#up under a car somewhere and holding a funeral the actual fuck.

[theinfinitedivides]

and not HYBE lying about what kind of scooter it is................................

on the fucking scooter my brother...........................

[bacchuschucklefuck]

Riz has counted four casseroles this week alone. Five, if one goes by the method of cooking, but Yelen's scary when she's crossed, and calling her burek by its proper name is important to her, so Riz does her the courtesy and doesn't include it in his mental tally.

He holds the tupperware over his head to keep it out if the way as he takes careful steps over the piles of notes in his path. The dockman case just closed, relevant documentations handed over to relevant personnels, evidences dealt with as needed; all he has lying around now is just record of the process and traces of himself thinking through it. Unsurprisingly they still haven't invented a surface more convenient for people under five feet who like to pace to put pieces of paper on than the ground.

Actual records go into the case folder with the other documents. Anything else with at least one side still blank is going to the school kids in the block - they chew through an astounding amount of paper just learning arithmetic. The rest is for the recycling basket.

Later. It's his mandated lunch break right now.

Riz sits down in front of the corner file cabinet. In an office often overrun with papers and strings and sometimes even thumbtacks, he's never really managed to clutter up this exact square of surface like every other ones. Ever since the bottom drawer rattled for no discernible reason a day long past, his eyes have always just kinda decided to slide across the space without acknowledging it.

It's years out, now. Riz doesn't know why he thought it such a big deal anymore, back then. He wasn't scared, he doesn't think. Not anymore. Maybe just uncomfortable with the idea that certain things persist despite all efforts to change.

He opens the tupperware. Dame Carabelle's experiment greets him with enough spice in the aroma alone to knock out a small mammal. When he chopped the vegetables for this casserole he couldn't really imagine the eventual heft of it, evident even through just these few ladles' worth, maybe weighing heavier for being still warm. His folk eat more through the smell and the textures and the aftertastes than the taste itself. His folk's meal is really the cooking rather than the eating. The eating is the meal's end.

"Hey," he tells the file cabinet's bottom drawer. "Um."

It's the anniversary. Riz doesn't know the exact date of his dad's death; nobody currently alive does. He and Mom both use the date of the funeral, though as he moved out to Bastion and then got more directly involved with Interplanar he hasn't really been going to Dad's grave as much. Doesn't seem like very efficient use of his time, catching a train or borrowing a car or spending a whole spell slot on going somewhere he knows Dad isn't at. They're sorta coworkers now. They talk on and off every other week between missions. When he goes now, it's just to clean up the place, keeping the landmark tidy and respectable.

Without that work to mark the date he doesn't really know what it serves anymore. But he still remembers it. Still takes note, absently or not, when it comes around.

There's not really a good way to tell the drawer that. Riz looks for another way to start the... conversation, hopefully. The question at play, he'd guess, is why he's doing this. He's been pretty content ignoring all the rattlings and the knocks from inside and the times it sits slightly ajar without him ever opening it himself; hell, he still uses the three drawers on top of it. Space is fucking precious in Bastion.

Precious enough to finally fix this damn drawer so he gets his turn to use it? Riz asks himself. Is that what we're getting to? Then he dismisses the thought - he didn't manage to fix it the times he actually tried, let alone-- now. When he doesn't really care that much to.

That's probably a good place to start. "'s fine if you keep being in there, turns out," Riz says.

The lunch hours are quiet in the block, sleepy and bright with the brief window of sunlight that manages to break through roof overhangs and extended balconies and laundry lines and climbing vines. Riz's work isn't loud here (the loud parts happen away from his office, if everything goes right), but the fragment of early summer heat reflected in the steady warmth his meal still carries compels him to lower his voice even more. It makes the words feel intimate, in a way he's never been familiar with - if he says something he just says it. He doesn't whisper. If he gives his friends something, he gives it open-palm. He's found out, along the way, that people usually don't think of rituals and courtesies the way he does.

Small voice for a diminished monster. "You know why I think so?" Riz asks. "Because almost two decades ago you kidnapped me and almost killed me, and now you rattle a drawer in my office."

It doesn't sound as much like a taunt as Riz wanted it to; the drawer has made a lot of noises again this morning when he checked the calendar, and he was definitely annoyed at it. Now, though, facing it like this after cooking the whole morning with more grandparents and peers from the block than he can count on both hands to cater for a tenant union meeting, he thinks the annoyance has morphed. Changed shape.

It has the shades of something like pity. Riz is not prone to pity, and especially not at these kinda matters. It's slightly maddening that he coheres perfectly outside of this one spot. That he commands his spaces, except for a drawer.

He puts the tupperware onto the floor between himself and the cabinet. "I know we're aware it's the anniversary," he says at the drawer. "You do this every year. You make a ruckus every time I decide to go do my job instead of mooching off my friends' aircon, and every time I get an invitation to some stupid social thing I want to turn down, and every time one of the old people tries to introduce me to a child or a nibling, because being a bachelor over thirty is weird," he pinches the bridge of his nose. "I have three fucking jobs. I love doing my fucking jobs. I'm forcing funds into infrastructures. You're never leaving, are you."

The drawer vibrates lightly. It's a very, very mild acknowledgement, considering the history of reactions Riz has gotten from this thing. Riz thinks it's emanating joyous agreement, or satisfaction.

It only sharpens the pity. Riz doesn't like that, but it's how it is. That's, ultimately, the lesson he's been taught over and over and over again, just by existing as himself, turned every which way by space after space that don't see him eye-to-eye: it's not like he'd quit living over any of it. It's not like any of it can sand off these fundamental pieces of him.

He's outgrown a lot of things, he's found out. Again, and again, and again. A childhood home, a yearly trip, a monster.

"'s probably scary for you, huh?" He asks. "Because I left."

He thinks he hears joints creak that sound like you did. Probably the way a scorned lover would say it, in a movie or a yellowback. He has no more connection to the idea than he did as a kid. Less, because it doesn't even scare him.

"That's what it is, right? That it's the anniversary, and I'll never be like Dad." He raises a knee from the floor, pulls it back closer to him. Slings an arm over it. "You love to remind me. The thing is, Dad also left. He loved Mom and he loved me, and none of us wanted it to happen, but it still did. Because love does fuckall to make anyone stay on its own."

He's long past being bitter about it. It's just the facts. Once upon a time he looked into the future and the specter of his friends' happily-ever-after casted lightless, fathomless shadow over him. Love, marriage, that kind of devotion, to a fifteen-year-old with more solved cases than friends seemed so eternal. Final.

But you can only watch your friends build up apps' worth of jilted lovers for so long before getting over it.

"You know what I learned?" Riz tells the drawer. "Love doesn't make anyone stay. Project management does."

He stands up, and picks up the tupperware of Dame Carabelle's casserole, that he helped make, that he helped share with a block's worth of neighbors and members of a community he's at home with, and goes sit at his desk to eat. "Last chance to get any," he drops an offer over his shoulder as he walks away.

He doesn't eat all of his share in one go. What he's spared he leaves on the desk when going outside for a smoke break. Baron looks the exact same as when he saw them last, when he catches a glimpse; they haven't grown at all. They aren't there when he comes back inside, but the leftover has gone days-old cold, like someone's sucked the future out of it.

[peninkwrites]

Lines Drawn in Sand & Concrete - Ch 4 of ?

Tubbo and Quackity get their footing on uneven ground.

[CW: referenced abuse, past violence, and gore]

crossposted to ao3

Ch 1

Ch 3

Ch 5

Mafia AU

~ Quackity & Tubbo ~

Quackity has to go get his car after the funeral.  He’s not planning on keeping it, not after he smashed in the bumper and not after all he can fucking think about in there is that car was Schlatt’s first and foremost, but he could sell it somewhere, it’s not so busted up as to be without use.  Karl doesn’t have a car, and the miserable chill in the air is too cold for a walk, so he has a coworker drop him off a block over after one of his last days in the office.  He didn’t have them take him right to the car, considering it’s around the corner from a rather dramatic crime scene, but close.

Quackity had forgotten just how bad the damage was.  He stops at the street corner, hands buried in his pockets, bullet wound aching especially bad in the cold, and stares at the hole in the ground.  The burnt out car remains there in pieces.  Quackity can’t help but wonder if there was enough body left to identify.  Quackity thinks about his shoulder, and stares at the wreckage, and has a hard time comprehending that one of these things was caused by the other.  Tubbo had fucking destroyed a man for what had amounted to an ache in Quackity’s chest.  Okay, maybe a bit worse than an ache in his chest, but not enough to warrant this.  He can’t hold it against Tubbo, nor think that it wasn’t smart in the long run, but the sight of the damage just leaves him a little more wary.

He goes back to the car.  It’s cold out, enough that keeping his hands out of his pockets for the steering wheel is unpleasant, so he sits there at first, waiting for the heating to hum to life.  He doesn’t know how in the past few days of disuse his car has developed this faint musty odor.  It’s been a long few days.

He has a lot to do.  The car is still cold, but he can’t be bothered to wait around any longer, so he takes his hands out of his pockets and starts driving. It has been a bit of a snowball, starting out slow, little steps back into being his own person, before progressing far more rapidly.  Things have changed.  Quackity disentangled himself from Schlatt’s business, left Tubbo to his reign, and started making moves.  It has felt like a long time coming, so maybe he convinced himself things would come together more easily if he wanted it bad enough.  He should’ve known better by now.  Maybe he’s just gotten too ambitious, but he thinks if he plays it carefully, he can get this done in a matter of months.  Hey, maybe he’ll even be able to convince Mayor Hedge to go against the prohibition state in Schlatt's honor or something.

What the fuck is that smell?  He’s about to pull over and tear up the seats to see if some old takeout is shoved under it.  It’s almost like old meat, but there’s something fungal about it, like mushrooms next to rot and pennies.  He doesn’t even want this stupid fucking car anymore.  He could always just give up and drive it into the river but what is it?!  At this point he just wants to figure out what the hell it could be.

He wants to get rid of it, to get rid of any remnants of Schlatt, but considering the amount of money he’s about to burn, he should probably keep ahold of this car, busted up bumper or not.  It’s not like ditching the car is going to fix him, to remove the fact that even now some part of him feels grief for losing Schlatt no matter how much he doesn’t want to.  It’s not something he can just turn off.  If he could have cut his feelings for Schlatt out of himself maybe he would’ve had the brains to run years ago, but it’s not like he has a choice.

Maybe he has control issues, he probably has control issues.  Of course he does considering the bullshit he’s had to put up with in the last seven years, but it’s fine.  This time he actually is in control.  They’ve run out of threats.  Tubbo is in charge on one side of things, and on the other the Badlands seem more occupied in looking for their diamond in the rough than starting fights.  The man that shot him is safe to say not a problem, so he’s fine.  He doesn’t need to always been on edge anymore.  So what the fuck is currently reeking like a rotting steak–

Quackity tolerates it long enough to park outside of his and Karl’s apartment, but after that he’s staring around the car, but there’s nothing, no old takeout, no garbage; not that he thought there would be.  He could just get out of the car and leave, but this stupid fucking smell of old mushrooms or something feels like the source of his rage.  It takes him several minutes to think to check the glove box.  The moment it clicks open, something falls out into the passenger seat and the smell immediately gets a hundred times worse; it’s definitely old meat.  “Oh fuck–” Quackity gags and stumbles out of the car, he almost keeps it together.  Until he thinks about how he'd planned on fucking taking a bite out of that thing and he ends up vomiting onto the pavement.  He doesn’t get up.  His shoulder is killing him, hitting the ground sending jarring pain through the wound.  He tries to breathe.  It’s not quite a return of reason, merely horror that he really thought he could win if he ate Schlatt’s heart.  He takes a deep breath and smells it again.  That’s enough to get him moving again, standing on shaking legs.  He shuts the car door.  He isn’t sure how it fucking got there, probably Tubbo, as he’s the one who drove here in the first place, but he wishes he hadn’t.  What actually gets him to not walk away is the thought of how fucking badly he doesn’t want Karl to find out about this.  The thought of that conversation, the way Karl would look at him, that’s enough to get him to pull his shirt over his nose, open the car door, and grab the bag it’s wrapped in.  Thinking back on his breakdown in the morgue, he feels almost ashamed.  There was nothing to gain from that, it was a pathetic attempt to get revenge on a dead man.  It doesn’t make a fucking difference, instead it’s just more proof that the bastard drove him insane.

You wanna get revenge?  You’re gonna keep going.  That’s all you can do.

Quackity can’t help but wonder when that will feel like enough.  He walks around the building to the dumpster, and maybe he should take some satisfaction in one more piece of that man rotting with the garbage, but right now, he just wants to go home.  He hopes that this will be the last time he has to shower off Schlatt's stench before he feels like he can touch Karl.  Quackity stays in the shower until the water runs cold.  He can still smell it.

Also in the days following the funeral, he forces himself to ask something of Karl, that his boyfriend get a proper job.  It isn’t an easy conversation, Karl still stressed from Quackity getting shot and reluctant to be any further away from him.

“You can’t just get rid of me so you can keep running into trouble alone,” Karl was immediately irritable, even as he fussed over Quackity, worrying he might strain his injured shoulder.

“Karl, no that’s not– That’s not why I–” Quackity struggles to defend himself, still in pain and a little out of it.

“What else is it, then?!  You never wanted me to get a real job before!” Karl is at least a little offended at the idea that his current job didn’t count.

“Things are different now.  I– I don’t really know how to explain, but can you trust me that this is important?  You’ve got to have your own money.  I will always support you, you know that, it’s just–”

“It’s just what, Q?  Can’t you just tell me?”

Quackity falls silent.  It’s not that he didn’t know how to explain, but he definitely didn’t want to.  “You’ve–” Quackity felt a lump in his throat and had to pause.  “You’ve got to be able to get out, Karl.  Okay?  You’ve got to be able to survive on your own.  I don’t want it to ever come to that, but if it did–”

“Like, if you get yourself killed?” Karl could be so harsh when he felt like he had to be.

Quackity looks almost guilty.

It made Karl nervous.  “Q?”

“No, not if I get myself killed.  That happens,” Quackity laughed bitterly, “you’ll be fine.  Everything I have would go to you.  Life insurance would also help, it’s not for that.”  Quackity didn’t continue, the pause extending too long.

Karl sits beside him, holding onto his hand tightly.  “Talk to me.”

Quackity still sounds strained.  “It’s– It’s important.  It’s important to me, that you’re… that you’re financially independent,” he says it so carefully, with so much weight, both hoping Karl will understand and wishing he never had to have this conversation in the first place.  He’s forgotten how to be cold toward Karl, but that persisting vulnerability is a hindrance now.  “Karl…” Quackity kisses the back of his hand and braces himself.  “I’m asking you to do this so you can run away from me if you have to.”

“Run away from you?” Karl stares at him, puzzled and all the more unnerved.  “Why would I… Q, can you like, explain what you mean more?”

Quackity had feared he was going to ask something like that.  He doesn't know how to explain, he hardly understands it himself.  “Look, this is– This is just insurance, okay?  I don’t wanna– I don’t wanna end up like him.”  One word radiating resentment. “Anything like him…”

Finally pieces fall into place.  Karl almost felt annoyed with himself for not realizing sooner.

“Oh.”  Karl doesn’t want to say that man’s name.  Even dead, he feels like something taboo and vile not meant to exist in the walls of their apartment.  “Because he…” Karl bottles his own anger.  There’s nowhere for it to go.  “I think I get it now, Q.  But… I know you, right?  You’re not like that.  I’m not a… I’m not a hostage,” he laughs, Quackity doesn’t.  “I know you’re not gonna hold anything over me to keep me here.  I want to be here.”

Quackity doesn’t look calmed, he continues on, just as determined.  Somehow Karl implying Quackity had in some way been a hostage solidifies his resolve.  He hadn't felt like a hostage either.  “I know.  So, can you do this for me, Karl?  I know you mean what you’ve said, but it would… it would make me feel better, to know you’re not dependent on me.  To know you’ve got your own money tucked away, alright?  I cannot be anything like him, and this is one fucking thing I can––we can do to prevent that.”

“Okay.  Okay, if it’ll make you feel better.  I’ll get a job––a part time job,” Karl says firmly.

Quackity smiles, and for all his weariness at least his relief is genuine.  There’s something else that has been rising to the forefront of his mind, but he doesn’t want Karl to think he’s only saying it to cushion the blow of the previous tension.  At the same time, he doesn’t want to wait.  He doesn’t want to be held back from loving him anymore.  So Quackity puts his arm around Karl and pulls him close, sitting up to kiss his temple, murmuring softly.

“One day, I’m gonna have known you for longer than I knew him.”

Karl wraps his arms around him, careful not to lay against his injured side.  He smiles, something bittersweet.  “Cool.  I can’t wait, dude.”  His casual tenderness is enough to loosen the knot in Quackity's chest.  He can only hope he didn't toss his own heart in the dumpster alongside Schlatt's, but as long as Karl stays, he thinks he might be okay.

Karl had gotten a part time job within the week, and Quackity had continued to throw himself into the casino and everything he’s ever wanted for the past eight years.  Karl is definitely not built for the 9 to 5 slog and loathes the very thought, but he’s more tolerant considering where he’s landed.  He’s working 20 hours a week at the Kinoko Bookstore a few streets over, his friend Tina had offered him a job previously, he’d just never wanted to take it, but he doesn’t mind spending time with her.  It feels like the right thing for them.  It makes it easier for Quackity to move forward, at least.  Karl can get away from him if he has to.  On the list of ways Schlatt held him in a vice, the money aspect is the thing he's the most anxious about in regards to Karl.  He knows he would never pull a gun on Karl, threaten to hurt him or someone he loves, but some nagging fear in the back of his mind wonders if he's weak enough there would come a time where Quackity would try to convince Karl not to leave him simply because he'd have nowhere else to go.  This is insurance against that, but it doesn't change that Quackity was scared of himself in the first place.

~

It’s in the early days when Tubbo receives a warning, although after the house burning down, maybe another warning would be more accurate.  He’s met with his troops a few times, and he doesn’t like any of them, but some of them he thinks might grudgingly respect him.  Exploding a man to bits tends to do that.  At this point his sole goal is to undo the damage left behind, to make sure no one is continuing to harass local businesses or threaten general harm to ordinary people.

“The only people I want you lot shooting is the pigs, got it?  That, or essential cases of self preservation.  If I catch word of any civilian casualties, I am actually going to burn you alive.  And, well,” Tubbo smiles, it tugs at the bandages still covering one side of his face.  “I promise it’s not pleasant.”  He’s done his best to use his injuries to his advantage, rather than taking it as weakness.  It means he cannot wince, he cannot get tired, he can’t even let himself fucking scratch at it, although he’d imagine Ponk would prefer that as well, being his sort of doctor.

“Boss, if I may,” someone speaks up.  Tubbo should really learn the names of the men he’s ordering around.  Tubbo gives him a sharp nod.  “I was wondering your plans for, you know, making literally any money?”

Tubbo laughs.  “You’ve got the patience of an infant, do you?  Why don’t you just be grateful I’m not burning money like Schlatt did, hm?  Do you have any idea how many payouts should’ve gone to you lot that he threw away on booze and garbage?”

The man irritably falls silent.

“I’ve been transparent with you boys.  First we clean up his mess, then we move forward,” Tubbo hopes he sounds confident.

“Right, and become a fucking saintlike institution, huh?  Because that’s what our operation is all about?” Someone else scoffs.

“Get out,” Tubbo says icily.

“What?”

“Get the fuck out.  Last I checked, I didn't say you could speak.  I’m not going to put a bullet in your leg for your slight, but maybe if you don’t start moving I’ll change my mind.  If you’re going to act like an insolent child you’ll get sent away from the table like one.  You have your duties, come back with an ounce of respect next time,” Tubbo stares him down.

The man rolls his eyes, as if expecting Tubbo to go back on it.

“It seems I have more patience than you do, but not by much,” Tubbo reaches for his pistol, laying it on the table, already his heart is beating a little faster.  He hates this part.  “Would you like to wait until I run out?”

One more pause, one more moment of indecision where Tubbo should have shot him, but he waits a second longer and he gets lucky.  The man leaves, irritable and childish.  Tubbo cannot lose the tension in his shoulders because then the others will see him visibly relax.  Instead he remains wired like a spring.

“Er, Boss, we’re on the clock here, maybe we should be done for the day?” Jack speaks up beside him.

“Right.  Fine.  All of you get out,” Tubbo waves them off.  Jack had only said that for his benefit, an excuse to clear the room to Tubbo can finally breathe, not to say Tubbo doesn’t appreciate it.

The room clears until only Tubbo, Jack, and one other remain.

“Morelli.” Tubbo stares at him.  “What can I do for you?”

Morelli is an imposing man, easily twice the size of Tubbo, but cautious nonetheless.  He keeps his hands folded in front of him.  “Could I talk with you, Boss?”

“I mean, you’re speaking to me right now,” Tubbo says and immediately regrets it.  It’s too lighthearted, too childish, but it gets a smirk out of Morelli.

“Yeah, guess so.  Can I… speak freely, then, Boss?”

Tubbo nods.  He’s nervous.  He hopes it isn’t obvious.

“You…” the man trails off, hesitating.  The pause extends.

“I said you can speak freely, Morelli.  So, please.”

Finally, the man speaks his mind.  “You can’t keep talking like you know what you’re doing and waving a gun around every time they doubt you.  That’s not gonna work forever.”

Tubbo hates the bitter, frustrated anger that rises alongside the retort, “well, it seemed to work just fine for Schlatt, so,” he laughs and hopes it doesn’t sound frantic.

“I guess it did,” Morelli concedes.  “But I thought you wanted to be better than him, huh?”

Tubbo is so tired.  He nods.

“The boys don’t doubt you because they don’t think you won’t shoot someone if necessary, that’s not your issue.”

“Well, then what is my issue, Morelli?” Tubbo smiles in a way not quite hinged.

Morelli looks too disapproving, too much like he is an adult and Tubbo is a child he has to guide.  Tubbo can’t stand it.

“Look, most of us have… well, we’ve watched you grow up.  Call me sentimental, but it makes it a little hard to…” Morelli trails off, thinking about his words carefully.  “You’re vulnerable.  And not just ‘cause you got that squishy baby face.  I look at you and I remember you staying behind corners and being all jumpy and hiding in HQ’s shadow.  Like, even all this, I think we’re… some of them are thinking this is all something he put you up to.”

“He put me up to?”

“Yeah.  HQ.  He gave you some instructions for while he’s away, let you play at being grown-up for a little while, and now we all just play along until…” Morelli looks apologetic.  “Until someone finally toughens up enough to kill you.  Half of ‘em are cowards who don’t wanna risk it, the rest… we’d rather not shoot a kid.  No offense.”

It’s not like Tubbo hasn’t suspected as much.  He sits, head in his hands, a migraine lurking.  His burns itch.  “Quackity isn’t a part of this anymore.  He hasn’t––He hasn’t told me to do anything.  He had no fucking clue I was going to kill the bastard until the night of.  I gave him a way out, that’s what he wanted from this.  Just a way out!  These decisions were mine.”  Tubbo knows he’s not really arguing his case.  He sounds like a teenage boy irritated that he’s still being treated like a child, because that’s exactly what he is.

“Huh,” Morelli is clearly trying to sound neutral.

“Proceed with your honesty,” Tubbo motions for him to continue.

“You just… you always seemed to idolize the guy.  So… for the sake of honesty, you might wanna keep your distance from him for a bit.  Just until we can get it out of their minds that you’re just following his orders.”

Tubbo certainly agrees, not to mention he’s relatively sure Quackity won’t want anything to do with him now, considering the legacy he’s upholding.  Tubbo doesn’t want to be like this, but in order to be better he has to stay alive.  He’s doing that, he doesn’t know when he’ll be able to start doing the ‘be better’ part.  Something else in his spiel raises questions.  Tubbo looks up at Morelli again.  “We?”

Morelli raises his hands passively.  “You.”

Tubbo understands why Quackity trusted Morelli, but he knows this man’s loyalty is far from ensured.  “Thank you for your honesty, Morelli.  You’re dismissed.”

Morelli gives him and Jack a nod and leaves.  Tubbo waits in the silence for a moment.  Part of him doesn’t want to let go of Quackity, especially not on someone else’s advice, but he doesn’t think he has a choice.  Quackity let go of him first, and maybe eventually that feeling that’s something like grief will settle in his chest.

Morelli is one of the more trustworthy survivors of Schlatt’s lot, it’s a shame he’ll be dead in two months.

“You haven’t said much, Jack.”

“What-? Oh, no I guess I haven’t,” Jack is broken from his own thoughts, almost startled.  He’s looking at Tubbo with something like caution.

“And?”

Jack, like Morelli, thinks over his words carefully.  “I’d say he’s not wrong, but I also want you to do what’s good for you.”

Tubbo exhales a laugh.  “Yeah, no, I agree.”

“You do?” Jack sounds surprised.

“Morelli isn’t wrong.”

Jack sighs, he should’ve known better than to think Tubbo would want to take care of himself.  That’s his job now, even if he doesn’t think he’s great at it.  “Right.”

"I need to do something and fast, Jack.  I appreciate all you've done, but you've got to admit, if these men all decided they wanted me dead, you won't be able to stop them."

Jack bristles. "Then we make sure it never gets to that point, alright, Tubbo?  It's not happening.  Not an option."

Tubbo smiles.  "I appreciate the sentiment, Jack."

Jack doesn't continue to argue, but it's more than sentiment, however jaded Tubbo has become.  Tubbo dies over Jack's dead body, and Jack has decided he will not die.

~

Quackity knew Tubbo could handle himself, but he still wanted to check in.  He tries calling the house, days after the funeral, to find the line has been disconnected.  Maybe it shouldn’t have, but that immediately set him into a panic, an all out spiral of cold-blooded dread, because it’s not merely Tubbo didn’t answer, the line is dead.  Karl doing his best to talk him down.

“Maybe he’s…” Karl doesn’t have an answer for where he might have gone.  It’s not merely he’s not answering, the phone line is gone.  “Maybe he moved out?”

“In what fucking world would anyone buy that cursed house?  Let alone in four days,” Quackity says sharply.  “The hardwood is stained with blood if you look under the disgusting fur rugs.”  Quackity shudders.  “And if some psycho did buy it, why would they disconnect the phone first thing, huh?!”

“Maybe you should call… um, would Tommy know where he is?”

“Right!  Right, I’ll call Tommy!  I’ll just call Tommy!  That’ll help us out, huh?!  You know, the fucking homeless kid–”

“Quackity,” Karl turns sharp, unwilling to put up with Quackity’s desperate harshness.

“Fuck, sorry, Karl, I just–” Quackity laughs hysterically, pacing the length of their apartment.  “He’s dead!  That kid is fucking dead, and that is my fucking fault ‘cause I left him on his own–”

“Q!” Karl grabs his shoulders, stopping him.  “Please just take a deep breath.”  Karl is scared too, Quackity can see it in his eyes, but he holds onto him so carefully, keeping him steady.  “I’m going to call… to call Niki.”

“Niki, right, she–” Quackity nods sharply.  “She can find him, if he’s… if he’s still… Yeah.”

Karl goes back to the phone.  Quackity sits on their couch and tries not to be sick.  He listens to every word from the other room.

“Hey, Niki!  It’s Karl.  I’m good, I’m good, we’re just, Quackity and I are looking for Tubbo?  Have you heard from him?”  A pause.  “He’s there?!  That’s––That’s awesome!  We’re gonna come over there, okay?  Okay, thanks!”  Karl returns to the living room.  “He’s there, Q!”

Quackity is already putting his shoes on.  The Secret City is busy at this time of night, he doesn’t even bother getting the right bread for the door, instead sharply telling Ranboo “it’s me!” and barreling past them, Karl trying to keep up behind him.  He looks right to Tubbo’s usual booth and the first words out of his mouth are “what the fuck happened to your face?”

