#they would be following him around with binoculars and note pads like maybe he's a cia agent. WHY WOULD HE BE A CIA AGENT. he's not a cia

[gwaean]

The Rescuers  

Part One: “Old acquaintances meet again"

 Summary: You are a mandalorian rebel friends with Captain Rex so you are well aware of the entire "clone situation" going on. And of course you want to help as much as you can. You then go to Ryloth trying to help the Syndulla's and maybe find your old friend Cody. 

 Pairing: None. Yet. But will be a Crosshair x Reader.

 Gender: There'll be no mentions of gender or pronouns on this part yet. Though further in the story it might have she/they pronouns used.

 Word count: 1.6k

 Tags: Injury recover, post-clone wars story, rescuing clones/friends, a bit of melancholy?

 Warning: Brief description of injury.

 Notes: So, I literally dreamed most parts of this story (I know, crazy Star Wars obsession here). I filled up some parts as I was writing of course. And it turned out a bit like a beautiful sad tragic. I might even do a playlist for this fanfic actually. Hope u enjoy it :) 

 The war, the republic, the jedi all have ended. Literally on the same day. And what it seemed like a fresh start, finally a moment of peace in the chaos turned into nightmares. You weren’t there when it happened, you just heard the news of Obi-Wan saying the jedi order and the republic had fallen and you also heard the now Emperor Palpatine telling everyone that the clone wars has ended and the jedi were traitor, they’ve tried to assassinate him according to well… himself. And now he’s forming this new galactic empire, giving people numbers like the ones clones used to have and killing off any resistance against this new order. Everyone seemed to believe him, you gotta give him that he was a pretty damn’ good  liar indeed. But you knew better than that. You are mandalorian after all and were friends with no one less than Duchess Satine and Senator Padmé. You helped them countless times in their diplomatics and you even fought with the jedi and the clones at times. They were good people, yes, the order might have messed up at lot but traitors? Murders? They sure didn’t deserve to die like that and I guess… No one does.

  You quickly then joined the rebellion. There you found many of former politics like Senator Organa and even a clone… Captain Rex (or is it Commander now?). You’ve met him once before and he seemed like a good person and looks like he’s really a great man just like you thought. You soon became friends. But sadly, the other clones you knew before like Cody were still with the empire. Though both you and Rex were very determinate to help others like him. And also, obviously, protect your allies against the empire.

  Well, as expected trouble begins. There’s been rumors about what’s going in Ryloth with the Syndulla’s and the empire occupation. Worried about them and their people, you go there to help as you can. And if there’s need, you’d call more rebels to help too though you didn’t want to envolve more people yet because you’re afraid of the reaction it could cause ( and what that would cost for ryloth and its people). You also have a tiny tiny hope that maybe just maybe Cody could be there.

  Arriving in Ryloth, you discover the Syndulla family have indeed oppose agains the empire occupation and they’ve went into a lot of trouble because of that but apparently a group of mercenaries (?) have already rescued them from the prison they were sent to. One less problem for you to fix I guess. You were glad for them but you still want to spy a little on the empire and see what you could find out after all, the trip couldn’t be for nothing.

  You find your way and get to a particular high hill with a great view of one imperial base. You pick up your binoculars and the only person you see in a sort of balcony is a very depressive-looking Crosshair. You remember him from that one time clone force 99 saved your butt from the mess you’ve yourself in. He was… quite unfriendly, let’s say. But he did get the job done and made sure you were okay so you just ignored his behavior. Looking at him now it was looking at a shadow of him. 

   It made you remember what Rex told you once: 

“We clones were all created with this chip thing in our my minds. We were made for the war and the war only but apparently someone thought it would be great if they let us think we've got free will. That we could be anything we wanted to be after the war. So we made friends, some of us found a family with our jedi. They let we hope. Just so we have all of that taken away from us with order 66. The war had ended for everyone except for us. We had our will taken from us, our minds controlled by this chip and we had to follow orders. While we're still there conscious of what we were doing we had to kill the people we fought together the entire war. I remember her face... I'm so glad she didn't see my face. I couldn't bare.” 

 Thinking about what all the clones been through, you can’t just leave him like this. He did save you once and this was your chance to repay that. Rex keeps saying we can’t save everyone (more to himself than to you) but one person is better than nobody, right?  At the time you improvise a plan: neither the empire nor Cross can’t know yet that you’re a rebel. You haven’t done anything yet incriminating (at least not that they were aware of). So you can just jump in there where he was standing and talk to him. Worst case scenario he ignores you. However you sure knew how to annoy him enough that at least he would call you out and when that happens you act. Ok, that you still have to figure out exactly how you would act. Well, half of a plan is better than no plan.

  You just jump in behind his back and of course he points his gun at you as expected. But he apparently recognizes who it’s standing in front of him and put his riffle down. 

   “ Hello there.”  You say.

   “What do you think you’re doing?”  He replies.

   “Oh, please, don’t act like you aren’t happy to see me.” 

     He gives you a faint of a smile. “Don’t flatter yourself.” 

     You smiled back. “But seriously, what you’re doing here all alone? And why- You finally noticed the burn mark on his now bald head. - are you like this? Doesn’t the empire takes care of its soldiers? Nor your squad? The bad batch, right? That’s what you called yourselves?” 

     His face closes again. “You have nothing to do with that. I’m-” 

     “By yourself?” You pause for a moment. “Alright, I get it. You’ve probably been through a lot. We all have. Not sure why you’re like this but it doesn’t matter right now. I just wonder… Don’t you want to get out of all of this?” 

     Cross pauses for a moment. It seems like he's considering the possibility. “I… I can’t.” 

     “But…”  You then think. You remind yourself of how protective he was that one time you were saved by them. Maybe this instinct was still there, you had to try. You saw a pointed rock close to where you were standing and decided that you would accidentally cut yourself. “Ouch!” 

    “What’s up?” 

    “Oh! Nothing! Just might have cut myself here.” You show your hand now with a bit bigger than you expected cut and some blood.

     He almost laughs at it. “What a little clumsy one you are, eh?” 

     His mocking at you, that’s something, right? “Yeah, I guess….” 

     “Well, let’s go?”  He points to the door.

     “Go where?” 

     “Don’t you wanna take care of that, sweetheart?” 

     “Right, medical bay then?” 

     “Obviously.”  Perfect. He would be right where you needed him to be.

  The both of you enter the facility and walk directly to the medical bay. The empire base is pretty much a bland dark and boring military base with some troopers walking around, some commanders (you think) yelling at the soldiers and some droids doing whatever they have to do. You knew only that they were “r - unities” but droids weren’t exactly your area of expertise. However you do notice that the troopers walking around still wear the same clone armor from back the war. And you feel guilty. Because as much as you’d like you won’t be able to help them all. They’ll stay there with their chips on being controlled by the empire…. By the force, that was a hole guilty trip you knew you shouldn’t take. It wasn’t your fault. No, no. They did this. Palpatine and his men were the monsters. Not you. And certainly not these poor clones. One day, yes, one day maybe you could come back and save them?

 “Hmmm…. You wanna me to do this?”  Cross says. You were so distracted in your thoughts you don’t even realized you were already in the medical bay.

 “Oh. You don’t have to.” 

 “It's fine. I’m used to do this anyway.” 

  “Ok. Be my guest then?” 

  “Wow, you’re so funny.” He jokes.

  “Whatever. Just do your thing.” 

  “Give me your hand.”  

 You give him your hand and he takes it. And to your surprise he’s very gentle while taking care of your wound. He applies some alcohol pads to clean the wound. And as he presses the wound to stop the bleeding you reach for your gun and keep looking at his face. His very concentrated. It’s almost like the rest of the galaxy doesn’t matter. He’s only there at the moment focused on helping you. And you’re trying to plan how you’re gonna knock him out to take his chip off.

 “Now I’m gonna get some stuff to make a bandage for ya, ok?” He says and turns his back. Now is you chance. You turn your blaster to stun only and shoots. He falls. 

 “I’m sorry. But there’s no other way.” You whisper as if he’s actually listening. 

 It takes some effort (seriously, Crosshair's heavier than he looks) but you manage to put him on one these surgical stretchers. You also have to learn super quick how to use the pad control to see where the chip’s in and take it off. But it’s done. And you wait and wait… For what it seemed like hours though it was only like 15 minutes.

And he wakes up very confused.

[captainjimothycarter]

I heard you were looking for prompts, what do you think it would look like if Steve were around during Agent Carter (s1), like maybe by the Iron Ceiling episode

So, it’s been a loooong while since I’ve seen the Iron Ceiling or any Agent Carter and I don’t have the spoons to watch the show, so we’re gonna improv. So not historically accurate because I am not researching stuff.

This is a full-fledged fic And probably not what you wanted either because this is so rushed out. Rip me

--

“You sound exhausted.”

Despite that Steve was over the phone and given the sound of it, somewhere where there wasn’t much insulation due to the wind in the background, she could tell he was giving that sappy smile. It was combined with a small laugh and the shift of the phone line as it crackled when he held it closer.

“What’s new?” He sighed instead of commenting on Peggy’s statement. It only made her worry more. When she remained silent, he sighed louder. “Pegs, I’m fine. Okay, yes I’m a little exhausted, but so are you on your end given everything. We’re both strained and I...miss you.” 

His voice dropped down to the last two words, how desperate it sounded, made her heart drop. She wanted to crawl from this warm bed and wrap her arms around Steve and tuck his cold face into her neck to let him warm up. She wanted to protect him from not just the elements but the aftermath of a war that the public had no idea was about. 

He whispered the last two words because he was forced to - not because he had anything to hide, so Peggy told herself this despite it tugged on her in almost a jealous means. They were both professionals, they could remain professional over the phone and in the rare times they got in person. It was the only few times they got to be in private did those veils drops.

Steve being rescued had been nothing short of a miracle, an act of God or whatever deity was out there that was looking out for them. She had been the one to pull him from the ice, one of the first faces he’d seen when he woke up in one of Howard’s private hospitals. She’d been by his side his entire recovery, from learning to walk again and to have some cognitive function. The fact she refused to leave his side [see here: Philips had ordered her under the SSR’s watchful eye to keep an eye on their prized specimen] had resulted in them getting much closer in their relationship. 

Not only that, but it had caused her to start the American Branch of the SSR later than she had intended. While the boys in the office had no idea Captain America was alive [as they would all see to it], they knew of her history with Steve and used it against her as much as they could.

Steve’s existence, his being founded was kept under wrap and key. The only few people who had known about it were her, Phillips, and Howard. And of course, by now a recently rescued James Barnes and the Howling Commandos. As soon as Steve was stable enough, they sent him straight back to work, and given his contract with the SSR, they figured him pretty much property of the government.

It sickened Peggy to her core.

She was used to hiding her relationship and being professional in other’s eyes, but keeping Steve at arm’s length so he could be the government puppet in a whole new meaning was not what she wanted for her beloved.

“Peggy?”

