#but pig headed they be; so no tossing out single words to latch on to | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

Visit Blog

Explore Tumblr blogs with no restrictions, modern design and the best experience.

Fun Fact

Hackers stole 65M passwords from Tumblr in 2013.

#but pig headed they be; so no tossing out single words to latch on to

talesofstyles · 3 years

Text

Good Morning Indeed

absolutely no plot whatsoever, just a bit of husband and dad harry in the midst of the family’s morning chaos 😂

Harry

“Go get the condom on.”

“I’ll pull out, I promise.”

“Your pull out game is weak.”

“Oi, them’s fightin’ words.”

“There’s a reason we’ve got six kids.” Says the missus with a roll of those pretty—but sometimes deadly (please don’t tell her I said this)—eyes. “‘Sides, I’ve just changed the sheets yesterday. You are not coming on the sodding sheets.”

“Fine,” I sigh and reach down to the bedside table. Why is the drawer filled with sodding Duplo and those tiny, pricey Sylvanian Family bunnies? I’m guessing kid number two, three and four have something to do with that. A few more seconds of rummaging before I finally found my treasure in the very back of the drawer. I lay on my back as I sheath myself up, and seeing as I’m already here… might as well, right? I smirk at her as I say, “hop on then.”

“Fat chance that,” she mutters. “Do I have to take off my top?”

“Nah,” I shake my head, it’s cold, and I’m a considerate husband. “A flash will do. Just give me a visual.”

She rolls up my shirt that she wears to sleep, a really old white rolling stones t-shirt that has two holes and a loose thread hanging on for dear life from the hem. She looks homeless. Gorgeous homeless though.

“Nice,” I flash her a boyish grin, like a teenage boy seeing his first pair of tits. “You’ve got great racks.”

“You’re just saying that…”

I know what she sees when she looks at herself in the mirror and I wish she could look at herself through my eyes.

“Hey, don’t you dare. My babies grew in that body, that’s everything.”

Her tender smile hits me right in the gut. “I love you.”

“Love me enough to ride me?” I say with a playful flick to one nipple.

“Nice try.”

“I love you,” I mutter near her mouth and give her a searing kiss. I run my tongue over her bottom lip, then I kiss her down her neck, her cleavage and her breasts. I slowly circle one nipple, and she giggles, knowing it’s a well-rehearsed move that is guaranteed to do what’s needed. See, her tits are kind of like start buttons. No matter the situation, a little attention to those bad boys switches things around real quick. Her head slams back against the pillow. And she moans, holding my head in place.

We’ve got ignition lads.

I nestle my body on top of hers, and there’s a bit of wayward angling and poking until I find my way inside of her. And then it’s on. Two bodies writhing on the bed. My hips rotate in long, slow circles.

“Bollocks!”

“What? The condom isn’t broken, is it?”

“No, it’s bin day. I forgot to take out the recycling bin.”

“S’fine, we’ve got time before the school run.”

The bin’s sorted, back to the shag…

I slide my hands under her, bringing us closer. Rocking us faster. My forehead hovers close to hers and I open my eyes so I can watch. What can I say? I’m greedy like that. I want to soak up every gasp, every flicker of pleasure across her face. Pleasure I’m giving her.

Her breathing changes. It turns panting and desperate, and I know she’s close. I move harder, grinding against her, inside her, with every forward push. Warms sparks tickle my spine and heat spreads down until every nerve in my body is shaking. I slam inside her, burying deep as her hips jerk upward. She spasms hard around me, gripping me tight.

I rock back my hips and pull almost all the way out, but then I freeze. Because a dreaded sound echoes across the room, grabbing our full attention. It’s coming from the baby monitor. It’s a rustling, the sound of cotton rubbing cotton. Like snipers in the jungle, we don’t move a muscle. We don’t say a word. We wait, until the rustling stops. And all is quiet again.

Too bad it’s not for long. Because two thrusts in, a light comes on in the landing. Followed by small footsteps heading down the stairs. Shit.

“Harry, just come already. They’ll all be up soon.”

“I’m close… don’t rush it, you’re scaring it away.”

She grinds her hips. Also another well-rehearsed move that she knows will get me off. But I freeze again, because there’s a second set of footsteps and the sound of a toilet flushing. Oh, and the babies next door are starting to whimper.

Great.

“I’M HUNGRY!” That’s James, darling little cockblocker number four who likes to be fed on time. He’s three.

“WE’LL BE OUT IN A SECOND!” My wife shouts over my shoulder. “Harry for the love of god-”

I pick up the rhythm. Small beads of sweat form on my brow. She grinds her hips again, and I try to focus. “Just like that, fuck, keep doing that.”

“Sshh, keep your voice down.”

“IS THERE ANY BREAD THAT ISN’T 50/50?” That’s Eleanor, child number two. She’s seven, and she’s one of those children who seem to possess a discernible palate that knows when we’ve changed brands of baked beans or attempt to bring sugar-free fruit squash through the doors.

“IT’S THE SAME,” I reply.

“NO, IT’S NOT. DO WE HAVE OTHER FOOD?”

“THERE ARE SHREDDIES.”

“DON’T LIKE ‘EM.”

“PORRIDGE.”

“I’M NOT A BEAR!”

Honestly, seven-year-olds gunning for a fight this early in the morning can go do one.

The babies are starting to gather volume next door so I try to focus again. It only takes a few more thrusts before ecstasy wrecks my body, making me shudder. I press my lips against her neck as I come back down to earth. But I don’t move yet. I know we should get going because things are already chaotic outside our door, but I just don’t have the will yet. I’m considering going back to sleep for a minute or two. She won’t mind, will she? Well, I’m wrong. Because she proceeds to perform the move that seems to amuse every sodding woman on earth. And causes every man to squeal like a bloody pig. Without warning, she uses her powerful muscle to squeeze my extremely sensitive cock.

Girls, grab a piece of paper and write this down. I’m speaking on behalf of every man to walk on earth here; we hate that. We don’t think it’s funny.

I jerk back, pull out, and roll off her. I try to look annoyed as she giggles, and obviously I fail, because that freshly fucked, flushed-face makes it impossible not to grin back.

“CAN I HAVE JAFFA CAKE?” That’s Victoria, child number three. She’s five, and she’s yelling as she thunders up the stairs.

“JAFFA CAKE ISN’T BREAKFAST,” my wife shouts back as she sits up and hands me a nappy sack. “Harry…”

I wrap up the condom with it and toss it to the bin. “You’ve just taken me life force, woman, give me a moment.”

“CUSTARD CREAM?”

“NO.” We shout in unison.

“HOBNOB THEN?”

“STAY AWAY FROM THE BISCUIT TIN!”

“You want to wrestle a biscuit-hunting kid out of a cupboard and 50/50 bread drama or fussy babies with full nappies?”

“Babies.” I hear a small child get whacked by a sibling downstairs and I feel like I may have got the better deal here.

Next door, the twins are not happy. They’re six months old now, and they’re both teething. Thing one glares at me as I walk into their nursery and thing two stares at me stroppily from the corner of her cot. Their cheeks are scarlet, and thing one proceeds to bark at me like a seal. I pick his warm, sleepy, cuddly body and cradle it close to mine as I lay him down on the changing table. I smell the dampness. It’s definitely wee. He’s soaked through, I think I didn’t tuck his willy in when I last changed him around three in the morning so it sprayed in some upward motion and drenched his clothes. See, this is why girls are better than boys. There’s no way they can pee upwards.

After I put a fresh nappy and a change of clothes, I put him down on the rug so he can wiggle around while I grab his sister and sort her out. After six kids, I’m definitely a pro with baby duty and can practically change their clothes one-handed. The whole thing takes only a few minutes.

I cuddle the babies on each side as I walk downstairs and into the kitchen. They immediately reach out to their mum who’s cracking some eggs as soon as they spot her, knowing she’s the only one who can cure their hunger this morning.

“Uniforms!” She says to the big kids as she takes one baby into her arms. “We’ll do breakfast after. Please, please, please…”

Desperate pleas lead them to saunter out and up the stairs. I follow my wife into the living room and hand her the other baby as she plops down on the couch. She rolls up her shirt and the babies latch instantly. Tandem nursing is harder now that they’re a little older and aware of their surroundings. They’re trying to scratch each other’s faces as they nurse. “Oi, what’s this? You each get a tit, stop fighting.”

They seem to somehow listen to me and have stopped trying to poke each other’s eyeballs. We’ll see how long that lasts. “Finish the eggs?”

I nod. “I’m on it.”

I brew some coffee, finish the scrambled eggs, and pop the slices after slices of bread in the toaster. Breakfast is done just in time as my wife walks back into the kitchen with two full and happy babies. She puts them in their high chairs and I scoop a bit of eggs on each of their trays for them to nibble on.

George appears back in the kitchen clad in his uniform with his also dressed brother trailing behind. We always lay his clothes the night before on his bed and he gets dressed all by himself in the morning. And he’s getting better at it, seeing he only missed a button on his shirt.

“Hi mate,” I say as I fix his button and he flashes a toothy grin at me. I plop him down on the chair, he’s graduated from the high chair now but still uses a booster seat.

“No toast!”

“What do you want then?”

“Chee-yos?”

I nod before I grab a handful of cheerios and set them on his plate next to his eggs. Then I take a few steps back across the table. “Hey, James, set it up.”

He flashes me another toothy grin before he opens his mouth wide and keeps it open. I hold a single Cheerio between my fingers while I bend my knees and bounce my hand as if I were dribbling a basketball. “Three seconds left on the clock, down by one. Styles got the ball. He fakes left, he drives in, he shoots…”

I toss the Cheerios in a high arc. It lands right into his mouth.

“He scores! The crowd goes wild!”

James holds both hands over his head. “Core!”

“Viv stole the biscuit tin, you know? She ate three jammie dodgers upstairs.” Eleanor says as she walks in with book bags and school shoes.

George, seeing his sister walks in, proceeds to open his mouth wide and flashes her the half-chewed eggs on his tongue. It’s his current thing and it annoys his sisters to death. The young’uns think differently though as they double over in laughter.

“Eeewww!” She shrieks. “You’re so gross!”

“VICTORIA, PUT THAT BISCUIT TIN DOWN AND GET YOUR BUTT IN THE KITCHEN! AND GO GET THEM HAIR TIE THINGIES…”

“I didn’t have any biscuits!” She yells and runs down the stairs.

This kid is the quintessential daddy’s girl. She climbs up onto my lap right away, handing me the brush and a hair tie.

“See, poppet, I would’ve believed you if you didn’t leave evidence all over your face,” I arch one of my eyebrows as I sweep a speck of raspberry jam on the corner of her mouth.

“You always do a ponytail,” she huffs.

“Either that or I give you a bowl cut with kitchen scissors. I reckon that fruit bowl will do. Your choice.”

“Can I have some more eggs?” George asks with his mouth full of his last bite.

“God, that’s like your third serving,” Eleanor grumbles.

“Nag.”

At that insult, Eleanor flings a piece of toast like a ninja. Before George can retaliate, my wife gives them both the look.

“Viv, will you at least have some eggs?”

“No.”

“Fine,” my wife sighs. “I’m gonna get changed then.”

I glance at the clock and, well, shit, I should get dressed too. “Can you lot watch the babies and try not to kill each other for the next five minutes?”

“Five quid each?” Eleanor tries to negotiate. “Babysitting isn’t supposed to be free, you know? That sounds like child labour to me.”

Bollocks.

“Two quid each,” I give her my dad look that says the offer is final and indisputable.

“Deal.”

#harry styles #harry styles x y/n #harry styles x reader #harry styles fic #harry styles fanfiction #dad harry imagines #dad harry styles #dad!harry #husband!harry #harry styles smut #harry styles fluff #harry styles ff #harry styles one shot #the styles gang

2K notes · View notes

fandom-imagines-stories · 4 years

Text

Tick Tick Tick

Jason ‘J.D.’ Dean x Reader

Words: 2552

Part One of Two

Summary: After killing your perverted ex boyfriend, you finally learn to accept the dark feelings inside you. J.D. copes with real feelings as you pull him out of the numbnesses of his life.

Notes: This imagine is not for the faint of heart guys. It’s gonna be dark and the reader is not going to be a good person. Murder is going to be depicted as an accepted part of her life and she is going to like it. Both parts of this imagine will be dark and bloody. I mean, it’s J.D. from Heathers. That’s the point. So please please please, if you are uncomfortable, just skip this. It won’t be for everybody.

Warnings: Murder (duh), sex (not smut, but definitly more than I’ve ever done before), language, the whole shabang.

He was dead. Holy shit, he was actually dead. As far as the rest of the town was concerned, Tommy killed himself with a handgun. He’d rather die than spend a single day in prison for molestation and child porn- all of course he ‘admitted’ in his suicide note. Half of his brain was splatter against the concrete outside the football stadium. The other half covered your face.

You could honestly say that you hadn’t expected to kill your ex boyfriend. But you couldn’t exactly say that you regretted it. Hell, you couldn’t get the grin off your face. You looked at your reflection in the bathroom mirror. Ew. You looked like shit. Not only were you covered in blood, sweat matted your hair down from running through the parking lot. You’d also have a bruise from where Tommy slapped you, but you didn’t care. He’d never touch you again. He’d never touch anybody again. You had to bite your lip to keep your smile from growing even more, tasting just a tiny bit of blood on your tongue.

You stripped out of your clothes that you would probably be burning later and stepped into the shower. You turned the heat up until it was scalding. You listened to the water thunder against your skull, massaging the brain matter out of your hair. You didn’t hear the creaking bathroom door open or the click of it closing again. With your eyes closed, you didn’t see the shadow of the figure lurking on the other side of the curtain. You didn’t open them until you heard the curtain being pushed to the side.

You felt your heart start to pound. His green eyes scanned you hungrily as he stepped into the shower, his t-shirt quickly adhering to his chest. Your breathing hitched, his finger tracing your jawline while his other hand snaked behind your back. You pushed down the nervous feelings stirring in your stomach and lifted your chin to confidently meet his gaze. J.D. smirked.

“Hi.” He greeted, his hand slowly making its way up your spine. You didn’t waste a second before pulling his bottom lip between your teeth. J.D., spurred by your enthusiasm, pulled you closer, one hand on the small of your back and the other cupping the back of your head. You pulled apart just enough to peel his soaked t-shirt off his chest, raking your fingers down his torso. Before long, his clothes were discarded beside yours on the floor.

With your bodies pressed together, you could forget about everything. Tommy, your piece-of-shit house occupied by your piece-of-shit mother, and that fucking school that Tommy and his band of rapists disguised as the football team used to rule. With J.D. kissing you, you held the world in your hands. With J.D. fucking you, you threw the world into oblivion.

A couple rounds in the shower lead to a couple rounds in his bed before you finally settled with a post-sex cigarette. With his arms wrapped around you, you took the cigarette from his lips and brought it to yours. He watched you blow out a puff of smoke, watching the grey haze linger in the air for just a moment before vanishing.

That was his life. Briefly existing in a dark cloud of smoke before scattering into nothing. Smoke didn’t feel. It blinded and it choked and it only came when something was burned. Everything he touched went up in flames and he was all that was left behind. He knew that whatever the hell this was would end the same way. And that gave him a weird, stirring feeling in his chest. Shit.

“Do you think they’ve found him yet?” You asked, flipping onto your stomach so you didn’t have to strain your neck to look at him. He shrugged, plucking the cigarette from your mouth and taking a drag.

“It’ll be the talk of the town tomorrow, that’s for sure.” He clicked his tongue and narrowed his eyes at you, trying to read your expression. If there is one thing the six high schools he’d gone to taught him, it was how to read people. “Do you regret it?” You almost laughed.

“Are you kidding?” He raised a brow to tell you he wasn’t. You kept your eyes on his and kissed a freckled on his shoulder. “No. I don’t regret ridding the world of that sad excuse for a human. Besides,” You traced circles around the spot you kissed. “It was, like, self-defense anyway, right? Who knows what that asshole would have done if you didn’t blow his brains out?”

The original plan was to knock him out and drive his car off a cliff. You lured him out by telling him you wanted to get back together with a little blowjob under the bleachers. When Tommy figured out he would be getting off, he got pissed and slapped you. That's when J.D. jumped out from his hiding spot and Tommy turned around to get a bullet between the eyes.

“The only thing I regret is not pulling the trigger myself.” After everything that pig put you through, you would have loved to be the one to send him to hell. J.D. ran a hand from your thigh to the nape of your neck, the motion sending chills across your skin in its wake. You closed your eyes and laid your head against his shoulder.

There it was again. That feeling in his chest that almost made it hard to breathe. What the fuck? Something was tearing through the numbness, making him feel shit that he hasn’t felt since, well, ever. He didn’t feel things. Feeling shit meant he was tied down to something or someone and that was never part of the plan.

He sat up suddenly, letting your head fall onto the pillows. He swung his legs over the side of the bed and walked over to his dresser for a t-shirt and some flannel. After he got dressed, he clapped his hands together and faced you with his usual smug smile.

“Who knew the combination of murder and fucking could work up such an apetite, but I, for one, am starving.” He grabbed a pair of jeans and a shirt, tossing them at you.

“What are these for?” He rolled his eyes.

“Well, darling, we can’t have you wondering town in my bed sheets.” His little term of endearment was said with sarcasm, it still made you smile. You stood, letting the sheet fall around your feet. J.D. bit his lip, starting to regret his hurry to leave. You smirked and pulled his shirt over your head. It was a little big so you tucked it into the jeans and found a belt. J.D. tried to ignore how fucking good you looked in his clothes, but he couldn’t help it. He pulled you to him by the belt loops and caught your lips in his.

“Slushies on me?” You offered, walking your fingers up his chest. He chuckled and nodded.

“Our love is god.”

You didn’t know it was possible to feel like this. If what you felt for Tommy was a spark then this was a wildfire. After grabbing a bite to eat, you went back to his place to burn your clothes, watching the blood stained fabric shrivel into ash. J.D. dropped you off at your house on his motorcycle. It was almost midnight but you knew you wouldn’t be getting any sleep. You stopped at the fridge to grab a bottle of cola among the endless cases of beers.

“What the fuck are you wearing?” Your mother stood in the doorway with a joint dangling from her lips and a half-empty bottle in her hand. You rolled your eyes.

“Why the hell do you care?” She laughed, tossing the butt in your direction. You had to jerk away to keep from being burned.

“You and I are the same, kid.” She took her lighter out of her pocket and flipped it open and shut.

“Fuck you.” You scoffed, moving towards the stairs. Her hand latched onto your arm.

“He’s gonna leave you just like your daddy left me, sweetheart and do you know why?” She shoved you against the wall, keeping an arm on your neck while her other hand brought the lighter up to your face. “Because you are a pathetic whore.”

“Get the hell off of me!” You shrieked, trying to break away. Her arm started to press against your windpipe, making it harder to breathe.

“Say it.” She spat, flicking the lighter on. The flame danced menacingly, inching closer and closer to your left eye. You stared at her with as much malice as you could. “Fucking say it!”

“Go to hell.” She clicked the fire off and pressed the burning metal against the skin of your shoulder. You tried to hold back your scream, but you couldn’t help it. Your mother brought the flame back up to your eye, slamming your head against the wall again.

“Say it!” The heat made your eyes sting, already watering from the searing pain in your shoulder. You leaned towards it.

“I’m a pathetic whore.” You submitted, gritting your teeth.

And just like that, she dropped her arm and walked into the living room like nothing had happened. You broke into a sprint, running up to the upstairs bathroom and hurling up the french fries and coke slushie you had less than an hour ago. Your shoulder was screaming at you, the smell of burned flesh stinging your nose. You felt empty and stupid and worthless. Most of all, you felt weak. You felt the tears stream down your cheeks before you could even think to stop them. You collapsed onto your bed, screaming as your shoulder hit the mattress.

J.D. carefully climbed in your window, silently moving in front of your bed. The gun felt heavier in his hand than it did before. He had to do this. You were breaking through the ice that kept him numb and he couldn’t let that happen. But as he raised his weapon to fire, he heard your sob, muffled by a pillow, but still loud enough to send his mind reeling. There was that damn feeling in his chest again. The feeling that wanted to hold you and never let go, taking down anybody who stood in his way. This couldn’t be what love was. Another cry filled the room and he turned the safety of the pistol back on and tucked it in his waistband. You heard a strange click and looked up.

“J.D.?” You wondered, seeing his figure looming over you. Please, not now. He couldn’t see you like this. Pathetic. Just like she said you were. “What are you doing here?”

“I, uh, I wanted my clothes back.” He lied. He didn’t give a shit whether or not you kept them. In fact, he thought it would be fitting. Watching your blood stain his shirt. Come on, just kill her.

“Oh, right.” You felt your body shrink a little as you slid off of the bed, walking towards your dresser. “Just let me grab something to change into.” You hoped that in the dark room, he couldn’t see the tears on your face. As you brushed passed him, J.D. grabbed your arm, making you cry out as your shoulder jerked back. He roughly pulled you back to him and examined the hole singed into his shirt and the bloody and blackened skin underneath. “I’m sorry about the shirt, I-”

“Did that bitch do this?” He snapped. Seeing your eyes filled with tears set something off inside him. A feeling that was familiar to him. Rage.

“J.D. it’s fine, I can handle her.” You couldn’t let him think you were weak. His jaw clenched and he stormed out of your room, his booming footsteps thundering down the stairs. You quickly followed, figuring he was just running out after seeing how fragile and pitiful you were.

Luckily, your mother was fully passed out on the couch so J.D. wouldn’t have to deal with her intoxicated criticism. Instead of running for the door, he stopped in front of her, pacing back and forth. He had hoped she would be awake. He wanted to see her face as she paid for what she did to you. But he would just have to settle for this.

He rummaged through the drawers until her found her stash of heroin and a syringe. He filled it as much as he could.

“J.D., what are you doing?” You asked, watching him hold out her arm.

“It’ll look like an accident, right? An overdose.” The needle punctured her skin and he injected the drugs into your mother’s bloodstream. She stirred slightly so you had to act fast. You grabbed a pillow from the couch and put it over her face, holding it there firmly until she stopped moving. And just like that, your mother was dead. Similar to the feeling you had when J.D. shot Tommy, any weakness you felt was gone, replaced by pure power.

“She’s dead.” You gasped. J.D. couldn’t read your expression. Were you upset?

