#would i have the balls to gut through my own forearm and break my bones and severe my nerves?

[hangingoffence]

stories about extreme human survival (be it real or fiction) always touch my heart in such an interesting way. humans ultimately are animals and one's survivor is written to our genes.

[soggy-platee]

It Goes Both Ways

Rating: M (Somewhat graphic talk of injury)

Pairing: Din x GN!Reader

Summary: You take a hit for Din, feelings and angst ensue.

Note: Hello sorry this is literally all angst, a tiny bit of fluff. I can't stop myself, I just love the whole "feelings being revealed through injury" trope. If anyone wants, I was thinking about a smutty part two to this one! Let me know. Also, y'all were so kind with Doubt, so thank you!

...

The fight went bad from the second it started.

Well, before that, if you were being completely honest. Everyone in the cantina had been too still, too tense when you and Mando entered. It was so clearly unnatural for the usually boisterous atmosphere of a Nevarro night.

Yet somehow, you both missed it.

The kid was really to blame. He had been a ball of energy all night, practically bouncing off the walls of the hull while you and his father did everything in your power to get him to calm down. You were both annoyed and tired as your set out to meet the contact, should have known there was no hope of success. When the eight men in the cantina converged on you both, you were immediately thrust into the defensive. Exactly where you knew Mando hated to be. You had taken down several attackers, using your blade to slash and hack until it broke off in the chest cavity of some blue creature. You had lost just a moment as you attempted to wrench the hopeless blade from the now lifeless corpse, but it was enough time for a rough tug to pull you to the ground and a heavy weight to climb on top of you. You remembered the previous night almost fondly as opposed to the impossibly tight grip on your throat now.

Your fingers dug into the hand around your throat to no avail as the man- a Twi’lek, you now realized- bared his teeth down at you. Hot breath brushed over your face and you grimaced even further. Eyes rolling, you managed to steal a glance at Mando who was engaged in his own battle. There were two on him, one managing to get Mando’s arms behind his back in a tight hold while the other approached with a raised blade as you looked on. Fear shot through you at his vulnerable position and you doubled your efforts.

Your fingernails finally caught purchase on the arm that held you down at the same moment you bucked your hips with everything you had. A hiss came from above as you managed to pull one leg above the hips holding you down. Twisting hard, you flipped the man into the floor at full speed, his cheek cracking against the hard dirt. On your hands and knees now, you whipped your head up to see the armed man raise his blade and prepare to strike at Mando’s exposed neck. The fabric of his cowl would do nothing to stop the glowing, razor-sharp weapon that was mear inches from him now.

You shot up, your boots digging into the dirt as you righted yourself directly into a sprint. It happened in a split second. You reached Mando just as the blade completed its arc, half-throwing, and half-pressing yourself in front of his armored chest in a protective stance. You followed your first instinct, forearm coming up to block the blow.

White-hot pain bloomed along your arm, reaching all the way to the bone, as the blade cut through you like butter. Gasping at the initial shock, you managed to get a gut punch into the man in front of you before dropping to one knee. You clutched your forearm, trying your hardest to not collapse and curl up right then and there. You dimly registered fighting directly behind you through closed eyes, hoping to God it was Mando dealing with the last guy.

No offense to him, but you felt like you had done enough.

A wave of nausea came over you as you dared to open your eyes, taking in the bloody mess that was now your arm. The cut wasn’t overly long, but it was deep. You knew you had felt it hit bone, but jeez, you didn’t think you would be able to see it.

A blaster shot from behind you gave your enough adrenaline to rise on unsteady feet, turning to see Mando with his arm still raised, blaster smoke rising from the body of the final hostile in the room.

He turned to you with an immediacy that made you sway, the speed of the movement causing another wave of nausea to rise up. You doubled over as he approached, pressing your good hand to the back of your mouth. He was mumbling something as he approached you, Mando’a you would realize later. His hands found your hunched shoulders as you finally heard a word you recognized well,

“Cyare-hey, hey, look at me-”

With your hand still planted firmly over your mouth, you glanced up at him. You were taken aback by just how shook up he looked, even underneath the armor. His hands were tight around your shoulders, almost bruising you with their intensity. His chest was heaving, but it couldn’t be from the fight now. His voice nearly shook.

The pain almost blinding you was nothing compared to the icing feeling that crept down your spine at the sheet panic he was radiating. It wasn’t right, you had never seen him simply break like this.

You had seen him trembling underneath you, above you as he came, but he was still always in control when you were together. This was different.

This was frightening.

His hand pulled up to cup your jaw as you faced him, tilting it back and forth, frantically searing you even though the source of your pain was obvious. You wanted to say something, anything, to get him to calm down. But when you managed to pull your hand from your mouth, all that escaped was a low groan of pain.

Well that didn’t work, you thought faintly before your face collided with Mando’s chestplate, blackness overtaking you a second after.

…

The swaying was what woke you. A constant, fast motion shook you all over. Most pertinently, it was shaking the hell out of your arm. Something was wrapped around you, holding you close to a hard metal surface.

Why did it hurt again?

Ah yes, the cut.

The cut. The fight.

Mando.

You forced your eyes open, instinctually pulling away from whatever was retraining you. A gruff voice spoke to you as you turned your eyes to face the dark fabric of Mando’s chin.

“Stop.”

His faceplate didn’t even turn to you, just one word directed outward to the now-dark street ahead of you. He was carrying you through the town bridal style, your damaged arm tucked up into your chest as your calves swung with each footfall.

The memories of the night flooded back to your in greater detail, mainly your injury. An injury, you now noticed, hurt a lot less than it had...a few minutes ago? An hour?

Your confusion formed a question. Fighting the dryness in your voice, you huffed out, “How long was I out?”

“Not long.”

Another short answer, again not facing you.

A frown tugged on your lips, brows furrowing. Had something happened you didn’t remember? Why was he suddenly pissed at you? Finally, you glanced down at your arm. Wrapped in several bacta patches, secured with more bandages.

When the hell did that happen?

“Cantina had supplies”

Sometimes his ability to read you pissed you off.

You finished the trip in silence, doing your best to let off a pissed-off vibe. It was childish. You knew how to communicate, you knew Mando hardly ever did. But you were tired, hurt, and you didn’t know why that was such a huge problem to him. You had saved his ass, anyway.

You should be the pissed one if anything.

You approached the Crest’s ramp and you prepared to be set down, tensing your legs and starting to push off his chest with your good arm.

His grip simply remained firm, however, showing no indication he would be letting you down. You twisted your head in an attempt to look him in the visor, confused as all hell. His face remained stubbornly to front, much to your continued irritation.

You pushed off him a few more futile times, wiggling your hips in an attempt to loosen his hand around your knees.

Nothing.

You just slumped in his arms then, waiting for what seemed like the world’s slowest ramp to hit the ground.

He stomped into the ship and didn’t set you down until the ramp started to raise. His demeanor still remained stony, but he set you down with a gentleness only reserved for you and the child. He steadied you as your feet hit the ground, but his hands pulled away as soon as he confirmed you could stand alone.

Before you could even speak, he was gone, heading to the ladder of the cockpit.

That was it, you had absolutely had enough.

You threw your good hand in the air before shouting across the silent hull.

“Yeah, thanks for the ride, I’ll just go fuck off then.”

It wasn’t your best line, but you were pissed. And confused.

And hurt more than anything.

To your credit, the words were enough to stop him, hand on the first rung of the ladder. You stood expectantly, breathing heavily from your words and your injury.

Silence.

You made an incredulous sound, turning around and folding your arms to the best of your ability.

“Leave it to me to fuck up and save your ass, my bad, it won’t happen again.”

You winced as the words left your mouth, it was mean. It was terrible. You didn’t mean it. You would lay down your life for him at any moment and he knew it. Well, you thought he knew it. You thought he would do the same for you, too. But here he was, acting like you were a liability. Like he didn’t care about you at all. It made you defensive. Maybe you misread things between you too. Maybe you were just sex to him. Maybe you didn’t go any further.

That was fine, you could handle that. You just needed him to tell you, and not do whatever this was.

Leather creaked as his hand tightened on the metal with your words, but silence persisted. The fight in your was waning as your thoughts continued to run wild.

Your next words came out more defeated than aggressive, “If I’m an issue, just tell me. I’m gone.”

That sparked something in him, hand flying off the ladder as he whirled to face you. The movement caught you off guard, combined with the weakened state it made you stumble back a step Then another, then more as the suddenly fervent Mandaoliran stalked toward you across the hull. Your back hit the wall before he finally stopped a foot away from you, helmet tilted down at you as his shoulders rose and fell with deep, ragged breaths.

His helmet searched you, looking you up and down while his hands came to hover near your shoulder. He didn’t touch you, however, simply grasping at air several times in contemplation before fisting them once more at his side.

“Of course you’re an issue, you are the issue -my issue.”

His tone was unreadable, half-angry, half-desperate.

You gaped like a fish in his face, trying to make sense of what the hell was going on. Where was this coming from?

Your silence rushed him forward. Pushing a finger into your chest, he rambled, “You did fuck up- saving me. I didn’t want you- you shouldn’t have- I didn’t need it.” He spat the final words, but there was something underneath it, far too similar to his tone earlier, his panic.

Still, his words reignited your anger and confusion. “What do you mean you “didn’t need it”. That knife was going for your neck!”

He threw his head back, hands coming up to grip the sides of his helmet.

“Exactly! A knife which you jumped in front of, with no plan, no defense. What were you thinking?”

“I was thinking I didn’t want you to die, idiot! What the hell did you think I was thinking?”

He stumbled, whatever retort he had dying soundlessly on his tongue. Then, he spun from you, crossing his arms over his chest as he did. His next words were quiet, dismissive but firm.

“I didn’t ask for that. Never do that again.”

You literally could not comprehend his train of thought. Did he want you to just let him die? You grabbed his shoulder with your good hand, trying to force him to face you to no avail.

“You don’t get a say, you don’t have to ask. Don’t you get it? If I want to take a hit for you, that’s on me.”

He rounded on you once more, helmet coming so close that it nearly made contact with your forehead. “You don’t get to make that choice”, he growled, low and urgent.

Oh, now that was fucking golden.

“What? I don’t get to make my own choices with my own life? Is that what it’s come to now? Clearly, you don’t trust me, but I at least thought you could afford me my own autonomy.”

Finally, his hands came up and grabbed your shoulders, shaking you with intensity as he shouted in your face.

“Would you just listen to me? I won’t- cannot lose you. Not for me. Not ever.”

Your shoulders tensed in his grip and your eyes shot wide. His words startled you, the meaning washing over you in steps. They first relived you, convinced you that you felt the same way about each other, regardless of the fact this was the first time you were both voicing such outright feelings. But they also struck that same anger in you.

“So you get to protect me but I can’t do that same for you?”. Your voice was calmer now, eyes searching his visor for some sign he understood how unfair- if touching- his words were.

His hands loosened on your arms, shoulders dropping from their tense state. His helmet dropped from your gaze, swinging loosely before he sighed, “...Yes.”

His voice upturned at the end, almost in question of his own words. Of course. He knew how stupid it sounded.

Anger left you at his defeated look, head hanging between his shoulders. You raised your good arm, slowly placing your fingertips on the bottom of his helmet. He tensed for a moment at the touch, but you pushed gently enough on the metal that he simply followed your guidance. His visor came to face you once more, the blackness reflecting the look of concern in your eyes. You could only imagine that his held the same look.

Gloved fingers found your bad arm, still drawn tightly to your chest. They brushed over the patches gingerly, making their way to your hand and intertwining with your own digits. Your eyes fluttered at the touch, the familiar feeling melting away the residual pain like water down a stream.

He sighed heavily, before speaking with a subdued sincerity.

“You make me so fucking scared, pretty. I’ve never-I didn’t know that feeling until you and the kid. I can’t focus on anything else. I can’t lose you- can’t live without you.”

His fingers tightened around yours as he spoke, and your soft smile was reflected in silver back at you.

“Do you not think I feel the same thing, feel the same way about you?”

He gave your hand a squeeze before breathing, “...I do.”

Your smile faltered at his admission, worry coloring your next words.

“Then why do you think I could live without you?”

It was times like these you cursed his helmet, his creed. You wanted- needed to know that your words were getting across to him, that he understands just how fucking much he meant to you. While his face was unreadable, a short breath through the modulator and another sharp squeeze of your hand told you that you had hit the mark.

You took a deep breath before saying, “Listen. We protect each other. Equally. That’s how this works. You can’t stop me. So if you want to keep me out of harm’s way, then you have to keep your own metal-ass safe, yeah?”

You swore you heard a chuckle from underneath your helmet at your comment, and you broke into a grin. You pulled your good hand from his and placed it behind his helmet, tugging it toward you and resting the cool metal on your forehead. His hand mimicked your position, coming up to intertwine with the hair at the base of your neck.

You let your eyes slip shut before saying, “Do you understand now, dummy?”

His hand gripped your hair tighter, pressing your closer. His words were thick when he spoke, “I do.”

You released your grip on him, righting yourself, but his hand simply slid down your back. He still held you close when he said, “And I’m sorry… for the way I acted. It wasn’t my intention to hurt you. I was just…”

He faded off, but you knew where he was headed. You chuckled and flashed another smile, “It’s alright, make it up to me by taking the next knife, huh?”

The usual huff of laughter at your stupid comments didn’t come however, his helmet simply tipped down to take you in, hand tightening on your lower back.

“Actually…” he started, voice growing lower, softer, “I had another idea about how to make it up to you”

[author-morgan]

Title: Silver Moonlight

Pairing: Arthur Morgan x fem!Reader

Rating: M

Summary: Arthur stumbles into one of your dig sites and your heart. 

Two day late Christmas present ficlet for my good friend, @dynamicorbit.​ Also tagging @kvitravn​ and @wolfxkissed​ because, Arthur. 

THE DIG SITE bustles with activity under the cool Colorado sun, but the day’s hours are slipping by. Stretching your back and legs, you crouch back down next to a boulder of red sandstone and begin working at it again with a hammer and chisel —stopping only to brush away the dust. Just north of Morrison was a treasure trove of dinosaur fossils and boundless discoveries. Spending the rest of your days digging the area would likely see your budding career to retirement and old age.

Loose gravel crunches under heavy footfalls, but you pay no mind to them —the site is crawling with paleontologists and rock-hounds looking for a quick buck. The shadow of a wide-brimmed hat blocks the sun as someone kneels beside you and rests a hand on your shoulder. “Watcha doin’, darlin’?” A low, rasping, and familiar voice asks. 

“Arthur!” Dropping the chisel and hammer, you clutch the buttons on your stained shirtwaist. “One time, my heart might stop beating,” you tell him, pushing back on his shoulder despite the joy of seeing him again. 

He hardly ever announces his arrival —instead, he’s keen on sneaking up behind you and scaring the living daylights out of you. His lips curve into a smile as he reaches out, cupping your sweat-slicked cheek for a quick moment. “Pray that never happens then,” Arthur says with a wink.

“Mind your boots,” you remind him. Dig sites were delicate things, and you didn’t need him stomping around without a care. He crouches down next to you again, looking over your shoulder at the blackened bone slowly being revealed. The last time he found you hunched over a pile of rock and bone you told him it was an Allosaurus and showed him a tooth as long as his forefinger. 

Arthur didn’t know a damned thing about dinosaurs or paleontology beyond what you tried explaining to him one night —albeit the whiskey probably didn’t help. It doesn’t matter much if he understood everything or not, seeing your smile and the twinkle in your eye when you spoke about fossils and postulates was something he would never tire of. All his efforts to remain aloof are in vain, for Arthur is smitten with you. “What’re you diggin’ up this time?” He asks. 

You glance at the exposed bones chiseled from the stone and reach for your notebook, making a quick annotation and sketching a complete picture of the vertebrae. The backend of this particular specimen was missing, but a handful of yards away, one of the professors from Harvard was working on cleaning a dismembered tail that looked about the right size to match. “I think it’s what Professor Marsh described as a Stegosaurus.” You point toward a line of wide and flat bony plates you spent the last month working on. “See those?” Arthur nods. 

He listens to your ramblings until the sky turns and you pack away your tools and notes, leading him to your small wall tent at the south end of the site. It’s been months since you last saw Arthur Morgan —roaming the plains and running from the law. Somehow his path always leads back to you, whether you’re digging bones or taking a day’s break in a town in the middle of nowhere. Arthur has a habit of knowing right where to find you, even in the open expanse of the American West. He stokes the small campfire, the golden flames mixing with the silver light of a full moon. 

You spare a longer glimpse of him —his beard is thicker than last you saw, his hair longer and tinged with the first hints of gray. “C’mere–” you smile, pulling on his dark neckerchief, unable to resist the urge to kiss him any longer. He’s quick to wrap an arm around your shoulders, chasing away the space between your lips as your fingers slide into the hair at the back of his neck. 

Arthur wraps an arm around your waist, drawing you onto his lap with a crooked smile. For all the nights spent under the stars, he never feels at ease until he’s with you. It stirs a feeling in his gut and heart that he wishes he could stamp out, but the sparks had taken to flames long ago. You and Arthur make for a strange duo —an academic and an outlaw. He stares up at you when you take his rugged face into your hands, thumb running across the scars on his chin.

You take his hat off, musing his dark locks. In turn, he reaches behind you, pulling two silver pins from your hair —fingers running through frazzled twists and messy braids. “What’ve you been up to?” You ask, kissing the corner of his lips to feel the tickle of his beard against your cheek.

“The usual,” he responds —raising hell and laying low. The Pinkertons chased him out of Oklahoma, and he wasn’t keen on seeing them again anytime soon. He followed the words on the wind and wound up near Morrison, Colorado, with you sitting on his lap —not caring about the things he'd done, only that he was back within an arm’s reach. “Ever made love under the stars?” Arthur asks, lips brushing over your jaw. 

“I haven’t,” you answer, knowing by the look in his dark blue eyes that’s about to change. He bends his knee, wedging his thigh between yours —the soft whimper you make quieted by his sloppy kiss as his lips move across your cheek and down your neck. 

Arthur fumbles with the pearl buttons of your shirtwaist, sliding the calico fabric down your arms with a low groan upon seeing the pale pink satin corset laying beneath. You stifle a laugh, knowing how much he dislikes the slow process of lacing and unlacing your corsets —a handful of times practicing had only resulted in a marginal increase in speed of which he could take one off. “One day,” he starts, loosening the laces, “I’m just gonna cut this damn thing off you.” You shake your head, laughing at his impatience.

Peeling the corset away, he tosses it toward the open entrance of your tent, and his rough hands find your breasts while you push the suspenders off his shoulders, fingers working the buttons of his stripped blue-flannel shirt until it hangs open. Arthur is a sturdy man —barrel-chested and broad of shoulder— built for fighting and fucking. His hand slips beneath the hem of your walking skirt, bunching the material up around your waist as his fingers find the wet heat between your thighs. Two fingers slip into your heat, curling, and stroking —Arthur watches your face twist in pleasure as he feels you grind down on his hand, the heel of his palm pressed against your clit. 

As skilled as his fingers are, you want him. Pushing his hand away, you quickly do away with your skirt and settle down astride his lap again. He groans, low and deep enough you can feel his chest vibrating against yours and bucks his hips —clothed cock pressing against your bare cunt. You both reach for his belt at the same time, but he swats your hands away with a dry chuckle that’s quickly silenced when you kiss him. 

Arthur lifts his hips from the ground, hastily pushing his pants down and freeing his hard cock —he’s thick and ribbed with throbbing veins from base to tip.

He lays back, head resting on his balled-up shirt with you straddling him, and his dark pants pushed down to his knees. The silver moonlight highlighting the slick wetness between your thighs. Arthur mutters something under his breath that you don’t quite catch, but the lusty glint in his eyes says enough. You reach behind you —fingers wrapping around his cock. His eyes slip close, lips parting as you stroke him, stopping only to lift your hips and drag his cock through your folds. 

You moan softly as you start to sink on his length. The head of his cock stretching you slowly. Arthur’s hands slip from your breasts to your hips, urging you down until you’re filled —thighs flush with his hips. You still for a moment, readjusting to his girth but slowly start to grind your hips into his. “What a sight,” Arthur muses as you pick up your pace, riding him lazily as he fondles your breasts, tweaking one of your nipples. 

Up and down, still, but with a bit of a rolling motion helping you hit every sweet spot that makes your body tremble and breathe his name like some kind of prayer. It’s been too long since you felt this —since he felt this. He can tell you’re close, teetering on the edge of the abyss because he is too. Arthur reaches between your bodies, fingers pressing against your clit and rubbing quick circles —hissing when your walls flutter and tighten around his cock. “Arthur,” you choke, head hanging forward. The Seraphs of Heaven could have raptured the world, and they would find you riding Arthur in the silver moonlight, lips parted in a silent cry and nails digging into his chest —not a care in the world. 

Bracing your weight on bent forearms next to his head, you crane your neck down. Lips ghosting over his as your body buzzes with your release, walls still pulsating around his cock. He pushes himself up, sealing his lips to yours —tongue parting your lips just as he pushes his hips up into yours to chase his own end. Arthur bends his knees, planting his feet on the ground, and begins to buck his hips up into you, faster than you had been riding him. He pulls another ragged moan from your parted lips, mixing with his grunts and groans.

You cling to his shoulders as he ruts up into you, gently biting down on his shoulder to quieten your moans if only to hear his. He lets out a strangled groan when his hips stutter in their rhythm, stilling deep inside you as his cock twitches, filling you with warmth. 

Arthur lays back again, holding you against his chest as he kicks off his boots and pants —laying just as bare as you now. A moment passes, your breathing and hearts synchronized. “I’ll volunteer for the supply run,” you tell him, chin propped up on his chest, fingers brushing through the dark hair on his chest. Before the week’s end, a small group would head back to town for fresh supplies, enough to last another week or so. You always enjoyed helping with the runs. It meant a night at the inn on a bed instead of a cot and a proper bath. “We can stay a night or two in Morrison.” 

Arthur runs his fingertips up and down your spine —a different kind of smile playing on his lips in the silver and gold light. “You know darlin’, I was thinkin’ bout stayin’ a while,” he says, watching for your reaction. “If you’ll have me, that is,” he adds.

Smiling, you press your lips against the bottom of his chin, laying your head against his chest again, listening to the beat of his heart. “Of course, I’ll have you,” you tell him. Arthur Morgan may not have been a good man, but he certainly wasn’t a bad one either, and it just so happened that when he first stumbled upon you at a dig site several years ago, he’d stumbled into your heart too. You’d keep him with you for the rest of your days if you could. “I missed you.” He wraps an arm around you, holding you tight to his chest. “Even with that ugly mug,” you laugh. 

He echoes your laughter —you can feel the low rumble rising from deep in his chest. Arthur turns his cheek, lips brushing against your forehead before settling back under the stars with a soft sigh. It feels good to be home.

[isis-astarte-diana]

On Your Toes

Summary: “You told me you were bored, so I gave you something to do.” Missy can always find a way to keep her companion busy.

Warnings: NSFW. MIHOW. Dark!Missy. Serious predicament bondage, featuring stress positions and the threat of bodily harm. (It’s foot trauma). Anal, but, like, not particularly explicit. Absolutely terrible BDSM etiquette - realistically, this is just straight-up torture. Missy is... really unpleasant. The way we love her best.

Word Count: 2067

NB: Sat down to write this thinking “aha, yes, the ornamental bondage concept. Nice, wholesome stuff. We all love that,” and then... well... this happened instead. I think it fits quite nicely into the New Toy universe.

It’s cold in this part of the TARDIS.

The engines are drowned out by the low hiss of an air conditioning system, and this, in turn, is swallowed in the whir of the servers that surround you. Row upon row of shelves stretch to the high ceiling, glowing with blue light, the impossible dimensions of the room containing only a fraction of a fraction of the ship’s central computing hardware. The vast monitor in front of you indicates that the temperature is in its ideal range; somewhere above refrigeration, but certainly lower than would ever be comfortable for a human in your state of undress.

Still, you’re sweating.

Your hair is plastered to your forehead with it, rapidly cooling trails of perspiration trickling down your neck, your sides, the backs of your trembling legs. Another full-body shiver makes your knees quake and you falter, losing your balance, dropping silently from your tiptoes to stand flat footed on the smooth tiles.

“Heels up.”

Missy doesn’t look up from her work at the control panel. She has her back to you, her dark head bowed, quick fingers flitting between a set of keys and dials and a touchscreen display. She had explained what she was doing, and you had made a valiant effort to listen, but that was hours ago, or so it seems. The technical jargon you’d tried so hard to keep track of has been pushed from your mind by far more urgent physical sensations.

The plug isn’t overly large - perhaps, at its broadest, just thicker than two of her slender fingers - but it’s certainly too much to ignore. Though inaudible over the other machinery of the server room its vibrations are powerful and, more than this, variable. If there is any pattern to the change in pitch, you have yet to determine it; and you have been thinking of little else for quite some time.

“Missy,” you attempt weakly, making no effort to conceal the chatter of your teeth. “Please, I-“ The words turn into an unsteady whine to match the abrupt increase in speed of the pulsing toy inside you. Your thighs try to press closer together, if not for stability then at least to soothe the impossible sensitivity of the slick flesh between them. The bar that keeps your ankles spread wide offers no such relief.

“Lift your heels,” she repeats, sharper this time. “And hush.”

Gritting your teeth against the cramping in your calves, you obey.

Behind your back, you hold tighter to yourself, each forearm clasped in the opposite hand and bound that way so that your shoulders are drawn backwards. Your chest is forced up and out by the position, leaving your naked breasts vulnerable in the cold air, nipples painfully stiff and throbbing from the chill. As the vibrations slow once more, your breaths come easier again.

The effect, unfortunately, is two-fold; with fewer distractions, your attention is once more concentrated on the strain of your position. Tension is beginning to set in at the base of your spine, the arches of your feet, even the core muscles in your abdomen, everything below the waist protesting at being made to hold you up like this. Tremors pluck once more at the tendons in your calves. You withstand them for as long as you can, teeth sinking sharply into your chapped bottom lip, until another wave of sensation from the plug as it kicks up to full speed for an instant has you landing hard on your heels, yelping so loudly that Missy actually startles at the noise.

The server room is not quiet, but it is very suddenly as still as a tomb.

You watch as she slowly lifts her head, rolling her neck, stretching languidly as if to emphasise your inability to do the same. When she rises to her feet you almost whimper. Being ignored is a torture in and of itself, but having captured her attention is no comfort. She does not face you, moving instead to one of the shelves nearest the control panel, one that houses gutted hardware and its components. Her fingers plunge into the innards of a half-disassembled server. Impossibly, the sight makes you shudder. From here she withdraws something in a closed fist.

“It’s a fairly simple instruction, isn’t it?”

Her voice is cooler than the spinning fans above you and hums with far more power.

“I mean - stand on your tiptoes. It’s four words. Not even particularly long words, either.” At this, she finally turns on her heels, her smile bright and broad and utterly mirthless. “You can manage to keep track of four words, can’t you?”

You nod emphatically, the movement made jerky by the shivering you cannot stop. She raises an expectant brow.

“And yet, there you are. Not standing on your tiptoes.”

The haste with which you rock up onto the balls of your feet when she begins to approach almost costs you your balance. You waver there for a moment, close to falling back on your heels again, even closer to sprawling face down on the hard ground. With your arms bound behind you, you would have no hope of shielding your face from the impact; your nose, already sore from the cold, throbs at the thought. A strangled whimper works its way through your trembling lips.

Missy narrows her eyes. In the low blue light her features are sharpened, shadows darkening under every curve and arch of bone with the angle at which she tilts her head. “You told me you were bored.”

You shrink, not only from her tone, but also from the memory of your own impertinence. At the time - curled up on the tiled floor at her feet, left with nothing to occupy your restless mind or hands and scolded every time you dared to fidget - you had hoped that she would let you assist her, even if only with a trivial task, or at least set you some busywork to spare you from having to sit still and silent in the cold.

“You told me you were bored, so I gave you something to do.” She takes hold of your jaw with icy fingers just as the thrumming of the toy kicks up a degree. Your hoarse gasp is due, in part, to both. “I went to all this trouble and you keep disobeying me.”

“Missy, I- I can’t...” Spasms shoot up the backs of your legs, settling in your abdomen, shortening your breaths as you speak through a grimace. “I didn’t mean- I wasn’t-” It’s impossible to straighten out the words behind your quivering jaw. “I’m really trying.”

“You certainly are, dear.” Her thumb curls under your chin, her palm slowly moving to cup your cheek now. She bares her teeth. “Consider my patience tried.”

The slap catches you off guard. Its sting is only aggravated by the chill of her skin, and of yours, so that the pain is sharp as frostbite. Your heels meet the ground again as you struggle to steady yourself. The shifting of your weight brings relief, but this is smothered by the knowledge that you have, once more, failed to follow her instructions.

“I’m sorry!” With your face turned down towards your shoulder and your eyes clamped shut against the welling tears, you try fruitlessly to rise back onto your toes. Though the balls of your feet burn with the effort, your legs are too shaky, your knees too weak. You cannot seem to settle into a balanced position. All the while, the shifting of the plug inside of you is torturous, its constant vibrations irritating your nerves and flooding you with scalding arousal that cools on your parted thighs. “I’m sorry, Mistress, I- please-”

Her knuckles brush against the blazing skin of your cheek and you flinch from the touch. “Oh, it’s alright, poor love.” With a sympathetic click of her tongue, she coaxes your eyes back to hers and gives you a pitying look. “Now, I know how you humans can struggle with these things, so I don’t mind giving you some help, just this once.”

She shows you her other hand and finally loosens her fist to reveal the spoils of her earlier search. Your cry of alarm hones her lips into a knife-edged grin.

“I’ll do better!” The words are too loud in the close quarters, ragged with unsteady breaths as your wide eyes flit between her face and the pair of inch-long screws resting in her open palm. “I will, I promise, I-” Again, your voice is robbed by a sudden and brief change in the pitch of the maddening vibrations.

“Well, if you’re going to do better, then you won’t mind this at all, will you?” Missy presses the sole of her boot down lightly on the toes of your right foot, cool and smooth and with no weight behind it. “Stand on your tiptoes.”

You shake your head, teeth clenching to stop the chatter there, tears turning cold as they begin to escape at last. She pushes harder, the touch growing uncomfortable, still wavering just this side of pain.

“On your toes,” she repeats, her smile flickering with the threat of a snarl, “or I will break them for you.”

For the barest of moments you try to weigh up the impossible choice - obey, and feel the pointed tip of the screw beneath your raised heel; disobey, and test the sincerity of her words - until the bones of your toes grind painfully between boot and tile and the far more present peril wins out. With a choked gasp you lift yourself once more onto the balls of your feet.

Her voice lowers to a stage whisper and she gives you an exaggerated wink. “Good choice.”

You twist your head at an awkward angle to watch her moving behind you, but this threatens your balance and you quickly correct your posture again. As she sinks to the ground, her fingernails carve a stinging path down the back of your left calf, following the curve of cramping muscle from knee to elevated heel. You jerk under the touch, but cannot escape it without falling.

“If I were you,” she begins, with a faint stirring of amusement, “I would think very carefully about which foot I favoured.” To emphasise her meaning, she pricks the arch of your foot with the screw. You squeak pitifully.

“Please, Mistress.” You cast your blurry eyes to the ceiling, trying not to shift your weight when she repeats the motion on your other foot. Your thighs quake beneath you, cold and strain and horror all taking their toll. “I’m sorry, I- I was rude-”

“You were bored.” She drags her nails up your right leg when she straightens up and leans in to show you her indulgent smile. “And now you’re not. You’re welcome, dear.”

