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its-a-small-disneyworld-afterall · 6 years

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Battle for the AC

Ten lifeguards huddled around the window, some on their phones, others watching in anticipation from the guard room as the last of the parents and kids walked out of the pool carrying bags, and dropping towels and goggles here and there.

Once the last of them disappeared through the other side of the gate, our manager turned to face us. Her eyes dodged back and forth, preparing the new competition for the week. Tuesdays always meant a veteran lifeguard got to stay in the cold air conditioned room and count the pool guests, while the rest ended up guarding in the heat. We had four veteran guards, all waiting for their chance to revel in the air condition all day, instead of the mere twenty minutes we had for breaks.

"All right," Briana, my manager, announced, "I've got a few ideas for the challenge today."

Everyone eagerly glanced at Briana. I hoped for something fun, easy, and fair, unlike last week like the texting competition. I was up against three iPhones with my slow flip phone with no autocorrect, so of course I lost that one. There was no way I was going to lose this week.

"Idea number one: we have a push up contest."

Groans echoed in the small room. "We did that two weeks ago! Let's do something new!" One guard shouted. "It's not really fair since most of the veterans work out on a daily basis." The other lifeguards mumbled in agreement.

"All right," Briana said. "How about we just draw rings?"

"That's boring! I need some excitement in my life today, man," my friend shouted. "I'm not about to be bored and burned to death outside."

I agreed. Drawing rings was the losers way out. I wanted some epic or silly competition today. Something that would get everyone pumped and ready for a few hours of dealing with running children, complaining parents, and the blazing sun.

Briana sighed, and her eyes skimmed the room, landing on the fridge. A smile crossed her face as she asked, "How many popsicles are in the freezer?"

Diego, closest to the fridge, opened it up. His eyes moved up and down while he counted. "Well, leftover from group lessons and private lessons combined, I'd say there's about twenty or thirty. I lost count actually around twenty."

"Perfect. Hand me two of the lime ones from the off brand Otter pops," she held out her hand. Diego handed her the popsicles, and she turned to face my other coworker, Anna, and I. "How do you two feel about a popsicle eating contest?"

"Sure," I said. I ate at least eight popsicles every two weeks, this couldn't be too bad. Plus, there really is no horribly awful popsicle flavor out there.

"I guess," Anna said, rolling her eyes.

The other two veteran guards complained, "How come we don't get to do it?"

“You two got to be Cash and Attend last week since I wasn't here. So you're out for the week," Briana said as she chopped the tops off of the popsicles.

Our manager grinned and tossed the bright green popsicles to us. Anna caught hers with no problem. My popsicle soared through the air, bounced off my chin, slipped through my fingers, smacked my foot, and slid across the tile. It got stuck underneath the fridge.

The entire room erupted into laughter, one of my coworkers shouting out, "Wow, you've been a total butterfingers all morning."

"It's just not my day," I snapped back, while retrieving my popsicle. Once it was safely in my hands again, Briana announced the rules:

1. First one to finish their popsicle wins.

2. No pushing, shoving, or knocking the popsicle out of each other's hands. No one outside of the competition is allowed to interfere.

3. To win, the whole popsicle should be gone. No little bits on the floor, and no leftover juice.

Simple enough. I just needed a way to figure out how to avoid the brain freeze waiting for me at the end. That seemed to be my biggest priority. On the bright side the lime popsicle wasn't too bad of a flavor, even if it was the most generic store brand you could find. I could probably eat three or four of these if I really wanted.

Anna and I stood a few feet apart. She took a seat on the steps leading up to the office area, while I stood by the sink, shaking nervously. I had no idea why I was nervous. I just wanted to win. Everyone else took a step back, and one of my other coworkers started taking bets. Most had bets on Anna. The minute the room fell silent, all eyes turned to us. The clock on the wall ticked louder and louder, my breathing rattling inside my head, until our manager yelled "GO!"

Without a moment to lose, I shoved the biggest piece of popsicle into my mouth. In two big bites, I cut the piece into threes, letting it melt against the roof of my mouth as I shoved another piece in. My mouth was full, like I was playing another game of Chubby Bunny. The flavored ice attacked my front teeth, stinging them with frozen sweetness. The freezing sting brought tears to my eyes, but I continued to melt and chew, melt and chew, melt and chew. I had a routine now. It made things so much easier.

Everyone's cheers and encouragements drowned as I grinded the popsicle between my teeth. I fought every brain freeze creeping its way into my head. They continued, pounding against my head, knocking over and over again. Hello I'm here. It's time to slow down, take it easy, take a break. I kept eating. No time to relax. The brain freeze finally broke through, but it couldn't stop me. I needed that air conditioned room more than anything.

I glanced down at my popsicle, realizing I had a small piece half the size of my thumb left to go. So close, and yet so far. I swallowed the tiny pieces in my mouth, and took a half a second to spy on Anna. She still had about half of her own popsicle to go. I could still win this. This was it. My time to shine for the first time that summer. Victory was just a large bite of lime popsicle away.

Carefully, I slid the final piece up the tube towards my numb mouth. In the excitement and anticipation of victory, I squeezed the tube too tight, launching the green popsicle piece into the air. Everything in that few seconds slowed down. The piece slapped my chin with a cold stickiness, barely an inch away from my mouth, and fell to the dirty, pool-water soaked floor.

SPLAT.

Everyone froze. Noise ceased. I stared longingly at my almost-to-victory prize, lying there on the dirty floor. A floor that most likely hasn't been cleaned all summer, covered with dirt, chlorine, and constantly walked on with bare feet.

There was only one thing to do. I decided in a split second to invoke the infamous five second rule, no matter how disgusting that floor was. I had to do it. A few of my coworkers realized what I was about to do, but they were too late to stop me. My mind was set on winning.

Bending down, I plucked the last piece of popsicle from the pool-soaked floor and popped it in my mouth. The ice crunched against my teeth as the guard room fell silent. Then in a cacophony, everyone burst into a chorus of "OOOOOHHHHHHHHHH" and "I CAN'T BELIEVE SHE ACTUALLY DID IT!" Chaos engulfed everyone. They ran out of the guard room shouting, screaming, and cheering their heads off. Anna silently tossed her own popsicle in the garbage.

They declared me the winner, and Briana tossed me the purple marker. "Choose your spot in the AC." Smiling, I climbed up to the whiteboard, carefully looking over the two positions. I wrote my name next to Cashier. I only had to check off people as they came in, which meant I had plenty of time to write and read, rather than the normal twenty minute breaks. I set the marker down, trying so hard not to boast about my win. But on the inside, I was jumping up and down, repeating I won! I won! I can't believe I won!

The cold AC blasted on me while I pulled my notebook out of my locker and set the attendance sheet on the counter. Anna glared at me. She flicked her hair behind her and grabbed her equipment. The other lifeguards filed in after her still talking about how gross yet awesome my victory was. They grabbed their umbrellas, cones, and masks, laughing as they set off to set up their stations. I settled down in my seat, waiting for the signal to throw open the heavy door and allow the guests to pour in. Today, the AC belonged to me.

And it was worth it.

#non fiction #nonfiction #creative nonfiction #cnf #meek writes CNF #writing #writers on tumblr

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builder051 · 6 years

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The best of what’s around, chapter 6

A collab with @anonyony1

This story features my (Laur’s) character Troy and Lux’s Ozzy and Julian.

TRIGGER WARNINGS for mentions of drug/alcohol abuse, withdrawal, past trauma, and mentions of death.

There’s a lot of illness and emeto as well.

