#trash heap challenge scarred me for life

[hobohobgoblim]

Is it weird that I kinda want to live there? Because I kinda want to.

[duskandstarlight]

Embers & Light (Chapter 9, Cassian POV)

Notes: I had a lovely anon this morning ask for a POV from Cassian’s POV in E&L when he rubbed salve onto Nesta’s back. So, here you go, folks. As usual, apologies for any typos etc etc.

And for those needing a reminder of what happened in chapter 9, you can read it here.

Waiting outside of Nesta’s bedroom door was torture. Not just because Cassian would soon be touching Nesta’s bare skin, but because he knew she was trying to relinquish control by making him wait. And Cassian had been waiting for a long time now. Much longer than was necessary for Nesta to remove her nightgown and wrap herself in a towel.

Cassian bit back the snarl that wanted to emit itself from his throat, because rising to the deliberate wait would give Nesta too much satisfaction. And this was the game they played; continually trying to get one up on the other, riling and prodding and poking until they hissed and snarled and flames sparked between them.

So, Cassian waited patiently. He scented the chamomile salve wafting under the door and—Nesta. More intense than before. Jasmine and vanilla and her. Intoxicating and fiery and steely at the same time, as if she were forged from something entirely different from anyone else in the world.

It was addictive and exhilarating. It woke Cassian up, as if he had only been slumbering before. Nearly five hundred and fifty years of floating through life until Nesta Archeron came along and disrupted the course of things, like a knife thrust through the heart.

Footsteps sounded across the carpet and Cassian straightened, before he decided that a relaxed posture against the doorframe would irritate her more. He only just had time to arrange his expression into one of bored disinterest before the door opened.

Cassian cocked a lazy eyebrow as if to ask what took so long, but Nesta only turned immediately on her heel. He trailed after her into the cold room, trying not to stare at the creamy expanse of her back that peaked beneath her loose golden brown hair—the wings of her shoulder blades and the three freckles which dotted down the far too prominent nodules of her spine where they met her neck.

When Nesta turned back to face him, her pewter eyes were brimming with challenge, daring Cassian to comment on her lack of clothing. But he only twirled a finger—a silent order.

For a moment, Cassian thought she’d deny him, but then she obeyed—for once.

“All over?” he asked, making his voice deliberately practical rather than playful.

Slowly, Nesta dipped her chin. A long pause followed, as if she had forgotten that she had to relinquish the towel. But Cassian did not taunt her. Remained silent and patient, until she seemed to realise it for herself.

When she pulled the towel around to her front, that scent intensified. And when Nesta pulled her hair around her shoulder to expose her neck, Cassian’s nostrils flared.

Fucking hell, sometimes Cassian wondered how he controlled himself around her. Even his blood thrummed beneath his skin, pushing towards her, to the name that beat and chanted on the wind and in the back of his mind, always: Nesta, Nesta, Nesta.

His eyes snagged on that column of skin, and the temptation to bow his head and sink his teeth into her flesh was suddenly so overwhelming that Cassian almost took a step backwards.

But then a glimmer of apprehension fluttered down the bond and that urge vanished, as if it had never existed at all.

“Let me,” Cassian murmured, stepping towards Nesta so he could help to move the remaining tendrils of hair that tumbled down her back over her shoulder.

He ignored the electric sparks that shot through him as he swept his calloused fingers over her bare skin. And when that unblemished skin pebbled under his touch, Cassian realised just how freezing the room was—he wouldn’t have been surprised if his breath misted in front of him.

“Sorry,” he said softly. “I'll be quick, I know it's cold.”

“Just get it over with,” Nesta replied. Beneath his hands, her body was ramrod straight—so preternaturally still it was unnatural even to Fae.

So, Cassian tried his best to set Nesta at ease as he rubbed the salve between his palms, warming it before he dared touch it to her skin. “This stuff is good,” he said conversationally. “I use it a lot. I know humans usually have the worst muscle pain on their second and third day, but Fae bodies recover more quickly. You’ll be sore tomorrow, but it shouldn't last much longer than that.”

Beneath his hands, he felt every inch of her skeleton. Nesta’s body was so thin it felt as if her skin was like paper—as if the bone might pierce through if his touch was too firm.

The knowledge made his stomach clench so fiercely he wanted to smash his fist into the wall. He had let this happen. He had let—

“Good,” Nesta clipped in response, but the sound was coarse, pushed through gritted teeth as his hands skated over what he had guessed earlier to be a sore spot between her shoulder blades.

“You need to start eating right, too,” Cassian dared to say, as his hands traversed down her lower back. He wasn’t sure where the confidence came to comment on her weight, not after she had spat at him when he had pleaded for her to eat at breakfast the other day. “And lots to gain back the weight. I can tell—”

Hot, sharp anger stabbed through him so fiercely that suddenly Cassian couldn’t breathe. Because across the lower curve of Nesta’s back was four silvery scars—claw marks made by ragged nails that raked their way underneath the nightgown pooled at her hips.

The air between them shuddered.

Free of siphons, Cassian’s Killing Power was untamed and unchecked. And that trembling… that was what happened when Cassian was furious enough for his magic to tumble out of him before he could stifle it.