Tubbo bristles, irritated and almost offended, standing from his usual booth, Jack having fallen silent beside him.  “Got burned, I feel like that’s quite obvious.  And how are you, Quackity?”

“What the hell d’you mean it got burned?” Quackity ignores his icy niceties and steps closer, moving as if to put a hand on Tubbo’s shoulder, to look at the bandages, but Tubbo sharply steps back.  Quackity freezes, hand still outstretched.  The pause gets painful, until Quackity lowers his hand and steps back.  He cannot stop himself from staring at the white cloth covering so much of his face, covering his neck and clearly going down to his chest.  “That’s not– That’s not a fucking campfire type of burn, Tubbo, what the hell happened?”

“You don’t just ask someone that,” Jack says sharply, protective of Tubbo in a way that feels strange.  He doesn’t know why Tubbo would need defending from him.

“Right,” Quackity stops, grimacing.  He’s gotten ahead of himself.  “Sorry, I just–”

“Why did you come over here, Quackity?  Has something happened?” Tubbo gets right to the point, unsure of what to make of Quackity’s panic, expression somewhere between worried and wary.

“I tried… I tried calling you, and the line was dead, and I’ve been trying to find you, and Karl heard you were here, and I…” Quackity wants to hug Tubbo, but from the way Tubbo is looking at him, he doesn’t think that’s an option.

Tubbo looks solemn, but maybe more inclined to believe what Quackity is saying.  He nods.  “Well, the line was dead because the house burned down.  A few days ago.”

“Holy shit, man, that’s–” Quackity doesn’t know what to say.  “That’s insane.”

“I’m doing fine, Big Q,” Tubbo smiles.  “You don’t have to worry about me.”

Quackity clears his throat to stop his voice from shaking.  “I thought you were dead, Tubbo.”

Tubbo looks puzzled and uneasy, like Quackity is trying to upset him.  “Why?”

“Why?  ‘Cause, fuck, man, I leave you on your own for a few days and then suddenly the phone line to the house goes dead?  What was I gonna think?” Quackity laughs uncertainly.

“I mean, did you really assume the moment I stopped talking to you it meant I was dead?” Tubbo raises an eyebrow at him.  He’s still too calm, when the adrenaline still hasn’t left Quackity’s veins.

“Not ‘cause I don’t think you can handle yourself, Tubbo, sometimes shit just happens.  I’d prefer if you didn’t hold it against me,” Quackity turns sharp.  “What the hell is your problem?”

Tubbo laughs sharply, offended.  “Excuse me?  I’m sorry, what’s my problem?  Mine?  You came running in here like you were about to have a breakdown, and I have the audacity to be perhaps a bit too calm, and you think I have a problem?”

Quackity is for once without retort.  He’s so used to Tubbo being quiet, being contained, and how can he blame him for letting go now that the noose around both of their necks is gone?

“Glad you’re okay…ish, Tubbo,” Karl is beside him, one hand on Quackity’s arm.

“Thank you, Karl.  Maybe you should get this one home before he gets too worked up,” Tubbo remains icy.

“This one?!” Quackity snaps.  “You’ve lost your fucking mind, alright?!  After all the shit I’ve done for you–”

“Yeah, and don’t think I’m not grateful, but I’m not going to act in a manner you find makes sense just to appease your bad attitude.  Go home, Quackity.”

They stare at each other, Quackity offended, Tubbo holding his ground, and Quackity can’t remember the kid ever being this bold.  He doesn’t think he’s changed this much since Schlatt’s death, not like Tubbo had.  Quackity can’t help the nagging question of how much of Tubbo he actually knows.

“Glad you’re not dead, but also, fuck you, man,” Quackity gives him a nod, and storms out.

Karl lingers behind, torn.  He gives Niki an awkward wave, and follows his boyfriend out.

Tubbo stays standing. He hates that he wants to cry. He’s tired of people assuming he’s a child in need of saving. He doesn’t know how much longer he’ll have to prove himself before he can be a person again.

After that talk with Tubbo, Quackity focused solely on the parts of his life he thought he could control; working on Las Nevadas, spending time with Karl.  The past months have been as stressful as the rest of Quackity’s life, with many of the same burdens.  He’s semi-retired from the firm, staying on only as an investor, but his time has instead been committed to enacting a plan he has been building for years.  He officially bought the old bank across the river a few days after Schlatt’s death, soon after the funeral he hired Foolish as an architect to turn the place into something actually functional.  He’s quite good at straightening out bureaucracy, getting a business license and all the paperwork squared away.  He’s been recovering from a bullet to the shoulder and he hasn’t had a single day off.  He’s staying up late and waking up early, running himself ragged waiting for this whole thing to blow up in his face or for some old problem to shoot him dead, but at the same time, Quackity can’t remember the last time he was this happy.

Karl spends his free time at the up and coming casino, the renovations well under way.  Quackity doesn’t have free time, but they make it work.

“Karlos,” Quackity sighs loudly.  “You’re leaving me already?”  He pouts from the chair behind his desk.

One of the finished rooms thus far is Quackity’s office.  He’s had a beautiful cherrywood desk brought in.  It’s already a nightmare of paperwork and planning, the phone has been set up as well.  He usually starts the day calling current or potential investors or reaching out to old connections about getting ahold of the machinery he needs.  Things are coming together, slowly but surely, and Quackity is still dead set on meeting his own deadline.  They’ll be ready.  Karl sadly cannot spend his days hanging out with a rubix cube to keep him company.

“I’ve got work, remember?” Karl says pointedly.

“Aw,” Quackity feigns sympathy.  “I’m so sorry, mi amor, that’s tragic.”

“Shut up,” Karl laughs, giving him a kiss.

Quackity grins.  “Say hi to Tina for me!”

“M’kay!”

He has a few minutes of concentration before he is interrupted.  “Hey, uh, Boss?” Foolish’s voice comes from down the hall.  “You got visitors!”

Quackity frowns, puzzled, getting up and going down the corridor toward the front hall.  The place is a mess of new paint and furniture soon to be unpacked, but the core of the building would remain the same.  It was already an opulent building, all that’s changing is stripping out the desks for card tables and ATMs for slot machines.  He originally wanted to keep the main counter as a bar, but he knows the cops will be breathing down his neck no matter what he does, but he doesn’t plan on giving them an excuse, so all booze will have to remain under the table.

Standing by the front door, looking haggard and scanning the building with careful interest, is Tubbo.  Beside him is Jack Manifold.  It’s been a long time since he’s seen him.  No longer is his face covered by a bandage, instead an angry red scar is visible.  It looks painful.  Occasionally Karl has dragged him out to the Secret City, but they’d avoided each other since their argument.  Only now does Quackity feel a hint of guilt.  Quackity feels like something is off about the kid, more than the looking exhausted.

“Quackity,” Tubbo spots him, giving him a nod.  “I’d like to speak with you.”

Quackity goes to reply, when he notices the holster under Tubbo’s arm.  That’s what’s changed; that’s not new, not by any means, but it’s something else.  He is visibly armed.  Tubbo’s suit fits him.  Quackity doesn’t know why that makes him uneasy.

~

Tubbo has never been more free and never more afraid.  At least while living with his– living with Schlatt, he knew what might kill him, he knew the cost and he knew how to avoid it.  He doesn’t know anymore.

On the list of reasons he had to kill Schlatt, debt was high.  Schlatt made himself dangerous, dangerous enough to get stupid.  He borrowed money from people he deemed not a threat, and those people waited, not loan sharks, more like an ambush predator, waiting for blood in the water, for Schlatt to get weak.  Tubbo knew if he didn’t kill him, they’d realize how much Schlatt had fallen apart and strike first.  So Tubbo beat them to the punch.  He thinks he’s scared them off for the time being with his bomb, but eventually they’ll move back in if he doesn’t prove he can fight back, if he doesn’t prove he can pay them off.

That’s the truth of it.  He can intimidate them all he wants, but until Schlatt’s debts– his debts are paid, he won’t ever be something like safe.  He won’t say fully safe, because he doesn’t think that’s an option, but something a bit closer to what he is now, clinging to any semblance of intimidation while the world continues to crumble around him.  People are going missing.  They’re turning up dead.  Tubbo is starting to see a pattern.

He’s just trying to keep what’s left together, that’s what he tells himself, it’s how he excuses not investigating men he is now somehow responsible for turning up shredded in the river.  He has to dig them out of debt first, then he can worry about the survivors.  It’s an excuse, however much he’d like to deny it.  

Tubbo has sold a decent chunk of Schlatt’s cars, and that had managed some of the debt.  That alongside the insurance on the house got him an apartment of his own.  He had picked one of Schlatt’s other houses, broken down messes used to store hostages, as his new base of operations.  Best to keep work and home life separate.  Tubbo thought he was coping relatively well.  He’d set up some money laundering operations as well as allowing some blackmailing to continue, usually adulterous partners or something adjacent.  No hostages.  He doesn’t muddy his hands with it personally, but that also feels fitting.  Schlatt rarely got involved in the day-to-day, only making an appearance for particular acts of violence or instances with a large payout.

He doesn’t want to be anything like that man, but he needs to scare people.  If he doesn’t scare them, they will think he’s weak and they will destroy him.  Not just him, but everyone and everything he has left.

Tubbo has put a stop to their bullying of local businesses, but he allows them to continue to pursue businesses that are more predatory in nature.  Banks, although those are hard to manage considering their intense security, occasionally upscale restaurants that have booted out mom and pop’s type places, private dentistry because those bastards are charging a fortune for nothing and they know it, and so on.

It’s not enough.  He’s definitely making less than Schlatt ever had, and he’s not spending near as much which helps, but nonetheless.  Tubbo hadn’t realized how much of this would require an accountant.  At least Fundy is cheap out of pity, but that’s a problem as well.  Tubbo cannot be pitied.  The scar now creeping up the side of his face, just reaching high enough to make his eye squint slightly, maybe it could be taken as intimidating, but it’s harder when the rest of him still seems so young and baby-faced.

In the same vein, he doesn’t go to the Secret City as much as he used to.  He doesn’t see Ranboo often enough, and at this point he thinks Tommy might hate him so best to avoid him as well.  He still has Jack, but Jack worries.  Jack cannot fuss over him like he’s a child, so Tubbo knows he needs to keep him at arm’s length just like all the rest.  It’s hard, but it’s manageable.  He’ll keep managing it until they’re just a little safer, then he’ll catch up, make amends and such.  He will.

Tubbo first hears about a casino opening up across the river and his desperation finds a light at the end of the tunnel.  He’s been trying to expand West, again, horribly like his father– like Schlatt had been trying to do, but that’s where the money lies.  There’s nothing more predatory, more able to churn out money, than a casino.  Tubbo could see no downsides to charging West, and once a few blocks in, convincing whatever poor greedy bastard has chosen this particular enterprise to cough up a cut.  A consistent cut from a place like that might actually make a difference, take a few loan sharks out of the water.

It’s perfect, until he decides to scope the place out and sees none other than Quackity HQ managing the proceedings.  It’s enough to make him hesitate, but he remembers that first night with the hostages, the way the few men convinced to play along had looked at Quackity first, not at him.  Those left saw Tubbo grow up and dare to trust Quackity.  He knows that’s something to exploit, so maybe he’ll have to be a little harsh.  Quackity will understand.  Or maybe he won’t, and that’s fine too, because Tubbo doesn’t need Quackity to understand.  He made his own feelings quite clear after the bomb.  When he ran from the monster he saw Tubbo growing into.

He has other reasons for reconvening with Quackity, some kinder than others, but his financial priorities are as good a front as any.

“Quackity, I’d like to speak with you,” Tubbo greets his old friend, fellow victim, and occasional savior with a tone reminiscent of a politician.

“Right,” Quackity smirks, eyebrows raised, as if amused by him.  “What for?”

“I’m… curious about your establishment.”

“Curious, huh?” Quackity looks doubtful.  “And curiosity calls for a .44 under your arm?”

Tubbo glances down, puzzled.  “That’s nothing new, Quackity.  Or personal,” he laughs.  “You seem… a little on edge, Big Q.”

Quackity stares at him, calculating.  He knows what kind of game this is, he just hadn’t expected to be on the other side of the board from Tubbo.  “What do you want, Tubbo?  Last time I saw you, I didn’t get the feeling you wanted to make any more social calls with me, so get to the point.”

“Eager, are we?” Tubbo sounds polite but is nonetheless mocking.  He glances around at the fresh renovations and knows money will soon be pouring in.  This is, maybe disappointingly, two birds with one stone.  He gets some revenue, and it becomes quite clear that he’s not walking in Quackity’s shadow.  “We should catch up, Quackity,” he says mildly.  “Could we talk somewhere more private?”

Quackity glances over his shoulder where Foolish awkwardly lingers like he feels like he’s supposed to say something.

“Er, you want me to wait out here, T– Boss?” Jack asks, frowning and clearly displeased with the arrangement.

“Yes.  I shouldn’t be long, Jack, just chat with Foolish,” Tubbo is far too dismissive.  Quackity doesn’t feel like Tubbo is talking to Jack as a friend, and he didn’t miss the title.  He himself had called Tubbo Boss because it had felt necessary when they were in the company of those people that needed convincing.  Quackity doesn’t see why he should now count as one of those people.

Jack nods curtly, grudgingly meandering over to the towering architect.  “Ayup, Foolish?”

“Oh, uh, hey!  D’you wanna see the staircase I remodeled?”

“...sure.”

Tubbo almost smiles, before turning back to Quackity.  “So, somewhere more private?”  Tubbo can see Quackity has measured up the game as well, and is playing as carefully as he is.

“Right, my office,” Quackity points back behind the staff doors, leading the way.

“Quite the operation you’ve got set up here, Quackity,” Tubbo nods back toward the freshly renovated hall.  “I heard there was a casino opening up over here, but I didn’t expect it to be you.”

“What’re you talking about?  I’m great at cards,” Quackity tries for something lighter, but Tubbo doesn’t seem amused.

“More the whole… gambling enabling thing,” Tubbo shrugs.

Quackity smirks, strolling into his office.  “What can I say?  You know how much I love men and their vices, right?”

Tubbo raises his eyebrows, almost amused, but not quite.  “Right.  I recall.”

Quackity loses his good humor, turning back to face him from behind his desk.  Tubbo sounds far too critical, it’s strange.  For a moment, Quackity is reminded of Schlatt’s dogs and the disrespect they had thrown his way, but Quackity knows that can’t be right.  Tubbo knows better.

It’s like Tubbo has the same thought, because he winces.  “Sorry, that wasn’t fair.”

Quackity wants to feel relieved by some indication that Tubbo isn’t entirely changed, but it almost feels worse to know this colder figure is still the same boy he’d protected these past years.

“It’s alright,” Quackity brushes it off easily enough.  Tubbo’s brief moment of authenticity implores Quackity to respond in turn.  “You doing okay, Tubbo?  You seem… a little off, I guess.  I dunno.  Just different.”

“Am I?” Tubbo sounds surprised.  “Well, I think killing your dad and taking over his crime ring will probably do that to a person.”

Quackity laughs.  “Yeah, that’s fair enough.”

Tubbo scans the office, thinking something over, before finally: “Look, can I be frank with you, Quackity?”

“Uh, yeah, I guess so.  What is it?”

“I’m moving to this side of the river.  Or expanding, I guess.  Your casino is in range of what I have planned.”

Quackity had expected as much, but if Tubbo is going to try to intimidate him, he’ll have to work harder than that.  “Is it now?”

Tubbo nods, wandering the office, looking at the blueprints pinned up to the wall.  “I don’t want you to get hurt.”

Quackity narrows his eyes, leaning forward, hands resting on the desk.  “What’s gonna hurt me, Tubbo?  Huh?  If you’re going to say it, say it.”

“Gladly,” Tubbo gets to his other reason for coming here with ease.  “Have you heard about the murders that have been happening lately?”

Quackity feels the shift in tension to something less antagonizing and is almost annoyed by it.  “We have lots of murders around here, Tubbo, do you have something in mind?”

“Yes, actually.  I think someone might be fulfilling Schlatt’s little hitlist.”

Now Quackity is listening.  “What? What the hell are you talking about?”

Tubbo digs into his pocket and pulls out a wrinkled, folded sheet of paper, opening it and tossing it onto the desk in front of him.  Quackity once more stares at Schlatt’s guest list for his mass suicide, and sees several names have been crossed out.  Those Schlatt only marked by the district they ran, Tubbo has replaced with an actual name, many of those are crossed out as well.  The top of the list remains clean, Tubbo, his own name, the mayor, Fundy, and Ponk, as well as survivors of Schlatt’s dogs, but in general, if Tubbo’s keeping track right, half the list is now dead.

“Holy shit.”

“Yeah, really,” Tubbo agrees.

“Any clue who?  How the fuck do you even know about this?” Quackity asks, still scanning the list.  He grimaces at the sight of familiar names, names of people he considers halfway decent.

“Friend of Tommy’s is… a good listener, let’s just say.  They said the cops are well fussed about all this, bodies washing up out of the river slashed to bits,” Tubbo says.  “I thought I’d warn you, Big Q.”

“Warn me?”

“Yeah, not sure if you’d noticed, but your name is on that list as well.  You should invest in some security.  I know Jack isn’t exactly intimidating, but he’s still a good shot and a good second set of eyes.  Maybe see if your man Foolish would do it.”

Quackity shakes his head, scoffing.  “Nah, nah Foolish isn’t interested in fighting.  I don’t know if he’d be any good at it either, despite his size he’s… absentminded.”

“Someone, then.  You don’t exactly look strong, Quackity.  I’d say you’re vulnerable.”

Quackity looks up from the list, sensing something more targeted behind Tubbo’s words now.  “Am I?”

Tubbo shrugs, the illusion of passivity.  “Who’s to say?”

“Tubbo, I have been waiting for this for a long fucking time, and I’m not gonna let you meddle just because you feel like you have to prove yourself,” Quackity gets right to the point.

“I came here to warn you.  I’m doing you a favor.”

“Is that so?”

A pause, Tubbo doesn’t reply for a moment.  “Hm,” Tubbo folds his arms over his chest, mulling it over.  “A casino, huh, Big Q?”

Quackity is thrown off by the change of subject matter.  “Yeah.  Yeah, a fucking casino, what about it?”

Tubbo shrugs.  Another pause.  “D’you know Fundy has a really bad gambling problem?  You’d know that, I reckon.”

Quackity doesn’t say a word.

“That’s why he worked for Schlatt,” Tubbo continues.  “They’ve got some of the same loan sharks, and he thought if he lied to Schlatt and kept him happy, maybe they’d get killed trying to get Schlatt to pay up and then he’d be safe.  I don’t think Fundy wanted to be in debt.  I mean, the man is an accountant, I think he knows better, surely.  He’s not well, though, is he?  That’s what a gambling addiction actually is.  I expect you knew all that as well.”

“And what’s your point here, Tubbo?”

“I don’t know,” Tubbo shrugs.  “I guess I’m just thinking maybe… things aren’t so black and white, is what I’m saying.”  Another pause.  “Some of the names on that list, they had families, and I have nothing to give them.  I cannot kill the persons responsible for taking someone from them, and I certainly cannot afford to replace the income those people provided them, but I want to do that.  And if it means stepping on a couple of toes, interfering in some… I’d say rather shady business practices, all the better.”

“Yeah, it’s not black and white, Tubbo,” Quackity says coldly.  “Guess I expected more.”

Tubbo is visibly tense, but his eyes remain stony.  “I’d say that’s your mistake, then.”

“Guess so.”

The tension radiates like a poison, until Tubbo breaks it.

“It’s been swell, but I should get going,” Tubbo gives him a polite nod, and goes to leave.

Quackity doesn’t escort him out, he remains in his office.  Tubbo is surprised when Quackity doesn’t follow him, but he keeps walking anyway.  There’s this lingering feeling they both share, it wasn’t supposed to be like this.  That doesn’t mean it’s any different.

~

Following that bitter chat, Quackity finds himself presented with a pathetic if not useful opportunity.  His next visitor to his office is unwelcome.

“Captain Warden.  Or, sorry, it’s just Mr. Warden now, right?” Quackity, after a moment’s hesitation, nods the man into his office.  At the very least, he wouldn’t mind the opportunity to mock the man.  His bruises have faded and he's down to just one crutch, but he's still a sight for sore eyes.

“I’m responding to a job listing.”

Quackity laughs, grinning like Sam has just told a joke.  “Are you now?”

“Yeah,” Sam is visibly annoyed.  “You were looking to hire security.”

“You’re still on a fucking crutch, Sam.  Trust me, I recall.”

Sam looks furious, but he contains it well.  “I’ll be on my feet in a few weeks.  I am more than capable of firing a gun like this, and I would hope that my expertise in the area would suffice.”

Quackity realizes the man is being entirely serious.  “You know, last time we met I had pliers.  That was a lot more fun than this.  But, I will say, you’ve got me interested.  Why the fuck would you come to me for a job?  After our… I’ll say complex relationship.”

“Nowhere…” he grimaces, “decent will hire me.  I think Eret King made sure of that.  I’ve burned my bridges with the Badlands, and you’re the next immoral organization I know how to contact.”

Quackity laughs.  “That’s fucking rich, Sam.  As much as I’d fucking love to have you running around as my little guard dog, I trust you about as far as I can spit, so.”

“You don’t have to trust me to know I’ll be good at my job.  All I’m looking for is a paycheck,” Sam is almost pleading now.

"And I'd want to give a paycheck to an abusive, piece of shit ex-cop?"

"What happened with Ponk, that's something different, it's more complicated than that–" Sam cuts himself off, realizing he's digging himself into a hole.  He sighs.  “You know what I can do.  I don't think you're going to get a better offer than me.  And… I also know you.  If I screw you over…” another wince.  “If I remember right, you’ll kill my dog.”

Quackity grins.  “That’s true, Sam.  Good point.”  Quackity is well versed in the practice of keeping your enemies close.  Better a man he knows how to control than a stranger, surely.  Tubbo’s warning is still fresh in his mind, he being why Quackity has sought out security to begin with.  Sam is right, he does have some sturdy leverage, and Sam is good at protecting, when he wants to at least.  He’s also heard stories of a younger Sam, one still running with the Badlands.  That man could be brutal with the right incentive.  He is a man both brutal and weak.  That’s useful.  “Fine."  He offers Sam a hand.  "Welcome to Las Nevadas, Mr. Warden.”

Sam accepts it, looking as if he’s just made a deal with the devil, which, Quackity would like to think isn’t entirely wrong.

If all goes to plan, Las Nevadas opens in ten days.

[slasherhaven]

Can you do something with Bo Sinclair in his basement? Could be with his s/o or a victim

Bo Sinclair X Reader

Warnings: Dub-con themes/touching (no NSFW)

The Basement:

The room you sat in was dim and a little claustrophobic, which wasn’t surprising since you had been dragged down to a basement about half an hour earlier. You sat in the middle of the room on a chair with your ankles duct-taped to the legs and your wrists duct-taped to the arms, with a material gag in your mouth to stop you from making too much noise.

The room had no windows so the only light was coming from a dirty lightbulb that was swinging over your head. It wasn’t very bright but it was enough for you to make out the main features of the room. There was a table pushed up against the far wall in front of you with various items scattered over it, but you couldn’t make out the details of the items. You could also make out some sort of photos taped to the wall above the table but they were too far away and the room was too dim for you to make out the images. 

During the half hour you were left to dwell on your situation, you thought back to how you ended up here. You had been invited on a road trip by an old school friend and some of her friends. You hadn’t even wanted to go but eventually talked yourself into it, and that trip brought you to the little town of Ambrose when the car broke down. 

From the moment you arrived in the town you thought it was a little strange and eerily quiet but you couldn’t have expected just how sinister the secret it was hiding would be.

The sound of a heavy door opening behind you and slamming shut brought you out of your thoughts, filling you with panic again. You looked over your shoulder with wide eyes, seeing a man in mechanics coveralls and a baseball cap walking around you. 

He didn’t even look at you, he went straight for the table against the wall opposite you, placing his shotgun down on it. 

Of course, you recognised the man instantly. Bo Sinclair. The man who owned the garage, who had greeted you with southern charm and a handsome smile. He had been friendly, a flirt. Fuck, you had flirted with him. 

“Your friends were...irritating and rude. Interrupting a funeral for a goddamn fanbelt” he man finally spoke up, still keeping his back to you, his tone filled with detest for your so-called friends. You glared at his back, you had felt sympathy for him before learning that it wasn’t a real funeral. 

“Don’t worry, they’re all taken care of and Vincent is dealing with them. That just leaves you left and I’m going to take my time with you” Bo turned to you with a sinister smirk, “and I purposely saved you for last, I couldn’t wait to get my hands on you.” 

You spoke but it was muffled by your gag. Bo seemed amused by this but walked over to you, hooking his fingers under the material and pulling the gag out of your mouth, letting the material hang around your neck. 

“Bite me” you spat, figuring you had nothing to lose at this point.

He just smirked, amused by your attitude considering your situation. He moved closer, bringing his face uncomfortably close to yours. You tried to move your head back and away from him but he just followed you until you had nowhere else to go. 

“Don’t tempt me” Bo flashed his teeth in a predatory manner and you could feel his breath fanning against your lips, making you shiver rather than cringe. 

“Let me go” you pleaded quietly, uselessly pulling on the restraints. 

“Still think you can save your friends?” Bo asked mockingly, tilting his head to the side. 

“...they’re dead, right?” you asked, already knowing the answer. It was far too late for that. 

“They are. Don’t worry, Vincent is taking care of them, just leaving you with me” his mock sincerity would normally make you roll your eyes but the threat of death was still too prominent in your mind. 

“Let me go and I won’t tell anyone about this place” you tried to strike some sort of deal, grasping at any opportunity. 

“You don’t seem all that beaten up about your friends” Bo didn’t even humour your deal, just squinting at you suspiciously. This certainly wasn’t the reaction that he was used too. 

“I don’t even know most of them...just needed the ride” you weren’t exactly lying. You only knew the girl you used to go to school with and, to be completely honest, you didn’t know why she had invited you in the first place. That’s why you didn’t want to come in the first place, and now you were really kicking yourself. 

“Ooh, cold” he hummed in amusement before pulling away from you, wandering back over to the table. 

Bo picked something up, examining it before returning to you. Your eyes widened when you noticed the blade in his hand, staring at it as he approached. 

“I swear I won’t tell anyone” you promised, pulling on the restraints again but with more desperation this time. “Please, just let me go, I swear to-” you pleaded before he cut you off by grabbing your face in one hand, squishing your cheeks together. Effectively shutting you up and making you look up at him as he brought his face closer to yours. 

“Shut up” he warned darkly. “There’ll be time for begging and screaming later” the threat sent a shiver up your spine but you nodded, wanting to put off the torture for as long as possible even if that required obeying this man. 

“This” Bo held the knife up in front of your face, making you look at it, “is just a warning of what will happen if you act out. Understood?” 

You nodded but he squeezed your face harder, telling you that your response wasn’t good enough. “I understand” you managed to say. 

“Good” he smirked before placing the knife down on a table beside you that you hadn’t even noticed until know. 

“You broke one of Vincent’s figures, didn’t ya?” he asked as the hand that wasn’t holding your face landed on your knee. You tried to look down at it but he held your face in place. “Answer me” he demanded, squeezing your face and your knee. 

“Yes” you answered. 

“And you saw what we were hiding?” he asked. 

“Only after you killed Clara” you told him, remembering your old school friend’s screams from somewhere else in the wax museum, causing you to startle and dump into a wax figure, breaking it. 

