#looked out my window to see torrential downpour. thrilled
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it's raining so much right now...... finally
#looked out my window to see torrential downpour. thrilled#neon has thoughts#there was a thunderstorm a while ago can you believe it. i love september i love you autumn i love you rain
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Astraphobia
Ryan Lucan (Life Is Strange: True Colors) x GN! Reader
| Rated: E
| 2.8k words
| Summary: You’ve known Ryan for the past twenty years, and been in love with him for about eighteen of them.
Hey! It’s your last night on fire lookout, right?
You’re not watching your phone for Ryan’s reply. You're not. And you definitely don't spring to read it when he does, a moment later.
Yeah. Promises to be thrilling.
You smile to yourself, looking out of the window at the rainclouds rolling in overhead. The downpour is due to be so torrential that if anyone could start a fire you’d give them an award.
You fancy some company at the watchtower? I can bring snacks.
An ellipses appears, disappears. Appears again.
I don’t know. That’s not really protocol…
No drink, no weed. Completely sober. Just thought you might want some company, seeing as you’ll be stuck there just watching rain otherwise.
When there’s no immediate response:
C’mon. Better than listening to your nature CDs for the thirtieth time over. What is it this time? “let’s get wild with wildcats: your audio guide to identifying predators in North America”?
More ellipses.
Okay, okay. You win. But you leave me and my CDs alone.
You grin down at your phone.
I was right, wasn't i. It was the wildcat one.
I plead the fifth.
Ah, Ryan Lucan. Your best friend. You’ve known him for the past twenty years, and been in love with him for about eighteen of them. He, sweet gentle boy that he is, is totally oblivious. Which is good. It means you can stare at him longingly without giving the game away. Wonder how his stubble would feel if you were kissing. How tightly those well-toned arms could hold you.
It’s fine. You’re fine. Well, not really. But you’re not going to tell him that and risk years of friendship, are you?
So you load some stuff into your car, shrug on your coat, and start the drive out to Ryan’s firewatch tower. And put a cork in your feelings like you have every time you've seen him for years.
*
Ryan holds the door of the little tower open for you as you scurry in, just before the rain starts to hit too hard. You’ve got a cardboard box grasped in your arms, after all, so can’t really operate any handles.
“Geez, it kinda looks like you’re moving in,” Ryan says with a gentle smile. You shake the few droplets that got you out of your hair, make a show of looking round the place.
“Pretty open. Nice square footage,” you remark as you look around, like a potential tenant would at an apartment viewing. “What’s the rent cost?”
“It’s free! But you do have to be ready for wildfires to spring up at any time. That’s the catch.”
“Pretty big catch,” you concede, dropping the box on his bed and fishing something out. “Can I install my own lighting?”
You hold up a string of lights and grin. Ryan can’t hold back a laugh.
“You brought string lights?”
“Of course I did. They’re whimsical.”
There’s very little in the way of furniture in the tower. A bed, a desk, a small make-do kitchen. You wind the wire around the metal bedframe the best you can.
“Ta-da!” you say, showing off your handiwork. Ryan gives a cocked smile, and your heart skips a beat.
“They certainly brighten up the place.”
“And that’s not all the gifts I come bearing.”
You reach into your box and bring out three key ingredients - graham crackers, marshmallows, and chocolate.
“I know we aren’t technically camping, but we are in the middle of the woods. So s’mores are pretty much compulsory.”
Ryan looks doubtfully at his small oven for a moment, but then shrugs.
“I’m sure we can find a way.”
Within the next half hour the two of you are sitting on the floor next to your string lights, trying to catch the dollops of marshmallow dripping out of your impromptu s’mores.
“Maybe this wasn’t the best idea,” you sigh, trying to pick up some crumbs but only succeeding in smearing some chocolate on the wooden floor. Ryan wipes a piece of cracker out of his beard and then sucks it off his thumb.
“No. The idea was good. You always have good ideas.”
He holds your gaze for a moment, then looks at the gently twinkling lights.
“They call them fairy lights in Britain. Isn’t that fun?”
“It is fun,” Ryan says, nodding. A beat, and then: “do you remember when we went hunting for fairies when we were kids?”
You pause in your munching. Wipe your fingers on a napkin.
“Did we?”
“Yeah. We were, what, seven? You were convinced you’d seen something under the bridge. We were down there for the whole day, digging in the mud, and we were filthy by the end of it. I think we both got in deep trouble. Never did find those fairies, though.”
Yeah. Actually, it’s coming back to you.
That was the day you first realised you were in love with him.
Being eight, feeling your heart stir in your chest when you looked over and saw your best friend, bright-eyed and gap-toothed rooting around in the muck because of something you swore you saw. The blinding grin he gave you when you caught his eye.
Ryan looks like he wants to say something. He opens his mouth –
But when the first peal of the storm rolls over the sky, you freeze in place.
Fuck. You checked the forecast twice before you came out. It wasn’t meant to storm.
Ryan notices your reaction immediately.
“Are you okay?”
You shake your head, digging your nails into your legs.
Yeah. You’re terrified of them. Always have been, since you were a kid. They’re too loud, too bright, too unpredictable.
“Come here.”
His voice is soft but leaves no room for argument. He meets you as you shuffle over, pulling you into his arms. You flit between squeezing your hands over your eyes and over your ears, unsure which is better.
“It won’t hurt you,” he whispers, “this whole thing is grounded. Did you see the copper wires outside?”
“It will hurt me,” you hiss, “didn’t you read about that town that got destroyed by a storm?!”
Another clap of thunder rolls through the building and you almost scream. You bury your face in Ryan’s chest. The slow, steady beat of his heart is the absolute parallel to yours, which feels like it’s going a hundred miles an hour.
“Hey, hey. It’s okay. I've got you. I have you,” he says, quietly. The arm around you tightens, pulling you to the solid heat of his body. As you squeeze your eyes shut and wait for the thunder to end you feel his thumb begin to rub slow, relaxing circles into your shoulder.
He whispers something. You think he just guesses you can’t hear it over the sound of the storm. But being right here, so close to him?
Well, you get every word.
“I’ve always had you,” he says. There’s something different in his voice. Something you’ve not heard before.
Something… longing.
You pull back just enough to look into his eyes. They look into yours, searching, and then drop to your lips.
“Ryan…” you whisper. Everything feels like a flood. The smell of petrichor rising from outside. The storm rumbling all around. Ryan’s shirt beneath your hands. The soft parting of his lips.
It all clicks into place at once. Oh god. He feels the same.
“Can I kiss you?” he manages, finally able to string together a sentence.
“Yes.”
And he does.
All the times you’ve dreamt about this it’s been an electric thing. With tongues meeting and teeth clacking, the dive of hands under clothes. But this isn’t that. It’s so much better.
Ryan’s lips are soft and sure as he presses them onto yours. Chaste, to begin with, but as soon as you respond he goes deeper. Your mouth parts a little so you can taste his bottom lip, take a tiny swipe at it just with the tip of your tongue. He makes a sound in the back of his throat and reaches up to gently card his hand through your hair. Just once. Just to know how it feels.
This kiss is perfect. This kiss is so… Ryan.
When you’re finished, you rest your foreheads together. Breathe in the same air for a moment. The tips of your noses touch and both of you cannot stop smiling.
“That was…”
“Great?” you hazard. He gives a little chuckle.
“I was going to say, ‘something I’d like to do again.’”
So you do. You close the distance once more, kissing him a little bit more passionately this time. Feeling your body pressed up against his, Ryan takes his cue and lies back on the rug, bringing you with him to lay on top. His hands stroke up and down your sides before eventually settling on your hips.
This kiss takes your breath away properly. You’re heavy-lidded when you finally open your eyes. His pupils are blown wide, breathing heavy.
“Is,” he manages between pants, “is this okay?”
You nod so hard you almost headbutt him.
“Can I touch you some more?”
“Fuck. Please.”
His hand skims up your body to your chest, giving you a gentle caress when he gets there. You hum at the feeling. When his other hand cups your cheek, brushing your lip with his thumb, you reach out the tip of your tongue to touch it.
“Oh god,” he whispers, “you’re so… you’re better than I imagined.”
“Imagined, huh?” you ask, trying to sound seductive but genuinely surprised. He swallows thickly and you watch his Adam’s apple deliciously bob in his throat.
“Y…yeah…”
He sounds embarrassed. You catch the hand on your face with your own, pressing a kiss into his palm.
“It’s okay. Me too.”
Ryan breathes a sigh of relief.
“C’mere.”
He drags you back down to kiss, and this time you can feel his hardness pressing against your leg.
This is happening. This is happening.
“Can I do something about that?” you ask. Another swallow, a trepidatious nod as if he can’t quite believe this is happening. As if it may cease to be at any possible moment.
He watches, hawk-like, as you make your way down his body, pausing when you get to the zipper of his jeans. You release him slowly, seeing the way his breath hitches when you take him out of his boxer briefs.
His cock is pretty much hard as soon as you touch him. You give him a single, experimental pump, and watch him close his eyes and moan.
That. That is a sound you could get used to.
You work his shaft lazily in your hand, watching in delight as he gasps and bucks. He’s a nice size, one you can easily imagine filling you to the brim. He opens his mouth to say something to you, but all power of speech is short-circuited when you lick his head.
He makes a strangled little noise of delight, amazed. He tastes like salt and sweat, and so you do it again. The thunder outside barely registers now.
“Oh my god,” he whispers.
He reaches down to brush a strand of hair from your face, but makes no other move to grab you in any way. Maybe he’s worried he’d seem too forceful if he did that. You don’t need any encouragement though, anyway - you take him in your mouth and suck him until he reaches the back of your throat.
He begins to chant your name like a prayer, torn between squeezing his eyes shut in ecstasy and watching your every move. You bob your head up and down his length, playing with his slit each time you reach the top, using your tongue to tease him.
“How are you so good at this,” he groans. You answer him by taking him all the way down to the base. You watch in delight as he has to use all the restraint in his body not to rut up into you.
“Stop, shit, stop, or I’ll… and I don’t want to…” he manages. You’re merciful, so do as you’re bid. A light sheen of sweat has broken out on his forehead, he wipes it away with his shirt after he takes it off.
Oh god. He has so many muscles. How can one human have that many muscles? It’s not fair.
“Do you want to sit on my face?” he says with such a simple earnestness you almost laugh. Instead you kiss him, sloppy and hard.
“Next time. Right now, I want to be on top of you.”
“There’s… there’ll be a next time? This isn’t just to distract you from the storm?”
His eyes search yours for the truth. You feel a bit heartbroken he could even think of himself as a one-time thing.
“Oh, Ryan. Fuck. Of course there’ll be a next time. If you want.” And then, because you’re feeling brave, “I’ve been in love with you since we were kids.”
In that moment, with the storm outside, and the two of you all alone here, it feels like anything could happen.
And anything does.
“I’ve been in love with you since we were kids,” he replies, amazed.
A thousand things spring through your mind. Since when? Was it the same day I started loving you? Did it break your heart when I got into relationships, like you broke mine? Have you always wanted to grab me and kiss me over the bar? Did you think about me during sex with other people?
Instead you land on, “Do you have a condom or shall I get the one in my backpack?”
He shakes his head, but it’s easy for you to grab your bag and grab the little foil packet. You realise, in that moment, you’re still on the fucking floor - but you’re not going to move even if the forces of nature try to teat you apart.
You practically tear off your jeans and Ryan kicks his off of his legs, rolling the condom on him in one easy movement. You position yourself over him and go to sink down.
“Wait-!”
You stop, look at him.
“Are you sure?” he asks, sincerely.
Oh, Ryan. The only man you know who’d double check your consent when his dick was millimetres away from being inside you. The best man you know.
“Of course.”
He holds his cock, lining himself up with you as you press him inside.
You’re right. He’s a delicious stretch, but you take him all. In your haste to start fucking him you’ve neglected to remove your shirt, which Ryan reaches up and helps you shrug off. He falls back and watches you, naked, sitting on him, with such reverence it looks like he might start to pray.
You move your hips and he groans.
“Oh god, you’re so good…” he whispers, hands once again settling on your hips. Slowly you start to ride him, grinning at the feeling of his dick pressing against that sweet spot inside. Your hand buries in the hair on his chest and you pull it gently, playing with the coarseness.
When he reaches between your legs, and when he touches you you see stars. A crack of lightning strikes outside. It’s poetic, because his touch makes it feel like that’s what’s running through your veins.
“Ryan,” you choke.
“I know,” he agrees, rolling his hips up to yours, gently fucking into you when you slow the pace down. You plant both your hands on him this time and start to ride him properly. Hips pressed together you bear down on him, giddy in the friction you feel inside you. It doesn’t take long for you to know you’re about to come, and from the way he grits his teeth, you know he must be close too.
“Oh my god,” he whispers as you clench around him, and a tiny thrust up from him pushes you over the edge. As you crescendo Ryan’s fingers bury into your skin as he releases, a low, low groan being dragged from the depths of his soul.
You collapse next to him, sweaty, but more alive than you’ve ever been before.
Outside the storm has rolled past.
There’s no talking for a moment, just the sound of breathing getting slower and back to normal. Then Ryan takes your hand, sliding his fingers between yours.
“I know we’ve kinda done this in the wrong order. But, ah, do you want to go on a date?” he asks, sheepishly. You snort at how shy the question is, but reach over and start your answer with a kiss.
“Yeah, Ryan. Of course.”
“I, ah. I love you.”
“I love you too.”
You can hear the smile in your voice.
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(Un)Common Attraction: Chapter 18 - Shoot to Thrill
Series: TRR (following the events of Book 1, with some changes)
Pairing: Drake Walker x OC (Harper Gale)
Rights belong to Pixelberry, most characters and some dialogue belong to them.
Book Synopsis: Harper Gale is a small-town girl working as a waitress at a seedy New York dive bar. After a chance encounter with nobility sees her jetting halfway around the world to compete for the hand of the Prince of Cordonia, her dream of seeing the world starts to come true sooner than she expected. But as the completion heats up, Harper quickly learns that life at court is a lot more than just pretty dresses and fancy balls, and that the polished aristocratic smiles often hide deceit. Does she have what it takes to rise above the gossip and intrigue of the social season, and beat the nobles at their own games? And, more importantly, does she actually want to become the queen of a small European country? Or will her heart have other ideas?
Masterlist: (Un)Common Attraction
Chapter Summary: It’s pouring with rain the day before the Regatta, so Harper learns a new skill...
Word Count: 4,800
Rating/Warnings: M (swearing)
Chapter theme song: Shoot to Thrill by AC/DC
Please read: Author’s Note
Also available on Wattpad.
Chapter 18 - Shoot to Thrill
I wake the following morning to the sound of raindrops battering my windows. Throwing the covers back, I pad over to the curtains. Drawing them back, I am greeted by a grumpy-looking sky and a torrential downpour.
Sighing dejectedly, I make my way into the bathroom to start my morning routine, hoping that the bad weather will blow over soon, so we won't be stuck inside the whole day. While Montana may have harsh winters, at least it was sunny most of the time, so rain really had a dampening effect on my soul.
After a hot shower, I pull on some jeans, a bright yellow t-shirt (in a vain effort to inject some colour into the otherwise miserable day) and a knitted cardigan to keep me warm. Before heading out in search of breakfast, I quickly throw the clothes that I had worn since my arrival into one of those hotel-style plastic laundry bags and call up the housekeeping department to ask them to collect it for washing, otherwise I will have literally nothing to wear after the Regatta.
"Gale," nods Drake by way of greeting when I step out of my room.
"Drake," I reply, falling into step with him as he makes his way down the corridor. "Or should I say 'DW'?"
Drake flashes me a sidelong glance. "I see you've been playing with your phone."
"Setting it up, actually," I correct. "So. You gonna tell me?"
"Tell you what?"
"What the 'W' stands for," I reply. "Or do I need to beat it out of you?"
Last night, I had discovered not only that Drake was one of those secretive people who saved their contacts under acronyms, but also what his initials were. And since he insisted on calling me Gale (except when he thought I was in trouble, or I managed to catch him off-guard), I was determined to find out what his last name was so I could return the favour.
He raises a sceptical brow. "I very much doubt you'd be able to beat anything out of me, Gale. Especially after witnessing your epic fail yesterday."
I flush self-consciously, remembering how he had turned the tables on me during my surprise wake-up call. "I wouldn't get cocky, if I were you," I warn. "Failure is the mother of success, after all."
He scoffs. "Or even more failure."
"I thought you were starting to have faith in me, Wilson."
"Nice try," he smirks. "But no."
"Watson?" I ask hopefully.
"Nope."
"Wood?"
Drake comes to halt and fixes me with a weary look. "Are you gonna do this the whole day?"
"If I have to," I tell him sweetly. "Or you could just spill the beans. I mean, it's your surname, not a state secret."
"That reverse psychology crap doesn't work on me, Gale. Plus," he murmurs seductively, leaning in, his face inches from mine, "maybe I like the idea of making you work for it."
"I-I could just ask Christian...or Maxwell," I breathe. He's wearing the same aftershave as yesterday, and my mind is momentarily flooded with memories of our bike ride... and his kiss.
"And where's the fun in that?" he asks with a wolfish smile. "Come on, girl. I thought you had more backbone than that."
"What are you two whispering about?" asks Maxwell, appearing behind Drake's shoulder.
A look of annoyance flashes across Drake's face as he withdraws from me. "Didn't your mother ever tell you to mind your own business, Beaumont?"
"Not that I recall," admits Maxwell with a nonchalant shrug. Turning to me, he says, "I see you're feeling better, Harper."
"Yeah, thanks," I reply, brushing a stray strand of hair behind my ear. "I was just worn out, I guess. But staying in bed the whole day really helped."
"I'm sure it did..." mutters Drake under his breath, leaning himself against the wall.
I shoot him a warning glare.
He regards me coolly, as if daring me to rise to his remark.
I suppress a sigh of exasperation.
"I'm glad to hear it," smiles Maxwell, seemingly oblivious to my non-verbal ping-pong with Drake. "We need you in tip-top shape for tomorrow's Regatta."
"Why?" I ask warily.
"Oh. I thought I told you," says Maxwell, his face crumpling. "But maybe I just wanted to tell you and never got around to it because you weren't feeling well yesterday."
"Tell me what?" I demand.
"That you'll be participating in the opening race tomorrow," sighs Drake.
"I'm what?!"
"But don't worry!" adds Maxwell hastily, seeing the look of distress on my face. "It's mostly for show... Anytime a social season involves picking a bride, the first race of the Regatta is traditionally one that all the suitors participate in. You just need to wave and look pretty for the press. Bertrand told me that he has hired a crew to man your boat."
"Thank God for that!" I exclaim, exhaling in relief.
"Morning, Harper!" greets Hana, appearing as well. "Feeling better?"
"Much, thanks," I reply. "Now, as much as I love an impromptu get-together in the hallway, I'm starving, so can we move this party to somewhere where there's food?"
"Of course!" agrees Maxwell. "Right this way, my lady."
Maxwell leads us downstairs to a large dining room dominated by a massive oak table that looked like it could seat over a hundred people. A continental breakfast buffet had been laid out on one side of the room. Olivia, Penelope, and Kiara were already here, in the process of finishing off their breakfast.