Part 6 of 13.

_____

“I hope so,” Troy says. He presses his stump over his mouth as he swallows hard, ensuring the water stays down for at least a few moments. “It doesn’t seem like I was down and out for more than a couple days when I did this last time. But...it’s hard to really remember.” He lets out a long, slow breath and fights a hiccup.

_____

“You’re holding it together a lot better than I did,” Julian says, “So, I mean, there’s that.” He doesn’t know if he’s very good at comforting others. Ozzy is much more comforting than he is, he thinks. Even though Ozzy wouldn’t be caught dead anywhere near Troy right now voluntarily. “You should be proud you’ve made it this far,” he says. Then he hums, “I mean, I guess you didn’t have much choice, but… maybe that’s for the best.”

“Yeah, it...it definitely is,” Troy says. He scrubs at the grit in the corners of his eyes. “If I were back at school…” He shakes his head again. “I don’t know what I’d be doing. I was supposed to get back yesterday. I wonder if they...wonder where I am.” Troy realizes he hasn’t checked his phone in nearly a day. But he can’t quite bring himself to care. The part of his mind that wishes he was dead flares up, aided by the chemical imbalance in his cells and the wanging pain in his head.

“I’m sure they do…” he says, measuring his words carefully, “Is there someone I can call for you?” Julian asks, glancing around the bathroom. He’s uncertain of where Troy’s mind is or what he’s thinking. Does he have friends? Should people be worried about where he is? He can usually tell what people are thinking, but not now. He’s not even sure if what he’s offering is useful at all.

“I, well, I don’t want my parents to know this is happening. Again,” Troy sighs. Nausea builds, tightening his jaw and making him feel hot around the collar. He swallows hard, trying to convince himself he can keep down the water he’d swallowed. “I shouldn’t have taken my last dose so early yesterday, but, I was staying at their house, and I just...didn’t have any other choice.” He takes a deep breath and asks, “What is it, Monday now?”

“You’re a good guesser,” Julian smirks, “it’s about 6 am now.” Julian yawns, fighting the urge to stretch. He’s very tired, but he knows that Troy is even more so. He’s surprised that Troy hasn’t passed out by now, to be fair. “How’s the water sitting?”

“Um. Well, it kind of feels like it’s just sitting…” Troy gestures vaguely to his throat and chest. He feels like if he tries to drink any more, it’ll immediately come back up. He’s not sure if what he’s managed counts much for hydration, though.

He shifts his foggy thoughts, trying to figure whether he’s answered Julian’s last question. Troy thinks his phone is probably in his car, tucked somewhere in the cab or in his duffle of dirty clothes. His roommate won’t care where he is. He’s probably too high himself. Troy’s parents will be disappointed about the lack of check-in text messages, but his silence won’t tip off alarm bells. They’ll assume he’s off tarnishing the family name at a rally or something. If he’s missed a text from Frances, though… Troy hopes he hasn’t. His sister worries at the drop of a hat. His heart sinks a little as he recalls their years-ago promise not to keep secrets from each other, even if they both keep some from the rest of the family.

“I need to call my sister,” Troy says suddenly, convicted in his decision even though the anticipation of explaining himself makes his gut twist. He shifts up onto his knees as if he’s going to stand up, but that’s as far as he makes it before the water comes tearing up his throat. He barely has time to turn to the toilet, and most of the meager stream of sick ends up on the seat.

Julian gasps at first, caught a bit off guard by the sudden attempt at standing and the mess now covering the toilet. It’s only a little though, although he thinks that’s a bit unfortunate as well. “You okay?” he asks Troy, who is now looking even more dazed than before. “I’ll get the phone for you, don’t try and move right now, alright?”

Troy fights the urge to dry heave and nods weakly. “God, I’m sorry,” he mutters. Then, “Yeah, I, uh…” He doesn’t feel like he can move anyway. The dizziness is back with a vengeance. It’s a sure sign he needs to take another swig from the water bottle, and he promises himself he’ll do it soon. He imagines he’ll be promising Fran the same thing once he gets her on the phone. Troy’s heart pounds, and he’s not sure whether it’s from the continuous vomiting or delayed embarrassment or apprehension of what’s to come. It’s probably a combination of the three. Troy stretches his stump arm out on the side of the toilet seat that’s not spattered with water and bile. He buries his face in his elbow and wills himself to calm down.

Julian blinks, nearly out of his element. Ozzy is better at dealing with emotions than he is, but probably just the sight of the bile would make Ozzy gag himself. Julian wishes he were more in tune with emotions, but he’s never been before. Nevertheless, he crouches down beside Troy and places a tentative hand on his shoulder, worried that the touch might throw Troy over the edge. “Hey, look, it’s not a big deal, okay? I know this is all really overwhelming, but it’s going to be okay. I’ll clean that up in a minute. Just breathe, alright?”

“Mm. Ok.” Troy feels like crying. He knows he’s experiencing mostly the strange workings of a body and mind starved of chemicals upon which they’ve become dependent, but he can’t seem to shake the perception that somewhere in the ache in his head and stomach is the seed of a fatal flaw in his character. He’s been so self-centered for the past few hours that he’s completely forgotten everyone else’s feelings. He doesn’t like being that person. Maybe this unexpected push towards getting clean is a positive after all. He needs a wake-up call badly.

“Don’t pass out on me,” Julian says, he’s halfway lighthearted about it, but he’s verging on serious. “Where’s your phone? Do you know?” he asks. He senses that Troy’s emotions are raw now, and he can tell he’s on the verge of breaking down. He doesn’t want that. He hopes getting him on the phone with his sister will alleviate some of those feelings.

“In the car, I think. Somewhere,” Troy says. He realizes his answer is unhelpful at best. “It’s, um…” He has to pause to breathe before forcing out more words. “Either in the front, or...in my bag in the backseat. A white iPhone?” Apologizing for his lackluster description would be a waste of breath at this point.

Julian nods, “Okay, I’ll go look… just, um, stay here,” he says awkwardly. Troy isn’t going anywhere even if he wanted to. Julian hurries from the bathroom and down the stairs. The purplish grey of morning always makes him feel more tired than he is.

He heads out of the front door shoeless, the muggy morning air makes him feel even heavier. He opens the car door and peeks inside, looking in the front first before checking for a bag. He finds the bag sitting in the back seat and the phone just inside the front pocket. He decides that it’s probably a good idea to bring the bag in; he’s certain Troy will want a change of clothes after his stomach calms down. Julian slings the bag over his shoulder and slams the car door, heading back into the house. He climbs back up the stairs and pulls the phone from the pocket.

“Can you do it, or should I?” He asks, announcing his return to the room.

“I’ll do it,” Troy says shakily. He sits upright slowly and wipes his sweaty palm on his borrowed pants before reaching out to take his phone. “Thanks.”

As soon as he gets to the lock screen, he sees a half-dozen messages, most of them from Frances, and still dotted with her signature smiling emojis even though they’re concerned in content. Text me back as soon as you get this. Have you made it back to campus yet?

Troy sighs and opens his contacts. His thumb hovers over Fran’s name as he situates himself to lean against the tub. He glances uneasily up at Julian. “Can you, um… Can you stay?” Troy asks. He doesn’t trust himself to be able to force out the words if he’s left alone.

Julian furrows his brow. He can’t place how Troy seems to be feeling. Afraid, he’d say, if he was confident in his ability to gauge emotions. “Absolutely, I will,” he says with a nod. He steps back over to the edge of the bathtub and sits down. He cozies up with his back against the wall, as if to prove to Troy he’s not going anywhere.