“You can thank my brother for that, actually” Bo chuckled to himself as the hand on your knee moved a little higher up your leg. 

“So where do you reckon we put the new additions...the museum or the church?” he asked rhetorically, just to taunt you, his hand slowly moving up the inside of your thigh. You didn’t answer, only trying but failing to wiggle away from his touch. 

“You’re being very quiet, considering how much of a flirt you were being earlier” Bo teased, his hand now resting at the top of the inside of your thigh. “Or were you just being a tease?” he squeezed your thigh, making you gasp a little. 

You refused to admit that you still found this man attractive, that his touch was igniting something within you. There was no way you could ever admit that, even to yourself. It was so wrong. No way. 

“If you’re not going to answer me...” he hummed, taking the hand away from your thigh and reaching for the knife again. 

“No!” you spoke up instantly, your eyes widened frantically. 

“So, answer me” he demanded, his hand returning to your thigh, his grip rougher than before. “Were you just being a tease?” he asked again. 

“...no” you breathed. You hadn’t just been teasing him when you met, the flirting had been sincere, the smiles had been sincere...and now you were here.

Bo just smirked, leaning closer to you. Adrenaline was coursing through your body as you felt his breath fan against your lips, his own so close to touching yours. You couldn’t move your face away if you wanted to, since his grip remained, but there was a sick part of you that didn’t even want to move away. A part of you that wanted this man ever since you laid eyes on him, a part of you that still wanted him... 

“Bo?! You here?!” a somewhat familiar voice called from upstairs, making you look up out of instinct as Bo huffed in annoyance. 

“Goddamn it, Lester” Bo muttered to himself before releasing your face and pulling away from you. “I’ll be right back, sweetheart” he winked down at you before heading for the door. 

Leaving the room, he closed the door behind him and you heard the clicking of a lock...leaving you strapped to the chair alone in the basement once again.

Only then did you realise how heavily you were breathing and tried to steady your breaths to collect yourself. You pulled against the restraints once again but they didn’t budge, all you could do was wait for Bo to return and do who knows what. 

Half of you, the conscious part, still searched the room for some possibility of escape, the other half, a more subconscious part, ran wild with the possibilities of what Bo would do with you once he got back. 

You were focusing so much of your energy on trying to understand your own thoughts that you failed to notice that Bo had not put the gag back in your mouth, leaving you capable of screaming for help but with no intention to do so...

[samsflannel]

So I ran a poll on my twitter asking this: If the car crash at the end of season 1 never happened, and John never died, would he have killed Sam in season 4 once he started drinking demon blood? And the answer that won: Yes.

So, I decided to write a ficlet about it. Read under the cut.

You can also read on Ao3.

AU: John lives to see Sam drink demon blood and go “darkside.”

“This is what I warned you about, kid.” The gun in John’s shaking hands is cocked. Fully loaded. Safety off. Pointed at-

The plastic gas station bag Dean was holding drops onto the floor past the threshold of the cabin door, and one of the water bottles rolls under the worn, wood table. 

“What the fuck,” he says. Not a question. Sam’s asleep. Dead asleep on top of the sheets, book open across his chest and one of his stupid health nut breakfast bars unwrapped next to his hand. “What are you doing. Where have you been?” he whispers, hand itching for his gun.

“I told you, Dean,” John says, serious as all hell, gritting his teeth, sweat dripping down his temple. “You knew, didn’t you?”

“I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about,” Dean insists, but it shivers down his spine, makes his arms go cold. Sam stirs in his sleep and Dean’s feet ache toward the open door. “Let’s just go outside for a minute, talk about it before Sammy wakes up and sees that piece pointed at him.”

John takes a minute, his shoulders dropping, a sigh pushed out of his chest, but he lowers the gun and clicks the safety on, stuffs it in the back of his pants. Jerks his head toward the door, c’mon, then.

Christo, Dean whispers when he closes the door behind them- but John doesn’t react.

“Dad, what the hell,” he shouts once they make their way around to the side of the cabin, leaves crunching under their boots. “Where the hell have you been for the last year? I’ve been looking, asking other hunters-  how the fuck did you even find us out here?”

“One question at a time.” he presses the bridge of his nose between his fingers, breathing hard. 

“I’ll ask as many questions as I want,” Dean pushes, stepping forward, anger blooming up in his belly suddenly. “You show up out of nowhere when we haven’t seen you in over a year and you’re pointing a gun at my brother.”

John looks up at him. The circles under his eyes are dark and heavy- he looks different. “Your brother isn’t your brother, Dean. Not anymore.” He licks his lips, lowers his voice. “I heard things from other hunters. Disgusting things, evil things. And I thought- no.” He shakes his head, toes the dirt. “It can’t be. So I tracked you two down. Watched him. And I saw-”

He looks like he’s going to vomit, nostrils flaring, closing his eyes. “I saw what Sam did to that demon. Sucked it dry. I saw the blood on his face, Dean, he looked-” he pauses. Breathes and makes eye contact. “He’s not human anymore.”

“You’re wrong.” Dean shocks himself with how desperate his voice sounds. His hands tingle, his palms start to sweat- “I mean, you saw wrong. Sam would never-”

“Bullshit.” John cuts him off loud, and some visceral part of Dean flinches. “Don’t lie to me, Dean. You know. And I know that you know, so let’s skip that.”

Dean stills. Looks back and forth between his father’s eyes, pleading. But not denying. And then- hurt, face hardening. “So that’s why you came here? To waste your own son? And in his sleep, too, you don’t even have the sack to-”

“First of all, you don’t talk to me that way, I am your father.” He says it matter-of-fact, like it’s enough of an explanation. John gets in his space, toe-to-toe, middle finger pointed at his chest. “Get your head on straight. I told you two years ago what would happen if you didn’t control the situation and here we are with Sam chugging demon blood like it’s water.”

“I was dead.” Dean looks him right in the eyes, leaned up on his feet, eyes wide. “Not sure if you remember, but I was in hell. For months. And you let Sam walk. Knowing how broken he was, knowing he would have done anything-”

“You never should have made that deal, Dean. It was stupid and reckless and suicidal. But you made that choice. And Sam made his.”

Dean sits back on his heels, mouth tight. Shaking his head. “What was I supposed to do.” He searches John’s face. “Let Sam rot? You don’t understand. You don’t even know how much I couldn’t do that.”

John nods, solemn. “I get that, son. I do. But it would’ve been a helluva lot better than what I’m gonna have to do now.”

Flames lick Dean’s insides, his shoulders squaring up again. “You’re not gonna do shit. Look, dad, I’ve seen it too. I know it’s bad, but Sam, he-” he searches for the right words, but comes up blank. Huffs. “We’re gonna fix it. He’s gonna be okay.”

“It’s gone too far already,” John insists, almost shouting. “Sam’s gone. That kid you know, he’s so far off the reservation he’s hit the dead end, and there ain’t no turnarounds. You get that, right?”

“No, I actually don’t,” Dean spits, scrubbing his face, then slapping his hands down on his pockets. Shrugs. “He’s still Sam.”

John stops, then. Shakes his head a little, smiling, looks at his feet. “God,” he says. “Yeah.”

Dean furrows his eyebrows. “What?”

John shakes his head again. “I knew you wouldn’t be able to pull the trigger. You two-” he stops himself, like he doesn’t want to finish the sentence. He meets Dean’s eyes again. “Just let me handle this, kid. It’s not gonna be any easier for me, but we can’t let him hurt anyone.”

“Dad, why do you think we came all the way out to this bumfuck nowhere cabin?” Dean spreads his arms out. “There’s no one here for Sam to hurt. No blood for him to drink, no demons, no nothing.”

John pulls his gun from his pants. “You know, I heard other things from those hunters. Things about you and your brother that I don’t-” gun at his hip, he bites at his mouth, looks at the ground. 

Dean swallows hard. Blood rushing all through his chest, climbing up his throat under his skin. “That’s not-”

“Don’t,” John says, final. “Just. Just don’t. I can’t.”

They both take an awkward pause. The knife in Dean’s jeans is burning a hole in his back pocket. 

He nods his head toward John’s hip. “Put the gun away, dad. You’re not going to kill Sam, alright? We’ll figure this out.”

“I’ve got it figured out already. Stay out here, you don’t have to watch it happen. We’ll give him a hunter’s funeral-”

Dean brings his foot up and kicks the glock out of John’s hand, flicks his knife open. Jams it right up against John’s throat. 

He takes a shaky breath. “I can’t let you do that,” he says, almost a whisper. He presses the blade flat, not trying to cut him- not yet. “Walk away.”

John’s face remains stone-serious, cold as hell. “I’m not gonna hurt you, son. You’re not the one who needs to be stopped.” He glances down at Dean’s arm, held steady at his neck. “So you go ahead and do what you need to do, but just know that you’re making the wrong choice letting evil run free.”

“Not everything is as black and white as you want it to be.” Dean swallows again, heart somewhere down in his belly. “Maybe- you know, maybe I used to think like that too. Good or bad. That black, dividing line between us and them.”

“This is as clear-cut as they come, Dean-”

“You’re wrong.” Tears creep up in Dean’s eyes, his nose burning, and he blinks them back, tries to fucking focus. “Sam is-” he tries to think of the right words. He’s never been good with words, with expression. That was always Sam’s wheelhouse.

He settles on: “Sam isn’t evil.” He focuses on the blade, not able to look John in the face for some reason. “The thing inside of him is evil. But he’s kind and smart and a helluva lot stronger than you or me. But I guess you never wanted to see that.”

John sighs. Doesn’t respond. Fear is catching in Dean’s throat, strumming across his spine. 

“Is there any chance I can talk you out of this?” Dean’s lip quivers, tears stinging his eyes again.

John gives him a look that’s almost sympathetic. Then- understanding. Or acceptance. Dean’s not sure. 

He tilts his head back a little. “I’m afraid not, kid.” He says it quietly. Soft. “I’m sorry.”

Dean nods. “Then I’m sorry, too.”

The blade cuts clean, sharp, but John still gurgles on his own blood, hitting his knees hard, leaves crunching under him- and the blood, God, there’s so much, spitting from his throat in rivers, and Dean steps back so it won’t splatter. 

Fuck, Dean thinks. Fuck. John stops struggling, twitching after what feels like an hour but is really only seconds. And Dean falls to his knees, too, pukes right there in the grass, hands burning with how hard he grips the ground.

He sits there for a while. It’s so quiet. The air tastes like copper. The sun begins to set, heavy and warm over the forest around him.

And then he pushes himself up. Drags John by the boots as far as his legs will carry him- tomorrow, he’ll get a shovel. Do right by his old man.

Sam’s still asleep when he comes back in, turned over on his side with the book thrown across the floor. Dean toes his shoes off, lets his jacket hit the wood floor. 

He tucks himself up behind Sam, nose pressed into his back, takes a huge breath. Tries to get his hands to quit shaking.

“Dean?” Sam tilts his head back a little, stretching his legs out. “You alright?” He slurs. “Didja go to the store?”

Dean nods, eyes wide open. He pulls away from Sam, then- lays on his back so Sam won’t think something’s up. “Yeah, Sammy, I did. Got that Campbell’s soup you like.”

“Nice,” Sam says, yawns. Dean’s chest feels like there’s a gaping hole, unfurling at the edges. “Sorry for falling asleep. You want me to go get some firewood for the-”

“No,” Dean says, a little too fast. Sam turns over, eyebrow raised. “I mean, uh- no. It’s fine. I’ll take care of it.” He smiles at him, the way he does when he’s about to say some stupid shit. “You need to catch up on your rest, princess, don’t let me stop you-”

Sam tries to whack him with his pillow, but Dean catches it before he can. “Dick,” Sam says. 

Later, when Dean gets up to grab wood for the firepit so they can cook dinner, Sam says: “Hey.” He’s watching The Goonies on the shitty, box TV they managed to get working. 

“Is for horses,” Dean retorts, easy, distracted with his boot laces. 

Sam does that bitchy little sigh he does when he’s annoyed or trying to say something. “Seriously. Dean, I-” 

Dean looks over at him.

“Thank you. For everything. That you do for me, I mean. For us.”

Dean raises his eyebrows. “Don’t get too mushy about it.”

When he gets outside, he walks faster and faster until he’s running, cold air biting the tips of his ears until he falls at the foot of the forest and heaves, nothing left to lose from his stomach.

[wormstacheangel]

Almost: Ch 6

Summary: Dean is a little too distracted by everything Cas. Even when he tells himself he has to move on and just be happy for his old best friend. But it's hard when Cas is now just a text message away again.

Read on Tumblr: Ch1 link | Ch2 link | Ch3 link | Ch4 link | Ch5 link |

Read on AO3 link (maybe leave a nice little comment?)

Word Count: 2959 More Under The Cut

“Rich people really don’t eat, huh?” Charlie said as Dean gets into the drive-through line for some burgers and shakes. She leaned forward on the seat, her head closer to Dean’s as she tried to look at the menu. “Well, at least I know what their houses look like.”

“Why did we have to leave in such a hurry anyway?” Sam was in the passenger seat also staring at the menu before he turned to Charlie. “Are you getting a chocolate one or vanilla? I’ll get the opposite of you.”

“I’ll get chocolate. You get vanilla and Dean can get the strawberry one.” Charlie decides, patting Dean’s head. “Yeah, why did we leave? Didn’t dreamy little Cas just get there?”

Dean rolls his eyes but doesn’t look back at them as they made kissing noises at him. “I won’t buy you guys shit if you keep this up.”

That shut them up pretty quickly. Good. Dean was still trying to process what was even said. Cas’s number felt like it was burning in his pocket. He felt stupid for wanting to call him already just to hear his name being said by Cas’s dumb raspy voice. Years of not hearing it really was catching up to him. 

Sam then hit Dean’s arm to grab his attention. “Dude, we’re next.”

“Oh.” He went up to the speaker and ordered whatever Charlie kept telling him to say. He wasn’t sure if he got something for himself or even how much it was, just handing his card over when he got to the window. 

Charlie and Sam must have noticed his mind was somewhere else. Lost in the tingle that still lingered on his cheek. Lost in that big bear hug that Cas gave him. The way Cas said his name, like a damn prayer, when he finally saw Dean made him feel weak in the knees and he hated it. Hated that Cas already had such a stronghold of him. 

Of course, they didn’t know that was what he was thinking about. And he’s sure as fuck not going to tell them any of that. It’s his guilty pleasure that he gets to relive in his head and their nosy asses can have none of it. 

As soon as they had their food Dean parked them in the emptier side of the parking lot before turning the car off. “Okay,” He turned towards them and took the food Sam handed him. “Dude, this is strawberry. I don’t want that shit.”

“Too bad you already agreed.” Sam held his shake away from Dean. 

“I paid so I should get first dibs.” Dean reached for it again but Sam held it back, his bitchface front and center. “Sam. Give it.”

“No. This one’s mine.” Sam opened the lid of his shake and licked the top of the ice cream. “See it’s mine now.”

Dean laughed coldly. “Like that will stop me.” Dean was about to jump his brother but Charlie, who probably was tired as shit of seeing their bickering and saw the signs that this was about to turn into an actual wrestling fight, reached forward and took the strawberry shake from Dean’s hand. Replacing it with her chocolate one.

“There. Happy?”

“No.” Not really.” The brothers both mumble as Charlie lifts her hand as a threat and even though she would never actually hit them they saw that she was annoyed. So they both quickly said, “Sorry.”

“Good.” She sat back in the seat and started unwrapping her burger. “Now can we get back to the topic on hand?”

“Which is?” Dean had a mouthful of burger as he talked. 

“Why did we leave so early?” She stuffed a few fries in her mouth as she looked at him with raised eyebrows. Looking like a curious little chipmunk as she chewed.

“Yeah,” Sam took a bite of the small yellow pepper before he bit into his burger. “I thought Cas wanted us there or whatever.”

“He did.” Dean looked down at his burger as he talked. 

“Oh, so you did talk to him!” Charlie moved forward in the seat again. She frowned at him/ “How was he? Nobody looked really sad for it being a funeral and all.”

Dean shrugged. “He seemed fine. Didn’t talk for long cause he told me to leave.”

“What?!” Both Sam and Charlie said at the same time.

“Why’d he tell you that?” Sam asked, looking at Dean with round puppy eyes, probably trying to read Dean again.

 While Charlie quickly picked up with angry steam. “And after telling you to go? What the fuck kind of-!”

“Charles. Breath.” Dean put his burger down and wiped his mouth with the sleeve of his jacket. “I guess I should tell you guys since I’m gonna have to tell Bobby soon.”

They looked at him. Waiting for answers so Dean quickly told them about the will reading he was invited to go to. Leaving them just as confused as Dean felt.

“But...but why you?”

“Shit if I know, Sammy.” Dean finished his burger off and worked on his fries, dipping them into the shake. “Cas just said Bobby and me gotta be there for it to be read or whatever.”

“What if you get money?!” Charlie hit Dean’s shoulder in excitement. 

“Doubt it. I’ll be lucky if he gives Bobby’s shop back to us.” Sam and Charlie sat back in their seats, nodding in agreement. “I feel kind of bad that a lot of people weren’t mourning and shit but...that dude was weird.”

“Creepy.” Charlie added.

“Gave me the chills.” Sam shivered. 

“Rest in peace, Chuck!” Dean added at the end, holding his spoon up in solitary. “May you give Bobby the garage and hopefully your kids won’t kill me. Salud!”

Charlie and Sam smiled, even Sam who rolled his eyes but played along, as they held their spoons up. “Salud!”

When Dean finally arrived home, dropping off Charlie and Sam first, he dragged his feet to his room. This is around the time he hated living by himself. When he comes home and the lights are all off. The air is still and cold. No warmth or sense of home even if this has been his home for the last three years. 

Dean took off his clothes as he went. Dumping it all into the chair in his room before he pulled the covers from his bed to climb inside them. He was too tired from the emotional roller coaster ride he went on the last few days. Tomorrow isn’t going to be any better so he might as well get some rest now. 

“Fuck. My phone.” Dean groaned as he kicked the covers off and dragged his feet to grab his pants. Digging into its pockets to grab his phone and then stiffening up when he felt the crumpled piece of paper.

He took it out and walked back to bed. Staring at the phone in one hand and the paper in the other. 

“Hmm,” Dean hummed as he studied the number. “So Cas did end up changing it.” Explained the dropped calls and unread text at least. 

Dean slowly added Cas’s number to his phone. He debated on having the name down as Castiel or Cas. Then he debated if he should add an emoji, just something as dumb as a ghost for ghosting him, but he decided against it. 

“Just Cas.” He whispers to himself as his thumbs hovered over the screen. His eyes narrowing at the name that haunted him for years. Cause that’s what he was, right? He was just Cas. He wasn’t even his friend anymore. At least Dean doesn’t think so. Even though he wasn’t so sure if he could be just friends with Cas, not yet, but...“Fuck it.”

He quickly opens a new text box and shoots a small little text.

‘Hey. It’s Dean.’ Dean rolled his eyes but didn’t discourage himself from adding. ‘Just wanted to make sure you had my number too.’

Dean looked at the clock on the corner of his screen and thankfully it wasn’t so late that it’ll be mistaken as a damn booty-call. Not that Dean would do that. Not to Cas at least. Maybe he’ll call somebody else for that later cause right now he feels too damn lonely and it’s just fucking suffocating him. 

He started to scroll through his list of possible hookups - not that big of a list anymore now that people are getting married and shit - when a text notification got his heart racing in his throat. He sat up against his headboard and took a calming breath. His thumb hovered over the screen because he was nervous. It’s probably just a dumb reply too and he’s making this into a big fucking deal when it’s not going to anything important.

If it’s not a big deal then open it. He tells himself before sighing and opening up the text.

‘Hello, Dean. I saved it now.’

“Of course.” Dean rolled his eyes and dropped his phone on his lap. 

His hands went up to cover his face, palms pressing hard into his eyes as his fingers grip at his hair in frustration. He was just mad -no fuck that he was annoyed- at the fact that he gave himself that dumb pep talk and he still held on to hope that maybe Cas would say...what the hell did he want Cas to say to him? 

“Hey, Dean, you looked great today so I’m leaving my fiancé for you!” Dean mimicked Cas’s voice out loud to himself. 

He groaned and picked up the phone again to just shut it off. There was no need to reply to that. The conversation was over. Clearly, the dude was busy with his damn fiancé.

But then Dean stopped short because he found the ‘...’ that kept appearing and disappearing. Damn it! He’s hoping again.

Dean kept his eyes on those dots for what felt like hours instead of the minute that it actually was. His heart beating hard against his chest as he imagined Cas trying to think of what to say. His dumb concentrated face glaring down at the phone. His too big hands holding the phone in between them and his thumbs hovering over the board. Probably overthinking his words or correcting something that just didn’t sound exactly right. Was Cas overthinking his text or was Dean just a dumbass for believing that?

Then finally the dots were replaced by words.

‘I’m sorry if Mick was bothering you earlier.’

Oh. Not what he thought Cas was gonna say at all. 

Dean straightened up against the headboard. Pulling a pillow against his chest to hug as he texted back right away. Dean wasn’t the type to wait to look cool and Cas knew that. 

‘He wasn’t.’ Dean sent first and then he rolled his eyes as he sent the next text. Nobody can tell Dean he’s anything but supportive. ‘He’s a nice guy.’

Even if it fucking kills him inside. He bangs his head back against the headboard a few times.

‘Wow. That must have taken so much out of you to type out.’

Dean laughed. Of course, that bastard will know. ‘Shut up, dumbass.’

‘I’ll let Mick know you think so highly of him.’

‘Okay, I wouldn’t go that far.’

‘Is he not your idol?’ Cas sent and Dean rolled his eyes but Cas quickly sent another one. ‘Are you not practicing your accent so you can be just like him?’

‘Ha. Ha. Very funny, Cas.’

‘Thank you. Glad one of you thinks so.’

‘What? Mick not a fan of your dumb dry humor?’

Cas sent three texts back to back. ‘No.’ ‘At least I don’t think he does.’ ‘He doesn’t seem to understand when I’m being sarcastic���

‘Well, it takes a while.’

‘We’ve known each other for 5 years now.’

‘Oh.’ Dean said it out loud as well. ‘That long?’

‘Yes.’

‘Almost has us beat.’

‘…’ Dean thinks he fucked up somehow but before he can completely freak out Cas texts. ‘Mick doesn’t come close to what you and I had, Dean.’

His breath catches in his throat and Dean starts to choke on-air as he reads the text again. What the hell was he supposed to respond to that?! “Lol. Good.” Dean jokes out loud as he wrote those words down but erased them just as quickly. 

‘Sorry. I should go. Sorry to keep you up.’

Shit! No. No. Don’t go Cas. ‘No biggie. Talk to me whenever, Cas.’

‘Thank you. Goodnight, Dean.’

‘Night, Cas.’

Then - cause Cas couldn’t get any damn cuter - he sends a sleeping cat emoji along with a flower emoji. 

Something came over him. Dean can say he was possessed or something but he sends the damn heart emoji. Then before he can see Cas’s reply - if he does reply - he turns off his phone. 

“Yeah,” Dean tucks himself in his bed. Covers over his head as he closes his eyes. “I’ll deal with that in the morning.”

-

“I’m just saying,” Bobby has been just saying all the way to the lawyer’s office. “We better be getting something good if they’re making us waste another afternoon not working. Are they gonna pay our bills? No.”

“Yeah. Yeah. Just get everything out now before we get inside.” Dean tells him as he parks the car. He turns the car off as Bobby already reached to open his door. “Hopefully Chuck liked us enough to just give us the shop back. Cause as long as we own it and not them then that's good.”

“That’s all we can ask for now.” Bobby gets out of the car and quickly closes the door behind him. 

Making Dean flinch as he sighs, his head hanging for just a second before he followed Bobby out. Thankfully, because of Chuck, they got to keep the shop open as long as they have but now they’re in a solid place where they can keep it open, and if one of the Novak’s gets it...Dean was just sure they would sell the property. Their family business will be no more. 

Why else would Chuck want them here if it’s not for that?

Dean quickly caught up to Bobby, who didn’t bother to change out of his working clothes and had the damn ripped trucker cap on, before he noticed that his Uncle was walking towards someone. 

“You’re late.” Cas quickly reaches to take Dean’s hand to drag him inside the large office building as he updates them. “Gabriel is inside trying to keep the peace but don’t worry,” He turns his head to Dean and winks at him. That bastard. “We will be your buffer so you’ll be perfectly safe.”

“Buffer?” Bobby’s voice gets Dean to stop floating away into Cas’s eyes. “We’re gonna need a damn buffer? What has your Daddy gotten us into, Cas?”

“I’m sorry, Bobby. If only I knew.” They get into the elevator and Cas lets go of Dean’s hand to smooth his clothes down. Eyebrow raised as if telling him ‘Couldn’t pick anything nice to wear to this important event?’ but Dean also just came back from work. He was lucky that his damn button-up didn’t have any oil stains. But then Cas smiled, “You look nice.”

Before Dean could answer, or even think of any words, Cas moved on to Bobby. Surprisingly Bobby let Cas fuss over him. 

“The lawyer told us that all of us, including you two, had to be present in order for the will to be read.” Cas fixed Bobby’s hat and nodded before he stood in front of them, facing the door with a heavy sigh. “Hopefully you guys are ready for some fun Novak family time.”

Dean didn’t stop himself as he quickly reached to take Cas’s hand in his. He pretended not to see Cas’s eyes widen as he faced the doors as well. “As long as it’s not some big dumb elaborate joke. We’re missing work for this you know.”

“I know.” Cas squeezes his hand, smiling before he turns towards the doors as well. “I’ll take you both out for dinner after this if you like.”

Both. Dean’s heart raced even if it does sound like a date with his Uncle tagging along.

The elevator door opened and Cas quickly started pulling Dean along again. Bobby clearly was looking at them but right now Dean didn’t care as he bumped shoulders with Cas. “That sounds great. What do you have in mind?”

“Whatever Bobby wants of course.”

“I wanna get the hell out of here.”

“I was thinking more like in the realm of Biggerson’s?”

“Yeah, sure, we can do that too.”

Cas and Dean both laughed as they bumped shoulders, fingers locking together now before they stopped in front of the right door. Cas turned to smile at Dean, it was soft and reassuring but he was asking Dean something.

“I’m fine. Don’t worry.”

“If you’re sure.” Cas quickly tells him as he squeezes his hand once before letting go. 

Dean really missed that weight in his hand now. 

As soon as the door opened Cas walked through it - he easily ignored the angry glares that seemed to sting Dean frozen - and Bobby had to shove him a little for him to start walking. When the door closed Dean flinched hoping this would end soon. 

This was going to be a long meeting. But hey, Dean goes to where Cas was patting the extra seat next to him on the couch and falls beside him, at least Cas was here. 

“Now that we have everyone. Let’s get started. And please remember that security will call the police this time.”

Oh. Fuck.

[katfett]

A/Ns: So originally I posted this as a Finan/TLK fic but just had no real drive to keep it going as that then I was like, this would actually be amazing as a Hvitserk one where it challenges his beliefs, loyalties, etc so I tweaked it and here we are! It definitely won’t be updated as much as others but it is a start!

TAGLIST: @bloooferladyy @revolution-starter @surewhyynot @punkrocknpearls

SUMMARY: Hitting someone with one’s car was not on on the top of Niamh’s to do list. Hitting a ninth century viking warrior with one’s car? Further down said list. It just wasn’t a good day for Niamh or Hvitserk.

CHAPTER ONE

The light was blinding. The crack of thunder was the only sound Hvitserk heard amid the battle. Ubbe was off to his left one moment, gone the next. Blackness flooded his vision. Panic settled into Hvitserk’s whole being as time seemed to falter; a heavy weight pressed him down, suffocating him. He tried to call out for Ubbe, Bjorn, anyone but nothing escaped. He wanted to run, tried to but it was no use. His body was frozen, trapped in such a never-ending sea of black.

