#we like making thatcher shorter than his friends

[helssent]

the Big Kids Table Trio™ plagues our mind once again

[shmorp-mcdurgen]

Home Sweet Home AU: Radio Silence

Thatcher becomes obsessed with a case he was assigned, one relating to the disappearances of two local teens. He has no other choice but to dig deeper.

TWs: Body horror, character death implied, blood/gore/injury

Notes: around 14'500 words long! The third volume for Home Sweet Home is here!!! The horrors!!! Anyway hope you enjoy :)

September 21st, 1992. 12:25 PM

“Hello. No one is available to take your call. Please leave a message after the tone.”

BEEP.

“Hello, uh…this is Arthur Heathcliff, and I’m calling to…report a missing person.” A man’s voice spoke through the speaker; a somewhat gravely yet not too deep voice. “My son, uh, Mark. He hasn’t shown up in a week, and…I would like an investigation to be done to…try and…find him. Please answer as soon as possible…me and my wife are just...worried. We just want him to come home. Thank you.”

BEEP.

Thatcher knocked on the front door of the two story home, waiting a second before he spoke loudly, “Mandela County Police Department.” Thatcher was a thin, and tall man, wearing a dark blue police uniform over his body. He had a scruffy, unkempt beard and tired eyes, the dark circles around them contrasting with his pale beige skin. He looked at the door in front of him before he placed his hands on his hips, waiting for an answer at the door as he looked around the yard. The house he looked up at was a pale grey color, with two windows on the top story and a garage to his left. He sighed, brushing away his bleached blond hair before he heard the sound of the door opening in front of him. He let out a forced, soft smile before speaking. “You must be Leah Heathcliff?”

“That’s correct.” In front of Thatcher was a shorter woman with curly brown hair draped over her shoulders. She wore a beige and white striped sweater over a white shirt, along with a long, black skirt. Her green eyes looked up at Thatcher, her brows furrowed and her expression giving away her concern. She rubbed her necklace, which had a blue sapphire hanging from a silver chain. The silence continued before she swallowed hard. “You’re here…to search, aren’t you?”

“We’re just trying to help find your son, ma’am.” Thatcher stated. “A friend of mine is on her way; she’ll help find anything that can clue us in on where he went. Once we’re done we’ll get out of your hair. May I come in?”

“…I’ll go get my husband.” Leah stated. “You can wait in the living room.”

Leah led Thatcher into the home, closing the door behind them before walking into the living room. “Arthur?” She called. “…The police are here.”

Thatcher walked around, sighing deeply as he looked down, thinking to himself before he heard another person enter the room. “About time.” Thatcher heard Arthur speak quietly to Leah. “They were supposed to be here an hour ago.”

Thatcher looked up to see Arthur himself, seeing that he was wearing a black dress shirt with a gold cross necklace resting on his chest. His short, dark brown hair swept to the side, and his brows seemed lower, making his resting expression seem more upset than he actually was, though Thatcher couldn’t tell if it was natural considering the circumstances. He held out his hand towards Thatcher for him to shake. “Arthur. I’m the one who called.”

“Lieutenant Thatcher Davis.” Thatcher shook Arthurs hand before quickly letting go. “Okay, I’m…gonna have to ask some questions about Mark, if you don’t mind.”

Arthur sighed before gesturing towards the couch. “Go ahead.” Thatcher sat down on the couch, watching as Arthur sat on an arm chair to the side of it and Leah sitting next to Thatcher.

“Has Mark ever…snuck out of the house at any point?” Thatcher asked.

“Maybe once or twice…” Arthur recalled. “But he always came back a day or so later. Often went to his friend’s house.”

“And who was his friend?”

“Cesar.” Leah answered as she fidgeted with her hands. “Cesar Torres.”

“He…also went missing recently.” Arthur stated.

Thatcher let out a soft sigh as he scratched his head. “Alright, any…other friends he could have gone to?”

“No.” Leah stated. “…Cesar was…his only friend.”

“I see.” Thatcher stated.

“He’s been…acting strange for over a month.” Arthur stated. “I think the kid got into drugs or something—”

“Arthur!” Leah stated with a tone of surprise, sadness, and horror. “Mark wasn’t an addict, and you know it.”

“Leah…we don’t know; I’m just saying it’s possible.” Arthur responded.

“Don’t listen to him, please,” Leah’s voice almost sounded like she was begging as she turned towards Thatcher. “He was a good young man…he wouldn’t get into that.”

“We won’t blame his behavior on anything unless we get proof for it.” Thatcher assured. “Have you been in contact with Cesar’s parents?”

“I’ve…tried calling Maria, his mother, but…no answer.” Leah stated.

“Mhm.” Thatcher let out a deep sigh as he tried to think. “We’ll have to try and get in contact with the Torres family in that case,” He whispered. “When was the last time you saw your son?”

“At home. He fell asleep on the couch, and…I didn’t want to wake him up.” Leah stated. “He’s…been unable to sleep for so long so…I figured…he needed it.” Leah hunched over, sniffling slightly. “I-I should’ve asked him what was wrong.” She squeaked as her eyes began to water. “Maybe this wouldn’t have happened if I just…listened.”

“Leah, we couldn’t have predicted this.” Arthur attempted to assure her as he sat up in his chair. “We don’t know what was going through his head…”

“But we could have.” Leah responded. “But we never asked.”

Thatcher looked at the ground, bouncing its leg softly as it attempted to gather its thoughts, all before it heard a knock at the door behind it. Arthur glanced at the door then back at his wife, brows furrowed further before he stood up to greet the person at the door.

“Y-You’ll…find him…won’t you?”

Thatcher looked back towards Leah, seeing the look of desperation in her watering eyes, the stare making a pit form in its gut. It wished it could guarantee that Mark would return safe and sound, though the thought of lying to a woman who’s gone through enough pain to last a life time wasn’t something it wanted to do. “We’ll…try our best, Mrs. Heathcliff.” It stated softly. “Trust me.”

“Thatcher, I brought everything we need.”

Thatcher turned around after hearing a familiar voice, standing up from his seat. “Alright…then I guess we’ll start the search, Weaver.” Thatcher sighed as he looked at Ruth from across the room.

Ruth was a muscular, tall woman wearing the same uniform her coworker wore, without the black tie around her neck and with her sleeves rolled up. She had almond colored skin, and her dark brown, curly hair was pulled back in a ponytail aside from the bangs covering the right side of her forehead. She had facial hair on her chin, and her arms also had hair on their forearms. She looked at Thatcher, her round eyes still showing energy despite the matter at hand, even as she approached Thatcher holding a few plastic, sealable bags labeled “EVIDENCE” along with plastic gloves. She also had a camera in her hands, which she handed to Thatcher as soon as he was in front of her.

“How much are you going to take?” Arthur questioned as he stared at Thatcher.

“Only what can potentially link to the case.” Thatcher stated. “We won’t take anything we don’t need to. Was there a particular room Mark stayed in most of the time?”

“…His bedroom; upstairs, last door in the hallway.” Leah stated softly.

Leah stood beside Arthur before he hugged her, staring at Thatcher as it turned back towards Ruth. “Could you stay with them as I search the room?” Thatcher asked Ruth quietly.

“Of course.” She responded. “I’ll…try and help them through this the best I can.”

“Thank you.”

Thatcher turned towards the stairway, walking up them as Ruth approached the Heathcliffs, standing up straight as she tried her best to conceal her uncertainty. “Could you two take a seat?” She asked.

“We don’t have much else to say.” Arthur stated.

“I’m not going to ask about the case,” Ruth responded. “We can get to that later on.”

Ruth gestured towards the seats before they all sat down on the couch, Ruth sitting to the side with Leah in between her and Arthur. Leah glanced down at Ruth’s leg noticing something; it was a prosthetic. Below her right knee was a blade prosthetic, with her dress pants leg rolled up above it. Ruth caught her gaze, looking down at her leg before a soft smile appeared on her face. “Oh…Don’t worry about it,” Ruth let out a soft, lighthearted chuckle. “Just…accidents happen, y’know?”

“Yeah.” Leah said quietly. “…I guess they do.”

Ruth’s smile faded when she saw that Leah’s worried expression didn’t disappear, all while Arthur wrapped his arm around her in an attempt to comfort her. Ruth looked at them with a somber look in her eyes as she considered her next words, all while Thatcher made it to the upstairs hallway. He looked down the corridor, walking down it, his shoes clacking against the floorboards until he stopped outside of Mark’s room, taking in a breath before opening the door.

“Can…you tell me about yourselves?” Ruth asked. “What do you do for work?”

“I work at the library downtown…” Leah answered. “…Arthur’s a priest.”

“Really? Where, if you don’t mind me asking?”

“St. Gabriel’s Church.” Arthur stated.

“I see.” Ruth said, trying not to remember what she heard on the broadcasts regarding religious practices. “I’ve worked at the Police department for…years now. Me and Thatcher recently got promoted, actually.”

“Oh…congrats!” A soft smile formed on Leah’s face. “I’m…happy for you.”

“Thank you.” Ruth returned the smile. “Now…how is your job at the library?”

The first thing Thatcher noticed when he looked into the room was the state of disarray it was in. Snack wrappers and dirty clothes littered the floor, and the bed was unmade and messy. A few drawers in the dresser resting next to the wall were cracked open, jammed by lazily shoved in socks and clothes. Thatcher stepped over the garbage the best he could as his eyes grazed around the room, looking for anything out of the ordinary aside from the mess.

He looked towards the dresser, seeing something resting on top of it that grabbed his attention; an analog television. He stared at it as he approached it, looking down to see its cord dangling off of the side of the dresser, unplugged. Two objects rested on top of the television, being a camcorder and tape recorder, both of which he gently picked up and placed in two separate evidence bags. He turned around, looking towards the bed until he noticed something wrong with the posters on the wall behind it. One of them seemed crooked and lazily put on, and Thatcher squinted when he saw black markings just barely peeking out from behind it.

“I just…wish I had more time to…you know…spend time with my own children.” Leah continued as Ruth listened carefully. “It’s hard to make money nowadays and…I guess I was too focused on that rather than focusing on the things that matter…”

“We’re…better than we were a few years ago,” Arthur said. “Luckily we were able to avoid selling our belongings just to put food on the table.”

Ruth looked at the ground with a worried look on her face. “I get it, trust me.” She said quietly. “With multiple businesses closing down, it seems like getting a job is becoming harder to do.”

“Definitely.” Arthur sighed. “All I can do is thank God himself for the place we’re in. A safe home, food on the table, two healthy kids; I mean…it’s a miracle.”

Ruth nodded as Leah began to speak. “They’re…so important to me.” She stated, seemingly trying her best not to cry. “I just wish I realized it sooner.”

Thatcher carefully removed the poster from the wall, lowering it before staring at what was behind it with furrowed brows and a look of confusion. It was scribbled drawings on the wall itself, seemingly drawn with a black marker of some kind. It seemed to depict what looked like nerves and veins; organs and eyes. In the middle of the drawing was what seemed like a clock with scribbled wings protruding from it. Thatcher backed away from the drawing, all before he grabbed his camera and pointed it towards the wall, taking a picture with a white flash and a click. He looked at the picture as it developed before he looked back at the drawing, confused as to what it meant or why it was there. As he stared at the strange, organic drawing, something from the hallway stared, watching him as he moved around the bedroom and continued his search, unnoticed by the lieutenant.

“You moved here…how long ago?” Ruth asked.

“Oh…around…16 years ago, if I remember correctly.” Arthur sighed. “Mark was just a year old at that point…moved down here from Yonder.”

“Mandela seemed like a more…quaint place to live at the time.” Leah stated. “Smaller, more…homey, I guess.”

“Yonder’s just…a buncha people who have a lot of money.” Arthur said. “Big houses…but not a lot of character.”

“I get it.” Ruth responded. “I used to live in Werksha myself…” She paused as she considered her next words. “I’ve been considering moving back because…I just…don’t know if this is the right place to raise my daughter.”

“You’re a mother?” Leah asked.

“Yeah; I have a little girl at home.” Ruth smiled. “She started kindergarten earlier this month actually.”

“What’s her name?”

“Amelia.”

Thatcher pushed open the slotted closet doors, looking into the messy storage space to see if anything out of the ordinary was there. He saw more of the same; trash and unfolded clothes on shelves. He sighed, preparing to close the doors before his eyes spotted something underneath a shirt. The corner of what appeared to be a yellow notebook was peeking out from underneath the article of clothing, and when Thatcher pulled it out, he saw “REASSURANCES” written on the cover. He looked at it before opening it, flipping through the pages quickly. It seemed to be a personal journal of some sort, with diary entries taking up most of the pages, with small doodles on each one. He closed it, deciding to look through it later as he grabbed another evidence bag.

Ruth continued to listen to the Heathcliffs until she heard footsteps coming down the stairs, turning to see Thatcher entering the room with a few bags in hand. “I found a notebook, Camcorder, and tape recorder so far,” Thatcher said as Ruth approached it. “I’m going back to search for anything else.”

“Alright.” Ruth stated as she was handed the bags.

Thatcher sighed as he looked over to the Heathcliff’s sitting on the couch in anticipation. “Are you aware of the analog TV in Mark’s bedroom?” Thatcher asked.

“Yes, we are.” Leah answered. “It’s unplugged though.”

“No, no, no you…you need to throw it out, unplugging isn’t enough.” Thatcher stated. “You know how many kids have been going missing lately?”

“…Yes.” Leah said softly.

“Yeah…I’d get rid of it as soon as possible, alright?” Thatcher said before turning back towards the stairway to continue his search. He walked up the stairs, passing by a cracked open door to his left, unknowing of the eye peeking at him from behind it. He walked into Mark’s room once again, sighing deeply before he began to rummage through the dresser’s drawers.

Ruth sighed, gently placing the bags on a table before she turned towards the Heathcliffs, who were still sitting on the couch. The look of pure worry and sadness in Leah’s eyes especially made her gut churn, though she wasn’t sure of how to lighten the mood without it feeling mean-spirited. She leaned against a chair, holding herself up with her arms as she thought to herself, hearing the sound of Thatcher’s footsteps overhead.

After finding nothing but more clothes, Thatcher shut the last dresser drawer, moving back towards the bed before lowering himself to his knees, leaning over to look underneath it; nothing, once again. Thatcher thought to himself as he stood up, walking over to the nightstand as he hoped that the little things he found in there would help find the missing teen. He pulled open the drawer, seeing loose papers covering the junk in there, also seeing a sketchbook resting on top. He pulled it out, looking at it for a moment before placing it on the bed next to him. He went back to rustling through the drawer before he paused. He saw something angular and made of metal, with it being a dark grey color. It seemed purposefully buried underneath everything else, and when Thatcher moved everything out of the way he froze, his eyes widening slightly when he saw the object in full.

“Ruth?” Ruth’s radio went off, Thatcher’s voice surprising her slightly before she held it up to her mouth.

“Did you find anything?”

“Come upstairs.”

“…Is something wrong?” Ruth glanced over towards the Heathcliffs, seeing them staring at her with a tinge of confusion and fear in their eyes.

“No, just…I need you to come up and…see something.”

Ruth lowered her radio, pinning it to her chest before quickly walking up the stairs. She stormed down the hallway, seeing Thatcher with his back facing her, seemingly holding something. “What’s going on, you alright?”

“…Ruth, did either of the parents mention owning a firearm?”

“…No?”

Thatcher turned around, revealing what he was holding; a semi-automatic pistol. Ruth stared at it with confusion and concern before looking up at Thatcher’s darkened expression. “Desert Eagle. Mark one.” He stated in a low, quiet voice. “50 caliber.”

“Oh…God, how did someone Mark’s age find a firearm of that power?” Ruth questioned softly.

“I don’t know.” Thatcher responded, carefully placing the firearm in a bag. “I suppose we’ll have to ask around…see if anyone in the family owns one.”

“Does it appear used?”

“Thankfully…no.” Thatcher stated. “Safety’s on…though…it was loaded.”

“Oh God.” Ruth felt a pit form in her gut, lightly holding a hand over her mouth as she thought.

“We’ll have to find out if it’s registered or not and who it was sold by.” Thatcher said. “Maybe then we’ll get an idea of how…Mark…got it.” Thatcher’s voice lowered before he suddenly went silent, looking towards the hallway with an intense, yet troubled gaze. Ruth turned to see what he was looking at before seeing someone standing in the doorway, staring at them.

A young girl, no older than six.

She had long, brown hair, and wore an oversized, faded shirt over her body, along with pajama pants printed with characters from a cartoon. She was holding a blue stuffed bunny in her arms, holding it close to her chest. She stared up at the officers standing in her brother’s room, her expression blank as she remained still, as if not moving meant that she was invisible to them.

Thatcher looked towards Ruth, seeing that she was staring at the child with a look of somberness in her eyes. “…Why don’t I go downstairs and…talk to the parents.” Thatcher stated quietly.

“…Alright.” Ruth responded very quietly as Thatcher quietly left the room, looking down to see the girl staring at him with a distrustful look as he passed by. Ruth carefully approached the child, crouching down before clearing her throat.

“Hey!” She said in a soft voice. “My name’s Ruth, I’m here to help you out. What’s your name?”

The girl didn’t answer right away, instead looking at the ground and hugging the toy in her arms tighter. Ruth looked at the toy, seeing its button eyes and red bowtie before letting out a smile. “What’s his name?” She pointed at the bunny.

The girl looked down at the toy before looking back up at Ruth’s face. “…Mr. Bon.” The girl stated quietly.

Ruth smiled. “That’s a wonderful name.”

“…Where’s Mark?” The girl asked quietly, with her voice seeming more like a squeak.

Ruth’s smile faded as she glanced away, thinking of an answer. “…That’s what we’re trying to find out.” Ruth responded. “We’re here to help, both me and my friend you just saw. It and I are looking for him.”

“…I want my mom.”

Ruth nodded, standing up and holding out a hand towards the girl. “She’s just downstairs; I can take you to her.” She said softly.

“…Okay.” The girl lightly held Ruth’s hand as they walked down the hallway, all while Thatcher paced back and forth downstairs.

“I-I have a pistol in my office, but it’s locked away.” Arthur stated, staring at Thatcher with a dark expression.

“Does anyone in your family own a Desert Eagle?” Thatcher asked.

“No, not that I know of.” Arthur responded. “I mean…his grandfather’s a hunter but…he didn’t own any guns aside from a hunting rifle or two.”

Leah looked over towards the stairway, seeing Ruth walking down into the living room, lightly holding the girl’s hand as they entered the room.

“Sarah!” Leah said, holding out her arms as Sarah ran to her, embracing her the second she was close to her. Thatcher looked at Leah and Sarah before looking back at Arthur.

“…Throw out that TV.”

“What?”

“The TV in Mark’s room is a hazard,” Thatcher stated with a stern tone in his voice. “Especially with a small child in this house.”

“…I don’t think it’s a problem—”

“Yes it is.” Thatcher responded. “There’s a very serious threat going around; children around your daughter’s age are at risk, almost more so than adults.”

“Look, I get it…fear tactics.” Arthur stated.

“…What?”

“You want us to be scared cause of ‘alternates’.” Arthur’s voice seemed accusatory, as if he had something against Thatcher specifically. “My kid will be just fine, and once Mark comes back, I’m sure things will go back to normal around here.”

“…You don’t believe in alternates?” Thatcher questioned out of disbelief.

“Not the way you want me too.” Arthur stated. “I pray every night for protection, and it hasn’t failed yet, and if alternates are as dangerous as the government says they are, then don’t you think something would have happened by now?”

“Mark.”

“…Excuse me?”

“Mark is still missing.” Thatcher reminded, trying his hardest to keep his words professional. “I believe you can call that something happening, don’t you think?”

“His disappearance has nothing to do with alternates.” Arthur claimed. “He’s just…unwell. He needs help…not more paranoia to add to his already poor mental state.”

“Would telling you that the possession of analog technology is a crime change your mind?” Thatcher stated, barely cloaking his pure annoyance.

“…What, you’ll arrest me for having a TV?”

Thatcher’s brows furrowed, staring at Arthur’s face with an intense glare.

“God reigns, Davis.” Arthur said. “And even if alternates really did exist…they wouldn’t stand a chance.”

Thatcher paused, maintaining eye contact with the priest. “…I wish I had your ignorance.”

Arthur’s glare turned into an almost appalled expression as Ruth approached them, tapping Thatcher on the shoulder. “It’s time to head out.” Ruth said quietly as Thatcher turned around.

“…Alright.” Thatcher sighed. He glared back at Arthur, him staring back with a tinge of revulsion in his gaze. Thatcher passed by Leah and Sarah, the latter of which looking up at him as he walked by. Ruth followed, though hesitated, stopping in the middle of the room, even as Thatcher made his way to the front door. She looked back, seeing Leah and Sarah’s eyes staring at her, all before she sighed and dug out a notepad from her pocket.

“Mrs. Heathcliff?”

“Yes?” Leah watched as Ruth quickly wrote down something.

“From one mother to another.” Ruth handed her a slip of paper with a phone number on it. “If you need anything or…just want to talk…call me, alright?”

Leah stared at the phone number for a second before looking back up at Ruth’s friendly face.

“…Th…thank you, officer.”

“You can skip the formalities,” Ruth smiled. “Just call me Ruth if you want to.”

“…Thank you, Ruth.”

Ruth stood up, taking one look at Arthur’s sour expression and shooting him a glare, all before turning back and leaving, shutting the front door behind her. Silence fell, Leah holding Sarah close as Sarah hugged both her mother and her toy, staring at the door with a blank expression. Maybe Mark just went on a walk into the woods again and got lost; she remembered he liked to do that during the night. She just hoped he’d find his way back soon.

September 22nd, 3:47 PM

Thatcher sat at his desk, staring at the closed orange folder in front of him, his tired eyes grazing over it as he tried to shake off his ever present exhaustion. He glanced over to his left, seeing a couple VHS tapes stacked neatly next to a small television, which was resting on a small table to the side of the desk. There was also a notebook, along with the tape recorder he had recovered the previous day resting on his desk. He thought of how lucky he was that they were in good condition, considering the time crunch and the fact that he’d rather not bother Dave again to fix them in such a short time frame. He rubbed his eyes, planting his elbows on the desk as he sighed, opening the orange folder to see what he was dealing with.

“MARK HEATHCLIFF

AGE: 17

SEX: MALE

ETHNICITY: CAUCASIAN

EYES: GREEN

HAIR: BROWN”

Thatcher read over Mark’s file, eyes glancing over the paragraphs of information known about him. Words typed out on the page about his diagnoses, his academic history, and even previous incidents and injuries he might’ve had. It was all very detailed, yet as Thatcher grazed over the page, he saw nothing much of use that related to the case aside from what he had already heard the previous day. He sighed, shutting the file before sliding it to the side, instead choosing to focus on the tape recorder, staring at it before gently grasping one of the cassettes, one labeled “Insomnia” and placing it into the player, it clicking shut before he pressed play.

It was silence for a few moments, with only the sound of faint, shaky breathing being heard underneath the static. Thatcher waited for something to happen, wondering if it was a blank cassette before he finally heard a voice; Mark’s voice.

“…Ninety years without slumbering,” Mark tiredly sung, his voice raspy as if he hadn’t used it in a while. “Tick, tock, tick, tock. His…l…life seconds numbering, tick, tock, tick, tock. Then the clock…stopped…never to go again, when the old…man…died.”

Silence fell once again for a little while.

“Fuck…Just…let me fucking sleep.” Mark’s voice sounded muffled, as if he was holding his hand over his mouth. “I don’t know how long I can count sheep before I go insane.”

Thatcher sat back in his seat as he once again listened to the gap of silence, staring intently at the tape recorder before Mark spoke once again.

“…I don’t know what to do.” Mark stated. “…I feel…uncomfortable in my own skin. I don’t…I don…feel…safe.”

Silence once again; longer than the last gap.

“I haven’t slept in a couple days now.” Mark mumbled. “Every time I try, I…have those…fucking nightmares. I don’t…kn…know if I…really do want to sleep…all because of them.”

Another pause.

“…Then th…st…stopped…never to go again when…the old…man…God fucking help me.”

The cassette stopped, leaving Thatcher with a sense of confusion before he ejected it and placed it on the desk, all before grasping the next one, a cassette labeled nothing at all, and placing it inside of the recorder, hesitating before pressing play.

Silence, though he could hear something that sounded somewhat far away; muffled, harsh breathing. It sounded as if someone was hitting something repeatedly, or someone hitting their own head.

“Shut up, shut up, shut up, shut up, shut up, shut up, shut up, shut up, shut up, shut up,” Was heard over and over, Mark’s voice sounding distressed, like he was sobbing. Thatcher listened intently as Mark continued. “Shut up, shut up, shut up, shut up, shut up, SHUT UP, SHUT UP, SHUT THE FUCK UP, JUST FUCKING LEAVE ME ALONE!” Mark took in a shaky breath, sobbing more before shouting, “GET THE FUCK OUT OF MY HEA—”

The tape stopped abruptly, with Thatcher staring at it with furrowed brows and his hands folded in front of him, his fingers clasping his own hands before he ejected the cassette. Thatcher sat still for a moment as it processed what it heard, all before its eyes fixated on the next piece of evidence; the notebook. A part of it dreaded reading through its pages for a reason it didn’t know as it picked it up, looking at its cover first and reading what was written on it.

“Reassurances

God bless all!”

Thatcher flipped open the notebook, and saw just that; reassurances. It appeared to be small prayers, with a new one on each page. However, around halfway through the notebook, he paused, seeing a drawing on one of the pages, with it being completely blank aside from it. It was a messily drawn picture of two eyes in the middle of the lined page, their gaze looking oddly crazed. Thatcher flipped the page, and found that the next entry wasn’t a prayer or reassurance of any kind, rather being a journal entry.

“9/02/1992

He’s been ignoring me again.

He’s been doing this for over a month now, acting like whatever I’m saying doesn’t matter. I’m tired of him turning a blind eye to what I’m seeing. He has to hear the breathing too, right? Why would he just brush be aside like this? I am his friend right? Sooner or later, he’s going to have to open his eyes to this. Else it’ll bite him later.”

Thatcher looked towards the bottom of the page, seeing a drawing of what appeared to be a House, with more writing below it, reading: “I keep going back and I don’t even know why. It calls me by name, Cesar.”

Thatcher stared at the picture of the House, his eyes fixated on it before he shook his head and flipped the page, seeing yet another journal entry, this time dated “9/05/1992”.

