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atinylittlepain · 9 months ago

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Part Two

no outbreak!joel miller x f!oc

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joel miller masterlist

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She's tired. He's tired. They're neurotic. They're in love. Something needs to change. They need to change.

word count | 5.1k

chapter content info | 18+ little angst, couples counseling, just two tired people trying to figure out the tangle of their relationship together

a/n | part two is here, and i'd just like to say thank you to everyone being so kind about the first part - i know this isnt the usual peepaw fare, so thanks for giving her a chance - and also big thank you to @wannab-urs for beta-ing this bad boy <3

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This is not a failure. She is not failing. They are not failing. Every Thursday at four o’clock she shuts her laptop and locks her office and stops in the bathroom at work, silently repeats these things to herself in her mind while she rubs her fingers at smudged mascara in the bathroom mirror. Like a mantra, though she’s not sure she’s fully bought into it yet. Because the truth is, she has had plenty of conversations with plenty of girlfriends that, really, they shouldn’t have been having about other girlfriends, not in the room with us girlfriends who, did you hear, started going to therapy and, did you hear, started going to therapy with their, oh no, husbands. Yes, she has been the bitch who has made jokes about death knells and a marriage’s last gasp for breath, jokes about the husband having the emotional range of a goldfish, and the wife being so up the husband’s ass she should give him a colonoscopy while she’s at it. She’s not really making jokes like those anymore.

She’s not supposed to be doing what she’s doing this Thursday at four o’clock. When they first went to Vicky (LMFT, for the record) her fundamental decree had been a period of full separation. Sixteen years, she had asked, and they had nodded, and she had said whoa boy, yeah, y’all need to back off each other before we do anything else. If Paula Dean had a penchant for self-help instead of butter, she’d be something like Vicky. And so, with all the care of a drill sergeant delivering commands, or a mechanic running a diagnostic on a fucked-up car, Vicky had told them how this is going to go. An apartment, she said, don’t care which one of you lives in it. Minimal contact between sessions, right, keep it civil, right, this isn’t for forever, right. So Joel got an apartment, and Tommy helped him move all the furniture in the basement with admittedly minimal, but still present, wariness, and for the last four weeks they’ve been doing everything their beloved herr-therapist tells them. She supposes it’s working, although you can’t really do much fighting when you only see the other person for ninety minutes every Thursday so, the results might be confounded, actually.

“Hey there.” Hey there? What the fuck, what the actual fuck. He doesn’t think he’s ever said those words to her, ever, maybe not to anyone actually. He feels a little insane, a little itchy under the skin, mouth full of cotton, brain too, because they’re not supposed to be doing this, not really. The first time she’s seen the apartment, or, well, the doorway of the apartment, doesn’t really seem interested in stepping further inside, running her curled palm up and down the strap of her purse and right, not here for that. He shuts the door behind him and then they’re on their way to therapy because it’s four o’clock on Thursday and this is what they do now at four o’clock on Thursday.

“Thanks again. I didn’t think my car would still be in the shop today.”

“Oh of course, you said it’s a transmission leak?”

“Yeah, the bad, expensive kind that’s above my paygrade. Guy said they’re still waiting on a part for it.”

“Well I’m off work tomorrow if you need a ride anywhere.”

“Vicky’ll get pissed.”

“If she finds out. Are you gonna tell on me to Vicky?” It’s a joke, they can joke, right? She laughs a little on the end of her words to make it clear, hey, it’s a joke, awkward and out of touch and unsure of what the rules are. But he offers a breath of a laugh, at least, fine, it’s fine, they’re fine, and now they’re silent driving to Vicky’s office.

Should he ask her how her week has been? If the kitchen sink is still leaking? He’s not sure. Not sure about any of it, really. Every week, Vicky asks them how they think they’re doing and Cass doesn’t even hesitate. Good, she says. Not fine, not okay, but good, usually with a sure, terse nod. It takes him a little longer to find the right word to describe how he’s doing. Not sure about that either, but it’s definitely not good. Some things are better, sure, easier not to argue when under foot, easier not to remember all the ghosts they’ve built up around themselves. But at the most basic level, he misses her, even misses arguing with her, in a perpetual state of missing something, walking around and wondering if he left his wallet at home, or if he remembered to call a client about a new build, wondering if he’s missing something essential, a limb or an organ he didn’t know about. No, none of that. Missing something else.

“You’re not wearing your ring.” She flexes her left hand over the steering wheel in response, her very bare ring finger making him feel a quick pinch of something he’ll call anger, though it’s probably something else entirely.

“No, Vicky advised I try not wearing it during the separation.”

“Why the fuck would she tell you to do that?”

“Joel.”

“I’m just asking.”

“You’re swearing.”

“Well, why didn’t she say the same thing to me?”

“Maybe because I told her this is how you would react.”

“I think I’m having a pretty normal reaction to it, actually.”

“It’s not a big deal. It’s just for now.”

“Right.”

“It is.”

“Seems like a strange thing to advise someone to do when they’ve been married for nearly two decades.” She parks outside of the office complex that Vicky works in, lets out a long sigh through her nose and doesn’t spare him a glance as she reaches around to the backseat and pulls her purse up front, producing her ring from somewhere deep inside of it and sliding it back on her finger.

“There, are you happy now?”

“Why the hell were you keeping it in your purse?”

“Oh my god, really?”

“That’s a real easy way to lose it is all I’m saying.” The truth is, she’s been keeping it in her purse in order to have easy access to it. Like a pulsepoint, sometimes she just needs to know it’s there, reaching into her purse underneath her desk and yep, still there, still okay. Sometimes she doesn’t get through a whole day without putting it back on. Like reflex, like ghost limb aching. But she’s not about to tell him that.

“Do not bring this up with Vicky.”

“Why not?”

“Because then she’ll know we drove here together.”

“You’re that worried about what Vicky thinks?”

“She’s our therapist, I’m a healthy and appropriate amount worried about what Vicky thinks.”

“You know she’s not the arbiter of marriage just because she has a couple of degrees, right?”

“Really, the arbiter of marriage?”

“Are you doing that thing you do, is that what this is?”

“What thing?”

“Cass.”

“What thing?”

“Are you trying to win therapy?” Fuck him. No, really, fuck him. He’s doing that thing, his thing to her thing, half a smile in the passenger’s seat like he’s got her. Awful, of course he’s got her, smug and sure in his getting her. She doesn’t answer his question, knowing that her silence is an answer in and of itself and not really caring because they have therapy, damn it, and it’s going to be his fault if they’re late to therapy, damn it.

“You know, I’m starting to see why Vicky told us no carpooling to sessions.” Slammed shut, he sighs when she gets out of the car, thinking idly to himself that yes, he doesn’t necessarily disagree with that commandment of their therapist either. At the very least, Cass’ ring is still on her finger. He tried a few times in the past to get her something new, something nicer than the gold band he had given her when they were still young and still not able to afford much of anything, but sure enough in each other to want to keep doing it, all of it, together. No, she would tell him, doesn’t want anything other than the gold band. What she doesn’t know is that he pawned his grandfather’s watch and an electric saw for the ring the shop owner kept in a padlocked display case. Twenty-six years old, and looking back, he thinks he would have sold a whole lot more just to get it for her.

He used to call her pearl. Something about grit that would make her roll her eyes and ask him what late night National Geographic TV special he got that line from, all the while inwardly swooning because sure, she had been baby before, babe, an errant sweetheart even, but pearl was new, and tooth-decayingly sweet. And when he proposed, Sarah bouncing around them like a manic cupid, Cassandra made an ugly sound somewhere between a laugh and a cry, little black velvet box and a ring that was more signet than wedding, simple and gold and a single pearl set in the center of it. Her hands clasped, she runs the pad of her finger over her ring, wordless and worrying it on the elevator ride up to Vicky’s office.

Vicky has a thing for lamps and art prints of naked women. Her waiting room is a little dim, no windows, green velveteen loveseat and two high-backed wooden chairs that they always take when they get here, his eyes scanning over the coffee table laden with back-ordered Psychology Today magazines, headlines about overcoming anxiety and exercising your way out of depression. There had been one about postpartum depression somewhere in the pile the last time they came, but he had made a point of hanging back after Cass left, some excuse about checking an insurance thing with Vicky, though what he really did was pluck out that magazine and throw it away in the men’s restroom down the hall. One less thing to worry about, at the least.

“Hi, you two, come on back.” The sessions always start the same. Vicky asks them how they think the week went, and they both offer up some iteration of fine. Vicky asks them if they’ve been upholding their phase of separation, and she answers before Joel can, pointedly not looking at him, yes, no contact between sessions. But apparently, this week is going to be different.

“We are nearing the end of the total separation phase. After this initial period of cooling off for both of you, the real work can begin.” Right, phases, because Vicky works in phases like this is some sort of military siege. He tries not to roll his eyes at the real work beginning.

“Can either of you remember the last date you went on together?”

“It would’ve been in August, right before the separation.” Cass scoffs at his answer, tilt of her head like, really?

“Tommy and Maria’s baby shower hardly counts as a date. But we did go to dinner at the end of July.”

“I don’t think your work banquet counts either.” Vicky hits them with that look, that yeah, that’s what I thought look, all raised brow and scrunched nose and nodding. Not that she is, but if she, hypothetically, were trying to win therapy, Cassandra thinks she wouldn’t be doing a great job of it right now.

“Right, well, you’ve made my point for me. It’s not unusual for people who have been together for as long as you two have to let things like this fall to the wayside. However, it can be very helpful to reestablish some of these routines. Think of it as marriage maintenance.”

“So you want us to start going on dates again?”

“Yes, but not with each other.” Did she? Did he? Hear that right? Cass is nodding like it’s the most reasonable thing in the world, like, yes, of course, this is just the solution they’ve been looking for. This time, he doesn’t hold back a laugh.

“I’m sorry, what?” Both of them look at him like, yes, keep up, please, let us explain this to you very slowly so you can keep up, please. Something about seeing what life is like outside of their marriage, testing the waters, seeing if they still like the same things without their extra marital limb, something about making a decision about their marriage, though he tunes most of that part out because, no, thanks, no new decision has been needed since he got down on one knee during that trip to Galveston, sunscreen and sticky sweet and he’s not sure if he or Sarah was more excited, but he was definitely more nervous. And Cass said yes, and then he wasn’t nervous anymore, not scared anymore, and that’s all there was to it, is to it, right? Right.

“This is the closing exercise of the total separation phase. It’s really important that you both have this opportunity to see what it’s like to be back in the dating pool. Think of it as a trial run of if you decide to make this separation–”

“No, no thanks. That’s not– we’re not those people, so, you know, we can just move onto the next phase.”

“Joel.” The mom voice of all things, and he knows for certain now that Cass is trying to win therapy, nudging her shoe into the side of his, and, come on, really? She’s really bought that hard into what Vicky’s selling? Now that, that isn’t like her, at all.

“What feelings are coming up for you right now, Joel?” She fucking hates that question, and she imagines that he does too, fingers drumming on his knee, long sigh, and she knows that look, that’s his getting ready to bolt look. Big man, big, skittish man who has accidentally nailed his fingers to house frames and hardly shed a tear. But feelings? Yeah, forget it.

“Uh, I guess I’m confused as to why that is so important for us to do. We came here to help our– to help us, not to create more problems.”

“And you think that if you and Cassandra went on dates, one date, with other people, that it would create more problems in your marriage?” Well, it’s hardly rocket science, Vicky, though judging by the way she’s speaking to him, he’s pretty sure he failed some kind of test of hers. He doesn’t particularly care.

“I imagine it’d do that to anyone’s marriage.”

“It’s just one date, it’s a part of the process.” She’s starting to get pissed, and trying very hard not to show it in front of Vicky should she get the what feelings are coming up for you treatment. When they agreed to start going to therapy, like a pair of dogs gagging down a pill, they had both agreed to put their full effort into it, and if Vicky wasn’t in the room with them currently, Cassandra would sharply remind him of that agreement.

“Maybe I should clarify the expectations around this exercise. It’s one date, preferably with people outside of your shared social circle, and it would be best if the focus is just on the date, no sexual relations.”

“Oh really, you think that’d be best?”

“Joel.” He gives her a slack and slanted look, speaking two different languages, apparently. And really, she doesn’t see what the big deal is. One date versus sixteen years is pretty obvious math for her to square up, though it doesn’t seem to be for him. But, watching him engage in psychological tennis with Vicky, some new jab dripping in sarcasm for every reassurance she tries to offer him, the realization comes to Cassandra slowly, simply. Joel is scared.

By the time they leave Vicky’s office, he feels deflated, defeated, because yes, they are, apparently, going to do this fucking exercise that fucking Vicky has fucking assigned to them, scheduled in three weeks instead of one to give them time to do this fucking exercise that fucking Vicky has fucking assigned to them.

“Can’t we just, you know, say we did it but not actually do it?”

“Are you serious right now?” Judging by the look she gives him, a quick, sharp flicker of her eyes before she focuses back on the road, he thinks he probably shouldn’t say anything else. He shouldn’t, but, well.

“Is this about pleasing Vicky, or are you just that interested in dating someone else?”

“Don’t be a child about this, Joel. It’s a therapeutic–”

“It’s bullshit is what it is. I don’t– I already know what I want, and I don’t need to go testing the waters to be sure of it. What I’m not so sure about is if you can say the same.” She can’t put her finger on anything specific, probably just a slow-building amalgamation of things. Stressful week at work, and the leaking sink getting worse, and her doctor increasing a medication dosage that’s made her body feel like something other than her body, and this fucking therapy and this fucking trying and she’s trying so hard and she feels like she’s failing and when she glances at him he looks hurt, really hurt, a close crumple in his face, deep frown, and it frustrates her because all she’s trying to do is do it right, and all she gets is this constant rhythm of resistance, this push and pull and yes, it’s all of that, all of that creeping up her throat tight and hot and curling behind her eyes sending salt pinpricks and sharp pangs. When the first sob breaks, it does so as a gasp, like a small and stunned thing in her chest. And, well, it’s never uphill from there, is it?

“Do you– do we need to pull over?”

“No, I don’t need to fucking pull over. I’m not an invalid, I can cry and drive at the same time.” Except it doesn’t come out quite like that, not smooth like that. The words get stop-started with each new shudder, new stutter, hiccuping on fucking and invalid. The world has gone to slanted stained-glass through all her tears.

Unsure what to do, but that’s nothing new. He doesn’t say anything else, watches her through the wary side of his eye, sobs turning into something more subdued, little wounded sounds high in her throat, a choice fuck you with a little more bite behind it when someone cuts her off merging onto the highway. He feels useless, feels like, maybe, this is what Vicky should be talking with them about instead of her siege on marriage plan. All he knows is that he seems to get it wrong every time, so this time, he doesn’t interject or intervene, doesn’t say any more than he already has. He lets her cry, and he lets her drive.

He doesn’t know when it happened. When he decided he was going to fix things for her, or just fix her, really. His lady in pieces and he was going to put her back together, and it seemed like every time he tried to, she just shattered a little more. That April is the obvious answer, the most shattered he had ever seen her. But the fighting had started before then, and so had the fixing that wasn’t really fixing. Like a relief, like a release, the slow realization that no, it never worked, and no, it was never going to work. The sobs turn into shivers turn into something even smaller. By the time they pull up in front of his apartment complex, it has passed.

“I just– I want to do this right, this therapy thing, and I want it to work, and I want it to work so we can be okay again. That’s what I want.” The words hang between them. He makes no move to get out of the car, and she counts her inhales in the silence, waiting for him to say something, anything. It feels like a child’s logic, or maybe a hail Mary, and she knows it, feels a little insane saying it, the words fitting strangely in her mouth. The brief wondering comes to her, what would she have said about where they are now to her girlfriends, what snark, what sharp jokes at their expense? Him in an apartment and a fifteen minute drive separating them and a woman named Vicky unraveling (and in theory, putting back together) their marriage in phases, fucking phases, and fucking Vicky. She doesn’t want to go on a date with someone else, and she doesn’t know why she’s taking Vicky’s instructions as gospel. But she does know, doesn’t she? It’s not about Vicky, not about Vicky and her fucking phases. Fixing, being fixed, that’s what she wants.

“So, you’re saying you want us to date other people in order to fix our marriage.” Grateful that she takes it for the joke he meant it as, it’s just enough to slough off some of the tension, roll of her eyes, please. They both let out a sigh, too tired for much else. But maybe, he thinks, this counts as progress, sitting here with her in the car and the sun washing everything down burnt and orange. He watches her eyes drop shut for a moment, fine lines like porcelain fissures and he loves those lines, liked catching her in the bathroom with her face pressed up close to the mirror and her fingers pulling those lines taut around her eyes, her mouth. He’d pull her hands away from her face, ask her if she was planning her halloween costume for next year, earning a scoff and a roll of her eyes and her trying to pull away from him, and he wouldn’t let her. Making it better with kisses to those lines, and eventually, her pressing her fingers as light as prayers over his, an implicit wondering, where did the time go?

“Look, if it really makes you that uncomfortable, let’s just lie to Vicky. We could still get like, an A-minus in therapy if we leave just one thing out.”

“I didn’t realize therapy came with a grade.” He smiles, all soft, and she can’t help the sheepish bloom in her chest, rolling her lips back into her mouth to hide her own grin, eventually, reluctantly, admitting in a quiet, skewed to the side voice, okay, so maybe, maybe I was doing that thing, that winning thing. He doesn’t say anything, and that’s a mercy. Just nods, of course, and of course, he knew, maybe even before she did, and is that knowing not a mercy too? She thinks it is.

“I want to do this right too, Cass. And, I mean, we’re paying Vicky enough money that we should do what she tells us to.”

“Are you saying you want to do it then?”

“Want is a strong word.”

“Okay, are you saying you’re willing to do it?”

“It’s just the one?”

“Just the one.”

“Alright, fuck it, let’s do it. We better get a goddamn A-plus at the end of this.”

“Mmm, gold stars too.” Another sigh, another settling. How nice, another sigh, another settling. It’s a strange equation, but she thinks it still adds up. Neither of them want to do this, not really, but they’re willing to, and they’re willing to because of each other. Willing to try and get it right for each other. Just, well, ignore the finer details of what getting it right entails.

“You hear from Sarah lately?”

“On Monday, yeah. Called to wish me a happy birthday.”

“Well, only off by four days, not too bad.”

“Oh no, she called on Monday because she was, and I quote, too busy the rest of the week to call.”

“Wow.”

“Right?”

“Is it bad that sometimes I kinda hate it?”

“Hate what?”

“That she’s like, a fully-formed person now. I miss the days when she was a little blob who liked holding onto me by one of my belt loops.” He has to smile, nod, because he knows exactly what she means. And the truth of it is that Sarah was so good, maybe the best, if he’s allowed to give his completely biased opinion. And the other truth, Cass is, was, one of those people simply meant to be a parent, a mother. He remembers when they first started dating, and all the exhausting maneuvering he did, getting his parents or Tommy to watch Sarah, a string of canceled dinner plans when his kid couldn’t seem to stop catching things at daycare. He was sure that Cass would lose interest every time another piece of his reality was revealed to her. After all, he was not unfamiliar with being left behind. But that never happened, she stayed every time.

It was Cass who first suggested it. Didn't want to impose, but what if, maybe we could, would it be okay if, why don’t we. They went to the zoo that weekend, if he remembers correctly, Sarah in tow, shy at first around the woman she barely knew, though she bloomed over the course of the day. Yes, he thinks, it was the zoo, because he remembers how by the end of the day, Cass had her on her hip, as easy as anything, so she could get a better view of the rhinos. He knows now that, even in those earliest days, she loved his kid just as much as she loved him. He knows now what a gift that was, and continues to be.

“She’s gonna be alright, Cass. We did good with her.” She sighs, yeah, we did. She had been worried about telling her about the whole lieutenant-LMFT thing, the whole quasi-separation thing, but that was a direct command from Vicky, letting the family know what was going on. Sarah had taken it surprisingly well when she called, could be good, mom, like a reset. Of course, they kept the worst of it away from her, and of course, she still knew something had changed, something not right between them. No one was left unscathed after that April.

From the start, loving him included loving Sarah. It was never difficult for her to do both. Sweet girl, bright like the sun girl, rounded cheeks and bouncing curls, and Cassandra found that her love for her had a particular effect on her heart. Whenever small hand reached for one of hers, whenever small face tucked into her neck, whether tear-damp or milk-tired, and eventually, whenever she was given the name mom, like a stop and restart of her heart, like something turning back on inside her and finally working right. An everything kind of love, to not only be chosen by him, but to be chosen by her too.

“Well, anyways, Vicky didn’t make any stipulations about birthdays, so I have something for you.” Just a small thing, she says, leaning over the console and into the back seat, and he knows better than to say no, shouldn’t have, because there’s already a perfect package being placed in his hands, navy blue wrapping paper and a white bow, and her hand cups underneath his for just a moment, there and gone.

The truth is she had already picked out this gift two months ago, what feels like a lifetime before this separation. Now, watching him open it, she’s a little worried it had been presumptuous of her, if not completely narcissistic. But if he thinks that, he makes no show of it, lets out a quiet laugh as he takes the watch out of the box and holds it up in the fading light to look at it.

“It’s a little sappy, maybe. But, well, we have something that kinda matches now.” Something is unfurling in his chest, heat loosening something he didn’t even realize he had been tightening up around. It’s a beautiful watch, rich leather strap and polished silver. And the face of it catches and shimmers a little in the light. He knows right away that it’s mother of pearl.

Here, she says, let me, and he does, feeling a little indulgent watching her fasten the watch around his wrist, and definitely breaking one of fucking Vicky’s fucking rules when he ducks his head down and steals a kiss, another one, letting the third deepen just a little, both of them humming because missed this, missed this, didn’t realize how much, but missed this.

“Thank you, pearly.” It feels good to be so close to him, noses brushing and smiles curling around each other. Feels like a relief.

“Happy birthday, one day ahead. We could, you know, do something tomorrow? Get dinner maybe?” Before he can answer, say yes, she’s already caught herself, sheepish smile and pulling a little further away and oh, right. She says sorry, wasn’t thinking, and they do an awkward dance around the whole thing, right, yeah, probably shouldn’t, right, yeah. He is not a hateful man, and it would be too strong to say he’d wish Vicky harm. But if something were to happen, in theory, that’d make Vicky go the fuck away, in theory, he wouldn’t be too torn up about it.

“See you next Thursday then?”

“Well, next next Thursday, because we have to do the– yeah.”

“Right, yeah.” Right, yeah, this is the part where he gets out of the car. The part where he goes up to his apartment and she drives home and they don’t eat dinner together and they don’t brush their teeth together and they don’t go to sleep together. Right, yeah. They say goodnight. He’d like to say love, but he doesn’t. She’d like to say love, but she doesn’t. And they part ways.

She hates being in this house alone. Leaves all the lights on all hours of the day and checks all the locks three times before going upstairs to bed. Passes by the closed door that remains closed with her breath held. She knows it makes no sense, but she’s been sleeping in the guestroom, makes the whole thing a little easier. Always had a tendency toward insomnia, tossing and turning brain and body.