A splash upon his cheek – wet and ice cold against his warm skin. He twitched in reaction, fingers clenching around his axe as another splash followed the second. With a heavy groan he rolled his head to the side as his eyes fluttered open.

It was still raining, that was a good sign he thought. He heard a rumble of thunder overhead, and the rain falling but no sounds of battle. He couldn’t hear the screams, the shouts, the sing of steel clashing against wood and steel. Confused, he lifted his head only for a sharp pain to spike up his neck. He curled over onto his side, clutching tightly to his sword and neck.

The forest was dense and overgrown around him, what he could see of it anyway. Lifting his head slowly, dark eyes searching wildly for his companions.

Panic seized him for the second time that night. He was alone. There were no bodies, there was no blood. Alone in an unknown place, Odin only knew what was going on. He just hoped they were alright.

Rolling onto his stomach, Hvitserk slowly pushed himself to his feet, almost slipping on the muddy ground beneath his feet. He needed to find camp, he needed to find something that was familiar to him.

He swore under his breath, clutching his axe tight to him as he tried to shake the light headedness overcoming him.

He just had to keep pushing on; move forward. If he found a town, he could find his bearings. He couldn’t be too far. Whatever trickster was playing with him tonight hadn’t claimed him yet, and Hvitserk would do everything in his power to survive this.

He’d survived worse he tried to reason.

Using the heavy growth and trees to keep himself upright, Hvitserk picked a direction and marched. He slipped a few times, he nearly knocked himself out with low hanging branches. The storm didn’t let up and with no moon or torch light, Hvitserk could barely see beyond his nose.

He bit out a curse here and there, trying not to question Odin had decided to upend him in the middle of battle. He just needed to find a town, a camp, anything.

***

Niamh squinted. The windscreen wipers were swinging back and forth on the highest setting possible; trying to chuck the downpour out of her path. Rinse and repeat. It was near impossible to see beyond into the darkness. She swore. She’d not intended to be so late but with home so close she wanted to get there after being away for a month.

Any other time Niamh would’ve enjoyed the night drive in the rain; the sound of the rain on the roof of the car would normally have a calming effect on her, but not tonight. She was already twenty something under the speed limit to make sure if she needed to stop suddenly, she could.

Driving the back tonight may not have been the best idea. She hadn’t had a lot of good ideas recently. She reached out and hit the dial to skip the song that was playing, a little restless that she still couldn’t see well beyond the windscreen.

Every so often she would hum along with the song and it soothed her restlessness for a little while. Then she would remember Seamus. She hoped wherever he was, he found some measure of peace. Two years fighting a losing battle to aggressive lung cancer and her stepfather had finally given in. He was the last of her family, he’d been so strong for so long.

A tight pain in her chest made her rubbed over her heart. For so long he’d been the only constant, the anchor she’d needed to make it through all the rougher years. Now he was gone. She wanted to say she was happy he no longer suffered the pain he’d so long endured, but the truth was, she hated that he wasn’t there anymore.

Thinking back over the last month, Niamh wondered whether she’d done enough. Putting her job on hold wasn’t a question, the time off had been good. She’d moved into his small London flat for the last few weeks. She’d stayed there to finalise what she could, have the funeral and now she was heading back to Aylsham.

The small village south of Liverpool had been her home for the better part of the last ten years. After a month away though it was odd to be coming home, alone. She wouldn’t be ringing anyone to tell them she’d arrived safely. Niamh felt her chest ache a little again and sighed heavily.

Niamh glanced out her side mirror, unable to see anything behind her but the darkest night.

***

Blood spilled down his hand, he tried to shake the feeling back and ease the trembling, but it wouldn’t work. Heart pounding fiercely in his chest and breath escaping in short, harsh pants he limped his way through the uneven terrain, sliding across the wet ground. He had to keep moving. His boots and his clothes soaked.

He trudged on, the cut in his side ached. He hadn’t noticed he was bleeding at first. The ache had come first. He’d been wounded enough throughout the years to recognise the sensation.

Hvitserk cursed under his breath. He could scare breathe deep enough to catch his breath. He didn’t know how long he’d been moving, only that his panic was returning. If he didn’t find somewhere soon, he’d collapse on the forest floor and bleed out.

Deep in his thoughts, Hvitserk failed to notice the way the trees began to thin out. When he did, he paused, leaning against a tree for a moment. He clutched at the pendant about his neck.

A cough wracked his body and he groaned as the pain in his side flared. Where was Ubbe? Where was Sigurd, and Ivar? What in all that is holy happened to him? Where was he?

With a sharp grunt, Hvitserk pushed himself from the tree and stepped the remaining few feet out onto what he thought was a path. In the dark he couldn’t see much, the path itself was strange. With a furrowed brow, Hvitserk tried to scuff at the earth. It didn’t move. Without any light, he couldn’t make out a lot. The rain beat down on his head as he looked skywards for a second, letting the rain wash over his dirt ridden features as he steadied himself for a few moments; breathing as deep as he could.

The forest stretched on again on the opposite side ahead of him. He turned a little and tried to look as far down the strange path as he could. Which way did he go? Without knowing what direction to travel, he could end up anywhere.

“Damn.”

He heard a noise behind him, movement of something down the path coming up at great speed. Turning, Hvitserk was blinded for the second time in less than a day only instead of being winded and dazed his entire world went dark as something ploughed into him.

***

The silence in the car was broken sharply as Niamh’s phone began to ring. She jumped, reaching across to the passenger seat to grab it. Not looking, she fumbled and knocked it down onto the floor.

“Fuck.” Niamh took her foot off the accelerator, swearing as she fumbled for her phone, glancing up every second or so to make sure she wasn’t going off the road. Who could honestly be calling her at this time of the night? Her fingers wrapped around her phone and she straightened herself up.

The phone stopped ringing as she glanced at the caller ID and then back at the road.

Then it happened.

Her car clipped something and knocked her off course. She hit the brakes; heart racing a thousand miles a minute as the car screeched to a stop.

She swore. She knew better.

What had she hit? Niamh was panting harshly, panicking.

“Please don’t be dead, please don’t be dead,” she whispered as she unbuckled herself and fumbled at the door. She shoved it open and climbed out. She raced to the back of the car and stopped short as she came upon her poor victim; hand covering her mouth as she gasped.

There, lying crumpled on his side, was a man. She’d hit a person.

Dear god, she’d hit a person.

Her hands trembled and her legs lost all ability to hold her up and she collapsed to the ground beside the unconscious man. It felt like it took hours to shake herself enough to crawl across to the man. Her brain was buzzing as she tried to think of what to do.

Check to make sure he’s alive.

In her shocked and terrified state, her hands trembled as she reached out to the man. Her fingers closed around leather. As though it jolted her back into herself, Niamh frowned. Leather? She didn’t roll him onto his back, worried she might hurt him some more, or exacerbate whatever injuries he might have.

She realised then he was wearing some sort of leather, cloth and fur. What on earth was he wearing?

Check to make sure he’s alive. Niamh swore at herself, she reached up to his neck, trying to find his pulse.

She held her breath as she waited for any sign that he was alive. She let out the breath when she felt a faint pulse, thank god he wasn’t dead.

Niamh inched a little closer, trying to get a look at his face in the rain. What damage has she done to him? A quick scan showed no obvious sign, no twisted limbs, but Niamh still couldn’t get over the clothing. It looked like he’d stepped out of a costume movie. Where on earth had he come from?

Glancing out to the forest through the harsh rain, Niamh sighed. Had they been filming something nearby? She needed to get help. Trying to find a film set would be too hard, she knew there was a late-night clinic in town, if she could get him there in time, he might stand a chance.

Niamh leaned over him and jumped back a little seeing the axe laying by his hand. She reached out to touch it when suddenly a hand snatched at her wrist. She cried out and tried to yank her hand free but the axe that had been laying on the ground was now at her throat.

She froze as she looked down. The man was awake and staring at her with unfocused eyes. Niamh felt a dreadful wave of fear creep along her spine as she stared back at the man, wincing as the axe, which she now knew to be real and sharp, bit into her throat.

“I- I’m sorry,” she stammered out. “I- I didn’t mean to hit you.”

She watched his brows come together. He tried to move, to sit up, but he clutched at his side, the grip on the axe slipping. As quickly as he gained consciousness, he went out again. Niamh let out the breath she’d been holding as he did. Least he couldn’t hold the axe on her.

Well, she hadn’t killed him. Niamh looked at her car and then back to the man. She needed to get him into the backseat. Reaching out, she plucked up the axe and scrambled to her feet, reaching the back door, she jerked it open and tossed the weapon onto the floor.

Now to move him. Niamh came down by his head, grateful he’d at least fallen back unconscious on his back. Crouching down she managed to get her arms under his shoulders and arms and groaned as she tried to lift him even just a little to get him to the car.

She tried to be careful with him, worried she might hurt him more doing this, but not able to wait out here for an ambulance Niamh huffed and wheezed as she dragged the downright heavy man to the car. She wasn’t weak but the dead weight of him was a lot.

She managed to scoot herself into the backseat, pulling him across it as she shuffled back across the seat. She collapsed against the other back door and let out a sharp breath. In the dim light of the car, Niamh was surprised by the absolute mess across her lap.

Long, dirty blonde hair was braided back from his face, tied into a knot at the back of his head, matching the slight stubble across his jaw. He was covered in dirt and mud but under it he looked young. Niamh glanced down along his body. The clothing looked real. Whoever had made it was talented. There she saw the darker patch down on his side. He had been bleeding. Niamh wasn’t an expert, but it was too high for where she’d hit him, had he already been injured?

Still certain she had accidentally hit someone on a film set, maybe an extra, Niamh managed to climb out from beneath the large man, and he was large. He had to be a good a head taller than her, six foot and he was solid muscle.

Niamh finally shut the back door of the car after pushing his feet in. She leaned her head against the window for a second, breathing heavily. She was soaking wet, her hair was sticking to her skin, her clothes were drenched but she’d managed to get him into the car.

She climbed into the driver’s seat and slowly shut the door. Numbly she turned the ignition and put the car in drive. With a shaky breath, she headed off down the road.

***

The parking lot of the late-night clinic was empty as Niamh pulled in. Niamh was quiet as she unbuckled herself. Her passenger hadn’t moved in the twenty minutes it’d taken her to get into town. She felt like it should’ve been a small mercy, both for him and her but Niamh wanted to know who she’d hit, wanted to apologise a hundred times over for foolishly grabbing at her phone when she should’ve been more careful.

Shakily, she got her door open, grateful the rain has eased to a light sleet as she climbed out and headed for the entrance. The doors slid open, and she saw the nurse, someone she knew, behind the desk look up at her as she entered. She must’ve looked dreadful. Drenched and like a drowned rat and shaking.

“Niamh, you look dreadful, what happened?”

God, how did she start explaining this?

Niamh nodded a little. “I- I ah, hit someone out on one of the back roads. I’ve got him in my car, he is banged up and he’s bleeding on his side. I- I didn’t know what else to do. I’m sorry.”

The nurse, Ellen, quickly jumped into action startling Niamh a little. It felt like a blur as the nurse came rushing round and calling out for a hand. They directed Niamh to sit down in one of the chairs and she watched as they headed out to her car with a stretcher.

The reality of it all crashed down on her. She’d hit someone with her car. She’d nearly killed someone. He could still die. Niamh felt like crying as she buried her head in her hands. Please don’t let him die.

***

Niamh sat with a blanket round her as she stared at the police officer across from her. She felt a sick lump in her throat and hollowness in her belly. The officer was patient, even after seeming to doubt her recount of what happened. When Ellen had said she’d called them, Niamh had simply nodded and waited. She couldn’t do much else. She knew bringing him to the clinic meant she’d need to face the consequences.

She had told the officer everything, even handed over the sword and told him she wasn’t sure who he was, where he was from and that she’d made a mistake.

“You didn’t find any I.D. on him?”

Niamh glanced up from her lap. “No, I didn’t.”

The police nodded, writing it down. “The nurse couldn’t find anything on him either, most they found were a few odd coins, some rings and the like. We’re trying to find if anyone has put out a missing person report matching his description.”

Niamh nodded. “What will happen now?”

The officer watched her for a moment. “He’s alive, the doctor said he had a laceration on his side which wasn’t caused by your car. He has some bruising on his ribs, they’re uncertain if your car did that given the shape he was in when you clipped him. Until he wakes up, there isn’t much we can do Niamh. He might want to press charges, that’s his right.”

She nodded mutely. “I know.”

The officer tapped his pen on the arm of the chair and stood. Niamh followed suit. “Ellen knows to contact us when he wakes up.”

Niamh watched him leave before she looked down the hall. They’d wheeled him into the third room.

“Niamh,” Ellen said, startling her a little. “Try and get some rest. He’ll be asleep for a while.”

“Can I go sit with him?” She knew it was an odd request. No one knew who he was, where he was from, nothing. She just didn’t want to see in the waiting room any longer. It’d been dark and raining when he’d regained consciousness, but it didn’t stop Niamh from seeing the sheer panic in his face. She’d done that to him.

Ellen gave her a small jerk of her head to say go on. Thankfully, knowing Ellen met Niamh didn’t have to worry too much about the oddness of her request. She gently opened the door of the room and stepped inside.

Whoever he was lay on the bed in the room, breathing evenly as he slept. Niamh took the seat by the door and curled up, wrapping the blanket around her legs as she drew them to her chest. Ellen had cleaned him up a little she noticed.

His face had a slight tan. He was covered in a gown and the blankets. She noticed his arms were scarred even from where she sat. Hadn’t they been special effects from the movie set? Her brows knitted together in confusion.

“Who are you?” she whispered into the space between them. It didn’t take long before the shock turned into exhaustion and Niamh fell asleep curled up on the chair by the door.

[roguerogerss]

Sorry is a Sorry Word

Pairing: Steve Harrington x Henderson!Reader

Plot: Steve fucked up - bad. He doesn’t really know how, or if, he should say sorry, until Dustin gives him a pep talk.

W/C: 3.1k

A/N: Just now realising how long this is oops, sorry. My first Stranger Things fic! Finally. (watch this flop so hard lmao) Remember to like and reblog if you enjoy! It really helps me out. As always, requests are open and any and all feedback is appreciated <3

————

"Dustin, Please, just leave me alone." She lay back on her bed, tears streaming down her face and hair amiss from where she'd run her fingers through it. "I'm fine, I just...give me some time."

"But, we tell eachother everything." Her little brother sounded so small and defeated that it almost broke her heart in two. She could hear him leaning his back against the door, the back of his head thumping dully against the wood a second later. "I feel like we're drifting apart. You don't talk to me anymore."

"Dustin-"

"No, it's okay. Don't worry." Dustin cleared the remnants of his upset from his throat, "We can talk later. I get that you need time."

And with that, he'd left. She could hear his muffled footsteps on the carpeted floor of the hallway, walking away from her bedroom and back to his own. She knew that she wanted to talk to him and vent about all of the happenings of the day, but she couldn't bring herself to let her walls down in front of anyone about her current situation just yet.

It was Steve. And it was bad.

They'd been together for a year and ten months. He'd been there for her through thick and thin. Whenever their mom went MIA, something that happened more often than not, during the days and weeks and months that Y/N was left to take care of her thirteen year old brother on her own with no notice whatsoever, Steve was there. And he'd take Dustin out to the cinema, give him free ice cream, play Dungeons and Dragons with him and his friends - even though Steve had no idea how to play Dungeons and Dragons. He'd sleep over, make her feel like she wasn't alone. It filled her with pride to see him taking Dustin under his wing, more like a dad than even an older brother.

When they lost Hopper, who'd become more of a parental figure than she and Dustin's mom was to her, he was standing by her side at the funeral, hand grasping her own smaller one with force and squeezing it every so often, just to remind her that he was there. He was there after the funeral, too, when they went to the cabin and went through Hopper's things. He was there when she found the birthday present that Hopper had bought for her, a necklace with, 'you're pretty cool, kid', engraved on it. Hopper's way of saying that he loved her. It came with a letter, one that she cried so hard while reading that she couldn't see the words on the page.

The point was, that Steve had been there through everything. And now that they'd had a huge argument over - of all things - Nancy Wheeler, she was unsure of whether or not she'd have Steve to lean on anymore.

It wasn't so much a stupid argument as it was a stupid mistake on Steve's end. He even admitted to himself that what he'd done was more than a dick move. Tina was having a party, a big one, for old time's sake. Y/N wasn't invited, having been socially considered as 'uncool' while in High School, while Steve was invited. He said that it wasn't a big deal, it didn't matter, he wouldn't go.

Except that it was a big deal, it did matter, and, well, he did go.

He'd gotten really drunk, so drunk, in fact, that he had no recollection of the night at all and managed to stumble to Y/N's front door at five in the morning.

He'd told her that he went to the party, that he was sorry. She'd been mad, but she was so tired that she said she'd deal with it in the morning and told Steve to sleep it off on the sofa. Before going to sleep, however, Steve had told Y/N that he 'thought he might've kissed Nancy' that night.

They'd argued about it the next day. She'd dropped him off at home, neither of them speaking at all in the car, and they'd screamed at eachother in Steve's living room. Little did either of them know, Steve hadn't actually kissed Nancy, he was just so drunk that he made himself believe that he had. And then, Y/N told Steve that they were done, and he'd said 'fine', and she'd left and cried in her car for an hour.

And now, she was here. Crying on her bed, little brother probably thinking that one of her friends had died or something.

She hated herself for blowing up and flying off the handle and literally breaking up with Steve. Steve, on the other hand, hated himself for even going to the party, hated himself for - possibly - kissing Nancy, hated himself for going to Y/N's front door and waking her up so early in the morning.

In the grand scheme of things, Steve Harrington had been an asshole. And he was all too aware of it.

It had been around half an hour since she got home when Dustin knocked on the door again. This time, she'd managed to calm down enough to allow him to come inside. She looked horrifying, hair messed up, tear stained face, cuddling a pillow and wearing one of Steve's shirts, but Dustin was her brother, he had no right to judge her.

The door swung open slowly, and Dustin was there, grinning and holding two pints of ice cream, spoons, and some movies. "Thought we could put a movie on and eat. And you can tell me about your problems and I promise I'll listen."

"Is the ice cream cookie dough?" Y/N asked, sniffling, and a watery smile crossed her face. Dustin laughed, happy to see his sister perking up at least a little bit, even if it was over ice cream, and turned the carton to reveal to her that it was, in fact, cookie dough.

"Only the best." He tossed one of the cartons and a spoon at her, and turned on the TV set that sat across from her bed. "Besides, I know it's the only one you'll eat when you're sad."

"You know me entirely too well." She hugged her knees to her chest and dug into her ice cream, relishing in the taste of it for a second, "Oh my God, I haven't had this in so long. And the Scoops cookie dough is so bad."

"Right? I know Steve thinks it's the best, but he is so wrong." Little did Dustin know, one mention of his name would make Y/N's meltdown begin all over again. Soon enough, she was crying hot tears into her ice cream, and she allowed Dustin to lay his head on her shoulder while she explained everything.

"Okay, I have to go somewhere." Dustin knew what he had to do, and Y/N's eyebrows furrowed as he got swiftly up from her bed. "I'll be like, maybe half an hour. But you can eat my ice cream if it starts to melt."

"Dustin! Don't leave me!"

"Watch the movie!"

And then he was gone, and she was by herself, with only some ice cream and E.T. to keep her company.

Meanwhile, Dustin had found Steve at work. He was insanely hungover - although, the headache and sickness had gone away thanks to Robin and her Tylenol, but the tiredness still remained - and reminded Dustin faintly of a particular zombie in Day of the Dead when he walked into Family Video to find him leaning on the counter. The grim look on his face wasn't so much because of the hangover, though, it was more to do with the fact that he and his girlfriend of nearly two years had broken up half an hour ago, and he'd been forced to go to work.

"If you're here to talk to Steve, I wouldn't. He nearly punched me when I asked him if he wanted Tylenol. And I'm a girl." Robin stopped Dustin at the front door, a serious look on her face, but he shrugged her off.

"It's fine. He won't do anything. Besides, I know what this whole thing's about. That's why I'm here." He tried to walk off again, but Robin grabbed his upper arm, tugging him back and making him elaborate.

"Is it Y/N? I think there was a fight between them or something. He’s never looked this rough.” Robin looked concerned, and she was. She’d never seen Steve so upset before. “He was crying when he came in.” She added.

Dustin shrugged, “Yeah, I’m gonna talk to him. He’ll be fine tomorrow.” He decided not to give Robin any more information on the situation in case Y/N or Steve would've gotten mad at him for it.

"Henderson, hey." Steve said quietly when he noticed that Dustin had entered the store. He looked like he'd been crying, and Robin was definitely right when she said he’d never looked rougher. "If you're here to hang out-"

"I'm not here to hang out, Steve. We have to talk." Dustin crossed his arms sternly over his chest, raising his eyebrows and nodding his head in the direction of the store room. Steve grumbled and complied, unlocking the door and ushering Dustin inside.

"You have to apologise."

"Apologise? Apologise for - what exactly are we talking about?" Steve rubbed a hand exhaustedly over his face, leaning against a sealed box of movies that he was supposed to have put away by now.

"You know what for, Steve. Y/N. You hurt her. Like, really badly. I don't think I've ever seen her so upset." Steve already wanted Dustin to stop, but he continued, really wanting him to get the message of just how hurt his sister was. "She cried in her room for half an hour before she even let me talk to her, and now she's at home by herself, probably crying some more because you went to a stupid party. I mean, seriously man, couldn't you just have stayed home? What was so important about it?"

Steve threw his head back and hid his face with his hands, wanting the floor to open up and swallow him whole. He knew that he'd been a dick, he knew that he'd hurt her, but, Jesus, knowing the details made his heart flip in his chest and his stomach hurt. He hated seeing Y/N upset at the best of times, nevermind when it was his fault.

"Yeah. Yeah, I should've just left it. Jeez, Dustin, I'm such an asshole."

"Yes. An asshole, you are. And what was that other shit? About you kissing Nancy?"

"I didn't kiss Nancy, okay? My drunk mind just kinda...made me believe that I did. I called her today just to confirm." Steve swallowed, suddenly having the nausea of his hangover coming back to him.

"Does Y/N know that?" Dustin had his arms crossed, back against the wall, looking unimpressed as Steve shook his head. "Seriously man? Don't you think that the first thing you should've done after finding out that you didn't actually cheat on your girlfriend, was tell your girlfriend that you didn't actually cheat on her?"

"My head's all over the place, Henderson. Cut me some slack, okay?"

"You have to come say sorry, you know that, right?"

"I will. I will, I promise. I finish in an hour, why don't you go home, I'll buy some flowers, take a shower and get changed, and I'll come chap on your door like none of this even happened." Steve had suddenly perked up, gesturing with his arms and almost getting excited to initiate his plan.

"Yeah. Sure. But it better be good, Harrington. You better make her happy."

Steve didn't even have time to respond before Dustin was running off, getting on his bike, and cycling back home to his sister. He promised himself internally that he'd do all it took to make her happy.

Y/N had finished her ice cream and Dustin's had started to melt by the time he got home. She hadn't cried any more, had been too focussed on the movie, and Dustin was relieved to see her laughing at something on the screen when he entered her bedroom.

"Hey." She smiled. "Your ice cream's melting, you'd better eat it."

Dustin smiled and bellyflopped onto her bed, sending her into a fit of laughter. They both laughed so hard, in fact, that they barely heard the doorbell ring, and Dustin almost got up to go and get it.

He stopped himself though, not wanting Steve to call him an idiot or something along those lines. "You should go. I have to eat my ice cream before it melts." He said sheepishly, sitting back down from where he'd jumped up. Y/N rolled her eyes and threw the pillow that she was holding at Dustin's face.

"Alright, make your sad sister get the door because you have to eat ice cream." She stood up even as she spoke, knowing that Dustin wasn't going to budge. "Nice one, asshole."

Y/N had left her bedroom before Dustin could retaliate, bounding down the stairs and realising that, if anyone saw her the way that she looked now, they'd probably never respect her again. The doorbell went again, and she sighed quietly at the lack of patience from whoever was on the other side.

She - stupidly - didn't even bother to look out of the window that stood next to the door to check who it was before opening it, and nearly closed it again when she realised who was standing there.

"Hey, woah, don't close the door yet!" It was Steve, his eyes widened from the possibility that he'd come all the way to her house so that she could slam the door in his face, holding white lilies and a box of chocolates, which was - in Y/N's opinion - the cheesiest apology ever. "Just...listen? For like, a minute."

She slowly let her hand slide off of the door knob, watching as Steve relaxed a significant amount even from seeing her do that. "A minute." She crossed her arms over her chest, chewing her cheek. "You have a minute."

"Okay, uh, yeah, okay." Steve began his rambling. "Listen, I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. I know I shouldn't have gone to that party, I know I shouldn't have gotten so drunk that I managed to convince myself that I kissed Nancy. Did I already say that I didn't actually kiss Nancy? I called her, and she said we didn't even speak. Bottom line is, I'm an asshole. I know that, and I hate myself for hurting you. Dustin told me how upset you were and I...I couldn't even comprehend the fact that I did that."

He paused, looking down at his feet and waiting for Y/N to say something. Something that didn't come, she simply stood, looking at and biting her fingernails, trying to figure out whether or not she should give in and forgive him or not, so he stopped waiting and spoke some more.

"I'm sorry. I love you. I love you so much. And I know that I fucked up, and I don't expect you to forgive me-"

"Steve." Y/N stopped him. He looked up at her, expecting that she'd look upset or annoyed, but she was smiling and shaking her head. "Come here."

"Seriously?" He already wished he hadn't said what he did before he'd even finished speaking. Seriously? What kind of thing to say was that? "I mean, you know-"

She was already hugging him before he could finish speaking. She knew that he'd ramble on for hours if he could, but she also knew that she already forgave him and didn't need to listen to his rambling. "It's okay. I forgive you."

"Oh, thank God. I thought I'd lost you, really, I did." He sighed into her hair, realising that he was probably ruining the bouquet of flowers with the way that he was crushing them against her back.

"Well, you were an asshole. You had every right to think you'd lost me." Steve had always loved her subtle sassiness, it was a habit that she often fell into unknowingly, but it made him chuckle.

"Yeah. Yeah, you're right. I was an asshole."

She let go of him, finally, and stood back. He was wearing his light blue jeans, a black t-shirt and belt, with a blue jacket. It was an outfit that she'd seen him in before, quite a few times, but he never failed to look good in it anyway. His hair was slightly amiss, as though he'd gotten ready as quickly as he could - which was true, but she didn't know that for sure - but it still had his Steve 'the hair' Harrington charm.

"So, can I come in, or are you just gonna stand there and mock me?" He grinned and she stood to the side, allowing him to join her in the hallway. He went straight for the kitchen, taking out a vase and filling it up with water, then placing the flowers in it and leaving it on the kitchen counter.

"I didn't say you could-" She was trying to joke with him, but he didn't seem to care much, as he cut her off by dipping his head towards hers and kissing her passionately. He hated to admit it, probably something to do with the small part of his King Steve persona that he still carried around with him, but he'd missed her, and it had only been a few hours.

"Woah, easy tiger." Y/N laughed, pulling away when Steve's hands started to travel downwards. "We haven't even properly spoken yet."

"Yeah. Sorry." Steve said sheepishly. He pushed his hands into the pockets of his jeans and smiled down at the floor. "Do you wanna talk?"

She shrugged. "Not particularly."