Missy returns to the control panel without a second glance. Your babbling protests fall on deaf ears as she sits back down, swirling her fingers across the touchscreen. It takes only moments for the futility of your efforts to sink in. Despite her earlier impatience with your complaints, she seems entirely impassive to them now.

Fighting every screaming nerve in your body, you bow your head and try to concentrate.

The most tentative of attempts at shuffling forwards is quickly thwarted; with your ankles bound this far apart and your arms restrained behind you, you have no hope of shifting away from the threat underfoot without your forehead meeting the tiles. Through harsh and wavering breaths you are forced to accept the dawning realisation that your balance is tentative, your muscles are fatigued, and it is only a matter of time until you fall one way or the other.

“Missy!” Her name is a panicked sob. Your feet are beginning to cramp and you shrink in on yourself, clawing at your forearms, seeking stability that you cannot find. In your anguish, your muscles draw tighter around the plug, drawing your attention once more to the unpredictable nature of its constant pulsing. “I can’t stay like this!”

She turns to look at you over her shoulder, her expression one of arch disinterest. “Well, you can put your heels down if you like, poppet.” Her eyes crinkle at the corners with her smile. “But you’ll only do it once.”

Unseen, she slips a hand into her pocket and deposits the two screws inside.

[starkeristheendgame]

Could you do a fic where Peter ends up using his safeword?🥺👉🏻👈🏻

Of course! Thank you sm for the prompt you sweet little bean ❤️ I’m gonna set this in a sort of grey-area between Homecoming and Infinity War, as a set-up for the use of the safeword. I hope you like it! 

TW: Reference to bodily harm (the building collapse) | PTSD mentions/depictions | Use of a safeword | Brief rough sex description | Panic/Panicking | Mild humiliating/degrading dirty talk.

Stay safe, my lovelies! 

“That’s it, sweetheart. Real good for me - Fuck, yes - Take it, baby”. Tony’s words are growled into his ear, backed by the warmth of his panting skimming the hinge of his jaw as fingers twist in his hair, tugging his head back. The sting is just the right side of painful, forcing him to arch his spine, to push his ass back onto Tony’s thick cock. 

Post-mission fucking has become kind of A Thing these days, ever since Peter nearly got taken out during a mission and Tony had lost his shit, freaking out before pressing Peter down into their bedsheets, driving his cock so deep Peter could almost taste it. 

They haven’t even made it to the bedsheets, this time. They’re not even home. The concrete of the floor scrapes his palms where he scrabbles for purchase, desperate for leverage against the brutal way that Tony fucks into him, like he’s nothing but a tight, hot sleeve for his cock. 

“Still so loose and sloppy, baby. My cock really ruins you, huh? Leaves you open and gaping like you’ll never be tight again” and Peter cries out, because its so fucking good. Good enough that the dust and rubble around them almost doesn’t bother him. He’ll feel gross later, and demand a shower, but right now the thick, hard tip of Tony’s cock is abusing his sweetspot, and his mind is a mantra of fuckyespleaseharderohgod. 

The hand in his hair stops pulling, and presses his face down into the dirt, hard enough that the floor is like sandpaper on his cheek. There’s a chunk of beam keeping his hips up enough for Tony to shift, forcing his legs together so his thighs are squeezed shut, and he’s trapped. 

Peter’s heart ticks up a notch. 

“Bet if I held off even for a day you’d come crawling on your knees, begging for it” Tony rumbled against his neck, teeth skimming the vulnerable skin there as he draped himself over Peter, pinning him down with all of his weight. Still wearing the suit - Its a considerable poundage to bear, Peter’s back and thighs instantly tensing with the strain. 

It would be hot, any other time. In the safety of their own bed, with soft sheets and luxury pillows. Now, its dirt and dust in his nose and the darkness of the crumbled building around them, Tony’s weight squeezing his ribs down around his lugs, trapping his limbs so there’s nothing he can do except lay there. 

Peter sucked in a sharp breath, breaking off into a sobbed gasp as Tony pressed him down harder, trapping his arms underneath his chest as he sank his cock deep into his plaint little body, forcing it to part around him, as deep as it seemed he could go and then even deeper. 

“T-Tony” Peter rasped, whimpering and writhing under the larger man, sucking in heaving breaths as the trembled. Tony cooed at him, pressing his cheek down into the dirt, braced on his forearm as he squeezed Peter down. 

“Fuck, darling. So tight. Like I’ll never get my fucking cock back” Tony snarled at him, words thick-sweet and breaking through the sudden roaring in his ears. Peter twisted and mewled, trying to get his arms out from underneath him, but Tony clicked his tongue chidingly and ground his hips down, shoving Peter back into the dusty concrete. 

“P-Please. I can’t - Its too much, Tony” he rasped, trying to get the right words out between hitching sobs. 

“Aw, poor baby. Still not used to taking it big, huh?” Tony cooed, patronising and full of faux-concern as he rolled his hips, grinding Peter into the dust like he was typing to leave an imprint of him there. Peter wailed and shook his head as much as he was able, ignoring the way that the rubble dug into his soft cheeks and rubbed the skin there raw. 

“N-No. Tony I can’t...I...Ple- Huntsman” he manages on a broken cry, and in a movement too quick for him to even register, the weight lifted off him, gone in a gut-wrenching moment of relief. He was distantly aware of the slow, dragged slide of Tony’s cock pulling out of him, leaving him open and gaping and exposed. 

“Hey, Pete, Peter. Hey, baby. I’m here. Stay with me” Tony breathed, kneeling down in the dirt besides him with his still-hard cock slapping against the pelvis plate of the suit smearing the gold there with cum and lube. Peter squeezed his eyes shut and shifted, squirming in the dust to curl into a ball as he sucked in billowing breaths, trying to calm himself down. 

“I’m sorry” he whimpered, tucking his arms around himself for protection. “I didn’t mean - It was...”. He can’t finish the words, can’t admit that even in the middle of getting dicked down by Tony, the Vulture haunted him. The feeling of his own crushed bones was a ghost he couldn’t shake. 

“Oh, sweetheart. My precious boy. Its okay, you’re okay. You can breathe, in and out, nice and slow. In...Out. Good” Tony’s gentle, low murmuring was easy to latch onto, a strong contender against the hammering of his heart and the roaring of his rushing blood. He felt sick, dizzy, and before he even realised what he was doing, he was reaching out for Tony. 

Warm, flesh fingers curled around his own, holding with careful tenderness. Peter forced his eyes to open a little and noted that the suit had bled away, leaving Tony on his knees in the dirt in the slacks and shirt he’d been wearing before Director Fury had come storming into the Tower. 

“Am I okay to come a little closer?” Tony asked softly, and Peter gave a hitching nod, closing his eyes again as he shook on the floor, trying desperately to shake the feeling of being trapped, crushed. It felt like the slabs of concrete were still there, digging into his fragile skin, grinding his bones together. 

“I’m here, baby. I’m right here” Tony shushed his increasing sobs, thumb gently rubbing the side of Peter’s hand, giving him plenty of space but sitting close enough that Peter could scent his cologne, his sweat from the mission and their fucking. 

There was a scuffle, the sound of a belt, and then Tony was talking again, gently. “Hey, baby. Do you think you can put your head on my leg? The floor is all dusty” Tony soothed, and Peter sniffled but shifted, obligingly lifting his head enough that a thick, strong thigh could take up the space between his scraped cheeks and the dirt. 

“There’s my good sweetheart” Tony praised, still gently rubbing circles along the side of his hand. Peter’s breaths were less laboured now, but he still felt hot and humiliated, embarrassment leaking into the space that the panic left behind. 

“You did so well, darling. I’m so proud of you. You know that, right? My precious little darling. So good for me” Tony hummed, one hand hesitantly settling on his shoulder, featherlight and giving him plenty of time to express that he didn’t want it. He kept his touch light, thumb sweeping gentle arcs across the muscle. 

“I’m okay” he sniffled, opening his eyes. Tony had tucked away his cock and was sat on his ass, body leaned slightly away so he wasn’t looming over Peter, gaze soft and concerned. “I’m sorry. I just - It was the dirt, and I couldn’t move, and it-”

“Hey, baby. You don’t have to tell me, okay? You don’t have to explain it. You did so well, you used your safeword and I’m so proud of you. Take deep breaths, baby. Nice and slow. We can stay here for a while”. Tony’s hand swept a little lower, brushing his hip, and Peter could feel the tickling coolness of nanotech blanketing his bare ass, covering his exposed hole, as light as his touch. 

“How about when we get home, we have a nice, hot bath, hm? Bubbles, that smelly shit you keep bullying me into buying...”

“That you secretly like because you use it when I’m not there and think I don’t notice” Peter responded in a wet mumble, shoulders hitching slightly on a soft giggle. Tony had made a big show of fussing and sneezing and sniffing himself the first time Peter insisted on having a ‘proper’ bath, but the younger boy knew his mentor had secretly grown to adore them. 

“Yeah, yeah. Whatever. I still say if I wanted to smell like that, I’d go sit in a florists’ shop for a few hours” Tony shot back, but his voice was light and amused as he continued to pet at Peter, feeling the way the boy’s rabbiting heartbeat began to slow as he calmed. 

“As opposed to smelling like grease and rust?” Peter asked, voice a little rough from his crying. It felt like they’d only been sat here for a few minutes, but when he caught sight of Tony’s watch, he knew it must have been at least half an hour since his freak out. When he shifted, he felt cold and sore, arousal gone and leaving discomfort in its place. 

“You wound me” Tony huffed at him dryly, hand sliding slowly and carefully up into his hair, scrubbing through it gently and using his thumb to sweep aside clumps of dust and rubble. “You feel okay to get up, sweetheart?” He asked after a pause, and Peter nodded, groaning softly as he uncurled, he and Tony using each other to wobble to their feet. 

“I’m -”

“If you say you’re sorry again, I will be forced to do something soppy and over emotive” Tony warned him, and Peter closed his mouth, flushing, before opening it again. 

“Thank you” he said instead, and Tony gave him the most achingly sweet smile. 

“Anything for you, darling” the older man murmured, ducking down to press a sweet, loving, gentle kiss to Peter’s mouth as his fingertips skimmed his hips, dragging the nanotech up and over his body, ready to take them both home. 

[vanilla-bean-buttercream]

You Bit Me?!

Summary:

When Logan decided to become a doctor, he knew the full moon was going to bring in all sorts of problems for him. He was prepared to face people who would bite him for no reason, at least, until he was actually bitten by someone. He didn’t have time for this. He was graduating college. He was studying for finals. He didn’t need to crave inhuman amounts of food, get sick off of a special treat, or have heightened senses that set him on edge. There had to be a totally plausible medical reason for all of this. And, no, Lychanthropy is not one of them, Patton.

Statistics:   

Pairings: N/A

Main Characters: Logan, Patton, Virgil, Roman

Minor Characters: Deceit, Emile, a few oc’s

Warnings: Biting, arguing, binge eating, meat consumption, food poisoning, crying, swearing (two times), guns, descriptions of injury, blood, unsafe medical practices, death mentions, threats of death (no one dies though), you’re gonna have a bad time reblogging this on mobile because it’s so long

Word Count: 21,730 

Some helpful links:

- An alternate version on Ao3

- A beautiful art piece drawn by @starry-shake​ 

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Author’s Note:

Well, hello there! This story was the original big bang fic for @ts-storytime I wanted to write, but because I let it slip and there was a certain artist that was hellbent on getting me, I decided to write another. (They succeeded so I’m glad I did haha)

Anyway, this is actually only half of the story I wanted to write, but then I realized I would much rather turn it into a short story series, kinda like how I did TSAoJ (what is it with me and splitting up supernatural stories huh?) so keep on the lookout for that later maybe~

Anyway, I’ve kept some of you waiting too long. I hope you enjoy, and don’t get bummed if you can’t reblog it on mobile. A short reply with a thumbs up is literally all I need <3

-Cat

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Logan sighed as he stared at the price of Crofter's. According to the sticker, he just missed the sale Patton told him about, and he’d have to pay an extra 20 cents for it, which for a college student on a tight budget, was a lot. 

Oh well. Patton could live without an extra box of goldfish crackers.

As Logan reached up to grab the jar, it vanished. Logan froze and blinked, his brain failing to process how the item disappeared so quickly.

“Oh wow, the last jar,” a loud voice said to his left. Logan turned his head slowly. A person with a wide grin and eyes that almost looked gold examined the label. “This must be my lucky day.”

An uncomfortable heat burned Logan’s gut. He cleared his throat. “Excuse me.”

The Crofter's stealer looked up and turned their grin into a charming smirk. “Well hello there. How can I help you?”

“By giving me that.” Logan held out his palm expectantly.

“This?”

“Yes, that.”

“I don’t think so. I got it first.”

“But I was here first. I was reaching for it.”

“Well, you’re too slow.”

Logan growled in his throat. “I’m going to ask once more nicely. Hand over the jar.”

The person leaned in close to Logan’s face. “Make me, nerd.”

Logan reached out. He wrapped his fingers around the jar and tugged. The person pulled back. For about thirty seconds, this moment jam-packed with action created such a fuss, multiple people stopped to watch. Some even pulled out their phone to film it.

Finally, Logan got the upper hand. He pulled the jar from the person’s grasp and gave a triumphant little “ha,” totally missing the stranger's deep growl.

One moment Logan treasured his victory, and the next he howled in pain.

It took a moment between the shocked gasps from the crowd and his own distressed noise to realize that, yes, this stranger did, in fact, bite him. Hard. On the forearm.

“Did you just bite me?” Logan questioned.

The person recoiled as if Logan bit them back. Their huge eyes froze along with their breathing.

“I-” they stammered several times.

Logan examined his arm. A small drop of blood that didn’t quite grasp the severity of the situation trickled down his wrist with two perfect indents of human teeth wrapping around his skin.

“If I gather an infection from this, I’m sending you the bill,” Logan grumbled and walked off, leaving his flabbergasted attacker behind.

“Wait!” they called out, but Logan didn’t want to speak to them any longer. He ran off with his jar of Crofter's before the stranger could steal any more of his pride from him. Logan checked out and exited the store. Thankfully, some observers kept the biter at bay and far away from him. 

The whole walk home, all Logan could think about was the bite on his arm. Sure, he could fix it in a heartbeat, but this was a grown human being wrapping their teeth around his arm over a jar of jam, not some toddler. What could have possibly possessed them to do that?

Even if Crofter's was the most valuable food in the world, one did not simply bite another person to obtain it.

Logan entered his dorm room and locked it behind him. He’d be dead before that person came into his safe space and bit him again, or worse, threatened to take his precious jam again.

“Oh, welcome back!” a voice called out from the computer desk. They turned on their swivel chair and beamed.

“I’m afraid I forgot your goldfish,” Logan informed, watching the other person deflate with a whine. Logan walked over to the desk drawer, set the groceries on the counter, and dug around for some gauge to wrap up his arm.

“Logan, what happened?”

“I had a slight disagreement with someone in the grocery store, and they decided to cast their dental impressions with my arm.”

“So in other words, they bit you?”

“Yes.”

There was a pause, and Logan braced himself.

“That’s a story I’d like to sink my teeth into.”

Logan sighed and grabbed the bandage out of the drawer. He sat down on the bottom bunk bed and began unwinding the ball.

“I’m afraid the story is not as exciting as it sounds, Patton,” Logan responded.

Patton left his spot on the computer chair and sat beside Logan. He watched Logan fumble with the bandage before taking matters into his own hands and wrapping up Logan’s forearm. Meanwhile, Logan retold the story, and Patton listened.

“Well, that wasn’t berry nice at all,” Patton mused.

“Please spare me. I’m in enough pain as it is,” Logan grumbled. 

“Isn't there something you can do to make sure it doesn't get infected? I mean, it doesn't look deep, but it did bleed.”

“Yes. Common treatment includes amoxicillin, but that's out of the question for obvious reasons.”

Patton quirked a brow. “But I thought you were allergic to penicillin.” 

“Amoxicillin is a form of penicillin, Patton.”

Patton tied off the bandage and let out a short sigh through his nose. “Well, I hope this guy doesn't just go around biting people.”

Logan leaned and rested his back against the wall. He ran his fingers over the white bandage and sighed through his nose. Hopefully, this would do.

Logan thought back to the confrontation. What could he have done differently? Perhaps there were more jars elsewhere and he missed them. Was being bitten for a sweet treat really worth it? 

A plate plopped into Logan’s lap, and he gazed upon five crackers spread with Crofter's jam. Patton sent a smile before returning to his work on the computer. Logan lifted a cracker to his lips with a slight smile.

Yes, this was all worth it.

--

The following days were rather boring compared to the excitement of being bitten on the arm by a total stranger over a jar of Crofter's. Finals were upon them, and Logan spent most of his time inside studying. After his 5 years of work, he’d be dead before he let failing one class stop him from graduating the hell that was college.

His roommate, however, happily spent his free time out and about with his posse of weird friends. Logan wondered how Patton attracted the most fascinating human specimens to his person.

For example, there was Virgil, who looked like a walking case of constant anxiety. Those wide hazel eyes studied everything. Maybe something bit him unexpectedly as well, and now he expected the unexpected at all times. For someone who chose to draw such little attention to himself, he sure made a scene with his appearance. Dark eyeshadow and eyeliner permanently stained his skin and gave him a wolfish appearance.

Then there was Damian, who Logan swore could not keep a story straight even if he wrote it down prior. The slippery son of a gun always weaved Patton’s gullible mind into intense fairytale stories that even sounded foolish to a child, but Patton always defended Damian’s tall tales, saying how Logan didn’t know Damian’s life and for all they knew, he could’ve run into a prostitute with one eye in the middle of a dark alley and got a blowjob for free.

The only normalish friends he gathered were those from his Theater class. Logan had to admit, Thomas was fun to be around every once and a while… when he and Patton weren’t breaking out into song over the littlest things.

He discovered that when he mentioned something was hit or miss when discussing chance.

Logan cradled his head in his right hand as he attempted to memorize every name for every bone in the human body. It should’ve been easy. Logan loved to study. However, with the bored mother bird sitting on her eggs and her partner trying to serenade and entertain her in the tree next to him, Logan couldn’t focus. That constant twitterpated tweet-tweet tugged at his thin nerves.

“Will you shut up,” Logan growled at the window. Of course, the birds ignored him. He thought about opening the window and throwing a few pencils in their general direction.

If the birds weren't bad enough, now he started to get a headache. The words in his book blurred together, and when Logan looked up at the clock, he couldn’t read the numbers.

Logan took his glasses off and rubbed his eyes with his thumb and pointer finger. Perhaps he needed a break. He released his eyes and blinked into the way too bright sun.

Oh, it was almost noon. No wonder he felt exhausted; he’d been at this for five hours.

Logan slid his glasses back on. The numbers on the clock blurred, and Logan squinted. He lifted the lenses off of his face once again, and the numbers cleared up.

That was... odd. Did he grab Patton’s glasses by mistake? No, even with Patton’s glasses, he shouldn’t be able to tell what time it is across the room without his glasses on, as they were both nearsighted.

Logan set his glasses down on the desk and leaned back in his chair. The world clarified in moments. Well, almost. He still had no clue why he could see without his glasses.

Logan looked into his mirror and examined his eyes. They were the same bright blue from his birth, clear, no signs of alterations that he’d noticed. He didn’t have contacts, so doubling his prescription by accident was out of the question.

What was going on?

The door to the dorm room opened, and the smell of grease and grass flooded the room. Logan almost covered his nose.

“Hey, I brought you lunch, since I know you probably didn’t take a break to eat already,” Patton spoke. He closed the door with his foot and set two bags of fast food on Logan’s desk. The smell overpowered Logan’s thought process.

“Thanks,” he managed to mumble.

Patton pulled out his food and started eating. From here, Logan could practically taste the ketchup sliding down Patton’s fries and sticking to his fingers.

“Yeh mkay?”

“Patton, please don’t talk with your mouth full.”

Patton swallowed. “You’re not wearing your glasses.”

Logan took a deep breath and replied, “You are correct. I was getting a headache from all the studying.”

Patton made a hum of acknowledgment. He held out the wrapped veggie burger to Logan. The smell hit Logan’s head like several hammers and sent his mouth into a drooling frenzy. With all the pain of studying, he forgot how hungry he was.

Within a minute, Logan devoured his veggie burger and moved on to the fries, leaving a rather flabbergasted Patton on his bed.

“Wow, slow down Logan,” Patton said with a light laugh. “Your food’s not growing anywhere.”

Logan sent an annoyed glance Patton’s way but made no further comment.

Patton had just finished his fries when Logan tossed his trash away. He let out a nervous giggle and shook his head.

“You know, I think that’s the first time you finished eating before me.”

“I was hungry.”

“I guess so,” Patton responded. He sighed and put his burger into his lap. “You know, Logan, you spend so much time studying. I wouldn’t mind playing a card game with you.”

Logan leaned back into his chair and eyed Patton with a raised brow. “You do know it’s finals week, yes?”

“Well, yeah, but if you don’t take a break, you’re going to burn yourself out. Please? I know you like Spit.”

Logan ran a hand through his hair. He glanced out at the noisy birds and shrugged his shoulders. “Okay, fine, one game won’t hurt.”

Patton squealed and leapt off the bed. He dug through the drawers for the deck of cards he brought to school with him. Logan watched Patton fish around for a moment. Finally, Patton pulled the deck out and sat cross-legged on the floor, and Logan joined him soon after.

“So, the usual stakes?” Patton asked as he shuffled.

Logan sighed and nodded his head, “Though I don’t plan on losing.”

Patton split the deck and handed one half to Logan. They set up the game, and Patton waited for Logan to finish calculating his moves. They counted to three, and the game began.

While Patton's speed outmatched Logan's own, the other watched Patton’s cards and anticipated his moves, breaking Patton’s combos when he could. This went on for about ten minutes until Patton ran out of cards.

Patton slammed his hand on the floor one second before Logan. Logan’s hand smacked down onto the back of Patton’s hand, and Patton let out a sharp gasp.

A low rumble sounded from Logan’s throat. It almost sounded like a growl. 

The room held its breath. 

Patton looked up into Logan’s eyes, which stared at the back of his hand, and nervously laughed. 

“I win,” he responded in a fake chipper voice.

Logan lifted his hand off of Patton's own. Patton drew his hand to his chest and examined the red mark Logan left behind. He blinked back the tears in his eyes.

“Patton,” Logan called out, searching for Patton’s attention through the pain he caused, “Are you injured?”

“No, you just scared me is all,” Patton replied. Logan watched Patton warily. Patton chewed on the inside of his cheek and picked up the cards. “Best two out of three?”

Logan sighed. “I don’t think so. I really should get back to studying.”

“Oh,” Patton replied. He patted the cards until they were in a neat pile and placed them back in the drawer. “Okay then. We can go get the ice cream now and come back so you can study some more.”

“Sounds satisfactory.” Logan got off the floor and picked up some spare change from his other pants pocket. The two roommates then left their dorm to get ice cream.

--

Logan never felt this sick in his life.

The past three days, he couldn’t keep any food down. His limbs felt like they were going to fall off, and even the smell of food upset his stomach. Patton did his best to care for him, but he was a full-time college student and could only do so much.

Logan rolled over on his bed and took the now dry washcloth off his forehead. He eyed the clock on the wall for the fifteenth time, thankful for once that he could see without his glasses for some reason. Maybe his vision caused this sudden sickness. 

Of course, it was possible to get food poisoning from ice cream.

The birds outside went to sleep hours ago, and Logan couldn’t be more thankful. He put the cool side of the pillow over his head and groaned into his mattress. Great. He was getting a migraine. Just what he needed. 

Why was the week before finals the week he got sick as a dog?

“Logan?” Patton’s unusually calm voice called through the apartment, “are you here?”

Logan moaned in confirmation.

“I’m really starting to get worried about you. Maybe it’s time to go to the hospital,” Patton said as he closed the door. Logan poked his head out from under his blankets.

“Yeah,” was all Logan’s raspy voice would allow him to say. It sounded like he smoked a hundred cigarette packs a day. He wanted to avoid any unnecessary medical bills, but at this point, he’d do more damage to his body waiting than any medical bill could do to him.

Patton grabbed a jacket from the closet and slowly lifted Logan’s blanket. The loss of heat caused a shiver to constrict every muscle on Logan’s abdomen, and he curled his legs up into his chest.

“Hey, kiddo,” Patton cooed and held out the jacket. “Put this on and I’ll help you get down to the car, okay?”

“I don’t want to move.”

“I know, but we have to, or you might get sicker.”

“I’m already sicker- sick. I’m already sick.”

“Logan, please?”

Logan sighed and sat up on his elbows, his stomach pinching and protesting. He panted three times before he sat up all the way. Patton rubbed Logan’s back and sat beside him.

“There ya go. See? That wasn’t so hard.”

Logan rose a brow, and Patton chuckled. Patton eased Logan’s arms into the jacket, noting how much Logan’s body shook from the change in temperature, and helped him down to the car. Logan took his glasses off three minutes after having them on, claiming they made his headache and nausea worse, and Patton placed them in the extra glasses case he kept in the glove compartment in his car. 

Good thing the hospital was only five minutes away. Bad thing that doctors took forever to see their patients. Logan ran to the bathroom at least twice before they were called in to see anyone.

“So, you think you got a case of food poisoning?” the doctor asked as they scribbled down on their clipboard. Logan nodded his head the best he could with it on his knees. Patton rubbed Logan’s back.

“It happened maybe an hour or so after we had some ice cream,” Patton informed the doctor.

“Any history of lactose intolerance?”

Patton furrowed his brow. “I don’t think so. Logan and I eat ice cream all the time, and this is the first time he’s ever gotten this sick after eating it.”

The doctor hummed. “I’d advise him to stay away from any products with milk in it for a few hours just to make sure. It’s possible to develop lactose intolerance through illness, though rare, and I want him to drink extra water or tea, and stay away from energy drinks, soda, or coffee. Vomiting does cause dehydration.”

Logan rolled his eyes. He knew all this. He didn’t waste 5 years in college to have some doctor tell him this was a simple case of lactose intolerance. However, when he opened his mouth to protest, a strong wave of nausea hit him, and he clenched his teeth shut.

“Thank you,” Patton said as the doctor ended their visit. He turned to Logan and sent a sympathetic smile. 

“I hope you don’t think this is just lactose intolerance,” Logan grumbled.

Patton allowed his smile to drop and sighed through his nose. “I don’t know. Maybe we should give it one more day then come back if it gets any worse.”

Logan made a pitiful moan of confirmation before Patton assisted him in standing up straight. He put most of his weight on Patton and shivered again. In the end, Logan lost the rest of his strength, and Patton ended up carrying him bridal style to the car and up to their dorm room.

For the rest of the night, Patton stayed awake and made sure Logan was properly taken care of. The two of them lay together on the bottom bunk. Patton ran his hands through Logan’s hair as he hummed any soothing song he could think of. He bought numerous water bottles to keep on hand and helped Logan when he had an emergency bathroom run. Thankfully tomorrow was Sunday, and they both had no classes.

Logan shivered again thinking about all the work he’d missed the past three days.

“You don’t have to do all this,” Logan groaned at three in the morning.

Patton put down his mug of hot chocolate and sent a tired smile. He replied, “Logan, I’m your brother. Why wouldn’t I?”

“You’re only my stepbrother,” Logan retorted.

“Only?” Patton scoffed. “We were best friends first. I’d still be taking care of you even if dad didn’t adopt me.”

Logan allowed a hum of confirmation to escape his nose. “I suppose we were just meant to be together.”

“Heart and mind,” Patton replied and ran a hand over Logan’s forehead. “At least you don’t feel so warm anymore.”

“Perhaps it’s finally passing.” 

Logan wondered what kind of damage his internal organs suffered without proper care and rolled over. Patton’s calm voice reached through the silence of the room and sang a lullaby from his childhood. Logan recognized the tune and closed his eyes.

If he imagined it hard enough, he could picture his father humming the melody to chase away the thunder’s rumble. It even soothed his stomach for the first time in three days. Logan welcomed the euphoria of sleep after being denied for so long. He repeated the common causes of food poisoning in his head, noting salmonella from dairy usually took a maximum of three days to work itself out of the system and hoped this would be the end of his misery.

This would be the last time he ate chocolate ice cream from that store for a while.

--

Logan sighed as he ran a hand through his hair for the fifth time. Catching up on his schoolwork while studying for finals ate away all his free time. Patton tried several times to help, but Logan usually chased him away with his assertive temperament. Thankfully, Patton knew Logan well enough that he didn’t take it personally. He knew Logan was frustrated.

If there was one thing Logan was thankful for in his life, it was Patton’s ability to see the best in people like him.

Logan tried to force his glasses up his nose out of habit, but he remembered nothing rested there. He felt naked without them. However, with his sickness getting better, he didn't want to take a chance and mess around with his vision. Perhaps he'd pop the lenses out and wear just the frames around. Someone would notice he didn't have contacts eventually.

Logan glanced over at the time. Four am always snuck upon him. He glanced outside at the nearly full moon glowing through their window and sighed. He knew when Patton woke up he’d regret staying up this late. He did promise Patton he'd stay up no later than three am, but passing was of the utmost importance. Graduation was less than a week away, and Logan didn’t want to ruin his chances of leaving this hell. Sleep could wait.

He’d turn into a lunatic if he stayed here another day.

Logan clicked off the lamp and curled into bed. He didn’t realize how much his eyes ached until he closed them.

--

A low rumble shook Logan awake. His eyes snapped open, and he sprung up in bed. What was that? Was there an earthquake? Did Patton trip and fall again? His head snapped around and landed on the clock.

Nine in the morning. 

“Patton?” He called out. No chipper voice answered, and he slid out of bed to glance at the top bunk. Patton’s unmade bed greeted him with several blankets and stuffed animals. One, in particular, stared into Logan’s soul, as if it knew what he did and would squeal to Patton the first chance it got.

The rumble sounded again, and Logan cradled his stomach. He hummed and laughed at how silly he’d been. Of course he’d be hungry. Not only did he miss his usual breakfast hour, but he didn't eat much in the past seven days. Of course, the first three didn’t count because he was ejecting everything from his body at alarming rates, but they still counted towards his poor diet.

Perhaps it was time to grab something to eat.

Logan shuffled through the box of granola bars he and Patton kept on hand when they left the dorm in a hurry. He pulled out a granola bar with peanuts and almonds and tore the wrapper open. One of these could hold him over until lunch so he didn’t mess up his schedule too badly.

As he sat down on his bed, he scrolled through some unread messages on his phone. Most of them were a group text between him, Patton, and their father, and Logan noticed he’d finished his granola bar before he finished reading the first text. His stomach continued to growl. In a split decision, Logan opened another bar and began to munch on it.

Patton: I know you’re worried, but Logan’s strong.

Dad: I kno, but w/the stress of finals, I don’t want him overstressing himself :(

Patton: Even if he was, I’m taking care of him, just like I promised. He’s usually sleeping 8 hours a day and eating all three meals.

Dad. Good. :)

Patton: And once finals are over, we’ll be home with you all summer! Well, I will. Logan will probably find a job right after school. They’d be crazy not to hire him.

Dad: When did my little boys get so big?

Logan smiled and sent back a quick text.

Logan: Approximately 8 years ago when I stopped growing.

As his hands reached into the box to grab another granola bar, Logan hit empty cardboard. His brow twisted in confusion. Strange, he just bought this box yesterday, and there was supposed to be 18 bars in it. How many did Patton have for breakfast?

Logan put the box down and glanced at the pile of opened wrappers in his lap. He dug through them and counted fifteen wrappers.

