#thanks to my roommate who saw my creative vision brought to life

[alice-in-konoha]

[krispydefendorpolice]

Once Upon A Miraculous - Part 1

Okay so this prompt got away from me and now you all get a two parter. Yay me,😭😭😭

Also you guys are freaking amazing because I was not expecting the responses I got from everyone on my preview post. Especially since all I said was “hey I got a new story who wants to hear it”.

This is for @pepelachanel for the story idea. Oh my goodness, the brain worm you gave me have led me to write over 3,400 words of Jasonette goodness. And angst. Sorry for that.

I hope this is enjoyable.

Next Masterpost list

————————————

“Dan?” She asked the car with the plate that matched the ones on her Uber App.

“Marinette?” The man asked. He got out of the vehicle and opened the trunk for her bags when she nodded.

“Welcome to Gotham,” he said when they were both back in the car. “Is this your first time to the city?”

“No, I’ve been here before, a few years ago.” Marinette said looking out the window at the buildings they passed.

“What brings you back then, if you don’t mind me asking?”

“I’m on my way to school in New York and I just thought I’d stop and see an old friend.”

“You’re close with this friend?”

“I was, but he died a couple years ago.”

“I’m sorry for your loss,” he said apologetically.

“Thank you. I wasn’t able to come for his funeral.” She smiled sadly, “This is the first time I’ve been able to come and properly pay my respects.”

They grew quiet as the driver continued to navigate the traffic in Gotham and Marinette’s thoughts drifted to that long ago summer.

*************************************

Marinette was 15 years old the first time she went to Gotham. She came at the request of Jagged Stone to work as his costume designer for his American tour. Marinette’s parents had agreed when Sabine’s old roommate from University had agreed to act as Marinette’s chaperone.

Selina Kyle was impressed by the girls creative mind. Everywhere they went the girl brought a sketchbook and she was drawing every time she had a chance.

They were at the Wayne building as Selina had set a lunch date with her fiancé and they had agreed to pick up the man and his son there. Marinette was sitting in the downstairs lobby where she could see the stained glass over the entrance doors while she waited for Selina to collect the men.

“What are you drawing?”

Marinette jumped at the voice but looked at the speaker. He was a big man? Boy? He looked about her age really so boy was probably right. He had a large build, about the size of her classmate Ivan. The same black hair too, but his eyes were blue like her own.

“A dress design,” Marinette answered looking back at the beginning sketch on the page.

“You’re a designer?”

“Yes. I mostly work on commission right now but I do some designing for myself.”

The boy nodded and looked from the sketch up to the windows she had used as inspiration. “That’s pretty cool. I’ve walked past these windows a lot and never seen them this way before.”

“Most of the world does,” Marinette says, “I’ve just trained myself to look at the things we mostly take for granted in new ways for inspiration .”

“Are you waiting for someone?”

“My guardian. We’re going to lunch with her fiancé and his son.”

The boy’s face brightened as he smiled, “You must be Marinette then.”

Marinette was surprised and it showed on her face.

He laughed, “I’m Jason Todd-Wayne. My father Bruce is Selina’s fiancé.”

“I didn’t say her name.” Marinette argued.

“My dad knows everyone that works for him and if someone else had gotten engaged we would know about it.”

“Marinette, Jason! I see you’ve already met. Are you ready to go?” Selina asked as she walked up to them with a man behind her.

**

During her time in Gotham Marinette ended up spending most of her free time with Jason. As he was on summer break as well he helped her when she needed to do work for Jagged and attended the concerts with her as her assistant.

They grew close, sharing jokes and stories. He showed her around the town and all the best places to go. He shared how he was an outcast in school for being a former street kid thrown into the world of the prestigious upper crust elite. Marinette shared how she was an outcast because of a liar who turned all her friends and the entire class against her. It was one of the main reason’s her parents had even agreed to let her go on tour with Jagged and Selina.

It was a week before her return to Paris that he kissed her for the first time. They spent the last week together going on dates and spending as much time together as they could.

Before she got on the plane to take her back to Paris he gave her a small wrapped package and said to hold onto it until he told her to open it. She agreed and placed it in her bag before kissing him and getting on the plane. She waved to him from the end of the flyway (the goof had purchased a ticket just so he could walk her to the gate but Bruce had refused to actually let him fly off to Paris).

Once home Marinette settled in. She took the box and placed it on a shelf above her designing area.

Then a crash outside had her transforming and running off to fight yet another Akuma.

**

The next day at school Marinette found out that some of the American news agencies had gotten pictures of her and Jason together. Many were from when they were just friends but a couple were taken after their kiss.

Her so called ‘friends’ jumped her when she entered the classroom asking when she had gone to America, why didn’t she tell them, could she introduce the Waynes to them?

Marinette ignored them, pushed through the crowd and took the seat in the back of the class. She pulled out her phone and sent a message and waited for his response.

Marinette jumped when hands slammed on her desk.

“Girl, why are you ignoring us. That’s not being a very good friend,” Alya said.

“We’re not,” Marinette answered.

“We’re not?” Alya looked confused by the words. “Not what?”

“We’re not friends,” Marinette said standing from her seat. “I haven’t heard from any of you in months. Not one of you sent me a message at any point while I was abroad. But even before that none of you talked with me, or have hung out with me in months. If that’s how you treat friends then I want no part of it.”

The class looked away from her, ashamed of how they had treated one of the kindest girls in the class.

Marinette took her seat as the teacher came into the class and the lesson began.

**

That exchange set the tone for the rest of the school year. A few, Nathaniel, Rose and Juleka, had apologized and did their best to rebuild their friendship with Marinette. They did get to meet Jason during one of his trips to Paris with Bruce when he came for business.

He wasn’t thrilled that Marinette had forgiven their treatment of her but was glad they were showing true remorse over it. They continued to talk or message daily with an occasional visit back and forth for the rest of the year.

**

It was a bright and sunny Saturday morning when

Marinette saw Bruce again.

“Mr Wayne, come in we weren’t expecting you were we?” She asked when she found the man at the door. He looked a mess but she didn’t want to be rude and mention it. “Did Jason come with you?”

He flinched at her question.

Marinette stilled at the unusual reaction.

“I. There.” He stopped and swallowed harshly. “There was an attack. The Joker, he took Jason.”

Marinette gasped, “is he okay? Was he hurt?”

Bruce shook his head, “I’m sorry Marinette. He didn’t make it.”

Her vision clouded over as tears filled her eyes and she dropped to her knees and cried.

Bruce pulled her into a clumsy embrace as he cried with her and just repeated “I’m sorry” over and over again.

The funeral was a week later. Bruce had offered to fly her to Gotham for the service but Marinette had to turn it down. The fights with Hawkmoth’s Akuma’s had increased and she and Chat Noir were fighting them on a near daily basis.

At 16 she grieved for a life, a love, a dream lost too soon.

***************************

Marinette accepted Adrian’s proposal. They had been dating for about six months at that point and she wanted to move on with her life. She couldn’t keep it on hold over a memory of a boy who would talk stained glass windows with her.

She took that old, little box, still in its wrapping and placed it in a drawer where she could keep all the memories it held with it.

Ladybug and Chat Noir had been fighting for four years by that time. It was a long battle but they were beginning to make headway. They had clues now, a new AkumaApp was produced that allowed the citizens of Paris to report when they saw the black butterfly’s. Using that information and the information provided by the Akuma victim’s themselves they were narrowing down the location of Hawkmoth's lair.

Soon they would have enough information to find the villain.

She was 18 years old.

****************************

Hawkmoth was unmasked and Gabriel Agreste was arrested.

Emilie Agreste was found in a coma under the house. Life support was stopped and she was pronounced dead five minutes later.

The first few months post Hawkmoth’s reveal, Adrian and Marinette worked to keep his company from folding due to the negative press while Marinette tried to keep Adrian from falling apart from losing both his parents the way he had.

Once things were beginning to settle and the company was evening out Adrian asked for a divorce. He wanted to end their marriage because there was someone else, someone he had promised himself he’d pursue if he ever had a chance.

Marinette moved back with her parents in the apartment over the bakery. Two days later Chat Noir and Ladybug met on top of the Eiffel Tower to say their final goodbyes. Back where their partnership had really begun with Ladybugs declaration that they would defeat Hawkmoth.

When Adrian revealed himself, Ladybug took the ring of the black cat and said she’d never agree to date someone like him.

Marinette was 19 years old.

****************************

“We’re here miss,” the driver said as he pulled up in front of the gates to Wayne Manor.

Marinette leaned out the window to press the call button on the gate box.

“Can I help you?” The voice not the other side asked.

“Oui, monsieur. Is Monsieur Wayne home?”

“He is out at the moment. Is he expecting you?”

“No, my name is Marinette. Marinette Dupain-Cheng. This was a rather impromptu trip I decided to make at the last minute. Perhaps you could help me. Would you be able to tell me in which cemetery Jason Todd was buried?”

Marinette was worried she wouldn’t get an answer when silence followed her question.

“Please drive up to the house.”

The gates opened and the car drove up. At the house the doors were opened by an elderly gentleman who walked to the car and opened the door for Marinette when they stopped.

“I am Alfred Pennyworth. We did not get to meet when you were last in Gotham Miss, but I did hear a great deal about you from Master Jason.”

“It’s a pleasure to meet you monsieur Pennyworth, Jason had a great many things to say about you.”

“Do you have your things with you?”

“Just the bag in the trunk,” Marinette admitted.

Alfred went around and when the driver opened the trunk he picked up her bag.

“This way Miss Marinette.”

Marinette gave the driver a quick thank you before she followed Alfred into the house. He placed her bag down in the entryway, “I’ll make up a room for your stay and bring the bag up in a moment. Follow me please.”

“Oh, that’s okay I have a room at the Comfort Inn monsieur. I didn’t expect monsieur Wayne to put me up. I just came because I was never told where Jason was laid to rest and I was hoping someone could tell me.”

“The grave stone is in the Wayne family cemetery on the grounds Miss Marinette. It will be no trouble to give you a room for your stay. If you still insist after seeing Master Wayne and the others I will, of course, understand and drive you to your hotel myself.”

“Merci monsieur Pennyworth.”

“You may call me Alfred Miss Marinette,” he said with a kindly smile.

“Merci monsieur Alfred,” Marinette returned the smile as she followed him into what looked like an office.

Marinette was confused when Alfred walked to a grandfather clock and opened the glass door to move the hands on the face. She was startled when the wall next to the clock opened up to reveal a hidden door.

“Welcome to Wayne Manor Miss Marinette,” Alfred said and walked inside and down the stone steps.

Marinette considered it for a moment, the man could be leading her somewhere where he could kill her without risking her alerting someone after all, but everything she had heard about Alfred from Jason had said he wasn’t that kind of person.

Of course this man could be an imposter, she thought to herself as she followed him down the stairs. But well, cats weren’t the only ones that curiosity killed.

