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btsinwonderland · 3 years

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A Drop of Poison - Ch. 1: The Beginning

A Loki fanfiction!

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It’s your third week back in school and you're slumped over a tower of textbooks as some kind of makeshift pillow. Your head rests on the 394th page of “The Dream Oracle” where you’ve begun to drool. You raise a hand to wipe it away, which takes up nearly as much energy as trying to stay awake.

It was cold in the dark.

Chills ran up your arms, from your fingertips to your neck as you floated through the darkness. It was frightening the first few times you dreamt of it but now it was familiar. The cavern formed slowly as your eyes adjusted to the minimal light emitted by a fire below you. Small sticks and papers created a meager flame which reflected off the black pool of water you looked into. You always wondered who made the fire, but there was never anyone there.

In the centre of the cavern was a small lake, its ripples moved like serpents. On queue, your body flew over to the middle of the lake and dove in. You swam - more like sunk - to the bottom. It may have enveloped you in utter darkness, but you saw the glow. The bluish light of the object drew you in like a moth to a flame and you reached out for it. Once again, you were thrown out of the lake just as you were about to touch it.

You looked around at the empty cavern and noticed the shadows moving. This was new. Usually, you woke up as soon as the lake threw you out.

Near the shore, by a dangerous jut of rock, there was a man. He was tall, with raven black hair and a proud nose. His expression was one of wonder and fear. There was a green light that emerged from his hands and he waved this light in front of him and beside him, almost erratically, as if he was warning someone - or something - to stay away.

“Don’t come near me!” he shouted. It echoed through the cavern.

You came closer and recoiled at what he was speaking to. Every dark shadow was, in fact, a body. The green light that the man emitted showed their decaying, pale faces. These bodies moved towards him. Not a sound, but each expression was contorted painfully. Their bony hands reached out to him, and he threw a green ball of fire at them. Some flew backwards into the lake, but there were so many.

They surrounded him. You saw him put up the fight of his life, and yet they came closer still. Until he had nowhere to run. You reached out to try to help him, but your body was already being pulled away. The last thing you heard was him scream your name, “Freya!”

Hands slapped onto the desk, and your head bounced on the pages.

“My god, have you been sleeping here this whole time?” An annoyingly familiar voice said. “You wouldn’t believe it! They’re finally getting a replacement for Professor Rattowl.”

It took several seconds for you to remember where you were. You lifted your head and look into a pair of inquisitive brown eyes and an aloof expression.

Her hair was braided on the sides and drawn into a high ponytail. Her robes were wrinkled as usual. “Valkyrie, how did you find me in the Hufflepuff common room? I specifically told Thomas to throw you off.” Your voice was thick with sleep.

Valkyrie snorted. “Thomas is a fool for a flirty conversation. You’d think that boy had never had a wank before…”

The memory of the dream hit you, and your heart sank. “Valkyrie, I saw something.”

She glanced at you and then to the wall of the hallway. A long shadow approached swiftly. “Oh shit, the prefect!”

“Quick! Hide!” You said to Valkyrie, pointing her to the coat closet.

A gleaming head of blonde hair turned around the corner and walked towards you. His eyebrows were raised, and he adjusted his rectangular glasses, glaring at you. You tried not to look guilty.

“Eves, what are you doing? This is a quiet area, and I heard voices.” he walked around your desk, looking around suspiciously.

“I must have fallen asleep. I had a poor sleep last night so…”

“Hmmm,” he said, walking near the coat closet.

You held your breath as he reached for the brass door handle. “You know we don’t allow any other houses in our quarters, Eves.”

“Of course.”

He turned to you, reaching away from the handle. “Then you also should know we don’t condone dirtying the sacred pages of our texts,” he said, gesturing at your books with a frown. “Clean this up and head to the Great Hall. Headmistress Frigga has announcements to make.”

He left, adjusting his glasses again but with his shoulders straightened out as if he had done a good job. You wondered if he would pat himself in the back afterwards.

Valkyrie all but crashed out of the closet and mocked Gerald. “Sacred texts! What a prat.”

You chuckled as she took a chair beside you. “Sacred or not, this damned thing cost me twenty galleons!” You wiped the drool away with the sleeve of your robe. The inside was a warm yellow. You glanced at Valkyrie. “How do you keep sneaking into our common room?”

She winked at you with a mischievous smile. “I have my ways, my sweet innocent Hufflepuff darling,” she said, reaching out and patting you on the head. “I wouldn’t dare want to corrupt your purity with treasonous talk.”

You punched her in the arm. “You are a jock in the land of intellectuals,” you said with a smirk, glancing at her red and gold tie.

She linked her arm through yours and dragged you away from the desk. “Alright alright, miss intellectual, now that you’ve stopped drooling, let’s go eat.”

***

The great hall was washed in the warm light of the candles that hung beautifully in the air above you. It was a sight that had never ceased to amaze you, no matter how many times you saw it. The flames flickered in a soft dance. You followed the path of candles over to the head table where all your professors sat.

Professor Odinson was there, with his chiseled youthful face that made all the ladies, Valkyrie in particular, swoon. He was a handsome man, though he did not occupy your thoughts as often as he did for others. Beside him was Professor Sif, laughing humorously at something Professor Odinson said. Then there was Professor Fandral nodding and smiling at Professor Hogun - whom you guessed was discussing the riveting growth cycles of the mandrake.

Headmistress Frigga was in the middle, in her silvery blue robes with sequins sewn into intricate patterns. Her aura was one of a Queen, with a gentle and kind face. On her one side there was an empty seat and on the other side was Heimdall, the divination professor, with whom she was in a deep discussion with. His sunset coloured eyes drifted around the room before settling on you. He always knew. You smiled back and waved at him. He nodded, though his expression was strained, perhaps even troubled.

For a moment you wondered if he knew what you had dreamed. Heimdall was one of the greatest seers of your time, and you happened to be his favourite student. He already knew of your repetitive dreams regarding the cavern, but you needed to tell him about the strange development - and the mysterious man you saw. Most of the time your dreams were fuzzy, but you remembered his face with an aggressive lucidity. Blue eyes that reflected the green magic in his hands before they disappeared into darkness remained on your mind. You took a deep breath and pushed it away.

“Did they already do the first years?” You said aloud to your table.

Mo, a fellow seventh year Hufflepuff, nodded. “Yep, and I guessed about 25/30, not bad, eh?”

You smiled at him and turned around to Valkyrie, who was right behind you, seated at the Gryffindor table. She winked at you when delicious food marvellously populated the table and you all tucked in. She filled her plate and then roughly rocked Mo to the side and sat down beside you.

“What were you saying about Rattowl?” You said, biting into a chicken hand pie. The rich flavour of creamy peas and carrots filled your mouth, and you reveled in it for a brief moment.

Valkyrie had half a mouthful of sausage and chewed loudly. “Well, it’s been what? A month since he croaked?”

A Hufflpuff girl across from you both, Nila, balked at Valkyrie. “How can you say that? He was...killed.” She could barely say the last word.

Valkyrie gave her a look. “What? It don’t make no difference, does it?”

Nila huffed indignantly. Mo interjected. “Well, it’s not every day a professor disappears for three weeks, only to be found ripped apart in the Forbidden Forest.”

You all wrinkled your noses in a few seconds of awkward silence. He was right. It was a bizarre and terrible thing to have happened. You had no love for Professor Rattowl. He was a cranky old man with awful manners, but he did not deserve such a fate.

Valkyrie said, “Well I heard that the Headmistress’s son is going to be the new potions teacher.”

You raised your brows. “Professor Odinson has a brother?”

Valkyrie’s eyes lit up at the mention of him. “If there are two Thor Odinson’s, then I will die this very moment.”

You, Mo, and Nila rolled your eyes at her when the doors crashed open in an echoing sound. All the chatter in the Great Hall was silenced when a lean and tall figure in a black cloak strolled into the room. His languid pace revealed a streak of arrogance - or confidence - as he walked down the hall, towards the head table. He walked between the Gryffindor and Hufflepuff tables and slowly removed his hood.

You audibly gasped when you saw the raven haired man with his high cheekbones and proud nose. His blue eyes snapped towards you, and you felt your face heat up in seconds. He kept his eyes on you briefly before looking back at the head table. You breathed again once he was well past you.

Valkyrie looked at you questioningly. She whispered, “what’s going on?”

You could not take your eyes off of him and whispered back, “later.”

Everybody at the table rose, and Headmistress Frigga spoke with her wand pointed at her neck. “We will never forget our dear Professor Hubert Rattowl and the legacy he leaves here. The tragedy of his passing will remain a bitter memory in the long colourful history of Hogwarts. It has been a terrible time trying to fill this role, and our surprise guest has been gracious enough to accept our invitation. Professor Loki Laufeyson’s entrance may give you a taste into his exciting curriculum as the new Potions Master.” She gave him a warm smile.

He walked over to his seat and placed his hands on the table to look out at the students. There was something both inviting and dangerous about him. You could not look away.

He smiled widely and raised his hands. “Your potions saviour is here!”

The students clapped and eventually broke into applause. The Slytherin table was particularly ecstatic. There was no mistaking what house he belonged to. He looked at every table with a wide grin, a mischievous gleam in his eyes. They rested on you and your heart stopped. They flickered away, and he moved on before sitting down as the Headmistress continued her announcements.

Your hands were still clasped together in mid clap as you looked at the same man that was in your dream. His screams echoed in your mind and you wondered if this was all a nightmare. Regardless, it was going to be an interesting semester.

#loki #loki x reader #loki fics #loki (marvel)#loki fanfiction #loki imagine #loki series #mcu loki #loki of asgard #loki odinson #loki laufeyson #loki layfeyson x reader #hogwarts au #thor odinson #valkyrie #Professor Loki #loki moodboard #loki of hogwarts #norse mythology

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riverdale-retread · 3 years

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Riverdale S5 E12 (Jaime/Hiram) - 5 Things I loved/ 3 Things to consider

5 Things I loved

1. The music selections for the Jaime to Hiram transitions were delirious and filled me with joy. I admit up front I’ve never heard any of these songs before, so if they turn out to be a horrible kind of misappropriation or desecration or something I will feel bad. In any case - Riverdale commits to giving you a dose of the surreal every episode. The difficulty with doing that in this episode is that the stories being told in it are unusually straightforward, even staid, for Riverdale. So they went to town with the sound track.

There’s a song (Demolicion by the band Narco) that sounds like it’s being sung by the Tasmanian Devil from Looney Toons on a bender - it’s just rawararwrarawrar. All these songs about Hiram ‘being bad’ and mentioning the ‘devil’ are so on the nose that the nose gets broken and pushed right into the skull (the title of the song is literally Devil Devil).

2. I love that Hermione Gomez wears huge 80s glasses that completely overwhelm her little face and yet Jaime hits on her and thinks the world of her. It helps to have that face, I grant you, but as someone who took the Dorothy Parker quote, Men seldom make passes at girls who wear glasses, very very personally back in the day, I LOVE that Jaime/Hiram has no such qualms. Did everyone notice the bust of Nefertiti that’s positioned right behind Hermione the whole time Hiram is successfully asking her out? I did and it cracked me up.

3. I loved that nothing in this story about Jaime Luna makes Hiram Lodge even a little bit sympathetic to me. Hiram is an out and out villain, and I love that. I’ve been sick of villain backstory narratives that are like, Bad Things Happened To This Man So We Must Identify With His Homicidal Impulses that keep coming out, but this episode didn’t do that.

a) Hiram is in so many ways a textbook abusive husband, and the only thing that distinguishes him from the more stereotypical abuser is that he doesn’t actually punch his victim (he just shoots at her using other people’s guns). Abusers blame their victims for ‘causing’ them to commit abuse. The same is true here. The story that Hiram tells Reggie about his life pretends to be about his father, but is actually all about the fact that it’s Hermione’s fault that he’s a gangster. She’s the one who likes the fancy clothes and the fancy car, the one who names him Hiram Lodge, the one who is turned on by Hiram working for gangsters, the one that goes to the gangsters (rather than his father or her mother or any other adult) to get Hiram out of jail. It’s all her fault and she owes him. This is in addition to his usual, You’re my wife and I own you.

I am right back to being very worried about Hermione.

b) Hiram pretends to be giving ‘life advice’ about fathers and sons to Reggie. Hiram has direct knowledge that Marty Mantle is a piece of shit, and that Reggie has a very trouble relationship with him, and that Marty absolutely does not respect Reggie at all whatsoever (“Reggie is a fool.”) Hiram uses Reggie and then ditches him when he’s done. Hiram makes Reggie an accessory to murder, which nets nobody anything at this point other than Hiram’s own blood lust - and possibly tying up loose ends because Vito is someone who can correct this yarn that Hiram is spinning about his origin - then breaks his heart. Marty Mantle is not only a dad who beat his son - he’s a dad that does not ask his son “Where did you get the money” when the son pays off a huge debt to a known criminal, and is only relieved that he’s no longer on the hook. He also tellingly asks Reggie, “That’s what you got from my story?” indicating that this is a story rather than a testimony.

4. I loved the very anti-straight men commentary the show keeps sneaking in. Like, straight marriage is the worst, especially the ones that produce biological offspring, according to Riverdale. Marty Mantle absolutely despises sex. He’s a guy who sells sexy cars to other guys for a living, and yet he hates talking about getting laid in one. He hates his beautiful sensual son, too, for being sexually successful and comfortable in his body. Both Reggie (described by the gay-bi Fangs as “very straight” even after kissing him) and Hiram (who is basically a Hermione-sexual at this point) have comically fetishistic relationships with cars and shoes, lovingly wiping down these objects at the start of each day. All the straight men say the word “shame” several times -I’m ashamed of you/ I feel shame/ so ashamed/ shame.

5. I continue to adore “I am not in high school any more” Reggie Mantle. Growing up to be a slightly sleazy car salesman is the one of the few character developments for Grown Riverdale that both makes sense and isn’t depressing. Core Four, Cheryl and Polly are all extremely depressing and supportable with logic. Toni and Fangs make out OK but they were also underdeveloped in the first four seasons. (I am too upset to talk about Sweet Pea). I was moved by his tearing up while very quietly confronting his father, and I was moved by his boyish attempt at trying to show his new boss that he’s not just the muscle. Oh and he’s so beautiful, did I say that already? There’s so much face in Reggie’s face - strong brows, deep set eyes, those cheekbones, that jawline, that MOUTH.

Three Things to Think About

a. Why is Jughead narrating this? Jughead is unusually wrong about a lot of things in his opening narration, and I assume this is intentional. Jughead seems to use the words hero and protagonist interchangeably, and also I guess hasn’t seen Joker because most villains and antiheros also always get their origin stories too. (There’s a theory that what we’re watching is the Betty Cooper serial killer origin story, for example). Has Jughead not watched “Citizen Kane” because he asks “What is his rosebud?” about Hiram, BUT WE ARE NOT TOLD. Jughead sounds jealous of Reggie, frankly, and he’s wrong when he says Hiram collects lost souls. What OTHER lost souls does Hiram have near him? And who the heck is S5 Jughead Jones calling LOST?

b. What Reggie really wants to do - and possibly also Hiram - is to wear a suit and carry a briefcase. It’s just very White Collar Aspirant that isn’t fully explored. Like, how the 50 shades of grey movie was really about sitting in a board room negotiating a contract and having pretty women in suits bring you tea - that was the erotic highlight of that movie. We live in capitalism, so getting to use the accoutrement of the Wall St capitalist is the true fantasy.

c. The point of this episode that the show is making to the viewer is this: A straightforward narrative, where gangsters act like gangsters, and fathers and sons have realistic misunderstandings and conflicts, is something we’re capable of doing. We just don’t want to.

#riverdale s5 #riverdale positivity #riverdale review #i did very much like the stuntcasting of making the Hiram actor's son play the young Hiram #i guess they had to do it but using hermione's original actress to play her mom does NOT work #that lady looks 100% front desk and not even a little bit housekeeping #this was a brazen fail of bechdel test for riverdale which doesn't do that great to begin with #ready for some high octane creativity and craziness from riverdale soon #SPOILERS #Hiram lodge #reggie Mantle #marty Mantle #hermione lodge

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shireness-says · 3 years

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The Set-Up Scam

Summary: They’ve always been friends first and foremost - Emma and Killian, Killian and Emma - until suddenly, they’re something a little more too. But with a $600 betting pool on the line about when they’ll actually get together - well, maybe there’s incentive to keep the good news a secret. ~5.5k. Rated T for language. Also on Ao3.

~~~~~

A/N: Merry Christmas, @nevertothethird! I was delighted to be your pair for @cssecretsanta2020. It’s been wonderful chatting with you, and I look forward to a full stalking. ;)

You said you liked secret dating, friends to lovers, and characters being forced to work together - so I, like a fool, tried to include all three. I hope you like the result!

Special thanks, as always, to my beta, @snidgetsafan - the greatest treasure under any tree.

Tagging: @ohmightydevviepuu, @welllpthisishappening, @thisonesatellite, @let-it-raines, @kmomof4, @scientificapricot, @thejollyroger-writer, @superchocovian, @teamhook, @optomisticgirl, @winterbaby89, @searchingwardrobes, @katie-dub, @snowbellewells, @spartanguard, @phiralovesloki, @profdanglaisstuff

Enjoy - and let me know what you think!