“I heard my parents talking downstairs today. Dad is suggesting that I’m not ‘faithful enough’. Says how I need to pray more and maybe I’ll feel better. My mom said I just need more time with my therapist, as if he’s helping me any. They think I’m crazy, don’t they. I was already put on multiple different anti-anxiety and depression meds, and they don’t work. They don’t know what I’m actually going through. And I don’t know if I want to tell them.

If this is how they act when they’re clueless, I dread to know what they’d say if they knew.”

The drawing on the page was of a pill bottle. The label was mostly gibberish, with the only recognizable word being “lies” written in bold letters.

Thatcher felt the pit in his gut only growing heavier with every page, flipping it before reaching a journal entry without a drawing. It appeared to be from a few days after the last, seemingly sloppily written, like Mark had just woken up when he wrote it:

“09/8/1992

I had a dream tonight.

I was at the House, yelling at Cesar for a reason I can’t remember. He was so angry at me. I felt a deep hatred towards him, more than I’ve ever felt towards anything. I don’t even remember what was being said, or what had caused us both to be so mad. I remember looking past him and seeing It looking at me.

I feel sick recalling the sound and feeling of his neck cracking under my hands. The rest is fuzzy, and all I remember was that I threw him to the ground in less than a second. His horror filled eyes still haunt me. I remember looking down at his body propped up against the clock, and then I woke up.

I don’t know what this means. I’m not a killer. I wouldn’t do that. Would I?”

A short sentence below it, written in neater handwriting read: “Thinking about it now. I don’t recall who the body actually belonged to.”

Thatcher flipped the page, looking down at the noticeably worse handwriting in the next entry before he read it.

“09/10/1992

I’ve lost another one.

I’ve never seen him that furious. He acted as if I was the worst person he ever met. The nightmares haven’t ended, the halls still calling my name. I can taste iron, though I don’t think its my own blood. My right eye feels like it had been pulled out of socket and shoved back in. Everything feels so alien now, even though nothing has changed. I hate these rooms, the scent of blood still stinging my nose. I feel homesick laying in my own bed.”

The drawings on the bottom of the page were scribbled and hastily done, depicting spirals and what appeared to be some kind of grandfather clock. Thatcher stared at the clock before focusing on the last drawing, one depicting a young man sitting up in bed, staring at something with wide eyes. A simple statement was written below it, reading: “He looked at me like I was not me.”

Thatcher paused, processing the previous entry before he reached for the next page, his hands feeling strangely cold as he flipped the page, being greeted to what was only an empty page. He turned the page, seeing yet another empty page, then another, and another. He sped through the pages, all before reaching one last entry. Thatcher flipped the page only to see black scribbled letters covering the entire page. Dried splotches of red stained the paper, seeping into the pages after it. The writing only said one thing, repeated over and over like a skipping record:

“THE BELLS TOLL FOR ME.”

The chaos of the repeated text continued with every single page until he reached the final one, being nearly completely blank aside from a drawing of a clock, and one last message: “I’m running out of time.” Thatcher shook his head, shutting the notebook shut before thinking hard. He sighed, holding his hands over his mouth with his elbows on the desk. He couldn’t help but begin to connect the dots; the date of the entry was the same date as Cesar Torres’s disappearance. Mark was clearly falling off the deep end at that point, and appeared to have been increasingly angry with Cesar, so what if…he…

 “…Jesus.” He muttered under his breath. “…N…No, that…it can’t be right, that doesn’t make any sense—”

Before Thatcher could make anything of what he just read, a knock rang on his office door, Thatcher yelling “come in” before someone walked into the room. It was Ruth, having a look of concern plastered on her face.

“What is it?” Thatcher asked as he rubbed his eyes again.

“Leah Heathcliff’s here for her questioning.” Ruth answered.

“…Ah.” Thatcher coughed, standing up, taking a glance at the VHS tapes before deciding he’d look at them later. He grabbed the notebook and the orange folder, all before approaching Ruth, looking at her face, his brow twitching slightly. “You alright?”

“Yeah,” Ruth said. “Though I suppose you should get going.”

“Okay…alright.” Thatcher brushed past Ruth, leaving her in the doorway as she sighed, looking at the ground before turning towards Thatcher’s desk. It was a complete mess, with documents strewn across it and other pieces of evidence placed on it. She couldn’t help but notice that the chair Thatcher had been using was still the same worn, on the verge of breaking office chair he refused to replace. Ruth sighed, closing the door to the office as she silently reminded herself to talk to Thatcher about keeping a clean workspace.

September 24th, 1992. 7:24 AM

“It was dark out. I couldn’t really see that well in front of me as I stumbled through the woods. I could barely stand up straight, as if my legs were trying to work against me. I was breathing hard, my breath clouding the air in front of me as I continued to walk. I didn’t know my destination, or at least I don’t remember it, but I knew I needed to get there.

Then I saw a house. One that looked familiar. I stopped for a second, staring at a window on one of the outer walls before I began to approach it. I stood in front of the window, placing my hands on the window frame, but when I looked down at them, I saw they weren’t mine. They were a pale grey, with two elongated fingers with broken, long fingernails at the end of them like claws. I looked inside, through the glass before I saw something. It was a bedroom, and on the bed was a sleeping man.

It was me. Sleeping on the bed without a clue. I opened the window, slowly crawling through until I was looming over myself, staring down at my own unconscious body. I was smiling, but it almost hurt to do so. I continued to stare at myself barely moving, still asleep even as I grew closer, saliva dripping from my mouth onto the sheets.

Then I woke up.

The window was locked when I checked it. Though I saw mist on the outside of it, as if someone was breathing on it. Something tells me I was very lucky last night. I’m not telling Ruth about this one. She already worries about me enough. I know now that I’m going to be checking every window before I sleep. I don’t want to know what would’ve happened if I forgot.”

Thatcher closed the notebook before sighing, leaning over towards the nightstand beside his bed before throwing it into one of the drawers. He sighed, grasping the bed sheets under him as he stared at the beige carpet below him. He looked forward from where he sat, seeing the window leading outside, the sun beginning to rise, allowing him to see the small patch of trees outside of his house. It felt a pit forming in its gut as it looked, all before shaking its head and standing up, deciding it needed to get dressed and start its day.

Thatcher stood by his kitchen counter, leaning against it with a cup of coffee in one hand, with his other crossed over his chest. He wore a lazily put on, faded graphic T-shirt, which was a couple sizes too big for him. With his less than professional appearance came worn out jeans, a pair of sneakers, and an overall haggard expression on his face, only complimented by his equally unkempt hair. He stared blankly into his living room, seeing that it too was a mess, with the coffee table being covered in documents and papers, and having no room to actually use it to put coffee cups on. He sighed, placing his cup on the counter before looking towards a landline phone on the wall, walking towards it, dialing a few numbers, and holding the phone up to his head as he waited for a response.

A few moments passed as Thatcher waited, leaning against the wall as he sighed, pushing his free hand into his jean pocket before he finally heard a voice on the line.

“This is Dave from MandelaTECH, how may I help you?”

“Dave, hey, it’s…it’s me.” Thatcher sighed, his voice especially gravely from just waking up.

“Thatcher! How’s it going? We haven’t spoken in a while.”

“It’s…yeah, it’s alright, I guess.” Thatcher stated. “How are you? You feeling better?”

“Ah, I’m…managing.” Dave said with a lighthearted chuckle. “Definitely better than I was. No longer…using that rickety old wooden cane that they gave me. Got a new one; one that’s…less hard on me.”

“That’s…good.” Thatcher said. “Good to hear it.”

“…You alright?” Dave asked. “You sound like you’ve…been through it.”

“I’m fine, alright? Just…” Thatcher paused for a second. “You…hear anything last night?”

“…No?”

“Any…weird…feelings, or did you see anything odd or out of place?”

“No. Can I ask why you’re asking me this?”

“Just wondering.” Thatcher lied. “Just…things have been weird, alright? Was wanting to check in and make sure you’re doing alright anyway.”

“I appreciate that, but…you do know you have to take care of yourself too, right?”

Thatcher paused, looking at the ground for a few seconds. “…You kept your windows and doors locked, right?”

“Yes.” Dave answered. “Thatcher…you…sure you’re alright?”

No.

“Yeah.” Thatcher reassured. “Just a weird…dream I guess. Whatever, I’ll probably talk to you later. I have a couple tapes I need restored for the police department anyway.”

“Alrighty, just…remember to actually take a break.” Dave stated. “It’s your day off, isn’t it?”

“Yep. Supposed to be.”

“Well, call me if you need anything, I’ll be happy to help out.”

“Thanks. See you later. Bye.” Thatcher hung up the phone, placing it back on its hook before sighing deeply, looking up and shutting his eyes for a second. He looked up at the ceiling, hearing nothing more than the sound of cars outside, the faint ticking of the circular clock on the wall, and his own thoughts running through his head. He shook his head, walking towards the couch and grabbing a jacket that was draped across it before pulling it over his arms and walking towards the front door, deciding to go walk around town. Maybe it would get his mind off of things.

Thatcher walked down the sidewalk as the sun rose in the sky, smoke billowing out of the cigarette in his hand. He glanced towards the road, seeing some cars pass by, though not very many people were out on the streets at that point. As he walked further into town however, there were more people seen, though the groups of people he remembered seeing gathering around certain hang out spots a few years back were now more scarce, with people no longer staying in one spot for a while. Did Thatcher blame them? No. It understood why people spoke in hushed tones and stuck together, only doing what they needed to get done before going back into the safety of their home. If Thatcher could, he’d do the same. There’s a comfort in locked doors and covered windows when the outside is full of things that stalk the meek.

Downtown had a haze of uncertainty to it; emptier than usual. The recent broadcast was doing its job, Thatcher supposed, judging by the dumpsters full of old, broken TVs, closed businesses, and people refusing to make eye contact with each other. It felt odd, though Thatcher couldn’t remember the last time Mandela felt more comfortable than not. He wasn’t even sure if it ever had that feeling of hominess. Mandela’s color had been draining for a long time, and he wasn’t sure if he ever noticed it. Seeing how the town was slowly becoming less welcome to its residents made a pit form in his gut. So much for “getting his mind off things.”

Thatcher passed by a few local businesses and stores, some urban homes, and more empty parking lots as he walked, feeling his joints getting sore as he went further. His cigarette was close to snuffed out, Thatcher pausing before flicking it to the ground, stomping it with his foot and pressing it into the concrete. He sighed, looking around before his eyes spotted something on the other side of the road; the park. A large patch of grass with a few trees, gazebos, and a small playground for children to play. To his surprise, there were people there, being parents keeping a close eye on their kids as they went down the slides and sat on the swings. However, he stopped when he spotted someone sitting at one of the benches, looking over her own kid. Ruth.

Thatcher glanced down the road despite knowing no one was coming before jogging across the road, slowing down when he reached the other side before stepping onto the grass, walking through the metal archway leading into the park. It approached the playground, seeing Ruth was fiddling with her prosthetic, presumably because something was loose or out of place in it. Thatcher sighed, silently walking towards the bench and sitting next to her. She glanced up, double-taking before looking at Thatcher, letting out a breath.

“Hey, I…didn’t expect you to be here.” She said as she sat up.

“I didn’t either.” Thatcher stated. “Just figured I’d say hi.”

“Well…hi.” Ruth smiled, crossing her leg and looking at her prosthetic. “…It got loose when I was running around with Amelia. Almost fell off.”

“Hmm.” Thatcher looked around, his tired eyes observing the children playing and the parents joining in with them. It was sweet, though he still couldn’t shake the pressure he felt in his chest.

“…Are you alright?”

“Yeah.” Thatcher answered as if it was second nature to him. “Just…things have been on my mind lately, that’s all.”

“Do you want…to talk about it?” Ruth asked.

“It’s nothing, just…thinking about what Leah said.”

“Thatcher…”

“It just doesn’t make any sense, why would a normal kid like Mark just…break all of a sudden?” Thatcher continued.

“Mommy!”

Ruth looked up to see one of the children on the playground approaching her, walking towards her before grasping the sleeve of Ruth’s jacket; Amelia. “What is it honey?” Ruth asked. Amelia simply pointed towards a bag that was resting next to Ruth, and despite nothing being said, Ruth understood, grabbing something from it. It was a small bag of what appeared to be some kind of snack, which Ruth gave to Amelia before she began to run back to the rest of the kids.

“Be careful, don’t go too far.” Ruth warned before softly sighing.

“Do you think what Arthur said has something to do with it?” Thatcher asked as Ruth looked back towards him. “Maybe he said something that caused Mark to run off—”

“Thatcher.” Ruth interrupted. “I’m sorry, but…you’re not really using your day off wisely.”

“What do you mean?”

“You’re stressing yourself out about the case all the time.” Ruth said as she strapped her prosthetic on properly. “I understand, it’s something…I really wish didn’t happen, but you have to understand that worrying about it all day everyday isn’t going to help.”

“Ruth, I just need a lead.” Thatcher said. “What if we find something tomorrow at the Torres house? We could possibly solve what happened to Mark…and Cesar.”

“We’ll have to wait and see—” Ruth flinched when she started to hear crying, turning to see Amelia on the ground with a scraped knee. She quickly stood up, leaving Thatcher behind as she went to go tend to her. Thatcher watched with mild concern as Ruth looked at the minor scratches as he sat in silence, sighing as he tried to think. He had to stress about a case he was working on, otherwise nothing would get done. He had to be close to figuring out something, right? He was snapped out of his thoughts when Ruth approached him again, this time holding her daughters hand. “We’re going home, Thatcher. If you want to talk later, I’ll be there, just call.”

“…I see.” Thatcher watched as they walked away, once again leaving him alone as he wondered. Maybe Ruth had a point; maybe he should go home and try and relax for once.

11 PM

Thatcher had been staring at the files on his desk for the past hour without anything new coming to mind. A few cigarette butts were already in the ashtray as he extinguished the one in his hand in it, all while he stared at the papers with a blank look in his eyes. He scribbled something onto a blank piece of paper, the graphite of the pencil scratching against it until an image came together. Thatcher paused, looking at the drawing, one that depicted the face of a humanoid…thing, one with an elongated “snout” and a far too wide smile. He sighed, placing his pencil on the desk before grabbing the paper and standing up, turning towards the wall and pinning it to a corkboard, allowing it to join the countless photos, journal entries, notes, and drawings that already littered it, making the corkboard itself barely visible from under it.

Thatcher stared at the board, crossing his arms as his dull eyes grazed over everything on it, his brain working overtime to compute it all. Mark Heathcliff, Cesar Torres, Dave Lee, Ruth Weaver; all people who had experienced oddities in the past few months alone, with even Thatcher itself not being exempt. The pale, inhuman face of the alternate he drew had been one he saw not too long ago, and one that he couldn’t shake off. It looked so vaguely familiar, though morphed and deformed to the point that it was barely on the precipice of recognition. Thatcher hated that some parts of its face were features he shared, albeit heavily distorted. Animalistic, and not even trying to act human. Was it even an alternate at all?

Thatcher blinked, rubbing his eyes when the wave of exhaustion he had been pushing back finally hit him. He looked back towards his messy desk and the corkboard, all before turning back and shutting the light off, closing the door shut behind him as he headed towards his bedroom. He stepped into the room, shutting and locking his bedroom door as he stared at the window on the opposite wall. He stared at it, feeling a strange discomfort before he checked it was locked and shut the curtains. He got into bed, sighing deeply as he lazily pulled the covers over him, staring into the dark as he laid on his side, all before closing his eyes and attempting to get some sleep.

??:?? AM

Thatcher was awoken by the sound of a distant window breaking. His eyes flicked open, staring forward to see that the window in his room was still concealed by the curtain, and still intact judging by the lack of wind coming from it. Thatcher wanted to grab his gun and investigate the noise, though despite how much he tried, his arms remained still. He couldn’t even speak or move anything aside from his eyes, which darted around the small part of the room he could see from his limited view. His breathing quickened slightly, realizing he was paralyzed.

Thatcher could hear something bumping around in the hallway outside of his bedroom, pushing aside furniture and stepping towards the door. Thatcher couldn’t do anything, hearing the footsteps grow silent as he tried not to hyperventilate. He attempted to move, only being able to slightly shift in place, still unable to move anything a meaningful amount. He stared forward, blinking when he heard knocks ring out from his bedroom door behind him. He heard the knocks pause, then come back, even harder that time, all before they ceased. Thatcher heard the door creak, opening despite him locking the door before he slept. He still couldn’t move aside from shaking slightly, hearing something behind him, creeping towards his bed. He couldn’t see it, or hear anything coming from it until he felt warm air hit the nape of his neck. His chest heaved, feeling a deathly cold hand be placed on his shoulder before he could finally move.

Thatcher shot up out of bed, swinging around to see what it was, only to find nothing at all. The door was shut, and nothing else was in the room with him. His breath was heavy as he glanced towards his pillow, reaching under it to grab a pistol before he walked towards his door, throwing it open before pointing the gun into the hallway. He flicked on the light, seeing that it was completely intact, with nothing out of place. He paused, hesitating before lowering his gun, looking at the ground and placing one of his clammy hands on his head. Something about his house felt claustrophobic all of a sudden; was it always that cold?

2:27 AM

Ruth was awoken by the sound of a knock at the front door. She slowly sat up, looking around her room before she heard the knocks ring out yet again, sighing as she turned on her bedside lamp and reached towards her prosthetic. Thatcher knocked on the door for a third time, his body covered by a quickly thrown on, somewhat oversized grey trench coat. He remained silent, preparing to knock again until the door swung open to reveal a tired, somewhat annoyed Ruth Weaver, who was still in her pajamas, being a black tank top and sweatpants.

“Ruth.” Thatcher said quietly.

“…It’s two in the morning.” Ruth stated, blinking sleepily. “What are you doing here?”

“I just…I wanted to talk.”

“About what? What is so important that it can’t wait until morning?”

“I just wanted to talk to you.” Thatcher said. “I won’t be long.”

Ruth paused, staring at him before shaking her head slightly. “Be quiet; Amelia’s in bed and she has school tomorrow.”

Following Ruth into the house, Thatcher closed the door behind him, walking into the dimly lit living room before sitting on the couch, with Ruth sitting in a chair across from him. Thatcher remained silent for a moment, staring at nothing in particular before Ruth spoke up.

“Organizing files or something?” Ruth asked. “Or are you just staying up late worrying about the case again?”

“Don’t worry about it, I’m…it’s fine.” Thatcher stated, despite not fully believing the statement. “I wasn’t wanting to talk…about just the case with you anyway.”

“Do tell.” Ruth glared at Thatcher, wishing she could go back to bed, but refusing to due to the feeling of worry for her friend.

“Everything happening lately…it feels…connected.” Thatcher said. “Ever since the report at the…Murray household, it seems like everything’s been…off.”

“Really?” Ruth asked. “How do you think it’s all connected?”

Thatcher stayed silent for a moment, gathering his thoughts. “That alternate. You know the one that attacked Dave a little while back?”

“Yeah, I heard about it, though…I don’t really see what you’re getting at.”

Thatcher paused before speaking again. “I think it’s the same one from the Murray house.”

“…How can you be sure?” Ruth asked.

“I can’t.” Thatcher responded. “But the way it…stared into me. The look in its eyes…it was the same.”

“I don’t know…maybe.” Ruth spoke with a tinge of uncertainty. “But didn’t you say it looked…different?”

“It did.” Thatcher stated. “But that’s what’s getting me; it’s wrong. More so than it was.”

“Thatcher, are you sure?” Ruth asked. “It could be a different one entirely. I mean…why would it do something like that to itself?”

“I don’t think it did.”

Thatcher and Ruth became silent, Thatcher hunched over with his hands clasped together and his elbows resting on his knees, all while one of his legs bounced up and down. He took in a deep breath before speaking again. “Ruth?”

“Yes?”

“I came here to apologize.” Thatcher looked up to see Ruth looking at him with a fraction of confusion. “That’s what this is really about.”

“For what?”

“For…everything.” Thatcher looked down again, his hair draping over his face. “For…what happened back at that fucking house.”

Ruth sat up from her relaxed position as her brows furrowed slightly.

“If I…if…if I kept an eye on you…if I kept you safe…” Thatcher’s voice shook slightly. “You’d still have both legs.”

Ruth felt her heart sink slightly at that statement, thinking hard as Thatcher continued.

“I didn’t…protect you, I didn’t look after you like a fucking friend should.” Thatcher said. “You got attacked cause I was a fucking idiot and didn’t pay attention—”

“Thatcher—”

“No, listen, I’m sorry that I couldn’t be there for you; for the one fucking person in my life that is there for me—”

“Thatcher.” Ruth said, standing up and approaching the couch before sitting next to her friend. “If you truly weren’t there for me…I’d be dead.”

Thatcher looked up at her face, seeing that she still had a friendly look in her eyes.

“You couldn’t have predicted any of that; I mean…I barely saw it coming myself.” Ruth continued. “If you didn’t come running in to scare it off, or help me get to the hospital…I would’ve lost more than a leg.”

 “…I’m sorry.” Thatcher said under his breath, his throat tight. “I’m just…sorry I can’t…be the man this town needs me to be. E-Every time I go into that fucking station, I see more and more missing persons reports, more bodies found, more altercations, more shit that is only getting worse. I don’t know what to do, and I can’t fucking show it cause if I do?” Thatcher paused, trying to hold back its tears. “…I’ll be painted as nothing but a fucking coward…and that’s not what this town needs right now. It needs someone it can count on…and…I’m not that person.”

Ruth remained silent, thinking hard before she wrapped her arm around Thatcher, lightly side-hugging him. Thatcher appeared surprised at the gesture, though after a few moments, he hunched over, covered his face with his hands, and cried.

September 25th, 1992. 5:45 PM

Thatcher had a pit in his gut the entire day.

He wasn’t sure exactly what was causing it as he gathered what he needed to bring to the Torres Residence, though it was beginning to become nauseating. The lack of sleep could’ve also had something to do with it, or maybe even the fact that he hadn’t eaten anything that morning, though he couldn’t be sure. He looked up to see Ruth gearing up, putting her belt on and pinning her radio to her chest. Thatcher sighed, standing up straight before approaching her, lightly pressing a hand on her shoulder.

“Try and stay in sight this time, alright?” Thatcher asked quietly.

“I will. Besides, we have the radio. If necessary I’ll call you from it.”

“…Yeah…yeah, alright.” Thatcher exhaled. “You ready?”

“I guess so.”

“Then we should head out.” Thatcher stated. “Doesn’t seem like anyone else is going to head over there so…suppose we’re going to be the ones to do it.”

“Figures.” Ruth said with a slight chuckle. “Last time we had to do this, the officers pussied out.”

“Let’s get going,” Thatcher grabbed a jacket. “It’s almost sundown, and I’d like to get this done before it’s late.”

It was a completely silent drive to the House, with neither Ruth nor Thatcher speaking a single word. Thatcher felt a sense of unease when he turned down Wisteria Avenue, and when he glanced over at Ruth to see her having a troubled look on her face, Thatcher figured he wasn’t the only one. It clasped the steering wheel, staring forward as he drove by the houses in the neighborhood, seeing that only a few of them had lights on, as if most of them were no longer lived in. Thatcher decided to try and ignore the eerie feeling it had, as when it parked on the side of the road in front of the Torres Home, it realized it was time to get to work.

Thatcher exited the police car, looking towards the House, noticing how dark it appeared to be inside of it. He glanced back at Ruth, checking to make sure she was standing close before he stepped onto the concrete driveway, approaching the front door before reaching towards it and knocking against the dark wood.

“Police Department, open up.” Thatcher called, hoping for an answer but not receiving anything more than silence. He slammed his fist against the door again, harder and louder before calling again; “Police, open the door!”

No response.

Thatcher sighed, preparing to kick open the door before it cracked open slightly, despite Thatcher not touching it. He glanced towards Ruth before pushing open the door further, expecting to see someone, but seeing nothing standing there. Thatcher shook off the strange wave of unease he felt when he stepped inside, convincing himself that it was just the wind that opened the door as he ushered Ruth inside.

Thatcher was greeted with the faint ticking of a clock when he entered the living room, glancing towards the opposite wall to see a tall, red-wood grandfather clock towering over everything else in the room. He looked up at its face, seeing that it was still in perfect working condition considering its hands twitched with every second, without fail. As Thatcher walked into the living room, shining his flashlight along the walls, Ruth looked to her left, seeing a small off-shoot of the living room. A piano was resting next to the wall, with note sheets placed on it. Ruth approached it, seeing the bookshelves beside it and a mirror above it. Ruth looked at her reflection before examining the frame of the mirror itself, brows furrowing when she noticed something around it; water damage.

“Ruth?” Thatcher called from the living room, turning around to look at her.

“I’m here, don’t worry.” Ruth sighed, stepping away from the piano to join the lieutenant, all while a deep red liquid leaked from behind the mirror.

“I don’t really see anything in here, at least nothing abnormal.” Thatcher stated as he looked around the living room.

As Thatcher walked around, Ruth looked towards the clock, staring up at its clock face. Thatcher walked towards a small table resting against the wall, picking up a picture frame that was resting on it before examining the photo. It appeared to be a photo of Maria Torres, along with her son, Cesar. Thatcher sighed, feeling a deep somber feeling looking at the happy faces of the two, knowing, or rather not knowing, the fate of the young man in that very photo.

“Weaver, have you found—” Thatcher paused when he noticed Ruth was still looking at the clock, he slightly shaking flashlight pointed up at its face. “…Ruth?”

“Yes?” Ruth shook her head, turning around towards Thatcher.

“You alright?”

“Yeah…I’m fine.” Ruth answered, though the strange disturbed look on her face made Thatcher believe otherwise.

The two soon passed through the archway leading into the kitchen, pointing their lights into it. There was a square dining table near the corner, with only three chairs accompanying it. The kitchen seemed tidy, with countertops looking as if they were cleaned just the night before. There were some decorations on the walls and some porcelain dishware in an antique shelving unit.

Ruth looked towards a door to the left of the entrance to the kitchen, opening it and looking inside, seeing that it lead to the cluttered garage. She turned to the left, though something felt off, despite nothing being there. She walked back into the main Home, looking into the living room and seeing the piano room. It looked as if it would’ve cut into the garage judging by its location, but when Ruth peeked into the garage again, there was nothing but a straight wall, with no room for the piano room to feasibly fit. She wasn’t sure if it was an optical illusion or simply her mind playing tricks on her, but it made her headache worse just thinking about it.