When they were just starting to get more serious, and she was just starting to stay over at his more often, she got worried that eventually it'd drive him mad enough for the whole thing to not be worth it, neither of them getting much sleep as they learned how to share a bed together. And she doesn't remember how it started exactly, maybe out of a moment of pure exasperation, him draping just enough of his weight over her to press slower breath into her lungs and still her body. It became a routine, she'd ask could you? And he'd already know what she was asking for without her having to say any more than that. What she also doesn't remember, when that stopped working, when she stopped asking, and he stopped answering. She supposes it all happened slowly, just like the rest of it.

#joel miller fanfiction #joel miller #joel miller angst #joel miller fluff #joel miller series #joel miller story #joel miller fic #joel miller au

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shakespeareanwannabe · 8 months ago

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As You Wish, Chapter 11

Summary: When arriving at Camp Silver Star, Abby Floyd was anticipating a summer of adventure with an ocean separating her from the three people she loved most: her mom, her Uncle Bob and her Aunt Natasha. But after a run in with Charlie Seresin, an extremely familiar looking and irritating camper in a different cabin, her summer plans take a turn that neither girl ever could have expected.

Trigger Warnings: reader's children are described as being blond with green eyes because genetics are wild and Jake's genes are strong, reader is canonically Bob's sister (but biological relation is never discussed), reader goes by Buttercup and is tattooed, angst, arguing, sadness, reference to divorce, kids doing sneaky things, references to babies, swearing, references to military deployment, blood, medical inaccuracy, military inaccuracy

Jake’s Apartment, 11 Years Ago

“Don’t go,” Buttercup begged, standing in the doorway of the bedroom. “I thought you weren’t supposed to get deployed again for like a year.”

Jake shrugged as he packed his bag. “Something came up, and they need the best of the best. So, they’re sendin’ me, Javy, Rooster, Bob and Phoenix.”

Buttercup cupped her small bump, her ring finger glinting with the wedding ring he had put there only two weeks previous. The wedding had been a surprise, a shotgun wedding in the typical sense of the word, but he wouldn’t have it any other way. The love of his life was pregnant, with twins, and was now Mrs. Seresin. Everything was coming up roses for Jake Seresin, and he was living for it. But the newly minted Mrs. Seresin…

“When will you be back?” she asked, her hand stroking her belly nervously.

Jake huffed a laugh. “That’s above my paygrade, sweetness.”

“I’m serious, Jake,” she swallowed. “Will you be back before the babies come?”

Jake paused. She was five months pregnant with twins, and everyone kept telling him that twins always came early. Would he be back in four months? It was impossible to say.

He turned towards her, smiling as softly as he could as he took her into his arms. “You’ll have Penny. And Mav and Payback and Fanboy and everyone else. It’ll be okay.”

She shoved out of his arms and stalked over to the bedroom window. “I don’t want everyone else. I want you. My husband. The father of my children. That’s who I want with me as I get all huge and can’t shave my legs and when I have to get poked and prodded at my appointments. Not a bunch of strangers. I want you.”

“I want you too,” he waggled his eyebrows at her, but didn’t get the giggling response he hoped for.

“I came here to visit my brother, but I stayed for you,” she murmured. “And now you’re both leaving and I’m going to be stuck here, useless.”

“Not useless,” he soothed, trying again to hold her. “You’re growing our babies. And if you ever feel like you need more, you could always go help Penny with the bar. But you don’t have to worry about anything, okay? I’m sending every paycheck home to you. The apartment is paid off completely, and the utilities come out of my bank account automatically. It’ll be okay.”

Buttercup swiped at her eyes and sidestepped him. “You don’t get it.”

“Then explain it to me, babe. Because I’m leaving in less than 36 hours and I’d like to know that my pregnant wife will be waiting for me when I get back,” he huffed.

“Of course I’ll be here!” she snapped. “I would never do that to you. But you’re fine with leaving me.”

Jake sighed and slowly walked over to her, hesitating only momentarily before placing his hands on her shoulders.

“I’m not fine with leaving you,” he whispered. “I feel like a fox caught in a trap, ready and willing to gnaw my own foot off if it meant the Navy wouldn’t own my ass anymore. But I can’t.” He let his hands glide down her body to rest on her small bump. “I don’t want to miss a second of this but I know I will. What I won’t miss is the birth. I swear to God. I’ll make sure I come home before they even think of coming out of their mama.” He pressed a sweet kiss to her cheek. “I’ll talk to Mav. He still has some sway over Cyclone. He can make sure I’m home, and that I don’t get deployed once they arrive. Not for a while, at least.”

He felt Buttercup shudder against him and was thankful that, this time, she allowed him to pull her into his arms. “And you’ll be safe? You’ll come home?”

Jake sighed and did the one thing he’d always sworn to himself that he would never do. “I promise, baby. I swear to God that I’m comin’ home to you.”

Cabana Bar, Hotel Zaza, Now

Jake held them for what felt like hours, until one of the girls started to squirm and try to pull away from the embrace.

“Dad…you’re soaking wet.”

Jake chuckled a little as he pulled away, stretching to his full height. “Sorry. I just missed you both so much.” He nodded his thanks to a helpful staff member, who handed him a fluffy white towel. “How…how are you here?” He blinked down at them. “You said something about a switch?”

The girls shuffled their feet nervously, but it was Buttercup who stepped forward. “You’re bleeding,” she murmured, gesturing to his soaking white shirt. Jake glanced down, noting the tear in his shirt and the red that was now staining it. Buttercup bit her lip, stepping closer. “What happened?”

Jake looked over at the bartender, who was shooting daggers at the lot of them, surrounded by shattered glass. “He stepped into my path and the deck was too slippery for me to course correct in time, so I bumped into him. I guess I took a few glasses to the chest as they shattered.”

Buttercup clocked the glares of the bartender too because she said, “Let’s go get you cleaned up. Then our daughters can explain themselves to you.”

Jake nodded, just as a shrill voice sounded behind him. “Oh my goodness, there’s two of them?”

Jake turned, finding Savannah clutching her chest, an older man and woman flanking her. “Savannah, meet my daughters. Abby and Charlie. And this…” Jake glanced at Buttercup with a look that was heavy with guilt. “This is my ex-wife. Their mother.”

Savannah gasped and leaned heavily against her father. “It’s alright, pookie,” the older southern gentleman soothed, his elegant wife fetching a fan from her clutch and waving it over her daughter’s wan face. “Let’s get you some air and some sweet tea to get you feeling better.” He gathered Savannah into his arms and gave them a reproachful look before striding off, his wife teetering behind him in her heels.

Jake couldn’t help the groan that escaped him. “Great…”

One of the girls bit their lip. “Sorry, dad.”

Jake shook off the weight of Colonel Beaumont’s glare and smiled down at her. “It’s alright. I’ll deal with it later.” He looked up and met Buttercup’s bright gaze. “You sure it’s alright if you patch me up?”

She rolled her eyes and headed towards the door. “I wouldn’t have offered if I minded, Hangman.”

Jake grinned and followed behind her, each of his strong hands resting on the shoulders of his daughters.

As Buttercup called down to the concierge to ask for a first aid kit, Jake settled onto her bed (and refused to think any further on that subject) while the girls stood in front of him and quickly explained everything.

The camp, Penny’s meddling, switching places, Rooster finding out, Bob finding out, their phone call to each other, their plan to corner them both here and make them talk to each other.

By the time they ran out of words, there was a knock on the door and Buttercup moved towards it, greeting the staff member who handed her the large white first aid kit. All the while, Jake gaped at his daughters.

“Well, hell…” he finally found it in himself to murmur. “That was some sneaky crap you two pulled.”

“Language,” Buttercup murmured softly, a small smile breaking out on Jake’s face.

“Sorry, darlin’,” he nodded as she laid out the first aid kit on the bed next to him. “I’m just saying, why didn’t either of you pony up and talk to us?”

“We were going to,” one of them started, a slight lilting accent to her voice, and Jake knew that was his Abby. They really were so identical (and Jake wasn’t ashamed to admit that he had no clue what his daughter had been wearing before she left the house that day or if she had changed when they got to the hotel), so he was having a hard time telling them apart when they weren’t speaking. “But we got scared.”

“You were both so sad whenever we brought up our missing parent, and we didn’t want to make you sad,” said Charlie, her young voice twanging.

“But when we met—”

“We really wanted to meet our other parent—”

“And we decided to ask forgiveness instead of permission.”

Jake shook his head in wonder. “I don’t know how you two pulled it off, but I’m impressed. Don’t ever do something like that again, but I’m impressed.”

Both girls blushed and nodded, both looking so much like him that he had to give his head a shake. They were incredible. They were his. And they were here. All three of them were.

As that thought raced across his mind like an off-leash dog, he glanced up at Buttercup, still standing before him, now with a fluffy white robe wrapped around her overtop of her soaked clothes.

“Why don’t you two go find your aunt and uncles?” he suggested, not taking his eyes off his ex.

Glancing between them, the two girls nodded and headed for the door, calling their goodbyes over their shoulders.

“Don’t forget your room keys,” Buttercup called after them, her eyes not leaving his either.

Once they heard the door click shut, both adults sighed.

“I…I guess you should take your shirt off,” Buttercup mumbled, staring at the spot on his white shirt that was slowly growing redder.

“Didn’t realize you were so eager to get me out of my clothes, Buttercup,” Jake quipped with a smirk, his hands going for the tiny pearlescent buttons. “I’m flattered.”

“Don’t call me that,” she gritted between her teeth, eyes casting downward toward the first aid kit.

“Why not?” he challenged, his hands stilling.

“Because I’m not…”

“Not what?”

She met his gaze again and he was taken aback by the fire blazing in them. “Because I’m not yours anymore.”

His whole body stilled. It was true, what she had said. She wasn’t his. Not anymore. They had a decade of memories separating them now. Separate lives. Lives that only included a daughter that shared half his DNA and half hers. He’d hated the custody arrangement, they both had, but it was the only thing that made sense with their schedules and Buttercup’s health. And now, there she was. Eyes burning at him in a way that he hadn’t seen since before the birth of their daughters. At least one thing had gone right in their divorce. His Buttercup was back and more fierce than ever.

“I know that,” he said quietly. “But you still have your tattoo, don’t you?” His eyes traced the stem of buttercup blossoms that peeked out from under her white robe. “Bob and Natasha still call you Buttercup?” She nodded. “Then I don’t see why I can’t.”

“B-because…because you’re you,” her chest heaved slightly, as though she was desperate for air. Jake stood and opened the hotel window slightly, allowing the fresh breeze to rustle the leaves of the fake fern in the corner. She blinked, staring at him as her breathing almost immediately came easier to her. “I don’t think your fiancée would like it if you were still calling your ex-wife by a pet name,” she mused, striding forward to grab the disinfectant from the kit.

“Savannah can deal with it,” he muttered, already knowing he was in for one hell of an argument when he met up with his fiancée and future in-laws later.

“You sure she’s mature enough for that?” Buttercup muttered under her breath, gesturing for him to continue unbuttoning his shirt.

He chuckled shortly, peeling his wet shirt off his tan skin. “Jealous?”

“Of you being engaged? No. Of how little time she has to spend scrolling to find her birth year? Maybe a little.”

Jake chuckled again, the sound warm and soothing. “I am sometimes too, I think. She doesn’t have to search long, meanwhile I feel like I’m spinning the wheel on the Price is Right or some shit.”

Buttercup giggled in spite of herself. “At least you finally found someone at your maturity level.” She leaned in and pressed a cotton swab soaked in antiseptic to the thin line that bisected his pec.

“Low blow, sweetheart,” he hissed.

Buttercup muttered a half-hearted apology as she found another cut, not bleeding but crusted over with dried blood and a small piece of glass.

“What do you two even talk about?” she pondered as she grabbed the tweezers, steadying herself against his abs, still hard and defined after all those years.

Jake sighed, bracing himself for the inevitable discomfort of having the nearly superficial wound poked and prodded, but it never came. As always, his Buttercup’s hands were soft and gentle with him.

“You really want to have this conversation?” he asked softly.

She blinked up at him, her eyes wide and earnest. “Would you rather we fight?”

“Why do those have to be our only options?”

Her steady hands grabbed the bandages and she carefully started to cover up the two wounds on his chest.

“Fighting was basically our only option there for a while,” she murmured, her body so close to his that he could practically feel her cool breath against his skin.

“I didn’t want it to be that way.” He craned his neck, trying to make eye contact, but her gaze remained firmly on her work. “I always hated it when we fought.”

She sighed as she made sure the soft gauze bandages were tight against his skin, her touch lingering slightly inches away from where his heart beat under his skin, before she sat back on her heels. “Me too. But—” she slapped her hands against her robed thighs before pushing herself to her feet again. “That’s all in the past. You’re getting married and I adore my job in the UK. The only thing we need to fight about now is how we’re going to split up the girls.”

Jake blinked at her. “You…you want to split them up again? What the hell, Buttercup? They just told us that they wanted a better custody arrangement.”

Buttercup flinched and took a step back from him. “I’m sorry. I…I didn’t mean it like that. I meant that we need to figure out how to split our time with them so that it’s fair. Should be easier now that you’re not in the Navy anymore.”

He felt his temper flare slightly in his chest, but he fought to hold that mask of calm on his face. “It would probably be even easier if you didn’t live on the other side of the planet.”

Her back stiffened and her face solidified into a mask of emotionless stone. “Indeed it would, but I love my job and I could no more give it up than you could give up your ranch in Texas.”

His Adam’s apple bobbed in his throat as he kept her gaze, slowly raising from his spot on the bed. “No one is asking you to give up your job, only to move. It’s a lot easier to move as a writer and publisher than it is to move a whole damn ranch.”

“Author.” At Jake’s blink, her icy voice sounded again. “I’m an author, Jake. Not a writer. And no one is asking you to move the ranch. I would never ask something like that of you.”

Jake stepped closer, the two of them nearly nose to nose. “I know you wouldn’t. You’d let it all go before you asked me for anything.”

This time he did feel her breath puffing against his face, the air hot against his skin. “I learned a long time ago that asking you for something would only lead to disappointment.”

“You know it wasn’t that easy,” he bit out, stepping even closer, his hands coming up to brace against the wall as she stepped back to lean into it, lean as far as she could out of his space. “What you were asking me for was—”

“Impossible,” she whispered. “I know. And now you know that what you’re asking me for is impossible too.”

“Even if it’s for our daughters?”

The question hung in the mere inches of air between them like a gas, a burning, toxic, intangible thing that was slowly choking them both.

In the silence, he couldn’t help but trace her features with his eyes, and he knew from her unfocused stare that she was doing the same to him. He may be older than he had been when they met, but he knew he still looked good. Got confirmation of it every time he went into town and saw the local ladies. But Buttercup…she looked even better than she had when they were together. The beauty of her youth hadn’t dimmed with age, but only settled into something that spoke of wisdom and loss and pain and rebirth, a shining fire within her. Like a—

“Phoenix!”

Both their heads whipped around as Rooster berated Phoenix for slamming the door open and strolling in like she owned the place. Jake stepped back like he’d been burned, and Buttercup took his momentary distraction as a means of escape, ducking below the arm that had been keeping her caged against the wall and moving back towards the bed. She calmly gathered the discarded materials from the first aid kit and threw them into the wastebasket next to the small hotel room desk.

Buttercup glanced around, her hands busy repacking the white kit, when she spotted her daughters among the crowd of those who were her family, and those who used to be.

“Couldn’t you two pick something a little less identical?” she teased, taking in the matching black and turquoise t-shirts the girls were wearing.

“No, that’s the point,” they replied, in perfect unison.

Buttercup stilled, her fingers hesitating at the latch of the case. “What do you mean?”

Rooster nudged past them, clapping Jake on the back as he strode toward the mini fridge. “They heard you arguing in the hallway,” he whispered in his ear.

Shit. The last thing he wanted was for the girls to hear them arguing, and, based on the look on Buttercup’s face as Bob whispered in her ear, he knew she was thinking the same thing.

“I’m sorry you heard us fighting,” Jake stepped in. “Your mom and I…we’ll work out a custody arrangement that leaves everyone happy. I promise. Divorced couples do it all the time.”

“Yes, well…we want to be sure,” said the twin with the Texan twang in her voice.

“Charlie, what’re you talkin’ about?”

The other twin blinked at him. “But Dad, I’m Charlie.”

Shit again.

Buttercup suddenly stood beside him. “Abby, Charlie, stop fussing about.”

“We’re not fussing about, Mum.”

“Of course we’re not, Mum.”

Buttercup groaned, her hand rising to rub at her eyes in such a familiar way that Jake was tempted to run out and grab her usual migraine relief items.

“Girls, please stop messing around,” Jake begged instead.

“We will.”

“As soon as we go back to the ranch. All of us.”

“Once we’re there, you two can figure out the custody arrangement. Then and only then, we’ll tell you who is who.”

“And you two came up with this scheme all on your own, huh?” Jake crossed his arms, his chest stinging slightly as the bandage pulled tight. His eyes scanned the gallery of adults around the room. His friends, his family, all looked away from him, Javy looking all too interested in the piece of hotel artwork that decorated the wall.

“Girls, please,” Buttercup whispered, crouching down to look them in the eye. “This isn’t fair and you know it. We promise that we’ll figure out a schedule, but we all have to go home. To our own homes.”

“Auntie Nat already called your publisher and said that you were extending your holiday,” one of the twins shrugged. “And Uncle Rooster said that Dad doesn’t have anything to do this week outside of the ranch business.”

“Other than groveling with my in-laws,” Jake muttered.

“Speaking of…wouldn’t this be best anyway, Dad?” the other twin blinked up innocently at him. “This way our stepmother can get to know both of us. Build bridges and heal old wounds and that kind of thing.”

Jake groaned and ran a hand over his face before crouching down, green eyes scanning their features. He could’ve sworn the one on the left was Charlie, but had her hair always been parted like that? And the one on the right kept switching into a damn convincing Texan twang. But the one on the left seemed to be favoring her left leg, which would track with some of the injuries that Charlie had collected over the years on the ranch. But then the twin on the right started favouring her left leg too, and Jake sighed.

“I can’t tell,” he whispered to Buttercup, who looked horrified.

“Neither can I,” she nearly whimpered. “What kind of mother doesn’t know her own children?”

“The kind of mother who taught her children never to give up without a fight,” the twin on the right piped up, smiling brightly at them. “Just one week, Mum. One week at the ranch. We can go on the annual trail ride with Dad, and you can work on your book. You said the flat in London was stifling your creativity anyway. At the end of the week, when you’ve got a schedule for custody, then we’ll tell you who is who and we can all go home. One week. Please?”

“Please, Mum?”

Buttercup groaned and rubbed her eyes. “Fine. But whichever one of you is Abby is losing her allowance for a week for pulling another one of these stunts on me.”

“Same goes for Charlie,” Jake grumbled, his pointer finger drifting between them. “And you two!” Jake turned his finger on Rooster and Javy. “You’ll have to step up and split my ranch responsibilities between you. Y’know, since I’m going to be so busy with my daughters and figuring out a schedule.”

Maybe it wasn’t fair, but Jake had no doubt that his two best friends had something to do with his daughters’ newest scheme.

“I’ll call the ranch and get the house ready for everyone,” Jake offered. “We’ve got more than enough room for the four of you.”

“No need,” Bob piped up. “I’ll be flying back tonight.”

“And I’m going with him,” Phoenix added, shooting a look in Javy’s direction. To Javy’s credit, he didn’t flinch at all.

“Like hell you are,” Buttercup hissed. “You two got me into this mess, so you’re going down with me.”

Bob’s cheeks reddened and Nat looked like she had something to say, but with one more meaningful look from Buttercup, they both nodded.

“Alright then,” Jake sighed. “I guess we’re all heading to the ranch. God help us all.”

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#jake seresin x reader #glen powell #top gun maverick #jake seresin #as you wish fic #parent trap au #top gun fanfiction #jake hangman seresin #jake hangman fic

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hungermakesmonsters · 1 year ago

Text

Catch Me If You Can

Chapter Seven

Plot summary : When your friend interviews for a position at Anvil, you have a chance encounter with Billy Russo. He takes you for coffee and, by the time you’re done, Billy decides he’s anything but done with you.

Pairing : Billy Russo x Reader

Story Rating : R

Chapter Rating : PG

Warnings : [This is a fic for 18+ only, minors DNI] Billy is a bit of an asshole in this one and briefly restrains reader during an argument. Also he's kind of an entitled douche. Please check the warnings on each chapter if you choose to follow this story.

Word Count : ~2.8k

A/N : Ok, so this chapter and the next chapter technically happen on Halloween (I know, i'm super late with this, it's just how things panned out when I decided to post a chapter a week) Thanks to everyone still following this and for all the likes, comments and reblogs, y'all are awesome!!

Chapter Seven

You should have known that it wouldn’t be that easy to get Billy Russo out of your life, not after the night you’d shared together.

Six days.

That was all it took before he was trying to pull you back in and you hated that you hadn’t expected it. You’d let yourself hope that your one night had been enough, that he’d managed to get you out of his system and he’d be able to move onto whatever woman caught his eye next.

And, you - you’d been trying to forget all about it, about him. You hated leaving him but you knew it was the right thing to do, your life was too messy and you knew that you’d never recover if you let yourself fall for a man like Billy and he broke your heart. You’d done what was best for the both of you, so it pissed you off that Billy didn’t seem to want to accept that.

And it pissed you off even more that he’d decided to use your job against you - a job that he’d never seemed to judge you for, that he was now using to drag you across the city because he wasn’t prepared to take no for an answer. He’d even had the audacity to pre-pay with a two hundred dollar tip, like he thought he could buy you.

By the time you got to Anvil to collect whatever it was Billy wanted you to courier, you were livid. You made your way through the lobby and up to the top floor and, eventually, found yourself in front of the secretary.

“I’m here to collect a package,” you told her.

“Mr Russo wants to hand you it personally,” she answered in a flat tone, waving her hand towards his door, barely looking up from her computer.

“Of course he does,” you sighed, “look, I’m in a rush, can’t you just get it and bring it out here?”

“That’s above my paygrade.” And something told you that that was all you were going to get from her.

So, you did the only thing that you could do; you took a deep breath and stormed into his office. He was sitting at his desk, a takeout coffee and a half eaten bagel in front of him, and when he saw you, he had the nerve to smile.

“One night, Billy, that was the agreement,” you snapped before the door had even finished closing behind you, “We had one night and now it’s done, over.”

He didn’t answer straight away, instead he buzzed the intercom and told his secretary to go get her lunch, presumably so no one would overhear you screaming at him. And, then he stood, smoothing down his suit jacket as he did, looking every bit the businessman with an offer to pitch.

“I want a new agreement,” he stated calmly, rounding his desk and stepping closer, clearing the distance between you. “Nothing is over.”

“And - what? - you think you can buy me now? You think you can just throw a two-hundred dollar tip at me and I’ll fall into bed with you?” You didn’t even try to hold back the anger and the hurt. “Does it make you feel powerful, dragging the poor little bike messenger across town to your big fancy office? Is the money because you want to fuck me or is that supposed to be payment for the other night?”

“That’s not - I didn’t mean to make you feel that way,” the hint of regret in his voice earned him no mercy from you, “I just wanted to see you, the money was so you couldn’t refuse.”

“I don’t want your money, Billy. And, for the record, when a woman sneaks out on you before you wake up, it’s because she’s done with you and doesn’t want to see you again.” You hadn’t come here with the intention of being needlessly cruel, but you needed to make Billy understand that things between you were finished. “When you care about someone you don’t go out of your way to make them feel cheap - Oh, wait, that’s right, you’re not capable of caring about anyone, are you?”