~~~~~

They’re friends, first and foremost. Best friends, really - Killian and Emma, Emma and Killian. Partners in crime and two peas in a pod and every other cliché there is (and Killian would definitely know all of them). It’s been that way since the very beginning, when Killian let her peek at his attendance quiz answers in that awful intro to astronomy class in college. Their relationship had grown from there: late nights in the library and each others’ dorm rooms, studying or watching movies or chatting, all the way through graduation and eventually grad school. They get each other in a way that usually doesn’t happen for Emma, both coming from rough backgrounds and determined to make the world a better place because of it. Hell, they even work together now at Misthaven County Middle School - Killian as an English teacher, and Emma as a guidance counselor.

And all that time, it’s been strictly platonic.

It’s not like Emma hasn’t looked. He’s an objectively good looking man, and smart and sweet and funny. But he’d been in some “it’s complicated” situation with a grad student when they’d met, and then Emma was in that weird period where she and Graham gave it a shot, and by the time they were both available… well, by that time, they’d been Emma and Killian. Killian and Emma. A collective, a pair, absolutely entwined every way but romantically. He’d become her person, and it wasn’t worth risking that. There was no guarantee a romantic relationship would work out, anyways - or that Killian felt the attraction too.

The thing, though, is that they’re Emma and Killian. Killian and Emma. Always together, always in each other’s stories, two birds of a feather. People constantly think that they’re together - or should be.

Emma doesn’t really mind, most of the time. She and Killian usually think it’s pretty funny, trading stories back and forth on his or her couch. Where it gets annoying is when each and every one of their friends are determined they should be dating. It’s been years of meaningful looks and hints about “so why aren’t you seeing anyone, Emma?” - but the last straw is the stupid, stupid bet.

“I just don’ unnerstand why you and Killian aren’t a couple!” slurs Mary Margaret, assistant principal and friend, at her yearly end-of-summer bash. “You’re ovviously in loooooooooove.”

“Sure we are, Mary Margaret,” Emma placates.

“But why haven’t you yet?” she demands. “You made me lose the pool!”

That draws Emma up short. “I’m sorry, what?”

The little pixie-haired brunette frowns. “Don’t you know? We’ve had a betting pool going for ages about when you’d get together this year. I thought for sure it’d be the Fourth of July.”

It’s a good guess, actually - Ruby throws a famously boozy bash every year at her grandmother’s diner, conveniently situated right below the inn. It’d make sense for them to get drunk and take things upstairs - except for the fact that none of this is rooted in sense in any way, shape, or form.

“That obviously didn’t happen,” Mary Margaret frowns sorrowfully, staring down into her plastic cup full of god-knows-what. It doesn’t last long, though, as she perks right back up. “But they let me make a new guess! I’ve got my money on the Friday after your birthday.”

“How much money are we talking here?” Emma can’t help but ask. It’s like a compulsion, one she doesn’t like or understand.

“Five hundred and fifty dollars.” At least that’s what she thinks Mary Margaret says; the slurring gets particularly bad on the f-sounds. It’s an astounding sum. Truly stupid.

Kind of tempting.

“And everyone bet that it would happen this year?” she makes sure to clarify.

“Yup!” Mary Margaret pops the p-sound and then giggles to herself about the noise.

“Then I’m putting fifty dollars on it not happening this year. That Killian and I won’t get together.”

———

She means it at the time, too. Because yeah, there’s sometimes that niggling little what if?, but they’ve known each other for eight years. Emma and Killian. Killian and Emma. It’s not going to happen - honestly she’s not even sure she would want it to.

Until.

It’s not the Friday after her birthday, when they’re all going to hit the bar, but it’s the night before her birthday - a Tuesday. Killian comes over to grade vocab quizzes and eat greasy pizza, and stays to drink beer and watch stupid baking shows with her on the couch. Honestly, in so many ways, it’s a night like any other: two friends, just enjoying each other’s company.

Until.

Maybe it’s the beers. Maybe something’s been building for longer than she ever thought. Maybe it’s just that they’re both feeling good and, well, it is her birthday. But Killian kisses her - or she kisses Killian - they kiss each other and it’s like something slots into place. Like of course this was going to happen - they were just waiting for the perfect moment. It makes sense, in a way that Emma hasn’t let herself think about; he’s the person she trusts most, the best man she knows, probably the most important person in her life. Her best friend - and, probably, something more.

“That was…” he gasps, some indeterminable amount of time later. Somehow, he’s wound up on top of her on the couch - not that she’s complaining.

“Only the beginning,” Emma completes, smirking in a way she definitely picked up from him.

Now that this has started, she has no intention of stopping.

———

“Ok, don’t kill me - or, like, run away immediately - but I need a favor. A huge one,” Emma says much later, both of them naked and sated beneath her sheets.

Killian laughs beside her, peering up from the pillows with a smile. “After that, darling, I’m predisposed to give you just about anything you want.”

“And I’ll give it to you again,” she quips back, mostly to make him keep laughing. It works. “But seriously. Did you know that everyone’s got a bet going on us?”

That pops his head up. “I’m sorry, a bet? I… What? Who?”

“Seems like pretty much everyone. Ruby, Mary Margaret, David, Robin, Belle… I could go on and on. A six hundred dollar pool on when we get together.”

“Typical,” Killian mutters - though Emma catches a fond note in his tone. “Who’s the lucky winner, then?”

“Ok, this is where the favor comes in.” Hopefully this isn’t a breaking point for him; Emma would hate to have this taste of them, only to have it ripped away from her. “See, Mary Margaret told me about this when she got trashed at the back to school party, and I’d had a few too and was all hopped up on righteous fury or whatever, and I kind of… put fifty dollars in the pot that we wouldn’t get together this year at all.”

Killian stares at her for a moment, and Emma’s frankly scared that he’s going to get out of bed and go - but instead, he bursts into a near-hysterical cackle. “So you want to keep this a secret until the new year, so you can win the pot?”

Emma grins, knowing she must look like the cat that ate the canary (or however that weird-ass saying goes - again, English is Killian’s thing). “Exactly. We could spend it on a weekend getaway or something.”

“I’m in, then. Under the radar.”

“It’s just two months and change,” Emma says. “It’ll speed by. How hard can it be?”

———

Turns out - their friends are determined to make it as hard as possible. Even if they don’t know it.

Things are fine, at first. In fact, nothing really changes: Emma and Killian still show up at each others’ doors most nights, and Killian comes to hang out and grade papers in her office during his free periods most days. It’s just that their evenings are now filled with kisses and touches, and those afternoons in her office with all kinds of promises of things to come. It’s thrilling, in a way, to put on the front of normality for everyone else while only they know the truth. It’s nice, too, to be able to get their feet underneath them in this relationship without so many prying eyes watching them figure it all out.

Just because they don’t know, though, doesn’t mean their friends stop trying. There’s a bet on the line, after all, and their friends have never exactly been ones to step back and let things naturally run their course. Not for those busybodies; not with six hundred dollars and Emma and Killian’s supposed happiness on the line.

(The fact that they’re right - that the two of them really are happiest together - is irrelevant.)

David, of all people, is the first to start meddling.

“Do you guys want to get dinner?” he asks out of the blue one day - calls Emma up on her phone and everything. “You and Killian and me and Mary Margaret, I mean.”

Emma’s antenna raises immediately. “What, like a double date? C’mon, David —”

“No! No,” he says hastily - a little too hastily, Emma thinks. “No, a cousin of mine - Kris, you’ve met him - he’s opening up his own restaurant. Some place with Scandinavian food, I guess?”

“That’s actually a thing?”

“I guess. I don’t know, he studied abroad in Norway in college. Anyways, he could use a little business, support or whatever, so Mary Margaret and I figured we’d bring some extra people along. You know, help him out. And maybe Scandinavian food is good after all.”

“Yeah, maybe.”

The line sits silent for a moment, before David breaks. “So… you in?”

And as much as Emma suspects this is all some elaborate set-up - well, it’s supposed to be to help someone else. David’s cousin, who she has in fact met and is really a good guy. And so she reluctantly agrees. “Yeah, I’m in. One of us will have to check with Killian if he’s available —”

“What, he’s not right there with you?”

(He is, his lips kiss-swollen and pulled into a delicious smirk, but that’s not the point and none of David’s business.)

“ — but yeah, I’m down.”

In the week between the call and the dinner, Emma actually finds herself starting to look forward to it. Yeah, it won’t be a real date - not with David and Mary Margaret there - but it’s still a chance to wear a pretty dress that’ll make Killian’s eyes bug a little. She’ll have to pick something he’ll have fun taking off of her later, once they’ve pretended to go back to their own homes.

Emma’s just pulling into the parking lot, however, when her phone rings, David’s name popping up on the screen.

“We’re not going to make it tonight,” he says without preamble, followed by the most fake-ass cough Emma’s ever heard in her life. “We’re sick.”

“Yeah, sick off your own lies,” Emma mutters. “Alright, well, I guess we’ll go another time —”

“Oh no, I insist you guys still have dinner. You and Killian deserve to have a night off!”

“David, c’mon, don’t play dumb —”

He ignores her. “Besides, you’ll be doing me - and Kris - a huge favor. I already told him to charge whatever you guys get to me. Splurge a little, have dessert and a bottle of wine. It’s all on me.”

Killian climbs out of his own car as David pleads his case, cocking his head in confusion at the no doubt frustrated look on Emma’s face. He looks like he wants to kiss it better; Emma wishes he could actually do so.

“Fine,” she caves. “If you’re sure. But I’m running up the bill.”

“You say that like it’s a surprise.”

Emma takes particular glee in ending the call. She should have seen this coming. “Looks like David has come down with a possibly fatal cough, so he and Mary Margaret aren’t coming tonight,” she tells Killian, rolling her eyes. No need to resist that particular urge.

He snorts. “Ah, liar-itis. I thought he might be coming down with a case.”

“Complicated by meddler’s cough. Don’t forget that.”

“Of course not.” He dips down to capture her lips in a gentle, lingering kiss - another urge they don’t have to resist with none of their friends around to see it. “You look lovely tonight, Swan.”

She smirks back. “I know.”

“Of course you do,” he laughs. “I’m sure you wore that just to torment me through dinner. Now, shall we?”

“We shall.” Emma slips her hand through his offered arm. “Dinner’s on David, by the way.”

“I’d expect nothing less.”

———

“So, how was dinner?” David asks the next day, his cough mysteriously cleared up.

“Good,” Emma replies, knowing exactly what he’s digging for. “Your cousin’s got a good lingonberry cheesecake. Don’t worry, Killian and I totally ran up the bill. Kris has been well supported. You’re welcome.”

“And?” he demands.

Emma makes sure to play up her confusion. “And… what? It was a great dinner, might even go back if I ever have a date, and then I went home. Honestly, what did you expect to happen, David?”

Even through the phone, she can almost hear him audibly deflate. Something like a sigh, or perhaps the sound of his entire plan collapsing in on itself. Personally, Emma thinks it’s hilarious.

(It’s especially funny when she vividly remembers the way Killian had stripped her out of that dress, can still feel the scratch of his beard on her inner thighs.)

(But again - those are things that David doesn’t need to know.)

———

The set-ups multiply like rabbits, and Emma starts to notice her and Killian being forced into more and more situations together, just the two of them. Fuck only knows why they think these clumsy attempts will work; after all, Emma and Killian held out for 8 years of each other’s company before finally getting together (without anyone’s help, she might add). Still,

Trivia night is a weekly tradition for them all, down at the Rabbit Hole. Some weeks, the turnout is good; sometimes, not so much. They usually meet up at someone’s house and carpool from there because there’s not a ton of parking spots outside the bar, and it’s always worked well - two, maybe three cars instead of a half dozen or more. It’s a good time, and Emma always finds herself looking forward to Thursdays.

Tonight, they’ve met at Robin’s, Killian’s former roommate. It’s a good crowd tonight, too - Robin and his fiance Marian, Mary Margaret with David, Belle the librarian, Ruby and Mulan, even Graham and Lance and Tink. The gang’s all here, probably trying to let loose a bit before holiday obligations set in, and they’re raring to go - all twelve of them.

Emma hopes that it’s not planned - that there just happen to be two cars and then some worth of people here - but it’s more likely planned. Robin probably twisted their arms to come, just for this.

“Emma, would you mind checking the door one more time?” he calls as they congregate in the driveway. “I’m sure I locked it, but I’ve just got that niggling little feeling…”

“Sure, no problem.” And it isn’t - it’s checking the damn door. Except it’s actually winding down his stupidly picturesque front garden path to the front door, and then having to maneuver around the always-unlocked outer glass door to make sure that the real door is locked, and then maneuvering and winding and everything back… and by the time Emma makes it back, everyone’s already piled into Mary Margaret’s station wagon and Robin’s little SUV, even the middle seats everyone usually hates, leaving just the conniving man himself and Killian standing on the asphalt.

“Sorry, looks like the two of you will be riding together,” Robin says, not seeming remotely sorry. “This is convenient anyways! I know how much time you two spend together, if you decide that it’s easier to crash together afterwards… it wouldn’t be a problem for the extra car to stay here overnight.”

“Oh, I’m sure it wouldn’t be,” Emma grumbles. “I don’t suppose you have any underlying motive here, do you Robin? Say, to the tune of six hundred dollars?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about!” he responds cheerily. “I just really, really want you to know that you can keep your options open. And, you know, other euphemistic things if the urge moves you.”

Asshole.

(Emma does not leave her car at Robin’s overnight - but that doesn’t stop Killian from meeting her at her place afterwards.

“This euphemistic enough for you, love?” he teases as Emma pulls at his shirt, trying to tug the cotton tee over his head.

“How’s this for a euphemism: fuck me.”

“That’s not exactly how that word works, Swan.”

“I could not possibly give fewer shits about semantics than I do right now, Killian, unless it somehow relates to you getting your pants off.”

Somehow, even in the midst of their frantic stripping, he manages to laugh. “As you wish.”

She’s always preferred straight talking anyways.)

———

“Thank god I found you both!” Mary Margaret declares, bursting into Emma’s office a little too dramatically for her tastes. Until now, she and Killian had been having a wonderful lunch together, but that’s obviously a thing of the past now.

“That seems a little extreme for a Friday,” Killian comments mildly as he sets his cafeteria burger back down on the styrofoam tray. Personally, Emma thinks the cafeteria food is disgusting, but Killian’s got a real fondness for the cheeseburgers, and especially the french fries. No one’s perfect, she guesses. “What terrible impending tragedy can Emma or I save you from, Mary Margaret?”

“Kathryn’s father is in the hospital, so she and Fred can’t work their assigned booth at the Winter Carnival tomorrow.” Storybrooke County School District’s charity carnival is a tradition every winter - one Mary Margaret takes very seriously. Something that’s clearly about to come back and bite them all in the ass. “Would you two be able to cover tomorrow? You’d be doing me such a huge favor…”

Killian raises a single eyebrow as he turns to meet Emma’s eye - that eyebrow that always seems like a dare. “My schedule’s clear this weekend. Count me in. What do you say, Swan, think you can find room in your schedule to save Mary Margaret from the tragedy of all tragedies?”

Emma rolls her eyes at the way he’s putting it on thick, but truth be told, her only plans had been spending the day with Killian. Might as well. “Sure, what the hell,” she says, reaching for another bite of her microwave pizza. “I don’t have anything else going on.”

In retrospect, Emma realizes that Mary Margaret could have done something terrible with this - assigned them to the kissing booth or something. God, she hopes that there’s not a kissing booth at a middle school carnival, but it feels like just the kind of thing she’d pull. Thankfully, they’re set up at the ring toss game. It’s not strenuous in the least; they don’t even have to take money, just paper tickets. Really, the only questionable thing is that they’re crammed right together in the box formed between the booth walls and the counter and the table of bottles behind them. Maybe that’s something that would have bothered her a few weeks ago, back when they were Emma and Killian but not Emma and Killian. Now, it’s just an excuse to get right up in his space and enjoy all those little touches, right under everyone’s nose.

(Maybe, every time they have to duck under the counter to retrieve poorly-thrown rings, Killian takes the opportunity to steal a quick kiss while no one else can see. And maybe - just maybe - Emma uses those same opportunities to steal her own kisses right back.)

“Soooooo, how’s it going?” Mary Margaret chirps when she pops up out of nowhere mid-afternoon. It’s like she thinks she’ll find them making out in the middle of the carnival or something. Which… fair. The urge is there. But they’re professionals - and Emma wants that money, dammit. She’s not caving here.

“Just fine, Mare,” Emma replies. “Nothing worth reporting.”

