#though I know one is a grasshopper mouse but the other I am not sure

[classyruinsbarbarian]

Squeaky Stimboard for anon! (anon you will not believe how much of a squeaky apologist I am)

x/x/x/x/x/x/x/x

[wrinkledparchment]

a game of cat and mouse | sebastian sallow

BRIEF DISCLAIMER: THIS AUTHOR DOES NOT SUPPORT OR TOLERATE TRANSPHOBIA OR DISCRIMINATION OF ANY KIND

Summary: Sebastian takes you on the path to Hogsmeade, but you both soon discover a game is afoot. You try your best to compete with Sebastian’s charm and witty remarks, but you learn that Sebastian is always one step ahead of you.

Word Count: 2,709 words

Author’s Note: Okay I originally did not like this but then I edited and accidentally made it 600 words longer and now I actually think it’s really cute. Tried this sort of “game” concept and I think it’s officially cute so this is the catalyst/stepping stone in my very scattered retelling of yours and Sebastian’s relationship over the course of the game. I will eventually put them in the order you should be reading them in my masterlist once it actually begins making sense but also my goal is that every single one can be read as a oneshot too.

Content Warnings: None--plain fluff. I will absolutely be making a fic with absolutely unhinged Sebastian soon though, don’t worry. 

Your footsteps on the cobblestone pathway in the North Exit of Hogwarts were barely audible amongst the chatter of the other students, the chirping of the birds about, and the grasshopper’s song amidst the grass that ruffled in the wind. The water fountain ahead glistened in the mid-afternoon sun, and all the potted plants captured your attention immediately. It smelled so fresh in this area of Hogwarts, whereas most places in the castle smelled like dust and old books. There was something about the sun on your face that already felt so much more inviting than usual, but after looking through the small sea of students, you really perked up when Sebastian’s warm smile stood out amongst the crowd.  

Your pace picked up to a light trot, making your way to him as fast as you could. “Sebastian! Thank you for agreeing to come to Hogsmeade with me!”  

“Ah! My new ‘charge’, I’m glad to accompany you,” he smiled, leaning just slightly forward. “I was told by Professor Weasley that you’re in dire need of supplies and I’m to accompany you into Hogsmeade for them. Is this your first foray into the village?”

You peeked at the exit, watching as a few other students came and went, so excited both to get out of the castle and to go somewhere with the only Hogwarts student to interest you thus far. There was something so dryly sarcastic in his tone, something so charming in his words, and something so enchanting about his smile that you couldn’t help but go along with whatever he says, trying to counter his clever remarks with wits of your own. You finally looked back into his eyes from your focus on the path but could do nothing except nod at his question—when you finally glanced back, his eyes had never left your face.  

“Well then, I’m sure you’ll love it, it’s quite the charming little place. Shall we?” He gestured his arm out to the path, and your smile widened, following him. It was a slow-paced walk, more of a saunter, and all you could do was focus on how your footsteps fell into sync with ease. “You know, I was very glad Professor Weasley asked me to accompany you today.”

“As am I,” you murmured, just loud enough for him to hear but quiet enough to mask the nervousness in your voice, and immediately after, you closed your eyes and turned your head forward, casting away all the anxieties and butterflies.  

Sebastian was still facing his head to you when you opened your eyes, “I think I’d like to get to know the only person who’s bested me in a duel.”

“Apologies for breaking your streak. Would you have wished I held back and let you win?” You watched the corner of his mouth curve into a sly smile, eyes focused solely on yours, declining to look where he was walking and instead bask in the beauty of you, the new fifth year.

“Never,” there was a slight pause between his words, instead communicating with his eyes this challenge, this tension that grew with every word, every glance, every graze of his knuckles on your hand. “--but the way I see it, I’d be wise to keep an eye on you.” For some reason, that left you breathless for a moment, but you quickly gathered the pieces of you that broke off every time he left you stunned and put yourself back together.  

“I hope you enjoy the view, then,” you spoke, still breathless in the best kind of way.  

He looked forward again, maybe somewhat nervous but more put-together than you ever appeared after one of his flirtatious comments. “I think I would enjoy the view next to you rather than across from you. Maybe we could duel together next time, instead.”

A proposal, the first commitment to him you’d make. A team. “I think I’d like that very much.”

“I can’t give you any other chances to knock me off my feet.” As soon as the words came out of his mouth, he turned to you again, his eyes so magnetic that you couldn’t turn away--no matter how much you tried to rip your gaze away, you couldn’t, worried that you would give the game away in seconds.  

Maybe, Sebastian was as good at reading people as he was charming, and perhaps he could see right through you. He had known every word to say, had prepared every comment, rehearsed as soon as Weasley had told him to come with you. It felt like everything you threw at him, all of the looks, accidental hand-brushes, every attempt at a flirtatious comment you had, he was able to counter in 2 seconds flat. You may have beaten him at dueling, but this far more dangerous game you’d begun has him besting you at every turn.  

The beauty of Hogwarts Valley was truly nothing to sniff at. Birds flew ahead of you, the green grass and rough face of the rocky hills on the left side of the path were marvelous, and the two waterfalls ahead filled you with tranquility. What had given you peace, however, was being able to walk next to him, sometimes in silence, sometimes coated in laughter. Even when you began to lean into his path, with your shoulders brushing, he held his ground, never giving you an inch. He didn’t flinch his hand away when your pinkies touched. No, the beauty of Hogwarts Valley was stunning, but found its rival in the man next to you.  

You tried to distract yourself from all this jargon in your brain, tried to fill the air of tension with more than silence. “Thank you for agreeing to join with me. I’m surprised Professor Weasley let me choose who to bring rather than sending a random prefect.”

“You asked for me?” He almost seemed flattered, surprised, and heartwarmingly embarrassed all at once. He was finally the person between the two of you to end up breathless, but even with this defeat, he never showed the cards he didn’t want you to see, still could gather himself so quickly. “I suppose it is surprising, given my detention record.”

You giggled under your breath, glancing away. You couldn’t say you were surprised at him being rebellious—among his other dangerous curiosities you’d picked up on. “You spend a lot of time in detention, then?”  

He frowned playfully, eyebrows raised, “Just enough to keep me well-rounded.” He integrated his flirtatious comments, his compliments, his cards into every conversation so skillfully it was starting to make you upset. “I should really be the one thanking you, actually,” he started, “This outing with you saved me from getting detention from the librarian... again. Madam Scribner was on the hunt for me—as is often the case.”

You didn’t bother to hide your amusement this time, and allowed him to bask in your happiness, reveal just a little how terribly hilarious he was. You shared a glance with him this time, still laughing, and there was something about the way his eyes sparkled at the sound. That look, it was like a warning—a premonition—that once your heart had decided it was his, it could never be anything or anyone else’s, that your fates would be permanently intertwined. You turned away before it was too late.

“Well, I’m glad I could be of service,” you mused, still staring at the path ahead instead of him, not out of reverence for the surroundings but because you could not handle looking at him again, watching the corners of his mouth quirk. “How did you manage to get on the librarian’s bad side, anyway?”

“Well, I suspect it’s a matter of differing opinions. She thinks I shouldn’t be allowed in the Restricted Section, and I, on the other hand, am inclined to disagree.”

He enjoys every bit of your laughter all too much, watches your face too closely until you worry you have spinach in your teeth. He’s all too skilled at this game of cat and mouse you’re playing, too good at making you laugh so quickly and he got you becoming interested in everything he has to say with such little effort it was bewildering. The path the two of you were on had long since turned to dirt, and before you knew it, Sebastian’s shoulder rubs against yours again, trying to steer you to the left.  

There is a cacophony of beautiful sounds, chirps and buzzes all coming from a concentrated area of a few bushes, and you recognize the look of them immediately. “This is an excellent spot to gather lacewing flies. They’re pretty to look at, but if you stew them long enough, they make a powerful potion ingredient.”

He crouched near a bush, using pinpoint precision with his fingers to grab one and put it in one of the smallest glass jars you’ve ever seen. He glances back at you, tilting his head to signal you to come closer. Stepping as quietly as possible so as not to disturb the little bugs, you began to crouch closer to Sebastian, knees bumping with his as you try to maintain your balance.  

You just stare at them for a little bit, but suddenly, one flies right at you and lands on your face. You try to hold your breath, going cross-eyed trying to look at the one on your cheek, but soon, you see Sebastian’s fingers coming into your vision, slowly approaching the lacewing fly positioned on your cheek. As his hand gets closer and his robes begin to fall down his arms, you feel the soft cloth brush against your jaw, and you’re so stunned by how close he is that you can’t breathe. You glance at his eyes, so focused and narrowed in on the fly that dare touch you. As far as Sebastian is concerned, every creature should know by watching how you flush every time he’s near you that only he can touch you, caress your cheek, be the reason you’re breathless. 

His fingers finally grasp around the little bug, dropping it quickly into the jar and covering it with his hand. You decide not to think too much about the warmth of his skin or how close his face was to yours, and instead about this rather painstakingly time-consuming method of gathering flies. “Is this really the best method of procuring the lacewing flies?” you questioned, and he seems to have been caught.  

“Most students grab a branch and shake them off into the jar and cover it up as fast as they can, but I find this method much more rewarding,” he responded quickly, always seeming to have an explanation for his quirks.  

“By squishing bugs between your monstrously large fingers?”

“Precisely.”

You both turned your heads quickly as you heard thumps and what sounds like an eagle calling from the Forbidden Forest. You both bolted up to stand, and for the first time, the two of you begun to run to get a better chance at seeing them. “They’re magnificent,” you breathed, smile so wide on your face, stunned by the beauty of this new world you’d been shown. You turned to Sebastian, ready to see his stunned face, but he is already looking at you, smiling just as widely as you were.

You continue past the bridge, trying to brush off the anxiety that being with Sebastian, so close and yet so far, gave you. Sebastian, trying to keep up with your pace, is huffing but still continues to talk. He never seems to be able to shut his mouth around you, or at all, for that matter.  

“It looks like they came from the Forbidden Forest to the left. Out of bounds to all students.” You could hear the annoyance in his voice.  

“Not so ‘out of bounds’ to you, is it?” you quickly remarked, smile evident in the tone of your voice.  

There was even more sarcasm present in his voice, “How did you guess?” There is a small exchange of laughter between the two of you, and this time, neither of you dared to spare a glance at one another, focused on the path ahead. “Hogsmeade is just ahead, past those ruins.”

You come to a skidding stop as soon as you do pass the ruins, and turn yourself right around, climbing around the rubble and barrels, and Sebastian stops and wonders to himself if he’s befriended a maniac. But it’s just then that he hears a small click and then the creaking of wood, and you return to him with a small burlap bag filled with extra galleons. “Looks like I’ll be able to spare some treats at Honeyduke’s, too.”

“Wow, you have a really keen eye.” You smile at him and turn just ever so slightly away from him before booking it down the path. “Hey, wait up!” He’s huffing again, just as he catches up to you. “Have you discovered any of the famed Hogwarts secrets yet?”

You only turn back to him briefly, still focused on your path forward, “The castle is just positively enormous, I haven’t scratched the surface. I’m sure you have, though.”

He laughed, beginning to be just a few paces ahead of you, “I can’t go around telling you all of my secrets, now, can I?” His voice is echoing back at you, and all you can do is laugh, catch your breath, and try to push yourself to run just a little bit faster. Even as you passed a carriage being driven by Thestrals, which you could tell Sebastian could see, you continued running as fast as possible.  

