#while my driver (also me) veers off the road and gets us exactly where we need to go

[shikai-the-storyteller]

Having one of those fic writing moments where my mind outline is going one way and my hands are quickly typing something completely different.

[dreamingaboutreid]

Hospital Bed Confessions: Chapter 6

*Continuation*

It had been 2 months since you had joined. It was just you and Spencer in the office late at night, which seemed quite normal for the both of you.

Spencer had grown to appreciate that he was never the last to leave or the first to come in.

In fact, you would arrive earlier than he did. He was always curious to what time you really came in, or if you were pulling an all-nighter every day. He would always see you in your office when he came in, and by the time he had gotten his coffee and came back to his seat, you would be back at your desk right in front of him.

You had insisted that you worked alongside the team out in the pit. You explained that you liked the vibrancy in the pit and felt isolated in the office. He noted that you only went in there to look for cases or when everyone left the office and you stayed back. You soon took the once empty desk that had been luckily placed in front of his desk.

Whenever he stayed late, there was a sense of calm in him knowing that you would be right there, with your lights on and your intense scribbling. Sometimes, he would stay late just to read another book or play a game of chess. And whenever he did, he knew you would ask about what he was reading and bring in the same book the next week to read or join him in a few rounds of speed chess.

Today was a particularly long day after an intense case. Everyone left early, eager to take a shower and reunite with their families or with their beds. But like always, you stayed late to get a head start on other cases. Even Spencer was tired and ready to go home. Despite wanting to stay longer and finish his book, he started to pack up.

“Do you want a ride home?” You said while still looking at a file.

He looked up quickly, quite surprised that you noticed and by the sudden question.

“Oh, I don’t want to impose,” he replied even though he finally had an excuse to spend a bit more time with you.

“It’s no trouble. I was going to head home now anyways,” you said as you stood up to pack as well.

“Besides, I don’t think I’d be able to sleep if I didn’t know you got home safely. It’s a bit dangerous to ride the metro this time of night,” you said.

He smiled, appreciating that you were not only considerate but was worried about him.

“If it’ll make you sleep better than I suppose I’ll take you up on it. Thanks,” he said as you both put on your bags and headed out the door together.

The car ride was comfortable as you and Spencer talked about your favorite bookstores in the area. It didn’t take too long after you joined the team for Spencer to realize that it was always comfortable with you.

“Capitol Hill Books has a better selection, but Solid State definitely has a better atmosphere,” you said.

Spencer nodded in agreement and couldn’t hide his grin.

“Have you ever been to Bridge Street? They’re very selective with the books they sell, and they have a great array of poetry authors too,” he replied.

“No, I’ve never been but I’ll definitely check it out now,” you said.

“I can take you sometime,” he said with a lot more confidence than he thought he could manage.

“I’d like that,” you replied fondly, and Spencer couldn’t help but feel a slight jolt in his stomach. A feeling he hadn’t felt in a long time but was starting to feel familiar with whenever he was around you.

This feeling quickly faded when he caught a glimpse of a picture hanging in a small circle frame on the rearview mirror. It was of you and a man, cheek to cheek, displaying wide smiles.

He didn’t know why the picture caught his attention now. He had been in the car for 15 minutes, but he was so engrossed in the conversation that his acute observational skills were momentarily hampered while he was talking to you.

You seemed catch his eyes staring at the dangling picture.

“His name is Terry,” you said, somehow telepathically answering the question he had asked in his head.

He simply nodded at this new information, not sure how to ask if Terry was your boyfriend.

“He’s not my boyfriend. Or at least, he’s not my boyfriend anymore,” you replied, again reading his mind.

He wasn’t exactly satisfied with the answer. He shouldn’t have been surprised that you have, or had, a boyfriend. You were beautifully smart and physically beautiful. Even without his 187 IQ, he’d know that any guy would be lucky to have you has their girlfriend.

“He was my first boyfriend. We met in high school and were together until our second year in college,” you said.

“Why did you guys break up?” he asked, questioning why his picture was still in your car despite not being together anymore.

“Well, we went to different colleges, so we were long-distance for a while. One day during winter break, he was coming back home to meet me. On his way there, he was hit by a drunk driver and his car skid across ice on the road. He passed away on impact,” you said quietly.

“There’s always a part of me that feels guilty thinking that he died because of me. If only he wasn’t visiting me that day or we decided to meet another time, maybe he wouldn’t have been in the accident. Anyways, I never got around to taking the picture down, and it’s kind of become a reminder that keeps him in my memories and to always stay safe behind the wheels,” you finished.

No matter how fast his brain was moving,

“Oh,” was all he could answer.

Your sudden revelation caught him by surprise. Not by your past, but how much alike you two were.

You had talked to Spencer quite a lot over the past 2 months, but you had never disclosed much about yourself.

Sure, he knew how you took your coffee or what your favorite book genre was, but you seemed to veer away from topics talking about your time in high school or college or the military. He had always just assumed that you were like him, where you felt out of place growing up and finally found your spot in the FBI.

But, at that moment, he realized exactly how much you were alike to him. You had both lost someone you loved.

Not wanting you to feel exposed after sharing something so private and also feeling safe to share his own personal story, he finally said,

“Me too.”

You looked, for a quick second, at him as if to encourage him to continue talking.

“I mean, I didn’t lose a boyfriend. I lost my girlfriend. Her name was Maeve,” he said.

And he told you everything, not forgetting any details. How he first met her as a geneticist. How they had weekly calls on the pay phone. How he felt to almost meeting her for the first time and then actually meeting her to only lose her on the same day. How he dealt with her death and how he’s been handling it ever since.

It was the first time where he could get everything off his chest and didn’t feel guilty about it.

By the time he had finished his story, you had already parked in front of his apartment building.

“Thanks for listening to all of that,” Spencer said.

“Thanks for telling me. And thanks for listening to me too,” you said.

There was a feeling of consolation and intimacy he couldn’t quite describe into words.

“Does it ever get easier?” he asked.

“ ‘What we have once enjoyed we can never lose. All that we love deeply becomes a part of us’,” you quoted.

Like always, it seemed like you knew exactly what to say.

“Helen Keller,” Spencer replied softly.

In that moment, he didn’t know what came over him, but it only felt right to lean over and give you a hug. You quickly reciprocated his embrace and tightened your arms around him.

After the affectionate gesture, he collected his bag and stepped out of the car.

You gave a smile and wave as you rode away from his apartment building.

He walked into his home, feeling a bit lighter and a bit brighter. As if your radiance rubbed off on him.

[hms-chill]

15? XD or 14 or 16 if you dont feel up for that. you know what i like but also feel free to do whatever you wish with them or not do them at all! -salt

Of course!

14. “You’re a disappointment.”

15. “Don’t die on me– Please.”

16. “I never meant to hurt you.”

For all his brains, all his education and study and general intellectualism, Henry can be a real dumbass. Going to a club on the anniversary of his dad’s death was a dumbass move. Going alone was a dumbass move. Calling Shaan when he was drunk off his ass was a dumbass move. Going to a meeting with Shaan hungover the next day instead of calling in sick was a dumbass move. Really, everything he’s done since leaving Alex in the States two days ago has been a dumbass move. Bea had thought that maybe being together on the anniversary of their dad’s death would help them all, let them process their grief or something, and he’d agreed to come a few days earlier than Alex was able to so that it could be just the four of them. And that was the dumbass move that started the dumbass snowball that’s left him here, alone in a country where everyone is disappointed in him. 

It all comes to a head just after his meeting with Shaan, where he’d been uncomfortably hungover and even more uncomfortably aware that Shaan is not happy with him. He finds Philip in the kitchen, apparently packing a picnic basket for him and Martha to share in Kensington Gardens, and Philip says something about how Henry looks tired. Maybe, by itself, it wouldn’t have meant anything. But this is Philip, and it’s Philip on a shitty morning after a shitty day, and it’s just enough to make Henry snap. 

He doesn’t say anything there. He tries to hold it all in, he does. He texts Alex that he misses him, and Alex texts that he’ll be there soon. It’s not soon enough. Henry needs to move, needs to get out of Kensington, and Buckingham, and the whole maze of rooms and people who just want to move him around and poke him and cover him in the mask of a perfect prince. Alex will make it better, but Alex isn’t going to be there until that night, so Henry needs to do something somewhere else until then. And he needs, so desperately, to do it alone.

There’s a trail not too far away from the city that his dad used to take them to. It’s private, and quiet, and it’ll let him do something his dad would have liked. Maybe, it’ll actually feel like he can grieve for once, instead of just trying to stay put together for his family and the press who had somehow decided it was alright to interview them for a story on how his family is “Healing from the Tragedy of Arthur Fox’s Death” on the anniversary of said tragedy. But, wherever he goes, he knows he has to go by himself. As much as he appreciates them, he can’t have PPOs breathing down his neck or following him. He can’t have Philip or Bea asking if he’s really doing alright, or his mom asking if he wants to talk. And, no matter what, he can’t have Shaan giving him that look again. 

So he does what he always does when he wants to be on his own. He unearths a motorcycle helmet Shaan gave him years ago, takes Shaan’s backup keys from the rack in the garage, and borrows Shaan’s motorcycle. Between the full facial coverage of the helmet and the stark contrast to his public image, he figures he’s safe enough on a motorcycle, just another driver in a busy city. He can feel the wind on his hands, and around his body. The motorcycle hums under him, heat from its motor warming his legs through his pants. It’s nice. it’s nice to feel things like this, to feel the movement and the world around him as it rushes over his body.

He’s just getting out of the city when his phone rings through the helmet’s bluetooth. It’s Alex, so Henry answers, slowing down a bit so he can concentrate on talking to Alex like he’s not on a fear-induced motorcycle joyride through the country.

The first thing Alex asks is, “where are you?”

And, well. “Why?”

“After last night, I changed my flight so I could surprise you, I asked Bea to get you to the airport, but she says she hasn’t seen you all morning, and Shaan says he doesn’t know where you are, either.”

“I can meet you at the airport,” Henry says, wondering briefly who exactly told him about last night. He doesn’t remember everything, but he’s pretty sure he spent part of it sobbing outside of a London club until someone came and got him in a car. He’s not sure he wants Alex to know that. “Heathrow?”

“You still didn’t say where you are.”

“It doesn’t matter. I’ll meet you at Heathrow. When?”

“We’re starting descent, so probably about twenty minutes. I should get off the phone, but H? I... I love you, okay? Always will.”

“I love you. I’ll see you soon.”

Henry turns the motorcycle around, pulling into the other lane in a move that’s not entirely legal, but the road is empty enough out here that it doesn’t matter. He’s about thirty minutes from Heathrow, which means he’s thirty minutes from Alex. There’s a private airstrip there that they use whenever they land; it’s where Alex will be. He speeds up a bit, a tiny smile making its way to his face when he thinks about how Alex will react to the motorcycle. He thinks about Alex’s arms around his waist holding on tightly as they drive, and he’s grateful that Shaan keeps an extra helmet in the seat. He’d wanted to be alone, but really, Alex doesn’t count. He can take Alex out to the trail, and maybe Alex can help convince him that he hasn’t ruined everything. It’ll be nice, to show Alex his dad’s trail and have Alex there with him.

He pulls up next to the plane just as they’re locking the stairs down, and he waits until Alex is getting out of the plane and looking curiously at him to pull the helmet off, shaking his hair out a bit and looking up to the top of the stairs, where Alex’s jaw is on the ground. He parks the motorcycle and climbs off to meet Alex at the bottom of the stairs, and Alex wraps him in a hug that feels just a bit tighter than necessary. Which means, for a day like today has been, it’s exactly as tight as it needs to be.

“I love you. I’m proud of you. I am very into you right now.”

“There’s an extra helmet in the seat,” Henry says. He adds an, “if you want” to the end, but Alex is already headed toward the motorcycle.

“Where did this come from?”

“It’s Shaan’s. He taught me how to ride a while back because they can get around cars if I needed to escape quickly.”

“I need to send that man a fruit basket,” Alex mutters, and Henry smiles. Moments later, the crushing realization that Shaan’s still mad at him, and will probably be more upset after this, crashes down on him. He pulls his helmet on so that Alex won’t see his face, but as he settles and gets Alex set behind him, Alex says, “we’re... I love you. Always, and no matter what.”

“I... I know. I love you, too.” Henry gets them going, instructing Alex to lean into turns, and Alex hugs him tightly. And, for all Henry’s stress and Alex’s weird energy about the day, the ride is fun. It feels like the wind pulls away anything he could ever worry about, and Alex actually laughs behind him.

“This is amazing. Where are we going?”

“Out to the country a bit. There’s a place we used to go with my dad.”

Alex just hums, leaning forward a bit. His helmet is in Henry’s periphery, and Henry hates asking him to move, but he has to. Alex doesn’t seem to mind, bouncing his helmet against Henry’s affectionately before he shifts position a bit.

There’s a bang a moment later, and a red hot pain blooms in Henry’s side, right where Alex’s shoulder used to be. The motorcycle swerves a bit as Alex tightens his grip instantly. Henry corrects and speeds up, a steady stream of swear words filling his helmet.

“Was that a gunshot? Did you see where-- shit!” Alex shouts. There was another shot, and Henry veers into the other lane. A car honks at him, but he pulls out of their way, the weaving maneuvers Shaan taught him coming back in bursts as he ignores the pain in his side.

“Are you hit?”

“No, you?” Alex asks, clinging tighter to Henry. His squeeze doesn’t exactly help the pain in Henry’s side, but it’s worth it to know he’s safe.

“I’m fine. Hang on.” So Alex does hang on, while Henry desperately tries to remember where the safe house is nearby and another gunshot rings out. Alex jumps, and Henry feels another burst of pain, this time higher than the last. So someone is, genuinely, trying to kill him. Somewhere, he tries to decide if that’s more or less interesting than if they were trying to kill Alex, or either of them. It probably doesn’t matter.

The safe house. They have to get to the safe house. Henry speeds up, and Alex says something about shots coming from a car, so Henry pulls into a narrow alley, speeding through and emerging into a street he recognizes, somewhere close to a suburban safe house. He breathes a quiet prayer of thanks to whoever might be looking out for them, and Alex must feel him relax, because his grip relaxes a bit, too.

“Did we lose them?” Henry asks.

“I think so. Where are we going? Where are we now; I can tell someone what happened.”

“It’s... we’re going to a safe house. We can deal with things there,” Henry says. His adrenaline has worn off in a moment, and now he just feels tired. It hurts to breathe. Alex’s hug hurts. He’s having to work to keep his eyes focused as they pull up to the safe house and he parks the motorcycle somewhere out of sight. Shaan is going to kill him, but then again, with how much his side hurts, maybe Shaan won’t have to. 

“I’m going to share my location and then call Cash and let him know what happened; do you want to call Shaan and let him figure out what to do? We’re both safe, but they should still...” Alex’s voice reaches him though a layer of cotton, and Henry can’t seem to focus on it enough. When he looks at Alex, there’s blood on the sleeve of his jacket. That shouldn’t be there; Alex said he was alright. Henry reaches a shaking hand out for it, fighting through the pulling, stretching, tearing pain in his side to take the sleeve in his hand. His vision is swimming, but that just means that when he looks up, he gets to see four of Alex’s face.

“You... blood,” he says, truly putting his English language degree to good use.

“I’m fine; it...” Alex’s eyes go wide, and he swears, pulling Henry’s helmet off. Henry blinks up at him owlishly, trying to decide why Alex is suddenly so worried. It’s a bit hard when his face won’t stay still, but it doesn’t make sense. His side doesn’t even hurt anymore, or at least, it didn’t until Alex started trying to get him off the motorcycle. The shifting pulls at his side, and there’s a strangled cry of pain. A second later, he realizes it’s his own.

“Shh, shh, it’s okay. I’m sorry, baby, I’m so sorry. I never meant to hurt you, we just need to get you inside so we can be safe. I’ll take care of everything, I promise, we just have to get you inside.”

Henry’s not sure why they have to get inside, but it matters to Alex, so he does his best to stay on his feet and get inside. The ground isn’t being particularly helpful, with all its swaying, but Alex’s arm is around him, and that feels nice. He leans against Alex, glad Alex is there with him. Alex is talking to someone, and Henry isn’t paying especially close attention until he hears Shaan’s name.

Shaan is going to hate him after this. He was already disappointed, but now Henry’s ignored everything he said. He’s been stupid, and he’s put himself and Alex in danger, and Shaan has every right to be disappointed. 

Shaan deserved a better charge. He deserved someone like Philip, who might have a stick up his ass, but at least it’s a stick that kept him out of trouble. Or maybe even someone like Alex, someone who’s reckless sometimes, but at least he brings someone with him when he is. Or someone like Bea.

At the thought of Bea, a sob escapes his throat. She’s going to be upset with him, too. She was the one who got them all here, so she might blame herself, but that feels even worse than if she was just hurt by his idiocy.

“Hey, it’s okay. It’s going to be okay,” Alex says, but his voice is shaking as he bends over, hunting in a flower pot. “You’re going to be okay. I promise. Just... just hang on; you’re going to be okay, I’ve just got to find the fucking--” he’s crying. Alex shouldn’t be crying; he said he wasn’t hurt.

“Are you okay?” Henry manages. It might just be whatever’s happening with his vision, but he could swear Alex’s hands are shaking.

“Yes. Yeah, I’m okay, baby. I’m just fine, just worried about you. But I don’t have to be, because Shaan’s getting help, and you’re... you’re going to be okay.”

“Shaan’s mad at me,” Henry says. “He... I called him last night but I was drunk. Then... then I saw him this morning, and he’s upset. I haven’t been fair to him. He... he deserved better than me.” 

Alex has them inside, and he’s letting Henry slide down the wall and onto a nice, cool tiled floor. It feels good to finally have something stay still, and the coolness feels nice, and Henry lets his eyes start to drift closed.

“No. No, no, no, you can’t... Henry, stay with me, please. Don’t die on me-- please, I can’t... I came all this way to tell you I love you, and i’m proud of you, and you’re the best person I’ve ever known and you can’t... stay with me.” When Henry forces his eyes back open, Alex is really crying. Henry reaches a hand out to try and wipe one away, but it just leaves a red smear on Alex’s cheek. Alex takes it in both is hands anyway, holding it close. 

“Wha’d’ya mean you came...” his words are all running together, jumbling up in his mouth, but Alex doesn’t seem to mind.

“I... you called me last night, too. You said you were sad, and that you wanted someone who wouldn't be mad if you had to cry. And I said I’d always love you, and I’d come as soon as I could so that I could show you just how much I adore you. So you... you’ve got to stay with me. Shaan doesn’t think you’re a disappointment, Henry, he loves you. And I do, too, so you’ve... you’ve got to stay here with us so we can prove it to you.”

“I’ll try,” Henry mumbles. His eyelids want so badly to close, but he can’t let them. Alex is too scared in front of him, but talking seems to make Alex less scared, so he says, “I miss my dad.”

“I know. I know you do, baby. I’m sorry I left you alone yesterday. Want to tell me about him? Will that help you stay awake?”

Henry tries. He tries to tell Alex about their hiking trips, or about summers when his dad was filming in the highlands or beach days growing up, but his words are even more jumbled than before, and he can’t seem to find the ones he wants. He’s just so tired. He does find three words that can fit together in a sentence, and he manages to murmur “I love you” before the darkness takes him.

From there it comes in fits and starts. He’s jostled awake when someone picks him up, and there’s a hand in his in the ambulance, another stroking his hair. More movement when they get to the hospital, and he thinks Bea might be crying somewhere. He wants to comfort her, but the inky blackness pulls him in before he can. He wakes again to raised voices, Alex shouting something about why no one cared about emotions. It sounds important, but he can’t be bothered to worry about it as sleep takes him again.

When he wakes up for real, Alex is there, asleep beside his bed. Shaan is at the door, keeping watch. Henry knows he must be a mess when just the sight of Shaan’s back makes him feel enough emotions to elicit a sob. Shaan turns instantly, and Henry ducks his head a bit, but Shaan is across the room in two steps, hugging him fiercely around the shoulders.

“I love you. I’m proud of you. I’m sorry I ever made you doubt that.”

That makes Henry really cry, his arms coming up automatically to wrap around Shaan, his hands grabbing fistfulls of his jacket. Shaan holds him close, apologizing over and over, but Henry shakes his head.

“I love you, too. I’m sorry. I... I’m sorry I stole your motorcycle, and I’m sorry I snuck out, and I’m sorry I called you, and that I was stupid last night, and--”

“Henry. Do not apologize to me for your grief. I should have noticed you were hurting and helped you. It’s my job to look after you, and I failed at that, and I’m sorry. Your boyfriend talked some sense into me, and I’m going to do better in the future. We all are.”

Alex stirs beside the bed, and Shaan steps back a bit to let him wake up and greet Henry, crying into a tight hug about Henry’s bravery and selfless idiocy, and how as hot as he was on the motorcycle if he ever does anything like that again, Alex is going to really kill him. But as he reassures Alex, Henry looks to Shaan and mouths a simple “thank you”. 

Shaan gives him a smile, then rests a hand on his shoulder.

“I’m proud of you, Henry. What you did was... reckless, and you should never do anything like it again, but I am proud of you. And nothing that you do could ever lessen my care for you.”

“I love you, too,” Henry tells him. “I love both of you so much. Thank you for taking care of me.”

“Of course. We love you. And we’re proud,” Alex says, his voice muffled by Henry’s chest. Henry strokes his hair, and Shaan gives his shoulder a squeeze before going back to stand guard at the door, sending them a smile as he keeps them safe and Henry plays with Alex’s hair, making sure he feels safe, too.

On AO3

--

so uh... this got away from me? I'm hoping everything made sense; if it didn't please let me know!

--

Want to support the Hannah Makes Art fund? You can buy me a ko-fi here!

[rora-s]

The Derivative  Chapter 13: I Know

Chapter 1 <- Chapter 12 

“Well I didn’t exactly have a lot of options” I argued, hopping out of the car. 

“Maybe not but that sounds like an odd one for a snack” Alan stated getting out and grabbing the grocery bag in the back seat. 

“Ugh you sound like my mother” I grumbled as we headed toward the house. 

“Greetings friends” we turned at the call to see Larry walking up the drive. 

“Oh Larry what brings you here?” Alan greeted. 

“Well I was looking for Charles with the intention of spurring him into action on some of the math he promised me” the man explained. 

“Hey Larry you haven’t heard anything about my acceptance at CalSci yet have you?” I asked as we headed to the front door. 

“I’m afraid not but rest assured me and your uncle are keeping our ears to the metaphorical ground for any word from the admission board” Larry replied. 

I let off groan “I hate waiting” 

“Don’t worry, I'm sure they’ll accept you. You’re a great student” Alan assured me. 

“Well who knows I mean the school does get similar applications from young gifted applicants each year so” the physicist ended his statement with a shrug. 

I let out a breath still very anxious about the whole thing “thank you for that Larry” Gramps muttered with an annoyed edge as he opened the front door. “Hey Charlie” 

We headed into the house to see Charlie sitting at the table looking over some papers with a woman. “Hey, this is officer Morris of the California Highway patrol” the professor introduced the woman who smiled. Then he gestured to us “this is my father, my niece, and Dr. Fleinhardt” 

“Oh, please don’t tell me you got another speeding ticket?” Alan joked. 

“Actually your son’s helping me with an accident investigation” Officer Morris explained rising from her seat to shake my grandfather’s hand and then Larry’s, then mine “we’re trying to figure out what caused it.” 

“I didn’t know you were consulting for the CHP. Are you?” Alan inquired. 

“Don’s case” Charlie clarified. 

“Oh so this is why he ditched me here instead of taking me to the movies on his day off like he promised” I spoke with a slight edging looking at the documents laid out on the table. 

“Yeah? What sort of accident involved the FBI?” Larry questioned. 

“Prison bus crash” Morris informed. 

“The one I saw on the news.” Gramps inferred. “The bus with the escaped convicts? Don is working on that, huh?” Alan muttered the last bit as he sat down the grocery bag. 

“Yeah. Why?” Charlie questioned most likely sensing the same change in Alan’s demeanor as I had. 

“Oh nothing” Alan brushed the matter off as Larry took a seat at the table “it’s just that your brother was working on fugitive recovery once for a while, uh, anyway” he shook his head. 

“Appears to be basic Newtonian mechanics” Larry observed “the stuff of first-year engineering students. Now why are these elementary equations so captured your imagination?” 

“Well, the confluence of so many unrelated factors coming together at a given point in time” Charlie explained “it’s actually quite a fascinating approach to Bayesian inference as applied to the analysis of time series data.” 

“Yeah well as far as I know anytime an accident happens it’s because somebody made a mistake” Alan declared. “Am I right?” 

“Actually most car crashes happen because of one overestimating their own ability, to make a turn or get through a light. Willing choices that’s why the common public word accident is a misnomer and reports call them crashes.” I informed absently then paused as all the adults’ eyes shifted to me “I read it once” I shrugged. 

“This coming from the girl who doesn’t even have a license” Alan pointed out and I shot him a glare.  

“Either way that’s what we’re trying to figure out.” Morris spoke up “whether there was a mistake and what it was” 

“The answer’s not that simple” Charlie voiced as Alan pulled out his sandwich and went to open a beer I reached around him to grab my sandwich from the bag. “I mean, coincidences are a mathematical reality. Statistically unlikely events can and often do occur. Just look at the genesis of our planet.” 

“Well now, I agree that the factors that brought about life on earth were statistically unlikely” Larry mused “but given the vastness of the cosmos, the limitless possibilities for matter and energy. I’m with Einstein on this. There are no accidents.” 

____________

“I can understand the fascination of kinematic equations when working alongside an attractive female police officer” Larry voiced as we watched Charlie set up his little reenactment. “But, all the lawn equipment?” 

“What you said about the confluence of the cosmos triggered a thought” Charlie explained “Abby you’re sitting in the road” he muttered shoeing me away so he could set down a skateboard. I scooted over to the side of the path. 

“Ah, note to self: Never talk quantum theory again.” Larry voiced. 

“The initial velocity of the bus barely exceeds that of the flatbed.” Charlie elaborated “the gap between them closing slowly, approximately two feet per second.” he moved the wheel barrel up. 

“And then along comes the skateboard?” Larry questioned. 

“That’s right, the pick up truck” Uncle C confirmed “the pick up truck pulls along the right side of the bus” he demonstrated with the skateboard’s movement. “Its velocity is 13 miles per hour greater than that of the bus. Now at this point the gap between the bus and the flatbed truck is at least..” he paused reaching for the paper in the wheelbarrow. 

“84 feet” I supplied having seen the paper. 

“Okay, that’s ample enough room for the pickup to safely maneuver in front of the bus” Larry declared. 

“However” Charlie objected, continuing to manipulate the lawn equipment “the gap suddenly closed. The pickup veers in front of the bus forcing the bus to maneuver and hit the guardrail which causes it to torque and flip onto its side” I tilted my head as Charlie turned the wheelbarrow over. 

“How did that gap close so quickly between the bus and the flatbed?” Larry inquired. 

“Acceleration or deceleration” I voiced. 

“Precisely.” Charlie nodded “two possibilities. One, the bus greatly increased its velocity.” 

“No no no” Larry dissuaded that idea “given the mass of the bus, that’s extremely unlikely.” 

I craned my neck as I saw Don’s car pulling up to the house. “Or two, the flatbed truck reduced its speed at the critical moment, causing the pickup to veer in front of the bus.” 

“That’s it” Larry determined with the snap of his fingers “the flatbed slowed down”

“That’s right,” Charlie agreed. 

