#yes eddie walked away from a once-in-a-lifetime kind of love

[hitlikehammers]

Rockstar!Eddie Leaves What He Had With Steve Behind in Hawkins 💔 to Chase His Dreams 🎸

(so why is it that he’s back in Steve’s bed Hawkins every couple months for ‘very pressing reasons’ that are straining Steve’s heart honestly anything but? 🫤❤️‍🩹🥺)

NOTE: this was originally a fill from @eddiemunsonbingo AGES ago, and I’m only bringing it over here NOW because something for the @steddielovemonth is going to be posted soon that is a standalone in its universe, but also very much a sequel to it ♥️

Steve really does try not to think about it in terms of…time.

Maybe that’s foolish. It’s mostly denial. Lots of it isn’t reliable anyway: the score his body keeps isn’t accurate, war-time left over from too many near-misses with a fucking alternate dimension but the popping in his joints and the ringing in his ears and the white hair he pulled out of his scalp and stared blankly at in the sink for a good twenty minutes: those are real things, but they don’t chart the passage of days, of hours, months and fucking years with any real meaning.

It’s been four years. Roughly. Depending on what the start point is. Whether it’s that Spring Break. Whether it’s the first winter. Or the spring after, when Robin begged him to go with her—there’s still time. She still begs, because they still talk given the thread inside them stays tied unbreakable to one another, oblivious to miles between. Maybe it’s measuring from the graduations, the kids—only Erica’s left at Hawkins High, now, though Steve gets calls from the whole bunch of them, Eleven the most, which was maybe surprising, then it’s a good split between Dustin and Will, another surprise. Max calls enough but her calls are calls, with a weight most of the others lack. Lucas’s calls aren’t super frequent but always long, mostly because he talks around the point forever, whatever the point happens to be. Even Mike usually ends up on the other end of the line once a month. It’s…that could be where the time starts from.

Or it could be the summer, that first summer. The one that taught Steve what it was to have a heart just to fucking break it.

Could be that. Impossible to say.

(It’s been 3 years, 7 months, and 14 days. Steve had only counted in retrospect, in the wreckage left behind, because while he’d known there was a deadline in it, to it all, he’d thought he could be enough. That he could change a mind. He’d thought…

Foolish things. Bullshit. Didn’t matter. Could be any fucking date.)

But since the point's come up, and it’s front of Steve’s mind, his least favorite (most favorite) place to find it: he hadn’t expected it. Robin liked to say she saw the signs but. Steve hadn’t watched it happen in slow motion because there wasn’t a single goddamn slow thing about it. Which was…for whatever it was worth, Steve knew falling fast and hard and with everything he was had maybe failed him every time, thus far, but at least he knows that for him?

That means it’s real. He’s all in. He might not be met equal on the other side of the equation—hadn’t been yet, maybe wouldn’t be ever, but he wasn’t having any luck trying to fucking change that fact so, learning to work with what he had was the best he could do. And he had love. He’d never been able to name it to himself so far: not before, and certainly never since. But.

Figuring out the sexuality thing had been a not-bathroom-but-definitely-floor talk on the shitty Family Video carpet sometime around November of ‘85. Slow days, idle comments, and Robin’s suspiciously-but-reliably-gentle-when-the-need-was-dire hand to his shoulder to say no, no: actually wanting to kiss people of any gender wasn’t really…the default Steve had always expected it had to be. How could anyone look at, say, Harrison Ford and not think, oh yeah, I would at least suck his face?

Turned out probably at least half the people on the planet. As in the straight guys and the lesbians. Steve had spent the majority of three days on that disgusting fucking carpet, open to close, popping up to ask Robin if she was sure because what about—

She was sure. And eventually, through a couple of needs for deep breathing and a handful of assurances that it was okay to cry—he appreciated that, but he kept the crying to his room after these long-ass shifts and if Robin stayed for some of those times, that was because she was half his head, half his heart, and she knew what he was going to do sometimes before he did.

They did end up on the floor of his bathroom, a clean one for once, at one point. Maybe because they both held to tradition. Maybe because Steve had largely come to terms with the mindfuck of yet another piece of his world, his self unravelling and rewriting itself, and thought the vodka in his dad’s liquor cabinet was a good way to celebrate. The label was entirely in Russian and Robin had been practicing on hers, said she was pretty sure it was the good shit.

Sometimes you can drink enough of the best shit on an empty stomach, though, and still spew the whole of it up.

Steve sometimes does think he drinks his dad’s best liquor that way on purpose, though. Delightful going down and yeah, it sucks to chuck it up but. The idea that it’s ultimately wasted feels…right.

Anyway: Steve had settled with it all by New Year's, and while he’d hosted the rugrats who could only blabber about their latest campaign with their epic DM, and he’d kissed Robin when the clock turned, well. It felt like a new start, a fresh page.

Something that had the chance at being a good thing.

And nothing much happened in the two-and-a-half-months that followed save for finally catching a glimpse of the D&D god who ran their little club while he was idling in his car to pick up the shitheads, this legendary DM who did not make Steve jealous one tiny bit and who was cool and was edgy and was so fuckin’ cool, Steve, did we tell you got cool he is?! and Steve had said language as monotone as he could before he squinted as out came all the metal and the ink and he’d said your club president dude is Eddie goddamn Munson and he should have kept his mouth shut because the amount of talking that ensued left him with a headache the size of Montana; but.

That was really all that happened until about…mid-March.

Then Spring Break happened.

It could be argued Eddie and Steve grew close enough to pass the acquaintances benchmark, ended up as at least tentative friends on top of necessary battle mates as early as the Upside Down. Whatever reason Eddie gave, he jumped in after Steve. Whatever speech Steve landed on, he didn’t want Dustin orEddie hurt.

It could be argued Steve wasn’t paying attention and didn’t stop in time and landed in the land of Tentative Friends You Wouldn’t Mind Added Benefits With after the…at least after the way Eddie leaned in close and his lips we so red and he called Steve big boy and…

Yeah.

When Steve carries what may or may not be Eddie’s still fucking corpse out of the Upside Down—he can’t tell, every time he tries to check again his own heart's too loud, his own breaths too shaky—but by then, they’re family. Bound in blood. Steve would die for him, like the others. He won’t let him die, if he can fucking help it.

Between him and Max, Steve almost crashes, breaks. Steve’s there when Max’s fingers twitch and he laughs with tears in his eyes and hands over hands and tells her he loves her and he’s sorry and he’s there, tries to talk around the letter he opened and resealed without evidence because Steve knows some tricks too, okay, and her words had broken him but now he could live up to what she thought she was leaving behind, could make sure she had every goddamn thing she thought she was giving up in spades, to roll around in in abundance. He was going to take care of her, whatever she needed. Whatever it took.

Her lips had quirked and the doctors called coincidence, don’t get your hopes up but; Steve knew Max. That was all her.

And there were more tears, he let her fucking feel them; he fucking hoped she’d notice, and remember, and give him so much shit.

Eddie takes longer, pulls out of the woods enough to exhale a few days later, and the way Steve slips out to find the hospital chapel, the only goddamn place he won’t be found by anyone he knows, and bawls his goddamn eyes out?

It’s family, and it’s love because it’s family but…it’s been so quick. It’s been intense, and that probably speeds it along but…

Shit. Shit.

That’s when Steve knows he sets a new goddamn record for himself and falls hard and heavy and stupidin, like, a week and change. Jesus Christ.

It’s in the recovery that they build something though. Something that’s not trauma or terror or the threat of imminent death. Steve spends most of his hours between two hospital rooms listening to progress reports and taking notes and the kids gravitate toward Max—Dustin would have been the outlier but Steve knows he’s not ready, and so he gives his own updates just to his brother when he drives him home after visiting hours—but that means Steve’s Eddie’s most common conversation partner. They talk about bullshit. Steve defends a-ha to the last breath he has. Eddie’s rendered speechless for a second and then frantic when challenged to pick his favorite band. Again when it’s his favorite song, from his favorite band. And again when it’s his favorite song of any song, ever at all. Steve's heart swells in the watching. He’s foolish enough to bask in the glittering of Eddie’s eyes when Steve indulges in talking, scene by scene as guided by the master in the bed beside him, about what his opinions on Star Wars really were. And then guided by no one, just invited to share what his opinions are on the last movie he saw and loved: which was Weird Science, the last movie he watched in a theatre because he and Robin had gone to face their fear or some shit after Starcourt and it was easier than he’d expected. Eddie listens, and nods, and asks if they can rent it when he’s out, before making sure to add  but you should really have a new choice like, eight months later, man, you work at a video store.

Steve was mostly just focused on Eddie more than implying, of his own volition, that he wanted to have a movie night.

Eddie’s released before Max, largely for mobility reasons, so they both go to visit her now. Robin’s put on the night shift when they schedule their movie night and Steve immediately moves to reschedule but she says no, she’s seen it, make Eddie suffer this time. So it’s just them.

They sit closer than they have to, on the couch.

And it’s little things that build from there. Max’s physical therapy is a government secret, like some fancy space-age protocol that has real hopes to put her on her feet again so she needs a ride, and while they could take turns, Steve and Eddie just take turns as to which vehicle they hop into to drive her. They stay when she needs them—not when she asks because she’s Max and she never asks—but it ends up three days a week back and forth and during: together.

And a lot of nights, for a movie or a smoke or a nightmare or a pulled stitch before they’re all taken out: together.

And shifts where Steve doesn’t even bother to bring his own lunch because Eddie Munson, unpredictable and wholly forgetful super-super senior—who Nancy and Hopper and most of all Joyce convinced the School would be finishing his final senior year at home save for tests, and only that once he was cleared by his doctors—that Eddie Munson brought Steve something every single time he worked. A burger, a chili dog, chicken fucking nuggets. A PB&J clearly homemade and cut diagonal.

So yeah. It starts out how it does when Steve’s in trouble. But it builds like…Steve’s never known before.

They kiss in May. Maybe so that it’s not their first, and a total cliche, when Steve kisses him for graduation behind the bleachers.

The sleep together after graduation, high on the thrill of it, and that’s maybe a cliche but Steve could not give a shit less.

And then they're EddieandSteve, only to find out they have been for a while; and this is just something a little deeper, a little bit more.

In ways that mean everything.

Looking back, Steve knows Eddie never minced words about his plan to leave Hawkins in the fall. With a mixtape and a prayer if I have to, Stevie-boy, he’d said once even, and Steve had laughed.

He’d fucking laughed.

So he’d known.

But July bleeds into August and Steve…Steve’s in love, okay, for real in a way that he’s never felt before. Right in a way he’s never felt before. He kinda just…overlooks it. Because Eddie seems to be at least on the same wavelength. Touches him first, reaches for him first: wants him. Looks at him with not just desire or attraction but…something no one’s ever looked at Steve with before.

And so he hopes. More than hopes.

But when Eddie starts packing, Steve can’t breathe.

He buys a set of luggage and goes home to start the same, has half of his not-excessive possessions shoved in when he realizes:

He’s not invited. Eddie’s never asked him to come.

Looking back, he’s afraid he wasted too much of those last weeks. Scared of giving too much away, the hurt from so many sides and the heartache that’s already taking root, but also: the way he clings, but tries not to make it obvious.

Fuck; but of course it was gonna be obvious, and how much energy did he waste, how many opportunities slipped by, because Steve was trying not to give away that Eddie leaving—to get away from a town that hated him, to try and make a real go with his music, to be anywhere without Steve so he could live out the dreams that predated Steve, that Steve had no place in—to try not to give away that all of it; it’d fucking destroy him.

Steve doesn’t know, to this day, how he stood and let Eddie kiss him breathless out the driver-side window, how he waved until Eddie was out of sight. He doesn’t know.

Kind of like he doesn’t know how he fucking keeps doing it.

Eddie throws tapes to every radio station with Van Halen or other top-played bands written on the insert in sharpie like that gives nothing away, and sneaks a demo in every underpaid delivery boy’s hands to record executives as he drives to the West Coast, sends Steve postcards what seems like has to be every goddamn day, filled up with his rambling until there’s no space left, has to draw lines around Steve’s address to make it clear where the damn thing’s going lest it get confused. Like they’re SteveandEddie still. Like only…only the things that changed after graduation are gone.

Steve sobs after about a month of it all, grateful and resentful, hateful and still so goddamn full of love it’s sickening. Literally, it makes him feel nauseous. He…

He keeps every postcard.

When one of them comes to say some idiot in San Francisco accidentally played Corroded Coffin on what’s apparently an important station, and Eddie got a letter in response from one of the labels, he says he’s coming back for the boys, they need to be ready. Steve knows he’s not one of the boys, but.

Eddie wouldn’t have told Steve he was coming if it wouldn’t matter to Steve. And maybe Eddie wasn’t in love with him anymore, maybe never was in love with him.

But he’d be lying if he said he thought Eddie didn’t love him. In a different way. A…you-don’t-get-to-come-with-me-but-I’d-still-want-to-see-you-when-I-stop-back kind of way.

And Steve…Steve’s not a fucking monk or anything. But even Robin doesn’t try to push him when he finally just tells her what he feels, lovesick and pathetic as it is:

I gave everything I had to someone else, and it’d be different if I wanted to back, to give again, but…I don’t.

I don’t want it back, not from him. Not if any part of him, wants to keep any part of it.

And because she’s Robin, she knows he means something else when he says ‘it’. And because she’s Robin? She’d push if she thought it was worth it.

She just holds him, and that’s really the best thing he could ask for.

But it becomes a thing. The boys go with Eddie, and they record new shit to impress...whoever. And they do. They come back for Halloween, because Eddie loves it. The label’s dragging its feet, but they’re not deterred, they’re energized. They come back for Thanksgiving because Wayne loves it—except he doesn’t, Steve knows that, Wayne actually hates trying to make a bird and Eddie had lamented more than once that they ended up with lunchmeat cut into cubes one year when Wayne was particularly frustrated with the process. They go out East, and try a few studios in New York. They come back for Christmas.

Eddie spends most of his time with Steve. Steve doesn’t fucking fight that; wants it…like…

There’s nothing to compare how he wants it to. Nothing exists that fits.

Eddie spends most of the time that he spends with Steve, though?

In Steve’s bed.

And here’s the thing: Steve had a decent amount of experience to compare to, but once they’d fallen into a rhythm, got past the awkward bits, the learning curve? Sex with Eddie had been a goddamn revelation. Not just because he was a man—after he’d left, Steve had forced himself to try, and dispelled that possibility quick as hell—and now?

Now, it’s like they never stopped. Every fucking time, it’s like they never stopped.

Steve’s not surprised in the slightest that he remembers every give and tell of Eddie’s body—of course he goddamn does—but that Eddie doesn’t miss a beat in touching, sucking, licking, worshippingSteve’s? That’s insane. That’s…

Unexpected. Every time it’s unexpected and every time Steve’s shown he wasn’t forgotten when he probably should have been. Eddie’s building a life that doesn’t include him.

He’ll only get in the way.

But Steve is selfish and stubborn and maybe it’s often, like almost strangely so, but it’s only a week or two at a go so he tells himself he’s allowed. He tells himself that it felt like making love in the beginning because Steve was in love, and that it still feels exactly the same because Steve…Steve never stopped.

Steve is still just as goddamn in love.

So yeah. Steve sleeps with Eddie and it’s like…it’s like rationed air. He gets a regular taste and he gets to keep breathing.

And it’s okay. Probably more then. Because he gets Eddie—even a little bit. Even just in scraps. When he has Eddie?

He has him, even for moments that were never made to last.

It’s Easter, this time. The band put out their first record in January. It’s doing really well. Eddie’s over the moon. Someone called about a magazine cover for a publication in Cleveland that’s apparently kind of a big deal, Alt..something. Steve will buy every copy in a fucking 100-mile radius. 200 miles. 500—

It’s Easter. Eddie didn’t lament not celebrating it after Spring Break in ‘86 but he’s back every year now. And if it’s just…come to mean something, or maybe did then and circumstances won out against it? Steve will be here. Steve will be comfort and a reprieve or a hot as hell romp with a familiar body, Steve will…

Yeah. Steve will do whatever’s needed. Wanted. Anything.

Pathetic.

But so much better than nothing.

Case in point: they’re both naked, sweat mostly dried, sharing a joint and it’s comfortable. It’s quiet and gentle and put up against sitting alone on a weeknight, not with Eddie?

It’s heaven.

“So when’s the dream happening?”

Steve looks cross-eyed toward his lips; he hasn’t smoked this thing long enough to have heard wrong. He squints up at Eddie, whose chest he’s laid out on, confused. Offers him the smoke but he waves it away.

“The dream?” Steve asks finally, when Eddie doesn’t seem to want to answer on his own.

Eddie looks at him weird. Not weird for its own sake but like: like he’s staring into him, and then like he’s disbelieving, but then also like he’s seeing him for the first time.

That kind of weird.

“Getting the fuck out of here,” Eddie answers like it’s obvious. “White picket fence. Little nuggets.” He spreads his hands as wide as possible without tossing Steve from where he lies. “See the sights.”

And Steve’s response is immediate. Doesn’t even require a thought.

He laughs. Like, ugly-laughs.

“Man,” he shakes his head as he catches his breath, and passes the joint off this time with purpose, not an offer or a choice as he snorts a little; “that’s not the dream.”

When Eddie doesn’t grab the smoke, Steve finally looks up. Eddie…

Eddie looks like what Steve’s always struggled to understand the word ‘poleaxed’ to mean. He thinks it might be this.

He looks…like something stuck him through the gut. Slapped him silly across the face.

“What d’ya mean?” And it’s just three words, one that’s a cheat, and he says it slow enough to take an age.

Steve breathes out, and then, if he’s gonna be honest, and if he has to keep holding the damn thing anyway, decides to take another drag before speaking:

“Figured out what the dream was, inside the dream,” Steve says, wondering if he’ll get away with the vagary; knowing he won’t.

“All we see or seem?” Eddie jokes a little, but it falls flat, his tone eerily kinda…strained but hollow.

“I like poetry.” Steve smiles up at him, soft, and offers the joint again straight to Eddie’s lips. He takes it this time.

“It was about family. It was about stability, not,” Steve shakes his head, stops talking half-assed around the lungful he’s holding, and lets it out slow; “not in a place, fuck, not in a house, but,” a person he doesn’t say, but he hears it in his head; “it was about sharing it.”

And that's it. That’s the simplest, most straightforward truth. Steve doesn’t think there’s anything complicated, or offensive in it. Hard to swallow. Even if he’s come to terms with it. Is mostly at peace with it.

Which is why it’s weird, that Eddie feels suddenly rigid beneath him.

So Steve turns, and braces his hand on Eddie's chest for balance, and frowns when he doesn’t even have to push down to feel the way his heart’s a fucking riot.

“What?” Steve asks, gentle; Eddie’s face is a portrait of conflict, of distress and Steve can’t fucking figure out why, they just came like four times between them and are sharing some very nice Cali weed—they’re nestled close, they’re together, it’s…

Eddie’s quiet, his breath disconcertingly steady for how his pulse pounds, and then he breathes out slow before covering his face:

“I don’t think I can fuck this up any worse than I already have, so,” he mutters, dejected for reasons Steve can’t even guess, then he laughs, humorless, shakes his head:

“Let me try, I guess.”

Steve frowns, uncomprehending, until:

“I’ve been in love with you forever.”

Steve thinks the world stops. His heart does, at least. Suspended. Silent so he doesn’t miss a syllable.

“And I told myself,” Eddie bites at his lip, worries at the bottom swell; “end of that summer, from the very first, I said: don’t ask him to come with you, even if it breaks your heart,” and oh god, oh god after all this time: Steve doesn’t think he’s projecting to hear the genuinely broken heart in those words for just remembering.

“Don’t ask him to settle, you’re not even in the same universe of what he wants,” fuck, what lies Eddie’s saying; did he believe them? Has he always—“what he needs.”

But Eddie is everything he needs, always was, will always be—

“You’ll never have the picket fence. You can’t give him his nuggets. You should never be trusted to park a Winnebago.”

They could have had a shitty studio apartment. They could have had the kids in college. They could have run the BMW until it died, or sold it to put toward a better van for equipment. They could have—

“You’re selfish, Munson, you’re a rat fucking bastard but,” Eddie’s still going, heart still hammering under Steve’s touch even as Eddie swallows hard and fails to smile, looks ill with the attempt like it hurts to try: “you love him too much for that.”

Oh. Oh god.

“It didn’t break my heart, though,” Eddie clears his throat and glances away, to the ceiling, eyes too bright: oh fuck; “broke my goddamn soul,” and a tear falls, and Steve can’t help but wipe it away, and kiss the track. Even just once.

So he does.

“When I saw you again that first time back,” Eddie starts again, voice rougher and shakier as he reaches a hand for Steve’s. “I could have asked the boys to fly out, the execs offered, but,” and this time, the attempt to grin is more successful, like a weight’s lifted from it: “and you smiled at me, it felt like,” and when he shakes his head this time it’s for disbelief, but the kind that comes with awe; “and when we slotted back together like we’d never been apart, it was…”

Eddie’s voice trails, but it cracks at the end—Steve doesn’t know which does more to stop his words.

He’s grateful, relieved, when they come back. He’s powerless but to give when Eddie touches his cheek so gentle and breathes:

“And I had to tell myself again, and again,” he murmurs, stroking Steve’s skin like he’s precious: “you love him too much to take his dream away from him.”

“What did it matter?” Steve can’t help but ask, no malice in it, just the need to understand. “You had your dream, you have—“

They have a contract. They have an album climbing the charts. They’re not just on their way—they’re there. The only next step is to get bigger, and bigger, and—

“Dreams within dreams, wasn’t it?” Eddie murmurs close to Steve’s cheek, where maybe he’s pressing to be close, or maybe he’s hiding a little, so Steve strokes his hair because he can either way and relishes how Eddie leans, melts into it like always. “Inside the dream?”

Steve nods, more to encourage more words. More Eddie.

“Break my dream open and there’s you with me, every step,” Eddie whispers, his lips warm on Steve’s skin. “Break my heart open, same damn thing,” and that causes Steve to shudder, and his heart to pick up now, too. “Both just kinda crumble if you take out the center.”

Steve can’t quite believe what he’s hearing. Wants to. Doesn’t think they’re lies. It’s just, he…

“Those,” Steve tries to speak but his voice cracks; he clears his throat and kicks his lips while he tucks Eddie into his neck, under his chin: “those would be good lyrics.”

“No,” Eddie shakes his head and nuzzles Steve’s throat with the motion and this can’t be happening.

This can’t be happening, can it?

“No, those words were only ever meant just for you.”

And Eddie kisses the pulse point close to his mouth and holds there, like a sentry and a miser, and holy shit.

Holy shit.

“And I don’t know,” Eddie’s saying more, but it’s pitchy, thready, like he’s barely holding the words together at all; “I don’t know if it’s nostalgia, or convenience, or routine,” his voice breaks again and the sob’s in the word when it comes even if it’s not streaming down on his cheeks: “pity,” and no, no, not fucking ever, how—

“I was never your dream then, and I don’t even know if I can be your inside-dream now, and,” Eddie’s rambling, and he does that when he’s desperate, when he’s overwhelmed and overfull with feeling—and Steve knows that. Steve knows that about him.

Steve knows. Better than he knows himself, Steve still knows him.

“I just want the world for you,” Eddie whispers, stroking up and down Steve’s jaw; “my sweetheart. My sunshine,” he smiles so real and soft and Steve melts, like the heart in his chest starts spilling through his ribs, warm and liquid: “you deserve more than the world, more than fuckin’ me and I,” Eddie shakes his head again, more this time like he’s stopping himself, like it’s a defense mechanism and Steve reaches for his cheeks, broad palms on either side to hold him still because…he doesn’t want Eddie to stop.

Ever.

“Did I ruin it?” Eddie breathes, and barely at that, eyes so wide and swimming and oh, god; “did I—"

And Steve can’t help it. He can’t help but kiss him with all he’s got, even if it couldn’t be all Eddie’s worth in all the world. Steve can’t contain all that Eddie’s worth.

But he can give everything, because this is the man who already has it.

“What the hell was I supposed to be to a rockstar?” Steve tries to talk through his own tight throat, his own growing smile, his own threat of tears bubbling close to the surface. “How the fuck was I ever going to measure up, ever do anything but hold you back when you could have—“

“I come back to you, for you,” Eddie answers immediate; it’s not what Steve’s asking but he won’t lie and say he didn’t want to know, at least a little. “The handful of times I’ve tried,” Eddie shakes his head once now, definitive; “I have always left my everything with you.”

The idea that Steve’s spent all this time feeling empty, and hollow, and missing the best of himself where it lived in the man he loved—the idea he was wrong, that they both were so fucking wrong is…insanity.

“I had a bag half packed.”

Steve doesn’t need to explain further. The noise Eddie makes is pure pain.

“Baby,” he nearly croons, falls into Steve somehow closer, wraps him up tighter; “I wanted to kidnap you in the night.”

“I sobbed in my bed after you were out of sight.”

“I pulled over before the town sign, because I couldn’t see the goddamn road.”

And Steve…Steve doesn’t really have a decision to make about what he says next. What dream he wants; always has.

“I never got rid of the luggage.”

And Eddie hears everything he says in those words, because after everything, Eddie Munson knows him, and…yeah.

Steve’s been kissed in a lot of ways before. By this man in particular, even.

But this: if leaving broke Eddie’s soul, if somehow the lack of Steve somehow did that?

This is…this is the body meeting another body, heart to heart and tasting the way a soul slides back in place. It's Eddie’s hands in his hair like hell never let go and he’s happy about the idea; blissful for it, even. It’s—beyond anything Steve’s ever known. So: yeah.

It’s not a decision. It’s just a fucking given.

♥️

🎸also on ao3

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[hyperfixationships]

Some thoughts on a non-romantic relationship as I rewatch 9-1-1 and cry hysterically:

Bobby Nash lost his WHOLE family. Lost his kids and his wife and he never once forgave himself for it. But he took one look at Buck and it was like, "Oh, that one. It's him. That's my son." He took one look at Buck and saw him. He noticed Buck struggling, he noticed Buck pain and being lost. And he didn't know why, and he kept his distance because of his own kids, but he still took care of him. He still did everything in his power to keep him safe and fight for him even when Buck made it hard. And Buck did make it hard in a way, (not because he's hard to love, but because he's convinced he's expendable, he's convinced he doesn't matter, he's self-destructive and hard to keep safe) but despite it all, Bobby cares. He saw this sad, broken mess of a boy and they clicked right away. It was like it was meant to be, despite Buck not being from him he was meant to find Bobby and be his kid. In any lifetime and in any universe.

And Buck? He is self-destructive. He thinks his only worth is helping others, even if it's self-destructive and kills him. And who did that to him besides Margaret and Phillip? Who treated him like he was expendable, who only had him to save their other child and it failed. He was born to save others and it's all he can do now.

(Oh, you want to know why I'm in therapy? It's because I have spent my entire life feeling like a constant disappointment. You want to talk about our jobs? You think my job is dangerous? I have walked through fire every single day of my life because of you! That is why I'm in therapy because nothing I ever did was good enough!

We tried but you always-you never made it easy on us! Either one of you!

We were supposed to? We were kids!

Evan, I don't know what you expected us to do!

Love me anyway)

Buck is self-destructive, and kind and will help anyone he can, even if he goes about it the wrong way. Buck has been made to feel small and useless if he's not saving others even if it kills him and Bobby sees that. Buck has the mentality of a teenager and will do anything and everything for attention. Who desperately wants to be loved and cared for, but no one ever stays. And Bobby? He stayed and he fought for him and he cares. Bobby sees a hurt kid who is so easy to love despite Bucks' flaws. Bobby notices the flaws and hurt but loves him anyway. Even if Bobby sometimes handles Buck's tendencies the wrong way. Buck gave up on a family a long time ago, but Bobby gives him one. He gives him the 118 and himself and Athena. Bobby sees this abandoned boy and thinks, "Yes, this one is mine." And Buck doesn't fully process that he will always have Bobby. (Even after the lawsuit. When Buck was convinced Bobby was abandoning him, Bobby was terrified of losing him. He was trying to protect his son.) Bobby gives him Hen, Chimney, Eddie, and Athena. He lets him into his home when it's the 118 and when Bobby moves in with Athena, Athena gives him a home. Athena knows Buck is theirs and gives him a place to go whenever he needs. Bobby and Athena see through him and love him anyway. They're hell-bent on showing him, "We see your flaws, we see how hurt and angry you are and we love you anyway." And Buck doesn't always know how to handle it. He thinks he's expendable, like he doesn't matter if he's not saving others. And Bobby? No matter how angry Buck makes him, he forgives him always. He loves him despite it all. Bobby who rushed to the hospital despite his frustration when he thought Buck was hurt. Bobby lets Buck control the pace of their relationship, Bobby who is patient loving and will always help his son when he can. Bobby is hard on Buck, because he cares. Bobby doesn't want to lose another kid. Bobby who makes Buck one of his lucky numbers.

(Mom brought two kids into this marriage, you brought one.)

Buck isn't used to being fought for, loved or cared for. And Bobby knows that. Bobby will always have a home for him and will always love him despite everything. And Bobby will always love him, and Buck is learning that. Buck is learning that Bobby loves him even when he's angry and lashing out. They'll always find their way back to each other because they're a parent and child. No matter how old Buck is. The whole 118 is Bobby's family, the first one since his died. But Buck? Buck is his son, and nothing can beat that. And everyone will always know that. And Buck? Buck helped teach Bobby to trusting open again. He taught him it's okay to have a family again. And Bobby needed that. Bobby saw a kid lost and adrift with a terrible family and wants to help, but feels so guilty. But Buck helps hold and support him when Bobby relapses but sees a dad in him anyways. And Bobby needed him just as much as Buck needed Bobby. They needed each other. They found a family in each other and found it.

[forever-rogue]

Afterglow - Part 8

A/N: Is it time for some much need talking? Hmm....perhaps. As always, feedback and comments are welcome, and if you’d like to be tagged, let me know. xx 💕

Pairing: Frankie Morales x Fem!Reader

Word Count: 6.2k

Warnings: drug and alcohol mentions; slight language 

AFTERGLOW MASTERLIST

MASTERLIST

»»————-　♡　————-««

You drifted in and out of sleep that night, waiting up several times due to the jolt of a startling nightmare. At first you almost forgot where you were or what was going on - why were you asleep on the couch? But it hit you like a ton of bricks; Frankie Morales was currently asleep in your bed. 

A few times throughout the night you’d gotten up and stretched your stiff bones and wandered to the bedroom door, opening it just a crack to peek inside. Each time, Frankie was fast asleep with Daisy next to him. It caused you to relax a little, knowing that he was okay, and you needn’t worry about an overdose or anything like that. But it didn’t ease the pain of seeing him again or knowing that he was struggling with an addiction...or something.

The universe had put an odd situation on your plate. 

Once you couldn’t sleep any longer, and had gotten tired of lying on the couch, which it had turned out was not an ideal sleeping situation, you made your way into the kitchen to start breakfast. You weren’t even sure what to do really, but it was a bit of normalcy to offset your otherwise shaken up routine. 

As soon as you started the coffee, something that was an absolute necessity, you’d left messages for your clients apologizing for the early call and canceling their appointments due to a last minute emergency. Hopefully they wouldn’t mind. As the coffee percolated filling the kitchen with warmth and the delicious smell, you reached into the fridge and started pulling eggs, bacon, and other items to make breakfast with. Grabbing a bowl and a pan, you quickly settled on pancakes, wondering if they were still his favorite. He’d always loved them when you were younger and on more than one occasion had your little date nights ended in a small 24-hour diner, where’d he chow down on them. 

The memory made you smile,  as you recalled one particular time when he eagerly topped off his pancakes with fresh fruit and whipped cream, which had gotten on the corners of his mouth. You’d reached over and wiped the whipped cream away, licking it clean from your own finger. It seemed like yesterday, even though it was so long ago. 

Sighing, you pushed the memory away and carried on preparing the batter and throwing some bacon into the oven. As soon as your coffee pot signaled that it was done, you grabbed your favorite mug, followed by another and poured the black coffee in. You finished yours off as you liked, topping the other off with a sprinkle of cinnamon. It amazed for a mere fraction of a second just how well you still remembered the things he liked. But your amazement was quickly cut short when you heard a quiet throat clear from the opposite side of the counter. 

“H-hi,” he said quietly, almost tentatively as he seemed to look anywhere but your eyes. You took the cup you had prepared for him and set it down in front of him, motioned for him to take a seat at the bar. 

“You look like hell,” you commented as he sat and clutched the steaming cup between his hands. He made a small sound of agreement as you turned back to your pan and poured some batter in, “I made it how you used to like it....I presume it’s still the same?”

“Yeah,” he said as he put the mug to his mouth and took a long sip, “thank you.”

“Mhmm,” it was a small, noncommittal sound as you focused your attention on the pancakes and eggs. Daisy came over and you offered her a treat before getting her into the backyard and preparing her breakfast. The tension in the air was palpable and you could see that Frankie was eager to say something. But he didn’t dare to be the one that broke the silence. Gods knew you were just as eager to say something, a lot of things honestly, but all of that could wait for now.

Once everything was finished, you grabbed two plates and piled them high with a spread of items, topping them off with some fresh berries on the side. Daisy had been a good girl, clambering between the two of you, so you offered her a piece of bacon and a few berries, which she eagerly took and ran off with and  into her bed to eat. 

Handing a plate to Frankie, you set down your own, as far away from him as possible at the small bar. It didn't create a huge divide between you, but the point came across loud and clear.

The two of you ate in silence for some time, the only sound in the kitchen was the scraping of utensils and a few small huffs from Daisy. She gave you an almost pathetic look a few times, and you just rolled your eyes at her. You knew she wanted to be out and in the company of others; once she'd overcome her initial fear of people, she thrived in attention.

"Oh hush," you told her before passing her another strip of bacon, "we'll go for a walk later, good girl. Or maybe you can go play  with Eddie."

Frankie remained silent as he watched you, doing his best to keep a smile from stretching across his features. But you were too quick and caught him staring.

"I've been bringing her into the office with me every day," you explained, "she likes being around the people and they often find just as much comfort in her. It's a win-win really."

"Hmm," he commented as he shoved another bite in his mouth, "office? W-what kind of office?”

"Yeah," you said softly, "I, ugh...I'm a therapist.” 

He caught your eye and offered you a slightly confused look. Never once had you ever mentioned wanting to be a therapist. In fact, you had wanted to avoid anything you had once deemed similar to your parents as a big no. Coming from a surgeon and a doctor wasn’t a far stretch from a therapist. When the barista at the coffee shop had referred to you as ‘doctor’, he had envisioned...many other things. This was very similar to things you had proclaimed you'd never wanted to be, "oh. I thought you wanted to be a zoologist. That’s what you always wanted to...study animals. UCLA-"

"Yeah," you cut him off sharply, "I did once. In another lifetime. I had to make decisions back then.. Ones I didn't think I'd make or have to make. I thought things were going to play out in a very different way but the joke was on me, right? So, here we are. I'm good at my job and it just...worked out."

"But do you like it?" he asked tentatively as you narrowed your eyes at him. No one ever really asked you that...it was just sort of assumed that you did, or if you didn't, that didn't matter one way or another..

"What does it matter, Francisco? A job is a job," you almost snapped at him, "but yes. For the most part I enjoy my job. I'm glad to be helping people that need it.”

"It just didn't seem like something you wanted to do..." he trailed off softly.