“Thank you,” Troy says. He keeps his stump arm folded over the clen edge of the toilet seat so he doesn’t fall backward as he moves attention to things other than just sitting up. “I, uh…” Troy grapples with words, feeling he owes Julian an explanation. “We just look out for each other a lot. I, well, I really dropped the ball, letting, you know, other stuff get more important.” He shakes his head enough to fluff his hair out of his eyes and presses the call button.

Julian nods, he wishes he were close with his brothers at all. He’s a bit amazed at the idea of going a few days without speaking to them being a sign something is wrong. He hasn’t spoken to his brothers in months. “It’s okay, I’m sure she’ll understand,” he says.

Troy barely hears Julian’s response as he brings the phone to his ear and listens to it ring. It stops after two, and Fran’s friendly drawl picks up. “Hello?”

“Hey, Frannie,” Troy says, wishing his voice wasn’t so weak and rough. “I’m real sorry I missed you.”

Frances doesn’t say ‘that’s ok,’ or some other platitude. It’s not ok, they both know it. “You don’t sound good,” she says.

“Yeah, I’m...not feeling so good,” Troy admits. Anxiety battles with nausea in his chest.

“What happened? Where are you?” Frances asks.

“I’m, uh…” Troy pauses and bites his lip. “There’s some stuff I haven’t told you. I’m sorry.”

“You’re back on the pills, aren’t you?” Frances’s voice goes hard. “Troy, you could’ve talked to me before it got that bad. You know that.”

“I’m taking care of it,” Troy says. He drops his forehead back to his arm, willing himself not to cry. “God, Fran, I’m so sorry.”

“I know,” Fran sighs, warmth coming back to her tone. She can’t stay mad at him, not for the life of her. She’s never been able to. Troy knows he doesn’t deserve that kind of love and support. “Where are you?” she asks. “Did you make it to your dorm last night?”

“Um, well, not quite,” Troy says. He doesn’t know where he is exactly. The memory of stopping off with a flat tire may as well be a year old. “I’m uh, staying with some friends?” He half-glances at Julian, but the strain makes his eyes hurt. “Just till I, um. You know. Dry out.”

“Do you want me to come get you?” Troy can practically hear Fran picking up her keys.

“No, no, I--” He fights a hiccup. “I don’t want you to see me like this. I’ll be alright. I’m gonna do better, Fran. I promise.”

“You really don’t sound good,” Fran almost laughs. “But I know you’re trying hard. Call me, ok? Call me tonight.”

“Ok,” Troy says. “I will. And Fran… I’m real sorry.”

“Don’t worry, ok? Let me do that.” She does laugh this time. “Call me later.”

“Alright. Bye.” Troy lowers the phone to his lap, not sure whether he wants to weep to vomit. The feelings of guilt are stronger than before, but a new motivation to really change himself thrums in him as well.

Julian shifts on the edge of the bathtub, his bottom hurting against the hard porcelain. He’s trying to think of how to break the silence, or if he should at all. “You alright, Troy?” he asks after the phone is on Troy’s lap. It sounded like it went alright, but Troy doesn’t look any better than he did a few minutes ago. If anything, he looks worse.

“I let her down, bad,” Troy mutters. “She’s just too nice to say it.” He reaches for the water bottle and takes a rough swallow. “And I just...feel bad.” He means emotionally, but his stomach cramps, so he adds, “And sick.”

Julian doesn’t know how to help him with his sister, but he might be able to help him with the last part. “Do you want a hot water bottle or something? I’m not, uh, I’m not so good with taking care of people… usually Ozzy does that,” Julian says. “And you’re going to make it up to her.”

“I’m gonna try,” Troy says. He leans over the toilet bowl and shoves his hair back with his shaking hand. “I’ve got to kick this first.”

#my ocs #oc fic #anonyony1 #Troy DeHaven #julian #ozzy #sickfic #emeto #emetophilia #drug abuse mention #withdrawal

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mariequitecontrarie · 6 years

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One Thousand Blessings: A Macelle Fic

Summary: Catching a thief red-handed two days before Christmas is the last thing Joseph MacAvoy expects headed into the holidays with his wife, Belle, especially when the robber in question turns out to be a little boy with blue eyes and tousled blonde curls he can’t seem to forget. Meanwhile, seven-year-old orphan Nicholas Parrish is hanging onto the dregs of hope for a Merry Christmas, and Belle has a bright idea—and a Christmas secret—of her own. Rating: T, for now A/N: Sequel to Morning Glory, my @maydaymenagerie. Maybe you’re thinking “Really, Marie, a Christmas story in January?” I’ve been planning this for a while, but with the holidays and the stomach flu running rampant at our house…yeah. This is Part 1. I think there will be 4 Parts.

Read on AO3

DECEMBER 23rd: STORYBROOKE SODA AND SUNDRIES The slap of Joseph’s hand against the front door is sharp and cold.

His palm stings with the contact, clammy skin sticking to the icy surface and his breath fogs the glass, obstructing his view of snow-covered Main Street despite the morning sunshine. His other hand shoots out to wrap his knuckles around the door handle, locking his arms around a four-foot boy with a suspicious lump in his coat.

Unless the kid ducks back into the store and heads into the back where Clark, the pharmacist, is standing guard by the employee door, there’s no way out.

Joseph looks down, pinning the back of a curly blonde head with a solemn stare. “What are you doing, son?”

“Uh, nothin.” For a moment, the boy’s shoulders slump. Then he turns his head, smoky blue eyes flashing with defiance, his ragged breath fogging the glass alongside Joseph’s.

Joseph frowns, his fingers cupping a small elbow in a coat too thin and threadbare for a Storybrooke winter. He slides his hand upward, gripping a surprisingly meaty bicep for one so young, and gently takes hold of his shoulders to steer him back toward the inside of the store. There is resistance—sneakered feet squeak against the tile floor, but after a moment the boy relents and turns around.

“What?” the kid asks, playing dumb. His eyes flicker briefly over Joseph’s before hitting the floor.

Joseph tilts the boy’s chin up to examines his heart-shaped face—full cheeks, a jaunty chin, and a smattering of freckles. He’s a sturdy little thing, looks to be around six or seven. Not that he would really know.

It’s a rare occurrence to find a thief in a small, affluent town like Storybrooke. Back home in the squalid city of Middlesbrough, north England, where he’d been raised and trained in the priesthood, catching a kid pilfering cigarettes or booze to use or sell off would have been typical.

But here in Storybrooke, most family units were intact, small business thrived, and people had the means to care for their own and share with others. Even the scant handful of children who live at the convent with the sisters have full bellies and enough supervision to keep them from running through the streets and making trouble.

As for Joseph, departing England also meant abandoning his vocation and leaving a life of loneliness behind. Last year, through a series of unbelievable events and thanks to a peculiar angel named Merlin, he’d become the owner of this convenience store where he used to work stocking shelves, and somehow been blessed to marry Belle French, town librarian and love of his life.

Belle. Thoughts of her draw an instant smile to his face and his cheeks heat with pleasure. His wife has such a way with people; she would know exactly what to do with a little boy who was caught stealing. Joseph imagines her now, crouching down until she was right at his level, eyes sparkling with mirth. She would introduce herself, then lead him away by the hand to read a children’s book featuring the perfect moral at the end of the story. After a scant handful of well-meaning question, the child would fall in love with her natural curiosity and the musical trill of her laugh, and all the details of his life would come tumbling out in a jumble of words and emotions.

At least, that’s how it had been for Joseph.

