#which is why some parts are really splotchy (like the shoes when he gets out of the car) | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

dogydayz · 2 years ago

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A small...Sorta fanfic? Based on some of the Twitter Takeover answers from Shadow that really stuck out to me, so I decided to make ANOTHER AU for the Paradox AU PrismSpaces (the Paradox AU is just my excuse to make many Sonic AUs and somehow connect them via the Paradox Prism headcanon of mine lmao) No real angst, no shipping, just mostly written ambiance and practicing writing Shadow on his own! . . . . .

-The Thrift Shop- . . . . .

It was located in one of the downtown outskirts of Station Square, a small thrift store whose doors almost never seem to open, and the many knick-knacks inside never seem to be touched. Atop the front of the homely shop was a sign with old lettering that read "Marianna's Thrift Store", with small decorations scattered about the sides and on some of the windows. The last two "n"s and "a" were all painted over with black paint, making the leftover name "Maria" now have a large, splotchy black space between it and the "'s". The owner had wanted to cover up that last bit, hoping that the smaller amount of syllables would maybe make the name catch more attention... However, it's a tad bit hard for that to work with a messy dark blotch on the sign now.

Yet... Somehow... That simple change DID matter, to one individual at least...

The owner sat in her chair at the cash register, scrolling through videos on her phone with one hand while she pet the soft, pale fur of her beloved kitty, Mello. His fur was both orange and white, with tabby stripes on the orange parts, and his bright yellow eyes, what got him his name, peered around the shop at seemingly nothing. As cats tend to do.

She was wearing an old band tee under a jean jacket, a bunch of pins clipped onto the front of it with some random paint splatters on it here and there from years in high school art class, now way in the past, and yet the jacket still somehow fit her. She brushed her light brown hair from her face every now and then, and Mello batted at one of her pale blonde highlights as if it were a string, which caused the woman to laugh and playfully swat back at him.

She'd been struggling a bit, the past few days, as no one had stopped by recently and she was starting to run low on money to pay for the building's rent. She sighed as Mello laid back down on the desk, and she began to grumble a bit, wondering if she should perhaps advertise online a bit more... And just then, the front doors opened up, and Mello hopped up from where he'd been laying to race over to the one who stepped through the door. With a bright meow, he pressed his body against the familiar figure's big shoes and lower legs, purring with joy to see the regular once more after they'd been gone for so long.

The owner looked over in surprise, before her eyes lit up and were met with that odd, yet not at all cold, crimson stare. "It's you again! Where- Oh!- Sorry, that's not really any of my business, heh.... Though Mello was getting worried about you!" she giggled a little, and the dark, yet much shorter figure couldn't help but cast a small smile her way, then down at the cat at his feet. He slowly knelt down, pulling his hood back before petting the friendly kitty as he readjusted his quills. Damn hoods... They're great for that "mysterious" look but are they truly worth messing fur up for?

"Hey there, Mello," his voice was far more gentle and warm than most would expect from a guy who looks like him, though to be fair, he really has never been the overly loud or aggressive type.

The cat purred against his touch, arching his back up against the gloved hand before suddenly leaping up and climbing up the hedgehog's sweatshirt and nestling into the now-open hood of it. Ah, yes, the wonderful claws of a feline. This is exactly why he wears thick sweatshirts when visiting this place, because he's gotta satisfy the hoodie-cat's needs.

"I... Don't mind the ask. A... 'Friend' of mine had... Gotten himself into a bit of trouble again, and it... Took much longer to handle than originally planned. That, and I... Admittedly lost track of... The days..." he sighed, feeling both guilty and quite like a fool.

"Hey, don't fret! It's alright! I know you're uh... Much more than a silly human like me, hah, you've got other more important things to be doing," the owner shrugged. The hedgehog turned his head to look over at her, mindful of his quills and the cat in his hood as he did so, before standing back up and turning to face her.

"I... Consider my visits here to be quite important, though," he sighed, shaking his head slowly. She eyed him, raising a brow.

"...You... Really look distraught over what's... Such a simple thing, I assure you," she tried to reassure him, noticing just how upset he looked, even if his voice didn't show it.

"How have you been doing? You've... Been alright yes?-" he blurted out with sudden great concern, reaching behind himself to pet Mello's head. Mello proceeded to bat at his fingers playfully.

"You know-"

"Answer me first-" he rushed, before closing his eyes, "...S..Sorry, sorry..."

"Hey, it's alright... Shadow, yes? I'm uh... Remembering your name right yeah?" she waited for a nod from him before continuing, "Again, it's alright, I'm just... Curious, really.... Why in the world are you so....?" She began to make vague gestures with her hands, not quite sure how to word it in a way that didn't sound weird or rude.

"I... I just...." he took a deep breath, before letting out a long, drawn-out sigh, "...Here, walk with me while I look at things, alright?" He asked this as more of an offer, rather than a command.

"O-O...kay? Sure," oh, now she's interested! She'd always sensed there was... Something strange about that hedgehog. His odd silence the first few times he'd come into the store, how he'd just suddenly entered on a whim that first time she'd seen him there, how he was... So incredibly generous to her, when he seemingly had no reason to be...

"It's... Going to be a long one, and... A strange one. I need you to promise that you'll believe me when I talk about these things, these parts of my life, parts of... Myself. Alright?" he gave her one final chance to back down if she wished... Yet, to his surprise...

"I promise, Shadow," she nodded in understanding, getting ready to listen to whatever story it was that he had to tell.

Yet, nothing could prepare her for what she was about to learn.

Shadow picked up a small, wooden figurine and looked over it, using the details of the odd figure to distract himself as he would begin to speak.

"It has been around... What, 8 years or so? Since... I... Well... I had been awoken from a 50 year long slumber," he started, going over the basics of the timeframe in which things had occurred in his life, pausing to allow the gal to process the information, before continuing once more. "I'll spare the details of that debacle, for now... And, 50 years before then, I had been locked in suspended animation, in a sort of coma... And, furthermore, around 2 years prior to then.... I was created."

The shop owner looked a tad dumbfounded, absolutely bewildered... Though the first thing she could manage to get out was, "How old even are you??????-" Man, she was.... Very confused.

"Physically? I was... designed as a 'mature' specimen from the get-go, so I don't really 'age' in those regards. Mentally? I'd estimate around 23, that's what I tell people anyway. It's been 8 years since I was awoken, and before then I was kind of... Designed to be mentally like that of a 13 year old... So the added 2 years would have made me around... 15 when I'd awoken.... And 8 years later? 23. Basic math, in those regards. I did not age while in mental stasis... I mostly just.... Didn't feel much at all... But I believe I... Still did dream... Not of anything good, though," his expression had seemed to grow a lot less tense while giving that explanation, as though something about that detail of his life were actually interesting to him. "With that answered, though, I should... I'll.... I'll save you the nitty gritty. I was designed to be... Like a hero to earth, and also a hero to the grand-daughter of the scientist who created me... I... Suppose I could just... Call him 'father', here."

He gripped the figure, starting to realize just how tense he was getting again. He'd... Rather not explain every damn facet of his life... "Chaos damn it... Basically... His... His grand-daughter. She was my best friend. Like a sister... and.....a..and.... GAH!!-" he tossed the figure aside in a sudden release of pent-up stress. He froze, looking over at the figure on the floor, all the while the owner stared at him with a mix of confusion and care. "........Her... Her name was.... YOUR name... Maria. And she's gone. And...." he said in a quieter tone as he walked over to pick the figure back up, tracing the details of it with his thumbs. The figure was in the shape of some sort of angel, he realized... Abstract in form, yet more obvious once you realize the intentions.

"You... Think about her a lot, I... presume?..." the shop owner, this Maria, spoke in a much softer tone, trying to pull her new friend's mind away from the past.

"....Yeah... Even if it's... Stupid. It's been so long, 8 damn years since I'd awoken and was reminded of my true purpose... And yet... She still... Lingers in my thoughts..." he gave a hushed sigh, "... And I think it's because she was... Far more than my stories ever make her out to be. I always tell of how she tried to save me, my promise to her, how she...." There was brief silence. "....Yet... I fail to ever properly explain who she'd been before that. What she'd done for me, how we'd become like... Family... Everyone only gets the parts where she did the tragic, heroic thing... But never the parts where she was just a girl... Just a kid like me, back then... How we'd had hopes and dreams amongst the stars together, how we'd planned our future out to become space explorers, how be agreed to one day get to step foot on Earth once more with no fear from her illness.... I always.... Would miss that part, back then. Because the trauma was always so damn much at the time... Because I couldn't bear to think of what we'd planned to have been..."

"At the end of it all... She merely wanted to help people.... And at the end of HER.... She wanted ME to help people...." he gave a somber, defeated sort of chuckle. "So... When I'd... Seen the sign here, I'd.... Begun to feel as if my feet were no longer my own. I drifted closer, felt drawn to this place... Because of such silly memories that I've attached to nothing more than a name. A word."

The Maria standing there near him just... Stared at him...

"Is... That part of your whole... Generosity thing toward me? Because.... My nickname is the same as your friend's?" she asked, not wishing to sound at all disappointed or anything, just truly curious.

Shadow simply nodded, his expression seeming to be one of slight guilt.

"That's.... Incredibly sweet of you, yknow that?"

He looked up at her, his eyes a bit wider, seeming to sparkle a bit with the tears he'd been holding back. "...Really?...."

"Yeah! You're a wonderful person... I want you to know that. You care so much, you don't try to forget what's important to you, even if it causes you pain. You don't give up, and that's.... An admirable trait. To let yourself follow your heart, to honor someone you cared deeply for... That's...That's amazing, Shadow," she gave him a warm smile, "...Y'know, I bet your Maria would be proud of you... For not hiding away, for not ignoring those feelings of yours. From what you've said about her... She seems like she's the type to be quite happy with where you are now... Though of course I didn't know her myse-" she was cut off by a sudden, instinctive whimper cry from Shadow.

The Ultimate Lifeform stood there, gripping the wooden angel figure in his hands, trying to keep himself from crying and yet... They escaped still, in the sounds of pathetic whimpers and whines, before he attempted to cover his face and wipe his eyes.

"...I... Like to.... Think that too...." he managed to choke out, before going quiet in an attempt to compose himself. Mello, still chilling around his neck, purred and rubbed his fluffy cheek against the hedgehog's, making him let out a sudden snicker and a snort through the tears dripping from his eyes.

After a little bit of emotional recollection, Shadow would finally be able to take full breaths, finally beginning to speak.

"...Thank you.... M... Mari?... I..."

"Is... It.... a bit of a struggle to say that name?"

Shadow sighed and huffed, slowly returning to his more usual demeanor already.

"That's okay y'know... Why not.... Anna?"

"Anna..." he repeated, before nodding, "...Anna works..."

He suddenly seemed to have locked onto some new task, looking around rather than at his new friend. She tilted her head and raised a brow, but apart from that she let him do his thing now.

Around 45 minutes later, Shadow returned to the counter with quite a few things. Old worn-out shirts and sweatshirts, the wooden angel figure, some old fidget-type toys, with one being one of those "rings interlocked that can be separated" ones, old mason jars, and various other strange and random things that he'd simply found intrigueing. He laid it all out on the counter, then began counting out his own cash for payment. It's... A bit annoying having to use human money, but if it works it works.

Anna helped pack it all up in a way that wouldn't be too much of a hassle to carry, despite how much shit there was, while Mello took the moment to hop down from Shadow's shoulder and onto the counter once more.

With his money counted out and handed over (and a bit extra snuck in as well), he began to pick up the bags of things to hold onto.

"I'll... Be seeing you. Next time I think I may invite my... friends... to check the place out," he waved, giving Anna a small smile as he put his hood back up.

"You too! Stay safe, bud, k?"

"'Course," his smirk grew a bit wider, "And you too," he added, before pushing open the door and heading out of the shop.

Once gone, Anna let out a soft sigh, then looked down at the cat butting her hand for pets. Mello simply looked back up at her, then let out a little meow.

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pedros-mustache-main · 4 years ago

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back to the hedgerows

summary: every relationship has its difficulties, you know that. but it just so happens that the first significant problem in your marriage to gwilym is more of a mountain than a molehill.

word count: 6k+ (oof she thicc-ish)

warnings: angst to the gods!, language, innuendo, assumed infidelity, allusion to child abuse, did i mention angst? like there is literally nothing but angst here and i’m absolutely living for it

a/n: hi, lovelies! super super excited to be sharing this collab fic i wrote with @almightygwil! as i am the self-proclaimed Queen of Angst, i’ve written the first part and ellie wrote the second (which is amazing), which will be coming out soon. we hope you enjoy and sorry in advance. :)

(side note: i do want to make it really clear that this is simply fiction. i don’t believe gwilym would do some of the things outlined in the fic below in real life. just fiction, y’all, and makes for good make-up smut a la ellie!)

you blame hulu for ruining your marriage.

unless it’s gwilym’s fault; maybe it’s yours. perhaps even charlie’s. whoever is ultimately at fault, you do know that if it hadn’t been for hulu, if it hadn’t been for ‘the great’, you wouldn’t be hastily packing your bags, shouting through tears for your son to gather his belongings and put them in the damn suitcase.

if it hadn’t been for hulu, you wouldn’t be on the verge of losing your husband for good.

“mama?”

you turn at the sound of charlie’s voice, small and shy, filled with concern. he stands in the doorway of your room, clutching his raggedy teddybear. the poor animal is threadbare and stiff around the edges. it is worn with seven and a half years of love, and try as you might to wean him off it, he won’t let go. so you don’t push the matter anymore. after all, a boy who has endured as much as he has deserves to love a stuffed animal for as long as he wishes.

“yeah, baby?” you hope your face isn’t as red and splotchy as it feels. but god you’re tired, tired of waiting by the phone like a fool when you know he won’t call, tired of wondering, tired of crying into your sleeve.

“is daddy gonna meet us at grandma’s?” his question is innocent enough, but it stirs the fire in your belly. your fists clench around the shirt in your hand, and you shake your head.

“no, he’s not.” you switch the subject, afraid that if you continue further, you will lose control. “have you packed your things?”

charlie nods. “come see!”

with a sigh, you drop the clothing in hand and follow. your legs are weary, as is your heart. it’s been a long week. if you’re being honest, it’s been a long few weeks. ever since you kissed gwilym goodbye at the airport, the days have grown longer and your loneliness has only increased. it’s rather sad, how much you depend on him, but he’s your husband, and you love him.

even this week, some part of you loves him still.

charlie’s room could be photographed and used in the dictionary as a reference photo for ‘pigsty’. in an effort to pack his suitcase, he’s unearthed everything in his possession and scattered it across the floor. you’d smile, but you’re too tired. instead, you pick a pair of trousers off the lampshade and step over a mountain of toys.

“i don’t know who you think is gonna be cleaning all this up,” you say, dropping the trousers in the suitcase, which is empty of clothes and full of toys and books. “also, i think you’ll need at least one pair of clean clothes at grandma’s. something besides these books.” you lift the first book you see, and a fresh bout of tears prick the corner of yours eyes.

brian’s first gift to charlie: a book on stars. the pages are dogeared and stained with food. memories—memories of brian and gwilym and charlie in the back garden, stargazing like a trio of schoolboys—fill each page. you set the book down, sure that if you open it and reread the heartfelt note from brian on the inside cover, you will burst.

“here, we’ll take this.” haphazardly, charlie lifts a pile of clothes from the floor and dumps them unceremoniously in the suitcase. for extra measure, he adds his favorite pajamas—a dinosaur onesie, given by joe. “we need to leave most of the room for toys.”

for the time first in days, your face softens. you reach out to cup your son’s freckled cheek. he truly is the light of your life. if you had to go back and do it over again, you would still say yes. even if it eventually led to losing gwil, you would always pick charlie.

“i’m sure grandma has toys waiting for you.”

“but not these toys.”

“no, not these ones.” you glance around the room and search for the muster to tell him to clean before going to bed, but the muster isn’t there. you don’t even have the heart to properly fold the clothes in his suitcase. “brush your teeth and get in bed. we have an early morning.”

charlie pouts and slumps against the bed frame. “but i can’t brush my teeth without daddy,” he whines.

“you’ve had to brush your teeth with him for weeks now, charlie.” your voice is tight, on the edge of rage, so you clear your throat and nod toward the bathroom. “hop to it.”

he drags his feet, but soon you hear the water running and the buzz of his electric toothbrush.

for a moment, you stand in the center of his room. you can still remember the day you moved in two years prior—newly married, newly a mother, everything so exciting and raw with potential.

charlie had stood in awe of the empty space, his teddybear tight against his neck. you’d watched him from the doorway, heart in your throat, and leaned against gwilym’s chest when he held your shoulder.

“i don’t think he’s ever had a room this big,” you’d whispered. “or one to himself.”

“how do you want to decorate it, charlie?”

at gwil’s question, charlie spun on his heel. his eyes narrowed, still wary of his new father. his gaze had slid to you, and you’d nodded in encouragement.

finally, speaking only to his shoes, he’d said, “i want planets.”

gwilym had laughed, shaking his head. “he’s gonna fit in just fine.”

you can still feel gwil’s hand on his shoulder and his breath on the curve of your neck. you can still feel the way his love for charlie in that moment made you marvel. no other man would be so willing to marry his girlfriend of seven months and adopted her former student three months later. but he’d been willing, and he’d been excited to start a new chapter.

father, mother, and son.

but perhaps now your worst fears have come true. perhaps gwil’s woken from the dream, realized his mistake in marrying you so fast, in agreeing to father a child not his own. perhaps that’s why he hasn’t called or reached out in four days.

you can only assume that’s why. assuming anything else might kill you.

when charlie reenters the room, toothbrush in hand, you palm at your wet cheeks and smooth a hand across your twisting stomach. you force a smile and take the toothbrush.

“i’ll put this in my bag,” you say. “where it’s safe from all the dinos.”

“mama,” charlie chides as he crawls into bed. “dinos need to brush their teeth too.”

“oh, of course! i just mean you don’t want to share dino germs. it’s bad for you.”

charlie rolls his eyes and tugs his comforter to his chin. “how do you know? have you read my books?”

“only a hundred times.” sitting by his side, you tuck the covers around his small frame. you release a slow sigh and study his face. “grandma is going to be so excited to see you,” you say.

“is she nice?”

“always.”

“why haven’t i met her before? i’ve met daddy’s parents, and grandpa brian and grandma anita. why not your mummy and daddy?”

you shrug. “life’s been crazy, and they live very far away. but they’re bursting to finally meet you.”

“but daddy’s not coming?”

you snap before you can stop it. “i wish you’d stop asking that! daddy is not going to be there!”

when you open your eyes, charlie’s are filled with tears and his lower lip quivers. it’s rare that you lose your temper. months of counseling before and after adopting him taught you to control your anger—however justified it may be. his home before yours had not been kind, and any hint of unhappiness sets him on edge.

cursing under your breath, you lean forward, pressing your hands to his shoulders. “i’m sorry, baby.” the pools of tears in your own eyes match his, and you wonder if it is possible for tears to run dry completely. “i’m sorry. i’m not mad at you, sweetheart.”

a fat tear rolls down his cheek, and you brush it away, swallowing past the lump in your throat.

“daddy’s at work,” you say. “he can’t come. but i bet—i bet he’s missing you right now and wishing he could be there.” the words taste like a lie, bitter and sinful. still, you say them, hoping they will ease charlie’s fears.

“well, maybe he’ll surprise us.”

clenching your jaw, you nod. “maybe he will.” rising, you kiss his forehead and ruffle his sandy hair. “goodnight. fall asleep fast because before you know it we’ll be leaving.”

with a yawn, he curls onto his side. “i’ve never been on a plane before,” he whispers.