“And that doesn’t mean anything good” I muttered letting out a breath. 

“It would also mean” Larry mused. 

“A Markov chain” Charlie finished the thought. 

“Exactly” Larry muttered. 

“Gentlemen and lady” Don greeted us as he walked up “what’s all this?” he looked over the reenactment. 

“Just trying to make sense of something that doesn’t make sense” Charlie explained. 

“Thought that’s what you do best,” Don sighed. “What, uh, what’s the problem?” 

“Well, apparently, that seed spreader” Larry voiced. 

Don gave a confused look and Charlie quickly jumped in “t-the flatbed truck” 

“What- what about it?” Don inquired. 

“The crash wasn’t an accident” Charlie informed. “Don, it was staged.” 

“You’re sure?” Don pressed. 

“Mathematically certain” I declared Don shot me a look “it’s lawn equipment and simple math please don’t lecture me on not helping” 

Don sighed “fine later” he grumbled then turned to Charlie “think you can work up a model to show at the office?” 

“That’s an easy matter of imputing these findings into a computer simulation” Charlie explained. 

“Maybe the cute CHP lady officer can help you” I teased my uncle. 

“Cute CHP lady officer?” Don questioned turning to his brother who shot me an annoyed look. 

“It’s not like that,” Charlie objected. 

“Sure Charles, sure” Larry murmured and we all shared a laugh at the mathematician's expense. 

________________

3rd POV. 

“All these different events and factors from the initial velocity of the bus to its final torque” Charlie explained to Don and Agent Cooper “all of these create what’s called a Markov Chain.” 

“What kind of Chain?” Cooper questioned. 

“Markov. A sequence of random values where the probabilities at any given time depend on the values at a previous time.” Charlie attempted to elaborate “the controlling factor in a Markov chain is called the transitional probability. Now in this case the bus reaches a certain point in the road just as the truck blocks the lane, just as the pickup cuts off the bus.” the professor gestured to his diagram. 

“Which tells you it wasn't an accident?” Don asked with minor confusion. 

“Bayesian statistics and the Chapman-Kolmogorov equation tell me that.” Charlie clarified. 

“Are you sure you’re his brother?” Billy joked to Don. 

“Yeah, you think he’s freaky smart you should meet my kid” Don replied off handedly focusing on Charlie and missing the double take Cooper gave him. 

“If the flatbed truck had maintained its initial velocity, well then the pickup should have enough space to roam freely past the bus safely.” Charlie continued “but it didn’t.” he pressed a button going to the next image “the truck slowed down just as the right moment just as the pickup timed its move, forcing the bus to veer violently and overturn.” 

“So the pickup driver and the flatbed guy are in on it,” Don deduced. 

“Only the gardener’s missing” Cooper muttered. 

“Let’s go find that truck driver” Don declared getting up and Billy following after him. “Good job Charlie thanks” 

Don and Cooper exited the meeting room and headed through the bullpen. “So uh that comment about you having a kid that serious?” Billy asked as they paused by Don’s desk so he could grab his jacket. 

Don let off a breath, his brain somehow just realizing that his former partner would have no way of knowing about Abby appearing in Don’s life a little less than a year ago. “Uh yeah um kind of a long story but uh you remember that girl from college I mentioned Janice Calvin?” Don asked as they headed toward the elevator. 

“Yeah the one left you a note and went back home?” Cooper recalled. 

“Yeah, well, turns out she was pregnant. And what will be a year ago soon I got this knock on my door from a social worker telling me she died and left a kid behind. And my name’s on the birth certificate” Don explained. 

Cooper let off a breath “that’s crazy man.” 

“You’re telling me” Don muttered as they entered the elevator and pressed the button for the lobby. “Still it’s been good having her in my life you know? Her name’s Abby and she just tested out of highschool as a sophomore applied to college for next semester” 

“Really?” Cooper nodded then a slight smirk came to his features “so out of all these geniuses in your family how the heck did you end up like this?” 

“Ah” Don scoffed, giving his friend a shove as the doors opened and they headed out chuckling. 

__________

Abby POV. 

“Why am I here?” I muttered in annoyance. 

“Because I find this interesting,” Alan whispered back. 

“That explains why you’re here, not why I am” I grumbled turning the page of my book. 

“Well, if you’d quiet down you might just learn something” Alan suggested. I sighed and looked up at Uncle Charlie who was standing in front of a black baord that read “Math for Non-Mathematicians''

“Most people believe that they can trust their instincts” Uncle C explained “however, math suggests that our instincts aren’t always correct” he bent down and picked up a couple big white boards and big red X’s off the ground. “We’re gonna play a little game.” he declared, setting out the white cards on stands “I want you all to pretend that we’re on a game show, and I’m your cheesy game show host. And behind one of these cards is a brand new automobile.” he added a joking deepness to his voice at that last line that elicited some laughs from the audience of the class “and behind the other two are goats. Yeah, goats.” I rolled my eyes and turned back to my story.”I’m going to need a volunteer” I glanced up making sure my uncle wasn’t thinking of choosing me as a couple hands went up “come on, more of you than that. Come on.” he encouraged, receiving a couple laughs in response “Julie” he finally selected. “Why don’t you pick one of these cards? Remembering of course the object is to win the car, not the goat.” 

“I’ll take the one in the middle” Julie chose. 

“She takes the middle card” Charlie declared, sticking an X to the card. “And what are the chances that that card is the winning card?” 

“One in three” Julie answered. 

“Three choices, one car. Right?” Charlie clarified “one in three, it’s simple enough, right? Now, here’s where the game’s gonna take a turn. I’m going to reveal to you one of the cards that you did not choose” he reached to the card on the right and flipped it around to reveal a goat “So, we have two cards yet to be revealed. Now, knowing what you know, do you want to switch your choice? Or more importantly for the purposes of this class, does it matter? Will switching your choice improve your chances of winning?” 

“Yes switch it” I muttered under my breath going back to my book. Alan gave me a side look. 

“Well no. because now, two cards it’s 50/50, right?” Julie replied to the teacher. 

“How many people agree with her?” Charlie asked. 

“Don’t raise your hand” I mumbled sarcastically, turning the page of my book. Inevitable people did though most of the class in fact Alan looked around surprised. 

“That’s what your instinct tells you, but you’d be wrong.” Charlie explained. “Switching your cards at this point actually doubles your chances of winning the car.” 

“How?” Julie questioned. 

“Well, since we started out with two goats,” Charlie explained “it’s more likely that your first choice was a goat. What are the odds of choosing the goats?”

“Two out of three” Julie answered. 

“Right. So it’s more likely that this is a goat, less likely that it’s a car” the professor gestured to the center card “and it’s more likely that this card is a car” he pointed to the card on the left. “See switching your choice gives you a two-out-of-three chance of winning the car, rather than the one-out-of-three chance that we all began with.” he revealed the left card as the car to make his point. “Vroom vroom” he joked making the class chuckle. “You won a car, Julie. Congratulations.'' Then Uncle Charlie paused his eyes drifting to the back of the room before he checked his watch. “I think. Yeah, yeah, we’re out of time.” I looked back to see Don standing in the back of the room with another man who I could assume was another agent. “So uh, go home make some of these for yourselves. Put together some reasonable “n” samples, and uh.. Yeah see what happens. I’ll see you all next week. thanks.” 

The students began to disperse and Alan followed my line of sight to Don and the other agent. He got up and I followed him back to the two men. “Hey Dad, what are you two doing here?” 

“Oh I like coming whenever Charlie gives one of these math-for-dummies lectures. It’s the only time I actually understand what he’s talking about” Gramps explained “plus this one needed to get out of the house I couldn’t stand anymore anxious pacing about this acceptance letter” 

“Hey I wasn’t pacing” I objected adjusting my backpack on my shoulders “much” 

“This is Billy Cooper” Don introduced the man next to him. “He’s an agent I work with.” 

“Hi” Alan greeted him with a hand shake “we’ve met before, haven’t we?” 

“oh, yeah.” Don murmured “I couldn’t remember” 

“You worked a case with Don out here once?” Alan guessed. 

“Back in the day, yes, sir” Agent Cooper confirmed and glanced between me and my Grandfather. 

“Donnie, can I talk to you for a minute?” Alan requested. 

“Yeah, sure.” Don agreed and looked to Billy “just give me a second” him and Alan shuffled out of the room. 

Agent Cooper turned to me “you must be Abby then” he inquired and I nodded “uh so your uh old man mentioned that you were some kind of genius like your Uncle” he gestured vaguely to where Charlie was packing up his stuff from class. 

“Um yeah I have a decent IQ and an Advanced Eidetic Memory” I explained shifting on my feet. 

“What’s that mean?” the agent asked. 

“I have near perfect visual memory recall especially when I read” I explained gesturing to the book in my hand. 

“Cool” Cooper nodded and glanced out the doorway to where Don and Alan were still talking. 

“So you work with my dad?” I inquired blinking as the last word came out of my mouth easier than I thought. 

“Yup” Cooper smiled “me and Don actually used to be partners back in the day when he worked fugitive recovery. Made a great team” 

I smiled slightly “that’s cool” 

“Hey agent Cooper” Charlie cut in as he came over to greet the agent. 

________ 3rd POV. 

Don walked with his father out of the room and into the courtyard outside. “Um- wh-what are you doing? What’s going on?” Alan asked, turning to Don once they were out of earshot. 

“What are you talking about?” Don asked, confused. 

“Well, I- I haven’t seen you for days. Not since you dropped Abby off.” Alan pointed out. 

“I’m working,” Don explained. 

“Yeah, I know, Charlie told me.” Alan informed “Are you going back to manhunting now?” 

“Oh, I see. Dad, come on” Don sighed in annoyance. “Don’t. This is one case.” 

“I seem to recall your saying that about only one case once before,” Alan pointed out, “but, if you remember, they were not good days for you, or for me. I mean, we didn’t hear from you for weeks. We didn’t even know where the hell you were.” 

“Dad-” Don tried to interject but failed. 

“You do realize that uh, chasing after someone you could be running away from yourself at the same time” Alan stated. “And now you’re a father Donnie, you have a daughter in there that relies on you and you have a responsibility to her. Have you even talked to her the last couple days?” 

“Yes dad, of course I have'' Don finally interjected agitated. Then he sighed “contrary to what you might think I don’t plan to abandon her” 

Before Alan could respond to that statement or before Don could process the emotions it set forth Charlie was joining them with Abby and Billy right behind him. Don looked at Abby for a moment as Charlie greeted them and asked Alan about his lecture. 

Sometimes it was easy for him to forget she was a kid with how her brain worked and how stubbornly independent she could be. However, with her duct taped and sharpied shoes and ratty backpack she wouldn’t let him buy her replacements for, fading freckles and various superhero and tv show related t-shirts. She really was every bit the teenager her age dictated. A teenager who Don knew needed her father. 

____________

“Hey” Don called walking up as Coop was loading up his car “So you’re out of here?” 

“Heading to Phoenix.” Billy sighed “meth tweaker I been chasing.” 

“No chance we could get you to stick around?” Don asked helping him with the bags “maybe put in for a position around here?” 

“What, and settle down?” Billy chuckled. 

“Hey, it’s not bad Coop, I gotta tell you.” Don advised leaning on the car. 

“You don’t miss it?” Cooper inquired. 

“No. Not really, no” Don shook his head. 

“The rush you get when you’re hauling his ass in,” Coop tempted “your fugitive’s a couple hours ahead of you and you’re closing ground.” 

“Alright, maybe a little,” Don conceded. “Hey, but not being in touch with my family, not being able to talk to anybody, I don’t miss that.” he took a deep breath “I don’t know, I think LA’s good for me.” 

“Well” Coop sighed closing his trunk “plus you’re a dad now” 

Don chuckled “yeah there’s that too” 

“Listen that kid’s lucky to have you.” Billy told him “and if she’s anything like her old man she got a good future ahead of her” 

“Thanks man” Don sighed as the two shook hands walking back toward the drivers side of the car “keep your head down, huh?” 

“I’ll do that,” Billy nodded, getting in his car to leave. 

___________

“You do realize watching out the window isn’t going to make him get here any sooner right?” Alan voiced. 

Abby sighed and slid down to sit on the couch. “What’s taking so long,” she whined. 

“Relax kid,” Don advised, taking a sip of his beer. “He’ll get here soon” 

“Easy for you to say” Abby grumbled. Just then the door of the house opened and the trio sitting in the living room turned as Charlie walked in. 

Abby bounced to her feet. “Do you have it? Do you have it?” she asked eagerly. 

“Hello to you too” Charlie mumbled earning him a glare from his niece. “It’s right here” he held up the letter from the schools admissions office. 

Abby took the letter and looked it over like it was some rare artifact. She let off a slow breath. “You want me to open it?” Don asked after a moment. 

“No,” Abby objected then took a deep breath and tore the envelope open pulling out the paper inside. 

The three men watched as her eyes scanned over it abnormally fast for the average person. Then another second before a large smile spread over her face. 

“I got in” she whispered almost inaudibly then began to repeat it louder jumping up and down in joy “I got in! I got in! I got in!” she stopped and whisked over to where Don was sitting “Dad! Dad! Dad! Look! I even got a scholarship!” 

“I can see that” Don murmured looking at the paper that was thrust into his hand “nice job kid” 

“We knew you could do it,'' Alan encouraged with a smile. 

“I’m going to go call Amita and tell her” Abby declared “this is awesome!” with that she ran from the room. 

“Donnie, uh,” Alan spoke up after a moment “you are aware she just called you dad right? Without uh any snarky backdrop or anything” 

Don smiled lightly eyes still on the acceptance letter “yeah I know” 

Chapter 14 -> 

[boned-spy]

TF2 Secret Santa 2019!

Merry Christmas/Smissmas @trashiny-draws​!!! I was your Secret Santa this year! I heard you really love Scout and specifically fanfics of Scout so I did my best to make sure you got exactly that this holiday!

You offered so many great prompts to pick from so I decided to mash some together for you! I hope you enjoy it and have a wonderful day of celebration!

Also, your Secret Santa was super enjoyable for me to write so don’t feel bad for wanting so much Scout content! You deserve it, man! Also, I apologize if my writing is bad. It’s been years since I last wrote these characters.

Prompts I mashed together: “Takes place right after End of the Line”, “Scout is a Dumbass™ and needs help while stuck in the snow”, “Scout completely forgot about Sniper- BIG UH OH TIME”, “Team bonding and being a loving murder-family”, “Dad!Spy”(Strongly hinted)

_ -_-_-_-_-_

“Yo, hardhat! You drifting off on me? I didn’t even get to the best part yet!” Scout tittered, still sitting on the edge of his seat, wide-awake.

“Boy, you’ve been goin’ on about yourself for hours; from how ya woke up to what you ate for lunch. We’ve had a pretty long day ourselves and wanna get some shut eye before we start cleaning up all the debris outside tomorrow.” Engineer sluggishly bit back, cranky from exhaustion but unable to put any real heat into it. His eyes were clearly burning as he pulled his goggles off his face to rest along his neck, pinching the bridge of his nose to dispel the ache bundled there. With a sigh, he tried a little more gently as he met the runner’s gaze again, “You reckon you can wrap your story up soon, son?”

Scout took a quick glance around the dining hall and only then just noticed how worn out everyone looked. Medic, Spy, and Heavy looked bored. Tired bored. Demo and Soldier had settled down with their hands holding their heads, stubbornly trying to beat the sleep threatening to take over them any minute. And then there was Pyro. Scout couldn’t tell if Pyro was sleeping or still awake since they had been resting their head on the table ever since everyone sat down to eat a few hours ago.

If he wasn’t careful, Scout was on the verge of completely losing the group’s attention. And Scout could NOT have that.

“Psh, fine! I’ll get to the juicy bits then. Now where was I…? Oh!” Scout suddenly leaned forward conspiratorially as he began talking with his hands, hoping to get everyone in the room more invested in his story by doing so. “So there I was, freezing my ass off in the lookout. It must have been, like, negative 400 degrees. Probably. I couldn’t feel my toes, my fingers, or my gorgeous face! But did that stop me from my incredibly important duty? Hell no! I patrolled the crap out of that crappy shack like my life depended on it! And it totally did! Cause, ya see, right after circling the perimeter or whatever for like, the two hundredth time, my incredible Scout-hearing picked up the screeching of that train before it even passed by! You know, the one that almost killed us and all those poor, defenseless cat orphans?”

The room deadpanned at the expectant pause.

“Anyways, that’s when I turned to Snipes like the badass I was and told him to get his van started for us to chase it down. The guy was basically lost without me! ‘Was super busy peeing in jars and cleaning his rifle or whatever--“

“And where exactly is Sniper to back up these claims? I’m fairly certain he would have already poked a hole or two in this unbelievably long-winded and far-fetched tale of yours.” Spy cut in dryly, his stony expression largely unchanged since first sitting down earlier that evening.

The whole room stilled at the question, as it was a very good question.

For the first time in hours, the room stirred as seven sets of eyes (and Demo’s single eye) sleepily searched around the room for the Australian. After a moment, however, brows soon furrowed and heads turned at greater angles as they inspected the hall more attentively. Typically it wasn’t odd for the marksman to be missing, as everyone knew how much he enjoyed his privacy, but the team was well aware they hadn’t seen Sniper since the incident that day. Or with Scout afterwards, for that matter.

At the quiet but unified revelation, all eyes leveled suddenly on the Bostonian who was now sitting with his back ramrod straight at the scrutinizing stares, never mind the dawning horror that manifested quite clearly on his face.

“Scout? Where is Sniper?” Medic repeated the question cautiously, slowly. The air felt uncomfortably stiff as mere seconds of silence threatened to deafen them all.

The last Scout had seen of Sniper was when his van crashed into that rundown building hanging off the edge of the cliff after he jumped onto the train to try and stop it. He hadn’t seen if Sniper’s van stopped dead in the building or if it ran clean off the edge. And if it did happen to be the latter…

“Oh, my God.” Scout stood abruptly, banging his knees off the table with a yelp. “Aow! Oh, my God! Oh, sh- I gotta go! I GOTTA GO!”

The runner was already out the door and sprinting for the RED Bread truck by the time someone managed to shout after him to wait and explain himself. Scout had barely registered who it was and didn’t care to as he reached the garage and practically leaped into the driver’s seat to fumble with the keys already sitting in the ignition. He started the vehicle as quickly as he got inside of it, slamming the stick into reverse before peeling out of the base with a loud scream of wheels.

“Oh crap, oh my crap. Snipes, man, you better be super alive out there.” Scout muttered in a panic to himself, foot pressing harder on the accelerator as an intrusive thought interrupted his focus regarding how long the hopefully still-alive Australian had been missing for out in the extreme cold. The runner dared to sneak a peek at the digital clock resting above the vehicle’s transmitter and paled.

Seven hours. If Sniper was alive, he’s been sitting in the cold for seven freakin’ hours.

“Oh, God, this guy’s freakin’ dead! If he wasn’t dead before, he’s super dead now! He complained about the cold the whole freakin’ time and now he’s a Snipe-cicle. The poor bastard barely had a chance!” Scout ranted and raved out his nervous energy, still unfalteringly speeding towards the lookout up the mountain despite the words coming out of his mouth. “I should have offered him my gum, man. Chewing keeps you warm like talking keeps you warm. Now he’s gum-less and frozen to death. Way to go, Scout, you killed a guy by not giving him some damn gum!”

The video transmitter suddenly started blaring from the dashboard, startling Scout enough to veer the van off the side of the road with a terrified scream before hurriedly readjusting right back onto it, foot never letting off the pedal the whole incident. Hardly able to catch his breath from the scare, Scout blinked down at the ringing device before punching the button to ignore it. Whoever it was could wait. It was taking all his concentration to not crash and a conversation was the last thing he needed right now.

The dangerous drive up the mountain towards the wreck site took less than thirty minutes thanks to Scout’s reckless regard for his own safety, the bread van’s engine practically screaming for mercy by the time he wrenched the vehicle to the side of the snow-covered railroad tracks before hopping out.

It was a thousand times colder than it had been earlier in the day, nightfall dropping already cold temperatures to an insanely low degree. Sure, Scout had been spouting about Sniper’s death the whole drive there, but it was only then he realized how very probable it actually was.

The revelation had the runner feeling sick to his stomach, but he still pressed on and attempted to ignore his own hang-ups for his teammate’s sake. Flicking on the flashlight he had hurriedly stowed in his jacket pocket before launching himself from the truck, Scout approached the now dilapidated building with a sizable van-shaped hole. Light snowfall calmly blanketed the ground as he trekked, so thick that the runner had to lift his knees higher from the ground to avoid dragging them through the frozen terrain. Even the air felt harder to breathe from how cold it was.

“Snipes?” Scout called out with uncertainty, shining his light around and wincing at every broken board and tire tread mark he spotted, “You, uh, huddled in a corner around here or frozen to death or…?”

Scout finally reached the end of the destruction at the other side of the building, his flashlight illuminating a hole complimenting the one he entered just moments ago. His heart dropped into his stomach, sure that Sniper really had driven off the mountain and to his death, until his light reflected off a cracked side-door mirror that blinded him.

“Ugh!” Scout squinted with an annoyed grunt, perking up immediately when he realized exactly what he was just blinded by. As fast as he ran on the battlefield, he mindlessly sprinted for the driver’s side with a huge grin of relief, feeling silly he ever doubted Sniper’s survival to begin with. “Yes! Oh, thank God! Sniper, man, I thought you were—“

The runner stopped himself short as he shined his flashlight into the van, the door already kicked open and stuck, frozen solid. Small icicles formed along the roof of the interior, a thin coat of frost encompassing the entirety of the dash, and Sniper…

Sniper was curled in his seat, feet pressed flat against the window, arms braced against the back of where he sat, skin pale and violently shivering. Scout took a step forward instinctively to try and offer help only to squeak in surprise as he caught himself before walking completely off the edge of a cliff. A cliff, he finally registered, that the whole van had been teetering on for at least seven hours now.

“Oh sweet Jesus.” Scout grimaced, placing both hands on top of his head as he took in the puzzle he had to now solve, by himself, in zero degree weather.

He could totally do this.

“Okay. So, time to use that big brain of mine...” Scout muttered partly to himself as Sniper continued staring at him, too ridden with frostbite to speak or move. The youngest had no doubt that if the marksman had control or feeling in his facial muscles, he’d be glaring daggers at him right now.

The van seemed completely frozen, tires included, so Scout was pretty sure it could take a nudge or two without nose-diving off the mountain. Still, Sniper was frozen to the van too, so the Bostonian would need to do more than nudge to get him out.

Okay.

Scout clapped his hands together with determination, his resolution so plain on his face, Sniper’s brow just barely managed to knot in deep concern.

“You gotta work with me here, brotha. Just relax and let the expert get to work.”

Sniper’s eyes widened in alarm as Scout strode closer and leaned his body out over the edge to reach for the huntsman, fingers outstretched with effort before clamping down like vices into the frosty, stiff sleeve of Sniper’s shirt. His weight made the van groan, the vehicle budging by millimeters as Scout placed more of his weight into the front of it in order to get a better grip.

“S-s-s-st—S-top!” Sniper chattered desperately through gritted teeth, seeing more than feeling his van lurching ever so slowly forward towards the void below as Scout strained to gather more of his clothing into his hands.

“I got you, man! Just…! Almost!” Scout grunted with the effort, white clouds from his panting filling the air around them as he finally managed to gather Sniper’s jacket into his other hand. “Gotcha!”

Just as Scout poised himself to jerk Sniper out of the icy prison that was his seat with all his might, Sniper’s van tottered violently forward, dragging Scout with it as he lost his footing from the edge.

Scout screamed from the top of his lungs as he felt himself get pulled off his feet, fingers clenching for dear life onto the still-stuck Sniper in the van as he dangled in mid-air helplessly.

Wait. Dangled? Shouldn’t Scout be at the bottom of the mountain by now, body horribly twisted in metal and covered in broken jars of jarate?

“Well, that was idiotic.” A nasally voice chided from where Scout had been standing just seconds before.

Unable to swivel his head around to see who it was, Scout squawked as he felt the entire van tilt backwards and somehow reverse back onto solid ground, his body half-buried by snow as it was dragged away from certain death like a lifeless doll.

“Danke shoen, Heavy.”

“Mm.”

With a groan, Scout pulled his head from the unforgivingly cold fluff his face had been buried in and blearily blinked up at his mysterious saviors.

“Guys?”

“Guys?” Spy mocked, replicating the runner’s voice perfectly as he glared down in disapproval at Scout shakily rising to his knees, moodily tossing his spent cigarette into the blackness below. “The next time you decide to run off and ignore our calls, I may conveniently forget I placed a tracker on you and leave you to whatever fate your stupidity leads you to.”

“Tracker?!” Scout started patting himself down frantically.

“You will not find it.” Spy informed casually, shaking his head before turning his attention to Medic and Heavy, who had already dragged Sniper out from his van and were carrying him into Engineer’s truck to get him warmed up.

“What in Sam Hill were you thinking, boy?” Engineer came over to bend down and pick Scout back up on his feet, brushing the snow off his shoulders a little too roughly as he scolded him. “Running away without telling a soul where you were going or why, just to end up out here and nearly killing yourself and string bean over there. Did you knock your head earlier today or what?”

“I get it! Jeez!” Scout snapped back defensively, arms flung up in exasperated defeat. “But Sniper’s been sittin’ out here for hours! I had to do something!”

“And you could have done that something more effectively if you simply explained to us what had happened.” Spy bit back, his agitation and concern simmering under a cool, stern façade.

“Alright, that’s enough bickerin’ now. I’m too damn tired to put in the effort and it’s too damn late to be doin’ it.” Engineer wiped a hand over his face before slapping it onto Scout’s shoulder to give a firm squeeze. “We worried about ya, is all. We thought we lost Sniper and you and, well… We already dealt with a lot today, and you runnin’ off didn’t help much.”

Spy refused to meet Scout’s eyes as he nonchalantly pulled out another cigarette, avoiding Engineer’s gaze as well when the laborer glanced over pointedly at him as he spoke. Scout shot the Texan a confused look before Engineer shook his head with a sigh.

“Just don’t do it again.” Engineer patted Scout roughly on the back before moving away to check on Sniper, who was still sitting in his truck and trying to recover. The windows of the pickup glowed red from Medic’s medigun, doing his best to help the Australian along in healing his frostbite. He’d be in perfect health and ready to head back to the base in no time, Scout knew. And thinking back on it all, considering how easy saving Sniper was when everyone was involved, maybe it would have made more sense to bring the gang out with him.

Maybe Scout had kind of overreacted and made the whole rescue mission way harder than it needed to be. Especially on Sniper.

Feeling like a moron now despite genuinely trying to do the right thing, Scout stood and watched with his arms crossed as the other mercenaries milled about around him, rubbing his arms in an attempt to warm himself after rolling around in the snow.

“You’ve got guts, son!” Soldier’s voice boomed suddenly from behind him, causing Scout to yelp when a large, calloused hand slapped his back a little too hard. “Your bravery deserves a medal of honor! No man left behind! That’s what I like to see in this unit! Stop by my quarters later and we’ll celebrate your efforts the proper American way by training! With me! Hehehehe!”

Scout coughed and tried for a convincing smile at the offer, a small part of him appreciating the little bit of praise he was getting that night. He waved half-heartedly after the patriotic man with an uneasy chuckle as he passed him by with a massive grin on his face. “Oh, sure, yeah. I’ll have to try and remember when we get back to, uh, totally do that.”