“Look, I know that there’s that whole mother/daughter bond thing, but-”

“She’s finally dead.” You laughed, throwing your arms around him. You’d been waiting your whole life to be free of her and now you finally were. “We can get out of here. Run away. Together.” You ran back upstairs to your room to grab a bag. J.D. followed hesitantly. Hearing you say you wanted to run away with him brought back that stupid grip around his chest, squeezing and suffocating until he faced what he feared.

“Y/N, I need to tell you something.” He said softly. You paused. You’d never heard him talk like that before. Almost like he was… nervous. You wrapped your arms around his waist and gave him a smile.

“What’s gotten into-” You froze, your hands brushing against the cold metal tucked into his jeans. You lifted the gun into your hand and backed away. “Why did you bring this?” The look in his eyes told you before any words left his mouth. Then you remembered. The click right before you saw him. It was a fucking gun. You scoffed. “You came here to kill me, didn’t you?”

“Y/N-”

“No, no. Don’t let me stop you.” You put the pistol in his hand and wrapped his finger around the trigger. You sat on the edge of the bed and aimed his arm up at your face. “Do it. You’re afraid that you feel something for me. I saw it when we were in your room. So go ahead, J.D.” You leaned forward so that your forehead was touching the barrel. “Do it.”

There it was. The aching in his chest. The reason he came here to shoot you. Your eyes stared into his and he decided that he wasn’t going to be afraid of this anymore. He controlled it. He tossed the gun aside and crashed his lips into yours, climbing on top of you and lifted his t-shirt over your head. Is this what love was?

Who the fuck knows?

Christian Slater Tag list: @staxryskxes; @adeliness

#jason dean x reader #christian slater #j.d.#heathers #christian slater movies #im obsessed #no one who kills that many people should be allowed to have freckles like that

299 notes · View notes

retirementhomecollab · 3 years

Text

☾ the witching hour

☾ decision: kitchen

☾ warnings: f!reader, alcohol mention

☾ word count: 1.5k

Food. You clutch your stomach, stumbling your way to the kitchen because before you know it, you’ve already taken a pull from a bottle some frat guy handed you.

“Doesn’t that make you a girl cow?”

You whip around to your left as your fingers barely reach the fridge handle, shifting on your feet unsteadily. Your brain feels like it’s suspended in air, like you’re floating around on a cloud but drowning in the middle of the sea all at once. The air is stifling and suddenly you’re smushed between two cowboys you don’t even know, trying to keep your eye on the conversation in front of you because for some reason, it is just that intriguing.

“Bro, they ran out of bull costumes at the store,” the gray haired boy says. “You were literally with me when I bought it.”

The firefighter laughs, a tiny snort ringing through the heavy bass, as he points at the udders on the cow onesie his twin is wearing.

“Why is there a firefighter with a whole farm?” you blurt, waving your finger around the crowd of farm animals. You squint in the lowlight to make sure you’re not making things up, but you’re thrusted towards them and too slow on the uptake to stop yourself from hurtling in their direction.

A hand grips your shoulder, steadying you. “Slow down there,” one of them says - the firefighter? No, maybe it was the cow. “Wait a second - ”

You latch onto the cow’s arm - dare you say it actually feels strong underneath the fabric - before looking up at him. You’re trying to mumble out some semblance of an apology but it comes out all garbled, a mix of “Sorry,” “Thank you,” and “Oh, let me count the spots,” slipping out instead.

“Wait, you know Kita.”

You blink up at him, brows pinching together. “How do you know Kita?” you ask defensively. Have you met this guy before? You can’t even tell with the way your vision is shaking - and you’d normally consider yourself good with faces.

“We all know Kita. He’s actually,” the gray haired boy says, lifting on his tiptoes to scan the crowd in the living room, “our farmer.”

You glance at the eyes staring back at you - a pig, a sheep, a goat, and lastly, a very cute cow - before turning over your shoulder to catch a glimpse of the farmer. You turn to the boy who looks exactly like the cow, except in hair and in costume, lips curling. “Why aren’t you a farm animal?”

He takes a sip from his cup, motioning to his bare upper half. “This is why.” He grins, pointing to the rest of his friends. “They’d set the whole farm on fire if it weren’t for me.”

The cow clears his throat, putting a fist up to his lips as he leans in towards you. “We hate him too.” His breath is hot against your cheek and it sends even more heat rushing to your face. You aren’t sure if it’s you, the amount of people packed in this tiny box, the alcohol, or the cute guy right over your shoulder that’s making you sweat.

The firefighter stands there for a minute before yelling at the guy you’re talking to. “I’m gonna grab another drink,” he says, smiling at someone you think you might know. “I’ll catch y’all later.”

You turn to your left, your nose almost brushing against the gray haired boy’s. You stumble back, and his arm swings around quickly to steady you (again).

Your eyes shift to your right. When had the other farm animals left? You take a good look at the boy in front of you, already shifting away from you and taking a step back.

“Don’t you remember? We met last semester,” the cow says. “Kita and I were studying on campus - ” he glances down at your glazed eyes, pressing his lips together. “I'm boring you, aren’t I?”

You pucker your lips guiltily, eyes drifting to your side. “Not at all.” You aren’t sure who you’re trying to convince, but that wouldn’t discount the fact that you could just stare at his face the whole night and still be hooked. He wouldn’t even have to say a single word.

He leans towards you and you feel your pulse pick up. “You’re not very convincing, you know that?” He scrunches his nose, and you giggle at him, your body acting on its own accord.

“I know why you’re still here,” he sighs, nodding in defeat.

Your brows knit together - what’s that supposed to mean?

“Alright,” he pauses, “go ahead, count the spots.”

What? You knit your brows together before your eyes light up like the pink strobe lights flashing four feet away from you, like you’ve been given the best treat while you were out trick or treating. You’d forgotten all about the spots on his outfit already - of course you’d wanted to count them.

He swallows down a laugh, and you roll your lips under your teeth, the vodka rushing through your veins. The lipstick is still fresh and fruity against your lips; you’re just hoping your teeth don’t stain and that it can last you the whole night. “Plain Jane” begins to thrum away, your heart rate seemingly catching up to match the beat.

You look at the costume and pinch the fabric between your fingers, tugging on it slightly. He turns around for you, and you point to the brown spot on the hood of onesie. Your eyelids feel heavy and you haven’t even started.

“1.”

The cow laughs, and you laugh with him like the funniest thing had just happened, like he just told you the funniest joke ever, or as if you tripped on air, or something just absolutely ridiculous - that’s what you feel like laughing with him. You catch sight of the toothy smile he flashes at you against the now blue strobe lights, and it only makes you smile more, as if your cheeks don’t already hurt.

You go back to your god-given job, finger poking his shoulder blade. “23,” you mumble, poking the spots one by one. The plush fabric is soft against the pads of your fingers but you can feel the definition underneath, the subtle flexing every time you press your skin against his onesie.

The numbers feel heavy against your tongue, like there’s a sticky piece of toffee gluing your lips together. Your eyes shift to the candy bowl on the counter, idly mumbling out the next number that comes to mind even if you haven’t moved your fingers.

You tug at the fabric against your neck as you struggle to keep your eyes open. He looks over his shoulder to you when you stop poking him, your fingers hovering over the curve of his ass. You blink at him, testing him, just waiting for him to ask, “Why’d you stop?”

Instead, he says, “You okay? You need water?”

You swallow, feeling yourself sober up by the second because you’re so surprised.

“Hungry,” you stutter out, remembering why you even came to the kitchen at all. “I’m really hungry.”

He pulls out a mini chocolate bar from his pocket. “Good thing I brought my feed, huh?” he teases, leaning towards you. He brings forward a few more candy bars before finding a disposable plate, arranging them neatly for you. “I’m somewhat of a chef.”

You toss your head back, laughs rippling from your stomach. It starts to hurt, both from growling all night and from you giggling so hard. His lips break out into a grin before his laugh is mingling with yours once again, tears streaming down your face as you look at the pitiful plate in front of you.

Once you catch your breath, you bow dramatically, hands placed on top of one another at your navel.

“Thank you, Mr. Cow. I guess I won’t cast a spell on you or whatever.” You’re still giggling when you reach for the plate, setting it to your side as you unwrap a candy and pop it in your mouth.

“It’s Osamu, by the way,” he grins, shoving his hands in his pockets. “And there’s more where that came from, so please don’t cast a spell on me.”

The corners of your eyes crinkle as you smile at him, the chocolate sitting in the pockets of your cheeks. “Unfortunately,” you swallow, “it’s not enough.” The words are spilling out before you can stop yourself, but there’s no way you can blame it on the alcohol anymore. “Oh humble chef, may I interest you in a gyro from the truck across the street?”

His eyes widen. “No way, that place is still open?” He glances at the bright green numbers on top of the oven. “It’s already 3 am.”

You down a glass of water. “They’re open 24 hours for a hungry witch and her cow chef. Come on, let’s go get some more feed for you. All that sugar can’t possibly be sustainable.”

Pick a different room: > Go to the closed bedroom. > Go to the open bedroom. > Go to the balcony. > Go to the hallway. > Go to the bathroom. > Go to the living room.

#haikyuu x reader #haikyuu scenarios #haikyuu imagines #haikyuu x you #haikyuu x y/n #the witching hour

50 notes · View notes

love-fireflysong · 3 years

Note

mayhaps... 40 in ur outlast/until dawn au :] interpret that however u will (mainly askin this cause i wanna read More about it)

(Wait. You, you want to read more about my shitty ass au that’s just like 3 different au’s in a trenchcoat?????? Yeah, yeah, um, okay. I think I can do that! Maybe. Possibly.)

You can pick and choose your own kiss prompt to send in here!

Five months, three weeks, and six days. Five months. Three weeks. And six days. The three of them had last been in the same room together five months, three weeks, and six days ago. One hundred and seventy-six total days, and they had learned to savour every second-long glance they managed in narrow hallways and spotted across courtyards through windows ever since.

Four months, one week, and two days ago marked the day that Josh had heard Ashley’s voice for the first time since they had been forcefully separated. It had been weak—an echo so faint that he was convinced at first that he had just imagined it—but after going nearly forty-eight days unable to talk when they used to never go more then two, the two of them had latched onto it all the same.

Thirteen days later, Chris’s confused and hopeful voice finally joined the two of theirs. Ashley had been so overcome with their combined relief and the overwhelming realization that they could finally at least talk to each other again, that her sobbing had almost gotten them caught right away. Three months, three weeks, and three days ago they were allowed to be together at least like this.

Two months since the day Josh had discovered Chris’s face looking back at him in the reflection of the bathroom mirror, discovering that they could see what the others did as well. The amount of time they all spent staring into mirrors with that revelation probably wasn’t the first hint that the Morphogenic Engine had finally birthed something in them, but it was likely the most damning. They had hoped that the doctors would just assume this to be nothing more then a case of exceptional narcissism, but luck was not on their side (not that it had ever been in this place). It didn’t matter. They were so desperate to even just look at each others faces—tired, worn down, and abused as they all were—that they would accept any consequences that would come from this.

And consequences there were.

One month and three days ago, after the tests and ‘therapy’ sessions had only become longer and more frequent, the next pathological birthing revealed itself. It seemed that not only were they of one mind and eyes, but now their bodies were connected as well. A wound delivered to one of them would be felt just as terribly by the others with no mark to mar their skin.

The last month had been spent with even more work put into making sure they were kept apart, housing each of them in different areas of the asylum so they would never be allowed catch a glimpse of the others again. Believing that this separation would only exacerbate the trauma of not being allowed to contact each other except through the use of their new ‘gifts’. Well, it certainly exacerbated the discovery that this new connection of theirs meant that they were now connected in more ways then one. The further the distances between them, the less of themselves they became.

Josh felt unable to speak, his tongue fat and useless in a mouth full of cotton. Chris swearing that he had been submerged and forced to move in a room of syrup, and his hands too shaky to hold onto anything larger then a penny. And Ashley’s poor brain filled with fog and running on novocaine all at once, unable to string words or thoughts together that she had loved oh so much.

Up until two days ago, there had been discussions had between doctors and scientists that more tests might reveal more connections; taste, smell, and true hearing being added to the sensations they all now shared—until they were molded into not three individuals, but a single being that had been slowly stripped away and finally ripped apart into three bloody pieces of the same heart. But decisions were made, and it was agreed upon that the three of them were to be prepped and connected to the Morphogenic Engine together. The three of them had become so intertwined after all, that maybe having all three of them hooked to the Engine at once would cause them not only to share the same lucid dreaming state, but enter the same lateral ascension needed to become host to the Walrider.

The first time the three of them would be together in the same room in five months, three weeks, and six days. And they wouldn’t even be awake for it.

And a day ago—informed that they should be honoured to have finally reached this important milestone in Project Walrider—all three of them had requested, begged, pleaded that they be allowed to spend even ten minutes together again beforehand. Each of the doctors sent to talk to them had rolled their eyes and simply stated that they were under no positions to be making demands. But, seeing as they had been such good and educational guinea pigs, they would maybe consider it.

They would never know what the final answer would be, because a little over two hours ago good old Billy had reached lateral ascension and everything went to shit.

And now, they had all managed to escape the rooms that had been holding them apart from each other—Ash and Chris from their respective rooms in the Female and Male Wards and Josh from his cell in the Prison Block—and were in the process navigating the maze that Mount Massive Asylum was quickly becoming. And with blood caked between their toes, screams of the dying—patients and staff alike—echoing down every hall and in every room, and the taste of freedom becoming stronger with every step closer they got to each other, they didn’t have time to be doing this.

They shouldn’t be doing this. Both of them knew that they shouldn’t be doing this. Hell, technically all three of them knew that they shouldn’t be doing this. But well, it had been five months, three weeks, and six days since the three of them had been in the same room. So as Josh had shoved Chris up against the wall in one of the little alcoves in the Male Ward’s basement to make up for all one hundred and seventy-six days apart, everybody else could fuck right off because they needed this.

They could claim this as an personal experiment later, not that Ashley would believe them then, cause she certainly didn’t now. The two of them could sense her exasperation and unsurprised acceptance amid her own want just as clearly as she and Josh could feel the red-hot throbbing of Chris’s still bleeding arm, the long and deep gash burin hot and painful where Trager had caught him with the edge of his bone shears. His hands had been too shaky to firmly grasp the door knob, and his reflexes too slow to try and fully evade the blades in time.

Not that anyone would be able to guess that now. Thankfully, it had seemed that the closer the two of them had gotten, the more their own personal afflictions had faded. Chris couldn’t remember the last time his grip had been so firm as he held Josh as close as he was able, and Josh was dimly amused that the first thing he was doing with his now more mobile tongue was shoving it as far into Chris’s mouth as he could.

The two of them felt like they could have stayed in that alcove for ages, hiding from other Variants who had become so lost and absorbed by the Engine’s touch that they would have been killed without a thought. Slowly becoming reacquainted with a body that had once been as familiar to them as their own, that they had only been allowed to touch and remember in dreams, but they needed to move on.

Need. Move. Please. Miss you. Please.

That was all that was needed. As closer to completion that Chris and Josh were feeling, Ashley was still out there. Alone. And as fogged as ever. From her eyes, they could see the dark shapes of doorways and tossed bedframes as she scrambled through wreckage so frantically and desperately that they could feel the phantom stones and glass digging into the soles of their bare feet. The two of them reluctantly separated, and there was no denying the fact that despite having Josh next to him, Chris’s hands still shook as though going through withdrawals. Not that it would be far from the truth of course, not having Josh or Ashley in his life had definitely been akin to stopping an addiction cold turkey.

“Well, let’s get a move on, hey Cochise?” Despite the ease of the lopsided smile on his face, the voice that came out was raw with disuse and the words felt fat and wrong on his tongue. “Don’t wanna run in to Big Debbie now do we?”

If Chris Walker wanted to kill them like he had everyone else so far—heads ripped off their bodies as easily as popping the top of a dandelion from it’s stem—then he could goddamn wait until they met back up with Ash.

They had been apart for five months, three weeks, and six days. They refused to add on even one more day.

They refused to make it six months.

17 notes · View notes

mitchsmarners · 5 years

Text

pieces of me

pairing: eddie kaspbrak/richie toizer (reddie) word count: 2,344 summary: The whole concept of soul mates actually freaked Eddie out. Somebody being the other half of you? That you aren’t complete without another person? No fucking thank you. Eddie didn’t need anybody to complete him. He was his own person on his complete own self. ITFandomWeek2019: Day one | Soulmate AU.

read on ao3.

Soulmates weren’t real. Eddie knew that. Maybe they had once been real, when magic still existed world wide, had still been a power source of society. As technology dependency, and the patriarchy, had grown through the world, magic had died out. There would always be people who practised it, but the days of Biblical monsters, creatures and Gods were gone- and the concept of soulmates had disappeared with them. Stories were still passed along, that humans had once been one being; four arms, four legs, one heart. That they’d been torn apart because they were just too powerful that way. That a soul would be spend the rest of their lives searching for its other half a heart. That because of the once bodily connection you once shared, you could feel the emotions of your soulmate. You could feel their pain. But those are just that- stories. Legends and myths that were passed along for entertainment, but never taken as truth.

Soulmate was a term that got tossed around simply. Every single straight girl Eddie had ever known called every single boy she dated her soulmate, and those same boys had smiled and nodded and not believed it for a second, all whilst thinking about their side hoes. At least, that’s what Eddie had gotten the vibe of regarding straight relationships. And Eddie wasn’t straight. Thank god.

The whole concept of soul mates actually freaked Eddie out. Somebody being the other half of you? That you aren’t complete without another person? No fucking thank you. Eddie didn’t need anybody to complete him. He was his own person on his complete own self.

“That’s not what it’s about, Eddie.” Ben had tried to explain to him. Ben Hanscom had been the biggest fanatic of soulmates, a true believer. He’d never said it, but Eddie knew he thought Beverly was his. “Of course you’re both complete people on your own. You’ll just be… happier with the other person. Your true other half.”

Ben sighed and looked longingly towards Beverly. Richie made a loud gagging noise, and Eddie shot him a smile. “I’m with Eds. If there’s somebody out there who’s meant to be with me.” Richie followed this sentence with quotations over who’s meant to be with me and gave a goofy grin. “There’s probably something seriously fucking wrong with them. I’ll pass on whatever train wreck that’ll be.”

Eddie’s lips tugged down in a frown, picking at the crusts of his jelly sandwich. It was only jelly, because his mother had always told him he was allergic to peanuts, but Eddie knew he’d eaten things with peanuts all the time and nothing had ever happened to him. Just jelly sandwiches were boring.

“Richie, come on that’s...” Mike spoke up suddenly, looking at Richie with wide and sad eyes. Eddie recognized the look from when Mike had introduced him to a little baby pig, before mentioning the pig was the runt of the litter and he wasn’t sure if the baby would even make it through the night.

“Woooo anyway! I gotta go!” Richie jumped up from the table, smacking his knee a little angrily against it. Eddie winced as he felt the sympathy pains shoot through his own knee. Richie took off at the surprisingly fast pace for somebody who was limping, while Eddie watched him carefully, still rubbing at his own knee.

✸✸✸

Eddie is 13 when the first really weird thing happens to him. He’d gone out for their lunch break with Stan, ending up walking around and talking about absolutely nothing in particular. When all of a sudden Eddie was completely overcome with the worst coughing fit of his life. It was worse than any asthma attack he’d ever had, even on the hottest days of summer, and the really startling difference was when Eddie began to cough up water.

A lot of water. A troubling amount of water. Too much water .

“What the fuck!” Stan shouted, reaching out to pat enthusiastically on Eddie’s back, but it didn't help. Eventually, the coughing slowed itself and Eddie was able to breathe in again. He took in several, harsh breaths and pressed angrily at the tears in his eyes. How did he even have enough water in his body to be crying?

Stan looked down at the puddle of water on the ground in horror. “What the fuck was that?”

“You think I know?” Eddie wheezed out. running his hands through his hair. “It felt like I was drowning. I mean, I know I say that about my asthma, too, but that...”

Stan dropped his foot down in the puddle, frowning at it in thought. “Yeah. Drowning.”

But they were 13, and shrugged things off as 13 year olds were known to do. They walked back towards their school, and strolled slowly to a stop when they noticed there friends all walking back as well. With Richie, dripping wet and looking a little shell shock.

“Bill fucking pushed me off the dock!” Richie shouted the second he spotted Stan and Eddie. “I don’t even know what happened, but I just started fucking drowning. I probably would’ve died if Mike hadn’t pulled me out!”

Stan’s eyes blew open wide and Eddie fidgeted awkwardly in hopes of hiding his now slightly wet T-shirt.

✸✸✸

They’re fifteen and Richie suddenly feels a flash of fear that he can’t understand, can’t find a source to. It didn’t feel like that same kind of untraceable fear that he got before panic attacks, it felt like it did have a source but he just didn’t know what it was. There was a quick, dull pain along his back and the fear inside him spiked.

Richie looked around, unsure his the fear inside him was unsourced still or if his own fear was growing, but his eyes fell on Stan and Bev. Eddie was supposed to have met them outside the school to go to the library and work on their History final project. “Where’s Eddie?”

“Eddie’s always late,” Beverly said easily, not looking up from her phone. “I wouldn’t expect him for at least ten more minutes.”

Richie shook his head, chest startling to feel tight. There was an ache in his wrists like somebody was grabbing him, but there were no hands there. He shook his head again, much more firmly, and turned back towards the school. He didn’t notice the thoughtful look on Stan’s face as he looked at him.

“We need to find him.” Richie said quickly, rushing back into the now-empty school, not bothering to concern himself with whether his friends were following him or not. He ran through the school, not even sure how he knew where he was going. He kept feeling the tight pressure of somebody grabbing him on his skin, and the burning fear deep in his gut. There was anger in the fear, but Richie still felt like it wasn’t his. He took off into the school, not caring if his friends were following him. He let some sort of instinct that he didn’t understand guide him through the halls until he stumbled upon the scene.

Henry had Eddie pressed up against the lockers, using his larger hands to bind Eddie’s wrists so it was harder for him to wiggle free. The rage in Richie then was completely his own.

“Yeah…” Richie drawled out, crossing his arms and forcing a smirk on his face. Both Henry and Eddie turned to look at him, Henry like a kid who’d woken up to a surprise Christmas and Eddie with a spark of genuine fear that Richie could read so clearly on his face that it was almost as though he could feel it, too. “You’re gonna let him go now.”