“Hm?” The woman blinked, aware Steve had been on the other end, breathing noisily against the cold climate he was in to stay warm. “I apologize, darling, I was lost in my mind. As I was saying, I think our earlier appointment of meeting up to compare notes will be scheduled earlier.”

Underneath it, she was by all legal terms, still his liaison. Not only that, but she had been tasked with collecting information from both the Commandos, and that included at least monthly meetings with Steve. They might’ve been professional where they could share longing looks behind professional’s backs, but at least it was something to look forward to.

Steve knew everything going on with Howard and the SSR and her recent suspicions that there was a mole within their sights. Not just that, but Peggy was suspecting her phone lines had been bugged due to her involvement and friendship with Howard.

“Is it now?” Steve asked, turning his head to give a strained cough. It tugged on her heart. That didn’t sound too good. “Should I tell the boys?”

“Please do. I’ll wire in the details you’ll need. Anything you boys need on your end?”

“Dugan would kiss you if you brought him his usual stash. Pinky needs more fuses if you could snag a few. Oh, Bucky needs another set of binoculars and some more gloves.”

Despite he wasn’t here, she was nodding. Her hand worked without watching what she wrote on the paper. Steve knew of her suspicion of being bugged and had agreed code talking would keep the guys on edge and keep their conversations safe. 

“I’ll see what I can do, no promises, darling. Please get some rest. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

Peggy sighed as she got off of the phone, looking down at the pad of paper on her bedside table. Someone has been trailing us, be on the lookout and keep your weapon on hand. 

And Dugan? Dugan just wanted his alcohol.

--

“Peggy, Dugan forgot the password again.”

Knowing that voice anywhere, she smiled despite her reserve as the familiar faces of the boys she had called family appeared out of the bushes. If she was concerned about a missing familiar face, then it didn’t show. Instead, Peggy found herself suddenly staring at the gray sky above them. The ground was cold and hard beneath her, but the body colliding with hers to knock her off of her feet was not.

There was a split second of silence before the Howling Commandos erupted into a field of laughter much to the rest of the stoic men’s confusion. Well, not so stoic now that the shock had runoff. Including the face tinted pink above her.

“Hello to you too, James,” Peggy laughed, Bucky slowly getting off of her chest and smiling in that boyish way that made her both jealous and loving.

“I didn’t believe ‘im when he said it, but I’m glad to be wrong.” Bucky was still as Brooklyn Boy as ever despite not having been home in months. He climbed to his feet and pulled her to hers, brushing the snow off of them. He pulled her into a proper hug, finding the Howling Commandos hugging her.

“You served with Captain America.”

Her heart clenched at the awe in their tone, looking at Jack who looked at her still with disbelief, as if she had lied this entire time about her connection to the Howlies. She shared a look with Bucky who looked as if he’d swallowed a lemon, standing near her left side. Dugan looked down at her too and he nodded in her direction.

“Not as long as she has. You good, Carter? Ready?”

Jack’s mouth opened, perhaps to dismiss Dugan treating her of all people like she’s the leader of this mismatched band of guys, but it was well ignored when they started to march through the snow. She watched as Jack hesitated as if debating on not following them before he scrambled not to be left behind.

“Pegs, you’re with me. Barnes, you too because I won’t have you pouting again.”

Peggy laughed, despite herself as she pulled herself up into the jeeps with Bucky’s arm thrown around her waist to help assist her. Bucky, for all his childish needs, stuck his tongue out at Dugan before the vehicle rumbled to life and they started to roll out. The quiet didn’t stretch on long, just enough for the loud engine to cover up any whisper talking.

“How is everything?” Bucky asked, his silver eyes wide with worry. “Steve has told us...everything that he could.”

“Same as ever,” Peggy sighed, shaking her head slightly. She glanced back to watch Pinky distract the SSR boys with a quick history chat. Good. “Howard’s still in deep shit and every step forward feels like one back. How’s Steve?”

Bucky frowned because they both knew that’s not what he was asking. “Exhausted. He never knows when to admit defeat. He was denied again to be stateside. He was told again his presence is needed out here.” The man rolled his eyes with a huff. “He’s one more bad night away from going AWOL, not that any of us blame him, poor guy is doing the job for all of us, plus whatever shit ya’ll send him to do.”

His tone told Peggy that he didn’t blame her, he was as frustrated as she was. “Hopefully it doesn’t come to that. I’m sure some sense will be knocked into him sooner or later.” Her mouth opened to ask a question but a look from the jeep across from them caused her to close it.

Jack was watching her and closely.

--

“Carter!” 

Peggy heaved a heavy sigh as she repositioned her grip on the logs for their fire tonight. They were well enough hidden in the trees to ensure that no one should see the smoke with the light dusting of snow and gray skies around them. Stopping their conversation, she gave Jones a friendly smile and passed the logs off to him. She didn’t miss the annoyed look Jones shot Jack as he marched their way.

She wanted to snicker at how he was forced to walk, almost waddling like a toddler in this new environment. A comment was on her tongue, but to play fair, she bit it back and raised her chin. “Yes, Jack?”

“I don’t remember Dooley giving you command of our mission. You may disrespect his orders in the office but you will not disrespect me here.” He towered over her, a twitch in his jaw telling her that he’s been thinking about this far too long. She wanted to laugh, honestly because it almost sounded like he was jealous of her and her involvement with the Howling Commandos.

“He didn’t,” she replied in an equally cool tongue, shrugging her shoulders. “If you’ve been paying attention, Agent Thompson, I’ve been pulling my equal weight around here just as everyone else has.”

“Your involvement is this is only because of your pestering Dooley and your connection with the Commandos. Remember your place, Carter. You spent far too much time under Cap-”

A gloved hand clasping Peggy’s shoulder and making her knees buckle caused Jack to turn almost white as the environment around him. Despite knowing the situation, she had almost hoped the gloved hand belonged to Steve, but given how tightly it gripped her shoulder and the freehand that pulling on the strap of the rifle, she knew it was Bucky.

His lips were pressed into a thin line, eyes boring into Jack’s. He stood a little taller due to the boots, but it was enough for him to use his height over the agent. 

“I’m sorry, what was that?” Bucky mused, raising an eyebrow. “Peggy spent too much time where? Pegs, you wanna head back to camp, Pinky and Morita have a trick they wanna show you.”

Jack huffed, giving a roll of his eyes as Bucky’s arm pulled her closer to his chest. “Nothing, Sergeant. Carter and I were having a private conversation that you butted in.”

“If it’s nothing, then you won’t mind if I pull her away to help start the fire. You know us Howlies, too busy spending time worshipping the ground Steve walks on to know any survival skills. Only way we survived was cause of her.” He dug into his pocket and tossed Jack a small flashlight, nodding his head. “Go find us some more firewood, will you? It’s gonna be a long one.”

The look in Jack’s eyes told her that this conversation wasn’t over yet and honestly Peggy was looking forward to that.

“You know he’s going to think that you’re only protecting me because of Steve,” she sighed, shrugging his arm off as they walked back towards the distant camp. “Thank you, Bucky, but I can handle myself against Agent Thompson. It’s not the first time he’s been a right ass to me.”

“I know,” he grumbled, satisfyingly stomping on a branch to break it in half. “Steve has told us some things. He almost seems jealous of your connection to us - like you spend a whole war keeping our asses alive and you wouldn’t want to befriend us. Jackass. I think he’s waiting for us or you to slip up. They still think Steve’s a frozen capcicle?”

Snorting, Peggy gently smacked the sniper’s chest. “Yes but don’t let him hear you say that. Where is he?” She was used to being professional, keeping Steve at arm’s length in company but the fact he wasn’t around for her to assess with her eyes made her wary. If something had happened, they would’ve said something by now, especially Big Brother Barnes.

Bucky’s tongue clicked on the roof of his mouth, shrugging his shoulders. “He’s close by. He wanted to keep an eye tag tailing us, be sure we’re not being followed.”

That did sound like Steve, alright. He wanted to defend all of them, keep an eye on the stragglers, and be sure no one was planning an attack. Peggy got the feeling he kept distance because neither of them was sure this charade of professionalism could be kept up if he was here. Then there were the SSR boys and their belief Steve was dead. 

--

“So how are you here?” Li asks, breaking the soft chatter that had been happening around the fire.

Peggy swallowed the rest of the bourbon down, passing the canister back to Dugan. She didn’t need to see who Li was directing the question to, she could feel Bucky tensing up beside her. He’d been a little tense since Jack stomped back into camp, dumping the mood uncermonsely and sitting far back away from them.

“Yeah, Buck, how are you here?” Juniper snickered, nudging his friend with his elbow. “You kinda just showed up one day.”

“And you adopted me like the straggly, little pup that I am,” Bucky huffed, rolling his eyes. “Thanks for the scrap, Carter.”

He nudged her slightly but behind the bright silver eyes and the need to make jokes and defuse the situation, he saw the curiosity in Li’s eyes.

“It’s just...we all read the reports. You died. You fell off the train,” Li pressed, not reading the situation. “So, how are you here?”

Sharing a look with Peggy, Bucky shrugged again. He opened his mouth but Dugan spoke up before any of them could. He knew of Bucky’s time in HYDRA, they all did, they had pulled him out of HYDRA, but he didn’t need to relive the past because of some curious agent who couldn’t tell his left from his right. Certainly not one who didn’t bother to spend two seconds respecting Peggy. 

“We found him,” Dugan grunted. “What those files didn’t tell you was Phillip’s, Captain Rogers’, and Agent Carter’s insistence on finding Barnes’ body. No one can survive a fall like that, but God above decided Barnes was too annoying to let die. And the fact he still owes me ten bucks.”

They all laughed because it wasn’t far from the truth. She watched Bucky sigh in relief and Dugan clasping his arm in solitude as he passed by them to dig through the bags.

“He only fell because Captain Rogers couldn’t hold on. Bet that guy rather polish his shield and shiny belt buckle -”

“You want to say something?!” Bucky snapped, the almost relaxed atmosphere had turned tense as he turned to glare at Thompson who had been sulking on the edge of the camp. “If you got something to say about Captain Rogers, then say it.”

“James,” Peggy breathed, squeezing his arm. “Let Jack be if he wishes to express his dislike of Captain Rogers, that is on him. Not for you to fight everyone who sees’s fit to voice their negative opinion.”

Not that she didn’t want to sock Jack in the jaw for that comment. Bucky’s death had torn through Steve, it ripped out any part of him that remained human, that clung to humanity. He was a changed man from that day on. He was reckless, rash, and only survived because she interveined and made him see that he was human, serum, or not. 

Bucky grunted as he sat back on the log and shoved his half-eaten bowl of stew at Peggy’s feet. “Eat. I ain’t hungry. I’m gonna go take a piss and set up for the first watch.”

There was no point in arguing. Jack had sullied what had almost promised to be a relaxing night [as relaxing as they could get in this environment]. She laid out her bedroll after being sure the surrounding area was clear. She almost hoped she could see Steve. Almost. 

“If Barnes is alive, any chance of Rogers being alive?” She heard Rameriz whisper to Li as her head laid on the pillow. 

