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vanillann · 3 years

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unsolved (spencer reid x reader)

a/n: i was watching buzzfeed unsolved when i came up with this idea so enjoy. also i know it’s not exactly right but i didn’t feel like going back and watching the ep so.

warning: swearing, talk of cases, and sexual innuendos

word count: 3.3k

“Hi, Welcome to Buzzfeed Unsolved! We’re your host Ryan and Shane.”

I sat in a spin by chair between the two, my legs crisscrossed as I spun as fast as I could with Shane picking at arm.

“This is (Y/N)-“ when I heard my name I dramatically grabbed Ryan’s arm chair, smiling at the camera “a good friend of ours.”

“I had never spoken to either of them before today,” I spoke directly into the camera, the widest smile on my face when Shane gasped.

“She exposed us!” He pointed an accusing finger at me, Ryan slowly reaching out and grabbing his hand.

“We need her for this case,” Ryan spoke mysteriously, as if he was in a mob of some sort.

“Yeah why is that?” I rested my elbow on the chair, placing my chin in my open hand as I looked between the two.

I would normally be shoved in the corner of my desk trying to avoid another weird product video. I didn’t want to wear another weight blanket that made me almost fall to the floor.

“We are doing a case today and from the gossip around the office, you’d be pretty familiar with it,” Ryan said nothing more as he held a picture up to the camera.

I looked to the viewfinder, my eyes going wide as I recognized the mugshot immediately.

“That’s the Reaper!” I pointed at the picture, grabbing Ryan’s wrist so I could get a better look.

“Is that your boyfriend or something?” Shane added, looking over my shoulder at the picture in my hand.

“No, the BAU worked in this case!”

I didn’t know my intense knowledge of BAU cases would make it around the office, but I suppose when you have a printed article of you standing with Agent Gideon and Hotchner word moves fast.

“You actually know a lot about BAU cases from what I hear,” Ryan almost smirked at me and I was close to attacking him.

“Yeah-“ I turned to the camera, thinking I should explain myself before people thought I was crazy “so when I was young my mother had a stalker.”

The room suddenly went from light and breezy to scary and stuffy, something I hated.

“Anyways, when my mother died he disappeared into thin air. I then got an internship here at Buzzfeed and suddenly I was being mailed pictures of myself.”

I felt Shane give a knee a quick squeeze, which made me smile but I said nothing about it.

“It is really bad, I’m not going into detail, that the FBI got involved. Gideon was my savior that day, Hotchner too. Since then I’ve kept up with their cases and Gideon still sends me letters even after he left,” I finished my story, smiling down at the case file Ryan held between his fingers.

“Enough sad story, let’s talk about murder!” I clapped my hand, Shane laughing at my excitement.

“Okay, before we get started with this video I would like to clarify this isn’t a normal unsolved case. While the case was pinned to a murderer, the real unsolved piece is what happened to him,” Ryan got into character, slowly opening the folder and reading off the first words.

“On June 5th, 1996, Tom Shaunessy was called to investigate a murder in Boston. It was a couple, laided into their chair with multiple gun shots to their head and torso-“

“Wait, in the car in Boston?” Shane asked.

“That’s what I just read,” Ryan replied.

I smiled to myself, already knowing the editing that would take place with the black screen and the blue and yellow words floating across.

“Isn't Boston super busy?”

“It has like 700 thousand people,” I spoke up, wondering what color my words would be in.

“How do you just know that?” Ryan looked over his shoulder at me, his eyebrows raised.

“If you saw the article I was currently writing you would understand,” I shrugged, moving in the chair so I could get a better look at the case file.

Ryan coughed, looking back down at the file to continue.

“When another set of murders came in, this time an older couple, Shaunessy, panicked as he found the first victim, Harry Goodwill, watching at the scene.”

“That was his signature,” I held a hand up like a child in class, smiling as I already knew what came next.

“Bingo!” Ryan pointed to me, smiling at my excitement.

“When this happened again, this time alone woman, Shaunessy called in the BAU-“

“You mean the love of (Y/N) life,” Shane cut in, smiling when I hit his shoulder.

“If you saw a picture of them you’d be in love too,” I shrugged, not thinking much about my words.

“Agent Aaron Hotchner joined the team and worked closely on this case with Shaunessy.”

“So this man just texted the FBI,” Shane started laughing before he could get his words out.

“I’m pretty sure there are rules,” Ryan looked over at Shane, looking at me when we tried to understand why he was laughing.

“I’m sorry, death shouldn’t be this funny,” Shane took a breath, making a hand motion for Ryan to continue. I started laughing at that, keeping it low so Ryan could continue.

“After 18 murders, there were no leads. The only consistent thing was he mostly killed couples and he left an item from his last victim at the crime scene. The BAU conducted that he was most likely killing the couple because of his own failed marriage or possibly one close to him.”

“So he started killing because he hated to love? I bet he hates Valentine’s Day,” Shane shrugged, his smile breaking across his face when I spoke up.

“Nah, he seems more like a Halloween type guy,” I shrugged, laughing when Ryan hit his elbow on the table.

“Okay okay, back to the good stuff,” I pointed at the file, laughing when Ryan rolled his eyes.

“Now victims 19 and 20 is where the story starts to twist. Amanda Bertram and George Foyet-“ I shivered at the name “we attacked by the Reaper.”

“Did you say attacked?”

“Yes, while Amanda Bertram was killed in the struggle Foyet manages to survive with serious injuries.”

“So this dude just accidentally forgets to kill him?” Shane almost yelled, reaching for the file to read himself but Ryan moved it back.

“He saw the ghost of Valentine and just ran,” I played on the joke earlier, which made the two laugh.

“The heart-shaped boxes of chocolate really made him shit himself,” Ryan barely got the words out, his laugh slowly turning into a cough.

“We shouldn’t joke about a murderer when we don’t know his whereabouts,” I laughed along.

“Wait, you’re telling me they lost him!”

“Yep,” I popped the “p”, smiling when Shane looked to Ryan who only shrugged,

“You’ll have to wait and see.” Was all he said before he continued the case.

“After this no new leads were found, it was later discovered that The Boston Reaper sent Shaunessy a note that if the investigation was shut now he would stop killing,” Ryan read the words off.

“I bet he ended the letter with “xoxo from your worst nightmare” with a lipstick stain,” I spoke without thinking, covering my mouth when I realized what I said.

“Oh he’d definitely come at you now,” Shane pointed at me, wiggling his eyebrows in the process.

“No way! The BAU will save me,” I shrugged, smiling as I imagined the team busting in the door at the last minute like they always did.

“Oh yeah the one dude, what’s his name,” Ryan started snapping his fingers as he thought over his words “Sp-“

“Spencer Reid!” I practically yelled the name, my smile only growing large at the mention of the handsome Doctor from the BAU team. While he didn’t work my case, I heard a little about him and he called my house phone trying to reach Hotch.

To say I was infatuated would be a small understatement.

“Him?” Ryan pointed at him, smiling wider at me.

“Who is this Reid boy and what are his intentions?” Shane folded his arms on the table like a father, looking between Ryan and I.

“I hope it's dirty,” I blurted out, covering my mouth again as I looked at the camera.

“Cut that out,” I started laughing when I heard Shane wheezing beside me.

“No we’re keeping that, that was quality content,” Ryan was laughing, pushing my chair slightly as I slowly joined in.

“I’m so grateful he works a busy job and will never see this,” I started coughing, which made Shane pat my back.

“Please take the obsession back to murder, please and thank you,” I nodded to the case file once everyone has calmed down.

“Okay okay, the cast went cold after that. No new murders ever appeared and the BAU left the case.”

“Spencer went to (Y/N)’s house,” Shane commented quickly.

“Until 2009 when a murder took place right outside of Boston, a couple killed on a hill. While this seemed like nothing at first, an eye was painted on the side of the door and glasses were found on the victim’s face. The glasses belong to Foyet,” Ryan read in his special voice.

“So the dude got bored and was like “Fuck my promise”?” Shane looked between both of us.

“Let him finish,” I patted Shane shoulder, looking at the file again.

“It was later announced to the public that Shaunessy was dead,” Ryan read, looking at Shane with raised eyebrows.

“Ohh, you should have led with that!”

Ryan rolled his eyes, going back to the file in front of him.

“Hotchner took up the case with his BAU team-”

“Spencer had to leave (Y/N)’s house early to get there in time,' ' Shane pushed my shoulder, my finger slowly starting to play with the little ring on my finger.

“I wish,” I spoke up, smiling at Shane when he shook his head.

“The team quickly gathered all the information possible, slowly putting the eye signature on the car with the sign off on the letter.”

“He didn’t sign it xoxo?” Shane asked, I shook my head sadly.

“Sorry to get your hopes up,” I spoke gravely, my mask cracking when Shane started smiling.

“I was readying for him to sign A like that show!”

I started laughing, my hand covering my mouth as Ryan tried to explain the show he was talking about.

“Why do they have to be pretty liars, am I pretty when I lie?”

“No,” I said the words so seriously I was shocked with myself. We all three started laughing suddenly.

I hadn’t been at Buzzfeed long, I had only made a few friends and I pretty much got dragged into the video when they needed a test dummy. This was my first video that didn’t make me want to rip my eyes out, I actually was having a great time with Ryan and Shane with the jokes and all.

“Okay,” Ryan coughed, finally reading the file again,” Many tried to brush it off as a copycat but Agent Hotchner refused to drop the case.”

“That’s my bestie,” I smiled, remembering the photo I had with him when the local news decided to take pictures of us standing outside the station. The photo was awkward and I doubt he even remembered my case but I didn’t really care.

“Then a few hours later an older couple, Arthur and Diane Lanessa, were found stabbed and shot. When the earlier victim, Nina Hale, was found on Diane's wrist, people started to worry.”

“Wait I thought he left the one dude glasses, who is still weird to me,” Shane spoke up again.

“That’s what I’m saying! He had his glasses yet he’s a copycat? Cops can be so stupid,” I rambled, still pissed about that to this day.

“The BAU split up to find Foyet, who went into hiding after his attack, to get more details. Agent Hotchner and Agent David Rossi found him staying in a house in Boston.”

“Why would you stay in Boston?” Ryan was the one to speak this time, his nose scrunched up as he thought it over.

“Right, like yes I almost died here let me stay,” Shane mocked Foyet, which made me laugh.

“Later that night The Reaper boarded a busy bus and killed the occupants of it. Many had theories on why he changed his MO but nobody will confirm or deny.”

“I think he was made at Hotch,” I spoke up. I had thought about this alot.

“Why do you think that?”

“He didn’t quite like Shaunessy, I don’t blame Shaunessy, but still. He stuck around even when he could have walked away,” I crossed my arms, slightly proud of my theory.

“You think he gave the same deal?”

“You don’t?” I looked at Ryan, his arms shrugging before he went back to the case.

“There was a cryptic message left on the side the bus along with the Reaper eye,”

“Cryptic message? Is this real?”

“Unfortunately,” I nodded, looking back to Ryan as he spoke.

“The BAU managed to decipher the code into a line of Foyet addresses-”

“Spender did it!”

“And how would you know?” Shane looked to me, raising his eyebrow at me with a little smirk.

“Because he had an eidetic memory and has an IQ of 187,” I spoke proudly, as if I actually knew the person I was talking about. Okay maybe I searched them on the internet one too many times.

“How do you know that?” Ryan asked, laughing at me now.

“Google,” I shrugged, laughing when Shane looked up from his hands.

“What does he even look like?” I held up my finger, fishing my phone out of my back pocket. I quickly unlocked it, placing my thumb print and moving on, and tapped the searched bar. I quickly typed in his name, thankful it didn’t pop up in purple because I couldn’t handle that much teasing.

“Here,” I placed the phone on the table, laughing when Shane moved closer.

“He has a Wikipedia,” Shane looked over his shoulder at Ryan and I, speaking like a kid on Christmas.

“You both have Wikipedia,” I shrugged, not seeing the appeal of the whole life on display.

“You don’t,” Shane pointed out. I jokily pouted, acting all sad as I looked up to the ceiling.

“We can make you one,” Ryan patted my shoulder laughing when I smiled.

“Can we say I’m married to Doctor Spencer Reid?”

Both nodded at the same time, my hand going over my hand and I laugh at their telekinesis response.

“Okay finished this case so (Y/N) and I can stalk Mr. Reid,” Shane patted Ryan shoulder and I lightly smiled to myself.

He seemed like nothing but I finally made some friends, I mean friends I could talk to outside of work.

“Once they arrived at Foyet house they found gallons of blood pulled from the back of the house.”

“So they killed him?”

“Just wait,” I held my finger up, smiling when Shane deflated slightly.

“Multiple police were attacked, even Derek Morgan with the BAU. The specific are not out to the public but a nurse claimed that The Reaper stole Morgan credentials,” Ryan read off the paper, smiling when Shane gasped.

“That’s insane, this case is insane!”

I laughed along with Ryan, all of ours eye scanning over the paper now and we waited for the next bit of information.

“After looking over past cases filed, the BAU were confused on why The Reaper would kill Foyet. Their tech analysis did research to induce that Foyet had multiple aliases, claimed he had them to feel safe from The Reaper, actually had multiple assault charges, and his parents were killed when he was six.”

“Oh my, he killed them didn’t he!” Ryan and I both nodded, Shane’s hands flying up to his hair as he looked between us.

“It was him the whole time! No way!”

“That’s what I said,'' I looked into the camera for the first time in awhile, it felt nice and easy with them. The video was coming easy unlike trying to do awkward yoga poses with strangers.

“They managed to trace everything back to Foyet, concluding he was The Reaper. After more research, Foyet’s phone was tracked to Roy Colson's house. A journalist would recently wrote an article on The Reaper.``

“This feels like a Scooby-Doo mission at this point,” Shane sounded out of breath, looking to the camera with wide eyes.

“We got some work to do now!” I jokily sang the theme song, making the two laugh lightly before moving on to the end of the case.

“The local police arrest Foyet at the house, Colson thankful survived. Foyet was taken to prison immediately after arrest.”

“I thought they lost him?”

“If you don’t let him finish,” I joked, Shane laughed as we finally let Ryan finish.

“Foyet was found in his cell later throwing up blood and convulsions. As being rushed to the hospital, the ambulance was ambushed and Foyet escaped. No more information has been released on the whereabouts of Foyet.”

“They really lost him!”

Shane was in shock at the discovery, my hand covering my mouth quickly before I answered.

“I bet he’s working for the FBI, they hire people when they’re too dangerous.” I tried my best to be serious about the theory but I knew my smile was peaking thought.

“He’s probably the BAU’s personal hitman!”

I laughed with Ryan, my chair had slowly moved closer to his as I kept leaning to see the case file.

“Where do you think Foyet it?”Ryan spoke into the camera, talking to the people that would watch this in a few weeks.

“I think (Y/N) should call her smarty-pants husband and ask,” Shane spit out his last joke before the video ended.

“Yeah, Doctor Spencer Reid please call me with information about the case.” I pointed into the camera like Uncle Sam and winked dramatically.

“He doesn’t have your number,” Ryan reminded me. I let my finger fall, thinking over my words before I pointed back at the camera.

“Email my business email,” I nodded. Shane and Ryan both hit my shoulder. both hands going to my arm to cover them.

“Say bye to our favorite guest ever,” Ryan waved in my face.

“Bye!”

I laughed as the video played on my laptop, laughing when my voice was replaced with light green words floating on the screen. I scrolled down lightly, reading a bunch of comments. I smiled when most were asking if I would ever be on another Unsolved.

My phone went off beside me, my hand reaching for it as I paused the video and moved to my email. I was waiting for an email about an article I was writing and I couldn’t stop hitting refresh.

Shane: i’ve seen two ship edits of (y/n) and spencer reid on my instagram already

Ryan: i saw an edit of shane fall out a chair

I laughed at the messages, the group chat the three of us had formed titled “The Reapers Bitches” never stopped as we had grown a close bond.

I heard the little ding from my laptop, also most screaming when I slammed the refresh button and screamed when I saw an email with a little unread dot beside it.

I didn’t think twice, pushing the email and reading over it quickly.

From: [email protected]

Hello, this is Doctor Spencer Reid with the Behavioral Analysis Unit. I recently saw a video of you mentioning me and my team about a case we worked on a few years back. While I legally can’t share any details with you in this case, I would be open to speaking with others. Please email me back!

I was going to scream, maybe cry, maybe both at this point. I read the email two or three more times, trying to comprehend what I just read.

He did see, shit he did see it. I heard my phone going off beside me, my hand picking it up and typing without reading what they were saying before.

Me: Spencer Fucking Reid just emailed me

I let my phone fall to my lap, reading the email one more time.

“Thank you Buzzfeed Unsolved,” I whispered under my breath.

join the taglist!

permanent taglist:

@kittykylax @itstaylorcale @head-over-heart @marvel-rhapsody @accioxtina @always-spaced-out @carnations-red @onetoomanyfilms @suranne-doesstuff

criminal minds taglist:

@underscorecourt @meowimari @mggsprettygirl

#spencer reid x y/n #spencer reid x you #spencer reid/you #spencer reid/reader #spencer reid x reader #spencer reid fanfiction #criminal minds x reader

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theholycakehole · 3 years

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Impulsive Decisions || Dream x Reader

Word Count: 1.5k

Pairing: Dream x GN! Reader

Warnings: None! Well its my first Dream fic and it hasn’t really been edited so maybe that should be a warning lol but mostly just fluff :) Also use of irl names, idk how Dream feels about that so please let me know if I should change it! :)

A/N: Heyyyy... Long time so see! Um... so here’s a dream fic! I am done my first year of uni now so if yall wanna start up some requests I can try and do that again? Probably will mostly be along the lines of the Dream SMP or maybe even other streamers since that’s what I’ve been interested in lately. My requests have never really closed, I’ve just been inactive, but I’ll try to start writing again!

It was a long night of shifting between games with friends and discord conversations. I combed my hair back as my eyes grew tired as the screen shifted to a victory for the imposters. I sighed leaning back in my chair seconds before I got the last kill of the game, earning Karl and me the win.

“Wow…” Rae spoke up as everyone began to unmute.

“S/N??” Sykkuno piped up from his side of the call. I let out a little tired laugh as I returned to the main lobby.

“I think that was LG for me guys,” I spoke out hearing a few pleas against it. “Sorry, I’ve been streaming for like…” I trailed off checking the time, 12:30, “6 hours now? I’m ready for bed, honestly.”

“I should probably do the same,” Dream spoke up, him being in the same timezone as me.

“You guys really should leave the east coast, PST is where it’s at.” Corpse mumbled as I opened back up my stream chat.

“I know, I know, but I can’t get myself to leave my hometown.” I laughed out as I skimmed over my chat reading the goodnight wishes and the thanks for streaming messages.

“Well, I live on the east coast and I’m fine to stay up.” Karl joked as I let out a yawn.

“Does anyone have any fills?” Toast asked. “If not we might have to end it here.”

“Toast aren’t you in the same time zone as me right now?” I asked out. “Go to bed.”

“I don’t need sleep, S/N.” He commented back.

“Ok fair.” I chuckled as my little character ran around the lobby before going to the computer and messing around with the skins and hats.

“Sorry guys, I think all my fills are done for the night.” Corpse explained to the lobby.

“Its no worries we can always play another time!” Rae reassured everyone. “Well, goodnight everyone!”

“Goodnight!” Everyone chimed before signing out of the call.

I muted myself and ended my stream, forgetting to leave the call. I thanked the donos and read chat, making tired comments. I answered a few questions I managed to catch in the chat before ending the stream. As I was about to leave discord I saw that Dream’s little icon was still in the call with me.

“Lurking much?” I joked as I unmuted my mic.

“I thought you were going to bed?” He remarked with a small laugh.

“Eventually, I just couldn’t use my brain anymore after that last game.”

“I don’t blame you, you played well, y/n.” Using my real name rather than my stream name clarified that he wasn’t streaming either. “If you’re not too tired, we can stay on the call if you want?”

“I’m down, honestly, I’m just winding down before bed.” I mentioned as I checked my phone, opening a few social media apps to catch up on what I missed since starting my stream.

“So, y/n when do you plan on visiting? Sap and I are still waiting for you to come down.” He questioned, causing me to look up from my phone, closing it before setting the device back down on my desk. His camera obviously was not on but I found my attention on his discord profile picture.

“Soon, Clay.” I laughed leaning back in my chair and tucking my legs up to my chest.

“You said that last time.” He laughed a little more tired this time.

“Flights can be expensive, especially so last minute.” I made an excuse as I looked over to my second monitor and found myself googling flights.

“I literally told you I’ll pay for your flight to Florida, y/n.” He teased as I hummed in response, my attention mostly on the travel website I was looking at.

“I’m a big girl Dreamwastaken, I can pay for my own flight.” I chuckled before closing the website.

“Y/n your classes are done now, you have all the time in the world, leave Canada and come visit, please?” I smiled at his question before letting out a yawn.

“Fuck it.”

“Wait really?” Clay piped up, shocked and excitement evident in his voice.

“You made a really convincing argument. When do you want me to visit?” I asked before re-opening the tab and looking at prices.

“Right now.”

“Right now?”

“Yes, right now.”

“Thats not happening Clay.” I laughed before finding a date and hovering over the purchase button. “How about the weekend? It gives me time to pack and get some things sorted.”

“Yes! Perfect! This is so exciting y/n!” He smiled, his voice raising a little bit which caused me to laugh. We sorted out the details and eventually booked the tickets and talked about how excited we were for me to come to Florida.

I’ve known Dream for a couple of years now, mostly through streaming with friends. Obviously, I knew of him before because of the Dream SMP and how popular it got. But through the years we have grown close, this even confused fans. Shipping was natural and happened quite frequently, which we ignored in the beginning, but as time passed feelings began to grow. We never talked about it but the flirting and the comments we’d share both on stream and off-stream just felt so right.

We were both faceless content creators, and being this close was quite strange as we have never met or let alone seen each other in person. As I packed my clothes a couple of days later I felt the nerves settle in. I shook off the panic of what if he doesn’t like me or think I’m attractive enough. But it was hard to shake.

I found myself jittery as the plane began to descend. I peered out the window looking at the ground as it grew closer and closer. The nerves grew more and more intense as I knew Dream was the closest he’s been to me since we first met. I felt myself smiling through the panic as I reached to grab my backpack under the seat in front of me.

When we finally were able to disembark the plane I quickly texted Clay that I was here and told him that I was wearing a f/c hoodie so they could find me. I tried to find the baggage claim as I followed the people who were on the same flight as me. My phone buzzed in my pocket telling me that Clay responded.

‘Sap and I just pulled in, see you soon!’

I smiled at his text message and the nerves went crazy, but a huge smile was on my face at the same time. I opened Twitter and quickly started a new tweet to show my audience that I was on, in fact, a last-minute trip. I attached a picture I snuck as I disembarked the plane and made a quick caption before posting and pocketing my phone.

My phone began to buzz from notifications as I plugged in my earbuds and played my music while I tried to locate myself through the airport. As I finally found the baggage claim I stood by one of the conveyor belts and scanned over the luggage trying to find my own. A couple of minutes passed before I felt a hand on my shoulder. I quickly turned around, pulling out my earbuds to see the face of one of my streamer friends.

“Y/n?”

“Sapnap!” I smiled before pulling him in for a hug.

“Hey, how was the flight?” He asked as we pulled apart and stood waiting for my luggage.

“Long enough, I’m just excited I’m here now.” I smiled as I pocketed my phone after wrapping the wires from my earbuds around it.

“Trust me, so are we.” He smiled in return. I saw my suitcase and quickly went to grab it, Sapnap helping me as well. “Clay is in the car, we were struggling to find a parking spot so he pulled up and is waiting for us.” He informed me as he took my suitcase and helped me wheel it out. “He’s nervous.” He mentioned as we grew closer to the doors.

“Trust me, so am I. Other than people in my everyday life, you two are the first to see me in person, or even my face.” I said as I fidgetted with the strings of my hoodie.

“You’re in good hands, y/n, try not to worry.” He smiled softly at me.

We exited through the doors to see a vehicle parked up to the curb. I felt the nerves build up in my stomach as a head of ashy blonde hair exit the car door. A smile found its way onto my face as my eyes lit up. As the man walked around the car he stopped in his tracks and replicated the same, bright smile, green eyes lighting up. I stopped everything and bolted forward pulling Clay into a tight hug.

“You’re finally here.” He muttered into my h/c hair, pulling me in tighter.

“I’m finally here.” I smiled into his green sweatshirt, feeling at ease.

#dreamwastaken #dream x reader #dream mcyt #mcyt x reader #dreamwastaken x reader #mcyt #dream smp #dream x y/n #clay x reader

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miserablesme · 3 years

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The Les Miserables Changelog Part 1: Barbican Previews

Hello everyone! I'm starting out a blog which will look at my favorite musical, Les Miserables, and will discuss the various changes it has gone through over time (musically and lyrically). As it turns out, a LOT of edits have been made over the years so this will doubtless be a series with several parts.

This first part may well be the most difficult and will almost certainly be the most incomplete, as previews can be a time of extensive editing and experimentation. At least for the first few weeks or so, it's perfectly possible any one day of previews will be slightly different than any other day. However, I only have access to two audios from the Barbican Theatre previews of Les Miserables, meaning it's likely that lyrical variants exist which I have no way of hearing.

I am aware of the existence of a third audio which is fairly early in the run of previews, as the tape's master has told me that Gavroche's death scene is in its original form (I'll clarify that later). However, that tape has never been traded, and has sadly only been listened to by its master. I am also aware of a video proshot of the Barbican era that exists in the Royal Shakespeare Company library, but currently have no access to it. I plan to inquire about whether I can look at it sometime (though I'm not sure a blog like this is "official" enough to warrant it for research purposes). As such, this comparison only entails the two widely circulated audios from the Barbican run.

Now that we've gotten that cleared up, let's get started!

First, let's look at the opening "Work Song". In the earlier recording I have (let's call it R1), the beginning music (the same tune used, for instance, at the opening of "At the End of the Day" and "One Day More" and for Marius and Cosette's meeting in "The Robbery") stops. Then, a few moments later, the more familiar opening that leads directly into the prologue begins. By the time of the later recording I have (let's call it R2), the scores have been combined so that the first tune directly transitions into the second one.

Meanwhile, in R1 there is a sequence of lines that goes as follows:

I've done no wrong

Sweet Jesus, hear my prayer

Look down, look down

Sweet Jesus doesn't care

I killed a man

He tried to steal my wife

Look down, look down

She wasn't worth your life

I know she'll wait

I know that she'll be true

Look down, look down

She's long forgotten you

Most fans of the musical recognize the middle sequence of lines ("I killed a man" through "She wasn't worth your life") as no longer being lines in the show (for good reason, as we'll get into in a later edition of this blog). However, R2 keeps the lines. Instead, it deletes the third sequence ("I know she'll wait" through "She's long forgotten you"). I have no idea if this lasted only a few performances or made it all the way to the end of the Barbican run, or somewhere in between.

During "On Parole", specifically after Valjean is underpaid for his labor and sings about his frustration, R1 uses a variation of the "Work Song" theme which, to my recollection, is heard nowhere else in the musical. It can be heard here. By R2, it was switched to an in-tune version of the number with a unique opening. The musical retains that version to this day, but in case you can't recall it you can hear it here.

Minus an unintentional line flub in "At the End of the Day" in R2, the two Barbican recordings seem to use the same libretto and score from this point until "The Runaway Cart". At this point, R1 has a rather extensive scene leading up to Valjean saving Fauchelevent, which goes approximately as follows (the dialog is difficult to make out):

(VALJEAN)

Is there anyone here who will rescue the man?

Who will help me to shoulder the weight of the cart?

I will pay any man thirty louis d’or more

I will do it myself if there’s no one who will

We can’t let him die like that down in the street

Can you all watch him die and do nothing at all?

(FAUCHELEVENT)

Don’t approach me, Monsieur Mayor

The cart’s not gonna be holding

Not my poor mother would care if I should die

(TOWNSPEOPLE)

Don't go near him, Monsieur Mayor

There's nothing at all you can do

The old man's a goner for sure

Leave him alone

Most of that dialog is deleted in R2, so that it goes directly from "Who will help me to shoulder the weight of the cart" to "Don't go near him, Monsieur Mayor". I really like the idea of the original version; it seems reasonable that Valjean, having become a more trusted man, would expect the townspeople to help him. It's more meaningful that Valjean is good enough to do what's right when there's more time to establish that no one else is. Having said that, the original version did take quite a while and didn't really contain any relevant information that wasn't in the final version. I think the cut version as heard in R2 is a good compromise and retains the general mood and pacing to make Valjean's ultimate action satisfying (something that can't be said of later cuts, as will be discussed in a future edition of this blog).

Additionally, at the end of the number Javert refers to "the mark upon his skin" in R1 and "the brand upon his skin in R2 (as well as literally every subsequent performance since then to my knowledge). I have no idea if the "mark" line was a minor flub or was actually the original lyric.

"Who Am I?" is an interesting one. The musical content is identical in R1 and R2, but in R1 after his high note, Valjean shouts "You know where to find me!" with emotion so dramatic it sits right on the border between awesome and campy. By contrast, Valjean is totally silent after his high note in R2. Neither version would see its final day just yet, although the latter certainly has become more traditional over time. More on that in future editions.

From this point until "Master of the House" everything is the same between the two recordings. Roger Allam even comes in slightly late in both "Confrontation" scenes (making his line "-jean, at last...")! However, in the opening to "Master of the House" the following lines occur in R1:

(THENARDIER)

My band of soaks, my den of dissolutes

My dirty jokes, my always pissed as newts

My sons of whores

Spend their lives in my inn

Homing pigeons flying in

They fly through my doors

And their money's good as yours

(CUSTOMERS)

Ain't got a clue what he put into his stew

Must've scraped it off the street

Hell, what a wine

Châteauneuf de Turpentine

Must've pressed it with his feet

Landlord over here

Where's the bloody man

One more for the road

One more slug of gin

Just one more or my old man is gonna do me in

All of those lines would be scrapped in R2. Personally I prefer this shortened variant than the one that would occur much later. Sure, some fun moments get lost, but nothing that actually adds any substance or characterization to the musical (unlike the later cut, which I'll discuss in a later edition of this blog). Some have speculated that this is simply lost dialog due to a tape flip of degrading, given that future performances would retain those lines. However, there is firsthand confirmation that the cuts were in fact part of the performance. To quote Trevor Nunn on page 87 of 1990's The Complete Book of Les Miserables (a page which elaborates that "the cost of overtime incurred after three hours could be crippling at a time when Les Miserables was still trying to find an audience"):

"Cameron wanted major cuts, which would have reduced its length to two and a half hours. I resisted, refusing to discuss things on those terms... Some of the other proposed cuts - like the removal of the "Master of the House" scene-setting preamble - were tried out in previews and then restored as the scenes would not work without them."

From a historical perspective that quote is invaluable. As will be brought up in a later blog post (notice a pattern today?) the musical would in fact be cut much later to avoid overtime charges. When people like myself have expressed the opinion that these cuts come at the expense of artistic integrity, I've seen others defend them by claiming that the overtime costs never were relevant to Cameron and the gang until Broadway sales began to go down, and that if they were taken into account the musical may well be in its shortened form from the beginning. However, this quote proves that argument to be false. Right from day one, the crew was aware that retaining a >3 hour runtime would come with severe financial costs, but this was deemed a worthy sacrifice in order to tell the story they wanted told. Indeed, it sounds like Cameron Mackintosh was waiting quite some time to enact his infamous cuts! (Cameron Mackintosh valuing profit above art?! Crazy, right??)

But I digress. Going back to the musical, the "Waltz of Treachery" number is mostly the same. However, after Valjean's "It won't take you too long to forget" line, R1 has over a minute of wordless vamping which leads right into the rather awkwardly-placed "Stars" song. By contrast, in R2 this vamping (which is still a minute long, mind you) leads into a humming duet between Little Cosette and Valjean, similar to the duet right before the number. A nice little bookend that makes the scene feel all the more resolved. (Much later this duet reprise would ironically be scrapped again, though!) The remaining segment of R1's vamping now plays after this sequence in R2.

Minus some unintentional missed lines at the beginning of "Stars" in R1, the recordings seem to follow the same libretto right up until "One Day More". Here, R1 uses the following lines:

(EPONINE)

One more day with him not caring

(MARIUS and COSETTE)

Was there ever love so true?

(EPONINE)

What a life I might have known

(MARIUS and COSETTE)

I was born to be with you

However, by R2 this scene is in its current form:

(EPONINE)

One more day with him not caring

(MARIUS and COSETTE)

I was born to be with you

(EPONINE)

What a life I might have known

(MARIUS and COSETTE)

And I swear I will be true

And that closes act one! Going on to the second act, the opening barricade scene has a few changes. First off, following the opening notes, R1 features a rather odd tune bearing resemblance to "Do You Hear the People Sing" (which can be heard here) before transitioning to a more true-to-form instrumental reprise of "Do You Hear the People Sing?" By contrast, R2 goes straight from the opening notes to the true-to-form reprise.

Next, Enjolras proclaims "Have faith in yourself and do not be afraid" in R1, while in R2 he instead states "Every man to his duty and don't be afraid". It's unknown if this was an intentional libretto change or if it simply reflects a flub during R1. A later sequence uses the "Have faith in yourself" line, meaning he may have just sung the wrong line for that particular scene.

Finally, R1 includes the following sequence (at least I think this is how it goes, since the lyrics are a little hard to hear):

(PROUVAIRE)

And the people will fight

(GRANTAIRE)

And join with you

Who gives a speech in the square

Fortunately, R2 uses a much less clunky (though still somewhat so) sequence:

(PROUVAIRE)

And the people will fight

(GRANTAIRE)

And so they might

Some will bark, some will bite

This isn't quite its current form ("dogs" and "fleas" will soon respectively replace the two usages of "some"), but it's pretty darn close.

I've heard that the very first Barbican preview(s?) didn't have a finalized opening to "On My Own". Sadly there is no known audio record of this, so I cannot comment on what exactly it began as. As such, the next major change takes place during Gavroche's death scene. This honestly is probably the biggest of all the changes between the two recordings. R1 uses the following death scene (in the tune of "Look Down" right up until the "So never kick a dog" verse, which is in the tune of "Little People"):

How do you do, my name’s Gavroche

These are my people, here’s my patch

Not much to look at, nothing posh

Nothing that you’d call up to scratch

Some fool, I bet, whose brains are made of fat

Picks up a gun and shoots me down

Nobody told him who he’s shooting at

He doesn’t know who runs this town

Life’s like that

There’s some folk

Missed the joke

That’s three, that’s three

That one has done for me

Too fast, too fast

They’ve got Gavroche at last

So never kick a dog

Because he’s just a pup

You better run for cover when the pup grows...

