#sorry to be clogging my followers dashboards with the turtle

[pierrhoe]

my sister zeta has created the most powerful piece of custom content possibly ever

[fierypen37]

The Oasis: Chapter 14

Sorry of the long absence, my friends! Enjoy!

Rage was an acid burn in the back of his throat. His hands shook with it. He staggered into the bathroom, holding a dishtowel to his throbbing eye. That tricky little cunt! How had she held onto that pen knife? Ramsay let the soaked towel thump on the bathroom counter, watching thick drops of blood patter in the sink.

“Fucking Lorathi bitch,” he muttered, peering at the damage in the rust-spotted mirror. It was a fucking miracle that whore Shae hadn’t blinded him. The pen knife had sunk in and stuck just above his right eyeball, jiggling around in the socket.  Each jiggle sent a bolt of white-hot pain arching through his skull. Under normal circumstances, if a target had pulled something like that, Ramsay would have taken them home. Played all sorts of fun games with them until they begged for death. Shae’s little stunt had surprised him though, and he’d snapped her neck.

Too quick.

Not to mention he didn’t get the answers his boss wanted. Add to that leaving buckets of his blood at the crime scene . . .

Ramsay snarled a string of foul words. He held a wad of petroleum jelly-soaked gauze in one hand. With the other, he grasped the hilt of the pen knife. Pain arched like lightning through his skull. The blood made the handle slick. A quick yank---fuck! His hand slipped. Ramsay bit down on the bloody dishtowel and yanked again. The penknife fell free along with a hot trickle of blood running down his face. His boss wanted that bitch Daenerys Targaryen dead, and Ramsay never forfeited a contract. Her and Jon fucking Snow would die slow. Ramsay would flay them living, like his ancestors before him. Just because one lead had burned out didn’t mean the trail was cold. Just like his beautiful vicious dogs, he’d pick up the scent. It was just a matter of time.              

 ~

 As the sun set, there was little to look at to occupy her mind. Just darker landscape framed against a dark sky. Nothing but an eerie stretch of highway lit by the car’s headlights. The silence within the car was leaden. She couldn’t find words to ease the tension. Barry was dead. He’d been a steady, comforting figure in her life. He’d been her father’s bodyguard since she was a toddler—the only one Vis held in any esteem. So when they at last had enough capital to require and afford a security detail, a then-retired Barry Selmy was first on their list.

Daenerys felt the press of Jon’s anxious glances. Her misery deepened. Jon. Gods, what danger had she put him in? If Barry Selmy, a decorated war veteran and professional bodyguard couldn’t stay alive around her, then what would happen to Jon?

“We’re still about twenty minutes from the cabin. Maybe try and rest,” Jon said. A half dozen snarky comments rested on the tip of her tongue, but she bit them back. She was too anxious to sleep, too miserable to be any sort of companion.

“I don’t think I can sleep.” Her voice sounded weak and small. Daenerys studied his profile in the murky half-dark. A frown lingered on his brow, his generous mouth thinned into a hard line. Jon glanced over at her, his eyes as black as the sky beyond.

“Do you want to talk about it?” he asked. Daenerys blew out a steadying breath.

“Well, De—Detective Seaworth said that Rakharo is doing ok. Vis is safe; he’s staying at Dragon with his security detail. Missy and her husband Grey are ok. There haven’t been any more threats or leads. And . . . and Barry’s family are t—taking him home to Harvest Hall for burial.” Tears clogged her throat. Going over it in such bloodless detail made it sound so bleak. Her life was in fucking shambles. Jon reached for her hand. Daenerys wove her fingers through his, squeezing his hand gently.

“Hey, it’ll be ok. They’ll figure it out. It’s their job,” Jon said.  They drove in silence for a time. The tires made a low whoosh against damp pavement.

“Did the detective say anything else? Do you know if anyone’s been by my apartment? Checked on Sam and Gilly?” Daenerys thumped her forehead against the window. What kind of self-centered ass was she? Jon had no less at stake than she did.  

“I’m sorry, Jon. Yes, they’re fine. The detective has a Watchman stationed at your apartment complex just in case.” Jon tugged her captive hand up to drop a kiss on the back. His beard was a ticklish counterpoint to the softness of his lips. The casual intimacy of the gesture made her heart flutter.

“It’s ok. You’ve got a lot on your mind.” The silence that followed was a warmer one. Daenerys groped for conversation.

“How long has it been since you’ve been to the cabin?”

“I came north for Bran’s nameday, but that was at Winterfell. The cabin . . . hm, it’s been six, seven years? Since before my dad died.”  Daenerys felt a pang. Orphans, the both of them. Ned Stark’s death had been all over the news, but Daenerys couldn’t remember the details.