“Ach, donnae worry, lad. It’s the wee hours of morning. ‘Ain’t a chance he’ll remember on the car ride home. He’ll be bloody asleep by the time we get back.” Demoman nudged Scout’s arm from behind as they watched Soldier march back to the truck to also check on Sniper. The two stayed standing side-by-side and observed for a few moments as the majority of the team hovered around the marksman just to make sure he was okay. Scout found himself smirking a little to himself at the rare sight.

“Like a fooked up family, we are. Eh?” Demo chuckled, pulling Scout into a quick, friendly side-armed hug. The Bostonian allowed it, but made a bit of a face at the affectionate contact, still feeling out of sorts from the whole incident he couldn’t help feeling was partly his fault. The demolitions expert picked up on it easily, however, and released him with a sigh. “Don’t let this eat’ya up, laddie. Just like I said, right? We’re one bloody mess of a family. If yer gonnae do something stupid, ya might as well include us.”

Scout snorted genuinely at that, shrugging but with a small smile on his face. “Yeah, yeah. I got enough brothers at home. I don’t need a bunch of dads to match.” He replied jokingly to deflect the rather sappy sentiment.

“A family’s what’cha make of it.” Demo shot back easily enough, earning him a look of surprise from Scout at the sincere wisdom from out of nowhere as the explosives expert idly searched his own person for his flask. He muttered to himself in dismay when he turned up with nothing, eyeing Sniper’s van before giving a groan of resignation. “Ach, mother o’ mercy. Must’ave left the bloody thing back home. Guess I’ll be in the van taking a bleedin’ nap until we get back then.” Demo gave a two-finger salute as he turned to leave. “Nighty night, lad.”

“Yeah, night.” Scout called after his shoulder.

The Bostonian turned back towards the loose crowd still hanging around the truck and allowed himself a warm, heartfelt smile.

Man.

Scout really had to pee now.

_ -_-_-_-_-_

[paullicino]

Hindsight is 2020

Just one of many posts taken from and funded by my Patreon.

This is a piece of writing about some things that I do know and some things that I do not know. It also is a piece of writing about another piece of writing which no longer exists, a sort of obituary for a document. It is also a confession.

I wonder where it is that good drafts go to die. Those half-finished pieces of work that are simultaneously salvageable and yet also surplus. There are times when words come easy and, if a writer isn’t careful, those words grow like a jungle, sprouting energetically in every direction until they destroy the view, ruin the perspective and reduce those caught amongst them to a sweaty, flustered mess.

I don’t want you to wade into my work to find yourself a sweaty, flustered mess. Otherwise, I’d be in the sauna business.

I throw things out. That’s good. Not everything we make or do will be up to our standards and it’s a wise idea to aggressively cull that which doesn’t work. It’s brutal, sure, but the fact is every writer you know is regularly hurling paragraphs down a secret trapdoor in their home, which they occasionally flip open empty their machine gun into. You have to kill your darlings.

And it's a luxury to be able to murder your mistakes.

But sometimes there’s one that you rescue. There’s one that comes back. There’s one that is pulled from the brink, thrown on the gurney and shocked back into being. "It’s alive," the writer screams, as it twitches once again. Watch it stagger out into the world, walking as if for the first time. Look at its cute little hyphens.

This piece of writing is one of those. It began, more than a month ago, as an attempt to reflect on December. It started like this:

“It’s difficult for me to write about December without also writing some kind of a retrospective for an entire decade. This month has been a hugely reflective one for me and it’s been impossible not to get swept up in the general trend of looking back and taking stock, something that I initially resisted but which has become a positive, enriching exercise. The past has been on my mind in part because it’s infinitely more concrete than the present or the future. It’s so much easier to hold on to. Hopefully it will also be something solid to leap forward from.”

I hope that you feel this way. That your past is something to leap forward from.

I wonder, too, where it is that good drafts are born. I’m not quite sure exactly how much control I have over what I write and I don’t know where the words come from. I know that I don’t wait for inspiration. I chase it. I chase it and I’m armed. It’s not a pretty sight and I’m neither glamorous nor gainly in my pursuit. Sometimes I catch it in lofty places, at the shining peak of a million-year-old mountain. Other times I pull it from a dumpster at three in the morning, scraping off the gunk. But I never understand quite how this catching happens and what the process is that follows. I seem to mostly just stumble into accidents. Just after writing that paragraph that I showed you above, everything went kind of off the rails. It all veered sideways. I wrote this:

“The 2010s were a period of almost constant change and now I’m looking at the possibility of a far more settled future. That feels very unusual indeed. I can’t get my head around it. Even before I gained residency here, my life in Canada offered me so much more stability than anything in a long time and I’m not sure quite what to do with that. While there might be some things I have to worry about going into 2020, there are so many others that have melted away into the past.”

And as I tried to find a way to document and describe some of the transience of that last decade, I began pouring over maps. I'm a very visual thinker and I find that sights and spaces spark my imagination, but the task got away from me very quickly, transforming from something that I was doing to something that was happening. I tried to find something in north London and, by chance, Google Maps dropped me right by a bus stop I could easily have been waiting at ten years ago today, way up Holloway Road and close to an ex-partner’s place.

I don’t know what the logic or whimsy is behind this behaviour, but sometimes Google Maps shows you a place as it looks in summer or in winter, right now or three years past. There’s usually a slider you can drag which pulls you through time and, as I wasn't looking at the Holloway Road of today, I went to try to pull myself back into the present. But it was then that I found I could also jump back almost exactly a decade and see how things looked on any of so many winter mornings or afternoons, as I stood waiting to travel home or to work. With one click, I could hurl myself back almost exactly a decade.

I can’t tell you how powerful that single click was. It demolished a nearby building, it switched out all the road signs, it reopened the old café. It summoned a bold, red 43 bus which loomed nearby and who’s driver would have no patience if I wasn’t about to climb on. I hated that damn bus. The 271, too. They lurched and retched their way north and south, never on a reliable schedule. There was no way of knowing when the next one would come. I’d better get on board.

But I didn’t. I turned on my heel and retraced my steps, winding and squirming my way down routes that weren't just streets I hadn't seen for a decade or more, but often streets that no longer looked this way. Estates have been built, businesses have moved, and while one thing in London can look the same after a hundred and fifty years, whatever sits next to it might change three times in a decade.

I wonder what Google will do when routes themselves change. When they have not only old images, but old layouts that no longer correspond to streets and paths and places that exist. I wonder if we'll still be able to walk through them. I wonder where they’ll go.

It wasn’t difficult to retrace my steps all around each of my old London neighbourhoods, recreating journeys I'd taken countless times. I walked streets just as they looked at the time, took the same shortcuts, remarked at the same details I would've noticed at the time. There was one neighbour's stroller outside their house. There was the same front door, faded before they repainted it. I roamed and I roamed until I found myself looking straight at the face of a building I might easily have been inside at the very same moment that imagery was taken. Like any other, its windows were black holes, its walls were blank, its doorway was featureless. Yet some past version of me could be just beyond. Right then. Right now.

What am I doing in there, I asked myself, and what am I doing in any of these other places I now revisit? The people there aren’t ghosts or memories, they’re living their lives at this moment while this phantom from the future glides back toward them, unable to reach out or to communicate or to leave even the tiniest trace. I could circle these places and their people infinitely. It had never before occurred to me to try to visit the past in this way.

And then I wondered this: If I could step inside, if I could pass through those black windows and blank walls to meet the me of a decade ago, and if I could speak to him, what would I say?

I know the answer.

“Stop being so stupid,” probably.

And also “Keep going and get ready to do an awful lot of things.”

It occurs to me now, as I write this, that the me of a decade ago had a lot going on. He had a lot to juggle. He was sometimes having a much tougher time than the lazy literary bum who types out these words with one foot on the floor and one foot hanging on the sofa. I don't know if he'd appreciate the perspective of someone like me. "Stop being so stupid," he might say. And also: "I hope you've kept going and that you're still trying to do an awful lot of things." The younger me never wanted to waste opportunity.

Other things I wrote in my abandoned draft included this paragraph:

“I’m really bad at relaxing. Really bad. There is always something to be done or something that *can* be done. Most of the last decade I’ve lived paycheck to paycheck, earning enough to get by but rarely to save. I think this has created a constant sense of urgency and an ever-present feeling that I should be doing something. I also think I wasted too much of my teenage years or early twenties and should’ve achieved much more, much sooner. I should be making up for lost time.”

I think now that the me of 2010 would agree we have to find some way to go back further, to the me of 2000, and kick this person into shape. I think we would say "Stop being so stupid," and, particularly "Oh my GOD be more grateful toward your friends, your family and the people you date," which would help us pretend that we don't still need to listen to that advice ourselves. But we do. I know this.

Through most of my life I've watched a British science fiction show called Doctor Who, which tells the story of an eccentric alien who travels through time, going on adventures and solving mysteries. In the course of those travels, the Doctor sometimes meets a past version of themselves and inevitably clashes with them, ending up somewhere between baffled and irritated. But that bit sure doesn't sound like science fiction to me.

I first watched Doctor Who when I was very, very young, at just about the same time when several British organisations worked together on a famous educational undertaking called the Domesday Project, a digital documentation of Britain that existed on collections of enormous laserdiscs, fed into the school computers of the time. They showed you pictures and videos of places all over the nation, letting you take virtual tours around cities or wander in the countryside. My strongest memory of it was of a friend and I getting lost in a field after walking through the most painfully generic and nondescript landscape. We couldn't get out because everything looked the same. To the adult me writing this now, that feels like an apt metaphor for how I felt about much of England, a country I found stagnant and sterile.

The technology used to create the Domesday Project was soon out of date. The media it was stored on was soon out of date. Its images of a country that clearly wasn't always stagnant and sterile were soon out of date. Where is it all now? I don't know. I do know that this makes it very obvious Britain did change, even if to me it didn't, and I can't deny that.

Now come all the coincidences. They start with one more paragraph that I wrote, but then discarded. It is the hardest one to share. It is the confession.

"I will be forty years old soon and I am embarrassed by my age. I know people older who feel so much fresher and people younger who are more capable and more mature. My life is not the way I imagined it would be at forty and I cannot reconcile the reality of who I am with the half-formed expectations that I had. There were things that I wanted to do and things that I meant to do and then an awful lot of other stuff happened along the way. I handled some of that with varying degrees of readiness, resilience and regret, while failing the rest."

I left this paragraph to gain dust and now, by coincidence, I am forty years old at this very moment. Who let this happen? This is unacceptable. Who's fault is this and who can I blame?

And in another act of ridiculous randomness, on the same day I began redrafting all this, a note almost exactly one year old and that I thought I had lost fell out of my notebook. The note pulled me back into the past with all the power of a black hole. HERE YOU ARE AGAIN, said the note, with words that deafened my ears, blinded my eyes and plugged my nose. IT IS 2019 ONCE MORE. I couldn't see or hear or smell anything except for the past, but this time I was armed with all the tools of perspective and perspicacity. I was better equipped to understand everything while also able to change nothing.

I flailed at the past with all the effectiveness of the phantom I had become.

In the third moment of curious concordance, just a few days ago I found myself walking past the first place I lived in Vancouver. It was late. It was cold. I could've decided to head straight home. The night bus was about to come. I’d better get on board.

But I didn’t. I turned on my heel and retraced my steps, winding and squirming my way down routes that weren't just streets I hadn't walked in years, but also streets that no longer looked quite the same. New houses had been built, businesses had moved. This wasn't unusual. While one or two things in Vancouver still look the same after a hundred and fifty years, it's a shockingly young city to a person like me and it regularly rebuilds so much.

It wasn’t difficult to retrace my steps all around my old neighbourhood, recreating journeys I'd taken countless times. I walked streets just as they looked at the time, took the same shortcuts, remarked at the same details I would've noticed at the time. There was one neighbour's bike left on their balcony. There was the same front door, furnished with a new intercom. I roamed and I roamed until I found myself looking straight at the same first apartment I'd rented. Like any other, its windows were black holes, its walls were blank, its doorway was featureless. Someone else lived there now, but someone else had also lived there in the past.

Everything that night was both so familiar and yet also so forgotten. So much had fallen out of my memory so soon and I rushed to gather it all once more. It was then that I realised what true nostalgia really is: It isn't just revisiting the past, it's rediscovering it. It's finding the things that surprise us again even after they've already happened. I know this now.

It brings a very particular kind of feeling. A kind of joy. A kind of reminder. A kind of reinforcement. And I think that's important.

I think it's important to be that phantom from the future, gliding occasionally through the past, because we can forever rediscover and reevaluate that which has already happened. I'm not sure there are many pasts more important than our own and it serves us well to reappraise them sometimes. History is an open book, not a closed one, one which academics continue to re-write, and our lives are the same.

The eternal lesson has always been not to dwell on the past, not to fixate on what has already happened and not to be dominated by what cannot be undone. I don't disagree and I think it's essential that I tell the present version of myself things like “Stop being so stupid,” and also “Keep going and get ready to do an awful lot of things,” and also "Keep chasing inspiration and make sure that you're armed" and a lot more personal, private and emphatic maxims. But it's vital to me to look back from the fresh perspectives I constantly give myself. Our past does not disappear; it is not a draft that we can throw away. It instead forms the ever-growing foundations of what we are and, whether those bricks are made from hope or anger or pride or guilt, we must at times acknowledge them all.

I know this: As we inspect it, we see where it is solid, where it best serves us. That is how it becomes the foundation that we leap forward from.

[bellatlas]

Iron Dad Bingo: Car Crash

He reached up to pull the mask on and winced, trying his best to do it one-handed. Using his left arm was not happening. He only got the mask halfway down his face before Karen beeped to life. Good enough.

"Good evening, Peter."

"Even'n," he mumbled.

"You appear to have several lacerations and trauma to the neck, as well as fractures and sprains along the left side. Shall I contact Mr. Stark for you?"

"Absolutely not."

"I'm sorry, Peter, but it's protocol to contact Mr. Stark whenever an injury has been detected."

"Karen, noooooooo," he whined softly, but it was too late, and he already heard the dial tone in his ears. Ugh. Why'd she even ask? He dragged his good hand across his face and briefly considered ripping the mask off and throwing it to the ditch below, groundbreaking technology be damned.

But, the line only rang twice before Tony's face filled the screen in front of his eyes.

"Kid? I thought I told you. Drive straight here. No crime-fighting detours. What part of that was confusing?"

Peter groaned. "The drive straight part, evidently"

"What?"

"Nothing. It's nothing, Mr. Stark. I'll… I'll just be a bit late. That's all I was calling to tell you."

He squinted at him with that telltale 'bullshit' twist to his mouth that Peter hadn't seen since the ferry incident. Oh, God, the ferry incident. He shook the ferry incident out of his head and groaned when the motion made his head pound. When had he hit his head?

"You didn't call. How late are we talking?"

"Um." He tried doing the math in his head. He couldn't swing. He couldn't walk. This wasn't going to happen, was it?

He rested his head back on the edge of the curb, relishing in the coolness. He wasn't getting out of this without telling anyone. This sucked. This really, really sucked.

"Peter?"

"Uh… depends. How long would you say it would take to swing one handed to the compound? Or hop on one foot? Or clear a wreck?"

"You- What-?"

"There was a deer." Peter said plainly.

"And you hit it?"

"It and… a lot of other things."

Full text and all chapters HERE because I love the platform on ff. net, or read below.

Peter's nerves felt like a live wire. Crazy and buzzing with energy, dangerously active, even as it felt like his heart was in his stomach and both flopping around haphazardly.

"You sure you've got everything?"

Peter looked around. Phone in the center console. He pat the many pockets of his cargo shorts until he could feel the lump that was his wallet. "Yeah. Yeah, I've got everything.

May gave him a knowing smile as she leaned through the passenger window to give his shoulder a squeeze. "Okay, but can I offer you a tip?"

Peter smirked at her. His sweet, beautiful, amazing aunt who worried way too much. She was going to go gray before Peter so much as got his diploma. "I've got this. I promise."

"I know you do, but just hear me out. If the car starts giving you trouble-"

"Call you. I know."

"No. I was going to say that when the car gives you trouble with turning on, you might want to try using these?" She reached into her purse and pulls out Peter's keychain, car key reflecting the evening sunlight into his eyes, mocking him.

Peter flushed down to his neck as he reached his hand out to take the keys from her. "O-oh yeah. Remembering these uh… might be kinda useful, huh?"

May just laughed. "Alright, my little genius. Have fun and be safe. Call me as soon as you get to the compound."

"I know, May. I will."

"I'm serious! Don't forget, or I'll call Tony and give him an earful."

Peter shuddered. He might actually die of embarrassment from that. "I know you will."

May heaved a sigh and pulled her body out of the passenger side window, clasping her hands in front of her until the knuckles turned white.

"May, are you crying?"

"No!" she yells, but she choked on her words and sniffed, and Peter doesn't need enhanced sight to see the telltale sheen of tears in her eyes. "It's just… the allergies are kind of bad, and-"

"May!"

"-And my baby is growing up!"

"May, it- it's okay. I'm not going that far, I'm just… I don't have to go."

"No, no. Happy tears. All happy tears. I'm proud of you. It's just going by so fast." She brushed the tears away quickly before they could fall and ruin her makeup, and waved him off. "You need to get going. You're going to be late."

"Right. Right." Peter turned the key and the car, well… it didn't roar to life. It more so wheezed and sputtered to life, begrudgingly accepting that it was going to go on yet another journey. It was an old car by then. Really old. Older than Peter, actually, if he had to guess. New cars were expensive. And besides, he didn't think May would give the car up even if she did have the money for a new auto loan. This had been Ben's car, and she was sentimental to a fault. He rolled the window up, thankful that it at least wasn't so old that he had to crank it back up, and there was a rather awkward minute where May was still on the sidewalk next to their apartment building, waving, never stopping, still waving, oh my God, while Peter made the car buck forward and backward again and again in a sad attempt to shimmy out of the parallel spot that May had somehow managed to squeeze into when she'd pulled the car around (seriously, how did she even get into the spot to begin with?) until finally breaking free into traffic. He glanced up into the rearview mirror as he drove away, May shrinking into just a dot behind him whenever her form wasn't blocked by other cars. She hadn't moved from her spot on the sidewalk, and though Peter couldn't tell from the angle he was at, he was sure she was still waving slightly. He'd put money on it.

He shook his head and focused on the road in front of him. All honking horns and red lights and stop, then go, no stop! Until he finally broke through the boundaries of the city and all the skyscrapers and tall buildings faded into the background, replaced by suburbia and trees and greenery. It would be a long drive to the compound. A business party. A superhero only business party.

His nerves jumped again and he looked over to gush to May, only, oh yeah, she was still back in Queens. It was just Peter this time, and the thought felt weird. There was no safety net without her. No 'Peter it's not a four-way stop!' and slamming on the breaks a moment before darting out into traffic.

He rolled the window down and leaned his arm out, feeling the wind wrap around his fingers and tug at them like a kite. Like it did when he would careen between buildings back in Queens. It's freeing, the whole 'driving all on his own thing," though he's not quite sure why. He'd undoubtedly been a lot freer than most other teens his age, what with Happy picking him up at every other location, the stellar- well, maybe not stellar- but extensive New York subway system letting him go pretty much wherever he so pleased… and the whole soaring between buildings thing.

No, he wasn't freer, but there was just something about it. A certain quality he couldn't quite put his finger to. It was like having the training wheels taken off. As one hour, then two hours slipped by and he sped through winding roads, he felt older. More competent. More adult. More trusted. All the things he yearned for most. And, it was kind of crazy that an old beat up 2000 Honda Civic could make him feel like that, but hell. Why fight it? He'd soak in all the joy he could before Tony would inevitably come out complaining about the old car he'd been driving and insist on Happy picking him up next time. Which, wouldn't be happening.

The sun began setting, hanging low in the sky, a piercing orange over the treetops. Peter squinted through his sunglasses and flipped down the visor, but it wasn't enough. Even behind the sunglasses, the bright rays set off alarms in his head. It felt like his head was a pinball machine, pain ricocheting between his ears. He cursed under his breath. For all the good that his heightened senses did for him, they made up for it ten times over in days spent hunched over the bathroom toilet or in bed with the blankets pulled securely around his face because the sights and the smells and the sounds were all just too much.

He couldn't slink down into the seat and tuck his head between his knees then like he so desperately wanted to, though. He was driving. And so, he squinted into the sun, nuclear sirens in his head be damned, and kept driving. It wasn't ideal, though, and maybe that was why when goosebumps pricked up on the back of his arms and he knew something was wrong, he was a bit sluggish in pinpointing exactly what until, literally, it was glaring at him right in the face: a deer in the road.

It stood and stared at him, his headlights beaming back off of its eyes and turning them to a fluorescent blue. MOVE, Peter wanted to scream, but it just flapped her ears at him and continued chewing on a bit of leaf in its mouth.

Peter slammed on the brakes and was thrown against the seatbelt with such force that he worried that it might snap. Either the seatbelt was going to snap, or his collarbone. One of the two. Of that, he was sure.

The brakes locked up, ABS light on the dash be damned, and the car skid, regardless of how quickly Peter pumped the brakes and tried to channel the information from his days falling asleep in the back of the driver's ed classroom at school.

It was too little too late, though, and he quickly realized that there was no way he was going to stop in time to avoid the deer, and also no way he was going to allow that to happen.

He gripped the steering wheel and shoved, using perhaps a bit too much super strength than the job required. The car veered off into the oncoming lane with a thud, Oh God, that was probably the deer, and kept going.

Peter felt his heart leap into his throat because this could not be happening. He overcorrected and pulled the steering wheel in the opposite direction, but it was too big a force on too small a car, and it slid right off the edge of the road.

Peter saw it all happen in slow motion, realized with horror that it wasn't just flat ground on the other side of the road, but a ditch. A big ditch, with water coursing through it from the last rainfall that has to be at least four feet deep. The car rolled into it, and even for Peter's enhanced senses, he wasn't quite sure what was happening.

The sound was, well, deafening wouldn't do it justice. It sounded like his eardrums should have split open. Everything outside the window was a blur, rolling around in a mess of brown and green and black and crunching metal.

Shit, shit, shit, shit. This was going to hurt. Really, really bad. But, there was nothing Peter could do anymore. Nothing he could do to get himself out of the car, to correct its course, to do anything but squeeze the steering wheel until his knuckles turned white and the leather stitching on the wheel gave way from the force, close his eyes, brace himself, and wait.

But, oh boy, he didn't brace himself enough. He couldn't brace himself enough. His neck was thrown to the side and Something in his arm twisted. He heard a brief shattering noise and then the bite of hundreds of little glass shards around him, and was then met with a disgusting mouthful of water, all of it pouring into the car faster than he could manage to catch his breath. Then, oh God, oh God, oh God, the water became hot. Too hot. Way too hot.

The car was still on and running as the water in the ditch rushed from under the hood and burning engine, or maybe the heater core had burst, through the broken windshield, and onto Peter. It didn't matter how it happened. What mattered was that Peter was being burned alive and he couldn't stop a guttural yelp from bursting forward, the sound alien even to his own ears. He jumped, fumbling for the button to release his seatbelt through the almost boiling water, hands turning into claws as he fought to ignore every instinct telling him to get his hand out of the burning water that instant. Finally, he found it, and the seatbelt snapped away from him, Peter jumping out of the hot water and sticking to the top of the car, which was actually the right side of the car now, scanning the damage below him for the one thing he needed to take with him out of this accident: his suit. It was floating in the backseat, and as he reached out to grab it, his left shoulder screamed in pain. When did that happen? In the back of his mind, he remembered a snap and a crunch and please tell him that wasn't his shoulder. He had a sickening feeling that it was.

With the little strength he had left, he shoved his back against the passenger window, the same one May had leaned through to tell him to be careful, to tell him that she was proud of him, which was now the top of the car, shattered the glass, and crawled through, using just his right arm and right leg, because something had happened to his left leg, too, because that was just his luck, to crawl out of the ditch.

He cast a glance over his shoulder at the car. Totaled. It was completely and utterly totaled. How was he going to tell May? For a wild second, he tried to think of any way possible not to tell her. He could swing the rest of the way to the compound, get a new car, with all the same stains on the upholstery, somehow make the money appear out of nowhere.

He groaned, fumbling through his pocket for his phone, which, miraculously, had stayed put. This couldn't be happening. Unmiraculously, it didn't quite survive the water damage. He groaned again, louder this time, and splayed all of his limbs out on the side of the road truly and fully. Karen it was, then.

He reached up to pull the mask on and winced, trying his best to do it one-handed. Using his left arm was not happening. He only got the mask halfway down his face before Karen beeped to life. Good enough.

"Good evening, Peter."

"Even'n," he mumbles.

"You appear to have several lacerations and trauma to the neck, as well as fractures and sprains along the left side. Shall I contact Mr. Stark for you?"

"Absolutely not."

"I'm sorry, Peter, but it's protocol to contact Mr. Stark whenever an injury has been detected."

"Karen, noooooooo," he whined softly, but it was too late, and he already heard the dial tone in his ears. Ugh. Why'd she even ask? He dragged his good hand across his face and briefly considered ripping the mask off and throwing it to the ditch below, groundbreaking technology be damned.

But, the line only rang twice before Tony's face filled the screen in front of his eyes.

"Kid? I thought I told you. Drive straight here. No crime-fighting detours. What part of that was confusing?"

Peter groaned. "The drive straight part, evidently"

"What?"

"Nothing. It's nothing, Mr. Stark. I'll… I'll just be a bit late. That's all I was calling to tell you."

He squinted at him with that telltale 'bullshit' twist to his mouth that Peter hadn't seen since the ferry incident. Oh, God, the ferry incident. He shook the ferry incident out of his head and groaned when the motion made his head pound. When had he hit his head?

"You didn't call. How late are we talking?"

"Um." He tried doing the math in his head. He couldn't swing. He couldn't walk. This wasn't going to happen, was it?

He rested his head back on the edge of the curb, relishing in the coolness. He wasn't getting out of this without telling anyone. This sucked. This really, really sucked.

"Peter?"

"Uh… depends. How long would you say it would take to swing one handed to the compound? Or hop on one foot? Or clear a wreck?"

"You- What-?"

"There was a deer." Peter said plainly.

"And you hit it?"

"It and… a lot of other things."

"Well-" Tony sputtered. "Are you okay? Actually, don't answer that. I'm looking at Karen's data now."

"No. No, I'm fine. Totally, 100% fine."

"Tell me, kid, if whiplash, a sprained ankle, first and second-degree burns, and a broken collarbone is fine, what does your not fine look like?"

"Uh-"

"Yeah. That's what I thought. "

As the adrenaline wore off, the pain, even more than before, set in. "Shit this hurts."

Tony frowned on screen. "What hurts, exactly?"

"Everything," Peter moaned.

"Alright. That's it. I don't care if Karen says there are no life-threatening injuries. We're calling you an ambulance."

"No no no! Karen is right. I'm fine. Just hurts is all. 'M just being dramatic." Even as he said that, a new wave of pain coursed through his left side and it's all Peter can do to swallow hard and not yelp.

Tony's eyes softened. "I know, kid. I know. Just make sure you're in a safe place and hang in there… you sure you're fine? Because if you're not and I didn't call an ambulance-"

"I'm fine, Mr. Stark. Really. I promise."

"So… if you're really okay, then that means I can make fun of you for it now, right?"

"No. No, it does not mean that." He squinted at Tony. "Karen, you're such a tattle-tale," he tacked on under his breath, fully not intending for it to reach Tony's ears, but of course it did anyway.

"Did you just say tattle-tale? Really? You know, Karen wouldn't have to tell on you if you, y' know, did the smart thing and told me you needed help on your own."

