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boldlyvoid · 3 years

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Amethyst you so much

Summary: Spencer has had a crush on Y/N since she started working at the bau. She only ever works the night shift after a case, handling all the aftermath gracefully. one night, Spencer stays back and they strike up a conversation about rocks, causing their feelings to dig a little deeper.

Warnings: pure fluff, weed mention, hurt/comfort, grief and mourning

Word Count: 6.4K

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Late nights at the office had become his thing since Gideon left.

He couldn’t bring himself to go home some nights without a game of chess, a cup of coffee, and the ambiance of the post case staff working. He would’ve had no idea about what goes on after they close a case if he didn’t stay behind most nights.

The phone rings almost every 10 minutes, and it’s always answered by the sweetest voice. The fax machine never turns off, and the most beautiful girl in the world is always running around placing papers in different places.

He’s been smitten with her since she started here, 2 years ago. Never seeing much of her since she was switched to the night shift, always wanting to just watch her from afar, never speaking to her unless he needed to.

“Yes, again we are so sorry for the door,” he can hear her voice from the back corner of the room. “Agent Morgan will be paying for that out of his paycheck, don’t worry, Mr. Kennings. We’ll be sure to remember your hotel when we’re in the area again. The FBI has a very generous budget for overnight cases. Of course, you have a good night too.”

She hung the phone up harshly and let out a deep sigh. He turned around to see her face in her arms, resting against the desk. She looked done, completely fed up. He would be too.

She looked up then, noticing that he was making eye contact with her. She awkwardly smiled and waved at him, “sorry.”

“No, I’m sorry,” Spencer replied. “We asked for the key, I should have stopped him from kicking it in.”

She laughed then, walking over to his desk so she didn’t have to yell across the room. She sat on the corner of his desk lightly, “why do you stay every night?”

“Oh, um,” he wasn’t prepared for this. She had never talked to him before. She was barely able to even look at him when she used to place papers on his desk 2 years ago, now she was on his desk.

“I don’t like to bring the work home with me, it’s better to destress here before I go to my apartment,” he answered, half honestly.

She nodded slightly, “I get it. Luckily I go home in the mornings so the sun helps me feel better.”

“Going home in the dark isn’t fun,” she lightly smiled up at her.

“Do you want a coffee or anything?” She asked softly, “seeing as I am still your assistant as long as you’re here?”

He laughed lightly, “I would, but I’d like to join you in the staff room for it?”

“Okay,” she stood, straightening out her shirt as he stood as well.

He held the doors open for her, letting her walk out first, still smiling as she waited in the hall for him. Never being anything less than 1 foot from him for some reason, and he didn’t mind in the slightest.

“Do you like your job?” He asked lightly.

“Oh yeah,” she laughed. “It’s like customer service on crack. Have you ever had to explain to someone why you can’t pay for the cracked foundation after Agent Morgan’s ransacked a place?”

“I honestly never thought of who has to deal with the aftermath,” he awkwardly admitted to her. “I’m so sorry.”

She couldn’t stop laughing as they entered the kitchen, “it’s fine. I never have to apologize on your behalf, it’s everyone else who seems to be reckless. Sometimes I feel like it would be better if I came along to babysit.”

“That would be helpful,” he smiled softly as she entered the staff room.

He watched as she took a new coffee filter out of the cupboard. Emptying the coffee pot with ease, rinsing everything before adding the water and scooping in the grounds. He was mesmerized by how fast she was able to do it, then again it was sort of her job.

“What mug would you like?” She turned to him with a smile that made his heart skip a beat.

“Um, the purple one, if it’s there?”

“You really like purple, huh?” She teased him, standing on her tippy-toes to reach the mug for him.

She placed it on the counter before grabbing a white mug, it had a bumblebee on it, “bee happy” written along the top. It was perfect for her.

“Purple is a stress-reducing colour,” she explained. “When I was a kid my parents painted my room purple so that I’d sleep better.”

“I’ve always been drawn to it.”

She leaned against the counter while the coffee pot started to percolate, “Probably because of your anxiety, coffee doesn’t help that.”

“It’s in my DNA to be like this,” he tried to joke, knowing he succeeded when her smile crept back onto her face.

He was on a mission to keep seeing it.

“For someone who spends a lot of time with dead bodies, creepy places and bad people, you sure are a mousy little thing aren’t you?” She teased him.

“I also love Halloween, go figure.” He’s not sure where the confidence came from, being able to make light-hearted jokes like this was only easy with the team.

Which she technically was a part of. He’s seen her almost every single day for 3 years, slowly being able to get comfortable enough for this very moment.

“What else are you into, outside of here?” She asked honestly, making his heart swell as no one else had ever asked him before.

“Lots of things,” he sighed. “I love to read, I’ll read anything. But mostly I enjoy far-off worlds. Lord of the Rings, Star Trek, Doctor Who, Sherlock mostly.”

“No supernatural?” She gasped. “Sacrilege, honestly. What kind of nerd are you if you don't support supperwholock?”

“That's the show with the monster hunting brothers right?” He tried to recall it to his mind.

She nodded with a pressed-lipped smile, “it’s bad but in a way where I can’t stop watching every Thursday, they just introduced an angel who is pretty gay. Star Trek is cool too, I guess, I was raised by Trekkies.”

“My mom was into Doctor Who.”

“Mamma’s boy,” she teased him slightly, returning her focus to the coffee as she poured the now finished brew into their mugs. “She was nice when she came in that one time, I made her a very sweet coffee just like yours.”

He reached for the sugar then, poring a generous amount into his mug with a grin, “how much do you like?”

“the same amount,” she couldn’t help but laugh. “I hate the taste of coffee, but it keeps me awake.”

He poured the sugar into her mug as she places a spoon in each. Allowing him to stir his own before picking it up finally. Holding the warm ceramic in his hands, it was almost as warm as the feeling in his chest when he looked at her.

He’s felt it for a long time. He’s been caught staring at her by Derek, JJ even tried to get him to give her his number. Which she already had for when she calls him into work in the middle of the night. They knew he had a crush, he did too. He just didn’t know what to do about it.

“Come to my desk, I want to show you something?” She asked softly, avoiding eye contact as she walked towards the door.

He followed, like a lost puppy, all the way back to her desk. It was always neat, he always looked at it when he made his way up the stairs to the briefing room. He could even see it from where he sat at the table sometimes. Always wanting to see her leave in the mornings.

She had a collection of rocks that always changed, he loved the blue one the most but it wasn’t there currently. She had all new ones since the last time he looked.

“Here,” she hands him one. It’s brown and gold, the colours moving and shifting as he turns it with his fingers. The gold running through it like a beautiful wave.

“what’s this for?”

“It’s a Tiger’s eye, for good luck and happiness,” she smiled. “Keep it at your desk and maybe it’ll be easier for you to relax when you come back?”

The butterflies in his chest were swirling then as she looked up at him with pleading eyes. Wanting him to take it, wanting him to feel better. Caring for him.

“Thank you,” he barely whispers, clearing his throat softly. “It’s very nice of you.”

“You’re always nice to me, so,” she shrugged.

They sat down then, he dragged his chair from his desk over to hers. Sitting in close as she explained all the meanings to her rocks. He listened carefully, getting to examine each one as she spoke.

“This one is Jade, it’s for balancing emotions and allowing compassion so I don’t scream at everyone on the phone,” she laughed as she placed one in his hands. Her fingers brushing his palm softly.

It was a beautiful green stone with a thin white line running through it, separating into 3 directions as he flipped it over, “it’s beautiful.”

“I know some people don’t believe in this stuff,” she started to get embarrassed as she placed them all back on the shelf. “But I’ve always thought; if the moon, which is just a rock, can control the water, and humans are 70% water, then who’s to tell me the moon cycles don’t control my emotions and these smaller rocks can’t help problem areas?”

“You’re not wrong,” he shook his head softly as he thought her words over. “People depended on the stars and planets for guidance originally, as well as rocks and herbs for healing, just because it’s outdated doesn’t mean it doesn’t work?”

“Thank you,” she smiled. “No one has ever agreed with me that easily.”

“Anytime you want to talk, I’ll just be over there,” he pointed at his desk. “And I’m a phone call away?” He swallowed sharply at his boldness, trying to stay calm as he awaited her answer.

“I do have your number,” she smiled, reaching out to place her hand on his. “But you should go home, I’m sure you’re chilled out now.”

“Yeah,” he agreed, staring at her hand as they touched. He lightly wrapped his hand around hers, holding it slightly, running his thumb over her knuckles. “I’ll see you tomorrow?”

“And every day after,” she whispered, tilting her head as she smiled at him.

This was going to be interesting.

—

Penelope was always dragging him out. She would take him shopping, to dinner, to the movies. She was like his big sister, dedicated to making sure he wasn’t always cooped up or trying to retreat into a fantasy life.

She kept him busy.

She had 4 bags in her hands as they walked down the street, peering into the store windows to see what else she could possibly be interested in taking home for someone. That’s when they passed the natural health store.

He stopped in his tracks, seeing all the different rocks on the wall accompanies by little cards that described how they could help. He opened the door and rushed inside before Penelope even noticed he stopped following her.

“Good afternoon!” The shop owner called out to him. “How can I assist you today?”

“Um, the girl I like has a rock collection,” he says softly, knowing Penelope is behind him listening. “Crystals more specifically, I’d like to get her some?”

“Well, you came to the right place,” the man beams, escorting him to the wall of rocks. “What is she like?”

“Wonderful,” the words are carried out of his mouth on a sigh as he thinks about her. “She’s confident and nice, and caring. She’s always positive and just so lovely.”

“I’ve got you,” the man starts picking rocks off the wall and placing them in his hands.

Spencer follows him to the desk where he lays down a handful of rocks, Penelope is shockingly quiet as she stands beside him, staring at the collection. She’ll be full of questions later, all of which he is terrified of.

“This is a rose quartz, pretty basic love, beauty, anti-depression stone,” he pushes the pink and a green rock towards him. “Serpentine is for new adventures, observation and insight. I have a feeling you’re up for an adventure with her?”

Spencer nodded enthusiastically, “I like that one. It would be better to get her some rare ones, some that have to do with friendship, new beginnings, or opportunities?” He tried to explain his feelings as best as he could. Not knowing if he sounded dumb for a change.

The man smiled wide, “here,” he dipped below the counter and dug out a box. “Chrysocolla is literally for new beginnings, love and opportunity.”

He hands Spencer a vitreous, raw blue stone with small green marks running all through it, it’s beautiful like her. “This is perfect.”

“I’ll throw in a Kiwi Jasper as well, it’s for being by someone's side, support and trust. As well as a Ruby in Zoisite it symbolizes finding the joy in life with someone,” he hands Spencer two equally beautiful stones, prepping a bag and wrappings for all of them.

Spencer lays out the 5 stones he picked out, watching him wrap them with care before placing them in a bag. He rings everything up, Spencer pays and before he’s even out the door Penelope is pouncing on him for answers.

“Who?!”

He can't help but blush and stutter, trying to brush past her and continue walking down the street. “You can’t hide forever Spencer, who is she?”

“How do you know it’s a she?”

“You literally said so?” She looks at him like he’s an idiot. “Come on? I won't tell anyone!”

“Y/N.”

The gears are turning in Penelope's head as she tries to place a face to the name, knowing she’s seen her somewhere, “From the office?”

He nods softly, “the one Derek bullies me for staring at?” He clues her in more as they walk.

“He also bullies her for staring at you,” she adds with a smile. “She’s going to love those, when are you going to give them to her?”

“I was thinking about just leaving one on her desk every day? Maybe with a note for why I picked it?” He really wants to woo her, she’s too special to just flirt with.

“She’s going to love that.”

—

Sure enough, he walked into work every day for the next week, placing a rock on a sticky note on her desk. He was never around when she was able to see it, only knowing she got it when he'd arrive at work the next morning with a note reading 'thank you ♥︎ ' on top of his files.

He thinks about her all weekend, planning how he'll give her the last rock as he takes the elevator up that morning. Only to see her sitting at her desk, phone pressed to her ear as she tried to talk someone out of suing the FBI, she looked absolutely miserable. Just a casual Monday morning for her, almost at the end of her shift.

He rushed over to his desk, putting all his stuff down to dig one of the rocks from his satchel. Picking the Kiwi Jasper for today, he grabbed a pen and a sticky note and wrote her a little note.

“Always here if you need to talk, -Spencer ♥︎”

He walked over to her desk, she was still talking so she didn’t notice him until he was right there, she looked up at him with a thankful smile.

“Yes sir,” she answered the person talking to her. “Can I call you back after I speak to the chief? thanks.” She hung up on him, turning all her attention to Spencer.

“I know you know it's been me leaving these, but I brought you in another one,” he says softly, placing the rock in her hand and sticking the note to the shelf where it would end up.

“oh my gosh, Spencer?” She placed her free hand on her heart as she looked at the rock.

“You looked upset?”

She stands and pulls him into a hug, he can feel all the eyes on him as he holds her back, letting his chin rest on her shoulder as she squeezes him.

“Thank you,” she whispered as she pulled back, awkwardly smiling at him as she also noticed everyone staring.

“Always,” he smiled back, hand still resting on her arm. “Um, I have a case I need to get to.”

“Of course, good luck,” she smiled.

He pulls the tiger's eye out of his shirt pocket, showing her that he still had it, “kinda hard not to have good luck with this.”

She bit back a smile, her eyes gleaming as she took a deep breath through her nose. Releasing the same feelings he was keeping inside, allowing both their butterflies to swarm out together.

—

He loved when they had cases in Virginia. Being able to stay in the bullpen and work was relaxing, it was easier to think where he felt safe.

He was working on the geo profile all alone, a huge map stretched across a clear case board as he laid a yardstick across it. Drawing a thick red line with marker over it, in his own little world as he worked away.

He doesn’t realize she’s standing there too until she’s lightly pressing her hand on his back.

“Hey,” she whispers softly. “It’s 10 pm, thought you’d like a coffee?” She places the purple mug on his desk with her purse, turning her attention back to what he’s doing.

“Thank you, I’m almost done here,” he says softly, finishing the red triangle he was making on the map.

“I’ve always found it fascinating how you do this,” she complimented him. “You’re so careful.”

“Like baking, it’s an exact science,” he smiled softly.

It made her giggle slightly, placing her hand back on his back as she moved in closer to look. He wanted her to stay there forever, but he knew he wouldn’t be able to focus. He tried his best to steady his hand as he finished the line.

Putting the yardstick back down and turning to her, she doesn’t move her hand, instead, softly moving to rest on his arm as she stands close to him. “How are you?”