You passed numerous trees, sharp turns--at least for your speeds, and even a very distressed Mr. Moon, who didn’t stop you two to talk. You both slowed your pace as the awfully disorganized and not very helpful signs marked the entrance of Hogsmeade, beautiful trees lining the path to a brilliant bridge into the town.  

The buildings, the people and the sweet smell all overwhelm your senses. Sebastian fell into step beside you, guiding you through the lightly packed streets, past the very quirky and slightly unstable stone buildings. “I’ve got to go look for something for my sister, so you’ll have to do your shopping alone, I’m afraid.”

“How positively terrible,” you sneak in, just before slipping in your curiosity  about everything Sebastian. “Is your sister a Slytherin too?”

There is a change in demeanor when his sister is brought up, and Sebastian stiffens, standing up straighter, eyebrows coming to rest heavily above those eyes you loved so much. “She is—or, she was. She’s not well at the moment,��� and he sags in posture, “but she’ll be better soon and back at Hogwarts.”

You smile, and even though you’ve known him for exactly a few passing moments, a few lingering touches, a few flirtatious and tension-filled smiles, you can sense that there is a lie there--a hopeful lie. Finally, after all this time of such a skilled game, he had inadvertently let his poker face slip and showed you his hand. “When she does return, I do hope you’ll introduce me to her,” and you can’t shut your mouth before your thought slips out of your lips, “Anyone dear to you is dear to me too.”

Just like that, with an arguably more innocent and naïve comment than Sebastian had slipped all this time—you won. There was something on his face, the furrow in his brow or the look in his eyes or the way his lips quivered, you couldn’t decide—but his face brought forth only one thought. Adoration.  

“Very well then,” and with that, he stepped closer to you, offering a smile, and leaned in to whisper in your ear with his hand on your shoulder, “I’ll be back for you.” His hand slipped off as he walked past you, and when you turn, you can tell he had just looked back at you a moment before. The warmth of his breath on your ear lingers, and the place on your shoulder where his hand once laid burned when he left, marking you forever, distracting you throughout every store, on every path, until all that was left in your mind was him, him, him.

He had won.

. . .

toeing the line

[bibliocratic]

for @speakerunfolding who has done some AMAZING art of Jon and Martin with their daemons: aren’t. they. beautiful!

jonmartin, that martin’s daemon character study that’s finally finished.

Some cws in the tags. Also on A03

“What do you think then?”

“'bout what?”

“About this one.”

“Don't think anything much. You like it, I like it.”

There's a rodent-fanged nibble on the fleshy pad of his thumb. A sure-footed scamper up his arm, a scritch-scratch scrabble of claws up the terrain of crumpled uniform that he's yet to change out of.  Backpack slumped spineless by his bedroom door, his shoes toed off unlaced.

“You've got to have an opinion, Martin.”

“Why?” Martin replies, playfully obtuse. He's gifted with another nip.

“You jus' hafta,” comes the long-suffering, impatient response. Long buck-teeth roll the lobe of his ear in an admonishing but painless grind.

“Fine. Bossy. I like this one, right?” Martin says to keep the peace. He brings his hand up to flatten the attentive perked-up peaks of rounded ears, ticks the fur-fat round of a soft stomach. The pink tail that's trailing lazily, wormish with ridges, he strokes along its length and it coils around his middle finger. He brings it up and watches the mouse trapeze itself playfully by his tail.

“You like everything I try,” harrumphs the mouse dismissively. There's a flutter of dirt-brown wing, and Martin giggles as the nightingale alights on his forehead, hopping initially to balance.

“That's not a bad thing,” Martin says. His attention truly stolen away, he closes the notebook he's been tongue-out concentrating on, filling with careful doodles.

“You're indecisive, 's what it is.” The nightingale pecks at his nose affectionately.

Martin shrugs because it's true.

Expecting a response, the nightingale chirps a half-annoyed sound.

“What about this then?”

The bird transfers to his chest and fixes him with a beady, challenging stare. Martin stares back, though it makes him grin cross-eyed

The weight on his chest increases, and bigger rounded eyes look out of a furred face.

“Ergh – you're getting hair everywhere!” Martin complains, pushing petulant against the bulk of the huge rabbit. “Mum'll get mad!”

“I'm fluffy,” the rabbit says almost defensively. “How'd you like that – me being soft?”

“You are really soft,” Martin concedes, running his fingers through the dense tufts.

“Right, what about this?” The rabbit repeats insistently, shifting on his haunches, getting hair absolutely all over Martin's school trousers. He'll have to clean them before Mum notices.

Suddenly the face has lengthened to a snout, the teeth have sharpened vulpine.

“What you think? Better in a fight than a rabbit or a mouse.”

“Are you planning to get into fights?”

“Someone needs to protect you,” the fox says simply, the colours of his fur pulling his face into a natural frown.

“Well, you don't like being bigger animals anyway, so it doesn't matter,” Martin replies. He rubs the silky fur through his fingers like trailing river water.

The fox growls and whines in the way he does when Martin's just not listening.

The grasshopper mouse comes back, snuffling his small pink nose.

“You really wouldn't mind?” Aron says slowly. His words more precise now, considered. “Even if I'm not big, or soft, or fast, or strong?”

Martin shakes his head and thinks mournfully that he really ought to get a start on his homework.

“We've got ages yet,” Martin replies, scooping the mouse up under his chin. “Ages 'n ages. And I know I'll like whatever you end up being, so why do I need to worry?”

“That's 'case I do the worrying for the both of us,” says Aron, but he nuzzles up against Martin's throat anyway.  

–

The first day of the summer holidays finds him blearily squinting in the dawn-wash glow of his room.  Its grasping fingers illuminate bookshelves and posters and a pile of clothes that's slipped off his desk chair; it cuts a slice across his bed, over his pillow.

He wonders, too woozy for irritation, blinking deeply, why he's awake so early.

“Martin!”

Something nips at the skin of his hand.

“Mart – wake up.”

“Wossit?”

He garbles a sound that barely makes landfall at language, strains his neck up to look around for Aron.

He sees the crouching, cringing shape sat unfamiliar against the back of his hand, near the fin of skin between thumb and forefinger. Legs folded tight against each other, the spokes of the form folded neatly back into itself so that it squats like a bobbly pebble, eyes catching the room light and reflecting it back like the precisely set stones in a crown.

“I can't change back!” Aron moans. “Martin, I don't know what to do, I – ”

“Ok,” Martin whispers roughly, sitting up and wincing as it sets the bed off in a snapping creak. His hands hover because he wants to pet and stroke and reassure, but he doesn't know where he can touch. “Ok, it's, it's alright, it's – try something easier? Come on, it's alright.”

Jointed legs tufted with monochromatic hairs flail, propelling themselves to scuttle over skin, off his hand, unsteadily tumbling onto the bedclothes, clambering back up on the duvet slung messy over Martin's knees. There is a sensation of a headache that barks with a sudden ferocity behind his eyes even as Aron gasps, strained.

“I'm trying,” he replies, miserable, and that headache rips and snarls up in Martin's head, the ache distracting from everything else but Aron's panic. “I'm trying, I can't, I can't, a-and I don't know what to do, what should we – ?”

“Shh,” Martin says, near tears himself, clearing his throat. “Sh, it's – stop, stop for a minute.”

Aron stops. The headache subsides. Martin feels clammy and overheated, and his small soul is churning out enough terror to blanket them both insensate.

Martin forces himself to take a very long, very troubled breath.

“It's – it's ok,” he whispers finally. “We'll just. Let's just – let's breathe, yeah. We'll – we'll sort this.”

“I'm sorry,” Aron garbles, “I'm sorry – I'll – I'll try something else, something bigger, something with teeth or a tail or wings, I'll be better, give me a minute.”

Aron's tried on the shape of dogs and lizards and snakes and horses, and even – once, when he was younger and Mum took him to the seaside, a fish.

Martin's never seen his soul in the dressing of a spider before.

“Aron,” Martin says slowly. He keeps his hands folded on his lap but his fingers twitch to reach out. “This is – we've settled, haven't we?”

Aron can't nod. His form can't allow for such an expression. But he brings his legs in closer, pebbles up and won't look at Martin, and that's answer enough.

“Please,” Martin says, holding out his palm. Flat, fingers docked against fingers. “Come here, please.”

It takes a moment before Aron creeps shamefaced onto his hand. Martin adds his other hand so he can cup the small shape like he's holding a weakly burning candle flame out of the wind.

Martin studies him now the panic has subsided. Admiring the greenish-blue of the chelicerae at the front of his face, the way they ripple with colour as the light catches them like fish scales, like an oil spill. The downy white tufts and lines like tree rings along his abdomen that break up the coarse run of  black hair.

“Aron,” Martin whispers, “I think you're great. Look at you. You're amazing!”

“But I'm not – ” Aron begins tentatively, but Martin interrupts him by clumsily reaching out with a pawing touch, stroking the upstruck wired fur against where he thinks his neck probably is.

“Ow.”

“Shit. What?”

“.... you poked me in the eye,” comes the response, tinted with a ghost of amusement.

“Sorry!”

Martin pauses, and then leans in eagerly to see, holding up his hand to get a better look.

“I am not an art exhibit Martin,” comes the huffy reply.

“Sit there and be admired for a minute,” Martin snarks back, and he feels Aron's fleeting smile in return.

“I can and will bite you.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Martin replies, not really listening, turning his cupped hands this way and that. “How many do you have? Eyes, I mean?”

“Eight. Duh.”

“Woah,” Martin replies, ignoring the snide aside. He casts out a finger again, moving it over the abdomen a bit more carefully, his bitten nail trailing along the curving round to the small protrusion at the back where he supposes webbing must come from.

“I think you're cool,” he whispers again.

“What about Mum?” Aron asks. He's grown bolder, crawls up to the ends of Martin's fingertips where he sits like a lord surveying his kingdom.

“We just, we just won't tell Mum yet.” Martin worries at his lip. “She'll... she'll worry, she doesn't need to know right now, does she?”

They keep their secret for four days. An advantage of how small Aron has grown.

Until his Mum catches sight of him, half-burrowed under the lip of his t-shirt collar while Martin is finishing drying the dishes. He's had a growth spurt recently, and barely going on tip-toe, he reaches up the higher cupboard where the glasses are kept.

“Change into something else,” she says briskly. It's been a bad day, her face washed out and lined with sleeplessness, pale-lipped and shivery. Martin watches as she finishes swallowing the last of her tablets with a blank expression, clipping her pill box closed.

Martin stiffens. Feels Aron crouch and bristle against his collarbone. He sees Kacper perk his ears up, his yellowish eyes snagged on Martin's throat. His bushy tail tipped with white flicks distracted.

“I can't,” Martin replies, feeling his face heat up with the suddenness of attention being paid to him. His voice cracks in the middle, and he flushes at how squeaky it comes across.

“Something else, Martin,” she insists sharply, her eyebrows pulled down.

Kacper, who has been sat on his hunches near her leg, stands. Glances up at her.

“Lena, calm down,” he warns, but his Mum takes a step forward. Martin blunders back the same distance, nearly elbowing a plate off the counter. Their kitchen is pokey, and he's crowded back against the washing machine.