“Was he ill?” she asked. A muscle fired in Jon’s jaw.

“Brain aneurysm. He died on route to hospital.” The suddenness of it was couched in the abrupt sentence. Much like her own father’s death by violence. Like Barry.  

“I’m so sorry, Jon.” He gave an uncomfortable shrug and drummed his fingers on the steering wheel.

“It’s ok. It was a good trip. The last time we were all together. Sansa came home for the weekend, Arya had just graduated and was headed to uni, Robb brought Margaery and her brothers, Bran was finally finished with physical therapy and Rickon won a sailing medal on the lake.” Daenerys blinked in surprised pleasure.    

“Rickon sails? What type?”

“Uh I’m not really sure. A fast one?” Daenerys giggled at Jon’s aggrieved expression.

“I sail too. Does she have a cabin? Is she designed to sail on open water?” In the greenish light of the dashboard, a trace of a bemused smile graced Jon’s face.

“I think Rickon’s boat is . . . sloopy?” Daenerys snorted.

“Sloopy?” Laughter embroidered her voice. Jon grinned and offered a one-shouldered shrug.

“I don’t know anything about boats.”

“Does he still sail?”

“Not as much. His mother has him enrolled in one of those prep schools for college.”

“Is this the same stepmother who denied you your inheritance?” Daenerys asked. Another uncomfortable shrug was her answer.

“The same,” he said. Daenerys kicked herself. The stepmother was a touchy subject. She couldn’t imagine what it had been like growing up as a motherless boy despised by the only female role model left in his life. Chewing on her lower lip, she offered a tepid apology.

“Don’t sweat it. I’m used to dealing with her,” Jon said, squeezing her hand. Daenerys stroked his knuckle with her thumb. Jon negotiated another turn.

“We’re here at last.”

The pitted concrete road gave way to a smooth asphalt drive. ‘Cabin’ was apparently a relative term. A two-story log structure lorded over neatly manicured grounds. A balcony wrapped around the second floor. Daenerys looked around slack-jawed as the two of them parked and walked up the drive. The lake was a sheet of black glass roughly a hundred yards from the house. Threads of mist clung to the ground. The air smelled of crisp pine and lake water. Insects chirped and far away, she heard the hoot of an owl. The cool peace of it soaked into her soul.

“So, the ‘cabin,’ huh?” she said, framing the operative word in air quotes. Jon cracked open the fake rock holding the spare key, side-eyeing her with a raised brow.

“Is there a problem, ‘Dany Steele?’”

Daenerys snorted.

“Fair point.”

The door creaked open and Jon flicked on the light. Daenerys trailed after Jon as he moved toward the kitchen, drinking it in. Warm blond wood floors, exposed beams overhead, soft lighting, gleaming granite countertops in the kitchen . . . the understated beauty soothed her ragged edges. She turned at the sound of Jon’s low curse.

“What is it?”

“Robb and Margaery. They stocked the place for us, and they uh . . . went a little overboard,” he said, riffling through the fridge, “filet mignon with truffle butter, roasted asparagus, lobster, turtle soup, chocolate covered strawberries--” The subtext was clear: decadent food for a romantic getaway. Daenerys bit back a rush of surprised pleasure. Even if it was meant in a teasing manner, it was a tacit approval from Jon’s brother.

“I told them all we needed some food and clothes. Typical,” he said dryly. Daenerys chewed on her lower lip. In the heat of passion, he claimed her as his. In the cool of parting, he asked her on a date. Why is he so irritated now? Breaking the silence, she cleared her throat.

“Mm, clean clothes sound wonderful. I think I’ll take a shower,” she said. Jon took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes. His expression softened.  

“Of course. The master is on the second floor, last door on the left.”

The rest of the house was as rustically chic with polished hardwood floors, stained glass windows, and glass doors leading to the balcony garbed in room-darkening curtains. The large bed beckoned, smelling faintly of laundry detergent. How sweet, they thought to change the linens.  Shopping bags on the dresser bore a post-it note with ‘Daenerys’ written in looping feminine script. Daenerys peered inside.

“‘Overboard’ is right,” she said under her breath. Inside was a heap of blouses, sweaters, jeans, socks, sneakers, heels, and a tangle of what could only be described as slutty lingerie. A flush washed over her. A note was pinned to a sheer black lace bra:

Daenerys,

I got you a couple different sizes. I hope our Jonno is treating you right. Robbie and I would be delighted to have you both out at Highgarden once all this mess is dealt with.