He could not remember the last time it had happened. Not for four hundred years, at least.

“How old is that scar?”

His words were low and fucking dangerous, he knew that. His hands had stilled on her skin, but as he spoke, his left hand moved on instinct rather than logic.

Nesta stilled when he brushed his fingers over what must have been deep gauges. Gently, he traced the path of each cruel line—

“What scar?”

Cassian paused at the thick quality to Nesta’s voice, as if she had wrangled the words out of her throat lest they become lodged there.

That fury spiked again and the windows rattled. “Nesta, is that scar new or is it from that human?”

The way he spoke was too forceful and too commanding. He knew that before the mist started to spark from her fingertips. Before his magic began to roar in his veins at the sight of her power.

The way in which Nesta whirled on the spot was so fast that Cassian thought he’d blinked and missed it. “You said you would do this quickly.”

Despite the hiss, Nesta could not conceal the vulnerability that flickered in her eyes. It was that rare glimpse into that normally closed off tunnel that allowed Cassian’s roiling anger to still for long enough for rationality to kick in.

Slowly, Cassian loosed a long breath and dragged the back of his hand over his forehead in an attempt to smooth away his twisted expression. “I’m sorry Nesta, ok? Just… let me do this. Turn around.”

Those mercury eyes stared him down but Cassian did not balk. Instead, he scoured that beautiful, steely face. Never had Cassian witnessed Nesta smile, but even without it she was perfection. The Cauldron could not have Made someone more stunning and deadly. Even as a human, Nesta had been more breathtaking than any Fae Cassian had ever set his eyes on—would ever set his eyes on.

Nesta must have found something in Cassian’s expression, because slowly—with a final, deathly glare—she turned her back to him.

It was a sign of trust and one Cassian did not take lightly.

Scooping up some more salve, Cassian silently continued his task, gliding his hands over those taut, sore muscles. When he reached those scars again, his hands ghosted over them in a way that was too tender. The skin was ridged and Cassian dared to run a a calloused thumb over the raised bumps.

To his surprise, Nesta did not bat him away or set him alight.

“I’ll kill him for you, if that’s what you want,” he murmured darkly.

That haughty chin tilted upwards. “Why should I let you? It would take the joy out of knowing I can do it myself whenever the mood strikes.”

A low laugh skittered out of him. “Whilst that is a good point, the offer still stands. Or perhaps I can come with you, when you do decide to pay him a visit."

Screwing the lid back on the salve, Cassian placed it on the dresser, averting his eyes as Nesta quickly pulled her nightgown back up. Her skin was covered in goosebumps from being exposed to the cold air, and Cassian glanced towards the open, unlit hearth stacked neatly with pine logs. “I’ll get a log burner installed for your room this week.”

Nesta’s head snapped to look at him. She had been staring longingly at the heaps of blanket on her bed.

It was obvious she was desperate for him to leave.

“I —“ she started, but then she broke off. For a moment, silence fell, and Cassian knew she did not know how to concede—to say thank you.

So, he shot her a crooked grin and said, “I’ll see you bright and early for round two. Don’t be late.”

Tags: @arinbelle @superspiritfestival @sayosdreams @perseusannabeth @mylittlebigplanet @biggestwingspan-az @bellsqueen @ekaterinakostrova @bookstantrash @prophecyerised @rainbowcheetah512 @awesomelena555 @wannawriteyouabook @iammissstark @lovelynesta @melphss @nestalytical @darkshadowqueensrule @laylaameer01 @a-trifling-matter @grouchycritic7794 @thalia-2-rose @champanheandluxxury @swankii-art-teacher @princessconsuela02 @lavendergoomsltd @little-diyosa @princessofmerchants-reads @jeakat @sjm-things @imwritingthesewords @nestable​ @inejbrekkxr @silvernesta​ @inyourmindeye​ @amelie775  @iwastoowildinthe70s @helen-the-weirdo​ @pizzaneverdisappoints​ @wishfulimaginings​ @trash-for-nessian​ @my-fan-side​ @sophilightwood​ @hatemecozuaintme​ 

[mohini-musing]

Ragged Company

Chasing Ghosts ‘verse

~~

The girl is going to kill him. James learned young that there are no certainties in life. But this one comes close.

Case in point, he’s watching his very decidedly underage sister in a club that absolutely did not check her ID with any degree of scrutiny on the way in. She hasn’t seen him yet. He isn’t sure if he wants her to. It’s not like it’s any kind of secret that she parties hard. Nor that she’s way too good at getting her hands on things she’s no business touching. He chooses not to think about the little baggie of pills in his own pocket.

He’s halfway through slipping one of the little discs of happiness under his tongue when she is suddenly inches from him.

“The fuck are you following me?”

Alrighty then, happy high is clearly not on the menu of Tasha delights for the evening.

“I’m not the one who used a fake to get in the place,” he shoots back. If she’s going to be a bitch, he can give as good as he gets.

“Didn’t use any ID,” she grumbles, and for just a moment, he feels bad. “Don’t need it if you’re fucking the bartender.”