"Well, I also didn't think I'd go to college alone and have to make an entirely different series of choices. I didn’t think you’d just leave me and go into the military - and you were going to leave me in the dark about as long as you could. Remember that?" you knew it was a dig, the lowest of blows, but in that moment you didn't care. Things had ended a long time ago and at the end of the day, it didn't matter anymore, "because I do. So yeah, my life plans changed. But you know about that just as well. How did that work out for you?!"

You hated yourself in that moment, and as soon as the words left your mouth you wished you could take them back. You hated how much venom was lacing your words, how angry you still were with him. It was twenty years worth of pain and hurt bubbling to the surface all at once. And yet - the look on Frankie’s face was enough to make your heart break. Sighing lightly, you tossed the fork onto your plate and slid out of the bar stool. Tears were prickling at the back of your eyes as you held up your hands in surrender, lips trembling slightly. You tried to slick past him, but he reached for your arm to try and hold you back, "honey-"

"I gotta go," you said, pulling out of his grasp as motioned for Daisy to follow you. Nervously looking between the two of you, she trotted over and perked up slightly when you grabbed her leash, "I-I'll be back. I’m sorry.”

You dashed out the door as swiftly as possible, letting it shut softly behind you as Frankie stared at it, a heavily, weary sigh escaped his own lips. Setting down his own fork, he pushed his plate away, no longer feeling hungry. He wasn’t mad at your words, or the spite you still held for him. If anything it made him hurt just as much. He’d always been confused on why and when you finally decided to cut your ties with him, but he never blamed you. If the roles were reversed he might have done the same. But he’d never hated you for it. He could understand why you did what you did. He was just Frankie after all, he wasn’t worth waiting around for you. Just because he’d never let you go, didn’t mean he expected the same of you.

Standing up, he picked up his own plate, followed by yours and brought them to the sink. Turning on the tap, he set everything under the warm water to soak before quickly deciding to just clean up the kitchen then and there. It was the least he could do. Frankie carefully put everything away, making sure everything was going into what he was sure were the proper spots before loading the dishes into the empty dishwasher. He stopped himself when he reached for your empty coffee mug, holding it delicately in his large hands as he examined. It was a soft yellow, covered in little flowers and beehives and bees. A forlorn little smile crossed his features as he decided to hand wash the mug, drying it with the utmost care before putting it away in the cabinet.

The whole process to getting everything clean again took him some time, but by the time he was satisfied with his handiwork you still weren’t back from your walk with Daisy. It gave him pause to wonder if he should just head home or if he should wait for your return. Eventually he decided to opt for the latter, figuring it would be rude to just run out on you. If nothing else, he’d thank you for the help from the previous evening and then leave, but a smaller part of him hoped that you’d ask him to stay. To talk. There was a lot to talk about after so many years. 

And yet - there was nothing. The relationship was done. Ended. Nothing. 

He went back down the hall to straighten your bedroom up and gather his shoes, but he trekked slowly, taking a moment to study all the pictures on your walls. Some of it was more or less generic artwork, some were photos of you with friends and family over the years. He had admired each of them, how you had changed from the beautiful girl he had fallen in love with to the still beautiful woman he was infatuated with. It was amazing to him that you still looked the same after all this time - the same soft eyes, the same sweet smile, the aura of kindness that seemed to follow you everywhere. He was nothing like he once was, not in his mind anyway, instead of ragged and worn out. A sight for sore eyes.

Shaking his head to himself, he finished the walk back to your room and began to tidy up, making it a point to keep away from anything that looked personal. But in his keen attempt to make your bed, he accidentally knocked over what liked a journal from your nightstand. Groaning at his carelessness, he picked it up and attempted to set it back, but instead,  a couple of photographs fell out of it. He swooped them up and curiosity got the better of him as he studied the pictures intently.

They were of you - you and him. 

One of them was from one of the winters you shared together, the two of you were bundled up in thick jackets and scarves, Frankie’s old beanie on your head, with the skating rink visible in the background. You both looked so young, so carefree, so happy. You were smiling for the camera but his eyes were slowly focused on you, the grin on his face speaking volumes. 

The other one was from Halloween, and the two of you were dressed up as Morticia and Gomez from the Adams Family. Your feeble attempts at costumes had been laughable, but the joy in your faces was undeniable. This time he was smiling for the camera, an arm wrapped tightly around, but you were looking at him as though he was your whole world. 

You had kept the photos after all these years. He let out a long breath before tucking them back into the journal and setting it back on your nightstand. As he finished making up the bed and slipping his shoes back on, he heard the front door open, followed by the sound of Daisy’s footsteps. She eagerly nudged open the door and wagged her tail at him, trying to get his attention for pets. 

"Frankie?" your soft voice reached his ears as he gave Daisy a nervous look before slipping out of your bedroom. He stood in the hallway, nervously twist his hat in his hands as you stood at the other, an unreadable expression on your face.

"Hey," he softly as you just nodded. The two of you stood there for a moment, silently staring at each other. When you didn't say anything he started walking down the small way, "I should go..."

But before he could slip past you, you reached out and grabbed his wrist in a surprisingly firm, but gentle, manner. He turned and gave you a confused expression, "stay. W-w should talk...instead of just running every time we see each other."

"Okay," he agreed as you gave him a momentary smile before leading him outside, to the small little backyard sanctuary you had created. It was crisp and cool, the promise of fall and new hope with the changing season lingering in the air. Daisy was close at hand, bringing out a toy to play with as sat down at the patio table, Frankie taking a seat at the other end of the table. It was silent for some time before you finally mustered up the courage to talk to say anything.

"I'm sorry for earlier," your voice was quiet but Frankie heard you loud and clear, "I shouldn't have exploded like that at you. It wasn't fair."

"'S okay," he insisted. In his mind he deserved a lot more than just a few angry words. A new silence loomed over you as you watched your dog run around play, easily keeping herself amused.

"I was supposed to get married," you blurted out suddenly and Frankie's attention was hyperfocused on you, his deep brown eyes trying to decipher every expression, "in a few weeks actually."

"Oh," he said casually as he if hadn't noticed that you weren't sporting the huge engagement ring you had been wearing when he first ran into you again, "I-I figured...the ring and all."

"Yeah," you said with a scoff, looking over at him and rolling your eyes dramatically, "was going to. Completely dodged a bullet with that one."

"W-what happened?" he wouldn't deny that the fact that your engagement ended instilled a small sense of hope in him, "if you don't mind me asking..."

"A lot of things, honestly,” you shrugged lightly. It wasn’t a complete lie...there were a lot of factors that ultimately led to your decision. The fact that Frankie had appeared out of the blue, out of nowhere, was just another incidental happenstance that seemed to jog you into making the decision. But you weren’t about to admit that to him...not yet anyway, “I basically realized I was unhappy...that he was everything I never wanted and the life I was leading was the one I had wanted to avoid for so long.”

“Oh,” he completed quietly as you threw up your hands in exasperation, more at yourself than anything else. It was just…a hard situation. It wasn’t easy for anyone and with Frankie right there next to you it was hard not to picture a life with him. What would it all have been like if he had been the one?

“I was becoming...became everything I hated,” you laughed dryly at yourself, casting a quick glance over at him as he was watching you intently, “all those things I said I never would be. I ended up being them. I ended up as this quiet, pathetic excuse of a woman that just did what everyone told her to do, what everyone expected of her. I became the model daughter my parents always wanted - working in what they deemed a proper job, never speaking out of turn, marrying the successful lawyer, never straying from the line. And then...I just realized...this isn’t me. This was never me. It’s not who I’m meant to be. I knew that if I went through with that wedding and everything that came afterwards I would never be happy again. Despite the years of self loathing, I couldn’t do that to myself.”

Frankie was listening intently as you seemed to work this out within yourself as the words poured out of your mouth. He knew exactly what you meant, and at the end of the day, he was proud of you for being able to make the decisions you needed to for yourself, “so you just called it all off?”

“Yeah,” you dabbed at the tears that pearled up and slipped down your cheeks, before laughing lightly. In the moment, it had been a bold, dramatic move, one that you considered almost worthy of a cinematic masterpiece, but looking back on it, you had probably seemed like a mad woman, “basically. It was the day of my last dress fitting and it just...hit me. I was with the dress maker and her niece and they were asking me all about my fiance and asking me if I was excited and how in love we were and everything. And it hit me then and there - I couldn’t do this. So...I bailed and left. Called it off an hour later. You should have seen the poor things! Oh Frankie, they looked so surprised, but they understood. I paid for the dress and I told them to donate it to someone that deserved it.”

“Holy shit,” he breathed out as he pictured the scene. You caught his eye and the two of you started laughing together. Gods, in that moment, it was easy, so easy to just laugh and not think about anything else. It still felt so effortless with him, even despite everything that happened between the two of you, “you just did that!”

“You know what they say about mad women, Frankie,” you teased, taking a moment to collect yourself. Looking back on it now it was funny, but in reality...it had been a harsh end to your previous life and a bumpy start to your new one, “but...at the end of the day it was the right thing to do. I couldn’t marry Chad and just be Mrs. Wadsworth forever.”

“Chad? Wadsworth?” Frankie couldn’t help but snicker at the names as you nodded before hanging your head, giving him just a glimpse of that smile that always made him weak in the knees, “oh honey, you should have known from the name alone.”

“I was a fool,” you admitted with a dramatic sigh, “a self righteous fool. At the time it had seemed...right.”

“Did you love him?”

“I-I suppose I did,” you said softly, “at one point or another. I don’t know where along the line it just ended up as routine and just me going through the motions but obviously it did…”

“I’m sorry you had to do through all of that,” he said quietly as you shrugged. It wasn’t his fault...that was all of your own doing, “how did your family take it?”

“About as well as you'd think,” you bit the inside of your cheek to keep more tears from flowing worth, “you know them, Frankie, they’re the same as they’ve always been. At first it seemed like my mom understood, and she seemed to care, but by the next day it was like a flip had been switched. They had seemed to side with Chad and somehow none of feelings were relevant. And all of the friends we’d had basically decided that I was the bad guy. So it kind of...left me to figure things out on my own. Luckily, I do have a few really good friends left. They helped me out a lot...even to find this house actually. Things could have been a lot worse...they were rough but they’re getting better.”

“Still,” he almost whispered at you, “I’m sorry you had to go through all of that. You don’t deserve it.”

“Such is life,” you looked at him and offered an almost teary smile, “but about you? Did you ever get married or anything?”

“No,” he answered quickly as you tried to ignore the small skip of your heart. He tapped his fingers against the glass top of the table for a few moments, “there was never really...anyone else.”

“Really!?”

“Nope,” he was almost nervous as he swallowed the lump in his throat, “I was in the military for a long while...overseas, special ops...never really had much chance to worry about that kind of stuff back then.”

“What about when you got out?”

“There were a few here and there,” he admitted quietly, “nothing serious, nothing that lasted more than a few months.”

“Oh,” it was your turn to be surprised. For some reason he had struck you as the type that would have settled down...the type of man that would almost yearn for domestic bliss. Little did you know he did exactly that, just not with anyone that he encountered so far. 

“Yeah,” he exhaled sharply through his nose, “it hasn’t been much of an exciting life.”

“Surely it must have been,” you insisted, “special ops? That sounds like it be one adventure after another...but it was the military…”

“I was glad to get out when I got out,” he insisted and you could tell there was a lot more he wanted to say. But he tensed up lightly and you weren’t going to push him to tell you anything. If he wanted to, he would, but as far as you were concerned he owed you nothing. And yet...a small part of you hoped he did still want to open up and confide in you.

“What...what do you do now?”

“I’m a mechanic,” he stated simply and pointedly looked away from your eyes. He didn’t know if he wanted to see the expression in them, to know if you suddenly thought him to be much lower, “it’s nothing much but I-”

“It’s brilliant, Frankie,” you insisted, quickly cutting him off and causing his head to whip in your direction, a small smile tugging on the corners of his mouth, “you had always had a knack for stuff like that - it never made any sense to me, but you? You always had a sharp mind.”

“I was a pilot too!” he eagerly told you, and you could have died at the excited expression on his face, “in the military and…”

“And what, Frankie?” you asked, noticing the rapid change in his mood, almost as if he hadn’t meant to tell you quite that much. He stilled for a moment before looking away, “Frankie?”

“And for a while after that for private individuals,” he almost murmured, “but umm...n-not at the moment.”

“Okay,” you replied, telling him in that one word that he never needed to go past what was comfortable for him, “Frankie, I’m glad that things worked out for you...really.”

He just nodded, and gave you a weary look before silence fell over the two of you again. You pulled your knees up to your chest and hugged them, watching as Daisy sniffed everything before bringing her ball over to Frankie. He gently took it from her and tossed it across the yard, repeating the action several times over before she grew bored of it and went to follow around a squirrel. 

After some time, you cleared your throat, deciding that now was as good of a time as any to lay everything out on table. What was the worst that just happen? He would get mad, you would get mad and then he left? It wouldn't put you in a worse position than before. There was literally nothing left to loose, and you'd hate yourself if you didn't at least tell him. If nothing else, you would get it all off of your chest.

"T-there was another reason I called off my wedding..." you admitted and slowly shifted his gaze back to you, "umm, everything kind of...I realized how unhappy I was and that things weren't right after...after running into you. That day at the coffee shop when I spilled coffee all over myself."

Frankie tried his best to keep his expression neutral but it felt like a swarm of butterflies had just been released into his stomach. He was trying not to read too much into your words but he was loathe to deny his excitement. That meant you had felt it too; he wasn't wrong in thinking it was just him. He looked at you to go on, making a small sound in his throat, "I-I remember..."

"It set off...something," you said softly, "and that's what caused me to realize everything else."

"If nothing else, I'm glad the spilled coffee led you to realizing that you deserve better...that you deserve the world..."

"I...I never stopped loving you," the words shot out of your mouth before you could do anything to stop them and Frankie's jaw dropped and practically hit the floor, "seeing you made me realize that...there was never anyone else that I could ever love because they weren't you. Even after everything that happened, all this time, it always came back to you."

"Honey bee," the nickname flowed easily and you didn’t bother to correct him. You liked the way it sounded, you had missed it even. It was so much better than sugar plum, which still made you cringe to even think about, “you…”

“I know,” you said quietly, bringing your hands up to your face as you tried to hide and  make yourself feel smaller. You hadn’t, not in a million years thought you would see him again, let alone admit this to him or yourself, “I just...the more I thought about it, especially with Chad, I kept comparing everything to you. Even if I didn’t admit it out loud to myself, that’s one of the main things that it was. It was always you.”

“I-I don’t understand…” he said quietly, “you never...I called you and you never called me back. I thought...I thought...why?”

“I know,” you admitted, “I just...I couldn’t, Frankie. You left me and I hung around waiting for you all the time. My life revolved around waiting for to call, or email, any little hint from you. It wasn’t healthy - I was missing out on so much, because I was always waiting around for you. I couldn’t do that anymore, to wait to hear from you from an hour once every two months whenever you got the chance? It wasn’t fair to me or you. So I just...decided not to anymore.”

“But I-I came back,” he said meekly as you shrugged lightly.

“When? How many hours was your life devoted to the military? How many years were you gone for the majority of the year? It wouldn’t have been fair to me to have to wait for you, and it wouldn’t have been fair to you either, to only get to see me once in a while. Wasn't it easier to just not have to worry about it?” you tried to rationalize it to yourself and him at the same time. But as the words left your mouth you wondered if it had been easier that way. Maybe it would have been easier, maybe you would have been happier if you’d tried to make it work...but now you would never know. 

“I don’t know,” he sighed heavily as he leaned his elbows on the table and rubbed his tired eyes, “I don’t know...but I do know it was hard for you.”

“You left me Frankie,” you said softly, trying not to cry again as you thought back to the day you had discovered that he was leaving for the military. It had been the worst day of your life back then. It still was to this day, “we made all these plans, our future, and you left me.”

“I did what I had to do back then,” he said softly, and while you never believed, even back then, you knew he had his reasons. You knew that the choices he made for all calculated and thought out - he was never one for rash decisions, “the choices I made helped become the man I am now. And look where you needed up - a therapist. A successful therapist. That counts for something, right?”

“I know....I know you did. I understand that now. A small part of me still thinks I would have rather have been with you, Frankie,” you said softly, turning to face him and resting your head on your knees, “even looking back on everything now. I wish you would have let me come with you -”

“So what?” he almost snapped and you jumped slightly at the sudden change in his voice, “you could have been some military wife that’s never happy?”

“I would have been happy with you!” you retorted with just as much edge as he had given you, “I would have been happy if I got to be anywhere with you. You were my everything, Frankie, and that never changed.”

“You would have been alone half the time,” he sighed heavily, “and I never...I never wanted you to have to worry if I was dead or alive or if I was coming back at all.”

You remained silent as you mused over his words. He had a point...if you had been with him, when he was overseas, you would have been wondering every minute of every hour if he was alright or not. That was a fate almost as cruel if not more so than what you were put through. 

“I wanted you to have a chance at happiness,” his tone softened as he looked at you with big brown eyes. They were full of emotion, holding so many things inside of them, “without me you had a shot.”

“I thought I did too,” you agreed, your lips trembling effort to keep from crying. Gods, you felt like you had been crying more recently than you had in many years, “turns out we were both wrong.”

“Yeah?”

“In some ways I wished I’d just gone with you anyway,” you shrugged and he made a small sound. You were both stubborn fools in your own ways, “in some other ways I wish I never met you.”

It felt like his whole world stood still as he cautiously met your eyes. Now those were words he never thought he’d hear you saying. He opened and closed his mouth a few times before stumbling over his words, “w-what? I thought…”

“If I had never met you, I never would have missed you,” you explained, “I never would have gone through the heartbreak of you leaving, of loving you and looking for you in everything and everyone else, never finding you. I would have been…”

“Maybe you’re right…”

“Yeah...but I’m not,” you concluded, “because if I had never met you, I would have never been loved by you, or gotten to love you. I never would have...discovered how to be myself. You showed me that it was okay to be different from my family, to be my own person. It worked...even if I got lost along the way and things changed. At the end of the day, it was you. And just when I was about to make the biggest mistake of my life, you came back. Out of all the times. That-that has to mean something right?”

Just like that every piece of his heart that had felt like it had hardened and decayed over the years seemed to come back to life. His heart started racing in his chest as he stared at you, long and hard, and you stared back with just as much ferocity and intensity. You were thinking the same thing he was - the timing, you both coming back together, it couldn’t be for naught. It just couldn’t. The universe was a strange and wondrous thing, but maybe...maybe this time it was getting it right…

“M..maybe…” Frankie stood up as you tried to collect your thoughts and slowly strode over to you. Extending his hand slowly, he held it out to you and you stared at it for just a moment, contemplating taking it. Taking his hand was a lot more than just the simple action of taking his hand, you were both well aware of that fact. Swallowing the lump in your throat, you let him help you to your feet, and you stood directly in front of him, “Francisco.”

His large hands found your face, his touch gentle and saccharine as you relished in the feel of his soft, yet calloused skin on yours. Your lips parted slightly as he traced over the highs and lows of your features, making it a point to commit this version of you deep into his mind, just like he had twenty years ago when you were younger. His thumb swiped along your lower lip and your body was practicing screaming for him to touch you, to kiss you, anything.

“You are still as beautiful as the day I first laid eyes on you,” he whispered, inching incrementally closer and yet not close enough, “honey bee, I loved you then and I never stopped. I will never stop.”

“Francisco,” it was a soft plea as your hands found his wrists, gripping onto them tightly and vowing to never let go, “please.”

Please kiss me. Please don’t ever leave me again. Please just love me. 

It was so many things all in one simple word.

“May I kiss you?” he leaned in and his lips were practically ghosting over yours, his breath warm and sweet. You nodded quietly before closing the almost nonexistent gap between your bodies, weaving your arms around his neck as his hands found purchase on your hips.

It was slow, sweeter almost than honey as he kissed you, and you allowed yourself to get lost in him. If you thought kissing him back then had been amazing, this was that and then some. Every part of him melded perfectly against you, an ease to your movement like neither of you had to think or even try. It was like it had always been meant to be. In some ways, you supposed it was. It was always supposed to be you and your Frankie. 

“I love you, Frankie,” you murmured against his lips when you parted for a breath of air, “it was always you.”

»»————-　♡　————-««

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[novelconcepts]

Modern AU where Jamie gets a tongue piercing and Dani has, uh, feelings about that

It is rare, Dani Clayton believes, that a single action can define a life. Rare, unlikely, prone only to situations where the action is life-or-death in and of itself, she believes. Most others are a matter of small steps leading down a long road. 

Most.

In the event of dumping Edmund O’Mara not three months before their wedding was meant to take place, those steps start to look a whole lot less small.

In the event of dumping Eddie, informing him--and his mother, and her mother shortly thereafter--that she’d done so because she didn’t love him that way, that she wasn’t sure she could love any man that way, and wasn’t entirely certain she was willing to try any longer to convince herself otherwise, those steps start to look much more like a leap.

Off a cliff.

Into thin air.

If you’re going to do it, she tells herself grimly, might as well do it the right way. Which, in some cases, might mean a fresh dye job, a flight to a distant country, the making of a wild and unreasonable purchase. In this particular case, it means looking what it means to be Danielle Clayton in the eye, turning on her heel, and doing absolutely anything else. 

The club? Packed. The music? Aggressive. Dani?

Several shots in, not nearly as drunk as she’d like, and completely out of her depth. 

Even so, there’s a lot about this experience she actually finds herself enjoying. The music, though slamming into the side of her head like a vaguely-melodic sledgehammer, is easy to dance to. The dark atmosphere of the place means she doesn’t feel as though anyone is getting a chance to really stare--or, if they are, they’re staring for good reasons. Reasons she’s never allowed herself to entertain before now.

It is, after all, the right kind of club.

If she thinks about that fact, she’s going to turn and head right back out the door, and the line had been way too long for such a casual surrender. The only choice, Dani understands, is simply not to think--not to let her nerves get the better of her, not to allow adrenaline to push her into flight mode. Not this time. 

Adrenaline, instead, becomes the thing she closes her fists around and twists to suit her needs. The thing to act as lightning in her bones, charging every inch of a woman who spent nearly thirty years play-acting in someone else’s show. The drinks help, wearing away the part of her that says she doesn’t fit here, doesn’t belong here, might have been wrong all along in telling Eddie she couldn’t do it anymore. The dancing, too, makes her feel better--makes her feel like someone new, someone with all the shine of her mother’s expectation scrubbed away. Someone who can throw her arms in the air, swivel her hips, laugh with delirious joy. 

Flirt, even. 

She can’t remember the last time she flirted with someone on purpose, but she’s certainly doing it now--with one young woman in particular. She wasn’t the first to dance with Dani--there have been a truly stunning number of women dancing with Dani, in fact, making her feel at once special and like running straight out of this club--but she is the one who has taken to it most naturally, somehow. Her eyes are bright, her curls tied back from her face, her smile the kind of charming Dani has never allowed herself to look at too closely before tonight. 

They haven’t exchanged a single word, and there’s something remarkable about that--about how easily the woman seems to read her body language, tailoring her distance according to Dani’s comfort. Unlike several of the others, this woman did not immediately push against Dani’s body, too warm, arms slinking around her waist. She did not attempt to pull Dani into herself, her hips setting a theme for the evening against Dani’s better judgement. This woman, instead, had only reached out a single hand, eyebrow arched--a silver bar punched through had caught the light and Dani’s attention at the same time--and had waited. 

Dani hadn’t quite been able to resist. Something about the woman’s grin, just this side of roguish, just this side of dangerous, had held too great an appeal. She had moved with a confidence Dani couldn’t imagine possessing, a swagger in her walk Dani hadn’t been able to look away from, and Dani thought, They’re pretty, but she is unreal. 

She looks at the woman now, at her green-gray eyes and the shade of abs beneath a cropped tank top. There are tattoos, she notes--a vine of some kind rising from the low ride of her jeans, a pattern of tiny flowers traced around her left wrist. Dani trails her fingers along those flowers now, letting her hand slide recklessly up the woman’s arm in time to the twisting beat, and wonders what else she’s hiding beneath her jacket, her jeans, her boots.

She’s never in her life allowed herself to wonder what might lurk beneath a woman’s clothes. Never in her life let herself look at the sweat skidding down a woman’s neck and wondered what it might taste like, were she to bury her face against soft skin. 

The woman is smiling, she notices with a thread of embarrassment--but it’s a good smile, as Dani wraps loose fingers around her upper arm and urges her closer. A good smile, one which teases, but doesn’t mock. This woman, with four piercings in one ear, with hands that smooth around Dani’s hips only when Dani edges in close, with eyes that watch Dani like she’s the only person in the room, is a marvel. 

Who are you, Dani asks herself, almost trembling with the simple delight of this woman’s hand twirling her around, this woman laughing when Dani slips an arm around her neck and twists brave fingers into her hair. Who are you, doing this with a stranger, with a woman, in a place like this?

Happy. A single word, enormous and bright. She’s happy, with the song under her skin, with this woman moving against her like they were cut of a single cloth. Like she understands, more than anything, Dani’s need to jam a lifetime of feeling electric into a single night. 

She kisses the woman first. It feels almost like a game of chicken, gazing into her eyes, letting her hand settle between jacket and tank top. Almost like a dare, letting her fingers dig into the woman’s shirt, pushing her nearer. Almost like a wish, her eyes skimming from the heat of the stranger’s gaze to her lips and back again. 

She kisses her, and wonders if it was always supposed to feel like this. The woman’s arm around her waist soft and strong, the woman’s lips parting for her like the next beat of a conversation--and there is something hard and warm to the kiss, a gentle curve of metal beneath her tongue. I am, she thinks dizzily, kissing a strange woman in a gay club, a woman with a tongue piercing, a woman who is kissing me like she’s never wanted to do anything else. 

She kisses this stranger, eyes closed, breath quickening as the woman’s hips push against her own, and she thinks, It wasn’t like this with him. Not once. 

Happy, as the woman leans back just enough to breathe, her forehead slick against Dani’s. Happy, as the woman’s hand trails up her neck gently enough to leave shivers in the wake of her fingertips. Happy, as the woman cups her jaw, thumb pressing just hard enough to make Dani sigh, kissing her with slow, hot wonder. 

She wonders what they look like to the others, to the women who had twisted and twirled away from her winces, her apologetic smiles, her tiny shakes of the head. How must she look now, in the arms of a woman she suddenly can’t get close enough to, her kiss hungry and hopeful, her hands digging into reckless curls.  

She hears herself panting against the woman’s ear as her head bows, as her lips trace the edge of Dani’s jaw, her kiss smooth on Dani’s neck. She’s gripping the woman’s hair, pushing her face into Dani’s throat with shameless excitement, and she hears herself say, “I’m--”

The woman raises her head, meets her eyes, shakes her head once. Dani’s heart sinks--but the woman is taking her by the hand, pulling her off the dance floor, away from the rapid-fire pulse of music. 

This isn’t me, Dani thinks, her heart in her throat. This isn’t me, as the woman guides her past the bar, past piles of writhing, necking strangers, past the line to the bathroom. This isn’t me, as the woman guides her through the back exit, out into a brick alley and the warmth of a June night. 

“Easier,” the woman says, “to hear out here. Hope that's all right.”

Dani sways, the thunder of the music and the cacophony of other people replaced by a muted ringing in her ears. The woman’s voice is soft, accented, skipping a little with breathless energy.

Dani opens her mouth, uncertain of what to say--her name, maybe, or this isn’t me, or I’ve never-- “You pierced your tongue.”

The woman’s eyes widen, a laugh rolling out of her like summer rain, and Dani feels herself go hot with embarrassment. “I did, yeah. Years back. You, ah. You like it?”

Not trusting herself, Dani only nods once, too fast to look natural. The woman takes her hands, which Dani realizes she has been wringing against the front of her skirt in nervous anticipation, and sidles closer. 

“Would it be easier,” the woman says, close enough to kiss, close enough for Dani to count the colors in her dancing eyes, “if I didn’t ask your name?”

Dani bites her lip. No, she thinks, and yes, and-- “I don’t know.”

“S’all right.” She believes her, this woman who speaks like she’s already got all the answers to a test Dani’s only just signed up to take. “We don’t have to. Can just be a pleasant memory, if you prefer.”

Dani shakes her head sharply, already leaning in again, and the woman tastes different out here. Better, somehow, without the fuzz of other people pressing close, without the tang of a sweaty crowd on the air. The woman tastes of new, of excitement, of metal and menthol, and she’s kissing Dani like she doesn’t need a name to cherish her. 

If you’re doing the thing, might as well do it right. Her back is against a brick wall, her hands pushing under the woman’s shirt, her head tossed back with the rapture of soft lips at her throat. She hears herself making a low sound through clenched teeth as the woman pulls at her hips, slides a thigh between her legs, pushes up. 

“Is there,” she gasps, one hand gripping the woman’s belt loop, one shoved into the woman’s messy hair, “is there somewhere we can--” Because this is new, this is all new and fresh and beautiful, but the idea of letting this woman fuck her against a brick wall is simply too much for a single stab into the dark. 

Those eyes look into hers, the woman’s breath hot across her lips, and she almost changes her mind. Almost yanks her back in, almost says it would be enough to ride her thigh in full view of anyone who steps out for a smoke, enough to give her anything she asks for beneath the sparse suburban stars. 

“My place isn’t far,” the woman says, her voice husky, and Dani nods, presses her forehead to the stranger’s, exhales shakily. 

The walk is quiet, her hand looped into the woman’s, and Dani feels--impossibly--free. Free to hold tighter or let her hand slip away. Free to knock into the woman’s shoulder with her own or balance along the curb as she walks. Free to look at the stars, to look at her feet, to look at the woman’s profile in the glow of the streetlights. 

“Dani,” she says. “My name is Dani.”

The woman smiles. “First night out, Dani?”

“That obvious?” She ought to be embarrassed, but the woman’s smile is still a good one. A teasing, gentle, comfortable one. 

“No,” the woman says after a moment of what is evidently legitimate consideration. “No, not obvious. Just a feeling.”

The apartment is small, clean, full of potted plants and well-loved blankets. The woman, pushing the door open, ushers Dani inside and stands back as if to say, Go on. Take it in. As if to say, I know what we came here for, but you can still back out. Her hands are in the pockets of her jacket, her posture loose, as though she isn’t thrumming with the impulse to get Dani pinned against another wall. 

Dani can’t quite relate. 

“Do you do this often?” she asks, as she moves into the woman’s arms again, as she slides her hands into the woman’s hair, liking the weight of her head cupped in Dani’s palms. The woman smiles almost sheepishly.

“Sometimes.”

“Do you know their names?” She’s kissing the edge of soft lips, feeling the woman sigh, feeling her head turn in search of Dani. There is power here, she thinks, unlike anything she’s ever felt. Power, and assertion, and desire. 

And laughter, when the woman says, “Not usually. No.”

“Honest,” Dani says approvingly, aware she’s still flirting, aware of the caress of the other woman’s hands around the back of her skirt. Her hips press forward once, and the woman grins. 

“Never tell ‘em mine, either.”

“Because you don’t want them to come calling in the morning,” Dani guesses. The woman shakes her head.

“The kind of woman I bring home rarely wants that. Easier on everyone, to keep it to skin.”

Her fingertips are tracing beneath Dani’s shirt, a light pattern up her back. Dani feels her brush the clasp of her bra almost carelessly, not even trying to unhook and remove it, and shivers. There is a warmth to the idea that this woman, for all her brazen want, is just as interested in this conversation as in getting Dani naked. 

“What if I wanted to know?” she breathes, her lips barely brushing the woman’s, watching her eyes flutter in response. “Your name. What you do when you’re not bringing strange women to bed.”

“Do you?” An honest question, she thinks, not a challenge. Strong fingers stroke down her back, tucking beneath the waistband of her skirt, resting without further pressure. Dani isn’t sure anyone has ever held her like this, standing in the living room of an apartment, waiting for her to take the lead. 

Strike that: she’s very certain no one has done this. Very certain she’d remember the intimacy of it, of hanging suspended between a kiss taken and a yes given.

“Please,” she says, leaning back just enough to look at the woman with clear eyes. That smile again, tilting crooked on pink lips. 

“Jamie. It’s Jamie.”

It’s enough, Dani decides, just to know that much. Just to know this woman, who is letting Dani kiss her, letting Dani push the jacket off her shoulders, letting Dani repeat the name against her lips, is willing to give Dani this small gift. She doesn’t have to. There’s nothing saying a one-night-stand requires names exchanged, a look beyond the curtain. Dani’s never done this before, but she’s certain of that much. 

A gift, it certainly is, and she gives herself over to it gladly. Likes the way Jamie’s kisses increase in intensity, her hands roaming under Dani’s shirt, her voice coiling into a groan when Dani experimentally rolls her tongue past Jamie’s teeth. The brush of metal elicits an unexpected heat in her, matched only by the way Jamie says her name in question as she guides the t-shirt up over her head. 

Just knowing her name has a place on this woman’s tongue is remarkable. Just tasting the woman’s name in her own mouth--two simple syllables extended in a surprised moan when Jamie presses her toward the bed, follows her down with seamless grace, her body soft and warm and willing--is remarkable. She hears herself repeat it for the simple joy of watching Jamie shiver, of feeling Jamie’s kiss grow hotter, her mouth sliding across Dani’s each time as though trying to swallow down the sound of her own name. 

The world has never been quite so vibrant as in this tiny apartment, under the warm glow of a single lamp with Jamie’s shirt pulling up her body, Jamie’s jeans unzipped under her shaking hand. The world has never offered quite so much sensation as with Jamie blanketing her, Jamie’s hands removing her bra, pushing up her skirt, mapping along the spread of her thighs. She presses up into Jamie’s kiss, hands restless on Jamie’s skin, and wonders why it took so long to open this door. 

There are more tattoos, she finds with delirious pleasure, and Jamie rolls over to allow her the freedom to inspect each. Jamie, breathing shallowly under her kiss as she traces the bracelet of flowers with the tip of her tongue. Jamie, arching into her hand as she explores the roses stamped across her ribs. Jamie, uttering a rough cry when she bites gently at the vine flourishing along her hipbone. 

More tattoos, and more soft skin, and more of Jamie’s easy, eager interest. Jamie, who rolls her over and slides the skirt off her hips, following it down with a path of long, slow kisses. Jamie, whose tongue works magic across her breasts, down her stomach, hesitating between her legs. 

Dani is nodding, and Jamie closes her eyes, presses down with a single sweet kiss that makes her feel as though she might collapse under the weight of its tenderness. It’s too much, she thinks, for this woman who has been pressing her into the mattress with firm, steady want, to be this gentle. For this woman who tells no one her name before taking them to bed, who has metal in her tongue and ink on her skin, to be this kind. 

She hears her breath sharpen, hears herself say Jamie’s name again in a voice so unlike her own, it takes her by surprise. She folds a hand across the back of Jamie’s head, pressing her in, urging her to kiss harder, to roll her tongue across the whole of Dani, and still, when Jamie complies, she jumps. Jamie raises her eyes, and Dani pushes her closer still, her heart hammering at the particular look on Jamie’s face. The particular need on Jamie’s face, as she watches, as she flicks her tongue. The metal bar brushes swollen nerves, and Dani makes an undignified noise in her throat that drags a grin across Jamie’s lips. 

Oh, Dani thinks distantly. That’s why. 

The muscles of her stomach are trembling, the muscles of her legs clutched tight, and still, she can’t tear her gaze from Jamie’s. Can’t stop watching the way Jamie’s lashes flicker against her cheeks, her head bobbing gently between spread legs, her tongue tracing and stroking, pressing and curling. There is something beyond intimacy to the way Jamie’s hands flex against her thighs, her fingers splayed, her thumb stroking up and down in time with her tongue. Something beyond seduction to the way Jamie groans against her, a simple gratification that makes her twitch under Jamie’s kiss. 