Peter squeezed his eyes shut. "Ugh. Can you please just quit with the smart remarks and come help me?"

The other end of the line went silent and Peter's heart dropped. Too much. He'd mouthed off too much, and opened his mouth to apologize, but Tony beeped back in before he could.

"I can do exactly one of those things."

'Mph," Peter huffed, and listened to the sound of the Iron Man suit firing up and roaring over the line, and Tony hitting him with a whole arsenal of one-liners the whole flight.

"Would you look at that? He takes down airplanes and cars! He's multitalented!"

"Don't worry, I'm sure you still look absolutely smashing."

"Hey, hey, hey, I heard you got an eight out of ten on your driving test. Guess the other two must have jumped out of the way."

Peter pulled the edge of the mask up - and ow, he forgot about his shoulder again- so that there was room to shove his middle finger into view of the camera.

Tony merely snorted and kept on. Peter closed his eyes and leaned his head back against the curb, the rest of his body on the narrow strip of grass between the road and the ditch. Man, he was tired. More tired than he'd been in a long time.

"Kid?"

Peter just let out a nonsensical "mph" in response, which evidently didn't make it to Tony's ears this time over the sound of the suit in flight.

"Kid!"

Peter cracked his eyes open to the panicked edge in Tony's voice.

"Oh thank God."

Peter arched an eyebrow up.

"Hey, I know Karen said that your injuries weren't on the life-threatening side of things, but what do you expect me to think after you've just been in a wreck, close your eyes, and stop answering?"

"Relax. 'M just tired."

Tony blinked. "No. No, you do not take a nap at the side of the road. Jesus. Do you need a lesson in common sense or something?"

"Probably."

Tony rolled his eyes. "But… you're definitely okay? I mean, I know you're not okay okay, but like- not dying or something."

Peter chuckled. "Yes, Mr. Stark. How many times do you want me to say it until you believe me?"

Until he could see him in person, probably. "Fine. You're right, you're right… More jokes then?"

"Oh, no, no, no, Mr. Stark. I didn't say that!"

He snickered to himself. "Well. Lucky for you, I'm almost there, so I'll spare the rest for the drive back. Happy is on his way."

"No, no, no, not Happy!" But Tony doesn't answer. If Peter had to spend the rest of the drive to the compound in the back of Happy's car, again, watching him shoot disapproving glares through the rear view window, he might actually just choose to jump out the window and hop the rest of the way.

He tilted his head back and saw the familiar form of Iron Man descending from the sky and land next to him with a powerful thud that made the earth- and his head and fractured bone- shake. Ow.

Tony took the helmet off and let out a low whistle. "You look like shit."

Peter stared up at him with half-lidded eyes. "Gee. Thanks."

His forehead creased with worry as he evaluated the scene. "No. I mean that this is worse than Karen made it sound. A lot worse."

"I told you. 'M perfectly fine." He barely got the words out before trying to sit up and pain tearing through the left side of his body with a guttural sort of yelp.

"Hey! Easy!" Tony planted a firm ironclad hand on his shoulder and helped him into a sitting position. "This is not fine. Christ, I almost feel bad for teasing you the whole way here."

"Don't worry. I forgive you."

"I said almost."

With a hand more gentle than Peter would have expected possible for Tony, he peeled back Peter's eyes and shone a light in them.

Peter closed his eyes tight and turned his head to the side. "What are you doing?"

"Your pupils are different sizes."

"That's not good."

Tony pinched his lips together. "No. It's not. Follow my finger with your eyes."

"Mr. Stark. I'm fine. Really."

"Please just do it."

"Okay, okay." Peter relented and followed Tony's pointer finger as he moved it slowly from side to side. What was this supposed to do, exactly?

"Cool. What about that light a second ago? How'd that make you feel? Was it too bright?"

"Uh…" Peter thought. "I guess?"

Tony frowned, the creases on forehead starting to look as though they'd be etched there permanently. "That's also not good."

"Is it not?"

"Nope. Photosensitivity is another concussion symptom."

"Oh. Pshhh." Peter waved him off. "I always think lights are too bright. Think that's why I hit the deer in the first place. Too much sun. To much super sight."

Tony paused to look at him for a moment at that. "We're going to need to do something about that, then."

"Yeah," he sighed. "I really thought I had it."

"You didn't."

"What insightful observation." He was starting to take on too much of Tony's sarcasm. It was starting to scare him, really.

Peter laid back down on the ground and covered his eyes with his hands. "I can't believe this is happening."

"Hey. Don't worry about the crash right now. Just take it easy. We'll get you patched up in a bit, and I'll call someone out here to get the car." He spared a look into the ditch. "Or, y' know. What's left of it."

Peter followed his gaze. "Is there any chance it can be fixed."

"Ha! Nope. This is a 'throw the whole car away' kind of deal.

Peter merely groaned.

"Hey." Tony patted him on the shoulder. "Seriously. Don't worry about the car. You're not the first teen to total the family car and you sure as hell won't be the last. As long as you're okay, the car can be replaced."

"No, it can't."

Tony looked back at the car again. Even being totaled aside, it wasn't a great looking car. Hadn't been for some time. He raised an eyebrow at Peter.

"It was Ben's car."

"Ben?"

"Ben. My uncle. May's husband."

The playful glint in Tony's eyes- the one that always tried to lighten up the situation with inappropriate and poorly timed jokes, was snuffed out in an instant.

"... Oh."

"Yeah."

"Ummm…" Tony and Peter looked over the scene once more. Maybe there was something they missed, some way to fix this. There had to be, right? But, there wasn't. The car was done. It had driven its last mile.

"She's going to be so mad." Peter covered his face with his hands.

"Yeah… yeah, she probably will be."

"Ugh."

Tony kneeled by him and pulled his hands from his face with a strangled "Sorry, oh my God, I'm so sorry!" at Peter's Yelp when the movement jostled his shoulder. "But, May wants you safe. The car is just a reminder of family. You're her actual family."

Peter sighed. "I guess."

"No. Not I guess. You're what matters. End of story."

Peter just let out a huff.

"Well one way or another, we need to get you back to the compound before your shoulder sets weird or something."

"They can set that fast?"

"They can if you're a mutant spider freak."

When Happy pulled up with the car, he was ready to lay into Peter in a far more serious fashion than Tony already had with his jeering on the way over. He could see it on his face.

But, Tony shot him a pointed look. Not the time, and the message sunk in pretty quickly. This wasn't a time for joking around. Tony probably shouldn't have even been joking around, really.

Thank you, Peter silently thought towards Tony, hoping that he'd be able to feel even an ounce of his appreciation. He liked Happy. He really did. And, he knew that Happy begrudgingly liked him back. But having Happy drive him again, and after only his first time out was… completely humiliating.

"Hand me the first aid kit?" Tony asked.

Happy nodded and dig through the glove box as Tony swung into the backseat with Peter.

"You can do x-rays and stuff with that?" Peter questioned.

"What?" Tony looked at him like he had two heads. "No. It's a first aid kit. It has band-aids and stuff."

Peter didn't think it was that far fetched. Tony had successfully made far crazier things before.

"Hold still for me." Tony pulled out a pair of tweezers, and more gently than Peter thought possible, tilted Peter's chin up. "There's some glass in this cut… this is going to hurt."

It did hurt, but not as much as Peter was expecting. Tony was uncharacteristically gentle, smoothing the skin on his forehead and carefully picking out the glass, even with his mechanical arm that he hadn't quite gotten the hang of yet, and with an intensely focused look plastered on his face that was usually reserved solely for late nights in the lab, and even then- only with his good eye - all wordlessly until they finally arrived back at the compound. "Well, that's all I can do. Gotta let the docs fix up the rest. Wait! Actually, that isn't all I can do. Here." Tony reached into the first aid kit and slapped a band-aid on Peter's forehead before grabbing him by his right arm and helping him out of the car.

Peter looked at his reflection in the tinted windows. "Are… are these Spiderman themed band-aids? You have Spiderman bandaids. Wh- what?"

"Limited edition. So don't go using the rest of them up." Tony flashed him a smile and swung Peter's good arm around his shoulders, pulling him close as he stumbled into the compound and up to the med bay.

Two hours, two x-rays, a sling, and an ice pack later, Peter hobbled out to the then dwindling party.

"There he is!" Tony again threw Peter's good arm over his shoulders and showed him off to everyone, but Peter just wanted to crawl into a hole and call it a night. This was not how he wanted to meet the other Avengers. Not by a long shot. After the initial introductions, though, Tony thankfully steered him towards the door outside.

"Mr. Stark? Where are we going?"

"I have a present for you."

"A present?"

"Two- no. Three, actually."

"Mr. Stark, you really-"

"Nope. Shhh. No talking. Take these. Present number one." He reached into the pocket of his suit and pulled out a pair of… "Sunglasses?"

Peter put them on tentatively. "Whoa."

"Same tech that's in your suit goggles. Only, glasses. Because, well… I guess you can't go parading the Spiderman mask around all day anytime you need to dim things out and focus, can you? I… really should have thought about that before. I- yeah. Sorry."

"Wow. These… these are amazing. Thank you. So much."

"Save your thanks, kid." He pat Peter on the back and led him the rest of the way outside where-

"Mr. Stark. You didn't…"

"I did."

Peter looked on at the two new cars - cars! - with awe.

"Figured you and May needed separate cars, anyway. So. Y'know. Two birds, one stone. All that jazz."

Peter didn't recognize the make or model of either, nor did he recognize the gaping sound that somehow he managed to produce, but he was pretty sure that each one was worth more than his entire apartment building and everything in it. Shiny and low and lean, one a subdued dark red, and the other a jet black.

"Oh, that's not all. We uh… we couldn't save everything, or even most things, but we got as many things as we could out of your uncle's old car and installed them where they actually fit. Really just the steering wheel cover and a few decorations that looked like they might have gone on the dash. I know it's not the same, but… I figured it's something."

"I, I, I-" Peter was at a total loss for words. "How can I repay you? I don't even know what to say. What do you even say to something like this?"

"Thank you is a good starting point, usually."

"Yes. Yes. Thank you, Mr. Stark. So much. I- just- what? How did you even get these this fast?"

Tony laughed under his breath and pointed to himself. "Genius billionaire. Oh. One more thing. He pulled his phone out of his pocket, quickly searching something up. "You see this?" he asked, turning the screen towards Peter.

It's a picture of a deer crossing sign.

"I know what it means, Mr. Stark."

"Humor me."

Peter barely resisted the urge to roll his eyes. He couldn't though. Not after a gesture like this, oh my God. "Deer are in the area and you should slow down and look out for them," he mumbles.

"Congrats. You've passed my driving test." More seriously, he added, "You got lucky you're only this hurt. I don't want to get a call like that again, okay? You're going to make me go gray, and I have too many photo ops to be doing that yet. So just… please be careful. Always wear those glasses during the day. That's how you can repay me."

"I will, Mr. Stark. I promise."

"Good." His mouth twisted to the side. "And- it's Tony."

"Tony." Peter tested the name out. Weird. Wrong, even. Tony was still far too much his superior for him to refer to him by his first name. That was going to take some getting used to.

He looked out at the two new cars and tried to picture them in the parking deck back home surrounded by all the beat-up cars from the last century with different color paint on every part. Oh, they were so going to get robbed.

[burliforti]

Rose of England

My entry for the Good Omens fanwork exchange arranged by @transarmageddon. I created this based off a prompt from @vecieminde. The prompt that I was most heavily inspired by was “Aziraphale and Crowley exploring an abandoned place which glory days they might have witnessed”. Full disclosure: I am a bit of a history nerd and so one abandoned place turned into many which turned into a road trip across rural England with a pit stop in Wales. At certain times I veered a bit further from the main prompt than I was hoping but I hope you still enjoy! (About 9.5K and no warnings apply. I’m having a beta review it and then I’ll probably post to AO3) Heavily inspired by the Vera Lynn album “Rose of England” (I am bad at titles and simply borrowed that.) Definitely recommend a listen, it’s a wonderful album. Fic under the cut.

Prologue: London

It had been three weeks since the very last day of the rest of their lives. Not surprisingly, in the aftermath of perhaps the most chaotic week in all of creation Aziraphale and Crowley had been having some difficulty slipping back into their old routines. The sudden lack of oversight was a relief but left them both with a degree of freedom that they weren’t quite sure what to do with. Crowley no longer had to plan elaborate schemes to generate widespread low-grade evil and Aziraphale found himself without his usual laundry list of miscellaneous miracles and holy interventions, leaving both with a sudden and dramatic increase of spare time. Heaven and Hell had, apparently, taken their warnings to heart and had left them alone. 

They managed to slip into parts of their old routines. Aziraphale would go out to lunch in small french bistros and read Virginia Woolf in the plush reading chair in his study. Crowley had continued to scheme for a time out of habit but eventually tapered off to random pranks and messing with people who drive below the speed limit on highways and members of parliament. His house plant hobby had flourished into a full horticulture obsession. The apartment whose predominant palette had been black and grey for several decades now found itself green, green, and green. He wasn’t really one for flowers, preferring varieties such as ferns, ivy, and more recently, mosses. Crowley had acquired an impressive and wide array of mosses, spanning continents and centuries, quite literally finding himself with the only remaining iteration of certain ancient mosses (Crowley’s imagination did not know that these had gone extinct. He simply remembered soft, curling greenery on teak trees and there they had appeared). 

Aziraphale had also picked up a few hobbies. He had a tendency to do so. Dancing, magic, prophecies. They weren’t exactly phases (for he did still truly enjoy all of these things), but Aziraphale had a meandering mind that was always eager for new knowledge. Recently, he had come across an antique store looking for any interesting books. Instead, he had left the premises with a vintage camera that stood on a wooden tripod, that by all accounts should not have been able to work anymore, but miraculously, did indeed take photos. This began a new collection of vintage cameras and various other photographic contraptions. He particularly enjoyed taking pictures of nature (trees were much better at sitting still than wily serpents who would fidget and blur the images). Eventually, Crowley bought him a polaroid camera. He was annoyed of being forced to sit still for the negatives and dealing with Aziraphale hauling his many apparatuses on their walks. The polaroid was a bit newfangled for Aziraphale’s taste, but he enjoyed not having to develop negatives and being able to immediately see the images. Crowley did not mind this hobby as much as he had others (nothing could be worse than the magic. As long as taking photos of birds and elms prevented Aziraphale getting into card tricks or whatever nonsense than he would limit his complaints.) Yet even as they settled into old routines and found new ones, both beings found themselves on edge despite the apparent resolution to most of their problems. You see, Aziraphale and Crowley were bored. And Aziraphale had just the idea. 

“A vacation?” Crowley replied as they sat in St James Park, sitting on a bench watching the ducks bob in and out of the water. 

“It’s been so long since we left the city. Not since all that nonsense, and even that was barely two hours outside London. Before you mostly got around for work, and since our, well, retirement, I don’t believe either of us has really traveled much. Thought it might be a nice change of pace.” 

“And where exactly were you thinking?”

“Oh, nowhere in particular. Although there are a few sites that I’d like to revisit. It’s been so long since I properly traveled. Human beings have created some truly marvelous places.”

“Destroyed just as many too.” 

“And then rebuilt. I’m sure even you have an old spot or two you wouldn’t mind revisiting.”

Crowley paused, considering this with a great amount of reluctance. “I suppose it’s been a while since I’ve been ‘round the countryside.” He replied, begrudgingly. 

Aziraphale’s face lit up in a bright smile. “Splendid! I suppose there is no point in waiting around. I’m already packed, I will see you at the shop tomorrow, bright and early!” 

Crowley looked at him in disbelief. “Tomorrow?!” 

Rochester Castle

Crowley did arrive early, although it wasn’t a particularly bright October morning. He pulled up in his Bently and had hardly gotten out of the car when Aziraphale burst through the shop door, hauling a large two-piece antique luggage set and two vintage cameras.

Aziraphale flashed a brilliant smile “Good morning, dear boy!” Crowley walked over to Aziraphale and grabbed the luggage out of his hands. “Let me take that.” Aziraphale let him take the bags and took the cameras in both arms. “Why, thank you.” Crowley dragged the luggage toward the Bentley. “What on earth do you have in here? You’ve been wearing the same outfit for over a century.”

“Books, mostly. Some light reading I’ve been meaning to do.”

“Hardly light,” Crowley complained, lifting the luggage into the trunk with great difficulty. Aziraphale carefully laid out the camera equipment in the backseat, with the exception of the polaroid which he kept in a small camera bag over his shoulder. Crowley slammed the\trunk and sauntered over to the drivers side.

“So where are we off to, angel?”   

“Well I didn’t want anything too adventurous, and I know you’re hard-pressed to leave your vehicle. Perhaps a week or two, just in the countryside. Breath of fresh air, maybe even revisit some old favorites?” 

“Fine by me.”

“And I thought it best to start south and work our way up. What do you think?”

“Any destination in mind?” 

“Oh, not really. It’s been so long since I’ve been that farther south than London.”

“Ever been to Rochester Castle? Less than half an hour from here.”

“Rochester? Off the Medway? Shouldn’t that be at least an hour– Crowley slow down!”

They arrived 40 minutes later. Aziraphale was not incorrect in that it should have taken an hour and Crowley had also not been mistaken in that it could have been merely half an hour, but at Aziraphale’s continued pleas of “Slow down Crowley!” they had met somewhat in the middle. Luckily tourist season tended to slow down this time of year. The employees of the estate had kindly left them to their own affairs. Aziraphale had picked up a brochure and was reading it as the two of them explored the keep. 

“They say it had originally been given to Bishop Odo, probably by William the Conqueror.” 

“Never met him.” 

“Oh you weren’t missing much, I didn’t find him to be particularly charming. Although it is possible that I insulted him upon our first meeting. Never could wrap my mind around french. All that gender and tense. Feminine chairs and male houses, utter nonsense.”

“I believe houses are also feminine.”

“My point! Completely arbitrary. And the tenses, what language needs nine different types of past tense? They live such short lives I don’t see the point.” 

Crowley let Aziraphale rant as they continued to stroll along corridors and in and out of almost accurate historical reimaginings of bedrooms and parlors. Crowley hadn’t been to Rochester Castle since the Peasants’ Revolt in 1381. He really had absolutely hated the 14th century. He had gotten so fed up, in fact, that he had whispered in a handful of ears of ‘injustice’ and ‘revolution’. He hadn’t had much of an end goal in mind, just anything to shake up that dreadful century. It hadn’t really gone anywhere, unfortunately. He didn’t see much of Aziraphale that century, not with the war and the plague. Such a bore and with awful fashion. It had been such a relief when the Renaissance properly took off. 

“You’ve been awfully silent, Crowley.” 

He quirked an eyebrow over his glasses. “Let’s go to the gardens.”  

They made their way into the Castle’s exterior and into the gardens that encircled the estate. English roses, bright Dahlias, twisting ivys, and sweetly scented Begonias dominated the courtyard. Aziraphale was enjoying the vibrant colors and heavenly floral perfumes while Crowley glared critically at pests and withering leaves. 

“I think this is going to be a marvelous holiday.” 

Crowley wandered over to one of the bushes and picked one of halfway decent begonias, sauntering back over to Aziraphale. He walked directly in front of him and stopped just shy of the other man. 

“If you say so.” He replied, pinning the flower to a blushing Aziraphale’s lapel. 

“Oh, no need for all of that.” He said waving his hand toward the plucked stem. An even more vibrant flower bloomed in its place.  

“So,” Crowley asked, returning to his place by Aziraphale’s side, “where to next?” 

Bodiam Castle 

Aziraphale had asked one of the local historical guides, who suggested Bodiam Castle, which was an hour south of Rochester Castle near Robertsbridge in East Sussex. She had also suggested a local family run pub for lunch. Aziraphale had given Crowley a wide-eyed look to which Crowley could only roll his eyes and say “Yes, yes alright. It’s your holiday, angel.” Aziraphale had taken note at some point of the increase of Crowley’s use of ‘angel’ to describe him. He had subsequently filed away the observation to ‘thoughts that need no further introspection or deliberation’. They ate (or Aziraphale ate) a slow and peaceful lunch. He seemed to enjoy his fish and chips and was particularly impressed by the tartar sauce (homemade apparently, an old family recipe). The batter was also very pleasant but he didn’t much care for the chips. Crowley picked a few off of his plate absentmindedly. They ate mostly in silence, Aziraphale enjoying the fish and Crowley enjoying Aziraphale. 

They continued on their journey, arriving in Robertsbridge in significantly less than an hour (much to Aziraphale’s terror). Aziraphale had in fact once visited Bodiam Castle, many years ago during the war of the roses. It had been abandoned in picturesque ruins for decades but had been restored in the early 20th century. Crowley and Aziraphale explored the property. While the exterior had been well preserved, the interior was now in ruins. 

“It had been quite nice when I had visited. I was presenting as a clergyman on the road back in those days, you know. Made seeking shelter much easier and people would listen to me, which was quite helpful on certain occasions.”

“I imagine it explained all those Bibles you carried with you.”

“Well yes, I suppose that’s true.” 

“There is still a beauty to it now, albeit a different sort of beauty.”

“Seems like regular old ruins to me.” 

“You don’t feel any sort of, oh I don’t know, whimsy or appreciation?” 

“I don’t really go in for whimsy, angel.”

They continued to explore for quite some time, Aziraphale taking full advantage of their solitude and the picturesque ruins by taking many photographs, both with the antique camera on a tripod and the polaroid. Aziraphale had started off carrying the larger camera but Crowley had soon taken over after a passing mention of discomfort by Aziraphale. They made their way outside, strolling along the edge of the moat as the sunset. 

“Oh, what a beautiful sky it is tonight. Crowley, do you mind putting down the camera? I’d like to get some photos, lighting is simply marvelous.”

“Not like we’ve seen the sunset a million times already. The same sky and the same sun for 6,000 years.”  

Aziraphale ignored him, setting up the camera into the correct position. The tripod was close to the water's edge, overlooking the horizon. Aziraphale watched the sky change from red, orange, and yellow to deep purple and pitch black from behind a camera lens. Crowley watched Aziraphale burn brilliant in a fiery sky to softly glowing in the moonlit night.   

Tintagel Castle

Crowley suggested the next location: Tintagel Castle. It was quite a ways away on the southwestern coast but he insisted that the view was worth it, and besides it had been ages since either of them had been to the Celtic sea. It was by far the longest drive they had undertaken so far. A direct route would have taken five hours (perhaps three with Crowley behind the wheel), but Aziraphale had asked if they could drive past the channel on the way there and Crowley wasn’t exactly in the habit of denying any request or desire the angel had. With the scenic detour, the drive should have been close to 7 hours but ended up closer to five anyways, accounting for a lunch break.

Aziraphale was able to manage (tolerate, more accurately) Crowley’s breakneck speeds on the lonely country roads. Rolling hills with the occasional grazing livestock and farmhouses turned into rocky cliffs and blue-grey waters. Aziraphale enjoyed the picturesque landscapes and lack of the usual urban chaos, while Crowley enjoyed the lack of other vehicles and an open road where the speed limit was hardly a thought. They hadn’t talked much, Aziraphale occasionally putting on a CD (he didn’t quite grasp the concept at first but he was getting the hang of it.) Most of the disks had been left in the car and forgotten for more than a fortnight, and Crowley could only tolerate ‘We Will Rock You’ by Benjamin Britten or ‘We Are The Champions’ by Handle so many times. Thankfully, he had remembered to bring in some CDs from the apartment that had yet to become a compilation of Queen’s Greatest Hits. Aziraphale preferred classical, so they listened to Bach, Vaughn Williams, Holst, and various other (although predominantly British) composers. They were listening to Simple Symphony (actually by Benjamin Britten) when Crowley finally slowed and pulled into a half-full parking lot. Luckily the castle and surrounding expanse were quite large and the two could easily keep away from any crowds.

They explored the ruins of a castle for a time, Crowley relaying stories of his time in Richard of Cornwall (both from his time in the castle and during the Barons’ Crusade. Aziraphale had been preoccupied at the time by some work further west in Southampton.) Eventually, the crowds started to bother both of them and they naturally wandered away from the ruins and over the large bridge. 

“You know I rarely made it out to this part of the country, but it’s quite lovely.  The view is spectacular.”

Crowley squinted and peered upwards towards the gathering clouds. “Looks like it might rain.”

“Oh, I’m sure it would only take a slight miracle to ensure clear skies until the end of our visit. I was thinking for after– oh!” Aziraphale’s eyes went wide as the unfortunate combination of a strong gust of wind off the sea and a damp patch on the footbridge made him stumble and lose his footing. Before he could find purchase on the guard rails he felt two hands reach out and grab his arms, helping him upright. Aziraphale looked up at Crowley who in turn looked down at him in concern. 

“You alright?” 

Aziraphale laughed nervously, brushing himself off. “Oh yes, I’m quite alright, just taken a little off guard I suppose…” He trailed off. There hadn’t been any danger really, the footbridge had quite a high railing and Aziraphale had wings for heaven’s sake but peering down at the cold water crashing up against the stony cliffs made his head spin for a moment. “Thank you.” He finally said. 

Crowley made a noise of displeasure in return, “Can’t have you being discorporated middle of your vacation abandoning me in Cornwall of all places.”

“Our vacation. Besides, you suggested Tintagel.” 

“Ngk.” 

Neither of them made the first move, remaining stationary on the footbridge for another beat. 

“You can let go of me now, Crowley.”

He looked down at his hands which were indeed still wrapped around the other's arms. His cheeks turned slightly pink as he let go, refusing to look at the other as they continued on.  

Glastonbury Abbey 

Aziraphale insisted they stop by Glastonbury Abbey the next day, tentatively starting northward. 

“I’m shocked you never made it out there yourself back in the day, dear boy. Frightfully important, I can recall quite the drama and importance for quite a long stretch of time. Second only to Westminster.” 

“I avoided abbeys as a general rule. Parishes, monasteries, cathedrals, whole lot of them. Not exactly my scene.”

“Shame really, some truly exquisite architecture. The food wasn’t exactly top-notch, but some of the better dining from that era at any rate. I’d imagine you’d be quite fine now, been in ruins for centuries.” 

The sky was clear and blue, the grass a vibrant green. There were a few tourists who were wandering about the grounds but left the two beings be. They wandered through the decrepit cathedral, ceiling completely gone and missing good portions of the walls. While Aziraphale doubted that any previous blessings were still in place, Crowley was wary and remained outside of the ruined Holy buildings. 

“It really was quite a marvel. I had the occasion to visit on a number of occasions throughout the centuries, sent here quite often for holy interventions, miracles, enlightenment, heavenly visions, the whole nine yards as they say. You’re sure you never made it over here during, well, the Arrangement?”

Aziraphale quieted at the last two words. He had always been much more prudish, more embarrassed regarding their previous understanding. Perhaps it was because Crowley had much more experience rebelling and bending rules, but if they were being honest with themselves (although they rarely were), Aziraphale also had a fair bit of experience bending rules, he was just more adept at making excuses for it and felt much more guilty about it afterward.  

“Nope. Besides, I believe the heyday of the great Abbeys predated our agreement.”

“I suppose that’s true. Those old Catholics enjoyed their drama. I tried to stay out of it mostly, politics was never really my forte. I recall having to give a vision to one of the old Abbotts back in the 12th century. Something about inspiring a new sermon, I can’t quite recall.”

Crowley made some noise to indicate that he was still listening (which he was in fact doing. He liked to put up an air of indifference but he always listened, and Aziraphale knew this.) 