There was a flicker of hurt on his face but he was quick to recover.

“How long was it?” He asked. “How long had you gone without being fucked before me? Years, I’m guessing. You think you can go back to that after a night in my bed?”

“Who says I’m going back to that?” You answered back, and Billy didn’t like it one bit.

“You think you’re gonna find anyone who can make you feel the way I did?” Billy gave a huff of laughter, shaking his head. Some part of you knew he was right, that nothing would ever be like the night you shared, but you were angry and you weren’t going to let him win.

“Guess I’ll just have to find out,” you shrugged and his gaze darkened. “I suggest you do the same, Billy.”

“You think I haven’t tried?” He admitted angrily, and you felt like you’d just been punched in the stomach.

“What?” Rage and pain coiled inside you. Less than a week and he’d already tried to replace you. How long had it taken to fall into bed with the next one? You hated yourself for even daring to wonder. You wanted this, you wanted him to move on, but you never expected it to hurt so much. “So you dragged me here to tell me how much you want me after you’ve been fucking other women?”

“I didn’t fuck anyone. I couldn’t because of you,” and you could see just how angry that made him. “D’you think I want to feel like this? That I want to be stuck on the one woman in New York who doesn’t want me? Who doesn’t even want to use me? Have you got any idea how fucked up and broken you make me feel?”

There was a painful honesty in his words, something that he clearly saw as a weakness that needed to be overcome.

“You want to talk about feeling fucked up and broken, Billy? I told you from the start that I couldn’t do this, but you pushed and pushed until you got your way.” Your voice broke, betraying your pain, eyes desperately blinking as you tried to fight back tears. “You turned my whole fucking life upside down and now - now you’re telling me you only want me because you can’t fuck anyone else?”

Something in him seemed to break in that moment and whatever anger he’d been feeling washed away. He reached for you, fingers ghosting your cheek before you pulled away.

“Let me -”

“No, Billy. This has to stop, you have to let me move on.”

“No.”

“It’s not your choice to make.”

He took a breath and, for a second, he looked like he was going to relent. But, of course, he didn’t.

“So, that’s it? You’re gonna go fuck some random guy just to try and prove to yourself that you don’t want me as much as I want you?” His sharp tone was quick to return. “You’re gonna let some guy use you just to make a point?”

“If that’s what it takes, I -”

“Bullshit,” he shook his head, “we both know that’s not gonna happen.”

Were you really that predictable, that easy to read? Probably. He’d seen you panic, afterall. No. No. Billy-fucking-Russo didn’t get to dictate what you did or how you felt. You weren’t going to give him that power over you. No one got to have that power over you. Never Again.

Anger had you reaching out, slapping him before shoving him backwards, knocking him off balance. And, after that first stumble, you found yourself lashing out again and again, pushing Billy back across his office, and you didn’t stop until he made you. He took hold of your wrists, stopping you from pushing again.

“Fuck you!” You all but snarled at him as you struggled against his grip.

“That’s exactly what I’m asking you to do, sweetheart,” he answered back, tone matching yours.

“I’ll fuck whoever I want, Billy, and there’s nothing you can do about it.”

He gave a sharp tug on your wrists, pulling your body against his.

“I told you before; you’ve got no idea what I’m capable of. I won’t let you” He was right, you didn’t, but you found yourself remembering what Krista told you, that he was dangerous. And you started to think that maybe she was right afterall.

“You can’t stop me.” All the while, trying to pull yourself from his grip.

“Yes I can. You’re mine and I don’t let anyone touch what’s mine, sweetheart.”

“I’m not yours,” and that was when the panic started to set it. You thrashed against his hold on you, lashing out and trying to knee him in the balls. He angled himself away from you, twisting your arms and managing to turn you so your back was pressed against him.

All you could think was that he’d never let you go, that this would be your life now, completely at his mercy. You’d have to leave New York to get away from him, you’d have to uproot your whole life again. He held tight, even as your feet lifted off the ground, kicking out as you struggled, desperate to get away from him.

“Let go!” The tears that you’d been trying to hold back soon started to fall.

“Not until you calm down,” you hated the concern in his voice - he didn’t get to worry about you, not when he was doing this. “You’re gonna hurt yourself.”

“You’re hurting me!” You cried out in a strangled sob.

Billy let go of you suddenly and pulled away from you, realising that he’d fucked up. You took a few steps forward before you dared to turn back to him, and he looked broken, devastated by what he’d done. When you said he was hurting you, you meant in general, you meant the ache he caused in your chest, but Billy was looking at you terrified, like he’d done even more than that. For reasons you didn’t understand, it made your heart ache to see him like that.

“I didn’t -” he tried but there weren’t any words. Billy knew that he’d crossed a line, that he’d really fucked up. “I wasn’t trying to -”

“Just - just stop,” you finally managed, a hand clumsily trying to wipe away your tears.

“I can’t,” barely able to bring himself to look at you, “I don’t know what I did wrong. What was so bad that you can’t even bear to see me again? I don’t know how I fucked this up, you just left me and I don’t know why...”

“I -”

You hated that he was right, that you hadn’t even tried to see any of this from his point of view. This all could have been avoided if you’d done things a little differently; all the times you chose not to remind him it was just for a night, the way you’d slipped out without saying goodbye. How had he felt waking up to find you gone after the amazing night you’d shared? You hadn’t thought about it. Leaving him had been hard enough but, after everything, the least you could have done was leave a note.

What had been on his mind that night when he fell asleep wrapped around you? Had he dared to hope that he could convince you to stay?

“What did I do?” He asked again.

Nothing. Your night together had been perfect and it had meant so much to you.

“I thought you had a good time with me.”

“I did, but it was one night, Billy. I left because it was over.” You wanted to at least give him that, to let him know that it wasn’t him.

“It’s not over, not for me.” He dared to take a step forward, and you took a step back. The pain on his face was unbearable and it felt like everything you said only made it worse.

“It’s not a discussion, Billy. I told you this couldn’t go anywhere.” You took a few more steps, not stopping until you were by the door. “Don’t do this again. Just leave me alone. I’m not going to change my mind.”

“Yes you will.” Spoken like there wasn’t a single doubt in his mind.

“Goodbye, Billy.” You shook your head as you pulled the door open, not daring to look back, not daring to say anything else; you needed it to be over, you needed to get away from him. Thankfully, he let you leave without any fuss. But, as you made your way to the elevator and out of the Anvil building, his words kept replaying in your mind, and the more you thought about it, the angrier you got; the fact that he’d tried to move on so quickly while he thought you’d be stuck on him forever, the way he’d dared call you his when he didn’t even know you.

You finally managed to choke back your tears in the elevators and, by the time you were outside, you had your phone in your hand, texting Tammy - she’d mentioned a Halloween night out with some of Anvil’s new recruits and, suddenly, you were very interested in a night on the town. You were going to go out and you were going to prove Billy wrong.

But, you didn’t have anything to wear and that meant borrowing one of Tammy’s old Halloween outfits, all of which came with the prefix sexy. Of course you very quickly ruled out sexy nun, sexy nurse and sexy cop. And that left you with a sexy catwoman costume, consisting of a faux-leather bodysuit, cut a little low at the front, but it had long sleeves and came with a mask, so you could at least hide just how embarrassed you were. You managed to cover yourself up a little more with fishnet tights, a pair of knee high boots and a leather jacket.

At the start of the night Tammy was full of questions, wanting to know what had happened with you and Billy, and if it was going to affect her position at Anvil in any way. She knew that you’d spent the night with him, but that you’d snuck back into the apartment before six am. But, fortunately for you, once other people started showing up at the bar she lost interest in you.

You started out in a little bar, drinking vodka and Redbull, and shots of tequila every time one was placed in front of you. Over a dozen people turned up, mostly Anvil trainee’s but a few of the office staff who worked with Tammy too. Including Michelle. But, aside from throwing you a shitty look, she stayed away, too distracted by the attention she was getting for her costume; a strapless white bodysuit, shirt cuffs, and bunny ears. It wasn’t long before the phones started coming out and people started taking pictures. You stayed in the background, enjoying your drink until it was time to move on to the club.

Before leaving the bar, you decided to dip into the bathroom, needing a moment to think about what you really wanted. Part of you just wanted to go home; you didn’t want to hook up with some random guy just to prove a point, but what other choice did you have? How else could you get Billy to finally let you go?

“I can’t believe Billy took her to the gala and not you,” the voice sounded vaguely familiar, one of Tammy’s friends. You froze, knowing that they were talking about you.

“He probably just wanted an easy lay,” Michelle. You held your breath, not even daring to move, even though some part of you wanted to storm out of the cubical and confront her. “But, tonight’s the night, I’m going to show Billy Russo just what he’s been missing out on.”

“He’s coming to the club?”

Fuck.

“Look what I sent him,” you heard shuffling and remained completely silent, trying to figure out what was going on.

“Oh my God, you sent him a thirst trap and he fell for it.” They both laughed, finishing up whatever they’d been doing at the sink, their voices getting further away as they finally left the bathroom.

You didn’t know whether to laugh or cry - after everything he’d told you, all it had taken was a picture of Michelle to have him moving on. Was he doing it to hurt you, you wondered. He knew how it had made you feel seeing him with her in your apartment. But, that was ridiculous. Billy didn’t even know that you were there. And you realised you could turn that to your advantage; if he saw you leave with another man, he’d have to admit that it was over between you...

CHAPTER EIGHT

END NOTES : With this one being a Halloween chapter, I decided to post it a little earlier than usual and will probably post the next part within the next week before we get too close to Christmas (and also because then hopefully the chapters that are set at Christmas will be posted at an appropriate time). Also I'm sorry everyone was so shitty to reader this chapter.

Thanks for reading!!

TAG LIST

@lincerad @sweetserendipity65 @rafaelakelley @slayerofthevampire @rensolodriver @lovelydoveval @doloreschanal @uncontainedsmiles @damagelove

#billy russo #billy russo fanfic #billy russo x female reader #billy russo x reader #the punisher #cmiyc ff #ben barnes

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aziraphales-library · 7 months ago

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Ello ello ello! Are there any humorous fics you know that involve an exorcism? Preferably lighthearted ones =) perhaps a similar vibe to Shane and Ryan in this one video: https://youtu.be/RzPk6VHPeDY?feature=shared

I hope that made sense!! I don't know how else to describe what I'm looking for T0T

2/2: Hi hi! It's that ryan and shane anon, i think i found a better way to describe what I'm looking for? Just anything involving someone looking for paranormal happenings going on, doesn't have to be an exorcism-- but still something humorous and lighthearted If someone already requested something like this, sorry bout that

Hello. You'll be interested in this post about paranormal investigations of the bookshop, including some buzzfeed unsolved crossovers. Here are some more lighthearted paranormal fics...

Hey There, Demons by IneffableAlien (T)

Married paranormal investigators Azra and Crowley explore an abandoned asylum. It goes about as well as you might expect.

The Wrong Side of the Door by HolyCatsAndRabbits (M)

Crowley had been with this group of ghost-hunters for two years, Aziraphale for three. They’d never had a conversation that didn’t end in an argument. If they weren’t both essential (read: would work this as a side job on the weekends for low pay), Gabriel would have fired one or both of them a long time ago. So now, as Aziraphale conducted his interview, Crowley was sure to scowl at him when he looked up. Because Aziraphale was on camera and couldn’t scowl back. Aziraphale returned his focus to Deirdre with an irritated huff of breath that Crowley did not miss. “What happened that day you stayed home?” he asked her. Deirdre talked with her hands, shaping out her thoughts in a vague, fluttery way. “I started hearing things, like scraping noises. From upstairs.” She pointed, as if they’d need direction, maybe thinking they might not be able to imagine what had happened that day, not in this warm and well-lit room with the open window and the front door in sight.

paranormal activity by dykeula (G)

"Humans were to ghosts what ghosts were to humans: a delightful jest to pass the time if the radio didn’t offer any relief. Sort of like chatting to fellas from oversees. They talked funny, wore fancy hats and were to be enjoyed with caution, and in doses. Problem was when they wouldn't leave Crowley alone." -- Back in the midst of the 19th century, a certain gentleman by the name of Mr. Fell aquires the rights to a particular empty store in London that's been closed for a while - for good reason. But what challenge's a little haunting to an ethereal being, right? It's tickety boo. Crowley, on the other hand, very much objects to his newest roomie. So far his track record for scaring off potential buyers is holding at a steady 100%. But what challenge's a bookish nerd to a omnipresent malevolent spirit, right? It's tickety boo.

Ghostly Ever After by Tiny_Dragongirl (T)

They say it’s all sorted out after you are dead—but sometimes, just sometimes, things need a bit of sorting-out even after you are dead. Aziraphale Fell and Anthony J. Crowley, professional paranormal investigators, might be the perfect candidates for handling problems of the supernatural, after-life kind. Only if they would sort out their own lives while they are alive… A romantic comedy, where ghosts are gathering, tempers are flaring, and love is rising above all.

Pulling Heaven Down by Bluethenstaub, PepperPrints (M)

Anthony J. Crowley is the best paranormal investigator in London. From minor poltergeist problems to full blown exorcisms, he does it all, satisfaction guaranteed. There’s only one catch: it’s all a con. At least, that’s what Crowley thinks. A run in with a strange, ethereal competitor threatens to turn Crowley’s world upside down, and before he knows it he finds himself caught up in affairs that might be way, way above his paygrade.

YES. YES. YES. GOODBYE? by AppleSeeds (T)

Aziraphale and Crowley are independently dragged along to a paranormal investigation event in a haunted castle on Halloween. They're both extremely sceptical about the whole thing, but manage to keep themselves entertained. Self-indulgent Halloween nonsense, 10 chapters taking place between 8.45pm on 31st October and 3.15am on 1st November. Attraction will be instantaneous. Hands will be joined together for a séance. Fingers will brush against each other on the planchette of a Ouija board. A scrying mirror will be used for indiscreet ogling. Crowley will be dressed inappropriately and need warming up. You get the idea.

- Mod D

#good omens #ineffable husbands #human au #paranormal investigators #mod d

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commanderquinn · 1 year ago

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a list of canon ways in which lillian hart is The Fucking Worst that cora coe deserves financial and emotional compensation for:

-the basis for the big divorce counseling mission is that cora's worried for her mother's safety. that means, before going on a deep cover operation with smugglers known to kill rangers, marines, or anyone else caught trying to interfere with their business, lillian didnt leave her daughter a heads up much less a lead. once the fuck again, this woman decided that her career was more important than her daughter's mental and emotional health. once the fuck again, this woman decided she could just disappear from cora's life and then come back out of the blue without consequence

-when you go to lillian's office to look for her at cora's request, the guy working the desk knows SAM well enough to know his name and give him shit like they've got a personal history, but he??? isnt sure about????? cora's name???? word for word, he looks at her and says "it's cora, right?" you're telling me that this woman doesn't talk about her kid enough for her fellow INVESTIAGATIVE rangers to be sure about her name??? are you SHITTING ME??????? get the fuck out of here. you cant push "ranger family values" and the close ties they have in one breath then claim she likes to keep a professional distance at work in the other. you wanna have the conversation about what fresh hell it is being a working mother in a position of power, lets go, ill have that conversation all day long. but lillian hart is not a fucking example of a working mother and im gonna be pretty fucking insulted for working mothers everywhere if i catch wind of ppl trying to pull that kind of defense card. the woman's an awful parent and should be held the fuck accountable for it. you wanna know how i know????

she doesn't say cora's name enough for the ranger watching the door to be confident in it, but he remembers alllll the stories of the captain her ex is cozying up to. and lillian is the one to confirm during the quest that she has been getting the stories from cora, so there's some clear "oh she already likes the stranger more than me." i know im reading into it because its fiction and none of these people are real, but ive also, y'know been in cora's shoes, so i can tell you from real life experience that shit does exist. idk if that was the writers INTENT, but it sure does a great job at reflecting a very sad reality

-sam points out its dumb that lillian wants to speed the ship, with her daughter on it, directly at the sydicate. idk abt y'all, but my ship was pretty dinky at that point bc i was focused on outposts, and we got ambushed by like 6 ship waves once we landed for that fight. again, i get it. game mechanics get a higher priority than realism. but this whole "we have to finish this because theres a chance you were spotted trying to rescue me" shit is so. nauseating. theres no demand to drop off cora somewhere safe, theres no "lets call in the cavalry." its this fucking egomaniac looking you dead in the eye and being like "i know i just traumatized the shit out of my kid but i need you to drive us into an ambush while she's still on board. hope you're a good shot because sam and i cant kill them ourselves." and so what that we did that????? YOURE TELLING ME IT WAS JUST THOSE SHIPS???? the rest of the organization is just going to LET IT GO???? like no fucking wonder sam sees himself as the better option even through all his fucking doubt. at least he knows when to turn the fuck around because shit is above his paygrade

-she has custody rights. she is a decorated and respected ranger. sam being a smuggler wasnt public knowledge, but point out one person in akila who wouldnt believe her in a heartbeat over it. everyone in town gives him nothing but shit, and they all side with his dad who was definitely no picnic to live with. im guessing big emotional detachment there, lotta interrogation and persecution rather than teaching and understanding. HELL, sam would probably own up to his past if lillian outed him for it, he's that type of idiot. at literally any point she could put in the effort to get legal council involved. if she's SOOOO by the law, whats the hold up there???? i agree the kid shouldnt be on my ship while im in the middle of a space fight. ive talked with sam about it, and im not even the kids parent (as of the personal quest). what the fuck are you doing about it lillian????????? oh thats right. we cant get lillian on the phone. whomp whomp.

-she made cora cry. hyper independent, "big girls dont cry" cora coe. multiple times. worse, she made cora cry because she made cora feel like she wasn't as important as lillian's career. i dont give a fuck what criminals are doing. i do not give a fuck. i give a fuck that that little pixel child got her heart broken and there isnt a dialogue for me to call out her mother for being a huge fucking cunt to her own daughter but theres a thousand and one options for me to tell sam he's parenting wrong. he is, and i have no problem using them when they're appropriate, but where the fuck are they for lillian??? why am i not allowed to tear this woman a new asshole at any point, but there's like 20+ extra dialogue options added to every single npc you have a persuade option with???? todd my head hurts and its your fault

-"im sure sam's told you all about me. go on. ask whatever you want." yet there is no option to ask what the fuck her problem is. so, clearly, i cannot, in fact, ask whatever i want.

-"but the looks i got from my fellow rangers reading alexander dumas... we do strange things for kids." yeah hart??? thats your standard????? THATS your idea of going out of your way for your kid??? literally how did sam fall for this woman oh my god i cant even listen to her speak without wanting to use the power of bitchhood i inherited from a long line of angry irish women to ridicule her to tears. maybe then she'll fucking understand how small she makes her fucking kid feel every time she turns a moment of bonding into a little "woe is me and my comfort zone oh how unfortunate i am to have a brilliant daughter that wants to connect with me through her greatest passion"

-she openly admits that she dumped the cargo sam was smuggling not because she felt any connection or sympathy or just didnt want to destroy someones chance at life in a capitalist society, but because he was a good pilot and she didnt want that talent to "go to waste" so she could recruit him. thats not really a thing against cora i just really fucking hate that and the picture it paints of her priorities as a human being

-"if we're going to be really honest here... back when we were a team... cora would follow you everywhere, like a little adoring dog. i... just fell out of it. long before we separated."

i literally. do not have words for how fucking disgusted i am by that line of dialogue. oh my fucking god. oh my fucking god. i. i TRULY would not even know where to start. the dog comparison makes me violently angry and if you'd given me a punch interrupt at that moment, i would have broken my keyboard punching the accept option

-go replay or watch a recording of that divorce counseling mission one more time. while you're doing it, imagine the roles reversed. imagine youre romancing a character thats a mother bringing cora into space, and the ranger standing in your cockpit asking to finish the mission is her father who took off to live at work once it was clear his little girl liked mommy better. imagine THAT while you listen to the (imo) out of fucking pocket dialogue where sam constantly praises lillian for being "a good ranger/woman." then you come back and tell me how comfortable you are with the concept of lillian hart as a character.

#sam coe #lillian hart negative #cora coe #starfield #meta #look man i know i know i have mommy issues and im biased but jesus fucking christ i cant stand her as a character #she's not a mother by any stretch of the imagination #she designated HERSELF as extended family and im forever disgusted #anyways im writing up a meta post abt my feelings on sam so far #lillian just gets on my fucking nerves so a hate post for her was easy to whip up lmao

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drabbles-mc · 2 years ago

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Do You Need Someone?

Bucky Barnes x F!Soldier!Reader

Summary: In the aftermath of finally getting control over his own mind, Bucky tries to start building a normal life for himself. Just like any soldier coming back from the war, he needs a helping hand with it all.

Warnings: 18+, angst, language, PTSD, mentions of war/violence, hospitals

For the Alternate June-iverse Event Prompt: therapist

Word Count: 4.9k

A/N: I love the idea of instead of Bucky getting funneled right into Avengers things when he gets his mind back, he just gets to be a "normal" vet. This AU was so much fun to write but I was a fool to think that I could pack everything that I wanted to do with it into one story, so there will definitely be more installments of this as time goes on. However, I feel like this is a good kickstart to it and could be a standalone if I let it be. It's also my first Bucky readerfic! What a time! Hope you enjoy! Also, shout-out to @buckybarnesevents for hosting this event! xo

MCU Taglist: @garbinge @artemiseamoon (If you want to be added to any of my taglists, please let me know!)

Bucky stared up at the towering concrete walls that made up the outside of the hospital. It felt so strange to show up here after everything. It felt too normal after all that he’d been through. But, if he was going to try and scrape together any semblance of a normal life, he supposed that this wasn’t the worst place to start. This hospital was one of the few in the area that worked directly with the VA, so that’s where Sam had sent him.

He looked down at the screen of his phone, looking over all of the information for his initial appointment here. Today was just supposed to be about getting set up with a doctor, specifically one who knew a good deal about prosthetics. What he had was going to be above most people’s paygrades, but he tried to be optimistic about it all.

Once he was inside and made his way to the elevator, he hit the button for the floor the woman at the front desk had given him. It was only a few floors up but the trip up felt like it took much longer than it should’ve. Finally, there was the singular ding that let Bucky know he had finally gotten to his destination. He strode off the elevator, trying his best to weave through the people getting on without bumping into them. He fought the urge to pull his baseball cap farther down over his face—old habits die hard.

“How can I help you today?” the woman at the desk greeted him

He cleared his throat, stuffing his hands into his pockets. “I’m supposed to have an appointment?”

She nodded, fingers flying across the keyboard. “Name?”

“Buc—” he stopped himself short, “James. Barnes.”

He could’ve sworn he saw something flicker across her face, but it was gone before he could think too much on it. Looking up from her screen and back at him, she smiled and nodded before handing him a clipboard. “Fill this out for me, please. Feel free to take a seat in the waiting area. Your doctor will be with you shortly.”

Bucky found a chair towards the back of the waiting room, one that situated him without anyone sitting right next to him. No one there really seemed to be paying him any mind, but he still felt like all eyes were on him. He tapped the pen against the edge of the clipboard in his lap as he read over the sheet in front of him.

