#sometimes you’ve spent hundreds of years killing for the god of death and teasing your Worse younger sister and it’s all fine bc you can’t

[nicollekidman]

dark urge lyra starting the game in the same emotional space that canon lyra ENDS her game and it just makes everything worse….. i will never create a healthy character EVER and there will never be a sweet romance on my watch!

[be-ready-when-i-say-go]

The Table is Prepared for You

Luke’s spent too much time alone and knows he shouldn’t let anyone get too close. However, Dinah’s the one time that Luke lets his guard down--and he knows he can’t do it again. 

Vampire!Luke. Black!OC. Here it is, 14k words!

CW: Death/Near Death.

Enjoy my masterlist.

You can support me on kofi

Shout out to @notinthesameguey​ for this moodboard (below), well before any of this was finished. 

(Dinah’s hair is curly like in the first board, in case there’s any confusion!)

Inspired by: Godspeed James Blake’s Cover and Kill My Time by 5 Seconds of Summer

_______________________________________

The snow is wet under his boots and he almost wishes he could feel just how cold it is cutting beneath the leather jacket. Instead, he feels nothing but the slight crisp wisp of wind against his nose. If his body still pumped warm, he’s sure the tip of his nose would be bright red. Quickly, Luke tucks the curls whipping in the wind behind his ear and keeps his gaze trained on the constantly lapping sea the people--folks crossing the streets, cars blaring by, people brushing past him as they carry on from their subway rides back to the surface. 

“Hey!” Luke’s learned from spending time in this city, in all its evolution, just to keep walking. Whoever’s attention needs to be grabbed will either be grabbed or be missed. “Seriously, excuse me!” 

Fingers brush over Luke’s jacket and though initially he wants to bristle at the touch, Luke reminds himself it’s dead of winter. No one’s going to be alarmed. Turning, Luke walks himself to the edge of the sidewalk, mostly out of the way. “Me?” he asks. 

The young man  in front of him is doubled down in the puffy winter coat--down to his knees-- and a gray beanie. Posed in the ungloved fingers is a camera. The boy lifts up the camera, as if that will explain everything. “I-I’m working on my portfolio. I was wondering if I could shoot you right quick. Right here, doesn’t have to be somewhere fancy.”

Luke shakes his head and before he can speak, the young man continues. “I swear, I’m a photography student. I’m so close to down, deadlines right before break. Please, man. You’d be perfect. The whole thing’s about ordinary people. I shoot a few pictures. A quick five minute interview and then, you go on your merry way. Ain’t looking for trouble.”

It’s the backpack, the earnest and pleading look that pulls down the younger man’s brows. His nose is pink, fingers and hands ducking quickly into his coat pockets. “I don’t think you’re looking for trouble. I just--I don’t think I photograph well,” Luke returns, squinting his eyes at the reflection of the sun off the fresh snow. 

“Dude, take it from me, you’ve got looks. And all it would take is just the right angles, right about light exposure. Today’s a little hit or miss.”

The sky’s pretty cloudy but every so often there’s a fleck of a sunshine and Luke does his best to avoid it. The snow clouds will be leaving soon and that means Luke should be too. And it’s probably dumb to say that leaving New York is hard, the memories that are linked here. But it almost feels like home--if he could remember what home really feels like. 

Luke bites down onto his lip, head still shaking. Maybe the shaking will loosen the memories and bring them back to the surface. Maybe the shake will deter the young man’s insistence. Luke doesn’t really know how he photographs, don’t remember the last time he’s seen himself, as whole, as fully a being. Besides, Luke shouldn’t be photographed. No one’s seen him in a couple hundred years and Luke needs it to say that way, needs to continue under the radar. Not that anyone that would have a vendetta against him wouldn’t be able to find him away. The world’s really only so big in the grand scheme of things--there are only so many continents and so many countries, and so many corners to hide in the world. 

Looking over the streets, Luke almost laughs at how he picked one of the busiest and most densely populated places to hang out for a while. Maybe it’s because with so many people around there’s no way anyone would pick him out of a crowd. Until now, until some kid stopped him on the fucking street. 

“Just for your class?” Luke asks, flicking his squinted gaze back to the man. The wind’s picked up again and he’s facing into it, harshly. It’s nearly drying his eyes out. 

“Yeah, just for my class. Look,” he says, pulling out his phone. His fingers look an unhealthy color, like they’re tittering on too pink to be okay. 

“How long you been out here?” It’s a soft question that nearly gets swept up into the gust of wind that passes. 

“Couple of hours. Class starts around 1 and I need this last shoot as soon as possible.” He holds out the phone. Luke takes it, scrolling through the webpage. It’s a sleek design, each photoshoot highlighted by one picture. When Luke tapes onto it, it takes a second to load and then more pop up. There’s a quick paragraph, maybe two, and the rest of the photos.

“Where should I pose?” Luke asks, handing the phone back over. Luke will be gone soon anyway and they can’t really stand to be out in the cold for much longer anyway. 

“Wait, seriously?”

With a nod, Luke tucks more hair back and is quick to place his fingers back into his pockets. “Yeah, just tell me where.”

The young man looks around for a second, the backpack hitting the pole of the street sign. Luke winches, hoping there’s no expensive equipment in the bag. “Over here,” he says with a nod over to the corner. He starts to push through the stream and Luke follows behind him. They pause under some stairs, most likely the fire escape for an apartment complex. “Look over your shoulder for me right quick.”

Luke keeps his body pointed to the man and then looks over his shoulder for a second. “Like this?”

“Perfect. How long have you lived in the city?”

Luke shrugs, turning his attention back to the man. He inhales with a hiss, trying to think. “Couple years? Maybe three. Feels so long and it’s really not.” Luke chuckles, ducking his head for a moment. “God, my memory’s shit.” Luke thinks he hears the shutter go off but he’s not sure. 

“No, I feel you on that. I moved back for school and somehow time doesn’t feel quite the same here in the city. You in the city for modeling?”

Luke feels the shock raising his brows. “Me? Modeling?” A small laugh escapes him, mostly in sarcasm. “No, no, just have some family here. Moved from Delaware. Just seeing where life takes me, I guess.” Luke combs his fingers through his hair, pushing it all back. What he needs is a haircut, and to probably get a move on that whole finishing his trek up north. Life’s taken him plenty of places before and now it feels less like living and more like visiting. It’s going back to all those places from before and wondering how long could a life actually feel. 

“So you just float? Taking you wherever the wind blows?”

It’s only at the question that Luke realizes he hasn’t dropped his hands from his hair. “Yeah, yeah,” he says, dropping his hands. “It’s just easier. In some ways. Like I don’t really have to think too much--just find a job that pays well enough, experience what there is to experience and then, when it’s all said and done, just move on.”

“Guess you’ve learned to pack light, huh?”

Luke grins, a bit of laughter escaping him. “You could say that.” It’s not even light. It’s like having nothing. There’s the essentials of course, some special pieces that have been accrued along the way, but nothing with real weight besides memories. And even those fade eventually. He remembers certain things, important things. Like his mother’s face, or the way his brother would tease him sometimes. But he can’t remember where he grew up, not completely, just hazy rewatchings when he closes his eyes for a moment's rest. 

“What about you?” Luke asks, absentmindedly reaching up to the bottom of the stairs above his head. “You said you moved back here?”

“Yeah, I was born here. Family moved to Virginia and then I moved back. Missed it here.” There’s another shutter of the camera. “So you taking stuffy office jobs? Chasing a passion? You’re a traveler, nonetheless.”

“Odd jobs--mostly night shifts. This city never sleeps and it’s almost better to be awake when mostly everyone else is asleep. Feel less judged.” Right now he was working in the hospital. And though, it wasn’t always easy on him, he enjoyed it. 

“I don’t think anyone’s judging you too harshly. Probably most likely out of envy.”

“Thanks,” Luke says with an awkward chuckle. “Guess I’m still awkward. Unsure of myself.” And it’s easy to be unsure when you’ve seen nearly 150 years on the earth, like what else can you do? What else is there to do besides just float?

“I’ve wondered if it’ll ever go away,” the young man says, pulling down the camera from his face. “Will we ever be sure of ourselves?”

Luke nods, pondering the thought. “The one thing I’m sure of is that every choice I’ve made, I made for a reason. Like even if it doesn’t make sense to anyone else, I had a reason. And I hope you-you feel that way eventually. Every choice made had a reason behind it.”

“That’s kind of comforting. Like, I’m not making choices on guess, I’ve got a reason for it.”

“Yeah.” There’s a small lull and Luke looks back to the sky. The clouds look like they’re about to part. “Are-are we good? Got what you need?”

The man nods. “Yeah, yeah. Thanks. What’s your name by the way?”

“Luke. Yours?”

“Andrew. Um--” There’s a moment's pause and Andrew reaches into his pockets again. He pulls out a piece of paper and finds a pen from the pocket of his bag. “I’ll write down the name of the site. The pictures will be up by the end of the week.”

Luke takes the paper with a nod. “I look forward to seeing them.” He pockets the note and says goodbye. He’s quick in his strides to correct course back to the subway entrance and bounces down the stairs. He winds down the tunnel and finds his yellow card in his wallet. The swipe is quick as the light turns green for him to pass through. 

It’s only as his boots click against the concrete and they echo, that Luke looks at the murals, the way the eyes follow his journey. It’s not regret that settles into his gut. He doesn’t regret stopping to help Andrew. Luke hopes that Andrew is somewhere warm or on his way to somewhere warm in all honesty. But maybe what bugs Luke is that he has plans. He had plans to linger in New York for at least another six months before moving again. His last visit in Delaware had lasted nearly two years and in all truth, it was nice to settle in somewhere. But Luke knew if he got too settled in, he was going to run the risk of getting comfortable. There was a guy he had started talking to. They guy always come in late to the gym and they’d talk for a while as Luke wiped down the gym equipment. That was Luke’s sign to get out of dodge, to try and start over. 

Sure, Luke had his degrees. He had done the whole career thing. The only thing about that is building a legacy--having a face plastered somewhere so he did his ten years or so and then slipped from the grid. Went back to school, took classes in a smattering of things that weren’t related but interested him. Sure there were better things to do than work nights at gyms, or do the late shift at a theater, or wipe down dorms at colleges, but it kept him anonymous. 

Now Luke would mostly likely not be anonymous for much longer. Who knows what could happen once those pictures get posted. And Luke really couldn’t risk staying in town too much longer to find out either. So the eyes follow him, but he won’t be around for a long while. Luke hopes that they remember well. He’s sure the next time he comes back around those murals will look different, there will be more other faces to watch him click his boots to the train. 

The eyes do eventually become real. Sitting in the hospital, listening to the constant keep of the heart monitors, Luke knows almost immediately people are watching him. “Going a different route than the scrubs, Hemmings.” 

Luke looks up from his cup of coffee, brows pulling into each other. It’s one of the pediatric nurses, Lucy. “I’m sorry?” he laughs. 

She holds out her phone. The night is chilly and both of them should be wearing jackets. But there’s no use anyway. Luke knows he’s got to get back to the second floor and help get some rooms ready. Lucy could be paged at any second. “When I was grabbing my nutritious honey bun, your face popped up on my timeline.”

Luke takes the device and sees his photos, hand buried his hair as he’s posed underneath the stairwells. It is a great photo if Luke’s going to be honest. The exposure is just right even if it was a little cloudy that day and a quick skim through the paraphy tells him Andrew got a lot more from Luke than just an awkward conversation with lines like, There’s an uncertainty, an air of hyper self awareness to him. But through it all, there’s a caring heart and the want to settle--maybe that’s what we all share, a yearning for something, no matter what it is. We are wanting people. I don’t know what Luke wants; I can’t even fathom a guess. But I do know that I want him to know that he’s compassion doesn’t go unnoticed and even though it didn’t seem like I would get this project finished, I appreciate his willingness to help a stranger. 

“Andrew--he needed some help with his portfolio for photography school.”

“I keep telling you with a heart of gold and looks to kill you shouldn’t be changing bed sheets and dumping stool,” Lucy says, taking her phone back. The air’s cut by the crinkle of her plastic wrapping, her teeth sink into the icing and sweet dough. 

“It’s not all bad,” he counters, sipping his cup once again. “Last week, the older woman on floor 5, that kept saying she was going to bake for everyone--you hear about her?” Lucy nods, a soft hum coming from her. “She sent me flowers. Said I had the neatest sheet tuck she had ever seen. It’s not all bad.” Luke omits the times he sat up with her, fetching her water when her kids had to leave or when she just wanted a chat later in the evenings, he stopped to chat with her. 

“You getting sweet with the older woman, I see? Tell me, trying to get into a will?”

Barely managing to keep the sip of coffee in his mouth, Luke covers his mouth with a hand. His amusement wrinkles his nose and as the sip goes down, he lets his laughter erupt from him in the squeaks. “No, not at all.”

Lucy shrugs, her ponytail starting to fall just a little. “Look all I’m saying is you got in good with an older woman--she’d get you straight. No more sheet tucking for you.”