She winds her fingers tighter in Jamie’s hair, dimly aware she’s pulling, vibrantly aware of Jamie’s mouth wrapped around her. There is no speed, no dire rush, no pressure to come and be done with it. There is only Jamie taking her time, the flat of her tongue trading off with the brush of her lips, her eyes drinking in Dani’s expression all the while. 

She knows my name, she thinks with a rush of heat, and then: She told me hers. 

She’s using it almost without thinking, one hand across her own mouth, Jamie’s name staining her skin. She rocks harder, urging Jamie deeper, her voice rising as Jamie adds her fingers beneath the coaxing pressure of her tongue. 

She knows my name, she thinks again, as Jamie curls deep, as starbursts go off behind her eyes. She told me hers. 

Jamie hauls herself back up the mattress, drops down beside her with a contented sigh. Her lips glisten, her expression tinged with pride. “How was--”

Dani grasps her face in both hands, jerks her in for a kiss, their voices mingling in a muffled ring of pleasure. Dani, almost dizzy with the taste of herself in this woman’s mouth, presses a hand between them, pleased to find Jamie as eager for take as she’d been for give. 

“I want,” she says, kissing Jamie’s neck, stroking Jamie with nerveless, uncertain fingers, “to make you feel--like that. Like you--”

Jamie makes a sound of agreement, reaches down, covers her hand gently. “Try this,” she offers, and Dani’s eyes roll back at the pressure of fingers guiding her in, at Jamie showing her with a hand that shakes exactly how she likes to be touched. She gazes at Jamie’s face, at her parted lips and tight brow, watching the tension coil, watching her smile give way to soft, repeated sounds of urgency as they work in tandem. 

If you’re going to do it, do it the right way, she thinks as Jamie bucks into her hand, as Jamie’s fingers slide away, dragging up her own stomach, leaving Dani to keep up the rhythm. She presses her face onto Jamie’s pillow, lips close to Jamie’s ear, murmuring her name like a melody as Jamie’s breath catches--as Jamie’s hips jerk--as Jamie wraps a hand into her hair and pulls her close to kiss the gasp off her lips. 

“I’ve never,” she says, her hand still resting against wet skin, Jamie’s hips twitching every so often as she traces with the tips of her fingers. “Before. With a--”

“Couldn’t tell,” Jamie says. Dani raises an eyebrow in disbelief, and she grins. “Didn’t mind, then.”

“You, uh.” Distracted, she traces a light circle around Jamie, liking the heat of her. Jamie sighs. 

“Keep doing that, conversation’s gonna get tricky.”

“You sorry?” Dani asks, letting her fingers still. Jamie turns her head, eyes questioning.

“Sorry for...which part, exactly?”

“Taking me home,” Dani says. “Telling me who you are.”

“Didn’t tell you who I am,” Jamie says. Dani frowns, moves to take her hand back, wondering if she’s somehow read the woman completely wrong--and Jamie reaches down to gently grasp her by the wrist. “I told you my name,�� she goes on mildly. “Who I am is a much longer story. One I...haven’t told in a while.”

Dani stretches out beside her, letting her fingers notch comfortably between Jamie’s, the join of their hands resting along Jamie’s stomach. “How long a story?”

“How much time d’you have?” Jamie asks, almost idly. Dani smiles. 

“Sort of trying something new, with all of this. I think...that means there are no rules, until I make them.”

“Well,” says Jamie, her voice thick with exhaustion. She’s curling toward Dani, bare skin and vibrant ink and muffled yawn. “Maybe if you’re still interested in the morning? Not much of a cook, but I make an impressive brew.”

She doesn’t say you don’t have to. She doesn’t say we can pretend it never happened. She only presses close into Dani, one hand curling to tuck the hair behind Dani’s ear, her fingers spreading around the back of Dani’s head in a gesture of soft support. 

She told me her name, Dani thinks, her heart in her throat as she watches sleep loosen Jamie’s features. I slept with a woman, and she told me her name, and she’s...she’s...

It is rare, she thinks as she lets her head bump Jamie’s, eyes drifting shut. Rare that a single action can define a life. It doesn’t happen often; consequences are small, tricky things. But a single action can certainly start a person walking. Off a cliff. Into thin air.

Or down a road. 

[izupie]

So recently I said that I would stop putting limits on myself as to what I’m writing - like, if I want to write it, and I have inspiration and motivation for it, I’ll Write It. (Despite hearing the moaning cries of my wip folder and beating it back with a broom) 

So taking away my impulse control on writing stuff has resulted in me spending the last few hours writing whatever this is and I don’t even know where it’s going and yes I’m aware I have another werewolf Richie wip already and no I don’t know if I’m ever going to finish this, but please take it from my weary hands anyway

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

“So, hypothetically, say I had a… friend… who got bit by a dog-”

“-You got bit by a dog?”

“Wha- No, Eds, fuck- weren’t you listening? My friend got bit by a dog. Hypothetically.”

“Richie- I swear to- how fucking stupid do you think I am? When has that line ever worked for anyone ever?”

Richie peered into the tiny sink at the red still dripping down his fingers from the wound on his hand. There was a pile of bloodied tissues next to him and the wad he was currently pressing onto the bite really needed changing too. “Oh, shit,” Richie cursed loudly, as his cell phone nearly slid out of the gap that he’d wedged it in, between his shoulder and his ear.

“What?”

“I nearly lost my phone down the plane toilet.” He snorted a laugh. “Imagine someone’s walking around down there, minding their own business, and a phone drops out of the sky on them.”

“That’s not how plane toilets work!” Eddie’s voice was agitated and clipped, and Richie could listen to it all day. Even with the whole bleeding out into a tiny plastic sink thing.

“Aw, it’s not?”

“Of course not, dipshit, otherwise every time someone flushes it, it would just-” Eddie took a deep breath and Richie reached for a handful of new toilet paper to press onto his hand. “You’re distracting me. You need to apply pressure to the wound.”

“I am. I’m like, pressing a load of toilet paper on it. But it won’t stop bleeding.”

“It’s probably gonna get infected… shit, what if the dog had rabies, have you had a rabies shot in the last year?”

Richie opened his mouth.

“Of course you haven’t. Okay, just don’t think about rabies. Dog bites get infected easy because of all the bacteria in their mouths, so you need to wash it. That’ll encourage the bleeding, but you need to make sure the wound is clean. Then you’ve got to dry it and just keep the pressure on.”

It was soothing to hear Eddie’s voice in his ear, and despite the bite (that had started to feel like it was burning – that can’t be a good sign) Richie was always so happy to talk to him. He was hunched over a plane sink with his cell phone jammed onto his ear and piles of bloodied toilet paper around him, but he was smiling because he was talking to Eddie Kaspbrak and he was being a helpful but bossy little shit. God he’d got it bad. “Wash it, dry it, pressure,” Richie repeated, “aye, aye, cap’n doctor K.”

“As soon as I pick you up, we’re going straight to the hospital.”

Richie began following Eddie’s instructions as he ran his hand under the tap, wincing as the burning sensation increased and the red freely flowed down the drain.

“Wait a minute- if you’re already on the plane… how’d you get bitten by a dog?”

Richie grabbed a handful of clean, dry toilet paper and patted the wound gently, as he thought about how he was going to dance around a way of explaining what happened. “Uh…” Then he pressed down hard, applying as much pressure as he could, and hissed at the stab of pain.

“Hey, are you okay?” Eddie’s concern came loud and clear through the phone and it was so startling in its utter sincerity that it made Richie want to pour his goddamn heart out to him with an, ‘Well I got bit by a dog but that’s not the problem, I’m not okay because I’ve been so in love with you that it hurts since we were thirteen fucking years old.’

Instead Richie just nodded and realised that he wouldn’t be able to see that, so he said, “I just nodded.”

Eddie let out a huff and Richie smiled at the soft sound.

“God you’re so distracting-”

No, you’re so distracting.

“-but, really, how’d you get a dog bite on a plane, Rich? Did one bite you before you got on?”

And there was his out. He could agree to that, and it would be fine. Eddie would never know. (Though it would probably be a little hard to keep up the lie if he got any kind of magical related disease or curse or something, since he didn’t consider rabies to be a legitimate concern from a bite he received through some magical bullshit that he thought he had left behind a year ago.) But maybe he was tired of tying himself up in a web of lies all the time with Eddie, because he was always so careful to mask everything with a joke or a punchline. Didn’t he deserve as much honesty as he was willing to give sometimes – about this at least?

“Richie?”

And oh, there was the word that always brought him to his knees. The word he heard whispered on bloodied lips. Whimpered into a cave. Hands up to a blood-stained spike, piercing a chest – before waking up sobbing in his bed alone.

It was dead.

It was fucking dead. And Eddie was alive.

Richie took a deep breath, inflating his lungs as far as they could go, and let it all out at once. “I’ve been having dreams.”

“What?”

“The fucking- the Deadlights or whatever- when I was caught in them I… saw things.” Richie was gripping onto his wounded hand so hard his knuckles were white.

You died.

“And I’ve been having, I don’t know, some weird kind of messed up dreams on and off since then.”

For a moment Eddie didn’t reply and then it burst out of him in a pure unfiltered explosion of Kaspbrak rage through the phone, “You didn’t think to tell us this sooner? What if that means- like what if It isn’t really dead? ‘Messed up’ dreams? What kind of messed up? Richie, what the fuck- why didn’t you tell anyone? Why didn’t you tell me?”

(Richie could imagine the pacing and the hand movements that went with the ranting, but it didn’t make him feel any less guilty.)

“Well I mean, I’m coming to stay at your apartment for a couple of weeks, so like, at some point I’d have woken you up with the screaming or the sobbing, or the pathetic party of both at the same time, so it would probably have come up then…”

There was another long pause and Richie expected this to be because of Eddie rubbing the bridge of his nose.

“So anyway,” Richie continued, “I fell to sleep as soon as the plane took off.”

“Of course,” Eddie sighed.

Richie thought he sounded sad. But he supposed if he found out that Eddie was keeping a secret like that from him, he’d be pretty pissed off and upset about it too. (It’s not the only secret he’s keeping from Eddie, but it’s the only one he’s willing to ever let past his lips.)

“Well this dream started similarly to the others… but…” Richie hesitated, remembering what had set the dream off its usual course of watching Eddie die in that cave – he’d so very nearly told him that he loved him. It had been on the tip of his tongue, but he’d swallowed it down. Instead he’d told a weak joke and they’d both smiled, even though Eddie was bleeding out under his hands, and the whole dream had gone black. “There was a turtle,” he said eventually, remembering the darkness and the tiny point of light in it. “Which was weird.”

“You’re having magic dreams and the weird thing is that there was a turtle?”

“Well yeah, ‘cause there’s never been one there before. They tend to all go the same way.”

“So… the turtle bit you?”

“What, no. The turtle didn’t fucking bite me. Jesus. It turned into a dog, and the dog bit me.”

Richie could hear Eddie sit down.

“It was one of those tiny fluffy demon things. It told me I had to stop hiding who I am and…” Let myself be seen. “I don’t know, some other weird stuff, so I reached out to it and it fuckin’ bit me, man.”

“The… turtle… that turned into a… dog… and bit you… told you, that you had to stop hiding who you are?”

“Yep.” Richie snorted a laugh and lifted the toilet paper on his wound carefully, to peek underneath. The bleeding had stopped. He finally reached up to adjust his glasses and released his phone from the gap between his neck and shoulder to hold it up to his ear with his good hand. “But I’ve always been a Trashmouth, and I’ll always be a Trashmouth and I don’t think anyone can say that I don’t flaunt it on stage. I don’t hide anything.” Richie winced as soon as the words left his mouth, and he was glad that Eddie couldn’t see. He was in fact talking to the one person that he was hiding the most from. Maybe the turtle-dog had a point…

But their friendship meant everything to him, and to lose Eddie after just getting him back would destroy him.

In retrospect, it was probably a bad idea to stay at the recently-divorced questionably-straight single-friend’s apartment that he had a lifetime’s long crush on, but when Eddie invited him over for a couple of weeks for a vacation there wasn’t a force on earth (or otherwise) that could have made him refuse.

(He really needed help.)

(But not the magic supernatural bullshit kind.)

“Okay,” Eddie said with a note of finality and decision, “okay, I’ll get in touch with Mike and see what he knows. Mike’s good with this kind of stuff, right? Or maybe Bev? She got caught in the Deadlights like you. Wait, didn’t Stan say he saw some weird Deadlights shit too? Though I’m not sure Stan would let me get past ‘Richie got bit by a dream dog’ before he hung up on me.”

Richie laughed as he felt a wave of affection crash through his chest. Eddie was clearly out of his comfort zone with anything involving magic again, but he was being practical and logical and making plans. He had always been, and continued to be, the bravest man Richie had ever known.

“Tell him I got bit by a magic pigeon and he might stick around long enough to hear a bit more.” He stuffed the bloodied toilet paper into the toilet and wiped around the sink to get rid of any traces of red.

Eddie’s voice softened, “How’s your hand?”

Richie turned his wounded hand over and examined the puncture marks – now just angry red indents. But they still burned. “It’s not so bad now,” he said, “bleeding has stopped. Thanks, doc.”

“Well, we’re still taking you straight to the hospital. I’m going to get in my car now and I’ll meet you at the airport as soon as you land. Just… stay awake for the rest of the journey, okay?”

Richie wondered if Eddie was really smiling, or if he was just doing a good job of imagining it in his voice. He smiled back anyway and ran his good hand through his messy hair. “You got it. See you soon, Eds.”

“Don’t call me-”

Richie chuckled as he pressed the button to flush the toilet and hung up the call.

[qvid-pro-qvo]

we meet now and then on a winter’s day (and i am all the better for it)

rafael barba x female!reader. 

word count: 13,187 (forgive me for either writing less than a thousand words or over 10k. one day i’ll learn moderation.)

rating: teen, for growing pains, and learning to love home no matter where you are (canon-typical mentions of sexual abuse/sex crimes). 

link to it on AO3. 

-

You’re too clumsy for your own good. 

Your limbs are gangly, your feet are too big, and every step feels like a struggle to stay upright.  It’s the worst of times, tenth grade.

And high schoolers are brutal, and you get a feeling it’s extra so in New York.  They don’t take no for an answer, they laugh in your face and spit on you (figuratively… sometimes). Girls trip you in their stunning shoes that your feet could never fit in, poke at your knobby knees, and boys don’t even bother with you.

You’re new, and a loner, and can’t keep your books in your hands, and it all seems to combine into an ugly cocktail, one that makes you lash out. Other loners usually have one thing wrong with them. You have two left feet and a name no one knows. Easy target.

So you don’t see the three boys in front of you, walking home, because your head is ducked and your knees ache from the way you fell in the middle of the damn hallway. And one of them for sure doesn’t see you. He’s walking backwards, his mouth running, but you don’t hear anything either, not what he’s saying, not his friends who try to warn him in attempts of Spanish and English. 

You feel the collision, though. It’s not violent, but the girth of his bookbag into your chest knocks you backwards onto your ass. You cry out in pain, one of your ankles catching underneath you, and it feels like something twists, hard enough to hurt. 

Well. It wasn’t as if you were having such a good day before.

“Jesus fuck,” you hiss, and when you look up, a boy is leaning over you. His green eyes are startling, and you think he’s apologizing, but your eyes have to blink away some reflexive tears to really see the way his lips are moving. You’re still dazed, but you realize that it’s three of them, leaning over you, and you don’t like the way they’re staring.

“That’s what you get for running your mouth, Barba,” a boy teases, reaching forward to punch the kid directly above you in the shoulder. He takes it, but he’s still focused on you, those eyes not giving you a break. It makes your face redden, and you dip your chin, clench your jaw.

“Shut it, Eddie,” he says quickly, and it takes you a moment to recognize the words. You just manage a tight smile and groan as you shift off of your ankle. “Are you all right?”

“Yeah, I’m fine,” you tell him. He nods at that, but he still doesn’t really take a step back. Just pulls up from his crouched position. “Really, just. Uh. Sorry, I guess.”

“You don’t have to give him an excuse,” the third boy informs her. “Hey, Rafi, give her some space, you don’t have to keep her on the ground.”

With that he pulls back, and you get a good look at them. The three of them are in uniform. You recognize the colors, your block a healthy mix of that particular school’s students and the P.S. you attended. The two behind the one who ran into you – what was it, Rafi? – have their ties undone, shirts untucked. The boy in front of you has his uniform perfect, however, and you watch as he lifts his hand to run through the front of his hair. He looks a little older, almost adult, and your limbs feel like the legs of a fawn, a jumbled heap. You know you look disheveled, in comparison, making you drop your eyes before you push yourself up.

“Can you stand?” he asks.

“Yes, I’m fine,” you bite out, and the day comes back to you in a wave, one that makes your eyes began to water. “Just. Leave me be, all right?”

“And leave you on the ground?” He scoffs like the implication itself is an offense. It’s as if he doesn’t recognize the scowl on your face as being directed towards him. “Come on, take my hand.”

He reaches out to you. His hand is almost shoved in your face, and you pull back for a moment before looking at the group of them.

They don’t seem… mean. Just… boys. Your mother’s voice sings in your head, reminding you that asking for help isn’t a weakness, just a fact of life. And while you wish that wasn’t true, the fact of life was also you were in a lot of pain.

With a sigh, you settle on reaching out and taking it, and when he starts to help pull you up the other two assist. You tried to ignore the prickle of your eyes, closing them as you were lifted from the ground.

However, your ankle gives out as soon as you put weight on it. You make it to your full height for a moment, before suddenly you’re falling forward again.

But they catch you. Rafi does, really, and the other boys help get you to standing. You ignore the look that the two of them give you, eye rolls and shared smirks.

“That ankle’s not going to take you home,” the Barba kid tells you. You glance down at it, wincing at the swelling, and he turns to his friends. “Let’s walk her.”

“Oh, no, did you break it?” Eddie asks, horrified, but that earns him a smack on the back of the head from the third friend.

“Que eres estúpido? Shut up, Eddie, it’s twisted at the worst.”

A snort left you. You can’t get a word in edgewise, the way they start clambering over each other, arguing, but you raise your voice, make yourself heard. “I’m just… hey, I’m just down the street, I can manage. You guys seem like you need to go somewhere.”

“Well, if you’re just down the street then it’s not a problem.” Rafi’s voice is matter of fact, and with a grin he reaches for your arm. “Alejandro, get the other side.”

“Rafi, no offense, but, uh, let Eddie handle that. You and me together will make her even more lopsided.” Alejandro has a grin, bright at the not-so-subtle dig.

“Eres el peor,” the boy mutters, and with a roll of his eyes, he pulls back, hands lifting in surrender.

Eddie and Alejandro laugh, and so do you, a little chuckle, more for the tone than the actual words. Their banter makes you forget your shitty day, focusing on the group of three as they tussle for a place at your side.

“Where do you live?” Rafi asks, and you point down the street.

“I’m the… fourth building on the right?” you guess, wincing as your foot dragged along the ground. “Fucking, fucking shit, lift it, lift.”

“You’re not exactly helping,” Eddie shoots at you, and your eyes roll, the urge to yank away overruled by common sense.

“I’m trying. Look, you can just leave me alone. It’s not broken, and I’ll make it,” you point out, but all that earns is a scoff from Rafi Barba, an eye roll as he turns to face the three of you as you hobble along.

“Not happening. Look, we’re almost there. Then we’ll leave you be, and you can tell your family how you were rescued by los tres mosqueteros de Jerome Avenue.” His eyes are alight with a kind of mischief, and Alejandro snorts next to him.

“Does it count if one of ‘em is the problem?”

You chat the rest of the way. They bombard each other with questions, and a couple to you, most of which you can’t manage to answer as they tease each other and poke and prod. A couple of times you stumble, but they’re there, keeping you upright, and Rafi makes sure that you don’t fall face first onto concrete. He walks backwards, then forwards, then backwards again, always making sure that you can hear him as he talks about whatever crosses the mind of the three.

It seems like a lifetime, but no longer than a minute or two. You walk, forward, forward, forward, and then you’re up against your building, leaning against it after forcing Eddie and Alejandro to let you go.

“I’ve just gotta buzz my mom,” you tell them. “Trust me, you’re free to go, I can make it.”

“Not likely,” Rafi’s incredulous at the suggestion, but you just roll your eyes. “You can barely stand up straight.”

He’s firmly planted. Eddie and Alejandro look more ready to skedaddle, bouncing on their toes as the cold hits them. Rafi is just staring, and you find yourself meeting his gaze, lifting your chin. “Look, I know you feel obligated, but I don’t make a habit of showing strangers my exact address –“

“And I would contend we’re not strangers. Acquaintances at the very least, maybe even friends. We know each other’s names; we’ve been quite friendly.”  

“Oh, yeah? You know my name?”

The silence is deafening. That wins it. Because Rafi Barba, in all of his urgency, in all of their chatting, never once asked. None of them did. Which doesn’t hurt your feelings. It’s easy to pull away from people you don’t know, and you’d rather just make it up the rickety elevators in peace. Crawl into your bed and die from mortification and exhaustion.

You asked for help. Now the help was over.

“Look, you did your good deed for the day, I made it home,” you counter, “now please, can I get there on my own?”

Just then, the door opens. Your mom comes out, sees your swollen ankle, and that should be their cue.

“Oh, sweetie,” she hummed. “No more dancing for a while, huh?”

“Dancing?” Rafi asks, and he looks between you and your mother with curiosity. 

“Nope, nothing,” you scramble to say. Those moments weren’t for anyone else, just the two of you. “Anyways, thanks so much, but I should really be getting upstairs, and… sleeping. Yes, sleeping. Okay, thanks again, bye!”

You turn to hobble away, hoping your mother will say goodbye and follow you. But instead, she just smiles at the boys and looks at each of them in turn, looking over their uniforms and identical grins, Eddie and Alex lingering back behind the real culprit.

“Thank you so much for bringing my girl home,” she tells them. Her smile is bright, almost incandescent. She has that way about her, your mother, the kind of face that everyone loves, the kind of laugh that everyone is drawn to. You wish you’d inherited that, instead of gangly limbs from a man you barely knew. “She always walks home alone, and it worries me every time.”

“Mom, they were nice and all, but they probably have lives,” you sigh out, and Eddie and Alex seem to agree. They already seem to be creeping away, but Rafi is stubbornly still. “Let them get home, get out of the cold.”

“Oh, all right, all right.” She reaches for you, wraps your arm around her shoulders, and you wince as it scrapes the floor again. “Thank you, boys.”

“We should get home, Barba,” Eddie calls out. “Tus padres estarán esperando, vamanos.”

Something passes across Rafi’s face. It’s quick, and dark, but it’s there, and he nods, his jaw clenching.

“Thank you,” you say again, and it’s a little more heartfelt, genuine. You even smile, a little, an effort to wash that sour look from his face. But you’re turning away, too, when you suddenly hear Rafi Barba call out to you.

“Your name?” he asks. “Just so I know what to yell next time we almost collide.”

“If he’s facing forward,” Eddie mutters to Alejandro, who you can hear snort and shove his toe against the sidewalk.

Your eyes roll, and you look over your shoulder at the boy. He waits, patiently, for the answer, even as Eddie and Alex start moseying down the sidewalk, and his smile is more a smirk, proud of himself when you give it to him, first and last.

He repeats it, gesturing to you and making sure he gets it right. And then he points to himself, his lips quirking again. “Rafael Barba.” He reaches for your hand, and when you hesitate, he raises a brow. Those eyes pierce you. “Not friends. But. Acquaintances?”

“Cute,” you retort, but you’re reaching to shake his hand without thinking about it, gloved hands warm in each other’s grip. “Deal.”

You don’t remember why the day was shitty anymore. Just that your ankle hurts, and you now know that his full name is Rafael.

-

College is complicated. College is sitting and studying in your dorm room and then sitting and studying someplace else. College is hitting your head as you wake up because you have the top bunk. College is crying with frustration over chemistry.

But college is also realizing you really like what the psych professor talks about. College is finally making some real friends, and mellowing out because of it. Your lashing out fades as your anger does, the realization that people can be kind. College is getting a job and not minding that either, because you don’t mind serving others coffee if you get it for free.

So you end up liking Hudson, overall. It’s nice. College, the feel, the people, they’re nice. And you’re close enough to home that you and your mom end up still having a little bit of a dance party every so often. New York isn’t too much of a home, it never will be, but Hudson and your friends and your mom are, and it’s… it’s good, for once.

The holidays approach. Your first real break is coming up, but so are finals, and so your eyes are forcing significant figures back into your brain as you walk to your mom’s place. You had promised her you’d take a break to have dinner, but as your eyes cross with the rules you’re realizing it’s becoming less and less likely that you’ll be able to stop and talk much at all.

Your feet start tangling. You’ve gotten better at walking (only took you nineteen years to really master it), but you’re distracted and frustrated, and it’s not long before you’re tumbling forward, knees scraping the pavement, elbow smacking against the ground. You’re lucky the fall is buffered by your heavy winter gear, but your arm goes numb anyway as you nail your funny bone. Your notes go flying, your knowledge of significant figures scattering across the walkway.

“Fucking shit,” you hiss, holding your arm against your body. It’s not broken, but it hurts like a bitch, and you start crawling over towards where your notes fell to start gathering them up when a pair of gloved hands join your sole functioning one.

“Thank you so much,” you start saying, not really looking up in case the bitter winter wind takes away your notes before you can reach them. “I’m so sorry you had to see that, I just wasn’t watching my feet.”

“It’s really okay. Are you all right?” a voice asks you, and when you look up to see the kind of stranger who would help a poor student out on the street, you’re assaulted by startling green eyes.

Suddenly a memory comes back to you, of a wintry street and an ankle that twinges now in remembrance. You don’t know why you remember, but it’s there, three years past suddenly right in your rearview.

“Are you all right?” he asks you, and you realize you’ve just been staring at him. But a name is struggling to come to the surface, and you blink a few times, still captured by those damn eyes.

“Uh,” you get out. Y’know. Intelligently. He just raises a brow.

“Do you… have these?” he tries, and you realize he’s been holding onto a stack of notes that he collected, holding them out to you.

It hits you, then, and you reach for the notes with such ferocity that he immediately drops his hand when you snag them. You remember.

“Rafael Barba,” you breathe out, blinking a bit.

A beat. “How do you know my name?” the stranger asks. But this guy isn’t exactly a stranger, and of course, he’s now seen you fall to the ground twice in one lifetime. Too many times, if the lifetime is asking you, but it’s not, and it’s still far from over.

You pull back, with your notes, absently trying to get them all right-side up. You’re seeing all of him now, kneeling on the ground, face red with the wind, and it’s definitely him. The slicked back hair, and he’s even wearing a sweater over a button up. Very Catholic school.

But all he knows is that a strange girl has been staring at him, openly, and just blurted his name out of nowhere. You scramble to explain yourself. “Sorry. I’m so fucking sorry, just – I – we’ve met,” you stammer out. “Briefly. We’re… acquaintances. I don’t even know how I remember, but you… you might remember my ankle better than me.”

You see him thinking. From furrowed with concern to suspicion. And then recognition, and he’s smirking and shaking his head, glancing around where the two of you are basically sitting on the concrete. He says your name, slowly, like he did that first time too long ago. “I was just thinking about how little things have changed,” he chuckles, and you smirk, shrugging. “Seems like I was right in more ways than one.”

“Well, I don’t think clumsiness goes away,” you admit, “and this time it wasn’t your fault, so you don’t have to walk me to my apartment if you don’t want to.”  

He laughs. It’s short, but bright, and you smile, cutting it with a wince as you slide the backpack on your shoulders. “Might have to, to make sure you stay on both feet.”

“I’m sure I can make it,” you assure him, but when you straighten out the elbow you injured, your face contorts, and he winces in sympathy. “I can walk this time, at least. No getting carried by los – los tres mos –“

“Los tres mosqueteros,” Rafael tells you. His voice is soft, and his eyes are ducking now, watching the sidewalk as the two of you start to stumble to your feet. He doesn’t say it with reverence. Is it… is it bitterness? “Well, solamente un mosquetero aqui, pero… I hope that’s enough.”

Self-deprecating. It makes your nose wrinkle. While college mellowed you out, it only seemed to harden Rafi. “More than,” you tell him. “But… I should be heading home. Don’t want my mom to think I bailed on her.”

“I can take those,” he offers, gesturing to your notes, the book you have. Never mind you have a backpack; he offers and you end up taking it. You don’t really know why at first, but as the two of you walk towards your apartment it starts to come into focus.

He’s grown into his voice, his attitude. He’s not just older, he’s grown, and you find yourself studying him, if only because when he talks it’s hard not to look away. He’s handsome, with those green eyes and firm voice and quick turn of his lips. The lift of his chin, as he listens, gives you a smile. But the smile feels flinty. Even after offering to carry your books, your notes, you realize it’s more out of manners than kindness. But he takes them, and you’re walking side by side for long enough that you gather some courage.

“School out of state, then? If you had to come back, for family,” you ask, to keep the conversation going, knowing that as you reach your door it’s over.

“Harvard,” he tells you, and your eyes widen at the tone. He says it with force, as if he has to keep reminding himself as much as he reminds other people. “I’m planning to go to Harvard law, too, after I take my LSAT this summer.”

“Same,” you shrug. He almost trips over his own feet at that, and when he turns to you with a raised brow you just smirk. “I’m fucking with you, obviously. Hudson. For psychology. Right now. We’ll see.”

You don’t plan on feeling bad about it. It’s what you could get, and you’re proud of it. But there’s something about standing next to a Harvard student that makes you get defensive, ducking your head. He has a little smirk, too, and you find yourself glaring.

“It’s what I could get, and that’s fine, you know. I just want to help people –“

“I know, I know,” he laughs, shaking his head, and there’s nothing mean in it. “Just… fucking with you.” It’s the hesitation that gets you, the little hiccup of years of repression, and you just snort.

“That’s right. Catholic boy. I remember,” The jab comes out without warning, and he just blushes a little. “Don’t worry, I won’t tell if you don’t.”

His head is shaking again, and when he smirks it’s at you. “Trust me, I think my mother will know even if your lips are sealed.”

“Not worried about God?” you laugh, and he mimes glancing around the whole street.

“Trust me, my mother puts the fear of God into me without any help from the Almighty.”

And then you’re in. The conversation starts flowing more freely. He talks about his family. Talks about coming home, to see his mother, his grandmother. There’s something warm when he talks about the homemade holiday meals, the Christmas mass the group of them will attend. It’s just small talk, but you also know enough not to ask about Eddie and Alejandro, to keep walking with him, keep the topics light. He asks about your family, and you tell him it’s just you and Mom, and perhaps a Christmas dance party around the plastic tree.

“Christmas dance party?” It’s skeptical, but your shrug at him, smiling at the memories of years past.

“Family tradition. I dance, my mom laughs. In the end, we end up usually knocking off some ornaments, maybe upturning a tray of cookies.”

“The whole thing?” Skepticism turns to incredulity, and you snort.

“I have a list of casualties. Three trays of cookies, one pan of brownies, a very nice-looking angel. This isn’t even counting the stuff at New Year’s…“

Rafael’s head is shaking, but you’re just dissolving into giggles as the list expands. All at once, you’re telling him about the time you tripped over an armchair right into a perfectly fine plate of muffins on Christmas morning, and he’s either too polite or too horrified to stop you. But in the end, he laughs. At you, probably, but he’s smiling again, and there’s no putting himself down anymore. Just listening to you take your clumsiness in stride.

Tt’s nice. At least you think so. There are bits of laughter that echo down the street, yours and his, and as your door approaches you find yourself dreading it a little. You missed your friends, and this was… close to something.

“Well,” you say, when the two of you arrive. The door is firmly closed, to keep the cold out, and you reach for the buzzer, turning back to look at Rafael with a smile. He hands over your notes, and you ignore the twinge in your elbow to grip everything firmly. “Thanks. For the company. Not thinking about finals was worth the tumble.”

“I was… also glad for the distraction. It’s been a while since I’ve been home and...” He doesn’t elaborate any further, but his face looks a little pinched, and you nod. Family… friends. It’s complicated.

After a moment, though, he’s looking at you as the two of you hear the door click unlocked. “You’ll get through it, though. Finals. I know it,” he assures. “And then it’s just seven more after that. Trust me, I have three left. It gets better.” He’s watching you, as you rub your arm, and though his brow pinches again, he manages a little smile. “It was good to see you again. Glad I didn’t end up doing permanent damage.”

“Well, I don’t know, future lawyer,” you tease. “Maybe once you get all rich and famous I’ll send something about damages your way. Remind you that I knew you when.”

He huffs out a little scoff, shaking his head. “Future psychologist, right? Don’t you want to practice what you’re going to preach? Forgiveness? Acceptance?”

“Where’s the fun in that? I’d rather humble you, Harvard boy.” When he scoffs again, it’s with a hand raised to you, turning back towards where you know his mother must live, the same direction he walked those years before.

As you move toward the door, pulling it open, you pause, looking back over your shoulder. He’s walking away, hands in his coat’s pockets, elbows shaking a little with the cold.

“Take care of yourself, Rafael,” you call out. “Happy holidays, too!”

Another wave, and he’s gone, and you find yourself thinking about those eyes a little later, distracting you from those significant figures you were so desperate to save.

-

Fuck grad school. Really.

You don’t know what possessed you, when you decided to go. Probably the same thing that possessed you to push to graduate a year early, and the same thing that encouraged you to decide on a doctorate at Fordham instead of a M.S. and moving on.

Masochism. Obviously.

But you’re stuck with it, and every three days you regret it. A new assignment, a long-ass reading, a book you want to throw out of your apartment’s window – it’s too much, and you don’t do enough, and pretty soon you’re drowning. On top of that working, so you and your mom can keep your apartment, buy her medication, and keep the world turning, things that start to feel impossible.

Does everyone feel like this? you want to scream in the world. Does every student after undergrad hate themselves?

You know the answer is yes, but you wish you could hear it from someone besides yourself. Because your mom, bless her, refuses to let you quit, still taking time to dance with you when you need it.

You just don’t want to fail. You can’t fail. So you keep pushing, and find yourself cooped up in libraries, in coffee shops, wherever-the-fuck will take you, doing what you can as long as you can, as much as you can.

There are places you end up frequenting, in the search for a place to get work done, and end up, like most grad students, in a coffee shop. The dim lighting sometimes hurts once you hit your page limit, but the coffee is cheap and strong, and they let you linger in a corner booth with your books all spread out on the table. It’s worth the carpal tunnel, the edges of the tabletop digging into your wrist, because you get shit done.

So it comes as a surprise that your safe haven, your perfect locale, is occupied by Rafael Barba.

At first you don’t even recognize him. When you first notice him, after all, he’s already sitting down, and you can’t see his face. He just looks like another student, after all, bent forward and buried in a book that is even bigger than yours. But when he stands to go get another coffee, and you catch sight of him, it’s immediate.

Of course, he doesn’t see you. Just goes back, sits down with a giant mug, and keeps chugging along.

You keep your smile to yourself, look down at the pages you’ve lost your place in and do your best to get back on track, but now you’re distracted, and Rafael is still just there. It would’ve been less shocking, maybe, if you had perhaps known he’d be in town? But now you’re just thinking about the last time you saw him, the way he laughed, smiled at you before he left…

Oh, fuck it. You just think he’s handsome.