“A crash like that? There’s no tellin’. Barnes was extremely lucky but I dunno...fall from that height? You’ve seen the tracks…”

Their voices faded as Peggy listened to the sound of footsteps near her. She opened her eyes to see Bucky above her, thanking him as he laid an extra blanket over her before silently nodding and dawning his rifle. She would argue with him over him getting rest later, right now, she was exhausted and selfishly wanted to sleep.

--

In the morning, a fresh wave of snow had covered any tracks that surrounded the camp. It blanketed around them and put out their fire in the middle of the night. Despite the fresh snow, Peggy could see faint outlines of thick boots that stood near her bedroll and as she sat up, waking up before anyone else in the dark forest, she felt something heavier fall off of her than just the extra blanket.

A thick jacket that was too big for Bucky and even Dugan.

Steve had been by.

Unfortunately, the new jacket didn’t bypass anyone, not even a blurry-eyed Thompson. 

“Whose coat is that?” He grumbled to her as they packed their bags for the mission ahead. “I didn’t see anyone wearin’ that last night.”

“It’s mine,” Jones grunted, passing Peggy to take the extra layer from her shoulders with a small nod from her. “Does it matter, Agent?”

“No,” the man grunted, a frown still on his lips. She knew what he was thinking - she was far too comfortable with the Commandos. When they got back to the office, this would bite her in the ass, she was sure of it, not that it stops her. “Just curious, is all. Not like Carter to wear a man’s coat. Thought it might’ve been her sweetheart.”

Peggy made a face, throwing her bag harder than necessary over Thompson’s shoulder and towards the pile they made for the jeeps. “The only sweetheart I have is my gun, Agent. Now if you’re done worrying about my lack of love life, we need to get moving if we want to use the snow to cover our tracks.”

“Don’t blame me, you’re the topic of gossip when it comes to office blabber,” he snickered, raising his hands in mock defeat even when Peggy rolled her eyes.

“If you must know,” Montgomery spoke up as Peggy stalked away to join Dugan and Bucky pouring over a map. “She’s all our sweethearts. Try having that for Valentine’s Day.” His wink didn’t go unnoticed nor did Peggy slapping his hand away and arguing with Bucky over an advantage point.

Jack huffed out in annoyance. This was his lead and Commandos or not, he was taking back control.

--

Peggy could feel the tension building up in her jaw, resisting the urge to rub at it. She could feel it twitching out of tension from clenching her jaw so tightly her teeth might snap in half. It was the only way she could distract herself from not wanting to yell at Jack who ‘stepped up to the captain’s plate’ and started to give orders.

Any argument had been instantly shut down with the argument that he was in charge, reminding Peggy of an older kid in charge of his little siblings. Any argument was useless when Jack was determined that he was right and they were wasting precious time.

“Barnes, keep a distance with that gun. Carter, you’re in the rear. Keep a lookout.”

The order made her roll her eyes at the back of Jack’s head. No matter how much he tried to take control of the situation, to put on his best I’m in charge voice, he was no Steve and had very little regard for people’s safety. Just the end task ahead of getting them in and out with the Doctor in tow. 

It was a bad idea, but fine, if he wanted to stick her in the back to keep out of his hair, then she’d easily take this opportunity to keep away from him. Dugan and Jack lead them and despite Bucky was somewhere in the trees pretending to be a spider monkey, Jones fell into step beside her. Despite his larger size than her, he was quiet. He was the more reserved out of all of them.

“You could stay,” he mused softly, nodding his head to Dugan’s bowler cap. “We could always do with you back in our lead. Especially that one. God knows Steve misses you, Pegs. You’re much better off here than with these jackasses.”

A small smile twitched on Peggy’s pale lips, adjusting her hold on the gun. “I know, Gabe, thank you. I do miss you guys. It’s not against you or even Steve, I am needed back on stateside. Maybe I’ll consider the offer another time.”

He laughed, the laugh rumbling in his chest like promised thunder. “Perhaps that is best, hm? Steve needs to rest anyhow and if you were with us, he’d be far too worried about you, no matter how much he denies it.”

Peggy’s reply was lost to the sound of something falling in the forest. Something heavy. James. “Bucky!”

There’s no way Bucky could miss these branches, they practically made a sturdy bridge. He had sure enough footing but the sound of a bullet whizzing past her was enough to tell her he’d been shot at. “Gabe, disperse the others. Spread out. They’re-” She looked up when another flew past her, seeing movement in the trees. “They’re spread out. Treetops. Below. Take cover. I’m going after James.”

There was no point in arguing with her, the Commandos knew that well. She slid in the snow to avoid the flying bullets, using the shelter of the thick trunks to get to where the figure laid. He was breathing, grunting in that manner that told her he was in pain but he was alive. 

“James,” she breathed, dropping to her knees. “Hey, hey, look at me. Can you walk? We need to get out of here.”

The man’s eyes were glazed over, most likely a concussion but he was no stranger to those. He nodded his head and moved to sit up, moving his left arm to grab at the gun. They both watched as it just twitched, the arm not responding to his movements. In the limited light of the rising sun, she saw the nasty break in his arm and his green complexion.

“If you vomit on me, James, I will be very cross with you. I’m going to splint this best I can with what we have, then we need to move. You can curse me out on the way, deal?”

She’d take that grunting as a yes.

Using the strap from both her gun and Bucky’s, cut with a knife, she placed his broken arm between two sturdy pieces of branches. It wouldn’t do for a permanent fix but it was better than nothing. Bucky did his best not to curse or shout in pain, hearing him whimper and gag. By the time she was done, he looked like he was about to vomit up their cold breakfast. Throwing his good arm over her shoulder, she steadied his weight to lead them into the denser forest.

“Carter! Where the hell have you been?!”

Jack almost seemed worried, but Peggy didn’t have time to consider it, dropping Bucky down on an overturned log. She was sweaty and pissed, worried. The bullets had stopped coming. That never stopped unless ordered to. They’d been found. This was going to make it all the more difficult.

“Getting Barnes before we let him die from your carelessness. His arm is broken. Dugan, any casualties?” She breathed a sigh of relief when the man shook his head. “Good. They’re still out there. How long have they been quiet?”

Jack’s jaw gritted as he looked down at his watch. “Three, four minutes now. Why?”

“I’m going to handle them before they expose us any more. We’ll be lucky if we’re not met with retaliation at the door.” Snatching her gun back, Peggy stood up, taking Bucky’s and laying it in his lap. “You’re still a decent shot even without your arm.”

She got maybe two yards away, returning to the trail before Jack ran up to her.

Jack’s hand snatched her rifle from her, his temple throbbing now. “You will not! That’s exposing yourself and us to danger, letting them know we’re holed up here. We don’t even know where we are, we ran off the trail because of them. We need to spread back out, find the trail. We’re sitting ducks.”

“All the more reason for me to go into the trees, Agent.” 

Peggy tried to snatch her gun back, a bullet striking the trunk next to her head. Her breath lingered in the air for a split second, jerking her head back out of shock. She pushed Jack out of the way when she heard the next one, preparing to feel another bullet tear through her body. Her eyes closed, body tensed, but no pain came.

Her eyes opened when she heard the gasps, seeing a familiar figure dressed in a dark blue suit and holding up the end of a shield. He towered over her, using his larger body to shield her from the spray of bullets.

“Everyone out!” Steve snapped, waving his hand. “Agent Thompson, get your ass off of the ground and help Pinky with those explosives. One stray bullet and we don’t have to worry about who’s in charge. Dugan, Jones, get Bucky and get him on his feet. Dugan, give him a splash of your liquid courage. Buck, three, six, and nine o’clock, are the worst of our fire. I’ve taken most of what I could out. Morita, Montgomery, and Juniper, you get these SSR boys further in the woods. Thanks to your little leadership, Agent Thompson we will now have to wait for nightfall and pray we’re not found.”

If anyone had any questions about his skills, to what Steve wanted, no one questioned it. Everyone instantly charged into action.

Steve’s arm wrapped around Peggy’s waist, holding her close for a fraction of a second too long as he set her back on her feet. “You were hit,” he murmured, baby blue eyes that she’s forgotten how soft they were looking down at her shoulder. “Grazed.” He touched the wound and she flinched, having been unaware a bullet had been that close to her torso. “I’m fine, Steve. I can handle it once we can breathe.” She paused, watching Dugan pick Bucky up and raise the rifle in his direction before firing. They made a good team, odd, but good.

“We need to get going too, can’t be on Thompson’s bad side, now can I?” Steve mused, raising his brow in a way that told Peggy he didn’t care regardless. “I got my bike. We can lead them on a wild goose chase while they escape. You ready?”

“I thought you’d never ask.”

--

“He’s alive?” 

The words were spat at her when she’d later arrived at their makeshift camp miles and miles into the dense forest. Peggy calmly dismounted from the bike with Steve’s help even if she didn’t need it. She wanted the excuse to feel his hand in hers while she ignored Jack’s bulging look.

“Thank you, Captain Rogers, for the assistance and ride,” Peggy hummed giving Steve a polite nod and a firm smile. She turned back to Jack while he started to unpack the bike, rolling her eyes. “Unless we are suffering from the same hallucination, then I will dare say that yes, he is alive. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’d like to get this wound looked at.”

At least the man had enough sense to let her brush by him, still standing and looking after her and Steve in shock.

Steve was ever the gentleman as he rolled Peggy’s sleeve down, enough for her to pull her arm out of the sleeve. It was cold in their little spot in the dense woods, not wanting to risk lighting a fire. Bucky was already asleep despite the rough ground beneath them, his head in Pinky’s lap. His arm was set in a better-made splint, but still rough for their situation. 

“This is going to burn,” Steve murmured, pouring a little alcohol on her wound. She hissed in pain and ignored the looks she and Steven were getting. This was strictly professional despite how she was straining to not jump his bones right then and there. “I warned you.”

“Seconds before pouring,” she huffed. “Though, I suppose a little pain is needed to be kept in my senses.” 

If Steve had anything to say, it was lost to Jack coming back into camp and sitting beside Li. He rubbed his hands together, blowing hot air between them. “It’s going to be a cold one,” he grunted. “We’ll need to watch in shifts, two per shift, we-”

“We’ve already planned that,” Dugan grunted, his mustache ruffled as he tossed his bowler hat on their bags. Or what was left of them. “Pinky and Li are taking the first shift while we all rest. Yes, that includes you, Steve.” He pointed his thick finger threateningly at Steve’s chest who just pouted at him. “You need to sleep. Pegs, tell him.”

“Yeah, Carter,” Ramirez snickered, “tell him.”

Rolling her sleeve back up and adjusting the gauze, she thanked Steve in a small voice. “Captain Rogers isn’t a child. He doesn’t need to be told what to do but if you’d like my advice, Captain, sleep while you can.” Her eyes told him the rest before I make you. 

She wanted to comment on his appearance, the rugged stubble from his lack of shaving, the longer hair that was starting to sweep off of his forehead. His eyes looked almost hallow, black bags underneath causing the blue to stand out. He looked like complete shit, a hallow version of himself and it ached at Peggy’s heart. 