He feels nervous for some reason, it’s not like she hasn’t been this close to him before. It’s just that she’s close and she smells wonderful and he wonders if her lips would be a better wake-up call than the coffee she brought.

He realizes he’s staring at her lips when he licks his own, “I’m good,” he furrows his brow and clears his throat with a nod.

She smirks at him, “how come you’re the only one still here? Hotch said it could wait till tomorrow?”

“I was waiting for you,” he admits, “but I got carried away setting this up, I never heard you come in?”

“Cause I didn’t,” she scrunches her nose slightly as she straightens her stance. “I saw you working hard and went right to get you a coffee.”

“You’re wonderful,” he blushes as the words slip out, trying his best to keep eye contact when all he wants to do is kiss her.

She pats his arm slightly as she backs up a little, grabbing her bag from where she set it on his desk. “I’m going to set up for the night, come talk to me before you leave?”

“Of course,” he says as she walks away, letting out a small sigh as he realizes just how badly he wants her.

He never gets to talk to her before he leaves, she’s on the phone when hotch comes storming in. Saying something about another body and making Reid leave with him. He’s busy for 3 days straight, thinking about her with every free thought he’s able to squeeze in.

He carries the rock from her in his pocket everywhere he goes; in his pants beside his keys, in his bag with his books, in his breast pocket, over his heart, behind a bulletproof vest. Feeling it press against his chest, a part of her keeping him safe where ever he went.

They finish the case with minimal damage, Spencer specifically making sure that Derek leaves all the doors on the hinges for Y/N’s sake, cleaning up any messes they make so she won’t have to hear about it over the phone. They all notice that he’s doing it for her, quietly appreciating the fact that Spencer is happy for a change, that there’s a glimmer of hope in his eyes again.

He arrives back at Quantico 30 minutes before her shift starts. Everyone else is packing up for the day while he sits at his desk, reading to occupy the time before she comes in.

Only she doesn’t.

30 minutes pass and she’s nowhere to be seen, it’s only 9:02 by the time he starts to panic. Wondering if she’s okay, hoping she’s just in the elevator or grabbing a coffee that’s actually good, somewhere outside of the office.

“Reid,” he hears Hotch calling him from his office door. “She just called in, her grandmother passed away last night so she won't be in.”

“Oh,” he furrows his brow, looking at him with confusion. “How did you know?”

“Penelope,” he smiles. “She’s still here too, and she knows where Y/N lives.”

“It wouldn’t be weird to go see if she’s okay?”

Hotch just smiles at him again, “go see her, Reid.”

Getting her address from Penelope felt a little weird, but she writes it on a sticky note for him and he’s out the door before she can even pry into what he’s going to say. Which is good, because he doesn’t know yet.

It’s late, but he stops by the little rock store on his way to her house. Seeing the lights still on and the same man from before behind the counter.

“Welcome back,” he’s overly cheerful for it being so late. “How did she like them?”

“She likes the ones I’ve given her so far,” he smiles, looking over the wall himself this time for the right one.

Scanning past every emotion and affirmation known to man as he looked around, picking out a beautiful pink Rhodonite for healing grief, supposedly acting as a hug from emotional troubles. And a Rainbow Moonstone for inner peace, harmony and strength.

“She’s lost someone recently?” He asks as Spencer places them on the counter.

“Her grandmother,” he says softly. “These are good, right?”

“They’ll be perfect, we also have amethyst bracelets, they’re good for healing and drawing in positive energy,” he points towards the small display of bracelets. Small purple stones separated with small gold beads.

He picks up 2 of them, placing them on the counter as well.

“Is she still just a crush?”

Spencer laughs lightly, “unfortunately.”

“She might be more after this,” he smirks, ringing him up. “I’ll give you a 2 for one deal on everything, I have a feeling you’ll be in a lot.”

Spencer thanks him as he pays, picking out a small purple bag for the rocks and bracelet. Placing one on his own wrist before leaving. Also picking up some cookie dough ice cream and a card at the corner store just beside her apartment. Remembering all the times Penelope, JJ or Emily has mentioned it being the best ice cream for crying.

He takes a very deep breath before knocking on her door, hoping to every god out there that she doesn’t find this incredibly inappropriate and weird.

“Spencer?” He hears her voice before she even opens the door, looking out the peephole at him.

She whips the door open, eyes puffy and swollen as she looks at him in shock. She’s in a big sweater and shorts, tears dripping down her cheeks as she shakes her head at him.

“I thought you could use some cheering up?” He awkwardly smiles, holding the ice cream up for her to see.

She wraps her arms around his middle, burying her face against his coat. Still crying as she holds him, he holds her with his free hand, shushing her as he presses his cheek to her head.

She pulls back with a sniffle, “come in,” she offers with an arm out, ushering him inside the small room as she closes the door.

He takes his shoes off, handing her the ice cream so he can take off his coat and satchel too. “This isn’t weird right?”

“Not at all,” she laughs slightly through the awkwardness. “You don’t know how much it means to me that you care this much.”

“I brought something for you,” he says as he struggles to dig everything out of his pocket.

He hands her the card and the little purple bag, seeing the overwhelming glance grow on her face. Her eyes grew wide as he mouth opened, speechless.

She opened the card first, reading the passage about grief that was already provided. Dealing with grief was something Spencer knew too well, adding something a little special to the bottom of the card.

“To live in hearts we left behind is not to die,” -Thomas Campbell. As long as you remember her, with a smile on your face and love in your heart, she will always be with you ♥︎ Spencer

She wipes her tears with her forearm, placing the card on the counter beside the ice cream before she opens the bag. She pulls out the bracelet first, absolute shock on her face.

“Spencer?” Is all she can say, in a high squeak as she shakes her head at him.

“I didn’t want you to be sad,” he says softly, stepping into her space and placing a hand on her arm. “I love seeing you smile, and I thought this could help.

He takes the bracelet from her grasp and places it over her hand. Resting it on her wrist softly, straightening it out against her sweater as she notices the matching on over his shirt sleeve.

“Oh this is so cute,” she swoons. “thank you, really Spencer.”

“And there are some rocks for grief healing in there too, one is supposedly like an emotional hug which should heal the grief and sorrow, and the other is more for inner peace and harmony,” he rambles away, not wanting her to miss anything.

She pours the rocks from the bag, into her hand, looking them over silently with a smile, “they’ll look great on my desk.”

“The purple looks nice on you too,” he compliments her, watching her eyes drift up to him.

She places the rocks on the counter before wrapping her arms around him once more. This time he’s able to actually hold her back, tight as possible as he rubs his hand over her back.

She smells like home, clean laundry and happiness. She’s soft and warm, he holds her perfectly against his chest, like she was a missing puzzle piece that someone finally found under the table, she fits into his life like she was supposed to be there.

She kisses his cheek softly before she pulls back, causing him to pull her into a real kiss on impulse. Connecting their lips as she sighs into the contact, melting into his grasp as she kisses him back.

Her lips are soft, fitting between his own gently as she breathes him in. Her hands reach up to grip his cheeks, kissing him again and again, placing pecks to his lips and cheeks with her eyes closed as he giggles.

“Thank you,” she whispers against his lips, “for everything.”

“I’d do anything for you,” he whispers back, kissing her one last time before she pulls away.

“I was actually about to smoke some weed on the fire escape and probably cry some more,” she laughs lightly. “would you like to join me?”

“I’ll stick with a bowl of ice cream,” he smiled awkwardly.

“Nice one,” she laughs as she opens the ice cream.

“What?”

“Oh, you didn’t even get the reference you made,” she laughs lightly, “to get high you smoke a bowl, so…”

It makes him smile, “I'm a comedian part-time.”

He makes her laugh again, loving the sound of her giggle replacing the tears. “Why aren’t you this funny at work?”

He thinks about it for a little, watching her scoop the ice cream into two bowls, “it’s a little hard to make jokes when people's lives are on the line, I know everyone else does but I get too focused.”

“They probably wouldn’t appreciate your jokes even if you did make them,” she says as she handed him a bowl with a spoon. “They’re kind of mean to you, in a family way but it still sucks sometimes to overhear.”

She walks into the living area then, grabbing a few blankets and opening the window to the fire escape. Crawling out to sit on the ledge, waiting for him.

“I don’t mind it,” he says as he finally sits down beside her.

She places the blanket over their laps, both of them sitting criss-cross applesauce as they ate.

“Do you like your job?” She asks him, just like he once asked her.

“Most of the time,” he nodded as he got brain freeze. The cold air, the cold ice cream, everything that was catching up to him as he scrunched his face up at the feeling.

She laughs at him only a bit before she’s also attacked by the brain freeze, holding the vein in her neck as she chokes out another laugh, trying to warm up the blood going to her head so the pain would stop.

They’re both just a mess of giggles together, unable to say any words as they let it all out. She leans her head on his shoulder lightly as they calm down to just soft chuckles. He presses his cheek against her head.

“Thank you, Spencer,” it sounds like she’s crying a bit. “My grandma was a lovely woman, she’d be glad I’m laughing right now.”

He reached out a hand for her to hold over the blanket. She interlocked their fingers softly, both cold from holding their ice cream bowls.

“If she was anything like you, I’m sure she was the most wonderful woman,” he says softly, not intending to make her cry but having a feeling he might.

“Would you be interested in holding me on the couch while I cry?” She asked softly, tears in her eyes as she looked up at him.

“Whatever you need, I’m here for you.”

—

He’s late for work the next morning.

Waking up to the smell of coffee, opening his eyes to a strange view. He’s on a couch he doesn’t recognize in a room he doesn’t know too well.

Then he remembers, they ended up cuddled up on the couch. He wakes up to the memory of her on his chest, crying softly as they listened to some music, he ran his hand over her back while she went through it all, blessed to have his support.

He fell asleep under her at some point, waking up alone with a blanket laid over him. He sat up to see her in the kitchen, pouring coffee into a travel mug.

“Good, you’re awake,” she smiles at him. “Coffee is ready, I uh, I have this button-up shirt from a guy friend, if you wanted to wear that to work today? So they don’t think you stayed here?”

“That’s smart,” he replies as he rubs the sleep out of his eyes.

Getting up, he uses the bathroom, changes and takes that coffee from her. He’s not expecting her to kiss him on the lips at the door, but she sends him off to work like an old housewife.

He doesn’t want to pull away from her, keeping her pressed against him as he leans in for 4 more kisses before she finally pushes him out into the hallway with a laugh, “get to work!”

“Fine,” he sighs, “are you going to be in tonight?”

“Yeah,” she smiles, “funeral is in West Virginia next week, so I’ll be in until then.”

“I’ll see you later?”

She nods slightly with a soft smile, “you’ll be seeing a lot of me soon, Spencer.”

“Good,” he winks at her before heading down the hallway and towards the street entrance.

He sighs as he walks outside, resting his back against the apartment complex door, taking a moment to think about everything that just happened, the night of company and the wonderful send-off.

It was something he could get used to.

He rushes into the briefing room when he arrives at Quantico, sitting down with his coffee and pretending he wasn’t late. Listening carefully to JJ’s presentation of the case as he flips through everything he missed already.

“Wheels up in 30,” he heard Hotch say as he zoned back in. “Nice of you to join us, Reid.”

“I know that travel mug from somewhere,” Derek said as he stared at Spencer, who was taking a sip to avoid the awkwardness.

“Hmm?” He played dumb.

“That’s Y/N’s. She washes it every morning when she leaves to go home, I see her do it every morning,” his eyes open wide. “Holy shit.”

“Isn’t that the same tie and slacks from yesterday?” Emily teased him as well.

“Her grandma died, I brought her ice cream and slept on the couch okay?” He all but yelled, flailing his arms slightly so they’d all back off.

Derek reached his fist out for him to pound it, “good man.”

Then Penelope noticed the bracelet, “did she get you that?”

He sunk his hand into his pocket then, “no.”

“What?” Emily and JJ asked in unison, straining their necks to try and get a good look at what she was talking about.

He nervously held his arm out for them, showing them the purple bracelet resting over the sleeve of his shirt. “I got one for her too, it’s for healing and peace. It’s what she needs right now.”

“Oh, so you love her,” Derek smiles as he teases him. Making everyone else in the room swoon slightly.

“Okay and?”

“Oh my god!” Most of them shout at him, embarrassing him to no end. He was so glad she wasn’t at work this morning or else she would be able to hear this from her desk.

“Did you kiss her?” Rossi pries, asking what everyone else was thinking.

He scrunches his face, pushing his glasses up slightly as he clears his throat, “a few times.”

“Is she your girlfriend?” JJ kept the questions coming.

“Not yet,” he said softly. “Kinda weird to walk into her apartment while she cries to say ‘hey sorry about the death in your family, want to date me?’”

“Yeah,” Emily agrees, shrugging lightly. “At least she knows you like her now, it’s been what? 2 years?”

“2 years, 3 months, 17 days and 43 minutes,” he confirms with a small nod and pressed lips.

“Gross,” Derek teases him.

“The plane is leaving in 10 minutes,” Hotch cut into their fun.

Making them all gather their things and continue the interrogation in the elevator, and eventually on the plane, and in the police precinct. Even Penelope called him in the middle of everything to bug him about her.

The questions were never-ending, everyone wanted to know how they even started talking, who made the first move, how he plans to ask her out. They were relentless, he almost regretted admitting to anything.

They bug him all throughout the day, all the way until they’re arriving back at the BAU late that same night. He almost doesn’t want to go back to the bullpen and see her with all of them, knowing they were going to follow and say something.

She’s waiting in the hall when the elevator doors open, a pressed-lipped smile on her face, “bad news.”

“Another one?” Hotch sighs, “have Garcia send us the info. Be at the table in 10.” He pushes his way out of the elevator, passed them all as they stare at Y/N.

“Hi?” She awkwardly waves at them all, showing off the bracelet on her wrist.

“See ya, Spence,” JJ and Emily say as they matt his shoulder, dragging Derek and Rossi towards the bullpen doors.

“Sorry,” he apologizes for them softly, stepping into her space.

She wraps him up in a quick hug, keeping one arm around his waist as she guides him towards the bullpen, “it’s fine, they’re going to have to get used to us being together.”

“Together?” He repeats her words.

“I only cry on my boyfriend's shoulders, if you're up for the title?” She teases him softly, pinching his side as they walk towards the doors.

“Can I frame “Dr. Spencer Reid, Y/N’s boyfriend” beside my Ph.D.’s?” He keeps his hand on her shoulder, holding each other slightly as they walk towards her desk. He felt like one of those kids who wouldn’t let go of their girlfriend's hand in the school hallway, attached to her at the hip.