“You know I was able to get a first edition of “On the Antiquity of the Glastonese Church”? Signed by William of Malmesbury. Wonderful historian, and splendid company. He had a terrific collection at the Malmesbury Abbey and was kind enough to give me a number of his books, all with signed inscriptions. Later in his life, he was kind enough to gift me some of the notable works in his personal collection. His second edition of Gesta Regum Anglorum is a classic.”

Aziraphale continued to ramble on as they explored the Abbey grounds. Crowley listened quietly but intently. Their conversations usually involved both of their active participation but Crowley had never minded whenever Aziraphale would stumble into his ramblings. They occasionally reminisced, exchanging amusing stories and recounting shared adventures, but on that rare but treasured occasions a topic would arise and Aziraphale could literally talk for days on end, one story spilling into the next. Crowley’s original thought to describe it had been cute, but that couldn’t possibly be it.     

“It’s impressive how long these have stayed standing, even if they have fallen into a bit of disrepair.” Aziraphale finally quieted, inviting a response from Crowley. 

“‘Spose. They always did like to show off. Always obsessed with posterity.”

“And these are hardly the oldest, even just in England. And we’ve been there for all of it.” Aziraphale spoke softly, his eyes unfocused as he gazed far beyond the old Abbey. Crowley glanced at him. He had a tendency to be sentimental after these long trips down memory lane. Crowley himself had never quite at the proclivity for the sentimental. 

“And they’ll keep building places of worship and keep writing history books. Come on, I saw a sign for a nearby for an italian restaurant, we’ll grab you some lunch.” 

Bath 

After lunch, they drove a bit farther north to the city of Bath. This had been the largest city they had visited so far. They stopped by bed and breakfast on the outskirts of the town, preferring the larger space, quiet countryside, and easy parking it provided. They took the day to explore the city, visiting various historical sites. They walked by the Abbey (although they did not venture inside as a courtesy to Crowley), Pulteney Bridge, strolled down Royal Crescent, popped briefly into Holburne museum but quickly left when Aziraphale got fed up with the minor inconsistencies and incorrect speculation. They continued their walk and eventually came across a beautifully restored Georgian home with a bronze plaque that reads: 

Here lived William Herschel 

A.D. 1781 

and a sign above that that read ‘Herschel Museum of Astronomy’. It looked to be mostly vacant, which made sense seeing as it was about 2 o’clock in the afternoon on a Wednesday during the school year, with the peak of the tourist season being a few months behind them.

“Oh, I remember that fellow. Quite the eclectic man; astronomer, biologist, musician, and composer, though if memory serves his scientific career fared better than his artistic one. I saw the premiere of his eighth symphony and you know, I really did enjoy it. I’m not sure why he’s been relegated to the background of classical composers. I suppose now it’s so strongly dominated by Mozart, Haydn, Shubert, and a few other fellows that it didn’t leave much room for others. Truth be told I think Haydn might be slightly overrated. You write 107 symphonies but only a handful are noteworthy in any way. You knew him, didn’t you? I recall you hanging around with the Royal Astronomical Society for a time before sleeping through most of the next century.” 

Crowley hummed in acknowledgment. “Yeah, hung around with that lot periodically end of the 18th century. He and his sister, Caroline, pushed the field miles forward. Shall we head inside?” 

Crowley held open the door for Aziraphale and they headed inside the quiet Georgian household. They handed over a few pounds to the receptionist who put a little stamp of a planet with stars on each of their right hands.  They quickly passed through exhibits pertaining to more recent events, preferring to linger in the sections that focused on Herschel and his discoveries. 

“I liked him. Quite sharp. Corrected a few older discoveries, which I appreciated. It was annoying having to sit through some of those Royal Society lectures calling some of the star clusters nebulae. He and Caroline discovered and cataloged a boatload of nebulae, clusters, comets, the like. Nice to finally have your work properly appreciated after nearly 6000 years. We used to gossip about the bores over at the Royal Society and I helped get Caroline get a paid position at the government. I mean why would they be paying him but not her?”

“That was very kind of you, Crowley.” 

He made a face of displeasure in return, “Hardly. If she hadn’t been employed who else would have discovered my comets and cataloged my nebulae? Quite proud of those, you know, and no one there to appreciate all my hard work. ‘Oh look at the beautiful waterfalls, the beautiful forests’, please. Hardly any craftsmanship in a waterfall. Some rocks and a river. But a planetary nebula? A red dwarf? Combustion, gravity, electromagnetism, a delicate balance of helium, carbon, nitrogen, oxygen, and however many other elements. When old Will finally got that telescope of his up and running, the look on his face when he saw them all, it was like finally, someone can appreciate some true artistry. I will say the nerve of those two constantly referring to it as ‘the heavens’. Heaven wished it looked like that.”

Aziraphale looked wistfully at a newer photo of the butterfly nebula. “You know, during all that time it took humans to properly observe the cosmos, I appreciated it. All the stars and nebulae, pulsars and supernovae. I wasn’t able to get out much personally, but I was lucky enough on a few occasions. It was breathtaking. And on earth, we can see much farther than they can, even with some of their telescopes. I’ll spare a glance here and there when I get the chance, and it really is unparalleled.” Aziraphale stopped, still looking firmly at the nebula in front of him. He spoke softer this time. “Dare I say it, maybe even more beautiful than anything here on earth.” A pause. His head turned slightly towards Crowley and met his eyes beneath the shades. “Or rather, almost anything.” 

Crowley’s head snapped violently back towards the image, not daring to look back at Aziraphale. Earth had been almost entirely God’s pet project, the vast majority anyways. Some details had been relegated to other angels. But the earth had always truly been Hers. Aziraphale’s proclamation of the superior beauty of the cosmos was… a lot to process. Not to mention the meaning of the angel’s pointed glance at him. It was a bit too much for Crowley. He coughed, still not meeting the other’s eyes. 

“Off to the Baths then?” 

Kenilworth Castle 

“Kenilworth, now this is a real castle,” Crowley said, picking away at the grapes on the fruit platter. They had driven north from Bath that morning, exiting the South West and entering into the West Midlands. Crowley accompanied Aziraphale to a hearty breakfast before their departure. They continued to avoid the main roads, Crowley speeding through old dirt roads in the countryside. Aziraphale would point out every herd of sheep, every single baby calf, every mangy looking old goat while a look of utter delight and whimsy. He had become completely enamored with the countryside and Crowley was beginning to worry about how he would ever get him back to the city. 

“Oh look at those horses! There’s a small black foal, isn’t it just darling? Shall we stop by to say hello?” 

Crowley glowered at the animals that were grazing the field they were driving past and pushed down even harder on the gas in response.

“You’re no fun, my dear.” 

“Awful creatures. They smell, they buck, they attract flies, painful as all hell to ride, and generally terrible. Not even properly evil, just badly designed and poorly executed. The automobile is definitely among the greatest human inventions along with alcohol and sunglasses. Shame when they stopped making glue out of the bastards.” 

Aziraphale smacked him (not so lightly) on his arm, “Crowley! What an awful thing to say!” 

“What? They deserve it.” 

“My goodness, what on earth did horses ever do to you.”

“What didn’t they do? Centuries of sore buttocks, horse flies, and manure. The smell, Aziraphale, do you remember it? The streets were absolutely disgusting, it’s no wonder I stayed inside for most of the 18th century.”

“I think you’re being too harsh on them. I find them quite majestic.”

“Nothing majestic about your teeth taking up more room in your skull than your brain.” 

“Well, I quite like them.” 

He rolled his eyes, “Suit yourself, angel.”

They continued north for another hour or so, eventually stopping in Stratford-Upon-Avon to pick up some food for a picnic (actually Crowley’s suggestion) and to pay respects to an old friend. They continued on, taking many detours, arriving at the castle just in time for lunch. Crowley pulled out a picnic blanket from the trunk (whether it had been there the whole time or if he had just miracled it then, Aziraphale didn’t know. Regardless, he was touched by the gesture.) He laid it out under the shade of a nearby Ash tree that grew just a bit outside the central keep. 

“Yes, it had its fair share of excitement back in the day.” Aziraphale agreed. 

“Came to see King John here once. What a prick. That whole family was a mess. Richard and Henry weren’t that awful in the grand scheme of British royalty, although that’s quite a low bar. Oh, but John, totally insufferable. I was supposed to tempt him into rebelling but the bastard was already scheming before I got there, and not very well mind you. Didn’t bother helping out when it failed, I didn’t really feel like getting involved.” 

“I accompanied Elizabeth here a few times. Very intelligent woman, difficult life though. Popped in every-so-often to lend her a helping hand. I remember tutoring her briefly when she was a child. Incredibly bright and kind for a child of her age. The crown hardened her considerably, but who could blame her.” 

“Oh yes, she was a feisty one. One of the few British royals I had any respect for at all, although she still had her fair share of flaws, but who am I to judge?” 

They continued to eat, somehow always remaining in the shade despite the passing of hours. Aziraphale was usually quite silent when he ate, his mouth constantly full with the next delight Crowley had packed away into the wicker basket, so Crowley took it upon himself to fill the silence by recounting his many tales of Kenilworth and the events surrounding it, sprawled out on his side, one arm supporting his head. 

“You know the tennis balls had been my idea. I had meant it as an insult but I think Henry overreacted a little bit.”

Aziraphale paused his enjoyment of some shortcake, “At least we got a good play out of it.” 

“Fair enough. The old Bard never really bothered with historical accuracy but I didn’t mind with him. Made it better usually.” 

“I’d be inclined to agree.” 

Eventually Aziraphale had had his full and pulled out a book, leaning up against the Ash. Crowley moved closer, laying down beside him. 

“What are you reading?” 

“The Anabasis of Alexander.”

“He was a drama queen.” 

“This is a classic.” 

“I’m sure.” 

Aziraphale ignored him and pulled out his reading glasses. Crowley had never said this out loud, but he loved Aziraphale’s reading glasses. The glasses were practically ancient, picked up sometime during Crowley’s respite in the 19th century. He didn’t need them, and Crowley didn’t know why he wore them. A fashion he had picked up? Perhaps he simply enjoyed the completion of his ‘old bookkeeper’ look? At any rate, Crowley never complained when Aziraphale opened a large tome and took out the spectacles. He looked up at Aziraphale; ‘Cute’ he thought. There that word was again. The glasses made Aziraphale look intelligent, sophisticated, extremely out of date, and certainly not cute. Or at least, that’s what Crowley thought (or did he?) 

“Read a bit for me. I’m sure it’ll put me right to sleep.”

The angel huffed at the minor insult but settled in closer to Crowley anyways. The demons head was up against his thigh, arms at his side and legs bent upwards. There was a gentle warm breeze and songbirds that flew in and out of the ash. The sun was bright and hot but they were cool and comfortable in the shade, both subconsciously leaning into the warmth of the other. 

“In Ecbatana, Alexander offered sacrifice according to his custom, for good fortune; and he celebrated a gymnastic and musical contest…”

Plas Newydd

They stayed the night in Kenilworth after allowing themselves the luxury of a lazy afternoon followed by a warm meal at a local pub (in this part of the country, most options for dining out were pubs). The next morning they took the Bentley further northwest, crossing the border into Wales. The signs changed into a jumble of consonants and seemingly misplaced vowels. 

“I haven’t been to Wales in so long. I adore the people here, very charming folks. I do hope my Welsh hasn’t fallen out of shape, it has been quite a while.” 

They drove down the old country roads, Crowley for once not doing nearly double the speed limit, perhaps as a courtesy to Aziraphale or maybe because even he couldn’t bring himself to disturb the sleepy atmosphere of the small villages they passed through (although the most likely cause was simply extending their time on the road. He enjoyed the peace and solitude he shared with Aziraphale while they rode in the Bentley.) 

Aziraphale looked quizzically down at the map they had picked up in Shrewsbury. “I believe you take a right up here, dear boy.”

“Hope you aren’t getting us lost in the Welsh countryside, angel. All these villages look the same to me.” 

He looked up from the map and up to the signs with arrows on the side of the road, “No, we’re still in the correct direction. My navigation skills were unparalleled back in the day, I’ll have you know. Served on a privateer ship for a number of months and guarded over an exhibition or two back in the age of explorers.”   

Crowley looked up at the signs, recognizing one of the names, “Off to Llangollen then, are we?” 

Aziraphale looked over to him surprised, “You’ve heard of it?” 

“Visited it to, a couple of centuries ago.” 

Aziraphale looked delighted, “So you must have met the ladies then! Can’t imagine what else would bring you to the north-eastern Welsh countryside. I never realized you made it out to see them.” 

“Yeah, I visited them a handful of times while traveling between London and Dublin. Eleanor and Sarah. Haven’t thought about them in quite a while. Kept hearing about them and got curious.” 

“They were a delightful pair, wonderful hosts too. Elenor and I would sit in the parlor and discuss the recent literature. Poets, in particular, seemed to be drawn to Plas Newydd and most had left behind a copy or two of their work. I recall walking around the estate with Sarah and exchanging thoughts on current events. They were both surprisingly insightful despite their isolation.” 

“Bit too fond of horses for my taste, but I could respect how they rebelled against the system. Caused quite a stir for a while, and I enjoy good gossip. The scandal, the outrage, pretty funny if you ask me. Had a few interesting chats with them over tea.”

 What Crowley and Aziraphale didn’t realize is that on multiple occasions, they had both shared details of each other to the ladies of Llangollen. Crowley and Aziraphale were both singular personalities in their own way and it had not taken much for the two ladies to connect the dots between both ‘men’ (or what both had assumed to be men) stories. Aziraphale had visited them first, introducing himself as a friend of William Wordsworth. He had indeed discussed literature and current events, but sometimes over dinner one evening he had begun disclosing certain details about a dark fellow (certainly not a friend) that Aziraphale was doing business with whom he had some conflicting emotions. Within a year, a dark fellow with bright red hair had strolled up to Plas Newydd and introduced himself as a friend of the Shelley's. They had welcomed him in, but he was much more reserved than some of their previous visitors. However, after a bottle of gin, the stranger was much more open and willing to share some strange stories of his travels. He was well journeyed and quite connected, having stories from famous scientists, authors, criminals, and even royals. After a bottle of brandy had been opened, he started talking about a friend of his, or perhaps more of a coworker. They had known each other for quite some time but in recent years it seemed as if their relationship had developed a few more layers. As he continued to describe the acquaintance, Eleanor and Sarah had both glanced sidelong at each other with the same realization. 

As the two beings came and went, bringing new stories and sharing new details of their other half, the glances between the two women while the otherworldly being relayed their most recent thoughts on the other become more frustrated and knowing. It had been difficult not to intervene but they had both known it was for the best. One day, Aziraphale (or simply “Mr. Fell”) had come to visit. He discussed literature and current events like usual but never seemed to bring up his mysterious coworker. When they asked him about it, his face contorted like he had eaten something sour. They had had a falling out and were not talking to each other at the moment. The two women looked at each other in concern but didn’t attempt to press the issue. 

They had never seen Crowley again. 

Crowley and Aziraphale pulled up to Plas Newydd a short time later. Both Aziraphale’s navigation skills and Welsh had thankfully remained intact despite the disuse. The house had been well maintained throughout the centuries. Crowley purchased admission for them both. It had been turned into a museum a number of years ago, but both of them weren’t focused on the exhibits, sparing only a pacing glance at the displaces and descriptive plaques. Instead, they took in the house itself and the memories that returned to them with each room that they passed through. As they strolled within the many rooms: bedrooms, parlour, kitchen, library, and outside of the estate in the vast gardens and green rolling fields, the two cast sidelong glances at each other, not unlike two Irish ladies from centuries ago. 

Hadrian’s Wall 

They continued north on the same day, stopping for lunch in the village before they resumed their journey. After lunch, before they set off onto country roads, Crowley thought they should pick up some more CD’s. They had burned through most of the ones he had brought in from the apartment, and he was starting to get sick of not only “Killer Queen” but also “Fantasia on Greensleeves”. There was a little music shop in the quaint downtown that sold a handful of instruments, some sheet music, a bin of records, and yes, an assortment of CDs. It was a shame Aziraphale never slept since he had been mostly unable to listen to some of his personal favorites as the other being would be awake for the duration of their car rides. Aziraphale had fallen behind the times recently. Back before the advent of recorded audio, Aziraphale had needed to go out into the world to enjoy music, which kept him fairly up to date with the trends. However, after the advent of recording, Aziraphale had been able to enjoy the pleasures of the symphony from his own home, able to read or eat while he enjoyed the sweet melodies. And so he stopped attending the opera, symphony, or any sort of concert almost entirely. He still got out occasionally, when they were playing Beethoven series or one of his favorite Italian operas, but after the 19th century he was pleased to simply keep returning to old favorites (certain notable examples exist. Aziraphale was a fan of Kafka, Vaughn Williams, Rachmaninoff, Ravel, Bartók, and a handful of others.) He had listened to some ragtime and bebop, but he hadn’t been a fan and had simply abandoned all popular music afterward. Crowley drifted through the aisles but was mostly with content to let Aziraphale pick out the music. He was mostly hovering through the classical section, already with half a dozen new CDs. He wandered through a few other sections before walking back over to Crowley. 

“Nothing for yourself?”

“You seem to have enough already.”

They walked over to the cashier, Aziraphale setting about all of the CDs and Crowley pulled out his wallet. The old woman behind the cash rung up their purchase and Crowley pulled out the exact change out of his wallet. She accepted it graciously. 

“And where are you two from? Don’t get many visitors this time of year.” She spoke with a thick Welsh accent but must have overheard them speaking in english. 

Aziraphale smiled warmly, “London. Just taking a bit of a holiday, driving around the countryside.” 

“Oh that’s lovely. I prefer the weather this time of year anyway. I like the heat, but in the summer, a bit too hot in recent years. My husband and I drove up to Edinburgh back in July to visit our Lizzie for her wedding. We used to travel all over Europe in the summer months. A bit more difficult after the kids but we were able to bring them along when they were a bit older.”

“Oh yes, Edinburgh has become quite lovely in recent years. It’s been quite a while since I’ve visited myself.” 

“Well if you and your husband are continuing north, I would definitely suggest you stop by.” 

Aziraphale went red at her assumption. He sputtered in response. “Oh, um, well yes, thank you for the suggestion.”

She gave him a wide smile, “No need to be embarrassed, dear. Our Lizzie was marrying her girlfriend, Mackenzie, up in Edinburgh. Most people in these parts are quite accepting.” 

Aziraphale could only redden and nod his head. She handed Crowley a receipt. 

“Diolch.” He replied coolly, face unreadable behind the tinted glasses. 

“Cael diwrnod braf!” She replied as they walked out of the shop. 

They were finally back off onto the road. Aziraphale pulled out one of the new CDs. 

“Look what I found, Crowley. I thought you might like it.”

It was a collection of William Herschel recorded by the London Mozart Players. Crowley returned with a neutral grunt of acknowledgment that didn’t convey any particularly positive or negative sentiments regarding the recording. Aziraphale ejected the previous CD and put in the new one. 

“So where are we off to next, angel?” 

“You know, I’m not quite sure. I thought we could just… drive for a bit, and see where we end up?”  

Crowley grinned, “Not your usual style, ‘going with the flow’, ‘seeing where the road takes you.’”

He shrugged in response, “I’ve been trying many new things these last few months.”

And so North they went, out of Wales, up through the West Midlands and into the North West. They continued to bypass the highways in favor of country roads. They drove along the Irish sea, passing by Liverpool, Southport, and Blackpool. At Lancaster, they continued due North towards Kendal instead of continuing along the shoreline. Crowley made most navigational decisions, simply following his intuition. Every so often he would ask Aziraphale for input, but mostly they drove in silence. The angel mostly watched out the window, every so often cracking open the book he had with him. 

After another hour or so, Aziraphale finally perked up.

“Ah.”

Crowley looked over to him, “What?”

He pointed to one of the signs. It read “Hadrian’s Wall” and had an arrow pointing right. 

“We should go there.” 

And so Crowley make a sharp turn to the right, and off they went. 

After only another 10 minutes (Crowley’s maniacal driving had returned in full force), the two found themselves at the base of about a 5ft 2000-year-old wall. 

“Sort of a dumb plan if you ask me.” 

“Hm?”

“Not sure what Hadrian was thinking with this one. Bloody long wall on the fringe of the empire, middle of nowhere? Always seemed like nonsense to me.”

“Perhaps.”

“Next guy pretty much completely abandoned it. Did it ever serve any useful role at any point? Not like it was ever that high in the first place, not sure what he thought he could stop with it. Humanity has found its way across rivers, mountains, and deserts, but oho, not a five-foot wall, that’ll stop ‘em.” 

Aziraphale was setting up his camera. The wall was surrounded by kilometers of green fields speckled with trees that were changing color in the autumn season. There was a small lake about a kilometer down from the stretch of the wall that the two had found themselves at. 

“Sit still, won’t you? You’ll blur the image.” 

Crowley pulled his crossed arms slightly closer in. “Don’t see why you wanted a picture in the first place. Can’t you just get a couple of snaps of the herons over there and be done with it?”

“I have so few photos of you, dear. I’d like a few from this vacation. I’ve had such a lovely time so far. Maybe I’ll make a scrapbook when we’re back in London. Have you heard of those? Came across the idea a few weeks ago and I’ve been meaning to try my hand at it.”

“Don’t see why I need to be in them. Why do you need a photo when I’ll be around anyway? I’ll just ruin your landscapes.”

Aziraphale looked up from the camera and directly at Crowley with a twinkle in his eyes. “You know I think you look positively lovely, dear boy. Now shut up, I want at least one good one.”

And shut up he did. 

Tynemouth Priory and Castle (Edward II and Piers Gaveston + Duel?) 

They found a little country inn in one of the nearby villages. Crowley slept soundly in his single bed while Aziraphale stayed up reading. They ate the continental breakfast that was provided, Aziraphale putting a fair portion of homemade strawberry jam that the owner’s son had apparently made onto his rolls while Crowley enjoyed his cup of Lady Grey. 

“I feel like going to the coast today,” Aziraphale said in between mouthfuls of toast. 

“Which one?” Crowley replied, leaning back in his chair on the outdoor patio. 

“How about the North Sea? We did the Irish Sea, the Celtic Sea seems like the next logical step.” 

“Anywhere in particular?”

“Have you ever been to Tynemouth? There’s an old Priory and Castle. I was there all the way back in the 7th century. Nice little spot on the coast.” 

“Yeah, I’ve been, later though. Briefly in the 14th century, with Edward II.” 

“Well?”

“Fine with me.” 

They left a bit later that morning, going towards the morning sun due East. It was starting to get a bit chillier as they stretched further into autumn and the closer they got to the sea. It wasn’t a long drive by, even without Crowley behind the wheel. Soft piano music that Crowley didn't recognize was coming out of the stereo. It was pleasant, music that sounded like it came right out of a 19th-century parlor. Aziraphale was humming along while he read (a new book, yet again. He seemed to burn through a new one each day.) 

They drove up a hill right beside the coast to the ruins. They were the only ones there when Crowley pulled the Bentley off to the side of the dirt road. They got out in tandem and walked toward the abandoned castle. 

“Long time since I've been around here. I wouldn't mind making a habit of these little excursions.”

“I guess it's not half bad when you avoid tourist season.” 

“You said you'd been here before?”

“Yup, I was briefly a part of Edward II entourage trying to rile up some tensions within the court. You ever meet him?” 

“Unfortunately, no.” 

“Eh, weren't missing much. He and Piers Gaveston had been inseparable. Bit annoying but mostly harmless. Tragic end, but that was pretty common for that lot back in the day.”

“Nobles?” 

Crowley laughed, “Not quite, angel.”

They walked through the main archway. It had obviously changed significantly throughout the centuries, the brick and mortar now exposed to the elements, large chunks were missing and covered in moss, and yet in some ways, it hadn't changed at all. All of the roofs had crumbled away centuries ago, leaving the bright blue sky above them, with clouds blowing in from over the sea and the sun creeping higher into the sky. Birds nested throughout the ruins in little nooks and crannies, perched atop old towers and in between the remnants of windows. 

“I had my fair share of adventures here as well,” Aziraphale remarked. 

“Oh really?” Crowley said playfully, grin on his face. Aziraphale enjoyed the frequency with which Crowley had smiled during the trip. 

“I did return once after the 7th century, mid 16ty century after it was taken over by Henry VIII. Got into a bit of a tiff with a few visiting Italians.”

“‘Bit of a tiff’? What'd you do, get into a heated argument about the marinara sauce?” 

“Don't mock me, old boy. No, we handled the affair like men.” He replied primly. 

Crowley turned to look at him, “You didn't duel them, did you?” 

Aziraphale blushed a little, “It's not my usual style but the situation quickly escalated.” 

Crowley laughed, and it echoed around them. “Did you win?” 

Aziraphale looked insulted, “Of course I won! I wasn't given a flaming sword for no reason.” 

“What was the argument?”

“I can't quite recall where it started but I believe it ended when he called me a son of a bitch and I replied with something along the lines of 'You dare refer to the Lord that way!?' and drew my sword.” 

Crowley gave him a wicked grin, “Would have liked to see that.”

“We should spar sometime. I may be a bit out of shape but I'm sure I could show you a thing or two.”

“Definitely not. I was always rubbish with weaponry. Never really bothered with it. Prefer using my wits, and when a sword was necessary I just got someone else to do it.”

“Maybe I could teach you?” 

The offer was left unanswered, the two naturally returning to a comfortable silence as they continued their exploration of the old castle and priory. It was an old place, humans had been occupying the land for 2000 years, and yet they were still much older. This castle had been in ruins for centuries, and they had been there before, during, and after. They did not feel old within the new metropolises that had popped up in the last century but in the ruins of the civilizations that they outlived by millennia. They were old, but they were old together, and now nothing was there to stop them from being so. 

“Shall we go home?” 

Home. Crowley liked the sound of that when Aziraphale said it. 

“Yeah, let's go.” 

Epilogue: Dover Castle 

They drove south along the coast. Aziraphale had gone through nearly all of the CDs he had acquired in Wales, except one.  

“Vera Lynn? Didn’t realize you were a fan.”

“She had such a lovely voice. They broadcast one her performances on BBC during the war and I bought a record the next day." 

“How modern of you.”

“This one apparently came out this year. I like the cover art. Technology is unbelievable nowadays, over 30 tracks on a single side of this tiny disc.” 

It was later in the afternoon now, Vera Lynn serenading the duo as rolling hills passed them on one side and choppy grey waves on the other. It had been a well-needed disruption in their daily routines, a literal and figurative breath of fresh air. If Crowley was being honest (which he rarely was with himself) he enjoyed spending all this time with Aziraphale. The angel had allowed himself to enjoy their vacation much more openly, but Crowley had enjoyed it too, in his own way. He was old, which he did not care to admit. Humanity had aged him. 6000 years in the pits of hell was nothing, but 6000 years amongst billions of the busiest and most diverse animals on the planet had a way of reminding your how ancient you truly are. Most humans believed that the earth was billions of years old, and that was a length of time that Crowley did not care to imagine. Revisiting all of these old castles and villages reminded him just how much he had experienced already, so much more than any person could imagine, longer than any given human civilization. Up until now, the future had been finite, but now, thinking about all that he could still experience here on earth with seemingly no expiration date was equal parts exciting and terrifying. He looked over at the angel. He kept doing that throughout the trip. Glancing over at Aziraphale in the passenger seat, either reading a book or looking out at the scenery and on one extremely treasured stretch of the drive when he closed his eyes and ‘slept’ (Crowley doubted he had been completely successful in his attempt but it was a marvel to behold regardless.) How many more vacations would they have? How far would they go? The anxiety that had hovered over their previous encounters still loomed slightly, but it was quickly fading with each passing month. Where would they be in a year? He was nervous, terrified even. But looking over at the angel, the knot in his stomach seemed to disentangle itself slowly but surely. 