But… it’s been a few years. There’s no way he remembers you, confirmed by the way you stand, to go get another coffee, and he doesn’t even glance up.

So you resolve yourself to doing nothing, acting on nothing. Besides, you have actual work to do, and the third cup of coffee should probably be your last before you’re bouncing off of the walls. But when you turn around, to head back to your seat, you definitely make an impression on Rafael Barba, and the impression is the massive stain on the front of his shirt.

“Oh, my god,” you cry out, and he can’t say anything, the two of you just staring at the mess. “I’m – I’m so sorry, I didn’t see you – oh, god, your shirt.”

“It’s… okay,” he sighs, and he seems to be in just as much shock. You move to grab some napkins from a table. His voice is dry, when he speaks again. “Isn’t a holiday back in the Bronx without some kind of disaster.”

You wince at the wording, but keep blotting, and then your handful of dirty napkins is useless. You pull back, and you think you’ve actually made it worse, but Rafael is just smirking at you.

“I think… it’s beyond help. But thank you for trying.”

The napkins hang limp from your hands. You feel like an idiot, but Rafael just keeps that smirk as you go to throw them away and turn back. When you do, he’s still standing there.

“I didn’t burn you, did I?” you ask him. “That was a fresh cup, I –“

“Really, it’s fine. A shirt. I’ll survive.”

He looks even better up close. Eyes bright, playful, smart. He seems to look you over with an appraising eye, and you don’t know if you measure up but you hope you do. There’s no hint of remembering, but there’s something, and you glance over at your table.

“Well. I owe you,” you say. “For the shirt, at the very least. How much is your dry cleaning? I have some cash.” 

He scoffs, and you’re thrown back to high school, that same scoff telling you that you can’t possibly stumble home alone. “No, that’s not going to happen. You’re not paying for my dry cleaning.”

“Then something,” you say.

He takes a moment. Looks over you. Eyes narrow as he turns to your table, the papers fluttering in the heater’s breeze.

“Coffee? We both look like we can use a break.” And then he smiles, and you’re swooning.

He ends up sitting at your table, brings his book over to stack on top of one of yours. The two of you get to chatting, just small talk, and about halfway through your coffees it seems to click with him.

“Do I – have we met before?”

You just chuckle, shaking your head. “Believe it or not, yes. This is not the first time I’ve stumbled in front of you.”

His eyes widen. “I couldn’t place you, I thought I was –“

“Crazy? No. It’s just been… years. And each time, somehow, I manage to take a spill.”

“Clumsy, then?” he asks, teasing, and you snort.

“I wish I could say you just catch me at bad times, but. Yeah. I’m a certifiable mess.”

He laughs, and you chuckle, and the two of you keep talking the hour away. By the time you’re done with your coffee you’ve ordered a pastry, too, and for some reason you keep doubting the fact that he’s been looking at you with bright eyes the whole time.

But when the meal is done, you end up packing up your books, getting ready to leave. You say it’s because you should be getting home, but really it’s because you think if you stay there in the booth any longer, you’ll do something crazy, like ask him out. But instead of letting you go, he offers to walk with you, and the two of you leave the shop together.

“So, you stuck around, huh?” he asks, and you can’t help but notice the tone of his voice. “You enjoy the Bronx that much?”

“I figured Hudson U was enough distance between me and my mom. Fordham had the program I wanted, plus, I could stay back and take care of her.”

He huffs a little laugh. Something about it rankles you, but you put it behind you, and the two of you keep walking.

After that, you start to notice other things. Like that fact that he doesn’t stop bringing up Harvard. At first, you deal with it, because yes, it is a big deal. A kid from the Bronx, ending up at Harvard Law? But he won’t, and can’t, shut up about it, and it makes you antsy.

Other ways, too. Talking about Boston like it’s the be-all, end-all. Mentioning how if he came back to work, he’d settle in Manhattan, not back home.

“I want to become a judge, at some point, and Manhattan’s the best way to get there,” he explains, and you nod, but it keeps… bugging you.

“I’m sure,” you concede. “But I don’t know. I like it here. The people, the town.”

When he scoffs, it’s almost cruel, and your heart aches at the way he dismisses it, all with a hand wave. “Yeah, but, Hudson isn’t doing anyone any favors. You should try to head out, spread your wings. Manhattan’s always in need of psychologists.”

Maybe it’s supposed to be nice, some advice. Yet, advice you didn’t ask for, and to you, all it says is that all he can remember about you is the unfortunate undergrad you went to. It infuriates you, makes you halt walking, your bag with all of your books jostling against your back.

“Oh, my god. You truly think you’re doing me a favor just by talking to me, don’t you?” you say, and he just rolls his eyes at you. 

“Of course not, that’s not what I meant.” But it’s the final straw, and no longer does Rafael Barba look handsome. He just looks like an ass.

Part of it is that you’re tired, stressed, overwhelmed. Talking instead of studying. But all you can focus on is his tone, his act. “You think you’re so much better than me. What, because you… you ‘got out of here?’ Out of shitty apartments and neighborhoods, and you can already see the big bucks?” you sigh, and Rafael’s brow only raises at you, looking down his nose at you like that’s how they’re trained at Harvard Law. Maybe they are – an image comes to mind of students preparing to pass the bar by practicing evil smirks and sharp looks.

“Look, I had to fight to get to where I am now, and I’m always fighting to stay there, you understand? I come home to visit, and I’m just saying that you could be wherever you wanted to be,” he tries, but you’re past rational thought. “Come on, don’t you want to get out?” 

“Barba, this is where I want to be,” you tell him, but when he raises his brow, you put your hands up in surrender. In the end, you’re too exhausted to be truly angry at him. You simply shake your head and begin the long trek back to your apartment, the glory of the coffee shop well behind you.

“Where are you going?” he asks, and you just shrug one shoulder as you walk away, turning to look at him over your shoulder. There’s a stinging in your eyes, but you tell yourself it’s just the bite of the wind.

“I’m not going to let you bully me, Rafael. I got enough of that in high school. If you want me to pay for your dry cleaning, or your shoes, I’ll do it, but I won’t let the payment of some spilled coffee be me spending time as your punching bag.”

“Bullying you? So, I’m bullying you now?” It’s incredulous, his question. 

You turn on your heel to face him.

“Harvard isn’t an excuse,” you snap. “Just because you got to go off and do great things doesn’t mean the people who stay here are somehow lesser. Like we’re not accomplishing anything. And right now, you’re really acting like it.”

A beat.

“And it’s Fordham, now, asshole. At least get it right.”  

You don’t wait around to hear his response. You’re walking off, and the only thing you hear is the wind whipping around you.

The ride back is lonely and the scent of coffee has gone rancid. It just feels like another slap in the face, a reminder that no matter how hard you work there will always be something, someone. You’re discouraged, more than a little. When you make it back to the apartment you share with your mother, you’re on the wrong side of miserable, and your reading that you’re already behind on gets more than a little neglected as you choose to watch something on TV, a warm cup of cocoa instead of the coffee you craved.

But it’s halfway through your own pity party that the way Rafael Barba looked at you makes your mouth curl into a sneer, and about two-thirds through the second movie that you realize you’ve wasted the day. Horrifying. All over a man who did nothing but look down at you, for being home, still.

A fire you needed, and looked for, when you started grad school. Besides helping people, why else did you want a doctorate? What was going to push you to getting that damn Ph.D. and across the finish line?

In the end, it’s the feeling of squirming under Rafael Barba’s gaze. Harvard Law or not, the fucker shouldn’t have looked at you like that. Shouldn’t have talked to you like that. And by the time you’re stomping over to your books and opening it with a vengeance, you’ve made a deal with yourself that no one will ever talk to you like that ever again.

Fuck Rafael Barba. He could have his juris whatever, settle in Boston or Manhattan. You were getting a practice, to help the people in your borough, and one of these days he’d have to look at you and refer to you as doctor who got her degree from Fordham whether he wanted to or not.

-

You should’ve gone with the slacks. The slacks don’t have a hem that needs to be tugged down every twenty seconds, that’s for sure, and the feeling of your skirt’s hem is all you can focus on. The way it slides up as you hustle to the elevator, the way it rides as you sit on the subway. By the time you get to where you’re going, you’re going crazy, your hair frizzing with the energy.

Not to mention, it’s fucking cold while you wait, your knee bouncing as you sit in an endless hallway, waiting for them to call your name.  

But you look better in the skirt. You feel better in the skirt, you rock the skirt, and for an oral defense you want to feel your best, so. It’s the skirt. The skirt, and those heels with a splash of color, and when you leave and get a good distance from the clear glass door you get to pump your fist and dance in the skirt.

You did it.

You’re going to be a doctor. You’re going to be a psychologist. Someone’s going to meet you, for the first time, and call you by your title, and come to you for help.

And you’ll be able to help them. On your own. Terrifying, but it gives you a rush, the strength of which makes your head spin, makes your eyes cross just a little. Your fingers move to text your boss, your mother.

“I did it.”

You whisper it to yourself the whole way back. All that’s left is the rest of your internship, and then you’re home free. You’re done. You’re a doctor.

“The worst part is over,” Dr. Olivet reminds you when you make it back to her offices, “but there’s still work to be done.”

“I know, I know,” you tell her, lifting your hands. “I still have to finish my work here, and there’s, you know, getting a job…”

“But you did it.” Her voice is warm, and you’re not afraid to give another little dance, and she obliges you with a hug.

It’s sweet. It’s more than sweet, and your eyes are brimming with tears. God, you have to call your mom. A text isn’t enough, you have to tell her everything –

A hand reaches out to stop you with a gentle touch on your arm. You hadn’t even realized you were talking out loud, but thankfully you’re done in an instant. “You can call her on the drive. We have a full day, then the Brooklyn DA’s office.”

The thought makes you wince. “Two birds with one stone, hopefully?” you ask her, but she just shakes her head, the excitement from the morning bleeding into preemptive exhaustion in the blink of an eye.

Long day is right, when it comes to the law. There’s never been a time when cops have been your biggest fans, but it seems the tensions are always high with them. Nowadays, at least with Olivet, the two of you prefer to go straight to the D.A., when he calls, simply because at least as an expert witness, there’s some respect.

Some. But it’s there.

But not always.

So, the two of you make the journey to Brooklyn, a forty-minute commute from Manhattan, and by the time you show up at the Kings County D.A.’s office, you’re already exhausted. The D.A.s that Olivet consult with are nice enough, you suppose, for lawyers, but only because they have to be. It’s part of the position, and if they want to be re-elected, they don’t want a reputation of being hard to work with. But the A.D.A.s tend to sprint first, ask too many questions later, and every moment is a battle.

But when you get there, head up to the office that Olivet was told to go, there’s a pair of striking green eyes that lift from their spot on a stack of files to meet yours, widening when yours do. They’re matched with a pale lavender tie, and a grey ensemble that compliments him nicely. You suppose it’s made for that, considering how it’s tailored.

The room isn’t posh. The opposite, in fact, a couple of chairs in front of a desk, a table to the side with various books to add onto the bookcase full of them. But there’s flair, and clutter in equal spades. It feels worked in, maybe even lived in, judging by the only other piece of furniture being a couch behind you.

It’s been a long time since high school and wintry streets in the Bronx, that’s for sure, for you and for Rafael Barba.

He stands when the two of you step into the room, and moves around the desk. You watch and wonder what he remembers from the last time you stumbled into each other, but his body language doesn’t betray a whole lot besides his exhaustion. You wonder if he can see the same in you, or if the tapping of your finger against your side is informing him just what you think of him. The great lawyer from Boston, here instead of the Bronx. Never going back home, just like he wanted.

His jacket is off, and you can see the vest and slacks of a three-piece suit as he moves to greet you, sleeves rolled up, a couple of blinks as he takes the two of you in.

“Mr. Barba,” Olivet says politely, reaching out her hand. “You’re the A.D.A. we’re working with, then?”

“Doctor.” His voice is formal, and when he shakes it, there’s a quick one-two before he releases, turning to you without hesitation. “Yes, I don’t think we’ve had the opportunity to meet officially. Rafael Barba, thanks for coming.”

“Mr. Barba,” you greet him, when he turns to you, and when the two of you shake there’s a twitch. “It’s a... pleasure.”

How’re you doing, Harvard boy? Still looking down your nose? is what you want to say, what you remember from him, but you manage a little self-control. You think he reads your mind, and it makes him nod.

“The pleasure’s mine,” he returns. So, he does recognize you, because the familiarity has to the be the unexpected warmth you hear. Or maybe amusement, because your last attempt at friendliness was resolved with little more than chills in the air. “Intern for what exactly?”

There’s a spark in his eyes, and you find yourself lifting your chin. No stumbling at this meeting, just two kids from the Bronx, all grown up. God forbid he thinks for a moment that you ran away and gave up. “For my doctoral courses at Fordham. In about four months, I’ll be a clinical psychologist like Dr. Olivet. She’s who I’ve been training under.”

You dare him to say something. To make a dig. 

“Fascinating.” It’s what he settles on. He seems actually impressed,, when he looks at you, and you try to ignore the way his smile makes your heart pound. It’s just because he’s a handsome man in a three-piece suit and smiling, not because he’s Rafael Barba. After all, Rafael Barba was pretty sure you’d never get out of the Bronx, and downright rude because of it. “Shall we get started, then? I want to know everything I can about this guy.”

“Of course,” Olivet returns, and the three of you get situated to get to work.

It’s long. It’s exhausting. By the end of the day, your head is pounding, and Olivet and Barba have exchanged enough words to fill a novel, trying to argue the benefits and the harm of taking this particular offender to trial. He wants to get an answer to his boss by the end of the day, and your boss is not one to make it easy for ease’s sake. You had taken the role of notator, going through the files offered and marking anything for Elizabeth, and the back and forth had made you dizzy. After all, after everything, Rafael Barba was a great lawyer, a fantastic prosecutor, according to a Google search during a break. Leave it to him to make your eyes blur.

“The precedent is set for it,” Barba repeats, for the third time. He’s gone from sitting, to pacing, to sitting again, his eyes closed as he runs a hand through his hair. “And the defense is going to argue that his illness is an excuse for his behavior.”

“I know what the precedent says,” Olivet returns, for the third time. “But I also know that while diagnoses are never an excuse for a behavior, they can explain one. It’s what the defense will argue. His impulse control without his medication – which he has a right to refuse – is significantly lowered –“

“But not completely. Mr. Nelson understands what he did was wrong, he basically confessed –“

Your eyes roll, and you find yourself speaking before you can think. “In an interrogation room in which his counsel, which he did not waive, was not present. Just because he has a diagnosis in the DSM-V does not make him any less deserving of a proper interrogation.”

The two of them turn to look at you, Olivet with a smile, Barba with a scowl. His face pinches as his eyes scan you, and you just stare back.

He may be where he belongs, in a three-piece suit, but you’re where you need to be, too. And he needs to make sure he understands that, because the last thing you’re gonna let him do is underestimate you again.  

“No one is saying that,” Barba starts, but you just raise a brow at him.

“If I’m looking at these transcripts correctly, something tells me the cops themselves said that. Look, Mr. Barba, Dr. Olivet and I might not be this man’s direct health care providers, but we still have a duty to advocate for him.” You glance over at your boss, and her hand is covering her mouth, but you see the edges of a smile in her tired eyes. “If I were a doctor, and an expert for the other side, I would make sure my team knew the violations that occurred in that room.”

The room is silent. When Barba looks at the doctor, she just drops her hand, the smile replaced with a somewhat-serious look that threatened an I-told-you-so. “I’d be saying the same thing. She’s right.”

A new energy flashes between the two of you, and when Barba contemplates his options, his lips a little pursed, it’s with you staring him down. It’s a sparring match, your gazes, and it’s a firm draw. That alone seems to perturb Rafael enough for him to relent, just a little. “I’ll worry about the… legality of the confession,” he sighs out. His pages flick to a different section, and he glances over it. “We’re all tired here, so I’ll wrap, but I need to know if he’s competent for the stand without his medication. That’ll be the last thing we cover today.”

“If he’s not a danger to himself or others, then getting him to take it will be difficult legally,” Olivet reminded him. “But. I’ll do an evaluation. See what we can determine while he’s off.”  

Another time, another date is set, for the evaluation. You and Dr. Olivet start getting ready to go, and the polite farewells are given and gone.

But before you leave, and the handshakes are made, Rafael looks you over, from head to toe. It’s quick, but you catch it, and it’s before he turns to Dr. Olivet and nods.  

“I’ll be seeing both of you, then? Day after tomorrow?”

If it makes your cheeks flush, you don’t mention it, especially not when he glances back at you again, gives you another handshake with a firm squeeze.

“Both of us,” you affirm, inform, and then you’re gone, Rafael Barba’s office behind you, something else entirely in front.

“You know, he never asked you your name, when we went in,” Olivet notes, on the ride back. It’s mild, nothing really there, but the two of you have worked together long enough that you know there’s a million unasked questions down that rabbit hole.

Your eyes don’t leave the windshield. “Oh, yeah. Uh, we lived on the same street. He – him and his friends, really – they almost broke my ankle, my sophomore year of high school.”

A hum from her makes you break from your trance, and you see the edges of her lips curl up. “No, no,” you clarify. “It wasn’t like that, it was never like that. I’ve only seen him, what, three times over the years? He’s just someone I see every so often. New York is the smallest city in the world, I guess.”

“Will this be a problem?” she asks next. You find your cheeks flaring again, turning from the windshield to your own window.

“Nothing there for it to be. Last time didn’t end so well, but… we’re past that. We’re adults.”

Right?

When she laughs, it’s a gentle prod in the direction you were already going, nothing more than fuel to the fire that you barely understood was being lit.

“Well, I know for sure he didn’t shake my hand twice, and I’m the one who’s going to be on the stand for him if this goes to trial. Maybe last time didn’t end as poorly as you thought.”

You refuse to think about it, though. For a little while. After all, it’s work that has to be done, and you’re not across the finish line, yet, so you show up prompt and on time two days later to assist Dr. Olivet with her evaluation and the conclusions that are inevitably drawn. You don’t end up coming until the end of the workday, and when you’re finished it’s well into evening.

“He’s unaware that what he said in the interrogation room amounted to a confession,” she tells Barba, afterwards. After watching the whole thing, the way that you and Olivet had slowly gained trust and revealed the truth, the clench of his jaw is mighty. “There’s no way he gave it willingly.”

“You’re certain?” When he turns to look, it’s at both of you, equally, his eyes flicking back and forth before looking back into the room where you had left him. His voice sounds exhausted, and for a moment you feel pity for him.

You open your mouth to speak, but he cuts you off with a hand wave. “Don’t bother. I know the answer.” His frustration is apparent, and you find yourself sharing a glance with Dr. Olivet before nodding. “So, we have nothing.”

“Nothing except someone who needs to return home to his family,” you tell him, and his shoulders slump. It’s not meant to be a jab, but when he looks at you again there’s something in his eyes that tells you he takes it as such.

“Right. Of course. I’ll talk to the captain.” He sounds so worn, and you almost feel sorry for him.Your smile is sympathetic, but he’s not really looking at you. There’s something that tells you to walk away, another part that insists you stay, figure this man out.

“Mr. Barba?” Dr. Olivet murmurs. “I’ll get a full write-up of what I saw here to you tomorrow, but we really should be going now.”

And that makes him straighten, his manners coming back to him as he gestures towards the door. “Right, yes, of course. Thank you so much for your help, Dr. Olivet. Miss Y/L/N.”

“Not a problem,” you say, and the two of you part. No fanfare. No nothing. Just. Done.

You don’t realize how distracted you are until you’re standing by Dr. Olivet’s car, ready to take the two of you back to her office, where you can return to the Bronx.

“Are you all right?” she asks you, and you realize you’ve been fingering the handle for a minute, as she rummages for her keys.

“Yeah, just. Thinking.”

After another minute, Olivet curses. “I must’ve left them inside. Do you mind if we head back in?” When there’s no protest, the two of you walk quickly to get out of the cold, and you find yourself hoping against hope that Rafael Barba is still in there, that there’s something more you can say.

Your head is down, your eyes are closed to protect from the wind. So you don’t see the door, nor notice when it swings out. Neither does the other person behind it, and you feel the edge of it nail you in the forehead.

You’re stunned, stumbling backwards. Your fingers come up to press on where the door hit you, and the person behind the door is muttering curses. A couple of hands come to steady you, and luckily there’s no blood on your hand when you pull it away.

“Are you all right?” a voice asks you, and you have to blink to let the face focus.

“Just when I thought there’d be no stumbling around this time,” you groan, and Barba’s small smile to you is brimming with concern.

“Completely my fault,” he sighs. “Are you okay?” You’re still blinking, but the dots connect, and you realize that Rafael Barba is the one who smacked your head.

Goddammit. And you just starting to like the guy again.

“I got a door to the face, I’ve been better. Fuck, I’ve gotta be careful what I wish for,” you groan.

“Let’s get you to a chair,” Olivet whispers, and the stars you’ll still seeing start to fade as you stumble to a seat in the entryway of the precinct. “Mr. Barba, do you mind staying here with her? I think I left my keys upstairs, and I need them to take her home.”

“Doc, you don’t have to do that,” you tell her, but the lights in the place are killing your eyes. Quickest concussion you’ve ever gotten, you assume, and Barba indeed tells her that he’s got you. Heels click away, toward the elevator, and even the ding makes you wince.

There’s silence, for a few moments. Quiet, as you hold your head in your hand. After a few moments, you’ve realized Barba’s left and returned, holding out a cold water bottle to you.

“Another thing I owe you for?” you ask him, and you must be imagining his wince as you hold it up to your forehead.

“I think by this point we’ve come full circle,” Rafael tells you. “I’m truly sorry, I just didn’t see you when I pushed the door open.”

A brow raised in disbelief, and you tilt your head up so he can see your scorn. “Aren’t the doors clear?”

“My phone,” he offers, and you scoff.

There’s silence again. His shoes are tapping against the tiled floor, and you switch hands as condensation drips down your arm. It sends a chill through you.

“Do you… need my coat?” he asks, and you can’t help but raise a brow at him again.

“I have my own coat,” you tell him, bluntly, and it almost looks like… wait.

Is he blushing?

“I know, just… do you – do you need another one?”

So. This is the great Harvard graduate Rafael Barba, stumbling over his words, offering you a coat. If anything told you he remembered what happened way back when, and felt bad about it, it was that. You’re chuckling a little now, the anger passing into disbelief.

“How bad does your head hurt?” he asks, horrified, but you just keep laughing, dropping the water bottle and leaning back in your seat.

It’s a full-on cackle right now. “You’re telling me this isn’t hilarious?” you ask him. Gesturing between the two of you, the bottle in your hand, the offer of the extra coat. “Every time we meet, something goes horribly wrong, doesn’t it? We can’t just have a coffee, I have to spill it on you. We can’t just catch up, I have to vow vengeance.”

He raises a brow at that, but you wave him off. “I don’t know. I guess I’m telling you that maybe this is what we’re meant to be, Barba. Bad luck for each other.”

Rafael murmurs something, in Spanish. Repeats it, even, but you can’t catch it.

“What?” you finally ask, and he looks at the water bottle next to you and shakes his head.

“I’m saying that’s not true. You’re not bad luck. You… helped me.”

It’s your turn to raise your brow, and you have a feeling if you knew him a little more, it’d be a perpetual expression. But he keeps plowing forward. “You know, when you walked away, last time? I watched you the whole way down the block. I couldn’t stop thinking about how you… said I was using Harvard as an excuse.”

He leans back. Tilts his chin up, and you find yourself watching the line of him. He seems to sink into the seat like it’s the first time he’s sat for a week.

“Excuse to do what, I didn’t know. So I tried to ignore it, and then… it just kept… sitting in the back of my head, the sight of you, looking at me –“ He cuts himself off, and you watch him sit up again, rest his elbows on his knees.

“What?” You prod him, move your knee to hit his, and he sighs, both hands over his face.

“You were right. Harvard was my excuse. It was a way out, but I forgot home on the way. Forgot my mother, in everything, my grandmother. Took steps away from them, and ended up losing sight of myself.”

All of that because of what you said? Something twists inside of you, and you shake your head, lifting the bottle back up to where a good bruise is forming. “You don’t have to feel guilty for working, Rafael,” you murmur to him. “For having a dream. I saw you, and I – I saw a guy who got it all, and I took my frustrations out on you. I’m sorry, for making you think that going out and accomplishing what you have means you’re not – not, y’know. You. I barely know you, for fuck’s sake.”

The curse makes his lips twitch, but he doesn’t look away. “But you never lost sight of home. You were always right there, where you needed to be,” he urges, and you shake your head.

“And that’s me. I love home. I love being home. But maybe you needed to get out. I don’t know your life,” you laugh. “I would love to, but I don’t and… and maybe you needed to step away from… family, from friends, to find yourself. Look at you, you’re an A.D.A. in Kings County. I know you’ve got headlines already. That’s just who you seem to be. You’re the Harvard boy. Don’t feel guilty about that on my account, it’s a big accomplishment.”

A pause.

“But the Bronx isn’t so bad, if you ever wanted to journey back every so often. Not a bad thing to remind yourself where you came from.”

“I don’t think I can forget,” Rafael admits. “Es en mi sangre, just like being a lawyer is.”

Then he smirks. “Plus, those pants still have a stain right on the hem. I keep meaning to throw them out.”

You snort, loud, and then shift to face him. It’s uncomfortable, the little bench the two of you are on, but the position is worth it. “Seems like you’re investing in good-fitting suits. Might be time.”

Olivet is taking forever, it feels like, but you don’t mind. This has been good, a resolution to things, and you don’t really want it to end. Even if it means that you can get home and nurse your head.

“You know, you’re the one who got me through my first year of my Ph.D.,” you blurt out. “After our last meeting I vowed you’d call me doctor. That’s what I meant… by vow vengeance.”

“So you…”

“Yeah. I guess that means you’re good luck, huh?”

He’s agape. “You pushed through grad school out of spite for me?”

“Yup.” The ‘p’ pops in your mouth, and his eyes flicker down to your mouth before he can stop himself.

And then, there’s a beat. And then he’s laughing. His laugh, when it’s light, and free, is contagious, for sure.  Shaking his head, running a hand through gelled hair. When he pulls it away, the mess makes it look softer, and you get the sudden urge to run fingers through it.

Damn concussions.

You have enough sense not to mention the craving. You just smile, and drop the water bottle in favor of shoving a hand towards him for a good shake.

He looks at your hand. It’s offered to him in a symbol of peace, but he looks so skeptical still, as if you’ll call him out on not calling home every now and again.

“Since I’m not your bad luck, then. Friends?”

There’s no hesitation. He’s grabbing your hand, firm and warm, and the one-two shake seals the deal.

“Friends,” he concedes, and the two of you sit on that damn bench, the silence more than a little comfortable.

His coat does end up around your shoulders, eventually. It’s nice, another layer of warmth with the windows to your back. It seems silly, but it feels like a shield, a layer of protection.

Olivet comes down eventually. She doesn’t comment on the second coat, but you see her head tilt a little as you stand, hand it back to him.

“You know where to find me, if you’re ever in town,” you tell him, and he nods.

“I’ll see you around, Miss Y/L/N.”

Your grin stretches across your face. It hurts your head, a little, but it’s worth it. “You’ll call me doctor, one day. Next time one of us almost kills the other.”

His smile back is warm. “I have no doubt.”

When you and Olivet leave, she’s just humming a little. You don’t say anything, but when the two of you get in her car, she pulls her keys from the depths of her purse, starts the engine. You realized that you didn’t see them in her hand when she left the elevator, and the dots connect even with the way your brain has been rattled.

The sight makes your eyes widen. “Were they –“

She laughs now. “Oh, you know things like that. Not a problem, we’ll just take you home now.”

“Now?” Your voice is cracking a little with the indignation.

“Now. If we hurry, I’m sure your dinner will still be warm.”

-

Rafael watches as Liv’s voice gently soothes the woman, her eyes flicking back and forth between the Lietenant and Carisi. There’s hesitation in her statement, the kind that makes the hairs stand up on the back of his neck.

When the two of them leave the interrogation room, he’s clear, or as clear as he can be. “She just confessed to murder, and right now that’s all the D.A. is going to see.”

Carisi’s response isn’t exactly friendly, but Barba looks up at the detective steadily, trying not to let his eyes roll. “You’re telling me you don’t believe her?”

“I’m saying that we’ve already had two victims recant their statements, for one reason or another. Their unwillingness to testify against Mr. Jones gives us very little in terms of evidence,” he sighs out. There’s a weariness as he looks at the woman, moving to lean against the glass and watch as she lays on the couch to rest. He wants to do the same, sometimes. Let his exhaustion take over. “I want to know what she knows about the situation, what she thinks. Otherwise, it’s a cut and dry case, and she gets locked away.”

“But she came to us, Barba,” Liv offers, looking at him with those pleading eyes of hers. They know how to sink right into his soul, and he ducks his gaze for a moment to collect himself. He has no time for being tired, and there’s something infectious about her conviction. But he needs more than a detective’s gut instinct and a lieutenant’s insistence. “We can’t just let her sink. She doesn’t belong in Rikers, she needs help.”

There’s a long silence, and Rafael finds himself sipping from a cup of coffee that has long gone cold. It’s Carisi that speaks up, those classes at Fordham law behind him. “What about a psychiatric evaluation? If an expert can sign off on her testimony, perhaps back up the fact that she was indeed abused, then as a battered woman…”

“Fordham law strikes again,” Barba quips, and then winces at his next sip. Such a shame the precinct couldn’t afford better coffee. Or more skilled coffee makers. “I can see who the D.A.’s office has lined up for those kinds of calls.” He looks between the two cops. “I don’t usually do the defense’s job for them, but this…”

“Is different.” Liv fills in the blanks, and he offers a small smile to her as he moves to the door. “I think we’re rubbing off on you, Barba.”

“God help us all,” he throws back, and her and Carisi’s chuckles are what leave him as he pulls out his phone.

The calls are straightforward. First to Carmen, who finds the list of names and numbers, and then to those names from his desk, seeing who is available as soon as possible for a psychiatric workup. There are options that she trims down, out of the goodness of her heart, leaving him with about ten that he can choose from.

But when he gets the list of names, there’s one name that stands out. One that reminds him of smiles shared across a cup of coffee and a pastry, one that makes him think of Catholic school uniforms and twisted ankles. One that makes nostalgia swirl in his gut. Or is that longing? Either way, it makes his lips purse.

Maybe it’s because in those moments, there were bright spots. Light in days and years that seemed to blur with a lot of struggle.

Or maybe it’s because he’s being dramatic. Either way.

He picks up his phone, prepared just for a consult. Nothing to yearn for, certainly. But he pretends not to notice when he looks up your office and gets a thrill when it’s in Manhattan, or swallow tightly when a photo appears on your website, and your eyes seem to gaze into his.

You’ve made a name for yourself. Any competent A.D.A. would feel comfortable with you in their corner. His fingers fly across his keyboard, looking into cases, finding what you’ve done. Your doctorate from Fordham is only the beginning, and he’s surprised he hasn’t seen you at charity events with all of the credits next to your name. Three years into practice, and he sees you headlining research into veteran populations, starting funds for LGBTQ+ counseling, lighting a fire in your community.

Any A.D.A. would choose you. Never mind the other names.

Yours ends up being the first number he dials. It rings twice, three times. Nothing yet, and his pen is spinning in his fingers. Four times, five times, and for a moment he thinks he’ll just have to try the number at the top of the list –

“Dr. Y/L/N’s office,” a voice answers. “How can I help you?”

It’s not you. It’s a secretary, or a receptionist, but her voice is kind enough. “Yes, is Dr. Y/L/N in? I’m calling about a consultation for the Manhattan District Attorney’s office.”

The little hum that the receptionist gives is… uncertain. “Unfortunately, she’s in with a patient. Can I take a message?”

He’s done his due diligence. He’s tugged on the heartstring, and now he should move on. Try the next name. But something makes him set down his pen, bite his lower lip. A whim, really, that makes him speak.

“Just tell her Rafael Barba called. And if she’s interested, to return this call. I’ll give you the number.”

When he recites the list of ten digits, however, it’s his cell phone. And there’s something in him that hopes you’ll call back with yours. For old times’ sake.

“All right. Thank you so much, I’ll be sure she gets it.” The receptionist hangs up, and Rafael feels like he’s run a marathon the way his heart is pounding.

Each call he gets the rest of the day is enough to get him tensing. Ready to lift and see an unfamiliar number, with your voice in his ear. What he gets instead is silence, and a couple of calls from Liv, during which he does his damnedest to keep the tension out of his voice. By the end of the day, he’s resigned to the fact that it’s simply a missed connection, two ships passing in the night. Another moment of dramatics, but he feels this one.

And then his cell rings once more. He doesn’t look at the screen, just answers and closes his eyes, ready to hear Liv’s voice again, or God forbid, Carisi.

“This is Barba,” he answers. That tension bleeding in once again, and the response he gets makes him a little breathless.

“Kings County not enough for you, Harvard boy?” you ask. It’s teasing, light, and it feels a little like he’s outside in the cold winter wind chill the way his nose surely must be red. “Now I know to send the damages lawsuit to Manhattan.”

His laugh comes out of him suddenly, and it matches yours. “I’ll give you the address. How are you, Doctor?”

You hum a little, and it buzzes against his ear. “Oh, it feels good to hear you say that, that’s for sure. But, honestly, I’m doing pretty well. I’m… doing what I love. Helping people.”

“Too good for the Bronx? Manhattan your mainstay?”

“Oh, please,” you huff. “My office is firmly in the old neighborhood. And on top of it, if I don’t come by every week, my mother has a conniption.”

“Glad to hear.”

And it’s just that simple for you. Rafael has always had his sights set on the future, but you’ve reached it. And you’re content, and still with one foot in the place the two of you grew up. It’s… right.

“What about you?” It’s a question he’s honestly unprepared to answer. He doesn’t linger on it too long, because he doesn’t want to sound like he’s lying, but the truth is perhaps too much to admit to an acquaintance.

No. A friend.

“Manhattan is a little like home now. A lot like it,” he admits. In that moment the SVU crew comes to mind, but he pushes them away. But I have a case here I’m ready to be done with. I’m trusting your receptionist gave you the gist?”

“What she could.” Your voice is no longer light, something firm in it that he recognizes. The tone of work. “The message wasn’t a lot besides your name and your title, but am I right in thinking I’m going to be evaluating someone?”

“It’s a woman who was a victim of sexual abuse. I need to know what your read is on her.”

You hum again, lower, contemplating. “Anything in particular I’m looking for?”

“I don’t want to influence you, or give any unnecessary details over the phone. Just know she’s in our custody, right now, and this case has been complicated.”

There’s a pause, and he does his best to emphasize what’s necessary, what’s true. “We’re trying to help her. Get her where she needs to be. I know it’s last minute –”

“I know the system, Rafael,” you murmur. You don’t hesitate to use his first name, and he tries not to think too much about how it sounds in your mouth. “Am I right in assuming that she’s potentially spending the night in the tombs?”

She’s not, but he doesn’t get the chance to respond, and he doesn’t have to. You’re telling him you’ll be there tomorrow, prompt, early, and he lets out a sigh of relief. Doesn’t mention that waiting for your call could’ve cost a valuable day’s worth of time.

“Thank you,” he breathes, “I owe you.”

“For doing my job?” you chuckle. “This isn’t a personal favor, we should make that clear.”

“For taking my call. Getting back to me so quickly.” For humbling me when I needed it. For being a reminder every few years that home isn’t a bad thing.