By contrast, R2 uses a much shorter variant which is set entirely to the tune of "Little People":

And little people know

When little people fight

We may look easy picking but we've got some bite

So never kick a dog

Because he's just a pup

You'd better run for cover when the pup grows up

And we'll fight like twenty armies and we won't give...

This is much closer to its current form, although the last two lines are inverted (we'll get to that in a later edition).

We now fast-forward to "Dog Eats Dog", which while recognizable is very different from the number we know today. The chorus of R1 claims that "It's a dirty great sewer that's crawling with rats", which R2 changes it to "stinking great sewer" instead. I'd definitely say the revised lyric better captures Thenardier's and the sewer's grossness.

Additionally, regarding Marius' ring, Thenardier originally exclaims that he "didn't mean to waste it, that would really be a crime". By R2, the line changes to "wouldn't want to waste it", which I'd say makes a lot more sense.

"Javert's Suicide" has changed a lot. R1 features the following remarks following "Vengeance was his and he gave me back my life":

Damned if I live in this caper of grace

Damned if I live in the debt of Valjean

I'll spit his pity right back in his face

Is this the law or has sanity gone?

(I'm a little unsure as to how accurate the final line is.)

By R2, the lines have been replaced with the current ones:

Damned if I live in the debt of a thief

Damned if I yield at the end of the chase

I am the law and the law is not mocked

I'll spit his pity right back in his face

In R1, the "Where's the new world, now the fighting's done" line is absent, and there is nothing but instrumentals in the segment where it is usually sung. By contrast, it is sung as usual in R2. My guess is that an actress simply forgot her line in R1 and it was always supposed to be there, though I can't say for sure.

The final change occurs at the wedding scene. The singing which opens the number is repeated in R1. By contrast, R2 has it sung once and then done with, as it currently is (and as it should be in my opinion, since the music isn't particularly pretty and contributes nothing to the plot).

Later in the same scene, R1 includes approximately this exchange (again, it's quite hard to make out the exact lyrics):

(THENARDIER)

I was there

Never fear

Even got me this fine souvenir

He was there

Her old dad

*indecipherable* and fleecing this lad

Robbed the dead

That's his way

(MME. THENARDIER)

That's worth five hundred any old day

(MARIUS)

I know this...

By R2, everything between "He was there" and "Any old day" were removed, which makes sense given that they essentially just rehash what was already said.

Finally, there's a subtle difference in the epilogue, specifically during the "Do You Hear the People Sing?" reprise. In R1, the ensemble sings "They will live again in glory in the garden of the Lord". R2 replaces the word "glory" with "freedom", and that word remains the one used to this day. I suppose "freedom" is more appropriate for the context of peace and prosperity. To many, I'd guess that "glory" conjures imagery of knights, battles, and the like; just the kind of violence that the characters wish to move away from! I have no idea if this was why the writers changed the lyric, but it's my hypothesis.

Towards the end of the show, the chorus in R1 sings "Even the darkest moon will end and the sun will rise". By R2, this is changed to "the darkest night". Makes more sense to me, since moons aren't known for being particularly dark!

And that just about sums this part up! If I missed anything feel free to let me know, as my goal is to create a changelog as thorough and complete as possible. I plan on making more parts in the near future covering all the changes that have been made in the show up until this day (discounting concerts). Any feedback and constructive criticism is very much appreciated.

As a side note, both for this project and my own enjoyment, I want as complete a collection of Les Miserables audios as possible. I already have most of what's commonly circulated, but if you have any audios or videos you know are rare, I'd love it if you DMed me!

Until the turntable puts me at the forefront again, good-bye...

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jasperwhitcock · 3 years

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equinox | chapter 07 –– “a cruel god, a wrathful goddess”

here is chapter six of my bella as a vampire and edward as a human fanfic inspired by an au that @bellasredchevy posted. you can read the new chapter on AO3 or here. i post updates on AO3 or on tumblr using the #equinoxjw tag. but it seems 10/10 times my tag does not work, so that is a fun mystery for me to solve.

oof... sometimes u get distracted and then ur sister gets married and then u get unmotivated & d*pressed and forget to update ur fanfic for over three months... my bad y'all... sorry for the wait hehe. i hope it is worth it. again, i'm so thankful for the comments & i read them all. i get too shy to respond, but i WILL. i just need to talk myself up first. i love u. thank u. hehe. ♡♡♡ merry christmas/happy holidays if i fail u again before the 25th. i WANT to update more frequently. my catchphrase these days is "i'm trying my best," so... i'm trying my best.

this is for the sweet anons who slide into my ask box & ask me questions abt my fanfic. and for taryn, who consistently reminds me that there are people wanting to read this seeing as she is one of those people, kim, who i am so desperate to impress that i began working on a new chapter once she started to read my fanfic, and kae, because without her, this fanfic would never have existed in the first place. i love how i'm writing this as though it's the intro to an actual book when it's literally just chapter seven. ok, i will shut up now so u can read. love u. again.

07 A CRUEL GOD, A WRATHFUL GODDESS

In great contrast to the noisy ambience of the other students in the hallway, we were silent on our walk to our shared biology class. I wondered how conscious Edward was of the stares and whispers focused on our proximity to one another, but my guess was that he was very much conscious of it. I intentionally ignored glancing in any direction that I sensed one of my siblings’ presence, although I figured it was mostly paranoia driving me to feel as though we were about to cross paths. Holding my breath to more easily walk beside Edward left my senses impaired to the ability to pinpoint their location.

I was lucky that for the majority of my immortal life, I’d managed to escape unwanted attention. But now, it seemed that precious luck had finally run out. Maybe embarrassment had been creeping up on me, maliciously building itself up all these years, waiting until just the right moment to rear its ugly head and exact revenge that immorality had stolen its favorite object of humiliation to torment. But here it was, ensuring that I was finally catching up on feeling awkward and out of step, a feeling I experienced for what seemed like the entirety of my human life. I thought once I’d been changed, I’d never feel this way again, but becoming misaligned with my family made me feel bashful to parade my defiance in their faces. I had operated better under no scrutiny as a mortal and was surprised to realize that that still held true as an immortal as well. Because though there was now never a struggle of staying upright or a risk of tripping over my own feet, that didn’t prevent me from feeling self-conscious as I walked beside Edward. Although for different reasons –– it was too mortifying to consider what my family might make of what my actions suggested about my feelings towards Edward.

And yet still, I would put up with the ridicule and disapproval of my siblings if it meant I could listen to Edward speak his silly philosophical theology, his questioning of god and existence, for just a few more hours. If I were going to be teased over Alice’s visions regardless, I might as well find out what I can about this pretentious boy before I leave him alone forever. If only to understand why his moving to this small town threatened to warp my own future so much. In losing night and in losing death, there were so very little anomalies in the endless amount of time I’d been given. So what would it hurt to allow myself to fixate on this minuscule difference in my life for just awhile?

It could hurt Edward, a more selfless part of myself reminded me. If indulging myself was playing with fire, I was being justly punished with the way flames were efflorescing the inside of my dry, burning throat.

If a god did exist, why would it make sense for such a being to craft someone like Edward with his perceptivity, and send him off to this small town, home to a secret such as ours? If a god did exist, why it would be fair for such a being to craft someone like Edward, someone who tempted me both in bloodlust and in curiosity, and send him off to this small town, home to the very vampire who desperately wished to kill him most? If a god did exist, if our kind had fallen short of heaven, I could understand why sending Edward into our path –– and more specifically, my path –– could be some kind of punishment. But what I couldn’t understand is why a god would allow someone as innocent as Edward to be endangered for the sake of bringing a sinful, undead creature to justice. It seemed the only reasonable explanation would be that a god probably did not exist.

And how could there be? I was on the precipice of falling into temptation with every step further in the hallway and every question he asked and answered. I could never not be very much aware of the fact –– especially now with his body merely inches from my side and his sweet fragrance blooming both deliciously and relentlessly in the air. And even as I impossibly withstood the lure of his blood, how was I meant to ignore the irresistibility of his mind and how inexplicably concerned I was to understand it? It seemed like a very cruel experiment of free will and knowledge –– far too cruel to allow much room for the kind of god Edward hoped for.

I frowned as I realized that this experiment wasn’t that of a cruel god’s but that of a cruel vampire, and I felt very much like a vampire as the sound of his heartbeat was so appealing that it made my mouth water.

“Do the stares bother you?” Edward spoke quietly to me as we weaved throughout the hallway. Easily distracted, his question was able to pull the more civilized parts of myself together, though this was probably also in thanks to my choosing not to utilize my sense of smell. I found it funny that at least one of his thoughts had been in a similar vicinity. But of course, the rest of his thoughts were probably free of all consuming agony and struggle. For all his curiosity about morality, to inflict this existence upon him would probably devour him in misery. At least as a human, despite whatever conclusions he may come to, there was still some hope to be had for an afterlife. This thought should have been dark and depressing, but because it made Alice’s vision seem like a complete hoax, I almost found it funny. How would Edward ever end up like me?

“Oh, no,” I swallowed the venom in my mouth. “I live for attention.” I watched from the corner of my eyes as his gaze flickered over to me, the ever present half smile appearing on his face at my joke. My answer came out so comfortably as though I was used to this, when in reality, the student body for the most part had grown accustomed to ignoring me. And, of course, there was nothing comfortable about the demanding, aching dryness in my mouth or the burning in my nostrils. “How about you?”

“Likewise,” he joked, laughing. “This is interesting –– their fascination. I understood their interest on my first day because I’d guess a new addition to the student body in a town this small is something of a rarity, but today, walking by your side is garnering even more attention. Is it a once in a lifetime opportunity to have Bella Cullen walk you to class?”

“You’re just so observant, aren’t you?” I rolled my eyes, though the corners of my mouths pulled up despite myself. “And I’m not walking you to class. I’m walking to a class I just so happen to share with you, so don’t get the wrong idea. I think they’re just surprised because they’re probably under the impression that I don’t play nice with others.”

“And do you?”

“You tell me,” I replied, pausing to face him beside a wall of lockers next to the entrance of our biology classroom. As he stopped beside me, a gust of air from a passing student walking hastily down the hallway sent his scent reeling into me at an unfortunate moment where I’d chosen to breathe in. My muscles tensed to spring, and I desperately anchored myself to the floor as my mind fell into disarray.

“Nicely enough,” Edward winked naturally as though we’d been the best of friends since his first day. The demanding thirst was intruding on my awareness, and the desperation for something wet and hot and delicious in my desiccated throat was so dizzying that his voice sounded as though it were underwater. With an effort as though I were swimming through drying cement, I resurfaced, just barely proving my dominion over the desire. I focused on his voice so that it’d become clearer, forcing myself to take another excruciating breath in and exhale the fire out. “I will say I am honored to be the exception –– to be plucked from the masses by the renowned, reclusive Bella Cullen.”

With torturous effort, I snorted as though I wasn’t fighting everything within me to keep him alive. I breathed in again heavily, allowing my body to become a pyre so that I could speak. “Alright, that’s enough. Stop saying my name like that. And you’ve lost the privilege. I am never walking you to class again,” I rolled my eyes even though my joke could very much be the truth. The bunching of my muscles, the twitching of my hands, and the fierce pain in my throat reminded me of the fact. Before he could point out the contradiction of what I’d previously clarified, I sighed. “Let’s take this quiz.”

His pretty green eyes were alive with mischief and enlightened with what must be more answers to questions he hadn’t outright asked me as he turned to enter the classroom. I followed behind him towards our shared table.

Air from the vent rushed out, thrusting the scent of his blood wafting into my face again. I paused for an indistinguishable moment as I battled agony, murderousness, monstrosity. Holy fuck. What was I trying to prove! Was it really worth this? Swallowing hard, I sat beside him as though nothing happened. My suffering was so great that Emmett could have brutally ripped my arm off, he could have beat me with it, and I wouldn’t have noticed nor felt a thing. I could have been set on fire, and it’d feel like sinking into a cool pool of water on an even cooler day. I was already burning alive, my body acting as a furnace, and I was imprisoned inside it.

Without intending to, I sighed aloud, exhaling as though it would smother the flames. It was a stupid, attention seeking thing to do. Humans sighed to expel air or express some sadness or relief or exhaustion, so when my family emitted an audible breath, we did so as a means of blending in. But to breath out in a way to clue Edward into the fact something was plaguing me… it was a stupid invitation for more questions. And these were questions I had no intention of sharing the answers to. I felt his eyes on me, but before he could say anything, Mr. Molina began passing out quizzes face down on our lab tables as students continued to pile in from lunch.

“Alright, class. Today we have a pop quiz–– oh, come on, guys, don’t groan. You will have the opportunity to make corrections after these have been graded. This is just an assessment of what you’ve retained from this unit so far. You will have the entire period to complete–– thanks for joining us, Mr. Patterson, glad you could fit my class into your busy schedule. Why don’t you take your seat? –– You will have the entire period to complete your quiz. If you finish early, feel free to get a head start on this weekend’s homework! I’ve written the reading down on the board. Aw, I’m sure you’re all moaning because you’re disappointed at how light of an assignment it is because I just know how very excited you all are to continue your passionate pursuit of studying biology. Alright, now that everyone’s settled–– wait a minute––” Mr. Molina paused, raising his pointer finger in the air, his eyes squinted in anticipation. Three seconds later, the bell signaled the beginning of class. “Begin!”

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Edward reluctantly turn away from me. In an elegant script, he wrote his name at the top of the paper and began his quiz. I turned away from him to look at my own paper, preparing myself to uncomfortably hold my breath for the next hour. The difference this made in my thirst was almost insignificant, but enough so that it gave me a tiny more leverage in my control. I smoothed out the pucker on my forehead with the eraser from my pencil, accidentally snapping the rubber off against my face.

Absentmindedly, I began to breeze through the assessment, circling the correct answers, but my mind was more absorbed in the warmth of sitting beside Edward. Aside from the affliction of doing so, it was too pleasurable to have sat beside him so often and for so long today. I enjoyed the toastiness like a lizard basking in the sun. It made me recall the muddy human memory of laying out on a blanket in my backyard beneath my beloved blue Arizona sky, hiding beneath the small shade of a book. Not the blistering heat of a summertime Phoenix sun, but the warmth of the first day of spring. But the heat of Edward’s body alone was enough to fill my mouth with venom, so I tried to refocus my attention onto my quiz.

When I turned to the last page of questions, a motion beside me diverted my concentration once again. I peeked over, turning my head slightly in Edward’s direction to see what it was. As he thought over one of the questions, his right hand was moving peculiarly as he lifted and dropped down his long fingers almost as though he were impatiently tapping each digit one by one along the tabletop. Except the movement was more exact and calculatingly random. Engrossed, I watched as his his soft, fragile skin rippled over the muscle, the tendons appearing and disappearing with every bizarre movement. It took me a moment to make the connection between the large grand piano in his home and the motion of his hands. I realized he was miming piano movements while he thought through his answers. There was something both weird, funny, and endearing about this. I smiled to myself, not having the required oxygen to quietly laugh.

I felt his curious eyes flicker over to me and watched peripherally as he raised his eyebrows. I shook my head, biting down on my lip to unsuccessfully fight the smile, and returned to completing my quiz.

I finished a moment later and impatiently waited another ten minutes or so before I could turn in my work. I tried to ignore Edward for this small period of time at least, mentally reading myself the opening chapter to Wuthering Heights. Even though the words were committed to my memory, it was still never as good as actually reading from the book itself.

Once I’d decided an appropriate enough time had passed, I stood up to walk my quiz to the completed basket on Mr. Molina’s desk. Even having waited, I was still the first to finish the examination.

“Thank you,” the teacher whispered without breaking his focus away from the crossword puzzle he peered through his glasses at. I breathed in now that I’d placed some distance between myself and Edward, gladly facing the cool, fresh air from the vent.

“Neophyte,” I whispered back now that I’d replenished my oxygen supply.

“Excuse me?” He glanced up, his slightly aged face confused.

“Neophyte,” I repeated. “Eight across, two down.”

I took in one last clean breath and walked back to my seat as he tapped his pen across the squares of the space, mouthing his count of the letters to check if the word fit.

As soon as I took my place in my seat again, Edward stood up to walk his own quiz to the basket.

I wanted to watch him, but instead I forced myself to unzip my backpack and retrieve the biology textbook.

Busying myself with the assigned chapters, deciding to actually read them so as to not feed into my invasive Edward obsession, I couldn’t help but listen as Edward too placed his own textbook on the countertop.

I heard the scribble of pen on paper as he began to write what I imagined were notes until his large hand slid the paper over to me beneath the wall of my hair spilling over the desk. Well, I wouldn’t ignore him if he was the one deciding to bother me.

You know I’m pretty certain that cheating is a violation of the student handbook, but I’ll let you get away with it just this once.

I turned to glance at his face to see if he were serious. His eyes were warm and inviting, his mouth in the same crooked smile.

I took the piece of paper and looked around for my writing utensil that had gone missing somehow. My eyes zeroed in on a suspicious, tiny pile of wood dust on my side of the desk. When had I brutalized my pencil? He held his hand out to offer his own pen, and I accepted it, carefully plucking it from his fingers without making contact.

I wasn’t cheating. You were doing something funny. And what do you know about the student handbook? You’re new.

I slid the paper and pen back to him and watched as he combed a hand through his bronze hair, reading my response. The smile grew wider as he construed the biting tone of my note.

Can I be let in on the joke? Edward wrote, turning to look at me once he was done. Again I was prisoner, though this time not to my own body. I was momentarily held hostage by the beauty and warmth of his light green eyes. I was understanding more and more the attraction the other students had for him. If I had a soul, it was as though he were staring straight into it.

I recovered, placing my hand atop the desk and then wiggling my fingers as though I were weaving my way through a very complicated piano piece.

Oh, Edward mouthed, immediately understanding. He silently laughed and placed his left hand to his forehead briefly as if to hide his face in mock embarrassment. The ink from the pen spilled onto the paper as he began to write again.

In my defense, there’s research that supports classical music puts students in a heightened emotional state, making them more receptive to information and helping them focus.

That’s very nerdy of you. I scribbled back, the corners of my lips pulled upwards.

I know. As I read the words on the notebook paper, we both laughed a little too loudly for the quietness of the room.

“Please remain silent for your classmates still working,” Mr. Molina stage-whispered from his desk, his eyes still fixated on the crossword puzzle.

It’s a bad habit. Edward tacked on to his message. I beamed. I knew a thing or two about bad habits today. I was appreciative of this silent conversation on paper; it made it easier to be beside him without needing to breathe to speak aloud.

What were you playing? I scrawled.

Clair de Lune. Edward wrote back. His thick eyebrows raised as my eyes lit up, and he continued writing. You know Debussy?

My mother used to play a lot of classical music around the house. It was one of my favorites.

It’s one of my favorites, too. Edward’s eyes were a little sad and lost in thought, and he smiled softly.

I was shocked by the change in expression and weirdly desperate to return the brightness back to his eyes. The burn in my throat was almost forgettable in the face of my concern. Almost, but not quite. He turned his head down to write on the paper again.

You said Rosalie played piano. You never learned? He turned to look at me, his expression curious. I shook my head and shrugged, reaching for the pen.

I didn’t think I had the coordination for it. While this was true for the time I was human, it wasn’t true now. Still, even though my days stretched into endless nights, I hadn’t yet devoted time to any instrument as an immortal.

Edward read the paper, his long pointer finger tracing the line beneath the words as he did so. He held his large hand out, and I dropped the pen into it.

I’ll show you sometime. Edward half smiled at me, his eyes sweet and earnest.

Knowing I shouldn’t be allowing him to think making a plans with me was an option, I reached for the pen to tell him that it was alright, but I froze as he suddenly moved to drop the pen and take my hand. Though he should have been the one hesitant and cautious as though approaching a dangerous, wounded animal, I held perfectly still as though he were the danger, and I needed to play dead for protection. You can’t play dead if you are dead, I thought to myself.

My body tensed as my hand was enveloped in the heat of his much larger palm, uncertain as to what he was doing. My muscles screamed at me as I clenched my free hand into a tight fist, terrified of myself.

A shiver rippled through him as he felt the chill of my frozen fingers, and I twitched the hand in his possession, wanting to yank it away to protect him from the iciness but not wanting to alert him with the swiftness of the motion.

He smiled mysteriously at the spasm as though he somehow expected it. I wanted to ask him what he was thinking but didn’t want to risk breathing. My control could too easily be lost. Besides, I was scared that if I were to open my mouth, I’d end up screaming.

I felt him push slightly and realized he wished for me to curl my fingers, so with great concentration and the acute awareness of his fragility, I moved my stony hand into the shape he directed, my fingers curved slightly beneath his like a relaxed talon. I didn’t like the shape; it was odd and inhuman and made me think of the violence I could cause.

But it wasn’t a claw. Because once my hand was positioned the way he wanted, he began to slowly place pressure on my fingers, and I dipped and rose them accordingly to carefully move with his. I watched as the two of our hands together played what I imagined must be the opening chords to Clair de Lune.

The disconcerting emptiness in my chest soared at the bizarre pleasure of this touch, and a weird sensation tickled my scalp, moving swiftly down my spine to my entire body.

My muscles tightened violently and then relaxed, sending a shiver to ripple through me. It was too much pleasure and too much pain as my throat ached and I leaned into the warmth.

Embarrassed and not wanting to push my luck, I cautiously pulled my hand slowly away. He lifted his hand to allow me to escape as though I couldn’t just break his hand to do so, a half-smile pulling on his lips. I pretended not to notice the goosebumps on his arms.

See? he mouthed before deciding to whisper. “You could do it.”

I forced myself to smile and then turned away for the rest of the hour, trying to keep from doing anything stupid like looking at him or killing him. I’d completely forgotten where we were.

When the bell finally rung, I collected my things atop the desk hastily. Edward reached for my backpack and held it up for me.

“Thanks,” I murmured as I dumped my books into the bag. Before I could take it from him, he slid it onto his back and nodded his head once for me to go forward.

Feeling awkward, I turned and allowed him to follow me to the door. I was lucky to walk in front of him, taking the opportunity to breath again as the vent blew out in front of my face.

Exiting the classroom, I paused for a second when I saw Emmett waiting for me across the hallway rather than his typical spot beside the wall of lockers next to our shared Spanish classroom. Even though I was well aware of the fact I’d been dangling my irresponsibility in their faces all day, I still felt as though I was being caught in the act.

Emmett’s eyebrows raised as his golden eyes watched Edward follow behind me, carrying my backpack. I crossed the hallway reluctantly towards my big brother.

“Hello,” I greeted him, avoiding his eyes. I felt smaller than ever beside him with my head down, and yet not small enough as I wished to disappear.

“Hey, little sis,” Emmett began uncertainly, though I glanced up to see his full lips were beginning to stretch into a smile that I didn’t like. “Who’s that with you?”

“Uh…”

“I’m Edward Masen,” the lanky human boy introduced himself confidently as he stopped beside me. “And you must be––”

“Emmett,” my brother interrupted, grinning as though he always so comfortably interacted with humans. This was all too weird, but he looked to be enjoying it far too much. His desire to mess with me and his confidence in Alice’s visions seemed to override the abnormality of speaking to a student so amicably. I watched as he breathed in and shot me a meaningful look. I grimaced.

I opened my mouth to put an end to this torturously awkward interaction, but Emmett interrupted again.

“It’s nice to see you made a friend,” he began, an evil glint in his eyes as he watched my face. I was confused as to where he was going with this because our entire family would come across as misanthropic to the rest of the school, so why should it matter to him. He turned his attention to look at Edward who was closer in height to him. “You know, we worry about her––”

“Okay, let’s go to Spanish,” I cut him off quickly. “Edward, can I have my bag, please?”

Without looking at him, I reached for my backpack as he offered it and threw it over my shoulder, heading down the hallway. It was a massive relief to put some distance between myself and Edward. My thoughts were clearer, and I could breathe freely.

Emmett burst into laughter, his guffaws booming in the hallway. Several students paused in fear making me concerned about Edward’s reaction to my giant of a sibling, but I relaxed when I heard Edward chuckling along with him.

“Um, see you,” Emmett said to Edward before his steady, near silent footfall followed after me.

Even moving at a lethargic human pace, he caught up to me quickly.

“That wasn’t funny,” I grumbled.

“What the hell are you doing?” Emmett chuckled, ignoring my question.

“What the hell are you doing? What was that back there?”

“I don’t know. That was weird, but not as weird as you playing with your food.”

I hissed quietly.

“Damn, I’m kidding, Bells. But seriously, what are you doing? What happened to your high and noble speech about doing the right thing and staying away from the kid? I thought Esme was about to produce real tears. It even softened Rose.”

“Ugh, don’t talk to me about Rosalie right now. She’s been giving me dirty looks all day. It makes me feel awful. I already feel bad!”

“Well, I don’t really care what you do either way so––” I looked at him questionably. “I mean, sure, I want you to do the right thing, whatever that means. I don’t want you to feel miserable. But on one end, I didn’t really mind so much what happened to me.”

“Rosalie did,” I countered.

“Yeah, Rose did,” he acquiesced quietly.

“Anyways, I’m not having that conversation. I wasn’t talking to him today to test whether or not he’s worth it. That’s… unethical.”

“So what were you doing?”

“I don’t know,” I groaned in answer.

Emmett laughed.

“You’re weird these days, Bella.”

“You’re weird everyday,” I quipped back before sighing. “I don’t know. He’s weird, too. I guess… I’m not making any decisions, at all, but if Alice told you what she told me… wouldn’t you be curious?”

Emmett thought it over. “Yeah, I think so. But I also don’t think I’d have even made it to this point,” he admitted. I winced.

“It’s kind of unfair for me to care more about satiating my curiosity and dance with the devil this way, right?”

“Well…he may not know it, but isn’t it more so that Edward’s the one dancing with the devil?”

“Yeah,” I agreed, frowning as we walked into our Spanish class. “I guess it is.”

I made the decision to avoid thinking of Edward for the remaining hour of school. I paid very little attention in Spanish, returning to the familiar mind-numbing boredom that classes had been prior to the last few days. Now that it was in stark contrast to the sudden life breathed into my time at Forks High School by my fixation with Edward, the tedium was no longer something dealt with indifferently and sluggishly. Now, it left me feeling restless, and it almost pained me how laborious it was to sit through a life I wasn’t an active participant in. It was nowhere near the pain of dealing with the excruciating thirst I had around my bronze-haired lab partner, but it almost tampered with my thoughts more knowing I’d feel less miserable if I spent this time analyzing every word Edward shared with me, every fluctuation of his tone, every glint in his perceptive eyes, every expression on his pretty face… But I was becoming too obsessive. The same hunger for adventure that made me fall in love with reading must be what was leading me to so treacherously, so impetuously dive into exploring this insignificant and yet cataclysmic difference in my life.

As though it had a personal vendetta against me, time moved even more lethargically than it ever had before, but finally, the bell signaling the end of school rang. Emmett’s eyes shot a concerned look at me as I rose from my seat too quickly, and I immediately felt embarrassed again. The cautious reminder in his expression made me feel childish as Emmett was never one to care much about bending the rules.

“See you at home, I guess,” he shook his head, giving me one last look that seemed to suggest I’d lost it.

“See you,” I mumbled, slinging my bag over my shoulder. Leaving Emmett behind to wait for Rosalie, I weaved through the crowded hallway and out to the parking lot. Students were bundling together and squealing at the chilling air as tiny, fluffy snowflakes fluttered down from the overcast sky. The floor of the parking lot was almost as glassy as yesterday as the rain from this afternoon had melted into a thin layer of icy mush. Though there was hardly enough snow for a decent snowball fight, some of the rowdier students were bundling up a pitiful pile of snow to form pathetic snowballs in their fists.

I nearly skipped to the pearly white vehicle parked beside Rosalie’s overly conspicuous crimson car which was forming a small crowd of admirers. Leaning against the trunk of the car, I watched the front doors of the school to look for Edward.

The tangle of reddish-brown hair was easy to spot because of its strange metallic tint as he strolled out of the building with Naomi, the student who’d provided him with the information about my family on his first day. He had his coat folded over his arm, revealing how form fitting his light tan turtleneck was. He truly was a very attractive boy. It was odd that I hadn’t really paid much attention initially. With his dazzling face and tall, lean frame, Edward was pretty enough that for the vampires who searched for exquisitely beautiful humans to create into even more stunning immortals, he could probably be a contender for someone to collect.

Thinking of how Emmett questioned my motives today, I quickly banished the idea of Edward as an immortal from my mind, even if it was only a hypothetical inspired by my observation.

Edward paused, asking Naomi if she could hold on to his backpack for a moment. When she grabbed it, he pulled on his long black coat, and fiddled with the collar. Recollecting his backpack, he slid it onto one shoulder, then rubbed his hands together, blowing the warm air from his mouth to heat them up. Thinking of the sweetness of the smell of his breath made me remember to take in swallows of fresh air before he made his way over to me.

As he was distracted momentarily, I watched as a stray snowball flew towards Edward’s head. I was overcome with the urge to intercept it in the event it may hit him too harshly and knock him to the pavement, but flying across the parking lot inhumanly fast twice in one week was probably not the way to go about correcting my mistakes.

The soggy snowball crashed into Edward’s hair, exploding into shards of ice and water that slid down his prominent cheekbone. I laughed aloud at his shocked expression as the curtain bangs framing his face were immediately drenched, darkening his hair into a brown color. Once he’d realized what happened, his face broke into a good-humored smile.

“Holy shit! Sorry, Edward!” The classmate who had thrown the snowball with poor aim called out.

“No worries!” Edward called back. He shook his head, chuckling as he wiped the water from his face. As he laughed, his eyes found the space where I waited and brightened seeing that I, too, was enjoying the moment.

“Hey, I’ll see you tomorrow,” he told Naomi, who was too beside herself in tears of laughter to reply.

Edward sauntered over towards me, and I inhaled deeply as a fortuitous whisper of wind blew from the tree line. I held onto the notes of crisp eucalyptus, fresh snow, and cedar wood, trying to distract my mind from the offensively mouthwatering scents approaching me.

Edward was a coordinated human, but even he lost his footing on the icy pavement. His body slid forward for a moment, but I stepped towards him to close the space between us and caught him by the elbow.

He looked up from his boots against the frozen parking lot into my eyes, startled momentarily at the swiftness in which I had appeared. Then, his full lips lifted into a crooked smile that creased his astonishing green eyes into half moons. I let go immediately and took a big step back to ensure a safer distance between myself and the warmth of his fragile body. It had been a risky movement, but somehow in comparison to yesterday, it didn’t seem to matter as much. I figured our classmates were too involved in their gawking at the details of my sister’s car or their feeble, slushy snowball fight to notice, and oddly, I didn’t care that Edward had seen. It was beginning to feel too late to keep up certain pretenses.

Although, it wasn’t too late, and it shouldn’t feel that way. I reminded myself I still had every intention of leaving Edward alone once I’d figured out what was so compelling about our paths crossing that had Alice’s visions spiraling in a confusing jumble. I took another step back slowly.

“Thank you,” Edward said, his eyes humored with another secret he didn’t seem willing to share. “You keep saving me.”

“Well, let’s not make this damsel in distress thing habitual,” I snorted, turning so that he couldn’t see the smile forming on my face. I felt shy about showcasing any comfort or happiness in his presence now that I was reminded of how fleeting this experimental friendship was, but I wondered if subconsciously I wanted him to catch me in my misery and ask me to explain, though I wasn’t certain why I wanted to sabotage myself like that. I opened my door and turned to look at him again. “You coming?”

Before he could answer, I dipped into the driver’s seat, and breathed in one last time. Well, once this was all over, I could finally stop inhaling dramatically as though they were truly my last, dying breaths. The air was mostly clean of his scent, but I knew that regardless, the heat of his body would be enough to disrupt my comfort and control. As the thought crossed my mind, I painfully swallowed back the venom pooling beneath my tongue.

Edward swerved through the crowd obsessing over Rosalie’s car and opened the passenger door, sliding into his seat. As he placed his backpack on the floor and fiddled with his seatbelt, I made sure to adjust the air conditioning so that the heat could warm Edward from the frigid Forks air. Though for me, just being in his presence made the intimate interior of the car feel as though I were again sitting by his fireplace.

“That’s a beautiful car,” he murmured. “Is it an M8?”

“Uh, it’s a BMW?” I asked uncertainly as though he’d spoken another language.

Edward grinned as though he wanted to laugh but didn’t want to make me angry. Rosalie would have loved to answer all his questions if he too had an interest in cars. Would have loved to, if she wasn’t deeply offended by my actions or if I had any intention of Edward meeting any more of my family members.

“Ready?” I bit my lip as I forced out any inconsiderate plots of murder that threatened to distract me from being a defensive driver.

“Mhm,” Edward answered.

I reversed out of the parking slot slowly, but as I looked in the rearview once I’d straightened out, I saw the fleeting image of Rosalie’s exquisitely beautiful and exceptionally angry face. I quickly readjusted the mirror to remove my sister’s reflection and sped out of the parking lot in a way that could have taken out a few unlucky students if I didn’t have above average years of driving experience.

Peripherally, I watched as Edward’s thick eyebrows raised, but he decided not to question me. Once we’d reached the main road, I slowed my speed so as not to rush through this time, even though I knew for his safety and my sanity, I should. As I drove, his right hand moved in odd shapes again against the arm rest of the passenger side door as though he were playing piano once more.

I decided to bite and use up some of my limited air supply.

“What are you playing?”

“Clair de Lune again,” he replied. Then, he began to hum the melody aloud for me as he moved his hand.

I thought to offer to play the song for him through the speakers, but I decided against it as I listened to Edward’s soft, velvety voice hum beautifully through the song, breaking the silence.

The ugly, slush-like falling of snow transformed into a falling of rainwater, and Edward’s voice was orchestrated by a lovely symphony of raindrops.

Before his voice could weave into the more involved moments of the piece, Edward stopped.

I looked over at him, curious for the reason as to why. His face was turned away from me so that all I could see was his untidy bronze hair as he gazed out the window. I pulled in front of his driveway and parked against the curb.

Miraculously, I’d made it again. Carefully, I inhaled through my nose to experiment with my control. The sweet bouquet of the boy’s blood was potent and even more mouthwatering than usual from the snow turned rain that’d wet his hair. I hadn’t considered the possibility that he could smell better than before, and I kept myself from groaning aloud as I dug my nails into my own palms. The tingling sensation in my nose was as though I’d sniffed some powerful chemical, the burning sensation in my throat as though I’d taken a long drag of a cigarette. But more painful. More demanding. Desire, need flew from my core out towards my extremities, and the beating of his heart pumping the blood through his body drummed loudly in my ears. It seemed to move through me, my frigid body almost twitching with every pulse, ready to lunge forward and crush his neck to my lips.