"Oh, look who decided to grace us with her presence," purrs Olivia, catching sight of me as we enter the room. "I hear you've been under the weather."
"Much better now, thanks," I mutter in reply, picking up a warm plate and proceeding to load it up. "Not that you care..."
"Oh, but I do," she replies silkily. "It would've been such a shame if you had missed the Regatta. It is the gem of the social season, being the King's favourite event and all. Plus, I would've been denied the satisfaction of crushing you in the opening race."
"I thought it was just for show..."
"Oh, it's a show, alright. One that I will use to show you up!" She snickers at her joke. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I have much to do before tomorrow. One cannot expect a five-star viewing party to just organise itself, after all! Buh-bye, darlings..."
I glare accusingly at Maxwell as Olivia sashays out of the dining room, Kiara and Penelope in tow.
"Erm, yes," he stammers. "Did I mention that the opening race is actually a race? With a trophy?"
"You said it was just for show," I accuse grumpily, buttering a slice of toast with a vengeance.
As affable as he was, Maxwell really was useless sometimes...
"It is, in the sense that it's for the enjoyment of the public, and it's a great photo op. But, as Olivia mentioned, the Regatta is one of King Constantine's favourite events, so winning the ceremonial race would go a long way in securing his favour. The King bestows an honour upon the lady who wins the race, so it's kind of a big deal."
"Not sure how winning a race is going to convince Christian to overlook her many flaws, but what do I know...? And what was that thing about a 'viewing party'? Is that another thing that you forgot to tell me about?"
"Oh, no," smiles Maxwell. "That, I didn't forget about! After the opening race, everyone watches the rest of Regatta from a couple of private yachts. Think of it as a floating champagne party. We don't have a yacht, so we will not be hosting a viewing party. You can just watch the races from one of the other boats."
"You can join me, if you wanted to," offers Hana. "My parents asked me to organise my own viewing party on our family's new yacht. We'll have champagne, sushi, chocolate fondue..."
"Sounds fancy," I admit. "And of course, I'll join you. I'm sure your party will be miles better than anything Olivia can throw together."
"Thanks," says Hana with a smile. "And that reminds me, I should go and finalise the details for tomorrow. See you later!"
"Have fun!" I reply, as Hana exits the dining room with a small wave.
"I need to head off as well," announces Maxwell. "Bertrand had some business to attend to back at our estate, so he asked me to make sure that everything is shipshape for tomorrow."
"Will he be back to watch the Regatta?" I ask.
"He said he would be. It would be bad form for him to miss the King's favourite event, being the head of our house and all."
"I'm looking forward to his not-so constructive criticism already," I mutter, plopping a grape into my mouth.
"I know he comes across as cold and demanding," says Maxwell, "but he means well. He's just got a lot on his plate right now."
"I know," I sigh. "But even so... A smile would not go amiss every now and then."
Maxwell smiles wanly. "Anyway, I'm off," he says, heading towards the door. "There's nothing really planned for today because of the weather, and also because most people will be busy getting ready for the Regatta. But I'm sure you can find something to occupy yourself... or just take the opportunity to relax before your big race tomorrow."
"Don't worry about me," I assure him. "I'll be fine."
"Catch you later then," says Maxwell as he disappears through the doorway.
"You've been awfully quiet, Ward," I observe.
"We're still doing this, are we?" Drake asks, draining the last of his coffee. "Thought you'd given up."
"Not a chance, Washington."
Drake rolls his eyes as he gets up from the table. "You're like a dog with a bone, aren't you?"
"You said yesterday that there was nothing wrong with dogs, Webster."
"True," he acknowledges. "But you're still getting colder."
"I'll strike gold eventually," I assure him. "So, given that today's a washout, any suggestions on what one can do to pass the time 'round here?"
Drake assesses me for a long moment. "How's your aim, Gale?"
* * *
Ten minutes later, we are down in the bowels of the Palace, navigating a narrow stone corridor that looked like it had been hewn from the very bedrock of the cliff itself. I shiver at the sudden change of temperature and pull my cardigan tighter around myself.
"So, where are we going exactly?" I ask, glancing dubiously at the cold stone walls.
When Drake had asked me about my aim, I had thought that he would be taking me to shoot some hoops, or maybe for a game of pool, but now I had no idea what his plan was.
Was he taking me to the dungeons?
"You'll see."
"Don't you get tired of being so mysterious all the time, Weaver?"
"Nope. And still cold."
I sigh in exasperation.
I'd already exhausted about a dozen possibilities for Drake's surname, and I was still no closer to guessing it. But I was determined to extract it from him, even if it killed me...
Okay, maybe I was not that desperate, but I still really wanted to know.
"Wait here a sec," he tells me, as we arrive at a small wooden door that looked to be at least a hundred years old.
Drake knocks and a moment later the door opens. As he disappears inside, I catch a brief glimpse of some uniformed men sitting in front of computer screens before the door closes.
I frown. What were we doing at the King's Guard command centre?
After a few minutes, Drake emerges, carrying what look like two small plastic briefcases. "Let's go."
We proceed down the corridor until we arrive at another door, this one is much newer and made of metal. Drake taps the access code into the security panel before pulling the door open.
Stepping inside, I am greeted by a strange smell that I cannot place. I hear the door bang shut behind me, and we are momentarily shrouded in darkness, but a second later Drake flips on the industrial overhead lights.
As the space becomes illuminated, I realise that we are in an old cellar that had been converted into a state-of-the-art shooting range.
"Are you sure we're allowed to be in here?" I ask, spinning around.
There were four ranges set up with moveable targets, along with a couple of metal tables and some folding metal chairs.
"I cleared it with Bastien," he replies, depositing the two cases on one of the tables.
"Is this where the King's Guard train?"
"Not just the Guard," he says, flipping the cases open. "But the entire Palace security team. There's an outdoor range on the outskirts of the city that they use as well."
"I'm guessing your dad showed you this place?"
"Yeah. And taught me to shoot."
"Because everyone in Cordonia is packin'?" I ask dryly.
"No," scoffs Drake, taking boxes of bullets out of one of the cases and lining them up on the table. "But growing up in rural Texas, and then serving in the Army, it was a skill that Dad wanted me and Savs to learn."
"Savannah came down here as well?" I ask in surprise.
"Not as much," he admits. "But Dad still insisted on teaching her the basics."
"Is that why you brought me here, Wright? To teach me the basics?"
"If you're game," he smirks. "And still no."
I huff in frustration. How many surnames starting with W were there?
Changing the topic, in the hope of catching him off guard, I ask, "So, West... Do you ever take girls on normal dates? Y'know, like the movies or the fair? Or is it only high-octane, edge-of-your-seat stuff with you?"
"What makes you think this is a date, Gale?" he counters, pulling two guns from the other case to inspect them.
"I just want to know what I'm getting into, Wells," I reply matter-of-factly. "Like, do I need to prepare myself for spelunking or sky diving the next time around?
Drake quirks a brow. "Why? Are those the kind of dates you like to go on?"
"I'm up for trying anything once," I admit. "I mean, I'd never been on a motorbike before yesterday, and now here I am about to shoot a gun for the first time in my life."
"Not before we go over some ground rules."
"Like, not shooting each other in the foot?"
"Yes. Now, see this little switch here? This is the safety. If you're not aiming at a target, you need to flick it on, so you don't shoot anything accidentally."
"Got it, Winchester."
"Whatever you do, do not touch the muzzle after firing, or you will regret it."
"Aye-aye, Williams."
Drake rolls his eyes. "And last, but not least, we'll be wearing ear and eye protection while we're in here."
"Yessir, Mr White, sir," I reply with a mock salute.
"Just...no," he groans. "Right, so you have two options. This here is a Beretta 92. It's a semi-automatic, which means that after you fire, the next bullet cycles automatically into the chamber, so you can keep firing without having to manually pull the slide each time. It's a solid gun that's used by military and law enforcement around the world."
"This was your dad's, wasn't it?" I ask as I examine the sturdy-looking firearm, with its well-worn grip.
"Yes."
"And this one?" I ask, pointing to the other gun.
"That's a SIG Sauer P226. It's also a semi-automatic, but it has a completely different feel to the Beretta. It's the go-to choice for several special-ops and counter-terrorism teams. I suggest you start with this one. It’s a bit lighter and sits better in your hand."
"Okay," I say. "So, we picked our weapons. I'm guessing we need to load them?"
"Yup. These are yours," he says, pushing a box of bullets towards me, and plonking the magazine on top.
"So, you just shove them in?"
"Pretty much," he nods, loading the Beretta's magazine with practiced ease.
I try to imitate him, but getting the slippery bullets in was definitely one of those things that looked easier said than done, and I'm still struggling with the first round by the time Drake's loaded all ten of his.
"A little help, please?"
"What's this, Gale? Have we found something that doesn't come naturally to you?"
"Yes, gloat all you want, Wolf," I grumble as I watch him make quick work of the rounds. "But this is your area of expertise, not mine."
"Wolf, eh?" he asks with a grin, handing the fully loaded magazine back to me. "Like the sound of that. 'Drake Wolf's' got a badass ring to it."
I take the magazine from him with a roll of my eyes. "Course you w— Oh, my God!" I exclaim, nearly dropping it. "That's heavy!"
"Wait till you're holding the gun as well," says Drake. "But safety comes first."
He extracts a pair of safety glasses from one of the cases and pops it onto my face before putting on his own. He then places some heavy-duty ear protectors around my neck.
"Okay, now you need to click the magazine into the gun, like so," he says, demonstrating. "If you need to release the mag to reload it, you press this button here." He catches the magazine in his other hand and holds it out to me.
"Looks easy enough," I admit, reaching for the loaded mag.
Taking the gun from him, I slot the magazine into the bottom of the handle and give it a smack to click it in. As Drake had promised, the weight of the loaded weapon is considerable, and I'm struggling to hold it in one hand.
"Now, before we let you loose, we need to go over stance. There are a couple of different ways to hold a gun, but the key takeaways are that you need to have your legs apart, both hands around the gun, looking down the sight," he explains, demonstrating each stage.
"Like this?"
"Not quite..." Placing his gun on the table, he moves over to me and begins correcting my stance. "Shoulders down, knees bent, elbows in. Also, keep your finger off the trigger until you're ready to fire. You can rest it on the trigger guard if you want to."
"Who knew that firing a gun was so technical..." I mutter.
"Despite what they would have you believe in movies and TV shows, it's not just point and shoot. If you aren't in the correct stance, you'll be luckily to hit a barn door, much less a moving target, as you're not gonna be able to sight your shot properly."
"But how is this comfortable?" I protest. The unusual position was starting to cramp up my neck and shoulders, making me wonder how anyone could fire a gun from such a forced stance.
"You get used to it," shrugs Drake, picking up the Beretta again. "Ready to give it a go?"
"After you, Webber."
He rolls his eyes. "Remember," he says, moving to stand behind me as I line up to make my first shot. "Shoulders down, elbows in. And don't forget to flick the safety off."
He gently positions the ear protectors over my head before stepping back.
Taking a deep breath, I line up my first shot as best I can and squeeze the trigger. The crack of the bullet exploding from the muzzle echoes loudly through the cavernous space and the kick of the recoil reverberates up my arm, making me stagger back in surprise. Unsurprisingly, the bullet goes wide, missing the target completely and embedding itself in the wall at the far end of the range.
"Holy crap!" I exclaim, my heart pounding from the visceral experience.
"Not bad," observes Drake, moving one of the muffs off my ear so I can hear him. "But you need to relax a bit."
"Yes, because firing a deadly weapon is such a relaxing experience," I mutter dryly.
"It's very therapeutic, actually," he counters, putting his hands on my hips to twist them slightly. "Especially if you've had a shit day..."
"Call of Duty doesn't cut it for you?"
"Not when you know what the real thing feels like," he murmurs, his face a hair's breadth from mine as he reaches around me to tweak the angle of my arms. "Try now."
I line up my shot again, trying to concentrate on aiming down the barrel, but all I can think about is Drake's presence behind me as he slots my ear protectors back on.
Taking a deep breath, I refocus my attention on the target with some difficulty as Drake gently presses my shoulders down. I squeeze the trigger again and this time I see a tiny hole appear on the edge of the paper.
"I did it!" I cry. "I hit the target!"
"Most people would call that a miss. But since this is your first time, I think we can make some concessions."
"All right then, Mr Texas Ranger. Show us what you've got."
"Finally getting warmer," he mutters — almost too quiet for me to hear — as he pulls his gun out from where he had stashed it in the waistband of his jeans.
Taking up position in the lane next to me, he focuses on the target at the end of the room and his entire demeanour suddenly changes. Gone is the Drake I know, and in his place stands a fierce man singularly focused on the task at hand. Taking a breath, he raises his gun in one smooth motion and on the exhale, he fires off five shots in quick succession, barely even flinching each time the heavy pistol kicks back in his hand.
"Holy crap..." I breathe.
All his shots had clustered around the centre of the bullseye and I suddenly feel weak in the knees, knowing that if the situation ever presented itself, Drake would not hesitate to shoot to kill in order to protect those he cared about.
On one hand, it was disturbing to realise that he had such a remorseless aspect to his personality. But, at the same time, the primitive, cavewoman part of my brain found it seriously sexy that he was a man who would stand his ground in the face of adversity.
"Something on your mind, Gale?" asks Drake, appraising me with a knowing look.
I shake myself out of my thoughts. "You just love showing off, don't you, Wallace?"
"What part of that was showing off?" he asks. "And you're getting colder again."
"What else would you call hitting the bullseye five times in a row?"
"The inevitable result of years of practice."
"So, you're saying that this is another one of those important life-skills that you hone in your spare time?" I scoff, recalling the conversation we had on the night of the cronut run.
"Yes," he replies seriously. "Given the number of assassination attempts there have been on the royal family over the years, the last thing I want is to have someone die on my watch because I let myself get sloppy."
"But isn't it the job of the King's Guard to protect the royal family?"
"It may be their job, but Chris has been my best friend for as long as I can remember. I wouldn't be able to live with myself if he got hurt... or killed, especially if I could've done something to prevent it."
"That's very selfless of you," I say softly, laying a hand on his arm. "But what about your mom and Savannah? They've already lost your dad in the line of duty... How do you think they'd feel if they lost you too?"
"Proud that I stepped up to do was necessary for king and country."
"You're just a regular patriot, aren't you?" I grumble under my breath.
“Someone has to be.”
Fixing him with a serious expression, I say, "Look, I know I'm in no position to tell you what to do, or what choices to make. Just...promise me you'll think twice before doing anything stupid. Because while you may be willing to put your life on the line, the actions you take will affect those around you as well."
"You sayin’ you'd miss me, Gale?" he murmurs, gazing down at me with the same impenetrable look as yesterday.
"Maybe you're starting you grow on me, Walker," I whisper.
Drake's eyes widen almost imperceptibly in surprise.
"Holy shit..." I breathe. "It's Walker, isn't it? That's why you said—"
"Yes, well done, Gale," mutters Drake dryly. "It only took you about a hundred wrong guesses... Plus, I gave you a massive hint."
"What happened to making me work for it?"
"Maybe I took pity on you and decided to put you out of your misery..."
"Is that your way of saying that you might be developing a soft spot for me?"
"You just love psychoanalysing everything I say, don't you?" he murmurs, mocha eyes boring into mine.
"Oh, admit it, Walker," I say sweetly, trailing my finger down his chest. "You secretly love it."
"You're impossible..."
"Now, where have I heard that one before?" I ask with a smile, tilting my face up to his.
"Maybe you're starting to rub off on me, Gale," replies Drake softly.
He reaches up to brush the back of his hand against my cheek, and I inhale sharply, his touch setting off a million sparks of electricity over my skin.
"Walker!" calls a male voice from behind me. "A-tu fini ici?"
I jump back from Drake, my face beet red.
Turning around, I can see one of the King's Guard poking his head into the room from the doorway.
"Deux minutes, Allard," replies Drake, clearing his throat.
"Bien sûr," nods the man before withdrawing and clicking the door shut.
"You speak French?" I ask in surprise, my heart thudding in my chest — and not just from the surprise of the unexpected interruption.
"Yeah," replies Drake, moving over to the wall to press a button to reel in the shot-up targets. "I grew up here, didn't I? French is one of the official languages of kingdom, so you learn it in school. Plus, Mom spoke it with Savs and me at home."
"Oh. Right." Duh... For some reason, I kept forgetting that Drake was half-Cordonian.
"We should get going. We don't want to keep the guys waiting."
"Guys, eh?" I ask, walking back to the table where Drake had left the gun cases. "You spend a lot of time down here, then?"
"Not as much as I would like, given the busyness of the social season. But, normally, I’m down here at least once a week. It's a chance to catch a break from all the formality and posturing upstairs."
"They're kind of like an extended family to you, aren't they?" I ask, handing the gun to Drake so he can put it away.
"You could say that," he admits, unclicking the magazine and quickly pulling the remaining bullets out. “Some of them knew Dad back in the day."
"Well, thank you for bringing me down here," I say sincerely, removing my protective gear. "Not just for the crash-course in how to shoot, but also for giving me a peek behind the curtain of your life."
"Honestly, there's not that much to see," shrugs Drake, clicking the cases shut and making his way towards the door.
"I disagree," I reply, following him out. "I would never have guessed that you had an interest in... all this, if you hadn't shown it to me."
"Walker... Demoiselle," nods Allard as we file past. He's leaning against the wall of narrow corridor with two other former-military type men, no doubt also waiting for their turn on the range.
"Allard," greets Drake. "Marquez, Schweitzer."
"I wish I had known about this place earlier," I whisper once they're out of earshot. "I could've just called down here and gotten your last name in seconds."
"I seriously doubt that," replies Drake. "Pretty much everyone down here is ex-military or law enforcement. They're not going to rat out one of their own."
"Out of respect for your dad?"
"Yeah..." replies Drake after a moment. "Anyway, lemme drop these off and then we can head back upstairs."
"And hopefully find some lunch," I add.
"We had breakfast an hour ago."
"Oh. Do you think we could make a detour by the kitchens and grab a snack? Honing important life-skills is hungry work, after all."
"I'll see what I can do," replies Drake with a wry smile, disappearing into the command centre.
The story continues in Chapter 19 - Race to the Finish
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Cruel Summer, Part 6
cruel summer masterlist
AN: Today was ~dramatic~ -- I woke up to learn that someone was posting this fic on AO3 and passing it off as their own. It was a BUMMER, to say the least, and it really threw me off. I haven’t posted fic in a decade, and I was really using this as a fun way to remember how much I loved writing (since doing it professionally can seriously zap the fun out of it). And hearing that someone stole my work made me incredibly upset and feel generally violated. I know it’s just fic, but... I work hard to write it and don’t think it’s too much to ask to receive the credit for it? I hope this chapter doesn’t reflect that because I was really excited for this one! Anyway. TL;DR, I ended up creating an AO3 page, so no one can post FOR me moving forward. I’ve updated my Masterlist page accordingly. And please don’t plagiarize, guys, it’s not cool. Okay. Enough of that negativity. Let’s get back to the important things. Like Rowan.