Richie loved how short Henry’s attention span always was, because he dropped Eddie’s wrists and turned his attention to Richie almost immediately. Richie let his half-grown filter drop away completely, and threw words at Henry that put himself to shame. He was fairly certain he’d never called anybody a daddy’s cock sucking little goof before. Richie wasn’t paying attention, or he would’ve noticed the little ball of warmth in his chest. Something close to fond, maybe a little bit of amusement. Something that wasn’t his, but was for him. Stan and Bev broke through before Henry could wreck Richie too bad, and Henry took off down the halls. Bigger and crazier, maybe, but even he knew better than to go four against one without a weapon on his side.

Eddie came to crouch down beside Richie, pulling out Kleenex and wiping at the blood under Richie’s nose. “How did you know where I was?”

Richie shrugged one shoulder, feeling more than a little embarrassed. “I don’t know.”

They were too busy looking at each other to notice the look that Bev and Stan exchanged.

✸✸✸

Eddie was eighteen, and was pretty sure that agreeing to room with Richie in college was the biggest mistake he’d ever made in his life. And yes, he was aware that he was being dramatic but living in a tiny college dorm room had made Eddie’s little puppy love crush that he’d had on Richie all through high school develop into something much, much deeper. Much scarier.

The scariest part of it all was that sometimes Eddie thought that maybe Richie liked him back. He’d never been the type to get hopes about anything, but every once in awhile Eddie would feel a rush of warm emotion and turn around to see that Richie was already smiling at him.

He’d already heard all of Ben’s theories on it. He was pretty sure that if Eddie didn’t start to agree with him soon, Ben was going to create a whole powerpoint presentation and force the Losers to sit through it. Eddie remembered the short period of time where Ben’s romantic side had died, when Beverly had come out and Ben had been thrown through a loop. Supportive and loving as always, but he’d had to readjust himself to life where he couldn’t walk away and dream of Beverly Marsh being his soulmate. So when Ben latched onto Eddie and Richie, Eddie didn’t have the heart to keep telling him that soulmates were bullshit.

“Ow, fuck!” Eddie yanked his hand away from his notebook, shaking it as though he was burned. He looked up and noticed Richie jumping away from the little mini grill in their room that Richie had insisted that they buy when they moved in, so they wouldn’t always have to eat cafeteria food. It didn’t matter that the food Richie made on that grill was always significantly worse than anything their caf served.

“Did you burn yourself, dumbass?” Eddie asked with a low sigh, clenching his hand shut tight and trying to ignore the stinging he felt himself.

“Yeah.” Richie grunted, immediately going back to attempting to light it up. Eddie swallowed roughly and shook his head. He needed to get Ben out of his head.

✸✸✸

Richie’s entire stomach was jumping with anxiety. He stood outside his own dorm room. The night before Ben had ambushed Richie at the party and laid out a series of things for him. Things that Richie had never been able to explain to himself, had never really taken the time to think about it all honesty. The way that Richie and Eddie always been able to read each other’s emotions almost without pause, sometimes better than they were even processes their own emotions. Pointing out that the other day Richie had fallen down outside and Eddie had said ow, without looking up or turning around to see Richie on the ground.

“You’re obviously soulmates,” Ben had pleaded with Richie. Looking like he was moments away from grabbing Richie by the shoulders and shaking him. “Like, real soulmates. That’s so rare! You’re really just going to throw all that away?”

Richie still wasn’t sure he believed in soulmates. Wasn’t sure if he liked the idea of them, and he knew that Eddie didn’t. Eddie had always told anybody who’d listen how much he hated the idea of soulmates. But Richie did really like Eddie, hell he’d always really liked Eddie. He didn’t really care if they were soulmates or not, he just hoped that-

Their dorm room door swung open, and Eddie was standing on the other side looking annoying. “Why are you just standing out here, stressing out?”

Richie gaped. “How did you know I was standing out here?”

Eddie scowled. “Your anxiety is so loud I could practically smell it. What’s wrong?”

Richie swallowed slowly. “Smell it…. Or feel it?”

Eddie blinked and then groaned. He turned away and stomped into the room. When he dropped onto Richie’s bed and raised his brow, Richie jumped into attention and followed him in. “Ben got to you?” Eddie asked as Richie took a seat beside him. “Fuck. I should’ve known he’d eventually realize that you’re the weaker link and start playing you.”

Richie frowned. “I know you don’t believe in soulmates, or whatver but you… are you really that against us ever being together?”

Eddie blinked, then frowned. “No, I didn’t. I mean… is that what this is? Like what if Ben’s soulmate propaganda just… tricked you into thinking you like me?”

Richie burst out laughing, unable to hold it back. “Eds. Baby. I’ve liked you since I was like… ten. It’s sort of always fucking been you for me. I was just never sure…”

“It’s always been you for me, too.” Eddie interrupted him, shaking his head. “I’m still not sold on this whole soulmate bullshit, I want to choose who I end up. I don’t want it to be decided for me.”

“Okay, well…” Richie reached out and took Eddie’s hand. A flash of heat rushed through them both in unison. “Would you choose me then? Did you, without anybody talking about soulmates?”

Eddie smiled softly, turning towards Richie and leaning in to kiss him softly, quickly. “I’d choose you in any universe. For whatever reason.”

Richie laughed and kissed him again.

#reddie #itfandomweek #itfandomprompts #reddie fic #it fanfiction #richie tozier #eddie kaspbrak #my writing

122 notes · View notes

sharonitwd · 4 years

Text

Don’t Look Back, CHP: 25

One Step Too Far

AO3 Link

I’m alive I promise.

—

“It was me putting us all in danger. It was me who made the dead with the bandits. . .” His voice trembled. “I thought maybe I could keep them off our backs!"

The group fell to silence, although the door had finally been opened and the dead were knocking at the door, no one ran to the armory, instead Ben continued to spill his guts.

"When it got discovered- that's when they attacked our home, that’s when Katjaa. . .”

Even though after all this time trying to kick the door open Kenny couldn’t care he was finally through to the armory.

"You little pissant!"

All he cared about was kicking Ben’s ass.

“You are fucking dead, you hear me? Dead!”

Vernon and Lee sprung to action, holding Kenny back from beating Ben to a pulp.

"What you did to my family! You got my wife killed! You got her fucking killed!"

Sharon stepped between them, she tried to be brave but once she locked eyes with Kenny the words failed to leave her mouth. Kenny stopped fighting back but was ready to attack once she was out of the way.

“Don’t defend this pig shit, Sharon! Get out of the way!”

In her life never had trouble owning up to her mistakes, seeing first hand what avoiding problems can lead to. Her parents alcoholism being the largest example she could think of and how it had gotten out of hand so quickly. Now, as her mistakes faced her in the form of a seething vengeful man- she couldn’t admit her faults, she couldn’t think of one good reason as to why she let the secret grow and continue to worsen until it blew back in their face.

“Kenny, he wasn’t the only one.”

“What?” Kenny stood up straight, almost unable to fully process what she had said. “WHAT?”

“I knew about the deal, I tried to help-”

“We-We TRUSTED you! We accepted you in to our family!” Although Lee and Vernon still held on to Kenny he was no longer struggling, he didn’t try to fight her. “Kat wanted me to call you our daughter! All this time you were doing this shit behind our back? Duck lost his mother because of you! I lost MY WIFE!”

“They tricked Ben!” Sharon tried reasoning. “They had his friend.”

“And you trusted them?!”

Ben stepped aside. “They said if I didn’t give them supplies they would have just killed me-”

“Well maybe they should have!”

Sharon tried again. “Kenny-”

“Not another damn word from you! All this time you were plotting behind our backs!”

“It wasn’t plotting, Kenny I. . .” With Kenny’s anger now pointed at her all of the past excuses as to why she didn’t tell him the moment she heard of the deal had vanished, she couldn’t even think of a single reason or excuse. She had made a grave mistake pretending she had no responsibility in this matter.

“If you two think you’re getting on my boat after what you did, you’re out of your motherfucking mind!” Kenny shouted, ripping his arm from Vernon’s grip to point accusingly at Sharon and Ben. “Ya'll can stay behind and fucking ROT!”

Lee finally let go, still on edge in case Kenny decided to attack them. “We’ll sort this out later, AFTER we get out of here, okay?”

“Ain’t nothing to sort out, I just told you how it's gonna be! The boat’s not big enough for all of us. Somebody’s gotta get left behind, might as well be these lying pieces of shit right here!”

“We can do a headcount when we get back to the mansion, back to Omid.” Christa spoke up. “I'm sorry Ben. We need to focus on getting out of here.”

"I agree with her, you all can vote when we get home alive." Brie nodded to Christa. "Can we-" Brie couldn't continue before the window in the door shattered, as she leapt away from the door a walker entwined it’s fingers through her hair and yanked her back.

No one could react fast enough, from the shock of the argument to the sudden attack the group watched as a walker latched on to Brie’s neck.

Vernon cried out, too afraid to aid her as another set of teeth latched onto her shoulder.

With a wildly swinging arm Brie freed herself from both walkers, staring around at the group that had failed to help her.

“NOW can we go?” Molly asked the room, not waiting for a response before sprinting into the armory.

“Go!” Brie shouted, alarming those who hadn’t already followed in Molly’s footsteps. “We need to get out of here!”

The rest of the group followed suit to the armory, all entered expecting a closet with shelves and weapons lining the wall, instead they found a stairway leading both up and down a dimly lit tower and one opened locker.

Christa sighed as she lifted up the only contents of the lockers. “A few rounds, that’s it.”

Brie stumbled inside, one hand covering the bleeding wound from her neck and the other shutting the door behind her.

“Brie. . .” Vernon covered his mouth. “I’m so sorry.”

“Don’t.” Brie tried shutting the door again, finally pressed herself up against it, with the lock busted it no longer stayed shut. “I beat cancer, I can beat this.”

“Brie, that-”

“I don’t care.” Brie shook her head. “We just need to get out of here.”

“Come on.” Kenny huffed, angrily bumping against Sharon as he passed her. “We’re going down.”

One by one the group rushed down the stairs, Sharon stayed put as everyone passed her, watching over the railing down the staircases.

“I’ll be fine, kid, you need to get out of here.” Brie said, her legs shaking as blood began to drip on the platform.

“And go where?” Sharon muttered, the weight of her backpack seemingly holding her down.

She didn’t have much time to think about it as the group stopped descending, Kenny promptly slammed the bottom floor door.

"That's not gonna hold, back upstairs!" Lee's voice echoed through the tower.

Seeing the panic from the rushing group Sharon backed away, her attention turning to Brie who lost all strength in her legs, using her body to hold the door shut. The sound of a loud rifle from down below agitated the walkers from the classroom.

To both escape Kenny's path and ensure the groups safety, Sharon braced herself against the door, keeping a headcount as each person passed.

When Vernon stopped at the platform to catch his breath he turned around, peering over the railing.

“Vernon, where’s Lee?”

“Shit.” Kenny peered over the railing himself when he heard the question. “He’s on his way up, keep that fuckin’ door closed!”

Vernon hesitated, looking back and forth to the walkers that quickly surrounded Lee and to his fallen friend bleeding out against the door. Sharon couldn’t see Lee from where she stood but could hear a crack and shout coming from him, meaning he’s in trouble and everybody is leaving him behind in the panic.

“Vernon, hold the door shut!” Sharon called out, reaching out for him. “I need to help Lee!”

Vernon and Sharon quickly switched places, she had nearly forgotten the crossbow slung around her side as she hardly needed it until now. She tried to be quick but found she had tangled the straps of her bag and the crossbow.

Once she saw Lee struggling to kick off a heavy walker and release his foot from the broken floor boards Sharon un-clipped her weapon from the strap and hefted it up.

With a deep breath and a squeeze of the trigger the walker fell backwards and on top of two other walkers behind it, momentarily slowing the line of dead bodies trying to follow everyone up the steps.

Now the threat is gone Lee easily dislodged his foot from the broken step and nodded to Sharon.

“Brie?” Vernon looked to his friend, unable to step away from the door to get a good look at her. "Brie!"

“Vernon, we need to move!” Lee called out, waiting at the base of the next set of stairs up. “Go!”

Vernon tried to say more, though there was nothing he could say that would make this better. He shook his head and sprinted for the stairs, Sharon followed him with Lee protecting them from behind and stopping the walkers that caught up with them.

At the very top platform Christa and Molly had already descended from one of the windows, a ladder leading down to another section of roof. Kenny took off his backpack, holding it out the window and dropping it for the rest of the group down below.

“Toss your bags out the window, the ladder won’t hold all the weight.” Kenny called to the group, ushering Vernon to go down the ladder before him.

Ben tried to speak but before he could get out a syllable, Kenny pointed a finger at him. “Don’t you start.”

All four had their backs facing the walker that hung from bell at the top of the tower, unaware that it tried swinging to reach them.

“Please, can you-”

“I don’t have to do shit.” Kenny growled, making his way to the window.

Ben only tried harder, standing by Kenny’s side. “I’m sorry, it was just too much-”

“Just shut the fuck up!”

“I’m sorry! I didn’t know what else to do!”

“Get the fuck out of my face!”

“I didn’t want this to happen, I didn’t want any of this to happen-”

Before Lee or Sharon could interject- Kenny had enough, using two hands to shove Ben away from him.

The corpse- with it’s throat too constricted to make any noise reached his arms out to Ben, unable to grab him enough to pull him down though enough to throw him off balance yet could swing itself hard enough to loudly ring the bells.

All four covered their ears at the loud sound, with no balance left Ben slipped off the edge of the platform, only just managing to grab the edge and dangle by his upper body. With the weight in his bag and in general weakness from malnourishment, he continued to slip down and desperately try to grip on to something.

Sharon tried to ignore the hanging corpse, she knelt down and grabbed Ben by the top backpack strap and attempted to pull him up.

"It's okay, I'm here!" Sharon called out, from this angle she could see exactly how far Ben would fall and what is waiting for him if he doesn’t land on his head. "I won't let you fall!"

She eyed the walkers that continued to climb the stairs, now preoccupied with trying to reach Ben, like dangling a treat in front of a cat. Lee shot the hanging walker to prevent it from grabbing anyone else.

“He’s too heavy for me, I need help!” Sharon called out, seeing as Ben’s grasp on the floorboards weakening, her help only seemed to sway him in the air and prevent him from falling further. “Lee? Kenny?”

Kenny turned his back to them, catching Lee’s eyes just before facing the window. “Just don’t take too long.”

“Kenny?” Sharon looked away from Ben to watch as Kenny descended down the ladder without a second glance.

"There's no time!" Ben locked eyes with Sharon. "Just let me go."

"I can't lift you up, I need you to try, Ben!"

"Sharon, you said it yourself. Carley died because of me, I don't want you to die, too."

“Don't do this!"

Ben shook his head. “It’s better for everyone if you just. . .”

“Not today, Ben.” Lee knelt by Sharon’s side, easily pulling Ben up without her help. “We can’t have anybody else die today!”

“But-”

“‘But’ nothing!” Sharon heaved, pulling Ben away from the edge. Once he was safely on the landing she pulled him in a hug.

Lee stood and wiped the sweat from his brow, shoving the next walker that tried to climb the stairs.

Sharon let go of Ben, looking him in the eyes. “You dying won’t solve anything, you’ll leave Travis by himself, you’ll leave me!”

Ben’s eyes widened.

“You’re my friend, I promised I’d help you.”

He sighed. “I’m sorry, everything’s just so hard. I don’t know how I can keep going.”

Lee extended his hand to Ben. “You start one step at a time.”

Christa and Vernon stared up at the window, not knowing if they should try to ascend or wait for the rest of the group where they stood. This section of the roof looked stable but the bell ringing would soon surround the school.

“He needs to hurry up.” Kenny huffed. “The walkers are drawn to the bell, we’re gonna miss our chance to haul ass.”

“What’s happening up there?” Christa asked. “Why aren’t they coming down?”

“We should just head out, let’s start packing.”

“Wait, we can’t just leave them up there.” Christa crossed her arms. “I’m going to see if they need help.”

“Waste of time.” Kenny called, adjusting the straps of his bag and grabbing the gas cans.

Molly squinted at Kenny, unsure of what his tone implied. Nonetheless she didn't like it.

As Christa stomped toward the ladder Vernon promptly pulled her back. She was furious until the backpack that was thrown out the window collided with the flat-roof floor only a few feet from her.

Lee was the first to descend, the four down below watched as the next backpack was thrown and Ben appeared out of the window, timidly climbing down.

Kenny huffed, rolling his eyes as Lee approached him.

“I’m not letting anyone else die today.” Lee said. “Not on my watch.”

“I’m glad you decided to save the food.” Kenny crossed his arms. “It was the only thing up there worth saving.”

As Sharon reached the bottom of the ladder Vernon is the one to hand her the bag back, lingering after she took it. “I have a question to ask.”

Sharon put the bag on before answering. “About what?”

“Brie, did you see. . . ” He hesitated, unsure how many details he really wanted to know about his friends’ death.

Sharon blinked, trying to think back on the last second she saw Brie, what the final image of her is burned in her head. “She didn’t suffer.” She said. “She died before the walkers got to her.”

Vernon nodded, not caring to ask if she was lying to make him feel better or telling the cold hard truth. Which way should he take that answer? Was it truly better knowing his friend died in pain from blood loss? Should he be thanking her for saying she wasn’t eaten?

Sharon thought the same, not knowing herself if she was telling the truth, she spoke simply without thinking. The last moment she remembers of Brie is her clutching the bleeding wound on her neck, pale skin, shallow breaths. All she knew is that she didn’t hear any screams when the door collapsed.

The group as a whole agreed not to take the sewers home, now that they know Crawford has fallen there is only the threat of the dead. They preferred the visibility and clean air than the rancid dark sewer tunnels anyways.

Ben and Sharon held up the back of the group again, this time because no one wanted to stand near them as the truth is settling in.

“What do we do now?” Ben asked. “Where can we go?”

Sharon couldn’t answer, not because she didn't want to, she didn't know.

Where can she go?

After a long walk through Savannah the group finally arrived to the mansion. Previously, seeing this place had given Sharon hope; Lisa may be in there or a sign of her, happier times, warm memories. Now the mansion only made her feel dread.

The closer she is to those doors the closer to the reality that she has nowhere to go. Kenny won’t take her on the boat after this, she doesn’t know if she can stop herself from resenting Ben after revealing the truth, she doesn’t want Christa and Omid to take on the burden of caring for her. At this point, the only option she can see for herself is to be alone, do what she had been trying for so long and be on her own.

Once the group reached the property Lee rushed inside, panic setting in.

The front door is wide open.

As the group followed they soon discovered a dead walker in the foyer, no signs of Clementine or Duck, the house is silent.

“Clementine?” Lee called out, rushing up the stairs with Kenny following quickly behind him.

Christa and Ben followed them to the second floor, desperate to check on their respective partners.

Molly, Vernon, and Sharon stood at the base of the stairs. Molly shrugged and followed Ben to Travis' room, Vernon took his bag to the living room and sorted through what he needed to treat the two injured upstairs. When he had what he needed he stopped by Sharon's side who still stared up.

Vernon wanted to say something comforting as she had done to him after Brie's sudden passing, but nothing could surface, no words of wisdom.

Instead he just sighed and placed a hand on her shoulder.

As he ascended Sharon still couldn’t muster the courage to follow, afraid of what she'll see, afraid of facing Kenny, afraid of seeing Lisa's room with two more dead children, afraid to see Lisa's room.

In the past Sharon had no problems owning up to her mistakes, the one thing she always struggled with is processing the emotional toll her trauma put her through. Instead she chose to ignore it, never embracing her feelings of hurt or anger.

Every nerve in her body told her to run away- keep what is in her heavy backpack and flee. Instead she took one step up.

She had ignored the emotional toll of being shot in her own home, feeling as if her relationship with her parents improved since she never brought up the incident. She ignored the feelings of growing up too fast, holding no resentment toward her family for taking responsibility for her parents sobriety and her siblings well being. Ignored pain for literally anything else. She had ignored her attachment for her group to latch on to the idea of Lisa being out here somewhere.

At the top of the stairs she heard the murmurs of her friends in the rooms to her right, Travis telling Ben to calm down and speak slower, Omid comforting Christa and calming her down.

Everyone had their person to go back to, everyone was welcomed by the person most important to them. Here she stands, a familiar hallway with a familiar face painted above the fireplace and yet she is alone.

Up one more flight of stairs are the voices of Clementine and Duck retelling what had happened while the adults were gone.

How much longer can she bottle up these feelings? How much longer can she run away from her problems until it explodes in her face?

Where did she belong in this?

With one more deep breath Sharon braved the staircase, standing at the doorway she saw a glimpse of the past. The hanging lights cast a soft glow around the room, little polished nick-nacks and nightlights lined every available surface, any space left uncovered had a rug or poster. Aside from the slanted ceiling- one could hardly tell by the warmth of the room that this is an attic. Lisa lay on her stomach with her feet swaying back and forth, nearly enveloped in the soft blanket she lay on top of, focused on the laptop without a care in the world.

Duck whipped his head around when he noticed Sharon was in the room, a new scene took the room.

Cold. Dull. Grimy. A lifeless boy with shoulder blades you’d fear would puncture his skin, eyes sullen and cloudy, his blood dark and rotted. There is no warmth here.

“Sharon!” Duck called out, a smile wide on his face, he attempted to approach her but Kenny promptly stopped him.

“No.” He stood and stood protectively in front of his son. “Sharon, from here on out you’re not allowed near my son, you got that?”

Clementine and Duck looked hurt and confused, unknowing who to look at for answers.

“You can’t talk to him, you can’t get near him, I don’t want you to fuckin’ look at him.”

“But dad, mom said she’s family, she-”

“Not anymore.”

Sharon held herself together. “Kenny, let me explain-”

“I don’t want to hear any of it. My son is all the family I have left, I’m not letting you- or Ben- fuck that up any more than you already have.”

Clementine wanted to say something but Lee shook his head.

Kenny rolled his eyes. “Get out of here.”

Lee spoke up. “Kenny.”

Sharon turned away.

“Don’t scold me, she’s the one at fault here!”

She wanted to wait for someone to tell her to stop. As she descended she wanted someone to pull her in to a hug and tell her everything is going to be okay. She wanted someone. Anyone.

She debated continuing down and simply walking out the doors, she is unwanted here so why shouldn’t she? This is Lisa’s house. After trying so long to get here she isn’t going to leave this place.