“there’s a first time for everything.” you kiss his temple again and tiptoe out of the room, but not before tripping on a mislaid firetruck.

in the solace of your bedroom, you drop to the carpet beside your bed. your head falls against the firm mattress. your fingers itch to reach for your phone but you stop yourself. it’s a bad habit, always has been. you check your phone too often because the worrier in you is convinced if you aren’t attached at the hip, something dreadful will happen and you’ll miss it. this past week, it’s gotten worse. every few seconds you flip your phone over and wait for the screen to light up. the photo of gwilym and charlie—charlie on gwil’s shoulders, ice-cream smeared all over his cheeks—is always devoid of any new messages. well, any new messages from gwilym, and that’s all you’re looking for.

you knew keeping in close contact would be difficult; you weren’t that naive. you’d expected periods of silence on either end. charlie was a handful and, with school ending for the summer, your full-time job became keeping him out of trouble. gwil was thousands of miles away in a different timezone, not to mention working odd hours. you could handle a day, maybe two, with simple texts—a short good morning or hasty i love u written as you run out the door—but it had been four full days since you’d last heard even a murmur. and that wasn’t counting the week before when day by day his responses grew shorter and his calls more infrequent.

god, you hate him.

aside from your mother, your reason for leaving the country remains secret. you’d tell your cousin, katie, but she’d get too worked up. hell, she’d probably board the next flight and rough gwil up herself. you’d tell joe, ask if you could crash in his apartment with charlie on your layover in new york, but you’d rather not subject him to your marital issues. you’d ask anita for advice, but you can’t stomach the idea of crushing the good image she has of gwilym.

so, you stay quiet. suffer in silence. it’s easier for everyone else that way.

just as you’re about to stand, shower off the layer of disgust forming on your skin, your phone pings. the way you dive toward the bedside table is pathetic. your fingers scrabble, shaking, as you lift the phone. flipping it over, the screen lights up, that stubborn sliver of hope in your heart coming to life as you wait.

a text from the airline. confirmation of boarding numbers.

your eyes flutter shut. you should feel disappointed, but you aren’t. it’s what you’ve come to expect. you’d given up two days earlier, finally decided that if gwilym wasn’t going to answer any of your voicemails or texts, then you’d simply stop nagging him. clearly, he wasn’t interested in being a husband or a father at the moment.

dropping the phone to your bed, you head for the shower. the water is too hot, scalding your skin, but it feels good. it feels like something. you press your hand to the steamed glass and allow the water to run down your face, fill your eyelashes, stream off your nose. you breathe hard against the pain in your chest.

an image—your wedding day—flickers to mind: katie’s backyard, covered in string lights; your gown, hastily bought from the local dressers; the night sky, alive with stars. aside from your cousin and gwilym’s family, the ceremony had been next to empty. you needed to get married fast in order to speed the adoption papers along, and you didn’t mind the small gathering. charlie had sat on katie’s lap the entire time, rolling the ring cushion between his hands. he’d been so small then—five years old and already so scarred by the world. but gwilym had held out his hand, beckoning charlie over during the vows; he’d crouched, looked deep into charlie’s eyes, and promised to love and care for him as his own—the memory made you choke on a sob, the sound echoing around the shower walls.

god, you hate him.

you slip into bed, hair wet and unbrushed, with a groan. travel to prince edward island and your parent’s retirement home will be long and exhausting. an eight hour flight from heathrow to jfk, a six hour layover in new york, and then another flight to charlottetown. your head already aches, and you haven’t even reached the airport.

despite everything in you screaming don’t do it, you check your phone one last time. it’s blank, but you pull up gwil’s name in your messages anyway. as quickly as you can, averting your eyes from the long line of unanswered texts, you type your message:

headed to pei. taking charlie. don’t have a return date yet.

message sent, stomach churning, you fall into a restless sleep.

you’re antsy. after eight hours on a plane, your legs are tight and you long for fresh air. charlie’s in much the same state. though he’d enjoyed the novelty of a plane ride for the first hour, for the remaining seven it was a chore just to get him to sit still. now, he’s bouncing on his heels, teddybear in hand, humming a nonsensical tune far too loud in the line to the toilet.

“charlie.” you squeeze his hand tight. “shush.”

the line inches forward, and charlie blows a raspberry with his tongue. “i’m tired, and i’m hungry.”

you sigh. “i’ve just got to go to the loo and then we’ll find something to eat.”

“are we going to go into the city?”

“no, i don’t think we have the time.” it’s a lie—you have six hours to kill—but you can’t think of anything you’d do that wouldn’t make you pine for gwilym. it’s easier to stay in the cool airport, plug charlie in with a movie, and read your book.

“doesn’t uncle joe live here?”

“yes, he does.”

leading charlie into the bathroom, you corral him to the nearest open stall. he pushes his forehead against the stall door, his back turned to you as you relieve yourself.

“we should go see him.” his voice is muffled against the door, and you try not to think of all the new germs crawling over his face.

“i told you, baby, we don’t have the time.”

after washing your hands and exiting the bathroom, you find an empty table and sit down. charlie sits next to you, his legs swinging back and forth. he watches the people passing by, and you wonder if he’s picked the trait up from gwilym.

he looks so much like gwil it’s startling. maybe it’s because you’ve watched them side by side the last two years, but charlie truly does look like gwilym’s natural born son. it’s in his face: the soft eyes, strong nose, full lips. it’s in his mannerisms: his easy smile, soft voice, eagerness to listen. not for the first time, you wonder if you’ll have any more children and if they will take after their father. you used to hope so; now you’re not so sure.

shaking your head, you clear your throat and reach for your phone. you’d left london to get away from the house so full of memories and sweet times together. you’d left london to have a moment of peace, cry in the arms of your mother, and figure out what to do next. you didn’t leave home just to have it all follow you.

sliding open the phone, you search for joe’s name in your contacts list. you dial the number, glancing at your son as the phone rings in your ear. some part of you hopes he won’t answer, so you don’t have to answer any questions. another part of you wants—needs—a familiar face.

he picks up on the third ring. “[y/n]! to what do i owe this great honor?”

you find yourself smiling at the genuine happiness in his voice. “well, it’s short notice, but charlie and i are currently sitting in jfk. we’ve got a six hour layover...” you let the implication hang in the air, knowing full well he’ll pounce.

you can already hear his keys jangling on the other end. “i’ll be there asap.”

an hour later, you’re sat in a restaurant overlooking times square. you hadn’t planned on going into the city, but joe insisted. he wanted to show his nephew the sights—as many as he could in a few hours time—but charlie insisted he be fed first. now, sitting across from your son and joe, plates laden with overpriced food, you notice a lightness in your chest you haven’t felt for some time. it’s nice to see someone you care about, and joe is unusually tactful in his conversation. he’s tiptoed around the topic of gwilym and ‘the great’ and for that, you’re thankful.

“so, charlie’s told me all about school, which, apparently, rocks,” joe says between bites of a burger. “what’s up with you, [y/n]? how’s married life treatin’ you?”

you know it’s partly a jest—he’s asked the same question nearly every time you’ve spoken since you married gwilym—but there’s also a level of true interest in his query. but you shift in your chair, wincing as you turn to look at the busy street below. and perhaps he notices because he hurries to say instead:

“seen brian lately?”

this you can answer without crying or shouting or slumping low in your seat. nodding, you look to charlie. “we went over for dinner a few nights ago, didn’t we? tell joe what grandpa bri said.”

charlie keeps his focus on his mac & cheese as he speaks. “he said if i tried really hard i could have hair like his, but i told him i don’t want to look like a poodle.”

joe laughs, his head tossed back, his hands clapping together in sheer joy. you laugh, too, despite remembering the utter embarrassment you’d felt at brian and anita’s dining room table.

charlie grins, his eyes darting back and forth between each adult’s reaction. he’s pleased with himself, the pride on his face all too real. “mama made me say sorry.”

“i hope she did,” joe says with a chuckle. “that’s brutal, charlie.”

charlie’s forehead puckers in a frown. “daddy says always tell the truth.”

“yeah, but you gotta...” joe waves his hand, shaking his head. “never mind.”

a moment of quiet falls over the table. you’ve barely touched your salad, finding that, although your stomach growls with hunger, you don’t have the energy to eat. joe’s looking at you with open curiosity, and it makes you squirm. he knows something’s up, but now is not the time to unburden yourself. not with charlie sitting so close, not with your heart as tender as it is. one wrong move and you knew you’d fall into joe’s arms, a sobbing mess in the middle of the restaurant.

what dignity you have left, you’d like to preserve.

“what do you think about going to the park?”

joe’s eyes narrow across the table. “central park?”

“you said you want to show charlie the sights.”

joe glances at your unfinished food then your face. still, he says nothing. instead, he pays for the meal, even though you try and slide your card over his when the waiter comes by. you leave your salad and grab charlie’s hand as you exit the restaurant. you’re possessive that way—always needing to hold on to some part of your son; you’re the same with gwilym. neither seem to mind, so whenever you’re able, you hold charlie’s hand while crossing the street or you run your nails gently over the back of gwil’s neck as he likes it. you suppose, with charlie, it’s a mother thing. one day he won’t lean into your shoulder when you wrap an arm around him, so you take every chance to hold him that you can. you suppose, with gwil, it’s a wife thing. though you aren’t a huge fan of pda, you like letting others know he’s yours.

you hope he still is.

the day is warm, sticky with humidity. as you walk the few blocks to central park, joe points out his favorite landmarks. charlie seems interested enough, though he’s much more concerned with pointing out every pigeon than he is responding to joe’s explanations of the buildings around him. a fine pool of sweat gathers under your arms, and you soon shed your cardigan. the frigid air conditioning of the airport will be a welcome feeling once you’ve returned to jfk.

joe leads you to a playground, tucked away behind overgrown hedges. charlie drops your hand and rushes for the jungle gym, his faithful teddybear flinging in the wind behind him. with a soft smile, you collapse on the nearest bench and reach for your water bottle. after a sip, you offer it to joe, who shakes his head.

you know what’s coming. he’s going to ask about gwilym, and you’re going to have to come up with a suitable answer. you don’t have a suitable answer, not one that would keep your issues private but at least clue him in somewhat. finally, when the silence is overbearing, you give a short sigh.

“well, out with it, mazzello.”

he feigns shock. “out with what? i’m enjoying the sound of the birds.”

“you’ve been studying me all through lunch. tell me what you’re thinking before i scream.” you know you sound petulant, but it’s hot and eight hours on a plane with a wiggly child was hard. more than anything, you want to be home—not in london. the last two weeks have been hell, walking through the halls, visibly watching gwilym slip away, and having no clue what to do. no, you want your mother, and her home—whether it be prince edward island or the ridiculous summer home in lyon—is your home.

joe glances sidelong at you, his face drawn tight. when he speaks, his tone is serious, one you don’t hear from him often. “is there something going on? between you and gwil?”

despite knowing it was coming, the question still makes you want to wretch. you look away, curling your hands around the water bottle. it cracks between your fingers.

you decide to lie. it’s easier that way.

“no... no, not really.”

joe tries, but fails to catch your eye. “it’s just that... you seem really depressed. i thought maybe with him being gone...”

he’s given you an excuse—maybe on purpose, maybe on accident—but you jump for it, cursing yourself for not thinking of it on your own. “i mean, yeah, it’s been hard. it’s been—fuck—nearly two months now.”

“that’s a long time.”

you nod and return your attention to charlie, who is swinging on the monkey bars with ease. “yeah, it is, but he should be due for a few days off soon. he might be able to come back for a long weekend.” you grit your teeth against the words. they taste sour, and you take another sip of water to wash away the bad taste.

“[y/n]—”

twisting on the bench, you give joe a look that shuts his mouth with a snap. “we’re fine, joe,” you say, though, now more than even, it is clear you are not fine. you hold his gaze, daring him to push further.

he doesn’t. he just stands, hands in his pockets, and shuffles over to charlie with a nod.

wrinkling your nose against the sudden sting of tears, you lean back against the bench. a branch from the bush behind you digs into the skin of your shoulders, and any breeze which drifts your way smells vaguely of piss. that’s new york, you suppose: people as prickly as branches and the persistent smell of bodily functions. altogether, not terribly different from london.

your phone pings, but for once, you hold still, your tongue clamped between your teeth. your heart tells you it’s gwilym, finally woken from whatever slumber he’s been under, apologetic and eager to make amends. your mind tells you otherwise; it’s likely the airlines or your mother or katie. never gwilym; not anymore.

the message on your screen is from instagram, and you ignore the traitorous twinge of disappointment in your chest. frowning, you open the app, certain you’d turned notifications off long ago. what loads first in your timeline is a series of five photos. days off in pompeii, gwil’s caption reads. you don’t bother to swipe through the photos. you exit the app, delete it for good measure, and slide the phone back into your purse.

rising from the bench, you find joe and charlie hunkered beneath a slide. they’re imagining dinosaurs and jeeps and dangerous missions in the forest. with a smile, you drop to your hands and knees and join them, intent on enjoying what time you have left.

joe drops you off at the airport with plenty of time to spare. in the cell phone parking lot, you gather around the hood of his car for a final goodbye. joe slips charlie a fresh five dollar bill for the snack machine when he thinks you aren’t looking, and it’s the most uncle move you’ve ever seen. it warms your frigid heart, so much so, you nod to the back of the car.

“make sure you haven’t forgotten anything, love. we don’t know when we’ll be back if you’ve left something.”

charlie ambles his way behind the car, inspecting his new money, and when he’s out of earshot, you turn to joe.

“i’m going to talk,” you say. “and you’re going to listen and say nothing when i’ve finished. is that understood?”

his eyes are wide as he nods.

“i haven’t heard from gwil in nearly five days now. last week, his texts got shorter and more infrequent and he stopped calling. this week, he hasn’t responded to any of my messages, voicemails, or otherwise. so two days ago, i gave up and i stopped reaching out. it’s been radio silent since, and i don’t know why. so, that’s what’s going on, and why i’m so goddamn depressed. but if i find out that you’ve called him and tried to make him see sense, i will never forgive you, joseph. do you understand me?”

his only response is a shocked blink, but it satisfies.

“it’s my marriage,” you continue. “i have absolutely no idea what i’m doing, but it’s my marriage, and i’ll figure it out whatever way i can.”

there’s a pause then joe crushes you against his chest before you can stop him. his hug is painful. your left arm is caught between his chest and yours, your right shoved across his shoulders awkwardly. his arms tighten the strap of your purse against your neck, and you’re sure there will be a harsh red line when you pull back. but you don’t care. you let joe hug you. there’s pity in the embrace, but more than that, there’s love, and you feel it. love for you, for gwil, for charlie.

charlie’s voice breaks the moment, for which you’re glad. a second longer and you’d have started crying. “i didn’t leave anything but i found a dollar.”

wiping the underside of your eyes, you push away from joe and turn to your son with a smile. “wow—six dollars in one day! what are you going to do with all that cash?”

charlie shrugs and shoves the bill in his pocket. “i dunno. maybe buy my own plane.”

“so fiscally responsible. i’m proud.” joe ruffles charlie’s hair, grinning. “will you let me take a ride for free?”

charlie looks joe up and down then nods. “i guess. you did buy me lunch, so it seems like a fair trade.”

“we’d better go.” you reach for charlie’s shoulder. “thank you, joe,” you say, hand curling around the handle of your suitcase.

his smile fades around the edges, and you see a sigh lift his shoulders. “take care of yourself, [y/n].”

“i always do.”

he rolls his eyes. “you know what i mean.”

you look away, but nod. “tell your family we said hi.”

joe sticks his hand out to charlie, who shakes it with some trepidation. “look after your mom, charlie.”

“yeah, okay.”

you leave, bags dragging behind you, slamming against your ankles, with a wave. it hurts to watch joe stand there, hands in his pockets, ratty baseball hat on his head, looking so forlorn. you know that, if you asked it, he’d find gwilym and make him set things right. but this is your fight. no one else’s.

an hour and a half later, you’re strapped in your assigned seat, charlie’s head on your lap. his cheek is hot against your thigh, his chest rising and falling to the gentle rhythm of sleep. as the plane takes off, you glance out the window and watch as the world fades from view. you can’t help but think that somewhere below is a family much like yours.

you imagine them sitting down to dinner, laughing, catching up on the day, looks of love shared across the table. you imagine the mother and father, finding a moment of stolen passion against the pantry door as the son settles down for an evening movie. you imagine her laugh as he mumbles filthy things against the skin of her neck, things that set her heart ablaze. you imagine the way his hand strokes over her leg throughout the movie, his eyes meeting hers every now and then over their son’s head. and you imagine him laying her down on the bed, caressing, loving, worshipping her until they are spent.

some time ago, your life had looked similar. it doesn’t anymore, and you aren’t sure why or what you’ve done wrong.

the flight attendant pulls you from your thoughts. “can i get you anything, ma’am?” she asks.

a flood of answers rise to your chest. a phone call, an answer to prayers, my husband. instead, you shake your head. “no, but thank you.”

your parent’s home is picture perfect, like something out of a magazine: the long, winding drive framed by lush trees, the pale stonework crawling with ivy, the faded green shutters, and chipped picket fence. you’ve come once since it was bought. your parents, ever the world travelers, surprised you when they announced their move to their maritime provinces, and due to your teaching job, new relationship with gwilym, and concern for your student charlie, you’d only had the chance to visit for a short weekend.

as your father pulls up the drive, you nudge your mother with your shoulder. “if i didn’t know any better, i’d say you were trying to be anne shirley, mother.”

your mother tosses her head back with a laugh. her sunglasses are overly large, but you can still see the laugh lines around her eyes. “of course i am, dear. much to your father’s chagrin.”

from the driver’s seat, your father merely huffs. he makes a face at charlie who, buckled tight in the passenger seat for the last few miles of the journey, giggles behind his hand.

your mother slides her hand across the bench. her fingers tap the bone of your wrist, and you look away from the window. she’s pushed her sunglasses over her hair, and her painted lips are drawn light.

“we’re so glad you’re here, sweetheart.” her tone is soft, apologetic.

the corner of your mouth twitches into something close to a smile. “me too.”

“okay, last stop. everybody out.” your father parks the car and pops the trunk.

you follow your parents to the front door as charlie races around your legs, babbling questions and comments as if he’s never spoken a word in his life. your father, who bears the brunt of charlie’s attention, takes it all in stride. tim, your brother—god help him—blessed your parents with eight grandchildren before you managed to give them one of your own. anything charlie has to throw at your parents, they will surely be able to handle.

after a light supper, charlie convinces his new grandfather to take him to to the river at the base of the property. he’s eager to find worms and, if your father can get free labor in return for fish bate, he’ll take it. they walk off, the sun dipping closer to the horizon as the day draws to a close. your mother stands in the doorway and nods her head toward the garden.

“come help me.” her request is more of a command, but you listen, grabbing a watering can from the back stoop as you trail after her.

the air on the island is fresh, slightly salty but sweet. you breathe deep, reveling beneath the open sky, unobscured by wires or skyscrapers or aircraft. your mother’s garden sprawls across the backyard. a ladder rests against the apple tree in the corner, heavy with fruit. raised flowerbeds with soft brown dirt sprout with tomatoes and snap-pea vines and peppers. a strawberry patch, struggling but alive, stands on its own. there’s a foam pad on the ground, and your mother kneels on it, reaching for her gardening tools.

“there should be some grape tomatoes ready,” she says, pointing to the plant. “gather what you can in this.” she passes you a paper container, and you set to work.

the birds twittering and the unhurried breeze work to soothe the ache in your soul. you could get used to this, a simple life here. the thought startles you, and you drop the tomato in your hand. it lands on your foot with a splat, covering your toes in sticky juice.

coming here, leaving london, you never thought for a moment it would be permanent. you just needed a change of scenery, a place to clear your thoughts. you have no intention of leaving gwilym. god, though he’d ripped your heart out, until he said the words, you’ll stay by his side forever.

“sweetheart? [y/n]?”

you look up. “huh?”

your mother frowns. “you’re just standing there.”

“am i? oh, sorry.” you turn back to the tomato plant and rip whatever red bubble crosses your eyeline. the tomatoes drop to your container with a muted thud, echoing the fragile beat of your heart.

“do you want to talk about it?”

you meet her gaze, and the worry, the concern, the love there nearly drives you to your knees. for days on end, you’ve been shoving it down—the fear. it’s not helpful, not to you or charlie or anyone else. for days on end, you’ve been choking back your anxiety, telling yourself it’s all just a misunderstanding. now, in your mother’s garden, with the weight of the world bearing down on your shoulders, you break.

the tomato container falls to the ground as your hands clamp against your mouth. you cannot stop the sobs which shake your frame, but you can at least muffle them against your fingers. the world becomes hazy, a blurry mess as your tears flow free and steady. vaguely, you’re aware of your mother’s arms around you, holding you tight; her hands rub soothing circles over your back. she smells of vanilla and shampoo.

you don’t know how long you cry, but when you finally step back, the sky is a dark red. you wonder if charlie’s come back from the creek, if he’s seen you in such a state. you pray to god he hasn’t. gently, your mother leads you to a wooden bench tucked against the fence. you sit together, your head cradled between her chin and shoulder. she smoothes your hair with one hand and holds your other.