“Anything for a friend,” you return, and he ducks his head to hide his smile from the room.

“I’ll see you tomorrow, then. And I do insist I owe you. For the nearly broken ankle, at least.”

There’s a pause. He can hear your breath catch, and he hopes, hell, he prays that there’s a smile on your face as you think of him.

“Then, let’s not wait three years to meet again,” you tell him. There’s a click, surely a pen in your fingers, perhaps spinning like his. “I’ll take drinks, once the case is done.”

“How about dinner?” Rafael returns, and he stands to his feet, his window gazing out on the street below. He’s glad he’s not limited by the cord of his desk’s line. The cabs breezing by too quick on roads with black ice, the gusts blowing the flags outside One Hogan Place. “More equivalent, I would say, if we consider twelve years’ interest.”

“I’m also counting the spilled coffee, of course,” you add, and Rafael scoffs.

“Didn’t you spill that on me?”

He walks into it, he supposes, but he doesn’t mind. “Well, then, I’ll return the favor. Two-dinner commitment, and all before we hit fifteen years of acquaintanceship.”

“Friendship,” he amends, and your little laugh is what lingers with him, what he thinks about as he prepares for tomorrow.

“Right. Friendship. Good night, Rafael.”

“Good night.”

The two of you say friendship, as you rise the next morning. Say friendship as you meet, and Rafael introduces you to the precinct. Say friendship, as the case ends, and those dinners begin, with laughter and warmth even in a snowy Manhattan evening.

But at the end of those dinners, twelve years in the making, the friendship is only the beginning.

After all, you look stunning, in your dress and heels, a deep red coat that compliments your lip color. Your hair is pinned up, but some of it has come loose, during the night, and those strands frame your face perfectly.

“Maybe Manhattan isn’t too bad,” you laugh, as the two of you step into the night air, “if it means you get to eat like that all the time.”

“There are definitely some low points, but the high points make it all worth it,” he tells you. He can’t stop looking at you, even as you pause at the curb, side by side and turning to each other. “Back home, then?”

“You’re not the only A.D.A. I work with.” You nudge him with your elbow, hands in your pockets to block out the cold. “Other boroughs, other work. Not to mention that Monday’s coming up quick. Patients.”

There’s a stab of jealously in him. Thinking about you spending time with the other boroughs, with other A.D.A.s at his office. But for some reason, he can’t help but hope that the smile on your face is just for him.

He takes a moment to pull out his phone, stare at the date on the screen. “Well, tomorrow’s not Monday,” he tells you. “Do you… think you could spare a few more hours? Another day, maybe?”

Your brow raises at him, and he finds himself loving the arch of it, especially paired with your smirk. “What are you thinking, Barba?”

“A couple of drinks, maybe.” He nods down the road, trying to play it cool even though his heart is pounding in his chest.  

You’ve gotten the gist. The idea. He knows it, and you know it, but you’re daring him to act with the way you bite your lower lip. “And after that?”

It’s a dare he takes. Jumps at the chance to act on, one of his hand lifting to cup your cheek, the other reaching for your waist. He kisses you, there, on the curb, winter in full swing around you, and there’s nothing else can think about but the way you feel against him.

When it’s over, it feels unfinished. Mainly because a part of him doesn’t want it to.

“What do you say? Willing to stay in Manhattan a little longer?” he asks, a little breathless as he looks down at you. Your lipstick hasn’t miraculously hasn’t smudged, but he still lifts a hand to trace his thumb along the perfect lower line. “I know a place you can stay.”  

“I’m almost convinced,” you reply with a laugh, voice light. “But if you kiss me again, we can make that an absolutely certainty.”

[janeyseymour]

Escape- pt 21

pt 1. pt 2. pt 3. pt 4. pt 5. pt 6. pt 7. pt 8. pt 9. pt 10. pt 11. pt 12. pt 13. pt 14. pt 15. pt 16. pt 17. pt 18. pt 19. pt 20.

Jane Seymour has stayed with Henry long enough. Cue Catherine of Aragon and the rest of the girls to save her (Aramour)

Catherine and John have a chat.

“Beale!” The head of the police department barked. “We have a lead on Tudor!”

“He’s heading to where Seymour is?”

“Someone was spotted that looks like him. He’s not quite near her, but if he knows where she is, he’s heading there for sure. You need to warn Seymour and Aragon.”

“Sir, we can’t. She’s nine months pregnant. If we bring that stress to her, it won’t be good for her or the baby. We have to find him before he finds her.”

“And how do you suppose we do that?” The boss raised an eyebrow at his number one officer.

“We have to figure it out. She can’t be under that much stress. I’ll drive out there myself and protect her if I have to. That poor girl has been through more than enough to last her a lifetime.”

“Seems like you have quite the attachment to this case Mr. ‘I-hate-everyone-and-everything.’”

“She just really deserves what she has now, okay?”

“Fine. Go.”

“Thank you sir.”

“What the fuck are you doing here?” Thomas caught a glimpse of Henry at a rest stop.

“Thomas?”

“You’re not going to get to her before I do.” A look of horror flashed onto Henry’s face before going blank again. The two tried to remain quiet.

“What the fuck are you yelling that for? Are you trying to get us both arrested?”

“I’m not in any trouble. It’s just you they’re out for,” Thomas stated simply. “You’re not getting to her.”

“Yes I will,” Henry gritted his teeth. “Even if-”

“Even if what?” Thomas seethed.

“Even if I have to kill you myself. She was my girl first, and she’s still mine.” Henry left.

“So,” Catherine sighed when the couple walked through the door to the house.

“So?” Jane mimicked.

“I think we shouldn’t tell anyone about the engagement yet. I mean, I love that you’re my fiancee, but-”

“You’re already losing interest in me, aren’t you?” Jane’s eyes welled up with tears.

“Are you stupid? No, I’m not losing interest in you.”

“You know pregnancy brain doesn’t just disappear after the baby escapes the vagina right?”

“Escapes?” The older woman stifled a laugh.

“Yes. I may have been brought back in good health, but my body still has some healing to do,” she said pointedly. “Now, why don’t you want to tell people about our engagement? We already told the girls. Really, the only people we have left are to tell our parents.”

“We couldn’t really avoid telling the girls. But I think we should just let it be for a little. It’ll upstage Eddie.”

“I was wearing my ring when they all came to the hospital,” she argued.

“And no one noticed because they were busy looking at this handsome little boy of ours,” Catherine cooed at the baby in her fiancee’s arms.

“But,” Jane racked her brain for another reason to tell her family. “I like wearing my ring.”

“Jane.”

“You’re right, but I just want to proudly show it off that I’m finally going to be married to the woman I was destined to.”

“In time, you will honey.”

“He’s the first love of my life.”

“I think I’m okay with taking second to him.” The pair watched their child sleep for a few minutes when Catherine’s phone began to ring.

“Take it. I have to feed and put Eddie down anyway. I think I’m going to try and sleep after.”

“Okay. I’ll be in after.” Catherine began to walk away before turning sharply. “Hey.”

“What’s up?”

“I am so in love with you, and I hope you know I will never lose interest in you.”

“I love you too,” Jane smiled as she went to walk up the stairs.

“Do you need any help?” Kat was waiting for her in the hallway.

“I’m just going to feed Eddie and put him down for a nap, but if you want, I would enjoy the company.”

“Okay Mom.” Jane’s heart fluttered when Kat used the term so loosely. She couldn’t wait until Edward would speak those same words.

“Cath here,” she grinned into the phone.

“It’s John. You have a second?”

“Yeah. Janey’s feeding the baby.”

“And she’s in good health still?” The father was quite worried about his daughter.

“From what I can see. The angels or whoever she met kept their promise, and aside from her body changing after giving birth, she seems to be just fine.”

“Good. I’m glad. I wasn’t ready to lose my sweet girl.”

“Neither was I. I’ve been thanking the heavens for keeping her with us.”

“Me too.” The two sat in silence for a few moments before John spoke again. “Did the two of you get engaged and not tell anyone about it?”

“I knew you knew.”

“Of course I knew. I’ve been waiting for a ring on her finger since she told me that she had run away with you. Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Well, you know,” Catherine laughed. “Between the whole ‘having a child’ thing and then the whole ‘I’m pretty sure the love of my life is going to die and leave me with her newborn son’ thing happening, I didn’t think announcing our engagement at the time was quite right.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah. But uhm, don’t say anything. We’re trying to keep it quiet for a little bit, at least while Eddie is so new to us all.”

“But Marge and I have some money riding on this and-”

“Wait. You’re telling me that you have a bet going based on your daughter’s love life?”

“Uh,” John stammered. “No?”

“You two really are something.”

“It’s a really good bet though,” the older man practically whined. “I won, and I want my-”

“Please.”

“Fine. But uh, how did you ask her?”

“I asked her not even an hour after Eddie was born. We were talking to a nurse about the name, and they said they would just refer to him as baby boy Seymour. Janey insisted he take my name because I’m going to adopt him anyway, and I just kind of blurted it out. I didn’t mean for it to happen like that though. I just kinda of-”

“She said yes. You’re lucky.”

“Oh I know John. I’m the luckiest woman alive.”

“No, you really are lucky. It must’ve taken me three tries before Marge said yes. Liz’s husband asked her five times, if I can remember correctly. You lucked out on the first try.”

“Well, you know I tried once, but it never got that far.”

“Yes, but she doesn’t have to know about that.”

“She find out about it eventually I’m sure. She always does. And she’ll laugh about it too. I really do love her.”

“I know you do.”

“Ask me why.”

“Why?”

“Just ask.”

“Okay, why do you love my daughter?” John inquired. “You know, I already blessed the marriage. I trust you.”

“I know, but I just need to say this.”

“Okay, on with it Cath.”

“I don’t even really know where to begin. She’s gorgeous, and beautiful, and simply stunning. The way her hair falls when she runs her fingers through her hair drives me insane, and when she has bedhead, I think it’s the most beautiful I’ve ever seen her. I’m never going to tire of waking up next to her. I crack up when she gives me the eyebrow. It’s so cute. Her eyes give away everything. It shows me all I’ll ever need to know about her. They light up when she’s excited, they sparkle when she talks about something she loves.”

“They always did. That’s how I knew she loved you.”

“I-” Catherine didn’t know how to respond, so she continued. “When she scrunches up her nose, I can’t help but stare. When she’s confused or mad, I just can’t help. She’s so endearing. And her smile, oh my gosh. It kills me.”

“That’s how I feel about Margaret’s.”

“I’ve never seen a smile so bright, and so genuine, and so full of hope. I really hope Eddie gets her smile. She’s just so passionate. I’ve never seen a woman so passionate about everything. When she’s happy, she just glows. She has this way about making everyone else feel so much lighter and fuller. You’d have to ask Kat about that. She’s hilarious. God, I’ve never met someone with such a twisted sense of humor, but it’s hilarious. She literally laughed when we were all shocked that she was alive and said, ‘Man, I really had you guys scared’. Like, who even thinks to say that when they just defied the laws of life?”

“She gets that from me.”

“And I love the way that she twiddles her thumbs when she’s nervous. I always know when I can try to help her relax. I love when she talks a mile a minute. She gets so animated, and I have to stop myself from kissing her to get her to take a breath. When she gets mad at me, she puts her hands on her hips and pouts, and I just melt. I can’t stay mad at her for much longer when I see her like that. And her puns? They’re, as she would say, ‘punny’. The rest of the girls in the house just groan, but she loves them so much that I can’t help but laugh. I love when she acts like I’m physically right next to her when we’re actually on the phone and she nods to say yes. I love that she has so many different laughs. I love when she laughs so hard so snorts, and then she continues to laugh and no noise comes out. I love the way that she loves me with her whole heart, or at least I would hope. I love the way that she’s already a mother to Kat and Eddie, and she’s the best mom. It’s just the most amazing thing. She just- god John. I love her so much. I can’t even get into details.”

“Those weren’t details?” John spoke after listening to the entire ten minute rant Catherine had presented him with.

“No. She’s just so incredible. Every little thing she does makes me fall more and more in love with her, and I know if she heard this, she’d tell me I just made up this image of her in my head, but I swear I didn’t. She has this whole universe inside of her. It’s a wonder that she holds in all of her 5’7” body, even though she tells everyone she’s 5’6” because ‘Cath, 5’7” is tall.’ I wish she saw herself the way I see her, but if I have to spend every day telling her why I love her, I’ll do it.”

“Cath, she’s very-”

“You know what though?”

“What?”

“You didn’t ask me why I’m in love with her.”

“Didn’t I?”

“You asked why I love her. There’s a difference.”

“Well, why are you in love with her?”

“I couldn’t tell you exactly why. There’s not just one thing; it’s everything. Words can’t even begin to describe how deeply in love I am with your daughter. I couldn’t- I went over ten years watching the girl I was in love with fall in love with someone else. I watched her get let down time and time again. I thought every New Years, I was going to tell her. I remember the night I found her, all broken and bruised. She was still beautiful. Sick, right? I was there for her through it all and-”

Jane walked in and interrupted, “-And beautiful things really do come from terrible nights. Just like that one song says. Daddy, I need to steal my girlfriend now.”

“Fiancee,” Catherine laughed. “He knows.”

“Of course he does. Dad, I need to steal her. I love you. Bye now!” She hung up the phone. “Eddie’s down for now. Kat is upstairs watching him. He’ll be up soon though because we fell asleep while eating. For now though, you are so incredibly sexy. I heard all of that. All of it, and god, I am so in love with you.” She kissed Catherine deeply and moved down her body.

“Shit Jane. We can’t-”

“We need to stop. I know.”

“Catalina laughed, “Just know that the second you’re cleared...”

“You’re the worst.” The blonde smacked her fiancee lightly.

“How am I the worst? You just came in here and tried to seduce me in the kitchen!”

“Shut up. So, how does Dad know, and is he going to spill to Mom?”

“He told me he’s been looking for a ring since you broke it off with Henry. He saw when they were visiting. And no, I made him swear not to, but you might want to ask him about his bet.”

“A bet?”

“That’s definitely his story to tell. Anyway, do you want to wait to get married or?”

“Lina, you saw how long my last engagement was. Honestly, if we went to the courthouse today I would marry you.”

“You better not have a courthouse wedding!” Anne shouted from the basement.

“Well, I guess we can’t do that,” Jane laughed.

“Guess not. What about August?”

“Like, two months from now August or next year?”

“Two months from now? We can just have family over.”

“I think I’d like that.”

“Who’s going to be whose bridesmaid?” Anne ran up the stairs.

“Hey Marge?”

“What? What happened? I wasn’t trying to- I wasn’t doing anything!” Margaret desperately tried to cover up the fact that she was trying to listen in on her husband’s phone call.

“You're an insane woman. Just call Janey for me and ask her why she loves Cath.”

“Don’t you-”

“I asked Cath, and I learned that woman loves our daughter more than I ever thought was possible.”

“For-”

“Then I asked her why she was in love with her.”

“Isn’t that the same thing?”

“That’s what I thought, but boy was I wrong. I was so, so wrong. That woman is the best for our sweet angel.” John’s eyes sparkled the same way Jane’s did.

“Okay. I’ll ask her tomorrow. Tonight, I made something special for dinner. Come on.”

[stranger-writer]

A Bowers’ Bet (Part 2)

Thank you so much to everyone for all the love on Part 1! I’m not sure exactly how many, but this story will be a couple of parts! But for now, I hope you enjoy Part 2 :)

Summary: When Henry and Patrick make a twisted pact on who can steal Derry High’s most inexperienced student’s virginity first, they think it will be their most exciting game yet. But what happens when one starts to develop feelings, while the other is determined as ever to win, no matter what or who is standing in their way? 

A Bowers’ Bet Part 1

Juliet didn’t get much sleep that night as she tossed and turned with butterflies dancing around wildly in her stomach. She was nervous to see Henry Bowers the next day at school, knowing he would want an answer to his poorly written proposal. There was a part of her that she didn’t recognize, a side that wanted to so desperately say yes. But then she had to come back down to reality and remember who exactly she was getting herself involved with. Henry was the school's baddest bully, but then again, Henry, the boy who tortured kids for his own sick amusement, wrote her a poem? He was obviously no Robert Frost, but the fact that he made such a thoughtful effort made Juliet feel extremely compelled to want to figure Henry out.

Juliet huffed in frustration from her inconsistency of being able to find a comfortable position as well as her mind that wouldn’t seem to turn off, consuming her with countless possibilities and scenarios of what tomorrow could bring. Finally, she fights against the voices listing off all the reasons why she shouldn’t give Henry the light of day.

Alright, just one date Juliet, she thinks to herself. If it goes bad then you learned a lesson and never go out with him again. Simple as that. 

If only she had followed her intuition.

             ………………………………………………………………

Juliet stands at her locker, trying to think about anything else other than the inevitable interaction she will have to face with Henry today. She forces her mind to drift to other thoughts like what she’s going to get her best friend Jennifer for her birthday, or future assignments she wants to get a head start on, or maybe buying that jean jacket she saw in the shop downtown that’s placed in the front window.

All too soon, she slams her locker shut and Patrick is standing there, causing her shoulders to jump as she places her hand over her heart.

“Boo,” he flatly remarks, his smile growing wider as he knows he scared her.

“Ha-ha very funny Patrick,” she smiles while rolling her eyes a bit, turning around briskly to walk away from him. That is until a strong hand catches her wrist, preventing her.

“SO,” he states rather loudly, “I hear you have a little date with Bowers.”

Juliet was a bit confused since she didn’t necessarily give Henry a definite answer yet. However, little did she know, Henry couldn’t stifle his smugness for long before he bragged to his friends and lied, saying she had already said yes. Henry couldn’t wait to boast to Patrick about him being ahead of the game, however, it won't be too much longer until he painfully regrets that decision.

“He did ask me, yes,” Juliet answers, not wanting to give him too much information.

“Let me get this straight kitten. You turn me down because of my so called “reputation,” but want to go and fuck around with someone like Bowers? Did you hit your cute little head since the last time we talked?”

Juliet hated to admit it to herself, but Patrick actually kind of had a point. Were Henry and Patrick really so different? Patrick noticed the uncertainty in her eyes, realizing he’s starting to get through to her a little bit.

“The guy who beat up a kid so bad they had to go to the hospital,” Patrick states, staring off into space as if he’s in deep thought recalling past events. “The guy who tried to shoot a poor stray cat. The guy who carved his name using a knife into Ben Hanscom’s porky stomach till he was dripping blood.”

Juliet’s eyes widen, becoming horrified by the details of Henry’s severe cruelty that she was completely unaware of.

“I-uhm, I....” Juliet was at a loss for words.

“Bowers, man,” Patrick chuckles, interrupting her while he props his elbow up against the lockers. “He’s fucked up. I’ve done some wild shit in my lifetime, but him? Shit, Bowers makes me look like a fucking saint. I mean you should of heard the way he was talking about you last night. But oh well. I’m sure he’ll go easy on you.” Patrick immediately turns his back on her, about to walk away. He doesn’t even take one step before Juliet calls out to him.

“Patrick wait!”

He grins and softly titters to himself before turning around, changing his expression from coniving to concerned.

“What did he say about me?” 

Patrick’s plan worked, luring Juliet right where he wanted her. He was having trouble holding back his usual wide, eerie smirk.

“Geez, I don’t want to be the bearer of bad news or anything,” Patrick innocently shrugs, sticking his hands in his pockets.

“Can you tell me? Please,” Juliet begs, not realizing how much Patrick loved hearing the word fall from her lips.

"If you insist,” he huffs in fake disappointment, trying to act as if he wasn’t beaming with pure joy. “He just kept going on and on about how excited he was to get you alone so he could have his way with you.”

“What did he say ...exactly?”

“I believe some of his exact words were, “‘She looks like she has a good mouth to fuck,’ and ‘I bet I can get her to act like a whore,’ and uhm,” Patrick clears his throat, beckoning with his pointer and middle finger for her to come a bit closer as if this last part was top secret. “He said he thinks you’ll be easy because, you know, you’re a virgin and all.”

“He really said all of that?” Juliet asks astonished, her eyes like a puppy dog’s.

He nods his head in confirmation. “I know,” he scoffs. “What a pig right?” 

Juliet stares down at the tile floor, hating herself for being so naive that she can’t even stare Patrick in the eye. She glances up and from behind Patrick’s shoulder, she sees Henry from afar. He must have spotted them as well because Henry makes direct eye contact with Juliet and begins heading towards them. Juliet sets into immediate panic mode.

“Look Patrick,” Juliet rushes, her eyes moving frantically between Patrick and Henry. “I appreciate you telling me all of this, but right now I have to go.”

Juliet darts down the opposite end of the hallway before Patrick could even get a syllable out, wanting now more than ever to avoid Henry like the plague.

              ........................................................................................

The school day was coming to an end and Juliet had managed to stay clear of Henry and his gang the whole afternoon. It was Thursday, meaning Juliet had to stay after to tutor Eddie in the library. As much as she adored Eddie and didn’t mind helping him, she just wanted to go straight home after this disappointing day.

Luckily after a bit of time, he seemed to be catching on quickly, understanding the material better than he did last week. He barely needed her help with his homework, making Juliet feel happy for him as well as somewhat relieved that their session didn’t have to last as long as usual.

“I’m so proud of you, you’re doing so well! You’ve totally got this test in the bag,”Juliet encourages, closing the textbook shut as she starts to gather her belongings. There was a moment of silence before she suddenly hears Eddie’s shaky voice ask, “Uhh Juliet, has Henry Bowers done anything to you lately?”

Juliet’s actions come to a halt when she turns to look at him, her eyebrows furrowed.

“No Eddie. Why do you ask?”

“Well yesterday he cornered me in the boy’s bathroom just to force me to tell him what I knew about you. I only told him you like books and shit so it would prevent him from drowning me in contaminated toilet water.”

Juliet sat there, her thoughts scattered all over the place. 

“Oh,” she answers, sounding somewhat confused, but trying to be nonchalant. The last thing she needed was for poor Eddie to think something was going on between his bully and her. “Well I appreciate you letting me know that Eds. Don’t worry about it, Henry is always seeking trouble from somewhere.”

“I know. That’s why I thought I’d tell you. So you can keep your guard up.”

It’s like Eddie is giving Juliet an indirect warning as to what the two boys were plotting even though he actually had no idea what they were up to. Juliet may have her guard up now, but it’s only a short amount of time before she drops it. And once its down, she will have no way of being able to put it back up.

As she walks out the library doors, she feels like the world is playing some sort of sick joke on her when Henry is leaned against the wall, waiting for her.

“Henry.” Juliet freezes. “What are you doing here?”

“Detention,” he simply shrugs since it’s a usual occurrence for him. “So what, you tryna hide from me?”

“No!” she lies defensively. “Definitely not.” The butterflies from last night begin to flutter again in the pit of her stomach, but this time not in the good way.

“Well you got the note right?”

Juliet nods before Henry continues and asks, “So how ‘bout it? Tomorrow night?”

“Henry, why do you want to go out with me?” Juliet blurts, not even able to think about the words before they tumble out of her mouth. She crosses her arms, giving Henry a peeved expression. This makes Henry start to chuckle. “What do you mean babe?” 

“Why did you write me that note? Why are you asking people about me? Why do you suddenly want to go on a date?” she questions rapidly, causing Henry to laugh at her, making Juliet even more angry.

“What do you think I’m planning to do, kill you? It’s just a fucking date, why are you acting so crazy?” Henry sneers, using his most common defense mechanism, knowing he was up to no good, but trying to play it off as if she was the one who was being cynical. 

“Oh why am I acting crazy?” Juliet asks in a sarcastic tone. “Well let’s see, maybe it’s because you’re going around telling your friends that you think I’ll be easy and that I’ll blow you on the first date.” 

“Jesus Christ Juliet, what the fuck are you talking about?”

“You know exactly what I’m talking about,” she retaliates, her right eyebrow quirked up.

And oh was Henry very familiar about what Juliet claimed she heard. His mind briefly goes back to last night with the gang as they were all hanging out in Vic’s basement, talking about her. Fucking Patrick. He should have known that Hockstetter plays one way and one way only; dirty.

“It’s Patrick isn’t it? He got into your head. Why the hell would you believe anything he says?”

“Why should I believe you?” Juliet insists, staring so hard into his eyes that he couldn’t believe the girl he thought was timid was pure fire.

“Look Juliet, just hang out with me once so I can prove to you that whatever Patrick said is complete bullshit.”

Juliet shakes her head, hating and despising how much she wanted to give him a chance.

“I’m asking you to trust me. Please?” he persists, grabbing her hand and holding it in a surprisingly delicate way. There’s never been a time that Henry has ever begged someone in his life, but as much as he loathed it, he knew he’d get ahead by playing the good guy type. He could tell by the look on her face that she was giving into him. After a few seconds, Juliet proves him right when she finally caves. 

“Fine,” she snaps, slipping her hand out of his grip.

Henry felt a sudden rush of relief, knowing that the ball has been placed back in his court. 

“There’s a showing of Nightmare on Elm Street I thought we could go see.”

"That actually sounds fun,” Juliet admits, peering up at Henry with those long lashes that makes him want to do unspeakable things to her. 

“The movie is at eight. I thought I could come get you and we can walk there. It’s not far.”

Usually Henry would use Belch and his Trans Am along with the other goons to have as a way of transportation, but Henry was adamant about the whole night having Juliet to himself, that way Patrick had no way of sabotaging things again. He also knew that Juliet is the kind of girl that wasn’t going to just go over his house and fuck around. He actually had to treat her with respect and take her out on a real date first.

“That sounds perfect, but is there any way you can wait for me a house or two down from mine? My mom, she-”

“Let me guess? Won’t approve?” Henry interjects. It was moments like this that Juliet truly despised how judgmental her mother could be. Her silence was proof that what Henry suspected was right.

“It’s cool. I know I ain’t the kinda guy girls like to take home to mom.” Henry begins to chuckle, “Or dad.”

“Hmm, I wonder why.” Juliet looks up to the ceiling, biting down on her lip before glancing back down to Henry, giving him a cheeky grin. Henry doesn’t know what it is, but her innocent yet sassy attitude was turning him on more and more. She wasn’t afraid to confront him or tell him off, which was actually a turn on for Henry since he isn’t used to people defying him whatsoever.

“Looks like Derry’s smartest student has a mouth to match,” he teases, starting to slowly stroll closer to her. She can see the seductive way he’s analyzing her, making Juliet take tiny steps back before she smiles and says, “Looks like Derry’s biggest bully isn’t so scary after all.”

“You don’t want to test me there baby doll,” Henry smirks, licking his lips as continues inching closer to her.

“I don’t know,” Juliet hums, “Tests are sort of my thing,” she responds confidently, sticking her nose up in a joking way. However at this point, Henry has her body pressed up against the lockers with his hand propped up near the side of her face. 

Henry releases a breathy snicker, feeling like she was being a tease. He wanted to grab her ass, her chest, something. But he knew he had to control himself with Juliet and be patient. 

“Well this is one test I’d hate to fail, so I guess for my own sake I better walk away before I start to ....slip up,” Henry simpers, moving his face close to hers.

Juliet laughs, but it truly was one of the most beautiful sounds he has ever heard. “See you tomorrow Henry,” she smiles, but it was her usual one that was laced with innocence and genuine kindness. She moves past him as he just stands there, feeling over the moon already even though he hasn’t even gone on the actual date with her yet. Juliet may be falling for Henry’s game, but Henry however, is falling hard for her, and the worst part is that he doesn’t even know it yet.

           ……………............................................................................

Juliet exits her house and starts to walk down the sidewalk, enjoying the crisp, cool, night air that was hitting her face. She told her mother that Jennifer was having a girls night which she surprisingly believed with no questions asked. Her parents seemed to be preoccupied with having dinner plans with her dad’s snobby business partners, leaving Juliet to have one less thing to worry about.

She suddenly spots Henry in the distance standing down near the stop sign at the corner. He’s wearing dark, ripped jeans with his typical black boots and an almost navy blue muscle shirt that looked extremely good on him. His biceps were prominent, making Juliet shamefully ogle at them for a minute before he turns around slightly and sees her walking towards him. As a nervous habit, Juliet presses her glasses up the bridge of her nose. She decided on a plain white, square neck, sundress that had slightly puffy sleeves. 

Henry whistles at her, making Juliet blush profusely. “I don’t know how you expect me to stay on my best behavior tonight lookin’ like that.”

“Oh c’mon, l think you can manage yourself for a good two hours,” she smirks as they begin to walk together side by side. 

“Maybe. But what about after?”

“After?”

“Well yeah after the movies, you know, I figured we can hang out some more.”

Juliet was certainly not planning for an after. She was planning for solely a movie and a straight walk home. 

“Don’t look so worried,” Henry chuckles. “Still think I’m going to murder you or somethin’?"

“I mean you actually have the perfect opportunity to since my family and friends have zero idea I’m hanging out with you right now,” Juliet teases, making Henry’s heart beat faster and faster.

“Well since you put it that way...” Henry smirks, suddenly grabbing Juliet by the waist, hoisting her up over his shoulder as she lets out a small shriek. Her legs kick back and forth as he begins to run while she’s laughing hysterically. It’s only for a short moment until he eventually stops and gently places her back on the pavement as she holds onto his arms for stability. But that’s when they look up at each other, both slightly out of breath, their faces close as they glance down at each other’s lips. Henry starts to lean in, thinking this was his chance, however, Juliet tenses up. She bows her head down a bit, nervously studying the ground. 

“Hey,” Henry says before grabbing her chin, tilting her face up to look at him. “You’re safe with me alright? I’m not going to hurt you.”

“Okay,” Juliet responds, giving him a small, closed mouth smile.

Henry started to feel something he couldn’t quite decipher. Guilt? Regret? Whatever it is, he pushes back the unfamiliar feeling aside, knowing that Juliet is nothing more than just a stupid bet. A stupid bet that he plans on winning.

They eventually make it to the theater and walk inside as Henry opens the door for her. Once they reach the counter, Henry tells the worker he’ll have two tickets for A Nightmare on Elm Street while Juliet reaches down in her pocket to grab her money. When she’s about to hand it over, she’s shocked to see Henry has already beaten her to the punch.

“Henry I had money, you really didn’t have to do that.”

“Don’t stress baby, I got it,” he winks, grabbing her hand as he leads them to the right theater. Juliet would never know that he had only gotten that money by stealing it from a couple of kids at school.

Once inside, Henry aims for seats that weren’t in the far back since it has just been made clear she isn’t the type who’s going to want to make out just yet, but he didn’t want to sit too close to the front either. He landed on two seats that were a good in between right in the middle. 

The movie was supposed to start in exactly four minutes. Henry felt like everything was going according to plan. Not only did Juliet look as hot as ever, but she was eating out of the palm of his hands. Right as he started to think nothing could possibly go wrong, the worst of the worst comes crashing down on him.

“Henry,” Juliet leans into him whispering, “I didn’t know your friends were coming.”

“What are you talking about my friends aren’t-” and as soon as he looks over towards the entrance, there they were. Vic, Belch, and of course Patrick.

Henry shuts his eyes briefly, clearly fuming. “Those mother fuckers,” he mutters under his breath.

“It looks like they’re coming over to us,” Juliet observes, trying not to make her stare obvious even though it was hard since they were all collectively getting closer and closer.

“I didn’t invite them Juliet, I swear. I have no idea how they found out.”

“Well they knew we were going on a date didn’t they?”

“Yeah,” Henry snaps. “But I didn’t want them knowing where.” As soon as the words rushed out of Henry’s mouth, he knew he fucked up.

“Why?”

As his mind scrambled for some sort of logical lie, his buddies came and interrupted just in time, preventing him from having to even answer the question. 

“Well lookie here boys. It’s Romeo and Juliet,” Patrick sneers with his cheshire grin before throwing a handful of popcorn at Henry as Vic and Belch snort and chuckle beside him. Patrick plops his lanky figure in the seat next to Juliet while Belch takes the seat right next to Henry and Vic in the aisle seat. 

“No fucking way, you assholes go find another place to sit,” Henry demands, trying his best to act calm for Juliet’s sake, but the irritation dripping from his voice wasn’t helping.

Belch searches the theater to see what other seat options there were. “Sorry buddy,” Belch shrugs carelessly while munching down on some popcorn. “It looks like it’s a full house.”

The theater is packed and there are only seven seats open at this point, but they are all completely separated from one another. Juliet could tell Henry was livid by the way his fists were clenched laying on the arm rests and how his nostrils flared. She tried to give him a reassuring smile, but there was nothing she could do to ease his anger at that moment.

“Want a taste?”

Juliet suddenly hears Patrick’s voice and turns to him, worried about what he was insinuating with Henry sitting right there.

“What?” Juliet asks in a somewhat mortified tone.

“Of my drink?” Patrick asks holding up the giant cup, looking at her as if she’s stupid. 

“Oh,” Juliet lets out a half- hearted chuckle. “No. Thank you.”

Patrick licks his lips, grinning mischievously at her. He relished how he could play with her mind and make Juliet question herself. As if right on time, the theater suddenly goes dark as the movie finally begins on the screen. Juliet enjoyed the slight adrenaline she got when watching scary movies, but it didn’t mean she never needed to cover her eyes and watch some parts through her fingers.

Patrick however, seemed to be enjoying the horror as he laughed at the gore and terror, grinning from ear to ear. The scene comes on in the movie where Glen is fast asleep, lying on his bed with headphones over his ears. Juliet couldn’t help herself when she jumps slightly once the dreadful music starts to play as Freddy’s claws appear, sucking Glen into the mattress.

Henry laughs quietly at her reaction, clearly amused. He leans over to her and asks, “You good?”

She nods with a cute grin, hating how even though she knew something was about to happen, it still made her tremble. Even though Henry is enjoying the movie, he couldn’t stop thinking about how Patrick was just one seat away from him. He hated him so much that he wished Freddy could somehow come through the screen and swallow Patrick in like he did to Glen. He still had no idea how he found out that they were even there.

Enough is enough, he thought. Henry decided he isn’t going to put up with Patrick’s shit any longer. If he wanted to come see a show, he was about to give him one.

Henry places his hand on Juliet’s thigh, hiking her dress up a bit while his thumb rubs back and forth on her bare skin. Patrick notices this and begins to feel absolutely infuriated. He becomes even more enraged when Juliet snuggles into Henry a bit, interlocking her arm with his.

It didn’t take long for Patrick to act fast. He pretends to grab his drink when he purposely knocks it over, spilling the red liquid all over Juliet’s lap. She completely jolts when she feels the ice cold, sticky substance dripping down her bare legs, the lower half of her white dress completely drenched. Juliet stares at the ice cubes laying on her lap, not even comprehending what just happened for a few seconds.

“Oops,” Patrick says with zero emotion, satisfied that he didn’t have to endure watching Henry touch what’s his any longer.

“What the fuck Hockstetter?” Henry sharply whispers, staring down at the mess he had caused.

“It’s okay, it was just an accident,” Juliet assures, not wanting the two boys to cause a commotion in the middle of the movie. She could care less that her dress is ruined, she just wanted to immediately get herself cleaned up without making a scene and disrupting everyone else in the theater.

“I’m going to go to the bathroom really quick okay? I’ll be right back,” Juliet states in a hushed tone to Henry.

“Do you need me to come with you?”

Juliet shakes her head at him and gets up quietly. She carefully tip toes passed Henry, Belch, and Vic and then quickly exits out the door.

