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ohheyitsokay · 3 years

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good eye

part 4 of the ‘hey batter batter’ series

pairing: Francisco Morales (Frankie, Catfish) x reader

wordcount: 3.5k (I’m only 14% sorry about that)

warnings: strong language, extremely mild injury, Benny Miller working out, a little bit of a cliffhanger ending

summary: it’s a Triple Frontier baseball AU! Trust me, you don’t need to know anything about baseball.

“good eye” is an encouragement for batting players, essentially applauding them for having good judgement when and when not to swing.

In this chapter, the guys becoming increasingly aware of how interesting you are to the whole gang - and what they’re going to do about it.

Bottom of the ninth inning – the end of the game.

Sometimes players fixated on the score, glancing at the flashing lights or acting desperately but for Will, keeping it in his head was just as natural as breathing. Floating around first base made it easy for him to keep an eye on everything, and stay focused under the summer sun. His team was up by two.

The opposition was at bat – their final advantage as the home team. He didn’t feel particularly nervous, but couldn’t breathe easy just yet. They already had two outs, thanks to his little brother’s inhuman speed and some excellent Garcia pitching, and just one more to go before it was all over. Preferably, this would happen before the man on third made it to home base.

There was a bead of sweat rolling down, down, down his temple over his cheekbone, and into his beard. The clouds from the start of the game were long gone – even with his cap, his blue eyes were getting tired.

They were focused on the batter, not even Pope, and never the crowd, since it was always just a blur of noise and rival colors and waving hands. The closer the game came to an end, the more the mass of people writhed with tension. It was better just to ignore it. There was no reason at all, but he looked up just for a split second and he saw a single, tiny form make itself clear, sending a confusing thrill down his spine.

A familiar crack rang through the air and he snapped back to focus. The batter was hurling towards him, the crowd was holding it’s breath as he looked around, almost frantically.

Where was the ball?!

Your form was still in his minds eye, he didn’t understand, but then – there, in the outfield. No, here. Instinct had taken over.

It was in his glove, and his left toe had found first base. Will heard a curse as the opposing player plowed behind him a second too late, a yell from the umpire, and then the satisfying groans of the other team’s fans.

Pope crashed into him first, then whoever else was the closest. It was giddy and triumphant chaos, hands clapping his shoulder, sweaty hugs, slaps, and high fives, and Will barely noticed any of it. Jogging back to the locker room was quick, the crunch of their shoes in the grit of the field like a stampede, impossibly loud. The locker room wasn’t as bad. It would have been louder if they had lost, like they had expected. Something still felt strange in his gut as they changed and rinsed off and packed their things.

You were interesting to him, he liked how real you were. He was normally the one that grounded others, that kept his head, learned his lessons and left the game on the field. It was nice, spending time with someone he didn’t have to do that for – or really anything for. There wasn’t a need to put on a show for you, or be your steady sidekick. It was nice. But it had only been a lunch and a night at the bar, no reason to know the shape of you, much less be thrown off by it.

He was taking extra care to clean his newest tattoo, absentminded, when the locker-talk caught his attention.

This was the first away game they had won this season, and everyone was debating why their luck had changed. Some of them were arguing loudly, ridiculously, and as usual, his friends started gravitating together, interested, but with lower voices and cooler heads.

“Do you think it was because I wore last weekend’s socks, Fish?” Benny was grinning, as his friends eyebrows answered for him. Frankie was superstitious, but in a way he’d gotten from his abuela, not the game. Will had a thought, the confusing last moment of the game clicking into the conversation, his eyes meeting Pope's for a moment.

“Actually, I have a theory,” he kept his voice quiet. If the rest of the team got wind that William Miller was participating in the banter, they’d be all over him, sure he was right only because he rarely cared. His friends looked at him, curiously, and he chewed on the idea for a moment, liking it more and more until he actually believed himself when he told them.

Their good luck charm?

You.

Tom had missed the conversation, occupied with a love-sick staff member in a quiet corner of the stadium.

He would never admit it, but he always needed a distraction when the winning catch had nothing to do with him. And Molly had to travel with the team most weeks anyway, the availability becoming increasingly more appealing than trying his luck with a random fan.

The next day after practice, he found her again and this time, despite the crude nature of the location, he took little more time. It was strange, to grab her without pent up frustration driving his actions, but not an entirely unwelcome change of pace.

He didn’t dwell on it, almost running away, but she did, trailing her fingers over the places his had been as she put herself together again. She wanted to remember each one, to savor them like it was the first time. And maybe it was – the very first time he had even kissed her with no particular personal agenda. Of that, she didn’t feel as guilty about wanting more.

Tom had long since slipped out the door when she finished the process, just slipping on her heels when the someone knocked.

Opening it, she found an eager and awkward shortstop pushing into her office. He seemed nervous, more nervous than she had seen him during photo shoots and press conferences and final innings. It wasn’t what she expected – not the demeanor the players normally held when they asked for favors. Professional athletes were confidant, suave, even. Ben had something else going on, something sweeter, maybe even innocent.

He called her ma’am, and she rolled her eyes when he asked for you number.

“Don’t you boys ever talk?” she was kind of annoyed. Ben was confused, it showed on his face.

“Tom got it awhile ago,” she started, and he got it, immediately. The older man hadn’t told any of them that you would be at the bar last week. He wondered if you knew he had arranged it. Something felt off but before he could ponder it she finished.

“And Santi got it yesterday.” Actually, she was more than annoyed. You hadn’t seemed special at all when you’d been there opening weekend. Your grandfather was sweet but nothing about that day could explain why three of the players were willing to bend the rules to find you again.

Tom’s voice rang in her ears: he’s got it bad for her. That didn’t quite fit what she was seeing, but she cooled down a little.

She didn’t even have to shoo him away, his thank you, ma’am, sorry to bother you made her feel like an old lady as he turned on his heels and trotted off.

The younger Miller was increasingly thoughtful, but he could feel something shift in the air. Then he shrugged it off. He was sure he’d find out, sooner or later.

“Ben, where’s your brain?” Catfish had caught him making eyes upside-down at the girl standing by the athletic trainer while he was mid workout. He didn’t really need a partner to work out, but they tried to go together, to spot on another and to argue over who could bench press the most.

He watched as his friend’s brain and body scrambled to put down the weights and he stood up too fast.

Across the room, girlish laughter bubbled and Benny blushed, still not attending as he grabbed the water bottle he was being offered and squirted himself in the mouth.

“What?”

Frankie shot him an amused look, gesturing vaguely, his point now proven. This had happened before. The young player was almost certainly going to tell him some random information now to distract him and trying to avoid the inevitable teasing.

“Did you know Tom got her number?”

It worked. There was almost no context, but he knew immediately and there was a twist in his stomach. It was the answer to a question he didn’t know had been on his mind - Catfish fully short circuited.

Redfly got your number? That was why Frankie had found him putting the moves on you before they were scheduled to meet. He was shaking his head, dazed, when Ben added, “And Santi got it a couple days ago, too.”

A moment of silence, and then,

“Fucking what?!”

Heads around the private gym turned.

Ben hissed for quiet as he dragged him towards the locker room, and he found himself allowing it as he heart tried to catch up with his mind. No way Pope was going after you too.

“Weird, right?” Frankie felt like ‘weird’ was putting it mildly.

“I just asked for it,”

“You -"

“- because I wanted to be friends, but,” the younger man was ignoring his sputtering panic. He didn’t know if he should be mad or grateful. “Why wouldn’t they tell us?”

That stopped his racing heart. That was the question, wasn’t it? Frankie dragged his hand down his face, smoothed his mustache, readjusted his hat, trying fruitlessly to ground himself.

He said something noncommittal in response, barely hearing himself as he changed the topic. Ben was watching him, he could tell, but it wasn’t as though he could explain why he had reacted so strongly. He didn’t even know why.

It’s not like the feel of you against his hand was all he had been thinking about for the past few days.

His head was spinning, and not in the same way as when he had heard you were at the last game.

Of course other men had their eyes on you. You were gorgeous. His hand twitched on the locker as an image of him pressing you against it flashed through his mind. Shoving it down, he moved on.

You were smart, too, and kind. Certainly he couldn’t be the only one who liked the way you looked when you were thinking, or the little messiness of your hair, or the curve of your neck and shoulders as you leaned against the table.

There was a flare of something green in his chest. He was thinking about your hand on his arm, the way it made him feel like he was your anchor, the white lines on the ground guiding your feet. That, was his. For a moment, his brain reminded him of your lips on Pope’s cheek, your fingers on Benny’s shoulder, and palm on Redfly’s jaw. The locker door resonated in the quiet room as he slammed it shut. Even your eyes in Ironhead's for just a moment… it made him want to kidnap you, press into your space, surround you with his body until all you could see or touch or think about was him. Or maybe it was the opposite. Maybe what he was aching for was for there to be a room full of handsome, athletic, perfect men, and for you to seek him. Find his eyes, and hold them in yours until you reached each other. To choose him.

Either. Or maybe both.

Whatever he’d been saying got lost on his tongue.

Benny was looking at him thoughtfully, and Frankie sighed, his anger slowing to a simmer. It was absurd, he knew that. Knowing didn’t make it go away, but it helped.

Really, he should be lucky he got any of you at all, that alone was a minor league miracle. Hiking his bag up, he clapped his friend on the shoulder and changed the topic once again.

The smell of dirt and grass and sweaty men faded as they walked out of the room, and when someone made a group chat that included you, Frankie remembered that he liked his friends. The bats in his bag clanged like bells, and Ben said something that made him laugh, and he thought he was a fool to have forgotten it.

Santiago was the first one there, over half an hour early, by accident or design you had no idea. He made all of James' things look small, and it made you laugh, because you knew it was only the beginning.

You’d been added to a group chat a few days ago. The list of total bizarre things happening to you was increasing every day of knowing them but you couldn’t exactly complain. It was exciting and honestly, you ached for them in a way you couldn’t explain. Seeing Santiago sent sharp excitement through the anxiety of preparation, but even with the handsome man removing his shoes, you couldn’t help but check behind him for Francisco.

It had been a joke, sort of. They had invited you out and you retaliated by saying you owed them a meal. You should’ve known, already, they weren't afraid to take you up on it, and you’d had to use James as your crutch. His house was much bigger than your apartment, and he was so excited to talk to them it was adorable. Before you’d even turned to Santi properly, they were already chatting, and you watched, smiling.

He looked good. It really was almost as if they actually were family – not physically but you could see it in how they interacted. Santi was more cleaned up than he’d been at the bar, thanking your grandfather like it really was an honor to be welcomed into his home. Jimbo was standing as tall as he could to scruff the younger man’s perfect hair, and you laughed as he clarified that they were always welcome, as long as they helped cook. And when Santi grinned, agreeing readily, the line on his forehead smoothed.

The stress of hosting even such strange guests lessened again, and you slipped back into the kitchen.

Not two minutes later, he found you there, and you could feel him watching you, lounging against the door as graceful and powerful as a panther. Slicing vegetables to grill, you let him, for the time being. He would tell you what he was thinking if he wanted to.

It made you smile again, when his large, calloused hands began to make motions for you to let him take over. Determined or maybe even insistent, but not entitled. He mimicked your cuts, checking silently for your approval, and you saw something in his eyes you hadn’t noticed before.

Over food and drinks he had been smart and clever and passionate – an idyllic picture for over-ambitious fans. None of that was gone, but there was another layer under it, something distinctly humble, and if your dreams hadn’t already been occupied, you might’ve fallen in love with him a little bit. Prepping food to the sounds of quiet music and the rhythmic thumps of the knife against the cutting board felt domestic, but in a familial way. There was no pressure for words, for you, and when he did speak, it seemed as though he agreed.

“This might sound fu… uh, stupid but I’m glad there aren’t bobble heads around.” Of him and his friends, he implied. You wondered if he checked his language for your sake, or out of mindfulness for James.

“He really respects you guys,” you shrugged. “He’s always lecturing me on remembering that you’re human, and not overstepping normal people boundaries.”

Pausing your salad assembly, you stole a glance at him, only to find deep brown eyes looking at you curiously. His hand scraped over the stubble on his jaw, and you could almost see his thoughts, running diamonds in his head.

“Is that why you shot Redfly down?” he wasn’t looking at you, so he missed the tilt of you head. You didn’t need to know the nickname to know what he was talking about, but he clarified a moment later.

You weren't prepared for this to come up, but it shouldn’t have surprised you.

“Yes and no,” was the most honest answer. “He’s already got a girl, whether he knows it or not.” You felt good, talking to him, good like laughing, so you did. It was a strange moment, when the team’s outfield dreamboat had leaned in to kiss you, and you turned him away, but it wasn’t weighing on you at all.

Santiago was grinning at you, hands still, and you wondered if this was the first moment the two of you were seeing each other clearly. Biases and judgement and wariness stripped away easily in the kitchen, like the peels of potatoes.

“So,” his tone and eyes were mischievous, and you had never felt more like an almost stranger was your brother. “If one of the other guys asked you out, you would consider it?”

Face flaring with heat, you barely contained a squawk. He let out a triumphant noise and you shoved him. There was no doubt he wasn’t talking about himself, but you still wanted to melt into the floor.

“Don’t think I haven’t seen –”

“Shut up shut up shut up!”

Both of you were laughing when the other men pushed through the front door.

Santi answered their raised eyebrows by sticking out his tongue.

There was moments all the time in baseball, where when you have the ball and have to choose which opposing player gets to make it safe and who you’re going to try to get out. It’s a split second where you feel torn in two, and that was exactly how Frankie felt now.

When he had seen you, flushed and laughing, part of him wanted to give a damn thank you speech to Pope for helping bless the world with that, and the other part of him wanted to murder his best friend.

They had all pushed into the little home and he tried to focus on greeting James and looking at the cozy, dated furniture, the humble decorations, clearly cleaned just for them. There had been a moment, where you’d waved at what felt like just him, and his heart rate had doubled. He tried to talk with the guys, the friend you had invited, or help grill or set the table or … anything, but all he wanted was to find you again.

Staying by your side the other night felt as natural and the ball hitting the palm of his glove, time and time again. It was exactly where he was meant to be.

And you were so lovely he wanted you to press into him so close he absorbed just a fraction of your glow. He wanted to wrap you up and take you with him wherever he went, or maybe just settle into your shadow, to follow you forever. It felt greedy, which he didn’t really mind, but the problem was that it was unrealistic.

You were working hard to be a good host, floating around, making sure everyone was content, helping, handling things, or happily having heaping helpings of your cooking. There was another game on the TV, and James was telling stories, and his friends had made themselves right at home. In a strange way, it felt like a Sunday with his abuelos, and cousins, casual and comfortable. It was telling, of you, fitting, and he liked that, but it was distinctly missing... you.

Santi found him, listening to James, trying not to look over his shoulder for you, hand twitching to find it’s place on you again. They kept their voices low, trying to be respectful, as they caught up on the last few minutes, hours, days. Frankie felt a pang of guilt, wondering if he had been subconsciously avoiding his friend. There was still some more private communicating they had to do… He offered Pope a drive. That would do it.

There was an understanding as the looked at each other, under the music and talk, and clatter of dishes. Will was making James laugh, loud and care-free. The uneasiness settled in his gut – he trusted Santi with his life. He could certainly trust him now, with whatever this was.

Not long after, Frankie found himself being herded through the little house, around tables with glasses and napkins, and back into the little kitchen. There was a reassuring squeeze on his shoulder, and then he was alone with you, for the very first time.

Your eyes were big, staring at him, as you held a pile of dirty dishes.

He wanted to kiss you.

Of course, he didn’t, only cursing himself as he awkwardly offered to help. When you shook your head, your hair fluffed, and with the sunlight through the window, he was having trouble remembering how to function.

Frankie was solid, known for being sturdy and safe. Not like Will was, with his ethics and upbringing like roots into the ground, but that of Atlas, supporting the world on his shoulders.

He was the cornerstone of the team, the background man behind the curtain, with hair and eyes and thighs that Santi swore made women swoon.

And he was doing dishes in the kitchen of your grandfathers house, weak in the knees because you had smiled at him, impressed and grateful. His mind was telling at him to talk to you more, to say something interesting or impressive or to make you laugh when he heard you yelp.

The sound was awful, and adrenaline pumped into his blood as he realized you were hurt. Swinging around he didn’t see you for a moment before registering you had sat down, hard, and were clutching your wrist. There was a thick line, throbbing and an angry red – burnt.

When his knees hit the tile, he didn’t even notice the dull pain. His hands grasped yours as you tried to apologize, explaining the stove was still hot after you had turned it off. Frankie heard you, really he did, but he mind was chanting do something! And stringing Spanish curses, demanding that he protect you, that he fix it.

He didn’t realize how close he was to you until your eyes found his. it crashed into him the realization that if he leaned forward, tilted his head a bit, and sunk a little lower onto his knees, he could have your mouth against his.

Panic slowing, he looked at you. You were so sweet and beautiful, collapsed on the kitchen floor with him like the two of you were the only things in the world, and you were trying to tell him you were fine, that it was a silly accident. Frankie felt ridiculous, caught up in his thoughts, and he just... threw aside logic.

Time stopped, and he kissed the burn.

taglist:

@fangirl-316 @scribbledghost @writeforfandoms @beautyagegoodnesssize

hey batter batter taglist:

@icanbeyourjedi @studyofawearymind @hnt-escape @athalien @the-witty-pen-name

#apparently i like it when big strong men are bad at talking because they're thinking too much #francisco morales #francisco morales x reader #francisco morales x you #frankie x you #frankie x reader #catfish x you #triple frontier #baseball au #triple frontier baseball au #hey batter batter #maybe i don't know people

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isolenmlyswear69 · 3 years

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Collide [Teaser] ~ a JJ Maybank x OC fanfic

Warning: cursing, bad grammar, not prof read

A/N: I left tumblr for a while to take a break from everything and decided to write in my free time and came up with this, dont worry I’ll get right to answering your guys ask just wanted to share this

Paring: JJ Maybanks x OC

Word count: 18.1K

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The sun peeked through the curtains of the chateau,making me squint before rolling over and tucking my head deeper into the pillow groaning deeply as i heard a a low chuckle and John b’s voice echoed through the house seemingly louder then it was,

“Morning Sunny,” he said laughing at how I rolled myself deeper into the makeshift bed as he headed outside, most likely to chill on the hammock. I grumbel to myself and sat up, rubbing my eyes before I leaned back, stitching my back, hearing a couple of pops before sitting up and cracking my eyes open. Swinging my legs over the side of the couch, setting my feet on the trash covered ground moving an empty beer can with my toe so i could set my foot down. Standing up, letting my shirt that i had wore yesterday fall back over my jean shorts as i stretch my arms up above my head letting a small tremor roll through my body while my muscles finally woke up, i let my arms drop back down letting a small sigh out before shuffling into the kitchen, around the bar counter heading straight towards the fridge, pulling the door open leaning down before reaching my hand in shuffling around past the cases of beer looking for something a less likely to edge on the headache was already starting to form in the front of her head. I set my sights on the orange juice that was near the back of the fridge, grabbing the neck of the bottle dragging it out of the fridge,praying it isn't out of date. Knowing the boys it most likely was but hey why not be an optimist right? I turned leaning my hips onto the counter unscrewing the cap and bringing it to my lips, before tipping it up taking a big swig. I can say that was the worst decision i made that day, i quickly leaned towards the sink spitting it out as fast as i could quickly turning on the sink, sticking my face under the faucet bringing the water into my mouth swishing it around before spitting that out leaning back up head still tilting down towards the sink. I reached up my arm and shut the sink off before grabbing the bottle of orange juice and emptying it out in the sink. All i can say is fuck optomistic people they are crazy and dont know the fine line betwen optimisum and insanity. I let out a grumble as I worked my way around the chateau, thinking I could just take a walk to the store and grab a tea or something that was actually digestible. I grumbled to myself as i suffered to the guest bedroom in the chateau, before slamming my fist against the door a couple time,

“ i left my wallet in there so i'm giving you 3 seconds to get decent then i'm coming in for it “ i say loudly, my voice still scratchy from the lack of sleep i had gotten last night. thanks to the pogues party habits it was hard to get sleep during summer, not that i minded i'm always down for a party, the aftermath still sucks major ass let's be honest. I grab the handle turning it quickly pushing in the door and walking in the room quick heading straight for the dresser near the window spotting my wallet easily i swiped it off the dresser turning on my heels, my eyes were meet with the blue ones of jj, him and another girl, i hadn't seen this one before and i didn't really care enough to stay and figure out what she looked like. I simply smirked knowingly at jj before waving off his wink strutting out of the room, closing the door on my way out. JJ and i have a odd history i can tell you that, but that never stopped us from being close, we had a lot in common when we had first meet and had remained close ever since, maintaining a almost more than friendly relationship but never anything more than a flirting glace was ever shared between us. I head back to where i had made my makeshift bed, plopping down on the bead throwing my socks and shoes that i had put beside the bed on, placing my wallet in my back pocket and snatching my phone of the ground by the pillows before strutting out of the house, seeing john b. peacefully sitting on the hammock,

“Your going to poison people with the shit in your fridge, i'm going to the store to restock i'll be back in a little” i call out to him, seemingly starling him out of whatever thought he was in.

“Can you grab some skinny pop?” he called back sitting up, i put my thumb up in the air so he could see as i walked off towards the store already lost in my own thoughts. Before i knew it my feet had brought me to my destination, snapping me out of my tance of scrolling through instagram lost in thought. I looked up from my phone, tucking it in my back pocket and grabbing my shitty old leather wallet i had gotten from my dad for my 14th birthday decorated with pins from where he traveled do for his gigs, him being a famous musician and all he wasn't always home leaving me to do whatever i wished, he would text and tell me to be safe but other than hard drugs and teen pregnancy he was fine as long as whatever i did i did it safely or told him before or after doing it. He is just chill, and we got along great because of it. I pushed the door open causing the bells on the door to jingle, and a faint

“Hello, let me know if I can help you find anything” from the direction of the counter. I let out a small hum, giving a closed mouth smile in that direction, heading to the snack aisle, grabbing two bags of skinny pop, a bag of nacho doritos, and a bag of salted almonds, before heading to the drink aisle grabbing 6 arizona teas, and two snapples for myself knowing that a snapple can fix a hangover if mixed with a vitamin c packet, correctly that is. I shuffled back up to the front, gently putting everything up on the counter, looking up smiling at the boy at the counter, he smiled back before scanning my items quickly,

“wait “ i called out louder than expected making him flinch and look up, i quickly stuck my hand in back pocket pulling out the lump of yarn unfolding it revealing a crochet bag, widespread between each knots, holding it out the the young boy before smiling,

“Can you put my stuff in here? You know how bad the pollution can get with those plastic bags and the ocean” i giggled as he nodded slowly gently taking the bag from my hands, smiling a small smile at me before loading my stuff up and telling me a price, i fished out the money and payed him before grabbing my bag slinging it over my shoulder and walking out of the store, heading back to the chateau.

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When I arrived back at the chateau, John b. Was still laying out on the hammock, i gently walked over to him , reaching into my bag and pulling out a skinny pop and handing it to him, before smiling as he tore it open like a starving child and dug in,

“Thank you” he said popcorn bits flying out of his already full mouth, causing my nose to scrunch up in disgust, i simply shook my head and headed back inside waving at him. As i walked in the house i saw kie still asleep on the couch, i giggled quietly at her before moving around the couch heading to the kitchen to find pope searching the fridge,

“Dude don't bother i already tied and got poisoned by the orange juice” i giggled setting the bag of snacks on the counter grabbing two arizona out and pushing the bag towards him, pope turned and examined the goods before grabbing the bag of doritos and a snapple, before smiling at me

“Thank you, you are truly and life saver” i giggled at the comment before heading back to the spare bedroom to see the door open, i strut in to see jj leaning back on the pillow hair a mess, no shirt just his boxers barely covered by the thin sheet on the guest bed, his vape in his hand.