“Mum, I- I can't,” he repeats. His words are thick and clogging in his throat, his body feels too unwieldy, too big for the suddenly very cramped space. “Aron's, he's settled, Mum, and – ”

“Don't be stupid, Martin, you can't have – ”

“He's settled, Lena,” Kacper's voice is grumbling terse at the back of his throat. “Being upset about it isn't going to help anyone.”

“He's not settled. Not as that!” she barks, and Martin's not sure who she's snapping at, but she takes another step and  grabs against his wrist, and it's tight as a manacle and her nails dig into the pasty skin there, and Kacper's protestations become a vocalized growl. “He's not settling like that.”

Martin does start crying then, hot tears leaking down his cheeks, his free hand cupped protectively over the fragile, unwanted shape his soul has taken. His mum's lip curls upwards when she sees his tears but still she doesn't let go, and her grip is bony and harsh and it hurts.

“Lena!” Kacper snarls, and his teeth catch and yank backwards at the fabric of her trousers,  “Enough, Lena, leave it!”

“Mum?” Martin asks faintly with his squeaking, crumbling voice. He doesn't pull away. There's nowhere to pull away to.

His mum sniffs. Sets her shoulders high again, and rips her hand back, and leaves the room without another word. Kacper glances over at Martin, and Martin desperately wants to bury his face in the soft orangey fur like he used to when he was younger, wants to feel it under his fingers.

But Kacper leaves too, and Martin and Aron are suddenly very alone.

They don't say anything for a long time. Martin puts the last of the plates away, and he goes upstairs and locks the door of his room, sits heavily on the side of the bed.

“Aron...” he begins.

“I don't want to talk about it,” comes the cloth-muffled response.

“I – ”

“I mean it,” Aron snaps. “I don't want to talk about it. Leave it be, yeah?”

“Oh,” Martin replies. He wipes at his eyes, stares at his feet.  “Oh. Ok.”

The entire incident is never spoken about again.

Aron takes to lurking under Martin's clothes whenever they're in the house.

–

“All you have to do is look in a mirror.”

The world rings wrong in his ears. His in-gasping weed-choked breaths  are scraping and disjointed as he parses them as noise. He can hear the slide of his own fingers curling against his damp palms. The room is at once so loud and crushingly far away like a distant crashing storm tide, and yet right up against his ear, like a dropped glass in an empty room, Elias' voice, cut-sharp and close and the slivers sliding into him as splinters as he listens.

“The resemblance is quite uncanny. You even have a spider, you know, just like he did.  Not the same species of course, but then she never looks close enough to check, does she? The face of the man she hates, who destroyed her life, watching over her...”

“Shut. Up.” Martin hears himself push the sound out as a feeble whistle between his teeth, and it gets lost in the groaning rigging of sound in the room. The weight of being so splayed open has him bow-backed and trembling.

It's hard to remember why he's doing this. It's hard to focus on anything other than how much she despises him. How much he's always known it.

Through blistering tears, he watches Aron scuttle down his trouser leg, over his shoelaces, a tear-blurred shape moving at surprising speed over the foot-worn and un-swept floor. He thinks he might be planning on biting Elias. He can feel the pulsing reckless fury that is the only thing breaking up the solid mass of despair cementing and expanding in the hollow of his chest, the rage that even the satisfaction of burning statements hasn't appeased. At everything this man has done – but he's not a man, he's not a person – , at everything he's sat back and watched and done nothing to prevent, and as Martin chokes airless on his own drowning grief, his anger has found motion, enough room to lash out amidst the agony.

Elias looks down at Aron, almost bored.

And brings down his foot.

Martin drops.

There isn't an expression to describe the sensation. His knees send a pained recoil down his legs as he slams against the floor, a shock up his spine, but Martin can't feel that, can't feel anything but alight, burning, illuminated down to the bones of him. He retches on a shell-shocked wail as Elias idly watches the panicked body squirming under the vicious pressure of his shoe, as  Aron cries out as his body is pressed squashed against the floor, and Martin can do nothing.

There's a curve to Elias' smile now.

He shouldn't be touching him, Martin's brain is scream-sobbing, he shouldn't, he can't, he shouldn't be touching...

“You want to know what she sees when she looks at you?”

Martin thought he didn't have room for any more, but Elias pushes his mother's hatred into him anyway.

There's a harder, painful pressure, and he hears Aron squeal. He thinks his own voice mouths a  pleading 'stop' that goes unheeded.

Elias' voice is tight and biting and cold.

“Don't burn any more statements.”

Even when the pressure lifts, there are steps walking away, the door closing on this pitiful tableau, Martin cannot move, awash in the flotsam of wrong, smudged and tarnished and beheld in the cruellest violent light, knotted in the weeds of a revelation that is no less choking for how little of a surprise it was.

Half-blinded by tears, he inches forward on his knees, feeling around, finding the furred body quivering where it was made to stay.

“I've – I've got you,” he slurs desperately, scooping the shape up against his face, feeling for anything broken, anything fractured, feeling his front legs twitch feebly against his cheeks. “He – he's gone, he shouldn't have, he – he....”

“She hates us,” Aron finally speaks. The loudest thing in the room, Martin almost wincing from the suddenness – where Martin's grief has already begun to settle into the cracks of him, Aron's is an outpouring, a final barrier broken. “She hates us so much, Martin, a-and we did nothing and she – god, he left so we got everything she reserved for him for no better reason than we were there to hate and he wasn't, a-and she...”

Aron's words are lost in a babbling wail, and Martin can do nothing but clutch him desperately, shushing, every excuse and reasoning and childish hope he's ever entertained that she'd ever be proud of him laid bare as the dessicated husk it always was, already striped by life's disappointments long before.

Aron climbs under the collar of his shirt when Melanie comes in. He will not crawl out for a very long time.

–

He discusses it with Aron while Jon is in the shower. Jon uses up all the hot water from the immersion heater, his showers long, aimless and scalding, even with his hair now hacked back from its tangles. Sometimes Martin even thinks he catches a hum, a snatch of tune, though it's always faint, muddied by the bathroom acoustics, close-lipped and idle. He thinks Jon's happy here. Hopes he is.

There's the slow wash of steam trickling from under the bathroom door onto the landing, into the sitting room. Martin tries not to be reminded of other, colder mists.

“It seems unnecessary...” Martin is responding, chewing the nail of his thumb.

“We don't know who could come here!” Aron replies dogged. He keeps rubbing his front legs together anxiously, like Martin does with his hands, but he stays on the sofa arm so all his front-facing eyes are fixed on Martin. “One of us needs to be here to keep watch. Who knows who could come? Daisy – ”

“Daisy's Jon's friend.”

“She's tried to kill him before,” says Aron dismissively. “We don't know her, Martin, we don't know she can be trusted.”

“Jon does – ”

“And it's never helped him,” Aron snaps. He untenses, and the bristles coating his back soften. “OK. Maybe Daisy isn't a problem. But what if Elias finds him? While we're out getting food or walking down to the village, it's not safe for him to be alone.”

Martin nods worriedly. He rubs the cold-cracked skin of his palms over his thighs and tugs at his lip with his teeth.

“We don't even know if it will stretch that...”

“We do, don't lie,” Aron retorts. It's not unkind. It's just harsher. More direct. Everything about them has had all the edges taken off. “You know it will stretch that far.”

It will. Martin doesn't know how far it was, from his office to the Panopticon, but he'd stretched it and stetched it until he'd stopped feeling Aron's terror, until it had boiled down from a fire-brand mutilation to a wincing sunburn of feeling. And once Peter cast him into the Lonely. Well. He hadn't felt anything at all then.

“We shouldn't be able to do this,” Martin says miserably. He rubs his hands over his face. “Be so far apart from each other.”

“Well, we can,” Aron replies simply,  “so we should use it to make sure they stay safe.”

Martin lets out a breath too heavy for his lungs to hold.

“You're right,” he says finally. “I know you're right, s'just... it's not – it's not natural. Being able to – it's not, it's not right.”

“No.” Aron says and he crawls onto Martin's arm, up onto his shoulder. “No, it's – it's not. But it's what we've got now.”

Martin wipes at his eyes, takes another more pronounced inhale.

“Hey. Hey, it might heal one day. Don't make that face.”

“'m not making a face.” Martin replies, feeling belligerent and childish in his response.

Aron rears up and sets both front legs on the spot on Martin's chin he can reach.  

“Your sulky face,” he says, and his voice is warm. Everything about him feels warm these days.  Martin is mummified in five layers of clothing and still has goosebumps.  

“I missed you,” Aron continues, simply. He has never found honesty easy, but he looks at Martin, taps against his chin with the stunted pedipalps at the front of his body and repeats: “I missed you.”

“I missed you too,” Martin croaks out, and he has no more words to express what he wants to stay.

After a moment, Aron makes a decisive 'clearing throat' noise, and continues.

“I've told Emer. The plan.”

“How'd she take it?”

“She's practical. She can see the benefit.”

“Is she going to be the one to tell Jon?”

“You don't want to do the honours then?”

“You know I don't.”

“Chicken.”

“Sod off.”

“I'm right though.”

“Yeah, don't get used to it.”

Aron hums in reply, and then returns his gaze to Martin.

“You really want to get back into the habit of keeping secrets from him?”

“No, I.... No. You're right.

“Twice in one day.”

“It's a miracle.”

“If you're going to be this insufferable with him, he'll hand you back.”

“I'll hide in his sleeve cuffs. Jump out at him.”

“Don't.”

“I won't. Relax.”

Martin carefully traces a finger over the bristles of Aron's abdomen, scratching lightly with a nail near the back, rewarded with a contented chitter.

“Then it's agreed,” he says, and they sit, quiet and sedate in each other's company until Jon and Emer come out.

–

Martin frets, so as he tramps down the uneven and rain-boggy hill, muttering and grumbling about the state of his boots, he throws out little questioning checks through the wide net their thread has become.

Aron, secure in the safehouse and out of the spitting rain, responses momentarily with reassuring pulses, wordless and rudimentary but implying safe – warm – dry.

Martin gets these placid reassurances three times in a row when he sends a hand-wringing anxious ?, before he's eventually gifted with a spikier snatch of mild frustration. The wave of safe – warm – alive – annoyed is speckled with the impression that whatever Jon, Emer and Aron are now doing, Martin's frequent checks are now disruptive.

A pause, and then a kinder wash that implies that Martin should hurry up and get back.

Martin leaves it at that and keeps his queries minimal.

It's while he's in the little shop that the humming connection shifts, a new harmony billowing into the background melody, and he's treated to a rising ball of crunched and cosy heat blooming and pulsing at his breastbone.

Martin knows what causes such a fireplace in him. He's been feeling it a lot recently. His hands suddenly  don't feel as cold-nipped. He has to try and keep the smile off his face to avoid looking foolish as he peers at the 'two for three pound' offer on grapes, ticks vegetables off the shopping list, impulsively throws in some strawberries on the off-chance Jon might like them.

Another pulse, not three minutes later: a glint through his spine, like a cloud shifting and exposing a sun trap as he stares non-plussed at the spice isle, trying to decipher Jon's deplorable handwriting.

The steady sensation comes upon him with the regularity of waves upon a beach.

He has a pins-and-needles buzz at his fingertips as he makes the walk back, the bag handles digging into his palms, and even the rain, pouring hard from burdened storm clouds, does not dampen his mood.

He hears Jon's rumbling tumbling speech as he shoulders open the front door, hefting the bags into the entranceway.