“What was your mother like?” He asked me suddenly, his voice soft. Edward turned from the window to face me, and I was bewildered by the intensity of his expression. His eyes were light and beautiful against the gloomy grey of the sky, and they squinted slightly as though studying my face like this information was absolutely essential. But this was not what stunned me, as I’d already seen the severity of this expression before in our ephemeral time together. It was the unexpected vulnerability of his stunning face. The more time I spent looking at him, the more I realized how beautiful this human boy really was. And it seemed a great tragedy for this beautiful boy to harbor such devastation in his eyes.

Whereas previously in his presence, my thoughts had become incoherent due to a lapse in control, now my thoughts were incoherent in distress and desperation to understand what had gone wrong and how I could fix it. I was momentarily dumbfounded, but I pulled myself together after the soft sound of a few droplets of rain against the roof reminded me that he was waiting for an answer.

“Well, she looked a lot like me, but prettier,” I began stupidly. He raised his eyebrows. “Or at least, she used to look a lot like me, and I used to look a lot like her. I don’t so much anymore.” It’d been so long since I’d really spoken about my mom, and I wasn’t sure if I wanted to laugh or cry. I knew I should have made some comment about whether or not she looked like Esme or Emmett since our story made us siblings, but I didn’t want to taint the rarity of sharing who she was with a lie.

“She was more outgoing than I am,” I continued, thinking through the foggy memories I held onto from my human life.

“That’s difficult to believe,” Edward teased quietly, his lips curving into a half smile.

I laughed, listening to the melodic sound of it, thinking of how it symbolized how very much different I was now from the human girl my mother knew.

“I was always very shy,” I smiled, before speaking up again, caught in the echoes of my past. “She was brave and irresponsible and slightly eccentric. And she was a very unpredictable cook!”

I laughed aloud again thinking of some minor explosions in our tiny kitchen and some questionable dishes. Edward laughed too, but when our laughter faded into the falling of the rain, my smile faded.

“She wasn’t perfect,” I admitted. “I think I recognize now that she was very fallible. I worshipped her when I was younger, but when I think back, I do see how in some of the ways she raised me, I was done a disservice… I grew up too fast. When she died––“ I sighed, feeling insincere and guilty about perpetuating this lie when I really should have said when I died, “––Esme became more of a mother to me, and even Rosalie’s been more traditionally nurturing than my mom ever was… But still, she was my best friend.”

“You miss her,” he murmured simply. I met his gentle eyes.

“Yes,” I bit my lip.

“How old are you, Bella?” Edward asked. “And not the formulaic, theorized version where you were born in your thirties. How old are you really?”

I tensed, wondering if he was asking this again because he’d taken note of how I didn’t directly answer this question the last time he asked.

“Seventeen,” I answered automatically.

“You don’t seem seventeen,” he responded, reproachful.

The tension left my body at the tone of his voice. I smiled again easily.

“Sorry?” I asked, biting my lip to hide the smile, unsure of how to respond.

Edward chuckled and the subtle crinkles by his eyes lit up his face. “Well, I wish you’d been given a happier, normal childhood.”

“I’m fine,” I shrugged, brushing it off. “I hardly remember most of it, and what I do remember reminds me that I probably didn’t have much chance at a normal childhood to begin with. I was terribly shy, remember.

“I did do girl scouts, though….Oh, and ballet briefly,” I admitted, unsure as to why I was volunteering so much information about myself. Wasn’t the purpose of me sitting here to uncover information about him?

“Why does that make you… embarrassed?” Edward’s eyebrows pulled up.

For an odd moment, I felt betrayed by the flush of my cheeks before I realized there was no blood rushing to my face. I blinked, bewildered by the peculiarity of this long buried instinct to become frustrated with my easy blushes when I hadn’t blushed for years. I felt self conscious as I wondered what Edward saw reading my expression to so perfectly decipher my feelings.

“I was very uncoordinated,” I dismissed his question as I fought the urge for my hand to flutter to touch my cool cheek.

“Now that truly is difficult to believe,” Edward half-smiled. “I can’t imagine I’ve seen anyone as graceful as you.”

I laughed aloud at his compliment, though I didn’t doubt his sincerity. I knew this was true of myself. It was true of all of our kind to appear fluid and effortless, but still, no one had ever applied the word to me. My vampiric poise was irrelevant and unimpressive to my family, and the very few humans brave enough to overcome their nerves to compliment me typically found their words to fail them.

“You’re very odd,” I beamed.

“What do you mean?” The bronze-haired boy asked, again wanting to be let in on the secret. While I had an insatiable thirst, it seemed he had an insatiable curiosity.

“How old are you really? Your word choice is bizarre for someone your age, you know.”

“Oh,” he laughed easily. “Well, I’m actually not seventeen. I’m eighteen. But I’ll try to strictly adhere to a more teenage vernacular, so I can compliment you in a more acceptable way from now on.”

I looked out at the dim light of the brewing storm, my smile fading as I decided that I should probably allow him to escape me before I did something I’d regret. But I knew I wasn’t resolved enough to completely leave him alone. He made me monopolize too much of the conversation, and I wasn’t satisfied with what I knew about him yet.

I sighed aloud, and Edward, too, looked out at the rain darkened sky.

“Will I see you tomorrow?” he asked hopefully, making the assumption that our conversation was coming to an end.

“Yes,” I promised reluctantly. My eyes flickered back over to his pretty face, studying the lines of his strong jaw, his chiseled cheekbones, his full lips, committing this inconsequential face to memory as I silently resolved that this should be –– and would be –– one of the last times I’d allow myself to be this close to him. Tomorrow may well be the very last.

Likewise, as though his thoughts were in the same vein, his beautiful green eyes studied my face as well, though he did so in that mysterious way of his where he looked at me as though hoping to read my mind.

He sighed, then collected his backpack. Edward opened the door, stepping out into the bitterly cold weather. A shiver ran through his lanky body, making my body tense with perverse excitement. I cringed away from the deadly instinct and swallowed against the dryness of my yearning throat.

Edward’s tall, lean frame leaned down to peek into the car.

“Goodnight, Bella,” he spoke softly.

“Goodnight, Edward,” I almost whispered, gazing into the beauty of his dazzling green eyes.

Edward smiled his half smile, and closed the door, escaping into the building torrent of rain.

I gasped in relief at his absence, then stiffened realizing how the cab of the car was still heavily perfumed with his scent. I took in another deep breath, forcing myself to confront the burning thirst again, willing myself to manage it. I sighed as I hit the gas, making Edward disappear behind me.

Both my control and the rain pour strengthened significantly as I turned onto the long drive leading to my house. I grimaced as I wondered how I’d face my family and explain the complete reversal of what I’d promised to do. I didn’t have time to consider for much longer as suddenly, a figure appeared instantaneously in the drive. I slammed my foot on the brake immediately in shock at its appearance, not wanting to total yet another car against one of my siblings.

I peered through the windshield, unable to see through the complete downpour that submerged my vehicle as though it were underwater. It was annoying for my perfect sight to be obstructed by anything, rainwater or even the transparent windshield because of my eyes’ desire to focus on the microscopic scratches.

The car violently screeched against the muddy pavement, and it looked as though we would have to bid this car goodbye until the figure hidden by the storm placed their hands out on the car roughly and forced it to a stop. The tires screamed in protest, and the metal groaned as it warped into the shape of the palms. I listened as it unnaturally bent again in a piercing moan as the figure fixed the indentions they’d created.

My windshield wipers swatted away a flood of water. Finally, I could make out my sister Rosalie, her hair dripping wet down her back like a supermodel who’d just emerged from a pool on the cover of Sports Illustrated. Her exquisite face was absolutely furious.

I gulped, feeling like a child who’d just been discovered sneaking home past curfew.

I felt uncertain as to what to do and why she’d chosen to stop me here. Surely she could wait for us to be under the cover of the garage before she chastised me. Not wanting to be drenched by the rain, I revved the engine to ask her to move aside, but the car didn’t inch forward against her strength. Beginning to feel annoyed, I revved the engine again loudly and for longer, but still, she didn’t move.

“Rose,” I hissed as I hit the brake again so that the car could roar viciously in the storm, only to be cut off by the voice of my adopted mother.

“Girls!” I couldn’t see Esme through the obscured glass behind the downpour, but even with the barrage of the rain, I could hear her lithe steps run furiously to the front porch. “Please!”

Rose’s head snapped up to look in Esme’s direction before turning to glance unhappily back at me. She stepped aside, and I sped into the garage, parking the car hastily.

I exited immediately and went to expect the damage to the front of the hood. It was only a minuscule bend from having been pushed and prodded back and forth, and I was positive Rosalie could make it look like new, though why it had been necessary to punish the car was beyond me. It wasn’t even mine.

I wheeled around once I’d heard the near-silent steps of her run, a wave of anger making me forget my guilt.

“Are you insane?!” I demanded.

“I could ask the same of you, Bella!” Now free from the obscurity of the rain, I could see in perfect detail the stunning fury of her glorious face. Her golden hair had been darkened by the rain, and it was slicked back effortlessly, like a glittering waterfall down to the middle of her back. She looked like a wrathful god, but I couldn’t find it in my stubbornness to care about how valid her anger may be.

“Okay, but did you have to take it out on the car? What did it ever do to you! You couldn’t have waited another twenty seconds to confront me? Well, you have my attention now, Rosalie, so say whatever it is you want to say!”

“You’re just unbelievable, Bella!”

“He’s not going to say anything, Rose! We already talked about this yesterday. You heard Alice! He’s not a threat to you and Emmett, so I don’t understand why you’re taking this so personally.”

“Exactly, Bella. I heard Alice. Which is precisely why I fail to understand as to why you wouldn’t understand why I’d take it so personally. After all these years of sisterhood, how can you not understand how I feel about this?”

I frowned, my forehead puckering, but still, I retained my anger. She huffed, continuing.

“If it was an inevitability, I’d understand. However, it hurts me deeply that you recognize the choice that you have. The choice that Edward has. And still, you’re willing to play with his mortality as though it were a game, when I never had that choice.”

I froze, the realization dawning on me that she was right. No matter the ways in which I tried to justify my actions or spin my intentions, she was right. Another part of my mind acknowledged that while I was aware of right and wrong, I wasn’t certain that what was right would be enough to keep me away anymore.

We stared each other down much like we had yesterday. Only today, rather than anger, her face was contorted in hurt, and mine was contorted in hopelessness.

“But… you found Emmett when he was still human…” I weakly protested, selfishly trying to highlight the irony, though I knew it was pointless as I wasn’t advocating for Edward to be changed either. That was too complicated a thought to wrap my mind around. But whatever may happen –– and I was still very much aware of the worst of possibilities –– I didn’t want my sister to hate me for it.

“He was dying, Bella,” Rosalie whispered. The anger on her face had completely faded, and in its place, pain marked her eyebrows, her full lips, her golden, sad eyes. In her sadness, she looked like a work of art, like one of those paintings of a weeping saint. “It’s not the same.”

I didn’t have a response to that, and I felt as though I was at an impasse, both with myself and with Rosalie. Because I knew the promises I’d made and broken, but I knew the promise I’d made to Edward today, and I had no willpower, no desire, and no intention to break that promise.

“You may not feel anything for him now,” Rosalie began, her eyes intently fierce as they bore into mine to warn me. Only this warning felt significantly more horrible than I’d imagined it may be, because it wasn’t made in anger, but in desperation and love. “But if Alice is right, you will. And it seems to me a horrible way to repay someone you love to steal their life, their future, their soul from them. You should leave him alone now while you still can, because once you love him… it’ll only hurt more one way or another. And you’ll have to live with that for the rest of your existence. I know I have.”

And with that, Rose turned, her face cold and sad, and she left the garage.

#equinoxjw #twilight fanfiction #twilight renaissance #twilight au #twilight fanfic #the twilight saga #twilight saga #twilight #edbella #edward cullen #bella swan #edbella fanfic

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just-char · 3 years

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5. Can I request Percy's POV for the opening scene in Chapter 2 of Homeward, where Ramsey has dinner with Percy and Molly? Or would doing so spoil the dramatic effect of later on? The scene is so well-written I feel the other POV isn't needed to understand what's going on, but it would be fun to read nonetheless. :)

Good evening. A fantastic request! I am a very slow writer, but here is the scene in full in Percy's POV. You will notice it is nearly twice as long due to the wordy and rambling nature of Percy's existence (and hence, one of the reasons Homeward is from Ramsey's point of view) and also that it is very much unedited. It was fun to explore the conversation Percy has on the phone with her mother (during which I believe you will cringe several times at both of their lack of tact and general ineptness. ) It is sort of not canon as the phone call lasts a little bit longer than it does in the actual story, but I love Liz and Arthur too much to not have fun with them when I can. Story: Homeward Word Count: 4,045

Ramsey, Percy had noticed, was over for dinner more often recently. She did not mind this. Quite the opposite. She often struggled with portion sizes when cooking now that she had to cook for more than one person (somehow, simply doubling the amount she used to make never worked out like it mathematically should have) and there was always enough to feed him. He also made for good company for Molly, who Percy suspected, despite how quiet she could be around others, loved having him over for the noise and excitement he brought to the usually quiet apartment. It was important for her to have good adult role models, and the imperfect Ramsey who was trying to make up for his difficult past was, in her opinion, a much better fit than the rambunctious Giovanni, whose moral code was vague at best and dangerous at worst. Also, admittedly, she simply liked him around, which was probably reason enough. So, no, she most certainly didn’t mind that he came over more often and would stay for dinner. It was something friends did, she was sure. Well, she was almost sure.

Today, he especially had a good reason to come over. Molly’s bedroom had been irking her lately. Percy was perfectly capable of painting walls– in fact, she was excellent at painting walls– but she was not an artist, and it was a strict difference. Although she could quite easily and quite neatly paint a green coat, or even perhaps some sort of dual coloured coat, given the proper masking tape, she could not paint bears. Molly’s old bedroom, she had noticed the only time she’d been in it, had bears on the wall. Teddy bears, specifically. And given that Molly was nearing adolescence, Percy wanted to take full advantage of the age where she would still enjoy such frivolous things and recreate them. Ramsey was also very idle, she found. When he was not working, he was drawing or sleeping from what she could gather (the latter much more so than the former) and it seemed to be putting a ‘dampener’ on his mood. Paying him to paint Molly’s bedroom (with her assistance, of course) seemed like a good way to kill two birds with one stone. Not that she would ever hurt a bird, of course. Well, not unless it was a dangerous individual that had to be taken care of. Perhaps she wouldn’t think about it anymore.

The spaghetti was a little salty. She hoped neither of them minded. It sort of reminded her of buttered noodles, which she mostly knew as a childhood treat (emphasis on treat, they were certainly not good for her) and as such she didn’t dislike the taste, but still. “Thanks again for painting my room, Mr Murdoch.” As Percy scrutinized her plate, Molly had taken to thanking Ramsey for his work. She was a very polite young girl. Very admirable. It was incredible how well-raised she was, all things considered, but Percy thought that simply spoke to how wonderful Molly was, and was not reflective of anything her father did for her.

Ramsey waved her gratitude off humbly. “Eh, it wasn’t nothing. S’nice to get out of the old apartment anyway.”

Percy chose to ignore his double negative. It was confusing, but he did it a lot and she’d managed to get used to it. She did not understand why he found it difficult to accept thanks, however. She quickly patted her mouth with her napkin (dinner etiquette was very important) so she could show her shared appreciation. “Whether it was nothing or not, we appreciate your effort.” Of course, she knew it probably was nothing to him. After all, he was an artist of very high caliber. But that didn’t change the fact he had put time and energy into doing it.

Instead of accepting her thanks, once more Ramsey chose to deflect, pointing his fork at her. “You’re just sayin’ that ‘cause you couldn’t do it yourself.” Before Percy could debate this, however, Ramsey decided to go for two blows. He leaned in towards Molly, “Percy can’t draw for snacks,” and Molly found this funny enough. Percy watched them with interest, and then they turned and watched her with interest. Ah. Right. She was supposed to respond to that with something equally clever yet jocund, as was expected. “It’s true, I am no artist. However, I am also not a con-artist.” She didn’t quite understand what was so funny about two people mocking each other repeatedly, but Molly seemed to find it humorous and it was all very lighthearted so she decidedly went along with it (though she found her own wit was much better suited for one-line statements than battles of insults.)

Molly gasped and covered her mouth. Presumably, this was jokingly. Percy doubted what she said was all that bad. “She’s got you there, Mr Murdoch. Are you just gonna take that?”

Ramsey seemed pleased with himself. “Oh, was that supposed to be a burn?” He took a moment to think, “Heh, well, I may be a criminal, but at least I’m not a nerd.” Molly made noises with her mouth that Percy couldn’t quite decipher as she frowned. She never quite understood the word as an insult, after all, “There is nothing laughable about being well-educated.”

Ramsey apparently took her defensive statement as his victory. “Oh, I see,” he said casually, “So you can give it, but ya can’t take it, huh?”

“I can take you back to prison, Ramsey,” Percy blurted out. Oh. She had not even thought about it before saying it. Ramsey seemed equally surprised, coughing on the spaghetti in his mouth as Molly laughed. Admittedly, it felt good to be in on the joke. She smiled at him to clarify no ill will and he looked bashfully back down at his plate. She took it that this meant she had won, for once. Excellent.

Suddenly, Ramsey recovered from his defeat and looked up. “You excited to go to Marchpoint for Christmas, Molly?”

Molly beamed. “Sure! Marchpoint is really pretty, and Percy’s parents are really nice.” It was reassuring to know that Molly truly did enjoy visiting them– her parents had… overwhelming and very different reactions to the prospect of her adopting a child, and for a little bit Percy was very worried that they would make Molly uncomfortable, or perhaps regardless Molly simply wouldn’t like them. Alas, it worked out the complete opposite. Percy hesitated to use the word ‘obsessed’, but her parents were most certainly passionate in their approach to Molly in a way she wasn’t expecting. Well, her father she should have expected, but her mother? It really did go to show how the people you love can always surprise you.

Ramsey, meanwhile, seemed content to speculate about her hometown’s nature. “Heh, sounds like one a those little fancy holiday towns.” Admittedly, he was not entirely wrong. He had good sense about those kinds of things, Percy supposed. “Marchpoint,” he repeated, scratching his goatee. Very idly, Percy wondered what it felt like.

“It’s pretty fancy! Percy’s parents live in one of those big country homes with a porch and huge backyard, and all the little town shops look like they’re from the sixties. It’s so much quieter than the city.” She could not grow a beard herself, but she remembered how her father’s felt whenever he shaved it. Textured, bristly. Ramsey’s face fell. “What’d I do? I got something on me?” He looked down at his shirt to check. Hm. Apparently, she had been staring. And also not listening, as she couldn’t seem to remember what it was they had been talking about. She decidedly corrected both of those ‘faux pas’s.

“My apologies. I was…” She did not want him to feel self-conscious, “... lost in thought. What were we speaking about?”

Ramsey smiled at her cheekily. “Talkin’ about your fancy pants hometown, Sparky.”

“Ah, yes.” How could she have forgotten? “Marchpoint certainly has its charms. However, I prefer to be in the city where I am needed.” She frowned, thinking about just how useless she’d be somewhere so quiet. “Indeed, such a sleepy town has no need for my unforgiving sense of justice.”

Molly lifted some spaghetti in her fork. “It’s nice for the holidays though!”

“Justice doesn’t take holidays,” Percy reminded her seriously.

“Alright, Judge Judy, let’s not bring work to the table,” Ramsey scolded her. Percy wasn’t quite sure who Judge Judy was, but she had to admit he was right. She went back to eating her spaghetti.

Molly looked at him. “What’re you doing for the holidays, Mr Murdoch?”

Ramsey, from what Percy could tell, was not expecting to be asked this question. Percy realized she wasn’t sure what he was doing herself. “Me? Uh, nothin’, kid.” Had she never asked him? Ah. Shoot. She hadn’t. She’d try to remember to do that next year. “My family’s too far away and small to bother visiting every year. I like to keep it to myself.” Percy couldn’t pretend she wouldn’t do the same if Marchpoint was further away, but it surprised her that Ramsey, given his sensitive nature, would feel similarly.

“How practical!”

Molly did not seem as pleased with this as she was. “That’s sad, Mr Murdoch. Don’t you want to be around people during the holidays?”

Hm. Molly offered an interesting point. Ramsey was prone to bouts of loneliness. She watched him carefully as he attempted to shrug off the question. “Nah, I’m good. Not too into heavily commercialised stuff. Just another day off to me.” Percy was always the best with conversations but she was certainly familiar with interrogations and she liked to think she knew a lie when she saw one. Such a lackadaisy approach to such an important time seemed so unlike him.

“While I usually like to respect the wishes of others, I would not like to think of you spending this time alone, Ramsey. The holidays are a chance to reconnect and spend time with the people you love and care about. They are not, as you say, just ‘another day off.’”

Ramsey frowned at her, but Molly spoke first. “You should come with us to Marchpoint! I’m sure no one would mind.” Hm. Huh. Percy blinked. And then she blinked again, because for some reason the first blink hadn’t cleared her mind. She could feel her eyebrows furrowing as her brain went over the statement. Ramsey. At her family home. Staying with them. For the holidays. In Marchpoint. With her parents. She couldn’t even picture it. Molly’s quiet voice broke her out of her stupor. “Uhm, would that be okay, Percy?”

Percy gave blinking one last try to see if it would work. She’d have to give an answer– that was how questions worked. One person asks a question and the other answers, unless the question is rhetorical or sarcastic, something that was clarified by tone indicators. Molly’s question was neither, so she had to answer it. Would it be okay? Well, she’d have to ask her mother. Yes. That was the answer. She’d have to ask. “I’d have to call Mother,” she said, and then quickly to reassure them both, “But I don’t see why not.” Smile. Yes. That was a good idea– smiling made people more comfortable. She was nailing this.

Ramsey seemed upset. She was not nailing this. “Look, I don’t wanna be burdenin’ a buncha strangers all out of pity–” Well, that was simply ridiculous. “Ramsey,” she interrupted him, “would you like to come?” She waited expectantly.

He stared back at her. “I guess. I mean, if the food’s free.” A jest, she assumed, based on the wink. “But I don’t wanna come if I’m just gonna be in the way is all.” Hm. Well, she wouldn’t force him if he believed he would be out of place.

“I understand, Mr Murdoch,” Molly reassured him quietly, “I just thought it’d be nice to have another person I’m really comfortable around going to meet so many new people… But if you don’t want to, it’s okay.” She smiled at him. Hm. Percy hadn’t even thought about that. Molly was quite shy, and while her family wasn’t large by any means, they were quite loud, even for Percy sometimes.

Ramsey put both of his hands up as though he was showing he had no weapons. “Alright, alright! I’ll come if I’m able, just stop lookin’ at me with those big ole puppy dog eyes. Geez, I can’t stand it.” Oh, that was good. Ack, but it was so soon– she’d call her mother now, just in case. Her mother wasn’t fond of late changes to plans. Percy pulled her phone out of her pocket. If only they’d come up with this last week.

“Excuse me,” she said as she stood up, not wishing to neglect her table manners. The phone stopped ringing and her mother’s voice replaced the sound.

“Hello?”

“Hello, mother.” Percy looked over to the door to the hall. Perhaps this was a conversation best had in private.

“Hello, Percival.” Her mother paused. “Lovely evening.”

As Percy made her way to the hall she glanced out the window. The sky was clear. “Why, yes, it is a lovely evening.” There was a small pause as Percy closed the door behind her and walked to her bedroom. She didn’t particularly like phone calls. Well, she didn’t hate them, but she most certainly found them more difficult than a simple face-to-face conversation or a quick text.

“Why are you calling during dinner?” her mother asked gruffy.

Oh, had she been waiting for her to speak? See, if they had been face-to-face, that would have been more obvious. “Ah, yes. About Molly and I staying over–”

“What, you’re not coming anymore?”

Percy glanced at the phone in surprise. “What?”

“Is that Percy? Is she not coming?” she heard her father say in the background. Oh, dear.

“Arthur, I’m on the phone,” her mother snapped at him.

Her father did not seem to notice. “If it’s Percy, tell her I said hello, and that I’d be very disappointed if she and Molly weren’t coming up!” “Yeah, yeah.” There was a sigh. “He says hello. And that you better be coming up. ”

Percy nodded as though they could see her. “We’re still coming.” “They’re still coming, Arthur,” It sounded as though her mother had covered the mic, and then like she had taken her hand off of it again. “Okay, so then, what are you calling for?”

Percy idly placed her hand on the cool frame of her bed. “It’s just, well, I have this friend–” “You do?” She sounded surprised. Had Percy never mentioned Ramsey to her before?

“Yes.” No, she hadn’t, she realised. Odd.

“Alright, well, what about this friend?”

“He–”

“He doesn’t need money, does he?”

“What? Uhm, no, mother. He doesn’t need…” Percy paused, “Well, I don’t believe he needs money. I suppose he could.” It was certainly possible. Ramsey had obviously gotten in with bad crowds before and old habits did not die easy. It was entirely in the realm of plausibility that he had gone out and gotten into money trouble– or, alternatively, an old mistake had come back to haunt him despite his current good nature.

“Well, did he ask you for money?”

“Hm?” She’d almost forgotten she was on the phone. “Oh, no. No, he didn’t.”

“Good. None of your business then.” Ah, her mother was correct. It was rude of her to speculate like that.

“Yes, I suppose you’re right.”

“... Percival.”

“Yes?”

“Why are you calling me.”

“Oh, right.” She almost forgot what she’d called about. Her mother had that effect on people. “Yes. Well, this friend–” “Oh! Ask her if it’s Ramsey.” Ah. Her father again.

Her mother sounded mostly confused, and a little irritated. “Who?”

“Ramsey! Her friend, is it Ramsey?” Percy found herself rubbing the frame. Smooth, glossy wood. It felt nice.

“For god’s sake– Percival, your father wants to know if it’s... Ramsey.”

“Ah, tell him yes, it is.” “It is.” The mic muffled again. “Oh! Is he alright?” “Arthur, getting this conversation to end is like trying to get blood out of a rock and you’re making it harder–” “Alright, alright! Don’t raise your voice, Liz.” Her mother audibly groaned. “Did you at least tell her I said hello?” “I already told her! Just be quiet and eat your roast beef, you big lug.” A pause. “Are you still there Percival?” “Yes.”

“Alright. Tell you what, because my dinner is getting cold and this phone call is driving me to the edge. You have three sentences to tell me what’s wrong or I’m hanging up. Go.”

“Oh, er. Well–” “That was one. You have two now.”

Shoot. Percy took a moment to think about the clearest and most direct two sentences possible. “My friend Ramsey has nowhere to go for the holidays,” she said slowly, “Could he stay with us?”

“Oh, is that it?” Percy wasn’t the best judge of tone but her mother almost sounded disappointed. There was another pause, slightly longer than any of the ones before, as though she was taking this information in. “Hm,” she said finally, “He from the streets?” Percy thought of Ramsey’s little apartment. “No.” “He dangerous? Violent? Crazy?” “No.” Ramsey wasn’t any of those things even when he was a criminal. She’d begin to make her way back to the kitchen, given that the conversation was nearing it’s close.

“Drat. Well, whatever. Sure, sure. He can come.”

Percy opened the door to the hall and closed it behind her. “Thank you,” she said quickly.

“Yeah, yeah, well. I’m not a fiend, Percival. Besides, house won’t be full anyway. You know your uncle isn’t coming up this year, don’t you?” She walked into the kitchen, where Ramsey and Molly still sat at the table.

“Yes. I know.”

“Funny, isn’t it? Son finally decides to come home and then it’s all about staying local after coming up the twenty-five years– s’not like we don’t have room for his brat either. That uncle of yours is a strange man.”

“Indeed.”

“Anyway. Get lost so I can eat.” There was a slight pause. “Love ya.” Percy smiled pleasantly. “Goodbye.”

The phone clicked. Her mother had hung up. She glanced up to her company (she hadn’t realized it, but apparently she had been staring at the floor the whole time) and they stared back at her eagerly.

Molly leaned forward. “What’d she say?” Their plates were empty– they must’ve finished eating.

Percy hummed, trying to replay the conversation. “Well, first she said ‘Hello.’ Then, ‘It’s a lovely evening.’ Then, ‘Why are you calling during dinner?’ Then–”

“I think she meant, what’s the verdict, chief?” Ramsey said quickly. He looked very pink. “Er, am I coming or going?”

Ah, there he went again with his nonsensical word choice. Percy rubbed her chin. “Both options you’ve given me suggest you are allowed. Which do I pick if you’re not?”

Molly groaned. “Percy...”

“My apologies.” Perhaps she was poking too much fun. “You may come, Ramsey.” He seemed appropriately relieved.

“Yes!” Molly exclaimed, and then, in a fit of excitement that was completely unexpected, jumped up to embrace her. Percy could not hide her surprise as her small arms squeezed her. Still, she smiled, wrapping one arm around her ward and using the other to give her a small pat on the head. “Thanks Percy.” The sound rippled through her shirt. It felt very nice.

“Of course.” Hm. What time was it? Molly always did her homework at eight. Percy glanced at the clock on the wall. “Do you have homework to do?”

“Ack!” Molly suddenly let go and raced to her room. Percy watched her go. She was a very kind child. It was lovely how much she cared for Ramsey. It only just occurred to her that perhaps Molly was not entirely selfish in her want for him to be there. Percy just felt privileged to know her, sometimes. It felt silly, given Molly’s age, but it was true.

Speaking of Ramsey, he stood up from the table and Percy looked over to him. “Yeah, uh, thanks, Perc’,” he said softly, “You really didn’t have to.”

Percy smiled at him. He was very sweet for a reformed criminal. She could appreciate that this was probably very difficult for him. Ah, she should reassure him of his use. “I think your presence will be good for her. It can be quite overwhelming meeting new people, especially for children.”

He simply shrugged. “Eh, maybe.” He glanced towards the door to the hall and back at her. “I guess I’d better get going.”

It was always a shame to see him go, but he had his own business to get to. Expecting him to stay forever would be selfish and immature, and Percy was neither of these things when she could fight it. “Of course. Thank you for joining us, Ramsey. It’s always a pleasure.” She started collecting the plates from dinner. She’d wash them now. She didn’t like leaving dishes in the sink.

Ramsey did not leave. Instead, he took the plates from her hands and grinned at her. “Heh, yeah, well, that’s me. I’m pretty great company,” he said as he brought them to the sink. He smirked then, putting a finger to his cheek. “And I’m pretty too.”

While he did that, she made her way to the drawer to get her rubber gloves. Her aunt always said washing dishes without them made your hands dry, though, if Percy were being honest, she never really thought about why she wore them. Habit.

“Very,” she said to entertain him. “Thank you very much for your assistance.”

“Aw, you think I’m pretty?” Percy blinked and looked over at him. He wiggled his eyebrows (provocatively?) Hm.

She looked away, clearing her throat and pulling on her gloves. “How is the apartment treating you, Ramsey?” She turned the tap to run the warm water. As Ramsey spoke, she grabbed the washing up liquid.

He was leaning against the counter. “Fine. Kinda small.” He shrugged at her. “I like the TV. Free cable.”

Percy smiled, procuring a sponge from a dish beside the sink. “I’m glad it’s to your liking. Perhaps if you keep working hard, you will be able to move somewhere bigger.” She started cleaning the dishes. Pasta luckily did not stain, and it did not take long to clean three plates. When she got to the last one, she glanced over at him again. He was… still not leaving. How did she approach that? On one hand, she didn’t want him to feel like he had to leave, because he did not. On the other, she couldn’t simply say nothing, either. After all, he’d said he was leaving. Perhaps he wanted to talk to her about something? She rinsed the plate off and stuck it in the drying rack with the others. Ramsey glanced at her and she cleared her throat. “Well,” she started, “There is no point prolonging the inevitable.”

He pushed off the counter. “Yeah. Thanks again for dinner, and, uh,” he coughed, “Bringing me along for the holidays.” Percy smiled at him.

“Goodbye, Ramsey. Until tomorrow.” She turned back to the sink and began taking off her gloves, but he didn’t leave. Should she say something? Maybe he truly wasn’t alright. “Are you not leaving?” Ah, now that she said it, perhaps that was a little blunt.

“Yeah, yeah, sorry. I was just, uh..." he looked at her desperately but she did not know what to say. "Right, uh, seeya.” He gave her a little wave and she returned it, but as he left Percy couldn’t help but feel a little guilty for her lacking approach. She should’ve asked if he was okay, maybe even if he wanted to stay a little longer, talk about something. She knew he didn’t particularly like being alone– perhaps going home was hard for him? Ah. Friendship was difficult and unfamiliar territory. She knew he wasn’t doing as well as he could’ve been, but she didn’t want to freak him out by pushing him too hard.

Well. One thing at a time.

#Homeward #Scene request tag

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amlovelies · 4 years

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Liability

@wayhavenmonthly‘s Fall for Unit Bravo

Day 2: Dead

pairing: Mason/f!oc Serena (not a detective)

warnings: some discussion of torture

words: 1251

read on ao3

This takes place in my self indulgent AU. This scene takes places after my OC Serena is mistaken for the detective (Dinah) and kidnapped by trappers. Serena and Mason have been sleeping together, but up until now it’s just been fun.

Mason is waiting for me in the hall as I exit my room.

“I think I’m capable of getting to the living room.” I say in a light tone not wanting to put too much thought into his being there.

“Can’t risk it. Wouldn’t want you getting kidnapped again.” He smirks as he pushes off the wall to fall in step with me. We walk close together. Our arms occasionally brushing against one another. We don’t talk which isn’t out of the ordinary, but it doesn’t feel like the peaceful silences that we’ve shared in the past. I want to ask about it. I want to ask about why he stayed last night about what it means, but I’m afraid of what the answer will be. Maybe I’m mostly afraid of the fact that I want a certain answer.

It’ll be my first time seeing everyone since I was rescued from the trappers. I feel nervous and apprehensive. They will want to talk about what happened, about how I was captured and what happened to me. I’m not sure if I’m ready for it. It still feels distant like something that happened to someone else.

Dinah jumps from her seat as we enter the room and rushes to hug me. “Serena, I’m so sorry. This never would have happened if it wasn’t for me. What happened to you it’s all my fault.” Her blue eyes are soon filled with tears.

I return her hug and try and make soothing noises, “Don’t blame yourself. I was careless. I shouldn’t have let them get the jump on me. Besides, it’s better that it was me.”

I hear a low growl come from Mason, but I just try to ignore it and keep my attention focused on the distraught Dinah. “I’m here and I’m okay. This is all on the trappers.”