Suddenly she felt the weight of her backpack on her aching shoulders, with a simple shrug the bag fell to the floor with a loud thud. Uncaring for the noise Sharon stepped in to the office, shutting the glass pane doors and sitting in the nicely placed reading nook under the window.

Gently, she laid her head to rest on the cold glass, staring at the fog her breath made against it.

Would her father have been proud of what she’s done? If she found her family, would they accept her after all that she’s caused? Would Lisa be proud?

The Sharon everyone else knew would always be the perfect role model, she would step up and be the better person, she would treat everyone with kindness and seek the right path to take. She would never be too scared to admit her wrong doings, she would come clean when mistakes were made.

In the reflection Lisa stared back at Sharon, her skin pale and bright- contrasting her black hair. The red blouse and red lips popped brighter than her skin, she always looked amazing in red. Would this have been the Lisa waiting for her, or is this the Lisa forever in purgatory, remnants only alive to haunt Sharon’s thoughts and mind? This image of Lisa is the same she followed mindlessly through the streets of Macon, her only comfort in a painful and bleak world. This image of Lisa helped her get through the day. This image of Lisa guided her. This image of Lisa. . . this is all she has left.

This Sharon is entirely new. This Sharon has been born from trauma and fire, the childhood trauma she had oh so carefully locked away in plain sight had been burned away with the baby she had tried so desperately to save. This Sharon was so desperate to follow a dream that she had ignored the plight of a teen boy that needed her guidance, chose ignorance for her own selfish needs, played with the lives of those who cared for her.

How blind to think she could accept Kenny and Duck as her family when she made such a grave mistake, one she knew wouldn’t end nicely. They gave her the privilege of a new family, one born by blood of the covenant. She spat in their face and let danger take their home and their mother.

Her place in her world was once so defined; a girlfriend, a daughter, a sister, an active member of the community.

Now her role is: mistake.

Ben entered the room though Sharon didn’t hear. She didn’t see the hand waving in front of her face, nor did she see Vernon inspecting her. She only stared at the image of Lisa as various faces attempted to talk to her.

Once Vernon left the room Ben tried one last thing. A thin, baby blue, unicorn patterned pair of pajamas. Ben approached, trying to console her with words of comfort, when words didn’t help he presented the fabric.

Her eyes moving scared him, he nearly screamed. Slowly she grasped the unicorn pajamas, her hand lingering over Ben’s for a moment.

“Thank you.”

The pajamas found it’s rightful place in her lap, like a kitten looking for warmth. The cheerful baby blue, the silly pattern, a gift from her father.

This is the Sharon she needs to be.

Her eyes drifted back to the image of Lisa in front of her. With this she vowed to be better, she will no longer run and hide from her problems, she will help wherever she can, she will take responsibility.

Sharon will become herself again.

For now, she needs rest.

Duck sat up, eyes squinting in the darkness. His hand hovered over the flashlight by his side but stopped himself. He remembers his dad telling him that they couldn’t afford broken tools anymore, flashlights being one he wasn’t allowed to play with. He shrugged and stood up, using what little moonlight available to wander down the stairs.

He coudn’t remember which of these doors led to the bathroom so he continued to the ground level, he remembers Sharon telling him the bathroom was next to the fireplace.

Wiping his hands on his pants he looked around the living room, spotting movement in the kitchen.

He froze, part of him felt he had just been caught doing something he wasn’t supposed to, he’s always getting in trouble for something now-a-days.

Duck then remembered the incident from last night, the walker that ‘pushed’ the door open, the walker he and Clementine might have accidentally let inside. The dark bloodstain was still there on the floorboard, though in the darkness he wouldn’t be able to spot it.

Focusing at the possible danger present, he took each step carefully toward the figure. As he neared he noticed the familiar hat and short frame, with a small red light glowing from the walkie-talkie.

“Clem?”

She squeaked, quickly spinning around to find out who she’d just been caught by. “Duck? What are you doing down here?”

“The bathroom is down here”

“There’s one upstairs.”

“Oh, I didn’t know that.” Duck paused. “Why are you down here?”

Clem looked to the kitchen door, the one she had crawled through to unlock for everyone. She held her walkie close. “I’m meeting a friend.”

“Who is it? Someone from your school?”

“No, there’s a man on my radio who knows my parents, he’s outside waiting for me.”

“Really!?”

“Shh!”

“Oh, sorry. Really? Can I meet them?”

“Um. . . “

“Does that mean you’re leaving?”

“No! Everyone here is my friend.” She shook her head. “Once he takes me to my parents we’ll come back here, he says he’s with a group too. Maybe we can all be together.”

“Can I come?”

“Your dad will get mad if you leave the house.”

“He’s always mad, he won’t even let me talk to Sharon.” He crossed his arms, with the morning light Clem could see his sneer. “And I’m not even tired.”

“Are you sure? I don’t know when we’ll be back.”

“I’ll be fine, the walkers are dumb, remember? Won’t Lee be mad you left?”

Clem looked down. “He’s not my dad.”

“He acts like it sometimes.”

The radio buzzed, halting the conversation between the two. “Clementine? Are you still there?”

“Oh.” Clem rushed to the door, opening it let in moonlight and a cold breeze. “Come on.”

Duck quickly followed her outside, the two running to the back fence and easily slipping through the bars a third time. Once there they whipped their heads around looking for Clementine’s new friend.

She lifted the walkie. “I’m outside, do you see me?”

“I do.”

The man appeared from around the corner, announcing himself to the kids. “It’s nice to meet you in person, Clementine.” He looked down on them and smiled.

“You look a lot older that I thought you were.” Clementine said. “This is my friend, Duck.”

“Clem has told me all about you.” The man said. “You like comic books, right?”

“Yeah!” Duck smiled wide. “I really like Batman but dad found me these new Green Lantern comics that are so much cooler, it’s about a-”

“-actually, I have some of those comics back at the Marsh House.”

“The what?”

“It’s the hotel we’re staying at, where Clementine’s parents are.” He gestured down the alleyway to the glowing red lights of the station wagon. “We don’t even have to walk there.”

“Cool, you have a car!” Duck bounced in his spot. “I wish we had one, my feet still hurt from walking.”

“Mine too.” Clementine sighed. “But we won’t have to move around, right? It’s safe there? No one from Crawford?”

“Oh it’s safe alright.” He smiled down at her. “Duck, would you like to come along, too?”

Duck looked back to the house. “Um. . . I don’t think my dad would like that.”

Clem frowned. “But you said he’s always mad.”

“I know but. . .”

“We have comics.” The man repeated. “I can take both of you to the hotel and you can take whatever ones you want.”

“Wow, really?” Duck smiled ear to ear. “Do you have Green Arrow?”

“Yup.”

“Justice League?”

“Mhm.”

“Do you have-”

“Clementine is getting impatient.” The man said, not allowing her to respond to his assumption. “I can give you a ride back here once you have the comics, then you can tell your group about Clementine and her parents. We can all meet up later.”

Duck’s smile vanished, nervous about what his dad would think if he left again, the smile plastered on the man’s face didn’t make him feel better either, Clem also looked a little uneased. The silhouette of the man against the early morning sky and the red parking lights on his car felt foreboding.

“Come on.” The man said, gesturing to the car once more. “The car is all warmed up for you two.”

“Wait, can I talk to Lee?”

“Why would you want to do that?” The man’s smile faltered.

“U-um. . . He would want to know where I’m going and maybe if we’re taking Duck he can come, too.”

“No-” The man cleared his throat. “Remember what he did? He tried taking the only chance you had to be reunited with your parents, he stole your walkie-talkie.”

Clem’s face fell, her eyes scanning the ground. Something didn't sit right in her gut, the sudden change in tone made her doubt leaving the group.

The man took a step toward the car. “Let’s go, Ed and Diane are waiting.”

Duck and Clementine nervously followed.

“You’ll love it at the hotel; we’ve got cakes, pies, cookies, candy.” The man smiled again. “We even have new clothes for you Clementine.”

“Um, if you have cars why didn’t her parent’s come here?” Duck asked. “Why is it just you?”

“I don’t see the problem.”

“Are they busy?”

“Oh yes, very busy.” The man opened the back seat door, holding it open for the kids to get in. “Diane is our only doctor and Ed is building us a fence to keep us safe from the walkers.”

Clem stopped at the door, the warmth of the car was inviting but something didn’t feel right. “Hey, why do you keep calling her Diane? It’s Diana.”

“Same thing, just get in the car.

“And she’s not a doctor, she’s a nurse.”

“Well, we call my mom. . . we- um. . .” Duck tried to compare the two, but thinking about his mom made all tracks stop.

The man placed a cold hand on Clementine’s shoulder. “Just get inside and we can talk about it there, it’s not safe out here.”

Clem shook her head. “Can we just take Sharon, then? She lets me get away with things and she's really nice.”

"NO." The man's face crumpled. "Not her, not anybody, just. . ." he took a deep breath. "I'm sorry, it's dangerous and I don't want us to be standing out in the street for too long."

The kids exchange looks, both suddenly nervous of their new 'friend.'

Duck stepped away. "I think we should get everyone else, why can't they come with us?"

“This is your last chance, Clementine.” The man said. “Don’t you want to see your parents?”

Duck shook his head. “I don’t like this guy, Clem.”

The man shot a look at Duck.

“Let’s go back.”

Clementine shook in the spot, she wanted to see her parents again but this man, this stranger? He’s acting different than he usually does on the walkie-talkie, he’s usually so nice, so patient.

“Um.” Clem took a step away from the vehicle. “I really want to bring Lee, so, Duck and I will be right back, okay?”

The man sighed. “Don’t make me do this.”

Clementine dropped her walkie to the ground from shaking, his tone of voice was one she had never heard from him before. He reminded her of the farmers, this was the same feeling.

Without a second for the kids to think the stranger swiftly shoved Clementine in the wagon with ease, slamming the door shut before she could try to crawl out.

“Let her go!” Duck shouted, weakly punching the man. “Let her go!”

The man easily restrained him. “Either you can come with and be a good boy or you can stay here to rot, your choice.”

Duck stopped punching when he realized he wasn't doing any good and tried shoving. The man sighed, exasperated as not only Duck is fighting against him but now Clementine tried escaping the car, unable to figure out that the door has the child-locks on.

With a quick shove the man pushed Duck to the ground.

Sharon had been startled awake by the sound of tires screeching. She tried to blink the sleep out of her eyes, when she could see clearly she looked around at her surroundings and through the window she was pressed up against. The sun had not risen yet though the sky was lit bright enough to give everything a dim glow.

She didn't know if she was still asleep or not, wondering if the sight of Duck running down the foggy alleyway was real, though she didn't have time to debate that thought, her heart and mind racing.

Kenny was already at the base of the stairs, his gun in hand. "What the hell was that-"

"Duck is running away!"

Kenny- no longer skeptical or suspicious of Sharon- scrambled to action, following her down the stairs and out the back door. Even in his panic he was still slower than Sharon who was already trying to squeeze herself through the fence bars.

Oddly Duck was already walking back with his head hung low, ashamed.

Sharon got to her knees when she reached him, trying to look him in the eyes, until Kenny shoved her to the side to replace her.

"Are you crazy? What were you thinkin’? It's not safe!”

Sharon stared wide eyed at Kenny, shocked at how easily he mistreated her. She cast her eyes to the ground, hoping her short hair would cover her face enough to hide the tears that freely dripped down.

Lee and Christa walked around the corner, both with their guns drawn as they surveyed the scene. “What’s going on out here?” Christa asked.

“Nothin’.” Kenny said, standing up. “I just need to get that fuckin’ boat working then everything will be fine.”

“Wait.” Lee spoke up. “Where’s Clementine?”

“Ain’t she inside?” Kenny asked, trying to lead Duck away but his feet were glued to the spot.

Lee walked behind Duck, staring at two black streaks in the ground each two feet long. “Are these. . . tire marks?”

“Was that where the noise came from?” Christa asked. “Was there a car out here?”

“These tire marks are fresh.” Lee said, his eyes catching a familiar walkie talkie on the ground by a few trash cans.

Kenny looked down to his son. "Duck, what the hell is goin' on here?"

“We can’t go back inside!” Duck shouted. “We have to go, we have to rescue Clementine!”

“What?” Sharon whipped her head up, no longer caring to hide that she was crying. “What do you mean?”

With seemingly no warning Christa sprung to action, sprinting to aide Lee at the sight of a Walker jumping out from the boxes and bits of rubbish it was hiding in. As Lee was recoiling Christa kicked the corpse back down to the ground and shot it before it could move again.

“Lee, are you alright?” Christa asked, bringing her hand to her face. “Oh god.”

Everyone returned attention to Lee, at first Sharon noticed the walkie talkie with the pink stickers on it, her eyes trailing to the blood dripping from the bite mark on Lee’s wrist.

“No. . .” grabbed on to his wrist, eyes glued to the obvious teeth marks. “No. . . no. . .”

Kenny’s mouth opened wide, letting go of his son to bring his hands up to his head. “No way, no fuckin’ way.”

“Lee. . .” Sharon whispered. “I’m so sorry. . . Oh my god I’m so sorry.”

“Fuck. . .”

#text #twdg #twdg fanfiction #situp walking dead #chapter update

1 note · View note

froggybaek · 5 years

Text

set it off - optional bias

♛➩ genre: v sweet fluff, maybe a hint of angst but not really, friends-to-lovers

♛➩ pairing: neutral!reader x optional bias [male]

♛➩ warnings: H/N is where you insert your bias’ name

♛➩ summary: you hadn’t been home to new york in months, busy building your photography business by travelling all over the country. now that you have the time to relax, you decide to venture back to where it all began - back to the place you called home, to your family, to him.

♛➩ word count: 3.1k

When you were younger, you were praised for your determination to fulfill whatever goals you set your mind to. Your parents prided your headstrong attitude, your teachers favored you for your hardworking work ethic, and your peers either respected or despised you as a person. As a child this made you wonder if it was all worth it - worth the harsh whispers in the hallways of your middle school, worth the occasional and “totally accidental” shove you received in passing to your next class.

At one point, it had all become too much for you. Just touching the youthful age of fourteen, you were ready to throw away your passions simply to appease your fellow students; but then, someone very important to you had said something that would stick to you like glue for decades.

“Everyone has something they’re passionate about, Y/N. Hell, your bullies do to - they’re just hesitant to admit it in fear of not being popular. One day, they’ll come to respect what you love, you just have to keep doing whatever it is you do so you can show them.”

A soft sigh escaped your parted lips upon reminiscing the memory from - how many years ago had it been?

Glancing outside the bedroom window on the second floor of your house, you spot a group of teenagers that couldn’t possibly be over the age of fifteen huddled together. Two of them carried blue, plastic grocery bags in their hands, filled to the brim with what appeared to be rolls of toilet paper. One of the girls held up and began passing around black masks to her friends. Once they were all disguised, they started to walk down the street towards the cul-de-sac - ah, so that was what they were up to.

Most of the houses on your road looked fairly similar, built with quaint white bricks, a gray foundation, and black tile roofs. Yet at the very end, resting in the center of the cul-de-sac, was the Orion family home. Decked out with a wacky treehouse in the front yard, a mesh fence, red brick, and an eyesore of a yellow roof, the Orions had always been the boot of childish pranks since, well, forever.

For some reason, they never complained - in fact, an old friend of yours was convinced that they didn’t mind having their house egged and strewn with toilet paper, since it gave them something to do besides sitting around and staring at their television all day. Seeing that damned eyesore of a house after such a long time stirred up a plethora of old memories, but you figured that you could think about them later; after all, your cookies would burn if you didn’t get back downstairs and take them out of the oven.

————————————————————————

Woven basket hanging off your arm, you quietly walked down the familiar street, the soles of your shoes squeaking every now and again on a puddle from the storm the night before. Red and white mailboxes lined up in an orderly fashion in front of each green lawn, most of them decorated neatly with brightly colored flowers and the occasional birch tree. A stray cat snored peacefully on the front porch of the Clover household, a baby blue bowl perched on the steps. Two giant dogs, Lissa and Chrom, barked at you as you walked past their territory, the pale yellow bells attached to their respective blue and orange collars ringing in your ears.

Soon enough you arrived at your destination, one that you regarded to be something like your second home when you were growing up. The practically ancient tire-swing swayed in the gentle breeze that swept past your figure, a few tendrils of the rope having long since untangled from the bundle that held the swing on the crooked branch of the single tree in the front yard.

“I bet that I can push you all the way to the branch, Y/N!”

You playfully stuck our your pink tongue to the boy, tossing your book onto the grass so you could clasp onto the ropes of the tire-swing. “No way - you aren’t that strong, H/N.” You giggled teasingly, suddenly regretting your words when he purses his lips and steps forward to push the tire, the strong force sending the swing into a wild circle.

The cheeky boy laughed at your screams, pushing you even stronger than before when the tire comes back around full circle. “Haha, take that, Y/N - oh shit!” He cursed loudly when your body somehow managed to fling itself off the tire-swing, the frail boy just barely catching you with his own body before you both fell to the ground. “I’m so sorry, are you okay?”

Now, what the worried boy hadn’t expected, was for the person in his arms to burst out in giggles. “... did you hit your head on something before I caught you?” He pondered aloud with furrowed eyebrows, sitting up and perching his chin on your shoulder so he could sent an inquisitive look your way.

“N-no, I didn’t get hurt - that was super fun!” you cheered loudly, clapping the palms of your hands together in excitement, “let’s go again, H/N!”

“H/N, did you say a naughty word!?” His mother shouted from her bedroom window, causing both of you to look at each other and go pale in fright, though your giggles never let up.

Looking over to that same exact window with a faint smile, you notice that the blinds are open, the silky white curtains being pushed apart as an older woman with graying hair peeks out of her home to investigate the strange person in her front yard. As you get closer and closer to the front door, your appearance strikes a chord in her, demonstrated by her mouth gaping open and how she speeds away from the window to quickly open the door for you.

“Hey-”

“Y/N, it’s really you!” the woman nearly screeched in utter joy, throwing herself into your arms and pulling you into a bone-crushing hug, “it’s been so long, dear! You know, you and H/N have really become the pride of the county now that you’re both all grown up.” She showers you in kind praises, a hint of a blush spreading across your cheeks. Although, something she says catches your attention.

“Thank you, it’s absolutely wonderful to see you too, but... well, what exactly has H/N been up to lately?” you question her innocently, following her inside and chuckling softly at the sight of her husband slumped over on the couch, snoring loudly with their three cats resting on his belly.

She leads you into the kitchen, helping you set down the basket you’d brought with you and laying out a plate to set the cookies on. “Well, while you’ve been building a reputation for your amazing photography, our little tike has been working his way up the ladder at the local hospital. He’s their star surgeon!” His mother sighs with a cheery smile, bouncing on the heels of her feet as she takes one of the baggies from the basket and plates the fresh cookies. “Oh, but you both have outgrown this place. You’re both so busy, and now he’s got his own fancy penthouse in the main part of the city.”

The... city?

“I ain’t never gonna live in the city! It’s way too loud, has too many people.” H/N declared out of nowhere, nodding his head in certainty, straightening his posture against the trunk of the dead tree he’d been leaning against.

You were sat next to him, legs crossed neatly as you quietly flipped another page in the book you were busy reading, somehow managing to keep a keen focus on both the words on the pages and the bubbly boy beside you. “Mhm, whatever you say. By the way, you’re using improper grammar.” You corrected him blandly, making your friend puff out his cheeks in annoyance at your small smirk of amusement.

He huffed dramatically, slumping over to cuddle into your side. His eyelids were constantly fighting off the drowsiness of his body, but he was determined to stay awake. “Yeah, yeah - whatever you say...” the boy trailed off with a yawn, now completely latched onto your arm, “I don’t know how in the world anyone can like living in the city. It’s way too obnoxious, with all the lights, sirens, and people. In fact, I think I want to live in the country.”

“Mhm.”

He snorted at your hum of acknowledgement, knowing that you were still listening to his rambling. Most others would assume you weren’t paying them any attention, but they couldn’t have been farther from the truth. Since he was, of course, your best friend in the whole wide world, he knew when you were and were not paying attention to his words. “You’re going to come with me, right? I mean, when I move out, someday. We can buy a farm and raise tons of animals, it’ll be fun and peaceful. We can have cows, sheep, pigs, ducks...”

H/N continued to list off the perks of living together in the south, where there was tons of land just waiting for the two of you to build on. At some point, though, he felt your head slowly fall against his, which had been resting on your shoulder for some time now. Upon glancing down at your lap, he’d noticed that the book you’d been reading was closed over a hand you used to keep your place, your other hand placed on his thigh.

Seeing you so... at peace, so relaxed even in sleep, the teenager halted his ramblings to save them for another time, eventually falling asleep curled up next to you.

————————————————————————

After you’d listened to the woman you were happy to call a second mother tell stories for at least another hour, you ended up asking her for H/N’s address. Even now, sitting in the yellow cab that drove you to your destination, you couldn’t understand why he had decided to move into the bustling city. New York was already loud and crowded, so why had the boy who told you that he would find a place down south in the country settled down in a supposedly luxurious penthouse in the heart of New York City?

The traffic was absolutely horrid. You’d dealt with your fair share of traffic mishaps, considering it was unavoidable when you had gone to so many places over the years, but this reached a whole new level of aggravating. Not to mention, your childhood friend had the worst temper when it came to driving... although, judging from how his mother had described his situation, he probably had enough money to hire his own personal driver so he wouldn’t feel as exasperated with the city traffic.

Still, you had to admit that New York City was stunning, even in the shimmering daylight. You simply couldn’t wait for the sky to turn a dark black so you could take some unique shots with the various neon lights and abnormal amount of just as unique people.

“We’re here.” Your cab driver hums, pulling up just in front of the parking garage. You stumble out of the vehicle, not forgetting the tip, of course, and begin to make your way up.

————————————————————————

It isn’t difficult getting to the penthouse where H/N is staying, thankfully enough. The only other person in the elevator had been a pair of boys who literally couldn’t keep their hands off each other - you dreaded to think of what they did after you left.

But here you were, nibbling on your bottom lip as you stood at the front door, your fist lightly knocking on the sheer white wood. Within seconds the door creaks open, revealing a man that somehow looked no different than before, but also much more mature than you could've imagined growing up.