Luke takes her snack so she can readjust the hair tie. “When I start to really struggle, I’ll consider it,” the sentence falls with the tail end of some giggles. Silence settles back around them cut by the sips and crinkles and inevitably a pager, Lucy’s signal to twirl back into her Wonder Woman suit. 

“One of these days, I’ll be able to finish a snack. Want the rest?”

“No thanks. Gotta keep my figure now,” Luke teases. 

The half honeybun lands into the trash with an echoing thud and Lucy rushes back through the side doors but not before throwing over her shoulder, “You’re figure is fine. The older woman would kill to plumpen you up anyway.” Luke doesn’t doubt that. His own mother would also heap his plates with seconds, even if he didn’t ever ask for them. 

The morning sky hasn’t fully cracked open yet when Luke finally gets to leave, his own jacket tucking away the seafoam green color of his scrubs. There’s usually not too much life happening as he’s leaving. The end of this shit doesn’t feel much different than the others. However, in the ten minute shuffle to the subway, Luke doesn’t miss the lingering glances. Even as his body jostles with the not completely steady rattle of the train, he can feel eyes on him.

 He keeps his head down. If he doesn’t give in, the stares aren’t real. But one less stop from his neighborhood, he risks a glance up. A few heads turn away, but a couple people continue to gaze at him. He wonders if it’s the dirty blonde of his hair, or his pointed nose that seems to be holding their attention. The train lurches to a stop, doors hissing as they open. Only a handful of people step onto the train and their presence cuts the tension of recognition for a moment. Though Luke fears that that tension will haunt him. 

The sun cuts through the skies just as Luke fetches his keys from his pocket and scurries inside his complex. Waiting for the tiny apartment’s elevator to open, Luke knows he has to get out of town and soon while he’s at it. His job can replace him. He can tell them anything, and be gone within the day. As the elevator takes him up, Luke’s already drafting the email to his landlord about his unfortunate rushed exit. 

By the setting of the sun, Luke’s apartment is packed up into his two suitcases and duffle bag. He rolls his bags behind him as his boots click on the concrete. The murals watch him traveling down their corridors and Luke’s hoping they memorize the way he looks, because this is their last meeting. As the walls of concrete whizz by, Luke keeps his eyes trained to the ground. He’s not entirely sure where he’s going from here. Luke had planned to continue up and cross the border into Canada. But that plan relied on a little bit more time, smuggling his belongings across the lines well before he planned on jetting. 

It’s okay though. In the night, he can still get across. As the train comes to its stop, Luke thinks he has to get off eventually. And this stop is as good as any. So he climbs to the surface. He’s not too far from the bus terminals and he knows the airports not too far either. But he can’t fly, or he shouldn’t fly. It’s only as he gazes over the neon lights lighting up the darkening sky, that the craving hits him. 

Coffee, as well as tea, are one of the few things from his previous life that Luke still craves. It’s much more about the taste that soothes him. That and it’s easy to fake being warm with a piping hot cup of coffee or tea in his hands. Luke notices a small diner, just as two people exit from it. He’s heard about the place, hasn’t gone in just yet but maybe he ought to now and buy himself some time on his next move--he needs a paper trail, even if it goes cold. 

Inside the diner is bright, a little cramped in the way of seating. “Booth or counter?” the hostess asks. 

“Booth,” Luke returns and follows as she waves for him. The red accents do a number to date the place but it’s well kept for how long it seems to have been around. Sinking into the squeaky leather, Luke thanks the hostess for the menu. 

“Anything I can start you with?”

“Coffee. Cream and sugar.”

She nods. “Water too?”

“Uh, yeah, thanks.” The menu reminds Luke that he wishes, deeply, that his appetite hadn’t left him. He can eat food and does, time to time, but on the whole, nothing is quite as satisfying anymore. It’s the plate of fries that Luke keeps eyes, even as the mug and glass are placed. 

“Need more time with that menu?”

“Yes, please.” Then it’s just Luke once again, eying that plate of fries and knowing that even if he does get it, he won’t get more than a few down before his stomach clenches. 

“Let me guess.” Luke knows that voice. Though, it’s been nearly sixty years since he’s heard it. “It wasn’t me, it was you.”

“Dinah,” Luke breathes out, unsure if his eyes are actually seeing what he thinks they are taking in. 

She grins, hair just as curly and large as it was the last time he saw her. And the more Luke gazes at her, the more he notices, not much has changed about her. Her skin is still tanned. Her eyes still crinkle just a little in the smile. “It’s been, a long time,” Luke starts, unsure of how to phrase the question. 

“Got space for one more?”

“Yeah, yeah, sure.” Luke waves to the seat opposite of him and she slips into the booth, the leather squeaking underneath her weight too. Luke’s looking for any sign of the time’s that past--a wrinkle, bags under the eyes, anything. But all he sees is Dinah, when she was 28. It’s the same Dinah that would get up during karaoke and belt out songs like she was the one recording it in a studio. It’s the same Dinah that he walked back to her place after an impromptu meeting, and though coffee at her place sounded innocuous, he knew then what that twinkle in her eye meant. 

“Shocked to see you here. Coming or going?”

“Leaving, actually.”

“Funny how life works.”

Luke furrows his brow, head cocking to the side. “What do you mean?”

“Just got into town. Thought it would be nice to have a familiar face to show me around.” Her gaze, behind the dark brown eyes, is heavy. Her fingers play at the corner of the napkin box. 

“Yeah, I’m sorry about that. Wait--did you know I was here?”

“The internet is quite literally the world wide web,” Dinah chuckles. 

The photos. She must’ve seen them. And even if she had seen then, how did she get to New York so fast? Why would she even be looking for him? “That it is,” Luke agrees, carefully stirring the steaming drink in front of him. He can’t get over how she hasn’t aged at all. There’s nothing. She doesn’t even seem to be walking with a limp or have difficulty sitting down. As if she had somehow frozen herself in time. 

There was no way though. Who would’ve turned her? It hadn’t been him. And Luke hadn’t heard anything about attacks on human in a long time. Was Dinah not even human when they met? Was she something else? Before Luke can think of his next question, the waitress comes back. “How’s that menu looking?”

“Great,” Dinah returns. “Just a plate of fries.” There’s not even a blink of shock at the order and soon, it’s just Luke and Dinah again. 

“So, how--what have you been up to?”

Dinah shrugs. “Not much. Still singing, making ends meet. What about you?”

“Just making it really.”

“Still bouncing around, huh?”

Luke nods. “Yeah, you know me. Can’t stay in one place too long.”

“Yeah, yeah, I remember.” The sentence comes out heavy, the end of it tilting up just a little in anger, maybe it’s resentment. 

Luke knew he shouldn’t have gone in for coffee. He knew what Dinah was looking for, what she was hoping to get. Luke liked to blame it on the fact that he hasn’t properly eaten in a while. He blamed that for his clouded judgement. The truth of the matter is that Luke wanted more out of it too. He wanted to sip on their mugs, at the dining room table. He wanted to move to the couch too. He wanted to give in. But he knew he couldn’t. The moment she got in too close, the moment he didn’t have that mug warming his hands--it would be all over for him. 

“It wasn’t because of you,” Luke counters. “My leaving wasn’t because of something you did.”

Dinah exhales, but nods. The plate of fries is placed between them and they smile up at the hostess, watching her disappear towards the counter to wrap more silverware. Dinah picks up a fry and munches on it, eyes lifted up and away. 

“You know,” she says after swallowing the bite. Her hands stretch out across the table. Instinctively, Luke pulls his hands back, attempting to duck them under the table. But she’s just as fast, if not faster and before Luke can get his hands safely out of her each, her fingers are pressed into his skin. “I always wondered what that would’ve felt like.”

She should be seeping warmth into him. She should be pulling her hand back and hissing at how cold his skin is, but instead, all Luke can feel is the weight of her fingers. How she’s pressing into his forearms and there’s actual pressure to it. “No,” Luke whispers, snapping his head up to look at her. 

Dinah’s eyes are locked in on how her hands looked wrapped around the leather jacket. Luke curls his hands around her exposed wrists. “A lot’s happened since the last time we met, if I’m honest,” she says. It’s only as they lock gazes that Luke knows. Even if she doesn’t ever say the word--Luke knows the truth. 

“Are you close by?” Luke asks. 

“All I have right now is my car. But I was looking to book a room for the night.” Dinah finishes the sentences with another handful of fries. It’s not enough of a dent to be believable, so Luke goes in for a handful too and the second the salt hits his tongue, his throat wants to close up, wants to tell him that this is not the thing it wanted. But he knows he can get it down. 

They split the cost of the ticket and then Luke follows her towards her car. He can’t shake the feel of how she was actually able to press into his skin and it felt like something. It didn’t hurt, but it was real. When he left her that night, sixty years ago, she was warm. Her blood pumped in her veins and Luke had to swallow down every urge to run his tongue over her neck, let his teeth graze her skin just to feel the quickened pulse. 

Dinah’s trunk is full with her own bags. However, Luke is able to squeeze in the bigger suitcase into the trunk before he slips the last two into the backseat. Before Dinah can even turn the key over in the ignition, Luke’s grabbing her hands again. She doesn’t pull back. Doesn’t hiss. “Either I’m insane or I’ve finally croaked.”

Dinah chuckles, slipping her hands from his. “Last time I checked, it took a hell of a lot to kill a vampire.”

Luke stares at her profile, if he had a heart to race it would be right now. Who changed her? What had Dinah gotten herself into to wind up like him? Luke runs the tips of his fingers along her jaw and then down to her neck. And there’s nothing. Much like him. No steady thrum just below the surface of the skin, no blood pumping in their veins. He presses down, nails into her skin and he’s met with some resistance. “Holy shit.” 

Luke’s only ever run into other vampires in hunts, or when new floaters happen to cross into the town he’s lingering about in. Most of the time, they only pass each other with a nod of recognition. It’s a simple act, let’s them both know there’s no trouble and keeps the number of enemies low. Luke’s never had many of those. Once or twice a vampire would come down after him about territory and he’s never really fought anyone about that. There was always a way to hang out and not cross any lines. Though, Luke hadn’t run across anyone else like him in at least 45 years. It had always been a lonely existence, but it was made exceptionally isolating when Luke felt like he was the only one on the fucking planet like this. Part of him is happy that Dinah found him. He’s relieved to know that he doesn’t walk about the living as the only living dead. 

“What happened?”

“Now ain’t that the million dollar question.” The car finally rumbles to life and the radio plays softly, an old school jazz station. “First, though, where are we headed? You know New York better than I do.”

Luke nods, exhaling. If she doesn’t want to talk about it right now, then he won’t push it. He glances out of the window and rattles off directions to a hotel that isn’t too far from them. And not too far from that is a motel just in case the first option doesn’t work. Dinah’s silent the rest of the drive. It wouldn’t be so bad if the drive took the five minutes it was supposed to take in theory. However, the lights catch them often and they sit idle, in silence, knowing something brews beneath the surface but never acknowledging it fully. 

Could have Dinah been looking for him long? Considering she hadn’t seemed to age past what she looked like sixty years ago, she definitely had to have been turned soon after Luke left. The questions all build on his tongue but he only directs her down the blocks, only lets keep straight, or make this right escape his mouth. When they pull up to the hotel, and see it bustling with folks, Luke thinks about Dinah. Had she built up a tolerance to being around humans yet? She’s still relatively young in the life span of a vampire and Luke wondered if this many people around would be setting her up for failure. 

“We can go somewhere else,” Luke suggests. “I can check us in and you can just wait in the car until I get the keys.”

“I’m okay,” Dinah returns, brows pulled together. “Are you comfortable?”

“No, I was-I was just thinking about you that’s all.”

Dinah shrugs, grabbing a backpack from back behind the driver seat and Luke pulls out his own duffle bag. Dinah’s gait is a little fast, not too fast that it looks completely unnatural. But seeing her still learning, or relearning everything she once was so good at, makes Luke smile. The learning curve isn’t a smooth turn. There are a lot of mistakes. Not blinking enough, having to make sure you’re seen eating, or something, keeping as warm as you can. Luke’s learned some tricks, hand warmers in his pockets, holding onto thermos with hot tea. Being seen in the day just enough that no one suspects anything but not bouncing about in sunlight for too long. 

It’s only in the elevator, as a few more people climb in and Luke and Dinah scoot closer together, hands brushing again that Luke thinks about what she said in the diner. I’ve always wondered what that would’ve felt like. How did she know Luke was like her? The elevator stops and a family gets off. Luke reaches forward and hits for the top floor. Dinah looks up to him, brows furrowing together. 

He shouldn’t have given into her so easily back at the diner. He should’ve stayed their longer and asked her more questions. He should’ve investigated more about what she was doing in New York. He shouldn’t have thought about they way she felt, gently brushing up against his shoulder on their walk up to her place. He shouldn’t have thought about the way she looked at him. Memories were deadly. He found Dinah at a bar. He was playing with a band at the time. Nothing too big, just enough to pay his rent in LA. But back then, it was about the love of the thing and not how much money could be attained. She was performing at the open mic night. It was just her and her ukulele but she played it so well, her heavy voice echoing around the bar. She has vocals too big, too bright, too smooth to be captured into four walls. Luke went up to compliment her, just to let her know that he recognized her talent. He wasn’t often one to go up to people. But by then he had spent almost a hundred years on the planet and hiding away in forests was getting exhausting. Luke took his venturing out to the humans slow and steady before finding his comfort level. 

