#this one was rather hastily cobbled together and i think that comes across quite nicely

[hopeinthebox]

bts + make up a guy pt.3

[wolfpackwriting]

A Fox and a Hound

“Jessamine? How did you and Fiachra meet?”

Jessamine glanced over her shoulder at her sister. They were in Bebe’s ribbon-festooned bedroom, negotiating how many chapters of a book they would read before she actually had to go to sleep. Bebe was already in bed, surrounded by plush toys, and Jessamine had her hand on the spine of the book they’d agreed on.

“We used to work together,” she said, avoiding as much detail as possible. It wasn’t a bedtime sort of story.

“I asked daddy how he met papa, and he said he’d tell me when I was older. But I don’t think he will,” Bebe explained solemnly. She was almost certainly right. If Jessamine knew Rom or Kyu at all, it was an undoubtedly seedy, lurid tale.

“Well, some stories aren’t very nice to tell,” Jessamine said with a noncommittal shrug. “Or boring. Maybe he didn’t want to bore you.” She pulled the book from the shelf and came over to sit on Bebe’s bed. Bebe scooted to sit more upright, resting against a huge toy rabbit, and then leaned forward and patted the comforter by her feet to call Ponyo. The dog eagerly obliged, settingly against the small of Jessamine’s back after turning around a few times. 

“Where did you work, when you met Fiachra?”

Clearly, there was no getting out of this without saying something.

“We both worked for a very bad man.”

“Was he a bully? Or a politishinin? Or a skeleton?”

Jessamine chuckled softly, and reached out to tousle Bebe’s wild mane of orange curls. “I guess you could call him a bully. And a politician, too. He was a tugarin - a creature of the russian wilds. Remember when we talked about the Yakuza? He ran a group like that.”

“And you were in the group?” Bebe asked, her blue eyes huge.

“No, I wasn’t in the group,” Jessamine laughed. “But they’d hired Fiachra and some of his friends to look scary, and then they hired me for a job too.”

“Fiachra’s not scary at all!” Bebe protested, clearly taken aback by the notion. Jessamine smiled. Her sister had only ever known the version of Fiachra who’d come out from the wars in Faerie with a sad smile and flowers braided in his hair. It was hard to picture him as an intimidating figure with his soft, colorful weavings and quiet voice.

“Not really, no. But he is very tall. And he can look scary, even if he doesn’t mean it. Do you want me to read you two chapters before you go to sleep, or should I turn out the lights?”

“Three chapters,” Bebe insisted, crossing her skinny arms and sticking out her lower lip.

“Two chapters, and tomorrow we’ll read another when you get home from school.”

---

---

Jessamine was chosen to spy on Tugarin Zmeyevich for the family because she spoke excellent Russian. All Todds were trained in at least two languages on top of their native English, and Jessamine learned Russian and Japanese while also attending her fencing lessons, etiquette training, acrobatics, and a rather dismal effort at acting classes. The family had pinned high hopes on her as a spy; it was rare for a Todd to be born without the characteristic red hair, and rarer still that one could reasonably expect to pass themselves off as Japanese. She hadn’t turned out to be much of a spy, but she was willing to go through the motions and could blend in more easily than her cousins.

Getting in was easy; any mobster who wants to be taken seriously among the supernatural set needs someone killed now and then, and even as young as she’d been Jessamine had a strong reputation for quick, quiet wetwork. The family set her up with a hotel room in St. Petersburg under a rather thin premise, and she’d waited for someone from Zmeyevich’s organization to reach out to her.

Within a month, she was reporting to a clandestine meeting in the back room of a watch shop downtown, trying to contain her boredom at the proceedings. She didn’t really care who he wanted dead or what they’d done. Jessamine was only interested in getting a picture of his organization, its strengths and size, the names of his lieutenants. He wasn’t a subtle man, raging and blustering about the slight he’d suffered at the hands of some other gang, and she could have gone home after that first meeting with enough information to satisfy the family if only her sudden departure wouldn’t look suspicious.

The smoke-choked room held Jessamine, Zmeyevich, half a dozen of his most trusted associates, and another half dozen strange, tall spooks in neatly pressed black suits. His second in command - a grinning imp called Antony - seemed to be in charge of the extra muscle, although Jessamine doubted they’d been chosen to intimidate her personally. They towered over her, ranging from 6 to 7 feet easily, but none of them were tense and attentive like a bodyguard should be. They might have scared the piss out of a layman, their pale faces and wild hair standing out against their stark uniforms, but she was comfortable that she could take out any of them without difficulty.

She forced herself to pay attention to Zmeyevich, who had moved on to complaining about a cousin of his who had refused to support his organization and how maybe he would pay for that, too. Jessamine remained stoic, answering only when addressed directly and ignoring the less than subtle advances of an alkonost called Polina who kept trying to catch her eye. She didn’t need to invite trouble by entertaining a proposition from one of her target’s close confidants. Instead, she found her eye drawn to the strange lineup of guards looming along the back wall. She’d noticed after one stepped forward to hand something to Antony that none of them were wearing shoes. There were a number of creatures who might not like modern footwear, but she suspected that it was the tell of a fae contingent. That would explain the language, too; they clearly spoke no Russian, and Antony commanded them in a tongue she didn’t recognize.

Finally, Zmeyevich seemed to have run out of steam for his rants and turned to practical matters. Jessamine listened impassively as he laid out the specifics of his intended target, when and how she ought to strike, and what he wanted found after the job was done. She nodded at his instructions, offered a suggestion of one rifle over another, and agreed to his price although she felt privately it was a bit low. This wasn’t really about the job. The job was just a vehicle to learn more about his organization, and to assess what - if any - threat it presented to her own family’s interests. 

Once they agreed, and following a rather complex series of handshakes and other symbolic gestures that ended with Jessamine and Zmeyevich downing a shot of vodka each with their elbows looped through one another, the contract was set. She would receive a payment of half her fee up front, as well as a stipend for her expenses while she was in town, and could collect the remaining payment after the work was done. Glad of any excuse to leave the close, hot room, she bid her newest employer a good night and slipped outside.

When she caught the sound of footsteps behind her on the cold, cobbled street, she expected it to be Polina. The woman had been quite obvious about making eyes at Jessamine during the meeting, and she turned to face the approaching footsteps with an excuse ready to evade her continued flirtation.

Jessamine was surprised to find Antony there, instead, accompanied by two of the tall men in suits. They both wore blank expressions, although the imp between them grinned widely.

“A moment, devushka,” he said silkily, and she paused. Something about him made her skin crawl, but she couldn’t very well walk away from the job now and it wouldn’t help her cover to ignore Zmeyevich’s right hand man.

“Tugarin Zmeyevich knows that you are not much familiar with our little city here,” he said by way of explanation. “And has asked that I provide a pair of guards to keep you safe.”

More likely, he wanted a pair of spies to make sure she didn’t take word of the meeting to a rival, but Jessamine nodded as though this were a perfectly reasonable suggestion despite the obvious slight. If she was a competent enough assassin to be worth hiring, she could hardly be a helpless, fragile foreigner at the same time, but the thin excuse was only a veneer on the goal of setting some sort of tail on her. She smiled thinly at Antony.

“Thank you, then, for your courtesy - and please do convey my thanks to Zmeyevich. Do they speak Russian?” she asked, feigning innocence.