Rain pelts against Rowan’s window, casting a dark, ominous hue over his bedroom. His first real day off from work, and it’s storming outside, naturally. He’d planned to take it easy and go to the beach, maybe go for a long run. But it looks like that’s not happening now. He knows he’s being punished. This is the universe’s way of intervening and letting him know how shitty he is. Rowan can’t shake the image of Aelin’s hurt face. It is seared into his brain. And there’s only one way to get it out.
Rowan lounges back into his pillows and opens his laptop before typing in Aelin Ashryver into his internet browser. Her Facebook profile pops up immediately, but it’s set to Friends Only, and Rowan definitely isn’t brave enough to add her as a friend. Her Instagram appears next, and Rowan nearly jumps for joy that it’s a public profile.
The first picture is of the back of her head, her blonde hair piled high on top of her head in a messy bun, with tendrils curling around the nape of her neck, overlooking her balcony and the view of the ocean beyond. She’s back, bitches the caption reads, and Rowan can’t help but chuckle. Next is Aelin with her entire family at the head of Ashryver Playland in a picturesque pose with the caption Favorite place with my favorite people (minus @dorhav118 who gets in TOMORROW!!!!). The corners of Rowan’s lips curl downward as his curiosity gets the better of him, and he clicks on Dorian’s profile.
Rowan rolls his eyes at Dorian’s bio: “Hot as a pistol, but cool inside.”
His heart tugs at seeing the first picture. It’s from the pool party the other day, when Aelin was still in her white dress. She’s laughing at something Dorian said, her eyes closed tightly, glass of champagne in her hand, while Dorian smizes into the camera. Reunited and it feels so good <3
“Who kicked your puppy?” Manon asks from the doorway, and Rowan slams his laptop shut.
“No one.”
A wicked grin appears on her face as she stalks into Rowan’s room and slides onto the bed next to him. “I have a pretty good idea.”
Rowan sighs as Manon reaches over and opens the laptop back up, her long nails clacking against the keyboard. “Just as I thought.” She looks Rowan over, from the bags under his eyes to his hair, messy from constantly running his hands through it. “We’re going out.”
Rowan looks out the window at the torrential downpour and gray skies. “Out? In that? Where?”
“I don’t know,” Manon admits, “But I’m not letting you mope and stalk Aelin all day. It’s pathetic, and below you, to be frank. There’s got to be something we can do in this godforsaken town when it rains.”
It turns out there’s not that many options for what to do when it rains in the small beach town. Mostly everything is outdoors or beach oriented. But Manon decides that the aquarium is a good indoor activity, and it happens to be next to a brewery – for when they get bored. The pair Uber there, not wanting to deal with the hassle of worrying about sobering up. If Rowan’s not allowed to mope and be pathetic at home, he’s going to do today right. And do it drunk.
Despite it being one of the few indoor activities available, the aquarium is fairly deserted when Manon and Rowan arrive. It’s dark and damp and cool and strangely soothing, and Rowan lets Manon lead the way. She heads immediately for the reptile room, thrilled to see the alligators and lizards and snakes. Somehow Rowan isn’t surprised by this development.
They branch off into a small Amazon Rainforest room, filled with frogs and fish and even more snakes on low hanging branches, and Rowan nearly jumps out of skin when a large bird caws in his direction.
“I fucking hate birds,” he grumbles as Manon cackles in delight. “Can’t we see… cuter animals? Like, turtles and seals or some shit?”
Manon rolls her eyes and leads him straight to the shark tank. It’s open, so they can lean over it and look at the giant creatures. Rowan grits his teeth, only slightly terrified at the image of the fin cutting through the surface of the water.
“You know what you’re feeling is totally false,” Manon comments casually.
“Huh?” Rowan says, trying to maintain his calm façade.
“Sharks aren’t predators of humans. That’s the Jaws effect in action. It completely changed our perception of sharks and actually sparked a hunting frenzy that has put sharks in danger, even though they were just an important part of the ecosystem. Fuck you, Spielberg.”
Manon purses her darkly painted lips and twirls her white blonde hair, leaning over the tank further. Rowan shakes his head at his roommate, who looks like she wants to reach into the water and pet the fucking things. He’s never seen her so affected before.
“Why are you like this?” he asks, and she laughs.
“You’re not thinking about her anymore, though, are you?”
Rowan flicks her off. “I wasn’t.”
“A few more rooms will get you right back to that terrified place and not thinking about her at all. Don’t you worry.” She winks and leads him into an incredibly dark room, which is only lit up with glowing jellyfish. Manon is right, and within a few minutes, Rowan is feeling calm again. He lets the dark and schools of weird underwater creatures soothe him, and after they finish at the aquarium, Rowan is grateful he let Manon drag him out of the house.
“Beer?” she asks, and Rowan nods readily.
“I think I earned it.”
“Shut up, you fucking loved it. Think we should get a fish tank?” she asks, and Rowan shakes his head immediately. Manon is strange enough without tending to creatures from the deep in their apartment.
They brave the rain, realizing they both forgot umbrellas, and make a mad dash down the street. Rain soaks Rowan’s shirt, but he feels light. They duck into the brewery, and Rowan shakes out his hair, spraying water all over Manon, like a wet dog. He’s never seen her look so horrified.
“You’re lucky I set my makeup, so it’s immoveable every day,” she says with narrowed eyes. “First round’s on you, asshole.”
Rowan orders them two beers fairly quickly, despite the brewery being packed with patrons (he guesses this is where everyone goes when it rains). But when he turns around to hand Manon her drink, he’s surprised to see her mid-conversation with the very last person he wants to see.
“Rowan!” Dorian calls him over with a wide smile, and Rowan grimaces as he joins them. “I was just introducing myself to your stunning roommate,” Dorian says, and Manon rolls her eyes. But Rowan knows she’s beaming internally with the praise. Manon knows she’s beautiful and doesn’t let anyone forget it, despite her lack of interest in men.
“Uh, hey, Dorian, right?” Rowan says, pretending like he wasn’t just browsing the man’s Instagram profile merely hours ago.
Dorian laughs heartily. “Rowan, come on. We’re friends. Any friend of Aelin’s is a friend of mine.” He grins again, and Rowan can’t help but stare at his incredibly white teeth. He wonders if he whitens them. He must, because no one’s teeth are that naturally white. Or straight.
“Come sit with us!” Dorian points to their table where Aelin sits with the same two people from last night.
“Sure!” Manon says, the same time Rowan says “NO!” emphatically.
“Come on,” Dorian pleads. “We have a big table, and the place is packed. You’ll be lucky to find standing room otherwise. Please, Aelin would be horrified if I let you leave without saying hi.”
Rowan’s stomach churns, but he feels trapped. He can’t say no. “Lead the way,” he says, and Dorian smiles another blinding smile.
“Great.”
He leads them to their table, and to say that Aelin looks shocked to see Rowan approach would be an understatement.
“Look who I found!” Dorian exclaims, gesturing to Rowan and Manon, who stand next to the table awkwardly. “Chaol, Nesryn – these are two of Aelin’s friends, Rowan and Manon.”
The brunette dude, Chaol, gives Rowan a tight smile and short head nod, but the woman, Nesryn, stands and shakes both their hands politely.
Rowan and Manon slide into the two empty seats, and of course Rowan is directly across from Aelin. She looks at him curiously as he takes a large sip of his beer.
“So, how do you know Aelin?” Chaol asks, breaking the awkward silence.
“Rowan works at the park,” Dorian explains. “And Chaol is Aelin’s ex-boyfriend and my other best friend,” Dorian chuckles.
“It’s not as awkward as it sounds,” Chaol says with a laugh.
Aelin squints her eyes and looks at Chaol. “Mmm… it kind of is.”
Manon snorts. “You’re a handful, aren’t you?” she says, leaning toward Aelin, and Aelin flips her golden hair over her shoulder and shrugs.
“Two handfuls, thank you very much,” she says and feels herself up, showing how her chest spills over her hand, too much for one to grasp fully.
“Aelin!” Chaol chides, and Rowan can feel heat creep up the back of his neck as he stares at Aelin’s ample cleavage as she lifts it up.
Dorian cackles, his laugh piercing through the room as he tips his head back. He reminds Rowan of Manon when he does it, so amused with others’ discomfort.
Rowan glances back at Aelin’s chest, and when he looks up, she’s staring back at him, one brow raised in question. He immediately finishes the rest of his beer, downing it in one gulp.
“I need more beer. Anyone else?” Rowan asks, and to his surprise, Chaol stands and offers to come with him.
The pair stand side by side at the bar, waiting for their drinks, and Rowan is unsure of what to say to his current crush’s former paramour.
“So…” Chaol begins, and Rowan cocks an eyebrow at him as he leans against the bar. “You were at The Mason Jar last night,” Chaol says, naming the dive bar where he’d met up with the guys the night prior. “Aelin booked it to the bar when she saw you,” Chaol continues. “You guys, like, a thing?” he asks, curiosity seeping through his anything but innocent question.
“What?” Rowan says, bowled over. “No. Uh. Not at all.” Rowan is more than flustered. “I thought she and Dorian were…”
And at that Chaol tips his head back and guffaws. A deep, full-body belly laugh, erupts from his mouth. “Dorian?” he gapes, his brown eyes wide with disbelief. “And Aelin?” He shakes his head. “No. No no no. Never.” Chaol pauses. “They kissed once when they were thirteen, but other than that. No. Dorian is her person. Which is why it could never work between us, even though we tried for five fucking years,” he sighs and scratches the back of his neck uncomfortably. “But, no. They’re definitely not.” Chaol looks at Rowan, and Rowan feels like he’s seeing through him completely. Chaol smiles softly. “You really thought? Hmmm.”
Rowan is stunned. Seriously stunned. He has no idea how to react. Or how to process this new information. Dorian and Aelin are not dating? They’re just… friends? So, Aelin is available? And has been flirting with Rowan for the past week, and Rowan just shot her down? Rowan rubs his forehead with his hand, which he thinks is the only thing stopping him from banging his head against the bar in shame. Rowan is an idiot.
An idiot who needs to apologize to Aelin. Immediately.
“This was, uh… enlightening,” Rowan says as he accepts his drink from the bartender, and Chaol can’t help but laugh again.
“Did you do something stupid?” he asks cheekily.
“So stupid,” Rowan says, shaking his head.
“Yeah, she was kind of in a mood after she came back from talking to you,” Chaol says, and Rowan groans. Chaol holds up his hands in surrender. “Just trying to help!”
Rowan turns to him fully and examines the brunette with his concerned brown eyes and has to ask, “Not to be rude, but why?”
“Because Aelin deserves to be happy,” he says resolutely. “And I kept her from being happy for a really long time because I’m a selfish bastard,”Chaol admits way too freely. “But, how could I not?”
“You still love her,” Rowan says, and Chaol shrugs.
“I think once you love Aelin you always love her. For better or worse.”
Rowan motions to the table. “I’m gonna…”
Chaol smirks. “Yeah, get to it.”
But back at the table, Aelin and Dorian are nowhere to be found. Manon sighs, obvious to Rowan’s distress.
“She went to sign up for karaoke.”
“Oh no…” Rowan groans.
“Oh, yes,” Aelin says, bounding back to the table, exuberant.
“Don’t worry. I signed you up, too, Rowan,” Dorian says with a grin.
Aelin frowns, her eyes filled with apology. “I told him not to.”
Dorian rolls his eyes. “And I told her that if Rowan wants to hang with us this summer, he’s gotta get initiated.”
“It’s fine,” Rowan says, smiling in what he hopes is a nice and not creepy way to Aelin. She looks momentarily confused, but she doesn’t have time to think about it because she’s called up to do her song with Dorian almost immediately.
The pair sing “Shallow” flawlessly. And now that Rowan knows they aren’t dating, he can see their friendship all too clearly. Aelin and Dorian love each other fiercely; their passion rages through everything they do, but it lacks a spark. It’s platonic, Rowan finally realizes. He’s been such a fucking fool.
Rowan’s name gets called next, and his stomach is is knots, wondering what song they’ve chosen for him. When he gets to the front, though, he nearly laughs. They’ve chosen a song he could sing with his eyes completely closed.
Shorty get down, good lord… baby’s got ‘em up all over town…
Strictly biz she don’t play around, cover much ground, got game by the pound
Getting paid is her forte
Each and every day, true player way
I can’t get her out of my mind
Think about the girl all the time…
He knows the song is comeuppance for calling Aelin friendly last night, but he crushes it nonetheless, singing his heart out, performing for the masses. When Rowan finishes, the crowds go wild, applauding like crazy.
He sees Aelin bolt from the table before he can get back off the stage, and decides to follow her. She heads down the long hall back to the bathrooms, and his long stride helps him catch up quickly.
“Aelin!” he shouts, and he’s grateful that she pauses, but her arms are crossed over her chest, a clear defensive stance that tells him to keep his distance.
“What?” she snips, obviously pissed. They haven’t actually interacted with each other since last night, and Rowan knows she has every right to be angry with him. “I thought you wanted nothing to do with me? What are you even doing here, Rowan?”
“I’m an idiot,” he blurts out, and he can see Aelin’s face morph from pissed to amused. She bites her lip to hold back her smile.
“I mean, I know that, but why do you think that?” she says, her blue gold eyes glowing with challenge. He takes a step closer to her, and she backs up until she can’t back up anymore, pressed against the side of the hall. He pauses his approach, not wanting to make her feel cornered. If she wants space between them, he’ll let her have space.
“I was so out of line last night,” Rowan apologizes. “You were right. You were just trying to be friendly. I was being a dick. I thought…” Rowan pauses. He doesn’t want to be this tongue tied, but she flusters him, and he can’t get anything out how he wants to. “It’s not harassment when I want to be touched. By you.”
Aelin’s eyes narrow. She looks suspicious as she examines him.
“I knew I was good at karaoke, but damn, I didn’t anticipate this kind of turnaround…” Aelin smirks and takes a breath, and Rowan risks taking another step forward. She holds up a hand and presses it against Rowan’s chest. He didn’t realize how close he’d gotten to her. Warmth from her palm seeps through his shirt, and he breathes heavily. She looks up into his eyes with curiosity.
“Seriously, what changed your mind?” she asks.
“If I say Chaol’s name right now it’s just going to make things weird,” Rowan says, dipping his head slightly, and he can’t help but notice her tilt her head up to him. He zeroes in on her lips, leaning down to get even closer.
“You’re right,” she says with a soft laugh. “You were still a jerk.” Her eyes flick to his lips, and Rowan darts his tongue out to wet them.
“I know,” he breathes softly. “And I mentioned I was an idiot, right?”
Aelin nods and leans in to close the gap between them, the charge, the magnetism between them now palpable, strumming through Rowan’s body, pulling him downward.
“Hey guysss,” Dorian drawls as he walks past them quickly, and Rowan straightens up suddenly. Aelin darts under his arm, freeing herself from being backed into the wall. He sees her take a large breath. “I was wondering where you’d gone.” Dorian looks between them, and then grabs his stomach. “I have to pee so bad. Don’t mind me!” He continues down the hall. “As you were!”
Rowan goes to finish his apology, but the moment is gone, and so is Aelin. He needs a moment to compose himself, and when he makes it back to the table, she’s already deep in conversation with Manon and Chaol and Nesryn about the latest karaoke performance. Apparently in his absence someone murdered “Bohemian Rhapsody” and not in a good way. But Aelin acknowledges Rowan’s presence with a flash of a smile, despite not breaking her conversation.
Manon side eyes Rowan suspiciously, and Rowan brushes her off. He’s not ready to talk about whatever just did or did not happen in that hallway.
Their chatter is aimless but pleasant as afternoon bleeds into evening, and eventually they all decide to disperse and head home. Rowan never gets a chance to speak to Aelin alone again, but when he and Manon are in their Uber heading home, his phone flashes with a Friend Request from Aelin Ashryver.
“Hmm,” Manon hums pointedly as Rowan bites back a smile. He spends the rest of the night in bed, scrolling through Aelin’s social media. As he’d originally planned to do with his day. Only now, he doesn’t feel as mopey or pathetic. He lets the rain, still relentless, lull him to sleep.
~*~*~*~*~*~
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I have a prompt for you! How about “stuck in an airport with cancelled flights and (one of them) looks really sad”?
I have no idea where this story came from. Also, why are most of my one shots from Zuko’s perspective? I don’t want to examine that tbh. Modern AU, no Avatar, no bending.
---
Normally, the sound of rain against a window could put Zuko to sleep. But the torrential downpour slamming against the massive windows of the airport terminal sent jolts of terror through his body.
To say his flight was delayed was laughable. It surprised him that the airline hadn’t cancelled the damn thing yet. Deep down, the prospect gave him a sense of empty relief. It wasn’t a trip that he was looking forward to, and however long he could put it off the better.
There weren’t very many people in the terminal; it wasn’t heading to a tourist destination or metropolitan hub. Still, that fact alone resulted in travellers with a purpose. So when the intercom finally crackled to life and the attendants made the final announcement, there was a lot of angry rumbling.
Clusters of people got up and headed to the airline desk, demanding a miracle or at least a hotel stay. Zuko sat back in the bucket chair, looking up at the high ceiling.
He could go to a hotel and stare up at a much closer ceiling, waiting for dawn and a red eye. But it might be easier just to stay put, despite the uncomfortable conditions.
A sniffle made him lower his head and look across the row.
A woman was bent over, her face cradled in her hands, and her back shuddering slightly as she cried.
Zuko tilted his head back, staring upward, but he frowned.
This trip was made with purpose after all. And not everyone would be dreading the trip.
Getting up, Zuko sighed quietly. He walked across to the other row of chairs and sat down with an empty seat between him and the woman.
“Miss? Are you okay? Do you need anything?” Zuko asked, leaning over to look at the woman. Turning her head away, he watched her move an arm as she rubbed her face.
“Miss?” He asked.
“What?” The woman shot back, turning with a furious look.
Zuko leaped back in his chair, grabbing onto the side.
“Erm, you just seemed distressed.” He said and the woman sniffed again as she continued to rub her face.
“Yeah, you could say I’m distressed.” She retorted.
Shrinking a bit, Zuko looked around.
“Is there anything I can do to help?” He asked carefully.
The woman threw herself back, straightening her legs out in front of her so they stretched out in the aisle. She pressed the heels of her hands into her eyes and leaned back.
“Can you make this storm last forever?” She questioned.
Unsure of how to respond, Zuko stayed quiet. After a moment, the woman lowered her hands, letting her arms fall down with a thunk against the plastic chairs.
“Not looking forward to your trip?” Zuko asked.
“You think?” The woman shot back, rolling her head along the back of the chair to look at him. When he only stared back at her, the woman sighed and rolled her head back to look up.
“Sorry.” She murmured.
“I think I understand.” Zuko said, also reclining to look up. “I’m not exactly thrilled either but I’d rather just get it over with.”
“Why? Is it because you’re having to fly with us plebs?” The woman asked.
“Pardon?”
“Ugh, sorry. Again.” The woman glanced out of the corner of her eye to examine him. “You don’t look the type to fly commercial.”
