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radioactivepeasant · 4 years

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Toshinko Week 2020, Day 6: "Bonding"

(This is another excerpt of the story I've been throwing at y'all the last couple Free Day Thursdays. Long post incoming 😅)

The police arrived after Misnomer and his team had already left with the money and some jewelry from the patrons. Toshinori got there just slightly after them, and was horrified to hear how close to death Inko had come. He stayed with her while she offered a tentative description of Misnomer’s true face, and kept an arm around her while she described the encounter and his threat.

"He addressed his threat to the baby?" he asked incredulously. "The Munchkin can barely hear someone at that distance over your heartbeat, right? What was he gonna do, respond in Morse Code kicks?"

Inko snorted, despite herself. "Just like, this little hand punching hard enough for Misnomer to see it flipping him off."

Toshinori smothered an inappropriate giggle. This was a serious situation, after all.

"When you release him from Nine Month Baby Jail, we should probably not teach him that."

"Probably not," Inko agreed, slightly reluctantly. "Maybe he can learn Vicious Mockery instead."

It took Toshinori a few seconds to regain his composure after the mental image that caused. He cleared his throat and turned back to the poor, bewildered police detective who had been taking Inko's statement.

“Sir, I think it would be in the witnesses’ best interests to be under guard until Misnomer is apprehended,” he suggested, passing the detective a business card. “When composite sketches start circulating, this guy is going to know there’s only two people who saw his face.”

The detective took the card, read it, and paled. After stammering incoherently for a few seconds, he paged a superior and squeaked out something about seeing what they could arrange.

By sunset, agencies had been contacted, paperwork had been submitted, and Toshinori had left to “make arrangements”. He was back in twenty minutes, in full costume as All Might to escort the two witnesses to two different protected locations. The elderly woman was temporarily sequestered in a retirement community where at least four orderlies were sidekicks and a pro hero was keeping an eye on the establishment. (They later discovered that Ms. Yamada and the pro hero had staged a revolt against the quality of food being served and had started a takeout-smuggling ring. She’d also completely overhauled their activities list and started dating the man in the little condo next door within four days.)

Inko was taken somewhere else entirely.

“Mind you,” All Might said softly from the back of the large vehicle the police were using, “I’ve not been here before. A friend of mine, Principal Nedzu from U.A., arranged the use of this place.”

They were put on a private train car and, to their equal bemusement and slight concern, shipped off for Hokkaido with little fanfare. There was a van waiting for them, also arranged by the all-too-helpful Nedzu, which took them through a small town with bumpy roads and deposited them at the edge of the sea. The house in question was clearly visible in the fading light, and neither had been expecting it at all.

“....oh….” Toshinori muttered.

[[MORE]]

It was a rather Western-styled manor house, perhaps eleven to twelve chambers at a guess. With the tide out, they could easily have waded all the way to the stone steps leading up to the door, but it looked as though a boat would be required to get there when the tide came back in. Well, that certainly took care of the “privacy” aspect. Nobody was going to get in or out easily. Of course, there were drawbacks to that, too.

Inko’s brows crinkled with worry, and she clasped her hands protectively over her stomach. “Toshi...we’re not going to be here long, are we?”

“I don’t think so, no,” he answered, squinting out at the water. “The heroes being assigned to the case may not be in the Top Ten, but they’re strong, and dedicated. We’ll be fine.”

In truth, he’d have spearheaded the fight himself if it hadn’t meant leaving Inko alone. And he had no intention of leaving her unprotected until Misnomer was safely behind bars.

“Worst case scenario, we’ll just go to the hospital here in town,” he said in what he hoped was a reassuring way. “Maybe it’s not Eadu General Hospital, but we’ll make do if it comes to it.”

"Story of my life," Inko scoffed under her breath.

A faint breeze brushed hair out of Inko’s face with a trace of salt and she breathed deeply. Well, it was nice to be at the seaside. There was a beach not far from her apartment, but it had become a dump in recent years, and Inko hadn’t seen a proper beach in a very long time. The house was, admittedly, beautiful. Maybe she could just treat this like a vacation, and not a “hiding for your life” experience.

“Well,” she sighed and clutched her small suitcase a little tighter, “I suppose we’d better go see the house.”