“I’ll make one for you while you’re gone,” she laughs lightly.

They stop at her desk where he sees all rocks he got her collecting on the shelf, as well as a cup of coffee and his favourite kind of donut.

“Thought you deserved something nice too,” she says as she nudges his side.

He kisses her on the cheek as a thank you, “you’re welcome,” she smiles to herself. A feeling of pride growing in both their chests.

“See you later?” He asks as he picks up the coffee and donut, walking away slowly as she smiles at him.

“Come home to me safely, Doctor Reid,” her voice is just loud enough for everyone in the briefing room, where everyone is waiting at the window, watching them, deciding to put on a show in return.

He stops on the steps to look at her softly, “I’d fight a thousand unsubs to come home to you.”

“I’ll leave the light on,” she blows a kiss at him, making him blush a deep red.

He waves, making his way up the steps and into the briefing room. A smile on his face, heart thumping in his chest, all the support in the world swarming around him as everyone patted him on the back.

That tiger’s eye really did bring him good luck and happiness, and her name was Y/N.

#spencer reid #spencer reid smut #spencer reid fanfiction #spencer reid fanfic #spencer reid imagine #spencer reid x reader #spencer reid x y/n #spencer reid x you #spencer reid self insert #spencer reid request #criminal minds smut #criminal minds imagine #one shot #fluff

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slothgiirl · 3 years

Text

percolating gently (noah x mc)

au in which jane marshall lives and mc and noah and jane run off to live happily ever after a family of three and also smut (if you don’t want to read that skip the section that goes “its christmas, technically”.

title from a tennessee williams quote

15k

It's the three of them in the end. Jane. Noah. And you. Just like it started. Just like it had been.

Always you caught up between the two Marshall twins; Jane’s hand in yours gripping tight and never backing down as she poured water into dirt to make mud. At nine, and never having shared Jane’s attention before, Noah had snubbed you on more than one occasion, shooting down watching Resident Evil just because you had suggested it.

It was funny how you'd befriended Noah first. Jane had a fever the week your parents moved to Westchester (to study some microbe that was super rare or some other incredibly niche nerdy thing). You'd been left to roam the neighborhood on your own as per usual, drawing trees and pets you wished for in chalk, and then Noah.

Noah.

Redfield- Jane’s let up at least a little. You're no longer stuck to that awful chair in terror but griping Noah's shoulders, your fingers clutching the fabric of his denim jacket because he can't, you won't let him take her place.

He's been through so much already.

They both had.

“Noah,” you stammer out, chilled to the bone from terror or the fact that you were in a damp and freezing underground chamber--probably both. “Noah, you can't!” You tighten your grip on him even as his frown deepens, anger clear on his features as he glares down at you.

You cut him off before he can snap at you. Looking over at Jane, no longer blazing, but hovering around, a shadow spilling into the corners of the room, eyes a cold blue without an ounce of friendliness or curiosity.

“I'm sorry,” you tell her, because this was all your fault. You should've never encouraged her. You should've saved her. You should've done more: anything but brush the memory of her away instead of dealing with the events of that summer. Denial had long been your method of choice but here Jane was. It had all been real.

You owe her this much.

And Noah-

“I promised I'd be there for you,” you think of the whistle, “I promised I'd protect you so that's what I'm going to do now,” you say even as your hands shake. “Let me take your place.”

You move to stand, but Noah doesn't budge, his head shaking as his agonized wide eyes meet yours. There's always been a sincere quality in the warmth of Noah's brown eyes that put you at ease and had you feeling like you two were the only people in the world and you could never say no to him; not now. He's a mess (just how you feel), beanie about to slide off his tangled hair, tear tracks down his cheeks. There's a pull in your chest, the painful need to throw your arms around him and hug him until the world stops being this shitty but you doubt you'd ever leave his side if you hug him now.

Noah shakes his head. “It should be me,” he utters into the eerie acoustics of the chamber, the horror of the situation audible in his voice. “It should have been me then. I can finally make things right.”

Your lip grumbles as you cry out, “don't say that,” your hand reaching up to cup his cheek, “don't you dare say that bullshit Noah-we were kids! None of this,” you look around, look at Jane, “this shouldn't have happened to anyone. And it wasn't anyone's fucking fault!”

If-when you got out of this, you were going to throw hands with Mrs. Marshall.

You used to wish she’d been your mother.

The shadow that is Jane inches closer.

Right.

It had to be you or him.

His skin was warm against your hand and you don't-you don’t think you can live in a world where Noah isn't there and he's had the shittiest time and you could've reached out but you didn't and he doesn't deserve this because he thinks he deserves this.

Noah thinks he should've died.

Fuck.

This was all so fucked up.

“It's okay,” Noah whispers softly, his hand covering yours before gently removing your hand from his cheek, removing your hold on him. “It's okay.”

“But-” you look at Jane.

You didn't know what was worse, a world without Noah in it or a world where Noah became some twisted monster the same way Jane had over the years of loneliness. No one started out a monster.

You shake your head, reaching for Noah's hand, “I promised I wasn't leaving you again.”

His eyes widen in shock, giving him that doe eyes look that sort of made you want to kiss him, as if he'd forgotten all about that moment, as if he thought he wasn't worth it but Noah deserved more than death. He should get to go to culinary school and deal with shitty customers at Baby Jane’s.

And it was too late to save the day.

If you were being honest, it was nine years too late. It was all about doing the best you could in impossible circumstances because Jane didn't deserve to spend an eternity alone and scared and a monster either.

Intertwining your fingers with his, you swallow thickly before replying in a steady voice, having made your choice the moment Noah had been willing to go find Dan alone, when he'd opened up to you at the shop and you realized all this time it hadn't just been you dealing with the repercussions of Redfield, “Together.”

You weren't going to fail Noah again.

Noah is speechless.

But Jane was always able to go with the flow. A shadowy limb ghost over both your hands, in the vein of those cheesy moments in anime when a best friend speech got everyone through a big battle.

“Allll play too g etherR.”

“Yeah,” Noah says sadly, accepting that there was no version of this ending that didn't end in tragedy. “together.”

At least this way, you could be monsters together.

“It's okay Jane,” he tells his sister, his hand squeezing yours, “we’ll take over from here.”

You wake up cold, thinking that you'd left your bedroom window open (not that you were doing much sleeping in that room after the Dan night terror) again, but you're greeted with the sight of Jane curled up asleep between you and Noah looking the same as she had at the many sleepovers you'd have at their house. You don't know if she's real or if this is a dream or if you're dead and this is just a figment of your new reality, but you don't care.

Finally, you understand the ending of Inception.

You don't want to wake them up, still exhausted yourself, but Jane keeps shivering and you can only imagine how worried your friends were. Your phone’s dead.

You couldn't stay here.

“Noah,” you whisper, the sound echoing throughout the chamber. “Noah…”

He grumbles in his sleep, but doesn't wake up.

“Noah,” you hiss.

“What,” Noah slurs, shifting as he lifts his head, jostling Jane at his side but your friend who was dead, was previously dead, continues to sleep looking like a particularly angelic little girl.

You can tell when the situation dawns on him: the twitch of his lips as his mouth settles into a frown, brows becoming drawn in thought.

It's day outside.

You're not sure which day.

Noah's phone is also dead.

Both of you stumble through the woods half asleep, Noah carrying Jane as if she was the most precious thing in the world which she was because she had been dead but now she wasn't and you were beginning to hope this was real and not a trick and that Jane was getting a shot at a normal childhood.

“We should go to my house,” you offer, keeping your voice low as to not disturb Jane who continued to sleep, no wonder Andy and Ava had been able to draw so many mustaches on her back in the day. “It's closer.”

And also you had no way of explaining how Jane had suddenly come back to life. That was something to process later. First a warm bed and sleep and then you had to let your friends know you weren't dead and figure out the whole Jane being alive with Noah. But first, sleep.

“Yeah, okay,” Noah answer’s, clearly still in shock. “Sounds good.” He says as if you two were discussing the weather and not sudden resurrection.

Then again, was this really that big of a leap considering everything that happened in the last few months?

You kick off your shoes and curl up with the Marshall twins to sleep.

“Why are you so much taller,” Jane asks once you’ve all woken up and yes, Jane’s still there, flesh and blood and the idea begins to solidify that she’s alive and well, well maybe not, you don’t know how much she remembers if at all and you still don’t know what to do with her but for now Noah’s rifling around your sparse kitchen, sending you a judgemental look at the half empty pancake box mix that expired a month ago but there’s no gross mold or anything so he uses it anyway, unwilling to leave Jane alone for a second.

Noah smiles easily, which has you smiling, “I’m not tall,” he replies to his sister, “you just shrunk.”

She frowns, nose wrinkling and you had forgotten she did that when she was upset, her nose wrinkling up as her lips turn downward. It was adorable. Then in classic Jane fashion she decides, “that’s a lie.” And sticks her nose up in the air, her fingers continuing to do whatever in your hair. It feels nice, her small fingers weaving clumsily through your thick hair, but Jane had never actually learned to braid so you’re pretty sure she’s just tangling your hair up but you wouldn’t refuse Jane anything right now.

It’s been days since the dance.

You have countless missed calls from your friends, texts getting increasingly and increasingly panicked, and nothing from either of your parents.

“Turn around,” Jane squeaks, tapping your shoulder urgently.

“Alright, alright,” you say, shifting in your seat. She’s tiny. All red hair and freckles and she hasn’t left your side since waking you up, knees in your side as she’d yelled that she was bored and wanted to play so loud it had woken Noah up.

Jane looks at you with a frown. “You’re big too.” Then her lower lip wobbles.

Shit.

Hastily, you pull her onto your lap, wrapping your arms around her.

“Why am I still small,” she whispers, looking up at you with the same wide brown eyes you were so used to.

“Uh,” you swallow thickly, trying to figure something out because maybe she didn’t remember and wasn’t that for the best? Wouldn’t that be the best case scenario? The only problem is you’re barely eighteen and not at all prepared to handle a nine year old. Had you really been this small when your parents decided to fuck off? “It’s because. . .you’re special, like Peter Pan.”

She crunches up her nose for a second, thinking. Then in her child innocence, she nods, deciding she likes the explanation. “You should’ve come with me,” Jane pats your cheek sadly, “grown ups are so boring.”

Noah wheezes, a pancake slipping off the spatula as his shoulders shake with laughter.

You hadn’t had time to talk about what had happened, what he had done, and you certainly hadn’t had time to process your feelings on any of it, but you were always glad to see him laughing.

“Someone had to take care of your dumb brother,” you reply, legs kind of going numb with her weight.

Jane nods sagely, “Noah is dumb. Because he’s a changeling.”

When you were kids, you’d both been obsessed with goblins and trolls and fairy tales. You two would dig in the dirt looking for hag stones. Sticks would double as magic wands and swords. The old fur jacket Jane liked to play dress up with was her selkie skin and you would take turns hiding it around the house.

Noah rolls his eyes. He hadn’t liked your weirdo kid games the first time around, he liked them even less now and you can’t help but grin at his expense. “You’re the redhead in the family.”

Jane blows a raspberry.

What a way to win an argument.

It’s past midnight before Jane crashes.

You’re on your third watch of frozen which had seemed like a great way to keep Jane inside the first time when you’d suggested it (kids loved that movie) and had become the worst, as Jane made you watch the movie again and again, singing “do you want to build a snowman” at the top of her lungs. That hadn’t stopped you and Noah from helping her find all the pillows in your house to build a castle with. Your living room has become a pillow castle fort.

During the second watch, Jane had dug around through your closet, before finding a blue hoodie you didn’t even remember you had and tying it around her shoulders. “You’re Anna,” she’d told you, giving you pigtails when she gave up on braids.

Now, she was asleep on the couch, drooling on her pillow.

Noah immediately turns off the TV. “You couldn’t have put on Shrek?”

You’re sitting next to him on the floor, finally giving into the urge to look at the news on your phone. You hadn’t risked it while Jane was awake. She was a nosy child.

You frown, “we need to tell the others.” Because this was really happening. Jane was alive and you didn’t know what to do with that. She needed. . .fuck-she needed school and parents and probably therapy if she remembered any of it. You were just eighteen. You had no idea what to do.

Noah’s responding frown mirrors yours. “What? Why!”

“She just came back from the dead,” you reply quietly. “She needs-fuck what are we going to tell your mom?”

His expression turns angry, brows furrowing. “Fuck her. She doesn’t deserve to know.”

“Noah,” you sigh, not wanting to argue with him because what was there to argue. His mom was a shitty parent. “Dan, Andy. . .they think we’re dead. They deserve to know after what happened. They deserve an explanation.”

He flinches.

“And besides-we’re in high school! What are we-what the hell are we going to do with her,” you say gently because you couldn’t keep her cooped up in your house. You had things like high school and maybe college if you could salvage this quarter. You didn’t have a job. “She needs parents. And school. And. . .” You throw your hand sup in the air. You had no clue what she needed. You weren’t a functioning adult. You didn’t know what kids need.

“She has me.” Noah hisses back.

You roll your eyes. “I know that-fuck Noah,” becuase he was getting angry with you when all you were trying to do was help. God, he could be so freaking dense sometimes. “She deserves a normal childhood. How the hell are we supposed to do that for her? Does she remember any of it?” You cross your arms over your chest and stare at your feet. The garish pink nail polish was still intact.

Didn’t people need birth certificates and stuff?

Lucas would know.

Lily could probably do her computer thing and help with that.

He falls silent, glaring at the blank TV screen.

Noah’s breathing is harsh and you wait patiently.

“I can drop out,” Noah finally says quietly. “Get a job. . .”

“I’m going to call Lily,” you reply. “We need groceries anyway.” Like hell were you leaving Jane for even a second. This time, you mean to keep your promise.

Jane bursts into tears when she sees all her friends grew up without her, eyes turning red as tears streamed down her eyes and she buried her face in Noah’s chest, refusing to budge. He rubs his hand comfortingly against her back, carrying her upstairs.

Even from the living room, still a mess, you can hear her sob upstairs.

“What the absolute fuck,” Lucas utters, taking a seat, resting his head in his hands.

“Explain,” Stacy urges, already unpacking the groceries you’d requested into your kitchen.

You do.

You go over the last couple of days, most of which you spent sleeping.

“I think it says a lot about how fucked our lives are that this is only like the second craziest thing to happen to us,” Andy mutters, pacing around the room. “I mean,” he says stopping near the kitchen island, “the whole town got brainwashed!”

“Does-does she remember,” Lily asks.