“i’m so afraid, mum,” you breathe. your throat is clogged with emotion, your nose, too.

“of what?”

sniffing, you wipe your nose. “that he’s gone and met someone else. that he’s forgotten us.”

you feel her shrug against you. “well, i’ve only met the lad once, but he doesn’t seem like the type.”

“he’s not,” you say, stronger, clearer. “he’s not. but it’s been five fucking days. five days! and he’s been half-there for longer.”

“i don’t know what to tell you, love.” she twists to look at your face. “your father and i... we’ve had a good run of it, but that doesn’t mean we’ve not had our own issues. sometimes—sometimes people hurt those they love most.”

“did dad ever disappear on you?”

“no, i can’t say he did.” she sighs. “but he did shag my best mate cheri.”

“aunt cheri?”

nodding, your mother looks into the distance. “i nearly chopped his balls off.”

“why didn’t you?”

“because we love each other. we worked it out.”

with a scoff, you look away. “you’re in the minority.”

“you can be in that minority, too.” she grabs your hand. “your relationship... everything you’ve had with him has been so much so fast—”

“i know.” your head drops as a fresh flurry of tears rise. “that’s what i’m afraid of.”

“you didn’t let me finish.” your eyes lift to see her watching you, a faint glow of motherly pride on her cheeks. “everything you’ve had with gwilym has been so much so fast, but every time i see your photos or your videos, he looks like he’s about to fall over because he loves you so much. i don’t pretend to know what’s going on in his head; i’d reckon he doesn’t know either. but you have something worth fighting for, [y/n]. i’d hate to see you give that up.”

“i don’t want to,” you whisper.

“then don’t.”

you kiss charlie’s forehead and slip out of the guest room, shutting the door behind you. the house is quiet, asleep before ten thanks to the excitement of the day and the weariness of travel. you find your bedroom, cozy, tucked away in the third floor attic. your mother claims she had it redone just for your visits. the window seat framed by bookshelves and the wrought-iron bed frame remind you of your childhood room, yet there is an elegance here your room lacked as a child.

after readying yourself for bed, you glance about the room. the rug beneath your feet is soft to the touch, and the upholstered chair in the corner has a fresh set of bath towels. there’s an exposed brick wall with three photos nailed to it. you step closer to inspect.

three photos.

a family photo from age nine, your parents side-by-side, your brother’s arm slung around your shoulder. much of your childhood consisted of moving from country to country, always following your father’s job. you’d been happy, though, and looking at the photo now, you feel a surge of gratitude.

a photo of your first classroom, the students sat at your feet. charlie stands directly to your left, his face leaning into your hip. you hadn’t known then, what he would mean to you know. you run your finger across his face, still pudgy with baby fat.

the third and final photo, a picture from your honeymoon. the austrian mountains tower over you in the background, the sky effortlessly blue and picturesque. gwilym is well-dressed and handsome, smiling down at you, his arm curved around your waist. you’re looking up at him, laughing, holding the straw hat against your head as a gust of wind attempts to whisk it away.

your chest expands with love, for your family, your son, even your husband.

you aren’t sure how things will turn out. for all you know, gwilym very well could have met someone else; he could be making plans to leave you as you slide under the covers. yet something tells you—maybe it’s hope, maybe it’s foolishness—that’s not the case.

you check your phone. empty, as per the usual. this time it doesn’t fill you with as much dread as normal. he’ll come around. one way or another, things will get sorted. you’re willing to fight for that.

#gwilym lee #gwilym lee x reader #gwilym lee imagine #bohemian rhapsody #borhap fic #j writes #fic collab

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soprano193 · 4 years ago

Text

Not a Couple

Chapter 7

Kent

The energy at BPD had shifted. At least, it had in the homicide department. As soon as they had accepted that Korsak was retiring, Jane announced that she was moving to DC to pursue a different career. Maura was taking sabbatical to try and write. And that left Kent feeling conflicted. His friends were leaving. Of course, he could make more, or hang out with other departments within BPD. And he was taking over for Dr. Isles, which would give him immense experience in the field. But something about the first group who had gotten to know him all leaving at once had him feeling unsteady.

They had been spending their nights at the Dirty Robber, reminiscing. The first few days, he stayed away, giving them the space they would need to move on. But on the fourth day, Jane called him out in the autopsy room, turning her attention from Maura to address him. “Why haven’t you stopped by even once this week?” Her hands rested on her belt, and her eyebrows raised, waiting for his response.

“I didn’t want to intrude.”

Jane snorted, her voice getting quieter. “Well that’s a first.” Despite her words, her face bore the hint of a smile, made brighter when the Medical Examiner she had interrupted began to giggle.

“Oh, come on, Kent. You don’t intrude.” Maura added in, her head tilted as she looked at her colleague.

Jane relaxed her stance, her arms falling to her sides. “In fact, you’re the only one who hasn’t come. It feels like someone’s missing.”

“That was never my intention,” Kent replied, shuffling the file in his hands back and forth, “I’ll stop by after work tonight.”

Jane grinned. “We’ll save you a seat.” At her words Kent nodded, walking forward to give Dr. Isles the test results she needed, before leaving the room and the two women alone again.

They called it an early night. The case was solved, no one had called, and everyone had been putting in overtime, so there was no harm in going home early. Kent went straight to the Dirty Robber from work, hoping to not be late. Frankie and Nina beat everyone there, grabbing a table towards the back. They waved him over with a smile, Nina even standing to offer him a hug. “Glad you finally came!”

Kent embraced Nina before sitting in a free seat next to Frankie. “Yeah, sorry for the miscommunication.” At Frankie’s confused look, Kent elaborated. “I thought it was only family.”

At this Nina laughed. “I’m here.”

“You’re dating Frankie.”

“Korsak.” Her partner chimed in.

“Owns the bar.”

“Do you think that means anything on nights like these?” Frankie paused to take a sip of his beer. “Besides, you have put up with us for long enough. You’re family.” Frankie waved down the waitress and pointed at their new addition, prompting her to come over and take Kent’s drink order.

Kent took a moment to let the Detective’s words sink in. This, he was finding, was the beauty of BPD. As an impulsive kid who said things and acted without thinking, fitting in had been hard. Here, he had found a group that didn’t judge him for his quirks, that wanted him to tag along. It was nice to know that his inclusion would continue even with all the changes coming up. Looking around, he took a sip of his whiskey. “So where are the girls?”

“They’ll be here,” Nina answered, looking toward the door, “Maura makes Jane pack a box first.”

“Sounds about right.” Kent responded with a chuckle. “They really do have a peculiar relationship.”

“I’ll say.” Angela’s voice came from behind him, making him jump. She pulled out the chair next to Kent, sitting in it and leaning toward Frankie and Nina. “Did you know that Maura has already mapped the route from Boston to DC?”

“Of course she has.” Frankie answered, grabbing a roll from the center of the table. “She’s not gonna be okay with phone calls and Skype. Too impersonal.”

“I’m not even okay with that.” Angela answered, scooting her chair to make room for the newly arrived Korsak. “But I know this is a good move for Jane, and I want her to be happy.”

“Yes, but you don’t love her.” Kent said it before thinking, as per usual, and every face at the table looked at him with eyebrows furrowed. “I mean, of course you love her, you’re her Mother. Sorry. I just mean, you don’t love Jane like Maura does.” Instead of the shock he was expecting, everyone at the table nodded in agreement. It brought him comfort to realize that the little glances he’d noticed, their closeness, their body language, was not imagined by him.

Before Kent could elaborate, the front door opened and Maura walked in. She greeted them all with a smile, her eyes showing a hint of sadness, and she took a seat next to Frankie. She addressed her colleague first, placing her purse on the floor by her feet. “Kent! I’m glad you finally came!”

“Of course. Again, sorry for the misunderstanding.” Moments later, Jane entered, the last to arrive, and took the last seat between Korsak and Maura. “And since I’ve missed a few meetings, the first round is on me.”

“I knew we invited you for a reason!” Jane grinned and waved down the waitress, who came right over with her regular beer. “Sorry it took us so long today. Maura was helping me downsize my box of shoes.”

“Well, it doesn’t make sense to keep shoes without matches.” The Doctor was defensive, but had a hint of a giggle in her voice.

“Why do you have so many mismatched shoes, Janie?” Angela's voice had a tone only a mother could achieve, which made Kent smile into his drink.

"I think a lot of them are left over from when I was on the drug unit?"

It was his pragmatic boss who asked the question on Kent's mind. "What was it about the drug unit that made you lose so many shoes?"

"Yeah, did you lose them chasing down suspects?" Angela asked, still concerned about the mismatched shoes.

“No. I never wanted to wear my nice heels, you know, just in case. So I had a lot of cheap ones.” She grimaced. “Very uncomfortable. I shopped around for some that would fit better. So I ended up with a ton of inexpensive heels. I haven’t gone through them in ages. I honestly think I lost most of them in the fire.”

“Well, now you get to leave town with a much lighter load.” The honey-haired woman tipped her head. “You’re welcome.” This elicited a snort from Jane, her eyes rolling slightly as she took a sip of her beer.

Kent, being one of the newcomers to the group, hadn’t heard of Jane’s time in the drug unit. And he still wasn’t sure how the drug unit led to more shoes. “Wait, why did you need so many heels for the drug unit, but get to wear your trademark boots in homicide?”

“I had to do buy busts, and had to dress the part. That’s how Maura and I met.”

The Doctor’s hazel eyes grew wide and her mouth fell. “Don’t tell him that story.”

“What story?” Kent asked, his interest piqued.

The answer came from Angela. “Maura thought Jane was a hooker.”

As Maura sputtered to find her words, Kent and Nina watched with amusement, clearly the only ones out of the loop. The stunned Doctor turned to her friend, her voice high-pitched and playful. “I can’t believe you told your Mother!”

“Well of course I did!” Jane shouted, glancing in Angela’s direction. “I can’t lie to my Mother! What kind of person do you think I am?” This caused Frankie and Maura to laugh, with Angela watching them, a knowing look on her face. After a few moments, she refocused her attention on Kent. “So the first time we met was at Division One, and Maura thought I was really a hooker. But about two months later I was promoted to homicide. My first day, Maura came upstairs and said something to Korsak about meeting the new Detective. She walked in, saw me at the desk, and immediately turned around and headed for the elevator.”

Maura laughed, her face turning red. “I was mortified!”

Jane continued, “Two weeks later we caught our first big case. On the scene she barely talked to me. She addressed Korsak more often than not. And she wouldn’t look me in the eye. I tried not to let it bother me, but let’s be honest, it bothered me. So Korsak and I started working this case the best way we could. Figuring out known associates, tracking down threats, mapping her movements, that sort of thing. And at some point he tells me to go see if Maura had found anything.”

Korsak leaned forward, excited to add his own part to the story. “Jane was like, ‘don’t send me down to her! She thinks I’m a prostitute, she won’t even look at me!’” His voice was a higher pitch as he mocked his former partner, making Frankie laugh and Jane glare.

“Are we done with your spot on impersonation?” She asked before continuing, waiting for the laughter of her colleagues to die down. “So, I went down to autopsy, walked in, and said something about being sent by Korsak to get information. Maura started rattling off time of death, potential murder weapons, and possible defensive wounds. Very clinical, with a lot of words I didn’t understand. In the middle of this, she stops, looks at me, and said, ‘you made a convincing prostitute.’”

“No way!” The interruption came from Nina, whose mouth was wide open as her eyes flicked between the two women.

Kent addressed his boss. “You didn’t.”

“I didn’t mean it like that!”

Jane laughed, continuing. “See, now that I know you, I get that you didn’t mean it like that. But at the time, I was wondering who died and made you Queen Bitch. I managed to hold my tongue, and forced out an, ‘excuse me?’” She refocused her attention on Kent. “So now Maura started sputtering, apologizing, and she started to get splotchy, and I knew something was wrong. So I offered to start over.”

Maura joined in with a laugh, her face returning to it’s normal color. “I made her leave the autopsy room, and told her to give me a little bit.”

Jane nodded. “I must have stood outside for five minutes or so. When I came back in, I wasn’t sure what was going to happen. Maura was standing at her computer, looking at a chart. So I walked over, held out a hand, and introduced myself.”

“And just like that, you forgot her assertion from earlier?” The Scotsman watched them as he asked, watching as they shared a look. Jane resolved, Maura curious. He wondered how much they talked about this meeting.

“Honestly, it still stung. But I think it was what she said afterward that helped me understand what she was trying to say.”

“I told her that I had looked her up. That her conviction rate was impressive, and that she must have been convincing undercover.” Maura took ownership of the narrative, looking at her friend, watching Jane’s kind smile as she remembered. “I think we began mentoring each other first. Jane learned a lot about science from me. I learned how to talk to people from her. The friendship blossomed from there.” They both shared a soft smile, a tad bit sad, before turning back to their companions.

Kent made sure to give them a moment before speaking. “Well, that is the most interesting origin story I’ve ever heard. You two should have a comic book.”

“Oh! I have one of those!” Jane shouted to the laughs of her colleagues. This led to the reminiscing Kent was expecting, some of their favorite cases. Angela went back to working after listening to them talk about the clown case. Korsak left after Jane and Maura talked about cutting open Maura’s leg, citing Kiki waiting for him at home. Frankie and Nina left after recounting the case at the Pilgrims stadium. Which soon left only the two women, and Kent at that little table. He hadn’t realized the predicament that would put him in until it was too late.

“Kent.” His boss looked at him, her face serious. “With only a couple weeks left, maybe you want to finish some unfinished business?” Her eyes darted to the woman next to her, then back to him.

Jane rolled her eyes. “Maur, no.”

“Well, I’m trying to figure out why he expressed interest in you, then never acted on it!”

"I'm not interested in Jane." The reply was more forceful than he intended, and the Detective faked a hurt expression. "No offense."

Maura looked between the two of them, puzzled. "Well then, why did you ask me if you could date someone from the police department?"

It hit him in an instant what she was referring to, and now he had to scramble to figure out what to say. "Not because I wanted to date Jane."

"Well then, to whom were you referring?"

His reluctance to speak egged the Detective on, who leaned forward with interest. "Yeah, whom?"

"We can keep a secret."

"I'm leaving soon, no one in DC is gonna care. Just tell us who you like!”

The two women egged him on like schoolgirls and drowned out his train of thought. He couldn't tell them that he had asked to figure out their relationship. And he couldn't think of a plausible interest other than the one he'd suppressed for over a year. As their chorus of voices grew louder he fought to hear his own consciousness, the voices inside telling him to lie. The problem was, the two women were too loud to let him figure out the name of any other female Detectives. So for the first time, he let his secret slip. “Frankie. I wanted to ask out Frankie.”

Their voices stopped abruptly. Maura’s mouth hung open in shock, her eyes wide as she searched his face. Jane however, sat straight as a board, her mouth pursed shut as she glanced over at her friend. Kent began counting the seconds, waiting for them to speak.

It was Jane who broke first. The Detective flashed him a soft smile, dropping her shoulders and leaning forward. "Trust me, after living with my brother for way too long, you dodged a bullet." At her response, he let out the breath he'd been holding, allowing himself to laugh with the two women. "I mean, he had all these rules, took super long showers, and still never told me where his secret drawer is!"

"He didn't tell me either. And I'm an excellent secret keeper." The ME punctuated her sentence with a sip of her wine, a knowing glance shot toward her best friend.

"Speaking of that," Kent started, leaning forward, "you can keep that one, right?"

She answered in the affirmative. "My lips are sealed."

"Nothing against him, I just don't want to make things weird. He's a good friend." The two women nodded, and he noticed the way Maura pursed her lips together, like she was holding something back. "Besides, I have the utmost respect for Nina, and their relationship."

Jane nodded, her fingers running along the bottom of her beer bottle. "I get it. Your secret is safe with us." She finished the last sip, and tapped the table twice with her free hand. "As much as I would love to stay and chat, I really should pack some more things. And throw out some more shoes." She pushed the empty bottle, turning her attention first to Kent. "I hope you'll join us again tomorrow?"

"Yeah, I wouldn't miss it."

"Good." She turned to Maura. "And I'll see you bright and early."

Maura nodded. "Yes, I'll get coffee and be over around eight. Drive safe, Jane."

Kent definitely noticed the Detective squeeze Maura's shoulder as she left, her fingers waiting as long as possible to let go. The soft smile reserved almost exclusively for Maura, with just a hint of sadness in her dark eyes. He observed Maura watch the door for several seconds after her friend left, seeming far away although she sat only inches from him. And his question was out before he could stop it. "Have you told her you love her?"

Maura took in this question like she took in new data, her eyebrows pulled together as she gazed just past him, trying to put the info in line with the narrative in her brain. "I tell Jane that I love her all the time. It's perfectly natural to be affectionate with your friends."

"No, I mean," he paused, wondering for a moment if he should end the conversation before it was too late, "have you told Jane that you are in love with her?"

Again, she took in his words, trying to make them make sense. For a split second, Kent saw acceptance, her jaw set, her eyes widened. But soon that look became anger, with glaring eyes and a hard swallow. “I am not in love with Jane.”

“Well then, you’ve got me fooled. And I assume you’ve fooled yourself.”

Her eyes widened at his hesitancy to back down. “Well, you know what they say about those who assume.” She finished her glass of wine in one sip, pushing her chair back simultaneously. “I don’t think it’s fair of you to assume how I feel, Dr. Drake. And I don’t need to sit here and listen to it. See you in the office.” With that, she turned and stormed out of the bar.

It didn’t take long for Angela to come over, using his tab as an excuse to pry. “What happened?”

“I pointed out that she loves Jane.”

Angela started laughing, the high-pitched sound helping Kent feel calm, despite his realization that work would be tough the next day. “I always wondered who would break it to them first.” She patted him on the back before taking his card. “You’ll be alright.”

________________________________________________________________

The next day, Kent went out of his way to avoid Dr. Isles. If she entered the room he was in, he’d leave through the opposite door. If he couldn’t leave, he would study results on his computer, so he looked busy. He spent more time in the bathroom in one day than he had for the entire week. Towards the end of the day, DNA results came in. Matter found under the fingernails of a John Doe. He could have just emailed them to her, kept his contact at a minimum. But a small part of him wanted to see how much trouble he was actually in. So this he carried into her office, to deliver in person.

Dr. Isles was sitting at her desk, reading something on her computer. He knocked, making her look up, and waved the file in the air as he entered. “DNA results from under the victim’s fingernails.”

“Thank you.” She held out a hand for the file, took a moment to look it over, and reached for her phone. “I’ll forward this to Jane.” Her response was curt, but she didn’t seem angry. Thinking he had overreacted, Kent nodded and started to leave. “Wait.” Her voice was more forceful, and made him turn around. Dr. Isles’ face was set, very little emotion showing as she gestured for a chair. “Please sit.” Kent did as she asked, his hands folded in his lap, and awaited whatever she was going to tell him.

Dr. Isles took a moment, looking past him as she gathered her thoughts. “Well first of all, I owe you an apology. I think I implied that you were an ass.”

As she spoke, her shoulders fell, making her appear less harsh, and making Kent relax in turn. “You did. But you were right, I shouldn’t assume.”

"You shouldn't. We don't leap to conclusions in our line of work. We wait for the science to determine the facts, and draw our conclusions from there."

"Absolutely," Kent nodded, "I hear you loud and clear."

Dr. Isles gave him a decisive nod as she sat back in her seat. "Well, I was up all night analyzing the data, and it appears that you were right. I'm in love with Jane."

Kent had to suppress a giggle at her words, somewhat surprised it took her this long to figure it out. As he did he noticed the slump of her shoulders and the hint of bags under her eyes, remnants of her sleepless night. "Can I ask you what the deciding data points were?"

"Well, she's very symmetrical, so aesthetically pleasing. I've always known she's attractive." It was the most logical place to start, and her eyes drifted as she figured out what to say. "She has this incredible way of understanding me that I have always admired. Very few have stuck around to help me in social situations I don't understand. She's selfless and brave, in ways I wish I could be. She takes care of me." Dr. Isles' face broke into a wide grin. "Her smile is infectious. She is infectious. I just want to spend as much time as I can with her. Everything makes sense with her. She's the only one who can touch me when I'm very upset, and she can calm me down. And then I started really thinking." She paused, her head coming down as she looked at Kent and addressed him for the first time since she started talking about Jane. "I'm sad Korsak is retiring. The squad room will be different. Our lives may drift apart. And I'm okay with that. It's natural. But imagining life here without Jane," a pause, her fists curling on top of the desk, "it puts knots in my stomach. It feels like I'm losing a limb, and things won't be the same. Does that make sense?"

