step back. The crowd formed a circle around The Joker. 

Alfred, who was a few rows behind the crowd, stood in front of Demetria. 

“Stay behind me,” he whispered to her. 

She watched from behind his shoulder. 

The sound of tray hitting the ground, broke the silence. The Joker looked back for a moment before turning back to the crowd. 

“We are...tonight’s entertainment.” He grabbed a piece of shrimp from a table, stuffing it into his mouth. He looked around. “Only one question - where is Harvey Dent?”

He eyed around, pointing the gun at a group of women before ripping one of their glasses of champagne from their hands and taking a swig of it. He set back on the table and began questioning those he passed, occasionally grabbing at them. 

“You know where Harvey is? Do you know who he is?”

He squeezed one guy’s cheek. “Do you know where Harvey is? I need to talk to him about something. Something little.” 

He went up to an old white man. “You know I’ll settle for his loved ones.” 

Meanwhile, Demetria felt someone grab her hand. She turned to find Rachel. 

“We need to get you out of here,” Rachel whispered. 

Demetria went to follow Rachel when she felt someone grab her hand. 

“Where the hell do you think you’re going, sweetcheeks?” one of the masked men retorted. 

He grabbed Demetria, despite her attempts to break free. Her heart rate quickened, stomach growing weak as the man pushed her in front of the crowd. 

“Hey boss!” He called out. “It’s her!”

The Joker turned to her, his fixation on her making her blood run cold. She stood frozen and helpless. He got into her face. “So this is the future Mrs. Wayne. You’re also Harvey Dent’s best friend.” 

He grabbed Demetria’s face, cradling it forcefully. 

“Harvey is your best friend, isn’t he? Your buddy ol pal?” He let out a vicious cackle. “Possibly an old lover? An unrequited love? Either way, you’re somewhat of an asset to him.”

She moved her eyes, looking around as the crowd watched her in fear.

“C'mere, look at me.” 

She whimpered, closing her eyes. 

He tightened his grip on her hair “LOOK AT ME!” 

She yelped, opening her eyes as tears filled to the brim.

“Please,” she begged, her voice barely above a whisper.

“Oh shh, shh, shh,” he hushed her teasingly. “Well you look upset.” He asked, pointing to scars on his mouth with his knife. “Is it these? Is it the scars? You wanna know how I got ‘em?”

She didn’t have time to answer, at least he didn’t bother to give her a chance to. She went to move her head when he grabbed her again. “Hey, look at me.”

She stopped moving, her eyes on him. “So, I had a wife, who was beautiful...like you, who tells me I worry too much, who tells me I oughta smile more, who gambles and gets in deep with the sharks.” 

She squirmed when The Joker pulled her back. “One day they carve her face. And we got no money for surgeries. She can't take it. I just want to see her smile again. Hmm? I just wanted to let her know that I don't care about the scars. So, I stick a razor in my mouth and do this to myself. ”

She squeaked, frightened as he put the knife to his scars. 

“And you know what? She can't stand the sight of me! She leaves! Now I see the funny side. Now, I'm always smiling!” 

He pulled her back, took the knife, and slashed her forearm, the sharp stinging, sensation causing her to let out a blood curdling scream.  She collapsed onto the ground, blood spilling down her arm and onto the marble floor. 

Demetria couldn’t move, her body frozen, mind unable to process what had just happened. She opened her mouth to speak, her chest stinging in pain and her head growing lightheaded as the Joker stepped on her bleeding arm.

“Please help me,” she begged in between her hyperventilating. “Please...I’m...I can’t...help!”

“Why doesn’t Harvey Dent come save his best friend?!” The Joker called out.

“Let her go!”

Rachel made her way. The Joker stomped on Demetria’s arm one last time.

Alfred rushed to her side. “Deep breaths, Miss,” he whispered. “Deep breaths.” 

“Alfred...I’m gonna....don’t let me...” 

“You’re going to be alright.” 

“Step back!” one of the masked henchman ordered, pointing a gun at Alfred. 

Alfred held up his hands stepping back from Demetria. The henchman walked away as Demetria continued to hyperventilate. 

She was going to die in front of everyone. Her vision became blurry, her breath uncontrollable. She watched in what she thought would be her final moments Batman attack The Joker. 

In and out of blackness, she heard glass shatter followed by footsteps. 

Tears strolled down her face as she struggled to breathe, trying to hold on to whatever breath she had left, her body shivering. Alfred rushed to her once again.

“Don’t just stand there!” he cried out. “Someone call a bloody ambulance!” 

He gave Demetria his hand, which she held onto tightly. 

“Stay with me,” he told her. “Stay with me.” 

But she wasn’t sure how long she could last. Between the chest pains and the pains from her wound and the light-headedness, she was barely holding on. 

How badly she wanted to see Bruce....and how could he leave her like this?

__________________________________________________________________

Dress: 

Hair/Makeup:

[luci-in-trenchcoats]

An Innocent Man

Summary (summarized request): The reader is from a community where the omegas are forced to mate with an alpha chosen by the head alpha. She manages to run away and in order to have an easier life she makes a fake mark on her neck with make up...

Pairing: Alpha Endverse!Dean x Omega!reader

Square: Endverse AU

Word Count: 5,100ish

Warnings: language, fluff, angst, illness

A/N: Written for @spnfluffbingo and @supernatural-jackles ‘s Weekly Writing challenge (For week #2, I used the prompt “Remind me why I’m still giving you a second chance.”)...

There was a rough hand stroking your cheek gently as you stirred awake. You blinked up, Dean giving you a smile as he finished tying his boots from where he sat on the edge of the bed.

“Morning,” he said quietly. You nodded and tucked yourself into his back, Dean brushing your hair out of your face. “How are you feeling today, Omega?”

“Better,” you said, grabbing the back of his shirt, not really aware you were clinging to it until Dean was pushing your hand away.

“I have work to do, Y/N. I know you don’t trust anyone here besides me but all of these people in our community are good,” he said.

“I’m sorry,” you mumbled, rolling to your other side. Dean sighed and moved you back, brushing his thumb over the mark on your neck.

“You have no reason to trust. I don’t blame you for your fear,” he said. “No Alpha should take.”

“I still don’t understand that,” you said. “Our head Alpha said-”

“It’s only been three years, Omega. Have you really forgotten all of your rights?” he said. No, you hadn’t forgotten. You could remember exactly how everything was before the Croatoan virus, before the Alpha virus.

Sure you were Omega but you didn’t forget what it was like to be free, not looked at like an object. Dean Winchester was quite possibly the only Alpha you’d ever met that you weren’t terrified of.

“This place is not like your old community,” said Dean.

“I know. You’ve explained it to me multiple times over the past few days,” you said, nodding your head.

“I am going to give you something to calm your nerves,” he said. He stood and went to a drawer in the small corner kitchen, returning with a small hunting knife.

You sat up in bed and swallowed, Dean smiling softly as he handed it over to you.

“I am head Alpha here so I want you to feel safe. Don’t stab anyone but I know protection is important. If you ever have an issue, you may speak to any one of the camp leaders,” he said. “You have not been assigned any jobs yet since you’re still on edge.”

“On edge,” you said, taking the knife from Dean.

“You are not the first forcibly taken Omega to come here, Y/N,” said Dean. “We are well aware of what the Alpha virus did to all of us. But we don’t use it as an excuse to control one another. We create our own hierarchy here, screw the dynamics.”

“Everyone is equal here?” you said.

“Always,” he said.

“So...you really won’t give me to an Alpha?” you asked. Dean sighed and dropped his head. “Sorry. I’m just...not used to being treated like a person again.”

“As I said, you will be treated with respect. Any Alpha that gets too horny and tries something, you have full permission to kick their ass and then let me know and I’ll kick their ass again,” he said. You gave him a smile, Dean resting a hand on your head. “I told you, you can trust me.”

“Thanks for letting me stay...and not returning me,” you said, rubbing your arm.

“You’re not property last time I checked,” he said.

“Were you like...a police officer before the world went crazy?” you asked.

“No,” he laughed. “I hunted monsters. My world’s always been crazy. Everyone else just finally caught up.”

You blinked at him, Dean shrugging.

“Why do you think they put me in charge? Ain’t got no degree or diploma or nothing. Just a lifetime of experience. Never knew that’d make me so valuable,” he said.

“Right,” you said, Dean laughing when you kept staring.

“Okay, I’m going to take you over to Chuck’s and he’s going to get you antiquated with how everything works around here, okay?” he asked.

“Alright,” you said. “I’ll...see you later on then.”

“Chuck, you’re late,” said Sam, glancing up from a stack of papers. You looked at Chuck, the other people in the room noticing you, Dean giving you a smile from the head of the table.

“What’s up, Y/N?” he asked.

“Y/N’s pretty handy from what she tells me. She reorganized her old community’s way of taking inventory, scavenging...it made her pretty useful around those parts,” said Chuck. You ducked your head down, feeling too many Alphas eyes on you.

“Y/N,” said Dean, your gaze lifting. “Remember what I told you? Safe place?”

You nodded, allowing Chuck to guide you to take a seat.

“These are our community leaders here at the camp. Sam here is my little brother. Alpha and he’s in charge of education,” said Dean.

“Education?” you asked.

“Yeah,” said Sam. “Kids and adults. There’s a school for kids. A few people around here used to teach which we lucked out on. All adults also go through basic training so in case of an emergency, everyone can defend themselves. People on security, Dean heads up that department, go through a bit more.”

“Chuck, our friendly neighborhood Beta and welcoming committee is in charge of daily necessities. Food, clothing, hygiene products, things like that. Charlie is an Omega and is head of our intelligence. Smarter than the rest of us put together. She and Sam have been working on self-sustained food production. Castiel is another Omega, former angel if you can believe it, that works our medical center. We’ve tried to set up different departments. All of us are in charge of multiple things but we have just as many Betas and Omegas here as Alphas,” said Dean.

“Cool,” you said, Chuck smirking to himself.

“Y/N was going to sit in today and just listen, get a feel for how we do things. I think her expertise might really be able to help us with some issues we have going on,” said Chuck.

“Oh,” said Dean quietly. “Well, uh...somebody get her a notebook and we’ll get started.”

One Month Later

“Y/N,” you heard as you headed out of the medical center. You spun around, Dean giving you a nod as he headed up between the cabins. “Hold up. We got to do our check in.”

“Check in?” you asked. Dean hummed, starting to head towards the edge of the camp, waving you to follow after. “What check in?”

“You’ve been here a month. I like to make sure you’re doing well,” he said.

“It’s like winning the lottery compared to where I was,” you said. Dean nodded, glancing down at his feet.

“You work very hard. Your revamped inventory system makes things a lot easier for us. To keep track of supplies we need, what we’re good on, things we haven’t even considered really,” said Dean.

“It’s was sort of necessary to be perfect in my old job,” you said.

“Doesn’t sound like it was much of a job as it was forced,” he said.

“Well...I did my job well and it kept me out of trouble for the most part,” you said. “Until the end.”

“Still...you should take at least one day a week off. It’s important. Sam said you had signs of formal training too,” said Dean.

“I dated a cop once,” you said. “Taught me most of this stuff. Apart from the crazy zombie people.”

“I’m guessing that’s how you seem pretty okay,” said Dean, making his voice low. “Some Omegas come to us in bad condition. You only have your claiming mark though.”

“I know I’m lucky,” you said.

“No. You aren’t. You shouldn’t have to deal with being afraid all the time,” he said.

“I’m not so afraid now,” you said.

“Good,” he said, licking his lips. “If there is anything you need here, please let me know.”

“May I go scavenging with you or one of the groups sometime?” you asked. Dean looked over your head and you sighed. “Please?”

“...We have a team going out after lunch. We’re hitting a pharmacy. Medicine is likely to be a bust but secondary supplies, hygiene, those might be there. If there’s something you need, I can look for you,” he said.

“Just because I’m Omega-”

“You are not on the scavenging team. You are not on the security team and you have not been trained,” said Dean. “It has nothing to do with your dynamic.”

“I was out on the road a long time, Dean, after I ran away. I know how to be quiet and take care of myself,” you said.

“...you’ll need gear if you’re going to go out there.”

“Y/N, you’re on me and Benny. Stealth operation. We’re only an hour out from home so let’s not make any unwanted messes,” said Dean. You nodded from the backseat, hand resting on the gun in its holster. Both men looked at each other before they slid out of the jeep. You followed after, jogging quietly with them around the back of the pharmacy and inside. The scouting team was already in there, one of them giving Dean the go ahead. You stuck with Dean until he got distracted with putting something in his bag. You snuck off to a far aisle and quickly grabbed what you were looking for, shoving it in your backpack, sneaking back to the end of Dean’s aisle by the time he was up.

“Stay closer,” he whispered. You nodded and crept next to him, Dean going further down the aisle. He walked straight past a few boxes, your eyes wide. You grabbed his arm, his hand on his gun when you pulled him back. You pointed to the boxes but Dean just raised an eyebrow. “Not a priority.”

“Priority,” you said quietly. He sighed and held up his hands. You picked up a box, the two scouts from before grabbing them and taking them back to their car. Benny whistled softly, so low only someone in the store could have heard. You and Dean followed him over to behind a counter, the three of you staring at the boxes and boxes in there.

“Doesn’t look like it was touched,” said Benny. “Any of this stuff still good?”

“Doesn’t matter. Take as much as we can,” said Dean. They started to stack up boxes to go back in the cars, Dean keeping an eye on you. “Y/N. Stop walking away.”

“Sorry,” you mumbled, still walking to the end of an aisle, shoving a few more things in your pack. You slid it back on, Dean’s hand instantly on the back of your neck.

“Disobey me one more time and I will toss you in the car,” he growled. You swallowed hard and he sighed, relaxing his hand. “Only essentials, Y/N.”

“It is essential,” you said. Dean just shrugged. “I swear.”

“Alright. Come on. Let’s swap out your bag for a new one and do one last sweep.”

There was a loud knock at your door late that night, Dean stepping inside when you said it was open. He tilted his head at you working at the small table in your cabin, leaning down over it as he watched you.

“What are you doing?” he asked. You smiled, using a few of the things you’d grabbed earlier in the day. “You made a...thing.”

“It’ll make hot water. We can set them up in the mess hall. People can make coffee again at least. We only have a ton of it,” you said.

“This was essential how?” he asked.

“Coffee is always essential, Dean,” you said. He laughed, rubbing the back of his neck.

“Good point,” he said. You stood up and stretched, unplugging the thing before Dean took a seat on your bed. “Listen...I wanted to apologize to you about earlier. I shouldn’t have done that.”

“I wandered off,” you said.

“Still,” said Dean, resting his elbows on his knees. “The coffee thing is a good idea. People will really like that I think. A bit of normal again after everything.”

“Yeah,” you said, giving him a nod. “You eat yet? I got a chocolate bar for dessert.”

“Oh, lucky winner of the draw tonight,” he teased. “Nah, it’s yours. I know how chicks and chocolate are.”

“Dark chocolate was good,” you said. “I could go for a hot fudge sundae with a big brownie right now.”

“Mmm,” Dean hummed, licking his lips. “Let’s make that this year’s goal. We make hot fudge sundaes.”

“I’m all for it,” you said, scratching your neck. Dean smiled at you, tilting his head before his face scrunched up. He stood up slowly and drew his gun, aiming it at you. “Dean?”

“Show me your neck. Now,” he growled. You swallowed, covering your neck with your hand. “I said now.”

“I’d rather not,” you said, already feeling the smudge on your fingertips.

“You have three seconds,” he said, clicking off the safety. You shut your eyes and turned your neck to face him, rubbing your thumb over your mark a few times, Dean scoffing. “Is that fucking makeup? No wonder you wanted in on the scavenger run.”

“...I...my old community...most people leave claimed Omegas alone...it was easier to pretend, made being on the road by myself safer,” you said.

“Over here,” he barked. You shook your head, Dean stalking over. He had you turned around and pinned against a wall like that, a pair of handcuffs on you before he was trudging you out your door. “Now we get to do this the hard way.”

“Dean,” you said, trying to jerk away, realizing he was heading for his own cabin. “Dean stop.”

“Shouldn’t have lied. Now I have to find out what else you’re lying about,” he said. He dragged you up the front steps of his cabin and practically tossed you across the room, your back hitting the end of a bed. You were able to sit up, Dean squatting down in front of you.

“I-I can be useful,” you said. “I can be more than just an Omega, I swear. I’ll do two jobs.”

“You currently have no jobs,” he said, narrowing his eyes. “Other than one very obvious one.”

“If you’re gonna do it, just do it,” you snapped, a strange confidence hitting you. “I’m not going to grovel and let you get off on it.”

“What the fuck are you talking about?” he said.

“Big stupid Alpha. You’re all the same,” you said, looking around, trying to figure out any way out. Dean picked you up and set you down on the bed. You kicked at him and scrambled against the wall, Dean’s held tilting. “Stay away from me.”

He rolled his eyes and grabbed your arm, a yelp escaping you. He stared at you long and hard until he reached behind your back and undid the cuffs, pulling them away. You brought your hands to your chest as he stood and backed away, shoving his cuffs in his pocket.

“I didn't cuff you and bring you in here to claim you, Omega. I wanted to question you about why you lied and if you were potentially a spy but all evidence points to something less...manipulative. You’re just scared,” he said.

“I want the Omega on call,” you said. Dean nodded, exiting the cabin, returning a few minutes later with Castiel. “He’s your friend.”

“He’s the Omega on call,” said Dean.

“What did you do?” asked Cas. “I could smell the fear coming off her halfway across camp. Others will be sure to notice.”

“I abused my Alpha status with a vulnerable Omega,” said Dean dryly.

“You are housebound for the next day while the committee investigates,” said Cas. “Y/N, come with me. You’re staying with me tonight.”

“Hi,” said Dean a few days later. The committee realized it was a misunderstanding that caused your panic. You nearly got in trouble yourself for lying about being claimed already but they understood your reasoning.

You ignored Dean, brushing past him on your walk. He quickly caught up, giving you at least a little bit of space.

“Y/N. Come on. I apologized at the hearing. You’re the one that lied,” he said.

“To protect myself. We weren’t all so fortunate to become Alphas,” you said, turning around, Dean stopping dead in his tracks. “I have seen strong people become nothing more than toys to their Alphas. I am not letting that happen to me so I lied and I ain’t sorry about it.”

“But you’d never have an Alpha, ever, if you kept up that rouse,” he said.

“I’m sorry. Have I not made myself clear? I don’t want an Alpha. Ever,” you said.

“Can I be your friend again at least?” he asked.

“I don’t know,” you said. You looked at the ground, a strange scent in the air. It was horribly unpleasant, as if someone had taken Dean’s naturally pleasant one and dipped it in something putrid. You lifted your head, Dean standing with his face soft, a slight submissiveness about him you hadn’t seen in an Alpha before. “Remind me why I’m still giving you a second chance.”

“Because the dynamic thing has no place here and you don’t realize how much tougher you are than I am,” he said, kicking the ground. “And I’ll find some way to make it up to you.”

“You can start by giving me some space,” you said.

“I can do that.”

Two Weeks Later

“Hi,” said Dean, knocking on your door. You popped your head up and stared at him, Dean smiling from the other side of the screen. “Can I come in?”

“I guess,” you said. Dean kept a smile on as he walked over and sat across from you at your table, pulling out his own notebook. “Yes?”