Once Dinah releases me, I walk over to my usual chair. I can feel everyone’s eyes watching me and it makes my skin itch. I don’t know what they are looking for. Are they looking to see whatever cracks this experience has left behind? Are they trying to reassure themselves that I’m fine? Are they calculating how much of a liability this will make me? As I settle into place, Mason takes up his usual perch next to me, an arm slung over the back of the chair and one leg crossed in front of him on the arm of the chair

They have questions which I answer to the best of my ability: how I was ambushed, what questions the trappers asked me, anything that might be important. Agent Greene has brought a voice recorder which I am grateful for. With any luck the agency can refer to the recording instead of constantly asking me the same questions. Nate is particularly interested in the botched handoff, in the woman who came to pay the bounty and collect “Dinah.” It’s difficult. When it was happening, my instinct was to just shut down, to go to some safe little corner of my mind where I wasn’t tied to a chair and in mortal danger. It’s what I want to do now. To retreat, but I know that this is important. Without meaning to I find myself leaning against Mason’s solid form for some form of reassurance.

As soon as I realize what I’m doing I straighten in the chair and break the contact. Then I feel his arm drop down onto my shoulders. If the others notice the exchange, they don’t comment which I am grateful for. The questions continue.

After what feels like an eternity, they seem to be satisfied with the information I have questions of my own, “how did you figure out I’d been taken?”

It’s Farah who answers, “we were supposed to watch a movie. You were late and not texting me back that only happens when it’s Mason’s fault.”

A soft chuckle escapes Mason, and I feel heat into my face at a memory from about a week ago. Farah had come searching for me when I wasn’t responding to her text messages. She had found us pressed together, Mason’s hand exploring under my shirt as his mouth attacked my neck, and she was determined to continue to tease me about it.

“Mason was getting his ass kicked by Adam in the training room.” That stops his chuckling, “so I knew it wasn’t that. You wouldn’t stand me up. Something had to wrong.”

“I guess it’s a good thing I tend to be punctual.” I say with a lightness I do not feel. “Have you been able to get any information from the captured trappers?”

“Not much that we didn’t already know.” Adam replies.

“What about the man who was,” I pause for a moment. I want to say torturing. It felt like torture and I can’t help but run a hand over my side. The marks from the prod have healed, but I can almost still feel the electricity and magic from it. I look up and see Dinah’s red-rimmed eyes and how unlike her usual fun-loving self-Farah is acting. “The man who was questioning me; he wasn’t with the trappers who captured me. He should know more about that woman.”

“We would love to question him but-“ Nate pauses and glances toward where Mason and I sit, “-we can’t do that.”

“Did he escape?” I ask try to suppress the shiver of fear that thought gives me.

Mason’s arm tightens on my shoulder and he speaks, “no. I killed him.”

“Yes.” Adam’s tone is clipped and a tension falls over the group.

My thoughts swirl. The Agency focuses on nonlethal intervention. This is the first time I’ve heard of an agent taking a life on a mission, and it’s because of me. My memory of the moment Mason and Nate arrived was hazy at best. I remember pain and blood, so much blood. The interrogator standing in front of me and then he was gone. Mason’s eyes swimming in my vision, feeling his hands on my face as if from a great distance, and being sure that it was just a dream.

“His back was broken when he hit the wall. These things happen; it’s unfortunate that we aren’t able to question him, but the most important thing is that you are safe, Serena.” Nate, always the diplomate, clarifies.

“Oh,” I don’t really know how to respond. Part of me is glad. I’m glad that he was dead that he had paid for what he had done to me.

“Until the threat is eliminated, neither the detective nor Serena should be out on their own. Unless here or at the police station one of us will accompany you.” Adam commands. “I’ve said it before and I will say it again, detective, I think you should stay here at the warehouse.”

“And I’ll say it again, Adam, no. I’m willing to spend some nights here- “she shares a smile with Nate “-but I will have my independence.”

“Guess I’ll be spending a lot of time inside then.” I say.

“I’m sure I can help you fill the time,” Mason replies with a purr.

“Can we do a puzzle? Please say we can do a puzzle” I respond more than happy to return to the usual routine of jokes and innuendos. It’s easy to shove my confusing feelings in a little box and go back to this. I can pretend to be fine. Everything will be fine. Won’t it?

#the wayhaven chronicles #twc #twc mason #fall for unit bravo #scribblings #fanfiction #i'm super nervous about sharing anything from the au lol #but i already had this mostly written #and I really like a couple parts of it #so embrace the cringe 2020 #lovelieswrites #fallforunitbravo #mason/Serena Willis

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junghelioseok · 5 years

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pronoia.

↳ you can definitively say that you did not sign up for this.

◇ namjoon x reader ◇ zombie apocalypse!au | college!au ◇ 15k [1/1]

notes: a very late birthday present for @imaginationofacrazyfangirl, who i kind of like for some reason.

⇢ pronoia (n): a state of mind that is the opposite of paranoia. a suspicion that the universe is conspiring in your favor.

warnings: some violence obviously. some gore. mostly just me trying to be funny. irreverent humor, zombieland jokes, and a couple bad philosophy references bc idk what i’m talking about. exactly one (1) brooklyn 99 joke. yoongi is lowkey a badass bc u cannot convince me his crafty, conniving ass wouldn’t be good in this kind of situation. jk’s ready to risk it all for a twinkie. tbh this is kind of a mess and the ending might be rushed but i still worked really hard on it so please leave feedback sndfjfkjsksds 🙈

It’s too quiet.

Fluorescent lights flicker overhead, the dull hum fading into the background as water starts dripping somewhere to your left. Your heartbeat quickens, thudding erratically against your ribcage as you suck in a deep breath and tighten your grip on your baseball bat.

It’s hard to believe that just three days ago, you were a regular college student. Three days ago, your biggest concerns were finding a decently paid summer job and getting through your last philosophy lecture without daydreaming about the cute teaching assistant bending you over his desk. But now, sandwiched between two rows in the back of your university’s biggest auditorium, you have several new concerns. Bigger concerns.

And first and foremost among them, are the zombies.

To be honest, you still aren’t entirely sure how it happened. The last emergency alert had killed your phone’s battery for good, and you’d only just managed to catch a glimpse of the words “mutated virus” and “nationwide epidemic” before the screen faded to black. And a good thing too—the undead guy trying to sneak up on you from behind definitely would have gotten you had you not seen his reflection in your now-useless hunk of metal and glass.

Thank god for the softball unit in high school gym class, you think to yourself, trying in vain to wipe the blood and brain matter off of your bat. Sure, you didn’t think you’d be utilizing those skills to kill zombies, but at this new low point in your life, anything that aids your survival is a home run in your book.

Deeming your weapon sufficiently clean, you tuck it back into a makeshift sling you’d fashioned out of an old scarf, adjusting it so that it lays flat against your spine. With both hands now free, you begin inching toward the back exit. There’s a growing ache in your bladder that you can no longer ignore, and you send a quick prayer up to any gods that may exist before cracking the auditorium door open, glancing left and right down the seemingly empty hallway. Silently, you count to ten.

After a few more moments of deliberation, you decide the coast is clear. The restrooms are at the very end of the hall, and you can’t help but feel like the little gendered stick figures are taunting you as you cautiously make your way toward them, your shoes silent against the linoleum floor.

You are approximately fifteen feet away from your destination when you hear footsteps. Your heart kicks into overdrive at the unsteady rhythm—a short tap followed by a long dragging sound, as if the approaching individual were limping. For a moment, you debate running for the nearest bathroom and barricading yourself inside, but enclosed spaces are a bad idea according to every zombie movie you’ve ever seen, and you aren’t particularly keen on the idea of becoming zombie food.

Instead, you steel yourself and turn around, pulling out your bat. The approaching zombie doesn’t look like a student—in fact, you’re pretty sure he was your trigonometry teacher for a semester during freshman year—but that’s hardly important right now.

What is important, however, is the black-and-white figure that’s just rounded the corner behind the limping math professor-turned-zombie. And it’s running toward you—fast. Far faster than any of the undead beings you’ve seen, and, upon closer inspection, faster than most of the human beings you know.

And that can only mean one thing.

“Jungkook!” you exclaim, half in surprise and half in horror as the dark-haired track star pulls even with your former professor and swings at his head, using all of his momentum and landing a solid crack. The zombie crumples to the linoleum floor, blood and viscera seeping from the crack in his skull, and you frown in distaste before looking up at your classmate. “Uh, hi?”

“{Name}?” Jungkook asks in disbelief, skidding to a stop. He’s wearing a single boxing glove on one hand and wielding a smashed wine bottle in the other, and you almost want to laugh at his appearance. After all, you’re about ninety-nine percent sure he was wearing the exact same thing at the last house party you both attended. But now—with a bloodied zombie still twitching at your feet and the imminent threat of even more coming after you—probably isn’t the best time to bring that up.

“It is you,” Jungkook says in disbelief, his eyes widening. “Are you alone?”

You nod. “Yeah. You?”

Jungkook nods back. “Yeah. You’re the first person I’ve come across who hasn’t—well… you know.” He gestures downward vaguely.

“Yeah. I know.”

For a few seconds, the two of you stand in silence, ruminating on how everything managed to change so quickly. Just last week, you and Jungkook were regular college students. He ran track and and co-captained the campus dance crew, and if it weren’t for the fact that you were lab partners, you aren’t sure you ever would have met. But after months of sitting together in class, equally stumped by the biology textbooks you were forced to buy and elbow-deep in formaldehyde far too often for your liking, you’ve grown to consider him a friend. And right now, you really, really needed a friend.

“Jungkook,” you begin, laying an arm on his shoulder, “I need your help.”

“I was thinking the same thing,” he says, shaking his shaggy hair out of his face like a dog and glancing around the hallway. “We should team up. I mean, we’ve been lab partners for months so we already know we work great togethe—“

“We’ve failed almost half of our lab reports, and you nearly set the table on fire last Tuesday,” you cut in. “But that’s not the point. The point is the current state of my bladder and how you can help me with it.”

Jungkook blinks. “Uh.”

“I need to pee,” you clarify.

“And what exactly do you want me to do about that?”

“Come with me,” you reply, grabbing his wrist. Jungkook lets out a protesting grunt when you begin pulling him down the hallway toward the restrooms, struggling even more vigorously when you try to make him follow you inside.

“This is the girl’s bathroom!” he gasps, wrenching out of your grasp.

You stare at him. “The entire city is overrun by zombies and that’s what you’re worried about?”

“It’s weird!” he protests. Nevertheless, he trots in on your heels, peering around curiously as you bang on the wall of the nearest stall in an attempt to draw any lurkers out into the open.

“Check for zombies, idiot,” you instruct when Jungkook gets distracted by his own reflection in the mirror. “I don’t wanna get eaten.”

He huffs but complies nonetheless. Raising his broken wine bottle, he glances into each stall, kicking open the doors with unnecessary force. “Clear,” he reports once he’s checked the last one, offering you a mock salute. The effect is ruined by the bright red boxing glove still on his hand, but you bite back the snide remark on your tongue and instead walk into the nearest stall.

“Plug your ears or something,” you tell him as you lock the door. “I don’t want you listening to me pee.”

“Why the hell would I listen?” Jungkook retorts, sounding thoroughly horrified.

“Some people are into that,” you reply, wagging a finger at him despite the fact that he can’t see you through the closed door. “It’s called urolagnia. Don’t kinkshame.”

“I don’t want to know why you know that,” he grumbles under his breath. “Shut up and pee already. I have to go too.”

“But this is the girls’ room,” you snipe, finishing your business and stepping out to wash your hands. Jungkook takes your place inside the stall while you turn on the sink, eyeing his reflection pointedly in the mirror. “You’re gonna get cooties.”

Jungkook rolls his eyes. “Ha, ha,” he says dryly. “You’re hilarious.”

And then he’s turning around, flipping you the bird before slamming the metal door in your face.

You shrug, unfazed. “I know I am,” you say, addressing your own reflection in the mirror. “Also, do you by any chance own a car?”

///

“This feels like a bad idea,” Jungkook mutters, eyeing the quiet parking lot. It’s nowhere near full, but there are still several dozen cars scattered around, empty and abandoned with no owners to be found. At the far end lies your prize—a black SUV with tinted windows and a bicycle strapped to the roof. “Should we make a run for it?” Jungkook asks. “I mean, we don’t really have any other options if we wanna make it out of here with our brains intact, and—”

“Hang on a sec,” you interrupt, grabbing his arm. “We can create a diversion first. Give me your wine bottle—I’m gonna throw it.”

Jungkook hugs the glass bottle to his chest, eyes round and expression aghast. “And leave myself defenseless? What do you want me to do, punch the zombies away?”

“That’s literally what you did ten minutes ago,” you point out, rolling your eyes. “Do you have a better idea?”

He pauses for a long moment before a resigned sigh leaves his lips. “Fine. I get to throw it, though.”

“Whatever,” you reply, waving a hand at him. “Knock yourself out. Or them. You should really knock them out, on second thought.”

Jungkook wisely chooses to ignore your rambling, hefting the bottle and testing its weight. Rearing back, he tosses it in a perfect arc, and you watch in fascination as it somersaults through the air before crashing down onto the asphalt in an explosion of shattered glass. “There!” you hiss urgently, tugging on Jungkook’s sleeve when a zombie immediately lumbers out from behind a nearby sedan, searching for the source of the noise. “We run on three, got it?”

“Got it,” he whispers back, watching raptly as several more zombies follow the first. “One…”

“Two…”

“Three!”

Together, you make a mad dash for the SUV. Jungkook gets there first, skidding to a stop and trying the driver’s side door only to find it locked. “I’ll check the other side,” you tell him, glancing around to make sure the zombies are still distracted. “Work on breaking a window or something, fast!”

The sound of a throat being cleared stops you dead in your tracks. “You’ll do no such thing,” a low voice drawls. A moment later, the platinum blond head of Min Yoongi—a reclusive senior you only know because he deejays at your favorite club every Friday night— pops out from behind the hood of the car, his dark eyes narrowed at you accusingly. “We got dibs on this one.”

“Yoongi?” you ask in surprise. “What are you—wait. We? Who’s we?”

“I’m we,” a new voice announces—one that you’re very, very familiar with. Kim Namjoon steps into view behind Yoongi, and you aren’t sure whether to be horrified or thrilled to see your philosophy TA alive and well, with what looks like a metal fence pole perched on his shoulder like a bayonet. “Hey, {Name},” Namjoon says, offering you a small smile. “Fancy seeing you here, of all places.”

“N-Namjoon,” you stammer, your heart skipping a beat and racing to catch back up. “You’re… okay.”

“More or less,” the tall man replies agreeably, shrugging. Then he glances toward his blond companion, raising a quizzical brow. “Come on, Yoongi. We’ve got room for two more, don’t we?”

Yoongi grumbles something under his breath that sounds like acquiescence, and Namjoon grins, patting him on the back. “Welcome aboard,” he says, turning back to face you and Jungkook. “We’ve got to move fast. You’re Jeon Jungkook, right? I’ve seen you around the track field. Can you do me a favor and watch my back while I open this door?”

Jungkook nods, accepting Namjoon’s brief handshake and the metal pole he hands over. Namjoon then pulls a wire coat hanger out of his jacket pocket, and you watch, awestruck, as he jimmies the car door open.

��There aren’t any keys,” Jungkook points out, peering over the taller man’s shoulder to get a glimpse of the ignition. “Now what? Does anyone know how to hotwire a car?”

“Yes,” Namjoon and Yoongi say simultaneously.

“Well, only in theory,” Namjoon adds when Yoongi rolls his eyes and brushes past him to duck underneath the steering wheel. “Yoongi’s the real expert here.”

“That makes me sound like a criminal,” the blond man grumbles as he sets his toolbox on the ground and gets to work. “For the record, I only know how to do this because of all the times my keys have gone missing. I’m not the fucking Pontiac Bandit.”

“Sounds exactly like what the fucking Pontiac Bandit would say,” you and Jungkook say at the same time, high-fiving each other.

Yoongi rolls his eyes. “This isn’t even a Pontiac,” he grumbles, hissing through his teeth as he pulls a few wires free and begins fiddling with them. “Quit watching me and make yourselves useful. Go check the trunk for supplies, or something. Christ.”

Namjoon hums thoughtfully, eyeing the surrounding cars. “That’s actually a good idea. There might be something useful in some of these other cars too. {Name}, why don’t you come with me? Jungkook should probably stay here and keep watch.”

Your mouth goes dry at his suggestion, but you nod hurriedly before your brain can short-circuit at the sound of your name leaving his lips so casually. “That… yeah. That sounds good. Let’s do that.”

“Good luck!” Jungkook calls cheerily as you walk off, earning himself a hard kick in the shins from Yoongi, who’s still flat on his back on the floor of the car.

“Dude, shut the fuck up! Do you want to die?”

Jungkook looks properly abashed. “Right,” he says, lowering his voice. “My bad.”

To your left, Namjoon muffles his laugh behind his hand. Yoongi lets out an exasperated sigh, and you grin, waving at the two before departing with Namjoon. Together, you wander deeper back into the maze of abandoned vehicles scattered around the lot, peering inside for anything that might be useful. Stopping at a sedan with open windows, you slip a hand inside and unlock the door. There’s an unopened bottle of soda in the cupholder, and Namjoon smiles as he reaches into the backseat and pulls out a few grocery bags.

“Try popping the trunk,” he suggests.

“On it,” you reply, searching for the right button. Namjoon walks around back to open the lid, grinning triumphantly when he sees what’s inside.

“More groceries,” he says, hefting another bag. “And half a case of bottled water. This should be enough to get us started.” Beckoning for you to join him, he hands over the three bags before hefting the case of water over one shoulder. “You okay? I can take a bag if you want.”

You shake your head, threading your baseball bat through the handles of each bag and hefting it onto your shoulder. “I’m fine. Thanks, though,” you tell him, trying to ignore the way your heart rate picks up when he gives you a look of approval, a small smile curling the corner of his mouth and dimpling his cheeks.

“So,” you begin as the two of you start trekking back toward the SUV, “where are we headed, anyway? It seems like you and Yoongi have a plan.”

Namjoon nods. “We do. There’s a reported quarantine zone up north—it’s all over Twitter.” Reaching into the pocket of his jacket, he pulls out his cellphone, along with a massive battery pack. “I’ve been conserving my phone battery as much as I can, keeping track of any news, and I think it’s our best bet.”

“Smart.” Ruefully, you pull out your own device and show him the black screen. “My phone died ages ago.”

“You still might be able to charge it,” Namjoon points out. “The electrical grids haven’t gone down yet. And I know Yoongi’s got a cord back at the car, so we can charge our devices on the road too. He’s got all sorts of stuff—this battery pack is his, actually. I couldn’t find mine.”

“Of course you couldn’t,” you mutter, thinking back to every time he’s misplaced his laser pointer or lecture notes during class.

“What?”

“Nothing,” you say quickly. Off in the distance, you spot a few zombies shambling along, no doubt searching for their next meal. Silently, you and Namjoon begin walking faster.

Yoongi and Jungkook are both seated inside the car by the time you return. Jungkook hops out to help you load the bags, and you shoot him a grateful grin as you climb into the backseat alongside him. Namjoon takes the passenger seat, kindly plugging in your phone while Yoongi adjusts his mirrors with a frown. “The engine’s gonna draw their attention,” he says. “They probably won’t be able to get us in the car, but hang onto your weapons just in case.” Then he pauses, glancing back at the metal pole in Jungkook’s hands and the wooden bat in yours. “Well. We’ll need to make a stop and get actual weapons.”

“We can try the police station,” Namjoon suggests. “I’m sure others will have had the same idea, but it’s really our only option. Then we’ll have to load up on food, water, and gas.”

Curiously, you peer into the grocery bags sitting on the floor between you and Jungkook. “Most of this stuff’s perishable. We’ll need to get non-perishable stuff if we’re going to be on the road for a long time. How far did you say that quarantined zone is, Namjoon?”

“I didn’t. I’m not actually one-hundred percent sure myself. Social media is a mess, as you might imagine.” Turning around in his seat, Namjoon shows you his Twitter feed—conflicting news alerts interspersed with grisly photos of the destroyed city and panicked requests for aid. “The last emergency alert said that the military base just outside of city limits is safe, but I’m not so sure.” He scrolls down, revealing several videos of zombies staggering around a helicopter, and upon closer inspection, you realize that they’re in full military garb. Horrified, you take his phone to get a closer look, thumbing down the page to reveal even more atrocities.

“Shit,” Jungkook breathes, sidling over to look over your shoulder. “That’s not good.”

Yoongi sighs, eyeing both of you in the rearview mirror. “Yeah, no kidding. The only thing we’re sure about so far is that the infection started in the south, so heading north is our best bet. And hopefully, we’ll find—”

THWUMP!

Namjoon’s phone clatters out of your hands as the parked car suddenly tilts, swaying dangerously to the left before all four wheels return to the asphalt once more. Horrified, you stare at the huddled horde of zombies that has suddenly appeared at your window, bloodstained hands trying in vain to reach you through the glass. “Yoongi, I think you need to drive now!” you shout, wincing as they begin thumping on the window in earnest.

The blond man curses when the car rocks again, his eyes flickering between the dashboard and the zombies swarming on Namjoon’s side of the car. “Oh, fuck. Fuckfuckfu—HA!”

The engine roars to life, and you watch as the zombies closest to you flinch at the sudden noise before renewing their efforts, banging on the window until spiderwebbing cracks begin to form.

“Dude, floor it!” Jungkook yells.

Yoongi doesn’t need to be told twice. The car lurches forward, tires squealing, and you yelp as you’re slammed back against the seat. Instinctively, you fumble for your seat belt, ignoring the stunned look Jungkook shoots you in favor of buckling yourself in and watching the undead horde recede in the distance as you pull farther and farther away. “Holy shit,” you mutter, your head falling back against the backrest, your chest heaving with uneven breaths. “Holy fucking shit.”

Yoongi huffs out a sardonic chuckle as he slows ever so slightly to turn onto the main road. “Yeah. Welcome to the apocalypse.”

///

It’s odd, seeing the city you know and love in ruins. Billowing black smoke rises in the distance, filling the air with an acrid stench and a metallic tinge that you don’t want to think about. The roar of the SUV’s engine sounds like a siren’s song in the eerie silence of the streets, drawing unwanted attention from the undead. Everywhere you look, soulless eyes follow. Some zombies even try to chase the car, but they are quickly left behind as Yoongi slams down on the gas pedal, weaving past overturned vehicles and prone bodies.

You don’t wait to see if any of the bodies will rise up again.

Namjoon begins fiddling with the radio as Yoongi turns down yet another street, heading downtown. Static blares from the speakers, and you watch his frown get deeper the further along he scrolls through the stations. “Nothing,” he mutters after a few long minutes. “That’s not a good sign. The infrastructure is crumbling.”

Jungkook tears his gaze from the window. “What do you mean?”

Namjoon switches off the radio, letting silence envelop the car for a few seconds before speaking again. “I mean everything that sustains our way of life—the things we take for granted most days, like running water and electricity and the internet. We aren’t going to have them for much longer. Without workers to run things, we…” He sighs. “I figure we have maybe a week, at the most.”

“And then what happens?” you ask, your voice soft.

“I don’t know,” Namjoon admits. “To be honest, we might not even survive long enough to find out.”

“But we have to try,” you murmur. “Sure, we’re outnumbered and weaponless, but we have a car. We’re faster and smarter. I don’t think things are hopeless just yet.”

Namjoon shakes his head at your optimism, but Yoongi’s nodding, meeting your eyes in the rearview mirror. “Don’t mind him,” he advises. “Joon likes to overthink things and work himself up into a frenzy, but I think we’ve got a chance at making it through. Besides...” He gestures out the window with his thumb. “We won’t be weaponless for much longer.”

The car rolls to a stop in front of a square brick building that you recognize as the police station, the dark windows overlooking the street like gaping mouths. Most of the glass is broken—even on the higher stories—and you shiver at the sight of the jagged edges glinting like teeth in the wan afternoon sun.

“So... getting inside won’t be a problem,” Jungkook says dryly.

“Guess not,” Namjoon says, frowning. “Somebody definitely beat us here. Should we chance it? Everything could already be gone.”

“We’re already here, man,” Yoongi drawls, already beginning to open the door. “We may as well check it out.”

Cautiously, the four of you pile out of the SUV, eyes darting left and right as you make your way toward the front door with Jungkook in the lead. It’s hanging off its hinges and the glass is pocked with bullet holes, and a frown spreads across your face as you trace one lightly with your index finger. “Looks like there was a fight,” you murmur quietly to Namjoon, who’s standing just behind you with a rather large rock that he must have just picked up from outside. Yoongi takes up the rear with a hammer grasped tightly in his hand, and you bite back the Thor joke that’s sitting on the tip of your tongue.

“Doesn’t look like anyone’s here anymore, though,” Jungkook says, winding his way farther into the lobby. “Think these elevators still work?” he asks, gesturing at the twin metal doors on the far wall.

“Not worth the risk,” Namjoon decides, walking over to the stairwell and opening the door. He peers inside before gesturing for you to enter, allowing everyone to step past him before quietly shutting the door and eyeing the two sets of stairs branching out from the landing. “We’re looking for the station’s armory,” he whispers. “What do you guys think? Up or down?”

“We could split u—” Jungkook begins to suggest, but you cut him off before he can even finish the sentence.

“And get killed off one by one like in every horror movie ever? Are you serious, Jeon?”

Jungkook blinks. “Fine. What do you think, then?”

“I think the parking garage is probably downstairs,” you muse, peering over the railing to look at the lower landing. “And it doesn’t look like there’s another level below that, so I’d say going up is our best bet.”

A smile curls the corner of Namjoon’s mouth, dimpling one cheek as he follows your lead and glances downstairs. “Nice observation,” he says once he’s straightened up again, laying a hand on your shoulder. The gentle pressure sends a shiver up your spine, a butterfly taking flight in your stomach on fluttering, iridescent wings. It’s all you can do to smile back, thanking him softly as he retracts his hand. Already, you miss the warmth of his palm.

“Let’s go,” Jungkook says, effectively ruining the moment as he begins the ascent with his pole at the ready. Yoongi follows, and Namjoon gestures for you to go ahead of him, tucking his rock under one arm.

“It’s not the best weapon,” he says when he catches you looking, a rueful chuckle escaping him.

You grin back. “Better than nothing.”

Up ahead, Jungkook stops on the second floor landing, pressing his ear against the door. “I can’t hear anything,” he grumbles, fumbling for the doorknob and cracking the door open. “But it looks like the coast is cle— oh, shit!” Jungkook pulls the door shut again, his eyes wide.

“What happened?” Yoongi hisses. “What did you see?”

“There’s a bunch of them in the corner,” Jungkook whispers. “They’re… eating something.”

“Someone,” Yoongi corrects wryly, earning himself an elbow in the ribs courtesy of Namjoon. “Sorry,” he mutters, not sounding very sorry at all.

“How many are there?” Namjoon asks.

Jungkook pauses, casting his gaze upward as he does a mental tally. “At least seven or eight that I saw. There could be more though.”

“Did you see anything that could’ve been an armory? Some place where weapons would be stored?” Namjoon presses.

“Nah. Looked like a bunch of desks, mostly. Offices and whatnot.”

Namjoon nods slowly, tapping his chin. “Okay,” he says after a few seconds of deliberation. “Let’s keep going.” He takes the lead this time, stepping past Jungkook to the next staircase, and you follow after him, struggling to keep up when he elects to take the steps two at a time. His long legs span the increased distance with ease, and it takes every ounce of self-control you possess to refrain from staring at his flexing thigh muscles.

One flight of stairs and several instances of shameless ogling later, you find yourselves on the third floor, tiptoeing through a darkened hallway lined with doors and peering inside one by one.

“These all look like interrogation rooms,” Yoongi grumbles after a few fruitless minutes.

“Nope, this one’s a closet,” Jungkook pipes up, walking inside and exiting with a mop. The door slams shut behind him, and he winces under the absolutely withering glare Namjoon shoots at him. “My bad,” he whispers, offering the taller man the mop. “But on the bright side, I think this might be a better weapon than a rock.”

Namjoon sighs and accepts the mop. “Fine. Let’s make the rest of this search quick though. And be quiet,” he adds, with a pointed look at Jungkook. “We might be close to where the weapons are kept now, since we’ve left the administrative areas behind.”

And as it turns out, he’s right. The very next door you open is a room with a multitude of industrial shelves and racks lining the walls. Much to your disappointment, most of them are empty, but a more thorough search turns up a couple of handguns along with several cases of ammunition. Jungkook finds a stockpile of smoke grenades that he refuses to part with, and you roll your eyes as he shoves them into his pockets. “What the hell are smoke grenades going to do against zombies?”

“You never know,” Jungkook retorts. “Besides, I don’t see anything else in here. Do you?”

Dejected, you shake your head. “No, I don’t. Guess Namjoon was right—someone had the same idea as us.”

“It’s better than nothing,” Namjoon says, picking up one of the guns and peering closely at it. “Who here knows how to handle a firearm?”

Yoongi grunts. “My uncle used to take us hunting on camping trips. I’m not a great shot, but I’m all right.”

Namjoon glances over at you Jungkook. “What about you guys? No?”

Jungkook shrugs. “Do shooting games count?”

“No.”

“Okay, then no.”

Namjoon sighs and hands the other gun to Yoongi, who accepts it and checks the safety before tucking it safely into his belt. You watch as Namjoon checks his own gun, unloading the magazine and inserting a new one. “I take it you know a thing or two about guns,” you remark, inching closer to him as he engages the safety with deft fingers.

“My grandfather was a cop,” he replies softly. “He taught me a lot before he passed away.”

You bite your lip as his brow furrows, laying a gentle hand on his arm. “I’m really sorry to hear that.”

He shrugs, his gaze sliding up to meet yours. “It’s alright. It happened years ago.” Then he glances down at your hand, his expression softening just the tiniest bit. “But I appreciate it. Thanks.”

The next few minutes pass in silence as the four of you complete your sweep of the room, peering at the bottommost shelves for any equipment you might have missed. “Hey,” Yoongi says suddenly, his voice hushed. “Hand me your bat, {Name}.”

Both you and Namjoon turn to face him. “Why?” you ask curiously, handing it over and watching as he lays it on the table and pulls his hammer from his waistband.

“Nails,” he says shortly. “Found some in that drawer and figured I’d make you a proper apocalypse weapon.”

“Wait,” Namjoon interrupts, striding over as Yoongi begins hammering nails into your wooden bat. “You’re making too much noise. Someone’s going to hear us.”

“Uh, it’s kinda already too late for that,” Jungkook hisses from the entrance. He’s peering through a little square window that sits about two-thirds of the way up the door, and flinches when a bloody, pale fist slams against it, splintering the glass. “We’ve got company, guys,” he grunts, pressing his full weight against the door and wincing as the glass shatters over his head. “Anyone got any bright ideas to get us out of here in one piece?”

“No,” Namjoon says slowly. “Unless…”

“Unless?” you press.

“We need a diversion,” he says, shaking his head. “But I don’t see how we’ll create one unless… well, unless one of us goes out there and leads them away from here. But that’s asking way too much, and—“

“I’ll do it.”

All three of you whirl around to face Yoongi, who looks thoroughly unfazed by the sudden scrutiny, picking idly at a frayed corner on his jacket. “You can’t be serious,” Namjoon says, finding his voice first. “It’s dangerous.”

“So is staying here,” Yoongi replies. “Besides, aren’t you always going on about the greater good? Altruism and Comte and all that shit? Let me do this, man. I can handle it.”

“That’s not—” Namjoon stops, rubbing the bridge of his nose and letting out a heavy sigh. “That’s not the point. It’s just not practical, Yoongi. You’ll be vulnerable if you’re alone.”

“No, I’ll be fast,” Yoongi corrects, pulling out his gun and clicking off the safety. “You think we’ll do any better as groups of two? I don’t.”

“But—“ Namjoon tries again, his brow creasing, but Yoongi shakes his head and strides to the door.

“I’m gonna go left,” he says, his hand on the handle. “We came from the right, so you guys should be able to retrace our steps and get out.”

Jungkook stops him before he can exit, pressing a handful of smoke grenades into his palm. “Hang on,” he says, his throat tight. “You might need these.”

Yoongi pockets them, nodding. “Thanks, man.”

Namjoon looks like he wants to argue some more, but finally bites his lip and nods, his face resolute. “Good luck,” he says after a long, heavy pause. “Stay safe.”

Yoongi flashes you all a crooked grin. “See you soon.”

And then he’s flinging open the door, swinging his hammer into one zombie’s skull and kicking another in the knees. Namjoon stays in the doorway, shooting any and every zombie that he can see through the smashed window. You can just barely hear Yoongi jeering insults over the sound of gunfire and stumbling footsteps, the occasional thud of something heavy against the linoleum floor letting you know that Namjoon has successfully found his mark.

After what feels like an eternity, Namjoon finally pulls back from the window and turns back to you and Jungkook. “Coast is clear,” he whispers. “Let’s go.”

“And Yoongi?” you ask, anxiety roiling in your gut at the thought of the blond man facing the horde of undead alone.

“He’ll be fine,” Namjoon says automatically, and you know he’s trying to convince himself just as much as he’s reassuring you. His grip is tight on his gun as he wrenches open the door and ushers the two of you out into the hallway, and even in the dimness you see the worried glance he shoots over his shoulder, lingering on the corner that Yoongi has disappeared around.

“Come on, Joon,” you murmur, nudging his arm gently. “Yoongi’s gonna beat us back to the car at the rate we’re going.”

That draws a soft chuckle from your companion. “You’re right,” he murmurs back. “Let’s go.”

///

As it turns out, however, Yoongi does not beat you back to the SUV. The blond-haired man is nowhere to be found, and you see concern etch itself permanently onto Namjoon’s forehead as he peers around the eerily quiet street. The air feels too still, and every crunch of gravel from underneath your sneakers sounds like a gunshot.

“He’ll be back, right?” Jungkook whispers urgently to you while Namjoon is out of earshot, his doe eyes wide and beseeching. “You don’t think he got…”

He trails off, and you shake your head, unwilling to even think of the possibility that harm has befallen the blond-haired man. “Yoongi’s tough,” you declare. “He’ll be back any minute, and we should be ready to take off when he does. In case, you know, he’s still being chased.”

“Right,” Jungkook says, glancing over at Namjoon, who’s standing closest to the driver’s side and is suddenly beginning to look very sheepish.

“So… I can’t actually drive,” he says, scratching the back of his neck awkwardly as your jaw drops.

“Wait, you can’t drive? Don’t you live off-campus? How do you get to class?”

Namjoon shrugs. “I usually bike. Sometimes I walk to class, if the weather’s nice.” Then he pauses, dejection settling on his features. “Although I guess I won’t be teaching classes again any time soon.”

Your heart sinks. You know from the syllabus that he handed out on the first day that this was his first semester as a teaching assistant, his passion for philosophy shining through in every lecture he’s given. “You’re a great teacher,” you tell him, intent on cheering him up. “I learned so much from you. I mean, nobody likes moral philosophy, but you somehow managed to even make that interesting, which is pretty damn incredible.”

Namjoon huffs out a laugh. “Thanks. You were a pretty damn incredible student, yourself.”

“Why, thank you,” you tell him with a grin.