Oh. He must’ve been hungrier than he thought.

Logan’s phone vibrated again, and he noticed a text from his father arrived in the group chat. He opened the message to read “Lol :P” from his dad and closed the lock screen on his phone.

As Logan stood to clean up his mess, he doubled over and gripped onto his stomach. Its growl shook the mattress. How could he still be this hungry after eating so many granola bars?

Logan opened the snack cabinet once again. He grabbed his jar of Crofter's and some crackers, and then returned to his bed. His next class wasn’t for another hour, so he could sneak in another meal before he headed out. He popped the lid off and dipped the cracker straight into the jar.

As he snacked, Logan twisted his once bitten arm around and examined the skin. Strange, the scabs from the bites had already healed. He shrugged it off, wondering if his mind amplified the situation more than it called for. 

For a few minutes, he continued to text his father back and forth. Patton was still in class, so he expected him to join the conversation later. His dad asked about Patton to make sure Logan held up his end of the bargain as well and watched out for his little brother.

Logan: He’s no longer a child. Patton is quite capable of taking care of himself and others.

Dad: I kno, I just worry. He’s 2 good 4 his own good.

Logan: Patton needs to make his own mistakes as well. You and I will not always be there to protect him from those who wish to do him harm. It’s a hard lesson one has to learn when they raise a child. You cannot always protect them from everything.

Dad: … who says I have to :P I’m ur dad. I’ll always worry a little bit about u 2.

Logan rolled his eyes and put his phone away. He licked the excess jelly from his lips and checked the damage he did to his jar and crackers. He already consumed over half of the jar, and he had three out of four cracker packs devoured. 

When did he develop such a healthy, or maybe unhealthy, appetite? Logan was always known as the picky eater of the family. And sure, he had a high metabolism, but he hadn’t eaten this much food in an hour even in his teen years when he grew six inches in three months.

At least his stomach didn’t hurt anymore.

Logan put the jar away and got his things together for his next class. He sent a quick text to Patton asking if they could have lunch together in the courtyard and put his satchel over his shoulder. The walk to his next class gave Patton enough time to respond with an enthusiastic “YES,” and Logan wondered if he should mention how he tore through 15 granola bars, most of his new jar of crofters, and almost a whole box of crackers in an hour.

The classroom held a light buzz of excited chatter from students ready to graduate within the month. Most of them had been through this hell with Logan since he started. There were a few undergraduates in the class, but not many.

“Good morning, Logan! Glad to see you’re feeling better.”

“Ah yes, good morning, Emile.” Logan sat down beside his friend of three years and put his satchel down between their seats. Emile leaned in on the counter and furrowed his brow.

“You look a little confused today. Everything okay?”

Logan rose a brow. He’d never understand how Emile could pierce through his stoic expressions and peg what conquered Logan’s mind.

“I’m merely concerned about passing graduation after all the work I’ve missed.” It was a half-truth. Logan caught Emile’s eye, and Emile sent a gentle smile back.

“Well, you know, if you need anything, I'll do my best to help.”

Logan nodded and replied, “Thanks.”

The professor silenced the room, and the class began.

Logan did his best to pay attention to the test. For some reason, his mind focused on what he was going to grab to eat for lunch this afternoon. Knowing Patton, he’d suggest the food court, but Logan couldn’t take the noise of so many people in one area. His stomach started to ache again, and Logan cradled it. He rested his forehead down on his paper and took deep breaths in.

And that’s when he heard it growl once again.

The sound deafened Logan’s attention to his thoughts. He raised his head from his book and noticed it brought a few other thoughts to a halt as well. Several students whispered and giggled, and Logan felt heat rise to his cheeks.

Emile chuckled beside him. He reached into his bag and pulled out a package of cheese crackers.

“Here, I think you could use them more than me,” Emile whispered.

Logan’s cheeks burned redder than before. He took the crackers and wished they came in quieter packaging. 

Another growl sounded from his stomach, and Logan leaped out of his chair. He could leave the last three questions blank. He grabbed his things and hurried out of the classroom before his stomach could disrupt class again. A few students laughed as he exited the room, and Logan’s ears started to burn from embarrassment. Emile called his name, but he couldn’t be bothered to turn around.

At least the class was almost over and he wouldn't have to go back again. Emile could catch up with him later, as he always had a habit of checking up on Logan to make sure he was okay.

“Logan!” Patton’s voice called out. He turned, and Patton bounced up to Logan’s side. Patton’s backpack jingled behind him. He continued, “Your class is out already? I didn’t expect to meet you for about fifteen minutes.”

Logan opened his mouth to say something, but his stomach growled and interrupted him. He put a hand to his gut and pursed his lips.

“Logan,” Patton’s voice came out in that low warning tone he used when he was upset, “did you skip out on breakfast?”

“Trust me, I had more than enough,” Logan mumbled back. 

Patton eyed him over, but he left it alone. He sighed and ran a hand through his hair.

“Okay, I trust you. Hey, where do you want to get something to eat, since you know, your stomach keeps growling?”

Logan put a hand on his stomach and massaged it. 

“You wait here. I’ll be right back,” Logan ordered. Patton opened his mouth to protest but nonetheless listened. Logan took a deep breath and walked off to a place he never thought he’d visit ever again. He’d probably regret this, but ever since he woke up, he craved it. He knew Patton’s order by heart so he could pick up his food as well. Besides, he owed him for the past three days when he made sure Logan’s face didn’t end up in the toilet.

When Logan returned with their food, Patton’s jaw nearly hit the ground. He stood up from his spot on the low stone wall and pulled a bag from Logan’s hands.

“How much food did you order?” Patton asked.

Logan spoke through the bag in his teeth, “Enough to satisfy this insane hunger I woke up with.”

They placed the food on the stones, sat down, and sandwiched the food bags between their hips. Logan searched around the bags until he pulled out Patton’s order of chicken fingers and fries with extra ketchup and pulled two bottles of water out of his bag.

“Logan,” Patton mumbled as he peeked into one of the bags, “did you order… cheeseburgers?”

“I did, along with a chicken sandwich and quite a few chicken nuggets. I’ll share a few with you if 6 aren’t enough for you,” Logan replied.

Patton pulled his lips into a puzzled grimace. “But, Lo, you haven’t touched greasy fast food in about 13 years, ever since-”

“I’m aware.”

“So why now?”

“Because I’m hungry, that’s why,” Logan answered. He unwrapped one of the cheeseburgers and took an inhumanly big bite of it. Patton waited to make sure Logan didn’t choke and unboxed his own chicken nuggets. 

For the first few minutes, the awkward silence choked Patton instead.

Almost every time Patton finished a chicken nugget, Logan would finish off a cheeseburger. Patton wondered if Logan inhaled them at this point. He stopped on his fifth chicken nugget and watched Logan with curiosity. Logan showed no signs of slowing down nor notice that Patton stopped to watch him.

“Logan,” Patton called out. Logan stopped mid-bite and looked over at him, “Is everything okay?”

“Yes,” Logan answered. He finished his bite and swallowed whatever reply he formed in his head.

Patton played with his fingers. “It’s just… you were so sick for those three days. And now you’re eating cheeseburgers. The other night, I heard you whimpering in your sleep, and you growled at me when we were playing cards. I know you’re stressed about finals and you don’t like talking about your feelings, but I’m really worried about you. If something is going on, please tell me. Please?”

Logan set the cheeseburger onto the napkin on his lap and turned to Patton. His lips pulled into a quirked smile, and he took a deep breath in and out. “Thank you for the concern, Patton, but I assure you that everything is satisfactory.”

Patton sighed through his nose and mumbled, “I was afraid you’d say that.” Logan quirked a brow, and Patton continued, “Logan, I do trust you, but please promise me if you ever feel comfortable enough telling me what’s going on you’ll tell me, okay?”

Logan stood up and grabbed the empty fast food bags. Patton tried to get Logan to stop, but he had already walked away to put them into the garbage bin. He returned and closed the space between him and Patton, their shoulders and thighs touching, and put his hands on his knees.

“I know you’re worried, but I can promise you that nothing has changed in my life. Well, aside from me being bitten and this monstrous appetite, nothing has at least.” Logan examined the area of skin where the teeth marks were almost a week ago. 

Patton clasped his hands and stared at them. “Okay.”

“Patton, you were my first and my closest friend. You’ve seen me at my worst, and you’ve still supported me nonetheless. You were there when I came out to our father, and you were there when we buried my mother. I have no reason to hide something serious from you because I know there are no risks.” Logan put a hand on Patton's own and gave it a squeeze. “If there was anyone I’d tell all my secrets to, it’d be you.”

Patton couldn’t help the smile that appeared on his lips. He nodded his head and sighed.

“Okay, I trust you.”

“Thank you. Now, I saw you were failing your algebra class. Would you like me to review with you for your final?”

--

Logan groaned as he pulled his blanket over his head. He curled in on his stomach and massaged it. He knew eating all those cheeseburgers would come back to haunt him. The clicking noise of Patton typing on his laptop above his head stopped, and Logan held his breath.

“Lo, you okay down there?” Patton asked.

“I’m fine,” Logan responded. “Just suffering some indigestion from overeating.”

“I told you to stop at the chili cheese dog and loaded nachos this afternoon.”

Logan grumbled an incomprehensible response.

Patton sighed and shut his laptop lid. “Want me to come down and rub your stomach like our mom used to?”

“That’s unnecessary,” Logan replied, but he had already heard the thump of Patton’s feet on the floor of their dorm. He rubbed his face into his pillow and sighed. “Go back to bed, Patton.”

The blanket lifted off Logan’s shoulder, and the cool breeze clenched Logan’s stomach muscles and tightened his fetal position further. He let out a low groan.

Patton sent a sympathetic smile, “Hey there, kiddo.”

“I’m not in the mood to be patronized,” Logan growled and grabbed the corner of the blanket. He rolled over and wrapped himself up like sushi.

Patton put his hands on his hips and sighed through his nose. “You know, if I told anyone that Logan Shea was being childish right now, no one would believe me.”

“That’s a negative thing?”

“No, but I- never mind. Hey, why don’t I make you some peppermint tea?”

Logan paused and tossed his head over in Patton’s direction. “With honey?”

“Extra honey just for you.”

“I guess that would suffice.”

Patton hummed and went over to their portable stove top to set a kettle on the burner. Logan fished his phone out of his pocket and glanced at the time. In three hours, it’d be midnight, and he would have to take his first final in the morning. He should be studying, not laying in bed.

Logan pushed the blanket off him. Goosebumps rose on his skin, and a shiver tore through his body. He caught sight of the full moon peeking over the trees and shining through the curtains of his dorm. Huh, he always liked sitting under the light of the moon. Perhaps it would bring some dopamine into his system and ease his stomach.

A childish thought, but he’d try anything at this point.

As Logan set his feet onto the floor, pain jabbed his kneecaps and toppled his balance. Logan cried out as he fell. The thud alerted Patton, who turned around and rushed over to him.

“Logan?” He cried out as he knelt down, “are you okay? What happened?”

Logan opened his mouth to reply, but his heart pounded in his chest, and he feared if he opened his mouth again it would jump out. His whole body started to throb. Logan clenched his teeth and realized his legs ached like when he got growing pains as a child. The floor slid out from under him, and he felt like he was falling.

Patton retracted his hand. Logan’s body burned like an inferno. He ran over to the counter, turned off the burner for the tea, and started to drench a paper towel in cold water.

A loud growl gripped Patton's attention. He spun around and dropped the towel on the floor. Logan’s body rapidly grew hair. His fingernails elongated into claws, and his nose pushed away from his face into a long snout. Clothing tore as Logan’s body grew, and it couldn’t contain his new size. The only thing that clung to him was his tie, now loosened around a thick mass of black fur. 

Patton covered his mouth in a silent scream. He backed into the counter. His eyes flashed over to the door, and he wondered if he’d have enough time to get out of here before anything happened.

Paws thundered on the floor as Logan stood up on his hind legs and hit his head off the ceiling. He whimpered and brought a pawed hand up to rub the spot. Logan shook his head, his ears making a flapping noise as he did so, and sat back on his hind legs. 

Ice blue eyes settled on Patton and froze Patton in place. Logan’s tail wagged as he took three steps toward Patton. Patton’s throat finally let out a sharp whimper, and he crawled onto the countertop. With Logan between him and the doorway, there was no way to escape now.

Maybe if he was lucky, this was just a horrible nightmare and he’d wake by falling off the top bunk again.

The now wolf Logan tilted his head to the side, much like a dog when someone spoke to it and it didn’t understand. He brought his nose close to the counter and sniffed Patton’s legs.

Patton blinked the tears from his eyes and sucked in a sharp breath. He looked around the counter for anything to defend himself with. He didn’t want to hurt Logan, but if it meant saving his life, he might have to.

Logan brought his head close to Patton’s own. Patton twisted his head to the side and held his breath. Logan’s leathery, wet nose brushed Patton’s cheek, and Patton squeezed his eyes shut. A slobbery tongue licked one of the tears off Patton's freckled face. Patton sucked a sharp gasp through his teeth. 

The wolf whined and nuzzled his nose under Patton’s chin as if trying to comfort him. Patton clenched and unclenched his hands. The wolf’s tail wagged back and forth behind him, and Patton slowly reached up to run a hand through Logan’s fur. It felt coarse and thick to the touch. He slipped his hand over Logan’s fur several times before the knot in his stomach released. 

Petting his brother was not on his to-do list today, but sometimes that’s just how life went apparently.

Logan’s teeth gripped the collar of Patton’s polo. He dragged Patton over toward his bed. Patton tried to slip out of his shirt, but before he could, the wolf tossed him onto the bottom bunk. Patton cried out as he rolled onto his back. The wolf climbed onto the bed as well, the bunk bed groaning in protest under their combined weight.  

Patton tried to roll off. The wolf grabbed him around the middle and pinned Patton against his chest. Patton’s body shook. The wolf’s ears perked up as he stared down at Patton, and he licked the tears off Patton’s face once again. Patton spat the drool off his lips. Logan’s tongue then started grooming Patton’s hair, making it stick up in all different directions. Patton wanted to brush it back to normal, but with the way Logan pinned both Patton’s arms to his side, he had a feeling he’d wake up with a permanent cow lick- er wolf lick.

When Logan was satisfied with Patton’s new hairstyle, he laid down and cradled Patton under his chest like a doll. He nuzzled his nose under Patton’s neck and let out a content sigh.

Patton spat the fur off his lips. He attempted to wiggle out of Logan's grip, but the wolf let out a warning growl, and his whole body froze. Patton's eyes searched the room for their digital clock. With Logan's body pinning down his arms and legs, he had a feeling he wouldn’t be going anywhere anytime soon. 

Patton stared up at the ceiling of their bunk and tried his best to go to sleep. Hopefully, when he opened his eyes the next day, he’d have a heck of a tale to tell Logan.

--

Disappointment woke Patton up as he realized that last night did in fact happen, and now he had his near naked brother lying on top of his body.

Patton found he could easily wiggle out from under Logan now and put as much distance between him and Logan as he could, but not before covering Logan up with his galaxy blanket. He tripped over the shredded clothes on the floor and landed on the counter's edge. Patton twisted his body and tried to wrap his mind around what happened last night.

In all the years Patton knew Logan, he’d never guess that he was a werewolf.

No, that couldn’t be right. Logan never changed before. He would’ve known it. He and Logan spent many nights camped out under a full moon and staring at the stars, so what changed in that short amount of time?

Logan groaned, and Patton held his breath. He ran a hand through his black hair and sat up on his elbows. Half asleep blue eyes caught Patton’s startled expression, and he sent a quirked smile.

“Good morning,” Logan greeted.

Patton let out a nervous laugh. How much of last night did Logan remember? Obviously not much if he was in this chipper of a mood.

“Uh, good morning,” Patton replied.

Logan shivered, and he looked down. He gasped and brought his blanket closer around his body. A blush tinted his face red. Logan swallowed hard and stared at the floor. His arms gripped the side of the bed as he leaned over the edge and caught sight of his torn clothes on the ground.

“Patton,” he whispered, but his mind couldn’t formulate a continuation. He wrapped the blanket tighter around his chest and started to shake.

Patton walked over to Logan and sat beside him. He chewed on his lip.

“How much of last night do you remember?” Patton asked.

“Not much,” Logan mumbled back. He furrowed his brow and licked his dry lips. “What happened.”

“Weeeeell,” Patton played with his fingers. “You’re going to think I’m nuts for thinking this, and I swear I’m telling the truth, but let’s just say… you were a real animal in bed last night.”

“That’s not even remotely funny, Patton.”

“But it’s true.”

Logan brought his fingers out from under the blanket to pinch the bridge of his nose. “Please tell me I did not get intoxicated and defile someone last night.”

“You didn’t.” Patton paused. “At least, I don’t think you did.”

Logan sighed and rubbed his arms. “Then what happened?”

Patton took a deep breath and relayed the events from last night. Logan listened with a stone face. For a while, Patton even wondered if Logan was listening, let alone taking him seriously.

When Patton finished, Logan remained silent. 

Patton swallowed hard and sent a wary smile. “At least you didn’t hurt anyone-”

“I don’t want to believe it, but with all the events that happened over the past two weeks, I’m finding it relatively hard to deny it.”

Patton blinked in surprise. “Wait, you really believe this?”

“Think about it. My aggressive appetite and hunger for meat, my sudden intolerance to ice cream- chocolate to be exact, my rapidly healed eyesight,” Logan examined his forearm where he was bitten. “There's no other possible cause."

“Yeah, I guess it makes sense.”

“It’s no wonder my mind has tried to think up a solution for this problem.”

“Uh-”

“I’ve been stumped for so long, this brings everything into perspective. However, when I wake up, I’m going to have to try and figure out if my arm is infected and caused this fever dream. I knew my allergy to penicillin would detriment me at some point."

“Logan-”

“But first, I have an exam to get to. Even if this is a dream, I don’t want to fail.”

Patton tried to get Logan to wait and listen, but Logan dressed and walked out the door before he could reason with him. Patton flopped down on Logan’s bed and lifted his glasses to press his palms into his eyes.

Convincing Logan last night happened was proving to be more difficult than he thought.

--

Thankfully, the rest of Patton and Logan’s time during finals went rather well. Logan’s hunger subsided, and he was back to his normal eating habits. The two of them had started packing up their things to return home, and Patton decided it was time to start saying goodbye to all his friends before the summer hit and they were apart for three months.

Patton bounced around campus, passing students and professors left and right. He said hello to the few he knew and kept an eye out for those who he searched for.

“Damian!” Patton called out. He waved and ran up to his friend.

Damian turned around, his brown eyes catching Patton and sending a smile. However, it soon disappeared, and he covered his nose.

“Patton,” Damian said through his hands.

Patton froze in his tracks and tilted his head to the side a bit. “What’s wrong?”

“Did you forget to shower this morning?” Damian asked. “What did you do, roll around in garbage?”

Patton rubbed a hand over his neck. It was true; he hadn’t showered this morning. However, he didn’t think that he smelled that bad.

Damian grabbed Patton’s arm, making him jump. He started twisting it all over, then pulled his head to the side and examined his neck. He brought his nose close to Patton’s neck and took a deep breath.

“Uh, Damian,” Patton said with a nervous laugh. “What’s going on?”

A sigh of relief left Damian’s lips, and he ran a hand through his hair. “Nothing. Just wanted to see if it was really you that I smelled.”

“Okay,” Patton replied. 

Damian wrapped an arm around Patton’s shoulder and brought him in close. He said, “You know, I think you should spend the summer at my house. I think we could use some quality bonding time together.”

“The whole summer?” Patton squeaked.

“Why not? I think you’d enjoy the Arizona air. It’s actually breathable, unlike this humid swamp.”

“I don’t know, kiddo,” Patton replied. He gave a slight laugh. “I mean, I know you’re cold-blooded, but some of us sweat, and if you think I smell now-”

“How about a month then? I think my parents would love you.”

Patton chewed his lips. “Thanks but no thanks.”

A deep frown set on Damian’s lips before he sighed through his nose. “Well, if you change your mind, you have my number. And if you ever need help-”

“Patton,” a voice called behind them. Both Patton and Damian turned. Patton popped on a friendly grin, while Damian sent a cocky smirk.

“Virgil, so nice to see you,” Damian cooed, “You’re like a zit on prom night.”

“Shut it, mosquito breath,” Virgil growled.

“Hey Virgil,” Patton spoke. He moved to walk away from Damian but found his friend's fingers digging into his arm. “Uh, Damian, kiddo, you can let go.”

Damian hesitated before retracting his hand. He stared down Virgil as the latter shifted closer to Patton.

Virgil opened his mouth to speak, but he paused and smelled the air. His golden eyes glanced over at Patton, who sent a sheepish smile.

“I didn’t shower this morning, sorry,” Patton responded.

“I hope it wasn’t your fault,” Damian remarked. Virgil’s neck hair bristled. 

Patton pushed between the two of them and offered a too wide smile. “Hey, easy. It’s the last day. Is it really that hard to be nice?”

Damian snuffed and hissed, “To him?”

“Yes. Yes, it is,” Virgil growled.

Patton sighed. He scratched his head and opened his mouth to talk more, but Virgil grabbed his hand.

“Can I talk to you in private?” Virgil asked. He looked over his shoulders and caught Damian’s intense stare.

“Sure, kiddo,” Patton responded. He opened his mouth to speak again, but Virgil already pulled him away and far out of earshot from anyone else. Patton opened his mouth to ask what was going on when Virgil shut the family bathroom door and locked it behind them. For a moment, all Virgil did was stare at the door.

“Patton, I have a really crazy question to ask you.”

“Oookay.”

Virgil started pacing. He opened his mouth a few times to ask, but he closed it soon after with a growl. Patton stayed silent and watched his friend work out his nerves. Finally, Virgil stopped and took a deep breath.

“Patton, who have you been with the past 24 hours?”

Patton pulled out his fingers and started counting, “Well, my brother mostly. I said goodbye to Mr. Mare this morning, then I went to get coffee and donuts with Thomas. Then I saw Damian, and then you showed up-”

“No, I mean, like-” Virgil squeezed his hands through his hair.

“Breathe-”

“I KNOW-” Virgil snapped. He cleared his throat. “Sorry, I’m just-”

“Take your time.”

“Can you stop interrupting me?”

“Oh, yeah, sorry.” He zipped his fingers over his lips.

Virgil blew a heavy breath through his own lips. He spat out, “Patton, do you know anything about werewolves?”

Patton froze. He sucked in a deep breath and let out a too cheerful laugh. “Now, kiddo, what kind of question is that?”

“I can smell that you’re nervous.”

Patton snapped his jaw shut. Virgil stood with his back facing Patton, and he clenched and unclenched his hands.

Virgil continued, “Pat, I… well I mean, my whole family actually- we’re all werewolves. Me, Roman, my mom, my dad, my aunts and uncles, cousins- you get the point. I know this sounds stupid and crazy, but I… the way you smell is not a normal human smell, and I’m worried.”

Patton reached out to touch Virgil’s shoulder, but he retracted it and instead clasped his hands together in front of his chest.

“Well, I-” Patton started. He chewed on his lip. Virgil turned around expecting Patton to continue, and Patton added, “I mean, I may have recently run into one.”

“Wait, what? Are you okay? They didn’t bite you, did they? Well, I mean, I would’ve known if they bit you because I’d be able to tell if you were a werewolf too but-” Virgil paused. “Who is it?”

Patton swallowed hard. He eyed Virgil carefully, who took a step forward. Patton took a step back. Virgil froze, and Patton glanced down at the floor.

“You’re not going to hurt them if I tell you, are you?”

“I- I don’t know, Pat. Not all werewolves are nice, and I just- I want to make sure, okay?”

“I can protect myself,” Patton responded, puffing his chest out a little.

Virgil snorted through his nose. “Okay, fine, but with the way Damian and I were touching you today, I want to make sure they don’t get territorial or anything.”

“Territorial?” Patton repeated. His voice came out in a near whisper, “Is he going to pee on me?”

Virgil let out a bark of a laugh and startled Patton a bit. Patton nervously chuckled. 

“No, but he might come after us, and I’d rather not have another territory struggle on my hands,” Virgil replied.

Patton opened his mouth to ask, but he decided to finally open up instead. “It’s my brother, Logan.”

Virgil furrowed his brow. “Wait, but I’ve smelled Logan on you tons of times. He always smelled like a human.”

“Well, this was… rather recent,” Patton said with a nervous chuckle.

Virgil’s face grimaced, and Patton swallowed thickly.

“Was he bitten over a jar of Crofter's?”

“Uh, yeah, but-”

“That fucking moron!”

“Excuse me?”

“Pat, Roman was the one who bit Logan.”

Patton paused, and Virgil pulled out his phone. Virgil swiped through until he pulled up Roman’s contact and jabbed his finger on the call button. Patton opened his mouth to ask what was going on, but Virgil held up his finger to silence him and put Roman on speaker.

After three rings, Roman’s voice picked up.

“Good morning, My Chemical Bromance, to what do I owe the honor-”

“You turned Logan Shea into a fucking werewolf,” Virgil growled.

The line grew silent. A wary voice called through, “Who is Logan?”

“Patton’s brother.”

“Oh,” was the only response they got for 30 seconds. Patton wondered if the line went dead. Roman continued, “Wait, the same Patton who hangs around with you and Flea Balzary?”

“That’s the one,” Virgil responded.

“Who’s Flea Balzary?” Patton asked.

The other end of the phone grew silent. Virgil asked if Roman was still there, and he got a cleared throat in response.

“Virgil, who else is with you?”

“Just Patton,” Virgil replied.

“Hi,” Patton chirped with a small wave.

Roman breathed a heavy sigh, and he spoke, “Well, hello there, Patton. I’m sorry we had to meet this way- well sort of. We haven’t actually met, but- Logan, is he alright?”

Virgil looked up at Patton for confirmation.

Patton played with his fingers as he answered, “He, uh, he doesn’t think he’s a werewolf.”

“I honestly wouldn’t expect him to. Tell you what, Patton, you bring Logan over to our dorm, and we’ll explain everything. I mean, he’s going to be a werewolf for the rest of his life now, and no level of sane thinking is going to ever deny that.”

“Okay,” Patton replied.

Roman continued, “Oh, and Virgil, I don’t appreciate you chewing up my jersey.”

“You left it on my bed. I told you not to.”

“Then put it on mine like a normal human being.”

“Never.” Virgil hung up the phone before Roman could reply to him. He sighed and ran a hand through his hair. “Sorry to get you all mixed up in this.”

“It’s no problem,” Patton responded. He let out a sigh of relief. “Honestly, I was starting to wonder if it never happened and I really did dream up the whole thing.”

Virgil sent a sympathetic smile. “I wish I could tell you this was all a dream.”

--

Logan sighed as he followed Patton and Virgil off to Virgil’s dorm. Honestly, he didn’t have time for this. There was still so much to pack, and their father would be there in the morning to pick them up. He had to double check to make sure he and Patton both didn’t leave anything behind.

Patton kept trying to bring lightheartedness into the conversation, but between Virgil’s nervousness on revealing a family secret to a complete stranger (even if he was Patton’s brother) and Logan’s irritation, he couldn’t get anyone to respond. 

Eventually, they got to the Freshman’s dorm, and Roman opened the door with an all too eager smile.

“Come on in,” he greeted with an arm open wide. Virgil rolled his eyes and stepped in. Patton followed after and earned a genuine smile from Roman. When Logan stepped in, Roman took a deep breath and tried to keep his smile from disappearing.

“I hope you’re not going to bite me again,” Logan snapped.

“Depends,” Roman replied and earned a kick in the shin from Virgil. Roman yelped and glared at his brother, who closed the door behind Logan.

“Lo, this is Roman. He wants to apologize for biting you,” Patton spoke.

Logan raised a brow and folded his arms. Roman twisted his hands together and swallowed his nerves down his throat.

Roman spoke, “Yes, well, that was an unfortunate accident.”

“Unfortunate?” Logan barked. “You bit me over a jar of Crofter's. I can understand the sentiment, but I would never harm another human being over it.”

“I’m sorry! I wasn’t in the best of moods at the time,” Roman snapped back. He ran a hand through his hair. 

“Obviously. However, apology accepted. Now, Patton, can I go home? I have a lot of work to get done.”

“Not yet,” Virgil spoke up, and Logan turned his attention to him.

“We have something to discuss,” Roman added. Logan turned his attention between the three people in the dorm and sighed.

“I really don’t have time for this.” He turned to leave.

Virgil stared him down, a low growl sounded through his throat, “You really need to hear this.”

Logan’s gut twisted with dread. Something about the look in the two stranger's eyes sent warning signals screaming through his brain. 

“What’s going on?” Logan asked, taking a step back. He grabbed Patton’s hand and partially stepped in front of his brother to shield him from the other two.

“Logan, when I bit you,” Roman started, “You see, sometimes when a pureblood werewolf bites someone- even if they’re not shifted- well it can sometimes lead to the person becoming a-”

“Logan, Roman turned you into a werewolf,” Virgil spat out. 

Logan opened and closed his mouth three times before he finally turned to Patton and said, “You’re playing a practical joke on me, aren’t you?”

“No!” Patton protested and held his hands up. “I swear, Logan, we’re being serious right now.”

“You’re still on about this werewolf business? Patton, werewolves are not real. They’re make-believe. They don’t exist.”

“Could you tell the government that? Because I really don’t want to pay taxes,” Virgil mumbled.

Logan sent him a rather nasty glare, and Virgil rolled his eyes.

“Logan, I swear on my father’s grave that we’re being honest,” Roman said and put a hand to his chest. “I can’t prove it to you now, but if you wait until the night of the full moon-”

“I honestly don’t have time for this,” Logan growled. He turned and pulled Patton’s hand along with him. “Come on, Patton, we have work to do.”

“But-”

Roman growled, “Logan, please be reasonable!”

“I am being reasonable! It’s you lot who are insane.”

“Tell me you remember what happened the night of the full moon, and I’ll let it all go,” Roman snapped back.

Logan opened his mouth to speak. He closed it and opened it again.

“I was in my room, I fell asleep, and then I woke up the next morning. Nothing extraordinary there.”

Roman growled in frustration and scrubbed his hands down his face.

“You-”

“Fine, you don’t want to believe us, just go,” Virgil snapped.

“Virgil-”

“No, Roman, obviously he doesn’t want to listen. There’s no point wasting our breath on him.”

Patton pulled on Logan’s hand and urged, “Please, Logan, please just listen to them. They’re only trying to help.”

Logan eyed his brother over. He glanced up at the other two before taking in a deep breath and exhaling through his nose.

“The only way they’re going to help us now, Patton, is if they help us pack to go home.”

Patton’s head lowered. Tears of frustration pricked at his eyes, and he clenched his teeth.

“Why do you have to be so stubborn?”

Logan shook his head. He mumbled, “You can stay here and play pretend, but I have work to do. Meet me at the car in an hour if you want me to drive you home.”

Logan pulled his hand from Patton’s grasp. He walked out the door and slammed it behind him.

Patton’s shoulders tensed as the door slammed shut. His body stiffened, and he blinked his eyes so tears would not fall onto his cheeks.

Virgil blew a heavy breath through his lips. “That went well.”

“I’m sorry,” Patton apologized. He played with his fingers. “I didn’t mean to waste your time.”

“Worry not, Patton. I could smell werewolf all over him,” Roman answered. “Whether Logan chooses to believe it or not, he is a werewolf, and he will end up shifting on the next full moon.”

“Can’t you both shift into werewolves and show him?” Patton asked.

“This isn’t a movie. We can’t shift at will,” Virgil answered.