“No,” he admitted readily. “But they’re quite handy as guards, and won’t trouble you at your work. Their kind have rather extraordinary senses, and a knack for spotting danger before it can reach you. If you find these two unsatisfactory in any way, you need only call me and I will see that they’re brought to heel.”

She nodded again, still forcing a smile. “Very well, then. Goodnight, master Antony. Come along, gentlemen,” she turned to head back toward the main street, gesturing to her new guards as though simply assuming they would hop to despite the language barrier.

They followed like two long, dark shadows as she walked back to her hotel. One had a fully shaved head, although the faint stubble against his scalp seemed to imply that the hair that should grow there would come in stark white. He was an easy six feet tall and on the wiry side of average, clearly used to hard work and seeming in constant motion as he cast his head subtly from side to side as though seeking some scent on the breeze. The other, even taller but also much lankier than his counterpart, had a tangle of curly hair that looked dark in the dim illumination of the night but showed an olive green tint under streetlights. This one had a thin, sad face with a fresh cut across the bridge of his nose and through one eyebrow. No one on the sparsely populated streets seemed to notice their bare feet.

When they returned to Jessamine’s hotel, the woman at the front desk beckoned her over and explained hastily that one of her business partners had called a few hours earlier and that her room had been upgraded at his request. Jessamine thanked her as though this was an expected adjustment, and accepted the new key card. She noticed in the tight confines elevator that both of her so-called guards seemed reluctant to come too close to her. The way they crammed their long frames into the far corner of the small space was almost funny.

The new room was, in fact, a suite. She looked around carefully to make sure that everything she’d left in the first room had made the transfer, but had to assume that it had all been gone through and checked for bugs or other secrets. In the same vein, she had to assume that anything in her luggage could have been compromised while she was away, and made a note to get rid of it all. She hadn’t left any weapons or real valuables at the hotel, of course. That would be too risky. 

Her new guards stood awkwardly near the door as she checked over her things. They weren’t bad looking, but they weren’t the sort of company she would have invited. She spared them a glance as she moved her suitcase into the bedroom, clearing the outer room of anything personal.

“Do either of you speak English?” she asked over her shoulder.

“No,” said the one with the shaved head. His companion snorted, and Jessamine had to agree. The lie was blatant and graceless.

“A little,” said the other, running a nervous hand back through his hair, which was clearly the color of pine sap under proper light. “Not well.”

“That’s fine,” Jessamine answered, leaning against the doorframe between the main room and the bedroom. “I’m going to bed. Cross this threshold while I’m sleeping, and Antony is going to have two more bodies to explain away.”

It was clear that they understood enough to take the warning seriously, their eyes widening as they nodded. She wondered if they would stay over by the door all night. Did the fae sleep? Were they fae? That would seem an odd choice for a Russian mobster’s hired muscle. She decided to root out the details before she left, but for now there was nothing to do but sleep a bit. She stayed out of contact with home while she worked to eliminate any chance of that contact being intercepted, and being assigned these ‘guards’ affirmed the wisdom of that choice. 

Jessamine closed the connecting door and left them to their own devices, enjoying the luxury of the more expensive bed and wasting no time worrying that they might not heed her warning.

---

“What are your names?” She asked in the morning, over a room service breakfast.

“I’m Fiachra,” said the taller man with the wild hair, “And this is Lóegaire.” She nodded, noting that they were both very old fashioned names. That either meant that her guards were old, themselves, or that they came from a community separate from the modern world. Given their clear unwillingness to wear shoes and her suspicions about Faerie, she guessed that it would be the second one.

“Alright, then, Fiachra. Lóegaire. We have some errands to run today.”

Jessamine was no great genius when it came to languages, but learning several from a young age did make it easier to pick up patterns. As she went about her tasks for the day, quietly making the arrangements she would need to do the job, she listened to the few words her guards spoke to one another and tried to work out what language it was. They traveled on foot and she let them linger behind her most of the way to maximize their opportunity to talk to one another. It was obvious that they were amatuers when it came to spycraft, and had never learned to manage boredom with grace. They spoke softly as they walked, and Jessamine decided that of the two Lóegaire was the more dominant but Fiachra was the smarter one. She wondered what their relationship was, since they were clearly comfortable acting as a unit yet seemed not to particularly care for one another.

She had decided that they were certainly fae, and shapeshifters of some limited sort. There was a scent about them, something that woke the old, wild places in her own heart and stirred up the hint of an ancestral fear. That didn’t seem like much of a surprise; while she had yet to see evidence of any particular talent as guards, she doubted that they would be assigned the job if they were completely unable to make a show of it. Some classic predator, a wolf or perhaps a bird of prey, would be a good choice for the role. That was fine, as far as she was concerned, although it bothered her that she couldn’t pin them down as wolves. She’d met enough to have the scent of that particular bloodline.

After visiting a Cat to arrange the loan of a rifle, Jessamine stopped for lunch. She wanted to sort out how her guards related to Zmeyevich, and in hopes of luring them into giving something away she invited them to sit at the table with her instead of hovering nearby. She ordered for all three, since the waitress spoke less English than Fiachra, and made a show of having a glass of wine herself. People were more likely to open up to someone with a drink, since they assumed it would make that person careless with their own words.

“So, how did you two come to be working for our dear friend Zmeyevich?” she asked offhandedly, taking a sip of her wine and not looking directly at them. She hoped it made her look unconcerned.”

Fiachra cocked his head to the side. “We don’t work for him,” he said. They were both drinking water. Jessamine frowned.

“No? Antony, then?”

“We are….” Lóegaire paused to question Fiachra in their language. “... Borrowed?” he tried. “Borrowed to Antony.”

That was interesting. If Antony had contacts of his own, and was the one who’d set a guard on her independant of his boss, perhaps Zmeyevich had more to fear from within than without. 

“And where did you come from, before he borrowed you and your friends?” she asked.

“Very far away,” Fiachra answered with a hint of a smile. It seemed someone had instructed him not to give too many details. She wondered whether it was Antony or the person they’d been borrowed from. “Our… Master? Is a friend to Antony.”

Master was quite a word choice. It struck her as the sort of thing they’d have been taught explicitly, rather than a guess, and that brought up an interesting picture of their relationship. Employees or kin didn’t tend to refer to a master, but there were many systems of indenture among supernatural creatures. That narrowed the field on their origins a little.

Jessamine was struck with sudden clarity about what exactly the two tall men across the table must be, and nearly laughed out loud as she realized it. 

Hounds.

They had to be; chosen for presence, presented as a well-matched set, and loaned out like a useful set of tools rather than independent beings. She knew there were several breeds of Hound among the fae, though she’d never met any before. That would explain the hint of wolf that lingered near them without ringing true, and it meant that their most likely purpose would be to locate her again if she tried to give them the slip. They might provide Antony with a few insights about her as bonus, but Jessamine was too careful to give them much.

She took another swallow of wine to cover her pause. “How are you liking Russia, then? Will you stay long?”

Fiachra shrugged. It wasn’t for him to know the broad strokes of the plan; only his part. Lóegaire scowled, for much the same reason.

For the afternoon, Jessamine wandered a series of shops downtown. She didn’t need anything from them, but she disliked packing all her real work into one day. It risked drawing attention. Instead, she picked her way through a music shop, a store that sold a variety of local snacks and candies, and an incredibly tacky souvenir stand. She had avoided mentioning her family in any way that might invite curiosity, and claimed to be looking for a gift for an unnamed friend.