Thatcher looked to his right, seeing a door on the opposite wall of the kitchen, one that would lead into the living room judging by its placement. He walked towards it, reaching for the doorknob before gagging and backing away, covering his mouth and nose. Ruth looked back towards him, seeing that he was staring at the door with a look of disgust on his face. “Something wrong, Davis?”

“Something behind this door smells…rancid.” Thatcher explained, hesitantly removing the hand covering his face to try and open the door. The doorknob didn’t budge when he attempted to turn it. “…It’s locked.”

“You think it’s a storage closet or something?”

“It’s the only thing that would fit there…hoping it’s just…mildew or something.” Thatcher stated. “Though we’re gonna have to get this open before we leave. Maybe there’s a key around here.”

Thatcher and Ruth passed by the sliding glass doors to the side of the kitchen, staring down the back hallway, seeing that it had three doors; one on the left, one on the right, and one straight forward. The hallway itself bent oddly, with one of the walls feeling like it was placed there abruptly, with its wallpaper being a slightly different shade than the rest. Thatcher and Ruth walked down the oddly built hallway, with Thatcher opening the door straight in front of them, seeing that it led into the bathroom.

He shined his light across the bathrooms walls, soon stopping when he looked into the mirror. Water damage stained the walls around the medicine cabinet, with hundreds of small holes in the wallpaper seemingly oozing a substance Thatcher was unsure of. He stared into the mirror, looking himself in the eye before he attempted to open the medicine cabinet, being unable to for a second until he tore it open. Strands of some sort of red, vine-like substance was torn apart, finally allowing the cabinet to be opened, only to reveal nothing much of use. ADHD medication, bandages, and some miscellaneous items were all that was in there, though as Thatcher stared and pointed his light at the strange “veins” that had held the doors shut, he decided he was done looking in the bathroom.

He closed the cabinet door, turning back towards the hallway without seeing the second pair of eyes looking at him from the mirror. Ruth backed up as Thatcher exited the room, looking at him with a blank look on her face. “Find anything?”

“…I don’t…no.” Thatcher stated, closing the door and covering up the faint sound of tapping he heard from inside there. “I think we should call for reinforcements.”

“Why?”

“Something about this place, man…” Thatcher looked around with a worried look in his eyes. “…Did you find anything?”

“I looked in the bedroom,” Ruth gestured towards the bedroom to the right of the bathroom. “And there wasn’t much of anything in there. Looks like it belonged to Cesar.”

“Then the other one must belong to his mother.” Thatcher sighed. “I’ll look in there real quick, then we’ll…head out.”

“…So soon?”

“We can get a second look later.” Thatcher stated. “For now, let’s just…get this wrapped up.”

Ruth watched as Thatcher approached the other bedroom on the other end of the hallway, sighing deeply before she began to follow him, only pausing after only one step. She could hear something, coming from Cesar’s bedroom. It was faint, and muffled, but as she turned around she could hear it clearer; screams. She glanced back at Thatcher, seeing that he had already entered the other room before she grabbed her pistol and took it out of its holster, holding it by her side as she entered Cesar’s bedroom.

The screams sounded pained, and as she looked around, she saw an opening in the wall, one that she didn’t remember being there when she was last in the room. She swallowed hard, pointing her gun towards the opening, seeing that it led into a short hallway. On the other end of it was an old, wooden door, one that didn’t match the white painted doors that were in every other room in the house. A figure watched from the closet as Ruth stepped towards the door, entering the short hall as she heard the screams become louder. Her heart felt like it was beating heavier than normal, and her hands felt clammy and cold, unsure of what was causing it aside from a deep feeling of dread. “Hello?” She called. “Whoever’s there, please answer!”

No response, though the screams seemed to wane, becoming more like pained, muffled whimpers and groans. Ruth hesitantly put her flashlight onto her belt, reaching for the doorknob and turning it, seeing that it wouldn’t budge. “Damn it.” She swore under her breath before she called once again to the voice she swore she heard behind the door. “Look, we’re gonna get you out of here, okay? Just hang on—” Ruth turned to yell for Thatcher’s help, only stopping when she looked back towards the bedroom. The screams had stopped, and when she pulled out her flashlight to point it into the bedroom, she felt her heart sink. Her widened, horror-filled eyes stared forward, her face pale as if she just saw a ghost, and her body was as stiff as a statue, absentmindedly dropping her gun to the wooden floor.

There was a blank wall where the entrance to the hallway was.

Thatcher stared at the only half-made bed of Maria Torres before walking around the room. He sighed, realizing there was nothing of use in that room either, though with the lack of any useful evidence came the realization that it was time to leave. “Ruth, There’s nothing he—” He turned around, seeing that Ruth was nowhere to be seen, as if she had simply vanished. “Ruth?” Thatcher felt his heart pounding against his ribcage.

No.

No.

No.

No not again.

Please God not again.

“Ruth?” Thatcher was unsuccessful in cloaking the panic in his voice as he quickly left the room, looking around and seeing no sign of life. He searched through the other bedroom, seeing and hearing nothing more than his own footsteps and heavy heartbeat before he opened the bathroom door, looking inside to see no sign of his friend. “RUTH?” He grasped onto his radio, holding it up to his face before turning it on and speaking into it. “Ruth where the hell are you?” There was no response; complete radio silence. “Ruth, do you copy?!”

The sound of music from the living room replaced his panic with dread, with Thatcher slowly turning down the hallway towards the kitchen as he listened to the song. The light to the living room was on, with the light spilling into the kitchen from the archway connecting the two rooms. It was from the piano, being an old classical piece Thatcher felt was familiar, but not enough to name it. He swallowed hard, pulling out his gun from its holster before pointing it ahead of him.

The music became louder with each step the lieutenant took, its hands shaking slightly as it inched ever so closer to the archway, soon standing right beside it and pressing its back against the wall. It peeked around the wall, looking into the living room, just barely able to make out a figure sitting in front of the piano from where he stood. Thatcher sucked up his fear as he took a step into the living room, hearing the clock behind him as he quietly approached the piano room, soon being able to see who was playing the piano.

He saw the back of what appeared to be a young man, one wearing a stained, stitched together black suit and a white dress shirt under it. His spine stuck out from underneath the suit, as if the clothes were melded to it. His black, greasy, messy hair was swept to the side, neatly combed despite how dirty the hair itself was. Thatcher watched as he continued to play, seemingly unaware that Thatcher was even there. It stopped, its gun trained on the figure before it spoke. “Hands where I can see them.”

The figure paused, sitting completely still before looking up at the mirror above the piano itself, with Thatcher finally able to see his face through the reflection. It looked like Cesar, though it barely kept the façade together. Its left eye was replaced by dull-colored veins and arteries, coming out of the eye socket and fusing to the rest of his face and head. Its one remaining eye was wide open, along with its smile. It looked towards Thatcher from the reflection before speaking.

“Don’t you know it’s rude to interrupt a performance, Lieutenant?”

The figure turned in his seat, placing his folded hands on his lap as he stared at Thatcher with a single, unblinking eye and a soulless smile.

“…Who are you?” Thatcher couldn’t help but notice his voice shook as he spoke, despite him wanting to retain a sense of stoicism.

“…I don’t think that’s important right now.” The figure stated. “Just refer to me as your Host for the night. Besides, I don’t even know if I could tell you my name even if I wanted to.”

Thatcher remained silent as the alternate went on. “Now tell me…who are you? Why are you and your friend here at all?” When Thatcher didn’t respond to the question, the alternate laughed. “Oh who am I kidding…I know your name, Mr. Davis. You two aren’t very quiet…I can at least gather what you call each other.”

“Where’s Ruth.” Thatcher questioned, his tone dark and his expression darker.

“Fodder, dear.” The alternate responded as if it was a stupid question, standing up and causing Thatcher to follow its head with his gun. “Now…why don’t I help you get settled in? I can make dinner, if you’d like.”

“Stay right there.” Thatcher ordered. “…Don’t move.”

“Oh…I suppose I can chat for a little while longer.” The alternate sat back down, staring up at Thatcher’s face, its own expression not changing even slightly. “Though please…I’d like this to be quick.”

“Where…is…Ruth.” Thatcher repeated, his voice more intense than before.

“…You two came at such a perfect time.” The alternate ignored the question asked. “She just wanted some visitors; she’s going to need the company before she sleeps.”

“…She? Who the hell is She?”

The figure chuckled before looking around. “Look around you, Davis. She’s the walls, the floors, the ceiling…she’s made a Home for you, one that welcomes all…even you.”

“What the fuck are you talking about?”

“You’re so tense…I figured the concept of a place that’ll accept all company would be…relaxing.” The alternate stated. “I imagine a place that won’t judge you based on your faults would sound inviting for a man like you.”

Thatcher remained in a confused, horrified silence before the alternate stood up. “You know…you remind me of a story I heard once…one of a man named Icarus.”

Thatcher didn’t respond, wordless as the alternate continued. "Ever hear the tale of Icarus? The one who flew too close to the sun...whose hubris became his downfall? Burned, and fell all the way down.”

The figure chuckled, though it sounded more like a wheeze, before continuing. “It's funny. You feel like you can save everyone, don't you? If you just fly a little bit farther, you can keep everyone in this town safe? You've saved Dave. Ruth that one instance. However, you failed to save some. Ones that haunt your conscious despite never meeting them. Is that not why you’re here? To try and save those you failed to protect?”

            The figure stared into Thatcher’s face, leaning in closer before he muttered, “Believing you can save everyone will cause you to fall, and I have to ask you, Mr. Davis. Is your case one of flying too close to the sun? Or not flying far enough?"

Thatcher glanced behind him, seeing the front door and living room before staring the alternate in the eye. Thatcher stared into the pure black pupil of the alternate’s bloodshot eye in silence, before slowly and shakily pointing his gun at the figures leg and pulling the trigger.

The alternate didn’t scream, but fell to the ground on its injured knee, looking down at the steadily bleeding wound as Thatcher ran into the main living room. He reached for the front door, attempting to pull it open only to see that it was jammed shut. He backed away, looking back at the alternate to see it stumbling back to its feet, its joints clicking and cracking with every movement. Thatcher turned towards the couch sitting in front of the large window, seeing a small table resting beside it. He scrambled towards it, grasping it by its legs and throwing it as hard as he could into the window.

The glass shattered as the table careened through it, with the alternate beginning to scream behind Thatcher as he began to vault over it. “NO, WHAT HAVE YOU DONE…WHAT HAVE YOU DONE TO HER?!” Thatcher placed his hand on the windowsill, hopping outside as fast as he could, trying to ignore the burning feeling he assumed was from cutting his fingers open with the shards of glass leftover. However, he found he couldn’t move his hand as soon as he was outside, letting out a pained yell as he looked back to see what it was caught on. Two of his fingers were fused with the windowsill itself.

Melted skin and veins attached the fingertips and the entirety of his ring and pinkie finger on his right hand to the House, being immobile despite how many times Thatcher attempted to separate himself from it. He turned his head around, seeing the alternate staring  back at him, for once without the smile on its face. Thatcher saw no choice; he had to force himself off of the windowsill, so he took in a deep breath, jerked his hand away once with no success. He tried to free himself by ripping his arm away from the window, feeling his shoulder tear and his fingers dislocate with every tug. He tried to pull his hand away once, then twice, then three times—

CRACK.

Thatcher screamed, not daring to look at his hand as he scrambled towards the police car on the side of the road; away from that damned house. He swung open the driver’s side door with his left hand, holding his right, rapidly bleeding hand close to his chest as he hopped into the car and started it after fumbling with the key for a second. He placed his clammy, trembling left hand onto the steering wheel, all before hesitantly holding up his right to see it.

The fingers that were stuck on the windowsill were missing.

He couldn’t calm his breathing as much as he tried, instead focusing on not vomiting as he drove away, using only his left hand to do so as he could barely feel anything in his right hand other than agonizing pain. He couldn’t even think properly, his mind going too fast to pick out anything from the mess. He muttered under his breath as he escaped, only worrying about one thing.

“I’ll come back…I’ll get help, Ruth, I will…I will…” He gasped. “I’ll get help…just…sit tight…I’ll be there.” He paused to take in another pained gasp.

“I’ll be there.”

October 6th, 1992. 12:00 PM.

Thatcher’s finger prosthetics itched.

He had been scratching the skin around it the entire day, with the skin in that area becoming red from it. He almost wished he could simply not wear them, but the new scars and the fact that he was missing fingers in general made him keep them on. As he sat, hunched over outside of the church auditorium, he stared blankly at the floor. He was wearing a black suit and tie, his hair being barely considered neat. The sound of the clock ticking on the wall made him sick, though it was better than the sound of people talking in hushed and somber tones around him. If anything, the distracting ticking helped him, if only a little, forget that he was there for a reason. A funeral.

No body was found yet the bastards decided to pronounce Ruth dead. Thatcher had told them Ruth wasn’t confirmed to have passed whatsoever, and could still be out there, yet they didn’t listen. Maybe the cost of a funeral was cheaper than the cost of sending more officers to the scene to get potentially killed. No matter the reason, Thatcher felt a deep hatred in his heart, past all the pain and sadness. How could they? They acted as if she wasn’t a person, only another fucking statistic. Though what was the worst part?

Thatcher could’ve prevented it.

How stupid was he to bring Ruth into danger again? Did he truly believe he would be as lucky as he was last time? Ruth was gone because Thatcher ran away. He was a coward; the very thing he feared becoming the most.

The bells tolled. Service was starting.

Thatcher sighed deeply, standing up before walking into the auditorium, not once looking up as he joined his fellow officers in the pews. He couldn’t bear to look at the casket in front of him, nor the photo of Ruth put up next to it as he sat on the cold wooden bench alone. He stared at his feet, absentmindedly scratching his knuckles with his dirty nails. He could barely think, his mind blank and his expression dead. He could barely even process what was being said by both the priest and whoever was giving the eulogy, simply staring forward before he finally looked at the casket. He knew it was empty, and somehow that made everything feel worse.

He looked to the right, noticing members of Ruth’s family sitting on the opposite side of the church. Parents sobbing, uncles and aunts mourning in silence, however the sight of little Amelia Weaver, sitting with her family, being embraced by her grandfather in an attempt to comfort her, made Thatcher’s heart heavier than a ton of bricks. She was so young, yet she was losing her only parent. Thatcher silently apologized to her, mentally telling her how sorry he was that he failed to protect her mother. He couldn’t bring himself to say anything out loud, with his throat tight and his chest tense. He turned back towards the casket, blankly staring at it as he wondered what would’ve been different if they never went to that House. Maybe she’d still be around. Maybe Thatcher wouldn’t have been a filthy coward.

Someone was walking down the aisle as Thatcher looked back down towards the ground, the person clad in a police uniform staring at Thatcher as he thought to himself. Thatcher listened to the words the priest was saying, though as the seconds ticked by his words became nothing but muffled speech in Thatcher’s mind. Thatcher heard the clock ticking again, this time giving him a headache that worsened with every tick. He kept scratching at his hand, not even noticing the thin, red lines his nails left behind. The figure in the aisle slowly walked towards Thatcher, soon standing directly behind him. Thatcher felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand up, looking up at the casket before he felt a hand be placed on his shoulder.

He flinched, turning around to see no one in the pew behind him. The sound of the clock was quiet again, barely audible. He stared down at his now bleeding hand, seeing the scratches he dug in his own skin that were bleeding ever so slightly. He let out a shaky breath as he covered his face, wanting nothing more than the service to be over.

Thatcher stayed behind even when the service was over and done with, staring blankly at the casket as if he was incapable of leaving. Even Ruth’s family had left a little while before, but Thatcher simply couldn’t make himself follow them out the door. He sighed deeply, standing up and grabbing a metal folding chair he saw leaning against the wall before placing it in front of the casket, sitting down on top of it in silence before he spoke.

“…I don’t think you can hear me, but…I guess this is for more my peace of mind.” Thatcher muttered, his voice raspier than usual. “…I’m sorry. I can’t even convey how sorry I am.” He let out a brief, forced scoff. “God…I’m fucking pathetic. You’re probably looking down at me…laughing at how God damn stupid I am.”

Thatcher paused, forcing out his words after a few moments of silence. “I failed you. I failed you twice…and…now…you’re gone.” He stifled a sob. “…All because I was scared. You’re dead because I was too fucking scared to protect you. What kind of fucking cop am I? I can’t even protect the people that actually fucking matter.” Thatcher looked up at Ruth’s picture, her smile feeling sunny, though it didn’t help the cloud of guilt over Thatcher’s head.

“If you’re still out there…” Thatcher muttered under his breath. “…I’ll find you. I don’t want forgiveness, I just…I…I-I just…want you here.” He grasped his hair as he hunched over, trying to hold in sobs as tears ran down his face. “I just need you here…”

“Mr. Davis?”

The sound of a deep voice behind it caused Thatcher to turn around, its eyes red from crying. It was Dave, standing in the aisle, staring back at Thatcher with a look of worry in his eyes. He was wearing tinted glasses, along with a black suit, though it was missing a tie. He limped over to Thatcher, supporting himself with the metal cane under his right hand as he approached the lieutenant.

“What.” Thatcher growled, not in the mood to talk.

“I just…wanted to…offer my condolences.” Dave stated quietly. “…I know how close you were to her. She…she was a good woman.”

“…She was.”

Dave looked away for a second, seemingly to think. “…Y’know, I’m…always available to talk.” He said. “I mean…it’s the least I can do.”

“I’m fine.”

“Don’t do that.” Dave said. “I know you’re not…and you know what? That’s okay. You need time to…mourn. I don’t think you should be so hard on yoursel—”

“Leave me alone.”

Dave became silent, staring at Thatcher as it looked away, once again staring at the casket with a dead look in its eyes. Dave sighed quietly before speaking again.

“If you need anything…just ask.”

With that, Dave began to walk away, leaving Thatcher by himself once again. It clasped its hands together hard enough to hurt, feeling like he had run out of tears to cry. He shook his head, standing up as he stared down at the casket in front of him. He placed a hand on the wood, standing in silence before whispering, “I’ll find you, alright? I promise.”

Thatcher hesitantly left the casket behind, putting his hands in his jacket pockets before walking down the aisle, finally leaving the church through the front door. His guilt couldn’t be described in words, and the emotions he felt clouding his mind were too much to handle, but one thing rang out from his mind, more than everything else; anger, both towards himself and the police station for deeming Ruth a lost cause. He was going to find Ruth, dead or alive. He made a promise, after all.

Until we meet again, Ruth.

[kiruuuuu]

Kiru's Advent Calendar, Day 8💋

I sat on this one for way too long - started it around New Year's and never got around to posting it. Once the idea was in my head, it wouldn't let go and so I've ended up writing an 8k PWP! I'm posting it in two parts and I hope you like it as much as Smoke does 😁 (Smoke/Mute, Rating E, smut: sex pollen/drugs, light oxygen deprivation, ~3.7k words)

.

“Top floor’s clear”, Smoke passes into the comms, receiving acknowledgement from Thatcher in return. The others seem to have drawn the shorter straw as he can still hear gunfire downstairs, and he gathered from a few conversation snippets that there’s several basement levels to raid before they can examine the building complex and its use to the terrorists any further. They did locate a bio-lab early on and came here with a vague idea from the intel that tipped them off in the first place, but nothing concrete. “You lads need us?”

“We could use Sledge, the bastards barricaded themselves in.”

The Scotsman nods in Smoke’s direction and hurries towards the door right away, movements swift and much too quiet for his sheer size. “I’m heading downstairs”, he informs the rest of their team, leaving Smoke and Mute behind in the large storage room littered with crates, lockers, stacks of materials covered with tarpaulins and – a recent addition – several bodies.

“Let’s see if we find something useful”, Smoke addresses Mute who hasn’t spoken (or moved, for that matter) for a minute now, and when he doesn’t receive a response, he adds a prompting: “Alright?”

Mute remains silent for a few seconds longer before letting out a quiet curse, which is very unlike him. He’s glued in place, expression impossible to discern through his mask, and seems to support himself with one hand against a shelf. Instantly, alarm bells begin blaring in Smoke’s head – after years on the job, he can tell when he’s losing someone, and Mute is rapidly drifting away from him, though he doesn’t know the reason yet. He strides over to him, touches his arm and mutters his name in a tone of voice betraying his concern.

“I’m fine”, Mute reassures him, sounding a bit strangled. “I’m just – don’t worry. I need -”

He does not sound fine at all. None of this is fine, and Smoke struggles to keep down the panic. Not him, please not him, he thinks and isn’t even sure what he’s afraid of – Mute is young and spry and somehow escaped most of the horrors and stress the job entails, hasn’t picked up any PTSD along the way, skirted around anxiety, avoided panic attacks and possesses one of Rainbow’s most stable minds. He’s not susceptible to sudden changes in mood like this, especially not on a mission. Which is precisely why Smoke is uncomfortably close to being terrified.

That, and he’s simply worried about a friend.

“Mark”, he tries again, ignoring procedure to emphasise how much he needs a straight answer right now, “what’s wrong?”

At least now he’s not getting more fibs. Though the alternative isn’t any more comforting: Mute is taking off his mask. During a mission.

Granted, they’re done with their part and the others will be soon, too, but still. He reveals a wild shock of hair, flattened on one side, sticking up on the other, a flushed face and glazed-over eyes, breathing heavier than normal, and if it weren’t for the circumstances, Smoke would be unable to keep his gaze on him for a plethora of reasons. He looks… obscene, almost. Like he just -

Moist lips, already parted, blurt out: “I feel weird.”

You look weird, Smoke doesn’t say and tries to keep the alarm he feels from showing on his face. Concerned, he scrambles to pull a glove off, pinching his fingertips more than necessary in the process, and touches his bare hand to Mute’s forehead. He’s burning hot and apparently unstable on his feet, swaying towards Smoke and making a small, pitiful sound as soon as skin touches skin. If Smoke is honest, it’s a relief – a physical reaction is usually easier to deal with than a mental one and this seems to be either an illness or…

Well. Or what?

“James”, Mute says without a follow-up, clearly unable to articulate his needs, and Smoke jumps as hands come up to his face now, tugging on his own mask, slipping under the material, gloved fingertips brushing over the nape of his neck. Mute manages to remove it before Smoke can stop him, and under the soft light of the large room, he appears more vulnerable than Smoke has ever seen him. If he really is ill, it must be serious to cloud his judgement like this, to let his guard down entirely and drag Smoke with him, to lose all bearing of where they are and why.

This is enough. He needs help.

“Smoke to Doc”, he mutters into his radio, “you got a mo-”

And then suddenly, there’s a hand on his throat, pushing him backwards; he almost trips over someone’s leg before his backside hits the edge of a crate and Mute stumbles into him, the grip around Smoke’s neck firm yet without pressure. “Don’t”, he hisses, speaking over Doc’s affirmative response. “It’s fine. Don’t.” Along with his insistent shake of the head, he manages to convince Smoke to at least delay outside help. But he better fess up about what’s going on with him.

Their eyes locked, Mute’s widened and unblinking, Smoke reaches for the handheld again and replies: “No worries, all good. Carry on.”

The ensuing silence stretches on for half an eternity during which a thumb caresses Smoke’s jaw in a gesture much too erotic to be accidental. Paired with the hard stare, it’s disconcerting, throwing him off balance, skewing his own assessment. Mute’s gaze drops a few inches and somehow, that’s what makes some of the much needed blood from Smoke’s brain rush downwards. As their breaths mingle, he knows he better say something soon.

“Mark, be honest now, what’s -”

Once again, he’s cut short, except this time it’s Mute’s mouth on his own silencing him. And… excuse him?

Wait a second.

Hold up.

Muscle memory is what ultimately saves the moment, taking control of Smoke’s body to ensure he actually reciprocates the kiss instead of just standing there with his jaw on the floor like the world’s tiniest whale shark – muscle memory has him tilt his head, lean into what’s happening, open his lips for Mute’s tongue (what the hell what the bloody hell), while his mind is in absolute emergency mode. This… has never happened before. He never expected it to happen. Sure, he’d hoped, hoped with every fibre of his being, but never once did he actually think it’d happen someday.

All kinds of thoughts are racing through his mind, the loudest one a very simple well thank FUCK, accompanied by a more muted what took us so long; his heart sings, his consciousness floats, his stomach flutters. The context matters not, what matters is that Mute is making out with him like he did in so many of Smoke’s dreams (so, so many), which, again, is very unexpected. Because what Smoke figured he’d be like is… more hesitant. Softer. Passive. Instead -

Instead, Mute is shoving his tongue down Smoke’s throat like his life depends on it, and though it’s utterly lovely in countless ways, it’s also bloody hot. He can barely keep up with the younger man, clings to him for support as he melts away, forgetting about the mission, the bodies surrounding them, the odd way Mute behaved before. Every single time their lips move against each other in an attempt to devour, Smoke exerts what little control he still has over his body to stop himself from moaning. It feels so good. It feels so right. This moment is the culmination of months, years of secret pining, of bottling up, of sneaking glances here and there, of the strange duality of wanting to be close but not too close. Just in case. Just in case Mute would get worried about messing up their friendship.

When they separate, Smoke gasps for air, blinking rapidly as he struggles to process what’s going on, and makes the mistake of meeting Mute’s eyes. He’s staring down at him with so much hunger it causes a shiver to run down Smoke’s entire body – Mute looks unhinged, as if something awakened inside him, like he’s going to ravish him any second now. Gloved fingers, still wrapped around Smoke’s throat, brush over his pulse point, causing his crotch to throb in response. He almost doesn’t dare to breathe.

Somehow, he always thought he’d be the instigator between the two of them, that he’d take control and guide Mute, push him wherever necessary and ease off at the slightest hint of discomfort. He saw himself sharing his own experiences to provide inspiration, fulfilling fantasies and providing lots of encouragement. He pictured Mute’s face, full of wonder and astonishment.

He did not think Mute was going to utterly wreck him.

“Babe”, he whispers, voice hitching at the slight twitch of fingers on his skin, a twinge of annoyance visible on Mute’s face for a second at the nickname, “do that again.”

No need to ask twice. It’s sloppy and wet and deep and perfect, the kind of open-mouthed kisses he’d envisioned for their third date. They’re full of determination and Mute’s intentions become crystal clear when he removes his hand from Smoke’s throat to start undoing all the clasps and zips holding his own uniform together.