Just like his mother, a wide grin spreads across his lips at the sight of you and, before you could possibly protest, (not that you would), he throws himself into you, squeezing you tightly against his chest. “Y/N - I can’t believe you’re here.” He breathes out in disbelief, pulling back after a moment, though his hands rested on your hips.

“I have some time off... I figured visiting wouldn’t hurt anyone.” you admit with a hint of a teasing smile, sensing that any potential awkwardness at slipped away the second he hugged you. “You look - amazing. Not the same awkward, bumbling senior, huh?”

H/N playfully narrows his eyes at your jab, eyes flickering all across your face as he responded, “nope, and you’re certainly not the lonesome, pessimistic teenager anymore, are you? I mean, you are running only one of the most popular photography businesses in the country.”

“And you’re a surgeon living in the damn city, of all places.” you retort quickly, quirking an eyebrow up at the man, “I suppose we both grew up, didn’t we?”

He falls silent for another moment, amused by your sharp wit that, apparently, never left even though you were an adult now. “I suppose we did, then. But - I hope you didn’t grow out of fireworks. I was actually getting ready to head to the park and watch the Valentine’s Day firework show, I’d love it if you came with me.”

“I would love to.”

————————————————————————

The walk down to the park was oddly... peaceful. For one, H/N had lent you one of his coats, adamant that the weather would only grow colder during the show. You didn’t want to admit it, but the kind, simple action had made your heart flutter. Not only that, but he’d insisted on having a mini-photoshoot on the way there, posing like a model each time you pointed out a spot that would make for a great photo.

Walking side by side with the man, who definitely looked like he’d matured but certainly held onto his silly, childish side, you felt more relaxed than you had in years. You forgot how happy he made you, how much your lips would begin to ache because of how much he made you smile and laugh at his stupid puns and corny jokes.

“Here, I know the perfect spot.” He said out of the blue, dragging you to a vacant spot under a tree. Digging into the bag he had slung over his shoulders, the giddy man pulled out a thick, midnight blue blanket, laying it over the prickly grass before he pulled you down to sit next to him. “The show will start soon, I think. The fireworks they put out are beautiful... I’m glad I finally have someone to watch them with.” He murmurs quietly, offering you a small smile of content.

You were thankful that the shade of the tree and the general darkness hid your now tomato red cheeks, especially since he would no doubt tease you for being so - so nervous around him.

As teenagers, you’d grown to care for H/N in a way that you couldn’t quite understand. After all, he was your other half, always making you happy on dreary days and offering his support in most of your endeavors. Sure, other boys were nice enough, and some had even confessed to you - but for some strange reason, you only had eyes for the person you called your best friend.

There had been a time, quite similar to the scene you were in now, where you’d realized your true feelings for H/N. How you wished that you would’ve acted on them, back then...

“Hey, what’s wrong?” He’d asked you gently one summer’s night, the boy having been lying down with his head resting on your lap while you stared at, well, nothing. Ever since you both had come back to his place after a pool party a mutual friend had thrown, you'd been down in the dumps. He wasn't about to push you for an answer, since he knew that you were pretty out of it, but if he could possibly can an explanation sooner rather than later, he figured he could help you be less upset.

“I - well... your cousin, she uh... she said it was weird that I haven’t had my first kiss yet,” you finally admit with a sniff, looking anywhere but down where the boy was lying in your lap, “she’s right, you know. I’m almost seventeen and I haven’t even kissed anyone, it’s - hmph!”

You barely have time to register what’s happening before H/N cups your cheeks and pulls you down to his level, his lips connecting with yours. He kisses you until neither of you can breathe, slowly parting your lips.

“See? Now you’ve had your first kiss - and she can shove it, by the way. I didn’t have my first kiss either.” He admits to you casually, diverting his attention to the fireworks his parents were setting off by the pool, leaving you dumbfounded and shy.

Snapping out of your daydream, you bring your fingertips away from your lips, glad that he didn’t catch you reminiscing on the kiss from so long ago. “S-so... why the city? I thought you wanted to go to the south and raise cattle for the rest of your life.” You question him in burning curiosity, desperate to get your mind off of the haunting memories.

“Honestly? I didn’t want to go down there alone… I guess I wanted to wait for someone special.” H/N mumbles after a second of thinking about your question, tilting his head back so he can meet your gaze. In the reflection of his eyes, you see a bright blue firework go off in the distance, the start of the Valentine’s Day show. “There was someone who I thought could come with me, but they ended up pursuing their dreams before I could ask.” He continues slowly, a faint smirk twitching onto his lips.

“O-oh,” you stutter in bewilderment, “what... happened? Do you still care for them?”

“Oh yeah. There’s no way I could move on from them, even if we never officially were... anything,” he chuckles, “actually, I saw them for the first time in years today. I thought we’d left it at an awkward note, but the second we started talking again, it’s like all the feelings rushed back - for me, anyway. I’m not so sure if they feel the same way-”

You mirror his actions from all those years ago, bringing your hands up to gently cusp his chilled cheeks in the palms of your warm hands. Without much warning, you lean forward and press your lips against his own, smiling as he hums in delight into the kiss.

A firework shoots off in the distance, the red sparkles forming a cheesy heart in light of the holiday - but you’re both too busy making up for lost time under the shade of the tree.

51 notes · View notes

accio-firewhiskey · 6 years

Text

The Maid 11/13

Summary: AU, Belle is Rumpelstiltskin and Baelfire’s maid from The Return.

Note: Trigger warning, dubcon, not Belle/Rum Fyi, 17K+

I - II - III - IV - V - VI - VII - VIII - IX - X - XI

Belle wakes up first. Her heartbeat quickens—she had slept beside the Dark One, and what’s more, she had invited him. Holding her breath, she listens, but Rumpelstiltskin sleeps on, his own breathing catching in his throat. Her lips quirk upward—a smile threatening at the sound of the little snores from her employer. He always pretended to ferocity, but here, he seemed quite human. She swallows such things back down.

Her hand rests on his chest, atop his heart. Running her fingers lightly over the spot, she feels the rich brocade vest he wears, the fine threads feeling so grand under the pads of her fingers. Even her borrowed-tunic feels soft about her arms and chest. At that moment, Belle recalls she’s no undergarments beneath his stolen clothes, her cheeks coloring at the remembrance.

Her eyes slip over the lines of his form. It would be so simple, she thinks, face and neck hot, feeling each of his even breaths lift her slightly only to fall on his exhale. It would be so very simple to wake him.

She wonders over the man. She remembers (but only just) his form, the first day they had met, dark eyes and dirty hair, wrapped in rags as she. The boy had his bright eyes, but little else. She wonders over Baelfire’s mother. What had she looked like, that other half of her master’s child? What kind of woman would entice Rumpelstiltskin to marriage? A pretty thing, surely, if Bae’s sweet nose was anything by which to judge. Her own mother had been soft, but to the point—the voice of reason in their home, amid their father’s latest dreams and schemes. It had been a balance.

This house however…

At every turn the man beneath her rose in defense of himself. What balance had been struck in the days of his marital felicity? ‘Mayhaps a kind woman, but more like a harpy, Belle imagines. Quite the pair they must have made, she nearly snickers. Quick to anger and slow to apologize—full of pride (and little love, perhaps?) and little else to warm their bellies. It would have made for a loud, tense heap of a home.

However, the little boy felt none of the effects of any such domestic disharmony, thank the gods. Thoughts of Master Baelfire give her pause—lying abed mid-day with the father. With the fine house so quiet—too quiet—where was Baelfire—they shouldn’t stay like this. Would he catch them? Frowning, she imagines perhaps the boy already had. She tenses, knowing not quite how to move, how to wake her master, but the shift in her body or breathing does the dreaded work for her.

Rumpelstiltskin awakens.

Belle knows the minute he realizes where he is and who he sleeps ‘aside. He goes rigid. He does not move, his breathing pulling to a halt.

Swallowing, Belle tilts her chin upward. She can’t look at him, only the stiff lines of his mottled neck can she manage. If he weren’t so ugly, he’d be near beautiful, all scaled and untouchable. Holding herself as still as possible excepting her hand, she slowly—ever so slowly—traces the line from his heart, up his shoulder and down, down, down his arm, to pluck at his fingers. Daring, she takes his hand into her own.

He gasps. She does not stop.

Clasping it, she feels quite heady with the touch. She slips her fingers alongside his own, pulling the hand closer to her view. She sighs, noticing just how dirty they are. “There’s blood under your nails,” she speaks the words casually, near-silently, eyeing his long, strange fingernails (what’s more, she feels little surprise).

The moment breaks.

Huffing through his nose, He tugs his hand away, but Belle holds fast, not letting go, “You need not hide from me.” She thumbs at his thick, black nails, toying with their pointed tips. There is no rush to her movements, unhurried and determined, “’Tisn’t it a funny thing, Rumpelstiltskin, that you should know all my secrets, and I, none of yours?” The question is distant, and she hears the words as if spoken far away (and suddenly, Belle feels a wave of tiredness).

These words, these whispers, still him.

He had awaken to his secret dream. This touch, her touch, was like every one of his fantasies—yet so unlike. She, not he, had grabbed his wrist—the mirrored reverse of his imaginings. Gruff and dry comes his answer, “My secrets are best kept hidden, dearie.”

Now, she does shift, moving to dare look him in the eye. Staring, Belle thinks of his arms, she thinks of the scrape she suffered at his hands and the shaking. She thinks of the hidden, bloodied-shirts. She thinks of Bae and she thinks of the time the spinner checked her blind stitches. She thinks of gold string and smoke and the riverbed. The man is self-indulgent and prone to pity, but so is she—they cannot stay in this moment, and there are only two paths forward, forgetting or forging. She has cleaned blood from linen for him, and kept his secret, what’s more. She’s no intent to harm him (but that’s not always the key to the matter).

She dares to fathom the chance—holding it in her mind, how simple it would be to slip her hand between his legs, move the two of them down this new path, to take control of the moment.

She could do the brave thing, take the turn, perhaps bravery would follow.

She was no maiden, but this time it felt strange, the stillness to their touch—this time she felt the oddest sense of pull, the sense to roll atop this strange creature, aye, but also to catch his lips with her own. She felt the desire, even, to wait for him to brush against her. “Rumpelstiltskin?” she whispers.

“Yes?”

The words slip from her mouth before she can stop them (before she can understand quite why she cares to know his answer): “Would you have me?”

A gasp—a hiss—and the man does not speak. Two beats, but all she can hear is the roar of her pulse in her own ears. After ages, he offers, “Aye, I would have you.”

Belle had not the faintest notion of what comes next.

She slips upward, onto her elbow, the movement bringing their faces close, sharing the same stale, humid air. The dust motes and speckles of his skin reflect the noonday light (even his mottled eyes with their bloodshot corners). He looks like an animal, afraid and on edge, ready to bolt at the first sign of trouble.

Surely, she must look the same.

The moment breaks—when the window shatters. They jump apart. Rumpelstiltskin jumps so high, he falls off the bed, straight to the ground with a loud thud.

“Are you alright?” Belle asks. She scoots to the edge of the bed, looking down at him. “What was that?”

A strange sound, like little echoes, turns their heads: Baelfire’s ball slowly jump-rolls away from the broken window, bouncing against a wall, slowly inching toward Rumpelstiltskin on the floor.

“Sorry!” their boy’s shout carries from outside.

“Godsbedamned, Bae,” his father grumbles. “Now don’t you be running off!” he shouts. Standing, he takes up the ball and moves to the broken window, assessing the damage. Glass was strewn about, even a few leadlight strips scatter the ground. He grumbles, holding up the pig’s bladder ball and looking out the window at his sheepish boy. “Now, what have I said about playing too close to the house?”

“Not to do it—“ the boy begins, “but you’re back.” There’s an impish smile in the corner of his mouth.

Rumpelstiltskin melts. Sighing, the father works to push back, “Aye, I’m back, but you know better’an to be kicking this near the windows.” He gives the ball a little shake.

“Aye, papa,” The rueful smile slips back up, undeterred, “but you can fix it, can’t you?”

Now, his boy wanted magic. Frowning, he raises an eyebrow, “’Tisn’t the point, Bae.”

“But you can do it?” the adolescent presses.

Then, the father smiles too. He tosses the ball toward his son and begins to raise his hand up to fix the window, but Baelfire stops him, “I’m glad you’re back, papa.”

“Me too, son.” With the twinkling sound of chimes, the latticework and glass repair back together again. Alone once more, he grumbles, returning ‘round the corner, “That boy’ll be the death of me.” However, he truly is alone: the bed is empty and the maid is gone.

Belle goes to him at nightfall. Slipping through the camp, along the soldiers’ tents, her heart pounds inside her chest. She wears a dark cloak, Gaston’s ‘o course, for she’s no other to wear. The heat of the day has not relaxed, but the damp, tepid air only risen further about them all. It surrounds her, through her clothes, stifling and inescapable.

Reaching the entrance to the doctor’s tent, Belle stops, and swallowing, she searches for her courage. Closing her eyes, she works to calm herself, but it wasn’t every day one committed high treason.

The flaps open, “What are you doing?” The harsh whisper, so quiet and sharp, makes Belle jump. “Get inside, before someone takes notice.” He grasps her arm and brings her into his tent.

She wonders at his words, at his fear—had not he offered protection from the dangers of the men’s camp?

“Come into the light,” he orders, letting go of her arm and crossing toward his work table and single chair, “see what I’ve done with your ring.”

She moves beside him as he holds up Gaston’s ring for her inspection. True enough, he has fashioned the small gem and metal setting alongside a latch and miniscule compartment. The size is so insignificant that no one would take notice of the changes to the trinket.

So insignificant that with but a sleight of the hand, death could slip past the heat of battle, straight to the heart.

He opens it most gently, showing her the precious few drops of liquid inside. “What do you think?” he asks, smiling.

She cannot fathom how he convinced a blacksmith to do this in so short a time, but he has. A man of knowledge and science, he is proud of his work, Belle thinks, and what’s more, of the wager he has made. She gives him the answer he craves, “It’s perfect.”

“Indeed, no one could know.” Closing the clasp, he slips the ring onto her finger, and running his thumb over her knuckles, admires his own work (Belle tries and fails not to think of the last time a man slipped this ring onto her finger. She tries not to think of what Gaston would say if he could see her now). “When shall you do it?” he asks the dark question, toying with the metal hinge. He does not open it.

“When I must.” At Belle’s words, the doctor catches her eye. She’s no idea what he finds there, but she sees steadiness (and perhaps resignation too) looking back in his.

“Well then, let us use the time we have most wisely.” Dropping her hand and licking his forefinger and thumb, he snuffs out the only candle in the tent with a pinch, and darkness overtakes them.

As Belle’s eyes adjust to the change, she feels rather than sees his hands at the strings beginning at the top of her corset. Stepping back, she holds up her own, “Wait. I—I don’t even know your name.”

He gives only the faintest of a chuckle, hardly a breath, “Victor, my name is Victor Baleine.”

“Victor.”

“Yes, or Doctor Baleine, whichever you prefer.” Maybe she imagines it, but she almost hears a preference for the latter in his words. “And you are Belle of the Southlands.” He steps to her again, tugging at her laces.

A second time, Belle moves a hand to his wrist, “Wait.”

“There’s no need to be nervous, girl.”

“I’m not nervous,” she snips, defensive, “It’s only, I don’t—I don’t want to come with child.” Admitting the fear, suddenly feels strange, and hardly grown, but she could not go further without reckoning with it.

“Ah,” the doctor chuckles and with little swagger tells her, “You won’t, but if you were to come with child, I could take care of that—the benefits of modern medicine, as they say.”

Frowning, she nods though he can hardly see her in the dark, though she does not understand his words, but because he spoke them with such a finality—and what was she to do, in questioning the good doctor? She wants his end of the bargain as much as he wants hers.

(Perhaps even more).

Belle had always been quite good at racing toward what she wanted (she had also been quite good at getting into trouble, stuck up trees, caught in towers and book rooms, and playing when she ought to have been laundering). She hardly ever looked back on her decisions, at least before the death of her mother, but ever since she has grown prone to worry and bouts of indecision. Even now, after sure words and walking all this way, she stands rather unsure of the price she is determined to pay for her poison.

Best, she thinks, to race on.

She pushes with more force than necessary, the simple vest from his shoulders (and truly, it does still his hands a moment from unlacing her simple gown). Next, she tugs on his shirt, pulling it over his head and tossing it to the floor. Her corset takes longer, but between the two of them, she stands in little else but a petticoat and her well-worn boots in mere moments.

Moving her backward, he kisses her, unexpectedly before setting her down on his cot. He tastes of mead and spices—decidedly unlike the super served by the camp cook. So, along with clean water, he takes different food, Belle thinks. She wonders if that may come with the ring and bedding as well. He does not taste ill, but she is clumsy in their kiss. It is different from Gaston, though not from lack of practice, as she imagines it had been for her youthful beau, and when he palms her breast, she briefly wonders what she ought to do with her own hands. Pressing her back against the bed, he toes off his boots, each one dropping to the dirt with a thud. Hearing, Belle makes to mimicry, but the last she can’t quite kick off the cot, and she feels it beside her foot, dirtying the bed.

Without bothering to remove her underskirts, he slips his hand between her legs. Though Belle knew to expect this, she does indeed jump. Gaston and she had not gotten so far as this during their clumsy fumbles. Wet kisses, harried caresses, but not this. “Damn,” the doctor—Victor—says dropping his head, “You’re dry.” He pulls away.

“What?” Belle sits up, “what did I do?”

“Easy now,” he holds his hand up, silencing her. She can barely see it, in the darkened tent, but it is there. He rummages through a chest with tiny bottles, for though Belle cannot see in the dark, she can hear them, clinking together. So too can she hear him uncork a bottle and then rub his hands together—rubbing something on his hands.

She tilts her head, “What are you doing?”

“Oil to smooth the way,” he quickly replies, and she can hear him too, slip off his pants and rub the same concoction on himself. She can hear him touching skin elsewhere.

There.

She blushes at the turn of phrase and the sound, but when he moves atop her once again, his fingers press against her with more ease. And then he’s there, hard and pressing. It does not hurt, not exactly, but she turns her head from his kiss, gasping all the same, because it is strange and not quite comfortable—and then he is inside her.

There is pain, but not howling—she feels hollow, in her heart and elsewhere. It is not a moment—the maids in town had always said the first time it would be but a moment—but as he rocks to and fro, it is tolerable, in moments, perhaps even pleasant.

Indeed, it is not a moment, and Belle still knows not what to do with her hands. Finally, resting them on his back, she waits as he shifts above her, huffing and panting. She wonders over the gearshift in the war machine, she imagines a smaller bolt would do better. She wonders at Gaston, what this might have been like with him. She thinks of her home. She thinks of the outcropping tower.

Sighing, she thinks she should very much like to sleep now.

The doctor’s voice rises only a touch, the pace changing, and then his weight is on her fully and he is breathing heavy. After a few moments he rolls off to lie beside her.

“Was—was that it?” she asks him.

Chuckling lightly, the doctor turns to her, “Unless you’re waiting for the second coming of Only Host, then indeed, that ‘twas it.” He scoffs, “Not exactly the best reception I have ever had.” She nods, not knowing what else to say, and rolls to get up, but his hand on her arm stops her. She can feel it, hot over her skin, over the gooseflesh and raised hairs there. “Where are you going?”

“My tent?”

“Oh no, this time you will certainly be seen. Sleep here. I promise to get you back before first light.” Nodding, though he can’t possible see her, she lies back down, mind racing. She shall never sleep (never sleep again), but somehow, she does.

The next morning, she is sore, with a ring about her finger and her fate in her hands.

When she returns, the maid wears her own clothes, even her prim and white little cap. Rumpelstiltskin chances a glance in her direction, from where he sits in his bed. She is a little wrinkled, but seemingly no worse for wear. He could hardly imagine this to be the same woman who stole his bed for seven days and nights.

Nor, the one who invited him back into it.

She drags two, full water buckets with her, and not bothering to shut the door, she takes them to the hearth, refilling the jar there. Rumpelstiltskin glares at her back. The bed had smelt of her, and though exhausted, he could not fall back to sleep after Baelfire’s broken window escapade. He wonders briefly if her clothes are still damp. As she mills about, stoking the fire, gathering soiled dishes, he wonders if perhaps he had dreamed it up, after all.

“So—how was your trip?” her words come out stilted and awkward.

Ah, he had not been dreaming; she’s embarrassed. Chuckling, with a hand to his mouth, he indulges himself, “I must say, I’m surprised you noticed my being gone what with your little, how shall we say, bout of madness?”

That hits its mark, the rigid line of her back freezing, “I am sorry.” Standing, she turns to look at him. She can just barely see him from her vantage point at the dining table. Obscured by the shadow of the door, she cannot make out his face, but his skin shines as ever. “I don’t know what came over me.”

The words, Rumpelstiltskin suddenly realizes could mean quite many a thing, “You don’t know what came over you?” He stands, a finger pointed at her, “You’re foolhardy and near-mad yourself—“

She sets the stack of stone and clay bowls down on the table, they clang against one another nicely, “Twice now you’ve called me mad—don’t do it again.”

Crossing over to the table he leans forward just a touch to look her in the eye, “Are you threatening me?”

“No, but I am telling.” She can feel her hands shaking. The words had slipped out and she had not the energies to retract them now. She doesn’t understand, her mind easing back into life, but slowly, looking at his ragged face, she wagers a guess, “You’re angry at me?”

“Aye, I am. You scared my boy half to death himself, you did.”

“You brought me here,” Belle near-on yells, but chancing a look at the open door she lowers her voice, “you knew what I was like that day, and if you were so worried why did you leave Bae here with me?”

Banging a hand on the table, he yells, “What else was I to do, mum? Leave you there with your dead father decaying on the ground?”

Looking away, Belle tugs at the roots of her hair, feeling what little peace she had found in waking this morning leaking away and her anger rising, “I told you what I was!” she cries out, holding up the ring on her hand in front of his face, “You knew what I was, so why did you care?” She is crying then, and when he does not answer, she asks him again, “Why do you care?”

“I—I don’t.” Shaking his head, he bats her hand out of his face. Grasping, he changes the subject, “Let’s not lie to one another, I’m under no delusions that this is anythin’ more than a temporary stop until you can plan for your next disappearing act, now that you’ve nothing to keep you here.”

The words sting far more than the slap to her hand, “Is that what you think of me?”

“Not think, dearie, know,” the words are smug and cold, and Rumpelstiltskin crosses his arms over his chest.