“... and it's actually a common misapprehension, easily done by rudimentary scholars in the field, when in fact, a  rather simplistic way of rectifying such an error is to...”

Martin watches and allows the smile to claim him utterly.

Jon is ironing. A little pile of ordered clothes on the sofa, precisely folded. Chattering away to his audience: Martin's spider soul, settled comfortable on Jon's shoulder. Martin waits long enough, and Jon, thoughtless and undisrupted in his lecture, reaches up to run his finger all the way from Aron's front section, poking one of his eyes more likely than not though Aron doesn't say a word, all the way down to his stubby spinnerets, doing this two or three times in a rhythmic gesture before he returns to his chore.

Martin feels bathed in an undemanding tenderness.

Emer has noticed his arrival where Jon hasn't. She flutters over to him, lands in his coarse briar bush of hair before alighting again and setting down on his shoulder, the position more to her satisfaction.

“You've missed a treat,” she says drolly, using her front legs to clean her long, feathery antennae.  “He's been on a roll for about twenty minutes.”

“That's our Jon,” Martin murmurs. His eyes crinkle as she snorts a laugh.

They watch him for a minute.

“He irons his socks?” Martin continues, Jon using the steam function to neatly flatten the fabric over the toes obliviously.

“Even the socks,” Emer replies, ever so fond.

Another pause.

“Never thought I'd see the day when Jon would like spiders,” Martin says.

“Not any spiders,” Emer says, and she flutters her gossamer-white wings at him affectionately. “Just yours.”

Jon notices him then. His face breaking into softness. Helps him unload the shopping into their neatly categorised cupboards and newly cleaned fridge, makes them both tea though he steeps it too long and adds too much milk, sits up against him, folded up and knobbly-limbed as they channel-hop through the rubbish on TV.

Martin's soul sits safe on Jon's shoulder all evening.

[canid-slashclaw]

The Outliers - A Guildwars Love Story

Chapter 1, Chapter 2, Chapter 3, Chapter 4, Chapter 5, Chapter 6, Chapter 7

The following week, Kaleb was assigned the task of managing the supply line. As he was busy offloading some crates, Brad and Cynthia were off the distance observing his actions from afar. Both were currently taking a short break from the grueling task of maintaining the fortifications.

"That boy seems to go non-stop. How does it do it in this heat?" Cynthia asked as she unwrapped a sandwich then split it between her and Brad.

Snatching the piece from her hand, Brad quickly wolfed down his share. "You got me. Something seems to keep him going. But whatever it is, I'm not complaining."

"He's so eager to take assignments whenever they involve going into town for supplies. Each time he comes back, he's always coming up with some new recipe for the cooks," Cynthia noted.

"Like I said. I'm not complaining. But it does seem a little odd that he enjoys going to that butcher shop so much."

"I second you on the odd part. Somehow I just can't imagine a guy like him being interested in frequenting an establishment run by a couple of charrs."

Brad flung his hands up in the air and grinned. "He's his own fellow. Even though we've known each other since we were knee-high to grasshoppers, that boy sometimes acts like he's a thousand miles away from everyone."

Hours later, after the work had been completed, Kaleb joined up with his two closest comrades in the mess hall. Shuffling between the tightly packed masses of sweaty troops, he managed to find an open bench slot just opposite of Brad and Cynthia.

"What's up?" Kaleb scooted towards the edge of his bench nearly pushing a much smaller soldier off his seat.

"Sorry about that."

The solder only grumbled then proceeded to eat, pretending that the incident never happened.

"Glad you could join us on this fine occasion," Cynthia commented.

"Occasion? Do tell!"

Brad chimed in. "Haven't you heard? Centaurs are pulling back. Supply lines from other routes are now open. That means we won't be needing to make trips into town all the time."

Kaleb looked up rather stunned. "Nobody ever told me about this. When did this happen?"

"Captain announced it yesterday. Starting next week, our supplies will be coming via the east road directly from Divinity's Reach," Cynthia stated.

"So I'm guessing that means we won't be needing that meat market for our supplies anymore," Kaleb said in a downtrodden voice.

"The market was used due to a wartime emergency. Now that emergency has been lifted and the Queen’s gold can be spent financing our own people. Don't try to burst with too much excitement," she quipped.

Brad looked at his friend. "You oughta be happy, bro. All this shuttling back and forth plus putting your time in on the front lines is going to catch up to you sooner or later."

"Don't worry. I'm fine. Besides, that means there is still one more supply run left for me to make before the changes take effect."

"I'll come with if you would like," Brad offered.

Kaleb shook his head. "Thanks for the offer, but no. I can do this run myself. You just see that Cyn is taken care of."

"Um, excuse me?? I'm a big girl yanno. If anyone needs taking care of it's you two losers. Oh. And congrats on making corporal, Kal... you deserved it!" Sergeant Waterstone smiled as she gave him a salute.

The newly minted corporal returned the gesture then quickly chowed down on his rations. Realizing just how bad army food tasted whenever anyone else did the cooking, Kaleb would make it a point to put in some extra KP time whenever possible. Since he no longer had to make the forty mile round trip to Triskell, he would now have more time to put towards satisfying the stomachs of his unit.

As the trio was in the process of departing from the mess hall table, one of the field operatives approached the sergeant then handed her a folded envelope. "Ma'am. Scouting reports indicate that centaur activity has increased along the roads during the past two days. Advise extra caution for all convoys that travel the south roads."

"Thanks corporal. I will relay those orders. Dismissed."

Cynthia then grabbed Kaleb by the arm then looked him in the eyes. "Hold up. I know you are scheduled for a supply run today. But due to the centaurs, I would feel better if you had an escort."

"Sarge. Having someone else would put an extra person at risk. I'll bring some extra pistols along just in case things get hairy. Don't worry. I'll be fine."

Sergeant Waterstone let out a heavy sigh. "As much as I am tempted to order you an escort, your logic does make sense. Our troops are stretched thin and having one extra person would really not make much of a difference anyway. Okay. Fine, then. Move out, but be sure to carry some extra shots and powder for good measure."

"Will do, sarge."

As Kaleb left to prepare his supply wagon for another run, Brad approached Cynthia with a questioning look on his face. "So are you just going to let him go out there by himself? There are bands of centaurs roaming those hills. If Kal happens to run into one, he's done for."

"Don't worry, corporal. He's not going to be alone."

"What do you mean?"

"Get your quiver ready and make sure your axes are sharpened for battle. You and I are going on a little reconnaissance mission."

"Spying on a friend is more like it," Brad chided.

"Not exactly. We are just going to hang back near the edge of town just to make sure he doesn't run into any unpleasant surprises. Trust me. Whatever business he has with the shop owner is his own. I just want to make sure he's safe, but I also don't want to have him watched over like a mother hen either."

The corporal nodded in agreement then gave Waterstone a swift salute before leaving.

Kaleb had loaded up the supply wagon with an extra box of powder and shot. Tucked under his jerkin were four pairs of nine-inch muzzle-loading flintlocks. He was hoping the trip would go off without a hitch, but wanted the extra firepower just in case.

***

By the time he arrived in town, the midday sun had begun to shine intensely overhead. The moisture from the lake-effect air helped him cool off a bit, but it also made him sweat even more.

When he arrived at the meat market, he reached around the back of the supply wagon and lifted up a large, ten-gallon tin container. Milk supplies were beginning to run low and having a few buffer rations was never a bad thing.

When he opened the door, the familiar steam whistle went off letting the owner know that a patron had entered. As usual, Ludrick was standing behind the meat counter busily setting out various fresh cuts of meat.

"Hi, Kaleb. What's it gonna be today?" He asked in a seemingly cheerful tone.

"Good news and bad news, sir. Good news - it's a light order. I only need some fresh milk. Bad news - supply routes are now open and the army has decided to take their supply line business elsewhere," Kaleb said with a frown as he set the empty tin container on the floor.

"Bah. That doesn't surprise me. Sooner or later the crown was going to favor a supplier that was governed by your people," Ludrick said as he finished up with the last of the meats in the display counter.

"I do hope the Queen has paid you handsomely for all the goods you supplied our troops. Even though I'm not an accountant, I still have receipts from every transaction that was made on the armys' behalf," Kaleb said as he pulled out several copied bills of sale.

"Queen Jenna was true to her word. We have been paid in full up to last week's shipment, but I expect that one will clear also within a matter of days. For what it's worth, thank you for giving us your business," the old charr veteran said with a respectful bow of his head.

"Glad to do business," Kaleb returned the bow, "anyway, where's Amalthia?"

"Funny thing you should ask... she's out back milking the cows."

"Mind if I go say hi?"

"Suit yourself. Just watch where you step. If you track anything in, you get to clean it up."

Kaleb nodded then proceeded to work his way through the hallway adjoining the door that led out to the back of the lot. When he opened the door, he noticed a large cow pen and a row of stalls just off to the side. Further out lay a field lined with a row of straw-thatched dummies. He deduced that it must be a target range of some sort.

Only charrs would have gunnery ranges in their own backyards, he thought musingly.

"Kaleb! Over here."

He heard Amalthia's pristine voice coming from just behind the furthest stall. When he saw her poke her head out from the wooden barricade, he immediately rushed forward. She was sitting on a milking stool, her hands clasped on the bovine's udders moving them in an alternating fashion. As she was performing the procedure, streams of the pearly white substance spurted down into a large metal tub that rested between her feet.

"I hope I'm not disturbing you. I just needed to pick up an extra order of ten gallons of milk."

Amalthia stood up then wiped off the excess milk from her silken fur hands. "You have a knack for being at the right place at the right time. Because, I was just in the process of gathering a batch for purifying."

"Is there anything I can do to help?" Kaleb asked.

"Have you milked a cow before?"

"Never."

"Well, there's always a first time. Go ahead, give it a shot." She got up then gestured for him to have a turn at the udders.

With trepidation, Kaleb carefully grabbed hold of the elongated appendages and tried a series of gentle squeezing motions. To his dismay, nothing came out. Undeterred, he hunched over then pointed one of the udders towards his face hoping to see if any milk would be forthcoming. But as he was massaging the teat, a long stream of pearly white liquid spat directly into his face.

Upon seeing the event, Amalthia let out a long laugh. Kaleb then turned to her as streams of raw milk ran down his face then onto his collar.

"You pathetic little mouse, that's not how you do it. Oh my. That look is just... priceless!"

When he saw Amalthia laugh, something hit him inside like a hammer. He couldn't quite explain it but the pitch of her voice and the nature of her fanged smile just made his heart skip several beats.

She grabbed one of the sanitary towels that she had brought out during the milking session then walked over to Kaleb and began to dab it across his face. With fluid strokes of her hand she wiped the offending milk off of his face.

"I gather you are too civilized for farm life," she said as she tossed him the now dirty towel.

"Uh. Like I said, I've never done this before." Kaleb used the towel to wipe up some of the residue that managed to work its way into his dark brown hair.

"That's obvious. Come sit down and I'll show you how it's done."

Amalthia gestured for him to sit on the stool and to use his feet to stabilize the milking pan. She walked to the other side of the cow then knelt down as she opened her large clawed hands.

"Grab hold of the two longest udders. Now, follow my motions."

She gently clasped hold of his hands, and then began a slow rhythmic massaging motion. The leathery pads on the palms of her furred hands felt pleasantly warm when they met the backs of Kaleb's own hands. Her warmth felt soothing, comforting even.