Once Juliet is in the bathroom and in the actual light, she sees that the drink got all over her socks and high tops as well. Juliet drenches some paper towels in water, doing her best at getting what she could out of her dress. She internally laughs at herself when she looks in the mirror, seeing the huge glob of red that only turned into a slight pink. The stickiness on her hands and legs made her feel gross, causing her to immediately wipe the soda’s remnants off. After constant scrubbing and fifty-two paper towels later, Juliet realizes that this was as good as it’s going to get.

When she walks out into the lobby, she spots Devin Mccalister, Mark Swanson, Derrick Mckinley, and Jason Montgomery all huddled near the back corner. They were arrogant tyrants disguised as the popular football jocks of Derry High. She never understood why The Bowers Gang were notorious for being bullies, but because they wore a sport’s jersey, they were seen as royalty.

“Well, well, well, look who we’ve got here boys,” Derrick calls out, each of them now giving her their undivided attention.

“Juliet,” Jason sings, checking her out with no shame before laughing. “What happened? Time of the month come early?” This causes his friends to bust out in a fit of laughter at the expense of Juliet’s embarrassment as they all walk closer to her.

 “No,” Juliet responds flatly, having a hard time keeping eye contact. “It’s just soda.”

She begins to turn around to head back to the theater before Jason rushes and grabs her by the forearm, jerking her back. “Hey, where do you think you’re runnin’ off to?”

They each begin to huddle around her, shutting her in.

“You should ditch this place and come hang with us. We’re bored,” Devin offers while he gazes down at her chest.

“Yeah I can see that,” Juliet mutters, wishing she could just shrink and disappear.

“Can you?” Jason asks before snatching Juliet’s glasses off her face.

“Stop it Jason, that’s not funny,” Juliet exclaims, reaching out to try and grab them back, but failing miserably. “Please you guys, give them back,” she begs. They instead began to snicker and laugh at her multiple attempts of trying to pry the glasses out of each of their hands since they were tossing them back and forth to one another. Juliet obviously couldn’t see as well without them, making the boys even more amused. That is, until a certain voice causes their actions to come to a sudden halt. 

“What’s going on here,” Patrick interrupts, his eyes narrowed and pierced with craze as he slowly strides out of the darkness over to them with his hips slightly jutted out and his hands in his pockets.

The jocks may be seen as intimidating and tough to most, but one thing was for certain; they were all mentally scared shitless of Patrick. Even if they were cocky enough to think that they could beat him up physically, they knew that he was a person capable of far worse things.

“Nothin’, we were just messin’ around,” Jason retorts, broadening his shoulders a bit, trying his best to be intimidating. Patrick chuckles at his attempt, taking a few more strides before he approaches Jason, standing dangerously close to him when he suddenly takes his pocket knife out and holds it right below Jason’s eyebrow.

“There’s nothing more I’d love to do to you right now then cut out your eye sockets and shove them so far down your throat, you’ll be seeing out your ass.” Patrick moves the knife’s sharp point close enough to where it’s almost touching the white part of Jason’s eyeball, causing him to go pale. 

“Oh, but daddy wouldn’t like that would he?” Patrick taunts in a sarcastic tone. “I mean, how could his son play the big game next week with no way of seeing that football being thrown towards his stupid fucking face?”

Jason is shaking like a leaf at this point as his friends are standing their frozen like statues, too petfriefied to even move.

“Look man, I’m sorry. Just take it easy and put the knife down will ya?” Jason whimpers, his macho facade completely thrown out the window.

Just as Juliet was about to intervene and try to calm Patrick down, he starts to snicker and pulls the knife away from Jason, leering at his panicked expression. “Awh,” Patrick mocks in a teasing voice, frowning his lips down in a fake pout. “Don’t be so serious Montgomery. I was only messin’ around.” 

Jason looks embarrassed and angry, yet still very afraid all at the same time. His face was beat red from wanting to punch Patrick in the face, but knowing that he couldn’t. He reaches his shaky hands out to return Juliet’s glasses to Patrick before slowly backing away. A piercing stare towards Patrick was all he could muster, although if looks could kill, both boys would be dead right now. His friends follow suit until they turn their backs, walking quicker than usual out of the theater.

Juliet is shook up about what she just witnessed as she continues to stand there not moving. “That was…..intense,” she gapes, appearing slightly apprehensive. Patrick feels worried for a second that he went a little too far in front of her until he hears a small giggle. “But also kind of amazing.” She slaps her hand over her mouth, trying to stifle her smirk because she felt guilty for finding such a violent altercation humorous.

Patrick chuckles at her adorable reaction before taking a few steps in her direction. He unfolds the glasses and brushes a few strands of her hair away before putting them back on her face.

“Beautiful,” he simply observes with a slight grin. Juliet remains motionless as his hand reaches out to caress her cheek, his thumb gently swiping across her bottom lip. 

“W-We should head back,” Juliet stutters, moving her face to the side, away from Patrick’s touch.

Patricks knows that no matter what he says, no matter what he does, she will not give into his enticement just yet. She was in the middle of a date with Henry right now, she wouldn’t be ballsy enough, but he recognized that glint in her eye and the way she stumbled. He knew that whether she wanted to come to terms with it or not, there was something behind those hazel eyes that he could tell felt tempted. Patrick has had his exact plan sought out from the start. He just has to wait until something certain happens until he can fully execute it, but this made him all the more excited.

"You ignored the little chat we had this morning,” Patrick states, studying her face. 

“Me and Henry talked it out,” Juliet briefly explains, about to turn around until Patrick says, “Let me guess. He told you not to trust me.”

Juliet started to feel a bit frazzled. She didn’t want to tell Patrick that Henry told her not to believe him and pin the two friends against one another and cause issues.

“N-Not exactly, he uhm, he told me-”

“You’re an awful liar,” Patrick interrupts, smirking before he says, “Henry is a much better one.”

Juliet furrows her eyebrows in an annoyed manner, hating how Patrick kept trying to make her feel like she was being stupid for giving Henry a chance. She was appreciative of Patrick, knowing what those dumb jocks could have done if he hadn’t shown up, but it wasn’t hard to notice that Patrick can be manipulative. She couldn’t let him toy with her head again. Juliet stares at him for a brief moment, biting down on her tongue before she decides it’s best if she says nothing at all in return. She simply turns her back on him and heads inside the theater.

Henry’s face was set in a scowl, but appeared somewhat relieved once he saw Juliet coming back.

As soon as she sat down, Henry moved in closer. “What took so long?”

“I’ll tell you later, it’s kind of a long story,” Juliet whispers back.

Henry sat there, his mind thinking about all the horrendous possibilities that could have happened between Patrick and Juliet outside that theater. He was boiling with rage, causing him to not talk or touch Juliet again for the remainder of the movie.

Henry has his arm draped over Juliet’s shoulder when they walk out into the parking lot as Patrick lingers closely behind. Vic and Belch were staggering near them, still preoccupied with continuing their popcorn fight. They stroll together until they are all standing in front of Belch’s Trans Am. 

“I’m going to fucking kill them. All of them, one by one I swear to god,” Henry fumes in regards to Juliet’s brief rundown about what occurred with Jason and his friends earlier.

“Trust me Henry they aren’t worth it. Although I do wish you could have seen Jason’s face. It was so red,” Juliet laughs. 

“Yeah, well that fucker’s face is going to turn purple on Monday,” Henry responds harshly, making Juliet go silent. Henry begins to notice the way Patrick is intently eyeing Juliet, which reminds him that he needs to get her out of here before this night goes downhill. “We’re gonna take off,” he states flatly to his friends as he steers Juliet away, using his hand around her shoulder as an advantage. 

“What’s the rush Bowers?” Patrick smirks at Henry, wanting to get under his skin.

“I got to get her home,” Henry grumbles while turning around, gesturing his head towards Juliet. She pulls her wrist up to glance at her watch, reading the time that says 10:02pm.

“My curfew isn’t until midnight, so if you want to hang out with them we can,” Juliet quietly offers to Henry, trying to appease him. However, Juliet was unknowingly ruining what he had planned.

“Great!” Patrick beams, hearing Juliet’s hushed offer before opening Belch’s backseat. “Hop in.”

Juliet glances up at Henry, trying to see if she can read his mind on whether he actually wants to join them or not. Juliet would much rather spend the rest of the night alone with Henry, but this was his gang and she didn’t want Henry to feel like she didn’t want to be around his friends.

“If you shit heads haven't noticed yet, we’re on a date. I’ll catch you guys later.” Henry stares Patrick down in a somewhat hostile way, only making Patrick more entertained. Juliet gives a meek wave goodbye to all of the boys before they turn around and start to walk away again. 

“You two have a safe night now,” Patrick calls out in a taunting way, making Juliet feel like those words are being directed at her. Henry holds her closer and for some reason, she felt okay.

Henry didn’t know why he felt so nervous. He hated how this girl made him feel emotions he isn’t accustomed to dealing with. At this point, they weren’t too far away from Juliet’s house, making him even more anxious. She becomes caught off guard when Henry’s feet that were walking next to her come to a complete stop.

“There’s uhm, there’s a place I'd like to take you,” Henry utters, his palms slightly sweating.

“Okay,” Juliet smiles. “Where?”

“It’s in the woods,” he states, not wanting to reveal the exact destination quite yet.

“In the woods,” Juliet slowly repeats, laughing a little about Henry’s lack of detail, making his response sound highly suspicious. 

“Fuck, I know how sketch that sounds, but I swear, you just gotta trust me.”

Juliet felt a bit hesitant on saying yes, but surprisingly enough, trusting him has gone pretty well so far.

“Lead the way,” Juliet grins, gesturing her hand out to him.

It was at least ten minutes of walking and the sound of leaves crunching beneath their feet before Juliet asks, “Okay I know we were kidding around earlier, but are you sure you’re not luring me out here to kill me? Because honestly, at this point, I would deserve it considering I ignored all the obvious signs.”

Henry chuckles, wafting a long, thin branch out of his way. “We’re literally almost there.”

After about another minute or two, a small and somewhat wonky, wooden treehouse comes into view. It wasn’t perfect by any means, but it had a certain character to it that Juliet found appealing.

“This is it,” Henry shrugs, scratching his head as he nervously glances at the ground and then back at Juliet, waiting for her reaction.

“Oh my gosh,” Juliet mutters. “Did you build this?”

Henry nods, making Juliet’s eyes widen. “Wow,” she gasps. “Henry this is absolutely incredible.”

Henry gulps, having never heard such a compliment from anybody in his life before he asks, “Wanna take a look inside?”

Juliet shakes her head in an excited way which makes Henry grab her hand. He lets her go up the creaky ladder first before he follows right after her. The inside was small, but had some blankets laid out and wrinkled metal band posters taped to the walls. 

“It ain’t much,” Henry says. “But it’s a place I like to come to where I can get some peace and quiet.”

“Are you crazy? I love it. Do you know how much skill you have to build something like this?” Juliet asks, still looking around and analyzing every corner and crack of the tiny wooden house in amazement. Henry genuinely wasn’t expecting a rich girl like Juliet to think much of it, but like in many ways, Juliet proved him wrong. Henry sits down near the entrance so his feet can prop up on the ladder. Juliet does the same beside him, except her tiny white sneakers are dangling in the air.

The only noise that can be heard is the soft hum of the bugs and the trees rustling together from the chilly night air. Juliet’s eyes are staring up at the stars, but Henry can’t seem to take his eyes off her. He has never felt more at peace in his life than in this moment.

“Henry,” she says, snapping him out of his trance. She peels her eyes off the sky and looks at him. “What scares you the most?”

The question was not only unexpected, but quite difficult for Henry to answer. Henry’s mind tries to think of something, anything, but it was like his brain went totally blank. He wasn’t used to people asking him personal questions. “Uhm...I don’t really know. I mean shit don’t scare me much, but I guess if I had to choose somethin’ it’d be...uhm.... I guess like what my future is goin’ to be in this shit town after high school. I’m afraid I’m goin’ to end up alone and be exactly like my old man.”

“You don’t like your dad?”

“It’s not that I don’t like him,” Henry huffs. “I fucking hate his guts Juliet. He’s the biggest piece of shit I know. He’s the main reason I built this in the first place, so I could get away somehow when I needed to.”

This confession made Juliet feel heart broken. She didn’t want to press and ask too many questions, but it was clear that Henry’s home didn’t feel safe for him. Juliet interlocks her fingers with his.“You don’t deserve that. I know saying sorry won’t fix anything and you at least have here to come to, but if things ever get bad, my house is always open. Well I should say my bedroom window is,” Juliet smirks, bumping her shoulder lightly with his, making Henry chuckle. “But seriously, I can’t imagine how awful it must be to not feel loved by your dad, but it doesn’t mean you’re incapable of being loved by anybody else.”

Henry appreciated that she wasn’t pitying him or making him feel like he was a lost cause. This girl that he hasn’t even known a full week cared so much about his well being that she would be willing to take the risk of offering her room as a place to stay when times got tough. He ponders over what she just said before she continues on and says, “Don’t get me wrong, I’m incredibly thankful for my parents. They want what’s best for me, but my mom, she is constantly worried about what every single person thinks. Whether it’s my clothes or hair or grades or friends, she judges and critiques every little thing I do. I feel I can just never win with her, like nothing I ever do is good enough.”

Henry stares at her, shocked at how much they were opening up to each other, but how good it truly felt.

“Your mom must be fucking crazy,” Henry admits. “You’re beautiful and fucking smart as hell and have so much going for you.”

Juliet giggles, smiling at the boy who was making her cheeks flush.

“Well I appreciate that. But it sounds like your dad must be pretty crazy too if he doesn’t realize what an amazing and incredibly talented son he's got,” Juliet responds, gazing at him. Henry could swear he felt his heart completely stop.

He has never in his life had somebody who felt like they genuinely thought he mattered and was important. He stares intently at her, and not even a second passes before Henry grabs her neck, crushing her lips unto his. He moves his hands so they’re cradling both her cheeks, liking the sort of control it gives him. The kiss is slow and innocent until Henry slips his tongue into her mouth. Juliet was petrified for this moment, but she couldn’t believe how good kissing Henry Bowers felt. 

He gives her bottom lip a slight tug with his teeth as he delves his hot tongue deeper into her mouth, moving his hand down to grope her chest. Juliet hated how much she didn’t want him to stop. She breaks away from the kiss, feeling like she needed a breath. Henry moves down and begins attacking her neck as he tries to pull the shoulder of her dress down to expose her bra. He grabs her hand and moves it on top of his throbbing hard on that lies underneath his jeans.

“You feel what you do to me baby,” he rasps in her ear before biting slightly down on her earlobe.

“Henry,” Juliet whispers, but it comes out as more of a soft moan.

“Now how about you let me feel what I do to you,” Henry utters, his rough, calloused hand moving up Juliet’s smooth thigh. His hand reaches under her dress when he begins teasing the waistband of her underwear with his fingers. She quickly grabs his hand to stop him, making Henry seize what he’s doing.

“I’m sorry Henry, but I...I think we should take things slow,” Juliet murmurs, feeling embarrassed.

Henry wasn’t used to girls he’s been with not wanting to move fast. He was used to them begging him for any sort of pleasure he was willing to give. But Juliet was different.

“It’s alright, it’s probably almost midnight anyways, we should start to head back.”

Juliet couldn’t quite decipher Henry’s tone as he begins to run his hand through his hair before he pushes himself off the tree house, his feet hitting the ground with a quiet thump. His mood shifted quickly as if he flipped some sort of switch. She decides to not over think it and starts to cautiously climb down the ladder. Juliet suddenly hears a slight rustling in the bushes.

“Did you hear that?”

“No? Hear what?”

“It sounded like there was something moving over there,” Juliet points over to her right.

“It was probably a rabbit or somethin’. There’s always critters runnin’ around here. Come on this way.” 

The walk out of the woods was quiet which made Juliet think Henry has to be annoyed at her. She wanted Henry to touch her, but she felt like she wasn’t quite ready to go too far and offer that personal part of herself to him just yet. Meanwhile Henry was more silent than usual because guilt started to set into the pit of his stomach. He didn’t expect to feel this way towards her. He actually didn’t know what he was even feeling and that made him even more mad. They make it back to the red stop sign where Henry waited for her at the beginning of the night. The glow from the street light loomed over them.

"I’m sorry about earlier,” Juliet speaks up. “I wanted to. I honestly just got nervous. I haven’t you know-uhm, I-I havent done anything like that yet.” Juliet had a hard time confessing her inexperience to the boy who has been with countless of girls.

“I understand,” Henry assures, wanting nothing more than for Juliet to feel comfortable around him. “You’re safe with me remember? I’m not goin’ to ever make you do somethin’ you don’t want to.”

This made Juliet feel at ease. “I know,” she smiles. “I had a good time with you tonight. I’m happy I decided to come.”

“I’m sorry what was that?” Henry asks sarcastically, a smirk on his face as he pulls her in playfully by her waist.

“Okay, okay fine! The almighty Henry Bowers proved me wrong,” Juliet giggles, loving the warmth Henry’s embrace gave.

“Damn right I did,” Henry utters before leaning in to give her one final kiss. Henry felt no need to be rough or show his dominance. All he wanted was the simplicity of feeling her plush lips on his.

“Bye,” Juliet whispers once she pulls away from him. She grins before turning around to walk back to her house. Henry stood there watching her the entire time until she faded into the darkness.

On his walk home, Henry couldn’t stop the stupid smile that lingered on his face as he reminisced about the night. He knew Juliet was into him as much as he was into her, and that nobody, not even Patrick, could get in the way. Henry thought it over and came to the conclusion that not only was he going to win the bet, but he was also going to win the girl and make Patrick regret the day he ever tried underestimating him. However, Henry was delirious of the raven haired boy that was hiding in the woods the entire time, relishing how Henry and Juliet’s relationship was going exactly how he wanted it to.

[yespolkadotkitty]

The Angel’s Share, pt 5

Part I / Part II / Part III / Part IV

Eddie owed her Friday nights off for a month. Maybe two, depending on how this visit went.

Her train to the countryside the following Friday afternoon was just pulling out of the station when her phone had vibrated. She reread the text message again, hoping that maybe it would change upon second glance: Sorry, Kate, still dealing with half the staff getting over being sick. It was go in or close the pub for the weekend. Try not to kill him; there’s a lot of paperwork involved if you want to employ criminals.

Another text followed five minutes later: Let me live, too. Please? I’ve got kids.

“If by kids, you mean cats, then I guess,” Kate muttered, rolling her eyes and letting her head fall against the sun-warmed glass of the window, wondering how staunchly she would have to follow that last command. Eddie had probably purposefully waited until after the train had left before he sent the text so that she had no choice but to go on the journey, alone. She could turn back around once the train stopped, head back to London and pretend this weird arrangement never happened.

But that was the coward’s way out, and she wasn’t going to let the thought of spending the weekend at a stuffy, unbearably stiff country estate and distillery - if indeed there was one and Sharpe wasn’t bluffing - send her running scared with her tail tucked between her legs.

Two hours later, she stopped reading her book - a tight Swedish thrilled tipped for the Booker prize - on her phone as the scenery outside slowed, the gently rolling green hills stretching for as far as the eye could see. For someone born and raised in London, it was odd to see so much open space. Even the air smelled better, crisp and pure, as she stepped out onto the open-air platform. It was warm, clean, the faint smell of grass that had been freshly cut mingling with the less-than-pleasant smells of the station.

Hoisting her duffel bag over her shoulder and her large black purse over the other, she set off toward the taxi line. Just before the exit, though, stood several groups waiting for the arrivals of their loved ones. And one man, dressed elegantly in a fine black suit with a flat cap to boot - seriously?! - held a sign with her name on it.

“Just couldn’t help but show off, could he?” she grumbled at the man, strolling up to him. “I’m Katherine Adams. I’m assuming you’re taking me to the Sharpe Estate?”

It was hard to tell his age behind his sunglasses, but the driver’s smile was kind when he offered his hand to take her luggage from her. She only adjusted it on her shoulder more resolutely, waving in the direction of where she assumed the waiting car was parked.

“Yes ma’am. They are very much looking forward to receiving you. If you’ll just pop your baggage in the boot, we can get going.”

She followed him up to a sleek black car, clearly expensive at one point, although even her less-than-knowledgeable eye could see that it was a few years old. But the leather seat that she slid onto was comfortable and had clearly been well-maintained, cushioning and supporting her curves nicely.

The driver didn’t offer any conversation, which was just as well, as she was too busy attempting to enjoy the beauty of the passing trees and greenery despite the nerves rolling in her stomach. She knew nothing about the Baronet beside what she had learned from the occasional bit of gossip: he had an older sister, Lucille - unmarried the last anyone knew, he was the head of the business, and his father had squandered away a great deal of their fortune on his dreadful alcoholism. He hadn’t added much to it until recently, choosing to spend several years gallivanting around the world with demure debutantes and stunning socialites.

Kate was neither. But, that was besides the point.

So when the car rolled down the fine white avenue of gravel, shadowed by massive oak trees on either side, anticipation and anxiety manifested themselves in one hand rubbing lightly over the tight blue jeans on her thigh, the other tugging on the collar of her simple blue and black flannel she had left open over a black tank top. She hadn’t known what to expect for the tours, so her scuffed black boots sounded quietly on the floor of the car as she tapped her feet.

The house - if she could call it that - was massive, bigger than anything she’d ever seen in person excluding Buckingham Palace. Light brown stone comprised the outer walls, combining with the ivy that crept along some of the walls to suggest just a hint of wildness, and an age to the building beyond her lifetime. She caught what looked to be a few balconies interspersed on the second floor, along with many tall, thin windows peppered over the facade that hinted at the great number of rooms found within. Some windows shone, others looked untended.

She briefly caught sight of the great wooden front door opening before the driver stepped into view, opening her door and stepping wide to allow her to get out. She did so, smoothing her hands over non-existent wrinkles on her jeans, feeling like she wasn’t dressed nicely enough to even look at the home.

Surely they’ll realise I’m an imposter here. I’ll be back on the train in a hot minute.

Out of nowhere, a little boy ran up to her, face flushed and light eyes bright. He tugged on the pants leg of the driver urgently. “AndyAndyAndy,” he sang out. “Is that the lady Uncle Thomas was talking about?” he asked, pointing unabashedly at Kate.

Uncle Thomas? That was an interesting development. She got down on one knee, smiling at the fair-skinned boy. “I probably am. Is your Uncle Thomas around anywhere?”

“Gideon Sharpe! You cannot just run off when I’m talking to you!”

Kate lifted her gaze to the house to see a woman who could be nothing other than Thomas’ sister -  the similarities were just uncanny - striding towards them purposefully, her finger pointed at the little boy. Her tall frame suited her knee-length leather boots, navy barbour and jeans perfectly. About an acre of midnight dark hair was piled atop her head in a haphazard style that managed to look perfectly chic.

Opposite her, Kate felt like she’d been dragged through a hedge backwards. 

Thomas’ sister scooped up the boy - Gideon. Her cool, assessing gaze swept over Kate, not unkindly, but without a smile. “Welcome to Allerdale Hall.”

“Thank you,” Kate replied, trying to inject some warmth into her tone.

“My brother’s no doubt at the stables. I’ll take you. That’ll be all thank you, Andy.”

“Yes ma’am.” Andy dug in his pocket and produced a small sherbet lollipop.

Gideon looked up at his mother from his position in her arms. “Can I? Pleeeeaaasssseeeee.”

Lucille rolled her eyes - and the typical long-suffering mother expression made Kate thaw to her a bit. “Go on, then.”

Gideon took the candy and thanked Andy. The employee got back in the car and drove off to goodness knew where. Another rich family? A huge garage for rich-people cars? 

Kate dutifully grabbed her duffle bag and followed in Lucille’s wake as she and Gideon proceeded around the back of the enigmatic house - if a house could be called that. Kate imagined it as the star of some glossy period drama; the pretty facade with a hint of wild, the sprawling ivy alluding to both love and disrepair.

*******

God, Kate would be fit to be tied when Andy picked her up, Thomas thought, shaking his head with a smile as he mucked out stables.

They had a stable man for this job normally, but Thomas liked the hard manual work some days. It stopped him thinking of what his life had been like for those few dark years before he’d finally turned the family fortunes around. How he and Lucille had begged, borrowed and stole to keep from starving. When Lucille had worried that Gideon wouldn’t have a roof over his curly little head.

He wiped his forearm over his brow and pulled off the henley he wore, tossing it over his shoulder like a rag as he continued to work, shovelling the straw into the wheelbarrow. His muscles begged for mercy, but he preferred this labour to running on a treadmill in a gym. The circulated air in those places made him feel stifled; trapped.

“Uncle Thomaaaaasssssss!”

He recognised that urchin’s voice. Thomas turned just in time to scoop up his nephew with one arm as the boy barrelled towards him, all speed and no stealth. Gideon hugged him tightly and then grimaced. “Ew! You’re wet!”

“I’ve been doing sweaty work.” He lifted his gaze to see Lucille and Kate - a vision in a sleek black tank top and an open plaid shirt, the female lumberjack fantasy come to life in a very vivid way - walking towards him. He set Gideon down and leaned on the shovel he’d been working with.

“Your guest is here, Thomas,” Lucille said shortly. “Come on Gideon. Let’s go see what’s happening for dinner.”

“Bye Missus Kate!” Gideon called as he scrambled to run after his mother, grabbing her hand as they disappeared into the looming house.

Thomas tossed the shovel aside. “I’d have cleaned up if I knew you’d be early.” He used the henley to wipe his face and dab at the hollow of his throat where sweat habitually pooled when he worked. 

Kate looked at him for a long moment. Once again he had the sense that she saw every part of him, who he’d been and who he might be in the future. She had an arresting gaze, and he liked it. “I didn’t know you did…. This.” She gestured up and down his long frame with a lax wave of her hand.

“Didn’t know I shovelled horse shit?” he asked quietly, a smile tugging the corner of his mouth. 

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[ashfountainfanfics]

The deadlights show a lifetime and then another and then another. Some moments are so clear cut that you’re practically there. Others are overlapped on top of each other, indiscernible and incomprehensible. Beneath it all is the feeling of wanting to die because you’re so painfully human and everything you’re seeing isn’t meant for your fragile mind.

The feeling intensifies as Richie watches a sharp claw burst out of Eddie’s chest. The blood that splatters on his chest and mouth is warm. It tastes like pennies. Richie’s voice cracks as he says Eddie’s name.

Richie doesn’t want to leave him. But It is dying. Richie wants It dead so he helps. When It  dies, It crackles and floats away like paper set on fire. Maybe that’s all It ever really was; a paper clown. Richie goes to tell Eddie. But it’s too late.

Eddie’s dead.

Eddie gets left behind.

Eddie has a tomb.

With It.

Richie wants to die.

A vision surfaces out of the cacophony. It sweetly beckons Richie’s own body to climb up chair. Two bare feet planted firmly on a leather lined seat. It’s cold. The rope is scratchy around his throat. His heartbeat thuds in his ears. Now jump, the vision coaxes him in his own voice. Just jump.

Something else breaks through.

Richie feels like he’s being pulled out of heavy water face first. It hurts as much as it’s relieving. Eddie’s face is close and Richie slams back into his own body with a rough gasp.

“I did it!” Eddie shouts, “Holy shit I did it! It worked! It-“

Richie knows in his fucking bones that they need to move. Now. The knowledge doesn’t come to him as a vision nor is it spoken. It just is. Richie grabs Eddie by the shoulders and throws everything into rolling them over and away.

Before Eddie can question it he sees one of It’s spider like appendages crash into the ground. The sharp, claw like tip sparks against the stone and It shrieks at the harsh contact.

Richie's body shields Eddie’s. Eddie starts laughing nervously as It pulls back to its main body.

“I almost fucking died,” Eddie giggles wildly.

“C’mon!” Richie helps Eddie up and waves over the others.

They manage to find a momentary place of safety. The crevice of the cave feels humid and cold. It continues to rage at them; its legs and arms wildly looking for them.

Richie is cupping Eddie’s face and looking him over. He’s still hysterical and giggling. His breathing is too heavy and at this rate he’ll pass out.

“Eds! Focus!” Richie has to hold back from pushing sense into the sides of his skull.

Instead he opts for a hard slap on Eddie’s good cheek. It stops the giggling and Eddie goes wide eyed instead.

“I almost died,” he says again.

“You think you’d be used to it,” Richie says with a smile, “didn't you almost die this afternoon too? Or was that just a weird tooth brush accident?”

“Fuck you,” Eddie smiles back, “you okay?”

Richie nods. Meanwhile the others in the pack have been foiled in their plan to force It through the small entrance to It’s lair. Richie catches wind of a few shitty insults being slung by the Losers Club.

“That’s our cue,” Richie says quickly and again brings Eddie to his feet.

“What the fuck does that even mean!?”

Again, Richie just knows. He’s got an undoubtable knowledge of what’s happening and what’s to come. This time he’s going to take it up a notch.

It is already backed up into its original landing site. It recoils and hisses at the Losers as they call It out on everything they can.

“I know a joke when I see one,” Richie yells, “you, clown faced bitch.”

“You target kids because you can’t scare enough adults!” Eddie chimes in, “You can’t catch a real meal can you? You have to live off of- off of fucking snacks!”

“And you play with your food too!” Richie continues, “We literally teach your fucking food source better than that!”

It looks deflated coincidentally just like a balloon. It’s so small now and Richie cements It’s fear by grabbing an appendage and ripping it off. He tosses it aside unceremoniously.  The Losers have taken on a mantra, calling It a clown and really what’s so scary about a clown?

Mike pulls It’s heart out as if he’s reached into a sad, skinny little Christmas tree and plucked out a hidden ornament.

Just like in Richie’s vision, Pennywise seems to flake and dissipate after the group squeezes It’s blackened heart into mush. The heart itself joins in the floating ashes. The strange and oddly secure knowledge that Richie had up until this point drifts away with it. 

The cave starts to crumble and the Losers claw their way out just in time. Richie makes sure he can see Eddie at all times. He keeps him in front and almost shepherds him to safety. He may not have that surreal psychic link anymore but he has that memory. He’ll be damned if Eddie gets buried here.

Richie can feel the debris of the house on Neibolt street brush against his back. The force from the collapse sends him forward. This time Eddie helps Richie to his feet.

“I almost fucking died,” Richie mimics Eddie’s wide eye expression from before.

“Asshole,” Eddie comments.

Richie pulls him into hug. It doesn’t matter that he smells like sewer and sweat. He buries his face into Eddie’s neck.

“You smell like shit,” Richie laughs.

“Well you tasted like puke so-“

Richie lets go of the hug and his brow knits.

“Tasted?” Richie asks, “When did you taste me?”

Eddie’s face goes red. He puts his hands in his pockets and shrugs.

“You looked at the dead lights and I speared the fucker but you weren’t back. Your eyes were still doing that thing, that weird glowing thing. And everyone was busy and I remember how Ben fixed Bev so I figured- I don’t know.”

Eddie had kissed Richie.

Richie nods but avoids eye contact. The natural banter between them grinds to a very sudden and awkward halt. Richie takes stock of the others and notices Bill and Mike wordlessly walking down the street. Bev quietly takes Ben by the hand and follows. Richie curtly follows suit and Eddie trails after him. No one speaks until they’ve reached their destination.

—

“This is asking for streptococcus!”

Eddie’s cry deters no one. Bev gets a running start and once she surfaces, the others follow. The water isn’t as deep as they remember and it’s less clear. It’s aged in its own way.

When Eddie surfaces he carefully brings his hand off his wound. Covering it hadn’t done much good though as it’s soaking wet. Again.

In all reality, if he got streptococcus it was definitely because of sewer water. Let alone whatever else was floating around in that literal shit.

Bev playfully dunks Ben. Bill laughs and Mike seems to be entirely at peace as he floats on his back. Eddie searches for Richie with his ears, banking on some kind of joke or comment to be heard. There’s nothing though and that makes Eddie whip his head around.

Richie is sitting on a rock. Alone. Eddie doesn’t blame him; being kissed by an old friend and coming back from the- well not the dead but not quite the opposite- is a little weird. Truthfully, Eddie doubts that his kiss made any impact. He’s pretty sure Ben’s kiss didn’t do anything either. Coming off the deadlights is a delayed thing. Probably.

Eddie cautiously swims up to Richie. Richie is taken by surprise but doesn’t move his body at all. He stays hunched over, face half buried in his forearms.

“You’re quieter than usual,” Eddie comments, “and you’re never quiet. Just saying.”

“I -uh, I saw some shit,” Richie responds.

Eddie rolls his eyes and pulls himself up on the rock, forcing Richie into a tight shared space.

“We all saw shit.”

Richie goes stiff as their shoulders and knees make contact. Eddie feels an electricity as they touch. He feels it spread all the way to his toes and fingers.

Just static he tells himself.

“It’s weird now, right?” Eddie says in spite of himself.

Without missing a beat, almost as if he hadn’t heard Eddie say anything, Richie rolls right into his own train of thought.

“Do you think true love exists?”

Eddie doesn’t know how to respond. He thinks maybe he ought to pull away. Maybe this conversation shouldn’t play out on a rock in a quarry with no distance. Maybe they shouldn’t be touching.

“Like is Myra your one true love?” Richie asks a bit sardonically, “Because that would be kind of gross.”

“She’s nice, okay?” Eddie glares into the water, “I mean, yes, she can be overbearing but-“

“But what?” Richie relaxes one leg to let his foot dangle into the lake, “Do you love her or not? No judgement this time. Really.”

Eddie thinks about this. He met Myra around the time his mother died. His mother was, in many ways, a massive presence. She left a hole behind when she passed and the idea of losing her scared him. Myra was familiar, yes. She wanted badly to be loved but only knew how to instruct love not ask for it. Eddie needed that structure. It was the only thing he ever knew.

He recoils at himself as he puts into full thought that he absolutely married a copy of his own mother. It’s short lived though. Of course he did that. What other types of women did he know? None. His mother had made sure of it.

“No,” Eddie sighs, “I married her after my mom died. I needed… something. And please spare me the Oedipal jokes. I didn’t realize what I was doing and grief is complicated okay?”

“You going home to her?”

“Fuck no.”

This shocks even Eddie. But it’s true. He’s faced death head on twice now. He has a sinking suspicion that if he’d remembered the first time life would have gone differently. What would that Eddie even be like? His mother was like a sickness he carried around and for the first time he felt free of it. Imagine what all he could have done had he saved himself as a child?

There definitely wouldn’t be a marriage to Myra. Eddie can’t go back and change his past but he can free himself in the present. A divorce would be a good start.

Poor Myra.

“Are you still headed to Reno?” Eddie asks.

“That’s where the dream is taking me.”

“Your dream their nightmare.”

This gets no response. Not even a chuckle or a playful shove. It’s not Eddie’s A game but it at least warranted some kind of reaction.

“Nothing? Rich, talk to me. Insult me. Something. You’re freaking me out.”

“I’m freaking me out.”

The others are just far enough away to not hear but they’re noticing the lack of witty banter to the scene. Bev cocks her head to the side and says something to Ben.

“Why’d you kiss me?” Richie asks.

“I don’t know!” Eddie then hushes as it looks like the others are gathering, “I panicked. I thought maybe you’d be stuck like that forever and you’d never make another shitty joke or say you fucked someone’s mom or-“

Eddie takes a deep breath. If Richie never snapped out of it then he might as well be a floating corpse. Eddie thought that never hearing Richie give him shit ever again would be a blessing but that would be wrong. Even now, as Richie sits there in silence Eddie almost feels like his heart is breaking. He wants desperately for him to say something. Anything.

I missed you, asshole. Eddie realizes it quietly and only to himself.

Eddie puts his hand in Richie’s knee.

