#someone said I should poke some holes through the clay next time to cover more surface area so I’ll give that a try next time!

[alunimoon]

Attempted to soften my clay since it was too hard to use on the wheel! I think it worked pretty well?!

[honey-dewey]

Bomb (of the Bath Variety)

Pairing: Ezra/Reader

Word Count: 2,184

Warnings: None! 

Permanent Taglist: @phoenixhalliwell @star-wars-hell

Someone please introduce this man to the concept of a spa day. He just needs to relax in a tub with Epsom salts for the muscle pain and a bath bomb because they smell nice. He needs someone else to wash his hair for once because god knows he can’t do it. He needs to be introduced to moisturizers and other skin care products. He also needs (wants) funky colored nails. 

“Jesus Ezra!” You shouted, seeing him shuffle into the pod, covered in grime. “What did you do all day?”

“Uh,” Ezra hesitated, biting down on his glove and pulling it off. “Cee pushed me into a dirt hole.”

Cee nodded. “Can confirm,” she said with a grin. “I’m headed next door so I can bathe.”

You waved to her, watching the hatch shut once more. “And you,” you said to Ezra as he tried to sneak past you. “Get in the bathroom.”

Ezra pouted, but listened. He didn’t hate bathing, but he wasn’t super keen on it either. It was a hard task when you only had one hand, but today would be different. If you’d set it up right, today would be pure bliss for Ezra.

Starting with you turning the shower off.

“Moonlight?” He turned when you cut the water, clearly confused. “I thought I had to bathe.”

“You do,” you agreed, kneeling beside the bathtub and turning it on. “Ez, you’re taking a spa day.”

“A what now?”

You stood, slowly working a still confused but now considerably more relaxed Ezra out of his work suit, pushing the leather harness off his shoulders. “A spa day, Ezra. Where you take a day to just relax. Get all clean and done up with nice products.”

Ezra shrugged, looking into the bathtub that was steadily filling with water. “That’s gotta be some fancy tradition from your planet, because I’ve never heard of that before.”

“You were a state ward!” You pointed out, bending to grab a cardboard box of various spa day supplies you’d been saving for an occasion such as this. “You’d also never held a real book or eaten a full meal until you started prospecting.”

“Fair,” Ezra hummed. He wasn’t one to open up about his past, especially his days as a state ward. But you’d caught glimpses of the life he’d led prior to becoming a prospector. Cold bunks crammed into a room full of underage orphaned boys, all shivering. No one had a family name, and it was rare any one of them was happy, or really even survived to make it out. Apparently, at the state house Ezra had been raised at, the suicide rate was almost 40%.

But that was the past, and this was the present. You opened the box and pulled out a bath bomb, reading the label and setting it on the counter. “You like mint, right?”

“Of course,” Ezra said. “Reminds me of you.”

You smiled, turning to kiss Ezra. “Get in the tub Ez.”

Ezra, with that beautiful crooked grin on his face, removed the last of his clothes and stepped into the tub. “You know, this tub has room for two.”

“Shame I won’t be getting in,” you said. “I already bathed.”

Ezra pouted. “Moonlight, you wound me.”

“My sun, this is about you, not me.” You handed him the bath bomb. “Go ahead and put that in the water. I have some epsom salts in here, I know it.”

As you knelt down to find the pesky bag of salts, Ezra put the bath bomb in the water, gasping as it began to fizz. “Moonlight! It’s dissolving!”

“It’s supposed to,” you said, standing with the bag of salts. Ezra poked the bath bomb with a happy grin, his finger going green from the fizz. “It’s called a bath bomb for a reason. Scoot.”

As Ezra moved reluctantly from the bath bomb, you measured out two cups of epsom salts and poured them into the bath as well. Ezra was clearly disappointed when they didn’t fizz like the last thing you’d put in the water, but the slight rosy smell was enough to make up for it. “What is that for?”

“Epsom salts help with muscle pain,” you said, putting the bag down and dragging a stool over so you could sit at Ezra’s height. “I use them sometimes after we do really bad prospecting trips. Hopefully, they’ll help with your arm.”

Ezra’s face darkened, the delicate subject of his right arm, or lack thereof, causing the mood to sour. You sensed the change in the air and immediately brightened your tone. “But, that’s not all we’re here for,” you said. “Depending on how far you’re willing to let me go, we could be here for hours. I bet Cee would join us for face masks,” you added as an afterthought.

“Face what now?”

“Masks.” You held up one of the tubs of clay masks you had. “They help with your skin.”

Ezra grinned. “I shall partake in this face mask ritual on one condition.”

Rolling your eyes playfully at your poet of a boyfriend, you crossed your legs. “And what would that condition be, my sun?”

“Paint my nails?”

It was an odd request, but one you weren’t about to turn down. “Okay. Consider it done.”

You let Ezra soak for a while, sitting beside him on the stool and reading. It was a book aimed mostly at teenagers, but Ezra had said something about it being Cee’s favorite and now you were determined to read it. So far, it was pretty good.

Eventually, you put the book down and convinced Ezra to dunk his head under the water. When he came up, water running in thin streams down his skin and hair plastered to his head, you laughed and picked up a bottle of rose water shampoo.

“Lean back,” you instructed softly, laying a towel across your lap so Ezra wouldn’t soak your pants. He rested his neck on the edge of the tub, head falling back into your hands. “Comfy?”

“Could be worse,” Ezra decided. You leaned down to kiss his damp forehead, making a face when the soapy tang of the bath bomb and epsom salt water rolled over your tongue.

Sitting back up and popping open the shampoo bottle, you squeezed an appropriate amount into your hand and began to massage it into Ezra’s scalp.

The effect was immediate. He groaned, entire body relaxing as your deft fingers worked away the dirt and buildup from his hair. Ezra bathed every few days, just like everyone else, but with his once dominant hand gone, his job washing himself was lackluster at best. For him, you properly washing through his hair must’ve felt like pure heaven.

You scratched through his hair for longer than was probably necessary, keeping him in that blissed out state. When you finally lifted a plastic cup with water to his head and began to rinse the suds away, he keened softly, vocalizing his dislike of your lack of touch. You apologized, taking your non-dominant hand and sliding it up his forehead, settling it just before Ezra’s hairline to shield his eyes from the soapy water trickling down his face.

Tugging on the blond streak in Ezra’s hair, you discretely ran your fingers through it, slowly spiking it up into a mohawk.

“My moonlight, what are you doing?”

“Shit.” You didn’t stop in your actions, only finished what you were doing despite being caught. “Take a look.” You held a hand mirror out, giving Ezra a view of his new hairdo.

“Moonlight,” he said, turning to face you. It was too much. You broke down into laughter, doubled over and Ezra smiled and ducked his head beneath the water to return his hair to its plastered look.

Once your laughing fit had come to an end, you straightened and began to massage a small dollop of conditioner into Ezra’s hair. Restraining yourself from giving him yet another mohawk, you scratched your fingers over Ezra’s scalp for almost five minutes. He relaxed yet again against the porcelain rim of the tub, breathing evening out as he practically fell asleep beneath your hands.

You were slow going in your rinsing out of Ezra’s hair, trying not to wake him from his impromptu nap. He hummed, and when you put the cup down and seemed his hair free of conditioner, he reached up and cupped your neck. Pulling you close, he kissed you, lips molding perfectly despite being upside down. “I love you, moonlight.”