Patton sighed and ran a hand through his hair. He walked over to the door, turned the handle, and paused before leaving.

“What do I do? I mean, when he shifts on the full moon.”

Virgil snuffed. “Stay out of his way and hope he doesn’t eat you.”

Roman sent his brother a nasty look before he turned to Patton. “Virgil and I will try our best to be there.”

“Are you kidding me? Do you know how much of a bad idea that is?”

“Do you have a better one?”

Virgil opened his mouth to answer but closed it soon after. He crossed his arms and grumbled under his breath.

“Don’t worry, Patton. You won’t be alone in this. If Virgil won’t help, I will do my best to be there for you when he transforms on the next full moon. You have my word.” Roman walked over to Patton and held out his phone. “Here, take my number. If you need anything, don’t hesitate to call me.”

Patton nodded his head and sent a grateful smile. He copied Roman’s number into his contacts and sighed through his nose.

“Thank you.”

“No problem at all, little puffball,” Roman spoke. “I have a feeling we’re going to need each other later on.”

--

Logan shifted his car into gear and pulled out of the college parking lot for the last time. Well, at least until he drove Patton back in three months.

Patton rolled his window down and waved goodbye to a few friends. He settled back down into his seat and let the window open. The mild spring air tossed his hair around. His eyes kept flickering over to Logan, and the latter sighed through his nose.

“You have a question?” Logan asked.

Patton squeezed his hands together. “Are you okay? I mean, this is the last time you're going to be here.”

“I’m still under the assumption that this is all a wild hallucination due to sleep deprivation and I’ll wake up in my dorm bed before taking any of my finals,” Logan replied, “but yes, I am satisfactory.”

Patton nodded his head. He leaned his elbow on the window sill, and his eyes watched the trees pass by in a blur. 

For a while, the ride home was silent. The campus was about an hour drive from their home, and they both knew the roads by heart. Ever since they were little, Logan dreamed of going to this college and becoming a doctor so he could stop anyone from suffering the same fate his mother did. They took so many visits to the campus when they were little, and their parents saved up for years so they could go. Realizing that Logan’s dream was soon a reality warmed Patton’s heart. All the years of financial struggles were about to pay off, and he hoped his own journey would be just as successful.

Their familiar childhood suburb pulled into view. Nostalgia gripped Patton’s heart as he watched familiar street signs pass. He caught sight of the park where he and Logan first met all those years ago. Memories played in his mind like a movie.

Logan accidentally pushed Patton's sandcastle over while following an ant trail, and Patton cried for a half hour before he was consoled. Logan offered to help him build it back up after he calmed down. The two of them worked for hours, and quite a few kids asked if they could join in. Soon, it was a playground production. They built a sandcastle that covered the whole sandbox, and their parents were so proud.

Then a dog chasing a frisbee ran through it and ruined it.

Patton chuckled. Logan glanced out of the corner of his eye and quirked a brow.

“Something on your mind?” Logan asked.

“Just remembering stuff,” Patton responded. He sighed. “Remember when you fell off the fire pole because you were too afraid to hold on with your legs?”

Logan shuddered, “Don’t remind me.”

“Okay, I give that memory a break.”

“Patton.”

“What? You have a bone��to pick with me?”

Logan contemplated pulling over to the side of the road and making Patton walk the rest of the way home.

The sight of their home came into view, and a wave of relief eased Logan’s tense muscles. Here, everything that happened in the past two weeks or so could go away. Here, he was just a young man who was returning home from college.

No werewolf nonsense here.

Logan pulled the car into the driveway and put it in park. For a moment, Patton and he stared up at the familiar whiteboards in silence, appreciating the moment for what it was. Then Patton exited the car, and Logan followed soon after.

“It’s quiet,” Patton pointed out.

“It’s suspicious,” Logan mumbled. “We did tell them our arrival date was today, did we not?”

“Maybe they had to run to the store,” Patton responded. He inserted his key into the lock and gave it a twist.

From outside, Logan could hear whispers from inside. He grabbed Patton’s hand on the door handle, stopping him from opening it. 

“Someone’s inside,” Logan grumbled. He smelled the air, and several scents lingered on the doorstep. Multiple people were here. Some of the scents he didn’t recognize and sent alarm bells through his mind.

Patton turned to Logan and quirked a brow. “It’s probably mom and dad.”

“No,” Logan growled. He nudged Patton away and placed his own hand on the door handle. Logan took a deep breath in. He twisted the door handle and swung the door open wide.

“SURPRISE!!”

Logan’s glasses slid down his nose a little as he froze in the doorway. Patton peeked around Logan and started to laugh.

“Aww, a surprise party?” Patton shouted over the clapping and cheering.

Their mom and dad, who stood up from behind the couch, walked over to their two boys. Patton ran forward and nearly knocked his mom over, who wrapped her son up in the biggest hug she could manage. Logan missed when his father arrived in front of him.

“Well, how’s it feel to be a graduated college student?” his dad asked as he clapped a hand down on Logan’s shoulder. Logan recoiled. He nearly flashed his teeth at his dad but regained his composure. 

He was a human for god’s sake, not some wild animal.

“No different than when I woke up yesterday morning,” Logan responded in a cool voice. 

“I wouldn’t expect any less from you,” his father responded. “Go eat some cake, relax, and try to have a good time, okay?”

Logan gave a short nod and finally released the breath he’d held in his chest.

Patton blended into the crowd unsurprisingly well. Social gatherings were always his forte, while Logan usually trailed behind him like an awkward toddler. The younger brother bounced from aunt to uncle to cousin, telling each one all about his college adventures. Some looked politely interested while others engaged Patton, asked questions, and gave input to keep the conversation going.

One aunt Logan noticed kept a particular distance from him, and he caught her eye. The mere sight of her sent chills down Logan’s spine. Not only that, but every time he got too close to her, he began to feel sick, but it cleared as soon as he stepped away from her.

That was… odd.

“Logan!” Patton called out, breaking his brother’s concentration. Logan rose a brow and turned to Patton, who held out a cup of lemonade to him. Patton continued, “You know what they say: when life gives you lemons-”

“Thank you,” Logan said as he took the cup. 

“I know you hate surprise parties,” Patton mumbled. He looked down into his own cup.

“It’s exhausting,” Logan responded, “and since my nerves are a mess, my senses are heightened. I can see and smell too many things at once.”

Patton nodded his head and took a drink.

Logan continued, “I’m going to attempt to escape to my bedroom. Keep everyone away if you can.”

“I can try,” Patton responded, “but Aunt Alice has been asking about you a lot. She’s asking some… really odd questions.”

“Her especially,” Logan mumbled. He scanned the crowd one last time for his estranged aunt and walked up the stairs to his room.

“Logan!” his father called out, making the hair on Logan’s neck rise, “the party’s down here. Don’t tell me you’re already calling it a day.”

“I’m exhausted from finals and had to drive the whole way home. I’m not in the mood for a party,” Logan responded.

His dad deflated a bit. “Oh, well, I’m sorry if we upset you-”

“Patton seems to be enjoying himself, so it wasn’t a wasted effort. I shall return once I take a nap.”

His dad sneezed, and Logan blessed him.

“Okay, we’ll save you some cake.”

Logan recalled his three day illness. “Only if it’s vanilla.”

“One slice of vanilla cake with Logan’s name on it going in the fridge.”

His dad sneezed again and rubbed his nose. He mumbled about someone having dog fur on their clothes and hugging him.

Logan sent a genuine smile before retreating up the stairs to his room. The second floor muffled a bit of the chatter, but Logan could still hear it like he was still in the living room. He’d have to invest in earplugs at this rate.

As Logan approached his room, a heavy scent reached his nose. He paused a few steps outside his doorway and took a deep breath in. It seemed to come from his room. Logan tiptoed to his door and put a hand on the handle. The strange scent overpowered his own, and he swallowed his dry throat.

Logan twisted the door open and examined the room. His galaxy bedspread rested against the wall, and his computer desk guarded the corner opposite of it. His window cracked and let in a light breeze, the lace curtain flapping a bit. 

His dresser sat against the wall. On top of that, Logan noticed someone had been burning incense. The smell was sweet and earthy, and it turned Logan’s stomach. For some reason, he couldn’t bring himself to enter his room. He closed his door and took a few breaths of fresh air.

That’s strange. He usually loved the smell of incense.

Logan turned from his room and headed toward the bathroom, but he noticed someone standing in the doorway. Logan paused and watched his Aunt Alice light up a stick of incense and leave it on the bathroom sink. Logan took a deep breath of fresh air and approached the room.

The sick feeling returned to his stomach.

“Aunt Alice, we have air fresheners on the back of the toilet,” Logan informed.

His aunt turned to look at him, her green eyes studying him with contempt. She curled her lip into a grimace and walked out of the room. The strong smell followed her out. Logan stopped himself from covering his nose and held his breath.

“I’m aware,” she replied.

“Then please extinguish the incense in the bathroom. I’m afraid you’ll aggravate Patton’s asthma.”

“Ah, yes, I forgot about that,” she grumbled. She dug around in her purse and grabbed some sort of perfume. “I wouldn’t want any harm to come to my second favorite nephew.”

Logan’s lungs burned. He resisted the urge to breathe until his aunt turned around. The strong smell burned his lungs further, and he hid a cough behind his shirt sleeve. Alice extinguished the stick with cold water and placed it on the counter to cool. 

“Thank you,” Logan responded as she closed the bathroom door behind her. 

She eyed Logan over once more and curled her nose. Logan watched her descend the stairs. His shoulders relaxed, and Logan failed to realize just how many of his muscles locked from the conversation.

What was that stuff? Why did the smell burn Logan’s lungs and make him want to vomit?

Was… maybe what Patton was going on about him being a werewolf had some truth- no. That was ridiculous. Werewolves don’t exist.

Logan hastened back to his room. He covered his nose with his shirt collar and walked in. The smell slipped through the threads and burned his nose. His head spun. Logan reached out and grabbed the unlit tip, and it burned his fingers. He let out a sharp hiss. Logan raced toward the bathroom to put out the stick as quickly as possible. 

After placing the extinguished incense down on the counter, Logan examined his fingers. Redness coated his fingers, but it didn’t look too severe. The stick’s burn was too far up and shouldn't have injured him whatsoever.

What was this stuff?

Logan walked back to his bedroom. He placed a moveable fan in front of his window and positioned it to spread fresh air into the room. Within a few minutes, the smell disappeared enough for Logan to shut his door, and he took a deep breath in.

After fishing his phone from his pocket, Logan googled scents that would repel werewolves just for curiosity's sake. He came up with wolfsbane, but apparently, that had no smell. 

With a buzzing mind, Logan walked out of his room and leaned over the stair railings. He spied Patton talking to some family members and waved his hands to grab Patton’s attention. 

Patton turned toward him. He smiled and waved back.

“Patton, I need a word with you,” Logan yelled over the chatter.

Patton excused himself from his guests and walked over to the stairs.

“What’s up, Logan?”

Logan shifted his weight from one foot to the next. He asked, “You wouldn’t happen to have Roman’s number by chance, would you?”

“Roman?” Patton’s eyes widened, and a grin spread across his face. “I do. Why?”

“I just-” Logan ran a hand through his hair- “I wish to get better acquainted with him is all.”

“Oh, okay,” Patton said with a wink.

Logan’s cheeks flushed. “I am not crushing on him. I merely wish to discuss the Crofter’s incident in more detail. Perhaps we could reconcile.”

“Ooookay,” Patton replied, his smile still wide. He fished his phone out of his pocket and scrolled until he found Roman’s number. He showed it to Logan, who copied it into his phone. Logan cleared his throat when he finished and thanked Patton for his time. He climbed the rest of the stairs and hastened into his room.

At least the smell dissipated a bit in the rest of the house. 

Logan sat on his bed, rested his forehead in his palm, and grabbed his hair. With a gentle tug, he stared at Roman’s contact number in his phone. How did he word this without alerting the other of his situation? It could be a coincidence that his aunt had burned a smell that affected him so much. It could be a coincidence that all this werewolf stuff would affect him.

Logan opened the messenger and stared at the blinking cursor for a moment. He finally typed a coherent sentence.

Good afternoon, Roman. This is Logan Shea, the person you bit over the jar of crofters. I am messaging you with a question. Hypothetically speaking, are there certain smells that affect a werewolf? I’m curious, and you seem to be into werewolves. If you wish to answer, I would be grateful to know. If not, I hope your day ends well.

Logan waited a moment or two before hitting the send button. That sounded formal and not urgent whatsoever right? He never understood tone over text. How many times had he asked someone a simple question only to get accused of being angry? 

Logan sighed and set his phone on his bed. He didn’t expect a reply so quick, and definitely not several messages popping up afterward. 

Roman: Lavender is a good. I love the smell of lavender

Roman: OH! And it gets rid of mosquitos and stuff because they don’t like the smell. Great for leaving your window open at night

Roman: I heard oranges is a good one too

Roman: But I used to live next to an orange grove when I was little so I might be a bit biased

Roman: Frankincense is pretty nasty tho even Virgil agrees

Roman: Lemongrass is good for when you need to think or ya know clear your head and stuff

Roman: Also white sage is a no no. It’ll kill any wolf that inhales too much of it

Roman: That answer your question?

Logan mumbled about Roman eating up so many texts. Wasn’t it easier to send multiple sentences at once with the correct grammatical format? Logan sent a quick “Yes, thank you” and received some sort of yellow face blowing a heart at him. He set his phone on the counter and plugged it in to charge.

It amazed him how serious Roman took this werewolf business.

The door muffled a bit more of the party downstairs, and Logan sat down on his bed with a book he neglected to take to college with him. He opened the cover, appreciating that new book smell, and hoped that by the end of the book, he’d have some sort of understanding on how to obtain and keep a stable job.

--

Two weeks passed by without much alarm. Logan searched for any sort of job in the medical field. Two called him back for an interview so far, but since it was only the beginning of his search, Logan didn’t bet all his money on grabbing it. After all, he was still young.

Patton played games online a lot with his friends from college. Even though he and Damian were from different time zones, the two of them still found time to get together and play. Patton blamed that mostly on Damian’s horrible sleeping pattern, and no amount of telling him to go to sleep ever fixed it.

Then, three days before the full moon, the insatiable hunger hit Logan’s gut again. Not only that, but he found himself eating greasy foods once again. If Logan’s parents noticed, they didn’t say anything. Patton insisted Logan didn’t smell like grease, but Logan could smell his shame.

The closer the full moon got, the more nervous Patton became. What was he going to do with Logan when he sifted? How would he hide him from their parents? He couldn’t let Logan run free. Logan could hurt someone. It was a miracle he wasn’t hurt when Logan shifted the first time.

Someone must’ve been looking out for him because his parents got a call from his sick great uncle in Canada who asked if they could come to visit. They’d be gone for the week. In fact, his parents were surprised when Patton declined to go with. He loved his great uncle, especially the stories he told, but Patton knew if he left Logan alone, something bad was going to happen.

Patton eyed the basement door. It… might hold Logan. He didn’t know how strong the werewolf was, but it might work. It was all he had.

So the day of the full moon, Patton gathered as many spare blankets as he could, throw pillows, a bowl with water from the kitchen sink, some cheap chew toys he found at a pet store (just in case), and a rawhide bone. He placed them in the basement and made a little nesting area for Logan to lay in.

“What are you doing?”

Patton jumped as Logan’s voice called from upstairs. The steps creaked as Logan descended them.

Patton forced a smile on his lips and replied, “Oh, you know, just making a soft area while I watch tv.”

Logan looked around, his eyes landing on the dog bone on the floor.

“With dog toys?”

“Um… yeah.”

“Patton-”

“I didn’t hide a stray dog upstairs this time, I swear!”

Logan rubbed a hand over his face and sighed heavily through his nose.

“We can’t keep it.”

“But-”

“No buts, Patton. You know dad is allergic to dogs.”

“I know, but-”

“Where is it? I’ll drive it to the rescue center if you need me to.”

Patton lowered his head. Maybe he could use this to his advantage. He sighed through his nose and put his hands in his pocket, his shoulders tense.

“No, Logan, it’s my dog. I’ll do it.”

Patton walked past Logan and climbed the stairs. He sent one last look down, making sure Logan had everything he needed and hurried up the last few steps. 

As he got to the top floor, he closed the basement door and double locked it.

Patton paused, letting the events sink in. He just locked his brother in the basement. Logan was going to be pissed when he found out. Still, it was close enough to nighttime that Patton hoped he wouldn’t have to worry about Logan remembering it.

Patton took five steps back and eyed the door. Logan would be fine. There was a bathroom in the basement. He set water down. Logan would be fine. There were blankets in case he got cold. There was even a window he could watch the full moon rise through. Logan would be fine. He wouldn’t pound on the door and demand Patton let him out. He wouldn’t scratch it down. He wouldn’t break through.

He would be fine.

Patton would be fine.

The door handle jiggled, and Patton held his breath. It hesitated before twisting again.  

“Patton?” Logan called out. A pause. “Patton, this isn’t amusing whatsoever. Let me out right now.”

Patton’s heart raced in his chest. He chewed on his lip. Maybe if he pretended he wasn’t here-

“Patton! Open the door right now. You can’t keep me locked down here forever. We can’t keep the dog.”

The other side of the door grew quiet, and a naive part of Patton hoped Logan gave up.

The door shook as Logan slammed his shoulder into it.

“Patton!”

Patton covered his ears. He could turn on the television and pretend Logan wasn’t there. He could go upstairs and listen to music. He could get on a voice chat with Damian and try to distract himself.

The door banged again, this time as Logan pounded his fist on the wood.

“Patton, unlock the door right now!”

Patton squeezed his eyes shut and swallowed thickly.

“No.”

Patton held his breath and listened. Logan grew eerily quiet on the other side of the door as if he waited for Patton to continue.

“This is no time for childish games. Open the door. Now.”

“I can’t.”

“And why not?”

“Because.”

“Because why?” 

“I just can't.”

“Patton, that's a horrible excuse!”

“I don’t want you to hurt anyone!”

The house deafened as Patton’s yell reverberated throughout it. Logan’s voice did the opposite, going quiet like a whisper.

“Patton, I’m not going to hurt the dog, and I’m not going to hurt you. I’m not going to hurt anyone. I know I'm angry, but I won't hurt you. I promise. Please, open the door.”

Patton whispered back, “You don’t know that.”

Another pregnant pause stilled the house. Patton fiddled with the sleeves of his cardigan and looked outside. The sun barely peeked over the trees.

Patton continued, “Logan, whether you want to believe it or not, you did get turned into a werewolf. I saw you. You pinned me down on my bed and held me there all night. You were huge and had black fur and- I don’t know if the basement is even going to hold you. And whether you want to or not, when the full moon rises, you’re going to turn into a werewolf again. And I can’t let you out, because I don’t want you to hurt anyone.”

It took a moment for Patton to realize he started crying. His body shook, and he wiped them away with his cardigan’s sleeve. 

It really was happening again. His brother was going to turn into a werewolf, and he was all alone. He had to face this alone. He had to be the one to keep his brother under control. He had to be the one who would hurt Logan if need be. 

The other side of the door stayed quiet. Patton chewed on his lip. Did Logan hear all that? Was he changing now? When would it happen? Anticipation rose goosebumps onto Patton’s skin.

If the real Logan was still in there, Patton needed him to know this wasn't out of malice. 

“Logan, I love you. I’m sorry. If there was something else I could do, I would.”

Patton walked away from the basement door and into the living room. He curled up into a ball on the couch and rolled himself in a blanket like sushi. Since it was the next room over, he’d be able to hear every sound from the other side of the basement door, but it was far enough out of the way that he could pretend the sounds didn’t exist.

“Patton,” Logan’s voice called. Patton’s attention perked up. Logan sighed, and he continued, “When the night is over and I don’t change into a werewolf, promise me you’ll let me out of the basement.”

“I promise,” Patton whispered, then repeated it louder so Logan could hear. He probably heard him the first time, but Patton wanted to be sure.

The sound of Logan going down the basement stairs took all of Patton’s nerves away. Patton breathed a sigh of relief, and he burrowed his head into the soft blanket.

The living room clock ticked. Seconds felt like minutes. Minutes passed like hours. Patton held his breath.

Soon. Any minute now.

A strangled breath cried out from the basement, and all of Patton’s anxiety returned tenfold. 

Here it comes.

The moon glowed through the living room curtain. Patton made sure to leave the living room lamp on so his neighbors knew someone was home and didn’t call the police. If Logan made too much noise, they still might, but at least they’d be calling the police on Patton and not some stranger.

Logan’s scream turned into a growl, and Patton did his best to cover his ears while still remaining locked in the blanket.

Silence choked the house.

Patton popped his head out of the blanket and looked toward the basement door. Logan hadn’t made a sound in at least a minute. Did he shift? Was it over? What was he doing? Was he lonely? Would he be okay? What would he do if he had to pee?

Claws scratching steps clicked on the stairs. Patton’s whole body froze. He could hear Logan’s heavy breath on the other side of the door. Two sniffs preceded a low growl.

The door banged, and Patton jumped.

An annoyed growl shook the walls. The door banged again, this time as claws scraped against it. Patton prayed the door would hold. Logan’s snarl followed soon after.

The door banged and cracked.

Patton yelped as he heard wood splinter.

It wasn’t going to hold.

Logan banged into it again, and the door cracked louder.

It wasn’t going to hold!

The door slammed against the wall beside it like a gunshot and shook the house. Patton covered his mouth as he screamed. He tried not to shake. Maybe if he laid still Logan would leave him alone.

Claws on tile scraped through the kitchen, and Patton heard the floor creak under Logan’s weight. Two sniffs whispered in the air, and the footsteps creaked closer to the living room.

Patton tried to swallow, but his throat closed up. 

Logan’s nose pressed into the blanket, and Patton whimpered. The suction from Logan’s sniff pulled the blanket off his hand, and he retracted it like it burned.

Patton's heart pounded in his ears. 

Logan didn’t hurt him before. Logan could’ve hurt him before, but he didn’t. He wouldn’t hurt him now.

Logan promised he wouldn’t hurt anyone.

He promised.

Teeth gripped the edge of the blanket. Logan ripped the blanket out of Patton’s hold. Patton tried to curl in on himself, to make a smaller target, but there wasn’t enough blanket left to cover him.

Patton gazed into large blue eyes. If he ignored the black fur and wolf snout, they looked just like Logan’s human eyes, only bigger.

No wonder people say the eyes are a window into the soul.

Logan whimpered, and he nudged Patton’s arm with his nose. His tail wagged as he pressed his head completely under Patton’s arm. His nose booped the tip of Patton’s own nose, and Logan let out a low whine.

It’s just me, he seemed to say. Don’t be afraid. 

I promised.

Patton allowed his hand to gloss over Logan’s black fur. It felt the same as the night Logan shifted the first time, soft and warm, and Patton couldn’t help but smile. 

Logan withdrew his head, and Patton pushed himself into a sitting position on the couch. Patton noticed Logan still wore his tie, just like the first night he shifted. 

For a moment, Logan stared at him. Then, he jumped onto the couch.

“Oh no! No wolves on the couch,” Patton scolded.

Logan watched him, his ears alert.

“I mean it, mister. Dad will freak out if he sees dog hair on the couch. No. Down.”

Patton wasn’t sure if it was his imagination or if Logan really did roll his eyes, but the wolf pushed his paws off the couch, circled twice, then rested in the middle of the living room floor with a soft groan.

Patton couldn’t help his giddy giggle. When he wanted a pet, he would’ve never guessed it would be his brother.

“Do you still like science and stuff? We could turn on some VSauce or something. I know you like watching Michael.”

Logan’s ear twitched to show he was listening, but he didn’t look up at Patton.

Patton turned on the television and pulled up the YouTube app. He clicked on the video that popped up first and let autoplay run. That way, even if he fell asleep, Logan would have something to entertain himself with. 

Somewhere between the videos, Patton got enough courage to sit on the floor. Logan watched his every move, but he didn’t approach. Patton slid until his hip pressed against Logan’s back, and he let his fingers ghost over Logan’s fur.

If Logan minded he didn’t say anything.

For a while, Patton petted Logan in the muffled background sound of unwatched videos. His eyes grew heavier with each stroke, and when he looked at the clock, it read one in the morning. Patton yawned, and he scolded himself for not getting more sleep the night before.

The next time Patton looked at the clock, it was three in the morning. His head rested on Logan’s chest as he hugged the wolf around the middle.

Logan growled below him. The rumbles of his deep voice shook Patton awake.

Or maybe that was the creaking of the porch steps outside that woke him.

Patton gripped his hand into Logan’s fur, and he pressed his chest into Logan’s back. Whatever was on the porch couldn’t get in. It was fine. They’d be fine.

A key clicked in the latch, and Patton held his breath.

This was not fine.

A snarl curled Logan’s lips back. Patton gripped his hands around Logan’s muzzle, silencing the wolf and holding his breath.

The door closed, and Patton bit his lip.

Who was here? Should he risk calling out? What if they came into the living room and saw a giant wolf? What would they do?

Footsteps came closer to the living room. Logan’s muscles tensed below him.

“Hello?” Patton called out, trying to keep his voice as even as possible.

The footsteps stopped. The whole house held its breath.

“Mom, Dad, are you home?” Patton asked.

Silence answered him.

Patton pressed Logan into the floor as he stood up. 

“Stay,” he whispered, hoping that for once in his life Logan would listen to him. “Please, stay.”

Patton stepped away from Logan and tiptoed toward the kitchen. He peered around the corner and nearly screamed when he stared down a crossbow.

“Patton,” a harsh voice whispered in the dark behind it.

Patton squinted in the low light, and then his eyes widened.

“Aunt Alice?”

She pulled Patton into a hug and squeezed his chest a little too tight.

“Are you alright? You’re not hurt, are you?”

Patton shook away his shock and answered, “No, I’m not. I mean, yes, I’m okay, but- why are you here?”

Alice spied the door to the basement cracked in two. Her eyes narrowed, and she clenched her jaw.

“I’m guessing Logan did that.”

Patton blinked and forced a smile. “Uh, don’t be silly, auntie. Logan’s not that strong.”

“Cut the act, Patton. I know he’s a werewolf.”

Patton swallowed thickly. His eyes darted to the crossbow in his aunt’s hands and then back up to her face. His mind formed one question, but his imagination filled in several answers.

“What makes you think that?”

“The day of the party, I could tell Logan was acting strange. I always carry a bit of wolfsbane in my purse when I’m out, just in case. It doesn’t create a smell, but it makes any werewolf sick to their stomach, and it keeps them well away from me. I could tell how uncomfortable Logan felt around me, and it wasn’t because my perfume was too strong.”

“Maybe he was just tired and didn’t want company.”

“No, this was different. I’ve seen the reaction way too many times. Now, where is he? Please don’t tell me he got out.”

Patton bit his lip. What should he say? Would his aunt try to hurt Logan if he told the truth? What if Logan came around the corner of the living room door and she saw him? What would Logan do? Too many questions fogged Patton’s mind and hid his words in his throat.

“Nevermind. You stay here. I’m going to check the house.”

“No!”

“Patton, this isn’t Logan we’re talking about. This is a werewolf. They’re deadly and unpredictable. Your brother isn’t there anymore.”

That’s not true, Patton wanted to argue. He opened his mouth to argue. However, a low snarl from behind shook every ounce of courage from him.

Alice pulled Patton close to her chest with one arm and held the crossbow with the other. Her eyes narrowed, and her feet backtracked, pulling Patton with her.

Logan observed the situation. His teeth bared, and the hair on the back of his shoulders stood on edge. Claws dug into the carpet.

“No, Aunt Alice wait!”

“Stay behind me, Patton. He can’t hurt you. I won’t let him.”

“But he hasn’t hurt me all night! He’s not going to hurt anyone!”

Logan took a step forward. Alice shoved Patton behind her and took a shot. Logan flinched at the last second, and the arrow grazed his left shoulder. It lodged itself into the carpet. Logan yelped.

Patton watched Alice load another arrow into the crossbow. She lined up her shot. Patton pushed the crossbow up, and the arrow flew wide into the ceiling.

“Patton-!”

Logan leaped.

Alice grabbed Patton’s hand. She pulled him to the side and toward the kitchen door. Patton tried protesting, but his aunt shoved him out the door before he could argue. Alice slammed the door shut as Logan's head slammed into it. Logan cried out and began furiously scratching the door, the whole time snarling and howling.

“In the car,” his aunt urged.

Patton set his jaw. “I’m not leaving him.”

“The hell you’re not! Patton, he tried to attack you.”

“No, he tried to attack you because you shot an arrow at him. You tried to kill him!”

“Only to keep you safe.”

“I was fine until-” the kitchen door cracked- “you came along! He was just laying on my living room floor. And he just held me the first night he shifted. He’s not going to hurt anyone as long as you leave him alone!”

Alice grabbed Patton’s hand a little too hard, and he hissed in pain. She yanked him to the car and pushed him into the back seat. Before Patton could recover, she shut the door, got in, turned on the car, and sped out of the driveway.

Patton regained his balance, only to be knocked over again as his aunt went around another sharp turn. He hit his head rather hard off the window, and for a moment, he saw white. Patton shook off his daze as the car pulled to a stop but didn’t turn off. 

Alice got out of the car, opened Patton’s door, and pulled him outside.

“Stay here,” she ordered. She shoved something cold into Patton’s hands, and Patton stared down at a pistol. “And if anything comes to hurt you, shoot it.”

Patton watched his aunt get in her car and drive back toward his house. His heart panicked.

“No! Aunt Alice, wait! Please!”

But the car sped well out of earshot. Patton’s cries for mercy fell into the grass like his knees.

No, this… this couldn’t be happening. This was all just a bad dream. He’d wake up the next morning, and Logan would be under him in the living room. They’d both be okay.

A sob choked Patton’s breath.

It had to be a dream.

But.

But what if it wasn’t? What if his aunt actually killed Logan tonight? How was he going to tell his parents? How would his dad react to not only losing the love of his life all those years ago to a bullet but his son as well?

Patton got up on his feet. For a moment, he felt dizzy and caught his balance. His head ached, and he massaged his temple, which now held a rather large bump on it. No doubt it’d be black and blue by the morning.

Patton surveyed his surroundings. The park. She dropped him off at the park. It was only a 10 minute walk from here, and if he ran, he might make it in time.

He could save Logan yet.

The bushes beside the creek rustled, and Patton squeezed the weapon in his hand. No breeze blew. Two golden eyes stared out of the bush leaves, and Patton whimpered as he took a step back.

“Patton,” a voice in his mind whispered. It sounded… familiar… like-

“V-Virgil?” Patton stammered out.

Two hazel eyes turned into a large wolf with gray, brown and white fur. Behind it, another emerged, its stark white fur and golden eyes practically glowing in the moonlight.

“Oh, Patton, thank the stars you’re alright,” Roman’s voice spoke next.  

How the two wolves were talking, Patton didn’t know, and quite frankly he didn’t care right now either. Roman came, just like he promised. Patton didn’t know whether tears of panic or relief pricked his eyes, but he wiped them away as quickly as he could. His fingers squeezed the weapon in his hand. He wanted to throw it as far away as he could, but it might hurt someone, and he couldn’t live with himself if-

“Patton, why are you out here all alone on a full moon?” Virgil asked. “Where’s Logan?”

Patton shook his daze away.

“Logan’s back at my house. You have to help! My aunt knows he’s a werewolf, and I think she’s trying to kill him.”

Roman growled deep in his throat, and Virgil nudged Patton’s hand to brush his head against Patton’s side in comfort. His nose tapped the gun in Patton’s hand, and he yelped as he jumped back.