He groans. There is absolutely no way to know if she’s dead serious or trying to get a rise out of him. Either option is unsettling. She’s rarely hostile toward him. Something’s not right but in this mood she’s not going to give him any tells as to what that thing is. Or isn’t for that matter. He’s out of practice and not sober enough to try connecting the dots.

“You said you were waiting for me!” the voice is painful levels of shrill, and definitely unholy high. It belongs to a skinny, drugged out looking mess of a girl wrapping arms around Tasha in a way James absolutely knows she hates. The microsecond of flinch and grimace confirms it for him before she plasters on a smile.

“Sorry, saw someone I used to know,” she replies, glaring at James as if daring him to contradict her. She turns and follows the girl back into the depths of the club.

Whatever is on tap for tonight, James isn’t sticking around to see it. He was her all knight in too small armor when they were kids. If she needs him, she’ll tell him. Or someone will. It wouldn’t be the first weird call since they found each other again.

He leaves the club, heading into a different one a few blocks down. It’s a rare night that he ventures out without Steve to chill and trip out to the lights and music. The little disc of ecstasy is beginning to release its chemical spell into the tightly wound synapses of his brain and damned if running into his nightmare of a baby sister is going to bring him down.

Several hours and a long, pleasant walk home later, he finds a scrawny bundle of red hair and regret on his sofa. Steve’s next to her, not close enough to touch but near enough to make sure she keeps breathing. It doesn’t escape James’ notice that the trash bin usually stashed under his desk has been relocated to floor at the end of the sofa.

“Showed up a while ago. She won’t talk to me,” Steve explains in response to the bumbling inquiry James stammers out.

Tasha’s eyes are red and puffy. She either been sick or crying. James kneels in front of her, putting his hand on her thigh, barely above her knobby knee.

“Hey there,” he tells her.

She blinks at him, then launches herself off the cushion and into his chest. They tumble to the carpet in a heap and it’s all James can do to keep her head from bouncing off the floor.

“Jesus,” he mutters.

“M’sorry I’m bad,” she whispers back, before what James is fairly certain is a good third her weight worth of alcohol is baptizing the both of them.

Steve shouts something James can’t decipher and then Tasha’s being yanked off him. She’s screaming, kicking, and still retching.

“I’m not going to hurt you,” Steve tries to tell her, but she’s too far gone to understand. Instead she yells something else and manages to thrash hard enough that he loses his grip on her. She hits the floor with an ominous thud. James isn’t sure if he should be grateful or mortified that he knows the sound well enough to be sure that nothing was broken on the way down.

Tasha rolls onto hands and knees, gagging into the carpet and shaking her head back and forth. She’s trying to say something but can’t stop retching long enough to form actual words.

James glares at Steve and crouches close to her.

“Tasha love,” he soothes. “Just breathe, sweetheart. Just breathe. Jamie’s got you.”

He doesn’t have her. If he had her, this would not have happened. He’s only just barely begun to know her again, and he’s becoming ever more concerned for what exactly happened to the risk taking but largely self-preserving girl he knew.

He puts a hand on her back, running fingers up and down her spine until she’s finally emptied out enough to settle down. She falls sideways into him, covered in bile and snot and god only knows what form of liquor. He hopes fervently that the reddish streaks are cranberry juice and not blood.

Once she’s been fairly calm for a few minutes, he eases her to sitting with her head cradled against his shoulder.

“You’re a mess, Tash,” he tells her softly. “Lemme wash you up?”

“Can’t,” she whimpers, and he’s confused.

“You got some aversion to water now?” he asks her. He’s not sure if he’s teasing or not. For all he knows she might.

“Your arm,” she explains. Even blitzed, the kid is trying to protect him. It was like this when they were young. The pair of them against the world.

“It comes off,” he tells her. She knows this. Or at least he thinks she does. No matter. He hauls her to her feet and half carries, half drags her to the bathroom. Steve follows behind like a forlorn puppy, and James agrees to let him take the myoelectric prosthesis back to their room to stash it on the charging dock. It’s technically water resistant, would hold up fine to being splashed. But he suspects he’s going to end up more than a little soaked by the end of this particular endeavor. He slips the silicone sleeve off his stump and hands it to Steve as well. Then he looks pointedly down the hall and the other man retreats, closing the door behind him.

Tasha’s taken to gently running a finger along the grooves of the scar tissue. “Shiny,” she whispers. It’s both observation and benediction, the skin is indeed shiny with both sweat and the odd texture of healed burns. “Hurts?” she asks, the soft lilt to her voice making clear that she is genuinely asking the question.

“Not as often as it did,” he replies. It’s the truth. The surgeons did a good job on the salvage, and the skin healed well. He’s trying to figure out what else to tell her when she presses her lips to the space where the scar tissue and softer skin come together.

“M’sorry,” she tells him. “M’sorry I lost you. M’sorry.” The words fade into a garbled repetition, their vowels lengthening until it’s no longer decipherable what she’s trying to say. There are tears, though. Little drops of salty sadness falling on his arm as she lays her face against his bicep.

“Shhh,” he tries, running fingers gently through her curls and hoping the motion provides some sort of comfort.