“Sup loser, i brought you sum tea” i said to him strutting to the side of the bead he was on, holding a hand out with the tea in it, jj looked up, his ocean blue eyes meeting mine before a sly smirk spread across his face,

“Come ‘ere” he said grabbing my waist pulling me down onto the bed, both of erupting into giggles as i land on my back next to him his torso still leaning over me, his hair dangling down, framing his face perfectly, his dimples in his perfectly tanned face,his- NO damit sunny stop it he's your friend, i had noticed both of our laughter had died down and we were both just smiling at one another. I scrunch my nose up before dropping the Arizona in one of my hands before using it to shove it his face away from me groaning at the smirk he gave me when he leaned onto his side, raising his eyebrows at me.

“Just shut up and drink your damn tea” I said , handing him one. Grumbling to myself as i popped the lid of mine open and took a sip from it, i sighed laying back onto the bed and closing my eyes just enjoying the sounds of nature , and jj gulping down the cold beverage like no tomorrow, i sighed, rolling over to the side of the bed, swinging my legs over the side looking down when my feet hit something thin and soft. My eyes gaze down to see JJ's muscle tee laying on the floor, sighing. I reach down, swiping it off the ground and balling it up. Turning slightly to see JJ scrolling on his phone and a crushed, now empty, Arizona can sitting on the bedside table beside him. I ball up his shirt before throwing it with a little power behind it, it flew through the air and fan itself out as it plopped on his head causing him to pick off the piece of clothing on his head and give me a look of confusion.

“Get dressed i'm sure everyones ready to go out on the water for the day already and you're lagging” I say standing up and flashing him a smile before heading back to the kitchen to get some chips before the other pogues ate them all.

#outer banks #netflix #outerbanks imagine #jj maybank #jj maybank x reader #john b routledge #jj x pope #x reader #imagine #jj mayback x reader #for you #fanfiction #fantasy #fanfic #mcu imagine

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thedenimdentist · 3 years

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Role Club Engineers: Worth the Wait?

Introduction (Part I): History of Engineer Boots

Engineer boots are definitely a polarizing style of footwear within the heritage/amekaji boot community. For one, they utilize an ankle strap for fastening in lieu of laces, and second, their tall stovepipe shafts don’t integrate quite well with the slim tapered esthetic of modern denim/trousers. While often associated with motorcycles and bikers, engineer boots were actually designed as protective gear for firemen working on railway engines back in the 1930s. (Hence the name “engineers.”) Their minimal design and use of buckles over laces made them ideal for this line of work. The tall shafts provided protection for the lower leg, while the slip-on design allowed for quick removal should anything dangerous (such as hot coals or embers) slip down the shaft into the boot. This style of footwear lost some popularity following the introduction of lace-up combat boots during World War II, but would later be picked up by motorcyclists who found use of their insulating and protective features. (And there is your history lesson for the day, courtesy of Wikipedia. Lol)

Introduction (Part II): How I Got into Engineer Boots

I first got into more well-made boots back in early 2019. Like most boot n3wbs, I was completely infatuated by that lace-up service boot esthetic, and insisted on wearing them with the slimmest, most tapered denim I could find. My first boot purchase was (of course) a pair of Red Wing Iron Rangers, followed by three pairs of Truman service boots in pretty quick succession. That first summer was when I discovered @brianthebootmaker on Instagram and YouTube, and instantly fell in love with his Underdog design, which I later purchased in August 2019 and received in May 2020.

At that point in time, Brian’s popular Underdog boots fit perfectly within my slim service boot style. However, Brian’s most iconic boot pattern was (and is) definitely his engineer boots. I admit I wasn’t sold on them at first, but I was intrigued. Did they fit my wardrobe at all? Nope. Would they even fit under the 6.75” leg openings of my PBJ denim? LOL nah. Nevertheless, I found myself constantly going back to Brian’s Instagram page and browsing all the photos of his engineer boots. Eventually, I grew to really love the look of engineer boots, ultimately placing a second deposit with Brian for a pair of engineers in October 2019. I had no idea how I was going to fit them into my wardrobe, but I figured I’d make it work somehow. (Luckily, since then my denim preferences have actually shifted toward more relaxed cuts, just in time for the arrival of these engineers.)

The Ordering Process

For most customers purchasing online, Brian requires you to take a set of measurements on your own feet, which he uses to build your boots remotely. However, those lucky enough to live nearby can actually visit Brian’s shop in LA to be personally measured by the boot maker himself, as well as discuss any details or questions you have regarding your specific makeup. I was one of these lucky people who could actually visit him in person, and used those measurements to order two pairs of boots from him: first a pair of Underdogs, and now some engineers. Both pairs were built on different lasts (which I will discuss more later), and both fit perfectly. (For a more detailed summary of being measured in person, check out my previous review of my Role Club Underdogs.)

My Specifications

While you can’t really go wrong with any of Brian’s engineer makeups, I personally loved the design Brian designed for himself: brown CXL horsehide hand-finished black, a full leather outsole, and full woodsman heels. They definitely have a more western, cowboy, workwear vibe compared to most other engineer boots out on the market, but in my opinion these are one of the best patterns, with some of the cleanest construction to boot.

A few screenshots I took of Brian's engineer boots, taken off his Instagram.

I did make a few tweaks/upgrades from Brian’s boots when designing my own, which I’ve listed below:

Model: engineer boots

Shaft height: 10”

Upper leather: brown Italian vegtan horsebutt, hand-finished black

Toe track: yes

Upper stitching: black

Hardware: brass roller buckles

Last: 2307 last

Unstructured toe

Edge finish: black

Welt stitching: white

Sole: full leather sole, black heel cap

Heel style: full woodsman heel

Metal toe plates

Custom built-in orthotics (same as my Underdogs)

One of the biggest reasons I keep going back to Brian is that he’s able to use the orthotics I typically slip into all my footwear and actually build them into the insoles of my boots. Not sure how difficult this actually is for a boot maker, but Brian has absolutely nailed the fit on my ugly feet both times, and it’s super convenient to not have to worry about a removable orthotics.

Price, Lead Time, & Shipping

The initial deposit to reserve a pair of Role Club boots is $200 regardless of which model you are ordering, with the remaining balance due upon completion. I visited Brian’s shop in Los Angeles on 8/21/2019 and placed my deposit on 10/15/2019, with an estimated completion date of November 2020. However, due to delays in construction (including waiting for my custom metal toe plates to come in), my boots weren’t actually completed until 3/25/2021 (nearly five months late). Inconvenient, but it’s not like I was wearing boots and going out much anyway due to COVID.

When I placed my first deposit for my Underdogs in August 2019, the estimated wait time was just 8 months (April 2020). However, when I placed my second deposit for these engineers just two months later, the wait time had jumped to 13 months (November 2020). To be honest, I’m not even sure how long Brian’s queue is now. Last I heard it was sometime in 2023 or 2024. (Freaking insane. So thankful I placed my second deposit when I did, before his waitlist exploded.)

At the time I placed my deposit, the base price for Brian’s engineer boots was $1350. After a few upgrade fees (hand-finished leather, toe plates, etc.), the final price of my specific makeup was $1500. Minus my initial $200 deposit, my final payment for these engineers was $1300 + $20 shipping. I made this payment via Venmo on 3/26/2021, my boots were shipped the following Monday 3/29/2021, and I received them via USPS on 4/2/2021.

At $1500, these are not a cheap pair of boots by any means. However, for engineer boots this price is actually not unreasonable, as there are some other brands selling engineer boots at a higher price point in stock sizes with limited to no customization (i.e., Clinch). #perspective #itsallrelative (To be completely honest, I roll my eyes when people scoff at a pair of boots in this price range, claiming they’re “too expensive” or that they can’t afford it, and turn around and buy 2-3 pairs of average Vibergs instead. Just stop. Clearly it’s not the cost, it’s your personal values and priorities. #endrant lol (Also, not knocking Clinch or Viberg or anything. Just a few examples to prove a point.))

ANYWAYS. For those hesitant to commit to such an ungodly wait time, I will point out that the cost to reserve a pair of Role Club boots is just $200, regardless of which model you are ordering. In fact, you don’t even need to finalize your order at the time of deposit. You can continue to brainstorm, change your mind, and discuss with Brian about your specifications long after the deposit is placed. (I mean, you have like 2-3 years before he even starts working on your boots anyway, so you have ample time to decide. Haha) Also, should you decide you can’t wait that long (or you suddenly become more financially responsible, lol), I hear you can also use that $200 deposit for something else more affordable, such as a resole of another pair of boots. Either way, hopefully this knowledge makes the $200 deposit a little less daunting and scary of a commitment.

Unboxing

The boots arrived in a single standard shoe box enclosed in a standard plastic shipping bag. There was zero padding included, so the box did arrive with some dents and dings. Inside the box, each boot was slipped inside an individual clear plastic sleeve. Unlike most other brands, no extra padding, tags, or shoe bags were included. Just the boots. (Though, they are some freaking amazing boots. Lol)

“HFB” for Hand Finished Black.

360 Degree View

The 2307 Last

When trying to pick a last for these engineers, I was debating between his 1940s last and the 2307 last. Ultimately I picked the 2307, mostly because it had a lower toe bump. I do think that his 1940s last is his most popular for engineers, and the toe bump really doesn’t make too big of a difference once the unstructured toe collapses. (For a more in-depth summary of all the lasts/toe shapes Role Club toe has available, I will link you to Brian’s YouTube video.)

Profile views of both the 1940 and 2307 lasts. Notice the more pronounced toe bump on the 1940 last in comparison to the 2307.

I had my Underdogs built on Brian’s 100 last, which typically has a significantly slimmer, almond toe shape in comparison to the 2307 last. However, due to my awkwardly wide feet and bunions, the MTM 100 last ended up not being too dissimilar from my MTM 2307 last. I definitely like the 2307 more, as the outer sweep of the toe box has a more angular, elegant curve in comparison to my 100 last, which kinda just looks like a thumb.

As you can see, my Underdogs were supposedly built on the 100 last, but ended up being way more rounded than expected (which I’m happy about).

The Leather

Brian most often sources his leather from the Horween Tannery, specifically CXL horsehide and shell cordovan. Brian used brown CXL horsehide hand-finished black for his own pair of engineer boots, which has aged incredibly. Personally, I tend to opt for vegtan leathers whenever possible, as it’s more environmentally friendly and in my opinion tends to build a nicer patina than chrome tanned or combination tanned leathers. Luckily, Brian happened to have some brown Italian horsebutt lying around his shop that he was willing to offer me. At the time, Brian didn’t remember the tannery from which he sourced the horsebutt (which, according to him, no longer exists), but he was able to send me a few photos. I immediately said yes.

A few photos of another pair of engineers Brian made in the same Italian brown horsebutt. Loved the depth of color...which I had painted over. lol

I was hesitant at first to have Brian hand-paint black dye over this beautiful brown leather. However, I was pretty set on getting some classic black engineers, and I trusted that the black dye would slowly fade away in high abrasion areas, resulting in a beautiful black-brown pseudo-tea core finish. For horsebutt leather, there actually isn’t too much visible grain/marbling within the leather). It has a fairly smooth, consistent finish, which I don’t mind at all. Also, I can already see some browns peeking through, which gives me hope as to how the black dye will chip away as these boots break in.

Some of the brown undertones can already be seen beneath the black dye, which is most apparent on the vamps.

The Pattern & Stitching

I absolutely love Brian’s take on engineer boots. His pattern works perfectly with his lasts, creating a very well balanced, properly proportioned boot that looks just as good sitting on a shelf as it does on foot.

To my understanding, all of the boots in the Role Club Collection are branded with the same two markings: an embossed logo on the left boot and a sewn-on tag on the right.

The back stay is simple and clean. No extravagant stitch patterns or anything, just very clean, vertical lines. Nice, conservative, elegant. I like it.

I think of all the engineer boots I’ve seen on Instagram, the buckles Brian uses are some of my favorite. Flat, rectangular, roller buckles. Again, nothing gaudy. Some other brands choose to use more elaborate, bulbous buckles on their engineer boots, which kinda just look out of place. Maybe they’re too eye-catching, making it seem like they’re trying too hard. In contrast, Brian’s simple flat buckles are clean and minimal, allowing the pattern and construction quality of the boots speak for themselves. Less is more.

In general, I tend to like the look of 3-4 rows of stitching as opposed to just two. It just looks more substantial and sturdy. (Does it actually increase the quality or longevity of the boot? Probably not. I just like how it looks.) Also, can we take a moment to appreciate just how absolutely pristine this upper stitching is?

Perhaps my preference for 3-4 rows of stitching stems from my appreciation for higher levels of craftsmanship when it comes to boot pattern and construction. Having additional rows of stitching all perfectly spaced and parallel requires a little more attention to detail, and it looks amazing when properly executed.

2, 3, and 4 rows of stitching, all equally dense, evenly spaced, and perfectly parallel. Perfect execution. I haven’t found a single stitch out of place on the uppers of either boot.

Another little feature I opted to include on my boots were hand-crimped toe tracks running up the vamps of each boot. To be honest, I didn’t know too much about why it’s done or it’s benefits. However, here is an explanation I found on superfuture from Brian himself, posted by @beautiful_FrEaK:

The indentation you see on the boots is called a toe track. The reason a boot has a toe track is because the vamp went through the crimping process. It is used to get all the stretch out of the vamp because when a bootmaker needs to turn something that's 2D into 3D it is more work if the vamp is not crimped. Another benefit when a vamp is crimped is it keeps the vamp smooth without any wrinkles. The crimped vamp sits well on the shoe last.

There are different way to crimp a vamp. For example Buco puts their vamps into a crimp machine. It is a hot blade that folds the vamp in half and indents the leather. I wouldn't mind having a crimp machine (really expensive!) but I use crimp boards at the moment. It is the same process but more hands on. I last the vamp on a piece of board to get all the stretch out and it naturally gets the toe track.

Personally, I mostly chose to have the toe track for esthetic purposes, but understanding the reasoning behind it is pretty cool too.

The Heel

Unlike my Underdog boots, which have a low woodsman heel, I decided to go all out with the full woodsman heel on these engineers. I will admit, walking with such elevated heels will take some getting used to. It also definitely adds to the whole western cowboy boot vibe, but I dig it. Plus, the added lift makes me over 6 feet tall now. Added bonus.

The Sole

This is my first pair of boots with a full leather sole. Felt a bit risky putting it on such an expensive pair of boots, but whatever. They look great on Brian’s pair, so I wasn’t too worried. Plus, I live a pretty sedentary lifestyle in the California Bay Area. I don’t go on many nature hikes, nor does it ever snow here (or rain really, for that matter). Thus, I don’t really have a need for much grip or traction with my footwear.

The sole channel stitching is all pretty clean, minus one little wonky spot on the inside portion of the right boot (pictured above in the top left corner). Not a big deal though, as no one is ever gonna see it.

My biggest concern with full leather soles was the reduced durability/longevity from walking on concrete, specifically at the toe. To combat this, I asked Brian to add metal toe plates to my boots to prevent premature wear at the toe. Crisis averted.

Here’s a close up of one of the toe plates, cut into the leather sole as to be nice and flush. Apparently these had to be custom ordered to accommodate for the width of my foot, adding 4-5 months to my wait time. Meh. Worth the wait in my opinion, if it meant getting it done right.

The Welt Stitching

Similar to my Underdogs, the welt stitching on these engineers is all very clean and consistent. If I were to point out anything, it’d be that a little bit of black edge dye got on the white stitching in some areas, and there’s a small tuft of loose thread ends popping out on the inside of the left boot. However, if these are the biggest errors I could find on the whole boot, I think that’s pretty amazing.

If you look closely, you can see the spots where some of the black edge coat got onto the white welt stitching. Not the cleanest, but doesn’t bother me too much.

Here’s the small tuft of loose threads at the end of one of the 270 degree welt stitches. Again, very minor, and won’t keep me up at night.

Try On & Initial Thoughts

Being completely honest, I’m actually still blown away at how amazing these boots feel on foot. I can really tell that these boots were made to measure. I shouldn’t be surprised though, as the Underdogs Brian made for me last year fit amazingly. Although, being lace-up boots that can by cinched down with laces, they naturally are less prone to fit errors such as heel slip. Engineers, by comparison, are much more difficult to fit properly, but Brian did so masterfully.

First of all, right out of the box I actually had very little trouble getting the boots on and off. I feel like this is often the biggest struggle in breaking in a new pair of engineer boots, but not this time. Sliding my foot down the shaft felt appropriately snug, until my heel snapped past the “pass line” and sucked down into the heel cup. (I actually didn’t even need to unbuckle the strap to get them on, which was double surprising.)

Once fully seated, I could feel the built-in leather-lined orthotics beneath my feet, and the adjusted width of the 2307 last comfortably fit my bunions. What I’m most shocked by is how little heel slip I have in either boot. Until now, I had just assumed that heel slip was to be expected with all engineer boots, and only with break in and wear would that slip maybe go away. Apparently I was wrong, as these engineers already exhibit less heel slip than some of my other boots and derbies.

In designing these engineers, I chose to try out a couple things for the first time: first full leather soles, and first full woodsman heels. I know it’s still early, but I’m already loving the full leather soles. They seem to breathe much more than half and full rubber soles, and they flex and move much more naturally with the movements of my feet. I feel as though I can “feel the ground” better, if that makes sense. I will admit that I can definitely tell these leather soles have significantly less traction than rubber/cork half/full soles. However, I knew that from the get go, so me and my sedentary lifestyle are completely fine with it. I haven’t slipped yet, so it’s all good. Second, the full woodsman heels on these engineers are by far the tallest heels of any boot I own, yet once on foot, I can barely even tell the difference. Even with the steep drop off from the full woodsman heel to the leather sole, walking felt completely natural.

The last thing I’d like to note is how nicely the Italian horsebutt is breaking in. I know it’s still early, but so far all the leather on the vamps and shafts seem to be nice and tight with very little grain break or creasing. Loose grain and unsightly creasing are definitely some of my biggest pet peeves when it comes to boots, so props to Brian on absolutely killing it on the clicking. (At least so far.) I can’t wait to see how this leather continues to break in, and for the black hand-paint to chip away to reveal that beautiful brown horsebutt underneath.

If I had to pick out one spot that may require a little extra break-in, it would be the top rim around the shafts of the boot. They bounce around while I walk, knocking and banging into my shins. I expect this is probably true for most engineer boots, but hopefully this break-in period doesn’t take too long, cuz it doesn’t feel great. Until then, maybe I’ll just have to rock some longer tube socks as shin padding.

(Note: I do my best to remain impartial and objective in all of my reviews. That being said, it was difficult not to sound like some fanboy trying to sell you on a pair of Role Clubs, but this really my honest opinion. I really just love these boots. Lol)

Conclusion

If you couldn’t tell already, I’m absolutely through the roof with regards to these new engineers. The construction quality and level of finishing are pristine, and the comfort and fit out of the box is surprisingly on point. In my opinion, I think Brian and Clinch design two of the most beautiful engineer boots (on Instagram, at least), yet at the same time they exhibit two totally different vibes. Brian’s engineers draw from more rugged, western, cowboy influences, while Clinch engineers are a bit more refined, fitting very nicely within the whole Japanese workwear esthetic. Both styles are very cool, with some of the highest quality construction available.

A comparison of Role Club (top) and Clinch (bottom) engineers, both new and worn. (Photo credit: top left: me, top right: @brianthebootmaker, bottom left: @bsw_keisuke, bottom right: @partial2vintage.)

While I’ve barely owned these for a week, and already I can confidently say that these are one of my favorite pairs in my collection. With such a beautiful pattern and solid construction, I could pick them up and stare at them all day. Also, not gonna lie, the fact that Role Clubs are so difficult to come by these days does make me feel even cooler for owning a pair. Haha

Anyway, I’ll try to write a follow up review once these are more broken in. Until then, you can follow along my journey breaking in these engineers through my instagram (@thedenimdentist). Ttfn!

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dolce-peach · 4 years

Note

What about cap with fluff ?

promise

pairing: steve rogers x reader

warnings: fluff with a touch of angst

a/n: in the midst of trying to break through my writer’s block spell, i bring you a steve rogers fluff/tiny bit of angst mess :) also i miss 1940′s steve :(

permanent taglist: @kaitlynmalikisnotonfire

** TO MAKE A REQUEST -- please check the status in my bio **

masterlist

----

When you first saw Steve, you couldn’t help but rush in to protect him.

He was almost like a string bean, hence the nickname you later called him. He couldn’t handle the sheer size and confidence of the other young teens, even though he tried his best to defend himself. He’d often get into fights on the streets for sticking up for other students being bullied, and would often get caught in the crossfire.

“Leave him alone!” was all it took to make the crowds disperse. No one dared to question you, with your baby blue dress and charming demeanor. Plus, with your brother in the military, you knew a sharp move or two capable of knocking someone out for a week.

You held your hand out to him.

“Thanks,” he said.

“Why do you do that?” you asked.

He furrowed his brow. “Do what?”

“Stick up for people. You know you can’t take them,” you said honestly.

He looked down at his untied shoes. “I don’t like bullies...”

You knelt down and tied his shoes for him before coming up and giving him a smile. “What’s your name?”

“Steve.”

You nodded, studying his blue eyes. Then you giggled.

He frowned. “What’s so funny?”

“Aren’t you going to ask me mine?”

Steve sheepishly smiled, rubbing the back of his neck. “Sorry, I don’t really talk to other...”

“Girls?”

“People,” he concluded sadly.

You shook your head. “Never mind that. Popularity can be fatal.”

“You really think so?”

“I know so,” you said with a wink. “Anyhow, I’m Y/N.”

It didn’t take long for the two of you to become best friends. He then introduced you to Bucky, who was just as charming and caring as Steve was. The three of you spent a lot of time together, especially in the summer.

Then the war began. Your days were filled with nothing but volunteering and worrying about what the future held for you. You all grew up in an instant, thinking about reality and completely ignoring the imaginary. Life was dull and bleak, and they were all you had.

Steve was obsessed with trying to enlist. You, like Bucky, were against it, only thinking about how long Steve would really last in the cold battlefield. You wanted to support him, but you weren’t willing to let him get out in the real world just to greet death.

“Why can’t you see that this is something I have to do?” Steve protested.

“There are other ways to serve, Steve!” you said. “I don’t know why you’re so hell-bent on this!”

“You don’t understand!”

“I do understand!” you shouted. “My brother died in action! Bucky’s about to be shipped off, and I can’t bear losing you too!”

The room was quiet after that.

“It would break my heart,” you said softly, biting your lip to prevent tears. “I’ve already seen things I wouldn’t dream of imagining, and if that happened to you...if that happened to you...”

Steve shook his head. “It won’t.”

“How can you know for sure?” you said. You looked away. “Steve...I don’t want you to leave because part of me is selfish.”

“Y/N...”

“Just listen,” you insisted. “We’ve been friends for the longest time, but I couldn’t help but --” You looked into his pleading blue eyes. “Fall in love...”

Steve took a step back, a puzzled look fogging his expression.

“With you.”

Feelings bubbled in his irises. He looked at you with a certain understanding. He knew the risks and the price he’d have to pay. If he went overseas, there were sure to be consequences.

You inhaled sharply. “So when I say it would break me, I mean it.”

Steve looked away guiltily.

You sank to your knees, hugging them close before bursting to tears. When you felt Steve’s hand on your shoulder, you quickly turned, hugging him tightly as more tears fell.

“It’s okay,” he said softly. “I’m sorry I yelled.”

“I’m sorry too,” you said between sobs.

He pulled back, giving you a sad smile as he wiped your tears with his thumb. “I’ll come back. I’ll come back for you.”

“Promise?” you hiccuped.

“Of course,” he said, brushing loose strands of hair from your face. “I can’t leave my best girl, not when I love her too.”

You had no idea how you found yourself overseas, but you did. Somehow your brother’s connection with his commanders got you through, and now you were a battlefield nurse.

The whole thing was crazy, then again, you’ve experienced crazier.

“Ah, Y/L/N!” your new commander called as you debarked the truck. “Good to finally meet you.”

“Likewise,” you said with a cordial smile.

He saluted. “My deepest condolences. Your brother was a fine soldier.”

“Thank you, Commander.”

He nodded before leading you down the muddy trail to some tents you assumed to be the headquarters of the camp. You saw injured being bussed off to larger facilities and many groups patrolling.

It was all too real.

When you entered the largest tent, you ran into none other than Howard Stark. You’d been to his convention a few times with Steve and Bucky, but you couldn’t believe he was actually standing in front of you.