Perhaps she is foolhardy. Perhaps she has gone a touch mad (or perhaps she meant what she had said that morning). Her next words are quiet, slow and easy to speak (but nearly a whisper), “But what if I’m not going any place?”

Rumpelstiltskin does not move. He does not breath. Stunned, his mouth finally drops, but no words come out.

Making up for lost time, Belle gathers up the bowls, slipping past her employer and out the open door, but on the threshold, she stops, turning back, a thought occurring to her, “Rumpelstiltskin, will you show me the grave?”

That, at least, he can accept. Without thought, two waves of his hand and the bowls stand on the ground and they behind Saorla’s drafty hovel.

She stumbles on the uneven ground and with the loss of the weight of the pots in her arms. His hand to her shoulder steadies her. “I didn’t mean now! You could have at least warned me.” He looks at her strangely. “What?” she asks.

“Just waiting for you to start screaming again.”

She shakes his hand from her shoulder, “He was my father.”

“Aye, and you poisoned him.” She opens her mouth to spew a retort, but he holds up a hand. “I’m not saying it ‘twasn’t a mercy.”

“He asked me.”

“So you said,” Rumpelstiltskin tilts his head, taking up her hand, flicking the empty ring open, “Now, where did you get something like this?”

She sneers just a little, “During the war.”

“Of course, but I want to know how. This,” he gives her hand a little shake, “or anything like, was only a legend. I know, because I searched for it.”

“No, you wouldn’t have found it, because it was made just for me.”

“How would you get something like that? High treason deserting the war, be it running, maiming or death.”

She tells him, because she has nothing left to lose, “I made a deal.”

“The clean water?”

“Yes, that too.”

Rumpelstiltskin drops her hand, “And who would risk their neck for you?”

“A benefactor.”

He laughs then, “Such folk rarely are as noble as they seem.”

“Oh, I learned that much,” she looks down at the ring on her finger, “but I got what I wanted.”

He feels that she hides something from him (she usually does), but he does not press, the talk of benefactors putting him on guard. Not wishing to tempt the voice inside his head, he simply nods and points behind her, “There.”

“What?”

“The grave, dearie.” Turning, she sees the patch of unsettled dirt, where Maurice rests. She steps toward it, slowly, in three strides. Staring at her rumpled back he offers, “You could not have continued dragging him all about the world.”

He does not see the tears that Belle cannot hold back, “He said he was letting me go. He said he wanted to be with my mother again.”

Rumpelstiltskin frowns, he had heard that one before, and yet, this felt so very different from when his own father had let him go. He says the only thing he can: “What’s done is done.”

“I never thank you, for—for this.” She gestures to the upturned earth, “The grave looks very fine. My mother would have liked it,” Belle says, more to herself than he. She slowly kneels down, running her hand over the soft ground.

“And the old man?”

There’s a smile in her voice, “If mama liked it, it would have been well-enough for papa.” She traces lines in the dirt, “It’s my fault, all this time on the run: it made it so much worse.”

“Dearie, he was a sick man.”

“He could have had more.”

“We could all have more,” indeed, he wants so much more, but war and poverty make wanting such things impossible for most. “’Tisn’t the way the world works.”

“He wasn’t always mad.”

“I know,” Rumpelstiltskin says, though he had wondered after that very question, but his last talk with the man had given him a glimpse of the inventor’s sanity—and intellect. “War is hell.”

“Yes,” she agrees, and falls silent.

The Dark One knows the life of the inventor’s pretty and poor daughter had never been destined for greatness. The best she could have hoped for was to leverage her looks into a better marriage with a merchantman, care for her parents into their old age, and birth children enough to survive infancy and carry on the family’s shop in town. Instead, her father had gotten her entangled in a fool’s war, and she had narrowly chased death only to escape it time and again with ignominy, infamy and steadily, obscurity. She was the strangest creature he had ever met. She was inscrutable, and yet he could not stop wondering over her. “Do you need something?”

Turning her head to look up at him, she asks, “Need?”

“Something to mourn the dead?” Unsure, he suggests, “flowers?”

She pauses, thinking, but ultimately declines, “No, I stopped believing in my mother’s gods a long time ago.”

He laughs a little at that, “Aye, let the dead keep themselves.”

She frowns at that, but he’s no idea why. Without warning, she blurts, “Can we go back now?” He nods and begins to raise a hand, but Belle stops him, “Wait, can we just walk back?” After a moment, she adds, “Please?”

He knows not why she rejects his magic, but reaching out a hand he helps her to her feet, and they start the walk back toward home.

Baelfire slipped into town after the window. Waking up, it had been a surprise, strange and grand, to find his papa not only home, but sleeping beside their maid. He had gone outside, a mild heat on his cheeks. He had asked Belle once if she and his father spoke as parents do. She had said no, but now, after what he had found, perhaps they could be like that after all. Perhaps he had found something that wasn’t there before.

Breaking the window had not been part of the plan.

They hadn’t always had windows. Playing ball had been far simpler when their home boasted no glass—not that Baelfire had much time to play in those days during and before the war.

Narrowly avoiding true censure from his papa, he chooses to escape and wile away some time in town. He does not stay long, he buys a little sweetbread and plays ball with Lachlann. They hardly notice the clouds growing overhead and the heat building above the village. The first drops startle them. They are large, splashing the dusty road intermittently.

“This storm’s nothing,” his friend insists, and then the thunder growls—it lasts ten counts.

“I should get home,” Bae announces, pretending the thunder hadn’t made him jump. He steadily kicks the toy through the village lane, but as the drops pick up, Baelfire bends to pick up the ball and hurries his steps, knowing his father will worry. Eyeing the storm front, he thinks he can beat it home. Perhaps Belle will be awake. Maybe he can show them his reading. He has been practicing after all, with little else to be done after the sheep shearing, the days hot and Belle still sick. Perhaps things would be back to normal when he got home (perhaps they would be even better).

Truly, he reaches the forest as the raindrops only make a little song upon the canopy of tree leaves. He will reach home in time.

Their walk is unhurried and silent, with only the sounds of the forest to speak to them. There is little to say and much to consider. As the fine cottage comes into view, and the trees about them clear, they begin to feel the rain. Stopping him, a hand to his wrist, she finally breaks their silence, “Thank you, Rumpelstiltskin.”

It is not the first time she has dared to use his name, but this time it somehow strikes him as different, as almost kind. “’Tis no matter,” he stops, looking at her and chooses to reply with the same, “Belle.”

She smiles at him, but then her eyes slip past his shoulder. “What? What is it?” Turning, the spinner finds what caught her eye: Baelfire races toward them, a dark storm hard upon his heels. The tower of the storm is dark, a gray-green, unpleasant and heavy. The clouds roil and roll in on one another, so great and large behind their boy.

He is quite close, but the clouds break upon them all. The rain pours, coming down in sheets. They wait for him, and when he reaches them, finally, they are all soaked to the bone.

Baelfire smiles at them, mischief dancing in his eyes, water dripping from his hair down his cheeks, “Are you feeling better Belle?”

She blinks her eyes, shaking the fear from her face. “Yes, Master Bae,” She runs a hand through the boy’s messy hair, “Now let’s get inside!” She has to raise her voice over the growing din of the storm.

Inside, she shoos the men to their corners of the house, and she leaves for the hearth to build up their fire. She leans down on her haunches, and losing herself to the dance of the flames, she allows herself to worry over what she saw. Belle was not one for faith and superstitions, but she admitted to magic in many forms. She knew the moment she had chanced her eye to Baelfire running from the squall, that she had fallen upon an ill omen. Though not all premonitions come to pass, she frets, poking at the fire. Thick raindrops, pounding so hard upon the roof, these might clean the dust and sweat from the village. The rain may water her ruined garden and draw weeds to grow over her father’s barren grave, but it could not wash away this dreadful feeling of fear.

The rain eases just before sundown. Baelfire hunches at the open window, watching the storm pass, the rain a gentle patter where before it had been a howling gale, listening for the intermittent growls of thunder and counting the beats on his fingers before he can spot the accompanying flash of lightning.

He hunches at the mended window.

“Close that up, boy,” Rumpelstiltskin calls from where he sits by the fire, a pipe in hand, “you’ll catch your death’a cold, son.” He props his bad leg up on another chair, despite the curse, he can nary quite grow used to the silence from his leg. A storm like this would have had him near-doubled over in pain. ‘Tis strange this body.

‘Tis strange this life, a monster of infinite power, puffing his spinner’s pipe, a maid flittering around him, his son, safe and robed in fine clothing. He feels no pain, and he’d always a hideous face and cruel streak, hardly a price at all for such a life as this.

“He’s right, the night air’s not good for you,” Belle agrees, slipping the washed bowls and cutlery into a cabinet. They had survived their fall, Rumpelstiltskin magic-ing them to the ground from her hands, to wait for them to all come back home again. “Darker than usual,” she says, moving to light candles throughout the cottage. They breathe smoky at first, but putter to a lighter flame anon. She yawns, unused to such work after many days abed.

He watches her work out the corner of his eye, a speck, all brown and creamy whites, moving from shadow to shadow—a hand cleaning the table, at his son’s shoulder, placing linens in a chest. She moves seamlessly about them. Her days away in the world of grief had shocked him and frightened his son. Baelfire looks quite at ease now, with the world returned to as it should be. The boy does not fault their maid, the child’s mind quick to forget.

But who sits, smoking with a full belly? Rumpelstiltskin too has fallen into a peace at the hands of their caretaker. They had been rather lost without her. Flummoxed, Rumpelstiltskin wonders when it had become so.

With a heavy—and, the father dares imagine, a rather put on—sigh, Baelfire stands, closing the window. This time of night had always been difficult for his son, the child an active and energized boy. Winding down in the evenings had been something of a power struggle, particularly in the years before Milha’s untimely departure. She had never quite excelled at cajoling their boy into the more mundane activities of waning hours, nor to an early sleep (their night-owl habits, a tendency shared among both the mother and son).

“Bae, mayhaps you could practice your letters a bit, hm?” Belle gently suggests.

Of course, the boy races (only tripping over his own feet once) to grab his primer and bring it back to the dining table. Rumpelstiltskin looks between the boy and the maid, the ease with which she drew his attention from the window and storm to a task to bridge waking and rest.

Belle catches his gaze, and guessing its meaning offers him a smile and wink, from where she peers over Baelfire’s shoulder across the table, to watch his work. Ruffling his hair, she tells him, “Someone’s been practicing. Soon, your father’s going need to bring home more books for you to read.” Noting her employer’s continued stare, a gentle blush rises to her cheeks. Eyes darting, she chuckles a little, nervous, under his eye, and crosses the room. She gathers up laundry—the son having a habit of leaving clothes on any and every surface of the middling-sized cottage. Belle manages the door open, arms full of clothing. She huffs, noting, the still-steady pitter-patter of the rain. The ground a veritable wetlands of mud and tiny rivulets, “No point in laundering this evening.”

“Too wet?” Bae asks.

“Yes, Master Bae, quite the mess,” she agrees, dropping the clothing in a basket in the corner beside the desk.

“Too wet…” the boy ventures, “to walk home?”

Instantly stilled, Belle thinks, in that moment, oh gods, what have we done?

“You can have my bed, Belle,” he offers, “I don’t mind sleeping on the hearth.” He is sweet and all that is kind in the world. Belle has only felt more afraid twice in her life—before the explosions and afterward.

“You can’t sleep on the hearth, boy,” Rumpelstiltskin sits, pulling his leg from the chair opposite and the pipe from his mouth.

“You did,” he retorts, “for days.”

At the revelation of his sacrifice to his maid’s comfort in her mourning madness, the Dark One grumbles, grinding his teeth, ‘Tisn’t a game of piper’s chair Baelfire,” he tells him between ground teeth, more than a little exasperated. “Besides, Bae, she’d hardly want to sleep in that old loft.”

“What’s so bad about my loft?” the boy squawks. His father had offered him a new room, but the boy had demanded a loft, just like the last in their old, decrepit home, when Rumpelstiltskin had this new cottage fashioned for them.

“Aye, just the fact that I wake up with a crick in my neck e‘er time I sleep there,” the father bites back.

Belle watches the exchange. She had never shared quite so common a speech with her parents, even on the run as deserters, there had been too much fear and too little comfort between her father and she, to chaff at one another in such a way. It sets her on edge, this toying. What’s more, her presence is perhaps only welcomed by half the company; her eyes blink too quick, at their banter. This wasn’t her family. “No, Bae, I’ll be fine in my place.”

Both men look up. Suddenly, it’s not Saorla’s place—she had called that gross hovel her own.

“Don’t be—“ the father begins, but stutters to a stop. Instead, Rumpelstiltskin chances a different tact, “In this weather?”

Belle frowns, “It’s rained before.” She puts a hand to the door, ajar, “Never concerned you before.”

These words are the most daring she has chanced before Baelfire, and his silence confirms it: this is not her place.

This is not her home.

She gives him a sad nod, “If you’ve no further need, I will be leaving—by your leave, sir?”

His eyes widen, his mouth dropping, but for only a moment before he raises his hand, gesturing her on, “As you will, dearie.”

Raising her eyebrows, she nods and turns to walk home in the rain. She does not turn back, even as she hears Bae’s call, even as she feels the chill in the air, and even as she knows she had seen a touch of sadness in Rumpelstiltskin’s eyes.

She trudges to her hovel (she doesn’t cry, but the rain on her face makes it feel quite like) and when she arrives, pushing open the shite door, she finds it cold, the fire long since dead, and the roof leaking, but when she lays down head, sleeps comes (and she’s not like to turn her nose up at it, even if it only comes in fits and starts).

The next day, the children accost Belle.

She is in her garden pulling weeds (her muscles aching and worse for the wearing after a night’s sleep. She has grown soft after a week spent in Rumpelstiltskin’s bed. She forces herself to remain kneeling and take her punishment without complaint).

“Why didn’t you stay?”

Sighing, she sits back on her haunches, “Well met, Master Baelfire.” She rubs her forearm over her sweating brow (for it is high summer and near high noon and damn hot all day long) and stares into the sun, the young ones nothing more than blights before her eyes. She can’t make out their features, but she knows they are disappointed. She waits them out with her silence. She had avoided father and son successfully throughout the morning, but she knew that could not last forever.

“Belle,” he whines.

Her smile droops and she takes a deep breath through her nose (she is young and can yet remember the feeling of youth, but in this moment she is so very annoyed at this boy), “Bae, this is not my place.”

“So you don’t want to stay?” the boy’s voice is soft and full of water, like a drop of dew, all hope and little promise; Belle’s head aches with the sound.

With a grunt and a groan, she stands, her muscles crying out. She pulls off her dirtied kerchief and wipes her muddy hands with it, “It’s not that I don’t want to stay, but there’s more to it than that.” They look at her not comprehending. “You’re not the only member of the household, Baelfire.”

“Maybe he wanted you to stay,” Morraine offers.

She can see them now, Baelfire and his dearest friend. Their faces are so bright, too bright. She tilts her head at her young charges, “What gossip have you two been sharing?” The thoughtless question slips out despite Belle not really desiring the answer. They both shrug, a captured look on their smooth faces. She knows then that Bae had most certainly seen her and Rumpelstiltskin yesterday morn (she had always known he had seen, but had placed mistaken hopes on the ridiculous notion that he had taken no notice of their sleeping postures. It was stupid of her, as usual).

Toeing the dirt in front her, the pretty girl with the flaxen hair eyes her idle tracings, “Maybe he was afraid to ask you to stay.” The whispered words give Belle pause—much as she’d like them to not.

It wouldn’t be the first that he’d played the coward.

Shaking such thoughts from her head, she bids them, “I find it hard to believe that neither of you have tasks on which to better spend your time.” Hands on her hips, she raises an eyebrow, “Shall I find you some?”

Deep frowns and a look exchanged between the half-grown pair has them racing away, waving to her, “Bye Belle.”

“Uh huh, as I thought,” she replies more to herself than they. Bending down, she gathers her vegetable basket. The peppers and parsnips were doing nicely, but the lettuce was nearly done and gone to seed, the shoots sprouting like wild and harried beanstalks—bitter to the taste and tough under the blade. She moves to the larder to clean and cut her pickings, but Morraine’s words follow her.

Belle certainly knew fear. She even knew the fear to love. There had been no mystery to Gaston—he was a distraction at best (and dull most other days). She had feared the insanity of loving one like him and loving one of his station. So she didn’t.

Perhaps she couldn’t love at all.

The very idea of Rumpelstiltskin, the Dark One, afraid to take her up on her offer of a shared bed (and the small possibility of a shared heart) strikes Belle as ludicrous, but then he was a man once, a cowardly, lame man. Her employer all too often needed a push in the right direction—one that Belle provided sparingly and with resignation. Too, he had no fear to yell at her, when the mood took him. Could he need a push now?

(Did she even want to give him one?)

He had come home from violence and mischief of some sort, though he shared none the details with the likes of her, and still she had felt the slow rush of desire, lying beside him. That feeling she had hardly expected to ever feel again. It was a strange thing, desiring the ugly creature. What’s more she had nearly promised to stay here, in this place. Those were words Belle had never expected to feel, nonetheless utter (and most assuredly not to him).

In that moment, she thinks of the sellslove’s words: what game was Belle playing at? How long could she play it? Did she want to stop?

Too entrenched in her thoughts, she does not hear the small feet approach her. She jumps, at the quiet words: “Does he hurt you?”

Turning round, Belle lets out a laugh at herself, at her own fear at being startled, “Morraine, you frightened me.”

She asks, not bothering to apologize, her eyes intense, “Is that why you didn’t want to stay?”

Belle tilts her head, finally catching her meaning, and peering behind the girl, she does not see Baelfire anywhere. Listening, she can hear her boy playing not far off, but Morraine has given him the slip.

Morraine has given him the slip to check on her safety. Stepping closer, the girl asks again, “Is he kind to you?”

The intensity hangs in the humid air around them—their shared knowledge of the war (Morraine may be a child, but in this at least, they are peers). She hardly knows how to give an answer to the girl’s serious mien, and so she answers truthfully, “Sometimes.”

Of course, she understands. Nodding—and perhaps, a little self-conscious, for she toys with the tips of her hair—she offers, “They’ll be going to sell the wool soon. You could go with them?”

Titling her head, Belle considers the suggestion. The idea had merit. She need not stay at the cottage, but a travel to town would be a glimpse: a chance to consider possibilities. Smiling, she says, “Thank you, Morraine.”

She nods and runs off to find her partner—she does not beam (Morraine is long since past beaming), but her smile was sweet, nearly childlike.

This morning, Rumpelstiltskin had awoken warm, well-rested, and in a maudlin mood. The activity of day had not fared much better.

He was still annoyed that his trip had brought him little news of Milha and the pirate company—despite persuasive discussion with more than one person in dark corners. The freemartin had gotten away from the rest of the flock and had been an irritant to chase back. Decidedly stubborn, that one.

(He toyed with the idea of naming her after another stubborn lass with a mean streak).

Last, and not least Baelfire had been decidedly not nearly as helpful this year with the wool preparation. ‘O course, the green boy had been plenty keen on the shearing, but the sorting, cleaning, and combing, well…

The boy lets out a holler and a giggle, outside. Rumpelstiltskin sighs, looking out the window, his hand stilling from their carding. His boy was happy. His boy had a full belly. His boy had friends.

He could finish the wool on his own.

“They’re sweet, aren’t they?”

He starts, but tries to hide his surprise at the maid in his doorway. She carried a basket of laundering (she always carried a basket of laundering), perched high on her hip. The posture gave the most interesting curve to her, and even in her plain dress, sweaty, nearly dripping from the day, Rumpelstiltskin feels his cock give a jump.

Scowling, he swallows and decidedly ignores it, returning to the carding. However, even he has to admit: “Aye, they are.”

She crosses the fine floors, her feet tapping out where she is (because he is not watching her), distributing their fresh linens and depositing the basket to its prescribed corner—waiting for Baelfire to race through all his clean clothes like a naughty, untrained beast. One would think the boy more prudential after the privations of his childhood, but he had a true talent for mischief of the messy variety. However, when her footsteps fail to continue back out the door, stopping instead before him, he looks up and positively spits, “What?”

Belle blinks, the harsh statement throwing her off-balance.

Good, he thinks. Let her feel wrong-footed for once.

She recovers however, taking a breath, and asks, “How goes it?”

Rumpelstiltskin gives her a strange look, holding up his hand cards, “This?”

She nods and looks, to him, in earnest. He indulges her, shrugging, “Well enough, I suppose.” Feeling more at east, discussing his former craft, “’Tis the last batch of the woolen.”

“So soon? What about the worsted?”

“We finished the coarse some time back, left the fine for last, and just in time too.” Lowering his eyes, he adds, “We worked in the evenings; you were… otherwise engaged.” He knows not how to refer to her time in his house and in his bed. At his words, she only looks a touch shamefaced.

She tarries, and he feels the heat of the blood in his cheeks and brow at her stare. He wonders what she’s on about. His temper growing thin, he asks, “Something you needed, dearie?”

That causes her to flinch, the fire to his tone, but she takes one of those deep huffs again, “Actually yes. You’ll be going to sell it soon: take me with you.”

He doesn’t answer right away, his head tilting at the request, and then all at once he chuckles, low and cold, “Oh, I don’t think so.”

“Why not?” she asks.

Losing what little hold he had on his control, he tosses the carding combs on his desk with a clatter and crossing his arms over his chest, he spits back, “You must think me daft. Else why would I give you a head a start on leaving?”

“Leaving?”

“Aye, and if you think I’m about to help you steal away into the night while our heads are turned in town, you’ve got another thing coming.” The plural slips out unintentional, his thoughts already to Bae’s pain when she inevitably runs away. Reclining, he puts on a slick smile, “But really, lass, wouldn’t it be better to make your escape while I’m off—slip away? You’d be leagues gone before me and my boy returned to pick up the mess.” His features scrunch together in a sneer, “Better for all, if you do it like that.”

She looks like she wants to strangle him where he sits.

Good, let her try, the Dark One thinks.

However, shockingly, her words are composed and quiet, “I don’t want to go with you to run away.” She stares directly at him, and he, oddly, can see tears in her eyes and disgust around her mouth, “I don’t want to be left behind, but it’s good to know what you think of me.” The maid turns on her heel.

“Belle—“ he begins, but she can’t hear him over the slamming of the door. He does not call her back again.