"So, really, it's okay for me to do this," He closed the gap between them again, beaming at her while he searched her face for any sign of disapproval and admired the little flecks of contrasting colours that danced in her eyes. And then he kissed her again, lips soft against her own, gentle - something that wasn't widely believed, Steve Harrington was actually one of the most gentle people that Y/N had ever met.

"Well, yeah." She grinned, breathless. "But I'm sort of in the middle of watching a movie, wanna join?"

And so they spent the rest of the day, wrapped in the blankets on Y/N's bed and Y/N wrapped in Steve's arms, watching movies that Dustin fished out from the cabinet under the TV that Y/N didn't even know that they had.

She had to say, Steve's apologies were often cheesy and terrible, but this one wasn’t so bad as it was enjoyable.

[buckstaposition]

I cling to your lips like gloss (2)

a Javier Peña x OFC story

also on AO3

author: @youhavereachedtheendofpie (in case u wanna come say hello on main but no pressure)

rating/warnings: swearing, mentions of character death, some mentions of sexual situations but nothing explicit, spoilers for season 2 (should probably have tagged ch1 for this too oops)

words: 6607, no regrets

summary: it’s not a date if it’s for work

Author’s note: There is so much research that went into this I would just like to say thank you internet for letting me look up stuff from the comfort of my own home at unholy hours even though I did get very distracted while looking up late 80s wedding dress fashion. Also bless the s2 dvd extra which was a director’s commentary on s2 ep10 and very informative.

—

Tag list: @keeper0fthestars @opheliaelysia @dindjarindiaries @fromthedeskoftheraven @shikin83 

(message me if you want to be added to the list. or just message me in general)

and also I urge you to look at the beautiful moodboard that @huliabitch made for me! I love it so much!

Masterlist

Prologue

Chapter 1 - The Informant

Chapter 2 - A Wedding and Four Funerals

"All the best from Mr DEA." Diana said as she threw herself down in the seat across from her best friend. Gabriela looked effortlessly glamourous as usual, even though she was just in a blouse and jeans. She just had that air about her, like one of the vintage movie stars, something Diana had never quite been able to match. She was well aware she was downright frumpy in comparison, not one to catch eyes just by walking past. For the most part, that suited her. Gabi tried to seem nonchalant about the greeting.

"Oh?" She sipped gingerly from her drink and put her menu away. "You finally met, then? He's back?"

Diana nodded and stowed away her purse and cardigan. "Yeah, this afternoon and yesterday, in the morning. He seems... nice enough? I don't know. Not a talker, is he? He seems a bit on edge, to be honest. Though I suppose that's to be expected." But despite everything, he still has kindness in his eyes.

Gabi just grinned at her for a long moment, waiting to pounce.

"Yeah, he can be a bit of a grump. ...Handsome though, no?"

Diana sighed, swatting at the other woman with her own menu. "Did it ever occur to you that the newly divorced woman might have had her fill of men for the time being?"

"It has occcurred to me that five years of unchanging, uninspired missionary for half an hour exactly, twice a week, with that wet blanket you married might have left you with the need to really be filled by a man for once."

"Gabriela!" she gasped, choking on thin air and mortification, even though their conversations would often get way more explicit than this. Just never with her being the subject. Gabriela just smiles like butter wouldn't melt in her mouth, hailing a waiter to give him their order.

"Speaking of newly divorced: has the dipshit finally signed the papers then?" Diana groaned, throwing her glasses down onto the table to massage her temples.

"No, he's dragging his feet. Which is ridiculous, it's not like I want anything from him. It's not like we're fighting tooth and nail over every other thing, like that American movie, the one we watched on your mom's old VHS player, you know? With Meryl Streep? In any case, now he decides to fight? If you can call that fighting."

"Kramer vs Kramer." Gabi remarked sagely. "Yeah... At least you don't have children together. That could really have gone ugly. I still don't know what you ever saw in that man."

"Oh shut it. I used to be fond of Juan Mateo; I don't know when that changed." Diana huffed, quickly snatching up her glasses when the waiter sailed over with their drinks and appetizer.

"Well that's the problem, you never loved him! And your parents set too good an example; what could ever live up to that?" She took a generous drag from her drink, then dug into the food with hungry abandon. "At least you're finally rid of his snoring. And his mother."

"God, she really hated me. Couldn't bear it that her precious boy brought some lowly scum from the comunas into her pristine middle class home. Marrying me might have just been the only demonstration of free will that man has ever managed." Diana allowed herself to seethe a bit at the memory, taking it out on her food as she stabbed at it roughly. "And I will definitely not miss the snoring."

"Mr DEA barely snores." Gabriela remarked lightly. "Just ...very softly. It's quite cute."

"Since when do you let clients stay to actually sleep?" Diana inquired around a mouthful, brows scrunched. Gabriela hummed thoughtfully, swiping some sauce off her plate with a piece of bread.

"Ah, but he was so tired, poor thing. It wouldn't have been safe to send him back out, he would have crashed his car and died in a ditch somewhere, which would have been a real shame. I just let him nap for an hour or so that one time. Besides, I wasn't in any state to do much myself after he blew my back out." She had a way of being so nonchalant about these things that Diana supposed came from a sort of professional equanimity. Diana possessed no such poise and gawked openly, the wheels turning in her head as she recalled previous conversations and connected dots.

"Oh." She breathed as realization hit. "Oh! No! That was him? You're kidding me. How am supposed to look him in the eye now?" Gabi was already cackling, barely able to hold her laughter as Diana sputtered, recalling the very detailed recounting she'd received after the night in question. "You said you felt that for days after!"

"I did, but it was worth it." Gabi was now subtly holding her sides, having pushed her empty plate away to be collected. "You see, you're my dearest and oldest friend and I only want the best for you."

"I'm sure Mr DEA would be delighted to know of your crude attempts to pimp him out." Diana snarked, pushing her own plate to the side just in time to be whisked away by the waiter. "You're incorrigible. This is serious. Besides, I think he really liked you, actually."

"He liked the illusion of intimacy, like most of my clients. Lonely but with committment issues to the moon and back. It's not like I'm telling you to marry him. I'm just trying to get you properly laid for once." Gabriela scoffed. She could be so detached sometimes. In fact, one could call it downright cynical. But Diana had known her since they were both in pigtails and could detect the care behind even the most jaded words.

"Oh whatever. I request a change of topic. How's your book coming along? Any progress on that chapter that's been giving you so much trouble?" Diana asked sweetly, making the other woman glare at her over the plates with their main courses as they were being set down. Because yes, Gabriela does indeed write more than letters, and she's good, too. Also, two can play this game of being just slightly mean.

--- --- ---

Javier hated team meetings. And now that he was the boss here he couldn't even get out of them. Worse, he had to lead them. He looked over the assembled agents, glad that he had most of their names down by now. Gladder still that this was a DEA-only event and he wouldn't have to deal with any of Stechner's CIA asswads for now.

"Duffy, where are we on the shipments?" He turned to the other man expectantly. Duffy was one of the few agents here that weren't younger than him; he actually had some experience under his belt, unlike all these fucking greenhorns the higher-ups had sent him. He forced himself to pay attention to Agent Duffy's answer, making notes of important dates as he listened. Operation Cornerstone had, at this point, not yet come to full fruition, but if they continued to put in their due dilligence it was almost certain to turn up something useful. When they'd gone through all the points on his agenda, and after clearing up a few uncertainties, he dismissed the roomful of agents.

"Duffy, got another moment?" Javier stopped the other agent as he turned to leave the conference room.

"Sir?" Duffy sat back down and pulled his writing pad back out.

"Have you come up with any ideas for my informant in Calí?" Javier had mentioned this before, seeing as Duffy was one of the agents permanently stationed at the Calí field office. Now that Escobar was gone it would look suspicious if the head of the DEA in the country trekked up to Medellín every other week, and they needed a better way for Miss Rivas to hand over her collected intel. Duffy cleared his throat and caught the eye of one of his colleagues and waved him over.

"Lopez here has had a few ideas, sir. Tony, tell the boss your ideas for drop-offs."

The other agent was younger, handsome in that pretty way that made girls sigh dreamily, going by his own, admittedly remote, memory of high school and college. Lopez hadn't said much during the meeting, but had that eager glint in his eyes that said he wanted to prove himself. Javier had had that same look when he first came down here; it hadn't survived the first year.

"Let's hear it."

"Okay, so I was thinking the public library might be worth a shot." Agent Lopez pulled a notepad from his own case, squinting down at the scrawled chickenscratch. Javier nodded along, encouraging more than praise. He'd have to run these ideas by Miss Rivas anyway, and if she had concerns they were back at square one. But that was a river he intended to cross when the time came and not a second earlier.

--- --- ---

The satphone was also a good instinct because after their preliminary meetings in April, it gets irritatingly difficult to arrange another one for over a month.

"The what now?"

"The 4th International Poetry Festival. It's on from June 2nd to 8th." she explained patiently. "Orietta Lozano, Gloria Gervitz, Blanca Varela!"

"I assume those are poets."

"Obviously."

"You want me to go to a poetry festival with you?"

"No, I'm taking the week off and I'm going to the festival, and I am also free to meet you. I'm just suggesting that maybe your work hours don't all have to be spent in dreariness and drudgery." Something sizzled on the other end of the line where she was making herself dinner while talking to him, and it made Javier's stomach grumble. "A bit of culture is good for the soul, Agent Peña. You'll burn yourself out with how much you work. When was the last time you ever did anything for fun? Read a book? Hell, listened to music?"

Whenever you call me. She always had music on at home. It drifted through the receiver, a soothing background hum that was too soft to truly make out most times. Add to that the fact that he was still sitting in his office at almost half past seven in the evening, and he didn't have a proper counter-argument.

"Alright, fine. 2nd to 8th, I'll see what I can do."

--- --- ---

She was wearing another belted shirt dress, this one pale yellow and sleeveless, the full skirt reaching to just below the knees. It reminded Javier of the style his mother used to wear when he was little. Saturday, June 4th, had him meet up with Miss Rivas at the Teatro Metropolitano in central Medellín. Her dress contrasted against the blocky red building in a way that tugged familiar, but Javier was trying to train himself to not see blood in every instance of red.

"This is quite a way from Envigado." He announced his approach as soon as he was close enough to not have to shout. She jumped a bit, clearly startled, but her lips pulled into a polite smile when she recognized him.

"Agent Peña." She greeted. "No, cultural grandeur doesn't usually make it out to the comunas." She sat back down on the bench and pulled a flyer from her (rather big) purse, thumbing it pensively. Javier sat beside her, not quite at arms' length. Trying to appear wordlessly inviting, if only to mask how at a loss for words she made him feel. He seemed to be no longer used to normal, civil human interaction.

"Right, there is one reading here at the Metropol that starts in about half an hour that I think you might like. It has a few of the international poets; a few of them will be reading in English. Then there's another one later at the Teatro Carlos Vieco that I'm keen on. It's about half an hour on foot between locations, but there's the open air exhibits that only require a small detour." She pointed it all out on the program as she spoke, Javier silently nodding along in acknowledgement. "I've planned it so there's more than enough time for a lunch break. I hate having to rush through things that are meant to be enjoyed. I brought arepas, but there are usually enough street vendors out and about to get something else, if you prefer." She really did talk a lot. That was surprisingly fine by Javier, since it meant he didn't have to. "Though of course if you'd rather just get your intel and go I understand, but I must insist on at least this first reading, Agent Peña. But otherwise I wouldn't want to impose. I'm sure you have other things to do."

His lips twitched involuntarily and he held his hand out for the program flyer, silently reading it over. None of the names rung any kind of bell. Not that he was much of a poetry aficionado. "Sounds good to me."

She blinked. "Which part?"

He handed her back the flyer, which she took automatically, still eyeing him with uncertainty.

"All of it." She blinked again, looking mildly shocked, the flyer still dangling uselessly from her fingers. "Miss Rivas, I came all the way here and you went through all this trouble planning. It would be a waste to part ways after so short a time."

Truth be told it sounded ...nice. The thought of spending a day just exploring, letting work be work for even just a day (or at least part of it). Despite being an only child, he'd never liked being on his own even when he was young, cherishing every day spent with school friends or any of his numerous cousins. And it wasn't like he'd had to do far less pleasant things for information.

Her expression morphed from uncertain gaping into a wide, pleased smile that he couldn't help but mirror. Maybe she was quite a nice lady after all.

---

"...I have to ask though: What's a ...smit- ...smee-dereen?"

"Smithereens." Javier corrected gently as they exited the venue after the reading. "It means... it's all the small pieces that are left over when something is destroyed. Like with a bomb."

"Hmm," she hummed, pensive as they strolled along with the leisurely flow of the crowd, "I'll have to think a bit more about this." She fished around in her purse, producing bottled water and offering him one. He took it gratefully, unscrewing the cap and taking a sip. "How did you like it, Agent Peña? Already regretting agreeing to this?"

"No." Javier found himself replying perhaps a smidgeon too quickly. "No, it's very uh... enriching." And not what he'd expected at all. Though the festival was now in its fourth year running, he'd never had the chance or the wish, really, to attend it before. He'd barely taken note of its existence, too preoccupied with chasing down leads.

"Hm, you don't have to mollify me, Agent Peña. You'll still get your intel, don't worry." Her expression slipped, from an almost serene smile back into that underlying heaviness that he could identify only now that it had been lifted for a short while.

"Miss Rivas," he said earnestly, "I wouldn't lie to you. I'm just not that good with words. That's why I'm a government agent and not a poet."

That at least made her chuckle a bit. And it was true, too. He felt lighter, in a way, like his mind had been craving a break from the frustrating work of trying to find an in to take down the cartel. Even his shoulders felt less tense here. And it was a beautiful day, too. Warm but not too hot, sunny with a mild breeze. People were out and about around them, festival goers and other citizens alike, mingling freely with a carelessness that would have been unthinkable only a year prior.

"Juan Mateo never wanted to come with me to this." She gestured vaguely at the city and its people around them. "My husband. Ex-husband. Technically still husband because he won't sign the divorce papers." Her features turned tense as she explained, a slight frown appearing between her brows. "Not that it matters now, of course. But goodness, that man had no sense for these things. He thought top shelf coffee was the height of culture. He'd act like going out to a bar one evening every few weeks was a chore beyond compare. Such a martyr!" She huffed and Javier laughed softly, offering to take her bag for a while as she adjusted it on her shoulder for the third time now.

"No, that's alright. It's not heavy. This way." Her hand naturally slipped into the crook of his elbow to steer him down the side of the road and Javier faltered for a moment, cursing himself for wearing a short-sleeved shirt even though it was comfortably warm. He just didn't want to get separated in the bustle of activity, he reasoned. This was a perfectly tame and non-offensive gesture and it would be rude to flinch away, he reasoned. She initiated it, after all. No harm no foul. This was still a professional alliance.

"You think very loudly, Agent Peña." She remarked, lightly squeezing his elbow. "It better not be about work."

"Technically I am at work right now." He countered, covering her hand on his arm with his much larger one and giving it an awkward pat.

"Lucky you." She teased, lightly nudging his side with her elbow.

"Beats paperwork, that's for sure."

They ambled along, weaving through the crowds where they gathered in front of street performers and makeshift stages. Javier couldn't deny that it felt good to feel the sun on his skin, un-recycled air in his lungs; most of all being far away from Stechner and his legion of CIA goons was almost rejuvenating. They fell into a languid rhythm, walking leisurely and stopping every so often to linger a bit where music was being played or more poetry recited, in front of the stalls of local artisans or to look at the sculptures that had been put up as an open air exhibit throughout the city. Every so often, Miss Rivas would tell him some little anecdote, be it about any of the previous festivals or just the city itself. He barely felt the time pass.

By the time they'd made it across the river and to the park wherein the open-air theatre was situated, it was time for a late lunch and Javier felt his stomach start to protest, all that walking serving to work up an appetite.

"...and after school Gabi and I would trek across town to the library and hide by the shelves in the back, the ones with the old classics, and we'd read all the scandalous 19th-century novels about adulteresses and other fallen women. You know, Anna Karenina, Thérèse Raquin, Madame Bovary, Tess of the d'Urbervilles..." Miss Rivas set her bag down and produced a fairly big plastic container from within, setting it on the bench between them. "Perhaps not the most appropriate fare for a couple of fifteen-year-old girls, but it wasn't like we had a whole lot of supervision, you know? It definitely wasn't appropriate to read to a five-year-old, so I guess it's good that Maritza never really paid attention much- Stop my prattling any time, Agent Peña. I know I talk too much; Juan Mateo always used to say so."

Javier paused, an abundantly filled arepa inches from his mouth. "He what now?"

She flushed, looking down and picking at the wrapping paper she'd bundled the food up in. "It's fine, it's not a big deal, really."

"It's not fine." Javier insisted. Told her to shut up, told his own wife that she talked to much! What an ass. He started tearing into the arepa with a glower. They sat in silence for a while, chewing tensely in this little corner of the park at the foot of Cerro Nutibara, in a spot that was fairly hidden among the greenery while still affording a decent view of the city streets below. Javier didn't even know why it irked him so much. There were worse things out there than insensitive husbands. Ex-husbands at that. Still, he seethed quietly in his righteous wrath.

"Wanna see something funny?" She was already digging through her purse, so he didn't see much sense in replying. She pulled a photo from some deep compartment in her wallet, looking down at it thoughtfully for a moment before passing it to him. In his defence, Javier hadn't meant to laugh. It just came out, snorty and half-aborted.

"Hey, at least I managed to evade the poofy sleeves, okay? My mother was dead set on them. She wanted me to look like the English lady… uh, Princess Diana. I think she might have taken the name as a sign."

"That's a.. that's a lot of satin."  And tulle. Javier pressed out, still suppressing his laughter and barely succeeding. He could have pointed out that the mass of ruffles negated any absence of actual puff sleeves, but thought it better to refrain. And it wasn't like she hadn't looked beautiful as a bride, it was more that in that ruffled satin-and-tulle concoction she looked like an unwilling dress-up doll, despite the tasteful off-the-shoulder cut and flattering waistline. It was just... there were a lot of ruffles. There was a lot of dress, period. Paired with an expression that was better suited to a funeral, the effect was almost morbidly comedic.

"Wait till I show you the cake; we were basically identical." It was the dryness of her tone that set him off. There was no suppressing it now, Javier was bellowing, tears forming at the corners of his eyes. It didn't help that the dress fashion hadn't really strayed very far from the 'bigger and more style' in the years since. All things considered, this was a comparatively simple gown, lacking the mass of sparkly appliqués and abundance of bows and flowers that had been popular in the latter years of the previous decade. It just wasn't a style that suited her personality in any way, at all. Her slender figure was absolutely drowned in the sheer volume of the skirt alone. Hell, it completely overshadowed the already forgettable man standing by her side in the photo. Though 'by her side' was a generous descriptor. There was definitely enough space for the Holy Spirit and then some between the couple.

"My mother spent ages on that damn dress. Her hands looked like pincushions by the time she was done; that's why she wore gloves to the wedding."

"She's a seamstress, right? Your mother?" She'd mentioned it in an offhand comment during one of their previous phone calls.

"She was." Diana confirmed, tucking the picture away again. "Didn't think you'd remember that."

"Of course. I listen to everything you tell me."

Diana chuckled, flushing lightly. "It's not even relevant to the case!"

"I listen to everything you tell me." Javier insisted and started gathering up wrapping paper and such to throw away. A quick look at his watch told him they'd have to get moving soon if they wanted to make it to the theatre on time to get decent seats.

"Right." Diana collected her things to stuff them back into her bag. "So it's a no for ruffles, but what would you have me wear, Agent Peña? What do you think suits me?"

Javier couldn't have told even the most skilled interrogation expert what exactly compelled him to answer, and so readily at that, why he had an opinion at the ready in the first place, or at least that's what he preferred to tell himself.

"I think... something soft and flowy, not a whole lot of embellishments, if any. Clear lines and a light fabric, something you can dance in and be comfortable. Definitely no more satin."

She laughed now, as well, eyes twinkling with what he thought was approval. "You are full of surprises. Should I ever get married again, I'll most certainly engage your services as designer, Agent Peña."

"I'll keep a spot open for you. First consultation is free."

---

How her hand can feel so natural there in the crook of his elbow after hardly a day, he cannot tell. All he knows is that by the time the reading at the open air theatre is done the sun has started to dip in the sky and if this was what his work was like more often he'd perhaps be happier in his workaholic ways. Though they haven't broached the topic of work in hours now, instead ambling half-aimlessly northward towards Conquistadores where he's parked his rental car at the hotel he's staying at. Because it is a long way to Envigado and he insisted on driving her home. Because even though now that Escobar is gone Medellín is much safer, but he's never been one to easily trust a good thing.

It's only when they've crossed the big main street Avenida 33 that Miss Rivas gets quieter. She's obviously  tired following their prolonged outing, but he instantly misses the pleasant hum of her voice, her clever little observations- At the same time, it's a comfortable silence, not one weighed down by expectation. She'd even let down her hair from where it had been up in a ponytail for most of the day, most likely to keep the thick curtain of it away from her neck in the heat and sun.

They're just crossing a smaller square, the edge of it lined with shops, the hole-in-the-wall kind mostly, when she suddenly pulls away with a soft instruction to wait there for just a moment, and he's left to look after her flapping skirt with what is probably not the most dignified expression. Defeated, he sat down on the broad edge of a flowerbed nearby and watched her cross to a food vendor, order, and fish around for her wallet to pay, before turning around again with a plastic cup in each hand. Fresas con crema, he can make out upon her approach, and one corner of his mouth ticks up involuntarily.

"Hungry again?" He teased when she got within earshot, handing him one cup and setting the other down beside him along with her purse.

"There's always space for this in my stomach." She retorted primly. "If you don't want any, all the better."

"Thank you for the generous offer, but no. Thanks for this." He makes a show of cupping the treat protectively, fully knowing he'll have to set it down to unwrap the plastic spoon that came with it. It makes her laugh nonetheless, which imbues him with a strange, fluttery sense of accomplishment.

She's still standing, head thrown back and grinning wide, when her gaze catches on something at the far end of the plaza, and her expression morphs from glee to astonishment to rage so quickly it gives Javier whiplash.

"Oh you have got to be fucking kidding me!" Ripping off her glasses and thrusting them into his hands, she began stalking off.

Two things are fortuitous: one, she had to pass Javier to get to whatever she saw and two, his reflexes are still sharp enough for him to jump up and into her path, even having managed to safely deposit the cup of strawberries and cream.

"Whoa, what the hell is it?"

"I- ...she-" Her voice is strained, her whole body taut like a livewire as she attempts to round him and resume her warpath. On instinct, Javier took a few steps backwards, keeping himself between her and her target. It's only his hands on her shoulders that stall her enough for him to be able to whip his head around and follow her eyeline. That side of the square is empty save for an older lady shuffling along, huffing and puffing and blissfully unaware of the wrathful freight train about to rush her. To say Javier was puzzled would be an understatement.

"What, her? The old woman?"

"That's Hermilda Escobar!" She's shaking so much he has trouble keeping a grip on her. "Look at her! The nerve of that woman to show her face here-" She winds out from under his hands, rounding him with a quick sidestep, and he can only match her speed because his legs are longer.

"Hey!" Javier whisper-shouts to be met with flashing eyes, then repeats it more softly. "Hey. What exactly are you planning to do here, huh?"

"I'm gonna give that self-righteous bitch a piece of my mind is what I'm gonna do!" She retorted, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. It's cowing, the single-minded purpose rolling off of her. She's strumming with it, her seething damn near tangible. In her rage, she is ruthless. Javier had no doubt, in that moment, that once let go she might well maul the woman with more than words.

It's instinctive, the way his arm wraps around her. Like the few times he's had to restrain Steve and yet not like that at all. For one Javier doesn't have to go for a near chokehold, though energy-wise her wrath is at least as fierce. So, he wraps one long arm around her waist, hauling her much slighter body against his with a half-turn, her forearms colliding sharply with his chest.

"Easy." He rumbles, his other arm coming up to fold across her shoulders. "Easy. Calm down. Calm down!"

Palms smack against his pectorals and it stings. "Hey!" He tightens his hold around her trembling body, her angry, anguished squirming. Softens his voice. "Hey. Calm down, okay? What're you gonna do, beat up that old woman in the street? Come on, breathe."

The sound that comes out of her is something very closely related to a snarl, and he feels the bite of her nails even through his shirt, but holds fast, continuing to ramble empty phrases with the intent to soothe, or at least distract.

"If you tell me to calm down one more time I will get violent." She promised, hands pushing into his chest in an effort to break his hold. The old woman has almost passed by completely by now, seeming blissfully unaware of the savaging she's escaping. Javier held fast, as tight as he dared, the hand still pinching the pair of glasses between two fingers awkwardly patting at her shoulder while he sways them both, rocking from foot to foot.

By the time Diana has calmed down enough that he feels comfortable loosening his hold, the old woman is long gone from view. He feels her slump in his grip, reflexively tightening his arms again to hold her up.

"Hey," he gentles, lightly nudging the side of her head and thinking, distantly, that all but burying his nose into her soft hair is far too intimate a position for any of this. "Hey, it's alright, I've got you, okay? I've got you."

They're still swaying on the spot, a gentle see-saw motion, and then he felt the hands that had been clenching and unclenching on his chest lose all tension and drop down to the side. She's still shaking, her whole ribcage jumping with the hiccup of suppressed sobs. Somehow, he maneuvers them both around and back the few steps from where their snack and her purse still wait beside the flowerbed.

"Why'd you hand me these, anyway?" It's but a cheap distraction tactic, Javier handed her the glasses back as soon as she sat nevertheless.

"I'm not blind without them." Diana responded tersely, snatching the glasses and cleaning the lenses with the hem of her dress. When she doesn't deign to elaborate, he sighs and stretches from where he'd sat back on his haunches in front of her, resuming his earlier seat and finally unwrapping the spoon. It's a tense silence for a long moment, her aggravation like a pulse around them. Certainly it gives Javier a good bit to think on.

"You wanna tell me what that was all about?"

"Don't condescend to me. You may have been closer to the action, but I've lived here all my life." She ripped open her own packet with a vengeance, digging the spoon into her own portion with such force that the sliced strawberries bleed into the white cream. Javier sighed. Took a moment to order his words before they leave his tongue.

"I just need to know if this," he gestured between her and the edge of the square, "is going to be something that has to be taken into account. I need to know that you're not just in this for revenge. I need to know where you're at mentally. I need to be sure, both for your own safety and the integrity of this operation, that you're not just going to snap one day and try to claw Miguel Rodríguez' eyes out, okay?"

She chews angrily a moment, eyes flashing at him before she stares straight ahead again. The wrath is still rolling off of her in waves, perhaps dipping a bit in its intensity, but far from dulling just yet.

"You want to know my motivations, is that it? Well, let me lay it out for you, Agent Peña: of my entire class, a third never even made it to graduation, for one reason or another. I spent my youth plotting routes around gunfights in the street, with just enough success to still be alive, somehow. My mother was caught in the crossfire of a raid and was afraid to leave the house for years afterwards. My father was on that Avianca flight. My baby cousin Maritza is dead and her baby will grow up without her mother. And throughout it all, I took the coward's way out, moved cities, for university, for work, for marriage, for myself even, and everywhere I went they were, too. The narcos have spun their spider's web across the whole damn country and beyond and sooner or later everyone gets stuck in it. I got stuck in it despite my best efforts, and I'm tired of it. I'm tired of having to flee and turning up in dead ends. Somehow I have landed in this unique position, and I refuse to join them. Is that enough motivation for you, Agent Peña?"

She held his gaze, a challenge in fire, and he wondered how much longer that adrenaline surge would sustain her before she crashed. Wordlessly, he nodded his affirmation.