He thinks she’s settling down, going a bit more still, a bit more silent, until she pulls abruptly away and lunges for the bathroom trash, burying her face in it and heaving hard. He pats her back, tries to keep her hair out of the mess, though that’s long since a lost cause. When she’s down to empty retching, he pulls her upright, telling her to breathe, to hold the breath, to let it go slowly. She flops toward him a few moments later, trembly and clutching at him with one spindly hand.

“Tasha love, let’s clean you up and get you to bed,” he directs after she’s been still and quiet for a good bit.

She nods her assent and he scoots them toward the bath, reaching up and turning the taps.

“Can you strip out for me?”

“Yeah.” The answer is bitten off with a sound that could either be sadness or resignation. She slips her shirt over her head, shucks off her skirt and underthings. Her feet were bare to begin with, leaving her in naught but skin.

James drags his own vomit-soaked shirt off, ditches his jeans but keeps the underthings where they are. Close as they once were, there remain limits he’s not testing. Especially not tonight.

They climb into the tub together, Tasha burying her head against his chest as he runs a soapy cloth over her skin, talking to her as he works so that she’ll stay grounded in the here and now. The hair presents a challenge, getting the stringy gobs of vomit out without two hands to work with, but she’s clinging to him like a frightened animal and he’s not about to tell her she has to let go.

The water is nearing the end of its warmth by the time they’re both properly clean, but she’s responding more readily to his requests to move around and climb from the tub, which he’s willing to consider solid progress toward sobering up. For his part, James is pretty grateful for the lingering softness from his fading high. He’s no doubt it’s helping with keeping him chill enough to settle her.

He pats her dry, wraps her in fresh towels, and slips a towel around his own hips before opening the door and shepherding her to his bedroom. Steve comes like a loyal dog, trying to help, mostly just fumbling about. James sends him for towels to toss on the bed, just in case. She hasn’t been sick in a while, but there’s no guarantee that she hasn’t more sins to purge.

“Jamie?” she asks him.

“M’right here, Tash. Right here.” The words are automatic, a script he learnt when they were kids. She needs to be certain. Has been abandoned too many times to truly trust him when he says he’s staying. Hell, he feels the same way half the time. He lost count of the nights he’s woken up in a panic, only to stare at Steve’s sleeping form next to him and repeat a similar litany until his breath steadies and his heart calms.

“Jamie?” she repeats.

“Yeah,” this time he puts his hand against her shoulder, cupping the joint in his palm and pressing in a bit. Hoping that’s enough connection to ground her.

“My Jamie,” she babbles, eyes slipping shut as she loses consciousness.

Steve takes the opportunity to hand him some clothes, and he climbs into loose pajama pants and a faded shirt from some charity run Steve did a while back. Tasha’s naked under the towel she’s swaddled in, but James can’t decide if it’s reasonable to dress her or wait until she’s aware enough to help. He opts for putting the proffered boxers and shirt within easy grabbing distance and climbs into bed with her. He pulls her close, the movements of securing her airway and propping her onto one side as much a part of him as his own skin.

The sky is just beginning to go pink at the edges of the horizon when she stirs. It’s just the tiniest hitch of her shoulders, a miniscule gasp of a breath, but James rolls her belly down, head up, hooking a finger at the corner of her mouth to ensure whatever comes up doesn’t get sucked down into her lungs. It’s not much, just a couple strings of mucus, but the process wakes her.

She stares at him with wide eyes, and he can practically watch the connections coming together as she figures out where she is, who she’s with, and what she isn’t wearing.

“Sweet fuck,” she mutters.

“Nope, that we absolutely did not do,” the reply is automatic. A ritual left over from years past.

“Do I want to know?” she asks him.

“No. You’re good now?”

“D’you have aspirin? Or oxy? Fuck my head hurts.”

“I think we might need to start you on water, Tash. You haven’t kept your own spit down in a while.”

“I hate Jaeger.”

“Mmm, that I won’t argue. Shit’s awful.”

He rolls away from her long enough to grab the bottle of water from his bedside table and hand it to her. She takes a sip, swallows hard and screws her eyes shut.

“It’s okay,” he tells her, pulling his prosthetic from the charging dock and rolling the protective sleeve over his stump before reaching for her again. She belches, and the water dribbles back over her chin.

“Maybe not quite okay yet,” he concedes. “C’mere ya nightmare.”

She scoots over to the clean side of the bed, curling up in his lap like a cat.

“M’sorry.”

“I’ve seen you worse. Just be still. It’ll pass.”

She nods, closes her eyes, and he resumes petting her hair. The girl is definitely, absolutely going to be the death of him. But he’s grateful she’s still got enough sense to come find him so she isn’t the death of herself instead.

[kiwisfics]

[Nova and Hancock/Nick]

X

  Stares were something Nova was used to.

  Not only was she nearly always accompanied by either a ghoul or synth - many times, both - but she plodded around with a deathclaw too.

  Stares and muttering didn't bother her anymore, however, having her boys refused food and drink in one of her own settlements burned her up.

  Nova's feet rested on Nick's lap, boots discarded under the table, as they waited for Hancock to return from purchasing a new shotgun.

  "This settlement is getting pretty large."