You shrug, “I. . .I don’t think so. Clearly she doesn’t know why we’re all older. Maybe it’ll come back to her?�� You hope it doesn’t.

“So what are we going to do,” Lily says, looking around at everyone.

Dan speaks up, “Jane could have blocked out those memories. My therapist said that can happen with traumatic events.”

“That makes sense,” you find yourself saying, slumping in your seat. You think you could just finish high school at home. It’s not like your parents would know, or care. They’re not here. That way Noah can finish high school and you can look after Jane. But then what?

“Just so we’re all on the same page,” Ava asks rhetorically, “we’re just going to ignore the fact Noah tried to kill us?”

You flinch.

“Jesus fucking christ Ava,” Andy snaps, looking just as agitated as you’ve all felt for months.

“One crisis at a time,” Stacy complains, closing the cupboard door with a hard thunk, “I can only handle one crisis at a time.” Then she looks over at you, “are you-is. . .you can stay at my house if you need to.” No one suggests Noah and Jane going to their own house.

You shake your head.

At some point, you were going to hash things out with Noah, but it wasn’t exactly anger at Noah that you felt. It was hurt and the raw heart crushing betrayal. You know you hadn't been there for him when he needed you--for years-- but you thought, you wish he had just told you about Jane being Redfield.You would have helped, you would have done anything to help Noah and Jane and maybe no one would’ve needed to play are you scared at all. Fuck.

But no. You don’t feel scared at being here with him which was what Stacy was asking about. It hadn’t even crossed your mind even once.

But it feels too private to tell them that the three of you have been inseparable since the ruins. You’d spent last night curled up on the living room floor with him. But that knowledge was yours. You weren’t about to share that.

“It’s fine. I’m fine.” You don’t feel fine. “She can’t stay in Westchester can she?” Because you’re tired and want someone else to tell you what to do for once.

“Probably not,” Lucas answers tightly, still looking freaked out, eye twitching.

“It’s not a trick or anything. . .” Andy glances around.

You shake your head. Slowly, a plan forms in your head. Your parents would pay for your college, you’d apply out of state and take the Marshall twins with you. Instead of a dorm, you’d get an apartment. It could work.

Somehow.

“Have your parents called,” Dan asks gently.

“No,” you wave off. They weren’t important. Jane was.

“Have you thought about how you’re going to explain this,” Andy asks.

You wince. “Sort of. . .I don’t know.” You put your hands in your head.

It's Ava who wraps her arm around your shoulders, “we’ll figure this out.”

“Thanks.”

It's a familiar type of awful that Noah’s mom doesn’t really care that he’s spent the last six months living at your house.

With a great deal of arguing at 2 in the morning while lying next to a sleeping Jane, you’d managed to convince Noah to finish high school. And you’d promptly switched to homeschooling.

Lily had come through with Jane’s paperwork, now in your bag as your friends drop you off at the nearest regional airport.

You hold Jane’s hand, the only thing keeping her from running off as she takes the sight of the airport in. She’s thrown countless fits about being cooped up. But it was too risky for her to be seen in Westchester, a small town where everyone knew she’d died. The most you could do was your backyard.

So of course you’d made up for it by letting her pick your college.

“Someplace warm and sunny,” Jane had shouted excitedly, mind going crazy with plans as your acceptance letters came in.

Months on, it’s way less awkward even if Ava and Lucas have settled on ignoring Noah.

Andy hugs you hard. “Call when you land!”

You snort, “duh.”

Lily smiles and adds, “I might visit for spring break.”

“That would be great,” you tell her, tightening your hold on Jane as something catches her attention.

She pivots to Noah, who had the backbone of a toothpick when it came to telling Jane no which is why she keeps getting to skip brushing her teeth in the morning which was gross and she hated you for trying to chase her down, “I want that stuffed animal. If you give me that narwhal, I’ll eat my veggies.”

“You’re eating your veggies anyway,” you reply back, dragging her along.

“You won’t have to watch frozen tomorrow.” She continues, targeting her brother ruthlessly.

Noah’s already fishing his wallet out.

“That’s what you said about the hair color,” you point out, opting to carry her when she goes limp. “Don’t you dare Noah.”

Ava grins at you, amused and unhelpful.

“It’s just a toy,” he replies.

You roll your eyes.

“You two are such parents,” Andy laughs.

“I hate you,” Jane huffs. “We’re not friends anymore.”

“She told you,” Ava snorts.

Jane beams. Then reaches for Noah, who takes her from your arms without complaint.

You hug Lily one last time, and then. . .you’re going through security.

“I get the window seat,” Jane declares once you get past TSA.

“Go for it,” you tell her, belatedly realizing it’s going to be hell if it turns out she doesn’t like planes.

She nods, satisfied.

Tampa is no less humid and hot and awful a month in then it was when you first got off the plane but Jane loves it and there’s a park next to the building your living in: a tiny cramped apartment with only one room which went to Jane obviously which you and Noah had originally planned for you and Jane to share but both of you had capitulated to Jane’s demands within the day. She deserved being spoiled.

The A/C in Ikea was a godsend.

Sleeping on the floor with the bare necessities was not it and with you starting school next week, it was time to take your meager savings and get some furniture.

“Remember,” Noah says, pulling up the list on his phone. It had started with him grocery shopping since he cooked and needing to make a grocery list to Noah just taking over figuring out how to make the money your parents sent and his own contribution from his new job work. “Sofa bed. Bed for Jane. Blankets. One lamp. And a mattress.”

“Weren't you complaining about only having one pan this morning,” you ask as Jane drags you along to the first showroom, practically bouncing with energy.

Noah shrugs. “I can make it work.”

“Buying an extra pan won't kill us,” you counter. “We can just use my credit card.” And not eat out for the rest of the month, you didn't add.

“Let's play hide and seek,” Jane says with excitement. “I'll seek.”

You exchange glances with Noah.

Tomorrow you had to go sign her up at school. You had to go over the story with her again. Just to make sure you didn't all get in trouble.

Jane covers her eyes. “One. Two. . .”

You look around the tiny space, thinking of where to hide. Between school and Jane you weren't sure when you could or even if you could get a part time job. Noah was working at a diner during the evenings. You had gotten your classes early in the morning so you could be home with Jane while he worked. The problem was finding the extra free time to work.

Ugh.

Being an adult was hard.

But how much of an adult could you be when your parents were paying your tuition?

You head for the tiny bathroom which has a neat looking toothbrush holder and isn’t that something you need to buy? There were so many little things like a bath mat and towels and a dish rack that were only just occurring to you that were sort of essentials and jeez you really had one foot in adulthood. You don’t even hide behind the curtain, worried that Jane won’t find you easily and freak out and there’s weirdos everywhere. It was your job to look after her now. Not that Noah had asked for your help, but it was a given.

“Eight. . .nine. . .” Jane’s little voice carries and you’re struck by a flood of emotions that has your eyes tearing up.

Noah steps into the bathroom next to you, “we need a cutting board,” he says so seriously you can’t help but snort.

“What,” he asks, shaking his head at you.

“Nothing.”

He tilts his head.

You shrug, “just thinking. I don’t know. I don’t feel very grown up. And I took all the dumb towels my parents stockpiled for granted.”

“We should’ve raided your house,” he agrees, the corner of his lips lifting, “purge style.”

“Yeah,” you nod, “I never get why everyone jumps straight to murder. What does Ava always say? Redistribute the wealth, rob a bank.” You roll your eyes, scoffing, “murder.”

Noah snorts. “Pretty sure that’s Lucas. Ava’s more of a go straight to cutting people’s heads off.”

“Robespierre style,” you grin.

“Robes who?”

“Robespierre. From the french revolution.”

“I think that’s the class I must’ve ditched,” Noah admits.

You frown. “You could do community college,” because you had to corner him at some point. Noah was very good at avoiding subjects he didn’t want to talk about. “We could make it work. Do your G.E.’s”

Noah shrugs.

“Noah-” Because he said he wanted to go to culinary school and you get the urge to drop everything and buy a ranch in utah and live with Jane for the rest of your lives except Jane would hate that and grow up and leave and how are you going to afford spoiling her if you can’t get a decent job? Noah deserved to go for his dreams too.

None of you had to be defined by your incredibly shitty childhood.

Jane pops in, “found you!” She giggles in her Baby Yoda t-shirt and leggings, “you two are bad at this game! My turn!” Jane grabs Noah’s hand and drags him along to the next showroom that catches her eye, “remember,” she lectures you both, “no peeking,” before shooting off.

“What did you end up choosing for your major,” Noah asks, as you both fail to keep your eyes closed, looking over at the sofa section. It would be so freaking nice not to sleep on the carpet anymore.

“History,” you admit, “though I’m not sure it’ll stay like that. I don’t know exactly what I want to do after college. Or if I even like history enough to major in it. . .it just sounded fine at the time.” You had done well in APUSH. That had to mean something. But you had also liked your economics class. . .maybe you should do economics? “I really have no clue. Has it been ten seconds?”

“Probably,” Noah says with a smile, “nine, ten, coming to find you,” he calls out.

It’s a living room showroom, and yet Jane had managed to squeeze herself right behind a floor lamp and the TV stand. She’s a slip of a girl, but her red hair makes her easier to spot. Thank god.

“Let’s go pick out things for your room,” you offer, because you still have to go downstairs and find all the different pieces and then still go home and put them together. Thank god for uber. Oh shit, did this mean you had to get a car at some point? How do people buy cars?

“Okay,” Jane nods, immediately taking off, and she has you and Noah speed walking after her, on the border of a full out run. It was hard to be annoyed when you were still so happy to wake up in a world where Jane was alive and here and who cares that it took three hours to get her to stand still long enough to comb her hair and putting her to bed was a long drawn out affair of a bedtime story and a snack and needing to be tucked in and checking on all her toys and deciding she needed a glass of water next to her just in case she woke up thirsty.

It was worth it.

You liked not living alone.

You liked not being alone.

You weren't sure who was more exhausted as you finished washing the dishes. Jane was sleeping, thank god. The nice thing about Florida was it was fall and it was still warm enough to spend the evening at the park so Jane could tire herself out while you read fifty pages of your history and sociology textbook. It was what all the other moms did and you winced when Jane asked to join the soccer team that practiced at the park by your building because you didn't have the money and you could only hope she didn't ask Noah because he came home tired enough but for Jane he'd take more shifts.

There was laundry you didn't want to do and a quiz in english which was a nice class even if everyone was half asleep at 7:30 in the morning because your professor was somehow awake enough to engage and rant about short stories that thankfully weren't the same ten dead old white men you'd read in high school but actual people alive today whose english you could understand. It's night, so you don't bother drying the dishes before turning off the light. Noah had brought food which showed how tired he was. Yesterday's leftovers had saved you from attempting anything because you sucked in the kitchen as your poor microwave could attest: aluminum foil and microwaves don't mix.

Noah’s already asleep when you slide into bed next to him. You can still smell the scent of oil and grease on his skin even as you stay decidedly on your side of the bed.

It's mid september in Tampa and it's still warm and it doesn't stop you at all from curling up with a blanket.

The window panes are cracked open letting in the soft moonlight and you lay in bed, brain melted from class and reading, and look at Noah's profile and how much lighter he looked compared to a year ago. The lines around his mouth from frowning had eased; Jane teasing out a side of him that had previously shriveled up.

It's done him good to get away from his mom. To have his sister. You just wish you could do more for him.

Like he was doing for you and Jane.

You drift off to sleep. . .

“Move over,” a small voice asks, and your eyes crack open to the dark of the room and Jane a hair's breadth away with wide scared eyes, a pillow hugged to her chest. Her voice is raw, as if she'd been crying.

You move over, brain sleep addled, to make room for her.

She slips in besides you, immediately curling up in your chest the way she does when she decides she's done walking for the day: the way she runs up to Noah when he gets home from work.

“Did you have a bad dream,” you mumble, not wanting to wake up her brother.

“I don't know.” Jane admits, “I just don't want to sleep alone.”

“I thought you wanted your own room,” you tease, a little more awake now.

“I do,” she cries out loudly in the dark of the night.

You can just imagine her pouting even if you can't see her, your eyes falling shut again. “Okay. You can sleep over tonight.”

“Yay,” she whispers back. “We should draw a mustache on Noah.”

You snort, “too late. He hasn't bothered shaving in like two days.” It was a good look on him: stubble. You'd teased him ruthlessly, almost choking on your water when he'd gone pink.

Jane giggles.

“Go to sleep,” you tell her. “You have school.”

“So do you.”

“Sleep.”

“Tell me a bedtime story.”

“Jane,” you whine, rolling over away from her, because she sure wasn't going to stop. “Sleep.”

“Where the fuck are my shoes,” Noah says, as he stumbles around trying to find his things.

You should've folded the laundry last night. Instead, it was a pile on the floor, clean, but a mess. You had parent teacher conferences today, and of course you were rushing at the last minute. Between finishing a paper for sociology and ditching class because of the conference and it's not like your statistics professor took roll call, you were still in a towel, freshly showered.

“Check the hall closet. I told Jane to clean last night and I'm like one hundred percent sure she just stuffs everything in that closet. Dan's right, we're fucking her up by spoiling her too much.” You search the pile of clothes for a nice dress. Was that right for a parent teacher conference? You were 18, what did you know? Besides, you were like guardian adjacent. Not a parent.

“Okay,” Noah replies when you hear the door open and why can't you find any clean underwear, you just did laundry this is insane and you have like five minutes to leave or you will be late, “but why'd she only put away one shoe?”

“Don't goblins only steal left shoes or something,” you reply, finding clean underwear but giving up on the bra. You'd go with a blue and white plaid dress. It wasn't too revealing for school even if it was one of those back of the closet dresses you never actually wore.

You slip your underwear on under the towel as Noah reappears in jeans and a t- shirt, freshly shaved. “What if they ask too many questions?”

“They won't,” you wave off. “And if they do we can just lie.”

“You're a bad liar,” Noah teases, rifling around in the kitchen.

You toss the towel aside, trying incredibly hard to act cool and calm when you weren't anything but, as you go to pull the dress over your head. It's not like you were flashing him. You sleep next to Noah every night.

But then why did you feel so flustered right then. “Am not!” You squawk indignantly, turning over to look at him as your dress goes over your head and your boobs are no longer hanging out for the world to see (there was a point to curtains after all).