“Would you help me with something?” he asked.

“What is it?” you asked.

“What’s it like being Omega?” he asked. You wanted to roll your eyes but there was a genuine curiosity in his voice. You shrugged, Dean biting his bottom lip. “Please?”

“I don’t know. Doesn’t feel much different than when we were all just people,” you said. “Some people smell better than others. Heats are like a period pretty much. I can’t give much help on the whole being bit in the neck and then bound to another person for the rest of eternity thing though.”

“I think sometimes it’s a good thing. It can be bad but it’s sort of like getting married,” he said.

“So you’d claim an Omega?” you asked.

“If I loved them and they loved me,” he said.

“It’s still ownership,” you said.

“So is marriage,” he said.

“Marriage you can get out of,” you said.

“I didn’t come to debate, just get your perspective,” he said softly, jotting something down on his paper.

“My perspective is its wrong,” you said.

“I’m sorry you feel that way,” said Dean, standing up. “There are several mated couples here that think differently than you do. I hope you treat them respectfully for their choices as they will treat you for yours.”

“If other people want it, that’s fine but I-“

“I understand,” said Dean. “There will be a team going out tomorrow morning, pretty far. If you could make up some supply lists or necessities and nice to haves, I’d appreciate it.”

“Yeah. I’ll have it ready by end of the day.”

Two Days Later

“Y/N, come with me,” said Cas, grabbing your arm as you were heading out of the mess hall. “Quickly.”

You kept your mouth shut as you went with him into the medical center. You followed into the back room, Dean passed out on top of one of the beds.

“He was...injured on the scavenging mission. He requires monitoring. Will you watch him for a few moments? We are keeping this quiet. If you need me, I will be at my cabin temporarily,” he said.

“Sure. What…” you trailed off, Cas getting the helm out of there and fast. “Well thanks.”

Dean groaned, flashing open an eye and then the other, blinking up at you for a brief moment. He snuggled back into his pillow, a blanket covering most of him up.

“Hey,” you said.

“Sorry,” he said, closing his eyes.

“You don’t have to apologize. Are you hurt? Do you need anything?” you asked.

“Sorry,” he mumbled again, staring up at you.

“Dean? Did you hit your head?” you asked. You ran your fingers over his scalp gently, Dean taking a big whiff of the air. “Dean?”

“Sorry,” he said quietly.

“You’re really starting to scare me,” you said. He just kept staring at you, the door opening and Cas back by your side. “He keeps saying sorry.”

“How do you feel now, Dean?” asked Cas. He hummed, Cas snapping his fingers. “How do you feel with Y/N here?”

“Better,” he said quietly, trying to turn his head away. “Gonna hurt again though.”

“I know, Dean. Y/N, needs to know what’s going on,” he said.

“No,” said Dean, a bit of authority back in his voice.

“Dean,” said Cas.

“No!” said Dean. “It’ll go away.”

“No, it won’t,” said Cas, turning to you.

“Castiel, don’t do this to me. Please,” said Dean, taking a small breath. “Please.”

“Dean is your true mate,” said Cas. Dean snarled but stayed in bed, the thought crossing your mind that he might have been restrained under the blanket. “He has always known but believed you were claimed by another. I have been treating him for his condition for some time. His long trip away from you was too much though and exacerbated the severity of his condition. Being in close proximity to him has been helping him heal although he is correct in that at some point, even that will no longer work sufficiently.”

“I thought...I thought the Omega was the one that got all shitty feeling,” you said.

“Not always and it’s not surprising you felt no spark. Your levels have been all over the place since you’ve come here and are still returning to normal. Your old community didn’t believe in true mates you said and riddled them out through pack practices,” he said.

“So Dean’s…” you said, Cas nodding. “That stuff you were asking about...you were asking if I’d ever be okay with being claimed.”

“Cas,” groaned Dean. “Fucking hurts.”

“You told me to stop using the pain meds on you,” he said.

“Do the other thing,” said Dean.

“No way in hell. That’s a last resort,” said Cas.

“What last resort?” you asked, taking a step closer to Dean, his face not so scrunched up in pain.

“I’m not doing it,” said Cas.

“She’s not my mate and I’m not forcing her!” shouted Dean.

“I’m not doing an experiment on you that won’t even work,” said Cas. “You two mate or you live with the pain. Those are your options.”

“Then I guess I’m going to be like this forever then.”

“What the hell are we supposed to about Dean?” asked Sam at the emergency meeting that night. The committee members were coming up with crazy theories on an Alpha not claiming a true mate and how he could survive successfully and this and that and the next thing.

“Maybe Y/N will change her mind once her levels are normal again, right?” asked someone. You glanced up, feeling a roomful of stares on you. “Y/N, do you want to say anything? This is your life too.”

“You’re gonna make-“

“No one is making anyone do anything,” said Sam. “You will only mate with Dean if it’s your choice, no one else’s.”

“What if he did get really sick?” you asked. “What if he was going to die?”

“Only if you want to,” repeated Sam. “That is not how this camp works.”

“Then there’s no reason to be having this discussion. It comes down to me and Dean,” you said. You left without another word, wandering around camp until it started to get dark. Dean had been moved to his own cabin, feeling a bit better now that he was back at camp but you’d heard stories of true mates. It was something you inherently knew now. The whole Alpha virus had come on fast but the alarming thing was how everyone understood things without needing to be told. Dynamics, claiming, mating, true mates. Hell, you even called babies pups half the time.

Maybe they were right. Maybe once you got used to everything, you’d have that same desire as Dean did.

Two Weeks Later

“Hi, Dean,” you said, slipping into his cabin. He was on bedrest until further notice, not that he could stand to move when he wasn’t within ten feet of you.

“Time for my daily babysitting,” mumbled Dean, pulling his blankets over himself.

“Castiel said I’m showing up like a normal Omega now,” you said.

“But you aren’t sick,” he said.

“No, I’m not,” you said, ducking your head down. “I’ve been thinking about stuff too.”

“Like?” he asked. You sat down on his bed and leaned over him, Dean swallowing as you bore your neck. “Y/N, stop it. I’m not going to do it. We talked about this.”

“Will you trust me?” you asked. He relented and nodded, allowing you to get even closer, your forehead pressing against his.

“What are you doing?” he whispered.

“Scenting,” you said.

“You’re a little close for scenting,” he said.

“It makes you feel better,” you said. He rolled his eyes, biting his bottom lip when it twitched upwards. “How hard is it to fight it?”

“Hard,” he breathed out. “But you said you’ll never be-”

“People are allowed to change their minds,” you said. He scoffed and you grabbed his chin, turning his head to the side. “You know I never questioned why I came here to camp with you. I should have known something was up right away.”

“What? You suddenly want to be my Omega?” he asked.

“No. I don’t give a shit about that. If I see you writhing around in this bed one more day though I’m going to lose it,” you said.

“Jokes on you. I like to bottom on occasion,” he said.

“Dean,” you said, straddling his hips. Dean gulped and tried to sit up, your hands cupping his cheeks keeping him in place. “I will be your mate if you’re mine. You need it, badly. But I have one condition and it’s non-negotiable.”

“What is it?”

“Hey! If it ain’t our fearless leader back at work,” said Chuck, Dean smiling as he walked into the mess hall late that night. He stared for a moment, his eyes flickering to you as you wandered off to go find him some food. “Is that a true mate thing?”

“This?” asked Dean, pointing to his neck. “Nah. It’s an Alpha thing.”

“I thought only…” Chuck trailed off.

“Not around here. All future claims will require both partners to be marked. You know, like marriage or something like that,” said Dean, smiling when he saw you return with a plate full of food. “That looks delicious and like an excessive waste of food.”

“You need your strength up again,” you said. “You barely ate the past month.”

“You really feeling okay?” asked Chuck. Dean gave him a smile and patted him on the back.

“I swear, I’m all good now.”

“Hello, Omega,” said Dean, walking into you cabin the next day. You squirmed, Dean chuckling. “Still don’t like that?”

“I don’t like that it makes me feel all funny,” you said. He walked around for a minute, going to your back window and staring outside.

“Can I take you on a date tonight?” he asked.

“Yeah,” you said quietly, moving beside him. “It’s not a bad funny. It’s just strange to feel all fuzzy like that.”

“Guess I’m more used to feeling the fuzzies than you are,” he said. “You get used to it. Turns calm eventually, like warm or something.”

“Have you always known?” you asked.

“Yes. I wanted to go find your old community, destroy the Alpha that took you without permission,” said Dean. “But that wasn’t the smart move.”

“I ran away because the pack leader was going to give me to another Alpha. Even though I was useful, I didn’t act like I should. I would still be allowed to have my job if I took my role as an Omega more seriously,” you said. “Some people are just born bad, some good. This dynamic thing didn’t have anything to do with it. You were good before, you’re still good. That’s why I realized I’d be happy to stay with you. I mean, how many Alphas let themselves be claimed?” you asked.

“Probably more than you’d think,” he said, wearing a small smile. “So I was thinking for our date, I’d take you someplace real fancy. Real swanky place, super elite.”

“Oh yeah?” you asked.

“Yeah. Cabin 14, right around the corner. They serve up a mean bowl of beans,” said Dean.

“I bet they do,” you said, Dean chuckling again. “Just because you got lucky last night and you’re taking me to some fine dining establishment doesn’t mean I’m putting out again so soon.”

“What if I told you I managed to find a tablecloth and a pretty smelling candle?” he asked.

“Really?” you asked.

“First official date. I got to make it memorable don’t I?” he teased. “And I ain’t expecting any. Like I said last night-“

“I’m yours but not yours,” you said, Dean nodding. “You know that goes for you too.”

“Understood, Omega,” he said, smirking when you blushed. “Understood.”

[bitsandbobsandstuff]

A love that never leaves (2)

Summary: Sometimes when you go looking for the past, you find things you never expected. When an accident brings him face to face with something he never knew he lost, Bucky Barnes begins to understand an age old truth – it’s so easy, sometimes, to love the things that destroy us.

Characters: Bucky Barnes x Reader Warnings: Bad language. Sad Bucky.

A/N: The plot thickens. Bucky recovers from a shit situation and learns more about the person who found him. Remembering is really hard and memories do not cooperate.

I’m planning to post a chapter a week, on either Saturday or Sunday. I tried to tag everyone who reached out, but if I missed you, it was unintentional, so please send me a DM or ASK, it’s easier for me to track. Otherwise you can find the new updates each weekend!

MASTERLIST ALTNL MASTERLIST

PREVIOUS CHAPTER

Previously...

The figure halts. A gloved hand reaches to pull back the hood of the white coat and a woman’s face appears. Even through the howling wind, Bucky hears her question clearly and he doesn’t understand why the two syllables feel like a knife ripping through skin and bone and thick sinew, straight to his heart.

“Soldier?”

She speaks hesitantly, her voice tinged with a peculiar hint of hope. Bucky wants to ruminate further, but his fingers are rubbing the slippery edges of his gunshot wounds and the snow around him is greedy, lusting for the hot blood he spills.

He wants to answer. He tries to answer, he really does.

Instead, he falls face first into the soft snow.

*****

MISSION REPORT

CONTACT MADE BUT RESPONDENT ELIMINATED. BASE DID NOT REVEAL INFORMATION REQUIRED TO PROCEED TO NEXT RENDEZVOUS POINT. HOLD AND WAIT.

WITHOUT ADDITIONAL SUPPORT MISSION FAILURE IS IMMINENT. REQUESTING BACK UP FOR – 

For what? The words evaporate. Smoke in the wind. The pencil clatters to the floor and rolls away and his notebook follows. He goes to his knees in front of the brick wall and he slams his fist against it again and again, until his knuckles are shredded. 

He screams.

****

Bucky’s entire body is on fire.

Burning hot, scorching him from the inside out. This can’t be right, he’s done. He’s supposed to be done with this shit, what are they doing now? Bleary eyes open and he tries to speak. To tell them no, to leave him alone, to please just fucking stop. Heat races through his veins, suffocating him and he feels rivers of sweat coursing down his face, down his chest, down his arms. 

Above him, floats a blurry face, both intensely familiar and completely foreign. She wipes a cold cloth over his face and Bucky sighs in relief. 

Darkness comes again.

*****

We’ll meet again…don’t know where…don’t know when…but I know we’ll meet again, some sunny day…

The melody flows like water inside his head and Bucky follows it slowly, swimming languidly into consciousness. When he breaks the surface, his brain comes to life, but his eyes stay closed.

It’s a trait he perfected over the years, waking up without anyone realizing. Back then, he’d quickly discovered if you’re flat on your back and don’t know where you are, your safest bet is certainly not to show them you’re awake. Once they know, you lose your advantage.

That’s usually when the pain starts.

Instead, he starts his internal assessment. Ears straining for any hint of sound, he waits, listening for anything. The intake of breath, a quiet sniffle, the whisper of fabric, a footfall. Anything. The silence stretches and he’s finally forced to conclude – either his captor is just that good, or he’s alone. 

Cracking an eye, he draws a soundless breath, taking stock of his surroundings.

This is – interesting.  

The room he’s in is dim, suffused with swaths of muted daylight streaming in through the massive window in front of the bed. His eyes track the expanse of clear glass, stretching from the floor, extending up the vaulted ceiling and ending in a wide skylight. A small fireplace is tucked into the corner, a basket of logs piled next to the dark slate tiles, and the soothing pop and crackle of wood lulls him toward a sense of false security. 

Snow still falls outside, but it’s no longer the wailing blizzard; instead, fat, wet flakes drift quietly by, piling onto the tall evergreens hugging the window. 

Feeling the silky sheen of satin against his skin, he peeks under the sheets to find himself nearly naked, wearing nothing more than a crisp white bandage and skin-tight boxers. 

“What the sweet fuck is this shit?” he mutters, dropping the sheets and struggling to sit up. The bed is wide and covered in all shades of blue – a dusty blue duvet, sky blue sheets, a midnight blue quilt – and suddenly it all mixes into a watery blur when his vision goes sideways. Pain rips through him and he flops back, whining softly. Pressing gently against the bandage, the pain flares so fast, he digs his heels into the bed, spine arching unconsciously. He can feel it, actually feel it, the tugging sensation of his skin knitting itself back together. Sweat instantly pours down his face.

“Don’t scream,” he hisses through gritted teeth, “don’t scream you fuckin’ baby, don’t.”

Clamping his lips together, he swallows the sounds he’d desperately love to howl, focusing on counting the snowflakes drifting past the window. He loses count of the deep, calming breaths he takes and long minutes later, the worst appears to pass. For now. Bucky’s rigid muscles begin to relax.

He appreciates the whole healing fast thing, he really does, but the process is just fucking unpleasant.

Swinging his legs over the bed, toes curling into a plush rug, he wobbles to his feet. Looking around, he searches for his clothes, but he comes up empty handed. He doesn’t actually mind the lack of clothing, it’s more the lack of pockets for weapons that irritate him.

But a good solider can make a weapon from anything, so he snatches a log from the basket next to the fireplace, rotates his arm until the plates shift smoothly, and creeps from the bedroom.  

Tiptoeing down the steps to the first level, he stops short. 

The small town he’d infiltrated was derelict, gritty, downtrodden.

The home he finds himself inhabiting is the polar opposite.

Wooden steps lead down into a cosy stone and log cabin. The small kitchen has an island with a couple hand-hewn stools and an oak butcher block in the middle, burnished copper pots hanging from a rack above. The floor is a deep russet red, the wide-planked floorboards containing a myriad of knots and whorls. Above him, thick beams stretch the expanse of the room, with dark iron lighting fixtures casting a rosy glow through the room. In the centre wall of the living room, flanked with tall vertical windows, stands a fireplace, the uneven shapes of grey river rock fitting together seamlessly. From the tall windows, he has a clear view of a foggy mountain range. Another fire crackles and pops merrily in the calm silence. 

A cracked white pitcher filled with pine boughs gives off a sharp, clean scent and Bucky finds himself struggling to remain overly vigilant, because it’s beautiful. It’s a home. 

Beauty means nothing though. A lesson he learned the hard way through the years.

Slinking into the kitchen, he rummages through the silverware, turning up three finely sharpened knives. Two, he tucks into the elastic band of his boxers, feeling instant relief at the feel of the blades hugging his hip. The third, a large butcher knife, he flips around and holds outward, ready to swing.

Switching into stealth mode, he goes to work.

Rifling through kitchen cupboards and drawers. Lifting throw pillows and blankets from the sofa. Scanning rows of books arranged in alphabetical order. Searching a small linen closet. Ears perked for the sound of footsteps outside.

And yeah, he finds a few things.

A few weird things.

It starts in the small closet. Buried under a pile of quilts, he finds a heavy metal box. Pulling a bobby pin from the perpetual tangle of colorful hair-ties he keeps around his wrist, it takes a few tries before he has the lock picked. Lifting the lid reveals a perfectly folded pile of worn t-shirts. Shaking each out, he scans the logos – emblazoned across each one is a different city from Bon Jovi’s 1986 Slippery When Wet European tour. 

They’re just old t-shirts, the kinds you find people hawking at concert venues or in the bargain bin at a thrift store. Nothing special or expensive. Yet here they are, folded into neat squares and tucked into a box that could probably withstand an explosion. 

His confusion spirals, but Bucky fights a small smile. It seems odd, but hey, he really likes Bon Jovi too. Maybe he would do the same.

Re-folding the tissue thin cloth, he locks the box and stuffs it back in place.

Trying the bookcase next, he pulls books out, feeling behind them. Knuckles rap at random, tap, tap, tap, until he hears an unexpected thunk. The hollow sound gives it away and with a shove, he shifts the back panel and finds another small locked box. Holding it under his arm, he fiddles with the bobby pin again and the lid cracks. Two items appear.

A crushed red velvet jewelry bag.

A handful of cheap vintage postcards in a clear plastic bag.

Crouching to the floor, he shakes the contents of the jewelry bag free. A handful of silvery-blue pebbles clatter out and in the middle of the pile, a necklace. Bucky holds the worn chain up to the light. Spinning slowly on the end is a round disc, a little dingy and rubbed smooth, but he can see the outline. 

Bucky wasn’t exactly a good little Catholic growing up, and yeah, religion wasn’t the sort of personal expression Hydra encouraged for the Soldier. His knowledge of saints was spotty as a kid and is extensively worse now, but he recognizes the medal – he knows Steve had one, wore it during the war and was wearing it when his plane went down. He donated it to the Smithsonian when he returned. Most of the military seemed to have one back then and Bucky assumes he had one as well, although he has no clue.

On the little medal, is the image of Saint Michael. The patron saint of Soldiers.

Fingering the medal pensively, he tries to summon a memory, any memory. He figures he must have something in there that could build off this particular war-related trinket.

But no. Just like always.

Setting it gently aside, he opens the clear bag instead. Pulling out the postcards, he lines them carefully up in front of him, internally translating the languages.

Covered with palm trees, an exuberant statement in French: Welcome to sunny Nice!

A colorful boulevard linked with green trees in Spanish stating: The Beauty of Barcelona 

A laughing cartoon caricature of a man holding skis in Swiss German: Enjoy your Winter in Zurich

The solemn announcement in Italian, written over an image of the Coliseum: Hello from Rome: The Eternal City

Orange and red leaves, covering a giant beer stein in German: Oktoberfest in Munich!