She let Zmeyevich take her to dinner, despite the fact that he made her skin crawl. She had to keep up the act. Lóegaire and Fiachra re-joined their four matching compatriots outside the restaurant, and she didn’t see any of them again until she left. It seemed that they really didn’t have anything to do with Zmeyevich himself. She endured the tedium of the meal, making boring small talk and avoiding any kind of commitment to future work. She wondered where her guards had gone, and whether she would get the same ones back after dinner.

When it was time to go back to the hotel, she finally managed to shrug off her host and Antony appeared to send Lóegaire and Fiachra off with her again. They returned to the hotel just after dark, and she decided to find a way to get Lóegaire to leave for a little while. Their pack instincts made it hard to approach them as anything but a united front, but she suspected that they wouldn’t have been hard to learn more from if they were separated. Fiachra seemed curious about her independent of their assignment, and with his better English he would be the easier one to talk to anyways.

They went upstairs, but once they got there Jessamine feigned dismay at realizing that she was missing an earring. She dug through her pockets and the small purse she’d taken to dinner, playing up how important the bauble was to her. When it didn’t appear, she declared that it must have fallen out at dinner. She turned what she hoped was a disarming look on Lóegaire and asked if he had a way to contact Antony and find out if anyone had found her earring in the restaurant. She talked a little too fast, and that obviously worked to fluster him. He and Fiachra conferred briefly in their own language, and finally Lóegaire nodded and moved towards the door. “He’ll go ask,” said Fiachra. “And I’ll stay here to keep watch.” Jessamine thanked them, and continued to look through her things as though it might turn up in the room after all. 

About five minutes later, after making a thorough search of the bathroom during which she hid the missing earring at the bottom of a pill bottle in her cosmetics bag, Jessamine changed into sweatpants and returned to the living room. She sat down on the couch, noting that Fiachra had yet to leave his post by the door, and turned on the TV. She didn’t want to watch Russian soap operas, but ambient noise put people at ease.

“This must be a pretty boring job for you,” she said after another minute or two of quiet, once again avoiding the intimidation of direct eye contact.

“Not at all,” Fiachra answered, quickly enough to tell her that he’d been waiting for the chance to converse. “I’m learning many things.”

She laughed. “Like how Foxes spend their evenings? Sad to say it’s mostly pajamas and television for me. Surely you’ve done more interesting work.”

He shrugged, and shifted to lean a bit more comfortably against the wall. “Not much. I like new places; it’s nice to be… traveling. This place is interesting.”

Jessamine cocked her head. “You can sit down, you know. I very much doubt any armed mobsters are going to be bursting in here, and if they do I can take care of myself.”

His eyes flickered to the chair by the room’s small desk, but he didn’t move to take the seat. It seemed clear to Jessamine that concern for his comfort wasn’t a sentiment he expected to encounter, and wondered what his usual role was like.

“I’ll stand. Lóegaire will think I’m being lazy.”

She had suspected that Lóegaire was the more dominant or perhaps more senior of the pair, and that seemed to confirm it. “Suit yourself. I don’t mind the view.”

That made him smile, just a slight turn to the corner of his mouth. She thought it made him more handsome, although she wasn’t lying to begin with. He really did look good in a suit.

“Did you enjoy your dinner?” he asked after a short silence.

Jessamine rolled her eyes. “The food was fine,” she answered.

“But not the company,” Fiachra pressed.

“Business is business,” she said with a shrug. She didn’t choose business partners for their winning personalities. “Did you eat? I saw your friends were there, when we arrived.”

“We did. Antony will look after us until we return to home.”

Jessamine nodded. “He seems like an interesting man,” she offered, hoping to encourage him - for her part, she found the imp almost as tedious and distasteful as his boss.

“He is a good friend of the master’s,” Fiachra said stiffly. It seemed that line of questioning would only close him off, so she didn’t press. Instead, she let the TV play for a few minutes to diffuse the tension that stepping too close to the subject had produced.

“What sorts of things do you do for fun, when you’re not babysitting Foxes?”

“Babysitting?” he repeated, clearly puzzled by the term.

 “Looking after. Keeping track of. Like taking care of a child,” she explained. He smiled again, nodding as he understood what she meant.

“You don’t need any looking after,” he said, a slight laugh in his voice. It was true. She smiled, too, to encourage him to relax. “But at home I am not tasked to babysitting. I’m a tracker for the hunt.”

Hounds for certain, then. Of course someone would think they could intimidate her with a pair of Hounds. 

“So you spend a lot of time outside? That sounds nice.”

“Outside, yes. The woods are peaceful. I also do small…” he paused, frowning as he searched for a word. He held up both hands and pantomimed holding something small between the fingers of one while the other lay flat, moving the first hand up and down.

“Sewing?” Jessamine guessed, delighted by the idea of this great tall scarecrow of a man with a little embroidery hoop between his long hands. It was a much more charming thought than she would have guessed.

“Sewing, yes,” he agreed with a smile. “Fixing things.”

---

Lóegaire returned without success, which made sense since Jessamine had never lost anything in the first place. She played up a resigned sigh, and excused herself once he’d settled back in. She didn’t need to repeat her warning about either man approaching the bedroom.

The next day was devoted to scouting out the position she would take for the job, and she learned very little of interest from the experience. She had a good idea of how the spot would work out, how she could enter and exit quickly, but that wasn’t something she really cared much about. She was good at her work, and didn’t doubt that this job would be like any other. She was more interested in the politics between Zmeyevich and his associate Antony, since that seemed to be where the real tension lay. Unfortunately, she saw neither of them that day and Fiachra was significantly less conversational with Lóegaire on hand. The pair simply trailed behind her in their stiff dark suits, speaking only if asked a question.

She was invited to a small private party the second night. Zmeyevich wouldn’t be there, but Antony and Polina would, so she accepted. Once again, Fiachra and Lóegaire melted in with their fellow Hounds on arrival, leaving Jessamine on her own. The party was held in a bar hidden away several levels below the street and adjacent to a nightclub, the pulse of its music shaking the shared wall. Not that it was quiet on their side, but the slightly offset basslines made the noise almost nauseating to the sharp senses of a Fox. Jessamine quickly came to regret accepting the invitation, although she knew that logically it was the right thing to do for the job. Her kin would have been deeply disappointed if she’d let her personal disdain overcome the opportunity to drink with those you wanted to know more about.

She endured Polina’s flirting and put more work into her sleight of hand than she’d needed to in months pretending to keep pace with the rest of them. They were very obviously trying to bring her guard down by plying her with top-shelf vodka, so she tried her best to act like it was working while carefully pouring shots out into her purse. She actually did drink a bit, when the angle was too hard to fake or to make sure that she got a bit of genuine color into her cheeks, but the slurred speech and fumbling Russian she put on was all for show.

Finally, when Polina tried to crawl into her lap, Jessamine had to give herself a break before she did something she’d regret later. Pleading a spinning head, she told Antony that she needed some air but would be back shortly. He seemed pleased, and patted her shoulder sympathetically as he showed her to a back staircase that would lead her up to the alley behind the club. She wasn’t the least bit surprised when he beckoned to the Hounds to have one accompany her, but she was pleased to find that the first volunteer for the task was Fiachra. Jessamine didn’t really trust anyone there, but she liked him better than the others.