Smiling and pressing an upside down kiss to Ezra’s forehead, you softly murmured into his skin. “I love you too, my sun.”

Ezra got out of the tub some time later, once you’d helped him scrub dirt out of every crevasse of his body. The water was more brown than green at that point, but Ezra was clean. You held his hand as he stepped out of the tub and watched as he dried himself off, insistent that he could do it by himself.

As he dressed himself in soft sleep clothes, you called Cee in. She was eager to partake in your spa day, also dressed in her pyjamas. She had a few bandages spanning her skin, small ones indicative of minor scrapes. You counted three, one on her right wrist, one further up her right forearm, and one on her left foot. How she’d scratched herself through the boots and suit she wore on her jobs, you had no idea.

“I didn’t even know you had clay masks!” Cee said happily, opening the jar and taking a wooden popsicle stick to start applying it to her face.

“I made it myself,” you said, grabbing a second jar to start plastering the grey/brown paste to Ezra’s face. “It’s one of the only things I can make myself.”

Once all three of you had been properly covered in the clay, you began to slowly diffuse Ezra’s wet hair. Cee sat by, reading the book you’d been reading earlier. Nearly twenty minutes later, Ezra’s hair was dry and shockingly curly and the three clay masks were hardened.

“Thanks for sharing,” Cee said as you handed her a damp washcloth. “I don’t remember the last time I had a spa day.”

“We’ll have to do them more often then,” you decided firmly, passing Ezra the other washcloth. “My sun, do you still want me to do your nails?”

Ezra nodded. “Yes please.”

“Should I do yours too?” You turned to Cee, who shook her head.

“I don’t paint my nails,” she said softly. “Plus, I am exhausted. That prospect was hard as hell. Gonna go nap as soon as I’m clay free.”

True to her word, once Cee’s face was clean, she bid you both good night before leaving to go take a nap.

You took her washcloth, but Ezra stopped you before you could lift it to your face. “My moonlight, can I clean your face? Please? After all you’ve done for me, I want to make it even.”

You smiled, letting Ezra take the washcloth. “You don’t need to worry about making it even, my sun. I’m doing this because I love you.”

Despite your reassurance, Ezra gently began to rub the washcloth across your face in small circles, clearing away the clay as he worked. His hand was warm and soft, and you carefully put your forearms on his shoulders to keep yourself still.

When Ezra was done, he kissed every inch of your face he could while you writhed with laughter underneath him. “Ezra!” You shouted happily, trying to wiggle out of his grasp. “Ezra, my sun! I yield!”

Ezra pulled back, lips quirked in a smile. “I’m sorry my moonlight, but I couldn’t help myself.”

You hopped off the countertop you’d been sitting on and grabbed your small box of nail polishes. “Give me your hand,” you said, getting back on the counter and pulling out a small nail file. Ezra put his hand in your lap and sat on the stool you’d been using.

It was a gentle, silent process. You filed Ezra’s nails down, wincing at the bitten away stubs you were trying to fix. “Ez, it’s a miracle you don’t have an infection,” you said softly, finishing on his little finger. “This is bad.”

Ezra looked at his knees, shrugging halfheartedly. “I know.”

You kissed each of his fingertips, pressing one final kiss into his palm. “I love you anyway.”

That brightened Ezra’s downcast face. “I know.”

You found a beautiful mustard yellow nail polish and a glittery gold polish, slowly painting each of Ezra’s fingernails with expert precision. He was still, watching you work with a look of wonder on his face. “You’re amazing.”

Putting the finishing touch on Ezra’s thumb, you put the cap back on the gold bottle and smiled. “Thank you, my sun.”

Ezra waited a few minutes for the polish to dry before looking at it properly. The yellow color was muted, but still a nice rich shade. What really made it pop was the gold accents, reflecting the shitty bathroom lights and drawing attention.

“I like it,” Ezra decided firmly, curling his fingers and watching the gold dance.

“I’m glad,” you said, sliding off the counter. “Wanna make dinner?”

Ezra nodded, kissing your forehead and pulling you into a firm hug. “We’re doing spa days more often,” he said into your shoulder. “Please?”

Hugging Ezra, you nodded, relishing in the mint and rose water smell. “Absolutely, my sun. Absolutely.”

[repulsivepangolin]

SEAL Team Whumptober 16/31 -Trent, Full Metal, Clay

No 16. A TERRIBLE, HORRIBLE, NO GOOD, VERY BAD DAY Forced to Beg | Hallucinations | Shoot the Hostage

____________________

It had started out like any other spin up. But they had barely been out there for two hours when stuff started going downhill, fast.

The spin up was already bad enough before it started spiraling. Clay didn’t feel so hot. He couldn’t really pinpoint anything being wrong, but he didn’t feel good. Nowhere near the point where it was alright to say home, but he felt tired and worn out. Probably needed a good night’s rest once that was a possibility once again.

But nothing was ever simple, and the only easy day was yesterday. About two hours into the mission when they started taking fire, and were forced to dive for cover.

*    *    *

He wasn’t able to focus like he usually did when he returned fire. It was hard enough to balance his weapon in front of him. So he figured he’d just do his best and hope that he hit some of those shooting at them.

Bullets were crashing into tree trunks, the ground and rocks. It felt like forever, like it always did. Seconds felt like minutes.

Luckily for them, the enemies stopped just as suddenly they had started. They saw some of their enemies  

“Everyone okay?” Jason asked from where he had hunkered down.

A couple of versions of ‘yeah’ sounded from the rest of the team, Clay included.

“Mostly…” Full Metal shrugged as he let he head fall against the boulder he was leaned up against. Taking a few slow breaths.

“No.” Trent frowned, cradling his right arm.

“You alright there, Trent?” Sonny who was closest to him asked.

“No…” Trent shook his head a little, “Think I broke my wrist. -Or sprained the hell out of it…”

“Ouch…” Sonny sympathized.

“And you Metal?” Jason asked, “What does ‘mostly’ mean?”

Metal looked back at him before he started getting to his feet, like many of the other team members, “Twisted ankle… And kneed a rock or something… Nothing to worry about.”

“Kneed a rock?” Sonny tilted his head, “Don’t you have kneepads on?”

Metal nodded once he was standing. He stood for a couple of seconds before a frown started spreading across his face and he bent down at his hips and pulled up one leg of his pants.

“Whoah-kay…” Sonny grimaced, “Your knee is bleeding!”

Metal hummed a short agreement, before he let the leg of his pants fall back down.

“You had kneepads on, right?”

“Yeah.” Metal nodded, slight confusion expressed on his face.

“Then why is your knee bleeding?”

“Don’t bother about it…” Metal shrugged, “I think Trent needs your attention more than I do.”

“Oh, yup… Sorry…” Sonny frowned as he turned towards Trent, who was still supporting his right arm.

*    *    *

Metal sensed Sonny and Ray helping Trent out while he tried to figure out why the heck his own knee was bleeding enough to soak his boot.

He found an inch-wide hole in the outer fabric. He pressed his middle finger inside, and prodded against the kneepad. Found a slit there as well. Something had sliced straight through his kneepad.

He glanced around, looking for what could be the culprit.

*    *    *

“Can you wiggle your fingers?” Sonny asked as he demonstrated what he wanted Trent to attempt.

“You know I’m usually the one who makes you goons do the finger wiggling!” Trent scowled, “No. I can’t. Already tried.”

“Copy that.” Sonny scrounged up his nose, “What do you recommend?”

“Splint it and sling it.”