And the dogged mantra of the stoic English, tall white letters against a soft pink backdrop: Keep Calm and Carry On

But the one that piques his interest the most, is last in the pile. A hand-painted postcard, the paint chipped and faded through time, of the Brooklyn Bridge at night. The title above in carefully printed letters reads: Brooklyn, New York – Thank God It’s Not Jersey. Bucky feels his heart stutter at the words, because he’s pretty god damn sure he and Steve used to throw out that same phrase. 

On the back of the Brooklyn postcard, he finds the inked shapes of two hearts tangled together.

Bucky stares hard at the image, so simple but vibrating with some unknown meaning. Flipping through all the other cards, he finds them blank, nothing more than a pretty collection. Bewildered and careening toward frustrated anger, he gathers them together and slips them into the bag. He bangs the box shut and hides it away again.

He finds three more locked boxes in his search, each containing innocuous items. One with a thin, moth-eaten baby blanket. One with a random assortment of old Life magazines.

After stowing away the final box, housing an envelope with three sepia toned photos of a tall man and a small girl, he spends another ten minutes searching for clues. Finally, he’s convinced the room has shared all its secrets - until he notices the crease in the rug below the coffee table.

Shoving the table aside, Bucky flips up the rug. In the middle of the floor, he finds a plank of wood slightly thinner than the others, with a small chink in the edge. Crouching down, he runs his thumb around it and nudges it up, finding a hidden space below.

There he finds one more box. His beleaguered bobby pin gives a final brave attempt and with a quiet snick, the lock pops open. 

Inside are three dusty books. Peeling gold letters line the spine of each, showing a single word, followed by three different numbers. 

Journal, 1967 Journal, 1968 Journal, 1969 

From the pages of 1969, a ticket stub flutters to the floor.

*****

Under the fall of lacy snowflakes, she walks. Circling the small cabin for hours, her toes are damn near frozen, but she finds herself unwilling to go back inside. He has to be waking soon and the thought of facing him makes her chest ache. Instead, she walks the narrow path along the bank of the rushing stream bordering her home and argues with herself.

Go inside. Ask him. Talk to him. See if he remembers. Tell him the truth! He deserves to know. Maybe he doesn’t want to hear it. Maybe he’ll just kill you and be done. Probably not though, you’re not that lucky.

Hysterical laughter bubbles up and she digs the puffy gloved heels of her palms into her eyes. She really needs to get out more. This constant talking to herself thing will get her institutionalized someday.

But she literally has no one else to talk to. And that right there, has always been the problem. 

Brushing the snow from a giant boulder, she gingerly sits. Bending forward, she drops her head to her knees and wraps her arms around her legs, trying desperately not to give in to the panic attack threatening to drive its anxious fingers into her brain. Memories begin to swirl and even after all this time, the sound of his voice rises so easily to the surface, a sweet, drawling Brooklyn twang that turns her stomach to knots.

“Je vais avoir de la chance ce soir. Il y a de belles femmes en France qui ne m'aiment pas?”

“Can I walk you home?”

“Wait for me darlin’, okay? Will you? I’ll come back for you. I promise I will.”

“You’re what I want. You’re what I’m always gonna want.”

“You and me, this kind of love, it lasts forever, okay? It’s never gonna leave.”

“Dammit. Shit shit shit,” she chants to herself. Thick and heavy, the memories press down until she buckles under the burden of remembering. Tears begin to fall, hot trails down her face and she wipes them away, her hands shaking. 

She stays on the frozen rock, letting time pass while the cold seeps through her clothes. The air is so icy, it makes her lungs seize.

*****

The butcher knife lays beside him, within easy reach. Bucky sits cross-legged on the floor, flicking through the pages at random. He pauses now and then, digging deeper, losing himself in the faded ink of another’s life.

19 May, 1967

America is strange. I arrived in Los Angeles with no goal, just rented a car and drove. First to the coast and saw the ocean. It was different than the first time Papa took me – I’ve never seen anything so blue. I tried not to think about it, but it was in my head. It’s always there. Blue everywhere. The water, the sky, his eyes. I can never leave it behind.

The songs on the radio here, they’re different too. It feels like the heart of this country is screaming and I see why. Vietnam is different. This war, it’s unexplainable maybe, but there’s a frustrated weariness in the words. 

But then again, is it really that different? No matter the fight, Soldiers still give their lives and leave their sweethearts crying in the streets. They promise to come home, that ridiculously naive optimism of youth, and instead they die in a battle they never wanted to join. It’s the universal truth of every fight, since the beginning of time. The tears should be enough to stop this all from happening, but no. War keeps coming, one after another, and soldiers answer the call.

I still remember what he said that night. It’s stayed with me more than anything else. They’ll run out of soldiers eventually, he said, like he was nothing more than a cheap commodity. He was so tired by the end. I should have helped him.

11 April, 1968

Last week I was walking by the book stalls down at the Seine and saw a bargain bin of English language books. I found a book of poetry and I swear to god, that damn thing fell open on this:

He was my North, my South, my East and West, My working week and my Sunday rest, My noon, my midnight, my talk, my song; I thought that love would last forever: I was wrong.

The stars are not wanted now; put out every one, Pack up the moon and dismantle the sun, Pour away the ocean and sweep up the wood; For nothing now can ever come to any good. W.H. Auden

I don’t think I could find a better articulation of my mood. Either Fate has something against me, or I’m just that unlucky. I bought it. I couldn’t help myself.

21 July, 1969

Sometimes, I think miracles do still exist in this world.

Down at an old hotel, the entire town was crowded in the dining room. They had a TV balanced up on a shelf so everyone could see and they caught the BBC1 broadcast. The entire room was dead silent. It was overwhelming, I can still hardly imagine it. A man walking on the moon!

The whole time I kept thinking how much he would have loved this. How he would have laughed. How he probably would have tried to sign up to be a spaceman! The more I remembered, the more I thought about that night by the river, after we first met. All those stars in the sky. Decades later and I still wonder about it – how it’s possible to be so in love with someone – but then again, how could anyone fail to love him? He was so warm, so full of life and excitement and dreams. God. We had so many dreams, so many plans for the future. We were so naïve, thinking the world might owe us a little happiness. What a joke.

And now here I am. Alone with nothing but memories – just like always. That life we wanted, it’s as far away as the moon. Unreachable and impossible.

1 January, 1970 We never He was I thought A Soldier with a metal arm?

The journal ends there. 

Bucky looks at the ticket stub that fell from the delicate pages and the words bring forth a wavering reel of images, brand new and unfamiliar.

Moulin Rouge New Year’s Eve Ball Admittance: 1 Individual 31 December, 1969

The black lacquer of a piano. Silver sparkles reflecting from crystal chandeliers. The scent of fizzy champagne and the tang of blood and a dark apartment overlooking the twinkling lights of Paris.

Disoriented, Bucky sets the book down. What the hell is this? Who is she? She must be Hydra, she has to be. How else would she know the Soldier? Why did she take him, what does she want? Why does she have journals from so long ago, what do they mean?

It’s the eternal tragedy of his god damn life – always questions, never answers. He looks around the warm, peaceful little cabin and scrubs his hands down his face. He needs to plot his next move, but the bullet wounds throb with fresh, fiery pain and he’s suddenly and overwhelmingly exhausted.

So, he remains seated, surrounded by pages upon pages from someone else’s life.

Blinking back frustrated tears as he stares at the books, he knows without a doubt, that these three years of writing hold more memories than he could conjure in the lifetime he’s lived.

Distantly, he hears the slow crunch of boots on snow. Rousing himself from the miserable train of thought, he scrambles to his feet, turning to face the front door when footsteps hit the porch steps and begin to climb.

Bucky wipes the tears from his eyes. And he lifts his knife.

*****

Pacing back and forth across the small porch, she stops in front of the door and reaches for the handle.

And draws away again. Curses and keeps pacing. Tries again, pulls back.

“Open the door, you god damn coward,” she whispers harshly.

Squaring her shoulders, she turns the knob and pushes it open before she can lose her nerve. Stepping inside, the room is silent, just as she left it. Orange flames flicker in the fireplace, the smell of smoky wood and pine needles hangs in the air. She shuts the door quietly, shakes out her coat and hangs it on the rack. Taps the snow from her boots and unwinds her scarf. Rubbing her temples, she takes a deep breath and starts for the stairs, determined to face him.

She takes three steps, before the wind is knocked clean from her lungs.

The heavy body hits her from behind, one arm curling around her chest, the other pressing her butcher knife against her throat. The voice in her ear is so gut wrenchingly familiar, she nearly faints. 

“Leaving a strange man alone in your bed with access to knives – not your best move.”

When he was lying unconscious wrapped in her quilts, she thought he seemed smaller than she remembered. Now, the breadth of his body against her back makes her realize just how wrong that assessment was. 

“Yes. I should have hidden the knives,” she tries to speak. “Something to remember next time.”

“Tell me who the fuck you are.”

She should be terrified right now. The most prolific assassin of the 20th century has a razor-sharp blade sitting at her throat and a metal arm digging into her chest. With the slightest move, he could crush her lungs or slit her throat. He wouldn’t even have to try. 

She should be terrified, but she’s not. Because the years, the decades, have been nothing more than an empty echo without him, and now he’s here. Against all odds, he is here with her. Relaxing in his arms, she leans back and closes her eyes.

Bucky stiffens abruptly at the movement. 

Her hand floats up and reaches for the wrist flexing at her throat. She feels his grip tighten further, but for some reason, he allows her curious touch. Fingers trembling, they find the thin ridge, running down the long white scar curving from his right thumb across the back of his hand. 

It’s nothing more than a gentle caress, but – 

Like a hammer to his skull, his head splits head open. With a frightened snarl, he shoves her away and she stumbles forward, catching herself against the sofa. Slowly, she turns to face him fully. 

Dark hair frames his face in sweaty tangles and his blue eyes are wild. 

“What the fucking hell was that?” he hisses. The knife is held outward and he scratches at the scar, trying to scrub away her touch.

“I’m sorry,” she says, rubbing her throat. “I wasn’t – I’m sorry.”

“How the hell did I get here?” Bucky barks. “Last thing I remember, I was gut shot and bleeding out in a god damn blizzard.”

“I found you. Brought you here.”

“Yeah, obviously. Except I’m fuckin’ heavy and no offense, but you don’t look much like a super soldier. So, I’ll ask again - how the hell did I get here? Who else is working with you?”

“No one, it’s just me. And I’m not working. You – I don’t know, you just followed me. When you collapsed in the snow, I rolled you over and shouted your name, and your eyes just – they opened and you got to your feet.”

Bucky glares at her. “Convenient, that you knew my name. And how to wake me up.”

Jaw clenching, she glares back now. “I didn’t know how to wake you up. You were bleeding everywhere, but you stood there like you were waiting for something.”

Biting the inside of his cheek, he grimaces. He thinks he knows what’s coming.

“Say I believe you. Then what?”

“You asked for instructions, so I told you to get in my truck and I brought you here. I’m sorry, I didn’t know – I wasn’t sure what to do. When we got here, you wouldn’t go upstairs. You just laid down on the dining table and – ”

She pauses, but he sighs resignedly. “Keep going.”

“Both bullets, they were still – inside. I had to dig them out. I got bandages and tried to stitch up the wound. You were awake, I thought you were awake, the entire time. You were telling me what to do. Kept asking if – you kept asking if I was new.”

Bucky feels his face heat in embarrassment. Shifting uncomfortably, he grudgingly explains. “That was a secondary protocol. Something happens to the Asset, it’s programmed – I mean I was programmed - to help fix the problem.” 

The cabin is quiet for a drawn-out moment. 

“Oh,” she finally says. Her voice sounds small. 

“So? You’re former Hydra then?”

She blanches at the comment. “What? No! I was never with them.”

“Really,” Bucky says sarcastically. “You just happened upon me and knew my name and brought me to a cabin in the middle of nowhere for no reason? That was all just luck?”

“Stop being a jerk. I said I don’t work for them,” she snaps, anger seeping into her voice. “I’d slit my own throat first.”

Bucky goes quiet, considering the statement. His loses some of the hostility when he replies, but his tone is still suspicious. “But we know each other. You know him. Or – me. The Soldier.”

“Yes. I know the – Soldier.”

“Well, I don’t remember you,” Bucky says harshly, and he watches her face fall. He feels a pang of remorse at her disappointment and almost points out that she’s not unique, he never remembers. But he holds his tongue.

Eyes dropped to the floor, her shoulders sag. “I didn’t expect you would.”

An awkward silence fills the room. Bucky feels that strange ache in his chest once again, a desire to smooth the unhappiness from her face, and an apology tumbles from his lips. 

“I’m sorry I don’t remember. Trust me, it’s definitely not you.”

“No. Please don’t apologize,” she says quickly, looking up. She shakes her head like she wants to say something more; instead, she swallows the words and offers an olive branch. “Do you want to know? I mean - do you want me to tell you?” 

Bucky considers the offer. Before him stands a lovely woman. One who knew the Soldier, who met the worst incarnation of himself, but without the security of Hydra to help her. He comes to a swift, depressing conclusion.

Chances are, he did something shitty to her.

Does he want to know then? Does he really need another gruesome memory clogging up his brain? 

Sure. Because Bucky never knows when to quit.

“Yes,” he says firmly. “Tell me. I want to hear it.” 

“Okay, I can do that,” she says softly. She motions him to sit on the couch, but Bucky hesitates.

“Can I, uh, have some pants first?” He asks stiffly. “This is sort of awkward.”

The surprise on her face makes Bucky think for one fleeting moment that she might laugh. But then she nods and disappears through a small room off the kitchen. When she returns, she’s holding a neatly folded stack of fresh laundry and he recognizes the contents of his backpack. 

“Here,” she sets it cautiously on the dining table. “I’m sorry I went through your bag, I didn’t have any men’s clothing, so…anyway, I washed it all.” 

Bucky snatches his ragged Captain America t-shirt and black sweats from the top of the pile, shimmying into them. Pulling a rainbow colored band off his wrist, he ties his hair back and drops to the couch. 

She takes the armchair across from him, as far away as she can get in the small living room, and tucks her hands under her legs. Bucky knows he’s unlikely to enjoy whatever she has to say, but he folds his fingers together and waits. She stares down at her feet, appearing to gather her courage before meeting his grim stare head on.

Her voice is steady, as she starts to speak.

“Paris was cold that December and it snowed early. It was New Year’s Eve in 1969.”

*****

Next Chapter

*****

Tags are open right now, if you want one, please send me a DM or ASK.

[dashielldeveron]

Viper III: Pactum de non Cedendo.

Viper AU: a Mob!Tom Holland AU in which you are a political author, Tom’s personal lawyer, and eventually his consigliere.

Warnings: violence, swears, the law, gore, violence, murder.

Summary: You’ve heard not to cross the streams. Too late. You wish your life could go continuously uphill for, like, two minutes.

All evidence of humanity has been erased. Thus, all identifying vocal quirks, filler words, and dialogue not imperative to belaying information have been elided.

…

Viper: Let’s say I’m involved with…underground justice.

Epiales: A vigilante?

Viper: No. What I personally do is not technically illegal. I am the law, direct and simple, free of corruption to the best of my abilities. You may recall my work in the Laurens case?

Epiales: I made the connection. Clever thinking on your part.

Viper: Your compliments have gravitas. Thank you very much.

Epiales: How are you involved in Hernandez’s murder?

Viper: I met the man once several months ago, and now, Hernandez’s murderer is intrigued by my involvement. Our connection is feeble: he signed a document concerning a donation in my presence.

Epiales: Are you at liberty to say what the donation was for?

Viper: It’s nothing noteworthy. Ultimately, it went to keeping our headquarters intact.

Epiales: What concerns do you have about this case proceeding from this point?

Viper: Obviously the plans of this murderer. I have reason to suspect that certain crimes that have come my way are all by this same person. I believe a pattern will emerge and that the culprit will make a mistake.

Epiales: And this is the person that’s threatened you to release pictures?

Viper: I want to assume, but it’s a complicated situation. He’s made me realise I can’t afford to hide in the shadows any more, and moreover, I don’t need to. I know what I’ve gotten into, and I’m not afraid. When this guy makes his next move, let him know that my walls are fortified.

Epiales: A woman like you can’t afford to be caught off guard.

Viper: That’s true. It’s a jungle out there.

Epiales: Tell me how being a woman affects your status in your work.

The article went on, and Tom let out a low whistle and turned from the laptop. He opened his mouth to speak, but it morphed into a smile as he shook his head. “Oh, this,” he said, spinning his chair to look up at you, “This is beautiful.”

Releasing your grip on the back of his chair when he spun, you flexed your fingers before making a fist and holding it behind your back. “You think so?”

“I know so,” he said, “How the fuck did you manage an interview with Epiales? No one can find him.”

Well, when you’re interviewing yourself, you can do it in bed, with your cat on your feet and reruns playing in the background. You made your Epiales self have a slightly more formal voice than your Viper voice, although you made both of yourselves look good. And it was all too easy. “It was more of a stroke of luck than anything,” you said, “About a week ago, I received a burner phone in the mail. No return address. Nothing was on the phone except for one phone number, and it was labelled nightmare.”

Tom closed the laptop and slipped it into the sleeve. “And he just picked up?”

“Not exactly.” You started sweeping papers into folders and putting them through the three-prongs. “It was text-to-speech. I never heard Epiales’s voice. It was a slow interview, but it was fascinating.”

“How much did you reveal about the mob?”

“Just what you saw. The mob is never mentioned. There’s a suggestion that I work for someone, but I’m cautiously vague about it.”

“You’d better not have slipped up.”

“I was careful, I swear.”

Tom stood, stretched, and cricked his back, and you heard the pop. He relaxed, his shoulders slumping before shaking himself and rolling them back. More pops. “I’ll trust you for now. Whatever the case, this… We couldn’t’ve chosen a better way to take away the power from the photographer. By releasing your information ourselves, his giving it to his client means nothing.” He sighed and accepted the files you handed him. “I’m headed over to Hernandez’s house now. The capos are reporting Isadora’s getting restless and is trying to get friendly with some of them. The less she knows, the better.”

You scratched out the label on a file and scribbled in a new one. “It shouldn’t take nine men to guard the kid.”

“She’s trying to leave the house. Keeps talking about practising for a tennis tournament coming up.” He slid the folders into a desk drawer, took out a small key, and locked it.

“She’s got to be tired of being cooped up, and her dad was just murdered. Give her a break, Holland,” you said, shoving the files in your rucksack and zipping it up.

Tom shot you a look and grabbed his suit jacket off the back of his chair. “Well, maybe you can come check out the setup tomorrow. To be honest,” he said, slipping an arm in a sleeve, “it’s not as great as I’d like it. Harry and Sam couldn’t come into the city to monitor her because of their stupid fucking plant-geneticist-slash-bioprocessing-engineer calling them upstate. I fucking loathe that they’re involved with that shit. Useless.” He pulled his jacket on fully and began to button it from the bottom. “Imagine saying no to me.”

A montage of scenarios flashed across your brain, mostly involving being tied to a bed. “I’d rather not.” Slinging your bag over your shoulder, you said, “Is that why you don’t want me to meet them?”

Tom tilted his head and sucked in through his teeth. “The less you know about my family, the better.”