Kent nodded, understanding exactly what she was saying. "Your heart is breaking. It makes perfect sense." Kent watched her nod and swallow, seemingly relieved that what she was feeling made sense. "So what do you plan to do about it?"

"What can I do?” Her hands turned upward and her voice cracked. “This opportunity is wonderful for her. It’s perfect for her family, it gets her out of harm’s way, and she earned it. If I tell her, and she backs down, does that make me selfish? Or what if I tell her, and it ruins everything? And I lose this friendship, and the family that I’ve been graciously allowed to join? It’s a terrible thought to lose Jane, but I can’t also lose Angela, Frankie, Tommy, and TJ.” Her thumb kept tapping on her fingers, counting people she cared about but didn’t name out loud. People connected to her through Jane. “So I’m doing nothing. I’m pretending I never realized I love her. I’ll support her as she moves, call her daily, and hope that she doesn’t forget about me as she builds a new life.”

Kent could hear the anguish in his boss’ voice, the finality of her decision weighing him down. This wasn’t what he intended when he asked his question the previous night. “She won’t forget you.” It was the best he could offer to comfort her. “I suspect she feels the same.”

Dr. Isles let out a soft chuckle, shaking her head. “No, Jane has only ever been interested in men. Even now, she’s been chatting with some agent out in DC.”

“I’m sorry, Maura.”

“Don’t be.” She laughed, flashing him a knowing look. “This is why we shouldn’t fall for straight people.”

Kent laughed along with her. “We never learn.” Kent gave his boss time to relax, telling her jokes and stories to cheer her up. They soon switched gears, discussing everything they had learned about the case, Kent leaving her office with new orders for tests to run and a promise he would see her that night at the bar. He did join them again. Armed with new information, he watched them interact. Maura’s slight hesitation to touch Jane, like she was second guessing her every move. Jane, oblivious to the fact that Maura was studying her, the curves of her face, her expressions as she talked. And the deepening heartache written all over Maura’s face.

What had he done?

#rizzoli and isles #rizzles #rizzles fanfic #my fic

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insomniac-dot-ink · 5 years ago

Text

The Waitress and the Werewolf

Genre: wlw, urban fantasy, original story

Words: 10k

Summary: A waitress and a werewolf share early morning conversations as the wolf comes in starving from her past transformation and the waitress tries to figure out what this muddy, shoe-less stranger is doing there every month.

Website⭐Ko-Fi ⭐Patreon ⭐ WordPress⭐Twitter

May

Mia walked soberly across scraggly yellow grass, scraping the bottom of her feet and making a sharp crunching sound with each step- like someone chewing on granola cereal.

The early morning smelled of dry earth and a colorless warm breeze. The faint wind itself granted no relief for Mia’s prickling skin, a touch like lukewarm milk being poured over sunburns. Everything always burned the morning after, itching like she was swallowing Pop Rocks in her entire body.

Her vision was boneless and strange, senses coming back to Mia in a fuddled mix of colors and sounds. The reds and greens returned in a slow bloody dawn, her nerves lit up one by one from the depths of numbness, and the scents of the world slowly dried up and left her. The sharpest feeling of all though, was the hunger.

The hunger was inevitable. Perfectly ruthless and all-consuming, distracting her from any thoughts of exhaustion or a shower with soap. Ache gnawed at her insides and rumbled with the force of thunder and stampedes.

Mia pushed forward.

The sun was just a suggestion on the horizon, the faintest brushes of light across the treetops. The trees were thin and closely knit together; their eyes seem to watch her warily, perhaps they had tolerated the wolf, but her human feet were not welcome.

She staggered away from them through a dried field, dark, bleak, and wrung out, her eyes trained on the only light in the whole unfriendly area: a yellow neon sign. It blared in the distance, the color of American cheese that was 50% chemicals and the teeth of evil witches in fairy tales.

The eerie neon reminded her of some desolate cyberpunk world that existed exclusively around a single diner in the middle of nowhere. Mia followed the sign like a beacon to wise men looking for saviors or very drunk men seeking toilets.

An empty road sat next to it, a strip of quiet grey with a faded line in the center and a promise of miles of the same.

When a young woman comes lumbering out of the forest with twigs in her hair, bare skin, and moonlight to her back, poets might write romantic lyrics about the glory of innocent womanhood and nature. Or something. The dried blood and mud coating her skin probably ruined the effect.

Mia had tried to clean herself up as best she could. She scrubbed her face, secured her ragged pants and scraps of shirt, located her wallet still tucked deep in her pockets, and wiped her hands down. She became as person passing as she was going to get that night.

The light of the sign drew closer and closer, Mia steadied herself, her system flooded with thoughts of "hungry" and "aaaaaagh." She was used to both feelings.

Mia faltered into the lit parking lot, crossing the boundary between the world of poets and broken brittle grass and into the glow of a squat, long building. It had giant glass windows peering in at a spotless long counter with fixed stools and overstuffed napkin holders. Red shiny booths sat along the walls, their material sparkly and no doubt squeaky when you sat. Black and white photos cluttered the walls, depicting smiling pictures of famous people in the genre of Marilyn Monroe and Elvis Presley.

The whole place was a clear imitation of classic diners that the 1950’s would have spit out by the dozen.

It was empty at this time except for a single man with a knit cap, slumped back, and wearing a pair of sagging pants that could only be described as “doing their best.” Mia assumed he was a late-night trucker drinking coffee and forgetting the world. The restaurant was bright, alien, and a little cheap looking.

Mia didn’t care how it looked. It was roughly five in the morning and this was the only thing open, the only option really. She tucked her head down and steeled her nerves, hyper aware of her dirty bare feet and the fact she looked like she wrestled the sludge-monster from a Ghibli film to get here.

Her stomach complained again, noisy as a garbage disposal, the transformation took more calories than she liked to count. Bodies demanded payment for their fancy parlor tricks.

Mia took a deep breath, looked down at herself, cringed, and then pushed the door open. A bell dinged gently, and she blinked into the blaring white fluorescent lights. She shuffled inside, feeling the cool tiles against her toes and whole body shrinking down. The room smelled of grease and black coffee, faint bleach and the slightest hint of perfume. The perfume reminded her of sunscreen and sugar.

There was a simple kiosk by the door that Mia approached cautiously, a woman stood there with her back turned. She wore a blue collared shirt, fitted jeans, and a red company apron tied around her waist.

“Booth for one,” Mia said automatically, quick and as pleasant as she could.

The waitress turned.

The young woman had exceptionally wide eyes, owl-like and appearing prone to looks such as shock or confusion. Her cheeks were delicate, chin softly rounded, and fine mouth smeared with splotchy lip-gloss. Long copper hair piled high on her head and freckles speckled across every piece of vacant skin.

She caught sight of Mia and made a face at her that could be summarized as “an atheist meeting God and being deeply unimpressed.”

Mia sighed internally; it might be a long few months in Nolan, West Virginia.

≿————-　❈　————-≾

Lionel was counting down the minutes until the end of her shift, which was unfortunate for her since it began at five am and ended in eight hours and twenty-eight minutes. She usually tried to avoid counting the time until at least five hours in, but sometimes she indulged herself.

The counting did not in fact improve the work experience, but it did manage to amplify her sheer awareness of time itself and the idea she might be stuck in endless loops. Loop after loop of similar faces, usual complaints, and aching feet.

Lionel was waiting for one minute to pass, and then the next, and the next, but they never really seemed to.

The first two hours of a morning shift were the worst, slow, boring, and the chef was often taking a nap in the back. The late-night truckers didn’t even compliment her eye makeup or try to find out her phone number, home address, social security number, and whether she had a boyfriend or not- and if he was big. Though the last part was a perk.

It was the hour for nobodies, people questioning their own place in time and losing their identity to “five am.” Five am wasn’t a time, it was a place, and they were all one person there, similarly weary, adrift, and waiting for the second hand on the clock to tick forward.

Lionel was listening for the chef turning up his podcast from the back, she hoped to God it wasn’t the one she thought it was. But there was a lot of weird noises going on.

She had 8 hours twenty-four minutes left.

The door chimed, bell echoing dimly. “Booth for one.”

Lionel whipped around, preparing herself for at least a little activity and something to keep her busy. And then she stopped, paused, and held herself very still.

She couldn’t stop herself from wrinkling her nose, the monthly weirdos were appearing. The scent of fresh dirt filled the entrance, mud and something distinctly visceral, heady.

A girl looked back at her through short scattered bangs, she had a small mouth and dark olive eyes, meeting Lionel’s gaze with a certain firmness there. Lionel fumbled for her first words.

“Booth for one.” The girl might have said that before, but she repeated it now.

Lionel had a decision to make, and she had to make it quick. She was technically the manager on duty since it was just her and the chef right then, but this felt like something for more of a manager-manager, an adultier-adult.

Lionel cleared her throat and the girl’s eyes darkened, worry lies permeating her sharp face. She pointed down at her tattered clothes, they were streaked in fresh earth and had long tears along the pants cuffs and shirt sleeves. It looked like a war movie where they forgot to add the rest of the set around the actress.

“Construction.” The girl said weakly, pointing down at her neo-grunge appearance. “Hope you all don’t mind.” Lionel pondered on that for a second longer, it was hard to believe. But who hasn’t walked into an establishment completely wrecked and looking for a little bacon? Lionel didn’t have time to judge strangers, she still had twenty minutes left in that hour. She made a snap decision.

“This way,” she turned, spreading a practiced smile across her face like buttering a piece of toast. “Tough morning?” The girl shrugged, “just a bit of a mishap.” Her eyes darted around, “boss gave me the day off after.” Lionel opened her mouth to ask why she didn’t just go home, but it felt a little cruel to poke at her lie.

“Well,” she seated the girl at one of the middle booths, one someone couldn’t see from the front door. “I’ll be your server today.” Lionel placed a menu in front of her and nodded down pleasantly. “Welcome to Millie’s Diner.” “Thanks,” the girl squinted at Lionel’s name tag, “Xena?” Lionel forgot she was wearing one of the other waitress’s name tags, a pastime of sorts. “Like the warrior princess?” Lionel chuckled, touching her hair absently, “Yeah. Exactly like the warrior princess.” The girl’s face lit up for the first time, breaking into something bright and open. “Cool.”

“This job is just my side hustle of course,” she said blithely, “warrior princess gigs don’t pay the bills.” “Naturally,” the girl straightened up in place, a little more life returning to her movements. “Speaking of which,” Lionel flicked her notepad open, “can I get you started with some coffee? Juice?” She shook her head, “just some water.” She went back to mumbling, “and some fried eggs and toast to start with.” “Sounds good,” Lionel started writing.

“Stack of pancakes, do you have those flavored syrup?” “Yeah, blueberry, strawberry, peach,” she kept writing.

“Strawberry then. A plate of bacon, two sausage links, and a, uh, hmm, okay, also a rocky mountain omelet and breakfast burrito. Extra sour cream.” Lionel blinked a couple times, “should I expect anyone else to be joining you?” She asked without missing a beat.

The girl shook her head sheepishly, “nope. Just me.” Lionel looked down at her notes, a silence stretched out a little longer than necessary. “No problem. Yeah.” “Yeah.”

“Well,” Lionel stuffed her pencil back into her apron, “let me put that in for you.” She turned toward the back to prompt Mike to heat up the grill, they were apparently feeding at least three people in one.

“Thanks!”

Lionel slipped away, putting the order in and then watching the strange girl from afar. She was barefoot. She was as muddy as a dust bowl.

When Lionel brought her food over she descended on her breakfast with the fury of a small tractor flattening a field. Lionel surveyed the scene mildly, picking up the empty plates one by one- discarded corpses on a battlefield.

“Are you from around here?” Lionel asked casually as she picked up the third empty plate.

The girl’s eyes rose carefully, she shook her head, “just passing through.” Lionel smiled, “where are you headed?” She shrugged, “I’ll be here for a few months.” She said instead, “and then, um, new construction site after.” She cocked her head to the side, “sounds like an interesting life.” “It’s a life.” The girl smiled slowly, “I don’t suppose you’re from around here, warrior princess?” Lionel’s expression tightened, “trying not to be.” She wasn’t sure why she said something so telling, but it was five am. The sun was barely bleaching the land and everything tasting of faded colors and forgotten things, maybe they were all the same person at that hour- all trying to be from somewhere else right then.

The dirty stranger ate enough for a small army, paid, and disappeared without another word. She tipped 26% on her card and wrote a small note on the receipt: fight some monsters for me, yeah?

There was a sword drawn next to it, and the doodle of a freckly girl with a crown.

≿————-　❈　————-≾

June

Lionel was snapping her mint gum, popping it and then blowing it out as far as she could again. She popped her gum in the same way people shot paint balls after their parent’s divorce, fast, and with a grudge. Something grated just under the surface of her thoughts, digging it's nails in and beckoning with the sweetest fingertips. Just one last one, it said, that’s always the best one.

She popped her gum again.

Lionel had told her mom she could quit anytime she wanted to, but it turned out that addictive smoke filled with chemicals was very much addictive. She tried not to think about taking a cigarette break.

She leaned against the counter and eavesdropped on the cook’s latest podcast; thank the lord he had switched to true crime dramas. Even if they kept making her glance at the windows and think about bolting them shut.

“Alright, this is an interesting case Alice.” Lionel listened with half an ear, “it’s about a woman who swears a mountain lion-man broke into her condo and stole fifty thousand dollars. Can you believe?” The other podcaster made appropriate sounds of alarm.

“She wasn’t even supposed to be home that night, but she walked into her living room only find what she calls a monster. She saw some yellow eyes in the dark, just eyes, and then teeth wi-" Lionel jumped violently when the diner door chimed, startling her out of her contemplation of smoke and eyes in the dark. She looked up jerkily. A hunched, very muddy person stood in the doorway. Her short dusty brown hair was flattened in all directions and eyes downcast.

Lionel’s eyebrows shot into the air, “the dirty girl.” Her eyes snapped up and Lionel covered her mouth quickly. The girl’s shoulders slumped wearily, “I usually prefer Mia.” She rasped dryly, “But I suppose I’m flexible.” Lionel hurried over to the kiosk with the menu’s; the stranger, Mia, was the first customer of Lionel’s shift that day. She stopped in place, opened her mouth, and then closed it again

Lionel straightened up, “Sorry.” She presented her best service-smile, “How are you doing today?” It seemed like a non-question, empty even, but Mia didn't seem bothered.

She gave a slim smile, “hungry.” “I can help with that,” Lionel turned on her heels, “Same booth?” Mia lifted her head, “You remember,” she squinted at Lionel’s nametag, “Hannah?” Her head tilted to the side, “Hannah today?” Lionel shrugged, “Hannah today.” Mia followed her to the booth.

“I’ll be your server this morning,” she said slowly, “did you want to start off with anything to drink?” Mia smiled slowly, “water.” She said hoarsely, “more than one glass if possible.” Lionel nodded briefly and then looked closely at the stranger, “Are…” She frowned slightly, “are you alright?”

Mia looked up at her, something bruised and strange under her expression, “nothing some pancakes can’t fix.” She said easily, “and maybe a name change I suppose, but you seem to have that covered.” Lionel shrugged, “a girl needs a little variety.” “I see,” Mia threaded a hand through her stray hairs, “Hannah and Xena though, claiming all the good ones. What does that leave me with?” Lionel straightened up, “a girl who could use some eggs.” “Yes,” she grinned, “very good. Though a bit of a mouthful, what about Gabrielle? Or Lucy. Short for Lucifer," she chuckled to herself, "now there’s some variety.”

What a strange person, Lionel noted, but she worked at a 24-hour diner close to a highway, she was well aware the world was filled with strange people.

“Even Lucifer needs water.” She said and turned, “I’ll be right back.” Lionel filled up two glasses of water in the kitchen. The cook was still in the middle of his podcast, but he looked up to examine Mia through his kitchen window. “Wait,” Mike squinted, “is that the one that ordered all that food a month ago?” He frowned, “she smelled bad then too.” Lionel rolled her eyes, “this one doesn't smell that bad. Maybe you’re thinking of that egg lady from two months ago, remember? That woman with all those rotten eggs in her purse.” The cook snorted and responded pointedly, “Nanc kicked her out.” “Yeah, yeah,” she turned, “just start up the grill. I have feeling it will be a big order.” “She doesn't even have shoes on!” He grumbled, “do you have a softer heart than I thought or is this some sort of side-effect of you quitting? I told ya, it’ll do stuff to your head.” She used her hip to open the kitchen door, “let’s both quit. I’ll start with smoking, and you start with bitching.” “I swear Li…” He continued grumbling and Lionel walked back over to her table, the girl was stacking sugar pockets on top of each other. She had already eaten three it looked like.

“Here you are,” Lionel placed the water down and took her notepad out of her apron. “Now,” she clicked her pen, “what’ll it be today?” The girl looked up from under her tousled bangs, “I’ll start with the French toast breakfast and a grand slam steak, and then two eggs, and some hash browns. Then add a side of biscuits and gravy and a fruit bowl with yogurt.”

Lionel gave a wry grin, “is that all?” Mia rose to meet the challenge and shook her head, “No.” She looked up, “I’m thinking a banana crepe too or maybe those honey cakes. What do you recommend?” She asked the last part slowly.

“Huh,” Lionel stuck her bottom lip out, “well, I’ve never had either,” she said honestly, “but my dog’s name is Honey Cakes. So, you know.” “Really?” Her eyebrows lifted, “Honey Cakes. What kind of dog is she?” Mia examined her and Lionel shifted in place uncertainly.

“Border collie mix,” she gave a faint smile, “a pain in my ass, but I wouldn’t trade her for the world. Best damn dog this side of the Appalachians.” She looked back to Mia, “do you… like dogs?”

Mia looked off up at the ceiling and high fluorescent lights, “not really.” She said evenly, “but Honey Cakes is a very good name. I’ll have those.” Lionel clicked her pen again, “I’ll get them right out for you.” She felt like she had something more to say, but it didn’t come to her. She retreated into the kitchen.

She handed the order over to the cook, “here.” He looked down at it with a scowl, “oh. Is that all? Three entrees and three sides.” She shrugged, “she implied she might be the devil.” He turned over to the give her a firm look, “then don’t associate with that type, Jesus girl!” Lionel looked away, “I’ll associate with who I like. She tips well.” That was the end of that conversation, just as Mike went back to complaining and a new trucker walked in the front door. Lionel finished the hour.

Mia maintained her tradition, she ate quickly, paid, and slipped out the door without another word. There was a second doodle on the receipt this time, it was simple, a freckled girl holding the leash of dog dripping with something labeled "honey."

“You” it said, “possibly committing identity theft,” and then “Honey Cakes, very likely a good girl.”

Lionel had no other choice but to wander about what drove people to show up at strange hours, call themselves the devil, and draw cute dogs on papers. She guessed it was probably just how the world was and that she shouldn’t linger on it.

She did end up lingering on it though. It danced in between her thoughts of “one last cigarette” and true crime podcasts about break-ins, she wandered about it for a long time.

≿————-　❈　————-≾

July

Heat like hot syrup dripped down Mia’s skin, the sun was barely risen but the oppressive warmth of West Virginia summer was already layering the land with a fanged vengeance. Her reborn body was simmering with its own heat, but Mia’s mind was elsewhere. Something was wrong with her arm.

Sticky fluid ran down her right wrist and she couldn’t help but swallow waves of nausea cutting through her gut as she walked. Mia couldn’t feel the cut yet, not enough of her body was back, but she could tell it wasn’t going to be pleasant.

The trail of hot blood dripped in between her fingertips, the wound wasn’t deep, but it was long- curving elegantly from the soft of her inner elbow to her shoulder. At first, she worried she had been found, that it had been an Arcadian hunters trap, or worse, a pack. She had been so careful, moved around just enough, kept to herself just enough, didn’t linger anywhere.

Mia’s heart thudded painfully in her chest as her mind flew to images of being scented or tracked, gutted or recruited.