“There’s not? You two are looking awfully cozy in there… nothing to report?”

“Well, you’re the one who set up the booths, so…”

“Aye, just making the best of it,” Killian helpfully adds.

Emma almost feels guilty about the way that Mary Margaret visibly deflates.

“You know this was another ridiculous set-up, right, love?” Killian asks once their friend has walked away. “She probably never even needed our help. It was all a ploy.”

“I see it now,” Emma sighs. “I had just weirdly hoped she’d be above all that bullshit.”

Killian quirks that eyebrow yet again. “Mary Margaret? Infamous meddler? Of course not. It’s cute that you thought that though, darling.”

“Oh, shut up.”

(“Mary Margaret told me to take the weekend off, that they’d over-scheduled,” Kathryn tells Emma later when she tries to ask how the other woman’s father is doing. “Was that not the case?”)

(Fucking figures.)

———

Ruby, frankly, is not a surprise. In fact, if there was one person Emma would figure would be pulling this bullshit, it’s Ruby. The girl’s too competitive for her own damn good - not to mention that mile-wide chaotic streak running through her soul.

“Pucker up!” she crows, thrusting what Emma assumes is a sprig of mistletoe over her and Killian’s heads. They’re at Ruby and Mulan’s place for… some party; it’s probably, maybe holiday themed, but Ruby’s never needed an excuse to throw a party. Anything to get them all drunk and laughing and forgetting about the stresses of the week.

“Are you fucking kidding me?” Emma demands. “Ruby, don’t be stupid. This isn’t college anymore.”

“Oh, like we ever did this in college,” Ruby scoffs with that devious twinkle in her eye. “Besides, college shenanigans are a state of mind. And I’m not giving that up. Now c’mon, no weaseling out of this.”

“It is the rules,” Mulan points out, appearing to slip her arm around Ruby’s waist and drop an affectionate - if slightly tipsy - kiss on her shoulder.

“Yeah, you hear that? Smart half says it’s the rules. So go ahead and pucker up and kiss him. And then go make out for a while and maybe bone each other so I can win the pool.”

Killian blushes a little bit at the phrasing - something that’s surprisingly cute on him, knowing how often he usually tosses around the innuendoes and exactly how dirty a mouth he has when they’re alone. Before Emma knows what he’s doing, he leans in to press a gentle kiss to her cheek, and then another, smacking one for good measure. “Who are we to deny the great, determined Ruby Lucas?” he proclaims grandly. “One kiss: delivered.”

Ruby’s face gets a bit mutinous; it’s the only word for that particular storm cloud, really. “No it isn’t! That’s cheating!”

“Eh. Technically, it was a kiss.” God bless Mulan for being the only one willing to go against Ruby when she’s got a plan; perks of being the girlfriend, Emma supposes.

“And more importantly, Rubes, that’s all you’re going to get from us.” And that’s Emma’s last word on the subject.

(“Happy Christmas, darling,” Killian whispers into her neck later once they’re back at her place, dangling his own sprig of mistletoe over their heads. “How about it? C’mon, give us a kiss.”

Emma is more than happy to comply.)

———

Emma wouldn’t say it’s common for her to get calls from the school librarian, Belle, but it’s not unusual either. So when Belle calls her up in mid-December, shortly before Christmas break, Emma doesn’t think twice about it.

“The new Scholastic catalogs are here,” Belle informs her. “I haven’t started sending them to classrooms yet, but if you want to take a look now…”

“I’ll be right there.” Yes, the catalogs are full of books for middle school students, but Emma still loves those things. They’re chock-full of nostalgia.

“I haven’t even taken them out of the box yet,” Belle explains when Emma meets her at the check-out desk. “They’re all still in the back room. Here, I’ll let you in.”

That should have been Emma’s clue here. Why would a box of new catalogs, just arrived in the mail, already be shoved into the storage closet? But Emma’s too excited about the prospect of those newsprint magazines to think about it. By the time Emma realizes there’s nothing in this little closet but printer paper and old yearbooks… Belle’s already closed and locked the door, trapping Emma inside.

So it’s yet another set up, most likely. It’s a good thing she’s not claustrophobic, at least.

Sure enough, not five minutes later, Emma can hear Killian’s voice outside the door.

“How many boxes did you say it was, Belle? I’m happy to help haul, but I’m just wondering if we should get a hand cart to assist.”

“Oh no, I’m sure it’ll be fine,” Belle’s voice responds. “Just a few trips for each of us. Right in here…”

And suddenly, Killian’s in the cramped little closet too, and the door is shut and latched behind them. Gee, what a surprise.

“Fancy meeting you here,” Emma comments dryly. Somehow, probably on some kind of ridiculous romantic instinct, Killian’s hands have already found their way to her hips. It’s nice, really, ignoring the circumstances.

His face is adorably confused, looking around the room and back to the door and then to Emma’s own face and all over again. “Did she just lock us in here?”

“Yeah, keep up, Jones,” Emma teases. “I assume another stupid set-up effort.”

That makes the confusion disperse alright, a smirk full of promise creeping across his face instead. “If that’s the case… we’ll just have to make the most of it.”

“Oh no you don’t,” she warns. “There’s a camera in here.”

“So? It’s not like she’s watching the monitors.”

“So, Belle recently started dating Will Scarlet in IT. You want to take the chance she locked us in here, and forgot to have her boyfriend monitor us?”

“Fuck,” Killian swears, dropping his head back in dramatic emphasis. “They’re really going overboard, aren’t they?”

“I’ll make it up to you later. I promise.”

Thirty minutes later, when Emma and Killian have done nothing but talk and try to find some little extra space in the crowded closet, Belle finally lets them out, just in time for the end of Killian’s free period.

“I’m sure you have no idea how that happened,” he comments, sarcasm dripping from every word.

“It’s just the weirdest thing,” Belle agrees.

Well, that’s one way of putting it.

(Emma makes it up to him, several times over, at her place that night, with a take-out pizza to boot.)

———

After what feels like an eternity, it’s finally here: New Year’s Eve. As long as they make it to midnight and the new year proper without anyone finding out, this whole ridiculous farce is over, and they can be the couple they’ve technically already been since October. Emma and Killian, Killian and Emma - but more than they had been before.

They’d spent Christmas together - not that that was anything unusual. With everyone else going to visit family, the two of them often spend the day together, eating take-out Chinese and watching holiday movies. Killian’s got a brother back in England that he makes sure to call, and some years Liam will fly over, but Killian usually saves his visits for summer vacation, when he can stay in whatever little English hamlet his brother calls home for weeks at a time. There’s always something nice about spending the holidays together, just the two of them, but it was extra special this year. Who knew Emma was the kind of girl who wanted to trade kisses under the Christmas tree between swapping gifts?

(Killian, apparently - but then again, he’s always claimed to know her better than she knows herself.)

“Just a few more hours,” he murmurs against her neck, twining his arms about her waist from behind as Emma carefully brushes on mascara. “Few more hours, and then it’s all in the open.”

“Thank god for that, too. After all the PDA we’ve gotten from certain people all these years, I’m looking forward to rubbing it in their faces a bit.”

They carpool to Mary Margaret and David’s, just like they do every year. It’s routine, really; Emma always crashes at Killian’s after the annual New Year’s Eve party so that someone is there to help her with the hangover in the morning. Killian makes better hashbrowns than anyone she knows - even Granny - and they always manage to pull her out of the worst of her misery. He’s good about taking care of her, too, with water and Advil and making sure to shut all the shades as tightly as possible. They even share a bed a lot of years; it’s just that tonight, Emma knows there will be a lot fewer clothes involved.

They drink. They eat. They mingle. Sometimes, they’re together, carefully not touching, and sometimes they drift apart. That’s how this party usually works, after all - and Emma is nothing if not committed to seeing this entire thing through, pretending nothing is different this year, that she and Killian definitely aren’t together. Nothing to see here, folks.

God, she’s so fucking lucky he didn’t cut and run once it became obvious just how much of a competitive lunatic Emma is.

Finally, though, it’s the moment - less than a minute left. Killian is already waiting for her by the patio doors, just like he promised. Emma is only too happy to wind her way over there, grinning when she finally finds herself in front of her boyfriend - about to be secret no longer. Behind them, the assembled drunken crowd loudly counts down the last seconds of the year. They keep their hands determinedly to themselves - just as agreed, so no one can try and claim anything happened before the strike of the new year - but Killian still looks at her with that twinkle in his eyes and wiggling eyebrows. It’s anticipation, and excitement, and a good bit of joy - knowing that soon, this will all be out in the open. No more keeping their hands to themselves.

“You ready for this, love?” he says just loud enough for her to hear as the clock hits ten seconds.

“Hell yeah,” she grins back - because she is. She so is. This has been a long time coming - years in the making, really - and you know what? The whole secrecy may have helped her wrap her head around the whole thing, as well as win her the pot, but she’s ready to take it public. Maybe rub it in everyone’s faces just how happy she is and how she did this on her own schedule. Why the hell not?

Cheers erupt all around them, and Emma’s grin stretches to something that almost hurts her face. Killian looks much the same. “Happy New Year, love,” he says, finally pulling her towards him by the hips. “I think it’ll be our best one yet.”

Fireworks are going on outside, lighting up the snow on the ground, but Emma can’t be bothered to pay attention - not when Killian attacks her lips with purpose, grinning happily into the kiss before she insistently deepens it, slipping her tongue into his mouth to play. It’s just another in a series of kisses, they know - but it’s more than that. It’s a display, in the best way, declaring them them.

Emma and Killian. Killian and Emma. A pair, a unit, a couple.

“HA!” shrieks someone across the room as their make-out finally gains attention. Emma thinks it might be Ruby - though, at this point, it might be Mary Margaret. Maybe both. It’s definitely Ruby who materializes just as Emma and Killian finally break apart with a laugh. “It’s about fucking time!”

“Yeah,” Emma agrees - something that seems to short-circuit Ruby’s brain for a moment, if that look on her face is anything to go by. “It really was. And you know what else?”

Ruby shakes her head mutely, that twist of her eyebrows demonstrating that she’s still trying to get her bearings about what the fuck is happening here.

“It’s the new year. That pot is mine.”

“That’s my girl,” Killian whispers in her ear.

Best. New Year’s. Ever.

———

On January 1st of the new year, Emma and Killian - Killian and Emma - they, them, a pair, a unit, a couple take their six hundred dollars in winnings and treat themselves to a goddamn massive lunch at Granny’s. Together. In public. Because they deserve it.

Grilled cheese has never tasted so good to Emma - especially the crumbs off the corners of Killian’s lips.

#csss20 #cssecretsanta2020 #cs ff #captain swan #cs fanfiction #my writing #the set-up scam #secret dating #friends to lovers #oh my god and they were ACCOMPLICES #happy holidays everyone!

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itmighthavebeenintentional · 3 years

Text

I’m Ready

Summary: “I can’t...I can’t take my forever if you’re not in it.”

Picks up right where the show left off. Not technically a fix-it, as I didn’t change anything, but I promise it gets better.

Rating: Teen

Warnings: Cursing, mentions of (canon) child abuse and neglect, mentions of past trauma, working through trauma, denial, bit of pining (but, like, in a denial sort of way), some fluff, some angst (but not as much as there is fluff)

Author’s Note: So many thanks to @there-must-be-a-lock for endless suggestions, fixes, and beautiful images (header AND dividers!!!). Thanks to all my friends for cheering me on, especially @thoughtslikeaminefield ; I probably wouldn’t have kept going with the story without you.

This is my first Destiel story and my first time posting in a while. Please be kind.

Word Count: 7704

In case you missed it: ItMightHaveBeenintentional’s Masterlist

Dean isn’t sure how long he’s been in heaven, at least not by heaven’s timeframe. Probably years, maybe even a couple of decades. He doesn’t age in heaven, and time works differently, running fast and stretching slow.

For Dean, heaven is a chance to rest, catch up with his massive found family, and just breathe for the first time since he was a kid. No worrying about Sam, no waiting for the next monster to pop out, no prepping for the next apocalypse.

Nothing like heaven to give a guy time to kick his boots off and just relax.

Unfortunately, relaxing has never come easy to Dean. Sure, he can go through the motions (binge watching horror movies, binge drinking, hell, just bingeing in general), but relaxing is an entirely different matter.

Relaxing means letting his guard down. It means giving up his hypervigilance. It means sleeping hard and staying asleep until he wakes naturally and unassisted by attackers. It means spending long moments reminding himself the monster at the end of the book is really gone.

Sam is safe. Everyone he’s ever loved is safe and close, where he can reach them.

Almost everyone.

...

Jake Walker is born on the ninth of July at twenty-one seconds past 9:14 AM. His mother Samantha is exhausted after a two-weeks-early delivery, but both she and the baby are strong and steady. Her wife didn’t faint, none of the medical team ever sounded the least worried, and she heard her son’s first shocked wail as he came into the world. Exhausted, but definitely good.

His mom Betty, on the other hand, is an absolute wreck. She’s been anxious the entire pregnancy, despite good news from the doctor at every visit, and she is terrified that the unexpected early arrival of their son means her worst fears are just beginning.

Betty takes slow, calming breaths, focusing on not clamping down too hard on Sam’s hand. She has to stay strong, calm, for her new family. She has to keep her head on straight, in case—in case —

“Your son is absolutely fine, seems he just had a real particular time he wanted to arrive. Here he is.”

Betty opens her eyes to find a delivery nurse beaming at her, proffering a small, swaddled bundle.

“Never seen such a calm baby. Here, he’s been waiting for you.”

Betty looks down into the startlingly clear, mossy green eyes gazing up at her from the squashed, serene little face, and she feels something click into place in the middle of her chest. Samantha leans her head back against her pillow, letting out a long slow breath as she smiles, and Betty’s pulse slowly finds its way back to something like normal.

“We’ve been waiting for you, too, big guy.”

...

Trauma doesn’t heal in a day, not even in heaven. All the shit Dean remembers — all the shit he tried to forget — everything he ever managed to suppress — drives him from his bed at night, leaving him sleepless on his front porch, staring blankly into the night, or tinkering on Baby in the garage, digging into the perfect engine, determined to distract himself from his spiraling thoughts.

Dean has never been an idiot, no matter how many times he played the fool in life. The people he and Sam couldn’t save, the people he let down, none of those deaths are on him. Dean isn’t responsible for the pain and suffering, but he’s haunted by it all the same.

The problem is, haunts don’t go away on their own. Every hunter knows that.

It’s not that he wants forgiveness; how can he be forgiven for something he isn’t responsible for? He needs to see those people, though, see that they’re okay and at peace. He has to make sure everyone is where they should be, safe and at least content. And even if he ultimately isn’t their killer, didn’t want their deaths, would have done anything to prevent them, he still needs them to know...to know everything.

He needs absolution.

And if the person who needs to hear those things the most is MIA, well, they’ve got a history of not saying a lot of things face to face. There’s always prayer, right?

Dean starts by visiting a couple of people he hadn’t been able to save along the way, feeling strangely like someone following a twelve step program. Objectively, (ie, according to the people he talks to), he’s got nothing to apologize for. He did his best; he made tough decisions in situations forced upon him. They don’t blame him in the least, and most are truly and obviously thankful for his intervention.

Their words don’t make much of a dent in the mountain of guilt Dean carries on his shoulders, but it’s a start.

Once or twice, Dean finds himself looking up at the sky, so far from empty, opening his mouth to call out — an action so common on earth it nearly became reflex —but he stops himself both times. He’s not ready for that conversation.

But he needs to talk to someone closer to him, a deeper connection than the monster victims he’s been visiting.

He’s restless, needs to move a little, needs to talk to…

Someone. He needs to talk to someone. But he can’t. Hell, he can’t even say the name.

Pacing the garage turns to a wandering ramble down the road, past Sam and his family’s house, past Mom and Dad’s house (there’s a conversation or fifty that he’s not ready for), until he finds himself in front of what can only be described as a hobbit hole. He shakes his head, not for the first time, the corner of his mouth tilted up as he knocks on the circular front door.

He’s greeted by bright red hair, a surprisingly crushing hug, and one of the brightest smiles Dean has ever seen.

“Hey, Charlie. Can we, uh...You up for a walk? I was hopin we could talk for a while.”

...

Jake grows quickly and steadily, always near the top of all his growth charts but never alarmingly so. He’s bright, quick to anger and quick to laugh, and fiercely loving. He is both his mothers’ boy, always up for a cuddle or a wrestle, and he loves to build block towers and demolish them with equal abandon.

He makes his displeasure with vegetables known early on. On this particular morning, he introduces his strained peas to the kitchen wall with surprising velocity. Betty knows better than to encourage this attitude, so she hides her smile behind calm, controlled admonition as she offers another spoonful.

Jake looks her straight in the eyes, his smile dazzling and laughter bright, and she knows she hasn’t fooled him one bit. She sighs and lets her own smile match his. He won her over the day he was born; there’s not much point trying to fight it now.