But Belle isn’t here. The boy is stuck with him—an awkward ex-priest-turned-shopkeeper—and his relative inexperience with children. Since their marriage, he and Belle had talked about the possibility of children in the future, but it was more of a five-year plan, a distant goal relegated to “someday.” For now, his knowledge is limited to the little ones he sees tugging on their parents’ coats in the store, asking for candy at the checkout, or their shy smiles of gratitude and sticky fingers when he serves them a dish of ice cream. There are also the occasional teenagers who sit at the soda fountain counter, sipping milkshakes and chattering with their friends in a language only they understand, iPhones plastered to their faces.

While he’d been a priest, he was usually too drunk to even notice children. Oh, he’d christened a baby now and then, but young ones never darkened the door of his confessional or came to him for advice. And the parish was too small and the congregation too disgusted with their drunken pastor to send altar boys in for training. What words of love or comfort would he have offered, anyway? What life skills could he have taught, other than to demonstrate the quickest way to the bottom of the bottle?

None of that now. The still, small whisper of God fills his mind, delivering the peace he craves. Those days are over, Joseph, and you are a new creation in Me.

Then give me the words now, Lord, he begs silently. I don’t know what to say or do.

He rakes a hand through his hair and refocuses on the boy, who’s now standing with arms crossed over his chest, scrutinizing him like he’s grown a third eyeball.

Joseph knows one thing; the boy picked the worst time of day to make his move. It’s December 23rd — just two days until Christmas — and for the first time in several weeks the store is quiet, a mid-morning lull in the bustle of the season. It’s strange, really; an hour ago he’d been selling boxes of candy and small toys faster than Granny’s Diner sold stacks of flapjacks during the weekend breakfast rush. Now the place is eerily quiet, and the silence gives Joseph space to think.

What drove this poor kid to rob his store on a Thursday morning? Is it a childish prank, or does a deeper need lurk beneath the surface?

Sympathy floods him, along with a sense of calm. He may not be great with advice or problem-solving, but the Lord has blessed him with compassion and discernment, as well as a listening ear.

Joseph drops his eyes from the boy’s face, nodding at the large bulge in his threadbare jacket that’s tucked securely beneath his little arms, his left elbow nearly poking through the sleeve of his coat. On the security monitor, he’d watched him tuck several items against his chest before cornering him at the front door. He should have stopped him sooner, he supposes, but he was puzzled by the odd collection of items he’d chosen. “Aren’t you supposed to be in school?”

The boy’s gaze shifts, a well-worn navy and grey running shoe poking at a bit of melting snow on the floor. “We’re …we’re on a field trip.”

“Oh, a field trip, is it?”

“Yep.” The kid nods vigorously.

Joseph smiles and runs his hand over his whiskers, pretending to consider. He knows a whopper when he hears one. He supposes that’s one positive attribute he took away from the priesthood. “Where’s the rest of your class?”

“My class? They’re uh…oh.”

“Oh.” Joseph nods knowingly, then clears his throat. “Stealing is wrong, son. It’s also against the law.”

“I’m not your son.”

The arms crossed over his little chest tighten protectively around his ribcage, his lower lip jutting out in a sour pout. But there is a wistfulness in the words, and Joseph’s heart gives an answering pang.

“True enough,” Joseph answers.

His chin jerks up. “Are you gonna call the Sheriff now?” He draws out the words, reluctant.

Joseph smooths his hand over his work apron, thinking.

Sheriff Swan is a close personal friend of his wife’s. She could come in and take over, find out what’s going on with this boy. Within ten minutes, Joseph could make a statement, Miss Swan’s patrol car would pull away with the boy inside, and Joseph would return to running his store. When the clock struck five, he would go home to a hot meal, gaze at the glowing light of the Christmas tree, and tuck himself into bed against Belle’s side.

He shoots a longing look toward the telephone on his desk. But no, calling the police isn’t the right thing to do. It’ll scare the boy away, harden him toward both Joseph and the law—and that’s the last thing he wants. Somehow, he knows God has intended him to help this child, just as surely as he knows his own name. Still, he has to tread carefully, or he will lose the boy’s trust before it’s even been earned.

“That depends, doesn’t it?”

The boy frowns. “On what?”

“Whether you tell me the truth. If you’re honest, you can save us both the trouble of involving Sheriff Swan or your parents.”

The boy opens his mouth as if to say something, then snaps it shut. Joseph shifts toward the soda fountain, trusting his young charge to follow. “Come with me.”

“Fine.” He drags his feet and huffs an impatient sigh, as though Joseph is the one who has done something wrong.

Joseph bites back a smile at his perturbed little face, and waves a hand toward a stool. He ducks behind the counter, then chooses a sundae glass and lifts the cover on the ice cream case. “You, ah, you like ice cream?” he asks, pausing with the scoop in his hand. Oh, please let the answer be Yes.

“Yeah,” he answers, but the boy eyes the red vinyl seat a with distrusting glare before giving it a spin. He glances around the store, as if looking for someone. “The old lady who owned this place before was real mean. Heard she used to poison the kids who came in here.”

Stunned by the bitter claim, Joseph looks up from mounding vanilla bean ice cream into a dish. He almost cracks a stupid joke about serving poison-free desserts, but behind the kid’s suspicious tone lives real fear. And he’s not far from the truth. The store’s previous owner and his old boss, Bedelia Bluementhal, ran the store with an iron fist. Later, she’d been found guilty of accepting bribes from drug companies and selling drugs to children throughout New England. Thanks to the Lord (and the angel Merlin), she was spending the rest of her life behind bars for her crimes.

“She’s gone now,” Joseph confirms. He keeps his voice steady yet gentle, drawing the boy’s attention away from worriedly scanning the aisles, and meeting his eyes. “You don’t have to be scared of her anymore. Sit down.”

“I ain’t scared, Mister,” the boy scoffs.

The tension in his small, hunched shoulders melts like ice cream around the edges of a carton, then he hops onto the stool with an energetic exuberance that only children seem to possess. His eyes remind Joseph of Belle’s favorite blue dinner plates when he sees the sundae, but he doesn’t rush to pick up the spoon. Instead he gives Joseph a long, searching look.

Joseph doesn’t take offense at the way he runs his eyes over his sharp nose and greying, shoulder-length hair, but continues to hold his gaze, letting the boy look his fill. If he were a gambling man, he’d bet his store and all its inventory that in this kid’s experience, nothing is free.

“It’s okay,” Joseph says softly.

The boy nods, almost imperceptibly, and Joseph smothers another smile when he digs into the sundae with gusto, gulping huge mouthfuls of ice cream, hot fudge, whipped cream, and rainbow sprinkles. Melted chocolate dribbles down the side of the glass and puddles on the countertop, and he swipes the goodness up with his fingers and shovels it into his mouth, not missing a drop.

“Good?” Joseph asks as the boy gobbles the ice cream concoction, not really expecting a response. He steps away to shine the chrome fixtures on the fountain, giving him space to enjoy the treat. Instinct tells him the last thing this kid needs is someone watching him eat, like he’s some sort of animal in a cage.

Joseph knows the boy is finished when he hears a soft, contented sigh. He turns back toward the counter. “I’m Joseph. What’s your name?”

The boy scrunches up his face, as if deciding whether to tell. The remnants of the hot fudge sundae are smeared on his chin, his blonde curls adorably tousled. “It’s Nick.”

Joseph can’t contain a delighted laugh. “Nick! Ah, what a grand name. Especially at Christmastime.”