  Nova hummed in response to Nick's comment. He was right. She knew settlements tended to grow larger in between her visits, but something was bothering her. Her feet fell from Nick's lap as she stuffed them into her boots.

  Hancock, looking disgruntled and having his face covered with a mask, returned. He clearly hadm't purchased a shotgun. "Sunshine, is it just me or is it lookin' a little smooth around here?"

  "Yeah," Nova huffed out her agreement as she roughly zipped her boots, "I noticed." She doubted the bartender would recognize her - he was a fresh face - but she still wasn't risking a sugarcoating of what was clearly going on if he did recognize her. "Can I borrow that mask? Anyone messes with ya I'll handle 'em."

  As Hancock handed her the mask, Nick chided her, "Be careful, Nova, they won't respect you if they don't know who you are."

  Her shoulders were already tensed, anger rolling off of her in waves. "I will, but they clearly need to be reminded of Minutemen morals."

  She sauntered to the bar, gaining the attention of its tender quickly as she hopped onto a stool. His eyes darted to her clevage, exposed by the unbuttoned plaid shirt and tank top she was wearing, before he gave her a smug grin.

  "What can I do for you?"

  The mask covered only her mouth and nose, her eyes perfectly visible as her steely gaze focused on the man. "I couldn't help but notice there's no ghouls wandering around. There any reason for that?"

  The bartender laughed, though Nova's expression remained steadfast, "No ghouls here, you don't have to worry your pretty little head," Nova's jaw clenched, teeth gritting painfully, she did not like that, "the Minutemen don't check in often and when they do, they don't question the lack of ghouls. Its all the same to us, rather not have those-"

  Before he could finished Nova had pulled down the mask and grabbed a hold of the man's shirt, "Who's grand idea was this?" The man stuttered, clearly recognizing her - must have been the scars.

  "Uh, Norman, his name's Norman Slae. He put himself in charge as soon as he arrived. He's very convincing."

  Nova shoved him back, fully instending on giving him a tongue lashing, but Hancock's voice caught her attention before she got the chance.

  Fury burned in her at the sight of people surrounding her companions and attempting to force them out.

  There was no hesitation when she grabbed and threw a full bottle of wine against the wall, barely missing some of the setters heads. "Everyone, step back!" the words were practically a snarl, rage running through her veins stronger than a stimpak, "How dare any of you go against the code of inviting every settler in need into this settlement," her voice was powerful, booming off of the walls as she stood straight, her height doing nothing to lessen her intimidation.

  She paused, voice even stronger and louder when next she spoke, "Let alone trying to force the general of the Minutemen's closest companions out!"

  "Alright, alright, everyone settle down."

  The stillness that flooded the room was constricting, deafening silence following the voice and the murderous glare given to the speaker.

  "Nova!"

  Of course it was Norman.

  She knew the rat would be trouble from the moment she'd met him.

  He'd looked at her like a piece of meat and he hadn't been shy about sharing his attraction while disregarding her companions. She'd given him a bloody lip when he said Nick needed to be thrown in a scrap pile. She'd do worse this time. This went too far.

  "Is that deathclaw outside the gate Lady? Hardly even recognize her. Has to be yours though. No one else in this settlement is mentally challenged enough to travel with something that ugly," he glanced in Nick and Hancock's direction, "still a lot cuter than the other things you travel with."

  She heard the muffled "oh no" leave Nick's lips before she charged, done seething and ready to give this poor excuse of a man what he'd earned.

  Nova was Intimidating when she was angry, but the settlers - even settlers from before Norman's arrival - had never seen her attack, least of all without her weapons.

  Norman was surprised. A punch was nothing compared to the animalistic way she attacked now.

  Fury continued to bubble within her as her body went into autopilot. Her eyes were blurred. Her fists stung as she slammed them into his face with all the brutality she'd learned from the Commonwealth.

  The taste of her own blood filled her mouth as he managed to get a good shot in.

  A sound, nothing short of a growl, escaped her as she brought her nails across his face.

  When Norman kicked her off she was quickly restrained, Nick's voice calming her as he held her back. "That's enough. You've done enough."

  She relaxed against Nick, spitting out blood as she watched Norman get to his feet. Anger burned his own eyes as he pulled a dagger from a sheath on his belt.

  "Good synth, hold her while I gut her," Nick let go the moment he spoke, but she didn't attack, lest she go running straight into that blade, "Its about time the Minutemen got a better leader. One that ain't sleeping around with monsters and trash heaps."

  She snarled, "C'mon then! I'll show you why I'm the general."

  He charged.

  Before he could reach her, he was stopped. The dagger fell from his fist.

  Hancock pulled his blade from the man's torso, the same knife he'd used on Finn all those months ago. It wasn't a killing blow. "You have about twenty seconds before this exile turns into an execution."

  Norman was already slinking away, holding the hole in his side, "If I ever see your face in one of my settlements again, the only monster is going to be me and the only trash heap is will be the one your corpse is dumped in."

×

  Days had passed since the dramatic confrontation. Nova had made herself at home for an extended stay at the settlement. She was going to ensure that what happened when last she left had no chance of happening again, even if that meant forcefully removing every person who spoke against ghouls or synths.