In lieu of finding a boat and risking tipping when the tide came in, Toshinori opted to simply lift Inko up in his arms and wade through water that barely reached the middle of his shins. When they made it to the steps, there was a rather scandalized looking woman waiting on the patio.

“Oh my good heavens, sir, you can’t just-! That isn’t safe! Dear oh dear oh dear, are you alright, ma’am?”

Toshinori gently set Inko down and bowed. “Are you Mrs. Oiwa? I was told someone would be here to meet us.”

“Yes yes, Oiwa Michi, very nice to meet you, but what on earth were you doing carrying your poor wife across the marsh like that!?” the middle aged woman blustered, “Don’t you know that’s dangerous?”

Inko twitched. Wife?! Toshinori hadn’t told her the specifics of their cover story. But then, by the way he’d stiffened, perhaps he hadn’t known either. Maybe Mrs. Oiwa was just making assumptions. Or this Nedzu person had arranged it without telling them.

“Ah...I’m...not familiar with salt marshes. I’m very sorry,” Toshinori said at last. “I grew up around forests, I’m afraid! Very different, haha!”

“I was nervous about boats,” Inko added in a squeak, “They seem so shaky to me!”

Mrs. Oiwa’s face softened into something rather more motherly. “Oh, I understand. Still, if you want to walk here, you’d best use the path along the banks, or else wait until the tide is all the way out. The former owners of this place put down a concrete path so visitors could see where it was safe to walk.” She sighed and patted her face. “Dear me, you gave me a fright! Come along then, I think we’d better get you two settled inside, eh?”

The interior was rather like something out of Edwardian England. Dark, polished wood and patterned wallpaper decorated the parlor they’d entered, which opened into a dining room to the front and a hall or ballroom of some kind to the right. There were paintings along the walls, but many of them were covered with sheets, giving the place a fairly spooky atmosphere, especially with the sun setting outside. Mrs. Oiwa seemed used to it, and ushered them along, showing them where the kitchen was, where the bathrooms and toilets were, and how to work the television. (“It’s a bit finicky depending on the weather, I’m afraid, but we do get all the channels even out here on the marsh,” she’d assured them.)

“I come in twice a day, four hours in the morning and two hours in the evening,” she told them as they discovered the elaborate bedrooms upstairs. “I’ll leave my number on the refrigerator door if either of you need to get in touch with me, and if you need to go out while the tide is high, I’ll show you where the boat house is, or you can call for a water taxi like the last folks used to.”

She insisted on making them wakame udon for dinner before leaving in a small motorboat tethered to the end of the stairs, and wished them a pleasant evening.

“Don’t mind the noises now,” she said as a last farewell for the evening, “I know it can be a little unsettling if you’re used to the city, but it’s only the sea and the animals.”

Then she was gone, leaving Inko and Toshinori on the veranda and a little bewildered.

“She thinks we’re married,” Inko said faintly, staring at the fading green light on the back of the Oiwa boat.

“So she does,” answered Toshinori in a near identical tone. “I wasn’t expecting that. It makes sense, though.”

“Yes, I suppose so,” Inko ran a hand over her very pink face. “Ooh boy. We...I have this sudden urge to play out all the tropes from those “fake married” episodes of the shows I’ve been watching since I was a kid.”

Toshinori guffawed and wrapped an arm around her shoulders. “Yeah, me too. Except we’d probably give ourselves away because it would be too funny.”

They were silent for a moment, then he glanced down at Inko.

"We're totally doing this, aren't we?"

Inko grinned up at him. "We're totally doing this."

Toshinori chuckled -- a little impishly, Inko thought -- turned back to peer at the manor. He gritted his teeth and narrowed his eyes. “Okay, who wants to go back in the creepy probably-not-haunted house first?”

“Toshi!” Inko smacked his arm. “Don’t even put that thought in my head!”

Her stomach twitched and Inko snorted. “You missed, Izuku, he’s over here.” She turned to lean against Toshinori. “Okay, now kick him.”

Izuku, of course, didn’t.

#toshinkoweek #toshinkoweek 2020 #part of a fic i call 'Next to Normal'#long post #toshinori yagi #yagi toshinori #inko midoriya #midoriya inko #Izuku cameo: he's a Bean about a month from being born #bnha au #bnha #bnha fic #bnha fanfiction #what follows is mostly Toshi and Inko pretending to be a married couple while having weird bonding moments #like being mutually creeped out by the ugly wallpaper in the bathrooms #they belatedly realize nobody told Gran Torino

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bombshellsandbluebells · 6 years

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Romancing the Flame (2/?)