“Come on, babe, eat your peas and we’ll see about some of those stewed apples left over from Mommy’s pie filling. Deal?”

She scrunches her nose and wiggles her eyebrows. Jake’s little eyes widen at her expression, and he tries to imitate it before dissolving into giggles. Betty takes the opportunity to poke a spoonful of peas into his open mouth.

She’s not spent much time around kids before this, but Betty swears she’s never seen a baby look so resigned and exasperated in real life. But she’s played her trump card. He’s too young for the crust, but a couple of spoonfuls of smashed up fruit (apple is his favorite), and Jake is guaranteed to eat just about anything she presents.

“Pie?” she asks.

Jake smiles and opens his mouth wider.

...

“SURPRISE!!!”

The last time he was shocked this badly, Sam didn’t let him forget that fucking cat for years. Or ever, really. Seems like everyone he ever knew is stuffed into his living room, barely leaving room for the balloon bouquets and a massive… That’s not a cake, it’s…

That’s the most beautiful apple pie Dean has ever seen in his entire life.

Dean is engulfed by arms, hugging and patting and slapping his back (was that a pinch on his ass?), everyone eager to get their turn with him, wishing him a happy birthday, saying they can’t wait until he opens his presents, it’s so good to see him, he’s looking so rested!

He manages to extract himself from the wellwishers, citing parental obligations, and finally makes his way over to Mary, smiling warmly and offering him a knife and a plate. His eyes flick anxious from his mom to the golden brown circle of perfection before him, but he can’t bring himself to ask. Mary’s smile widens.

“I didn’t lay a hand on it except to take it out of the box. Happy Birthday, Dean.”

Six plates of pie later, Dean reclines on his couch, letting the relaxed atmosphere of the party sink into his bones. The excitement and crowd of early have begun to wind down, leaving a double handful of family, both blood and found, all telling the most embarrassing, terrible Dean stories they can think of.

It’s possible Dean’s never laughed this hard in his entire life.

He heaves a deep sigh of contentment and props his feet ponderously on the coffee table, draping an arm across the back of the couch and surveying the room.

Donna, one of the apparent party conspirators, tosses him a sparkling grin over her shoulder before turning back to a rather animated conversation with Charlie about the length of Dean’s wig at the LARPing battle. Sam and Kevin are recounting Dean’s worst cooking disasters to Garth’s wife, and Bobby is entertaining Mary with Dean’s disastrous attempt to flirt with the pizza delivery girl who delivered to Bobby’s house most weekends when Sam and Dean would stay with him.

If Dean had to describe one perfect day, this would be just about it, down to the flakiness of the pie crust and the amazing collection of horror movies and original vinyls he’s been gifted. Almost every single person he could possibly want present is there, and since he isn’t dwelling on absence today, Dean decides to push his wandering thoughts out of his head and just soak it all in.

Every muscle in his body hums contentedly, and Dean feels strangely warm and peaceful, but excited, all at once. It’s weird, just sitting here and enjoying the moment, not worrying about the next minute or hour or day or even year. He’s full of pie, he’s got great tunes to look forward to, and there’s nothing to worry about.

He’s happy.

Naturally, that’s when the panic sets in. This won’t last; it never does. Happiness can’t last. He learned that a long time ago.

Sure, it’s heaven, but he doesn’t deserve to be here, so something is going to spoil it for him, for everyone. Probably Dean himself, he thinks as his eyes dart from his mom to his dad. Dean always seems to find a way to fuck things up, couldn’t take care of Sam, couldn’t keep himself alive, couldn’t even keep the Empty from—

“Hey, birthday boy.” Jody’s voice somehow reaches Dean through his darkening thoughts, and he comes back to himself in stages, focusing on the warmth of her hands on his shoulders. She stands behind the couch, leaning down to squeeze his shoulders. “Wanna get some air?”

He nods blindly and climbs numbly to his feet. Jody guides him efficiently out the door and points Dean in an arbitrary direction. They walk for what could be moments or hours as Dean plows through the morass in his mind.

“I get it,” Jody finally says.

Dean glances sharply at her.

“I still have random panic attacks sometimes, wondering if Alex is safe at the hospital, if this is going to be the hunt that gets Claire.” Her eyes are fixed on some point in the distance, and he gets the feeling she’s deliberately not meeting his eyes. “I check on Owen every thirty minutes on my bad nights, and I have to lay hands and eyes on Sean to convince myself he’s really there before I can calm down. It always takes me a minute or sixty to make myself remember where we are, where everyone is, and that there isn’t some big or even small bad waiting around the corner or under the bed.”

Dean stuffs his hands in his pockets, stuffing down his automatic reassurances. The first half of his life was spent avoiding conversations like this, and it took him a long time to unlearn the knee-jerk reaction to brush off people’s concerns with some variation of “Everything’s fine.”

Jody, with an awareness born of decades of hunting and parenthood, senses his discomfort. She slows her steps and catches Dean’s elbow, turning him gently to face her.

“That feeling in your gut when the happiness comes, the panic, that knowledge deep, deep down that everything good is bound to turn to shit.” Jody reaches out and wipes a trickle of moisture from Dean’s face.

It’s not raining, he thinks, frowning. Where the hell did that come from?

“You're going to unlearn it. You’re the toughest bastard I’ve ever met, Dean, and you've been through literal hell. If anyone has earned their happiness up here, it’s you. You’re allowed to be happy, and someday you’ll know it.”

Dean would love to reply right now, to contradict Jody. He’d love to remind her of all the bad calls he made, of all the torturing he did in hell, of all the lies he told...

But this knot in his throat is choking him. And still Jody persists.

“I know how goddamned stubborn you are, but you’re not stupid either. We have nothing to forgive you for. Maybe once you’ve talked to everyone on your list, you’ll see that, too. But in the meantime, take a deep breath, give me a hug, and at least say in your head that you’re allowed to enjoy yourself at your own damned birthday party, even if you can’t admit it out loud.”

And if the damp patch on Jody’s shoulder bothers her as they stroll back to Dean’s house to grab a couple of beers, at least she’s tactful enough to not mention it.

...

Jake takes care of his family. He’s a fairly serious, empathetic toddler, quick to kiss other’s ouchies. After receiving his first Elmo bandage, Jake insists on bandaging his stuffed puppy’s tail, his tyrannosaurus rex’s left eye (“He fight with stegosaurus,” Jake solemnly informs Samantha as he presses the adhesive strip in place), and then an old, almost-healed shaving cut on Betty’s left knee.

“Mama better now?” Jake asks, somehow managing to sound strictly professional and absurdly adorable at the same time. He looks up to Betty for approval, and she wonders how she manages to let him touch the ground at all with how much she just wants to hold him all day long.

“Mama so much better now,” she informs him, careful to stay serious. He rewards her with the golden smile that is the highlight of her days before rushing off to find someone else he can fix up.

Both Betty and Samantha marvel in his quickness to share his snacks. They never refuse an offered Cheerio from him, no matter how damp or sticky (though a few of those disappear quickly when Jake’s attention wanders).

The discussion over a first pet is fairly quick and decisive. Everyone agrees the pet must be something fluffy that can be cuddled. Betty vetoes anything smaller than a cantaloupe, citing her clumsiness and tendency to step on things that should never be trod upon. Jake vetoes cats, saying he just doesn’t trust them, and Mommy and Mama share one of their silent conversations before Samantha speaks up.

“A puppy it is, then, Jakey. Let’s go look up some good breeds.”

Their first pet is a rescue named Garth, at Jake’s adamant insistence, though they're still not sure where he learned that name in the first place. Garth is clumsy, awkward, easy-going, and the most spoiled and cared for pet in the neighborhood.

Jake’s little sister Tabitha comes along shortly before his fourth birthday, and he takes to big brotherhood with an authority and self-assurance that delights every stranger the family meets. When she eventually starts walking, Jake is right by her side, guiding each one of her toddling little steps while a beaming Mommy and Mama follow close behind.

No one is even a little surprised when Tabby’s first whole word is “Hake.” She masters the letter j eventually, but continues to refer to his big brother by the name she gave him for most of the rest of their lives. Jake doesn’t even pretend to be annoyed.

“It was just a matter of time,” Samantha says one night, as she and Betty are getting ready for bed one night not long after Tabby has given Jake his new moniker. “You know what I mean?”

Betty, who has known exactly what Sam means since the day she literally tripped over her future wife at university, smiles and turns down the covers on her side of the bed.

“That’s Jake,” she says. They’ve spent hours, discussing their son’s odd, charming quirks long into the night, offering up phrases like “old soul” and “wise,” and eventually realized nothing they said could ever completely encompass the loving little person they somehow managed to bring into the world.

“That’s Jake,” Sam agrees, and turns her version of Jake’s golden smile on her wife. Mischief sparkles in her eyes, and Betty wonders how she ended up with three people in her life that she absolutely cannot win against.

“Ready to get sweaty, Betty?”

Betty groans but can’t hold back her grin. “You are the absolute worst, and that is exactly why I love you.”

…

Sam manages to shock Dean when he insists on a big family Christmas. His extra years on earth apparently helped the younger Winchester warm to the idea of holidays, finally getting to enjoy them with his son as he never did during his own childhood.

Sam doesn’t have to try very hard to talk everyone into celebrating. Things have been calm and serene, more than a little on the uneventful side, and Dean figures it will add some variety to his afterlife. Something to plan, something to look forward to that won’t be crashed by murderous Elder Gods or various other supernatural entities.

Probably.

Dean secretly loves that feeling of finding the perfect present for someone, something he was never really in a position to do back on earth. He takes a deep breath, proactively reminding himself that this is okay, this is allowed, this is good, that everything is not only okay but actually kind of great, really.

He can be happy. He can. He can do this.

The shade of red Sam’s face turns before he finally dissolves into laughter is a thousand percent worth the degradation of actually gifting someone a signed vinyl copy of Celine Dion’s first solo album.

“It’s perfect, Dean. Thanks, man.” Sam pulls his brother into a hug, and his giant paw slapping Dean in the middle of the back literally knocks the panic right out of him. Deans huffs, at a loss for words, and hugs Sam back perhaps just a smidge too forcefully before letting him go.

“You’ll never top Sapphire Barbie for best Christmas present, but this runs a close second.” Sam shakes his head, still grinning as he reads over the back cover of the album while Mary and John look on, varying levels of confusion and amusement on their faces.

“What’s he talking about, Dean?” John asks. He takes a long drink of his whiskey. “Sapphire Barbie? Some kinda code word or something?”

Sam and Dean glance at each other, their shoulders tensing automatically. For a moment, Dean can actually feel the phantom hunger pains transposed over the current fullness of his belly, and he can see a tiny Sam (still way more hair than necessary), huddled despondent and hungry under a shitty, moth-eaten motel blanket, convinced there would be no Christmas.

“Dean, uh...accidentally got me a Barbie for Christmas one year, it was — a, uh — yeah, he wanted to make sure I got a present, so he grabbed it, and…” Sam trails off.

John huffs a confused laugh, and Dean’s hackles rise at the scoff, so like Sam’s and yet so much more...condescending. John rises from the couch and goes to refill his glass. Sam seems content to let the moment pass, but something in Dean’s gut, something latent and ignored since his heavenly ascension, sparks and smolders bitterly.

“How the hell do you ‘accidentally’ get somebody a Barbie?” John asks, still chuckling, and Dean suddenly realizes he’s real fucking tired of biting his tongue.

“I stole the Barbie. Stole a couple of other things, too. A Christmas tree, some decorations, a baton.”

Mary glances between her sons, confused, before turning to John. “Where were you while this happened?”

A parade of emotions march over John’s face: confusion is followed by slow recognition. Guilt makes a quick appearance only to be chased away by dull, ashamed anger.

Dean can practically see John’s mind flashing through the scenario, recalling more about the hunt than his own sons on that cold, nasty Christmas Eve. He knows the instant his dad reverts to default setting of laying the blame on his eldest son. Dean braces himself automatically, his body viscerally reacting to the familiar storm on his father’s face.

Dean has the fleeting thought that at least his dad is drinking from a glass now; ought to hurt a lot less than being hit with a whole bottle.

“You left your brother to go steal from somebody else’s home on Christmas? After what happened with the shtriga?”

Dean knows true anger, near rage, for the first time in heaven, and the bitter wash of it through him is cutting and all too familiar.

“Pretty stupid thing to do, I know, but I wasn’t even twelve yet, so I wasn’t making the wisest of decisions.”

“Not even twelve?” Mary cuts in. “Sam? Does anybody feel like explaining this to me?”

“What the hell were you thinking, Dean, anything could have—”

But Dean had a lifetime of being plowed under by his dad’s inability to take responsibility, has had way more than enough of shouldering the blame for shit he should never have been left with in the first place.

“I was thinking that somebody should get a seven-year-old something for Christmas, should make sure he has enough to eat. Where were you, Dad? What were you thinking? Because you sure as hell weren’t thinking about us.”

That knot starts up in Dean’s throat again, the muscles tightening against the fear that blossoms in his chest, echoed from decades of training. Sam’s hand finds Dean’s arm, and Dean looks to him. Instead of the caution or reproach he’s expecting, though, all Sam simply nods.

“Say it, Dean.”

Dean stands slowly, facing John Winchester with every bit of strength he’s built, every bit of courage he’s earned from a lifetime of terror, and realizes that the angry, bitter man before him is no more a threat to him anymore than Chuck is. And without looking, he knows Sam stands behind him, solid and resolute.

“I wasn’t even twelve. It was Christmas, and you abandoned us. Yeah, I stole Sam a Barbie doll. You know what I got for Christmas that year? The year before? Every fucking year before that for almost as long as I can remember?”

John opens his mouth, even now unable to admit his faults, but Dean barrels on before his dad can get a word out.

“Not a damn thing from you. Not one damn thing. Not presents, not food, not a warm place to sleep or a word of thanks or approval. Not even a fucking phone call to say Merry Goddamn Christmas.” Dean pauses one last time, and it suddenly feels like he’s towering over the man whose shadow always felt too dark, too large, too suffocating; the man whose respect he used to crave more than food and water.

“What about me, Dad? Huh? What about me?”

Dean doesn’t recall leaving his parents’ house, doesn’t remember driving home, but he finds himself on his own front porch, leaning forward in his rocking chair. He takes in a long, deep breath before scrubbing his hands through hair and leaning against the back of the chair.

A breeze rifles the leaves of a nearby tree, ruffling Dean’s hair. He taps his thumb against the arm of the chair and takes a long moment to breathe in the night air.

Dean lets his thoughts roll around for a while. The stars creep slowly across the black, the crickets chirp, and the breeze continues to tickle through Dean’s mussed hair.

“You and I could write the book on shitty dads, am I right, kid?”

He’s not sure why he decides to talk to Jack. Just nice to have someone to talk to, knowing they’re not going to talk right back.

“Could just cut him out. Dunno how that’d work in heaven.” He thinks a moment, then grins to himself. “Not sure Mom’d let me get away with that. Sam would back me up, though.” Dean grins into the somehow not-empty night. “I would be the guy that brings a family feud into paradise, huh?”

Dean takes in the wilderness around him, the empty house at his back, the extra rocking chair for...a visitor, he supposes. He has learned today that heaven, as perfect as it is, still holds anger and bitterness and loneliness, and he figures that’s to be expected.

“You still did good, kid. You and me, we did good even with our shitty old men in and outta our lives. Glad we cut yours out for good. Guess I’ll figure out how to deal with mine eventually. All I’ve got now is time, anyway.”

Dean pushes up slowly, still surprised at the lack of cricks, pops, and aches that accompanied the action his last couple of years on earth.

“Night, Jack,” he says into the wind. He glances over at the empty rocking chair one last time. “If you see him, tell him —just tell him—”

Dean frowns, shakes his head, and turns his back on the night.

…

Jake’s not a crier, not really. There are inevitable tears that come with bad falls, but Jake sheds tears like it’s a physical reaction that he’s getting out of the way so he can move on.

So when Betty goes to change the sheets in her son’s room, only to find him silently crying on the floor, she panics. Sheets flop forgotten to the side as she drops next to his, reaching instinctively for his still-plump cheeks.

“Baby, what’s wrong? Are you hurt? What happened?”

“Nothing happened, Mama, I’m sorry I scared you,” he sniffles, his eyebrows down low on his small forehead.

Jake has never lied in his entire young life, and Betty is torn because he is obviously upset about something, but his face is full of nothing but truth and confusion.

“You have nothing to apologize for, Jakey,” she says, settling on the floor next to him and opening her arms. He instantly climbs into her lap, hooking his own arms around her neck and nuzzling under her chin. “You didn’t do anything wrong. Can you tell me what made you cry?”

“I...I don’t know,” he says, his little voice quiet and heavily confused. “I was playing with Tabby, she was helping me build a tower with my blocks, and then Mommy came to get Tabby for her snack.”