“Patton-” Virgil started, but he didn’t finish. His eyes stayed locked onto the gun.

Roman spied his brother’s reaction and turned his head to the weapon.

“Patton, why do you have a silver gun? Who gave it to you?”

Patton eyed the weapon in his hand before he answered, “It was my aunt. I think she’s dealt with werewolves before. She said she found out Logan was one because she had wolfsbane in her pocket.”

“One shot with that and Virgil and I would be dead within the hour. Silver bullets are fatal unless we’re able to somehow get the bullet out.”

Patton’s gut twisted.

“Oh my goodness, she’s really going to kill Logan!”

“Okay, okay, calm down. We’re going to stop your aunt, we’re going to save Logan, and we’re going to get out of this in one piece.”

Virgil raised his head into the air, but he couldn’t catch a trail on Patton’s scent.

“Which direction is your house in?”

Patton pointed to his left and answered, “It’s a few blocks down the road not far from here.”

Roman nodded his head, and he walked over to Patton. He pressed his back into Patton’s hand and looked up at him.

“Get on my back. Quickly. We’re both faster than you.”

Patton nodded his head. Roman lowered his back, and Patton swung a leg over. His hands dug into Roman’s white fur. Unlike Logan’s, Roman’s fur was soft and thick as a chinchilla. It felt like a cloud.

Roman stood, and Patton’s feet lifted off the ground. He braced himself in the middle of Roman’s back, surprised the wolf could support his weight and whimpered as Roman took off toward his house.

The wind dried Patton’s eyes and blurred his vision. He heard Virgil following on Roman’s tail. Both brothers let out sharp breaths through their nose. Patton could feel Roman’s strong muscles rippling below his legs, and he patted the side of Roman’s head.

“Turn here. My house is the third one down.”

Roman did as he was told. He ran down the street and skidded to a halt outside of Patton’s house.

Alice’s car was parked in the driveway, its engine still pinging from recently stopping. The screen door to the house lay ajar against the wall, and the front door had a slight crack in it. 

Patton swallowed vomit back down his throat. They were both in there, and who knew if Logan was still alive- no. They made it. They had to.

Roman lowered his body, and Patton slid off the side.

“Perhaps it’s safest if you stay out here. I don’t know how much help you’ll be against your aunt.”

“But-”

“No, Roman’s right, Patton. You need to stay safe. You’re only human after all.”

“But-!”

“We’ll be fine. This isn’t our first encounter with a hunter.”

Roman’s eyes hardened, and his muscles tensed. Virgil’s head lowered slightly, and Patton’s curiosity rose.

Patton let out a long sigh.

“Please stay safe.”

Roman rubbed his head against Patton’s hand as he walked past and let Patton’s fingers trail down his back. He stalked toward the house, his head lowered and tail straight, and crept up the porch steps.

Virgil nosed Patton’s hand and gave it a gentle lick. Patton wrapped his arms around Virgil’s neck, and Virgil backed up slightly. However, he resisted the instinct to pull away and rested his muzzle on Patton’s back.

“Please stay safe,” Patton repeated.

Virgil let out a long sigh before pulling away. He followed in Roman’s pawprints before sending one last look at Patton and disappearing in the house.

--

Creak.

Roman waited in the kitchen for Virgil to join his side, and he slowly maneuvered toward the stairs. Virgil stayed close on his tail as they crept up the stairs together.

Creak.

Small puddles of blood climbed the stairs with them, some distorted by pawprints.

A low growl rumbled above them, and Roman froze in place. Logan’s scent grew stronger, as did the scent of blood.

A gun clicked.

“I’m sorry, Logan. You really were my favorite nephew, and I swear I’ll avenge you for this.”

Roman wasted no time climbing the rest of the stairs. He reached the top, and sharp eyes met his. He caught the woman standing outside of a door, gun raised and ready to shoot.

A rumbling snarl thundered with his paws as he charged at her. The woman, who must’ve been Alice, panicked and took a shot. It went wide. Roman lunged. His paws easily shoved her to the ground. The woman yelped.

Roman’s paw pressed into her chest, and he heard ribs creak under his weight. He bared his teeth. Alice moved her arm to shoot again. Roman grabbed her forearm with his teeth and ripped into skin. Blood saturated his fur. His teeth tore muscle and scratched bone. Alice screamed beneath him. The gun clattered from her hands.

A fist pounded into Roman’s nose. He whimpered and let go of her arm, taking a step back to shake the pain in his nose. Alice lunged for the gun. She scrambled backward and aimed.

Roman charged forward. He knocked into her into the wall. The gun banged with her head. The shot lodged itself into the wall, nearly hitting Roman’s face and taking some of his fur with it.

Alice’s eyes rolled into her head, and she slumped unconscious onto the floor.

The ticking clock down the hallway synchronized with Roman’s breath.

Roman licked the blood from his lips and took two steps back. He eyed the woman in front of him before snorting through his nose and raising his head high.

“That’ll teach you for messing with my pack,” he growled.

Virgil pushed past Roman and into Logan’s room. A black bundle of fur growled, and ice blue eyes stared at him.

“Easy,” Virgil whispered and lowered his body to the floor, his ears flat in submission. “We don’t want to hurt you, Logan.”

Logan panted heavily. His ears rested against his head, and he barely focused on Virgil in front of him. 

“Patton. Where’s Patton?” he panted over and over again.

“He’s safe,” Virgil informed. 

The stress in Logan’s eyes seemed to waver a bit, but it came back soon after.

“I have to keep him safe. I promised.”

Roman padded in behind Virgil, and Logan’s hackles raised. He stared at Roman and bared his teeth.

“Easy, I’m not going to bite you this time,” Roman said with a hint of mirth.

Logan tried to push himself onto his feet, but he whimpered and collapsed back down on the ground with a heavy plop. Virgil walked over to Logan and nosed his chest. The scent of silver rose his fur.

“Roman, he’s been shot. If we don’t get the bullet out soon-”

Roman twisted his body around and dashed down the steps as quickly as his feet could take him. He pushed through the front door.

Patton stopped his pacing in the front yard and met Roman halfway.

“I heard gunshots. Is everyone okay? Is Logan okay?”

“I’m afraid not. We need your help. Logan has a silver bullet in his chest, and if we don’t remove it so his body can heal, he’s going to die.”

Patton stopped the panicked choke in his chest and raced into the house. He tried to ignore the bloodstains on the floor and his unconscious aunt with her arm torn to shreds in the hallway. He stood in Logan’s doorway and spied his brother.

Logan’s tail wagged as he spotted Patton. He tried to stand, but he whimpered and collapsed once again. His struggling breaths shook his body with a slight whimper.

“It’s under his right shoulder,” Virgil informed.

Patton walked in and knelt beside his brother. He stroked Logan’s head, and Logan leaned into Patton’s touch. 

“Hey there, kiddo,” Patton whispered. He massaged Logan behind the ear, and Logan rested his head in Patton’s lap. Patton blinked away his tears and continued, “I’m gonna help you, Lo, but I need you to raise your head a little.”

Logan sighed heavily. He whimpered before bringing his head back up. 

Patton sucked in a sharp breath. Blood stained the carpet and soaked the front of Logan’s fur. Patton’s fingers brushed over the fur until he heard Logan yelp. He drew his hand back as Logan took a nip at him.

“Okay, okay, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to hurt you,” Patton’s gentle voice shushed him. He stroked Logan’s back a bit. “But I might have to if we want you to heal. I have to pull the bullet out, or you’re going to... to die.”

Logan’s eyes stared up into Patton’s own. They looked so, so tired. Logan blinked slowly, and he bent his ears backward. He rolled off of Patton, exposing his chest and the wound under his shoulder as well.

With that, Patton leaned down and started pushing fur out of the way. His hands stained red. The thick fur finally parted, and Patton found the hole the bullet wedged itself into. He checked Logan’s face for any sign of pain and was both relieved and nervous that Logan remained so calm this time.

Virgil started pacing. Every once and awhile, he’d stop, stare at Patton, make sure Logan wasn’t trying to hurt him, and then continue his pacing again.

Roman, on the other hand, was perfectly content laying on the floor with one front paw out and the other folded onto his chest. Every once and awhile, his ear would swivel, listening to the sounds outside the house for danger, and then returned his attention back to the two in front of him.

Patton poked his finger in the hole. Logan’s muscles tensed, and he swallowed thickly. Patton waited a moment, holding his own vomit in his throat. 

Logan was the doctor, not him. He shouldn’t be doing this. He could hurt Logan worse than he already was. Removing a bullet is the exact opposite of what someone should do if they’re shot.

But what choice did he have? They couldn’t exactly take him to the vet right now, and leaving the bullet there was out of the question. 

If only Logan could talk him through this.

Wait.

“Wait!” Patton spoke, “Roman, Virgil, I need you to talk to Logan for me. He’s a doctor- well studied to be a doctor. I need to know what to do to get rid of it.”

Roman stayed quiet for a moment, and then he spoke, “He says you’ll need gloves because he doesn’t really want your germy hands in his chest. And tweezers.”

Patton nodded and stood up. Logan whined as Patton left the room and ran to the bathroom. He flipped the bathroom light on with his shoulder and froze at the medicine cabinet.

His hands had so much blood on them.

Patton tried to ignore the blood and opened the medicine cabinet. He shuffled around the contents, grabbing gloves and nearly knocking the tweezers down the drain. He resisted the urge to grab the Disney bandaids and hurried back to Logan’s room.

Patton turned on the lights, sat down on the floor once again, and scooted closer to Logan. He put the gloves on. 

Once he had proper lighting, parting the fur to find the hole was easier. However, that still left the bullet to retrieve.

Patton swallowed.

With a shaking hand, Patton pressed the tweezers into the hole. Logan yelped and jolted up, but he stopped himself from biting and pressed his head back into the carpet. Patton found it harder and harder to breathe as he reached for the bullet.

Virgil’s nose nudged Patton’s shoulder, and he spoke, “Logan says you’re doing great. Keep breathing. You can do this.”

Patton swallowed his nerves. The metal of the tweezers tapped the bullet, and Patton chewed on his lip as he grabbed onto the sides. The first pull only slipped off. Patton sucked in a sharp breath.

“Okay, okay,” Virgil whispered, “That’s okay. Try again.”

Patton tried once, twice, three times more before he got the bullet to budge. He stopped paying attention to Logan’s face. Instead, he stared at the bullet wound and carefully moved the tweezers until the bullet came into sight.

Patton’s breathing sped up as the tweezers slid off the bullet once again, and it stayed inside the wound.

“No,” he whispered. He tried to grab it again, but it slipped deeper in.

“Calm, Patton, stay calm,” Roman urged as he stood. He placed his head on Logan’s neck to hold him still. “You almost have it. Just one more try.”

Patton nodded and swallowed hard. His hand shook a little less as he reached for the last time to grab the bullet. Without thinking, Patton yanked his hand back. There was a sick sounding pop, and Logan yelped.

The silver bullet bounced across the floor and rolled to a stop in the center of the room.

All the breath Patton held left his chest at once. He smiled and let out two hysterical laughs.

“I did it. It’s out!”

“You did great,” Virgil mentioned and rubbed his head against Patton’s hair.

“Now what? How long will it take to heal?” Patton asked.

Roman sighed. “I’m not sure. All we can do now is wait.”

Logan’s breathing evened out, and the whimper disappeared from his stressed panting. He tried to sit up once again, but he yelped and laid back down on the floor. 

Patton moved so he sat at Logan’s back. He pulled Logan’s head into his lap and stroked the side of Logan’s head. His fingers trailed farther and farther down Logan’s side until they rested at the base of his ribs.

“You’ll be okay, Logan,” Patton whispered, over and over. Maybe more so for his sake than Logan’s own. Patton began to hum the lullaby that his mother sang when they were kids, and Logan allowed his eyes to close.

Exhaustion knocked Patton forward, and he stopped himself from passing out. Now that the adrenaline had worn off, he started to feel like it was four in the morning and he got two hours of sleep.

But if he fell asleep, he couldn’t watch Logan. What would happen if Logan didn’t make it through the night? What if this was the last time he’d see him? He wanted to spend every moment-

Roman’s side pressed up against Patton’s back. Patton jolted awake as Roman laid down behind him.

“Get some rest, Patton. You earned it.”

“But, Logan, what if he-”

“If anything happens to him, we’ll let you know,” Virgil responded. He curled up against Logan’s bed and rested his head in his paws.

Patton leaned back into Roman’s soft, warm fur. He let a long sigh leave his lungs.

He barely remembered falling asleep.

--

The next morning, Patton tried to ignore the fact that he fell asleep on his brother’s floor, with his naked brother's head in his lap, laying on top of a naked stranger (well, really only his head was on Roman’s bare chest), and Virgil laying curled up against Logan’s bed with at least a little modesty from the bed’s blanket. 

Patton brushed the wound on Logan’s chest. Judging from the sticky dried blood, it stopped bleeding hours ago. The flesh was still tender though as Logan flinched when Patton poked it. Patton drew his fingers back. Logan stayed asleep, and Patton let out a long sigh. He noticed another scratch along Logan’s shoulder that was almost healed. That’s the shot his aunt took when she first came.

Wait.

Aunt Alice!

Patton slid out from under Logan and stumbled into the hallway. He looked down the hall.

Gone.

His aunt was gone.

Patton held his breath. Did she just leave? Did someone take her? Did Virgil and Roman dispose of her body?

Patton chewed on his lip as he left to go check his phone for any missed messages. His throat dried up when he realized he had missed texts from the very person he was looking for.

My dearest Patton,

I feel like I should apologize. I did come to your house with every intent to keep you safe, but I was too lost in my hatred to realize it wasn’t necessary. When I woke, I saw you sleeping with those two wolves and your brother. They didn’t hurt you. In fact, they were protecting you.

I may not have given up my hunter ways, but I certainly will leave you, Logan, and his pack alone for now. Please stay safe. If you need help, you know who to call.

-Auntie Alice

PS - I’m delivering Logan’s favorite crofter thumbprint cookies as an apology. He won’t remember me shooting him, and I’d prefer it that way. He’s still my favorite nephew… no offense ;)

Patton read and reread the note over and over again. He sighed in relief. One problem down.

Now he just had to figure out how to make all the blood disappear and how to replace the doors Logan broke without his parents noticing.

That was easy… right?

Patton first went to his room and grabbed three of his favorite house robes. The others would probably be cold when they woke up. He draped them over each person, putting a red Mickey Mouse robe on Roman, his favorite fuzzy gray one on Logan, and a powder blue one with calico cats on Virgil. Thank goodness Patton was taller and bigger than everyone.

Afterward, Patton climbed down the stairs, careful not to step in any of the blood puddles, and walked into the kitchen. He spied the broken door to the basement.

Well, no use cleaning on an empty stomach. His parents wouldn’t be home for another four days, after all.

Besides, the wolves-er werehumans- would probably be hungry when they woke up.

Patton grabbed a package of apple oatmeal and started cooking it on the stove. He grabbed some raisin toast and set it in the toaster to pop down when someone was ready for breakfast. No one liked cold soggy toast. He also set tea in the kettle for Logan and put some coffee in the coffee maker. He hated coffee, but Roman and Virgil might appreciate some.

As Patton stirred the oatmeal, the stairs creaked.

Logan entered the kitchen clutching Patton’s robe around him like a lifeline and looked around the house in a near daze like state. Patton couldn’t tell if he was just tired or if it was a state of shock.

“Good morning,” Patton chirped.

Logan stared at the basement door for a few minutes before he answered, “Good morning, Patton.”

Logan reached out to grab a kitchen chair, missed, tried again, and sat down. He stared at the wall in front of him and rubbed a hand over his face.

“It really did happen last night, didn’t it?”

Patton pinched his cheeks into a smile. “I usually don’t like saying I told you so but-”

“I’m sorry.”

Patton closed his jaw with an audible click. Did Logan just… apologize? Flat out?

Logan’s blue eyes drifted over to Patton, and he sighed. His lips stumbled to find words before he continued.

“I didn’t want to believe it. However, with all the evidence stacked against me, the insatiable hunger, the aversion to certain smells, the toxicity of chocolate, and the sudden height of sight, sound and smell, I could no longer cross out the possibility that werewolves did, in fact, exist, and that I was one of them.”

Logan closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose. He stayed silent for a few minutes before adding on, “I did shift into a werewolf last night, did I not?”

Patton nodded his head. He set the oatmeal off the burner and onto a warming pad. After, he reached for Logan’s star mug and poured some earl gray tea. Patton presented the warm mug to Logan, who took it with a word of thanks and sat at the other side of the table. Fingers wove together and placed themselves on his lap.

“You didn’t hurt anyone, though, so don’t worry.”

Logan’s blue eyes flashed open, and Patton recalled the calm stare of the wolf the night before.

“Then how did I achieve the wounds on my chest and shoulder?”

Patton sucked in a breath and forced a smile. He let out a nervous laugh and answered, “Oh, well, I mean- it’s not because you hurt anyone. It’s more like they were out to hurt… you.”

“Me? What possible cause could they have to hurt me?”

“Um, well, they were a… werewolf hunter, I think.”

“Are you hurt?”

“No! Actually, they wanted to keep me safe. They thought that you were going to hurt me.”

“What stopped them?”

“Roman and Virgil. I think it was mostly Roman though.”

Logan nodded his head and sighed through his nose. He ran a hand through his messy hair and swallowed the dryness in his throat.

“Mom and dad are going to flip when they see the door.”

“Yeah, there’s no way they’re going to find it a-door-able.”

Logan glared, and Patton sent a proud smirk.

The stairs groaned a second time, and Patton had to strain his hearing to pick up the light footsteps. Golden eyes flashed over the railing as Roman descended the stairs and stopped in the kitchen doorway.

“Good morning,” Roman practically sang.

Logan turned around in his seat, and Roman smiled a bit too wide at him.

“How are you feeling, Logan?”

“My chest is in pain, but otherwise, I believe I will make a quick recovery.”

“Oh,” Roman flashed his eyes up to Patton before returning to Logan. “How much of last night do you remember?”

“Not much. The last thing I recall was contacting you, actually.”

Patton’s eyebrows pinched together. 

“You called Roman?”

“Texted, actually,” Roman corrected. “He told me, and I quote ‘I’ve attached the directions to my house. Please come retrieve me from the basement. Patton has locked me here thinking I am a werewolf and I can no longer deny it might be true.’ I never thought he’d reach out to me of all people, but I imagine it was because I was the one who extended the invitation a few days ago.”

“Roman and I have been in contact with each other,” Logan replied. “He’s been… rather knowledgeable on the subject of werewolves, and it was beneficial to my research.”

“Uh-huh,” Patton said as he leaned into the table, cupped his cheeks in his hands, and leaned on his elbows with a wide grin. “Glad you two are getting along.”

Logan’s cheeks flushed, and he sent a glare. Patton practically read the “I will kill you if you say anything” rolling off Logan’s stare, and he giggled.

“By the way,” Roman said and raised his nose in the air, “something smells fantastic.”

“Oh! I’m making oatmeal,” Patton said with a smile. He walked into the kitchen and stirred the oatmeal in the pot. “Would you like some?”

“Praise you,” Roman said and stood up from his chair. “I’m starving.”

Logan watched Roman walk over to Patton like a starving puppy waiting for its breakfast. He took a sip of his tea and listened to the steps groan behind him once again.  

Without turning, Logan greeted, “Good morning, Virgil.”

A grunt answered him, and Logan sipped his tea to hide his smirk. Virgil plopped himself in the chair beside Logan, wrapped the robe around him tighter, and tried to blink his sleep away.

“You okay?” Virgil asked. 

“I’m satisfactory. How about yourself?”

“Eh, I’ll live. I think.” He watched his twin chatter with Patton as they argued about milk and cinnamon belonging in oatmeal. A smile softened his face.

“What happens now?” Logan asked. 

Virgil turned his hazel eyes to Logan, and he sighed. 

“Well, you can live a mostly normal life except that, you know, you’re going to shift into a werewolf every full moon from now until you die.”

Logan sighed and ran a hand through his hair. “I just finished college. I did not want to walk from one nightmare into another.”

“It’s not so bad,” Virgil replied. “I mean, you can hear people talking smack in the neighbor’s house.”

“Why would I care about someone making a cartoon punch sound effect?” Logan mumbled.

Virgil opened his mouth to explain, but closed it and shook his head.

Roman and Patton finally arrived in the kitchen. Roman placed a cup of black coffee in front of Virgil, who graciously took it and sipped the hot liquid like chocolate milk. Patton passed out four bowls of oatmeal, and they started conducting breakfast.

“So, now that I am a… werewolf-” the word still refused to leave Logan’s tongue- “where do I live? Is it safe to stay here with Patton and my family? Will anyone else come to hurt us?”

“I mean, you have one of two choices,” Roman said and held up a finger. “One, you can come live with Virgil and me in our pack, which I’m sure would welcome you with open arms, or two, you can stay with Patton and come to our house for nights with a full moon. You two only live about 3 hours away from us.”

Logan swallowed his dry throat and squeezed his hands together until they turned white. He caught Roman’s eyes, who looked patronizingly sympathetic.

“It’s your choice, Logan,” Roman offered.

“I will think about it. For now, I’d like to continue my life here, with Patton. Then, on the night of the full moon, I will go to your house and transform.”

Virgil shrugged and sipped his coffee.

“There is the problem though of Patton being part of your pack,” Roman answered. “You’re going to want to know he’s safe, and your wolf form is a lot more… primal than your human form. It’s going to want to physically see Patton.”

“Well,” Patton offered, “I can go with. I mean, Logan didn’t hurt me the last two times. He shouldn’t hurt me the other times, right?”

Roman and Virgil shared a knowing look, and Virgil sighed. 

“Yeah, it might work. I don’t know how the rest of the pack will feel about it though.”

“Oh, you know mom is always happy to have strangers over for supper,” Roman said with a laugh. Virgil glared at him, and Roman’s laughter died down. “But in all seriousness, it shouldn’t be that much of a problem. We can just explain the circumstances to her, and hopefully, everything will be right as rain.”

Logan squeezed the sides of his tea mug. He sighed and stared at his reflection in the glass. His eyes stared back at him, and he wondered if they looked the same when he was a wolf. He’d have to let Patton take a picture of him. 

For science, of course.

“If you believe that is the right course of action, I'll do so without hesitation.”

“Well, I guess it’s settled then,” Roman announced. “Welcome to the pack, Logan.

End

[xdepthsofwinterx]

(2/2) Also, was thinking: she left before they go to the Underdark, but the Valsharess probably sent some drows after her, tracking her and trying to kill her. What did she do at that time? (next part of the ask XD)

{{Alright first off, apologies @waterdeephero​! This ask has sat in my inbox for literal years! I have been waiting for the perfect inspiration to strike for this particular part of Dhana’s story-line. It is one of my favourite parts, largely because it is where Dhana meets my lovely @aquiversfull​ Kymiel. So finally, here it is! Forgive the length, I got carried away with battle scenes again x’D}}

Waterdeep, Hordes of the Underdark, Chapter 1-2: Canon!Verse

Thwack!

Blood ran icily cold, what remained of the bolt splinteringin her periphery. The emerald sheen wasn’t lost on her. Poison. Heart thunderingagainst her ribcage, Dhana darted down another alleyway. Visibility was growingincreasingly poor as near vertical sheets of rain hammered a crescendo againstthe cobbles. Squinting revealed little of Waterdeep’s winding streets, thesorceress barely making out the looming outlines of buildings. Had she time torecast infravision, she would have, but her assailants where incessant.

Another volley whistled through the air, ripping through thetop of her ear. Dhana drew blood from clamping down on her lip, smoulderingpain erupting from the wound.

Fucking drow!

Ducking beneath washing lines that extended across her path,the woman used the sudden cover to her advantage. More complex incantationswere out of the equation, but evocation came as naturally as breathing.

Hands outstretched, fingertips dragging along brick, Dhanafocused on the pain. The way water seeped into the ragged flesh, the shreddedcartilage flapping lamely in her haste. Ice crackled to life, feeding off theweather and her adrenaline. It shot out like spiderwebs, spikes erupting frombrick at an alarming rate. A startled cry pulled out a cruel smirk.

One down. Gods know how many more to go.

Something flashed up ahead, the tell-tale sizzling of the arcane. Dark brows furrowed a moment too late, therealisation pooling horror in her gut.

Spider webs.

She felt the fibrous grip snag hold of her boots, rippingone from her foot. The momentum sent her sprawling unceremoniously in a sticky,sodden heap. Muscles and bones shrieked in protest, the skin upon her forearmsshredded to ribbons from the friction. Dhana coughed violently, head ringing asshe tried desperately to get to her feet.

‘Zexen'uma harl, rivvil.’ *

She froze, head jerking upwards at the commanding tone. Likeice it slithered over her skin, enticing a rash of goose bumps to follow. Desperateto see through the watery veil, she struggled to raise her hand. A shadow leaptoverhead, a burst of silvery light and a shattering of glass had her seeing stars.

Like a fly upon a spider’s web, she could feel their eyesupon her. Whom ever it was moved closer.

“Phu’ dos zhaunus ol zhah ilta?**” an uttered whisper, somehowaudible above the rain, called from above. Their leader – or so she surmised – stoodbefore her now. Without a light she could make out little features, but the lethalpair of short-swords spoke volumes.

‘Assassins. Like the one in the Yawning Portal.’ Shegrimaced as the figure crouched down at her level, the overwhelming scent ofchemicals upon their person. A hand captured her chin, wrenching it up at apainful angle. She was twisted this way and that, the drow inspecting her earwith a growl.

“Foolish male, have you no eyes!? This is your pathetichandiwork is it not?”

With a jerk, Dhana was released. Recoiling, she pressed herhands more firmly into the ground and forced herself up.  This time her captors allowed her to kneel,but the red hued blade at her exposed throat meant she did little else.

“If you are so intent on killing me, hurry it up. I’ve freezingmy tits off out here!”

It wasn’t a lie. Having fled the inn with next to nopossessions, desperate to avoid questioning glances, the mage wore naught buther leather and fur padded armour. Even her staff was gone.

Sliding up her gullet, the short-sword rested just under herchin. She could feel the trickle of blood forming from the nick.

“Dos phuul natha bran uss whol zhaunus***,” followed by avelvety chuckle, “I will enjoy disembowelling you like the dog you are.”

N-Now hang on, disembowelling?! No one mentioned-

Phwet.

Dhana flinched as something thick and viscous splatteredacross her face. As she sat there blinking furiously through whatever thiswas, she heard a distinctive sound.

The twang of a bowstring. And whoever it was had stirredup one hell of a hornet’s nest. Shrieking drow echoed upon the roof tops, thesounds of spells zipping through the air and breaking roof shingles. Dhana feltthe blade fall, shortly followed by a body. The sorceress wasted little time inscrubbing at her eyes. Finally her vision cleared, sepia eyes swivelling about.

There, sticking out of the hood of her fallen captor,was a blue and white tipped arrow. From this distance Dhana could tell it was aclear headshot, right through the eye socket. She whistled, impressed.

That was until a dagger sliced through the air before hernose.

‘Yes Dhana, battlefield, we are in a godforsaken battlefieldyou twat!!’

Snatching up the blade she set about cutting herself free,the webs falling away. Whomever had cast it must have met an untimely end, asthe silk vanished. Dhana stumbled to her feet, willing her magic to harden uponthe surface of her skin and armour. Pieces of rock fell away as it responded, notwithout sending a dizzying spell of vertigo her way.

I…I need to rest, badly.

Sadly it seemed Lady Tymora was ignoring her again today, asan irate roar sounded from behind her. Bewildered, Dhana instinctively rolledaway, just in time to miss the great sword that spliced the space she had onceoccupied. A hulking, silver haired beauty with a none to friendly exteriorgreeted her.

Balanced upon the balls of her feet, Dhana acted quickly. Willingwith all her strength, she coaxed the water about the drow’s feet to burst tolife. It wound up his legs tightening and crackling with incessant cold. Hehissed, barking some very uncouth words in his mother language, managing tolift his blade with increasing difficulty. Filthy, bloodied and utterly fed upherself, Dhana gave him a dark grin.

“I wouldn’t if I were you.”

“Zu'tour ol elg'care-eugh!!!” ****

You would have thought that he’d have figured it out. After all,the metre long icicles stained red with drow blood was a massive give away.Dhana didn’t give him the satisfaction of answer.

She outstretched both hands. One hand clenched with violentintent, the other flipped a universal sign that shall not be repeated here. Thegreat sword clattered loudly upon cobblestone, her mouthy friend now the centreof a grotesque, ice sculpture.

Slumping against the wall, Dhana leaned her head back againstthe brickwork. Rain bounced off her feverish skin, refreshing despite the throbbingear. Morbidly curious as to the damage Dhana lifted a tentative finger.

“I would strongly advise against doing that.”

An involuntary spasm shook her entire body, the sorceressyelping in surprise. Leathers creaked, drawing her attention to the suddenvoice.

How he had managed to appear at her side so silently was beyondher. Well, besides the rain and the previous battle of course.

An elf knelt mere feet away, ears dripping, face clarteredin a similar fashion to her own. A heavy emerald cloak adorned his shoulders,swept across studded leather armour, held in place by a brass broach. Hisoutline blurred ever so slightly at the edges, causing her nausea to worsen. Hesmiled despite their situation, dimples appearing in his bronzy complexion. Evidently,he held this expression often.

“Please do not be alarmed, I have no interest in hurtingyou.”

She gave him a sceptical look, “Y-You sure about that?”

Those unusual ochre eyes gleamed with unspoken humour.Instead of answering he pulled back his cloak to reveal…a quiver full of blueand white tipped arrows. Dhana gawked.

“Y-You’ve got one hell of an aim!” Her elven saviour finallychuckled at this, the timbre pleasant upon her frayed nerves.

“Luckily for you, yes. Although, you are quite anintimidating fighter yourself.”

He gestured warily to the glistening, impaled drow. Sheshould have thought twice about looking, as it seemed her stomach had reachedits limit. Lurching away from her newfound companion, Dhana emptied thecontents of her gut onto the cobblestone. She could barely breathe from theconvulsions, feeling the bile burn her nostrils as well as her throat.

Movement from behind alerted her to the nearing presence. Callousedfingers gently lifted her hair, gathering it at the base of her neck. Had shethe strength Dhana would have slapped him aside, alas she could not. Weak, emotionallyexhausted the mage could do little but retch until nothing remained.

Minutes passed, odd gags threatening here and there. Oncesatisfied, the elf retreated, squatting before her with a flask.

“Drink this, please.” She squinted through watery, bloodshoteyes. He sighed patiently, “It is not poison, look.”

He sipped the contents, swallowing to prove his point.Reluctantly the sorceress nodded, taking the leather-bound container, and downingas much as she could muster.

“I have neutralised the remainder of your attackers. I suggestwe move from this location now, as it is likely another party will follow intheir footsteps.”

Dhana almost choked. Coughing, she handed back his water skin.

“What is this we?” He blinked at her as if it wereobvious. She snorted, “I do not need babysitting, master elf.”

Securing the hip flask upon his belt, the elf stood up. Headjusted his bow and quiver, before glancing back down at her.

“I prefer Kymiel if you don’t mind. That nickname is…painfullyformal,” not waiting for her to respond he bent down and secured his armabout her waist. Eyes widened rapidly, the mage squawking indignantly. Helifted her with surprising strength and ease, positioning her arm behind his head.She stumbled a bit, coming to lean into his gait. Dhana glowered.

“And you are?”

“Pissed off.”

“Well, Miss Pissed Off, you are hardly in any fit state tocontinue unaided.”