“Understandable.” You did not understand. You watched this guy murder people on a regular basis, so what could be so bad about his family? “All right. I’m ready. Let’s go see Isadora.”

“What? No,” said Tom, frowning, “You’ve stayed way past overtime tonight. Go on home.”

“So have you.” You checked your phone and slid it back into its pouch on your belt. “It’s two in the morning. Let’s go. Quick check. In and out.”

“Viper,” he said softly, raising his eyebrows, “You need rest. Go home. Come with me to Hernandez’s house tomorrow.”

Sighing, you rubbed at your hairline. Currently, you were motivated almost equally by thirst for justice and thirst for Tom, and usually, when Tom outweighed the justice, it was time to quit. Fuck. “So long as you get some sleep soon, too.”

***

“Yeah, Ms. Pham. I’ve been in contact with the national park. They should be sending someone along with the diamond soon.” Hastily taking your feet off your desk, you held up a finger to Haz, who slammed the door to your shitty office. “Still a bit of processing to do, but soon. Yes, ma’am. The next time I can be at the museum is on Thursday morning. Do you want me to come to your house before then? Right.” You scribbled down the details on your legal pad. “Biscotti. Got it. Thank you. Goodbye. No, it’s taken care of. Bye.” You hung up and tossed your phone next to your potted cactus. “What brings you to Siberia, Mr. Osterfield?”

“Cut the jokes. Come downstairs, now. There’s a car waiting.” Harrison beckoned for you to follow him and left before you could even stand.

“What’s going on?” you asked, slightly out of breath when you caught up to him, holding the doors to the elevator open.

“We’ve got to get to Hernandez’s before the police,” said Harrison, jamming the elevator button repeatedly, “There was a distress call, and it’s been silenced.”

***

At your recommendation, Haz passed around the bag of latex gloves before all of you entered the Hernandez house. Haz, Tom, Maccabruno, and you stood cramped together on the step to the back door as you worked the rubber up your fingers and smoothed it out. Macca meticulously took note of the surroundings, ensuring no one saw the four strangers on the back step of a recently murdered politician, and as Haz and Tom drew their guns, you dug out your evidence notebook.

You were garnering a lot of notebooks.

Maccabruno picked the lock and eased the door open; you winced at the creak of the door hinge in the silence. Tom crept in first with Harrison closely behind. Catching your eye, Macca jerked his head in Harrison’s direction, meaning for you to stay behind in case an active threat lingered. Nodding once, you followed Haz and Tom through cosily cluttered, yellow hallways and a spacious kitchen straight out of a 90s catalog, but the kitchen tile turning into living room carpet had Tom holding out his arm to stop before you could see it.

Tom tilted his head to listen, and after a moment, the house settled. He relaxed his arm and moved forward.

You rounded the doorframe, busy opening your notebook, and when you looked up, you stopped in your tracks, your heels sinking into the carpet.

Tom, Haz, and Macca spread across the blood drenched carpet. Their shoes squelched with each step. Fucking every surface had some blood; it was drizzling off the coffee table, seeping into the couch cushions, running down walls—how did it get on the ceiling? There was fucking blood dripping from the ceiling; oh, my God.

You bit the inside of your thumb, tasted the latex, and promptly lowered your hand. Haz was already getting blood sample and saying, “Did a blood bank fucking explode in here?”

“It’s better than turning someone inside out,” said Tom, and he crossed his arms, his gun poking out from underneath his bicep.

Get over it. Pull yourself together. You have work to do. “Where the fuck is Isadora?” Her portrait above the fireplace had been splattered.

“Right. Harrison, go check upstairs for her. I don’t think we’ll find her down here,” said Tom, taking the blood samples and beckoning with a finger for you.

“Yeah, sure,” you said, and you, not wanting to walk the wet path they had taken, began to round the couch—at which point you covered your mouth with your hand, and—latex, you really should stop touching your face at a crime scene—there lay the bodies of the men stationed to look after Isadora Hernandez.

Tom and Maccabruno jogged over, both of them on the other side of the neat line of corpses, all arranged with their arms crossed over their chests—two who had been wearing hats had them over their faces.

“Okay, something’s fucky,” you said, “Their clothes are fucking immaculate.”

“Macca, check out the hats. Viper,” said Tom, nodding at you, and he crouched to flip the body closest to him over. He ran two gloved fingers over the shoulder blade. “This looks like blood from the carpet. I can’t see any wound, can you?”

Maccabruno shook his head, his hand grasping the first hat like a claw, revealing an unharmed face, like the rest.

On your end, you bent to look at the capo. He was young. Callow, even. What was he doing in the mob? You checked out his hands—oh, no callouses, square-trimmed fingernails, long palms and fingers, right hand muscles more developed than the left—usually an office boy. Maybe he’s one of the accountants for Osseous on floor ten—oh, fuck, he was. You glanced at the rest of the men—they were field capos; maybe this kid was here for logistics. You didn’t know.

And that struck you. Why didn’t you know? You could’ve kept him from being here. He might be at home and content if you had stepped in.

“I don’t think this blood is theirs,” Tom said, turning the body back over, “There are splatters that look too precise. There’s too fucking much of it.”

“Harrison may have been right about the blood bank,” said Maccabruno, returning the hats to their faces.

Moving up to the kid’s face, you frowned. A peaceful, blank expression in death. Head tilted back slightly. Bad eyebrows—no, stop that. His nose was crooked, but that wasn’t from this; this was ol—you scanned his jawline. Lots of tension there. Like it had…been forcefully clamped shut.

“I want you to check local blood banks when we get out of here,” Tom said, standing, “See if anyone’s taken out a surplus at once or over a few months.” He swivelled around. “Seems like it’s all the same age and hasn’t darkened much.”

“Probably well refrigerated then,” Macca was saying as he jotted down instructions.

You squeezed his lips to pucker them, loosening his jaw enough for you to pry it open. “Holland,” you said, “I have something.”

Tom’s eyes widened, and he rushed to stoop next to you once you pulled a strange, dead grass out of the kid’s mouth. “What is that?”

“No idea,” you said, looking to Harrison as he came downstairs.

“Haz, we need a sample bag,” Tom said, and he shifted to the next body in line and forced its mouth open. He raised his eyebrows at you when he retrieved the same grass.

Harrison gave you a sample container and joined you in popping open mouths, all of which had the plant inside. You got a few strands from each of them, and as you packed away the bags, you said, “Holland, remind me how many men you sent down here?”

“Nine,” he said, crossing his arms and leaning back onto his haunches next to you, and then he got it and grimaced. “We’re never mentioning again how long it took me to notice that there were eight bodies.”

Haz dragged Macca out of the room to look for the ninth before Tom could even issue the order. Gun drawn, Tom move to stand over you in case, his legs so close to your shoulders that you could grasp at a touch of body heat coming from him. Your tongue grew heavy in your mouth.

Would it be so bad to ask him to hang out?

Yes, oh, my God. You can’t ask a mob boss to hang out.

Regardless, theoretically, it wasn’t ideal to date someone in the workplace, especially one’s supervisor, particularly when that individual could have your teeth ripped out if you dump him—but who would dump him?

Besides the workplace rule, there are a couple of things wrong with the possibility of being romantically involved. 1) Tom Holland has a stick up his ass. 2) He’s never shown any potential romantic interest in anyone, to the best of your knowledge. 3) The mob persona you’ve assumed also has a stick up her ass, so 3a) you probably were not the most attractive person in his life, 3b) assuming he felt emotions of the mushy sort.

Wait! Holy fuck! It’s been so long that it’s slipped your mind; when he first met you, he was, like, aggressively flirtatious. But so were you. That wasn’t how you’ve been presenting yourself since, but that flash, the hint of how chill you really were (you were so chill; you swore. You were the chillest person ever to exist. Ice. Cold.) could have lingered in the forefront of Tom’s consciousness.

If you could concentrate, you might save a life. Focus.

The corner of the kid’s high collar that poked out of under his coat, and you pulled on it, peeling it from his skin with a bloodstain soaked into it. You pushed his chin to the side so that you could get a better look.

“Holland,” you said, looking up at him, and you were startled for a moment by his dark eyes, how he was giving you all of his attention. You cleared your throat. “I unearthed a wound on his neck, but it’s not enough to have killed him. Cut by a thin blade. Shaped like a backwards L.”

You and Tom followed the procedure for the rest and discovered they had similar cuts in different shapes—this one three sides of a square, another a capital gamma, another still a proper L. You were writing them down hastily when Harrison dragged a terrified capo into the living room, this one bloodstained.

“He says the attacker locked him in a closet and posed as him for a few hours,” Maccabruno was saying, typing on his phone in the doorframe.

The capo looked at Haz and back at you and Tom. “I—I think he chose me because of how I was able to talk to Isadora. We’re about the same age, so.”

“Did you hear him speak?” Tom asked.

“No,” he said, “and I didn’t hear any of—” He caught sight of the line of bodies, and he bit the inside of his wrist. “Shit. You’re not gonna put me to the gallows, are you?”

“Absolutely not,” said Tom, “You did nothing wrong.” He slid his gun into his holster and rested his fists on his hips. “We’re gonna take you to the nearest safe house and get you patched up. Then you’re taking a while off. You’re not in trouble,” said Tom, and he stepped closer to the sweaty man (he qualified as a man, you supposed, but he was still younger than you) and put a hand on his shoulder. “It’s to keep you safe. If you can get out of the city for a while, that’d be even better.”

“You’re the only witness to whoever this murderer is,” said Harrison, “so you’re a mark.”

“Now, I know you’re shaken,” said Tom, nodding to Haz and guiding the capo out of the room, “but I’m gonna need you to report everything you can recall about what’s happened.”

The Hollands had a safe house not too many blocks away, and the hostess welcomed you in furtively, giving you something to drink before joining Harrison in sanitising the capo’s wounds in the spare bedroom.

You sat on the kitchen counter with glazed eyes as you drank your capri-sun. Macca and Tom sat across from each other at a table, the former looking into blood banks on his phone and the latter lost in thought.

Numb.

The blood room was enough for today. For the week. You wanted to go home. Sighing, you kicked off you heels, let them clack to the floor, and opened your notebook. The sooner you made progress on this incident, the sooner you could go home.

Tom snapped out of it at your movement and drew his hand away form his mouth. After rolling up his sleeves, he leaned against the counter and watched you try to decipher the symbols cut into their necks. The gentle rise and fall of his chest meant he was mostly calm, at least. He’s seen worse.

Haz and the owner of the house eventually came back in, saying the kid was clean and sleeping, and she began to cook dinner, Harrison cutting up vegetables for her. Tom shifted closer to you to get out of their way, but he wouldn’t touch you, not even grazing your sleeve. Why wouldn’t he touch you?

Plus, it was impossible to focus on these symbols, anyway. They weren’t letters or anything, just four right angles in different directions and four squares missing a different side each. Feeling stupid under Tom’s close scrutiny, you drew them in order of what direction they were facing and then tried to arrange them in a flower, because, you know. It looked like you were doing something, and you were braindead.

“Hey, that’s a hashtag,” Tom said, pointing at the flower.

“Yes,” you said, noticing it for the first time, “I tried, I guess. There are only so many shapes you can make out of eight partial squares.”

Tom nodded, running his tongue over his lower lip and staring at the paper. Furrowing his brow, he snapped his head towards you. “Nine.”

“Eight,” you said.

“Nine.” He traced the square made by the centre of the hashtag.

“But that,” you said, “Fuck.” You jumped off the counter and ran with Tom down the hallway, through the guest bathroom and into the bedroom, bursting through the door.

Harrison and Maccabruno rushed in in time to see Tom turn away from the bed and cover his eyes with his palm and you set your jaw and shut your eyes tight.

The window stood open, curtains wafting in the evening breeze, and the capo’s head lay at the foot of the bed, its eyes still open and a square carved into its throat.

You blinked and felt a lump grow in your own throat. “There’s…there’s something in his mouth.”

Tom got there before you did and pulled out a crumpled note.

T.H. and V. alone to retrieve Isadora at the M.A.S. warehouse tonight 0100 hrs. $250,000.

It was the same handwriting as on the back of the photograph, and you had never been gladder to see that little V instead of your real initials.

***

You took a swig out of your flask—cold hot chocolate, a marshmallow mess from being shaken all day.

“I don’t want you to come in tomorrow,” said Tom from the driver’s seat, “What you’ve seen today is too much for one day. You probably should rest your brain.”

You swallowed thickly. “You worried about what content I consume, Holland? I’m gonna come in even harder tomorrow.” The innuendo struck you, and you fastened your flask back into its clasp.

“I mean it,” said Tom, putting the car into park outside the unkempt warehouse. He turned off the brights and shifted his torso towards you. “If you don’t get some sleep soon, you’re gonna make yourself sick.”

“Pot calling the kettle black,” you said. You buttoned your blazer underneath the seatbelt. “I’m not gonna break until you do.”

Tom shut his eyes tightly, wincing. “It’s not about breaking or showing weakness.”

“You’re goddamn right.” You unbuckled your seatbelt, and then you reached over to unbuckle Tom’s. He had a moment of incredulity but let his arm slip through it. “What do you have to do at work that you don’t want me there for?”

Tom looked at his lap, pinched the crease in his trouser pants, and rested a tight fist on his knee. “I’ve got an old friend coming in… She and Haz are working on something for me.”

“Are you expecting me to feel threatened by another woman? What kind of freak do you take me for?” Your head snapped towards the warehouse’s second storey, where a light had appeared. “The air’s too thick with testosterone where we work. I’m grateful for any sort of empathy for that. What’s her name? Then we’d better get going.”

“Zendaya,” said Tom, twisting himself to reach the ransom suitcase in the back seat, “I’m sending her out into the city with Harrison to look for any parts of this case that we might be missing.” He unlocked the car door and opened it. “We might only be getting the bigger events,” he said to you over the roof of the car.

“Makes sense,” you said, shutting the passenger door, “Anyone else I should know about?”

“My mate Jacob is coming to look for similarities between this case and past ones. See if this guy’s had any practise before executing this one.”

“Poor choice of verb,” you said, noting his widening gait as he rounded the car to you, “You ready?”

He leant in closer and spoke quietly, his eyes lowering to your hips. “Can you draw your knife easily?” His dark eyelashes fluttered against his cheeks.

After a beat, you said that you could. That idiot needed to stop looking at you before doing public shit. You’re gonna get distracted by thinking about his fuckin’ eyelashes. They’re so long, you know? You were a little (read: a lottle) envious. And they weren’t exactly the colour of his hair; they were smoky and more than a little delicate—hello. You have work to do.

Tom’s grip on the suitcase handle tightened until his knuckles whitened when you entered the middle clearing of the warehouse, and the light on the second storey had been turned off. Startled, you jolted closer to him, your blazer cuff brushing against his sleeve. The thirty following seconds in the utter darkness slowed to a stop when Tom moved his hand, just barely, to tap his knuckle against the back of your hand, a sharp spark of reassurance that had you inhaling harshly when he dragged his knuckle up a few inches to your wrist. At that, he withdrew, and a light overhead flickered on.

Underneath it Isadora Hernandez was gagged and in the grip of a bulkily armoured, wholly masked figure holding a gun to her ear.

“If you are not alone, you will not leave alive,” said the kidnapper. He spoke through a heavily altered vocoder, leaving his voice stentorian and robotic.

“It’s just the two of us,” said Tom, his voice even but careful stare unyielding, “What do you want?”

He changed his grip on Isadora, his bullet-proof armour shifting noisily but not enough to reveal any skin. This man was a completely unidentifiable ghost. “What do you want, Tom Holland?”

“I want you to return Isadora Hernandez to me unharmed.”

“What do you want, Tom?” He pressed the barrel farther into Isadora’s ear. “You’re here because it’s the right thing to do. You don’t actually care about this girl and whether or not she lives. Dozens of people under your jurisdiction suffer and die every day, whether it’s deserved or not.”

“Just so,” said Tom.

Get to the point. Isadora wants this all to be over, and so did you. Pick it up, fellows. You supposed this was what happened when you loosened egos unmitigated.

“You want confirmation of crime? Fine. I’m the one you should get credit to for your main investigation right now. The senator, the photographs. Beheading your men. It’s just me serving up justice, my dude.” He tilted his covered head and yanked Isadora’s hair, tilting her head in the same way. “And Viper, my dear, you’re in for it. You are no longer safe. I’m tracking you down, and I’m gonna treat you to everything you want.”

“How kind,” you said with no emotion, “The first thing I want is Isadora, unharmed.”

“Suitcase first,” he said, putting his finger on the trigger.

With his other hand raised, Tom bent to slide the suitcase across the floor. It fell short of the kidnapper by about eight feet. Silence. How embarrassing. Does Tom go up and kick it towards him, or does the kidnapper walk towards it?

Tonight, option two is chosen. The kidnapper put his boot on the top of the suitcase before prying it open to check its contents. It clicked shut when he kicked it behind him, and he released his grip around Isadora’s neck, his handprint fading back to her natural skin colour.

“All right, then, Isabella.” He took the barrel out of her ear and aimed it at you and Tom. “You skedaddle towards them, got it? Nice and slow, now.”

Isadora, gagged with her hands tied behind her back, trembled in the first few steps towards you. She looked over her shoulder towards her kidnapper, who gestured with the gun for her to go on. You held your breath next to a stock-still Tom, slightly hunched and stance wide, weight on the balls of his feet—you frowned; he was waiting for something to go wrong.

But the kidnapper lowered his gun and told Isadora to go, and she’s crying as she runs to you, crying as he raised his gun again and shot her in the back of her head.

He bolted out of the back door as Isadora bled out onto the concrete floor in rivulets. You rushed to kneel at her side and stood again when you stepped in blood. You tried to garner any reaction from her, but her eyes had turned glassy and her chest had stilled.

You stooped to close her eyes as Tom barked instructions to mobilise—apparently you hadn’t come alone; capos waited outside and now were in pursuit; why didn’t he tell you? Either way. You ripped your knife from your belt and moved to run after the kidnapper, but Tom caught you by the waist before you could take more than two steps.

“Oh, no, you don’t,” he said with a growl, his cold hands too tight on your waist and keeping you from struggling, “There’s only going to be one more death tonight.”

Rolling your shoulders back, you took a deep breath but turned your head to the side and refused to look at him, even when he squeezed your waist for you to do so. When the warehouse light burned out, Tom let out a heated groan against your exposed neck, and there in the darkness the two of you stood, waiting for a gunshot.

***

pactum de non cedendo: an agreement not to yield.

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[parkerspicedlatte]

Disconnected-Chapter Five (Luke Hemmings)

Summary: In an alternate universe where everyone has a soulmate, Luke and his soulmate share the rarest of them all. Some people have matching tattoos, others feel each others pain/emotions, but mental connections are the least common. The connection that Luke and Lynn share is that they can hear whatever song the other is singing. When they are close together they will be able to hear each others voices but for the meantime, they can only hear the recorded versions.

Pairings: Luke Hemmings x Lynn Corby (OC)

Warnings: None

Content: Goofy bandmates and a stressed Lukey :(

Featured Songs: If I Could (Jack Johnson)

The drive to Sadowa was only supposed to take about two-ish hours but due to “a few minor miss communications,” their ETA was going to be about an hour longer. Everyone was tired yet happy to be nearly at the cottage. Ashton sat behind the wheel of their rented SUV with Michael beside him in the passenger seat, leaving Luke to sit next to Calum in the back. Calum had fallen asleep about twenty minutes into the drive with his face squished against the window. Luke could see Cal’s breath fog up the window and then disappear every few seconds or so.