Noah goes bright pink when he realizes your half naked in the living room, as if he hasn't slept next to you for close to a year now but then again, you used to sleep in an old shirt and underwear and now you've got matching pjs because Noah and yeah you should probably do something about that like you had wanted to since the party ages ago now but there had been Redfield and Noah admitting he was in a terrible headspace and it wasn't the time and now. . .you brush the thought aside for now. You roll your eyes (because your cool and calm even if your heart’s beating erratically) and grab your purse, before joking, “so are you going to get a haircut or are you going to do the man bun thing.”

Noah groans, “Jane told me I looked like homeless dog.”

“Ouch,” You laugh, “when she say that?”

“She woke me up again last night but I got her to go to her bed this time.” He admits as you walk to Jane’s school.

“Again?” Fuck maybe she was having nightmares after all. “It has to be nightmares, but. . .” you trail off.

“I don't know,” Noah shrugs, “she says she doesn't remember. Just wakes up. But like why else would she keep waking up if it's not nightmares,” he frowns.

“Do you think they could be,” you purse your lips before continuing not wanting to be the one to bring it up but you sort of had too, “you think it's redfield related.”

“I really don't know,” he says, looking over at you with a sad smile.

Smiling softly, you squeeze his hand as you wait for the white pedestrian sign, “hey, she's got us. She'll be fine.”

Which makes you think about how Andy was right. You were such a mom. Had you mom-zoned yourself? That was good, you'd have to text that to Andy later.

Then you sigh, realizing that if you had a nightmare back then, your parents wouldn't have even been home for you to wake up. There had been weeks spent at Pine Springs and driving over to some niche science conference in Rochester or over to New Haven for a lecture.

“What,” Noah asks, intertwining your fingers with his as you cross the street.

“Just realizing how shitty my parents were,” you offer with a sad smile. What could you do about it now? You'd grown up.

“Just now,” Noah quips with a smirk.

You roll your eyes, “shut up.”

Jane’s teacher, an older black woman who's style leans close to Lily's own preppy academic choices, looks at you both skeptically. “You’re here for Jane Marshall's conference?”

Both you and Noah nod.

She doesn't look reassured.

You bump Noah's knee with yours, hoping he'll say something to clear things up. Neither of you looked old enough to be her parents. You had a serious case of baby face.

“Uh,” he says, still an eighteen year old who's spent most of his life bowing down to teachers authority. You understood, still feeling strange going to the bathroom during lecture without asking for permission. “I'm Jane’s brother.”

You nudge him again when it's clear he's done taking.

“Noah,” he manages.

You roll your eyes. “We’re her guardians,” you had gone over the story hundreds of times, “their parents passed,” you look down at you lap trying to look sad, “a few months ago.”

“Oh,” Jane’s teacher, Miss Sanders, says sympathetically. “I'm sorry to hear that.”

“Yeah well,” Noah trails off.

“Well Jane is a very outgoing girl,” Miss Sanders says, launching into her talk, “she's made lots of friends though sometimes getting her to be quiet during class time can be a challenge. She's at her grade level for reading and math. She does need more practice with writing longer sentences and,” she shuffles papers around, flipping through a red folder, before taking out some childish drawings. “These had me worried but in light of the loss she is going through, I think it's understandable.”

Each drawing is a variation of a theme: huge black blobs make up most of the page, with occasional stick drawings differentiated by hair color. Jane is obviously the girl with the red hair and triangle body. Redfield, she remembered something then.

Could it be subconscious?

You feel the blood leave your face as you look over at Noah. He looks just as shaken as you.

“It's normal for children going through the loss of a loved one, especially parents,” Miss Sanders tries, “to work through it in drawing and writing. But we could always let her talk to the school psychologist. Mrs. Hernandez is a wonderful child therapist.”

“Do you think it would help,” you ask, wondering if it was a good idea when Jane’s actual problem was of the supernatural variety. Maybe they would just assume that was her imagination, or her way of explaining away a loss.

“It couldn't hurt.”

You look over at Noah, slipping your hand into his, giving him an encouraging squeeze in his palm. It was his sister. It should be his call.

He pulls his hand out of yours, straightening up in the chair. “Yeah. That could be good.”

“Okay. I'll let Mrs. Hernandez know. That and make sure Jane’s reading books for AR. Her goal this year should 40 points if she wants to be part of the end of the year celebration.”

“I'll figure out where the library is,” you nod, “I'm sure she can find books while I study.”

“Sounds perfect. Any other questions.”

You look at Noah who shakes his head. He was starting to need a haircut. Even if you did like the way he looked with his hair loose.

“Alright then. It was lovely to meet you Mr. and Mrs. Marshall.”

“Oh,” heat builds up in your cheeks.

“We're not-”

“I'm not-,” you stammer, “I'm just a family friend.”

“Oh,” Miss Sander says, “I'm-sorry for assuming.”

“It's fine,” you manage, starting to leave. “Thank you. It was good to meet you.” You shake her hand, wanting to die inside.

“Nice to meet you as well,” she shakes Noah's hand and then you can finally leave.

You both hurry out the classroom, out the school.

“So that was,” Noah says, raising a brow.

“awful,” you finish. “But there were no red flags and we got free therapy out of it.”

Noah laughs, “I think we probably all need some therapy.”

“Rewatching arrested development isn't cutting it anymore,” you grin.

“I do feel like Gob most days.”

“Good,” you laugh.

“Really?”

“I don't trust people who identify with Michael. No self awareness.”

Noah laughs, “they are all horrible people.” His face becomes drawn, as he tucks loose strands of hair behind his ears. “How much do you think she remembers?”

You shrug, placing your hand on his arm. “I think it's probably bits and pieces. She did spend years and...she doesn't have nightmares? That's a good sign right? It's been months, she's not some creepy horror movie child?”

“Of course not,” he nods, looking down at you, with a frown. “She's fine. Jane's good.”

You smile shakily. “We're doing amazing. And she's happy if she hasn't stopped watching disney vlogs. No clue how we're going to swing that one if she asks.”

Noah matches you’re unsure smile, “take her to those rich people parks and call it disney.”

You snort. “It's Jane. That won't fool her.”

“It's Florida. We can just go to the beach.” He says with a shrug. “It'll be just as good.”

“Aren't there alligators though?”

Noah laughs at your expense. “Those are in the lakes and rivers.”

“Shut up. Want to go for pizza before you go to work?”

“Let's go get Indian food actually. There's this place I've been meaning to try but Jane’s-”

“Picky as fuck,” you say pointedly. “Like you used to be.”

Noah blushes. “Okay so my mom just cooked like kraft mac and cheese. That wasn't my fault.”

“And those pizza bites! I loved those,” you add, thinking back on all the sleepovers at their house as a kid. “I think when Jane came over was the only time I'd get to use peanut butter.” Your parents weren't around, but your nanny was philippina, you ate spice before kids discovered hot cheetos were delicious.

He snorts, running a hand through his hair. “We should probably get a car at some point.”

“Face it bro, we're broke. I keep wanting to tell you to get a haircut but we're broke.”

Noah raises a brow. “Fuck off. I look like post-Beatles George Harrison.”

“You wish you looked like George Harrison,” you tease.

The food was amazing. Lunch indian buffets were where it was at. And since you don't have a class right after, you offer to walk Noah to work, “I've got to walk off the food baby,” you tell him, before you head back to pick Jane up.

Noah laughs, “The malai kofta was just too good.”

“I should've stopped at three plates but buffets always make me think it's a food contest,” you admit. “My nanny would take me to this seafood buffet with her family around lunar new year and we’d spend all day there to try and eat our money's worth.” It had been your favorite holiday as a child, after your parents had decided you were old enough to be left behind, only a handful of years after they decided you were old enough to bring along with them, and you hadn't seen them even at christmas.

“Damn,” Noah says with an easy smile, “at least I had good times with my parents.” His smile is so fragile. That just means it hurt him more when things fell apart.

“I had nice times too. . .with your family.”

Noah cackles.

You cross the street to the diner he works at next to a retirement complex with what you think are the best waterfront views next to the hotels you can't afford.

It's strange.

Your entire life, Noah has been this huge part of it and you've always lived in a tiny town so you knew everyone he did and knew what he got up to just by living near him in a town of like 500 people or what felt like such a small amount, your elementary school only had one class for each grade but now you hug Noah goodbye even though he always tenses against you, as though he's unused to the physical affection and that just makes you hold him tighter, then he's heading inside and greeting people you probably will never know and he's having this whole part of his life your not a part of and one day he's going to go on and live his life without you and it hurts: watching him laugh with some waitress that's tall blonde and beautiful in a way you've never been.

It hurts but you suck it up and go pick Jane up from school.

“Don’t worry,” your friend says, holding your hand once she realizes you've been standing at the water's edge. It's warmer than you'd imagined as it laps at your bare feet.

Jane has not stopped smiling since you'd bought her a bathing suit at Target: a pink one piece with sloths. You'd been more nervous, not knowing how to swim. You also felt every single bite of pasta you'd had last night in your black bikini.

Damn Noah for being so good at cooking.

“I've got you,” Jane says, leading you out further into the water, over to where Noah's out, up to his waist and you're pretty see it's deeper than Jane is taller, but if Jane can do it-a wave, a massive looking wave comes crashing towards you both.

You don't hesitate to run away.

Noah points and laughs.

You flip him off once the wave passes, leaving your hair wet.

Jane grins. “It's okay. I won't let you drown.” She pulls you back out again, a perfectly happy water baby. She always had been fearless. And unlike you, as the water deepens, she starts to swim alongside you.

“See,” she laughs, “it's easy.” Then she pops down under.

You make it to Noah, figuring the water wasn't that crazy. No tsunami like waves to pull you out to sea and drown you.

Jane comes up for air, “I'm Jaws,” she yells at Noah, tackling his side.

“Ooof,” he says, exaggerating, “oh no, a shark, I'm. . .dead dying. . .”

Jane giggles.

“Do not,” you warn her. “I'm barely here as is.”

Noah rolls his eyes and you have a feeling there about to roast you: both of them.

“It's just a little water,” he teases.

“It's not even that deep,” Jane adds. “It's the beach!” She pops back down under the water as another wave rolls towards you.

“Fuck,” you mutter, tensing, as the wave soaks what's left of your dry hair, splashing salty water into your mouth.

Jane pops her head back up, strawberry hair plastered to her head, smiling so wide. It's November and it's still warm enough to go to the beach. Even the rain here isn't cold that way it was back home.

The world was so much bigger than Westchester.

Noah reaches his hand out to yours. You take it easily, stepping closer to him, pushing your wet hair out of your face.

He had the right idea, now looking more like the fifth beatle than a shaggy haired hippie. Less to deal with at the beach.

“You okay,” he smirks.

“Shut up. I can't swim. You know that.” You'd complained about it a hundred times as they both forced you off the pile of towels where you had planned to read through your notes. Studying, it was gross.

“You're,” Noah rolls his eyes, “it's like three feet. You're not going to drown.”

“What if,” you counter, “I trip and swallow water and drown.”

“That's not going to happen. What you can't stand up?”

“Don't,” you warn.

He smirks, “it's because you're short.”

“Asshole,” you say, smacking his bare chest. Nothing you haven't seen, you tell yourself. Act normal, you reminded yourself.

“It is!” Noah crouches down a couple inches to your height.

You roll your eyes-

-and laugh when Jane launches herself onto her brother's back.

“I'm an orca!”

Noah lets go of your hand to regain his balance. “Wow there shamu.”

Jane frowns. “Sea world is evil. Ava and I watched Blackfish.”

You vaguely remember some orca documentary that you had mostly slept through. Taking care of Jane was hard and you had fallen asleep in those early weeks whenever you got the chance.

“No seaworld then,” you shrug.

“But I do wanna go to Disneyworld. I wanna go on the star wars ride!”

“You don't even watch Star Wars,” Noah points out.

“I would if we went to Disneyworld. My birthday is coming up.”

“No it's not,” you frown. They were April babies.

“I think you mean my birthday,” Noah says playfully.”

“I was born first,” Jane yells.

“So, I'm taller.”

You roll your eyes, sinking down to your neck. The water was nice. “You better throw yourself into the water if I start drowning,” you warn Noah.

“Yeah yeah,” he says with a soft smile, “I'm not going to let you drown.”

Jane nods in agreement, “I'll kick him if he does.”

You laugh, happy to spend the days with the Marshall twins.

Bells don't ring, but the whole class knows when class is over, shoving their papers away into bags as soon as there's a minute left.

You leave English happily enough. It was a fun class, with plenty of movies and conversation that you were able to make friends in, unlike other lecture heavy classes where you had five minutes before class to talk during.

Sasha and Kevin both walk with you out of the lecture hall. “Have you started studying for the midterm,” Sasha asks, “I really don't want to write two in class essays. Multiple choice is where it's at.”

“I'd rather have an in class essay,” Kevin says, “and Professor Laux said it's just one. But he'd give us two prompts.”

You wrinkle your nose. “I love english I just hate the writing part. Or rather the long essays.”

“At least your not a computer science major,” Sasha counters, “physics is so much worse.”

“Not as bad as o chem.”

“O chem is not that bad,” Sasha counters.

You shrug, “art history major,” you grin smugly.

Kevin shakes his head, “just wait until you have to find a job.”

“Grad school. Both my parents love that shit. They'd help me pay for it.” They both had Ph.Ds.

“I wish my parents helped me pay for school,” Sasha complains again, “they are such hard asses about school but they want me to pay for everything, and live at home-can you imagine how many house parties I've missed to work at the movie theater.”

“Speaking of house parties,” Kevin pushes his glasses up his broad nose, “we're throwing this pre thanksgiving bash at my place. Beer. Snacks. Weed.”

“Shouldn't you be studying for midterms,” you ask, shaking your head. You also hadn't figured out what you were doing for the holiday. You had Jane and Noah now. It had to be special.

“Pfft. I will,” Kevin says. “You're only twenty once am I right?”

Sasha shakes her head. “Okay. But I'm stealing some weed.”

“You in?” They both look at you.

Noah's off Monday and Wednesday, when you get out too late to go pick up Jane. You can't leave her by herself, not that you would want to. You were looking forward to going to waste time at the mall and buy snacks at target: your usual Friday night.

You shake your head, “Can't. I've got Jane on the weekends. Babysitters are expensive.”

“Just tell your parents to look after your sister,” Kevin says petulantly.

You hadn't really explained things. It was complicated. Redfield had really messed up your life. Jane should be your age and going to house parties with you. But you'd have her alive in any shape or form so long as you got to see her. “Umm, actually,” you decide to explain a little, the practiced version, “her parents died a few months ago. They were-they were really close family friends and practically raised me so,” you trail off, thinking about how exactly to explain Noah. He was your best friend, a childhood friend, and. . .that was it.

“Oh shit, I'm sorry.”