At the bottom of the stairs the room opened up into a large underground cave. The space to her immediate right was filled with glass cases each with an empty mannequin inside. A second row above had cases with costumed mannequins inside. They were various costumes worn by Gotham’s Dark Knight and his partners.

To the left was a large computer and various machines that would have been at home in a police forensics lab. In the center was an open space with a couple vehicles parked. The open spaces between the bike and cars could have been held for additional vehicles.

On the far side of the parking space was a giant coin and a dinosaur. Around the base of the dinosaur were a variety of cases that held other mementos from past battles.

“The family should be home soon. Would you like some tea while we wait?”

Marinette looked at the elderly man in surprise. Looked around the cave. And looked at the man again. She mutely nodded her head in acceptance.

After taking the offered cup, Marinette sipped it before asking the question she’d wanted to since she’d seen the insignia on one of the costumes.

“Monsieur Wayne is the Batman?”

“He is.”

“Was Jason... Did Jason die because he was a Robin?”

Alfred closed his eyes in grief, “he did. Joker got a hold of him. He tortured Master Jason before leaving him locked in a warehouse with a live bomb. Master Bruce was unable to make it in time to save him.”

Marinette paled at Alfred’s words. Though she teared up at the pain he must have gone through she was sure that Jason would have been a hero even if he had known what would happen to him. He’d had that edge of protectiveness he’d developed as a street kid when the younger kids were being harassed or bullied by older kids. He was a hero to the core. In or out of costume.

Marinette sniffled as Alfred poured fresh tea into her cup to give her a moment to collect herself.

“I do believe we’ll have a full house this evening,” he said to distract her. “Master Dick is in town following an arms dealer from Bludhaven. Master Jason is assisting him and Master Damian has insisted on helping as well.”

“I’ve heard about Dick from Jason. He was monsieur Wayne’s ward, a son to him yes? But the other’s I’ve never heard of.”

“Yes Master Dick was Master Bruce’s ward and son. Master Timothy was in a similar situation, when his parents died a few years ago Master Bruce took him in and later adopted him. Master Damian however is Master Bruce’s biological son. He came to us about a year and a half ago. He was almost as wild as Master Jason when he first came to us.”

Marinette giggled. Jason had told her about what a little shit he had been when he first came to the Wayne house. He had been convinced that Bruce was some kind of pedophile and had adopted him as some attempt to get a living sex toy. Jason had decided if that was the old man’s game he’d have another think coming to him.

It took a couple of months before Bruce and Alfred were able to convince the former street kid that that was not the reason why they took Jason off the streets. Of course that was not before Jason had managed to set every alarm and clock in the house to go off at noon everyday or change the passwords to every electronic device to Batmansucks****!

“That must have been an adventure,” Marinette offered.

“Quite,” the man said.

The quiet after they settled to their thoughts was broken by the roar of a motorcycle.

A man in a black costume with a blue bird insignia across the chest was the first to arrive.

“Alfred, I didn’t know we’d have a guest?” He looked at Marinette curiously.

“Master Dick this is Miss Marinette,” Alfred said by way of introduction.

He looked at the older man curiously, “I haven’t heard of a Marinette before. Sorry,” he apologized to her when he realized he was talking about her in front of her.

Marinette shook her head in dismissal, “I wouldn’t expect monsieur Wayne to have any reason to talk about me so I understand that you wouldn’t know of me.”

Before they could say anything else two more bikes and the batmobile pulled into the cave.

“Master Bruce, Master Tim, Master Damian, Miss Cassie,” Alfred called as they got off bikes and out of the car, “come greet Miss Marinette.”

Tim looked to be average height, about an inch or two shorter than Dick. Both had black hair and their eyes were hidden by the domino masks.

The girl looked to be closer to Marinette’s height but taller than Marinette herself, so probably average for a woman at 5’4 or so. She too had black hair and a mask.

The youngest looked to be no more than a child. Marinette would eat her hat if he was older than 12. Again he had black hair though it was hard to see and his eyes were hidden in the shadow of his hood as well as by a mask.

The Batman, one billionaire playboy Bruce Wayne, was the tallest and walked up to her.

“I didn’t realize you were coming,” he said as he removed the cowl hiding his features, “or that you knew our secret.”

“I didn’t know until Monsieur Alfred brought me down. I made a last minute decision to come visit Jason’s grave before I go to New York for the new school term.”

She didn’t miss the way Dick and Tim stiffened at the mention of the grave but didn’t know why. Did they not want strangers to go to the cemetery? Alfred had mentioned it was a family cemetery. Surely they could allow her a few moments to pay her respects?

“Mmm,” he hummed in acknowledgement.

“I believe I made my opinion clear on the matter years ago Master Bruce,” Alfred said. As he left the cave he said over his shoulder, “Now you may handle this yourselves.”

Marinette watched him go with a frown but another engine coming into the cave drew her attention.

The man getting off was the biggest of all the Bat themed heroes, even Batman. He wore a leather jacket and a red helmet. He removed the helmet as he walked to where everyone was gathered by the computer but stopped when he saw everyone sitting there.

When no one moved, Marinette stood and walked to the new person. “Hi. Monsieur Alfred introduced the others but I haven’t gotten your name yet. I am Marinette Dupain-Cheng,” she held out her hand for him to shake.

The man’s jaw worked as he looked to be trying to find the right words.

He finally settled for removing the mask he wore under the helmet. Marinette gasped her eyes going wide and her hands covering her mouth.

“It’s me Nettie. I’m alive.”

At 20 years old Marinette’s dreams, her love, was brought back to life.

————————————

Ok thoughts on the story? I’m gonna try to have Part 2 up sometime this next week. If you want off the taglist let me know. If you’re not on but want to be for part two let me know that as well.

@mellownieice @kris-pines04 @zebrabaker @two-faced-biatch @vixen-uchiha @mandy984 @shamefullove @mycupisbroken @dawnwave16 @abrx2002 @mochinek0 @tbehartoo @fertileleaf @thanks-captain-obvious @ravennightingaleandavatempus @hinata3487 @worlds-tiniest-spook-pastry @hypnosharkrebeldreamer @zalladane

I cant find blogs for: @slytherinsheashire

[thewhiterabbit42]

Full Circle: Part 5

Full Circle Masterlist

Pairings: Gabriel x Reader

Warnings/Tags: Winchester sister!reader, angst, sarcasm, and a whole lot of ways to call someone a dick (among other things), violence  

Word Count: 7,826

Summary:  Gabriel isn’t the only thing from the past being brought back to life, and, once again, you find yourself smack dab in the middle of everything.  

Author’s note: This chapter is tied with The Best Laid Plans as the favorite thing I’ve ever written.  I had so much fun when I originally wrote it and, at the time, really got into the mind set. I actually didn’t end up changing much except for adding more names for Gabe to call Raphael, the conversations around which have made this chapter that much more precious to me.  

All tags are at the end.  If you have a line through your name, the tumblr Gods won’t let me tag you.

Special thanks to @sumara62, my wonderful beta who made it through 15 pages of dick references before being like, “Really?” and @blondecoffeecake for helping add to my repertoire of dick.  You guys are the best.

***Please do not repost or copy my work to any other site without my written permission.  Giving credit does NOT count.  Reblogging is ok.***

<<Prev Chapter     Part 5     Next Chapter>>

If Gabriel’s life were an autobiography, it would be called The Reason We Can't Have Nice Things: A Study in Daddy Issues or Why I Hope I’m Adopted.  Because right now?  There wasn't a single one of his family members he wasn't considering shanking, his father most of all.  

Great.  Fine.  Wonderful.  The man had brought him back.  Gabriel would be sure to send Him an edible fruit arrangement the next time He was in town.  Laced with the plague and made entirely of zombie fruit aka durian (aka what had his father been smoking when he decided anything consumable should naturally smell like rotting flesh?).

Why was Gabriel displeased one might ask?

It might have had something to do with being turned into shish kebab so his brothers could compare dick sizes. (If anything he should be the winner in that department since he was the only one with the cojones to stand up to them).

It might have had something to do with his father being unable to do anything other than stand around, dick in hand, while shit went sideways because He was, in fact, just standing around, dick in hand.  

Maybe it was because the only being who gave a damn about Gabriel was a mother loving human who should hate his very existence after what he did to you and your brothers.  (The father loather in both of you, however, had created quite the bonding experience).  

Or maybe, just maybe, he couldn’t help but suspect there was some underlying motive to his sudden and fortuitous resurrection… like the fact that the heaven bus was on fire again and a fair number of his divine family was ready to drive it into the side of the earth.  

Because it had worked out so well for the God squad the first time around.  

When he found the earth was not, in fact, one giant smoking battlefield or a rage infested zombie land, he was impressed.  He assumed your family had managed to put Lucifer back in time out, though he never would have guessed the how.  

He also never would have guessed who Luce would end up with for roommates. He had been impressed with the creativity until he caught the look on your face.  Heaviness clung to the darks of your eyes making them seem endless.  He knew how cleverness could be a burden and it was like staring at his own reflection, enduring loneliness included.  

He had initially hoped one of you had gotten a few good sac taps in on his behalf, but now he simply hoped you had for your own closure.  Preferably before his brother was wearing yours, but it wasn’t like the sasquatch was going to feel much other than suffocating in his own body.  

Gabriel made a mental note to avoid ever explaining that perk of being a vessel to you.  

Fact check: being a vessel was terrible for the first thousand days or so.  After that it just tickled.  

However, he did have a lot to explain.   

He knew he would end up here sooner or later.  Well, not here here.  He kind of understood his father having a blast from the past, considering the easiest way to pull his vessel to the present was to find the last place it had existed.  Being cockblocked and dropped right where Lucifer iced him, however, was an extra special touch of douchiness, and there was only one being left with that much power (and that much douche).

What he didn’t know is that you would end up here with him and that was what had him close to popping a vessel (literally and figuratively speaking).  It hadn’t been his choice to be resurrected in the middle of a shitstorm, but he had been the one to drag you into it.  All because he had been impulsive, reckless, and unable to look past his own selfish desires.  

There went his argument for being adopted.  

He should have stayed away from you.  Then again, if it was a cosmic coincidence you both showed up at the same place at the same time, he’d put himself in the cage with Lucifer, Michael, and the youngest Winchester and dance the lambada with all them.  The only reason he’d come back to this funhouse of memories was to seal off the doors and windows just in case the rip in the time space continuum was a little more wormy and less like the snapshot he’d initially assessed.  

The moment he spotted you, he should have just walked away.  He could have.  It wasn’t your grief that undid him.

Fact check: seeing your world bend beneath that weight did, however, do things to him he’d rather not think about.

He had only seen you this distraught on one other occasion.  Famine had sunk its influence so deep inside you there was nothing other than a blinding need.  For what, Gabriel had never found out. The urgency in your prayer (along with the fact it was just his name over and over again) suggested he might want to get his winged ass down there pronto.  When he arrived, you’d been so consumed he’d had to put you to sleep before seeing your pain began to consume him.    