Wow. Smoke’s brain malfunctions for a second. He wants to – what? Now? Here? Right now??

Not that’s he’s complaining, really, the mere thought of getting to look at Mute’s nude body is enough to make his lower half tingle, but it strikes him as oddly out of character for Mute, when he’s normally the serious one, all professional. They should postpone this until they’re back at the hotel, at least until they’re back in the van in the last row by themselves, back in their normal clothes, but certainly not -

Christ, Mute’s skin is gorgeous. With every inch he reveals, Smoke gets more nervous, and by the time his entire chest is visible, they’ve even interrupted their heated making out so he can ogle the other man better. He’s sculpted beautifully, his smooth skin endless, dark nipples perked up in reaction to the cool air, the bumps and ridges of his abs practically begging for Smoke’s tongue, the thin trail of black hairs leading from his navel to where Mute is currently fumbling with more -

“I don’t think that’s a good idea, babe”, Smoke speaks up, voice uneven. He doesn’t sound convincing even to his own ears. “Why don’t we take our time –”

There go Mute’s trousers. And good heavens, is he ready.

Smoke, conflicted, bites his lip to distract himself from the large bulge in Mute’s pants, the toned thighs, this enticing smell unique to Mute… and obviously fails horribly. Tentative, he reaches out and puts his palm on Mute’s side, brushes his thumb over ribs, strokes soft, warm skin. He can hear Mute’s laboured breathing, the lad terribly worked up already (and dear god, the thought of him psyching himself up for this is both endearing and sexy), the rise and fall of his chest getting faster the longer Smoke’s hand explores the vast expanse of skin. He dips a fingertip into the navel, reaches around to pull Mute even closer to him and rubs gently over a nipple.

Between them, Mute’s barely constrained erection twitches in response.

Alright. Yeah.

That’s it.

Smoke can practically feel something inside him snap at the sight and throws all decency, all inhibitions overboard. Who the hell cares if they get it on now, the others are doing fine and nobody is likely to bother them. Besides, most of them would be thrilled to hear he finally got to… that he might get to… (and his mind isn’t even ready to think it yet, it costs a surprising amount of effort to voice it clearly, even to himself) – he might have the chance to fuck Mute.

So yes. No more half-hearted protesting. He’s on board now. He’s going to worship Mute’s body like it deserves to be worshipped, he’ll go along with whatever it is this madman has in mind, he’ll succumb and -

“Touch me”, Mute mutters with an unexpected amount of heat in his voice, grabs Smoke’s ungloved hand and shoves it down his underwear.

Oh.

Instinctively, his fingers curl around the hard shaft, marvelling at the silky skin, not prepared for how hot it feels against his palm. It’s got a mind of its own, jumping at the slightest touch, pulsing in Smoke’s grip and when he swipes his thumb over the exposed head, Mute whimpers.

At this point, Smoke is worried he’ll end up humping the other man’s hip for a few seconds before coming into his pants, but it’s not like he could stop, ever, not with Mute moving closer and tilting his pelvis to allow for better access while Smoke pets him awkwardly, the waistband cutting into his wrist. To hell with it. He yanks down Mute’s underwear – all inhibitions overboard, remember – and wraps both his hands around the hard erection so he can feel it all.

And, uh. Sure, he’s got comparatively small hands. But Jesus Christ.

Even in the slight panic that follows, he’s aware of how wrecked Mute looks already, empty gaze directed at nothing in particular, expression vacant apart from his wet, parted lips. It only encourages Smoke to keep going. One hand moves further down to cradle Mute’s balls while the other starts stroking him in earnest, and there’s a hopeful voice in the back of his brain wondering whether it’s realistic to get Mute off quickly so he lasts longer for his second round, preferably with Smoke’s dick up his magnificent arse. The thought has his own arousal spike, his cock straining uncomfortably against his uniform in anticipation (and maybe he should jerk off as well, because there’s no way he’d last more than ten seconds buried inside the man for whom he’s been pining for so long now).

A heartbeat later, he’s dying inside because Mute is moaning right into his ear. No sign of restraint, just open-mouthed groaning as he moves his hips in sync with Smoke’s hand and clings to him like he’s his lifeline. It’s getting warmer by the second, Smoke is starting to sweat and unsuccessful in trying to squirm away from this burning body trapping him against the crate behind him, and when a tongue brushes over his earlobe, he moans right back. Good god, the lad must be horribly pent up to react this strongly.

There’s no time to worship him. There’s probably not even time to go all the way, sadly, so Smoke makes a decision – and sinks to his knees. He’s always loved giving head, loves the taste, the texture, the reactions, but his bad gag reflex often interferes if he wants to try any more than that. Right now, Mute looks like he’s going to cream himself any second now though, which means Smoke can safely blow him to completion, drink his sperm and watch him orgasm. A win-win, really.

He wraps his lips around the soft head and smiles at the helpless noise which follows. Mute is big enough that it’s a struggle, his skin slightly salty, but Smoke manages to get a few inches in, pulls off again to lick over the tip, lick the precum off and watch Mute lose his mind. He’s beautiful in his disbelief, utterly dishevelled, breathing deeply and supporting himself on the object behind Smoke, looming over him with despair showing in his expression. He’s flushed, ears bright red, thighs spreading even though Smoke doesn’t need the space, and tense all over – muscles bulge and dance beneath smooth skin. While Smoke bobs his head, swirls his tongue over the glans and presses it against the shaft as he sucks on it, he lets his eyes wander over the man he’s been obsessing about, relishing the sudden intimacy between them. He loves this so much.

But just as he got used to the fuzzy feeling in his stomach and the way his heart is trying to beat its way out of his chest, he notices something innocuous. Well, not really innocuous, not even at first glance, his mind is just so muddled that he doesn’t recognise it instantly; it’s more of a huh, what’s this.

And then it hits him. On his knees, Mute’s dick in his mouth, palms kneading the strong thighs framing his head, he’s suddenly presented with an explanation for what’s going on.

There’s a small object sticking out of the side of Mute’s calf, a silvery thing half-hidden by the uniform which got tangled up around it because it pierces both the fabric and Mute’s skin. A blow dart. They’ve encountered this kind before, it’s one of this branch of terrorists’ favourite weapons and usually laced with poison or similar, except in this case it wasn’t poison at all. It was what they were researching at this location, something to put opponents out of action without doing any real harm. And it all makes sense now.

Bloody hell.

Smoke’s gaze flicks up and all he can think for a hot second is: the poor lad’s not gonna be able to look me in the eye ever again.

He’d be lying if he claimed he wasn’t disappointed, but there’s also some relief in the revelation: he knows what’s wrong now, knows what caused Mute to behave like this, and he knows it’s nothing serious. Nothing serious between them either. Which, sure, is a real downer, but now Smoke doesn’t have to figure out how to navigate all the difficult conversations they’ll have to have, they can just chalk this up to momentary madness, forget about it and go back to the way things were. Because they weren’t so bad, right? They were friends.

Still. That means Smoke should stop this instant, just stop and walk away and let Mute take care of this in peace because he can’t know whether the other man really wants this and he can’t take his word for it either. It’s the ethical thing to do. It’s what he really should do.

Except, well, Mute takes advantage of his brief distraction to shove half his dick into Smoke’s mouth. Not enough to make him gag yet, but enough to cause slight panic, especially when Mute withdraws and does it again with a sound so desperate Smoke feels it in his fingertips. Left with no choice, he opens as wide as he can, digs his nails into Mute’s thighs and braces himself against the supportive crate behind him while his hopeless crush starts fucking his mouth.

He can sense the restraint behind it, and still Mute pushes deep, forces his shaft past Smoke’s lips, leaving him barely any time to suck on it, advancing with every thrust until Smoke struggles to breathe, pushes against the iron thighs, casts a pleading glance upwards but receives no mercy. Mute is gone, lost in the bliss of it all, biting his lip so hard he’s almost drawing blood, staring down at Smoke with such hopeless longing, any noise he makes coming from deep within while Smoke can’t breathe.

It’s impossibly erotic and somewhere at the edge of Smoke’s mind he’s aware of how hard he is, how his crotch pulses in time with Mute’s movements, how close he is to pressing a palm against his clothed erection and rubbing it until he comes. Saliva is running down his chin, dripping down, tears are forming in the corners of his eyes at the rough treatment and he can’t get enough; Mute is a fucking animal, moaning louder every time Smoke gags around him, throat closing around the silken shaft, only allowed brief moments of respite when he’s greedily sucking in air. His nose is coming in contact with the curled hairs at the base of Mute’s cock now, that’s how deep he is, and Smoke feels like he’s going to pass out any second. Hot flesh invades his lips over and over, shoves itself deep and Smoke’s toes are curling in helpless desire.

After what feels like an eternity, Mute’s hips finally stutter, lose their merciless rhythm culminating in a few sharp thrusts until he buries himself entirely in Smoke’s throat, shaft bulging and pulsing as he comes with a low growl, spurting bitter viscous liquid even as he withdraws, the last drops hitting Smoke’s tongue as the head drags over it, leaving behind a bruised and aching throat. Smoke coughs, gasps, pants, too weak even to wipe his mouth as his arms fall to his sides, every point of contact with Mute disappearing. It’s a miracle he didn’t climax himself.

Smoke can’t remember the last time he felt so used and he’s worried his voice will die on him if he tries to state out loud how much he loved it. He’s still drooling. He will never be able to get over the fact that he now knows what Mute tastes like, what he sounds like when he comes, how noisy he is, how reckless he can be. Sure, most of it may be the drug’s fault, but a man can dream.

“I’m sorry”, a broken voice mutters above him. “I’m so sorry. James. I’m sorry.”

With effort, he tears his gaze away from the thick, glistening organ right before him. Mute has never been this beautiful, utterly debauched and rumpled and wide-eyed and Smoke wants to hug him and tell him everything is fine. More than fine. “That was the hottest shite to ever happen to me”, he rasps and hopes his unsteady tone doesn’t diminish his sincerity.

Once again, teeth capture Mute’s lower lip anxiously, the young man radiating unease – and Smoke realises the dick at eye level shows no inclination to deflate. If anything, it’s increased in girth.

Right.

Okay.

Yeah, he remembers the double entendre in the drug’s official report, something about ‘potency’ which turns out not to be exaggerated – that, or Mute has kept this specific aspect of youth entirely too alive. His release seems to have calmed him down somewhat, the agitated urgency has faded, so hopefully his cognitive abilities are returning to allow for more… informed decisions. “Do you want me to leave?”, Smoke asks and is 100% ready to make his getaway in case Mute provides the slightest of nods. He’s playing with fire.

A pause, during which Smoke prays to whichever deity might be listening. Then, slowly, Mute shakes his head.

[itsadamcole]

arranged - pt.2

fem!reader x drew mcintyre

reader and Drew go to America for reader’s surprises ...

word count: 5.5k+

warnings: prince!drew, just a lil bit angsty, definitely more fluff than part 1, smut :)

— and here’s part 2. enjoy —

part 1 || masterlist || request an imagine here

~ 18+ content below - read at your own risk ~

You and Drew land in Orlando. It's late January, and a huge temperature difference. It feels more like summer in Florida than it does in Scotland, where it's super cold right now.

A smile hasn't left your lips since you took off, and you're excited to see Candice.

Speaking of Candice, she waits by baggage for you. When you see her, you drop Drew's hand and your things before running over to her. You hug her tight and she says, "Okay, okay. Relax, princess. It's nice to see you."

"It's nice to see you too," you say, looking at her. "I haven't seen you since the wedding."

Candice laughs and says, "It wasn't that long ago." She looks at Drew. "Your husband has gotten handsomer since I last saw him."

You giggle and say, "It hasn't been that long, Candice."

She smiles and says, "So, anyway. Come on. The trainers and doctors want to give you a full physical at Full Sail to make sure you're cleared to be in the match this week on NXT."

Smiling, you say, "Sounds great." You look back at Drew. "Ready?"

He nods and says, "Of course."

Candice drives you both to Full Sail University, where NXT is broadcasted from. She asks questions about what married life is like, how Scotland is, and how it's been over there since you married Drew.

It's a short drive to Full Sail from the airport so she doesn't get to many questions in.

During the physical, the doctors and trainers make sure your in tiptop shape to compete. You've lost some muscle mass since you haven't trained in months but it's not that big of a deal. They do the whole work up.

After you've been medically cleared to compete, Hall of Famer Triple H finds you. He says, "Y/N, welcome to Full Sail. We're very happy to have you here as part of our roster in NXT, even though it's for a short amount of time."

You smile and say, "Thank you, Mr. H."

He hands you a black leather folder and says, "Inside, you'll find a part time NXT contract that will have you as part of the NXT roster for six months. Your husband says that after six months, you will no longer be able to compete. As a part timer, you're slotted to be in three matches, one match every two months."

Your eyes widen and you look at Drew before you say, "I thought this was a one match deal."

"I pulled some strings," Drew says before winning at you.

Triple H says, "As of right now, your matches will be against Candice this Wednesday at NXT, a match against an opponent of your choice at Takeover: London in two months, and a match against an opponent of your choice at Takeover: Glasgow in four and a half months."

Your jaw almost hits the floor and you say, "Takeover matches? Like, actual pay-per-view matches."

Everyone in the room laughs and Triple H says, "We wanted to make your last few matches memorable ones. I've spoken with William Regal about this and he's on board. Are you?"

Quickly, you read over the contract and sign it. "I'm on board," you say.

"Welcome to NXT, Y/N," Triple H says, holding out his hand.

You shake his hand and smile. "Thank you for this opportunity," you say.

He smiles and walks off. You look at Drew and he has a huge smile on his face.

"I haven't seen ya so happy about something before," he says.

You smile back at your husband and you say, "I'm living my dream because of you, Drew. Thank you."

Drew says, "I just got us here. Yer talent is the reason yer living yer dream."

"You've never seen me in the ring before," you say, giggling.

Your husband says, "I get t'see ya in the ring on Wednesday."

You smile and shake you head, leaving to go to the hotel to get some sleep so you can train all day tomorrow before Wednesday.

***

Wednesday gets here too quickly. You've brought your old gear with you to wrestle in. It's definitely more revealing than you remember.

You stand in your little dressing room and look in the mirror at yourself.

The shorts got tighter and shorter, and the crop top now tightly hugs your chest. Your cleavage is very exposed and you hope to God that you don't have a wardrobe malfunction while in the ring.

Now that you're the princess of Scotland, you have a lot to be conscious about.

Someone knocks on your door as you're tying up your boots. "It's me," Candice says. "Can I come in?"

"Yeah," you say.

The door opens and Candice walks in. She smiles when she sees you in your gear. "Damn, you looked good in the gear then and you look good now," she says. "Anyway, I was thinking. I want to cut a promo before our match tonight. Just a short one. I'll say how a princess shouldn't be in the ring with someone like me and we can go from there."

You nod and finish lacing up your boots. "Sounds good," you say. "I'm assuming that my signing has been a secret?"

Candice nods and says, "Yeah. Drew's being kept out of the crowd until our slot so it doesn't give it away too early that you're here."

Someone calls your name and Candice's name. It's time.

"I've never been so ready to get back in a ring," you say. "Ever since I left, it's been marriage and princess lessons. I'm ready to wrestle again."

Candice smiles as the two of you walk to the backstage area. "You better be," she says.

Several NXT superstars are in the backstage area. The Undisputed Era, Finn Balor, Io Shirai, Timothy Thatcher, Tommaso Ciampa, Rhea Ripley, Johnny Gargano, Indi Hartwell, and Shotzi Blackheart just to name a few.

You stretch out as you wait for your music to hit.

It's been too long since you felt this rush of adrenaline. Before every match and every promo for Ring of Honor, you'd feel a rush of adrenaline to get you pumped up. You last felt this in your last ROH match a few months ago. It's been too damn long.

Candice's music hits and she walks out. You listen to what she says carefully.

"Rumor has it we're in the presence of royalty tonight," Candice says. "Apparently some princess signed with us a few days ago? That's the rumor anyway. I don't think she even deserves to be in an NXT ring."

That's when you're handed a microphone before your music, I Like It Heavy by Halestorm, hits. Of course it's a clean version of the song because this is WWE but it's fine. You're making your entrance for the first time in months.

The crowd loses it as you walk toward the ring in your sparkly red and black gear. You step into the ring.

The music fades out and you're face to face with Candice. She smirks and asks, "Oh, did I hit a nerve, princess?"

You hold your microphone up and say, "I don't deserve to be in an NXT ring?" You scoff. "Please, Candice. I've fought to be here."

Candice says, "You're Scotland's princess. That's the only reason you're here."

These comments are hitting you hard, but you fight through.

"Listen here," you say. "I am a NWA Women's World Champion, a two-time NWA Women's World Tag Team Chanpion, and Impact Knockouts Champion. I deserve to be in this ring for my talent, not by my title."

Candice says, "Then let's go. You're dressed. I'm dressed. Let's get a referee out here."

The crowd cheers and you yell "bring it" into the microphone before throwing it down.

The match begins shortly after. You have Candice in a headlock and you're trying to bring her down onto her knees. She pushes you off of her into the ropes. You bounce off and hit her with a clothesline.

You say, "Oh, look. The princess is the only one still standing."

The crowd laughs and Candice hits the mat before getting up. You're locked in a grapple with her a few seconds later. After a bit of struggling, Candice knees you in the stomach. You cry out and clutch your stomach, falling to your knees. She hits you with a running knee to the jaw, and you sell it well. You fall into your back, knees bent with your feet beneath you.

Candice pulls at your hair to get you up, and the ref warns her of the hair. She says, "Get out of my ring."

You snarl, "Go to hell."

Then you elbow her hard. She backs off you, creating enough space for you to perform a spinning heel kick. She falls but you get her up into your shoulders into a fireman's carry.

You hit the Falcon Arrow on her and go in for the pin.

One. Two. Three. The bell rings and your music blares. The crowd goes insane. You spot Drew in the front row where he would mostly be off camera. He's looking at you in awe as he applauds. You smile as the ref holds your arm up, declaring you the official winner.

***

Days pass by since your match with Candice. It's all you talk about whenever you get the chance. Drew just smiles and listens as you tell him about the rush you felt being back in the ring.

You're driving to your hometown, a little suburb outside of Manhattan. It's been a quiet ride, and that's because Drew is asleep.

Timezones and jet lag have not been your friend during this trip, but it's easier for you to get used to the time change than it is for Drew.

You pull up to your childhood home and tap Drew's shoulder. "Hey, sleeping beauty," you say. "We're here."

He stirs and looks out the window. You smile and he says, "This is yer old house? It's so small."

"I didn't have much," you say. "My parents scrapped together what they could to pay for wrestling school when I was 14 until I was 17. I told myself then that I'd make it in wrestling and I'd pay them back for what they paid for me to go to wrestling school."

Drew looks at you and asks, "Can we go inside?"

You shake your head and say, "It was foreclosed. It belongs to the bank or something. It would be illegal to go in."

Your husband looks back at the house, which has fallen apart with age. It's a one story house. It has one bedroom, a tiny bathroom, and one room that holds the living room, dining room, and kitchen areas.

Drew says, "This while time ya were over here struggling, I was living it up as the prince of Scotland with my rich parents. I used to throw tantrums because they wouldn't get me the newest toy or take me on vacation with them, and your family couldn't afford either."

"We made it through," you say. "My parents live in a beautiful two story house in the nicer part of Manhattan. I paid them back right before I left for Scotland. Every story has a happy ending, Drew."

He smiles a bit and he asks, "Even ours?"

You smile and say, "Especially ours." You lean over the middle console and press a kiss to Drew's cheek. Your lips linger a little too long and he turns his head. You pull back a bit and meet his eyes.

That's when the butterflies flutter in your stomach and your heart races in your chest.

Slowly, both you and Drew lean into each other. Your eyes flicker to the lips you've only kissed twice, once at your wedding and once at a public event right after the wedding.

One of Drew's hands moves and rests on your cheek. You instinctively lean into his soft touch a bit.

Your lips are centimeters away from Drew's. Your noses touch as Drew's other hand moves to cup your other cheek.

"Tell me to stop if ya don't want this," Drew whispers.

You nod a bit and say, "I want this, Drew."

Then his lips brush against yours. A feather light touch. It makes you lean in more because you want more.

Drew guides your lips to his. Your eyes flutter closed as you kiss Drew. Your hands wrap around his wrists as he cups your face.

His facial hair tickles your chin and upper lip as the soft kiss continues.

It's like your first kiss all over again. Your first kiss was at your wedding in front of thousands of people. This one feels different. You never felt butterflies or your heart race when you kissed Drew at your wedding. You do now.

Drew pulls back and looks at you.

"How come ya never kissed me like that at our wedding?" he asks.

You say, "Because I didn't want it then. I wanted it now. I wanted the kiss."

He smiles and pecks your lips one more time before saying, "Show me yer favorite spot."

Giggling, you say, "I can't drive with you holding my face. Hold my hand if you wanna hold something."

Drew smiles and lets your face go. He takes your hand as you drive to your favorite spot.

Your favorite spot, or your safe spot, is a small park. You pull up, and get out.

The sun is setting, and you have a perfect view.

After taking Drew's hand, you walk over to a park bench. You sit down and Drew sits beside you. He wraps an arm around your shoulder as you both watch the sunset.

Drew says, "Ya don't have t'stay if ya don't want."

You look at him and ask, "What are you talking about?"

"In Scotland," he says. "Ya don't have t'stay. Being king isn't that important t'me if it means that ya don't get t'keep wrestling. I saw ya in the ring the other day, and it's all ya talk about. Ya love wrestling, and I don't wanna take that away from ya."

You turn so you're facing him as you say, "I'm happy in Scotland. Yeah, it was hard at first. I had to come to terms with possibly never wrestling again, and I did. Until you surprised me with this trip. I love that you did this for me, and for that, I'll help you become king and I'll be the best damn queen Scotland has ever seen." Drew smiles and you throw your legs over one of his legs.

You continue with, "Plus, I may or may not have fallen for you completely so I'm not going anywhere. Til death do us part, remember?"

There's almost a sparkle in Drew's eyes when you tell him that you might have fallen for him.

Your husband smiles and says, "I, uh, might've fallen for ya completely too."

You smile and lean into Drew. You kiss him slowly and softly. He kisses you back, pulling you closer to him.

The kiss is slow and full of passion. Your heart pounds in your chest as your lips move against Drew's.

Drew pulls back again and he says, "Let's find somewhere t'stay tonight. Do ya have a favorite hotel?"

You nod and say, "Yeah, it's in the city. Let's go."

The two of you get up and head to your favorite hotel.

***

The San Carlos Hotel. It's a cute little hotel, and not over the top fancy. You rent out a suite for the next few days, and they tell you that your stay is on the house because you're royalty. Sometimes being a royal has its perks.

The suite is a one bedroom suite. A full bathroom and walk in closet. Plus a living room area with a couch and a flat screen, and a kitchen.

Drew smiles when you unlock the door. You both walk in and you say, "Home sweet home while we tour New York."

He looks at you and say, "I'm glad ya didn't take the out when I offered it, Y/N. I didn't know ya were happy in Scotland. Honestly, I thought ya were miserable."

Giggling, you walk up to Drew and say, "Scotland is a beautiful country. I'm happy to be its princess, and eventually queen."

Your husband says, "Scotland's beauty is nothing compared to yers, Y/N."

Your cheeks heat up and say, "You are one unbelievably cheesy prince, you know that."

He laughs and says, "I take good pride in that. It's a talent."

Laughing, you begin to unpack. Drew disappears into the living room.

Once you've finished unpacking, you walk over to the window. You cross your arms over your chest and look out over the city that never sleeps.

Cars are still on the road and people are milling around on the sidewalks even though the sun has set.

You smile and keep looking out the window, until a pair of arms wraps around your shoulders. You don't have to look to know it's Drew. You lean back into him.

"I'll miss New York," you admit. "The city is always buzzing. It's the city that never sleeps, you know."

Drew presses a kiss to your temple and he says, "Just because we're gonna be king and queen doesn't mean we can't leave the country. We're not locked down in Scotland when we ascend the throne."

You sigh and say, "I know."

The two of you stand like that. You both look out over the city for several minutes.

Drew asks, "So, I did good?"

Nodding, you look up at Drew. "You did more than good," you say. "This has been the best trip of my life, and I'm glad you're here with me."

Your husband says, "I hope we can actually try at the relationship thing. I have a lot to learn still and-"

You lean up, pressing a soft kiss to Drew's lips to cut him off. He's caught off guard by the kiss but he kisses you back.

After a moment, you pull back and say, "We're gonna try at the relationship thing." You smile. "But I know that you know a decent amount about some parts of a relationship."

Drew says, "I know a lot less than ya think I know."

You turn in his arms and ask, "So if I asked you to, I don't know, take off my clothes, you wouldn't know how to do it?"

His face gets flustered as he stammers, "Well, I, uh, I know how to take off clothes, Y/N."

"I would hope so," you say, teasing him.

Drew smiles and says, "Listen, I don't know much about relationships but I know a lot about the physical parts."

You stare up at Drew and say, "Show me what you know."

"Y/N, we just talked about trying the relationship thing," he says, smiling. "I don't think we're ready for the next step."

A smile forms on your lips as you say, "We've already skipped a step or two. What's one more?"

Drew pushes some hair out of your face before he cups your face. He says, "I wanna do this the right way, Y/N."

You look up at Drew and you say, "There is no right way when we're in this situation."

He laughs softly and says, "Yer not wrong."

Leaning your head up, you say, "So show me what you got."

Drew smiles and leans down, bringing his lips to yours. The kiss is slow at first, full of passion. You wrap your arms around Drew's waist, holding him close to you.

His tongue swipes across your bottom lip, asking for access. You part your lips slightly. His tongue slips into your mouth. You let out a soft sigh into the kiss.

Your heart is racing in your chest at the thought of Drew taking off your clothes. You've seen him without a shirt on, but he's always seen you clothed.

While you're busy thinking, Drew's fingers have started working on the zipper of the jacket you're wearing. He pushes the jacket off of you and you pull away from the kiss.

Your eyes meet Drew's and he asks, "Ya really want this?"

Nodding, you say, "I want this." You untuck the shirt he's wearing from his pants.

Drew smiles and picks you up by your waist. You wrap your legs around his waist as he walks toward the bed. You giggle and wrap your arms around his neck. You take out the hair tie that's keeping his hair in a ponytail.