Aziraphale’s thoughts were significantly less deep. He was extremely happy with how the vacation had shaped up and was excited to plan out the next. He was still ready to be back home in his bookshop, he could only handle so much excitement and travel, but it had been energizing and thrilling in its own way. This trip had reminded him why he had settled in England. For all its flaws (notably the weather. Crowley would have also said the politics but Aziraphale didn’t make a habit of keeping up with current affairs), it was a beautiful country filled with kind and well-intentioned people. And had produced its fair share of good music. He had not listened to Vera Lynn in a while but somehow all those old tunes were still in his head as he hummed along watching the sun descend closer to the horizon. He saw a sign that said ‘London’ and when Crowley did not turn onto it, he looked over at the demon curiously. 

“Thought we’d make one more stop before heading back home. Just a bit further south.” 

Aziraphale was in no rush, so he made no objection. He slid back into his spot up against the window, head perched on his hand. They view slowly grew more and more populated, quaint villages into small towns and then again into cities. Aziraphale closed his eyes, just enjoying the music, enjoying the peace, enjoying Crowley. Even though he was not saying anything the demon's presence was so easily felt. He let himself soak up that feeling and they carried on. They crossed over the Thames and slowly returned to those quaint villages and green fields. The drive wasn’t very long (almost certainly to do with the incredibly dangerous speeds the Bentley had been driving at). They got out of the car and Aziraphale gazed upwards towards the imposing structure in front of them. It was well preserved, in a much better condition than the other castles they had visited. The main keep was surrounded by enormous walls on all sides. The castle itself stood upon a hill overlooking the English Channel. The sun was setting over the water far in the distance. Crowley hadn’t driven them up to the main castle, instead of off to the side closer to the rocky cliffs. 

“Dover Castle, the Key of England.”

Crowley got out off the car without turning it off so the music continued to pour out of the Bentley. Aziraphale followed, meeting Crowley who had walked around the car to his side. “Red Sails in the Sunset” faded out and familiar flute and string orchestra began to play. 

“They’ll be bluebirds over, the white cliffs of Dover.” 

Aziraphale began to blush, “Oh my dear, you didn't.” Except, when Aziraphale said ‘my dear’ the accent was not on the my and full of disbelief or frustration, but on the dear, and was not so much of an exclamation than a term of endearment, gentle and full of care. Crowley would never say it aloud, but he adored the way it sounded out of Aziraphale’s mouth, and especially since it was directed at him. He didn’t respond, instead, leaning against the angel watching the sunset over the castle, which he hoped was in of itself enough of an answer. 

Now it should be noted that ‘White Cliffs of Dover’ was that in fact included in the recording Aziraphale had purchased, but Crowley did not know that and imagined that it must be, and so there it was, just in time. The song (miraculously) matched up perfectly with the setting sun. Crowley (or maybe it had been Aziraphale. Both had slowly drifted into each other as night fell, hands brushing up against the others) slowly slipped his hand into that of his best friend. A quiet display of affection that meant so much as the stars began to emerge from the darkening the sky. 

“Tomorrow, just you wait and see.”    

[this-is-big-lady]

Conditioning part 2/6

Part 1, can be found on AO3 here Smut under the read more 

During a break from school, Katherine and Davey decided to spend the holiday at Davey’s home. Katherine got a chance to meet Davey’s family, and Davey got time to catch up with his loved ones. It was also an opportunity to spend time together outside of the stresses of school, and what better way to do this than by visiting a museum.

Davey’s family lived in a small town, around an hour from the nearest city, where the museum was situated. It was hosting a travelling exhibition on World War 2 and the allied forces which Katherine desperately wanted to see. So the couple piled in Davey’s old pickup truck and headed off in the morning, wandering around the exhibition and the rest of the museum until closing. Katherine’s favourite part was the uniforms, specifically the “lemon squeezer” hat that the New Zealand soldiers wore, and Davey enjoyed deconstructing the propaganda and recruitment posters.

Filled with new knowledge and fascination, Davey started the drive back home. Around a quarter of the way into the drive, they had to veer onto a side road that would take them back to Davey’s hometown. However, Davey was so caught up in conversation with Katherine that he wasn’t paying adequate attention. Coupled with the fact that he hadn’t driven for most of the year while he’s been away at college, he stalled the truck. Exclaiming a couple of expletives, he flicked the hazard lights on and jumped out of the car, yelling at Katherine to get into the driver’s seat and guide the truck off the road while he pushed.

Thankfully it was a quiet night and no cars passed them while they got the car safely off the road, but Davey was considerably out of breath once he got into the passenger’s seat. Katherine proposed that he called his parents to alert them of the situation while she called a tow truck, but Davey had a better and much cheaper idea. Once he gained his breath back, he pulled out his phone and called his dad.

“Hey dad, funny story. I accidentally stalled the truck on the turn off back home and it won’t start, I think the battery is playing up again. I was wondering if you could drive out to us and tow us home? We can get a tow truck if you can’t.”

Katherine thrummed her fingers against the wheel as she waited to hear if she was going to ask her parents how much the auto insurance covered for towing, and could see Davey biting his thumb nail, a nervous habit.

“Thank you so much dad, I’ll see you in an hour,” Davey brought the phone away from his ear, stabbing at the hang up button and and breathing a sigh of relief. Turning to his girlfriend, he explained, “Dad is going to tow us home with a tow rope, he just has to get everything sorted at home and will be out here in an hour.

“Well that’s good news,” Katherine agreed sympathetically. “But, uh, how are we gonna kill the hour?”

“We could play eye spy?” It was Davey’s favourite game to play with his family in the car when he was younger, but Katherine would rather die than play it, as she made very obvious with a disgruntled huff.

“Or we could christen my car,” Davey uttered with an alluring lilt in his breath. “I had it all through high school, but I never exactly had the experiences that a typical teenage boy would have in his car.”

Katherine couldn’t quite believe what she was hearing as Davey leant over, brushing her hair to the side as he placed a hot open-mouthed kiss on her neck. But it didn’t sound like an awful idea. She looked down to her adoring boyfriend and suggested a challenge that was sure he’d never turn down. “I’ll race you to the backseat?”

Davey jumped out of the car and slammed the door shut behind him, with Katherine following suit on her side. She laughed in disbelief, surprised thst they were about to play out every cliché from every high school movie. Both of them hopped into the backseat, sidling up next to each other. Davey reached over, entwining their hands together as Katherine looked over at him, her eyes giving away her want.

Shifting his gaze up from where their hands sat in Katherine’s lap, Davey caught her eye. His lips quirked up into a half smile and he leant in, exchanging the kiss that he was desperate to give her the whole time he was driving. He could feel her eyes flutter closed, her eyelashes tickling against his. They stayed like that for a while, swapping gentle breaths and heartfelt kisses. These are the times in which the couple felt truly alive. Nowhere to be, nothing to do, other than to simply enjoy each other’s company. There was a certain level of peace and intimacy they could only achieve when they were together like this - Jack might call them saps, but they loved it.

And sometimes that intimacy increased, such as when Davey slid his hand under Katherine’s loose fitting t-shirt and she retaliated by cupping him over his jeans. As they were doing right now. He could feel the cotton and lace of her bralette, as it’s ‘more comfortable than a bra for long drives,’ something Katherine would explain to him later. However, the feeling of the button of his pants being opened and the release of pressure from his zipper being drawn down had distracted him. His hand faltered as Katherine reached a hand past the waistband of his boxer briefs, and he outright moaned as she wrapped a hand around his shaft.

Katherine’s lips broke with Davey’s as she smirked, bending down to place gentle kisses on his jaw as she languidly stroked her hand up and down Davy’s quickly stiffening cock. The sounds coming out of his mouth were delicious, and she needed more.

Pulling her hand out of Davey’s pants, her boyfriend loudly whined and keened. They were on the side of the road - if they were caught, they could face heavy consequences. He could make all the noise he wanted, as long as it wasn’t loud. So she quickly silenced him with a frustrated snap of “do you want me to gag you?!”

Davey spluttered in response, face going bright red and saying neither affirming nor denying the proposal. “We’ll come back to that one, I guess,” Katherine noted, somewhat interested in Davey’s true response would be to that question. “For now, lie down.” The pickup truck was a tight squeeze, with hardly enough room to fit the two of them. Katherine reached around the passenger seat, finding the lever to move the seat forward and pushing on the seat back. She shunted it forward as far as if could go, meaning she could settle down into the footwell as Davey lay on the seats.

Too tall for the length of the seats, Davey had to awkwardly cramp up, and Katherine was seated on the floor by his knees. He had no idea what was going on, but his girlfriend was objectively too far away. As he reached for her, his hand was swatted away, and was instead asked to help with getting his pants around his ankles. Never one to deny his love of anything she wanted, Davey lifted his hips up and pushed the pants past his sharp hipbones, allowing Katherine to pull them down the rest of the way.

The cool air sapped his skin of warmth, but Katherine’s hands burnt like stinging fire against his thighs. She placed kisses above the elastic waist of his underwear, softly nuzzling the dark hair that grew there. In the small space, the smell of sex was amplified and was driving the pair crazy. Katherine mouthed at the hardened bulge in Davey’s underwear, causing her boyfriend to throw this head back, and bash it against the arm rest on the door.

Katherine tried to hide her laughter as Davey groaned, holding the crown of his head in his hands. While Davey was distracted, she hooked her fingers into his underwear, dragging it down as she whispered, “I’ll kiss it better, baby.” As his leaking cock was revealed, she placed a kiss right on the swollen tip, sucking up the bead of liquid that had gathered there. Davey’s sounds had changed from pained to pleasure, letting curses flow freely from his lips.

She pulled back and Davey’s eyes followed her. She yanked a hair tie off her wrist, bringing together all her hair in a sloppy high ponytail. Gentle tendrils of hair fell out the bottom, tickling the nape of her neck. Davey had never truly seen her with her hair up - she always kept it down when studying, claiming that the slight curl to her hair got knotty if she tied it up for more than an hour. Nevertheless, he loved it. He could clearly see the sparkle in her eye, the blush on her cheek, and the subtle silver studs in her ear that he gave her as a gift for her last birthday. She was beautiful with her hair off her face, and that fact that she was about to go down on him was just a bonus.

She placed calculated licks to the intersection of head and shaft, making Davey sob and grab onto the headrest. It took every inch of self control to not buck his hips up when Katherine enveloped him whole, and is rewarded with her sinking down as far as she can go. It’s an awkward angle, his cock is naturally straining towards his belly button and she’s trying to swallow it from the side. Davey can’t help but praise her for her efforts. She hummed her thanks around his dick, and he has to think about his sociology report to stop himself from exploding right there and then.

Bobbing her head a couple more times, she tried to elicit another groan from Davey, but to no avail. She slowly detached herself, locking eyes with her boyfriend as he looked up in confusion as to why she stopped. Her saliva glistened in the ambient light, and used it to slick up her hand when she wrapped her fingers around where her mouth had just been. She cut off the questioning from Davey before it had even started with a question of her own.

“Is there…” she stopped, swallowing to clear her hoarse throat. “Is there anything you like? When I, ya’know…” A blush rose furiously to her cheeks. She’d never explicitly discussed sexual preferences with Davey before, but it seemed like having his cock in her hand seemed like an appropriate time.

Trying to avoid embarrassment, Davey attempted to keep his voice even. “I’d like it if, uh… if you played with, well, my balls.” Katherine nodded, taking in this new information and figuring out how to incorporate that.

Muttering a quiet, “okay,” under her breath, she returned to her previous position. She allowed her hand to drop down to the base of Davey’s dick as she enveloped him once again, her tongue flattening out to lick up his mouthwatering musk. As she started to move her head, her hand dropped further down to hold the two spheres in her hands, her fingertips dancing across them.

A hiss was pushed through Davey’s teeth at the addition of his new sensation. He’d done it for himself plenty of times, but there was something about having his sweet and ferocious Katherine doing it for him. He knew that his orgasm wasn’t too far away, and he was going to enjoy every damned second of Katherine’s fingers and hands and mouth until it arrived.

She’d never experienced anything like this before. Davey’s balls weren’t as firm as his cock, and the loose skin gave her plenty of movement to drive her boyfriend crazy with. He especially seemed to enjoy it when her nails carefully raked across the underside, if the yell of her name was proof of anything. She wrapped her free hand around the bottom of his shaft, keeping it in place so that she could increase her ministrations. The added stability meant she upped her speed and lost some control. Taken over by enthusiastic want, she was practically choking herself, the sound of her reflex to gag filling the truck. Her saliva was dripping onto her hand and she could feel Davey’s nuts tightening in her hands.

Her loss of her usual reservations was going to both of Davey’s heads, only furthering his lust. She was dedicating so much energy and effort, taking in as much of him as she comfortably could, and choking on the rest that she couldn’t. Davey always admired how mouthy she was, unafraid to state her opinion or throw an insult at someone her deserved it. This was a new development as to what her mouth could do, and he adored her all the more for it.

Moments later, Davey could feel that familiar rising sensation of his climax, and Katherine could feel the balls she was holding grow even tighter.  He choked out, “cum, I’m gonna cum,” as Katherine pushed the head of his cock as far back in her mouth as she could manage. A shout and a cry erupted from Davey as he came, spurting his warm and thick liquid straight into Katherine’s throat. She’d figured out that if she got it as far back as she could, it wouldn’t fall on her tongue and she didn’t have to taste it. Davey just thought that she was trying to deep-throat him. It was a win-win.

After Davey’s cock had finished twitching in her mouth, she released her hold on his base and balls, pulling off with a pop. His eyes were still screwed shut and his breathing was laboured from the force of his orgasm, so she peppered feather-light kisses on his thighs until he opened his eyes to look at her. She heard his raspy voice say her name, calling her to him. As she leaned across the seat, she pulled on the hair tie holding her ponytail in place, and let her hair fall out. It cascaded onto Davey’s face as she placed a chaste kiss on his cheek. He laughed, complaining that it was tickling his nose. She pulled it out of the way and threw it over her back, and snuggled into Davey’s embrace. She let her head rest on Davey’s shoulder, and he pressed a light kiss into her loose hair.

The time that Davey’s dad was meant to arrive ticked closer, so the couple resigned themselves to climbing back into the front seats. Once Davey had his pants back on and Katherine had readjusted where the passenger’s seat was, they settled into the seperate seats and held hands, trying to regain them same closeness they shared mere minutes ago. Davey still had a blissed out smile plastered across his face and Katherine had to cross her legs and squeeze her thighs together to relieve her itch that had built up in the backseat. If it was too cramped to comfortably go down on Davey, there was no way they could make it work for her. They’d just have to wait until they got home.

Katherine was glad to note that the second trial had gone just as well as the first. She was intrigued to see if Davey’s behaviour would come under the simple control of a hair tie, because it was working well so far.

I'm heading into the second half of my uni semester after a couple of weeks off, so I can't make any promises on how often I'll be updating. I'll try to make it as often as I can, but if not, I'm busy actually studying Pavlovian and operant conditioning rather than writing smut about it! Reblog, like, comment, or message me if you’d like to - or all of the above! Love you all, see you for part 3 (which I’m SUPER EXCITED for!)

[horrorkingdom]

Ubloo, Part Three

I watched the white lines in the middle of the highway disappear one by one under the hood of my car as I sped down the interstate. If I watched them long enough they would eventually just bleed into one long hazy line of white in a sea of asphalt, and then I would snap out my stare, and they would be separate again.

I reached over to the passenger side seat and grabbed my pint of gin. It’s sad how good I’ve gotten at twisting the cap off with one hand, while the other is on the wheel. I took a big swig and finished the bottle, then tossed it out my driver’s side window and heard the glass shatter in a satisfying splash.

“It had to have been microsleep.” I kept telling myself. I don’t know if I was finally starting to lose it or if I’d already drunk too much by noon and was just rambling, but I had to somehow rationalize the fact that I’d seen Ubloo, and not heard him afterwards.

In the end I chalked it up to hallucinations brought on by the lack of sleep, and told myself that I would try to get at least 5 hours tonight. For the past few weeks I’ve been running on just about 4 hours a night, or however long I can stomach those terrifying nightmares.

In my rear-view mirror I checked on the box that housed Robert Jennings’ things. Today was finally the day I would learn what that book meant. I can’t tell you how long I compared this writing to samples on my laptop for, and it wasn’t until a very blind stroke of luck that I figured out what it actually was.

I was sitting at a hotel bar in Pennsylvania when a man came and sat next to me. We made some small talk at first but I think he was scared off a bit by my disheveled appearance. We drank in silence for a few minutes and then he broke it abruptly.

“You can read that shit?” He said, all but gracefully.

“Unfortunately no.” I sighed. “In fact I’m just trying to figure out what language it is to be completely honest.”

“Oh.” He looked down at his beer and started picking at the label. “Mind if I take a look?”

“Sure, just be very careful with it.” I slid the book over to him carefully. He opened the front cover and flipped through the first couple pages.

“Well I tell you.” He began. “It’s some sort of African writing.”

My ears perked up at this.

“African?” I asked hopefully.

“Yeah I used to be a security guard at the National History Museum over in New York City. I swear I saw some shit just like this in there.”

I didn’t even bother thanking the man. I grabbed the book from him and sprinted up to my hotel room to begin working. I must have wrote damn near 500 e-mails that night, with a small sample of the writing attached, to every African history professor, museum curator and African language translator I could find an address for.

That’s how I met Eli.

Eli was a retired African history professor living in Natchez, Mississippi. The e-mail he sent back seemed a little surprised and excited all at once. He told me that this writing was an almost extinct language that he learned translating documents for a professor while studying for his doctorate. I told him that I would pay any sum of money should he help me translate this book, as long as I hand deliver it to him and he reads it directly to me. I couldn’t risk losing this book in the mail, and besides, Natchez was right on my route to the Louisiana house.

I had finished reading Robert’s Journal about two weeks ago. He wrote about the dreams, how hard the burden was to bear and how it was affecting his family life. Robert went knocking on one of his tenant’s doors, after not hearing from him (or receiving the rent) for weeks. He let himself in and found him there, wrists slit in the bathtub. Apparently a pair of his old jeans were laying on the bathroom floor, and in a pocket Robert found a picture of the Louisiana house, with the address “hastily” scribbled on the back of it. I found it curious that he made no mention of where he found the other book though.

Robert also theorized about what exactly Ubloo was trying to do. He seemed to believe it was some vengeful spirit, feeding on our nightmares or fear. Truth be told his Journal wasn’t too useful, it was simply a recording of everything he’d been through in the three years he dealt with this curse.

I snapped out of my thoughts just in time to hear her scream.

K-THUMP

And then a big crash as my windshield spider-webbed inward. I swerved out of instinct and lost control of the car. It veered off the highway and down the embankment, throwing the woman from my hood and sending her rag-dolling across the landscape until she was stopped by a tree, and I heard her spine snap from the whiplash with a sharp pop.

My car finally slid to a stop and then I heard him.

“OH MY GOD! MARY!”

An old man was running down the embankment now over to where the woman lay.

“MARY! SWEETHEART PLEASE!”

He knelt down and cradled her head in his arms, her legs twisted into sickening shapes. He turned and looked at me, still in shock, knuckles white from gripping the steering wheel. It wasn’t until I had a half moment to collect myself that I realized the gravity of what just happened.

“BACK UP! I’M A DOCTOR!” I yelled, opening the door and running halfway over to the man.

“She’s DEAD you idiot! You KILLED her!” The old man sobbed into the hair on the top of his wife’s head.

I stopped halfway between my car and the tree. The two of them couldn’t have been younger than 70. A little up the road I noticed a car pulled off to the side. They must have broken down or gotten a flat, she was probably trying to flag me down, or maybe just standing too far into the lane.

“I’m sorry, I…” I stammered out, choking up. “I wasn’t paying attention.”

“You were fucking drunk you idiot!” He snapped back at me. “A drunk just like your old man! That’s what killed him and what killed your Mother too!”

I was taken aback by this.

“No, that’s not true!”

“It is!” The old man reached behind his back and pulled out a revolver. “Look what you’ve done boy! It’s all your fault!”

And with that, he cocked the revolver, put it in his mouth, and I watched his brains splatter out the back of his head in a burst of color.

I stood there in shock, listening to the still silence of the aftermath. I scratched the back of my head and stared at the man and woman. How the fuck am I going to get out of this? I scratched the back of my head again, what an odd moment for it to be tickling like this.

Then I felt my hair ruffle. I spun on my heel surprised and scared and there he was. His long trunk recoiling back towards his head and the long black pointed tongue hanging lazily out of the end of it. He stared at me with those deep black horrible eyes. So black I could see my reflection in them, the reflection of me standing there frozen in fear. He bobbed slowly up on his legs and back down almost gracefully. His head cocked to the side just a fraction of an inch and without any movement I heard it.

“Ubloo!”

I woke up to a gasp of hot stale air. The world came back to me slowly as I drank in my surroundings, and then everything flooded back at once. I had pulled over at a rest stop just outside of Natchez to take a leak and grab a coffee. I must have fallen asleep in the car.

“FUCK.” I slammed my hand onto the steering wheel.

I must have had at least 50 dreams with that thing and yet he still somehow managed to catch me off guard. I reached into my center console and pulled out the pill bottle of adderall. I threw two in my mouth and forced them down with a swig of gin.

For a second I sat there, head against the steering wheel fighting off my thoughts, and then I turned the key and started the car, and left the rest stop parking lot.

It took me about another half hour to get to where Eli lived. His house was large and old from the looks of it. His driveway was much longer than I was used to. The land surrounding his house stretched on for what seemed like forever. I guess city-living has made a place like this seem unnatural to me.

I drove my car to the front of his house and he came outside and waved. He had been expecting me, I called him when I was just about two minutes out. He was about my height but much older, in his late sixties. He had a full head of white hair and a white goatee to match it. His skin was wrinkled and he had a pair of half-framed glasses resting on his nose.

He lit up a cigarette as I got out of the car and stretched my legs.

“Afternoon Doctor.” He called from his front steps. “I must say I been mighty lookin’ forward to this book a’yours. Can’t find much that hasn’t been found a’ready, and if I have me the chance to translate some new discovery well, I guess we could call us even.”

He spoke with a thick Mississippi accent but he was understandable. He looked me over for a few seconds and then spoke again.

“My you look turrble Doctor. Long drive?” He asked me, with a tone of sincerity.

“Just a rough night.”

I couldn’t help but smile at that. I opened the back door of my car and pulled the book out of its box. I shut the door and then studied the cover one last time in mystery as I walked over to Eli.

“Here she is.” I said handing over the book.

Eli took the book in his hands and pushed his glasses up to get a better look. He squinted at the cover in the sunlight for about three seconds before I saw his eyes widen and his mouth open slightly.

“Doctor.” He said gravely. “Where did you find this?”

“It was given to me by a friend.” I lied, but only half. “Why, what’s it called?”

Eli turned and stared at me for a long time, and I could almost see the gears in his head turning as he was starting to realize just why I looked so haggard.

“It’s a religious text.” He started, his voice wavering. “Written by a witch doctor from the Binuma Tribe.”

“Witch doctor?” I asked curiously. “Like voodoo?”

“Yes Doctor.” Eli turned to look at me as he spoke. “But not just any voodoo. The Binuma Tribe, and most specifically this witch doctor, are referred to in African folklore as one of the most ruthless in history.”

We stood there for a moment together on his front steps. With only the sound of the wind to keep us company.

“Well Doctor.” Eli began. “Let’s go inside, and make sure this ain’t a fake before we jump to such rash conclusions.”

We went inside together and Eli brought me to his study. He began examining the book, the text, the paper, everything. While he did this he had me running about doing various tasks for him. Pulling samples from his filing cabinets, looking up texts that he didn’t have on the internet, fetching sweet tea from the fridge. After about two hours he finally sat back in his chair and turned to look at me.

“Gosh a’mighty Doctor, this is the real deal.”

I was overjoyed to hear this. Truth be told I hadn’t even considered the possibility that this text was fake, and now that I was just minutes from answers about Ubloo, about how to stop or kill him, I finally felt a weight lift a little from my shoulders.

“So I tell you what.” Eli began. “I got a guest bed upstairs. If you have nowhere else to be you can shack up with me here and we can translate this book in—oh I don’t know—three days?”

My stomach dropped.

“I’m sorry Eli but that’s too much time.” He looked back up at me again. “I need to be back on the road by sundown.”

He looked surprised, and rightfully so.

“Hell, boy you look like you haven’t slept in days! Surely you can take one night off from the road?”

“I’m sorry but I’m running out of time.” I got up and walked over to where Eli had the book. “May I?”

“Well of course Doctor, it is yours after all.”

I flipped through the pages to the chapter I needed.

“Not anymore Eli.” I said as I got closer to the text I had to hear. “Once I leave this is yours, do whatever you like with it.”

I stopped finally on the page I needed. A crude picture of Ubloo stared up at me surrounded by text.

“Please, this is the text I need.” I said before he could ask anything.

Eli turned down to the page and read in silence for a few minutes, and as he did, I could see him understand. When he was finally done he turned and looked at me with big sad eyes.

“How long?” He asked.

“About two months.” I said back, my heart breaking with finally being able to tell someone who would understand.

“Jesus…” He said trailing off, and then; “one moment Doctor.”

He got up and walked to the kitchen, and came back with a tray. On it, two glasses full with ice, and a bottle of what looked like whiskey. I laughed, and for just a second I felt human again. Eli poured me a glass, then him, and we drank together in silence.

“So now you understand why I can’t stay.” I finally said.

“I do Doctor. Now, you might want to sit down for this, because it’s quite a long story.”

I took a seat next to Eli and braced myself, heart racing for what was coming next.

“This creature, this… thing, is called ‘Daiala Bu Umba.’”

“Daiala Bu Umba?” I asked curiously, feeling odd that these people didn’t come up with the same name both Robert and Andrew had.

“Yes, Daiala Bu Umba, this translates to ‘The One Who Shows.’”

A shiver ran down my spine as Eli continued on.

“It says here that this witch doctor was very powerful, and that his people—the Binuma Tribe—were being chased across the dessert by a rival clan. Rather than the clan hunt them down in battle, they sent their best warriors into the Binuma camp at night, and slaughtered them in their sleep.

The witch doctor was away, praying to the gods for his people to escape, but the gods had abandoned him for using voodoo to defeat his enemies, and his prayers were not answered. When he returned to camp, he found all of his tribe slaughtered in their beds, including his wife who was with child. The witch doctor was overcome with grief and hatred, and turned to his most powerful voodoo to exact vengeance on the rival clan, and abandon the gods that turned their backs on him.

He gathered everything of use he could find left behind by the raid; elephant tusks, snake skins, animal bones and anything that held any significant properties. He piled them together with the bodies of his fallen tribe and burned them all, chanting a voodoo curse all the while, a curse to be place on the rival clan, to summon a spirit that would haunt their sleep the way they haunted his Tribe’s.”

Eli stopped and looked up at me.

“Do you want me to keep going, Doctor?”

I took a sip of my whiskey and solemnly nodded.

“In a matter of days, the rival clan were all having horrific nightmares and could not sleep. They dreamt of being raided by other tribes and seeing their women and children raped and enslaved, of crops burning and dry seasons that never ended. Before long, the clan turned on each other, or took their own lives, until none remained.