Luckily, she retraced the wolf’s steps and found a broken tree branch with some blood and a bit of clothing stuck to it, she exhaled in relief when it all smelled like her own. The dumb dog part of her seemed to have run into a tree; Mia opted to ignore the cut for now.

She turned toward the familiar highway.

Why does the wolf drag me all the way back to this road? All the way back to the neon sign in the dark? She didn’t have an answer for that.

Mia wandered thoughtlessly back toward the 24-hour diner in the middle of nowhere, she was almost relieved to see the same waitress on duty that night. Does she ever take the day off?

She entered the establishment quietly, feet padding soft on the cold tiles and shoulders hunched as she approached sheepishly from behind. Hannah/Xena/mystery-waitress was attending two other customers. Mia found herself sprouting a tiny smile to the other woman’s back, “booth for one.” The waitress was filling up a coffee cup, two older men in jean jackets and frowns sat at the counter, pointedly ignoring Mia. Xena/Hannah turned slowly.

“Oh my God,” the waitresses mouth fell open, her expression blanking quickly. “You’re bleeding.” Mia hadn’t felt it yet, but she looked down anyway, blood spread down her entire forearm the way tree roots seep into dirt. It was much more than she remembered. “Oops.” She said lamely, realizing that she was surely pushing her luck with this latest antic. “Uh,” she scratched the back of her neck with her good hand.

The waitress put her coffee pot down, “are you-” Mia cut her off before she could finish the thought, “let me just go tidy this up.” She put her finger up, “One sec. Promise not to bleed on your nice floors, just,” She hesitated, “save me a booth.” It somehow made her stomach sink to think of being formally kicked out of this place, though she was no stranger to such things.

“That’s gotta hurt,” the waitress frowned, “don’t tell me there was another accident on your construction site.” Mia took a step backward and didn’t meet her eye, “one second. Right.” She tried to slip out the door, but to her dismay someone else was just behind her, the odds were against her that morning in more than one way. She slid into the corner as the door dinged open and a couple walked through, looking exhausted and irritated. “I told you to take 167.” The woman swore at the man.

“Look Julie, I need coffee and then we can discuss your mother’s original directions.” “I told you not to listen to my mother!”

The waitress gave Mia one last forlorn look and then seated the young couple, Mia slipped out the door and into the dark of the parking lot. She hurried over to the side, past two large trucks and one minivan. Mia planted herself on the hard concrete, neon sign to her back and body hunched over, she tried to tear off a section of her already ragged shirt.

Mia heard not all wolves went completely wild during the moon, that they didn’t roll in dirt, run into trees, and do God knows what every time. She heard they had packs though, and den mothers that kept them all in line.

Mia had no interest in staying in line, however much she resented waking up starving with leaves in her hair.

She inhaled sharply through her teeth when she moved her right arm and a stab of pain shot right up into her shoulder. Her body was becoming fully hers again, she whimpered, “come on,” she tried to move so she could bandage herself, “just this one thing.” She fiddled with her strip of shirt, trying to stop-up the wound while cursing at herself for several long minutes. She tensed every muscle in her body when she heard footsteps approach from behind, Mia sat up perfectly straight and tried not to panic. “Hey there,” a voice called, “you might try not getting gangrene out here.” Mia looked over her shoulder, the waitress was holding out a wet rag and what appeared to be Neosporin. Mia looked blankly back at her.

The waitress joined her at the edge of the parking lot, “I won’t pry.” She said simply, “but you’re gonna want to actually clean that up.” Mia just kept looking, her mouth pinched shut. “It’s not what you think.” She said lowly, and then turned her face away.

“You don’t know what I think,” the waitress sounded wary, “mostly I think credit card insurance is a scam, NSYNC was the best band of the last two decades, full stop, and spam gets a worse rep than it deserves.” Mia couldn’t help but grow a small laugh, “is that all?” The waitress knelt to the ground, crouching in her fitted jeans and looking off into the dry yellow fields. “No, I’ve got more.” Mia shifted in place, “spam is disgusting.” The waitress snorted, “have you had it in rice with eggs and cheese? No, and I don’t accept unsourced opinions.”

Mia’s shoulders untensed, she watched her closely, the light of the newborn sun and ancient sign bathed her freckles in a mix of oranges and yellows. The shadows were long and shifting around them and she seemed like the strangest thing of the night.

“Well alright,” Mia reached out, “you sound like you cite your sources, I’ll take your magic germ-killer.” She shifted toward her, “though I don’t usually trust witchcraft or such.”

The waitress handed over the rag first, carefully passing it to Mia’s good hand. “You’re the one that called herself Lucifer.”

Mia shook her head, “Mia is fine too.” She said firmly, “and I was only trying to keep up with...?” Mia leaned over and squinted into the light, “Carol today?” The waitress gave a small smile, “Carol today.” Mia leaned her head back, exposing her neck to the warm air. “Can I choose your next one?” “Absolutely not.” Mia chuckled and lifted the warm rag to her cut, trying to wipe out the grime and clear away the trail of thick dried blood. She flinched and gritted her teeth when she got to her upper forearm, a burn eating its way into her muscle, she wrinkled her nose and exhaled slowly.

“Oh, give it here,” the waitress snapped, “I only have a fifteen minute break and I’m not being accused of stealing company property if I leave this out here with you.” Mia scowled, “I would give it back.” The waitress, Carol today, took the rag and scooted over to start dabbing and clearing it out, she mumbled to herself as she did. “Really.” Mia curled into herself slightly but let her work, the feel of the warm water and soft touch making her squirm slightly. The waitress paused, “this will sting.” That was all the warning the waitress gave before Mia was yelping, a fresh sting bursting over her whole arm as she slathered disinfectant on the area. Mia shifted in place, looking up at the sky and only twitching a little, the waitress had a big grin on her face.

“And here I thought you’d be all brooding and tough.” She whispered to herself.

Mia stuck her bottom lip out, “I’m not immune to Neosporin, thanks.”

The waitress laughed and then got something out of her back pocket, “where are you from again?” “North.” Mia said shortly, “north-north.”

“First time in the states then?” She hummed, “not at all.” The waitress lifted three band aids in the air, “we’re out of big ones.” She explained, “think about home or something while I put them on.” “I’m not that hurt,” Mia and looked away, “and,” she paused, and something subdued, soft, entered her tone, “thank you for this.” She swallowed thickly, “I didn’t even know I tipped this well.” She snorted gently, “don’t mention it. Now… Hold still.” She delicately applied the three band aids, plastering them up the long cut that ran from her elbow to her shoulder. Mia flinched but held herself still as the waitress worked, it was a quick process done by nimble hands.

“Watch that now.” The waitress said with a gentle pat to the band aids. “You’ll want to change them later.” Mia met her gaze briefly- the waitress’s eyes were large, glimmering, hazel. “I will.”

They sat in silence for a long moment after she finished, looking off into the grasses now glowing golden in the light and waiting for something. The waitress scratched her chin, Mia watched her closely. She spoke in a hush, it felt like the moment for such things, “did you need to go in?” She inhaled, long and noisy. “No.” She looked down at her feet, “give me a moment.” They waited once more, hovering over something. The waitress blinked, “I wanna smoke.”

Mia wrinkled her nose, “okay?” She glanced over to her, “I’m trying to quit.” She reached into her pocket and seemed to dig up a slim, nearly broken cigarette. “Do you mind? Last one.” Mia reached out hesitantly, “you just said you’re trying to quit.” “I want to quit,” she looked down at the end of the white stick. “Yeah. I really do.”

She brought the cigarette to her lips and looked visibly upset, Mia plucked it back out of her mouth. “Then do it.” Mia took the cigarette from the waitress and put it into her tattered pocket, the waitress exhaled and nodded, they both stood up together to go back into the restaurant.

≿————-　❈　————-≾

Lionel found an extra forty dollars added to her tip that day, her pride smarted from the display, but her wallet was more than hungry enough for it. There was another picture drawn on the receipt this time.

Thanks for the save :)

Buy yourself some new disinfectant or spam I guess. I’ll see you around, warrior princess Carol-Hannah.

-Mia.

Lionel shouldn’t, but she did. She stuffed the receipt into her apron until she could take pictures of it on her phone and hide that away too.

≿————-　❈　————-≾

August

Mia brought flowers. It was stupid, she knew it was stupid, but flowers were how you thanked people, right? Whenever her mom got mad her dad always brought flowers, got down on one knee and said "thanks for being the honey to my milk" or something just as foolish.

Mia was not going to say that. She was however going to thank the waitress very politely, hand over some flowers, and do it all much more presentably than usual. She’d be ready this time.

She had resigned herself to the fact that the wolf wanted to end up around this highway, dropping Mia off in the middle of the woods somehow always close to the diner. She didn’t question the animal. She was long past that.

Mia set up a box, placed where she could find it with extra clothes, baby wipes, and a pair of good shoes. She made sure she was prepared this time.

It was hid in a part of the woods where wildflower’s grew in bundles, vicious in their pursuit of the sun and unhindered by any walls or roads. Mia looked at them for a long moment, transfixed by their scraggly long stems and purple blossoms. She had grown up in the city and things like them almost made her glad she left.

She gathered up the purple flowers one by one, feeling the grainy stems and watching the sun rise over their silky delicate heads. Fastened together they were unkempt and crooked, but Mia had an odd feeling the waitress might even like that.

After gathering more than a dozen she headed toward the empty dry field and the glow of a silent building. Mia had taken her time gathering the plants and actual cars were driving up the road by then, either having just pulled off the highway or found themselves terribly lost.

Mia didn’t pay them much mind, she couldn’t feel the brittle grass against the soles of her feet for once and she was on high on her own purpose. That purpose certainly involved toast and hash browns first, but something a little more as well.

She strode into the diner, spine upright and chest puffed out, planning the first words she would say to the waitress. She hoped the first words back would be "you clean up nice," but there were only so many moments in life that could be like the movies.

Mia deflated like a popped balloon when a different woman turned around as the door dinged, a different woman with bright blue eye shadow and rose-bud lips. A different woman who wore the apron.

“Oh,” Mia’s flowers fell to her side and her smile fell with it.

The new waitress, Tilda the tag said, didn’t even bat an eye, Mia was wearing shoes this time- she wasn’t the strangest person in the joint anymore.

“Table for one?” Tilda asked as she reached for the menus.

Mia could only look around, somehow hopeful in a small way. “No,” she found herself saying, and then her stomach grumbled. “Yes.” “Alright, this way,” the waitress seemed nonplussed, “gonna be a hot one today.” “Yeah,” Mia could feel her chest concaving, this wasn’t how the scene went in her head. “It’s going to be terrible.” “I hear ya’,” Tilda sat her down and placed the menu gingerly in front of Mia, “my name is Tilda, I’ll be server today. What can I get you started with?” Mia looked down at her flowers, and then back to the woman. “Um.” Tilda glanced at the present now too, “or are you waiting for someone?” Mia just shook her head, “I had… a question.” She said stiltedly, her tongue running away with her.

Tilda raised one very fine eyebrow up into the air, “shoot.” Mia took a deep breath, “I had a waitress here a month ago, and uh, sometime before that. She went by Xena or Hannah or Carol…” Mia realized she really didn’t have a chance. She didn’t even have her real name. “She’s freckly?” Tilda just nodded shortly, “Name changer? I know her, she’s worked here forever. She’s out today though.”

“Oh,” Mia lifted her chin, “Is she… alright?” Mia wasn’t sure if she was crossing a line or not, “a friend told me to give her these.” She indicated the flowers. Both of Tilda’s eyebrows rose like questions marks now, perfectly in tune with each other. “I wouldn’t worry.” Tilda played with her pen, flipping it back and forth in her fingers, “she’s a piece of hardwood that one. Heard she was a bit of a mess on the phone, but she’ll be back soon.” Tilda’s eyes darted to the flowers, “though maybe Li will like those, she’s out in Nolan I think.” Mia sat with that for a long moment, words echoing in her head, was a bit of the mess on the phone.

Mia was reminded she didn’t know anything about this girl, mostly that the woman had bad opinions on things and helped strangers out on their worst nights.

“Should I leave you with the menu?” Mia shook herself out of her thoughts, “No, I’ll start with a bowl of oatmeal, hash browns, and a plate of pancakes with…”

The flowers wilted next to her.

≿————-　❈　————-≾

This is a bad idea. It is definitely, very much, a terrible, bad idea.

Mia Kotsiopoulos moved to the outskirts of Nolan, West Virginia in order to disappear, places like this tended suck the memory out of anything. But this was definitely going to be memorable.

She stood outside a beige building wearing oxford shoes, brown slacks that went to her shins, and a short-sleeve blue button-up. It was much better than her usual "tatters and questionable hygiene" approach.

She had even showered before she showed up.

But nonetheless, she had shown up to a service-workers house in the middle of the day, holding flowers. She never thought the movie she played out in her head would be the "creepy stalker" variety.

Mia was standing outside a mini condo with a beige outside and beige door and a scraggly bush in the front. A house cat peered at her from one of the windows across the street and the sun beat hot against her neck from up above.

She stared at a door with cheap silver numbers on the front and flap for mail, it looked unassuming and quiet. It was in a small neighborhood that was made smaller by the size of the town itself; Mia had followed the scent of sunscreen perfume and grease all the way here.

She tried to deny in her head that she memorized the waitress’s scent, but that would be a bold-faced lie at this point. She kept staring at the door.

The cat hissed at her from across the way and Mia hung her head, “what am I doing?” She turned to leave, she wasn’t this, she promised she wouldn’t be.

She crept back toward her Mitsubishi and slammed her wildflowers in the passenger's seat, trying to suppress any nascent feelings bubbling up. All she did was bandage your arm, Mia reminded herself, it was nothing.

Then she heard a voice calling, “Honey Cakes!” The voice carried, “Honey-Honey!” Mia lifted her chin up and peered down the long sun baked street, a figure stood cupping her hands around her mouth and wearing a fluffy lilac robe. The figure looked left and right, walking frantically in Mia’s direction without looking at her. “Here girl! Honey Cakes.” “Oh,” Mia straightened up, her mouth making a small perfect circle. The waitress looked visibly distraught, her eyes red-rimmed and long hair undone and tumbling lankly down her back. Her robe had a yellow stain on the sleeve and a thin nightshirt peaked out from underneath, crumpled and forgotten.

Mia took a couple uncertain steps forward; the waitress looked every which direction on the ground before she noticed Mia. Her eyes went wide, “you.”

Mia suddenly didn’t know what to do with her hands, or face, or any part of her body. “Are you missing your dog?” She asked quickly. The waitress seemed to take a long second to respond, frowning slightly and probably weighing this all in her head. Maybe she was thinking of calling the police on one of her customers randomly showing up near her house.

Then she nodded hesitantly, “yeah…” “I was just on a walk,” Mia tried to justify her presence, “and I heard you calling out.” The waitress touched her messy hair and looked down at her feet, they were bare. “Cool. Alright. Enjoy your walk.”

Mia straightened up, “also,” she struggled, her face flushing slightly. “I wanted to thank you. Really thank you.”

The waitress seemed to look at her for the first moment, eyes focusing out the depths of their worry. “Don’t mention it,” she said with a familiar breezy note to her voice, “only a dick would leave you out there to bleed out.” “I don’t know about that,” Mia rubbed the back of her neck self-consciously, “most people probably wouldn’t even let me eat there in my state the first time.” The waitress shrugged loosely, “most people suck.” Mia gave a newfound smile, “can I help you look for your dog?”

She paused again, lips puckering and noticeably bare of makeup that day. She gave a tight nod, “you have good eyes?” “No,” Mia said simply, “but I can, uh, I can help.” The waitress gave her a perplexed look, “alright, yeah, this way.” They walked down the sidewalk together and the waitress pointed around. “I lost her a night ago…” She said weakly, “it’s been almost 72 hours.” Her voice sounded strained and fragile.

Mia looked both directions, “I can definitely help. Does she respond to a whistle?” The waitress nodded, “I trained her with my brother, he’s big on dogs. Before she became just mine, he used to do this big wolf whistle to get her to come," she smirked in a private way, "he was such a show-off.” Mia broke into a fond expression, “K.” She wet her lips, put two fingers in her mouth, and let out a truly impressive sound, a ringing golden whistle that echoed down the street like a shot arrow.

The waitress let out a whistle of her own in response, “woah.” “Honey Cakes!” Mia called next, “Honey.” They walked down the cracked sidewalk and toward the center of town, Mia tried not to stare at the other girl, and tried even harder not to bump into her. It was a long walk.

The waitress started slowing down once they passed the post office, ten minutes had passed by then and she had started flagging, her chin drooping down toward her chest and expression cracking like porcelain.

Mia tried to move quick, “we’ll find her.” She reassured softly, “I’m sure she’s looking for you too.” The waitress shook her head, she closed her eyes and took a jerky turn down a narrow alley, walking purposefully ahead, but making no noise or move to call for her dog. Her shoulders sloped into two perfect arched hills, trembling slightly.

“Wait,” Mia chased after her, “it’s only been a night, dogs come back from much longer trips than this.”

The waitress put her face in her hands, “it’s my fault.” She said, voice wobbling, “it’s all my fucking fault. I left the door open.” Mia reached out toward her, suddenly unsure of what to do. “Anyone could do that. We can fix it.” The waitress sniffed and shook her head violently, “I was yelling on the phone. She hates when I yell, and her dinner was late. I should have known this would happen! She deserves better, I can’t even keep one fucking thing right.” Her voice was wet now and heavy.

Mia risked putting her hand on the other woman’s shoulder, “hey, hey now,” she spoke softly, as if to not to spook a frightened deer. “I’m sure she knows you love her, and it was just a bad night. I’m sure she wants to come home.” The waitress made a tiny, hiccuping sound and turned her large hazel eyes on her, watery and full. “I promised her I’d buy a place with a big yard by now. I promised, and,” she wiped at her face, “I lied. And kept lying and forgetting. And now she’s gone.”

Mia took a deep breath, “are carrying her leash? Or any of her things?” The question seemed to surprise the waitress out of her self-pity, “any of her things?” Mia just nodded, the waitress reached into her pocket and produced a yellow collar. “I take her collar off when we’re at home since she hates wearing it.” Misery was apparent in the waitress's tone.

“Okay,” Mia centered herself, closing her eyes and taking a deep breath in through her nose. “Alright.” She also shouldn’t do this; it wasn’t something she allowed herself to do. Mia tolerated the wolf when it forced itself out once a month but tolerating and tapping into were two different things. This was fraternizing with hostile forces.

Mia’s sense of smell was already acute, but this was going take something fantastical.

She couldn’t "turn" in broad daylight like this, but the full moon was simmering just above, barely contained by the blanket of silky blue sky. Mia could feel the cool, surging power latent in her veins. Just a little, she promised herself, just enough for this.

Her sense of smell piqued all at once, sensations rushing in like a floodgate being opened and storming the fort. Everything came into focus, the coffee shop next door brewing bitter smells, the lady down the street lathering her hands with coconut lotion, old meats, rotten fruits, sneakers.

She reeled back, taking a step toward the walls and clutching her chest. Mia quickly collected herself, took the collar in hand, and lifted it to her nose, taking a deep breath.

“This way.” She started walking decisively back toward the street, not sparing a look toward the waitress.

“Wait,” the other woman stumbled after her, “where are you going?” “Follow me,” she said, “we’re going to find your dog.” She glanced over her shoulder and wet her lips, “trust me.”

≿————-　❈　————-≾

Lionel had no idea what she was doing. She had no idea what she was doing last night when she yelled at her credit card company for an hour and no idea what she was doing when she called into work that morning for a "personal day." She never took work off.

She couldn’t lose Honey Cakes though, she just couldn’t.

The "five am woman" was back, Mia, and Lionel was watching her wide shoulders as she strode fixedly down the street. Her short hair was styled now, sides cropped short and bangs smoothed back, she was wearing pressed, clean clothes that flattered her sturdy figure.

Her skin was moon-bright under all the mud Lionel had seen coating her before. She had a mole on her chin and clear blue eyes in the daytime.

She cleaned up nicely.

Lionel, however, did not. She was fully aware that she was in her “lazy day robe” and her nose was no doubt still leaking, it couldn’t have been a worse day.

“No, I’m serious,” she spoke to the other woman’s back as they strode out of town, “where are we going?” Mia didn’t look back, “we’re getting close.”