“Sling as well?”

“My elbow and shoulder won’t be doing me any favors if I don’t support my arm…” Trent sighed, “The old injury really acts up whenever I hurt my arm a little.”

Sonny nodded, “SAM-splint?”

Trent nodded.

“Hey, Sonny… Toss me some sutures, will you?” Full Metal called out. Sonny did like he was asked, and Metal caught the small package in mid-air.

*    *    *

“I’ll be last man…” Full Metal announced as they prepared to get going once more.

“Like hell you will!” Trent scowled, “Didn’t you say you twisted your ankle? We can’t have the possibly slowest guy last.”

“My ankle is fine.” Metal set his jaw and leaned onto his busted ankle, “Just had one of those half minute stingers. All good now.”

“-And your knee?” Sonny asked.

“Just a small laceration. Two or three rough stitches and it was all good.”

Trent scowled at him, trying to act like he was in the process of looking straight through Metal.

“I won’t need to, but If I start falling behind, I can just say so… Or whistle, or key my mike…” Metal shrugged.

“Alright! Alright!” Jason threw his hands up in the air, “Trent, if Metal says he’s fine, he’s fine! Let’s get going!”

*    *    *

Many hours later, the sun was about to dip down below the horizon.

He hated to admit it, but he was struggling to keep up. Hadn’t it been for Clay being a ridiculous lot slower than usual, he would’ve fallen behind. The other guys adjusted their speed a little to Clay. The kid didn’t look too good. He looked like he was running a fever or something.

Full Metal was edging on desperate to get off his right leg. He had of course lied when he insinuated that his ankle was all good. His knee wasn’t that much better.

He was constantly chewing at the inside of his chin in order to distract himself from the pain in his leg.

*   ��*    *

They set up camp for the night and tried to get some sleep. One man keeping watch at all times.

Full Metal didn’t sleep much. At best he tried to look like he was sleeping most of the night.

His ankle was throbbing violently, and he knew it would’ve been smarter to actually do something about his ankle. It was badly sprained, but right now it throbbed and cut like it was broken instead.

He should’ve iced his ankle, kept it elevated, given it rest. But instead he had trekked through a jungle-landscape for ten more hours.

He just hoped it wouldn’t be worse tomorrow. But he knew it would. It always was, and the way he had treated his damn leg ensured it definitely would be worse by daylight.

*    *    *

Clay felt like absolute shit the next morning.

His head hurt, his shoulders hurt, his hips and knees hurt. Even his hands hurt. And his face felt funny.

He groaned as he opened his eyes. He felt feverish. Felt like hell.

“What’s that kid?” Sonny drawled as he rubbed his eyes.

“I feel like shit…”

Sonny took one look at Clay before he started laughing. “What did you do to your face?”

“Huh?”

“You look like someone slapped you!” Sonny choked out as he tried not to laugh. “And like your face gained 30 pounds!”

“Shhh…” Clay frowned, “My everything hurts…”

“You really don’t look good…” Trent chuckled, “But you do look hilarious.”

“Fuck you guys…”

“Do you have a fever?” Trent asked starting to sit up.

“Feels like it.” Clay groaned.

Trent leaned closer, careful not to jostle his right arm, and reached out for Clay’s forehead with his left.

“Damn, you’re burning up…”

Clay nodded a little.

“You’re getting a Tylenol breakfast.” Trent frowned, “Or anything fever reducing I can find…”

“Can I just stay here…?”

“No, sorry kid…” Trent shook his head, “Think we’ll need to keep an eye on you.”

“I don’t think I can…”

“We’ll figure something out…” Trent shrugged a little, “Worst case, Sonny, Brock or Metal will have to carry you…”

“Huh?” Brock stirred a little at the mention of his name, “What are you volunteering me for now?”

“Clay’s sick.” Sonny shot in before Trent could get around to it, “Looking and feeling like shit. Probably won’t keep up with us today.”

Brock shifted his gaze to Clay, and literally snorted a laugh, “Sorry. You’ve gotta feel awful… But someone needs to take a picture of your face before that passes.”

“Not funny.”

“-From an outside point of view, it is…” Trent tilted his head a little.

“We should probably wake the others as well…” Sonny yawned, “Is Ray the watch right now?”

Brock checked his watch and nodded.

Poked Jason awake first, not surprised when he couldn’t keep from laughing at how ridiculous and beat Clay looked.

“It’s not like Full Metal to sleep through this much noise…” Sonny frowned, looking over at the greying man.

“Think he had trouble falling asleep tonight…” Brock shrugged, “He was awake when I went to relieve Jason, and when I came back after Ray came to relieve me.”

“Yeah?” Trent frowned, “That man can sleep anywhere. Anytime.”

“Wake him.” Jason nodded to Brock.

Brock did as he was told, and shook Metal’s shoulder.

“Wai- What?” Metal frowned as he blinked awake.

“Wake up sleepy-head…” Brock smirked, earning himself a tired scowl from Full Metal, “Sleep well?”

Metal only groaned in return.

“That means: Not enough, and get me some coffee before you speak to me again…” Trent translated helpfully, “There’s also a threat of what’s going to happen without coffee… But that’s hard to describe verbally.”

“Thanks, I speak fluent morning-caveman myself…” Brock winked, “But yeah, we’ve gotta see if Bravo-2 fixed us some coffee while being on the last lookout of the night.”

*    *    *

He did not know how he was going to be able to keep up with the others today. His ankle felt like it had knives inside of it. And he was pretty sure that it was so swollen that he would’ve had problems with getting his right boot back on, if he had taken it off the evening before.

Luckily he hadn’t.

“Here… Peace offering…” Brock said as he returned from where Ray had been lookout the last hour or so with a kettle of fresh brewed coffee.

Full Metal and the others found their respective coffee mugs and held them out so Brock could fill them up.

Metal warmed his hands on his cup for a couple of minutes before he was ready to take a sip.

He savored the first sip. Savored it while he tried to work out in his head how he was going to work around his leg that day. He didn’t even know how he was going to get up.

“What’s with Clay’s face…” he frowned after a while, it had taken him a bit of time to see it.

“Can we not talk about my face, please…” Clay pretty much whined, “I don’t feel good.”

“I can see that…” He smirked, taking another sip of coffee, then he focused on Trent, “How’s your wrist?”

Bravo-4 offered up a slight grimace, “Let’s just say it’s gonna be good to have some pictures taken of it when we get home…”

Metal nodded.

“And you, how’s the leg?”

“Not too bad…” Blatant lie, “Feels like it might’ve stiffened up a bit overnight.”

“Yeah?”

He nodded. “But, nothing to worry about. I’ll just be limping a bit the first hour or so. But looking over at Clay, I don’t think I’ll be the one to slow anyone down today.”

“I’m tryin’ to convince them to just leave me here…” Clay muttered into his elbow.

“That’s not gonna happen…” Sonny smirked.

*    *    *

Ray chuckled a bit when he first saw Clay that morning, but quickly composed himself. “You don’t look so hot…”

“I feel like I’ve been dragged through the grinder and hung up wet.” Clay winced as he sat and tried drinking some coffee one of the guys had put in front of him.

“That’s sooo many mix-ups I’m not even going to try to break it down…” he frowned, “You kinda look like my daughter did when she had this disease last year.”

Clay barely hummed a questioning tone.

“Ever had the fifth disease before?”

“The fifth what?”