“Oh, you must be Y/N,” he said with a smile. “Steve’s told me a lot about you.”

You blinked. Apart from a few letters in the beginning, you hadn’t heard from Steve for a few months. You assumed the worst, but part of you still had a sliver of hope to grasp.

“Pardon? You know Steve? Steve Rogers?”

“Know him?” he chuckled. “Boy, do I know him. Gutsy guy.”

You couldn’t help but smile fondly.

“Did you see him yet?” Howard asked. “He just got back from rescuing basically the entire 107th --”

“107th?” you asked with your eyes wide. “Are you sure?”

Howard’s brow was furrowed. “Yeah. Why?”

“Where is he?”

“Probably at the edge of camp --”

You turned quickly on your heels, not bothering to respond to Howards or your commander’s calls.

You ran through the mud as fast as your legs could carry you, stopping at every group of soldiers to search for two familiar faces. The longer you looked, you began to lose hope.

Oh, God, please...

“Y/N?”

You turned around to see a much taller Steve standing before you. His face was grimy, but you could still see that shade of blue in his eyes that you loved so much.

“Steve!” you exclaimed as you jumped into his arms, half expecting him to fall over from the weight.

He supported you just fine, hugging you tightly as he set you down, his height still towering over you.

“What the hell are you doing out here?” he asked.

“I thought it was time for me to be here,” you said. You pulled back and held his face. “Why’d you stop writing to me? I thought the absolute worst!”

He chuckled, looking down at himself. “A lot’s happened.” He frowned. “I’m sorry, Y/N.”

You hugged him again. “I missed you, string-bean.”

“I missed you too.”

You pulled back and laughed as you felt yourself rise to your tip-toes to try to match his height. “You’re really tall. More like a beanstalk.”

“I get that a lot,” he laughed.

“I like it,” you said. “But I’ve always liked you.”

You felt yourself grow hot at your words.

Steve smiled before bringing you in for a quick kiss, wrapping his muscular arms around your waist. You felt yourself melting even more, not really caring about the passing soldiers looking on with interest.

“This doesn’t...change anything, right?” he asked quietly, talking about his changed physique.

You shook your head with a smile. “I’ll always love you no matter what, Steve Rogers.”

Elation made you tremble as you took him in for yet another hug. The warmth of his body was the same, pulling you in closely and gently, almost like that of a mother. You thought you could’ve gotten lost in the feeling, until you heard a throat clear behind you.

“I guess I’ll come back later,” Bucky chuckled.

You laughed before tackling him in a hug. “I missed you too, Buck.”

“Milady,” he joked as he kissed your cheek.

You walked back to the tents, listening to Steve and Bucky telling the story about how Captain America came into the base and saved the day. You couldn’t help but laugh at Bucky emphasizing how far Steve had to jump over the chasm to get out. “Nearly half a damn mile” was what he said.

It made you incredibly sentimental talking to them like this, you thought you almost died and went to heaven. It was everything you dreamed of having again, to dream and tell stories, in the midst of a bloody war.

Steve held your hand. “You okay?”

“Yeah,” you said. “I just missed this.”

“Me too,” he said. “I won’t leave you ever. Not anymore. I promise.”

You nodded, satisfied.

20 notes · View notes

findingyouagain · 4 years

Text

𝙷𝙴𝚁𝙴 𝚆𝙴 𝙶𝙾 ( 𝙰𝙶𝙰𝙸𝙽 ).

Do not grieve. Anything you lose comes again in another form. —Rumi

"I'm late. I'm late!"

She rushed down the staircase, feet pounding against each step. The third step to the bottom creaked beneath her weight as it did every day. Damp hair dripped onto the white railing. Reaching the first floor of the house, Kennedy made her way to the kitchen, sliding across the hardwood floor with her blue socks and pulling her hair into a messy ponytail. "Dad, I'm late!"

"I see that."

Bryan Steele sat at the kitchen table. His horn-rimmed glasses rested on his nose as his hazel eyes scanned the newspaper in his hands. Kennedy could only make out the headline: something about a missing couple. The sunlight streaming from the window above the sink reflected off his glass of orange juice, shining onto Bryan's brown hair. He was already dressed for the day—tan khakis and a navy button-up shirt. His blue scrubs for work lay on top of the few patient folders he had brought home from the hospital the night before.

"Well, why didn't you wake me up?" She had one foot pressed against the pale yellow, almost white wall, tying the laces of her Nike tennis shoes.

Bryan ran a hand through his hair, dropping the paper onto the table and grabbing a piece of bacon off his plate. "I thought you had decided to jog to school this morning and already left." He took another bite. "That's what I told Bonnie when she came to pick you up a few minutes ago."

She finished tying her other shoe and sighed. Great, she also had no ride to school. "Well, now I definitely have to run—unless I can borrow Mom's bike?"

"Tires are flat," came his gruff reply. He was biting back a grin. "You'd be even later if you tried to air them up. Besides, jogging to school won't kill you. Consider it early track practice."

Kennedy let out an incoherent grumble before slinging her bag onto her back. "Yeah, well, guess I'm going to stink of sweat all day. Great way to start off my senior year!" She opened the side door. "—and wipe that smirk off your face, Dad. It's not a handsome look on you." The door slammed shut, and the slap, slap, slap of running feet on asphalt could be heard.

Heart racing, Kennedy leaned against her gray locker and let out a ragged breath. Despite jogging every morning, running three miles to school left the teen breathless, as well as hot and sweaty. For once, Kennedy was glad to have stored a spare pair of clothes in her gym locker for after track practices.

Her eyes scanned the crowded hallways. Already, colorful posters about clubs to join and student government elections littered the walls. Eager teenagers wandered, chatting about which beach they had visited and who they had hooked up with over the summer break. Kennedy sighed, not quite understanding why she was supposed to miss this in ten months' time. Mindless babble and petty drama? She wasn't interested in dealing with it for another year, let alone after she graduated from high school.

Spotting Elena Gilbert and Bonnie Bennett by their lockers, she picked her bag off the ground and squeezed her way past lost freshmen with their eyes glued to their schedules.

"—no, that's over."

"What's over?" Kennedy asked, smiling at her two best friends.

"Ah, nothing important. Thinking about finding man, coining a new phrase. We've got a busy year ahead of us," Bonnie replied, but her gaze trailed behind Elena. The two brunettes turned to see Matt Donovan clad in his red and black letterman staring at Elena.

Kennedy watched as Elena waved at him and the blond ignored her, grabbing books out of his locker and walking off.

Elena sighed and leaned against the locker while Kennedy placed a comforting hand on her shoulder. "He hates me."

Bonnie shook her head. "That's not hate. That's 'you dumped me, but I'm too cool to show it, but secretly, I'm listening to Air Supply's greatest hits.'"

Kennedy held back a giggle. "He just needs some time. I mean, it's not like you guys bumped into each other muchover the summer. He'll get over it, and you'll be best friends again. Trust me."

"Speaking of time," Bonnie began. She grabbed the red junior history book from her locker. "How'd we beat Miss Track Queen to school when you left before us?"

"Funny story, I woke up late, and my dad just assumed I had already left for school. So, I ended up having to run here just like he told you. Now I'm all gross."

Elena folded her arms across her chest, ignoring the yells behind them of friends congregating for the first time since May. "Don't you keep spare clothes in your gym locker?"

Kennedy nodded. "Yeah, I'm actually headed that way to speak to Coach Sharpe about track tryouts. As captain, I'm going to have to oversee them, and I can't have them interfering with my work schedule at the library. I figured I'd change while I was down there."

"Elena! Oh my god!"

It wasn't seconds later that Kennedy had been gently shoved to the side, almost knocking into Bonnie, as a blonde in a blue blouse and black heels enveloped Elena into a tight hug. Elena patted the girl's shoulder reassuringly.

"How are you? Oh, it's so good to see you." She released the olive-skinned girl from her embrace before turning to Bonnie and Kennedy, blue eyes laced with concern and wringing her pale hands. "How is she? Is she good?"

"Caroline, I'm right here." Elena gave a weak but believable smile, nodding her head for good measure. "And I'm fine. Thank you."

"Really?" Caroline asked, and Kennedy felt sorry for Elena. Although it was a brand new school year for everyone, no one could forget how last year had ended. In a small town, the car crash that had wrecked the Gilbert household had affected everyone, even if just in minor implications. Elena had miraculously survived the car's plunge over Wickery Bridge, but her parents had not, leaving Elena and her younger brother to be taken in by their Aunt Jenna, who was only eleven years Kennedy's senior. Now, everyone was sensitive to Elena's feelings, perhaps too sensitive, and no matter how much it seemed Elena wanted to move past the accident and start afresh, everyone else couldn't let the girl forget. Pity parties weren't Elena's thing, that much Kennedy knew.

"Yes, much better."

Caroline enveloped Elena into another hug. "Oh, you poor thing."

Kennedy threw Elena a knowing look and a small smile before tugging the blonde off of her. "Okay, okay, give the poor thing a break, Care. She's had enough touchy-feely for the morning."

Caroline nodded, clapping her hands together. "Okay, see you guys later?"

The three nodded, and Bonnie mumbled out a quick bye to their friend as the blonde strutted down the hall.

Kennedy let out a laugh, and Elena just shook her head. "No comment."

Twisting the bag on her shoulder, Kennedy pointed towards the gym and coaches' office. "Well, I better get going if I want to change out of these clothes. See you first period?"

"Remind me again how you ended up being Tanner's student aid for the junior history class?" Bonnie asked, picking up her own bag. Kennedy was already turning in the other direction.

"Because I'm the only one to ever laugh at his history jokes and make a hundred on his finale, duh!" she threw over her shoulder. Kennedy could hear Elena's giggle as she walked down the hall to change.

"How about next Tuesday afterschool? Will that work for you?"

Finally changed into some fresh clothes and sprayed down with perfume, Kennedy nodded her head at Coach Sharpe's suggestion. Her schedule wasn't hectic, just full. Mondays, Wednesdays, and Thursdays afterschool, the brunette worked at the Mystic Falls Public Library—shelving books, tutoring younger students, and updating the online catalogue. Plus after work on Wednesdays, Kennedy attended church with her mom, helping in the kitchen and with the youth bible study class. Every other Saturday, she volunteered at the hospital and shadowed her father in the pediatrics department. Sundays, there was church again and then her family dinner in the late afternoon. Tuesdays and Fridays were her only free days, mainly because last year they had been dominated by track practices and meets.

"That works for me." She smiled at the man. He sat, arms folded over his linoleum desk, where papers and handheld timers lay scattered. A red baseball cap embroidered with the high school's initials covered his bald head. His eyes were kind but empty, vague, like they couldn't capture the emotions the rest of his face expressed. Kennedy watched as a smile tugged at his lips, and she wondered what thought had crossed his face that she had missed.

"What are you thinking about?" she asked. It was a rather blunt question, and if the man hadn't been Kennedy's track coach since the sixth grade, she probably would have never asked him.

His smile widened, and he tilted his head. "Just that we're going to have an amazing team captain this year."

Kennedy let out a small laugh before ducking her head in embarrassment. "Well, thanks, Coach." A bell rang out throughout the school, and Kennedy glanced at the clock. Five minutes before class started. "I've got to get to class, but I'll stop by later this week to confirm the tryout list, okay?"

Coach Sharpe nodded. "Yeah. See you then."

"Once our home state of Virginia joined the Confederacy in 1861, it created a tremendous amount of tension within the state—" Mr. Tanner droned on, pacing in the front of the small history classroom. His hands were kept clasped at his waist, and he stood tall, eyes roaming the room in hopes to catch students off task.

In the back of the classroom, Kennedy tapped, tapped, tapped a red pen against the wooden desk. A stack of papers sat in front of her. Tanner had handed them to her when she arrived to class with two minutes to spare before the tardy bell went off. This was the junior history class, or as it was better known as, the period Kennedy and Mr. Tanner had designated as her teaching assistant period, meaning she was in the room to grade papers and help write up lessons. Today being the first day of school, all she had to do was staple and organize the practice U.S. History exams the juniors would take tomorrow, but she didn't feel bothered to organize them just yet, instead opting to doodle on the back cover of her notebook. So far, a small clearing surrounded by tall trees had appeared, and she was debating whether to draw a crow in the corner as well when something caught her eye.

Glancing up from her drawing, Kennedy caught the new boy—didn't Mr. Tanner's role sheet say his name was Steven or something like that—staring at Elena. Matt and Bonnie must have noticed it too because Kennedy could see Matt glaring before reading a text Bonnie was sending over her shoulder. Rolling her eyes, she smiled at how oblivious Mr. Tanner was to Elena pulling out her phone, confirming Kennedy's thoughts that her two friends were texting each other during class.

Kennedy pulled out her own phone, typing out a quick message: What did you text Elena? And clicking send before returning to stapling papers.

A short buzz vibrated the desk, causing the red pen to roll onto the floor. She ignored the pen and slid the unlock button on her phone.

That the H-O-T new boy was staring at her. Didn't you see? came Bonnie's reply.

Oh, trust me, Kennedy typed out, I saw.

She turned back to the class in front of her, eyes narrowing in how the new guy—maybe it was Ian?—continued to stare at Elena as the girl kept her gaze locked to the front of the room, smiling wide. Kennedy shook her head, shuffling the papers in her hands. Was this about to be the start of young love or more drama? Whichever the case, Kennedy was just happy to see her friend truly smiling again.

"Guess who."

Kennedy laughed, rolling her eyes behind the hands clasped over them. She hummed, pretending to mull over the endless possibilities as to who had snuck up on her. After a moment or two of contemplation, she shrugged her shoulders. "No idea…is it the reincarnation of George Washington here to set the country straight again?"

The hands were removed from in front of her eyes, and she blinked, readjusting to the brightness of Mrs. Halpern's calculus classroom at 1 o'clock in the afternoon. She turned in her desk, spotting the tall blond boy with mischievous green eyes staring at her. "George Washington, really?"

"What did you want me to say, Ollie? J.F.K.? I'd be disgracing his good looks by comparing them to yours."

"Hardy-har-har." Oliver took the desk next to her, digging into his backpack and grabbing a notebook, calculator, and pencil. He opened the notebook up to the first page before turning back to face her. "Was that you I spotted all sweaty this morning next to my sister?"

"Depends," she countered. She leaned over the aisle, brown eyes raking over him with judgement. "Was that you I spotted walking the halls this morning with Vicki Donovan on your arm?"

"Maybe." He shrugged, suddenly much more interested in his blank notebook than her, but Kennedy wasn't having it. She grabbed the notebook off his desk, folding it closed again. He tried to grab it back, but she pushed it inside her backpack. "What? We're back together."

"And when did this happen?"

"I don't know. A while ago."

She frowned. "Why wasn't I informed of this, Ollie?" Arms crossed, Kennedy gave him her ultimate 'I-thought-we-were-past-the-whole-not-sharing-information-thing' glare. Five months her senior, Oliver Forbes had been Kennedy's best friend since the sixth grade; however, they had known each other since the beginning of elementary school, back where playground rules dictated who was friends with who. To the kids in their kindergarten class, a girl beating another boy in a race across the field was unheard of, well, until Kennedy ran across the finish line with Oliver several feet behind her. The excited six-year-old she was, Kennedy had jumped up and down, the biggest smile plastered on her face. Oliver had been a sore loser, however, and tugged hard at one of her pigtails. A call to Sheriff Forbes later, and the unspoken 'we're not friends and probably never will be' hung thick in the air between them until sixth grade. Kennedy never talked to Oliver, and Oliver continued to think of her as a smartass and show off who wouldn't shut up. Who knew science fair projects could form a friendship between two people who couldn't stand each other?

Oliver let out a long sigh. "Because it didn't seem important at the time?" He held out his hand expectantly. "Can I have my notebook back please?"

Rolling her eyes, Kennedy huffed before grabbing the object back out of her backpack and handing it over. As more students filled into the classroom, Kennedy leaned over her desk, voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "So, how did Tyler and Jeremy take the news when they found out?"

Oliver only glared in response.

"So not well then." Before Kennedy could get another word in; however, Mrs. Halpern walked into the room, placing down the calculus textbook onto the front desk, and began the lesson.

It was two o'clock in the afternoon when Kennedy finished all of her classes for the day; like most of the other seniors, she had gotten her schedule moved around for an early dismissal so she could make it to the library in time for work. The elementary and middle schools released their students at 2:40 P.M., and the library's tutoring sessions began at three. Walking down Main Street, Kennedy grinned, allowing her arms to swing back and forth at her side. Her tan shorts and navy blue top kept her cool, and the aviator sunglasses concealed her eyes from the bright sun. With a clear sky on a day like this, the sun found entertainment in reflecting off every surface—car mirrors, shop windows, even Mrs. Lockwood's emerald necklace as she passed Kennedy on the sidewalk. Seeing the five rather large bags Mrs. Lockwood carried, the brief thought of what the mayor's wife was doing out shopping in the middle of the day crossed the brunette's mind, but Kennedy shook the thought out of the way.

"365 more days," she muttered under her breath. "365 more days, and I'll be out of this town and away from all the drama and gossip that goes with it."

And had those all bags been from the liquor store?! Kennedy turned on her heels, skidding against the concrete pavement to try and catch another glance at the logo on the bags, but Mrs. Lockwood had already gone into another store. With a sigh, Kennedy frowned in disappointment of herself. Living in a small town could drive you insane if you let the urge to know everything about everyone and their activities consume you.

"365 more days."

Kennedy made to turn again, but this time, her tennis shoe caught onto a small pebble, and before the brunette could process it, she felt herself fall forwards. Or she would have, if her shoulders hadn't been caught between two hands.

"Whoa, there," a male voice rang in her ears. The hands steadied her, and Kennedy looked up to see a man in what she assumed to be his early twenties staring at her. Raven black hair, leather jacket, black V-neck, the typical attire of a rebel with a James Dean philosophy on life, he had to be at least six foot, the way his tall frame hovered over Kennedy's petite body. A shiver ran down her spine at the sight of him, and she watched in confusion as his bright, electric blue eyes scanned her face for something.

Kennedy bit her lip. They were too close, and it didn't appear his hands were releasing her shoulders out of their own free will anytime soon. So she took it upon herself and forced her feet to move backwards, allowing her body to move away from his hands and put a decent distant between the two of them. She tilted her head as she noticed his eyes were still scanning her. She noticed a brief flicker of recognition and surprise on his face, but she didn't understand why.

"Eliza?" he mumbled. His hand reached out to grasp her shoulder again, but she shook him off, folding her arms across her chest.

Okay, so maybe he wasn't a creep. Just confused. "I'm—I'm sorry, I think you have me confused for someone else." She paused, eyes locking with his. Had this happened before? Why…the leather jacket, the sounds of people chatting away in the background, the clear blue sky…why was she feeling the strangest sense of déjà vu right now?

He blinked, looking hurt but also perhaps hopeful. He retracted his arm, pushing both his hands into his pockets. "Oh. My…my mistake. You just look like an old friend of mine."

Is that how he always greeted old friends? With a look full of surprise, remorse, and longing? If so, she wasn't sure if she ever wanted to become one of this man's old friends. "I'm Kennedy," she corrected.

"Yeah."

"Yeah," she repeated lamely, looking for an escape route. This conversation was headed down hill, and she was beginning to run late for work, despite the public library being only five feet away.

Luckily for her, the blue-eyed stranger took care of it. "M'sorry for bothering you. Have a nice day." He took a step to the right and began walking down the street, but not before turning around and leaving her with one last word of advice. "You should be careful where you walk. You don't want to bump into the wrong person next time you trip on a rock."

She let out a short laugh. "I'll keep that in mind. Thanks."

He nodded, walking away. "Anytime, Kennedy. Anytime."

When he was out of sight, Kennedy released the tense breath she hadn't realized she had been holding. Walking the few steps left to reach the library doors, Kennedy shook her head, moving the interaction between her and Mystery Blue Eyes to the back of her mind.

Time to get to work.

"His name is Stefan Salvatore. He lives with his uncle at the old Salvatore boarding house. He hasn't lived here since he was a kid. Military family, so they moved around a lot. He's a Gemini, and his favorite color is blue," Caroline explained. She waved her hands around as she talked, and Kennedy fought the urge to grab them and tape them to her blue dress so they wouldn't move.

Bonnie stared at Caroline in shock but mostly disbelief. "You got all of that in one day?"

Caroline waved her hand again, dismissing the notion. "Oh, please. I got all that between third and fourth period. We're planning a June wedding."

"Yeah, in your dreams. I'll make sure to tell Ollie his sister's getting hitched." Kennedy giggled as the blonde huffed in annoyance, turned, and walked over to another student from school.

The trio just arrived at the Mystic Grill, the town's local bar and grill. Most of Mystic Falls' teenagers could be seen spending their afternoons and early evenings there, whether to study or to just hang with friends. A loud hum of activity always filled the air; the restaurants' patrons chatting amongst themselves. Clinks from shot glasses could be heard towards the back, where the bar sat next to the pool table. The lightning in the building was dim, warm, yellow lights shining down from the ceiling. A few standing lamps could be found scattered around the room as well, casting shadows on the faux stone walls. Spotting Oliver cleaning up a now-empty table in the middle of the room, Kennedy pointed it out to Bonnie.

"Shall we?" she asked.

"We shall."

An order of French fries and two Cokes later, Kennedy and Bonnie sat across from Matt. Although Kennedy wasn't thrilled to be involved in the conversation, she knew that she and Bonnie, as both Elena and Matt's friends since they were children, had to set the boy straight.

"How's Elena doing?" he asked. His elbows leaned against the rustic-looking wood, and he had his face propped up by his hands. His face was solemn, and his blue eyes were laced with concern. Kennedy understood he was genuinely interested in Elena's well-being; he was just being too much of a chicken to check up on the girl himself.

"How do you think she's doing, Matt?" Kennedy asked, and it came out a bit harsher than she intended.

Bonnie shrugged her shoulders. "Her mom and dad died. She's putting on a good face, but it's only been four months."

And here it comes. "Has she said anything about me?"

Shaking her head, Bonnie rolled her eyes and leaned back in her seat. "Oh, no. So not getting in the middle. You pick up the phone and call her."

Kennedy nodded, biting into a French fry. "Yeah, and while you're calling her, make sure to apologize for not speaking to her all summer long. It made you look petty."

"I feel weird calling her. Hell, I feel weird even seeing her. She broke up with me."

"Give it more time, Matt," Bonnie explained. But her face fell into a soft frown, and Kennedy remembered why she never played poker with Bonnie on her team. Worst poker face ever.

Their three gazes followed Elena as she walked into the Grill, followed by the new boy—whose name according to Caroline was apparently Stefan, not Steven nor Ian—close behind. Kennedy watched as the two glanced around the restaurant before smiling at each other. And there went her chances of the year being drama free.

"More time, huh?" he muttered, eyes downcast. Kennedy felt sorry for him and reached out to place a comforting hand on his shoulder, but Matt had already stood up from his seat, walked over to Elena and Stefan, and introduced himself.

Kennedy smiled softly. "Way to be the bigger man, Matt."

A few minutes later, Elena and Stefan had joined the table, along with Caroline, who know doubt had just joined to further learn more about the town's new eye candy. Not that she couldn't learn most of it from the gossip she spent most of her school days filling her ears with. Matt had left the table to play with Tyler Lockwood, another football player.

"So you were born in Mystic Falls?" Caroline asked.

Kennedy sipped on her Coke, swirling the straw in her drink between breaks. She was interested in Stefan's responses, but she could tell the others seemed more eager. While she sat relaxed in her seat, legs crossed and head leaning against the back, the others leaned against propped-up elbows, eyes never straying from Stefan's face. Kennedy couldn't be bothered to put so much effort into the conversation. Not because she didn't care or didn't want to make any new friends, but because she felt like she didn't have to try too hard. This Stefan was friendly, even if a bit reserved. Perhaps he was shy, but to Kennedy, he gave off the vibe of someone she could chat to about most anything, the same vibe she received from people who were her friends. She felt like she already knew him, even if she knew virtually nothing about him.

"Mm-hmm. And moved when I was still young."

"Parents?" Bonnie asked.