"I don't want your hair up when we're together," you admit. "I like it down."

Your husband lays you gently on your back on the bed. He looks down at you and says, "Anything for my princess."

You giggle, "So cheesy."

Drew leans down and kisses you. Your fingers slide up into his long locks. One of Drew's hands roams your body over your clothes while you start to unbutton the button up that he's wearing.

Several months ago, you and Drew wouldn't even touch each other. Not even hand-holding. Now, you're underneath him on a bed.

Things have definitely changed for the better over the last few weeks between you and Drew. It feels like euphoria when he kisses you or touches you. You can only imagine how it'll feel when his fingers find their way into your pants or under your shirt.

You're barely able to control yourself as Drew's lips move from yours to your neck. Your eyes flutter closed and you run your fingers through Drew's long locks. His button up now hangs open after you got it unbuttoned.

Drew kisses and nips at the skin on your neck as you push the open button-up off his body. You run your fingers gently up his now bare arms until your hands cup his face. You bring Drew's head up, bringing his face out of your neck. You're breathing a little heavy as you meet Drew's pretty blue eyes.

You lean your head up and press your lips to Drew's hard. One of Drew's hands runs down the side of your body, grazing the side of your breast. You almost shiver with anticipation as Drew's fingers reach the bottom of your t-shirt.

He pulls away from the kiss and looks down at you. You sit up a bit and lift your arms over your head. Drew pulls the t-shirt off of you and discards it somewhere in the room. You're left in just a plain, black bra and pants. You didn't think you'd be doing this or you would have worn a fancier undergarment.

"God," Drew says, eyes wondering over your half naked upper body. Your cheeks get hot as he looks at you underneath him.

He shifts his weight so he's kneeling between your legs. He pulls your hips toward him. You feel the bulge in Drew's pants against your clothed crotch and you gasp slightly. Your husband sits on his heels as he looks at you.

You stare at Drew, waiting anxiously for him to make a move. Your heart racing wildly in your chest.

Drew hooks his fingers into the waistband of your leggings, pulling them off your body slowly. They join your shirt on the hotel floor. He leans down and starts to lightly kiss your belly. You giggle and look down at him. His lips trail up your belly until he reaches the bra you're wearing. He undoes the front clasp and the bra falls open, exposing your breasts to Drew. Your breath hitches as he uses a finger and plays with one of your nipples. He kisses the other breast before sucking on that nipple.

You bite back a moan as you slightly arch your back off the mattress. The hand playing with your nipple moves down your body. Drew's fingers slip into the waistband of your panties and you sigh. You lick your bottom lip as his fingers inch closer to their target.

Your husband's eyes flicker up to your face and he watches for your reaction as two of his fingers run through your slick folds. Your eyes flutter closed and you smile, grasping onto the blankets on the bed.

His fingers tease your clit and you say in a whispered tone, "Don't tease." Drew teases your entrance and you let out a quiet moan.

"That was the prettiest things I've ever heard come from ya're mouth," Drew stares.

You get all flustered and say, "It's not nice to be a tease, Drew."

He presses a light kiss to your jaw and mumbles, "Tell me what ya want, princess."

Almost begging him, you say, "I want to feel your fingers inside me. Please."

Gently, Drew starts to pull off your panties. The fabric is thrown to the floor and you pull off the bra. You're completely naked in front of Drew, and you feel comfortable. You trust that Drew won't do anything to hurt you. He's the kind of man to make sure that you're okay with something before he does it.

Drew runs a finger through your soaked folds before he pushes that finger inside of you. You bite your lip to hold back your moans. Drew's hovering above your naked body. His lips are on your neck again, nipping at the skin and definitely leaving marks.

His finger moves in and out of you. You let your lip go and let out the moans you were holding in. Then Drew adds a second finger. You gasp and moan, "Drew."

"Making ya feel good with just my fingers?" Drew mumbles against your neck.

You nod frantically and say, "I love your finger."

He smirks and says, "I can promise ya that they love ya too."

The speed of his fingers quickens and your hips buck off the bed. You moan his name and a few profanities. A knot forms in your stomach.

You're intoxicated with how Drew is making you feel. You love the feeling of Drew's fingers inside of you. His touch makes you feel euphoric and waves of bliss overcome you with every flick of his wrist.

Your walls clench around Drew's fingers and you cry out, "Drew, I'm about to cum!"

The Scotsman's voice drops a tone and he asks, "Ya gonna cum from my fingers, princess? Do I make ya feel that good?"

Nodding, you desperately say, "I need to cum. Please."

"Go ahead, my love," he says.

Your legs begin to shake as you release all over Drew's fingers. More than you ever have for anyone before. Moans pass your lips as well as Drew's name mixed with profanities. Your breathing is labored as you come down from your high. Drew kisses you as you try to catch your breath.

Your lips move feverishly against his for a few moments before Drew gets back on his knees. You sit up with him between your legs and undo the button on his jeans. You look up at him as you push the dark blue fabric off his body. He's left in his boxer shorts as he sits back. You crawl onto his lap, straddling his huge bulge. You run your fingers down Drew's chest and he looks up at you.

"I have t'get something if we're gonna do this, princess," Drew says, pecking your lips. "Unless ya want to start producing heirs t'the throne right now."

You giggle and say, "Let's wait a year before we start doing that."

He smiles and snakes his way out from under you. You sit on the bed and watch as he grabs a little silver package out of the travel bag. He walks back over to you and you move to the edge of the bed.

You hook your fingers into the waistband of his boxers and pull them down. Drew watches you as his erect member pops out of the boxers. His big, and thick. You swallow a bit and look up at Drew.

He's smirking down at you before ripping the tiny package open and sliding the contents on himself. Drew pushes a piece of hair out of your face and says, "Be a good princess. Get on yer back and spread those beautiful legs for me."

You don't say anything, you just do as your told. You scooch yourself back on the bed and lay on your back. You spread your legs a bit as Drew crawls up to you, hovering over you between your legs. The tip of his member runs through your folds and you sigh.

"I've been missing out on a lot," you admit, looking up at Drew.

Your husband lightly kisses you as he says, "I have a lot t'offer."

Smiling against his lips, you say, "I can see that."

Drew props himself up on his arms, hands on either side of your head. You stare up at him before he asks, "Are ya sure ya want this?"

You nod and say, "I've never wanted anything more."

Then he pushes inside you. You gasp at the small amount of pain you feel before it goes away, turning to pleasure. He thrusts slowly into you, moving deeper every few movements. His length starts to fill you little by little. You're a moaning mess beneath Drew, nails raking up and down his back.

When he's fully inside you and you're adjusted, his hips speed up. He starts thrusting harder into you. Grunts leave his lips as moans leave yours. You wrap your legs around his waist so he has better access.

"Oh, fuck," you cry out. "Don't stop, Drew. Oh, faster. Please."

He listens to your wishes and he moves faster. He leans down and brushes his lips against yours. You lean your head up for the kiss and he pulls back slightly. You chase his lips and they barely touch his.

The tip of Drew's member finds your g-spot and you cry out. That's when he knows he's found the target, and he moves faster. His member slams into your g-spot over and over again. You scream out his name mixed with profanities several times as he fucks you into the mattress.

The same knot from earlier forms in your stomach as Drew builds you up to a second orgasm.

Drew's finally kissing you. Your lips move against his breathlessly and your nails dig into his sides. He twitches inside of you and you mumble, "I'm about to cum, baby."

"Me too," Drew says. "Together."

You nod. He moves a few more times before you both cum at the same time. You around him and him into the condom.

Drew kisses you messily as you both ride out your highs. Your hands are on his face as you messily make out with him.

He pulls out of you and pulls back from the kiss. You whine a bit as he ties off the condom, throwing it away. Drew helps you under the comforter before joining you. Drew spoons you from behind with one of his arms draped over you. You hold his hand as you press your back to his chest.

Both your breathing and Drew's breathing have returned to normal. He leaves soft kisses on your shoulder and a smile is on you lips.

"That was amazing," you say. "I really could've had that the entire time instead of fighting with you."

Drew lets out a breathy laugh and says, "I should've just talked to ya about everything sooner. We could'a done that a long time ago."

You giggle and say, "Now that we have done that, I don't know how long I can go before we do that again."

Your husband says, "Whenever ya want, princess. Hell, if ya wanted another go then I wouldn't say no."

Looking back at Drew, you say, "Calm down. You just made me cum twice within several minutes. I need some time."

Drew smiles and says, "Of course. Were ya seriously about that waiting a year before we start trying for a baby?"

"Of course I was," you say, turning and facing Drew. "I would love to have a baby with you, but I want to make sure that it's something we both want. I'm ten year younger than you, Drew. We have some time."

Your husband smiles wide and kisses you. "I am so in love with ya, princess," Drew coos against your lips.

"I'm so in love with you too, Drew," you respond.

Months ago, you hated the thought of marrying Drew just for him to become king. You never even wore your rings behind closed doors. Now, it's changed into something more. An actual relationship where you love Drew and he loves you.

That's all you hoped for when you said 'I do' to the prince of Scotland.

—

tags: @drewmcintyrekoccsrocbwdgfan

[bongaboi]

Liverpool: 2019-20 Premier League Champions

30 years of hope: my life as an ardent Liverpool fan

After three decades of near misses, slips and tears, the Merseyside team’s wait for another league title is nearly over. So what does it mean to a scouser and lifelong fan?

by Hannah Jane Parkinson

I am three years old in the photograph, hugging a plastic, flyaway football. I am seven, arriving tentatively for my first training session at a local girls’ club. I am bounding back to my mother’s car, blowing hot breath on cold hands, beaming, the salt from the artificial turf embedded in the soles of my trainers.

I am eight and glued to the television, watching teen wunderkind and my Liverpool hero, Michael Owen, score the perfect goal against Argentina in World Cup 98.

I am nine. I give up one of the few days I have to visit my father to attend my first ever match at Anfield, Liverpool FC’s famous stadium. A week later, my father dies. These two events are inextricably linked in my mind, and the guilt continues to whichever day you are reading this.

I am 10 and make my first appearance in print in a feature for the local paper, the Liverpool Echo, about girls getting into football. I am quoted as saying that all my sister cares about is boys and fashion.

Twelve years old and the fuzzy letters of “Parkinson” on the back of my shirt arch down my shoulder blades.

I am 13. Our team, known as Liverpool Feds, are approached by Liverpool FC to become their official girls’ outfit. We visit Melwood, the first team’s training ground. The full-size goals loom like scaffolding.

I am 14. My hero, Owen, makes the same move to Real Madrid that Steve McManaman made five years before him. This breaks my heart. Suddenly, all I care about is boys and fashion. Without really making a decision, I give up football. Cold winter nights are spent inside on the sofa watching Sex and the City. I discover live music and MySpace.

I am 15. I own the entire range of Clearasil products. A group of my schoolfriends and I take a night off GCSE revision to watch the 2005 European Champions League final in Istanbul; the first the club has reached since the mid-80s, and so it is forbidden not to watch. Liverpool are losing by three goals at half time. A lost cause. Minds wander to the second biology paper… But wait. Liverpool pull back to 3-3. And win on penalties. Pandemonium. We join the throng in the streets; the blaring car horns; the beer jumping, like salmon, from pint glasses; the embrace of strangers; the straining vocal cords.

I am 18 and living in Russia, watching games on my first-generation smartphone via a 2G internet connection. Each time a player goes through on goal the signal drops to endless buffering. Liverpool finish second in the league, four points behind bitter rivals Manchester United.

I am 26, we are bearing down on the title. Steven Gerrard in an impromptu on-pitch team talk, after a crucial win against the newly flush Manchester City, shouts hoarsely at his players: “This does not fucking slip now!” The next home game, Gerrard – one of the best players the club has ever seen, captain, scouser, Liverpool FC lifer – literally slips on the turf against Chelsea to concede a goal. We lose. Manchester City finish top of the league by two points.

I am 29. I am in Cuba, where the internet is heavily censored. But I manage to watch the last game of the season, which will be decisive. Liverpool finish the league with 97 points; the highest points tally ever for a team that doesn’t win the title. City win again. With 98 points. Liverpool do, however, win the Champions League – for the sixth time – after scoring four goals in a sublime semi-final comeback against Barcelona. The injured Mohamed Salah, watching on the bench, wears a T-shirt bearing the slogan “Never Give Up”. The T-shirt sells out.

I am 30. I have never witnessed my beloved Liverpool FC lift the title. Two months from now, this is going to change. As I write Liverpool have a 22-point lead at the top of the table. Of 84 points available this season, they have taken 79. Next Monday is the derby against Everton.

I want to untangle what this will mean to me – the fan who met Steven Gerrard a couple of years ago, grinning like a child; the fan who, two weeks ago, was unbelievably touched when current star Trent Alexander-Arnold recorded a video message to cheer her up during a bad time. What it means to other fans: those who witnessed the dominance of the 1980s, and the younger ones who have known only disappointment. And what it means, too, for the future of the area of Anfield itself.

It’s late February in the Flat Iron pub, one of the many dotted around Anfield. Steve Dodd, who is 49, is with his friends Dan Wynn, 26, and Gerrard Noble, 47. All from Somerset, they are having a pre-match drink before the home game against West Ham. Steve talks of the current Jürgen Klopp-assembled side as the best Liverpool side he thinks he’s ever seen.

The friends have been scouring the internet for places to stay in the city for the last home fixture of the season, but to no avail. “Rooms are going for £400 a night,” Gerrard says, his eyes widening. He and Steve are allowing themselves to get excited, but Dan, who like me has yet to experience a league title win, looks anxious and rubs his thighs. “No,” he says, “I don’t want to jinx it. Though I’ve been kicked out of various WhatsApp groups for being smug about all the results.” Steve tells me they weren’t prepared for it, this three-decade-long wait: “I just thought we’d go on winning.”

We talk about how important it is that Klopp’s politics match the club: Liverpool is a leftwing city; Liverpool is a leftwing club. At the last election, Labour retained all of its 14 MPs on Merseyside. The city has never forgiven the Tories for former chancellor Geoffrey Howe’s strategy of “managed decline”. Thatcher is a hated figure. But so is Derek Hatton, the former city council deputy leader and member of the Marxist group Militant. Last month, Italy’s rightwing politician Matteo Salvini was forced to deny that he had pulled out of a visit to Liverpool after the metropolitan region’s mayor called him a “fascist”. During several games last year, chants rang out for Jeremy Corbyn. The current prime minister conspicuously avoids visiting. As Gareth Robertson, who is a part of the immensely popular The Anfield Wrap podcast, with more than 200,000 weekly downloads in 200 countries, puts it to me: “Not only do we want a good football coach, we expect almost a political leader, someone who gets us, and our city, its values.” Humorously, there have been petitions for Liverpool to become a self-determined scouse state, and “Scouse not English” is a frequent terrace chant.

The club has a mantra: “This means more.” It pisses off other teams and is, understandably, dismissed as marketing speak. But isn’t it true? Isn’t the 127-year-old club what people think of when anyone, anywhere in the world, mentions “Liverpool”? The famous football team that plays in red – allowing for the Beatles, of course.

The city has another team, the blue of Everton. I have nothing against Everton. I consider Everton fellow scousers and too little a threat to focus animosity towards. In a way, the clubs are unruly siblings; we love and scrap in equal measure. Totally different personalities, but born of the same streets.

Four years ago, a man named Jürgen Klopp arrived on these streets. Or more accurately, he arrived in the suburb of Formby, renting the house from his managerial predecessor, Brendan Rodgers. Klopp is the football manager that even non-football fans like. He’s Ludovico Einaudi, seducing those previously uninterested in classical music. He is a man of principle; a baseball cap permanently affixed to his head, as though at any point he might be required to step up to the plate on a blindingly sunny day. Perhaps for the Boston Red Sox, owned by Liverpool FC’s American proprietor, John W Henry.

Klopp is erudite. He is proudly anti-Brexit in a city that voted 58% Remain. “For me, Brexit makes no sense at all,” he has said. He is a socialist: “I am on the left … I believe in the welfare state. I’m not privately insured. I would never vote for a party because they promised to lower the top tax rate. If there’s something I will never do in my life it is vote for the right.” He grew up in a humble village in Germany’s Black Forest, and it shows. There’s a saying in the region: “the hair in the soup”. It means focusing on even the tiniest things that can be improved.

He has the good looks of one of my favourite 1960s Russian film stars, Aleksandr Demyanenko. He hugs his players as though they were the loves of his life and he might never see them again. Journalists like him for his press-conference banter as well as his eloquence. He visits children in hospitals. He is funny. When Mario Götze, one of his star players at former club Borussia Dortmund, left for Pep Guardiola’s Bayern Munich, his explanation was: “He’s leaving because he’s Guardiola’s favourite. If it’s anyone’s fault, it’s mine. I can’t make myself shorter and learn Spanish.”

Liverpool have had many famous managers, of course. Bill Shankly (there’s a statue of him outside the ground); Bob Paisley (ditto); Kenny Dalglish. But Klopp is already being talked of as one of the best ever.

Liverpool the city has evolved from its shamefully prominent role in the slave trade – in common with other major British ports – to a place with a diverse population and a well-won reputation for being friendly and welcoming. But the tragedy and scandal of Hillsborough, in which 96 fans were crushed to death in 1989 at Sheffield Wednesday’s ground, is etched into the nation’s sporting history, and its social justice record. After a 27-year-long battle to clear the names of the Liverpool fans whose reputations were smeared, after inquests that lasted two years – the longest case heard by a jury in British legal history – a verdict of unlawful killing was returned. But, as Margaret Aspinall of the indefatigable Hillsborough Family Support Group pointed out, after David Duckenfield, police commander at the ground, was cleared of manslaughter last year, no one has yet been found accountable for those killings.

The Sun, which categorically did not report “The Truth”, as the infamous headline went, but was found to have published untruths that blamed Liverpool fans for the disaster, is a red-top pariah here. The paper is the bestselling national in print, but shifts a measly 12,000 or so copies on Merseyside. A branch of Sainsbury’s was once found to be selling copies under the counter, as though they were counterfeit cigarettes. It’s a boycott that has lasted longer than many marriages.

The socially progressive values of the club extend to it supporting an end to period poverty – free sanitary products are available in every women’s loo at Anfield. Last month, the Reds Going Green initiative saw the installation of organic machines to break down food waste into water. The club even has its own allotment, which grows food to serve to fans in the main stand. It was the first Premier League club to be officially involved with an LGBT Pride event in 2012, at the invitation of Paul Amann. Amann tells me how he set up the LGBT supporters group, Kop Outs, because: “It’s essential that our voices are heard, our presence is welcomed and respected.” The group works alongside the Spirit of Shankly supporters’ group and the Fans Supporting Foodbanks initiative and has regular meet-ups. These things mean something to me: a football fan as a girl, and now as a woman. A woman who dates other women. A woman who doesn’t want to hear homophobic chants on the terraces. Or, it goes without saying, racist ones. Jamie Carragher, ex-player and pundit, has apologised on behalf of the club for its backing of striker Luis Suárez, who was banned from playing for eight matches in 2011 for making racist comments. “We made a massive mistake,” Carragher said. “What message do you send to the world? Supporting someone being banned because he used some racist words.”

Back on the pitch, some of this season’s performances have been, quite simply, balletic. Others as powerful and muscular as a weightlifting competition. Formations as beautiful as constellations. Forward surges as though our fullbacks were plugged into the mains. Possibly the best fullbacks playing today: 21-year-old local lad Trent Alexander-Arnold (known just as Trent) and the fiery Scot Andy Robertson (Robbo) are spoken about by pundits as innovators. Gary Lineker and I text, rapturously, about the two of them.

For a football team to be consistent, for a team to win the league, it must be capable of winning in many different ways. The aesthetically pleasing playing out from the back. Lightning counter-attacks. Scraping 1-0 wins in the final minutes (and, particularly at the start of this season, we have done a lot of that. It’s something Manchester United used to do in their 90s pomp, and naturally, I hated them for it). Mindful of the trauma of The Slip, the agreed club line is “one game at a time”, said again and again, as another scouse son, Pete Burns, once sang: “like a record baby, right round, round, round… ” And my God, how many of those we’ve smashed. The current side is the first in England to hold an international treble (the Champions League; Uefa Super Cup; Fifa Club World Cup). We have not lost a home game for almost two calendar years. Shortly, we’ll no doubt break the record for the earliest title win during a season; the most points across Europe’s top five leagues.

It is, even to the neutral, extraordinary stuff. It is, even to the haters, albeit grudgingly, extraordinary stuff. In 2016, one of the greatest stories of modern football was the previously mediocre Leicester City winning a surprise title. Liverpool’s dominance this season surpasses that for drama. It is watching history in the present.

Being at a game at Anfield is like being high while ingesting nothing. The stands seem to have lungs. Though You’ll Never Walk Alone has become supremely emotional, an anthem for strength and perseverance post-Hillsborough (“walk on through the wind / walk on through the rain”) it’s a song originally from the musical Carousel. It was a standout 1963 cover version by Liverpudlian band Gerry and the Pacemakers that kicked off its adoption at Anfield. “It’s got a lot of lovely major-to-minor changes at often unexpected moments that have the effect of emotionally blindsiding you,” music journalist Pete Paphides says (although he’s a United fan, so feel free to discount everything he tells me). “But it’s also obviously very hymnal, with a chorus which invites that religious ambiguity. It was Aretha Franklin’s version that John Peel played after Hillsborough and rendered himself incapable of carrying on by virtue of doing so.”

Anfield has always been something special; players from countless teams often talk of it being the greatest ground they have ever played at. Or the most intimidating. Or the most electric. But of late, there’s an extra buoyancy. The crowd salivates.

Watching the game against West Ham, we take the lead within 10 minutes, but they quickly equalise, before going ahead. We score twice more. It is our 21st consecutive home win, setting a Premier League-era record. At the end of the game, Klopp and his players applaud the Kop end, fans’ eyes glistening with both emotion and wind chill (“walk on, through the wind… ”)

Adjacent to the stadium at the redbrick Albert pub, Clara, Tom, John – all in their 20s, students, and local – and John’s dad, David, who is 53, are cheering the last-ditch win. I repeat what I asked Steve and his friends: just how excited should we all be?

“Very fucking excited,” says John. “Very fucking excited,” Tom concurs. (Scousers use swear words as ellipses. And the speed of Liverpudlian patter matches the rat-a-tat-tat of freestyle rappers.) The Albert is floor-to-ceiling in flags; unassuming from the outside, iconic inside. Across the road at the Park – the “Established 1888” sign above its door – it is Where’s Wally? levels of rammed, entirely usual for a match day. But the mood is as disbelieving as triumphant. It hasn’t happened yet, but it already feels as though people are waiting to be shaken awake from a dream. Around the corner, posters at another fan favourite, the Sandon, advertise a huge end-of-season victory party. I grab a burger at the Kop of the Range, a kebab joint not far from a scarf stall that has seen its business rocket over the past three years.

My Uber driver, Mohamed, 35, moved to the city from Sri Lanka. A massive Salah fan, he tells me his own revenue booms when the club win a game – happier fans means higher fares. “People don’t want to spend money on a loss,” he says. “If we win, the whole mood lifts. You can feel it in the car. Though when you start driving with Uber, they tell you not to mention what football team you support. Because football means a lot to people. There are many feelings involved with football.”

It’s unsurprising to me that even back in Sri Lanka, Mohamed was a fan. Liverpool is a global behemoth. The richest club in the UK outside Manchester.

A £1.7bn valuation; £533m turnover; pre-tax profits of £42m. Matchday ticket revenues increased (thanks to a regenerated £110m main stand). Visiting the club shop, there is LFC-branded gin; babygros; even a Hello Kitty tie-in range. As Richard Haigh at consultants Brand Finance tells me, next season’s kit deal with Nike is “expected to represent the largest in history. Brands will be willing to pay to have some magic dust of LFC.” There are official stores as far afield as Dubai and Bangkok.

John W Henry has won the support of the fans for his positive handling of the club. And yet, despite this huge wealth, Anfield is the 10th most deprived neighbourhood in the country. Boarded-up houses surround the stadium. The club has not covered itself in glory in the past, accused of buying up properties in unscrupulous ways. But it is hoped that local enterprises, such as the community-run Homebaked cake shop and new housing association properties, will make the neighbourhood better.

Last week, we were knocked out of the FA Cup in a match against Chelsea. Or, as I call that fixture, Kensington versus Kensington. (In Liverpool’s “Kenny”, 98% of residents are among the most deprived 5% nationally. In London’s, residents earn three times the national average.)

In the league, there has been a blip. Last weekend we finally lost. And we lost 3-0 to, with the greatest respect, Watford; not a bad side, but a side ensconced in a relegation battle. Arsenal, who once went a whole season unbeaten (“the Invincibles”), and are keen to keep that record, tweeted from the official club account: “Phew!”

But I am not panicking. It’s possible Dan from the Flat Iron is panicking. But Klopp isn’t panicking. In typical fashion, he said the fact we played an absolutely awful game of football was “rather positive… ”

“A couple of years ago,” our hero reminds us, “I said we wanted to write our own stories and create our own history, and obviously the boys took what I said really seriously. It is so special. The numbers are incredible.” In a nod to Sir Alex Ferguson’s famous line that his greatest challenge was “knocking Liverpool right off their fucking perch”, Liverpool chief executive Peter Moore says now: “We are back on our perch.” As The Anfield Wrap’s Gareth says: “In a dream scenario, a period of dominance follows. Not so long ago that dream was just that. Now, it’s a reality that is much easier to imagine.”

Four more games. Eyes on the prize. For me, at last, 30 years in the making, eyes on the prize.

[hysterialevi]

When the Devil Cries pt. 11

Author’s note: A bit shorter than the other chapters, but I hope you enjoy it anyways :)

From Arthur’s POV

MIDNIGHT

OUTSIDE SAINT DENIS

“Hurry!” Hosea urged, pointing ahead. “This way! We’ll loose ‘em in the trees!”

Snapping my horse’s reins, I rode behind Eddie and Dutch to make sure there were no more assassins followin’ us as we bolted through the marshlands, never looking back.

Even now, we could still hear gunshots thundering in the distance along with police whistles blaring loudly, and we had no idea if any of them had tailed us out of the city.

Christ, I thought to myself. What a goddamned mess.

Not only did that gala go up in flames faster than a match thrown in moonshine, we also made a new, unknown enemy tonight...and killed about a third of ‘em, from what it looked like.