Michael and Ashton chatted away about their families and whatnot. Luke spent his time gathering his thoughts about the certain somebody who was plaguing his mind in more ways than one.

She was under tremendous pressure, Luke could feel it; there was something inside of him saying that the ache in his gut, the one that came and went, didn’t belong to him. He wished so badly that there was some way that he could relieve some of her stress for her. Luke had never felt her so strongly before, it was like their connection was growing. He half wondered if it meant that he was physically closer to her. Or maybe she was dealing with a stress far too strong for her body to handle and it was trying to pass some of it off his way. Luke had heard of that happening before with other types of soulmate connections, ones like mutual physicals and such, but never with the connection that they shared. Then again, it was a rare connection, one which wasn’t studied as much as the typical matching tattoo on the body of your soulmate.

“How’s she doing?” Calum’s sleepy voice interrupted Luke’s train wreck of a thought. The blond glanced over a little ways at his friend who must have just woken up. Calum had his elbow resting on the door to support his head as he watched Luke with heavy eyelids, a tiny bit of stubble shadowing his jaw line.

“She’s alive, that’s about all I know.” Luke mumbled, not bothering to expand on his worries.

“Still singing that song?”

“The Jack Johnson one, yeah she is, though she’s been quiet for the last five hours.” Luke told Calum while tapping his pen against the notepad resting on his thighs. He was keeping the notebook handy since his laptop was packed. He wasn’t going to miss the time and song if she did start signing. If this was the only way he could think of to track her down, then he sure as hell was going to be dedicated to it.

Luke was at the point where he was worried about falling into a deep sleep in case he missed something. What if she tried singing a song that might give him a clue, lyrics from a small local band that she had seen in her hometown? What if she started writing a song, her own music? What if he lost the chance to hear her voice?

That was what had been making Luke more anxious than anything. Now that he’d heard her voice in bits and pieces, like cut up ribbons with missing parts, he needed to hear her again, he craved it. Luke would gladly never sing again if it meant he could hear her sing. All Luke wanted to do was bathe himself in the sounds of her voice, to close his eyes and have the words of her song run through his ears, echoing, lightly, flowing over every inch of his skin, every hair of his body, every pain in his heart.  He missed her so much that his heart began to hurt and mourn for a loss it had never known.

But he hadn’t heard her in weeks. Just goddamn Jack Johnson! Luke was beginning to detest the song and Johnson himself. Every time he heard it in his mind his stomach would flutter and leap about making him feel slightly nauseous especially if he was standing upright. Whether it was his own mental connection to the song or hers, was beyond him.

Luke looked out of the car windows, leaning his head against the glass. The surface felt cool against his skin. The sun was just starting to come up over the tops of the downtown shops and restaurants. At the end of the road he could see stripes of pinks and peaches that faded into the pale blue of the early morning sky. At least it won’t be dark when we get there he thought to himself.

One by one he watched the old style street lamps turn off. The buildings, he would admit, created the perfect small town aesthetic. The diner with the short blue gingham curtains along the bottom of the windows, the ice cream and fudge store with the red and white striped poles out front that sat next to a flower shop with a sign advertising ‘Betty’s Handmade Macramé Plant Holders.’ Even the tattoo parlor on the corner looked friendly and inviting with their arrangement of cactuses and other small plants in between the displays of small wrist tattoos and full sleeves.

“This towns gotta be full of wanna be hipsters.” Luke heard Michael say, earning a “No kidding.” from Ashton. Calum was quiet due to the fact that he had decided to resume his nap, jet lag getting the better of him.

The last building Luke took notice of was the small bar smooshed in-between a deli and a used book store. It had a certain charm to it that Luke just couldn’t place. But there was something different about the hole-in-the-wall local bar. It was calling him in, trying to draw him closer like the song of a siren. Maybe I could convince the lads to join me for a drink in town sometime in the week.

***                                                

Ten minutes and a few dirt roads later, they finally arrived. Michael, who had bought too many energy drinks at the convenient store, hopped out of the vehicle before it was even parked. He yanked the trunk open causing a light gust of cool wind to infiltrate the warm car. Calum groaned loudly and pulled the hood of his jacket over his head while tucking his knees up into his chest, trying to retain body heat. Ashton unbuckled and turned around to shake his head at Calum. Luke just gave him an eye roll before getting out of the car and grabbing his bags from the back. Michael was already punching in the code for the lock box to retrieve the keys for the cottage, pacing from foot to foot, practically vibrating where he stood.

“Too much caffeine?” smirked Ashton as he walked up the steps to the front door with a bag in each hand.

Michael finally got the key into the lock and pushed open the door then took off into the small bungalow size cottage. “No! I’ve had to piss for over an hour and a half but you wouldn’t stop!” He shouted over his shoulder while running in between rooms, desperately looking for a bathroom.

“You mean I wouldn’t stop again.” corrected Ashton as he and Luke walked into the front room. “We already stopped twice. It wasn’t even a four hour drive.” he shouted back, peeking his head into a doorway. The door way looked like a closet, but was actually the bathroom Michael was trying to find. Ashton looked over at Luke with a shit eating grin on his face. He stood up straight to make himself look taller then took a step to stand in front of the door.

“Ashton,” Luke warned with his own grin guilty smile. “Now might not be the best time for that, he looks like he’s gonna explode any second now.”

“That’s the point.” Ashton told him. “Here-” he grabbed Luke by the shoulders and pulled him to stand beside him, effectively covering the view of the door- “stand here, now Michal definitely won’t be able to see it.” He giggled.

“Where the hell is the bathroom!” they heard Michael shout from the kitchen.

“There’s an entire forest outside Michael, why don’t you just use that?”

“He’s going to rip our heads off.” grumbled Luke.

“Oh come on, live a little.”

“Hey isn’t there supposed to be two bathro-” Luke’s question was interrupted by Michael yelling from the other end of the cottage.

“Guys!” Michael ran over towards Ashton and Luke doing everything but dance around with his legs crossed over each other as he bounced where he stood. “Help me look for a key. I think I found the bathroom but it’s locked. Who in the living hell would do that?” Michael swore.

Luke looked down at the ring of keys still dangling in the front doorknob where Michael had ironically left them while desperately looking for the bathroom. He nudged Ashton’s arm with his elbow and gestured to the door knob. Ashton sputtered out the most regretted giggle in history and tried to awkwardly cover it up with an insanely fake sounding cough. Luke bit his own lip in attempt to not laugh at Ashton’s slip up.

“Why are you guys just standing there?” demanded Michael, getting more anxious as the seconds passed while he ripped open drawers and cupboards, failing to notice the keys that were less than ten feet away from him. “Come on, for fucks sake! I’m going to burst if I don’t-” Michael’s sentence died before even leaving his lips. Sudden realisation etched itself across his face. “What are you two standing in front of?” fumed Michael, smoke practically coming out of his ears to match his literally red face.

“Nothing.” denied Ashton, “Totally not the other bathroom door.”

“You asswipes!” Michael screeched shoving Ashton and Luke out of the way then slamming the door behind him.

“What was all of that about?” sleepy faced Calum asked the two blonds who were doubled over, clutching each other and the walls laughing.

In that moment, everything was okay.

Series Masterlist

Regular Ol’ Masterlist

A/N: okay okay i know it was a short chapter but I wrote this as kind as part of another chapter but then that chapter was like stupid long and I wanted to string you guys on a little longer (MU AH HA HA HA HA). Plus we haven’t seen too much 5sos interacting as a band and Luke needed something to make him happy for a while. I promise you guys next chapter will be longer. Much excitement too. Thanks for reading and supporting, love you guys

-xx Reetz

Taglist: @madformichael @h0tsos @fiesty5sos @misskarynie @negative-love@captivatingcal @beautifulplacesforhappines@felonystevefoundthe1975 @mellany1997 @caswinchester2000 @babylonduke@castielandeanthedog  @katsen13 @abby-landolf @urpretendcrush @aulxna @to-the-road @pippin248 @blinkinglightsandmusic @lovcyou3000 @winniesutherland 

[stucksecond]

Hi I’m Levi and I don’t understand how to intro but here goes.

First a few things about me??

 I’m 23, I go by Levi, I’m a photographer and vidographer, and I live in Orlando Florida (wow Disney World). This is the first group Rp I’ve been a part of in a really long time, so I’m very excited to be here. :)

Also I’ve basically turned John into every emotional teenager from an indie coming of age movie and I hate it (and love it). The ‘no one understands me & I listened to bands no one’s ever heard of on vinyl and watch foreign films’ kinda dude and its HILARIOUS.

Ok now for some Headcanons about my little guy.

i. John Darling writes poetry, it’s not any good and it’s nothing he would ever share with anyone. He got into it when he was young, after reading a book about great poets. He keeps them all in a notebook he use to carry with him everywhere. It’s now locked in a desk drawer in his room (a long with many other things), but occasionally he’ll pull it out to write again. That or cringe at his own musings.

ii. John always quietly searched for something that would set him apart from Wendy and John, its important for a middle child to find themselves a place in this world. However, John found he was particularly gifted in anything. He’s not much of an artist, he’s horrible with sports, he can’t hold a tune, and although he is exceptionally smart, he’s no where near being smart enough to gain any recognition for it. His writing is subpar, nothing too special. The only thing he found any sort of reward in was photography. Despite his nearsightedness, John has a certain eye for beauty in nature and in life. Although he doesn’t share this with anyone, his photos won’t win any awards. And he’s fine with that, he just likes taking them for himself.  This hobby he picked up started when his mother let him keep an old camera they had found in the attic when he was just a boy, it ran on film and it took very long for John to figure out just how to take a photo that wouldn’t end up blurry.

iii. John sometimes wonders if his life could have been better had he not run off with Peter Pan and his Lost Boys. Before all that, he had been on track to get into a good school, a university somewhere far away from here. His grades were high and his future looked bright. But then he let himself piss it all away, and for what? To have friends? Well a whole lot of good these friends got him. Of course he’s grateful for them, but still he wonders, were they really worth it?

iv. Obviously John felt in the dark when it came to his family, being a middle child and all. He gets forgotten about or left behind, little recognition or praise. His father was often the barer of it, never did pay much mind to John unless John had done something worth scolding. His siblings had their own lives, of course they were all close but he was their brother. They had to get along with him, and of course, they had friends of their own they’d rather be with. His mother although, she tried her best to give John all the attention and love she could manage. She was busy, as their household usually was, but she took time to notice and see John. Which is why he loves her so dearly.

v. John Darling keeps a journal where he mostly writes about all the things he feels cant be said out loud. His anger towards Peter, his worries about being invisible, his wishes to get out of this town. It gets locked away in the same drawer he locks all of his private things away in. It’s for his eyes and his eyes only.  

vi. John uses music as a big escape from his stupid feelings. He enjoys classic rock but also have a vested interest in underground rock/punk bands. He doesn’t really talk about that though, since he’s not sure if it’s cool or weird. 

Pinterest

Spotify

Here’s a little writing thing of John being dramatic:

John lay quietly in his room, hands folded to cradle the back of his head as he stared up to the ceiling. Everything was so quiet. This room, this house, this entire town. It felt uneasy, like everything was wrong. But of course, something was wrong. The room had grown dim, and John wondered how long he had spent just laying here in complete silence. He didn’t bother to check though, afraid of the answer. His eyes instead focused on the window, the distant setting sun still letting some light in. His eyes focused on the window, it’s sill, the frame, the summer breeze that rolled through it bringing in the scents of cut grass. How many times had he climbed out that window? How many locks had his father had to install then reinstall when John broke them? He remembers frequent times he had tripped climbing back in and falling on his face, how scared he was that it would wake his parents. Yet it was funny every time, and Peter always laughed a little too loud about it.

Peter.

What should be a happy memory now stung like an open wound. He’d been gone almost two weeks and already the entire world felt like it was shifting. Everyone missed him, his gang, his friends, and probably most of all, Wendy. She seemed inconsolable for the first few days, held up in her room crying. Mother and Father of course, had no idea as to why. But John and Micheal, they understood, and of course, showed their support where they could. Although, they couldn’t cheer her up the same way Peter could. Everything was different without Peter.

Without him, the Lost Boys were just that, lost. They needed their leader, and without him they were all going to fall apart, John could feel that. It was taking a tole Slightly to keep it all together, he was acting like he knew what to do, but John new he was worried. It’s not like John could help though, because really, what would he do?

John wasn’t a leader, he couldn’t possibly be.

He shoved the thought from his mind, getting out of bed and flipping on the lamp on his desk. He looked to the window again. He almost expected to see Peter when he did, coming back after his adventure to tell John and the rest all about it. But he knew he wouldn’t see him, Wendy said he was gone, and John knew she would never lie.

John shut the window, eyeing the lock at the top of his frame. He had always promised to leave it alone, in case Peter ever wanted to stop by and crash. Seemed silly that John still honored a pinky promise made by children.

But they weren’t children anymore, and John had no times for Fairy Tales and Neverland. He had wasted too much time on dreaming, time to face the real world.

He locked the window and pulled the curtains shut. Enough of this childish longing, in only a few months he’s start college and he had to prepare for that life.

…But many first he should go and check up on Slightly, see how he’s holding up.

[lilyshale-archive]

the wedding invitation showed up unannounced, on a regular tuesday morning.

josie had just been grocery shopping, her hands struggling to keep hold of all the bags she ended up leaving with, as she stood in front of the rows and rows of mailboxes. giving up with a huff, she dropped her bags beside her, as she absentmindedly dealt with her pesky lock.

she knew it was coming. she knew sebastian and taylor were getting married. but despite this concrete fact, josie had allowed her mind to humour a scenario where it didn’t happen. where sebastian showed up at her door late one night and confessed his feelings for her, matching the very same feelings she’d always felt for him. it was pointless, not to mention torturous, to allow herself such childish daydreams but.. — that was josie’s problem. she always humoured a but, and as her eyes landed on the thick, white coloured, embossed envelope now resting among her other flyers and bills, she realized that had to come to an end.

and so she grabbed the dumb envelope, and shoved it into one of her shopping bags, along with the rest of mail she had waiting for her. she picked up her bags, turned on her heels, and made her way up to her apartment, leaving her stupid but in her dust.

only.. the damn envelope was now taunting her — really, it was. josie had thrown it haphazardly down on her coffee table before she headed into her kitchen to put away her groceries. tossing it aside with as little care as she felt towards the invite itself, or so she told herself. she tried, desperately, to focus on her fruit. making sure to place every last apple carefully in its place in her produce drawer within her fridge. line each box of cereal up perfectly. that nothing was out of its place. that everything she could control, was under her control.. because, as she glanced over her shoulder towards her coffee table, she could have sworn the envelope was dancing now, sticking a tongue out at her as if to say ‘ha ha ha you silly silly girl’.

god, she was going crazy.

groaning, jos ran her hands through her hair, huffing loudly. enough was enough. placing the envelope, she headed straight for her bedroom, walking with purpose— not allowing anymore strange distractions to burst her bubble. once inside, she planted herself right down at her desk, and ripped a piece of paper from a notebook, tugging a pen lid off with her teeth and spitting it across the room. josie knew what she needed to do. she needed to clear her head. get all her damned thoughts out and organized.. maybe then she could put this all behind her.

dear sebas..

timing, huh? i know, i know. timing’s a bitch, it’s probably one of the most famous sayings in the damn world. i should have heeded the warning, i guess but i’ve never been very good at following instruction.

but you know that. remember that time, right after we got back from the show, and i had bought that new ikea bed frame? i tried putting it together for days, seriously. three or four, before you showed up and got the damn thing up and ready in a matter of seconds.

what was it you said? ‘damn jos, they don’t call them suggestions, now do they?’

it’s just.. do you ever stop and think about how crazy it is we even met? we were on a reality show, that’s insane to think about. especially considering where we are now in our lives. like.. you’re getting married! married, wow. and look, i’m happy for you. i really am and i want you to remember that before you continue reading. okay? promise me you’ll hold on to that.

don’t get married.

i love you. i think i’ve always loved you and i know, the timing.. it’s all wrong. it shouldn’t be like this but i don’t have any other choice. i am in love with you and it’s killing me. you’re killing me, sebas.

i thought i could ignore it, go the rest of my life pretending we were always just friends but after seeing you at your moms? i realized i can’t. i want to be more than that to you. i want to be your family. i used to be.. i like to think i was, anyway. all those nights in your mom’s backyard, looking up at the stars after the afternoon bbqs. there was something there. i know it and i think you know it too.

i don’t know what went wrong, where we.. got off track but don’t marry her. give me a chance, give us a chance. i have to know.. and i think you do too. don’t let us be an almost, sebas. don’t let this be the end of our story. give me a shot to show you that we were always the perfect match, that we’re the only match that matters.

allow yourself to love me, i promise i won’t ever take you for granted again.

yours, always..

josie.

pushing herself away from the desk, jos wiped away the single tear that had fallen from upon her cheek. after taking a deep breath in, and letting it out, she folded the piece of paper in half, then in half again and stood up. she tucked the paper into her sweater pocket, telling herself she would recycle it later as she made her way back out to her living room and headed straight towards the wedding invite. she tore the damn thing up, badly circling ‘yes’ in regards to whether she would be attending or not.

that was it. it was all over. josie was going to let sebastian go. she was going to move on with her life, starting right now.

it wasn’t until weeks later, while she was throwing pieces of popcorn into her mouth as she watched the newest season of are you the one, did she remember the letter.. and the fact that she hadn’t exactly remembered to recycle it. she jumped up, knocking the bowl which held her snack to the ground as she rushed towards her bedroom. she scrambled around in search of the sweater in question, tearing her room apart, not stopping until she had the fabric between her figures.. only— fuck. jos’ shoved her hands in either pocket, searching.. searching.. but there was nothing. less than nothing. the letter she’d planned to throw out, along with all the feelings confessed within it, was gone.

collapsing to the floor, josie struggled to remember the last place she’d worn the damn thing — — her eyes going wide when it’d come to her. sebas’ mom’s house. three days earlier.

“fuck..” the blonde mumbled, bringing the sweater to her head, throwing it over herself like an invisibility shield. “fuck.. fuck, fuck.”

[cryingjuiceboxx]

Owl house episode that lives in my head, and maybe one day on a script

I keep thinking about how if the owl house was able to get more episodes or even shorts, I'd love to se more of luz study the world and making new gliphs. Just in more detail. Or eda (and Lilith)  teacher her potions spells. Like no overwhelming plot, just luz learning.  And like super enjoying her time doing it. Like in the beginning when willow and gus said they'd come after-school to teach them what they learned. I'd love to see a short of like, over the course of a week of willow and gus taking turns to relay their lessons.

So a week has passed since the events of teenage abomination, Luz still banned. But, is Monday! And it's been decided that Willow will take the first go of relaying lessons to Luz. They're buzzing the WHOLE DAY.  Rambling to eda during breakfast about the intricacies of plant magic. What kind of take homework do they get? What are the curriculum?  What's p.e. like? What do you think she had for lunch? On and on they go.