“This stays between us,” Steve grunted to the SSR boys while their bedrolls were rolled out. “No one else needs to know I’m alive.”

“Did you rescue him?” Li asked, in awe, if not astonished whisper as he turned to look at Peggy. “Why didn’t you say anything?!”

“That’s above your pay grade,” she snapped back, watching Steve kneel by Bucky’s passed out form and tenderly hold his face in hands that seemed almost far too big. She wanted to say more, the more pity part of her that wanted to dig her elbow into the man’s chest and tell him she shouldn’t have to be involved with his hero to have some decent respect. 

“Hm,” Jack grunted from where he slouched against an overturned log, “I can see who was on top in this relationship.”

--

It was clear Jack wore a chip on his shoulder. He had some resentment out for Steve and maybe that’s because he favored her, despite how he tried not to show it. He turned to look at Peggy for advice, not Jack who was once again trying to say he was in charge. He asked Peggy about the situation or would ask Dugan or Li, literally anyone but Jack unless he had to.

This little petty game kept up for two days where they traveled under the cover of night. 

Steve had kept his distance as they planned, but they couldn’t help it when the Howlies left just enough room in their camps to sit side by side or when it was Peggy’s turn to take a watch, Steve would find himself awake even if it wasn’t his turn to watch with her. Or his bedroll would be close to hers. They’d find small ways to touch one another and even that got under Jack’s skin.

Due to Bucky being out of commission thanks to the broken arm, it was left up to Peggy. No one objected but Jack’s temple throbbed as Peggy easily took the rifle and lined herself up with a perfect shot of their guard. She silently laid on a few sharp and frozen rocks that were set above them, stomach pressed to the ground and breathing slowly.

One snide comment from Li or Jack had gotten to her, but not her aim. The bullet flew from the rifle and the man guarding the roof fell into a heap. Steve’s hand closed around hers as she was guided off of the icy rocks, the snow crunching underneath her feet. 

“Nice!” Bucky breathed, shrugging the left shoulder. “Though, you still twitch your foot when you’re about to pull the trigger.”

“I’ll show you where I twitch my foot if you start that,” Peggy snapped, much to Bucky’s grinning face. “Satisfied?”

The last words were said to Jack, his nose wrinkled just ever so slightly as if to say let’s see. 

“Everyone has their plan then?” Steve grunted, looking down at the map. “Three teams. Li, Jones, Montgomery, and Bucky to the west end. Double-check the boiler rooms, any nooks, and cranny. Juniper, Peggy, Pinky, Morita, and Ramirez to the east. Spread out. The rooms look to be larger and some have hidden doorways. Jack, Dugan, and I will take the top floors. We’ll meet in the middle in an hour. Jones, Peggy, and I have our radios, use it only if in trouble.”

“Yeah, Dugan, only if in trouble,” Morita laughed, elbowing the broad man. “Not when we think we’re hearing screaming.”

At Li’s confusing look, Dugan rolled his eyes. His cheeks flushed a soft pink. “It was a frog that I heard. Cap, can we go?”

Peggy caught Steve’s eyes as he rolled up the map. There was no bother hiding the fact that he did this on purpose, separating them to just get alone time with Jack. She raised an eyebrow at him and he sheepishly shrugged his shoulders.

“Steve, let’s go,” Bucky grunted, smacking Steve on the side with the splint and regretting it with a whimper. 

Pinky’s arm threw around Peggy’s shoulder as their groups dispersed, leaning far too much into her frame. Not that she minded. Pinky always had a lingering smell of gunpowder on his fingers. “How much you wanna bet he’s gonna make Jack’s death look like an accident?”

“If Steve isn’t rash? He won’t. But then again...I’m afraid he’s never made a not-so-rashed decision in his life.”

--

Watching the love of your life fall to the floor in front of you seconds after he’s sacrificed himself yet another time to save you changes a person. There’s no radio this time. No radio, no signal blocking them, no interference, no cut-off, and left wondering. She’s staring down at Steve, her heart in her throat. It all happened in a split second, but the second he hits the floor, she’s in action. 

A hand is tearing off the bottom of her uniform, pressing it over the bleeding wound where the bullet has embedded itself into Steve’s thigh

He groans at the contact and grits his teeth. “Is this revenge from the alcohol?”

“You wish,” Peggy grunts, keeping her eyes focused on the bleeding wound. She steadied her breathing despite the anxiety welling up inside of her. She wanted a second chance at keeping Steve safe and god damnit, she was going to take it. 

The forces of God would not take Steve from her. She’d be damned if they did.

“Dugan,” she snapped into the radio. “We need to extract. Now.”

Her head snapped up at the sound of thundering steps, snatching Steve’s discarded shield to block his body, still pressing on the wound with all her might. She’d never thought she’d be so relieved to see Jack’s pale face. The man looked sick.

“You-you-shit.” His eyes nearly bulged out of his head at the sight of the bloodied rags in Peggy’s hand. “Carter, you’re hurt.”

“No,” she huffed. “But Steve is.”

“Fuck.” As if that was somehow worst and yeah, she had to agree it was, even if Steve wasn’t agreeing with it. He was still gritting his teeth and trying to sit up, trying to catch his breath.

“Come here, alright? I need you to put pressure on his wounds.” The guy was in shock and any amount of distraction to keep his hands busy was better than him standing in shock.

With Jack putting pressure on Steve’s wound and the Captain finally stopping his fight, Peggy got back on the radio. She was starting to become frantic, watching Steve’s face pale and Jack was starting to fluster. “Dum-Dum if you don’t answer me right this instant - Steve is hurt. We need extra-”

Her answer came in typical Howling Commando fashion - an explosion on the far wall. The ground shook beneath her, the ceiling threatened to cave in right in that instance. Everyone was piled into the back of the jeep, a crowd of people rushing forward to help her get Steve up to his good foot and rush him back towards the jeep.

“Get Jack,” she snapped at Pinky. “Make sure he doesn’t hurt himself. He’s in shock - have Montgomery give him those tabs.” 

Getting a groaning Steve laid out on the floor of the jeep, Peggy laid Steve’s head in her lap. She didn’t give a damn who saw. She was tired, grungey, sick to her stomach with worry for the shivering Captain.

The fact he wasn’t speaking, arguing with her told her the amount of pain he was in. 

Bucky and Jones were already on the wound, Steve’s face pinching as his pants were ripped open.

“Steve,” Peggy whispered, stroking her hand through her hair with a soft smile. “Look at me.” Her hand cupped his jawline, the pad of her thumb stroking a scar he’d earned from a shaving incident a few years ago. His blue eyes fell on hers, gritting his teeth and holding her hand when Jones started to dig the bullet out.

“This is r-revenge for...for something,” he grunted, gripping the floor of the jeep tightly. “Fuck, you coulda just talked to me, Pegs.”

Peggy chuckled, only to keep herself from crying. Stress. The strain on them. She was thankful when the jeep emptied once they’d reached their pickup point. An abandoned airport where a plane waited for them. 

“Sometimes it’s easier to let others talk for me.” She bent her head down, pressing a soft kiss to Steve’s lips. His felt so cold against hers. 

Hearing a clearing of a throat, she looked beyond the pair at Steve’s feet, to Jack. He was still pale and shaken, but there was life back to his eyes that hadn’t been there before. “I didn’t see anything,” he mumbled. “I was just warning you that wheels up in ten.” He hesitated around the jeep, frowning before he was gone.

“Want me to go hunt him down?” Bucky grunted, pulling back from Steve’s bloodied thigh with alcohol in hand. “For sport?”

A fond smile tugged on Peggy’s lips. There was that Big Brother Barnes quality. “As much as that would solve many of my problems, darling, I can handle myself. Jones, you heard the man, what’s the verdict on Steve’s leg?”

Gabe’s small smile tugged on his lips as he pulled back, wrapping the gauze tighter around the wound. “You’re...rather lucky, Steve. There’s no permanent damage, but given your exhaustion and our lack of supplies, you will be slow to heal. You should head back stateside to get some proper R&R, have the wound properly treated. We did what we could, but no promises.” He clicked his tongue, his fingers pointing to Bucky’s chest. “And you are going with him. You got a broken arm.”

Bucky’s full lips pulled into a pout but underneath it, Peggy could see him vibrating. “What a shame that I broke my arm from a jackass’s decision.”

“Are you sure you guys can afford to lose them?” Peggy asked, gently laying Steve back down as she climbed out of the back. “We can send extra men to make up for them.”

“If you staid we wouldn’t need to worry about it,” Dugan mused, tapping on the side of the jeep. “But you’re needed elsewhere to keep those jerks in line. And make sure this one doesn’t try to run a marathon through Brooklyn on that leg.”

“Not much of a runner,” Steve grunted, letting himself be pulled up. He set his weight on his good leg, letting Jones and Dugan pull him to his feet. 

As Steve was being put onto the plane, Peggy heaved a soft sigh as she turned back to Dugan. The hug from him was everything she missed - the bear hug that reminded her some things were worth savoring. Pulling away, he patted her cheek and grinned under that thick mustache.

“You keep our boys in line, won’t you? We can’t lose ‘em again,” he grumbled, shrugging his shoulders slightly. “And keep yourself safe. We’ll get to the bottom of this. We’re just one call away, Pegs.”

“Of course I will,” she mused. “Someone needs to. And thank you, Dugan. You’re a life savior. Literally. I’ll miss you.”

Sitting back between Steve and Bucky, Peggy could feel like she could breathe for the first time in a while. Steve was going to be okay. He might need longer rest than others, but he’d be okay. Dugan was wiring the information to Phillips as they spoke. Her head rested against the wall, feeling Steve’s hand tighten in hers in his light slumber. Against her shoulder, Bucky was snoring. 

“Marge.” Her name made her eyes open to see Jack in front of her. Her body tensed, coiled, and posed, ready to fight because her boys were in her lap and exhausted, hurt. What more could he want? 

“Yes, Agent Thompson? I was hoping we could get some shut-eye before we touched land.”

“I won’t keep you long. You’re...busy.” His eyes fell to Steve, watching the man’s face twitch in her lap. “I wanted to thank you for...assisting me back there. Any other person would’ve left me to my own devices, especially after the decisions I’ve made. You didn’t, you were the bigger person and I’m...thankful.”

Well, that’s the last thing Peggy expected to hear from Jack’s lips. An apology and him expressing how thankful he was for her? Well, that was rare. “It wouldn’t be fair for you to die because you were in shock. I’m glad you’re okay.”

His head bobbed, Steve grunting making him flinch slightly. He still wasn’t 100% okay. “I’ll leave you to it. What I saw...I won’t tell anyone.”

“Good,” Peggy huffed, letting her head rest on the wall and close her eyes. “Because I’d hate to have to kill you because you decided to be stupid.”

[dashielldeveron]

Viper II: Ad Quod Damnum

Viper AU: a Mob!Tom Holland AU in which you are a political author, Tom’s personal lawyer, and eventually his consigliere.