Pain, though, was a timeless constant he could rationalize.  So long as there was life, there would be suffering.  What chance did he stand, however, against your guilt?   It pushed against the indifference he had tried to maintain, unknowingly slipping within his walls undetected, until it touched against his own guarded feelings of responsibility.  

Even then, Gabriel could have patched you up (emotionally), saw you out to your car, and went on to enjoy his limited existence at his own personal, completely conjured bunny ranch equipped with endless supplies of chocolate, whip cream, and other sensual sweets… along with eight different versions of what he called not yous.  Those were women who had enough of your features for him to pretend, but not actual carbon copies.

Having no shame and being a super creep were definitely two different things.  

Not to mention how creepy they were when he couldn’t get the personality traits down enough to not make a copy seem straight out of Invasion of the Body Snatchers… not that he’d ever tried or anything.

Fact check: Gabriel had tried once.  For science.

However any illusion of leaving had been shattered in one simple statement.  

Have that drink with me, Sheriff, and I will be.

Green had inked in around his vision and he didn’t have to read your thoughts to know what your plans were.  The two of you were kindred spirits, your personalities sharing several different aspects. The main one was you liked pleasure in many forms and you weren’t ashamed to take it.  Whether it was ordering every pie in the diner when caught in the time loop (and then watching Dean’s stomach explode when you made a pie eating contest out of it) or distracting yourself by seducing the local sheriff, you used your senses to feel good in the moment.  

This moment, however, was wrong.  You sought distraction in his absence, only he was standing right there, so close he had accidentally touched you when you stumbled back a bit (though he was still trying to figure out how that fluke had occurred considering he was pretty sure the only thing close enough had been his wing).

Fact check: the left one did tend to get a little handsy.  

But that was besides the point.  You were looking to get lost in a man from a generation whose idea of a good time was a cup of tea, an episode of Matlock, and a nap.  

Despite the sheriff being apprehensive, Gabriel saw the flash of loneliness that pushed through the man’s gaze.  It wouldn’t take much to get him to cave.  Even if he put up a good fight, you were young, pretty, and way too smart for your own good.  He wouldn’t stand a chance.

Neither did Gabriel when he began to imagine all the things the man would do to you, all the things you would let the sheriff do, and it would all be on his conscience, because it was technically his fault you went on grieving.  

At least, that’s what he told himself.  Admitting the first thing on his mind since getting a reboot was to make you his in every way he’d failed to before was a tad more insightful than he cared to be.  The whole thing was enough to drive him to drink.

Fact check: while there was no driving, there was a whole lot of drink.  The part about making the sheriff run circles and question his own sanity was just an added bonus.  

He needed something to calm the clamor in his head, except it had just made him sloppy if he had missed his brother’s presence slipping into town.  Regret and guilt weighed heavy on gold as he took in the mounting dread on your features.  His weakness had brought you here, and it was up to him to see it did not take you down with him.  

He wanted to tell you as much, but whether it was his own streak of daddy issues or the fact that even the most meaningful relationship he’d managed had ended with a good old-fashioned stabbing (thanks, Kali, always knew you were kind of a bitch), his words fell short as they tended to in these situations.  

Touch, however, was something he managed to do well.  Tips up knuckles drank in the skin along the side of your face, savoring the feel one last time.  He channeled what reassurance he could into the gesture, hoping to calm the panic he felt buzzing through you so you would hear him when he told you to run.  The command, however, became lost as his brother made his grand entrance, confirming he did, in fact, have the worst timing in the universe.  

“Gabriel,” a deep voice boomed over the lingering echoes of thunder as the the silhouette of a man manifested in the center of fading light.  

“Raphael,” Gabriel drawled, looking up at his brother.  “This is an awkward surprise.”  

“Someone’s clearly never heard of knocking,” you muttered, and he felt your relief in a momentary release of tension before everything tightened again.  You slid off his lap, and the absence of your body rang cold as the sudden chill in the room rushed in to take the place of your warmth.  He could see the gears in your mind turning, gaze appraising as you took in his brother’s stoic features.  

Gabriel stepped forward, subtly placing himself between you and the entity who should henceforth be known as the giant dick for being the the biggest cockblock in creation.

“I am disappointed, brother,” The meter-long man-dong said, eyes flicking to Gabriel in obvious dismissal of your presence.   “You must have heard what is happening.”

Oh, Gabriel had heard all right.  Angel radio was a complete cluster these days.  The last time it had been this chaotic was when he’d tricked Michael and Biggus Dickus into believing there was a demon incursion about to launch on heaven led by rogue angels… because was inciting the Crusades as a test of faith (and act of boredom) really necessary?

“Let me guess.  Thing’s not going so well for you, bro?” A glimmer of a sardonic grin flashed across his casual mask, tone pushing the fringe of disdain as he arched a brow.  

“No.  But you already knew that, and yet your first inclination is to dally with this human.”  

Apparently Gabriel wasn't the only one unimpressed with the situation.

“I get we’re a little behind the times right now, but what year are you stuck in?  1905?” He taunted.  

“Watch your tone,” Cock McBlockins warned and Gabriel nearly rolled his eyes.  He wondered if his father had meant to make all three of his brothers into prideful pricks with their own mini god complexes or if they had just naturally become those without anyone to challenge their authority.      

“Or what, you’ll shiv me too?” He demanded.  It wasn’t like he was bitter or anything, being put in this position again.  

Fact check: he was plenty bitter and uber pissed.

If anyone asked, however, the official story was he just didn’t think Raphael had it in him to be such an ass about it.  

“The only reason she continues drawing breath is because I will it,” the monstrous manpole informed him.  The older archangel’s wings flared slightly in warning, his presence pushing against Gabriel’s as it wrestled for dominance within the room.  The youngest pushed back, his own pride unwilling to back down so easily.  To do so would be to show weakness, and his weakness had put you in enough danger already today.  

Tips of fingers touched against his lower back, acting as pinpoints of pressure and shifting his focus back to you.  If he had to guess, instinct spurred your touch, and perhaps the need for reassurance.  There’s no way you could have perceived the pissing contest currently happening, but enough of something skittered across your radar to tip you off to the danger.

Or perhaps you were telling him to quit dicking around already and figure out an escape plan.

“What do you want?” Gabriel asked, backing down.  The degenerate disco stick eyed him as if it were a trick a moment before that dark, baleful gaze slipped over his shoulder and landed on you.  

“What is she to you?” Dickus Maximus demanded.

“I mean I was trying to have a bit of fun but somebody crashed that party,” he gave a dramatic look skyward as if asking if even his father could believe the nerve.  “But really, what are any of them to us in the long run?”

“An incessant nuisance,” the dickasaurus rex said flatly.

“I was thinking more like a beautiful distraction,” Gabriel replied smoothly though it felt like he had a mouth full of sand. “But just a distraction, nonetheless… no offense sweetheart.”  He turned, giving you a flashy-and completely false- apologetic smile for good measure.  

He didn’t mean it.  He might not be ready to admit you were more than a passing obsession, but on a visceral level he was hooked, his stomach suddenly a gymnastics Olympian as it somersaulted its way through a sudden bout of ire-tipped nerves.  

If the USS Douche Canoe ruined this for him, everybody’s ship was going down, starting with the dickhead in front of him and heading straight to the top, where all the bullshit started.  

“No offense, sweetheart, but I’m not looking to date a giant dick anytime soon,” sarcasm painted your words, streaking across lips in a smile you flashed that was just as insincere.  

Gabriel took it as a good sign you hadn’t missed a beat with your response.  Mostly because that was one less thing to worry about while he figured out how to get you out of there.  There’d be plenty of time for doubt later if he survived.  In fact, it was one of his favorite pastimes.

Fact check: it was nobody’s favorite pastime.

“Well, aren’t we just two peas in a pod,” he drawled, brows raising as he dropped his hands to his hips.  “Humans, I tell you.  Just when you think you’re the one using them, they’re actually using you.”

“I’ve asked myself many times what would I do should you choose deceit over honest discourse,” The dick with a dictionary began, his gaze drifting back to Gabriel’s.  “I think I have my answer.”  

The look in his eyes remained neutral, pushing beyond the fringes of weary into outright exhaustion, but it was that telltale half lift of lips, smirking smugly, that gave away the game plan.  Unfortunately, that plan looked to be you.  

With a snap, you disappeared from out of the side of Gabriel’s vision only to reappear in front of the increasingly annoying third wheel to the party.  The contrast of the dark fingers wrapped around your pale throat was startling.  Or, it could just be the fact his brother was definitely gripping that part of you quite snugly in warning.

“What weaknesses lay beneath, I wonder…” the wondrous one-eyed yogurt slinger mused, thumb dragging slowly across the surface of your throat.  The movement was callous, insinuating no more than the danger you were in.  Defiance darkened your eyes, your lips pulling back in silent snarl as if he’d touched you in a far different manner and it caught Gabriel off guard.

He looked more closely, peeling back the layers of atoms and energy until gossamer strands of grace glistened ethereal in the dim lighting.  You were surrounded by it, wisps of it ghosting over your upper body as if seeking some sort of entrance.  Anger crackled hot beneath his skin, causing his energy to spark slightly between the tips of his fingers.  

How dare Raphael touch you that way.

He had no right to touch you with his grace.  He had no business inside your mind, though by how he was concentrating on the area between your shoulders and waist he was after something much more integral.  

Why he’d want a peek at your soul was beyond Gabriel, but it was a whole lot of nothing good for you.  

“Stop,” He warned, clenching down hard and doing his best to reign in his temper.  He was aware that this might not be anything other than a test (which he was clearly failing).  If his brother was prodding for sore spots, boy had he found one, especially when Gabriel watched as the older archangel pushed his energy beneath your skin in a wholly ungentle way.

There was no stopping his fury as your features grew taut with pain, your torment pushing out your throat in a sudden cry as light emanated out from where the grace had entered. The ground beneath his feet began to tremble, tables and chairs beginning to clatter as they bounced around, skittering slowly across the floor.  

“I said stop,” he repeated, the rumble growing louder as the entire building began to sway.  Windows shattered around the room and Raphael was lucky he didn’t find himself on the receiving end of an incredibly angry smite.  His brother exhaled a long, heavy sigh through his nose, withdrawing all his energy in a single instant and letting you drop to the floor.  

“Who is she to you?”  Disappointment wove through the gigantic pork sword’s words and Gabriel held back a snort.  Like the asshat had any right to ask anything about you anymore.  

“None of your business,” Gabriel hissed.

It was the wrong answer.  

Apparently a good old fashioned ass kicking was next on the list, your body catching some serious air before it came slamming down on the top of the tables.  Wood snapped beneath the force and you continued to roll across the floor a few feet from the impact.  

Gabriel reached out with his grace, searching for the familiar, chaotic buzz that was often your mind.  It was a much dimmer, snarling mass of tangled thoughts at the moment.  Stay down he told you, hoping you were conscious enough to hear him.  