Curiosity leaps into his eyes when Joseph leans closer, and he drops his voice to a just above a whisper as if sharing a secret. Belle says kids love secrets, and he figures it’s worth a shot. “You know, Saint Nicholas is the protector of children. He always gives in secret, alert to the needs of others, and expects nothing in return. That’s a very special name you have.”

“Really?” Nick worries his lower lip. “What’s a-lert?”

“It means he knows what we need even before we think to ask, sometimes before we know ourselves.”

Blue eyes fill with tears, and grubby little balled up fists dash them away in angry swipes.

Joseph drops his eyes to the counter to give the boy privacy, a chance to collect himself. Blindly, he hands him a warm, hot towel scented with lemon, the type fancy restaurants pass out after a meal. Belle’s idea, of course.

Nick mops his face and hands, then slaps the towel back on the counter, now tinged grey and streaked with dirt and chocolate. He sniffles, then picks the towel up again and blows his nose.

When he’s finished, Joseph whisks the soiled towel away and clears his throat. “So,” he begins, keeping his voice low and quiet so as not to attract attention from his staff or other customers, “why don’t you show me what you took?”

Eyes on the floor, Nick unzips his jacket and begins to line items up on the counter with trembling fingers. A red and green fur stocking trimmed in white. Elmer’s glue. A bottle of red glitter. An orange. Peanut butter M&Ms.

They’re trinkets, each item small and inexpensive, except maybe the stocking. Compassion overwhelms Joseph again, along with something else—a strange, tingly sensation he’s never experienced. He braces his hands on either side of the counter, heart tripping over the bizarre emotion.

He absorbs the stillness, waiting for Nick to speak. Other customers have entered the store now and between the thumps of his own heartbeat, Joseph hears the low murmur of voices, the shuffle of feet on the floor, the whirr and ding of the old-fashioned cash register.

Those serious blue eyes find his again, wide with appeal.

“It’s Christmas.” The boy gestures at the pile of loot, and Joseph nods, encouraging him to continue.

“I wanted to make a stocking. The sisters hangs some up by the fireplace.” He presses his lips together, as if fearing he’s already said too much. “But I thought…forget it. It’s stupid.”

“It’s not stupid at all.” Relief floods Joseph, and thanksgiving. A boy who wants a stocking is a boy who hasn’t lost hope. A boy who wants a stocking still believes in the miracle of Christmas.

The sisters.

Nick lives at the convent. Pieces begin to fall into place.

“So see, you can’t call my parents. I have none.” The words come out in a practiced rush, like he’s stood in front of the mirror saying them, reminding himself he belongs to no one.

Joseph picks up the stolen orange and digs into the peel with his thumb, sending a citrus-scented spray across the countertop between them. He separates the fruit and offers a section to Nick.

Nick licks his lips and looks at the segment, hesitating.

The convent takes good care of the children, but special snacks between meals—like a juicy orange in the middle of the morning—are few and far between.

“Go on.” Joseph swallows the lump in his throat and gives what he hopes is an encouraging smile. “There’s no catch. Take it. Growing boys need lots of fruits and vegetables.”

“Orange is my favorite,” Nick mumbles in response, then pops the half-moon into his mouth.

“Mine too.” Joseph eats a piece, then offers the boy another. “Many, many years before you or I were born, Saint Nicholas once knew of a poor man who couldn’t find men to marry his daughters because he didn’t have money. Well Saint Nick, he couldn’t let that stand. He gave all the girls gold, just tossed it through the window. The gold coins landed in their stockings, which were hanging by the fire to dry. That’s one of the reasons we get oranges today. Santa gives them at Christmas as a symbol of the gold that was left in those stockings.”

“Wow. So oranges are like gold.” Nick’s face splits in a gap-toothed grin, dropping his guard for the first time since they met at the front door.

“Something like that.” Joseph grins back, pleased to have wandered onto common ground. Again he finds himself thanking the seminary for grilling him in Church history. “Tell me more about this stocking.”

Nick looks down at the red and green striped sock, the stubborn tightness of his jaw returning. He’s still afraid. Either of being turned in or laughed at, Joseph can’t be sure.

Joseph sighs. “Look, I’m not going to rat you out to the Sheriff, and I’m not calling the convent. You have my word. But trust earns trust. You’ve gotta be straight with me.”

Nick continues to chews his orange with maddening slowness, still saying nothing.

Finally, he swallows the bite and leans forward. “Thought if I had one with my name on it, Santa might come. Last Christmas with Mr. Bailey, he couldn’t find the house.” He looks away. “I’m sorry, Mister. Sorry for stealing. But if Sister Astrid finds out…”

Joseph pinches the bridge of his nose, processing this information. He’s guessing this Bailey guy was the kid’s last foster home, but he doesn’t press him again. Astrid is a kind, compassionate woman and a dear friend of Belle’s, not to mention a fellow former member of the order. “The name’s Joseph, remember? And you’re forgiven. I won’t tell Miss Astrid about what happened today.”

“Thanks, Mister Joe.” His little body sags in relief.

Joe? He barks a laugh. “Joe, huh? Guess I can live with that.” No one calls him by a nickname, not even Belle. No one except…Merlin. But the angel is long gone; he hasn’t seen him in well over a year, and doesn’t expect to again.

An idea hits him, and he looks at his watch. “I hear Santa is going to visit the Storybrooke Public Library today, right around lunchtime. Why don’t you go over there and see if you can share your Christmas list? I’ll bet he’s making something for you in his workshop, even now. Ask for Miss Belle, she’s the head librarian.”

Nick sits up straighter and his eyes ignite with hope. “That’s where my class was going today! The library! But I didn’t know Santa was gonna be there.” Joseph grins, and his chest inflates with pride in his wife and her clever decision to have Santa treat the children to a story before Christmas.

He shuffles to the wall behind the soda fountain, fishes his own grey wool hat out of his coat pocket, then tugs it down over the boy’s shell-pink ears, careful not to cover his eyes. A fringe of blonde bangs peeks out from under the brim. It’s still a little big, but warm enough to keep the winter wind at bay. “If you go now, I bet you can catch Santa and give him your Christmas wishes, but before you leave, I need you to promise me something.”

Nick’s forehead puckers; once again he’s looking for the catch.

Joseph keeps his gaze locked on his, kind yet penetrating. “The hat is yours to keep, and so are these.” He holds up a sturdy, reusable bag containing the once-stolen goods, now freely given, with three extra oranges for good measure. “Promise me the next time you need something from the store, you’ll come to me and ask. No more stealing.” He holds out his free hand. “Do we have a deal?”

“Yeah.” Nick nods and puts his small hand inside Joseph’s and shakes. “Okay, promise.”

The gentle glide of those small, damp fingers across his callused palm makes his knees wobble. Catching his breath, Joseph watches as Nick zips up his coat, hefts the bag of goodies, then heads for the front door.

“Can I ask you one more thing?” Joseph calls, feeling oddly desperate.

Nick peers over his shoulder with a shrug. “Why my store?” It’s a stupid question, really, and Joseph isn’t sure what makes him ask. There aren’t many stores in Storybrooke, and the majority of them sit right here on Main Street.

Another shrug. “I like your sign.”

Joseph feels himself smile. The cheery red and white sign was another one of Belle’s improvements when they’d taken ownership of the place.

Nick breaks into a run and charges for the door, the smack of his hands against the glass making the bell jangle merrily. “Bye, Mister Joe! Thanks for the ice cream and stuff!”