Warnings: swears, the law, blood, misogyny, drug mention, talking about human trafficking, mention of rape, mention of FGM, mention of forced pregnancy.

Summary: You’re doing your best to be good, both ethically and professionally, but the streams start to cross. You’re not getting noticed for your work, but it’s not quite the same as before.

After pulling your sleeves down, you buttoned your coat over the bloody, ashy handprint on your dress. “What can you see?”

Firelight reflected off of the lenses of Tom’s binoculars. He licked his lips, his breath visible in the cold. “Not a whole lot. Boost me up.”

“Mr. Osterfield might be more suited for this,” you said, but you helped Tom up the next rung of the fence to Crosscreek anyway. Still supporting Tom, you turned towards the throng of neighbourhood residents outside the gate, where Harrison was questioning people as nonchalantly as possible to find any witnesses to the blistering blaze in a section of Crosscreek. “It’s not Ms. Pham’s house,” you said, peeking through the bars, “Hers is on the west end.”

“Of course not,” said Tom. He adjusted the sights. “It’s one of the D’Aleos’ houses, their headquarters outside the city.”

“What the—the D’Aleos? The D’Aleos have a camp here?” You stepped to the side to try to get his attention. “You sent me blind into another mob family’s territory without even telling me—”

“We needed the key codes to infiltrate the house,” Tom said, not tearing his gaze away from the fire, “S’pose that won’t happen now. Maybe another location, then.”

“I’d rather go into Fratelli territory than D’Aleo,” you said, slumping against the fence, “At least they’re polite.”

“I can’t make out more than silhouettes, but it looks like more than the fire department’s there.”

“Bomb squad?”

“Not for one that’s already gone off.” Tom jumped down from the fence and held out the binoculars. “You check it out.”

You took them and climbed up without Tom’s help, since he didn’t offer it, and Harrison approached while you wrapped your free hand around one of the frigid, metal spikes. No one in the crowd had seen the bomb go off, but some had seen the process of explosion. The ground floor of the D’Aleo house had exploded, and the upper storey had collapsed with the growing flames. Certainly seemed to be the case—the only thing left untouched was the chimney, standing tall amidst a steadily rising pile of ashes.

You got down and returned the binoculars. “Was anyone inside when it blew?”

Harrison raised an eyebrow. “How’s that matter? How would I have that information?”

Christ, this desensitised mob. “I don’t—”

“They may blame you,” Tom said, stowing the binoculars in a pack, “You’re the most recent person given the codes. Better watch your back, Viper.”

“Watch my—did you account for this when you sent me?”

“You’d better watch your tone. It sounds like you’re accusing me,” said Tom, scowling, “which you have no right to do. Not exactly a promising start to your career.”

Your phone went off in your coat pocket, but you didn’t move under Tom’s glower until he barked at you to answer it.

Glory Pham: Explosion in my neighbourhood. Am fine. Still meeting tomorrow at 0900 hrs. If not arriving with biscotti from Davey’s, do not bother to arrive.

Tom read the text over your shoulder, his nose twitching as his frown deepened. “This woman thinks awfully well of herself to demand that from a business partner. Reply cordially but make no mention of fulfilling her request.”

Sending the text off, you stowed your phone away, and Tom directed his attention towards Harrison. “Contact D’Aleo; tell him we’re open for pecuniary support if he wants it. Don’t tell him we know about it in any terms other than what’s on the news. Make nice. Then contact the Fratellis and—hang on,” Tom said, turning towards you and slowly crossing his arms, “That woman has your phone number.”

“Correct,” you said.

Through the bars of the fence, firelight illuminated half of his face, morphing constantly into shadow. He opened his mouth to say something but shut it again. Scoffing, Tom returned to his conversation with Harrison with his arms tightly crossed over his chest. “Tell the Fratellis that the D’Aleos are gonna come at them for help. If you can, persuade them to deny them. We need to provide a narrow window of support; I’m gonna need a favour from D’Aleo soon.��

“He’s not going to like that,” said Harrison, jotting down notes on his phone.

“Tell me something I don’t know. If—”

“Excuse me, sir,” you said, stepping a bit closer to them to include yourself in the conversation, “Weren’t you going to tell me something?”

Tom’s fingers curled into the hair at the nape of his neck, and he, scrunching his eyes closed, gave a weak, dismissive wave. “Go home, Viper,” he said, “I don’t need you.”

***

Tom flipped his pants pocket inside-out and wiped his reddening knuckles on it. “Drop him,” he said to the two capos holding a middle-aged man who had once been quite pugnacious but now was still, save for the heaving chest, “He’s disoriented and won’t try anything. Leave. Text Maccabruno that we found him.” He stuffed his pocket right-side-in again, and the capos dropped the bastard onto his knees on their way out.

Tom unbuttoned his suit coat, and when he spoke, his voice was even but weighed with fury. “Where’ve you been for the past five months, Wright?”

You clicked your pen and held it to your legal pad. Neither man paid any attention to it, but that was the point: you weren’t to be noticed until you were told. You perched on the arm of Tom’s chair behind his desk, your legs crossed at the ankle and your skirt hitched up a little too high for a secretary Tom wasn’t keeping around to fuck.

“I haven’t been anywhere significant. I’ve stayed in Queens, as promised.”

“Then how come I haven’t seen you since before the New Year?”

“I’ve been,” said Wright, gulping. He waited a moment. “Depressed.”

“Fuck off; we don’t all have the luxury of retreating to whatever opium den you’ve been hiding in when we have a depressive episode. You can still do your fucking job and be depressed,” said Tom, who was still unaware you were the highest-functioning depressed person he had in his circle of acquaintances, “Other Queens contractors have had to pull your weight, and what’s more, I’ve been more than generous in letting your property go relatively untouched, considering you haven’t the motivation to keep up the protection fee. You owe me.”

Wright pulled at the rope tying his hands behind his back. “I can’t deny that, Mr. Holland, but I can’t pay—”

“I’m more than aware of that,” said Tom, and he tossed his suit jacket over the back of a chair and began to roll up his sleeves as he strode towards Wright, each step a hollow clunk on the hardwood floor.

Instead of writing the dialogue, you jotted down the physical reactions Wright had to whatever Tom did. Words you could recall later, but a twitch, a glance towards the window—you might not remember.

Besides, you were recording the exchange. Early on you had decided that Tom wouldn’t tell you everything, out of spite or negligence, so, inspired by your initial gift, you had given Tom a potted cactus for his desk. In the potting soil, you’d planted (bah-dum, tsh) your first major investment with your new income: the highest quality recording device on the market. When you got back to your flat each evening, you’d go through the daily file, type it, and sort it according to what case it helped. Tom would be livid if he knew, but like he’s going to rummage through cactus dirt.

You’d also invested in a flask—not for alcohol; you never drank—but so that Tom’s men (and the idiots you ran into out in the city) would never offer you drinks. You swopped out your liquid every now and then, but currently, you were on a pink lemonade kick. You kept it on an easily hidden holster around your waist, along with your wallet and phone. Carrying around a purse was too cumbersome in addition to your rucksack—which lay carefully under your feet and was itching to be pried open so that you could slam Wright into the ground with its contents.

“Get up,” Tom hissed, and when he prodded Wright’s knee with his foot, Wright sat upright, tilting his head back and exposing his neck. “C’mon, are you following along? You still with me? Use your voice, not your head.”

“I am,” said Wright, clearing his throat with difficulty.

“Head clear enough to keep going? Then you have two minutes.” Tom turned halfway towards you and gestured loosely towards Wright, who coughed bloody phlegm onto the floor. You dug the folder out of your rucksack and handed your legal pad to Tom when you passed him.

“What, you’re gonna let your fucking secretary read me my punishment?” Wright scowled when you stopped in front of him, clear of spitting distance. His sclera was blossoming into a deep vermillion, and it struck you that red looked nice against dark eyelashes. “You’ve gotten lazy in the months I’ve—”

“If you had to lose a finger, which one would you choose?”

Bafflement flashed across his face, and before he could question it, you asked him the same again. This time, he said the pinkie on his non-dominant hand and flexed his fingers behind him, steeling himself.

“Interesting choice,” you said, taking the knife Tom handed you and flipping out the blade, “Most people say that, and it really shows how little the American public knows about human anatomy. Do you know the difference between precision and power grip?”

Wright flicked a worried look towards Tom and back to you. Interesting how they all turned to Tom for stability once you started talking. Wright shook his head.

“Precision grip involves the pinching motion with your thumb, index, and middle fingers. The distal two joints are the only ones being used,” you said, shifting the file to your side, “Power grip uses all fingers and the thumb as they wrap around an object. It uses all of your joints, and the ring and little fingers do most of the work. What they lack in precision, they make up for in strength, the little finger being the strongest. Holland.”

He took your file and held it loosely by his side, his gaze never leaving you as you rounded Wright and knelt.

“Make a fist,” you told Wright, straining to look over his shoulder at you, “Feel the strength of each finger. No, eyes to the front.” You turned his chin towards Tom, and Wright’s Adam’s apple bobbed.

“The correct choice is your index finger,” you said, prying open his fist and sliding the blade across his index finger—lightly, not enough to break skin but enough to put him on edge. “You don’t need it. The middle finger functions just as well for precise grip actions, and the index doesn’t do much otherwise.” You tapped the tip on the crease of his second knuckle, and he flinched. “Your middle is more involved in power grip than the index, which is why it’s the second choice. The ring finger comes next, because you’re losing power, and the little finger after, again, for power grip. The thumb should be your last choice.” You slid the knife over it now, letting it swipe lazily to the skin between index and thumb. “If you lose your thumb, you lose all precision grip. You’d still have power, but it’s affected nevertheless. It’s your only opposable digit, so there’s no substituting for it.”

Letting the information breathe, you drew figure-eights up and down his fingers for a moment. Tom’s throwing your legal pad onto his desk was the only noise that interrupts Wright’s shaky breathing and the A/C.

Tom leant against his desk, clutched your file to his chest, and tilted his chin up very slightly. “What say you to that, Wright?”

With incredulity in his voice, Wright said, “You learn something new every—”

You drove the knife through his right palm, and you stood slowly. You walked over to Tom and thanked him over the screeching, and you exchanged the knife for your file. Later, you’d justify stabbing him to yourself over a sink; Tom had eyed you during the first feeble aftermath, but now you hid it entirely. You wondered vaguely how your cat was doing.

“Holy fuck, woman,” said Wright in his high register, “You can’t do that to me. This is still a business arrangement; you can’t—I know my rights.”

“Really?” You looked at Tom and back at Wright. “Name them.”

He bit his tongue with force as you returned to him, pulling the first page out of the folder. “Now, why haven’t you filed your tax returns for your front business?”

“What,” Wright said, panting, “the fuck?”

“You’re overdue. For quite some time, now. Tax evasion is a crime, Mr. Wright.”

And there it was: the visible processing of what was happening, the cogs turning in the client’s head so loudly that the men downstairs could hear it, the awe, confusion, and then anger: “Holy fucking shit,” said Wright, “You’re the Viper.”