Summary: When Emori’s brother is held hostage in exchange for a priceless, mythical jewel called the Flame, she teams up with sarcastic thief and treasure hunter, John Murphy.

But someone else is after the Flame too, and it’s a race to find the lost city of Polis and the jewel hidden inside.

To get there first, Emori and John will have to overcome booby traps, mercenaries, and their mutual mistrust of each other.

AKA my ode to the classic action/adventure films of the 80s/90s, packed full of as many references and tropes as I can manage. The title is a reference to the film “Romancing the Stone.” Official film poster here!

All my love to @infernalandmortal for editing and being just as excited about this fic as I am!

read on ao3

Chapter One

Chapter Two: The Deal

There was something about seedy bars that made Emori reckless. She’d like to blame it on the alcohol, but she’d only had one beer so far, and she knew she could drink half the men in this bar under the table. Maybe it was just the general sleaziness of the place – the atmosphere of crime and depravity hanging heavy over everything left the implication that you could get away with anything while inside.

Out in the real world, the law was a real threat, and one that Emori was cautious of. She’d long since learned the importance of staying inconspicuous and hidden, and normally she avoided unnecessary attention – but here she knew for a fact there was an illegal poker game unraveling in the back room, and that made her feel safe.

Normal grifts called for days of preparation and careful execution, but bar grifts were easy. They only required that she keep the mark drunk and horny enough not to notice what was happening – or just that she win the inevitable fight that broke out. No one was going to call the police in a place like this, after all, and she could handle a few bruises and cuts for the sake of some extra cash.

She does a lap around the place on her way back from the bathroom. By the time she reaches her table, she’s already zeroed in on at least three different opportunities.

Otan is exactly where she left him, staring morosely down into his own drink like the loser she often tells him he is. He looks up when she sits down.

“Hey.” She jerks her head towards the back corner. “Check out the dart game.”

Her brother follows her gaze to the two men in the midst of a game, then looks back at her with a deeper frown. Her excitement must be obvious, because he sighs heavily. “Hustling? Really?”

“It’ll be fun,” she says, her voice sing-song. She pokes at his shoulder, but Otan shrugs her off, grunting unenthusiastically in reply. “Come on, you know we’ll win.” Emori herself can probably hit the dartboard from where they sit right now. Otan, she knows, would hit the bullseye.

“I’m not worried about winning,” he argues. “I’m worried you’re going to start a fight, and we’ll get kicked out before I can finish my drink.”

Emori deftly grabs his drink from his hands and downs the entire thing. The whiskey is cheap and biting; it burns the back of her throat as it goes down. She slams the empty glass back on the table with a loud clink, and roughly wipes her mouth with the back of her gloved hand.

“There, drink finished.”

Otan glares at her. She smiles sweetly back at him.

They stare each other down, Otan looking for all the world like the human embodiment of a rain cloud and Emori bright and grinning, unwavering. Finally, with the kind of disappointed certainty that comes with having lost hundreds of similar arguments before, Otan sighs deeply in resignation and kneads at the rough, scarred skin of his forehead.

“Fine,” he says, and Emori laughs, delighted.

“It’ll be fun,” she promises as she tugs him out of his seat and towards the game. “Besides, it’s been a while since we’ve treated ourselves. We could use some extra cash.”

“You’re buying me another whiskey with it,” Otan tells her, then falls quiet as they reach the two men.

It’s easy to slip into the roles. They fit as comfortably as well-worn shoes.

“Come on, Em,” Otan says, gently tugging back the arm Emori has a hold of. She follows the movement, exaggerating her stumble a bit before she rights herself against her brother. “These guys are already playing.”

“Come on, O! I want to play!” she whines, slurring her words in a convincing charade of drunkenness.

The men pause their game and glance over at them.

Emori smiles at them and waves lazily. “Hey, you guys want to play with us?”

The two men look at each other in silent debate, and then eye Otan and her speculatively. They’re hesitant to accept Otan, she can tell, as people usually are – his sour expression and bulk might not be unusual in a place like this, but it certainly doesn’t do him any favors when making friends – but she’s laying the drunk, ditzy charm on well enough that they’re interested. One of them drags his eyes up and down her body.