  Nova stood on a rickety balcony, taking a break from her repair of the pre-war perch, humming a song as Lady peaked up at her. The creaking of the door caught her attention.

  "Would you look at that? I almost forgot you knew how to repair anything other than weapons." Hancock's subtle jab wasn't missed, and he earned himself a playful glare.

  "It has been a little while since I took a break, hasn't it?"

  "Try long," Nick stuck his head out of the door, "you know, you cant make everything perfect."

  "I can watch out for my settlements. Keep men like Norman from hurting more people," it wasn't the first time they had had this conversation. They thought she should care more about herself, but, to her, caring for herself only brought to light her past and flaws. The fact that she was a broken and scarred specimen of a human being, who couldn't protect her son and couldnt even feel desire for what others did. Why shouldn't she spend that time caring for others?

  "You're never going to be able to protect everyone, sunshine. And no matter how much I love seeing you give your all to fight scum like that, you need to relax." Hancock lightly poked the angry bruise on her face, "Any better?"

  "Yeah. Still got a huge cut inside though." Her answer lead to a loaded pause, hesitation clear in her demeanor.

  "What if- what if I can't relax?" Nick and Hancock glanced at each other, worry shining in their eyes as they waited for her to continue. "I just... When I try to stop I just remember everything. I remember that I never got to see my little boy grow up, that I'll never see my family again, that I'm-" she stopped.

  They hated when she said she was broken. In Nick's words, "humans can't be defective, they're not products." And in Hancock's she was "perfect." But still, she didnt understand the lack of desire that came so easily for others.

  "I'm broken. If not that I'm different. And what the point in me even falling in love if I don't care about sex? I should just-" Hancock's lips pressed against her own, cutting off her self deprecating words.

  Her arms immediately wrapped around him, pulling herself against his body and tilting her head back so he could straighten. A disgruntled whine escaped her as he pulled away but Nick quickly pulled her to him, pushing his hat onto her head as he did.

  When he pulled away, Nova was sufficiently breathless, and had a giddy smile on her face.

  "You are not broken."

  She didnt know if she believed it completely, but she knew she loved them, and she finally realized - as her father's words echoed in her mind - love had so much more to it than something as physical as sex.

  And, if she was the only person in this world to fall in love with a ghoul and synth, and if she was the only person in the world to see value in each life, even that of a deathclaw, she was alright with that. Because her family was more than alright with that.

[fancyladssnacks]

You and Whose Army

or;

What if the Seed family were actually good and Hope County is just really paranoid?

AU fic with slow burn Jacob Seed/Staci Pratt, and not-so-slow-burn John/male!Deputy in the background.

Keeping it on tumblr for now because AO3 creates scary ~commitment~ and I just want somewhere to share it with my FC5 buddies (especially you, @avaleahblog). I have not abandoned my Fallout fics. No content warnings for this chapter but I’ll flag ‘em up as necessary.

1

Pratt hasn’t been out to the St Francis Veteran Centre in years, not since he was a rookie and got called out to deal with a vagrancy complaint. The place had been long abandoned back then, the courtyard choked with weeds and faded trash. Inside it had stunk to high heaven. Bird and animal shit and the remains of campfires caked the floors.

Today as he walks up the gravel road to the gates, it’s like stepping back into another era when the hospital was open and thriving. The front court is visible, for one thing. No ivy or knotweed strangling the iron gate, and the paving beyond is level and clean.

The new owner is one Jacob Seed. Pratt’s never officially met him, though he’s seen him around now and again. Seed and his family—two brothers, plus an unknown number of hangers-on—rolled into Hope County a few months back after buying up a suspicious amount of property. The Sheriff’s Department started getting calls soon after. Just the odd one at first, but the longer the Seeds take root on this land, the more the locals are reacting against their presence.

Most of the attention is on Joseph Seed, the long-haired preacher who bought up half the island on Silver Lake and is setting up some kind of hippy commune there. Rumour has it he’s building a chapel, but in the meantime he holds open services a couple times a week in a big white tent on his land. Folks started going along out of curiosity at first, looking to sniff around what this weirdo and his barefoot harem were up to. Probably hoping there’d be naked dancing around maypoles or some such to tide them over in gossip until winter. But whatever Joseph has to say seems to be connecting with people, because almost as many locals love him as hate him now. Of course, that’s only made family members more concerned. There’s already accusations of brainwashing and devil-worship flying around.

While the Sheriff’s Department isn’t taking such nonsense seriously, there have been enough calls to the station by now that Earl Whitehorse finally agreed to address the issue. It’s been a slow couple of days, so Earl tasked his deputies with visiting various Seed family properties to cast an eye over things. Staci isn’t over the moon at being sent to St Francis’, but Jacob’s property is at the farthest reach of the county and he’s the only one who can pilot the chopper. He casts a glance back at where he left it—set down on the grass at the point of the little lake out front of the building—then sighs and pushes through the gates.