It didn’t take him long to fill out the form. Most of his information had been sent to the hospital already. But all of the questions wanting to get into more details of the reason for his visits, any symptoms or things that he was struggling with that he wanted to discuss more in depth with his doctor, felt like they were trick questions at worst, essay questions at best. He did his best to keep it short and sweet—part of him had to assume that whatever doctor landed his case had to know what they were getting into. If nothing else, he knew that Sam would’ve at least made sure of that.

When he was done filling it out, he brought it back up to the front desk before promptly going and finding his seat again. He took the time to study everyone around him a little closer. He’d taken vague note of everyone when he first arrived, that was a habit he didn’t think that he would ever shake, but now he really tried to study them all.

There was such a range of people. There were a lot of younger people, people that were fighting wards that Bucky hadn’t even really had the time to fully learn about yet. He also noticed the few older people who were in the waiting room too, people who looked the way that Bucky would if he’d had any sort of a normal trajectory in life after the war. He tried not to think too hard about it—he had enough things clogging up his mind for the time being.

Like a saving grace, the sound of his name put a stop to his spiraling thoughts. “Barnes?”

“Yea,” the word came out before he thought better of it. He was instantly standing up out of his seat, grabbing his backpack off the floor as he went.

The appointment wasn’t as daunting as Bucky had been making it out to be in his head. The doctor gave him a general checkup, but most of what they did was talk. They talked about treatment plans for old injuries that never really healed properly, about what the strategy was going to be for care when it came to his arm.

“I think,” his doctor said as she set her clipboard off to the side, “the thing that’s going to be most helpful for you, though, is finding someone that you can talk to.” She saw the slight panic on Bucky’s face at the mere thought of it. “I can help you with all of the physical things, but I’m not the most qualified to help coach you through coping with everything that you’ve been through. We have some great psychiatrists here and—”

“I don’t wanna be catatonic because someone decided I need to be on a bunch of meds,” he said, cutting her off with a tone that wasn’t loud, but it was firm.

She took it in stride, simply giving an understanding nod. “I completely understand that. We also have a really great team of counselors who do group and individual therapy sessions. I think that you would benefit a lot from shopping around and finding someone that you feel comfortable talking with.” She paused, seeing the hesitation still on his face. “I can’t make you book an appointment with someone, James, but I really think that you should consider it. Getting your body working well is all fine and good, but your brain has undergone just as much trauma as your body.”

He shifted uncomfortably on the bed in the exam room, the paper crinkling beneath him. “Right.”

The doctor stood up and went to the wall where they had rows of pamphlets. Trailing her fingers along a few of them, she scanned until she found the one she’d been looking for. Plucking it from the holder, she stepped back over and handed it to Bucky.

“Like I said, I’m not here to force you. But here are the doctors here and the services they provide. The front desk can also give you an updated schedule for group therapy sessions that are held here.”

He took the pamphlet from her, still unsure of whether or not he planned on even looking at all of the names let alone calling any of the people to schedule an appointment. Still, he nodded and tucked it into his backpack. “Thank you.”

She gave a nod and took a step towards the door, a silent signal for Bucky that he was now free to go. His body relaxed a little bit as he stood up from the bed and slung his bag onto his shoulders again. She pulled the door open and allowed him to walk through first, letting him know to stop by the front desk to schedule their next appointment before he left.

Once he stopped by the desk to make his next appointment, he started to make his way back towards the elevator. He was looking down, pulling his phone out of his pocket when he felt someone accidentally bump against his shoulder. He tensed up, caught off-guard, but when he saw the frazzled and apologetic look on your face, his annoyance faded a little bit.

“Sorry,” you said, shaking your head at yourself. “Wasn’t looking where I was going…obviously.” You offered a tiny, awkward smile.

He shrugged, tone neutral as he said, “It’s okay.”

“Was running late for group and then I got off on the wrong floor before I got here. So, you know,” you reached up and dragged your hands down your face in exasperation, “just having one of those days.”

“Group?” he asked, noticing the dog tags that were hanging around your neck.

“Yea. Oh,” you paused, looking him over, trying to figure out if you’d seen him before and forgotten, “is that where you’re heading too?”

His eyes widened and he shook his head. “N-no. I just, um,” he motioned back towards the hall with the exam rooms, causing you to see the silver metal of his hand and arm, “just had an appointment. Doc mentioned something about groups here though.”

“You wanna come check it out?” Your smile grew a little warmer. “They might take it easy on me for being late if I bring a friend.”

His brows furrowed for a moment. “I don’t think I can just, I don’t have an appointment. Or a therapist.”

You shook your head at him. “It’s fine. They won’t turn you away.”

Bucky didn’t believe much in fate, but this felt fate-adjacent. He knew that if he walked out of the hospital, there was no way that he was going to look into things and find his own therapist and go through that hassle.

You could see him debating it all in his head. “If you’re not feeling it, you can just get up and leave. No harm, no foul.”

He hesitated for a moment longer before finally giving a small nod. “Okay.”

You nodded, not wanting to make a big deal over it and make him more uncomfortable. “Great! Follow me.” The two of you fell into stride with each other. You were a few doors away from the room you needed to be in when you asked him, “Sorry, what’s your name? Forgot to ask before I wrangled you into going to therapy with me.”

The sound of your laugh got him to give a hint of a smile. “I’m James.”

You nodded, giving your name in return. “Nice to meet you, James.”

When the two of you walked into the room, all eyes went to you for a moment. It was only fair, since you did show up late. No one looked annoyed. You being a few minutes late was the least of anyone’s problems.

Your counselor, the one who ran the group, was a man who was about ten years older than you. He’d been the therapist you’d been working with ever since you came back from your second deployment. You considered yourself to be extremely lucky that you got along with one of the first therapists you’d seen, because you knew that a lot of people didn’t have that experience.

However, because of your good rapport with him, he was the first and only one to give you grief about being late. “Nice of you to join us,” he said it with a smile, no malice in his voice.

“I know I’m late, Doc,” you didn’t even try to argue, “but I did pick up a straggler.”

There was a moment of silence as Bucky and your counselor both looked at each other. It was clear that Bucky was sizing the man up, and your doctor was content to let him. He broke the silence. “Happy to have you.” He gestured to the few empty chairs that were left. “There are no bad seats, so pick any one you want.”

Since you were the one who had essentially talked him into coming to group in the first place, you made sure that the two of you at least managed to get seats that were right next to each other. It didn’t take someone with a doctorate to see that Bucky didn’t really want to talk. So, thankfully, no one tried to make him.

As the minutes ticked by, part of you was waiting for him to just get up and leave. You were pleasantly surprised when he didn’t, though. It was evident that he wasn’t fully comfortable, and no one could really blame him for that. But he was watching and listening intently as different people spoke up and shared what they’d been struggling with, what they had going on. He sat, his backpack between his feet and one elbow propped against each knee as he took it all in.

You felt his eyes on you when you took a turn to speak. You talked about how you had trouble sleeping, that your nightmares weren’t as frequent as they used to be but they would still happen every now and again and make it impossible for you to even attempt to fall back to sleep after the fact. You mentioned that you didn’t take your sleeping meds anymore because you figured out that they were making your nightmares worse. You were looking at the tile floor as you spoke, but you could hear your counselor taking notes on what you were saying. He did it for everyone in group, stuff to circle back to or bring up in individual sessions.

It wasn’t long after that, that group came to a close. You didn’t know why, but you were glad to see that the man beside you had stayed for the whole thing. Sure, you didn’t know him, but you didn’t have to know him to know that everyone needed a bit of help when it came to stuff like this. Group was a decent place to start.

People were starting to filter out when you and Bucky stood up from your seats. You turned to look over at him, watching as he put his backpack back on. “Not horrible, right?” you said with a laugh.

The tiny smile he gave didn’t quite reach his eyes, but it was still something. “Not horrible. Thanks, um, you know, for the invite.”

You shook your head. “Don’t gotta thank me.”

Before either of you could say anything else, your counselor materialized beside the two of you. He looked back and forth between the two of you, a content smile on his face. He addressed you first, thanking you for coming and sharing, before turning to Bucky. He held out his hand. “Sorry I didn’t get a real chance to introduce myself earlier. I’m Dr. Anderson.”

Bucky nodded as he firmly shook the man’s hand. “I’m James. Sorry for just showing up.”

“No need to apologize—that’s how a lot of people start off here. I hope to see you back again if you can make it.”

Bucky brought his hands up to his chest, holding the straps of his backpack, clearly not sure how to navigate the rest of the interaction. “Thanks.”

Dr. Anderson turned to you as he started to walk away. “And I’ll see you…”

“Friday, yes.” You laughed. “On time.”

He chuckled. “On time.”

It was just you and Bucky now as you started to walk towards the door that would land you back out in the hallway of the hospital. You both seemed content to walk next to each other, neither of you saying anything about the group session, or anything else. You walked side by side all the way to the elevator.

“First floor?”

He nodded. “Yea.”

As the elevator started to go down, you said, “If I didn’t already hijack most of your evening, I would say we could go grab food or coffee or something and talk if you wanted. But I get it if you want to just get home, or do whatever it was you were planning on doing before I ran you over.”

Bucky huffed out a quiet chuckle. “Thanks.”

The elevator doors opened up and you both walked towards the main entrance and exit of the hospital. You didn’t know what to say at this point. It wasn’t like you were friends—there wasn’t even a guarantee that you would ever even see him again. You figured that telling him to have a good one would have to suffice.

Right as you stepped out onto the sidewalk, you were going to say just that, but he beat you to the punch with a completely different statement. “Are these every week? Or…?”

Your face brightened at the question. “Yea! I mean, Anderson holds his every Wednesday, and usually he’ll do one extra evening at some point during the week as well in case people can’t make the Wednesday one. But other doctors hold them at different times on different days.”

“Right,” he said with a nod.

“Wanna come back next week?” you offered.

“Uh, yea, yea okay.”

“Great!” You paused. “Oh, would you, um, do you want my number? In case you have any questions or anything?”

His eyes widened a bit at your question, clearly not having expected that to be the next thing you said. Still, he nodded, if out of bewilderment than anything else. “Okay.”

He dug his phone out of his pocket and handed it over to you. You quickly added your name and number to his contacts and handed the phone back to him. “Anything comes up, feel free to text or call or whatever.”

“Thank you.” He said, eyes looking at your contact listing in his phone.

“No problem! I’ll see you next week.”

“See you.”

The week went by faster than Bucky had thought it would. Trying to figure out what it was like to just be a regular person after everything that happened was more time consuming than he thought it was going to be. He didn’t know how he simultaneously felt like he wasn’t doing anything at all, while also being so busy all the time. If it hadn’t been for the alarm on his phone, he would’ve completely forgotten that it was already time for group again.

His second session went by much like his first. He didn’t really talk. At least this time he got the chance to introduce himself. Still, he did more listening than anything else. He sat next to you again, the two of you making small talk before and after the group session.

And that was how it went for the next couple weeks. He’d say a few words here and there during sessions sometimes, but he was never one to have much of a monologue. You could tell that he was still fighting to get comfortable with the idea of sharing, but at least he was still showing up. That meant something—you of all people would know. Each week that went by, you always offered to grab a bite or some coffee when group was over, and every week he always found a kind way to say no. You didn’t take it personally—he didn’t seem like the type to be much of a social butterfly.

That was why, when the fourth week rolled around and you didn’t see Bucky there, you were a little worried but not too much. No one was held to the standard of having to show up every week. You just did it because you knew that you needed it. He was probably just busy.

When group ended and you checked your phone, you saw a text from an unknown number. Normally, your automatic reaction was just to delete them. But when you read the preview of the message in your notification bar, you had a pretty good idea of who it was.

“Sorry I didn’t make it tonight. Can I still cash in on the offer to get coffee?” You were about to start typing out a response when a second text came in. “This is James btw”

For some reason that caused more concern than him not showing up did. You instantly replied, “Of course. Got a place in mind?”

A few texts later the two of you had settled on a spot. It was within walking distance of the hospital, and it had you wondering if it was also within walking distance of his apartment, or maybe he was coming from somewhere else entirely.

When you walked through the door of the diner, the first thing that you did was look around to see if he was already there. Sure enough, he was sitting at one of the booths in the back of the restaurant. He had the same baseball cap as usual on, pulled down so that it was covering most of his face. He still had his hoodie and jacket on, so either he hadn’t been there long or he just hadn’t been comfortable enough to take them off.

You made your way back to the booth where he was sitting, sliding in across from him. When his eyes snapped up to yours, you could see the exhaustion all over his face. You tried not to let your expression falter too much as you got situated. “Hey, James.” You paused for a moment. “Everything, um, everything okay?”

The answer seemed obvious but you figured that he wasn’t going to come right out and say anything without asking. He nodded, picking at the edge of the napkin in front of him. “Long day.”

You nodded slowly. “I get that. Do you…do you wanna talk about it?”

He shook his head. “Not really.”

That was about what you had expected. “Okay.” There was a brief pause in your conversation as the waitress stopped at your table, asking for your order and taking right off again when you asked for two coffees. When she was gone, you picked right back up where you’d left off. “Want to listen to me talk?”

He looked up at you at the sound of that question. It wasn’t what he had been expecting. Still, he found himself nodding.

You gave a warm smile as you leaned forward, bracing your arms against the edge of the table between you. “Want me to talk about group stuff? Or not group stuff?”

He gnawed at his bottom lip, considering the question for a moment before finally answering, “Group stuff.”

“So, let me think.” You lightly drummed your fingers on the tabletop. “You already know about my rampant insomnia and occasional night terrors,” you made light of your own struggles to cope with it, and if nothing else you hoped that he would at least find you to be an amusing distraction from whatever was bothering him, “but I’ve never actually talked about what landed me in group with Dr. Anderson, have I?”

Bucky shook his head. “No.”

“It’s not, you know,” you hesitated for a moment, “it’s not like what you’ve been through per se.” There was no point in pretending that you hadn’t learned about who he was in the last month of seeing him at the hospital every week. “But, I was getting towards the end of my second tour. I was thinking about extending it, coming back for a third. You know how it goes. Can’t…can’t leave the war once you’re in it. I only had a couple weeks left, which felt like no time at all and also the longest fourteen days possible. We were on our way back to base one night when our vehicle got hit. Came outta fucking nowhere.” You shook your head. “There were six of us packed in there, only two of us made it out. It was…it was a mess.”

The words, “I’m sorry,” were on the tip of Bucky’s tongue, but if anyone knew how useless apologies were, it was him.

You pushed up the sleeve of your hoodie that was covering your right arm, revealing a pattern of scarring that Bucky instantly recognized as burn scars. “Not quite as cool as a metal arm,” you joked despite the tears starting to sting at your eyes, “but you know, some chicks still dig it.”

The conversation was halted again when your waitress reappeared with coffees for both of you. She was about to ask if you were ready to order anything else when she saw the looks on both of your faces. Reading the room, she said, “I’ll be back in a few minutes for your orders.”

Sniffling and blinking the tears away, you reached for a few packets of sugar to tear and pour into your coffee. “So, as you can imagine, I was a little unwell after all of that. Didn’t even finish out my last two weeks. Got sent home, and got funneled right into the VA hospital. I’ve worked with Dr. Anderson ever since. He now has me on a strict regimen of three sessions a week—one group, two individual.”

Bucky’s eyes widened slightly at that. “Wow.”

You shrugged, taking a sip of your coffee. “It’s a lot, but I need it. It’s, you know, it’s good for me.”

“It helps?” he asked.

You nodded with no hesitation. “It does. I know I still talk about having trouble sleeping and stuff, but when I first came home they pretty much had to sedate me. It was,” you let out a hollow laugh, “it was not good. If I didn’t have him, and some other really good doctors with good meds to level me out, I don’t think I’d still be here.”

The two of you sat in silence for a minute, letting the weight of your words hang in the air between you. Bucky had wondered in passing what had happened, the same way anyone would. If you hadn’t offered it up, though, he never would’ve asked.

Clearing your throat, you said, “You should eat something.” You took another sip of your coffee. “I know I’m going to.”

A small smile tried to curl the ends of his mouth. He knew that at this point you were probably assuming that he hadn’t eaten all day, and you were right. When the waitress came back over, you each placed an order before getting back to your conversation.

“I know it’s hard to think that things are gonna get better,” you told him honestly, “especially after everything you went through, but it will.”

“This your way of telling me not to miss group next week?” he asked before taking a sip of his coffee.

You laughed and shook your head. “No, no. I mean, I enjoy having you in group. I just,” you paused for a moment, “I’m not gonna pretend to know what happened today, or what you’ve gone through, but I’d hate to see anyone give up.”

“I don’t think that I can just tell everyone about everything. How do you get comfortable with that?”

You shook your head. “I don’t tell everyone everything. There’s a lot of shit that I only discuss one-on-one with Anderson. Some stuff I only talk about with my friend who went through it with me. The stuff I talk about in group is just what I’m comfortable discussing there.”

He nodded, the furrow in his brow deepening as he mulled over what you said. “Right.”

The waitress brought your orders over setting them down and promptly walking away again, realizing that the two of you were still very much involved in an intense conversation.

“You just need to find one person to start with,” you told him.

“Like a therapist?” he said, a bit of a joking sarcastic lilt to his voice.

You laughed, shrugging. “Yea. Or a friend.”

You noticed the way that those last three words gave him pause as he stared across the table at you. You gave him the illusion of privacy as you kept your eyes fixed on your plate. When a few more seconds of silence went by, you looked back up at him, only to find him still looking at you with an expression that you couldn’t quite figure out. Regardless, there was a smile on your face that was warm enough to let him know that you were alright as long as he was.

After a few more minutes of silence with the two of you eating, he said, “I didn’t recognize where I was when I woke up this morning.” He waited to see your reaction, but when you didn’t flinch at his statement, he continued. “It was my apartment, but I didn’t…at first…I thought…”

“And then once you realized, you didn’t want to leave.”

He nodded once. “Yea.”

“That…that happen a lot?”

“Not a lot. More than it should.”

“You made it here, though.”

He scoffed, frustrated with himself. “Only took me—”

You cut him off, “But you did it. That’s progress.”

Some of the tension melted out of his shoulders as he conceded with a nod. The two of you went back to eating after that, exchanging an occasional remark here and there, but for the most part just soaking up the comfort between you.

You tried to pay for the meal, but Bucky insisted, so you let him have that. The two of you walked out together, lingering on the sidewalk once you were outside.

“I’m glad you reached out,” you told him with a nod as you stuffed your hands into the pockets of your jeans.

Embarrassment flashed across his face for a moment but he agreed, “Me too. Thanks, you know, for this.”

You smiled. “Any time.” There was a pause and then you asked, “I’ll see you next Wednesday?”

He chuckled and nodded. “Next Wednesday, yea.”

“Good. Take care of yourself, alright?”

“You too.”

You laughed. “I will. Goodnight, James.”

“Goodnight.” He watched as you turned and went to walk down the sidewalk towards your own apartment. You got a couple steps away before he finally got himself to say your name and get your attention. When you turned back around to face him, he hesitated for a moment before saying, “Bucky. My, my friends call me Bucky.”

A warm feeling washed over you as you took in the weight of what he’d just said. You smiled as you amended your previous statement, “Goodnight, Bucky.”

#connect4au #alternate juneiverse #bucky barnes #bucky barnes fanfiction #bucky barnes au #bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes x you #marvel #marvel fanfiction #mcu #mcu fanfiction #my writing #fanfiction #drabblesmc #bucky barnes events #alternate juneiverse 2023 #do you need someone

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mamuzzy-creates-stuff · 8 months ago

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Civilians are just like tubies, Mog thought. For them, every possible bad occurence were the worst of the worst and they expressed their pain so outwardly, it made him wonder: is it them who are broken? His brothers never cried. They all hid their tears behind the helmets. Mog too, occasionally.

Wordcount: 507 No beta.

It would have been rude to get up as soon as the zabrak girl arrived to sit down on the bench, though Mog wished he did. She slammed the colorful flimsybag down as if it had been caused all her misery, while the real culprit probably was behind the otherside of the comlink.

She was trembling from anger while yelled to that someone; Brother? Boyfriend? Mog couldn't understand too much, the zabrak spoke huttese but the tone and painful expression, as well as the recognizable "cunt"-s and different variations of "fuck you"-s told him what he needed to know: this situation was well above his paygrade.

The girl was just loud and hysterical but on larger scale, she didn't disturbed peace. And Mog hurt enough civilian for this week.

The conversation ended abruptly as the girl stood up, yelled a last one into the comlink, then throw it before her feet and stomped on the device, one, two, three-times until it was an unrecognizable junk beyond repair. Now littering was something he should have spoken up but...

He wasn't here as a Guard now. He was just a guy on a bench, doing nothing in particular besides contemplating on his life.

Besides, the girl started sobbing so miserably, even he didn't have a heart to tell her off.

Civilians are just like tubies, Mog thougth. For them, every possible bad occurence were the worst and they expressed their pain so outwardly, it made him wonder: is it them who are broken? His brothers didn't cry. They all hid their tears behind the helmets. Mog too, occasionally.

He had no idea what to do, but couldn't help just watching her.

The girl eventually stopped crying, until her pain tamed to silent sniffles, and Mog still didn't know how to react. What to say. How to comfort.

She eventually looked up, blinking the tears out rapidly from her grey eyes, and Mog recognized something in her expression that looked like apologetic. Mog smiled back awkwardly but before he could say anything, the girl just took the flimsybag from her side and put it between them.

"Would you... would you please accept it?" she spoke now in clear basic. "Doughnut. I don't need it anymore" her voice still trembled despite her shy smile she tried to maintain. "And it's too expensive to end up in the trash."

Mog looked surprised from this gesture, though his eyes wandered from the bag to the destroyed device on the ground but decided maybe it's not the right time to make a comment about value assessment. By the time he looked up, Mog could only stare at the back of the leaving zabrak.

He pulled the bag in his lap to check the contents, finding two boxes with the same color, and by opening up the lid, he indeed found doughnuts inside: round, fatty sweets in many colors and fruity scents it made saliwa collected in his mouth.

The girl was right. This was indeed valuable. He may have as well accepted it.

#original clone character: mog #he is a riot trooper #original zabrak oc #coruscant guard #the clone wars #star wars #mamuzzy draws stuff #mamuzzy writes stuff

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laurel-finch · 10 months ago

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'I Don't Bite' S1.Ch11: In The Dark

Summary: An unusual case yields new discoveries and old faces... Referenced Episodes: S1 E16 "Shadow" CW: The usual Supernatural shenanigans. Word Count: 4709 Recommended Song: Bad Moon Rising -- Creedence Clearwater Revival Previous Chapter -- Masterlist -- Next Chapter

I pushed our motel room door open harder than anticipated. My eyes flitted towards Dean, his green ones wide with surprise and his phone held to his ear. I half-smiled in apology and made my way toward the table where he sat.

"You trying to bust the hinges or something?" he asked. My cheeks dusted red and I glared at him as I dropped a bag of gas station goodies on the table.

“Got lunch,” I replied dismissively as I shrugged off my coat and tossed it onto the back of the other rickety chair at the table. “They didn’t have the Black Forest ham sandwiches you like, so you’ll have to make do.”

"Sure, thanks,” he muttered as he turned his body away slightly and returned his attention to his phone. “Right, sorry Sammy," he started again, leaning back in his chair. "Like I was saying, she checks out. There is a Meg Masters in the Andover phone book. I even pulled up her high school photo," he sighed and held his unoccupied hand up, gesturing as if Sam could see him. "Now, look, why don't you go knock on her door and, uh, invite her to a poetry reading, or whatever it is you do, huh?"