After climbing what felt like several hundred stairs, she was let out into the chilly night air behind a dumpster that stank of old food and ashtrays. Even so, it was better than the close, hostile heat of the party, and she almost laughed as she saw Fiachra wrinkle his nose at the smell too. She stepped out past the dumpster and glanced up and down the alley; dead end to one side and a narrow gap between buildings that revealed the glow of a lonely street light to the other. It would be an alright place for an ambush, but one that would put the attacker at nearly the same disadvantage as the target. She could live with those odds.

Once clear of the dumpster, she paused to roll her shoulders and stretch her arms, as though she could shake off the company she’d been keeping. Fiachra hovered a few yards back, his head cocked slightly to one side.

“Your purse smells like vodka,” he commented, a slight grin tugging at the corner of his mouth.

“That’s because there’s a great deal of vodka in it,” she agreed without any attempt to dissemble. She pulled the small bag away from her hip and tipped it upside-down, letting the liquid spill out onto the pavement. She had lined it with a plastic bag before leaving, more to prevent it from leaking onto her clothes than to preserve the bag itself. She had no intention of taking anything she’d brought with her back home. It was too likely that Antony had bugged her luggage. 

Fiachra laughed, sudden and loud in the stillness of the alley, and Jessamine caught herself grinning. Maybe she had drunk a little more than she’d intended; giving away the game like that to anyone, even a friendly face, was reckless. Still, something told her that Fiachra wouldn’t carry the tale. It seemed obvious that he didn’t like Antony, and though the lines of loyalty between himself and the other Hounds were clearly drawn he seemed to be low in their rank. 

He was the only one, she’d noticed, with any visible injury or scar. The cut that ran from the bridge of his nose up across his brow followed the perfect pattern of a casually cruel blow across the face, and if that was the sort of treatment he saw from his ‘master’ then he was likely more afraid than adoring.

She watched him in the low light of the alley, his smile wide and guileless. She was a little envious of his apparently unselfconscious nature. She couldn’t remember the last time she hadn’t thought about not just what she was doing, but how that action would appear to an outsider. She monitored herself constantly for the right phrasing, the right expression, the precisely correct gesture for the role she was playing. To see him simply be, to watch someone express their feelings without the slightest pause, struck her as something strange and intimate.

His laugh faded to just an echo, but he was still smiling.

“You are a very interesting person,” Fiachra said after a moment.

She tried on an imitation of his laugh, but it felt hollow coming from her.

“I’ll have to put that down on my resume,” she teased. “Very interesting assassin for hire.”

He paused, and she felt like she could see a shift happening. It always happened; the moment when someone remembered what she did, and decided whether they could live with that or if they could only see a monster when they looked at her. She hated herself, for a moment, for speaking so carelessly, but he would have had to confront it in a day or two either way. 

“Are you really going to kill that man?” he asked finally, the laughter gone. At least he didn’t look disgusted just yet - that would come later, she was sure.

Jessamine sighed, then finished rolling her shoulders and righting her emptied-out purse.

“Yes, I am,” she said simply.

“Do you think he deserves to die?” he asked, head cocked slightly to the side.

“Do you think a deer or a rabbit or whatever it is you hunt deserves to die?” she asked in return, perhaps more sharply than she meant to.

He frowned. “I don’t make that decision,” he answered after a short pause.

“Zmeyevich is the one who decided that this man deserved death,” she pointed out. “Not me. The way I see it, when someone contacts me with a job, they’ve already made up their mind. I have two options; I take the money and do the work, or I turn them down. What happens if I turn Zmeyevich down, do you think? You’ve met him.”

Fiachra’s brow furrowed as he considered the question.

“He hires someone else,” she answered for him. “And if that person turns him down, he’ll keep looking. There’s no shortage of folk willing to do violence for pay. He’ll find a butcher eventually. The way I see it, I know how the end comes if I take the job. I’m very good at what I do. I’m quick, quiet, and clean. Who knows what kind of rabid beast Zmeyevich might find if he keeps looking? If I do the work, I know it’s done well.”

He didn’t look entirely convinced, but he also hadn’t given her the frightened, horrified look she’d seen before. That was something. Surely if anyone could understand being trained and honed into a tool for others it would be a Hound.

She was saved from further justifications by the sudden opening of the door they’d come out through. They both started at the sudden sound, and turned to find Lóegaire scowling at them. He spoke tersely to Fiachra in their own language, then nodded towards Jessamine.

“Antony is missing your company,” Fiachra translated. “And wants to know that you are well.” He held himself a little more stiffly under Lóegaire’s eye, nothing in his demeanor betraying their prior conversation.

Jessamine ran a hand back through her hair and nodded after a moment, as tough she really had been trying to clear her head. “Of course. I’d best go apologize for my rudeness.”

---

She was right. The job was quick, quiet and clean. She left the Hounds behind at the hotel while she worked, returning the borrowed rifle before going back to meet up with them. Lóegaire was sullen about being made to disobey his orders to stay with her at all times, but Fiachra seemed merely thoughtful as he trailed along behind. She caught him watching her intently while she packed up her things at the hotel as though she didn’t intend to get the entire suitcase lost on the way home, and wondered what he was thinking.

---

It was her last night in St. Petersburg, which meant another unavoidable audience with Zmeyevich. She put on a fake smile and a nice dress, and let him take her to dinner with the rest of his entourage in tow. Polina was seated at the other end of the table, to Jessamine’s intense relief, but she had to put up with sitting at Zmeyevich’s elbow instead. He was obviously trying to tempt her into becoming a permanent fixture of his organization; most leaders who didn’t need a pet killer liked to keep their hired assassins at arm’s length. Jessamine was accustomed to a curt nod and an envelope full of cash before being ushered out of the room, but it seemed her host was too new to the game to understand the sort of stain that her kind could leave.

“Where are you going in such a hurry, little Fox?” he asked her as he poured her a glass of very expensive red wine. His tone was saccharine, and his leering smile made her skin crawl.

“A lady doesn’t reveal her secrets, Milostivy Gosudar,” she demurred, trying to figure out how best to dispose of the wine without looking rude. “But you have my contact information if you need to reach me in the future.”

“Ah, but I could give you so much more than a job,” he said, sighing and putting on an extremely fake pout. “Stay here, and I can keep you in whatever luxury you like - all I ask is that you work only for me.”

Jessamine forced a smile. “It’s a very generous offer, but St. Petersburg is too cold for me.”

The Hounds were lined up against the far wall just like the first night. They were excluded from conversation by the language barrier, but Jessamine noticed the way Fiachra’s eyes lingered on her expressions. She wondered if she would ever see him again, or if the jaws of Zmeyevich’s organization would eventually chew through all their borrowed Hounds. Perhaps they would be lucky, and be called back to their far-off home. Either way, she doubted that their paths would cross again and couldn’t help but feel a little sad about that fact. Thinking about it made the meal even more unpleasant.