The courtyard seems deserted. There’s a new-looking Jeep with Montana plates parked near the gates, and a couple of mud-spattered ATVs further back, but no one attending them. Over in one corner is a stack of rusting bed frames and other trash, leftovers from the hospital’s former life. Pratt strolls past a dried-up fountain towards the front doors. The weather is warming up, and the prickle down his spine and under his arms makes him wish he’d left his jacket in the chopper.

Pratt lifts the brass knocker on the lobby door. His four sharp raps cut like gunfire through the hush of the valley. He turns from the door to wait and idly examines the plastic-wrapped pallets standing by the entrance. Masonry paint, sacks of cement, plasterboard sheets. Most likely ordered from out of county judging by the volume. Pratt raises an eyebrow at the huge spools of razor wire.

A couple of minutes pass, and he knocks again.

“Hello?” he calls out, but only his own voice echoes back off the high walls around the Centre.

He considers trying the door and hollering inside, but the locals he’s talked to who had run-ins with Jacob Seed have described him as anything but friendly, so he decides against it. He wanders along the ground floor instead, hoping to catch a glimpse within. The windows on this level are guarded by iron bars on the outside and dark blinds drawn inside. It seems a waste of time and fuel to fly out here for nothing, so he turns right when he reaches the corner to make a clockwise loop around the building. Along the western wall is a row of large boxes, each one almost as tall as he is, covered over with green tarps. Staci lifts a corner up to peek underneath. It’s not a box at all, but a metal cage. The kind you might keep a vicious animal or, say, a prisoner of war in.

“Great. Not disturbing at all,” he mutters to himself.

There’s more junk heaped up ready for a bonfire in back. Open dumpsters stuffed with dead weeds and other garbage. Still not a soul to be seen.

On the back wall of the hospital Pratt finds a window left uncovered. It’s barred like the others, but when he cups his hands around his eyes and leans in, he can make out the gloomy interior.

The room within is mostly empty, just a few boxes near the door and a folding table with paint trays and rollers. If Staci smushes his face to the bars and peers all the way to his left, he can see through an open doorway into another room, and in there…

“Oh, shit.”

The section of wall he can see is lined with racks, and on those racks are guns. Lots of guns. Identical assault rifles occupy one full rack, while the one beside it is harder to make out but he thinks he sees shotguns and a large hunting bow. In a glass-fronted cabinet under the racks he can make out the dark shapes of pistols against a red backing cloth.

He shifts from foot to foot, wondering whether he should take out his phone and try to get pictures. But he’s not supposed to be here, at least not sneaking round the back of the property like a burglar, and he’s wary of taking away any evidence he might regret later.

Suddenly, all he wants is to get back to Fall’s End. He heads back the way he came and crosses the courtyard at a brisk pace. He glances back only once he’s halfway along the path. The hospital’s yellow walls are catching the late afternoon sun, and Staci can’t help but marvel at what a beautiful spot this is, nestled in its own lush, wooded valley with the vast wall of Monument Mountain curving around it like protective arms, and the lake reflecting the clouds. It’s a damn shame it’s been bought up by a family of crazies.

He jogs up the grassy rise to the helicopter and around to the side. As he rounds the tail end he stops short, boots skidding on the damp grass.

Jacob Seed is sitting in the cockpit.

One foot on the landing skid and the other in the opening, his ass parked on the pilot’s seat as though he belongs there. A sleek black rifle leans against the body of the chopper within easy reach. He’s holding a rosy red apple in one hand, turning it slowly as he strips the peel into a long spiral with a pocket knife. In a holster at his thigh is a much larger hunting knife, black and menacing against the faded blue of his jeans.

“Evening, Deputy,” he says at last, not looking up from his apple.

Staci shuts his mouth and swallows painfully, throat suddenly parched. He tries to calm himself, squeezing his already sweating hands into fists at his sides. It’s fine. Just because Seed chanced upon the helicopter doesn’t mean he knows anything else. Staci glances at the expensive scope on the rifle, and gets the uneasy feeling that perhaps he’s seen everything.  

“Mr Seed,” Staci replies. It sounds stupid coming out of his mouth; makes him feel like a kid addressing a teacher. But he doesn’t know the man well enough to call him Jacob. Maybe he should have just called him Seed; he’ll remember that for next time. At least he didn’t call him Sir.

He takes a few steps closer to the chopper, but Jacob doesn’t move.

“Do you mind?”

“Mind what, exactly?” Seed sounds bored as he finishes peeling the apple and lets the ribbon of red skin drop to the grass. He looks up at Staci then, and his eyes are a clear, vivid blue.

Pratt has never seen him up close before, and it’s hard not to stare at his scars. The ones on his face are most distracting simply due to their placement. His right cheek is marred worse than the left, pocked and mottled by what Staci assumes is a burn. The meanest scars are on his arms, angry red splotches against faded pink-brown, as though already marked skin has been injured again recently. As though his first trial by fire hadn’t taught him enough of a lesson. The thought makes Staci even more anxious.

He forces his eyes back to meet Seed’s. “This chopper is property of the Hope County Sheriff Department,” he tells him.

Jacob’s eyebrows raise in feigned surprise. “That so,” he replies. He gestures with the pocket knife at the land around them. “Well, since all of this is my property, I think that means you and your chopper aren’t supposed to be on it without an invitation.” He fixes Staci with that bright blue glare. “And I don’t recall inviting you, Deputy.”