And it doesn’t even help now that he’s remembering the way she called him just to talk and how they walked the beach late that night before she drove both of them back to her place. Her hair blew in the breeze off the salt water and she smelt like strawberries with a hint of something else, that at the time he hadn’t been able to place, but found it out to be a kind of hair grease. He can smell it now, as she stands next to him. 

The level their room is on finally comes up but neither one of them steps off. Instead they let the doors close and carry up to the top. Once on the top floor, they take a step off and Dinah waits. If they wanted to get onto the roof they’d have to find a staircase and fast before someone just sees them standing about and not heading to a room. Luke peels off the left and she follows, pushing her back up higher on her shoulder. She is silent as she follows and thankfully, at the right turn at the end of the hallway they’re met the stairs. Up they go, and even the locked door, it does not remain locked. The night looks different up this high--they’re closer to the stars, or what would be stars but are more than likely just the lights reflecting off the city below. 

“Who sent you? And what do they want?”

“No one sent me, Luke. What’s going on?”

“No one knows. I haven’t told a soul what I am. But you know. I didn’t leave you a note when I left. So how do you know? Are they using you as a lure to get to me?”

Dinah stares up to the sky, trying to keep the tears at bay. Her throat seizes for a moment. “You left. And I went looking, hanging out at the bars we used to go. I couldn’t find you. So I asked a couple folks around. And I fucking asked the wrong questions, I guess. Or maybe I was asking the wrong folks.”

Wrong questions? What wrong questions could she have been asking? Luke didn’t keep close to anyone. Or he tried not to at least. He wasn’t always good at it. Seeing as Dinah’s standing in front of him right now. Luke wants to take a step forward. He wants to give into her. Her gaze hasn’t dropped from the skies and he can see the way her throat constantly works, as if tears are produced in the throat, as if that will keep her from crying. “Who were you talking to? What are you talking about? You sure it’s not the council?”

Dinah shakes her head. “No one’s after you Luke. But me. I could’ve given you up. I could’ve let you be, but I couldn’t. Not after what happened.”

“That’s the thing, nothing happened Dinah. As much as I wanted to, as much as I thought about it, nothing happened that night.”

She shakes her head, lips pushed together into a tight line. “No, you left and I thought it was weird and I wanted to be angry with you. But most of all, I was confused. I wanted to know why had left. And damn, it wasn’t like you left that night and I ran into two weeks later. You completely disappeared. No one at the bar knew where you went. I talked to the guys that were in your band. Two of them had not a clue where you had gone and they were pissed, but they moved on. Mike talked to me later, told me I should just let the whole thing go. He kept saying I was eventually going to bark up the wrong tree at the right time.”

“Mike?” Luke questions. Mike was always a little out there, that was undeniable. He was deep into his history and deep into the supernatural. But not in any sort of way that made Luke super suspicious of him. 

Dinah nods. “Yeah, he left before I really as him what he was going on about and when I called him the next day, I got no answer. Didn’t shock me. But then the rest of the band noticed Mike had just turned up missing. Mike and I--we started hanging out more. Even though I thought it was a little strange at first, he was definitely still sweet. That didn’t sit well with me. I waited for a little bit, then made a police report. And I don’t know. Maybe that’s what tipped the scales. Or maybe the scales were tipped from the start. I’m leaving the bar one night after a show, the rest of my group’s left already. But I hung back to watch the last few people play. And these two guys keep buying me drinks. I took the first one, just to be polite and they were kinda cute. 

“One drinks turns into two. Two drinks turns into them approaching me. They ask me about my music; it all seems fine. We have good conversation. They leave the bar before me. They fucking left! That’s what will never fail to get me. They fucking left and halfway to my place. I get the feeling that I’m being followed. I don’t see anyone behind me. But I’ve always trusted my gut. So I start picking up the pace a little and I round the corner. Run into the same two guys before the bar. We chat for just a little bit longer. I keep fidgeting because I can’t see if anyone’s behind me. Everyone seems not suspicious. They offer to walk me home.”

“They were following you,” Luke deduces. “And they cut you off after they realized you were picking up on them to make it seem like a big whole coincidence.”

“Yeah. We walked and they asked me some questions about who I knew out in L.A. They were new in town and were trying to get their footing. So I was telling them about my band, and I mentioned Mike and your band. Never mentioned your name. Didn’t even want to utter it, or think about it. But just that small connection was the tiny piece. We got to my place and I was getting ready to tell them goodnight when one of them hauled me inside. He was really cold to the touch. I tried to fight back but, it wasn’t even like anything I did affected them. They kept asking me about you and if I knew. I didn’t know what they were on about. I was like, the guy up and left me and his friends, don’t know anymore than that.

“They kept saying I had to know something Mike knew a lot, gave it all up very quickly. The other one kept smelling my hair and neck and I could feel how sharp his teeth were. I told them I didn’t want to die. I would give them anything they wanted, I just didn’t want to die.” She can see the sinister gleam to their eyes, even now. They way they looked at each other, sharing the same thought. All Dinah knew is that she’d do whatever not to die. 

“They were from counsel? The two guys?”

“Don’t really know for certain. I haven’t seen them since, though I went looking. They tortured me. Small bits along my arms and legs, saying that I would tell them everything I knew. And they warned me that others that caught wind of my explorations wouldn’t be so generous. But all I really remember is just how my body felt like it was going cold but also every nerve ending felt like it was being stabbed, over and over and over again. I think I blacked out once or twice from the pain. I remember small bits of them arguing and then I woke up later in a shallow grave.”

“They buried you?” 

“Guess so. I’m not really sure what happened but I think I was carried when I heard them bickering. And when I came too, my arms were crossed over my chest. I could feel things crawling on me. First thought was I was in a sewer or something, but then things felt kinda loose. Stuff was in my nose and it smelled earthy. I panicked at first but it didn’t take me too much longer before I clawed my way out, realizing I had been buried.”

“So what did they want with you that had to do with me? Do you know who council is or what it is?”

Dinah nods. “I know who they are.”

It’s a fact, cold as it falls from her lips. Luke gazes at her, the way she blinks rapidly. His body is carrying his forward. One step, then another and soon, he’s closed the gap between them. He takes her hand, thumb stroking at her knuckles. “Hey, it’s alright.”

A harsh exhale leaves her, a scoff--it carries all the pain she’s yet to utter. Luke hears how heavy it is. Dinah finally brings her gaze to Luke’s face. The piercing blue eyes and button nose. It shocked her initially. When she saw his picture pop up on her social media. He hadn’t aged a day, it was as if someone had found a way into her memory of Luke and perfectly recreate it. 

Dinah holds a steady gaze as she talks. “Council were the ones that found me. I stayed out in the woods. I didn’t know what had happened to me, but I knew it wasn’t good. And I wanted to cry, but it hurt too damn much. Being in the sun hurt. I was in pain, and I couldn’t tell what would ease it. In the day, I had to find ways to hide, tucked into trees, finding tiny caves or places to hide. Some hikers came by. I smelled them. And I knew, or at least I figured what it might be, what I might’ve turned into.

“Council found me. Apparently, there aren’t many of us hanging around the parts of LA. They were coming into town anyway to see how the rest of us were holding up, behaving. They caught the two that tortured and turned me. They were trackers of the council. Only sent out to sniff out the town. They found Mike, tracked him down. They found me.  Apparently, they had actually killed Mike, but not me.”

Luke always knew those guys were getting older and possibly dead. He tried not to linger too much in the past. He didn’t read obituaries. He didn’t even halfway have social media. Luke liked to think that they would always be able to grow old though. That they would always have the one experience he did not, they could live a life. They could settle down. They could see children grow up and have grandchildren, even great grandchildren. Luke was stuck, permanently. 

“Fuck, not Mike.” Mike--well, he was Mike. In all his eccenteries, he was still a good guy, he had been planning on asking this girl that he had been seeing to take a step up in their relationship. Or that’s what Luke last remembers. Luke pictured Mike married, a house full of dogs, maybe a couple kids. That idea suited Mike, who liked the calmer things in life. It still guts Luke though, shoulders sagging. He turns away, looking out over the city. God, Mike dead such a horrific death--terrified and unsure of what was happening to him or why he was the one targeted. And if Luke had just kept to himself, if Luke hadn’t been so fucking cursed to be lonely. 

“Sorry to be the bearer of bad news,” Dinah says. 

Luke shakes his head. “No, don’t be sorry. I’m-I’m the one’s that sorry.” There’s a silent pause. “Fuck,” he exhales again. “I-I didn’t mean for any of that to happen. Not you and not Mike either.” He can feel his own fingers starting to tremble now. He should’ve stuck around in town. He could’ve intercepted the trackers and told them that Dinah and Mike weren’t aware of anything, that they were just people living lives in all it’s boringness sometimes. 

“God,” Luke croaks. “I am so fucking sorry. I should’ve stuck around. I could-I could’ve saved Mike and you.”

Dinah grabs onto his shoulders, though she’s always been a good head shorter than Luke, she does her best. It’s more shoulder blade and back than shoulder. She wants to tell him she doesn’t blame him. Well, at least not now. Before she did. Before she was angry. Before she dreamed of being able to confront Luke and rip him a new asshole. She wanted to know why he left and because he left, it left her like this--not dead but not alive either. 

And sure, there’s still some anger. Sure, Dinah wants answers. Most of all, she just wants connection. She has spent the last sixty years, in and out of jobs, mostly holed up, always bouncing from town to town. She was terrified to get too close. But loneliness is heavy. It made her shoulders ache and if she could lay in bed and sleep days, months, years away, she would. Because it was better than walking through this life, if that’s the word to use, alone. 

Luke escaped her house, exiting through her own front doors as she went to the restroom and vanished. Dinah hadn’t always planned on tracking Luke down. The council took her in for a couple of decades. She learned the rules and the laws of this new version of herself. But council wasn’t the greatest company. They were too busy giving into every desire, too busy attempting to rule people, and at the time she was merely a servant role. She listened in on meetings, waiting for one of them to ask for a refill of their glass or to fetch a live drinking fountain, as they liked to call humans. And Dinah knew she couldn’t stay there forever. They let her go with ease, surprisingly. Though she has to check in every once and a while. They told her that they were family, and family always checked in on each other. 

It didn’t feel like family, but it was something and almost every decade or so, Dinah would think about going back. When she first got back out into the world, she had to figure out how to lay low, make some money to get by in the world, but not stick around for too long that suspicion would be raised. That’s when Luke came back to her, that’s when she realized all the things she wanted previously, the house and the husband, and the kids were something she’d never be able to achieve. 

“I was angry for a long time,” Dinah says. “And I don’t know. Call it stubbornness and stupidity, call it having all the time in the fucking world, but I knew I’d find you. I knew I could finally get some answers.”

There’s nothing malicious in her touch. It’s a soft presence, even as she slides her down his back and then it’s gone. They’re standing side by side. “I’ll answer any questions you have.” It’s the least he can do, after everything that has happened. It won’t feel like enough. Even as Luke lets the promise cross his lips, it’s not enough for the amount of years she’s spent hurt and confused, and angry. 

“We did pay for a room, so no sense in not using it, don’t you think?” Dinah offers. If she’s honest, she still doesn’t trust the night all too much. Some nights, ones that are too pretty and too serene, make her tense. She knows it’s fear—it’s waiting for the other shoe to drop. She still watches over her shoulder. The thing that she can only really be herself in is the same thing that strikes fear into her. 

They climb back through the stairs and into the elevator in silence. It’s a little tense, Luke can feel it pressing onto him through the jacket. What questions does she have? Surely, waking up realizing that you’re not dead but not who you used to be is not an easy thing to discover. And surely, there’s part of terror that won’t be leaving her anytime soon. What counselor would be prepared for that either? Luke thought about seeing one. But it never seemed to be a fruitful thought. 

The light on the door lights up green as Dinah holds the card to the reader and the gears click. All Luke notices though is the tight line her shoulders are in and the way she’s fast to click the lights on. The door closes with a heavy thud, gears clicking back into place. “What do you want to know?” Luke asks, letting his bag dropping on the left side of the bed. 

Dinah takes a seat at the chair in front of the desk. “When you left that night, did you know? About the trackers, about council coming into town?”

Luke shakes his head. “Didn’t have a clue.” 

Then it crosses her face, the piece of the puzzle that’s just never click for her. If Luke did know about the trackers and did leave to be avoided, it would make sense. If Luke was attempting to cover his own ass, and Dinah just happened to be in the crosshairs, it would suck, it wouldn’t make her happy, but it would finally make everything make sense. “So why the hell did you leave?”

Luke sighs, staring at the gray and green in the carpet of the floor. His brain’s telling him to say, had to. “I couldn’t stay in town.”

“But you just said that you didn’t know about the trackers!” Dinah pops up from the chair. Even though it’s a good six feet between them, she covers them before Luke can look up from the floor. Her finger pressed into his chest. “You just said that.”