Within moments, jets of the pearly white liquid began spurting out. Along with the cyclic motion of the udders, he could feel Amalthia's warmth coursing through his hands. The undulating motion caused his body to tingle with pleasure. And to his chagrin, he could feel a pleasurable sensation in another part of his anatomy as well.

Oh gods. What's happening? What am I thinking?

"Kaleb. Are you alright? Or is feeling cow tits giving you the willies?"

He choked on the question for a moment.

"No. I'm fine. I think."

"Your face is red, I know. What causes that anyway? And what's that smell coming off of you?"

Kaleb immediately pulled his hands away then quickly wiped them with the towel. He took a few deep breaths then ducked his head down trying to get the blood rushing back into his brain.

"I'm done with this for now. I just... I just wanted to get some milk and be on my way that's all."

"It will take at least an hour to purify. So, in the meantime, what will you be doing then?" She asked as she stepped around to see him.

Kaleb quickly rose up from the stool while turning away from her. He didn't want to embarrass either of them by revealing what was going on inside his pants.

"Sorry. I just felt light-headed that's all. Hey! I still remember my promise. Did you want to...?"

"You have my permission..." She interjected.

"Permission? Whadda mean?"

She gave him a fangy smile while he was still turned away hoping his raging manhood would subside.

"You may call me Amalthia."

Upon hearing the news, the rage in his southern region came back with a vengeance once more.

"There you go emitting that funny odor again."

After they had gathered all the pails of un-sanitized milk and placed them in the purifying vat, Amalthia beckoned for Kaleb to come around the side entrance. Leading up to a door on the second story, was a flight of stairs.

"Would you like to come up?" She asked.

"Is that your place? Where you live?"

"No. It's a dungeon. Just remind me to kick you down the stairs once you reach the top for asking such a stupid question!" She said in her typical laconic fashion.

"I thought you didn't want me to go up there. You know - personal stuff, not business-related."

"We have over an hour to kill before the milk's even ready. In the meantime, what are we going to be doing? Trading insults and driving my sire to our last keg of mead?"

When she opened the door to her room, Kaleb was immediately blown away at all of the military equipment that was lying about. He could see suits of armor, mortar tubes and various types of weaponry that adorned nearly every square inch of space. Next to her bed was a heavy wood table with a variety of welding torches as well as other soldering tools strewn about on its surface.

"Wow. This stuff is amazing!"

He walked over and saw an emblem of a gear cog on a large spiked shield. From its design, he immediately knew what it represented.

"So you were Iron legion, right?"

"Still am and proud of it too!" Amalthia said beamingly.

"So where's your warband?"

"I no longer have one. I'm currently a gladium."

Kaleb was taught enough charr history to know what that meant. "Sorry to hear that."

"I'm not. Like I said, there are some things about me you would not want to know. Now what was it about that dessert you had promised?"

"You don't mind going out? I mean... to get a bite to eat, that is."

"Of course not! The fresh air does me good every once in awhile. Just give me a few to clean up and we'll be on our way," Amalthia said as she began removing some of her outer garments.

Kaleb saw what she was doing and started to blush profusely. When he watched her removing all of her clothing, the lump in his throat made it very hard for him to breath normally.

Amalthia removed the last pieces of her clothing then crouched on her bed covered only in her luxurious pelt. Like an overgrown feline, she began to groom herself, contorting her body in ways no ordinary human could possibly manage. 

When he saw her graceful feline form managing itself, his heart pounded hard against his ribcage as the base of his jaw began to ache from the muscle tension. He could not take his eyes off her.

"Was there something you wanted? You've been staring at me since I started taking a quick bath."

"So sorry... it's just I'm not used to anyone...uhh." Kaleb immediately turned around hoping he didn't embarrass her too badly.

"Let me finish it for you - taking their clothes off? What is it with you humans and clothing anyway? It's like stripping is an invitation to screwing. For your sake, I hope that's not the impression you're getting." Amalthia said as she gracefully bounded from the bed then reached into her dresser for a fresh set of clothes. 

"I'm sorry, Amalthia. I didn't want you to get that impression. It's just being around one of your kind is a new experience for me. There is so much about your people and culture that I don't understand. But I would like to know... I would like to know you more," Kaleb said with a heavy exhale.

"As I would like to know more about you and your people. Granted, it's been historically at the point of a blade, but there are things both of us could learn from each other. I know a good pastry shop and cafe located just down the road. We can go there if you like," Amalthia said as she put on a mauve crop top and  thigh-hugging miniskirt. 

The pastry shop lay just a couple of miles from their location. Amalthia and Kaleb walked together side-by-side as they both took in the sights and sounds of the local atmosphere. Along the way, they received the occasional odd stare from people walking by. The prospect of seeing a human and charr tagging along together was a very unusual sight indeed.

Kaleb and Amalthia sat across from each other over a wrought iron table. Soon afterward, a waitress walked over then handed each of them a menu of the daily specials.

"Hoelbrak Hohos? Brazen butter battered bunt cake smothered in legendary lava chocolate. So where's the cream filling?" Kaleb questioned as he looked over the menu.

"Are all humans as picky as you? Isn't it true that your women go into murderous rages if they don't eat sufficient amounts of chocolate?" Amalthia said while perusing through her own menu items.

"No hun. We kill if our men don't give us any during special occasions," the waitress commented.

"And here I thought your mere presence would scare off all the customers. She even called you 'hun'. See, there still is hope between our peoples," Kaleb jested.

The waitress looked at him with a dumbfounded. "Listen sweetie. This is a port town. We get all kinds. Besides, she's a regular here. So if you know what's good for ya, you had better treat her with respect."

Amalthia stuck her tongue out at Kaleb then closed her eyes in a fangy grin.

"Fine. I'll take the Durmond Priory Dumplings. Easy on the cinnamon, it gives me acid something terrible."

Kaleb folded the menu then handed it to the smarter-than-he-expected waitress.

"And for you, darlin?"

"Azuran blintzes with Krytan puree and Maguuma nuts on the side; shells on, please."

"Drinks?"

"Latte, please," said Kaleb.

Amalthia handed the waitress her menu. "Ascelonian coffee - black."

The waitress wrote their orders down then promptly darted out.

"I heard Zaitan used that stuff to make the risen. How do you drink it and still have any taste buds left?" Kaleb asked jokingly.

"When you do battle with a ninety-proof hangover, it's not the best option; it's the only option," Amalthia replied.

"I never took you for a drinker. The only ones I know who soak in suds are norns and very unhappy humans."

"I'm neither, so it doesn't count."

"So why do you drink?"

Amalthia let out a sigh. "Let's see - one of only two charr in this entire town; exiled from my warband and now a gladium; my mother; a sire who is chronically disabled and drinks too much; my mother; a talented engineer who is waiting for an Iron Legion warband to take her under their wing, but thus far, nada... oh... and did I forget to mention my mother?"

Kaleb sighed too. "I'm so sorry, Amalthia. That's gotta be hard not having any of your people around. I guess I can understand why you stay holed up in your room so much. There aren't many people here you can relate to."

"Now you understand the reason why I need coffee to counteract the strong drink. Welcome to my life."

"Is there anything I can do?"

"Sure. Grow horns and fur, act real mean so we can start our own warband and make litters of cubs in the process." Amalthia smirked.

"That stung, Amalthia. I didn't expect that to come out of your mouth."

"Well, it is what you've been thinking, right? Look, even though I don't know your peoples' courtship rituals, it didn't take much for me to figure out what was on your mind."

The waitress came back with their orders. Amalthia immediately dug into her meal while Kaleb just sat for a moment staring at his plate.

"Eat, you!"

"I'm not that hungry... now," he replied as he shoved his dish to the center of the table.

"Look. If it makes you feel better, I honestly do wish we were both the same kind. It would make life so much easier for both of us. But the fact of the matter is, we’re not. We can still be friends. And yes, I do consider you a friend as you have earned that from me. But this other thing you desire simply cannot happen."

"Cannot or should not? There is a huge difference between the two. Anyway, I suppose I'm getting ahead of myself. You are a really amazing person, for lack of a better word. I've never met anyone quite like you and I would never willingly do anything to jeopardize that."

Kaleb then extended his hand. "Friends?"

Amalthia reciprocated. "Friends!"

"Now eat your meal before you get a headache," she said with a smile.

While he was eating, Kaleb suddenly felt a sharp sting to his right forearm. As he looked over his arm, he saw a Maguuma nutshell zing across the table, landing straight into his lap. Less than a second later, another one flew by, only this time it smacked into his Adam's apple then rolled down his shirt.

"Why you fleabitten..." Kaleb said in a mockingly angry tone as he attempted to stoop over to recover some of the husks in order to return the favor.

Amalthia just laughed as she flicked more shells at him. Her aim was impeccable as each one pegged some sensitive part of his body.

"Dang, woman! You could put somebody's' eye out with those things. This means payback, you know!" Kaleb said as he attempted to return fire with the shells he had scavenged from under the table.

"Get it straight, mouse. I am charr! Cower before the ferocious fusillade of my mighty Magumma nut barrage!"

"Hey! What you're doing isn't helping. This is the kind of stuff that turns me on even more," Kaleb responded with uncontrollable laughter.

Upon those words, Amalthia immediately stopped. "Okay, okay. Treaty signed. Ceasefire in effect."

Kaleb looked at the angle of the shadows and realized that time, once again, had passed all too quickly.

"I think we had better get back. Judging by the length of the shadows, it's a little more than an hour."

"That's fine. I'll go on ahead and get your milk prepped. Don't try to kill yourself trying to match me at full gait. It'll never happen," Amalthia said just seconds before she dropped to all fours then bounded off towards the shop.

Kaleb saw her graceful gold and white form glide across the cobblestone pavement. He thought to himself how could such a savage creature be so beautiful at the same time. For the first time in his life, he knew exactly what he wanted... and more importantly whom he wanted.

Her father's shop was just around the corner as she bounded across the sidewalk. Her mind raced thoughts of the human she left standing at the cafe.

Be patient with me, Kaleb. There is so much I want to say to you. If the world cannot accept us for who and what we are then maybe we should just not accept the world with all its stupid rules.

As Amalthia headed to her father's shop, she saw two humans in Seraph battle armor standing in front of the doorway. When she stood back up to greet them, one of them took off their helmet revealing the face of a female.

"I am Sergeant Waterstone of the Thirty-first Brigade. Do you know the whereabouts of a Private Kaleb Grimwald?"

"He will be here within a matter of minutes. I went on ahead to prep the supplies for him in advance," Amalthia responded.

"Centaurs have been raiding our caravans. We've been assigned to act as his escort," Cynthia stated as she placed her helmet back on.

"Those dingleberry fly farmers? Give me five and I'll have his supplies ready... plus a whole lot more!" With the speed of a cat, she dashed through the door.

Within less than five minutes, Kaleb was sprinting towards the two soldiers. As he approached, the taller one gave him a hearty wave.

"Do you ever stop running?"

"Brad! What are you and Cynth, I mean, Sergeant Waterstone doing here? You promised that neither of you were going to be mothering over me," Kaleb said gruffly.

"Change of plans - caravans are getting hit hard by centaur raiding parties. Roaming without an escort is not an option," Sergeant Waterstone said flatly.