Joseph’s smile widens and he waves, while Nick’s steps along the snowy sidewalk in the direction of the library throw fresh white powder against the front window. He thinks about phoning Belle, imagines her sweet laughter on the line as he tells her about his unusual morning and asks her to look out for a curly-haired boy with a crooked smile. But he can’t do that. He made a promise to Nick, and a promise, once broken, can never be made whole. Closing his eyes, he folds his hands on the counter, still littered with orange peels from the snack they shared. He closes his eyes and prays that whatever Nick’s Christmas wishes are, somehow Saint Nicholas will come through.

###

#macelle #macelle fic #anyelle #anyelle fic #belle x joseph #joseph macavoy #belle french #morning glory series #one thousand blessings #mqc writes

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floatingpetals · 7 years

Text

Ever the Optimist

Pairings: Steve Rogers x OFC (Reagan Carr)

Warnings: Language(I think), fighting, violence, blood, death, angst

Word Count: 3300+

Summary: Reagan’s watched over Steve, letting him adjust to the changes since the Civil War, only allowing herself be the best of friends she could be to Steve despite wanting so much more. Reagan was only so patient. She was tired of waiting, she needed to tell him everything she kept inside. But things always seemed to get in the way.

A/N: So uh... yeah, I’m gonna start off with ‘I’m sorry.’ I’m working on part 6 of Vanish in the Dark, so I pulled up an older one shot I had stashed away to post until I get that part done. Again, I’m sorry. I really didn’t mean to lead it this way. Maybe I could write a second part? But it all depends on what you guys think. Enjoy the read! After post edit because I forgot: I don’t have anything wrong with Sharon, it just fit the story line I made. I’m sure Steve really didn’t think it was strange, and neither did the others think much of it.

The gifs, not mine. Credit to the wonderful owner.

Reagan had always considered herself a patient person. Recently however, she was finding that harder and harder to believe. She knew it would take some time for him to comfortable with having another relationship beyond friendship, especially after his last relationship. Steve’s and Sharon’s breakup wasn’t messy; it simply wasn’t pleasant. Something clicked in the man after several dates, coming to see the how strange their relationship was or as he put it at one point, ‘not for him.’ That was nearly a year and a half ago, and much had happened. Tony had asked for the broken team to come back together, the time apart helping him realize that maybe what Steve and the others had done wasn’t so bad. After all, they did stop a revenged driven man, found a way to eliminate Bucky’s triggers, and even managed to uncover the real reason behind the Accord. Tony even had come to terms that it wasn’t Bucky who killed his parents, at least not willingly. So, he sucked it up and asked them to come back home, no strings attached.

It was awkward at first, especially when Bucky returned from Wakanda. Reagan had joined a month after the group had returned and watched as they fumble their way around another, until finally they slid back into routine. She watched Steve date Sharon, not knowing the whole story between them, but Sam fed her enough to know what all had taken place between the two of them. While Reagan wasn’t fond of the woman, she wasn’t going to be the reason why Steve had his only living memory of Peggy ruined.

Reagan never pushed her feelings on Steve, instead choosing to remain as the best friend that she could to him. It had begun with simple hellos and small conversations as they passed in the hall and common areas. Reagan would ask Steve how his day was, how he was. The first few times, it caught him off guard, he wasn’t often asked about himself. He would recover and respond in kind, finding himself excited to share a few words with her throughout the day. It wasn’t until a rather rough mission that their friendship blossomed into what it was now.

Steve had returned late, exhausted both mentally and physically. Reagan was sitting on the couch reading a book in the living room when the group passed through. They mumbled their good nights before disappearing in their rooms. Steve, however, stood at the end of the couch, his eyes glazed over. Reagan took one look at him to know what he needed. Grabbing his hand, she led him to his room with a soft command to shower, dress comfy and return to the living room once he was done. He followed without a second thought, something Reagan found adorable in how he blindly took her orders.

She gathered his pillows and a few blankets from his bed and hurried back to the living room to get set up. When Steve emerged twenty minutes later he was stunned to see the room transformed. The coffee table was pushed aside, blankets spread out on the floor, and pillows piled up against the couch. The TV pulled up with some show that Reagan had sworn Steve would enjoy watching. Reagan sat at the center, smiling widely up at the tired soldier. It didn’t take any coaxing on her end to get Steve to lay out beside her, a blanket tucked around him and a bowl of popcorn with M&Ms mixed in between the two of them. They spent the rest of the evening binging until Steve dozed off into a peaceful sleep, the first he had had in years.

Since that night, the two were inseparable. Steve would never be far from her, always searching for her in a room. She brought a side out of him he never thought he’d see again, he was happy and so was she. He laughed more, opened more around others, and even seemed more comfortable in his own skin. She introduced him to so many things, taught him how to cook(without lighting the pan on fire) and how to work an iPhone. He still couldn’t figure out the whole emoticon and face timing thing. She would just smile and lend him a hand when he needed it. She was always kind to him, patient when his age started to show. There were still phrases he had never heard, and more were being made each day. Instead of letting it overwhelm him, he hunted Reagan down. She thought it was endearing when he would come up to her looking like a lost puppy.

Another thing she noticed was Steve always seemed to have to be touching her, whether it was a gentle hand on her waist when they stood in the kitchen, or gently touching her thigh when they were cuddled up on the couch watching a movie. Reagan would smile each time he’d unconsciously brush a hair from her face, not wanting to bring attention to the small habit he had built. It was a comforting touch to him, it kept him grounded. It helped that she also loved the attention she got from him in those moments.

The others teased they had something going, but Steve would always smile at them and shake his head. She was a friend, and one he wasn’t willing to lose. He kept everything to himself, ignoring the butterflies in his stomach, and pretended he wasn’t watching the way her hips would sway as she would leave the room. He wasn’t ever going to act on it, no matter how much his heart hurt in his chest when he thought of one day her finding someone else. She was too important, too special. So he went about what he was doing, spending as much time as he could with her.

They’d have several more nights spread out in front of the TV, going through the list of shows and movies. Sometimes Bucky would join, the first time a bit awkward as he settled on the other side of Reagan. But after the third movie and second tub of popcorn, Bucky was sprawled out, forcing Reagan to shift a bit closer to Steve to give the man room. After that he would pop in from time to time, sometimes dragging Sam or Natasha along with. Reagan never minded the group that suddenly grew, though she did miss having alone time with Steve. She had to admit, her favorite nights were when Tony and Bruce would join in. Tony would spend the whole night throwing popcorn at Bruce, seeing how long it would take the man to snap at him to stop. Bruce had mentioned it in passing to her that he didn’t mind, it meant he didn’t have to reach for the bowl when he wanted popcorn.

Occasionally Reagan and Steve would find themselves alone, the group sensing they wanted their own time together. It was times like that that Reagan didn’t mind living with a group of trained assassins and spies that could sense social cues. She never would tell them to leave them though. As tough as they might seem out on the field, they really were a fragile bunch that needed the comfort from one another. Unfortunately, it almost meant she was too.

Reagan wanted to tell Steve, she really did. But it seemed like every time she tried, something would come up. The perfect example being hours ago. Reagan had everything planned out, right down to where she practically cornered Steve. But right as she was about to ask him, Tony had chimed in through the speakers.

“We have a mission! Meeting room. Both of you. Now!”

Reagan visibly deflated, and Steve only thought it was because of knowing they’d have a mission. He didn’t know she had things planned, no one did. Ignoring the frustration mounting in her, Reagan followed Steve to the briefing room.