Dinner continued, expensive and tedious, and Jessamine’s already limited patience was worn thin by the time a tiny crystal glass of something that smelled like paint thinner was set in front of her as a digestif. Tired of trying to find discreet ways to empty her glass, she joined the rest of the table in swallowing it down despite the acrid, herbal flavor. It tasted like trying to eat a stick of rosemary that was on fire, and the burning sensation was so intense she couldn’t stop herself from coughing loudly in the breath that followed. The table laughed, some - like Zmeyevich - with apparent good humor, and others - Antony chief among them - with cruel and unfeigned delight at seeing the foreigner make a fool of herself.

She considered, however briefly, throwing her steak knife at him, but she was too close to being done to risk it all on a moment’s vengeance. Instead, she tried to swallow down the rage and the last traces of the drink as one, wondering how soon she could get away with excusing herself. The job was done, and she had her payment. Her family might find value in the information she could glean from staying longer, but she wasn’t patient enough for that game and decided it would be better to take what she already had before she hit a breaking point.

Zmeyevich tried to offer her another drink, tried again to tempt her with tales of the opulence he would cocoon her in if only she would stay, but she managed to keep a civil tongue as she refused both. Finally, she insisted that her flight was early and she needed to sleep. It was obvious that Zmeyevich was genuinely disappointed, and equally obvious that Antony would find some way to make her life infinitely worse if she reconsidered.

She slept in her clothes, head spinning, and woke up much too early re-living the taste of the foul drink from the night before. A shower didn’t improve her mood or her headache in any significant way, and when she emerged into the main room of her suite she knew what she must look like from the expressions Lóegaire and Fiachra weren’t quick enough to hide. She snarled for one of them to go call her a cab, and slumped onto the small couch again as Lóegaire took his opportunity to flee the room. Fiachra had defaulted back to the stiff posture he’d maintained among his fellows, eyes fixed ahead and spine so straight it looked like it had to hurt.

Jessamine scowled at him, but her expression soon softened. He wasn’t to blame for any of this; if anything, he’d been the one bright spot in an enormously unpleasant week. She got up and retrieved a bottle of water from the mini fridge, taking a deep drink. She looked up at him again and sighed. “Sorry,” she said softly. “Didn’t mean to take it out on you two. My head is pounding.”

He didn’t react right away, and she thought for certain that she’d given him too much to be afraid of. But after a moment, his posture shifted slightly, and he glanced sidelong at her like a nervous dog. 

“I’m sorry you aren’t feeling well,” he said, just as quietly. “You’re going home today?”

She nodded. “Zmeyevich wants me to stay, but that really isn’t my style.”

Fiachra surprised her with a short laugh. “Also, you hate him.”

She snorted, glancing up to catch a surprisingly easy grin on his face. “That I do,” she agreed. She took another long drink from the water bottle, and felt like maybe the painkillers were kicking in. At the very least, her head was throbbing a little less. “Will you be here much longer?” she asked after a beat of silence.

He shrugged eloquently. “Not for me to say. We go where we’re told.”

Jessamine nodded. Really, her own situation wasn’t so different; her family was just a bit more polite about telling her what to do, and sometimes they pretended she even had a choice. She had considered breaking away before, but she’d never known anything else and harbored a deep, aching fear that she wouldn’t know how to function without the firm guidance of her kin.

“I’ll be sad to see you go,” Fiachra said, breaking the silence. “I wish I’d met you under different circumstances.”

His voice was low and gentle, and when she turned to look at him again his posture had fallen to relaxed comfort despite staying at his post by the door. She couldn’t help but smile.

“You’re sweet,” she told him. “Much too sweet for this line of work.”

“I’d like to see you again,” he said, and she was charmed by a hint of color in his thin cheeks. She set down her water bottle and walked over to him, her smile lingering. The slight flush spread across the bridge of his nose, and she laughed as she stopped in front of him.

“I’m not interested in someone with a handler to report to,” she told him, and he flinched. “But if you ever slip your lead and find yourself on your own…” she went on, “You’d be able to find me. Ask around the Bridge Market. I’d be pleased to see you.”

His long face looked momentarily owlish, eyes wide with undisguised surprise, and she almost laughed again. For her part, Jessamine was a little surprised to realize that she wasn’t lying. She would have enjoyed getting to know him better under different circumstances, although she considered the chances of their meeting again very slim. She’d only ever heard the faintest rumors of a single Hound leaving his master, and that story had been remarkable for its rarity. Fiachra seemed like a sweet, thoughtful fellow, but not exactly the rebellious sort. He wasn’t likely to achieve such a feat. 

“Perhaps I will,” he answered after a moment, although he seemed more shocked at his own boldness than he had been at her invitation. “But today I hope you travel safely.”

Jessamine nodded. “I appreciate the sentiment. I hope you can go home safely, too.”

[the-storyteller-and-her-soldiers]

In The Pits

Title: In The Pits

Word Count: 2,166

Warnings: Mild angst in the beginning but I don't believe it's too bad! (Just being salty over school) Probably a swear word or two in there, none said in malice but just to be safe! FLUFFY ENDING SO FLUFFY YOU WILL CHOKE ON THE FLUFF!! ...Not really but it is fluffy

Ship: The Storyteller and her Shield (Gladio x myself) (Golly gee, I can't even explain why I love him so much! AAA!!)

Summary: Yesterday my friends and I got to talking about school starting up and since my school is literal hell (The devil is our mascot) I kinda work myself up over it since I'm still struggling with my sickness. Well when I go outside to try and work things out all on my own, someone comes in to check on me. And let's just say it's so much easier to sort out everything with someone who cares!

Harsh rays of burning daylight shot down from the cloudless sky above right onto the wooden planks that made up the porch of the historic white house, warming them. This house that held so much unspoken history sat across from the parking lot of one of the town's oldest churches. Aside from the immense humidity that could make a person soak in their own sweat, the world outside was quite vibrant which made it the perfect destination to go try and clear one's mind.  

A pair of bare feet, colored by the sun and multiple scrapes and bruises, approached the warm wood. The hushed curses and questions of why the person didn't bother with shoes went unnoticed by the nearby nature of the quiet birds and tired breeze. What could alarm them, however, was the blaring bass guitar that could be heard from multiple feet away, ringing out from tiny black earbuds. The marked-up feet hastily climbed the one stair that lead up to the porch to escape the burning concrete, a huff of relief escaping into the air as the feet settled themselves on the noticeably cooler step. The rest of the body, that of a young lady, plopped itself down on the wood, basking in the heated glow for only a moment before wrapping sun-kissed arms around wobbling knees and curling into a self-given hug. A sudden thump filled the air, earning a caw from a crow that perched itself just above on the charcoal colored roof, as the young lady let her phone carelessly fall from her hand and on to the step below her. She hadn't even reacted to the tug that her trusty little earbuds gave her when she did this, only folding her now free hands over her shaking knees to create a pillow for her heavy head.

The young woman lifted her head only a little to sweep strawberry locks from her view in order to see the familiar empty sight before her. Staring off into the winding horizon, at nothing in particular, lightened her mind somewhat. Although, the fiery-haired girl couldn't even place where her mind was, really. Sun-kissed arms curled in as close as they possibly could towards her torso in an attempt to soothe her main problem, the pit. Oh god, the pit. It felt more as if the girl had somehow swallowed a five-pound weight. It seemed to pull her to the ground and left her throat far too dry and scratchy to even cry out for some ease. Resting her cheek on her arms, the gaze of chocolate eyes fell to another direction of standard nothingness on the desolate residential street. Sitting up halfway, she thought about getting up to grab a bottle of water. The pit in her stomach instantly ate up any strength to even stand and with no motivation, fiery locks once again crashed into the pillow of her arms.