She couldn’t exactly argue with that, given the way her headspun from overexertion. Growling, she let her head flop forward whilst she centredherself. A pang of guilt ran through her.

“It’s Dhana, my name that is.”

She could feel him perk up as he began leading them away.

“Pity, I rather liked your prior name.”

“Ugh…shut up!”

Tonight was going to be longest night she had endured inmany a year.-Drow Translations- Taken from here and here.

* - “Stay down, human.”** - “Are you sure it is her?”*** - “You sure are a loud one.”**** - “Shut it, bitch!”

[xxx-cat-xxx]

Settle our bones (like wood) over time, over time

Tony is down with the flu, so Rhodey helps out by looking after Morgan (and her dad).

Seems like Endgame has turned me into a fluff writer. This is probably one of the softest things I’ve ever written. Contains fever dreams, vomiting, some angst and light spoilers, but nothing too grave.

A million thanks to @whumphoarder for putting so much work into beta-reading.

Rhodey has just finished showering and is fixing himself a sandwich when his custom-made StarkPhone starts blaring the unmistakable melody of Black Sabbath’s Iron Man (The phone was a belated gift from Tony for his last birthday -  subtlety has never been his best friend’s strength).

“Hey man,” he greets.

“Rhodes?” Tony asks, sounding slightly off.

“Yes, it’s me. You should know this, seeing as you called.” A bit of worry starts gnawing in Rhodey’s gut.

“Listen...I might need your help here.”

Rhodey sighs internally. This is the same sentence he heard a year ago, when Tony’s bots managed to blow up a pyramid of paint buckets in the nursery and both of them spent the next seven consecutive hours hurrying to clean up the mess before Pepper came home. Rhodey’s just returned from a rather arduous week with Nat in Morocco and was looking forward to an afternoon spent entirely with himself, his food, and his TV remote.

“Sure,” he replies, trying his best not to sound entirely unmotivated. “What’s the mission?”

“Just, Morgan,” Tony says. “I, I guess I caught a flu bug, and I can’t - Pepper’s in L.A., and I can’t even open these stupid baby food jars without puking. Pep will kill me if I have Dum-E feed the kid.”

He breaks off and Rhodey hears a muffled cough from the other side.

“I know you just got back, but-” There’s a clatter, a muttered curse, and then the sound of a baby crying in the background. “I’m sorry, dude,” Tony continues in a hoarse voice.

Rhodey frowns. If Tony is calling him for help - hell, if he is actually apologising - things must be pretty desperate.

“On my way,” he confirms, getting up with a groan but already feeling his own fatigue fading into the background. “Be there in ten.”

*

The cabin sits at the lake, calm as ever. Rhodey smiles a little to himself when he thinks that his Tony, the former party king of New York, has chosen a lonely place in the woods as the site for his retirement. The front door opens automatically as soon as the hidden scanner has examined his face, and Rhodey steps into the warm interior.

“Welcome, Colonel Rhodes”, Friday’s voice greets him.

“Hey, Fri. Where’s Tony?”

“Boss is upstairs in the nursery.”

“Thanks.”

Giving Morgan the bedroom under the roof was probably one of Tony’s more selfless deeds (well, apart from saving the universe multiple times), considering the breathtaking amount of stars that are visible through the window directly from her bed.

On the other hand, Tony is understandably not very fond of stars anymore.

Rhodey makes his way upstairs, avoiding the building bricks littering the steps as well as the heap of washing on the first floor landing that needs to be ironed.

Tony is sitting on the floor in Morgan’s room, leaning heavily against the bed frame, the eight-month-old baby on a blanket next to him. She’s not exactly crying, but the noises she’s making definitely express discontent. Tony is trying to capture her attention with a screwdriver that he circles above her face, but he seems barely able to keep his own head up. There’s an unopened baby food jar and a spoon on the bedside table next to him.

“You look like crap,” Rhodey assesses. “What’s your temperature at?”

“I called you to babysit Morgan, not me,” Tony rebuts hoarsely. “If you’re fussing, I’ll ship your ass straight back home.”

“Sure you will.” Rhodey bends down to stroke the girl’s hair, noticing that she is swaddled up in multiple blankets like a baby-burrito.

“Is the little hobbit sick, too?”

“What?” Tony’s head shoots up. “No, I hope not.”

“Then why’s she wrapped up like this?”

“‘t was freezing this morning...Her skin felt cold…”

Rhodey frowns and checks the kid’s temperature. If anything, she’s a little overheated and clearly uncomfortable in too many layers. “That was probably the fever messing with you.”

“Oh.” Tony shifts uncomfortably. He is entirely too pale, with a hint of green on his face.

“When is Pepper coming back?” Rhodey inquires as he unwraps the blankets around the unhappy baby.

“’s Wednesday today, right?”

“Thursday,” Rhodey corrects.

“Ah,” Tony rubs his hand over his eyebrows in an exhausted gesture. He looks about ready to keel over. “Tonight, then. Probably late. You can, you can stay over in the guest room if you want to…”

“I know, Tony, don’t worry about it,” Rhodey reassures. “I’m gonna feed her now. You should move to your own bedroom, try and get some rest.”

“Yeah,” Tony nods, glancing at his feet for a moment as if not sure whether they will carry his weight. “There’s an idea.”

He hoists himself up and strokes Morgan’s hair out of her face with slightly trembling fingers before shuffling towards the staircase.

When the baby is fed and asleep, Rhodey makes his way to Tony’s room, hoping against better knowledge that his friend would be following the baby’s example. But of course that’s not the case. The sounds of dry heaving are carrying clearly over to the staircase from the first floor bathroom.

“Tones?” Rhodey knocks on the door.

“’m good, don’t come in.”

“Sure…”

Rhodey pushes the door open and takes in the scene. Tony is slumped over the open toilet bowl, his cheek resting on the seat. His face is showing an unhealthy pallor. Towels and discarded bottles of Gatorade are strewn around him, and the smell of sickness hangs thickly in the air. It’s obvious that Tony has been ill for a while already.

“Dude,” Rhodey starts.

“I said don’t come in. Not pretty,” Tony rasps.

“Well, I’ve seen you worse.”

“Yeah, don’t remind me…” Tony coughs again and retches drily, not even bothering to lift his head anymore. Rhodey can see the muscles in his back contracting when he throws up again, the ribs visible under his shirt. Hs still hasn’t gained back his full weight after the three weeks in space.

“Oh, fuck this.” Tony reaches up weakly to flush, then crashes back against the giant bathtub. Tiredly, he looks up at Rhodey, his dark eyes glazed over from fever.

“Okay. Back to bed,” Rhodey orders.

“Not sure if I’m done,” Tony admits.

“I’ll get you a bucket.” Rhodey grabs Tony under the armpits to pull him up and steadies him until he is sure that Tony’s own feet can take his weight. Then he hands him a glass of water to rinse his mouth.

“Do you want some Tylenol?” he asks, scanning the medicine cabinet.

“Nah,” Tony shakes his head. “Tried. Didn’t stay down.”

“At least drink a bit of water. You must be getting dehydrated.”

Tony obeys, sipping at the glass while supporting himself on the wash basin. His hand is shaking so hard that water is spilling over the edge, even though the glass is barely filled two-thirds.

All at once, Rhodey vividly remembers the week after Tony had returned from Titan. True to his word, the first thing he did when he was able to stand again on his own was try to shave. His hands were shaking so much that Rhodey had to help him, steadily clearing the stubble that was more gray than black, deliberately not talking about Steve and space and the child whose absence was so present in each of Tony’s words and actions.

It still is.

Rhodey gets Tony settled into bed. The engineer lies down on the mattress gingerly, as if his whole body hurts. Within minutes, he falls into an exhausted slumber, looking entirely spent.

He is undeniably older now - a fight in space, a lost child, and another one born having taken their toll - but something about the way he keeps his forearm curled protectively around his face reminds Rhodey of college, of watching over him while he slept off his highs, an arrogant, vulnerable, entirely too-young kid in a world that didn’t care enough.  

Rhodey carefully pulls a blanket over his friend. He goes to the kitchen to fetch some crackers for himself and a basin in case Tony gets sick again and checks once more on Morgan, who is sleeping peacefully, hugging an Iron Man plush toy, then settles down in an armchair in the corner of the master bedroom. He picks up Tony’s tablet, scrolling lazily through the news, before setting out to ruin his friend’s Netflix viewing history.

Twenty minutes later, Tony starts moaning quietly, his face scrunched up and slick with sweat. He rolls to and fro, hands balled into fists, his eyeballs moving rapidly below his eyelids as he mumbles something unintelligible.

Rhodey sighs and stands up to wake him. Before he can do so, Tony snaps upright. “Peter,” he croaks breathlessly. His eyes dart around the room, taking it in with a mixture of confusion and fear.

Rhodey just shakes his head. “No, Tony. I’m sorry,” he says quietly.

“Oh.” Understanding settles in Tony’s features, disappointment, sadness. He slumps back against the pillows, brushing an arm over his face to wipe away sweat and maybe more. So much pain. So much guilt. “Is Morgan—?”

“She’s fine. Go back to sleep,” Rhodey advises.

Tony grunts in response. He closes his eyes, but opens them again a few seconds later, looking paler than before. “I need- ” he clasps a hand over his lips, sitting up, and tries to get his feet under him.

Rhodey takes the basin from the nightstand and pushes it into his hands, silently ordering him to stay in bed. “Here. It’s okay.”

Tony eyes the bowl and takes a few shallow breaths, closing his eyes. Rhodey can see his throat working as he tries not to be sick.

Upstairs, Morgan starts to cry.

Tony reflexively makes to stand up. “I got her,” Rhodey reassures, already half out the door. He feels his heart go a little warm. The one man whom nobody ever would have thought would be a father has turned out to be a pretty good one.

He hears Tony retch behind him and the sound of liquid splashing into the bowl when he climbs the stairs. Rhodey makes a mental note to keep an eye out for signs of dehydration since the only thing Tony could possibly be bringing up at this point is the few sips of water he had earlier.

Morgan is crying at a volume louder than should reasonably be possible for someone of her size. Rhodey changes her diaper and carries her around the room, talking nonsense to soothe her. It takes a while to settle her back down. She knows Rhodey well, but it’s clear that she wants her parents.

When he returns, Tony is still in the same position as he left him, but now slumped over, holding his head in his hands. The half-filled basin is sitting in between his knees.

“Hey.” Rhodey takes the bowl out of his lap gently and sets it on the floor. Tony barely reacts. He’s malleable, radiating heat, the fever evidently much higher than earlier. He barely opens his eyes when Rhodey helps him to lean back against a heap of pillows in front of the headboard. Rhodey goes to clean the evidence and returns with a wet washcloth that he uses to wipe down Tony’s face and then cool his forehead.

Tony is too feverish and uncomfortable to actually fall back asleep, so Rhodey starts the TV for some white noise and settles into the bed next to him. Tony watches with half-lidded eyes and heavy breaths, his hands clenching the blanket. He keeps shifting his weight against the pillows until his head lands on Rhodey’s shoulder, the sweaty hair hot and damp through his shirt. Rhodey adjust his position a little to make him more comfortable.

“So that’s what it takes to get you into bed with me,” Tony slurs.

Rhodey rolls his eyes. “You wish.”

There’s a pause as the weak smirk fades from Tony’s features and he lets out a tired sigh. “I…” He struggles to form words. “Just…thanks, dude.”

“It’s okay, Tony. I know.”

And he does, he’s always known. During the nights at MIT, he understood the way Tony sought distraction in parties and wine to quiet his thoughts and how he brought people home to bed to keep the loneliness at bay. He was there when Tony OD-ed on his graduation day, after Howard hadn’t shown up and Tony had worn an AC/DC shirt instead of a suit, insisting he didn’t give a damn about his summa cum laude. And that other, horrible night, after Tony’s parents died and he stood on Rhodey’s doorstep, high and silent, with red-rimmed eyes and traces of tears on his face.

After he’d returned from space, starved and broken, when he was too weak to cry and water just seemed to flow out of his eyes like from an overfilled pond, Rhodey understood that those tears were for Peter Parker. And the day Morgan was born and Tony was more afraid than ever before, Rhodey had quietly waited at the hospital all the way until the door opened and Tony stepped out with his daughter in his arms, smiling like the proudest man on earth.

Now he just sits there, feeling Tony shiver when the chills run through him, doing what he always does - being there.

He stays until Morgan starts up again and he has to extricate himself from the bed. She’s clearly awake this time, and it seems she’s had enough time without her parents, so Rhodey takes her to the master bedroom.

Tony is too out of it to even move much, so he just lets the baby crawl around him and numbly plays with her hair while she tries to grab his fingers.

“Yeah, kiddo. Daddy’s not much fun today,” Rhodey comments. Tony just shoots him a tired glare.

“You up for some toast?” Rhodey asks.

“Please don’t.” Tony’s face scrunches up with nausea.

Rhodey gets him to very slowly drink half a glass of water during the next fifteen minutes before Tony lies back down fully while Morgan is on her stomach, playing with a War Machine doll that has inexplicably found its way into the bed. After a while, Rhodey wets the washcloth again and drapes it over Tony’s burning forehead, receiving a grateful sigh.

Tony’s breaths eventually even out again and Rhodey gently picks up Morgan. He takes her outside and feeds her dinner, and she stares at him intently with the dark, warm eyes Rhodey knows all too well.

*

When Pepper comes home late that night, Rhodey is on the porch, carrying a crying Morgan in his arms who has decided a few hours ago that she was definitely done sleeping for the day.

“What happened?” Pepper asks, a crease appearing between her brows and worry set in her eyes. It’s been almost two years and the fear is still there, always lingering below the surface, ready to materialise upon the smallest provocation.

“Hey, everything’s okay. Tony’s got the flu, but it’s under control. He was very well-behaved - called me earlier today to help out.”

Pepper raises an eyebrow. “He told me he had a cold when I called him up last night.”

Rhodey sighs. He’s never seen Tony ask for someone to be around when he was sick, thanks to Howard Stark, and he’s sure that he wouldn’t have done it this time if it hadn’t been for Morgan.

Pepper takes the child from his arms and greets her with a kiss before entering the house and making straight for the master bedroom, not bothering to remove her shoes or jacket. Rhodey follows her upstairs, but stops just outside the bedroom door. He watches Pepper step in softly, Tony warily blinking his eyes open and then struggling to sit up when Pepper settles down on the side of the mattress.

Rhodey can’t hear what they are saying, but he sees Tony mumble something and warmth filling his tired eyes. The tension bleeds out of Pepper’s body when she ghosts a kiss on his cheek. Morgan giggles upon seeing her father, not understanding the words, but fully able to feel the completeness, the love, the rightness of it all.

It’s an impossible life they lead, Rhodey thinks, but something right has come out of it after all.

@badthingshappenbingo  - This is the fill for the square “Big Brother Instinct” on my Bingo card.

Link to all my fics

[sheepsandcattle]

Chapter 24

“Curly. What the fuck?” Oscar chucks his cards onto the coffee table and crosses his arms over his chest, sulking. “You’re cheating, man. How are you winning every fucking time? Shit’s rigged.”

“Mate, spend a fortnight in the countryside with my dad and you’ll be sick at Blackjack too. Dead serious.”

Jules shoves his money over the table with force, but he’s laughing. Oscar hands over half as much money but tops it off with an eight-ball. Curly takes his winnings with a smug grin and crams the lot into the pocket of his hoodie as Jules re-packs the deck.

“No wonder you’re both skint if you play like this all the time,” Curly remarks as he pulls his phone from his pocket, buzzing for the dozenth time in the past hour.

He feels Oscar scowl at his words and raises his head again, cracking a smile at the older man. It’s good to see him having a laugh again - although the face he’s currently pulling shows otherwise. Oscar was clean for nearly four days last week, says he’s going to try again starting Monday, “probably.”

He pulls himself from his thoughts as he flips open his phone. His chest and neck burn up as he reads the message.

18:07 - got you alone yet?

So that’s a thing they do now. It seems so daft - like it could mean nothing, really - but Curly knows; can tell, ‘cause it always stars off so vague - so innocent until it isn’t.

It doesn’t usually start until later into the night (when he’s pretty sure Jordan’s in bed already and letting his mind wander) and they don’t talk about it – God they don’t acknowledge it at all when they’re actually together. He’s pretty sure J’s trying not to embarrass him -protecting his honour or something- and for a short while he was glad for it but, just recently, all’s he wants is for the guy to make the move that he’s too nervous to initiate. Heavy make-outs are mint, don’t get him wrong - but sometimes they go on for so bloody long; the banter between kisses becoming hushed conversations before sleep, whilst he wishes he had the guts to make the next move and Jordan stays well behaved.

All because Curly was daft enough to have said, “I don’t think I’m up for more than this,” on the night of their first kiss when Jordan’s hand slipped beneath his top.

Realistically, he knows Jordan is just waiting for the ‘okay’. Shame he’s too bloody awkward to give it.

“Curly!”

“Hm?” His head shoots up and he snaps his phone shut, leaving a half-written response waiting to be sent.

“We’re going out,” Jules repeats as he sets the deck of cards on the table, now packed back up in their battered box. “To Rooney’s. Coming?”

They must be having a laugh. Listening to some bloke kiss Morrissey’s arse until he’s too high to hear him? As if.

“Actually, I’m off out n’all,” he announces as he stands, phone already open again as he makes his swift exit to his bedroom.

18:09 - you will in 20. see you then.

***

The pizza box on the table only holds one slice now, cold and half-eaten as they lay across the couch; Curly on his back with his head turned towards the TV and Jordan stretched along his side. He’s propped up on one elbow as the fingertips of his other hand trace over Curls’ stomach, who tries to keep his eyes on the screen, but J doesn’t half make it difficult for him. He can’t help but glance down every so often at the shapes the man draws.

On the back of his hand is an inked image of a coiled snake that Curly recalls being Jordan’s own work. Yesterday, Jordan had told him, “I’m thinking about taking some classes. Maybe an internship,” over the phone; one of the last things he’d said before they hung up to ‘sleep,’ only for Jordan to text him around fifteen minutes later about how he couldn’t sleep because he was too busy thinking about…

Curly wonders if Jordan can feel his stomach twist before he gets the chance to push the thought to the back of his head. He feels the man’s eyes on the same strip of skin that he touches, but Curly doesn’t dare follow them now. He turns his head back toward the screen, willing away the images Jordan had engrained into his head the night before and replacing them with images of O-Ren Ishii instead as she says, “you didn’t think it was gonna be that easy, did you?”

But Jordan’s left hand is still moving, and every so often, his pinky finger skims along the waistline of his trousers -the plaid ones that he liked so much before- and Curly find himself turning to meet his eyes, his chin jutting up as if to say, ‘go on then.’ 

Jordan’s lips are on his without the need for clarification, leg between Curly’s thighs and tongue between his teeth. This they’re familiar with; kissing and nothing more. Jordan was quick to accept the line Curly had drawn, too bloody patient for their own good.

Tonight though, he’s still wired from last night’s conversation, still trying and failing to shake the mental images, and now Jordan’s hand is feeling over his chest, and the outside of his thigh is pressed to the inside of Curly’s. He doesn’t even think about it before he’s lifting his hips, fingers tangled in the man’s hair to keep his tongue pressed alongside Jordan’s as he presses himself against him.

Something happens in his throat, forcing him to swallow at the feeling he didn’t realise would be so pivotal in this, and when he abandons the kiss, Jordan nips his lower lip, dragging it out a little before he releases it and draws back to catch his eyes.

He wants to say ‘okay,’ or, ‘please,’ or, ‘yes, I realise what I did and yes I want to do it some more,’ but he can’t for the life of him find the nerve to articulate it, so he just pulls him back in again, drags his tongue over Jordan’s lips and moves his hips up against him again.

Jordan must understand, because he’s groaning then, in a way that could be half-exaggerated before he mumbles, “you have no idea,” into his mouth and is grinding back, angling and pressing against him in a way that’s even better than before.

One of his hands has wondered over the man’s spine and he feels his lower back flex as he rolls against him. Curly’s not sure if it’s the sensation or the concept of it all, but the same arousal that’s got his breath catching in his throat also has his lips falling part-open, Jordan licking into his mouth until he trails over Curly’s jaw instead.

He whispers something against his neck, but Curly can’t hear it so much as he feels it, too distracted as Jordan curls a hand behind his knee and pulls his leg up to hook over his hip as heavy breaths fall between the mystery words.

Their groins are pressed together still, but only for a moment before Jordan pulls back once again, and Curly nearly chases his lips, but then his eyes follow where Jordan’s gaze has landed. His top is bunched up above his chest and Jordan’s hand is dragging over his trousers now, over that plaid pattern that he’s taken such a liking to.

He watches Jordan’s hand as his fingers wander over the front, where the zipper breaks the pattern that’s already stretched tightly over—

He’s not used to seeing himself like this; not in comparison to his bedroom; pitch black save from the light from his shit Toshiba, headphones in as the presence of his flatmates at the other side of his door loom over him, and covered by his sheets from the waist, down, because it’s all just a bit embarrassing, ain’t it?

Jordan’s fingers splay over him and he looks up for the ‘okay,’ which Curly gives him in the form of a nod, followed by a shuddered breath when the palm presses against him and Jordan moves to return his mouth to Curly’s, who gasps at the feeling of the man rubbing him through the fabric, just for a short while before his fingers catch his fly and he pulls.

They fall back into it again, the kissing, and Curly forgets to be embarrassed, just for a few seconds and only every so often, just long enough to push himself up into Jordan’s hand. The man manages to pull the article away and suddenly Curly’s stuttered breaths are becoming muffled wines as a hand slides into his underwear, where a warm palm is wrapping around his length and stroking. 

“F--” is just about all he manages as Jordan touches him. He lets his head fall back, panting up at the ceiling as the man’s mouth trails over his body, moving from one tattoo to the next like he’s just now piecing it all together; what he’s been missing.

He’s not sure at which point Jordan gets rid of his boxers, but by the time Curly’s screwed his head back on, they’re gone too and there’s that laugh - that short puff of breath he lets out whenever he catches himself being vulnerable; when he can’t quite bring himself back from it. Jordan drags a hand over his face, mouth parted loosely and leaving Curly with uneven breaths as the other hand lingers just close enough to have his hips fighting to twitch against his better judgment. Jordan mutters, “Jesus,” as he shakes his head. Shakes himself out of it.

“What?” Curly’s not concerned really, not with that faint smile that Jordan’s still wearing when Curly’s braves a glance between them.

Jordan shifts backwards on his knees, nudging Curly’s leg until he’s forced to lower his foot to the ground. He leans over his lower half now, one arm hooked beneath the leg still bent at his side. He attaches his mouth to Curly’s hip, follows the bone to where his thigh ends and the pale skin fades into a hollow.

It’s daft to feel this kind of suspense, he reckons, trying to calm himself as he lets his head rest back again, eyes shutting and breath shuddering at the first hint of Jordan’s mouth on him. His hand winds around the forearm that Jordan has rested over his waist as the man wraps his fingers around the base and slides his lips over the head.

“Jesus,” he whispers before he can catch himself, Jordan’s mouth vibrating so slightly as he hums around him –‘I told you so’- but enough to pull a gasp from Curly. He’s shuddering again as Jordan sucks the head, licking over him before he’s sliding down, mouth hot and tongue smooth over his length and he holds it – stays there as his free hand slips between his legs, a little further back where he cups, rubs, has Curly moaning, no idea when he even opened his mouth again.

He’s usually quiet when he’s alone but, as his fingers grip Jordan’s hair, feels his head move in his lap, the groans that fall from him make it even better somehow.

Curly hears Jordan catch his breath every so often when he draws back to suck on the head and the erratic intakes are just about the best sounds he’s ever heard – that is until Jordan pulls off entirely, hisses, “fuck, Curly,” against him, the words chased by what he swears is a moan. His mouth trails down, over the base of his cock, replacing the hand that moves from his balls to stroke his length instead.

He feels a little helpless, fumbling for words but only breathing instead, only a whispered, “yeah, shit,” escaping him this time.

Jordan breathes heavily now, only sucking when he isn’t blowing hot puffs of air against his skin. It’s like Curly’s brain finally retunes itself as he uses one elbow to push himself up, losing his own breath as he sees the scene that’s been playing out right under his fucking nose this whole time.

He thinks ‘what a waste,’ as he takes in what he’s been missing out on; Jordan’s mouth working over him, one hand stroking Curly as the other disappears somewhere underneath himself. It doesn’t take a rocket scientist to put the pieces together: Jordan’s gaze, fixed on him now, along with the rough breaths -near-moans- that escape him.

He’s groaning as he touches himself, mouth pressed to wherever it can reach, warm breaths chasing his tongue. Curly would pipe up, but ‘fit’ is the only word that comes to mind and he’s not sure it holds enough weight.

As he pulls away, his eyes leave Curly’s in favour of watching his hand work, pumping his dick a little faster now and Curly fails to swallow his moan again this time. He tugs his hair a little because he really fucking wants to kiss him. Jordan defies the gesture though, eyes sliding shut as his mouth returns to the head of his cock and he hollows his cheeks as he sucks the tip.

Curly’s insides feel hot and twisted, an ache swelling over his spine.

“J,” he whines - doesn’t mean to whine; means to whisper. “Shit J, so close.” He can’t bring himself to lay back again now, watching the muscles of Jordan’s shoulder shift as the hand hidden beneath him strokes over his own dick.

Curly’s in the process of pulling his lower lip into his mouth to silence himself, but a gasp of “keep going,” halts the action before he even has the sense to stop himself.

J must pulls his hand from himself, because it slides over his stomach then, over his chest and neck until Jordan’s thumb’s pressed to his lips, palm splayed over his cheek.

Yeah, Jordan’s definitely done this before.

As Curly’s lips part, the man pulls away from his dick, pumping with his other hand just to get another glimpse of him, eyes half-lidded and chest heaving as he sucks Jordan’s thumb into his mouth. He’s just about conscious enough to find himself closing his eyes under the man’s gaze.

“You’re so fucking gorgeous. Fuck,” Jordan rasps, presumably still watching him because Curly’s squirming from his hand alone now. “Wanna see you come.” Of course, he’s not shy of dirty talk. Curls should have fucking known that but it takes him off guard and his neck grows hotter.

Jordan’s mouth is back on him then, smoother than ever as he sinks straight to the base, holds the length of Curly’s cock in his throat, then pulls back up again to get a steady rhythm. And Curly can fucking hear it. It’s wet and messy and fucking hot as the man swallows around him, using his hand to squeeze the base below the heat of his lips.

Curly’s meant to warn him, he thinks, but Jordan hums like he’s trying to say something before pressing his tongue to the head, rubbing over it just fucking right, lips still tight around him. It aches along the pit of his stomach and between his legs until Curly’s coming in waves as his hips stutter and his fingers tighten on the back of Jordan’s head, mouth slack as the man’s thumb smears over his chin.

Jordan stays there, sucking lightly now as Curly swallows down wines, hips twitching until his lips slide away. As he eases off, Jordan’s hand remains, just barely moving as Curly’s hips settle back down onto the couch and his breaths begin to even out.

J crawls back over him and his lips are prying Curly’s apart in a messy kiss, dominated by tongues as he moans into his mouth.

“Curls,” he shudders, his hand taking Curly’s and guiding.

Fuck knows why he’s taken aback by the feel of Jordan hard under his palm, but he feels his stomach twist pleasantly at the thought of it as he pushes himself to straighten up. He slips his hands beneath Jordan’s boxers and wraps his fingers around his length, pulling a long groan from the man.

J’s big on watching, he finds, as the man withdraws from the half-kiss in favour of watching Curly’s face, then his hand and then back again. He doesn’t know how long Jordan was touching himself for, but he’s worked up already, low moans escaping him as Curly’s thumb rolls over the slit of his cock.

He says, “that’s it,” within another groan and his hand’s in Curly’s hair now, tugging his head back a little like, even with the roles reversed, he’s guiding where this goes. He comes over Curly’s wrist with his mouth on his jaw.

When they break, Jordan’s hand remains in the curls at the back of his head, arm resting on Curly’s shoulder as he tugs his fingers through the strands.

They watch on-screen Uma Thurman staggering and wheezing in the snow, but he can’t hear her breaths over his own or Jordan’s. He doesn’t realise that he’s watching the screen to avoid eye contact, doesn’t realise that he’s suddenly self-conscious until both of J’s hands are on his jaw and turning his head back to face him.

He doesn’t say anything, eyes lingering on Curly’s for a long while, darting but never leaving until they drift over his face. His lower lip’s already wet when he darts his tongue over it before dragging it between his teeth.

“You’ve definitely done that before.” He doesn’t know what else to say.

Jordan chuckles, nods. “You haven’t.” His voice rasps in its half-whisper.

And that’s not a secret - hence how patient J’s been. Hence how content he always is to lead - guide. Still though, Curly wants to know, “is it that obvious?”

“Only by the look on your face.”

Curly’s baffled. Not two minutes ago he got his first blowy and now he’s creasing at Jordan while Uma Thurman gets her head kicked in on the telly.

[crushedbyhyperbole]

Cleared for Duty - Chapter 3

Have you read chapter two?

Chap Summary:  After a chat with Steve, Bucky tortures himself over Edwards’ assessment.  A chance encounter and some eavesdropping gives Bucky some answers but there’s yet more misunderstanding. Will Bucky ever overcome his over self-loathing, and get a grip on himself?

Warnings:  There’s a lot of angst, self-loathing and emotional beratement on Bucky’s part.  Bucky is getting over his past traumas.

Shoe’s on the Other Foot

“You really hurt her, Buck.” Steve rested his elbows on his knees, leaning forward with a disappointed expression.

He’d come to my room for a beer and a chat about the possibility of me becoming a more active member of the team, but he’d quickly diverged from that topic onto a one I really didn’t want to entertain.

I sighed and shook my head. If I didn’t respond then it wasn’t a conversation.

Dr Edwards had walked out of the sparring suite on her own two feet, without assistance.  I know she had.  I checked the footage.

A large ball of guilt hung in my gut so I’d watched the recording just to torture myself some more. Yeah, I’d fucked up.  I knew it, Steve knew it, the whole compound knew it. Stark was furious, calling for me to be sent back to Wakanda.  Jokes of Manchurian Candidate aside, he probably wanted to put me back on ice. It wasn’t a bad idea, in fact it was a pretty good one.  Smart. The problem was, there was no helping me while I was under.  Steve wouldn’t allow it.

“Bucky?”

I looked up, glaring at my friend.  I hated that I put him in this position but also hated that he was laying a guilt trip like this on me.  Like I didn’t feel bad enough.

“Whatever it is between you two, you at least owe her an apology.”

He was right, I did. But that didn’t change the fact that seeing her was the last thing I wanted in the whole world right now.

“Have you seen the medical report?”

There was a medical report? Did I beat her that badly?

“Broken ribs, Bucky.” Steve sighed heavily before continuing. “Bruises all over her body.  She’s lucky you didn’t-.”

“Kill her?”  I snapped.  “She gave as good as she got, Steve.  I don’t have bruises to show for it but she was more than capable of defending herself.”

His frown was deep.

“I’ve seen the suit data, yeah, I know she put the hurt on you man, but she’s just a normal person, no serum, no powers, no nothing.”  He seemed to sympathise but it was short-lived.  “Her suit data on the other hand…”

“Just stop, okay.”  I leaned back against the chair and rubbed my hands down my face.  This was painful enough.  My own anguish plus the extra guilt Steve was laying on me.  “I know I fucked up.  I’m not saying it wasn’t my fault, but I can’t take it back, there’s no rewind on this shit.  It’s done.”