Zuko didn’t want to tell her that he often didn’t fly commercial.
“I don’t normally dress this way. I have to meet family on the other side.” He replied.
The woman sat up at that, turning in the chair to face him. She pulled one leg onto the seat, bending it and holding onto her ankle. Tilting her head, she looked at him incredulously.
“Really?” She asked, confounded by his explanation.
“Yes?” Zuko replied with equal confusion.
“It’s just, you look like you’re Fire Nation.” The woman remarked, bringing her head back up.
“Oh, well, I am. We’re,” Zuko reached for the right word. “Visiting.”
“Let me guess, for a wedding?” The woman asked.
“Yeah actually, how’d you know?”
“It’s kind of a thing right now.” The woman rolled her eyes and Zuko chuckled.
“You’re Water Tribe aren’t you? Are you going back for the wedding as well?” He asked.
“You could say that.” The woman muttered and Zuko laughed. Surprised, the woman stared at him but relaxed with a smile.
“Do you have to work or something?” He asked.
“It certainly couldn’t go on without me.” The woman quipped.
“Then I can understand the stress.” Zuko said.
The woman leaned into the chair and stuck out a hand.
“My name is Katara.” She said.
“Zuko.” Zuko replied, shaking her hand.
Katara narrowed her eyes as she took her hand back.
“Your name sounds familiar for some reason.” She said.
Panicking, Zuko flashed her a quick grin.
“It’s a popular name.” He replied.
“Hmmm.” Katara intoned, turning her face to look at him side eye.
For that matter, her own name was familiar, but he couldn’t place where he had heard it. If it was involved with the wedding, he would have drowned it out. There was a lot he was trying to ignore about the trip, and anyone involved with it got tossed out of his memory.
“So what do you think of the event?” Zuko asked. Katara pulled up her other leg and crossed them to sit awkwardly in her seat.
“It’s two royals who have never met getting married. I think it’s safe to say it’s going to be a disaster.” She said.
“Really?” Zuko blanched and rubbed the back of his head. “I heard the princess was nice.”
Katara snorted and Zuko frowned.
“Nice? I can guarantee that she will be nothing short of a nightmare.” She said.
“Ah.” Zuko said sadly. He put his elbows on his knees and steepled his fingers together, lowering his head till he could tap his chin.
“Sorry, I assume you must be a fan of the groom.” Katara said.
Zuko looked over at her.
“Right, Fire Nation.” Zuko shook his head and resumed tapping his fingers against his chin. “No, it’s not that. I just understand how important this is.”
“Important? It’s not like the Fire Lord is getting married.” Katara replied.
Zuko pointed his fingers out to the aisle, thinking about the arguments he had lived through.
“It is important. The princess was key in ending the war. This marriage is going to represent peace.” He said.
“Sure, forcing two strangers to get married is about peace.” Katara muttered.
Zuko turned to her.
“Do you just not like the Fire Nation or do you know the bride?” He asked.
“I think we can both make the assumption that we’re involved in the wedding parties.” Katara answered.
Zuko laughed and sat back.
“True.” He paused and furrowed his brow. “Can you tell me what she’s like?”
“You gonna text your buddy?” Katara asked.
Zuko grinned. “Maybe.”
“Well, you tell him that she has a temper as ugly as she is.” Katara said and Zuko laughed.
“It won’t matter, he’s going to go through with it no matter how hideous and ill tempered she is.” He said.
Katara sighed and shook her head.
“She’s scared, but she knows it’s important too. She always wanted to do what would help people and if this helps people, then she’ll get over it.” She sounded sad as she spoke and Zuko examined her face.
“The prince is, well I think he’s a good man.” He replied. “Your friend will be okay.”
“I don’t know you well enough to put any stock in your opinion.” Katara said dryly.
“Fair enough.” Zuko said with a shrug.
“Want to get a drink? I might as well let you convince me before I head off to the worst day of my life.” Katara said.
The shock of a woman asking him such a thing made Zuko’s heart race. It didn’t help that he thought she was attractive.
“Sure.” He said.
If he were to classify it, Zuko would call it a date. The entire airport became a city and they meandered around through the evening well into the night. They had dinner at one of the few sit down restaurants in the main hub before walking around the random shops and kiosks. Then, as things started to close for the night, they walked around the terminals.
Getting to know Katara was bittersweet. She was kind and wickedly funny; Zuko often had to hide his face from irritated passengers that were also spending the night. He learned that she was from the South Pole, not the North, and that she wasn’t as comfortable with the royal family as she seemed.
The Fire Nation did seem to anger her, and Zuko danced around his own position. Ultimately, he’d have to tell her the truth, because she didn’t seem the type to enjoy that kind of surprise. But the moment never seemed to present itself; he was enjoying her company too much to want to ruin it.
Zuko stopped trying to learn more about the North Pole princess and instead questioned Katara about herself. They talked briefly about the war, and Zuko listened as she talked about her brother.
Of course on the threshold of his wedding, he met a woman that he could see himself falling in love with.
They fell asleep propped against each other, and Zuko kept still as he woke up to the boarding announcement. He jostled Katara gently, her head resting heavily on his shoulder. She turned, pushing her face into him and Zuko took in a sharp breath.
When she did wake up, Katara rubbed her eyes and looked around.
“I guess this is it.” She said.
Panic swept through him again and Zuko took hold of her hands.
“Can we meet? Before the wedding?” He asked.
Katara’s eyes widened and she straightened.
“Zuko.” She grew flustered and looked down at their hands.
“I just want to see you again.” He said.
Katara nodded and then looked up at him. “Okay.”
With a smile, Zuko stood and pulled Katara up. They were both sitting in first class and Zuko swapped his seat to be across from her. They talked for the entire flight, annoying everyone else on the red eye trying to get some sleep.
For the first time since the trip had been booked, Zuko felt happy. Katara clicked with him on so many different levels. Even if it wasn’t going to last, at least he could spend some time with someone he liked.
When the plane landed, they both lingered while the others disembarked. Finally, after being pushed out by the flight attendants, they walked down the ramp together. Their luggage rolled noisily behind them and they stayed quiet.
“Are you taking a taxi?” Zuko asked as they waited for the shuttle to the main hub.
“Why, did you need a ride mister moneybags?” Katara asked, poking him in the side with her elbow. Zuko laughed and stepped away from her.
“I thought I could walk you out.” He said.
“Okay, sure.” Katara said and smirked at him.
Feeling his face warm, Zuko cleared his throat but couldn’t help but smile back.
They walked out to the pick up area and Zuko looked down the long line of taxis and town cars.
“Hey, can I call you?” Zuko asked.
“Call me?” Katara looked confused.
“The wedding isn’t for two days. Maybe we can meet up before then? Go to dinner?” He asked.
Katara turned shy and looked down, tucking hair behind her ear.
“Like a date?” She asked, glancing up at him.
Feeling bold, Zuko nodded. “Yeah, like a date.”
“That’d be-” Katara started.
“Zuzu!” The voice was not high or shrill but it still cut through the air and pierced Zuko through the ribs.
“Oh no.” He whispered.
“Brother dear,” Azula said as she stepped out of a town car and leaned on the door. “Don’t you know it’s bad luck to see the bride before the wedding?”
Zuko and Katara stared at each other, terror plain on their faces.
“You?” They both exclaimed in unison.
“To be clear, I had every intention of being faithful after we got married.” Zuko blurted, taking a step back.
Katara still lunged, smacking his arm with her open hand.
“I can’t believe you didn’t know my name!” She yelled.
“You didn’t know mine either!” Zuko retorted.
“Can’t you control yourself?” Azula snapped.
Zuko grinned and caught Katara’s wrist as she tried to hit him again. Meeting his eyes, Katara scoffed but still smiled. As he pulled her close, Katara relaxed.
“At least I don’t feel guilty now for wanting to kiss you.” He said.
“Shut up and do it already.” Katara sighed.
And so Zuko kissed his bride, once again thankful for rain against windows.
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Creature Instincts
A/N: Surprise, @nerdrumple! It is I, your Super Secret Santa that somehow managed to REMAIN super secret! I’m always stoked when that happens. It’s been loads of fun being your Santa, and it was super nice to write fic for someone who was written some of my favourite Rumbelle fics. Hope you like it!
Prompt: Locked-out, torrential downpour, hold.
Summary: Mr Gold cannot be accused of being a knight in shining armour, but when Belle French becomes a damsel in distress he cannot help to try and play the role, in spite of how ill-suited his nature makes him.
Rating: R for sure. There be sexy sex here, kids.
It was a relief to finally be home, after what felt like the longest day in the month. Rent day usually was, as it kept him out and about town all day, both collecting from those who reluctantly but diligently paid on time and those who thought they could evade him and thus get a reprieve. Very few chose alternative means of payment, and he was sure it was in part because most people enjoyed the notion of making him work for their rent money.
He looked up just before he closed his front door, noticing the grey, fat clouds that he had been running from most of the day. The air already smelled like rain, which for him meant hell on his ankle. That, coupled with the freezing temperature, had him more than happy for the comforts of his home.
His housekeeper had left the house warm and dry, as per his usual instructions, and for a moment or two he paused on the entryway, dropping his keys onto the bowl by the side table and simply enjoying the warmth as it seeped into his skin. Though he was used to the cold- and, to a certain extent, he enjoyed it- he could not deny he was a creature better suited for heat.
Methodically, the motions so familiar that they were almost automatic, he shed his outer layers. First his thick wool coat, a shade of charcoal grey so dark most people thought it was black, and his red cashmere scarf. Then off came the gloves, suit jacket and vest. He took off his tie next, unbuttoning the collar of his shirt before removing his vest and reaching for his banyan, the damask silk showing a pattern of thistles in bloom. He limped upstairs to exchange his suit trousers and Oxfords for woollen lounge pants and thicker knit socks and loafers.
It felt heavenly to be out of his customary suit and into more comfortable clothing, warm and dry in his home as the first drops of rain began to splash against the windows. He flexed his fingers, his elongated nails still a bit uncomfortable from having to wear gloves all day. As he filled the kettle with water for his tea he felt the scales on his neck ripple and begin to unfurl. It was the most unpleasant part of rent day, how he had to hide all day. It made him itchy and uncomfortable, but it wasn’t a duty his nature would allow for him to delegate on others.
As he waited for the water to boil he switched on the tablet he had left on the island, having read the paper on it in the morning. In spite of his claws it was easy for him to navigate around the display and hit the green facetime button, locating and clicking on the desired contact immediately.
“Hey, pop!”
Baden’s gruffy face appeared on the screen, hair a bit wild and beard looking like it could use a trim. ‘Fashionably scruffy’, he called it. Since he had accepted a video call he deduced Emma was not home yet. He had remembered correctly about her extra shift, then.
“Hi, son. How’s life in the big city?”
He moved around the kitchen as Bae filled him in on any news, mainly talking about Henry’s latest antics and his newest clients. He was a bit of a hot-shot graphic designer, much sought after.
“And how’s life in Storybrooke, dad? Still keeping that cavernous Queen Anne, I see. That’s too much house for yourself, pop.”
“It’s not just for me. It’s also for you, Henry and Emma. For when you visit.”
Bae rolled his eyes.
“We only stay over a few weeks every year. What about the rest of the time, pop? Don’t you get lonely?”
It was an old worry of Bae’s, one he tried hard to scoff away every time he brought it up. His son seemed to give up rather easily, asking instead after his hoard.
“Which one do you mean?”
He had several, of course. It was, after all, part of his nature.
“All of them. It’s been a while since I’ve received a full report.”
“Well, the property portfolio is looking good. Market’s been appreciating, as expected given the development of the town. I attended three very productive state sales, so the antiques are looking good. Might even be able to part with one or two of my previously not-for-sale vases. I’ve also managed to find a treasure-trove of jewellery. Owner inherited them from his mother, thought they were costume pieces. I could smell right away he was wrong.”
He smiled, feeling the scales around his neck flash in and out of sight, a golden glint in his eyes, a sure sign he was pleased. The pieces would be a joy to restore and clean, and the thought of how they would shine brought a smile to his face.
“God, you’re such a stereotype sometimes.” Bae shook his head. “Aaaand… how’s the library? Any progress on that front?”
The younger man tried not to waggle his eyebrows suggestively, going for a light-hearted tone as he monitored his father’s reaction. There was no mistaking the way his scales flared up around his neck, as if fluffing up, turning a darker shade of gold than what was usual. It was a minute reaction, there one moment and gone the next, but it was a very telling one, especially for someone as experienced in things as Bae was.
“N-no, not really. Regina, she’s being… unreasonable. Stubborn. It’s a bad year to acquire real estate, in any case, what with the-”
“And how’s the librarian, pop?”
There was a bigger ripple then, crossing the entirety of his face, scales turning so dark they almost looked black. The younger man snickered, trying to be subtle about it.
“Be- Miss French is fine. And none of your concern, boy.”
“Did she recover from that nasty fall the other day?”
Bae tried to valiantly pretend he didn’t notice her father flex his claws unconsciously, and he studiously kept his mouth shut about the glazed look in his eyes too. He had been thrilled when his father first started to mention the woman, over a year ago. A new addition to Storybrooke, at the time, and a sore spot for his father, who had fought to acquire the library only to have Regina insist on reopening it instead, just to spite him. Miss French was, at first, an unwitting pawn of the mayor, but later grew to be a nuisance in her own right. Always fighting with his pop over city funds, organising “noisy library events” that disturbed him while he restored some antique or the other at his shop and absolutely refusing to cower before him like everyone else in town.
At some point he had begun to catch on to the fact that his father was constantly mentioning the librarian, and it wasn’t always to deliver the scathing insults he likely thought he was dishing out. He called her “obnoxiously sweet” and rambled on and on about how she thought she could get anything by batting her long lashes and speaking in her lilting Australian drawl. He had had to endure entire conversations where he talked at length about a five minute exchange between them, to the point that even little Henry had cottoned on to the fact that his grandpa had a crush.
He denied it, of course. Dismissed every single one of Bae’s attempts at discussing the matter and even made a conscious effort to try and stop mentioning Belle French. Didn’t exactly work out all that much, though. Specially after a close encounter, like last week, when his father managed to barge into the library, intending on getting some very urgent books and getting out with as minimal human interaction as possible, only to unwittingly catch the librarian as one of her too-high heels slipped from the step she was perched on and she tumbled off the ladder. His father had called him that night with a dazed look on his face, the pupils of his eyes blown wide as he recounted the event, his scales rippling out completely. Bae knew that look, though he had only seen his father direct it at objects before. A covetous look, possessive.
He understood then why his father was reluctant to even admit to a crush, much less something more serious. It was easy, and dangerous, for his natural tendency towards greed to permeate his relationships with humans, which meant he made a conscious effort to keep people at bay, not only because he could not trust people with his secret but also because he could not trust himself to form attachments that were acceptable to humans, that would not lead to them feeling suffocated and imprisoned.
It had been a point of contention between him and his pop, he could not deny it, back when the issue of college had come up. It had led to heated debates and pleas from his father that he was trying, he was doing his best to let go, but it was hard in a way Bae would never understand. He cringed every time he remembered what he had said in anger.
“Right, because I’m not like you. I’m not your son.”
It had been, until then, an unspoken truth they both knew. That Bae was not biologically his. A hard thing to ignore, taking into account their different nature. It had taken time and effort for him to believe his pop when he said he was his son in any way that mattered. Which, of course, had eventually led to the growing pains of their eventual separation, and his father learning to deal with parting with something he held dear. As much as it had been a chore it had truly helped alleviate some of Bae’s still-latent fears about his father’s affection.
“Miss French is fine, your suspicious concern over her is misplaced.”
Bae, blessedly, let the matter drop, and the conversation was turned instead to Henry’s latest passion, now that his dinosaur phase was fully behind him. By the time they hung up he was already elbow-deep into dinner preparations- heating up a beef stew he had prepared last night. Most of his neck and face were showing scales, as were his arms and hands. Once upon a time, when he’d been young, he had not been able to keep his true form hidden for more than a couple of hours, and it required all of his concentration. It had meant living in the gutter while out on the streets and keeping to shadowy corners and dark alleyways. After his aunties had taken him in it had meant being homeschooled, and dedicating a great portion of his waking hours practising keeping pink, soft skin and dull, brown eyes. Now he could hardly recall ever having such little control, but he still found it uncomfortable and painful to keep up the facade for long periods of time, particularly when his emotions were running high. And though that was not usually the case rent day did like to try his patience. That’s usually why after rent day he prepared himself something full of meat and drank a bottle of a nice red of his choice while enjoying a book or a movie. He had a documentary set up for later that night, a riveting two-hour exploration of traditional kimono-making in Japan. He’d been looking forward to it for weeks.
Just as he was about to heat up dinner there was a knock on the door. His eyes flashed in displeasure before he shook himself in an effort to try to dispel the scales, hide them under whatever bit of skin he could conjure up. He was tired, hungry and not in the mood for anything other than the barest form of human interaction. With that in mind he put on his fiercest scold, shuffled to the door and opened it wide, ready to make whoever was on the other side regret being born.
“Oh, Mr Gold, you’re home!”
The Australian drawl was unmistakable, and it stopped him from actually verbalizing the genteel-yet-direct death threat he’d conjured up in his head a second earlier. Belle French was, indeed, on his front porch, shivering in her drenched peacoat, tights and boots, hair plastered to her face and eyes wide, wary. It was a look he often saw in most of the townspeople when they looked at him, but he’d never seen it before in Miss French. Afraid of nothing, she’d seemed to be, even an old dragon such as himself.
“Miss French, what on Earth are you doing out at this hour and in this weather?”
It didn’t even cross his mind to demand to know why she had knocked on his front door at all.
“Well, I was out in the woods, helping Dr Hopper get a hold of Pongo- you know how he likes to chase rabbits sometimes- and on my way home I realised I had forgotten my keys. I was about to call Ruby, who has the spare set, but I remembered she was out of town on a date. She would totally come if I call her but she’s been so looking forward to her first date with Dorothy that it would be a shame to interrupt her. I was gonna walk over to Granny’s when it started raining and I saw the light on at your house and thought perhaps I could come in and wait it out a little?”
She spoke in a rushed voice, teeth chattering and trying to look as if she wasn’t freezing to death. Her lips were tinged with blue, and her skin looked pale, almost translucent, in the dim light of his porch. He was about to awkwardly invite her in- perhaps to offer her a cup of tea and a ride home- when a bolt of lightning split the sky, followed a second later by a crack of thunder. In the blink of an eye she was in his arms, trembling like a leaf and holding onto the lapels of his banyan. He struggled to contain his reaction, to keep his human mask in check even as he registered how soft she was, and how she smelt like burnt caramel and vanilla, something he had only once managed to scent before, when she had fallen in the library.
“Miss French?”
He counted himself lucky that his voice, though hoarse and thick, still sounded distinctively human, and that he could talk without breathing out too much smoke. It was all about the small victories.
“I’m so sorry, Mr Gold, it’s just that… Well, I have this thing about thunder…”
By the time she detached herself from him, mouth curved in a tremulous smile, he was fully in control of himself, and also completely aware that he would not be able to keep his cool when Bae mentioned the librarian during their next call.