“Ignore my dumb brother,” she slurs, emphasizing the last word. “I think you guys look fun! I want to have some fun!”

Otan tugs gently on her arm again. “They’re not interested, Em.”

“We didn’t say that,” the one eyeing her like a snack says quickly, and Emori hides a triumphant grin. Hook, line, and sinker.

He turns to at his opponent for confirmation, and the other man nods. “Yeah, we’d be up for a game.” His grin makes her skin crawl. “I’m Emerson. This is Dax.”

“I’m Emily,” she says, then slaps an uncoordinated hand against Otan’s chest. “This is Oscar.”

She steps closer to Emerson because the hungry way he eyes her makes him the better target. “I don’t know how to play,” she tells him, pitching her volume as if she’s trying to whisper but too drunk to manage it.

And he buys it. His grin stretches wider. “Don’t worry,” he assures her, placing an arm around her shoulders. “I’ll teach you.” He strokes down her arm, lower and lower, then switches to her back. It creeps dangerously close to her ass, and it's only years of practice that keep her smile in place. If they weren’t about to rob him blind, she’d have decked him the minute he touched her. Instead, she just giggles and leans in closer.

It’s all almost too easy.

Emori and Otan return to their motel room that night with their pockets heavier than they left. They hadn’t been able to raise the bet very high – Emori’s thinks the men had grown suspicious despite their flawless act – but Emori had treated herself to Mr. Grabby Hands’ wallet before they left.

“What’d I tell you?” she boasts as Otan unlocks the door. “It was fun, right?”

“Sure,” is all Otan says, but he’s grinning.

Emori is so high on their success that it takes her a moment to realize what happens when they enter the room. Something grabs her and shoves her face-first into the wall beside the door. Her nose throbs with the impact, and she has enough clarity to hope it isn’t broken, before she manages to take in the rest of the situation.

There are people in their room. One of them, clearly a man much stronger and larger than she is, has her pinned securely against the wall. She hears struggling behind her, but all she can see is the ugly paisley wallpaper of the room.

“Get off of me!” she shouts, straining against the arms holding her down. “Otan?! Otan!”

“Emori!” she hears him shout, before the distinct thud of someone getting socked in the face. She hopes Otan’s getting one up on their attackers, but she has a horrible feeling that it’s Otan who’s been hit. Her suspicious are confirmed when she hears her brother groan. Fear settles in her gut. She tries harder to fight back.

“You didn’t really think I wouldn’t find you, did you?”

The familiar voice coats her ears like tar, heavy, thick and vile. She freezes.

“Did you, Emori?” Baylis continues, and she chokes down a whimper. Even if she can’t see him, she can picture him perfectly in her mind – the cocky, feral grin, the hateful eyes. He probably still has the scar on his temple too. Baylis laughs, and she flinches. Her nose throbs sharply when she pushes it further into the wall. “Come on, we all know your brother’s an idiot, but you’re smarter than that.”

She wants to spit an insult. It sits on her tongue like ready ammunition, only the pistol’s jammed. She can’t get her mouth to say the words. They’d known it was a risk when they left, but they’d thought it was worth it. For months, she’d worried Baylis would find them again, and when it hadn’t happened, she’d grown passive in her sense of safety. She’d stopped worrying. She’d forgotten to be scared.

Now, the weight of that terror comes back all at once and locks her limbs tight and her jaw shut. She feels like a rabbit cowering in a trap, and she hates that almost more than the man behind her. Almost, but not quite.

“Turn her around,” Baylis orders, and the hands yank her from the wall and spin her around so roughly her rattled head spins. There’s definitely blood dripping from her nose.

Her imagination had been spot on. Sure enough, the scar is visible on his temple with his hair gelled back the way he always wears it, but she can’t even enjoy it – not when she sees the gun on his hip or the two large, heavily-armed men flanking him. Two others have Otan pinned, one with his arm tight around Otan’s neck. Her brother’s face is turning red with the strain.

He locks eyes with her and she reads her fear mirrored in them. Two men on Otan, one on her, two others waiting to act, and Baylis.

They’re fucked.

“Well?” Baylis barks. The man who has a hold of her tightens his grip. His nails dig into the skin of her arms. “You have anything to say?”