The door to the shop suddenly opened followed by a loud clanging noise. As she stepped out, everyone noticed that Amalthia was clad from head to toe in charr battle armor. Slung diagonally across her back was the longest rifle Kaleb had ever seen. Affixed to the advanced weapon, looked what appeared to be a sniping scope.

"Would someone mind giving me a hand with this milk container?" She said as she tilted the container on its side then rolled it towards the cart.

With Kaleb's help the container was hoisted up. Soon afterward, Amalthia herself loped up into the back of the wagon.

"I'm sorry, miss whoever you are, but we aren't allowed to transport non-combatants," Cynthia said in an irritable tone.

"Um. Better brush up on those history books some more, human. Charr are combatants by default."

"She's got a point," said Brad as he fastened his sword around his waist.

Cynthia looked at Kaleb as she pointed to Amalthia. "Are all her people this snarky?"

"She is in a class by herself. Trust me on this one," Kaleb said with a laugh.

Moments later, the shop door opened and another much larger charr stepped out.

"Amalthia. What the hell are you doing?!" Ludrick roared as he tried to steady himself on his cane.

"Just getting some possible shot practice in, sire. I've been meaning to perform a live-fire exercise using this new scope anyway."

"Don't worry about a thing, sir. I'll make sure your baby girl gets home safe and sound," Kaleb said as he opened his overcoat revealing the several pairs of pistols that he had concealed.

"You had better!" Ludrick said as he rested his massive paws upon his sturdy wooden cane.

Be safe, cub. Please come home safely, my most precious treasure.

With the tug of the reins they were off. The soldiers knew that if centaurs accosted their wagon, their only hope would be to fight their way out. Even at top speed, a pack dolyak could only manage fifteen MPH tops; centaurs, on the other hand, could manage twice that speed.

Within the span of an hour they were at the halfway juncture when they reached the crest of the road that led towards the base camp. But as the wagon lurched over the top, Kaleb noticed a large bonfire in the middle of the road.

As the dolyak got closer, the stench of burning flesh pierced their nostrils. To their horror, the bonfire was not a wood bonfire at all but a smoldering mound of corpses from a recently ambushed convoy.

Observing the gruesome scene, Cynthia told Kaleb to swing the cart around the burning mass and to not stop.

"Those poor souls," Kaleb commented as they slowly rode on by.

Within seconds, Amalthia's sensitive ears began to twitch.

"Something is coming this way. I can hear it coming from the ground."

"I can't hear a thing," said Brad who was in the process of stringing up his bow.

"Charr can hear low frequency sounds. We can't," Cynthia commented.

Kaleb looked to the side then noticed movement.

"Forget what she can hear. I see 'em over on the east ridge. Centaurs, incoming!"

Scores of the quad-footed beasts surged over the crest descending upon the hapless travelers like angry locusts. Their battle cries echoed across the plains as their hooves shook the very grown beneath them.

With lightning reflexes, Amalthia loaded then primed her sniper rifle for firing. When the first centaur came into her sights, she rested her longarm upon a bipod, held her breath then gently squeezed off a shot. Within a fraction of a second, the round found its mark then detonated inside the creature's skull causing it to explode like an over pressurized balloon.

"Nice shot!" Kaleb shouted.

"Don't thank me just yet..." Amalthia replied.

Two more high-velocity explosive rounds found their mark on the vanguard chargers. Like the one before them, their craniums also met grizzly, fragmented ends.

"Okay. Now you can thank me," the charr smirked.

The three human soldiers were amazed at the charr's impeccable marksmanship. But in spite of Amalthia downing an impressive number in such a short amount of time, there still remained at least a hundred more of the marauders to contend with.

Brad Pendragon knew his turn would be up next. As soon as the first wave came within range, he lofted several arrows into the air in rapid succession. Seconds later, three more centaurs crumpled over as their broken bodies rolled down the hill.

The gap closure was rapid. It would be only a matter of seconds before they were in range of their shortbows. Sergeant Waterstone told them to abandon the cart then ordered them to tip it over using it as a barricade.

Out of the group, the drum of milk was the first causality. Upon looking at the spilled contents, Kaleb commented. "I promise not to cry."

"Stay behind cover and try to lay down as much suppressing fire as possible. I have an idea," Cynthia said as she looked at the contents that were trickling from the narrow spout at the top of the container.

"Centaurs, fifteen meters. Kal, get ready!" Brad said as he nocced another arrow in his bow.

Kaleb unbuttoned his overcoat revealing six pairs of pistols he had tucked away.

"Spot me, bro. Cynth - get ready to catch load," Kaleb said as he cocked the hammers on all his pistols then pulled the ones from his uppermost pockets.

"Right flank, clear. Go!"

Like a crazed norn charging towards the last keg on a battlefield, Kaleb feinted to the left of the cart. Catching the closest centaur off guard, he fired point blank right between the creature's eyes. As soon as his pistol's only round had been spent he quickly tossed it to Sergeant Waterstone who promptly began repacking it with a new round of shot.

Kaleb fired off his second pistol, felling another of the six-limbed beasts. Each time he finished a shot he repeated the process with Cynthia. Like a deadly ballet dancer he whirled in amongst the clamoring herd dispatching them one by one with carefully choreographed shots to the craniums.

Amalthia was completely mesmerized by the level of agility displayed by the human. In spite of the incredibly inefficient weapons he had been given, he was able to turn them into a deadly work of art thanks, in no small part, to his teammates.

For the moment, the hoofed beasts had fallen back. Obviously in shock by the number of casualties they had incurred at the hands of such a small group.

As soon as a break in the battle occurred, Kaleb made a mad dash for the partially empty milk container.

"Kaleb! What the hell are you doing you witless human! The next round of milk will be for free. Just get back here!"

"No, Amalthia. I think I know what the sarge's plan is. It's all about the fire."

Cynthia then tossed him one of the burlap blankets that had been folded up in the overturned cart. Suddenly, she noticed the centaurs were regrouping for another assault.

Adrenalin was surging through Kaleb's muscles as he made a mad dash towards the blanket while still carrying the half empty container across his back. As soon as he grabbed the burlap item, he headed towards the smoldering wreckage then began pouring the rest of the contents onto the fire.

Almost immediately, the smoke became thick and black from the burning milk. Kaleb threw the blanket over the pyre then rapidly pulled it away using a series of choreographed movements.

"It's okay, miss charr. He's using the milk and blanket to create a smoke signal to alert our troops to our situation," Cynthia said as she saw the centaurs rapidly closing in once more.

Amalthia understood the situation as she unleashed another volley upon the advancing attackers. Brad fired off several more arrows as well.

"Swords everyone. Swords!" Cynthia shouted the command to draw melee weapons as she un-holstered her short sword.

Within moments the hoofed fiends were overrunning the group. One centaur bore down on Amalthia with a heavy hatchet but just as quickly, the beast realized its arms had been reduced to flailing bloody stumps courtesy of Kaleb's longsword.

"Amalthia. May I introduce you to my old friend, Bob. Bob - say hello to my new friend, Amalthia," Kaleb said as he waved his sword around.

"Of all the heroic, glorious names there are in Tyria and you had to call your weapon, Bob??"

"Well, everyone I know names their favorite weapon something. I heard even your people do the same. Me - I just figured I'd pick something out of thin air."

Several more centaurs fell to Kaleb's might (and Bob's sharp edge).

The melee attackers fell back, but the centaur archers advanced. Once they were within firing position, they unleashed volleys of arrows that nearly darkened the sky. Instinctively, Brad and Cynthia grabbed their shields then hunkered down to brace for the arrow storm.

As they were pinned behind the now-heavily arrowed cart, Kaleb noticed that Amalthia's lower back was not covered by any armor. The sky darkened once more and with no time to think things through, Kaleb acted on instinct and threw his body over her vulnerable region.

Just then, a flurry of warhorns sounded. As their noises trumpeted throughout the land, a crescendo of panic began to arise from the centaurs. Within a matter of seconds the remaining herd of marauders galloped in full retreat.

Brad was the first to emerge from the aftermath. He saw a land littered with broken and bloody corpses from all of the centaurs the four of them had slain. He then immediately checked to see the condition of his friends.

"Is... is everyone okay?"

Sergeant Cynthia Watersone coughed trying to clear the dust from her throat. "Fine here. How about the rest of you?"

"I'm alive. Wait..." came Amalthia's voice as she felt an eerie warm sensation running down the right side of her neck.

"Injured? Hold on... It's not me. Oh no... Kaleb??"

She craned her massive neck muscles to see Kaleb resting on her back as blood poured from his nose and mouth. With an agonizing wail of anguish, Amalthia immediately, but carefully pulled him off.

"Oh gods no. Kaleb!" Cynthia said as she helped Amalthia lay him down.

Amalthia cried out as she pulled off part of her jerkin to wipe the blood from his face. When she reached around to put her hand on his back, she could feel the shafts of at least three arrows that had gone into him.

"Oh man. This is so not good, Cynth. We gotta get him to the infirmary now. Otherwise he'll bleed out," Brad said.

"Our boys are here! Brad, you and her try to stabilize him. Use the fire over there to cauterize those wounds. I'll try and find a medic. You hang in there, Kal. Y'hear?"

"He... he didn't have to throw away his life for mine," Amalthia said as she found that she could no longer hold back the tears.

The medics soon arrived as they bound Kaleb's wounds and made sure he lost no further blood. Off in the distance, Cynthia could hear some of the other soldiers in the unit commenting as they saw Amalthia weeping over Kaleb.

"Is that thing actually crying? I didn't know charrs had feelings, especially for humans."

Furious with rage, Sergeant Cynthia Waterstone confronted the two heckling soldiers. "That 'thing' has a name. Her name is Amalthia and she was responsible for saving our lives. Kaleb risked his own to save hers, as any good soldier would have done. Can the same be said for either of you??"

She was only greeted with silence.

"I didn't think so! Get back to your posts and be thankful I don't assign you two to cannon fodder duty."

Brad walked over to Cynthia to give her some more promising news. "The doc said the wounds aren't as bad as they appear. He's got a partially collapsed lung, hence the blood in the mouth and nose, but they said that's easily fixable thanks to some of the Asuran alchemy remedies."

"That is good news. Brad - I'll take Amalthia back into town. You may come with me if you'd like."

Her friend and lover nodded then smiled as he gave her a reassuring hug.

"I'd like that very much."

Amalthia spent her time grooming her body in an attempt to clean off as much of the blood as possible. Even though her fur was clean, for the most part, her gear still was a bloody mess. At this point, she was too tired to even care about what happened with it so long as she wasn't constantly reminded of the horrors that had just transpired.

"Are you ready to go back?" Cynthia approached as she placed a hand on the charr's left shoulder in a reassuring gesture.

"I am leaving my armor. Do with it as you wish. But otherwise I'm ready whenever you are."

As they headed back to town, only this time under the protection of a heavier escort, Cynthia turned to Amalthia and asked, "I hope your father will forgive us for what happened. Try not to blame yourself for what happened to Kaleb."

Amalthia drew in a deep breath then exhaled. "I am to blame, partly. But I also blame the inferior technology your people possess. I blame the centuries of senseless bloodshed our people had wrought upon each other over issues that could have been worked out through logic. But most of all I blame the one thing that I wish to say but cannot..."

Twilight was approaching by the time they arrived at Amalthia's home. Without further words they dropped her off then waited until she had made her way to her upstairs abode.