You were and, as usual, you were intent on doing just the opposite of what you should be.  You pushed yourself up, eyes flashing with determination as you appraised the situation.  Keep him occupied you prayed, silently pulling yourself to your feet before slowly edging your way toward the back exit.  

Good.  Maybe you could sneak out while he and his brother got down to business.

“Would you like to gamble on what strike three means for her?”

“All right, all right,” he said, putting his hands up in surrender.  “No need to pull a Lucifer and break everyone else’s toys when you don’t get your way.  Besides, we all know what happens when you start throwing temper tantrums with the Winchesters around.  Well, Michael does, anyway.”

He smiled widely, enjoying the way his remarks were beginning to get under Coitis Interruptis’ skin.

“But if you simply must know… she was the only one that gave two shits about me when everyone was trying to make me choose sides.  It wasn’t about tradition or the greater good.  It was about me.  She believed in me to make the right decision because I was good enough,” he began, past pushing against present as a familiar slow burning anger flared back to life.  

“So no.  She’s not a distraction.  She’s a friend.  A good one, and she’s a good person who doesn’t deserve to be caught up in our bullshit again.  So I’m asking you, as your brother, to leave her out of this.”

Three things became apparent as Gabriel stopped his rambling.  

First, this was probably the most genuine interaction he’d had with cocksmiter number three since his father had left.

Second, because it was sincere, it didn’t even register on his brother’s bullshit detector which, in turn, sent it flying off the charts by the look he received.  

Third, and most important, you had stopped.  You were now just standing.  In the middle of the room.  Staring.  Mouth parted slightly when really you needed to be moving - why the hell weren’t you still moving?

Gold snapped up to your gaze, flicking toward the door insistently.  Keep going he urged when you simply looked conflicted.  You hesitated another moment before continuing on.

Humans.

“I mean I know it’s a novel idea, but why don’t we try keeping the crazefest in the family, just this once?”  He continued, aware of his brother’s unwavering stare.  He was also aware of how close you were to the back door.  Your hand reached for the handle, movements silent as you gave a push… only for nothing to happen.  

Someone clearly had some control issues to work on.  

“I will never understand your loyalty to these creatures,” the disdain dripping from the colossal cockmuffin’s words was palpable.  “They are weak and flawed.”

“What did you say?” Gabriel demanded, eyes narrowing.  Lucifer had said those very words… how had his brother known?

“Despite our differences, Gabriel, I came here to talk,” the humongous spawn hammer implored.  “The rebel has gathered a surprising amount of support, though it is only a matter of time before he is defeated.”

“Well, sounds like you have it all figured out.  Best of luck to you,” he said, taking a few steps back toward the front entrance.  If he wasn't going to let you go, Gabriel could at least try and move the party.  Thunder echoed overhead and the room suddenly leapt to life with a gathering energy just before a bolt of lightning pierced the ceiling.  It struck right behind Gabriel’s back, stopping him in his tracks and scorching the floor.  

Apparently he wasn't the only one with a penchant for theatrics.  

“You’re either with me or against me.”  

Gabriel had been wrong.  His brother wasn't a giant dick.  He was a whole bag of them.

“Well, when you put it that way,” Gabriel jeered, taking a step forward.  “So, how do you want to do this?  Should I just whip mine out?  Do we compare sizes first?”  

A familiar smell drifted under his nose, carrying hints of metal and life in its purest form.  He glanced up to find you with your back against the door, hand obscured behind you and he had a fairly good idea what you were doing.  The problem was if he did, then so did the massive heat-seeking moisture missile.

If you both lived through this, he and you were going to have a long, snarky chat about the limitations of humans, and the nearly limitless power of archangels and why the former didn't need to worry about saving the latter.  

“Blood carries a very distinct smell,” Skippy McSexkiller announced, turning your way, dark eyes blazing bright against the insolence you were hastily painting across the door.  “Yours especially.”  

“It’s a wonder you’re not a hit with the ladies,” Gabriel taunted, trying to draw his attention.  It didn’t work.  “Hey, Raphie, can I call you Raphie?” That did the trick; the archangel paused momentarily, giving him a baleful look.  

“I tire of your games, brother, and theirs.”  Boy, did his brother look tired.  Not just the soul weary I’ve-been-alive-since-the-dawn-of-time exhaustion that timeless beings tended to get from time to time.  This was a whole other ballgame.  

Gabriel, tell me how to do this without hurting you.  

Apprehension filled your prayer as it floated to the forefront of his consciousness, and from the corner of his eyes he could see you were almost done.  He found it awfully touching you didn’t want to blast his hide when he knew that if your brothers were there, he’d have been rocketed halfway to Texas by now.  

Unfortunately, Scrote-totes MaGoo continued to designate the hotel as a no fly zone, leaving you both without a lot of options.

At least it would only hurt for a moment.  

Fact check: it was only for a moment, but it also was a whole lot of hurt.

Catch you on the flip side, sweetheart.

“Human idioms,” the gigantic tube steak sighed and the easygoing mask Gabriel kept in place began to slip.  “I’ll never understand your preference for them.  Or why you’d think me fool enough to fall for your little trap.”

Panic sparked in Gabriel’s chest, skating across the thickening tension in the air before slamming into your system.  You frantically finished the last symbol on the ward before bringing your hand down in the center.  He braced himself, only the blast never came.  He looked over to see the sigil had vanished.  

Oh sweet bearded man with bad teeth but good religious messages.  This was happening.  His brother was looking at you like he was going to split every atom in your body no matter what his younger brother wanted and last Gabriel checked, that was not on his agenda.  

“Hey douchebag,” he called out, pulling his blade from out of his jacket.  “Let’s get this show on the road.”

The other archangel didn’t even bat an eye.  He didn’t even give his younger sibling a courtesy snap.  The only reason Gabriel felt the smite coming was because the air always tasted like it was burning the moment before it hit.  

A bright, blinding light poured down through the ceiling.  Every hair stood on edge, stretching upward toward the concentration of energy before everything suddenly released and the blast had his brains pushing down through his nostrils.  

Fact check: Gabriel’s brain was not actually being forced out his nose, but it certainly felt like it.

The extreme downward pressure, however, was enough to immobilize his mind and force him down to his knees.

Apparently his brother was done dicking around.  

“Was the pain you suffered earlier not tangible enough?” Raphael’s voice managed to push through the mental haze.  “Perhaps you need a reminder of your own past.”  

Gabriel’s eyes fluttered open, details around him fuzzy as he struggled to bring the world back into focus.  

Your pain made for a great motivator.  

He heard your cry go up and the visceral response that tore through him was enough to help him gather his wits.  Your anguish was tangible even from across the room, tiny cuts and enlarged gashes singing in a discord of physical suffering that clashed with the previous chorus that rang from the very essence in your soul crying out.

He looked over to see you on your knees, red painting your torment in grisly splashes through your clothing.  There were streaks across your legs, your right thigh practically saturated.  It was harder to tell what was behind your sweater, but by the sheer smell of iron drifting across the room, there was a fair amount that had yet to show through.  You cradled your left arm closer to your body, droplets trickling out from beneath the cuff of your coat, sliding steadily off tips of fingers with a steady pat, pat, pat.   

“Is that why you brought me here?” Gabriel demanded, trying get the giant phallus turned back in his direction.  “Because you want to remind me what happens if I choose the right side?”

Pat, pat, pat.  

“There’s a certain symmetry.  Beginning where you ended.  Ending where you began,  should it come to that.”

Pat, pat, pat.

He should have seen it sooner.  After helping lock Auntie Amara away, the mammoth meat constrictor had been all about balance, about the universe having some sort of grand plan and synergy to it.  After their father left, however, things began to become a little less about cosmic harmony and a little more obsessive-compulsive.  

Pat, pat, pat.

“From where I’m standing?  More like a certain douchiness,” he turned, spitting out a mouthful of red from the blood that trickled down the back of his throat.  

“Enough!”  Raphael roared.  “I will not stand here and listen to your drivel while our home is under attack.”

Pat, pat, pat.  

Your heart began to slow, the change in pace nearly imperceptible at first.  For every beat you lost, his seemed to pick it up.  You were bleeding out and while you had a little time, you were going to be drier than a fruitcake in February if he couldn’t get to you soon.  

Good thing he had a trick or two up his sleeve.  

“Heaven is burning, brother.  Michael is locked away no different than Lucifer.  Doesn’t that mean anything to you?”

“It might if that was what this was really about, but we both know that’s not the case,” Gabriel said, slowly pulling himself to his feet.  

“Paradise was within our grasp... until you betrayed us to the Winchesters and told them how to put Lucifer back.”  

Fact check: the only betrayal being served was by Lucifer, who couldn’t help but turn everything into an ice cold fuckery of a dish.  

“Then kill me,” he said, tossing his blade aside.  Rather, his shadow twin did.  He wasn’t that stupid… and you were beginning to look awfully pale.  He appeared in front of you, crouching down until he was eye level with you.  You hadn’t moved.  He wasn’t sure you were able to by the number of wounds you had.  

“I’d rather have you by my side,” his brother continued from across the room.  He was vaguely aware his double had given one of the many pre-selected responses from his repertoire.  Besides the fact it made things easier, he’d rather be focusing on you anyway.  His hands tended to get a little less smitey when he did.    

He had to be careful, though.  If he released too much energy, Frodo Douchbaggins would be on him like nazgul on the one ring.  He idly wondered if that made him Aragorn in this situation.  Probably Eowyn.  She did have the most fabulous hair out of all of them.  

Fact check: Gabriel did have pretty fabulous hair.  

Your eyes met his with something too shrouded for him to read.  The pain was too prevalent and he wondered how much you were even able to think beyond it.  Your lips parted as if to speak, and he held a finger up for you to be quiet before his gaze dropped down to the pool of blood on the floor.  

This mess was as much his fault as the titanic flesh rod’s, and when this was all said and done,

Gabriel was going to go full Lorena Bobbitt and remove him from existence.

“This is your chance, Gabriel, to make up for your past indiscretions…”

The only thing he needed to make amends for was sitting right in front of him.  The longer things dragged out, however, the less likely he’d get the chance.  

Fact check:  the chances one of you were getting fucked tonight were looking pretty good.  

Bonus fact check: it wouldn’t nearly be as fun as either of you had planned.

Fingers drifted along the swollen contour of your cheek, tenderly stroking away the puffiness as he released his energy. He didn’t need to physically touch you in order to heal, but what did he have to lose anymore?  

Your gaze drifted sideways, widening slightly in surprise and doubt slipped in through the cracks in his armor.  Perhaps he’d been mistaken.  Perhaps things were more one sided than he realized.  Perhaps you had been the one with too much drink tonight.  

He tried to focus on his brother droning on in the background, clamping down on his rising disappointment.  Wank, wank, atonement.  Wank, wank, duty.  It was the same hackneyed setup where humanity became the punchline.  

His family really needed to add some new jokes to their lineup.