"My parents passed away." Kennedy sat up, intrigued, not at the information but the way he said it. His voice didn't soften nor crack; his face kept the same neutral expression he had worn all evening. He barely even blinked during the sentence. He said it so matter-of-fact that Kennedy felt it was just that and nothing more: a fact.

He turned towards Elena. Oh, Kennedy thought, so he heard about the accident. Are people really still gossiping about that at school?

Elena frowned, and before she could speak, Kennedy dragged the conversation away from her, wanting to avoid a pity party to start for Elena and Stefan. "I'm sorry. Any siblings?"

Stefan's eyes glanced towards her. To Kennedy, it appeared to be the first time he had truly noticed her existence at the table. He blinked, his green eyes searching her face for something. It was the same look of recognition she had seen early that day on Mystery Blue Eyes's face. He shook his head. "None that I talk to. I live with my uncle."

"So, Stefan…" Caroline was quick to redirect the conversation to herself. "If you're new, then you don't know about the party tomorrow."

"Party?" Kennedy asked. "They're still doing that after what happened last year?" She felt an elbow dig into her stomach. "Hey, ow." She glared at Caroline.

"It's a back to school thing at the Falls," Bonnie explained.

Stefan nodded, turning to look at Elena. "Are you going?"

"Of course she is," Bonnie and Kennedy answered together. Having both seen the glances Stefan and Elena kept sending each other's way, the duo had picked up on the mutual interest and decided to run with it.

A phone rang, and Kennedy glanced down at her cell. Reading the caller I.D as Mom, she got up from the table, grabbing her purse with her. She waved and mumbled out a quick goodbye before answering the call.

"Yes, ma'am?"

"Dear, do you mind picking up some groceries on your way home?" Marian's voice came through the phone's speakers.

"Sure. What do you need?"

"Eat your vegetables, Kenn," Bryan instructed, fork raised and pointed at his daughter.

Kennedy glanced sheepishly up from her plate, feeling much like a five year old being commanded by their parent, before shrugging her shoulders. "Sorry, Dad. M'not really hungry."

Letting out a small laugh, Marian shook her head. "That's why we don't eat a big snack at the Grill before dinner."

"It was the first day back at school," Kennedy defended, twirling the green beans on her plate with her fork. "Everyone wanted to meet up afterwards to catch up."

Placing his napkin on the table and pushing his clean plate forward, Bryan sat up in his chair. "Everyone being the same five people you hung out with all summer, yeah?"

Kennedy laughed, nodding. "Yeah, except Oliver was working so we weren't really hanging out." She bit into a green bean. "Oh, and the new junior at school joined us at school—Stefan. I guess he just moved back in with his uncle. I think he has a thing for Elena. He was making the googly eyes at her in history class this morning."

Bryan's eyes raised at the information. "Stefan? He wouldn't happen to be a Salvatore, would he?"

"I think so." Kennedy shrugged her shoulders, not understanding the significance. "Why? Were you one of his doctors as a child or something? He said he used to live here, but his parents were in the military, so they moved around a lot."

Bryan picked up his empty plate, as well as his wife's and walked over to the sink. "Uh, yeah…Him and his brother both."

Marian turned towards her daughter. "You said he was interested in Elena? Isn't it a bit too soon for her to be getting back into a relationship? I mean, her and Matthew just broke up."

"Mom, they broke up months ago. Haven't talked to each other all summer, in fact. Although, I'm not sure Matt's ready to give up on them, but I think Elena's ready to move on with her life. Start fresh. I think she wants to get past all the sadness and negativity and be happy again."

Kennedy picked up her own plate and scraped the remaining green beans into the white trash bin in the dim pantry before handing it to her father. She leaned against the counter. "Besides, there are more important things than worrying about guys in life, and I'm sure Elena agrees. I'm not even positive she's interested in Stefan too, just that they seemed to click at school today."

The next morning went smoothly. Kennedy woke up on time and was dressed and ready by the time Bonnie came honking in her driveway with her Prius. However, Tanner's junior history class was not having the same luck as Kennedy. As she sat in the back, scribbling red marks across the practice exams the juniors had taken towards the end of class the day before, Mr. Tanner was getting frustrated with the students' lack of response to his lesson. Kennedy couldn't blame the students, though. Even she grew bored with his lectures, and she loved history. His monotone voice and bland classroom made his teaching style and environment boring and allowed his students to grow tired easily. It didn't help that this was an 8 o'clock class, and most of the students still wanted to be curled up in their cozy beds.

"The Battle of Willow Creek took place right at the end of the war in our very own Mystic Falls," Mr. Tanner continued, eyes focusing in on the back of the classroom. "How many casualties resulted in this battle? Ms. Bennett?"

346, Kennedy thought as she watched Bonnie's face fall and a small grimace take hold. "Um…a lot?" she answered, dropping her pen onto the desk. "I'm not sure. Like a whole lot."

Mr. Tanner shook his head, clearly not amused with Bonnie's witty response. "Cute becomes dumb in an instant, Ms. Bennett." And there was the reason everyone called Tanner an asshole behind his back. "Mr. Donovan? Would you like to take this opportunity to overcome your embedded jock stereotype?"

A quick shake of his head should have been enough of an answer in itself, but Matt decided to grace his teacher with a verbal response as well. "It's okay, Mr. Tanner, I'm cool with it."

Kennedy held back a giggle at Mr. Tanner's exasperated sigh. Sometimes she caught herself wondering why he even bothered teaching if he hated his students and didn't want to deal with smart-mouths, but then she remembered the high school's policy that all coaching staff had to also be teachers.

"Hmm, Elena? Surely you can enlighten us about one of the town's most significantly historical events?" Tanner had placed himself right in front of the brunette's desk, and even from the back of the classroom, Kennedy could tell how intimidating he appeared looming over Elena.

"I'm sorry," she muttered. "I—I don't know." Her eyes were downcast, and Kennedy felt sorry for her friend.

"I was willing to be lenient last year for obvious reasons, Elena. But the personal excuses ended with summer break." Kennedy's eyes hardened, and the red pen slipped out of her grip and onto the tile floor. Unwilling to participate in a pity party was one thing, but wrongly informing Elena that her parents' deaths were not a legitimate excuse for knowing an answer on the second day of school was another. Tanner was such an asshole.

Kennedy began to raise her hand to inform Tanner the answer so he would back off the other students, but before her hand even reached mid-air, Stefan Salvatore's voice rang through the class.

"There were 346 casualties. Unless you're counting local civilians."

Mr. Tanner looked taken aback, and the fluorescent lighting seemed to cast a shadow on his face. He almost looked disappointed that he wasn't able to continue humiliating the rest of the class until he would then make Kennedy answer. "That's correct, Mister…?"

"Salvatore," Stefan answered.

Mr. Tanner nodded, leaning against his desk. "Salvatore. Any relation to the original settlers here at Mystic Falls?"

"Distant."

"Well, very good. Except—" Of course, there had to be something wrong with Stefan's answer. Tanner always had to find something wrong with everyone's answer. "Of course, there were no civilian casualties in this battle." Mr. Tanner turned back to the chalkboard, clearly having assumed the conversation was over.

Kennedy frowned at that. She distinctly remembered reading something in the library about there having been a fire at a church or something during that battle, but she couldn't remember the number of casualties or if anyone had actually been in the church that day.

"Actually," Stefan raised his voice, "there were 27, sir. Confederate soldiers, they fired on the church, believing it to be housing weapons. They were wrong. It was a night of great lost. The founder's archives are, uh, stored in civil hall if you'd like to brush up on your facts, Mr. Tanner."

Kennedy's mouth dropped, and she heard the other students begin to murmur amongst themselves. No one had stood up to Tanner that way, at least not in their history class. The only one who any of them had heard of doing it before was Kennedy, and she had only did it on rare occasions with physical proof in hand to settle her case.

"Hmm…" was the only response the teacher gave.

Back at home, Kennedy had changed into a blue summer dress and laced up a white Keds. Tonight was the Back to School at the Falls party, and although she didn't seem like it, she wasn't one to miss a party. Partying was one of the only opportunities for Kennedy to let loose and have fun. Between work, school, track, church, and family commitments, she didn't have much room for relaxing and enjoying herself. Sure she'd read for pleasure or watch Gossip Girl before bed and hang out with her friends on the weekend, but sometimes a girl had to get out for more than an hour or two at a time and have some fun. Especially if that fun involved booze.

Grabbing her purse off its hook on the white door of her bedroom, Kennedy walked down the stairs. Reaching the living room, she plopped onto the brown leather couch next to her father. His eyes never strayed from his book. Sighing dramatically, she glanced around the room, mentally noting the clutter gathering on the coffee table—a few bills that needed to be paid, manila folders that were no doubt patient files, a couple of photos from their family trip to Washington D.C. last summer that her mother was just now getting around to scrapbooking. Kennedy picked one up, glancing at her sixteen-year-old-self standing in front of the Lincoln Memorial.

She let out another sigh, glancing back at her father.

"What?" He looked up. His glasses had fallen down and now rested on the middle of his nose.

"The Back to the Falls Party is tonight," she replied, a bright smile stretching across her face.

"And…?"

"And I was wondering if I could go. You let me last year, and I just wanted to make sure I was still allowed before I leave with Bonnie and Elena."

He placed the book down on top of the patient folders, and Kennedy recognized it as one of the ancient medical journals he collected in his home office. There seemed to be thousands of them lining his bookshelves. He gave her a look and opened his mouth to speak, but Kennedy interrupted before any words could spill out.

"Oh, come one. Are you really about to tell me no? You've let me the last three years. Why wouldn't it be okay now? It's my last chance to go to one!"

"Now, I haven't even said anything yet," he argued.

"I know that look," Kennedy explained, folding her arms.

"I'm just not sure it's a good idea. It's a school night, and with it being in the woods, I'm nervous. There was just an animal attack not a few towns over."

"Dad, I'll be fine. I promise! No drinking, no anything even remotely dangerous. I'll just be hanging out with Bonnie, Elena, Oliver, and Caroline all night, and I'll be home before you know it." She gave him a pleading smile, brown eyes begging for permission.

He shook his head. "Fine, fine. But you have to be home by 11. No later than 11, got it?"

"Got it," she muttered before seeing the look in his eyes. "Got it, sir," she said a bit more enthusiastically. She smiled, hugging him before rushing out the door. "Thanks, Dad!"

For a summer night in the south, the air was cool and dry against Kennedy's skin. She was leaning against one of the park's banisters, standing next to Elena and Bonnie. The music was loud, and the only sources of lighting were the bonfire warming the large group of teenagers surrounding it a few yards away and the string lights the sophomore class had set up an hour before the party began. Sipping on the punch, Kennedy could tell by the awful taste it had been spiked with more vodka than it should be. Next time, she'd have to suggest the freshmen weren't in charge of the drinks. They had been so eager to get drunk that one of them had poured a bit too much alcohol into the bowl. Kennedy's eyes scanned the area, and a smile spread across her face. Laughter and chatter filled the air as teenagers stood too close to each other and enjoyed the last freedom they would have until Christmas Break.

"Just admit it, Elena," Bonnie nagged, a smug grin across her face.

Elena sighed and pushed on her jacket sleeve. "Oh, okay, so he's a little pretty."

"He has that romance novel stare," Bonnie argued and nudged Kennedy to help her out.

"Oh, she's right." Kennedy nodded, tossing the empty cup into a trash can. "Those green orbs could pierce right through your soul. Plus, have you looked at his hair? He's definitely been catalogue ordered off a sports model magazine."

Elena laughed at her friends, running her fingers through her long hair.

"So where is he?" Bonnie asked, and the trio glanced around the party. None of them spotted him amongst the familiar faces of their classmates.

"I don't know." Elena's eyes brightened with an idea. "You tell me, you're the psychic one."

"Psychic?" Kennedy asked, eyebrows raised.

"Grams," she explained, and with that one word, Kennedy understood. Bonnie's grandmother was a very interesting lady and quite the character as well. According to Grandma Bennett, Bonnie and the rest of her family through her mother's side of the family were descended from witches, going back all the way to Salem. Growing up, the girls used to joke with Bonnie and pretended to cast spells on the kids who were mean to them in elementary school. Well, until Kennedy's mom found out and informed them it was not nice to make fun of Bonnie's grandmother nor was it appropriate to poke boys with a stick and tell them they'd turn into toads the next morning if they weren't nicer.

"Okay, so give me a sec. Grams says I have to concentrate." Bonnie closed her eyes, but Elena held up a finger to stop her.

"Wait, you need a crystal ball." Turning around, Elena glanced around until she found an empty beer bottle on the ground. "Tada."

"Now tell us the future, Bonnie the Mystic," Kennedy laughed as Elena handed the girl the glass bottle.

Bonnie reached for the glass, and her eyes widened as soon as her hand connected with Elena's. She frowned, and a brief second went by before she tore her hand away from the glass.

"What?" the other two girls spoke in unison.

"That was weird. When I touched you, I saw a crow."

"Oh, the omen of death..." Kennedy sang jokingly, taking the bottle and tossing into the trash.

"What?" Elena asked, head tilted and body leaned forward. Wait, she wasn't buying into this was she?

"A crow," Bonnie repeated. "There was fog, a man…" Seeing the look on Elena's face, Bonnie shook her head. "I'm drunk. It's the drinking. There's nothing psychic about it. Yeah?"

"Yeah," Kennedy agreed, looping her arm with Bonnie. "Wanna go get a refill?" With a nod as confirmation, Kennedy pulled the brunette with her. "Well, catch up with you later, okay?"

"Okay?"

It didn't take long for Kennedy and Bonnie to grab another round of drinks—a bottle of beer for Kennedy and another glass of punch for Bonnie. Hearing a laugh, the two spotted Oliver a few feet away, red solo cup in hand. As he brought a red solo cup to his lips, Oliver rolled his eyes, shoulder bumping with one of the guys from the football team. Hooking her thumb towards the blond, Kennedy motioned for Bonnie to follow her. By the time they reached him, Oliver had glanced up and noticed their presence.

"Well, if it isn't the Psychic and the Brainiac," he announced, lips curled up into a cheeky smirk and arm crossed over his chest.

"Ha ha. You're such a comedian," Kennedy spoke dryly.

He shrugged. "I know. It's a curse, what can I say."

Meanwhile, Bonnie's elbow connected with Kennedy's ribcage. "Ow," she mumbled, free hand rubbing her side. Why was she always getting elbowed?

"You told him?" Bonnie asked, eyebrows raised. It wasn't that Bonnie cared about Oliver knowing, but she didn't need the whole school knowing that her Grams was convinced she was a witch. It was bad enough most of Mystic Falls thought Grams was crazy every other day. Talk of witchcraft? In a small southern town? That was an easy way to get thrown into a mental hospital.

"When did I have a chance to tell him? I literally heard about this story two minutes ago."

"Elena told me," he interrupted the two of them. "Sometime earlier today when I passed her in the hall. So your Grams thinks your psychic?"

"Yeah, can we just—not talk about it?" Bonnie's voice softened as she took another sip of her punch. "Besides there's much more important things to be talking about."

"Like what?"

"Like you and Vicki," Kennedy interjected, raising her eyebrows. She watched as Oliver rolled his eyes. The news that he and Vicki Donovan were back together had spread through the school like wildfire, and although Kennedy had heard about the news from the horse's mouth, it didn't mean she hadn't taken the time to listen to what everyone else was saying.

Cheeks puffed out, Oliver sighed. "Yeah, Kenn, What about it?"

"I just—"

"We just care about you, Ollie." Bonnie interjected, and Kennedy nodded in agreement, eyes locked on the blond in front of them as Bonnie shrugged, an air of nonchalance surrounding her. "And we just want what's best for you."

Kennedy knew Oliver didn't like when the two of them ganged up on him about his relationship with the older Donovan, but to be fair, Oliver and Vicki had been the longest on-again, off-again relationship Mystic Falls High School had. The two had been at it since ninth grade, and Kennedy had never been a fan of it. When Oliver was dating Vicki, Tyler was. When neither of them were dating Vicki, the older Donovan could be found hanging out with Elena's kid brother Jeremy, smoking pot and doing whatever other drugs they could get their grubby hands on. Although it was obvious that both Oliver and Vicki loved each other, Kennedy just didn't have faith that he understood what would happen if their relationship truly ended. Tens of break-ups over the course of four years took enough of a toll on Oliver, yet every time, the two of them seemed to get back together. Kennedy just didn't want to see him get hurt when something happened, whether it was because the duo broke up or because Vicki got hurt from her poor life choices.

"Yeah, you guys, I know." Another sigh, his arms folded across his chest. "I swear you guys act like I don't know what I'm doing."

"No, Ollie. It's not that. We just want you happy, that's all." Bonnie's voice grew soft, a touch of sympathy lingered in her eyes.

The male's gaze fell, eyes locking on the beat up, white Chuck Taylor's that he'd managed to wear to a sole. The chatter between the three had grown to an awkward silence, and Oliver leaned back against a wooden post, his left hand used as support, right hand holding his cup of beer as he brought it back to his lips.

"Have you met the new guy? Stefan? Earlier in history, the two were giving each other googly eyes. We think Elena has the hots for him." Kennedy chirped, hoping to steer the conversation away from Oliver's relationship.

Slowly, a grin crept on the blond's face, and Kennedy smiled.

"Of course you guys do. I swear, that's all you chicks ever talk about. Us guys."

"That's not all we do," Kennedy threw at him, despite knowing he was joking. "Right, Bon?"

"Huh?" She drew her glance back to the duo. "Oh, yeah. We talk about other stuff. Like shoes, nail polish, clothes—we always talk about clothes, feminine stuff."

"Alright, alright. I've heard enough." Oliver shook his head, cringing from an imaginary chill.

Kennedy's grin grew, and she high-fived Bonnie.

"You guys are the worst," he groaned, lips holding back a smile.

Rolling her eyes, Kennedy pushed at Oliver's shoulder lightly. "We aren't that bad. And either way, you still love us."

"Eh." he shrugged. He peeled his gaze away from the two of them, and Kennedy cleared her throat.

"Oliver!"

"What?!" Eyes immediately narrowed at him as she crossed her arms over her chest. A large huff and a playful roll of the eyes later, he finally gazed back at them.

"I guess I love you both," he teased.

"You better, or else I'll make your life a living hell with my so-called physic powers." Bonnie smirked.

Oliver threw his hands up in defense, and Kennedy let out a giggle. "Yes ma'am." Oliver laughed, bring the red solo cup back to his lips.

A few more drinks later, the party was still roaring, and everyone was having a good time. Kennedy, Oliver, and Bonnie were dancing by the bonfire with some of Kennedy's friends from track and Oliver's friends from football; however, their fun didn't last long when Elena's call for help rang over the loud music and chatty partiers.

The three glanced at each other before rushing over to the help their friends.

Matt had reached Elena and Jeremy first, spying his sister's bloody and unconscious body on the ground. "Vicki? Vicki, what the hell?!"

"What happened to her?" Oliver demanded, hovering over his bleeding girlfriend.

"Yeah, what happened to her?" Tyler repeated. His eyes glared accusingly at Jeremy, but Kennedy was quick to step in between Tyler and Jeremy. She didn't have time for any of the petty drama revolving around who was in love with Vicki and who should be dating her.

"Somebody! Call an ambulance!" Matt yelled, and Kennedy nodded, pulling out her phone as Tyler instructed everyone to give the poor girl some space. Meanwhile, Oliver had ripped off his t-shirt and was holding it against Vicki's neck while Matt tried to get a response out of her.

"911, what's your emergency?"

"Hello? We're at the Mystic Falls Park, and someone's been seriously hurt. She's lying unconscious on the ground. We need an ambulance immediately."

"We'll have one on the way now, ma'am. We'd like to keep you on the line while it's on the way. Can you tell me how she's been hurt?"

Kennedy placed the phone against her hand. "Does anyone know what exactly happened?"

"It's her neck," Elena spoke up. "Something bit her. She's losing a lot of blood."

"Something bit her, and she's losing a lot of blood. Looks like it might have been an animal attack."

"Okay, can you apply pressure to the wound?"

"Yeah, we've got a t-shirt pressed against it now. Please hurry."

A few moments later, the ambulance wheeled Vicki and Matt to Mystic Falls General Hospital, leaving the teenagers to disperse and rid the evidence of alcohol from the park given the abundance of cops now at the party, gathering statements.

Kennedy had just finished giving her statement to the police, glad to have switched to water after just one glass of punch and one bottle of beer, when she saw Bonnie walking away from Elena with Caroline and Oliver in tow.

"Where are you three headed?"

Oliver sighed, rubbing at his hands. "M'heading to the hospital to keep Matt company while Vicki's in surgery. You two mind making sure Care gets home safe and sound?"

"I'll be fine, Ollie," Caroline insisted, but both Kennedy and Bonnie could hear the slight slur in her words.

"We've got her. Don't worry." Oliver nodded, patting Kennedy on the shoulder with the hand not covered in blood and walking away.

"So Mainline Coffee then?" Bonnie suggested. "Figured we can wait for news there and sober this one up while we're at it."

"Sounds like a plan to me. I could use a coffee before getting back to my folks."

"Let's go then."

Kennedy sighed, rubbing her hands against her face. She was exhausted, and although the coffee was delicious, it wasn't doing much on the whole keeping her awake bit.

"Are you sober yet?" Bonnie asked Caroline, glancing at the clock.

Caroline shook her head. "No."

"Well, keep drinking. I gotta get you home. I gotta get me home. It's—" Bonnie glanced at her wrist before realizing she wasn't wearing a watch. "What time is it?"

"11:45," Kennedy answered before the words sunk in. "It's 11:45. My dad's going to kill me. I was supposed to be home 45 minutes ago."

"Do you need a ride?" Bonnie asked, pushing away her coffee and reaching for her keys.

"No, no. I'll walk home. It's not too far from here. Besides, I'm already late. A few more minutes isn't going to kill me, and you're need here to get her in condition to deal with her mom. I'm sure the sheriff won't appreciate her daughter coming home drunk."

"Okay, if you're sure."

"I'm positive. Stay. I'll see you guys tomorrow at school."

Kennedy stood up, grabbing her phone and purse before walking out of the coffee shop. She had just finished closing the door when her shoulder bumped into someone.

"M'sorry. I wasn't looking where I was—" She glanced up to meet a pair of intense blue eyes and raven hair. "—going."

"And we meet again. Where are you rushing off to, Kennedy?" he asked, leaning against the window to the coffee shop.

"Home. Out past my curfew."

"It's not even midnight," he argued.

She laughed. "My dad's a bit of a stickler for rules, so my curfew's a lot stricter than others around here."

"Need a ride?" He pointed to an older model of pale blue Camaro parked across the street.

Kennedy shook her head. She knew better than to ride in a car with a stranger, even when still a bit tipsy. "Sorry, but I'm already late, and my dad would freak even more if I was driven home by a boy. Especially one he's never met before."

"Ah, I get it. Well, have a safe walk home then."

"Thanks," she gave him a small grin and wave before walking off.

Weird.

"Do you know what time it is?" Bryan barked before Kennedy was even fully through the door of her house. She sighed, having expected this. Walking into the living room, she saw her father sitting in the same seat he'd been in when she left, the same medical journal in his lap.

"Ten minutes past midnight, I know. I was planning on being home on time, but Vicki Donovan got attacked by some animal after she went off in the woods by herself. Elena's kid brother found her, and I called for an ambulance. I had to stick around longer to give my statement to the deputies and such. I'm sorry, I meant to call, but by the time I remembered my phone had died."

Kennedy heard her father sigh and knew she was going to be let off the hook, if only reluctantly.

"I'm really sorry," she pleaded.

"I told you I didn't want you going, and just because I'm letting you off with a warning this time," he pointed his finger at her to emphasize his point. "doesn't mean this will happen again. Curfews are non-negotiable. Especially with the animal attacks in the area becoming more present. I don't want to receive a call from work saying you're in the hospital because a bear or cougar mauled you."

"Yes, sir," she nodded her head, backing up towards the stairs.

"Now go to bed. I'm sure your mother will have a few things to say about this in the morning as well."

With that, Kennedy scampered off to her bed, glad to be able to relax against the cotton sheets and sleep.