They do not speak. She comes in the mornings and leaves in the evenings. She knows that Rumpelstiltskin watches her steps. She does not dignify the attention with comment.

However, Belle knows her anger to only be partially justified. Before the morning of his most recent return, her eventual departure had been something of an unspoken agreement between the two of them. She had agreed not to speak of an uncertain future to Baelfire, but that had all changed with Maurice.

She was free now.

Bile rises to the top of her throat at such a thought (and not for the first time), but it is true enough. She was no longer tied to this place and these people, but for once she does not revel in the chance to slip away to new cities, new sights, and new ports of call.

She wonders if she had meant what she said the morning of his return (all of it). At the time, she thought she had, but Morraine in her concern and Rumpelstiltskin with his spite have reminded Belle that his kindness is not a certainty. Rather, there are brief flickers, some more lasting than others.

There had been blood under his nails, but far worse, he thought her false and one to use him. She was angry over the presumption.

When Rumpelstiltskin leaves after breaking his fast, at first she is glad of it, free from his stares, but as the day drags on, she wonders over what he can possibly be doing. Perhaps he went alone, without even Baelfire, to sell his wares, she wonders, but after checking, she finds the wool stacked tidy, off the ground, still awaiting market day.

Annoyingly, despite all her best efforts, her thoughts keep turning to him, and when Rumpelstiltskin saunters in, just after dinner, the words slip out: “Where have you been?”

“Why, I’ve been in the village,” he holds up two satchels, smirking, “and busy too.”

“Presents?” the son asks. The youth had taken quickly to the pleasure of trinkets from his father from his travels. Toys and curiosities—but rarely clothing, after the first few days in the wealth that power brings.

“Purchased with true coin and made by craftsmen’s own hand, my boy.” He tosses the first to Baelfire, and walking more slowly, simply passes the second to Belle, “’Tis time to sell the wool.”

She waits, not really daring to believe the implication. The son does not, tearing into his bag, but pulling forth his gift, he lets out a wail of disappointment. “Clothes,” he grumbles.

Rolling his eyes, Rumpestiltskin sighs at his son, “Not long ago, you would have jumped for joy at new shoes, but there’s more, go outside and see to it—if you can find it.”

The boy gives his father a rueful look, moving past him and out the door on this newest adventure.

Belle is also, not sure what to make of Rumpelstiltskin’s gift, “What is this?”

“You could open it and find out.” She simply stares at him, and just as with his son, he gives her a tired sigh, “’Tis true that word has spread of the new Dark One,” he gives a little toying-bow, arms outstretched, “some even say he has a boy, a son.” Raising a finger, he continues this merry dance, “but a band of three? Merchants, traveling to sell their wares, that would cause far less comment.”

She’s not convinced, “But you said—“

“I know what I said,” the spinner cuts her off, but it is resignedly soft (and perhaps even, a touch remorseful), “just open it.” Then, belatedly he adds, “please.”

Belle, still looking at her master, opens her own parcel, pulling out the gift. Slowly, she unwraps it, letting it fall toward the wood floor, revealing a thick blue fabric, fine enough for tapestry, but light enough for the thick summer airs, adorned with even paler blue florets and trimmed in a tawny brown. She runs her hands over the fine cloth and embroidery, soft as silk but strong and well-made (famously paid for, she is sure). With the exception of her maid’s uniform, she had not had new clothes since before her mother’s passing, nor any quite so fine.

“There’s more, dearie,” he nigh on whispers.

Indeed, she pulls a light gossamer chemise from the bag, with a tiny row of lace and eyelets edging along the neck and cap-sleeve arms. Delicate and dainty and nothing so fine as Belle has seen in years long since past. Likewise, she pulls forth an underskirt and the smallest set of panniers she has ever seen. Really, it is more akin to a belt than a skirt, the side hoops in such a shape as to make the blue skirt flair only a faint touch on each side, rising to above her ankle, she imagines. The length is not indecent, but practical: a dress for purposeful movement.

A fine dress, and it is clear the kind of lady it was made to bedeck: merchant class, well-off but in need of mobility to move about her shop and assist her family in the signing of contracts and the moving of capital and product. She is active, if refined. You can find her in warehouses doing inventory or tucking in her child in a nursery. She works at her husband’s side and perhaps a fine dowry solidified her husband’s business endeavors. Young enough to be his second wife, she even dares imagine.

“Do you like it?”

Belle shakes herself of the glossy dream. “Yes,” she admits, honest. “It’s beautiful.”

“There are slippers and a cloak too. Would you like to see them?” He gestures a hand toward the door, allowing her to lead the way. Belle wonders, moving out the door and down the path from the house, unsure of what she’s meant to find, but she follows Baelfire’s voice, and there, just at the edge of the forest, he stands with a sturdy wagon

Before, they had always pulled their own hay cart to market. A clunky and heavy bastard of a thing, the wagon before them was made for greater folk. Bae however, is entranced by the gentle, gray donkey harnessed to it. Belle circles the wagon, taking in the painted trim and the metal axel, before giving the creature a lazy scratch behind the ear. The animal leans in to her touch, and she resists being charmed. Do the brave thing. “You really think this spoiled creature shall get us to market?” she asks.

“He’ll do,” he too, joins them to lavish a bit of lazy attention on the donkey.

“And just how far are we going?”

He smiles at her, knowing amends have been made, “Longbourne market—the finest market in these parts. A half-day’s ride to the north.”

The donkey gives a snort—giving Bae a case of the chuckles—and Belle to give a skeptical look to her employer, “I hope you didn’t pay too much for this one. I don’t like the look of him,” but she smiles when she says it, all bark and no bite.

“Oh, the wainwright charged me a hefty sum.”

“You were cheated, Rumpelstitlskin.”

Tilting his head, he concedes, “Perhaps.” Holding up a finger, “Which is why such gifts are not without cost.”

She tilts her head, but he has turned away from her. With a flourish of the hand, she hears a large thud behind them. Looking up the hill toward the house, she spots the dining table and chairs—even the dinner bowls—standing just outside the front steps. Turning, she finds that Rumpelstiltskin holds up two large buckets in his hand, “One cannot go to market smelling of sheep—even with the finest wool this village has to offer. Let’s remedy that.” He gives Baelfire a pointed look and starts to ruffle his hair, but pulls his hand back, “Ah—you sweaty thing.”

Bae laughs at his father, “Sorry, papa.”

“You’re not,” he passes him one of the buckets, “but perhaps gathering water will help your contrition.”

Groaning, he trudges toward the creek. Moving past him, Rumpelstiltskin gives the other bucket to Belle, “If you would be so kind?”

Catching on, Belle imagines she’ll find an unfortunately large bathtub has replaced their dining set. She accepts the bucket, but narrowing an eye, asks, “But couldn’t you just,” she snaps her fingers to demonstrate, “fill it with your magic?”

“I could, but Baelfire, has recently expressed his deep disinterest in my methods.”

“You still use magic every day.” She thinks of the broken window and their broken moment.

“Yes, but not when it’s on him.” He points to her dress, “Real clothes.” He taps the bucket, “Real water.”

“Happy son.”

“Aye, happy son.”

She turns to begin, but flips back, “Why aren’t you helping?”

A hand to his chest and a put on look of disbelief, “Me? Dearie, I have to see to the wagon.”

Inside, Rumpelstiltskin is pleased with his work. A fine copper tub stands beside the fireplace, and their maid has strung up the clothesline to offer substantial privacy. Filling the tub had been simple enough—if time consuming. It had given him a kick, putting them to work filling the gargantuan tub. If the mending of the window had not been enough, perhaps this would serve as a reminder of all the good that magic could bring their lives.

They had fallen into a balance of sorts. Bae had always been wary of Rumpelstiltskin’s newfound power, but had been at least open to the opportunities. Seeing straw spun into gold was more miracle than magic—it was a blessing. What’s more, it intrigued his brilliant boy. However, after Belle had left the night of the storm, that all had changed.

Rumpelstiltskin had thought his son asleep—his mind preoccupied by the maid and the morning (and perhaps even Milha)—when washing his face, hands and arms with a rag at his basin stand. He had been wrong.

“That’s blood.”

Looking up, the father finds Bae staring at the dirtied—bloodied—water in the basin, from where he had cleaned beneath his nails. His son knew now, no matter how well Rumpelstiltskin had tried to hide, the true nature of his father’s trips, “Bae, I can explain.”

The boy waits, but his father, of course, has nothing else to say. Finally, the son speaks, “You hurt people.” The words are sure, and not entirely surprised—he had clearly at the very least wondered over frequent Rumpelstiltskin’s absences. “You hurt people all the time with your magic.”

“I also help people—I’ve provided us with good food and a fine home. We’re warm and safe because of magic!”

The boy shakes his head, “The cost is too high if you’re hurting others to do it!”

“Bae, what are you saying?”

“I don’t want your magic anymore.” He takes his father by the wrists, “I love you, but I don’t want you to use magic for me.”

“Ah,” Rumpelstiltskin gripes, “you don’t mean that.”

“I do.” The son gives his father a serious look. “Please, papa, promise me—no magic.”

The sound melts the Dark One’s resolve, “Alright son—as you wish. No more magic.”

Rumpelstiltskin thinks back to that night. Since, true to his word, he had nary conjured a bauble, nor cursed a villager. For himself, true, he continued to use magic, and Bae, made no mention of these slights of hand. He paid with magic coin, but aye, the goods were real enough. The bathtub swap had bent their rules, but he thought his son would forgive him just this once.

However, real water, real soap, and real scrubbing stones had barely been enough to entice his son into the bath. As Belle boiled each bucket of water, transferring it into the copper bathtub, she and Rumpelstiltskin worked against Baelfire’s resolve, telling him how nice it would feel and how fine he would look in his new clothes, but in the end, only his father’s declaration that he could not go to town without a bath, forced the boy into the water.

“And I expect you to scrub everything,” he calls across the curtain to his boy.

Belle laughs at them, heading outside to gather the bowls still sitting on the misplaced table. Rumpelstiltskin follows her, “You don’t seem to share my son’s aversion to a good bath?”

She chuckles, “Oh no, my father created the most wonderful invention to catch the rain water. When we needed to bath, a pipe would lead to a boiler, which led to another pipe, leading to the tub. Mama dearly loved that one.” He can see the very moment she remembers that her father and mother are dead and gone. Her face falls, but only a little. Brushing off her darker thoughts, she goes on, “Anyway, I think that invention might actually take off.”

Pulling out one of the chairs, Rumpelstiltskin takes a seat, watching her work. Feeling his gaze, she looks up at him, “Yes?”

He falters, giving a touch of a smile, “Well—I was thinking, with you joining us, we’ll need someone to look after the animals.” She leans over the table, waiting for him. “What about Bae’s little friend? Give her something for her time?”

Her bright smile battles with the darkening eve—and wins, “I think that’s wonderful.”

“Good,” he nods, though he knows not why—he need not her approval of his choice for temporary caretaker, “good thing.”

(He doesn’t mind it, all the same).

Giving him a strange look, she pulls out another chair and sits, slowly. She plucks Baelfire’s new boots from the table, where he had discarded them after the initial cooing. Using her apron, she brushes off what little dust has gathered from the boy running them from the wagon to the house. Then, she runs her hand over the pounded leather. He knows what she feels—the silken texture of the oil-rubbed leather boots. He paid a mighty sum to the cobbler, but for whatever reason, Rumpelstiltskin had not the heart to bother with a fight over coin; his boy would have those shoes.

(Mercer Barclay was another matter—true his things were quite fine, but not for the price he liked to play at for his clothing).

“Thank you,” she says out of nowhere.

He shrugs, suddenly a little embarrassed over the extravagances. “’Twas nothing, lass.”

“Not just the clothes.” She catches his eye, and he knows that she understands the amends he had been trying to make. They are of an accord.

He should say it. He should say the words—apologize and make it real, but for some reason, his mouth is wooly-dry, his brain dumb. (His pride stiff).

Instead he does the next best he can manage: “You can have the water, after Bae. I don’t mind waiting till last.”

She smirks at that, “A bath sounds wonderful.”

Sticking a hand into the tub, Belle finds the water decidedly tepid. Not necessarily a bad thing—she sets a pot of water to boil over the fire to add to the tub. She is happy however, to find that Baelfire, the messy boy, has left the water fairly clear. She gathers up his dirtied clothing from the floor, setting them to the side. She would launder all their things when they returned from market.

She hears the curtain rustle, without looking up, she asks, “Forget something, Master Bae?”

“No,” Rumpelstiltskin replies.

She stands straighter, watching as he moves to the hearth. Slowly, but with a practiced hand, he removes the pot from the heat. Furrowing her brow, she asks, “What are you doing?”

The lights are low, Belle neglecting to light the evening candles with all the fuss. Only the fire illuminates them, bouncing and dancing. The light plays strange on his face, his sharp features softened, the mottled coloring, more an intriguing glow. She blinks, the room heavy with the steam from the water and the usual smoke from the fire, condensed from the privacy screen, she’d hung. He bears no emotion (and strangely, his traveling cloak has been removed, she oddly notes) when he asks, quiet and solemn, “I thought you might wish for new water.”

“I thought you said no magic?” she asks. Out of nowhere her mind reminds her that Baelfire is asleep, worn out from the excitement and calmed by the bath.

The man does not mince words, nor play with them as the Dark One is often wont to do. He offers simply: “You’re not Baelfire.”

Her back prickles and she swallows, but after a beat, she cannot help but nod, “Yes, please.”

Inclining his head, he snaps his finger—no smirk, no smoke—and, Belle stepping close to look into the tub, sees that indeed he has freshened the water. Peering down into the crystal clear bath, she says, “I think you’ve vanished the soap as well.”

“Ah, of course.” The turn of the wrist, that looked like magic, but perhaps was simple slight of hand, he reveals a fresh chunk.

She takes it from his outstretched hand, their fingers brushing.

“Well, I’ll leave you to it.” She can’t see it, but imagines a flush rising to his neck.

She feels it too.

With an awkward nod, Rumpelstiltskin slips behind the makeshift curtain, leaving her to her bathing. She watches him go, and listening for him, notes the door opening and shutting. Still, Belle first dampens the fire even lower, before disrobing and slipping into the tub. She gasps at the heat of the water—nearly scalding, she has not felt such a thing since before her mother passed.

The soap too is a long since forgotten luxury—manufactured from the guildmasters and licensed and taxed throughout the kingdom. In addition, her foot stumbles upon an unexpected rock at the bottom of the tub. She pulls it up and finds it to be a pumice stone. Between the soap and the stone, her skin feels fresh and a little raw, and after washing her long hair, she reclines against the edge of the tub, enjoying the ebbing heat of the water.

Rumpelstiltskin mills about the animal pens as long as he dares, the night air and darkness surrounding him—he does not care to be out during the nights when he finds himself home. Nights are when the voices grow too loud, and when held by compare to the warmth of his home and his bed, he much prefers the latter.

Returning, he feels ill at ease. He can see her shadowed head, just above the outline of the tub. The light is low, but he can watch her. Not knowing quite what to do with himself, he sits on his bed, and try as he might, he cannot stop himself from tracing her shadow.

The smell of the fine soap fills the tight cottage and unnerves him.

Without, desire or forethought, he slips into sleep, dust from the day still about him. He had not thought sleep would come so easily, but it does and it feels like much time, when with a jolt, he awakens. Blinking up at her, his words are of course, inane and sleep-addled, “I waited, in case you fell asleep in the bath.”

She chokes on a little laugh, “No, that was just you.” Then, biting her lip she adds, “I’m sorry—I took too long.”

“’Tis no matter, dearie,” he mumbles, wanting nothing more than to roll over and go back to sleep. When the girl turns to leave, he catches her wrist, asking her own question: “Stay?”

He is already falling, but he can still feel it as she settles next him, hair wet and smelling vaguely floral. He tightens his arms around her.

Rumpelstiltskin awakens to the most pleasant dream. Stretching and burrowing back into the blankets, the waking is slow.

Then he jolts—had she stayed?

Had it been a dream?

He thinks it had been real, but daren’t trust himself. Sitting up he stretches, finding the curtain still hung. He walks through, finding the tub full of cold water.

“You’re awake.”

Turning, he finds Belle dressed in her new garb, the blue dress bringing out the color to her eyes. She wears the hoops and heeled shoes. She looks lovely, but he can’t find the words to tell her so.

At his appraisal, she tucks a strand of hair behind her ear with a nervous hand and moves past him reaching for the fire poker. Rumpelstiltskin stops her with a hand to her wrist, “You need not—you wouldn’t want to sully your new things now.” He takes the poker from her hands, rousing the fire on his own.

“Thank you,” she tells him. “Now, you need to hurry and clean up—else we’ll be late.” Raising her eyebrows, she turns on her dainty heel and brushes past the curtain. The curl to her shoulders, the corner of her smile—they held an answer, but he had been too afraid to ask.

Belle had returned to her habits rather quickly, rising early and requiring little sleep. She had slipped from his arms early, taking only a brief moment to stay in the warmth. Readying herself had been simple and leaving Rumpelstiltskin to his bath, likewise. Even rousing Bae, calling up to his loft, had been simpler than usual—the excitement drawing him downstairs for his new clothing.

After dressing, Baelfire races outside. Despite his zeal, Belle thinks he looks rather smart in his embroidered vest and short pants. Slipping on his leather boots at the door, he races to get the donkey hitched to the wagon. He doesn’t head straight to the pen, and she can hear him rummaging at the side of the house.

Ah, she thinks, he’s nicking one of my carrots.

Rumpelstiltskin hollers, emerging from the curtain, as the boy runs past the door again, “Well done—leaving with both arms empty.” Shaking his head, he turns to find the maid staring.

“Better?” she asks.

“Aye, much.” He gathers up as much of their wares as he can and heads out. Belle follows suit.

Despite not helping load their wagon, Baelfire has certainly gotten everything ready to depart, and after a few more trips and donning their cloaks, the party of three is ready to set off. “Your girl will be by later today?” he asks his son.

Baelfire rolls his eyes, “It’s Morraine, and aye, papa, she’ll tend the animals today and next.”

Nodding, “Very good.” He had sent Bae running to the village before his bath to make arrangements with the girl. Adjusting his cloak (and the dagger where it rests beneath his vest, looking like nothing more than a little protection for the road), he realizes he’s forgotten something—something important. Without pronouncement, he waves a hand and suddenly, he’s himself again.

Belle and his boy stare, wide eyed.

“Papa, you’re—“

“Me?” he asks, hoping he got the spell right.

The boy nods with a sweet smile, “Perfect.”

Turning to Belle he asks if indeed, he has magic-ed himself into his old appearance as the hobbling Spinner—though without the hobble this time, “Well? Is it as you recall?”

Belatedly, shaking herself from her staring, she too nods, “Yes, the self-same.”

“Good, can’t have the Dark One traipsing around with an entourage, now can we?” He asks to no one in particular. “Let’s be off, shall we?” Rumpelstiltskin takes the reigns and Baelfire jumps in back, and after only a moment’s hesitation, the spinner reaches a hand down to help her up to sit beside him.

The wagon is smooth, despite the mediocre road. Fine ride and fine livery, it’s feels like a dream to Belle as they amble down the road, but when they pass Hangman’s Tree, where the path meets up with the village main and crosses with the road to Longbourne, the figure waiting there makes Belle realize this most certainly be no dream.

Carlotta the sellslove leans against a signpost, waiting, even in the early morn to offer her services to weary and lonesome travelers. Bored and rumpled from a night’s work, she spots them.

It only takes a moment before she recognizes the party. The look to her reminds the maid of Bitter Buttons, and with a daring smile on her lips, the woman dares to wave as they drive on past.

Belle turns around to stare back at her—Bae had waved, innocent as ever, and leans over the edge of the wagon to the driver’s bench, “Who is that, papa?”

“Carlotta, son.” The words are hard pressed from the spinner, “Lady of the night—you need not know her.”

Baelfire blushes and returns to the back, to watch the road, but Belle is ill at ease.

Rumpelstiltskin can guess at the feeling, “You know her?”

She nods, and the woman is little more than a speck in the distance now, growing smaller and smaller, with each jolt forward, “Yes, I met her in town.”

He snorts, “A mouth on her, that one.”

Tilting her head, she looks at him, and briefly, just for a moment, she wonders at how he knows the sellslove, but it passes.

It’s no matter, in any case, she decides.

The woman’s words return to her, and true Belle committed no misdeed this day, driving with her employer and his son, in her fine gifts—she merely was playing house, playing the part of a family in their rich garb and the Dark One wearing a poor man’s face.

After all, in the end, it had not been Rumpelstiltskin, but she to ask the inevitable question. She had been the one to invite him to lie with her, not that any would guess as much.

They meet few highwaymen, but a little before noontime, they begin to be joined by other merchants off to sell their own goods at market. Longbourne was a fine place, near enough for half a day’s ride, but far and great enough to be in their economic interest to sell there and not in the village.

“Here we are,” he tells them, driving into the entrance of the town. Rumpelstiltskin sighs, heavy and tired already, with a perfunctory wave of the hand, “Longbourne.”

Belle exchanges a smile and with Baelfire, their excitement brimming. Daring, she nudges Rumpelstiltskin’s shoulder, “Don’t sound so pleased about it.”

“Oh, I’m not.”

The entrance to the city is stone, covered in ivy, speaking to the age and little prestige of the place. She had not stumbled through this spot, dragging her father to and fro on their run about the kingdoms.

She shakes herself, centering on the now, the crush of wagon and folk all moving to the grand marketplace, smelling the air—cooking food and spices, thick summer air, flowers about the walls of the two-story buildings and of course, the night soil and sewer water caressing any large town. They should have arrived earlier, she thinks.

When Rumpelstiltskin answers, she realizes she had spoken aloud, “Aye, dearie, but we’re not here to set up a stand. I sell to the same bastard every year—blind as a bat, but he knows his wool, can tell the quality just by the feel—couldn’t cheat him if I tried. We’ll drop ours all in one exchange.”

“But we’ll stay, won’t we, papa?” Bae pipes up from the back, he pushes between them, his head darting at the sights and sounds.

The father sighs but can hardly deny his boy, “If you wish.”

It is then that Belle spots something she has not seen in some time: a book binder and lender (perhaps a printer too). Her eyes widen with thirst—one she would very much like to slake. So she dares to ask, “Would we have time to look at the books?” She points to the simple shop.