Luke nods. “I-I know. I mean--” Is he about to tell her the truth? Won’t it sound silly now? Won’t it make him sound like a fucking coward? 

“Luke,” she warns. The finger presses in deeper. 

“You were human, or I assumed. I was always this,” Luke gestures to himself, as if trying to brush away something, but all he’s done is reveal himself. “We were getting too close. I was letting you get too close.”

“So, so you left.”

“Yes. To be fair, normally, my past doesn’t come back around. I’m the only one that ever remains. You know, though. You know when you invited me inside that it wasn’t a friendly chat. I knew it. I wanted to give in. I mean, fuck, you’re,” the words are failing him. Because all he can see in her eyes are just how dark they are, just how much they don’t want to let light in, but have always shone brightly. “I found you really attractive. Find? Found? Fuck, I don’t know anymore. But I couldn’t give in. You’d know something was different. You’d know I was different.”

“Because you run cold?”

“It’s not-not just that. That’s a give away for sure. But, we-- we don’t always feel a hundred percent human. And sure, I could’ve explained away that, and the fangs, and literally anything physical. But if I let myself give in that night, I’d have to let himself give in every night after that.”

Dinah furrows her brows. “Did-did you like me?” She won’t ask if he still does. That was so many decades ago.  By now, Luke has surely run into someone new. He had to have moved on. 

“Like feels much too simple. But yeah, I did like you, Dinah. I had spent a lot of time hiding before you met me. I was lonely and then I met the guys in the band. And then I met you and for those hours at night, when we played shows or hung out drinking, I almost remembered what it was like to be human. It was a lot easier to leave before anything happened.”

Her gut feels like a storm. She’s angry--that Luke left, that she got attacked, that Mike died. But she’s also heavy with sadness, all those feelings she thought she had buried are resurfacing. She liked Luke too. She thought maybe she had found someone that was finally going to see her for who she was, not what she looked like, not the color of her skin. And sure LA at the time wasn’t the worst place but it still had it’s issues. Her palms press into his chest and she pushes Luke. It’s hard, more so than what she intended. It sends up backward, with just enough time to stop himself from slamming into the wall, if not through it into the other room. “I thought-I thought for a long time something bad had happened to you. I went around asking about you! I worried myself beyond belief. No one could get a hold of you! You were a fucking ghost.”

Luke catches the lamp as it teeters on the edge of the stand. It’s light flickers before remaining steadily on. “I-I’m sorry.” But sorry really doesn’t fix it, he knows. Because if Luke hadn’t left in the night, then maybe, Dinah wouldn’t have asked around. And maybe the trackers wouldn’t have singled her or Mike out. 

“You know, I almost wish you had known about the trackers. I wish I was just caught at the wrong place at the wrong time.”

“If I knew trackers were coming, I would’ve stuck around. I would’ve shown them that you and Mike weren’t a threat. But I didn’t. I didn’t have a clue. And I’m so sorry about what happened to you. And I wish I could’ve done something.”  The rest of the thought stops on the tip of his tongue, but I can’t. 

“I hate the night,” she confesses softly. The words sound like they barely want to leave her throat. “I hate it because it’s halfway the only time I can be me, I’m not under a thousand layers. And I hate it because that’s when you left. And I hate it because even though the council killed those two trackers, I still feel them watching me.”

“You didn’t deserve that. You don’t deserve to carry that anxiety either.” Luke finally pushes up off the wall, praying there’s no real damage. He doesn’t dare check now though. 

Dinah’s just watching him, attempting to keep the shakes in her hands at a minimum. She can’t tell if she fully blames Luke or not. She can’t know for certain that if Luke hadn't left that she would’ve never been changed. She can’t know for certain that if Luke didn’t leave that the trackers could’ve been stopped, or that they wouldn’t come back. “If you had stayed, wouldn’t you have left eventually? Isn’t that what you’re doing now leaving?”

Luke knows he would’ve left eventually. Even if he didn’t stay around longer, even if he hadn’t run away that night, he would’ve eventually left. It’s all he’s good at--leaving. “I could’ve stayed there forever, no. Eventually, I would’ve left you. But I wouldn’t have left you like I did. I would’ve told you something easy to handle. A bear attack that was terrible. Maybe I tell you I’m leaving to go back home to my family for an emergency and I get on a train and for whatever reason, I don’t make it to the destination I told you I was going. And a letter comes in the mail a few weeks later, telling you what happened because your address is written down on a piece of paper in the pocket of the pants I’m wearing. And that lie would’ve hurt, whichever lie I choose, but it’s much better than just disappearing into thin air. I know that now. I didn’t know that then.

“And I was scared too. I keep moving because I don’t want to get too close. I don’t pursue careers anymore. I take jobs no one wants. I hide because it’s so much easier. Dinah, you terrified me because you reminded me just how human I fucking was at one point. How much I still am some days. I bounce around because I’ve been on this fucking earth for 150 years and it’s only been me. I don’t have a group, I don’t have anyone else. And I could’ve had you--I wanted to have you.” 

The night Luke disappeared Dinah left to go to the bathroom and she was using it mostly as an excuse. She wanted to freshen up, rid her breath of some of the tequila she had in her drink. But mostly, she wanted just a moment to think what her next steps were going to be. Luke and her were hanging out pretty consistently, mostly at night, after gigs. She drove around town, across county lines to watch him and his band perform. He traveled for her shows too. That night, they hadn’t made official plans to meet up, but they knew each other well enough to know where to find the other. 

It was the walk back, as she stared up at the cut of his jaw and the watched the way he smiled that she felt bold enough to invite him into her place. And coffee sounded better than come inside, hang out with me until I decide if I’ll have the guts to ask if this can go up the ladder, if they could take this a bit more seriously. And sure, they flirted. And sure, Dinah knew she couldn’t have that kind of conversation after sex, but she wanted to know the harm in letting herself go. For all the free spirit she is, Dinah didn’t like jumping into bed with someone that she wasn’t attempting to get serious with. Things were going well, better than she had ever considered to go. And sure there were stares and murmurs about them hanging out. And sure, Dinah worried about her safety at that time too, less so because Luke is white and surely, he wouldn’t turn up in a river. 

But when she finally came back from the bathroom, Luke was gone. All that was left behind was a note, on a napkin that said Sorry. And Luke was gone. Dinah hadn’t even heard the door closing behind him on his departure. How could he just leave if he wanted her so bad though? 

“Was it just what we are? Did you leave just because you weren’t like me then?”

“It’s not like council gives you a slap on the wrist for getting involved with a human. If they found out, I knew what consequences were at play. I didn’t want and I don’t want this for you. I left because they’d kill me, change you, or kill the both of us. I left because there was no way I could give you a normal life, and that’s what I wanted for you. I saw the looks people gave you hanging around me. I saw what was happening.”

Dinah’s never been the one that got away to Luke. She’s always been the one that Luke let go. She’s the one that if Luke could go back, and tell himself not to leave like he did, he would. If Luke could go back, he’d burn that note, that sorry ass apology. Tucked away, hidden beneath all the fear, is a tiny piece of hope that Luke did run into her again. That she had lived the life he wanted for her, and that she had grandkids and then maybe, they could meet in secret again. That she hadn’t forgotten about him. Truth be told, Luke always had a table prepared for her, a tiny piece of his heart that always remembered the way she laughed and the way purple lights and red lights on stage dazzled against her skin. 

“That wasn’t your call. That was mine,” Dinah returns. There’s still a gap between them, from when she shoved him. It feels too wide, too far to close. 

“I-I can’t say I was trying to protect without sounding like a fucking idiot, after what happened. But honest to whatever fucking being exists out there, I left because I was scared. I left because I didn’t want you to get hurt. I left because I thought it was the best thing to do. And I know I hurt you regardless. And I know shitty things happened despite my best efforts. But please believe me, Dinah, I didn’t think this would happen. I couldn’t have thought it up in my wildest dreams.”

The lights in the ceiling of the room are bright against the white. Dinah doens’t even blink at the harshness. Luke watches the way she swallows, head shaking side to side. He takes a step, just one and she snaps her attention to him at the movement. His keeps his hands raised. “Di, I’m so sorry.”

“Don’t.” It’s one word. It’s hardly audible. No one’s called her that since Luke left. She makes sure no ones calls her that. He called her that all the time when she called, or after she sang him a new song she was working on. His eyes would always be so bright and he’d smile at her like she was the sun, like she was somehow unbelievable and not real, but somehow still in front of her.  “You don’t get to call me that anymore,” she whispers, taking a step back. 

Luke inches a little closer. “You gotta believe me. When I say I’m sorry.”

“I don’t have to believe anything. I don’t have to do anything.” But the truth is, she does want to believe him. She does want him to call her ‘Di’ again like he used too. She wants to know that even though it’s been sixty years and even though she’s still angry a little bit, she hadn’t forgotten how easy it was around him. 

Luke steps forward again and Dinah doesn’t back away. Though, he does note how close she is to the closet. “Do you remember when we stayed up late, jamming to a new song you were working on? I don’t even know how you managed to do it. But we stayed up almost until sunrise--laughing at everything, even if it wasn’t funny. And I pressed your clothes while you got two hours of sleep. I made you pancakes and you got pissed because I didn’t add chocolate chips to them. And you always put chocolate chips into your pancakes. And you told me to take it to the grave that you thought my pancakes were better than your mother’s. I told you that had to be a lie because I was shit cook, but I didn’t want you going to work on an empty stomach.”

“Of course I remember. And when I got back home, you left a note with the recipe and I don’t know what you did, but I wasn’t able to replicate them.” 

“And I had the pancakes that your mom made, you made them for me that next night. And I will say, I have never had better pancakes.”

“Why? Why you bringing that up?”

“Because that night was the first time I gave into you. That was the first night in decades for me that I wasn’t worried. I wasn’t thinking about making sure I didn’t get too close. That was the first night where I thought about what a normal life might look like for me. I watched you sleep and I thought about if that could be normal for us. And it was the first time I was scared shitless in a long time. I was scared when my family died and I couldn’t even be there. I was angry too. And after their funerals, I figured I wouldn’t find that kind of bond again--I would make myself not get too close. And then we stayed up almost until sunrise and I pressed your clothes because you wouldn’t stand for going into work with a wrinkle in that blouse.”

“I’ll have you know it won’t easy getting an office job at that time. I had been a cook or running food for plenty of years prior to that. And I wasn’t going to mess up a good opportunity like that job showing up in a wrinkled blouse.”

Luke laughs, softly, reaching out for her hands. Dinah hadn’t even noticed him creeping in closer to her. “I’m sure it wasn’t easy. What can I do? What can I do now to show you I really mean it? That I’m so sorry for what happened. I’d do whatever it was to make it up to you.”

“I-I don’t think there’s anything you can do. Not right now at least. I need time, Luke. I just--I don’t know what to do right now.”

“We got plenty of that,” Luke counters, brushing his fingers down her jaw. She doesn’t duck out of the touch. She still doesn’t quite feel real under his touch, in front of him. Luke’s sure he’s conjured her up. That he’s going to come to and be sitting in the cafeteria of the hospital and have daydreamed the whole thing up. “There’s plenty of time.”

Dinah can see it, the lean in and she shakes her head. That storm hasn’t gone away in her gut. She still hasn’t figured out if she wants to give into Luke or not. She does want to forgive him. She wants to move on now that she has her answers. “That’s a lot of years, a lot of hurt left.”

Luke nods, dropping his hand from her cheek and takes a small step back. “I understand.” He clears his throat, tucking some of his hair behind his ear. A few curls still fall down in front of his face. “I-I don’t need the bed,” he offers, stepping out of the way. 

It’s an out. And Dinah doesn’t take it. “I don’t need the bed either.”

“I-I haven’t gotten used to that, clearly.” 

Dinah watches the way Luke works his teeth over his bottom lip. His gaze turned down to the floor. She takes his head, threading her fingers through his. “Thanks. For understanding. For answering, honestly. I believe you, about everything. I just need to sort out my own feelings. Because those feelings haven’t gone away, from all our nights together. I just need to figure out what to do with them.”

Luke doesn’t miss the dark brown on her nails, the way it contrast against her skin but isn’t that much darker than the color of her tanned skin. He looks at the chipping red on his nails, the gel that’s grown out. He almost forgot the manicure. It was self administered, but kind of unevenly applied. “We can just talk then, about whatever, about nothing. I’ve missed a lot.”

“It’s not all that glamorous. Much of it is probably like you know, lonely.”

“Surely you’ve had some adventures though. You worked for council--that must’ve been something in and of itself.”

“They’re old and boring. The better story is me at Mardi Gras for the first time.”

“I’d love to hear it,” Luke smiles. He remembers the first time he stumbled across Mardi Gras, how the music almost never ceased and ate more human food than he ever had in a long time. But it all smelt so good and everyone kept handing him drinks and plates ane he couldn’t say no.

“I’m--I just want to shower first.”

“Okay.” It’s soft and Luke’s slow to remove his hand. He’s forgotten what it feels like to hold someone else’s hand, without fear. She grabs her bag and the bathroom door clicks closed softly behind her. Luke stands there for a moment, watching the handle for the slightest movement, listening to see if the shower starts up. Once the pitter of water hitting the basin starts to echo, he surveys the room. 