#tvd #the vampire diaries #tvd fanfiction #damon salvatore x oc #damon salvatore x reader #*ashtynwrites #*mine #*story: reborn #*ship: kennedy steele & damon salvatore #*muse: kennedy steele #long post for ts #[ hopefully tumblr doesnt eat my horizontal lines but it probably will sorry ]#[ i do apologize this is 9k i wrote like ... 5 years ago ]

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mosylufanfic · 6 years

Text

Goodbye to You: Jay

Here’s the next one-shot in this loosely connected series.

Goodbye to You: Jay

She'd driven to Joe's for their post Big-Bad celebratory dinner. On the way back to Cisco's apartment, she saw a grocery store coming up on their right. "Hey," she said. "Do you mind if we stop? I need some things."

"No problem," he said, and she turned in. "What do you need?"

"Lighter fluid and matches."

"Planning a barbecue?"

She pulled her keys out of the ignition. "Jay left some things at my place," she said slowly and carefully. "They've been in a box in my hall closet. But I want them out. Gone."

"So," he said. "Barbecue."

"Yes," she said.

"Okay," he said. "Lighter fluid and matches it is. May I also suggest vodka and ice cream?"

"Yes," she said. "You may."

Cisco refused to be left out of the Jay Roast, as he called it, so they went to her place instead. They stopped briefly in her apartment to retrieve the items for immolation before heading down to the pool area, with its communal grills. The box held some clothes, a pair of shoes, a toothbrush, a hairbrush, and a paperback book he'd picked out when she’d taken him to her favorite bookstore.

“Ayn Rand,” Cisco said, holding it up for her to take. “Oh my god. How did this not clue us in he was evil?”

“I thought he was so intellectual and open-minded, reading Earth-1 authors,” she said grimly, and threw it into the barbecue pit so hard that charcoal scattered like grapeshot.

"Dickhead." Cisco started to put the shoes in the pit.

She put out her hand to block that. "Ugh, no, please let's not die of plastic fumes," and tossed it in the big metal garbage can. The toothbrush and the hairbrush followed - they were also plastic - but she piled all his clothes on top of the book.

Cisco held up the lighter fluid. “You wanna do the honors?”

“Go ahead. I’ll light the match.”

“Damn straight you will."

When everything was well-soaked in lighter fluid, she struck a match and held it over the remains of Jay Garrick. Jay, who’d never been what he said he was. Jay, who was supposed to be part of her healing. Jay, who'd sucked her so completely into his concerns and his needs that she lost sight of her own.

Jay, who'd kidnapped her, who'd hurt her, who'd used her, who'd had the gall - the fucking gall - to say that he loved her and expect her to still love him back. After all that.

She dropped the match.

It didn't quite go up in a fireball, but the clothes caught quickly and the flames bloomed, spilling out heat that washed over them. She soaked in the destruction, remembering the way that Jay/Hunter/Zoom had screamed as he was dragged into the speedforce.

It was almost enough to satisfy her.

Cisco bumped shoulders with her. "Feel better now?"

"I just feel so stupid," she whispered.

He hugged her from behind, hooking his chin on her shoulder. "Don't. He fooled all of us."

“I thought I entered the relationship with my eyes open,” she said. “I thought I knew how it would go. We would enjoy each other while he was here, and then we’d defeat Zoom and he’d go back to Earth-2, and that would be that.”

Cisco was quiet, and she turned to look at him.

"You," he said. "You really - I mean, that was your thought process?"

"What did you think? I was planning to go back to Earth-2 with him? Leave all of you behind forever for a man I barely knew?"

"I don't know," he said. "I thought maybe you just went - phoomp. Head over heels for his hot bod." At her expression, he said, "Come on, he was objectively smokin' even if he was pure evil. Like a shiny red apple that's all rotted out on the inside."

"I did fall head over heels, sort of. But I allowed myself to. It was like a summer-camp romance. It came with an expiration date." She sniffed and leaned over to dig a tissue pack out of her purse. "Really, sometimes I think it wasn't even about him. I'd spent the months since the singularity putting myself back together, and a nice, simple romance was the last piece. Just a little bit of exercise for my heart. To reassure myself it still worked.” She shut her eyes. “I should have left it in its box.”

“I’m going to sound like a bad greeting card for a minute here, okay?”

“Okay.”

“Your heart works,” he said. “I know that because you came back to Star Labs. Even before that, when you sent me a cupcake on my birthday even though we hadn’t talked for three months.”

“That was supposed to be anonymous.”

“Red velvet from Cameron’s? Like you'd gotten me the year before and you got me this year? Girl, you ain’t subtle."

She elbowed him.

"But my point is, I always knew your heart worked, even before you opened it up to Jay. Just because he was a rat-faced lying liar, it doesn’t mean anything's wrong with you. Don’t let this stop you, okay? Date if you wanna. Fall in love if you wanna. If you don’t because of him, he wins.”

“What if I pick the wrong man again?”

“It’s a risk,” he acknowledged. “But love always is.”

She knew he was thinking of Kendra, and reached down to take his hand.

He held hers for a moment, squeezed once, and let it go. "And now, let us ingest way more calories and alcohol than is good for us."

"Yes, please," she said, and dragged a couple of patio chairs over so they could watch the flames.

But when he pulled the vodka out of the bag, she recoiled. They'd split up at the grocery store and she hadn't seen what he'd bought. It was whipped-cream vodka in a blue bottle.

Cisco looked discomfited. "I thought you liked this stuff."

"I did," she said. "So did Jay."

They'd gotten giggly-drunk on it one night, here, at her apartment. She'd kissed him, and he'd kissed her back, but when she'd gone to pull off her shirt, he’d pulled it back down again and told her that it wouldn't be fair to go further because they weren't sober.

She'd woken up the next morning, gone to the guest room, dropped her robe, and said to his smiling face, "What do you think, are we sober enough now?"

He'd done things like that, was the thing. He'd ticked all her boxes - kind, thoughtful, intelligent, scientific, and very handsome. If she'd sat down and drawn a picture of her ideal man, it would have come out looking like Jay.

And it had all been an act. As if Hunter had found that mental picture somehow and tailored his Jay-mask to be exactly what she wanted.

Why had it never occurred to her that a speedster wouldn't need to stay in her guest room because he wouldn't be drunk in the first place?

"I can run down to the place on the corner," Cisco said, still looking at the vodka bottle in consternation. "Go get something different."

"No, you drink it. I'm more in an ice cream mood anyway."

He passed the tub over. "All yours."

"Oh, Moose Tracks!"

"Good pick?"

"Excellent pick." She took the top off and scraped her spoon across the softening top, sticking it in her mouth. "Mmm."

He opened the vodka and held up the bottle. "To HunterJay - JayHunter - hey, Cait, what are we calling him?"

"Nothing," she said grimly, watching a page from the book flutter in a brief updraft. It settled back onto the coals and blackened into ash. "After these burn, I'm never saying his name again. Any of them."

"Word," Cisco said. "He wanted to be the greatest? Let his name be as dust. It's all he deserves."

"Hear, hear," she said.

He held out the bottle and she clinked it with her ice cream spoon.

She ate, and he drank, and they talked shit about Jay - "those jokes," Cisco said. "Oh, we don't have shoelaces on my earth, tell me about them, haha, gotchu again! Soooooo funny."

"Sooooo funny," she growled. "And he never seemed to be around unless he needed something, did you ever notice that?"

"Fuck yeah, I did. What the hell? Where did we think he was going all that time?"

"He said he was exploring this Earth." Caitlin felt herself boiling over and stabbed the ice cream. "I pictured him going to museums and libraries and - ugh. Ugh. So stupid."

"Fuck him right in his stupid face," Cisco said.

By the time the fire had burned low, she felt queasy from sugar and fat, and he was sprawled back against the lawn chair, a little giggly. "Cai'lin," he said. "I'm not turnt, 'zackly, but I think I'mma need your guest room."

"It's all yours," she said. "Make yourself at home. Are you going to want any of this?" She held out the half-eaten ice cream.

"Mmm, nah, you finish it."

She couldn't, so she took it to the trash bin. Then, because she was up, she said, "Maybe I'd better clean out that trash so the next person grilling doesn't get dirty-clothes flavor on their steaks."

"Smart," Cisco said. "Don't let him ruin anybody else's day." He was screwing the cap back on the vodka, brow furrowed in concentration.

"Not one more person," she said, getting water from the pool to splash onto the smoldering coals. The last of the fire expired with a hiss and a gush of steam. When it was wet and dead, she used the barbecue tongs to pull out the charred book, the scraps of t-shirt, the scorched shreds of pants, and tossed them into the garbage.

Cisco turned his head at the buzz of his phone, amplified by the metal patio table it sat on. "That better not be mayhem," he said. "I'm a little too drunk for that." But he reached for it anyway.

She poked around for anything she'd missed, then swept her hands over the coals themselves to test their temperature.

Abruptly, something twisted in her stomach. Something hungry. Her fingers burned with cold, as if she'd forgotten her gloves in January or stuck her hand in a freezer. Then heat rushed through her fingertips, up her arm, and she jerked it back, gasping.

The coals were all coated with ash.

No - not ash.

"Caitlin," Cisco croaked, and she spun, the guilty hand clutched to her stomach. Had he seen that? What had happened for him to see?

But he was looking at his phone, not her hand, and he looked twenty years older than he had just a minute before.

"What is it? What's wrong?"

"Dante," he said. "Accident. He was - accident."

She grabbed her purse and dug out her keys. "Which hospital?"

"Mercy General."

She hooked her purse over her shoulder and took his hand, pulling him out of the courtyard. "We'll be there in fifteen minutes," she said, and then considered traffic at this time of night. "Ten."

As she screeched out of the underground parking garage and revved through a yellow light, with Cisco on the phone in the passenger seat, she told herself, That was ash on the coals.

Not frost.

Of course not.

FINIS

#Caitlin Snow #fanfiction #mosylufanfic lives up to her damn name #past SnowJay #that asshole #Goodbye to You series #the flash

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anothergracekellyblog · 6 years

Photo

TIME magazine - January 31, 1955 Cover illustration by Boris Chaliapin

THE GIRL IN WHITE GLOVES

Almost every morning, a slim figure in a polo coat, leading a small black poodle on a leash, emerges from one of Manhattan's cliff houses on East 66th Street. The doorman gives her a cheery “Good Morning, Miss Kelly.” But outside, no head turns. For, in her low-heeled shoes and horn-rimmed spectacles, Actress Grace Kelly is all but indistinguishable from any other well-scrubbed young woman of the station-wagon set, armored in good manners, a cool expression, and the secure knowledge that whatever happens, Daddy can pay.

A few blocks away, Grace Kelly's name is emblazoned on two first-run Broadway houses, and the same face, without spectacles, makes husbands sigh and wives think enviously that they might look that way too, if only they could afford a really good hairdo. In Hollywood, producers fight over her, directors beg for her, writers compose special scripts for her. In an industry where the girls can be roughly divided into young beauties and aging actresses, Grace Kelly is something special: a young (25) beauty who can act.

A year ago, Grace Patricia Kelly was only a promising newcomer (generally thought to be English), who lost Clark Gable to Ava Gardner in Mogambo. Currently, she is the acknowledged “hottest property” in Hollywood. In Manhattan this year, the New York Film Critics pronounced her acting in The Country Girl “the outstanding performance of 1954.”

CAN’T TOUCH HER

Grace Kelly, with the lovely blonde hair, chiseled features, blue eyes and an accent that is obviously refined, is a startling change from the run of smoky film sirens and bumptious cuties. Said one Hollywood observer: “Most of these dames just suggest Kinsey statistics. But if a guy in a movie theater starts mooning about Grace, there could be nothing squalid about it; his wife would have to be made to understand that it was something fine - and bigger than all of them. Her peculiar talent, you might say, is that she inspires licit passion."

From the day in 1951 when she walked into Director Fred Zinnemann's office wearing prim white gloves ("Nobody came to see me before wearing white gloves"), the well-bred Miss Grace Kelly of Philadelphia has baffled Hollywood. She is a rich girl who has struck it rich. She was not discovered behind a soda fountain or at a drive-in. She is a star who was never a starlet, who never worked up from B pictures, never posed for cheesecake, was never elected, with a press agent's help, Miss Antiaircraft Battery C. She did not gush or twitter or desperately pull wires for a chance to get in the movies. Twice she turned down good Hollywood contracts. When she finally signed on the line, she forced mighty M-G-M itself to grant her special terms. Beamed a New York friend: “Here, for the first time in history, is a babe that Hollywood can't get to. Can't touch her with money, can't touch her with big names. Only thing they can offer her is good parts.”

STEEL INSIDES

She has managed to get the parts. In the short space of 18 months, she has been paired with six of Hollywood's biggest box office male stars - Clark Gable, Ray Milland, James Stewart, William Holden, Bing Crosby, Cary Grant. These seasoned veterans have learned to view with a jaundiced eye the pretty young newcomers assigned to play opposite them. Grace, as usual, was different. Says Holden, one of Hollywood's ablest pros: “With some actresses, you have to keep snapping them to attention like a puppy. Grace is always concentrating. In fact, she sometimes keeps me on the track.” Says Jimmy Stewart: "She's easy to play to. You can see her thinking the way she's supposed to think in the role. You know she's listening, and not just for cues. Some actresses don't think and don't listen. You can tell they're just counting the words.”

Outside the studio, Grace continued to disregard the Hollywood rules. She was friendly, but she refused to court the important columnists. Interviewers who tried to get her to open up came away swearing that they would rather tackle a train window anytime. One producer grumbled that she had “stainless steel insides.” She flatly refused to divulge even the standard data (bust, waist, hips). One columnist asked routinely whether she wore nightgowns. “I think it's nobody's business what I wear to bed,” she said coolly. “A person has to keep something to herself, or your life is just a layout in a magazine."

In the end, publicists had to content themselves with tagging Miss Kelly as “a Main Line debutante.” She is neither Main Line nor a debutante, but she is the next thing to both.

THE BEAUTIFUL PEOPLE

In Philadelphia, the Kellys are about as conspicuous as the 30th Street Station, which, like many of the city's major structures, bears the credit: Brickwork by Kelly. Handsome, athletic John B. Kelly, Grace's father, the son of a farm boy from County Mayo, began business life as a bricklayer. Eventually, he parlayed a borrowed $7,000 into the nation's biggest brickwork construction company. One of his brothers was George Kelly, Pulitzer Prizewinning playwright (Craig's Wife); another was Walter Kelly, the famed “Virginia Judge” of the vaudeville circuits.

All the Kellys, says a friend, are “beautiful, physical people.” Father Jack was a champion sculler; Grace's mother (who is of German descent) was a model, later the first woman physical education instructor at the University of Pennsylvania. Father Jack, who still takes his athletics seriously, went to England in 1920 to compete at Henley. But the Henley committee ruled that he could not compete because he had once “worked with his hands" and was therefore not a “gentleman.” He went on to the Olympics, where he soundly thrashed the Henley winner, and triumphantly sent his sweaty green rowing cap to King George V of England with his compliments. The moment his son John B. Jr. (“Kell") was born in 1927, Jack resolved that he would win at Henley; he began training the boy personally at the age of seven. In 1947 Kell righted an old wrong done his family by going to Henley in the colors of the University of Pennsylvania and scoring an impressive victory for Penn and Pop.

CHURCH & ATHLETICS

Of the three Kelly daughters, Peggy was the oldest and a cut-up, Lizanne the youngest and an extrovert. Grace, the middle one, born Nov. 12, 1929, was shy, quiet, and for years snuffled with a chronic cold. The big, 15-room house in plain East Falls, across the Schuylkill River from the Main Line, was the meeting place for the whole neighborhood. “There was a lawn out back with swings and a sandbox, a tennis court and the usual things like that,” says Grace. Summers, the Kelly family had a house on the Jersey shore at Ocean City. As regularly as she marched the children to St. Bridget's Roman Catholic Church every Sunday, Mrs. Kelly marched them off to the Penn Athletic Club for workouts. "There's a certain discipline in athletic work,” says Mrs. Kelly. “That's why Grace can accustom herself to routine and responsibility.” Sister Peg organized home theatricals. "Somebody else always got the lead,” Grace recalls, without rancor. Even then remote and self-absorbed, Grace used to write poetry, some serious, some "little gooney ones” that showed a neat turn of phrase. Sample, written when she was 14:

I hate to see the sun go down And squeeze itself into the ground, Since some warm night it might get stuck And in the morning not get up.

Little Grace went to the local Ravenhill convent school, then to Stevens School in Germantown. By the time she was eleven, she was appearing in a local amateur dramatic company. Turned down by Bennington (she flunked math), Grace got herself into the American Academy of Dramatic Arts in New York. From the first, her family was dubious about an acting career. “We'd hoped she would give it up,” says her mother. Snorts Father Kelly: “Those movie people lead pretty shallow lives.”

THE “CLEAN” WAY

But Grace knew what she wanted. To assure her independence, she got a job modeling, was soon making $400 a week posing for Ipana, beer ads, Old Golds. Photographer Ruzzie Green describes her as “what we call ‘nice clean stuff’ in our business. She's not a top model and never will be. She's the girl next door. No glamour, no oomph, no cheesecake. She has lovely shoulders but no chest. Grace is like Bergman in the 'clean’ way. She can do that smush stuff in movies - remember all those little kisses in Rear Window? - and get away with it.” A friend remembers her at this period as “terribly sedate, always wore tweed suits and a hat-with-a-veil kind of thing. She had any number of sensible shoes, even some with those awful flaps on front.”

She did TV commercials (“I was terrible - honestly, anyone watching me give the pitch for Old Golds would have switched to Camels"), doggedly made the rounds of summer stock (New Hope and Denver) and casting offices. “I've read for almost everything that's been cast. I even read for the ingenue part in The Country Girl on Broadway (left out in the movie ). The producer told me I really wasn't the ingenue type, that I was too intelligent looking.”

Then she read for the daughter's part in Strindberg's grim The Father. She got the part and won good notices, but the play lasted only two months. Grace went back to TV (“summer stock in an iron lung") to play in such varied offerings as Studio One, Treasury Men in Action, Philco Playhouse and Lights Out.

FIRST FAN

Once before and once shortly after she left dramatic school, Grace turned down $250-a-week movie contracts: “I didn't want to be just another starlet.” Now Hollywood reached for her again but failed to get a firm grip. Director Henry Hathaway gave her a bit part as the lady negotiating a divorce across the street from the man on the ledge in Fourteen Hours. But she refused a contract; she did not feel ready yet. She did accept a one-shot offer from Producer Stanley Kramer for the part of Gary Cooper's young wife in High Noon.

Fourteen Hours produced her first fan, a high-school girl in Oregon who started a fan club and kept Grace posted on new members. Grace thought it a hilarious joke. “We've got a new girl in Washington,” she would cry in triumph. “I think she's ours, sewed up.” In High Noon her finishing-school accent sat awkwardly amongst the western drawls, and her beauty made little impact. What was more, from High Noon determined Grace Kelly got her first real self-doubts about her planned progress. Says she: “With Gary Cooper, everything is so clear. You look into his face and see everything he is thinking. I looked into my own face and saw nothing. I knew what I was thinking, but it didn't show. For the first time, I suddenly thought, ‘Perhaps I'm not going to be a great star, perhaps I'm not any good after all.’” Grace hustled back to New York to learn how to make it show.

THE “TOO” CATEGORY

She was still learning (with Sanford Meisner at the Neighborhood Playhouse) when 20th Century-Fox called her to test for a role in a film called Taxi. Dressed in an old skirt and a man's shirt on her way to class, “I walked into Gregory Ratoff's office, and he threw up his arms and screamed, 'She's perfect.' In all my life, no one has ever said, 'You are perfect.' People have been confused about my type, but they agreed on one thing: I was in the “too” category - too tall, too leggy, too chinny. And Ratoff kept yelling around, 'What I love about this girl, she's not pretty.’” But the producer did not like her, and another girl got the role.

Director John Ford saw the test, however, and wanted her for Mogambo. Even then, Grace did not come running. When M-G-M offered her a seven-year contract starting at $750 a week, she demanded a year off every two years for a play, and permission to go back to New York, instead of hanging around Hollywood, whenever she finished a picture. She was only 22, and all but unknown. But M-G-M agreed to her terms. Says Grace: “I wanted Mogambo for three things: John Ford, Clark Gable, and a free trip to Africa.”

In Africa, Grace picked up a lot of film technique from Ford and developed a hero worship for Gable. Ford was soon predicting that she would be a star. For her performance as the cool English wife stirred to sudden and thwarted passion for White Hunter Gable, Grace won a “best supporting role” nomination for the Academy Award.

RESTRAINT & CONTROL

M-G-M still seemed uncertain about what to do with her. But Alfred Hitchcock, also impressed by the Taxi test, snapped her up for Dial M for Murder, then for Rear Window. Says Hitchcock: “From the Taxi test, you could see Grace's potential for restraint. I always tell actors don't use the face for nothing. Don't start scribbling over the sheet of paper until we have something to write. We may need it later. Grace has this control. It's a rare thing for a girl at such an age.” Director George Seaton adds: “Grace doesn't throw everything at you in the first five seconds. Some girls give you everything they've got at once, and there it is - there is no more. But Grace is like a kaleidoscope: one twist, and you get a whole new facet.”

Under Hitchcock's expert direction, Grace bloomed in Rear Window. As a sleek young career girl, she distilled a tingling essence of what Hitchcock has called “sexual elegance.” She was learning her trade. The way she walked, spoke and combed her hair had a sureness that gives moviegoers a comfortable feeling: she would never make them wince with some awkwardness of misplaced gaucherie. Exhibitors, who know a good thing when they see the turnstiles click, began dropping Hitchcock and Stewart from their marquees and advertised simply: “Grace Kelly in Rear Window.” In Hollywood, the stampede was on.

MORE THAN BEAUTIFUL

When the stampede started, Grace was in a bathing suit dutifully splashing around a Japanese bathhouse as Navy Pilot Bill Holden's wife in The Bridges at Toko-Ri (a movie that does little for Grace except establish the fact that she has a better figure than normally meets the eye). At about the same time, Paramount's producer-director team of William Perlberg and George Seaton got word that Jennifer Jones, scheduled to play the title role in their next picture, The Country Girl, had become pregnant. They asked M-G-M to lend them Grace. This time M-G-M said no. Grace still gets angry when she thinks about it. She went to her agent, says Perlberg, and told him: “If I can't do this picture, I'll get on the train and never come back. I'll quit the picture business. I'll never make another film.” Actress Kelly had her way. M-G-M lent her out to Paramount again, but this time jumped the price from the $20,000 charged for Toko-Ri to $50,000 and demanded that she give M-G-M an extra picture (her contract calls for only three a year).

The Country Girl was final proof that she is more than merely beautiful. The well-bred girl from Philadelphia is completely convincing as the slatternly, embittered wife of aging, alcoholic Matinee Idol Bing Crosby. She slouches around with her glowing hair gone dull, her glasses stuck on top of her head, her underlip sullen, resentment in the very sag of her shoulders and the dangle of her arms. She looks dreadful. Said Seaton: “You know that old cardigan sweater she wears? Well, a lot of actresses would say, 'Well, why don't we just put a few rhinestones here? I want to look dowdy, of course, but this woman has taste... and before you know it, she'd look like a million dollars. But not Grace. Grace wanted to be authentic.”

Bing Crosby, a little nervous himself at undertaking so exacting a dramatic role, was dubious about his untried costar and said so. But before the shooting was over, Crosby was telling Seaton, “Never let me open my big mouth again,” and talking of taking Grace out dancing.

BAGS PACKED

Hollywood is now eager to adopt Actress Kelly, white gloves and all, and is trying hard, with the air of an ill-at-ease lumberjack worrying whether he is using the right spoon. But Grace shows no interest in the Hollywood way of life, or even in having the customary swimming pool ("I don't swim that much"). Thus far, she has lived with a sister or a girlfriend in a furnished, two-room North Hollywood apartment, acting as if she considered herself on location, with her bags packed ready to go back to New York.

Young men who are eager to brighten her after-hours life come away baffled. “If she doesn't think a joke is funny," one complained, “she doesn't laugh." Wolves are discouraged when Grace briskly pulls on her glasses (her lovely blue eyes are nearsighted) and assumes her Philadelphia expression. Some suspect that she is, as Oscar Wilde put it, “a sphinx without secrets." Publicity men despair of her. “A Grace Kelly anecdote?” said a friend. “I don't think Grace would allow an anecdote to happen to her.”