They start preparing for Willlow to arrive about an hour before school let's out. Luz never had been in a study group before.  At least outside of school. And even during school hours it's not as though the other kids had a choice in who the teacher paired them up with.  Luz anxiously prepares. The session should  probably be take place in living room, so they hurriedly shove any loose items into whatever crevice the owl house could provide. Kings plushies? Thrown into their room. Empty elixir bottles?  Shoved in the drawers.  quick vacuum and the rooms all set. As set as it could be at least.

Luz doesn't think Willow the type, but she still tries to ignore the voice in her head saying that Willow would look down on the owl house. And the smell. But what better way to cover up one smell with another

Not knowing what Willow might like, the coffee table became covered corner to corner with snacks and beverages and something that looks to much like ants on a log, but its vibrating. And glowing. 

With a few minutes go spare, and  rush of thank you’s for the help, Luz shoves eda and king out if the room and waits on couch uneasily for Willow.

Willow on the other hand is pumped. She's ready, she's jazzed, she gonna get to blabber (and teach of course)  about plant magic to Luz after school. She had prepared what she would bring the night before so after school she could head straight the the owl house.  A notebook with her with personal findings. A well used book that holds info on the most common plants related to the study. A small nap sack full of a variety of seeds for demonstration. And a a white pencil case with a character print full of cute pencils and colorful markers.

So things are looking real good for Willow! She's just been moved to a new track and is settling in nicely. And she's made a new friend who's interested in what she knows!  

 So the school day goes great for her! Saying her goodbyes to Gus, she makes her way to the owl house, her mind buzzing with what to talk to Luz about. What's are the plants like in the human realm?  What kind of classes do they have in human school? Do they have p.e?

Willows also thinking about how to start things of with their lesson. She hasn't really gotten to know the other plant magic students and didn't get along with the ones in abomination magic. So she's never done a study session.  Gus and her never really studied when they hung out, so she's not sure where to start. Hopefully Luz will have enough questions or an idea of where they want to start and she can just follow through with what she knows.

Luz still sits frozen on the couch. Until their suddenly jolted by Hooty announcing the arrival of Willow as he sees her in the distance. Luz practice jumps off the couch, tripping over a table leg to get over to the door.  They slam the door open, a quick  look of embarrassment at the noise and a soft apology to hooty. They see Willow in the distance coming out of the forest. As soon as they make eye contact their faces mirror one other with wide grins and unstoppable giggles.

They meet in the middle with a hugging and spinning. They find the breath between laughter to greet each other and Luz leads Willow into the owl house.

After a bit of a shock from Willow at the coffee table spread the afternoon is spent muching on snacks between stories of how her day and weekend went, comparison of hexside classes to human classes and Luz gushing about how cute Willows pencil collection is.  Once they actually start studying, they decide to delve into less about using actualy spells (I can't remember the order of events but this would be b4 Luz learns about using ghlips) 

Willow decides to tell her about how different types of plants respond to magic both in the wild, from a seed or your own personal (like a plant you've grown in a controlled environment.  her hand writing scribbled amongst the footnotes (?) They go though the types of plant, fungi, herbs, etc. Found in the boiling ilse and how different Plant magic users, well use them.

They talk about how plant magic is applied to everyday life, in the Covens, and even spotting some overlap between human world.  The day would drag on untill the sunsets, Eda popping in (as though she wasn't easedropping anytime she made her way to the kitchen) to let them know it's getting late, and she refuses to house any more stragglers

Despite Luz's pleading, Willow helps clean the table of snacks and drink and begins to pack her things and help Luz straighten up her own notes. Luz would walk Willow  out to the edge of the forest before a quick hug goodbye and the promise of Wednesday.

[feynites]

I also had a thought of an AU where Kass ends up adopting Lela. Ash and Lela go to school together and Ash talks about her and Kass starts poking around when Lela stops showing for school, one thing leads to another and Kass becomes Lela's new mama.

(Kass is such a good mom oh man I love her

Lela likes kindergarten. Mostly.

Her parents decide to send her when she is old enough to start going, even though they don’t really want to. Mama is working during the day, though, and Papa has to work at night, which means he needs quiet time for sleeping, and the neighbour who sometimes watches Lela moves and daycare is expensive. So Lela gets to go to school, which she’s excited for.

She gets less excited when she shows up and the teacher asks her where her bag is, though, and then it turns out that she needs lots of things for school. Notebooks and pencils and crayons and snacks. Teacher says she’ll talk to her parents about it, though, and for first day they only do talking anyway. They have Circle Time and Story Time, and everyone gets to guess at what letters and shapes and things are on the cards that Teacher holds up, and it’s a lot of fun!

Lela doesn’t know a lot of the answers, but she knows what a cat is, and she knows the letter ‘L’ because it’s the letter for her name. 

But the best thing about school is the other kids. 

The other kids with horns.

There are only two of them, but they’re small, like Lela, and not big, like her parents and her parents’ friends. Their horns are nubby like hers, too. One of them is a boy named Aban. Lela likes him okay, she thinks, except that he shoves a lot and pulls her hair sometimes. The other one is a girl like her. Ash-o-kara. She’s nice, and she knows almost all the answers to Teacher’s questions, too.

After the first day of school, Papa comes to get her. He comes late, but, Papa’s not so good at remembering times. Teacher tells him she needs School Things, and Papa says they’ll get them. Lela is excited! She wants crayons and a knapsack and a lunchbox with sharks on it, like Aban’s!

But then they get home and Papa says they’ll do it later, and she tells Mama but Mama forgets, and the next day Lela comes to school without anything again. Teacher doesn’t look happy about it. They’re supposed to do colouring and start learning to write letters, but Lela doesn’t have a work book or anything to write with.

Teacher finds her some spare paper, but she tells Lela this is just for now, and she needs to get her own supplies, because otherwise she is going to put everyone else out.

Lela doesn’t want to put everyone else out.

Mama comes to pick her up, and Teacher talks to her, and Mama says that they are absolutely going to get Lela her school things. She gets excited again, but they don’t go to the store. Instead Mama pulls an old bag out of her closet, and they find some pends and things in one of the kitchen drawers, and Mama goes and visits some neighbours and then comes back with a few work books. They’ve already been written in, but Mama tells her to just write around the other stuff and cross it out.

She doesn’t get a lunchbox.

But, sometimes Ashokara shares snacks with Lela. Ash’s Mama makes her snacks herself, and they taste good! Aban makes fun of her bag and some of the other kids snicker at her workbooks, and Teacher sighs and tuts and tells Lela not to think that the school is going to ‘pay her way’, and says something under her breath about oxes. It’s still a lot of fun, though. Especially during playtime, when anyone who got a gold star from answering questions gets to go and pick out a toy from the toy bin first, and then the rest of them all get to try and find something to play with, too.

Lela never gets gold stars. Ash doesn’t get them very often, either, even though she answers the most questions. Teacher says it wouldn’t be fair to let Ash have all the gold stars, so her answers stop counting. But sometimes Ash does get a gold star, and she usually lets Lela play with her when she does.

Ash’s bag has holes in it, and her work books aren’t the fancy kind, and her crayons only come in four colours. Not like some of the kids, who have glossy bags with cartoons on them, and big crayon boxes with more crayons than Lela can count. She doesn’t make fun of Lela’s things.

“We don’t gots any money since we ran away,” Ash tells her, conspiratorially, one day when they’re colouring together during Quiet Time.

Lela nods. Her parents don’t gots any money since they ran away, either.

Ash doesn’t have a Papa, though. Or, she did, but she doesn’t like to talk about it. She likes to talk about her Mama, though. Ash’s Mama sounds like the best person in the whole world. She has to work lots but she always remembers Ash’s birthday, and sometimes she takes her to the park, and she reads her stories and tucks her into bed, and makes funny jokes and always comes to pick her up on time.

One time, when Lela’s Papa is late coming to get her, she meets Ash’s mama. 

She’s taller than Lela’s Mama, but not by a lot. Her horns aren’t shorn, like Ash’s parents’, and she decides to wait with Lela until Papa comes because it’s cold outside and Teacher’s closed the classroom. Ash’s mama looks like she’s going to call Teacher a bad word, but instead she says silly goose, and it makes Lela laugh.

Lela’s parents say bad words, but gets in trouble if she repeats them. Sometimes she doesn’t know which ones are the bad ones, but she’s learned it’s usually the ones you say when you stub your toe.

Papa comes an hour late, just when Ash’s mama is saying that maybe Lela should come home with them. He scoops Lela up and calls her Pickle, and thanks Ash’s mama for waiting with her.

“You don’t have to worry, though, Lela’d stay put until I got here,” he says. “She got the obedience gene.”

Ash’s mama gives him a tight smile.

“She’s awfully little for that kind of stuff, though, isn’t she?” she asks.

Papa just laughs, and bounces her.

“Nah, we know what we’re doing, don’t we, Pickle?” he replies, and she nods, because she does. Papa being late isn’t a new thing. Lela knows what she’s supposed to do, and she’s good at waiting. She’s patient. It makes her good!

Sometimes Ash’s mama hangs around with her after that, though, especially when Papa is supposed to pick her up. Papa doesn’t seem to mind it, but Mama doesn’t like it. She thinks Ash’s mama is ‘up to something’, that she thinks she’s a better mama than Lela’s mama is, and that she wants to steal Papa. All kinds of things. It makes Lela nervous. She doesn’t think Ash’s mama is being mean or stealing, but she also doesn’t like it when her mama’s upset.

They have a fight, during spring time. After Ash’s mama says that maybe Lela could start coming home with Ash, to play, and then her parents could come get her later, when it’s more convenient. Lela’s mama gets mad, and tells Ash’s mama to stay away from Papa, she yanks Lela’s arm really hard and picks her up, and calls Ash’s mama all kinds of bad words.

Papa stops picking Lela up from school, after that. On days when Mama can’t do it, Lela’s supposed to walk home. Only, the first day she’s supposed to, she gets scared, and so Ash’s mama walks with her. She stops at the corner and says she’ll watch her all the way to the building, and she does. Lela waves goodbye to Ash and goodbye to Ash’s mama, and she doesn’t tell her parents about it. But it ends up being quicker than waiting for Papa anyway.

Kindergarten finishes, and Lela graduates to First Grade. Mama and Papa almost don’t want to let her go back to school, but she begs and pleads and they give up and say that she can. She gets work books, too, and her own packet of pencils, and Mama even buys her a bag. It’s not a shiny bag with cartoons on it, but it’s got two straps instead of one, and it’s blue and Lela loves it.

In First Grade she’s in the same class as Ashokara again, but not Aban. There are more elf kids in their class than human ones this time, and more bags and notebooks and used stuff like the kind that Ash and Lela use. And Lela likes this Teacher a lot more, too, he’s nice and he tells everyone to call him Mister Haninan, even though that’s his first name.

There’s no Circle Time in First Grade, but there is still Story Time, and also Show and Tell. Sometimes kids bring their pets. Lela thinks she likes First Grade even better than Kindergarten, especially because she and Ash get to share a desk, instead of sitting together at a table. Drawing time is Lela’s favourite. Mister Haninan lets them draw whatever they want, and if kids give him their picture to put on the big class board instead of taking it home, he lets them put a piece in the big puzzle on his desk, too. Mister Haninan says that when they finish the puzzle, he’ll bring a special treat in for the class. But it’s a big puzzle.

Lela wants to see it finished, though. Ash does, too. They take turns guessing what it might be.

When winter break comes, Lela isn’t looking forward to it as much as the other kids. At home there’s no one to offer to share their snacks with her, and her parents forget stuff, and it’s really cold. Mister Haninan says that they should all try and keep track of the fun they have during the break, and that they’ll do a big show and tell about it when they get back, so Lela tries to think of things she can talk about. Mostly stuff she sees on television, and what the cats in her building do, and when Mama tries to make a pie and it turns out pretty good.

Four days into winter break, though, the television stops working. Papa tries to fix it and Mama tries to fix it, but they can’t. It’s really boring during the day without it. So Lela tries to fix it, too, and that’s when she makes the sparks.

The television turns on for a minute.

Then the screen goes boom.

Lela gets cut by some of the glass. But her parents don’t comfort her. They look at her like she’s done something really, really bad, and she realizes that she broke the television, and she doesn’t understand why sparks came out of her hands. She tries to apologize, but they won’t even let her touch them. They back away from her, even though she’s bleeding and she’s saying sorry and she tries to fix it, but she just cuts herself again.

Eventually, Mama tells her to go in the bathroom, and she tells Lela to wash her cuts and put bandaids on them. It’s hard, and Lela doesn’t understand why she won’t touch her. But she’s put her own bandaids on before. She manages, and then her parents tell her to go to her room and stay there.

Lela stays in her room.

It doesn’t take long before she hears shouting.

The shouting lasts for a long time. Longer than she can ever remember it lasting before, and Lela hears what they say, though she doesn’t understand all of it.

But... she understands enough.

Sometimes the kids at school talk about magic, and mages. Some of the older kids at school are mages, and some of the parents don’t want them to go to school with everyone else. Mages are dangerous. Mister Haninan says that people are scared of magic, but that magic is just a tool. Hammers can make a mess of things, too, if someone doesn’t know what they’re doing with one, or if they decide to use it to hurt someone else.

But Lela’s magic blew up the television. Lela’s Mama is crying and her Papa is asking if she knew and shouting about monsters and Mama says this must be a punishment, that this is what happens when people leave the qun, and Papa says it’s her fault and Mama says it’s his because they agreed they’d be like southern married people but Papa keeps treating her friends like Tamassrans, and it was Papa’s idea to send Lela to that school with saarebas running around and it’s Lela’s fault, it’s Lela’s fault because she’s bad and she’s a monster and she’s always been a monster...

Lela covers her ears.

When the fighting finally stops, her hands still hurt and she’s hungry, and she wonders if she can come out yet. She goes to her door, and opens it a crack.

Her parents hear the noise.

She sees them looking back at her, with expressions she’s never seen on them before.

“Stay in your room,” Papa tells her.

“I’m sorry,” she tries.

Mama looks away, and starts to cry.

“I know,” Papa says. “Just... stay in there, okay? Go to bed. We’ll deal with it in the morning.”

Lela starts to cry. She doesn’t know what else to do. Papa comes over, then, and she hopes he’ll pick her up. But all he does is look at her, with that look on his face, and when he reaches out, it’s to close her door.

Maybe, she thinks, if she does what she’s told, then they’ll forgive her.

In the morning, Mama gives her a bowl of cereal, but makes her eat it in her room. She tells her to stay there and to not do anything, because Papa needs sleep so she has to be quiet and good. It’s a little weird, but Lela hopes things are maybe going back to normal. She goes on best behaviour, and eats her cereal, and stays in her room for most of the day.

But when Papa wakes up, and she goes to see him, he looks at her that way again. And he tells her to go back into her room, and stay there, unless she needs to use the bathroom.

It’s the same when Mama gets home. Papa brings her soup for dinner, but he doesn’t hardly talk to her, or look at her. Lela does her best to be good and quiet and not to cry, but it’s hard. Her parents fight again. Papa leaves for work. Mama does something with the broken television, and when Lela leaves her room and cries her way through more attempted apologies, she just tells her to go back to her room, please.

Go back. Go away.

Lela goes.

The next day is the same. And the one after that. And the whole of winter break passes. Lela doesn’t know what to do. Maybe, she thinks, when school starts again, it will get better. She can ask Mister Haninan what he thinks would help. Maybe he’d help her write a card, her parents usually like the cards she does them on Mother’s Day and Father’s Day.

Except, when the time for school to start roles around, her parents tell her she’s not going back.

Lela doesn’t understand. But the more she apologizes and the more she asks the more upset her parents seem to get, too, and then she does it. She puts her hand down and up flares another spark, and her parents back away from her in horror. Papa shouts at her and tells her to go to her room, and when Lela runs in there and shuts the door, she hears her Mama crying.

I’m sorry, she thinks. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to, I’m sorry...

Eventually, Papa comes, and talks to her through her closed door.

“We can’t let you go back,” he says. “You would kill the other children, and we would go to jail.”

Lela’s heart pounds frantically against her chest. Kill them? She doesn’t want to kill them! She doesn’t want to kill anybody! She didn’t even mean to break the television, but when she tries to explain, Papa moves away. She hears his steps, going fast as he leaves, and when she tries to open the door again, she can’t. Something’s pressed up against it.

Lela doesn’t go back to school.

Lela doesn’t leave the apartment, and hardly leaves her room, after that.

A new routine settles in. In the morning, at first, Mama gives her breakfast, and then she starts leaving the cereal out for her. At night, Lela is stuck in her room, but in the morning, Mama locks the door to her and Papa’s room, and lets Lela out so that she can have her breakfast and use the bathroom while Papa sleeps. Lela is to be back in her room by the time Papa gets up, but the door isn’t locked and she’s allowed to use the bathroom until nighttime, when she gets shut in again. Twice, she wakes up and has to go, and she bangs on the door until one of her parents lets her out. But they stay away when they do, and won’t let her touch them.

Another week goes by, like this.

Lela misses school. She misses Mister Haninan, and drawing time, and Ash. She doodles in her work books, even though they’re not for doodling in, and she daydreams about what’s going on in class, and she misses watching television, too. But whenever she thinks of that she just feels a huge mess of guilt, and starts to cry. And it hurts when she cries, because no one comes.

She’s crying a week and a day later, when she hears the knock at the door.

Papa is asleep, and Mama is at work. Lela waits, to see if Papa will get up. But another knock comes, and he doesn’t; and she wonders if it’s their neighbour, if one of the cats got onto their balcony again.

Lela doesn’t think she’s supposed to answer the door.

But there’s no rule against it, so when the third knock comes, she gets out of her room. 

The door to her parents’ room opens then, though. Papa looks sleepy, and startled. When he sees her, he makes frantic gestures back to her room. She goes, and she hears him drag the chair they’ve been using to block it off to the front of it, and her heart sinks. He goes and answers the door. She can hear him, and then she feels a pang when she hears the person on the other side.

“...hasn’t been back to school,” Ash’s mama says, as Lela leans towards the wall. “Has she been sick? Ashokara was worried, and wanted to know if she could send her a get well soon card.”

“No, no, everything’s fine,” Papa says.

“Then... why hasn’t she been back to school?” Ash’s mama asks.

“It’s complicated,” Papa tells her.

“Is she home? Could I say hello to her?” Ash’s mama wonders, and Lela’s heart speeds up, because Ash’s mama is nice and maybe she’ll know what Lela can do to make her parents stop hating her.

Or, a little voice inside whispers. She’ll be just as scared of you as they are.

Papa sighs, and then makes a frustrated noise. And then a sound, like he’s almost going to cry.

“Tarlaath,” Ash’s mama says, with a funny tone in her voice as she uses Papa’s name. “Where is your daughter?”

“I don’t have a daughter,” Papa says. Lela feels a wash of cold in her, as he says a bunch of stuff in qunlat, then. Papa never uses qunlat. “That thing is not a child, it was never a child, that saarebas is in our home and we are cursed with it now! She is a demon!”

“Tarlaath!” Ash’s mama snaps, sounding mad. 

“Don’t look at me like that!” her papa snaps back. “You should know, you should know what it means for one of us to have a creature like that in our midst! She will kill us all with a wave of her hand!”

Lela cries.