Who the hell were those people? I wondered. Why did Atticus want Eddie dead so much?

He weren’t no outlaw like his daddy was. And judging by how little Eddie knew about Rose’s gang, I doubted he was even involved with their criminal activity in the first place.

Eddie was nothin’ but an innocent soul who got caught in the middle of this crossfire all because of another man’s actions...and he nearly paid for it with his life today.

I was just glad that I had been there for him. If I hadn’t-- well...I didn’t even wanna think about that.

Slowing down to a halt, the four of us stopped next to a nearby swamp as our horses’ hooves dragged through the soupy mud, giving us a chance to catch our breaths. It seemed like we had finally lost the assassins, and for the first time in a while, the air around us was actually quiet.

We had escaped.

For now.

“...Goddammit, Arthur!” Dutch cursed as he climbed down his horse, checking around to make sure we were truly alone. “What happened to ‘our guns stay holstered?”

I got off my own mount, gesturing to Eddie who had drifted away from the group slightly, lowering my voice so he couldn’t hear us.

“They was gonna kill him, Dutch!” I whispered through gritted teeth.

The older man shrugged.

“So?”

I fell silent at that, completely taken aback by the response.

I mean, I knew Dutch wasn’t as close with Eddie as I was -- and the boy didn’t even know his real identity -- but I still expected him to show at least some sympathy.

Hell, it was because of Dutch’s sympathy that he took me in as a kid. Without him, I woulda lived the rest of my limited time in this world as some street orphan, and I would’ve never been where I was now.

What happened to Dutch?

Picking up on my surprise, the man lowered his head in an apologetic manner and softened his tone somewhat, glancing over at Eddie who was now sitting on a fallen tree log, unsure of what to do with himself.

“Listen,” Dutch said sternly. “I know he’s your friend, Arthur, but we can’t afford to make sacrifices like this.”

I wasn’t convinced. “So you woulda just let him die?”

Dutch held up a finger, his expression sharpened with annoyance. “...Now it ain’t like that, Arthur. And you know it. But we’re a gang. We have priorities. And that boy ain’t one of them!”

Hosea jumped in before things could get more heated, offering some pragmatism.

“To be fair,” he added, still sitting on his horse, “a shootout most-likely would’ve commenced anyway. I mean -- good God, did you see how many assassins were in that gala? ...And I thought we was well hidden. Though, I’m happy to announce not everything went wrong. Despite all that bloodshed, we still made off with a decent chunk of money. Perhaps not as much as we were anticipating, but enough that I’d call tonight a success.”

Dutch crossed his arms. “I suppose there’s that, at least.”

I sighed out of fatigue, looking around the gloomy marsh. “Well...what happens now?”

Hosea offered some suggestions. “I assume your friend lives in Saint Denis?”

I nodded. “Yeah. Not too far from the place we just burned down, actually.”

“Well, he can’t go back home now. Not for a while, anyway. His house will be the first place those assassins check. He’ll have to stay somewhere else. Does he have any family he could contact?”

“No.” I replied.

“Well, we can’t bring him back to camp,” Dutch reminded. “We can’t risk those assassins finding out where we are.”

I thought about it for a moment, my head perking up once an idea struck me.

“...I’ll stay with him.” I said.

Both Dutch and Hosea looked at me in confusion.

“We’ll camp out in the wilderness for a while,” I explained. “Move around a bit until things calm down in Saint Denis. It ain’t the safest option, but it’s all we got.”

Dutch shook his head. “We don’t have time for this, Arthur. We need to focus on hitting that bank.”

“We ain’t hittin’ that bank anytime soon, Dutch,” I countered. “The law will be swarmin’ all over the city after what happened tonight.”

“...He’s right,” Hosea agreed. “And besides, it’ll give us more time to plan. After all, this bank is a lot more fortified than the one in Valentine. We need to make sure we’re absolutely ready before robbing it. In the meantime, Arthur can keep an eye on Mister Ryan. Make sure he doesn’t get ambushed again.”

Dutch considered the point for a minute, his dark eyes never leaving mine as the gears turned in his head.  

I could tell the man wasn’t happy with me for getting involved in a war that weren’t even ours to fight, and honestly, I understood exactly where he was comin’ from.

The gang had enough problems trying to avoid the Pinkertons and O’Driscolls. Not to mention Leviticus Cornwall was tearin’ this country apart just to find us...and now, ‘cause of me, we also had to worry about whoever the hell these assassins were. And more importantly -- who sent them.

I mean, someone had to be at the head of those maniacs. The stunt they pulled at the gala wasn’t something you just came up with overnight, and considering how organized their attack was, it was pretty clear that they had some type of leader. My only question was who.

Thatcher obviously didn’t send them. And Atticus was too far away to contact them so quickly. That meant there had to be a third shadow lurkin’ around somewhere...and I doubted they’d give up here. Great. As if we needed more people hunting us down.

Letting out an exhausted breath, Dutch finally gave in and remounted his horse, slowly beginning to make his way out of the marsh.

“Very well,” he said. “I suppose we don’t have much choice. I’m headin’ back to camp. Hosea, you should do the same. Though, it’ll be best if we ride separately. As for you Arthur...” Dutch paused, his gaze traveling to Eddie, “...just keep the boy safe. Otherwise, all o’ this will have been for nothing.”

I gave him a firm nod, bidding both of them farewell.

“I intend to.”

“Then let’s get moving. We’ll avoid Saint Denis for a few days. Keep a low profile while the city’s on high alert. In the meantime, you get that boy far away from here...and be careful. If those assassins were willing to attack him like that in the city...imagine what they’ll do in the wilds. For now though, just stay safe.”

“Good luck, Arthur,” Hosea said. ��Hopefully, when you and the boy return, you’ll both be in one piece.”

I waved goodbye. “That’s the plan.”

Breaking into a sprint, both Dutch and Hosea galloped to safety, the two of them disappearing into Lemoyne’s swamplands before diverting their paths. It was still somewhat early in the night, and so far, I hadn’t noticed any stray lawmen or assassins skulking about...so they should’ve been able to get back home just fine before the sun came up.

I couldn’t lie...part of me felt like an absolute idiot and a burden for bringing this sorta trouble to the gang.

My job was to help Dutch and Hosea keep our people alive. To make sure we was safe, and we was fed. And yet, within the past week, everything I’d managed to do had been the complete opposite.

Not only was I freely giving my money away to a theater that had nothin’ to do with us, I was also wasting my time falling in love with some boy who was better off without me anyway -- when I could’ve been focusing on earning more cash for the camp. All because of my own, selfish desires.

I dragged a hand down my face, thinking back to the shootout.

Was I doin’ the right thing? I questioned. Or was I simply fanning the flames, drawing even more danger to us?

All I wanted was to protect Eddie from harm. And yet, whenever I was around the boy...trouble only always seemed to follow me.

First, there was Thatcher’s death. Then, there was the theater robbery...and now, we barely escaped with our lives from a goddamned firefight in the middle of a gala. I was hurtin’ this boy more than I was helping him.

And it was all due to the fact that, deep down, some part of me absolutely refused to accept the pathetic outlaw I really was. Almost like...I was tryin’ to be some sorta hero, even though I knew damn well I was just as rotten as the people I killed. And that was the sad truth of it.

But...regardless of whatever regrets I had, or how much I wished we could rewind time, we had come too far to turn back now.

Eddie’s life was in danger, and it was pretty clear to me that these assassins had no intentions on givin’ up anytime soon. If there was any chance that we were gonna get outta this shit-storm alive, we was gonna have to take it together.

All the way till the end.

Bringing myself back to reality, I paused for a moment and thought about what to say before hesitantly wandering over to Eddie, careful not to distress him further.

Obviously, this weren’t the first time I’d been in a shootout -- and I highly doubted it’d be the last -- but I was used to this kinda life. Fights like this sometimes occurred to me on a daily basis.

Eddie, on the other hand...I didn’t imagine he had ever been in something quite like this. And it worried me to think about the damage it was probably doin’ to him. After all, that type of fear stuck with people, and in my experience, it was rarely ever forgotten.

I slowly walked up to the boy, admittedly unsure of how to proceed.

“Hey, Eddie.” I said, taking a seat next to him. The musician let out a shaky breath, his eyes stuck on the muddy ground underneath us.

“...Bloody hell, Arthur...” he whispered, his voice quivering with fear. “...What just happened?”

I sighed, resting my elbows on my knees. “I wish I knew. How you holdin’ up?”

Eddie brought his gaze to me, clearly panicking on the inside even if he didn’t show it.

“I’m...I’m in shock. I’ve never seen so many bodies in one place. And poor Miss Powell. I know I wasn’t exactly fond of the woman, but she didn’t deserve that...” the boy gestured to his suit. “And look at me. Drenched head-to-toe in blood, and it isn’t even mine.”

I hung my head low in guilt, silently cursing those goddamned assassins for everything they put Eddie through tonight.

“Jesus...” I murmured. “I’m sorry you had to see all that, Eddie.”

The pianist combed a sluggish hand through his hair, completely drained of all energy.

“I should’ve known Thatcher wasn’t alone,” he scolded himself. “I should’ve known other men followed with him...but like the naive idiot I am, I endangered all the people at that gala because I couldn’t see the danger I was truly in. Including you. Everyone who got hurt tonight was hurt because of me. I’m such a fool.”

I stared at the disheartened man, honestly a little shocked at how critical he was being of himself. I mean, I knew he’d just been through Hell, but I had never seen him quite so dismayed. Even after we killed Thatcher, the boy held himself together pretty well, and got right back on his feet.

Now though, Eddie just seemed devoid of all hope entirely, and...it hurt to see him like this.

I mindlessly observed the dark, droopy trees around us, doing my best to calm the boy down.

“...While that may be true,” I conceded, “you can’t afford to think like that. Trust me. That kinda mindset will only eat you from the inside out, and it certainly won’t do you no favors. It ain’t gonna be easy, but you need to be strong right now, Eddie. ‘Cause lemme tell you something...”

I turned towards the boy and firmly held his hand in a supportive manner, looking him directly in the eyes.

“Those assassins might’ve caught us off-guard tonight, but the next time they come...we’ll be ready. We’re gonna let them know that they ain’t the ones doin’ the hunting no more, and we’re not gonna go down without a fight.”

I tightened my grip slightly, never looking away from Eddie as I lowered my voice.

“...They’re in our land now.”

Taking in everything I just said, Eddie held my hand back and took a deep breath, appearing a little less shaken up than before. The spark that I had become so familiar with slowly returned to his eyes, and with every passing second, he seemed to relax a bit.

Despite his faith in me however, it was evident that the boy was still hesitant about the whole situation, and he briefly glanced up at the night sky...almost as if he were searchin’ for answers.

Eddie slouched in discouragement, his hand still latching onto mine.

“But...I can’t fight, Arthur. Not like you, anyways. How on Earth am I supposed to combat this?”

“You’ll learn,” I replied confidently. “I’ll teach you.”

The pianist’s head perked up at that and he quirked a brow out of curiosity, silently asking what I meant.

“I already told Mister Kilgore and O’Malley that I’d stay with you,” I explained. “We’ll camp out in the wilds for a few days -- wait for things to cool off in Saint Denis before bringing you back home.”

Eddie frowned, though not in disapproval. “Arthur...you don’t have to--”

“--I know I don’t have to do it,” I interrupted, thinking twice about what I just said. “Actually...no. I do. I’m the one got you in this mess, after all. Them assassins woulda never come for you if I hadn’t killed Middleton. So...it’s only right I get you outta this. And besides, I can’t just leave you now. Much as I hate to admit it, we’re in this nightmare together. And ain’t nothing you can do that’s gonna make me walk away.”

Looking at me with a sense of gratitude, Eddie found himself at a loss for words as the trees gently swayed around us, filling the profound silence of the night with a soft rustling.

There was a certain fondness in Eddie’s deep gaze. One that I’d never seen from anyone else. It was a mixture of admiration and tenderness -- something I rarely ever got from other people -- and the longer his eyes lingered on me, the more he seemed to get lost in his own, somber thoughts.

Before I even had a chance to say anything else though, the boy had cupped both sides of my face and pulled me into a loving kiss, planting his lips against mine as my heart came to a halt.

I froze on the spot, completely paralyzed by bewilderment.

What...the hell just happened?

One minute, I was shooting at an army of assassins and escaping from a burning mansion, and the next, I was sittin’ in the middle of an eerie swamp, finally kissing the man I had foolishly dreamed of for so long right after evading death.

The part that really threw me off though, weren’t the kiss itself. It was the motive behind it.

Unlike my past experiences, there was no lust involved here. No hunger. No craving. It was simply a gesture of affection, and it was Eddie’s subtle way of sayin’ he needed me.

I...didn’t know if that were true. In fact, I was probably about the last thing he needed, but the poor kid had deluded himself into believing I was a good man worth stayin’ loyal to.

Despite how wrong it felt though, I also couldn’t deny that I had been wanting this for quite a while now. Eddie was definitely one of the best men I’d met in years, and the fact that, out of all people, he had fallen in love with me...well, I guessed my luck hadn’t run out just yet.

My only fear...was thinkin’ about when it would.

Breaking the kiss, Eddie pulled back slightly and bashfully glanced away, speaking just above a whisper as he recomposed himself.

“...Thank you, Arthur. I genuinely don’t know where I’d be if I hadn’t met you.”

I let out a light chuckle. “You’d be dead.”

Eddie returned the laugh, beaming warmly at me. “That I would.”

Rising from the log, I helped Eddie up and whistled for my horse, guiding the boy to his own before mounting up and preparing to leave. As much as I wished we could’ve stayed here longer, it weren’t gonna be long before either the law or more of those assassins showed up, and I didn’t wanna get caught in another shootout.

Climbing onto the brute horse, Eddie took a seat and patted Bullet’s neck, earning a friendly neigh from the animal.

“So,” he said, “have you got a plan in mind? You know this land better than I do.”

I gestured outside the swamp, weighing our options.

“Well, the further we are from Saint Denis, the better. I’m thinkin’ we can head to a town called Valentine in New Hanover. It’s pretty far from here, and there’s lots of space to hide in.”

I glanced at Eddie’s bloodstained suit, pausing my train of thought.

“...Though, maybe it’s best if we both get cleaned up first. It’ll be easier to go unnoticed when we ain’t drenched in blood.”

Eddie looked around. “Where would we clean up? It’s not as if we can just pay for a bath in Saint Denis. Besides, these are the only clothes I have at the moment.”

I snapped my horses reins, leading Eddie out of the marsh as we trotted side-by-side.

“Follow me,” I instructed. “We’ll find a river, or a lake, or somethin’ to wash up in. At least for now. There’s a town just west of here called Rhodes. You can take a proper bath at the saloon once we get there. As for clothes...I think I’ve got some spare shirts in my saddlebag. They might be a bit big for you, but we can always buy some more later on.”

Eddie nodded and picked up his pace, riding alongside me as the morning sun just began to peek over the horizon.  “Sounds good.”

I grinned at him. “Then let’s the get the hell outta here.”

[tsatsm]

[chapter 1: before the storm]

The chill of the morning quickly dissipated into the scorching summer heat on the 14th of February, 1900, with the boys of the Marble Hills College eagerly and unabashedly giving and receiving love letters from their would be suitors. 

It was a tradition of sorts, one Will Doherty, the oldest son of the college’s headmaster, presented some odd years ago as a jest at first, which quickly grew roots and only became more elaborate as the years went by. 

Today was also the day of the much expected trip to Hanging Rock, a mountain not too far from the college itself, where their annual picnic was held as a way to let the schoolboys loose for an afternoon before heading back to the order and familiarity of the college.

The first to wake up was, as usual, the light sleeping Karl Haas, whom the previous night had been haunted by terrible nightmares and wondrous dreams. 

Samuel P. Nabel, his roomate and close companion, found him reading tarot cards once he awoke much later that morn. “Any good news from your friends on the other side?” was all he needed to say to push poor Karl out of his trance like state and back into reality. 

His eyes were sunken from lack of sleep and his hand shook, holding a familiar card to the Nabel boy. Upright tower. He remembered that one being either particularly nasty or particularly good, and by the looks of his roomate, the former one was truer in this circumstance. 

“It- it represents chaos and change..” Karl said quietly, to which Samuel sighed. His broad shoulders slumped as he waddled his way out of the now terribly warm bed and stretched. 

“Well, it can’t be all that bad, old chap. I’m guessing the only chaos and change happening today is we finally get a few crumbs of freedom for the afternoon.” He smiled. “Besides, we also have a few interesting things to look forward to excluding that. Like figuring out who exactly wrote to me in their love letter this year. I already have a few guesses.”

The Haas boy nodded, his blue and brown eyes looking away from him at that moment, blush creeping onto his ears. Samuel instantly took notice, and concern spread across his face like ants over a newly rotting apple. He placed his hand over the boy’s forehead,“Are you feeling unwell? Should I call a teacher or the headmaster-”

The sudden movement away surprised Samuel, and Karl practically leapt away from the touch. “No, it’s.. it’s just too damn warm. In here. We should get ready, to not make the others wait.”

He hopped off his bed with little grace, but he still landed on his feet, so it was a small success. “Besides, if we doddle, we’d have less time on the rock.”

“I guess.. not like that place is interesting in any way, shape or form..” Sam watched as his friend poured some water into the basin to freshen himself up.

“Well, I like it.”

“Only because of the spiritual bullcrap you generally like. It’s a rock that’s been there forever, and it’ll be there long after all the humans are gone off the planet.” He could hear small giggles between the cool splashes of water infused with rose petals.

“That’s why I like it so much.” Karl’s voice became so quiet it’d be considered a breath, if even that. “It’s waited all these years- all these forevers- just for us.”

Though he did not see it, the Nabel boy’s concern hadn’t faded away with those words. They did the complete opposite, in fact. Even if Karl would never see the face, he could still feel something off with Samuel. Dressing up for the day without peaking had become a chore all on its own, now that the boy’s poor hormones worked against him in every aspect possible. To distract from this, Karl’s eyes focused on the tower tarot card, squinting ever so slightly before he was brought back by Samuel’s excited voice. He knew what had to be done today.

                                                        [...]

George Welford had never slept in before. He wasn’t the most timely fellow of his class, that was true, but he was never so late his slacker friend Dorian Thatcher had to be the one to knock on his door to make sure he was up and about. 

The boy’s raspy voice from all the secret cigarettes he’d smoked on the roof, coupled with his rather obnoxious banging on the door, made George painfully aware that he was, in fact, late. 

Cursing himself for being so careless, he dressed up quickly, almost forgetting to put his black gloves on before being seen outside his room, and opened the door. The blond boy with rather long, unkempt hair that morning, smiled mischievously as he spoke, “You’re gonna miss the trip at this rate, idiot. As a fellow lazy man, I only saw it fit that I try to pull you out of that dreadful slumber of yours once and for all.. at least for today.” The devilish wink did not go unnoticed by the shorter brunet, who rolled his eyes so hard they hurt by the end of this.

“Only because I had a dreadful sleep last night. Must’ve been that Haas boy working his witchcrafts on me-”

“To make you fall for him?” Dorian rudely interrupted as George’s face flashed pink. “Or to fall for someone else who paid him to do a little spell on you?”

“You absolute fiend! I’m sure he has no such- such idiotic knowledge! By God, you embarrass me every day by saying nonsense as if your life depended on it.”

“Well, maybe it does. Don’t you like it when I-” The boys quickly turned at the sound of something whooshing through the narrow opening between the door and the bed. The two looked at each other, then back at the strange card, curiosity filling the room like honey, ever viscous and ever present. “..Do you know what that is or..?” Dorian was the first to make a sound.

George, slowly, picked the card up, brows knit tightly. It was unmistakably from Haas’ little tarot collection, the picture depicted a tower burning and collapsing, people jumping or falling to their deaths. “What the hell..?” The name of the card was ‘the tower’, and its number was sixteen written in bold roman numerals.

“Ominous. I love it. We should probably give this back, right, George?” The Thatcher boy looked at the slightly frightened companion who just nodded along, not listening one bit. “Or.. we could burn it. Teach him a lesson for messing with us, yeah?” George’s head shot up in relief, as though he’d just now figured out what to do and how to do it. “I’ll be right back. You wait for me in the lunchroom, yeah? This shouldn’t take long.” He was already halfway out the door when Dorian realised what was happening.

  “Wh- hey, where are you going, leaving me in your room like I’m some pervert!” He closed the door behind him, but he was no match for the running boy. Frozen in place, Dorian grit his teeth ever so slightly. “..It’s for William, isn’t it?” He spoke all too quietly at the dead air.

                                                       [...]

“-And besides, it’s not my fault dad enrolled me here a year earlier. Now I have to wait a whole year before I get the chance to see High Rock up close!” Thomas fidgeted as William brushed his baby brother’s golden hair carefully. “And then you’ll be last year, so you’ll probably be too busy-”

“Tommy.” His brother shushed, “You can still go to High Rock without me, you know that?” William’s laugh sounded almost like bells to Thomas, always surprising him despite knowing him his entire life. “And besides, it’s high time you find friends of your own. Friends besides me and father and the calculus professor.”

“It’s not my fault Mr Talbott simply likes me more than the rest.” He stated proudly, eyes and smile shining like the crests of Orion. “I bet I’ll be his favorite soon enough.”

“I’m sure you are already, but..” William looked to the ground, still combing carefully, “I won’t be here for much longer. ..At the college, I mean. And I’m worried you’ll only stay by my side and never come out of your shell.”

As Thomas looked at their shared mirror, he couldn’t help but notice the gap between him and his brother. William, the tall, intelligent and charismatic leader of every group he is in, and.. Tommy. The younger brother with no potential and too big shoes to fill. “..I’ll try, Will.”

“That’s all I’m asking of you.” With a quick hug and a light ruffling of hair, he smiled again. “Now, don’t forget your gloves or father will be furious.”

The younger Doherty boy laughed, taking his ironed gloves off the dressing table, noticing all the strange gadgets and trinkets his brother had collected over the years. Most were stones, all pretty shapes and wild colors, all things he knew nothing of but knew that it made William happy, so he was content with just that. Carefully, he picked up the shimmering fool’s gold and twirled it in his hand. “What’s this one for?”

William, now without glasses, turned and made a small huff. “I told you a million times already, Tommy. It’s for confidence.” He pointed to the thicker book on his nightstand. “Any more questions you have, Miss Hannah Rose has all the answers for you.” His slender arms looked ridiculous in that puffy shirt that they called a part of their school uniform, Thomas thought to himself. 

A quiet knock filled the room, and before William had the time to even open his mouth, the Welford boy rushed in, holding up a card with a weird drawing on it. The younger boy tried to squint to see the illustration better before George gave it over to Wilbur, “Can you help me with this? I’m not sure who it belongs to.”

A deep, terrible silence befell the Doherty room, one where the awful heat simply added to the bad feeling pooling down in the pit of Thomas’ gut. Something seems wrong today, and it was only the morning. Sure, it had become a normal part of the day for a boy or two to come into his and William’s room for advice or a chat, but this.. didn’t feel like any of the other times.

“Tommy, can you wait for me in the lunchroom? I’ll be down shortly.” With a soft, comforting smile only his brother could do, Thomas had no choice but to nod and leave the room as quickly as possible, still holding on to the fool’s gold. 

It was for courage, after all.

[astronomyparkers]

The Upside of Falling Down

Warnings: Language

Pairing: University!Peter Parker x reader

Word count: 4.3k

A/N: Hey guys!!! I’m so excited to finally be able to post my next series!!! Skyline received so much positive response and I really really hope you guys like this next story as much. It’s going to be pretty different, but I hope you enjoy it.  Also, while I have you, let’s just cover some housekeeping stuff: I do not have a tags list, so please please please stop spamming me with requests to tag!!! I appreciate how much you like my writing, but I have it in my bio and put it on almost every update.  I try my best to respond to every message I get, and sorting through all those messages just makes it harder!! Secondly, I don’t think I am going to be opening up requests.  I’m going back to school in a week, and I have eight classes as well as three jobs.  I’m going to do my best to update once a week, but I really just want to focus on the longer stories that I love, so I can give you guys the quality you deserve.  I’ll make a longer post about this all later.  Let me know what you think about this story!!! I would love to hear some feedback.

{masterlist}

You never expected university to be easy.

When you walked up the steps of Columbia University for the first time freshman year, you had known that the path ahead of you would be hard.  Extremely difficult, even.  But nothing had prepared you for the hurricane that would be your life for the next ten months.  Between the all night cram sessions, endless term papers, lab studies, and regular class hours, you were emotionally, mentally, and even physically drained by the time you finished your final exams.  As you packed up your freshman dorm, you remembered how excited you had been while decorating it for the first time, and shook your head at how naïve you had been.  Freshman year left you beaten, bruised, and with permanent bags under your eyes, but at least it was done.

Now, walking into your sophomore year, you knew what to expect.  You knew what had to be done to manage your time and your life.  You knew what study methods worked for you, and what didn’t.  You knew when it was wise to go to a party and when to stay in to finish your English literature essay.  You knew which friends to avoid during exam week so they wouldn’t whisk you off to a frat kegger, and which friends would hold up flashcards to help you study. You knew what profs gave retests, where the best snack places were on campus, the best study corrals in the library. You knew the name of the librarian that would spend his time helping you find all the resources you needed for your chemistry write up, and the emails of every TA for every one of your classes. Unlike last year, you were prepared. You were ready.

But you weren’t ready, however, for the biology fieldtrip to Thatcher State Park, the fall you were about to have, and the unexpected consequences that would follow. There was no way to study up on how to keep a secret.  There were no flashcards on what to do if one of your classmates entrusts you with their life.  There was no way to prepare for Peter Parker.

Preparing for someone you barely knew was like cramming for an exam on a subject you’ve never studied.  Before your sophomore year, Peter was only someone you knew by sight.  You were both biochemistry majors, which meant that you had a lot of the same classes, but Columbia was a big school; mostly you’d seen him across a lecture hall of three hundred students.  Until the trip to Thatcher State Park, you had only spoken to him once, when he had bumped into you on your way into General Chemistry I last year.  Until the trip, you could count the things you knew about Peter Parker on one hand, and one of those things wasn’t even his first name (a professor had addressed him as Mr. Parker last semester when he was late to a class, causing him to redden and mutter an apology as he hastened to his seat).  Until the trip, you believed that he would never be someone you would ever be more than school acquaintances with, or even someone you would ever cross paths with.  But fate was a funny thing, and coincidence even more so, and although you barely knew each other until the trip, you would know too much after.