“You could say sorry.”

“What’s sorry gonna do, Steve?  She won’t accept it anyway, she hates me, more now than ever.”

“Just talk to her.” Steve stood, putting his unfinished beer on the occasional table.  This was him saying ‘apologise or else’, whatever the ‘or else’ would be.

After Steve left, I paced in my room.  I’d been hiding out in here for a couple of days after the assessments, not wanting to see anyone.  Steve had been my only visitor and I didn’t know whether that was because he’d told everyone to give me space or if they were too pissed off with me to bother checking in.  Either way, I’d worked myself up to a guilty crescendo only made worse by Steve dropping the broken ribs bombshell on me.

“FRIDAY?”

“How may I help you, Sergeant Barnes?”

“Are Monday’s combat assessment files sealed, or can I view them?”

“Yes to both.”

He could almost sense the amusement in her disembodied voice.  Curse Tony for making these A.I. things too human.

“Explain.”

“The files are sealed but as an active member of the assessment team, Sergeant Barnes, you have full access to all data, footage and results from the non-enhanced team assessments.”

“What about medical?”

“That is included in the data, sir.”

Had Steve known I’d look into it after he’d told me what I’d done to her?  Or had he forgot that I had been given access?

“FRIDAY, show me the files from my session with Dr Edwards.”

“Preparing…”  She said before light from above beamed a virtual display right in front of me.

It was all there; video, audio, suit data, energy outputs, efficiency readings, contact stats, medical, assessment result, recommendations for any further action.  I swiped at the medical file, though maybe I should have worked my way up to it.

The report was easy enough to read, two broken ribs on her left side.  I’d done that with my own flesh and bone, not the prosthetic.  Extensive bruising over 70% of her body, no concussion, no contusion.  There were pictures.  Stills taken from the examination immediately after and also from the days after.

My chest ached, seeing what I’d done.  No amount of dislike for a person should have made me lash out like that.  Yeah, sure there were bound to be some bruises.  These people were fighting enhanced avengers, we packed a punch.  But this…

The bruises on her forearms were from blocking my attacks, some of the ones on her legs also, shins in particular.  But her thighs, hips, stomach, ribs, and back were a contiguous blanket of mottled deep purple and bright blue bruises.  One bruise even had enough detail to see the ridges where the articulation of my metal hand had bit into her skin.  I hadn’t struck her face, however.

Feeling sick, I stumbled back, waving away the display.  My room fell into gloominess without the bright images.  Was I good for nothing but destruction, bringing hurt?

I had all but forgotten how she had pushed my buttons, making me angry as we fought.  Now it surfaced again, prickling my scalp with annoyance.  Why would she do this?  Push me into hurting her?  Why didn’t I stop?  Why didn’t I just let Steve switch her with Maria, then this would never have happened. All very good questions that didn’t mean a damn thing because I couldn’t take it back.

Goddamn you!  You broken, fucked up piece of shit.  You can’t escape what you were made for, never could, never will.

It was another couple of days before I ventured out of my room.  The necessity of food drawing me to the communal kitchen.  I had missed the weekly grocery order and the supplies in the fridge in my room had dwindled to nothing but condiments.

I waited until it was late in the evening, when I thought all the staff would have left and everyone else would have retired to their rooms.

I had just pushed the door to the communal area open when I heard voices.  It was Wanda and Dr Edwards.

My heart plummeted into my gut, stopping me in my tracks with the door cracked open no more than a couple of inches.  I was about to leave when I heard my name mentioned.

Out of their direct line of sight but able to see them reflected in the glossy black backsplash of the sink panel, I eavesdropped like a teenager.

“Why are you even asking about him, Vee?  After what he did?”  Wanda took a sip from a large white mug.  She liked tea.

“It wasn’t his fault.”

Edwards was leaning against the counter, uncharacteristically wearing trousers and a sweater in place of her usual skirt and blouse.  Maybe she was here socially.

“Hmph.”  Wanda frowned.  “Don’t make excuses for him, he’s a big boy and can deal with his own consequences.”

“I only asked if you’d seen him.  That’s all. Professional curiosity.”

“The fact that he stormed out of the assessment in the ‘murder strut’ has got nothing to do with it?”

I could hear the teasing in Wanda’s voice.  Wait! Murder strut?  What the hell?

Dr Edwards was silent but she looked down as if hiding her expression.

“Wow, really?”

“Can we talk about something else now?  You’re clearly not going to tell me what I want to know so let’s move on.”

“What did you want to know?” Wanda put her cup down on the counter and crossed her arms, suddenly invested.

“Just that he’s doing ok.” Dr Edwards huffed a breath through her nose.  “I really pushed him and I shouldn’t have.”

“Why did you, then. You know he’s volatile.”

“I don’t know.  I guess I just wanted to show him that not everyone is afraid of him, that I’m here and I’m indomitable.”  Veronica sighed then, defeated.  “Ever since I was put on his detail, back when he first arrived, I’ve been trying to help him through, well everything.  Yeah part of it is orders but there’s a part that’s not. I thought we had a connection but he really hates me for some reason, I have no clue why.”

Funny way of helping. I thought bitterly as I continued to listen in.

“He told Steve that you’re the only person who won’t ever call him Bucky.”  Wanda laughed softly as if it was some cute story.

“Really?”  That was genuine surprise.  “It’s funny you say that actually.  When we first met, he used to call me ‘Ronny’.  It was a name my parents called me when I was a kid, and I kind of liked hearing it again.  Then he started calling me Dr Edwards, in that stiff tone he always does, and I thought he was flirting.”

They both laughed.

“Bucky doesn’t flirt.”

“He does.”

“No he doesn’t.  He’s the type to bash his woman on the head with a club and drag her off to his cave.”  Wanda chortled.  “Anyway, you were saying?”

Dr Edwards, paused a moment to take a big drink from her glass.

“Okay, yeah.  I thought he was flirting.  I won’t lie, I did it back.  I figured it was a prompt, that he liked being called by his title, maybe it was a bit of tension charged camaraderie.  But it wasn’t.”  She shifted. “I didn’t realise how badly he was still damaged, you know, inside.  What I’d thought was a connection was a complete misread.  He closed himself off and made it perfectly clear that he didn’t appreciate my company, and now here we are.”

I felt like I’d been socked in the chest again.  There it was, confirmation that I was the cause of this whole situation.  Me, a broken thing, breaking other things around it.

“You know that’s all bravado though, right?”

“Is it?”

“Of course.”  Wanda laid her hand gently on Edwards’ shoulder. “He’s working through some, uh, things.  Maybe you should try to talk to him.”

“I can’t.  I tried after the arm protocol debacle but as soon as I walk into a room he ghosts.  Gone before I can draw a breath.”

She seemed sad, full of regret maybe.  I knew what that felt like but to me she always looked full of resolve.  When she would stare me down, hold my gaze until I became uncomfortable, there was nothing there but cold regard.  Could she be lying to Wanda right now?  Surely playing the victim would suit her cause better than admitting any fault.

“Can we talk about something else?  This is fucking depressing.”

“Sure, sure.”  Wanda said absently.  “So how did you learn to fight like that?”

Edwards laughed.  It was unexpected and a little bitter.  If I could have seen her face, I knew her smile wouldn’t have reached her eyes.

“You don’t quit do you?”

“Have you only just learned that about me?”  Wanda chuckled.

“I suppose not.” Edwards said wistfully.  “It’s not really a long story so much as it is a strange one.  I’ve done martial arts since I was a kid actually, it’s an unusual style adapted from kung-fu and jeet kune do.  When I was recruited by the CIA as a tech officer, they put me through special ops training.  Undercover work, infiltrating labs is harder than infiltrating governments apparently. Something to do with knowledge and expertise.”

“So you were a nerd version of Romanoff?”  Wanda interrupted.

“Oh, god no!  I was nowhere near her calibre.  She’s a legend.”  Edwards drank.  “Anyway, I was headhunted by SHIELD so I took the job.  Obviously SHIELD wasn’t what we all thought it was so that got me transferred to STARK Industries.”

This was all very interesting but I was getting impatient, wanting to hear how she’d managed to kick my ass.  She said that she was nothing in comparison to Natasha, yet Nat had never bested me the way Edwards had, even when she was fighting for her life back in Washington DC a few years back, when I was him.

Wanda seemed to share my sentiment.

“But that doesn’t explain how you took him down.  Not even Romanoff can do that.”

“It’s really quite simple.” She sighed, saddened further by the memory of their fight.  “I learned him.”

Say what?

“I mean, really learned him.”  Edwards took Wanda’s confusion as a queue.  “When I was put on his recovery detail, I learned everything there was to know about that man.  Who he was before, back in the forties.  The war. His Hydra history.  The arm.  Every mission.  Every kill. His abilities, strength, speed. His style and all of his weaknesses. Even his psychological reports. It’s always best practice to know the terrain, right?  How effective would I be if I didn’t understand him?”

So you were just another experiment to her?

“The only thing I don’t know about him is how he feels.”

The restless simmering of anger burning in my chest increased until I was practically twitching. This made things so much worse. The cold way in which she’d picked out all my flaws in order to exploit them?  Jesus what a piece of work.

“I fought like I did because I know him, down to every scar on his body.  Every, single, one, Wanda.  That’s how much I wanted to put into his recovery.”  She swiped at her face and coughed nervously.

I was already letting the door swing closed, striding down the hall in what Wanda had aptly called my ‘murder strut’.  I didn’t care that the door clunked against the frame after I let it swing shut unhindered. I didn’t care if either of them knew I had heard.  I was done with this shit now.  Steve needed to either send me on mission so I could go hurt some assholes or let me go so I could get away from this place and her.

I supposed this was how she had felt, hearing me and Steve talking about her a few weeks ago.  I couldn’t care enough to feel guilty about it then, and now it felt justified.  Hearing her say she studied me, learned my weaknesses, learned the terrain.  For what?  Manipulation?  Had she resorted to this emotional conflict to try to control me, in place of her failed attempt at friendship early on?  Perhaps it had been pity that had made her try the connection route first. And what for?  To keep me under control?  Hell, I’d rather be put on ice again.

Fuck it!  It’s not worth the stress.

Then why does it hurt?

The slight cracking of her voice as she told Wanda the final piece of her story.  The hasty swipe of fingers against her cheek.  Was she regretting starting this war with me? Had I hurt her more than she was letting on?  Something other than the physical.

Undoubtedly the latter played a part.  She took a beating from me with barely a perceived reaction.  I knew at what point I’d broken her ribs, however, it was the first body blow I got in on her.  And she’d continued to fight afterwards.  That took some control.  Could I hate her and admire her at the same time?

The images of her bruised skin flitted through my mind as I strode up to Steve’s door.  I knocked twice and FRIDAY let me in.  Steve was sat at his desk signing reports.

“I want out.”  I said, not bothering to greet him.

He turned to me and considered me for a moment before signing one final page and closing up the manila folder.

“Care to tell me why?”

“Edwards.”  I said.  “I’m done.”

“You spoke?”

I shook my head, clenching my jaw.

“Then what?”

He laid a hand on my shoulder; a friendly gesture despite my formal stance.  I hadn’t realised I’d stood to attention, army training never too far under the surface.

“I can’t help you if you don’t talk.  Was it what I said earlier?”

“I saw the files.  I can’t be trusted.”

Keeping my answers short was the best way to keep the emotion out of my voice.  I didn’t want to admit it to myself but I was floundering in the shallows of my own mental anguish with the deep water not too far away. Her bruises bringing back memories from a cold place in my mind.  The ice cold feeling was firmly rooted in my soul despite the therapy.  The words were ineffective now but that didn’t matter because The Winter Soldier was always in there, he was me and I was him.  We could only destroy.  If I stayed here the split that had formed in The Avengers over the Sokovia Accords would only grow wider.  I had to go.

“Buck,” he began but I scrunched my face up, not wanting to hear him beg me to stay.  “I don’t want to force the issue but the only reason you’re not in a cell on The Raft right now is because Tony and I took responsibility for you.  You can’t just leave the compound and go live on your own until the government signs off on your rehabilitation.”

“And they wont.”  I murmured, half to myself.  I knew that’s what he’d say.  I could tell him I’d just escape and disappear.  I’d done it before, spent months and months in hiding until Zola framed me for the U.N. bombing.

“No, they wont.”  He sighed.  “Look, you’re not a prisoner here but there are protocols to follow, hence why you’ve always got a buddy or a shadow when you go out.”

I knew that and I accepted it.  I’d never tried to shake them before but if I wanted to vanish there’d be nothing they could do to stop me.

“I’m just hurting right now Steve, I can’t be here.”  I said, hoping he’d understand because I sure as hell didn’t.  “I saw her in the kitchen with Wanda.  They were talking about me.”

Steve raised a sarcastic eyebrow.  Yeah, I knew he was thinking I deserved that for doing exactly the same thing to her. I nudged him with my elbow, my way of saying ‘jerk’.

“I learned a few things, like how she studied me to get the better of me.  She must really hate me, Steve.  Did I kill someone she loved, maybe one of the ones I don’t remember?”

This rollercoaster of feelings was draining my energy faster than a pack of tranq darts.

“She doesn’t hate you Bucky.”

“You’re wrong.”

“Trust me, will you?” Steve said, almost rolling his eyes. “Just talk to her, okay?”

I nodded.  Accepting the fact that he was right.  I did need to have this out with Dr Edwards but I couldn’t bring myself to approach her.  That underlying feeling of unease I got when I was around her was enough to make me stay away, let alone the guilt from my most recent fuck up.

Over the years I’d killed a lot of people.  You’d think that the weight of all of that would completely outweigh this new feeling of helplessness that was threatening to smother me.  No such luck.  At least the PTSD was a known quantity.

“At least book in to see Rodriguez tomorrow, get a few things off your chest.”  Steve had this concerned look on his face that told me I’d zoned out for longer than I thought.  “It might help you get your feelings straight.”

“I don’t want to see the shrink.”  I needed less emotion, not to find more.  I had so much of it right now I was slipping under the surface, close to drowning.

“That wasn’t a request, soldier.”

Figures.

FIN

Like Marvel fics?  Love Bucky Barnes?  Why not check out some of the other marvel works on my Bucky Barnes Masterlist.

[thgfanficinspo]

Fear of the Water, Ch 13

(FINNICK)

I wake up just before dawn in a patron’s bed. I’m surprised I slept at all after what he told me last night about Snow. “They never officially caught who did it,” he says. “Officially, they never even had a suspect. Everybody’s just guessing.”

I’m not surprised, not really. Snow is indirectly responsible for thousands of deaths. It doesn’t make him any less guilty that he doesn’t want to get his hands dirty. But I suppose some things are just too important to delegate, and poison is a way to handle things directly without too much effort.

But it’s not important right now. I can think about all that later. Right now I have to focus on what’s happening in the arena – Annie Cresta and the upcoming feast.

It’s too late to make a break for the Training Center; I’d never get there in time to see the feast. I climb out of bed and head into the living room where an Avox is dusting shelves. He turns on the television without my needing to ask him.

“Thanks,” I say, flopping down on the couch. I didn’t feel the need to cover myself in any way when I left the bedroom since I’m usually naked as often as I’m clothed. Interestingly, all the Avoxes I’ve encountered are unphased by nudity since their employers – owners? – probably have them wiping their riches asses for them.

He mimes eating and drinking. Can I get you anything?

“Sure, thanks.”

He holds up his hands, shrugging. What do you want?

“An apple, if you’ve got any. Maybe a glass of posca.”

He nods and hustles into the kitchen as Caesar appears on screen and begins his introduction. “People of Panem, we find ourselves at the final five tributes of the Seventieth Hunger Games, two Careers and three non-Careers. At this point, it’s anybody’s game. Claudius?”

Claudius Templesmith clears his throat. I’m not sure if Caesar got more sleep or if he just has better makeup artist, but Claudius looks to be in terrible shape compared to him. “Yes, Caesar,” he rasps. “But with very little food available, this feast could be the last shot for some of them.”

They keep twittering as the tributes arrive, each hiding along the tree line or in the doorways of crumbling buildings.

The Avox comes in carrying a round silver tray, which he sets down on the coffee table in front of me. There’s an absurdly large flute of posca at the center, and sliced green apples bloom like flower petals around it. Proteus would appreciate the presentation. “Thank you.”

The Avox bows and exits just as the feast table emerges from the ground in front of the cornucopia. It ascends slowly enough for everyone to get a good look at the items. It’s mostly food but there’s a couple tubes of ointment and even a rain jacket. Nothing’s in a pack or anything, though. It’s all loose, even the berries sprinkled around.

Millet, the Careers, and Hock from are the only  ones to formally show up for the feast. Seegred has hidden herself among the bricks and trees that ring one side of the arena. Annie, of course, remains on her balcony.

Millet has reattached the spearhead to its shaft to make it into a long-range weapon again. She struggled to connect the two at first, but her mentors sent in a ball of twine to help her. it seems secure enough now, but I’m sure she’ll grab another from the Cornucopia if she has the chance.

I’m sure some of them are hoping for clothes in addition to food, since the constant damp leads to the growth of irritating mold. A couple are smart enough to take their clothes out and lay them in the sun during the day, but the mold never totally goes away. The mold causes allergic reactions – congestion, rashes – so medicine is in high demand.

I’m not totally sure why Hock is there. He seems to be doing just fine on his own with those feral cats.

His backpack it already cracked open so he can shovel things into it without fumbling with the zipper. I’m sure some people think he just didn’t notice it was open, but I think it’s deliberate. I think he’s much smarter than people give him credit for. Ryker and Shine don’t have backpacks; they’re probably stashed somewhere.

The gong sounds, marking the beginning of the feast, and Shine, Ryker, and Hock run for the table. But not Millet. She lifts her spear, adjusting it in her hands, and takes aim at Ryker. It lands in his shoulder, the shock of it knocking him to his knees. The very tip of the blade pokes through his shirt on the other side. He’s got enough nerve (and flexibility) to reach around his back and pull it out himself, but he was injured in his throwing arm, so he can’t use the spear himself. Millet dashes for the table while he’s down.

Shine runs to her ally’s aid, but she doesn’t notice Hock barreling toward her and fails to get out of his way in time. He slams into her so hard that we can hear the sound she makes when the air is knocked from her body. He leaves her gasping on the ground.

Ryker has recovered enough to get back in the game. He goes charging toward Hock, Millet, and the table of supplies. He grasps his sword in both hands and starts swinging it runs so that he slashes Millet in the arm the moment he gets close enough. She falls to the ground to avoid the next swing. Hock and Ryker start to face off, and Millet uses the opportunity to gather a spear and two knives from the weapons pile, which everyone else seems to have forgotten about.

She stays crouched on the ground in the hopes that Hock and Ryker will stay too absorbed in their own fight to notice her lying in wait.

Hock drives his dagger through Ryker’s forearm between the bones. He grabs an armful of food and medicine plus a thin windbreaker and runs while he has the chance, leaving the knife imbedded in the other tribute’s flesh.

“Oh!” I can practically hear Caesar flinch. Claudius sharply sucks air in between his teeth, a hiss of sympathetic pain.

Shine chooses to go to Ryker and the table of food rather than pursue Hock.

Millet grabs a long loaf of bread and a tube of medicine and runs in Hock’s direction before Shine gets too close.

Ryker curses through clenched teeth as Shine applies pressure to his wound. She won’t want to pursue the others alone, and even if Ryker wasn’t injured, there would be no reason to track the others since they have what Caesar calls the lion’s share of the food.

Just when all hope seems lost and Caesar has resigned himself to getting no deaths out of the feast, Seegred makes her appearance. “Ooh! Ooh! Look, look, look!” he gasps excitedly.

Hock makes it less than two blocks before Seegred appears in front of him, blocking his path. He charges her, and at the last minute she pulls out her weapon and shocks him. He recovers faster than she expects, though, and she’s forced to flee with only a couple of apples in her arms.

Millet suddenly appears and spears Hock in the gut before he has the chance to get back on his feet. She pulls the pack from his shoulders as he bleeds and yanks the windbreaker from underneath him. She turns her attention to Seegred, but she’s already out of throwing range. She hesitates, nostrils flared, as she considers whether or not to go after the girl who, according to the oddsmakers, is now her top contender.

“You know, I can’t decide who I like better: Millet or Seegred,” Caesar says.

“Seegred might be even sharper than Beetee,” Claudius says. He’s referencing Beetee Latier of District 3, one of Seegred’s mentors, who used his tech savvy to electrocute his remaining six opponents in the arena. He is simultaneously the smartest and weirdest person I’ve ever met. Well, second-weirdest after fellow victor Wiress.

Hock’s throat bobs as he drinks in air. His skin has lost all of its color; he has only minutes left before he bleeds out.

Millet looks behind her and then back in the direction Seegred ran. She’s still making up her mind about whether or not it’s worth it to follow her. She decides it isn’t.

Millet  makes her way deeper into the arena, putting as much distance between herself and the Careers as possible. She walks for at least half an hour while Caesar and Claudius discuss the shifting odds after the feast.

And then she stumbles on Annie’s hiding place. Annie isn’t visible from the ground; it’s the song that gives her away.

My mother, she butchered me My father, he ate me My sister, little Ann-Marie She gathered up the bones of me

And tied them in a silken cloth to lay under the juniper       Tweet, tweet! What a pretty bird am I!

Annie becomes aware of the other girl’s presence and stops singing. She peers over the edge of her balcony and she and Millet lock eyes for a moment.

Annie regards Millet as she would a stray cat. She settles back into her spot and resumes her song. Millet looks the structure up and down, adjusting her staff in her hands. There are thick vines all across the building’s façade, so climbing up shouldn’t be a problem. Millet’s problem is what to do with her spears and her newly acquired food. She keeps the pack on and lays the spears on her collar bones and tucks her neck against her chest to hold them there.

She manages to climb about five feet up before making a misstep. Her spears fall away. She has the sense to hang on to the vines so she doesn’t fall back to the ground. Instead, it’s an unpleasant, unsteady slide. She falls on her ass of course but at least she doesn’t break anything.

She gets up and dusts herself off, picks up her spears, and looks back up at Annie’s balcony one last time before heading off.

I don’t realize I’m holding my breath until it comes out as a sigh of relief. Annie’s all right. At least for now. That’s both a blessing and a curse, though. I don’t want her to die, but she’s going to anyway and I just want to get it over with.

“Well, that’s disappointing,” Caesar says. “It would be interesting to see Annie and Millet in combat. Millet would be the obvious favorite to win, but Annie defeated a major contender without any weapons. But her abilities have probably diminished since going into shock.”

The cameras close in on Annie's face. She looks strangely relaxed as she tightens the reeds and grasses in the mat she uses as a roof. I remember somebody saying she weaves nets for a living. I suppose this is a familiar activity for her; that's why it's relaxing.

But she's still singing. She's always singing.

My mother, she butchered me My father, he ate me My sister, little Ann-Marie She gathered up the bones of me

And tied them in a silken cloth to lay under the juniper       Tweet, tweet! What a pretty bird am I!

“I’ll tell you what, Claudius, Annie may be the one to watch in all of this,” Caesar says. “She’s in shock, obviously, but she’s been feeding herself from the ponds and sinkholes. She knows how to keep herself alive.”

“I hope we get the chance to see her in action,” Claudius agrees.

"That would certainly be something." The camera cuts from the arena to Caesar’s smiling face. “And now for the weather.”

[azrielsiphons]

Shadows and Darkness: One and the Same (ch. 4)

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This fic is meant to be read in connection with my Azriel-centric prequel stories. I would highly suggest reading those first to get the full reading experience of this fic. 

Lucien’s brothers were gone. Vanished. There was no blood or bodies, they were just… gone.

And in their wake, standing across from Feyre, Cassian, Lucien, and Azriel, was a faceless someone hidden beneath the cloak of their hood.

Feyre breathed a sigh of relief, moving to take a step towards her, towards Lena.

But a knife sailed through the air right by Feyre’s ear and Truth Teller embedded itself deep in Lena’s chest.

Feyre screamed.

Azriel was in front of the cloaked stranger a heartbeat later and while he could hear Feyre and Cassian screaming at him, the white noise in his head was louder — the icy rage constantly in his veins had emerged in full.

He leaned down, ripping Truth Teller out of their chest. They made no nose, only slumped over. Blood dripped from beneath their hood from other injuries, but Azriel didn’t care.

He had missed their heart on purpose. He wanted to look them in the eye when he slit their throat, and watch as the life left their eyes. He had been searching for this cloaked fae for almost two centuries, and retribution was in store.

The fae gave a grunt from beneath that damned cloak that haunted Azriel's nightmares as he kicked them in the chest. They fell backwards onto the ice, wheezing. Blood pooled on the ice and snow below them, a horribly familiar sight that only enraged Azriel further.

Feyre was still screaming, but Cassian held her back. He knew when Azriel got that look in his eye, there was no stopping him.

Azriel knelt next to the fae, reaching beneath their hood and gripping a slender throat with his scarred hand.

"This is for Breen," he hissed.

And as he moved to rip their hood off and slit their throat in one smooth motion, a single sound had him freezing less than an inch away from his revenge.

Laughter.

Low, amused, bloodied laughter bubbled out from beneath the fae’s hood.

And he recognized that laughter. Every bone in Azriel’s body seemed to turn to molten liquid as he jerked away, his knife clattering to the ice behind him.

“No,” he whispered.

And then the voice that haunted his dreams spoke clearly as she leaned her head back, letting the hood fall away.

“You missed.”

Cassian cursed, stumbling backwards as his breath caught in his throat.

But Azriel — Azriel’s heart stopped beating for a split second. His very blood stopped pumping as he stared at her. At the face he only dreamed of, covered in blood dripping from cuts above her brow and a broken nose, a thick scar that had been reopened in some places cutting across the left side of her face.

Her face.

Lena’s face.

Blood dripped from her nose, coating her teeth in red as she smiled grimly. This was his worst nightmare come to life. This was a trick, a hallucination, just like before in the Middle so long ago. He was poisoned, it couldn’t be, it couldn’t be.

“Lena!” Feyre cried out, rushing to her side and kneeling, her hand covered in blood when she pulled it away from where Truth Teller had been embedded just above her heart.

Truth Teller. He had thrown Truth Teller. He had almost killed her. He had been going to kill her.

Azriel turned and vomited.

~~~~~

“Lena, stay with me,” Feyre said quickly, her hands shaking as she put pressure on Lena’s chest wound. She groaned in pain, eyes fluttering shut with exhaustion. Blood was still pouring from the cuts on her face, they must have been recent, right before she arrived on the ice. With horror, Feyre realized that there was a wound in her gut as well.

“Faebane,” Lena gritted out. “Hybern’s men, they… they found me when I was tracking you. My powers are almost all the way gone, I can’t — I can’t winnow us out, I—”

“Shh,” Feyre said soothingly, pushing Lena’s blood-saturated hair away from her face. “You’re going to be fine, we’re getting you home.”

Cassian stepped past where Azriel was now dry heaving. He couldn’t bring himself to care that Lucien was staring, completely bewildered. He knelt down other the other side of Lena and cursed himself for his shaking hands.

The moment he knelt, her scent cloaking shield snapped as the last of her powers began to go. When her scent met his senses, he knew that he wasn’t dreaming. It was her — it was truly Lena.

Azriel keeled over, shouting in pain.

Cassian swallowed, making the conscious decision that he would deal with his grief and shock later. With a roll of his shoulders, he placed his hands over Lena’s gut wound. She cried out in pain and he couldn’t help but flinch.

“Take the last of it,” Lena choked out, grabbing Feyre’s forearm with her bloodied fingers. Feyre gasped as Lena poured the last remnants of her power into her High Lady.

“Stop it,” Cassian hissed. “You won’t heal, Lena stop!”

Lena didn’t though, and as the last of her power seeped into Feyre, she slumped over. Cassian froze, but slumped in relief when he realized she was still breathing — albeit shallow, wet breaths.

Feyre was still gasping, shaking at the expanse of power now coursing within her.

“Lucien, Azriel,” she choked out. “Get over here. Now!”

Lucien stumbled over, completely in shock and very confused at the turn of events. He grabbed a stunned Azriel by the arm and hauled him over as well. None of them had ever seen Azriel so unraveled, so out of that perfect control he had mastered over the centuries.

And as Feyre winnowed them across Prythian and into the Night Court lands where Mor was waiting, breaking down in hysterical sobbing when she saw Lena in Cassian’s arms, Lena realized even in her broken, unconscious state, that she was home.

~~~~~

“She is my sister, Feyre, you should have told me. Sent a note, come home with her immediately—”

“I couldn’t! She made me swear, she told me that you would die Rhys.”

“My sister, Feyre—”

“I had full faith in you protecting my sisters here without me, how could you doubt that I would—”

Lena tuned out of the conversation happening just outside of whatever room she was in. Her whole body ached, but she forced herself to remain still. She couldn’t sense much, but she felt a heavy presence at her side and a warm hand holding her own.

“Azriel will you just listen to me!”

That voice that Lena hadn’t heard in centuries resounded through the room as well, but on the opposite side, just outside the door.

“Mor, leave it.”

His voice… that was his voice.

“No! You’ve been sitting out here all night, refusing to go in or even talk to us. I get that you’re devastated, we all are—”

“You have no idea what I’m feeling, Mor,” he growled terrifyingly.

“But your devastation is not her burden to bear,” Mor snapped right back, unperturbed. “She needs you. More than probably any of us, but Cassian and Feyre and I are the only ones with the balls to go in there with her! She needs you and Rhys, Azriel.”

Silence fell once again until Mor scoffed. Lena could almost see in her mind’s eye how the blonde would have thrown her hands up in the air and rolled her eyes.

“Self-absorbed morons,” she snapped, her shoes clacking as she strode off somewhere else.

Lena forced herself to breathe evenly. Feyre and Rhys were still arguing on the other side of the wall, but she tuned it out.

This wasn’t the reunion she had been looking forward to.

“Sounds like mommy and daddy are fighting,” a low voice whispered, squeezing Lena’s hand gently. “Though I’m not sure who is who.”

Lena couldn’t help herself. Her lips twitched upwards.

“I know you’re awake,” he said softly enough that the others outside the room couldn’t hear. “You never could fool me.”

Lena opened one eye and was met with Cassian leaning towards her, his eyes lit with pure joy and amusement. Not a hint of grief.

She closed her eyes tightly once again.

“Come on,” Cassian crooned. “You know you want to see my pretty face.”

Lena huffed, wincing at the tug on her wounds. She could feel Cassian tense at her pain. She opened both eyes slowly, looking up at him.

“You let your hair grow out.”

Cassian huffed. “Back from the dead after five centuries and that sass is still there.”

Lena smiled weakly. “You know what they say. You can kill the girl, but you can’t kill the sass.” Cassian flinched. “Sorry.”

With a huff of amusement, Cassian pressed his forehead against where her hand was captured by both of his. “Don’t apologize,” he said softly, propping his chin up on their hands. “I’m pretty sure you don’t have to apologize to us for anything ever again.”

Lena’s eyes flashed and she swallowed thickly. “Trust me… that’s not true.”

Cassian’s brows drew together before he sighed. He squeezed her hands tightly and leaned forward, pressing his lips to her forehead. Lena couldn’t help it, a tear slipped from her eye.

How long she had waited to see him once again — her Cassian, her friend, her mentor, her brother.

“We’ll worry about all of that later,” he said softly. “We just need you to get better.”

Lena swallowed, looking around the room she was in. It was somewhere she didn’t recognize — not the House of Wind, that much she was sure of. A light blanket over her legs, and her torso was bare, but wrapped completely in bandages. Spots of blood seeped through even still.