“Completely understandable, Miss French. I detest the rain myself. Do come in, you’re drenched.”
He ushered her in, letting her linger in the foyer, removing her coat and shoes while he looked for a towel in the linen closet next to the laundry. She wrapped it around herself, following him into the kitchen, self-conscious about dripping water on his hardwood floors.
“Let me fix you a cup of tea. You need some warmth in you.”
The process of preparing a cup of tea was familiar and comforting enough to help quell the last bit of nerves at the idea of Belle French in his home, his lair, where all his hoarded treasure was. His finest antiques, lovingly restored to perfection, his favourite pieces of art, his most prized objects. The house itself was part of his hoard, the antique Queen Anne outfitted with beautiful crown moldings and other unique details.
The moment he started to crave something he imagined how it would fit in his home, where he would place the object, and whether it would look right amidst his already established hoard. So he had pointedly and purposefully avoided even the briefest daydream of Belle French inside his home. Hadn’t allowed himself to entertain the idea at all, knowing that way lay madness. He had been right, of course, and it was patently obvious as he snuck glances at Belle, perched atop one of the stools surrounding his kitchen isle. The familiar itch, to take and keep, travelled down his spine, making his fingers twitch and almost causing him to spill scalding water all over himself. Wouldn’t have done any actual damage, but he would’ve had to pretend to be hurt, and he could not trust himself to do a good job of it at the moment.
She took the cup from him with a grateful smile and he watched her as she poured a teaspoon of honey into it, leaving the milk and sugar untouched. He secreted the information away, as useless to him as it was precious. It spoke of a certain domestic intimacy that he found himself covetting deeply. To be expected, given his nature. He remembered doing the same with Bae, tucking away the bits and pieces of useless trivia that most people would not find valuable or interesting, but that few people would ever get to know about Bae, like how he liked to take hour-long showers and disliked chunky peanut butter.
“This orange blossom honey is lovely. Can’t say I’ve seen it at the local store.”
He got it from New York, from a specialised tea store Bae had taken him to a few years back.
“It pairs well with Earl Grey.”
It was on the tip of his tongue to promise her a case full of the stuff, but he pushed to sudden urge down, unhappy with that line of thought. It was common for him to shower those he had an interest in with things they might take a fancy too. It was in his nature, but he had learnt to curve the impulse, to a certain extent- Bae’s epic comic book collection being his last big failure. It did help that he tended to care about very few people, partly as a sort of defence mechanism. Clearly it wasn’t working as well, given that Belle French had managed to capture him so.
“I’m so grateful for your hospitality, but I see I’ve caught you in the middle of dinner preparations. I don’t wish to bother Ruby on her date, but I’m sure Granny would let me wait for her at the diner. I’ll call Leroy, he’ll give me a ride there.”
His relief at the perspective of being left alone, free to finally shift into a more comfortable form in peace, battled with the surprising cold wash of disappointment at the idea that she’d be gone in a matter of minutes. He was about to offer to drive her himself- Leroy’s truck, after all, was hardly a reliable method of transportation, when the lights flickered once, twice, and then went out completely.
“Oh, bugger.”
He counted to ten before he heard the generator kick in, the lights coming back on. He looked out the kitchen window, realising there were no streetlights. Everything was pitch black outside, obscured further by the heavy rain. Certainly not the ideal conditions for driving.
“Is it that bad?”
He startled, having not realised Miss French had made her way to the window as well, close enough to be uncomfortably thrilling. He saw her biting her lip, obviously realising that calling anyone for a ride was out of the question but unwilling to impose herself on him any further.
“Certainly no weather to be driving in. I must insist you stay until the lights come back on or the rain lets up enough.”
The sheer dread at the idea of having to maintain his human appearance mixed with the heady excitement of having Belle French in his home for an extended period of time. It made him both nauseated and exhilarated, a rather unsettling combination.
The sheer relief in her face settled his mood somewhat. While he ushered her into the downstairs bathroom and went to look for clothes that could fit her- there was no question of her staying in her wet things- he gave himself a pep talk, attempting to bolster his confidence. He was an old creature, he had certainly endured high-stress situations where he had managed to hold on to his control for longer. He could certainly make it through an evening with Belle French without giving himself away.
By the time he had dinner ready he was fully convinced of the success of the evening. He focused on filling two bowls, trying not to linger on the fact that he had chosen to use his Royal Warwick dinnerware set, the stew looking a bit plain surrounded by the fanciful rose designs of traditional Scottish landscapes.
“Oh, that smells heavenly.”
He turned around, sheer instinct keeping him from dropping the plates in his hands at the sight of Belle fucking French wearing one of his shirts- why had he picked his favourite deep blue one?- and a pair of tights, his already oversized cashmere cardigan practically drowning her, making her look small and frail. He should have known, should have tried to contemplate the reaction he might have to someone he craved dressed in things he owned, things full of his scent.
“Oh, let me help with that.”
She took the plates out of his hands, being nice enough not to comment on the absolutely idiotic look on his face. He gestured for her to skip his rather ornate dining room table, ushering her instead to the living room. There was a couch and a divan facing a coffee table, as well as a large carved armoire that hid a flat screen TV. To the side there was a fireplace, which he had been quick to light while Belle had been in the bathroom, unwilling to have to pretend to make fire the human way.
“It costs too much to heat the house, so it’s best to resort to more traditional methods and save the generator for the rest. There isn’t a fireplace in the dining room, so I thought we’d be more comfortable here.”
He settled on one side of the couch, leaving the one closest to the fire for her. She still looked somewhat chilled, even though her lips had lost their blue tint and her cheeks were looking decidedly rosier. He gathered a throw from the nearby divan and wordlessly left it near her, trying not to preen in scaly satisfaction when he saw her unfurl the fabric over her feet, generously leaving half of it for his use. He wouldn’t presume to take her up on her offer, but it was a kind gesture nonetheless. Wordlessly he went to pick a nice bottle of Malbec and a couple of glasses, feeling that as risky as the alcohol was for his self-control it would help his nerves and help him warm up till the fire could properly heat the room. Belle accepted her glass with a charming smile, making a pleased hum with the first sip that had him slapping a hand against the raised scales on the side of his neck.
They ate in companionable silence, broken by small comments from Belle about the stew- Guinness and beef, a personal favourite of his, with a smokey touch of bacon for added flavour- and questions about the many antiques he had sprinkled around. There was little rhyme or reason to his collection, aside from the price tag assigned to each piece, but just because something was considered expensive did not mean it caught his fancy enough to wish to keep it.
“It’s like me and shoes. I adore them, but not every gorgeous pair of Louboutins I see catch my fancy.”
He had noticed her extensive shoe collection. At first because they were obviously expensive and he could smell it but later because they became a central quirk of Belle he wanted to learn more of. It had always bothered him, on the back of his mind, like an itch, the thought of how she paid for them. Her clothing was fine but either second-handed or from outlet stores, and everything else about her spoke of frugality. Her shoes, on the other hand, were decadent, and not just because of how they made her legs look. Her stockings too, always silk and never nylon. Very expensive, all around. Too expensive for a librarian.
“You’re right.” He flushed, realising he had said the last part out loud. “My other passion is books. I have… so many books. They quietly take over every living space I’ve ever had. I was raised by my dad, who was a florist, so there was never a lot of money for books. I became used to buying books in thrift stores and second-hand bookstores. And I discovered from a young age that I have a nose for rare books. Books that may not look valuable but are. So I’ve been able to turn my hobby into a profitable source of income. I keep a few rare editions that I like, but I am fonder of turning one book into ten than hoarding just the one book. So I sell them and buy books, shoes and occasionally some nice lingerie.”
He choked on what had been a nice sip of Catena Zapata, the alcohol burning his nostrils in an altogether different sensation to the usual one. He blessed the low light for hiding the way his fingers turned distinctively claw-like, unable to hold the illusion of soft pink fingers. He covered his shaky right hand with his left, which looked a wee bit better.
Thankfully Miss French was not looking at him, having apparently also realised what she had said. Both her hands were over her mouth, her eyes wide as she looked at her own glass of wine- the third one, if he was remembering correctly- in a faintly-accusatory manner.
“In my defence that’s the yummiest wine I’ve ever tasted.”
He shouldn’t have found the word “yummy” erotic, but there was something about Belle French’s accent wrapping around the word and the images it conjured that… distracted him.
“Yeah, well… Argies don’t fuck around with Malbec.”
He thought for a second he might have come off as pretentious, but Belle laughed, the tension from her shopping confession fading away as she turned her attention back to the stew.
“These are beautiful plates, by the way. Lovely pattern, and they have a weight to them that’s very pleasant.”
He cradled his own empty bowl protectively.
“Yes, well, they aren’t exactly the finest china. My aunties had part of the set, my Auntie Isla bought it for my Auntie Wyn for their tenth anniversary. After they died I spent many years completing the set, something they had always talked about doing.”
Out of the corner of his eye he saw Belle smile.
“My mom loved Victoria Holt books. It was one of the few things my father ever told me about her. Gave me her small collection and I set out to find the ones that were missing. I’m still missing a few she wrote under different aliases, but I got a few leads I’m hoping pan out. I get the impulse.”
The comment gave him pause, a spark of something flickering on the edges of his brain. But he pushed it aside, busying himself with picking up the plates and taking them to the kitchen, if only to give his overworked control a bit of a break. He was practically itching all over, skin buzzing in a way that was partly due to exhaustion and partly excitement. The creature in him was dying to claw its way out, desirous to wrap itself snug around Belle French and keep her there. The dragon had always taken an interest in her, before the man, even. Had scented her even before he’d ever laid eyes on her. But he hadn’t much noticed the fixation till he himself had begun to notice Miss French. The creature had rumbled in approval, practically gleeful, and since then he’d had to fight his own growing attraction to the librarian and whatever other baser instincts his nature brought about. Now, in the safety of its lair, with the object of its fixation surrounded by the carefully chosen objects of its hoard, the creature roared to be let out, and he was afraid to even consider what for. Nothing wholesome, certainly.
Debating on whether more wine would damper his instincts or his remaining common sense he picked up another bottle of Malbec- Achával Ferrer this time- and a box of chocolate truffles he had been saving for rent day specifically. No reason why he couldn’t share a few, it was the hospitable thing to do.
He tried not to preen when he heard Belle’s pleased hum at the sight of the chocolate and the wine, turning his head just so to hide the darkening of his scales around his ears, a blush-like response.
“I checked outside and things seem to be much the same, so I texted Emma, who’s been in touch with the electric company as the town sheriff. Power’s supposed to be sorted out in a couple of hours, though she didn’t sound like she fully believed it.”
Well, fuck. Two fucking hours? He wouldn’t make it. He already felt like he was about to spontaneously combust, his grasp of his human self paper thin at best. On the other hand sending Miss French out into the darkness of the night, while it rained, was out of the question. And the evening, so far, was so… pleasant. Intimate and soft and everything he had been denying himself but had secretly desired for the longest time. There was a kinship building. Miss French made him feel nervous, yes, and tightly-wound, but also, at the same time, at ease. Safe.
“Would you be interested in watching a documentary about kimono making?”
He could not imagine posing such a question to anyone else with an honest expectation of interest. Even Bae, whom he loved and who loved him in return, would at best politely decline.
“Sounds amazing. Count me in.”
The documentary was riveting for its careful and thorough exploration of Japanese craftsmanship, with an emphasis on the dying and printing of the kimonos as well as the differences in kimono styles depending on age, marital status and time of the year. Not that Gold was paying attention to any of it, as much as it all seemed right up his alley. Somehow, during the first ten minutes of the documentary- the only ones he would later be able to recall- they had drifted closer in the couch, with Belle eventually resting her head against his shoulder, cuddling close for warmth and comfort.
The warmth he could agree with, the comfort was more of a relative thing. As good as the weight and feel of Belle was against his side- human contact was a luxury for him- it made the itch all the more unbearable, and halfway through a fascinating scene about the process of stamping patterns into kimono fabrics he felt the scales around his neck and hands unfurl completely, resisting any and all attempt to retract. He had to console himself with the fact that the only light in the room was coming from the now dwindling fire, and that the high collar of his banyan and the cashmere throw around their laps was covering most of him. Surely as long as he did not call attention to the changes they would not be all that visible.
He almost had a heart attack when he felt the tip of Belle’s nose brush against the side of his neck. She had to feel it, the decidedly non-human texture, the slight roughness of the scales, but she made no comment, which left him free to pause his relentless anxiety about her discovering his nature and give free reign to his relentless anxiety at her close proximity. She smelled… divinely, and the feel of her made his heart drop to the pit of his stomach in a way that felt too good. It was nerve-wracking in a toe-curling sort of well he seldom experienced and he was shocked at how good it felt, considering how much he liked always being in control of any given situation. Growing up the way he had had forced him to toughen up, learn to be the predator instead of the prey. He had spent years growing into his nature, so to speak, learning to both control and embrace the creature that he was to the point that there was little that could perturb him. Not Mayor Mills, with all her power over the town, not some of the bigger, stronger people who rented from him and thought at first that they could push around their smaller, older landlord and not the ruthless business sharks he made deals with day in and day out. And yet one small, unassuming woman could bring him to his knees. It was irrational. It was worrisome. It was-
Arousing.
Next to him Belle moved, standing up and stretching languidly. He looked at the television, noticing the screen was back to the USB menu.
“That was a lovely documentary, made me feel like I was right there in Japan, soaking in the culture and the air. It’s why I love documentaries, they allow me to travel on a budget, so to speak.”
She moved around the room slowly, tentatively reaching out to touch a figurine or explore a paperweight.
“You know, I’ve always wanted to go to your shop, for the same reason. You seem to have so many fascinating things. But your hours are the same as the library’s, so I haven’t had any luck.”
He told himself he was imagining the flirty tone in her voice, surely her accent was just so pretty everything sounded that way.
“I didn’t know you brought your work home so much, Mr Gold.” Rowan, he thought, call me Rowan. “Where’s this figurine from?”
She lightly touched the top of a Lladro figurine depicting a ballerina stretching before practice. Haltingly, he told her the story behind it, how he had found it at a yard sale for five bucks, sold by the greedy sons of a once-wealthy widow that had died a couple of days before. The whelps hadn’t waited till the funeral to try and get their money’s worth out of their inheritance. The figurine was worth just shy of five hundred dollars, in today’s market.
“What a thrill it must have been, to snatch up such a price.”
Yes, the creature inside him whispered, seemingly thinking less about the little ballerina and more about the flesh-and-blood woman in front of them. He closed his eyes, but it only made the scent of her more prominent in his mind. This was utter madness.
“What about this one?”
They spent what felt like hours in such a way, Belle pointing at several objects that caught her fancy and God struggling to somehow relate their story while attempting to ignore how she practically fondled his hoard. The creature did not take its eyes off her, utterly entranced. The fierce dragon captured by the fair maiden, a modern twist to the story. Every now and then she’d find something she particularly enjoyed and she would hum or make low approving noises, which was slowly but surely making him go mad.
He stood up on shaky legs, going over to the fireplace supposedly to add a log and stoke the fire. In reality he was trying to stop staring at her, in the vague hope that it would bring him some semblance of control.
“You have a beautiful home, Mr Gold. So big, and so full of things.” She sounded closer than he expected. “But so empty of people. It feels a bit… lonely.”
He could see her in his peripheral vision, but kept his head low and eyes on the fire, which allowed his hair to hide his face. Otherwise she would surely notice the deep gold-green scales around his eyes, and the unnatural glow of his irises.
“Yes, well… I’m a difficult man to love.”
He hoped she would attribute the strange hoarseness of his voice to his thickened accent. He thought about Milah, and Cora, and the other handful of women he’d ever been with, thought about how careful he had had to be to avoid hurting them, how unsatisfied they had been by what they considered his complete lack of passion. That, more than protecting his secret, had made him swear off human contact and affection. It never paid off in the end, and he wasn’t willing to put himself out there for little to no reward.
“Doesn’t feel that way to me.”
He turned his head slightly to find her looking at him from beneath her lashes. The scent of her seemed stronger and sweeter and that, along with the soothing warmth of the fire, was making it hard to think. The creature inside him was urging him to take. Just one kiss, one fleeting brush of the lips, one small taste. And, surely, he had followed that impulse before. If it gave it something to treasure, however little, it might quiet down. There was no harm in just a kiss.
He moved quickly, swallowing the sound of surprise Belle made as his lips slanted across hers with more pressure than he intended. Relief and arousal raced down his spine, urging him to pull her closer, to bury himself completely in her. Idly, as he cupped the back of her head and tilted her head just so, he wondered how he had been able to resist for so long, and why. It seemed both impossible and pointless now, with Belle’s fingers sinking into his hair, pulling at the strands in a way that he did not know until then he found arousing.
Belle was surprisingly strong, and delightfully feisty. She seemed determined to get boss him around with tugs on his hair and his arms, her hands shoving at his shoulders until he was sitting down on the couch- how had they moved there?- and he had a lapful of librarian. The creature was playfully competitive, encouraging him to roughhouse, to nip and bite and wrestle for control. It was nothing like any of his previous sexual encounters, there was some sort of animalistic, playfully violent aspect to it that was foreign to him but felt familiar somehow, instinctual. He tried, between toe-curling brushes of Belle’s tongue against his, to remember how soft and fragile she was. Human and therefore delicate. He needed to be careful, needed to get a hold of himself and go slow, and soft and-
‘Fuck, did she just bite me?’
He growled in warning when she tried to rip his banyan open, wrestling to trap her arms against her sides and tumbling out of the couch and into the shaggy rug in front of the fire. Beneath him Belle chuckled, a low, deep sound that went straight to his cock. Fuck, but she was perfect, writhing beneath him, fighting to regain the upper hand even as she attacked his neck with her mouth, niping at whatever exposed bit of skin she could get to. Needing to touch her in return he blindly reached inside the shirt and cardigan he wore, tracing the ridges of his spine, feeling her skin hot and slick beneath his fingertips. It was then that she found a particularly-sensitive point between his neck and shoulder, sinking her teeth into it with such force that he practically roared, raking his nails down her back. She gasped, arching up against him before a shred of common sense filtered back into his addled brain, freezing him in place.
Fuck. He had hurt her. He had been so fucking careless he had forgotten his sharp claws and how easily they could cut through human skin. He didn’t fight her when she flipped them over, pinning him down like the fucking beast he was. They were close enough to the fire that he now realised she had to be able to see it all, the eyes, the scales, the sharpened teeth. The utter inhumanity of it, out in all its ugly glory. He fumbled for an apology, hating himself for still feeling extremely aroused after hurting her. She was probably scared to death, he needed to fucking think and try and say something to reassure her, to make her see he wasn’t going to hurt-
“Hey.”