“The fifth disease…” Ray repeated, “Has a long fancy medical name. But I’m not going to try to remember that. She had those slapped looking apple-cheeks as well. Although it looks like you got it worse than she did.”

“I feel like death…”

“Should we have called in medevac for him?” Trent asked, looking up at Ray.

“I don’t think that should be necessary…” Ray scrounged up his nose, “But I think it’s like chicken pox… Like, it’s no big deal when you’re a kid, but believe me… You don’t want chicken pox when you’re 32.”

“Speaking from experience?”

Ray nodded.

“I’m kinda hesitant about dragging him along…” Trent admitted, “He’s got a pretty bad fever.”

Ray nodded, “He’d sure slow us down.”

“We pass this point headed for exfil as well.” Jason shrugged, “Could leave him here, have Trent stay back and watch over him.”

“Best idea ever!” Clay shot in.

Trent didn’t argue. He knew the reason for it being him and not Metal who would stay behind. Metal could still hold his own in combat, he on the other hand couldn’t even aim his rifle at the moment. And even though he had the most experience with first aid, and usually was the team’s medic, all the other guys were skilled as well. Every tier-one operator was. And neither him or Clay would be fit for a fight right now.

“No one’s arguing?” Jason asked. No one did. “Okay, then it’s set. We’ll be two men short for the main portion of the mission, but…”

“Well just be in the way and slow you down if we continue.” Trent nodded.

“Yeah.” Jason nodded, “If Clay’s situation takes a turn for the worse, feel free to call in medevac…”

“No, I just need rest…” Clay winced, “This is A TERRIBLE, HORRIBLE, NO GOOD, VERY BAD DAY…”

Trent nodded at Jason.

*    *    *

It was much harder to mask how bad his leg hurt today. But he managed to get out from under the tarp without anyone noticing, and once he was outside it was just a matter of not walking while anyone was looking at him.

Easy.

*    *    *

NOT EASY!

They had walked for almost two hours in rough terrain, and he was seriously struggling to keep up. Seriously struggling not to sound his discomfort as well.

“Take five!” Jason called, signaling them all to stop.

He had probably never been as relieved to have a short break before.

“Scotty… You’re looking a bit…” Jason shrugged, “That ankle bothering you?”

“A little…” he had to admit it. He was slowing them down, putting weight on his foot was increasingly painful, and he was pretty sure it was more than sprained by now.

“Do you need to sit the rest of the mission out?”

“No. I can deal with it.” He sighed, “But it’s gonna be nice to get this one done.”

Jason nodded.

“Feels like this mission is cursed…” Sonny frowned, “Clay is sick. Trent and Full Metal hurt.”

“Hey. Ain’t that bad.” Metal shrugged, looking like he actually meant it.

“Anyway, I’m not liking it!”

“None of us do…” Ray shrugged.

*    *    *

Sometimes things has a peculiar way of going from bad to worse. And this mission truly followed Murphy’s law to the point.

He had been on his way to sneak out to a position when he suddenly heard the telltale sound of a pump action shotgun being cocked behind him.

“Damn it…” he muttered to himself.

“Drop weapon!”

There was no way he would be fast enough to do anything other than what they guy behind him ordered. So he did as he was told.

“Alpha-1, see you’ve got some company.” Sonny’s voice whispered into his ear through the coms.

He nodded a little.

Then he guy behind him said something in a language he didn’t understand and all of the sudden four pairs of arms wrapped around his arms.

“Walk!”

He knew he didn’t have an option.

*    *    *

They made it down to a building. He was tied up against a pillar.

And then time stretched on.

He didn’t know how much time had passed before he saw Brock’s camo-grease covered face behind a few leaves.

“SHOOT HOSTAGE! SHOOT HOSTAGE!” the same voice as earlier started screaming all of the sudden. And that’s when the air exploded with gunfire.

His instinct to get down and make himself as small as he could was overruled by the ropes which tied him to the pillar. But he didn’t get hit.

The gunfire died down. A couple of seconds passed, then Sonny and Brock stepped out of the bushes.

“We got what we came for…” Brock winked as he tapped his earpiece to indicate that Ray or Jason had said something over the radio. “How are you?”

“Tired of standing.”

“Understandable…” Sonny nodded as he cut the ropes.

He couldn’t disguise it anymore once he was free to walk once more.

“How bad is that ankle…”

“Right now?”

Brock nodded.

“Bad.” Metal shrugged as he prepared for another tentative step. Grimacing as pain shot through his ankle.

“We should take a look at that.”

“If that boot comes off, it’s not going back on for a few days…” Metal admitted.

“Hey, Bravo-1… What’s the status on that guy we were sent here to get?”

“Probably a couple bruised or broken ribs. Many lacerations.” Jason answered, “Probably a mild concussion.”

“You think we could trick them into sending a medevac for him? -Toss Metal in there with him?”

“Is everything okay?”

“Remember that ankle?” Sonny smirked, “Sure hasn’t gotten any better.”

“Yeah, we could probably work something out.” Jason chuckled, “Tell him it’s a case of beer.”

Sonny smirked and looked up at Full Metal, “Case of beer, and you might fly out of here.”

“Deal.” Metal chuckled, “We’re stopping to pick up Trent and Clay as well?”

“No.” Sonny shook his head, “Trent already made that call.”

“Clay got worse?”

“No, not necessarily worse…” Sonny shrugged, “Just decided it was inhumane to keep him out there.”

“Oh. Okay.”

*    *    *

24 hours later, most of them were sitting in couches and chairs in the room next to their cages.

There were two cases of their favorite beer under the table, and everyone except Clay were there. He was at home, sleeping.

Everyone had at least some scrapes and bruises, but the two only real injuries were on Trent and Full Metal.

Trent had a cast up above his elbow, and had his arm in a sling. The x-rays had proved that he had broken his radius right above the wrist.

Full Metal had a walking boot on his right leg, which held his ankle stable enough until the swelling went down enough for the doctors to put his fibula back together with some new hardware and reattach a tendon which had said sayonara.

Most of the team had scolded him for not telling them how bad his ankle had really been, but in a way they had been understanding about it as well.

That being said, they contemplated putting up a 24hour watch to make sure he rested and kept his ankle elevated until the surgery.

[imagine-loki]

The Slutty Webs one Weaves

Title : The Slutty Webs one Weaves

Chapter NO. 5 of 10?

ORIGINAL IMAGINE: Imagine Loki’s Asgardian wife learns women write fanfiction about him on a trip to Midgard. She’s edgy for the duration and lets him have it when they get back.

Author: lokilover9

Rating: M

Thor agreed Brianna going to Asgard a good idea as Loki presumed and shielded her from Heimdall's sight as a precautionary measure. Before leaving, the brother's sat observing Little Warrior lead Tony and Pepper to the couch and hand him a usb stick.

"What's this?" He asked.

"A computer virus. My revenge plan was to disembowel Jarvis if you hadn't kept your promise."

Stark eyed Loki who shrugged a shoulder. "Don't look at me. I only learned of it this morning."

"It's my creation, pretty nasty and should be destroyed." Said Brianna.

"How nasty?"

"It bears the potential to wipe out most of New York's power grids."

Tony was momentarily speechless. "I'll do that and am overjoyed you two became friends."

"Me too and sorry for being so rude when you touched my stuff."

"It's alright." Said Pepper.

"No it wasn't. You deserve to know why. Loki mentioned the homeless people right?"

"Yes."