The wall’s thankfully not damaged in any significant way. The lamp’s in good shape too. Those it’s clear on the rug where Luke skid back just a little. He runs a hand over it, to get rid of the harsh line and finally opens up his own bag. He peels himself out of the leather jacket, draping it over the back of the desk chair. It’s easy to pull out a plain white t-shirt and some shorts for him to change into. 

The air unit rumbles and the water from the shower echoes, long after Luke’s changed out of the jeans. He keeps the volume low on the TV and almost goes to turn the overhead lights off, but opts to keep them on remembering the way Dinah talked about the night and how tense she seemed to be walking into a dark room. The mattress gives easily under Luke’s weight. He pushes the pillows all the way up against the headboard and reclines into it. There’s nothing to do right now but wait.

 Part of Luke does worry that all Dinah wanted out of him were answers. That she’d manage to slip out some kind of way and she’ll always just be a fragment of Luke’s life, a piece that he would always hunger after but never be able to satiate. However, the bathroom door cracks open and a tiny bit of steam escapes out in the air not occupied by Dinah. It’s just a tank top and leggings but Luke’s quick to turn his attention back to TV. It’s definitely not the gown she used to sleep in all those years ago. But even then, that felt scandalous too. And maybe it’s not even the clothes themselves, it’s just Dinah and the attraction that Luke never lost. 

Dinah settles next to Luke on the bed, watching first just the TV screen. “So Mardi Gras was the first time I realized that because I didn’t have hardly any blood in me, getting drunk takes a lot more than it used to.”

Luke tries to hold back his laughter, one hand covering his mouth. “Do not tell me that you were just slamming back drinks and suddenly realized folks were looking at you crazy for not being drunk.”

“No, of course not. I was absolutely told that in order to feel the same affects from alcohol before I required a lot more than before. No, no one told me. Though, my stomach at the time was use a pretty blood heavy diet, so eating and drinking human food made me queasy. So when I vomited shortly after, folks stopped staring so much afterwards.” Luke lets the giggles escape him, shoulders shaking as he holds onto the remote. “I did however, keep that in mind when I went to Carnival.”

Luke quirks an eyebrow. “Are we talking like, a carnival cruise ship?”

Dinah shakes her head, no, laughing. “No, definitely not the cruise ship. Trinidad Carnival. I heard from some other girls about it. They invited me to go with them. I looked good that trip.”

“Was this during the day?”

Dinah waves a hand. “Details, details.” Though they can withstand some sun, they can’t handle a lot of it. And in Trinidad, Luke can only assume there’s a lot of sun. Now, if Dinah knew about the fact that they can handle more sun if they’ve previously had some blood. It’s not a significant increase on the amount of time they can be out in the sun, but it is a decent bump up. “I kept to the night mostly, but I did hunt a little so I could go out during the day.”

Luke nods. It could be from her time with council or it could be just trail and error on her learning. He doesn't push on the details though. “Speaking of hunting, what’s your prefered diet?”

“It’s not polite to ask a woman about her weight you know.” It almost sounds serious until Luke sees the smile lifting her cheeks. 

“Pardon me then.”

Dinah shakes her head, a small tuft of laughter trailing off. “I go mostly for animals. But I have had human blood. It’s a treat? Which is not something I thought I’d ever say in my lifetime.”

“It’s wild times for sure.”

“You?”

“Considering I’ve been living in plain sight for the last hundred plus years, I don’t give into human blood much. Was kind of hard when working in a hospital.”

“You worked in a hospital?”

“I changed sheets and cleaned up waste. It wasn’t glamorous.”

Dinah thinks back to when she ran into Luke. At that time, he was working in the local grocery store. Rumor had it before he disappeared he was lined up to take over as manager. Dinah wonders if that was considered as getting too close. “Is Luke your-”

“It is,” Luke answers. “It is my real name. I change the last name now most often. I’ve used aliases for my full name before too.”

“The tricks we all have to learn in order to survive,” Dinah comments. 

Luke hums in agreement. “I stopped using first name aliaser a while ago. Luke’s a pretty common name. No one really cares.”

“When you say a while ago, I hope you don’t mind after me.”

Luke shrugs, giving neither a here nor there answer. Though, she’ll know the truth. It didn’t feel like lying before. It felt like survival. It felt like the smart thing to do, to bury who he was and become whomever he needed to be at the time. But after Dinah that all changed. A lot changed after her, but he doesn’t offer that up. He swallows that thought back down and flicks his gaze back to the TV in front of them. 

“What’s up next for you?” Dinah knows she shouldn’t ask. She shouldn’t have so much hope in her voice. 

“Take a bus somewhere, anywhere really. I’ve learned to travel light and just go wherever feels right.”

“So where feels right to you?”

“North,” Luke answers, turning his head to look at her. She’s picking at her nails, head hanging low on her neck. “What about you?”

At first it’s just a shrug. “I’m kind of tired of moving around. And I feel silly saying that to you. You’ve been dealing with this shit for a lot longer.”

“The only thing that kept you going before was probably the hope of running into me. So it makes sense. Now you’ve gotta recalibrate. Figure out what you want next.”

“I want to settle down. I know I won’t ever have the normal life or the kids, or grandkids that I wanted. But I’ve bounced from a few covens that were nice enough to let me stay and I guess I’ve always been a sucker for the found family idea.”

“There’s nothing wrong with that, settling down. Just requires some money and the right place.”

Dinah nods at Luke’s comment. She was a little screwed on the money part. She didn’t have much before her change and in the time she had left the council, a lot of what she made went towards her car and the ventures to find Luke. Now, she had to figure out where she could settle down and what work she could get to help her save up. The conversation turns into a small lull, both of them watching the show on the TV. 

Luke didn’t want to lose Dinah a second time. But there was no way he could just ask to join her. Not after she told him that she had to sort of her own feelings. It’s easy to see though. It’s easy to feel how things feel like they’re almost picking back up from when they last met. But it’s not an edge to it, a bit of tension. So Luke lets the question linger on the back of his tongue but doesn’t voice it. The conversation takes a turn to a story about how Dinah’s saved quite a few cats from trees and Luke shares a few stories about his time at the hospital, the older woman that hit on him. 

Before they even realize, the sun’s peeking in from the curtains of the room. And even sooner than that, the sun starts to caress the horizons again. Luke doesn’t know where he’s going to wind up, what he’s going to be doing tomorrow let alone what will happen in a couple of weeks. He scribbles down his email though onto the hotel stationary. He makes sure to tuck into the palm of her hand at the entrance of the bus station. “Do you remember the address of the bar we met at?” Luke asks. 

Dinah nods. “Yeah I do. It’s not a bar anymore. It’s part of some shopping center now or it was the last time I checked.”

Luke nods, it was a shopping center when he last went by it too. “Meet me there. When you get those feelings sorted out.”

Dinah almost tells him that he should join her. He should stop running and finally settle down. Though, that could be her projecting more than it is what he actually wants. Dinah glances at the paper at the email address scribbled across it. “I can do that.”

“Reach out. Anytime. If that changes, I’ll let you know well in advance.”

“Who’s leaving who?” Dinah asks. It feels stupid to ask right now. If she really didn’t want Luke to go, she had every chance last night and during the day. 

“Maybe this isn’t leaving.” Luke needs it to be leaving. He wants to invite himself along. He wants to join along because it’s Dinah. Because he’s got a second shot with her. But he’s not sure if settling down is smart, right now. If it’s what he needs to do. “Maybe it’s just ‘see you around’ like an until next time. Now you don’t have to track me down. “

*********

Luke’s sitting at the bar, a towel thrown over his shoulder. The night’s yet to begin really. It’s early and a Friday night. There’s no doubt in his mind thought that in another couple of hours the entire place will be packed with a flood of people. A new patron wanders in and slides up to the bar. Luke greets them with a smile, taking in the dark curls on their head but he knows it’s not Dinah. He keeps hoping. He keeps praying, but so far in the month and a half he’s been here, she’s yet to show up. 

They’ve talked extensively over the last couple of months. Luke went north for a little bit, but ultimately his gut told him to head south and go west. So he did. He landed back just north of where he lived last time out in LA. He had a gut feeling, something that itched the back of his brain and told him that Dinah would just randomly show up in LA. She wouldn’t wait to make a date and time to meet. Luke wanted to beat her to the punch.

“Cider please,” the woman asks, listing off the house brand. Luke checks the ID before reaching for a clean glass and pulls the level for the tap. 

“Opening or closing?” he asks. 

“Just the one,” they return, handing over the card. It’s a few more seconds before the receipt prints off for them to sign and they disappear to the floor, off to a booth. Half an hour later, more people filter in and head towards their booth. 

Luke hangs back, making sure all his bottles are full and ready for the night, that there are no messes on the spill mats though soon he knows there will be the inevitable spill from him. His phone vibrates in his pocket and he steals a moment to look at it. A notification for a new email. On instinct, he’s quick to open it and a brand new email sits in his inbox. The subject sends him into a frenzy. 

Meet me downtown. At the dive bar. 

Just as Luke goes to reply, not bothering with the body of the email, a voice calls out to him from the bar. “What should a girl drink around here?”

When Luke lifts his gaze from his phone, he laughs. Dinah’s dressed in her old school signature red jumpsuit, those it’s definitely been revamped since the last time he’s seen it. Her hair’s braid back into a mohawk. But it’s still Dinah. “What are you looking for? Something sweet? Something to knock you off your ass?”

“Little bit of both.”

Luke starts to make her a drink, remembering from all their adventures what she’s always been partial to a little tequila. “How’d you find me? This isn’t our meeting spot.”

Dinah shakes her head. “You told me where you got a job. Or did you forget?”

The orange drink settles in front of her and Luke tilts his head to the side. “I don’t remember telling you.”

There’s a snort that cuts through the chatter and music of the bar. “Well, you did. Which is why I’m here.”

A group walks up to the bar and Luke excuses himself for just a second to help them. It’s a minute between setting up shots and drinks, but Luke watches Dinah from the corner of her eye. She stays perched at the bar counter, sipping at the tequila sunrise. Luke winks at her, pulling the last bit of sprite into the drink and sets it onto the counter. The group opens a tab and starts on their way back towards the dancefloor. 

Luke’s sure he probably did tell her where he’s working. He’s sure that he wanted to be explicitly clear that he was waiting on her. Maybe it was just his own brain playing tricks on him. Even though he was around forever, didn’t mean he wasn’t exempt from the occasional brain fart. “So, if you’re here,” Luke starts, wiping his hands on the towel, “I hope that means feelings have been sorted.”

“Yes,” Dinah laughs. “Yes they have been. But I don’t want to impede on your job.”

“Told you it was only a matter of time. My shift ends at 2. If you don’t want to hang around, I get it. Just meet me back here and we can go and talk and I’ll make you chocolate chip pancakes.”

“Or I could sit here all night, staring at you, and then we leave for your place for chocolate chip pancakes.”

“Both of those work,” Luke laughs. Briefly, he runs a hand over hers. She’s real and she’s here. From wherever she’s been, Dinah’s sitting across the bar from Luke right now. “We’ve got a lot to catch up on. If you ever found that place to settle down at.”

Dinah squeezes his hand, unsure of what she can say, of what words convey how relieved she’s here, sitting across from him. “We do have a lot to catch up on. But thank God we’ve got plenty of time, right?”

She’s not insinuating what he thinks she is. Luke’s sure he’s standing there with his mouth agape, big enough for any number of insects or birds to make a nice home. Dinah’s laughter cuts above the throaty croak of the bass. “You’re not saying what I think you’re saying,” Luke whispers, leaning across the wooden counter to her.

“Maybe I am,” she grins, hands cupping his chin and the slight scruff decorating it now. 

It’s quick. Fast enough that Luke swears he can hardly register it, but slow enough that it definitely makes me crave more. Her lips seal over his in a kiss. One he wishes he could’ve had earlier. But nevertheless, the feeling of her lips against his is something that he won’t ever be able to get over; it’ll be implanted into his memory for the rest of his existence. 

“One more,” Luke whispers against her lips, feeling her drawing away. “Wasn’t long enough.”

Dinah laughs, but kisses Luke again. A little longer, a little firmer, a little deeper than the first, But she wheels it in, “You’re on the clock, you know?”

“I can very quickly be off it too.”

“Luke!” she reprimands, pushing lightly at his shoulder. “I am going to take this drink, which, here,” she slides cash across the counter, “definitely need to pay for and I’m going far far away from the bar so I’m not a distraction.”

“No, stay. Want you close. And you do not need to pay.” Luke straights up, sliding the bill back towards her. 

“A tip. For you and your amazing customer service,” Dinah urges. And whether Luke likes it or not, he obliges before getting back to work. Dinah knew about two weeks after he dropped Luke off at the New York bus station that she was going to find him again. And when she did find him again, she wouldn’t have questions and she wouldn’t have so much hostility. First, she needed to work through all that. The calls helped; they opted not to email too much but the conversations along the way helped alleviate the residual confusion. Contact was often and thorough and when she needed space, Luke didn’t cross it. 