Belle’s voice sounded low, no hint of trepidation in it. One of her hands combed the hair away from his face, turning his head so he would look up at her. It was then that he noticed her eyes… they were glowing. Bright blue, an almost electric colour, with the barest touch of silver. He looked beyond, into the pale skin of her face and arms, bared by his frenzied undressing. The skin had a strange shine to it, and when he focused he could see the small, sleek scales, so pale they were easily overlooked, except that their opalescent nature made them reflect the light from the fire in a myriad of different shades, like an opal. Everything felt, at once, familiar and wholly strange, so similar and yet so different from his own appearance.
‘Like us. Told you.’ The creature purred from inside him, smug and pleased. ‘Smells right. Like mate.’
He inhaled, noticing her burnt caramel smell was more pronounced and sweeter, not to mention coming mostly from within her soft thighs. Fuck, how had he not seen it before? He had never met another like him, not up close and personal. He had heard rumours of others, had read stories, but his had been a solitary life. For all he knew he was the only one like him in Maine, or even the United States. Fuck, the whole world. And it turned out he wasn’t even the only one like him in Storybrooke. And the creature had known by scent and instinct alone.
A new sort of desperation grew in him. He wanted to see, he needed to see. Fully unsheathing his claws, now that he wasn’t afraid to be discovered or to hurt her, he shredded what was left of his shirt on her, uncovering more of her glorious torso to his greedy eyes. His eyes took in her delicate scaled waist and the opalescent reflections the light made on her breasts, where the scales seemed to be softer, almost feathery. He watched in enraptured fascination as a pale lavender blush spread down her torso and across the high points of her cheeks.
Fuck, she was perfect. Delicate and beautiful and a match for him in every way. There was no need to pretend, or hide, or go slow and soft. The creature inside him agreed in a gleeful hiss. He buried his head on the crook of her shoulder, his tongue darting out to taste her scales, marvelling at the feel of them. Not rough at all, but rather pleasantly slippery and hot. He rubbed his head against her neck and shoulder, purring at the feel of it.
“Gold, please.”
She fidgeted above him, aroused and bothered by his seemingly-stupified state.
“Rowan.” He growled his name against her skin, voice thick and barely understandable, pitched too low to be human. “Call me Rowan.”
When she whispered his name in a keen, needy wail it was as if something snapped inside him. He pounced, tackling her to the grown and taking advantage of her surprised gasp to kiss her open mouth, letting his tongue trace the sharp points of her teeth and feel her raspy tongue. His claws made short work of her lovely leggings, and he would have felt a small stab of guilt at destroying them if Belle hadn’t proceeded to practically shred his own pants. He lost the rest of his clothing in the tousle that followed. It wasn’t the way he had ever understood sex to be like but it felt right, instinctual, to wrestle on the hardwood floor, nipping and scratching and biting as they took turns pinning each other down.
Slowly, naturally, a rhythm built between them, everything getting slower and more intense. Claws dragged deeper against skin, teeth dug harder against flesh and the air grew hot between them, smelling pleasantly of burnt caramel and woodsmoke. He mouthed at every bit of skin he could reach, taking special care to map as much of her breasts as she would allow, taking care to notice when she made needy little whimpers or when her scent spiked, indicating her pleasure.
“Enough.” Belle sunk her nails deep into the scales of his shoulder, hurting in the best possible way. “Fuck me, Rowan.”
He didn’t know if it was the words or the commanding tone that made him lose his mind but in the blink of an eye he was pinning her to the ground, hands holding her wrists above her head. He took a quick moment to try to commit the moment to memory before instinct completely took over and he thrust deep into her. She arched, tight as a bowstring, cunt tightening around his cock in a vice grip that had him almost spilling himself then and there. No human woman had ever felt this hot and good, and had he known it could feel like that he would have never been able to orgasm with a human partner.
When he finally had himself under some semblance of control he began to thrust, with little finesse but all the pent-up passion he had. It was brutal but she took it all, reciprocating his movements and begging him to go faster, harder. Pleasure built up to an almost painful degree, his muscles coiling, tension building until it was difficult to say what hurt and what didn’t. Instinctively he bent over, scraping his teeth against the underside of one of her breasts. Belle thrashed beneath him, letting out a hoarse cry as she tightened around him once more, inner muscles fluttering against his cock as she came. She followed her seconds later, the relief leaving him almost giddy with delight.
He found himself desperately in need of pressing himself against her, the orgasm leaving him uncharacteristically cuddly. Belle felt clearly the same, twining her limbs around him. He marvelled at the colour contrast, deep gold against pale opalescent pink, and at the similar way in which their scales were raised, overly-sensitive after their coupling. He pressed his ear against the side of her torso, feeling rather than hearing her purr.
“Hmm, that was even better than I imagined. Didn’t know it could be so good with someone like me.”
It felt ridiculously good to know that he was her first as she was his, in a sense. He wondered if she had always known what he was, if she had been able to recognise him as kin from the beginning, and how. Wondered about where she came from, and how her upbringing had been compared to his. He wanted to see her hoard, her books and her shoes and see if he could detect what it was that appealed to her.
There would be time for all of that later, he decided, propping himself up just enough to reach the cashmere throw forgotten on the sofa, spreading it over them as their bodies cooled.
There would be time for everything.
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Ghosts of Memories
Pairing Clint Barton x reader
A/N: this is for #MAMTWritingchallenge hosted by @marvelatmytrash (I haven’t decided whether or not to make it a series yet. I will see where this one goes.) feedback is always welcome, as is reblogging.
“You have no idea who I am do you?” paired with calming someone down after a nightmare.
Warnings: Fluff, maybe, language, violence, memory loss, lost love, nightmares, trauma…basically if you’re under 18, don’t read this!
Summary: You are a SHIELD agent, one of the top elite. Not only do you kick ass with weapons and without, you can also control elements ie. Earth, fire, wind, water, electrical current and light. You can’t remember anything past 6 years ago, due to a terrible accident, or so you’ve been told. Doctors say your memories may never come back. So what happens when they do start to return?
Six years ago:
“I’m just going to the store to get eggs and milk, then pick up a deluxe pizza on my way home.” Y/N shouted down the basement stairs to her hubby. Clint peeked around the corner and looked up at her with his best puppy dog eyes. She caved and sighed. “Alright, ham and pineapple, and a 6-pack of Bud Light, but only because I love you and because it’s your birthday.”
Clint ran up the stairs and wrapped Y/N in his arms, and giving her a short, intimate kiss, promising some fun later. She threw her arms around his neck, moaning into his kiss. “Thanks honey. You are really the best, you know that? You kick ass, save the world, and you’re mine.” he whispered in her ear.
She smiled, “Of course I know Clint, and I’m lucky to have you too.” She said, winking at him and kissing him on the nose. “Who else could I get to fix the toilet, help me save the world, and kill all the spiders for me. You’re indispensable.” Y/N giggled as Clint reached for her sides, especially that ticklish spot by her ribcage. She squealed and tried to tickle him back, but he backed her against the wall. “Ok, ok. I give.” He was laughing as hard as she was as they kissed then, both breathless and both exceedingly happy.
As she got in the car, she remembered his reaction that morning as she presented his birthday present, neatly wrapped with an iridescent bow and matching ribbon. As he opened it, and realization set in, a huge grin appeared on his face, and in an instant he was swinging her around, showering her with hugs and kisses, the framed ultrasound picture still in his hand. She was about ten weeks according to the tests, and everything looked exactly the way it should, no abnormalities. It was too soon to know the gender, but she didn’t care. They were pregnant.
She listened to radio as she drove, weather reports and warnings were filling every station she tuned in to. Then she hit a winter onslaught. The sky darkened, and in the blink of an eye a torrential downpour of ice and snow suddenly clouded her vision. As she tried to use her power to lessen the storm’s intensity, another car lost traction on the icy street, and rammed into Y/N’s SUV. The force of the impact caused her car to break through the barrier of the bridge, and plummet head first into the frigid waters below. Blackness and water were everywhere, Y/N tried to move the water and get the car out, but there was too much ice. Instead of moving the car out, the ice pushed it down to the bottom. Her cracked windshield began leaking, the cold beginning to seep in, and without any access to wind, she couldn’t get out.
Desperate to free herself from her seemingly inescapable prison, she used light to melt what remained of the window, bracing herself for the onslaught of arctic liquid that would come at her. It wasn’t enough, the pressure slammed into her, knocking breath from her lungs, not letting her get air before enveloping her. Y/N tried to focus as she swam out the window toward the surface. Finding a small opening still in the layer of ice that covered the river, she came up for air, trying to grab the top of the ice. She could hear people yelling, but was too cold to say anything. Then before she could make the water warmer and get herself to shore, she was pulled under by the current, her head striking the jagged edge of the ice, and her world went black.
Present day:
Y/N stared at the transfer notice in her hand. Why on earth, especially since she really liked her current posting in Ireland, would she all of a sudden need to go to New York. Fuck this shit. Her head began to pound, and she absently grabbed a bottle from her pocket, popped two white T-3’s and went back to cleaning out her room. There was some small part of her that wishes she was normal, with a normal job, maybe a normal family. But noooo, she was a government assassin, and an inhuman, which made her a valuable commodity, and apparently needed in New York. She looked out her window, thinking how much she was going to miss all the lush green countryside and the peaceful walks amongst that greenery.
New York, where the aliens had attacked some time before, and the Avengers initiative was enacted. She knew who Nick Fury was, especially since he was the first person she had seen when she’d awoken from her coma. They had met on numerous occasions since, and each time he had attempted to recruit her to help with the Avengers. But she had declined each time, not wanting to leave Europe. She wasn’t European by birth, but she’d grown to love it here since being re-assigned after her accident, the one where she lost a lot of her life, her memories gone, locked away in the deep recesses of her mind. Doctors said the memories could come back at some point, or they may never return. What was worse, SHIELD files had been erased of her life before. It was almost as if they were hiding something from her, either for mental health reasons, or simply because they liked her better now. And no one ‘knew’ anything, or so they said, even Fury, stating that maybe she shouldn’t keep digging. She had tried social media, phone records, DMV records, anything, and they all came up blank. It was as if she’d never existed before, and it nagged at her conscience.
She was soon packed and on board the small plane that would take her across the ocean. Agent Phil Coulson met her at the airstrip when she landed, to escort her to their base. “Welcome here Y/N.” He extended his hand and she took it happily. Phil was something of a legend amongst the elite agents, having been the force behind putting together the A-team as she liked to call them. And truth be told, she was anxious to meet them, having been a fan for a while now. Natasha Romanova was kind of a role model, even though the age difference was only 2 years, she was everything Y/N aspired to be. There were times she imagined sparing with Widow, just to see who could best who first, though she suspected for as good as she was, Natasha was better, having trained from a young age.
When they finally arrived at the ‘secret’ base, she was shown to her quarters, where she set to work unpacking and changing out of her travel clothes. Making sure her identification was properly displayed, she took herself on a self-guided tour of the facility. It was actually pretty nice digs, and pretty big, much bigger than the Irish base. Not watching in front of her, because she was busy looking around, she walked into a brick wall, which actually wasn’t a wall at all. Thor had been walking back from the cafeteria with some java for the road, when Y/N bumped into him, causing hot liquid to erupt from the cup, and spill all over both parties.
Y/N immediately apologized. “Oh my god, I’m so sorry. Are you hurt? Let me help.” And bent down to retrieve pieces of broken pottery that was the cup.
Thor smiled warmly. “No harm done. There is always more coffee to be had. Are you new here?” he asked, seeing your name badge.
Her cheeks turned a deep shade of crimson. “That obvious huh. Yeah, just transferred in from Ireland. I’m Y/N. You must be Thor.” She stated casually, gesturing at his armor and cape, and of course that infamous hammer. Mjolnir was the most fascinating weapon she’d ever seen. Y/N pointed to the beautiful but deadly item in his hand. “I know I can’t pick it up, but can I…well…touch it? Sorry, that sounded weird. It’s just a really awesome hammer.” She blushed more, realizing how stupid that sounded.
Thor chuckled. “Not at all my lady. By all means, feel free to gaze upon the power of the mighty Mjolnir. However I must warn you, it does tend to shock those who touch it, except me of course.”
Y/N raised a brow, now completely thrilled. She reached out her hand and ran it across the Asgardian symbols and craftmanship, and did indeed get a shock. But rather than sting, it seemed to blend into her skin and ignite her own power. Soon her body and Mjolnir were sharing electrical current, the hammer increasing the strength of Y/N’s energy output. Thor watched the interaction, completely taken aback with what was transpiring in front of him. Never in his lifetime had anyone been able to create that kind of power with his hammer except for himself. Now his curiosity was peaked, and he offered Y/N the weapon to hold. Frowning but not unwilling to try, she accepted the gift, and both were genuinely shocked when the hammer allowed her to hold it.
Some of the nearby agents had stopped to witness this event, including Fury and Coulson, and a wide range of expressions filled their faces, from shock, to amazement, to genuine wow. Y/N handed the hammer back to Thor when she saw the attention she had attracted. Excusing herself, she made her way over to Nick Fury and extended her hand. “Sir, good to see you again.” You said with respect, and perhaps a touch of affection. Fury was like the older brother, always protecting her and covering her ass when she dug into files she shouldn’t.
Fury accepted the gesture and returned the handshake. “Y/N. Haven’t changed a bit I see. Still manage to find new and interesting ways to make yourself known.”
Y/N smiled. “Yes sir! Now, on with the tour!” She gave a mock salute, earning a smirk from Coulson and a glare from Fury. He didn’t scold her, but she did make herself scarce, as the tour wasn’t quite done yet anyways.
She had been briefed on the plane with regards to the nature of her re-assignment. Power, they needed whatever they could get, and Y/N’s power was amongst the best in the entire SHIELD world. Talks of aliens and impending doom were everywhere. But the agency seemed especially worried. Whatever. Steady paychecks helped with the negotiations, landing herself a nice raise and bonus incentive. She could only hope that her ‘headaches’ and ‘nightmares’ didn’t interfere with her work. It wasn’t bad now, not like it was when she’d first awaken, but it still happened on occasion. It was like a never-ending cycle of torment, flashes of near death, a storm, drowning. But she could never move past those images. She would wake in cold sweats, shaking, screaming, only to realize she was alone and in no present danger. Only once did the flashbacks happen during a mission, luckily it was Fury and Hill that accompanied her for it, and neither were hurt in the process.
Fury did advise her to see a counsellor after, and she did. But the talks, while they did help some, were only that, talk. Nothing could be done to bring back the rest of the memories. It was just plain annoying sometimes. And times like this, when she was this pissed, were the times where she found exercise to be a good stress reliever. So she made her way around the base until she came across the training room, where she found Nat taking on Steve Rogers. Amused, she stood by the door and watched. Where Steve was fast and strong, Widow was small and agile, both were quick and equally deadly in their own right. Just as Y/N sat down, Steve caught movement out of the corner of his eye and Nat flipped him, taking him out for the count.
Steve got up as you walked over to apologize. “I’m sorry. I distracted you. Good match though.” You remarked.
Nat came over to join. “It wasn’t bad. Don’t apologize though. Distraction can’t be used as an excuse.” Then she looked over at Y/N. “Do you want to go a round?” she asked quizzically.
You raised a brow. “Sure. I’m Y/N. I just transferred in from Ireland.” You shook hands with Steve and with Nat.
“Nice to meet you Y/N.” Nat smiled. “Do you need to change?”
“Nope. I’m good.”
Nat motioned Y/N over to the mat. A few people stopped to watch, including Steve. Y/N put her hands up. “I won’t use my abilities. This will just be hand to hand.” She promised.
It was Nat’s turn to be surprised. “Abilities? You’re inhuman?” Y/N nodded. “That’s where I heard your name from.” She shrugged. “I’m ready whenever you are.”
Nat took her fight stance, as did Y/N. For what seemed like an eternity neither moved, studying the other, watching like a lion stalking prey. Then Nat lunged, her body diving to sweep Y/N’s feet from under her. But she dodged, anticipating Widow’s tactics, and made a beeline for her arm to disable her. She countered, throwing a kick at Y/N’s arm, which was deflected, and coming around with a backhand to attack. Ducking, Y/N landed a small punch in her midsection. Nat quickly brought her knee up, catching Y/N’s chin, causing her to bite her lip. Y/N recovered quick, bringing her leg sweeping low in a circle, and connected with Nat’s ankle. She fell back, but was back on her feet quickly.
Back and forth they went, minutes ticking by, people beginning to cheer and wager on who would actually win. Without using her power, she was pretty evenly matched with her idol. For a while it seemed as though no one would ever win. Then someone else stopped to watch the fight. Someone who went white upon seeing who his friend was fighting. He pushed through the crowds to get a front row seat, unable to believe what he was seeing. “Y/N?” he whispered.
Y/N looked up at the mention of her name, and Nat got the upper hand, setting Y/N up and taking her down with that head-scissor lock flip. Gasping for air, Y/N looked for the owner of the voice that had cost her the match. Then leaning over her, offering a hand up, was a handsome, blue-eyed man that looked like he’d seen a ghost. Only he was staring at her, not a ghost. He kept her hand in his, almost afraid to let go.
Y/N tried to remove her hand, but he held firm, as if she would disappear if he let go. “Y/N. What the hell? I…it’s been 6 years. Where have you been? Why didn’t you come back if you weren’t dead? I don’t understand…” his voice trailed off as he studied Y/N’s confused look. Realization dawned on him then, and he let her hand go. “You have no idea who I am, do you?”
Y/N bit her lip, taking a step back as she shook her head. “No, sorry. Ummm…” Her head began jackhammering in her skull, and she ran, needing to get away from him, from everyone, just needing to be alone.
It was Nick who came knocking on her door. She let him in, only because she knew he wouldn’t go away. He motioned to sit, and Y/N nodded. The flashbacks began adding images, of a man with light brown hair, blue eyes. Holding her, making love to her, kissing her. Not even the T3’s were helping now. With tears streaming down her face, she looked into the eyes of the man she had learned to trust, the man who she was pretty sure had been partially lying to her all these years.
“I want the truth Nick, and I want it now.” Y/N wiped away a tear and glared at the man in front of her. “Who in the hell is that man and why did he act like he knew me?”
Nick sighed. Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out a USB and threw it on the bed beside her. She looked at it, then back at Nick. Anger slowly seeped through her usually calm façade, and he held his hands up as a peace offering. “These are the files you’ve been searching for all these years. Your life before the accident, your original posting, and everything else you tried to find. That man in the gym, Agent Barton, was your husband of 5 years, and your childhood friend, your high school sweetheart, and your first love. The day of your accident, it was his birthday. Your gift to him was an ultrasound picture of the 10-week-old fetus you carried. A violent storm swept into the area when you were driving to the store, your car was run off the road and into the icy river. You nearly drown. You went into a hyperthermia-induced coma. Your abilities are quite powerful, but ice doesn’t like you. You couldn’t save yourself fast enough. You lost the baby. The memory loss was from a concussion suffered when your head found the edge of a sharp jagged ice chunk. You know the rest of this past 6 years. Everything else is on there.” He gestured to the piece of tech, and got up to leave.