"Dory was the first one I met. Taught me handy street smarts and helped shop for my boy clothes. Ran away from home because her moms boyfriend was a jerk. I encouraged her to call one day and when she learned they split up, convinced her to go home. Really smart person. Dreams of becoming an Astronaut. Anyway, she had a big crush on Captain America and gave me her favorite hat as a gift. Then I met Muriel. A mean looking older lady who was actually super sweet and protected me something fierce. Beat this guy up one night for trying to steal my blanket while cursing him sideways. She loved Chinese food and taught me self defence techniques, like how to poke a hole in someone's brain by shoving a chopstick up their nose."

Everyone's ears and attention piqued as Tony wondered if Muriel was a distant cousin of Sasquatch's. "Hopefully not on live subjects."

"No, silly. On a plastic skull she molded a face onto with clay. I paid for the supplies. Helping police identify people used to be her job in Arizona. Great way to kill zombies though. Best to behead them like with vampires and guarantee they've bit the bullet." Brianna then pulled a gold bracelet with a four leaf clover charm from her pocket. "Muriel was Irish and gave me this for good luck. It's too big so I carry it in my pocket. Before meeting you guys, they were the first people who were super nice to me. I fretted their gifts ruined in the wash."

"I'm sorry." Said Pepper.

"It's okay. I was just a little freaked."

'And nearly built a cave for the abominable snowman.' Thought Stark. "We were more worried about you after the fact."

"I could tell by your happy dance when I woke."

"Hey, badass did one too. In the hall. You didn't see."

Brianna giggled. "Thanks to you both for everything and I'm sorry for lying."

"Meh, we understand."

"I meant about not having a favorite Avenger. It's you uncle Cootyoodles. That's why I sought your help first. The Black Widow was my next stop."

Tony pictured Nat teaching her how to yank teeth out with pliers and felt twice as relieved for keeping that promise. "Nat's eccentric and hates zombies. I'm way more fun." Brianna suddenly hugged him tightly and kissed his cheek. "Awe, Little Warrior. Friends forever?"

"Damn straight!" Then she did the same to Pepper. "I forgot to explain why you're a badass role model. Working so hard to become CEO of a massive company like Stark Industries and executing all that embodies? You rock! I hope to grow up as astute, diligent and athoritative. Maybe I'll run a company one day."

"You already possess those traits and will exceed my achievements."

No one knew that better than Loki who cleared his throat. "Grandmother and Grandfather go to bed early, Min Lille."

"One more minute, please?"

"Alright."

She studied Stark, pondering the best way to implement her request. "You don't have to do this, but… Not all homeless people are bad or crazy like others seem to believe. Many hit hard times and the world is so expensive, they couldn't keep up. No one I met lived on the streets because they wanted to. There just aren't enough shelters or resources available. You're rich Tony and could help them. Will you try?"

As Loki had succeeded with Frigga, those beautiful pleading eyes won her case. "You really know how to pull a guys heart strings, kid. I promise."

Loki wasn't aware she'd intended to ask this, yet was so proud of her. "Min Lille?"

"I know." She politely replied.

"You have to go." Tony suddenly stood and darted for the hall. "Be back in a jiffy."

"Meet him by the elevator, or you'll never leave." Suggested Pepper.

He returned and handed Loki a loaded Iron Man backpack. "More things? Shall I conjure a crate for the bifrost?"

They'd already given her an overstuffed suitcase of clothes and toys and Stark held a gift bag in hand. "Be quiet, you. It's a peanut butter stash. Does Asgard have bananas?"

"Yes." 'Thank the Norn's.'

Tony knelt before Brianna. "I would've packed some tater tots, but you ate them all again."

She smirked. "My goof."

"Rascal. Try to ignore a wee, bitty smidgen, you aren't into girly stuff? We couldn't help ourselves with you off to Asgard."

Brianna pulled from the bag a pink baseball cap that said Warrior Princess in tiny diamond gems and proudly adorned it. "You sure know how to pull a girls heart strings."

"I put some Motown CD's in there too. Teach Dad to moonwalk." Loki sighed, pushed the elevator button and Tony playfully whispered. "From a distance. In case he trips over his own big feet." He hugged her again and summoned Jarvis.

"Yes, sir?"

"Our friend is leaving."

"Goodbye, Little Warrior." Said the AI.

"Bye. Sending you a virtual hug."

She joined Thor inside while Loki shook hands with Tony, his expression saying everything. "Any time. Now get the 'bleep' out of my Tower before I thieve your Daughter."

Brianna shouted as it closed. "There's presents on your bed! I'll miss you!"

Peppers was a black t shirt with gold letters that read Badass Role Model and Tony's was a monsterous box filled with tater tots.

"Don't do it, Butch. If you cry, I'm gonna cry." ***** Loki had purposely slowed the elevator allowing her time to give Thor a drawing.

"Mjolnir in a field of flowers? Thank you fair maiden."

"It's a scratch n' sniff."

"A what?"

Loki picked up Brianna. "You scratch the flowers, then sniff them. The effect is most appealing the stronger you inhale."

Thor took a whiff and wriggled his nose. "Quite the nostril tickler. What should they smell like?"

"Try harder." 'Doofus.'

He took another, looked cross eyed at Loki and began swaying. "...Brother..you…" Then down he went striking the floor with a thud the tip of his nose covered in sparkly dust.

"Sorry, uncle Thor."

Loki chuckled at her wince. "The spell is mild and shall soon wear off."

"Is he hurt?"

Loki let her down to hurle the hefty Thor over his shoulder. "Us God's are resilient. Your uncle once endured a skirmish with the Hulk." After escorting them through a portal and delivering Brother oaf to his bed, he lead Brianna through a second into some woods.

"That was awesome! Will you teach me how to do it?"

"Not in the near future. It's very complicated, darling and I'd hate to think you lost in another dimension." 'Or vanishing one day as an angry teen with a troublesome suitor I dream of throttling.'

"Okay." Brianna nervously scanned the area. "Now what? Carnivores hunt these woods."

"Northern Alberta is home to many. Never go outside without me and none will harm you."

"But wolves hunt in packs and grizzlies are bigger than you."

He booped her little nose. "I'll smell them before they smell us and neither possess deadly weapons in interdimensional pockets."

"Where our luggage is? I tried hiding bigger items in them and the darn things wouldn't come back. Hannah was furious, but I didn't care."

"What did you hide?"

"The back wheels of her Lamborghini, Gallardo. I overheard my Mother tell Claudia she got it from her rich boyfriend."

Loki recalled from spending time with Stark this wasn't a billionaire's vehicle, yet financially unattainable to the average Midgardian. "I see. Did she mention his occupation?"

"Plastic surgeon."

Brianna deserved that minor victory and although he wouldn't encourage it, one cannot preach vengeance a negative path when mapping their own. 'Perhaps he'll be useful to the sluts after I'm done.' "Ah. Care to see what I did while you slept last night?"

"You left me?" She confusedly asked.

He picked her up again. "It was necessary and I returned, yes? I won't abandon you, Og Min Lille."

"Never?"

"Never, darling. "Loki headed for a shack nearby nestled amidst some bushes. With its crooked roof, faded wood and door minus a hinge the structure looked ready to collapse.

"We're staying there?"

"Why not? I'll conjure an outdoor toilet." He teased. "Sheltered of course."

"Ewww."

"Come now. At night we'll have heated beds and during the day, roast squirrels on an open fire."

She scrunched her face in disgust. "Blech! I'd rather eat tree bark."