But something was wrong. When the witch doctor heard the clan was destroyed he celebrated, but he continued to hear of people being afflicted by The One Who Shows. He realized that the beast he made could not be stopped, for it had an appetite for despair that could not be satisfied. One by one, people would be afflicted by the spirit, and when they died, it would pass on to another, and so on and so on.”

He stopped and looked back up at me and stared.

“Well? Could they stop it?” I asked

“It doesn’t say.” Eli said through his sadness. “It says that tribes began to exile anyone who contracted the deadly spirit, for it was impossible to fight. Leaving the spirit to be contracted by a different tribe.”

My stomach dropped entirely. Well that’s it. There’s no escape for me. I’m going to have to deal with Ubloo for as long as I live… Or as short as I live. I see now why Andrew and Robert took their lives.

My eyes began to well up and Eli poured me another glass of whiskey.

“I’ll understand if you want to get back on the road Doctor. I’ll keep translating and I’ll call you if I find anything that helps.”

I gulped down the whiskey in one shot and wiped my eyes on my sleeve.

“Thanks Eli.” I forced out. “Let me know, I’ll show myself out.”

I got up before he could stop me and headed for the front door. Before I could get down to my car Eli was in the doorway and called out to me.

“Doctor! Just where is it you’re going? If you don’t mind me asking.” He said, the sadness on his voice made the question hang in the evening air.

“To follow a dead man’s footsteps.” I answered. “That lead to somewhere in Louisiana.”

Eli stared back at me and his eyes began to well up with tears.

“Well I wish you the best Doctor. I can’t imagine the things you’ve seen and I won’t pretend to, but God bless you for fightin’.”

I nodded and opened my car door, but stopped and looked up at Eli.

“Daiala Bu Umba.” I said with a half laugh. “That’s a lot better than what I’ve been calling it.”

“What have you been calling it, Doctor?”

I stopped for a second and thought about just how silly the name I had for him was.

“Ubloo.” I said with a half-smile.

“Ubloo?” Eli looked at me confused.

“Yeah, that’s what it always says to me right at the end of a dream.” I hesitated. “Does it mean anything?”

Eli looked down at me with a stare I will never forget, a look in his eyes that I know he will never give to another man in his life, and he said:

“Yes Doctor. Ubloo is short for ‘Ubua Loo.’”

The wind blew gently between us and the grass swayed in the waning sunlight as I awaited what would most likely be the last thing I’d ever hear from him.

“It means wake up.”

Credit To – DifferentWind

[mikeyhatesit113]

forever and never: Chapter 6

My vehicle sped up the road, my foot stomping on the gas pedal.

The minutes ticked by like hours, and no matter how fast the car went, it still wasn’t enough. I had to get back to her, but would she be there?

Outside, the dark night was haunting me once again.

It had been hours...hours of silence.

Desperation built in my chest.

Please be there...

9 Months Earlier

I was back home, and I had my family back. I had a renewed sense of commitment to Janie, and I was determined to do what was right by her.

She was my franchise player, and I had to do what every professional sports organization needs to do…lock down their star player with a long term contract. And true to the world of sports, my star athlete did seem to have interest in other franchises, but after all was said and done, it appeared that she wanted to remain with my organization.

Of course, I’m referring to marriage. I immediately needed to marry Janie.

I had put a lot of the blame on myself for the way Janie had felt, because true enough, we were two years into a relationship and I had not proposed to her. No, I did not think that we were ready but apparently she did, and as I knew I wasn’t going anywhere, why not?

I had ignored the organic, special nature of wanting to marry somebody. It became an initiative of mine to make her feel as comfortable and secure as possible, so that I’d never have to suffer through another agonizing, restless night of wondering where she was.

The first order of business was requesting John’s permission for her hand in marriage. Remember John? Her father who confronted me at the sports bar? Since that heated exchange 2 years prior, John and I had not exactly become “close”, but we were cordial in the event of dinners and parties.

And even though he “forgot my gift at the house” when he came over one Christmas and gave Janie and the boys presents, I still felt comfortable enough to ask his permission for his daughter’s hand.

This process wasn’t going to be the traditional secret phone call or visit that most guys like to have without their prospective fiancé’s knowledge. This tradition usually maintains the element of surprise, as most proposals come in the form of an unexpected moment a couple can cherish and look back on decades later.

Well, there wouldn’t be any real “surprise”, as there were only expectations now.

Janie and I were sitting on the couch one Sunday night when we began talking, and I announced to her, “I’m going to call your dad right now and get his permission.”

Janie giggled excitedly and immediately whipped out her phone to call somebody while I stepped outside and made a phone call of my own. John immediately answered.

“Hey John, it’s Ekim. I’ve given this a lot of thought and I’d be grateful for your permission. Can I marry your daughter?”

John chuckled and said, “Well, I think you’d have to ask her that.”

Alright, one obstacle down.

The next obstacle was going and buying the ring. I went into a local, over-priced jewelry shop and let the guy in the clip-on tie and purple dress shirt guide me through the options. I picked out what I thought the perfect ring was, and I was on my way.

Two obstacles down.

Next, the proposal, but where to do it?

A quiet pier, just the two of us? No.

What about a cute little scavenger hunt, ending with me on one knee? Nope.

In my desperation to make her feel special, I wanted to do it big.

As in, The Big Apple.

I planned a last second trip to NYC, and I told her to pack a bag. We left on a Friday afternoon and hours later, we arrived to the modest hotel in Newark.

It was nice, if you could ignore the aged wallpaper and smell of cig smoke emanating from the air vent.

NOTE: Sorry ladies, but I was fronting ALOT of cash in a short period of time. I couldn’t afford a hotel in Manhattan. I was a baller on a budget.

I called down to the front desk, and a man who spoke broken English answered.

“Hey, can we have another room, by chance? I think that the cigarette smoke from down below is coming through our air conditioner,” I said.

The man on the other end asked me to hold briefly, and I heard him consult with the clerk beside him.

“He say, the smokes from outside, is in their room.”

We moved to another room, but we didn’t stay in it much. We were up bright and early the next morning, and my car zipped into Manhattan among the other aggressive drivers. We grabbed an “early bird special” at a parking garage and began our tour of the city on foot. The ring box bulged in my pocket as we walked through the streets and eventually ended up in Times Square.

With her back turned, I seized my moment and knelt down on one knee. She turned around.

Looking back, it’s hard to figure out if anything was special between us. It’s hard to imagine her being happy or being genuinely pleased after knowing what I know now. But if this moment where her jaw dropped and her hands clapped to her face was nothing but an act, she put on a great show.

We both did that day, as nearby tourists stopped walking and took pictures, saying “aww!” and giving small rounds of applause.

Of course she said yes. It wasn’t getting any grander than that.

The rest of the day went fantastic. I had proposed, and I made her feel like the luckiest girl in a major American city.

After returning home, we started planning for the wedding, which would be held in February at a local private club’s banquet room. We invited all of our closest friends and family, and I’d include her two boys in my groom’s party. Other members of my party would be my father, my buddies Bill and Sean.

Bill. Remember Bill. Right there with November 4th, put Bill in your memory bank for a rainier day.

Anyway, for as extravagant as we tried to make the wedding, everything turned out rather normal. In fact, after our rehearsal, we held our rehearsal dinner at a pizza buffet.

My father and his girlfriend, even years later, remained non-fans of Janie. My father treated all of his duties as a groomsman with reluctance and exasperation, and on the night of the rehearsal dinner, veered left to the neighboring chinese buffet while everyone else went to the pizza buffet.

My father and his girlfriend laughed as they did this, and I didn’t know how to feel about it at the time. Years later, the sheer audacity not only to miss your son’s rehearsal dinner, but to literally go next door to another restaurant, is inconceivable.

Anyway, the wedding day went off without a hitch. Janie had one last surprise for me, as she abruptly changed her music halfway down the aisle to an upbeat, poppy Miley Cyrus song and danced the rest of the way to the altar.

I am not quite sure, to this day, what she was going for. All I know is that there wasn’t a huge burst of laughter, no applause, and no one cheered. I can honestly say that everyone looked as uncomfortable as I felt. I knew nothing about the song switch-up, and I couldn’t understand why it had taken place. Miley Cyrus had zero significance to our relationship.

This was a wedding...not a Party in the USA...

I mean, at least save it for the reception?

After the wedding, Janie and I departed for our honeymoon in a modest beach town. It was February, so it was the off-season. We had a decent time with what we could do during a time of year where 75% of the businesses are shut down.

Inside, I felt accomplished, if nothing else. I considered the early chaotic origins of our relationship, and at least I could hang my hat on the fact that we were officially a married couple.

More to the point, we had just planned an entire wedding in 3 months, while also coordinating a move from our cape cod house to a townhouse. The rent at the cape cod house was extreme, and the rent at the townhouse would not only be cheaper, but also be in the same housing development as her mother.

Win/win, we thought.

After those two monumental events, I began looking at my career. I wasn’t too happy at the vending company. It allowed me to provide, but the seemingly erratic decisions from the small business owner made me nervous, and I started seeking a long-term career elsewhere.

Enter, the Sheriff’s department.

I filled out an application and they called me in for a panel interview. After getting approved, they passed me onto the physical fitness test.

The vertical jump. 25 pushups. 38 situps in under a minute. 300 meter dash. And of course, the dreaded 1.5 mile run in 12:29 or better.

I passed everything but the 1.5 mile run time. I hadn’t ran that much since 8th grade.

They scheduled me for a retest, and I worked my ass off in preparation for the running portion. Janie was ultra supportive of my quest for a position in law enforcement. She encouraged it, telling me that she always had a thing for cops. This of course motivated me even more.

Anything to feel like she wanted me.

Weeks later after running more than I ever had, I arrived at the hot track where the fitness test would be held. I performed the tests in succession of the process, passing each one. Then it was time for the run.

The whistle blew and I took off, pushing myself harder than ever as sweat poured down my face. Through every burst of running and stretch of walking after I got a stitch in my side, all I could think about was not failing. Not going back to Janie and telling her that I didn’t pass.

I pushed, and I barely made it.

After the test, they handed me a large stack of background paperwork to complete, and I was elated. I couldn’t wait to tell Janie. I hopped in my car and blared Limp Bizkit as I chugged red bull on my way home. On the way, I called Janie.

No answer.

Moments later, I tried calling again.

No answer.

I was befuddled. Wasn’t she eagerly waiting to hear the results of a test regarding a career that could change our family?

I pulled into our development minutes later and parked at the house. Janie’s car wasn’t there. I walked across the street to her mom’s and asked where Janie was.

“I don’t know, she should be back by now,” her mom said. “She only ran down the street to Walgreens, but that was a while ago.”

Minutes later, Janie did in fact arrive home. I excitedly told her the news, and though she was happy, I didn’t exactly get the reaction I had thought I’d get. She was rather passive, as if someone had told her that their growing pumpkins were coming along nicely.

Unfortunately, this reaction was a sign of things to come. Almost like clockwork, one year since “Corey”, her behavior changed abruptly, and our fights became more frequent. Everything that mattered before didn’t seem to matter to her now, and she was rather detached.

When you’re with someone for so long, you become accustomed to their patterns, behavior, and routines. When they abruptly change, that’s what you would consider a red flag.

One evening, I had enough. If she was going to take me for granted, then I’d make her miss me. I had tried to give her everything, but it wasn’t good enough.

Maybe it was time for her to wonder about me for a change?

I left the house and stopped by the mall, where I grabbed two CD’s. I hopped in my car and gunned it. Where was I going?

Well I’m glad somebody asked. The beach, of course.

My plan was to book a hotel room and stay there the entire weekend, taking time for me. I didn’t plan on having my phone on me. I was going to cut loose and have as much fun as a married stepfather could have, which in retrospect, isn’t much fun at all.

That entire 4 hour car ride, I gave myself tiny pep talks.

Fuck this. She’ll get a taste of what it’s like to be without me. She’ll be begging me to come back. It’s time for her to be insecure for a change.

The sun was going down, giving way to a beautiful dusk. I would of loved to share it with her. I wish this was our trip to the beach. But it was mine, and mine alone. There didn’t seem to be much that she did want to share with me. I’d make her pay for that.

This was incredibly toxic.

Hours later, my Matrix zipped up the main drag of the beach town, the same beach town we had spent our honeymoon in 7 months earlier.

Attractive women, families, and lively young people littered the sidewalks, laughing and enjoying each other. The night clubs, the smell of the ocean, and the excitement filling the air was intoxicating.

I had never felt so alone.

My adrenaline had worn off, and I was beyond empty. I had completely bottomed out. I was a loser. A fucking loser.

And she hadn’t tried to contact me once.

I realized almost immediately that my grand plan of staying there the whole weekend was a foolish illusion. I had become delusional to think that I could separate my stubborn mind from my heart.

What was I going to do? Walk the boardwalk 500 times? Talk to girls and hope they didn’t catch a glimpse of my wedding ring?

I was a gullible puppy dog. This had become some sick form of stockholm syndrome.

I turned my car around and zipped right back up the road. If I made good time, I could get home at least by 3am.

But I wasn’t going to call!

Halfway up the road, that resolve failed too.

I began calling, and texting, and I received nothing in return.

On top of not bothering to check where I was or if I was ok, she seemingly didn’t give a shit about hearing from me either.

I couldn’t understand. Why was this happening?

Where was this coming from?

Why didn’t she fucking care???

The distance I had sought to put between us had become a curse. I couldn’t wait to get home. The car couldn’t go fast enough. I needed to get back to her.

I even later got a ticket in the mail from one of those speed trap cameras.

After 3am, my car pulled into the driveway. Thankfully, her car was there.

I got out of my car and ran inside the dark house, dashing up the stairs. I bursted into our room, where she was sleeping. Or at least feigning sleep.

Her phone was next to her on the bedside table, dark and dormant...as it had never received any attempts from mine.

“I tried calling you,” I whispered to her as I knelt beside the bed.

“Oh,” she said. “Just come to bed.”

No questions of where I was all night. No further inquiries.

Her level of concern, or lack thereof, was maddening. But she was in front of me in our bed, and I wanted nothing more than to lay down beside her.

I eagerly changed into my PJ’s and laid next to her, taking her hand into mine.

But her hand only returned two quick squeezes and then pulled away.

I fought to fall asleep, replaying the entire evening in my head.

Wondering how it was so easy for her to be so rested and peaceful.

Wondering what was happening behind the scenes.

Wondering what was motivating her...

Or who?

Truth be told, there was someone else in our bed.

I could not see him, but he was there.

He was in her text messages. And in her call logs.

Hiding in plain sight.

“I'm blind, lost inside my head, And I can feel the end, it's coming after me. And I can't walk away.”

From Ashes to New “Blind”

NOTE: Though this is my side of the story, including my own personal recollections and opinions, the reader should not consider this note anything other than a work of literature. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

[lovehotelreservation]

Someday the Prince Will Come - Daydream

Summary: Thanks to Chauffeur Prompto, a bumpy car ride in the Regalia leaves Noctis in agony. Not so much that Prompto is driving (horribly) while trying to escape the pursuit of Magitek ships, but because you’re seated on his lap as this occurs.

Rating: NC-17

Pairing: Reader/Noctis

DON’T LOOK AT ME I’M WEAK TO PRINCES VOICED BY TATSUN OKAY

ANYWAY I HOPE YOU ENJOY!

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

After a long, tiresome day full of nothing but bullshit, Noctis's go-to form of comfort was simply napping away his stress.

But there was simply no way he couldn't fall asleep.

And your presence beside him was the reason why, which only seemed to agonize him more since you--unintentionally so--were the cause of his predicament in the first place.

At this time, Noctis bit his lip, staring up at the tent that he was currently sharing with you, upon the campgrounds that you both along with his friends fled to.

As successful as it was to retrieve the Sword of the Tall--and that emerald that Dino sent the five of you on yet another fetch quest for--leaving was not exactly the same. The teleportation pad near that godforsaken puzzle of a labyrinth broke in the midst of fighting off a pack of Galvandes, which meant that you all had to fight your way back to the entrance. Given the time, the morning sun would be rising within less than an hour, and neither of you wanted to be trapped within a tower that only opened to the darkness of night.

A tight schedule was an understatement.

However, by the power of unshakeable resolve--and the fact that sans you and Ignis, the other three were operating at extreme levels of hangry--you all made it out just in time, even if Gladiolus ended up getting a deep gash to his leg by the swipe of a stray, resilient Thunder Bomb. Though, upon stepping out into the morning light of a new day, relief quickly washed over all five of you as you could hear the entrance to the Costlemark Tower dungeon close.

...Only for an awaiting ship of Magitek troopers to open up and unleash a full-frontal attack.

Exhausted by a full night's endeavor through a treacherous tower--and with Gladiolus weakened by an injured leg--neither of you would be able to stand against another wave of assault.

Thus, it seemed logical for all five of you to make a run back to the Regalia.

However, you thought to at least bide the other four some time--Gladiolus to have his leg looked over by Ignis, with either Noctis or, as much as you would hope otherwise, Prompto starting up the car. Though tired as you were, you still had some fight to stand against Niflheim's dolls.

Only for you to get hoisted up into Noctis's arms--him grumbling "Oi, no need to play hero. We're getting the hell out of here!"--before he carried you back to the car. As expected, Gladiolus was laying across the back seat, his teeth clenched tight while Ignis tended to the gash, keeping his leg across his lap. With--oh dear God--Prompto in the driver's seat, all it left was the passenger seat for you and Noctis to sit upon.

Well, for him to sit while you were seated upon his lap.

A clean getaway it was not, unfortunately.

As in, while you all eventually managed to evade the Magitek troops, a frantic, determined, adrenaline-fueled Prompto behind the wheel made you all wish that you stayed back to fight.

"Don't worry guys, I'll get us to safety!" Prompto chirped while deciding to take a detour off-road.

The decision across rocky, unstable terrain made you all jump at near second intervals. With navigation mostly done by Ignis, you were certain that Prompto didn't even know where he was going. The random bumps, the shaking of the car, the uncertainty, it made you cling to Noctis, playing off your unease with a muttered, "We are so fucked."

While the prince wanted to say something in return, all he could utter out was a faint noise of agreement, for he was locked in his own battle, a one-on-one between him and his body. With you seated on his lap, the jumps and shakes of the Regalia made you unintentionally bounce and press down against his lap. Not to mention, with you so close, your arms wrapped tightly around him, your demeanor clinging and seeking him for comfort, it didn't take much longer for his black pants to feel suffocating and tight. Hearing your words didn't help his situation either, as it only drew forth the image of you lying naked beneath him, that same vulnerable, innocent expression on your face as you pleaded for him to comfort you with his dick.

Furthermore, having feelings for you wasn't the easiest to deal with, especially with this ongoing struggle against the Niflheim Empire. The two of you were meant to stick to your roles: he, your prince, and you, his Crownsguard. He trusted his friends dearly, with his life even, but with you, there was something unique in that trust. A vulnerable yet yearning one, a hope to receive love while swearing to devote everything of himself to you.

He winced at himself.

God, when did he become such a goddamn sap?

"Well then," Ignis began from the back, dragging Noctis out of his reverie while balancing potions and bandages in his hand. "Since Prompto insists on driving us to our demise, shall I lead us all in prayer?"

Gladiolus bit back a hiss as the sting from one of the applied healing salves began to flare up. "In that case, shit, anyone got some hot water? Let me at least have one last Cup Noodle before Noct's old man welcomes us with a gift basket."

"Psh, is that how you're gonna treat your savior?" Prompto pouted, glaring at the two via the rear-view mirror. However, just veering his eyes off the road for that moment caused him to not notice a sudden dip in the road--or lack thereof.

The drop made you shriek and cling to Noctis tighter. Without a second's delay, his arms wrapped around you tightly in comfort. Both for you and for him, as you bounced up from his lap and landed back down hard. It took everything for him to not groan, his thoughts assembling a silent prayer that you would somehow remain unaware of how stiff his cock had become.

However, the only reason why you were jostling around on his lap--as wonderful as it felt--was because of your driver. In turn, his head snapped towards Prompto, as did his tongue. "My dad used this car to transport royalty on goodwill trips through Insomnia, not for zooming across the goddamn Rock of Ravatogh!"

Prompto faced him, suddenly sporting a stone-cold serious expression, "Noct, I know this is gonna be a shock, but your old man was actually holding illegal street races back in Insomnia." His fingers gripped the steering wheel tightly. "He was practicing for this very moment-- Holy shit, Iggy!"

The blonde slid back--or moreso was pushed aside--as Ignis bent over the driver's seat, seizing the wheel with an iron-clad grip. Neither you or Noctis had to move your heads to see what kind of hauntingly fearsome expression was on Ignis's otherwise calm and relaxed face.

It was merely something that could be felt.

"Prompto. Keep both feet on the gas and brake. I will be in charge of our lives now."

Shrinking back into the driver's seat, Prompto meekly remarked, "...Yes, sir."

This horrendous driving arrangement somehow worked so much better than Prompto being the main driver.

It was too long before you all managed to successfully elude and hide away from the Magitek ships. Though with everything that the five you went through, it wasn't too out of place for you all to become at ease like everything was to its norm once camp was set up in the midst of a forest clearing.

As soon as the car parked at last, Noctis was tempted to leap out and kiss the ground, but was even more in love with the idea of possessing your lips with his while firmly rutting his erect cock against your hips.

But there was no way he could bring himself to do so. Just becoming hard during the trip was embarrassment enough.

Though, the flustered feeling turned into the agony that he was currently experiencing.

Even with breakfast--or was it brunch?--and the light of day inescapable, Noctis was laying in the tent shared with you, still utterly erect from earlier. There was no time to relieve himself, since Ignis, who seemed to have become actually amped from the morning drive, to whip up a full breakfast almost out of thin air. Pancakes, bacon, freshly-squeezed juice, it was a well-deserved feast.

Without question, today would be one of rest. Ignis and Gladiolus were making stops back and forth from the tent out into the forest clearing to forrage for ingredients, or hunt for meat. To amend for his sins from earlier, Prompto was to painstakingly clean the Regalia of mud and grime while also make note of any damages in case that Cindy would be needed to fix things up.

You and Noctis both decided to take on the responsibility of napping on behalf of the three.

Well, you were napping, while he was kept wide awake by sexual frustration.

He was far too exhausted to leave the tent, even if he was okay with expending whatever energy would be needed to relieve his desire. Gladiolus and Ignis's returns to camp happened in a timely, frequent manner. If Prompto saw him, he would become nosy and follow him around, which--when the blonde would eventually be caught for goofing off--would only get him in hot water for not making sure that progress on the Regalia was being made.

Here, he was being taunted by the soft sound of your breathing, of your body heat emanating from your skin.

What he would give to have you straddle his hips and ride his cock right now, your chest exposed and left open for him to reach up and touch, or even yank you down to kiss your skin up close.

A moment to ponder his next course of action.

"Goddamn it," Noctis cursed quietly under his breath before shifting to his side, facing away from you.

The next few moments--because god knows he was not going to last long with how pent-up he was--would have to be spent as quick and quietly as possible. He inhaled slowly, his eyes shutting away from the tent wall before him, losing themselves to the darkness of his fantasies.

Rather than it be his own hand swiftly undoing his belt and the zipper to his pants, the only other acceptable option would be yours--perhaps frantic and needy in your own desire for him.

He shuddered at the thought.

"Noctis...Prince Noctis, I don't think I can stand another moment without you...!"

Taken with great pleasure, he would hush your mouth with his, a low sultriness to his voice as he demanded that you to refer to him as 'king' instead.

A near-molten like heat spread through his chest and ears, right as he grabbed his erect cock through his boxers, rubbing his palm through the fabric, causing him to arch into his own hand. What an ideal that would be.

Though, not to tease himself at all--having gone through enough of that today--he grabbed at the waistline of his pants and boxers, tugging and shimmying out of both, not to completely disrobe, but to at least free himself at long last. He held back an eager groan just from the fabric running against his erection. Horrendously sensitive and hot, he never feel so desperate for relief.

As planned, he was sure to not dawdle on this any longer.

Noctis brought his hand to his lips, licking against his palm generously before--at least--wrapping his fingers around his cock. Hot, stiff, with a generous amount of pre-cum leaking at the tip.

Smugly, he wondered how you could resist a treat.

Though, that pride only spurred on his fantasy and the jerking motion of his hand.

What he wouldn't give than to have your lips wrapped around his cock, your tongue eager to taste, your mouth hungry to be filled. And while he would be happy to sate your indulgence of him, he wouldn't let you have your way so easily. Rather, he could picture himself sitting--maybe the throne back home--with his hand stroking your hair, all while he has you kneel before him. His fingers gripping his cock, he would press the wet tip against your mouth and your cheeks, but never letting it slip past your lips.

You had to beg for it, after all--to show your respects to your king.

And when you fulfilled your obligations, he would gladly reward you by fucking your mouth, letting you savor the taste and girth of his cock.

Noctis's teeth seized his bottom lip, having already worked his hand to a rushed, frantic pace. He tried his best to resist from letting his hips squirm around, while making sure to not let the pumps of his enclosed fist to be too noisy--you were sleeping right next to him after all.

But it was hard to not do so, as his mind drifted to--once he was done with your mouth--you riding his lap. Your hands gripping his shoulders, your head tossed back, your breasts right in front of his mouth while you bounced on his cock. The moans you would emit echoing throughout the throne room, your praises and love for your king freely escaping your lips.

And this would certainly not be a one-way exchange.

His hands seizing your hips, he would be adamant to thrust up into you as you swiveled your pelvis down. Your chest would be marred by kisses and bites as he laid claim to territory that would never be touched by anyone else.

"What the hell did you do to me?" He rasped to himself, shuddering as he circled the tip of his cock with his thumb, now throbbing incessantly. Sweat gathered at his brow, he shuddered and groaned out your name before he returned to pumping his cock, now without restraint with his orgasm just moments within reach.

If you weren't awake by now, he shouldn't have to worry--though, he made a note to ask how exactly you were able to sleep through near anything.

Noctis thought back to the car ride, to how you were jostled around on his lap, to you how clung to him for support. If only, oh if only, he could have that again, albeit by the direction of his fantasies.

He then clamped a hand against his mouth, just a few seconds before he groaned into his palm, his hips jutting forward as he came. The sensation of hot, wet warmth spilled onto his fingers and he let out a noise of relief.

His heart racing from the rush of adrenaline, he felt peace at last, especially from today.

Now was just a matter of finding some tissues to clean his palm with and--

"Need a hand?"

Noctis froze.

He paled.

He refrained from looking back.

That was you who spoke to him. No question.

Though, from what he fathomed, you didn't sound too groggy--

His eyes widened.

Shit, were you aware this whole time?

Cursing at himself, Noctis brought his hand away from his mouth, thinking of what believable excuse he could pass off to you at this time--

"Aww Noct, don't be shy~"

Did you just...coo to him?

Still conflicted about whether to turn about or not, he remained in place.

Which only seemed to give you incentive to reach for his stained hand, your fingers wrapping around his wrist.

Now he had no choice but to look at you.

To look into your eyes.

To witness the grin that was on your face as you brought his hand to your mouth, your tongue flittering out to lick his palm clean.

Surely he was dreaming--

No. This was no time to question it.

If he was sleeping, then may this dream last as long as possible.

Noctis's voice--already gravely and thick with desire--lowered into a growl as he seized your chin, "More than just a hand. Gimme everything you got."