You released a slow breath and his attention shifted back to you as you tried to move.  The hand you raised was shaky, slowed by the damage he was still trying to undo.  It was obvious you were struggling to even raise it this far, but it was far enough.  Tips of fingers slipped beneath his coat, tentatively tracing along the partially undone line of buttons at the top of his shirt before settling your palm against his chest.  

Your eyes settled in the same spot, narrowing intently.  He’d seen you enough times to know it was the look you wore when ferreting out an answer in the middle of a clusterfuck of information.  What you were seeking and what you found, were simply beyond him in that moment.  You did find something, however, and it wasn’t the slow growing heaviness of finality Gabriel overtaking over him.  

Despite the snarling mass of emotions he felt within you, your eyes began to brighten, shaking off some of their former weight.  The intensity made him take a closer look.  A slow burning ire had sparked somewhere along the way, determination causing the edges of your gaze to grow hard, keeping the flames contained.  Your anger wasn’t surprising, but the fear that seemed to be fueling it was.  

He wanted to reassure you that things would be fine, but what would be the point of lying?  Besides, you’d just find something to break on him if he did.  Though he imagined with the way things were going there might not be anything left to break by the end of the night.

Your brows drew together suddenly, a frown tugging at your lips.  For a moment he thought Raphael might have caught on, but he could hear the prick yammering on while his shadow tossed well placed barbs and used misdirection to keep the conversation going.

Your eyes also never left Gabe’s, making the source of your displeasure rather clear.  Or rather unclear, considering he hadn’t a clue what he could have done considering he hadn’t had the chance to open his mouth yet.  

Then again, he had dragged you into this mess.  Perhaps you were finally getting on the same page as the rest of the world in realizing what a giant fuck up he was.

Your hand clenched around his shirt and while he was surprised at how quickly your strength had returned, he was completely thrown for a loop when you yanked him forward, lips demanding as they moved over his.  Passion won out over resignation as energy spiked down from your mouth straight into his chest, sparking outward back into your hand and continuing the loop.  

Apparently, you were of the mind set that neither one of you had died yet.  

You kept things brief because, unlike previous assumptions, you understood the importance of not dallying.  When he looked at you again, the fear had melted away to promise - so much promise for so many, many things burned wickedly in your gaze.  

If that wasn’t motivation to survive this disaster of a night, then he deserved to be put out of his misery.  

Fact check: he most certainly was not dead already from the waist down.

Show time he decided, giving you a reassuring smirk before taking the place of his double once again.  Not that he had a clue what to do still, but he did have a little hope, thanks to you.  

“Let’s stop beating around the bush, hmmm?” Gabriel suggested.  “I know what you’re really up to.  This isn’t about heaven.  This isn’t about family or atonement.  This is about you just wanting it to be done.  No matter the cost.”

“Yes,” his enormous deep-V-diver of a brother admitted.  “I am tired, brother.  So very tired and I know that you are, too.  This is our chance to go back to our real home.  If my cold heart still yearns for it, I know yours must as well.”

Ancient sentiments almost forgotten stirred deep beneath the surface and Gabriel’s confidence slipped.  If how he looked on the surface mirrored what was going on internally, he would have been running around the room, flailing wildly as he attempted to outrun an imaginary wildfire.  

These were not things he wanted to feel again.  Not tonight.  Not with Raphael.  Not ever.  

Fact check: he would rather douse himself with holy fire and do the hellfire rumba than go down that road again.

Keep him distracted.  

Your prayer rang out as a lifeline, drawing him back from uncertain waters before he became lost in the riptide.  He didn’t dare check to see what you were up to with how intently his brother’s stare was fixed upon him.

“Humans have a word for that you know,” he said, pity unknowingly softening his demeanor.  

The Herculean skin flute gave a heavy sigh, weariness returning and casting shadows on his face far darker than before.  “I am aware of it, and I suppose you’re right.  We cannot go back.  But we can still end this miserable existence for everyone.”  

Every time it seemed like they were about to have a moment, twizzletits had to go and open that big mouth of his.

Gabriel sincerely hoped this wasn’t how everyone felt about him.

Fact check: it kind of was.

I’m going to tell you the same thing I told that big bro of ours,” Gabriel announced.  “I love you, Raphael, you are my brother, but you are a great big bag of dicks.”  He gave a dramatic pause, watching as fury erupted from his brother’s gaze.  

“Actually, I lied.  You’re an even bigger one for trivializing all the sacrifices made to stop this madness, mine included, by starting it all over again.  What is it with all of you throwing a tantrum if you don’t get your way? For father’s sake, grow a pair! Sac up and move on! The world isn’t as terrible if you’d give it a chance to show you its beauty.”

“This world is no longer beautiful.  It is full of ugliness, disappointment, flawed intentions, but most of all, it is filled with suffering.  If you love them so much, would you not want their pain to end?”

Gabriel almost winced.  The more he listened, the less he was certain his brother was, in fact, a bag of dicks.  If anything, it sounded like the archangel needed to go out, drink a liquor store, get laid, then go on a world tour and take in the sights.  He knew serving under Michael was no picnic, but he never imagined it would actually suck the soul out of someone.    

“To live is to suffer,” Gabriel conceded, “But it’s also so much more than that.  Yes, they’re flawed.  They can be vicious and bloodthirsty, but how is that any different than us?  Why can’t any of you see how much good is also in them?  How much they try and more importantly forgive?”

Because forgiveness was not a staple at any of their Sunday dinners.

“I am tired of this life,” Raphael repeated, the lines suddenly evident across his vessel’s face.  “And so very tired of all these games.  I know where your heart truly lies.”

The part of Gabriel in question gave a stutter, past overlaying present in a terrifying way.  It wasn’t so much the echo of Lucifer’s words that disturbed him so much as the fact that you were there, right where he’d been, body crouched low as you slowly crept in for the kill.  

“I’m sorry.”  The older archangel meant it.  It didn’t make him any less of a fuck stick for what he was about to do.  

Fact check: Raphael was definitely a big ol’ bag of dicks.

Desperation forced Gabriel’s hand and he leapt forward.  Once again, his brother anticipated the move, deftly sidestepping the blade before grabbing him by the arm and throwing him into you.  You nearly filleted him by mistake, your weapon catching him across his shoulder as you scrambled to get it out of the way.  

So much for plan B.  

Gabriel felt the telltale gathering of energy over his head and he had just enough time to throw you back before heaven’s energy came barreling down upon him.  It didn't matter how old he got, he would never get used to the feeling of a smite.  Though that might have been his brother’s goal by how many were sent down upon him.  Wave after wave of energy crashed over him and he was certain this was it… until it suddenly wasn’t.    

By the time the world stopped spinning (and ringing… and twisting… and shouting…) Gabriel looked up to see his brother booting you across the floor like a soccer ball.  

“What will it take for you to realize how weak and unworthy they are?”  Raphael demanded, sending another burst down.  Something popped inside his skull, though it was likely just his brain falling in on itself.  There seemed to be enough of something leaking out his nose and down the back of his throat again.

There was another loud pop followed by more ringing in his ears, and for a minute he assumed he really had taken one too many smites to the head for his vessel to hold.  When the sound continued, he realized the noise wasn’t coming from inside him, but from across the room.  You had your gun drawn and trained on his brother as more shots peppered the silence, making the archangel’s vessel shake slightly with each bullet that pierced it.  

He’d said it before and he’d say it again: you had the most abysmal sense of self-preservation, even for a Winchester.  

Fact check: the above statement was completely true.  Though scrambled as Gabriel’s mind was, he had the wherewithal to realize what you were doing was solely to draw fire away from him.

He shook his head, pity pushing through the lingering pain.  How could his brother bear witness to this and still not be swayed?  

“From where I’m standing?  They’re more worthy than we are,” he said, smiling slightly as his eyes met yours. No one else was willing to step this far onto the wrong side of sane for him.  Not his family.  Not yours.  It only reaffirmed his stance that you all deserved better than what his father had originally planned.   

“She has ruined you,” Dickbag McFlaccidcock declared, tone insinuating if anyone were to be pitied, it should be Gabriel.  Unfortunately, there was a reason for that.  

Gabe watched as your hand began to shake, your eyes widening at the realization you were no longer in control of your weapon.  Slowly, you began to turn it on yourself, your other hand coming up to try and alter its course without much luck.  

He didn’t even get the chance to try and attack his brother before another blinding round of pain echoed through his skull.  

“You will watch this,” the patron saint of douchbaggery insisted.  “Because your foolishness is the reason she must die.”

A crushing weight bore down upon his shoulders, pinning him in place.  Desperation clawed viscerally through his stomach, his wings shooting out to full length as he tried to break free from his brother’s grasp.  The uber smiting he’d received, however, had stripped him of most of his strength.  He was essentially leashed and there was nothing worse than feeling caged and helpless.

Except maybe watching the one good thing in his life be destroyed because of him.  

“You want me to stand with you - fine.  I’ll be your right hand man.  The heavens will sing of our unstoppable duo - Gabriel and Raphael - or Raphael and Gabriel, whatever you prefer,” he begged, willing to say whatever his brother needed to hear if it meant buying you more time.  He could worry about the finer points of how to dig himself out later.    

“This is for your own good,” Raphael insisted.

It seemed his brother had half a brain after all, though his heart was clearly still AWOL.  

No no no no no.  Think, Gabriel, think, think, think...

Fuck, fuck, god damn, fucking fuck - think, y/n, think, think, think…

Your thoughts collided, bursting through the increasingly tense silence.  Your mounting panic pushed through his battered mind, allowing him to unintentionally pick up on what was flying through yours.  As usual, you were the only two in the room even remotely on the same page.

Fact check: that page was titled Now’s a Good Time to Panic.

The gun reached its destination against your temple, desperation hitting its peak as both your mantras came to a deafening halt.  

“It’s not your fault, Gabe,” you told him, doing your best to hide your fear and failing miserably at it.  

He nearly broke in that moment.  Here you were, about to die because of him, and your final thought was to pardon him.  It barely made a dent in his brother’s armor, and that’s when he realized just how lost the archangel had become.

Gabriel renewed his efforts, straining against his ethereal bonds.  He clenched down on his jaw, so hard he might have heard a few of his teeth crack.  It was the only way to keep his desperation from spilling out over his lips.  The last thing you needed to see was him reduced to a babbling mess.  

No, no, no, no, please, father, no…

“It’s ok,” you told him.

Fact check: things were so far from ok that Gabriel was certain no one would be leaving this room alive if you died.  

You closed your eyes, but he had no choice but to watch.  His heart hit a fever pitch, mirroring his own struggles to escape as it hammered away against his chest.  There was nothing he could do and he dropped to his knees, everything shattering as reality bore down upon him.  

He wasn’t strong enough.  He couldn’t save you.  You were going to die and it was all his fault.  

“I’m sorry,” his voice wavered, thick with emotion.  

Gabriel’s world came to a screeching halt as his brother forced you to pull the trigger.  