"You'll get an awful tummy ache."

They entered the dingy space and Brianna instantly focused on the filthy floor covered in forest debris. So intently, she didn't notice the sturdier frames of the structure only visible from within. "How will we keep the door closed and is that poop?"

Loki rolled his eyes at some turds in a corner. "The cabin is made of Brazilian Ebony."

"One of the strongest woods on earth." She commented.

He arched an intrugued brow. "Stained to appear aged, it's also bulletproof in light of human hunters. Consider the other materials deceiving movie props. The 'raccoon' poop is genuine." It vanished with a wave of his hand. "Now, did you mean that door?" It closed and he conjured a deadbolt onto the surface with a panel directly above. "Place your hand in the center?" Brianna did and it glowed green, spreading magic from the center throughout every surface like glowing, emerald fireflies. As they dimmed, Loki turned around. "Or this one?" The floor, suddenly cleared of debris had a sliding glass door in the center.

Brianna gasped in wonder, glancing between him and the mystery beneath. "Where does it go?"

"Did you think a sorcerer Prince would allow his Princess daughter to dwell in a shabby old shack?"

"Ancestry aside, I sincerely hoped not. Even an RV would've been better."

He chuckled at her frankness. "And you worried of uncle Thor bumping his head? The shacks purpose was added safety should a need arise and to keep our secret entrance hidden. "Once the outer door locks, only the interior alters. To outsiders, nothing changes." It opened and he carried her down a mutedly lit spiral staircase, each step progressively illuminating the space below.

At the bottom, she slid from his arm in awe. "Shut the front door! You 'definitely' have to teach me how to do this."

Min Lille was referencing conjuring. Another ability Loki thanked the Norns she didn't yet possess, having confessed so before requesting Tony and Pepper's gifts. "In time. Beyond that archway, another surprise awaits." Loki followed and suddenly pondered Brianna conjuring a future dwelling for herself and that troublesome suitor. 'Lessons commence when your forty.' ***** Thor woke to find two notes in his shirt pocket. One for himself the other, Astrid; 'Sleep well, Brother? We won't be returning to Asgard just yet. Please give this to my wife? I recommend waiting several days, discreet delivery and a hasty exit. A visit will follow and when interrogated, lie. Tell her Brianna came to you and don't mention her ice concoction. Unless you enjoy Father's company when several fries short of a happy meal. As I planned our escape without Tony's knowledge, do avoid his unnecessary panic and Pepper seeking our demise, by not telling our dear friend? Min Lille is safe.'

"That shyster." He grumbled. Jane returned in six days as would Astrid to a missing Loki. Waiting risked a molotov cocktail interrogation. His beloved and coronary inducing sister-in-law, banging down their locked bathroom door while the mighty Thor coward behind a shower curtain. Plus Maxi Waxis training schedule ended in two days. Bribery assured those lips zippered, but Heimdall would think his hastiness suspicious. He called to the trainee in the middle of the night, snuck into the palace and raced back to the observatory like the looney tunes road runner. "Spend it well nincompoo..eh he, Max. Asgard is lucky to have you."

Guilt ridden over her outburst and already missing Loki, Astrid returned in the morning to find the note.

Frigga was preparing to join her belly dancing instructor when she barged into the foyer and flung herself at the Allmother.

"Bwaaahahaa! I want a divorce!"

"Hells bells and bilgesnipe testicles. What has my shameless son done this time?"

"Frigga, your language." Scolded Odin.

She patted Astrid's back. "Oh shush. As if your cursing hasn't scarred the servants ears."

[thiscatastrophe]

Blood Botany (Kankuro week #6)

Happy day 6, everyone! Today’s theme was AU, so I wrote you a good hanahaki AU.

This one’s a KankuIno fic, which isn’t normally my pairing of choice, but if you’re dying of flowers it should at least be because of someone who’ll appreciate the flowers. 

CWs: Death, gore, body horror, hard angst.

It’s not often Kankuro gets to see her, the flower-shop owner in Konoha, but sometimes she’s in the Hokage’s office, turning in mission details and visiting friends in the spaces between his boring hours watching Gaara negotiate deals. There will be a little flicker of white-blonde hair, a flash of purple (a richer, more vibrant shade than what he can make from desert plants), a high and clear laugh echoing down the halls, and that’s all it takes to make his knees weak.

He coughs and feels cactus spines in his chest. When he breathes, the thorns touch his lungs; when he exhales fully, there’s the painful outline of a cactus leaf, just behind his heart.

Back when he was a child, he heard rumors of a disease--maybe a curse--that plagued the people of Suna for generations on end. Those with love unreturned grew flowers in their chests, cultivating rare and precious plant life in exchange for their own. They laughed, those boys with no worries, over their little snake puppets and made up names; fynbos-hearts, cactus breath, living-stone-lungs, until the village elders scattered their play and brought in the lectures.

To love and grow flowers is honorable, they said. The bodies of the loveless become gardens, become sustenance for the village. From their love we live another day.

It’s not honorable at all, Kankuro thinks, holed up in his ambassadorial quarters and coughing great splatters of blood, picking needles out of his molars. Nothing’s honorable about tasting prickly pear on your tongue all day. The beautiful yellow flowers aren’t a consolation.

--

“Again?” Ino says. “So who’s the special lady?”

She wraps up the bundle of pansies, tying their delicate paper wrapping off with a length of ribbon. It’s the same she uses every time, but Kankuro can’t remember if he’s ever seen it on any other bouquet that leaves the shop--is it just for him?

That’s too much to hope, he decides. She’s married, after all.

And in any event, thinking about it makes the cactus leaves press against his chest.

“A gentleman never tells his secrets,” he remarks. A hand folds itself into his shirtfront--it looks casual, masculine, relaxed, but the fingertips check for the telltale signs of fruits pressing his skin away from the bottoms of his lungs. “Sorry to disappoint.”

She giggles. It’s a million bells, doves, everything romantic Kankuro can think of. He hopes there’s no blood in his mouth; she’ll notice that, even if the people of Konoha don’t grow plants in their lungs when they can’t have the person they want most. “Not a problem. I shouldn’t be poking around in your personal life, anyway.”

“Speaking of. How’s Sai doing?” Kankuro accepts the bouquet with his free hand, shifts it so that the peak of the paper covers his mouth.

And damnit, Sai is still his friend, unfortunately. He’s got to ask after the man every now and again, even if the way Ino talks about him makes him sick to his stomach, makes his face feel cold and his feet feel heavy.

The shopkeeper looks gracefully at her ledger and enters the figures, tapping her fingers along an old-fashioned abacus to convert his Sunan cash into Konoha’s. “He’s wonderful, as always,” she sighs. Sharp points dig into Kankuro’s jaw. “Just last week he finished a new painting for me; you should have seen the colors, Kankuro. It’s a masterpiece. Really, painters are such geniuses.”

He thinks about a paint set that he tried his hand at months ago, the scrolls of brush control exercises and rolled-up canvases where he attempted to paint the outlines of his hands and the setting sun. It pales in comparison to Sai’s work--maybe Sunan hands are only meant to build, to mimic life rather than add to it. “I’m sure it’s beautiful,” he responds. “If you’ll excuse me, I’m… running late.”

Ino looks after him as he leaves the shop, but not for long. There are, and have always been, more important things for her.

--

The cactus flowers come to him late at night and early in the morning, when he has time to think about things other than work. He wakes up with yellow flowers, bile-soaked, and thorns on his pillow. Sometimes there’s even entire pads. He learns how to sleep shorter, how to keep from dreaming about Ino.