What even caused this? Were the only words of her own that she could hear over the music that had faded to nothing but muffled speech and background noise.

At the melodic ting of her phone reporting that she had multiple messages, she was reminded of the source of her sudden downtroddenness. Picking up the rough black case that enclosed her phone, dark eyes squinted at a darkened screen to view the incoming messages. She flicked through them, chuckling at a few until she reached the conversations that slapped her in the face.

“Riiight,” The girl muttered, glancing down to where she felt the evergrowing pit, “School begins tomorrow.”

Dropping her phone to the side of her, the air was filled with another thump. Hickory eyes hid behind cream lids and tanned hands, while a shiver coursed its’ way through the girl's body.

It was normal to feel nervous before the first day, but this wasn’t just nervousness. This felt more like full on anxiety, which again was normal before the first day, except she had it for all the wrong reasons. Dried peach lips pursed themselves to hold in one of many dry heaves. The girl had been in a very similar situation entering school last year, from the year before. Except for the fact that this time she wasn’t even cured of her ‘sickness’ one that still pained her to no end. That meant that putting on a brave smiling face and enduring all of the needlessly stupid questions from not only her peers but from her teachers would only be that much more difficult. Not to mention putting up with any harassment, god forbid they find her shaking body that hilarious like they did last year.

“No they did not ‘fix’ me, and no I’m not going out spending two hundred bucks of my own money to buy a wheelchair just to be able to come here. I’ve worked too friggen hard.” The young girl responded bitterly to last year’s questions that were echoing in her mind. “And no, I am not a spastic freak! My leg isn’t even spastic. It’s shakey, yeah. But I wouldn’t call it spastic. God, you’d think English would teach us about a little thing called word choice. Gah...”

The girl continued her monologue to no one in particular, only replacing her current frustrations with new ones as she recalled more and more memories from the previous year. Her monologue paused just to let out a drawn-out groan that had been bubbling up inside. Too wrapped up in trying to sort out her frayed mind, the lady with locks of crimson didn’t even hear the heavy footsteps that were coming towards her.

“Yo, Becca, thought you might be out here.” A deep voice called out notifying her of their presence.

Upon hearing a voice that wasn’t her own, Rebecca jumped slightly startled by the sound. Sitting up much straighter than before, she sent the towering brunet a wary smile. “BWAHH-- Oh, hey Sweetheart! What’s up, anything I can help you with?”

“You alright? Didn’t even notice that you left.” Gladio shot back, taking in and seeing past the facade his partner was trying to muster. 

Rebecca hung her head slightly causing crimson locks to shield her eyes. “Me, I’m functioning. I just wanted to get some fresh air, can’t stay locked away in my room on a day like today.” A giggle trailed after that statement. But, like the smile she had cobbled together, that too, was rather forced. Gladio simply narrowed his own amber orbs at the girl who sat just beside him. When she allowed herself to catch a glimpse of her partner’s face, she knew that he wasn’t taking any of her crap. She let her airy tone fade into her more natural voice, the one that revealed how close she was to crying. “You’re not buying it, are you?”

Gladio only shook his head. He watched his partner cup her cheeks with her hands and physically fight with herself to keep the smile on her lips. “It’s stupid, getting all worked up over this. It’s stupid!” Crimson locks further obscured her sight while she shook her head.

“Can’t say unless I know what’s going on.”

Rebecca hummed in agreement while she edged closer towards her partner. When she was close enough, Gladio wrapped his arm around her and closed the small gap that was between them. A high pitched squeak emerged from Rebecca as she felt herself being pulled closer. Widened pools of hickory met with ones far brighter for a brief moment before hurriedly averting themselves. A small smile, however, started up its slow game of playing at peach lips. Though the smile once again faltered as she spoke of what troubled her mind.

“School. I’m freaking out over the mere idea of going to school tomorrow.” Resting her elbow on the one knee that had calmed itself and resting her chin in the palm of her hand, words continue to bubble out of her. 

"I'm not afraid to go in, though I know what to expect, and to say I hate it would be an understatement. I don't want the pity, or to be someone's shot at free publicity because 'oh look at them they're so nice to talk to the sick handicapped kid.' and I know that's what they want because as soon as the teachers go away so do they.

Don't even get me started on the teachers, I've had a few treat me like a mental vegetable, instead just talking to my aide in regards to me instead of myself. No one is going to know my limits better than I do! There's a lot more but I've said my piece. Now don't get me wrong, there are good people there and I'm not trying to play the 'oh woe is me, I have no one here' because that's bull! 

But you've seen my campus, meeting up with said people and friends is a rather difficult normally, let alone in my current state. Not to mention how people can get away with calling me actual slurs but if I try to defend myself, I’m the one being disciplined.

I dunno, it's just why travel through the toxic waste dump --that has been known to kill-- when there are alternative routes to get you to the goal in the same time? You see my point? I’m just not prepared mentally to handle all that without snapping at someone, and that’s the last thing I’d ever wanna do."

Trailing after this long ramble was a breath that Rebecca never realized she was holding. She picked up her head to feel the golden shine on her face while she rubbed away any tears that threatened to spill over ebony dams. Getting all that bottled up noise out had lightened the weight within her chest. But now her stomach had lightened up enough to begin flipping, because oh God, did she truly just spill out like that?! Her insides continued the scream in peril as the programs in Rebecca’s mind ceased to function. Without a proper thought, Rebecca fell over only finding a cushion in her boyfriend’s lap.

Gladio’s fingers found themselves entangled in her ruby strands, watching his partner’s shocked expression shift to one of calmer contentment. Eyes wide as small dinner plates closed and little crinkles revealed themselves at the corners and that oh-so-familiar smile began to tug at the corner of her lips.

“It’s alright if you have more to say. Better to get it all out there.”

Rebecca shifted her body to make herself a bit more comfortable as another airy hum filled the air. “Yeah, that’s true but I don’t know what else to say! Nothing that wouldn’t just sour my mood anyway. I’d rather focus on the positives since I can see them again.”

“Oh yeah? Those being?”

Rebecca opened one of her eyes and did her best to hold back a grin, “Well one of them being you and your cute face.”

Now it was Gladio’s turn to be shocked. It was obvious that he was quite attractive to most and there was never a shortage of compliments from those wanting to be with him. But cute? That was something that he still wasn’t used to since Rebecca was the only one who ever said it to his face. Chocolate eyes studied his expression while she laughed. That sweet smile and those glistening eyes that held such adoration. Rebecca was pretty sure she could feel her heart skipping a beat or two. Though she wouldn’t have long to bask in this moment since her hands flew to cover her suddenly blushing face at Gladio’s comeback. Various high pitched and embarrassed groans were sounded off as Rebecca rolled back and forth slightly.

The heat within her cheeks made Rebecca finally absorb how hot it was becoming outside. Not wanting the extreme heat to mess with her constant headache any further, Rebecca sat up and asked if they could head back inside where it was relatively cooler thanks to her air conditioning. Gladio agreed and stood up first only turning to give his hand to his partner. Glancing down, he noticed that her feet were bare and relatively cut up.

“Want me to carry you?”