“Yeah-”

“Well, if you're even able to figure it out,” Kevin says, “hit me up.”

You wave them goodbye and rush to your next class.

Noah's hair is still damp as he lays down on his side of the bed.

You were still going over your art history notes, wanting to go over the dates of the list of paintings you'd have to identify on tomorrow's quiz. The names were easy since styles even within art movements varied so much. It was a little harder in regulated art worlds: the buddhists of southeast asia didn't go outside their geometric ratios.

“You've been studying all day,” Noah says with a yawn. He no longer smelled like burnt oil.

“Yeah, I have a quiz.” You're sitting cross legged on your side of the bed. “It's on art identification.”

“That's what googles for,” he snarks back.

It was past midnight. Jane had been asleep for three hours.

“Smart ass.” You shut your notebook. The numbers had started swimming in your eyes a while ago. Nothing more was going to stick in your brain.

You turn off the light on your side.

“You're the smart one,” Noah laughs, “I'm just an asshole.”

“Oh,” you smile in the dark, highly aware of his body laying next to you, carefully keeping your leg from brushing against his skin. “You're self aware too!”

“Dick.”

“Takes one to know one.”

You lay in silence, listening to the sounds outside your windows, the cars passing by even at this hour, Noah breathing next to you. It was soothing, having people you loved with you. It wasn't lonely being home all the time.

Noah shifts onto his side: facing you.

You stare up at the ceiling, black from the curtains pulled right even as the window let the breeze in. It had been raining the past few days, but the cold days don't hold a candle to Westchester this time of year.

“Thank you.”

“For what,” you ask, smiling freely.

“What do you mean,” he pitches his voice higher, “for what? For everything.”

You giggle. “I haven't done much.”

Noah's tone is dead serious the next time he speaks. “You didn't have to help . . .with Jane. I don't know how I would've made it work without you, so yeah. Thank you. I didn't even ask-I wouldn't have asked you to give up college and partying-”

You have to stop him right there. “I didn't give shit up Noah.” He could be so dumb sometimes. If he had just told you Jane was Redfield, you would've helped him from day one to save her. But there was no point in bringing that up: just more salt in the wound. “And you didn't have to ask me: I wasn't just going to let you flounder alone. I wanted to-I wanted to be with you and Jane. That was never a question.” Heat flares up in the skin of your cheeks and nose as you smile, before you turn onto your side, looking over at Noah in the dark.

You can't really see him at all.

Thank fuck.

It's bad enough that you feel so flustered you might explode from the emotions swirling about in your chest. You don't know what to do about Noah, about your feelings for him.

Months ago, you would've just bitten the bullet and kissed him, but he'd also opened up about not feeling ready at all about relationships and you will not fuck things up for either of you. It had been easy with Connor when all the lights were green as he was clearly into you and responded right back.

It had been light and a way to not think about the terror of your day to day life for a few moments.

But it wasn't Connor you thought about so much your skin got all hot as you looked out the window during lecture.

You swallow thickly, squashing those feelings into some back corner of your mind.

“Thank you though, I don't know what I would have done without you.”

“Don't be dumb. It's getting rid of me that'll be hard.” You could admit now, “Now that I know what it's like to have people in the house to kill spiders, I'm never leaving,” you felt lonely in your childhood house all through high school.

“I don't think Jane would let you leave.” Noah laughs.

“True,” you sigh. “it's nice not to come home to an empty house.”

“Our childhoods were so messed up,” he replies softly.

“It's like the gift that never stops giving. But hey, who cares. I have you two and my parents monthly deposits-and FAFSA!” You laugh, because what else could you do, wallow in self deprecating angst like Noah? You weren't sure you could beat him at his own game. “As far as I'm concerned, you're my family now. . .both of you.”

“When did you become a walking talking greeting card?”

“Asshole.”

Noah laughs.

It's a sound you love. For so long, it had been so rare. It warms you up, blots out all the horrible shit you've gone through and makes everything okay.

You fall asleep smiling.

Sasha settles in your ikea bland table with her bag full of notebooks and textbooks. “I wish I had my own place.”

Next week was finals.

Next week was going to kick your ass.

Matthew looks up from his calculus solutions manual for the first time in an hour, “it really depends on the roommates, mine eat all my snacks.”

“Hide them in your room,” you suggest, opening your computer up to the study guide the TA had sent out last week. “With your underwear or something.”

Jane giggles as she watches spongebob on the TV. Fourth graders had it easy. The upcoming winter break meant Jane was practically doing arts and crafts all week.

You open up a notebook to a fresh page as you write down all the key items from the study guide, underlining key items. You wanted to knock the art essays out of the park. It wasn't as easy to bullshit those as it was to make up themes for an english paper.

Fuck, you were already pretty much done with a semester at college.

Jane had almost been back for over a year.

“Can I see your midterm,” Sasha asks, “I want to see what comments you got.”

You fish it out from your binder. “Go for it.”

Matthew looks up from his pages worth of calculus, “I hate math. I should've just done an anthropology major.”

“Sucks to be an overachiever,” you snark, annotating your notes with a pink gel pen. You had never cared to study much in high school, but a major you actually cared for made all the difference in the world. You wanted museums and van goghs and the asmr of cleaning paintings like in youtube videos.

“I didn't think double majoring would be like this,” Matthew sighs. “I haven't slept in three years.”

Sasha shakes her head, “just go for the one you like the most.”

“So I can be unemployed with tons of student debt?”

“Or get that grant money,” you wiggle your eyebrows. It was what your parents were up to.

“That would mean a PhD,” he complains, but doesn't look completely turned off by the idea. “And I could put off figuring my life out for another four years. . .”

Sasha laughs, flipping through flash cards with a bunch of arrows and equations written on them. Physics.

Intro to Biology was so much easier. You practically only had to remember high school biology and read through the study guide a few times. You could remember the difference between eukaryotic cells and prokaryotic cells.

Sasha suggests ordering Pizza hut as Jane starts asking for food and you feel like yeah, a study break sounds good.

“Four hours is the max people can concentrate for,” Matthew says, as he eats a third slice of pizza.

“So we're done for the day,” Sasha asks, getting up to stretch, and joining Jane on the couch. She'd been an angel, sort of, content to just watch tv all afternoon as you studied. Sure, she'd raised the volumes to movie theater standards every half an hour, but other than that-an angel.

“If you're good for the day.” You were nervous. You didn't want to be a C student anymore. You wanted to try. Surely you had inherited some of your parents brain cells.

“I am,” Sasha admits. “I've been studying every day for four hours. My brain has melted.”

“Honestly,” Matthew says, “I just started studying. The semester seemed so long.”

“Same though bro,” You grin. “All the tests and quizzes went right out of my mind as soon as I was done.”

Sasha shakes her head. “Well, I'm taking a slice for the road. See you around.” She leaves.

Jane joins you and Matthew at the table, licking the pizza grease off her fingers. “I like Noah's pizza better.”

You wince. A cook you were not. “Well, he's working.”

“I know.”

“Noah?” Matthew says, clearly a question.

“My brother,” Jane says flippantly. “They sleep together.”

You're face burns; you want the earth to swallow you whole right then and there. “We live together,” you explain to Matthew who looks more confused. “Jane go watch TV.”

She sends an annoyed look at you, before running off.

“Noah's her brother. They're family friends-” you explain lamely.

“You don't have to explain anything to me,” Matthew says sweetly. “It's your business.”

“Yeah,” you push your hair behind your ears, feeling out of whack. Matthew was cute, but it wasn't like you wanted to jump his bones. He made sociology bearable. “Can you look over my paper? I'm still not sure I got the sources incorporated right-”

“Yeah. Sure. I didn't know sociology 101 would include writing research papers.”

“Everything was going good until I remembered we had that paper due,” Matthew agrees.

You study for another hour, mostly giving each other feedback on your research paper. “It would've helped if he'd given us examples,” you mutter.

“Right.”

Jane tugs on your arm. “Come play with me,” ignoring your classmate entirely.

“Yeah. Sure,” you smile tiredly. You were at your study limit. “Want to call it a night,” you ask Matthew who nods and grabs his things.

Jane scrutinizes him the entire time. She puts her hands on top of the empty pizza box.

“I don't like him,” she pouts, “He's boring. Who studies?”

“Boring college students,” you laugh. “He's fine. We have sociology together. We're also taking english literature pre 1800s together next semester. It was that or latin literature which sounds really pretentious.”

Jane giggles. “Let's play uno!”

“Okay, but just one game. You still have to take a shower before bed.”

“I don't want to take a shower,” Jane protests, “I want to be a horrible reeking troll! Rawr!” She chases you around the living room.

You burst out laughing, letting her tackle you to the floor. It was easy to forget how stressed out you were about finals when you had Jane.

You take deep breaths as you scramble to find your sneakers. It got cold in lecture halls.

Noah makes coffee, “you're going to do fine.”

“I'm going to fail and flunk out of university and my parents are going to hate me forever and i'll never get a job and take Jane to disney world,” you groan, slumping at the counter with a hand on your forehead. You should've studied all night. Why had you bothered going to sleep?

Noah pours you a tumbler full of coffee, with the hazelnut creamer that basically turned the coffee into a hot chocolate, “you've been studying all week. You might not be Lucas levels of 110% on a rest but you're going to do great. I know it,” he says with a genuine smile.

You blush. “I hope all the studying has worked. I've never tried this hard in school.”

“Yeah,” Noah nods with a soft smile. “High school sucked.”

“It did.” You take a sip of your coffee, hoping to steady your nerves.

He looks good in the morning light, before it's too hot to exist. Winter in florida meant temperatures in the low 70s, laughably temperate. Noah's wearing the same boxers he'd gone to sleep in, with a soft worn in grey t-shirt, and a serious case of bed head as his hair curls around his ears in the most adorable mop top.

If you didn't have finals to head to, this would be the perfect morning.

“You're going to do amazing sweetie,” Noah chuckles in the dickish way of his.

You snort, shaking your head. “Fuck yeah I will.”

“That's the spirit.”

You shove your feet into your beat up vans, grab your backpack. “See you later,” you smile at Noah.

“Yeah, good luck,” he says, putting his mug of coffee down on the counter and leaning down. One second he's smiling down at you, and in the next one he's pressing his lips against yours.

Holy fuck.

Your eyes widen.

Was this really happening, or were you just that tired.

“Shit,” Noah stammers, pulling away quickly. “I-”

You raise a brow, “What-”

“It was an accident. Sorry.” Noah steps back, running a hand through his hair, pink up to the tips of his ears.

You feel a bit like a deflated balloon. “What even was that?” Because what it seemed like was like he'd kissed you but-how do you accidentally kiss someone. No-this was way too much for you to dea with at the moment.

“I just-nothing. Just forget it,” Noah says. “I'm going back to sleep.”

“See you later,” you try, feeling all messed up. Had he wanted to kiss you? Was this you messing up for the both of you?

You wish you could call Lily right now, but you had a final to get to.

It's Christmas day, technically.

Jane's been asleep for hours and Noah's taking a bite out of the cookies laid out for Santa as you watch it's a wonderful life trying to puzzle out how this was a Christmas classic. It was boring.

Things had been so awkward with Noah as of late, as you both danced around the kiss, that you had let Jane talk you into a sleepover in her room almost every night. There was no way you could lay there next to Noah and not think yourself to death. Absolutely no way.

You had wrapped up her gifts in baby yoda christmas themed wrapping paper: an assortment of more clothes because Jane really didn't have much considering she had basically popped into life a year ago, random books you remembered liking in elementary and middle school, and toys that you had definitely splurged on including a two hundred dollar set of legos that you looked forward to building with her. It had been hard to keep it secret from her when you all spent the majority of your time together. Stacey had sent a big care package for all of you. Lily had sent gifts through the post office. Lucas’ contribution was a few amazon packages.

All your friends had sent something.

It was touching, considering the distance. You couldn't wait to see them again-Ava wanted to visit in the summer.

You flip the channel, deciding Full House reruns were better.

“Not Full House,” Noah groans, turning the kitchen light off.

“Let me guess. You're a Die Hard fan?”

“Best christmas movie,” he grins.

You shake your head. He could be such a guy. And just like that, the tension between you two dissipates. “No way. The Grinch is the best. The 2001 one anyway.”

You click the side table lamp off.

Noah sits down next to you as you flick through the channels, trying to find something to watch. “Bob's burgers?”

“Sounds good.”

It's dark. The volume’s on low. You're all curled up in bed, and Noah's not being weird-it helps that you're trying to be chill about it.

“How did your finals go?”

“Well I didn't flunk out,” you shrug. “I got a C in sociology but a B in everything else.” It was fine. It's not like you were a sociology major.

“I told you you'd do good.”

“Yeah,” you sigh, laying down entirely, ignoring the tv. “I just figured all the studying would...I don't know, mean I'd get straight As?”

“It's college-isn't it supposed to be like super hard or whatever,” Noah says with a shrug.

“I guess.” You just wished you were that kind of student. Even seeing how hard the effort was on Lucas’ mental health, maybe your parents might visit if you did get straight As. It was dumb. “I just figured my parents might pay attention if I did get all As.”

“Fuck your parents,” he says easily.

You snort. “Shut up. They pay like half the rent.”

“The least they could do.”

“Yeah,” you sigh. “Did you ever want to go to college? You know like when we had to write colleges letters in fifth grade, or was it sixth?”

“Naw. School was never my thing,” Noah says in the quiet of the night.

You smile softly, tilting your head so you're looking at him, the moonlight illuminating the angles of his jaw as it poured in through the windows. “Then it was always culinary school for you?”

He shrugs. “Yeah-I mean,” he closes his eyes, thinking silently. “I'm a little too dumb for school. I could never get the whole trig thing or what Shakespeare was saying let alone the subtext.”

You sit up. “Shut up,” you state, slapping his bicep lightly. “Don't say that shit.”

“It's true.”

You shift, closer to his side of the bed, closer to him still lying there staring up at the ceiling, not meeting your searching gaze. “You're not dumb. Noah-you are not dumb. You're so fucking smart-who remembered to buy toilet paper and figured out how to rent an apartment?”

“You can google that shit,” he says, covering his face with his hand, embarrassed.

“And cooking takes skill. Maybe it's not mensa harvard type smarts, but it's not nothing!” You just wanted him to see himself the way you did. You're sitting up on your knees now, as his expressive wide eyes meet yours, a dark romantic brown you could drown in, staring down at him. “Say it! Say you're smart and clever and amazing!”

“I'm not saying that,” he laughs off.

“Say, I'm fucking smart and I can do anything,” you repeat, nudging his chest.