I laughed and Dean's eyes slid over to me, a smirk resting on his features. He winked and then returned his gaze to the ceiling. I rummaged through the contents of the grocery bag, pulling out my own drink and chicken pot pie. Thank God for hotels having microwaves.

Dean hummed and leaned forward once more, scanning his notebook resting on the table. "Yeah, that I did have some luck with." I straightened and turned to him to see him hunched over his hastily scrawled notes. I moved to stand behind him, staring down at his wrinkled paper. "It's, uh—turns out it's Zoroastrian. Very, very old school, like two thousand years before Christ. It's a sigil for a Daeva."

My finger ran lightly over the sigils and words that I had never seen before. I had no clue what a 'Zoroastrian' was, nor a Daeva. It certainly sounded demonic, which was far above my educational paygrade.

"What's a Daeva?" I heard Sam's voice from the end of the phone. Dean changed his phone to his other hand and hit the speaker button.

"It translates to ‘demon of darkness.’ Zoroastrian demons, and they're savage, animalistic, you know, nasty attitudes. Kind of like, uh, demonic pit bulls."

I chuckled. "Pit bulls aren't that bad. Sweethearts, really."

Dean quirked a skeptical brow and Sam laughed breathily from the other end. "How'd you figure that out, Dean?"

Dean huffed in an almost offended way. "Give me some credit, man. You don't have a corner on paper chasin' around here."

"Oh yeah? Name the last book you read."

Dean fell silent and visibly sweat. After a few moments, he finally spoke up and said, "I called Dad's friend, Caleb. He told me, alright?"

I bit back a laugh and hid behind my hands. When I looked up I found Dean already scowling at me and the clear sound of Sam’s laughter over the speaker. I grinned somewhat sheepishly and collected my food from the table. I felt Dean’s eyes burning into me as I strolled to the kitchen and readied my meal.

"Anyway," Dean continued. "Here's the thing: these Daevas, they have to be summoned, conjured." That piqued my interest and I turned back towards Dean, resting my back against the counter.

"So someone's controlling it?"

"Yeah, that's what I'm sayin'. And, from what I gather, it's pretty risky business, too," he took a deep breath. "These suckers tend to bite the hand that feeds them. And, uh, the arms, and torsos." I scrunched my nose in distaste.

"So what do they look like?" Sam's voice was tinged with obvious confusion and worry.

"Well, nobody knows, but nobody's seen 'em for a couple of millennia. I mean, summoning a demon that ancient? Someone really knows their stuff. I think we've got a major player in town." Dean smirked and leaned back in his chair again. "Now, why don't you go give that girl a private strip-o-gram?"

"Bite me," Sam snapped.

"I can arrange that!" I hollered from the kitchen. Sam laughed and Dean rolled his eyes.

"No, don't!" Dean said quickly, waving his hands wildly. "Bite Meg, Sammy! But don't leave teeth marks-" the line went dead. "Sam? You there?"

"I think he's busy now, Dean," I called over my shoulder as I put my pot pie in the microwave and started it.

"I sure hope so," Dean grumbled in response. "Kid doesn't get laid enough."

I scoffed and made my way back towards the table and Dean. "I'm sure Sam does gets laid enough, not that it's any of your business." I rifled through the plastic shopping bags to pull our food and drinks out. Dean paled as I slid a chicken salad toward him.

"I can't eat this."

"Then I guess you'll starve," I answered with a shrug. "That's what you get for sending me to the store by myself."

"I was doing research!" he argued, thoroughly exasperated, and threw his hands in the air.

"No, Caleb was doing research. Who knows what you were doing. Probably something I don't want to know about." The microwave dinged, signaling to me that my meal was ready. I sauntered towards the kitchen and pulled my dinner out of the microwave.

"You got a pot pie, and I get rabbit food? What kind of injustice is this?" Dean demanded, shoving his salad away from him.

“It’s good for you.”

“So’s pot pie,” he said, lowering his voice to a piteous grumble. “Can’t I just get a bite of yours?”

I turned to glare at him over my shoulder. “Like Hell, Dean. Your version of a ‘bite’ is half the frickin’ meal.”

“You must want me to starve to death-”

“I picked up some of that raspberry vinaigrette you and Sam like.”

He fell silent for a moment and I heard him fishing through the plastic bag again. From across the room I could hear the quiet but not displeased sigh he let out. “At least there’s some meat in it… but you’re still on thin ice.”

—

Dean tapped away at his laptop for a solid thirty minutes before either of us spoke up. He combed through county clerk records, his preferred type of research… which subsequently left me with the mind numbing task of researching a several thousand year old Iranian religion with a fine-toothed comb.

I eyed his father’s journal from where it sat beside Dean. Now wasn’t the time to bring any sort of drama into this case, not when we knew we had a demon on our hands. But God, that phone number… it itched at the back of my mind. How did John know him?

"Holy fuck!" Dean exclaimed. I jumped from my place across the table and met his excited gaze with one of surprise. "How the hell did we not notice this before?"

"What is it?" I asked. "You find something important?"

"Hell yeah, I did! Take a look at this," Dean said as he spun the laptop to face me. His cursor highlighted a line from the deceased man’s obituary, the first victim. "Look at where the banker guy was from."

My eyes trailed over the blue highlighted text. "Lawrence, Kansas," I breathed out, practically a whisper. Dean nodded.

"Now look at our girl Meredith," he said excitedly as he clicked to the next tab. My eyes searched for her birth city on the webpage.

"She's from Lawrence too..." I mumbled and handed the paper back to Dean. "You think there's a connection?"

"Of course, there's a connection! How could there not be?" He stood abruptly and practically jogged towards the door. "I'm going to go find Sam. If we don't get to him soon, he could end up being our next Lawrence victim."

"Dean-" I said, holding up a hand for him to wait. He quickly threw his jacket on and yanked the front door open to find himself face to face with Sam.

"Dude, I need to talk to you," the brothers said in sync, without skipping a beat. Sam pushed past his older brother and into the room, pacing beside one of the beds.

"Meg's the one controlling the Daevas," Sam stated, tossing his hands into the air in frustration. I left my spot at the table and narrowed my eyes in worry.

"What? How do you know?" I demanded.

"I followed her to this abandoned warehouse thing and-" he took a deep breath. "She had an altar there, with that symbol we found in Meredith’s apartment. She was- she was talking to this, this bowl, and telling whoever it was she was talking to that they shouldn't come."

My eyes widened and I turned to meet Dean's. He crossed his arms over his chest and leaned against the door contemplatively. I could see him connecting the red string in his mind, pressing each push pin into place until it all made sense.

"So, hot little Meg is summoning the Daeva?" he asked thoughtfully. He chewed on the inside of his cheek as his eyes moved from the floor to his brother.

Sam nodded. "It looked like she was using the black altar to control the thing."

Dean chuckled and nudged me with his elbow. "Looks like Sam's got a thing for the bad girl." I rolled my eyes sky-high. "So what's the deal with this bowl thing?"

"She was talking into it. The way witches used to scry into crystal balls or animal entrails. She was communicating with someone," Sam replied. I raised a brow.

"Is that a thing witches actually do?" I asked.

"Not all of them- most don't. That's more of a folklore thing, but scrying does have its purposes," Dean answered quickly. "Who was she talking to? The Daeva?"

"No, you said those things were savages. No, this was someone different. Someone who's giving her orders. Someone who's comin' to that warehouse." Dean suddenly straightened and moved toward the table. I hurriedly snatched his laptop from his side of the table and handed it to him.

Dean hurriedly thrust his laptop into Sam’s hands and stood beside him, pointing over his brother’s shoulder at the screen. "What I was gonna tell you earlier. I pulled a favor with my-" he cleared his throat, " -friend, Amy, over at the police department. The complete records of the two victims—we missed something the first time."

"What'd we miss?" Sam asked, eyes scanning the papers.

"The two victims," I interjected. "Look at where they were both born."

Sam flipped between the two papers as it dawned on him what we were implying. "Lawrence. They were both from Lawrence, Kansas. Holy crap."

"Yeah," said Dean.

"I mean, it is where the demon killed Mom. That's where everything started. So, you think Meg's tied up with the demon?"

"I think it's a possibility," Dean answered with a shrug.

"But I don't understand. What's the significance of Lawrence? And how do these Daeva things fit in?"

"Beats me," he replied. "But I say you and I trash that black altar, grab Meg, and have ourselves a friendly little interrogation."

"Don't," I growled firmly. "You'll just tip her off- you'll get hurt."

"We'll stake out the place first," Sam offered, attempting to be reassuring. "We've gotta see who, or what is showing up to meet her."

"And I'm going to need you," Dean used his whole laptop to point at me, "to stay here."

I snarled. "What!? You expect me to let you track down some crazy blonde demon summoner without my help!?"

"What would you be able to do against her!?" he snapped back. "You can't go wolf-mode on her right now, and I doubt you'd be able to take her and a bunch of demon things."

"Have you forgotten that I’m not a dog!? I have thumbs, dumbass! I can use weapons too!” I shouted. I crossed my arms indignantly across my chest and fixed them both with a heated glare. “If I can't take her and a few 'demon things' then you certainly can't either! I literally have built-in fangs and claws, you two only have guns! I'm not letting you two go alone!"

"We won't be going alone!" Dean shouted back. "I have a plan."

I glared as he pulled his phone out of his pocket. He dialed a number and leaned back against the table. I watched the brothers exchange glances. Sam looked reluctantly between the two of us but eventually withered under Dean’s heated glare. I scoffed as he stepped out of the motel room, likely to prepare the Impala.

I sat down on the bed, fuming. The dialing finally ended and went to voicemail. Dean swallowed dryly.

"We think we've got a serious lead on the thing that killed Mom," he started, sounding rather nervous. My eyes widened as I realized just who he was calling. "So, uh, this warehouse – it's 1435 West Erie. Dad, if you get this, get to Chicago as soon as you can." He closed the phone and slid it back into his pocket, running a weary hand over his face.

"You called your fucking dad?" I snarled from my place on the bed. "The guy who hasn't answered a single one of your calls since this whole shit show started!? You're expecting him to show up when you could just take me with you!?"

"Well, it's not like you can do much against her!" he growled back. "You're in no shape to be fighting demons and crazy people!"

"I can handle myself just fine, Dean, fur or not!" I paced up and down the edge of the bed, raking my fingers through my hair. My eyes were swimming with a dull golden color, fighting to get out. "I was raised by hunters too! I know how to fight! Let me help you!"

"You're not coming with us!" he shouted, pushing off the table and stalking towards me.

"Like Hell, I'm not!" I felt that familiar clawing sensation in the back of my mind. She was digging her claws into the barrier, fighting to tear it down. I inhaled sharply, expecting her to fight to put Dean in his place – instead, it dawned on me that she was yearning and fighting for his safety. "Dean, you don't even know what you're walking into!"

"And you do!?" he challenged, practically in my face at this point. "Sam and I can do this without you! This isn't your fight!"

"My fight is your fight! How long is it going to take you to realize that you're part of my pack now!? It's my job to look out for you!"

He scoffed. "Yeah, great job you've been doing there! Last time you tried to help out, someone died! Sam could have died! You could have died!"

My eyes widened and then narrowed just as quickly, a low growl rising in my throat. My wandering hand clutched onto a rather firm pillow. I inhaled deeply, puffing up my chest, and swung the pillow towards Dean, who raised a hand to block it.

"You-!" I screamed and smacked him again, "Are such-!" I hit him in the ribs with the pillow, causing him to drop his raised arms and expose his head, "A fucking-!" I whacked him in the shoulder, "Asshole!" I screamed, slamming the pillow down on his head and sending him stumbling backward.

My chest rose and fell with labored breaths as I watched the red recede from my vision. The door clicked and my wild, golden eyes fixated on Sam as he peeked inside.

"Bad time?" the younger brother asked.

"No, perfect time," Dean grumbled, rubbing his shoulder and doing his best to smooth out his now messy hair. "We just finished." He glared at me, one full of hurt and irritation. I glared right back, standing tall under his scrutiny.

"You sure?" Sam inquired and gestured over his shoulder with his thumb towards the door, "cause I can leave again, if you want, let you get everything off your chests."

"We're fine, Sam," I said, my short temper obvious. "We can talk about it more when we get back. What'd you get from the car?"

"I ransacked the trunk. Holy water, every weapon that I could think of, exorcism rituals from about a half dozen religions. I'm not sure what to expect, so I guess we should just expect everything," Sam answered with a nervous laugh and dumped his haul onto the bed furthest from the door.

I wasted no time in helping the boys load their guns and pack their small bags. I had a feeling that there was no point arguing in packing my own. The boys carried on their own conversations as I pondered, lost in thought.

There was something seriously dark swirling overhead – I felt like something terrible was going to happen soon, like everything would come crashing down. It was a foreboding feeling and one that brought that familiar chill down my spine. Something was going to go wrong on this hunt, I could feel it.

The boys were going to get my help whether they liked it or not.

I sighed and ran a hand through my hair. Once again, Sam seemed to understand my frustration. Likewise, I understood why he sided with Dean, although he wasn't outright voicing his opinions. If he had, I might have smothered him. I just wished Dean would understand. I wanted nothing more to protect the brothers, just like I only wanted to protect my pack. I know Dean felt the same way, considering how hard he was fighting to make me stay. So why couldn't he see that I felt the same way, just from the opposite end of the spectrum?

After a few pain-staking goodbyes, the boys were finally prepared to leave me to my own devices while they fended off whatever evil Meg was. God, I wish I could have smacked them hard enough to make them understand.

I huffed as Dean stood in the doorway, an apologetic but confident look on his face. He looked as though he had something he wanted to say but just wasn't sure how. It was the same look he had given me in the bar when I first tried to tell them about the number in the journal.

He lifted a finger to point nervously at me. "Sit," he said. "And stay."

I raised my own middle finger at him, glaring harshly. "Bite me."

He chuckled and turned to leave, calling out over his shoulder. "Don't tempt me, fido!" And with that last remark, the door closed on him, leaving me in the dark, in more ways than one. Alone.

I rushed to the window and drew back the curtains just enough that I could see the drive away, but they wouldn't see me. As soon as I heard the Impala's purr and watched it race out of the parking lot I was off again, rushing around the room.

I stuffed whatever weapons I could find into my small bag, dumping out whatever clothes and utilities I once had in it. Since my first hunt with the boys, I had been sure to pack whatever necessities I may need for either a solo hunt or a situation like this: salt, two lighters (they were notoriously unreliable), holy water, shotgun shells preloaded with rock salt, two knives, one silver and one not (I didn't like to use the silver one) and a pistol with extra bullets. Needless to say, I was prepared, although I would have been more prepared with the help of the brothers.

I checked my pistol to make sure it was loaded and zipped up the backpack, leaving everything easily acceptable but not easy to steal or see. I donned Dean's old coat and slung the bag over my shoulders, marching out the door of the hotel room with fury and confidence licking at my heels.

The boys had to know I would do something like this. Perhaps they thought they could wrap up the case before I made it there on foot.

They were wrong.

—

Surprisingly, it didn't take me long at all to get to the warehouse. Iwas panting with my hands on my knees, gazing up at the sheer scale of the building before me. It must have been seven or eight stories. My stomach felt queasy. My instinct and I could both agree that a skinwalker's place was with all four paws on the ground, not high in the air.

God, the things I do for those boys. They were lucky I put up with this bullshit.

I steeled myself and shrugged my shoulders, preparing to march across the road and enter the building. I was stopped by the odd whining sound of a large truck. My eyes scanned up and down the road until they settled on a black pickup, a rather tall and bulky vehicle. The truck pulled into a side alley a few buildings down and stopped. The engine cut out.

My hackles rose once more, and I felt that unsettled feeling in the pit of my stomach. I chalked it up to my nerves about facing my first demon. If my uncle could see me now, I don't know if he'd be terrified or proud. He tried to stay away from demons and magic, and just stuck to good old-fashioned monster hunting. My parents would certainly be terrified...

I tightened my jaw and marched across the street. Despite this being a busy city, there were no cars out tonight. I was thankful for that, the fewer people to see me, the better.

The inside of the building was ratty and honestly a mess. I really hoped it was condemned. If not, someone was going to get seriously hurt in here. My eyes scanned the broken-down elevator shaft that went up to the highest floor.

"No fucking way," I grumbled at the very thought of scaling that monstrosity. Instead, my eyes flitted around the room, searching for any other option, before finally resting on an old wooden door, tightly shut. I grinned and paced towards it, trying the handle and frowning when it didn't budge. I pushed against the door, hoping my weight would make it pop open. It didn't.

With a puzzled frown, I took a step back and rolled up my sleeves. I squared my shoulders and turned slightly to the side, angling my shoulder towards the weak point near the door handle. With a shake of my arms and a preparatory inhale, I launched at the door, ramming into it.

And suddenly I was falling forward with the door as it came off its hinges, a mess of cobwebs raining down on top of me. The door, and I, landed with a crash at the foot of a long flight of stairs. I lay there for a few moments, catching my breath.

"They definitely heard that," I whispered just loudly enough for myself to hear.

I stood and dusted myself off, my eyes following the length of the steps. If I wanted to make it to the boys before they did something stupid, I'd need to hurry.

I ran up the steps as quietly as I could, hoping the pounding I heard was my heart and not my feet. Whatever was up there, I didn't want to alert it to my presence. I was lucky I didn't have a swarm of evil thousand-year-old demon things descending upon me as I ran.

My heart thumped in my chest as I made it to the top of the stairs. In front of me was a rather short hallway with a single dark door at the end, the glow of light from something on the other side peaking through the crack under the door. I licked my lips and tip-toed to the door, nerves rising, hoping to hear something on the other side.

I did in fact hear something. It sounded like a muffled conversation. I put my ear to the door and listened.

"It doesn't mean anything. It was just to draw you in, that's all," I heard a woman say. I ground my teeth together as my lips pulled back in a silent snarl. Meg.

"So you killed those people for nothing?" came Dean's unmistakable but muffled voice.

"Baby, I've killed a lot more for a lot less," Meg purred in response. I bit back a growl. My blood was boiling and it wasn't long before I was fighting with myself. Should I charge in and risk their safety, or play it safe and sneak in?

My ears pricked at Sam's voice. "Dad. It's a trap for Dad."

Shit. A trap for John? But there was no way he could make it to Chicago in time, was there? Not unless she planned to use him as bait. For a moment, I was glad I had stayed behind. Now I had a chance to warn John and maybe save the boys.

I straightened as my skin suddenly prickled with goosebumps. I felt an itch at the back of my mind, as if urging me for my attention.

My attention was redirected yet again to the sound of a scuffle on the other side of the door. I heard a crash and what sounded like a person tumbling across the floor – one of the brothers. I went to reach for the handle, but something stopped me. A buzzing between my ears.

My fist clenched, struggling to identify the feeling. My eyes widened as I felt pressure in my head.

Duck, ordered a whisper.

And I did. I ducked low enough to see a fist fly over my head and narrowly missed the door handle that I had just been reaching for. With a growl I spun in my crouched position and lunged towards my assailant, flinging them into the door.

The door splintered with a crack, light filling the once dim hallway. I snarled and tossed myself at my assailant as they struggled to stand, landing a harsh blow to their ribs and a kick to their shin. They grunted and dropped low, attempting to tackle me. I side-stepped just in time to see two shadows tear into Meg's flesh and toss her out a seventh-story window like nothing but a heap of trash.

I heard Sam's voice shout my name from beside the once meticulously arranged altar. I didn't have time to look at him before my assailant knocked me to the floor in a tackle. The two of us struggled and I felt them land a harsh blow to my cheekbone and mouth. Blood careened down my lips and dribbled into my mouth.

Suddenly, the weight was being dragged off of me and I flailed as a set of hands grabbed me under my arms, dragging me away. I kicked and screamed, fighting against whoever held me as an arm wrapped around my torso, struggling to hold me still.

"Easy, tiger!" shouted Dean, from his place beside my assailant, his hands extended toward me in an appearing gesture. My sight cleared enough to rest on the man before me. He was tall and his features were dark, a line of blood dripping down his temple from where I had hit him. He scowled at me and I glared back, struggling to get at him and fight. My eyes widened, seeing Dean's hand on the guy's shoulder.

"It's OK!" shouted Sam near my ear, struggling to hold me still and calm me down. "It's alright, we know him!"

"Who the fuck is he then!?" I snapped back and dropped my arms, ceasing my struggle. Sam let go and helped me stand, a hand under my elbow to steady me. His voice was filled with awe and his eyes were wide with shock.

"He's our dad," he said, quietly. My own eyes widened to the size of saucers, flitting between the two shocked brothers and their raggedy father. My round eyes locked with his brown ones.

"John?"

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wishingforatypewriter · 1 year ago

Text

Mystery Man

Written for Lin Beifong's Week (Day 3: Gossip at the RCPD)

‘Mind your business, keep your job’ was a rule Mako had followed devoutly since his days running numbers for the Triple Threats as a child. But even he had to admit he was curious.

You see, on Monday morning, a courier delivered a bouquet of fire lilies to the station. The floral arrangement was walked right up to the chief’s office and remained on the side of her desk for the rest of the day.

This was truly significant because Chief Beifong’s office was markedly bare, devoid of the trinkets and family photos nearly all the cops left on their desks.

“Who do you think they’re from?” Meilin asked once she returned to the bullpen after submitting a report to the chief.

“That’s above my paygrade,” Mako said, barely glancing up from his paperwork. “Yours too.”

“You’re probably right,” she replied, leaning against his desk. “It’s strange, though, to imagine the chief with a boyfriend.”

On Tuesday, the flowers were gone, but when he went into Beifong’s office to get her approval to launch an investigation, the room smelled of expensive Fire Nation cigars. The scent was vaguely familiar, something from a lifetime ago. He felt his brow furrow as he tried to remember where he recognized it from.

“Is there something else you need, Mako?” she asked when he paused before leaving her space.

“Uh, no,” he said, scratching the back of his head. “I just didn’t know you smoked.”

“It’s a habit that keeps coming back.” The chief’s expression twitched into something like a smile, but it was gone as soon as he blinked. “My advice is never start.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” he said, and then left, finally placing where he encountered the smell of those exact cigars when he sat down at his desk. It was back when he was learning to bend lightning on the rooftops and in the alleyways of the Dragon Flats.

On Wednesday, for the first time since Mako joined the force, Chief Beifong actually left work early.

“I have an appointment,” she said with a noncommittal wave as she made her way out. “Hold down the fort.”

“An appointment?” Meilin said, once the brass doors shut behind the chief. “More like a date.”

“I haven’t seen her like this since she was a rookie,” said Old Patel, the unit chief of the organized crime division, who’d been a cop since Toph Beifong led the force. “Wearing perfume, going on lunch dates.”

“Who has a lunch date?” Bolin asked as he and Opal approached.

“No one,” Mako said. “Why are you here?”

“Rude!” Bolin said. “After Opal and I came all this way to pick you up for Asami’s kickback.”

Mako sighed, rubbing his forehead. “That was today?”

“Yeah, now who’s on a lunch date?” he asked, feeding off of the potential for gossip, as always. “Anyone I know?”

“Chief Beifong and her mystery man,” Meilin said.

“Lin’s dating?” Bolin asked.

“We don’t know that,” Mako said.