The knowing look in your eyes twinkled with a wicked glint as you hummed,

"As you wish, Prince Noctis~"

[xthewhiteravenx]

“Celebrity Drive: Host of Travel Channel’s ‘Ghost Adventures’ Zak Bagans” by K.S. Wang (October 20, 2015) Daily Driver: 2015 Mercedes-Benz S550 (Zak’s rating: 10 on a scale of 1 to 10) Favorite road trip: Las Vegas to Los Angeles Car he learned to drive in: Subaru XT First car bought: 1993 Chevy S-10

Travel Channel’s “Ghost Adventures” is currently airing Season 11, and the show’s popularity has afforded the host and producer Zak Bagans the ability to enjoy supercars. The 2015 Huracan is his third Lamborghini.

“I’ve had a Lamborghini Aventador, I’ve had a Lamborghini Gallardo, and now this is the Huracan, the newest one of the family,” Bagans tells Motor Trend. It’s not exactly the kind of car Bagans would drive to sneak up on ghosts for his show, but it’s the perfect ride when he’s not working. “The reason why I like it is because it’s incredibly fast,” he says. “And I had the exhaust modified as well, so you can hear me coming from about a mile away.”

That means law enforcement can hear him coming as well, and while he hasn’t gotten a ticket in the Huracan, he did in the Aventador. Bagans likes Lamborghinis because he admires the technology of these supercars. “I’ve had Ferraris, I’ve had Aston Martins, I’ve had all kinds of cars, but the thing I love about Lamborghini is that they’re all-wheel drive, and when you step on the pedal, you stick to the road. You’re not fishtailing all over the place.”

As much as he loves his Italian exotic, Bagans drives his 2015 Mercedes-Benz a little more often, calling Mercedes his “favorite luxury line,” even compared to higher-end autos. “You’d pay $200,000 more for a Rolls-Royce,” he says, “and this has the same, if not better ride and technology aspects to it.”

Bagans likes the Benz’s amenities, like the massaging seats and the navigation system. “It also has lane assist,” he says. “So if you’re tired, and — I hate to say it, but — you check your phone. If something happens, if you move over a fraction of an inch, your car will slam on the brakes, and it’ll tell you that you’re veering off the road,” he says. “It was annoying at first, but I began to like it a lot. And the 360-degree cameras I really like. You can see everything. I don’t even know how people drove back in the day without a rear view camera. We’re spoiled these days.”

The Mercedes and the Lambo are currently Bagans’ only rides. “I don’t need any more, but I’m keeping an eye out for an old muscle car,” he says. “I’m looking for an old Barracuda. … They’re just mean looking. I love those mean cars.”

Since he’s on television regularly, fans sometimes recognize Bagans when he’s driving around. “I do get noticed a lot. So the cars sometimes further enhance it.”

Bagans and his crew stayed in California for the summer for his show, so he drove his Mercedes to the coast from Las Vegas. “Vegas was too hot, and I won’t drive the Lamborghini in that kind of heat,” he says. “They don’t run well in that kind of heat,” he says. “So I stored the Lamborghini for the summer in Vegas, and I drove the Mercedes out to the Carmel-Monterey area.”

While filming there, they also explored other haunted locations for upcoming shows. “There are so many amazing locations that are haunted,” he says. “California is massive. … I found a lot of haunted places that I’m going to film at.” But smaller roads and low speed limits means the Huracan will stay home once again.

Bagans learned to drive in his dad’s manual Subaru XT over his 16th summer. “Once I got stuck on a hill,” he said, “and that was a very embarrassing moment.”

He went back to Florida where he attended sophomore and junior year of high school, and his parents got him a 1981 Ford Fairmont for $400. It wasn’t as cool as his dad’s Subaru. “I would have been a lot more popular in school if I had a cooler car,” he recalls.

Bagans didn’t have to drive the Ford when he moved to live with his dad in Chicago for senior year in high school. There he bought his first car, a white 1993 Chevy S-10 4.3-liter. “That was so fast,” he says. “My dad helped me put the deposit down, but I was paying the monthly payments by working at Sportmart.”

After graduating high school, he moved to Detroit with his father. But a fateful visit to Chicago ended in a car accident. “There’s just no weight in the back,” he says. “It goes everywhere. … I used to put sandbags in the back just to weight it down, to give it some traction. So, it was a scary little accident. I hydroplaned and clipped a car, but I was OK.”

His first splurge car was a black Mercedes SL63, which he bought while filming Season 2 of “Ghost Adventures.” Bagans says he eventually “worked my way up to Lamborghinis.”

Bagans calls himself a car guy, “so I don’t really splurge on anything else. I don’t even really shop. … I have a nice house and a couple nice cars, and that’s it.” Favorite road trip

One of Bagans’ favorite road trips was when he drove from Las Vegas to Los Angeles about four years ago. “I drove at that time a Lamborghini Gallardo, and Aaron (Goodwin), who’s a cast member on the show, drove too,” he says. “We called it the Bubblegum 2000.”

Goodwin drove a Ford Explorer, so Bagans had a bit of an advantage. But there was so much traffic in L.A., Bagans recalls, “it didn’t really come down to speed and agility. It came down to who can swerve through traffic the best, and he almost got me.”

Right after wrapping Season 11, the show immediately started on Season 12 and they are now in the middle of filming it. “I love to stay busy, because I love this show. I absolutely love it,” Bagans says. “We’re always working.”

Besides being executive producer, Bagans is involved in all working parts of the television program. “I’m in charge of all creative aspects of the show,” he says, “from directing and overseeing all the editing, all the post production. But I have some outstanding producers. … It’s a great process that we have worked into a very, very good flow.” Bagans doesn’t think of “Ghost Adventures” as a reality show. “Reality shows have producers,” he says, “and they tell their talent what to do, and they give them stories to act out. I’m a documentary filmmaker. … I only get a location, a few interviews and some back story and it’s up to me to go out there and build the story into a show.”

Bagans says this job is more of a calling for him. “I love dark history,” he says, “and I love teaching and telling history to my fans and my audience through a creative way in the first half of the show. In the second half we investigate the location. … I love a good ghost story, and I love to just get in there and really just find the truth behind these stories.”

After doing this for so many years, Bagans still gets apprehensive at each location. That fear hasn’t waned. If anything, it’s increased. “Here’s the funny thing,” he says. “You’d think that after Season 11 I would be more brave. But lately I’ve been more scared of going by myself than I was in the beginning.” Bagans takes his job very seriously. “I wasn’t cast to play the part of a paranormal investigator, like maybe some other shows out there,” he says, with a laugh. “I believe it, and it’s my passion, and this is what I’m here to do in this life. I love it. It was just meant to be for me. It’s what I’m doing. This was my purpose.”

[charllieeldridge]

Hiking The Valle de Cocora in Colombia: A How-To Guide

Most people travel to Salento for the purpose of hiking the Valle de Cocora – a stunning trek with cartoon-like trees dotting the landscape. Colombia’s national tree is the Wax Palm, which at 60 meters high is the tallest palm in the world.

The Valle de Cocora trek is filled with them!

If you’re looking for a beautiful day of hiking around Salento, the Valle de Cocora is for you. This is by far one of the best things to do in Colombia.

Here’s our how-to guide for visiting the Valle de Cocora (Cocora Valley).

Oh ya, this hike was amazing!

Traveling to Colombia is fantastic, but planning a safe and fun trip can still be stressful. ViaHero makes traveling worry-free by pairing you with a Colombian local who plans your trip *and* provides 24/7 phone support. Click here to learn more about this unique service!

Getting to The Valle de Cocora

To get from the town of Salento to the trailhead, you’ll need to catch a ride.

The journey is about 30 minutes by vehicle, so you probably won’t want to walk all the way to the Valle de Cocora (Cocora Valley) and then start hiking!

Catch a shared willy (jeep) to the Valle de Cocora from the main square in Salento.

The cost is 3,600 COP ($1.00 USD) / person.

Theoretically, jeeps to the Valle de Cocora leave from the main square six times per day: 6:10am, 7:30am, 9:30am, 11:30am, 2:00pm and 4:00pm. Those jeeps then return to Salento an hour later.

If you miss the scheduled time, just go to the plaza and you’ll probably find that there are enough people wanting to visit the Valle de Cocora.

If you ask nicely, most likely the willy drivers will make an exception and will drive you outside of the scheduled times. (Note: not once were we ripped off by willy drivers in Salento. They were always super honest and incredibly friendly!).

A jeep (willy) in the main plaza – this is where you’ll catch a ride to the trailhead

Willys can hold about 7 people comfortably. But, it can also hold 11 (somewhat uncomfortably) if 4 people stand on the back bumper while holding on to the roof rack! A bit sketchy, but fun

If you don’t want to wait for the jeep to fill up, or there are no spots left on the scheduled jeeps, you can pay for a private ride.

We had to do this on the way to the Valle de Cocora because all of the willys were booked up and we were anxious to get hiking.

The cost of a private ride was 35,000 COP ($11), but we split the cost with another couple. In the end, we paid $5.50 for both of us to get to the trailhead of the Valle de Cocora.

Update 2020: A reader has just commented that things may have changed regarding where the jeep drivers meet in Salento. I recommend asking your accommodations to confirm where the Willy drivers are!

Here’s what our reader said:

“I just got back from Salento and Cocora was a dream! One thing to note. The jeeps no longer meet in the city center. You can ask the ticket booth where to go but it’s now a few blocks away from there. We walked around super confused for a while until we followed another couple to the right place.

When we went the jeeps are right in front of the Mi Baloncito ApartaHotel and lso near Micelanea el Bosque. Once we found the side street the jeeps were on – we had to buy tickets to get on the jeeps. A separate line for tickets from the jeep line!”

Where to Stay in Salento

Our favourite hostel to date is La Serrana Hostel in Salento. The property is absolutely stunning and the double rooms in the private farmhouse were amazing.

☞ Click here to compare prices on boutique hotels, eco-hotels, and hostels in Salento on Booking.com

The Hiking Routes

First of all, there are technically four ways that you can hike the Valle de Cocora.

I’m assuming that you’re a fairly fit hiker, so I’m going to break down all four options, from most difficult to easiest.

#1: Counterclockwise Loop (approximately 5 hours)

Even though this is the most difficult route, in my opinion, this is the best way to hike the Cocora Valley.

It took us just about 5 hours to complete the loop with lots of stops for photos, videos, and admiring the scenery (without visiting Acaime or Estrella de Agua).

The highest point of this route is at 2,860m (9,383ft). The Town of Salento is at 1,900m (6,217ft) meaning that you’ll gain about 1,000m (3,166ft) in elevation.

Beautiful waterfall on the Valle de Cocora hike

Why counterclockwise?

1) You’ll get more exercise hiking straight up a steep mountainside to the highest point at Finca La Montaña.

2) Hiking downhill on a steep incline is hard on the knees.

3) If you are starting your hike around 10:00am, the lighting for your views will be pretty much perfect when you eventually arrive at the valley filled with Wax Palms around 2:30pm. Plus, you’re saving the star of the hike for last.

4) Our hostel, La Serrana, suggested we do it that way!

Whoo Hooo! Let’s get hiking

Directions for the 5 hour, counterclockwise loop in the Valle de Cocora (without veering off to Acaime):

Where the jeep drops you off you’ll see a blue gate. Turn right and enter through the gate. Immediately, you’ll see a wooden sign saying “Bienvenidos, etc”. You can’t miss it. 

Continue walking straight, while descending down the hill.

After about 40 minutes, you’ll arrive at the wooden signpost with “Fundacion Herencia Vero”, among other signs. Stay to the right of it.

Even if it looks like there is a fork in the road, if you take the wrong way, it’ll be obvious within minutes and you can backtrack to the main trail.

You’ll cross numerous rickety suspension bridges (5 or 6).

Arrive at an actual T-junction in the road with a wooden sign saying “Acaime La Casa de Los Colibris” and another sign with a big red arrow pointing right. This is the way to go for hummingbirds, before backtracking back to this same junction.

If you don’t want to go to the hummingbirds (we didn’t), then continue up the hill on the left.

You will go up, up, up for about an hour.

Arrive at the Finca La Montaña with great views. You can stop here for a drink and a break. Bring a picnic!

Descending down from the Finca, you’ll hike for about an hour and a half on a wide dirt road before reaching the Wax Palm Trees.

Note: On the descent down, there are numerous little “sidesteps” that you can take which lead you off the trail to the left-hand side for just a few meters. If you see some obvious little paths, take them! The views of the valley are sublime. Also, there may be a closed fence on the path down, just hop over it.

After gawking at the palm trees, complete the loop to the left-hand side and walk back to exactly where you started.

Enjoying the beautiful views of the Valle de Cocora

Update 2020: We’ve been told that you must now pay 3,000 cop ($0.75) when you enter. And another 4,000 cop ($1) after you descend from the Finca and are closer to the Wax Palms. Make sure to have some small change with you. 

#2. Clockwise Loop (approximately 5 hours)

We noticed that if you choose to hike in this direction, you have to pay some sort of entrance fee to see the Wax Palms (3,000 COP, or $1). 

If you’re looking for an easier hike (you’ll be going down that very steep mountain that we went up), then this is the route you’ll want to take.

Visit the Wax Palms first and make your way up to the Finca La Montaña. Yes, it’s still an incline, but it’s more gradual than the out-of-nowhere, steep mountain from the counterclockwise route.

Once you reach the wooden signs with the red arrow and the listing for “Acaime La Casa de Los Colibris”, you will make a right hand turn to continue on completing the full circle.

If you want to visit the hummingbirds, just continue straight on for about 1km (0.62 miles) to Acaime.

Basically, do exactly as I listed in the first set of instructions, but in reverse!

We met more people hiking the counterclockwise route than the clockwise route, but both ways are fine.

The suspension bridges were pretty rickety, good thing they weren’t that high up!

#3: Visiting Acaime and Back

If you want to hike through the valley, over some suspension bridges and enjoy the beautiful, lush scenery…but without hiking up to the viewpoint Finca La Montaña at 2,860m, then this route might be for you.

Follow along as I listed in #1 above and when you arrive at the wooden sign with the big red arrow pointing right and the sign that says “Acaime La Casa de Los Colibris” (the house of the hummingbirds), turn right.

You’ll walk for about 1km before arriving at Acaime. Here you can see numerous hummingbirds and have a drink of hot chocolate with cheese.

Entrance here is 5,000 COP ($1.70).

After you’re finished at the hummingbirds, make your way back to the sign and turn left to return the way you just came.

The only problem with this route is that you haven’t been to the star attraction yet – the Wax Palms.

☞ Relaxing in Salento: A Highlight of Colombia’s Coffee Region

#4: The Wax Palms in the Valley, and Back

If you have been to the hummingbirds and now want to see the trees, OR if you just want to see the magical trees, snap a few photos and return back to Salento, then this is the route for you.

Once you get dropped off by the jeep, you can walk straight along the paved road and continue until the road turns to a dirt path.

This path is incredibly obvious and after 30 minutes or so you’ll arrive at the open valley with loads of Wax Palms surrounding you!

To give you some perspective – can you see me at the bottom of that massive wax palm?!

How to Get From The Cocora Valley Back to Salento

After a wonderful 5 hours of hiking through the Valle de Cocora, we made our way back to Salento by jeep.

There is a very small parking lot where the jeeps will arrive and wait to fill up with passengers, before heading back to town. They will wait to have 8 people before departing back to Salento.

If you finish your hike and no one is around to share the jeep with you, just wait at one of the four or so small shops serving drinks and basic fare — the fresh fruit juice is delicious!

The last jeep back to Salento from the Valle de Cocora is at 5:00pm.

What to Bring For Hiking The Cocora Valley

We didn’t bring a picnic with us but really wished that we had.

A great spot to stop and eat is at the Finca La Montaña, or at one of the small lookout points on the left-hand side on the way down to the Valley.

And actually, some of the restaurants in town will create a boxed picnic lunch specifically for the trek. Check out Brunch or BetaTown.

If you don’t want to bring a picnic, at least bring a few snacks (fruit, plantain chips, nuts, etc.). We brought 2.5L of water each for the hike, and we filled up our empty bottles at the Finca La Montaña.

Views from the summit at La Finca Montaña.

The sun is very intense at this altitude. If you’re lucky enough for the sun to be shining, make sure to bring sunscreen with you.

This area is a cloud forest meaning that it receives quite a bit of rain year-round. According to Wikipedia, the Valle de Cocora is the driest in July when it receives 3.74 inches of rain that month.

The wettest month is October when it receives 10.98 inches of rainfall.

We were there at the end of November.

Numerous days leading up to our hike, the valley was covered in low-hanging clouds, it was pouring rain and the trails were incredibly muddy.

But, because we decided to stay in Salento for a week, we were able to wait out the rain and had the best weather for our hike!

We’re so glad we had sunny weather! Check out these bench views

Keep the weather in mind when planning your trip. We met a couple who took 9 hours to complete the 5-hour hike because they got lost due to the thick cloud coverage.

Also, you may need to bring a rain jacket and waterproof shoes.

A Highlight of Colombia

The Valle de Cocora is known for being not only a highlight of a trip to Salento, but Colombia as a whole.

This hike was unlike any other ones that we’ve completed in the past and we loved the varied scenery along the way. We recommend tackling the Cocora Valley when backpacking Colombia and hope that you found this guide useful

Happy and (hopefully) dry trails!

To get a better idea of the trek, check out our video from the Valle de Cocora:

Like This Article? Pin it!

  The post Hiking The Valle de Cocora in Colombia: A How-To Guide appeared first on Goats On The Road.

Hiking The Valle de Cocora in Colombia: A How-To Guide published first on https://travelaspire.weebly.com/

[jonathanbelloblog]

Quick Take: 2019 Volkswagen Jetta

I’ve spent far more time agonizing over my review of the 2019 Volkswagen Jetta than I’d care to admit. After all, the Jetta is a car that ticks all the boxes, delivering just about everything anyone would want in a compact family sedan. But I’m having a hard time getting excited about the new Jetta—and it’s driving me to the very edge of sanity.

Let’s talk about all the things the new generation Jetta does right. First and foremost is the engine, a 1.4-liter turbocharged mighty mite that puts out 147 horsepower and 184 pound-feet of torque. Forget the numbers, because the bottom line is this thing scoots. Our colleagues down the hall at Motor Trend timed the automatic version I drove to 60 mph in 7.6 seconds—not as quick as the Honda Civic 1.5T but respectable performance. I also found the Jetta has plenty of mid-range punch. Yes, it’s an overused phrase, but one that accurately describes what a small turbo four does best.

What small turbo fours often don’t do best is fuel economy, even though this is supposed to be their raison d’etre. A few years back, I did a back-to-back drive of sixth-generation Jettas, one with a 1.8-liter turbo four and the other with the then-new 1.4T. The smaller engine actually delivered worse fuel economy. It needed to keep the turbo boiling in order to stay on the pace, and when the turbo is working, the fuel is a-flowin’. So I took the Jetta’s 34 mpg EPA combined figure with a grain of salt.

I shouldn’t have, because here, too, the Jetta delivered. The Automobile staff sampled two different Jettas, a base-model Jetta S and a top-of-the-line SEL, and both averaged in the low 30s on the car’s instant readout, a good showing considering we have an office full of lead-footed car hacks. If the trip computer is to be believed, the SEL managed 40.9 mpg on one leg of my commute, a mix of stop-and-go traffic and high-speed freeway running, while the S strained credulity by returning better than 45 mpg on the same route.

Handling? That’s all good as well. Though I didn’t have a chance to really wring either Jetta out on my favorite curvy roads, I have enough experience in other MQB-platform based Volkswagens to express confidence that they know their way through the tight turns. I like the Jetta’s light steering and steady ride, which delivers decent feedback but doesn’t kick over sharp bumps. Why can’t everyone engineer suspensions this competent?

Complicated interiors are a pet peeve of mine, so Vee Dub’s no-nonsense cabins fit in nicely with my ethos. Every Volkswagen model features easy-to-read gauges and well-labeled, easy-to-find switchgear. The new 2019 Jetta comes with regular analog gauges in the low-end models, while the SEL can be had with an optional video-screen panel that—surprise, surprise—mimics the analog gauges in the low end car. Whether you get the basic air conditioner or one with dual-zone climate control, everything is simple and sensible. Even the touch-screen infotainment system is easy to use. I drive a different car pretty much every day—hazard of the job—and I like Volkswagens because I know I won’t run off the road as I stare at the dash trying to figure out how to turn on the mother-loving defroster.

The problem with Volkswagen interiors is that they can easily veer off into dreary. And while the Jetta’s cabin isn’t exactly what you’d call bright and cheery, material quality is praiseworthy, with substantial fabrics and soft-touch plastics, even in the base-model S. (VW got lambasted for getting this wrong in the 2011 model, and they haven’t made that mistake again.) Space? There’s plenty of it for front-seat passengers, and back-seaters get adequate legroom and enough headroom that they need not fear clonking their noggins when getting in.

Not that the new 2019 Jetta gets everything right. While many have praised its exterior looks, to me it seems though the grille and headlights are sliding off the front of the car and the trunk is growing down over the taillights. Add in all those creases in the bodywork, and it leaves the impression that it’s been left out in the sun too long, where it’s withered, dried out, and started to melt. (One man’s opinion, mind you.)

Then there’s long term quality and reliability, areas where Volkswagen has historically struggled. In an effort to counter that reputation and provide new owners with peace of mind, the automaker has just introduced an epic 6 year/72,000 mile bumper-to-bumper warranty which is fully transferable to the Jetta’s second owner. Smart move.

So why am I still agonizing over this review?

The problem I’m having is that I simply don’t find the 2019 Jetta all that interesting when taken as a whole. Now, one might argue that when you’re shopping for a daily driver priced in the low 20s, excitement isn’t on the menu. But I’d argue that you only need to go back a few years to look at the fourth-gen Jetta, sold from 1999 until 2007 (and still sold in China if you’re up for the trip). That Jetta occupied the same niche, and it was interesting.

It’s a point that’s magnified when you consider the cars the Jetta competes against. First and foremost is the Mazda3, the enthusiasts’ delight, though it’s short on back-seat space compared to the Jetta. The Honda Civic drives well and possesses some of the same character that marked the Mark IV Jetta. And let’s not forget about the Ford Focus. It may have one foot in the grave, but it’s still good to drive. Even the Chevrolet Cruze seems marginally more interesting than the Jetta, although this may well be an illusion. Heck, I’d even prefer Volkswagen’s own Golf.

From all the measurable data points, the 2019 Volkswagen Jetta is a great car: Powerful, efficient, roomy, and good value for money. But then there is that which cannot be measured, that inherent sense of fun some cars have and others don’t. At least to me, the Jetta doesn’t seem to have that it factor. And it’s driving me nuts.

[eddiejpoplar]

Quick Take: 2019 Volkswagen Jetta

I’ve spent far more time agonizing over my review of the 2019 Volkswagen Jetta than I’d care to admit. After all, the Jetta is a car that ticks all the boxes, delivering just about everything anyone would want in a compact family sedan. But I’m having a hard time getting excited about the new Jetta—and it’s driving me to the very edge of sanity.

Let’s talk about all the things the new generation Jetta does right. First and foremost is the engine, a 1.4-liter turbocharged mighty mite that puts out 147 horsepower and 184 pound-feet of torque. Forget the numbers, because the bottom line is this thing scoots. Our colleagues down the hall at Motor Trend timed the automatic version I drove to 60 mph in 7.6 seconds—not as quick as the Honda Civic 1.5T but respectable performance. I also found the Jetta has plenty of mid-range punch. Yes, it’s an overused phrase, but one that accurately describes what a small turbo four does best.

What small turbo fours often don’t do best is fuel economy, even though this is supposed to be their raison d’etre. A few years back, I did a back-to-back drive of sixth-generation Jettas, one with a 1.8-liter turbo four and the other with the then-new 1.4T. The smaller engine actually delivered worse fuel economy. It needed to keep the turbo boiling in order to stay on the pace, and when the turbo is working, the fuel is a-flowin’. So I took the Jetta’s 34 mpg EPA combined figure with a grain of salt.

I shouldn’t have, because here, too, the Jetta delivered. The Automobile staff sampled two different Jettas, a base-model Jetta S and a top-of-the-line SEL, and both averaged in the low 30s on the car’s instant readout, a good showing considering we have an office full of lead-footed car hacks. If the trip computer is to be believed, the SEL managed 40.9 mpg on one leg of my commute, a mix of stop-and-go traffic and high-speed freeway running, while the S strained credulity by returning better than 45 mpg on the same route.

Handling? That’s all good as well. Though I didn’t have a chance to really wring either Jetta out on my favorite curvy roads, I have enough experience in other MQB-platform based Volkswagens to express confidence that they know their way through the tight turns. I like the Jetta’s light steering and steady ride, which delivers decent feedback but doesn’t kick over sharp bumps. Why can’t everyone engineer suspensions this competent?

Complicated interiors are a pet peeve of mine, so Vee Dub’s no-nonsense cabins fit in nicely with my ethos. Every Volkswagen model features easy-to-read gauges and well-labeled, easy-to-find switchgear. The new 2019 Jetta comes with regular analog gauges in the low-end models, while the SEL can be had with an optional video-screen panel that—surprise, surprise—mimics the analog gauges in the low end car. Whether you get the basic air conditioner or one with dual-zone climate control, everything is simple and sensible. Even the touch-screen infotainment system is easy to use. I drive a different car pretty much every day—hazard of the job—and I like Volkswagens because I know I won’t run off the road as I stare at the dash trying to figure out how to turn on the mother-loving defroster.

The problem with Volkswagen interiors is that they can easily veer off into dreary. And while the Jetta’s cabin isn’t exactly what you’d call bright and cheery, material quality is praiseworthy, with substantial fabrics and soft-touch plastics, even in the base-model S. (VW got lambasted for getting this wrong in the 2011 model, and they haven’t made that mistake again.) Space? There’s plenty of it for front-seat passengers, and back-seaters get adequate legroom and enough headroom that they need not fear clonking their noggins when getting in.

Not that the new 2019 Jetta gets everything right. While many have praised its exterior looks, to me it seems though the grille and headlights are sliding off the front of the car and the trunk is growing down over the taillights. Add in all those creases in the bodywork, and it leaves the impression that it’s been left out in the sun too long, where it’s withered, dried out, and started to melt. (One man’s opinion, mind you.)

Then there’s long term quality and reliability, areas where Volkswagen has historically struggled. In an effort to counter that reputation and provide new owners with peace of mind, the automaker has just introduced an epic 6 year/72,000 mile bumper-to-bumper warranty which is fully transferable to the Jetta’s second owner. Smart move.

So why am I still agonizing over this review?

The problem I’m having is that I simply don’t find the 2019 Jetta all that interesting when taken as a whole. Now, one might argue that when you’re shopping for a daily driver priced in the low 20s, excitement isn’t on the menu. But I’d argue that you only need to go back a few years to look at the fourth-gen Jetta, sold from 1999 until 2007 (and still sold in China if you’re up for the trip). That Jetta occupied the same niche, and it was interesting.

It’s a point that’s magnified when you consider the cars the Jetta competes against. First and foremost is the Mazda3, the enthusiasts’ delight, though it’s short on back-seat space compared to the Jetta. The Honda Civic drives well and possesses some of the same character that marked the Mark IV Jetta. And let’s not forget about the Ford Focus. It may have one foot in the grave, but it’s still good to drive. Even the Chevrolet Cruze seems marginally more interesting than the Jetta, although this may well be an illusion. Heck, I’d even prefer Volkswagen’s own Golf.

From all the measurable data points, the 2019 Volkswagen Jetta is a great car: Powerful, efficient, roomy, and good value for money. But then there is that which cannot be measured, that inherent sense of fun some cars have and others don’t. At least to me, the Jetta doesn’t seem to have that it factor. And it’s driving me nuts.