She looked for a place to settle down at and she concluded on a place up in Canada. It was nice, mostly tucked away, but still close to a city that she could still get necessities. She hadn’t told Luke about it yet. He hadn’t made any clear indications that he was looking to settle down but it shocked her when he mentioned moving to LA and finding local work. She was under the impression that they would meet again, in LA, when both of them were ready. However, maybe this was an indication that Luke was ready already. 

The night goes by fast. Or maybe it just feels fast because this is Dinah’s day. After last round, Dinah lets Luke know that she’ll be waiting outside, in the front lot. The Uber’s and taxis pull away, after picking up their respective groups and leave Dinah in the almost dark. But there’s so much light around from other signs and bars and restaurants, that it’s almost impossible to be in the dark for too long. 

“My car’s over here,” Luke states, well in advance, to warn Dinah. She turns to find his throwing his thumb over his shoulder. “Where did you park?”

Dinah points her keys in his direct and her car beeps to life. “Few spaces from you.”

“Should’ve known. We can take your car. Mine will be fine overnight.”

“You sure?”

Luke nods, reaching out for her hand. “I’m sure. You’ll just have to give a ride to work--that’s all.”

“Something tells me I think I’d be okay with that.”

“Good, I’m glad,” he laughs, brushing his thumb over her skin. “So, you gotta let me in on what’s been happening with you?”

“You know me. Singing to make ends meet,” Dinah teases. Luke bumps her arm and she knows he wants the truth. She knows that he wants to know about the settling down and the feelings. And she can give all that to him. She can give him all the truth. 

Tagging @5-secondsofcolor​ for morning reads

[mtraki]

(Warning: Little bit of [terrible] smut in this one...  Also I don't have any personal grievance with the Catholic church, nor is my intention to offend!) 

 Storms had been building on the horizon for weeks.

They rolled through slow and continuous, one after another, and the thunder growled out across the dry lands, even though above the desert basin the sky remained bright blue and virtually cloudless.

 At night, Catherine watched the lightning flicker.  Sometimes the girls would join her-- usually Tilly or Jenny.  Sean would join them if Karen was there, and they’d share drinks and jokes.  Arthur and Charles would smoke in deep contemplation, eyes fixed on the flashing horizon, but only long enough for one cigarette.

 “You’d best get some sleep,” Arthur warned her, flicking the butt of his into the dirt before scuffing it out with his boot, “Hosea’s got us ridin’ into Tumbleweed to check in on his ‘friend’, Mister Graff.”

 Hosea often had them riding out to follow up on his leads.   Catherine was there as her ‘father’s’ representative, and Arthur was Hosea’s favorite choice for her guardian as he was more obviously physically capable at first glance than either John or Javier, and Dutch had Charles running another job.  Catherine suspected the old man was stirring up trouble after their talk about how he thought Arthur was in love with her. If Mister Morgan suspected anything, he didn’t share his thoughts with her.  Altogether, he was behaving much more aloof, and Catherine was certain Dutch’s recent behavior had much to do with it.  If not everything.

 “I remember.  I’ll be ready.”

 “Maybe bring a change of clothes this time?” He teased, corner of his mouth twisting ruefully, “Don’ want t’be delayed on account of rain.”

 “I suppose that would be best for both of us, then.  Goodnight, Mister Morgan.” She smiled back warmly.

 He avoided looking her in the face and instead turned away, heading for his tent, “‘Night, Miss Schofield.”

 It twisted in her guts like a sharp piece of metal, and she wasn’t sure exactly why.  At least this new arrangement suited Dutch’s sensitive pride better, it seemed, and so Catherine took it upon herself to bear it with quiet dignity.  As well as treat Dutch with the same cool aloofness.  She spent her nights with the other women, and did not entertain any of the outlaw’s flattery.

Lenny was having better luck.  He’d convinced Miss Kirk to ride out with him to try and shake out a lead somewhere.  Catherine found it decidedly encouraging that they were not back yet.  If any man in this world could treat Jenny right, it was surely Mister Summers.  His youth and inexperience were strengths in this regard, because he was open to education, which Jenny could surely provide if she only gave him the chance…

 With a sigh, Miss Schofield turned to retreat to her spot, settled between Tilly and Mary-Beth under the canvas, the lightning still flickering on the horizon behind her.

 They left early in the morning, and ate a light breakfast in the saddle.  Arthur was particularly withdrawn and taciturn, and the lady suspected he hadn’t rested well.  Or maybe Dutch had made a point to chap his hide over their being alone together?  She didn’t ask, and he didn’t say.

 Likely, the outlaw was determined to make it a long, quiet ride.  She let him, for about an hour and a half, but then her patience was exhausted and she began to make conversation, refusing to become discouraged by his resistance.  In the end, he was helpless before her. She was too well-trained in the arts of social discourse, and he was not nearly skilled or stubborn enough to resist her efforts.

 He’d spent twenty years learning all the best ways to rob, threaten, and kill people.  She’d spent nearly that long perfecting how to charm them.

 Arthur soon warmed to the conversation, and with Dutch and the rest of the camp so far behind them, relaxed into their former camaraderie.  As ever, it took a bit of work and encouragement to turn his thoughts and words from the immediate and practical, towards something they could both muse over.  Presently, they’d stumbled into a discussion about justice and capital punishment.

 “You know I don’ flinch away from killin’ at all, Miss Schofield.  Folks that need killin’ should be killed.”

 “So you are for judicial, summary execution, as it stands now?”

 “Well…” He laughed a bit, his humor dark-- as it often was, “I much prefer dispensation with a bullet instead of a rope.”

 “‘Dispensation’ is a good word, I approve.” She grinned at him, “But you must accept that a rope is altogether more economical.”

 “What are you talking about-- bullets come mighty cheap--”

 “--Bullets, sure, but to keep a gun in killing condition, for the number of executions a sheriff or other authority might need to dispense… These costs rack up swiftly as opposed to acquiring a rope which can be reused…”

 Arthur shrugged, “Sure, but you was talkin’ justice, not economics.  You want death on the cheap, jus’ cut out the throat or drown’ ‘em in a trough, or hell, just beat 'em t’death…”

 Making a thoughtful sound, brow furrowing, Catherine said, “So you contend that shooting a man is more just than hanging him?”

 “You been to many hangin’s, Miss?”

 “No.  I never understood the entertainment in watching someone die-- deserved or otherwise.”

 “--That’s a different discussion altogether, but I’ve seen a good number of hangings.  Civil and… outside the law proper.  Ain’t none of ‘em just from where I was standin’.  It’s a bad death, even if the end of the rope kills quick-- an’ it don’t always.”

 “... From my… limited study… the mode of execution is the severing of the spine-- the force breaks the victim’s neck.  I’ve heard that sometimes this doesn’t happen and the victim strangles to death.”

 “Your limited study bein’ readin’ about it?”

 “Mostly, though some of my peers back home have a grotesque fascination with the subject of execution and attend them as frequently as garden parties.”

 “Your books and rich, fancy gawkers ever talk about what it’s like to watch a man kick his legs while he spins helpless at the end of a rope, jerking up and down, before he starts seizing up?  Or how he looses his bowels in front of the crowd jeering for his blood before he blacks out?”

 Catherine looked at him to find he was looking at her.  Though his mouth was in a firm line, none of his displeasure was directed at her-- he didn’t blame her for her ignorance on the matter, he was simply trying to teach her, and express his point of view.  He wanted her to understand.

 If only Dutch talked to her this way… things could be so different.  So much better…

 “Alright, Arthur,” She said with a nod, “you’ve made your case against the noose.  Now explain how a bullet is better.  Death by firing squad was conceived very specifically in the military to diffuse the blood guilt.  So now we’d need five guns and bullets and men of courage with steady aim…?”

 The outlaw snorted, “Or just one.”

 “Not many men in this world can carry the burden of a hundred or more deaths, Arthur.”          “No,” He agreed, “Fortunately sheriffs are elected in an’ out, ain’t they?  After their term of service, they can retire quiet-like someplace.”

 “Even besides the shooter, there’s the crowd to think of.  You mentioned the indignity of a victim loosing their bowels, what about the horror of flesh and bone being ripped apart by a gunshot?”

 “I thought the point was to make an example…” He raised both eyebrows at her, as if surprised she didn’t understand this basic premise.

 Scoffing, Catherine shook her head, “If it is, then we aren’t talking about justice at all, and I stand even more firmly in my position against the supposed moral and legal superiority of capital punishment.”

 “So no hangin’s or shootin’s?  Whatchu gonna do with rotten folk like us, then?  Lock us up?” Arthur laughed.

 “Educate you.” She said frankly, looking him dead in the face so that he sobered and knit his brow together.

 “Educate us…?  You want to educate the killers and thieves and rapers?”

 “That should be the burden of the government, should it not?  Look at yourself, and most folks in the gang!  It’s a question of why you’re killers and thieves!  Surely if you had been taught necessary skills with which to integrate into society you wouldn’t feel like you’d been rejected by it like so much refuse--”

 “--You know, I don’ much follow news like this,” Arthur interjected suddenly, “but I heard tell the government is doin’ something like that very thing with the native peoples they’d rounded up.  The tribes.  Takin’ their kids an’ puttin’ them in these schools to teach ‘em how to be ‘American’ an’ ‘acceptable-like’…”

 Under his clever, pointed look, Catherine blushed, torn between embarrassment at her dangerous ignorance, genuine pleasure that he’d challenged her, and a small sense of pride in knowing it was her influence that had engendered this willingness to engage in a tête-à-tête at all.

 “...There’s a marked difference between educating and equipping the poor in one’s own culture… and destroying the culture of another people.  I’m not suggesting education can cure all the sins of man’s collective black heart, Mister Morgan, but I am suggesting that it’s clear that the current system only benefits the select few-- the rich.  For it is the poor who are turning to crime to satisfy their needs, and the poor who are summarily executed for it.  Yet we call it  justice and tell ourselves we’re doing very well.”

 Arthur shook his head, “Some folks are jus’ evil, Miss Catherine.”

 “Yes, but unless everyone has their needs fulfilled, we’ll never be able to tell the evil from the simply desperate.  The way they tell it, only God Himself has that power.”

 “I suppose the Reverend might agree we ought to leave justice in the hands of the Almighty…” remarked the outlaw dryly, “but I expect not much’ll get done either way…”

 This led to a discussion about the failings of the good Reverend as an individual, and the Catholic Church as an institution.  This more serious conversation quickly devolved into the trading of off-color jokes and humorous stories. Arthur’s humor was dry and dark as the tomb, but it was his sense of      timing     that threatened some inelegant, unladylike laughter out of Catherine.  Though she had little talent in entertainment, for her part, the lady had a small but efficient repertoire at her disposal, and soon discovered how much she liked hearing Arthur laugh unrestrained until he wheezed for breath.  She determined then and there to acquire greater skill in humor.

 It was then the arroyo opened around them, and Tumbleweed greeted them, starting with the chapel to their right, which caused them to shoot each other half-guilty, half-smirking looks.  But it was the tree standing in the graveyard that drew Catherine’s attention and held it.

 The thing was dead, as it had been the last time she’d seen it some weeks ago, but now half was torn away, broken off and lying at an awkward angle on the ground amidst shattered bits of branches.

 “What in the world..?” She murmured stunned and intrigued.  Never in her life had she seen anything like it.

 Arthur had, it seemed, for his tone, though interested, lacked the note of naked shock hers held, “Lightning.”

 “Really!”

 Smiling at her, he nodded, “Yes’m.  That’s lightning for sure.”

 Dismounting, Catherine could hardly stop herself from approaching the ruined tree, unconcerned with how Woden snorted and trotted toward the water trough in front of the saloon where he would be certain to drench the entire length of his reins getting a drink.   Chuckling quietly-- either at the horse, his rider, or both together-- the big outlaw dismounted as well, though his steed was well-behaved enough to stay where he’d been left on the side of the road.  All of it barely registered, the lady was fixated by the appearance of the tree and entirely engrossed in trying to piece together exactly how the lightning had done this.

 “... I’m certain we haven’t seen any storms this close…” She murmured.

 “Mhm…” Was Arthur’s quiet acknowledgement over the scratching of his pencil on paper.  He was in his journal-- sketching the image in front of them, she was sure of it. He’d never shared his drawings with her, and she’d never been so bold as to pry-- not with how quick he was to tuck away the journal any time her eyes rested on it longer than a moment.

 Her curiosity gave her an infamous reputation in many respects among those in the camp.

 “Does lightning really travel that far from its source?” She wondered aloud, instead, “...And isn’t it supposed to strike the tallest structure-- that church steeple is much taller!  Besides, I don’t see any scorch marks, do you?”

 Arthur was chuckling again, low in his broad chest, “Miss Schofield, if you don’ believe me it was lightnin’, you can come out an’ say so, plain…”

 “It’s not that,” Was her quick amendment, “You’ve seen it before, so I must acknowledge your greater experience in the matter… it’s just… the evidence here seems to contradict so many things I understood about the nature of lightning!”

 Snapping closed his journal, Arthur’s eyes were on Catherine’s face-- she could feel the weight of his gaze-- and his smile was warm, but there was teasing in his eyes when she turned her head to meet his look, “‘Things’?  Like thunderbolts bein’ thrown down from Olympus by Zeus?”