A few of Hollywood's older, more sought-after men have concluded, from time to time, that they were just the boys destined to discover and unlock the real Grace. Each time, Grace has resisted unlocking, though whenever her father reads in a column of a new “romantic attachment,” the family gets alarmed. “I don't like that sort of thing much," snorts father Kelly. “I'd like to see Grace married. These people in Hollywood think marriage is like a game of musical chairs." When the gossips reported that Ray Milland was leaving his wife for Grace, mother Kelly hustled out to California to set things straight. Milland insists that he only took her to dinner once; Grace says nothing. Most recently Grace's escort has been Dress Designer Oleg Cassini, onetime husband of Gene Tierney and professional man-about-ladies. The Kellys deplore all such gossip-column romances. "I don't generally approve of these oddballs she goes out with,” grumps brother Kell, who is still national sculling champion and works for his father's company between workouts on the Schuylkill. “I wish she would go out with the more athletic type. But she doesn't listen to me anymore.”

Some of Grace's admirers fear that M-G-M may do to her what the studio did to Deborah Kerr - lash her down to "lady" roles and keep her there. Even after The Country Girl, the best M-G-M could think of was to assign Grace to Green Fire (which she did as her part of the bargain on Country Girl) and then offer her Quentin Durward. Grace, who sees the satin-lined trap as clearly as anyone, refused the Durward part after reading the script. “All the men can duel and fight, but all I'd do would be to wear 35 different costumes, look pretty and frightened. There are eight people chasing me: the old man, robbers, the head gypsy and Durward. The stage directions on every page of the script say, 'She clutches her jewel box and flees.’ I just thought I'd be so bored..."

RELUCTANT SCENERY

While waiting for M-G-M to think again, Grace retired to her three-room apartment in a huge, modern building in Manhattan (masonry by Kelly), where she lives alone with her poodle puppy, Oliver. Her amusements range from photography (she develops her own negatives, sloshing around her bathroom in the dark) to word games. A favorite game is one devised by Alfred Hitchcock when he met Lizabeth Scott and got to wondering what would happen if other people dropped the first letter of their names: Rank Sinatra, Scar Hammerstein, Reer Garson, Orgie Raft, Ickey Rooney. Four times a week she puts her hair up into a ponytail, dons a leotard, and goes off to classes in modern dancing and ballet. Wandering near Broadway, she avoided the Broadway theater where M-G-M publicized Green Fire with a huge poster of a bosomy girl in sexy green drapery with Grace's head but another girl's body. “It makes me so mad,” says Grace. “And the dress isn't even in the picture.”

Last week M-G-M's Production Boss Dore Schary summoned Grace to Hollywood to propose a new picture - a western with Spencer Tracy scheduled to costar. After two days of talk, Grace was still noncommittal; she would wait, she said coolly, until she had seen the completed script.

It is possible that Grace might yet win an Oscar for her Country Girl performance, and even M-G-M would have a hard time turning an Oscar-winning actress into a road-company Greer Garson. Furthermore, Actress Kelly is determined that that will not happen to her. Says she, setting her beautiful chin: “I don't want to dress up a picture with just my face. If anybody starts using me as scenery, I'll do something about it.” If all else fails, Grace could conceivably break her contract and return to television. Or she could try the stage, where acting talent counts for more, and the competition is tougher. She could always give up the whole thing for the role of wealthy young socialite. But if her studio mentors are wise, and if Grace is as wary as she has so far proved to be, the young beauty from Philadelphia may yet become an authentic jewel in Hollywood's tinsel crown.

#grace kelly #1955 #boris chaliapin #time magazine #vintage #sheila scan #sheila edit

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pjbehindthesun · 6 years

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chapter 9: big waves and muddy waters

Tuesday, October 9th, 1990

“Alright, New Guy, Mark heard that the Off Ramp needs a band for the 22nd. We doing this or what?”

God, Stone, way to be an asshole about it, but I’m excited enough by the idea that I’m not even going to give him shit. I just hope Eddie says yes. I mean, he’s technically still here “auditioning” for a few more days, but let’s face it, he’s amazing, we fucking need him. Thankfully, Eddie’s not fazed.

“Yeah, yeah, definitely,” he bobs his head, looking at Stone with laser focus and worrying his bottom lip between his thumb and forefinger. But just like that, his face clouds over and he’s looking down again with his forehead all screwed up. “That is, if you guys decide… I mean…”

“No, you're in, for sure,” I cut him off, and he shoots me a grateful grin.

“Alright,” he says eagerly. “So then, we’ve got like four songs, no name, and two weeks. I like those odds.”

Stone nods approvingly and launches into a logistical monologue, planning out the next two weeks of our lives down to the minute. The fact that Eddie won Stone over this fast is pretty mind-blowing, even if Stone’s still got kind of a shitty attitude about the guy. We spent today messing around with the song Eddie called “Once,” making it a little less funky, a little heavier to match what he’d written for it. And he’d already come up with lyrics for “E Ballad” before he flew out here, these insanely powerful lyrics, and started calling it “Black.” I’ve got a few melody ideas rattling around that I’m going to bounce off them tomorrow. It’s already been a crazy productive day or two and we’ve still got like a week left before he goes home for a few days to tie up loose ends. I gotta be honest, I’ve never been more pumped about a project. Stone and I seem to have shelved a lot of our shit from the Love Bone drama, and Eddie’s just like this incredible injection of creative energy. It’s hard not to get too excited, but in the back of my mind, there’s still this voice telling me to slow down, hang back, wait for the shoe to drop. That’s how it’s always worked for me so far, anyway.

Over Stone’s voice, I catch a snippet of Lucy and Cora’s conversation, even though they abandoned our table and are now over at the bar. It’s like my ears are trained to pick up Lucy’s voice now over anything else, like I went too long without talking to her and my senses are letting me know about it. They’re each drinking a beer and Cora’s got her back to me so I can see Lucy watching her face intently. It was something about the exasperation with which Lucy just said “what obligation?” that made me look up. I didn’t hear the rest of it, but I can hazard a guess, especially given the patient but strained look on Lucy’s face while she nods and listens to the answer, whatever it is. I don’t know how that fucker Alex managed to screw up tonight but I’ve lived down the hall from them long enough to know this kind of shit is the tip of the iceberg. I can’t for the life of me figure out why Cora puts up with him. She’s such a little spitfire. I’ll be honest, I sort of hated her when I first met her -- maybe hate’s a strong word, it’s not like when I first met Stone. That’s not too far off the mark, though. She’s like a female Stone, always with a smartass comment for everything, always has to be the smartest one in the room. But she’s grown on me a lot in the last few months. You have to be some kind of badass or other to pick up and move across the country and do the kind of work she does, with the kind of energy she has for it. And she’s so protective of Lucy it’s scary, which is what really won me over. So what’s someone like that doing worrying about “obligation” to a useless motherfucker like Alex who treats her like she doesn’t matter?

There’s a break in their conversation as Cora finishes the last of her drink. I catch Lucy’s eye and I’m immediately rewarded with that look. That one that says, “wait until we’re alone.”

Fuck yes. Forget the rest of this shit, let’s get this thing rolling, let’s get home!

Seriously. I’ve been with her for almost five months now and she’s still full of surprises. I let the shy thing fool me at first, but I get her now, or at least I think I do. And it’s not like the shyness is an act -- it’s genuine. She really is an awkward mess around people she doesn’t know very well (except Eddie, who’s even shyer, and she’s already sort of taken him under her wing, which makes her even more awesome). And no matter how comfortable she gets around me, I can still make her blush at the drop of a hat, which is completely fuckin’ adorable considering that the girl’s a total freak. Under that shy exterior, under all that sweetness and light… the sex is intense. And she’s got all these tattoos, which totally disrupt that whole good girl vibe she has going, especially since you don’t even know most of them are there until she takes her clothes off. Seven, to be exact. I’ve traced them all with my fingers, studied them up close, sketched them endlessly, admired the artistry, but mostly I get distracted admiring the canvas…

Fuck, I need to get her alone.

But I gotta get Eddie back up to the apartment first, I still haven't given him a key and I don’t have my spare. I put some cash on the table to pay for Lucy and me as the guys are divvying up the bill, and manage to slip away as Stone and Mike argue about the math.

“Hey, you two ready to go?” I ask the girls, hoping my voice sounds pretty level. Lucy’s toned down the look a little bit, but not nearly enough to be inconspicuous (bless her tipsy cute ass), and Cora gets the hint right away.

“Let me visit the little chemist’s room and then yeah,” Cora stifles a grin and ducks down the hallway to the bathroom. I grab my girlfriend by the hand and start tugging her outside.

“What about the rest of our stray pets?” Lucy laughs, pretending to drag her heels.

I give her a gentle pull and she loses her balance, running into my chest, which makes it easier for me to say softly in her ear, “you think I give a fuck?”

There’s the look again. She lets me lead her outside onto the sidewalk. Once we’re alone outside, she primly tucks a lock of hair behind her ear and gives me the world’s most innocent smile as I pull her in closer.

“That’s better,” I whisper, brushing the softness of her cheek with the back of my hand. “You ready to get out of here?”

“Mm hmm,” she nods, sliding her hands into my back pockets and sinking into me, taking my lower lip in her teeth and making me come after it.

***

I get back from the bathroom and find the group milling about near the door of the cafe. Well, most of the group -- Stone and Mike are talking shop, Eddie’s standing off to the side studying his sneakers, and Jeff and Lucy are… outside on the sidewalk, glued together at the mouth, of course. God, they’re fucking adorable. Normally their cuteness makes me happy, but the way my night’s going, it’s getting under my skin. Not like that’s not their fault, though, so I’m kind of glad they’re outside. I’m already glazing over listening to the two guitar nerds, so if we’re all just standing around aimlessly, I’d rather get to know the new guy better. We’ve really only talked for a few minutes so far about my stupid button, and in record time I’d made an embarrassing ass of myself by oversharing my problems. The poor thing. He handled it well, though.

“You look lost,” I tease him, but I instantly regret my word choice, because he really does.

“Nah, I’m okay, just waiting for Jeff,” he says to the floor with a bashful smile, hands shoved in his pockets. It’s an odd smile, the way it dawns sort of slowly, but those outsized cheekbones make for massive dimples that give him away even if he’s barely smiling at all.

“I think we’re going to have to crash that party, bud,” I laugh, glancing at our friends.

“Ahhh, uh-uh,” Eddie rumbles, shaking his head emphatically, smiling a little bigger but still looking down. He’s the funniest thing. Shoulders hunched over in his too-big jacket, head ducked down in his backwards baseball cap, like he's incognito and doesn't want anyone to notice him, let alone talk to him. How is a frontman so damn shy? I listened to his tape with Lucy and the guys when it arrived over the summer, and like everyone else, I was dumbstruck by this huge, powerful, intense voice. I don’t know what I expected him to be like, but it’s safe to say I figured he’d be more intense in person as well. And, I don’t know, taller or something? Not like I’m one to talk. Before I can think of anything else to say to him, Stone walks up behind me and interrupts my thoughts with a hand on my back.

“Hey, Red, I’m heading out. You guys gonna get home okay?”

“Yes, Mom,” I lean back against him and bump him in the chest with my shoulder blade. “I think we can handle six blocks without a chaperone.”

“Fine, be that way,” he says in my ear. I can't see his face from here but I can hear that eye roll a mile away. “Come get your shit out of my car?”

As he nudges me off his chest and I turn to face him, he brushes my hair back over my shoulder, then seems to change his mind, taking one lock back to the front again. He twirls it, gently tugs on it a couple times, allows his fingers slide through the ends as he lets it go. He’s been like this all night. Hovering, fussing, studying. I wish he wouldn’t. I feel like I’m under a microscope.

“Don't tell me what to do,” I retort, although truthfully I'm not in the mood to spar tonight, so I follow him obediently instead of launching my usual attacks. I’m too tired for that, and anyway, I still feel guilty as hell for interrupting the guys in the middle of their practice, even though Stone swore up and down that he didn't mind.

“That's not how this works, okay?”

I keep turning those words over in my head as we trail unnoticed past Jeff and Lucy and down the street to his car. Not how this works. The way he looked at me when he said it, like he was trying to pin me to the wall with his eyes to make sure I heard him. I’m not sure what brought that on, other than feeling sorry for his dumbass friend for getting herself into such a ridiculous situation. And it’s not that I’m not grateful that he dropped everything to help me. Of course I am, overwhelmingly so. It’s just that the whole thing was so fucking embarrassing that I’m not going to give him the opportunity to bring it up ever again.

“Your bag and your, uh… deer huntin’ finery,” he drawls the last two words in that stupid Southern accent he thinks he knows how to do as he holds out the awful orange bridesmaid dress, making me yank it out of his grip.

“Much obliged,” I grumble, not really in the mood.

“Hey, I...” he says, not quite in his normal voice but no longer in the ridiculous accent, and he reaches out and gently catches my arm in his hand before I can pull it all the way back. He frowns as he massages my elbow for a second, like he’s trying to buy time as he figures out what he’s supposed to say to his pitiful disaster of a friend. All he comes up with is, “hey, call me tomorrow, okay?”

I don’t know, maybe it’s not pity in his eyes...maybe it’s just concern, almost the same way he was looking at me back at the terminal. I know he’s asking me to tell him how it goes tonight. I wish he wouldn’t do that. It’s making my stomach do a backflip as I realize I can’t ignore the reality of going home for much longer.

I reach up with my free hand and hold his cheek, then lean in and give him an exaggerated reflection of the intense expression on his face. His laughter comes out in an exasperated huff, followed by another eye roll.

“Yeah. I will, Stone.”

I say I'll call him, but what would I really tell him? That when I get home, the evidence will confirm that my own boyfriend doesn’t give enough of a shit about me to remember when I’m flying back into town? That it was just a stupid fantasy to think he’d ever be the kind of guy who picks his partner up at the airport? That he may as well not even have noticed I was gone? That this doesn’t even surprise me anymore because the fault lines have been getting wider and wider since we moved to Seattle, and I’m afraid we don’t have anything in common anymore? That I think all of these things all the time and feel horrible about them, but I can’t ever bring myself to break up with him, even for something like what he did tonight, because as thoughtless as he can be sometimes, he still moved across the fucking country to be with me, to support my stupid dream? No one wants to hear that sob story. I’m not going to lay that on poor Stone. He did me a favor. I owe him one already. Best not make things worse.

“You’d better, Red,” he says, fidgeting with my hair one more time and starting to relax back into his usual smartass demeanor as we go back to the entrance of Cyclops, where Eddie and Mike have now joined Jeff and Lucy on the sidewalk. The lovebirds have finally acknowledged everyone else’s presence and Jeff looks like he’s trying and failing not to look at us like we’re the world’s biggest buzzkill. “You fuckers ready to go or what?”

“Not as ready as you fuckers,” Stone snickers before shouting in pain as Mike punches him in the arm.

We wave goodbye to Stone and Mike, and Jeff and Lucy set off down the sidewalk towards home, leaving Eddie and me to follow them. He gives me that small smile again. Well, not really me, it’s more like he’s smiling at his shoes again, but there’s no one else around so I assume it’s meant for me.

“So, uhm, can I follow you home, or what?” he mumbles through tight lips, his smile widening until he’s grinning kind of maniacally at the ground. Christ, he has the world's biggest dimples.

“Holy shit you were right, it's totally a pickup line,” I laugh, never having heard someone ask it of me before he did tonight, twice.

“Sure sounds like it,” he chuckles. “I mean, I think I know where I'm going, but I’ve only been there once and it was light out, so…”

“Ohh, you're staying with Jeff?” He nods. “Haha, yeah, come on. It's just a straight shot this way.”

We start walking after our friends, who are almost a block ahead of us now.

“So you live down the hall, right?”

“From Jeff? Yeah.”

“Cool,” he nods again, “neighbors.”

Definitely a man of few words. We walk in silence for a short while before I can think of something else to ask him that doesn't feel like I’m intruding on his meditative focus on the sidewalk. “So it sounds like it's going well, huh? Your audition, I mean. If you guys are already planning a show.”

“I think it's going fucking fantastically, yeah,” he says, finally looking up at me. His absurdly blue eyes are electrified all of a sudden. Oh. So there’s that intensity I heard on the tape. “In fact, I don't even really wanna stay at the apartment, I kind of just want to sleep at the studio again, you know? Not break the momentum?” He chews his lower lip and nods to himself.

“Yeah, it’s too bad you have to go back to San Diego so soon, what’s taking you back?”

“Oh, just work, promised I’d do a shift, and I could use the money for the move.”

“Where’s that?”

“Oh, uh, gas station. Graveyard shift.”

There’s that crazy grin again, and even though it’s still angled down at our feet, I feel myself returning it. It’s pretty infectious. “Night owl, huh?”

“Ahh,” he rumbles again, “just not much of a sleeper, really. You?”

“Same. Well, on the insomnia part. Definitely not a night owl though. I’m pretty much solar powered, except for lately.”

“Why, what’s happened lately?” He glances back up at me with a deep crease between his eyebrows and his fingers torturing his little soul patch.

Shit, Cora, he doesn’t want to hear more about your problems, why did you do that? He’s just being polite again, the poor thing. “Oh, uh, I’ve just been waking up a lot earlier than dawn the last couple months, so I guess the solar hypothesis is out the window.”

“Maybe, uhm, you’re just wired to be on a different time zone, ya know, it’s always sunrise somewhere,” he offers helpfully, his eyebrows tugging up in the middle, almost at a ninety-degree angle, his mouth curling into a tiny smile. It’s a total wiseass expression, challenging, which I didn’t expect from someone so shy, but it’s also warm and encouraging somehow.

“Great,” I laugh, “just drop me on a deserted island in the middle of the Pacific Ocean and I’ll be all set.” Honestly, that would solve most of my shit anyway.

“Yeah okay, but you know I'm gonna have to follow you there too,” he chuckles before scowling downward again and stammering. “I mean, for the ocean part, uh, not like, for… not like I’d --”

“You looking to run away too?” I ask him carefully, trying to help him out of the hole he’s digging without laughing. “You just got here.”

“Nah,” he finally finds some actual words, “just, I really love surfing, so that’s pretty much my ideal right there.”

“Surfing? Oh, then we definitely have to run away, there’s not a lot of that in Seattle, bud.”

“Mmm,” he nods, looking thoughtful. “You ever tried it?”

“Nope. Even less of it in Appalachia, I’m afraid. And it always seemed like a pretty dude-heavy pastime.”

“Hey, now we gotta go!” he grins at me with that fierce light in his eyes again. “Somewhere way out in the Pacific, somewhere really warm. That’s where the big waves are. The Polynesians, man, they figured it all out in the first place, that’s where it started, and it used to be more egalitarian. See, the missionaries, they didn’t know what to make of all these naked people running around with surfboards, especially the women, so it kinda became a man’s game for too long after that. Which is bullshit. Anybody can surf. I’d teach you.”

Holy shit, there were more words in that one thought than he’s said all night. This guy really fucking loves surfing.

“Yeah, but like, not naked, though, right?” I tease him back.

“Sure, sure,” he shakes his head, “although if our island is somewhere warm then at least we don’t need wetsuits.”

“See, maybe you won’t…”

He shoots me a sideways grin with a cocked eyebrow.

“I get cold when it’s 75 degrees out,” I explain, “not to mention that being solar-powered is a pretty cruel feature when you’re this pale.” I hold out my hand and rotate it so he can witness my pallor and the ungodly number of freckles covering my skin.

“Yeah, true,” he nods again, thinking it over some more. “Well, we can build a hut, that’ll help keep you from roasting. Or I can put a hammock under some trees.” He gestures with his hand in front of where we’re walking, like he’s scoping out the perfect spot up ahead, and for a second it feels like I’m really somewhere in the South Pacific and not walking down 1st in the middle of the night.

“Well, the hammock idea beats the shit out of sitting in the sun long enough that my freckles finally run together into one continuous tan…”

“There’s a plan,” he grins. “So, okay, I’ll be out there surfing, you’ll be in the hammock. Whatcha doing in there?”

“Reading,” I say without skipping a beat. “Just reading and listening to the waves.”

“That sounds pretty perfect too. You can do that in Seattle, though… why the island?”

I think for a minute, trying to put this feeling into words. It’s an odd thing to be sharing with someone I just met, but then again, this whole conversation has been kind of odd, so fuck it. “Something about the idea of getting away from people. It’s like a reflex. Whenever things get too crazy or shit hits the fan, I just want to be in the least populated place I can find for a while. Somewhere off the grid, or at the very least, somewhere no one knows me, until things start to make sense again.” I look over at him and he’s watching me closely, nodding like he has some idea what I mean, so I go on, “like, uh, how does the Muddy Waters song go, ‘behind the sun’? That’s where I want to be. That’s home.”

He quirks an eyebrow at me and gives me the strangest expression, half smile, half scowl, and scratches the back of his neck. “Muddy Waters, huh?”

“Yeah,” I say, suddenly wary, “what about him?”

“Didn’t take you for the Chicago blues type, is all. That’s awesome.”

“Well, same to you, Surfer Dude,” I tease him.

“Hey,” he holds up his hands, “I’m from Chicago, I’ve got seniority in this discussion.”

“You’re from Chicago?” Now I’m scowling at him. What the hell? I thought he was from California?

He opens his mouth to answer me, but we’ve just rounded the corner to the building and Jeff shouts out, “hey Eddie, we thought we lost you!”

“They did their level best to, anyway,” I mutter to Eddie out of the corner of my mouth, and he laughs as we close the distance. The closer I get to the building, the faster I want to run away. The light’s on in my living room. I don’t know where the fuck Alex was, but at least now I know where he is. That island in the Pacific sounds better with every step. Is it crazy that I want to grab this Eddie guy by the shirt and ask him to come find one with me right now? Yes. Yes, that’s crazy. Stop it, get a grip.

We’re mostly silent as we head up the stairs, until Lucy pauses in her hallway on the third floor and peers at me with concerned but not totally sober eyes. “Cora, you good?”

Am I that obvious? I love you more than life, Luce, but I don’t need another mother hen, I just need to get home and rip this band-aid off, please stop reminding me. “Yeah, yeah, totally. I’ll call you.” I hope my voice sounds convincing, but her expression doesn’t reassure me. Eddie’s watching everything quietly, which seems to be his default mode, and Jeff’s only got eyes for Lucy, although she’s still frowning at me.

“Yeah,” she says, idly lacing her fingers in Jeff’s as he tries to get her attention.

“Okay, so let me just get Ed set up upstairs, and then I’ll come down in a bit?” Jeff asks her quietly, looking at her like leaving her a flight of stairs behind is the absolute last thing he’d like to do.

“No, man, uh, I remember where it is, if you just toss me your key, it’s cool,” Eddie stammers, shaking his head.

“I think I can herd him to the right door, Jeff,” I manage a small smile in Eddie’s direction and then glance back to Jeff, who’s looking at both of us with his face awash in gratitude as he tosses Eddie his keys. He barely even mutters a “goodnight, guys!” before ducking down the hallway after Lucy.

Eddie and I don’t say anything else as we continue up the stairs. I don’t know how much the guys told him about what happened, or how much he put together, and I’m afraid that opening my mouth at all will lead to more of my bullshit problems pouring out, and this poor new kid doesn’t need any more of that tonight. Thankfully, he doesn’t seem to mind the silence, which only strengthens his application for deserted island companion.

“Right, so uhm, this is me,” I say numbly in front of my own door, “and Jeff’s that one down there. You all set?”

“Yeah, yeah, of course,” he nods, but now he’s giving me the same narrowed-eye look everyone else has had all night long. Oh, please, not you too. “Uhm, you need anything? Just, uh, let me know, okay? ...neighbors, right?” He chews his bottom lip as he squints at me.

“Right.” I try one more time for a smile but I think it’s more like a grimace as I wave at him, swallow hard, and go inside, almost afraid to keep my eyes open while I walk in my own door.