“He sent her flowers on Monday, cigars on Tuesday, and now she left early for a lunch date,” Meilin said, counting off each clue on a finger.

“Ooh, this is getting good.” Bolin rubbed his hands together, grinning from ear to ear. “Hey, Opal, Lin’s your aunt. Did she say anything?”

The airbender simply inspected her nails instead of responding.

“Hey, no secrets!” Bolin said, pouting.

“It’s not my business to tell,” she replied.

Later that day, at Asami’s get together, Bolin made the whole friend group aware of Lin’s potential dating situation.

“Come on, we have a detective, a genius, and an avatar in the house. Someone’s got to be able to figure this out.”

“Trust me, you’ll never guess it,” Opal told him. “Not in a million years.”

Something in her inflection returned Mako’s mind to the cigars—expensive, imported. He’d only ever known one person who smoked them.

“You think he makes her happy?” Mako asked.

She smiled. “I definitely do.”

“That’s good enough for me,” he said. “Now can we please stop talking about this and go eat?”

#linbeifongsweek #lok mako #lok bolin #lin beifong #linzolt #opal beifong #day 3 #gossip at the rcpd

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secretly-a-catamount · 22 days ago

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Let Me Avow

Author’s Note: This story contains mentions of improper use of alcohol and drugs, and suicidal ideation.

Malcolm Fade fell asleep next to his wife in a rented bed in an exorbitantly expensive hotel in a foreign city. Malcolm Fade awoke alone in his desolately empty bed in his lifeless house in the City of Angels.

He knew it hadn’t been real, he always did. Always knew that his dreams (or nightmares as he thought on his worst days, the days when he thought he deserved her absence, days when he thought he should slit his throat with his shaving razor and be done with it all) weren’t real, no matter how much the alcohol and drugs and his own want, dusty and disused as it was, tried to convince him otherwise. It hadn’t been real. She hadn��t been real, not for a very long time. Not since the jailers who should have been her family had killed her. Not since she’d been folded in the back of his mind into something that even couldn’t be described as a memory, everything that made Annabel Annbel slipping through his fingers like grains of sand throught the neck of an hourglass. He remembered how she looked — her self-portrait had been one of the few things to survive the fire the Blackthorns had set to their cottage after they had discovered who their daughter really was, who, out of everyone who had lived in their house with her, she loved — but he could not remember who his darling was underneath the weight of time. That hurt. More than anything, that hurt the worst. To know someone so completely, in all their paradoxical perfection and flaws, love them anyway, and then lose them for eternity, every day in pieces until your life was, too.

Suddenly aware of just how parched he truly was, Malcolm threw off the thin blankets and sheets that covered, pushed himself to his feet, and padded down the long hallway towards the kitchen, ignoring the headache starting to pound in his temples — hangovers and faerie drugs, they were both a hell of a bitch.

His cellular phone rang just as he pulled a glass down from a cabinet.

“‘Unknown Caller’,” he mused aloud as he placed the coffee-mug-he-used-for-tea in the sink and flipped on the faucet. “Might it be my foolish lady who dreams of power well above her paygrade?”

It was.

“Master,” Belinda began, not knowing Malcolm had just choked on his water, “there’s been a development.”

Sputtering, he spat into the sink, the last remnants of the hallucinogen tainting the water a strange color before it swirled down the drain.

“Belle!”

Silence except for the steady thrum of the faucet.

“How many times have I told you not to call me that?” Born from a vampire’s pregnant subjugate, Belinda Belle, or Anne Thorne, as her mother had named her, had the unfortunate habit of following him around like a lost puppy. It was usually useful, although at the moment it was so annoying to him that Malcolm couldn’t wait for the day he could put her down for it.

“Too many. I”—a shaky breath, Belinda undoubtedly trying to gauge how angry he really was with her—“I’m sorry, sir. Is sir—“

“Sir is fine. Just tell me what developments you called to report.”

“The purchase of the theater went smoothly. I’ve contacted a renovation crew and we’re going to go evaluate it tomorrow . . .” Malcolm set the phone to record, muted it, and tossed it on the counter. He was in no mood to listen to her prattle on when he had much more important things to do.

He showed quickly and dressed even quicker, pulling on jeans, a pair of butter-soft, leather loafers, and his favorite jacket (green and purple plaid) over a cream-colored shirt, stopping in front of the mist-soaked bathroom mirror only to run his fingers through his hair, using product and his own magic to detangle whatever snags he accumulated over his night of fitful sleep.

He meandered back into the kitchen just in time to see a familiar face flash across his phone screen.

Dru Blackthorn. Of the younger children she was the one he enjoyed talking to the most. Other than her interest in the macabre, she wasn’t anything like Annabel. She wasn’t as much a haunting of his beloved as her brothers and sisters were. She was easier to pretend with.

He picked up the phone and unmuted it, shading it from the the glare shining through the window above the kitchen sink.

“. . . think he’s a good fit for the Followers.”

“Belinda, I’m going to have to let you go. There’s a Shadowhunter on the other line.”

Muttering some agreement about how, yes, yes, Shadowhunters were terrible, and they were going to destroy them, and he would save the Head of the Institute for her (Arthur was the only living member of the L.A. Shadowhunters who’d killed her Mother and her “true Master” under the guise of saving her as a child), Malcolm hung up as quickly as possible, relieved to freed of her shrill, jagged voice even if for a few hours.

“Dru, darling, why ever did you call me this early in the morning? Is everything dandy?”

“JulianaandEmmaareofonapatrolandTybroughtasunkinsideandit’ssprayingeverythingwithitsskunksmellandit’scoveredinglitterand—”

“Breathe, Drusilla, breathe.”

She did, the air whistling through the phone’s tiny speakers.

“Now can you say everything you just said—”

“JulianandEmmaareoffona—”

“Slowly. Or slower, anyway.”

She took another breath, a deeper, fuller one.

“Emma and Julian—”

“Better.”

“—went on patrol, and Ty brought a skunk—”

“A skunk?” Funny Malcolm. Silly Malcolm. Malcolm who didn’t mind being interrupted with childish problems even though he had much more important things to do.

“Yes, Malcolm. A skunk.”

“Black-and-white, four legs, and a snufffly little nose?”

“Yes.”

“And Tiberius brought it inside?”

“Yeah.”

“And it’s spraying—”

“Uh-huh.”

“And it’s covered in glitter?”

“It started chewing on the gelpens—”

“—that Jules brought your sister as gift last year for Christmas.”

Admitting defeat, Malcolm sighed (not so loud as for her to hear him), lightly pinched the bridge of his nose, and slid down to rest upon the floor, one leg bent beneath him, the other pulled to his chest.

He wasn’t going to get done what he needed to do today. A pity, truly.

“Can you start at the beginning, please?”

“Okay, so—”

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another-damn-fandom · 3 months ago

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Set Heat

AKA: I have crippling insomnia and have been watching spooky media all day and a fanfic fell out of my brain.

Interview with a Vampire AMC X Beetlejuice Beetlejuice crossover. Please enjoy.

_______________________________________________

TRANSCRIPT OF BEHIND THE SCENES FOOTAGE, THE VAMPIRE LESTAT – DO NOT RELEASE TO THE PRESS.

Molloy: Lestat?

Lestat: (Says nothing, looking out into the middle distance.)

Molloy: Do you remember where we left off?

Lestat: (Glances at camera, unsettled.) …yes. Yes, I suppose.

Johnson: Something wrong?

Lestat: (Deep in thought) …hmm?

Johnson: How you feeling?

Lestat: (Finally sees the camera, starts trying to turn on the charm) Well enough. Why?

Johnson: Normally you’re not like this—

Lestat: (Interrupting) And what does that mean?

Molloy: When we’ve interviewed you in the past you’re usually more... spirited.

Lestat: Ah. Yes of course. Your entertainment. That is what we are here for. This interview is just a common ruse. Tres interesant you should show your hand so soon…. ugh.

LESTAT turns his head away from the cameras and returns to his deep thoughts.

Molloy: Never thought we'd have to tell Lestat to give us some more energy.

Claire: He has another hard stop in 30.

Johnson: We’re not getting anything from him. Can you do something?

Claire: Not my department.

Molloy: Why is he like this?

Claire: It's been a long day.

Molloy: That's not usually a problem. What was he doing before this?

Claire: Press tour. Usual stops. Couple of talk shows. Made some French pastry with Babbish. Hot Ones? Knocked back the whole bottle of The Bomb like it was water.

Molloy: Of course he did. Not like he can taste anything.

Johnson: And there were no problems?

Claire: He was a little quiet after Ghost House. He was supposed to shadow Deetz when she went through a haunted mansion on the first episode of the new show, but he backed out after meeting her.

Molloy: The ghost therapist lady on HBO? Surprised he even scheduled to meet with that fraud.

Johnson: Yeah, after the rumors of what broke up her marriage?

Molloy: You know those are bullshit, man. He just saw the lady in the church and ran for the hills.

Johnson: Lestat or the fiancé?

Molloy: Both, probably.

Claire: Deetz may have an issue with sudden movements and got a little sour at one of Lestat’s pranks, but she kept it together better than most. They had a quick private audience, at which time Lestat decided against the appearance. End of story.

LESTAT is seen sneering at a PA offering him a bottle of something labeled as ‘True Blood’.

Johnson: Private audience? What does that mean?

Claire: It means the cancellation was kismet, as far as we’re concerned. We had a scheduling conflict to begin with.

Johnson: Then why meet Deetz in the first place?

Claire: Above my paygrade. I don’t even know why he’s doing this project.

PA: (Coming from a distance) Excuse me? I have Mr. Lioncourt’s jacket? The Ghost House team just sent it over.

Molloy: (Low whistle) That’s one hell of a pricey label. He left it there?

Claire: We had to pivot quickly when he decided against the appearance.

Molloy: When? During the ‘private audience’ or--?

Claire: (Interrupting) Hard stop in 25, now.

Johnson: Christ. Fine. Lestat? We have your jacket.

PA enters frame, hands Lestat the jacket. Lestat reaches a hand out, but then pulls it back.

Lestat: Did she touch it?

PA: I don’t know, sir. They just said they were returning it.

Lestat: Then why wouldn’t they say if that créature touched it?

PA: (confused) I’m sorry?

Lestat: Hold it open. Turn it around. Now the other way.

PA does as they’re told. Lestat sees something in the folds of the garment and looks like he’s going to throw up. He starts waving a hand at it and the PA.

Johnson: Let’s get the coat off camera for the moment.

Lestat: (dramatically) Fuck the moment! Burn it! Throw it into the sea!

Claire: You’ll put it aside in a garment bag. Our people will pick it up later.

Molloy: ‘Kill it with fire’ doesn’t sound like he wants it back.

Claire: That coat costs more than your car. Burn it and you’ll be charged for grand larceny and destruction of property.

Johnson: We will find a garment bag.

PA: On it, sir.

Molloy: Lestat, if something happened and you need to take a beat--

Lestat: I’m fine. I’m perfectly fine. That… thing did not bother me. I simply need a drink. Can you imbeciles manage that for me?

Molloy: (Snarking) I think we’ve got a couple of solo cups at craft services.

Lestat: (Waving his hands, frustrated.) Yes. Fine. I’ll take it from a cup! I’ll take it from that miserable goblet at this point!

Johnson: Can we get a cup of blood on set?

Lestat: (Muttering) C'était quoi cette chose horrible, d'ailleurs? Un chien de garde?

A new crew member appears with a red solo cup. LESTAT grimaces at it, then takes a couple of quick, frantic sips.

Molloy: Well. Remind me to never piss off the team at Ghost House.

Johnson: Wasn't planning to. Deetz summoned a demon or something to stop her own wedding. I saw it myself.

LESTAT looks into the camera, still unsettled and listening to their conversation.

Molloy: I saw that footage on TikTok too, man. It’s fake. Ghosts and demons aren’t real.

Johnson: I would have said the same thing about vampires six months ago.

Claire: You’re at 20, now.

Johnson: Right. Lestat, whenever you’re ready?

LESTAT takes a few more small, comforting gulps of blood, even as he stares into the cameras. Then he throws his hair back with and elegant shake of his head and tries to smile at the camera.

Johnson: Do ghosts and vampires even get along?

Molloy: Next time we meet a ghost, I’ll tell you. So. Lestat. When we stopped, we were talking about you and Armand…

#fanfic #fanfiction #crossover fanfiction #the vampire lestat #beetlejuice beetlejuice #iwav #interview with a vampire

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somerandomgal19 · 6 months ago

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I started Starbrew Cafe like maybe a week and a bit ago and already… the bullshit Starla has to go through…

So many people around her are keeping VITAL INFORMATION TO THEMSELVES FOR LITTLE TO NO REASON and Starla has no choice but to TAKE IT AND COPE. Everyone around her keeps dumping their problems on her and treating her as a magical therapist and apparently that’s her responsibility because this cafe is literally INTEGRAL to upholding an ENTIRE TOWN.

Starla did NOT sign up for this oh my god. The only good eggs around her are her empath friend and Otis who are ACTUALLY HELPING HER OUT. Fuck the werewolf for being too pussy to deal with his own hang ups and manipulating her when she’s busy trying not to close down. Fuck the inspector for venting on her when she knows she just got here and has little to nothing to do with her beef. Fuck her aunt for withholding cafe secrets and fucking off; I don’t care if you got a sad past. Fuck the cat, he’s annoying.

When Starla was at one point like “YOU KNOW WHAT? FINE, KEEP YOUR SECRETS. I DON’T CARE ANYMORE!” in regards to her Aunt. And then she was influenced to be like “you know what? Yeah, I’m running from my problems.” NO YOU AREN’T. You are disengaging from a situation that is way above your emotional paygrade where you had to do all heavy lifting. Pissed me the hell off.

And now I have an emo vampire and her annoying wannabe emotionally-constipated fake familiar-but-actually-human friend who is also shoving her issues into my face and refuses to address them when Starla calls her out. CAN EVERYONE JUST FUCK OFF FOR ONE SECOND?

#starbrew cafe #these merge games like to just torture the main characters #which i get is how a story moves #but man there is only so much bullshit i can take without break #starla hasn;t had a break since she got here #poor girl has more patience than I #oh the siren and ghost couple were alright #except the ghost girl sort of accidentally influencing starla into think she’s running away from her aunt problems #THE VAMPIRE AND FRIEND ARE THE WORST #CAN THEY FUCK OFF AMD GET BANNED #ALONG WITH THAT DEMON FROM THE BEACH DIDN’T FORGET ABOUT HIM

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electrasev5nwrites · 1 year ago

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Ninja Daily: AIC 27

"Thank you all for coming so promptly." The Sandaime seated himself at the end of the table, nearest the door. ANBU filed in to dot the walls and crowd his shoulders. "I'm afraid that we have a lot of news to discuss."

Genma kept his lips pressed shut and his back straight. Maybe no one would notice him if he was very, very still.

'Clan heads, commanders, councilors... This isn't good. Judging by this group, the news is above my paygrade.'

Tenzou looked similarly terrified and out of place. Genma would have saved the other ANBU a seat if he'd known the young man would be attending, but so much for that.

"First off all, we do have one more member." The Sandaime raised a hand, and the door opened once more. "You may have heard rumors. It is time to lay them to rest here, and then with the public. Namikaze-san, if you wouldn't mind?"

Inuzuka leaned back and let out a low whistle. Maybe it was shock, maybe it was commentary on how damn good the man looked. 13 years dead, and he was in his prime.

The long-deceased Hokage gave her a polite nod while he passed to the only unoccupied seat.

Tenzou looked absolutely mortified when he realized he'd wound up next to the Yondaime. He slunk down in his chair. It was hard not to smile at that. On Minato's other side, Jiraiya sat up to his full height and clapped his student on the back.

'I haven't seen Tenzou in months. This is not where I would have expected him to pop up. He doesn't look like wants to be here, either.'

"Hello." The Yondaime paused before he sat. He smiled around the table. "I apologize for the strange situation, but I am glad to be here." He met everyone's eyes one by one in that steady, personal way he had.

He got varying reactions. The councilors were clearly prepared for this introduction, a silent wall of solemn faces. Some of the shinobi who had been informed or involved in vetting Minato offered nods and bows. But Inuzuka Tsume was eyeing him critically, dark eyes clever and sharp. Hyuuga Hiashi was implacable, but probably pissed as anything that he'd been in the dark.

Genma gave up on being still and silent. He waved subtly. Because Kakashi wasn't there to do it, the absentee little bastard, and the Yondaime needed some support..

'He's either on a mission or something has gone wrong. He'd be here if he could, no matter that it would ruin his late streak.'

The last possibility was too dire to linger on for long, even direr than the chance that Kakashi might be dead- the possibility that the Sandaime had chosen not to invite him, because Kakashi would be too loyal to the Yondaime. The chance that the Yondaime might be judged as a traitor for whatever he'd probably done.

"As you know, Orochimaru was successful in reviving the First and Second Hokage for the purpose of fighting me," Sandaime said. "He failed, however, to revive Namikaze-san."

"Namikaze-kun was successfully revived for unknown reasons by the woman later determined to be the Godaime Mizukage." Kotaru raked her milky eyes down the table. "Following preliminary vetting, we are now confident that he is who he appears to be and is not under and compulsion from the Mizukage or other parties." She folded her hands on the tabletop.

Inuzuka let out a barking laugh and shook her head, her skepticism fading to sharp-toothed joy. Tenzou looked like he really needed to breathe in soon, but had forgotten about it in favor of gaping.

Genma mostly felt ill. 'The counselor didn't say that she trusted Namikaze. Nothing about whether he'll take up his old role.'

"On to current affairs." The Sandaime seemed impatient. That really did not bode well. "The breach of security was the entrance of two enemy shinobi, Hoshigaki Kisame, formerly of the Mist, and Uchiha Itachi."

"Dear god." Utatane's fingers fumbled on his glasses. Koharu's expression didn't change but she leaned back and her hands flattened on the tabletop.

Danzo glanced at his peers, expression serene next to their evident surprise. "This is bad news," he observed. "What was their purpose?"

"They attempted to kidnap two genin, including the Kyuubi jinchuuriki. In the process, they attacked jounin Hatake and genin Uchiha." Sarutobi seemed so tired. "The genin, Uzumaki-kun and Haruno-san, have been returned to Konohagakure and released from the hospital. Hatake and Uchiha are stable, but show no signs of recovery from genjutsu."

'That explains why Kakashi isn't here. Is Tenzou his stand-in?'

He glanced over at the ANBU. Tenzou was pale under his tan, but unsurprised. Yeah, he'd already been told. He was probably Hatake's medical contact.

"How were they returned?" Homura was incredulous. "Surely Uchiha Itachi was not outmaneuvered by genin."

The Sandaime turned to look at-

Oh, no.

'That's why he's here. So why am I here?'

Tenzou looked like he might faint at all that attention. He cleared his throat. "I have spent my last mission in Kirigakure determining what relationship we may have with the new leadership." The tone was so diplomatic that he had to be full of shit. "The Mizukage heard about the abduction. I do not know how. Using what I can only assume to have been a space-time ninjutsu or fuinjutsu, she took me and two of her private guards to engage Uchiha and Hoshigaki."

'Holy fuck.'

"She knew before we knew about the intrusion. From Kirigakure," Jiraiya said flatly.

Tenzou nodded.

"And came to Fire Country. In minutes. Before we knew."

Tenzou nodded again, miserable.

Jiraiya tilted his head back and said something to the ceiling that ought not be repeated in polite company.

Utatane ignored him, leaning forward over wrinkled hands. "Are we to understand that the Mizukage, engaged enemies of Konohagakure for no perceived benefit? She allowed the jinchuuriki to return?"

His tone was exactly as incredulous as it ought to be. Any reasonable person would be wondering what the hell was Uzumaki up to, what angle she could possibly have. Genma wished he was wondering. This felt like it was going to go badly, fast.

"She took him back personally," Minato-sama said. His tone was hard to read. He didn't seem surprised, but Genma didn't assume he'd be able to tell. "Along with Haruno-san. They chose to stop at training ground 7 and accompany Kakashi-kun and Uchiha-san to the hospital on their way."

That seemed like an acceptable time to bury his face in his hands.

'Uzumaki is a hard woman to predict. I wish I hadn't pissed her off. I want to understand the way she thinks.'

"The Mizukage chose personally to engage Uchiha Itachi," Tenzou added, because apparently he was going to get all of this over with. The Sandaime seemed too miserable to prod him for more answers. "She killed him."

The table erupted in a din.

The loudest voice was- "Holy shit!" Tsume slapped her hands on the table. "Uchiha Itachi, dead? Uchiha Itachi?"

That was interesting data. Genma turned it over in his head, considering just how the international community might react to news like that. It was a bold move, especially considering how weak Kirigakure had to be. Drawing that much attention was a risky move.

'I was wrong. I didn't piss her off that badly. She'd have killed me if she really wanted to. I don't think she gives a shit about consequences.'

'Still might be a good idea to send an apology. A fruit basket, maybe? And a nice card.'

Tenzou raised his voice to remain audible. "Working together, we drove off Hoshigaki-san. I remained with the Kirigakure shinobi to explain the situation to the border guards who came to investigate the fight." He sat back down and tried to sink under the table, as far as Genma could tell.

"How did she kill Uchiha?" Genma didn't realize the question was coming out of his mouth unless everyone was looking at him. But he didn't regret asking. He'd never really thought someone would manage to kill that monster. Not while he was still in his prime, anyway.

Yamanaka Inoichi nodded agreement. "I saw her fighting the Nidaime. If it had continued, I believe she would have lost the match. From that, I wouldn't have thought it certain that she could kill Uchiha Itachi."

Tenzou made an uncomfortable little sound from the back of his throat. He seemed to decide not to stand up again to answer. "It was faster than I could completely observe. I understand that Uchiha-san activated his Sharingan in preparation to cast a genjutsu. Uzumaki-san drove her hand through his chest in retaliation. She was using her bloodline limit at the time. I do not know if she managed to attack before Uchiha-san managed to use a genjutsu on her, or if she deflected it. The attack she used appeared to be suijutsu of some sort."

An elemental technique that the user drove through the victim's chest at speeds fast enough to counter a sharingan. That was uncomfortably familiar. And very specific. Didn't seem like the kind of thing you just came up with on the spot.

'That's an uncomfortable amount of high-level skills that she didn't feel compelled to use against the Nidaime. Why wouldn't she have used everything she had in her arsenal, if she really was pressed to win?'

"There is one final matter to consider. The Mizukage alleged in my office that her parents were Konohagakure shinobi."

The room fell dead silent. The air had changed.

The Sandaime looked around slowly. The weight of his attention and anger pressed down. "Is this true?" He paused. "Minato-san."

"Yes," the Yondaime agreed easily. He leaned forward and then stood up as though he was answering a question in class. "Aiko is my and Kushina's firstborn. I admit I had hoped for one of them to one day be Hokage, but this is something of a surprise, isn't it?"

'And that explains her benevolence to Naruto- it's familial loyalty.' The conclusion was not satisfying. He just felt tired.

The room erupted. Several people stood up. Homura cried out in outrage that could be heard over gasps and exclamations. For once in his life, Danzo looked like he'd been shocked silly.

Having the confirmation made things real, finally. What the hell had Minato been thinking?

The two Hokage matched stares, neither backing down. In contrast to the Sandaime's grimness, the Yondaime was calm and unbothered. He wasn't surprised. He wasn't ashamed.