 “That would be a myth, Arthur, not a theory backed by scientific data documented in books,” She rolled her eyes, and he laughed.

 “What about ‘lightning don’ strike the same place twice’?”

 Blinking at him, she frowned, “You mean that’s not true?  The odds seem mathematically very slim.”

 “I dunno about mathematics, an’ I’m pretty good with odds, but--” He stopped suddenly, a strange expression crossing his face.   Catherine didn’t bother asking, she sensed it too, just for a moment: a strange smell in the air-- sharp and acrid on the tongue, and a queer sensation over her skin that raised the hair at the nape of her neck and tickled at the thin hairs on her arms.

 It lasted only a moment-- in the same moment she saw Arthur lunge for her-- and then everything exploded in white hot light flanked in boiling red, and they were thrown to their knees, shouting their shared alarm.  Slim gave a piercing whinny, the stout warhorse was unmoved by most threats, but this terrible      explosion     frightened him all the same.  The air around them seemed to tremble with the echo of a terrible, earth-shaking roar, and the lady wondered if she’d ever hear again as it reverberated in her ears and through every bone in her head enough to send her entire body trembling.

 She was not alone.  Once her vision bled back from the blinding flare of light, she saw Arthur, hatless, on his hands and knees nearby, shaking as well.  She could not hear him yet, but his mouth shaped words she knew to be vehement curses before his eyes turned toward her, worry chasing shock over his features.

 But her eyes went to the tree, where flames licked the sky.

 “Je-- Go--...  Shit…” Arthur whispered, and Catherine started to laugh, knowing what he’d started to say and why he hadn’t said it.

 Arthur Morgan, infamous outlaw, thief, and killer, was afraid to blaspheme the Name of the Lord here in front of the church and this tree that had been-- against all odds-- struck by lightning twice.  For all his teasing of her just a moment ago, Arthur apparently believed-- at least in this moment, at least a little-- the God of Abraham might strike down sinners with lightning from Heaven, should they incite his anger.

 Stranger still, she could think of no reason, in this moment, to contradict him.  Her laughter softened, but turned all the more hysterical as she felt his trembling hands take her shoulders.

 “... Catherine…?”

 She couldn’t stop laughing long enough to assure him she was unhurt, despite the quaking of her bones, and when she met his look, she understood that where the white-hot light had seared through her with terrible shock and amazement, it had set him ablaze on the inside.

 He was concerned for her, certainly, but just behind that concern--chasing like a hound on the heels of a hare--was something hot and desperate.  She reasoned she understood: though he was a man who’d faced death countless times, it was rare indeed to face death ordained by the Heavens themselves-- and see it thwarted somehow.

 Insane odds and a more pressingly desperate, mortal, desire to survive had reshifted priorities in Arthur Morgan’s mind, perhaps?  He wanted her-- had  wanted her for a long time.  Until now, he’d been willing to deny himself for the hundreds of reasons piled up inside and around him, perhaps forever.

 But now… now after facing the wrath and judgement of the Almighty...

 Perhaps not so long, after all?  Time was short.  Life was brutal and fleeting.

 Still gripped by the mad giddiness that caused laughter to spill from her lips, Catherine brought up her hands and traced both sides of his unshaven jawline with trembling fingertips, and watched as something dark and hungry framed the heat in his eyes at her touch.  In a rush, one of his hands moved from her shoulder to the side of her head, fingers threading into her dark hair, half-undone from its chignon, and dragged her in to meet his rushed, exhilarated kiss.

 Shock chased up her spine immediately.  Not because he’d kissed her, but for fear that someone might see them.  Tumbleweed was a small town, and the lightning and fire would certainly draw a crowd at any moment.  How long would it take for their lack of restraint, and disregard for modesty and propriety, to enter the usual rounds of gossip?

 How long before someone back at camp heard about it?  Until Dutch heard?

 Pressing her thumbs lightly against his chin, on each side of the cleft there, Catherine eased her face from Arthur’s.  Though he leaned eagerly after her, pressing against her fingers, he did not use his hands to drag her back or force another kiss upon her.  No matter the violence of his thundering desperation for her, he wasn’t going to force her.

 It was… surprising, given her experiences, and she found it-- like so many things on the growing list she kept in her head for Arthur Morgan-- terribly endearing.

 “...I…”

 “Wait,” She whispered, “... Not here.  Somewhere quiet.”

 He released her, to cover her hands with his, nodding, more to himself than anything.  Then he climbed to his feet and pulled her up after him.

 The burning tree was forgotten.  The horses forgotten.  His hat, there on the dusty ground, forgotten.  The job forgotten.  He pulled her after him direct to the gunsmith.  He wasn’t thinking, Catherine supposed, only doing-- driven by instinct or need, or both.  Her own thoughts were whirling in disorder so quickly she could hardly piece them together.   She’d always been aware that at any moment he might desire for her to make good on all her flirtations-- like every man before him-- but after Dutch’s threats…

 After Hosea’s accusations…

 The timing was certainly poor, but she wasn’t really concerned about it, now.  This was…

 … this was familiar territory.  She knew what to do.  She knew what was expected.  She could go through all the motions with hardly a second thought.  It was something of a relief, really, because she’d need her thoughts to decide just how to arrange things afterwards to prevent a disaster…

 She was too distracted by her thoughts to catch whatever Arthur had said to the proprietor-- maybe he hadn’t really said anything at all-- nor did she notice precisely how much money he set down on the counter-- though it looked like a rather large sum.  But then the man handed Arthur a key.  In a rush they were back outside and circling the building and climbing the stairs in the back.

 Arthur’s hands still trembled a bit, and he cursed them under his breath as he struggled with the key in the lock.  Catherine couldn’t help the laughter that bubbled up-- he was still minding his oaths so as to perhaps not offend the Almighty-- but she bit her lips to hold it in.

 She couldn’t help the way her heart raced when the door opened and he pulled her inside the dimness after him.  Or the stuttering it made as the flat of his hand closed the door behind her again. This was familiar territory, certainly, but she had not done so well for herself by becoming complacent.  Every man was at his worst behind closed doors, when the lights went down.  It would be beyond foolish to not meet Arthur Morgan at his worst  with a touch of apprehension.

 But those large, calloused hands, shaped and scarred by a lifetime of violence, were gentle as they cupped her face like it was the finest china.  Even though there was a rampaging storm of urgency and desperation in his heated gaze, he did nothing more.  Not until she looped her arms over his broad shoulders and around his neck, tilting her face up toward him in invitation.  Then he met her like the breaking of a wave against the cliffs on the coast of the northeast, with a similar heavy sigh, and a great deal more care.

 He had no time or room for self-doubt now, and though sorely out of practice, Catherine could tell he knew how to conduct himself so as to please a lady while kissing her.  She wondered whether Dutch had taught him, or Hosea, or his previous lover-- Mary, wasn’t it?  Perhaps all three had their share in his education.  Maybe unknown others.  It didn’t really matter; she was quietly pleased that he was aware of how best to make use of his generous mouth.  Few men bothered to learn, and even fewer bothered to make use of the knowledge, in her unfortunately broad experience.  

 It was one of the things that had drawn her to Mister van Der Linde, initially.  For all his faults, the man knew how to use his mouth well.

 When she felt the outlaw’s fingertips brush down the smooth skin of her throat, she moved her hands as well, sliding over his shoulders and down the broad planes of his chest, quickly working open buttons as she went.  At the same time, she stepped into him, urging him backwards.  Bothering only to make a vaguely inquisitive sound in his throat while he kissed her, Arthur moved as she directed, until the back of his knees hit the bed frame.  By then, she’d gotten his shirt open-- perhaps far more swiftly than he’d expected-- and he’d torn his mouth from hers for want of air, gasping for breath.

 Apparently his education hadn’t included remembering to breathe through his nose whilst his mouth was occupied, or perhaps he was too wound up to remember.  He’d forgotten a great deal else outside, after all...

 He said nothing, just gazed at her like she was the only cup of water left in the desert, and he was already a man on fire, his fingers toying with the pearl button at the throat of her shirtwaist as if he was afraid any further efforts might break it.  Or break her.

 Or this-- that she might, in the end, reject him despite coming this far…

 Under her hands, and his heated skin beneath them, his heart galloped wildly in his chest.  He was shivering all over like a fly-stung colt, quaking as her fingers slid down his body toward his belt without her eyes ever leaving the storm in his.  There was something to be said about the satisfaction of having such a physically imposing man so wholly in her power.

 “Lie down.” She commanded in a soft voice, uncinching his gunbelt with both hands in two smooth motions.  He stooped slowly, the bed too short and too low for him to sit with any kind of real grace, considering his size, and especially with his focus elsewhere.  He stumbled, mumbling a soft curse as his legs and balance forsook him, but the lady used his momentum to push him to the side, so he might fall the length of the bed instead of the width of it to hit his head on the wall.  He flipped to his back in time to reach for her waist with both hands as she climbed after him, parting her riding skirt so her legs wouldn’t bind up together as she moved.

 The bed groaned beneath their shared weight.  Catherine wondered if the shopkeep downstairs could hear.  She wondered if he were listening on purpose.  It was still better than the middle of the street in front of the church and cemetery.  At least here they had plausible deniability for whatever accusations might be thrown…

 The pressure of the outlaw’s fingers kneading into the stiff bones of her corset at her waist sharpened her attention back on him and the task at hand-- he needed something to do with those hands, she supposed.  For whatever reason, he couldn’t find a proper task for them himself. With one of her own hands and a practiced twist of fingers, Catherine popped the pearl button at her throat open, noting how Arthur’s eyes followed their motion.  How the apple of his throat bobbed as he swallowed hard.  Her other hand guided one of his to her throat, willing to suffer his fumbling-- willing to sew buttons back on her own clothing for a change, if necessary-- to see this done, “Here.”

 While he worked the buttons open so slowly, one at a time, her hands found the buttons of his suspenders, and then the fasten of his pants.

 She only paused when she heard his voice, “Wh…?!”

 Her shirtwaist was only half open, and under it, he was pawing the material of her corset cover, confused by the additional row of buttons as an obstacle to get to her.  It was at this precise moment Catherine realized that whatever he might have done, or planned to do with his fancy ‘Miss Mary’, he’d never actually taken her to his bed, or even seen her under-dressed.

 Further, any women he might have taken his pleasure with were either not women of means and fashion, or he’d encountered them already undressed.

 She wondered if this were also the reason Dutch never bothered attempting to undress her: he didn’t want to risk looking a fool.

 Laughing again, Catherine leaned down to smother his frustrated incredulity with a kiss-- which he gladly, hungrily answered-- and opened his pants, sliding her fingers inside.  Moaning into her mouth, the outlaw’s hands clenched hard around the silk-wrapped bones circling and cinching her ribs and waist while his own contracted in a seemingly unconscious manner, rolling his hips to meet her hand.  She found him already hard and slid him free, throbbing heat.  The curious, whirring, analytical part of her mind noted that while his cock-- like the man himself-- was above average in size, it was his girth that made her insides clench and turn icy.  Even as… well used… as she might be, she could not help but feel apprehensive dread at how he might tear through her with his size and strength.

 But it wouldn’t do for her hesitation to show.  What a mess it would be if he were to question her willingness…

 Fondling the length of his shaft with light brushes of her fingertips, Catherine used her free hand to coax one of his to the laces for the waist of her skirt-- with a normal skirt, the hem could be pulled up around her hips to accommodate the joining of bodies, but that which made this garment more decent and ladylike for riding astride a horse made more difficult the riding astride of a man.  She felt his fingers clench suddenly into a fist around the laces and fabric when the second stroke of her hand around his member wrapped her fingers more firmly around him.  His mouth tore from hers again, his face sliding into the hollow of her shoulder while his hips bucked in frantic jerks.  He muffled his wordless shout of surprise, ecstasy, and shamed frustration into her body.

 Equally surprised, Catherine froze as hot ejaculate spattered against the inside of her forearm before dribbling heavily onto her wrist and into her hand.  They sat there a moment, trying to steady their breathing and thoughts.  Her shock wore off quickly.  He was far from the first man to reach completion early--always much to his embarrassment-- and in a way she was relieved.  If this was all it might take to satisfy him, then--

 But Arthur was moving.  Gripping her arms, he pushed her to the side, over his legs, and out of his way as he climbed unsteadily--but determined-- to his feet, hands busying themselves to put himself back in order.

 Thinking him shamed by his lack of performance, Catherine said, “There’s no reason for embarrassment, Arthur.  It’s a perfectly natural--”

 Her words stuttered, snapping into shards in her throat when she caught a glimpse of his expression, however.  He didn���t look embarrassed.  He looked angry.

Quite angry.

 Standing in the middle of the small room, his back to her, the outlaw started for the door, and Catherine was suddenly mortified that he might leave her here like this.  But he stopped halfway, then doubled-back across the room to the washbasin on top of the dresser in the corner, near the foot of the bed, with heavy footfalls that betrayed his emotion.  He took the drying cloth from where it was folded next to the basin and tossed it to her.  Watching the ragged cloth hit the equally ragged bedspread nearby, the lady blinked, mortification still brewing inside.