Rebecca giggled as she stood up, shaking her head one more time. “Nah, I’ll be fine. It’s just a short walk after all!” Though once the top half of her foot touched the rocky concrete beneath her, her answer changed. 

“Nevermind, please carry me!” Was what she sheepishly whimpered, practically leaping into her boyfriend’s open arms...

[littlewitchhazels-blog]

One More Night Out

I thought I’d jump on the bandwagon of Xmas fics and boy did I have fun scrawling this one out! I must have taken three different approaches to the story, but I decided to go with something fluffy whilst I work on something a little more angsty and ‘serious’ (wink wink nudge nudge ;) look out for that, coming soon). Kind of cheesy and cliche, but that’s just the way I like it! Anyhow, Joyce deserves all the happiness in the world and this is my non-canon way of giving it to her. (Read on AO3)

“Jane shouldn’t have to miss out,” Joyce had reasoned, “and the boys have been desperate to show her all things Christmas, or so I’ve been told.”

“I don’t know, Joyce, the Snow Ball was one night already and—“

“I know, Hop, I know. Just… Think about it?”

That was how Hopper had ended up at the Byers’ front door with El — or Jane, as he should be calling her now — in tow. She was practically buzzing with excitement over the unexpected outing, and the chance to be with her friends again. Yes, she was allowed visits from the party at the cabin (something of which Hopper had begrudgingly agreed to), but there was something special about being allowed to set foot out instead. Twice she’d changed her outfit, going through a good load of the new clothes Joyce had gotten her, before finally settling on something she seemed satisfied with. It was strange but nice to see her acting like a regular teenage girl in spite of… Well, everything.

They hadn’t had time to pick up a proper present for their hosts, partially due to Hopper’s very last minute decision to take up Joyce’s offer, which had frustrated both of them greatly. Jane because she was incredibly insistent on ‘following holiday tradition’ — quite a mouthful for her, but Hopper expected it was a line fed to her by Mike or Will — and Hopper because turning up on Joyce’s doorstep empty-handed on Christmas Eve felt wrong. Joyce had assured them that gifts weren’t necessary, but at least it was something to say ‘thank you’ for the thoughtful invitation. In the end, Hopper settled with a bottle of wine hastily picked up from town hand a quick card cobbled together by Jane with what little art supplies they had.

Hopper squeezed Jane’s hand, “You ready?”

Beaming up at him, Jane nodded vigorously. “Yes!”

He chucked at her boundless enthusiasm and raised a hand to knock soundly on the door. From within, he could hear soft Christmas music intermingling with chatter and scattered footfalls. Following his knock on the door, Hopper could hear a swiftly approaching “I’ll get it, I’ll get it, don’t worry baby; coming, coming!” At the sound of the voice, Jane clutched the presents to her chest tightly and turned her unwavering attention towards the door. Within a matter of moments, the door creaked open and Joyce appeared before them. “Oh, Hop! You came!”

There was nothing particularly special about the way Joyce looked, but that care-free smile that only seemed to widen at the sight of him made her look radiant. Suddenly, all his worries and doubts about coming seemed stupidly inane in retrospect.

“Yeah, I thought about it and… Well, it couldn’t hurt to spend Christmas somewhere other than, you know, the cabin. And El— Jane, she deserves a night out, so here we are.”

Joyce’s gaze quickly fell upon Jane, and Hopper couldn’t help but smile as her eyes lit up at the sight of the young girl. He nudged Jane forward, who quickly ran into Joyce’s outstretched arms. “Merry Christmas, Joyce!”

Joyce laughed and pulled Jane even closer. “Merry Christmas to you too, sweetheart, you looking forward to tomorrow?”

Jane nodded into Joyce’s shoulder before pulling away to offer the merger presents they’d brought for her. “For you, from me and Hopper.”

It took a moment for Joyce to register the gifts, which she took carefully from Jane; her eyes flickering between Jane, Hopper, and the items she held in her hands. “Oh, you didn’t have to—“

“Think of it more as a ‘thank you’,” Hopper supplied, “from us.”

Joyce regarded him for a moment before stepping out of the doorframe and letting them into the house. Hopper had almost forgotten that they were still standing on the porch in the cold, bundled up in scarves and coats. “Well, don’t just stand there. Come in, come in! It’s freezing out there!”

They hurried in, shaking off the snow clinging to their winter clothing before peeling off the layers they’d wrapped themselves in. Hopper had only just helped Jane wriggle her arms out of her slightly-too-large coat before she’d spotted Will across the room and dashed to give him a warm hug. They collided into each other with peals of laughter that swiftly changed to soft words that Hopper couldn’t hear from where he stood. After a moment, Jane nodded enthusiastically and Will began to lead her around the house in what was presumably a tour of Christmas tradition, considering their stops at the tree and all the decorations hung around the house.

Joyce and Hopper weren’t exactly sure when it happened, but Will and Jane had become fast friends in a matter of days, quickly forming an incredibly close bond seemingly from the moment they met properly. It was certainly a strange friendship — built on quiet contemplation and hushed conversation — but it was a strong one at that. Perhaps they’d found something in each other, linking back to their harrowing experiences with the Upside Down, that built the foundations for a bond between them. Whatever it was, Joyce was certainly glad for it.

Hopper hung up his and Jane’s coats and took the chance to look over the living room. Without prior knowledge, he bet that nobody would be able to imagine the mess that had once sprawled across the walls, floor, and halls of the Byers house. Everything had certainly been sufficiently tidied away with everyone’s help following what had happened in November. Sure, the corpse in the fridge and the enraged teen out cold on the living room floor had been something of an unpleasant surprise, but they’d dealt with that too.

“You know, you really didn’t have to get me anything, Hop.” Joyce muttered once Jane was out of earshot.

Hopper shrugged. “I wanted to,” he said plainly, “and besides, Jane wouldn’t let me hear the end of it if I— we didn’t give you something.”

Joyce smiled, turning the handmade card over in one hand. The lopsided handwriting was something of an attempt to teach Jane how to write better in preparation for school, but for as messy as it was Hopper was glad that it was at least readable. “This is very sweet. Thank you.”

They stood awkwardly for a moment, their conversation at a standstill, before Joyce gestured towards the dining room. “Do you want to sit or— we could open the wine, I guess—“

“Yeah, no, that would be— that would be good.”

He followed Joyce as she made her way into the kitchen, rooting through the cupboards for a corkscrew. “Where’s Jonathan tonight?” Hopper asked, hesitantly floating around Joyce as he waited for something to do.

“The Wheelers’, with Nancy, or so he told me. Hey, could to reach that— no, no, not that one… Yes! Thanks.”

Setting the old wine glasses he dug out down on the table, Hopper leaned over to take the bottle from Joyce to free her hands. “Need anything else, Joyce?”

“Hmm? Oh, no, it’s all right.”

Hopper nodded slowly, sliding into one of the chairs as he waited for Joyce to emerge from the cupboards she’d practically crawled into in her search for a corkscrew. Finally, he heard a triumphant exclamation, and Joyce came over brandishing the nifty device victoriously.

Joyce wasted no time opening the bottle and pouring a hearty glass of wine for both her and Hopper. “Cheers, my friend, and a very merry Christmas to you!”

“And a happy, hopefully more normal, new year!”