Brad looked over and commented. "What a world we live in to see the day when a human would be willing risk his life for a charr."

"Did you see the look on her face, Brad?"

"Of course I did. I've never seen one of them up close. Well, alive that is. I finally figured out what differentiates the males from the females. It's the size of their teeth. Y'ever notice that?"

"You men are as dense as ever!" She shook her head as she prodded the dolyak forward.

"Yeah. So what is it that I'm missing?"

Without saying a word, she turned to Brad and smiled.

She’s in love with him, you idiot!

[gabrielxreader]

Pocket Size

Request: Maybe one where the reader shrinks because of a spell? Gabe puts her in his pocket and adorableness ensues?

Warnings: Fluff

Word Count: 1222

Gender: Female

Author: Gwen

Your name: submit What is this? // <![CDATA[ function replaceAll(find, replace, str) { return str.replace(new RegExp(find, 'g'), replace); } function myHandler() { var input = document.getElementById("inputTxt").value; document.body.innerHTML = replaceAll('Y/N', document.getElementById("inputTxt").value, document.body.innerHTML); } // ]]>

“Turn magnitudinem ranarum. Mus nunc per magnitudinem. Ego autem interfecit tunc iuraverunt!” The witch screamed out at you as a last resort before you fired your weapon, watching as she fell to the ground in a heap. Once you made sure she was down, you yelled in triumph to your partner, who was somewhere in this moldy house.

Taking a step forward, you suddenly felt dizzy. The place seemed to spin and get larger. “Gabriel!” You yelled out in panic, letting your arms go out wide to balance yourself. “Something’s wrong.” Your voice was smaller, higher pitched.

“Y/N?” You heard the thunderous steps of your partner coming closer. “Where are you?”

It wasn’t until you tried to wave your hand that you noticed it didn’t even reach the bookcase nearby. Falling flat on your butt, you found the ground much closer than before as everything was else seemed gigantic. “Oh boy.” You saw Gabriel inspect the dead body, turning to your general direction. “Over here!” You waved your hands frantically, praying he could hear you or see your tiny body. “Gabriel!”

He took two steps forward. “Is that–heh.” He chuckled, squatting down to look at you better. “Just had to go take care of the witch yourself, huh?” He smirked.

You crossed your arms with a frown. “Where were you mister?”

“What was that?” He cupped his ear, angling it towards you. “Kinda quiet like a mouse.”

“I will–” You stomped forward.

“What?” Gabriel snickered. “Gonna hurt me? I’d love to see you try, but…” He held out a hand for you to climb on. “...we got other things to do.”

You paused, glaring at his hand for a moment. “I don’t like this.” You stared up at him before climbing onto his palm. “Why can’t you fix me? You know, just snap those fingers of yours.”

“Wish I could cupcake, but I don’t know the spell and it’s probably temporary.”

“Probably?!” You glared up at him.

“Yeah, now hold on tight, little grasshopper.” Gabriel slowly stood up, making sure you stayed on his hand. You kept towards the center with your arms wrapped around his thumb to steady yourself. “I got an idea.” Before you could ask what it was you were dumped into his front pocket.

“Uff!” Maroon fabric filled your vision as you struggled to right yourself. “Hey!” Poking your head out, you collided your fist against his chest.

Gabriel didn’t even notice the strike as he started gathering supplies and heading back to the car. “You should be fine there for now.” You let out a huff at his words, watching from his pocket as he got into the car.

“Can you even drive a car?” You gulped, praying to God that your car would be alright.

“Guess we’ll find out.” Gabriel joked, earning him another hit that he didn’t feel.

It turns out he did know how to drive or at least he gave himself the ability. The world seemed more vast and new from your smaller point of view. Sunlight heated you up quickly and with the added body warmth from Gabriel you asked that the air be turned on. Gabriel seemed to be taking your condition pretty well. Of course he had to add in a couple jokes in there. Along with debating if he should use the same spell on the Winchesters.

A couple hours later and Gabriel sat in a diner with you remaining out of sight in his pocket. He ordered himself a sundae with extra chocolate sauce. “Sure you don’t want some?”

“How am I supposed to eat it?” You hissed, peeking from the pocket. Most of the other patrons were busy with other things to notice a tiny human.

Suddenly, Gabriel gripped your shirt with two fingers and placed you on the table. You shot him a look at you fixed your shirt. “Here.” He scooped up a little with his spoon and held it at a reasonable height for you. “Don’t got any doll spoons around.”

“Ha ha.”

“Hey, at least your clothes shrank with you.” Gabriel poked you with a finger, but it felt more like a hard push.

“If you want some, eat some. You should count yourself lucky. I don’t share often.”

You tried to think of something clever to say, but instead you gave in and moved the spoon closer. It was hard to eat, but you managed. You felt ice cream sticking to your face and could hear Gabriel failing to suppress his laughter. “Hand me a napkin?” You held out a hand.

“Sure.” Gabriel bit his lower lip as he rubbed a napkin over your face. The texture felt rough and thick at this smaller size. “All better.” The gold-eyed angel crumpled the napkin once he was done.

“When does this exactly wear off?” You combed back your hair.

“Not sure. In the meantime, let’s have some fun.” You were scooped up again and plopped into his pocket with little argument. You didn’t have a chance to stand up before you were jostled by his walking.

Apparently fun was going to a toy store. After some time Gabriel convinced you to get into one of the remote controlled convertible toy cars. At first your hands clutched the plastic steering wheel as you raced up and down the aisles, but then you decided to just go with it. You embraced your tiny form as you raised your hands up like you were on a rollercoaster.

From there you boxed with a toy figure that Gabriel made come to life. It was an interesting experience for sure, though not as cool as going into the lego city that was on display. The least fun was when Gabriel wanted to test if Nerf foam bullets hurt when you were a small size. The answer was yes.

The two of you stayed at the toy store until closing. During the car ride back to the hotel you rested on Gabriel’s shoulder, gripping his hair. “I’m hungry.”

“Want me to make you a tiny dinner like those Facebook videos? You know, the tiny bacon and stuff.” Gabriel joked as he pulled into a hotel parking lot.

“That’d be fun to watch.”

“Set you up with some doll furniture to sit on.” He added with a light chuckle.

“Don’t push it.” You yanked some of his hair.

“Okay, okay, little devil on my shoulder.”

“Oh, I’m the devil?”

“Yep. I’m the angel.” He pointed his thumb at himself as he walked over to the lobby counter. “So, one bed then? Or one and a half?”

You opened your mouth to throw an insult his way, but instead you felt the world spin again. Only this time things appeared to become their normal size as your body grew. When everything was normal again you noticed that you were sitting on top of Gabriel.

“Warn a guy, would ya?” He huffed out, pushing you off of him.

“Sorry.” You stood up, inspecting yourself. “Feels good to be back.”

“I kinda like small you.” Gabriel patted your shoulder.

“Shut up.” You punched his arm lightly. “Guess we need two beds now. Although you don’t even sleep.”

“I still like to lay back and relax.” Gabriel argued, then peered over the counter. “Doesn’t anybody work here?!” He slammed the bell several times.

[ultralifehackerguru-blog]

New Post has been published on http://www.lifehacker.guru/growing-up-jobs/

GROWING UP JOBS

Steve Jobs and Chrisann Brennan were 23 when their daughter was born. Lisa Brennan-Jobs remembers the pride and pain of a childhood spent navigating the vastness between her struggling single mom and Apple’s mercurial founder.

Lisa Brennan-Jobs on her father’s lap in the Palo Alto home she shared with her mother, 1987.

Photograph courtesy of Grove Atlantic.

Three months before he died, I began to steal things from my father’s house. I wandered around barefoot and slipped objects into my pockets. I took blush, toothpaste, two chipped finger bowls in celadon blue, a bottle of nail polish, a pair of worn patent-leather ballet slippers, and four faded white pillowcases the color of old teeth.

After stealing each item, I felt sated. I promised myself that this would be the last time. But soon the urge to take something else would arrive again like thirst.

I tiptoed into my father’s room, careful to step over the creaky floorboard at the entrance. This room had been his study, when he could still climb the stairs, but he slept here now.

He was propped up in bed, wearing shorts. His legs were bare and thin as arms, bent up like a grasshopper’s.

“Hey, Lis,” he said.

Segyu Rinpoche stood beside him. He’d been around recently when I came to visit. A short Brazilian man with sparkling brown eyes, the Rinpoche was a Buddhist monk with a scratchy voice who wore brown robes over a round belly. We called him by his title. Near us, a black canvas bag of nutrients hummed with a motor and a pump, the tube disappearing somewhere under my father’s sheets.

“It’s a good idea to touch his feet,” Rinpoche said, putting his hands around my father’s foot on the bed. “Like this.”

I didn’t know if the foot touching was supposed to be for my father, or for me, or for both of us.

“Okay,” I said, and took his other foot in its thick sock, even though it was strange, watching my father’s face, because when he winced in pain or anger it looked similar to when he started to smile.

“That feels good,” my father said, closing his eyes. I glanced at the chest of drawers beside him and at the shelves on the other side of the room for objects I wanted, even though I knew I wouldn’t dare steal something right in front of him.

While he slept, I wandered through the house, looking for I didn’t know what. The house was quiet, the sounds muffled. The terra-cotta floor was cool on my feet except in the places where the sun had warmed it to the temperature of skin.

In the cabinet of the half bath near the kitchen, where there used to be a tattered copy of the Bhagavad Gita, I found a bottle of expensive rose facial mist. With the door closed, the light out, sitting on the toilet seat, I sprayed it up into the air and closed my eyes. The mist fell around me, cool and holy, as in a forest or an old stone church.

Later, I would put everything back. But now, between avoiding the housekeeper, my brother and sisters, and my stepmother around the house so I wouldn’t be caught stealing things or hurt when they didn’t acknowledge me or reply to my hellos, and spraying myself in the darkened bathroom to feel less like I was disappearing—because inside the falling mist I had a sense of having an outline again—making efforts to see my sick father in his room began to feel like a burden, a nuisance.

For the past year I’d visited for a weekend every other month or so.

I’d given up on the possibility of a grand reconciliation, the kind in the movies, but I kept coming anyway.

Before I said good-bye, I went to the bathroom to mist one more time. The spray was natural, which meant that over the course of a few minutes it no longer smelled sharp like roses, but fetid and stinky like a swamp, although I didn’t realize it at the time.

As I came into his room, he was getting into a standing position. I watched him gather both his legs in one arm, twist himself 90 degrees by pushing against the headboard with the other arm, and then use both arms to hoist his own legs over the edge of the bed and onto the floor. When we hugged, I could feel his vertebrae, his ribs. He smelled musty, like medicine sweat.

“I’ll be back soon,” I said.

We detached, and I started walking away.

“Lis?”

“Yeah?”

“You smell like a toilet.”

In the spring of 1978, when my parents were 23, my mother gave birth to me on their friend Robert’s farm in Oregon, with the help of two midwives. The labor and delivery took three hours, start to finish. My father arrived a few days later. “It’s not my kid,” he kept telling everyone at the farm, but he’d flown there to meet me anyway. I had black hair and a big nose, and Robert said, “She sure looks like you.”

My parents took me out into a field, laid me on a blanket, and looked through the pages of a baby-name book. He wanted to name me Claire. They went through several names but couldn’t agree. They didn’t want something derivative, a shorter version of a longer name.