She tries to voice an apology, but her mouth fumbles around the shape of it. The words get lost somewhere in her throat. Baylis waits, his eyes locked on hers. Emori licks her lips and tries again. “I’m sorry.”

“Sorry?” Baylis mocks. “For what? For running away? For stealing my money? For this?” He gestures at the scar on his face.

“All of it,” she gasps. Anything to please him. She’d gotten in his good graces once before; maybe she can do it again. “I’m sorry for all of it. I’ll make up for it. I’ll – I’ll-“

Otan squeaks, and her eyes dart to him. It’s too small a sound for a man as large as her brother, but he looks small now. The man holding his neck is squeezing it tighter, and her brother flounders like a fish caught on the shoreline as he struggles for breath. She can see his fingers dancing and twitching in the air for something to grab onto, but he’s too well-pinned. He clutches uselessly at open air.

“I’ll pay you back!” she shouts, desperate.

“You will?” Baylis steps close to her. He’s at least a foot and a half taller than her; she has to crane her neck to look up at his face. But then he crouches, and she has a bewildered second to wonder what he’s doing before he digs a hand into her boots, searching. She tries to not to squirm at the feeling.

He finds the wad of cash stuffed in her right boot, and the knife stashed in her left, and then Mr. Grabby Hands’ wallet in her jacket pocket. He pockets the knife and thumbs through the wallet and the ball of cash. Then he does the same to Otan, pulling out the knives he keeps in each boot and his own wad of money.

“See, we already found the pathetic bit of cash you had stashed in your bags here. And with this,” he waves the money he’s holding, “and whatever you hid in the car you stole, I know you don’t have nearly enough to pay me back.”

“I’ll get you more money. You know I can.” It was, after all, why he’d brought her in in the first place.

“Oh, I know you will,” Baylis assures her, pocketing the cash. He pulls a folded-up piece of paper from his pocket and unfolds it, then holds it in front of her face.

The word “Polis” is written on it, which means nothing to her. Below it someone has drawn an infinity symbol.

She can’t help the incredulous laugh that bubbles out of her. “I can’t get you that,” she argues.

Baylis slaps her. Her nose protests loudly. She can see her blood on Baylis’s hand as he pulls it back. His grin is gone; now he just looks angry.

“It’s a symbol, you bitch,” he hisses. “For an ancient city called Polis. There’s a jewel there that’s worth more than the fucking queen of England. It’s called the Flame. That’s how you’re going to pay me back.”

It takes her a moment to connect the dots; she blames the distracting throbbing of her face. “You’re sending us on a goddamn treasure hunt?”

“Not both of you. I’m keeping your brother so you don’t run off on me again. You bring me the Flame, and I’ll give him back to you, safe and sound.”

He’s offering her a way to freedom, but it smells like bullshit.

“I need Otan’s help,” she tries. “You need to let him come with me.”

Baylis sneers at her. “You think I don’t know who the brains of the operation is? You don’t need him to find it.”

“There’s no way I can find this. Baylis, please,” she begs, “let me pay you back some other way.”

He moves towards her, and she thinks he’s going to slap her again. She braces herself for the hit, but instead, he grabs her face roughly in his hand and squeezes. His rough fingers dig into her cheeks. She can feel them pressing against the bone. “You either bring me back the Flame, or you find some other way to get me as much money as the queen of fucking England. Or you run off and let your brother die. Your choice.”

Emori locks eyes with Otan again. It’s easy to make her choice. “Fine! Fine, I’ll find it. But you have to give me a lead.”

Baylis lets go of her face, and she wishes she had an arm free to scrub the feel of him off her skin. She wants to throw up.

“I gave you a lead. Polis.”

“I need something more than that,” she pleads. “Look, if you want to get this jewel, then you need to give me something more.”

Baylis considers her as he folds the paper back up and tucks it in his pocket. Then he nods. “I got the information from a man named Murphy in The Dead Zone. Look for him.”

She thinks that’s it, but then he pulls out her knife. There’s no way in hell he’s handing it back to her, and that worries her.

“One more thing,” he says. Her stomach churns with fear, writhing like a pit of snakes. She tries to stop herself from trembling, but it’s hopeless. He’s already seen it anyways; there’s no use in playing brave. Baylis gestures with her knife at the scar she gave him. “I’m gonna repay you for this.”

#memori #memori fic #dailymemori #emori #my stories #the 100 #the 100 fic #romancing the flame

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