Dinner had been a success despite Joyce’s warnings that cooking was ‘definitely her strong point’, an overall enjoyable time in spite of Jane’s stubbornness to avoid anything green on her plate. Joyce, however, had managed to goad her into eating her vegetables with promises of Christmas sweets and sugary drinks. As much as Hopper scowls over Jane’s smug grin as she scoops up her well-earned treats, he can’t help but find a sort of merriment in all of it. Must be the Christmas spirit in the air.

Soon enough, Will and Jane retreated further into the house to gorge themselves on candy canes and continue whatever conversations they were having when they came giggling to the dining table. Neither parental figure was able to coax it out of them, so they thought it would be best to just leave it at that. Now alone once more, Joyce had suggested moving to the living room. “It’s more comfortable,” she’d reasoned, before promptly standing up and taking both her and Hopper’s glasses with her.

So, of course, he had no choice but to follow her over. Joyce sunk into the couch with a groan, obviously worn out by a busy day of working, dashing around, and preparing dinner. Hopper took a seat next to her, but was sure to leave a respectable distance between the two of them. He still wasn’t sure exactly about the boundaries between the two of them, but he would rather be overly cautious than overbearing.

Just as they’d settled into their seats, the old Christmas album came to its end and the sound of the looping crackle of the record player coaxed another tired groan from Joyce. “Don’t worry,” Hopper laughed, pushing himself up from the couch, “I’ll do it.”

Joyce mumbled a thanks as she took another sip of wine, watching over the brim of her glass as Hopper sorted through the pile of old records she’d dug out for the festive season and pulled out something from the bottom without looking too closely at the label. It didn’t take long for the silence to be filled with soft-jazzy Christmas tunes. Hopper looked over to her for approval, and came back over once she’d given him a small nod.

He sat back down with a sigh, and they swiftly fell back into their comfortable silence. Joyce closed her eyes and let herself sink even deeper into the couch. With the soft music, warmth of the living room, and the exhaustion of the busy day, she could have almost fallen asleep right then and there. But then, after a few moments, Hopper spoke up. “Joyce, uh, thanks for this. It was… It was nice. I think Jane really enjoyed herself tonight.”

She smiled at him. “Anytime, Hop.”

“I… I had a good time, too. It’s been a while.”

Though he’d left the rest unsaid, Joyce easily picked up on the context. It was easy to read in the stilted words and far-off gaze; telltale signs of when he let his thoughts trail off to darker places, locked away behind hurriedly built walls in his mind. Pursing her lips, Joyce reached over and laid a hand on his arm. “It’s really nice that you came.” She said quietly.

He shrugged. “I nearly didn’t. But look at all the fun I would have missed out on if I hadn’t!”

Joyce laughed, rolling her eyes at the grin that tugged at the corners of his mouth at what he must have thought was the best damn joke in the world. “What,” Joyce challenged, “so sitting around with me isn’t fun?”

“I never said it wasn’t. I’ll be sure to add ‘great company’ to the list, along with food, a glass of wine, and peace and quiet for once!”

She smiled, and was suddenly very aware of the fact that she was still touching his arm. Clearing her throat somewhat awkwardly, Joyce pulled her hand away and laid it purposely on her own knee. As far as she could tell, Hopper didn’t react.

In fact, it almost seemed as if he was going to continue their little conversation before a familiar few notes suddenly played from the sound system and brought on a whole host of old memories to Joyce’s mind. She must’ve had quite the reaction, considering the laugh that it coaxed from Hopper.

“Oh!” Joyce exclaimed, bringing a hand to her face, “I haven’t heard this song in years!”

As if one cue, Hopper put down his glass of wine on the table beside him and stood up from the couch offering her a hand. “How ‘bout it, Joyce, for old times sake?”

She gave a breathy laugh. Maybe Hopper’d had one too many glasses of wine tonight if he was suddenly asking her to dance. “Really, Hop?”

He shrugged, swaying ever so slight to the music. “Why not? We never slow danced back then, so why not start now?”

A smile began to pull at the corners of Joyce’s lips. It was funny to bring up the old days, seeing as how nostalgia ran rampant with each and every little thing she and Hopper did together — chatting, confiding, smoking, laughing, smiling, and generally being close once again. Just over a year ago, this whole situation would have been unheard of, but here they were. “Joyce,” Hopper said, bringing her back to reality again, “that wasn’t exactly a ‘no’…”

She regarded him for a moment. On one hand, it was a difficult proposition to take up, considering the pain that still lingered in her heart after what had happened to… To Bob. Just to think that two months ago, they’d been doing the exact same thing whilst the boys had gone out trick-or-treating. The thought was enough to put a damper on her mood, and the smile that had found itself upon her lips was beginning to falter.

“Joyce?”

She opened her mouth to tell him a polite ‘no’, but something stopped her. As much as Joyce wanted to say ‘no’ — needed to, almost — there was something deep down that seemed to push her towards this strange but not wholly unwelcome situation. A piece of her from twenty or so years ago, laughing and smiling over the smallest matters in life, that swooned over the idea of dancing with Hopper. Biting her lip, she looked up at him and saw that concerned furrow of his brow at her hesitation. She knew if she said no, Hopper wouldn’t push her into it. There was every opportunity to step away, and yet…

“I guess,” she said slowly, “we could do… One dance.”

Joyce hadn’t even finished answering by the time Hopper had pulled her to her feet, barely giving her enough time to put down the glass of wine she’d been sipping at throughout the night. Laughter escaped her lips as she almost collided with Hopper before she stiffly straightened herself up.

Pushing herself up on her tiptoes, Joyce reached up to place a hand on Hopper’s shoulder; all the while, Hopper just looked down with an amused glint in his eyes but said nothing. A wise choice. “I’ll try not to step on your toes.” She whispered.

Hopper laughed. “Don’t worry, Joyce, I think I’m far more out of practice than you are.”

“We’ll see about that, Hop,” Joyce chided, “we’ll see.”

Jane and Will peered out the crack of the door, watching with intrigue as Joyce and Hopper swayed to the music playing from the record player — some old song that Will didn’t know the name to; Jane thought it sounded pretty. Will had told her that his mom and Hopper liked to talk and smoke together, but his face right now seemed… Weird. Not confused, not angry, not upset, just weird. Jane was going to have to find a word for it when she got home, or ask Mike about it later.

At first, when they’d heard Joyce’s laughter floating down the hall, Will had gone very still. And when Joyce had laughed again — this time, intermingling with a deeper but softer chuckle that no doubt belong to Hopper — Will had stood up and peered out of the door to the hallway, then he went completely quiet and still.

She’d shuffled her way over and squeezed by Will’s side to catch a glimpse of the sight that had made him go confusingly quiet. “Are Mom and Hopper… Dancing?” Will asked, almost as if he was thinking of the question but had accidentally said it aloud.

“Is that bad?” Jane asked, immediately taking Will’s confused and intrigued tone as something to be worried about.

“Huh? Oh, no,” he laughed, “nothing’s wrong.”

Looking back and forth between Will’s face and the two adults dancing together in the living room, Jane tried to piece together the situation with what little words and understanding she had of everything. “So… Is it good?”

After a moment of pondering, a small smile broke out on Will’s face as he watched him mom laughing and smiling freely (for real, not just to make him feel better) for the first time in weeks. “Yeah, it’s… It’s really good.”

Jane nodded in agreement. “I think so, too.”

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