It's more tense silence after that, thick like stew or the humidity out in the jungle. She doesn't reach for him again as they resume the walk up to his hotel, doesn't casually link their arms like before, choosing instead to fidget with the handles of her bag. He hates it, misses the lightness the day had before. These narcos, they really do poison even the most mundane of things with their long, bloodied shadows. When they get to the hotel's underground garage, she's gone even more quiet, almost deflated. There are no more words exchanged, save for the clipped directions to her aunt's house. At one point, Javier was almost certain she'd dozed off.

---

"Do you ever think you should have been there? When they finally got him?" He'd just parked the car opposite of the house. It's almost completely dark outside by now.

"...Yes." Of course he did. He'd wanted, even needed to. The temporary suspension had not been near as effective a punishment as denying him that. The fruits of his labor, of years spent chasing after shadows and getting himself mired deeper and deeper, until he barely recognized himself when he looked in the mirror. He'd wanted it, sure, but perhaps he hadn't deserved it.

"Why did they send you home?" It's not that Javier is in a particularly obstinate mood, it's just that after the incident earlier, he's reluctant to bring up his own involvement with the cartels of Calí and Medellín, much less Los Pepes, so he gives a non-committal grunt in response. He should have known that wouldn't deter her. "When I first called, Agent Murphy said you had been recalled to the States. I only found out later that that was before they finally got Escobar. Why would a top agent on a case of this magnitude be pulled off and sent back before that?"

"You mean what did I do?" She nodded. There was no getting out of it now. He didn't want to lie to her either. Javier sighed, scratching his thumbnail across his brow. "You're going to look at me differently."

"Perhaps, yes." She took a deep breath, rummaging through her purse and producing a folded up paper. "These are the names of some American banks that I'm very certain help funnel and launder Calí's money. Sorry it's nothing more specific." She placed the paper in his hand, gently closing his fingers over it. "Whatever you tell me, we're in this together, right? We both want to bring them down. I trust you, alright?"

Javier gulped, his fingers tingling under her touch. He pockets the paper to buy time, if only to swallow through his suddenly-too-dry throat. And then he tells her. The dead ends and the crippling bureaucracy, Don Berna, the Castaño brothers and Judy Moncada and Pacho Herrera. His desperate grasping at straws to find a way, any way to throw a wrench in the escalating violence and catch Escobar, how that backfired so spectacurlarly. How he tried to get out, despite knowing that these people do not allow outs. How he'd been played by the fucking CIA because he'd been an idiot falsely believing that the two agencies were operating under even remotely the same objectives. How he'd gone down, almost taking his partner with him, definitely tanking his boss' career. He hasn't spoken to anybody about this in such depth, not even his father. By the end of it, he's exhausted.

"So you're the one Carlos Castaño wanted to feed to the crocodiles."

"What?" He'd expected judgement, even disgust. Certainly not this.

"I overheard Gilberto mentioning it on the phone. I think he must have just learned that you'd be the DEA's man in charge. 'Maybe I should have let you feed that damn DEA agent to the crocodiles after all, Carlos.'  The door wasn't all the way closed, that's how I heard it. I think that was the moment I realized I couldn't wind my way out of this. That either they were going down, or they were going to find out that I was already talking to Agent Murphy and have me... vanished."

"I won't let that happen." Javier promised instinctively, hands tightening on the steering wheel. "Crocodiles though? Really?" Not how he thought he'd end, that was for certain.

"Yeah, they're very uh... charming, huh?"

Javier grimaced. "If I never see any of them again, it'll be too soon."

"Knock on wood." Diana replied and unbuckled herself, pushing open the door.

"I'll walk you. It's dark."

"It's only across the street." She protested, and was that the ghost of a smile on her lips? Javier's hands stilled on his own seatbelt.

"You sure?"

"If my aunt catches me coming home with a man I'll never hear the end of it." Diana slipped out of the car, then bent to grab her purse. "Good night, Agent Peña. Until next time."

"Good night, Miss Rivas."

He waited until she was inside, the door securely locked behind her, before starting the drive back.

---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Chapter 3

-------------------------

Author’s note cont’d: if you wanna know what I had in mind, approximately, for the wedding gown see here

The International Poetry Festival of Medellín is a real thing, too. They have a youtube channel

[ewdaviddd]

folklore think piece

for a lower case album such as this, i will be writing a lowercase think piece on the subject. i will not explain why. you get it or you don’t.

the 1: i have never been in love or any type of romantic relationship that left me with lasting feelings of any kind. but, on my fourth listen through of this song today, what once was just a promising and fun intro to this peasant girl summer gut punch, brought me to actual tears as i sat on the toilet in my lime green childhood bathroom as if i were mourning the one that got away (another great song). however, i am an expert on being hung up on the past, the “what could have been”, and made up hypotheticals. this song also introduces the film motif seen a lot in this album. i think dating an actor has really gotten to her. anyway what a killer way to begin, top notch stuff. how can a song be so fun and so soul crushing at the same time?

cardigan: when did taylor wear black lipstick? this is important to me. an old cardigan is an inherently bisexual article of clothing. that is not an opinion. i read it somewhere today and i believe it. this is the tip of the queer-coding ice berg in folklore, never fear. another reference, “tried to change the ending / peter losing wendy”. this year i wrote a movie script where both peter and wendy were both gay. coincidence? probably. basically this one is classic taylor poetry on every level and it being one of a trio in a larger story makes it that much better. yet again, high school romance is not a universal experience (like for me for instance) but haunting my “what-ifs” is going to haunt me for a long time. and the thought of someone saying i was their favorite cardigan makes me want to scream into a pillow.

the last great american dynasty: my favorite ts songs have always been the ones with detailed characters and stories and this one introduces the trope of the “mad woman” who comes back later on as well a long with many fun character details. at first this song is just cheeky and cute, very visual, a fun world to jump into. but then this particular stretch of lines makes your heart drop into your chest and reminds you why taylor isn’t just always fun and always cute and always creative, she also holds the ability to nimbly sock you in the gut when you least expect: “fifty years is a long time / holiday house sat quietly on that beach / free of women with madness, their men and bad habits / and then it was bought by me.” my jaw is still on the floor. and i’ve never bought a house myself. but i’ve spent numerous christmases having a marvelous time ruining everything (so i’ve been told) so this song still applies to my life.

exile (ft. bon iver): i’m gonna be honest. for as long as i can remember i have strongly disliked bon iver and i never remembered why. it is a matter of principle at this point. i just don’t trust him. but then taylor announced she wrote a song with him which filled me with tremendous anxiety. but i can rest easy. much like “the last time” this song is a ts and male artist collaboration i can get behind. also the film motif again: the only time i’ve left a theatre when i didn’t like a movie was never because movie tickets are so expensive and if i’m shelling out 11 dollars to sit in a chair, i’m staying the whole time no matter how bad the ending. but i probably would have left my sister’s keeper if i had seen it before if i’m being honest. so i get it. thats why i read spoilers for everything i watch before watching it, because the anxiety of worrying about how it ends make me not enjoy it in the first place. the end of this song: the call and response felt… ethereal? i felt like i was watching a broadway musical from the splash zone seats, crying as i was spat on.

my tears ricochet: this song is what i picture stepping outside in the middle of the night when an inch or so of snow has just fallen and i can see the flakes fall in front of a street light sounds like. or the scorned secret ex lover throwing themselves onto the coffin demanding to know why they weren’t enough.   which is to say it feels like a sign from some sort of god. yet again, haunting is brought up, an overt reference to the fact that this album will live in my brain rent free for eternity. for some reason this song reminds me of the relationship between hamilton and burr when burr kills hamilton. that could be because i just watched the disney+ recording last week. one lives, one dies, but neither survive, both pay for it. Which is a super romantic and understanding view on murder. both musical experiences equally chilling and moving. if i die under mysterious circumstances this will for sure be played at the funeral.

mirrorball: first off, this is my mom's favorite which is very important. also, it has skewered a very specific but also universal insecurity of mine; existing just to please others and yet miserably failing. it is comforting that ts is not a “natural’ and feels she must always “try try try” because i too lack natural ability, but also rarely “try” even just the one time. the best way i can describe listening to this song is walking through a silent disco where everyone else is listening to some classic lady gaga jam and you are listening to a calming lullaby sung very far away. but don’t let the soothing sounds fool you. it still will have you reflecting on what it means to look and be looked at. a dark rabbit whole, like falling through the looking glass. i’ve never actually read that book though so i could be wrong.

seven: i’m dumb and on my first listen of this song i thought she “hit her peak” at 7 clock as opposed to age seven. but i always saw taylor swift as someone with an early bedtime. also a fun discovery while writing this, “seven” is the 7th song on the track list. clever. although this song is young and innocent and so nostalgic for a time when screaming ferociously was a widely accepted form of expression, it also sounds like a very old secret someone is whispering to me. a love from long ago that lasts beyond the person being in your life, passed down to me and it all just sounds a little gay. not just because of the specific line to hiding in the closet. but that certainly doesn’t go unnoticed. when i was seven i was definitely in love with girls and assumed that was just what friendship was, playing pirates and making plans of running away together.

august: the eighth track for the eighth month. her mind. also my birth month so that’s special. controversial opinion: from what i’ve read most people seem to think illicit affair is the third song in the triage of teen love. i will strongly make the case that it's actually this one. first of all, the subject: a short lived summer fling, which is specifically mentioned later in “betty”. the central heartbreak of this song is liking someone who always belonged to someone else. yes, this song is a window into a different summer, far from pandemic central and the escapist imagery is delightful. but a whole song from the pov of the “other woman” to james and betty is just so much more fun. and there are two more specific lyrics that prove my point. “remember when i pulled up and said "get in the car”” you will see later comes back from the other person’s perspective. and most of all: the repeated line, “meet me behind the mall”? only teenagers make plans to meet up behind a mall. i rest my case. so now we have cardigan and august. two pieces of the puzzle.

this is me trying: i’m glad i now have a succinct message to send to anyone when they ask me what the hell i’m doing at any given moment. this song just sounds like regret and waste in the most self-assured and confident way. this is “back to december” with the training wheels off.  i have no apologies for my efforts at wasting all my potential. but in this song, taylor has opened her arms to me in a warm embrace and has forgiven me for all i’ve done wrong and reminds me to not take for granted the “try”. okay mom. i’m crying again, but okay.

illicit affair: this is the kind of thing that makes you feel sixteen, living in a dull suburb, while secretly screwing your 38 year old married neighbor who’s rich but wants to be an artiste. aka like a character in euphoria or something. it’s sexy and dangerous until you think about it and then it's just dingy and creepy. but this song starts and stays beautiful. most importantly, this song is too sad and depressing frankly, to be a part of the trilogy. we could never forgive james for leaving such a mess and making her a fool. you don’t want to be this girl. you want to walk up to her and shake her and yell “you exist and will not be ruined by any dumb man”. and that’s feminism.

invisible string: is it reductive if i say this one’s about joe? all my non-stan friends have asked me which ones are about him. we forgive them and point them in this direction. because it is lovely and beautiful that we are all tied to our soulmate for our whole lives before we ever meet them (because that would in fact mean that there is someone out there for everyone which might be naive or dumb but i am both of those things and whats the point of living if you don’t believe in the power of love). this honestly gives me “begin again” vibes in the best way. it’s red-era level with the wisdom of lover-era tay. sublime.

mad woman: the second mention of the “mad woman” as both taylor herself and the character in the story. as usual, tay stays calling out double standards and the manipulation of women into “going crazy” for expressing reasonable anger. I, personally, wish i could say “fuck you forever” without someone saying i’m “overreacting”. this is my least favorite song on the album and i’d still listen to it three times in a row and need to resist the urge to set a man’s lawn on fire. just girly things.

epiphany: i know she said this one is about her grandfather’s experience in the military but all i imagine is a slow montage of harry style’s character in “dunkirk” on the beach. and it’s beautiful. and much like my sophomore in high school self reading “all quiet on the western front” it evokes a pain from deep inside me that engulfs a loss i could never describe and a sadness too awful to witness. you will listen to this song and feel absolutely powerless to the will of the universe and it’s cruelty. and the faint but steady heart monitor beep in the background… i’ve never seen “grey’s anatomy” but i can imagine why it has so many fans sobbing. and let me end on this: two soldiers in some old war (meaning both men based on dunkirk) watching each other like this and living and dying together…gay.

betty: the first verse was pulled directly out of my subconscious fantasy of being in love in high school and it being so wonderful and painful and dramatic. and taylor riding a skateboard… is a mood. the song has been out for less than a week and it’s already a cold take to talk about how this is her gayest song to date (close runner-ups being reputation’s “dress” and “cardigan”). but of course i will still talk about it. the lyrics embody such authentic awkward gay energy (see the lesbian in booksmart for reference) and having been a 17 year old only three years ago, i can say with reasonably good authority that no 17 year old straight boy could stand in front of a crowd of peers and beg forgiveness from a girl he hurt. it’s just not realistic. these are all awkward, over-dramatic, young girls stumbling through love. and it’s awesome. james is the speaker of this song, and the subject of “august”, the summer fling that was never truly there due to james’ love for betty, the titular role of this song. thus completing the love triangle. and there are so many obvious references in this song to both “august” and “cardigan”. rhyming cardigan with car again makes me want to light myself on fire in the best way. i love it. “i dreamt of you all summer long” is the final nail in the coffin for the girl in “august” who was clearly just a place-holder. totally separate from taylor swift, my favorite word is porch. so the amount of times it appears in her lyrics is wonderful. say it out loud. it just feels nice. anyway, this song makes me want to be young and dumb and in love. the second can really only be tolerated because of the first and third. i hope the story has a happy-ending. if james were a boy i’d wish him the plague.

peace: the coming-of-age movie starring james and betty (and inez) is over. we have come to “the age” i guess. there’s a thought that’s gonna fester. if this song was just the line, “would it be enough if i could never give you peace?” over and over for four minutes it would still smash me to pulp and fill my body with helium gas. i can and will cause a car wreck when this comes on the aux. if this song is what being grown up is like (bare in mind grown up to me is like, 30) then i’m ready to be done coming of age. because i already worry if i’ll be at all enough for anyone and way too much for someone at the same time. but like all good poetry, this song isn’t about what it “means”, but how it “feels”. and this is new york city, the summer, pouring rain, a long walk home, desperately fearing and hoping they are there waiting for you.

hoax: a one-sided conversation between me and my stubborn clinical depression. i too, constantly stand alone on the cliff demanding a reason. one has not yet been presented. it operates both within and and against me. i could be bigger and stronger than it. but instead i tend to it like a prickly plant. (“no other sadness in the world will do”). there is nothing both sadder and funnier then the scene in “avatar: the last airbender” when prince zuko stands alone on a cliff screaming at the sky for lightning to strike him. i don’t know why this song reminds me so much of that. what a way to end such an emotional rollercoaster. it is so emotionally draining that it simply forces me to start folklore again from the top and listen to it all over again.  or take a long therapeutic nap.

there are no skips. and it will still surprise you on your 267th listen. proceed with caution.

i knew you, in a past life maybe. i have not met you yet, but folklore has made me believe you exist.

@taylorswift 10/10 good work

@taylornation this had to be shared and i don’t have a twitter so

[letshargroovetonight]

Hello👋🏼, I’m @deemax01 this is my first ever fic/collaboration so i hope you guys enjoy it, thank you @letshargroovetonight for helping me with it ❤️.

Steve turned the radio back up and returned to doing his hair. Billy had just called him saying he was on his way to get him. The two of them were going to a party tonight. They had been planning on going for almost a week, so it’s pretty understandable that Steve’s excited. Especially since he hadn’t been to a party in forever, unlike Billy.

He was humming to some Eurythmics song when he heard voices downstairs. Furrowing his brow, he turned down the music and went to check it out.

He was surprised to see his parents in the living room. Why didn’t they tell him they were coming home?

“Oh, you’re home,” he noted when he saw them in the living room.

“Oh hi, honey! I missed you,” his mom said in a fake tone while coming over to kiss him on the cheek. She then continued on her way to her bedroom, dragging her bag with her.

“Missed you too, mom.” He smiled as he said it. If she was going to fake it, so was he.

“Weren’t you expecting us?” his dad asked, his voice harsh. Steve was confused. What could he have done already to piss his dad off?

“Uh, no. I wasn’t actually. You guys didn’t call or anything,” Steve responded.

His dad was about to say something but then he seemed to notice Steve’s clothes and hair, and his face changed from a look of contempt to one of curiosity.

“You got someone over?” his father questioned.

“No.”

His dad gave him a cruel little smile, but Steve wanted to explain before his dad could jump to any conclusions.

“I’m about to leave actually —” Steve began.

“Oh you’re going to a party?” His dad cut him off excitedly. Steve just nodded.

Steve was astonished to say the least. Why the hell was his dad acting like this?

His father gave an amused laugh.

“Oh my god, you’re really going to a party?” His dad couldn’t seem to believe it.

Steve chuckled nervously, unsure of where his dad was going with this.

“Yeah, I am. I thought you hated me going to parties and stuff,” Steve said.

“Oh, I do. I do believe me, but it’s better than you sulking around the house all day like some kind of freak.”

Steve felt like someone had slapped him.

“And it’s kinda surprising actually. I mean, son, the last time we were home you were hanging out with those children and sleeping in the living room with all the lights on like you were some kid who was afraid of the dark. I don’t wanna upset you but, but it was a little bit pathetic to see if I’m being honest.“

Steve’s father said his last words in a hushed tone, as if he didn’t want Steve’s mom to hear. The look on his dad’s face was something that Steve wanted to punch off.

“What the hell dad?!” Steve shouted. “You just came home. You didn’t even ask me how I’m doing and you’re mocking me now? You’re home for all of five minutes and you’re already mad at me for no reason.”

His father’s face twisted in anger.

“Do not use that language! Unbelievable,” spat his dad. “I wish I had a son that I could be proud of.”

His father held such disdain for him. That was the truth and no matter what Steve did, it was always wrong in his dad’s eyes.

Steve felt his cheeks heating up as he swallowed around the lump in his throat. His dad sighed.

“All my colleagues can talk about their successful sons who actually respect their fathers and all I have is you! God, what an embarrassment. What have you done that your mother and I can be proud of, huh?” Steve’s father finished. He shook his head in disapproval.

Steve didn’t know what to say but he didn’t have to say anything, because he heard Billy’s car pulling up outside his house. And then Billy honked. Steve blinked, swallowed hard and cleared his throat.

“Well, that’s my ride. It’s good seeing you, dad,” Steve said sarcastically with a small, dismissive wave as he left through the front door, slamming it behind him. Billy was waiting for him, his windows down and his music way too loud.

“Hey there, pretty boy,” Billy called out through the open window facing Steve. He was grinning, with a cigarette hanging from his lips.

“Hey,” Steve replied as he slid into the passenger seat. He lowered the music because he didn’t want another lecture from his dad about how he wasn’t hanging out with the right kind of people or about disturbing the neighbors. Steve didn’t notice his hand was shaking until he reached towards the knob on the radio. Billy noticed the tremors too.

“Are you okay?” Billy asked with a look of concern on his face. And Steve could just cry because Billy is the one asking him how he’s doing. It was Billy who cared about him — the guy who everyone thought was an asshole, the guy who beat him up a few months ago. He was the one who cared about him more than his parents ever did.

“Yeah, I’m fine,” Steve responded, plastering on a smile.

“Steve,” Billy pressed.

“I’m okay, Billy. Seriously,” Steve said.

Billy gave him a look and Steve didn’t think he could keep up the act anymore.

“Let’s go,” Steve said. “We don’t wanna be late.”

Billy drove away and it was silent for a few minutes. Steve wanted to fill the silence with anything because if he didn’t, he’d end up crying.

“You’re shaking, Steve” Billy blurted out suddenly. Well, that’s not how Steve wanted to break the silence.

“It’s fucking cold, alright?” Steve bit out.

“Oh c’mon...” Billy started.

“Just forget about it! I told you I’m fine,” Steve interrupted Billy angrily. Billy raised both hands in surrender.

“Alright, King Steve. Whatever you want,” he said with a smile that Steve could just tell was meant to be placating, like he was trying to lighten up the mood.

“Wanna listen to some music?” Billy asked.

“Sure.”

Steve sighed and rested his head on the window. Right now, he’d rather just go somewhere quiet and sit alone. He felt like a jerk for snapping at Billy like that, for lashing out after his dad’s hard words.

His eyes slid over to the left as Billy started to bob his head to the music and sing along softly to the song. Steve didn’t realize that his eyes lingered on Billy until the boy looked at him. Billy grinned and began singing loudly just to tease Steve.

“C’mon Steve, you look like I’m taking you to a funeral, god dammit! Sing!”

Billy laughed and Steve couldn’t help but smile.

“Whatever dude,” Steve said. But eventually he started singing too. He had been looking forward to going out tonight so he wasn’t going to let his dad ruin it for him.

By the time they get to the party, it’s already in full swing. Everyone is either dancing with a red cup in their hand or talking to each other excitedly. Or doing god knows what. But the atmosphere banishes Steve’s sour mood.

“Hell yeah!” Billy shouted while he scanned the place.

“See you, pretty boy.” Billy saluted Steve and entered the crowd, intending to enjoy the party to the fullest.

Steve smiled fondly and walked to the kitchen to grab a drink. Soon enough, he was tipsy and dancing with some girl who was also drunk. He suddenly felt a cold splash of liquid all over him. He realized then that this girl had a boyfriend and he accidentally bumped into him while he was trying to grab her away from Steve. Great. So he got himself and this dude soaked too because he couldn’t even hold the cup steady.

“The fuck!? Dude, what the hell?” the guy shouted angrily as he spun around to face Steve.

“I didn’t m — ” Steve didn’t even get to finish his sentence because he felt an arm on his shoulder.

“You okay?” Billy asked him.

“Yes. I’m fine,” Steve said, ducking out from under Billy’s arm.

“What’s the matter King Steve? Forget what a party actually is?” The guy sneers.

Steve was so done with people reminding him that he didn’t know how to have a good time anymore. Billy stepped forward, his fists clenched tight.

“Hey! Back off!” He snapped at the guy.

“Billy,” Steve warned. He didn’t want a fight. He really should’ve just stayed home. Billy took another step forward.

“Billy stop, let’s just go,” Steve said. His voice was hoarse and not because he was tipsy. Billy gave the guy a dirty look and then they left, going out to the backyard.

“What happened, man?” Billy asked, annoyed.

Steve couldn’t blame him honestly. He was so excited to let loose tonight and Steve had to go and ruin it all. Awesome. He couldn’t even go through the party without causing a scene.

“Nothing, Billy. I wasn’t paying attention and now I’m soaked,” Steve responded, getting choked up at the end of his explanation. He decided to shut his mouth after that. Crying on top of how he already looked right now, with a wet splotch all down his shirt and the side of his jeans, would just add to his embarrassment.

“Just...let’s get out of here,” Steve mumbled. He started walking towards the Camaro.

Billy wasn’t oblivious. He saw another car in Steve's driveway when he picked him up, and he put two and two together. Steve had told him time and time again about his dad being ‘strict’ and how his parents are never around. Steve also was constantly making excuses for his father whenever he talked about him. Just from knowing these things, Billy had a certain image of Steve’s father.

“Steve, wait up!” He caught up to him and they walked next to each other. Steve’s eyes were teary and his lips were turned downwards. He was breathing hard from his nose. Steve looked so sad, it made Billy ache.

“Steve,” he said softly. Steve stopped walking and closed his eyes

“What happened? Really? You haven’t been yourself since I picked you up earlier.”

“Billy please, just let it go.” Steve’s voice broke and a tear fell, rolling down his cheek. Billy took a step forward and Steve stood his ground.

“I know they’re home. I saw their car outside,” Billy said gently.

“Billy.” Steve’s face crumbled and he buried his face into Billy’s shoulder. Billy sighed and immediately placed his hand on Steve’s head and the other on his back.

“It’s okay, just please. Tell me what’s wrong.” Billy’s heart was breaking for him.

Steve let out a sob, trembling against Billy. His body heaved with sobs and Billy only held him tighter, rubbing at his back, but Steve pushed him to get out of his embrace.

“I’ll tell you but let’s just leave first,” Steve said and got in the car. Billy sighed, then got in the driver’s seat and they took off.

“Where do you wanna go?” Billy asked

“Anywhere,” Steve said, swiping the tears from his face.

“Just not my house,” he added after a minute, in a low voice. Billy nodded and drove on.

They ended up parked at the quarry and just sat there. Steve didn’t say a word. He looked out the window.

“Alright, what’s going on?” Billy asked, after a long stretch of silence.

“I’m sorry I ruined the night for you,” Steve apologized, turning his head to look at Billy.

“What? No, no, Steve. That’s okay.” Billy placed a gentle hand on the side of Steve’s face.

“I don’t care about the stupid party. That’s like, the least of my concerns right now,” he said while stroking Steve’s cheek.

Steve got choked up again. And really? Why the hell can’t he hold back the tears? It annoyed Steve. How emotional he got sometimes. He cursed and started trying to control his breathing.

Billy remained quiet. He never pushed Steve to talk when he could tell he really didn’t want to. Billy just gave him his time. Finally, Steve started talking.

“My parents came home.” He looked at Billy, who was waiting for an explanation.

“I figured that much.” Billy dipped his head at Steve, encouraging him to keep going.

“Right before you came to pick me up actually. I wasn’t even done getting ready.” Steve scrubbed a hand over his face and straightened his back.

“And obviously my mom gave me her robotic ‘I missed you baby’ act and dad...” Steve sighed.

His eyes were getting teary again and he grimaced. He turned his face from Billy again so he couldn’t see. But Billy had already seen, had already guessed what happened, and could tell how upset Steve was.

“God,” Steve gasped out, wiping his newly shed tears away.

“Hey.” Billy held his shoulder and turned him so they were face to face once more.

“He’s so mean! He basically hates me. I don’t know what I’ve been doing wrong. I really try to have a somewhat good relationship with him but to my dad, I just can’t get anything right!” Steve blurted out, raw and sad.

Billy knew it was unfair. Steve was one of the kindest people Billy’s ever met, an earnest soul.

“I’m sorry,” Steve said, hanging his head. “You wanted to fucking have a good time and I’m just rambling about my daddy issues —”

“Steve, stop saying sorry,” Billy interrupted him

“It’s honestly so pointless,” Steve continued. “I’m always trying and putting in the effort. Always. And it’s just..”

Steve pressed his knuckles to his shaky lips and shook his head.

“You don’t see the way he looks at me, the fucking disappointment in his eyes.” Steve sounded exhausted.

“You don’t deserve that,” Billy said. “You‘re so kind and good and you absolutely are not the problem here! I literally became a better person when we started being friends. I mean, do you remember what I was like before?”

Steve nodded, so Billy smiled and nodded too

“Yeah, of course you remember,” Billy laughed softly, remembering how he used to be. So lost and angry. He knew he was not the best version of himself yet but he’s so much better. It was funny how people can be so different, yet stay kind of the same. Steve huffed a little laugh too, and it felt like someone gave Billy a pat on the back.

“Look at me now. You helped me so much,” Billy said with conviction, wanting to boost Steve up, for him to feel good about himself.

“Your father doesn’t know what he’s talking about,” he spoke so softly, like he was afraid his words would break whatever it was that was going on between them. Steve felt his heart flutter. He didn’t know how to respond, so he stretched out his arms and circled them around Billy’s neck. Billy hugged him in closer, his arms enveloped around Steve’s back and waist.

“Thank you, Billy.” Steve felt tears rolling down his face. Billy felt them on his neck too.

“Relax, pretty boy. You’re okay.”

Steve knew he’d always be okay as long as he had Billy by his side.