Next Chapter>>

ALL the tags:   @girl-next-door-writes  @sumara62 @fand0maniac @feelmyroarrrr @omgreganlove @jannalionheart @baritonechick, @deaths-maiden @lucifer-in-leather @stone-met   @the-moose-of-baskerville @summer-binging-spn  @blondecoffeecake  @raspberrypuddle @ourloveisforthelovely @deanxfuckingadorablexwinchester @crowley-you-sinnamon-roll @tistai @christinalibertymikaelson

Gabe Squad:  @theblackenedsky @bloodstained-porcelain-doll @pepperwoodatnight @lacqueluster @samikitten @ludwigs-a-monster @a-vast-african-plain @onlyanothersocialcasualty @kazosa @cobrakai--1972

Full Circle:   @melodyhiddleston @gabe-crowley-trash

[junker-town]

Eddie Money made my crappy life seem perfect, if only for 3 minutes every month

Photo by Scott Legato/Getty Images

Eddie Money passed away Friday, 33 years after giving the world his greatest gift.

The first thing we changed when we moved into the Wallingford Social Club in 2003 was our midnight party song. Wonderwall was out. Take Me Home Tonight was in.

The WSC was, by most official measures, a third world country. It was once a resplendent house stuck between the North Oakland, Shadyside, and Bloomfield neighborhoods of Pittsburgh, the resting place of mill managers who drank something better than Stroh’s and blithely ignored the pleas of their workers. When I moved in, it was a split level residence with a papier-mâché door and a stack of cinder blocks put in place to divide the two sides.

We couldn’t drink the water there our final two years because it had abnormally high levels of lead. Winters meant an $800 monthly heating bill just to keep pipes from bursting and toilets from freezing solid. We were a group of scumbag architecture students sandwiched between a Chabad House and a Baptist minister. Their forgiveness — and much more likely, pity — factored heavily in our continued existence without police intervention.

The WSC — our house — was roughly a 15-minute walk from the Carnegie Mellon campus (20 if you were hustling back on an hour-long break between classes, somehow). It was also the epicenter of the “Archi Party,” a gathering of the sleep deprived masses eager to excise the demons haunting them from 120 hours of studio time for the cost of a $5 Solo cup.

One thing to note about Carnegie Mellon is that it’s mostly a dour and miserable place with mostly dour and miserable students. The campus could be packed with people bustling from class to class and you wouldn’t make eye contact with any of them. This was truest in the architecture program.

All of us spent time sleeping in the halls and grimed-down couches of the Margaret Morrison Carnegie Hall. Some of us slept there more than in our actual beds. We saw each other more than our roommates. If we lived with other architecture students, we would want nothing more to murder them.

But one Friday per month, give or take, we found a way to boil that stress off in the top floor of a building whose radiators were strictly decorative. Eddie Money was our deliverance.

At midnight at the WSC, DJ Chaz’s stream of OutKast, Twista, and Prince gave way to the building synth of Money’s masterpiece. The previous tenants had leaned toward Oasis, but the Not-Beatles were decidedly uninteresting to us. Meanwhile, Take Me Home Tonight was the mid-80s comeback song that pushed Money out of a drug abuse spiral and back into the mainstream. It was also, unequivocally, the perfect party song for a group of stressed out misfits light years away from a typical college experience.

Everything slowed down when those first notes hit. The bar area emptied. Cloves were quickly dashed into the brick exterior of the house. The party swelled like a sprained ankle.

Sometimes there was a microphone and one of us who lived at the house would give a rambling toast to nothing. Sometimes there wasn’t. It made no difference. All people wanted to do was lift a Solo cup filled with the finest booze named after Russian peninsulas, grab a friend or whomever they were flirting with at the time, and sing.

whooooaaaa, oh-whoa, oh whoooa. yeah yeaaaaah eee-yeah, ee-yeeaaaaaah

Then the Money man took over. The house roared to life like a steam engine, sputtering wispy fumes of Natural Light through windows that only retained heat in the summer. The lyrics were aural Teflon; every shitty thing from the previous day, week, or month slid away from it

The song itself was cheesy, but it resonated with a bunch of kids who grew up in the 80s and saw visions of Ronnie Spector dancing on VH1 whenever their mom wanted to work out in front of the TV. Eddie warned us about sleepless nights and walking these city streets like he was introducing us to a mismatched pair of police officers from an underdeveloped crime drama.

And then it hit:

TAKE ME HOME TO-NIGHT, I DON’T WANNA LET YOU GO TIL YOU SEE. THE. LIGHT. TAKE ME HOME TONIGHT, LISTEN ARE YOU JUST LIKE RONNIE SANG...

BE MY LITTLE BABY

The middle portion was filled with the wrong lyrics barked 100 different ways, and it didn’t matter. It was the nerdiest bacchanalia in the world compared to what we assumed was happening at actual colleges, and we all bought in. That chorus wasn’t sung, it was screamed in triumph over another shitty week at a shitty school preparing for shitty jobs designing Jamba Juices and Whole Foods and making $35,000 per year.

As far as we could tell, this was the experience we’d all been missing. The rite of passage for which we’d slogged through high school. And the architect behind it all was Eddie Money.

Huh.

These parties typically lasted two more hours afterward, dropping off an 80s-inspired bell curve before we’d have to stack up half-empty red cups and pour them down a sink that got a little more clogged every party. Saturdays were spent cleaning a house that would remain low-key sticky for the next week. Sundays meant we were all back in the studio or working elsewhere, trying to keep our place at a college that did everything in its power to let us know it didn’t actually give a shit about us.

I stuck around CMU’s architecture program for three semesters before leaving, effectively quitting before they could fire me. I landed in the university’s creative and professional writing tracks and pitched a story idea about a school populated by the unknowing clones of famous people.

It revolved around the lonely lost child of Eddie Money. It also turned out that “Clone High” had perfected that angle long before I’d thought of it. Now I write about football.

Money followed the same trajectory as most secondary 80s rock stars, finding temporary homes at regional gambling halls and state fairs after his days of headline tours and popular clubs were behind him. I saw him around 2006 at Connecticut’s Foxwoods Casino. While this 60ish-year-old man labored through hits like “Baby Hold On” and “Shakin,” he brought out an extra gear to close his show with “Take Me Home Tonight.” Money knew. And I, drunk as I’d been those college nights at the WSC, stood and shouted in raw wonder.

That midnight tradition still mostly comes up at weddings, and mostly gets the same response. Much fancier drinks than the ones we’d raised in 2003 get tabled as we go arm-over-shoulder across a parquet dance floor. The build remains perfect, slowly spiraling up to that first chorus, then taking off like a roller coaster and hitting top speed once Ronnie chimes in. Some people may hate it. These are not my friends.

Edward James Mahoney passed away September 13, 2019 after battling esophageal cancer. Eddie Money, though? He lives three minutes and 35 seconds at a time, reminding me that, holy shit, things can be perfect. Just not for long.

Thanks, Eddie. You’ll be missed.

(Sorry that I couldn’t find your official video on YouTube, too.)

[connorrenwick]

Template Choices: 3 Letterpress Designers on 3 Different Squarespace Templates

The following post is brought to you by Squarespace. Our partners are handpicked by the Design Milk team because they represent the best in design. And when you use coupon code DESIGNMILK at checkout you’ll get 10% off your first purchase.

We are pretty big fans of the ease of Squarespace, but with more than 60 templates, choosing the right one can seem like a pretty daunting task. And while we have featured some fantastic ways to choose your own template (modesty might not be our strong suit), pulling the template trigger will honestly be the most challenging part of your Squarespace design process. Decisions! So in our effort to demonstration the template versatility (and just maybe inspire you to get your own side hustle off-the-ground), we chose three letterpress companies who all have fabulous Squarespace sites, but built their websites using different templates. They might all be working in the same industry, but each picked a different template and design to make their own. Happy template choosing!

Western Editions’ cover using the Bryant template.

Western Editions & the Bryant template

Western Editions is a California-based letterpress company whose tagline “We print cute shit” is as cheeky as it is apt. It’s the perfect sentiment for this pair of former roommates, who manage to bring an irreverent spin to the more than five-hundred year old technique of letterpress printing. Before moving to Squarespace, letterpress artists Erin Fong and Taylor Reid, had a friend create a website. It looked great, but they couldn’t update it on their own. Although the to-be-updated list grew, the website project sat on the back burner. Finally, they decided that they needed to be distraction free, so the pair booked a room at the Ace Palm Springs (dream team!) and gave themselves a few days to bust out a new site. “We worked on our site AND worked on our tan and left with a sparkling new website,” said Erin. After trying a few templates, they landed on the Bryant template, which checked all the functionality boxes and also offer the clean, modern design that best represented the brand.

Alissa Bell’s cover using the Avenue template.

Alissa Bell & the Avenue template

From the moment that she took her first letterpress class at the San Francisco Center for the Book, Alissa Bell was hooked. After a short stint on Shopify, she launched the Squarespace website for her letterpress company in 2013. Since that 2013 launch, she’s experimented with a few different templates. Then two years ago, she landed on Avenue and that’s been her site template ever since. The biggest selling point was that Avenue had the ability to create an Index. One of the most central components of Alissa’s business is the large variety of styles that she creates for unique client projects. But she didn’t want those disparate looks to make the site feel disjointed. The Index allowed her to feature the work in a clean, cohesive way, yet still showcase those custom projects.

For the Press cover using the Flatiron template

For the Press & the Flatiron Template

Atlanta-based For the Press is the newest letterpress studio of our Squarespace group. Mirely Cabral launched her studio just under two years ago, in the beginning of 2016. She always had a love of paper, and wanted to do something creative with her hands. Before she really knew what hit her, she was in her tiny red car on a road trip to Iowa to pick up her first letterpress machine: a Chandler & Price Pilot Press named Saoirse. In her day job as a designer, Mirely had designed Squarespace sites for other clients so she already had some template favorites. She wanted something clean and simple that could grow along with her business, and the Flatiron template seemed to fit the bill.

Western Editions’ site built with the Bryant template

We talked to all three letterpress companies about their experience with ecommerce, goals, their creative process and more:

Did you sell your work in other ways (pops-ups, wholesale) before launching the site? How has the response been?

Western Editions: Before starting Western Editions, we would team up to do pop-ups and vendor fairs together, selling our separate items. Then eventually we put our talents together to create prints and cards that turned into our shared business. As an analog printshop, we crank everything through our press by hand and love handing that finished product off to real people. We are constantly asked at vendor fairs if we have an online shop or a wholesale line and now we do! It’s great to be able to direct people to our e-commerce shop page. We have also created a wholesale page (that’s password protected even!) for retail clients to browse our full line and place orders with us. It is still really exciting to see new addresses from all across the country pop up on the orders we’re receiving.

Before having a website, most of our custom design work was from word-of-mouth referrals and friends-of-friends. Squarespace has allowed us to reach and work with people all over the country!