They left the main street and passed the last few houses in the town of Nolan, population 1,022. The rest of the houses clustered farther back and further out.

They were on bare road soon, where the sidewalk disappeared, and the world stretched out into trees, old tires, and white shacks in the distance that hosted scavengers and drug deals. Lionel followed mutely behind, she didn’t like crying, she liked it less when it was in front of other people.

“So,” Mia spoke up gently, “when did you get Honey Cakes?” Lionel ducked her head down. “When my grandma died.” She said without inflection, “My brother thought it would cheer the family up… and then she just became my dog.” Mia looked over her shoulder and nodded, “what’s she like?” “Terrible,” Lionel rubbed her face, “but she’s so sweet I forgive her for chewing up all my good shoes anyway.” Mia chuckled and looked down at Lionel’s bare feet, her face flushed slightly. “Would you believe me if I said a dog got rid of all my shoes too?” She smoothed her hair back, “twinsies.” Lionel couldn’t help but grow a small smile, “why do you think I let you in? Kindred spirits.”

Mia laughed, a round and full sound. “I’m not sure about that.” She paused, “but I would like to help.” Lionel became somehow even more perplexed, where are we going?

“I’m trusting you,” she said slowly, “I don’t follow just anyone out into uninhabited areas without my phone on me.” Mia’s back muscles bunched together, “it’s not uninhabited,” she pointed ahead, “there, that’s what I thought.” A stray mechanics shop appeared just around the corner, white with two garages and a tiny office attached to the side. It probably serviced the locals and whoever was unlucky enough to break down out here.

“Well I’ll be damned,” Lionel sped up, “and you think she’s…?” Mia just nodded, “see? Trustworthy.” Lionel lit up, heart suddenly lifting for the first time that day. “If she is really here…” She said slowly, “will you trust me too?” Mia frowned, “what do you mean?” Lionel lifted her head, “my name is Lionel by the way. Lionel Campbell.” “Oh,” Mia smiled, her entire face stretching into an enchanting excitable thing. “Oh, that’s a great name.” Lionel shifted in place, “Xena is better.” Mia shook her head, “completely not. I love lions.” “And not dogs?” Mia looked ahead, “Maybe some dogs.”

Lionel looked ahead too as the mechanics shop approached like a mirage, she was about to prompt Mia again, but a stray bark coursed through the air. A familiar high-pitched sound that was equally fussy and warm.

“Honey Cakes?” She called carefully, and then she heard another bark, “Honey-Honey!”

She started running as she saw the face of a floppy-eared brown and yellow dog stick her head up in the office window. “Girl!” Lionel was sprinting toward the door, hands outstretched, another bark followed.

They had found her dog.

—　❈　—

The mechanic had found Honey Cakes wandering by the side of the road the night before, seemingly turned around and confused. He brought her to his shop and gave her some food and water, he had planned to bring her to the nearest shelter the next day. Lionel had gotten there just in time.

Honey Cakes jumped up on her the second the door opened, and she wrapped her arms around the dog, “I missed you too!” She could have cried again.

She thanked the mechanic and put the collar back on her happy, dumb dog. Honey Cakes ran around in circles and barked at her, tongue out. It was a muggy warm day, but it somehow felt lighter than ever.

Afterward, Lionel, Mia, and the dog retreated toward the wild green grass near the shop, sitting down in a field to rub the dog’s belly.

“Thank you,” Lionel gushed again, “I would have never found her if that mechanic had drove her all the way to the shelter in Edward’s Town.” Mia wasn’t looking at her, staring off into the distance instead, “no problem.” She grinned, “Lionel.” Lionel stretched out across the thick grass, still petting her shaggy friend. “Well you’ve got my name now.” She steadied her gaze, “what’s your magic trick?” Mia turned in profile, angling her head slightly toward her, expression blank, “what do you mean?” Lionel leaned forward like it was a secret, “how’d you find my dog?” Her eyes went wide, “are you psychic?” Mia chuckled, but it wasn’t exactly a happy sound. “You got me,” she lay back down in the grass, stretching out spread eagle and bathing in the sheets of sunshine. “I’m psychic.” Lionel turned over on her side to face her, “A psychic who sniffs things and follows their tracks?” She said quietly, “and always shows up during the full moon covered in dirt?” Mia glanced back at her, eyes filling with panic and brow denting inward. “Lionel…” Lionel just shook her head, crawling up closer to her. “I never listened much to rumors and newscasters.” She spoke ever so softly, “it’s not my business.” She gave her a smile, a real one, “all I know is that you found my dog.” Mia shifted away from her, she didn’t seem to be breathing. “It isn’t...I.” Lionel reached out, clamping down around the other woman’s arm, “where are you from, really?” “Ottawa.”

Lionel just nodded, “Good. How do you like Nolan so far?” Mia relaxed, just ever so slightly. “Well.” She said simply, words slow and pointed. “Best service I’ve gotten anywhere so far.” Lionel rolled her eyes spectacularly, “Careful,” she said dangerously, “Honey Cakes could get the wrong idea. She bites people who she thinks are even close to flirting with me. A real puritan like that.” “It’s okay,” Mia scratched the sprawling Honey Cakes behind the ears, “I have a way with dogs.” Lionel ducked her head down, a flush creeping up her neck. This isn’t good, she swallowed. “So, what do you do, Mia? Dog whispering?” “God no,” Mia sniffed, “Freelance coding, but I’m hoping to switch jobs when I, you know, grow up. Past thirty I’m thinking. Maybe forty.” Lionel laughed, spirits lifting, “and what would you like to be when you grow up?"

Mia's eyes gleamed impishly, “I’m thinking tiny foods food blogger or custom shoelace knitter, that sort of thing.”

“Something practical,” she nodded solemnly.

Mia grinned so wide it looked like it might eat her face, “butterfly-dust expert maybe, professional harmonica tuner, wild hamster tamer.”

Lionel giggled, actually giggled, "that's what I was gonna guess! You took mine." They snickered together, and something was so light in the air it felt like it might burst. Honey Cakes didn’t even try and bite the new girl, not that she ever would.

≿————-　❈　————-≾

September

Lionel still didn’t know what she was doing, but something about this had become increasingly right. Increasingly like something she couldn’t escape and didn’t want to. The minute hand had ticked forward.

It was the end of her shift on a Friday, she kept glancing out the windows and checking the streets. Tilda was examining her, “why are you so jittery, Li?” She poked her as they passed each other, “this from the quitting? I’m with you there, Brad won’t even look at me if I sneak one nowadays.”

“No,” Lionel kept her eyes on the window, “it’s nothing." “Nothing,” Tilda just grinned with her bright red knowing smile. Lionel wrinkled her nose, “this is normal.” She looked out the door again, “I’m acting normal.” Her expression softened, the sun was far in the sky and it would only be twenty more minutes, she's coming.

Tilda laughed like aluminum foil being crinkled, “damn. I knew Mikey said you were smiling more, but I’ll have whatever stuff you’re on now.” Lionel rolled her eyes, picking up a stack of dirty plates. “It’s called a good work attitude.” She turned on her heels, “try it.” Tilda laughed again, huge and exuberant, Lionel had a weird notion she would miss that if she ever did manage to leave.

Another fifteen minutes passed, Lionel’s heart had moved into her throat and the world was turning in slow motion. Somehow, she didn’t mind.

She felt like she was giving herself whiplash turning each time the door dinged, she was only finally right the fiftieth time. A woman came through the door wearing a pair of slacks, oxfords, and a clean purple shirt buttoned to her throat, she smiled with all her teeth.

Mia was holding an array of flowers and a small box. “Hey.” She said gently and Lionel hurried over.

“I’ve got five minutes left,” she whispered, “but I don’t think they’ll notice.” Mia tilted her head to the side.

“Take your time,” there was something reserved in Mia's tone, her voice deep and sending a shiver down Lionel’s spine.

“Take a table, anywhere.” She ran to the back room to sign out, proper hours be damned. This was close enough.

“Is that what this was about?” Tilda commented, she still had five hours left in her shift and was a little grumpy for it. She squinted at the young woman seated in a middle booth.

Lionel just shook her head, “no judging. It’s not about anything.” She grinned so widely it felt like it might hurt, she winked. “Yet.”

“I ain’t one to judge," Tilda said loosely, "the lord made girl’s like that to tempt nun’s themselves.” She waved a hand in the air and snorted, “it’s a step-up from Rickey, I’ll give you that. This one actually know their way around a downstairs department store?”

“Oh my God,” Lionel threw her apron into her purse, “I’ll see you later Tilda.” She waved, “Tell Mikey absolutely nothing is happening.”

“He thinks that girl is a demon or something.” “I know!” She ran through the door, “not even close.” Tilda was just laughing again.

Lionel darted up to Mia's table with wings on her heels, “Come on.” She came grabbed for Mia’s left hand, “Let’s get out of here. There’s a farmer’s market in Edward’s today, Edwards! I’ll pay for the gas.” “Wait,” Mia said stiltedly, the reserved tone was back. “Wait. Just a moment. I wanted to… well, I have this for you.” Lionel blinked a couple times, “Ah, Mia,” she grinned, “you know I love flowers, but I’m running out of vases. I’ll be filling the bathtub with them soon.” Mia shook her head, and suddenly Lionel recognized the diving sadness behind her gaze. “Want to sit for a moment?” Lionel frowned and folded into the booth across from her, heart sinking. This was supposed to be the day. After a few dinner’s out at other restaurants and a trip to the fair Lionel had decided it had been long enough, she was ready to kiss a wolf.

But maybe Mia knew that.

“What is it?” She held herself perfectly still.

Mia looked at her hands, tapping her short nails on the table. “Open this.” She passed a present to Lionel, it was elaborately wrapped in shiny blue wrapping paper and the bow on top might as well have been a work of art onto itself. Uh-oh. Lionel hesitantly took the box, she picked at the ribbon on the top tepidly, then she put it down again. “No,” she lifted her chin up, “I won’t.” Mia’s eyes went wide, a half-hearted smile followed, “I promise it’s not a dead bird or something.” She said delicately, “I’m not actually that much like Honey Cakes.” Lionel shook her head, “I know what this is.” She huffed, “and I’m not having it.”

“What is it?” Mia blinked rapidly and then sighed. Lionel made a face, “it’s only been a few months,” she whispered, “passing through should take longer than that I say. A little longer. I have an uncle who’s been passing through here since ‘75.” Mia’s head fell, broken down on the spot, she looked away. “You’re too smart for your own good.” “I know a going-away present when I see one.” Lionel made a face at her, “I suppose you were hoping I was an idiot.” “No!” Mia squirmed in place, “it’s one of those things I really like about you... it just makes this so much harder.” “Then don’t do it,” Lionel swiftly looked toward the road outside. Mia sighed, reaching for Lionel’s hand and taking it. She stroked the top of Lionel's hand with her thumb, “don’t worry.” She whispered, “your life will be better for it. Wolves… are carnivores. They eat everything good whole."

“They’re pack animals too,” Lionel took her hand back and looked down at her lap, “are you just going to keep being alone after this? Is that really better than being with…” She hummed for a long moment, “you know.”

She looked up just in time to see Mia bow her head, “nothing would be better than that.” She reached for her again, “but we can’t.” Lionel’s pulse spiked, I can't do this, it was too much, she couldn’t. She sprang to her feet, hopping up and slipping out of the booth and dashing for the door. She ran out into the parking lot and took deep gasping breaths. “Goddammit.” Mia ran after her, “Lionel.” She called desperately. “Lionel, you know what I am. You already guessed a long time ago; I have a target on my back.” “So?” Lionel looked up at the puffy white clouds and gritted her teeth.

“Wolves are bad news. Lone one’s are even worse…” Mia struggled with her words. “I have to keep moving. There are hunters, and other packs. I didn’t mean for this to happen.” Lionel turned, slowly, carefully, around. “But it happened.” She whispered, “you really want to go back?” Mia shook, barely moving at all. “I can’t do it to you. I can’t, it’s not a stable life.” Lionel’s hair tickled her shoulder tops as she moved, “fuck stable.” She took a bold step toward her, “I let you into my restaurant, all grubby and sad-looking. Let me in now.” Mia didn’t move back, “God, this is hard.” She murmured, “I won’t be able to replace any of it you know.” Her brow dented, “you, arguing with telemarketers, cooking everything with that weird cheese, yelling at the TV. I won’t be able to replace it.” Lionel put her hands out, “then don’t.” Lionel crept closer and Mia didn’t pull away, her expression softened. Lionel slowly rested her arms around Mia’s neck, inhaling her earthy scent and drinking in her clear eyes, Mia let her. It was bright out, bright and heart-pounding, but Lionel found a way forward, moving their faces so close together it stung.

Mia put a hand through Lionel’s hair and her breath tickled her cheek. “You might regret this.” Lionel shrugged, “try me.” And then they came together, golden and impossible. She kissed her, a sugar rush of lips and firm touches, they had been waiting for this. Mia’s fingers pressed into her waist and drew her close, kissing like an undertow with no ground to catch yourself on.

Lionel kissed back, hungry and soft for it, soft with the warm breathy sighs and movements and all the things she hadn’t hoped for. She got lost in the heady world of a girl and something she didn’t know was possible.

She was new again.

≿————-　❈　————-≾

Mia drew one last thing on a receipt for the diner: thanks for everything. I’ll return her in one piece.

Lionel added something as well: I won’t.

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

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#wlw #werewolves #urban fantasy #f/f #original story #sapphic #lesbian romance #femslash #original writing #the waitress and the werewolf #my work #i thought I should finally post this here

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radishearts · 5 years ago

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Confession week: ladynoir july

it's still day 4 but it's part 12: hairstyles

Ao3

Chapter 1, Chapter 2, Chapter 3, Chapter 4, Chapter 5, Chapter 6, Chapter 7, Chapter 8, Chapter 9, Chapter 10, Chapter 11,

Ladybug groaned as the evillustrator, or at least this version of him tugged at her hand styling it according to the directions of style queen who was watching every move like a hawk.

This was almost worse than tourture.

He tugged at her locks again.

Never mind it was worse.

She couldn’t help but feel nervous as a troupe of akuma’s from previous battles, fussed over dresses shoes and other accessories.

It was rather confusing.

To see akuma’s working together on such a strange event.

Holy matrimony, if lady wifi and style queen could stop bickering for two seconds about trends maybe she could have enough time to think of an escape plan.

She thought of calling her lucky charm, but it would be too hard to defeat a room of at least 10 akumas of different skill sets, they could easily take her down in a one shot.

She would have to wait...no pray that rena and carapace would be able to find chat and the rest of the heroes to bust her out of this mess.

Aka an arranged marriage between her and viperon.

Akumas had such weird tastes in shipping. ~ Rena and carapace walked hand in hand through the dark forest.

Splotchy patches of light were scattered all over the path, and they found it was easier- no safer to walk together.

After about 20 minutes of consistent walking on the path they heard the crunch of crisp leaves and a sing song voice, chorusing the reprise of a disney piece, which they couldn’t pinpoint.

The muffled voices moved closer, and rena and carapace, couldn’t help but step back in fear.

“When will my reflection show who i am insiiiiiiidddddddddddddeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee!!!!!!!!!”

Roi singe cackled.

“for the love of miraculous, do shut up chanton.”

Rena looked as if she was about to explode as the trio turned down the path towards them, and carapace grabbed her wrist.

“No one flirts with chat noir, but his lady.”

“Rena-”

His sentence was cut off by chat noir running towards them embracing them in hug.

“Thank the good lord, your alive," he broke it searching over their shoulders "where’s ladybug?”

“We need to hurry, she’s been captured.”

“What?!?”

“Yeah dude, she was taken by style queen.”

“There’s more of them?”

“Yeah, dude, like heaps, we have too save her come on!”

“Yeah, we’re probably too late, she’s probably already married to him.” he sighed

“Dude you seem way to enthusiastic about his.” carapace said sarcastically

“Yeah chat, go save your girlfriend.”

“She’s not my girlfriend, and she probably likes him anyway.”

“Dude, i wasn’t supposed to tell you this, but like while me and LB were talking she told me how much she enjoyed spending time with you.”

“Yeah, like a friend.”

“No… not just like a friend, more than that.”

Chat and rena perked up.

“And you didn’t tell me about this why?”

“Because rena, it was supposed to be a secret, but the poor guy was so oblivious, I just had to tell him.”

“So,” he choked, “she likes me?”

“That's what I implied.”

“Go for it dude!” rena encouraged, “ don’t let some snake steal her, it’s confession week remember?”

“Right.”

“Go be her prince dude.”

Chat smiled.

“Thanks guys.”

“You think we just gonna let our otp get ruined because you have a lack of self confidence, nuh-uh, dude.”

“By the way, have you told her yet?”

“Yeah, what is your plan.”

“It’s a secret.”

“Can we leave?” the dragoness spoke with a sharp and fiery tone, which chat had to admit made him fear for his life.

“Sure…” - All of the akumas had cleared out of the room allowing her time to so called ‘admire’ her dress.

It was basically an ugly piece of bunched fabric.

“Ladybug!” a yellow striped heroine whispered from behind her.

“Chlo- i mean queen bee, what are you doing here?”

“Me and pegasus have been searching for you around the castle. The real question is why are you here? Did you just let yourself be captured?”

“I told rena and carapace to get help, and yes i let myself be captured.”

“Why you waiting on your prince charming to save you? Your perfectly capable of escaping and you and me could easily could take them down. Strong woman like us can stand on our own two feet.”

“Queen bee, I know this comes from the best in you, but I honestly think it’s better that we wait! Go find everyone else and then you can bust me and viperon out of here.”

“But…”

“I trust you.”

“Yes, ladybug.” - As the 5 heroes continued on the path way back it was made clear that the path, was bricked, and yellow.

Capace, rena, chat and roi singe exchanged glances, with no hesitation they linked arms.

“We’re off to see the wizard! The wonderful wizard of oz!”

The skipped off leaving the dragoness to shake her head in utter disappointment.

- Ladybug sludged as she walked down the aisle, following the enthusiastic footsteps of the puppeteer or at least this version.

If there was ever one day she was going to get married, she really didn’t expect it to be in the presence of akumas and to a guy she didn’t even know that well.

Viperon smiled as soon as he saw her, he leant into her and whispered in her ear.

“Don’t worry will escap-”

The akuma had made her first appearance since she had made them dissaperate and into this crazy fairy tale land.

It’s fairy tale book held open.

Ladybug leaned over to him.

“The akuma is in her book.”

“Gottcha.”

The akuma coughed awkwardly interrupting their conversation.

“No interrupting the ceremony with side chats.”

“No interrupting our side chats with your ceremony.” ladybug retorted, receiving a snicker from several in the audience and viper.

“Silence.”

The two heroes exchange glances of amusement draining out the akumas monologue.

“And now ...ladybug do you take viperon to be your lawfully wedded husband.”

“Wait what?” viperon exclaimed in disbelief

“Your getting married.” - The troupe was stopped by akuma.

weredad.

Who seemed to be searching for someone.

The monster leaned in suspiciously at the trespassers.

“Trust me guys i got this!” chat murmured clearing his throat.

Well he didn’t, got this, got this, but if he could accomplish defeating a giant, he could surely ask the girl of his dreams, who may or not return his feelings out.

“Fee, fi, fo,fum, where is jack? so i can take him up to my beanstalk.”

“I have no idea who dis jack is, but we are here for the ball.”

Chat plastered a fake smile on his face and to his surprise the giant let them pass through the gates.

As they made it to the door they found queen bee and pegasus standing in conversation at the doorway, seemingly arguing over something.

“You just let her go?”

“Well i couldn’t just kidnap her? Could i?”

She paused at the sight of them.

“Chat noir, rena rouge, carapace, roi singe and you….”

“Yeah, it’s us, where were you guys?”

“We’ve just been here, annoyed that ladybug insisted that she was going to wait for you to show up.”

“At least we did.”

“Time to crash a wedding.”

“Just another wednesday!”

@ladynoirjuly2019

#chat being dramatic #Ladynoir #ladynoirjuly2019 #chat #ladybug #queen bee #a little Pegasus #roi singe #rena #carapace #the dragoness #aka kagami tsurugi #long chapter #the reunion is happening next chapter #i've been deprived of ladynoir and i need more #the banter is coming

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plantsandbirdsandrocksand-things · 5 years ago

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Laurits and the Worst Week Imaginable (but at least there’s free brotherly love)

Summary: After the showdown with Vidar, it's Laurits that finds Magne outside the warehouse and has to deal with the realization that Magne might not be the only one with godly powers

Word count: 2562

Warnings/notes: uhhh there’s season one spoilers

Read on AO3

Oh.