Beside you, Jungkook rolls his eyes and pretends to retch. “Fine, I guess I’ll drive.” Grumbling, he swings open the driver’s side door and plops down onto the seat, adjusting it for his longer legs. “Now how the hell do I start this thing?”

Namjoon clears his throat awkwardly and tears his gaze away from yours, reaching underneath the steering wheel and pulling out a tangle of wires. You stop listening as he explains to Jungkook how to spark them together and instead turn your gaze back to the looming police station, watching intently for any sign of Yoongi’s return. Crumpled newspapers and stray plastic bags roll by, buoyed by the spring breeze. Across the street, a lone pigeon roams, head bobbing as it searches for crumbs.

“Looking for me?”

You jump, letting out a surprised shriek as Yoongi’s blond head of hair suddenly pops out from behind the trunk. “Jesus Christ, Yoongi, what the hell? Where did you come from?”

“Originally? My mother’s womb,” he replies, shrugging. The movement draws your attention to the sleeves of his jacket, newly tattered and splattered with crimson, and any witty retort you might have had is immediately swallowed up by concern.

“Is that blood? Oh my god, is that your blood?”

Your shout alerts Namjoon and Jungkook, twin looks of concern marring their faces as they clamber out of the SUV and join the two of you. “No, no—I’m not hurt,” Yoongi reassures, dismissing your worries with a wave of his hand. “Things did get a little dicey, but it all worked out in the end.”

“How exactly did you escape?” Namjoon asks.

Yoongi grins crookedly. “If you can’t beat ‘em, join ‘em.”

Jungkook blinks. “What?”

“If I couldn’t beat them, I had to join them,” Yoongi elaborates, gesturing to his tattered, dirty clothing. “I stumbled across the evidence room while I was trying to find another way out, and got an idea. This—” he gestures at the red stains splattered across his clothing, “—is actually spray paint. The police must’ve confiscated it from graffiti artists or something. Then all I had to do was rip up my jacket and limp a little and, well, here we are.”

“And that worked?” you ask in disbelief. “You just… pretended to be a zombie and walked out?”

“More or less,” Yoongi says with another shrug. “Now come on, let’s blow this joint. They could find us any second, and I don’t know about you, but I don’t really wanna die just yet. Pretending was enough.”

You have about a million more questions, but Yoongi takes his spot in the driver’s seat before you can ask any of them, readjusting the seat and promising an inquisitive Jungkook that he’ll teach him how to drive the hotwired vehicle next time. The rest of you take your seats as the engine roars to life underneath the blond man’s skilled fingertips, and with a squeal of tires against asphalt, you are off once again, heading toward the great unknown.

///

“Wait, wait, no, stop!”

Yoongi slams on the brakes at Jungkook’s shout, the car skidding to an abrupt halt. “What is it?” he demands, his gaze darting around frantically as his fingers reach for his gun. “Is there a problem?”

Jungkook winces. “Sorry. I was talking to Namjoon, actually.”

Yoongi visibly relaxes, shaking his head as he resumes driving. Namjoon glances back at Jungkook, his eyebrows disappearing behind his dark hair in silent inquiry. “Yes?”

“The radio,” Jungkook says, gesturing at the dashboard buttons that Namjoon has been fiddling with incessantly for the last several minutes. “Go back to the last station for a sec.”

Obediently, Namjoon turns the dial. Staticky white noise fills the air, and Jungkook frowns. Then a few jumbled words filter through the static, and he lets out a triumphant shout. “There!”

“Huh,” Namjoon says, leaning closer to the speaker. “I can’t understand a thing they’re saying. We must be out of range.”

“But we must be getting closer—I think I can make out a few words,” Jungkook says. “Everyone shut up and let me listen…” He trails off, and for a few moments, there is only the sound of garbled static and the low whir of the tires against pavement. Then Jungkook flops back against the seat, a pensive frown settling on his face. “Huh.”

You nudge his shoulder. “Well? What did you hear?”

“Not a whole lot,” he admits. “And I can’t be sure that what I heard was right, but… I think the broadcast is coming from Sonyeo City.”

Namjoon purses his lips, his chin jutting out in the way it does whenever he’s deep in thought. “Sonyeo City… that’s about six hours away, isn’t it?”

Yoongi hums. “Yeah, just about.”

“Do you think…” you trail off, hesitant. “Do you think that this means Sonyeo City’s… safe?”

“There’s no way to be sure.” Namjoon casts his gaze out the window, and you get the feeling he’s looking far beyond the crumbling streets and dark buildings, to the horizon where there still may be a glimmer of hope. “But at least we now have a destination in mind.”

The rest of the ride is quiet. Namjoon keeps the radio on just in case another snippet of discernible audio comes through, but none of you manage to catch anything important. Yoongi stops at a gas station to refuel, and a few minutes after that, finally manages to find a grocery store that looks to be mostly intact and devoid of any immediate threats.

“Let’s get this bread,” Jungkook proclaims as he slides out of the backseat, walking toward the entrance of the store. “And by bread, I mean Twinkies.”

You gape at his retreating back. “Is that a Zombieland reference?”

“Maybe,” he replies, shooting you a playful grin over his shoulder.

Shaking your head, you follow him through the automatic doors and glance around the interior of the store. Row after row of shelves take up the majority of the room, with an open space on the far right for fresh produce and glass-paneled refrigerators lining the wall. Behind you, the doors slide open again with a whoosh, and you turn to meet Namjoon’s eyes as he steps inside with Yoongi. “We should lock the doors,” you point out.

“You’re right,” Namjoon agrees, inspecting the metal frame surrounding the glass.

“Hang on,” Jungkook interrupts, eyes wide as he watches Namjoon fumble with the mechanism. “Are you locking us in?”

“For the time being,” Namjoon says absentmindedly, still focused on the door.

You walk over to Jungkook and pat his cheek. “He’s not locking us in; he’s locking them out. Or would you rather have a horde of zombies stumble in while we’re grabbing supplies?”

“... fair point.”

“Exactly.”

Yoongi, meanwhile, is gazing around the store, leery as always. “Hello?” he calls, his voice cutting through the silence. “Anyone home?”

Not even two seconds later, a shambling, shuffling figure emerges from a far aisle, moving surprisingly quickly despite its odd, lopsided gait. Two more follow, and Yoongi raises his gun, clicking off the safety and narrowing his eyes.

Toward the other end of the store, you spot another zombie dragging itself along the floor, leaving a trail of streaky, bloody handprints in its wake. Three more shuffle out from behind a display of watermelons, heading toward you, and you tighten your grip on your nail-studded bat as they draw ever closer.

Shots ring out behind you, but you don’t chance a glance backward. Out of your peripheral vision you spot Jungkook on your left, bringing his metal pole down onto the crawling zombie’s head with a sickening crunch. Leaping into action, you swing at the closest zombie’s head. It was once a woman, you notice—long stringy hair falling around her decaying face, the bottom half of her jaw visible through the peeling skin. “Sorry about this,” you say, wincing as your bat makes impact. The nails catch in her skin, her neck cracking under the force of the blow, and you yelp as she falls over and the other two zombies take her place.

“Watch out!”

Namjoon’s voice suddenly sounds from behind you, and you instinctively duck as he sprints over and shoots one point blank. Jungkook takes out the other, driving the pole through its chest before pulling it out and smashing it over the zombie’s head. “Are there more?” he asks, slightly out of breath.

“Not sure,” Yoongi says, rejoining you. “I would think most of the lurkers were drawn out by all the noise.”

“Better to be safe than sorry,” Namjoon says. Walking over to a checkout lane, he grabs a pile of plastic bags and an abandoned cart. “Let’s stay together and take the aisles one at a time. We’ll take as much as we can carry.”

“Don’t forget bottled water,” you pipe up, pointing at the stack of water bottles piled next to the door. “We’ve already drank most of what we have. And if we’re getting canned food, we’ll need a can opener too.”

Namjoon follows the direction of your finger. “Good call.”

“I’ll get it,” Jungkook volunteers, jogging over to select a twenty-four pack of bottles and heaving it into the cart. “Now what?”

“Let’s grab the can opener first,” you say. “Maybe some other utensils too. Sound good?”

Namjoon nods. “Sounds great,” he says, handing you one of the bags. Jungkook and Yoongi accept the other bags that Namjoon doles out, and together the four of you head farther into the store, scanning the signs until you come across the one labeled household goods. It’s clear that others have been here before you, but a quick raid of the shelves yields two can openers and a set of silverware, all of which you deposit into your bag. Namjoon grabs four unbroken bowls, mismatched and in varying sizes, and you hold out your bag for him to drop them inside.

Next up is the canned food aisle, where you stock up on various vegetables and far more beans than you care to think about. Jungkook grabs a box of instant coffee, and Yoongi disappears for a few seconds and returns with a massive jar of vitamin supplements. “Gotta stay healthy,” he says in response to your raised eyebrows, adding it to the growing pile in Namjoon’s cart.

“Speaking of healthy, we should grab some produce,” you say. “It won’t stay good forever, but we can at least get some apples and oranges. And we should probably grab some stuff for dinner too. I don’t know about you guys, but I’m starving.”

As if on cue, Namjoon’s stomach rumbles. “Dinner would be nice,” he admits with a sheepish grin. “Let’s finish up here and then eat in the car. We probably don’t want to stick around here for much longer than we have to.”

After some discussion, the four of you decide on sandwiches for dinner and set about gathering the necessary ingredients. Yoongi wanders to the deli area to pick out a selection of meats that haven’t yet spoiled, and even manages to locate some cheese. You peruse the produce, selecting a head of lettuce and several ripe tomatoes while Namjoon fills a bag with apples and grabs a bunch of bananas. Jungkook raids the bread display, shoving two whole loaves and a box of dinner rolls into his bag. Several bags of chips and a pack of juice boxes later, you are ready to go, heading back out into the parking lot where the SUV is parked.

“Wait!” Jungkook suddenly yelps, stopping dead in the middle of loading the trunk. “I forgot my Twinkies!”

“Are you serious right now, Jeon?” you hiss, watching in disbelief as he hurriedly drops his bags and turns back toward the entrance.

“Yes,” he says stubbornly, already beginning to jog away.

Yoongi groans and flops down into the driver’s seat. “Sartre was right,” he grumbles under his breath. “Hell is other people.”

Namjoon gives him an astonished look, mouth already open and ready to question what exactly his friend knew about the French existentialist philosopher, but quickly snaps back to the issue at hand when you abandon your own bags and dart after Jungkook. Immediately, Namjoon follows, nearly tripping in his efforts to keep up with you, and you whirl in concern when he lets out a sudden, startled shout. “What is it?”

Namjoon grimaces, brushing a stray lock of dark hair off his forehead. “Sorry, it’s just—holy shit!”

A skeletal, gaunt hand is grasping at Namjoon’s ankle, and you gasp when you realize that it belongs to the female zombie from before, her milky eyes gazing unseeingly out from beneath stringy hair. Cursing, Namjoon shakes her off and fumbles for his gun. Pointing it down, he aims and pulls the trigger.

Click.

“I’m out of bullets,” he whispers in dawning horror.

You reach for your trusty bat, tucked away in its sling on your back, but the handle keeps evading your grasping fingers, the nails catching in the fabric. Your palms begin to sweat as Namjoon kicks at the zombie, stomping on her arm and cracking all the bones. He’s glancing around frantically for something he can use as a weapon, but to no avail. And all the while, the undead woman continues her dogged pursuit, crawling after him with one good arm like a lopsided cockroach, teeth gnashing furiously in anticipation of her next meal.

“NOT TODAY, MOTHERFUCKER!”

Jungkook barges onto the scene with his metal pole in hand, glinting dull silver in the flickering fluorescent lights. He smashes the zombie over the head once, twice, three times before relenting, his chest heaving with exertion. Namjoon sucks in a deep breath when she finally falls limp, reaching out to clap Jungkook on the back. “Wow,” he says shakily. “Thanks, man. That was a close call.”

Jungkook straightens up and hefts his weapon over his shoulder. “And that’s why we have rule number two here in Zombieland,” he says proudly.

Namjoon asks the question before you even have a chance to stop him. “What’s rule two?”

Jungkook grins a grin so wide, you’re surprised his mouth doesn’t fall off altogether. “The Double Tap, of course.” Then his gaze flickers downward, to where a familiar blue-and-white box lies crumpled against the linoleum. “Oh, no. My Twinkies!”

You sigh.

///

Dinner—if it can even be called that—is a quick affair, eaten while huddled in the SUV and parked in an alley. The sun is setting rapidly, dipping beyond the horizon and bathing the surrounding buildings in a fiery orange glow. It’s been mercifully quiet for the past half hour, broken only by the occasional crunch of a chip or a slurp from a juice box.

Yoongi starts driving again after he’s polished off the last of his sandwich. Dusky twilight cloaks the city in purple—turning it into something strange and unfamiliar. Normally, the streets would be aglow with lit lamps and illuminated homes, crowded with people returning home after a long day of work or classes. Now, though, the streets are silent and abandoned. The few zombified citizens you pass are quickly left behind, and you know you aren’t imagining the melancholy air that’s settled over your companions, nestling deep into the nooks and crannies of the SUV, stagnant and unshakable. It grows stronger the farther Yoongi drives, the buildings getting shorter and the space between them growing longer, and your heart breaks a little in your chest when you turn for one last look at the city you’ve all come to call home.

You can’t quite explain it, but somehow, you know you won’t ever be coming back.

Namjoon begins fiddling with the radio dials again as Yoongi turns onto the highway, a burst of static breaking the stifling silence in the car. Jungkook startles slightly at the sharp sound, looking up from where he’d been staring out the window. “Is that the station from before?”

Namjoon hums in affirmation, adjusting the volume until the white noise is just a low buzz. Jungkook settles back into his seat, but you can see that he’s listening carefully, his knee bouncing in anticipation.

And then, without any warning whatsoever, a voice comes through the static, clear as day.

Testing, one, two. Is anybody out there?

If you’ve still got a functioning brain and at least one ear, congratulations! another voice chimes in, brighter than the first. You’re listening to 2J! Straight out of Sonyeo City, we’re your premier source of zombie news—

—your only source, really—

—and we’re here to bring you all the latest so that you can stay safe out there, the second voice continues as if there was no interruption at all.

Unfortunately, the first voice says, adopting a more somber tone now, there isn’t a lot of good news. We’re still in the dark about how this epidemic started. Reports claim that it began in a city in the south, which multiple sources have confirmed, but the government has yet to put out an official statement regarding the situation.

They’re being pretty dodgy about the whole thing, to be honest, the second voice continues. The first emergency alert said it was a mutated virus, but the second claimed it was a contaminated water reservoir. I wouldn’t be surprised if this was some super-secret experiment gone wrong, Jin.

Honestly, me neither, the man named Jin says. But that’s enough of the conspiracies for now, Jay. Let’s talk survival! First thing you’ll want to do, dear listeners, is head north toward Sonyeo City, where a quarantine zone has been set up.

Jungkook releases a long, pent-up breath. “We were right,” he whispers. “Thank god.”

Namjoon flashes him a little smile and cranks up the volume, listening carefully as Jin’s voice fills the car.

Your best bet is to drive, of course, hop in your car and get going. Stock up on gas and non-perishable food, and some weapons certainly wouldn’t hurt either.

If worst comes to worst and you have to kill a zombie, the best way to do it is to smash its head in, Jay pipes up. You can also break their kneecaps to slow them down, but that won’t kill them for good. They’ll keep coming as long as they can still move—and if they bite you, you’re a goner.

Now onto ways to avoid zombies! Jin says, perhaps a bit too cheerfully. One thing I’ve noticed during my research is how quickly their optic nerves deteriorate once they’re infected. In fact, the rate of deterioration is second only to that of their vocal chords!

And now tell them what that means in plain English, Jay prods, laughing.

Jin chortles. Basically, they have shit eyesight, especially in the dark, he clarifies. If it’s nighttime and you find yourself surrounded somehow, your best bet is to stay quiet and move slowly. If they hear you, well…

You’re a goner, Jay supplies helpfully.

Exactly. Thanks, Jay.

No problem, Jin.

And that brings us to the end of this broadcast, Jin says, clapping his hands. Thanks for tuning in today, and we’ll see you next time.

Until then, this has been 2J. Stay safe out there!

There’s a dull click, and then the static resumes, filling the silence left in the wake of the broadcast. “Well, at least we’re headed in the right direction,” Yoongi says after a few long moments. “It’s a long drive though, and I don’t think I can stay awake for much longer. We might want to start looking for a place to sleep for the night.”

“That’s a good idea,” Namjoon says. “I’m pretty sure we’ve all been running on pure adrenaline up to this point, so we definitely need some rest. We’ll start fresh tomorrow morning.”

Mumbles of agreement all around. Ten minutes later, Jungkook points to a quaint little farmhouse on the right side of the road, the windows dark. “Think anyone’s home?”

“Guess we’ll find out,” Yoongi replies, slowly pulling off the road and into the winding driveway, watching for any movement from the house or the surrounding fields. The hum of the engine doesn’t draw any unwanted attention, and you breathe a tentative sigh of relief as he parks the car beneath a large oak tree. Together, the four of you pile out and approach the house, weapons at the ready.

“Should we knock?” you whisper, looking at the little brass knocker in the middle of the front door. “Ring the doorbell, maybe?”

“Can’t hurt, right?” Jungkook jabs his thumb into the button by the doorknob, listening intently as the bell chimes inside the house. After a few beats of silence, he shrugs. “Guess no one’s home.”

“And the door’s locked,” Yoongi says, trying the knob. “Maybe they’re away on vacation or something.” Wandering over to a nearby window, he jimmies the frame, a wry grin crossing his features when it pops open easily. “They should probably invest in better locks, though.”

One by one, you climb through the window. Namjoon is the last one inside, folding his tall frame through the small space, and as soon as both his feet touch carpet, Yoongi shuts the window again and closes the curtains. “Don’t wanna be seen from the street,” he explains as he pulls out his cell phone and taps the flashlight button, illuminating the room in harsh white light. Namjoon does the same, as does Jungkook, and you pull your own phone out as well—now fully charged from the long car ride. A quick sweep of the house reveals that it is indeed empty, and Jungkook whoops when his flashlight falls upon a rifle mounted over the fireplace. Further investigation reveals two more pistols in a cabinet, along with ample ammunition, and Yoongi grins as he loads all three guns and hands one over to you.

“You ever shot one of these before?”

The gun is heavy in your palm. Slowly, you shake your head.

Yoongi glances over at Namjoon slyly. “Why don’t you give her a lesson out back, then?”

You don’t miss the way Namjoon’s ears flush pink, his feet scuffing nervously against the carpeted floor before he chances a look at you. The smile that he offers you is warm but hesitant, and when he speaks, his voice is even more so. “Sure,” he says. “I can show you how, if you’d like.”

“I’d really like that,” you tell him, the butterflies erupting in your chest when his smile widens. Together, the two of you head toward the back of the house, taking a detour to the kitchen where Namjoon grabs an armful of empty soda cans. His shoulder brushes against yours as you walk, but neither of you pull away. Even as you step onto the wooden patio that leads into the rest of the yard, you remain side by side, admiring the full moon that hangs bright in the sky, providing just enough illumination to view your surroundings.

“I suppose we should start with the basics,” Namjoon begins, his gaze alighting on a low fence lining the property. Jogging over, he lines the cans up on the wooden beam before returning to your side and gesturing for you to raise the pistol. His fingers skim across yours as he shows you how to disengage the safety, and your heart skips a beat when he explains how to reload once you run out of bullets, his large hands guiding yours through each step.

There’s a damp chill in the evening air, but you don’t even feel it. Namjoon is so close by this point, his chest pressed almost flush against your back as he shows you how to aim. His fingers wrap around your wrist, warm and gentle, and you shiver when he speaks again, his mouth at your ear, his voice rumbling through his chest.

“Ready?”

You nod, almost afraid to breathe as your finger finds the trigger. Namjoon’s grip on your wrist loosens but doesn’t disappear entirely, and you steel yourself for the recoil as you finally pull the trigger. The loud crack has you wincing, but Namjoon is laughing, the sound deep and husky as he urges you to lower the gun.

“Nice shot.”

You turn to look at the fence, now missing one soda can. “Oh, wow,” you breathe. “That was… kind of therapeutic, actually. Can we try again?”

Namjoon grins. “Of course we can.”

///

Ten cans and a box of ammunition later, you and Namjoon find yourselves lounging on the steps of the patio, staring up at the velvety night sky. “I’ve never seen so many stars before,” you murmur, a little awestruck by the sight. “But now that we’re away from the city and all that light pollution… wow. It’s amazing.”

“It’s beautiful,” Namjoon agrees, his gaze lingering on you for a moment too long before he collects himself and looks up at the sky once more.

“I wish I knew more constellations,” you say, laughing softly. “I can really only pick out the Big Dipper. And even then, I can only find it about eighty percent of the time.”

“What about the Little Dipper?” Namjoon asks. He scoots a little closer to you, pointing upward. “Do you see that really bright star up above the Big Dipper? That’s Polaris—the north star. It’s the end of the handle.”

You follow the trajectory of his finger curiously, eyes widening when you spot the smaller, but still distinctive, spoon shape. “Oh! Yes, I see it now. I don’t know how I didn’t notice it before.”

Namjoon chuckles. “I can show you where Orion is too,” he says. “That’s as far as my knowledge of constellations goes, though.”

“You know more than I do,” you reply, smiling up at him. Softly, you lay a hand on his arm. “Thank you for showing me.”

“You’re welcome,” he murmurs, cheeks dimpling as he gazes down at you. This close, you can see all the stars reflected in his irises, his skin glowing silver under the luminescence of the full moon. And in a sudden surge of boldness, you allow your hand to slide down until it’s laying atop his, your fingers settling in the spaces between his own.

Namjoon glances down at your intertwined hands, his lips twitching with a barely restrained smile. “You know,” he murmurs, his breath visible in the chilly air, “I’ve always kind of liked you.”

You blink at the admission. “Really?”

He huffs out a soft chuckle, his chest rumbling with the sound. “It’s crazy, right? But it’s true. Ever since you sat down in the front row on the first day of my class with a bright pink pen and no laptop… do you know how rare it is to see someone take handwritten notes in this day and age?”

Your cheeks heat up. “You noticed that?”

“I did,” he replies, taking your hand in his and twining your fingers together properly. “Do you remember that essay the professor assigned? It must have been the second or third assignment—the one about moral responsibility in modern society?” At your nod, he smiles and continues. “Yours was the best one I read, hands down.”

“Yeah, he talked about it for three days straight,” a new voice says. Whirling around, you see Yoongi’s head poking out the back door, smirking like the cat that ate the proverbial canary. “He wouldn’t shut up about it. It was annoying as hell.”

Namjoon groans. “Seriously, Yoongi?”

The blond man puts his hands up innocently. “Just stopping by to make sure you guys weren’t dead,” he says before letting the door shut again, chortling to himself.

Namjoon sighs and turns back to you, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Sorry about him. He doesn’t have much of a filter.”

You giggle and squeeze his hand. “Don’t worry about it. He’s gone now, so I can finally do this.”

Namjoon tilts his head curiously. “Do wha—?” he begins to say, only to be cut off by your mouth on his. The kiss is soft and slow, your lips moving lazily against his, and by the time you pull away, both of you are breathing much more heavily. Namjoon’s hands find their way around your waist, tugging you close, and you nestle deeper into the warmth of his embrace, enjoying how it wards off the chill in the air.

“I’ve wanted to do that for a long time, you know,” you murmur, pressing your lips to his cheek.

He chuckles and chases after your mouth, his nose bumping affectionately against yours. “Yeah. Me too.”

///

You wake up the next morning to golden sunlight streaming in through the window and an arm wrapped firmly around your waist. Namjoon hasn’t opened his eyes yet, his hair sticking every which way, but his grip on you tightens when he feels you begin to stir. “Good morning,” he mumbles, finally cracking an eye open and smiling down at you.

“Good morning,” you whisper back. You’re positive that you look like an absolute mess—hair in disarray, face crusty from sleep, body desperately in need of a shower—and yet Namjoon is staring at you like you’re the most beautiful creature he’s ever laid eyes on, dimples dotting his cheeks as he reaches up to stroke your cheek with his thumb. You reciprocate with a kiss to his palm, and he grins. Grabbing your chin, he tilts your face up so he can kiss you properly—his lips soft and gentle against yours. It almost feels like an ordinary morning, and for a few moments, you can pretend that there isn’t a monstrous epidemic running rampant through large swathes of the country. For a few moments, you’re just a girl and a boy, basking in the idyllic haze of each other’s presence.

But then there’s a knock on the door, followed by Yoongi’s low drawl. “Get dressed and come eat, lovebirds. Sooner we get on the road, the better.”

You break apart from Namjoon, giggling when you see the dopey grin stretched across his face. “Why are you looking at me like that, you weirdo?”

His grin only widens, his arms looping around your waist. “It’s just funny,” he says. “Waking up with you, Yoongi yelling at us—this is the first ordinary morning I’ve had in a long time. And I’ve missed it. I’ve missed it a lot.”

“So have I,” you murmur, burying your face into the warm cotton of his t-shirt and allowing yourself one more moment of normalcy before getting out of bed. Walking into the bathroom, you are pleased to discover that the water is still running, and Namjoon even manages to unearth some unused toothbrushes and toothpaste from underneath the sink. The bristles are a little too stiff for your liking and the water has a metallic tinge that refuses to dissipate, but being able to brush your teeth makes a world of difference. There’s a noticeable bounce in your step as you make your way downstairs with Namjoon, and Yoongi and Jungkook pick up on it right away.

“Someone’s chipper this morning,” Yoongi says without looking up from his bowl of dry cereal. “The sex was that good, huh?”

“W-we didn’t…” Namjoon stammers, his cheeks flushing. “That’s not what we—”

You squeeze his hand, stopping his rambling in its tracks. “Let them think what they want,” you advise. “They’re just jealous of your dick game, anyway.”

“Ew,” Jungkook grumbles, throwing an apple at you. “Way too much information, {Name}.”

You shrug, just barely managing to catch the piece of fruit. “You guys brought it up first. Not my fault.”

The remainder of breakfast passes quickly. Yoongi and Jungkook head outside to start loading the car while you and Namjoon scour the house one last time for anything that might be useful, and within the hour, you are back on the road toward Sonyeo City.

“You know, this Jin character sounds like a piece of work,” Yoongi grumbles from the passenger seat for what feels like the millionth time. Jungkook is driving today, which leaves you and Namjoon in the backseat with the eclectic collection of food and weapons you’ve amassed. The four of you are listening to the 2J broadcast again, and after a rather lengthy discussion of zombie evasion techniques, Jin has lapsed into telling the worst dad jokes you’ve ever heard.

What does a vegetarian zombie eat? Graaains!

“Jesus fucking Christ,” Yoongi groans.

Morning turns into midday, the sun high in the sky. The road winds on, through green cornfields and grassy plains and the occasional small town. Several times, you spot a zombie or two shambling around aimlessly through the windows, but they’re quickly forgotten as Jungkook slams on the gas pedal. You get the feeling that he’s relishing the lack of an enforced speed limit, and taking full advantage of the empty highway.

It’s late afternoon by the time you arrive on the outskirts of Sonyeo City. Off in the distance, you can see taller skyscrapers rising up, gray and hazy against the horizon, but the area you’re in right now seems to be the warehouse district. Low, squat factories sit on either side of the road and a branching network of railroad tracks weaves throughout, but everything is eerily still and deathly quiet. No smoke rises up from the smokestacks, and you’re pretty sure you spot a train that’s been toppled over onto its side before Jungkook hits the gas again and takes you deeper into the city. The buildings get taller the farther you drive, but you still have yet to see any signs of life besides the occasional bobbing pigeon or scurrying rat.

That all changes when the car rounds the next corner. It looks as if a bomb has gone off in one of the largest brick buildings lining the street, covering the entire block in a layer of rubble. Zombified citizens mill around in the debris, and Jungkook slams on the brakes, his eyes wide with panic.

“Dude, just back up and try another street,” Yoongi says when he doesn’t move. “They haven’t noticed us yet.”

“No, that’s not it,” Jungkook says, his voice shaking. “We’re… we’re low on gas. Like, really, really low.”

Yoongi takes another look outside and blanches. “Are you fucking kidding me? We’ll get killed if we try to refuel now!”

“I’ll—I’ll get us as far away as I can,” Jungkook stammers, throwing the vehicle into reverse and beginning to back away from the mayhem. He clears the corner and continues backward for another two blocks before the car slows to a full stop, a groan escaping his lips. “Fuck.”

Glancing out the window, you see four stray zombies stumbling toward you. “Uh, guys? We have a bit of a problem.”

Namjoon curses and begins digging through the stash of weapons at his feet, pulling out several long knives and an axe you’d taken from the farmhouse. “We don’t stand a chance without a car,” he mutters as he pulls out supplies. “Yoongi, grab the gas. I’ll watch your back while you fill up the tank. Jungkook, be ready to drive at a moment’s notice. {Name}...” He grins, handing you the rifle to join the pistol you already have at your side. “You’re on sniper duty. But save it as a last resort, okay? Gunshots will draw even more attention to us, which is the last thing we need right now.”

“Got it,” you say, accepting the box of ammunition he slides over and ignoring the way your heart begins to pound in your chest. “Stay safe out there, okay?”

Namjoon presses a quick kiss to your mouth, ignoring the disgusted sound Jungkook makes. “I will, don’t worry. Be back soon.” And then he’s hopping out of the car, joining Yoongi at the gas tank and scanning the street for any approaching threats. The four zombies at the end of the street are still a block and a half away, but the distance doesn’t make you feel any better as you watch Namjoon and Yoongi standing out in the open, unprotected. Through the open window, you can hear Yoongi cursing, hands shaking as he opens up the gas can.

Bang!

A young man bursts out of an apartment complex just up the street, the door slamming against the brick wall behind it. Even from a block away, you can see the frantic expression on his face as he dashes outside without taking proper stock of his surroundings. Your mouth opens to shout a warning—beside you, you can see Jungkook about to do the same—but it’s already too late. The zombies are upon him before he can even scream, rotting teeth tearing into his flesh and ripping chunks away until he’s reduced to a huddled mass of blood and viscera on the ground, deathly still and silent.

Then, to your absolute disbelief, the man is crawling to his feet again, his stance lopsided and his expression blank. Half of his jaw has been torn away, exposing teeth, and your stomach squirms at the sight of his fresh wounds still oozing crimson.

“Holy shit!” Jungkook screeches, whirling around to face you with wild eyes. “We need to get out of here!”

“I know, dumbass!” you yell back, craning your head back to check on your other two companions only to nearly jump out of your skin when the door flies open in your face.

“It’s me!” Namjoon shouts, sliding into his seat. Up front, Yoongi is already seated, his chest heaving with uneven breaths. “Drive, Jungkook!”

Jungkook lets loose a colorful string of curses and fumbles to start the engine, eyes skittering between the steering wheel and the approaching zombies. “Come on, come on—”

“WAIT!”

All four of you whirl around, searching for the source of the unfamiliar voice. A split second later, a young man with fluffy blond hair pops up in your window, followed quickly by another man with longer, dark brown hair. “Please wait!” the blond man entreaties, wincing when you let out a startled yelp and slam a hand against the glass. “Please!”

“Who the fuck are you?” you gasp.

“My name’s Jimin, and this is Taehyung,” he says, glancing over to where the zombies are rapidly approaching. “You have to take us with you!”

Jungkook chooses that moment to butt in. “What the fuck? No way! How do we know you’re not infected?”

“We’re not!” It’s Taehyung who speaks this time, his voice low but no less urgent than Jimin’s. “Please, you have to believe us.”

“How do you expect us to do that?” Yoongi growls. “We don’t know you—you could be trying to kill us, for all we know.”

“Why the hell would we kill you?” Jimin yelps, looking offended by the very idea.

“We’re not zombies, I promise” Taehyung adds, frowning. “No need to be so paranoid.”

“I think a healthy dose of paranoia is a good thing in this situation!” Yoongi snaps.

Out of the corner of your eye, you notice Namjoon’s pensive expression, his chin jutting out in the way it does when he’s focused. “Joon? You okay?”

His frown deepens. “I think we have to let them in.”

Yoongi balks. “Dude, what the fuck?”

Namjoon shakes his head. “No, seriously. Remember what Jin said in that broadcast—about how quickly an infected person’s vocal chords deteriorate? There’s no way they’d be talking if they were infected. Absolutely none.”

Jimin claps. “Exactly! Now can you please unlock the door?”

You look at Namjoon, who nods. Jungkook groans and Yoongi slaps a hand over his eyes, but you nod back and reach over to flip the switch, the door unlocking with an audible click.

“Thank you so much,” Jimin chants as he piles into the backseat in a mess of limbs. “Thank you. Holy shit, thank you.” Taehyung follows after him, slamming the door shut, and you grunt when Jimin scoots over to give him a little more room and nearly elbows you in the face.

“Careful,” Namjoon cautions, wrapping an arm around your waist and tugging until you are practically seated in his lap. Beside you, Jimin and Taehyung make themselves comfortable, carefully avoiding the bags of supplies on the floor as Jungkook starts the car.

“Thanks again,” Jimin repeats earnestly once he’s settled in. “I know it must’ve been hard sticking your necks out like that, but we really do appreciate it.”

“Why were you even out in the open like that?” Yoongi asks, narrowing his eyes at Jimin. “Isn’t there supposed to be a quarantine zone somewhere in this godforsaken city?”

Taehyung nods. “Yeah, it’s in the city center, past the river. We were headed there ourselves, but then the explosion happened.”

“You guys must’ve seen it,” Jimin says. “Few blocks back, rocks and garbage everywhere? We think it was a gas leak, but who knows? It totaled our car, and we’ve been on foot ever since.”

Yoongi looks a little abashed. “Sorry to hear that.”

Jimin shrugs and offers him a crooked grin. “It’s all good. We’re still here now, and we’re still alive. That’s really all that matters.”

///

As it turns out, Jimin is a cadet in the local police academy—something you discover when his jacket falls open to reveal an impressive array of weapons strapped to his belt. Taehyung is an art history student, but between his fondness for paintball and his childhood on a farm, you quickly find that he’s almost just as well-versed in marksmanship as Jimin.

In the last ten minutes, however, Taehyung has fallen oddly silent. A glance over at the brown-haired man reveals that he is staring out the window, lost in thought as buildings rush by. Jimin is still chattering about the academy to a very interested Namjoon, but you don’t miss the occasional furtive glance he gives his friend, his brow creasing briefly in concern before he manages to smooth his expression out again.

Up ahead, you catch a glimpse of the river—a ribbon of blue snaking its way through the city. “There’s a big bend in the river, kind of like a horseshoe, right around the downtown area,” Jimin explains. “I think it was some kind of fortress back in the day, before the rest of the city was built around it. Most of the walls are still standing—historical preservation and whatnot—so the only way to get there is by crossing the bridge or going through the tunnel. And I’m like ninety percent sure they’ve already closed the tunnel down.”