Alissa Bell: Prior to this year, most of my work was sold in other venues than the site. I’m lucky enough to have built up a robust word of mouth business with other entrepreneurs and the wedding community. Up to 2017, the site served as mostly a gallery for people to discover me through or to send potential clients to prove that I’m real (haha). This year I’ve been in a transition as I launched a new stationery collection in March – and in connection built a whole new site on Squarespace.

For the Press: Yes! I participate in a few local artist markets in the Atlanta area and sell my stationery. I’ve also had the pleasure of partnering with Madewell, and hosted a pop-up shop for Mother’s Day a few months ago. Recently, I have also expanded into offering my cards for wholesale purchase.

Western Editions’ site built with the Bryant template

What is your creative process like? 

Western Editions: For our personal line of art prints and cards, we try to think about things that make us smile and translate that into a letterpress good. For example, Erin just saw this plastic bag that she loved at a Chinese restaurant. (You know, the pink bag with the red rose that says “thank you”.) We just created a card based on the colors and sentiment of this nostalgic plastic bag. Plus, we love puns! Often we will say something and then think “Hey! That would be a great card.”

Alissa Bell: My creative process draws from a combination of my life experience and the art and cultural influences I surround myself with. While in the stationery world for almost 6 years, I have mostly been designing and creating for other people. When it came to designing this Collection I wanted to create something that truly reflects me. Influenced by Halston, Robert Irwin, and Luis Barragan, I focus on the celebration of color while showcasing the simplicity of great design.

For the Press: There’s not really a set process that I come back to because each project can follow a different process depending on the client. However, my projects are most successful when my client and I are able to have an open dialogue at various parts of both the design and printing process. I usually get approached by someone, often designers or brides, with some kind of vision for what they want the end result to look like. From there I’ll recommend papers and inks that I know will work well with what they are trying to achieve. If the project involves design, I’ll gather as much info from what they are describing and produce some options for them. Once the design and the specs are in place we’ll move forward with a plan and timeline, and I’ll usually get them a proof before completing the entire project.

Alissa Bell’s site built using the Avenue template.

We are in the last quarter of 2017, what are your goals for your site and business next year? Western Editions: Some of our goals for next year would be to update our photos with newer client work since we are always growing and developing our style. We are also excited to grow our wholesale line and get into more stores across the country. Up until this point we have always worked one-on-one with wedding clients to create custom designs that fit their exact needs. Through this work, we have found that not all clients have time or the vision for this. We are super excited to launch a new wedding collection in Spring 2018 that will offer a handful of designs, typefaces, and ink colors for clients to easily choose from.

Alissa Bell: The same month I launched the Collection and new site, I also had my first baby! He is now 6 months old and I’m beginning to catch my stride as a working mother. I have high hopes for next year as I am starting to have more dedicated time to pour into the Collection. I’m currently working on completing the designs for 2018. and I’m so excited about the new colors and a few pieces that are being added. In the new year, I hope to build new wholesale relationships and also find more ways to drive direct to consumer sales through the site.

For the Press: My goals for my site next year is to get a blog up featuring more of my process and work. I am also working on expanding my online product offerings. Along with that I think I want to continue to grow and keep print beautiful letter-pressed paper goods.

Western Editions and the Bryant template

Are you feeling inspired yet? Maybe it’s time to get going. And don’t worry about buyer’s remorse, you can always switch up your template game.

Make your next website using Squarespace. Squarespace offers online stores, websites, and domains to help you get your business off-the-ground! And when you use coupon code DESIGNMILK at checkout you’ll get 10% off your first purchase.

via http://design-milk.com/

from WordPress https://connorrenwickblog.wordpress.com/2017/11/01/template-choices-3-letterpress-designers-on-3-different-squarespace-templates/

[lesliepump]

Fish Out of Water (2017 Short Fiction Contest Runner Up)

Joan Leotta’s short story, “Fish Out of Water,” is the runner up in Lawyerist’s fourth annual short-fiction contest.

“Odd, that girl is sooo odd.” Then silence. Uncomfortable silence. That reaction characterized my childhood. The speaker was often my mother or another relative although sometimes a teacher or stranger made the remark—as if I were not able to hear it, but certainly loud enough for all around to hear and nod in agreement. Usually this unflattering observation followed an incident where I had stared at and then exclaimed over the lovely or unlovely aura surrounding someone.

Eventually my family simply ignored my oddities and me. Cousins, aunts, uncles, even my own parents avoided sitting too close to me at picnics and parties.

“She’s creepy,” I once heard a younger cousin say. “Stares at us like a fish.”

Thanks to the intervention of the one person in the family who did not seem to mind my staring or comments, Shelia, no one actually bothered me or even teased me very much at those gatherings or at the school we both attended. Sheila, a “cool girl,” also kept me from being physically as well as emotionally shoved aside on the school playground. She retained her role of protector through middle and high school, although by my teen years, I knew enough to stop staring and sharing my aura observations.

I kept to myself the breathtaking sights of colored auras, good or bad, dancing in front of me. I knew now, that others did see me as a cold fish, an oddity. Only instead of looking out at them from the fishbowl, I was constantly staring in at the others happily swimming about in the fishbowl of daily, ordinary life. Staring in, but never a part of it. Shelia was the only one I told about the powerful colors I experienced. Our bond was cemented by a use of nicknames when we were alone. I called her “Lee”, short for “Lee Lee”, my baby name for her. She called me “Angel,” instead of Angelina, because she said she was sure someday I would learn to fly above all of the negative influences and people around me. I was sure she only said that because she felt an obligation to be kind to her “little” cousin. Even with her kind ministrations, at school, among family, no matter where I was, I felt like an outsider, always looking in, never a part of the “party.”

However, her faith in me proved true. My senior year high school art teacher, Miss Wilson, changed my life. She talked about sketch journals one day. After that class, armed with a pack of colored pencils, I began to record aura sightings on a regular basis. Miss Wilson praised my skill and encouraged me to pursue my “artistic vision.” This was an especially vulnerable time for me, since Sheila was off at college on the West Coast. I spoke to her weekly but now the role of daily care fell to Miss Wilson.

The praise and faith of Miss Wilson nurtured both my skill and my confidence. Slowly, I became able to share what I saw, both the strong and often lovely vibrations and even the awful ones in the guise of art. I began to rely on my art to survive socially as well. After I won a few contests, other art students invited me to sit with them. I had found a community of “creatives” who accepted me. Sheila told me she was not surprised.

The following year, at my own college, I declared as an art major. I honed my drawing skills as well as painting the colors I saw in and around people and, increasing also around things.

Practicing my skill under the warming glow of artistic praise and economic encouragement (my work began to sell well even then) made me seem “interesting” though still “odd” to my mother and the rest of the family. Although sitting with me at clan gatherings was still not much in demand, my boisterous relations often stopped by my table to say how glad they were that I was channeling my strange fascination with colors into something useful. Sometimes they even sat with me a bit and chatted for a few minutes. But success was no guarantee of family affection. In fact, I heard one aunt call me “a snob” at my own college graduation party. I still did not really fit in.

Sheila rarely returned to the East Coast, even on summer breaks. She stayed in California for graduate school and began a career there. I started my art career in Raleigh, North Carolina, far from the hip New York scene, but close to the supportive college professors who worked to help me expand my talent. Shelia and I remained close through frequent contact with email and Skype.

About a year after I left college, Shelia’s emails and Skypes suddenly became less about what she was doing and more about a certain guy named Sebastian. “He is so handsome,” was her constant refrain.

When I asked what “Seb” did for a living, she quickly corrected me about his name. “Sebastian does not like nicknames. He is a lawyer for a major financial investment firm.”

She then told me she would stop calling me “Angel” and commanded me to stop calling her “Lee.”

“Childish,” she declared. Before I could argue for at least keeping mine, she prattled on about Sebastian. I only caught part of it. “Sebastian likes to keep things very orderly and clean. Blah, blah. Sebastian is particular about what he eats. Blah blah. Sebastian loves to swim.”

Wow.

Just a few weeks later, she called to announce her engagement. “When we marry, we will buy a house with a pool. I’ll learn to swim. You should too. We’re getting married out here—only my mother and father coming. Civil ceremony. That’s what Sebastian wants. Mother’s giving a party for us the following week in Raleigh. You’ll meet him then.”

Sebastian had a day in court that kept him from arriving in North Carolina until the morning of the party. I saw him for the first time as he stepped into the ballroom at the local Sheraton. What I saw frightened me. His aura was dark, a blackness that flickered like black sequins in the glow of the ballroom’s mirrors and chandeliers.

My gasp of horror was drowned out by the music announcing the bride’s entrance. No objections were called for, there was no ceremony. They were already married. It was only a moment of music for the first dance. Could I, should I tell her what I saw? Maybe tell her mother? My mother? Who among them would believe me, the family oddball? Somehow, I felt even Sheila, never again to be “Lee” would not really want to hear what I had to say, so I tried to look cheerful and hope that perhaps that day my senses were put off kilter by the music and bright lights.

Five years passed. I became a respected artist. My cousin’s contact with me dwindled to monthly emails about Sebastian and his success. Always talk about Sebastian. Sheila rarely said anything about herself. She rarely returned to visit. I missed her, especially at our annual family reunion picnics. She did return for Grandma’s funeral, but zipped in and back in a pair of 24-hour apart red-eye flights.

Despite being friendly toward me for the few minutes I saw her at the funeral, she was not really warm. I decided to think she was just tired. However, Shelia never resumed our Skype relationship and never invited me out to California to visit. Actually, she never invited any of the family to see her in California. I think her Mother went once a year. Eventually, our only communication was a Christmas card exchange.

As a successful artist, people congregated around me at parties, openings. I knew they didn’t want to know the real me, just learn about me. Once conversation about the complexity and impact of my work, weather, and/or their family news ended, we had nothing more to say. I had no personal news to impart. I lived alone without a pet, without a roommate, alone in my small, cluttered loft surrounded by swirling colors and piles of blank and finished canvases.

My signature remained the only clue to my continuing feeling of being different, feeling isolated from everyone else. I signed all my paintings signed with a small fish lying out of the water, outside of a fish bowl, looking in at the other fish happily ignoring her.

###

So, that is the way things stood until this past spring, my mother called to me that she was arranging the annual family picnic in the local park we had frequented when I was a child.

“Everyone will bring a favorite childhood dessert. I will provide everything else, hot dogs, burgers, sides, and lemonade,” she explained.

“Mom, I’m not sure I want to go.”

“Yes you do, and it might be good for you to act normal.”

I ignored her jab. “Why? No one ever talks to me at family picnics, Mom.”

“Nonsense. That’s all in your imagination. Everyone cares about you, I’m sure. Anyway, Sheila is coming and you haven’t seen her since Grandma died two years ago.”

Sheila! Mom was right, I did want to go to the picnic.