She supposed she would simply have to wait until they got back. Reagan snorted at that thought. Ever the optimistic. The mission was supposed to be simple, they had a lead there was important intel hiding in an abandon Hydra hideout. A supposed Hydra hideout. In hindsight, the lead wasn’t from the greatest source, but they were desperate for whatever was in this building. Reagan hadn’t listened when Tony explained just what it was, and now she was wishing she had. They managed to enter the hideout without a hitch, but once they went down to the underground bunker, they realized just how ill-informed they were. The hideout was still in use, the empty ground level hiding the activity that was waiting below.

When the group broke through the lower doors, all hell broke loose. Reagan and Natasha somehow got separated from Steve and Clint and then Reagan quickly found herself separated from Natasha. That’s how she found herself, half an hour later, cowering behind stacks of boxes in a backroom. The others were still fighting the Hydra agents, struggling to group together. Natasha found Clint, who directed her in the direction of Steve. They had already called for backup, or at least a quick ride out of there once they found Reagan. But that wouldn’t be for another two hours before the jet’s would land. Reagan doubted they would make it that long trapped down here with the never ending supply of enemies. She wasn’t sure she would make it much longer either.

She could hear the agents running around, angrily shouting to each other to find her. They demanded that she be found, and Reagan could only shutter at the thought at what they do once they did. She was trapped and couldn’t answer Steve, only tapping the com so that he’d know she was still living. With each minute that passed, Reagan could hear the mounting anxiety grow in the soldier. Little did she know he was in his own living hell.

The seconds that passed of not knowing where she was, not having her by his side, Steve could feel his sanity slowly slipping away. He hadn’t felt this level of anger since the fight with Tony. He was quickly coming to realize that Reagan meant so much more to him than even he let on. He struck down any agent that came at it, his mind turning dark. The longer she was missing, the more danger she was in. So he fought on, swinging punches and picking up the guns to clear out paths. Natasha made the mistake of commenting on his shift, nearly finding herself thrown into a wall. It quickly dawned on Natasha and Clint, Reagan really did mean more to him than any of them thought. They needed to find her quickly to bring their Captain back.

Meanwhile, Reagan hadn’t meant to shift so much, but her leg was falling asleep. Her back bumped against the boxes, and one was stacked too close to the edge. The box fell off from the top, a loud slam echoing through the room. Even over the blare of the alarm signals, Reagan knew someone heard the crash. She cursed under her breath, but the group heard the sound through the com.

“Reagan, baby, where are you?” Steve croaked. He was struggling not lose it, and her sudden curse didn’t help settle him any.

Reagan didn’t answer, instead tucked further behind the boxes. She struggled to breathe, and her hands shook from the fear. The shouting grow closer, she could hear them trying to open the door she jammed shut. It sounded as if they were throwing themselves against the door, the boom echoing in the small store room. Again, Reagan cursed.

“Reagan!”

Sucking in breath, Reagan knew she wasn’t going to have much time left.

“Steve, I’m okay. It’s okay.” Reagan didn’t even believe herself, but she needed to calm him down. She flinched at a particular slam, and she knew they heard it through the com.

“Reagan, where are you? What’s going on?” Steve yelled. He needed to find her, he had to. He struck down another agent from another never ending wave. When he finally cleared enough of a path, he used his shield to run down others. Natasha and Clint cover his back while he lost himself in his anger. Steve charged through the halls, searching for an sign of Reagan. It wasn’t until he turned the corner of one hall that he saw a group struggling to open a door at the end. Instantly, he knew where she was.

“Hey!” He shouted, pulling their attention from the door. Reagan heard his scream, and she almost sobbed in relief. Relief that was short lived. Half the agents went after to block Steve, while the rest continued on the door. They were so close, the door groaning in protest as it bent to unjam.

Steve brought the few down that charged at him without a moment’s hesitation, his anger growing with each punch. The blood rushed to his ears and he struggle to catch his breath. They were keeping him from Reagan. Those that struggled with the door grew frantic as Captain America grew closer. One of them threw himself at the door in a final effort. The door swung open at his weight, breaking open after the many attempts.

Reagan shrank further behind the stacks, her heart beat loud in chest. She didn’t dare look over the boxes, she knew it wasn’t Steve. She could hear Steve, a roar reverberating through the halls. Reagan didn’t understand why, she couldn’t see the way the two at the door raised their guns to the room. The agents didn’t bother to search the room, they weren’t given orders to keep any of the Avengers alive. The two agents opened fire, aiming through the stacks of boxes right as Steve threw his shield. He prayed it wasn’t too late, that whatever God was up there would be kind.

The scream of agony that came from the room, that mirrored the one in the com proved he was too late. For a split second, Steve felt his heart stop. And then the monster he kept locked away came roaring to the front. He didn’t remember grabbing the first man, or throwing him full force into the wall. He didn’t hear the snap of the man’s spine from the angle he hit the wall, but if he knew he would have hardly cared. Steve had no recollection of grabbing the second, who was watching in frozen horror at the rage behind Captain America’s eye. Steve only remembered Natasha grabbing his arm, stopping him from continuing to beat in the agent’s face. Red cover his fists, and he knew it wasn’t just the agents blood mixed in the red. The agent’s face was marred beyond recognition, the life of the man having been beaten from him several punches earlier.

Steve dropped the body in horror, his stomach nearly turning in on itself. Natasha gave him no time to focus on what he had done.

“Steve, Reagan needs you.” She ushered him into the room, standing at the entrance to guard the hall. Without a seconds hesitation he bolted into the room, calling out for Reagan amongst the pile of boxes. A faint whisper of his name was his only answer in the room. He was grateful for his super human hearing, surely he would have missed it, and moved around the boxes towards the sound. His heart stopped when he saw her hand first, and then the pool of blood that she laid in.

“No.” He gasped, stumbling to her side. He fell to his knees heavily, immediately searching for the wound. Blood seemed to be flowing from her, her eyes fluttering as he attempted to located the source. Steve had begun chanting pleas under his breath, finding the three bullet holes and applying pressure the best he could.

Reagan could only watch as he struggled, all her strength having left her in an instant. She felt so tired, so cold, the color of the world around her fading to black. But when she saw Steve, it was like all the sounds and colors in the world came back. Even though she fought to breath, her arms felt heavier as she reach a blood cover hand to cradle Steve’s face.

He froze at her cold touch, his eyes turning to lock with hers. Steve’s face pinched, breath coming in rapid succession as he came to realize just why she was using what little strength she had. Reagan smiled as best she could, tears starting to build in the corner of her eye. Everything she wished to tell him was bubbling up to the top, and her time was running thin.

“No, baby. Don’t.” Steve pleaded, holding in the sobs and turned his face to kiss her palm. “Please, just save your strength. We’re going to get you out of here.”

Reagan knew it wasn’t true, she could feel her time coming to an end. The colors Steve brought back were fading around the edges of her eyes, darkness quickly closing in. She had to say what she wanted to say, before it was too late.

As Reagan struggled to find the last ounce of strength, Steve shouted to Natasha to find a way out of here, that Reagan had to live. Reagan was so focused on forming the words, she missed to confirmation of back up. Her eyes never left Steve’s, who was still struggling to stop the bleeding. She didn’t miss the way his blue eyes were rimmed with red, tears having begun to spill from the corners. She focused on him, and missed the sounds of familiar voices coming closer towards the end of the hall. She didn’t miss how her heart began to slow, the pain she had felt slowly fading away.

“Steve,” She croaked. Hesitantly, he turned towards her. This couldn’t be happening. “Steve-I need- I need to- to tell you-“

Reluctantly, Steve pulled a hand away from her hips wound to cradle her face. He shushed her gently, but was stopped once more by her broken voice.