But in the curve of the dying sun he sees the arch of her eyes, and the delicate feathers of sacred ibises flutter to the ground like her hair dances in the wind. There’s beautiful moments, midday and stolen, when he thinks of her because there’s nothing else comparable that he can think of. His workbench in the city puppetry studio hides a basin where he stores cactus clippings until he can work up the courage to throw them out.

One night he looks down at a rich green pad, dappled red with blood and topped with a somehow-perfect yellow flower. It’s survived, though his throat hasn’t. He knows he won’t be able to eat today, tomorrow, the next day.

But it’s beautiful in its own way, and he hates it for that.

He whistles for a messenger hawk and sends the cactus clipping off in a small clay pot with a note tucked alongside. “Saw it at the market,” he lies. “Thought you might appreciate it.”

--

“You look more and more gaunt every time I see you,” she says. The cactus sits on her counter right next to the abacus; he almost vomits, and the back of his mouth tastes like acidic pulp. “Is something wrong?”

It takes all his training to not scream. Yes, something’s wrong. I’m growing a plant inside my chest and every time I see you it grows a little bit more, but I can’t stop visiting this shop.

But he’s an actor, and the show must go on, so he smiles that winning smile he inherited from Mom and gently places a hand over his mouth so she won’t see the spines that peek from his throat. “I keep forgetting to eat, that’s all. Busy, busy.”

He passes Sai on the way out the door but can’t bring himself to do more than wave.

--

There are ribcages buried in the loose sand of the city’s Memorial Greenhouse. Prickly pears, dragon blood trees, proteas and aloes all grow out of human bones. Their leaves lean heavy to the ground with medals and banners and ceremonial drapes, bestowed twice a year by crowds of religious folk. Stems, flowers, stalks are snapped off for poisons and antidotes and food.

What garbage, Kankuro thinks. There’s nothing glamorous about a cactus that breaks through a ribcage.

He points out an empty spot to the curator. She nods her veiled head and makes a mark on her chart. It’s his, free of charge, and thanks for the contribution.

--

The doctor said there would come a day when the damage is irreversible. He supposes she’s right, because as he sits up, eyes blurry from sleep, he feels his lung collapse onto the leaves of the cactus. The membrane clings to the spiny outline and he gasps as if more air will reinflate it.

He knows better. The puncture wounds won’t heal with the aggressor still in his body. It’s a reminder far worse than the flowers.

Can a shinobi still be a shinobi when he can’t breathe?

--

Kankuro invests in looser shirts when he looks in the mirror to see the outline of a cactus in his ribs. Spines press through his skin, dive between the ribs and disrupt the muscles of his chest, threatening to bring infection.

He stops recognizing his hands. Whose are they? Whose is this body? Does it belong to a man, or is it a piece of dying hide stretched over a thriving plant?

He always recognizes the colors of Ino. The blue of her eyes in the shallow pool of water in the courtyard. The pale of her hair in the finest sands. The purple of her skirts in the potted plant she sent him: get well soon, signed the Yamanaka family.

--

Gaara won’t sign off on his missions anymore. There’s a certain pain in his eyes, not quite equal to the one in Kankuro’s, but a rival, that appears when some visitor to his office waxes poetic about the holy duty of the unrequited lovers.

Plants can be grown without dead bodies, he wants to say, but time and tradition are too much to push back against. He’s fought enough social norms.

Besides, Kankuro tells him, it’s too late anyway.

--

A letter appears every day, delivered by a dutiful hawk.

“How are you?” asks the first one. Signed, Ino and Sai. On the back, a picture of little Inojin playing with a baby shower present, a little mannequin holding a bouquet of wire flowers.

“We’re all worried for you here in Konoha. Get well soon,” proclaims the second. In a corner there’s signs and little pleasantries from flower shop visitors. Sakura, Tenten, Choji. Temari sends her own letters.

He writes his responses, slower and slower, more and more evasive, and leaves them on the window sill for the hawk to return.

The last letter, the one that makes up for years of sleepless nights and open weeping under desert skies, lies abandoned on the desk. Kankuro can’t bring himself to move it to the window.

--

In the winter, letters from Konoha pile up on a window sill. A hawk flies into town early every morning and flies back out in the evening, claws empty.

[thenovl]

NOVL Excerpt: Seven Days of You

07:00:00:00 DAYS   HOURS     MINS     SECS 

AT THE BEGINNING OF THE SUMMER, I tried to get on top of the whole moving-continents thing by reminding myself I still had time. Days and hours and seconds all piled on top of one another, stretching out in front of me as expansive as a galaxy. And the stuff I couldn’t deal with—packing my room and saying good-bye to my friends and leaving Tokyo—all that hovered at some indistinct point in the indistinct future.

So I ignored it. Every morning, I’d meet Mika and David in Shibuya, and we’d spend our days eating in ramen shops or browsing tiny boutiques that smelled like incense. Or, when it rained, we’d run down umbrella-crowded streets and watch anime I couldn’t understand on Mika’s couch. Some nights, we’d dance in strobe-lit clubs and go to karaoke at four in the morning. Then, the next day, we’d sit at train-station donut shops for hours, drinking milky coffee and watching the sea of commuters come and go and come and go again.

Once, I stayed home and tried dragging boxes up the stairs, but it stressed me out so much, I had to leave. I walked around Yoyogi-Uehara until the sight of the same cramped streets made me dizzy. Until I had to stop and fold myself into an alcove between buildings, trying to memorize the kanji on street signs. Trying to count my breaths.

And then it was August fourteenth. And I only had one week left, and it was hot, and I wasn’t even close to being packed. But the thing was, I should have known how to do this. I’d spent my whole life ping-ponging across the globe, moving to new cities, leaving people and places drifting in my wake.

Still, I couldn’t shake the feeling that this good-bye—to Tokyo, to the first friends I’d ever had, to the only life that felt like it even remotely belonged to me—was the kind that would swallow me whole. That would collapse around me like a star imploding.

And the only thing I knew how to do was to hold on as tightly as possible and count every single second until I reached the last one. The one I dreaded most.

Sudden, violent, final.

The end.

Chapter 1

Sunday:  06:19:04:25 DAYS     HOURS     MINS     SECS

I WAS LYING ON THE LIVING-ROOM floor reading Death by Black Hole: And Other Cosmic Quandaries when our air‐conditioning made a sputtering sound and died. Swampy heat spread through the room as I held my hand over the box by the window. Nothing. Not even a gasp of cold air. I pressed a couple of buttons and hoped for the best. Still nothing.

“Mom,” I said. She was sitting in the doorway to the kitchen, wrapping metal pots in sheets of newspaper. “Not to freak you out or anything, but the air-conditioning just broke.”

She dropped some newspaper shreds on the ground, and our cat—Dorothea Brooks—came over to sniff them. “It’s been doing that. Just press the big orange button and hold it.”

“I did. But I think it’s serious this time. I think I felt its spirit passing.”

Mom unhooked a panel from the back of the air‐ conditioning unit and poked around. “Damn. The landlord said this system might go soon. It’s so old, they’ll have to replace it for the next tenant.”

August was always hot in Tokyo, but this summer was approaching unbearable. A grand total of five minutes without air-conditioning and all my bodily fluids were evaporating from my skin. Mom and I opened some windows, plugged in a bunch of fans, and stood in front of the open refrigerator.