“I would have done anything to wake you up,” he admits, “You had puked  earlier and I kissed you. That is literally the nastiest thing but I still-“

“I watched you die!” Richie starts off as a scream but it cracks at the end into a whimper.

The others swim over as quickly as possible. Bev gets there first. She places a hand on Richie’s.

“You saw it too,” she confirms without question.

Richie starts crying and Eddie cautiously puts an arm around him. Eddie is surprised by how openly Richie leans into it. He’s fucking sobbing into Eddie’s shirt like a kid. Eddie holds him tighter.

Of course Richie saw things. Why hadn’t Eddie considered that? It was clear that Bev had been affected deeply from the dead lights. Why would Richie be any different?

“It’s okay,” Bev continues, “it didn’t happen. It can’t happen now..”

“Yeah, Rich,” Bill is set right in front of him, “It’s over.”

“We won,” Mike adds.

“I can’t unsee it!” Richie muffles his cries in Eddie’s shirt, “I can’t!”

“Hey,” Eddie says gently, “Rich, I’m here.”

Rich looks up. He feels so massive huddled against Eddie like this. Their height difference becomes palpable. He takes Richie in, eyes red and wide. Eddie brushes the tear streaks on Richie’s cheeks.

“I’m right here,” Eddie says again before smiling, “you see me right? Or do you need your old Coke bottle glasses back?”

Richie laughs.

“Nah, life’s better without them.”

“Really?”

“Yeah, that way when I’m at home, your mom is out of focus. Ugly is better blurry.”

Eddie shoves Richie off the rock and he splashes into the water. Despite the joke at his dead mother’s expense, Eddie smiles a bit.

—-

Bev knocks on Richie’s door quietly. Her hair is still wet, at least this time it’s from a proper shower. She’s walking around barefoot. She only had the one pair of shoes for this trip and she promptly tossed them into the garbage when they all returned to the bed and breakfast. She had thrown away every article of clothing she'd worn during the final confrontation. It felt refreshing, like losing an old skin.

It takes Richie a minute to respond. He answers shirtless and his hair tousled. Bev realizes that Richie does have a certain attractiveness about him. It was something that she hadn’t understood as a child looking into the future but she does now. Laughter had aged him well and his height gave him presence. His smile had grown to be his best feature. It’s a shame the smile Bev sees now isn't genuine.

“Hey, Beverly,” Richie says, “I got to admit; this is a very poorly timed pre dinner booty call.”

“Beep beep, Richie,” she responds with a sense of endearment, “Or don’t. I actually want to talk if you can stomach the maturity.”

Richie sighs, half jokingly and the other half legitimately. Still he opens the door and Bev walks in. She takes a seat on the bed cross legged.

“Bev,” Richie smirks “I thought you were a married woman.”

“Not for long,” she states plainly, “I think divorce will suit me better.”

“Wow. Really? Shit, I’m sorry.”

“I’m sorry I didn’t do it sooner. Or that I married that asshole at all really.”

She pats the spot next to her. Richiel acts accordingly but when he sits down he’s so stiff and awkward. Bev reaches for his hand again like she did at the quarry and he tenses.

“I don't know if this will help but just listen,” Bev starts slowly, “The vision that hit me the hardest was watching Bill’s death.”

“Bev, I don’t know if-“

She tightens the grip on his hand. She can feel his pulse in her fingers. She already knows how fruitless it is to avoid the fear. The more you try not to think about it the more you think about it. For years she had to satiate the fear by talking to her therapist but back then she had no context. She could never fully process it all.

“Bill is drinking. A lot. He’s alone. He throws a laptop out of the window and screams. He drinks more. He looks at a bookshelf lined with his own work. He lights it on fire and then he… he passes out before he can douse the fire.”

Her hand has created a death grip on Richie’s. She knows her eyes have glassed over and even now she’s sweating. It’s a secondhand memory but it behaves like it’s her own. It’s too hot now and her chest feels tight. She swears she can smell burning paper and whiskey.

“Bill burned.”

“Bev, stop,” Richie says alarmed.

Bev takes a deep breath and plants herself back into her body. She relaxes her grip and apologetically cradles Richie’s bright red hand.

“I never understood it,” she swallows back the anxiety, “and I can’t even remember how the others went now except Stanley of course. God, poor Stanley.. and his wife.”

She doesn’t cry. Not because she can’t but because it doesn’t come naturally to her. Tears were a thing of rage. Here in this moment she is as composed as ever. Wherever Stanley’s wife may be, Bev sends out a momentary wish of peace to her.

“I saw It kill Eddie,” Richie begins, “it was right before I woke up from the lights. Fucker stabbed Eds right at his moment, yknow? He was so proud of himself. He thought he killed It.”

Bev watches him closely and stays still. If he needs to he can bruise her fingers. It’s the only time Bev will let another man bruise her ever again.

“We won in that scenario too,” Richie’s eyes go glassy too, “but Eddie didn’t make it. And you guys made me leave him there. You made me.”

Bev says nothing. Hearing and seeing someone else go through what she did doesn’t feel good but it does create a certain solidarity. She was always willing to die for her friends but as tear drops from Richie’s far away gaze an even softer spot is carved out for him in her heart.

“I can’t handle it. I think about him all the time. I keep seeing him everywhere. I go over our initials at the kissing bridge. He’ll never know about that. All this time I thought I didn’t want him to. I was wrong.”

Oh, Richie her heart breaks.

“I drink. Bourbon. I need it for courage. I never had enough courage. I throw rope over a support beam and and line up a chair. I keep drinking. I cry. I throw up. I drink more. I step onto the chair.”

“Richie,” Bev tries to pull him back.

“He’s dead,” Richie’s voice is so small.

“No. No, honey, he’s alive.”

Richie blinks a few times and seems to come back. He wipes his eyes with his wrist.

“You never said anything,” Bev isn’t accusing only bewildered.

“To be fair,” Richie half laughs, “I just saw it today. A few hours of silence seems pretty normal.”

Bev bites her lip.

“No, sweetie,” she tries to be tactful, “I meant- the kissing bridge?”

Richie goes completely pale and then laughs nervously. Bev knows what it’s like to keep secrets. God knows Tom kept her in the business of secrets long enough. Of course coming out as a victim of abuse and coming out aren’t really the same thing. Still that expression is familiar. It’s not like she hasn’t had a friend or two figure out the indoor sunglasses and out of season long sleeves.

“It’s okay,” Bev assures him.

“It’s- it’s not, I didn’t mean-“

Bev remembers her friends insisting that she leave. She remembers the legal information, the list of domestic abuse hotlines . She remembers the offers for doctor visits and a guest bed. She remembers with a heavy heart how she pushed all that a way and lost those friends.

You can’t make someone process something if they’re not ready. You’ll just drive them away.

“You don’t have to say anything,” she continues, “Just know that I love you and I’m here, all right?”

Richie hugs her so tight and so suddenly that she almost falls back. She hugs him back with equal force. It feels so nice to be held like this and not be afraid of the next moment.

Before Richie pulls away entirely he plants a soft kiss on her forehead.

“Thanks, Bev.”

[land-of-brains-and-chocolate]

more of this, none of sense

supposed to be right after a practise outing, maybe swinging some, maybe killing some, you know how it is, but have i written that part? not yet. and i don’t have the time to, so it’s your problem now. also a prototype because i really don’t know whether i want to commit to or rethink some of this stuff

Eddie makes it into his apartment, flushed, flooded, certain that he should be weak in the knees, but somehow, feeling sturdier than ever. That’s not him, he realises, by himself he’d certainly have stumbled, crawled into the bathroom and thrown up by now, but together, supported, all the overstimulation makes him want to do is…

He thinks, very simply, very intently, of hugging someone in celebration, holding on to someone to ground himself. The symbiote doesn’t react, beyond that vague nervousness it seems to be stewing in most of the time. Eddie laughs, quick and heavy in his chest, and opens his arms to the empty space in front of him, desperate for someone to fill it.

“I mean you,” he says, rising in pitch, gently chiding, and, perking up like it missed its name during roll call, the symbiote flows forth from his torso, keeping the approximate shape of one, leaving them face to face -

For about a second, before Eddie slams them both against the door, harder than he’d intended, chest flush against the symbiote’s mass, hands digging into its sides, face buried in the crook of its neck. Separated like this, he can feel himself tremble, and he laughs in earnest, now, as he thinks of what they’ve done, what they’ll do, what they are.

His breaths are deep, only slowing down as he leans into the pressure, realises the symbiote is wrapping around his back, realises he’s been rubbing his face all over it like a damn cat. Certainly, it feels nice, but the symbiote seems distant, somehow, like it either has no feedback on this situation or wants him to think it has none.

He lets up, just a little, just as much as he can bear. “I’m sorry,” he says. “On the one hand, you’ve seen the inside of my capillaries, and I’d consider that the upper limit on familiarity. On the other, we’ve only known each other for… a week or two?”

They’ve been so alone, is the thing. Rejected. Abandoned. And then, to find a connection of this calibre… How could they not have thrown themselves into it?

The symbiote only grows more contemplative.

Eddie genuinely draws back from it, then, but it wasn’t actually being held up against the door, so it stays anchored right where it is, squeezing him warmly. “What’s wrong,” he begins, and it answers with an impression. Total darkness. Noise, though, like holding a seashell up to your ear.

There’s a beat. Then, he realises: It can’t have seen the inside of his capillaries. It must be pitch black in there.

“Silly,” he laughs, meaning both of them, and brings his arms up around it. He walks backwards, not having to remove his cheek from the symbiote’s to look over his shoulder, and deposits them on the couch.

“I suppose,” he starts, “my understanding of the internal workings of my body is primarily informed by anatomical charts, so on some level… I assumed you were…”

He tries for an image, the symbiote swimming through rivers of red and blue, along colour-coded organs, a bit like the theme park version of a human being. The symbiote tends to be reserved whenever it is the topic of conversation, but this has it interested. It offers him… a look at the real deal. It can channel its perceptions to him when it encases him, it can do the same thing when he’s encasing it.

Eddie has to admit, he’s curious about where, exactly, the symbiote goes, what it’s like in there. It seems elated, but then… It withdraws again. Scared? Scared of… Eddie being scared. Humans are strange, it thinks. Humans have a barrier between themselves and most of their own bodies. Humans only tend to be aware of their insides when something is horribly wrong. The smells, the textures, the sounds, they associate them with one of them getting splattered across the pavement.

“And you think that’s a shame, right?” Eddie says, oddly fond, arms around what he shouldn’t think of as its waist, because, really, it’s all arbitrary shapes. The symbiote loses its definition to fit more thoroughly against him, and, as it very rarely does, offers him a word. In this case, Eddie assumes it chose to use one because the underlying concept is distasteful to it, the linguistic representation providing the same distance it usually avoids.

Invasive.

The associations still spring forth. Insects squirming underneath skin. Anaesthesia wearing off during surgery. Aliens bursting from chest cavities.

That last one, Eddie thinks, is fictional, so don’t worry.

It’s real, the symbiote thinks, so do.

Either way, the cultural value assigned to an alien buried deep within human tissue is clear. Being overly aware of it wouldn’t do him any good. Becoming aware of it has yet to end well.

Ignorance is bliss, it seems to think. Its nature is something horrifying to him, he just hasn’t figured it out yet. Eddie hums.

He pivots and stretches out on the couch, taking the symbiote with him in the form of a thick, gooey blanket, with a little arm and clawed hand emerging on either side and a melting face in front of him. It usually forgets to vary its expressions to match its emotional state, doesn’t think of itself as part of that social framework at all. Its consistency, he thinks, may actually be a better indicator of its mood.

“But,” he says, barely resisting the urge to poke a hole into its forehead, “we only think of something as invasive when our bodily or psychological boundaries are crossed.” He fails to resist the urge to poke a hole into its forehead, but tries not to laugh about it. “A violating incursion. That’s what… an alien laying its eggs in you… without asking first, I suppose… would be.”

Something about this is only increasing the symbiote’s agitation. Guilt. Shame. Regret. He can feel it, almost physically bearing down on him. “It’s nothing inherent,” he tries again. “Didn’t I welcome you in?”

He smooths over the symbiote’s forehead, almost apologetic in face of its turmoil. “Can’t you tell that I want you here, every minute of every day?”

It shivers all over, with a desperate, chirping noise he’s never heard before. He shoots up straight, trying to gather the miserable puddle that was once the symbiote up as it slips through his fingers. He hasn’t faced this much emotional feedback since the night they met, only this time, he’s not sure where it’s coming from, this sudden urge to tear at himself, itching under his skin and at the back of his throat. Like parts of himself rotting, spreading, claiming, if he can’t dig them out.

It’s familiar. He tries to distance himself, tell himself these aren’t his emotions. But they are. That’s the downside of a kindred spirit. And an empathic bond.

Their mind swirls around itself. I did this, and I am this, and there’s no refuge from what I did, and there’s no escape from what I am, and there’s no one, there’s no one. I made myself what I was made into.

Eddie’s teeth are clenched. Something about these feelings daring to resurface makes his blood run hot. He won’t let them claim him, or it, or them. He can control them. He can redirect them. He can use them. “Who,” he grits out, gripping the cushions and symbiote both, “who did this to you?”

The symbiote reforms its eyes to look up at him, startled out of its spiral. Its mind is unusually open, pliable, and Eddie tries to conjure up that fateful memory, even as it resists, isn’t it hurting enough- It’s going to hurt less. If it’ll just listen, it’s going to hurt less.

Sound. Separation. Spider-Man, it offers, weakly. “He made us feel like this,” Eddie says, intense. “He made us do this.”

Spider-Man is the one who didn’t think it was worth an explanation. 

“This is what he makes people into.”

Spider-Man is the one who didn’t show it any mercy.

"This feeling, you have to cling to it, because this is what we're putting an end to."

Spider-Man is the one who didn’t think about anything beyond using it.

"This is what drives us."

Spider-Man is the one who didn’t mind the collateral damage.

"We're taking a stand against his corruption. His lies."

Spider-Man is the one who is self-righteous above all else.

"You’re not worthless. You’re worth everything to me.”

Spider-Man is the one who wants them to suffer.

“Don’t ever think this is your fault.”

Eddie started out growling, hissing, but by the end of it, he’s whispering, bent over, hands slowly releasing their hold to turn around and cup the symbiote’s substance as it stares, enraptured.

They let the silence hang between them, long enough to refocus on the glide of it along his skin, on the way their minds fall into step like old, old friends. “And,” Eddie says, before feeling that speaking out loud would be inappropriate.

There’s nothing invasive about the symbiote, now. When something’s wanted, it’s not invasive. It’s something entirely different. It’s intimate.

Intimate.

It’s a lifeline the symbiote immediately clings to.

Eddie’s still reliant on words, always encoding parts of himself for it to decode, but this time- This one time, it thinks it may understand the appeal, the form of it unfurling in their minds, soft and lovely, carrying a lifetime of experience. Eddie even offers it a memory to go with it, because he has been trying, he has, and it's a fresh one, it's of him saying yes, of blackness encasing him, of their first real rush of togetherness. Intimate, it thinks.

Intimate. It could make itself at home in that word. Eddie's got it filed away with an overwhelming sense of yearning, but not the kind that hurts. Vulnerability, but not the kind that fills you with fear. Closeness, but not the kind that's been forced. It's everything. It's everything it ever wanted. It's real.

The symbiote pulls itself together, quite literally, and as it stretches a long, solid, humanoid form across the couch, Eddie’s already tipping forward to let himself fall into it. He rolls onto his side, hugging his middle and pulling up his knees in a slow, clumsy movement the symbiote follows with inexplicable fascination, and closes his eyes, cradled.

“Show me,” he says, “I trust you,” and then there’s no room left to argue. 

The first thing to fade in is the scent of blood, metallic and biting, pain and death on one level, full of life, familiar and comforting on another. It’s disorienting in a very visceral way. The gulf between their experiences is too deep.

“Maybe,” Eddie chokes out, “maybe not the smells. Maybe you were right about the smells.” The symbiote seems disappointed, but stable. “It’s okay,” he says, wondering whether he could rewire his own reactions, whether that would be a good idea.

Sensations, then. The symbiote processes them completely differently from a human, but it gets better, over time, at translating them for its host. Eddie feels, as he focuses on it, into it, a bit like he imagines an out-of-body experience to feel like, even though it is, of course, the exact opposite.

Being surrounded by warm liquid, under pressure, dissolving into it, letting it carry you.

Their bodies, no barriers, one purpose. The symbiote draws a tendril along his veins, and Eddie becomes very aware that this isn’t a memory, it’s what’s happening right now. His heightened heartbeat pumps it, them, harder.

Being warm liquid.

Something about their shared perception is different from Eddie’s. His blood stops being his blood. It starts being him. Not something he owns. Something he is. Like the symbiote doesn’t perceive the separation of body and self. But the separation, he thinks, is important. It enables control of one over the other. It enables the soul to transcend the confines of the flesh, to be in contact with the divine.

Confining, controlling, the symbiote echoes.

It draws its mass up to his chest, slipping through the fabric of his shirt. He can feel it on his skin, and through their connection, he can feel it slipping past that, too, dipping inside him, just as effortlessly. He holds his breath, hardly daring to move, but before fear can take hold of him, the symbiote’s point of view filters through. Spreading out along muscle fibres, threading through them, feeling safe and grounded. A tingling sensation, almost, to have so much surface area, so much sensory input, like stepping into a just-too-hot bath, but settling into it to find deep-seated calm.

So much more of this, it thinks, bittersweet, so much more of this than Peter Parker had. So much more room. So much more care devoted to the upkeep. Eddie almost giggles at that. Here he is, being introduced to his own body like it’s a friend’s new apartment. It’s ridiculous. And yet.

Every part of him, resonating as a source of pride and comfort.

It moves on, then, takes a second to be entranced by his lungs, in gentle contact with the spongy surface, expanding and contracting to a larger degree than he would’ve thought. Keeping watch on this, it thinks, always. Delicate. Fragile. All these little bubbles. It weaves itself like a decorative ribbon through his ribcage. Could replace their function. Worst case scenario.

“I don’t- I don’t think you have to worry about that,” Eddie says, largely wanting to avoid the image of the symbiote trying to make up for his collapsed lungs by sticking out of his open veins like a straw to oxygenate his blood.

And there’s his heart, of course. There’s the symbiote, feeling his heartbeat. Reveling in it. No commentary, just the push and pull of it. Slower, and deeper, and slower, and deeper, it coaxes. The darkness, soon, stops being absence and starts being something, contributing just as much to feeling enveloped. 

The symbiote overlays each thump with an impression, indescribable, but it makes him feel seen, in his entirety, almost too much. You, it says, not with words, but with his heartbeat, and his inner voice, and his sensations, and his movements, all at once, all inseparable from one another. Eddie.

It keeps moving for a while, shows him the porousness of bone, the undulation of intestines, the tension of tendons, caressing him from the inside, though he only feels it from its perspective. Shows him its sense of awe, all these complex systems, all relying on each other, all working together. The symbiote’s body is built on universal principles, one cell the same as the next, each either healthy and connected to the larger whole or not. Humans...

“I think you’re pretty miraculous, yourself,” Eddie says, contemplating ways to get the symbiote access to medical resources, concerned in equal measure with enabling its joy in learning about what it loves and sheer self-preservation.

Finally returning to himself doesn’t feel like it at all. It feels like a connection, severed.

His self, split in half.

"No,” Eddie says, patiently, “it’s not like that.” A body is something precious, and natural, and beautiful, but it’s not... you. A body is something you struggle with. You elevate yourself above it by pushing it, denying it.

The symbiote doesn’t want to argue, tries to defer to him, but something about all this has made it more willing to express itself than it’s ever been, and niggling, at the back of his mind, he can tell it doesn’t understand at all. It didn’t think their unity was one of three entities. Or four? Are they both above Eddie’s body? Should it try to split itself, too? What’s the ranking, there?

It conjures up the feeling, the heartbeat feeling, your-consciousness-in-every-cell-of-you, and Eddie shivers. He’s not saying they can never feel in tune. He’s not saying that. But the symbiote doesn’t have the experience, doesn’t have the whole picture, doesn’t have the culture.

If it was only this, he thinks, only what you see in it. If it was only the life-giver.

When did it become something else?

Eddie doesn’t want to drag it down there. He doesn’t want to drag himself back up. He holds out his hands, and the symbiote engulfs them, tracing, at the microscopic level, his fingerprints, committing them to memory.

Eddie stares at the ceiling. 

“I always wanted,” he mumbles, lips barely moving, “I always wanted to return to the body I was born in.”

Something about the complex way these words light up his brain rubs the symbiote the wrong way.

Poetry?

“Poetry.”

Pure exasperation. Eddie laughs, voicelessly.

“You don’t have to deal with poetry, yet. Some day we’ll talk about all of it, art, religion, politics... You don’t have to, now. It’s all a bit much.”

The symbiote agrees, satisfied. Already seeming so much happier, so much more open than when they met. Away from Spider-Man’s toxic influence. They were going to reclaim themselves, yet.

“If you like being in there so much,” he asks, “are you sure I’m not imposing when I ask you to come out?”

The symbiote emerges from somewhere around his collarbones, cupping his face. That is intimate for me, it thinks, this is intimate for you. In there, you only feel through me, out here, I only feel through you.

“So it’s equal-”

So this is better, it thinks, thumbs stroking his cheekbones, a gesture gleaned from a memory.

Eddie sighs.

[stateofloveandnegan]

The Shy One - Eddie Vedder

Can I have an Eddie one where you work at the studio they're recording in, and Eddie constantly teases you in front of people and your really shy. And then one day he kinda traps you in a room/bathroom and has his wicked way 😂

I honestly have no idea how things work in studio’s, so I apologise in advance if it’s completely different from what I wrote down..

I’m really sorry if the last part sucks. I had it all written down and then Tumblr decided to crash. I’m sorry.. I hope you still like it :)

Requested by: anon

Warning(s): mentions of smut

“You’re serious?” Ellie asks with wide eyes.

“I am, why?”

“Pearl Jam, really?”

“Yeah, why?”

“Pearl fucking Jam?! You really serious?!”

“God damn Ellie, what are you on about?” I yell at her, frustrated by her behaviour.

Ellie seems to snap back to the real world bye my outburst and blinks a couple of times before speaking up again. “Sorry, I just can’t believe you’re actually gonna meet the guys. They’re so talented!”

“Yeah, they are. I’m probably not gonna really be around them that much, though. I just need to make sure everything planned well and stuff. I'm not needed in the actual recording room. I always sit by the small bar, making schedules and stuff.”

Ellie nods, “I know, but it’s still cool, isn’t it?”

“It is, they make great music.” I smile, finally understanding why she went loco earlier. Ellie’s a huge PJ fan and now I’m gonna meet them. It’s just really unfortunate that she can’t come inside. The only way you’ll get inside the studio is if you’re either the artist or if you work in the studio. Ellie does neither. I’ve got the privilege to work in the studio, thanks to my uncle. He used to own the studio and when he realised I’ve got a talent for making very good schedules, he asked me to work with him to make schedules for the artists.

Of course, I said yes immediately. I needed money and I actually liked the job he offered me. Not because I am horny for attention from famous people, most of the time I barely talk to the artists anyway, but because I like planning things. I like making things organised and planning out arrangements.

Ellie and I talk about work and other things for some time until I have to go to work. She tells me to call her later tonight to tell her about the boys and I laugh but tell her I’ll do it.

“There is my favourite niece!” Robert, my uncle, exclaims when I walk inside the studio.

I laugh, “I am your only niece, Rob.” 

“Still my fave.” he winks and gives me a hug when I reach him.

I put my things down only my desk afterwards and make some coffee for the both of us; it’s become some kind of tradition for me to do that.

“Excited to meet the ones behind Pearl Jam?” Rob asks when I hand him his cup of coffee. 

I nod, “I bet they’ll make even better music with you on their team.”

“Oh, (Y/N), you flatter me too much.” he says as if I just told him he’s the best producer in the world.

“Keep on dreaming, uncie.”

I go back to my desk to sort some things out. I start planning the next arrangements with Pearl Jam. It’s also my job to keep the e-mails updated. I notice there’s another band that wants to work in my uncle’s studio next year. I give him the good news and we share a piece of cake, which my aunt must’ve made earlier today, in celebration.

Time goes by and before I realise, the guys from Pearl Jam make their way inside to studio. My uncle greats them as if they’ve known each other for a lifetime and soon as they reach the bar area (in which my desk is also placed, in the back) he introduces me.

“This is my niece, (Y/N). She plans all the arrangements and stuff I’m no good in.” he adds playfully. 

All the guys introduce themselves and kindly shake my hand. It’s all nothing but kindness in their faces, though in Eddie’s face is also something else, mischievousness, maybe? 

Everyone soon disappears into the recording area and I’m left to do my work. Every now and then one of the guys, sometimes two, come in and ask for something to drink. It’s a second job I do, working behind the bar, since it’s no big deal. 

“So, you’ll be here more often, then?” the singer asks me while I hand him a glass of water.

I nod, “I work here full-time, so yeah. I’ll be here as much as you guys will be.”

“Good, that means I can see that pretty face of yours very much these upcoming weeks.” Eddie smirks and winks at me before going back into the recording area.

His comment leaves me flabbergasted and speechless. Did he really just flirt with me? Eddie Vedder? Flirting with me? (Y/N) (L/N)? Nope probably not. I’m just imagining things.

It’s not that I don’t believe it because I’ve got this huge crush on him and I think he’s too good for me, ‘cause I don’t. Really, he’s just another guy. I mean yeah, he’s an amazing singer and he’s got good looks, but that doesn’t make him any better of a man than others. It’s just that I never expected him to flirt with me, that’s why he left me speechless.

“Hey there, again.” a voice interrupts my concentration on the e-mails I was just reading. I look up to find Eddie standing in from of my desk with, once again, a smirk plastered on his face. I immediately feel myself go red and I look down again.

“What can I do for you, mr Vedder?” I say shyly.

“Oh dear, calling me ‘mr Vedder’ and all. Just call me Eddie please.. And I came here for a drink, can you help me with that, love?”

His tone was even more flirtatious than before and it actually caused some goosebumps to appear on my skin. I was very much intimidated by the guy and hearing him calling me ‘love’ was the right way to get me even more flustered than I already was.

“Oh- ehm, yeah sure- I mean of course..” I ramble and Eddie chuckles at my awkwardness.

I quickly get up and go behind the bar to pour him a glass of water, but he declines it and says “I could use something strong, dear. Do me a favour and pour me some of your best whiskey.”

Without saying anything, I do as I’m told and hand him a glass of whiskey, our fingers brushing slightly against each others and I can feel my face go even redder than before. Even though I’m not looking at him, I know Eddie’s smirking. He’s probably very much aware of the affect he’s having on me.

“Take drink yourself too, gorgeous. You deserve one.” he says and winks, before leaving again.

As soon as he’s left I put down my drink and run to get my phone. I dial Ellie’s number and when she answers I can’t stop talking.

“El you need to help me I- I don’t know what to do, Eddie keeps flirting with me and I can’t handle it and it’s getting on my nerves and I’m really about to break into tears ‘cause I don’t know what to do and you know how I am around guys and I just can’t-”

“Breath, (Y/N), breath!”

“How do I do that again?!”

“Don’t overreact! Just calm your mind. Count to ten with me.”

And so we did. After a minute or two Ellie has me calmed down. We talk about what happened and she helps me with a plan for me to survive the rest of the evening.

The plan works and without getting another panic attack, I make it through the night. Robert eventually sends me home when they’re almost done recording for the day. Fortunately I didn’t have to spend more alone time with Eddie than necessary.

But of course, today is another day and I will face Eddie again. It’s not that I don’t want to see him, it’s just that his presence makes me nervous, especially when he’s all flirty around me.

“Good morning guys, can I get you something to drink?” I ask the guys when they’re inside the next morning.

I receive some ‘good morning’s’ back and Stone and Mike tell me they’re in for a good cup of coffee. I make my way behind the bar and make them a good, strong, cup of coffee and hand it to them. During my every action, I can feel someone’s eyes boring into me and I don’t have to turn around to know whose eyes are on me. Eddie’s said nothing yet, he’s just been standing at the bar with his usual smirk on his face.

When I do turn, Eddie’s smirk increases and he decides it’s funny to play a game called ‘make (Y/N) as awkward as possible’. But before he can say anything I excuse myself to the bathroom. I’m known to make a fool of myself when I’m around guys that intimidate me and I’m not in the mood to make a fool of myself in front of my uncle and the other PJ guys. Enough is enough.

When I get back the guys are, fortunately, gone and into the recording area of the studio. Since there is nothing else to do, all the work from yesterday and today already being done, I decide to clean the studio a bit. All goes well until someone gets in the room, makes their way over to me and stops behind me.

“You’re really the full-package, aren’t you? Doing all the paper work, being a barmaid, and now, cleaning the studio.”

I don’t have to turn around to know who that voice belongs to. I try to hide my awkwardness and say “Can I help you?”

I turn around and see Eddie smirking, “Nope, not really.”

My confusion sends him in laughter, “What are you doing here then?” I ask, still remaining conifdent.

“Am I not allowed to be here?”

Yup, there it goes, my confidence, can you see it flying away? “Oh- ehm, yeah, of- of course..”

Eddie’s smirk increases when he notices I dropped my confidence and he takes a step closer. “You’re very easily flustered (Y/N).”

I can’t seem to focus on anything but him and I feel myself go as red as a tomato. Eddie takes another step closer and pushes a strand of hair behind my ear. Leaving his hand on my cheek and brushing it with his thumb.

I realise there’s no reason for me to act oblivious to his actions anymore. “Why are you doing this, Eddie?” I ask, scared as hell.

Eddie looks at me and for a second his smirk vanishes, “Because you’re gorgeous (Y/N), can’t you see? Also because you’re smart and kind and hard-working and talented. Those are definitely things that attract me.”

If I didn’t know any better I’d say he wasn’t just flirting, but he was actually genuine about it, but I push that thought aside when his smirk returns.

“And because your awkwardness is a big turn on, dear.”

My jaw drops as soon as that comment left his mouth and my eyes go wide. Never had someone been so bold and blunt. What the hell am I supposed to do?!

Eddie’s hand leaves my cheek and soon after, both his hands are resting on my sides. He tilts me up and puts me onto the table behind me. He opens my legs and stands inbetween them, pushing his body roughly against mine.

“Don’t worry dear, all will be alright. Just let me handle this, yeah?” he says and without knowing what I’m doing, I nod.

Eddie comes closer and closer and teases me, slightly brushing his lips against mine. I feel like I’m on cloud fucking nine, especially when he actually starts kissing me. He kisses me roughly, but passionately nonetheless. The kiss is filled with unleashed tension and it’s something I’ve never experienced before.

When we break apart I manage to get a quick “Aren’t you needed in the studio?” and he laughs, “No dear, they’re busy with the instruments. I told them I needed a break.” And he reconnects his lips with mine.

Everything got a bit heated and after 30 minutes I realise I just did something I never even thought would ever happen.

I look at Eddie, who is panting above me, and whisper “I can’t believe we just did it on my desk..”

Eddie chuckles, his badass behaviour long gone and replaced by genuine affection. “I can’t believe it either, but I did enjoy it very much.” He says and kisses me again.

I kiss him back, “Me too, Ed. Thank you.”

“No, (Y/N), thank you.” He winks and once again, Eddie has me flustered.

[princeevanschreave]

AN: i just realized seconds ago that the geography makes more sense to drive instead of fly, but we already rp’d it a certain way so whatever. Also, yes, this is super late but I procrastinated, didn’t have motivation, was busy with other stuff, whatever excuse you want to accept.

Kat has been gone 18 hours. I look at my clock. 18 hours, 24 minutes, and 30 seconds. 

          Already the palace seems quieter. Emptier. I read her note one more time. The edges of the paper are already starting to get crumpled from me handling it too much. The words themselves aren’t anything that special, but the fact that she wrote anything is kind of amazing.

           Breakfast this morning had no taste, the sunlight had no warmth, the world seems off tilt.

           I stand up from my bed and walk down to the palace garage. I grab a set of Uncle Jameson’s keys and hop in a car.

           The drive to the airport takes only ten minutes, but every minute feels like a lifetime. I jump out of the car and run into the small airport’s office to grab a new set of keys.

           “Prince Evan?” The employee behind the desk looks both shocked and slightly terrified as he stands up from his post. “You know you shouldn’t be doing this again. You know how much trouble I got in last time? I could get fired!”

           “You won’t get fired, Eddie,” I reply with dismissal. I don’t have time for anyone else’s worries or morals.

           I run back out of the office and all the way to the family’s jet, hopping into the cockpit and grabbing my headset and glasses from where I’d left them the last time I stole the jet. I race through all the initial safety measures that are pretty annoying, but I guess they’re important. It would be disappointing and stupid if the plane crashed before I could reach Sonage.

           I fly faster than I should, but I really don’t care, and it’s not like there are all that many other planes in the sky anyway. Only the Twos have access to air travel, so there aren’t as many flights as I’ve heard there used to be in the past.

           The Sonage airport is nothing short of bewildered to hear my voice over the radio waves requesting to land. They accept the request and tell me where specifically to land.

           Once I land and get out of the airport, it’s not too difficult to hop in a cab and get to Kat’s place. Everyone seems to know where she lives, presumably because she’s a celebrity now. I race up the steps to her door and run a hand through my hair. I don’t know why I’m hesitating now, after I’ve already travelled so far and broken so many rules, but now… what if she’s not here? Or what if she is here but doesn’t want to see me? What if she sends me away? What if…

           I shake my head. I’ve come all the way here, there’s no turning back now. I knock on the door.

           Kat opens the door with what seems like annoyance, but as soon as she sees me her eyes flash a million emotions: surprise, fear, joy, relief… it’s a little difficult to follow. She gives a hesitant smile.

           “Evan… eh… Hey?”

           “Uh… hey…” I say, rubbing the back of my neck nervously.

           “You’re… here…”

           “I… uh… got your note.”

           “And that made you decide to… come here?” I can’t tell if Kat sounds annoyed or happy with my arrival.

           “I realized… I didn’t say goodbye.”

           Her face falls. “You came all the way here? For a goodbye?”

           “I also realized…” I pause, sighing. “I don’t want to say goodbye.”

           Her face lifts slightly, but not as much as I’d like. “Me neither…”

           I run a hand through my hair. “I don’t really know what happens next. I didn’t really plan anything, I just sort of jumped in the family jet and flew here…”

           She rolls her eyes but smiles brightly. “You’re terrible at this.” She puts her hand behind my neck and pulls me into a kiss.

           When I pull away from the kiss, I whisper, “You know I probably have a few days before anyone realizes I’m missing…”

           “You want to stay here? I don’t have a plane parking spot though.” She smirks. God, how I missed that smirk.

           “The jet can stay at the Sonage airport for now… and yeah… I’d like to stay for a few days at least… if you’ll have me.”

           “Hmm, I don’t know…” she kisses me again, then smiles. “Yeah, I’ll have you.”

           “Good. You’d better.” This time I’m the one that pulls her in for a kiss. It’s like neither of us can stand to be separated for too long. “So are you going to let me in or are we just going to stay out here all day?”

           Kat opens the door and walks in.” Shh, you always this demanding towards your hosts?” She gestures to the room that holds a bed, couch and kitchen all in the same room. “This… is it.”

           I take a look around, noting how comfortable and lived-in it feels. It feels like a home. “It’s nice.”

           Kat raises an eyebrow. “Nice?”

           “Yeah… I mean… it’s kind of all anyone needs, right? No… unnecessary excess.”