“I’m pleased to hear your cognitive functions are still operating. Gold star. Tax evasion, Mr. Wright.”

“That doesn’t—the fuck—that doesn’t matter; I’ve been doing it for—”

“I know it doesn’t matter. But did you note the physical signs of relief you just showed?” You waved the tax form at him. “When you found out it was only tax evasion? Your shoulders legitimately slumped in relief, Wright, and I thought only cartoon characters did that. I’m not here to talk about your tax records, you fuck.”

Here you waited; where there was a silence after a vague accusation, sometimes there was a confession. You didn’t need it, but you took confessing into account when you dealt with clients further. Again Wright glanced at Tom for clarification, for stability, for anything, and he wouldn’t give it to him.

“Springfield, Missouri. Your wife’s shelter. Thirty-eight, seventeen, nine.”

His face fell blank. He opened his mouth and closed it, and then he set his jaw. “Prostitution’s on the way to being legalised.”

“That’s pimp talk. Now, I know what my views on prostitution are, and you know yours, but why we’re here today isn’t about personal views, you fucker. It’s about the law, the lives you’ve ruined, and your betrayal of trust. Let’s talk about justice and gender.” You clasped your hands behind your back and paced leisurely around him.

“In law school, the message was that I didn’t belong because I was a woman. Supreme Court justices came to my school the spring of my first year, during which they were sure to emphasise keeping women lawyers at large, corporate firms because of family-friendly policies.” You stopped behind him, looking down at the crown of his head. “This was the only issue regarding women they spoke of, and that was the beginning, the beginning of linking their narrow approach to gender with my feeling of isolation.”

You took a glance towards Tom. This information was new to him, but he wasn’t reacting at all. Simply leaning against his desk, arms crossed. No expression. It didn’t matter, you supposed—he knew your views on gendered justice; he just didn’t know why. Well, you learn something new every day.

“I spoke in class, because no other female students would, and people noticed. A tenured professor tended to talk directly with me during what was theoretically a class discussion. Sometimes, he would agree wholeheartedly, and others, he’d drag me through the dirt—all using gendered vocabulary, thinly veiling that I was wrong for emotional reasons, which lawyers aren’t supposed to be. Because of all my interaction with this professor, my fellow students thought I was fucking him—when in reality, he hated me—as belayed to me by a friend who talked to him in office hours.” You stayed behind Wright. Keeping an eye on Tom was more important to you.

“Again, I was—to put it crudely—groped my second year by an upperclassman. When I reported him to the chair and again to the dean, nothing happened, when it should have gone on his permanent record. The administration was too willing to sweep my case and worse under the rug. But enough about me,” you said, coming to a halt and bouncing on the balls of your feet, “The history of law has always been drenched in misogyny.”

You flicked the back of Wright’s head. “I know. You’re zoning out. You don’t want to listen to a woman talk about feminism. This is going a place very relevant to you, so at the very least, pay attention to figure out if you’re gonna walk out of this room or be carried out. Are you following along?”

“Yes.”

Feeling a bit daring, you said, “Yes what?”

Wright shifted his jaw. “Yes, ma’am.”

“Good boy. Now, for ages, legal convention has allowed familial violence and rape and has equated these actions with damage to property. You say that’s gone, that that’s old hat. Chin up, bucko; history’s only getting started. Cogs in favour of women have been churning less than a century, but legal capabilities are rooted in a patriarchal system—I can practically hear you rolling your eyes. Roll them again, and they’ll be rolling across the floor. When studying law or building a career in it, the system is designed to shape you into the romanticised epitome of the profession. Being a human person can’t interfere with legal culture, especially when that human person is knocking against gender discrimination that’s just been part of the system since it began.”

You glanced at Wright out of the corner of your eye. If he were untied and physically fit, he’d be picking at his fingernails. He had that look: glazed over and fixated on the floor. Hackneyed posture. Might’ve been any jerk you see at the library if it weren’t for the blood and tears dripping out of his eye.

Tom remained unmoved, but his gaze was on you, not Wright.

“When you’re stuck in an environment that’s designed to crush who you are, you tend to adopt silence as your method of protection. There was one thing that pulled me through. Just one.” You clasped your hands behind your back. “I had a magnificent professor who saw the light in me and raised me from the depths. She had my back when the world was against me. She was my rock when my life was crumbling.” You rounded to Wright’s front, now, and you tilted up your chin to glare down at him. “So you’d better believe I’m gonna be that and more for women who are silenced and abused by worms like you. There’s a danger to women in places like mine, and I’m gonna do all I can to keep them safe.”

Gripping Wright’s hair, you forced his gaze to lock with yours. His blond hair matted blood between your fingers. “Back to Springfield, Missouri. When you go through one of the cities with the highest human trafficking rate in the nation, you tend to get noticed. I noticed. Now, with my help, your wife’s noticed.”

Wright’s eyes widened, and he spat bloody phlegm in your face. Closing your eyes and freezing your expression, you released his hair, stood, and flicked it delicately off your cheekbone. “Holland,” you said over your shoulder, “Has this man been tested?”

“He’s clean,” said Tom in a hoarse voice.

“Thank you,” you said, and you returned your focus to Wright. “Grace was more than willing to help provide all banking accounts, emails, and passwords once I showed her the patterns of your movements and women and a depressingly large amount of underage girls going missing from her women’s shelter.”

“You fucking bitch,” said Wright, “She didn’t know anything about the trafficking, but she—”

“Oh, I know. Which is why we’ve examined all found content concerning it and purged her connections with it. You shouldn’t leave such a thorough paper trail, Mr. Wright.” You opened your folder and idly flipped through it. “I have you for trafficking, kidnapping, rape, assault, opiate—”

“You—bitch. You can’t prove a thing.”

You half-shrugged. “True, but your wife could, once she connected the dots, and now enough information is in my hands to ruin you and your company. However, I wanted to give Grace some agency on the matter since you betrayed her, and I gave her a choice on whether to send you to prison or hell.” You closed your file. “Let’s just say she doesn’t want you on state health care.”

Wright lunged the best he could on his knees towards you and began to shout, and you simply took a step back. When the client is reduced to nothing but name-calling and threats, it’s time to wrap up.

And Tom’s phone rang. You reviewed Grace’s personal accounts while he talked and made a mental note to help her and her kids get out of state temporarily. Maybe to Maine. Low population. Lots of forests. Forests are peaceful.

Tom swore loudly into his phone, and he finished the phone call in a hurry. “Viper,” he said, turning on his heel, “I have a job for you.”

“Is it all right leaving Wright here?” Your heels clicked together as you came to stand in front of Tom, and you handed him the folder.

“I’ll handle him,” said Tom, loosening his tie enough to slip from around his neck, “You’re going alone. I’ll have a car for you outside by the time you get to the lobby, and I’ll text you the details.” Fucking hell. Another excuse to contact you via phone—he’d never admit it, but you saw the glint in his eye when you gave him your number a while back. You knew what he was about. You wished, at least, he’d text in full sentences.

“Understood. Should I be armed?”

“Harrison’s already there,” said Tom, “but he won’t be for long. He thinks you’d ought to check it out, though. Some Fratelli men are staking out the place since the police discovered it, since it’s on their turf, but it’s a sector we’re friendly with.”

“All right,” you said. You took a moment to look at Wright, who had fallen silent again and was staring at the floor again in a dazed way. You turned back to Tom and said so that only he could hear: “I know it isn’t my place to make suggestions, but I would love to come back to this scum not having any teeth.”

Tom raised an eyebrow but said nothing, and when he nodded once, you took it as your dismissal. When you glanced over your shoulder at him as your closed the door, he gave you a small smile where Wright couldn’t see.

***

“Top floor?” You pulled on a latex glove with a snap.

“No, the penultimate one,” said Harrison, “Top floor’s completely empty. You want the main room on the fourth floor on the left. The police have already been through it and marked out the silhouette. Unnecessary.”

“Like a good, old-fashioned cop show,” you said, flexing your latex-covered fingers, “Do we have a weapon yet?”

“Lots lying around the premises but none suited to skin someone. I’m on my way to check out his skin; it was dumped on his front steps,” said Harrison.

“Was the rest of the body found here before his skin was discovered?”

Harrison checked over his shoulder at the Fratelli capos calling for his attention. “No. Here’s the write-up,” he said, shoving you some folded papers, “The rest of his body hasn’t been found yet, but the autopsy on his skin should be included. I’ve got to go. Let me know how it goes.”

“Hold on,” you said, grabbing his sleeve, “Is anyone in this building besides the Fratellis?”

He shook his head. “You’re alone, Viper. Go wild.”

After Harrison met with the Fratelli capos, you opened the autopsy report and read them as you ascended the staircase, which creaked and expelled dust with every step. The place was coated in grime. You didn’t want to touch anything; you might get a disease. Stupid fucking building hadn’t been cleaned since it was built, and the prostitution ring functioned out of this place? You wouldn’t want to sit down in here, let alone have sex. You had to stop reading though, since you had to keep an eye on your feet—it would be nice to have a sharps container.

So, you called Tom. You pressed it to your ear and brought your collar over your nose so that you could have at least two breaths of fresh air, and he picked up on the third ring.

“What’ve you got?”

“Did you fucking know that Senator Hernandez was involved with Wright’s prostitution ring? Were we willingly working with someone who’ll—”

“Absolutely not,” said Tom, “I didn’t know until the phone call. I didn’t even know about the trafficking before you brought it up. I thought we were dealing with a run-of-the-mill businessman.”

He didn’t know until you…? Incredible. “How’d Hernandez’s skin get to his front steps?”

“I’m going over the security footage now, and an unmarked car dumped him out of what looks like a burlap sack. Can’t make out anything from the footage otherwise.”

“So, Holland,” you said, slowing your pace as you climbed the final few steps to the fourth floor, “What are you expecting me to find? I doubt the gun’s gonna be here, and there’s no chance of the bullet. It’s still in Senator Hernandez’s body, wherever it is.”

Tom pulled the received away from his mouth, but his soft fuck still came through. “They haven’t found it? His body, I mean.”

“Not a trace. All right, I’m in the room,” you said as you pushed on the door, its weight so heavy it swung open and held without having to prop it open. You kicked the doorstop to the side.

Outlines of where furniture had been removed were the only parts of the carpet in a consistent beige. Otherwise, the floor stains ranged from bright red to a murky brown. You strode across it, needles sometimes clinking against your shoes, and you stopped at the edge of the police outline of where they garnered Hernandez had been shot, his head directly at your toes.

“What do you expect me to find in here, Holland?” You spun around, making a conscious effort not to breathe too deeply. “The cops have already marked it up. They’ve taken away anything interesting.”

“I don’t know,” he said, “but I do know that you have sharper eyes than they do. You’re gonna find something they missed.”

“Yeah, right. This place is empty, besides the palpable squalor.”

“C’mon, Viper. Take your time.”

You cleared your throat. “Fine, but if I contract the fuckin’ plague, or something, I’m infecting you first.”