Rumpelstiltskin follows her finger, and without much expression, he gestures a hand, “Have at it.” His eyes look about to the people surrounding them, his shoulders drawn at the hub-bub of the city, and Belle thinks surely he must despise it all.

“Really?”

“Aye, Bae and I can deal with the wool.” He looks at her in earnest then, “Meet back at the square?” His words are more than a question—they ask for a promise.

Without thinking too long over the gesture, she slips a hand to his knee, “Yes, in the square.” She will come back.

Looking from her face to the offending hand, he pulls the wagon to a sharp halt. He inclines his head, “Off to it, then.”

Bae gripes in back, “Can’t I go with Belle?”

As Belle slips off the rig, the father tells him, “No, son, you have to learn this part of the craft—the going price of wool.”

He groans, so, leaning over the edge of the wagon, Belle eases him into the notion, “Perhaps after you’re finished selling your wool, your father can show you around the town, hm?” She gives Rumpelstiltskin a pointed look, and Bae a bright smile, “besides, I’ll bring you back a present.” Winking, she leaves them, making her way to the door. Her hand on the doorknob, she finds them again in the crowd; they don’t look back at her.

Oddly, she shivers.

Belle shakes off the feeling, attributing it to the strangeness of being amongst so many people (surely, she had not been so surrounded since the camp), and enters the bookstore. She smiles, when a tiny bell rings upon her entrance. Charming.

“Good morning!” A tall man greets. His hair is red and curled, and what’s more a pair of spectacles sit upon his nose.

She offers a little curtsy, falling into court etiquette.

Old habits die hard.

“Can I help you find anything?” he says with only the slightest of stutter, “Or did you bring a book to exchange for a lending loan?”

Opening her palms, she tells him, “Only coin, I’m afraid.” It is true, Rumpelstiltskin had slipped her a little extra coin on the journey, should anything catch your fancy, he had explained, in a mocking voice.

The owner laughs a little, “Oh, there’s nothing wrong with that.” A speckled dog sidles up next to the man, all black and white spotted.

“I’m looking for a book on alchemy,” she tells him, standing straight, “and a some primers.”

The exchange is completed rather quickly—not helped at all by the fact that Bae can neither feign interest in the sale, nor keep from touching everything in the warehouse. He’s shocked when they escape only with the money for the wool and nothing lost from his son’s eager and clumsy hands.

“Stay close now,” he tells Baelfire, taking hold of the neck of his cloak. Rumpelstiltskin’s heart skips a beat at his son in such a throng of folk. He wasn’t about to lose him.

“Papa, look!” He points to a crowd in one of the alleys, “What are they doing, papa?”

The man rolls his eyes, taking in the sight, “Gambling, son.”

“Can I see?”

The question grates at Rumpelstiltskin’s nerves. “Oh, please, son, let’s not lollygag.”

“Please, papa—I’ve never seen it!”

He’s not seen half of what is going on in the city center, but the father refrains from saying so. The spinner hated gambling, with a passion, “Fine, but just a look.” As they near closer, he catches sight and recognizes the game instantly: follow the lady.

His father taught him well, after all. They watch, over the shoulders of the onlookers (Bae on tiptoes), as the dealer wields his ill-craft. He’s not the slowest dealer Rumpelstiltskin has ever seen, but then, his bar was higher than most. Eyes checking out the crowd, he spots the two shills, one at play, another in the crowd, and perhaps a third with a hand to his chin watching from a distance.

Aye, most definitely in on the con, Rumpelstiltskin thinks when the man with a hand to his chin comes to stand next to him, having openly taken in his fine clothes. He rolls his eyes, amateurs.

“Easy money, looks like, eh?” he asks, elbowing the old spinner—looking everything like a to-do merchantman.

“Don’t touch me.” He is not to be trifled with—and he’s played enough for a lifetimes worth, but then a notion takes him, and when the play ends, the tiny bet taken (to draw in those foolish enough to buy the song and dance), he speaks up, “Can I have a go?”

“Papa?” Bae asks, bewildered and wary—he had never seen his father play a game of chance outside their own home.

The dealer catches eyes with his compatriot, who gives the slightest of nod.

Fools.

“Why yes, good sir, do sit. Play our little game.”

The father moves to sit, the crowd parting for him. Playing the fool, he even asks, “Now how does this go?” The corner of the dealer’s mouth tilts up, just a smidge, and Rumpelstiltskin knows he’s got him.

The hand is dealt,

It only takes a touch of magic, to change faces, and when the dealer reveals his chose card, other hand already reaching for the coins on the table, the queen smiles up at him.

The dealer is aghast, “You cheated!”

“Is that so?” he chuckles.

“No, papa,” Bae begins, well-knowing this tone. It usually spoke of smoke and snails.

Not today, however. Rumpelstiltskin grabs the offending wrist, and pulls the hidden cards from it. “Now, look lively, all of you,” he turns addressing the crowd, “this is what charlatan games get you.” He lets the man go, just hard enough for him to hit the back of the brick wall. “Peddle your tricks somewhere else.” The glares suggest that they may need more convincing, but turning about, he finds the three partners have made scarce.

Then, the dealer dares to laugh, “You’re good.”

“Aye, and faster than you.”

“Who taught you?” the dealer asks.

It was not asked in maliciousness, but mere curiosity. It still sets him off, “’Twas before your time.” His eye turns serious, “Now, be off, before I really show you what I can do.” Such a conman knows a dark tone—one he would rather not face—when he hears it, and scurries away.

Presumably to a new town to set up all over again.

“You didn’t hurt him.”

The words are shocked, and Baelfire’s face too, looks absolutely stunned. It stabs a little, the disbelief, but Rumpelstiltskin scoffs, replying, “They weren’t worth it.”

“They?”

“Aye, they,” he teaches, numbering the swindlers on his fingers, “the dealer—the one playing when we first arrived—the one who spoke to me—and the one with the starched collar.”

“All of them? In on it?”

He laughs truly then, “Indeed, son. That’s a con for you. You must have the player to trick others to make it look like easy coin, and then your onlookers to watch for soldiers and likely targets—marks we called ‘em.”

“You did this?”

Realizing his mistake, he sighs, “Yes, unfortunately, as a boy. The card part ‘tis the easiest.”

“Will you show me?”

The question strikes him quick and painful, but all the same he tells his son, “I suppose, when we return home.”

Bae’s smile is bright and beautiful and Rumpelstiltskin can’t help but mimic it. “I like seeing your face again, papa.”

“Why?” the words catching him off guard, “I’m nothing to look at, son.” He had always been an ugly man (and an ugly boy long before).

The boy shrugs, not fighting against his father still holding his hand like he was a young child, “I like your face.”

The words are the sweetest of poisons. Rumpelstiltskin shakes off the feeling, “You would be the first, I’d wager—“

A noise on the air catches his son’s attention, “Oh, papa, look at that!”

The boy points to a wagon, shifting positions for the evening crowd, laden with goods and trinkets and oddities from the world over. It belongs to a tinker, sparkling in the high sunlight, and of course Baelfire is charmed.

The father’s head droops, but he obliges all the same, “Fine, fine, let us go and spend our hard earned coin on some shiny, worthless bauble.”

They shop.

And shop.

After taking their ridiculous tokens back to the wagon—what once-impoverished father could dare deny his son when coin and gold thread be plenty—Bae and he find the strangest man making sweet ices. They purchase two, not three (“But what about Belle, papa?” “No—son—it’ll damn-well melt in an instant in this heat… fine, we can take her back when we meet up”) and sit on the edge of the town well. ‘Tis more like a fountain, carved faces splashing their clean water into the larger pool, waiting for fish wives to fetch and fill their jars before supper. They eat their ices quickly, but they still melt and run down their hands and wrists.

A caravan marches past. “Are they leaving already?” his boy asks.

Indeed, it’s too early to pack up, though most merchants have broken up from the bustle of their peek hours in the mid-morn, to take a supper and nap. Rumpelstiltskin explains, “No, they are likely going to set up for the night market. It runs along a different path. Begins about sunset and goes till dawn.”

Baelfire smiles again, sticky and smudged, “Woa, I’d like to see it.”

“Well, mayhaps you shall.” He spins a picture for his son, fine as any wooly thread, “the night smells even greater of spices, for they cook all night long over open flames, food on sticks to tempt passers-by. The merchants are bolder, shouting even louder, and on the edges, you can buy things you would hardly find in the light of day.”

The boy’s eyes widen, “Papa, we must go.”

“Dances too.”

“Really?”

“Aye, with ribbons and jumping and spinning. All manner of revelry. Your little maid would have a high time, I think.”

Bae laughs, “Belle’s not my maid.” He stops then, looking up at Rumpelstiltskin, “She doesn’t have to be a maid, you know.”

The father’s face falls, and he fails to note when his ice melts rapidly all over his hand, “Bae—“

Baelfire, finishing his ice in one ginormous bite, raises his hands in mock misunderstanding, “I bet she likes your face too.”

Rumpelstiltskin realizes instantly when the blush hits him—he can feel, but worse, far, far worse, his son laughs at him, “Ha, ha, very funny.” It’s been some time since blush had been visible for the likes of him.

The child getting himself under control gives his papa a more serious look, “I wish we could stay like this forever.”

Without intending to, he replies in kind, “Me too, Bae.”

“Would you do it?”

“Do what?”

“Stay like this?”

The severity in the words sit ill—live like this, to-do merchants, traveling to towns to sell and see, with nothing but their wit and hands to protect them, “I—I don’t—that feels a lot like running, son.” Shaking his head, he adds, “Besides, can’t be done, you know that, Bae.” Absently, he pats the dagger hidden at his waist.

“But if it could be done?”

“I—“ he stops, as a shadow covers them both.

When Belle leaves the bookshop at long last, smelling of parchment, velum and ink, she returns to the square. Her burden is heavy, the shoulder bag full of her purchases. The center of town was a little distance from the shop, his location not exactly prime—his wares not exactly popular.

It is well after the noon hour.

She knows because a bell tolls, in the center of town. The bell is above a chapel.

‘Tis a sight Belle has not seen in many, many years. True, she and her father passed the occasional shrine and chapel, but the chance to step inside the place her mother loved best, after their own home, had been elusive—and what’s more, she had let go of her belief a long time ago.

Her steps move her forward without truly any realization on her part and up the pale, white stone steps. They bow in the center, from age and overuse, and she can feel how slick the stone has been rubbed through her blue shoes with their tiny heel.

They clack a sound that reverberates through the chapel, the white stone reflecting the light from the stained glass windows. Vivid red stands out, depicting tortured saints, flayed bodies, and hands lifted in prayer in violet vestments. It is beautiful as any chapel from her youth. She walks to the front, all too aware of the sound she makes in the empty worship hall. At the front, Belle takes in the dais, the shrine and the book, placed out of reach of worshippers and onlookers. The book is strange, a palimpsest of the past and present, pages yellowed and curling, their verses hard to make out. She would love to get a better look, but dares not press any closer.

“You need a candle, sister?”

Belle laughs at that—she’s no sister of the faith—but he was right, “Yes, I do. I need two.” She turns to find a balding man, with a thick black bear holding a tray of skinny prayer candles.

“Well?” he asks impatient, “you going to buy one of these or not?”

“Oh—yes.” She rummages with her coin purse, setting her bag of books on the cold, stone floor. She looks up, “How much?”

He holds up four fingers, “Two each, sister.”

Belle quirks an eyebrow at him, “You’re not a cleric, are you?” If he was, in his scowl and his candle tray, he was the strangest cleric she had ever seen.

“Oh no—I’m just the custodian for this fine establishment.” He rolls his eyes, “Clerics are at lunch. Won’t be back until evening chants.”

She nods and takes the candles, “Thank you.” Turning back to the shrine, she kneels to light the candles and place them with their brothers—all at varying heights, about the front steps to the dais. She has not more faith and yet, habit and practice, hold her in place. She stays on her knees, thinking back to the prayers her mother taught her. She stays longer than she had planned, in silence, mind rather empty, but after offering double—holy mother, full of grace, curse breaker, full of grace—for her mother and now, her father, when she stands, Belle feels lighter than she has felt in some time.

She feels nearly put back together.

She is surprised, as she leaves, to hear the bell toll overhead. She can only chuckle at herself for losing so much time and meander her way to the city square. They are easy to spot, the crowds cleared, resting before evening, and she smiles, staring at them openly, the father and son, teasing, laughing—even splashing one another—at the city fountain.

Yes, she feels nearly put back together again.

Then, she thinks of Carlotta. How long can she play at these parts without forgetting it’s play-act? Would that really be such a bad thing?

Walking up to them, they don’t notice her until she stands before them, her long shadow darkening them both, “So how did the wool sell?” Belle asks.

Staring up at her, more than a little dazed, the man puts a hand to his eyes to shield from the sun, “Oh, same as ever.” Eyeing her bag, he tells her, with little bite to it, “Probably about as much as you dropped on those books, lass.”

She laughs openly at that, “Impossible man.”

He smiles too, “I have been told I’m a difficult man to love.”

The words slip out, his running joke (though Milha had never much cared for it and his father had written it), but Belle simply tilts her head, changing the subject, “They weren’t terribly priced, but they are rather heavy.”

Standing, he takes it from her, “We can take it to the wagon. I’ve given coin to a lad to watch our things and the donkey. Then some real food, I think?” he looks at Bae, knowingly, as the boy splashes some water on his hands before wiping them on his fine short pants. The father sighs, “So much for your new clothes.”

The boy’s face reddens, “Sorry, papa.”

Making their way back through the winding, cobbled streets, walking three abreast, Belle thinks, no, it would not be such a bad thing at all.

The tavern is noisy, dirty, and the floor is decidedly sticky, but Baelfire has decided this is to be their stop for the evening meal—and Belle certainly has no intention to turn down a glass of beer. She tells (shouts, more like) Rumpelstiltskin so, anyplace with libations can’t be all bad, when her sweet heel catches in a knot in the wood floor. She barely catches herself on the edge of the bar.

She also sends a glass mug falling to the floor, shattering.

Gasping, Belle kneels down to assess the damage. Far more than chipped, the damn thing has positively exploded, the noise bring a temporary quiet to the bar before the sounds rise up again in earnest.

“It’s just a cup,” Rumpelstiltskin says, rolling his eyes at her wide ones. Turning to the barkeep, with only a touch of exasperation, he asks, “How much for the glass?” With a handful of coin, he dispenses with the round and undisturbed barman—he had seen far worse broken things, and far more often, apparently.

The father orders some bread and food, whatever is best that night, and they search for an empty table. ‘Tis late enough that the city has risen, but the promised-night markets are yet to enter into full swing. They have just time enough for a spot of dinner. They finally find a place, along the wall and in line with the door. Belle can feel Rumpelstiltskin’s relief at not needing to wade deeper into the crowds and noise than he must. She does not pity him.

She does not pity him, until a head pops in the door and cries, “Town players!”

Naturally, the boy is instantly taken with the notion of a little theater. “Oh, papa,” Bae practically bounces in his seat, “can I see?”

“Now, son,” he raises an eyebrow, and smirking toward Belle, amending, “not by yourself.” The boy throws up a whoop and a cheer, sliding out of their bench. He races to the door, the sounds of the town slipping in when he slides out the door, “Bae—wait!”

Shaking his head, he scowls quickly at the maid, and she offers him a smile of her own, raising her new beer mug, “I’ll wait for the food.” She keeps smiling as she watches the father chase after his son, laughing a little to herself. She drinks her barley wine half down, feeling heady with the sounds and feeling of a new place and a new feeling of peace. Opening her new book, (they had left all but this slim volume at the wagon) Belle begins to read for her own desire, for the first time in a long time.

Leaning over the back of her bench, a voice speaks right into her ear, “Still as in love with those books of yours as ever, I see.”

Her heart drops to her stomach. Oh gods—it couldn’t be possible.

“And marrying up, too—not your mother’s daughter then?” A finger reaches down to toy with the corner of her book, “Miss me?”

She snaps the book shut and stands, jostling the table in her haste. She turns to see the man she had hoped long since dead. “Don’t ever speak about my mother?”

Doctor Victor Baleine rolls his eyes, “You were the one who told me that, and let the dead defend their own honor.” He gestures between them, “but that would include ourselves, wouldn’t it?”

“How did you find me?”

He laughs in full then, “Don’t flatter yourself,” taking up her forgotten mug, he takes a generous drink, “this is nothing more than jolly happenstance.”

Belle finds that hard to believe, “Then what are you doing here?”

His smile takes a sour turn, swallowing down more stolen ale, “As you well know, my dear,” leaning forward, he lowers his voice—though hardly necessary in the bustling bar, “deserters are not well-liked.”

“You ran?” she asks, shocked.

“Is that such a surprise?” he says, standing, “You ran.”

“What about your—“ she stops, looking around, and drops her voice, ”your poisons?”

“What about them?” he asks pointing to her ring, “I decided I wanted to live, as did you, and yet, there’s only a price on my head and none for the inventor and his infamous daughter. Strange, that.” He steps closer, drawing his eyes over her form, “I always knew you were alive.” Running a daring finger across her cheek, he adds, “You should be more careful who you steal from—you were the only one who could have stolen from my medicine chest.”

Belle leans away from his touch, “I needed that.”

“And I didn’t?”

“I thought you were dead.”

“No—you hoped, but the camp was in disarray. You couldn’t have known who had breathed their last.”

Belle remembers that day, the screams and the blood. She remembers stumbling and half-dragging her father to the edge of the forest. She remembers slipping through the camp, darting between ogres’ legs into the tent of Doctor Baleine and taking what little she could carry.

“You know what never made sense to me, after all this time—they only found the inventor’s arm, but that was enough to pronounce he and his daughter dead.” He speaks the words and she can’t help but remember. Shaking and her breath growing into heavy pants, Belle remembers the arms that buffeted her own as she worked on war machines, when the medical tent had no need of him (what needs do the dead and near-dead have for a doctor, anyway?).

She remembered stealing what she would need to cauterize her father’s lost limb. Belle had thought about taking the large vial of poison, but at the last moment, she had left it behind her—for him.

“One idiotic foot soldier spots me and suddenly everyone’s a bounty hunter.” He shrugs, “I did enjoy practicing medicine. Perhaps someday I will make it far enough away that I can open shop once again, but until then I’m just your average lay-about. You, however, have dared put down roots.” Smiling again, he asks, “Have you told your new family of your war record? What did your father have to say about all this? New money by the looks of them—would he take kindly to knowing you’re worn goods?”

She knows not her movements, but in an instant she’s grabbed her mug and tossed what little ale was left onto the doctor. Quicker than she had expected, he grabs the offending hand and flips open the latch on the ring. Letting go, a grin spreads across his face, from ear to ear. Chuckling, he leans close to whisper, “Well, I guess the arm was proof enough for him.”

“Belle?”

They both turn to the entrance of the tavern, where Baelfire and Rumpelstiltskin stand, staring at them. The bar, too notes the entrance, but their minds are set to rest: a family squabble, all too common under the roof of a spirits house (and one Rumpelstiltskin knows all too well). They go back to their wine and meat pies.

The boy walks over quickly to her side, “Who is this?”

The father however, takes his time, “Aye, dearie, is he bothering you?”

The doctor smiles and smiles, “Funny you should say that—“

“No,” she cuts him off, with more force than necessary, “he isn’t.” Glaring one last time, she turns away to leave the doctor forever.

Rumpelstiltskin reaches a hand to her shoulder at the sight of her stricken face, “Belle?” The soft sound in his voice and the tender look in his eye, reach her. She might even cry, she thinks.

“How sweet,” the doctor says, all too entertained.

With the speed of one who ran in to stop fuses and explosives, between the legs of ogres, Belle pulls a dagger, slim and jagged, from Rumpelstiltskin’s waist beneath his cloak, and turning on her heel, she presses it to Victor’s neck. She walks them backward, until he is up against the table.

Stiffening, Rumpelstiltskin shivers with the feeling, the silent scrape of metal against skin, of fingers tightening around the gilded hilt.

“Belle, don’t—“ Baelfire begins, but his father’s hand comes down in front of him, stopping him from moving any closer to their maid.

The doctor chuckles, hands up, “Well this is new. Not in the Southlands anymore, are we—ah—“

She pushes the knife tight against the skin of his neck. He hisses, leaning back as far as he can, flinching under the bite of it, “If you tell anyone, I’ll kill you.”

“You? Kill me?” he manages to ask, still wearing a smile.

“Yes, I’m not going back there.” Not as a corpse, nor as a whore or bride, she thinks, which only leaves as a memory. “If you ever speak of me, I’ll live to find you and kill you.”

“I wasn’t such a bad guy, you know—ah—“ She presses enough to draw a speck of blood and he bares his teeth to her, his words straining against the knife, “Okay, okay, why would I even want to tell? I skipped out on my royal summons too—revealing you would mean my own death sentence. Now, step back, before I ruin your little holiday.”

Belle does so, suddenly feeling the stares all about the tavern and the tension from the two pairs of eyes standing behind her.

The doctor smirks, “See, this has been little more than a pleasant reunion.”

She grits her teeth from the desire to cut him down. Instead she turns away and shoves the hilt into Rumpelstiltskin’s chest. She stalks toward the exit; she hears the spinner’s voice call to her, but cannot make out his words.

The doctor however, cuts through to her, “Oh, your fiancé’s looking for you.” This stills Belle’s grasp on the door handle. “Though I hardly know why, if he knew just what you’ve been up to.”

Her hands clench—she would return to hit him, but she doesn’t, because she might not ever stop, and then there would be a dead body in a bar and far too many questions. Instead, tears collecting in the corners of her eyes, she walks outside into the night.

In the half light of sunset, shaking, she tries to remember how to breathe. She jumps when a hand catches her own. Looking down, she finds Baelfire, holding her hand. “Bae?”

“Who was that?” the boy questions.

“Aye, dearie, who was your friend?” Rumpelstiltskin asks in measured, reserved tones.

“He’s not my friend,” the words come out sharper than she had planned, suddenly hearing the sounds of the city, the songs of summer dances. Sighing, she tries for something softer, “Can we get out of here?”

Nodding, “Aye, lead the way.”

#rumbelle fic #the maid #my writing #bet you thought these fools were finally gonna do it

23 notes · View notes

Last Seen Blogs

davidarievil

David Arievilo

soft-pancakes

♚

pong100com1

제목 없음

h2ujis

vivi

runtless