But I do, and I see Alex, stretched out on our couch, eyes closed, a mostly empty beer bottle on the rug and his beat-up copy of The End of Eternity folded open on his chest. He’s asleep. Or he was, until just a second ago, and now he’s staring at me like I’m Banquo’s ghost as I close the door behind me. I don’t even know what to say, but he spares me the necessity of having to come up with something.

“Babe! What are you doing here?” he yelps. He jumps up, oblivious to the fact that he’s just kicked the dregs of his beer over as he bounds over to me, rubbing his mouth aggressively with one hand.

“Are you fucking kidding me?” Oh look. I found some words.

“No, you’re -- you’re early, you came home early?” He stammers, the blood draining out of his face, taking me by the shoulders. “Wha -- is everything okay?”

“Early??”

“Yeah,” his voice breaks, coming out almost in a squeak, “your flight was tomorrow night, right? 6:15?”

“That was tonight, Alex,” I say slowly, fighting as hard as I can to keep my voice level. So he really did forget.

“No, no, hold on, I fucking swear, it was tomorrow…” he lets go of me and bounds to the kitchen table in two big steps, rifling through a small pile of receipts and mail until he pulls out a Post-It. “See, right here, United, arrives 6:15, October… ninth… FUCK!”

He rushes back over to me and pulls me into a bone-crushing hug. “Oh my god, Cora... babe... I’m so fucking sorry, I’m the biggest fucking idiot, I fucked it up, I’m so…”

I let him hold me, but it feels like my brain is two gears too low and struggling to put it all in place. He wrote it down right, but he still forgot? How does a person even do that? How little do I matter to you? Fuck, it’s somehow worse to get confirmation of the fears I’d been running from all night long than to keep pretending there was some other explanation.

“Hey, it was an honest mistake,” I say flatly as I mentally try to smooth out the bumps, make it all fit, make it all okay.

He pulls back far enough to get a look at my face. “You’re not mad? Wait a minute, how did you get back? Where’ve you been?” He glances at the clock on the wall. “Were you at SeaTac all this time?”

Where’ve I been? Did he really just ask me that?

“No, Stone picked me up when I couldn’t get a hold of you.”

“Well, I’ll have to thank him then.” Alex’s eyes narrowed just a tiny bit at the name, but he seems to have decided against his usual jealous bullshit, which is a good move right now.

“Yeah. Well, he said he didn’t mind.”

“That’s awfully good of him.” He rubs my back with one hand and kisses my forehead. I’m so not in the mood for this.

“Yeah. Look, I’m going to bed, it’s been a long day.”

I slip out of his grasp and give him a weak excuse for a smile, hoping it’s enough to end the conversation. He’s still looking like he’s seen a ghost, so he doesn’t fight me on it, and I duck down the hallway to our bedroom. “Night babe,” he calls tentatively down the hallway, and I hear a shaky sigh.

Jesus, he really knows he fucked up. The look on his face. I should probably go easier on him, but it’s going to have to wait until tomorrow. I just don’t have the fortitude right now to try to make him feel better about his mistake. I brush my teeth, get ready for bed, feeling totally numb and hoping for both our sakes that he stays out there in the living room until I can fall asleep. I just can’t take anymore tonight.

Under the covers, eyes closed, I try to drift away from it all. The fear that something terrible had happened to Alex, who, for all his faults, is the only man who’s ever actually loved me. The realization that nothing had happened, and that even the only man who’s ever actually loved me doesn’t even love me enough to think about me when I’m not around. The scrutiny from Stone, from Lucy, which feels like an extra weight to carry on top of it all. The look on Alex’s face that almost makes me feel sorry for him even though all I want to do is scream at him. All of it. I close my eyes and sink a little deeper, breathe a little slower, letting the warmth of the covers become the warmth of an island sun, the rhythm of my breath become the distant crashing of waves.

#behind the sun #chapter 9 #fanfiction #fanfic #stone gossard #jeff ament #eddie vedder #mike mccready #pearl jam

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bisummers · 7 years

Text

buffy/faith 2k fic: just like on tv

fuffy day ❤ UC Sunnydale college roommate AU @buffylovesfaith

“I am done with men!”

Buffy announced dramatically, as she swung her room’s door wide open. She chucked her keys towards the desk, but wildly misjudged her aim. They ricocheted off her closet’s back wall and got lost somewhere between all her shoes.

“What happened?”

Faith asked, not bothering to look up from her computer. In the four and a half months they had been roommates, this was not the first time she had heard Buffy make such declarations.

She felt her plop onto bed before saying, “I didn’t even get fake Tahiti.”

“… The what?” Faith is looking at Buffy now, her interest slightly piqued.

“You know,” she started, “in TV or in movies when a character breaks a promise they made to someone, they show they care by making a grand gesture. Something that takes a lot of effort, to prove you didn’t really mean to flake.” Buffy sat up on her bed. “Like, for example, a guy promises his girlfriend a trip to Tahiti, but then he has to cancel. So he decorates his apartment like an island and invites her over to have a date in–“

“Fake Tahiti.” Faith finished Buffy’s sentence, nodding understandingly.

“Let me guess, Riley didn’t do anything to make up for missing your last two dates?”

“Three dates,” Buffy clarified, as she took off her boots. “He showed 20 minutes late today just to tell me he had to reschedule. Again. …As if! He was covered in soot, or black paint or something, wearing camouflage like he’d been playing paintball with his buddies.” Buffy stopped to groan as she finished pulling off her last sock.

“He probably forgot about our date and would rather finish his paintball championship than kiss me goodnight. I’m repulsive!”

Buffy was sporting her signature pout now, which Faith had learned meant Buffy was genuinely feeling insecure.

“Well, I say screw him. Screw them all.” Faith walked towards Buffy and sat next to her on the bed. She placed a tentative hand above Buffy’s knee. Her heart skipped a beat at the warmth of her naked thigh.

“Captain Cardboard doesn’t deserve you, and you should know better than to let a guy stand you up more than once anyways.”

Buffy didn’t appear to be listening; her eyes seemed fixated on Faith’s fingers. ‘Or,’ Faith thought, ‘I managed to make her even more insecure by pointing out her mistake and she can’t bear to look at me.’ After a few seconds of silence Faith took a gulp, raised her hand to Buffy’s chin, and softly pulled her face up to make eye contact.

“It’s not about you. I can’t see how any straight man could purposely ignore a catch like you.”

Faith smirked to try and lighten the mood, and she noticed Buffy was faintly blushing. Her eyes had softened; she kept staring at her as if waiting for more of her pep talk. Faith’s brain became muddled with all the thoughts she wanted to express, her lack of clarity made even worse by the proximity of their faces.

“So,” she said, getting up from Buffy’s bed and walking to her side of the room, “dance marathon at the Bronze tonight, B? Take the edge off?”

“Yeah,” Buffy answered with a small smile.

Before Faith turned around, she could’ve sworn she saw Buffy bite her bottom lip.

‘You are head over heels in love with Buffy Summers.’

Faith thought, as she gazed at her reflection on the blurry bathroom mirror. She had wiped the steam off the glass to better see her face, but a slight fogginess endured. Her feelings, however, remained embarrassingly clear. She had reasoned that by admitting her affections for her roommate – even if just to herself – she would have a better chance to get over said feelings. ‘Admitting you have a problem is the first step to recovery and whatnot.’

Faith thought she had been doing fairly well with getting over Buffy. Then she went and did something as ill advised as touching her thigh and lifting her chin. She kept replaying the way Buffy’s pouty lips looked when she reached for her face. Every time, Faith’s heart would swell uncomfortably. She stopped fantasizing and started lining her upper eyelids, using her elbows like a clasp to keep her towel in place. Just because she was comfortable with her body did not mean she wanted the dorm’s bathroom to get a show. She heard the clink of something fall from her beauty bag into the sink, but paid no mind. She was psyching herself up, resolved to put her misstep behind her. Tonight at the Bronze she would focus on Buffy’s feelings and drown her own with a few drinks and some overeager guys. She would make sure Buffy got the good time she deserved and Riley couldn’t give her.

Suddenly, an idea hatched in Faith’s mind. She capped her liner and grabbed her phone, texting her friend Tara before she could lose her nerve.

Buffy was waiting for Faith in their room, using her desk as a vanity to retouch her makeup. Most of her primping and priming had been done for her fruitless date with Riley, so she was pretty much ready for their night out. She was also pretty much fuming about how that had turned out. She was still trying to understand how she had sunk so low and allowed some… man-child to play her for the third time. He was probably running around the woods still, not giving her a single, guilty thought. ‘I should just date women,’ she thought, and a wave of shame came over her.

She was reminded of the first time she had kissed a girl. She had been 15 years old and new to Sunnydale. Her only friend was a nerdy redhead called Willow, who was now far away in Harvard preparing to rule the world. Their decision to kiss had been reached after a lot of careful deliberation. She convinced her this would not count as their first kiss; that would be reserved for whatever boy they chose in the future. This was simply practice, so that they would be ready for such an important accomplishment. Ironically, Willow was now living with an admittedly gorgeous girl called Kennedy and Buffy… well, Buffy couldn’t get a date. Turned out their pondering over kissing purity had been in vain.

She remembered the “practice” fondly and a little embarrassedly. She reasoned just because she had puckered up with a lesbian did not mean she was one. If anything made her gay, it was the shiver that went up her spine when Faith cupped her face. ‘I mean, what was that about?’ Buffy thought, feeling a little ridiculous.

So far, the night out at the Bronze had turned into Faith’s own personal nightmare. She had forgotten her wallet, giving Buffy no choice but to cover both of their tabs. However, Buffy didn’t have enough for both of them, so Faith decided she could live the next few hours without liquor.

“Don’t worry about me,” she told Buffy with misleading confidence. “You drown your sorrows to your heart’s content.”

Boy had that been a mistake.

Faith had spent the night too aware of clammy hands and sweaty shirts. Too aware of Buffy’s every sip and increasing regard for guys. With every passing minute it became clearer to her she couldn’t continue the night pretending to be interested in men. Pretending she wasn’t jealous of the way Buffy laughed at their bad jokes. Pretending she wasn’t mesmerized by the sway of her hips and the way the light hit her jaw line when she flipped her head back. She was overwhelmed by an irrational need to punch the surrounding vultures and take Buffy safe into her arms.

Faith excused herself from the dance floor, stole someone’s shot from the bar, and headed out of the Bronze before the tequila’s rightful owner could protest. The shock of cold midnight air hit her hard enough to calm a bit of the fury going on in her head. She could still feel the burn of liquor down her throat; it made her feel in control. With that came a pang of guilt.

“Let’s leave the questioning of my alcoholic tendencies for another night, okay brain?” she muttered while wrapping her arms around herself.

‘Just get through the next hour,’ she thought, giving herself a while before going back inside.

It was an hour later now, and the girls were on the way back to their dorm. Faith had received a text message from Tara 20 minutes ago, confirming the plan had been set in motion and everything was successfully completed. Faith’s hope that tonight wouldn’t be a total disaster was all hanging on her ability to pull off this absurd idea.

“You should be really proud me,” Buffy said, “When I said I was done with men, I meant it. I didn’t give my number to a single one of those boys, not-a-one.”

Buffy was slurring her words just a little bit, but the fresh air from the walk back home had helped to diminish some of the influence. She was still tipsy, but not drunk.

“Yes, B, your act of selfless bravery will not be forgotten,” she teased, trying to juggle a leaning Buffy in one arm while opening the door with the other.

“There we go,” Faith announced as she heard the familiar click of the lock and swung the door ajar.

“Oh my god… Faith.”

Tara’s twinkle lights were hanging from their windows and the cabinets above their desks. There were strings lined full of cardboard shells, fishes, and palm trees hanging from their headboards and the doorframe. Faith’s radio was playing soft luau music while Buffy’s radio played the sound of waves crashing. To Faith’s surprise, Tara had even purchased a bottle of rum and placed it on the nightstand… next to her now empty wallet. Tara had truly gone all out. When Faith had confided in her about her feelings for Buffy she hadn’t exactly expected dissent, but she had not considered she would have received such fervent support either.

Buffy, she realized, was no longer holding on to her arm, but was twirling dazedly in the middle of the room, taking everything in.

“Is this–“

“Fake Tahiti,” Faith confirmed. “Or what I assume is a wildly inaccurate yet very loving rendition of it.”

Buffy’s rising smile could have lit up a stadium.

“How did you do this?” Buffy asked, breathless, turning towards Faith.

“Tara did most of it. I gave her my keys before I came back from the shower so she could use her last birthday decorations to spruce up the place.”

Buffy was laughing now; she had just noticed her stuffed pig Mr. Gordo was wearing a fake lei. Faith questioned how it was possible to like someone so much so damn fast.

“Why?” Buffy questioned, inching closer, making eye contact. Her face was full of innocent curiosity. Faith had not expected that question.

“Because… I just like to see you smile.”

The words stumbled out of her mouth, truer and more candidly that she had ever spoken. Her entire body was on edge, the uncertainty of how Buffy would react lingered in between them like a fog.

Buffy looked to the floor as if deliberating, nodded her head, and kissed Faith straight on the mouth.

Both her hands rose gently but firmly to the sides of Faith’s neck as she put more pressure on the kiss. Buffy stopped after a moment, nothing but electrons between their lips. Faith stood there – eyes still closed – for what felt like an eternity, praying to whatever god would listen that she had not just hallucinated. When she realized it was real, Faith held onto Buffy’s back, pushed her forwards, and returned the kiss with unrestrained enthusiasm.

As they kissed, they both felt a weight being lifted – as if they had finally reached the finish line of a marathon they had been running for weeks.

#fuffy day #btvs fanfiction #fuffy #faith lehane #buffy summers #mine #here it is! the majestically ooc fuffy fic i promised #with a tiny bit of buffy/willow for good measure #i hope it's alright #this is my first fic ever if that so be gentle #i havent written in 5 years

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juliebeanbook · 7 years

Text

fourteen: we’re just lonely, you know

“Kathleen is being a problem.”

Emmy sighed as she glided on her favourite light red lipstick – along with her new short haircut, she thought it made her look more punk-rock. “Again?” she said, smacking her lips together to spread around the bright colour.

“More like still.” I climbed up onto the bathroom counter.

“Jules, you’re blocking the mirror.”

I swung my legs back and forth as I scrolled through my texts, not moving. Emmy pushed me slightly to the side and leaned around me to see her reflection.

“So how is my lovely sister being a problem?” she said, capping her lipstick with a loud click.

“Apparently she’s on and on again about Jonah,” I said, handing Emmy my phone. “Jamie says that she keeps calling and messaging them, trying to see him more. I think she wants partial custody.”

“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” Emmy said, looking through my conversation with Jamie. “Does she really think she’s in a position right now to take care of a kid?”

“I have no idea,” I said, taking my phone back and pressing the heels of my hands against my eyes. “I think she’s delusional, Em. She doesn’t know what she’s doing.”

Emmy groaned and rested her head against the counter. “Awesome. A delusional sister is exactly what I need right now.”

“Well, I doubt she knows how the legal system works at all,” I said. “So Jamie probably isn’t getting into a custody battle anytime soon.”

Emmy chuckled. “Yeah, that’s comforting. I guess I’ll call her after the show and talk some sense into her.”

I jumped off the counter and peeked into the mirror, running my hands a couple times through my hair to tame it. “Good. Hurry up, Lipstick Lesbian, we’re on in twenty.”

I was rewarded with a bright red smirk in the mirror.

The show tonight – our last show of the tour – was at a hipster hole-in-the-wall pub with weird collage art on the walls and twenty-three different craft beers on tap. I’d tried to tell Emmy that punk-rock wasn’t really the right look for this venue, but once she had decided on lipstick there was no talking her down from it. I had decided that I at least needed to look the part, so I’d thrown on an oversized T-shirt with the phases of the moon on it and borrowed a pair of Emmy’s old high tops. I ordered a bizarro beer made with chocolate and coffee while I waited for showtime and felt like I fit in.

The audience turned out to be so hip and cool that they thought we were lame; at least, that was the impression we were getting after three songs. “Do you think they would notice if I low-key made fun of them?” Emmy whispered to me out of the corner of her mouth as we finished a song, switching our capos. “Like, if I point out their boringness, but in, like, a subtle way?”

“How would you do that?” I asked her, quietly running my pick over my strings to test the starting D minor chord.

“Hey, how’s everyone feeling tonight?” she asked with excitement, and dramatically paused into the ensuing silence. “Wow, really? Awesome! Me too! Love the enthusiasm here, it’s really contagious.”

“Em!” I whisper-screamed, elbowing her. She ignored me and started into “Cinnamon.” Despite Emmy’s best efforts, the enthusiasm in the room remained at a staggeringly low level throughout the rest of the show, making for an entirely anticlimactic end to The Entertainment’s first tour. The crowd left pretty fast when we were done, leaving us sitting on the edge of the stage, a little at a loss.

“There was someone sleeping,” Dex said after a long silence. “There was literally a chick sleeping at the front of the room.”

We all nodded, commiserating.

“Is this how low we’ve come?” Cal wondered. “We’re actually, physically putting people to sleep with our music? That’s a level I didn’t think we’d reach, guys, I’m gonna be honest here.”

Emmy just shook her head. “You know what? Those fucking hipsters can fuck right off, cuz our music kicks ass. It kicks ass, and they were the reason that show bombed, not us.”

“Well, it was a little bit us,” Dex said.

“Maybe like forty percent us,” I estimated.

“Okay, well, all I’m saying is that it wasn’t totally our fault,” Emmy said. “We’re used to playing for excited hipsters, not boring as fuck hipsters. Super big difference.”

We allowed for that at least.

Still quiet, mulling over the details of the concert that had fallen flat, we packed up and brought our stuff out to The Bus. We all piled in and Emmy took the wheel, cranking some Bon Iver to match our dispassionate moods.

Suddenly I felt the van swerve. “Where are you going, Em?” I asked her, getting up and peeking through the window we’d punched through the van wall separating the back from the front. Emmy was exiting the highway.

“On an adventure,” she replied. The road she was now on was dark, no streetlights. She giggled.

“You’re freaking me out right now,” Dex said. “Where are you taking us?”

“Is this the part of the horror movie when we find out you’re actually a serial killer and you’re taking us out to some abandoned field where no one will find our bodies?” I asked.

“Just relax,” Emmy said. “I had an idea, and I decided to act on it. So sue me.”

Cal cocked his head at her, his face suspicious. Dex just shook his head and sat back down in his seat, throwing his hands up as if in surrender. I stood and watched over Emmy’s shoulder as she turned onto a bumpy gravel road that emptied out onto sand.

“Emmy, are we at a beach right now?” I asked her, squinting into the dark.

“No, we’re in the fucking Arctic right now,” she said. I pulled open the big back door of The Bus and climbed out, tugging off Emmy’s Converse and gasping as my toes sunk into cold sand.

Dex jumped out and kicked off his shoes, running with childlike joy down to the water. Cal laughed at him, but with a moment’s consideration, left his shoes in a neat pair next to Dex’s and went to join him. Emmy got out of the driver’s seat and came over to stand next to me, the two of us watching the fully-grown men we called our best friends regress to prepubescence. “It’s sort of amazing,” I observed. “It’s like they’re actually nine years old, but they’re just really good at pretending they’re twenty-two.”

“That’s what the beach does to guys,” she said. “Something about the water wears away at their manliness.”

“Yeah, because you’re such a guy expert?”

“Hey, for a brief period in my life, I actually dated guys,” she laughed. “I wouldn’t call myself an expert, but I have a bit of a track record.”

I sat down in the sand, digging my toes in, feeling the cold sliding around them. Emmy sat down next to me, rolling up the cuffs of her jeans so they wouldn’t get too sandy. “How brief was that period in your life?” I asked her.

“Very,” she said. “I figured out pretty quickly that I wasn’t really into it.”

I waited for the story I knew was coming. Dex scooped his hands through the water and splashed Cal, who screeched like a bird of prey.

“I went to this camp,” she said. “You know, one of those places with cabins and tie-dye and yarn crafts and shit?” I nodded. “Well, there was this one girl, the summer I turned thirteen. Amy.”

She got quiet then, pulling her knees in and hugging her arms around them.

“The one from the song,” I realized.

“The very same.”

“So she’s not –”

“A psycho ex?” Emmy laughed. “Not at all. Well, if by psycho you mean straight and by ex you mean ‘girl I used to make out with on hikes’, then yeah.”

I watched as Cal bent down in the sand, picking up shells and inspecting them by the blue light of his phone’s screen. He went through a routine with each one: pick it up, hold the light up, turn it over and over to inspect every face before throwing it back where he found it.

“It was just that kind of time, I guess,” she said. “Like, people were getting their periods for the first time, some kids were getting braces, some girls were wearing bras and some weren’t yet. Everyone was confused and awkward. It just sort of happened, like one day we were on a geocaching trail together and she wanted to try kissing, and guess what? So did I.” She laughed, but without any humour.

“Did it happen a lot?” I asked her. “Or just once?”

“A lot of the time when we were alone, we would try it,” she said. “It was really PG though, like it was probably the lamest kissing you’ve ever seen. No tongue or anything.”

I lay back on the sand and stared at the stars. Most of them were obscured by clouds, but a few shone through, bright and small and insignificant. I turned to Emmy. She was wiping tears off of her face. I hadn’t heard her crying.

“The next year, when we came back, she told everyone,” she said, voice thin. “Said I made her do it. Called me a disgusting dyke.”

“Oh, Em.” I sat up and reached for her hand. She took it without looking, pressing her palm against mine for stability.

“The worst part was,” she said, “she had said she loved me the summer before. And I had loved her. Then when I asked her that next summer if she still loved me, she said love meant a different thing to her now.” She sniffed hard. “But the thing is, it always meant the same thing to me.”

I leaned her head onto my shoulder and we leaned against each other as we sat in cold sand. The guys ran back and forth in the black waves, and I watched them absently, my fingers playing with Emmy’s short soft hair. At one point we lay back in the sand, her head resting in the curve of my neck, chill air off the water making goosebumps rise on my arms. We listened to Cal and Dex call to each other in breathless exhilaration, and birds cawing at each other overhead, and the waves cresting and crashing, repetitive and soothing like a chorus on repeat.

We weren’t even home for five minutes before Kathleen invited herself over.

To be fair, she didn’t live very far now, ever since moving in with her new boyfriend, Sif (a displaced surfer who was clearly very lost) – the two of them had a place in a complex two streets over from our apartment building. Naturally, we got quite a lot of visits from Emmy’s little sister, most of them unannounced, many of them unwanted.

“Hey, how was the tour?” she cried, running over to hug me. She startled me with her thinness as her arms came around me. It was because of her job, she swore to me every time I brought it up; working at a burger joint had made her swear off the sugar and grease.

“It was…okay,” I said, breaking away from her to lug my suitcase into my room. Kathleen sat on the couch – or rather, in the couch. We called it the sinking sand couch, as its cushions were abundantly soft and yielding.

“The shows went fine but our venues were shit,” Emmy said; I could hear her from the living room as I started to unpack my clothes. “The first one was this cruddy man bar.”

“And the second one was basically a strip club, but no one warned us,” I shouted into the living room. “Someone tried to give a lap dance to Emmy.”

“Not that I minded,” Em said.

“Eww!” said Kathleen. “Don’t be gross.”

“Oh, and the third one was this swanky place in the Heights full of fucking rich people, and there I was in my ripped jeans and a sweater with only one sleeve,” Emmy said, and I burst out laughing.

“Oh, Emmy, no,” Kathleen said. “Not the one-armed sweater. What have I told you about the one-armed sweater?”

“I know, I know, I have two arms and they deserve equal warmth,” Emmy said, repeating the words like she was reciting something in school.

“What was the fourth place?”

“Well, it was actually a kind of cool hipster beer place,” I said, coming back to the living room and starting the kettle for tea. “But people fell asleep.”

“Like, as we were playing,” Emmy said.

“As in, they were not sleeping before the show, but our music caused them to sleep,” I clarified.

Kathleen winced. “Ouch. Well, I’m glad you’re back. It’s been boring as fuck here all week. Sif’s gone again with his surfing friends.”

I listened to the kettle sing, waiting for the water to bubble, hot enough to pour. “How long does he usually leave you for?” Emmy asked, taking out some bread and peanut butter to make sandwiches.

Kathleen shrugged. “A week, couple weeks sometimes. It’s not that bad. He Skypes me. Sometimes one of his friends will videotape him surfing. He’s really good.”