“I’ll take it,” said Tom, and he continued with a change in tone. “Tell me about the autopsy report.”

“All right.” You walked around the silhouette to the one window in the room directly behind it. “Skin heavily bruised, especially the face. Nothing that looks like a hand, though.” You pried open the dull, green curtains and pinned them back. “Gunshot the back of his head, a single, long slit down his spine where they must have scooped out his insides.” The window showed no signs of being roughed up, so it must have been unlocked. You reached up to the lock and unlocked it (it shifted easily; the window must have been opened often to let smoke out) before pushing it open and out. “And yeah, there’s the edge of a scuffed shoeprint on the outside of the window, like the report says,” you said, leaning out to see it, “So the shooter did come in this way.”

You closed the window and glanced around the empty room. “I don’t know, Holland. I’m can’t give you any new information.”

“Anything at all?”

“The ceiling’s got graffiti on it. Some kind of mural. Mostly just swirls. Kind of like a clouded sky, but it’s almost dreamlike. Idealised.”

“Supposed to be heaven, d’you reckon?”

You closed your eyes. “Irony at its most mediocre and transparent.”

“Keep going.”

“I don’t want to keep you, if you’ve got something else to do. I can give a report later,” you said, breathing through your collar again.

“I’d rather hear you process the crime scene in real time,” said Tom, “This is more important than whoever’s bleeding at my feet.”

“I hope that’s metaphorical,” you said, and you proceeded too quickly for him to say otherwise. “Hernandez’s outline is almost comical. It’s straight flat without struggle, it looks like. It kind of looks like a bowling pin. Hang on.”

“What’s the matter?”

“His head’s facing the door.”

“Yeah?”

“And he was shot in the back of the head. His face is bruised—from the fall. He didn’t turn around to see his murderer. That matches with the window being o—why wouldn’t he turn around?” You crouched next to the outline and scanned the carpet for bloodstains that were the senator’s.

Tom clicked his tongue. “Was anyone else in the room?”

“No,” you said, “He’d been alone for—his head is facing the door.”

“The fuck does that mean?” Tom said as you rushed across the room and out into the hallway. You backed up into the doorframe and stared exactly in the senator’s line of vision.

“Just give me a moment.” Blank wall. Railing for stairs. No window, no sun, no light. Unless—

“What is it?”

Darting back into the room, you tested the door a few inches, swinging it back and forth before shutting it.

“Have you found something? Viper, answer me. Are you okay?”

You cleared your throat again. “’m fine. But, um. He was distracted,” you said in a soft voice into the phone before you lowered it.

On the back of the door in the same spray paint as the mural lay an inscription:

Hernandez, though you have run, it is time to collect a viper decides how much venom injects

***

“I told you,” you hissed, “I didn’t trust the senator from the very beginning.”

“Maccabruno did, and I trust Macca. I won’t have you insulting my consigliere another time today, got it?” Tom raised his eyebrows as he looked up at you from his chair behind his desk.

“But now I’m involved in the public sphere. The police are gonna go back and find that couplet, and then there’s gonna be reports all over about who or what the viper bit could mean, and it’s gonna lead back to us. It’s gonna lead to me.” You dragged a chair from the opposite side of his desk to sit next to him, so that there wouldn’t be a barrier between you. “I can’t have that. I can’t be found. I can’t be discovered,” you said, sitting ungracefully and leaning towards him.

“You’re right,” said Tom. He kicked a leg to rest his ankle on the opposite knee. “I can’t have you found out. You’re the ace up my sleeve.” He pinched his lower lip between his index finger and thumb.

Harrison barged in the door without knocking, the knob banging into the wall, with Maccabruno close behind. “Fucking hell,” he said, and he tossed an open envelope onto Tom’s desk. “Take a look at this.”

“It just arrived,” said Maccabruno, as Tom slid his fingers into the envelope and pulled out a polaroid. “Normal mail. Nothing suspicious.”

Supporting yourself on Tom’s armrest, you leant close enough to where you could see the picture, your chin initially grazing Tom’s shoulder, and your jaw dropped fully onto it. It was a clear image of you taking off your gloves earlier that afternoon, exiting the building where Senator Hernandez had been killed.

“The back, Tom,” said Haz, “Read the fucking back.”

Tom flipped it over. Tom Holland, it read, you have three days until I release this picture and similar. There is no stopping this. Whom I’m giving it to is offering me a ghastly amount of money, Tom, and they’re going to put this to good use. The viper’s got to suffer. Your girl’s going to burn. xx.

You blinked. Closed your mouth. Blinked again. Frowned. For some reason, your brain latched onto the kisses at the end, and they had you nodding. An essence of humour.

Harrison gripped the edge of the desk. “How do we stop it?”

“Give me a minute,” Tom said, rubbing his forehead as he handed the polaroid back to Harrison. His fingers kept going to run through his hair.

“I don’t think we can,” said Maccabruno, “He wrote we can’t, and I don’t think we can trace him.”

“Unless we want to go through spray paint sales across the city for the past week,” you said, snapping out of your daze.

“I’ll get on it,” said Maccabruno.

“I was jok—”

“No, do it,” said Tom with a wave, his eyes shut. “I can’t fucking believe this.”

Harrison pinched the bridge of his nose. “Wait a minute,” he said, “Are we assuming the murder-poet and whoever sent this polaroid are the same person? They aren’t necessarily connected.”

“Keep three records of the cases.” Maccabruno flexed his left hand, its joints popping. “One for each incident as they are, and another acting as if they’re done by the same person. Viper,” Maccabruno said, “was anyone around when you were leaving the crime scene?”

“No one except the two Fratelli men.”

Maccabruno shot Tom and Harrison a look before returning to you. “Really think. You may not have noticed—”

“Macca,” you said, shutting your eyes tightly, “what colour are my eyes?”

After a beat, he stammered that he didn’t know.

“That’s right,” you said, still blind, “Yours are hazel. Mr. Osterfield’s are light blue, and Mr. Holland’s are dark brown. You have a bulge in your coat pocket, but you don’t carry a gun normally; that pocket’s where you keep your mentos and pocket edition of the Constitution. Mr. Osterfield’s got scuffs on his shoes from where he keeps tripping into the new rug in the hallway, and Holland usually has grey pet hair on his trousers.” You opened your eyes to their checks if what you said were true. “I admit I’m trying to impress you, but the fact that I know them shouldn’t be impressive. I’m simply on guard. I watch. I notice. So, yeah, I know what I saw coming out of the cri—”

“Viper,” said Tom, leaning against two fingers pressed to his temple, “Can you go five minutes without taking umbrage with Macca? Get a grip. I won’t have infighting among you three. Fucking hell.” Tom pushed away from his desk and rose sluggishly. He took a step towards his liquor cabinet but winced and stopped himself. “Everyone, get out. I need time to think.”

Perplexed, Harrison glanced at you before saying, “But Tom—”

“Leave. Now,” said Tom, running his hand through his hair as he scrunched up his face. Harrison had his hand on the doorknob when Tom called you back to his desk. He opened the top drawer and retrieved a lace handkerchief, tied off around the middle. He placed it in your palm, and you tugged the string loose to reveal a collection of broken teeth. Your mouth twitched into a half smile.

“Is it really that important if this picture gets leaked? I’m afraid I don’t see much of a problem.” Maccabruno shook off Harrison’s grip on his arm and strode back towards Tom, Harrison closely behind. “The city underground knows Haz’s and my faces. And yours. We’ve have our rough times, but so has everyone else in this family. We have our quarrels but walk out regardless, even if we’re bruised and bloody. How is she any different?”

Harrison frowned. “He’s got a fair point.”

“Got a fair—? Christ,” said Tom with such vehemence that you clenched your fist around the handkerchief and moved to get out of his way as he rounded the desk. He opened his mouth but closed it when he looked back at you, but he continued at a softer volume. “You are correct,” he said, gesturing stiffly for Maccabruno to sit in one of the intentionally uncomfortable chairs in front of his desk, “She shouldn’t be any different. Haz, you, and I—hopefully—all think of her as the same as us.” Tom glanced at you again before glaring at Macca down his nose. “But we can’t guarantee our opponents will. They’re gonna look at her and see some chick that I’ve hired out of sentiment. They’re gonna look at her and see an easy way to me.”

While Harrison inched over to you to give you some shred of solidarity, Tom put his foot on the edge of the seat of Maccabruno’s chair, making him scoot over, and Tom leant into his face, resting his arms on his raised knee. “So, they know about the Viper. Fine. Gives them another reason to be on edge around me. But say everyone knows she’s a woman—they don’t take her seriously and easy to spot. She’s less of a person and more of a target.”

Harrison nudged your arm, and you inhaled sharply. He nodded slightly at you, and you returned it. You forced yourself to release the tension from your jaw and stopped clenching your fists. The roots of the molars had been digging into your palm.

“Not to mention,” Tom said as he took the end of Maccabruno’s tie and flipped it over his shoulder, “Not a one of them can impregnate you or cut off your clitoris. They can hurt her in ways they can’t hurt you. Understand yet?”

Maccabruno’s brow was furrowed, but he stared squarely at Tom’s lapel pocket. “Yes, sir.”

“Good job. And I need you to leave my office so that I can have the time to fucking think about how I’m gonna fix this. I can’t lose this one,” Tom said, jerking his head in your direction and crossing his arms, “due to negligence or personal error. I need her around. No one else can do what she does.”

After months of working for him, there’s validation, finally. Nice to hear you’re appreciated, but you’d rather it not be like this. For a moment, you thought about Tom saying the same things to you, but in private on one of your late nights, where you’re alone and both sleep-deprived and poring over evidence and files, and he’s got his hair all ruffled and a soft shine in his eyes, and he’s leaning close to you, body heat melding with your own, and he says in a low breath into your ear that he needs you—okay, slow down, girl. Save that for the shower. Remember these words forever, though; write them down—Tom may never say anything this positive about you again. Especially with what you’re about to say.

“Holland,” you said, stepping forward, “I might have something.”

He turned towards you, hands resting on his hips and his white shirt straining against his chest. “Something about stopping this guy releasing your information?”

“Yeah,” you said, “We release it first.”