I decided to form a plan to keep busy in case Sheila could not (or would not) spend much time talking to me. The park was lovely and might be fodder for a new series of miniature paintings/collages I had been thinking about. I planned on gluing real pressed flowers in bouquets of two or three onto canvases as part of the work created using the colors I saw in the auras of people I knew. Mostly people who loved those same flowers.

“Love it!” was my agent’s reaction to my idea. “And your relatives—there should be a lot of interesting auras to inspire you at this picnic.”

I agreed. I made Mexican wedding cakes, the cookie that was my favorite, and Sheila’s when we were young. We had always eaten those nutty buttery cookies by the handful, covering ourselves in powdered sugar at each family event.

When I got to the picnic, Shelia was putting down her offering. Sheila and I hugged at the dessert table. She had brought brownies. “These are Sebastian’s favorites, ” she gushed.

Before I could talk to Sheila, Sebastian came up to the table. A blast of black wavy lines emanated from him. I stepped back.

When he grabbed Sheila’s arm, her usual pink aura went blue, like a hydrangea planted in different soil—but instantly. Blue? Not a bad color normally, but odd for Sheila.

Sebastian smiled lovingly at Sheila and spoke. “Before we eat, dear, I would like to talk to you. Alone, okay.” Sebastian’s last two words, however, were more of a low growling command than an invitation to romance. I seemed to be the only person who noticed how his presence sucked the air out from underneath the picnic shelter. Some of my other cousins were standing around. “Sebastian, thanks for the good advice on that traffic ticket,” my oldest cousin commented.

I shook my head. I’d never take advice from a person with such an awful aura. Sebastian and Sheila walked off to the left, toward the woods. As I watched them walk off, I wondered if I was mistaken about him. Was I projecting negativity onto him because he had moved Shelia away from me to the West Coast? I took a deep breath and inspired by Sebastian’s legal profession, mumbled to myself, “innocent until proven guilty.”

As I had feared, with Shelia off somewhere else, the others avoided me. So, I excused myself and ambled down the hiking trail to the right of our reserved picnic shelter, with my small notebook , ready to press any flowers I might collect.

My search for tiny blooms soon took me off the main trail. About an hour later, I realized I was lost. I stopped and listened a moment. I could no longer hear the happy laughter of the family picnic, but I could hear water. I knew the park’s stream led back to our family’s picnic spot. I headed toward the cheery gurgle in the distance. Just as I was about to push through to the stream from behind some tall rhododendron, I heard loud angry voices. Sheila. and Sebastian were walking toward the stream and arguing. I stayed hidden behind the bushes, embarrassed to be listening in on their private moment.

“Money, it’s always about money with you!” I heard Sheila tell Sebastian. “I won’t let you con my family into your scheme.”

“It is perfectly legal.”

“Legal, maybe, sketchy for sure!”

Sebastian’s reply was to push Sheila. Hard. She fell into the stream and hit her head on a rock. I saw red life flowing from her head. She tried to stand up. I opened my mouth to call out, to scream, but no sound came. I tried to walk but my legs were frozen. I watched as Sebastian stepped into the stream, to help her, I thought.

Instead, as I watched in horror, he pushed her down. Face down into the water. His black aura swirled about her blue one. Colors, so many colors. I fainted.

When I regained consciousness, Sebastian was gone. I made my way toward Sheila’s limp form. I bent down in the ankle deep cold water and soon realized I was completely alone. She had no aura. Sheila’s spirit was gone. I began to scream. I splashed through the water toward the picnic grounds. In a few moments, our calm family event became a disaster zone with police swarming about like ants.

The first thing I could recall clearly was sitting at the end of the EMS truck being treated for shock. I looked around and saw my mother huddled with some other relatives by the picnic shelter. Noises of voices and cars all blended into a whirr. I shook my head until I could pull individual sounds out of the cacophony. Sebastian, standing a few feet away from me, was talking to one of the policemen.

“Sheila and I went for a walk. We were hoping to find her cousin, the artist, Angelina.”

Me? They were looking for me? Didn’t they start out first? Bits and pieces of memories and sounds began to swirl about in my head. I watched Sebastian’s black aura begin to pulse.

He continued. “I wanted to go back. Shelia’s aunt and mother were due to start serving lunch. Sheila said she wanted a few more minutes to look for Angelina. I made a bet with her. It all seems so silly now. I bet her that her cousin had gone back to eat lunch and would be there when I went returned. Sheila said she still wanted to hunt but promised she would search no more than ten minutes more.”

Sebastian covered his face with his hands as if to stifle a sob. “If only I had stayed with her! It must have been in those minutes when she was alone that she slipped on the rocks in the stream, hit her head and well, face down in the stream, she drowned.”

Sebastian began to sob openly. “If only I had stayed with her. And poor Angelina, to discover Sheila than way.”

I wanted to scream out that I had seen him push her head down and hold her face in the water until she had drowned. I started to mumble something, but stopped. Had I really seen him hold her down until she could no longer breathe? With all of those strange auras about, my senses were on overload. I was feeling dizzy. Was that a bad dream? Could he really have done that to Sheila?

In any case, I was sure it would be apparent to all that the bereaved husband and legal expert, Sebastian was more credible than the family oddball. Especially since I was showing signs of hysteria and shock. So I kept silent. The longer the hours stretched out, the less sure I was of what I had seen in the woods.

A few days later, Sebastian called me from California. “You are mentioned in Sheila’s will,” he said. “She also left directions that I was to fly you out here for the reading. ”

When I hesitated, Sebastian added, “Sheila always wanted you to come out and visit.”

If that was so, why hadn’t Sheila invited me to visit while she was alive, I wondered? But if Sheila wanted me to be at the reading of her will in California, I would go.

“I’ll make a reservation for Sacramento as soon as we hang up,” I told Sebastian.

Driving me to the airport two days later, my mother sniffed, “I certainly don’t understand why you were the only one of us Sheila mentioned in her will. By the way, if she left you Grandma’s bracelet you should give it to one of your other, married cousins. After all, you don’t have anyone to leave it to.”

I nodded. The bracelet was not important to me.

Sebastian picked me up at the airport. Looking at him was difficult for me. His presence made me feel queasy and his dense, dark aura made it difficult for me to breathe in the confined space of the car. As we drove off, he said, “I cancelled your hotel reservation. It will be easier to stay at the house. The reading is tomorrow at two in my office in Sacramento. I’ve arranged for everything.”

I nodded. Sebastian’s presence was taking up all the air again. I was upset. I did not want to be alone with him. I pushed down my feelings and said nothing, comforting myself with the thought that perhaps I had been mistaken. After all, Sheila had loved this man.

When we got to the house, I told him I was tired and needed to rest. I did not even go down for dinner. The next morning, before he got up, I slipped out of the house to wander around the grounds. I wanted to acquaint myself with the house Sheila had loved. She always described it in her Christmas letters, noting every improvement or redecoration effort she had made during the previous year. Slowly, I explored all of it, including patio, pool and three -car garage, trying to get a sense of my dear cousin, to feel her in this place. But it all seemed cold and empty.

At around ten in the morning Sebastian found me still wandering about and after learning I had not eaten yet, suggested, “Why don’t we eat brunch out on the patio by the pool? The appointment is not until two in the afternoon.”

I was glad not to have to be inside the closed space of the kitchen to eat with Sebastian. However, on my walk around the pool, I had noticed wasps gathering by the flowerpots that lined the pool on each side. “Won’t the wasps bother us?” I asked him.

“No, they stay in the flowerpots for the most part. The worst thing they do is occasionally fall into the pool. Then I have to scoop them out. Perhaps you would even like to take a swim before we have brunch?”

“I don’t swim,” I mumbled. We were standing by the edge of the pool. I turned and looked down into the clear blue water. It was the same shade of blue Sheila’s aura had become when Sebastian grabbed her.

Sebastian took a step toward me. I was suddenly sure of what I had seen at the picnic and knew it to be true. I blurted out, “I saw you push Sheila’s face into the water. I will find a way to prove it!”

Sebastian laughed. I marveled at the clouds of black emanating from him as he laughed. “I thought you might have seen something. That’s why I invited you out here. That plus Shelia left you quite a bit of money. She stashed away quite a bit over these past few years without my knowing it. That money that should be mine. Glad you confirmed you still can’t swim, so say good bye.”

Sebastian reached out to push me into the pool. I jumped aside with greater athleticism than I knew I possessed, pivoted away from the edge, and then shoved him into the pool.

He toppled into the water, striking his head on the lip of the pool as he fell. He was unconscious and in the deep end. He began to float away from the side. I sat down on the side of the pool and leaned out to reach for him.

No.

I pulled back my arm. I remembered the blue around my cousin, her blue aura—water. He murdered my cousin. I was sure of it. I knew no one would ever believe me. Even if they did, where was my proof. The logic of it all was on his side. I felt that if we went to court, he would win.

I went back into the house, changed into dry clothes, picked up a book and sat down on the couch to read. An hour later I dialed 911. I pulled my wet clothes back on, dampening them a bit from the sink. The EMS crew arrived quickly, along with the police.

I calmly related the details I had dreamt up about Sebastian’s accident—how he went outside to set up for our brunch while I was reading and how he must have fallen into the pool.

“I lost track of time while I was reading my book. I think I fell asleep. Jet lag.” I told the policeman. “When I realized that it was past brunch time, even past lunchtime I hurried into the kitchen to look for him. Not finding him there, I went outside and he was by the pool. I guess he fell in. I sat on the edge of the pool to try to reach for him, but all I could do was reach—I can’t swim. I called you right away.” I felt bad about lying, but not that bad. I tried to visualize my lie on Lady Justice’s scales, weighing it against Sebastian’s crime.

The policeman frowned. “He would have had to be leaning over pretty far to fall in. Why would he do that, I wonder?”

I thought quickly. “Maybe wasps in the water? From the flowerpots? Sebastian was a clean freak. I saw wasps outside by the pool and in the pots when he showed me the grounds yesterday.” (Sigh, another lie.)

The other officer bent down to look into the pool. “Yep, there are wasps in here.”

The first man closed his notebook and stood up. “All done here. You ok?” He looked at me.

“Yes, I’ll be fine,” I told him.

I asked if I could stay at a hotel instead of at the house and if someone could call the office for me to delay the reading of the will. The policeman told me that would be fine and that they would be glad to drive me to where ever I wanted to go. One of the EMTs gave me a blanket. “You have to keep warm after a shock. You may find yourself crying a lot later.” He handed me a card with the name of a local counselor in case I needed someone to talk to later.

The helpful EMT and his partner picked up the stretcher holding Sebastian’s body. I suppressed a smile. As I looked at Sebastian’s cloth-covered form, I felt nothing.

I thought, I am a cold fish. Then another thought came. I might be a cold fish and maybe that’s not so good, but that day I was very happy about my status as a fish out of water.

Fish Out of Water (2017 Short Fiction Contest Runner Up) was originally published on Lawyerist.com.

from Law and Politics https://lawyerist.com/fish-out-of-water/ via http://www.rssmix.com/