Dr. McClain had assigned partners for the fieldtrip by drawing names out of a hat (you had to admire her dedication to leaving decisions up to chance—there were over two hundred students in your biology class), and she drew your name right after “Parker, Peter”.  You had scanned the room to see a brown haired boy with his hand up on the other side of the lecture hall, and you waved back.  He didn’t approach you after class, and you had no inclination to seek him out.  The assignment for the fieldtrip was to try to locate fossils in the cliffs of the trails, and to take note of different types of flora and fauna throughout the park; you didn’t need to be best friends with Peter to accomplish the tasks.

When the morning of the fieldtrip rolled around a week later, you still hadn’t spoken to him. As you walked onto the bus with Peter tailing behind you, it crossed your mind that this may not have been a smart move.  The bus ride would be an awkward two and a half hours even if you were acquainted with your partner; you couldn’t imagine how much worse it would be because you weren’t.

You made your way to the back of the bus, slipping into the first empty row you found. Pulling your backpack off your shoulders, you settled into the seat next to the window as Peter followed your suit and sat down next to you.

The first half hour of the bus ride passed without incident.  The two of you sat in silence, headphones in and walls up as the bus rolled out of the city.  Despite trying your best to distract yourself by looking out the window, you were acutely aware of the boy sitting next to you.  This was the longest you’d ever been around Peter, as well as the closest; he kept an inch of space between you at all times, but, somehow, you could still feel him next to you.  You stole quick glances out of the corner of your eye while Peter wasn’t looking, trying to evaluate the person you would be spending the day with.  He was shorter than he had appeared on the few occasions you had seen him from afar—maybe 5’10.  His hair was long, a little curly towards the ends, and messy, like he spent the majority of his free time running his hands through it.  He had a habit of biting his lip, you had noticed, and fidgeting with his hands as he stared towards the floor.  On a few occasions, you caught him stealing glances towards you as well.  You pretended not to notice.

Around an hour into the ride, the bus hit a bump, jolting everyone inside.  You involuntarily slid to the left and onto Peter’s lap; the startled boy caught you, one hand gripping your shoulder while the other grasped your waist.  When his hands touched you, it felt like fire raced from the contact points into your veins, coursing through your entire body.

You gasped a bit, looking up into the brown eyes that belonged to the boy you barely knew.

“Are you okay?” Peter asked with concern.  Everyone else around you was back in their original positions, but you were still half-laying across Peter’s lap.

“Yeah, I’m fine,” You gave a small smile. “Thanks for the save.”

“Anytime,” Peter smiled back at you, then glanced down at where his hand was positioned.  He reddened slightly, and helped you sit back up properly.

A beat passed between the two of you before someone spoke again.

“I’m Peter, by the way.” The boy extended a hand to you. “Peter Parker.”

“Y/N,” You shook his hand (the fire coursed through you again) and smoothed your sweater.

Peter smiled again and looked back down at the floor.  Unsure of what else to say, you fixed your headphone that had dislodged in the jolt and went back to staring out the window.

For the next hour, you kept your gaze on the scenery outside your window, not even daring to glance at Peter.  Part of you felt guilty, like he would think you were rude or didn’t like him. Really, you just wanted the fieldtrip to be easy.  The reality of the fact was that laying across Peter’s lap felt so much better than it should have, and that was too much for you to even consider thinking about. You couldn’t let fire ignite every one of your nerves and flow through your veins, and you couldn’t let Peter’s touch be the catalyst to you.  Or anyone’s touch, for that matter.  You had worked hard for your place at Columbia, working all though high school and still achieving grades high enough for a scholarship.  You put your education first, and you valued getting your degree above everything.  It wasn’t always easy, but you barely had time to hang out with friends, let alone time to invest in a romantic life.  Peter may be cute, but a diploma and a six figure income was cuter, and you would rather be icy cold than be burned by fire.

You were pulled from your reverie as the bus lurched to a stop, causing your head to hit the window you were leaning against.

“Oh, fuck,” You groaned, rubbing your forehead with your hand.  You squeezed your eyes shut as your head began to throb.

“Are you okay?” Peter turned towards you with concern.

“I’m fine,” You brushed off Peter’s question as you grabbed your backpack from the ground. “Come on, I need off this bus.”

Peter slid out from the seat and you followed suit, making your way off the bus and into the circle of students that was gathered around your professor.

Dr. McClain passed out sheets of paper to every pair, explaining the task for the day.  Each group was to hike the Indian Ladder Trail (“I know the name sucks, guys.  But the view is beautiful, if you ignore the fact that we stole it from Native Americans.”), and was to take pictures and make notes on any plants or anything else you found that seemed interesting.

“And there’s some fossils in the cliff faces along the trail as well,” Dr. McClain informed your class. “Try to find as many as you can!  And please, no wandering off into the caves along the trail.  This class holds some of the brightest minds of tomorrow, and we need you to fix the hot mess that my generation is leaving behind for you.”

The class began to split up, heading in different directions.  Dr. McClain had given you four hours to complete the hike, but it was only supposed to take about two and a half.  Your professor claimed it was because she wanted you to have time to explore, and to not have the trail crammed full of two hundred university students, but you suspected she enjoyed having the day off from her other lectures. Whatever the reason was, most of your class seemed to be choosing to make a leisurely start, as they went off exploring other paths.  However, you wanted to get a head start and get a chance to find everything that you could, so you took off towards the trail, with Peter following behind you.

You walked in silence for the first few minutes as you descended the steps at the beginning of the trail.  The silence was almost mandatory, as the first section of the hike was under a shelf of rock that left a space of around four feet clear for hikers to walk under. You and Peter both crouched, still brushing the ceiling as you scanned the rocky walls for anything interesting or worth noting.

The silence was an awkward but a necessary evil in your eyes; was there anything more uncomfortable than small talk with someone you weren’t friends with?

Peter, apparently, thought not, as the moment you two had made it through the small passage and down the next set of steps, he began asking questions.

“So, um, where are you from?” He said in between snapping pictures of the scenery with the camera slung around his neck.

“Uh, Seattle,” You answered as you carefully made your way down the steps (it was still fairly early in the morning, and dew clung to the metal steps). “Washington.”

“That’s a long way from New York.” Peter let the camera hand around his neck as he tightened a grip on the railing.

You bounced off the last step and continued your way down the trail, pausing for a moment to look at the waterfall ahead of you.

“The waterfall is smaller than I imagined, but I think it’s because it’s the fall,” You tilted your head up to glance at the top of the cliff. “It’s probably more powerful in the springtime.”

“You didn’t answer my question.” Peter stopped next to you.

“You didn’t ask one.” You shot back.

Peter bit back a grin and continued walking, with you falling in step next to him. “Touché—let me rephrase.  How did you end up at Columbia?”

“It’s one of the best schools in the country,” You shrugged your shoulders and glanced down at the ground, careful of your steps. “And I plan on being one of the best biochemists in the world, so it was an obvious choice.  And the scholarship I got didn’t hurt, either.”

“Scholarship, huh?” Peter lifted the camera again and took a few more pictures. “That’s awesome. I don’t know how you can stand being so far from home, though.  I wouldn’t have been able to do it.”

“You’re from New York?” Asking questions back seemed like the polite thing to do, so you tried your best to make conversation as you scanned the trail for anything interesting.

“Queens,” Peter replied. “I wanted to stay close to my aunt, and my, uh, internship requires me to be close to our—home base.  And the internship helps pay for my schooling, so.  It all worked out for everyone.”

“What’s the internship?” You were genuinely interested in the answer.  You had done quite a bit of interning, mostly unpaid; if there was a company that offered a full ride to an Ivy League university, you wanted to know.

Peter rubbed the back of his neck, blowing out a breath.  It was still cold enough that you could see his exhale. “Stark Industries.”

Your eyes widened in shock. “Damn, Parker.  That’s impressive.  How’d you find that?”

“You could say it found me,” Peter cracked a small smile. “It’s definitely kept me busy for the past few years.”

“I’ll bet,” You murmured, pausing to lean down and examine some of the rock faces you were passing.  There were definitely shapes in them, but whether they were fossils or just carvings from teen vandals, you couldn’t tell.  Nevertheless, you pointed them out to Peter and he took a few quick snaps of them before continuing on your way.

Discussion ceased for a while as you two focused on the assignment, quickly making your way along the trail.  You crossed over bridges and stopped only to examine various interesting markings and plants and to take a few pictures; you were so far ahead of everyone else in your class that you hadn’t even seen them for the entirety of your hike.

You were fairly close to the end by the time Peter spoke up again.

“I think we got some really good shots,” Peter flipped through the photos on his camera. “We make a good team, Y/N.”

“Hey, Parker,” You ignored his comment in favour of a topic more interesting to you. “What do you think is up there?”

You pointed up at the cliff face above you.  A few feet up and to the right was a small opening, like the beginning of a cavern. From your point of view, you estimated that it was about five feet tall and three feet wide.

“Uh, I don’t know,” Peter twisted the lens cap back on his camera. “Come on, Y/N, the end of the trail is this way.”

“I think we can climb up to it…” You ran a hand over the rock structure and found a crevice that you could grab onto.  Pulling yourself up, you moved your foot over the rock until you found a ledge that jutted out enough to support your weight.

“What are you doing?” Peter nervously walked over to you.

“Exploring,” You continued your way up the few feet, resting your arms on the ledge of the cave opening.

“This isn’t a good idea, Y/N,” Peter glanced around, but there was still no signs of your classmates. “Dr. McClain specifically said not to wander off into caves.”

“You’re not curious as to what’s in there?” You peered over your shoulder as you pulled yourself up. The cave in front of you was dark, with the sunlight only illuminating a few feet ahead. “There could be more fossils!”

“Y/N—”

“Come on, Parker,” You turned around and looked down at the boy below you. “I know you’re not dumb. You have an internship with Stark Industries, right?  Did you get it by playing safe and sticking to the rules, or did you get it by pushing yourself to be the best?”

Peter sighed, running a hand through his hair.  With one last glance over his shoulder, he secured his camera under his arm and began climbing after you.

You grinned and extended a hand down to your partner, helping pull him onto the ledge (you elected to ignore the fact that touching his hands caused your blood to become fire all over again).  Once Peter was standing next to you, you let go of his hand and pulled your phone from your pocket, turning on the flashlight feature.  Peter followed your lead, and the two of you began walking into the cave.

As far as you could tell, it was a typical cave.  A little creepy, a few unexplained noises that sounded like wind, kind of damp smelling. You and Peter walked slowly, one hand on the right wall at all times so that you could find your way back.

After a few minutes, Peter stopped walking.  You looked over at him in confusion, a question on your lips, but he lifted a hand up and silenced you.

“Do you hear that?” He whispered, tilting his head to the left.  A puzzled look came over his face.

“Hear what?” You whispered back.  You strained your ears, but you failed to pick up any new sounds.

“Rushing,” Peter closed his eyes for a moment. “Like…water rushing.  Are we close to the waterfall still?”

“We shouldn’t be,” You thought back to the trail. “We passed that at least an hour ago.  Where are you hearing it?”

Peter pointed to the left.  Walking a few feet forward, you flashed your light in the direction if his gesture.  

It appeared that the cave split into a fork, with two tunnels diverging with one to the left and the other to the right.  You walked forward a bit more, slowly, as if you were expecting something to jump out at you.

“Maybe we should turn back,” When you turned around to look at him, Peter’s gaze was unfocused. “I have a bad feeling about this.”

“Really?” You grinned in the darkness. “I have a curious feeling about this.”

“Curiosity killed the cat, Y/N.”

“And satisfaction brought it back.” You walked forward again. “You know what’s really curious? Why people cut phrases like that so much.  It’s like that ‘blood is thicker than water thing’—the real phrase is ‘the blood of the covenant is thicker than the water of the womb’.  Which, in my opinion, is a much better saying.”

With a sigh that sounded more like a groan, Peter began to follow you. “Is this what you usually think about?  Is this what it’s like being in your head?”

“What else should I think about?” You asked as Peter fell into step beside you.

“I don’t know,” The boy gave a small shake of his head. “Maybe ways not to rush into the most obvious path of danger?”

“I don’t—hey,” You paused. “I can hear the water now!  Guess you’re not crazy after all, Parker.”

“That makes one of us,” Peter muttered as you sped up your walking pace to a jog. “Hey, Y/N, wait—”

“Holy shit.” You froze as the passage came to an abrupt end, becoming just a ledge.

A ledge that, you discovered as you shined your flashlight from left to right, over looked a giant hidden cavern.  To your left was the source of the rushing water sound; a waterfall cascaded from an opening in the rock, dropping down all the way into the crystal clear lake below you.  The water looked so inviting that you almost wanted to jump in, except it seemed to be at least a fifty foot drop.  And even if you made it all the way down unharmed, there was the matter of getting out; you couldn’t find any exit points.  There had to be one, you reasoned, because the entire cavern would be filled up with water if there wasn’t, but wherever the exit was, it seemed to be hidden under the water.

Not the ideal location for a relaxing dip.

“Y/N,” Peter’s voice broke through your internal monologue. “Let’s go.  I’m getting bad vibes from this place and it’s freaking me out.”

“I wonder if I can—” You took another step forward, right to the edge of the rock that supported you.  You raised your flashlight, trying to make out more details from the other side of the room.

“I’m serious, Y/N,” Peter called to you from his position near the cavern entrance. “Please! Get away from the edge and let’s just go!”

You could hear the pleading in Peter’s voice, the worry that something was about to happen. As much as you wanted to stay and explore more, you felt bad for making him so anxious.  You blinked your eyes once, twice, and gave your head a quick shake before turning back around to face your partner, whose face was white and eyes full of panic. “Yeah. Yeah, let’s go.  Sorry, I—I didn’t mean—”

As you turned around, your foot caught a crack in the rock, and you stumbled back.  Your feet landed on the crumbled edge of the platform, your weight pulled you back, gravity took hold, and you fell off the ledge.

“Y/N!” Peter yelled as you dropped farther and farther down.  You screamed as the wind whipped your hair around your face, and you couldn’t seem to close your eyes as you watched Peter’s face grow smaller and smaller.

You sucked in a harsh breath as you braced for your back to hit the water, finally able to close your eyes.  But instead of the freezing depths of the lake that you were expecting, you felt impossible heat encase your entire body, wrapping you in an inferno and not letting go.

Your eyes remained squeezed shut.  Why were you still falling?  Should it really take this long?  Had you already hit and been killed instantly, and this was what the afterlife was like?  

A thousand thoughts flew around your already crowded mind until you realized that the air wasn’t rushing past you anymore; instead, you were rushing into it.

Your eyes flew open.

Peter’s arms were wrapped around you as he pulled the two of you up onto the ledge, one hand tight around you as the other was extended into the air, holding onto something. A white wire? A rope?

You took gasping breaths as your partner crouched and set you down on the ground, gently cradling your head in his lap.

“Y/N?” Peter asked, pushing your hair out of your face. “Y/N, are you okay?”

“I—” You brought a hand up and rubbed your eyes.  The fire was concentrated in your head, making your thoughts burn like flash paper, fast and bright. “How did you do that?”

“I don’t know—do what?” Peter’s eyes closed themselves off, and he looked away from you.

“How did you swing down and catch me?” You rephrased your question, sitting up on the backs of your arms.  Peter’s hands fell from your face. “You were standing at the cavern entrance, and then you were at the ledge, and then you caught me.  How did you do that?”

“I didn’t swing anywhere,” Peter still wouldn’t meet your gaze. “I grabbed your arm and pulled you up just before you fell completely.

“No, you didn’t,” You struggled to sit up more, still a little dazed.

“Y/N—”

“This isn’t fucking Twilight, Parker, I know what I saw!” You looked around the cavern. “There was a rope, or something, and you used it to swing down and—oh, it’s here—”

“Y/N, no—” Peter dove for the scrap white rope sitting on the ledge, but you grabbed it first, standing up after you did so.

“Why is it so sticky?” You frowned, turning the rope over in your hands. “It’s almost like a spider’s web.  Where did you—?”

Your gaze flew up to Peter’s face as his eyes widened with fear.

“Y/N, I can explain.” Peter took a deep breath, and the thousand thoughts racing in your head multiplied to a million as you stared at the boy in front of you.

Peter Parker, who was from Queens.  Peter Parker, who had an internship at Stark Industries.  Peter Parker, who had the only internship at Stark Industries. Peter Parker, who had a full ride to university from that internship, who had senses much more powerful than yours, who hadn’t needed a flashlight to see in the dim and dark cave, who was able to swing down and grab you and save you from certain death.

Peter Parker, who wasn’t only Peter Parker.

“You’re the Spider-Man.” The words left your mouth in a whisper, like if you let them be any louder, they would be dangerous.

And with the way Peter was looking at you, you had a bad feeling that they were.

{part II}

[futuresandpasts]

Futures & Pasts | MRR #404

First Maximum Rocknroll column for a new year, taken from issue #404 (January 2017). Learn all about some frantic early ‘80s femme-punk courtesy of Ana Hausen & Crazy Hearts, the modern UK council flat messthetic of Sticks & Nail Polish’s take on anxious econo post-punk in the shadow of gentrification in Seattle - reading is fundamental. 

Are you feeling increasingly claustrophobic in a city given over to antiseptic “airspaces” of reclaimed wood, industrial light fixtures, fiberglass Eames chairs and strategically-placed succulents? On their latest cassette Authentic Living, Seattle’s NAIL POLISH respond to the vacuousness and sterility of that modern, tech-facilitated catalog lifestyle with some tense, panic-ridden post-punk that operates on a similar wavelength of noisy dread as SPRAY PAINT, who are doing their own jamming by condos down in Austin. The title track, in particular, goes beyond tongue-in-cheek (more like tongue through cheek) with stabbing, serrated guitar lines, pummeling bass/drums rhythms that would completely fracture if they were pulled any more taut, and twin vocalists shouting their anxieties about the shifting urban landscape (“minimal aesthetic in the bottom of a condo”) and the homogenous society of the spectacle that populates it (“minimal aesthetic in my posed self portrait”). Then there’s the tightly-wound minute and a half of “The Commuter,” scalpel-precise like a sax-less CONTORTIONS with a shorter attention span, as NAIL POLISH swap James Chance’s breathless exhortations about dishing it out and contorting yourself with nervously hiccuped lines like “he was thinking of his next transaction!” that could have just as easily been the product of Leeds in 1979 as Seattle in 2016. All killer, no filler, and perfectly suited to freaking out some luxury flat-dwelling squares! (Help Yourself, nailpolishseattle.bandcamp.com)

It’s presidential election season in the US right now and I’ve had more than a few friends comment that one small silver lining to this whole regressive, dystopian shitshow is that we can look forward to punk and other forms of radical art being really interesting for at least the next four years. I’d say that it shouldn’t take that sort of extreme external force to make or keep punk interesting, but at any rate, if we’re truly heading toward a 21st century Reagan/Thatcher-esque hell-world, it might be an appropriate time to dig out some hidden 1980s DIY brilliance in anticipation of what the near-future holds for us. CRAZY HEARTS existed for a relatively brief moment in time in NYC’s early ‘80s underground, as the aftershocks of no wave’s deconstructive impulses started to give way to the less explicitly art-minded aggression of the city’s noise-rock scene post-Confusion Is Sex, and the group’s Thunderbolt EP from 1982 is one of the lost gems of that particular era. “Four Minutes to Midnight” starts the single off with some dubbed-out and bass-anchored post-punk sprawl in the PUBLIC IMAGE LIMITED/LIQUID LIQUID mold, but from there, CRAZY HEARTS crash head-first into the violent, asymmetrical snarl of no wave (particularly its femme-led faction). “Adrenalin Control” and “L-I-G-H-T” are both fast and frantic tumbles through the sort of disjointed, jump-cut rhythms and delirious guitar squall that could be traced from TEENAGE JESUS and the JERKS, and later, to UT’s early recordings following their relocation from New York to London. In true no wave fashion, the group burned out after a fairly quick flurry of activity (beyond the single, there was a 10” EP and a handful of compilation tracks, all in the span of 1982-83), so it’s worth remembering that the movement didn’t begin and end with the handful of bands that were documented on No New York.

Somewhat simultaneously across the Atlantic, Scotland’s ANA HAUSEN were a part of the same Human Records roster that gave a home to such post-punk heroines as the AU PAIRS, the SLITS, and the MO-DETTES in the early ‘80s, but the former’s one-and-done single from 1981 has unjustly slipped through the cracks (and not for lack of a bizarre backstory, either - their drummer was apparently none other than Craig Ferguson, that guy who hosted the Late Late Show until a few years ago). The essentially instrumental B-side “Tunnel Vision” (save for a brief, buried intro from vocalist May Matisse) echoes the gloomy, goth-tinged atmospherics of SIOUXSIE and the BANSHEES with a throbbing, repetitive bass line and dark washes of synth, but the A-side “Professionals” is the real reason why you should get your hands on this one should you ever come across it. It’s just under three minutes of shimmering femme-punk perfection, from Matisse’s airily deadpan rapid-fire vocals to the choppy, urgently danceable rhythm, and it deserves to be mentioned in the same breath as the much more iconic anthems of some of their labelmates - it’s just as good as, if not better than, the MO-DETTES’ “White Mice” or the AU PAIRS’ “It’s Obvious.”

The last I’d heard from 21st century art-punk agitators STICKS was circa their 2010 single on M’lady’s Records, and I had just naturally assumed that the band had since gone the way of all of the short-lived, scratchy and shambolic UK DIY outfits after which they had styled themselves. Hearing that there was a new STICKS EP released on Paul “The SUBURBAN HOMES” Messis’ Market Square Recordings this month was a pleasant surprise, although it’s being touted as their “return after a three year break.” My math skills are admittedly awful, but it’s been more than three years right? Answer: apparently not (there was a 2012 cassette on a Japanese label that had completely escaped my radar), but in the punk time continuum, a multi-year hiatus after a relatively short initial burst of tapes and singles being unleashed into the world is still a deviation of sorts. If you have that list of Johan Kugelberg’s Top 100 DIY singles pinned to your wall as if it were the Ten Commandments, or if you’ve even spent a minimal amount of time with a Messthetics compilation or two, the reference material for STICKS’ No Sustain EP will be immediately familiar: DESPERATE BICYCLES, BEYOND THE IMPLODE, the HOMOSEXUALS, early MEKONS, jumpy bass lines, sparse and trebly guitar, clattering drums, detached monotone vocals. This one’s a little less frenetic and yelpy than I remembered their last 7” being (although “Air Atlantis” definitely cops some of the jittery, percussive slash of the FIRE ENGINES, et al), with the A-side’s “No Sustain” and “Cobblers” rather plumbing the moodier and darker depths of early ‘80s English post-punk. Really glad that they’re back, either way. (Market Square Recordings, marketsquarerecordings.bandcamp.com)

[newsnigeria]

Check out New Post published on Ọmọ Oòduà

New Post has been published on http://ooduarere.com/news-from-nigeria/world-news/in-praise-of-shamelessness/

In Praise of Shamelessness

by Jimmie Moglia for Ooduarere.com

So much has been said about the Venezuelan crisis that adding more would equate to gilding the lily or bringing coal to Newcastle.

The following, then, is but a brief aside on the psychology and physiognomy of the protagonists of the ongoing coup, starting with Guaido’ – or “Guido” as per Mike Pompeo’s re-baptism, while he anointed him as self-appointed president of Venezuela.

The true face of Guaido?

If the face is indeed an open book where men may read strange matters, the attached image of the afore-said putative president of Venezuela proves the point. A camera immortalized him thus in 2009, during a political demonstration.

I have unprofessionally modified some extreme features to obscure a part of the body that I will forbear to mention out of my inviolable respect for the ladies.

Still, apart from the image, it is as clear as the summer sun that, despite his pathetic rabble-rousing, Guido is but one of the many lying knaves and stipended ruffians, abounding in politics and in Christendom at large.

Political liars notoriously invert factual reality to suit their personal interest, or utter bragging and platitudinal nonsense about freedom, democracy and the like. Confirming the proven maxim that ‘it will come to pass that every braggart shall be found an ass.’

On the other hand, watching the current Administration with an impartial eye, it would appear that bragging and arrogance are recommended as the supply of every defect, and the ornament of every excellence.

Furthermore, given the Administration’s engineering of the Venezuelan coup, I wonder how the same Administration would react if a congressman or senator imitated Guido and declared himself president, instead of the elected Trump.

Sometimes chances mock, and changes occur unexpectedly in place and time. For instance in France, where it is impossible to ignore the similarity between the two winters of discontent, distant in space but not in time.

For the yellow-jackets shout “Macron Dimission” in France, as loud as Guido wants Maduro to resign in Venezuela. Probably the Administration thinks that the fool multitudes that choose by show should either avoid to ask what is the difference between Macron and Maduro, or provide unaided their own answer.

As for Mike Pompeo, add a glass of wine in one hand and a sausage in the other and we have a tolerable reincarnation of Falstaff, or of one of the gluttons in the hell of Dante’s Divine Comedy, though in some way more sublimely ridiculous – or rather, more ridiculous and less sublime.

Politically, Pompeo states that, “The Heritage Foundation has shaped my thinking on matters of the world and public policy issues.” Where ‘thinking’ refers to Reaganomics, Thatcherism and freedom to loot and pollute by the usual suspects. An ideology perfectly embodied in the notorious “Citizen United” Supreme Court case, which treats corporations as persons – sanctifying the notion that he who has (or receives) the most money wins the elections (presidential or otherwise).

Internationally and briefly stated, the Heritage Foundation stands for regime-change in any country whose interests appears not directly benefiting the elites who created, maintain and fund the think-tank. Besides Venezuela, Nicaragua is at the front, along with El Salvador, Honduras, Panama, Grenada, Cuba and, of course, all wars in the Middle East.

According to Pompeo, Congress should pass a law re-establishing collection of all metadata. Followed by combining the collection with publicly available financial and lifestyle information of individuals into a comprehensive and searchable database. That is, legal and bureaucratic impediments to surveillance should be removed.

Understandably, Pompeo opposes closing Guantanamo. After a visit to the prison while some prisoners were on hunger strike, he said, “It looks to me like a lot of them had put on weight.” Though he may have been inspired to say so while seeing himself in the mirror.

He criticized the Obama administration’s decision to end secret prisons and the requirement that all interrogators adhere to anti-torture laws.