“No- I need- need to.” It hurt to talk, the pain returning as quickly as it left. She was seeing spot in her vision, and she knew it was now or never. Gently stroking his cheek, she said what she had been wanting to say to him for months. “I love you.”

Steve’s eyes widen, and he did the only thing he could think of in the moment. Dipping his head down, he pressed his lips against her quickly cooling ones. At first she responded, gentle and comforting. But then a horrible moment later, he felt her lips go slack. He watched in horror as her hand slipped down his cheek, and falling limply to the floor.

“No. No. No! No!” His fingers fumbled to her neck, searching for proof she was still living. Captain America didn’t care as the tears he had kept at bay streamed down his face. He didn’t care that his screams tore the small store room. He refused to let her go, cradling Reagan closer with each sob. Not even when Tony and Bruce rushed to his side did he let them take.

Natasha stepped up, prying his fingers from Reagan’s body as she tried to reason with him. He needed to let her go, they might have a chance. Steve shook his head begging for Reagan to come back. It wasn’t until Bucky emerged and connected his fist with his best friends head did his grip loosen. Steve’s cries of agony were cut short, and the last memory he had before darkness overcame him was the limp body of Reagan being lifted from his grip, her hand falling limply to the side.

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t4a4m4a · 6 years

Video

SinoAlice x Space Invaders collaboration set on 9/25.

The teaser video of the collab was shown during the daily login, then after the

announcement of the collab was made on twitter having the collaboration

banner of Three Little Pigs and Kaguya silhouettes together that was shown

from the TV Comemoration!: The Last Heisei Period Summer Livestream. With

the link about what is Space Invaders about on the Japanese website for the

event announcement.

#SINoAlice #SinoAlice x Space Invaders collaboration #I didn't expect it was an arcade game of all popular shooting games #I thought it was aure lane or frontline girls as the popular shooting game #Recorded from the nox app that was installed on the laptop of the sinoalice x space invaders collaboration #After I was caught off guard from the iphone hours ago so ended up opening up the back up acc on nox app from laptop

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adventureis--out-there · 7 years

Text

One Mistake is All it Takes

(Alright. This one I wrote a couple years ago for a scholarship but I thought it turned out rather good so...)

Alissa sat in her glittering red Jeep Liberty outside of her best friend Flynn’s house, her small hand beating at the horn incessantly as she desperately tried to get her friend to hurry up. Flynn strolled leisurely out of his house, his floppy brown hair a disheveled mess atop his head. A lopsided grin was perched on his thin lips as he strolled towards her car, the leisurely pace of his stride only caused the young girls agitation to grow.

“Will you please hurry up? It’s already ten pm. We should’ve been there half an hour ago!” Alissa’s voice was laced with all the annoyance she felt as she shouted out the open passenger door.

“Relax, Lis. People never show up on time to parties,” Flynn said smoothly as he slid into the car, the new leather seats squeaking against the rough material of his faded jeans. Alissa looked down at her phone, blatantly ignoring Flynn’s comment. Her doe eyes widened as she read three missed calls and six missed text messages. She groaned inwardly as she gave her iPhone screen a quick swipe, opening the six messages from her mother.

Please text me when you get there.

Alissa, remember what I said about not drinking and driving. If you feel the need to drink at the party, call me. I will come and get you.

Wasn’t the party at 9:30? Why haven’t you texted me back yet.

Alissa, please let me know you made it safely.

Alissa, this isn’t funny.

The young girl gave the slightest shake of her head as she read the last message. She muttered a few unintelligible thoughts under her breath before she opened her keyboard and began typing.

Relax, mom. I’m fine. Flynn was late. Again. Heading to the party now.

She locked her phone after hitting the blue send button, setting her phone on her thigh as she put her car into drive. Flynn grinned as the overplayed “Cake by the Ocean” song came on the radio, his rough hands instantly reaching out to the volume knob to turn it up. Alissa rolled her eyes in a faux show of annoyance before a small grin broke out across her round face.

“Flynn, you’re ridiculous.” Alissa shouted over the overly loud music but the amused expression on her face contradicted her words. The smile on her face only encouraged Flynn to start shouting along to the lyrics as they spilled from the speakers. Alissa looked over to Flynn, watching as her best friend did his best to dance in the front seat of her car. Unfortunately for him, he was six foot four and had limited room for movement in any vehicle.

After a few moments of watching Flynn, Alissa realized she was slowly swerving into the next lane, her eyes quickly darted back to the road in front of her, her hands gripping the steering wheel tightly. Flynn was off in his own world, too into the music to realize anything had happened. The girl gave a quick shake of her head; nothing had happened she quickly reminded herself, it was 10 at night on a Saturday, and there weren’t many people on the road anyways. She relaxed once more allowing a hand to drop from the smooth steering wheel.

The song ends abruptly as per usual and the station wastes no time in going to commercials. With a small groan, Alissa quickly turned down the music, scrunching her nose in annoyance as an ad for Nation Wide came on.

Flynn rolled down his window, resting his arm on the door, his elbow hanging out. He looked over to the girl in the driver’s seat, admiring the way her dark hair fell in wavy cascades around her shoulders. He had admired his best friend for quite some time now, the way she rolled her eyes at the stupid things he said, the way she laughed when he made a joke and the way she enjoyed life. Alissa looked over to him, her dark brows pulling together in a silent question.

“Alissa, have you ever thought about life?” Flynn asked nonchalantly, his face an emotionless mask. Alissa simply blinked at him, confused by his question. “Like, what you want to do? Who you want to share it with?”

“Flynn, we just graduated a month ago. What I want to do with life is all I’ve thought about,” Alissa stated. Her tone was very condescending, almost like the answer should’ve been obvious to him.

“That’s not what I mean. I mean,” the boy paused as he debated his next words. “Have you ever developed feelings for someone you probably shouldn’t have?” This caught Alissa’s attention, bringing her gaze back to him instead of the dark road ahead of them.

“Who’s the girl?” She asked with a sly grin, clearly ready to meddle in her best friend’s life. “Do I know her?”

“Oh, you know her really well.” Flynn met Alissa’s gaze with his own. The intensity behind his hazel eyes took the girl off guard. She was about to respond when her phone buzzed on her leg. She held up a single finger in response, unlocking her phone to view the message from her mom.

Okay. Drive safe. I love you.

The dark headed girl rolled her eyes but still smiled at the sentiment. She opened her keyboard and began typing.

I will. Love yo

Flynn started shouting causing Alissa to quickly look up; her eyes met bright head lights. She tried her best to swerve, dropping her phone to the floor of the car with a shriek. It was too late; there was no avoiding the other car. She shut her eyes and let out a scream she couldn’t believe this was happening. She didn’t want to die; she had far too much life to live still. Just as the sound of metal crunching filled her ears, she could feel the steering wheel impact her stomach, the glass shattering around her. She released one last breath, trying to let out one last cry for help before the world went black.

The glittering red Jeep was left unrecognizable; it was entangled with the silver hatchback that had been driving down the wrong side of the road at the wrong time. Smoke billowed from the gruesome scene, glass stained with the blood of the two friends and the drunk driver littering the dark streets alongside pieces of the two cars. Sirens filled the silent night as reports of a fatal accident came pouring in. Alissa’s mom, Linda, sat there that night waiting for a text that would never come from her beloved daughter. She would have to wonder for the rest of her life, had she not sent that text, had she not let her daughter go out, maybe just maybe she would’ve gotten another day with her.

#writing #my writing #short story #create real impact #sorry this is depressing

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