***

ad quod damnum: according to the harm; the punishment must fit the crime.

taglist: @presidentbttrflyfreak @stealth-spiderr @astronomyparkers @starksparker @bi-writes @magstorrn @imstarwarstrashokay @wheremyotpat @infamous-webhead @pparkerwrites @laurfangirl424 @gryfinpuffs @hollandroos @softspideys @gendryia @paradoxparker @plethoraofpuppies @deranged-sewer-rat @laucontrerasv @yeastystrumpet @qxeen-of-hearts

[blueanddeepblue]

The trail starts out wide. A road really. Big enough for both of us to walk side by side. —– The night before, Alexis and I camp at Deep Creek, packed in among families with their mountain bikes and barbecue grills and behemoth tents and their hammocks stacked three-high celebrating Labor Day. We haul out our packs and shift gear around on the picnic table in the dark: sleeping pads and bags, camp stove and pots, emergency first aid kits, camel baks, rope, binoculars. Noted chronicler of Appalachian customs, Horace Kephart, says that “to equip a pedestrian with shelter, bedding, utensils, food, and other necessities, in a pack so light and small that he can carry it without overstrain, is really a fine art.” As connoisseurs of fine art and as people unaccustomed to camping in bear country, Alexis and I sit there looking at the bear canister wondering how to fit a week’s food supply into its small, plastic body. Canister is a deceiving term; it’s more a barrel-shaped lunchbox, smaller than those igloo contraptions your dad took to work throughout your childhood. But by the evening’s end, after all the arrangements, our packs seem lighter and emptier than they should, maybe because we’re not hiking in the desert and we don’t have to carry our water supply. We sleep, hoping that we are pedestrians soundly equipped. After morning coffee, we drive up from Bryson City with fog and mist blanketing the Great Smoky Mountains and shrouding the beginning of the hike in mystery, like a gift waiting to be opened -Alexis and I giddy children. —– The trail starts out wide. A road along a stream. We walk side by side. There is a newness, an excitement. It’s been months since I’ve seen her. But there is also a simple familiarity. We descend a short ways before starting a gradual two day climb towards Clingman’s Dome, the highest point in Tennessee, followed by another three days alongside Forney Creek. Alongside us Noland Creek drops pleasantly over boulders covered with moss and lichen, a background noise that a Texas boy like myself equates more to a waterfall than a creek, as most of the creeks I knew growing up were seasonal at best. It’s late summer in the Smokies and Noland roars softly, like a highway in the distance. We reacquaint ourselves to the rhythm of conversation, to a cadence particular to those who share intimacy. We fall into step. We adjust our packs at the shoulders, on the hips, at the chest, and try to ease out the kinks in our knees, on the lower back, near the nape of the neck. Some conversations are like a collision of atoms. I think that’s what drew me to Alexis in the first place, the way conversation would bounce between topics and stories and big ideas, whirling and spinning closer and closer to answers or revelations, the way talking with her would make my skin feel alive. It’s like that again. And the trail is wide. A road really. We walk side by side and point out the fungi here, a red flower over there, the way the light hits the water through a gap in the trees, the way the rocks make the stream look like blown glass. We hurl atoms step by step. —– Horace Kephart has sad, deep eyes, like a bloodhound, and (at least in most of the pictures that remain of him) a thick mustache. He is thin and wiry, the embodiment of an outdoorsman at the turn of the 19th century, replete with the independent spirit that only a checkered bandana, a short brimmed mountain hat, and a wooden pipe can instill. I first ran into Kephart when reading John Graves’ Goodbye to a River, a wonderfully meandering account of a canoe trip down the Brazos and one of the finest pieces of nature writing that Texas can claim. Graves simply calls him “Ol Kep”. Kephart, a man of dual lives, is probably best remembered for his writings about camping and for advocacy efforts to create what is now known as Great Smoky Mountains National Park. Camping and Woodcraft (1906) is still considered by many as the encyclopedia on outdoor excursions; if you’ve ever wondered about how well certain woods burn, Ol Kep provides a hierarchy for the burn-ability of soft-woods and hard-woods in relation to dryness; if you’ve ever pondered the difference between types of tent canvas, he’ll let you know when to use duck, sea island, or egyptian cotton - he’ll also let you know their respective weights; if you’ve ever debated how to cook possum, he’s got an opinion on that too. Buried within arcane and detailed observations of outdoor living, Kephart also embeds gems of wisdom, truths about the human condition which are still relevant today. —– Along Noland Creek the sun breaks through the trees in rays and makes the leaves glow electric and yellow among the green. We lay out on the rocks in the middle of the stream like lizards soaking it up. We hammock in the afternoon and gather firewood for the evening. Later we eat ramen, and later still we fall asleep to the sound of water rounding out the edges of stone, softening the corners and turning millions of tiny, round rocks into even smaller grains of sand, carrying them to the oceans and blowing them into the deserts across the world. —– Prior to becoming an expert on wilderness places and peoples, Ol Kep was mostly a bookworm. After being the librarian at Cornell, Kephart moved to Italy to purchase and catalog books for a wealthy collector. Somewhere along the way he met and fell in love with a woman from New York and exchanged letters with her. Eventually he moved back to the states, married Laura Mack, had six children with her, became the head librarian at both Yale and in Saint Louis, made advances in classification and library organization, published articles in a myriad of magazines, and had a nervous breakdown. It was the nervous breakdown that led him to western North Carolina, “looking for a big primitive forest where [he] could build up strength anew and indulge [his] lifelong fondness for hunting, fishing and exploring new ground.” Sometimes escape comes at a price, though. He’d never see his wife or children again. But he would know the woods. And he’d know the bottom of a moonshine bottle, which may be what drove him to the woods anyways; it’s hard to predict which way the wind will blow a man, or what path he’ll walk down to find a bit of solace. —– Day two is the longest and hardest of our hike. After climbing to the lookout tower at Clingman’s dome to peer into a fog that covers the 360 view, we start the three and a half miles down to our campsite. The trail grows narrower and rockier as we descend, rock-scree rolling beneath our feet. Darkness falls fast, and clouds darken. We pull out our tarps as the rain falls, at first a gentle pattering, soon a thunderous downpour. We give up on dry shoes and yell out plans for setting up camp in the rain. At our campsite, plans become obsolete. Dinner is abandoned. We try to keep things dry as best as possible, then settle into our tent and wait till morning. We have fifteen hours to go. Grey in the tent slowly becomes black, like a world where color has been drained by an unseen hand turning down a dial, like a plug being pulled in a tub of murky water. —– When Alexis and I met, both of us were going through divorces. Conversation erupted. We talked about relationships and what happened with them when they fell apart. We talked about what it was like to see the person you married and feel like they were a stranger. About how suddenly you feel adrift in something that used to seem so good. She hopped on the back of my motorcycle and we’d go swim or get BBQ. There were things I could share that I couldn’t with anyone else, things that people who aren’t looking at the inside of a crumbling marriage can’t possibly understand and don’t usually want to talk about anyways. It’d be like trying to hang out with a bunch of Red Sox fans and strike up conversations about the Yankee’s bullpen - they’d have opinions and know a lot about baseball, but they’re primarily rooting for the other team. Nobody wants to see a marriage fail, so when it does, it’s hard to find people who want to hear you belabor the finer points of love’s dissolution. Not that my friends aren’t wonderful, they truly are. But I’d already been through several separations with Sarah, already had some of those conversations. But with Alexis, it was more than that. It was intimacy. Not a physical one, nor like the head-over-heels love of the movies. It was the discovery of a shared experience. It was finding someone who was walking through the same thing as you, and who could help you see that it would be okay. It wasn’t always pretty. She was there for long walks with me when the anxiety set in, when I felt my heart rising in my chest, trying to strangle me from within. I was there for her when she couldn’t find the strength to eat, when food seemed strange and alien. There were tears sometimes. There were questions that had no answers: How come you can love someone and then not love them? Is love even supposed to last forever? Who are we anyways and why are we here? Questions that I imagine are a far cry from most first dates, the usual lists of hobbies and favorite movies and where one went to school. But questions that helped me know it was alright. That helped me see the world was still a wonder waiting to be unfurled. That the world would always be a wonder, and that it mattered not if the questions had answers, but only that we asked them. It was also magic. We climbed a hill at my friend’s ranch, a 12 pack of Lone Star in tow, and watched the Persied rain down meteors. We danced in the honky-tonks because sleep wouldn’t come. We walked the streets and felt the lightning in our teeth, in our bones, and we looked for that same light in the hills and the the stars and the flowers and in the water as clear as glass. We jumped in and swam with reckless abandon because it felt good to be alive again. We woke again every day to the newness of it all. And soon, we found that the water was all around us, that wonder had encircled us like a secret cocoon, like a blanket on a winter’s day or a soft breeze in the heat of the afternoon. Link Wray says that living is better than dying, and food tastes better than gold. I still think he’s right. —– Most of Kephart’s life revolved around the corresponding rhythms of writing and booze, with the woods being his sanctuary for both. He worked tirelessly to push for the creation of a National Park in the Appalachians, writing about the people and places that make the region so uniquely fascinating. He became the foremost expert on how to live in those woods, and he championed the simple, yet profound ways that the locals had been living in that region long before he came along. Nestled among bits of information about how to hike or navigate or clean a fish, he fashioned philosophical gems to remind his readers that nowhere, absolutely nowhere, is a man as free as when he lives simply, with a few meager provisions and the willingness to go where the day beckons. Or that man can never truly be lost, as long as he doesn’t lay expectations to where he’ll end up, instead exploring with purpose the path ahead. Kephart lived out his days exploring the woods, finding out everything he could about the world around him. Cataloging because it’s what he did best. Organizing hierarchies and making lists and asking questions about the woods. A cut of the same cloth as Muir or Thoreau or Emerson, climbing trees in a thunderstorm to feel what a tree feels, trying to wrestle life itself out of the chaos of living. Kephart would eventually die in a car wreck on a moonshine run along with a fellow passenger. The driver lived, only to die on the same stretch of road ten years later. —– As Alexis and I walk along Noland Creek, along Forney Creek, in the same woods that Kephart loved, I wonder if the ruins beyond the creek are remnants of one of his makeshift cabins. If that giant elm near the campsite was brought down by a thunderstorm that made ol Kep shudder in his bones. I wonder how many times Kephart, too, marveled at the way the light hits the water and explodes into a thousand tiny suns. After the storm, the sun comes out again. Alexis and I stop in the places where the light lingers through the trees and let the warmth seep into our skin. We traverse several stream-crossings, the water running higher from last night’s rain. The water reaches our calves, our thighs, but we don’t topple. We find sticks that other travelers before us have used to ford the stream, and we reach for each other when the sticks don’t seem to be enough. We reach camp midday and make a clothesline with some paracord that was left at a previous campsite by an accidentally generous occupant. Our clothes and sleeping pads and bags and tents and pillows get strung up to dry. We do yoga and stretch out along the creek, dipping down into the cold water and coming up feeling alive and new, drying out like lizards on the rocks. The following day dawns the same but new: sun among the trees and a slow awakening. The trail ends much like it began, slow and wide. A road really. Big enough for both of us to walk side by side. There is a tunnel that leads back to the road where our car is parked. Inside the tunnel it is cool and dark, and the end of the tunnel frames the woods, making brilliant the greens and browns that we’ve been walking in for the past five days. It’s good to feel Alexis’s hand in mine again. It’s good to see a new road in front of me. It’s good to feel the change of seasons and feel the wind on my face. And it’s fitting that I have a Kephart quote running through my brain: “It is one of the blessings of wilderness life that it shows us how few things we need in order to be perfectly happy.” ------------------------------------------------------ *I’m no historian; this is a rough sketch of Kephart’s life at best. For more info, go here: https://www.wcu.edu/library/digitalcollections/kephart/aboutproject.htm