“Bridge it is, then,” Yoongi says. “You know how to get us there?”

“Yeah, you take a left at the next light and then—”

“Can we actually stop here for a minute?”

Everyone glances back at Taehyung, who seems to have finally found his voice again. “Stop?” Namjoon asks, a frown etching its way across his face. “Why?”

Taehyung sucks in a deep breath, his gaze darting over to an unassuming brick building on the corner. “It’s just that… that’s where my little sister lives.”

And in an instant, you understand. You understand why he’s been so quiet this entire time, and why he’s been gazing out the window so wistfully. Jungkook steps on the brake, and the car rolls to a slow stop at the curb. “I get it,” he mutters, his fingers tight around the steering wheel. “I’d… I’d want to check too, if it were my brother.”

Murmurs of agreement all around. Taehyung smiles weakly, mumbling his thanks, and Jimin takes his hand with a reassuring smile. “Come on, Tae. Let’s go get Eonjin.”

“I’ll come too,” Jungkook volunteers, hopping out of the driver’s seat. “You might need the extra help.”

Yoongi sighs and exits the car as well, glancing back at you and Namjoon. “Guess I should stretch my legs too. You two wanna watch the car?

You nod. “We can do that.”

Yoongi nods back and follows the other three men into the building. You watch as they disappear into its dark depths, letting out a soft sigh.

“Do you think they’ll find her?”

Namjoon hums. “I don’t know,” he admits. “I hope so, for Taehyung’s sake. But I really don’t know if they will.”

You sigh again, shifting into a more comfortable position on his lap and letting your head fall back onto his shoulder. His arms tighten around your waist, and you shiver as his warm breath caresses your neck. “I’m glad my parents are overseas on a cruise right now,” you say softly. “They posted photos just yesterday, so I guess that means that whatever this epidemic is, it isn’t a global thing.”

“You’re lucky,” Namjoon mumbles. “I haven’t heard from my parents yet.”

You stiffen in his embrace. “You… you haven’t? Oh my god, Joon, I’m so sorry.”

He tries to shrug off your concern, but you don’t miss the way his throat bobs harshly as he swallows. “It is what it is,” he says after a few seconds. “I’ve heard from my sister, at least. She says she’ll be making her way here in the next day or two.”

“That’s good,” you murmur. You don’t know what else you could possibly say, and Namjoon, luckily, seems to understand.

“Yeah.”

Silence falls over the two of you, then—each of you lost in your own thoughts. Even though you’re so close to your destination now, it still feels far—as if it’s a mirage that will disappear if you so much as breathe the wrong way. You don’t know what awaits you, and for a moment, you’re terrified of the possibilities. But Namjoon’s arms remain wound around you, his presence warm and reassuring even now, and you think to yourself that maybe—just maybe—everything will be all right.

And then Jimin’s banging on your window again, forcibly pulling you out of your stupor. “Guys! Guys! It’s Tae—he’s been bitten!”

A beat passes. His words take a second to register in your brain—Tae, bitten—almost as if they don’t make sense together. It’s a sentence you never wanted to hear, and your limbs suddenly feel like they’ve been submerged in water, slow and heavy and dragging.

Namjoon, however, is up in an instant. “Where is he now?” he asks, throwing the door open and laying a hand on Jimin’s shoulder as he blabbers on. “Is he bleeding? Is he hurt anywhere else?”

“No, no—” Jimin looks close to tears. “It’s just—it all happened so fast. We were in Eonjin’s apartment but she wasn’t home, and then this guy came out of nowhere and—and…” He trails off, gesturing weakly behind him. “Look for yourselves.”

Yoongi and Jungkook stumble their way out of the building, supporting a pale-looking Taehyung between them. Blood drips down his wrist and onto the sidewalk, and the sight of the bright red liquid shakes off any stupor you might have been under. Delving into the backpack full of supplies from the farmhouse, you pull out the first-aid kit, brandishing it in the air as you jump out of the SUV. “He’s losing way too much blood,” you say, pulling out a roll of bandages and a tube of ointment, handing the rest of the kit over to Namjoon. “We have to stop it.”

“This isn’t exactly a safe spot for medical procedures,” Yoongi points out, gesturing around the street with his free hand. “We’re out in the open, totally exposed.”

“Then we’ll get back in the car,” Namjoon says. “We can drive and patch him up at the same time.”

“But he’s infected,” Jungkook whispers. “What happens when he… y’know. Turns?”

None of you have an answer for that. Jimin’s running his hands frantically through his hair, and you can practically see the desperation swimming in his honey brown eyes. “We can’t just leave him behind,” he murmurs. “We can’t.”

“Then we won’t,” you tell him, stepping up to Taehyung and slathering a generous amount of ointment on the bite wound. Then you pull off a short section of bandage, tying it around his upper arm like a tourniquet. “We’re going to get you in the car now, Tae. Is that okay? Can you still walk?”

Taehyung blinks dazedly, his brown eyes taking a few seconds to focus properly on you. “I… I think so. Hang on. Lemme try.”

Namjoon nearly drops the first-aid kit. “Wait, did you just talk?”

Taehyung blinks again, swaying slightly on his feet. “Yes?”

Your eyes widen as realization dawns. “Wait, but infected people can’t talk. Their vocal chords…”

“... deteriorate,” Namjoon finishes for you. “Yeah. So then that begs the question: why can Taehyung still talk?”

For the second time in as many minutes, none of you have an answer. “Tae,” you try again. “How do you feel right now?”

Taehyung’s mouth pulls down into a slow frown. “I feel… slow. A little muddled, I guess? No brain eating urges or anything though, which is nice. Brains probably don’t taste very good.”

“No,” you say, exchanging a glance with your equally flabbergasted companions. “I can’t imagine they would.”

///

Not twenty minutes later, you are driving across the bridge that leads to your final destination. A rather formidable wall with an even more formidable gate stands in your way, and you watch as several guards peer out from over the top, weapons drawn and at the ready.

“Stop right there!” the guard stationed on the ground commands, his gun trained on the SUV. “Get out of the vehicle with your hands up and identify yourselves one by one.”

“My name is Kim Namjoon,” Namjoon says, clambering out with his palms extended. You follow after him, stating your name as well, and the guard directs both of you to stand against the wall, calling for a man named Seokjin to come check your vitals as your companions continue introducing themselves.

A minute later, a smaller door to the right of the gate opens, and out walks a man wearing a white coat and a genial smile. “Sorry about this,” he says, adjusting his stethoscope. “Proper procedure and all that. You can never be too careful, right?”

“Don’t worry about it,” you tell him, pulling the collar of your shirt aside so he can listen to your heartbeat. “This is hardly the worst thing to happen to us in the last few days.”

The young doctor laughs—a high, squeaky sound that reminds you of a windshield wiper. “Touché,” he says, waving Namjoon over so he can listen to his heart as well. “Well, look at that! You both appear to be alive—congratulations! It’s nice to meet you.”

His laughter is contagious, and you can’t help the answering giggle that bubbles up in your chest and escapes into the open air. “Nice to meet you too, Doctor.”

He grimaces, flapping a hand at you. “Please, call me Jin. Everyone does. Doctor makes me sound way too stuffy.”

The sound of the familiar name has your eyebrows flying up into your hairline. You exchange a glance with Namjoon, who looks equally shocked, his mouth opening and closing a few times before he ventures, “Jin? Does that mean you’re one half of the 2J radio broadcast?”

Jin’s face splits into a delighted grin. “It sure does! Were you guys listening to us?”

You nod. “It was the only station we could find. I don’t think we’d be here if it weren’t for you and Jay.”

His grin broadens. “His real name’s Hoseok, actually—I had to talk him into the nickname. Took me ages.” Then his expression sobers. “That’s great to hear about the broadcast, though. Really. We weren’t sure that we were reaching people, but it’s nice to know that we definitely are. Thank you.”

“Thank you,” you tell him earnestly.

Jin grins. “You’re welcome,” he says, waving goodbye as he moves on to check on everyone else’s vitals. He makes friendly smalltalk with Yoongi, Jungkook, and Jimin as he listens to their heartbeats, but frowns when he reaches Taehyung, regarding him a little more closely. Jimin looks on anxiously, twisting the hem of his jacket, and you and Namjoon wordlessly sidle closer, ready to defend your friend if the need arose.

“You look a little pale,” Jin says, but his voice isn’t accusatory. “Are you feeling okay?”

Taehyung shrugs vaguely, his eyes unfocused. “I’ve been better.”

Namjoon chooses that moment to step forward, keeping his voice low and guarded. “Jin, you know a lot about the zombies, right?”

Jin nods. “I’ve been conducting research, yeah. It’s slow going though.”

Jimin eyes Jin warily. “What would you say if we told you that one of us was immune to the zombie virus?”

Jin’s mouth falls open, his gaze immediately landing on Taehyung again as he leans closer and stares intently at his pupils. “Immunity? Now that’s interesting,” he mumbles to himself, rubbing his hands together. “That could change everything.”

Taehyung blinks blearily at him. “What are you going on about?”

Jin just laughs. “They’re clear,” he calls to the guard, who nods and returns to the guardhouse. Once he’s gone, Jin claps his hands together and beams. “All right!” he exclaims. “Let’s get you all settled in, shall we?”

“What are you going to do to Tae?” Jimin asks suspiciously, scooting a little closer to his friend.

“Absolutely nothing, if I don’t have his permission,” Jin promises. “But guys, think about it. Someone who’s immune? I could learn so much about what’s causing that immunity if I ran a few tests… maybe even find a cure, eventually. It’s an incredible opportunity.” Upon seeing Jimin’s lingering distrust, however, he stops and laughs again. “But honestly, I won’t do a thing if he doesn’t want me to. Right now, I just want to help you get settled in. All of you need lots of rest and a proper meal. Doctor’s orders, okay?”

Jimin nods. “Fine.”

Up ahead, the gate is slowly beginning to creak open. Jin is welcoming all of you to Sonyeo City, but you barely hear him. Your focus is on Namjoon and Namjoon alone, his presence warm and reassuring as he finds your hand and laces your fingers together.

“Ready?” he asks.

You suck in a deep, steadying breath and squeeze his hand. “Yeah. I’m ready.”

#namjoon #namjoon x reader #namjoon scenarios #bts scenarios #bts #kim namjoon #rm #zombie apocalypse au #bts fanfic #kpop scenarios #lia writes

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fizzyhedgehog · 3 years

Note

"Youre freezing" Mint and Finn

Prompt: Power prompts

POV: Finn

There’s nothing like an afternoon ride to burn some energy. The hot New Orleans sun's beating down on the crowds, and my skin is turning sticky with sweat. After almost running into someone for the third time, I pick up my skateboard and start to slink home. Maybe I could get a night ride in, though if it’s crowded now it would only get worse once all the bars were open.

I sigh, trying to wipe some of the sweat off my forehead with my free hand. This place really sucks sometimes. I like the city, I really do, but I wish there was a nice place I could skate without anyone around that wasn’t just the driveway. I also wish there wasn’t a portal to the Otherworld in our backyard. What can I say, I’m a dreamer.

I groan out of boredom before my mind starts to wonder about Fate. She definitely singled me out last time I saw her. Nothing makes you want to go about your days normally less than a notoriously-sneaky Deity telling you to. Is something I do here likely to change everything? What if I get hurt? Am I not supposed to go on our next mission? What if I die at some point? Well, everyone dies at some point, but-

My train of thought is derailed when I run into someone head-on. They grunt out some insult, I stammer out some apology, and dart into an alley to move out of the way. It’s dark and shady and cool. I let out a sigh and drop my board. I bet I could skate home if I take the alleyways; they’re long and connected and, best of all, empty.

I ride for about fifteen minutes of pure bliss, with my brain mostly focused on imitating car noises. Oh, shit, am I making them out loud? No, phew, I was just humming. I stop. And then I hear a sound- one closer than the crowds on the street. I dismount my board and look around. I normally wouldn’t bother, but over time I realize I’m starting to become more and more paranoid. I whip my head around. Nothing. Not even a rat skittering by. I knew it, I’m starting to lose it. I turn back around and place my foot on the board, rolling it back and forth. Maybe I should bring this up in my next therapy session.

I look up again and am immediately scared shitless. There’s a hand over my mouth. There’s a person in front of me. A person with his hand over my mouth. I try to push it away. If I could just talk, if I could just use my posers, I could make it home easy. His hand doesn’t budge an inch. No no no, fuck, that’s impossible. Paris said I’m the strongest type of fae, even as a part mortal I should be able to-

Bam- I take a punch. I didn’t even see it coming. I’m thinking too much. I’m not thinking fast enough. It hurts to breathe. He must’ve punched me in the sternum. Is that the right place? Like, is that what it’s called? It doesn’t matter. I muster all my strength and kick him. Hard. I wish he’d have gone flying, but stumbling back a bit is good I guess.

I try to speak, to spit out some kind of command, but I can’t breathe. I just wheeze. He comes back, and I take a few more hits, and get a few in myself. This is what Fate was planning. It had to be. I was going to die here, or be captured, here in this goddamned alleyway that I shouldn’t have fucking been in anyway, all because I was hot and bored and-

The person stops, a look of anguish on his face. I had just landed a weak punch, surely that couldn’t have been what did him in. I stare, frozen, as he collapses. Just like that. What the hell?

“Hey man, are you okay?” an unfamiliar voice asks. I look up and my heart skips a beat. There’s a beautiful boy running up to me. Dark brown skin, short, messy, black curls that stand up on his scalp in a temple fade. I swallow hard and nod instead of using my words. (All the better; I have the urge to blurt out how handsome he is.) (That would probably be off-putting for a stranger.)

He offers me a hand. I take it. Damn, it’s so comfortable, my palm fits perfectly into his. What the hell is happening?!

“I saw a fight, it looked like he was totally going to kill you. I was going to see if you needed help, but then- bam! You totally knocked him out!” He talks with a grin. I’m not sure why he’s recapping. His voice sounds shaky, he seems unsure. Like he’s not convinced that’s what happened. And, truth be told, I’m not that convinced either. It was a really weak punch. (He hasn’t made any move to pull me up yet.) (Should I just stay like this?)

“Yeah, I guess it was the adrenaline rush, ya’ know?” I chuckle. (I’m probably overthinking it.)

“Yeah, yeah!” He’s still nervous. Maybe he can sense I’m nervous. “My name’s Mitchell, by the way, but most people call me Mint.” He finally tugs on my arm. I rise to my feet, and there’s a moment where we’re just standing there, holding hands. I feel a prick of chill on his fingers, and he immediately pulls away, shoving his hands into his jean pockets.

“Why Mint?” I finally ask.

“Oh, right, my baby cousin couldn’t say ‘Mitchell’ right, and it kinda stuck. Are you sure you’re okay?” I realize I’m wobbling. The sore pain is starting to set in. Maybe adrenaline really was a factor, after all.

“I’m good...I’m just going to sit down.”

“Here, let me…” Mint takes my arm and helps me down.

“You’re freezing,” I blurt out. He gives me a confused look. But it’s true. His arms feel like ice. (And I’m still all sweaty.) (How embarrassing.) “Your arm,” I clarify. “Are you okay?”

Oh god, he looks more nervous than before. I should shut up. Maybe make a joke, try to lighten the mood. Then, suddenly, I have a revelation.

“Wait, you’re a fae, aren't you?”

The words just come out, completely inconsiderate of what I was asking. Mint lets out a soft sigh. “Yeah,” he finally agrees. “Part.”

I give him a reassuring smile. “Me too.” Shit, I probably shouldn’t have admitted that. I can just picture Tristan pulling his hair out. But Mint’s uneasiness fades, at least from his expression. “What’d you do to him, anyway?” I motion towards the still unconscious attacker.

“Nothing he won’t recover from.” He pulls out his phone. “Meaning I should probably call an ambulance. Do you need to go to the hospital too, or are you good?”

“Nah, I’m good, it’s nothing I can’t sleep off.” He smiles at me and pulls out a marker.

“I’m sure.” He starts to write something on my arm. I don’t stop him. He sticks his tongue out as he writes. It’s adorable. “But I’m part of the Nurse Training Program here in New Orleans. So if, for some reason, you can’t just ‘sleep it off’, let me know.” He caps his marker.

I glance at my arm and feel myself flush. It was his phone number.

“Oh, thanks!” I stammer. I can’t hide my grin. I push myself up, and he does too.

“You should go home and rest, I can explain all this to the medics.”

“Are you sure?”

“Mhm, doctor’s orders.”

“I thought you were a nurse,” I raise my eyebrows.

“How dare!” he gasps, failing to hide a laugh.

“A nurse trainee.”

“A nurse trainee who just saved your butt, thank you very much.” I chuckle as I hope on my skateboard.

“No, thank you very much,” I say, giving him a genuine smile before kicking off.

“Wait!” He calls out after a few moments. I’ve already made it a decent distance. “I never got your name!”

“It’s Finn!” I yell back, turning towards him and cupping my hands around my mouth. He gives me a thumbs up. (At least, I think it’s a thumbs up.) (He’s pretty far away.) I turn back around after I almost run into a trashcan, and continue heading home.

#asks #thank you for the ask!#writing #writing prompt #fizzy writes #my ocs #finn caverly #mint lohan #ocs #first writing of 2021 lets *goooo*

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lifeonashelf · 3 years

Text

COHEN, LEONARD

So, here’s the thing: I don’t know anything about Leonard Cohen.

I do own two of his most acclaimed albums, but don’t get too excited. I bought both of them the week of Cohen’s passing solely because learning of his passing made me realize I didn’t have anything by him in my collection, and he’s always been on my radar as an artist I should probably know some things about, you know? I listened to those two discs one day while I was cleaning my apartment or something, and they were lovely and pleasant and sounded great, but then I filed them away on my shelf and that was essentially the extent of my immersion into the world of Leonard Cohen. I know the reissues I purchased are noteworthy entries in his discography, because they’re housed in these rather attractive hardcover digipacks with booklets that feature lengthy contextual essays written by people way smarter than me. I suppose I could read those essays and glean a little information about Cohen that way, but then I’d just be offering you disingenuous regurgitation, and I don’t want to fake anything in these pages; that’s kind of counteractive to the entire purpose of me writing these dumb things. So if you want to read a thoughtful essay about Leonard Cohen constructed by someone who I assume knows enough about Leonard Cohen to warrant being paid to write an essay about him, you should definitely seek out the striking deluxe editions of Songs From a Room and Songs of Love and Hate I’m referring to, because both have essays in them, and they’re printed on glossy paper so they’re probably pretty good (very few crappy essays get preserved on glossy paper).

No one is paying me to write this essay about Leonard Cohen—they’d be pretty stupid to do so, since I don’t know anything about Leonard Cohen—but I have that pair of records and he’s the next artist on alphabetical deck. So here we are.

Actually, you know what? Before we get started, I’m going to go ahead and advise you to just skip this piece altogether.

Hear me out. I can’t imagine this is going to be one of my better entries; considering my not knowing anything about the person I’m supposed to be writing about and all, the odds of my somehow summoning literary gold here aren’t particularly strong. Also, Leonard Cohen is a highly respected artist, and based on the listening I’m doing right now, he definitely deserves that respect—I’m on my second spin of Songs from a Room and it is an absolutely beautiful record. But what am I accomplishing by telling you that? You probably already know Songs From a Room is an absolutely beautiful record, and if you don’t, you should totally listen to it right this minute instead of reading anything I might observe about it, because the album is a whole lot better than this essay is going to be. I’ve been down this road before, so I can tell you exactly what’s about to happen here: I’m going to keep prattling on with gibberish just like this and end up embarrassing myself by blowing yet another chance to write something substantial about a substantial artist. I guess I could comment on how much I like the two Cohen songs that were used to bookend the mindfuck of a film Natural Born Killers or something, but what purpose will that serve? There, I commented on it, and biting into those ‘member berries hasn’t magically ignited some spirited dissertation, has it? Look, I’m saying this because I care: I really think you should call it quits on this piece right here and now, before you get in too deep. I’m already doomed, but it’s not too late to save yourself. Run, go, get to the choppah. Fly away, Clarice, fly fly fly. ‘Member?

Okay, you’ve been duly warned. So if you do decide to continue on, I’m not going to feel terribly bad about wasting your time, especially since I essentially just promised you anything I write from this point forward is going to be a waste of your time. I mean, everything I’ve written so far has also been a waste of your time, but I haven’t written that much yet. And at least the stuff I wrote so far has served a purpose: it cautioned you that everything to come is going to be an even bigger waste of your time. I can’t promise any of the supplemental paragraphs I’m about to compose will be worth even that much, so I really have to advise you to take a moment here and consider your situation carefully. Weighing everything I’ve just told you about my not knowing anything about Leonard Cohen (and, just to be clear, I’m not playfully minimizing that disposition; I honestly don’t know shit about him), along with my stated unambiguous surety that I am about to waste an indefinite amount of your time (you must be familiar with my work by now; it’s totally plausible this thing could end up running 15 pages)—do you really want to read any of more of this? It’s still not too late to back out. Your time investment thus far is minimal. You can just move right along to the next piece (it’s about Coldplay, so I’m sure that essay is going to be way funnier than this one). My feelings won’t be hurt, I promise. I can hardly fault you for not reading this, because there isn’t any reason at all you should read this. Unless you just really enjoy reading these entries in general, but that seems highly unlikely because nobody enjoys reading them—shit, I only enjoy every fifth one or so, and I write the fucking things.

Check it out: usually by this point in a composition, I would be painstakingly rereading what I’ve written so far to make sure I’m off to an okay start, right? But I haven’t done that in this case because I already know everything I’ve written so far is garbage. This piece isn’t going to improve, either. And that’s what I’m really trying to get across to you here: I am woefully ill-equipped to write anything about Leonard Cohen that is as excellent as his music—I just listened to Songs of Love and Hate a couple times, and holy shit, that’s an absolutely beautiful record too. You may assume I’m continuing this obnoxious diatribe because I’m setting you up for some grand gag (granted, it’s a fair guess, because I’ve done that a few times in entries past). But I’m not joking when I say that I’m not joking in this instance. This rambling philological self-fellation is not going to coalesce into something worthwhile; it’s just going to go on and on like this until I decide I’m done fucking with you and then this essay will just sort of… end, without preamble or satisfaction. I’m telling you, if you keep reading this, you are going to be super pissed off when you finish it. You’ll get to the conclusion, and you’ll grumble, “That’s it…? That was stupid.” And you will be right, because that will be it and it will be stupid.

Since that will be transpiring soon, we should probably clarify that at this point, when it does it’s going to be entirely your fault. If you go all the way back to the beginning of this twaddle, you’ll clearly see the very first thing I wrote was, “So, here’s the thing: I don’t know anything about Leonard Cohen.” That was the opening fucking sentence, dude. Seriously, what did you think was going to happen after that? And only a few lines later, I wrote: “I’m going to go ahead and advise you to just skip this piece altogether.” Then came that whole part about how reading this was going to be a total waste of your time, blah blah blah. You can check if you want; it’s all totally in there. I’m sure you didn’t think I’d be reprinting complete sentences you already read—and, you know what, yes, that’s kind of a low blow, I’m realizing now—but after I took the time to explain in detail that this essay would likely end up serving no purpose whatsoever, surely that must have given you pause. I mean, didn’t you think to yourself, “Wait a minute, before I read this essay, is it going to serve some purpose?” As I’ve made abundantly clear, the answer is: No. No, it is not. I was pretty up front about that. In fact, I specifically told you not to read it—“there isn’t any reason at all you should read this”; is that ringing a bell at all? So if you are still reading it, that’s kind of on you, dude. Sure, I could have stopped writing a long time ago and spared you from all of this bullshit, but let’s not get caught up in semantics.

Have you seen the movie Reservoir Dogs? I’m assuming you have, but if you haven’t, you can add that to the list of far more fulfilling things you could be doing right now instead of reading this essay. Anyway, the film is centered around the aftermath of a jewelry store robbery gone horrifically wrong. We don’t actually see the caper take place, but the characters reference it enough along the way for us to get a clear sense of things devolving into a bloodbath after one of the robbers, Mr. Blonde (played by Michael Madsen) shoots numerous people inside the establishment. Is it coming back to you now? Good. There’s a reason I’m bringing this up.

Since Madsen is absent for a lot of the movie, the audience’s understanding of the storyline relies mostly on what the characters played by Steve Buscemi and Harvey Keitel share with us about what has occurred. Their perspective is clear: Mr. Blonde went crazy and started killing people, and that’s why the whole heist went tits up. However, when Madsen finally appears at the warehouse where the bulk of the plot’s action takes place, he presents an entirely different assessment of the exact same incident. It is here that the movie shifts into the subtle employment of a narrative device known as the “Rashomon Effect,” so-named because this formula’s introduction to Western film-goers is commonly credited to the 1950 Akira Kurosawa film Rashomon—a picture which we can assume in hindsight Reservoir Dogs creator Quentin Tarantino was consciously invoking since his filmography has since revealed a heart-on-sleeve fandom for the work of that storied Japanese director (several Tarantino flicks make reference to this allegiance, but his Kill Bill films in particular are at their core unashamed modern reimaginings of Kurosawa’s legendary Samurai epics). I won’t recount the entire plot of Rashomon, since doing so would be superfluous here (as opposed to all of this shit I’m writing about Reservoir Dogs, which is obviously vitally important to this essay about Leonard Cohen). All you really need to know for our purposes is that the crux of the story is a singular event which is assigned completely disparate interpretations by the various people in the film who witness it. Which is precisely what happens when Michael Madsen makes his entrance.

Now, I’ve seen Reservoir Dogs many times, but not enough times to have the dialogue faithfully memorized; you’ll have to forgive me if I paraphrase a bit here. Essentially, Keitel’s character calls Mr. Blonde a “maniac” or something to that effect, a designation based on Madsen’s character opening fire upon one of the store’s clerks for what Keitel perceives as “no reason at all.” Madsen’s response to this slanted accusation is fascinating. In direct repudiation of his labelling as a “maniac” seconds before, he continues calmly drinking his soda as he amends Keitel’s analysis of the murder by providing a remarkably lucid and utilitarian explanation for the killing: “I told her not to press the alarm, but she did. If she hadn’t done the thing that I told her not to do, then I wouldn’t have shot her.”

It seems we are sharing our own Rashomon moment, my friends. You may feel like your time has been wasted, and it certainly has. But I am not the one who wasted it. That was you. I told you not to read this essay, but you did. If you hadn’t done the thing I told you not to do…

Mr. Cohen: I am truly sorry. Your music is stunning, and you deserve far better than this.

As for the rest of you: I mean, dude, I fucking told you.

March 31, 2019

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sinemoras09 · 4 years

Text

solatium excerpt: personality

More ficlets: Obito and Kakashi fight over barbecue. Obito deals with Madara, and then zombies. Kakashi makes fun of Obito’s wardrobe. Rin and Obito share an inside joke. Rin helps Obito after a bad day. Fluff and crack. @innovativestruggles

(Series of unrelated ficlets. Obito is Hokage. Rin is resurrected and living with him. Madara is married to fem Hashi and has a boatload of kids. Ficlet #7 references the marriage certificate drabble.)

----

She was Obito’s guardian spirit, but sometimes Kakashi would pray in front of her headstone, and Rin would feel her consciousness being ripped away from him. All at once she'd be in the middle of a bright, grassy field, the sun shining on the graveyard while Kakashi laid flowers and an ero book as an offering. "It's a new volume, Rin," Kakashi would say, because she was the one who read ero books first, and he'd set the book down in front of her grave.

Rin would look around and see blue skies and white clouds, birds singing overhead. And then she'd feel Obito calling to her again, and all at once she'd be transported, find herself in dark spaces, cold air and claustrophobic cliffs, Obito having killed another person, blood dripping down his arm as he looked up at the slate gray sky, the rain sluicing down his mask like tears. She followed him all those years because he always spoke to her - when he felt lonely, when he felt uncertain and overwhelmed - and even if she’d start to fade or drift away, she'd feel her consciousness being called toward him again.

They were transported to the gravity dimension. Rin watched, horror-struck, as Obito and Kakashi both fell to their knees, unable to stand up.

A chakra rod shot through the air, moving as if being dragged through thick molasses. She saw Kakashi and Obito running. At least let me be a shield for them! If I could just make it in time--

Rin could hear their prayers.

Her consciousness spread far, able to reach both Kakashi and Obito from across the gravity field. Her hands clasped both of theirs, and she made contact - her spirit, which was weightless and formless, suddenly had heft in this dimension, and as soon as she grabbed their hands she ran, yanking them toward the center, helping them.

I'm going to see my friends again, Rin thought. The chakra rods were hurtling towards them. I'm going to see my friends again and I could talk to both of them!

But the rod heading toward Kakashi started to swirl, and Rin could hear Obito's thoughts, just like she always did.

Rin. This time, when I get there...let's spend some time alone together, just you and me....

The rod smashed into Obito's stomach.

Kakashi would only be in the way. I'm leaving him here.

*****

The three of them are sitting over barbecue, Kakashi in charge of the meat because Obito kept taking it out too early. "That's not ready to eat, you need to let it cook more," Kakashi says, and Rin giggles as Obito grumbles that Kakashi is being a pain in the ass.

The meat sizzles. Rin picks up her glass, taking a drink of water when Kakashi asks, "Rin. Was that really you back there, in the gravity dimension?"

Obito looks up. Kakashi doesn't look at either of them, concentrating on flipping over the pieces of meat with his chopsticks. "Kaguya had launched chakra rods toward Naruto and Sasuke, and Obito and I were trying to get there in time to block them--"

"I was there, I know," Rin says. Kakashi sits back, surprised.

"Really?" Kakashi says.

"You two weren't going to make it on time, and all of a sudden my spirit had weight. I grabbed you both and pulled you there."

"Amazing." Kakashi looks at Rin, awestruck. "So you really were following him?"

"Mostly. Sometimes I'd hear you talking to me, though, and then I'd find myself back in Konoha again." Rin picks up her chopstick, then turns a piece of meat in front of her. She frowns, thoughtfully. "It was always such a change," Rin says. "Konoha was so bright, every time I'd find myself there, I'd think maybe I was in paradise. But then Obito would call to me, and it'd be like we were underground again, everything was so dark and cold and lonely. I wished I could actually be there with him."

Obito gives her a small smile. Rin rubs his arm, scooting next to him.

"Anyway, yeah," Rin says. She plucks out a piece of meat. "That was me."

"Amazing," Kakashi says again. Obito's eyes widen.

"Oi! The meat's burning!" Obito starts pulling the meat up with his chopsticks. "Bakakashi, this is why you shouldn't be in charge of grilling--"

"Wha- if you were in charge everything we'd eat would be raw!"

"Why does anyone have to be in charge anyway?" Rin says, because she was actually paying attention to the grill, her meat is cooked perfectly.

*****

If people didn't know any better - if they hadn't known Kakashi and Obito when they were kids, like Rin did - they would assume that Kakashi is the laid back one, while Obito is the serious one.

Rin watches, growing more and more amused as they slowly revert back to their old personalities, arguing over something as stupid as barbecue.

"No, Obito, it's not done yet, put it back," Kakashi says. He flips over the menu, showing them. "The rules here say you need to let it cook for at least three minutes--"

"You cook it until it's not red, I don't like eating meat that's turned into jerky," Obito says. Kakashi huffs.

"We listen to you, and we're all going to get food poisoning," Kakashi says. "It even says right here that--"

"That's just a guideline," Obito says.

"What?" Kakashi says.

"It's an approximation. The heat varies. The conductive capabilities of the grill can change. Also, the meat's not red." Obito plucks the piece out with his chopsticks.

Kakashi's eyes widen. "Baka! There's still blood on it!"

"It's medium rare."

"You order steak medium rare, you idiot, you're gonna make yourself sick!"

Rin starts giggling. The two men turn.

"Obito, you see that?" Kakashi says. "Rin is laughing because you're being stupid."

Obito grumbles, "You're the one who's stupid."

"You're both stupid," Rin says. She picks up her chopsticks. "I'm putting meat on the grill."

*****

Even with chaperones, Madara still causes problems.

"We're so sorry, Obito-san! But Madara-ojiichan acted so fast, we couldn't stop him, dattebayo!" Naruto says. Gai hangs his head.

"I am ashamed to say it, but even my Dynamic Entry of Heart-Pounding Love wasn't enough to stop him."

"It's alright, Gai, Naruto," Obito says. He glares at Madara. "This isn't your fault." Madara rolls his eyes extravagantly.

"To think that I have sunk so low as to be lectured by my idiot apprentice. There is nothing to talk about. There were no casualties," Madara says. "The only reason why I've deigned to come here is because of Hashirama."

Hashi elbows him in the ribs. Madara sniffs arrogantly.

"Madara: why the hell would you perform a fire jutsu of that size and magnitude in the middle of an elementary school playground? And then activate your Susanoo and then forcibly draw out and ride around on the Kyuubi?" In fact, there were multiple reports of Madara rampaging at the playground, riding on the Kyuubi with Naruto getting dragged along in the background. Madara shrugs.

"The idiot behind me makes it so easy, you should be talking to him," Madara says.

"Why?" Obito says. Madara crosses his arms.

"Uchiha Madara is not just some house husband."

"Oh god," Hashi says.

"That pissant father needed to be taught a lesson, and so I taught it well. He now knows never to cross me."

Hashi clarifies. "His kids were hogging the swings," Hashi says.

"This was over swings?" Obito says.

"A territorial dispute that could only be solved by a display of force." Madara crosses his arms. "I believe I schooled him thoroughly."

"I'm so sorry. They've been fighting over playground equipment for weeks, I didn't think it'd go this far, otherwise I would have gone with him," Hashi says.

Obito sighs. "At the very least, it appears nothing was damaged--"

"Of course nothing was damaged. I was in complete control at all times. And yet you call me in here like some apprehensive school marm."

*****

"Hokage-sama! We have a problem!"

"What is it?" Obito says. The shinobi rests his hands on his knees, breathless.

"There are zombies that have taken over the civilian quarter!"

"What?" Obito says.

*****

"I'm so sorry!" Hashi says. Their neighbors are cowering in Madara's Susanoo while Hashi tries sequestering the undead nin she tried bringing back. "It worked with Izuna and Rin, I thought I could bring everybody back--"

"Raaaaar!" Zombies burst through the fence, making their neighbors scream. Madara knocks them down with his battle fan.

Obito stares. "How many did you resurrect?" he says. Hashi thinks.

"Um, I think the entire shinobi army? And I tried resurrecting Minato's wife, too."

"Ahhhhh!" another zombie says. Madara kicks him in the throat and punches another one behind him.

*****

"YOSH! Who's ready to kick some zombie ass, dattebayo!"

Ino shrieks. "It's Neji! Naruto-kun! Neji's a zombie!"