Betty is stumped. Jake has never had any kind of separation anxiety, as far as she can tell. He’s spent nights with both sets of grandparents, even a couple of weekends with aunts, uncles, and cousins, and never shed so much as a single tear.

“You...are you crying because you miss Tabby? She’s right in the next room, baby, you can go with her for snack time, you know that.”

“No, Mama, I —I don’t know why I’m crying. Tabby hugged me, she said she loved me, then she went with Mommy, and I felt...really happy. Like —the happiest ever, and...it was too much happy?”

The last part comes out as a question, and honestly Betty isn’t sure how to answer it.

“Well, baby,” she starts hesitantly, not sure where to lead this particular discussion. “Can you explain what you mean when you say ‘too much happy’?”

He snuggles closer against her chest, his forehead pressing along her jaw. “I dunno. I think...maybe I’m not supposed to be that happy? Is that why the tears came out? Because I got more happy than I’m supposed to get? Was I wrong, Mama?”

Betty breathes slowly, tightening her hold on the little boy in her arms. “You weren’t wrong, Jake. You can be as happy as you want. There’s never too much happy, I promise.”

She feels him shift, and she looks down to meet his clear, green gaze. He studies her carefully, scrutinizing her expression, and she’s reminded why she’s always been so very careful to tell her children the truth, albeit on levels they can understand.

“You pinky promise?”

The proffered pinky is smudged, pudgy, and absolutely perfect. Betty hooks her pinky finger with her son’s, bumping his nose gently with her own.

“Jakey, you have my eternal permission to be as happy as you are capable of feeling. And no one is ever allowed to take that from you. Good?” He nods, and she carefully brushes the tear tracks from his cheeks. “Sometimes feelings are really big, and they’re just a little too big for your body. They have to find a way out, and that’s why the tears come out.”

“Is that why you cry when you watch the kissy movies?” he asks, suddenly smiling. “Your feelings are too big, too?”

“Yup. We’ve got big feelings in this family, Jakey. Better get used to it, kiddo.”

...

More time passes. Dean walks, he talks, he goes through the motions. He heals a little with every conversation, every time he reaches out, and even though some of the wounds feel as fresh as the day he got them, eventually all that’s left are faint scars. He’d never willingly erase the scars, anyway. He earned them, and he’ll be damned if something like a little death and talk therapy could just wipe them away.

Gradually — so gradually Dean doesn’t realize it until Donna makes a comment one night after their regular poker game — Dean learns to not only let his guard down but drop it entirely. He’s shocked to realize the loss of his emotional armor doesn’t even bother him.

Dean works on Baby, drinks with Bobby, teaches Mary how to make an apple pie from scratch, and even manages to have a couple of honest, semi-civil conversations with his father. They don’t exactly reach Andy and Opie levels of father-son bonding, but John does eventually manage to grudgingly admit he fucked up some (a lot). Dean supposes anyone can make progress in heaven if they try hard enough.

He’s talked to everyone he can think of, settled scores, smoothed ruffles, filled himself to bursting with absolution. Dean is so absolved he thinks he might punch the next person who pats him on the back and tells him how much good he’s done for the world.

And still, he comes home every night to that extra rocking chair.

He waits now, waits while he talks with Sam, waits while he walks through the woods, waits while he changes Baby’s oil. He can’t shake the feeling that something is coming. He can feel it around himself, like a suit of armor or a second skin. Nothing terrible, nothing ominous, but something. Which is weird because nothing ever seems to happen in heaven, not really.

Could be he’s just bored, but Dean doesn’t think that’s it. Not entirely.

He talks to Jack nightly now. It’s a habit, something to help Dean talk through and untangle his thoughts into something he can understand. He looks forward to their talks, being able to get his feelings out without being either validated or rebuffed. Just letting some steam off.

He’s done it for so long that he can barely remember the night he started. Dean knows Jack can hear him, but the kid’s been true to his word, stayed hands off and radio silent. He lets mortals deal with their own issues, keeping himself and the supernatural world well away. Even the angels leave people alone in heaven.

Especially the angels, Dean grudgingly admits to himself, late one night after leaving Sam’s house. Instead of going home to that extra rocking chair, he drives Baby slowly, aimlessly, yet somehow ends up back on that same bridge where he met up Sam all those years ago.

He parks right at the end (no traffic in heaven) and strolls out to the middle, scuffing his boots and sending little puffs of dust in the air. His hands are stuffed deep in his pockets, out of habit more than anything else, and he lifts his gaze from the ground up to the full moon in the sky.

“Hey, kid,” he says softly. “Hope it’s goin good for you.Things are pretty good here. I know you know, you’re everywhere and all that,” Dean waves his hand vaguely, then continues, “Just wanted to let you know, I guess. I didn’t tell you enough, but we—I —really appreciated you. Appreciate you. You, uh...you did real good, kid. Then and now.” He pauses, then takes a breath, standing straight and letting all pretense go.“Please tell Cas...he did good, and...I miss him. And I know you’re all taking the hands-off approach, but —I dunno, maybe...he could —stop by? Or…”

The silence around Dean is heavy, comforting like a thick blanket.

Or a tan trenchcoat, he thinks.

“Jack —“

He cuts himself off, though. He spent all this time in heaven working through rivers of bullshit, wearing down mountains of lies and self-loathing until he can finally be honest and open with everyone. And if he’s going to be honest with himself tonight, Jack isn’t who he needs to talk to.

“Sorry kid, I gotta put you on hold.”

Purgatory flashes before his eyes, that sense of loss and being lost, the desperation and certainty that he’d never see his best friend again.

I can’t do this anymore, he thinks. I can’t pretend anymore. And I’m done lying to myself.

“Cas. Castiel. I hope you can hear me. I miss you. I don’t know where you are. Bobby said you were here, that you helped remake this place into something pretty damned awesome, but I never see you. I can feel you sometimes, can tell some things are up here just because you put ‘em there. Someone will tell a story, and I swear I can feel you standing right beside me, can almost hear you frowning and not understanding the joke. I…”

He knows there’s something left —knows he hasn’t found the right words yet. He has no idea what that right thing is, or even what he’s still waiting for, but he figures if he just barrels on, it’ll come to him.

“There was too much in the way, back on earth, in Purgatory. Too much always coming after us, trying to kill us or worse. I got in my own damned way, never knew what to say or how to say it. Didn’t think I deserved...I should’ve…”

He’s not sure what’s more bizarre, that he’s praying to someone who probably won’t respond — probably can’t even hear him — or that he’s doing so in a place wildly opposite from that last time he prayed like this.

Dean isn’t sure how he keeps ending up in this situation, but here he is, gasping out his feelings to the night air, barely able to squeeze the words past that perpetual knot in his throat.

“It’s a lot clearer up here, more room to breathe and think. This heaven you and Jack made...it’s great. Hell, it’s damn near perfect. But there’s no you. And I just can’t see my heaven as right without you. I can’t...I can’t take my forever if you’re not in it.”

A wispy cloud, silver in the moonlight, drifts across an otherwise flawless sky. Dean stares upwards for several minutes, wondering if Cas can see the same stars tonight, wherever he is.

“Maybe...I don’t know if you can come back. Or if you even left. I don’t know how any of it works.”

He’s on the cusp. He can almost taste the next step.

Dean’s at a loss, though. He could be brave: he could say everything he should’ve said in that last moment, everything he should have told Cas.

Or he could take the comfortable path, revert to being a dick and tell Cas exactly how he feels about all this silent treatment, about the no-show in heaven or not telling him about his deal with the Empty until it was too late, about waiting until the last second so Dean would have no time—

Or he could do both.

Both is good.

Metal railings squeak under Dean’s punishing grip. He’s not sure when he grabbed hold of the bridge itself, but right now he needs all the support he can get.

“You left me! You should have told me, given me a chance. Another chance, just one more. I’m sorry, Cas, I knew but I didn’t. I— I should’ve told you, should’ve held you, I could have—“

The tears flow unimpeded, the air squeezed from his lungs in convulsive gasps, but Dean can’t stop now.

“I should have told you everything I felt, every day. I should have trusted you more, and I’m so sorry. You were always family, you were always there for me when I needed you. We both fucked up so many times, lost so much time together. I was so angry at you, at me, at everyone and everything, and I let it get in the way.”

The silence around him is maddening. Here he is, ripping his guts out in the middle of the bridge, and all he gets back is crickets and evening breezes. Dean shoves off the railing, too frantic to stay still.

“Gimme something, Cas, anything! I’m pouring my heart out! I fucked up, and I’m sorry, and I swear I’m gonna do better, but you’ve gotta give me the chance! Just...just give me some sort of answer, please? Let me know you’re there!”

The silence persists.

Just as quickly as Dean’s rage crescendos, it fizzles suddenly. He drops to the ground, back and head slamming hard against the side of the bridge as he lets out a roar of helpless rage. His fists grip his hair, teeth grinding against the wave of helplessness that threatens to overwhelm him.

“I missed my chance, I waited too long, I should’ve said— I should have—“

And then it comes to him.

His hands draw down from his hair, scrubbing his face before steepling his fingers in front of his mouth. He can’t believe it’s taken him this long to realize.

“I’m an idiot.” His voice is barely audible, even to his own ears, but he has no doubt his words will reach their intended destination. “This place you built, you and Jack, it’s as good as it gets. I deserve it, I earned it. I got my family, I got the easy life for a while. I got my family. I had my rest. There’s only one thing left in the universe I need, only one person I want.”

Dean stands, dusting himself off and turning his face back up to the stars.

“I’m ready, Cas. I— I love you. And I’m ready for the next thing. Whatever that is. However that is. As long as—”

One last pause.

“As long as you’re there, that’s all I need.”

...

The inevitable day of separation comes: Jake’s first day of kindergarten. Samantha is proud of her guardian warrior, knows he’s going to succeed at everything he puts his little bullheaded mind to. Betty hopes very hard that he won’t be too lonely without Tabitha there with him. Tabitha only knows that Jake’s finger tastes good and makes her gums feel better when she chews on it.

Jake, as always, approaches this monumental step with aplomb and logic.

“I’ll give it a shot,” he says casually as his little sister gnaws on his thumb. “An’ if I don’t like it, I’ll just stay here and take care of Tabby. You an’ Mommy can go to work, then, ‘kay, Mama? I can make nut butter n’ jelly sammiches. But I’ll try it out.”

...

School isn’t so bad, Jake decides on his second day. His teacher Mrs. Harris seems to know what she’s doing (she already knows who she can trust with scissors and glue), and the other kids are nice enough. There’s different toys (“learning tools”, Mrs. Harris calls them), so that’s interesting enough, but—

Something is missing.

“Can you tell me what you mean, Jakey?” Betty asks at dinner that night. “Are there supplies you need? We got everything on the list.” She wipes a smear of sweet potato off Tabitha’s face before looking back to her son. His mouth is turned down in a frown of concentration, like he’s trying to remember something.

“I don’t need anything, Mama, just...someone. I need someone. My friend hasn’t come to school yet.”

“It takes time to make friends, baby,” Samantha says. “It’s only the second day of school. Have you tried asking anyone to play yet?”

“Yeah, and they’re fun and all, but they aren’t my friend. My friend isn’t here yet,” Jake says. Then his frown vanishes with the sudden mood change of a five-year-old, and he turns beseeching eyes on Betty, aiming unerringly at the softer target. “I finished my green beans. That means dessert now, right, Mama?”

Jake decides on the third day that the best place to wait for his friend (he just knows he’s going to show up any day now) is the playground.

“My friend likes the playground,” he murmurs. “That’s good, I like the playground, too.” He eats his lunch slowly, watching the other kids wolf down their food so they can have extra playtime. He’s barely finished his peanut butter and jelly sandwich, though, when he’s distracted by movement on the other side of the play yard. The door to the school opens and the school secretary steps out. Then she turns and gently pulls someone out from behind her.

A small boy stands in the doorway, white shirt tucked neatly into black slacks. His blue tie is a little loose, as if he’s been tugging on it, and his tan jacket is a little too big, hanging loosely around his small frame. His hair looks like someone was in too much of a rush to comb it properly. He clutches a pink piece of paper in one hand and, in the other, a backpack inexplicably decorated with flying, winged slices of pizza.

“Late drop-off, parent had to run,” the secretary tells Mrs. Harris before tiptoeing out of the room.

With an anxious glance at the other children, the boy scuttles forward and immediately trips over his own untied shoelaces.

Jake is at the little boy’s side before anyone else can react, kneeling down to check on him. The prone child is too shocked to cry, both by the fall and by the sudden appearance of this unknown factor. Jake checks him over, then nudges him until he sits up.

“You gotta keep ‘em double tied,” Jake says seriously. “Or else that’ll happen all the time.” Without waiting for an answer, Jake sets about the laborious task of looping each set of laces in turn, rabbits chasing each other around trees and down holes until the shoes are secure.

Jake climbs to his feet and reaches down, gripping the other boy’s shoulders and helping him stand. A dark smear of jelly stains the shoulder of the coat in the shape of a smudged purple handprint.

“Thank...thank you,” the smaller boys whispers. He lifts his eyes hesitantly, and clear blue meets olive green for the first time. “I’m Chris.”

“I’m Jake.” He thinks for a long moment, frowning. Something is settling in his chest, something big and permanent and scary; at first he thinks it’s too much.

Then he thinks back to what Mama told him: you can be as happy as you want.

He smiles at Chris. “You’re with me. You’re the one I was waiting for.”

Hope and just a bit of delight flicker across Chris’s eager face.

“I am? You mean it?”

Jake nods and grabs his new friend’s hand. “Yep. Now you’re here, that’s all I need. And nobody's allowed to take you from me, Mama said so. C’mon, let’s play cars.”

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dragonrajafanfiction · 3 years

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Tokyo Love Story (Part 5) The Truth of Black Swan

The following Scene takes elements and themes from the novel scenes and game quests surrounding Akira and Kogure Sakurai and weaves them into the MCs journey in a way that is meaningful. This scene does not appear in the Novel or the Game.

Please Enjoy

You’re riding in the passenger side of Chance’s Audi R8, the city lights flashing across the pale makeup on your face. Caesar might have turned up his nose at the car, but you found it very stylish and unpretentious. It was a sports car you could drive to work. You stare out the window at the many people walking down the streets. Tokyo’s nightlife was just as vibrant as the daytime. Only, instead of being locked in the offices for work, people spilled into the streets to visit karaoke bars and eat street food. There were also plenty of couples holding hands and laughing. Girls in skirts and women in tight dresses walking with friends. Men in sports jackets and a few in suits and ties. The people your age were casual in t-shirts and jeans.

When you imagined going to the big city, it was something like this. Having lots of friends, going out on the town, enjoying food and walking under lights.

Chance’s phone vibrated. “Yes, she’s with me, we’re on our way to the safe spot, notify me of the all clear.”

His expression was grim and he spoke like a soldier reporting to his commander. You’d only seen him as a carefree guy but now he was acting as a member of the Devil Clan, a Yakuza organization. Looking up at this, you notice that he’s no less muscled than Caesar, but he was a bit more wiry and lithe.

“We’ll give it a couple of hours to let things calm down before taking you back.” He said, stuffing the phone in his pocket.

“Thanks,” you say. “I have a question.”

“Shoot.”

“Did Izanami really love Izanagi?” You rest your head against the window.

“That’s a matter of philosophical debate, even among White King Descendents. Her motives were selfish. She fooled him and lied to him. But when he betrayed her, no one can deny her emotional reaction had to be rooted in some genuine attachment.” He maneuvered the car as he spoke, keeping his eyes on the road. “The common consensus is, for dragons, love is never the goal. It’s a means to an end. Once that end is fulfilled, love fades or dies completely. If the object of the dragon’s love refuses to cooperate with the end goal, that love can quickly turn to hatred. Humans pursue love for the sake of it. But Dragons do not. The emotions are real, but they’re not the goal.”

“That seems manipulative.” You say.

“It can be. Keep in mind that Izanagi wasn’t exactly the best example of human love either. Bottom line, it’s not good for humans and dragons to fall in love. They both will end up hurt somehow. But it does happen.”

He keeps driving until the city spires flatten to more residential spaces. You pull into a small park with rolling terraformed hills and tiled roof shelters. Chance killed the lights on his car and opened the door, getting out with a briefcase. “We can hide out here for a while.”

At the center of the park is a large dark lake. The stars couldn’t be seen over the lights of the city and the moon was shrouded by dense clouds. He leads you by the hand through a pea gravel path. You could feel your cheeks grow warm. The idea of running away to hide from the world with a man was depicted in TV shows you watched and in magazines you read, but now it was happening to you.

“It’s going to rain tonight, so let's stay under the shelter until we get the all clear.” He said.

He settled you down on a bench and sat next to you. He was handsome, with his red hair in his ponytail and his green eyes in the dark. He took a deep breath and let it out. “Now comes the hard part.” He opened the briefcase and took out a thin yellow folder.

“Ruri Kazama wanted me to give this to you.”