Oh shit.

Laurits stopped dead at the sight before him, something horribly cold worming its way under his skin.

Magne - laying on the ground, so still and lifeless, even the rain pounding the concrete not enough to conceal the overpowering stench of ozone leaking from the scene before him like blood. And right there opposite him, lay Vidar Jutul, looking very, very dead. It was a monumental effort to will life back into his limbs and then rush forward on legs that still felt like lead.

What in the ever-living fuck had Magne done?

Gry had been barely holding it together when she’d found him walking home after his speech, still relishing the memory of Ran Jutul’s face as he’d stood on the podium. She’d pulled up beside him in Fjor’s car and then practically fallen out of it, stammering something about Magne and Vidar in a warehouse - some ridiculous story about his brother fighting none other than the most powerful man in Edda - and Laurits had almost laughed at the joke.

Until he’d noticed Fjor in the backseat of the car, face shockingly white and clearly barely holding onto consciousness. And then how badly Gry was shaking as she pushed him towards the warehouse. And it was at exactly that moment when there was a terrifyingly loud crash as a white sliver of lightning cleaved the air in two. After that, Laurits couldn’t question why Gry was fleeing with a half-dead Fjor in the opposite direction to the hospital.

So he’d run. As fast as he could in this stupid dress and stupid shoes because Magne wasn’t exactly the sharpest tool in the box and if what Gry said was true then… well, at the very least he’d need someone to bail him out. Or at least that’s what Laurits told himself had sparked the all-consuming dread that pounded alongside his heart. And now he was here, at the scene of what he hoped to all hell wasn’t a murder.

“Magne!” He hissed, and reached to shake his brother. An arch of static electricity connected to Laurits’ fingers and he yelped.

“Wake up!”

Magne’s shallow breaths continued, hands twitching at his sides very slightly.

“Magne! For the love of god, you are not allowed to die on me. ” Laurits lent over him, and hesitated only a fraction of a second before slapping him full across the face. As if he’d received a bolt of electricity, Magne surged upwards, sending Laurits reeling back - but not fast enough to avoid the hand that shot forward and gripped his wrist. Hard.

“You,” Magne was breathing hard, “Loki-”

“No - no - it’s Laurits, Magne!” Laurits tried to pull himself out of Magne’s grip, but it was unyielding, “I’m Laurits - ah, fuck - let go, that hurts!”

At that something seemed to snap inside of Magne. The burning intensity in his eyes faded as quickly as it had come and he hurriedly released Laurits, something like guilt now etched onto his face. The rain-kissed wind that had been building abruptly dropped as he rocked back onto his ankles, clutching his wrist where several splotchy bruises were already forming. He let out a breath and shook his head at Magne who just stared back.

“Can you stand?”

Magne put a hand on his ribs and winced “No.”

“Right.” Laurits said, wondering what the hell they were going to do now. “Right.” He slowly stood, eyes flickering over his brother. He seemed... alive. Laurits supposed he couldn't ask for much else, considering Magne had just been struck by god damned lightning. Laurits dragged his gaze over to Vidar, still motionless on the concrete. “Are you going to tell me what you did, or am I gonna have to guess?”

“If I did, you wouldn’t believe me.”

“Try me.”

“Vidar showed up and tried to kill me. I stopped him.” Magne said it so matter of factly and with so much conviction that for a second Laurits almost believed him.

“So you... called down lightning?” Laurits tried - he tried so damn hard - to keep his voice neutral and pleasant, but by the way Magne’s face dropped, he knew it sounded as disbelieving as he felt.

“You don’t believe me.”

“No Magne - I just… I just don’t understand.”

Magne didn’t reply and Laurits shook his head again, moving over to Vidar and roughly searching for a pulse. There was a moment when Lautris was sure he was dead, but there it was. Weak and fluttering, but it was there. This time his sigh was one of relief. Dealing with VIdar Jutul’s corpse might have been a step too far, even for him. Laurits pulled out his phone.

“Who are you calling?” Magne’s face was unreadable, but had definitely gone a few shades paler.

“The ambulance, the police, I don’t know Magne. Vidar might be an asshole, but he’s an alive one, so… let's try and keep him that way.”

“Ran and Saxa will come for revenge - you should leave.”

“Probably, that whole family’s really fucking weird.”

“I’m being serious.”

“So am I”

“And now then what?”

“And now you keep your mouth shut whilst I explain what happened to the police and maybe I can get you out of this and off an attempted murder charge.”

Silence. And then-

“Why are you wearing a dress?”

“Really? I’m saving your ass and you’re questioning my fashion choices? Unbelievable.”

_______________

Two days, five interviews and three sleepless nights later, Lautris was standing outside the Spar shop, watching the old woman inside serving customers from behind her desk. He knew full well how much of a stalker he looked like.

Two days.

It had taken two days for Laurits to convince the police that Vidar had been struck by a freak lightning strike and that Magne had played no part in it. Two days of Gry dodging his calls and texts about what had really taken place that day in the warehouse. Two days to wring Magne’s ‘truth’ out of him - that he believed he had inherited Thor’s powers and that the Jutuls were damned giants of all things. And that the old woman in the Spar shop had started it all.

The last customer left the store as Laurits checked his phone. 7:56 - with four minutes until the Spar closed and no one else in sight, Laurits slipped his hood up and stepped inside, not even bothering to pretend he was browsing, and stalked to the counter. The woman shot him an unreadable glance, which Laurits pointedly ignored.

“What can I do for you?”

“Well for a start, you can leave my fucking family alone.”

The woman’s gaze sharpened as Laurits planted a hand on the counter and leaned forward.

“I don’t know what you think you told Magne, but for now on, you stay the hell away from him.”

“Magne?”

“Yes, Magne. My brother who, by the way, I just spent two days getting off an attempted murder charge, all because you told him he was some kind of god!” Laurits was practically yelling now and he forced himself to take a mental step back. Calm down Laurits. Cool it.

But the woman only grabbed the hand that was on the counter and Laurits forced down a wince at the sheer strength of her grip. This time, it was the woman who leaned in close as Laurits recoiled.

“Do you feel it, son of Fárbauti? Do you feel the anger? Do you hear the song of the wolves, of the serpents? Does the pull of the wild sing to your blood at night?”

Laurits ripped himself free, shoving his hand deep into his pocket to hide the slight trembling there.

“You,” he snapped, “Are insane. Stay away from me and from Magne.”

The knowing, satisfied gleam in her eyes sent Laurits teeth on edge, but he forced on his trademark smirk nonetheless.

“Goodnight.”

And with that, he swept out with all the dignity that he could muster, slamming the door so hard that the glass trembled behind him.

_______________

Even though he was determined to forget them, her words were still spinning wildly around Laurits’ mind hours later as he glared into the darkness of his room. He knew it was well past midnight, but sleep was still stubbornly evading him, mind frantically whirling. It was that damned woman’s fault and if he cared to analyse why, Laurits knew the words struck a cord deep inside of him. Like some jigsaw piece slotting into place. The exact same feeling he had gotten in that weird dance with a Jutuls weeks ago.

Which was a decidedly unhelpful thought, as Laurits had come to that conclusion at least twenty times in the past few hours. If not more. Which is stupid, Laurits thought, because she can’t have known that - just ignore it. She’s just some batshit lady trying to get into your head like she did with Magne’s. And it had evidently worked, seeing how hung up on this he was.

The knock on his door made him jump out of his skin and he cursed silently. Magne. The knock was so heavy it could only be him. Laurits stayed silent, hoping his brother would leave. He was not in the mood to be discussing gods and giants with Magne. There was another knock and then -

“Laurits, I know you’re awake.”

Another silence so long that Laurits thought Magne had finally left until a third knock thudded almost painfully loud, amplified by the darkness.

“Laurits, open the damn door.”

Fucking hell he was persistent.

“Go away Magne.”

“I know you went to see the woman at the Spar today too.”

Again Laurits swore, this time not bothering to keep it under his breath. He didn’t know or care how Magne found that out, but opened his door a crack regardless.

“Why.”

It wasn’t a question.

“Because I don’t trust her and because I needed to talk to her.”

“About what?”

“Goodnight Magne.” He made to close the door.

Instead of taking the hint, Magne shoved his foot in the doorway and Laurits glared.

“If your suspense can’t wait until morning, I had a friendly chat about leaving this family the hell alone.”

“And what did she tell you that’s got you so rattled?”

“How did you-” Laurits broke off before he could give away anything else.

“Because you didn’t make a single comment about that hideous outfit the news anchor was wearing tonight.”

Laurits eyed his brother and opened the door wider, wondering what the hell he was doing.

“She didn’t tell me I was a god if that’s what you’re thinking.”

“That’s not what I’m thinking.”

There was another silence, but Magne just looked so damn expectant that Laurits finally caved.

“She rattled off some nonsense about the son of Fárbauti and the call of the wild or whatever. Now let me go to bed you asshole.” Laurits was definitely not about to admit that he could remember exactly what she’d said word for word.

“Can I come in?”

For a second, Laurits debated slamming the door in his face, but maybe he just wanted someone to talk to, or maybe he was a little freaked out, but he just muttered a ‘what the hell’ and stepped back, flicking on the light switch as he did so. Sitting heavily on the bed, Laurits realized just how tired he was. Magne pinned him down with that intense stare again. It didn’t help Laurits’ mood.

“What?” he snapped.

Magne blinked. “I called you Loki that day at the warehouse.”

“Yeah. Yeah you did. But that was because you’d just been struck by lightning and were half out of your mind with shock.” He almost moved his hand to remind Magne of the bruises he’d given Laurits, but that would mean explaining how they’d remarkably healed over mere hours after the incident.

“And the old woman called you the son of Fárbauti. That’s Loki’s father.”

Again, that feeling of something clicking into place.

“Your point being?”

“Can you understand this?”

This time, it was Laurits’ turn to blink. The dialect Magne spoke in was halting and broken, as if he hadn’t fully mastered the language, but Laurits found he could understand it perfectly. He discreetly pinched himself, but when nothing happened, the ball of cold in his chest began to spread throughout his body, clawing through his veins. Oh god. This was real. Whatever was written on Laurits’ face seemed to make even Magne pause.

“I’ll start at the beginning.”

Laurits nodded vaguely, running a hand through his hair.

So Magne told him everything. From throwing the hammer for the first time and understanding the shifting weather around him to staring into the mirror at the Jutuls’ and finding the thing that stared back was… different. Changed. Still him, but wilder, older. Magne plowed through, hardly seeming to pause for breath and diligently ignoring the disbelieving snorts from Laurits that grew less and less as he continued.

“I’m still me, it just feels like… another layer.”

“Right. A freakishly strong layer with all the powers of a literal Norse god.”

Magne gave a small smile. “Right.”

The pair were silent for a long time, Laurits staring at the window where dawn was just brushing the mountains in gold. And he realised that he could indeed feel the wild calling him. He shook his head, rubbing his face and the feeling faded.

“This is way too much to take in at four am.” He mumbled, “So, at the warehouse, you were really telling the truth?”

“All of it.”

“Wow. Wow, okay. Just… if I piss you off, don’t fry my brains.”

Magne grinned at him, “It’s a deal.”

“I should've left that crazy old lady alone.” He placed his head in his hands. “I feel like I’m going insane.”

“I know what that’s like - but it’s real, and it’s… just incredible when you accept it.”

“I can’t believe I’m really asking this, but at the warehouse, when you were still, you know,” he still felt stupid talking about it, “ - who did you see when you looked at me?”

“Tall, revoltingly red hair, pointy face and that insufferable smirk you always wear - it was Loki. I just knew, you know.”

“Loki…” Laurits mumbled like he was testing the word out, and still some part of him lashed out at how right it felt. Loki; who he was. Who he always has been. A trickster. A lair. The silver-tongue. And the realisation just fit so wholly and completely that Laurits wondered how he’d not figured it out sooner. Again he shook his head. “Magne, get out of my room, I need to think - and I need a cold shower.”

His brother opened his mouth like he was about to speak, but seemed to think the better of it and instead reached forward and clasped Laurits in a massive bear hug. His brother gave a squeak and whacked him on the back a few times before returning the hug, resigned to his fate. Magne let go with the biggest gin Laurits had ever seen and crept out the door, leaving Laurits to wrestle with his own smile, He fell back, rubbing his face again.

Loki, huh. Laurits had a sudden insight that this was either gonna be a hell of a lot of fun or an absolute fucking nightmare.

Leave a comment if you want! They always make my day!

#ayyy thanks for reading #laurits is loki #bc who doesnt think that at this point #laurits seier #laurits ragnarok #magne seier #magne ragnarok #brother goals #ragnarok netflix #ragnarok 2020 #ragnarok fanfic

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imakeficrequestsandthendisappear · 7 years ago

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When You Say My Name CH7

Author: YoungDumbandFullofHeadcanons /https://imakeficrequestsandthendisappear.tumblr.com/

Summary: Being an Army brat means that every new town is a chance to start over. When the Criss family moves to Derry, Vicky Criss dies so Vic can start living.

Pre-IT (2017), AU: Trans!Vic Centric, Henry/Vic Slow burn

Angst  Fluff  More Angst  Smut  Even More Angst Playing fast and loose with the canon

Rating: Explicit

Archive Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence Major Character Death Rape/Non-Con Underage

Category: M/M

Fandoms: IT (2017) IT - Stephen King

Relationship: Henry Bowers/Victor Criss

Characters: Henry Bowers Victor Criss Patrick Hockstetter Reginald “Belch” Huggins Henry Bowers’s Gang (IT) Oscar “Butch” BowersThe Losers Club (IT) Pennywise (IT)

Language:English

Chapter 7: Henry Part 2

Summary: Henry can’t gather the air necessary to sob, so he just keeps sputtering and choking until his face turns red.

So Vic leans down and cages his arms around Henry’s head, blocking out the sound and light around him, intending on helping him breath threw the panic. But instead Henry reaches up, latches digging fingers into Vic’s sides, drags him down and screams into his chest.

March, 1986

Digging through the cupboard under the bathroom sink, Vic finally comes across the pink bag he hasn’t seen years. He unzips it and finds the contents to be exactly what he remembers always being it there. A roll of medical tape, a fatter roll of elastic gauze, tiny blister-sized invisible Band-Aids, disinfectant spray, and a host of other practical tools for on-the-spot medical treatment.

Vic dumps all the supplies into his backpack, because God knows he’s not bringing a fucking pink fanny-pack to school tomorrow.

Yesterday Henry walked around school with that limp in his left ankle more pronounced than ever. He still drug Vic around by the wrist, like always, but he was moving slowly and wincing every few steps, and when he tried to sit down his foot rolled under the pressure and he fell to the grass.

So today at lunch, as they sit in their hidden alcove beside the school building, Vic shows Henry how to tape and wrap his sprained ankle. Henry is ambivalent, or some cross between irate and panicked, about taking his shoe and sock off and rolling up his pant leg. Yes, the bruise is absolutely heinous, all green and purple and splotchy, but Vic doesn’t say anything about it to make Henry any more uncomfortable.

“How’d you learn this?” Henry asks as Vic makes sure the gauze aren’t too tight but will still support the weakened bones.

“Umm…” Vic stalls.

Don’t say it. Don’t tell Henry about dance class.

“…Like, sports and stuff.” He lies with a shrug.

Henry gives him a skeptical look, but otherwise drops the subject as he puts his shoe back on over the bandages.

Vic hasn’t been in a dance class since fourth grade. It was one of those extracurricular activities that Mom thought would be so much fun for her girls, but it turned out to be too much of a commitment and way too stressful and the bills had started to pile up. Plus, Vic’s hatred for ballet escalated to the point where he would purposefully land wrong on his feet, hoping he would break a bone and get to sit out. Hence the need for Mom to fill a fanny pack with medical tape and bandages, and of course it had to be pink.

Every day has gotten progressively better since he and Henry had started hanging out. The human contact seems to be putting some life back in them. Vic doesn’t feel as much like a ghost anymore. Henry looks a little less dead behind the eyes. The physical side hasn’t improved, both still came to school battle-worn and bloody, but being around each other gives them the chance to heal.

After their first conversation, Vic thought maybe things would just go back to the previous silent indifference they had had for one another. But the very next day after third period Henry walked right back up to Vic’s desk, grabbed him by the wrist, and led him outside again.

“Come on,” Henry says.

Vic doesn't even have to think twice.

The firm hold Henry takes on him is a little straining, and one time the hall was crowed so Henry pulled on his arm a little too hard, but every day it is a relief to feel that hand on his wrist. If Henry didn’t grab on and pull him around like that, Vic would be too afraid to follow him. Because, what if Henry got sick of him? What if he was too weird and Henry didn’t want him around? What if Henry started ignoring him? Like everyone ignores him. So Vic takes that painful grip as a sign that Henry does want to hang out with him and for once he feels wanted.

They keep tabs on each other’s new bruises and cuts, but they never talk about where they come from, because to say it aloud would mean having to face something both boys want to forget. Even only for a short time, they just want to pretend it isn’t happening.

“Where’d you move from?” Henry asks.

Vic huffs out a breath and considers the mental list.

“Connecticut, New York, Maryland, umm… Michigan for a little bit. Everywhere basically.”

Everywhere and nowhere.

“Why?” Henry seems genuinely curious, and there is a need for escape that makes him want to know about places outside of Derry. To know there’s a world beyond the town he’s trapped in.

“My dad’s in the army. We moved like every year.”

Henry regards him somberly, which seems strange to Vic because what he said didn’t seem particularly sad or anything. Moving is just what army families do.

But Henry is starting to realize that moving to a new place isn’t always an escape. Sometimes you can go everywhere in the world and still be trapped.

“My dad was in the marines,” Henry finally says, absently chewing on his thumb nail again.

And Vic starts to understand.

So they don’t talk about their bruises or their fathers, because the two subjects are essentially indivisible. But they find other things to talk about. Comic books, video games, movies, people at school they don’t like, some new trouble Henry got in, and the list goes on. And sometimes they don’t have to talk at all, they just like being around each other.

In the mornings Henry has started lifting his head from the desk when Vic would come to class, not as a proper greeting but just as a way of acknowledging his presence. If Gretta was being particularly annoying in Homeroom, and Gretta hates the both of them now, the boys give each other sneering side glances and roll their eyes. Vic would let Henry copy his answers, and they would get matching C-’s. If Ms. Donovan has caught on, she doesn’t do anything about it, because she’s just glad that there is some semblance of peace in the back of the classroom.

After a week had gone by, Vic walked into third period and went to sit down in his usual spot by the door. And then suddenly Henry was beside him.

“Vic.”

A thrilling shiver goes up his spine, but not the bad kind like when Vic hears Daddy’s voice down the hall. Something about hearing anybody say his name, especially Henry, sends a warm tingle through him like an electric current.

“Yeah?” He says, barely audible.

Henry just cocks his head to one side to gesture to the back of the class where he usually sits, and Vic follows him over.

And now they sit together in every class they share.

It took Vic a few days to realize that Henry doesn’t bring any lunch to school.

Vic pulls the paper bag out of his backpack, knowing that the tight knot in his gut is keeping his appetite at bay.

“Do you want some?” He gets up the nerve to say.

Because sometimes Henry is defensive about certain things and Vic doesn’t want to make him upset.

“No.” Henry says with a glare. So this is one of those things that set him off.

“I’m not gonna eat all of it, really.” Vic presses just a bit, cautious but well-meaning.

A few moments of silence pass, but finally Henry does take half the sandwich offered to him, and Vic decides to eat the other half to try and make Henry more comfortable.

As stubborn as he was before, Henry tears into the sandwich like he’s absolutely starving. And being around Henry eating makes it a little easier for Vic to swallow down a few bites.

Days later, they sit down and Henry pulls a lunch bag out of nowhere.

“Where’d you get that?” Vic asks, because he doesn’t believe for a second that Henry brought it from home.

“Don’t worry about it” Henry says as he rips it open, revealing a PB&J sandwich, a pack of Oreos, a bag of chips, and a half-dozen pixie sticks. “Fat-ass doesn’t need it anyway.”