Noah smiles and it does all sorts of things to you, makes your pulse race as heat winds its way all hot under your skin, all hot and bothered and feeling giddy like a dumbass and you never meet someone who felt like home the way it is with Noah. “I'm fucking smart,” he says quietly, rolling his eyes, “and I can do anything.”

“We're going to have to work on that,” you laugh, belatedly realizing you're almost on top of him. Well, you are on top of him, you're knees are by his waist, but you're leaning over him and fuck you want him. The way he's laying there under you, looking like the sun shines out of your ass, it's thrilling.

“We will,” Noah says, wiggling his brows in a way that has you laughing into his chest.

Then you're looking up at him, unable to catch your breath, because you can't stop laughing and it's not like you're particularly comedic but-fuck it, you lean up and kiss him. It's what you've been itching to do since the party at-fuck, you don't even remember, but you remember finding him there and realizing he's what you had been missing, the reason you didn't feel like being there until you sat by the pool with him.

He's Noah and you're you and there's not a version of you that doesn't love him to bits; there's not a version of you that doesn't go with him to face the monster and rescue Dan and would give your life for him and Jane. Always. Because he's Noah-

You lean down and kiss him, trying to communicate the depth of this feeling.

It wasn't some crush.

Or some drunken affair at a house party.

You kiss his lips with a dizzying fever that burns hot under your skin as desire builds in the pit of your stomach: a bundle of nerves sparking to life. And he kisses you back, his hand cupping your cheek. His thumb rubbing circles into your skin.

You tremble under his gentle touch, afraid that this too would disappear in your hands. You were so used to losing: to getting nothing.

Noah stares up wide eyed at you when you pull away.

You bite your bottom lip.

“I-,” he stutters.

“I've really been wanting to do that for a long time,” you confess.

“Me too.”

You swallow thickly at his confession. “Then it wasn't...it wasn't an accident,” you ask carefully.

Noah shakes his head once. “No. That-I just, I didn't want to mess up something good just because I wanted something more.” He looks so heartbroken in that second-

“Noah,” you sigh gently. “I was surprised and thinking about school but I've-I would've kissed you then if my head hadn't been so far up my own ass.”

He snorts, the line of his shoulders relaxing under your hands. “After what happened- I was lucky that you even wanted to talk to me at all. I didn't think you'd want anything to do with me and then I thought it was just for Jane,” Noah admits painfully.

“I've always loved you.” You tell him. “And I'm going to keep telling you until it gets through that thick skull of yours.”

Noah chuckles.

“So are we on the same page?”

He rakishly raises a brow with a shit eating grin on his lips, “I don't know, are you gonna kiss me again?”

You vow to wipe that look off his face as you do more than press your lips hungrily against his, your hands against his chest as you shift once more, situating yourself and getting comfortable straddling his waist with your legs. You press hard kisses to his mouth as Noah kisses you back with the same fervor; you nibble on his bottom lip, bringing it between your teeth.

It's an exercise in breathlessness, a mexican stand-off in which both sides are ready and happy to pull the trigger because of the rush of blood to your head as you taste him on your lips. It's intoxicating the way in which he kisses your mouth and you forget the need to breathe.

But you, smiling against the skin of his jaw as you catch your breath. His chest rises and falls under your hands as he laughs giddily, feeling as crazy as you do.

It's not that epic romeo and juliet love that burns and destroys, but the fullness in your heart as you lay there with him.

You plant kisses down his jaw, savoring the hitches in his breath as you nip on the skin at the crook of his neck. “Is this okay,” you ask wickedly.

“Fuck,” Noah utters, voice breaking as he sucks in air. “Yeah-”

He cups your cheek with his hand and leads you up, brings you back where he can kiss you again. Noah kisses you-he lets himself kiss you. His tongue experimentally whetting against your all too willing lips before your mouth opens up to him and it's clear in the clumsy way he's eager to explore your mouth--the boy has no idea what he's doing.

It's fine.

You smile against his mouth, taking charge and running your tongue against his. Reaching for his free hand and guiding it, inviting him to explore the shape of your body in an oversized t-shirt and tiny booty shorts that you wouldn't even take the trash out in.

Noah does, clasping your hips with his hand as you binch up the fabric of his shirt in your hands as you lose yourself in kissing him, in drinking him in like a comfort series you could endlessly rewatch.

You're both breathless, as you lay your head down on his chest, content.

“That was,” Noah says all out of sorts, “wow.”

“Guess you're going to be the next great american writer,” you tease.

He rolls his eyes, running his hand up your side.

“Hey,” you continue, relaxing into his touch, “Hemingway was a man of few words.”

“Was he the alcoholic one?”

“I think a lot of writers were,” you admit. “I tried to read his whale book but it was boring as fuck.”

“Moby Dick,” Noah says thoughtfully, “did Hemingway write Moby Dick?”

“Who cares,” you reply, pressing a kiss against the edge of his lips, fine with spending the wee hours of the morning making out with Noah.

“Well now I want to know.”

“Really,” you tease, bringing your hand up, running your fingers through his soft hair.

His eyes close. Noah leans into your touch. “I'll google it later.”

You giggle.

Then he’s kissing you again and you could care less about books and long dead writers. Noah captures your lips with his and you intertwine your fingers in his hair, a hand on his chest, wondering what it would feel like to have his bare skin against yours and caught between the enormity of your want and letting things happen naturally. It was Noah. You didn’t want to rush him.

You were still amazed he’d kissed you back,that he wanted you the same way you wanted him. The love had never been the point of contention between you two. You loved him at nine and you loved him at nineteen.

Noah losses some of his hesitation, his hands sliding down your side until they reach the swell of your hips straddling his waist. Then his hand slips under the fabric of your shirt and you moan into his mouth at the sensation of his fingers splayed against to taunt muscles of your abdomen.

It’s just flaring want consuming you whole.

“Is that,” Noah manages between bated breaths, “okay?”

You kind of want to shake his shoulders and say shut up and keep going, because you might just combust in the next few minutes if he keeps going like this, this clumsy tenderness mixed with the assault of his body discovering yours. “Yeah,” you stammer out, more feeling than young woman. “Great actually.”

Noah chuckles, trailing kisses down your neck as you lean back a little, before pulling away. . .before pulling your shirt over your head.

He sucks in a breath at the sight of your naked torso.

You can’t help the headyness in your chest at his reaction, at the way you were affecting him. “Like what you see,” you grin, all brash confidence that threatened to topple over like a house of cards at every turn, at the shift of his body under yours.

For once, Noah doesn’t have some smartass comment, just reaches his hands to your cheeks and pulls you down flush against him.

Fuck.

You kiss him feverishly, your hands finding the hem of his shirt as running yours fingers against the sliver of skin.

Noah moans into your mouth and you swear you can’t even function at the sound. The entire world is boiled down to you and him, him and you, and building pressure in your belly that threatens to explode.

“The shirt-,” you stutter out, half out of your mind.

“Yeah,” he obliges, sitting up and tugging it off.

And then you’re melting against him, the warmth of his skin against yours. Your breasts flush against his bare chest. Your toes curl up as you sigh, hands clutching at his neck, at his cheek, at the ends of his hair.

You kiss his jaw, you suck on the skin of his jaw and none of it is enough. Fuck, you want him so bad. You’re so fucking horny. It’s not like you’d been with a lot of people. But it had been over a year since your last sexual encounter.

And that might explain part of it-

Noah cups one of your breast with the palm of his hand, and fuck-

Your mind blanks as you moan his name. “Noah,” you whimper.

He kisses your collarbone, smiling against your skin.

“Do you want to-,” he asks, sounding more self assured by the word.

“Yes, yes,” you eagerly answer, kissing him hungrily. “I thought you’d never ask.”

Noah laughs breathlessly.

Then he’s whimpering as you run your fingers under the waistband of his boxers.

His hand closes around your wrist before you can get further, “condom?”

“Fuck,” you swear. This was so unsexy of you both. But it wasn’t like you had a reason to buy condoms along with pads and fruit snacks. “I think I have one,” you vaguely remember there being one in your wallet.

“I really hope you do.”

“Jerk.”

With great reluctance, you crawl off him to go look for your purse. You had to stop throwing it wherever and hang it up. It would've made it easier to find right now.

You don’t look back at Noah, even though you can feel his heavy gaze on you. The airs filled with static electricity as you rifle around and find the slim black bag.

It’s another few minutes of fishing through its contents before you find the thin small envelope that you were pretty sure you’d gotten in health or at planned parenthood at some point. Ava had definitely been there.

When you turn around, Noah’s sat up in bed, in your bed, in the bed you two share, have shared for months. It’s too dark to make out the expression on his features from this distance, but it’s under his dark eyes that you make your way back to him.

You push your shorts and underwear down in one go, discarding them by the side of the bed, taking care not to lose the condom (you were going on another target run asap) before you’re once again straddling his waist, feeling Noah already hard under your thigh.

“I’ve,” he starts as you sit up on your knees, feeling incredibly vulnerable. “I’ve never done this before.”

“Oh.” You’re off kilter. Does he not want to? It’s fine. You’re just surprised. It’s Noah. He’s tall and funny even if you want to strangle him half the time --he can cook-- and he’s so fucking hot when he’s not being adorkable. You’re surprised. “We don’t. . .have to.”

He sits up under you. “No. It’s,” Noah blushes, “I want to, it’s just-you should know?”

“Oh. Okay,” you lean in, kissing him with a tenderness he deserves in spades, “if you’re sure.”

Noah grasps your hips in his hands, pulling you in, “I’m sure.”

He kisses you.

You push him down onto the bed by his shoulders. His eyes are full of trust as he looks up at you, full of love like the moon on a clear night. You carefully open the condom up.

Noah shimmies his boxers off.

And because you’re you, you reach down and stroke his cock with your hand.

He shuts his eyes, moaning your name as he throws his head back into the bed, his back arching.

You wait a moment for him to still underneath you, before you roll the condom onto his cock, letting your desire carry your through as you fumble a bit. Again, you didn’t exactly have much experience on Noah. You just had some experience.

You lean down flush against him, kissing his lips, as you guide his cock to the apex of your thighs and part your legs, moaning into his mouth as he enters your soaked entrance. Noah stretches you out, leaving you a trembling mess, faring no better than he currently was under you, as his hips thrust against you and you-fuck!

It’s a tangle of limbs as you wrap your arms around him, lacing your fingers behind his neck, wanting more, and more as your hips more erratically against his.

Noah is all kisses and moans and his fingers bruising the skin of your hips as he presses you closer against him.

You don’t really know or care about anything but the feel of his cock inside you, as he thrusts with fervor, and clutches you near. You just want and want and stars dance across your eyelids as your skin catches fire, the heat in your belly finally boiling over as you fuck him, grinding your hips against his.

You splutter, reaching your climax while topping the boy you’ve been in love with for what might as well be your whole life. It’s just your strained voice, repeating his name, “Noah,” like it’s an answer to the whole meaning of life bullshit.

Good.

Bad.

It always comes back to him.

Noah.

He comes against you a second later, your name a sharp breath on his lips, before he goes as boneless as you feel. You’re on cloud fucking nine.

It’s a feeling no amount of weed can come close to.

Exhausted, you get off of him, slumping into a puddle on the bed. Fucking Florida. You were too hot and sweaty to curl under the blankets now.

“I fucking love you.”

“Oh,” you snipe back, feeling all warm and fuzzy inside, “now that I’ve fucked you you tell me.”

“Shut up,” Noah manages. “You know what I mean.”

“Yeah, yeah. Go toss the condom.”

He sits up slowly, “oh this episode’s my favorite.”

You’d completely forgotten about Bob’s Burgers reruns playing on the TV.

It’s New Year’s Eve and the three of you are eating ice cream on the beach. Only in Florida.

“And why can’t I go in the water?”

“Because you don’t have your bathing suit,” Noah tells Jane for the hundredth time.

“I promise I’ll just stick my feet in.”

“I’ve heard that one before,” you shake your head.

She frowns. “I promise!”

What the heck. It’s not like you were going anywhere else after this. “Okay. But you have to finish your ice cream first.”

“Wow,” Noah says, throwing his arm around your shoulder and leaning his weight against you, making you stumble in the sand. “What a pushover.”

“Me!” You reply, offended. “You let her stay home for no reason.”

The twins exchange glances. “She had chickenpox,” Noah shrugs shamelessly.

“And I’m the Queen of England.”

“Korean skincare does miracles.”

You roll your eyes at him, “shut up.”

Jane giggles easily as she decides this patch of sand is the one, and sits down, licking her rocky road ice cream happily.

“Jane,” you ask gently.

“Yeah?”

“Do you remember why you’re ten and we’re not?” It had been bugging you, ever since the parent teacher conference. There had been no more nightmares since September, but it bothered you, that she might remember anything. That Jane might not want to tell you. You couldn’t help her if she didn’t tell you.

She shrugs. “Not really,” with a child’s ability to shrug things off.

Noah asks the question you’ve been dreading. “Do you remember Redfield?”

Jane looks at you both, frowning. “Who?”

Your shoulders sag with relief. You hide it with a bite of your ice cream cone. Jane had a habit of picking up on things.

“No one important,” Noah brushes off, running a hand through his hair.

“You guys are being weird,” Jane complains. “Is this about you two being gross together? I saw you holding hands.” She narrows her eyes at you accusingly. “Don’t you remember boys have cooties.” She shakes her head. “Grown ups.”

“Jane,” Noah squeaks.

You laugh, covering your mouth with the back of your hand. “Yeah. We thought you should know.” It was better to leave the whole Redfield business behind. She didn’t need that shit weighing her down. “I don’t know. I like your brother a lot for some reason. Ava says it’s trauma induced codependency but she’s Ava so. . .”

Jane frowns again, letting the ice cream drip onto the sand as she thinks. “Does that mean I’m getting a sister?”

It’s your turn to be flabbergasted, as your skin reddens into a ripe tomato. “What!”

“It’s only fair,” she explains. “If you get my brother then I should get a new sister.”

“How about a stuffed animal,” you barter.

“You let me play five Nights at Freddies?”

“No way Jane,” Noah says, shaking his head. “It’ll give you nightmares.”

“What about minecraft,” you try. “Just on Fridays though.”

“Okay. i don’t want my ice cream anymore. I want to go play in the water.”

You nod, kicking your shoes off. “Okay yeah. Let’s go throw it away. I’m sick of mine too.”

You toss the ice cream and race Jane into the waves.