You accept the folder and open it. Much to your shock, you immediately recognize the title. Black Swan Harbor Initiative!

“You’re from Siberia right?” He looks at you. Those eyes glittered like jewels.

“Where did you get this?” You ask, anxiously flipping through the pages. There were photos of Black Swan Bay, just as you remembered it. There were even photos of orphans that you remembered, ghosts of the past. Vera, Khorkina, Anton… you pause. A knife of pain piercing your heart.

Renata’s picture stared at you, smiling from the yellowing paper, her eyes sparkled too, even in black and white.

“Ruri Kazama had it. I don’t know what it all means or where he got it from.” He reaches over and flips the pages back to the beginning. “He wants you to understand your situation. The reason why Black Swan Harbor was created. Black Swan Bay was like a dragon graveyard. Even though Cassell holds a lot of ancient artifacts, Black Swan Bay had the actual specimens for direct study of the creatures. You were created there as part of a study on making perfect, super hybrids.”

“What?” You whisper.

“I’m only telling you what I read. None of this makes sense to me either. You’re an 18 year old girl from 20 years ago. I…” He shook his head. “It must have to do with your bloodline, that you can rest so long and retain your youth. Anyway, because you’re not perfect, you will eventually become a deadpool. You’re a ghost. There’s no changing this.”

He flipped over a page in the folder leading to Anton’s file. “This is from one of the research papers. The average lifespan of the Black Swan Bay children is 20 years before they lose their grip on humanity. This orphan was eliminated because he’d reached the end of his life.”

You stare blankly at the page. You remembered Dr. Herzog tested hybrid children thoroughly and then, around age 20, some were selected to go to school in Moscow. Back then, you had excitedly chatted with Z about how one year you might be selected. But instead of feeling excited for you, he led you to a lab. There, you saw Anton, who had been selected to go to the capital, sitting in a wheelchair. Despite his power to stop a bullet, he couldn’t stand.

Dr. Herzog was like your father. So your mind rejected his words when he said that going to Moscow was a lie. And when he shot and killed Anton, it was something your mind couldn’t fully process. This all happened 20 years ago but for you it was only a few weeks ago, and you realized you still couldn’t process it. It was like a missing puzzle piece, floating on the side table, waiting for its place in the picture. And now it snapped into place.

Anton wasn’t ever going to Moscow. None of you were. Khorkina, Vera, Renata… You were all going to die by euthanasia. As deadpool.

Chance reached over and massaged your shoulder silently. You closed your eyes. No wonder Ruri Kazama told you that you were a perishing flower. No wonder he sang that happiness was fleeting. Ruri Kazama knew that you were going to turn into Deadpool. That you were going to die.

“So I only have a year and a half left?” You ask after a moment.

“I’m afraid that’s the maximum. You might have even less. I’m sorry.” Chance says. He drops his hand in his lap.

You take a deep breath, absorbing this terrible blow in still silence. “Thank you for telling me. I will show this to Caesar.” You close the folder and sigh again. Your hands are pinching each other hard to stem your roiling emotions.

Chance marvels at your reaction. “You’re a really strong woman. A lot of people would scream and cry in denial at this news.”

“I’m strong because my friends are strong.” You look out over the water, expressionless. The reflection of the moon peeked from its cloudy veil. It rippled but when it stilled, you could see the shadow of the moon, shaped like a rabbit. You weren’t sure what you could do to stop this eventual demise. Caesar promised he wouldn’t let you die. No… it wasn’t a promise, he just wouldn’t let it happen.

“Hm.” He chuckled, elbowing you. “Do I still have a chance to get a star-heart ticket?” He was attempting to lighten the mood.

You allow yourself the distraction. “Maybe.” You smirk and swing your legs under the bench. The wind was starting to blow, bringing the smell of rain, pulling leaves and cherry blossoms down from the trees to land on the water and make little ripples. The gusts disturbed the glassy water. It wasn’t the time for cherry blossoms, but odd weather had caused them to bloom twice this year. “Let me ask you something to test you. Do you seek death?”

Chance gave it some thought. “It’s not a matter of seeking it. I know it's coming. I just try not to think about the future. Live my life one day at a time, appreciate every moment.”

You nod and your eyebrows lift. It was a good answer. “I’ll ask you something else. Given the circumstances, if you knew you had to give up your life so I could live, would you do it?”

He laughed. “In a heartbeat!”

You turn to him and frown.

“What? Don't tell me you don’t like that answer. What do you expect me to say? It’s an honor for a man to give up his life for a lovely woman.” The stiff breeze had teased some hair out of your comb. He brushes your hair from your face and tucks it behind your ear. The wind stirs the flowers in your hair while he watched you.

You shake your head. “Well, in that case, you’re not getting a star heart ticket.” You cross your arms and look away

“Oh come on, you’ve gotta be kidding me.” He leaned forward, trying to catch your gaze when you turned away from him. “What am I supposed to do? Just let you die? Look at you! You’re beautiful and smart and … and… you’re so strong!” Chance was shaking his head in confusion. “If that’s not the right thing to do, please tell me the answer.”

You turn to him again, your eyes blazing. “And you’re not beautiful and resourceful and strong? Why is my life, somehow, worth more than yours?”

Chance’s good humor suddenly fades and he lowers his eyes, damping his mood like a lantern lowering its wick. He turned back to face the lake, looking down on the ground, but his mind was somewhere far away. When he speaks again, it’s with a lump in his throat. He swallows hard. “You have people. I don’t have anyone any more.”

You knew that look. You had that look. It was the look of someone who had nothing else to lose, so why not give up his life for you? You reach out and put your hand over his and look him in the eye, even as the fires of grief ignite in your chest.

“The Hydra came for my family last week. We all lived in the same apartment block, but we’d never done anything. We were just an extended family buying out condos and dealing in real estate. But they were merciless. All my brothers and their wives were killed and f…” His voice caught and his eyes sparkled with tears. “My five nieces and nephews were taken prisoner.”

“Prisoner?”

“Yes!” His voice turned hoarse in distress. “Back in World War II, Hydra had these black prisons to lock up unstable hybrids. When the government found out about them, they ordered them closed. But twenty years ago, they started operating them again. If you resist and fight, they kill you. If you give yourself up… they lock you away in those prisons forever. I had been working when the raid happened. When I turned the corner on my way home, the whole apartment block was on fire! There was nothing I could do, so I ran away. That’s how I ended up at Club Takamagahara. That’s where Ruri Kazama found me.”

He turns back to you, his green eyes as dark as an endless forest. “It’s either death or prison and then death for me. So if I can make my death mean you get to go free and shine under the sun like you did tonight… I will absolutely take that.”

Your heartaches in sympathy. You scoot closer to him and rest your head on his shoulder and he wraps his strong arm around you and holds you close. “You’re not going to accept my next words, Chance. Because I didn’t want to accept them either. But I will say them because they’re the truth. Chance… you have to live.”

He let out a single bitter laugh, but he turned away and blinked away tears. “Didn’t you listen? Life isn’t in the cards.”

“You think it isn’t. I didn’t think so either.” You reach up and turn his face back to you. The tears wet your fingertips and sink into our nails. You’re willing him to listen but you understand that it might just be too difficult to accept. “But… you will be shocked at how long you can live if you really try.”

“What? Really try? Are you saying my whole family didn’t try hard enough?” His voice breaks with grief and anger.

“That’s not what I’m saying. If death comes then it does, but what I’m saying is, you shouldn't just… give up your life. Not for me. Not for anyone. Make death fight you for it.” You whisper. Your throat hurts. Your eyes burned..

“And then if I don't give up my life for you… what will happen to you?” Tears were slipping down his face and he trembled against you.

“I will fight too.” You reach out and twine your fingers in his hair. “We will both fight death.” You look up at him, determination filling your dark eyes, defying reality. You knew he probably thought you were a fool, that you were just fantasizing that you could both fight the fate you were given, hit the ball out of the park, and live happily ever after. “What’s the point of love if you both don’t make it out? If Izanami taught me anything, it’s better to end up in the Yomi-No-Kuni together.”

He sighed softly and he leaned forward until your noses touched, your faces wrapped in night shadow. “You already gave me permission.” He whispered.

“I know…” You rise up to meet him halfway. This kiss was nothing like Z’s. Z took you like something that belonged to him. In this case, your kiss was a gift, a bow to tie your words in an oath upon his heart.

Chance was overcome. He rested his head against your neck, crying. He held you so tightly your ribs resisted against his arms to breathe. You held him like that until his sobs subsided. But you were in no hurry to part, instead you leaned against each other, watching the wind play against the water until your emotions calmed. Every few minutes, he would sigh deeply and kiss your cheek.

In the distance, thunder rolled. Chance’s phone buzzed. He reached down and looked down at it. “That's all clear. Let’s go.” He gave you one more kiss. “Here, you keep this.” He tucked the folder into your dress. “Thank you. I..” He paused for a moment and then just stood up.

He doesn’t remove his hand from yours as you make your way back to the car, but as you’re turning the corner on the path to the parking lot, he yanks you back! “Damn it!” He hisses.

The car was surrounded by men in black trench coats armed with swords and powerful guns. The way out of the park was blocked by a huge van. The park was so small, it would only take a minute to penetrate the entire space and there was nowhere to hide. Chance urgently whispers. “Quick! Let’s go to the other side!”

How could they have found you? Kaguya?

There was no way to hurry and stay silent. The pea gravel made too much noise. If you stepped off the path the surrounding vegetation rustled against your clothing. You can only use your method of stepping in his foot prints to hide your own sound and it was hard in your ornate gown. Your heart was screaming with adrenaline as you started to hear voices behind you. In the back of the park, behind the trees and fountains, there was a high eight foot stone wall that enclosed it from the rest of the neighborhood. You hurry to it.

“I’ll lift you over the wall!” He said. “If you jump, you can make it over!”

“No, I’m not leaving you. We need to find a way out together.” You say, planting your feet.

“You’re serious? There’s no way! We can’t fight all those guys!” He hissed.

More voices are coming. You must have been heard! Bright beaming flashlights are sweeping the park. The men from Hydra are bounding up the hill behind you! The group fanned out. One member was sweeping up against the wall you were next to and heading straight for you. More voices are coming from the opposite direction up the path ahead of you. Apparently, the Hydra following you had alerted more men on the other side of the park who were coming around the other side to encircle you and cut off your escape.

Chance pulled you along the wall and together you crawled carefully against it, staying away from the ones approaching from behind and getting to the other side of this dragnet. As you came close to those approaching from the front, you noticed that there was no one sweeping the wall! If you could sneak past through this gap, you could make it past them!

You hurry through the gap and crouch still. The Hydra were only a few feet from you. You could see the shine of their leather shoes and hear them talking, but you couldn’t understand their Japanese. One of them laughed. All they had to do was sweep their flashlights to their right to find you. You both hold your breath even though you felt breathless from running and staying low to the ground. You tremble there until their shoes turn away. Their footsteps finally started to fade, but you couldn’t wait for them to fade completely.

“There’s a backgate this way.” Chance whispered as quietly as he could.

You could see it. It was covered in vines and looked like a maintenance entrance. It didn’t look locked but even if it was, it was less than four feet high and you can both make it over. Your heart beams with hope. He returns your smile. You couldn’t wait to tell Caesar. He was right. His justice was right. You don't have to leave friends behind.

A sudden sharp hiss and a burst of wind rushes by your head! A silver projectile blade cut through the air and embedded itself into Chance's calf! Chance gasped and howled in agony! He fell to the ground, clutching his leg. You scurry towards the gate and dive behind a statue of a praying Buddha.

Chance is writhing on the ground, and moving away from something looming in the dark. Someone is approaching him as he scoots frantically away, begging. “No… No! No! Please!”

Out of the shadows steps a young dark haired man. His silver-blue long sword glowed in the dark like a shattered piece of moonlight. His trenchcoat caught the air and it waved like the hem of the Grim Reaper’s cloak. He stood over Chance like a towering god, gazing at him with frigid black eyes.

Chisei Gen!

#Dragon Raja

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oyesmendes · 4 years

Text

i keep on missing you

a/n: so remember when i said there would be a part two to “all i wanted was a happy ending” ? ya its here.... this was largely inspired by Missing You - The Vamps and i miss you, i’m sorry - Gracie Abrams. hope you guys got some tissues ready HAHAHA sorry in advance! @aelinfeyreeleven945tbln @lonelyreputation

read part one here

'Cause I'm sat here in my front room with a girl who ain't you / Hopin' and prayin' you're breakin' up with another fool

The sunlight that streams through the small crack between his curtains is what wakes Shawn up. He has his hand draped across a body - or should he say, his girlfriend’s body and he finds himself frowning at the lack of the olive skin he’s grown so used to waking up to. He’s quick to change his facial expression once he sees the body roll around to face him. The girl grins at him, stroking his cheek and pressing a soft kiss on his lips which he struggles to return.

“Morning, sunshine”

“G’morning” He mumbles back. They don’t say much, only sharing a few kisses and cuddle for what felt like too long before they both stumble out of bed into their morning routines.

Shawn is sitting at the dining table, mindlessly scrolling through Instagram like he was reading the morning papers. He likes a couple pictures posted by friends back in Toronto, before he lands on one that makes his breath hitch.

@kiara_hammani: everyday is worth celebrating with you. happy three months, sweet pea!

It was a picture of her - Kiara. His finger hovers above her face, wanting nothing more than to feel her skin against his. She was in that blue sundress they bought on impulse during a trip to Hawaii two years ago, and she was posing at the beach. Wrapped up in the arms of another man. He’s contemplating if he should zoom in or tap on the tagged account of the man, but decides to just stare at it for a couple more seconds instead. It’s only been less than five months since she moved out, how could she have moved on so quickly?

“Shawn? Hey you there, gorgeous?” Shawn blinks his eyes a couple of times to bring him back to reality. He quickly places his phone face down on the table and smiles softly.

“Yeah? Sorry I got a little distracted.”

“That’s alright, would you like coffee or green tea today?” She was holding up a French press in one hand and pack of teabags in the other. She smiles sweetly at him and Shawn feels himself cringe internally. This girl was everything but Kiara. The tone of her voice constantly laced with sweetness, and pale skin covered with fake tan which made her look orange. He thinks back to all the times that Kiara would purposely use a high-pitched voice to mock the waitress or random girl that was trying to get in his pants and they’d have a good laugh about it. He knows she would’ve done the same right now. Shawn looks at the girl standing in front of him and he hides the disappointment that fills his chest when he realises that she’s not here.

“I’ll have the tea, thank you Chris.” She nods and spins around to make him a mug.

Christine was your typical LA girl. Yeah, the ones that have beach blonde hair, holding a hydro flask and wearing cut off denim shorts all year round. How she and Shawn ended up together for the last two months? Ask management. They initially paired him off with another girl but she was way too much of a blonde that Shawn ended up ditching her on their first meet. He put up a strong fight with the team afterwards and they eventually settled on Christine. She was no where near Kiara, but according to Shawn’s publicist - Christine was the cure to his falling reputation.

So they’ve spent every single day together for the last two months, drowning out all the dirty news of their breakup. Shawn didn’t hate it completely, Christine was too nice to him that he forced himself to enjoy every moment. But he does catch himself comparing her to Kiara, and he can’t seem to shake himself out of it. He watches as Christine turns around, two mugs in her hand. At first, he doesn’t notice the pastel pink mug that belonged to Kiara. But as she places it down on the table, he sees the faint lipstick stain on the edge of the mug and he stops her from lifting it up to her lips.

“What’s wrong?” Christine asks when Shawn’s hand lands on top of hers.

“Throw it out.”

“What? Babe, I just made this-“

“I said THROW IT OUT!” She jumps slightly in her seat when Shawn raises his voice and he immediately regrets it. Christine pushes her chair back, letting them scrape the hardwood floor because she knows how much Shawn hates it when she does that. She gets up from her seat and stalks to the front door.

“You can throw it out yourself.”

Nothing happened in the way I wanted / Every corner of this house is haunted

The front door slams and Shawn is left with the same deafening silence from two months ago. His eyes focus on the mug and then roams the house. Every corner was filled with the essence of Kiara. After their heated argument, she moved out the next morning, taking everything that she could without the need to turn back. Naturally, she left a few shared pieces in the house which Shawn never touched, and it was starting to feel haunting. Each object that she had left - the dark blue curtains from Ikea, the cream coloured throw from a boutique in London, and even that chipped porcelain vase she bought from a kid at a yard sale held three years of happy memories. Memories he couldn’t bear to relive or throw away. Shawn would much rather be alone than to share this special place with someone new, but he couldn’t lose Christine now, especially when his career’s on the line. So he forces himself to grab his keys and pull himself out the front door. He’s out on the streets and thankfully, Christine hasn’t made it too far from the apartment building.

“Christine!” She increases her footsteps but before she could make the corner, Shawn grabs a hold of her arm.