[tysondabs]

Forest Lawn Memorial Park (Hollywood Hills)

trigger warnings and contents: death/parental death, a cemetery visit, L.A. traffic, expensive whiskey. 

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

If he was a smart person, Tyson would have known he could just google his father’s details and find out where he was interred from there. One simple google would have done it, but not being an internet-first person, he resorted to texting Angela instead. She was more than happy to give him the details, and mention in so many follow-up texts how happy she was he had decided to go see him. The knots in his stomach started then, something inside twisting at the way she said she was happy, proud, and that Johnny would be happy to have him visit, he was sure. There was a succession of emojis, hearts, flowers. The sailor knots twisted themselves tighter.

He set off the next day, somewhere between 2 and 3 on the drive. Had taken another day off at work, more sour faces from Lisa and threatening that he’d all but used up all his vacation days this year, but fuck her; he let any thought of her pass not to ruin the day, started his beat up, paint-chipped Honda civic and hit the road. Stone cold sober, nothing in his system but the black coffee he’d slammed back minutes earlier.

Cruising down Silverlake Boulevard, some familiar scenes until he left the familiar scenes for unfamiliar road, then merged onto the freeway. It was fine until he hit bumper to bumper traffic. Now? Midday? Fucking hell.

He hated driving in L.A. on the best of days, but now, without music, and the heat, and stopping every two minutes as the cars crawled up the drive, he was starting to get stir crazy minutes into the journey. At the next stop he pulled out his phone, checking notifications; a thought occurred to him, or rather, a desire. Maybe he could text Sasha. But he couldn’t picture a way to word ‘going to see my dad’ to her without it sounding fucking weird or stupid, so he tossed his phone to the passenger seat and continued driving (only to pull it back up again a moment later because he forgot he had the GPS going).

At some point, he got too engrossed in his thoughts, and missed the turn into Cahuenga Boulevard. Fucking hell, part two. Maps rerouted though, and after a very long roundabout, he was finally at a stoplight, opposite some weird building-slash-cottage. ‘Valhalla Entertainment’, the banner said, and that rang a bell (wasn’t that Jude’s kid’s name?). 14 years in this city, and he had absolutely no clue which part this was. Somewhere between the Hills, before or past the Hollywood Bowl, he rarely came here unless it was a party. The distractions had him nearly missing his turn into Barham, but he pulled it just as the light turned green, the odyssey getting longer by the minute and it would be a miracle, he felt, if he made it at all. At this point, there was an itch to just Fucking Get There, wherever ‘there’ was. He drove past a flower shop, contemplated stopping but decided against it. What good were flowers anyway, he had something better with him — a bottle of Four Roses bourbon, sitting passenger seat beside him. Johnny liked that one. Or so he thought. At any rate, there was a photo of him holding a bottle of it somewhere on the internet, one he looked psychotically happy in, that was burned into Tyson’s retinas. 

He drove past a sign for Universal City, and then a building loomed large, the New York Film Academy building (that made no sense to Tyson, why would the New York film academy be here? In L.A.? It made no damn sense). This entire city was Hollywood, it ate the city up and swallowed it whole, chewed and then spit it back out. That’s what it did to people, at least the ones who came seeking something in the realm of fame, anyway. Everyone else in the city was stuck under its heel, suffering and poor. The rich elite and the hoods; night and day contrasts. He knew which part he belonged to, and would prefer it over anything fancy that this town had to offer because it was all a farce, all an illusion. Though he wouldn’t begrudge any of his friends chasing fame money and success. He had plenty of those, and he hoped they could navigate the labyrinths in this concrete maze better than many did. Better than his dad sure had.  

Forest Lawn Drive creeped up on him as buildings thinned out and disappeared, he was close now, he could feel it. Before long, there was a large white building beside a brick church, and he was here. He stopped at Information, gave the coordinates he was looking for and they directed him. Straight up that road and it was somewhere in the middle, coordinates marked. The knots got tighter now as the boom barrier lifted and he drove into the cemetery. Thoughts narrow, throat dry. He pulled up to the right space, or what he thought was the right space. A piece of trivia fell into his head, remembering that Lemmy was buried here too. Maybe he’d snap a photo for Emma, if he could find it, if he could even remember. He followed the numbers as he slowed his car, looking out at names, gravestones marked in the ground in even rows. He stopped the car at the assumed right spot, parked it by the curb and killed the engine.

Now the hard part. In his stomach sat a lead pretzel. His breaths dug deeper and he thought of a girl with fair hair to try and bring himself out of it. It sure would’ve been nice if she was here, maybe he’d even be cracking jokes right now. He tended to do that in her presence, even when he was peak anxious and scared; like when they were boarding that plane. But there’s no one here, just him and his multiple personalities, the angry ones and the sad ones this time mostly. It was quiet up here, and he saw someone walking amongst the graves, and a caretaker not too far from that person. The church stood behind him down the slight incline of the hill, and everything else fell flat, in neat green rows. He thought of another girl, one from many years ago. She knew his deal, knew how he would get on this day, he’d told her as much. And when that day came around one time, she surprised him with a trip. They drove out of town to some peak overlooking the city, she’d packed a picnic, and made sure they had a day of it. That had been real nice of her to do.

He couldn’t sit here and rehash memories endlessly to avoid what he came for though, and Tyson got out the car, grabbing his trusty tin and the bottle of whiskey he’d brought with. The lead pretzel undid itself and became a slithering snake. Walking amongst the rows, he looked at names, family lots. Looking out for the right one. None of them were the right one. Angela had sent directions, but they were haphazard and not exact. Some five minutes passed this way, Tyson beginning to wonder whether he was in the right section at all, passing name after name, some sounding famous, some not. Some with fancy words the grave, or markings, and flowers left by them. He passed one with a shitton of flowers; either a recent or old Hollywood star. He came down one side and down the next row, starting to wonder if he should give up here and move on to the section directly below this one, maybe it was there she’d meant — when it caught his eye, the gravestone in the corner of an enclave, sitting flush with the earth.

John Robert ‘Johnny’ Dobbs. Beloved husband and father.   8/15/1964 - 4/27/2001 And when the winds carry you home, Remember who it was that sang your song.

There were bunches of flowers shrivelled up beside the grave, two sets of them. His throat felt heavy, scratchy as he stopped and kneeled before it, wondering who’d left them. It was hard to swallow now, impossible.

There was nobody around, but even had there been, Tyson didn’t think he’d let that stop him from doing what he did. He tried talking quiet at first, but maybe Johnny couldn’t hear him that way. Who knows how this thing worked. He took a tentative seat on the ground and crossed his legs, sighing. Looking up and squinting to the sky that still had a sun up high in it, still far from sunset, nowhere near it. A sheen of sweat showed on his brow between the parts obscured by his backwards cap. He frowned, and spoke to some space between the grass and the corner of the memorial stone.

“Well… I made it. I’m here.” Now that he thought about it, he probably should have come on his birthday instead. Because this…this was fucking depressing. The 20th anniversary. Twenty years it had been since he died in that hotel room all alone, and not since the actual funeral had he ever thought to come here. “I know I don’t…come here at all…ever…but I just wanted you to know I think about you…think of how you are…don’t even know if I believe in that heaven or hell shit, who knows…”

He tore out strips of grass that were beside him, and arranged them in a little, methodical pile. “Maybe this reincarnation shit is real and you’re out there somewhere…maybe on another planet. That would be cool. You were too good for this one anyway.” Rip, rip, more pieces of green to join the little pile he was making. “I wanted to…wanted to, uh, say something, actually.” He sniffled, not sure when his nose had started running, but it had now.

“I’m sorry.” He couldn’t finish the rest out loud but he thought it. I’m sorry for ever being mad at you, for throwing tantrums, for being a shit son. I’m sorry for pushing you away when you would come back because I thought you had left us. I know it wasn’t like that now. It wasn’t like that at all.

The tears rolled freely now, another unexpected surprise from the day. “Wish I could…I wish I could find the…” he shook his head, over and over, anger mixing into the rest of the feelings churning inside him, so much frustration, rage. That things even turned out this way. Had it not been for that, his dad could have been here, alive. Disappointing Tyson in the flesh and Tyson in turn disappointing him, but alive at least. “Fuckin’... kill them all…every last one…” He’d do it, too, no one could stop him. Not even the thought of a life in prison. “I know why you were the way you were, is all I wanted to say. Shit, I’m like that too. Maybe it runs in our genes.” He looked up like he was talking to someone, like there was a physical body here receiving his words, looking back at him. “Wish I could listen to your stuff too, because it’s good stuff. But I can’t…sorry.” There were people out there though, who listened, and still loved him, and had not forgotten him. He remembered the messages from fans he would get. That counted for something, at least. Maybe they could all listen in his place, since he could not. He knew Angela didn’t listen to his stuff either, and there was something to be said about that. At least he wasn’t alone feeling like this. 

He picked up the bottle of bourbon he’d brought with him and twisted open the cap. Tipping it back, he took a big drink, quenching his thirst, feeling the burn as the liquor travelled down his system. Gasping for breath as he pulled back, he poured the rest over all the grass. Here, all for you, he thought, some dark amusement to that. Probably haven’t had a drink in a long ass time, huh? He stopped when he’d all but created a puddle of whiskey before him that was getting too large. One more sip stolen of his own, and he placed the bottle right side up next to his gravestone. “That’s for you.” Surprisingly, the knot was easing up, or maybe it was put on hold. Maybe this wasn’t too bad. Maybe he could do it again next year, or in the summer when it came time for Johnny’s birthday. Twice a year.

Tyson let out a long breath he had been seemingly holding in, cheeks puffing out, chest heaving. He started to feel sickish now, queasy. Maybe he needed a smoke. Yeah. His tin came out, the usual stash of two prerolls in it. He hesitated, then pulled the spare one out, placing it next to the whiskey bottle. “I know you never liked this shit dad, but give it a try yeah?” he said, like he was persuading Johnny to change his mind on Tyson’s drug of choice. At the same time, lighting the other one he’d brought with him.  “Don’t know what kinda shit you had back in the eighties, but this is good stuff. Promise.” God, he was going crazy, fully lost it out here, smoking a joint and talking to a gravestone. A fucking joke. But nah, it wasn’t him, it was the world that was a joke, and he was just fine.

He stayed some time longer, until he’d smoke down the joint to the end, the buzz it offered providing some sort of calm to his frayed nerves, definitely making everything better. In a weird twist of events he felt hesitant to leave now, but eventually he did, getting up, dusting himself off. Crossing eyes with a woman across the lot as he did, somewhere in a not-so-far off distance. He wondered if she was visiting someone, but her husband joined her, photo camera in hand and it became quickly apparent they were tourists. He felt some kind of bile about that, the temptation to cuss them out as he walked past high, but he resisted. 

Fucking tourists.

Back in his now-overheated sat-in-the-sun-too-long car, he rolled the window down all the way, and breathed a long, relieved exhale again. His head went to the steering wheel as he tried to collect himself, pick himself up from what just happened. He was in a state but coming out of it, slowly, gradually. That hadn’t been too bad. He forgot half the things he’d wanted to say, but maybe he would think of them again on the drive back, write them down somewhere and then say them when he was back here again. If there was anything he wished for after all, it would be more time with Johnny. And Angela. He’d make a point to go back to Texas if it meant driving for two days. Alone. It was the tradeoff for spending time with his family, what he had left of it anyway, because in the end, that’s all you had, wasn’t it? 

Talking himself through and down some weird freakout episode wasn’t easy, but gradually, in this hot ass car that wasn’t getting any cooler, he somehow cooled down himself. Then he pulled out his phone and dialled a number. 

[magniloquent-raven]

Ooh for your prompts: Fluffy Elmax sleepover with cuddling for #16 pls :') xoxox

i had such a good time writing this omg thank you!!! tho there’s a couple bits that threaten to be angst because im physically incapable of writing pure fluff lmao. it’s just tiny bits tho. just a smidge.

also, because s4 isn’t out yet i uh. kinda just did a time skip but didn’t rly change anything about how s3 left off? i know we know hopper’s alive but like. i guess he’s just still in russia in this fic LMAO rip. don’t think about it too hard

posted on ao3 as well :)

—-

Max’s watch timer beeps obnoxiously again. 8:36. El’s late. She hits snooze.

“When’s your friend supposed to be here, sweetie?”

“Soon, mom. You know, you and Neil don’t have to wait up.” They do this every time. Like Max isn’t almost seventeen and perfectly capable of being alone in her own damn house for five minutes. At this rate they’re going to be late for whatever thing it is they’re going to, and Neil will be even more of a bitch than usual.

Her mom glances over at him. He’s sitting in his armchair looking surly, checking his watch pointedly. Asshole.

“Well…I don’t think—”

Max hears a car pull up out front. “Oh, thank fuck,” she mutters, turning on her heel and marching out to greet the Byers’.

Joyce climbs out of the passenger seat as Max strides across the lawn. “Max, honey!” she waves, grinning bright, “How are you?” There’s always a…tone to how she asks that. Questions lurking under the surface that they don’t talk about. It makes Max’s insides all squirmy thinking about it, though she is on some level grateful for the concern.

Max stands on the curb, tugging on her earring. A habit by now. It’s both a comfort and a reminder. She got one hell of a lecture the day she came out of the bathroom with blood running down her neck and a safety pin in her earlobe, but she didn’t regret it for a second.

El slides out of the driver’s seat, her smile crinkling the corners of her eyes. Max watches her stand and adjust her shirt. She always looked good in yellow. “I’m good,” Max responds after a beat, and it’s honest for once.

The door behind her creaks. Probably her mom and Neil coming out of the house, hopefully to leave, finally. She doesn’t turn around, just steps into Joyce’s waiting arms and presses her face into her shoulder. Max is taller than her now, by a couple inches, so it hurts her neck a little, but it’s worth it.

Will’s still tucked away in the backseat, peering through the window, Max waves at him when she peeks up over Joyce’s shoulder.

Then El distracts her. “Your hair,” she says, gently tugging on a lock behind her ear. Max steps back from Joyce, and runs a hand through it, cheeks pink. Three years ago she’d hacked off all her hair with a pocket-knife, woke up the morning of Billy’s funeral with strands still stuck to her neck, locks hanging ragged across her forehead. Her mother had thrown a fit.

“Yeah, I cut it again,” Max says, like that wasn’t obvious. She’d let it grow out uneven and messy for a while, but she broke out the scissors again about a month ago. It’s neater than her last haircut, but not by much.

El’s hand is in Max’s hair again, dangerously close to her face. Max’s knees wobble a little.

“Bitchin’,” she says solemnly, after a few seconds of consideration.  

Max’s grin is blinding.

Her mother cuts in, before she can respond, gives her the usual talk about staying in the house and making sure she’s got her emergency numbers memorized. Then she bids them all a hasty, distracted goodbye. Her mom was never very comfortable about the Byers’. Probably something about Joyce’s too-knowing gaze, or the fact that El glares daggers at Neil every time he’s within range.

She’s doing it now. Watching him get into his truck with a quiet rage in her eyes. Joyce puts a hand on her elbow, and it doesn’t move until Neil’s truck has turned the corner at the end of the street.

“We should get going,” Joyce says, checking her watch. “Will wanted to be at Claudia’s an hour ago but we got caught up at Mike’s house, and, well, you know how it is,” she flutters her hands, approximating a shrug.

She hugs El goodbye, then pulls Max in for another one. “Call us if you need anything,” she says, pulling back and putting her hands on Max’s shoulders. That sad glint is in her eye again, and Max knows the offer extends beyond tonight.

“Thanks, Joyce, we will.”

By the time she’s taken the corner at the end of Cherry Lane Max’s watch is beeping again.

El glances down at it, a pinch between her eyebrows. “…Was that for me?”

“Uh.”

The confusion melts off her face, replaced by a cheeky grin. “It was!”

Max shuts the alarm off, cheeks burning. “Why were you guys at Mike’s for so long?” she asks. eager to change the subject. If the guys are meeting up at Dustin’s the delay wasn’t because Will and Mike were catching up, and, well, Mike and El’s relationship is…of interest to Max. For reasons.

El purses her lips. It’s a face that tells Max they’re gonna need to be sitting and cozy for this conversation because it’s gonna be a long one. So, she links their arms and pulls her inside.

An hour later they’re huddled under a throw blanket on the couch. El is giggling, face in her hands, and Max is wheezing around a mouthful of skittles.

“Oh, that’s so not funny,” she chokes out, trying not to spew candy everywhere, which brings about a fresh wave of laughter. El’s shoulders are shaking, brushing against Max’s and making her warm all over. God damn, she’s missed this.

“Then why are you laughing,” El replies, poking her side and smiling from ear-to-ear.

She’s beautiful, Max thinks. Her braid is half-undone, letting her hair curl around her face in gentle waves, and her eyes are bright. She looks happy, and Max holds on to that, keeps it all for herself because she did that, she made that happen. She might not have everything she wants from El, but she’ll take whatever she can get. Whatever El wants to give. And sometimes just her smiles are enough, enough to make Max’s chest constrict and her heart glow, because for now, she’s happy too.

She laughs again, in leu of a response. How can she not, when she feels so light she could float away, high on the soft strawberry scent of El’s shampoo and the way her cheek dimples when she grins. But she can’t say that, so she says, “Because it’s Mike,” and pokes El right back. “I’m legally obligated to laugh at his misfortune.”

They have a complicated friendship, which mostly boils down to her being willing to bail him out when he’s in shit, but only if she gets to make fun of him while she does it.

El wrinkles her nose a little, but her smile doesn’t dim, “You two are weird.”

She’s pretty sure it used to bother El, how much Mike and Max fought. Max can’t help but wonder if they’d have gotten along better if she wasn’t in love with his girlfriend. Ex-girlfriend. Because she’d dumped him for good this time. Four months ago, apparently, though Mike was, until a few hours ago, under the impression it was temporary.

Max almost feels bad for him. Except she doesn’t. Apparently, he was a dick about the whole thing, so at least she has a solid reason not to.

“You love us,” Max scoffs. El may have broken up with Mike, but she’ll always love him in some way or another.

El’s expression softens, turns fond and sweet. She’s thinking about Mike, Max is sure, but the smile is still directed as her. Small victories. “I do,” she says quietly.

They order a pizza after that, and watch movies into the wee hours of the morning. By 3am Max’s throat is raw, and her stomach hurts from laughing (and too much pizza). It’s the most fun she’s had in a while. The Byers’ don’t visit as often as any of them would like.

Max isn’t even tired, but El’s head has been dropping onto her shoulder on and off for the past hour so she suggests they call it a night.

She knows that when the boys sleep over at each other’s houses they’ll take the floor, or the couch in the basement, anything but actually sharing a bed. As El wraps an arm around her waist and snuggles up with her under the blankets, Max takes a moment to wonder if that would be better or worse than this.

It always seemed so miserable to Max, how much boys have to limit themselves.  

But also…well, it might be easier sometimes. She wouldn’t have to deal with wanting things she shouldn’t want because El would be over there, and not right up in her space, hands warm and breath tickling Max’s ear. This is different than sitting thigh-to-thigh on the couch, it blurs the line more, and it’s the ambiguity that’s driving Max crazy.

She wasn’t tired before, but she’s wide-awake now.

Time creeps by strangely this late at night. Max isn’t sure how long she lays there, staring at the ceiling, trying to calm her pounding heart. El’s breath is steady, quiet, and her eyes are closed. Max is sure she’s asleep, she was so tired before.

Before she can stop herself her hand creeps up, brushes a strand of hair from El’s face.

Moonlit, she’s ethereal. There’s always been something otherworldly about El, with her big, dark eyes, always watching, boring holes into you with their intensity. Shadows play across her cheek, and Max tracks them for a while, absurdly jealous of moonlight.

She traces patterns on El’s forearm, the one resting on Max’s stomach, keeping her touch light so as not to wake her.

More time passes, and Max’s head feels heavy with sleep that won’t come. She’s groggy, leaning back but unable to keep her eyes closed.

She starts talking. Whispering. Remembering the times she read Wonder Woman comics to El until she fell asleep, and hoping, somewhere in her foggy brain, that it might work on herself too.

“You know… I always knew we’d be good friends. The second I heard your name I wanted to know you,” she murmurs, and draws a star on El’s wrist. “Didn’t know how badly I wanted until I saw you though. You were terrifying, and I loved it. And now…” Her eyes slide closed as she thinks. “You’re the best person I’ve ever met. You’re beautiful. Everything about you. And I love you…more than I should.” She sighs, sits in silence and cards her fingers through El’s hair. It’s getting so long.  

El’s hand closes around her wrist.

Max’s eyes fly open, and she stills, heart pounding. “Uh.” El’s eyes are open, looking up at her, she’s awake, she’s awake, oh fuck– “Um. Did—did I wake you up, I’m—sorry if I woke you—”

“It’s okay.” The corners of her mouth turn up, slow and careful, “I couldn’t sleep anyway.”

“Oh.” Is all Max can manage, staring down at El with wide eyes, waiting for her to…do something. Max’s palms are sweating. She doesn’t know what to expect.

El moves her hand, puts Max’s palm against her cheek and shuffles forward until they’re nose to nose.

“Oh.”

She tastes like toothpaste and kiwi lip balm, and kisses as sweetly as she smiles. Her hands end up in Max’s hair, fingers gentle but demanding, guiding her forward. If Max wasn’t already laying down, she’d need to be because her knees are jelly.

“Oh,” El echoes when she pulls back, laughter in her voice. She presses a chaste kiss to the corner of Max’s mouth, careful and deliberate. Then her expression softens, sobers. “I was jealous of you. At first. Didn’t…know what it was. Know why. So, I ignored you. And… I’m sorry.”

Max shakes her head, “Ancient history. It’s okay.”

“No, I,” El stops, furrows her brow, “You were so happy. Free. I wanted that. And then, then you helped me have that. So. Thank you.” She cups Max’s face, fingertips tracing along her cheekbone, and Max’s heart sings. “And I love you too.”

They kiss again, and Max decides that El sleeping on the floor would’ve been a terrible idea.

[murderdaddymayhem]

One Of The Clan - Otis Driftwood x Male Reader

 Synopsis: Otis comes out to the Firefly Family and tells them you're his boyfriend.

(Because who cares that they're a gross murder family, they're also really sweet with each other and super supportive so this is totally a thing, thanks)

Wanted to write more Otis x Male Reader for all you guys out there so here you go!! A cute emotional support fluff piece!!!!! (Also be warned there's like one mild slur but no homophobia or anything cause this fic is happiness only zone)

"How are you feeling?" you ask Otis, squeezing his hand. He looks over to you, sulking. 

"Like a million fuckin' bucks, thanks for asking." 

You shove him playfully, which turns into a dunking match. You finally see a smile clear up Otis' face, but it quickly disappears when he remembers what he's about to do. 

Otis met you about a year ago, at a bar somewhere outside town. He had quickly discovered that you were different from other people in the area, just like him, and instead of taking you back to the house to Chik-Fil-A you, he ended up kinda... sorta... liking you. 

You two had talked for hours, and he had felt more and more attracted to not only your appearance, but your personality. Otis was very selective about who he gave his time to, and you just turned out to be his favorite person to be around. Otis had brought you around the house a few times, and after a good few months of walking in on some form of anarchy, you had been accepted as a good friend of the family's. 

Of course there was one thing that presented itself as an obstacle (at least for Otis). He was adamant that guys just didn't do things like this around here, that if anybody saw you two together, god forbid in public, you'd be strung up on Dr. Satan's hanging tree. You had insisted you cared for him enough to brave all that, and he cared for you too, so you had kept your relationship under wraps. 

Until now. 

Otis had said something the other day to you on one of your long drives together in your pickup. (It was a favorite date activity of the two of you, other than coming along for a night of murder and mayhem, to drive for hours out into the Texan desert listening to old 70s music, philosophizing, and talking about life.) 

"What if my family doesn't want me around anymore if I tell em?"

You had turned off the engine, and sat there in the middle of the dusty plain, Gerry Rafferty's Right Down The Line playing on your beat up old car radio. 

"Tell them what?"

Otis had sat there for a long time. "Y'know, about... this whole thing." You had waited expectantly for him to elaborate, since your talk about using words. Otis had huffed, rolling his eyes. "Us, okay! The two of us." 

"I'm fairly certain that your family, who regularly chases people around in bunny onesies and holds ceremonial funerals for fun, wouldn't much care who you date or fuck."

Otis throws his head back against the seat. "Yeah but shit, this is different! They let me in, gave me a name I'm proud of, gave me a home. My own biological father used to beat me, call me less than shit, and all for..." He gestured to you and him. "For bein' me, I guess."

"It's fucked up," you say softly, taking his hand. 

"Yeah, you got that fuckin' right handsome." He had wiped his eyes. "And them back home... hell. It'd be close to testing their kindness to tell them I'm a queer at this point."

A silence enveloped you both as you switched the radio off.

"Why don't you try?" 

"They don't gotta know," Otis snapped, then looked at you, apology clearly written in his eyes. You had just nodded, used to his hurried responses. 

"What I mean is... if you're ready... you might feel better finding out if they really are there for you." 

He had looked at you, and you took off your shirt, handing it to him to dry his eyes. He used it, and tossed it back to you in a ball. You had laughed, and he had climbed on top of you in the driver's seat, sticking his knife in the seat recliner to make it flop down. 

"Mmf," you had complained, his lips smothering yours, "Thanks for breaking my seat." 

"Ain't nothing but nothing."

"Bu--"

"RJ can fix it," he had replied, before reaching down to your jeans. 

Now, four days after that night, he decided he was ready.

Mostly. 

Somewhat.

"You know, you don't have to do it today if you're not ready," you reassure him, but he takes your hand, grasping it tightly. 

"Damn it all to hell if I haven't spent all morning working myself up to this. I'm not lettin' that go to waste." 

With his usual headstrong determination, he walks through the front door of the house, past Baby's burnt doll collection. He walks on into the living room, where Mama's on the couch watching some show with Baby, Spaulding is in the kitchen, and Tiny is carving a pumpkin at the table.

"Otis, I love you honey, but get the hell outta the way," Mama says sweetly, "Svengoolie's on." 

"Fuck Svengoolie," Otis responds, and Tiny looks up from his work at the table, unsettled. Otis holds up a reassuring hand to him, and Baby finally looks away from the TV.

"Brought your friend?" She lets out a giggle, and waves to you. You haven't told Otis, but you're convinced Baby knows about you two already. 

"I've... got an announcement to make." Otis shifts around from foot to foot, still holding your hand. Seeing that Otis is serious, (and that he's holding your hand) Mama turns off the TV. 

"Who turned off the god damn television? I was watching that," Spaulding comes walking out of the kitchen, scratching his back with a wooden cooking spoon. "Oh. Hiya, you two." He scratches his head with the spoon, raising his painted clown eyebrows when he notices Otis has now got your hand in a deathgrip. "Somethin' we oughtta know, or can we keep watching the show?"

"Daddy, Otis is in love," Baby coos. 

"Hush now, angel, let Otis have his moment," Mama hushes, "Go on now, hun, tell us." Otis gives Baby the finger angrily. Baby sticks her tongue out at him in turn, and you shake your head. 

"(y/n) and I... are..." He clears his throat about five times, and RJ comes in the door, making a racket.

"RJ, shut the door, Otis wants to tell us something real interesting!" Baby says. RJ frowns, looking over, and Otis rolls his eyes, trying to get back on track.

"We're..." Everyone in the room is hanging on the edge of their seat in anticipation. Even Tiny is sitting forward expectantly. "We're...."

"You're what? Spit it out boy, haven't got all day to listen to you goin' 'we're... we're...' like some kinda yokel fuckin idiot," Spaulding calls.

"Yeah!" Baby yells. Tiny nods. 

"We're together, you impatient assholes!!" Otis blurts, holding you close to him, "This guy here. And me. We're together."