“We should call a repairman,” I said, “or it’s possible we’ll die here.”

Mom shook her head, going into full-on Professor Wachowski mode. Even though we’re both short, she looks a lot more intimidating than I do, with her square jaw and serious eyes. She looks like the type of person who won’t lose an argument, who can’t take a joke.

I look like my dad.

“No,” Mom said. “I’m not dealing with this the week before we leave. The movers are coming on Friday.” She turned and leaned into the fridge door. “Why don’t you go out? See your friends. Come back tonight when it’s cooled down.”

I twisted my watch around my wrist. “Nah, that’s okay.”

“You don’t want to?” she asked. “Did something happen with Mika and David?”

“Of course not,” I said. “I just don’t feel like going out. I feel like staying home, and helping, and being the good daughter.”

God, I sounded suspicious, even to myself.

But Mom didn’t notice. She held out a few one-hundred-yen coins. “In that case, go to the konbini and buy some of those towels you put in the freezer and wrap around your neck.”

I contemplated the money in her hand, but the heat made it swim across my vision. Going outside meant walking into the boiling air. It meant walking down the little streets I knew so well, past humming vending machines and stray cats stretched out in apartment-building entrances. Every time I did that, I was reminded of all the little things I loved about this city and how they were about to slip away forever. And today, of all days, I really didn’t need that reminder.

“Or,” I said, trying to sound upbeat, “I could pack.”

 Packing was, of course, a terrible idea.

Even the thought of it was oppressive. Like if I stood in my room too long, the walls would start tightening around me, trash-compacting me in. I stood in the doorway and focused on how familiar it all was. Our house was small and semi-dilapidated, and my room was predictably small to match, with only a twin bed, a desk pushed against the window, and a few red bookshelves running along the walls. But the problem wasn’t the size—it was the stuff. The physics books I’d bought and the ones Dad had sent me cluttering up the shelves, patterned headbands and tangled necklaces hanging from tacks in the wall, towers of unfolded laundry built precariously all over the floor. Even the ceiling was crowded, crisscrossed with string after string of star-shaped twinkly lights.

There was a WET PAIN! sign (it was supposed to say WET PAINT!) propped against my closet that Mika had stolen from outside her apartment building, a Rutgers University flag pinned above my bed, Totoro stuffed toys on my pillow, and boxes and boxes of platinum-blond hair dye everywhere. (Those, I needed to get rid of. I’d stopped dyeing my hair blond since the last touch-up had turned it an attractive shade of Fanta orange.) It was so much—too much—to have to deal with. And I might have stayed there for hours, paralyzed in the doorway, if Alison hadn’t come up behind me.

“Packed already?”

I spun around. My older sister had on the same clothes she’d been wearing all weekend--black T‐shirt, black leggings--and she was holding an empty coffee mug.

I crossed my arms and tried to block her view of the room. “It’s getting there.”

“Clearly.”

“And what have you been doing?” I asked. “Sulking? Scowling? Both at the same time?”

She narrowed her eyes but didn’t say anything. Alison was in Tokyo for the summer after her first year at Sarah Lawrence. She’d spent the past three months staying up all night and drinking coffee and barely leaving her bedroom during sunlight hours. The unspoken reason for this was that she’d broken up with her girlfriend at the end of last year. Something no one was allowed to mention.

“You have so much crap,” Alison said, stepping over a pile of thrift‐store dresses and sitting on my unmade bed. She balanced the coffee mug between her knees. “I think you might be a hoarder.”

“I’m not a hoarder,” I said. “This is not hoarding.”

She arched an eyebrow. “Lest you forget, little sister, I’ve been by your side for many a move. I’ve witnessed the hoarder’s struggle.”

It was true. My sister had been by my side for most of our moves, avoiding her packing just as much as I’d been avoiding mine. This year, though, she only had the one suitcase she’d brought with her from the States—no doubt full of sad, sad poetry books and sad, sad scarves.

“You’re one to talk,” I said. “You threw approximately nine thousand tantrums when you were packing last summer.”

“I was going to college.” Alison shrugged. “I knew it would suck.”

“And look at you now,” I said. “You’re a walking endorsement for the college experience.”

The corners of her lips moved like she was deciding whether to laugh or not. But she decided not to. (Of course she decided not to.)

I climbed onto my desk, pushing aside an oversize paper‐ back called Unlocking the MIT Application! and a stuffed koala with a small Australian flag clasped between its paws. Through the window behind me, I could see directly into someone else’s living room. Our house wasn’t just small lit was surrounded on three sides by apartment buildings. Like a way less interesting version of Rear Window.

Alison reached over and grabbed the pile of photos and postcards sitting on my nightstand. “Hey!” I said. “Enough with the stuff-touching.”

But she was already flipping through them, examining each picture one at a time. “Christ,” she said. “I can’t believe you kept these.”

“Of course I kept them,” I said, grabbing my watch. “Dad sent them to me. He sent the same ones to you, in case that important fact slipped your mind.”

She held up a photo of the Eiffel Tower, Dad standing in front of it and looking pretty touristy for someone who actually lived in Paris. “A letter a year does not a father make.”

“You’re so unfair,” I said. “He sends tons of e‐mails. Like, twice a week.”

“Oh my God!” She waved another photo at me, this one of a woman sitting on a wood-framed couch holding twin babies on her lap. “The Wife and Kids? Really? Please don’t tell me you still daydream about going to live with them.”

“Aren’t you late for sitting in your room all day?” I asked.

“Seriously,” she said. “You’re one creepy step away from Photoshopping yourself in here.”

I kept the face of my watch covered with my hand, hoping she wouldn’t start on that as well.

She didn’t. She moved on to another picture: me and Alison in green and yellow raincoats, standing on a balcony messy with cracked clay flowerpots. In the picture, I am clutching a kokeshi—a wooden Japanese doll—and Alison is pointing at the camera. My dad stands next to her, pulling a goofy face.

“God,” she muttered. “That shitty old apartment.”

“It wasn’t shitty. It was—palatial.” Maybe. We’d moved from that apartment when I was five, after my parents split, so honestly, I barely remembered it. Although I did still like the idea of it. Of one country and one place and one family living there. Of home.

Alison threw the pictures back on the nightstand and stood up, all her dark hair spilling over her shoulders.

“Whatever,” she said. “I don’t have the energy to argue with you right now. You have fun with all your”—she gestured around the room—“stuff.”

And then she was gone, and I was hurling a pen at my bed, angry because this just confirmed everything she thought. She was the Adult; I was still the Little Kid.

Dorothea Brooks padded into the room and curled up on a pile of clean laundry in a big gray heap.

“Fine,” I said. “Ignore me. Pretend I’m not even here.”

Her ears didn’t so much as twitch. I reached up to yank open the window, letting the sounds of Tokyo waft in: a train squealing into Yoyogi‐Uehara Station, children shouting as they ran through alleyways, cicadas croaking a tired song like something from a rusted music box.

Since our house was surrounded by apartment buildings, I had to crane my neck to look above them at this bright blue strip of sky. There was an object about the size of a fingernail moving through the clouds, leaving a streak of white in its wake that grew longer and then broke apart.

I watched the plane until there was no trace of it left. Then I held up my hand to blot out the sliver of sky where it had been—but wasn’t anymore.

Thanks for reading the prologue and first chapter of Cecilia Debut’s smart and swoony debut! Seven Days of You releases on March 7, 2017.