Minato pushes Kushina back, his hand flat against her forehead. "This is bad," Minato says. Kushina flails, then bares her teeth at him. "This is really bad."

In the middle of it all, Uchiha Itachi stands in the civilian quarter, cracks in his skin and his sclera blackened, looking thoroughly confused.

Sasuke gasps, "Nii-san! You're not a zombie?!"

"No, I am merely undead." Itachi frowns, looking at the chaos around him. "Is the war still ongoing? Are they attacking the village?"

"RAWR!" a zombie smashes through the glass window of a cake shop, then begins stuffing its face with pastry.

"Nevermind, Little Brother, I think I know the answer."

*****

Obito walks through the village, assessing the damage. What was once the civilian square is now a bombed-out waste, buildings crumbling and the streets covered in detritus and broken glass. "Do we have any casualties?" Obito asks. Shizune flips through her notepad.

"74 people injured, zero fatalities. But reports of missing persons are still trickling in, and the damage to the village's infrastructure is quite immense."

"Tch." Obito rubs his head.

It took a platoon of ANBU nin to herd the zombies into the forest, where Hashi sealed them with her Mokuton prison. There, Itachi showed her how to negate the jutsu, and after weaving a few hand seals, the zombie nin crumbled into dust and ash. ("Won't canceling the Edo Tensei affect you too?" Hashi asked Itachi. Itachi shook his head.

"I released myself from that jutsu awhile ago."

"Oh, okay. Cool.")

"Were any houses in the residential areas affected?" Obito asks. The ANBU nin nods.

"Approximately ten percent of civilian housing got razed by the zombie attack. Most of the damage seems to be confined to the commercial areas, but we have a team already mobilizing an emergency shelter in case any residents are displaced."

"Good," Obito says. "Notify the village council. The villagers will need disaster relief. We'll have to figure out how to re-allocate funds to provide adequate aid."

"Yes, Hokage-sama." And the ANBU nin disappears into the smoke.

Outside, the civilians venture out, cleaning debris and sweeping the dust and detritus. Obito and Kakashi stand in the middle of the civilian town center, looking at the smashed up windows and thick columns of smoke.

"Wow, what a shit show," Kakashi says. He glances at Obito. "They're gonna blame you because you're Hokage, you know."

Above them, a piece of roof falls after catching on fire.

*****

"Madara is Hokage?!" Itachi's eyes widen. His hand grips his sword.

"Worry not, Little Brother," Itachi says, and he pulls out his sword in one fluid motion. "I will do what I should have done a long time ago."

"Wait wait wait wait WAIT Itachi NO!" Naruto and Sasuke have to physically block Itachi from leaving. Itachi whips around.

"What is the matter with you two? Are you under his genjutsu? Let me feel your chakra, he may have disturbed its flow--"

"That's not the real Madara dattebayo, that's the real Madara," and Naruto points to a man with a bunch of kids strapped to him, a baby chewing on his battle fan and a toddler walking on a leash. "The guy you thought was Madara is really a guy named Obito."

"What?" Itachi says. Naruto nods vigorously.

"Yeah! Old Man Madara activated the Moon's Eye, but instead of creating a new reality, he grew this giant tree that cocooned everyone and sucked up all the chakra from all the shinobi! And then this biiiiiig alien lady came and I guess she was some kind of goddess or somethin' and we all thought we were screwed but Obito woke up and was like 'what the heck is happening,' and then he HELPED US, Itachi! An' then we went to a gravity dimension and a fire dimension and Sasuke was trapped in this DESERT dimension but Obito found us and she threw these chakra rods at us but then he jumped in front of us, dattebayo!"

Itachi blinks. He turns to Sasuke.

"Can you genjutsu me with the information?"

"Yeah, sure."

*****

"You should dye your hair," Kakashi says, apropos of nothing. Obito furrows his brow.

"What, why?"

"Because for most people, white hair is distinguished, but on you it just looks weird."

Obito frowns.

*****

"Eh? Dye your hair?" Rin looks up. "Why?"

"Kakashi seems to think I look weird. That maybe I wouldn't scare off the delegates as much if I dyed my hair and used foundation on my neck and hand."

Rin looks. It's true, the patches of cloned skin can look a bit off-putting. His hand and neck are the color of an etiolated egg, translucent and criss-crossed with fine, purplish veins. And that isn't even taking into account the scars on his face, which are jarring even on a good day. Rin frowns at him. "Wouldn't the foundation rub off on your clothes, though?"

"I don't know, would it?"

"Here," she says, and she rummages through her makeup bag.

*****

On a whim, Rin goes to the convenience store to pick up some hair dye.

"I got a couple boxes so you can pick out the best color black," Rin says. Obito frowns at her.

"There's different colors of black?"

"Apparently there is."

"I feel idiotic," Obito says. Rin sets down her bag.

"For the record, I don't think you have to do this. I think your hair looks fine the way it is."

They both look at the box. "This seems complicated," Obito says.

He doesn't dye his hair.

****

Obito doesn't wear the Hokage robes.

He doesn't wear the robes. He doesn't wear the cape. He doesn't even wear the hat, even if ceremonial circumstances dictate it: he'll only hold it gingerly and then pawn it off to Kakashi. Kakashi turns the hat over in his hands, frowning. "Obito. You can't tell me wearing this hat is any worse than wearing those masks."

Obito doesn't look up from his papers. "I don't like things sitting on top of my head."

Kakashi blinks. The boulders. Right.

Kakashi leans back, looking at him. He's wearing the standard green flak jacket, but beneath that he's dressed the way he used to dress when he pretended to be Madara - black pants and a black shirt that covers his neck up to the chin, and he puts on black gloves if there's a visitor. All he would need is his orange mask.

Kakashi knows without asking why he's wearing gloves and a turtleneck - half of Obito's neck and his entire right hand is made of Hashirama's cells, so the color contrast between his face and the rest of his body is jarring.

"Obito. What did you do with all those masks, anyway?"

He turns a page. "I burned them."

"Ah."

There's only the sound of Obito's pen writing on paper.

"You really should dye your hair," Kakashi says. Obito sets his pen down and frowns at him.

*****

"EH?! Kakashi why do you have to keep picking on him?!" Rin says.

Kakashi raises his hands. "Hold on a minute, Rin-chan--"

"You're such a jerk! Obito is working really hard and all you do is make fun of him!"

Obito shakes his head. "This is word for word the same conversation we had as kids," Obito says. Kakashi and Rin turn.

"Really?" Rin says. Obito nods. Rin whirls around toward Kakashi.

"Kakashi you grew up into a jerk!"

A sweatdrop forms on Kakashi's brow "O-oi."

"Picking on Obito just because he looks weird! He can't help it!" Rin says. (She said something similar when they were kids: "Kakashi you're a jerk! Picking on Obito just because he cries a lot! He can't help it!")

"This is making me nostalgic," Minato says.

*****

"Why do you have to keep picking on him? Obito is working really hard! Just because he still can't do basic ninjutsu doesn't mean you can make fun of him!"

*****

"Kakashi be nice! So what if he cries a lot? He can't help it! He's sensitive!"

*****

"Why do you have to be such a jerk, Kakashi?! Just because he lost six times in a row doesn't mean you get to make fun of him!"

*****

"Kakashi this is like making fun of a baby, stop it!"

*****

"I mean, it's okay, not everyone gets it on the first try." A beat. "You've been working on this for a month?"

*****

"Don't apologize, Obito, I don't mind treating your wounds. You're the reason why I'm so good at suturing!"

*****

"Ne, Obito. Do you think Kakashi likes me?" (Proceeds to wax poetic about Kakashi for half an hour).

*****

The genjutsu ends. “Sorry,” Rin says.

*****

They're sitting on the couch, watching a movie, when Rin leans over.

"Ne, Obito?"

"Hm?"

"Please deactivate your ninja eyes!"

Obito starts laughing. Rin giggles and snuggles against his shoulder.

*****

It becomes an inside joke: Rin will be walking past him in the kitchen, or sitting next to him on the couch, when she'll lean over him and say, "Please deactivate your ninja eyes!"

Invariably, it makes Obito crack up, and Rin will give him a mock serious look and tell him, "Sir! Deactivate your ninja eyes! This is no laughing matter!" and it's so stupid they both end up laughing.

It's the only time Rin's seen him laugh.

*****

The Daimyo of the Land of Water is demanding reparations, and so Obito dips into his secret accounts, various Akatsuki holdings that he had disclosed to the Five Nations prior to becoming Hokage. "We demand recompense," a Kirigakure representative says. "Uchiha Obito stole from our country, depleting our wealth and lining the coffers of the Akatsuki with our money. It isn't fair that the Akatsuki's war chest be split up among the five nations at Kirigakure's expense. And lest we forget, he murdered hundreds of shinobi under the guise of being the Mizukage."

Obito stares at them, incredulous. "We already paid everything back with interest," Obito says. He gestures to the other kage. "We already agreed that what is left should go to the other four villages, Konoha included. Tsunade-sama signed the pact."

The Mizukage sniffs. "I see no reason why Konoha should profit."

Obito snaps, "The matter was settled, why is this being brought up again?"

The other kages glance uneasily at each other.

Obito sits heavily on the bed, head in his hands, frustrated. If they don't clinch the trade deal with the civilian village, Konoha will be thrown into debt. Rin sits next to him, touching his arm. "Everything okay?" she says. Wordlessly Obito lists sideways, leaning against her.

He genjutsus her and shows her the whole disastrous meeting, and Rin responds by pursing her lips and resting her hand on his head. "They haven't voted on it yet," Rin says. "Gaara and Darui openly said they'd support you."

"Onoki is still afraid I'm acting as Madara's puppet." Obito sighs, heavily. "There's only four of them and I can't vote on this, we're at a diplomatic standstill."

She rubs his back, and she can feel him start to relax. He plops his head face-first into her shoulder.

Rin lets out a startled laugh, "Obito!"

"Would it be terrible if I just genjutsu them?" His voice is muffled by her shirt. "It would be easy. No one would know."

"I thought you were trying to be a good person?" She rubs soothing circles by the nape of his neck. He moves his head to look up at her.

He reaches up, then tucks back a strand of hair that had fallen by her cheek, the tips of his fingers lightly brushing her temple. His eyes are soft. He smiles at her.

Rin gives him a puzzled smile. "What is it?" she says. Obito searches her eyes quietly.

He rests his head onto her lap, and Rin responds by resting her hand on his head, letting her fingers lightly scratch his scalp as he curls up on his side.

"Rin?"

"Yeah?"

"What would you have done if I did this when we were kids?" Obito says. Rin considers, bowing her head downward to look at him.

"I don't know," Rin says. She cards her fingers through his hair. "Probably freak out."

"Heh. I figured."

"No! I mean, I'd think that you were really injured, like maybe you were too orthostatic to keep sitting up."

Obito laughs. Rin responds by wiggling out from under his head and flopping down next to him.

They rearrange themselves so that Rin is lying on the left side of his chest, resting her head against his shoulder. Obito wraps his arms around her, propping his body slightly to the side so that he's not quite flat on his back. Rin fits her body against his, curling up into the concave hollow of his chest. He feels good and warm and she nuzzles her face against him.

"You know, I thought you'd be more upset about this," Rin says. Obito hugs her.

"I guess I haven't had much time to think about it," Obito says, and Rin realizes she's just brought up painful memories again. She sits up and starts to apologize, but Obito hugs her closer. "I tried negotiating with Onoki one-on-one. The Land of Earth is suffering crop damage from a massive drought, so I offered to open up bilateral trade agreements between their village and ours in return for his vote. He refused, and then he ratted me out to the other kage, claiming I was trying to influence him. I can't even be mad, because I was," Obito says.

"What would you do if you were in the Akatsuki?" Rin asks.

"Genjutsu them. Take I want. Maybe install a subordinate to infiltrate them. Start a whisper campaign in favor of our vote. And if that didn't work, I'd probably send one of the teams to kill them. I'd make it look like an accident, of course," Obito says, and he shifts to look at her. "Onoki would be easy. He's old - all I'd have to do is imply that he needs to do something to protect his legacy. 'Your village is suffering, and on your deathbed you will look back and have nothing but regret. Think about it,' I'd say, and then I'd disappear and let him mull it over."

"So what are you doing now?"

"Trying to convince everyone that I'm harmless and that I'm trying to do the best for the village. Ironic, because the village council doesn't trust me, either." He shifts Rin closer to his chest, then squeezes her fondly. "It's one of the reasons why I'm trying to bring the civilian villages into the fold. They don't know me. Granted, they know I have the Sharingan and they're afraid of me, but it's for an entirely different reason."

Rin feels herself start to drowse. His voice is soothing. He feels comfortable and warm and the entire time he's been talking, he's been absently running his fingertips up and down the skin of her arm. She feels him rest his cheek on her forehead. She smiles and presses a soft kiss against his throat, cuddling him sleepily. "Maybe you should listen to Kakashi," Rin says.

"What about Kakashi?"

"Wear makeup and dye your hair."

Obito scoffs. "Bakakashi is a pain in the ass."

Rin giggles. Obito reaches across her body to switch off the lamp, then shifts her weight, pulling the blankets over the both of them.

Like every night, Obito is the big spoon. Rin curls up on her side and Obito cups his body against hers, his arm draping across her torso and pulling her to his chest. He doesn't say it, but Rin knows he takes comfort in this, being able to hold her and cuddle her the rest of the night. Every so often he'll nuzzle his face into her neck or brush a soft kiss against her nape. Before, he rarely slept, relying on Hashirama's cells and sheer willpower to stay awake. He used to have nightmares, dreams where the walls would suddenly cave in, where the people he killed rose up to accuse him. Frequently he dreamt of Rin's death, and it would be as if he'd witnessed it all over again.

Sleep is comforting now, because he can sleep next to Rin, can feel her move and stir against him.

There is another round of negotiations, and Obito is caught off-guard when an Iwagakure representative asks him about the possibility of a bilateral trade agreement. Obito looks up and sees Onoki scowling, his arms crossed and his face pinched. He sees Obito and looks away dismissively. "I'm doing this for my village," Onoki says. His cape flutters as he floats over, scowling. "That's the only reason you've got my vote."

"Thank you," Obito says, and his face brightens. The other kage look and whisper to themselves. They had never seen the Sixth Hokage crack a smile.

#lol okay that was the last one #sorry for the fic spam #i don't normally post all this stuff here #but since i had the other stuff i thought why not #birdsong #solatium #obirin #uchiha obito #nohara rin #my crappy fic

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justicealwaysprevails · 4 years

Text

decisive inaction.

WHO: Bruce @justicealwaysprevails and Jason @thatsjasonfkntodd WHERE: The Manor WHEN: April 30th, 2020 WHAT: Jason is forced to move back to Wayne Manor once Joker makes Red Hood’s identity public.

Jason: The longer he waited to relocate, the higher the chance that someone was going to start looking for him in the right place. Jason gave himself a day after the puppet show to pack up most of his things, or at least the important ones, and showed up at the manor with two suitcases. Everything else had been put into storage, and he’d already given notice that he was vacating the apartment. Anyone looking for Red Hood there wasn’t going to find a damn thing.

What he hadn’t done ahead of time was tell anyone where he planned on going instead, mostly because he loathed the idea of it entirely. He left the suitcases in the foyer and considered looking for Bruce, but he wasn’t stupid enough to actually believe he didn’t already know he was there. Instead, he spread his arms out to the sides and did a half spin. “Are you going to come welcome me home or pretend I’m not here?” He’d hear him. Bruce: After what happened at the theater, Bruce considered reaching out to Jason and asking that he come to the manor. Jason would turn it down, he was sure of that, so he made a conscious decision not to. He would rather say nothing and not completely eliminate the option. He wasn't ever ignorant when it came to Jason's line of work and the choices he made, although it would seem so by how little he interfered. It wasn't a fight worth having, not right now, and Bruce told himself it was something he could handle any time. Now that his identity was public knowledge, it made everything much trickier.

He saw him arrive. Before Jason even finished speaking he was there, exiting the kitchen just down the hall from where he stood. "Welcome home." The tone was hard to read in being nothing but matter-of-fact and direct. His gaze was more scrutinizing. "We need to talk." Motioning for Jason to follow, he turned to lead the way to the cave. This wasn't something he wanted anyone overhearing. Jason: “I see the detective work is in full swing today.” Obviously they needed to talk. He had plenty of things to say, as he always did when it came to Bruce, and no more reason to hold back. His problems had finally directly and irreparably interfered with Jason’s life.

He followed him down to the Batcave. He’d been there a handful of times recently with Dick and Tim, but it always had a different feel with Bruce. They were stepping into his space, his element, and it always gave Jason a little stab of something. Resentment, maybe. “Are we drawing straws or are you going to go ahead and give me your one sentence review of the situation?” Bruce: The only response to Jason's barbed comments was no response. Bruce learned that a long time ago. It encouraged them otherwise. He'd given up discouraging them a long time ago, but at least the back and forth didn't escalate this way.

"No." He sat down, not bothering to ask Jason to do the same. He would choose to sit or he wouldn't. "I need you to tell me if I'm missing anything." Nodding to the screen, he opened up a file that contained the information on each and every person that had a reason for a grudge. There were many. Jason: Jason did not sit. He didn’t feel like acting comfortable there, because he wasn’t. Not with Bruce. Not with the situation they were in. Not with any of it.

The file as large enough that it took a second to load. Of course it was. “Can I sort this by country or...?” Jason folded his arms and stared up at the screen and for a few seconds he did entertain the notion of going through the whole exhaustive list to see who was on there and who might not be, but he gave it up quickly. “You’re missing plenty. I don’t need you to put my life in a bunch of neat little files so you can think you’ve got it all figured out and taken care of. None of this should be happening. Do you get that? Did you give one single fuck about dragging all of us down with you when you threw your name out? It was just luck that we’ve had this long without all of us getting announced.” Bruce: Instead of responding, Bruce pulled up a simple sorting system that was simple to navigate. He demonstrated twice before moving back so Jason could have access to the screen.

He was expecting this. The others hadn't said anything, not yet, but that didn't mean they weren't thinking the same thing. In the past he'd learned the hard way that some of his responses weren't be acceptable. There was a time when he stopped trying to consider how Jason might receive what he had to say. He never saw results from the effort. Sometimes it seemed to make it worse. Alfred advised him against "giving up", even though that wasn't the way Bruce looked at the situation at all. "You're right, Jason. But it's always been that: luck, and we were running out. Too many people knew my identity before the carnival. Joker certainly knew." He no longer shied away from the name. "I had more control of it this way. My biggest regret is that I did not talk to everyone before it happened." Jason: “No, it hasn’t always been luck. I worked my ass off staying under the radar all these years. I’ve got safehouses in places nobody would think to look. If anybody tracked me, they didn’t track Jason Todd, who got buried ten damn years ago in Gotham City. They tracked Red Hood.” Jason raised his hand, one finger pointed at Bruce, “Here’s a free tip for you, Dad, your control over a situation isn’t the most important thing in the world. It wasn’t your control that should have mattered.”

It didn’t matter how much distance Jason put between himself and Bruce or between himself and the rest of the family. He could never actually get away. Bruce always thought he was owed some kind of say, some kind of consideration, some kind of control, just as he’d said. “I built something for myself, something you didn’t want, and now your ‘biggest regret’ is that you didn’t get to give a heads up before you fucked all of us? What a joke.” Bruce: “It has, because your name is tied to mine. No matter how careful you are, you can't change that." Bruce maintained a quiet, even tone despite Jason's obvious anger. "The most important thing to me was to minimize the impact as much as I could. That required having control over the circumstances. No amount of caution prevents a telepath from reading your mind, or the minds of those who know who you are, and even if you eliminate all loose ends the risk remains. It is naive to believe otherwise."

There were plenty of times when Bruce hadn't said to right thing to Jason or Dick and received a similar response. He knew by now there was no point in trying to anticipate what the expected answer was. Sometimes it could make a difference with Dick, but Jason could find malevolence and surmise meaning when none was meant. "What do you think my biggest regret should be?" Jason: “No, I can’t change that,” the sudden shift to bitterness implied that he’d wished several times that it wasn’t the case. What would have happened to him if he hadn’t tried to boost those tires? He had no idea. Maybe Crime Alley would have eventually killed him, maybe he would’ve met Batman in a whole different capacity later on. He had a lot of what ifs and maybes he’d never have answers to, because it was just as Bruce said...he was all tied up to him instead. The Wayne name was inescapable and Jason didn’t even wear it, really. He was not, had never been, and never would be Jason Wayne. He fixed Bruce with another flat look. “Yeah, that’s me. Naive.”

That question had a fresh wave of irritation bubbling up like he never felt around anyone but Bruce. “Oh, I’ve got a laundry list. You can take a little column A, a little column B, mix and match...” Where should he start? With the obvious? Making it about himself and only himself would be letting Bruce off the hook too easily, though. “But why don’t we start with what you just said. Once you touch something, once you pull someone into your fucking,” he made a vaguely round gesture in the air in front of him, “orbit, you take away any shot they’ve got at any other life. And for what? To be part of your cause? The big legend? I’m sick of going down with this ship, Bruce. I’ve done it too many times, and so has everybody else.” Bruce: Bruce did think that Jason was still naive in some ways, but he didn’t bother explaining or clarifying. He had no doubt of the implication Jason made, nor did he question his sincerity, but it still affected him. That was something that he had accepted wouldn’t fade or change with the passing years. The only thing he could do was minimize interference in Jason’s life while still upholding his personal sense of justice. He’d turned a blind eye more frequently in the recent months.

“I know.” There was no use in denying simple truths. It wouldn’t do either of them any good and Jason would see through it. “If you’re asking if I regret putting you in danger, then yes. I do. If you’re asking if I regret adopting you as my son, then I am unable to give you the answer you're looking for." There didn't seem to be a way to separate the two. He'd kept Dick away from the batcave for some time, but Jason knew him as Batman first. Jason: Jason ran his hand back through his hair and couldn’t help the sharp, humorless laugh that slipped out. “It’s funny when you say shit like that, because from where I’m standing...it was more like I was a pity project and then a sidekick, not a son.” On paper, sure. Sometimes it seemed to dawn on Bruce and he remembered, like he had right then, but all the other parts for them never lined up. He’d wanted a father, in the beginning, but he’d been quick to figure out that he wasn’t going to get one in Bruce Wayne. He was going to get Batman. It was Batman’s opinion of him that mattered, and Batman’s opinion that he could never live up to.

“But I think maybe congratulations are in order, because you’re getting what you want now. Red Hood is down for the count for awhile, and I’m stuck here until I have a better option.” He turned his back on him like he meant to walk away, but all he did was take a couple of steps and keep talking. “After all this time and all this bullshit, you’re still letting Joker do this to all of us.” Bruce: "You weren't the first orphan I found living on the streets of Gotham, or the last. I didn't pity you." Bruce had plenty of projects and a myriad of ways to help. There were a dozen other routes he could have taken. "And if I only wanted a sidekick, there are much less complicated ways. I wanted you to be my son, or I would have taken you in as a ward." Dick was his ward for several years before Bruce officially adopted him. It wasn't a move he made thoughtlessly.

It always came back to Joker. Bruce had turned away, as if he were looking at the screen, but the very name made his body stiffen. "I had hoped revealing my name would take away that power." He never thought Joker would take the extra step to reveal the identities of everyone around him, even though it was a step realized now he should have anticipated. Jason: I wanted you to be my son. Jason tensed and curled the fingers of one hand hard against his palm. “Could have fooled me.” It wasn’t as if Willis Todd had given him the best gauge for what a father was supposed to be before he’d been killed, but he was still damn sure that Bruce had missed a lot of marks. If he hadn’t seen him pull it together for Tim and Damian, maybe it would’ve been a little easier to stomach, but he knew now that Bruce was capable of it and just...hadn’t.

“You can’t take power away from him!” he snapped. “The only way it’s gone is if he’s dead!” Just because Bruce had changed the stupid fucking game he played with Joker didn’t mean that the clown was ever going to stop playing it. Bruce: It wasn't a sentiment Bruce ever expected Jason to believe. Alfred encouraged him to say it anyway, for reasons he didn't fully understand, but it was advice he'd chosen to take. "You were never afraid to challenge me," he continued, as if he hadn't heard Jason's comment. That was the quality that caught his attention in the first place. It was also what made the role of Robin so difficult for him to handle. Robin was there to support Batman, unquestioningly and obediently, and that never came naturally to Jason.

He knew Jason would never understand why Joker was still alive, why Bruce didn't choose to put an end to him once and for all, and there were times when Bruce would be hard-pressed not to agree with him. "Perhaps," he said simply, quietly. "But it has never been that simple." Jason: "You don't want a challenge. Not this kind. You want a challenge from fucking...Superman, not from me." Because Jason challenged too hard, got too far from what Bruce wanted, and in the opposite direction. If he was actually out of his mind enough to join up with the League, there was no way in hell Bruce would've ever actually listened to him. He was kidding himself if he thought otherwise.

Jason gritted his teeth so hard he felt his jaw ache until he relaxed it. "It is that simple. You just don't want it to be. The only reason Damian isn't dead is because Joker decided to use him for a different kind of message. How many bodies do you need to hold, exactly, before you stop making excuses?" Bruce: Bruce shook his head. "I asked you to join the league for a reason." He didn't know what motivations assigned to it, if any, but it wasn't an invitation he extended without fully intending to see it through - despite knowing what Jason's probable answer would be. "We don't often agree, Jason, but that doesn't mean I'm not listening."

That earned a longer silence. He hadn't anticipated what happened with Damian, but it made him more determined to rein the Joker in before it continued. Frowning, he looked up at Jason with an unreadable expression. "If you and Dick had managed to capture him, what would you have done?" Jason: “You wanna tell me what good listening does if nothing I say ever actually matters? Because all it means to me is that you’re not deaf.” Bruce didn’t bend, and if he did he definitely didn’t bend to or for Jason. He still couldn’t really comprehend why he’d asked him to join the League, but he knew damn well what it would have been like if he’d agreed to do it. It would have been him compromising, him bending, not Bruce, not the rest of them.

Jason turned to face him fully again. “I don’t know what Dick would have done, but I would have put a bullet between his eyes where it belongs.” He’d said it so many times, yet it still wasn’t done. Bruce: "It matters." Bruce couldn't say for certain how much influence Jason would have over the league, not when it came to certain points, but there were other discussions that could yield different outcomes. "You are more similar to them than you think. It is easier to see the differences." Killing was the glaring difference, even though Bruce was well aware of which members were not wholly against it.

It was what he thought Jason would say. He sighed, his gaze shifting back to the computer screens. "And you believe I have never wanted to do the same thing." It was a statement more than a question. "It isn't so simple for either of us." Jason: “Because the differences are what bite me in the ass, and they’re exactly why I’m only here because I don’t know where else to go.” Because Bruce had fucked it all up and left him scrambling again. “You know, sometimes I think maybe I really am an idiot, because I’ve never been able to figure out how you can look at me and spend your precious twenty words a day to just lie.” Bruce wouldn’t call it that, but how was it not a lie to say things, make claims, and then not follow through on any of it?

“It doesn’t matter if you wanted to do it a thousand times, because you never did!” As soon as Bruce looked away from him, Jason cleared the distance between them so fast it looked like he meant to hit him. All he did was grab his shoulder instead. “Don’t act like I’m not standing right here. You’re going to keep looking at me this time, dammit. This is still happening because you’re letting it happen.” Bruce: "I am not lying to you." It was the only response he could give to cut through the accusation, but it wasn't something he could make Jason believe. At the end of the day, it didn't matter what he said or did - if he couldn't get through to Jason, then it all just fell on deaf ears. Bruce knew better than to give up, but that didn't mean he knew how to navigate the situation any better than before.

He did turn to face Jason, his expression stoic and grim, and he put his hands on his arms. It wasn't to keep him back. The gesture was instinctive, something he would have done with Tim, Dick, or Damian, and there was barely any strength in the grip at all. "I never did, but it wasn't because your life wasn't worth it to me, Jason. That will never be true, no matter how many times you say it, and I will never claim otherwise. That would be the lie." Jason: "Oh, really? So when the time comes and I put my mask back on and go enact justice my way, you're going to let me come right back here and you'll nothing to say because you're cool with it now?" Letting him into the League was condoning it. At the very least, it was complacency. When had Bruce ever actually been complacent? When had he actually let any of them just be themselves?

"If I was worth it then you would have done it, Bruce. I don't care how many times you say otherwise. I don't even care if you actually believe you're telling me the truth." He probably did think that, even. Jason knew how deep his convictions ran. Bruce might very well be utterly convinced that he meant what he was saying, but that conviction didn't change the reality of it - that Joker had killed him, he'd hurt all of them, and he was still out three walking, talking, breathing...

Bruce: Although he would never condone Jason’s methods, Bruce was more than aware that turning a blind eye to his actions in Star City suggested a level of complacency he rarely exhibited. “You and I will always have different ideas of justice, Jason. But perhaps that is what the world needs. There are enough heroes.”

He shook his head, frowning, but his tone remained even. “If I were to kill Joker, he would never die. His blood on my hands guarantees his immortality. There are greater punishments than death. And there are other ways to kill. You have your ways and I have mine. That doesn’t make what I said any less true.” It was a conversation they would never see eye to eye on, but he would continue to have it, as often as necessary, despite an instinctive urge to shut it down. That was a tendency he did his best to curb in recent years. “We have had enough conflict. I want to work with you, not against you.”

Jason: He half wondered if Bruce had been brainwashed. Maybe having his identity out to everyone had forced him to change the way he did things, but Jason wasn’t as naive as Bruce thought, and he wasn’t buying into his act of compromise. He didn’t believe it for a second. If he went along with it, the only thing that would happen was Bruce realizing his “mistake” as soon as he was actually confronted with it. Where would that leave Jason? Even more screwed.

Even if he had been entertaining the idea, the continued belligerence over Joker did away with it. “His blood on my hands guarantees his immortality. That’s the biggest bunch of bullshit I’ve ever heard. His blood on your hands wouldn’t kill and torment your family or terrorize and poison random citizens, would it? Stop trying to be poetic about cowardice.” Bruce: Disagreements like this always ended poorly, especially when they were with Jason. There was little point in repeating himself when he knew Jason could never understand or be satisfied; it didn't matter if it were the truth or not. Bruce didn't know what Alfred expected to happen from his efforts, but he was confident this was not it.

"It could." The response was immediate, but he didn't intend on offering an explanation. "And it has the potential to do much worse, even now." Moving back, he returned to the computer. He would work on the leads he had with or without Jason's help. "Let me know when you're ready to hear the truth. I refuse to entertain your exhausting inaccuracies on my motivations any longer." Bruce: “Your truth is just that. Your truth.” Jason turned to go, even if he was stuck at the manor on a short term basis. “I’ll be out of here as soon as I’ve got something else set up.” There was nothing else to say, and he didn’t bother to look back again before going back upstairs.

#c: discord #jason todd #bruce wayne

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irandrura · 4 years

Text

Anyway, more serious thoughts on chapters five and six...

The Heroes’ Relics make people turn into horrific dragon monsters. Okay. I know people assured me that this game wasn’t playing the ‘Corrupt Church’ trope entirely straight, but still, the Church of Seiros, the thirteen relics, and the crests have a million warning signs going off around them right now. Maybe most members of the church are well-meaning, but there are clearly dark and horrible secrets in Fódlan’s past.

Knowing previous Fire Emblem games, my bet is that it’s something to do with dragons, gods, betrayal, and fraught relationships with humanity. The relics look like fossilised bone to me, and I suspect that Seteth and Flayn are either dragons themselves, or somehow related to them. (I have not read spoilers on this, or if I have I’ve forgotten them, but there is something very Ninian-ish about her.) Flayn’s blood was mentioned as being special, so I wonder if crests are the results of some ancient blasphemy where dragon blood was fused with humans, or something along those lines? Add in that we have Sothis playing a Yune-like role and it’s easy to guess what might be going on.

Still, the relics and crests themselves seem dangerous, and possibly maddening. I suppose it’s for the best that I’ve never actually used the Sword of the Creator in battle. It wasn’t a principled decision or anything: I just never needed to.

There’s been some discussion of crests. As I said before, I find it strange that Dimitri is taking such an egalitarian, meritocratic line. He thinks that lineage shouldn’t matter? Nor should race, religion, or crest? Really? That’s an odd thing for a prince to believe. Who taught him those ideas? For some reason it surprises me more with Dimitri than with Edelgard, who I already had pegged as an egalitarian revolutionary in the same vein as Ashnard (albeit less over-the-top evil). There has to be something interesting going on in terms of the intellectual history of Fódlan - maybe it’s the Fódlan equivalent of the Renaissance, and old aristocratic houses are being pressured by a rising tide of enlightened humanism?

Actually, what crests most remind me of is an old AD&D setting, Birthright. I always really liked Birthright despite its lack of popularity, mainly because I loved its colourfully monstrous collection of villains in the awnsheghlien. Fódlan’s crests seem to have shaped aristocratic politics in the same way that Cerilia’s bloodlines have.

Moving on to chapter six...

Right now I am stressing more about recruiting out-of-house characters. So far I’ve only managed to grab Leonie, but hopefully I can get a few more. I hear Dorothea is pretty much a gimme - maybe that’s why she’s always on the top of the list of most-used characters it shows me via the online feature.

It’s starting to nag me that Byleth has a very specific level of ignorance about Fódlan. He’s wandered all across the continent with Jeralt and has become an experienced mercenary, the Ashen Demon, but somehow he doesn’t know anything whatsoever about the church or about geopolitics. That’s rather straining the suspension of disbelief.

I say this every time, but I wonder if the game or the story couldn’t be improved by just cutting the avatar character? I suppose Byleth is useful for allowing the player to take the teacher role, at least, and maybe he’s necessary for the Sothis plot? Even so, right now I find myself wondering why Dimitri, Claude, or Edelgard can’t just be the protagonist. I don’t hate Byleth or anything, but he’s definitely less interesting than the others.

Other character stuff has been fun so far. I did the paralogue, ‘War for the Weak’, where you try to resolve a Duscur rebellion. I was a bit confused there: judging from Dedue, I thought the people of Duscur were generally dark-skinned, but that didn’t seem to be the case with the Duscur units on the map. I guess Duscur is in the northern part of the continent, and Faerghus is supposed to be quite cold, so it would be unusual for there to be a whole nation of dark-skinned people there? I don’t know. The impression I got was that Duscurs generally have bronze skin, dark eyes, and white or red hair, as opposed to the extremely pale and frequently blond, blue-or-green-eyed Faerghans. But I don’t know how much thought was put into the ethnography of this world.