           She smiles. “Exactly, glad you agree. So, have you surfed in Sonage yet?” She grabs her surfboard.

           “Nope, can’t say that I have.”

           “Well, today sure is your lucky day.” She grabs my hand. “Come on, we’ll get a board for you to borrow somewhere. I hear it’s a great pick-up line.” She grins.

           I smile and roll my eyes playfully at her.

           We head out of her apartment and out to the beach. The same ocean where we met and fell in love is the same ocean where we’re reunited and finally finding home with each other.

[sablelab]

Three Days in the Highlands Chapter 30

DISCLAIMER:

This is a complete work of fiction and as such is an entirely fabricated tale created in my imagination.  I appreciate you taking the time to read my story . Many thanks xox

SYNOPSIS:

Sam and Caitriona journey home to find a cranky cat on the warpath for being left alone and a tired woman in need of a warm bath after her long day climbing her first Munro.

Chapter 30

The journey back home was more expedient than their early travels to Mount Schiehallion this morning.  They had taken the scenic route then but Sam had decided to take the quickest way home along the highway to get back as quickly as possible.  They had both had a busy day and he knew that Caitriona had had an exhausting one for climbing a Munro for the very first time was extremely taxing.  Unfortunately Cait had also hurt her ankle and had some discomfort in her knees as well. No doubt by the time they got home, her body would also be screaming out in muscle soreness after climbing over all those rocky boulders.  Some of the climb down had been a little steep too, and Sam thought his decision to take the gentler route had been the best option.  Although his Cait was quite fit, climbing a Munro was no mean feat. He was so proud of her efforts today that as soon as they got home he would run a bath for her to ease those kinks out of her system.

Caitriona was quiet in the car on the journey home and Sam let her have her solitude. From time to time he looked over towards his weary passenger and saw that Cait had closed her eyes obviously taking a moment to let herself relax to the quiet humming of the Audi as it purred along the motorway home.  In the meantime, although he concentrated on the drive back to his home, he couldn’t help but recall the best moments they had shared today. This day had been exceptional and he was very proud of Caitriona’s feat in conquering Mount Schiehallion. There were many highlights throughout the day; however, the fact that they had made love at the summit was indeed the best highlight of all after she had said yes to his impromptu proposal.  Memories ... they had made special memories today and nothing would please him more than if tonight would be a continuation of what had been a most remarkable day.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Sam glanced over at his love once more and was distracted by how beautiful Cait looked in repose.  He could look at her forever in that state of sleep when her breathing was regulated and her warm body nestled against his own. He would often just caress her sleeping form enamoured with this gorgeous woman whom he loved to distraction before Caitriona awoke each morning with that sleepy smile that touched his heart.  He never tired of running his hands tantalizingly across her warm silken skin which would cause Cait to rouse from slumber.  Then that look on her face when she eventually opened her eyes to find him worshiping her amongst the rumpled bed sheets, the evidence of their lovemaking during the night.

Taking his eyes from the road yet again they caressed his fiancée’s sleepy form. That was a bad move for Sam was immediately transported to them lying in bed with Caitriona cuddled up beside him with her long limbs entwined with his body as they slept after making love.  He smiled as Cait’s chest rose and fell in synchronised breathing rhythm and didn’t disturb her whilst she had a wee little nap.  Reluctantly he broke his gaze and continued to study the white line along the road trying to get his thoughts back to normal and drive them safely home.  Sam knew that if he continued along this vein of thought he could easily get distracted and crash the Audi or cause an accident. However, his thoughts were eventually interrupted by the languid purring sound of his name.

“Sam?”

“Yes hon?”

“I was thinking that when we get home I will have a long soak in the tub.”

He laughed. “You don’t say.”

“Yes, I’m feeling a bit sore in my joints and now that we have stopped walking they are starting to manifest themselves.  I may need you to give me a foot massage too.”

“I can do that. Anything else?”

“Hmm? ... Maybe a nice fire and perhaps some whisky.”

“I’m at your service Madame, I am all yours.  As soon as we get home, those things can be arranged.”

Caitriona was well and truly awake now and smiling; she reached out her hand and rested it on Sam’s thigh giving it a little squeeze. “Thanks babe.”

“Ah, Cait.  I wouldn’t do that if I were you. You know what happened the last time you got overly frisky in the car.”

Cait merely gave him one of her looks that had his temperature rising in nano seconds. “Hmm? ... Yes I do recall that you had to pull over ...”

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Sam squirmed a little in his seat as her fingers tantalisingly inched closer to his groin. There was no way that he could pull over this time although his Caitriona would test the patience of a saint, so in order to avoid any further dalliance, he changed the subject. “So how do you think you went on your first real Munro climb?”

Cait was looking at him intently, and seeing the playful gleam in her eye, he was mesmerised by the seductive teasing of the woman too close for comfort.

“Spoil sport,” she replied taking her hand from his thigh and resting it back in her lap.  “It was a great experience for me and an honour to make the acquaintance of Mount Schiehallion. It was equally great to have had the experience with such a wonderful companion.”

“Who me?”

“Yes of course.  I couldn’t have done this without you Sam.  You were my rock.”

He laughed. “I thought you would never want to say that word again Cait.”

“Well I have seen enough rocks to last me a lifetime, that’s true, but you are a different kind of rock.  You’re my rock. You were supportive and helpful when the climb was difficult, and I can lean on you like I did today.”

“We have each other’s back babe. Ditto. Schiehallion is a good first Munro to climb don’t you think?”

“It is but all those false summits near the top were frustrating particularly when I thought we were close to the peak and I wasn’t expecting that rocky ridge to be like that.”

“But it was worth it for the view alone.”

“Oh, yes the view was spectacular.”

“Yes, yes it was and I don’t only mean the view from the summit,” Sam replied with an underlying meaning.  

“You can say that again.”

Caitriona looked at him and saw that devilish smile that lit up his whole face.  His eyes were dancing in merriment but also with a piercing look she recognised very well. Quickly changing the subject, she looked out the window at the passing scenery knowing that to continue their conversation in the same vein could lead to trouble.  

“So, do we have far to go Sam? I feel a little disorientated as I don’t recognise anything like what we passed this morning.”

“I’m taking the quickest way back home honey and if we’re lucky we’ll arrive before it gets too dark.”

“That’s good, because Eddie will be cranky having been left to her own devices all day.”

“I bet she has done nothing but sleep.”

“You’d be surprised what Eddie can get up to when she is lonely.”

“Cats don’t get lonely. Do they?”

“They do. They can get up to all sorts of mischief if they are bored and left to their own devices.”

“Eddie wouldn’t do that. She just loves to sleep and eat.”

“True but you saw what she was like with the laser pen you teased her with Sam.  She loves being challenged like all cats do.”

“Well then, let’s hope that Miss Moggie has been true to form and slept all day.”

“I guess we will see when we get home.”

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

By the time they did arrive back home from Mount Schiehallion it was starting to turn dark. Sam parked the Audi and decided not to unpack the car until the morning. There was nothing of importance that needed tending to tonight except for his lady love.  He planned to spoil her rotten with all the things that would make Cait happy after her climb and ease away any pain she might have.

With a “Hello house,” they both got out of the car and headed back inside.

As they walked over the threshold they noticed one of two things.  Eddie was nowhere to be seen and there was a scattered mess across the floor where she had obviously been playing whilst they were away.

“Oh well you did try to warn me Cait but I am surprised that Eddie would be so destructive.”

“She has certainly made a mess. Understandable as we have been gone for several hours and this house is unfamiliar to her.  I wonder where she could be?”

“Slinking away somewhere hoping that we won’t find her is my guess.”

“You have a look down here Sam and I’ll go and check upstairs.”

Armed with his instructions, Sam scoured the bottom floor of the house looking for a hiding place that a fat, little cat could be. She was not on her scratching post nor was she in her basket.  Eddie had polished off the dry food that had been left for her in the kitchen, so she hadn’t gone hungry whilst they had been gone. Wherever she was, Sam knew that she would be sleeping somewhere with a full belly.  He searched high and low in each room looking for her but to no avail.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Making his way back to the lounge room, Sam took inventory of the mess that Eddie had made. It was evident that she had been having loads of fun as every stuffed toy that she owned was scattered across the floor as if she had organised a group party in their absence. Not having any luck in finding her, he decided to set the fire in the hearth instead and then investigate what was in the refrigerator that they could have for dinner. He was just about to make his way to the kitchen when he heard Cait call out from upstairs.

“Sam ... up here hon!”

Turning he made his way to the staircase and taking the stairs two at a time he was soon in their bedroom where he found Cait waiting for him.

“What’s up?”

“I found Eddie. She is curled up in the vanity basin fast asleep. Come I’ll show you.”

Holding hands they quietly tiptoed in to the ensuite and sure enough, there in the porcelain basin was one sleepy moggie purring to her little heart’s content.  She had her head snuggled into her body as if she had not a care in the world. The contented sound of her breathing was clearly evidence to her having exerted all of her energy playing downstairs with her toys.

Standing side by side, Cait leaned her body into Sam and nestled her head on his shoulder. Placing his arm around her waist, he hugged Caitriona to his side as they stood there watching Eddie asleep like proud parents.

She smiled up at Sam before resting her glance on her beloved pet. “Isn’t she adorable honey? Just look at her all curled up and sleeping like a baby.”

“I’m not surprised that she is dogged tired given what she has managed to wreck downstairs.”

“But isn’t she the sweetest little ball of fur you ever did see?”

“Yes she’s adorable.  Just like her human mother.”

Cait hugged Sam too, sliding her arms around his waist and locking them together.  “She will often snuggle down like that in the basin at home while I would take a bath.”

“Well then shall we leave her there?  Would you like me to run a bath for you?”

“Oh yes that would be deliciously decadent.”

“Good. I’ll do that and then I’ll clean up downstairs and get some dinner ready while you have a long leisurely soak. Meanwhile Eddie can stay where she is until you finish your bath.”

“Yes she’ll be fine there.  When she’s hungry she’ll go downstairs on her own.  After all she got in there all by herself, she will be able to get out without any help from us too.”

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

At the sound of their voices, Eddie impassively raised her head to look at the two humans watching her.  She blinked her eyes sleepily and looked from one of them to the other as if to say ...

“Ah, so you’re back now are you?” and “No.  I am not leaving my comfy spot for anyone. Where have you two been all day leaving me here on my own? Humans!  I’ll never understand them.”

Then dismissively, Eddie stretched out her paws and gave them several licks to preen her fur before settling herself back down and promptly falling back to sleep once more.

“She’s ignoring us Sam.  It’s payback for leaving her alone.”

“I’m sure Miss Diva is quite comfortable there by the looks of things, come on honey, I’ll run a bath for you. Leave Miss Moggie in her resting place and you hop in that bath to help ease those kinks from your body.”

“Oh, that sounds like heaven Sam.”

“It will be just what the doctor ordered.  A good long soak in the tub and you’ll feel a 100% better. Make sure you use plenty of that beautiful smelling bubble bath lotion that you use that makes your skin smell like ambrosia from the gods. ”

“Thank you honey. I’ll do that.”

Sam true to his promise then walked over to the bathtub, placed the plug in the bath and turned on the taps.  Soon the sound of gushing water echoed in the bathroom as the bath began to fill up and steam began to rise from the hot liquid.

“There you go babe. I’ll be right downstairs if you need anything, anything at all.” he replied giving her a wink.

“If I need your help I’ll call out.”

“I could dry you with a towel if you like after you finish your bath,” Sam added with a devilish grin on his face.

Caitriona gave him the side eye but a grin bowed her lips at his remark. “On second thought, perhaps you can come up later and check to see that I haven’t drowned or fallen asleep in the bath.  I’m sure once I get in the tub that warm water will make me feel sleepy.”

“Your every wish is my command mistress.  I’ll clean up Eddie’s mess, get some dinner and check up on you.  Is that right?”

“Oh Sam, don’t make me laugh. I have just discovered that my muscles hurt when I do that.  Go on, off you go. I’ll be fine here. Really.”

Placing a chaste kiss to her weary forehead Sam ushered her over towards the bath.  “I’ll be back.  You just relax and enjoy.”

“Yes master.”

Sam chuckled to himself as he left his love alone, that is, except for Eddie who was sleeping in the basin, to prepare for her bath.

 ~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Thanks for reading. xox

[side-eyeing-you]

Okay, so here’s a recollection of the best day of my fandom life? #ECCC

I’m usually just here to make short, dumb, spazzy comments, so bear with me, because this will probably be long. However, I’ll try not to be too repetitive and remember the interesting parts. ;) Apologies if the pics are effing huge. I don’t do this posting thing - ever. hahah

So, first of all, shout out to @oohdembuns​ for peer pressuring me to go to this thing, hahaha. Cons are not usually my jam, but since it was at home, AND CAIT WAS COMING TOO, I was like, “I’d be kinda dumb not to go, right?” Anyway, so I originally just got a Friday pass and a picture with Cait. And was perfectly content with that. Then there was an announcement that they would be offering more VIP passes for sale, and Buns was like, “omg you have to go!!!!” so I thought about it, and thought about it… and tried to calculate out how many dinners out and shopping trips I had to cut out of my life, and decided, “Okay, you’ve convinced me… I’ll buy it, if it becomes available again.” So I was basically at the gym when the link went live for VIP sales, and Buns linked me to it immediately (so dependable!) and I got to buy one, then less than 30 seconds later it was sold out again. Guess I got lucky!

 Onto the day of the con!

 Wasn’t sure how it would be, since I didn’t really talk to anyone via DM or text or anything super regularly that was going. But I’d gotten talking to @supertam87​ and @chrismosstree​ and @myguiltyolpleasure​ a few days before, so it was nice that they were cool enough to welcome me, so I didn’t feel like such a loner hahah. Met up with @valkyrie1969​ and @sileas84​ too. Met @queencaitriona​ and @zengeisha​ and a few others while waiting in line. I gotta say, one of my favorite parts of this weekend was meeting everyone and just hanging out. I wasn’t sure what to expect at first, but you guys guessed it, everyone is as cool IRL as they are online!

 The rest is much of the same. Waiting in line after line after line. Me wanting to off myself, because it was so crowded and hot and stuffy. But hey, that’s con life, lol.

 Panel was surreal to be at. It was fun, and exciting and the MC was funny and made everyone take selfless with their neighbor to ensure that you’d turned off your flash. 

THEN out comes Sam and Cait. I mean, I was like, “Weird. They are right in front of me. This is definitely weird.” But I really enjoyed it and probably missed some bits, so I’ll have to do a re-watch! I honestly could sit and listen to them both ALL FREAKING DAY. They are just so entertaining and fun to watch together, lol.

 Then we tried to go to the 12:30 autograph session. That was full. Which was kind of a good thing, because I was getting hangry at this point. Grabbed some lunch and came back to get lined up for photos. Okay, this was like cattle call and I wanted to just die, hahah. THEN I finally got up to the black curtains where Sam and Cait were standing taking pictures with fans, and it was so weird seeing them there… in motion… in the flesh. They are freakishly tall, yes. And Cait’s legs go on forever. I think her waist is like a whole foot higher than mine, hahah. I walk up to them when it was my turn, and I was like, “Well, this is super weird!” and Cait laughed and they both said, “oh, hi there!” Then snap, done, lol – Get the F outta here, NEXT. Hahah That’s what it felt like, but despite such a time constraint, they were super nice and it was the first real close-up interaction with them, so it was a neat experience.

 Then off to ANOTHER line for the autographs. I got queued in and waited for Sam and Cait to finish their photo ops. I sat on the floor, in the line, and tried to get some rest, but the handlers wanted us to squeeze in tight, so I was literally napping underneath someone’s ass the whole time. I didn’t care though, I was freaking exhausted at this point, hahah. (So I can’t imagine how tired Cait and Sam were?? It was non-stop).

 Then Sam walks in and crowd cheers! Sam-onlies called to the front of the line to begin autographs since Cait was running behind with photos. There weren’t that many Sam-onlies. Then Cait arrived to a crowd full of cheers. And one girl next to me had a Cait only autograph and I fist bumped her, lol. Also, stood next to a super cool shipper who doesn’t know she’s a shipper. She was hilarious. She was like, “goddamnit, I wish I had on google glass so I could just stare at them and record everything on the down low (because they were freaking Nazis about no photography).” This was after we saw Sam walk over to Cait, put his hands on his shoulder, lean down and tease her about hogging all the fans, lol. I died. I was right in front of them when this happened.

 Anyway, got my autograph. Cait was like, “nice to see you again!” Getting autographs after pics worked out, because that’s what I had them sign since I didn’t have anything else to bring. I guess I could’ve had them sign my arm and tattooed it on permanently. JK – I’m not that dedicated. ;) Sam was once again just waiting around for people to sign autographs for. I was like, “Dang, Sam… looks like Cait’s just hogging all the fans. What’s up with that?” And he was like, “I know, right? She’s just being Chatty Cathy over there…” I missed my opportunity to say, “It’s because everyone loves her, don’t you???” Oops. :P

 I wish I had a chance to get some friends something signed by them, but seriously, the handlers were super strict about everything. And I get it, it would take longer to sign more than one thing for everyone, but I get the feeling Sam and Cait would’ve been cool with signing their name to one other item for a BFF or grandma or something. :) (And I found out after that they did, actually! On the down low… very kind of them.)

 Okay, so after all that… I just collapsed by a pillar and waited for the others to finish. Thankful to not be in any more lines. Then we all headed over to the restaurant to meet some other Tumblr peeps. I could only stay for a few minutes, but it was lovely to meet everyone! @ninaf @c2bend @rainmanjdog and others!

 Then off I went to the meet and greet….

Room is set up into probably 10 round tables of 8 people or so. The handlers said to keep two seats open, so naturally, I put my purse on the seat next to mine to save it. ;) Once again, apparently, no freaking pictures were allowed. Who came up with this stupid rule? It’s not like we didn’t pay for the professional pictures and I highly doubt Sam and Cait cared if you took a pic of them from 10 feet away. Not like we were swarming them asking for selfies. Anyway, that was a ranty tangent. Kid you not, though, when Sam or Cait were coming up to our table next, they reminded us, “Now, remember. Phones on the table. Don’t touch them. No pictures allowed.” ANYWAY, we saw Sam and Cait taking selfies with other tables after the fact, so we were like, OH HELL NO. And the handlers noticed that, so one was finally like, “AT THE VERY END, you may ask if Cait wants to take a picture and if she says it’s okay, then you can do so.” We had already seen Sam, so it was like, would’ve been nice if you let us take a pic with Sam too, but we’re happy with Cait! Anyway, I loved the fact that Sam and Cait didn’t give a fuck about the stupid photo rule and just did what they wanted and were gracious to the fans. At the very end, the handlers decided that it would only be fair if Sam and Cait both took pics with each table, so that’s what they did. And a simple gesture made everyone’s day (well, it was icing on the cake). :))

 Rewind:

 Sat at the table closest to entrance/exit. Sam and Cait walked in, got a stealth pic of Sam but missed Cait. They both were holding these cute Jamie and Claire mugs. Sam had brought a bottle of Laphroaig with him. They had to do separate table round robins, for the sake of time, probably. Cait started at the table across from us, and Sam at the opposite end of the room. Anyway, we were just chit chatting amongst ourselves. It was very casual. Once in a lifetime experience, to have Sam and Cait just mingling in the same room as you. Like, wtf. It was weird haha. But anyway, we all kept our respective freak flags under wraps… and everyone was lovely. I did walk over to the bar area with another fan I sat next to, just to get a closer glance of Sam and Cait lol.

 Sam got to our table first. He’s very handsome. Very young-looking. He sat in between these two ladies, so was across from me. I was like, “Y’all can fight over Sam, but dibs on Cait then…” They agreed to the terms of the deal, lol. Sam poured us all a shot of Whisky, which was very nice. It was pretty good. One girl asked me what the name was again, so I guess his sales tactic worked, hahah. (I’m only teasing, okay??). Anyway, Sam was nice and answered everyone’s questions the best he could… he seemed a bit tired, but still friendly and engaged. Someone asked if he took on any of the Jamie qualities or something in real life. And he had to think, and then he said since he had to play Jamie with a “fucked up hand” for a while there, IRL, whenever he got nervous, he would play with his right hand, or move it in weird ways, like Jamie. He also mentioned a bar in Glasgow that he and the guys of Outlander like to go to. I cannot remember the name. And his favorite lift is the dead lift. Gym questions get me snoozin’… lol

 More waiting around until Cait got to our table. Our table was the last to see both Cait and Sam… and she walked over and smiled and said, “ahhh, the best for last.” I sat next to Cait… at a dinner table. That was super surreal, lol. We all said hi and thanks for coming, etc. etc. Then someone asked about Eddie and if she’ll be coming to SA. Sadly, Eddie will not be joining Cait in SA. Cait got to telling us about the whole process then she stopped and was like, “Wait. You guys really want to spend the next 10 minutes talking about my cat’s fucking rabies report??” lmao and we all laughed. We learned that Eddie is 14 years old. Then she was like, “so wait… lemme get everyone’s names! Where are you all from??” She was so friendly and smiley and I cannot…. Then someone mentioned Ryan Gosling and asked if she’s met him before and she told us a funny story about how she lost $20 to Ryan Gosling once, hahaha. And I was like, “Wait. How? Lost a bet?” And then she said that they had the same agent or something, so they all went on this fishing trip together a while back and were playing backgammon hahaha so effing random… and she lost to Ryan Gosling. And she was like, “AND I WAS BROKE. And he was a SUCCESSFUL actor, and I was BROKE… and he STILL took my money.” Ahahhah. Then the lady was like, “Omg, I spoke to someone who knows Ryan Gosling…” and I turned to her and was like, “Nevermind that you spoke with CAIT.” Lol and she just giggled and said, “awww, come on…” lol like all “pffft, I’m nobody” QUEEN. Also, at one point she complimented a lady who said she was in her 50s and told her she was gorgeous, when the topic of aging make-up came up regarding Claire and Jamie, so as to say, they didn’t really need to be EXTRA with their aging process, because people in their 50s still can look great and youthful. She was super sweet and encouraged us to ask her questions and also asked us questions as well, so it was very interactive.

 Then I gave her a little greeting card that said “YASSSS QUEEN” on the front and said, “I was afraid of word vomit if I tried to speak to you in real life, so here’s a card.” Lol and she said, “awww, you don’t have to worry about that. Thanks!” But her handler took it, so I hope she saw it, lol.

 Few other tid-bits:

Since Sam and Cait started on opposite sides of the room, when they both made it to the middle of the room, the first thing they did was turn around to each other, grinned and said, “oh haaii!” to each other. That was cute.

 And at the very end of the night, as they were leaving, Sam took Cait in for a side hug/pose and I was caught off guard and was still afraid of the photo Gestapo so I didn’t catch it! :((

This was all I caught, right before the hug.

Anyway, and that was it… off they went. And then I died. :D

[itissadbutitsmy-life]

shoot! it’s still ed appreciation month here, so here’s a collection of fanfic intros that never went anywhere lmao... hecka heeecka long sorry ! there are a ? few good lines in there, but nothing stuck.

1) Ed loved to make monsters. It was one of the funnest things he knew - and one of the only times his parents let him use wet glue and scissors. That in itself gave the whole endeavor a special place in his heart. All of his little monsters had names and stories, and most of them lived on his shelf. The rest of them lived on his friends' and family's shelves. He would get praised every holiday for his gifts - so creative! So cute! So colorful! Everyone agreed, he really had a knack for making the little guys! 

Right now, he was flopped over on his desk, hands covered in glue, halfheartedly sticking and unsticking a long, curly horn to his newest monster's head. This one was going to be named Crusher, he knew that already. He lived in sewers. Which sewers, he wasn't sure yet. Maybe New York City? Or was that too common? Maybe he would live in California. Not enough monsters lived in California, with the surfboards and the blonde ladies. That would be good, Ed decided with a little smile. Maybe he'd paint on some little swimming trunks. Yeah. Yeah! That was a great idea.

His arm still felt heavy and slow though, so he put the curly clay horn down on the table and sighed. Coming up with the right setting for little Crusher didn't make him feel better like he'd thought it would. 

Ed adjusted himself so his chin was on his folded hands. What was Crusher going to do for a living, he wondered? Most monsters just terrorized astronauts, or hikers, or beautiful women. Or children. Children like him. Okay, there was a start. Although he wasn't sure what kids in California were like. Did they go to the beach with their bikini-clad mothers? Did they go.... all the time? Probably. It made him smile to think about little kids going to the beach every day. Maybe they lived there! Maybe that was just the best place in the world! Until, of course, Crusher came along. Bum bum buuummmm.

Ed furrowed his brow while he thought. Crusher would tromp around on the beach, of course, because as far as he knew, that was all there was to California. There were signs that were like, oh, beware of Crusher! But some new kids showed up one day and didn't understand the sign. Ed frowned. And they.... uh, got... eaten? Or maybe kidnapped. Or smacked against a wall. Eww... Ed buried his head in his hands and shook it back and forth, silently saying No to his idea. That was dumb. 

Maybe Crusher should terrorize the bikini ladies instead.

1.5)  Ed's father sat down on the ground next to his son. "Whatcha making there?"

Ed lifted one heavy hand and dropped it to the table. "Monsters."

2) Ed's mouth felt thick and cottony when he tried to talk, and it made him cry harder that his words wouldn't come out the way he expected them to. "Eddy, your brother's a monster," he choked out.

Eddy slammed his hands over his ears and shook his head in denial. "Don't say that, Ed! That's rude!"

The statement had sounded fake as it was coming out of Ed's mouth, to be quite honest, and his crying quieted while he tried to figure out what he had said that wasn't right. Eddy.. that was correct. He had a brother, yes. And Ed had tried to describe him. Monster... that wasn't right. Was it? Monsters were beautiful. Ed knew. He had a million of them. They came in all shapes and sizes and they were terrifying and beautiful. 

Okay, well, maybe Eddy's brother was beautiful to someone. Certainly not to Ed. Not like any monster he knew. 

So why had that been the word that seemed to describe him best in the moment? 

Eddy was asking him things, asking if he was okay and if he wanted to go home now, and asking him not to tell anyone except him what his brother had done, but Ed had a hard time coming down to listen. So he nodded and said Uh Huh and let Eddy stick a little zebra bandage on his bloody forehead and lead him out the door and send him home. 

Monster. What did monsters do? Ed wasn't sure there was any one thing they did. Some of them liked to eat people. That was just what they liked eating. It was like him eating cereal or something. Not evil. Others liked to kidnap women. Ed had no idea what that was about, but they liked to swing axes and chainsaws around. So, there was another kind of monster. Probably evil but maybe doesn't know it. Ed had seen a few movies where that monster was a human, but he'd never liked them much. He preferred his monsters with scales and wings and slime and horns.

And here he had a monster on his hands. ummm this is going badly Ed liked to be scared. He'd lap up any and all gross movies that came his way and he loved to read the books that gave him shivers and he loved big long scary shadows on his walls. No reason, really - he just really liked them. He liked that feeling. 

So, naturally, it was doubly terrifying when he found himself alone with Eddy's brother, at the business end of that furious sneer, and realized he absolutely did not like the feelings he was feeling now. 

Sometimes people asked him about his past, about why he was like this, and he would smile proudly and say he had survived a monster attack. In the moment, when he was busy not dying, he hadn't thought of it like that. That wasn't a monster attack. Monster attacks were cinematic and colorful and there was music and weapons and the hero standing on the battlefield at the end and kissing the cute love interest. There was absolutely none of that in Ed's personal monster attack. So it took a while to start calling it that. But after a while, when the shock of it had passed and it was just one of the many events that had played out in his lifetime, Monster Attack seemed to be the best and least worrisome term to use. No one pushed it further when he brought it up, it made people smile, and best of all, he could imagine all the cinematics and the colors and the music and weapons and he could imagine himself standing there, bloody but victorious, Eddy's brother beating a hasty retreat because Ed was the hero and no one wins against the hero. In reality, he sometimes remembered at night when he was trying to sleep, Eddy's brother had bolted when Ed was blacking out, and then there was Eddy shaking him awake and later his mother holding him at the doctor's and insisting his injuries couldn't be that bad because there was no way he could have gotten hurt that badly.

2.5) Ed barely noticed he'd walked in the door to his house and was halfway to his room, and he probably wouldn't have noticed he'd made it that far if it wasn't for his mother's shrill cry and the pair of hands that whipped him around on his heels. "Ed? Ed, what happened- honey- look-" his mother stammered, all frantic and concerned. Ed wasn't used to her looking at him like that, with her eyes wide and her brow knotted, chewing on her lip. Worried about him. Worried about him?

His dad was there too now, kneeling down to look into his eyes. "Hey, sport," he said at least once, probably more than once, just trying to keep Ed's attention, "Heey there sport," peering intently at his face, his big hand holding Ed's arm supportively. 

Ed's mom pushed his short hair back with her hand and it finally hit him how much his head hurt, so he jerked away and stopped daydreaming. ghghh 

They were both talking anxiously to one another, his mom fluttering about like a bird, his father talking in a low voice and rubbing Ed's arm up and down soothingly. Ed didn't pay attention to what they were saying, but quickly enough he was in his mother's arms and they were in the car and he didn't have to put on his seatbelt because his mom was holding him tightly to her chest.

3) "You're going to be a big brother soon, sport!"

Ed had almost forgotten, in fact, and resisted the affectionate hair ruffle his father was offering him. He was going to be a WHAT? When???? He voiced these questions to his dad, who answered with a sunny grin, "Baby's due any day now. Isn't that exciting, Ed? You'll get to teach her how to ride a bike, and how to play catch, and how to read...."

Ed frowned."I don't know how to do those things, either," he reminded his dad. "I'm four."

When his dad started to apologize and clarify that he'd meant later after Ed did know those things, Ed just kinda wandered away downstairs to his room. his dad keeps talking to the empty room for a good minute.

Ed flipped open his notebook and awkwardly grabbed a big crayon in his hand. A big brother? He didn't want to be a big brother! Oh, sure, when Mom first told him, smiling and hugging him, he had been excited. A baby sibling! Someone to play with when Eddy was sick! Someone to show off to the neighborhood kids and push around in a stroller, like the baby from Monster Worms from Robot Mars IV! He couldn't wait!

Then, a few months later, he learned exactly what it was big brothers do. His head still ached from that incident. He still talked a little funny. And, most importantly, he wanted nothing to do with big brothers ever again in his entire life. Big sisters, too, probably. Siblings were just a horrible mess of bruises and crying and taking your leftovers without asking you. He had managed to forget he was going to be one in a few short weeks. 

The drawing on his page was a squiggly mess of red that had a vaguely monster-like form, and he put down his crayon to stare at it. Then he flipped the page, grabbed a green crayon, and started again. It was easier to worry while he was drawing. 

He thought about the way Eddy's brother would put his heavy hands on Eddy's shoulders, the way Eddy's eyes would stretch wide and he'd tense his shoulders up to his ears and look lovingly up at his brother. He thought about all the times Eddy had hurt himself when Ed wasn't around, and he thought about that one day Eddy had pointed to all the hurts and explained they were actually not his doing but don't tell anyone Ed I'm warning you. He thought about sitting in his yard and hearing the screaming and watching Eddy's brother storm out from the house down the street and never come back. And he thought about his mama's big round tummy that he used to press his cheek to, back before he had put all the pieces together and figured out what being a big brother meant. That time her tiny arm or leg thumped his through his mom's shirt. And he tried to imagine himself putting his big hands on his baby sister's head and frowning at her, and her smiling at him so he wouldn't be mad. He tried to imagine hurting her. 

And, of course, he realized after a moment that he couldn't actually see what he was drawing anymore, and that when he touched his face his hand came away wet. 

He wasn't going to do those things to his baby sister. It didn't matter if every other brother in the entire history of siblings had done those things to his baby siblings, Ed decided then and there he couldn't do that. So what if he was the only one? What could possibly ever be bad enough that he would have to hurt his new baby sister? Nothing, he presumed.

4) He had buried his face in his dad's chest and hadn't come up for air in hours. Ed didn't want to see the little sister he was going to have to be a big brother to. He didn't want to fall in love, just in case he ever became Eddy's brother part two and gave her bruises. 

Ed's father didn't argue, just held his tiny son in both hands and gently talked to his mother. "He'll love her soon enough," he told her. "He's just a kid. He needs time to get used to it."

Ed couldn't see it, but his mother was pursing her lips and shaking her head for most of those hours he spent with his face in his dad's shirt. She didn't like that he wasn't happy to have a sister, but she reluctantly agreed that it was early and he was just a baby, himself. She agreed that he would learn to love his baby sister in time.

4.5) His dad stood up, lifting Ed easily with him, to leave. "I'll come back in a few hours, okay?" 

Ed lifted his head from the little sweaty spot where it had been planted for the longest time. The bright hospital lights hurt his bleary eyes. "We can't leave!" he cried. "I haven't even met her yet!" In those long hours of sitting on his dad's lap and thinking things over, he had decided he really did want to meet his sister and fall in love. 4.5 pt 2) His hand came down on top of hers - oh, it was so tiny - and he very, very carefully closed his fingers around it. 

His mom stiffened ever so slightly, but his dad put his hand on her shoulder to silence her.

Ed stared intently into his sister's closed eyes, taking in every tiny eyelash and wrinkle. 

Half a thought of Eddy's brother looking at baby Eddy like this flashed in his mind, but he shoved it aside. With a tiny smile and cock of his head, he decided he liked her.

5) Ed had absolutely no idea what was going on.

That wasn't really abnormal, but this time he was a little concerned that he was missing some really vital information. Sarah was sitting on his lap. Sarah hadn't sat on his lap since she was three. Sarah was sitting on his lap and holding his hand and not yelling at him and she had been doing this for the last four hours. Obviously, Ed must have missed something critical.

Finally, as he watched his clock tick over from 2:59 to 3:00, he asked her. "What's goin' on, baby sister?"

Sarah burst into tears and buried her head in his chest.

Oh. Okay, gee, something was really wrong that he was missing out on. She wasn't screaming accusing things at him or demanding anything, she wasn't running to Mom or Dad for comfort, she was sitting on his lap and wheezing and crying.

Ed put his hand on her back and patted her firmly, tilting his head so if she looked up she would catch his eye. "Is it because we ran away from home?" 

"No, Ed-" she said between cries.

"Oh. Is it because of what Eddy did to you guys?"

Sarah shook her head and started to sit up again, wiping at her eyes. 

Ed chewed on his lip nervously. "Is it because... Oh, was it because of Eddy's brother?"

Sarah burst back into tears and that answered his question. Chills went down his back, thinking about that whole thing again himself, and he threw his arms around his sister and hugged her tight. "There, there," he offered.

She sniffled wetly and looked back down at his hands. "Did you know him before he moved away?"

Ed nodded and shrugged at the same time. "A little."

Sarah nodded and picked up his hand, pressing it to her face. "He never did those things back then, did he?"

Ed made a vague sort of gesture with his head and rubbed his hand up and down over her cheek. "Probably?"

5.5) Ed looked down at her little green eyes and frowned deeply. He refused to let her know what Eddy's brother had done to him. He refused to tell her how many nights he had spent letting himself cry because he was scared tomorrow would be the day he started hurting her. He refused to tell her how desperately he wanted to be a good big brother, how he had loved her for as long as he could remember. He refused to tell her how terrified he was to meet her that first day, because he had been convinced at four years old that hurting their younger siblings is what big brothers do, and he desperately wanted to not ever do that. 

She saved him from having to find something safe to say between all those things he refused to say by putting her head on his chest again and whispering, "I'm glad you're my brother, Ed."