'How did he hide this? What possessed him to do it?'

"This is why you recognized her when she revived you," the Sandaime accused steadily. His only answer was a nod. "You withheld critical information."

"I was choosing to evaluate the situation," Minato rebutted. "Surely you can understand a bit of caution at seeing the world of the living for the first time in over a decade." His voice was dryly amused.

Genma felt a shiver walk up his back. He had an unpleasant premonition that they were about to learn more than they really wanted to know.

"There is one additional, crucial piece of information that I have gathered in the weeks I have been here. I saw the first hint of it after being revived and I chose to hold my tongue until I understood where I had found myself." He smiled, miserable and cold. "This is not my Konohagakure. Aiko was not born in this universe. If she had been, she would be 13, Naruto's twin. As far as I can tell, she has found herself in an alternate timeline. When she was ordered to summon me, she rose the Minato that she had personally known. Not the soul of the Minato who lived in this world. He must still rest in the stomach of the death god."

The report was bland, slow. Insane.

"That... matches what the Mizukage claimed." The Sandaime seemed to understand something new. He leaned back slightly, but not in a relaxed manner. "I thought that she was mocking me when she said that Jiraiya might guess what I cannot." There was a hint of a wheeze in his voice.

"I don't know why she's here," Minato admitted. He didn't seem upset about it. "I do know that she specializes in space-time manipulation fuinjutsu. She relies heavily on a modification of my hiraishin. That's why she's faster than you can see, by the way, Yamato-san. I can only assume that Jiraiya gave her the materials after my death." He stopped for a few moments, but no one spoke or even breathed.

'Do I believe any of this?'

"That may be relevant to how she came to this place. But we have also seen that she has somehow found herself in the service of the god of death." His lips twisted in a bitter way Genma had never seen in his years working with Minato. "As she is Naruto's twin, I obviously did not know her long. I can provide some information." His eyelids slid low. "The dead are not entirely unaware of the living."

'Very creepy.'

Jiraiya cleared his throat. He looked up and down the table, cataloging expressions. When he looked at Minato, he seemed pained. "Well, shit."

"I am very pleased," Aiko said, because her jounin seemed kind of nervous. "Thank you for coming today."

Hayashizaki gave her a smile, but he still looked a little ill underneath the professional veneer.

'Probably, if I was the first person to publicly challenge the woman who became my kage, I might not be totally chill about her calling me in to a meeting. That seems like exactly the kind of person a different Mizukage might make an example of.'

Fair. His terror was well-founded.

"I am not displeased," she said again. Maybe it would sink in this time. "Actually, I decided at the time that you were one of the more sensible people present." Aiko nodded at him. "You were right to challenge my qualifications at the time. Any patriot would wonder who the hell I was and why I thought I deserved to be your kage. Only you were brave enough to demand an answer."

She flicked her attention to Sanbi, expecting an insult. It never came. Disappointing.

Well, then. Despite her best efforts, Hayashizaki was still waiting for the shoe to drop. She sighed and gave up being soothing as a bad job. Aiko wasn't suited to it. "You've never taught. Do you have any interest or inclination?"

"Not in particular." He was trying way too hard to look impassive.

"What would you say are your strengths?"

Hayashizaki faltered. "My suspicious personality?" He said, but it came out more like a question. "I am methodical and detail-oriented. I am quick to notice irregularities. My genjutsu is above-average." He seemed to get a bit desperate as she just waited. "My fire-nature chakra is an unusual asset in Kirigakure. Aside from the expected weaponry, I am proficient in Gunsen and manriki-kusari, which make me a valuable asset in non-lethal disarmament or in combat in open air and expand my tactical flexibility."

'Wow. He just keeps talking.'

"I bond well with others, as evidenced by my record of team cohesion and string of successful partnerships."

'This is a thing that works? I can just look at people and they feel uncomfortable and talk forever?'

He seemed to realize he was going a bit far. He tried to deflect with humor. "I can also make a completely edible nikujaga." Then he finally had the sense to stop talking.

She gave him a good minute and a half of pointed silence to see if he'd restart the babble, but he'd figured it out. She made a note to remember the nikujaga thing, though. Only a fool would let that slide. A possible source of meat and potatoes should not be passed up.

Aiko sniffed. "Weaknesses?"

"I've heard that I am not prudent about minimizing my words," Hayashizaki said promptly. "Prone to outbursts, and a disappointing swordsman."

Aiko thought back to their first meeting, when good sense but an underdeveloped sense of self-preservation had meant he was the only one with guts to ask her who the hell she thought she was. "I see."

'The Utakata was wary about exposing this person to you,' Sanbi said 'I had assumed that he feared your violent retribution for wounded pride. Perhaps he was instead concerned that you might intimidate the boy into incoherence.'

Plausible, actually. Utakata had said that they were agemates.

'I don't think he's actually timid,' Aiko decided. 'These are unusual circumstances. I think he's more generally hot-blooded. And I saw a strong sense of justice which was offended when he thought someone unworthy might become his leader. That indicates a healthy respect for social institutions. He mentioned his social skills among his strengths, which could be pandering in Konohagakure but in Kirigakure probably does indicate that he is socially oriented.'

Sanbi made a listening sound.

'I think he's a good fit. He's young enough to present an attractive face but old enough not to be dismissed out of hand, is less likely than the average to demonstrate controlling or abusive tendencies, and could build relationships on the ground. What do you think?'

"My only reservation is the allocation of your resources," Sanbi admitted. "Had you twice the shinobi you have now, I would wholeheartedly endorse this plan."

'Thank you for the input.'

Hayashizaki was still waiting, ramrod straight and expressionless. He'd do.

"We are expecting company," Aiko said in a mild tone. "Sunagakure and Konohagakure, certainly. That will mean a significant increase in guests passing through Wave Country."

Hayashizaki nodded, cautious. "I see."

"We will be establishing a temporary outpost on the nearest island of Wave country," Aiko continued. "As the shinobi traffic is at our behest, we are taking responsibility for ensuring that a burden does not fall on the civilians living there."

That was diplomatically prudent. The Daimyo of Wave clearly didn't know or care much about the inaka, but he might manage to be offended enough to get involved if she caused his people too much trouble.

"You will be posted there to provide assistance to our visitors and protect the interests of Higashi-Gyoson. Their village head, Tazuna, is working on reconstruction efforts here, so your contact will be his heir and daughter, Tsunami. Do you have any questions about this objective?"

"I do," Sanbi said. He sounded "Is that truly the name of that village?"

"Yes, Mizukage-sama. Other than myself, who will staff this post?" Hayashizaki didn't seem bothered at all. "What will the mission duration be?"

'The one with the kindly peasants? Yes.'

"An end time has not been designated, so prepare for a long-term mission. I'm looking into the possibility of sending a chuunin there on a different mission, but they would be under your supervision. Other than that, you will have a rotating staff of either one or two chuunin at a time designated as your assistant in problem-solving and maintaining peace."

He lapsed into thought. "It somewhat lacks in creativity. Is that why they do not often say the name?"

There was a pause while Hayashizaki clearly wondered what that chuunin's mission might be and if he could ask about it.

'I think the name mostly exists for administrative purposes,' Aiko decided. 'I mean, I've lived in plenty of safehouses out in the middle of nowhere and it never occurred to me to name them. I wouldn't think of it without an outside reason even if three other families built houses nearby. Probably it was just a small fishing village on the most eastern coast, and then some government representative either picked out "East Fishing Village" as a name, or the village head panicked or something. Whatever. The Great nations all have pretty underwhelming names, too. Any name is dumb if you think too long about it.'

Hayashizaki apparently decided to risk a question. "Have you identified a specific chuunin for the separate mission?"

"Not yet," Aiko admitted. "Tazuna-san, the village head, has expressed interest in allowing his grandson and a classmate to undergo basic training." She watched her jounin's expression carefully, wondering just what kind of asset she had here.

"Oh, he is intelligent," Sanbi noted absently.

The turtle was right. Hayashizaki clearly got that expansion was what she wasn't saying- a small outpost of friendly, professional shinobi would make a big impression on the locals. When they were protecting the civilians interests and deliberately mingling by dedicating one person's workload to training two local children, it was highly probable that other locals would want to send their children to benefit.

Which was the real reason to locate a suitable chuunin to do the mentoring on a long-term, fulltime basis. Almost anyone, even most genin, could conduct an Academy style training regimen. The only reason to have one person assigned to do it was to build consistency in the hopes of drawing in more candidates from the locals.

'Actually, there's no reason that the fulltime shinobi has to be a chuunin,' Aiko realized. 'I was replicating Konoha's academy system. But a genin can teach conditioning, basic weapon skills, and low level jutsu. If the students are all from civilian bloodlines, there's much less reason to be concerned that one of them might be kidnapped. So the teachers don't necessarily need to be strong combatants.'

"Actually, I may have just changed my mind about the mission arrangement," Aiko said. She leaned back in her chair. "Your assignment remains the same. I will update you about the rest of the outpost when we have a full mission briefing. This meeting was a preliminary assessment of your stability and character before I determined you were an adequate candidate." She smiled at the jounin, who was trying not to look too offended. "I believe you are adequate."

'I can spare a genin long-term much more easily than a chuunin. Actually, a team of genin would be good. Career genin, or at least ones who are a little older. An outpost/mini Academy with one permanent Jounin, three permanent genin, and a rotating chuunin or two is damn respectable. Wave would know I was serious about the relationship, and there would be enough manpower to allow Hayashizaki to conduct more operations at his discretion. And it would really only take a few months for any trainees to have some basic uses that would free up my people in case of an emergency- a decent runner, a couple people who know emergency protocols- that would provide a lot of flexibility and be a self-sustaining system.'

"I am flattered." Hayshizaki sounded like he was genuinely trying to be charming, but couldn't push down the edge of annoyance. Yeah, that was more like it.

"Don't lie to me," Aiko said cheerfully. She flashed her teeth at the other jounin. "It demeans us both. In any case, I'm sure you can gather that building and maintaining good relationships with the people of Higashi-Gyoson is central to the success of this mission." She tossed her hair and dropped the pretense. "Training Kiri shinobi in Wave is step one to annexing the country."

To his credit, Hayashizaki didn't look like he was considering questioning her judgment for a second. Yes, he definitely respected authority when it had been adequately proven.

"No comments?" Aiko prodded, lazy and predatory.

"My only concern is that your seal will need to be replaced when you are the Godaime Mizukage of Kirigakure, first Mizukage of the Land of Waves," Hayashizaki said. It was by far the smoothest thing he'd said in her hearing.

She eyed him. She thought about it. "Shit. I love that seal."

"You might simply use a second seal for the other office to save it," Hayashizaki suggested. "You may also argue that this is because you are holding the office in trust for your dear friends in Wave, who will one day soon rise to the occasion."

Aiko tapped her jawline. "That's rhetorically sound. I'm going to use that. Also, you're friends with Utakata, I didn't know that." She pursed her lips. "I didn't realize he had friends other than me. I don't like this. I'm going to have to have a talk with him."

Hayashizaki tried not to look unpleasantly surprised.

"That flattery was a little too tailored," she critiqued. "Not many people have heard me express my particular fondness for my seal of office, but one of the two who has is the person who provided me with your name. An agemate, ranking peer." Aiko raised an eyebrow. "I'm sorry, I just don't buy that you happened to stumble upon one of my vanities. Not impossible, but implausible when there is a more direct explanation." She pointed at him with her right hand, rather as if she was aiming a projectile. Hayashizaki certainly flinched. "You get points for pairing it with an attractive rhetoric I can use on Wave, but next time, I expect more subtlety in your compliments. Do you understand?"

Hayashizaki looked shell-shocked. Ah, yes, that was the most extreme expression she'd gotten out of him yet. "Yes, Mizukage-sama," he said woodenly. "Of course, Mizukage-sama."

"Good, good." She curled her hand back under her chin. "You may go, now."

"Thank you, Mizukage-sama."

He let the door shut just a little too loudly. She could see his flinch in the one-way glass at the top.

Aiko relaxed her body language into a slight slouch and stretched her legs. "What a nice young man," she said.

Sanbi agreed, with a rumble of laughter.

She pushed her chair back so she could open the middle drawer on her desk to pull out her itinerary. There was only one more evening appointment, but she double-checked the time. Ugh. Aiko spun on her chair. The light breeze was a relief in her stuffy office. Actually- she stood up and opened the window behind her desk.

There was no reaction, but she was well-aware that her watching guard was annoyed from his hiding spot. Ah, yes, opening up a direct line of sight into a lit room for anyone with a projectile. You fuck.

"Why do you criticize yourself in this manner?" Sanbi asked, curious.

Aiko lifted her arms into a stretch. 'I can't tell you how many times I had that exact bitchy thought when I was on guard duty in Konohagakure. It was a whole bunch, I resented every window.'

"What has changed?"

She let her arms drop and shrugged. 'Nothing. Except that I'm hot, my ass hurts from sitting, and it isn't my job to obsess over every way someone could possibly murder me.'

It was somewhat irritating to go back to the office after day one of construction work had wrapped up at 4pm. The challenge had been exhilarating, and working as part of a team was a treat she didn't get that often.

It had been good for her relationship with Gaara, as well. They had worked in tandem to terraform and lay foundation. It was kind of fun to discover new, practical ways to utilize shinobi abilities outside of combat. A shinobi who could control sand and a shinobi with fuinjutsu ability could make cement and move it a lot easier than a civilian could with a wheelbarrow. They were a good deal more efficient than even a shinobi using a wheelbarrow to move cement. Like, wheelbarrows, eat your heart out. Two jinchuuriki coming through to steal ya damn job. They would be the most powerful construction company in the world. Who could possibly hope to compete? Actually, that was an interesting thought.

"Must you?"

Aiko interlaced her fingers and stretched again. 'No,' /emshe thought apologetically. 'That was unnecessary and a bit weirder than I anticipated. I'm a little tired. I will stop talking about quitting to form a construction company with Gaara. I don't really even want to.'

"Thank you," Sanbi said. He let out a great huffing sigh. "Have you ruminated on the strange behavior of your ...puppy?"

She was still functionally alone, so it was totally okay to put her elbows on the desk and rest her head on her hands. 'I don't know,' Aiko admitted. 'I don't think I'll know until I talk to him. His hospital check came out clean, his debriefing didn't indicate any trauma, his teammates mentioned nothing unusual. I suppose it's possible that he just had an usually bad reaction to the time in custody, but it just doesn't seem like Yuusaku.'

He growled. Aiko put a hand to her chest for a moment, because it felt like her ribcage was vibrating under the low noise. But it wasn't. She put her hand back on her head and dug her fingertips into her scalp just enough to feel the points of pressure.

"This job sucks," Aiko mumbled. "Too many people. They are all so small and need help. So much help. I barely have time for writing policy and plotting and hunting traitors and committing malfeasance. What's life without a minimum of malfeasance?"

Sanbi seemed to cock his head. "Least likely to result in jailtime and international disgrace."

She made a rude sound. 'Not you too. I'm being very, very careful with my kage bunshin. But drug running is the only reason our economy isn't in the tank while we build up legitimate income and repair a fucking city. It is not cheap.'

"I understand," he said. He seemed much more reasonable about it than Utakata, the only other person in the world who knew about that source of income. "I merely worry about the effect that revelation would have upon your reputation and Kirigakure's international legitimacy."

'Reasonable fear. Can't afford to stop. Am very cautious.' Aiko rubbed at her eyes and then sat up straight. 'Pays very well because no legitimate party can be caught doing that kind of work, I have no travel expenses, is critically needed direct infusion into treasury.'

Her personal demon hummed, accepting the bullet point version of the argument she'd had with Utakata more than once.

Yuusaku was perfectly on time for his meeting. He slunk in with his gaze hovering a foot above the floor.

Her heart ached. "Yuusaku, what's wrong?" Aiko found that a soft tone came out naturally when she was talking to one of her kids. "You've seemed very down since you came back from Konohagakure. How can I help you?"

He swallowed and took a shaky breath. "I've failed you, Mizukage-sama. I don't deserve this." He pulled at his chuunin vest.

'What?'

It took a moment to work past bafflement and push out a level question that wouldn't make him feel any worse. "Yuusaku, I don't understand. Why do you think you've failed me? You met all my expectations. I'm proud of you and your team. I'm glad that we went to Konohagakure together."

He glanced up at her and away just as quickly. His eyes were red, she saw. Oh. Hell. Was he going to cry? Was she going to have a crying child in her office?

"The boy is 15, is he not?" Sanbi confirmed uncertainly. "Do human young cry even at that age?"

'Humans cry at all ages.' Aiko fidgeted. 'Are you thinking of the wailing babies tend to do? That's different. We don't do that after, like, three years old or so.'

"Ah. Should his parents be retrieved to soothe him?"

...Probably not? She wasn't an expert on human young, either.

"Mizukage-sama," Yuusaku said heavily. He blinked many times. "In Konohagakure, I believe I was identified as the weak link in the team. I was taken to questioning that my teammates did not experience."

"What." Her voice went totally flat. "You were situational witnesses, not captives. Are you telling me that Konohagakure subjected you to interrogation?"

'I'm going to kill them. I'm going to fucking kill them. I'm going to go over there and destroy their petty mountainside and use the leftover bits to crush the rats who run.'

"Yes? No? I don't know." Yuusaku rubbed at his eyes. "I was called in to personal questioning by the Hokage." He cleared his throat. "The Yondaime Hokage."

Oh. Oh, no.

'He was a wartime leader,' Aiko remembered. 'Minato is decades behind on diplomatic protocol.'

But it still seemed like common fucking sense that it was unwarranted intimidation to bring a genin, ostensibly a guest from a foreign nation, into questioning with the fucking kage. That was completely inappropriate. It was a dangerous precedent! Would Konoha fucking like it if she brought one of their genin into her office for private questioning? Your own country's military leader was intimidating enough. It was far too much to ask a genin to endure the pressure of a personal interrogation by a foreign military head. It was cruel and unnecessary.

She very carefully put her coffee cup down, because she didn't want to break the glass. "Please continue, Yuusaku."

"He asked me some questions." Yuusaku was talking faster now, like he just wanted to get it all out. "About you. About how long you trained us, where you came from, and what you would do if you wanted to get rid of him." He glanced up at her once again and then back to the floor. "I told him what you said about the timeline. I thought I was being clever with my other responses, ambiguous enough, but I wasn't, I was wrong. I don't know how but I knew it from his face that he got information from me. I'm so, so sorry." He stopped, choked up. "I'm sorry."

He turned to the side to hide his face. She still heard a quiet sniffle.

"Yuusaku," Aiko said. Her voice was exactly as calm as her heart was braying for blood. "A genin is not expected to match wits with kage to achieve promotion. That situation was completely inappropriate, and in no way reflects negatively upon you." She folded her hands very tightly, laced them together and squeezed until her skin turned white. "You performed up to expectations consistent with your rank and age. I would not expect the vast majority of my jounin to conceal information from a foreign kage. That you attempted it is to your credit."

She wanted to cross around her desk and try to comfort her student. But he was turned away- that indicated he wanted privacy. He wanted to protect his pride. She understood that.

"What did you tell him about how I would get rid of him?" Aiko asked, perfectly still and feeling so, so dangerous.

He took a few seconds to master himself enough to answer. "I said that I didn't know, because I hadn't seen you in a serious fight."

Ah. "He understood from that answer that I cannot remotely unwork the jutsu reviving the dead," Aiko explained. "That's the information he got from you."

Yuusaku flinched, waiting for a blow.

"I don't care if he knows that. The information is worthless to me, it's only valuable to Konohagakure because now they know that Minato-san is not about to drop dead at my convenience." She clenched her jaw. "That is acceptable. I am considering how I am going to murder him, and that seems much more satisfying."

Yuusaku gave her a wild-eyed stare. "You can't!" he protested. "A foreign kage?"

She opened her mouth to point out that she'd killed the previous mizukage before she was a citizen, but kept the words in. Wasn't worth it.

"It is politically imprudent," Aiko admitted. "But it is also righting the state of affairs. The Yondaime Hokage is clearly a relic of wartime, unsuited for modern leadership. I'm going to fucking kill him, and then I suppose Kumogakure will be our friend instead of Konohagakure." She paused, thinking about it. "That is also an acceptable outcome. They're closer, even. That's convenient. And that would open up a line of trade to the Outer countries. We could all have TVs, legally. That would be nice. See how it all works out when you murder the Hokage?" By the end, she was really warming to the idea.

"It could lead to war," Yuusaku pointed out. "And it would endanger our relationship with other nations." His voice was strengthening, more comfortable on this familiar ground. "If we were not already at war, a kage personally assassinating another kage is beyond the pale. We would never have another alliance. Who could trust us? We would be destroyed."

'Not if I kill enough of them that nobody wants to fuck with me. Fuck, I killed Itachi. He's shit-scum and stupid as all hell, but he was a loyal Konoha nin. I've already broken that taboo. What's ten more. What a hundred more.'

Aiko took a long, slow inhalation, and pushed down the murderous fantasies. Those were a lot more common lately. Sanbi? She really didn't think that was all her.

He gave a guilty little grumbled. Some of the rage peeled away. Some of it really was hers, though.

"Aa." She clenched her jaw, and then deliberately relaxed the muscles. "You would prefer that I did not kill him, then?"

Yuusaku gave her a look that was hard to interpret. "Mizukage-sama," Yuusaku got out tentatively. "I do not believe that a kage can be held responsible for mistreating foreign genin."

"He's not better than you," Aiko said darkly. "Minato really is not that great. He's selfish, academically unimaginative, makes way too many assumptions about people's competence, and is a shit parent all around. No wonder that he's a fuckup even when it's other people's kids. He did fuck up his whole genin team too, now that I'm thinking about it. The survivors are goddamn lunatics. I'll introduce you sometime, that'll be a laugh."

Yuusaku made a high-pitched sound. When she looked over, he was white. "Sensei?"

"Oh, right. "He's my father," Aiko admitted. "That's classified information, sorry. But he's a useless, stupid garbage human who behaved unprofessionally because he was emotionally compromised." She kicked back her chair and stood up. "And I'm going to make him eat it. Yuusaku, sweetheart, how would you like a personal letter of apology from the Hokage?"

He just stared at her.

"He's not better than you," Aiko repeated, feeling stuck on that. "He has no right to intimidate my people. He has no right to make you doubt yourself when you are doing a good fucking job." Her voice shook with fury on that last part. "You were a damn good genin, and you're on track to be a damn good chuunin. He doesn't get to make you sad."

"Once, when I was in preschool, my teacher made me write an apology to another student." Yuusaku sounded distant and confused. His eyes were glazed over. "Because I broke his toy ship."

"Your teacher was right." Aiko unfolded her hands because she didn't want to break any delicate bones. "When we wrong another person, we say that we are sorry."

She gave in to her urge and walked around her desk to give her new chuunin a hug. He put his hands around her back a moment later.

"I'm going to get an apology for you," Aiko promised into his shoulder. "And he's going to mean it. If he isn't sorry now, I will make him sorry. And then I will make him write a very nice letter."

"Um. Okay."

She hugged him a little harder.

#vapors #uzumaki aiko #electrasev5n #ninja daily #fanfiction #naruto fanfiction #clarity #AIC #Aiko in Canon

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coffeeangelinabox · 10 months ago

Text

Febuwhump #17: Hostage Situation

There is a pause as the voice on the phone finishes listing his demands. In the hastily set up mobile HQ, there is a silence.