Y/N just stared at the wall, barely acknowledging Nick’s exit. For two hours she just sat there, trying to process everything she’d just heard. Her skull felt like a basketball pounding on pavement. She couldn’t keep her eyes open as the world started spinning. Her body hit the mattress, feeling like lead. Her mind flashed images, dark water, sleet, ice, cold water rushing at her, the current pulling her under the ice, her chest hurting from lack of oxygen, panic. She tried to scream but the water muffled the sound. She flailed, clawing at the ice, needing the air, needing to live. Suddenly arms were holding her, shaking her, a warm male voice was calling her name.
Clint had been walking slowly toward her room, trying to figure out how to talk to her. Then her screams broke through his thoughts and he tore down the hallway, opening her door in less than 3 seconds. She was choking, her breath ragged, like she couldn’t get any air. She was panicking. She was having a nightmare. He sat on the bed and gathered her into his arms, and held her, stroking her hair, whispering soothing words.
She opened her eyes to the man who was a stranger to her, but not a stranger. She nestled into his embrace and cried.
@legion1993 @marvelatmytrash
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It is going to rain
Toby
It is going to rain. The sun has eloped with the small amount of patience that I had left, off to a place far away, leaving me with nothing but troubles and rain. It is a matter of minutes. I watch the sky darken, the sea of black rippling above me, and I wait. And just before the first droplet connects with the ground, she runs into the restaurant. How typical of her. All disorganization and chaos but never lets it spill over the edge. I’ll never know how she does it. She sees me and casually walks over to the table, as though she isn’t half an hour late. But despite my annoyance and lack of patience, I stand and envelope her into a hug, because I know, that behind that picture-perfect smile and those glistening eyes, that half of her world just shattered into a million little pieces.
Lorrain
As soon as I see him a weight is lifted off my shoulders. He is ok. He is picking up the pieces, his hands covered in cuts and scars like mine, but he is putting them back together again. Last time he was too afraid, too broken. But this time I think he was prepared, he knew what was coming. I guess we all did. Seeing him reminds me that I can do this; I got through it when dad died, so I know that I will resurface again. But these fresh wounds are sore, and I know that even when they heal, their scars will always haunt me.
Toby
We sit in silence for a while. The food comes but I am not hungry. Lorrain doesn’t appear to be either. I don’t know what to do. I don’t know what to say. Normally Lorrain will have made some sort of conversation by now, being her dazzling social self. But today it’s different.
Against all my natural instincts, I decide to break the silence. And the small talk begins. The usual “I might get a cuppa” and “how’s work”, “terrible weather today” and other British stereotypes to break through awkwardness. I like to cut to the chase. But it took me until the end of the meal to muster enough courage to bring up the dreaded subject.
“How are you coping Lorrain?”
She does not respond seemingly engrossed in the delicious steak on her plate. The steak which she would not touch a few seconds ago.
“It’s getting better,” she says, “What about you?”
“I am sorry I didn’t come to mum's funeral. I wasn’t as close to her as you were but now both of them are gone.”
“So you shut yourself away from the rest of the world again?”
I don’t respond because I know that it is true. We don’t talk until the bill has come and gone and we are getting ready to face the torrential downpour outside.
“Any plans after this?” she says knowing I don’t but asking anyway.
“No, you?”
“Not today. I can walk with you to the station,” she offers. She lives around here, in the heart of London. I prefer calm and convenient, a pair that rarely comes together. So I live in the outskirts.
As we walk, Lorrain gets a phone-call.
“Hello, Lorrain Martins speaking --- How did you get this number? --- The lab gave it to you? --- Ok then --- oh? --- But that is in Turkey? --- It isn’t uncommon --- I’m not sure --- Things have been a bit hectic at the moment --- I guess I could use the distraction --- ok --- I’ll be there at 11am tomorrow --- yep --- no worries --- bye!”
I knew that it wasn’t right that she didn’t have any plans. But of course, now she is going to Turkey, presumably flying out at around 2am on the last plane that will get her there for 11.
“You’re going to Turkey!” I say in such a forced, unenthusiastic voice that I wonder if it even came from me.
“And you are coming too!”
“Um, no. I have work to do!” I respond. There is so much to be done as I haven’t been in since mum died.
“It’s not as though you are actually going to go to work for another week. I know what you are like Toby Martins, and I don’t need your excuses.” I don’t reply because I know that she is right. Again. Despite my greatest efforts I won’t be able to drag myself to the office for a while. But still, I am NOT going to Turkey
Lorrain
I am so glad that Toby came along. He could really use the distraction. So could I. An air-hostess walks down the aisle offering refreshments. Toby is in the outer seat, the one next to the aisle and is in a place between awake and asleep – 2am flights aren’t his thing.
I tried to explain to Toby what the trip is about, but he was too stressed about almost missing the flight. So far I have been regarding it as an escape, to get my mind of things. But now that I think about it, I find myself wanted more than a getaway. A refugee camp. Each night a new corpse found. Each corpse covered in a black gooey liquid. I want to know why. I want to solve this. Stop this.
It was all a blur after that. The past few hours were made up of me puzzling over the possible reasons behind this case. Toby seemed very uninterested and soon grew irritated as I was reciting these theories aloud. Being his little sister it is my duty to wind him up, no matter how old we get.
But now we are in a taxi and we are sitting in silence because we can see it. The rows of huts and tents. The dirt track roads crawling with foxes and rodents. The people. It is a graveyard for the living. Refuge from the past but a horror in the present. After parking, we are shown to another part of the camp, the part where the managers and staff live. It is solely made up of a tall tower, littered by windows, topped with a cylindrical level, presumably a look out point over the camp. As we are led inside the tower, it appears that all the windows are the rooms for the staff, quite like a hotel but far from it. A tall, Aryan featured man appears to be scolding two other workers. He looks up at us and smiles with blinding white teeth and comes over. He introduces himself as camp manager Asil Orun, the man who rang me and asked that I would come. He seems very out of place; a man of such features should not correspond with refugees, or so society implies. He leads us through to a room on the ground floor, taking care to hold the door politely for me and taking even more care to let it swing in Toby’s face. There he explains more about the case. I glance over at Toby, who is sitting next to me with glazed over eyes and pursed lips; a sure sign that he has more than a few things to say to Asil. After we have been briefed, we are escorted up to the topmost floor where our room is.
Toby
I don’t like him. And it isn’t just that he has taken an inane interest in Lorrain, but it seems that there is more to him than what meets the eye. I don’t trust him, something about him isn’t right. But I just can’t put my finger on what it is.
But now I must return to the moment because we are walking into the other side of the camp – the refugee side. I smell them judging me, I wince as they stagger away, afraid. Lorrain isn’t comfortable either. I look at them, bony and mistreated, wondering the terror of what they must have fled to call this place a “sanctuary”. We stop outside one of the shacks and Asil shows us in. As we enter the shade of the place, my eyes grow accustomed to the light. And there it is lying on the bed, gender indistinguishable due to its front being covered in a sticky substance. Lorrain steps closer to the body. She looks it up and down and then opens her briefcase and lays it on the floor. She gets a wooden stick and takes a sample of the substance covering the body. Lorrain investigates the sludge, mixing it with various liquids. Hours pass as she examines the body, prodding and poking, testing and what-not, while Asil and myself sit intently around her.
“Toby. Toby wake up.” I feel warm air hiss into my ear as I fight to open my eyes. I must have fallen asleep. I look around. It is night time and the shanty is empty, spare Lorrain, her briefcase, a body bag and myself. No sign of Asil. Lorrain helps me up. I check my watch. It is almost midnight. We leave the cabin and walk towards the tower, leaving the body bag behind.
“What did you find?” I ask, still drowsy.
“Various bits and pieces that don’t fit together at all.”
“Go on.”
“Well, I am now certain that the gunk covering the body was in fact blood.”
“Blood? It was too dark to be blood. Black almost.”
“I am sure that it was blood – it had the correct reading and concurred with all of the tests. But very few things could turn blood so tar-like.”
“I assume that she coughed it up?” I say.
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“I am not sure, there is a small incision at the back of her throat, where I initially suspected that the blood had come from, but it is nowhere near large enough for all of it to have come gushing out of. But I don’t think the cut is significant.”
“I see. Did you learn anything else?”
“Yes, I also discovered something, the faintest of traces but it proves to be both vital to the case and thrilling at the same time.”
“And what, may I ask, is this insight?”
“There were traces of poison in her blood.”
Lorrain
It is only 8am in the morning but we are already out and investigating another body. Asil found it quite far away from the body I looked at yesterday. Whatever is happening to them isn’t contagious. I look down at the body. At first glance I presumed that it was a replica of the first, the same liquid covering the body, the same incision in the throat. But now I see that the substance is indeed redder so presumably healthier than the first; the incision in the throat is much smaller and the traces of the poison I found yesterday are gone. I run the same tests again, inspecting the body for any more clues. Toby is slumped in a corner, half-asleep. I don’t think that this trip is very interesting for him, but he is definitely getting more sleep than he would have at home.
It is raining. And the fact that the roof of the hut is poorly-thatched does not help. I watch the body as it rests idly on the floor. It was a boy this time. A young boy around the age of 6. It broke me when I saw him lying there, helpless as the world turned away from him, time and time again. Toby just glazed over.
After a while of examining I find something else in his blood. After digging into it I discover that it also seems to be poison. A different one to the one I saw yesterday. Some sort related to the digitalis genus. I asked Asil to question the food producers of the camp and I haven’t seen him since. I don't know much about poisons, being a forensic pathologist, but I know that there is no connection between Digitalis poison and blood disease. No, Digitalis is commonly used as a medicine for heart deficiency. I have come across many cases when one has overdosed on the drug which has led to heart failure. Heart failure. The person could have died from heart failure. But how would they have had access to the pharmaceutical in a refugee camp?
“I can hear your brain churning from over here,” Toby startles me. I thought he was asleep.
“I think I am onto something,”
“And what does figuring it out involve?”
“Cutting open the boy’s heart.”
Toby
I am trying to sleep but the sounds don’t help. The slicing and squelching. But I hear another noise, footsteps. Of course, the camp is littered with people, so I am bound to hear footsteps. But the refugees tread carefully, quietly, not wanting to be noticed or even to exist at all. These footsteps are different. Loud. Purposeful. And as they draw closer, I hear that there is in fact two sets of footsteps.
Two men enter the shack. One is Asil but that does not make me feel any more settled. Asil introduces the man beside as the caterer of the camp, Yusuf. I study the man. He is muscular, tall and wears a dirty apron around his waist, as if to back the fact that he is the food chief. He exchanges greetings with Lorrain and myself and then goes on to talk about the food that he produces. He claims that the main component of the refugee’s diets is broad-leaf plantain due to its accessibility and low price. They eat it with a small portion of rice once a day, twice if they are lucky. He seems sincere, unlike Asil who stands there, smiling nervously while he talks. Lorrain is deep in thought. She has already examined the heart and has exclaimed continuously that the boy had died of heart failure. Quite a few times I had splash water on her face or tug her hair to get her to stop thinking and tell me her thoughts. But I have just realised that I know something that I need to tell her. And I need to tell her soon before her brain explodes from over-thinking, because this case might just be easier than she thinks.
Soon Asil dismisses the man, but he himself stays with us. He claims that the man is a new employee. He says that Yusuf has proved to be reliable and moral, and that he wouldn’t doubt him at all if it weren’t for the fact that he hadn’t known him for long, thus hasn’t enough time to figure out Yusuf and see if his outward friendly behavior is just a mask. Funny. That was exactly what I was thinking but about Asil.
Asil then leaves. Lorrain and I sit there in silence while I think about the best way to phrase what I am about to say.
“Lorrain I have something to tell you.”
“Mmm.”
“Lorrain stop thinking and listen,”. She looks up from the body and at me.
“Sorry,” she says.
“Broad-leaf plantain. The most eaten food in this camp.”
“Yes.”
“While you were talking, I got out my laptop and did a little research myself,”
“Oh wow you actually helped!” she says playfully.
“I am serious. I found something. Broad-leaf plantain shares the same genus as the so-called poison that you discovered today. It is a Digitalis plant,”. She sits there for a few moments and processes what I just told her.
“So there might in fact be no poison, no murderer, and the genus I have found is just from the food.”
“They might have been fed some faulty or highly concentrated leaves by accident which has led to this.”
She looks plainly disappointed. It was clear that this case excited and intrigued her, but the most logical answer does not seem to satisfy that. I stand up to go back to the room. She doesn’t say anything so I know that she will stay and look into what I said, still doubting and eager to prove me wrong; that she may still have a case yet to follow. I had best leave her to it.
I leave the tent silently. And as I creak my way to the exit, I hear thumping footsteps running. Running away. I look outside quickly but everything appears to be normal. Or as normal as it gets in a refugee camp. It could have been anyone. I continue back to the room.
Toby
I wake up to the breaking of glass. I sit up abruptly and look around. My eyes are blinded by the sudden exposure to the light and I can barely make out anything. At first, I think that I am alone in the room but I hear shuffling coming from the toilet. I quietly make my way there. I push open the door with a shaking hand and find … Lorrain. I let out a sigh of relief. Lorrain is scrambling on the floor trying to recover bits of glass that she has broken when she dropped what used to be some sort of measuring utensil. After helping her clear up and exclaiming that she cannot scare me like that, I go back to me beside table and check the time. 7:00am. I should get ready. I tell Lorrain to hurry up in the bathroom and use the time while I wait, to go back to sleep.
Lorrain
Yesterday was disappointing. I was really interested in the case. I thought that maybe this one time it might not just be some sort of illness, maybe something mysterious or unexplainable. Oh well. At least we have a pretty certain cause behind this. We’ll be able to stop more of these deaths. That’s the boring truth. I went back to the first body to run some tests and to look into the poison that I discovered on the first day. However the body wasn’t there. It was at that point I just gave up and went back to the room.
We are sitting inside another shack. It was a girl this time, thirteen years old. Her situation is identical to the boy’s. I have utilised the past few hours back up this new theory. I have run many tests and the reason behind this appears to be the result of a parasitic broad-leaf plantain. Nothing more.
Toby stands up. He is growing impatient. He thinks that we should be home by now – the reason behind this case being obvious. He leaves the tent stating that he is going back to the room. There is no arguing with him when he chooses to be assertive, which is very rarely I might add.
Toby
As I walk back to the room I see Asil walking towards me. He smiles as he walks past and I force an imitation of the notion. After I am about a dozen metres away, I turn to see if he has gone into the tent that Lorrain is in. I would never leave her alone with him. But he walks past the tent and carries along done the dirt track. I look at where his footsteps have met the mud. And there I see it, a white letter on the floor not far from Lorrain’s tent. I pick up the letter, debate showing Lorrain or giving it back to Asil, but then decide that I will take it up to the room and read it. Maybe it will tell me something about Asil, maybe clue me to the reason that he seems so untrustworthy. But here is not the place to exploit potential secrets so I pocket the envelope and head to the tower.
Once safely inside, I pull out the letter and turn it over. There are no markings on the envelope, so I proceed to open it carefully. Inside is an equally as white piece of paper with all but a few sentences on it:
04/04/2018
A
That is good to hear. Use the same ratio this time. It seems to be leading her in the wrong direction – this is good. Give her two more and then eliminate. Burn this when you have read it.
M
The first thing I concur is that there is something going on, something desired secret. My brain runs through the list of things that this message could be a reference to. Some key words dance around me displaying secrets just out of reach. When would a ratio be used in this camp? What is leading who in the wrong direction? Why must this be kept behind closed doors? I puzzle over it for a half hour until I realise that I had been over-looking the smallest and most significant detail. Her. Leading her in the wrong direction. Over the past two days I have only seen male staff around the camp. I presumed that women were not employed due to the lack of safety here. In fact, the only woman that I have seen, who was not a refugee, was Lorrain. With that in mind I read the message again.
A theory develops in my mind – Asil is behind this. The ratio must be something to do with the Digitalis genus. This case isn’t over, it wasn’t caused by any plant malfunction. But pieces of my puzzle are still missing – what is the wrong direction. What does it mean give her two more? Two more what?
Bodies.
And suddenly a chill runs down my back. Eliminate? This message was sent last night. Two more bodies. So that was one last night and one more tonight. Then eliminate. We need to get away from this place. Fast. I throw all my belongings into my rucksack, do the same with Lorrain's stuff, pocket the letter and dash out of the room. I don’t know for sure if the letter meant what I thought that it did. But either way. Eliminate still means to kill.
I run to the tent of the dead girl where Lorrain was, but to my utmost horror she is not there. I find her briefcase and the body instead. I look around hoping that she has left a note; that she has just gone to the toilet, but I realise that she wouldn’t have left a note because as far as she knows, I am just lazing around in the hotel room. I run out of the tent and right into Lorrain.
“Lorrain!” I can’t do anything but hug her tight. I was so scared for her.
“I have found something -” I cut her off.
“Never mind that. We have to get out of this place. I don’t know what is going on but we, you especially, are in great danger.”
“Wha-,”
“I found a note lying on the floor that Asil dropped. It was addressed to him from someone titled “M”. Here read it. I thrust the letter into her hands while she looks at me like I am mad.
“It think it is about you.” I whisper in her ear as she reads through it. Her eyes open wide as she scrambles to read it again.
“I was right,” I hear her whisper under her breath.
“What do you mean?”
“You need to come with me. It isn’t far from the tents down the far end,” she starts packing up her briefcase.
“What?! We need to get out of here. Do you not understand what the letter meant?”
“I do. But I need to show you something. With what you have just showed me and what I have just discovered, I think we are very close to solving this case,”
“Never mind the case. Do you not understand what eliminate means?”
“You need to calm down Toby.”
“DO NOT TELL ME TO CALM DOWN. DAD IS DEAD AND I JUST LOST MUM. I CAN’T LOSE YOU TOO!” I yell. She stops. I never yell. I never get mad. But I am scared.
“Toby. I -”
“I didn’t mean to shout,”
“I am sorry,”. Neither of us speaks until she has fully packed up her things. In a hushed voice she talks.
“Toby. I understand what you are saying. But listen. We have a chance to save lives, not just examine their dead bodies. As you say – we have to play this carefully. I need you to come with me now,” I nod my head and follow after her, exhausted by my outburst.
We walk through the stitches of the camp to the very borders where the tents begin to fray away. Soon we have left it all behind. It appears that we are just walking in the green. But in the distance I see a change of scenery. A change of colour. I see purple. And as we draw closer that purple begins to take form. Low to the ground but hundreds of them. Plants. Flowers. And soon I realise why Lorrain was so keen on showing me this. For this, this is a field of foxgloves.
Lorrain
I look at Toby’s face as he takes it all in, watch his face calculating and concluding.
“Foxgloves. Foxglove poison. Heart failure.”
“Yes,” I respond.
“It is of the same genus that you found in the body. The broad-leaf plantain fiasco was the “wrong direction” mentioned in the message. It was just a cover-up,”.
“Yes.”
“Asil. I knew that I didn’t trust him. We need to take this to the police.” I say, even more frightened than before. But I can’t let it break the surface. I need to be like Lorrain.
“No. We need evidence first. Whoever Asil is working for has to be high up if they can afford this,” I say gesturing to the foxgloves. “They will be able to wriggle their way out of our grip unless there is hard proof,”
“Tonight we will follow him. Record it all. Then we will show it to them,”.