Staci clears his throat. He’s being challenged, but he’ll be damned if he makes himself look weak by apologising.

“We’ve had a couple of reports of strange activity on your family’s properties,” he says, tucking his thumbs into his belt loops. Everything he does feels awkward and transparent. It’s maddening, and more than a little embarrassing, but he doesn’t want to draw more attention by moving his hands again. He presses on. “I just came out to have a word, but you were nowhere to be seen.”

“You’ve found me now.”

Clearly the opposite is true.

Staci nods anyway. “Mind me asking what sort of operation you’re running out here?”

Seed completely ignores the question and takes a bite of apple instead, forcing Pratt to wait for his reply while he chews. He squints against the treeline thoughtfully and swallows.

“What exactly constitutes ‘strange activity’, Deputy?”

“A lot of trucks bringing stuff in from out of county. Construction noise around the clock. Blocking off footpaths.” He shrugs. “All sorts of little things, but add it all up and it’s out of the ordinary for a quiet community like this.”

“Wasn’t aware out of the ordinary was the same as illegal.”

Pratt exhales impatiently. “It’s not. But it’s putting folks on edge. Maybe if they had an idea what was going on, it would set their minds at ease.”

Seed shakes his head, still looking into the distance. “Doesn’t matter where you go,” he sighs. “People can’t mind their own damn business.”

“Come on now, Mr Seed,” Staci says. “If everything’s above board, what’s there to hide? What are you doing out here?”

“Why don’t you tell me,” Jacob says. “You got a nice long look around. What’d you find out?”

Shit. Of course he saw him. Pratt pauses, considering whether or not to admit what he saw.

“You have a lot of guns,” he replies. “Sidearms and assault rifles mostly, from what I could tell. Not your everyday hunting fare.”

“Oh, I have hunting rifles too, Deputy.”

Staci can tell Seed is loving every second of his discomfort. He isn’t even trying to make himself look innocent. All that tells Staci is that he’s arrogant. Seed’s brother may be a fancy lawyer, but that doesn’t make him or anyone in his weirdo family untouchable.

“You care to tell me why you need that kind of firepower?”

Seed takes another big bite of his apple. “Security,” he says around his mouthful.  

Pratt shifts his weight to the other foot. “Security for what?”

“For my family’s property,” he replies. “My brother Joseph is very trusting, very patient. I’m not. I told him there were gonna be people in this county who wouldn’t want to see him succeed. You just proved me right.”

“Succeed at what?” Staci blurts out.

Seed is out of the cockpit and on his feet in one swift motion. For a big man, he sure moves fast. Pratt has to steel himself to stay put rather than backing up a couple of steps the way he wants to. The way Seed is expecting him to. Of course, he has to be taller than Staci, only by a couple inches, but he makes sure to flaunt it as he moves closer.

“Are we done here, Deputy…” He peers down at the name stitched above Staci’s breast pocket. “…Pratt?” The hard consonants grit out from between his teeth, cold and clear as ice chips.

They lock eyes for a few seconds. Seed knows exactly how intimidating he is with his bulk and his scars and those intense eyes, bright blue like a gas flame. Staci doesn’t have any of his presence, but he stares back anyway, keen to show the other man that he’s no cowering fool.

Eventually he nods his head once, holding the eye contact.

“We’re done.”

Seed steps back to retrieve his rifle. “I trust that I won’t find you trespassing on my property again.”

“As long as you don’t cause any trouble, I’ll have no reason to come back.” His attempt at a warning tone is laughable and they both know it, but all Seed does as he meets Staci’s eye again is tilt one corner of his mouth up ever so slightly.

“I’ll be sure to remember it.” Without taking his eyes off Staci, he says, “Here, Judge.”

Staci frowns in confusion, mouth opening to say What? when a blur of grey and white fur flashes past him.

“Jesus Christ,” he stammers instead.

The biggest fucking dog he’s ever seen bounds over to Jacob Seed’s side and sits, sniffing his hand before turning big yellow eyes on Staci. A long pink tongue like a slice of bacon lolls from its mouth. How long was that thing watching them? There are wolves in these mountains, and the monster sitting next to Jacob Seed is either one of them or a close goddamn relative. Heart hammering, Pratt makes a mental note to look up what the law has to say about keeping wolves as pets.

Seed leans his rifle across his shoulders and saunters off with the giant hound at his side. Staci is furious. He climbs into the helicopter, slamming the cockpit door too hard behind him, and quickly checks over the control panel in case Seed decided to fuck with anything. Everything seems fine. He’s relieved, but also disappointed he doesn’t have anything to pin on him. Jacob Seed is bad fucking news, and Pratt swears to himself there and then that he’s going to be the one to prove it.

He fumbles his headset on and fires up the chopper, scowling at the controls until he’s put air between him and the ground. As he tilts the craft in the direction of home, he glances down and notices Jacob still standing at the tree line watching him. Seed raises his right hand to his head in a mocking salute, and while he’s too far away to be sure, Staci just knows the bastard is grinning.