 This… this had never happened before.  She’d never lain with a man and had him angry-- or even displeased-- by the end.  Never once!  Opening her mouth to ask after him, he instead spoke, cutting her off with his low, disgusted voice.

 “This… this ain’t right…”  He shook his head, still refusing to look at her, presenting her only with his broad back.

 Mortification swelled, and it took only moments for it to give way to anger of her own.  Her tone turned icy, “... You must forgive me, sir, I was not aware my attentions were so displeasing--”

 “Woman, hush.” His scolding came in a sharp, but resigned tone.  “You ain’t stupid.  You know precisely what I’m on about.  You… you’re Dutch’s woman, dammit!  How can I…  I can’t…  This…  This ain’t right!”

 Anger bubbled inside, boiling thick and heavy like a pot of coffee, “Yes.  Dutch’s woman.  As much a possession-- an  object-- for his display to prop up his vanity and pride as all his others.  A pretty and gaudy trapping to use or set aside as he pleases! Is that ‘right’, Arthur?”

 He didn’t answer her.

 Her emotions strangled her, forcing her voice out so hushed it was almost a hiss, “He doesn’t love me.  He hardly cares for me.  He just wants to keep me.  Like… like a jewel.  But I’m not a jewel, I’m a woman with my own mind!  So don’t… don’t you dare try and shame me for this, Arthur!”

 Saying nothing in reply, Arthur turned for the door, still refusing to look at her.  She knew he was going for certain this time, and Catherine desperately tried to find words and voice-- something to say that might stop him.  Of his own accord, he paused in the doorway.

 “I’ll get the horses.  Clean yerself up an’ meet me in front.” His voice was the opposite of hers-- calm, quiet, dispassionate.  Businesslike.

 Mortification and anger fled in the wake of humiliation, and Catherine suddenly had nothing more to say.  How shameful that in this moment, Arthur Morgan be more composed than she.

 She did not watch him leave, instead turning her attention to the cloth and wiping his seed from her hand and arm.  The sound of the door closing behind him and his heavy, booted steps back down the stairs hammered against her turned back, and try as she might, the lady could not help but feel as if she was being isolated from the rest of the world.  Again.

 Determining the best and only way forward was to make the best of the terrible situation, Catherine endeavored to be nothing but sweet and agreeable, despite the pit of aching, gnawing emotion between her ribs.

 She waved and smiled at the gunsmith through the window, and he smiled and raised his hand in acknowledgement before she turned to meet Arthur and the horses.  The outlaw’s expression was a mask of granite, and his eyes rested on her only the moment it took to verify she could mount the tall thoroughbred well enough on her own.

 “I see you found your hat,” The lady observed cheerfully, “Thats a bit of good luck.”

 “C’mon,” Was his quiet reply, turning the solid Ardennes with a push of his knee,  “we still need t’find Mister Graff.”

 Hosea would be expecting a good report.  Stifling a sigh, Catherine followed the iron grey warhorse and his rider, smoothing her mount’s mane idly as her eyes turned back toward the tree in the graveyard.  Blackened by the fire, parts of it were still smoldering, though the flames had gone out.

[brightlycoloredteacups]

Battle Plans

Series: Brynhilda’s Saga: Ivar x OC

Warnings: mentions of blood

           The moment she had Brynhilda had stumbled in, Ivar in tow, the girls had stopped what they were doing. All she had to do was ask for help before the girls hopped to it, fussing over her in the midst of getting a bath ready. Ivar can’t help but smile as he watches Brynhilda order the girls about. Order wasn’t the right word. She simply asked for something, and they gave it to her. He had to wonder if life had always been like this for her.

           Brynhilda sits, eating gruel the slaves saved for her. She’s tense, obviously in pain from the way she’s leaning to one side. It isn’t until the smallest slave stops rushing about that Brynhilda’s posture softens. “Rhona,” She calls, “What is it?” The child is maybe eight, maybe nine, Ivar doesn’t care to think about it too long. The little girl’s face scrunches up, and tears begin to fall. Ivar stifles his laughter as a look of utter panic crossed Brynhilda’s face. “What is it? Why are you crying? Did someone say something to you?” She puts her bowl to the side, poised to do…something.

           Rhona shakes her head, then begins to wail. Brynhilda is up like a shot. For one moment, Ivar thinks Brynhilda is going to slap her. Serves the little irritant right, disturbing the relative peace with her caterwauling. Instead, Brynhilda kneels in front of the child and begins to soothe her. If he hadn’t seen it with his own eyes, he wouldn’t know she could be so soft. “Hush little Rhona,” Brynhilda whispers, wiping at the child’s face. “It’s alright.”

“No, it’s not!” Rhona wails. “You almost died!” She flings herself at Brynhilda, who grunts. The way Brynhilda holds her hands out in front of her, unsure of what to do, is comical. Ivar definitely lets out a snigger. Slowly, she wraps her arms around the tiny girl and picks her up. “Rhona, hush, I didn’t even come close to dying.” She makes a motion to the others to continue with their chores as she paces back and forth with the child in her arms.

           Rhona pulls back, still crying. “You didn’t?” She whimpers. Brynhilda scoffs. “A hundred men couldn’t kill me.”

“What about a hundred and one?” Ivar teased. This upsets Rhona once more, and her wailing begins anew. Brynhilda shoots Ivar a glare, who manages to look halfway apologetic. After a few, tense moments, Brynhilda calms Rhona’s cries into mere whimpers. There’s something about the scene that perturbs Ivar. He begins to squirm in his seat and is close to leaving when Brynhilda passes Rhona off to Vigdis. “Go,” She says. The girls look at her, confused for a moment. “You’re all needed in the great hall for tonight’s feast. Go.”

“What about you?” Sigrid whispers. Brynhilda gives her a smile. “It’s just an arrow to the shoulder, I’m hardly going to die.” She shoos the girls out without so much as another word. The moment the door closes she begins to undress, heedless of Ivar’s presence. Early on in her disrobing he decides if she’s comfortable showing off to him, he’s comfortable staring.

           Ivar’s eyes don’t wander past the arrow hole for a long while. The blood on her back and shoulder captivates him. The dark red splashes on her rich skin stirs something within him, so much so, he has to suppress a groan. The movement that distracts him from his staring is when she beds to drop her pants. He can now take in all of her. Scars crisscross her dark skin, telling stories he yearns to hear. The largest one is the one that runs down her spine.

           At the sound of him crawling off his seat, Brynhilda turns slightly to watch him, ready to defend herself if needed. There’s a sort of reverent look on his face that heats her cheeks. No one has ever looked at her the way Ivar is looking at her now. He reaches her quickly. Settling behind her, he lifts his hand to touch her scar. He stops, just before he can touch her skin. Looking at her for approval to touch it, she turns from him, denying such a pleasure. Ivar is a little hurt as she slips into the tub.

           “Do me a favor and take down my hair.” He rolls his jaw. “I’m the one who gives orders.”

“I’m not giving you orders, I’m asking you to do me a favor.”

“Do it yourself.” She turns to glare at him. “I can’t exactly lift my arm over my head, can I?” He simply glares back at her, not understanding the root of his irritation. “It seems I forgot I was talking to the most selfish brat in Midguard.”

“I’m not-”

“Yes, you are,” Brynhilda growls, twisting her body in an uncomfortable position to get at her hair. “Stop,” He snaps, wincing at the rush of blood that comes from her shoulder. “I’ll do it.” Brynhilda does what he says and settles back into the tub. “Thank you.” She whispers. Ivar merely grunts.

           Despite the crud tangled throughout her curly locks, Brynhilda’s hair is soft, and smells of the forest. It’s much longer than he anticipates, reaching almost to the floor as he undoes her braids bit by bit. The moment he’s done, Brynhilda dunks herself underneath the water, holding for a few seconds.  She leans back when she resurfaces. He crawls to the side of the tub, leaning his back against it. “How did you get the scar on your back?” He asks quietly. “Boggvir Blood Eagled me.” She says it with such a matter-of-fact tone Ivar has to look at her to make double sure she isn’t lying.

           Her face is pure hatred, and he’s glad it isn’t directed at him. “I gave that bastard ten years of my life, I made him king, and he repaid me, by trying to kill me. His best warrior.”

“And you plan on killing him.” Ivar says. Brynhilda’s smile sends shivers down his spine. That new feeling stirs his gut again. She leans forward. “I’m going to destroy him,” She says. “I will ruin him, everything he holds dear will be mine for the taking. I will cut out his heart out and burn it.” A shiver runs down Ivar’s spine.

           Brynhilda begins washing her hair, jaw clenching and unclenching as she moves her arm. “Let me do that, stupid.” Ivar grumbles. She stops, watching as he drags a chair towards the bath and settles in it. He leans forward and begins to wash her hair.  “What about the others?” He asks. She waves her hands in the air. “The only one I’d have actual trouble with is Falki.”

“Who’s he?”

“She is one of the people I helped to make a jarl.”  Ivar spends a long time working Brynhilda’s hair before he speaks. “I don’t understand,” he says. “You are apparently this all-powerful woman, descended from the gods, tell me, why did you put so many others in power, but take none for yourself?” Brynhilda throws water over the shoulder, rinsing it out as best she can. “You took your time with your kill today,” She begins. “You drew it out as long as you could. Was it pleasurable, taking his life?” Ivar nods, the grunts when he realizes she can’t see him. She smiles at him. “It always is.” She whispers.

           She cranes her neck to look at him, a completely new look overcoming her. It’s wild, ethereal. Ivar shifts, taking all that long hair from the tub and putting it on his lap to comb. He’s utterly captivated by her look. “It’s even better when you’re on the battlefield.” She begins. “The only thing standing between you and them; empty space.” She waves her hand out in front of her. “There’s a charge in the air, your heart begins to race, the tension is so thick, it’s palpable. And then,” she snaps her fingers, “the command to charge. You rush in, it takes hours, days, to reach the opposition. And when you do.”

           She grabs the edge of the tub, her crazed smile making her look like some sort of demon. “It’s glorious, such chaos. All you can focus on is the killing blow. Intelligence and planning may win battles, but instinct wins fights.” She twists, standing on her knees in the tub. She takes his face in between her rough hands and presses her forehead against his. He can do nothing but grip the edge of the tub. “I love fighting,” she confesses, running her thumbs over his cheeks. “From beginning to end. But my favorite part is when it’s all finished. You stand, victorious in a sea of the dead and dying. Covered in blood. Nothing makes you feel more alive.”

           The fever passes over Brynhilda has quickly as it had taken hold of her. She lets go of his face and leans back in the tub again. Her wolfish features settling. “My entire point is, I am a warrior, not a ruler. You just sit there and make decisions all day long. I’d go crazy within the hour.”

           Ivar watches her for a long while, then takes her hair back into his lap. In his minds eye, he can see it. She stands in front of a thousand faceless men and women. A picture of calm before the storm. Then, she screams, breaking the silence, rushing forward for the kill. Before he can get too lost, he has to know, “Who are you going to kill first?”

“Falki.” Ivar frowns. “But you said she would be the toughest to kill, why wouldn’t you save her for last?”

“Precisely because she is the toughest to kill.” Brynhilda explains. “You’ve thought a lot about this.” He mutters. “I spent an entire winter and most of a spring recuperating, training. I’ve had a lot of time to think, and to plan.”

“I still don’t understand why you’d start with this…Falki woman.” Brynhilda cracks open an eye. “When you’re getting ready to go into battle, you want to take out the strongest person first, usually.” Ivar nods, shifting again to ease some of the pain in his legs. “Sometimes, if you’re in a hard position, you have to weigh the benefits and the risks.”

“You are one woman, Falki has an army.” Brynhilda frowns. “What’s your point?” Ivar splashes some water on her face. “How do you presume to get to someone with an army.” Brynhilda huffs. “Falki thinks me dead. She won’t be on her guard. I know the shit hole she lives in better than she wants to admit.”

“You will sneak in.” Ivar mutters, getting the last tangles out of her hair. Brynhilda smiles. “Yes, and I will beat her to death with my own hands. Then, I will put her head on a spike and gain control of the most well supplied army under Boggvir’s rule.”

“And then what?” Brynhilda growls. “You are very nosy.” She snaps. “I just want to make sure my slave brings honor to my name when she’s freed.” Brynhilda laughs, the most genuine laugh he’s ever heard from her.

           They don’t say anything for a long time. Ivar sits still, thinking about the trouble Brynhilda will bring  while she soaks. Every once in a while, she will splash water on her body. She breaks the silence. “My parents didn’t sell me.”

“What?” Ivar mutters, looking at her. “My parents. They didn’t sell me. They were killed.” Ivar frowns. “What’s your point?” He can’t figure out where this is coming from. “My point,” She says, glaring at him. “Is that I had very loving parents. And I don’t appreciate you insinuating otherwise.”

           Ivar begins to argue, but she holds a hand up. “You’re going to ruin our moment. Just leave.” Ivar huffs, but crawls from his chair and out into the night. It’s good that he’s leaving, he has to figure out the ache in his chest.