Finally, Sergeant Chris Bryson says steadily, "We don't negotiate. You know that. We can talk about a plea bargain."

His heart is pounding beneath his ribs. This is so far above his paygrade, but they had demanded him. Specifically. By name. Everyone in the room is watching him, expressions barely less hostile than the voice on the other end of the phone. Sweat trickles under the collar of his uniform.

He hears his accent broaden, becoming less soft, lilting, TV Welsh and more they type of voice that just encourages these Southern wankers to make jokes about sheep shagging. Thank God, there's no one here that could possibly know that that's the first sign of his fear. And why is that? He can't believe that, if he's been summoned, the others haven't.

He's not even proper police. Not by the London Met's standards. But he does have a unique skill set that suggests something other worldly in this situation. Something, he had assumed was run-of-the-mill nerves buzzes to life in a very real swoop of fear.

The others aren't here.

He'd been summoned by name.

His hand tightens on the phone with a squeak of plastic and his teeth clench with a squeak of enamel. "As a show of good will," his voice is just about casual, but his accent is so thick he sees a couple of the Londoners swap eyebrow raises and smirks, "why don't you release a hostage or two."

The voice doesn't even speak. There's just the sound of a gunshot. And he flinches. That is the sound of American action movies and war footage on the news. Guns don't get discharged at scenes he is called to. He's little more than a scientific specialist. Fangs, ectoplasm, mind control...he has experience with all of those, but bullets?

Then worse, even that that crack which feels like it's ruptured his eardrum, there's a choked off male cry that he's certain he recognises.

He's heard that man in pain before, it's just usually monsters and aliens and idiots who fancy themselves Spiderman villains, not whatever this is.

Then a woman is speaking to him, words rushed, falling over each other, "Chris! Chris! It's Reiner and his cult. They're all here. You need to get-"

Another snap of sound cuts her off and for a heart stopping moment Chris thinks they've shot again. "Owen? Mandy?" He demands, everyone can hear his terror now - the enemy and the men here both - as his voice cracks like it hasn't since puberty, as he almost bursts into humiliating tears, the adrenaline he can't run or punch out frantic to go somewhere. He doesn't care, professionalism be damned.

Then he realises that the sound had been different. They hadn't shot her, merely slapped her. "I'm- I'm ok." Her own voice wavers and that's terrifying in and of itself. Mandy never sounds anything less than no nonsense and certain. She's the strongest one of all of them. "Chris...you have to stop them." She sounds almost apologetic and he knows exactly why. He's never run a mission himself, he's only worked with them for a few months. And now the fate of the world (and every friend he has in the world) rests only on him.

He ignores the order completely. "Is Owen alright?"

"He's-"

And then she's cut off again with scuffling and another slap, but Chris has to believe that the start of an answer in something that at least approached Mandy's always sensible tone wasn't going to be a time of death.

"Now, Sergeant. We won't be giving a show of good will," the voice says again. Not Reiner, Chris doesn't think, though the man has never struggled for followers for his insane cause. "We won't be releasing anyone. Let's talk again about my demands."

#my writing #febuwhump #whump #whump prompts #beating #injury #hostage #cults #febuwhumpday17

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kohakhearts · 1 year ago

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biodad Giovanni-Ash content please! 🥺🥺

wc: 3 905 read on ao3

That kid is here again.

Normally, the boss encourages customers keeping their Pokémon out of their balls in the store. It makes them easier to steal, not that much of that happens these days anyway. It’s above their paygrade, James is always saying; Jessie knows he’s right, but sometimes she thinks the thrill of it alone might be enough to get her out of the slog of retail. At least for a little while.

The kid with the Pikachu on his shoulder, though—he’s a close second. He’s a nuisance, sure, but he makes their jobs…not fun, exactly, but different.

With one eye on him as he disappears into the kitchen department, Jessie presses down on her radio and mutters, “Twerp spotted in aisle fifty-one.”

The channel is tuned only to James and Meowth, even if it does sometimes get them in trouble for not hearing whatever stupid Cassidy with her stupid supervisor tag is ordering them to do. The kid and his dodgy little mouse are Jessie, James, and Meowth’s project; if Cassidy or Butch caught wind of it, they’d take away the only exciting thing that’s walked into Rocket’s Department Store in years. Jessie would sooner lose a limb.

Static fills her ear, followed by Meowth’s voice: “Locked on to target, meow.”

Shortly after comes a crash from aisle fifty-one.

Jessie switches her radio channel over just in time to hear Cassidy shriek, “Someone had better be cleaning that up!”

“Oh, happily,” she bites back into the radio. “Shall I polish your ugly shoes while I’m at it?”

Cassidy laughs in that way she does that makes Jessie wish she were close enough to punch in the face. “Of course, you are the authority on all things ugly, hmm?”

Jessie simmers. With rage tamping down her tongue, she can do nothing more than switch the channel back and stomp off to today’s crime scene. Surrounded by broken plates stands James, making a valiant effort to wrangle their energetic Pikachu pal before more damage can be done.

“Hey!” the kid shouts. “How many times do I hafta tell ya to keep your hands off my Pikachu?!”

He shoves James back against the aisle where the single glasses and mugs are lined up. Jessie leaps forward to catch Pikachu just as James’s shelf-stocking reflexes overpower him and he frees his hands to stop the wobbling before anything more can be added to the shards of colourful porcelain scattered across the floor.

With the ease of practice, Jessie grabs Pikachu around the waist with both hands and holds him up high as the kid tries to jump and retrieve his volatile partner.

He’s too short, though, and Pikachu hasn’t shocked her yet. She glances down at him with a raised eyebrow.

“You gonna clean this up, kid?”

“Why should I?” he demands. Apparently having realized his hopping’s not getting him anywhere, he finally plants his feet on the ground in order to glare up at her properly with all his ten-year-old might. “What’re gonna do about it, call your boss?”

The spark of hope in his eyes as he says it is what makes this kid so damn interesting. Clearly, he thinks he has some kind of business with the boss, but Jessie’s no idiot: she knows calling Giovanni for anything that happens around the store is as good as cashing in on a death wish, and as bad as this job can be, she’s not quite there yet.

“The boss don’t care about some broken plates, meow.” Meowth is standing back, away from the carnage, but close enough that the kid, if the way his eyes widen then narrow with outrage and thinly veiled disappointment is anything to go by, hears him loud and clear. “Gotta do betta than that, kid.”

It’s the same thing every day.

Pikachu squirms in Jessie’s hands, but she just holds on tighter.

“You’re not going anywhere,” she snaps. “What were you trying to do this time, twerp? Climb up to the rafters?”

Even as his trainer defiantly crosses his arms over his chest, Pikachu deflates slightly. Perhaps the Pokémon is fed up with this routine too.

“No,” the kid mutters. “Just tryna get a better view.”

He nods his head in Jessie’s direction. She doesn’t need to glance back to know he’s gesturing toward the window from Giovanni’s office that overlooks the store. It’s anyone’s guess how the kid even figured out that’s what’s on the other side; they’re tinted so customers can’t figure that out.

“And this is the aisle you chose?” James sounds nearly as snappish as he does confused. He’s a bit protective of the kitchenware; it is his department, after all.

The kid glares at him. “Well, yeah. Makes the most sense, doesn’t it?”

“Not when you’re the one who has to sweep all this up,” James grumbles. “Hold on, Jess, I’ll go get the broom.”

He heaves a huge sigh, then tiptoes around all the broken china. As he turns his back on them, Jessie squints at the kid.

“You can have this destructive rodent back after you’ve swept this up, twerp. That seems fair, doesn’t it?”

Pikachu struggles against her hold. When it’s managed to turn around and look at her, it growls.

“Don’t take that tone with me,” she snaps. “I don’t get paid enough for this shit. If you’re so upset, why don’t you make yourself useful and help out?”

She didn’t know Pikachus could glare, but this one’s expression is just pure loathing. Jessie thinks that’s pretty unreasonable, all things considered; she’s really doing the brat and his rat a favour.

“Pikachu—,” the boy starts, but Jessie pulls Pikachu against her chest and frees one hand so she can put up a silencing finger.

“Not so fast. You’re not allowed to use Pokémon moves in here, or did you forget what the signs outside say?”

It’s true, too; though the signs welcome Pokémon, they’re also very clear that battling will not be tolerated within the store. Besides, it’s bad manners to use moves on people, not that anyone seems to have taught the kid that.

She can see the cogs in his head turning, however slowly that may be. Just when she thinks maybe she’s made a mistake—that he’s realized she can’t kick him out without the boss on her side—footsteps approaching from behind her have all four of them turning to look. Jessie’s relief is short-lived when she sees not James but Butch on the other end of the aisle.

“Uh-oh,” says Meowth.

Butch takes in the scene with narrowed eyes, which lastly land on Jessie. “What’s going on here?”

“Oh, mind your own business.” Jessie sniffs disdainfully. “It’s under control, Botch, so back off.”

“It’s Butch!”

“Yeah, yeah, just get out of our hair, would you? We don’t need your big stupid nose getting in the way of our jobs.”

His cheeks redden at her dismissal, but he doesn’t get a chance to say anything before James turns the corner back into the aisle. He freezes, broom gripped tightly in both hands. Butch whirls around to face him with an almighty scowl.

“You two have made one too many messes on my floor,” Butch growls. “You think you can just clean this up and move on? Who’s gonna pay for all this, huh? I don’t know why the boss keeps you around.”

James swallows visibly. He grips the broom even tighter. “Erm…”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Jessie fumes. “The store can afford a few—”

But she’s cut off by the boy, loudly declaring, “It’s not their fault, it’s mine.” She glances back at him just in time to see him squinting at Butch’s nametag as he turns back around. “Er, Mr. Bunch, sir. I tripped and my Pikachu got a little freaked out and, well…” He gestures around them. “So I’ll help clean it up, and if I need to pay for anything, I will.”

Butch’s face ripples with conflict, and then crumples. “Fine,” he snaps, “but make it quick and then get out of here, or you’ll be sorry, kid.”

With that, he shuffles off, presumably back to wherever Cassidy is so they can gossip about what losers Jessie and James are.

James relaxes ever-so-slightly. “Huh. The twerp’s got a conscience, after all.”

“It is my fault,” the kid points out. “‘Sides, you’re not very nice, but I don’t wanna get you fired.”

Gingerly, James picks away across the floor until he is close enough to pass the broom off to the twerp. He chews on this for a beat, and then remarks, “You could have fooled us.”

At this point, Pikachu seems to have accepted its fate and is curled up against Jessie’s chest. The kid eyes them briefly, then accepts the broom with a short sigh.

“I don’t even know who you are,” he mutters. “Why would I wanna get you fired?”

“So you could make a direct complaint about us to the boss.” Jessie leans against the aisle, just out of the way of the ceramic warzone. “Isn’t that right?”

He pauses, surprised. “Would that work?”

“No,” she says, quickly, before he can get any crazy ideas. “He wouldn’t fire us, anyway. Though it may not seem like it, we are his best employees.”

“Not according to that stuck-up Persian, meow,” Meowth says mournfully. “But he just don’t know what’s good for him, that’s all.”

The kid sweeps a couple pieces up, then stops. His nose scrunches up. “He’s got a Persian?”

“My thoughts, exactly, meow.”

“What’s it matter to you?” Jessie tries to keep her tone casual despite the gnawing curiosity at her; from the way he glances up at her, she’s pretty sure she fails. “You talk like you know the guy or something.”

He sweeps once, twice, then shrugs. “Not exactly.”

James watches him, disdainful, then surges forward and snatches the broom from him. In no time at all, the ceramic shards have been swept away; the kid remains where he was, shoulders slumping.

“You’d think you’ve never done household chores before.” James stands back and admires his effortless work. “Spotless, isn’t it? That’s how it’s done, kid.”

“Uh…okay. Thanks. Anyway, I’d better—”

“Not so fast.” Jessie reaches an arm out to stop him before he can get close enough to grab Pikachu from her. Predictably, he shoots her a dirty look, which she steadfastly ignores. “Look, kid, you’ve obviously got something to say to our boss, so just spit it out already and we’ll decide if it’s worth the trouble, all right?”

He blinks. “Really?” Just as quickly, his lips turn down in a suspicious frown. “What’s it matter to you, though? Do I really have to pay for all this?”

James grimaces at that. It’s far from the first time the kid has broken merchandise, and he’s gotten away with it every other time.

“No,” Jessie says, a little impatiently. “Who cares? With how little we’re paid around here, I know they can afford to replace it. That’s not the point. You saved our necks from Bitch”—“Jess, it’s Butch,” James whispers, which she waves off with a roll of the eyes—“this time, so now we owe you one. You don’t even want to know the kind of ridiculous talking-tos he and stupid Cassidy try to give us all the time. I’d rather die than have to sit through another one.”

He considers this for a moment. “And you can take me to meet your boss? For real?”

“If you give us a good reason,” Jessie corrects, although she can’t imagine any reason good enough to disturb Giovanni.

And then the kid gives her one: “I’ve been tryna find my dad and your boss is the only one who can help me. I’ve never met him and this is my only shot.”

Jessie looks back on most of her childhood bitterly, but she remembers perfectly well what it was like waiting around for a parent who just couldn’t show up. And, dammit, if she doesn’t kind of sympathize with the brat.

“How can you be so sure?” James prods. “There’s no one else at all?”

He shakes his head. “I’ve done lots of research. My mom doesn’t talk much about my dad, so I had to take things into my own hands, and this is all I’ve got. So you see why it’s important? I’ve gotta talk to him.”

“Wow, kid.” Meowth sniffles. “That’s touching, meow. But the boss ain’t so friendly to strangers, meow. Might not be such a good idea.”

“I have to meet him,” the kid insists. “He’ll definitely want to talk to me if you just give me a chance to try.”

Jessie exchanges a look with James, who shrugs helplessly at her. She turns back to the kid.

“How do we know you’ll behave yourself?” she asks. “And your little friend here?”

“We promise, right, Pikachu?”

Pikachu stirs in Jessie’s arms, gives an affirmative but somewhat slurred “Pika” in response, then settles back down to doze off again.

She sighs. “Fine, then. We’ll take you to him, but don’t make me regret it.”

The kid grins. “Awesome! Thanks, uh, Jessie. And James.”

James blanches. “Now you’re on our side? After months of torment?”

“If I’d known I just needed to ask real nice, I would’ve tried that sooner.” His smile turns sheepish. “I thought you’d take me to him if I caused enough trouble, though.”

“The boss considers things that go on down here trivial matters,” Jessie tells him. “What’s your name, kid? He’ll want to know who he’s talking to.”

“My name’s Ash,” he says. “Ash Ketchum, from Pallet Town.”

Pallet Town? That little dump? It must be important to him if he’s coming all the way to Viridian City every day just to trash their store. Come to think of it, Jessie’s never even seen him buy anything here. Maybe she ought to rethink that payment offer.

But this too, she figures, is above her paygrade. So she keeps her mouth shut and waves their entourage forward. As she punches in her code to the staff door, she wills her legs to steady themselves, though to little avail. Few things truly terrify her, but Giovanni easily tops the list.

They are silent as they march up the stairs to his office, in a way that Jessie tries not to think is awfully reminiscent of a funeral procession. She doesn’t allow herself to think twice before knocking, and even manages to muster up an authentic-looking smile when the door opens ominously before her.

Giovanni sits ahead of her, not having moved an inch. How he opened the door, she has no idea; she can only assume it’s magic, which of course he of all people would surely possess in spades.

“What do you want?” he demands.

“Why, you have a visitor, sir! I know you don’t like to be interrupted when you’re working, but he assured us you wouldn’t mind this one time and, well, so we brought him up to see you and—”

“You were wrong,” he says coldly. “Leave at once, before you regret it. Don’t think a measly little Pikachu will change my mind.”

Jessie starts; she nearly forgot about Pikachu, still nestled in her arms. She hastens to give it back to Ash, telling Giovanni, “Oh, no, no, we wouldn’t bring you such a wimpy Pokémon, sir! This Pikachu belongs to the boy—your visitor—Ash Ketchum!”

Pikachu becomes alert right along with Giovanni. As Giovanni’s eyes flick over to Ash, Pikachu seems to raise its hackles. Its cheeks begin to spark.

“Ketchum,” Giovanni repeats. “Now there’s a name I’ve not heard in quite some time.”

Ash steps into the room, leaving Jessie, James, and Meowth in the doorway. Persian circles out from behind the desk, cold eyes surveying the boy and his Pikachu. James grabs on to Jessie’s arm for support and she is too stunned by the scene before them to tell him off for his strength of his grip.

“So it’s true,” Ash says. “You do know my mom.”

“Delia?” His lips twitch. “Oh, yes. We have quite the history, but it sounds like you know all about that now, don’t you?”

With his chest puffed out like that, Ash looks a lot less like the mischievous little kid Jessie and James have been cleaning up after for weeks now and more like a seasoned trainer about to prove his title and his worth. Suddenly, Jessie’s not so sure her earlier evaluation of Pikachu was all that accurate.

“I talked to lots of people, but I figured it out.” There’s a note of pride in his tone, which seems to amuse Giovanni, though Jessie can’t possibly imagine how. “There’s just one thing I still haven’t got.”

“And what is that?”

“She always told me my dad left to go on a Pokémon journey. Is that true?”

Giovanni pauses. If anything, he just looks more amused by this. He says, “I suppose, in a sense.”

Ash jerks his head toward Persian. “This is your Pokémon, isn’t it?”

“Yes. One of many others, but by far my most loyal companion.”

“Ouch,” mumbles Meowth, “that’s real low, meow.”

“There, there, old chum,” James soothes. “He doesn’t truly mean it.”

Jessie doubts that, but whatever helps Meowth fall asleep at night, she supposes.

“But I checked the registry,” Ash goes on, “and I never saw your name anywhere.”

Giovanni watches him for a long moment, stock-still. Ash doesn’t so much as waver under the intensity of his gaze.

At last, he relaxes, just a bit. “You’ll find,” he says slowly, “some things are better left forgotten about. Now, I’m sure the last thing you want is a job at this store. It might do you well to forget a few things yourself, if you truly care for your Pokémon.”

“Whaddya mean by that?” Ash asks indignantly. “I’ve been looking for you my whole life and I thought—”

“Then, you thought wrong,” Giovanni says smoothly. “You’ve got your own journey ahead of you, haven’t you?”

“Well, sure, but—”

“Then, forget about Rocket’s and get on with it. There are better things to waste your time with.”

Jessie’s jaw is beginning to ache from the way it’s hanging open, but she just can’t bring herself to clamp it shut; a glance over at James confirms he’s thinking the same thing she is:

What the hell has gotten into him?

“What’s so bad about this place?” Ash presses. “That Punch guy seems a little rude, but—”

“Don’t mistake that for an invitation,” Giovanni warns. “You will leave here and forget about it. Your mother did not tell you the whole truth, Ash Ketchum, or I’m sure she would have made sure you never got this far. I imagine she has her reasons. Me, I’m simply trying to…manage my business, as you can see. I haven’t the time for you.”

Ash’s mouth slams closed. He grinds his teeth together, obviously frustrated.

“Go on, then. Leave now, and I’ll forgot all your little transgressions in my store. Don’t think I haven’t noticed all the stock going down with no sales to account for it.”

Jessie shuffles on her feet, uncomfortably aware of how pointed those words are. She mentally begs the kid to just drop it and go.

No such thing happens.

“That’s not fair! Won’t you even try? I’m your son!”

Wait.

What?

James’s hold on Jessie tightens. She hisses and swats at him until he loosens up again, though he still looks like he’s seen a ghost, which…she can kind of get, actually.

“I’m hearin’ things,” Meowth’s whispers. “Tell me I’m hearin’ things, meow.”

“You’re hearing things,” James whispers back, dazed.

In their shock, they’ve missed Giovanni’s response, but it is enough to have Ash turning on his heel and storming out of the office. He pushes past the three of them without so much as a “Pardon me.” In his absence, Giovanni’s eyes lock on to them.

Jessie gulps.

“You’d best forget about this whole thing too,” he says darkly. “Keep an eye out for the kid if he comes back, because I’m sure he will, but whatever you think you heard here, you didn’t. Understood?”

“Y-yes, sir!” they all chorus.

“Good. Now, get out of here.”

They don’t need to be told twice; they scurry back down the stairs, only able to breathe once there are three doors between them and Giovanni and his wicked Persian.

To Jessie’s surprise, Ash is still hanging around near the staff door, and he looks up at them with an expression Jessie knows all too well.

“What a jerk,” he bites out. “I can’t believe you guys work for someone like that.”

“Hey,” James protests, “it’s not the best job in the world, but it pays the bills. Sometimes.”

“Not exactly daddy material, though,” Jessie allows. “Look, twerp, he may seem like a jerk, but he’s got the right idea. In his own way, it sounds like he’s trying to protect you. Some of his business is a little, well…”

“Shady,” Meowth supplies.

“I know that,” Ash says. “I really did talk to lots of people to find him, and most of ‘em didn’t have much nice to say, but I was hopin’ he’d prove ‘em wrong. Guess I shouldn’t’ve.”

“Pi-ka,” Pikachu puts in, with the tone of someone saying I told you so.

Ash scowls. “Yeah, whatever. Hey, I was wondering something.”

Jessie raises an eyebrow at that. “And you think we know the answer?”

“I don’t see why you wouldn’t.”

“Well…okay, then. Shoot.”

“Just how much stuff would I have to break before it started causin’ issues?”

James winces. “I don’t like the sounds of that. Too much sweeping makes my back ache, you know.”

Jessie hums in thought, though. “Well, kitchenware is expensive, but electronics are even more expensive, you know, and that’s not either of our departments, so no one could really blame us for anything bad that might happen there.”

Ash’s eyes light up. “Electronics, huh? Well, all right. Why don’t we go check it out, Pikachu?”

Pikachu perks up at that. Jessie has started to get the sense that, as cute as it looks, the little rat really does enjoy destroying things for the sake of it.

“Awesome, let’s go!” Ash turns around, then stops. Glances back at Jessie, James, and Meowth. “Hey, uh…thanks a lot. I know I’ve been a nuisance, but you were a real help today. I really didn’t mean to bother all of ya so much.”

“No harm done,” Jessie says cheerfully. “See you around, twerp.”

With her blessing, he races off. He’s making a beeline straight for Cassidy’s department.

“All’s well that ends well, I suppose, meow.”

Before either Jessie or James can respond, Cassidy’s shrill voice comes in over the radio:

“We’ve got an electric Pokémon loose here! Someone deal with it before it causes real damage!”

Jessie giggles. “Like music to my ears.” Into the radio, she says, “Sorry, but I’ve got my own department to look after. Surely you can handle one scrawny little rat?”

There’s no reply, which is the best outcome Jessie could have asked for. Maybe things will be a little different without the twerp around making things interesting for them, but she gets the sense things are going to be a lot more fun around here for a while.

#dont ask me how this turned into a whole ass fic but it did #one of the stupidest things ive ever written but i had fun. it took me a long time to make the bitch joke but im glad i squeezed it in ther #*fic #*reqs #pokemon #anipoke #pokeani #team rocket #i dont know how to write giovanni help #mine #i hope you know that i was imagining the layout of canadian tire the entire time i was writing this lmao

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