Expectedly, Pompeo strongly disagreed with the nuclear deal with Iran negotiated during the Obama administration. He said, “I look forward to rolling back this disastrous deal with the world’s largest state sponsor of terrorism.” Adding that a better option than negotiating with Iran would be to directly carry out “under 2,000 sorties to destroy the Iranian nuclear capacity. This is not an insurmountable task for the coalition forces.”

Naturally, during a visit to Israel in 2015, Pompeo said that “Prime Minister Netanyahu is a true partner of the American people” (!), and that “Netanyahu’s efforts to prevent Iran from obtaining nuclear weapons are incredibly admirable and deeply appreciated”. And further, “In the fight against terrorism, cooperation between Israel and the United States has never been more important,…we must stand with our ally Israel and put a stop to terrorism. Ongoing attacks by the Palestinians serve only to distance the prospect of peace.”

Given that Israel just killed or wounded about 3000 Palestinians during the last year of unarmed demonstrations by Palestinians in Gaza, I will direct the Aesopian-minded reader to review or remember the Latin story about the wolf and the lamb.

Of Assange, “… we can no longer allow Assange and his colleagues the latitude to use free speech values against us. To give them the space to crush us with misappropriated secrets is a perversion of what our great Constitution stands for. It ends now … Assange and his ilk make common cause with dictators today. Yes, they try unsuccessfully to cloak themselves and their actions in the language of liberty and privacy; in reality, however, they champion nothing but their own celebrity. Their currency is click-bait; their moral compass, nonexistent. Their mission: personal self-aggrandizement through the destruction of Western values.”

Talk about a world upside-down. Even assuming the statement to be true, it’s a case of the pot calling the kettle black or, if you like, of whipping his own faults in other men. As for his interpretation of “Western values” maybe Mr. Pompeo should speak for himself and stick them up where he thinks best.

He disapproved of the “Clean Power Plan” and in 2013 introduced the self-explanatory “Natural Gas Pipeline Permitting Reform Act.” And in his latest performance he has taken to insulting the nation of Venezuela with the rage of a superstitious crank.

If there’s a history in all men’s lives, the tales of Pompeo speak for themselves. As they do for Bolton, whose own history and actions in government prove him to be as opposite to any good as the south is to the north.

Bolton personifies, in appearance and posturing, the classic bully, qualified by nature, servility and experience to exercise the office of a criminal. He is as prone to mischief as able to perform it. The number of Bolton’s ‘accomplishments’ is great and well known – listing them would constitute an unwanted mode of annoyance.

Suffice a short glimpse of his mode of reasoning on an important issue. Bolton enlisted in the Maryland Army National Guard, which was at the time an unofficially-official means to avoid the draft, and being sent to Vietnam. In a 25threunion book of his university he wrote, “I confess I had no desire to die in a Southeast Asian rice paddy. I considered the war in Vietnam already lost.” And in his own book he clarified his decision, “… by the time I was about to graduate in 1970, it was clear to me that opponents of the Vietnam War had made it certain we could not prevail, and that I had no great interest in going there to have Teddy Kennedy give it back to the people I might die to take it away from.”

A statement that would be a perfect entry in an instruction and operating manual for chicken-hawks, in the chapter titled, “How to persuade others that cowardice is courage.”

According to experts in his train, Bolton is a “conservative” rather than a “neo-conservative.” What’s the difference? It’s a diffuse and complicated question that may be examined by different methods, upon different principles – it requires a great labor of research and dexterity of application.

Suffice to say that the neo-conservative movement was founded by a handful of followers of the communist philosopher Leon Trotsky. Which makes communists of the neo-conservatives, and neo-conservatives of communists. A perfect instance of the unity of opposites “Coincidentia Oppositorum” – a term attributed to 15th century German philosopher Nicholas of Cusa in his essay, “De Docta Ignorantia,” (Of Learned Ignorance.)

But I digress. There is one more character in the troika of evil in the train of Trump. Associate his deeds with his countenance, add a couple of horns, and an observer may be tempted to say, “Here comes the devil in the likeness of Elliot Abrams.” And although national security frees crime from reproach, Abrams, as we know, is actually a convicted criminal, later pardoned by Bush Jr.

Again, rather than a list of his crimes, a glimpse into his mode of reasoning is shorter and I think more meaningful.

Needless to say, all members of the troika are Israel-firsters. In 2005 Abrams, as an even more special friend of Israel, was a protagonist in a meeting between the US Foreign Secretary and Syrian envoys, including the Syrian minister for emigration, Bouthaina Shaaban. The US advanced the thesis that Syria was hostile to the American invasion of Iraq – because, allegedly, Syria allowed the Iraqis defending themselves against the US, to cross into Syria.

They were pretexts. The Syrians told the US party that the news was false and probably propagated by hearsay. If the Americans wanted to know the truth, they should visit and interview those who lived in the affected area.

Abrams then pulled Ms. Shaaban aside and said, “What is the relevance of truth in what happens in the world? The important thing is the concept and the images that affect the minds of people. Whether the conveyed images reflect reality is secondary and reflect nothing.”

From which we deduct what we already know, namely that, for the US Administration, reality is an abstraction, where the truth or falsehood of a fact depends on the size of the audience, as with a TV serial.

I could not verify the source of the anecdote, but it fits the character. Besides, it is almost a mirror rendering of the historical answer given by Donald Rumsfeld to a journalist who questioned the truth and reality of an Iraq-related report, “We create our own reality.” Rumsfeld was Secretary of Defence during the Bush Jr. invasion of Iraq.

Back to Venezuela. I realize I am in a minority, but I do not think that the primary US goal of destroying Maduro is the desire to own the oil resources of Venezuela. Just as in Iraq Saddam Hussein was quite happy to sell the oil to any buyer who agreed on the price.

Astutely, the media serfs of the deep state have foisted two creeds onto their followers. One is for the distracted multitude, who like not in their judgment but their eyes (or ears). It holds that Venezuela is a dictatorship and Maduro tortures and starves the Venezuelans, because he is a socialist.

The idea may satisfy a certain section of an old right that associates the words ‘socialism’ or ‘social measures’ with evil.

The other creed addresses those who prefer to believe a more tenable reason than a somewhat obsolete fear of socialism. In twitter-like terms the creed goes, “They do it for the oil” – where ‘they’, of course, are the wise guys of the State Department.

Instead, I rather think that the ongoing attempted coup in Venezuela follows the steps of the so-called ‘globalization’, a euphemism for the Kalergi Plan, described in the article “The Waves of Time,” and carried out according to the objectives – of and for – the chosen people.

That the political-ideological leaders of the chosen people may have a particular ax to grind with Venezuela is understandable. It is one of the few countries not to have diplomatic relations with Israel. And while defending the Palestinians during a televised rally, Hugo Chavez called Israel “un pays de mierda.”

Given that even a minor criticism of Israel causes the ADL to brand the critic as an ‘anti-Semite,’ Venezuela had it coming. Keeping in mind that Saddam Hussein was also a defender of the Palestinians.

But there are other indirect signs showing the progress of the Kalergi Plan, besides the hatred for Venezuela.

For example, the inflow of migrants into Europe continues steadily, even if the media no longer talks much about it. From what I am told by some friends, migrants in Italy, unofficially are no longer required to pay for public transportation, nor are they asked to show a ticket. This follows various reported cases of a conductor being assaulted by migrants when they were requested to produce the ticket. Though the same world media give ample coverage to any episode that may be artfully construed as ‘racist.’

Just very recently, Feb 4, 19, in Sweden, a black pregnant woman was removed from a train for not having a ticket. All networks broadcasted the news, claiming that the woman had been roughly handled. Even so, she had a voice strong enough to complain and threaten the allegedly ‘racist’ police.

Here in the US I will refer to the sequence of events surrounding the Covington Catholic High School students’ trip to Washington D.C, for a peaceful demonstration against abortion. Apparently they do this every year, as a component of their guided visit to the capital (and they pay for the trip).

Anyone can have his own views on abortion, but no one, as yet, prohibits peaceful demonstrations. As most readers may know, the media blasted the students for not yielding to an abusive group of Black Israelis (sic), plus one Native American who chanted and banged his war-drum in the face of the students.

The media attempted to turn the event into another Charlottesville, but further videos showed clearly who were the attackers and that the students reacted quite civilly, without answering in words and kind to the provocative actions of their opponents.

In the meantime, in one of its articles, the Guardian interviewed a Dan Siegel, a Jewish psychiatrist, interested in remodeling the teenage brain to prevent what he calls “in-group attachments” – translation, consciousness of being white.

Siegel has invented a method called “mindfulness wheel of awareness” aimed at leading his patients to abandon any sense of ethnic identity (Kalergi docet). He called his method ‘Essence’ (Emotional Sparks, Social Engagement, Novelty-seeking and Creative Exploration). Here is a quotation showing all the finesse of Freud-like pseudo-science.

“You want to expand your “circle of identity” so that within the phrase “like me” you include a lot of diversity. What I would say is that the plane of possibility is accessed more when people integrate consciousness. People are too confined, so they are excessively differentiated and not accepting the value of other life forms including other humans that do not fit into that initial high plateau of identity. What has been fascinating about doing the wheel of awareness practice — and I think this is consistent with some of the research about reducing some of the implicit racial bias with mindfulness practices— is that when people access the hub, they’re gaining more access. They are more readily accessing the plane of possibility and in the plane, there is no racism. In the plane, there is this experience of reality that embraces the fluidity of identity. That is, “you” are made up of people who are not your racial background. You are people who don’t speak your same language. You are people who are of different religions. It’s not just that they’re different and that is okay. It’s that you are both part of the same sea of potential or the plane of possibility. What has been beautiful about explaining this is that people get a feeling of relief that they can now basically be in a state of love and acceptance.”

Siegel convinces his clients that they will be happy by thinking that they are several different people all-in-one, a Muslim from Afghanistan, a Voodoist from West Africa, a Buddist from Tibet etc. That is, to feel a “reality that embraces the fluidity of identity” the patient (or in this instance, the misled and young European-American student,) must have a multicultural mind. He must convince himself that he contains within himself other people who are not of his racial background and have different religions.

I paraphrased the last statements to avoid the rambling Freudian psycho-babble of such remarkable captain of erudition.

Anyone among the rest of us, who came up with this nonsense, would be branded as a producer of low merriment and buffoonery. But Siegel is highly regarded by the mainstream academic and scientific establishment. And, even more ominous, he has even received an invitation to address the Vatican’s Pontifical Council for the Family on the subject of child psychology.

I strayed from the main subject, only to show, with a few examples, what the Kalergi operatives, and the world shapers of the collective mind, have in store for the rest of us. And any objecting government must be overturned.

As for Venezuela, we cannot look into the seeds of time and see which grain will grow and which will not, but it never yet did hurt to hold some likelihoods and forms of hope.

As for the organizers of the coup, we cannot even ask, “Shame where is thy blush?” because they have brought shamelessness to grand new heights and turned a liability into an asset or, if you like, have made a virtue out of a vice.

[hysterialevi]

When the Devil Cries pt. 8

Author’s note: A bit shorter than my other chapters, but I hope you enjoy it nonetheless :) 

From Arthur’s POV

NOON

BLUEWATER MARSH

Watching the gators feed on Middleton’s corpse as blood flooded through the swamps, I observed the morbid scene from a distance and bid farewell to the assassin, still thinking about the fight I had with him not too long ago.

I knew next to nothin’ about Thatcher, or what his business with Eddie was...but something in my gut told me I had just killed a man who was better off left alone.

After all, Middleton seemed like the type of feller to have friends in high places, and I could only imagine the sorta folks I’d pissed off by putting a knife in his throat. 

A troubled sigh escaped me.

Lord...what had I gotten my sorry ass into this time?

Not only did I murder a man today, I also just fed him to a bunch of beasts like some goddamned animal. I knew I weren’t no saint, but even then...I still had some twisted sense of honor to keep my sanity from deteriorating completely.

But perhaps...it was already too late. Perhaps my sanity crumbled the minute Dutch and I fled from Blackwater. Or even before that.

I just didn’t know anymore.

Turning away from the gators, I lightly snapped my horse’s reins and galloped out of the marsh, hurrying my way back to Saint Denis while the day was still young. 

I had left Eddie alone for much longer than I was comfortable with, and despite Thatcher being gone now...I still couldn’t stop myself from worrying about the pianist’s safety.

I mean, someone clearly wanted that man dead. But who? And why? What had Eddie done to get an assassin sent after him? 

Was this boy really who I pegged him to be?

Or was he just another crook wearing a mask...like the rest of this damned country? ...Like me? I certainly hoped not.

Whatever happened, I doubted our problems would end here. 

If I recalled correctly, one of the first things Eddie told me was that he was also lookin’ for freedom. But from what? Debt? Middleton? Both?

Well...Eddie did say he was gonna explain it all later, so I guessed I’d find out soon enough. 

I just had a feelin’ I weren’t gonna like the answer. 

A WHILE LATER

SAINT DENIS, RYAN RESIDENCE

Riding up to Eddie’s house, I quickly hitched my horse next to Thatcher’s mount -- who I didn’t think realized his owner was dead just yet -- and hurried inside, constantly checking over my shoulders to make sure no one was followin’ me. 

Barely half of the day had passed, and already I’d dug myself into a deeper hole than the one Dutch was currently workin’ on. 

I mean, technically, what Middleton said was right. None of this was any of my business. I had no need to get involved. No need to protect Eddie. And yet...I just couldn’t stay out of it. I couldn’t walk away...no matter how much I probably should have.

There was just somethin’ holding me back. Something preventing me from doin’ what I normally did, and leaving people to their own problems. 

Dutch, Hosea, and I...we was strugglin’ enough -- what with all the Pinkertons and lawmen and O’Driscolls on our tail. The last thing they needed was for me to go and throw some more bullshit onto their plate.

But...regardless of whatever regrets or second thoughts I had, it was far too late to back outta this now. 

Thatcher Middleton was dead. And Eddie Ryan was alive. 

All because of me. 

And I was just gonna have to live with that.

Rushing back into the house, I wasted no time in climbing the steps to where Eddie was, only to come across the most peculiar scene once I reached the second floor. 

Instead of wiping away a puddle of blood like I was expecting him to be doing, it looked like the boy had already cleaned up the mess and was now silently sitting at his piano, staring blankly at his notes while his head hung low in fatigue.

He weren’t playing any music...and I didn’t even think Eddie had realized I was there yet. He just appeared rather...depressed. Emotionless. Like the life in his body was just...gone.

It was the first time I’d ever seen him like this, and it...well, it concerned me. 

What was goin’ on?

Slowly walking into the quiet room, the floor creaked underneath me as I cleared my throat and knocked on the doorframe, alerting him of my presence before leaning on a nearby wall.

I hesitated for a moment.

“...Erm...Eddie?” I called. “It’s me. I’m back.”

Almost instantly, the pianist turned around at the sound of his name and faced me, his expression covered in distress.

“Oh...Arthur!” Eddie greeted, his mood lightening with relief. “You’ve returned. Are you okay? Did anyone see you? Were you followed?”

I shook my head. “I don’t think so. What ‘bout you? Anything happen here while I was gone?”

“No,” he replied. “One lawman showed up to ask me what the gunshot was all about, but I managed to shoo him away with a made-up excuse.”

“Good,” I said, stepping next to the piano. “...Now, you mind tellin’ me just what exactly is going on here? What did that bastard want with you?”

Eddie turned back to the piano, mindlessly tracing his hand across the keys.

“It’s a long story,” he explained, “but basically...I owed Thatcher a lot of money.”

I chuckled, taking a seat beside him on the bench. 

“I guessed that. But...why was he after you? What is happening, Eddie? ...Who did I just kill?”

The musician let out a defeated sigh, clearly not comfortable with talking about this. 

“Listen, Arthur. I appreciate what you did for me today -- I really do -- but the last thing I want is to drag you into this mess. I can’t risk your safety as well as mine.”

I persisted.

“If you’re in some sorta trouble, Eddie, I wanna help.”

“I know,” he responded. “That’s what worries me. Though, I suppose...after the way you saved my life...you deserve to know the full story. If you’re willing to listen, of course.”

I nodded in an understanding manner. “I am.”

Eddie glanced away for a second and took a deep breath, as if bracing himself for my reaction. 

Just how bad was his situation, exactly?

“Well,” he began, “first things first, then. Eddie Ryan...isn’t my real name.”

Nice to see he was easin’ me into this.

“Then what is it?” I asked. The boy looked me in the eye, his gaze filled with both freedom and anxiety. It was like he was finally takin’ off a mask, but scared to see what I’d think of the person hiding behind it.

Eddie gulped. 

“...Theodore,” he confessed. “Theodore Bishop.”

I shrugged. “Maybe it’s just ‘cause I ain’t never been to England, but that name don’t really mean much to me. You a...fugitive or something? A wanted man?”

He quickly shook his head. “No! Nothing like that. In fact, I haven’t done anything wrong. It’s just because of my father that I’m in this mess.”

I scoffed. “O’ course. It’s always the father, ain’t it? Believe me, I know what that feels like. But...what’d your daddy do?”

Eddie’s shoulders slouched a bit with calmness, and he didn’t appear as tense as before. I guessed he had been waitin’ for a while to get this off his chest.

“Well, when he was still alive, my father worked as a criminal. He always got involved with the local gangs in London despite my mother’s protests, and there was one man in particular that he befriended. A man named Atticus Rose. He’s a gang leader who originally came from America, actually.”

I quirked a brow. “That so?”

“Yeah. I don’t know too much about his past, but apparently Rose used to operate in a place called New Austin.”

I let out a soft laugh. “That doesn’t surprise me at all. Even now, New Austin is next to lawless, and the word ‘civilization’ don’t even exist out there. Makes sense that someone like him would come outta that desert. But...you said your daddy befriended him?”

Eddie nodded. “Right. Or, at least, he thought he did. See, Atticus and my father were mates for years. Half a decade, I would estimate. They were almost like brothers. And despite being a criminal, Atticus always treated me with kindness. Though...it’s clear to me now that it was all just an act.”

I had to admit, that seemed like a bit much even to me.

“Wait, Rose pretended to be your father’s friend for half a decade...and it weren’t even real? Why?”

“Because my family had money,” Eddie replied. “And Rose wanted it. So, he got close to my father, bled him dry of all his wealth, and then...assassinated the man when he was done. Thing is, though: Atticus only planned to kill my father in the beginning.”

I readjusted myself on the bench. “What changed?”

“My father exposed him. That’s what. Just before he was murdered, my father managed to unveil Rose’s true intentions to me and my family, and told us to run. That’s why I came to America. But, of course, Atticus couldn’t let us get away. Loose ends, and all that. So, he sent Middleton to hunt us down. Another ‘good friend’ of my father’s.”

I glanced at the notch in the wall from where Thatcher’s knife stabbed through the wood, thinking back to the whole mess with him.

“But...Middleton didn’t kill you?”

“No,” Eddie confirmed. “And I don’t know why. That bastard killed my father, my mother, and my sister, but for some reason...he was willing to spare me. At least, in exchange for money. Still though, I always found it odd that he agreed to my deal. I may not have known Thatcher that well, but he never struck me as the kind of man to make exceptions.”

I let out a breath in place of the absence of words, unsure of how to even respond.

“I...don’t really know quite what to say,” I admitted. “I’m sorry you’re goin’ through all this, Eddie.”

The boy beamed at me, bringing back that smile I had grown to be so familiar with.

“Don’t be. I know you weren’t aware of who Thatcher was when you killed him...but you avenged my family, Arthur. Somewhat, anyways. After all, Atticus Rose still lives. And he’s the one who’s truly responsible.”

I leaned in slightly. “You think Rose will retaliate if he finds out Middleton’s dead? And you’re still breathing?”

Eddie’s expression dimmed with fear. “...It’s...certainly a possibility. I mean, Atticus doesn’t come across as the type of man to grow attached to his allies, but I know he and Middleton had a long history together. And on top of that, he wants everyone in my family dead. So, even though I doubt he’ll come after me personally, he could very well send another assassin.”

Without even thinking about it, I placed a comforting hand over Eddie’s and looked him in the eye, making him a sincere promise.

“Then I’ll kill another one.”

The pianist paused at that and met my gaze, the confidence steadily returning to his drained face once he realized he was safe around me. 

It was pretty obvious that it had been a long time since Eddie had anyone he could trust, and when he affectionately squeezed my hand in return, I instantly knew damn well that I wouldn’t be able to leave him behind like I kept sayin’ I would.

Christ, not again, you moron... I cursed to myself, scolding the hopeless romantic inside me.

I didn’t have the strength to do this for a third time. Not after how things went Mary. And Eliza.

...I just couldn’t handle that pain again. 

I couldn’t lose someone else.

Retreating my hand with a certain fear, I awkwardly backed away from the boy and put some distance between us, scooting towards the end of the bench as I stared helplessly at the floor. 

Even though I wasn’t looking at him, I could still sense Eddie’s somewhat hurt gaze falling onto me, and I felt terrible for reactin’ the way I did. But...no matter how much I disliked it, it was for the best. 

Eddie’s life was already a disaster without me fanning the flames. The last thing he needed was for me to come crashin’ into his life, trying to play the hero when we both knew the boy was better off without a lowlife criminal dragging him down.

I finally decided to tear myself away from the man and reluctantly rose from the bench, still avoiding eye contact with the musician.

“I, um...” I stumbled over my words, suddenly feeling more alone than I had in months. “...I should get going. I won’t keep you any longer. ...Good day, Eddie.”

Fleeing from the scene without looking back, I rushed out of the house like there was no tomorrow and sped through the front doors, immediately mounting my horse the minute I saw her before sprinting back to camp.

I didn’t know what the hell just happened, or what I was so damned afraid of...but something in me just...broke back there. 

The way Eddie looked at me...I had seen that face enough times to know what it was. 

That poor fool was falling for me. Slowly, but surely. 

And like the selfish bastard I was...I was lettin’ him do it. 

God...why couldn’t I just push him away? I mean, sure it would hurt, but at least he’d be safe. And I’d be able to focus entirely on the gang. We’d just go our separate ways, and pretend the other person never even existed. I could’ve ended this, here and now.

...But I didn’t. 

Instead, I simply ran away like the coward I was and left with more questions than answers, hoping that Eddie would somehow forget about me and build a true career for himself now that Thatcher was dead.

I scoffed to myself, laughin’ at the dolt I was.

Geez...I had really gone and done it this time, hadn’t I? 

I just had to get involved, and bring on whatever storm was coming our way. 

Well, no matter what happened in the future, I would always stand by what I said to the pianist, and protect him regardless of how distant we was forced to be. 

Theodore Bishop may have had a price on his head, but that weren’t the man I knew. 

His name was Eddie Ryan...and I wasn’t letting anyone lay a finger on him ever again.

ONE HOUR LATER

SHADY BELLE

Climbing off my horse, I hitched my companion with the rest of the gang’s mounts and gave her a friendly pat, feeding the girl a small treat before returning to my business.

Even with Karen and Grimshaw at each other’s necks again, things seemed mostly calm at camp, and it didn’t look like I had missed too much during my time away.

Javier was sittin’ at the campfire with his guitar while Uncle enjoyed a beer next to him, the two of ‘em singing songs as Pearson chopped away at some meat, preparing today’s stew.

Meanwhile, Mary-Beth and Tilly worked on their typical chores while enduring Swanson’s drunken ramblings, chatting to each other about the romance novels they was reading, and giggling at how silly the stories apparently were. Psh, if only they knew mine.

On top of all that though, Dutch and Hosea were keeping each other company on a balcony overlooking the camp as they discussed something -- probably the bank in Saint Denis -- while relaxing in the shade cast by the roof.

But...of course, outta all the people in the gang, the first one to greet me had to be the second grumpiest son-of-a-bitch to ever walk by our side.

“Hey, Morgan!” Bill’s sharp voice called as he paced towards me.

“...Williamson,” I said back in a blunt tone, lighting a cigarette. “What you want?”

The man studied me for a minute with that permanently sour face of his, eyeing me up and down.

“I wanted to ask you something.” He said. 

I was silent in response, urging him to go on.

“Back at the theater,” Bill recalled, “why’d you go soft on that boy? Y’know, the one who was holdin’ a gun to your head.”

I puffed out a cloud of smoke. “What you talkin’ about?

“I mean,” he reiterated, “what was that shit you was tryin’ to pull off with him? When I found you two, you were approaching him like some fool trying to tame a wild horse. Why didn’t you just beat him like you normally do?”

I furrowed my brow in annoyance, cocking my head to the side.

“You just answered your own question, dumbass. ‘Cause he was holdin’ a gun to my face. If I had done anything else, that boy woulda put a bullet between my eyes.”

Bill was unconvinced. “Oh, I doubt that. Look, Morgan, I know I ain’t the dullest tool in the shed--”

“--Sharpest.”

“Whatever. Point is: even I could tell that boy hadn’t shot no one before. And he sure as hell wouldn’t have shot you.”

I sighed. “Well, there’s a first time for everything. But -- why are we even arguin’ about this? What point are you trying to make?”

Bill gave me a cautionary glare. “I’m just saying, Morgan...it’s dangerous to make a move like that. That boy, whoever he was, nearly botched the entire robbery. If someone ever tries to do that again, we gotta beat ‘em down.”

I took a step towards Williamson, glaring directly back at him from under the rim of my hat as smoke danced from my cigarette.

“...I got it.” I whispered.

Bill backed down at that, unsure of what to say next.

Before he could do anything else though, I threw my cigarette to the ground and squished it under my boot, walkin’ away as if the conversation never happened.

Things was tense enough between me and Eddie. I didn’t need Bill to jump into the chaos with us. And Lord knew the pianist didn’t neither.

I was just concerned about what would happen if anyone in the gang actually met Eddie. I mean, Dutch was already suspicious that there was a rat among us. If he learned I was in contact with someone outside our little “family,” I could only imagine what his reaction would be. And I certainly didn’t want to find out for myself.

Regardless of the mayhem in his life, Eddie was the only person I knew who weren’t involved with this disaster. The only person who had yet to let this world’s struggles take him down. 

As for the rest of us...we were pretty much more ghosts than people. Just fightin’ to survive, but never actually living. And I sure as hell didn’t want Eddie to become like that.

His previous life as Theodore Bishop sounded harsh enough. The least I coulda done for the boy...was ensure no harm came to him in this one.

Especially not from me.