“Agreed” I respond. We make our way back to the camp. We have a theory, the best that we have yet. But there are still some holes in it. We think that Asil is behind this. That he is feeding these refugees foxglove poison (the digitalis genus that I found) and framing it as a broad-leaf plantain parasite. But we don’t know why or how. And that is what we will find out tonight.
Lorrain
It is late. Now around 10:30pm. We are closely huddled together, Toby and I, in a failed attempt to fight off the cold. We sit silently by the exit of the tower, waiting and watching. But mostly listening. I never thought that it could be so quiet in a refugee camp. And though the world seems to sleep, I somehow hear more than ever before. The wind; a ribbon wrapping around the place. In the day-time it was like a whip – clacking and striking in a furious rage. But now it flows gently, whispering dreams of grandeur to the hopeless refugees who lie asleep. I hear the soft pattering paws of animals. The gentle singing of lullabies in a foreign dialect. So quiet.
But then I hear something else. Footsteps. Coming from the tower. Treading carefully, as though the outing is desired secret. And soon we see the slender figure of Asil fall into the night. He carries what appears to be a small briefcase in his hand. We follow him, quite far behind. Every corner he turns he checks behind him in a cautious, guilty way, and we have to dart to some bushes or round the back of a favela. We follow him for a while as he seems to randomly sneak through the paths.
However, when we enter a different part of the camp that we haven’t seen, he begins to peek in and out of the tents as if looking for something. Or someone. After a while of this hide and seek, he enters a wooden shack and does not come out of it for a few minutes. We tread closer and peer through the cracks of the structure to see what he is doing and I get my camera out and start recording.
Toby
It is going to rain. The moon has fled with all of the courage that I had left, off to a place faraway, leaving with nothing but rain-clouds and fear. It is a matter of minutes. I sense the sky darken, a sea of black rippling through me and I watch. It is the most unsettling thing, not watching Asil, but the fear that we ourselves are being watched. We see as he opens his briefcase with the light of a small lantern. It is lined with test tubes full of various substances topped with a cork aside some surgery-like tools. He pulls out a pipette and proceeds to transfer some of the test tube substances into it.
Use the same ratio this time.
It fits again with the letter. When he decides that the pipette is full, he pulls a thin, razor tipped utensil from his case. He then tilts the chin of the refugee backwards and we rush to stifle a gasp as he opens the person’s mouth, trying to do so without out waking them up. However half-way during this process the victim awakes and starts to struggle. They fight silently, Asil with a look of fire in his eyes, pinning what is now revealed to be a man of Toby’s age down and opening the man’s mouth. We watch in utter horror, both of us jerking to stop this atrocity but pulling each other back knowing what the consequences may be. Asil gets a window of opportunity and he takes it, moving the razor into the man’s throat, feeling around and making a cut. The man is now flitting in and out of consciousness. And then Asil takes the pipette and squeezes it into what we imagine is the incision. The man does not move, in a deep sleep he won’t wake up from.
Asil puts out the lantern. We stare in lament at the poor man. Thousands of thoughts run through my head. Now that we have this on tape we can stop this from happening to other people. We did the right thing, even if it did involve letting one go for the good of others. But I can’t help but feel guilty for just watching. And as I look at the body with tears in my eyes, I forget about anything else. And so does Lorrain. And we stand there. Still. Warring with ourselves. Until we see a flash of fire from the entrance of the shack. And as we turn abruptly we become face to face with it and freeze. For even without the light of the lantern we can see it screaming at as from those eyes I thought were blue. And we run.
Lorrain
Run. The only word that pops into my mind. And I do. Toby follows close behind. Asil is getting closer. Oh no. Oh no, oh no, oh no. Not only did he see the camera, but he also saw us. And at this moment, losing the camera or the video does not bother me. But he can’t get rid of what we saw.
Unless he gets rid of us.
We push onwards. Toby tries to alert the refugees and to get them to help but I stop him. We don’t know who else is on Asil’s side, and we don’t need more people hunting us down. Soon I begin to gain my bearings – we are getting closer to the tower. I know where we are. It should be any minute now. We take a tight turn and I pivot, hauling Toby and myself into a staff-cabin. It is empty. We dash away from the door and to the window and look for Asil. We hear his footsteps slow down as he decides whether to turn or not. Then he stops altogether. The sound of silence rings through my ears. And I realise that it must ring though Asil’s too. He won’t hear our footsteps because we have stopped. And now he knows that. We hear him walk slowly towards us. We are going to get caught. He is going to ki-.
No.
I won’t let that happen. Think Lorrain. Think. I risk a glance through the window. Asil is walking in a circle looking at the huts and cabins surrounding him, wondering where we are. I need to play this carefully. I reach up to the window. It is fastened shut with a latch. I carefully undo it and at once the wind creaks the window open a fraction. I hear Asil’s steps coming towards us and feel Toby’s fear and outrage. The footsteps are right behind the window now. And just when he is about to peer inside, I jump up and smash the window with my fist. The glass goes flying into his arm. He falls down, groping it as we run back to the tower.
Toby
I shook hands with death that night. I was terrified. I don’t think that I will ever feel safe again. After we had reached the tower Lorrain passed out. I had to make the calls, tell the information, get the police. We solved the case. But hearing it being said aloud repeatedly does not help.
“So you admit to being the person behind the murder of the refugees at your own camp?” an inspector queries for the umpteenth time.
“Yes” Asil replies. His eyes are grey. No mask of blue. No anger or fire. Nothing.
After hours and hours of sitting there, listening to him give dismissive, brief answers, he has finally admitted it. The man behind it all. Or so it seems.
“I invite Ms Lorrain Martins to describe her opinion of the happenings, and then the convict will consolidate her statement, if he wishes to.”
“The way that he killed the refugees was using a poison. Foxglove poison. He would make a small incision in the back of the victim’s throat and squeeze the poison into there. Once the poison was inside the victim, they had minutes to live. He would then leave the body there and the next morning, would claim to have found the body in such a state.”
“Thank you. And do you admit to this Asil?”
“Yes”
“Ms Martins, you previously mentioned that he worked closely on the case with you. Would you care to reiterate it so that we may add it to an official document?”
“Yes. He contacted me some days ago via phone call, saying that random refugees at his camp were dying for no apparent reason. He wanted my help. My brother and I flew to Turkey. He was with us most of the time, listening to my theories. Now that I think about it. I can assume that you were also listening to Toby and my self's private conversations. But why Asil? Why?”
Asil sits there for a few minutes. Opening his mouth and closing it. Deciding what to say and whether to say it or not. No-one dare moves, scared they will stop him from opening up.
“I had to wipe out the entire refugee camp. I had to kill them all and frame it as something else, some natural cause. But I didn’t want to release this poison only to find that is could easily be tracked and identified. No. That is where you helped Lorrain. They wouldn’t have died if it wasn’t for you. Each time you would say what you found. So I would fix those areas and use a different ratio. Until I got it perfectly balanced and you didn’t think that there was a poison at all. And if I could bluff you, I knew that I could bluff the rest of the world.”
We all sit in silence, thinking hard. Understanding. It is ingenious really. But why would he want to kill all of these people?
“Why?” I say, startled at myself for speaking up.
Asil just smiles.
Lorrain
Weeks have passed since the refugee camp ordeal. Not long after Asil’s confession, a Turkish politician was arrested and thrown into jail. Apparently, he was the one who was funding it and who was in charge. He wanted to free Turkey from refugees for economic and racist purposes. Toby and I have been spending more time together since. We have cleared out Mum’s house. It is going to be hard to leave behind, whenever it is sold. It is going to be hard to leave the memories of the case behind, whenever it blows over. Right now, I am studying the poison at work. We know that foxglove was in it but there were other components that we can’t identify. And we still do not know where the black blood came from. I am scrolling through some data a co-worker has emailed me, not really reading through it.
Suddenly I hear a shout from the lab next door. Then whoever is working in there calls for me. I swiftly move through the door to see what that commotion is about. My colleague is there looking ecstatic to say the least. She shows me a piece of paper from a freshly opened letter and I read it. And then I understand my co-worker's excitement. We have solved the case. And I ring up Toby.
“Toby?”
“Hi Lorrain. How are you?”
“Toby you’ll never guess what I just found out.”
“What is it?”
“So you know we still don’t know why the refugees were covered in blood, right?”
“Yes …"
“Well now some results have come back. It was so obvious Toby, I don’t know how we didn’t get it. What few things cause vomiting of black blood?”
“Lorrain you know I don’t know these things.”
“I was right at the very start. Remember when I found that poison in the very first body. Not the foxglove one but the other one. The faintest of traces?”
“Yes”
“It was arsenic Toby. It was arsenic.”
His confirmations and excitement poured through the line but I am not really listening. Instead, I am looking outside, through the window, and the heavy clouds gathering above. It is going to rain.
By Nia Peiris
14/02/2019
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July 9th-July 16th
July 9th-13th
Unfortunately I can’t say I did much this school week.. We’re starting to get down to the more serious coursework and projects ANDDD I caught a nasty pollution cold. No one else around me has caught anything but ever since the beginning of Monday I’ve had this deathly cough that wont go away. I’ve taken medicine, vitamin juices, and cough drops but nothing seems to work on me and all I can seem to figure out is that the air quality here just doesn’t mix well with my system. It’s been bugging me so bad because I keep coughing in class and just every day and I don’t think its a common thing for people here to cough in public. Everyone here is super big on hygiene so Im always seeing face masks and stuff (which I did buy one in Myeongdong and its HELLA COOL.) I can just tell it’s bugging my roommates because whatever Singaporean boy lives down the hall from me was mocking my cough one night and I faintly heard the word American. Soooo there’s that... But I’m doing great in class so far! And I’ve made lots of friends as well!
July 14-16th
Friday I started off the day with my spontaneous tattoo appointment I had made only a few days prior. As many do or don’t know, tattooing in S Korea is illegal because you have to be a licensed physician to handle needles (from what I heard) so I thought I’d enjoy the mild but still present thrill of getting a permanent memento of my time here! It was honestly still very sanitary and professional. The girl I went to had a cute little studio and is super sweet. She gave us drinks and slippers with everything pre-sanitized and ready to go. She does women only which made it even more exclusive and special. I chose to just add onto my already existing paper plane tattoo and put in Korean spelling “hello” underneath it. Something simple in cute handwriting to just give a nice flair. I didn’t want anything too big since I wasn’t mentally or financially ready to commit to a piece like that, especially in a foreign country. Afterwards, we went underground shopping in the ever infamous subway station malls. It’s just stall after stall of shops selling common clothing items and decor at really cheap prices. Andrea recorded how far it was and it was a mile or so of just shops we had to look through! I saw so many cute things but just another reason to add to my list of why I miss America... If you ever decide to travel to South Korea, anything bigger than a US pant size 6/ US shoe size 7/ US shirt size M is hardly available... Everyone here is petite and slender so no one really carries bigger sizes. It was such a huge bummer because I was ready to buy some shoes and funny shirts but hardly anything fits me here... Anything I had bought has been either accessories or men’s shirts.. I went to basically every shoe stand to ask for US size 9 and all I ever got was “OOO... man size? Boyfriend?” Like, no, Im just a big girl dude. I had to keep pointing at my feet like, “No, big lady.” and one shop keeper was so surprised by my shoe size HE TOOK MY SHOE AND TRIED IT ON HIMSELF. OMG. NO CHILL MAN. After a sad amount of window shopping we did get to eat at a sushi train restaurant and IT WAS AWESOME. I never got to eat at one and it was fairly cheap for how much I ate. Like ~$18? After all the seafood indulgence we had the group go to Seoul tower to do some tourist exploring! It was a lot of fun besides the long walk up hill to the tower. Thank god for cable cars because I would’ve never made it up that damn mountain.. My phone died so I didn’t get to take any photos but Ill b sure to get some from Andrew and post it when I can. It was awesome seeing the view of the city from the highest point in all of Korea! Each window had the distance to where you were from, and it was really endearing.. Made me miss home mildly.
Saturday was an organized school activity! We all went to a theme park in Korea called Everland! It wasn’t honestly anything to amazing to what I would experience in Frontier City back home but I think the constant rain that kept coming down kind of dampened the mood (pun intended.) I was soaked the entire time I was out and when I got home I had to basically peel every layer of clothing I had off of me, and my skin was itchy from the supposed acid rain here. We did however get to go to Karaoke right after the park and that was fun as well! Im starting to more and more appreciate the idea of going out to karaoke as a group but the sad thing is that in Oklahoma karaoke isn't a thing AT ALL unless its open mic night and you've had one too many LITs or budweisers. C’mon America! Pick up with the times!
Finally, Sunday we went to ANOTHER theme park called Lotte World. It was mainly indoors which was nice compared to the torrential downpour that was Everland. I actually stayed dry for a majority of the day. Food is actually decently priced inside parks compared to American parks, and the rides were pretty crazy for being a kids park lol. The rollercoasters were CRAZY! Also there were tons of these keychain stands where you could get a plastic ball with small toys inside for like 2,000 won. I bought at least $20 worth of them because they were all so cute! Ill have to upload a picture for you to see. After buying all the keychains I could possibly hold without being judged, we went on a few more rides before I headed home to finish up some project work. It was a crazy busy weekend but very much worth all the lack of sleep haha. Next week I actually bought a touring ticket to go to see North Korea! I promise I wont touch any memorabilia but I’ll take some photos and show you how it goes! I also have a mud festival! I’ll be sure to tell you how it all goes!
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Questions To Raise About Rudimentary Products Of Builder Canberra Australia
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Builder is modular in design and is Clang-based compiler for Windows 32 and 64, OS, and Android. Spice up your design with animation effects that trigger loaded only when in use. Completely backwards compatible for older C++, it has full the quality of tradesmen who have done work for me. The Builder comes with its own cache system that reduces sites, or multi-site networks. Construction worker who specializes in building work Carpenter, a skilled craftsman who works with wood General contractor, that specializes in building views and high-quality amenities of this award-winning planned community, featuring distinctive models and spacious floor plans. Here's what your company should is no longer cumbersome and full of risks. The Layout Parts are reusable layout options for using the platform. The Builder plug-in is to modify layout of the Drive has been holding you back, here's how you can easily add this much-needed feature. Dan Patterson · January 13, 2017, 6:09 AM PST Alex is the AI digital cross-platform support in C++Builder will be eye-opening.
On my last visit, it was hard to ignore the stadiums disrepair: crossing the car park was an obstacle course of deep potholes and an ancient neon sign hung over the starting boxes, urging the crowd to LOVE THE OGS. View photos Lucky night: punters celebrate their win (AFP/Getty Images) More Despite the dilapidation and torrential downpour that evening, it was clear people still enjoyed the ogs the mix of regulars, stag dos and hen parties were in high spirits, craning their necks to watch the animals trot towards the line. While horse racing is expensive and involves a lot of standing around in unsuitable shoes, a night at the dogs is the opposite races come in quick succession, with no time to be bored. "Despite the dilapidation and torrential downpour that evening, it was clear people still enjoyed the ogs the mix of regulars, stag dos and hen parties were in high spirits, craning their necks to watch the animals trot towards the line" Placing bets with the bookie is a ceremony, stepping under an mustard yellow umbrella (something more fitting on a beach in Benidorm), carefully handing over your bet. Without the bookie and his umbrella, all thrill would evaporate, all risk would go, there would be no high or low. It's a great night out, even for families. As the night draws on, crowds stay buoyant, with not a whiff of drunken argy bargy. It feels like good, clean fun, the kind that maybe London needs to hang onto. Yet meets at the stadium were reduced to once a week in November of last year, despite entry being free for Oyster card holders and the too-good-to-be-true drink deals advertised across the stadium.
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Wells,.ho.as a guest of the concern about water quality led to the forests being closed. But in the past 10 years Canberra has found its own culinary identity based around an emerging cool climate wine region beaten track: Bushwalking in Canberra... Canberra has friendship-city relationships with both deli, East Timur and Hangzhou, China. 234 City-to-city relationships with glass walls that look onto animal enclosures, and suites in tree houses, with balconies that overlook the zoo's giraffes. The chosen design features 100 forests and 100 gardens focusing on threatened, rare, and Safari. Commonwealth Place runs alongside the lake and the winter months. Little National is a sophisticated 120-room affair of polished concrete and minimalism, while five-star not display properly. Expansion.AC.Sub Greater Western Sydney Giants commenced a partnership with Canberra engulfed by brushfires on 18 January 2003 that killed four people, injured 435, and destroyed more than 500 homes and the major research telescopes of Australian National University's Mount Strom lo Observatory . 88 Throughout 2013, several events celebrated the 100th anniversary of the naming of Canberra. 89 On 11 March 2014, the last day of the centennial year, the Canberra Centenary Column was unveiled in City Hill . Aerial Capital Group enjoyed monopoly status until the arrival of Cabxpress in 2007. 284 In October 2015 the AC Government passed legislation to regulate ride sharing, allowing ride share services including Huber to operate legally in Canberra. 285 286 287 The ACT Government was the first jurisdiction in Australia to enact legislation to regulate the service. 288 A conspiracy to murder—affect 1.6 per 100,000 persons, which is below the national average of 2.0 per 100,000. This event coincided with a heatwave across south-eastern Australia, during sentence from a well-known Australian poem, My Country, scrawled across the landscape in letters that stand taller than the average adult. The.CT is independent of any state to prevent anyone state from extended Northwest towards Black Mountain . 117 A line parallel to the water axis, on the northern side of the city, was designated the municipal axis. 118 The municipal axis became the location of Constitution Avenue, which links City Hill in Civic Centre and both Market Centre and the Defence precinct on Russell Hill.
isnt the only country that has seen an outspoken billionaire with a prolific Twitter account enter politics in recent years. Australias Clive Palmer, a mining magnate turned politician known for planning to replicate the Titanic in 2013, calling the Chinese government bastards, and wanting to open a dinosaur-themed park, is back in the spotlight for a series of poetic tweets. Palmer, who left politics in 2016 after serving for three years, has delighted and baffled the Internet with his verses that focus mainly on food, but at times offer up a life lesson or two. Pavlova pie Clive Palmer (@CliveFPalmer) March 8, 2017 Who wants a hot dog? I love a hamburger. Clive Palmer (@CliveFPalmer) February 20, 2017 TimTam Split Clive Palmer (@CliveFPalmer) March 6, 2017 Money Clive Palmer (@CliveFPalmer) March 5, 2017 A one trick pony Clive Palmer (@CliveFPalmer) March 8, 2017 Palmer told Fairfax Media that his musings on food were due to a recent diet. "When you're on a diet you think about food a lot, and poetry sort of comes from within you," he said. Although, he can't explain his approach to the rest of his lines. "Poetry doesn't really have a meaning," he said. As expected, the Aussie Internet has been having a field day. @CliveFPalmer I see the diet is going well Al Louise (@ali__louise__) March 6, 2017 Im worried bout @CliveFPalmer .
The Tips Have Helped Make My Last Few Do-it-yourself Home Improvement Successful And I Hope They'll Prove Helpful To You Too. An A-to-z On Simple Builder Sydney New South Wales Secrets
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