“What do you want, Shawn?” He pulls her closer to him and she’s resting her hand on his chest. Her touch felt different. But Shawn settles for it in the moment.

“You, me and the grocery store.” He smirks at her. A small smile erupts on her face and Shawn knows he’s immediately been forgiven. It’s been a vicious cycle that’s got them through the last 8 weeks - Shawn does something stupid, then he makes it up by suggesting Christine’s favourite activity which he would hate, on a normal day. He knows this isn’t the way to love someone, especially someone who only has good intentions for him. But he needs Christine to stay, at least he thinks he does. She makes the silence less deafening, and it stops Shawn’s head from reeling into his horror movie of thoughts. She was his imaginary safety net, somewhere he could fall into for a moment and not think until reality hits him like a truck again.

The store was quiet, and Shawn is thankful for it. He doesn’t need to put on a loving couple front for the cameras or fans that would recognise him from a mile away. He’s pushing the trolley behind Christine, empty focus on the squeaking of the wheels.

“Should we try cashew milk this time? I was watching Claudia’s vlog the other day and she was raving about this brand.” Christine holds up the cartons in front of Shawn’s face. He smiles at her, knowing well that he has to give her some sort of attention or care in order for this relationship not to crumble.

Kiara couldn’t care less about the type of nut milk we had at home. He stops himself before he dives further into that part of his brain.

“Well if Claudia says it’s good, I don’t see why we shouldn’t try it.” Her face immediately lights up when Shawn showed the slightest interest in her rambling. She drops the carton of cashew milk into the trolley and scampers off while he trails behind her. They wander around the fresh produce, and while Christine goes on about which kind of salad she wants to make next week, Shawn hears the distinct laughter and voice.

His eyes dart around the store until they land on a specific couple and he sees her. In all her 5’7” glory, Kiara stood next to the same man that was on her Instagram post, trying to catch her breath from all the laughing the pair had been doing.

“You’re telling me, you microwaved eggs?!” She’s still laughing, shaking her head as she placed the carton of fresh eggs into the trolley in front of her.

“Hey, no shame in that! We were in college and really dumb. Besides, you’re the one that burnt the kettle to a crisp while making tea last week.”

“Well, we’re both to blame for that.” Shawn watches as Kiara gives the man one of those cheeky smiles that she used to give him. He watches as he attacked her sides, tickling and then peppering kisses down her neck as she squeals in excitement. Shawn should look away, he knows he should before he gets caught, but he can’t help himself. Before he knows it he hears Christine next to him,

“Shawn? Did you hear me? What are you- Oh for god’s sake!” The couple turns when they hear Christine raise her voice and Shawn snaps out of his trance. His eyes meet briefly with Kiara’s and her face falls just enough for Shawn to notice. Christine shoves the packet of spinach she has in her hands back on the shelf. She shoots Kiara a death stare before pushing Shawn out of the way and storming out of the grocery store. He doesn’t go after her, instead his hand tightens its grip around the handles of the trolley and he forces himself to breathe. The man with Kiara is rubbing both sides of her arms, a concerned look on his face as he mumbles something to her. She’s shaking her head, giving him a reassuring smile as they continue with their shopping, not taking another look at Shawn.

I still love you, I promise / Nothing happened in the way I wanted

Shawn abandons his cart, the Canadian in him feeling guilty about not placing the stuff back on the shelves. But his mind is running too fast that his legs couldn’t comprehend his own actions. He finds himself squatting outside the store, baseball cap pulled far down on his face. He doesn’t know what he’s doing, sitting out here in the middle of nowhere, waiting for some damned miracle to happen. Something to fix his heart.

“I’ll drive the car up here? That way we don’t have to push the cart back.” Shawn recognises the same voice and he peers up slowly.

“Sure, I’ll wait here.” Kiara.

He waits for a couple moments before he scrambles to his feet and it makes Kiara jump out of her skin.

“Pinché pendejo.” She mutters under her breath. Kiara’s about to push her trolley further away, when she recognises the white and pink Dodgers baseball cap that used to belong to her.

“Shawn?”

He feels like a deer caught in headlights, looking down at her with widened eyes. The look on her face was unreadable as she puts her hands deep into the pockets of her hoodie. He tries to drink in as much of her looks as he can - the change in the way her hair now falls just above her shoulders instead of having it in those long beach waves; how she now has the confidence to be out in public with barely any make up on. The moment of staring doesn’t last too long though, when Shawn hears a voice call out for her.

“Babe, you good?” Kiara and Shawn both seem to be shaken back to reality quickly. She’s pushing her hair out of her face and smiling softly to her boyfriend.

“Yeah, yeah I’m good. Let’s load her up.”

And I know you said that we're not talking / But I miss you, I'm sorry

“Wait.” Shawn says barely above a whisper. Both of them stop in their tracks and look to him.

“Can I-can I talk to her for a second? I promise you it won’t take long.” Kiara’s boyfriend is already dropping the bags back into the cart, trying to go in front of her to give Shawn a piece of his mind.

“Ryan,” She pulls his arm toward her and he switches his attention to his girl, “I’ll talk to him. I won’t take too long.” Ryan looks at Kiara then back at Shawn and he stalks toward him, chest out, looking like he’s ready for some brawl. Kiara’s holding her breath as she watches him walk, the anxiety in her chest just become worse by the second. Ryan has his pointer finger up, voice low as he stares at Shawn in the eyes, “you hurt her again and I guarantee you, I will ruin you.”

He turns back around, kissing Kiara on the cheek before he loads the groceries into the car.

Shawn smiles awkwardly at her, “well, he seems nice.”

“I’m so sorry, he’s just protective.”

“That’s okay, I understand.” An uncomfortable silence fell between the two of them and Kiara think’s this is probably the worst idea in the entire world. To be standing out on a cold day in LA, next to her ex, with her boyfriend waiting less than 10 feet away. She’s wrapping her arms around herself, bouncing on her feet to keep herself warm. Shawn doesn’t say anything for awhile and Kiara’s growing frustrated by the second.

“Did you want to-“

“So I-“

They start at the same time, and it makes Shawn chuckle. But it makes Kiara sigh and she’s hugging herself tighter. Shawn finally sees the hint of annoyance on her face and his mind scrambles for the right words. (Though, I’m not exactly sure these are the write words, Shawn)

“How are you?” Kiara gives him a look, and she couldn’t believe her ears. After standing out in the freezing cold weather, he just wanted to ask how she was doing?!

“Get to the point, Shawn. I don’t have the time for small talk right now.” He’s fiddling with the loose thread from his sweater, trying to avoid Kiara’s intimidating brown eyes when he speaks.

“I just-I, I just miss you, Ki.” Kiara scoffs, very audibly and she takes a step back to look at him.

“Cariño,” He recognises the same sarcastic tone that her mother uses, “don’t you have a girlfriend you should be with?”

Breaking dishes when you're disappointed / I still love you, I promise

“Yeah I do, she’s standing right in front of me.”

“You did not just-“ Kiara mutters under her breath, shaking her head violently. She looks around her to ensure that there’s no one in earshot, then steps toward him and pokes his chest.

“Shawn Peter, you do not just squat out here wanting to talk to me after you argued with your current girl and then say that you want me back. You do not just walk up to me and say all those things after what you did, how you hurt me and-“

He grabs both her wrists and Kiara stops mid-sentence.

“What are you doing?” She mutters under her breath. Kiara knows that Ryan would be watching them both, and any bigger movement would send him running out of the car to punch Shawn in the face. She looks over her shoulder and she already sees the door of the Range Rover opening slowly.

“I miss you, I really do. I still love you, Ki, I still fucking love you.” He tries to lean in and Kiara finally had enough, pulling her hand out from his grip.

“Fuck Shawn, I’m happy now can’t you see? We’re over, it’s over.” Kiara turns around, her eyes meeting Ryan as he stands next to the car. She musters up a smile for him before she hears Shawn shout from behind her.

“Does he love you like I do?” She stops in her tracks and looks over at him.

“No Shawn, Ryan has done a better job in the last three months than you ever did in the three years I’ve known you.”

With that, Kiara walks away, and Shawn is left with half of his heart and the image of her back burned in his mind.

#shawn mendes #Shawn Mendes Imagine #shawn mendes one shot #shawn mendes x reader #shawn peter raul mendes #shawn mendes angst

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alotsgonnachange · 3 years

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📓👀👀

Okay so #1 idea bouncing around in my pea brain i guess is if i were to do a rewrite of the Arcana where I incorporate elements of most routes in there All At Once But Watch Out and anything that doesnt make sense to fit in there would just happen after the main chaos… because like sooooo many things that happen in some of the non main 3 routes i’m like Okay this objectively needs to still happen though aka

-aunt tasya randomly showing up and being like hello fellow teens

-muriel’s past

-Morga pulling up on lucio who is semi alive and being like You’re Ugly You’re Disgusting I’m Gonna Kill You Give Me 200 Dollars

also i feel like MASSIVE lore and plot devices were revealed in portia’s route and were just never touched on ever again which kind of pissed me off like?

but like how can you fit all of that in somehow??? but i also feel like so much that was integral to characters got left out in specific routes and UGH whatever

ANYWAY - i’m annoying so the way I would go about it is that there’s still a primary apprentice who is the fool it would just be as The Apprentice Jia and then all of the other characters r still magic users but not The Apprentice and have varying levels of employment … so THAT part would still stay the same .. but i’m just throwing in extra people and extra occurences for MORE DRAMA!!! i love drama. this shit would be like a soap opera but would probably have sooo many chapters and be VERY confusing which is why i can’t write it 😑 but i think about it VERY often

#asks #saltierlavender #jia #the arcana

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impossible-rat-babies · 4 years

Text

quarter past (two am)

word count ~4891 | angst pre-hb | chargestep | mostly under the cut!

read on a03

The streets in Los Diablos are rarely deserted at two am, the headlights dazzling as they pass by, bubblegum pink and electric green neon lights in store windows scattering hues across puddles on the concrete. Gasoline and spilled oil refract in electric rainbows, fine leather dress shoes scuffling and stuttering, disturbing the kaleidoscope.

“Y-You are....my bestest friend...! You are my bestest, best friend!”

Pollux rolls his eyes behind the mask, adjusting Ortega’s arm draped over his shoulders, keeping a hold on his wrist. He keeps blabbering on his ear, trying to rock them side to side across the sidewalk, kicking up water with god knows what in it. Pollux struggles to keep them from falling into a heap, cursing under his breath. Ortega would find it down right hilarious if they took a tumble into one of the heaps of trash, or perhaps smacked right into a telephone pole, the drunk bastard. He’d be finding their current struggles hilarious too if he didn’t have his pea sized drunk brain occupied singing to the heavens of his adoration.

“Hey....hey there, Lux?” He cajoles with a poke at his cheek and Pollux jerks away, giving him a grimace even though the mask. “Y-You know you’re my best friend, right?”

“Yes, you’ve been singing about it for the past hour, ass.” Pollux shoots back, sighing out of his nose.

They’re still a couple blocks away and all he wants to do is dump Ortega on his couch, make sure he won’t throw up all over himself and drag his own ass back to his bed. He blinks quickly to dispel the creeping heaviness across his eyelids, adjusting Ortega once more as he goes into another verse of the same made up jabbering nonsense.

Pollux glances up at Ortega as he keeps going, his brown eyes staring above and all around, glassy and vacant from the eight or so beers he’s had. Maybe a few other drinks bought for him in between; he’s not paid to watch how much Ortega imbibes.

But there’s honesty in his eyes, in how despite the awkward looks and snickering laughs from the few people still out as they clumsily pass by, he means every word of his stupid ballad. Drunk Ortega isn’t suave, isn’t the actor, wearing his heart on his sleeve instead of a mask on his face, looking picture perfect, taking it all in stride. It’s honestly slipping out of his mouth unbidden, the facade peeled back, the lies stripped away. The pretense and the formalities all gone and he’s just some drunk guy draped over a friend taking him home.

Pollux likes the pretense, when they don’t say the things they want to say--when he won’t drape himself all over him. Makes it easier to pretend he doesn’t feel like he does--makes it easier to lie to himself.

“I-It’s...it’s true, ya know? You are my, uh, my best friend.” Ortega waves his hand around theatrically, tripping over his own misplaced feet with a giggle. A giggle. God so help him. “An-And I don’t think you hear it enough. From anyone. You’re special, Lux.”

Oh he’s heard plenty of how he’s special--her words purred in his ear, fingernails digging into his shoulders, urging him on--more and more and more. Pollux swallows hard, smothering that voice in the back of his head.

“Oh I hear plenty from you about how special I am, lover boy.” Pollux huffs because as much as he is an honest drunk, he’s also stupid as shit and mushy as fuck. He doesn’t have the space in his head to think about how differently it sounds when Ortega says he’s special, how his ears are burning and the strange roll of his stomach.

“It’s-It’s because it’s true, Pebbles.” Ortega objects, rather loudly and pointedly. “You really are my best friend an-and I care about you. A lot.”

“You’ll be caring a lot more about the toilet than me in a bit.”

Ortega blows a large raspberry and waves his hand, Pollux dragging him away from yet another hapless pole he’s aiming to smack into.

Going to Hoots on Friday nights is both equal parts exciting and the worst thing he gets talked into doing; the music leaves him with a pounding headache and the flurry of so many minds leaves him damp with cold sweat and shaky hands. Still its Ortega’s favorite place to go on a Friday night, plus Anathema had volunteered to come along and Pollux was feeling indulgent. Fat lot that did when he drew the short straw.

Should’ve told Anathema to do, damn them when they winked and smirked, ducking out the door in a flash, leaving Pollux to wrangle Ortega.

Pollux sighs and he swallows down the lump, Ortega still mumbling away at his song as his building comes into view. Thank god--it’ll be easy to dump him at home and leave behind the weird feeling that refuses to go away. Going out with Ortega is always dangerous. It’s far too easy for Pollux to convince himself to give up some of his boundaries and self imposed restrictions—the things that keep him from saying things he shouldn’t. Doing things he shouldn’t. Like walking Ortega home.

He gives an inch and Ortega takes it for a mile, drawing him out bit by bit like thread unraveling from a spool and he uses it to tie them in closer. Convinces him to stay for a little while longer, one more longing look.

One more chaste kiss...or maybe not so chaste kiss.

Ortega nearly falls and Pollux curses, half dragging him up the stairs to his building and he wrangles him through the door to his building. He’s half slumped over him now along with most of his weight on Pollux’s shoulders and he might as well be dragging his feet.

“Can you please stand on your own fucking legs?” Pollux huffs, knees groaning and he’s only twenty two--his body shouldn’t groan like that.

“Gravity is too much, Pebbles.” He mumbles against his shirt near his neck and that is most certainly not helping the situation, his face flushing the under mask.

“I’ll dump your drunk ass on the floor.”

“Please Lux don’t do that.”

Thankfully there’s an elevator or he might have sooner just dumped Ortega in the lobby and left rather than drag his ass up the stairs. The doorman knows Pollux well enough by now that he just waves them on and shakes his head, grinning to himself. Oh the indignity of the Marshal of the Rangers being dragged drunk through his apartment lobby, but the doorman has tight lips. Plus there’s undoubtable amusement in watching Ortega getting wrangled into an elevator when his feet aren’t working correctly.

The door closes before Ortega can spill his guts about how much he likes him to the doorman, or spills his guts all over the tile floor. That would be a mess and Pollux wouldn’t be the one to clean it up. He’s had enough of cleaning up vomit, acid dripping down his chin from his nose, the corners of his mouth..

“Please tell me you have your keys.” Pollux nudges him off and leans Ortega against the elevator wall, patting around his pockets. He finds his wallet—thankfully tucked in his back pocket still—but no keys.

“I got em Lux don’t worry.” Ortega oh so helpfully pats his butt and Pollux rolls his eyes.

“That’s your wallet, you ass.”

Ortega snorts. “You touched my ass.”

Pollux groans loudly, face flushing under his mask and Ortega laughs in self satisfaction. A sharp pinch of his side and he yelps, grumbling under his breath as he rubs the tender spot. His coat pockets next and Pollux finds the jingling ring of keys--thank god.

“At least you have some sense of hindsight...” Pollux grumbles to himself and the elevator dings. He helps him out of the elevator and they drift side to side down the hallway, Ortega mumbling something or another in his ear the whole time, oh so helpfully close like earlier. Pollux tries not to care--his cheeks are most certainly not warm--fumbling with the lock until it clicks open and he pushes Ortega inside. He kicks the door shut and miraculously Ortega is standing on his own two legs and even more miraculous is that he’s looking at him.

“Can’t believe it took this long t’get you to come to my house after Hoots...” Ortega mumbles with a lopsided grin, subtly lost when he’s still got that drunk look to him--the smell of beer and stale french fries still on him. Pollux’s face flushes and his ears burn, quickly squashing down *those* sprinting thoughts.