A glance to her other side had Lena looking into a small mirror and she flinched when she saw her reflection.

Even after almost two centuries, she tended to forgot about the horrible thick scar that marred her face. Her right eye was bruised purple and yellow, and a cut was still healing on her lip.

“Pretty as ever,” Cassian said softly. She turned her head and glared, but he only grinned. “Prettier than Rhys, at least.”

“Oh, always,” she said back.

And just like that, it hit her that she was home. Sitting there, Cassian’s hands holding hers, her family just outside the door, teasing with him, laughing with him as if the past five centuries hadn’t happened…

She couldn’t have stopped the tears if she tried. The cut on her lip split again as her lip trembled and her shoulders shook with barely restrained sobs.

“Lena…”

Cassian said nothing as he leaned in and pulled her up and into his chest, being careful of her injuries. She was full on sobbing now, clutching onto his shoulders for dear life.

It was all just too much. The way that Azriel had looked at her when he’d kicked her in the chest and moved to slit her throat, her inability to fight back out of complete and total shock, Feyre gripping her hand, her powers being ripped from her body by Hybern’s men, the smell of Velaris, the knowledge that the King’s spell had been a ploy all these centuries, the sound of everyone fighting because of her —

It was all just too much.

And so Lena cried. She cried for her mother, for all those she had killed, for her brother left alone for centuries, for Azriel’s broken heart.

And she cried for herself. For the girl she had once been that died right alongside Wren all those centuries ago.

Lena vaguely registered Rhys, Feyre, and Mor bursting into the room at the sound of her heavy sobs. She felt herself being transferred from Cassian’s arms into Rhys’s, but she only held him all the tighter. She heard Mor crying, holding her hand tighty. She felt Feyre watching them, tears slipping from her own eyes.

And when Lena heard Azriel’s steps taking him further and further away from her, she cried even harder.

~~~~~

The moon was high in the sky when Lena woke up once again.

After hours of crying and holding one another and explanation after awful explanation on Lena’s part, she had finally made Rhys, Cassian, Mor and Feyre leave. She assured them that she was fine, that she could already feel her magic coming back and healing her injuries faster by the second.

It might have been a lie, but it was a small lie. And after scolding Rhys for the guilt on his face when he looked at Feyre, torn between wanting to be with his mate after only a month’s separation or being with his sister and 500 years of separation, she pinched his arm and told him to get out and come see her in the morning. He had looked down at her, utterly devastated and simultaneously delighted that she was acting so much like her old self that he thought long gone.

But Lena knew it for the lie it was. She wasn’t her old self. That girl was dead. And no matter that the King’s spell had all been a lie — she was still a weapon. A living weapon. No longer Daughter of the Night Court.

No longer… anyone.

Cassian and Mor had also been reluctant to leave, but a comment from Feyre about the creature Amren — who Lena still had yet to meet — needing to speak with them as soon as possible had them scurrying after hugging her tightly and promising to be back before first light.

But first light was still a few hours off, and Lena was wide awake. Her magic truly was coming back now, and while her face was still bruised and the wound just above her heart was still healing, everything else was fine.

Lena laughed bitterly as she thought to herself how ironic it was that Azriel’s blade had almost pierced her heart. Of course.

With a grunt, Lena sat up from her bed and tossed her legs over the side. With several deep breaths, she managed to stand to her feet without too much pain, though she had to brace herself on the bedframe to keep from falling over for the first few steps.

With a hand on her still sore gut, Lena slowly limped towards the door. She opened it slowly, looking to the left and the right of the corridor before gingerly stepping out. Her senses were still dulled from the lingering faebane, so she couldn’t smell or hear as well as usual, but it seemed that none of the healers were milling about at that time of night.

As silently as she could — which was still quite silent considering her condition — Lena made her way down the hall barefoot, clad in only bandages covering her torso and linen shorts that one of the healers had changed her into when she had first arrived unconscious.

Lena didn’t need her enhanced senses to smell the Velaris air — she would know that telltale salty breeze anywhere. Her steps hurried and she only stumbled once, catching herself on the wall with a grunt as she made her way to an open balcony.

And then there it was.

Velaris.

Home.

Lena breathed in deeply through her nose, her eyes fluttering shut as she let it wash over her. The King had been very clear that she was never to go near the Night Court during her service to him.

487 years. 487 years apart, but she was home.

With her voice a mere whisper on the wind, Lena said to the shadow behind her, watching silently —

“I know you’re there.”

~~~~~

Azriel froze.

At the sound of her voice, his shadows scattered — ran. She didn’t bother turning around to look, but he saw her shiver when he was in plain sight, no longer hiding as he watched her.

He had been sitting outside her room, he had been all night. Listening to her breathe, inhaling her scent deep within his lungs every few seconds to tell himself that it was real, that it was really her and not just some sick and twisted dream.

But it was her. His Lena. Back from the dead and covered in scars from head to toe, the one beneath her left eye the worst of them all.

And now she would have a new one. Right above her heart. From his blade.

He had heard her getting out of bed, breathing through the pain of her injuries. He had wrapped himself in shadow just one second before she had stepped through the door.

She was right there. His Lena, standing right in front of him, towering over where he sat on the ground leaned against the opposite wall. And all he could do was stare.

When she started walking, hurrying for the open air, he could only follow. The world could have been set on fire all around them, and he would still have only been able to follow her. And when she stumbled, his hands hovered over her waist, ready to protect.

But then he jerked away. What good had his protection done?

And now as she stood on that balcony, the moonlight making her hair look so dark it was almost blue, he was numb. Completely, totally numb.

Lena inhaled deeply through her nose, flinching at… something.

Slowly, almost unbearably so, she turned.

And as Azriel beheld her face, her violet eyes looking right into his very soul, he felt it.

That thread he had pushed away time and time and time again. He had felt it when he took her flying on her twentieth birthday, he had felt it when she had held him close on the bridge over the Sidra, he had felt it every time he pulled her into the shadows with him and kissed him breathless all those years ago, he had felt it when he had been inside her and she had whispered she loved him the last time they had been together.

Azriel felt it. That thread of pure shadows and darkness between them, he thought severed but was only dormant of his own making.

He took a bewildered step forward, his eyes never leaving her face — still so beautiful, so stunning. She was holding her breath, her eyes lined with silver, but she was as unable to look away as he was.

And as he fell to his knees before her, looking up at her as the moon shone down on her as if she were the Mother herself, Azriel only had one word.

“Mate.”

~~~~~

Lena collapsed, but he caught her. Of course he caught her. And the moment his hands touched her skin, the moment she could feel him, she fell into his embrace.

She couldn’t cry — no, there were no tears left within her. She could only hold onto him tightly, breathing in his scent and letting it wrap around her soul. She felt the bond between them, his side of the cord finally coming to fruition after years and years and years of waiting.

He buried his hands in her hair, whispering incoherently how sorry he was over and over again. She had no words, she could only clutch him all the tighter.

And they stayed like that in each other’s arms until the moon fell and the sun rose.

Shadows and darkness, one and the same.

>>Note: This is not the end of Shadows and Darkness: One and the Same

[canaliculi]

Take me somewhere nice (4/?)

Gravity Falls

Bill/Ford

M: slow loving romance between two best buds

Bill edges Ford towards the creation of the portal.

1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5

I can see the beauty in the mess

“You should’ve SEEN this ‘pyramid,’ IQ – talk about YUCK! It was like the guy had never even HEARD of an EQUILATERAL triangle, let ALONE spoke to one NIGHTLY basis! And- HEY!” Dark fingers snap just before his face, close enough that the tip of Ford’s nose is flicked during the action. Ford himself snaps out of his daze and jerks his head back. “ARE YOU LISTENING TO ME?”

The truth is unpalatable; no, Ford has not been listening. The man flushes and shifts in his seat, clears his throat while his mind races for excuses, for answers, for anything other than the high pitched, blank whine that sounds eerily like the heart monitor of a patient flat-lining. He shakes his head and the sound is cleared, but Bill is still hovering in front of him, arms crossed over his front, eye scrunched with annoyance.

“Uhhh….” So far so smooth. Ford sighs. “No, Bill. I wasn’t. I’m-”

A frustrated sound from Bill cuts him off, his muse throwing his arms in the air. “What is WRONG with you lately, huh? You’ve been doing this whole SPACE-OUT-and-IGNORE-my-MUSE thing a LOT!” The glowing triangle begins to circle around him, inspecting him.

“I-I’ve just been distracted,” Ford says, voice croaking and heart pounding in his chest. Pounding so hard it might crack his ribcage, but his more immediate fear is the idea that he has finally pushed his luck too far; his muse is going to abandon him here and now. Bill is seeing how unworthy Ford is to be his chosen with every loop around him – can probably see it written in his disheveled hair and the bags beneath his eyes, in the hunched slope of his neck as he slouches forward.

“‘Distracted,’ he says,” Bill echoes with an eye roll. He comes to a stop in front of him, and then smooth black fingers touch the tip of Ford’s chin and guide him to straighten and look upwards again. Ford follows, though his eyes remain downcast and lost in the hidden arms of shimmering constellations. “WELL! I can BELIEVE that! But what’s that GOOPY little BRAIN of yours all WRAPPED UP around?”

Ford’s eyes flick up, looking at his muse almost guiltily. You is the only answer to Bill’s question, and Ford’s mouth feels dry even to think about saying it aloud. His dreams – his personal dreams, the ones he doesn’t share with anyone – have been plagued, utterly dominated by thoughts of his muse. The first - kneeling with a trapped tongue, mouths sliding together while damp fingers tangle in his hair to drag him close - seems to have sprung some spigot within him, unleashed a torrent of suppressed longing that bleeds into his every waking thought, that make him almost fearful to sleep at night.

His worst fear is that these idle fantasies will begin to bleed into this place, the mindscape he openly shares with his muse. Bill is still staring at him, no longer glaring but eye wide and blank, pupil shivering back and forth in tiny and precise twitches. It’s an odd expression, and it takes Ford a moment to realize that the muse’s strange mannerisms are because Ford has placed his hands on Bill’s back plane, and his fingers are already running along the shallow, even crevices between each brick, like he’s done this a thousand times.

Well, in a way he has – in his own mind.

Letting out the most dignified yelp of surprise he can muster, Ford spasms in his armchair, hands moving to fly off the triangle’s warm surface. They’re only an inch away from the glowing gold before a pair of smaller hands are pressing them back down, sharp pin-prick claws scratching puffy red lines across his skin. Bill has four arms now, identical in every detail save for one – his newest set is on backwards, the matte black color of them making it look like an optical illusion, the way they bend the wrong way to hold Ford’s hands flat.

“Bill! I-I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to-”

“You SURE know your way around an ANGLE, huh?” Bill says, his expression softening, eyelid drooping. Ford can hear his own thought process grind to a halt.

“W-What?” Every muscle in Ford’s body is tense and bunched, trembling in minute waves. Any movement might break this moment, cause the avalanche of disappointment he knows is coming to tumble. Bill lets out a chuckle and the claws of one dark hand trace delicately down the side of his face.

“Fordsy, have you been holding out on me?”

“I-I don’t know what you mean, Bill.” His whole face feels hot, the tips of his ears burning. Panic is still thrashing in his gut like a wild animal, and he wants to curl in a ball and hide himself away from the all seeing eye, but he stares, wide-eyed and dumb, because this isn’t what he was expecting. He was expecting Bill to laugh at him, to mock him, to throw him out and wish him well in his endeavors, because he was never coming back.

Instead Bill meets his gaze, and the pads of small, soft fingers trace over his lips. Ford shudders.

“Is there something I don’t know?” Bill asks, and he’s so close the small synapse between them feels alive and sparking with heated potential. “Something you’re keeping from me, smart guy?”

Those fingers follow the dip of his bottom lip and then the bow of his upper, slow, again and again, and each pass sends delicate tingles through his body, to the tips of his feet, to his fingers, to his stomach that feels fluttering. Ford presses his hands harder against Bill.

“I have been keeping something from you,” he admits, surprised and embarrassed when his voice comes out a throaty whisper. The words on his tongue make him dizzy – or maybe it’s just the feeling of his lips brushing back along the warm skin of the black fingers still hovering over them. “Bill, I-”

Can’t stop thinking about you. His eyes creak open and Ford’s waking urge is to throw his pillow across the room in frustration.

Another dream.

Bill radiates heat. In most circumstances it’s a pleasant sensation, an almost buzzing warmth that settles on his head or shoulder and sends little prickles shivering out from their point of contact like cracks spreading across an otherwise unblemished plane of glass. In other circumstances it feels smothering, hangs wet and heavy across him while making him aware of the awkwardness of his own limbs, the sudden dryness of his mouth.

“You’ve been quiet lately, Sixer.” And mouths open in the sky and lick at him. “Primitive notion of fiat currency for your thoughts?”

“I’m dreaming,” Ford says, and it comes out stern until a tongue has parted the bottom button of his shirt and is lapping, wet and warm, directly up his flesh. When his hands rush to pull it away, mouths bite at his wrists and forearms to keep him still.

“Yup!” Bill’s drinking tea. “Is that a problem?”

“It’s getting to be-”

“Tired? Redundant? Clichéd?” Bill stretches out his arm, and with a casual twist of his wrist, is pouring his tea over Ford’s head. The man scrunches up his face as thin rivulets of the liquid dribble down his forehead.

“All of the above?” His arms are still held captive, teeth applying a pressure that stays shy of breaking but Ford can swear he feels a tension behind them, a bear trap quivering in readiness to snap.

“Well whose fault is that? Not MINE!” Bill lets go of the teacup, but it remains in its tilted position, still spilling out a tea that had been glossy brown but now, when Ford catches glimpses of it, looks like a dark night sky thick with clustered stars.

“I know whose fault it is,” he says. He laments, more like; this is crumbling around him in a way he’s never been equipped to deal with in the first place.

“How about we try a THOUGHT EXPERIMENT?” Ford’s getting absolutely drenched and the mouths are chewing at his sleeves, gnawing on him. Two dark hands land on either side of his face, and their fingers crook to press at the line of his jaw, at its hinge, at the far end of his cheek bones. “What would I do if I were here?”

Ford licks his lips, catching tea that tastes biting cold and seems to lash him with electricity. Fat globules of the tea hang in the air around them, suspended on invisible strings. Black speckled with shining things, they seem to bracket Bill as though they were under the pull of some cosmic sway, tiny fluctuating universes floating in lazy tandem. He swallows, and squirms under the wriggling ministration of mouths across his body.

“You would leave.”

“BZZZT!” A huge red X replaces Bill’s pupil. The brash light refracts off the bubbles of tea around them, reflecting in a kaleidoscopic and garish array. “Try again, IQ, and this time actually, you know, TRY!”

“You would be disgusted. Disappointed.”

“BZZZT!” Red X.

“You would mock me.”

“That hurts, Sixer.”

Ford scoffs. “You’re not real.”

“And YOU’RE projecting!” Bill brushes Ford’s wet bangs away from his face. “But you’re right – I would mock you. A little.” And then drifts closer. “But that’s not all I’d do.” And then drifts closer. And then-

Another dream.

Or by now, perhaps they should be classified as nightmares. Not for the first time, and certainly not for the last, Ford berates himself as pathetic as he drags himself to a sitting position. His body is slick enough with sweat that he feels a chill when he tosses his sheets off. It's driving him crazy; these dreams haunt him on a near nightly basis, leaving him aching in the morning and desperate to expunge this obsession from himself. As if he could debride himself from the inside out and flush out whatever strange element has built up inside him, has turned his muse into an object of fantasy.

It doesn’t help that his current research has been utterly fruitless. So far his efforts have turned up, to be precise: zip, nada, and nothing. If there is some common source to the weirdness of Gravity Falls, he’s been unable to find it – and Bill has remained relentless and vague on the matter.

”No LUCK in the SPACE SHIP, huh Fordsy?” The triangle had appeared while Ford, still unshowered and exhausted, lay flopped in his arm chair, a practical treasure trove of scientific wonderments wrenched from the bowels of the ship at his side.

“I found a cryogenics lab,” was his mumbled reply. Bill’s eye widened and he zoomed down to the pile, flickering back and forth over top of it to view it from all angles.

“So you did!” Ford cracked open his eyes and Bill was floating in front of him. Ford was barely able to spare a thought on how anything could look so excited just floating in the air. “Wanna know how it WORKS?”

Even with all his muscles tight and tender, his stomach hollow from the unplanned extension to his trip, a burning in his eyes that begged him to sleep for the next day or two, Ford perked up. Fatigue whittled at his bones, disappointment laid across him like a heavy living thing, but he sat up just a bit straighter.

“Would you tell me?”

“Well, under NORMAL circumstances I WOULDN’T; but FOR YOU I can make an exception or two!” His cane materialized in his hand, and he mimed tapping Ford on the forehead with it. “Now UP! And grab that WHRILIGIG down there – hey, don’t look at me like THAT, I didn’t name it!”

And every avenue Ford has followed since has yielded the same results. His muse has turned up, frequent as an unpredictable sun, and most nights Ford can even hold himself together enough that nothing seems amiss. Even with this issue he’s been dealing with, being around Bill is, easy. Fun. Exciting. Interesting. He never feels more alive than when he wakes from one of their meandering conversations, like all the synapses in his brain are firing at once, like the possibilities before him truly are endless, like he could just reach out and grasp his wildest ambitions.

If, sometimes, he flinches away from one of Bill’s casually, overly-friendly touches, well, that’s not the worst thing in the universe (except for the way Bill stares at him afterwards, looking like he was snared somewhere between suspicion and wonderment). Or if he sometimes finds himself without words, or his mind wandering, or his dreams constantly revolving around one particular being. It’s manageable, Ford tells himself.

Manageable.

Somehow, this has all gotten tied together with his search for this leaky faucet of strange-ity. Logically he knows that figuring out the puzzle Bill has set so graciously before him won’t end the purgatory he’s designed for himself – in his moments of clarity, he is even able to admit that solving it and earning his muse’s praise could, in fact, only worsen whatever illness has taken hold of him. But try as he might, he can’t shake the association, so even as he sketches new findings, new mysteries and weirdness, a desperation has been settling deep into his core.

Ford has felt himself winding tighter and tighter over the recent weeks, pulled taut both by his work and his private obsession (scoff here, because obsession is hardly the right word for it), and his only form of release somehow, inexplicably, is the very same entity that has caused both of his other sources of stress. Maddening, at times. But as much as it galls him to admit it, science is filled with many more losses than wins, and both serve as opportunities.

However, in the scheme of the past month and a half, Ford is in slightly better spirits today, even accounting for the ceaseless dreaming. Because today, he has come up with a new place to search.

The cavern looms before him, a pitch black hole in the bright daylight, looking darker still by the bone white trees that flank its sides. It may have been ominous if not for the fact that Ford already knows precisely what was inside. Don’t judge a book by its cover. Nothing terrible has ever dwelled within this cave. He places his hand on the rough bark of one of those slim trees, and he traces his fingers along the rough and gnarled whirls disrupting its surface.

The trees are interlocked in his mind with Bill, with the confusing rush of their first meeting, and all the rushes that came to follow it. His fingers pause. The bark is coarse beneath his fingertips, and cool to the touch. Not like Bill at all, who is smooth heat and sharp, keen edges. Being here alone is enough to cause his heart to quicken ever so slightly, to inspire the tickling sensation along the back of his neck that he knows is only his own mind’s doing; Bill isn’t around to be watching him, and Ford tries not to give a name to the sinking feeling that admission inspires in him.

He pulls his hand away from the tree and ventures closer to the cave, lighting the lantern he’d bought solely for this purpose. Daylight can only illuminate so much within the cavern – a short few feet before the shadows begin to creep further and further in – and Bill’s section of the hollow is far beyond that point. Ford marches in fearlessly. It must have been months since he last visited this place but the pathway to Bill’s carving is entrenched in his mind. He’s always been gifted with navigation.

And it helps that the cavern is a single path, winding arduously down into the ground but never splintering or branching out.

Ford still isn’t sure what he’s looking for - you’ll know it when you see it, smart guy was the helpful answer Bill had finally been coerced into providing him, and that was only after Ford had spent almost a week camping and mapping out the geographical center of the woods. Also, you maaay be taking things a touch too literally, but what do I know? Oh that’s right – everything! I know everything!

The darkness crowds around him, pressing in almost like a physical force, threatening to swallow the tiny flare of light he holds aloft. It is utterly still inside in the cave and the air smells stiff and stale, a room whose door has stayed locked for too long. There are no sounds aside from his own muffled footsteps, not even accompanied by the hollow backtalk of an echo. It’s hard to keep track of time down here, but it’s either a lifetime or a minute later that the tunnel widens out into the yawning dead end wherein lies the effigy that changed his life.

He walks over to it first, the crude rendition of his muse scrawled across the red clay earth and surrounded by prostrate forms. Bill Cipher. Did he go by that even then, or does his name change to remain a pun in every language? Knowing his sense of humor, the answer is probably the latter. Ford’s stomach twists a bit – does he not even know his muse’s true name?

Ford reaches his hand out, but stops short of the mural, fingertips hovering just shy of the ancient markings. Even if he never intends on leading anyone else here, even if he has already documented these paintings in detail, he can’t deny the historical significance of this place in regards to the aboriginals that once inhabited the strange woods of Gravity Falls. Even if some part of him wants to see the yellow outline surrounding Bill’s form smeared across his fingers, even if some part of him wants to smudge a thick black line across the shakily written incantation that roused Bill from ancient memory.

Sighing, Ford drops his arm to his dangle limp at his side, and then drops to the ground in a heavy plop. He shuffles around so his back is pressed against the stone wall, well below the inscriptions. He sets the lantern on the loose dirt floor and the enormity of what he is doing and searching for crashes in like a clumsy bird of prey. What is he even doing down here, what is he looking for? Disgruntled, Ford kicks a booted foot against the ground, sending up a spray of old dirt and a fine cloud of dust to hang in the torchlight.

His mind wanders as he stares off into the dark. Dark that reminds him of the pitch black of Bill’s limbs, a shade so thick and absorbing that Ford could believe all light, every color could be lost within its depths. Which reminds him of those selfsame limbs splintering and bending at too many angles, to clutch at him and to envelope him, to move in rippling mirages and rest at the small of his back or tangle in his hair. Reminds him of thin black fingers clasped around his hand, warm and silkily smooth, yanking him off the ground or pulling him free from riotous waters. He remembers see you real soon and an outsider’s perspective and from his own yearnings, why don’t you do something and his chest burns and aches in the empty cavern.

He thumps the back of his head against the rock wall behind him and hears ringing in his mind but that’s not all I’d do. His fingers clench in the dirt and gather up fistfuls of grainy earth in each hand. It shifts between his fingers like sand and he lifts one hand and watches a small, steady stream of it flow out from his clenched fist. What am I doing here? he wonders, and then out of the corner of his eye, he spots a golden glint amongst the plain brown backdrop.

At first he is content to write it off as a trick of his mind, as the light from his lantern bouncing odd off a rock with sharp and crisp edges. But Ford focuses on it, and staring, the glint doesn’t fade out or diminish in any way. He leaves the lantern where it rests and shifts forwards, until he is running a hand across smooth and forgotten gold. Again and again, he cards his fingers through dirt and over the strange projection. It doesn’t scatter into the foggy fragments of dreams and slowly Ford becomes more and more excited.

It’s hard to make out what this tip of it represents, but Ford digs with bare hands in the raw earth, carving deep gouges into the cavern’s floor. Without knowing the full shape of the object, there is no way of saying where or how to dig, but Ford presses on, heedless of the grime accumulating under his fingernails, almost frenzied by the fervor he brings to his actions.

His mind races with the possibilities – what could it be? This must be something - Bill said he would know it when he saw it, didn’t he? Slowly he excavates, revealing flames, perhaps? A hand, grasping a scroll, a dull and finely cut gem, and arms leading to a familiar sloping side that brings him to an abrupt halt. Ford leans back, loose mounds of dirt packed together in careless piles all around him.

A statue of Bill. Well, perhaps he shouldn’t be so surprised, considering the apparent nature of the cave, but why would it be buried here? Why have they warned so heavily against summoning Bill? Ford could admit that his muse was strange but Bill has as yet displayed nothing except the most gentlemanly manner. And a surprising sense of humor to boot.

“Whatcha UP TO, IQ?” Ford jolts, startled out of his thoughts by his muse’s piercing voice and impeccable timing. Bill’s projection dips down and Ford watches his small black fingers phase through one of the piles he’s made. “Digging in the DIRT! A little OLD FASHIONED, don’t you think?”

“Bill!” Ford brushes his hands against his jeans. It hadn’t really bothered him before, but Ford notices now, of all times, how sweaty he has gotten, how much dirt is really covering his hands and clothes, is probably strewn throughout his hair or swiped across his face. “I, uh, yes. I was digging.”

Bill bursts into laughter. “You guys have SHOVELS now, right? Or did I DREAM UP that little bit of human INGENUITY! Cause if SO, BOY do I have a SURPRISE for you! It might LITERALLY blow your mind!”

“I know what shovels are, Bill,” Ford deadpans, which only causes Bill to launch into another fit of laughter. He adjusts his glasses, feeling silly.

“Awww, hey, come on Sixer, don’t get all WEIRD on me,” Bill says. His muse floats closer, and even without touch Ford can feel the phantom sensations of his warm hands across his skin. “Or better YET – DO! I like weird!”

I like weird. It isn’t a phrase that Ford would have expected to find comforting, but something eases in his chest. Of course, Bill is only saying this because he doesn’t know how weird Ford is.

“So, you decided to spend some time scooping up DIRT in the dark, huh?” Bill continues, drifting away to survey the underground chamber. He comes to a pause before his own mural. “Nice ARTWORK down here!”

“I was looking for the epicenter of weirdness,” Ford says. Bill’s bricks reverse as he flips back around, his expression oddly blank.

“And? Did you FIND it?”

Ford sighs. “No. There’s- no.” A large part of him wants to admit that he has no idea what he’s doing, what he’s looking for – that he’s exhausted every angle he can think of, that this was the last idea he’d been able to come up with. Ford clenches his jaw tight and says nothing.

“Huh. Too bad!” Bill’s projection drops to sit on his shoulder and Ford straightens his posture. “And what made you wanna look around in a PLACE like THIS?”

“You, Bill, to be honest,” Ford says. “You might be the single strangest creature I’ve yet to encounter in these woods. It seemed to make sense that the highest concentration of weirdness would serve as the catalyst for the rest.”

“Hmmm.” Out of the corner of his eye, Ford can make out Bill scrunching up in his eye in thought. Then Bill hops off his shoulder, expanding slightly in size as he moves to hover before him again. “Not a bad THOUGHT there, Fordsy – not bad at all!”

“Yes, well, obviously not a correct thought, either.”

“Well I’M suitably impressed – you’re MUCH closer than you THINK, Sixer!” Ford’s immediate answer is to scoff, but then Bill’s words seem to process and he freezes, staring wide-eyed at his muse.

“I-I’m close?”

“Yup! You’re CERTAINLY on the right TRACK, just not looking at it from the right VIEWPOINT yet!”

It feels like his brain might overclock itself – he was right! Maybe he hasn’t slotted it all together correctly yet, but he has the pieces, at last. Something about this place, maybe the incantations? Some kind of carryover from the ancient rituals practiced here so long ago?

“Aww, there’s the brainiac I KNOW and LOVE!” They both pause. “Uh, you know what I mean! No more DOOM and GLOOM, right?”

“Was I that obvious?” His heart is hammering in his chest, and Ford hopes that that, at least, isn’t obvious.

“I can read you like a geometry text book, Sixer!” Ford tries not to panic as Bill drifts just a few inches closer. “Not that I NEED to – I mean, it’s not like you’re KEEPING anything from me!” Bill fixes him with an apprising stare and Ford might be a statue with how ramrod straight he sits.

“N-No! I mean, yes, I- no, I’m not keeping anything-” The words get caught in his throat when Bill comes even nearer, and Ford swears he can feel the heat Bill gives off in the mindscape cascading over his face. He swallows and manages to clear the lump. “From you.”

Bill stays where he is, so close. Ford digs his hands in the dirt, remembering his dreams, Bill’s shocked expression, his fingernails scraping lightly over shallow interstices. He almost, almost expects Bill to call him out on his bluff. Obvious. His breathing seems to have stuttered as well, holding his breath deep in his chest like a pregnant pause, awaiting disaster. And then Bill just shrugs and moves away again.

“That’s what I thought!”

All the air rushes out of him in one heavy sigh, tension draining so suddenly that he resembles a wooden puppet with its strings cut for a moment as he recovers, shoulders slumping and limbs limp while his heart still thumpthumpthumpthumpthumps a quick staccato beat below his ribs. When he looks up again, Bill is hovering over his hand-dug hole with his back plane to him.

“So THIS is what you were so invested in digging up, huh?” His glowing form drops a little lower to the ground. “Well I can’t say I BLAME you – humans sure don’t show devotion like they USED TO!”

“Devotion?” The word sticks to his insides like thick sap.

“Yeah, they SOMEHOW got it into their MAMMALIAN, JELLY-BASED BRAINS that I was some kind of GOD! Seemed like it would be RUDE to correct them!” Bill settles lightly on the floor and makes a movement as though he was kicking a tiny spray of dirt back into its proper place, but of course nothing in Ford’s dimension moves. “It WAS kind of cute, anyway.”

“Why did they bury it here?” Ford asks. Bill levitates back into the air and shrugs.

“Oh, you know how HUMANS are as well I do, Fordsy; once you OUTLIVE your USEFULNESS, they THROW YOU AWAY like yesterday’s bad news!” Bill doesn’t sound too upset by the topic, but unbidden, Ford is thinking of his father and classmates. Of Stan. “ESPECIALLY when you’re WEIRD!”

“I like weird,” Ford echoes, and he glances at Bill a moment before dropping his gaze to the still half buried sculpture. “That is to say, you like weird – so do I.”

“I KNOW you do, no worries over here!” Bill is in his face in an instant, a weird tingling, prickling sensation across his scalp as Bill mimics ruffling his hair. “You and me til the END, right pal?”

Ford grins up at him. “That’s right.” Whatever that end may be.

“Hey, how about a little REWARD for getting so close to cracking my PUZZLE! One last HINT!” Bill circles around him.

“Oh – right now?”

“Nah, just the next time you’re in the MINDSCAPE – no hurry! Until then, REMEMBER: the FABRIC of REALITY is only as THIN as you BELIEVE it is!” Bill tips his hat and with a bright flare of light that leaves spots swimming across Ford’s vision, he is gone.

Even awake, their meetings have a surrealistic edge to them, fuzzy at all the corners and as Ford sits alone in the cool, dark cave he almost has a moment to wonder if any of it had ever been real at all. He waits a moment or two, and then once he is sure Bill is gone for good for the day, Ford shuffles back over to the statue and continues digging.

When he finally leaves the cavern, the sky is a smeared painting of pinks and golds, the rich colors seeping down from among the clouds to cast their hue dully against the bone white trees. When he gets back to his cabin, he’s almost panting with exertion, arms aching from having carried solid gold through the woods. When he collapses boneless on his couch, it is only for a minute of rest, and then he is running a wet cloth across the statue, over and over again, until its pristine form is clean and gleaming once more and he can see shimmery reflections glistening in the gem’s facets.

When he goes to sleep, the statue sits on his desk across from him and glimmers in the dark.

When he wakes in the morning and rushes over to his journal, he doesn’t notice how its pupil seems to track his every move. And when Ford, overwhelmed, writes one frantic, jubilant sentence, he doesn’t hear the howling laughter echoing just behind his ear.

The muse has spoken!