Top, Lisa with her mother, in Saratoga, California, 1981; Bottom, Lisa with her father, three days after she was born, 1978.

Photographs courtesy of Grove Atlantic.

“What about Lisa?” my mother finally said.

“Yes. That one,” he said happily.

He left the next day.

“Isn’t Lisa short for Elizabeth?” I asked my mother. “No. We looked it up. It’s a separate name.” “And why did you let him help name me when he was pretending he wasn’t the father?” “Because he was your father,” she said.

During the time my mother was pregnant, my father started work on a computer that would later be called the Lisa. It was the precursor to the Macintosh, the first mass-market computer with an external mouse—the mouse as large as a block of cheese. But it was too expensive, a commercial failure; my father began on the team working for it, but then started working against it, competing against it, on the Mac team. The Lisa computer was discontinued, the 3,000 unsold computers later buried in a landfill in Logan, Utah.

Until I was two, my mother supplemented her welfare payments by cleaning houses and waitressing. My father didn’t help. She found babysitting at a day-care center inside a church run by the minister’s wife, and for a few months we lived in a room in a house that my mother had found on a notice board meant for women considering adoption.

Then, in 1980, the district attorney of San Mateo County, California, sued my father for child-support payments. My father responded by denying paternity, swearing in a deposition that he was sterile and naming another man he said was my father.

I was required to take a DNA test. The tests were new then, and when the results came back, they gave the odds that we were related as the highest the instruments could measure at the time: 94.4 percent. The court required my father to cover welfare back payments, child-support payments of $385 per month, which he increased to $500, and medical insurance until I was 18. The case was finalized on December 8, 1980, with my father’s lawyers insistent to close. Four days later Apple went public and overnight my father was worth more than $200 million.

But before that, just after the court case was finalized, my father came to visit me once at our house in Menlo Park, where we had rented a detached studio. It was the first time I’d seen him since I’d been a newborn in Oregon.

“You know who I am?” he asked. He flipped his hair out of his eyes.

I was three years old; I didn’t.

“I’m your father.” (“Like he was Darth Vader,” my mother said later, when she told me the story.)

“I’m one of the most important people you will ever know,” he said.

By the time I was seven, my mother and I had moved 13 times. We rented spaces informally, staying in a friend’s furnished bedroom here, a temporary sublet there. My father had started dropping by sometimes, about once a month, and he, my mother, and I would go roller-skating around the neighborhood. His engine shuddered into our driveway, echoing off our house and the wooden fence on the other side, thickening the air with excitement. He drove a black Porsche convertible. When he stopped, the sound turned into a whine and then was extinguished, leaving the quiet more quiet, the pinpoint sounds of birds.

I anticipated his arrival, wondering when it would happen, and thought about him afterward—but in his presence, for the hour or so we were all together, there was a strange blankness, like the air after his engine switched off. He didn’t talk much. There were long pauses, the thunk and whir of roller skates on pavement.

We skated the neighborhood streets. Trees overhead made patterns of the light. Fuchsia dangled from bushes in yards, stamens below a bell of petals, like women in ball gowns with purple shoes. My father and mother had the same skates, a beige nubuck body with red laces crisscrossed over a double line of metal fasts. As we passed bushes in other people’s yards, he pulled clumps of leaves off the stems, then dropped the fragments as we skated, making a line of ripped leaves behind us on the pavement like Hansel and Gretel. A few times, I felt his eyes on me; when I looked up, he looked away.

After he left, we talked about him.

“Why do his jeans have holes all over?” I asked my mother. He might have sewn them up. I knew he was supposed to have millions of dollars. We didn’t just say “millionaire” but “multi-millionaire” when we spoke of him, because it was accurate, and because knowing the granular details made us part of it.

She said my father had a lisp. “It’s something to do with his teeth,” she said. “They hit each other exactly straight on, and over the years they cracked and chipped where they hit, so the top and bottom teeth meet, with no spaces. It looks like a zigzag, or a zipper.”

FOR HIM, I WAS A BLOT ON A SPECTACULAR ASCENT. FOR ME, IT WAS THE OPPOSITE.

“And he has these strangely flat palms,” she said.

I assigned mystical qualities to his zipper teeth, his tattered jeans, his flat palms, as if these were not only different from other fathers’ but better, and now that he was in my life, even if it was only once a month, I had not waited in vain. I would be better off than children who’d had fathers all along.

“I heard when it gets a scratch, he buys a new one,” I overheard my mother say to her boyfriend Ron.

“A new what?” I asked.

“Porsche.”

“Couldn’t he just paint over the scratch?” I asked.

“Car paint doesn’t work like that,” Ron said to me. “You can’t just paint over black with black; it wouldn’t blend. There are thousands of different blacks. They’d have to repaint the whole thing.”

The next time my father came over, I wondered if it was the same car he’d been driving the last time, or if it was a new one that just looked the same.

“I have a secret,” I said to my new friends at school. I whispered it so that they would see I was reluctant to mention it. The key, I felt, was to underplay. “My father is Steve Jobs.”

“Who’s that?” one asked.

“He’s famous,” I said. “He invented the personal computer. He lives in a mansion and drives a Porsche convertible. He buys a new one every time it gets a scratch.”

The story had a film of unreality to it as I said it, even to my own ears. I hadn’t hung out with him that much, only a few skates and visits. I didn’t have the clothes or the bike someone with a father like this would have.

“He even named a computer after me,” I said to them.

“What computer?” a girl asked.

“The Lisa,” I said.

“A computer called the Lisa?” she said. “I never heard of it.”

“It was ahead of its time.” I used my mother’s phrase, although I wasn’t sure why it was ahead. I brought it up when I felt I needed to, waited as long as I could and then let it burst forth. I don’t remember feeling at a disadvantage with my friends who had fathers, only that there was at my fingertips another magical identity, an extra thing that started to itch and tingle when I felt small, and it was like pressure building inside me, and then I had to find a way to say it.

The author, photographed at home in Brooklyn.

Photograph by Jody Rogac.

One afternoon around this time my father brought over a Macintosh computer. He pulled the box out of the backseat and carried it into my room and put it on the floor. “Let’s see,” he said. “How do we open it?” As if he didn’t know. This made me doubt he was the inventor. He pulled the computer out of the box by a handle on the top and set it on the floor near the outlet on the wall. “I guess we plug this in.” He held the cord loose like it was unfamiliar.

He sat on the floor in front of it with his legs crossed; I sat on my knees beside him. He looked for the On switch, found it, and the machine came alive to reveal a picture of itself in the center, smiling. He showed me how I could draw and save my drawings on the desktop once I was finished with them, and then he left.

He didn’t mention the other one, the Lisa. I worried that he had not really named a computer after me, that it was a mistake.

For a long time I hoped that if I played one role, my father would take the corresponding role. I would be the beloved daughter; he would be the indulgent father. I decided that if I acted like other daughters did, he would join in the lark. We’d pretend together, and in pretending we’d make it real. If I had observed him as he was, or admitted to myself what I saw, I would have known that he would not do this, and that a game of pretend would disgust him.

Later that year, I would stay overnight at my father’s house on several Wednesdays while my mother took college classes in San Francisco. On those nights, we ate dinner, took a hot tub outside, and watched old movies. During the car rides to his house, he didn’t talk.

“Can I have it when you’re done?”I asked him one night, as we took a left at the leaning, crumbling white pillars that flanked the thin, bumpy road ending at his gate. I’d been thinking about it for a while but had only just built up the courage to ask.

“Can you have what?” he said.

“This car. Your Porsche.” I wondered where he put the extras. I pictured them in a shiny black line at the back of his land.

“Absolutely not,” he said in such a sour, biting way that I knew I’d made a mistake. I understood that perhaps it wasn’t true, the myth of the scratch: maybe he didn’t buy new ones. By that time I knew he was not generous with money, or food, or words; the idea of the Porsches had seemed like one glorious exception.

I wished I could take it back. We pulled up to the house and he turned off the engine. Before I made a move to get out he turned to face me.

“You’re not getting anything,” he said. “You understand? Nothing. You’re getting nothing.” Did he mean about the car, something else, bigger? I didn’t know. His voice hurt—sharp, in my chest.

The light was cool in the car, a white light on the roof had lit up when the car turned off. Around us was dark. I had made a terrible mistake and he’d recoiled.

By then the idea that he’d named the failed computer after me was woven in with my sense of self, even if he did not confirm it, and I used this story to bolster myself when, near him, I felt like nothing. I didn’t care about computers—they were made of fixed metal parts and chips with glinting lines inside plastic cases—but I liked the idea that I was connected to him in this way. It would mean I’d been chosen and had a place, despite the fact that he was aloof or absent. It meant I was fastened to the earth and its machines. He was famous; he drove a Porsche. If the Lisa was named after me, I was a part of all that.

I see now that we were at cross-purposes. For him, I was a blot on a spectacular ascent, as our story did not fit with the narrative of greatness and virtue he might have wanted for himself. My existence ruined his streak. For me, it was the opposite: the closer I was to him, the less I would feel ashamed; he was part of the world, and he would accelerate me into the light.

It might all have been a big misunderstanding, a missed connection: he’d simply forgotten to mention the computer was named after me. I was shaking with the need to set it right all at once, as if waiting for a person to arrive for their surprise party—to switch on the lights and yell out what I’d held in.

“Hey, you know that computer, the Lisa? Was it named after me?” I asked many years later, when I was in high school and splitting my time between my parents’ houses. I tried to sound like I was curious, nothing more.

If he would just give me this one thing.

“Nope.” His voice was clipped, dismissive. Like I was fishing for a compliment. “Sorry, kid.”

When I was 27, my father invited me to join for a few days on a yacht trip that he, my stepmother, my siblings, and the babysitter were taking in the Mediterranean. He didn’t usually invite me on vacations. I went for a long weekend.

Off the coast of the South of France my father said we were going to make a stop in the Alpes-Maritimes to meet a friend for lunch. He wouldn’t say who the friend was. We took a boat to the dock, where a van picked us up and drove us to a lunch at a villa in Èze.

It turned out to be Bono’s villa. He met us out front wearing jeans, a T-shirt, and the same sunglasses I’d seen him wearing in pictures and on album covers.

He gave us an exuberant tour of his house, as if he couldn’t quite believe it was his. The windows faced the Mediterranean, and the rooms were cluttered with children’s things. In an empty, light-filled octagonal room, he said, Gandhi had once slept.

We had lunch on a large covered balcony overlooking the sea. Bono asked my father about the beginning of Apple. Did the team feel alive? Did they sense it was something big and they were going to change the world? My father said it did feel that way as they were making the Macintosh, and Bono said it was that way for him and the band, too, and wasn’t it incredible that people in such disparate fields could have the same experience? Then Bono asked, “So, was the Lisa computer named after her?”

There was a pause. I braced myself—prepared for his answer.

My father hesitated, looked down at his plate for a long moment, and then back at Bono. “Yeah, it was,” he said.

I sat up in my chair.

“I thought so,” Bono said.

“Yup,” my father said.

I studied my father’s face. What had changed? Why had he admitted it now, after all these years? Of course it was named after me, I thought then. His lie seemed preposterous now. I felt a new power that pulled my chest up.

“That’s the first time he’s said yes,” I told Bono. “Thank you for asking.” As if famous people needed other famous people around to release their secrets.

(C)