I poured the boiling water into three mugs. Picked out each of our favourite teas – black for me, green for Emmy, lemon honey for Kathleen – and dropped the bags in, watching the colour seep into the water. Emmy spread blueberry jam onto a piece of bread and slapped it onto the other slice with more force than necessary. Her lips were pressed together solid and hard.

We all sat on the sinking sand couch (a bit of a tight fit for three, but we hadn’t saved up enough for another one yet) and I turned on Food Network. My phone rang as Emmy cranked the volume to an obnoxious level, one of her annoying habits that I had grown used to.

It was Jamie on the phone, dying to know how the tour went and equally dying to tell me all the new things Jonah had learned how to do in the eight days we’d been gone. “He knows how to use my iPhone!” she told me. “Two year old kid, knows how to use a fucking touch screen. He’s a boy genius, I swear to you. Oh honey, don’t do that, that’s hot. Hurt your fingers.”

I smiled at that, the way she talked to him, as I went out into the hall. Jamie had slipped into motherhood like walking into a warm pool – effortless, smooth, no shock to her system.

She told me about the restaurant where she had started worked as a line cook, a nice place downtown with forty-dollar steaks and fancy old wines. She worked all night till she could see the start of the sun, she ate cold dinners rushed and standing up at ten p.m., she worked for a tyrant head cook with the voice of a bullhorn. She was in love. I think we were both a little surprised that between the two of us, she was the one who had ended up successful, while I floundered around like a flopping fish, trying to make something out of my clusterfuck of a life.

“Hey, listen, I’ve got to go soon,” I said, pacing along the hallway outside the kitchen. “Kathleen’s over.”

“Ahh.” Jamie’s voice took on an edge. “Has she said anything about…?”

“Not yet. What do you want me to say?”

She sighed, loud, into the phone. “You know what? Don’t worry about it, Jules. Just tell her to talk to me about it. This is something I have to deal with.”

“You don’t have to, Jamie.” I glanced into the living room, where Kathleen was giggling over some dramatic story her older sister was telling her. Knowing Emmy, it was probably not nearly as funny as Kathleen was letting on, but Kathleen laughed at everybody’s jokes no matter what. “I don’t mind helping out. She’s my family too.”

“I know, but this is my mess. Just humour her for now, I’ll do damage control later.”

“Gotcha. Love you.”

“Love you too. See you Sunday for dinner?”

“I’ll be there. Make your mac and cheese, alright?”

“Only the best for my dork sister.”

I smiled as I ended the call and went back to where Kathleen and Emmy were caught up in an episode of Cutthroat Kitchen. “Julie, check this out,” Kathleen said, moving over to make room for me on the sinking sand couch. “This girl has to chip out all her cooking utensils out of a block of fucking ice.”

The onscreen cook was hacking away at the ice, trying to get to spoons and knives, as the other contestants fried and chopped and sautéed around her. It all seemed very unnecessary and unfair.

“Who was that?” Emmy asked, licking peanut butter off her fingers.

“Um, Jamie.”

Kathleen turned towards me; I could feel her leg tense, pressed up against mine. “What did she want?” she asked me, the words strangely strung-out and slow, fitting together like a kid sliding letter magnets across a fridge.

“Not much,” I said, focusing on the cook trying to break through the ice. She had finally managed to get a big knife out of it; I cheered her on in my head. “Apparently Jonah knows how to use an iPhone.”

Emmy laughed. Kathleen beamed. “He’s so smart,” she said, her voice big with pride. “I’ve always known that about him.”

“How well do you know him?” Emmy said, her voice quiet and dry. I glared at her for feeding a fire neither of us wanted to deal with.

“I know him really well!” Kathleen cried. “I’ve been there for both his birthdays. And his first word. And he knows me. For sure. I know he does.” Her voice trembled close to tears. “Right?” She looked at me, dark eyes wide like a wild animal pleading from a trap.

“Right,” I said. Emmy gave me a look, but I shut her down silently, end of conversation. She turned up the volume even further, so that our neighbours could probably all hear the plight of the chef, trying her best to get at the frozen utensils.

Kathleen eventually fell asleep on my shoulder, and Emmy and I threw a blanket over her. We left the kitchen light on when we left the room, Emmy pausing in the doorway before going to her bedroom. Standing there, heavy against the doorframe in her exhaustion, she looked the part of the older sibling – watching over her little sister, forever babysitting. I left her standing there when I went to my room. She looked like she’d stay there forever.

#julie bean #julie bean book #chapter 14

2 notes · View notes

hongbab · 7 years

Text

Treat me well - Taekwoon is too much of a perfectly snarky smartass for Hakyeon's stupid teenage girl-like taste in men. (N/Leo, pg, 3519 w)

a/n: written for this prompt. enjoy! even if it’s boring haha

Hakyeon cranes his neck to look out the window behind his back, the setting sun gilding the bare trees out there, birds chirping among the branches, and he might be imagining it, but he believes he can see a squirrel on the oak tree that stands closest to the building.

"When is it going to end?" he groans, sprawling out on his chair.

"Last patient for today," Hongbin murmurs from behind his desk, typing away on his keyboard before he stands up, walking to the door. "And stop whining; you've only been on duty for four hours today."

"There have been so many people," Hakyeon sighs. "You'd think winter sports are the most dangerous, but all these people keep hurting themselves when it's almost spring."

Hongbin stops with his fingers on the door handle, cocking a judgmental eyebrow at Hakyeon.

"Did you really become a sports physician because you thought you could slack off any time of the year that isn't winter?"

Hakyeon shrugs. "Don't people become teachers so they can be free in summer?"

"No, they don't," Hongbin says and opens the door before Hakyeon could retort.

The guy is tall and looks... quite like he was beaten up in an alleyway, with the way he limps inside the room, his face going ghostly white when he accidentally places his weight on his right foot.

"Hello," he heaves, flicking his sweaty black fringe out of his face.

Hakyeon can't help the quiet "ugh" that leaves his throat as Hongbin takes the patient's elbow, guiding him to the chair and helping him sit down. He sends Hakyeon a narrow-eyed look afterwards, most probably expressing his distaste for Hakyeon's unprofessionalism.

"So, um," Hakyeon starts, eyes darting down at the guy's socked right foot, "what happened here, Mr.—"

"Jung Taekwoon," the patient says and Hakyeon takes note of it. Jung Taekwoon's gaze flicks up at Hakyeon then. "You're new."

"Fresh out of the university," Hongbin comments and Hakyeon tries his best not to glare at him.

"Yes, well," Hakyeon clears his throat. "Can you put your foot up here, please?" He pats his own thigh. "And tell me what happened."

The guy does as he is said, hissing painfully when his heel makes contact with the top of Hakyeon's thigh, a soft "fuck" filtering through his teeth, and he throws his head back, shutting his eyes tight.

"I’m sorry," he says, taking a deep breath to calm down.

"It happens," Hakyeon mutters under his breath.

"To you, especially," he hears Hongbin add and he can't be sure Taekwoon can't hear it but decides to let it go.

"So, what's all this?" Hakyeon asks, probably for the hundredth time as he pulls Taekwoon's black sock off as gently as he can.

"I took the wrong step when I kicked the ball," Taekwoon whispers and when Hakyeon glances up at him with his foot in his hands, he sees tears welling up in the guy's eyes. "Football," he explains and Hakyeon nods. "I lost my balance and it kind of just... twisted and I fell on it."

"It's not broken," Hakyeon says, turning his head left and right, trying to see if anything is off apart from the swelling and dark purple bruises on Taekwoon's ankle. "But you've got a nice sprain here."

"I figured that much," Taekwoon notes and Hakyeon raises his eyebrows, and if he presses at the swollen skin a little deliberately, no one can know but him. And Taekwoon, who cries out. "Can you just give me that really good painkiller Doctor Park used to prescribe?"

Hakyeon looks at Hongbin who sits in front of his screen with his brow furrowed.

"Fentanyl?" he asks, looking up at Hakyeon.

"Ah, yes, that one," Taekwoon sighs, swallowing hard like he can already feel the sweet numbness from the medicine.

"You'll be better off with some Advil," Hakyeon replies, patting Taekwoon's knee. "Hongbin, can you give me the bandage?"

Hongbin stands up from his chair and rummages through one of the cupboards, handing Hakyeon the entire box he finds, filled with bandages, band-aids and a pair of scissors, sitting back down on his chair and typing up the diagnosis in Taekwoon's record.

"There you go," Hakyeon says and almost smiles at his artwork.

"Is this going to hold, though?" Taekwoon asks, sceptical. "Doctor Park always made it tighter."

"Excuse me, but I know what I'm doing," Hakyeon quips, inhaling deeply and counting to three when he hears Hongbin's snort. "If I wrapped it around your ankle tighter, you would have to come back for an appointment to amputate your toes in two days."

"If you say so," Taekwoon shrugs.

"Yes, if I say so," Hakyeon sulks, his cheeks heating up at being doubted in his own consulting room that he studied his ass off for back at the university. And God, how long it took for that charlatan Park to finally be kicked out so Hakyeon could take his place. "Put some ice on it, elevate it, and come back in a week so I can take a look at it. But you must know how it works."

"Yeah, um," Taekwoon scratches his head as Hakyeon puts his sock back on his foot. "Thanks."

"You're welcome."

The guy pulls his leg back and pushes himself up from the chair, leaving the room with Hongbin's help. When the door closes after him, Hongbin looks back at Hakyeon with a grin like a Cheshire cat on his face.

“Shut up,” Hakyeon grumbles.

“I didn’t say anything,” Hongbin shrugs as he pads back to his desk.

“Anyways, what is it that Park knew better than me?” Hakyeon sulks. “He was an asshole and nearly alcoholic, I doubt he would’ve treated an injury like this better.”

“Maybe they drank together.”

“What?”

“I mean,” Hongbin peeks from behind the screen of his computer, “this guy has had a history with Park, judging from his record.”

Hakyeon furrows his brow and stands up, lurking behind Hongbin as he leans forward to read through the different diagnoses, Hongbin scrolling lower slowly.

“Broken elbow,” Hakyeon murmurs, “dislocated knee cap, sprained wrist, broken fingers, sprained ankles… how is this guy still alive?”

“And why doesn’t he see an orthopaedist?” Hongbin muses.

“A true enigma he is,” Hakyeon mumbles and walks back to his chair.

Jung Taekwoon returns a week later, now fully healed and with both of his shoes on his feet, walking without much trouble.

“How are you feeling today?” Hakyeon asks as Taekwoon takes a seat in front of him.

“My foot’s okay,” Taekwoon says, and when Hakyeon glances up from his laptop, noticing the sling his right arm is in, hanging from his neck, it looks like the tips of Taekwoon's ears turn pink.

“What… is going on there?” Hakyeon asks, furrowing his brow as he points at the sling.

“Oh, this?” Taekwoon blinks at his arm like he had already forgotten about its existence, even though it clearly is injured. “I had a minor shoulder dislocation.”

“A what?” Hakyeon squawks and Hongbin sighs behind his own desk, fingers running rapidly on his keyboard.

“It just came out and went back a few seconds later,” Taekwoon shrugs his uninjured shoulder. “It doesn’t even really hurt, but the doctor at the emergency department said I should immobilise it.”

“The x-ray showed nothing major,” Hongbin says and Taekwoon nods, as if confirming. “But he needs rehabilitation from you.”

“That’ll take at least two months,” Hakyeon whines and he sees Taekwoon raise his eyebrows. “Why is communication so awful in this hospital, Jesus…”

“I can look for someone else, if it’s a problem.”

Hakyeon cuts Taekwoon a glare, Taekwoon muttering, “Or… not,” before turning his head away, examining the different appliances in the room.

“Okay,” Hakyeon drags his hands over his face. “Okay, let’s check your ankle first.”

Taekwoon kicks his sneaker off with the shoelaces still tied, and Hakyeon takes his foot into his lap, pulling his sock off. The skin is back to normal and there’s no swelling anymore, and when he turns Taekwoon's ankle around, the patient doesn’t make any sound.

“You should rest it for at least a week more,” Hakyeon says, helping him put his sock back on. “Not that you could play any sports with your shoulder like this, anyway.”

“We have a match next week though,” Taekwoon grimaces.

“Well, you’ll have to watch it from the bleachers, I’m afraid.”

Taekwoon clicks his tongue, throwing his head back.

“All right, let’s see your shoulder,” Hakyeon says, standing up. “So you’re saying it got dislocated but got relocated by itself immediately?”

“Yes.”

“Your ligaments are awful, it seems,” Hakyeon shakes his head. “You should consider getting them treated.”

“What does that mean?” Taekwoon asks suspiciously as Hakyeon takes the sling off his neck and arm, steadying it by Taekwoon's stomach.

Hakyeon tells him about the physiotherapy he will need to get, from someone whose profession is just that, after they’re done with treating his shoulder. Taekwoon listens with his face falling gradually, emitting a yelp every now and again when Hakyeon moves his injured shoulder. He looks quite cute with the frown on his face, lips pursed and two small lines forming between his eyebrows, his nose scrunching up. Hakyeon feels his grip weaken on Taekwoon's arm and he only notices it when Taekwoon cracks one of his eyes open, peering up at him at which Hakyeon flinches and pulls at Taekwoon's arm a little harder than necessary, Taekwoon crying out.

“I’m sorry!” Hakyeon exclaims, trying to massage Taekwoon's shoulder as softly as possible, ultimately ending up caressing it and Taekwoon looks at his fingers questioningly.

Hakyeon moves Taekwoon's shoulder a bit more, keeping his eyes on his own hands, and puts the sling back around Taekwoon's arm and neck in the end.

“We should repeat this about two times a week,” Hakyeon says, sitting down and looking at his laptop. “What about 3pm every Tuesday and Thursday?”

“Can’t we do it more often so I can play next week?” Taekwoon asks.

“You can’t play next week,” Hakyeon declares and Taekwoon rolls his eyes.

“Fine,” Taekwoon sighs, rising from his seat. “See you on Thursday, then.”

“Yes, and keep your arm immobile!”

“All right, all right.”

He turns around and makes for the door, Hakyeon following him with his gaze, taking a deep breath at the sight of Taekwoon's broad shoulders and his back, his muscular calves under his tight-fitting jeans.

“Hey,” he hears Hongbin as his assistant snaps his finger before his eyes. Hakyeon blinks a few and looks at him. “Oh, God, you’re crushing on him.”

“What? Who? What are you talking about?” Hakyeon splutters, hiding behind his laptop.

“This is going against medical ethics, you know,” Hongbin shakes his head reproachfully. “He can be hot all he wants, but he’s your patient.”

“I don’t think he’s hot,” Hakyeon retorts with less fervency than he’d like.

“Oh, come on, Hakyeon!” Hongbin shouts, frustrated, and Hakyeon's cheeks are ablaze behind the screen of his laptop as he slides lower in his seat. “He’s tall, has broad shoulders and thick thighs and the face of a doll, and he’s annoying you. I know you’re falling for him.”

Hakyeon groans, flopping over on top of his desk, burying his face into his arms, feeling the blush spread over his features. It’s true that Taekwoon's looks are more than pleasing to the eye, and it’s also true that Hakyeon tends to date people whom he views with immense antipathy at the beginning—Jaehwan was a very good example of this habit of his. Taekwoon is too much of a perfectly snarky smartass for Hakyeon's stupid teenage girl-like taste in men.

“I’m just saying,” Hongbin says quietly like anybody could eavesdrop on them, “you should be careful, Hakyeon. You don’t want to end your career because of a fleeting romance with someone who’s only around you because his ligaments are shit.”

Hakyeon groans again.

Taekwoon shows up on Thursday and the following Tuesday as well, and after that, on the coming Thursday.

Hakyeon feels it's becoming scarier by time how much he looks forward to all the therapy sessions with him, his face feeling hot whenever Taekwoon takes his T-shirt off and Hakyeon gets to massage and move his shoulder—the conoid tubercle of his clavicle stands out sharply and fuck, that makes sweat break out on Hakyeon's hairline every single time he sees it, and not simply because of his enthusiasm for anatomy.

Hongbin watches them from the fringes of the room and doesn't say a word, but Hakyeon can feel his gaze on the back of his head whenever Taekwoon tells Hakyeon how "Doctor Park would've just given me some good old ibuprofen and I could be out there, playing," and Hakyeon pulls at his arm just a little bit rougher. If it wouldn't be for Hongbin's hawk eyes gazing at them, Hakyeon would probably faint—fact. But he would also feel less pressured and awkward and Taekwoon wouldn't ask him if he has a fever because his cheeks are so red.

Taekwoon, apart from being an annoying know-it-all, is also very passionate about football, and Hakyeon, not being a fan of sports himself ("You're a sports physician, for God's sake!" Hongbin yells at him after an appointment with Taekwoon), nods and tries to pay attention to whatever Taekwoon has to say, though it doesn't excite him particularly.

"Hakyeon?"

Hakyeon snaps out of his daze at the way Taekwoon calls him in his soft voice, the familiar way he calls him by his first name after having found out they're roughly the same age still confusing Hakyeon a little.

"Did you hear me?" Taekwoon asks, and oh, that's a small whine in his tone, his face slightly upset as he looks up at Hakyeon.

"Sorry?"

"I was asking if I can attend the match the week after next."

"I don't know, Taekwoon," Hakyeon replies, letting go of his arm with a sigh. "It all depends on the progress. Jerk your arm back, but be careful."

Taekwoon moves his elbow backwards as if hitting someone in the stomach with it, and his face scrunches up, his other hand coming up to instinctively cup his shoulder.

"Right," Hakyeon says, handing Taekwoon his T-shirt, a faded black Nirvana one this time. "At this point, I don't think you'll be able to attend it. Not as long as you feel the smallest of pain whenever you move your shoulder."

"And if I take some painkillers?" Taekwoon asks, trying to wiggle his head through the collar of his shirt, allowing Hakyeon some time to marvel at his lean torso, Hongbin clearing his throat when Hakyeon swallows thickly.

"I know you got used to being mistreated by Park," Hakyeon says, anger seeping into his voice, Taekwoon's eyebrows twitching at it, "but I'm determined to heal you, instead of just letting you go with some awful painkillers so you can further damage your body until you can't even move your limbs."

Taekwoon sucks in a sharp breath and stares at Hakyeon for a while, his pretty, almond shaped eyes boring into Hakyeon's until Hakyeon can't take it anymore and looks away.

"Thank you," Taekwoon says. "I'm— uh, thanks a lot, Hakyeon."

"See you next week," Hakyeon mumbles.

"Yeah. See you."

When Hakyeon looks back at him, Taekwoon is smiling, his cute cheeks bunching up and his eyes sparkling, and Hakyeon needs to grab the edge of his desk so he won't swoon.

"It's getting out of hand," Hongbin singsongs once the door shuts behind Taekwoon.

"Don't give me this right now," Hakyeon grumbles.

"You've fallen too deep, Hakyeon," Hongbin says, clicking his tongue teasingly. "I've never heard you be so passionate about your profession."

"I studied for six years for a reason, you dummy."

"Yeah, so you can hit on your crush," Hongbin sniggers. "Maybe I should leave you two alone next time."

"Shush."

But Hakyeon wants nothing more than for Hongbin to stop frustrating him whenever he's with Taekwoon.

Hakyeon is playing solitaire on his laptop when the phone rings next to Hongbin and he answers it, Hakyeon double clicking so the ace of hearts takes its place in the right corner, and he rejoices quietly.

"I'm sorry?" Hongbin asks from whoever is on the other end of the line, looking up at Hakyeon, furrowing his brow. "So... you don't want to come to him anymore?"

Who's that?, Hakyeon mouths, but Hongbin only closes his eyes dismissively, listening carefully. Hakyeon feels his spine stiffen.

"Okay," Hongbin says in a tone that suggests he doesn't think it's okay at all. "Can I ask you why?"

Hongbin licks his lips, and Hakyeon knows he's nervous.

"All right," he says. "We will transfer your record to Doctor Choi. Yes. Bye."

Hongbin hangs up and stares at the screen of his computer in utter confusion. Hakyeon opens his mouth to ask him what's going on, but then the phone rings again and Hongbin becomes busy.

"Um... sorry?" he asks, his frown deepening. "But you just told me... I— I don't understand this." He takes a deep breath and blinks up at Hakyeon. "All right, I'll put you over to him."

He pushes some buttons on the device and nods towards Hakyeon's phone indicating he's connecting whoever he was talking to to Hakyeon.

"Cha Hakyeon, how can I help you?" Hakyeon asks with a lump in his throat.

"Hello, Hakyeon," someone on the other end says and the voice sounds familiar, though Hakyeon has a hard time placing it what with the distortion of the line. "It's Taekwoon."

"Oh?" Hakyeon blurts out smartly. "Um, what's wrong?”

"I just wanted to tell you that I don't intend to continue the therapy with you."

Hakyeon feels his stomach drop, nausea creeping up in his throat. There are tears prickling his eyes, too, and damn it, if Taekwoon knows Hakyeon has a crush on him and he even wants to report it—

"Why?"

"I'll just go to the physiotherapist you recommended."

"I see," Hakyeon replies and Hongbin is looking at him questioningly, but Hakyeon decides to look out the window, deflating like a leaky balloon.

"Yeah," Taekwoon says. "I was also wondering if you wanted to come watch the match of my team with me this Saturday."

"What?!" Hakyeon yells and he hears a laugh from the other side. "Aren't you changing doctors because... I don't know, because you hate me?"

"What? No. I'm changing doctors because I figured you had to keep your distance from me as long as I was your patient. Which I'm not anymore. So, what do you say?"

"I— I mean... okay? I guess?" Hakyeon stutters, not quite grasping what really is going on.

"Cool," Taekwoon says, and Hakyeon might be mistaken, but it sounds like he's smiling. "See you at the Sports Arena at 4 on Saturday, then."

"Okay," Hakyeon mutters, and then Taekwoon hangs up, leaving Hakyeon staring at the receiver uncomprehendingly.

"What did he want?" Hongbin inquires.

Hakyeon lets the corners of his mouth curl up and before he knows it, he's grinning from ear to ear.

Hakyeon is still quite dazed as he sits next to an overly excited Taekwoon, watching a bunch of guys in either red or blue uniforms chase a black and white ball underneath them.

Taekwoon is most literally shaking with excitement, his shoulder and thigh bumping with Hakyeon's, the bag of crackers in his hand long forgotten. He mumbles a quiet “shit” or a “that’s right, do it, do it” every now and again, his cheeks flushed like he’s down on the pitch with his team mates, wearing his blue uniform himself.

“This is a nightmare,” he says, leaning back in his chair, running a hand through his hair. “If I were down there—”

“You guys would be leading?” Hakyeon asks, cocking an eyebrow at him.

“Not necessarily, no,” Taekwoon replies, clearly not catching the sarcastic undertone of Hakyeon's question. “But they should be more energetic.”

“Must be frustrating,” Hakyeon says understandingly, “sitting here with me instead of playing.”

“It is, a little,” Taekwoon admits and then he turns to Hakyeon, expression sheepish. “But I don’t mind being here with you.”

“Wow, you’re flattering me,” Hakyeon laughs.

There’s a hand on his, Taekwoon holding his fingers gingerly and Hakyeon's laughter dies down, his heart beating a lot faster than it should. He feels Taekwoon cup his cheek, lifting his head so Hakyeon looks at him, and a moment later, there are warm lips pressing to his mouth, Taekwoon kissing him sweetly. Hakyeon presses closer to him, leaning into the touch, but then Taekwoon pulls back with a hiss.

“Careful of my shoulder,” he says, grimacing.

“Oh my God, I’m sorry, I forgot—”

“I’m kidding, doctor,” Taekwoon giggles and Hakyeon slaps his hand, but then Taekwoon covers Hakyeon's fingers with his other hand that’s still holding the crackers, and kisses him again.

If anything, this would be worth being kicked out of the Medical Association, Hakyeon thinks.

But he might be getting ahead of himself.

#vixx #n #leo #neo #rating: pg #req #fluff #au

19 notes · View notes

carneaderuntold · 7 years

Text

“Do not grieve. Anything you lose comes around in another form.”

-Rumi

HERE WE GO (1X01).