And Vic does feel a twinge of guilt, but as Henry digs in Vic is reminded that he doesn’t get enough to eat as it is. One stolen lunch can’t hurt.

Despite his ravenous hunger, Henry makes Vic split all the junk food with him. And even though he didn’t think he was hungry, Vic feels marginally better after eating and doesn’t even get a stomach ache from all the sugar.

So Vic makes sure Henry has food to eat, and Henry makes sure Vic eats the food he has. And they don’t say it in so many words but that’s how they take care of each other.

Some people start to notice the two of them leashed to each other, but mostly it’s kids in their grade that know to stay away from Henry Bowers, so Vic doesn’t hear anything about it. The only person who really took issue with the situation was Vic’s sister.

A week ago Daphne pulled him aside while they were waiting for Mom to pick them.

”Who’s that boy you were with all day?” She asks with whispered malice.

He is frozen for a minute, because Daphne hasn’t spoken to him, at school or home, for weeks.

“Um- He’s just somebody I know from class.”

Vic doesn’t want to jinx things by calling Henry his friend yet, because he’s hasn’t really had one before and definitely never one that was another boy, so he doesn’t want to ruin it now.

Daphne gives him an accusing look, and Vic feels his resentment rise.

“You get to hang out with people,” He reminds her.

Daphne already has a bunch of other girls to sit with at lunch. Lucy has her friends come over after school sometimes. Sophie is on the phone with boys when she thinks no one is around. So why can’t Vic have one person to talk to?

“I heard that he steals stuff and beats up little kids for fun.” She accuses.

“Those are rumors.” Vic tries to shrug it off, even though he has heard those same rumors float around the halls.

“If Daddy finds out then-” She half-warns half-threatens.

“You’re not gonna tell him.” Vic cuts her off with a biting tone.

For a second she looks mad enough that she would, because Vic doesn’t ever stand up to her and she wants to assert her older-sibling authority. His resolve cracks a little at the thought.

“Daph, please don’t tell?” He tries to appease her. “We’re not doing anything wrong, Henry’s just someone from class.”

And finally she seems to relent, because she sees the marks on her (Sister’s? Brother’s? She doesn’t know what to think anymore) skin from his last run in with Daddy a few nights ago. Maybe it’s better if she doesn’t say anything about this after all. And if anyone finds out, she can just feign innocence to knowing about it.

“Fine.”

“Thanks,” Vic says, but Daphne has already turned away from him and is walking towards Mom’s car as it pulls up.

And so Daphne kept quiet about him and Henry, but she occasionally shoots him a concerned look from across the hall when she sees them together.

With the gauze on, Henry has an easier time getting through the rest of the day. It still seems like it hurts, but now he can walk a little faster and the ankle doesn’t roll when he has to put weight on it. In sixth period Vic reminds him to unwrap it to before bed and prop his leg up for the night. Then they part ways, Henry walks around behind the school and through the woods to get home, and Vic goes to wait for his mother.

The night passes without incident.

The next morning is Friday, and as Mom drives them to school she lets them know she has some errands to run this afternoon, so the kids have to walk home. Mom gives Sophie the spare key, and while the girls complain about the inconvenience (it’s not even that far of a walk, jeez) Vic sort of looks forward to not having to ride home with his sisters.

But when Vic walks into Homeroom, Henry’s not at his desk. Henry isn’t here at all. For a moment Vic just stands looking at their desks, feeling lost and overexposed as he sits down alone. His mind swings between two extremes for explanation. One terrifying possibility: Henry finally got sick of Vic following him like a shadow and maybe somehow figured out that Vic’s not normal and is so disgusted that won’t even show up to school. Or equally possible and but more terrifying: Henry was hurt so awfully bad that he couldn’t even come to school, because the worst beatings Vic gets every few weeks are what Henry gets everyday, so what happens if his skull cracks or his neck brakes or his lung is punctured and no one’s around to help him?

Vic drops his head to the desk, breathing heavy pants into his palms and trying to fight back the budding anxiety attack. Henry had a sprained ankle yesterday, so if his dad came after him, he wouldn’t be able to get away.

Then Henry appears in the doorway, hanging on the door jam and leaning into his right side. For a second he just stands there, and Vic wonders if he is really there, or if this is some anxiety driven hallucination. But Henry starts stumbling forward, looking like every step hurts him all over, and arms wrapped around his middle protectively and sliding across the wall to get to his desk. It takes him a long time to finally sit down, and the other kids around try not to gawk at him too conspicuously. One girl looks at his cringing, quaking form for a second to long and Henry growls at her.

Vic wants to jump up, help Henry sit down and check him over. Because whatever is wrong isn’t immediately visible, but is looks absolutely excruciating. But Vic is frozen because Henry looks feral, spine rigid, shoulders hunched, and the anger in his hooded eyes is burning like an inferno. Vic feels a mix of pain and sorrow and empathy, but also fear. Henry looks like a puppy that survived a dog fight, but came out wounded and ready to snap his jaws and bite.

Finally, after eons of painful staggering, Henry collapses into his seat and curls so far into himself that he almost disappears. The teacher doesn’t even look twice.

“Henry?” Vic whispers, lying his head on his desk to get closer to Henry’s level.

The boy doesn’t respond, but when Vic gets real close he can hear the wheezing shallow breaths Henry sucks in and heaves out. Vic reaches out as gently and slowly as he can and brushes the tips of his fingers over Henry’s shoulder blade, and Henry flinches and trembles violently at the contact, but he has no physical power to make the touch stop. Pulling his hand away quickly, Vic feels his stomach drop and his eyes prickle.

Both boys spend the class with their heads down. Vic tries to whisper to Henry every few minutes, but never gets a response. Henry just sinks further into himself.

By third period Henry still won’t talk, he doesn’t even move when the bell for lunch rings. So Vic takes the initiative to, as cautiously as he can, grab onto the sleeve of Henry’s sweatshirt and guide Henry up and out of the classroom. He sticks to a slow pace and they take frequent pauses so Henry can choke down some air, but they eventually make it to their spot. They sit down onto the cold grass as softly as possible, but Henry still winces.

The angry inferno in Henry’s eyes is dead now, just smoldering embers are left. Vic plants himself in front him, because as scared and anxious as he is, he resolves to help Henry through the pain.

“Henry, what happened? Where does it hurt?” Vic is still whispering even though they are far away from anybody else.

Henry makes a low, whining sound in the back of his throat before finally finding his voice.

“It’s nothing” He slurs softly, eyes drifting shut.

“No it’s not,” Vic says with a little too much force.

It’s not nothing. It’s never nothing. And it’s not fair, and it’s not right, that they always have to pretend it's nothing.

Henry flinches back but offers nothing else. He’s still holding his stomach, hunched over with arms crossed tight over his midsection.

Reaching over, Vic gently but firmly tugs Henry’s arms away and tries to pull up his shirt.

“Stop,” Henry rasps, tightening his arms.

But Vic keeps at it, more assertive this time.

“Stop it,” Henry bares his teeth and says a little louder.

Vic is undeterred, pushing him back aggressively to see what Henry’s trying to protect.

“Stop!” Henry screams this time, and in an instant swings up his arm and clocks Vic in the jaw with the side of his fist.

The impact hurts and it takes Vic back for a second, but instead of freezing and crumbling like when Daddy hits him, he feels a fire light in his veins. Vic pushes Henry onto his back, even as Henry throws more blows and tries to shove him away, so Vic pins his fists to the ground. Henry is undeniable bigger and stronger than Vic, but the pain he’s in makes him malleable to the hold.

Then the fight just drops out of Henry like he’s died on the spot. For a second Vic thinks the boy has passed out, but his eyes are open and moving. It just seems like Henry has left his body and his mind is off floating somewhere else.

The sight is unnerving but Vic pushes through and finally gets a look under Henry’s shirt.

Across the whole right side of his chest and ribs is a field of black and blue, and instead of swollen, the area looks sunken in on itself. Vic studies the injury, thinking through his mental catalogue of all the marks he’s seen on Henry. Punches leave dark round Dalmatian spots, impacts (like against the wall or to the ground) leave oblong marks on skin raised by bone that fade out. No this looks like Henry was already on the ground, curled into his side, as kick after kick after kick was laid into his ribs. Until they cracked. Until something broke. Until the bent bones pressed into his lung and made it difficult to breath.

Until Henry had to give in to the pain and float off from his body, like he’s doing now.

“Henry can you hear me?” Vic tries to bring him back.

He’s still limp and unmoving, but after a second his eyes focus again and he looks up at Vic. And then tears just start to overflow from his eyes.

“I’m not gonna hurt you,” Vic says softly, fingers running across the rib cage until he feels the one that dents inwards.

The tears are really coming now, in big fat streams that map out the curves of Henry’s face.

“I’m not gonna hurt you,” Vic says again, pulling his hands off Henry’s ribs.

Henry can’t gather the air necessary to sob, so he just keeps sputtering and choking until his face turns red.

Tears soak into his shirt as Henry cries against him. For once Henry is feeling so overwhelmed but also just safe enough to let it out. The screaming continues, muffled enough by their closeness to not draw any attention, but the anger and the shame and the pain is still in every strain of his vocal cords. Vic just stays still, letting Henry hold on as tight as he needs despite the jabbing fingers in his sides.

The bell rings for fourth period and Vic just ignores it.

Finally the convulsions and screams die down, and Henry only stutters out a few sobs like a dying engine. Henry drops his arms and Vic slowly peels himself back from over the crying boy.

“Henr-” Vic starts, not having a real direction for his thoughts.

“I’m fine,” Henry says, or tries to say through hiccupping breaths, and he slowly sits up and winces in pain.

He’s wiping his eyes, shoulders hunched in and trying to put distance between him and Vic.

“Shut up,” Henry snaps, despite the fact Vic hasn’t said anything.

After a moment of averting eyes from each other and sitting in silence, Vic at last finds his voice again.

“Do you…” Vic pauses when Henry levels a dark glare at him, “…wanna stay at my house tonight?”

And Henry sits speechless for a moment, unbelieving and skeptical, but he nods slowly anyway.

Hours later, the walk home from school is slow and painful but Henry doesn’t complain about the ache. By the time they get to Vic’s house the girls have been home for a while, Daphne and Sophie upstairs, and Lucy already left to go hang out with friends. They don’t seem to care that Vic didn’t get home as promptly as they did, but at least they left the door unlocked for him.

Vic makes sure the ground floor is all empty as they come in, and then he leads Henry over to the couch and makes him sit. Henry is breathing through the pain, but the tears have stopped and he seems less tense than he was the whole day.

With Henry settled, Vic goes to the kitchen and fills a plastic bag with ice and comes back to the living room. Making him lie against the arm of the couch, Vic sets the ice as gently as he can against Henry’s side.

The two sit in silence for a while, letting the ice numb Henry’s side, and then Vic turns on the T.V. and flips through channels until he finds some action movie playing. Despite the explosions and gun shots coming through the T.V., a calm spell is cast across the room.

Henry is struck by how quiet it is, how safe he feels despite the pain and uncertainty. He reaches over and grabs Vic’s wrist, weaker than he does when pulling him around school, and just holds in the space between them. Vic doesn’t make a move towards or away, because he’s realizing that this is the only kind of contact Henry is comfortable with. And maybe Vic likes it too.

The movie ends and another starts up, so they just let it run and watch passively. Vic thanks God for when his sister’s don’t come downstairs all afternoon. They both start to sag from exhaustion, the day being both emotionally and physically straining, and they are almost dozing when Vic’s mother comes through the door.

“Oh!” She says in surprise, waking the boys fully.

Henry immediately drops his hold on Vic’s arm and tries to sit up, looking ready to bolt like a frightened animal.

For a moment Mom just stares at them, unbelieving that she somehow now has two boys in her home when a short time ago she had none.

“Hey Mom…” Vic tries to act normal, because they can’t just stare at each other like they can make the other disappear, “This, um… this is Henry. We have class together.”

And then they snap back to normal, or well, Henry drops his head to look at the floor, Vic sinks into himself, and Mom looks overwhelmed but willing to pretend like that everything is fine.

“A-alright. So were you doing homework together…?” She tries to justify to herself.

“Yeah,” Vic answers too quickly, because Henry’s never done homework in his life and they skipped two classes today so they could sit together outside.

“Mhmm,” Mom says, clearly not believing her own excuse, but not willing or able to start an argument about the real situation. She starts to walk towards the kitchen. “Henry, would you like to stay for dinner?”

Henry looks really uncomfortable with being spoke to, and he looks over to Vic in panic.

“Okay?” He says quietly.

So Mom goes into the kitchen without acknowledging Henry’s response, and after a second Vic follows her in.

“What are you doing!?!” she hisses at him in a hushed voice when they’re alone.

Vic is already prepared to counter.

“They have friends over all the time,” he whispers back, gesturing upstairs in reference to his sisters.

“This is different Victo-”

“Shhh!” Vic hushes her before she can say it.

Mom looks angry and tired and high-strung all at once, but her resolve is starting to crumble. Maybe the best thing to do is just tell the truth, because he’s tired of making up excuses.

“Mom, Henry…got hurt really bad,” He hopes she catches the meaning in his eyes. “He can’t go home right now.”

A film of shame overtakes her eyes, because she understands the intent and why Vic wants to help the other boy. Because no one is helping him.

“Your father can’t know.” She finally says in concession.

“I know.”

“Okay.”

“Thank you.”

“Mhm.”

And then the conversation is over. Vic goes back to the living room and sits beside Henry, who looks unsure and awkward all alone. As Mom makes dinner, Vic brushes the back of his hand against Henry’s as a silent reassurance, because with someone else around Henry won’t grab his wrist.

They get called in for dinner, as if Vic has ever been called to dinner in the last three months, and he and Henry stand and set aside the half melted ice pack. Henry silently refuses to let Vic help him to the kitchen, and his side must be numb by now because his steps are stiff but look less pained than before. Though when they sit at the table he does stutter out the smallest of strained gasps.

Mom dishes up their plates like she’s June fucking Cleaver, like she always does when company is over and she has to revert to a perfectly nice housewife. Sophie and Daphne come down and look at the boys at the table in surprise, but Mom gives them a warning look to stay quiet about it. Vic is content to ignore their probing glances so Henry follows suit. So all the kids sit in silence and eat. Henry seems to be holding himself back, because he’s picking at his food slowly but Vic knows he hasn’t had anything to eat all day. Or maybe eating with a cracked rib is more uncomfortable than hunger. Vic is eating at just the same slow pace, despite also not eating lunch today, until Henry gives him just the barest of looks and gestures to the food. So he starts eating a little faster just because Henry is concerned enough about him. And after a concerned look back, Henry obeys and eats a bit more off his plate.

But then Mom breaks their silent conversation.

“So Henry, have I met your mother yet? Is she in the PTA?” Mom says from the counter, where she’s not eating, just standing there and hovering.

Henry freezes and his shoulders stiffen.

“No.” He says quietly, unclear to which half of the question he is answering.

Vic shoots a glare at his mother. Like you even go to PTA meetings, don’t even pretend. But then he is slightly more distressed by Henry’s hand quivering as he stabs another bite.

“Oh. Well, what does your father do?” She keeps probing, like someone would poke at a bear in a cage.

Henry just sets the fork down before he can get it to his mouth, head dropping towards his lap.

Vic wants to throw his plate at his mother as hard as he can.

“My dad’s a cop.” Henry says with a shrug, and that brief description doesn’t say a thing about what his father does.

“Hmm.” Mom makes one of those conversation ending noises again.

If only the conversation hadn’t started at all.

Neither boy is interested in eating anymore.

“Mom, can we be excused?” Vic asks, hiding his disdain behind the facade of table manners.

She doesn’t really seem to care, responding with a wave of her hand as she tidies up the kitchen.

They leave their plates on the table but can’t get out of the room before Mom prods one more time.

“Do you need a ride home Henry?” She says, like she’s forgotten what Vic had told her earlier.

“No ma’am,” Henry says, standing behind Vic and trying to disappear into the wall. “I can walk.”

Coming back into the living room, Vic can feel Henry’s discomfort emanating off him, and he can hear his mom and sisters whispering to each other. Probably talking about them. Henry’s leaning into his side again as he grabs his backpack and goes towards the door. Vic reaches out and grabs his sleeve to stop him.

“Don’t I have to go?” Henry asks quietly, voice quivering just slightly like he’s on the edge of another breakdown.

Vic shakes his head, and motions for Henry to be silent. Grabbing both their backpacks, he leads Henry to the spare room down the hall. Setting their stuff down, Vic goes back into the living room and grabs some extra cushions and the throw blankets off the couch.

As he lays the cushions down Henry looks on confused. And Vic doesn’t really know what he’s doing either, because he’s never had a sleepover, and Henry doesn’t seem like he’s ever been to one, but this one is less about fun and more about safety.

The lie down in the quiet room, Henry’s just relieved that he can take the weight off his side and Vic is glad they are alone again. Henry pulls over his backpack and reveals that instead of textbooks Henry just brings a stack of comic books to school, so they spend a few hours switching issues back and forth and just enjoy being near each other in the small room.

The sun sets and the room is still warm from the last rays of sunlight. The dark, the quiet, the heat, the feeling of food in their stomachs, the safety they feel isolated off from the world, the comfort they get from each other, all finally outweigh the heavier traumas that they live with and both boys fall asleep.

They wake with a jolt about an hour later, because the front door opens loudly and heavy footsteps are coming towards the room and-

It’s okay, it’s just Daddy getting home.

Henry seems petrified still, but Vic slowly crawls over to the door and peeks under the gap between the door and the carpet. He watches his father’s shadow move across the floor, coming closer to the spare room before going up the stairs.

Vic gives Henry a relieved nod and they both relax and let out the breaths they’d been holding. Settling back down into their nest of blankets and cushions, it takes a little longer to get back into that peaceful headspace they had before, but finally they do fall back into that heavy dreamless sleep, lulled by the slowing beats of their hearts and the steady rhythm of each other’s breathing.

Woken at dawn by the front door opening and closing again as Daddy goes to work, Vic blinks slowly and it takes him a second to realize that Henry is awake too, and looking back at him. They just watch each other, all the internal walls down and insides vulnerable.

Henry reaches over in their trance, only an arm’s length away from Vic, and with only the slightest tremble and hesitation, he grabs Vic’s hand and laces their finger’s together. This isn’t a tight grip on a wrist, or a tugging hold on sweatshirt sleeve, this is real flesh to flesh hand holding. Henry squeezes just enough that Vic knows that this means thank you, but the affection is kind of overwhelming for both of them so they swiftly let go and pretend it didn’t happen.

Awake now, they sit up and Henry rolls form one hip to the other to test the pain in his ribs.

“How’s it feel?” Vic asks, wanting to feel the soft spot to check it over.

“Better,” Henry confirms honestly after a moment, so Vic resists his urge to touch.

They make their way into the dim living room, picking up the cushions and blankets and resetting them on the couch. Vic makes them bowls of cereal and they eat on the living room floor while watching Saturday morning cartoons. They don’t talk and the T.V. volume is on low, so not to wake anyone else in the house.

After a while they start to hear stirring upstairs. Henry checks the clock on the wall and confirms that his dad’s at work by now so he can go home. Vic wants to tell him to stay, but knows that he’s pushing his luck with Mom already.

So Henry grabs his bag and Vic walks with him to the front porch. The early spring morning is cold but the sun is shining bright in the blue sky. Henry steps out onto the porch and they give each other just the briefest of glances as he leaves, walking through the yard and down the side walk without looking back.

Vic watches him go from the door way, noticing that his steps still seem stilted but looks like he’s only in a moderate amount of pain compared to yesterday. Then he closes the door and wonders how he’s going to pretend everything is back to normal by Monday.

Notes: Link to AO3 http://archiveofourown.org/works/12399036/chapters/28570732

Me: I won't write an extra long chapter again.

Me to me: Add more stuff, make it even more gay.

So I know I said this was a slow burn but aren't they already the cutest little boyfriends ever!?!

Also if you haven't seen the video of logan thompson dancing to rihanna you are not living. look it up.

Required fanny pack reference: check (this fandom is so weird. i love it)

I hope I didn't keep ya'll waiting to long on this one, and I hope you like it. <3 <3 Pleaseessses leave me comments i live off them. it makes me so happy to hear from you guys. tell me what you think, tell me bout your day, tell me bout your it headcanons, call my mom a whore, literally anything. i love you all.

XOXO

YDFH

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