Warm Regards,

Margaery      

Daenerys breathed a soft laugh, clutching the note and bra to her chest. A giddy rush burst in her chest. How surreal could things get? She was on the run for her life from a shadow human trafficking organization, she’d been swept up in the arms of her god-like masseur-turned-bodyguard Jon Snow, and now Margaery Tyrell—an award-winning actress—was buying her lingerie. Daenerys plucked her favorites from the bag of goodies and hurried to the bathroom.

Twin vanities in granite countertops, rustic sconces over the large oval mirror, a faint tang of cleaning chemicals. Robb and Margaery really had thought of everything. The shower boasted two shower heads, the walls made up of grey river rock. Blissfully hot water undid the knots in her muscles. The nature of her life and work made finding female friends difficult, she thought as she shampooed and scrubbed. Even Missy who she considered her closest friend was her masseur at first. So the thought that someone like Margaery Tyrell would be interested in her relationship with Jon was an odd one. Cherishing her crush on Jon, it was easy to spin a fantasy of making their leisurely way south. Stopping at charming bed and breakfasts on the way, taking a barge down the Mander, a wine tour of the Reach district . . .

She stepped out of the shower and toweled off, taking special care to comb and moisturize and primp with all the lovely products Margaery left for her. Ah, the silky glide of high-end moisturizer. It felt good to blow her hair dry until it fell in a fluffy silver cloud around her face. The lingerie was she chose was robin’s egg blue stretchy lace panties and matching bra. Daenerys smiled coyly at her reflection. In between all the madness of being on the run, they hadn’t discussed little things like Jon’s favorite color. Would he like it?

Belting the sash of a terry cloth robe, she saw the heap of her discarded clothes. A thrift store shirt and bloodstained jeans. Stained with Barry’s blood. The happy bubble popped with startling violence. The cost was too high. Already an innocent woman had been violated and killed, then Barry, not to mention the countless people—including Jon—put in harm’s way after the attack in King’s Landing.

“Am I really worth all this?” she asked her steam-blurred reflection. The shadows in her violet eyes held no answers. A soft rap on the door made her start.

“Come in,” Daenerys said, clutching the folds of the robe tight to her chest. Jon appeared in the doorway, his curly hair damp. His dark eyes were fathomless behind the lenses of his glasses. The plain grey t-shirt stretched taut over the bulk of his shoulders, athletic shorts showed off the length thigh and calf. He really was more beautiful than any man had a right to be.

“Do you uh, have everything you need?” he asked. Daenerys hid a rush of hurt. When he suggested the master, she assumed they would be sharing a bed. But maybe time to cool off is what they needed. After hearing about Barry, gods knew she felt depressed and clingy. Not a good look for her.

“Yes, thank you,” she said. Cool and polite, she thought, inwardly congratulating herself. Jon lingered in the doorway, cracking his knuckles one at a time. A nervous habit, she’d noticed.

“Are you hungry? It’s probably a crime in culinary circles, but I could nuke some of the steak.” Daenerys grinned at the weak joke.

“I’m fine, just tired.”

“Right. Me too.”

A short, uncomfortable silence.

“I’ll leave you to it, then.”

It wasn’t until he turned to leave that her thin bravado gave way. As inviting as the bed looked, the thought of the long hours until dawn with nothing but her thoughts to occupy her made her stomach clench. That, and she’d gotten far too used to the sound of Jon’s heartbeat lulling her to sleep.

“Jon,” she said. The naked hope in his face calmed her worries.

“Stay. Please,” she whispered. Jon exhaled a breath and gave her a relieved smile.

“Of course. I just didn’t want to impose . . .”

“Impose? Are you joking? We’re standing in your family’s cabin and I’m wearing clothes your brother’s girlfriend bought for me. If anyone is imposing, then it’s me,” she said. Jon closed the distance between them and cradled her cheek.

“You’re worth it,” Jon assured her. Daenerys felt a big, stupid smile stretch her face. She turned into his hand and kissed his palm, tasting salt. A shy silence fell between them as they turned down the bed and drew the curtains. Daenerys slid into the bed with a happy sigh. Cool sheets over a downy mattress and a heap of pillows. Better than simple creature comforts was the underlying release of tension. Here the two of them were safe. Safe and hidden in their own private paradise. Jon’s gaze wandered over her with a familiar sleepy heat.

“I like the clothes,” he whispered huskily, trailing a knuckle over the lacy strap of her bra. Daenerys gave him a coy smile.

“Really? Does it give you any ideas?” she said. Jon’s hand disappeared beneath the duvet.

“Lots of fun ideas,” he said with a wicked smile.