On the chapter six battle itself... so, okay, the Death Knight and the Flame Emperor escaped, but I did defeat thirty or so of their minions. Did we not take any of them alive? I feel like we should be able to interrogate some of them. At the very least, I’d like to take this conspiracy a bit more seriously? Could we maybe ransack Jeritza’s quarters? Search for papers? Maybe Byleth’s class can’t do that - I would say that they’re students and shouldn’t be trusted with such sensitive assignments, except that they were tasked to recover the Lance of Ruin and trusted to keep quiet about the relics turning people into monsters - but it’d be nice to know that someone is doing that.

But instead apparently we’re going to go off and have a mock battle between the three houses. I feel like I should be able to make joke about the Hogwarts House Cup, but I can’t figure out a good way into it...

Finally, on characters and supports:

I have gotten a handful of supports with out-of-house characters, and they feel odd. It’s bizarre to have a C support with Ferdinand where he asks how I think he stacks up compared to Edelgard: it is clearly written with the assumption that I’m the Black Eagle teacher. If the game was going to allow you to do out-of-house supports, I would have expected the supports to be written to avoid that issue.

Among the Blue Lions, the supports so far have ranged from the genuinely insightful or heartwarming to the merely banal. I have gotten a few C supports that feel like this, although to be fair mostly featuring Felix, and Felix is an arse. Nonetheless, by being the only Blue Lion who’s just a jerk, Felix’s supports have actually helped to illustrate some of the internal tensions. He is genuinely awful to Dedue and Dimitri, but if he wasn’t, it would not clarify for the player that there’s some sort of dark, angsty secret in Dimitri’s past.

(I don’t know what that secret is: he didn’t explain it in Heroes. I believe it has something to do with knowing Edelgard as a child, and perhaps Edelgard’s secret second crest; and perhaps also it’s hinted that Dimitri was involved in a massacre? But I don’t know or remember the details.)

As for the others, oho, Gilbert is Annette’s dad, Mercedes has some Birthright-esque drama with a noble house in the Empire (and, okay, I did read enough to know about Jeritza), Ingrid and Ashe continue to be generally nice, and Sylvain would be an excellent person if he wasn’t bent on harassing women all the time.

I do wonder sometimes what’s going on with that... is it just a Fire Emblem series trope that there’s always a guy who vocally flirts with every women he sees and is genuinely unable to control himself? Is it a Japanese thing? To my Western eyes it’s starting to get a bit tiresome. I don’t want to get super-political, but I feel like after the whole #MeToo thing Western commentators are going to be a lot more sensitive to stories that depict constant unwanted flirting as a harmless, even entertaining character trait. I don’t know. There’s probably something going on there that I don’t get.

Oh, well. I still made Sylvain kill his brother. Was that cruel of me? I guess his brother was a horrible monstrous dragon at the time...

Anyway, on with trying to recruit more characters, and then the tournament!

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piperjalali · 4 years

Note

your six word story — "i wish i could explain myself"

NAME: michael ‘mickey’ rivero FACECLAIM: tommy martinez

At first he thought she was a mirage. Or a side effect of the heat stroke he was inevitably gonna get out here. Red dress, red lips, red heels higher than anything he’d ever seen, and waving to people like she was at some kind of meet and greet. Stopping to shake hands, to crack jokes, and at one point, he swears to god, kiss a baby.

“Who the fuck’s that?” He asks Todd, because he’s stupid as shit, and useless, but he’s the only one here. Todd blinks a second before he’s looking up and clocking who he’s pointing at. His grin is all crooked teeth.

“What, you don’t know? The bandits are in town. Y’know, from the news.” Todd replies brightly, and Mickey has to do a double take.

“That’s a bandit? You know who I’m pointing at? The bitch in red.” Mickey asks as he points at her more firmly, just to make sure Todd’s minuscule brain hasn’t got who he’s pointing at mixed up with someone else. But Todd nods insistently, like he really knows what he’s talking about, which would be a first.

“Yeah, man, that’s her, I swear. She’s the one in that video the news has got– you know, where she’s settin’ that mop on fire.” Todd clarifies, and he looks like he’s getting pretty full of himself, telling Mickey something he doesn’t know. He’ll have to take care of that later.

“… Well, I’ll be damned.” Mickey murmurs for a moment, as he watches her from afar. Now that she’s a bit closer she does look familiar. Mick shifts his jaw for a moment, simply watching silently before he’s smacking Todd on the shoulder and pushing off the step they’re sitting on with a cool, “I’ll be back.”

“I’ll come with you!” Todd calls as he tries to scramble up, but Mickey doesn’t even bother to look back at him.

“No you won’t, Todd. Stay the fuck over there.” He can hear the dull thud as Todd falls back onto the step even as he continues to make his way forward confidently, closing in on the brunette with razor sharp focus. Her back is turned to him as she’s talking to someone else– and what a fucking view. He almost doesn’t wanna ask her to turn around. He waits a bit to do it, just to savor the whole thing you know, before he’s making himself known with a smooth, “Hey there, gorgeous.”

She pauses mid sentence to glance at him behind her, arching a pretty little brow in surprise before she’s glancing between him and who she’s talking to. And it’s just fucking Ronny. Who cares.

“Can I steal you for a minute? Always wanted to meet a celebrity.” Mickey says with a wink, and she smiles. It’s a pretty smile, almost hesitant like she’s not sure exactly what he’s doing, but also like she’s in on a joke she’s not. He’s into it.

“…A-Actually, we were in the middle of something, Mick–” Ronny stutters out, like Mickey gives a single fuck what he thinks.

“Get the fuck out of here, Ronny.” Mickey replies without so much as looking away from the pretty thing in front of him.

“But–” Ronny tries again, and Mickey’s gotta be losing his touch for a bitch like Ronny to be this bold with him.

“What’d I fucking say?” Mickey asks as his eyes finally flick up to meet Ron’s. Ronny pauses a moment, seemingly trying to gauge whether or not tumbling around with him would be worth it. He makes the right choice, and leaves with a grumble, but his tail effectively between his legs. Good.

“… Well, aren’t you king of the castle.” Her voice comes out in an amused purr, smooth like butter, and when Mickey’s eyes meet hers, her doe eyes are crinkled with her amusement. He grins right back at her, brows bouncing suggestively.

“You bet your cute little ass I am. You know, I’m actually in the market for a queen. You interested?” He asks shamelessly, and she laughs, bright and genuine and free. None of that pretty fake shit.

“You’re pretty smooth, huh?” Her voice is coloured with her laughter as she tucks a lock of hair behind her ear, meeting his gaze almost coyly. Jesus. He can only nod.

“I am.” Mickey flicks his tongue over his chapped lips, looking her up and down in a way he knows is not subtle at all. “What’s your name, sweetheart?”

“Kitty.” She says without a moment of hesitation. Mickey doesn’t hesitate either.

“That’s not your name.” He says, simple matter of fact. She smiles, closed lipped and not even secretive. Just amused.

“No, it’s not.”

“Why don’t you give me your real name?” Mickey lowers his voice to be a husky thing, his brows arching at her imploringly. Her smile widens enough to reveal a dimple as she backs away from him, stopping only once her back meets the railing of one of the old sets.

“Oh, honey, you gotta earn that.” She replies playfully as she hoists herself up to sit on the railing. The skirt of her red dress falls perfectly around her thighs. Honestly, Mickey’s still half convinced she’s a mirage.

“Oh, yeah?” He asks as he closes the space between them. He stops only when his torso is pretty much brushing her legs, placing both of his hands on either side of her hips to cage her in like the pretty bird she is. Her eyes twinkle.

“Yeah.” And there’s that look again. Like she’s in on a secret he isn’t. Like she knows something he doesn’t, and it’s the funniest thing he’ll never hear.

“… I’m Mickey.” The words fall out of his mouth without thought. It’s worth it to see her smile grow.

“Like the mouse? Cute.” She utters the words without an inch of teasing, which only encourages Mickey more.

“So you think I’m cute.” He latches onto cockily as his gaze scans her face. She hums as she leans back thoughtfully, dark eyes seeming to examine him in return.

“Maybe.” God, she’s just teasing him now. And the worse part is, it’s working.

“Baby, come on. Why don’t you come home with me? Huh?” The words are jokingly close to begging, and it’s the right move cause she laughs again. But then she simply looks at him again, eyes twinkling and secretive, and fuck. “What do I gotta do to get you to come home with me? Hm? Whatever it is, I’ll do it.”

He doesn’t know if that was the right thing to say at first. Cause suddenly she gets real quiet. Head tilted so her dark hair spills over her bare shoulder, eyes boring so deep into him that he feels almost exposed and… read in a way that he’s not sure he’s comfortable with. And then she’s speaking, and he’s regretting even asking the question. “… Tell me why everybody’s scared of you.”

“What?” Mickey blurts out instinctively as he pulls back, hands leaving the railing to drop to his side as he looks at her. She arches a brow and juts her chin in Todd’s direction of all places.

“Your little friend over there quakes in his boots whenever you so much as open your mouth. Poor Ronny had a full head on you, and yet he went white as a sheet the moment you rolled up. And every else has cleared out too. Right around the time you got up.” She gestures around them with a finger, and Mickey has to follow her gaze. Honestly, over the years he’s gotten so used to it he barely noticed, but she’s right. Everybody’s gone but Todd who’s too stupid to follow. Just waiting for him on those steps like a loyal dog. “And I wanna know why. What’d you do?”

“Nothing.” Another instinctive answer. He feels weirdly cornered, which is ridiculous. This girl is five foot nothing and in a frilly red dress for fuck’s sake. He could tear her in half with his teeth.

“Seems like it.” Her head bobs with her nod, and Mickey looks up at her in disbelief. She noticed all this shit about him, pointed it all out, and yet she still feels like she can talk shit?

“… Fine. I killed a guy or two. Real public.” Mickey admits nonchalantly, even if the words settle like ice in his stomach. But the ice isn’t as cold as it was yesterday. Tomorrow it’ll be warmer still. Eventually he won’t fucking feel it at all. Eventually he’ll just be numb.

“How come?” The question startles him out of his thoughts, making him zero back in on her and blink away his pity party, mostly because to how fucking casual it is. Like he hasn’t just admitted to the worse thing a person could probably ever do. Her big brown eyes are filled with curiosity and a lack of judgement that almost makes her seem innocent in a way he’s pretty sure she definitely isn’t. She is a bandit, right? Todd’s dumb ass didn’t get it wrong?

Mickey stares at her another few moments, waiting for the punchline. There isn’t one.

“I wanted to.” Mickey answers briefly and confidently, somehow hoping that will be the end of the conversation. It’s a lie, but it’s a comfortable one. One he’s told before.

And instead of being running for the fucking hills like a normal person, she nods. Like he told her that it’s gonna rain tomorrow or some shit. “Okay.”

The reaction is too casual. So nonchalant that Mickey feels the need to defend himself, to clarify. “I had to.”

But she just nods again, expression just… accepting in a way that Mickey can’t quite understand. “Okay.”

“What the fuck is that supposed to mean?” Mickey snaps, and the act of lashing out feels familiar. It feels right. Until her expression shifts into one of confusion, brows furrowing delicately.

“It just means okay, baby.” She replies in turn, and Mickey can feel his anger ballooning in his chest. Can feel it rising up in his throat like bile.

“It’s not fucking okay.” The words are sharper than they have any right to be, acidic and almost growled at her like she’s the one who did something wrong. Like she’s the one at fault here. Any girl in her right mind would be long gone. But her whole face just softens.

“Okay.” She says gently in return, and Mickey’s jaw clenches in reaction. But then she puts her hand on it, flat of her palm cupping the hinge of his jaw like he’s not all sharp edges. Her hand is soft. “Easy now. You wanna talk about it, honey?”

“Talk about what.” He doesn’t know why he hasn’t pulled himself away from her touch yet. Honestly, he doesn’t even know why he’s still here or why he’s still talking. He should leave. “I killed them.”

“… yeah, but about the rest of it.” Her hand drops from his jaw, and something in her face looks almost sad. “About why.”

No one had ever asked him that so… kindly. Without any judgement. Or disgust.

“… I had to. I–” Mickey feels small, and he hates it. He feels like a kid under this weird knowing look she’s giving him, and he hates it. “I fucking had to.”

“… Okay.” She says, and he’d be starting to hate that word if she didn’t say it all soft like she did. Like she understood. “Who was it?”

The words are hard to come out. Mickey isn’t even looking at her. Instead he’s looking at her stupidly high red heels. They’ve got little red puff balls on them. “…My dad. And my uncle.”

And she just hums. Melodic and quiet like she’s encouraging to continue. And for some reason beyond him, Mickey does.

“… I fucking had to. And I tried to explain it to them. To all of them. I wish I could explain but– no one would fucking listen to me anyways. None of them ever even tried.” He’s never said those words out loud before. Not to Todd, who’d be too dumb to understand anyways. Not to his mother. But instead to this random, mirage-like, stranger who steals people’s shit for a living. He doesn’t get it.

“… Sometimes it’s hard for people to see other people as anything more than what they wanna see.” He finally looks up at her then, but she’s not looking at him. Her head is tilted up towards the sky, and she’s looking directly up at the cloudless expanse of it, seemingly immune to the sun’s rays. She’s not even squinting. “It’s almost scary for them, I think. To think that they could empathize with someone who’s done something horrible. They think that makes them horrible too.”

“So what you’re saying is you think I’m horrible?” Mickey’s words come out in what can only be described as a croak.

But she laughs, that same free laugh, and her head finally tilts back down. She looks at him with that secretive smile again, but this time she lets him in on it. “Honey, I’ve got an ex in jail for first degree. I ain’t judging you.”

Mickey doesn’t know why he’s surprised. She’s a bandit after all. After a moment of simply meeting her gaze, he moves to the side of her, leaning his side against the railing as he smoothly asks, “…So what you’re saying is, you’re single?”

She arches her brows at the comment, her red lips forming a small ‘o’ of surprise for a moment before she’s narrowing her eyes playfully at him. “…Oh, you’re good.”

He is. He feels good. Better. He watches her a second as she begins to swing her feet, seemingly content with the bubble of silence between them. “…What did he get put away for?”

“… He was an asshole. You know the type. Real jealous. Real possessive. Think they own you, and anyone who looks at you is entreating on their property. For a long time it was really hot. But one day a guy looked at me, and he went too far. What can you do, you know?” She shrugs, nonchalant, like that’s just life, and maybe it was for her. Mickey doesn’t know. “But he just killed that guy just cause he was mad. Not for any real reason. For a while I fooled myself into thinking it was for love but… that’s not love, y’know? Not really.”

It’s weirdly like she’s far away for a minute. Swinging her feet, and just looking at them like they’ve got the answers. Mickey’s pretty sure they haven’t. He does though. Have an answer for her, the first person who ever really wanted to know. “I did it for my mom.”

She blinks up at him in honest surprise at that. He guesses she wasn’t expecting anything. Mickey can’t blame her, he really wasn’t expecting to say that either.

“… Y’see, that’s love. Noble even.” She says with a slow smile, and it’s the first time someone’s ever said that about anything he’s done ever in his fucking life. That was the kind of word people used for knights and shit. Or real kings. Not assholes from towns like Johnstown. But she seems to think differently because she’s looking at him with this kind of brightness in her eyes. Mickey can’t help but feel like he shouldn’t be allowed to be looked at that way. “You’re a good person, Mickey.”

His eyes feel hot. And his throat feels fucking tight, and he somehow feels like shit but also like… fucking seen. Or whatever. Like for the first time in his life someone is looking at him and seeing more than just what’s on the surface. Like this random thief is peeking into his soul.

He licks his lips again, and waits until the hot feeling in his eyes calms down before he’s breathlessly asking, “… you sure I can’t take you out sometime?”

“Oh, so now it’s gone from a fuck to a whole date? I’m flattered, but… no dice, honey. Nice try though!” She hops off the railing and dusts off the back of her pretty red dress with both hands. Mickey isn’t ashamed to admit he checks out her ass. She might be some weird mythical mirage creature or something, but he’s only a man. She shoots him a wink as she twirls around and moves to leave, eyes still sparkling as she says, “See you around, Mickey.”

The moment she’s moving away it hits him. The moment she’s gone she could be really gone. The one person in this goddamn town who ever let him say what’d been weighing him down forever, what even his own mother wouldn’t hear a word of, could be out of here forever. And he would have missed his fucking chance. It’s on a whim that he moves after her, grabbing her by the hand and swinging her back around like they do in those fucking sappy movies, an arm around her waist as he leans in—

Only to stop at the feeling of something awfully sharp poking into his gut.

She smiles at him, a real pretty but almost sharp thing, as she trails the pocket knife, his pocket knife that he swears to all fuck was in his pocket a second ago, up his t-shirt with almost playful slowness.

“Oh, Mickey.” The knife finally reaches the collar of his shirt, hooks on it briefly before she’s sweetly bringing it to his throat. He swallows hard, and his adam’s apple bobs. “Don’t push it, honey.”

Mickey doesn’t even know what to say. Honestly, he’s trying to figure out if he’s turned on or terrified.

“You know, I’ve been lookin’ for a souvenir.” She says as she examines his knife. It’s nothing special really. He stole it off some other guy, but it’s got some engravings on the metal of the handle. It’s just roses and shit but her eyes seem to light up as she runs her thumb over them. “I think I’ll be taking this.” With that she beams up at him as she closes the knife and tucks it into her bra, like she didn’t just steal from him right in front of his damn face. Mickey thought he would breathe a bit easier now that the knife wasn’t at his throat, but then she’s leaning forward until her lips are brushing his ear. Her hair smells like mango. “And you know what? If you can take it back from me… maybe you’ll earn more than my name.”

She struts off then, walking backwards through the dirt road as he stands there mildly stunned. He can do nothing but watch her walk away until he hears Todd’s stupid heavy breathing getting louder and louder as he jogs over. He’s panting a bit as he finally stops at his side, folded over with his hands on his knees as he catches his breath.

“So… what happened? Were you guys… talking about me? It looked like… you guys.. were talking about me…” Todd asks between his dramatic heaves, but before Mickey can do much more than open his mouth his name is being called from a distance.

“Mickey! Hey Mickey!” She’s got her hands cupped around her mouth, red lips perfectly framed by them. Mickey arches a brow. “You follow me home and I’ll cut your balls clean off, okay? I’ll spayed you like a dog!”

The weird thing is, she’s grinning as she says it. Waving at him wide and grand with her whole arm over her head like this is some big farewell. She blows him a dramatic as hell kiss before she’s turning the corner, but despite all of it, the threat still somehow feels very real. Mickey doesn’t follow her.

He can only blink for another few moments, silent before he turns to his dumb best friend, the only asshole who’s never left him because he’s too stupid to be on his own. He looks at him, and he honestly says, “… Toddy, I think I’m fucking in love.”

Todd blinks at him. Once. Twice. And then he smiles, his big dumb crooked grin. “… Nice.”

… God, Mickey needs a new friend.

#banditstask #this... is longer than it has any right to be sdjsdjsj #but i had FUN so!!!#also i wish i could give todd an fc but i can't think of anyone #he deserves better than mickey though. he's just a humble himbo #banditsrpg

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justamomwithacomputer · 4 years

Text

You think wedding planning is hard? Try doing it in the middle of a world pandemic, and an old fashion family feud.

Going to the chapel, and going to get married.

My daughter is getting married. Her Fiancé and her have been engaged since summer of 2018. They are a smart young couple who have all their ducks in a row. Both have good jobs, dept. free (less a small amount of School loans) and have a nice little nest egg of savings to buy a house. They have traveled, had many adventures across the globe. They were engaged in Barcelona, and this doesn’t even touch the list of places they have traveled together. The love life and live it to the fullest each and every day. Even if it’s a walk on the boardwalk, or down to the local coffee shop, a nice lunch or bar for a cocktail. They enjoy staying in and cooking new things, try new recipes and live a very healthy lifestyle. They love the Lakers, and very rarely miss watching a game. Even if not televised on their network of stations, they find a place to go watch. (when they are playing)

Better to vent on paper, than react with killing people.

Now to bring you to the reason I am writing this all out on paper. My daughter is so excited to be part of this big wonderful Family, and we are so happy to welcome her Fiancé’ into our family. This young couple have been together for over 5 years, and have been planning their wedding for over a year and a half. So Covid-19 has really set the Bride/Groom (everyone involved really) into a whirlwind of emotions, uncertainties and sometimes anger! They asked themselves, are we going to be able to get married, do we have to postpone, cancel, move venues…. Nightmare Right!? Some might think….. just postpone? Well as you can tell a little about them by the beginning of this, they have a plan. The plan does not include postponing the wedding. So as if a world Pandemic wasn’t enough, we have two dueling Mothers…. Hold on, not the Mother of the Bride, but the Mother (MOG) and Step Mother of the Groom (SMOG) acting like complete selfish, hateful and rude bitches! (sorry, I didn’t mention groom is from a split family). The two between each other don’t have a lot of communications, aside from a couple late night drunk text messages (from what MOG/SMOG have both shared), and just nasty words transmitted through other parties involved. My daughter has tried to remain neutral and have relationships with both, as they will soon be her family. She has a stronger relationship with one than the other, but that is based on the relationship her soon to be husband has with each. Oh boy… to put it in a nutshell… these women have found a way to feud and put my daughter in the middle, along with many other victims. My daughter has been used in a tug of war game between the two. Mostly with assumption about how much one or the other is involved in the planning of the wedding, and even their assumption of my involvement has been miscued. My daughter and soon to be son in law are very non-traditional and know their own vibe. My daughter is very lucky to have a hands of fiancé that has helped plan and make decisions of what their wedding will look like. So in all they have planned their entire wedding. (Keep in mind throughout this writing, that the parents of the Bride are paying the majority of the bill, with exceptions of a small cost of some rental furniture the FOG agreed to pay. The Bride and Groom have also taken on the complete Bar, and many other small things as well). So to continue, there have been so many snarling comments from both MOG and SMOG that have been said to my daughter, things that are so unbelievably petty. As petty as they are at times, its abuse and becomes quite hurtful. I just ask myself why? Why do these grown women treat my daughter so poorly? My daughter is educated, has a BA, earned her teaching credentials and is working on her Masters. She holds a full time job earning a good salary. She is beautiful, kind and generous with her time and sometimes goes above to keep the peace. Some might even be thinking; why would she still want to be part of this family. Aside from the fact there are so many more amazing people in the family other than the MOG & SMOG, and of course the love she has for her soon to be husband, and the fact that he has stood by her side, one would of “taken the high road” (inside joke).

A little to help you understand, or it will just seem unreal?

Back story…. Well, I won’t claim to know all the details, and don’t want to tell another women’s story. Besides I have heard a little of both sides, and they don’t coincide. Anyhow, I digress. MOG was married to Father of Groom (FOG)…. And one day she found out FOG was having a baby with the now SMOG. Now to clarify, the MOG and FOG were not divorce, but MOG thought (from how her story goes) she was a happily married with two young boys. (like 6 and 1.5 young). Fast forward 28 or more years later, the son is getting married to my daughter. I’m sure it didn’t seem fast forward for all parties involved, but I wasn’t there. I have heard stories from both women, and some a little crazy and neither paint a pretty picture of each other. Hi I’m the Mother of the Bride… I’ve stayed neutral, stayed out of the drama and allowed my daughter to guide herself throw these rocky waters. After all, she is the one marrying into this family. Don’t get me wrong, I am 100% here for my daughter, I support her, give her advice and sometimes just hold her while she cries. Believe me when I say there have been times when I want to get in my car with a bat (and go play softball) or pick up phone and tell one of these ladies off. However, my daughter is strong, smart and can handle herself.

This is where most of the fun begins.

These past two weeks have been a complete nightmare and a tale no one would believe unless it was in writing. In the middle of a pandemic, we have riots and protest that engulf our lives. Police buildings being burnt down, looting, fighting and complete KAOS has taken over the world. Don’t get me wrong, changes need to be made and I am not saying the protesting is wrong, it just added a little more stress to a world that is already upside down with this COVID-19. Not to even mention that USA is in the middle of an Election year. This is just KAOS on top of KAOS, On top of KAOS…. And then you add the MOG & SMOG and it all seems a little un-real!

From the Start of the current storm.

Rewind about two weeks, and started with a little squabble between family (FOG side). SMOG went deep and attacked Brother of Groom, and then attacked a cousin and then continued to drag MOG through the mud with accounts that took place 25+ years ago? I mean, my personal opinion, you sleep with another women’s husband, and wreck a household, you may have some consequences throughout your time. Anyhow it came down to SMOG texting (not even a decent in person or very least pick up the phone) an apology. My daughter let her know she accepts apology, but included how hurt she was that she was acting so hateful to the people she loves, and how it really has effected so many. She added that she should get some help. Well holy moly did that go off wrong!!! SMOG came back with the a nasty, hateful Crazy effing text back! Asking what help was she recommending. Well my daughter is young, maybe a little naive to recognizing when a bomb is about to explode replied “you need to ask yourself that question”. After all anyone that would be so hateful, nasty and treat other people the way she had the previous couple days needs some kind of help. POW POW…. Did that set off whatever unbalanced brain we are working with. SMOG came back asking my daughter where she got her Dr. degree and how she shouldn’t be giving advice she wasn’t qualified to give. She added how wonderful of a SMOG she had been, and listed all her accolades of being a mother. Most of which as mothers we all do. I’m talking PTA, Volunteer positions at kid’s schools, taking to routine dr. and dentist along with toting them to all the extra activities kids participate in. So really just a bunch of noise, in addition to the continued bashing of the MOG. The straw that broke the camel’s back was the last comment she made attacking my daughter. She said that the only thig my daughter was worried about was this wedding, and to quote her “you don’t seem to care about much outside your white privileged wedding”. Now that hit home a little funny because this wedding is not your Country club, spare no expense kind of wedding. We have had to create a strict budget, and cut corners and find ways to have the dream wedding. Yes, we are fortunate not to have run to Las Vegas or have a courthouse wedding, but definitely not a “White Privileged wedding”. With all going on, we had to ask ourselves if SMOG learned a new saying amongst all the protest and riots. (ha ha). Anyhow… that was funny, but incredible mean and hateful. Some can already guess where this is going with upcoming wedding, if not let me illiterate. This was quickly finding SMOG on the un-invited list. My daughters’ Fiancé got on phone and called his dad to find out what the heck was going on. Not to share confidential information, the outcome was she would not come to the upcoming Bridal Shower and they would work day to day to see if she would be an invited guest at wedding.

Bridal Shower planning

My daughter has a large squad of friends who are amazing, and she has very special friendships with so many young ladies who she has met throughout her adolescent years, throughout her college and now profession life. Many live out of state, and one even out of the country. None local to host a bridal shower, so as the MOB I of course wanted my daughter to have an amazing shower, where we could come together and celebrate my girl. Her Maid of Honor (MOH) who lives just a couple states away co-host with me and we worked together to have a “Garden” themed Bridal Shower at my house.

The Upcoming is here, enter the “Garden” with caution.

All is well, aside from FOG calling to have my daughter and his son reconsider having the SMOG at the shower. Now, I was angry about her treatment of my daughter, it wasn’t about me banning her from the event. It was the Bride & Groom who felt strong about not having her amongst MOG, mothers of others she had bashed and Grandmothers who also saw all the text, and hate messages she had rocket launched into the world wide world of text messages. They thought it just might be best not to mix them, and not add fuel to the fire. In many ways they made the right call, because your soon to find out that with the MOG, and many family members from FOG side mixed was enough toxic energy to blow up a city block. In all fairness, I must add that the FOG guest were on best behavior and I do not have any complaints. Also I can understand how having to be in a space with ex-family would be stressful, but honestly after 28 years? Well the MOG had her group of ladies rallied around, this group included friends and some aunts. MOG brought tons of Champagne, and wine and they all sat and pretty much got hammered. It got raunchy and the group acted like it was a bachelorette party. They disengaged during games and acted like school aged brats. While my daughter was opening up Shower gifts and trying to be graceful, they were in the back laughing, talking very loud. Taking pictures and totally oblivious to the fact they were indeed at a “Garden”/My daughter Bridal Shower. I applaud my daughter for keeping her composure, and keeping it classy. She even called her soon to be Mother in Law (MIL) over when she was opening her gift to break up the frenzy that was taking place. This was not a success; she went back to her own personal party within my daughter’s shower. Soon the presents were open, and this pretty much meant the end of event. ALAJUELA ONE MIGHT BE THINGKING AT THIS POINT! Even though this is supposed to be a joyous event. Some quest had left, and some remained to just sit and talk. Well like a light switch, MOB was louder, flashing her legs up in air signally somehow towards the table that included some of the FOG family. My daughter walked over and asked her future MIL to sit down, and maybe drink some water. I guess at this point you can guess my daughter is pretty good at lighting the bomb! MOG went from crazy, to hysteria, slamming, pouring of wine on tables, crying to wanting to get behind the wheel and drive away. Couple of her squad joined in, added to the madness…. It was basically an effing shit show!

Back paddle for just a minute

Towards end of the shower, three of the most important men came home from golfing. The shower was a good excuse to get out of dodge, but they didn’t stay gone long enough. My husband, my son and soon to be SIL arrived on time to witness the behavior of grown women acting like Sorority girls gone bad. It was good and bad they came back a little early. Good because they would not have believed it unless seen for themselves. Bad because my SIL is so embarrassed by the poor behavior of his Mother and her friends/Aunts.

Back to the Garden

During MOG tyrant of throwing ice buckets and stomping out while giving the bird, she insisted she was going to drive home. Many others (I stayed clear) tried to calm her down, and talk sense into MOG. She tried shoving another guest and continued to yell and scream. My stern husband finally put his foot down and made MOG get into back seat and my husband ended up having to drive the MOG, her Trashy friend and poor sweet Grandma home. My husband is good at deescalating a situation, and defiantly shows who the bigger person is to put himself in that situation. In addition to the entire cost of Bridal Shower being on the Bride’s family, now my husband had to add additional expense to get home via Uber.

Was that all real?

Unbelievable right? I left so much out.. but this is only a short blog to vent and get this all out of my head! After all was calm, we started cleaning up. We stacked all the beautiful flower on one table, picked up trash, glasses. You know, all the regular stuff. Small group of mostly my family and some of my girlfriends remained, and we indulged in a couple more drinks and ate some of the leftover food from shower. We basically were kicking back having some relax time, played some corn hole, lit a small fire for one spoiled niece to make s’mores over. Over all just a nice, change it up a little relax time. Ended up picking up a couple pizzas and then ended the evening early. We were all so exhausted, it was time to call it.

Little did we know

Little did we all know, the entire evening and after my daughter and her fiancé left the madness continued. My soon to be SIL was getting rage texts from his mother. I guess they were pretty bad, mean and hateful. I don’t even want to know the details, because it would hurt my heart.

Hmmm…. What are you thinking about the Bride & Groom?

So maybe you’re thinking what kind of people the Bride and Groom are to be treated so poorly by these women in their lives? The Groom grew up in a split home, going back and forth between Mom and Dads. Again I only know what I have been told by conflicting people, but been around long enough to know that this young man is strong, determined, independent, kind and is always doing the right thing. I mean doing right thing as always wishing his Step mom happy mother’s day, making sure he’s dividing his time between families, basically showing up to be part of a family regardless of circumstances. As for his older brother, he checked out long ago. Older brother shows up when he can’t get out of it, like Christmas dinner etc. It appears both boys have a better relationship with their own mom, and that tells a tale all in itself. I’m sure older brother who was about 6-7 years old when the home was split, must be a little angrier towards the Step Mom. Older brother is successful, independent and lives further away than my daughter and fiancé. My daughter in which I described earlier is a very loving and kind young lady. As her parent, she has never given us any grief. Her fiancé and herself are ones who would rather avoid drama or any kind of atomicity and often pacify to keep everyone happy. So bottom line, they are good people who do not deserve what they have been given during this already difficult time planning wedding during Covid19, protests, riots, looting and election year.

It started off romantic

In the Summer of 2019 my then daughter’s boyfriend asked my husband and I if he could ask our daughter to marry him. We were ecstatic, and absolutely gave our blessing. He had purchased a beautiful, sparkly and a fair size diamond ring. As I mentioned before they had a trip, to Barcelona. This is where he popped the question. The planning began, they had their vision and it was coming along great. I didn’t have to do much, as they were doing it all. It was kind of a relief, and knew that my daughter was being smart and planning a with a budget that met what we could afford. It was going to be in a beautiful Garden venue close to the Ocean. They had lined up all the vendors for the food, lighting, the rustic wood tables, DJ, Dessert bar, Bar tender, flowers, it was a beautifully planned wedding. Then along came COVID-19.

Four Months until wedding

So four months out, we had a lot of hope and were optimistic that COVID-19 wouldn’t cancel their dream wedding. COVID-19 peaked, and was appearing to ease. Stores, we’re opening and it appeared we were progressing. Stage 1, then stage two and then 1 month before wedding we were entering stage 3 in additional stages and requirements. It was looking good, reports showed religious ceremonies a go, restaurants a go, bars open. All looks good for a wedding! It was just about now, at the one month that the SMOG started the Family Feud. Funny thing was, my Future SIL, his Step Mom, Brother, Cousin and sister had just aired on the game show “Family Feud”. Anyhow… 1 month and all the drama with SMOG, this is one-week shy of Bridal Shower, and we all know how that went down. We are now at 3 weeks out and venue says, hold your brakes! They now can only have 75 people for a wedding, and no reception. Went from 207 guest invited, due to covid and traveling across US borders and some of the guest that are higher at risk as elders or have underlining conditions opted out. We were at a solid 150. How do we cut this in half? What about the reception, that’s the fun part where we get to celebrate the Bride and Groom?

This brings us to today 6-22-2020

So with only 75 people allowed, we are looking for a restaurant or venue to accommodate at least 100 people for a dinner or a small reception. Original Garden venue also wants to charge $2000 for just a 75 person wedding? Little steep in comparison to what we were getting before. So we are at the starting line, trying to figure this out in a three-week time.

My final thoughts

I want my daughter to have the most beautiful wedding she can possibly have under the current conditions. We have thousands of dollars already invested in vases, votive candles, napkins, venue, caterer, photographer, and all the furniture and lighting vendors, the dessert table… and so on. It must make sense, and not steer to far from her vision or the budget. I suggested a “Backyard” wedding, which I know sounds trashy. I have a pretty large size backyard, and it’s a blank slate for however her vision can transform it into. It can hold 100-120 and they could utilize all the items that are already paid for and they wouldn’t go to waste. My brother had his reception here 22 years ago, and we could make this backyard wedding look like a tropical garden in the middle of our City if she wants. Believe me, I don’t want it at my home. It would be a lot of work! We are already exhausted from all the drama and just wish this damn Covid-19 would go away and stop interfering. Just pray for my daughter and her soon to be husband, pray that they find a new venue that fits the vision they both have. They will soon learn that marriage is hard, and it takes sacrifices, and compromising to make it last as long as my husband and my marriage has. We will be celebrating 30 years next May. COVID-19 may stop these two youngsters from taking a honeymoon until next year, maybe we can do a 2ndhoneymoon with their first! LOL

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