"Well, we can see you're--" Mama starts, then she has an epiphany. "OH! Oh my goodness..."

Everyone is quiet for a moment. Spaulding takes a deep breath, and drops the spoon. "I, uh..." he murmurs, "I'll be in the shop." Everyone waits, listening to him peel out of the yard in his car, and Mama waves a hand his way. Then she starts clapping.

"Oh, honey!!"

"I knew you swung different ways, big bro," Baby grins, jumping up and prancing around him, "But it's real swell that ya opened up that big mouth of yours and told us!" Tiny comes over and nearly crushes you and Otis together in a hug. Otis coughs a few times, and swats at him. RJ walks over, smiles a little (the most you'd ever seen him do so) and slaps you both on the back so hard it sends you stumbling. Then he leaves out back, off to do whatever the fuck he does. 

"You guys... don't mind?" Otis asks, and you smile his way. 

"Mind?! What the hell've we gotta mind about, you two are in loooove!" Mama shrieks. She gives you a huge hug and pinches your cheek. "Love is a beautiful thing that must be celebrated, no matter who it is between."

"Hey you must be real talented off your feet to net this one, if you know what I mean sugar," Baby says to you, and you blush as Otis glares. 

"Cut it out." 

"You cut it out!" 

"Fuck you!" 

"Fuck you!" 

You clear your throat, and Otis takes his place beside you again. 

"And... what about Cutter?" Your boyfriend's voice wavers a little, and he probably hates himself for it. Spaulding is like a dad to him, even if the two are rarely on speaking terms. 

"Don't know why daddy left," Baby shrugs. "Seems fucking weird."

"Don't pay no nevermind to that old clown," Mama huffs, "Actually-- you know what? I say we eat the dinner he cooked, then go out and pay him a visit, see just where his head's at. That ain't like him to just up'n leave like that."

"No, I--"

"Come on y'all, we's having a banquet then we’s goin' to the gas station!"

So, after a very nice dinner, everyone piles into the family car. You have to sit on Otis' lap to fit, which is okay with you and okay with him. Once you get to the gas station, Mama stomps out, ready to tear Spaulding a new one... but instead, she gasps.

"Oh, it's so bea-utiful!"

"Jesus Christ, woman, I wasn't even done," Spaulding comes out, complaining. Your face lights up as Otis' jaw hangs open. Tiny grins, and Baby squeals as you all gather around the shop that now has rainbow flags adorning everything. 

"Oh my god," you whisper, chuckling, and Otis turns around, face red. He walks right back to the car and goes to get in, but everyone drags him back out. 

"What do ya think?" the clown beams, "I'd say I outdid myself." He pulls the string on his skull bowtie, and goes "yaiyaiyaiyai." 

"It's amazing," you tell him, "Thanks, Cap." He puts a hand on your shoulder.

"This is an event, son! This is a cause for goddamn celebration, ain't no way I'm gonna miss it." He turns to Otis. "Now I called Charlie, he's gonna bring the girls and the good shit then we're all gonna have a big party tonight." 

"Aw shitfire," Otis mutters. Spaulding's eyes widen. 

"I dare you to complain! You got no idea how hard it was to reach the ass-backwards fucker, let alone find all this multi-coloured bullcrap in rural Texas to build a shrine for your homo ass!" 

"You didn't fuckin' have to, Cutter, I didn't specifically request you throw me a big fuckin' gay bash!"

"You-- shut the fuck up. Charlie's comin'."  

"I hate Charlie, that fuckin' nutsack." 

"Well he hates you too, but that's just cause you're an asshole."

"Not wrong," Baby hisses, dodging Otis' swipe. You nudge him. 

"Your family's happy for you. This is better than what you were imagining would happen," you whisper to him, and he sighs, giving you one of those deep looks you know so well that conveys everything he's feeling to you without words. He hates attention, but deep down you know he loves feeling appreciated-- you know that from your own relationship experience with him. 

A cop car suddenly comes driving by, and the window rolls down. You always get worried when that happens, but the others are used to it. Otis takes a few steps in front of you, protectively, and holds your hand. 

"Hi there, folks," Wydell says, tipping his hat, "Just asking people in the area if they've seen a missing g--" 

"Sheriff Wydell, you miserable motherfucker, GUESS WHAT?! " Spaulding yells, "My son got himself a BOYFRIEND! The anti social one?! Roped in this one right here, ain't he a looker?!" Mama nods excitedly, waving one of the little rainbow flags and pointing at you. The Sheriff awkwardly frowns, and nods slowly, noticing all the rainbow paraphernalia around the station. 

"That's... real nice. Y-You folks... have a nice day, then..." 

"Holy shit," Otis whines, wishing he could crawl underground to the family catacombs, and you kiss him on the cheek happily. 

"Here," Spaulding starts passing greasy paper bags around to everyone. "Tasty fried chicken for everyone to get this shindig going!" 

"Alright, fuck yeah," Baby giggles, and goes to dig inside for some booze as well. 

"Your chicken is fucking disgusting," Otis mutters, handing his extra bag to Tiny, though he can't help but smile a little. Spaulding gets right in his face with a pointed finger. 

"Boy, I'mma let you get away with your ass today, cause you're finally OUT OF THE CLOSET!" 

"Announce it to the whole state of Texas, why don't you old man?" Otis retorts, hiding deeper in his plaid sweater. You have to laugh. Tiny joins in, grabbing a rainbow party blower and deafening everyone. He then picks you up and puts you on his shoulders, and starts dancing, poking Otis to join in. 

"Oh, I... okay, stoppit, all of you, I just... alright, enough! Tiny, stop!"

"Ohh, but this is so exciting, baby!" Mama grins, trailing her flowy dress around. 

"Hell yeah!" Baby calls from inside, coming out with armfuls of beer, "My brother's got himself a pretty boy, let's get fucked up and do fucked up shit!"

Tiny plops a rainbow party hat on top of Otis' head, and your boyfriend sighs. 

"You know at this point, I would've preferred you kicked me out of the family or something."

"We'd never do that to ya, big bro," Baby smiles, leaning on his shoulder, "You're one of us." She turns to you. "And now it looks like you are too, (y/n)." 

Otis looks at you in irritation. "Lucky for you, babe." 

"I actually think I am pretty lucky," you smile, and embrace a big Firefly Family hug.  

[ratchedspeach]

The Weight of Remembering

Prompt written for the Falliam Frenzy Week 1 — “please stay” CW: mentions/depictions of (mild) PTSD, also SPOILERS from the most recent episode, as this is supposed to come in canon after it’s ending.

She had never seen him angry before. Annoyed? Sure. Disappointed? Whenever she took one of her vendettas a little too far (which … was more often than she’d ever admit out loud). But not angry. Never angry. Liam pushed Adam like he was trying to kill him with a simple shove — like the weight of his world depended on it, and Fallon realized that to some degree, it probably did. He remembered — remembered more than her, than the life they had started creating together before it was taken away from them. He remembered the accident that wasn’t really an accident, the accident that Adam had …

“Oh my god.” Fallon murmured, her chest tightening like it was about to break in two.

He was going to kill her brother if she didn’t stop them — push him into the still blazing vineyard below. Fallon lunged, pulling her husband - turned fiancé - turned boyfriend off of him, not because she cared what happened to Adam (truth be told, there was a part of her that wanted to just … let this play out), but because she couldn’t bare to lose him again. She couldn’t stand the thought of him being placed under arrest and taken away from her, or getting injured and forgetting again, or the slim chance that Adam would overpower him and that he would …

“Liam … Liam!” She shrieked over the ringing in her ears.

He wasn’t just angry — he was fucking furious, his entire body vibrating with the intensity of his memory returning all at once. Liam glowered at the gaunt man she was forced to call her brother, his hands clenched into fists, his jawline tense.

“It was him, Fallon.” He snarled. “He hit me over the head with that flowerpot. I … I could have died. I could have …!”

She felt his intent to attack again before he was able to initiate the action, placing herself firmly between the two men. Adam stayed cornered between Liam and the charcoaled vineyard below, dabbing a trickle of blood coming from his nose which was surely broken now.

“Liam.” Fallon tried again, placing either hand on his shoulders, eyes wide and silently pleading.

He looked at her like she was a stranger, and it brought back the remembrance of when he really couldn’t remember her. Tears prickled in the corners of her deep blue eyes, and Liam …

Liam broke, and would have plummeted to his knees were she not to catch him. She brought them down together, pressing him firmly into her shoulder and holding him, and listening to him cry, and maybe even shedding a tear herself. They didn’t speak — hardly moved save for his shuddered breaths and her entire form trembling with some amalgam of anxiety and pure, unadulterated despair. She didn’t cry, though. Fallon had trained herself long ago to compartmentalize what she now categorized as undesirable emotional baggage.

She wished she hadn’t.

At some point during the commotion, she saw Adam sprint out the barn and into the shadows, but she didn’t care — not right now, anyway. All that mattered was him — Liam. His hands came to clench the back of her coat just below her shoulder blades. Were it any other moment, she would have shaken him off, warning him of its delicacy and expense. That thought process was thrown to the wayside as she continued to cradle him, replaced by a slew of “it’s okay”’s, and “I’m here”’s, and “I’m so sorry”’s.

“It was him.” Liam murmured again. “It was him.” Over, and over, and over, and …

Fallon felt the fire’s heat before she smelled it. She craned her neck to see the blaze beginning to overtake the wooden barn, and without being fully cognizant of what she was doing, she sprung into action.

“We have to go.” She ordered, pulling Liam off the ground and shoving him towards the far door. “Now.”

Liam wiped a layer of sweat from his forehead, hiccuping like a child, but complied. With Fallon supporting practically his full weight against her shoulder, they barely escaped before the infrastructure collapsed under the weight of the flames — crackling morosely. Some morbid part of her couldn’t help but consider it a metaphor for the trajectory of her life. That thought was taken over by the flashback of what had happened just over a year prior. It played behind her eyes like a projector — paralyzing her as she watched it happen in front of her once more — the stable house went up in flames, almost taking her with it, and succeeding in charring her already dead step-mother..

“Cristal.” She hissed in a bout of confusion, taking a step towards the barn, only to feel strong arms around her waist, and to hear her name from somewhere beyond the fog of her traumatized mind.

“Fallon …? Fallon!” Over, and over, and Jesus if either of them had to say the other’s name one more time, Liam thought he might implode.

Fallon shook her head, lightly tossing her loose curls from side to side. Her balance swayed as she met Liam’s concerned stare. “I…”

“You’re ok” He mumbled into her hair, recognizing it as his turn to take care of her, as he waited (hell, practically expected) for her to break down.

All Fallon could do was feel guilty — so fucking guilty, as she once more managed to make it all about her. She shook him off of her, tensing her shoulders and putting up her bravest front, before stalking off towards the car and letting herself into the driver’s side. Liam came to sit next to her, his eyes still puffy, and now streaked with concern and a little confusion. She couldn’t hold his gaze for longer than a few seconds before she turned her blue eyes towards the ignition and focused on the hum of the Porsche’s engine.

“I can drive if you want.” Liam half offered, half whined, but it only made her push the throttle into drive and barrel off down the road faster than even she had intended.

They drove in relative silence, Liam marveling at the extent of his memories returning. He thought about his childhood, his mother, the first time him and Fallon had ever …

Fallon, on the other hand, tried her best to keep her mind blank for fear of Cristal polluting her mind’s eye. Her hands gripped the steering wheel so hard that her knuckles went white, and she found some semblance of solace in the way it made her palms tingle. Liam had always known her to be a … how could he put it kindly … a fucking batshit crazy driver … but this?

This was different.

The speedometer hit 100 before they had travelled more than a couple seconds from the rubble, and it only continued to go up from there. Liam tried to mask a the sigh of relief he expelled when he realized that they weren’t actually leaving Carrington property — just going from one portion of it to another, and so the speed that Fallon Carrington was traveling didn’t actually matter. The relief didn’t last long, though, because despite the legality of her speed no longer being a factor, it didn’t change the fact that their lives still hung in the balance.

The road to the main entrance of Carrington Manor stretched before them like a goddamn funeral procession — perfectly manicured trees lining either side of it for as far as the eye could see. When they finally pulled into the circular driveway, two maids opened their car doors, both asking what had happened, and if they had seen Adam. The couple shared a fickle look, Liam deferring to his girlfriend’s judgment on how to handle the matter. In true Fallon fashion, she ignored the help, breezing past them and heading directly for the stairs in the main hallway, not without adding a promise that there would be hell to pay if she was followed.

Liam stopped short, and it’s like she could feel his pause, because she looked over her shoulder, narrowing her eyes, and calling “not you, Liam”.

She wasted no time in shedding herself of her matching green Gucci coat and dress, crumpling into a heap on the foot fo her bed in a bout of exhaustion … and nothing but her bra and underwear. Liam stood precariously in the doorframe of her room, watching the scene unfold in front of him. He had seen her naked close to, if not a million times (as he had only recently come to remember). There was something decidedly unsettling about her not stripping completely, because it meant that this wasn’t an act of sexuality or seduction, which meant that it was … Oh shit. Vulnerability was rare in the heiress, and save for the times that he had hurt her, or rather, when his memory had betrayed him, it wasn’t something she allowed anyone to see — especially him. Fallon grit her teeth, feeling his eyes practically burning holes into the profile of her face. Burning …

The stable house. Cristal’s body going up in flames. Smoke filling her lungs. Her father’s arms around her waist, carrying her out and —

“Hey.” Liam’s tenor snapped her out of her thoughts. She didn’t know when he had come to sit next to her, but there he was, tenderly brushing a few misplaced pieces of hair off her forehead. “You ok?”

“Are you?” She countered, raising an eyebrow pointedly, almost harshly.

Liam smiled, his silver eyes glinting in the early evening light. “I remember.”

So do I. She thought bitterly, but held her tongue before the words could topple from her lips. His remembering should be positive, but truth be told, the admission hit them both like a pile of bricks. Fallon studied him for a moment before nodding slowly. She sat up, kissing his cheek, then resting her head on his shoulder. Liam placed a hand on her bare thigh in return, stroking his thumb back and forth, and reveling in the smoothness of her skin. Her hair, usually sweet with the scent of lilac and primrose, was masked by the scent of charred wood, rubble, and sweat. It didn’t take him long to recognize that he probably smelled of it too.

“I am so sorry, Liam.” The waver in her voice caught him off-guard. “I am … I am so so sorry.”

He shook his head, moving his hand from her thigh to cup her cheek and lift her gaze towards his. “Hey.” He murmured steadily.

Fallon didn’t expect the smile that spread across his features, but there it was — gentle, and precarious, but still present. It crinkled the corners of his eyes, and made his dimples protrude, and her heart fluttered in return.

“I’m here.” Liam promised. “We’re both here.”

They would stay like that for longer than either of them realized, holding each other’s gaze like the world might crumble if they looked away, and if he was being honest, Liam wasn’t totally certain it still wouldn’t. He was there, and he did remember, but a twinge of anxiety gurgled at the base of his stomach, because for how long? He wouldn’t say any of this to her — he knew better than to scare her like that. It was in part because he loved her too much to place that burden on her, but mostly because he had seen what the fear of him forgetting again had done to her, and he’d rather not have a repeat. He smiled, remembering the way her mouth popped into an “oh” shape as she stepped on the hunting rifle and it sounded with a loud bang. Fallon’s brow furrowed.

“What?” She puzzled, her curiosity quickly giving way to concern.

Liam shook his head before kissing her forehead delicately. “You.” He breathed, rubbing a smudge of soot from just above her left eyebrow. “Just … you.”

Warmth spread through Fallon’s frame, providing her relief from the low ache her joints had grown used to over what had otherwise been an impeccably stressful day — even by Carrington standards. She tried not to let it be fleeting, tried to suppress the thought that she needed to find Adam.

Find him, and then fucking murder him for everything that he had put them through — that he had put Liam through. 

He didn’t know when she fell asleep. One moment he was stroking her hair, tangling and untangling his fingers in the curls at the base of her skull. The next she was snoring softly (something that he had never heard her do before … at least that he could remember … he decidedly liked it), her weight going limp against his torso. Liam tilted his chin to get a better vantage of the woman in his arms. She looked so … peaceful. God he didn’t know if he had ever seen someone look so peaceful. Her lips were parted slightly, her eyelashes fluttering delicately, her hands pressed between both their chests and grasping the cashmere of his sweater.

Liam smiled again, unable to help the butterflies in his stomach, because he remembered — remembered watching movies in the Carrington’s personal movie theatre for hours on end, and the way the light of the car windows dappled her pale cheeks while they drove through downtown Atlanta. He remembered the way she pursed her lips when she was angry, and tilted her chin when she proved her business savvy, and the way she bit the inside of her cheek when she was trying desperately to stifle her laugh — which she hated, but he absolutely adored. He remembered forcing her to attempt a ropes course with him one time, only for her to immediately vow that she would never ever do it again (“This is for middle schoolers,” She had whined before adding with a flirtatious, teasing smirk, “and man children, I guess.”)

He remembered the first time he told her he loved her — the mixture of fear and adrenaline it surged through her eyes. He remembered the first time he slept over, and when she asked him to marry her on the Lake Carrington.

He remembered the spike of pain as the flowerpot shattered against the base of his skull. He remembered his vision going white, then purple, then black. He remembered forgetting, and that scared him most of all, because …

Fuck. If he could remember forgetting, what was keeping it from happening again?

He felt her shift in his arms, letting out a muffled sigh. Liam laid back, taking extra precaution not to jostle her into consciousness. He loved the way she felt against him — loved the way she brought her leg over his and she burrowed into the side of his body, and the way her breath leveled when he pulled her closer. Liam studied the woman, bringing a finger to trace across her forehead, down the bridge of her nose, her lips, her chin, all the way down her neck and to the dip of her collarbones, but not daring to go any further. He wouldn’t forget her again. He didn’t know if he could survive it, and he sure as hell knew she wouldn’t. Liam shut his eyes, pressing his forehead against hers like it was the only thing keeping his head from falling off and rolling across the linoleum floor.

“Please.” He whispered, pleading to his own subconscious in a way that would have previously mad him feel utterly insane, but now was the only thing keeping him from coming undone at the seems.

“Please stay.”

[calpalirwin]

Endless Endings

Summary: Calum goes home for a funeral. He isn’t prepared for the feelings and memories that come with it.

A/N: I was watching This Is Us and Kevin and Sophie’s relationship gave me the feels (I will fix the formatting/add this to my masterlist in the morning, I just want to get this up cuz I’m excited!) Italics are flashbacks/memories

Content: Darker than my usual stuff

Word Count: 1.9K

And away, and away we go!

~~~

When he saw the caller ID, he was answering it before his ringtone could even kick in. “Zo? Hey, how’s everything?” Calum talked into the phone.

“Hey, Cal,” was the tearful reply.

“Zo, what happened?”

“She died, Cal. My mom. She’s gone.”

The phone clattered to the floor. Calum’s head felt like it was underwater, the worried voices of his bandmates sounding muddled as they tried to reach him. No. Claire Harper couldn’t be dead. Zoey!

His brain snapped back into enough focus for him up the phone, ignoring the jagged crack in the screen. “Hey, I got one for you,” his voice was telling her, his ears still ringing.

“What?” she asked, holding back the next sob.

“He starts an apple cider company. Calls it ‘How do you like them apples?’.”

Her laugh wasn’t the laugh he remembered. It was choked. “Thank you, Cal.”

“Anytime, Zo.”

The voices around him were still muddled as he hung up the phone. “Zo? Zoey Harper? From home? Cal, is she okay?”

“I gotta go home,” was all Calum replied with before walking out of the studio.

~~~

“Hey!” the girl scolded the boy and his stirred up cloud of sand from his jump off the swingset.

“Sorry!” the boy grinned, showing off a missing tooth.

“Watch it,” she continued to growl.

“I said I was sorry!” he told her, crossing his arms, his smile disappearing.

“Ooo!” another boy snickered. “Cal likes Zoey! Cal likes Zoey! Cal and Zoey, sitting in a tree!”

“Shut up!” they both shouted at the other boy before they looked at each other and shared a look of disgust complete with a “Yuck!” and fake gagging.

Calum smiled to himself as he stared out the plane window. It was amazing how easily the memories came back to him. A lifetime of him and Zoey Harper- his first, and only love.

~~~

“And now, Claire’s daughter would like to say a few words,” the pastor said and a young blonde in a sleek black dress moved to the podium.

Her striking green eyes were red around the edges as they scanned the room. A small smile curved on her lips when green met brown. “My mother and I didn’t always see eye to eye. Maybe that’s not something I should say at her funeral, but it’s the truth. She was reckless in everything she did. And as much as it drove me nuts, it also encouraged me to take my own risks. And, uh…” Zoey paused to collect her thoughts, and in the back, Calum let his run wild.

“Oh, Cal, that’s great!” Claire cheered, wrapping him tightly in a hug. “Isn’t that great, Zo? London! Wow!”

“Yeah, great,” Zoey forced a smile. She wanted to be happy for Calum and his band. But how could she when her boyfriend was dropping a bomb like dropping out of school and moving to fucking London?

“Zo,” both Calum and Claire said, frowning.

Zoey scraped her chair back, striding out of the room.

“Zo!” Calum called after her.

“I need a minute!” she yelled and the slamming door rattled the windows.

Calum sighed, letting her go, figuring he might as well start practicing now.

“Hey,” Claire said, reaching across the table to grip his hands in hers. “Don’t let the fear of what’s to come diminish the greatness of this moment, Cal. Allow yourself to be happy in the most unfiltered way. Shout your joy from the rooftops. You boys have worked hard. This is your moment. Never settle.”

“‘Great things happen when you chase after what you want.’ It was like her catchphrase. It’s what she told me when I finally moved to New York and got that dream apartment. She came to visit and we went out for coffee. This real small hole-in-the-wall place. We would always go when she came out or I would send her a bag of their home roast. I was actually… I was in that shop trying to buy a bag. I was giving the clerk hell for not having their home roast. Funny how quickly priorities change with a phone call. God, I owe that clerk an apology,” Zoey’s voice broke off in a small giggle. “I’m gonna miss you, Mom.”

~~~

The bell on the door jangled as he walked in the doughnut shop.

Calum’s laugh rang out around them as she swallowed her bite. “What?” she asked, self-consciously. “Do I have something on my face?”

He continued to snicker in his hand, “Geez, Zo, it’s everywhere!”

“Have you seen your own face?”

“What are you talking about? I do- Zo!” he gasped as her finger swiped the chocolate frosting off his doughnut and smeared it across his cheek.

“Hah!” she laughed at him. Then she was squealing as he rubbed his cheek against her face, creating a powdered sugar chocolatey mess, their giggles filling the small shop. “You’re crazy,” she told him, her cheeks pink with laughter.

“Crazy in love with you,” he replied, pecking her lips with his.

“And I’m just as crazy,” she smiled against his lips.

“What can I get for you, today, sir?” the teenager behind the counter asked.

“One powdered and one chocolate, please,” Calum said. “Actually, two chocolate, please,” he amended as his stomach growled.

~~~

She had a forced smile on her face as she was engaged in a conversation with someone, her eyes begging to be rescued. Calum leaned against the car, not wanting to go inside, feeling so out of place outside somewhere he once considered a home. He dug his phone out of his pocket, watching her as the line rang on his end. Her eyes glanced down at the phone in her own hand, her smile becoming a little more genuine as she answered. “Hey, Cal.” Her voice was heavy and Calum knew instantly that Zoey hadn’t been sleeping for God knows how long.

“Hey. So I was driving and I passed by that doughnut shop we used to frequent. And uh… well, I got one with your name on it. I’m out front.”

Her eyes glanced up and locked on him through the window. She put a hand over the speaker and excused herself from her conversation, walking out of Calum’s view. “Get me out of here,” her voice was saying and then she was in front of him, grabbing the doughnut back from him and sliding into the passenger seat.

~~~

“Hey, I got one for ya,” she said, breaking the silence as they ate their doughnuts, powdered sugar coating her mouth and dress.

“Shoot.”

“He goes to Alaska to become a fisherman in an isolated village and never talks to another soul.”

“Damn, that’s dark,” Calum giggled, handing her a napkin. “Seriously, do you even aim for your mouth when you eat?”

She giggled with him as she dusted off her lap. The giggle turned into a sigh. “I can’t believe you came. I feel like I’m underwater. Like my body is on auto-pilot, while my brain is a million miles away. Seeing you again, well, it grounded me. You’re the only one who gets it Cal. You’re the only one I can let my guard down with.”

“Isn’t that what your fiancé’s for?” he asked with a pointed glance to the ring on her finger.

“He didn’t know her like you did. And now he never will.” Her eyes stared out the window. “Oh, wow,” she breathed, realizing where they were. “I haven’t been here in forever.”

“Me neither,” he admitted, putting the car in park. “Every time I come home, I can never bring myself to come here. I had my best and worst night of my life here.”

“On the same fuckin night,” she recalled.

“On the same fuckin night,” he agreed.

Every summer the park held a Movies in the Park night, showing everything from old-time classics to current blockbusters. Neither of them had seen Good Will Hunting, but had always wanted to. So there they sat, curled up under a blanket and the stars, eyes glued to the large projector screen.

“Aw!” the audience let out a collective groan as the projector sputtered and the screen went black.

“Sorry about this folks! Please help yourself to the concession stand we have set up, free of charge, and we’ll try to get this up and running again shortly,” a volunteer announced.

Calum and Zoey turned to each other, sharing a grin. “Free snacks!” they shouted in each other’s faces before scrambling to snag free popcorn.

“Hmm, looks like they fixed it,” Calum said as they swung side by side. “Should we go back?”

“Nah,” Zoey replied with a shake of her head. “Where it stopped was actually perfect. No ending could be better than that.”

“We could make up our own,” Calum suggested.

“We could!” she exclaimed, loving the idea. “Promise me we’ll never watch the real ending.”

“Promise,” he swore.

So back and forth they went, creating their own endings, long after the real movie had ended and long after the popcorn disappeared. They would have stayed all night and into the morning had it not been for Mali striding towards them, tears running down her face.

“Mali?” Calum asked, his voice laced with worry as his sister looked about a millisecond away from a breakdown. “Mali, what’s wrong?!”

In the dim lighting from a nearby streetlamp, Zoey could see the darkening of his already dark eyes and the clench of his fists as worry gave way to anger that someone had hurt his sister. “Dad’s gone, Cal,” was the broken answer. “Him and Mum got in another fight and he’s… he’s gone!” With the confession off her lips, the older sibling collapsed into the younger one’s arms as they both began to sob over their parents’ broken marriage.

~~~

“Did you ever watch the ending?” she asked as they swung side by side.

Calum shook his head. “Nah. That was probably the only thing I ever did right.”

“Cal, don’t say that…”

“It’s the truth. I had everything that night and then I lost it all before sunrise.”

“Cal, you didn’t lose anything. Yes, your parents split and I know how hard that was for you. But you weren’t running away. You went off to London because you chased a dream. A dream that paid off rather fuckin’ well, by the way.”

“And you?”

“You didn’t lose me either Cal. We just weren’t meant to be.”

“I don’t think I’ll ever be able to love a girl the way I loved you…”

“Then love her differently. Love her better.”

“Are you happy? With the endings we created?”

“Are you?” she challenged, knowing he didn’t mean the movie.

He chuckled and pulled out his phone. “Wanna see the real ending?”

“Sure.”

They sat, side by side, the warm sun on their faces, and watched the ending of a movie they swore never to watch the ending of. And it was better than all the endings they could have ever imagined on their own. But still, they both felt a finality to it all, and when Calum dropped her off back home, he wondered if he was better off with his endless imagined endings than the real one.

~~~

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