She can’t help it. She doesn’t want to be a monster. She doesn’t want to, and Papa sounds so scared, and now he’s told Ash’s mama and Ash’s mama is mad and everyone hates her and Lela doesn’t understand, she just wanted to help fix the television, she just wanted cartoons.

She’s crying too hard and her breaths are all hiccups when the door to her room opens.

Lela barely has time to register that before someone is scooping her up. For a moment she thinks it’s Papa, and then she thinks no, it’s Mama, but it’s neither of them. Ash’s mama smells like the same soap as hers, though, and she does not shy away as Lela buries her face against her and cries and cries and cries.

“i’m - s-sorry,” she hiccups, as a warm hand brushes her back.

“Shhh,” Ash’s mama says. “You don’t have to be sorry for anything.”

She does, though, she did a bad thing and she broke the television, and she tries to tell Ash’s mama but it comes out all garbled. But Ash’s mama just makes soothing noises and tells her it’s okay, that accidents happen, that she knows Lela didn’t mean to. It’s okay, it’s okay.

“You shouldn’t do that,” Lela’s Papa says. “You haven’t seen what she can do.”

Ash’s mama puts her hand against the back of her head, and holds her face against her shoulder as she turns around.

“Oh, yes, snot bubbles on my shirt, how terrifying,” she says. 

Lela sniffs, and lifts a hand up to try and wipe them away. She glances over towards Papa, but he’s standing outside the door to her room; and he’s still looking at her like he thinks she’s going to do something terrible to him. 

But after a moment, he looks at Ash’s mama, and then at her, and then back at Ash’s mama again. And his expression changes, a little.

“You’re a tamassran, right?” he asks.

Ash’s mama stiffens, at the term.

“No,” she says.

Papa laughs, nervously.

“But you know some, right?” he presses. “There has to be someplace for sending things like her. The human chantry doesn’t take them anymore, and we can’t go back to Seheron, but...”

Ash’s mama covers one of her ears, and presses the other one flat against her shoulder.

Lela doesn’t hear what she says, but she can tell it’s not happy. She clutches her collar and closes her eyes, and wonders what’s going to happen. She doesn’t want to be put down, it feels like it’s been so long since someone hugged her, but eventually, Ash’s mama moves her hand back towards brushing her hair. She hears the door to her Papa’s room close, and then she’s lowered gently back onto the floor.

“Okay,” Ash’s mama says. “We’re going to pack you a bag, Lela, and you’re going to come and stay with me and Ash for a while. If that’s okay with you?”

She kneels down so Lela can see her face to face, and her expression is gentle.

Lela hesitates.

“Like a sleepover?” she asks.

“Something like that,” Ash’s mama says. “Your parents are being very silly, and they’re not doing such a good job of looking after you right now. So I’m going to take you home, okay? Don’t worry, everything will be alright.”

Everything will be alright.

Lela feels like she’s been waiting to hear that ever since the television broke.

“Can I go back to school?” she wonders, quietly.

Ash’s mama smiles, and smooths a hand over her horn nubs.

“Of course you can,” she says. “We’ll just need to have a talk with your teacher, but Mister Haninan will be thrilled to have you back. Everyone missed you very much.”

“Ash too?” Lela checks.

“Ash too,” her mama says. Then she straightens back up, and looks around the room. She picks up Lela’s bag.

“Let’s bring everything important, okay? All your school stuff and clothes and toys. Show me where it all is, and we’ll decide what to take.”

Lela points towards the dresser, and gets her old stuffed bunny from her bed. They manage to fit most of her things into her school bag, and a garbage bag that Ash’s mama gets from the kitchen. Papa’s door stays closed. Ash’s mama takes her to the front door, along with her things, and then hesitates.

“Wait right here,” she says, before she goes over to Papa’s door. She knocks on it.

“We’re leaving,” she tells him.

Papa doesn’t answer.

Lela looks at the floor.

After a moment, Ash’s mama comes back and lifts up her bags, and then takes her by the hand.

“They hate me,” Lela whispers.

She hadn’t said it out loud before. And part of her, a really big part of her, just wants Ash’s mama to tell her that it’s not true. To say that, no, of course they don’t, and for Papa to open the door and call her pickle, and tell her he could never hate her because she’s his silly bean.

Instead, Ash’s mama leans down again.

“They’re afraid,” she says. “But that’s not your fault. You haven’t been bad, Lela. They have.”

Lela blinks. She’s not really sure if she feels better or not. But her feet don’t feel like they’ve been bolted to the floor, at least, and when Ash’s mama takes her hand again, she walks out of the door on her own two feet.

[omnical]

I Sing the Body Electric... (1/?)

( Next )

Summary: All her life, forensic pathologist Dr. Angela Ziegler has dabbled much with the dead. After a bout of self-realization, she decides it was time she learned how to deal with the living.

And maybe ask her colleague out for a date somehow.

Genre: AU, Romance. Dark humor. Oh, and ghosts and psychics (anyone a fan of pushing daisies?)

Characters/Pairings: Angela, Lucio, Fareeha (mentioned), Pharmercy

Rating: T, mentions of body gore and third party violence, dark humor.

Links: AO3

Victim died from a singular sharp force: a penetrating wound to the head, resulting in cranial injury.

Left side, approximately 1.53 inches superior to the left orbit.

No murder weapon discovered in the crime scene.

Angela hummed, tapping her lip with the pen.

She paused the voice recorder and wrote her thoughts down on a yellow notebook, leg bobbing, her mind sinking deeper into concentration. By her elbow, a steaming cup of coffee remained untouched, and a nine-hour-old, empty sandwich wrapper laid crumpled up in a ball. Empty coffee cups littered her desk, alongside a mess of sticky notes with crucial thoughts written on them, such as: ‘the nasal cavity?’ and ‘lentil soup’.

Her uniform smelled freshly of antiseptic and murk from the examination they had performed earlier today. It sunk into her skin, her hair; lingering under her nose. Nothing she wasn’t used to, but being used to the smell did not mean she wouldn’t enjoy a long, hot shower back home. Finally, wiping biscuit crumbs off her wobbling keyboard and cracking her long, crooked fingers -- Angela got to work threading the details together. Her peering blue eyes did not break away from the notes and sketches she accumulated, as she typed down her meticulous observations regarding the case. And after what felt like hours, Dr. Ziegler sat back stiffly, curled hands hovering above the keyboard as she skimmed through her official autopsy report, eyes straining from overexposure to the monitor light.

She needed a few more moments of scribbling and typing and biting her pen. Playing the recorder again, keeping it on repeat; she listened to the sound of her voice, crackling and interspersed with static:

Body was found by janitorial staff at 1:30 PM.

According to the man in question, he was lying face-down on his desk, his pose suggesting a struggle, which explains various points of discoloration on his skin…

Blunt force trauma found on abdomen… bruising prominent beneath the left rib –

Where was his position when he received that bruise again?

Angela hummed, her thumbs tapping a random rhythm on the keyboard's space-key.

Once she reached the end of the tape for the third time, marked by a soft ‘click’, afternoon had already come and gone, her desktop monitor the only light bathing her in blue. She hid the recorder in the drawer, her free hand busy alternating between drafting a few rough sketches on paper, and typing exact details on the autopsy report. The doctor took a moment to grab a folder for Case #765 on top of a pile, opening it and flipping over to the photos of the crime scene: dried blood splattered outwards in every chaotic direction on the victim’s mahogany desk; his leather writing pad askew, probably because of how the body fell upon its expiry. She pinched her pen idly between her nose and upper lip, noting how neat the rest of the victim’s desk looked otherwise. She wondered what Satya would say about that particular pattern of blood. It looked like a bunny rabbit.

“Doc Ziegler?”

Cutting herself off in the middle of her thoughts before it drifted too far, Angela reached out to grab her coffee cup, not minding its ice-cold contents, and re-read her notes during their Internal Examination. Angela could only imagine what kind of weapon the murderer used. Or get an idea of what it was, at least, after seeing the results of the death blow herself. This seemed like a tricky one.

“Doc?”

Now if she were to make a guess, it would have been an extremely sharp knife with a serrated edge or…

Angela blindly grabbed for her pen, cocking her head when she realized, during her feverish thought process, she had lost the blasted thing somewhere and could not for the life of her remember where…

“Yo, Dr. Ziegler!” Angela blinked rapidly when Dr. dos Santos’ face appeared in front of her peripheral vision, her blurry sight sharpening until she could see the quirk of his eyebrow and his amused smirk up close. “Busy?” After a pause, a few seconds spent allowing her mind to buffer as she forcefully snapped herself back into reality, Angela jumped in her chair and uttered a small and startled ‘oh’. Her speeding thoughts halting violently in its tracks, not unlike a race car screeching out of the road in a rabble of chaos. She blinked again and, similar to the spread of colored dye blooming in water, her mind began to consciously feel the kinks and aches in her bones ignored for too long. A beat, and she realized her stomach had also released an embarrassing rumble on top of it all. She sent Lucio a sheepish look.

“Doctor, I’m sorry, I -- ” Angela shoved her skewed glasses up her nose, “You startled me.”

Lucio shook his head and rested hands on his hips while he regarded his frazzled mentor. There were biscuit crumbs dotting the corners of her mouth, and her blonde hair stuck up in several different directions all at once. Her clothing was rumpled and frayed, high heels pushed to the corner of her desk, leaving her feet covered in wrinkled stockings, and -- there were coffee stains on her shirt. He sighed, wondering who was really looking after who, in their professional relationship.

“So,” he said, elongating the word into a drawl, “Please tell me you ate lunch?”

Dr. Ziegler cleared her throat, “Yes, of course I had lunch.” she said, wiping crumbs off her chin. “I had something hot and soup-like almost an hour ago, and – “

“I don’t think coffee counts as ‘lunch’, Angela.”

Angela groaned in defeat and closed her eyes, watching bright spots dance beneath her eyelids as her body melted into the chair like putty. She breathed in deep, then stretched her legs out with an exhale. “Just finishing up on some paperwork, that’s all. You know how I get carried away sometimes.”

“How about all the time? And I think ‘carried away’ wasn’t exactly the term I was looking for. Try ‘workaholic’, or ‘perfectionist’.” Lucio leaned his hip against Angela’s desk, crossing his arms, and peering down at her with a mock frown, his neon green headset bunched up around his neck. Even if Dr. Lucio dos Santos was many years younger than her, and technically working under her, Angela hunkered down into her seat feeling much like a child under the watchful eyes of a parent. “When was the last time you took a ten-minute break, young lady?”

“I am not working too hard,” Angela groused. She sat back up in her seat with a grunt, feeling her back and neck pop. “This is just regular me, doing my regular me things,” She shot him a look. “Mom.”

“Don’t give me lip, young lady, you know you’re wrong about this,” Lucio said, “As your colleague, you know I respect and look up to you. But as your friend? You gotta start taking care of yourself, Angela.”

Angela huffed through her nose and began to get her hands busy, stacking the mess of reports which covered her desk into a neat-ish pile, and actively trying to avoid the look Lucio was giving her. “Just be glad I am out of my funk, Dr. dos Santos. I am happy, motivated, and ready to take on the next seventeen cases.” Even the smile on her face felt fake. “Bring it on.”

“Uhuh.” Lucio wryly glanced at the mess of documents under her desk. “Angela, I’m sorry I gotta tell you this, but you have got to get a hobby. Doing something other than work might help you more with this midlife crisis thing.”

“I am not having a midlife crisis thing. I’m not that old, doctor. And–” Angela raised her eyebrows, denial written plainly across her face, “I do have a hobby,” she said with a shrug, “It just so happens that my hobby is related to my work.”

“Your hobby is dead bodies.” Lucio muttered.

“Solving problems. Discovering the unknown.”

“… About dead bodies.”

“Now, if you would kindly excuse me,” Angela threw her entire weight into tossing a giant, teetering stack of documents on the floor next to her feet with a huff. “I was, in fact, about to go and take my break.” she said, dusting her hands together, “Want to have lunch with me, doctor? It will be my treat.”

“It’s seven-thirty in the evening, Doc.”

“Oh, well, time flies I suppose.” Angela said, opening one of her desk drawers, then absentmindedly shoving Jim Jam wrappers and empty coffee cups inside. As if that would make her trash disappear in the morning.

After six months working in King’s Row Forensics Department, the terrifying sight of Dr. Ziegler’s desk hygiene was common enough for Dr. dos Santos to see. He learned early from older residents how futile it was to drag Dr. Ziegler away from a job, and Dr. dos Santos no longer stared at her and her atrocious, self-destructive habits in awe. Their student-mentor positions didn’t stop Lucio from chastising her about her work ethic, especially after witnessing drawn shadows prominent under her eyes everyday, and her smudged make up only completed Angela's usual look. Now one of Lucio’s many fears was finding Angela Ziegler in their morgue someday.

However.

Dr. dos Santos peered at her above the rim of his glasses, and noted the glow about her cheeks with a raised brow.

"Now that I think about it, I haven’t seen you this excited about solving a case since…”

“I am always excited about solving cases.”

“But where was that Doc Ziegler who was ‘tired of it all’ and who ‘wanted to do something new with her life’?” he asked, “Someone who wanted nothing to do with ‘death and dead stuff’? Don't give me that look, you know what I'm talkin' about."

"Lucio--"

"Where was that Angela Ziegler who was planning to quit and maybe try being a football coach or a field medic or something?”

“She is still here, and she happened to get a grip on reality after a lot of thinking.” Angela said, ducking her head, as if that would hide the dusting of red on her cheeks. “Besides, I am already finished with this case. The precinct needs it urgently tomorrow, and, you know…” she stumbled on her words.

“And?”

“I had to finish it quickly.” Angela finished lamely, her voice raising an octave higher as if that would make her sound innocent with her intentions. “Detective Amari was asking about it this morning, and I felt compelled to help her crack this case as soon as possible.”

Lucio felt both his eyebrows reach up his hairline. “Oh. I see. I see.” he said, a twinkle reaching his eye while he casually turned to check his nails, trying to appear more interested with its polish rather than the conversation itself, “Detective Dimples is an awesome source of motivation, isn’t she? Hoping to share a hobby with her, huh?”

“Oh, Lucio!” Angela almost jumped out of her chair, smacking his shoulder with a manila folder. “Don’t call her Detective Dimples.”

“Hey, you were the one swooning over her ‘smoky voice‘ and ‘beautiful smile’ a few days ago.” Lucio laughed, rubbing at the spot she slapped. “Admit it, doc, you’re too gay to handle another meeting with her.”

Angela exhaled, and schooled her features before she became too flustered; raking her fingers through her hair, and hoping the red flush now covering her neck down would fade before another nosy nancy came into the office.

Relax. You are a doctor. You are a professional.

She straightened up in her chair, and folded her hands together in her lap. “I wanted to make sure I handed it in right away, that is all.” she said, managing an impressive professional lull in the tone of her voice. “I didn’t want to make our relationship with the precinct worse than it already is. And secondly,” Angela’s brows pinched in annoyance, and pointed at her office with a sharp jab of her forefinger: “‘Detective Dimples’ stays inside this room, doctor.”

“Detective Amari’s bone structure and cheekbones are so sharp and prominent–“

“Lucio.”

“It makes me want to take up anthropology. Oh Detective.”

“Lucio!”

“Fine, fine, I promise I won’t bring it up again.” he said, trying not to double up in laughter, his poor attempt almost making him slip off her desk. “Professional reasons my ass, though, I know you’re her favorite in the lab. Always asking about you and your ‘thoughts’.” he waggled his eyebrows, “You should ask her out instead of doing this–” he motioned his hands at her vaguely, “Weird flirting ritual thing you’re doing. I doubt you can woo her by talking about dead bodies, Doc Ziegler.”

“I do no such thing, doctor.”

“You need to get out there and get a life. Any life. Get a hobby. Get some friends. Ask Detective A out on a sweet date. Live a little.”

“I do have friends. You’re my friend, yes? Sometimes I even read books.”

“Thrilling.”

“And the detective and I do connect, socially, but just as acquaintances and nothing more.” Angela said, pulling her fingers thoughtfully, “I am a grown woman, doctor, I have complete control of my life.”

“Last time you spoke to her, you struck up a conversation about bile.”

“Well, I thought it was fascinating.” Angela grabbed the rest of her documents and began to rearrange them in a tray next to her monitor, this time with less gusto, feeling herself hunch over as her mind began to conjure up depressing thoughts. “I don’t think I am her type, anyways.”

“Oh, nonsense.”

But it was true. Whether Angela liked it or not, why would anybody consider dating a frumpy, high-strung workaholic, who liked to open up dead bodies for a living?

Dr. Ziegler and Detective Amari were connected through their profession only, no matter what her feelings were. They barely did anything beyond striking awkward pleasantries and empty conversations with each other. Trying anything more proved too much for her to handle. She found it difficult navigating through compelling words above work jargon, while stuttering and pushing through her infuriating and terrifying feelings. Not even the universe was kind enough to let them to meet on different circumstances, thus, they only ever saw each other to discuss murder cases among... other things.

Angela’s eyes, tired and unfocused, turned to look back at the autopsy report, wishing she could get sucked back into its world, where things had more clarity and sense and nothing was embarrassing.

Angela wondered when speaking with the dead became easier for her than dealing with the living.

She checked the time on her digital clock, blinking when she read it was now seven-forty six in the evening. The lights from the city cast a glow over the smoggy horizon, and as Angela listened carefully, she could hear police sirens echo off from a distance. She wondered if it was going to be another case they would eventually find through their doors.

Another body, another life ended.

She felt a hand on her shoulder ground her, all teasing gone from Lucio’s voice. “You won’t know unless you try, Doc.”

EDITED (26/09/17): Just the pacing and switched some words :) Thank you!

[sangfearmoved]

📦🎐🎀📔

>   HELP ME DESIGN SODA’S PENTHOUSE [ ✧ ]>   ACCEPTING

📦   —   Desk

buried in manuscripts and notebooks and overflowing with research materials. it’s organized for the most part, sort of like a teacher’s desk, big and oaken with pencils and pens shoved in one drawer, paper clips and thumbtacks and glue and tape and whatnot in another, etc. the surface is most often littered in bits of the species or things she’s studying in various containers, i.e. tentacle clippings, shark or deep sea fishes’ teeth, ink samples, rocks and bits of metal from valley, stuff like that. there’s an expensive laptop in the middle, though it’s almost never used.

she’s trying to move most of it to a lab room, but she’s still in the process of equipping that, so right now it’s stuck. it’s also where she does all her paperwork most of the time, so it gets a little frustrating having to make space for two different disciplines on just one desk.

🎐   —   Items/knick knacks they collected

she used to collect gear (shoes esp), though that was back in the plaza, so little of it fits anymore. maybe she’s got a couple snowglobes for novelty’s sake, but that’s as far as knickknacks go; the rest of it is information: maps, textbooks, fossils, anything she thinks might be useful in her study. she kept the entire set of sunken scrolls from valley, and ended up confiscating canyon’s from ness after he almost ruined them. she also has a complete set of shakespeare’s works in audiobook format.