“Save the drunk flirting for someone else, lover boy.” He helpfully turns him around to push him towards the living room, putting the keys down. Ortega somehow manages to not bump into too many walls along the hallway, hands outstretched to guide him. Pollux sighs and quickly squashes the little soap bubble thoughts of his goofy sashay down the hall--he was not staring. Not at all, no wandering eyes.

Ortega is reasonably safe in the living room. Not like he can go many places--he could fall down and break his head open on the coffee table his head helpfully tells him--and Pollux heaves a deep, long sigh.

There are pain killers and other meds he’ll need in the cabinet above the bathroom sink; Pollux picks out the ones he’ll need for tomorrow among the menagerie of orange bottles, sifting through what it means to keep a modded body running--thousands of dollars tucked away in that cabinet. They’re the ones he’s watched him take when he won’t stop complaining about the pain in his back and elbows. Others he’s listened to Ortega lament at how bad they taste.

Pollux pulls the throw blanket from off the bed where he’s held frozen peas to the side of Ortega’s head, listening to him talk about how the fight went--the good parts and the bad parts. He’s stitched bleeding wounds there and gathered up stained blankets to clean later, wrapped gauze over washed abrasions, keeping chiding words tucked behind his teeth.

A cup for water in kitchen and he’s sat on the counter top and watched Ortega cook him all the foods he’s never tasted before. Pies that tia Elena makes, a beautiful cake that his cousin’s aunt makes which reminds him of this tiny hole in the wall place in downtown Los Diablos. He could rant for ages of all Pollux has missed like a fool, how he hasn’t lived until he’s tried this, or tried that. It’s sad just how close is accidentally gets to the truth.

Laughter calls from the living room and Pollux peeks his head out of the kitchen, finding Ortega sprawled out on the couch, one shoe on and the other off, holding a decorative pillow under his chin. Who knows what he’s laughing about now, something stupid inevitably.

“You need to take off both shoes, Ortega.”

Pollux reminds him, picking around for the biggest bowl and settling on a rather large sauce pan instead. By the time he comes back he’s figured that out along with getting his jacket off, leaving it in a heap on the ground. Pollux knows he’s watching him, setting both the painkillers and the water on the coffee table for when he gets the sense to need them.

“Hey, hey Pollux?” He pauses putting the pan down. “Why do you always got your mask on?” Ortega asks, brows furrowed like a puzzle he’s trying to solve. Pollux mirrors the expression behind his mask, lips slipping into a familiar frown.

“My face is a secret.” Pollux retorts and Ortega grumbles.

“Friends don’t keep secrets...!”

“Oh yeah? I’m sure you’ve got plenty of secrets you don’t tell me.” Pollux gives him a pointed look and Ortega waves his hand dismissively.

“Nothing like my entire face, Pollux.

“You’ve seen the lower half of my face.”

He’s kissed him too, cupped his face and the back of his head and held him like he was all that mattered in that moment. But Pollux isn’t telling him that at all. He certainly does not want to think about that right now and he scoops up Ortega’s jacket, balling it up in his arms.

“That doesn’t count!” Ortega laments and oh this is just a piss poor attempt to cajole him into showing his face that’s for certain.

“Well tough luck lover boy.” Pollux heaves a sigh and sits down on the floor near Ortega’s head, face resting against couch cushion, jacket still balled up in his hands. He has half the mind to take it with him, as payback for making him drag his ass through the street at 2am. He’d be looking for it up and down his apartment tomorrow and the thought of the frantic text he’d get makes him bite his lip to suppress a smile.

Plus it is a nice jacket--a pretty leather bomber style, well loved and well taken care of.

“You’re so mean to me.” Ortega grumbles, playing with his lip between his teeth, and Pollux ugly snorts, dramatically rolling his eyes.

“Oh, I’m just the worst best friend huh?”

“Yes, the absolute worst best friend. You’re so awful and mean to me in the worst ways imaginable, Pollux.” He can’t help but snort and that sets Ortega off with a loud groan.

“I *cannot* believe that you are finding this funny, getting all this amusement out of you being so mean to...”

Pollux zones out watching Ortega rant, the clumsy way he’s speaking and the way he moves his hands like he needs them to speak, snapping for the words he’s struggling with. It’s...interesting watch the facade crumble, how he’s so perfect with words and oozing charm for crowd and cameras, but just the two of them in his apartment and he’s stumbling, stuttering.

He’s not the Marshal when he’s sprawled across the couch, one foot dangling off the edge, slurring and tripping over his words, little unabashed laughs slipping out. It’s more real seeing him like this, less questions to ask, more straightforward. There’s no guessing here, no games of chess to play where he needs to be five steps ahead, no guessing his thoughts by the tilt of his brow or the quirk of his lips.

It’s just the calm even breaths between them, enough space to breath the same air and yet it’s still like an ocean dividing them.

Pollux swallows against the lump in his throat and he pushes the thoughts out to sea, staying on the shore where he keeps watching Ortega talk, the turn of his lips and the slope of his neck, down to the hint of collarbone. Places where Pollux has put his lips and felt Ortega’s breath hitch--his pulse race. Put his hands and felt him breathe in his chest, the rise and fall of rushing breathing, the scratch of five’o clock shadow on his cheek, under his nose, the gasp of air in the space between wet lips.

If he was the betting kind of person, he’d put money on Ortega not remembering anything tomorrow and it would so easy...could pull the mask off and let him see for a bit. His hands sweat at the thought, giving an inch and losing a mile to a silly drunk man’s smile and how comforting it is--how is so completely and utterly easy to lose himself.

H’s betting on him not remembering and Pollux is running low on chips. Either and neither way he’s screwed and he takes a long breath. Steadying his hands and he reaches under his mask, pulling it up and over his head.

He blinks, adjusting to the soft hazy light of a nearby lamp, the flush of alcohol and cologne in his nose. Cool air on his sweaty face and he resists the urge to sneeze. Ortega keeps talking, eyes even fluttering over to him once, twice, three times and...there he gets it, brown eyes growing big.

He blinks once, twice, three times and a wide smile breaks across his face, eyes focused on him. With difficulty, Pollux shoves down the urge to yank the mask back on, cover himself back up and hide; he worries the jacket between his thumb and index finger instead, chewing the inside of his cheek.

“Happy?”

Pollux chokes out past the lump, face flushing. Ortega keeps staring, keeps his eyes focused on him and it’s because he’s drunk, Pollux tells himself, and he’s never seen his face before, and he’s staring at him like he’s something far too precious--a twinkle in his eyes, the curl of crows feet. Pollux’s skin itches and he resists the urge to scratch and pick, tear and yank yank yank--

“You have red hair...” Ortega mumbles and instinct makes him take a deep breath to quiet his nerves. Neither here nor there and Ortega’s hand twitches like he wants to reach out, but he can’t quite get there

“Nice observation there captain obvious.” Ortega snorts at his reply and Pollux runs his fingers across the fuzzy curls starting to grow back in.

“Do you know how many freckles you have?” He still has that half stupid grin on his face, eyes darting about his face, taking it all in like he’s piecing together the person he’s always wondered about under the mask. Fitting him into the image he’s made of him, constructed in his head.

Pollux is too used to that and he fights the roll of his stomach.

“A million.” Pollux grumbles and Ortega whistles dramatically. “You’ve seen them on my hands before, don’t act so surprised.” Tacking that on and he rolls his eyes too.

Ortega found his hands fascinating back then too, his fingers long and slender compared to his palms, compared the whole of him. Piano fingers Ortega had called them as they measured palm to sweaty palm one lonely day in the break room. Ortega’s fingers daring to slip a fraction, to slip his fingers into his, to hold his hand palm to palm, five fingers interlocking. It was enough to set a fire in his gut then, like pressing his hand to a stove and he’d yanked his hand back and shoved his gloves back on too. Too much of a touch--far too real and new with skin pressed to skin.

“You’re very handsome, Pollux.”

He blinks, tossed from his thoughts by the sudden admission, scrambling, eyes shooting up to look at Ortega.

That wasn’t what he was expecting--not the words like that, for Ortega to blurt that out and there’s that damn honesty again.

Ortega is staring at him, eyes more focused than he should for how drunk he supposedly is...or was, for that matter. Damn it. There’s the truth wrapped around his tongue, coating his words and fuck Pollux doesn’t like how it makes him feel, not one single bit.

He blushes deep red and his ears burn, tucking his chin against his chest like that will do any good. If pulling the strings on his hoodie tight to hide his face would do any good he would.

“Shut the fuck up, Ortega.” He manages and fuck his voice shakes more than it should—more than he wants it to.

“I’m not lying.” Ortega’s got that stubborn look in his eyes and there’s a frown of his own on Pollux’s face, lip twitching in an almost sneer.

“I...” Pollux snaps his mouth shut and bites his lip hard. “I don’t care if you’re lying or not, just shut up.”

That’s a lie of his own and he pinches hard between his thumb and index finger, worrying his lip.

“Just because you say that doesn’t mean I’m lying. I am being honest, Pebbles.” He presses further and Pollux looks up at him and he shouldn’t have because Ortega is leaning in far too close.

“That doesn’t mean I don’t get to call you a bastard.” Pollux replies, breathing harder than he should, less butterflies and more like a beehive in his stomach, waiting to be shaken.

“You would call me a bastard no matter what.”

“That’s because it’s the truth, Ortega.” Pollux doesn’t lean away even though the rational part of his brain is screaming otherwise. Ortega’s breath still smells like booze, but he smells more like cologne this close, the subtle musk that tickles his nose, stale french fries a thing of the past.

“Do you want the truth?” Ortega asks and that is the question.

It’s always been the question, the one he can’t find answers to no matter where he goes looking—what is the truth? What does he need to know the truth about? What happens when the truth is laid before him--or if it’s set in front of too many people, naked and exposed. Far too many questions for the skinny space between them right now, breathing in sync.

“Could I stop you from saying it?” Pollux asks in return, eyes sliding down the slope of Ortega’s neck, fingers itching. He can’t remember if he wore a necktie or not, but the top buttons are undone regardless. Pale pink cotton sharp against deep brown skin and Pollux swallows against the lump in his throat.

“No...” Ortega grins, a soft flush on his cheeks that isn’t from the alcohol. “But I would very much like to kiss you.”

Pollux bites his lip and he’s still, holding himself just so he won’t bolt from the floor, knuckles tense in the jacket. He steals a glance at Ortega’s face and fuck that isn’t any better than staring at other parts of him, his stomach twisting itself in knots of indecision.

“You smell like beer.” Pollux skirts the question, Ortega’s lips just inches from his--breathing in time, breathing in the same air and if it were anywhere but here, anywhere but this moment. If he was anyone--anything--but what he is.

“Is that better than blood?” He asks and Pollux quietly snorts. Bastard.

“I’m used to blood.”

Pollux unknits his hand from the jacket, reaching and pulling back and he knows he’s touching what he shouldn’t be--feeling what he isn’t mean to feel--but he’s doing it regardless. Reaching again, his fingertips ghost up the side of Ortega’s neck. He smooths his fingers up bronzed skin to the curve of his jaw, jagged thumbnail slipping along the rough line of stubble there, thumb finding his chin. He swears there’s a sharp intake of breath, but Ortega is still, staring, eyes searching his.

He knows it’s almost three am and he doesn’t know how he’ll drag himself back to his bed with how tired he is now, tired enough to think that kissing Ortega is a good idea, tired enough to loose his inhibitions. He’s seen his whole face and he hasn’t run, trembling fingers still holding his face in a gesture far more intimate than palms pressing together, fingers almost linked.

Pollux supposes he’ll wake up the next morning and if his phone isn’t dead he’ll have a slew of text messages waiting for him; supposes Ortega will remember and ask a dozen questions, or he won’t and still ask a dozen questions like he’s used to. Either way Pollux supposes he’ll lie to him, tell him that nothing happened, that he just dumped him on his couch and got him settled in. He supposes they’ll both know better than that, but neither will say anything. Supposes Ortega won’t even remember his face in the morning, or remembering kissing him.

His thumb is still stroking his chin, eyes staring at his lips.

“But I can make an exception. Just this once.”

Pollux lies to himself, to both of them. Another one to add to the dozens, a pile like he’s digging his own grave.

He crosses the gap between them and he pauses just enough to know how bad of idea this is--how screwed he’s going to be. Ortega doesn’t give him time to back out, cradling the back of his neck and he yanks him close, lips pressing against lips.

He tastes of stale beer--better than fresh blood, the taste of metal and electricity on his tongue. Here he feels the shape of his chapped lips against his, the curve of his jaw, hand curling sharp into the nape of Ortega’s neck, fingers slowly bunching in his hair. Ortega’s hand cupping his cheek and jaw, hand warm against his already flushed skin. Nose bumping nose to try and fit lips together and it’s soft, tender, worming into the dark places he’s hidden away, pulling lengths of thread to bind them together. Pollux pulls away, forehead to forehead, biting wet lips.

Oh he’s certainly going to be cursing himself later, Ortega pulling him back in for kisses upon kisses that keep bleeding into each other, one after another, tongue and teeth and he wonders how much Ortega is trying to memorize the shape of him, the flush of his lips against his, fitting puzzle pieces together. Ironic considering he wasn’t meant to be remembered and here Ortega is, slowly, achingly, trying his best to do just that and fuck it *hurts*.

It isn’t fair, kissing Ortega when he’s drunk on his couch, Pollux’s fingers knitted tight in his hair, hand finding it’s way under his collared shirt to press against his chest, needs these needy kisses. Hands holding his own face, the back of his own neck, hands daring--wanting to explore more. Fuck he wants to hold him tight, let him keeping touching him, drink in every single kiss and then maybe he won’t feel so empty.

Maybe he’ll feel like an actual person, like he’s more than what’s on his skin, what’s buried deep down--the terrible, gut wrenching truth.

And that is one of the scariest thoughts he’s ever had.

He pulls away from the kiss, peels his hands from Ortega and Ortega’s hands away from him, hiccuping with each time he tries to breathe, trying to hold the panic steady in his gut.

“Stop.” His hand is firm on Ortega’s chest, keeping him at bay as he tries to lean back in, to try and kiss him again. “You’re far too drunk, Ricardo.” Pollux whispers, sense crawling back up his spine, a cold weight filling his gut.

“Just drunk on you.” He’s trying for smug and the way he’s looking at him through his eyelashes would almost be charming, but it’s just not fair, not fair at all.

(It’s always the almost, isn’t it?)

“Stop, please...” Pollux presses his hand firm against his chest, enough to push him back a bit and Ortega’s brow scrunches together, confusion slipping into worry and further into scarier emotions.

“Pollux? Are you okay”

“You’re drunk and I’m going home.”

Pollux says again, trying to be firm, to hold his ground, despite knowing what he wants to be feeling, his chest tight. He needs to go, needs to leave before those feelings get the better of him, before he decides to do dangerous things--things that come attached with regrets. Things he can’t even fathom, ones that leave his skin like pins and needles.

(Needles under the skin, needles in veins, wrists chafing)

“Pollux, please, I’m sorry...what did I do?” Ortega tries again and Pollux gets to his feet to stay out of reach of scrambling hands, jacket knitted in his hands once more, knuckles squeezed of their blood.

(blood on white tiles, muffled screeching and sobbing)

“You didn’t do anything, I’m sorry.” Pollux chokes out, pursing his lips into a thin white line, looking everywhere but at Ortega.

“No, I-I did something...I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have kissed you--” He tries to get up, but Pollux puts a hand on his shoulder and pushes him back down, quickly pulling his hand back out of reach.

“No, I’m...I’m going back home. You’re drunk and didn’t do anything wrong.”

That’s right, it’s always him making the bad choices, going against the boundaries he’s set for himself and they’re there for a good reason--to keep him safe. Keep his secrets safe, locked away behind his teeth and his lips still taste like Ortega.

“Pebbles, come on...pl-please...”

“No, I am going home, Ricardo. I’m sorry.”

He takes his mask out and slips it back over his face, adjusting the fabric and he can hide again, pretend like he’s calm and not that his stomach is still twisting itself into knots upon knots, that he doesn’t want to bolt down the stairs and out the door.

“Don’t throw up all over yourself, please. Take your meds. Call Steel in the morning so you don’t cause a panic when you don’t show up at eight am.”

Pollux speaks quick, sliding the pan closer towards Ortega with his foot and he skirts around the couch, jacket still locked in his hands. He hears Ortega scrambling to extract himself from the couch, still whining for Pollux.

Pollux reaches the door and disregards his pleas, opening the door to the cold hallway bathed in green florescence from the flickering lights overhead.

“Bye Ortega.”

He slams the door closed behind him, the sound ringing in his ears over and over again, a rhythm as he takes the stairs in sets of threes and he’s out into the night, disappearing into the dark.

#fallen hero #fhr #chargestep #owen writes #oc tag #oc: pollux #okay to rebloog go wild #this is the mostly done wip i was lamenting about #i've been meaning to finish this for days #but yeah. pollux hurts even back before hb can you imagine that #pollux voice i will apologize i will apologize i will apologize

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