🎀   —   Jewelry or accessories they have

do the hypnoshades count? if not, a set of authentic dog tags on a silver chain and a shark tooth necklace (and they’re not navarre’s, imagine that!), but that’s about it; far as she’s concerned, necklaces are too easy to grab and choke with. she just has a couple studs and hoops for her navel piercing (though one is diamond-studded) and doesn’t often wear them besides. if she ever wears rings, they stay on her right hand. her ears aren’t pierced.

she doesn’t own a lot of cold-weather accessories, like scarves and gloves, since low temperatures are p inconsequential to her. and technically, it’s a cosmetic, but she has like two shelf-fulls of perfume. fuck you, marie.

📔   —   Their notes/records

primarily, her notebooks are full of biological studies, and once enough are full they’re organized and bound together into a manuscript. she carries around a little pocket-sized notebook with a stub of a pencil for quick observations, either in her shirt pocket or inner pocket of her agent jacket. she also keeps track of her schedule, (self-imposed) budget, and whatnot in various other books. they’re all painfully detailed and organized.

she also has an old database of famous ranked players and battle strategies dating back from the plaza, but that’s in storage and she’s no use for it now. nor does she update it, being now she’s access to cuttlegear’s database, and how her interest in recreational turf war has waned.

[sending-the-message]

I Live In Her Walls by realestatechick91

I’m a real estate agent, fairly new to the job. We’re currently repping a house on behalf of the bank. The house was handed to me two days ago. Sometimes, if the previous tenant has died or disappeared, they leave all their belongings behind.

I’m something of an amateur historian, and so occasionally I go looking through these belongings. They’re the property of the bank anyway, and usually come part and parcel with the house for any new buyers. Yesterday, I was surveying this property and I came across a notebook, just resting on the desk in a study. Right there, as if it wanted me to find it.

It didn’t look that old. When I opened it, the words inside were written in crayon, but clearly in an adult’s handwriting. The contents are fairly disturbing. My boss has prohibited me from taking it to the police. He says it’s fiction and it’ll be a waste of their time. Maybe he’s right. But, as per the instructions in the text, I’m sharing them here just in case. I hope it helps.

My name is Chris. I’m twenty six years old. I’m a former IT technician. I’m survived by my mom, my dad, my sister, and Buddy the family dog. I used to have an apartment. I used to have a life.

Now, I live in her walls.

For reasons I won’t go into, I was made jobless and homeless. I could’ve reached out to my family. I should’ve. But I’ve always been a stubborn guy, and I wanted to handle this myself. My family aren’t exactly rich. I didn’t want to be a burden. I’d get back on my feet. It wouldn’t be hard.

It was harder than I anticipated. Nights of sleeping rough, or cowering in a shelter, my bag clutched to my chest out of fear of being shanked by one of the city’s more hopeless destitutes. An ache in my body that seeped into my very bones, for which seemingly no warmth could serve as a panacea. An ache I dulled with alcohol, and eventually prescription drugs, illicitly obtained from an old wino in the Sixth Street shelter who always seemed to have a healthy supply. By the time I was in desperate need of help, I was too far gone to acknowledge it.

I spied the house by chance, exploring a new neighborhood for some prospective panhandling. I scoped it out for days. It was an unassuming Victorian town house in the good part of the city, a For Sale sign swinging old and forgotten in the overgrown yard. White paint with blue trim, lace curtains, and most importantly, a window into the basement that I could easily jimmy. I lurked in the area, watching the house; nobody was coming or going. It was clear to me that nobody lived there. But still, despite my alcohol- and drug-addled brain, I was cautious. I made sure.

All I wanted was a safe place to sleep for a few nights. I wasn’t going to vandalize the property or steal anything. A warm bed, hopefully running water, a place to recuperate and collect myself, away from the comings and goings of others in the same boat as me. Safety, comfort, or the temporary illusion of such things. An injection of hope to keep me going.

As I slid through the basement window on that fateful Friday night, hope was on my mind. This could be the turning point for me. Collect myself, get healthy, move on with the owners none the wiser. Maybe, finally, reach out to my family.

Hope. It’s what I felt as I dropped onto the bare concrete floor, my eyes adjusting to the cellar dark. Hope.

The house doesn’t represent hope. It’s the place where hope comes to die.

*

Upstairs, every surface was coated in a thin layer of dust; nothing severe, but enough to tell me that my suspicions were correct; the house was empty. It was decorated like your standard town house; old fashioned furniture, perhaps from the sixties, beige carpets, knick-knacks in the living room. A locked door downstairs led to a study, perhaps. A grandfather clock stood in the hall, silent and unwound. My feet squeaked over the tiled floor as I headed towards the stairs, and I winced at the sound, even knowing I was alone.

The house felt empty. An old, musty smell wafted through the rooms, the ghost of an older inhabitant perhaps, which hadn’t been aired since they departed. Had they left of their own volition? Had they died? Something told me the latter. But even the prospect that they might’ve expired in the house didn’t sway me. My legs ached, my head hurt. I needed my pills and I needed rest. Upstairs promised a bed, a soft mattress, respite.

The master bedroom had all the trappings of a his-n-hers cohabitation. A king size double bed took up most of the room, opposite which I spied a built-in wardrobe into which I peered. An old lady’s dresses and an old man’s suits, hanging mothballed from hangers, smelling faintly of mildew. I noticed a hatch at the back of the wardrobe, which I figured must lead to further storage space. A vanity table sat by one window, a chest of drawers on the opposite wall.

The small bedside clock worked, thankfully, and I could see it was nearly midnight. I could explore the rest of the house tomorrow. Right then, I needed rest, suddenly and absolutely. I collapsed onto the bed, so soft, softer than I’d felt in months. Just before I drifted off into a dreamless sleep, it struck me that I hadn’t seen a single photograph in the house, not framed on a mantle or hanging on the walls. It wasn’t too strange, I thought. The previous occupants must’ve taken them. My brain, sleep-deprived, didn’t consider the fact that they’d taken nothing else.

I awoke to sunlight streaming through the window. I felt rested, recovering. And yet strangely alert, on edge, wary. Had something woken me? It took just a second to realize what. From outside of the room I heard footsteps, slow and deliberate, and then a cheerful humming. The voice sounded feminine, old.

Oh shit.

Had the old lady really come back, suddenly? Of all the awful luck.

I panicked, scrambling out the bed, eyes darting around the room. I couldn’t leave, lord knows where she was in the house. Sure, I could likely overpower an old woman, but there was no way I was doing that unless I absolutely had to. I’m not a monster.

I remembered the crawl space in the built in wardrobe. It seemed as good an option as any. I darted to it, pulling it open. A cavernous black space loomed beyond. Without thinking, I pulled shut the wardrobe door behind me and slipped into the darkness.

The area I found myself in was cold. I was pressed up against the brickwork, pinned in a claustrophobic corridor between the walls. I stood there for a moment, catching my breath, trying to calm my nerves, then sidled down to a dappling of light a few feet away. A vent, looking into the bedroom. At over six feet tall, I was barely able to peer through.

The door to the bedroom opened and an old woman entered. I say old, she was ancient. A withered, round-shouldered crone who shuffled in, peering around with beady eyes. Her face, wrinkled like a prune, twitched as if she was sniffing the air. And all the while, a beautiful melodic hum emanated from her lips.

The woman moved around the room, tutting at the unmade bed. I hoped that she’d forgotten the state in which she’d left it. Then my heart sank. Icy fear gripped my spine. Beside the bed, I saw it; my bag, my worldly possessions. My pills were in there. My booze. My driver’s license. Shit! I said a silent prayer that the old woman wouldn’t notice.

I couldn’t afford to be caught. I couldn’t. During my homeless days, I’d been arrested twice. Once for aggravated assault against a businessman in a bar who provoked me, and looked presentable enough for the law to come down on his side despite witness testimony. Once for public drunkenness. I’d managed to avoid jail time, but I knew if I got caught breaking and entering, that’d be it, they’d lock me up. I wouldn’t go to jail. I couldn’t.

I almost wept with relief as the old woman turned away from the side of the bed on which my bag rested. She shuffled out of view, towards the vent I stood behind. Her humming drifted up into the walls, haunting and soothing. Then the notes began to transform, shifting into a cruel, cackling laugh. I held firm, heart pounding in my chest. There was no way that little old lady could’ve seen me in the vent. No way.

With a shriek, her withered old face appeared in front of me, staring directly through the vent, over six feet high. Her eyes, yellowing and rheumy, were wide and malevolent. Her mouth split open in a rictus grin, revealing a smattering of rotten teeth. She shrieked and howled, eyes locked onto mine gleefully. I stumbled backwards in as little space as I had, cracking my skull against the brickwork behind. Somewhere to my right, I heard a loud, metallic slam. The air tasted suddenly too thin, too clogged with brick dust. I had to get out of there. I no longer cared about overpowering the old crone. I’d risk it.

I stumbled back to the crawlspace door. I pushed on it. Unyielding metal met my touch. I shoved harder, my shoulders meeting brick, unable to get a good purchase. Nothing.

“Let me out!” I called. “Please!”

The old woman replied, her voice muffled by the walls. “Welcome home, my babby.”

The words chilled me. They were so emotionless, so rasping, and yet within them dripped a menace I could yet barely comprehend.

*

I explored inside those walls for three whole days. There was no way in or out save for that immovable crawlspace door through which I’d entered. It soon became clear to me that the house had been designed so that passage inside the walls was possible. To get between floors, there were vertical shafts lined with metal rungs. Three accessible floors, I discovered. I couldn’t reach the basement via the walls, but I could freely explore the first floor, as well as the second floor at which I’d entered.

Then there was the attic. After a day of searching, of screaming, of tracking the old woman between rooms only to be ignored every time, I poked my head out of the shaft leading to the top floor.

Here, I found a larger open space, almost fit for human habitation. A filthy mattress lay in one corner, sans sheets or bedding. In the other was a toilet, also filthy, but fully functional. A journal, oddly new and dust-free, rested on the mattress alongside a pack of crayons. The floor, made of bricks, looked recently swept. The old woman had clearly been here at some point in the recent past. I looked around for another entrance. There was none. This meant the old crone had crawled through the walls herself to get here.

While searching for an exit, I made a grisly discovery. In an alcove high up on the wall, three skulls sat leering down at me. Hesitantly I reached out for one, looking for something, anything I could use as a tool, a means of escape. The skulls were cemented in place.

They felt like a message.

*

Two further days passed, during which time I slept on the dirty mattress in between searching desperately for an escape. I was starving, thirsty, delirious from malnutrition, dehydration and fear. Every time I slid through the walls I felt the brick pressing down on my chest, as if the house itself was squeezing the life from me.

On the third day, throat dry and hoarse from screaming, I made my way down to the kitchen vent and saw the old woman preparing a bloody meal at the counter. Strands of stringy meat parted under her large, gleaming knife. I eyed the blade with longing. Unsure what I could achieve with it, nevertheless the weight of the knife in my hand would’ve made me feel better.

Instead, I begged for food and water. The old woman looked up at the vent and gave me a smile. Her teeth were stained with blood, and she chewed on a raw cut of the meat. I caught sight of the garbage can and saw what looked like a cat’s tail hanging over the edge. My gorge rose in my throat and I stifled a cry as all the while hunger bubbled in my belly.

“Please. I need to eat,” I croaked.

The old woman scuttled towards me and momentarily disappeared out of my sight. When her face appeared in the vent, I was too tired and drained to even react. I had no idea how she’d gotten up so high. A chair positioned beneath, maybe? The whole process had been silent. Or perhaps in my state I simply hadn’t noticed.

“I’ll feed ya, babby,” the old woman said, and I let out a cry of relief and thanks.

“But no, you listen,” she went on. “I’ll feed ya, but only if yer good. No funny business, babby, y’hear? Cos I’ll know. I’ll know! Ya go up to yer bedroom, like a good little girl, and I’ll ring the bell for ya. Come to the door in the bedroom and nice treats will await! Understand, babby?”

I didn’t have the energy to question her, or ask why she was calling me a good little girl, or backchat in any way. I simply nodded, sniffling back tears, and began the long crawl back to my room.

The old woman kept her promise, and when a tinkling bell echoed throughout the interior of the house, I made my way down to the metal door and found a steaming plate of cooked meat waiting for me. My stomach ached and I was too ravenous to think too hard about it. I wolfed it down on the spot, swigging from the plastic water bottle beside it.

This routine continued for a week. My body felt like it was atrophying. The withdrawal symptoms from the alcohol and pills had kicked in full force now, and simply dragging myself up and down the shafts was an effort I could rarely expend. Mostly I laid, wretched in my filthy attic room, emerging only to retrieve the daily meals the old crone provided.

After seven days, my strength felt like it was returning and I decided to wait by the metal door, hoping I could surprise the old woman when she came to feed me.

She never came. Nor did she come for the next three days.

“Your punishment, babby,” she crowed from the study when I tracked her there, begging and pleading. She barely even looked up from the old book she was examining.

I never tried that again. Instead, I began to chronicle my experiences in the journal. This seemed to please the old woman, despite my lack of mentioning the procedure, and I was granted a little more food and two bottles of water a day. I kept up the writing after that. I’m up to date now.

*

Yesterday, I awoke in fear from a particularly restful, deep sleep. I was sure somebody else was in my room. I scrambled up the mattress, croaking in fear and warning. In the darkness, I could make out a pink shape in the corner. As sleep slipped away and my night vision returned, I could make out what it was. A dress. I walked over to it hesitantly.

‘For my pretty little girl’ a note read, in elaborate cursive. I looked down at the dress. My own clothes were filthy, stained with dirt and dust and god knew what else. They itched. I felt disgusting. My beard, which had grown busy and unruly, itched too, and my hair felt greasy and vile. A change of clothes, at the very least, would’ve been welcome. But this was preposterous. The idea of wearing a pink woman’s dress felt degrading. I ignored the gift, kicking it angrily into the corner.

Later, I found myself spying on the bathroom. I’d previously always avoided that room, after checking early on for viable escape routes. The last thing I wanted to see was the old bat showering. That day, though, simply staring longingly at the clean, tiled bathroom was a luxury I decided to allow myself.

To my horror, the old woman entered, thankfully fully dressed. She didn’t look up at me as she proceeded to clean the sink.

“You’re not wearing your present,” she said, her back to me, her voice gentle but with an air of menace.

How the hell did she even know? She could only see my face through the vent, and she hadn’t even looked at me. My head swam with anger. “Fuck your present!”

I knew as soon as I said it that it was a mistake. The old woman whirled around, her face contorted into a wrinkled ball of menace.

“Babby, I will not tolerate that language!” she croaked. “Yer a bad, disgusting girl and I’m starting to regret ever allowing ya into me home!”

“Yes!” I said. “Yes! I’m awful! I’m a terrible houseguest. You should throw me out. Let me go! I won’t tell anyone! I won’t! I’m too ashamed at what a bad guest I’ve been! I’ll just go, get out of your life, leave you in peace!”

The crone threw her head back and let out a shrill, hooting cackle.

“Hoo boy, babby thinks I’m soft in the ‘ead!” she exclaimed, to nobody in particular. “Some senile old bat, eh? Well I’ll tell ya, ya little brat. Our current president is Trump. It’s August two thousand and seventeen. The sky is blue and the grass is green, and my name is…”

She paused, and I waited with baited breath. I’d learned absolutely nothing about my captor. If I could call her by name, maybe that would shift the power balance at least slightly.

“Ah, ah, ya almost got me!” she honked. “Anyway babby, if ya don’t like yer gift, maybe I’ll find someone who will!”

The idea of having company, as macabre and selfish as it was, gave me a spike of optimism. Perhaps, with two of us, escape would be more forthcoming.

*

I live in her walls. I live in her walls and I need to get out.

A week has passed since my last entry. I’ve been too afraid to write, too afraid to let my guard down.

She’s in every room now. Everywhere I go, she’s there, humming and guffawing and staring at me, her face pressed to the vent, impossibly high. Her eyes grow more deranged by the day. It’s like she’s excited. Like she’s waiting for something.

I need to get out.

Things have been strange in the house lately too - stranger than usual. I keep hearing other voices emanating from the rooms, but when I make my way to them, it’s only the old woman there. But I definitely hear others. Men, women, children. Something’s going on in the house. It’s maddening, always just out of my line of sight, always moving when I chase it down.

The rooms are changing, too, I think. I found myself inside the walls of a room I’m sure I’ve never seen before. Or perhaps it was the basement. Perhaps I got down there without realizing it. It’s a large room, lit by candles, decorated with black drapes. There’s a table in the middle. I don’t know what’s on it, I can’t quite see.

The old woman wasn’t in that room. But nonetheless, I was sure I wasn’t alone. I thought I could hear breathing, deep and heavy, just below the grate. I scrambled away, pulling myself through the tight gaps. Somehow I found the route back to my room. It took hours. I got lost inside the bricks of this infernal house. I’m scared to explore any further. I’m scared of where I might end up.

The walls are closing in on me. The house feels like it’s getting tighter around me. She’s stopped feeding me. I haven’t eaten or drank in five days. I can barely move. It’s all I can do to muster the strength to leave these final words. Should my words be found along with my body, I need the finder to make them public. I need my mom, my dad, my sis, to know that I didn’t abandon them.

I need to warn you never to enter the house on Ḩ̸̧̳͎͔̽́̇ǫ̷̧̯̲̖̲̯͔̬̿͊̏ļ̴̧̘͖̰̲̘̖̜̩̪̓̓̀̋̒̋̃̈́̓l̴̙͎͓͓͓̲̱̰͇̗̱̒̊ơ̷̖̍͂͋̈͑̉̈́̀̈́̐̀̀͘̚͜w̸̡̛͇͚̥̮̠̫̙̬̞̌̕͜m̷̨̱͈͇̻̻̯̗͖̜̠̄̏̅͆̿̈́͆̄͝ē̴͈͒͋̓͊̌͑͗͛̐̈́̌͝͝r̸͎̣̻͔̗̻͙̲͇̜͕̖͎͒̾̃͛́̈́̚͝e̶͈̐͌͊̉̌͒͛͊̕ ̶̨̡̛̲̝̮̞͚͈̳̿͑̾̆̑̌̊̎̽̀̇͛͜͝͝L̴̢̬̣̠̀̍̕͘à̶̠͎̮̤̘̳̚͝n̵̡̩͔̪̰͚͉͔̠͍̬͕̍̎͌̑͐̌͜ͅẽ̷͔͉̻̤.

I need to be able to move. I need strength. Because I’m not alone any more. I can hear them, creeping through the tunnels, sliding through the gaps, getting closer.

I live in her walls. And now there’s someone - or something - living in her walls with me.

So there you go. I don’t like being in this house any more. I called up the bank and asked how the property came into their possession. The old woman who owned it died, they said. But she died years and years ago, mired in debts. She lost her daughter, and then her husband, and it was the beginning of the end. Somehow the property got lost in the system, and it was only recently that the bank discovered it was their asset.

I checked in that wardrobe, of course. There’s no crawlspace there. Just a blank, solid wall.

I keep trying to dismiss the notebook as a flight of fancy, a story planted there for someone’s amusement. A prank on the new girl on my boss’s behalf, maybe. But I’ve been in that house a lot these last two days, preparing it for sale. And every time I’m there, I hear scratching in the walls. Movement. I keep feeling like I’m being watched, from the vents that line every room. I hate being there. The walls feel like they’re closing in.

I’m in the house now, in fact, finishing up before I leave for the day. I can hear movement in the walls again. I keep telling myself it’s rats. Just rats.

But it doesn’t sound like rats.

I think I need to leave.