#noah marshall #ilitw noah #noah x mc #it lives in the woods #jane marshall #mine #theyre like 18/19 theyre not lasting long during sex #but also i love mc and noah having shit parents and then turning around and being much better parents #to jane #ABUSE DOES NOT DEFINE YOU #okay but also mc and noah being soulmates and being that couple thats known each other their whole lives #i love

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cuttoothed · 4 years

Text

172 spoilers

Post episode fic, because damn it these boys need to talk about stuff! Contains discussion of Jon’s season 4 feeding on victims.

Jon leads the way down a narrow, winding corridor while the stage noises dim behind them, sounds of laughter and scrabbling legs and the occasional scream becoming indistinct and indistinguishable. The air still smells like cigarette ash and blood, but even that fades as they approach a door with a brightly lit sign above it. The sign reads NO EXIT, but Jon knows that doesn’t refer to them.

He pushes down on the rusted crash bar, which squeaks in protest before giving way, and the door opens into the gray light of the ruined world.

From outside, Jon notices, the theater looks a bit like the Lyceum, except far more massive, its tarnished edifice warped and stretched into a predictably web-like arrangement. Maybe it was the Lyceum, once.

They walk a good distance without saying anything. Martin has a look on his face that says he’s thinking; his percolating look, Jon calls it, a little crease between his eyebrows and his lips moving faintly as he has some fierce discussion with himself⁠. He knows better than to interrupt Martin when he’s percolating. Sooner or later the thoughts he’s brewing will drip through and be ready, and he’ll tell Jon about it.

Frankly, considering where they’ve come from, Jon is happy to wait a while before talking about it. He’d be just as happy not to talk about it at all, but he knows that’s a harmful impulse, self-destruction framed as self-defense. That isn’t who he’s chosen to be anymore. It still isn’t easy, talking about things, trusting people⁠—

(the temptation to take just a peek, just to be sure the spiders aren’t crawling over what’s his)

⁠—but he knows it’s what’s keeping him anchored. Keeping him human, or as close to it as he can be, at least. If he doesn’t talk about what he’s experiencing⁠—how he feels, however horrifying and shameful⁠—he could lose himself without even realizing it.

(How do you know you’re the same person who fell asleep?)

If he doesn’t trust Martin⁠—

“I was worried, you know.”

Martin stops in his tracks, so Jon stops too, turns to look at him. His percolating expression has been replaced by his determined expression; this generally means they are going to have A Conversation. Jon considers that maybe they could find somewhere a bit less...exposed, to sit and talk, but really, there’s nowhere that isn’t exposed these days.

“Worried about what?” he asks.

“When you told me we were coming to a Web domain. I was worried...well, you know you left a lot of tapes in your office before the Beholding? All the ones you made while you were away.”

“On the run for murder, you mean.”

“Yeah, that. Well, I listened to them. While you were⁠—you know...”

“Dead,” Jon supplies, and Martin gives a sad little laugh.

“Yeah. Sorry, funny that I still have trouble saying it, after⁠—after everything. Not like it’s the worst thing that’s happened to us!” His jovial bravado rings false, and Jon reaches for his hand.

“It’s okay…” he begins, but Martin shakes his head.

“No, please, let me⁠—I listened to your statement. About...about when you were a kid? And I was worried that⁠—well, you’ve found the others, haven’t you? The ones that’ve marked you.”

“You thought we might find⁠ Mister Spider.” Even now it’s hard to say that name. Fear doesn’t feel the same to Jon as it once did, but the thick bile still rises in his throat, the instinctual shudder of nerves firing down his spine.

“I mean, didn’t it occur to you?”

“Yes...yes, of course it did.”

“Do you know why we didn’t?”

Jon frowns. He hasn’t thought about the why of it⁠—or rather, he didn’t want to think about it, about why their pilgrimage brought them through this particular manifestation of the Web, its hanging hooks and guiding strings and victims stepping time and again through the same dance of will against want and always, always failing. They were not moths fluttering purposeless into the spider’s strands; something brought them here.

“It was a⁠—a reminder, I think. Of what I’ve done. What I chose to do.” Jon hears the unsteady note in his own voice and then Martin is grasping his arm.

“Jon⁠,” he says,”Let’s just⁠—” He looks around as if there might be somewhere pleasant to sit (no comfortable chairs in the apocalypse) and then, with a huff, folds onto the bare, blasted earth, tugging Jon down with him. Jon sits with his knees hunched, Martin cross legged in front of him, giving him a worried frown.

“You didn’t choose any of this,” Martin tells him. “It was all Jonah. He tricked and manipulated and used you! I know it’s hard to believe, sometimes⁠—”

“No, Martin, not⁠—not that.” Jon shakes his head. “I’m talking about b-before. I...well, you took the statement. You heard what I did to that woman, to the others I fed on.” The pit of his stomach feels, rather appropriately, like it’s filled with spiders, squirming and sick and heavy with self-disgust.

“That was⁠—yeah, that was bad, Jon. But you didn’t know what it was doing to them, not really.”

“I knew enough! And I did it anyway, gave those poor people nightmares to last their whole lives.” Jon laughs. “Before I turned everyone’s lives into a nightmare, that is. I chose to do it, Martin. It felt good. And I latched onto the idea that the Web was⁠—was making me do it because I couldn’t take responsibility for my own actions. And now...now I have all the fear in the world pouring into me. I’m like a⁠—a whale shark, just swimming along with my mouth open, swallowing it all down. I don’t have to hurt anyone directly to feed. And I don’t know⁠—”

Jon looks down at his hands, resting against his thighs. They are faintly gray with the dust that gets everywhere, ground into the seams of skin and scars. His nails are bitten to the quick, a bad habit his grandmother never managed to rid him of. Something horrible sits in the back of his throat, and he bites his tongue, not wanting to say it.

Martin’s voice is very soft when he says:

“You don’t know what?”

Jon sighs. The horrible thing crawls onto his tongue, and he lets it go.

“I don’t know if the only reason I’m not hurting people is because they’re feeding me anyway.”

“Oh,” says Martin. Jon feels a bitter smile tugging at the corner of his mouth like a hook, and he can’t look up, picks at the ragged cuticle of his thumb instead. He wishes he had a cigarette.

“You tried to stop, though, didn’t you?” Martin’s hand appears in his line of sight, grasps hold of the hand he’s picking at⁠—the burned one⁠—and lifts it out of reach, cradling it between his own. Jon risks a glance at him. He looks...he just looks like Martin.

“When the others made me, when you⁠—” When you found out, he doesn’t say.

“They couldn’t have made you stop. Not unless you wanted to.”

“I⁠—I wanted to want to.” Jon swallows the hitch in his breath that threatens to turn into a sob; he’s already wallowing in self pity enough.

“Then you wanted to,” says Martin firmly. “You wanted to stop, Jon, but you needed help. There’s no shame in that.”

“But what if⁠—”

“Forget about ‘what if’!” Martin tells him, squeezing his hand tight. “What if I’m being controlled by spiders? What if Gertrude was right and there’s nothing we can do about all this? There’s enough guilt and worry to go around without dragging hypotheticals into it!”

“Martin⁠—”

“I love you, Jon. Okay? You are a good person, who I love, and we are both doing our bloody best in this⁠—this ludicrous situation, and frankly the Web can go and⁠ get fucked if it’s trying to tell you otherwise. All right?”

Martin’s face is red with determination, and though his eyes are wet, his jaw is set like stone. Jon is overwhelmed once again by how much he loves this man, how that love fills up all the space behind his rib cage, and though the spiders in his stomach don’t vanish, their squirming lessens. He takes a deep breath, and nods.

“I love you,” is all he can say for a moment. Martin smiles tightly.

“I should hope so.”

They sit there quietly for a little while. It’s not exactly comfortable⁠—the ground is hard and cruel beneath them, the Eye overhead a constant oppression⁠—but it is comforting. Martin keeps holding Jon’s hand between his, tracing his fingers along the shiny ridges of scar tissue, up to brush over Jon’s own fingertips, a delicate connection between them. Eventually, Martin gives a long sigh, and draws Jon’s hand up to kiss the tips of his fingers, then his knuckles.

“Suppose we’d better get going. We don’t want to be late to the Panopticon, Jonah might fire us.” He tilts his head, thinking. “Are we still Institute employees, technically?”

“I, ah, I think so, technically,” says Jon. “Though I imagine the pension scheme is rather out the door at this point.” He hefts himself to his feet, pulling Martin with him. Martin brushes down the backs of his trousers, as if it might get rid of the dust, such a perfectly human gesture that Jon can’t help smiling.

“What?” Martin asks, suspicious. Jon shakes his head.

“Nothing, you’re just...quite adorable.”

“You’re the adorable one,” Martin mutters, as a pleased flush creeps across his cheeks. “Ready to go?”

“Yes,” Jon hesitates a second. “Just, umm...Martin?”

“Yeah?”

“What you said, about the, uh, the spiders?”

“Oh,” Martin says. He gives a sharp little laugh, and there’s a catch in it like the first crack in a pane of glass, the kind that threatens to spider web out and shatter.

“If you don’t want to talk about it⁠—”

“No, it’s⁠—it’s okay,” says Martin. “We can talk about it, but it’s...hypotheticals, like I said. No point worrying. We’ll just...be careful. I might not want you poking around in my head, but you can still keep an eye on me. With your actual eyes. And I’ll do the same for you. I’ll let you know if you get ominous, you let me know if I get...spidery.” He wiggles his fingers.

“I promise to keep a close count on the number of limbs you have,” Jon says solemnly, and is pleased when that gets a much more genuine laugh from Martin.

That temptation is still there, to look, to just be absolutely sure. He’d never even know, a thought murmurs in the back of Jon’s head, and it’s true. It’s true, and Jon squashes the idea without mercy.

It’s not easy, talking about things. Trusting people. But if he doesn’t trust Martin, then he might as well give it all up right now and succumb to this world. He trusts Martin, and it’s both a choice, and a defiance of the fear that tries to tell him he shouldn’t.

The Web can⁠—as Martin so eloquently put it⁠—get fucked.

“Right, let’s go,” he says, and takes Martin’s hand in his.

#the magnus archives #tma spoilers #tma 172 #my fic #jonmartin

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lakemojave · 3 years

Text

Land of Falling Sun 6

It was too hot for the wanderer to travel.

He convinced Chipper, who was in high spirits and unbothered by the heat, to help him pitch a tent and rest. In their taloned feet they lifted the canvas while the wanderer staked it to the ground. While they hovered in the air, they scanned the horizon for nearby threats, and looked to the nearby town for any changes. There was nothing of particular interest. The group would be safe here, at least for the moment.

The wanderer took a seat under the tent, took off his hat, and shook the sweat out of his short hair with his hands. Chipper perched just outside, while Dog slowly circled the tent, forming a perimeter with its own eerie countenance.

Chipper had grown more comfortable around their companion. He was still withdrawn, still short, still grumpy, still rarely speaking unless spoken to, but he had a resolve and determination that made them feel safe around him. What exactly he was determined towards was still a mystery. Chipper had respected his privacy for the last few days, but their relentless curiosity was too much to hold off.

“So,” they asked, cautiously, “Think that’s where we’re headed?” They gestured towards the town in the distance. It was somewhat closer now, and the smoke tower had not stopped rising.

“That? Not sure.” The wanderer leaned on his back in the tent. “I don’t like the scent coming from that smoke.”

“Scent?” Chipper tilted their head.

“You don’t smell it too? It’s subtle, but there’s dead matter in that smoke. Just like--”

“The brush fire.”

“Exactly. Real nasty.” He seemed altogether unbothered by the foul smell, as if he was already used to it, or as if he knew it well.

“How do you recognize it?” When Chipper asked this, the wanderer’s eyes widened with anxiety, as though they touched on some secret he was not ready to share. Then, as quickly as his stress arrived, it left him, and he shared this secret.

“Seen a lot of funeral pyres in my day,” he began. “Mass burnings of the dead. Sometimes it’s just to get rid of em, lay the ashes down. But most of the time it’s ritual acts.” He leaned forward from his recline, and Chipper did as well out of curiosity. “Folks using the dead for magical means. Apparently with enough ash, smoke, or overcooked flesh you can do just about anything.”

“Did you ever do that?”

“Nah, it was mostly uh,” he hesitated before his next words, “Adversaries. People who wished me harm, or who I was tryin’ to pop myself.”

Chipper figured he had a violent past behind him, but was surprised by this nonetheless. Here it was. Time for the big question. “What did you do?” they asked. “You know...before?”

The wanderer took about ten seconds to decide not to lie.

“I was,” he began, “An outlaw of sorts. Ran with some guys who got a little too in over their heads. Good money for a while. Then they all got in over their heads, started spouting dreams about freedom and justice for all people. Or something like that, it was all bullshit anyway.”

Chipper looked concerned at first, then intrigued, then astonished. “Do you...do you not believe in those things? Justice for all people?” they asked timidly.

“Nah nah I of course I do,” the wanderer said. “I mean...who doesn’t?” Having rested, the wanderer started a fire, and put on a percolator with some coffee. He continued speaking while doing this. “I dunno. Not sure what I believe in over here. Those guys were full of shit though. Nothing but thieves and murderers all but convinced they were anything but thieves and murderers. I had to get out while I could.” “What was it like?” “Oh it was terrific. Loved those days.” He turned the percolator. “We were brothers, living free and sewing chaos in a world desperate to organize and scheme. We robbed banks, stages, trains, alchemists, army men, damn near everybody. We even got rich once, though it didn’t last long.”

“What happened?”

He paused and reflected. “I got shot in a robbery. That’s when I…” His wrist twitched with this, and the fire momentarily blazed, then returned to normal. Chipper regarded his blackened hand, but said nothing. The wanderer clutched his shoulder in pain, then returned to his story.

“Since then my eyes got weary and my hands got shaky. My shot’s gotten a bit sloppier since then, but I was the only one of us who could summon. Became the Work horse, as it were. All their talk started seeming like just that: talk. Left without a trace not long ago.” He finished abruptly.

Chipper was content with the extent of detail to which the wanderer delved into his past, but he touched on something even more curious to them. “So your magic,” they asked, “You’ve only just started? I kinda thought you were more...experienced?”

“...why?” The wanderer felt like he should be insulted.

“Well,” Chipper elaborated, “You use a knife, right? No guns, just knife, right?”

“Ditched my five shot at the river, yeah. Does it mattter?”

“I think so. Knives are popular with magic users, aren’t they?”

The wanderer thought about this, and drew his own knife, inspecting it. It was pretty plain: a wide-bladed hunting knife of blackened metal. He kept it sharp and smooth, perhaps the best kempt possession on his person. It had nothing to do with his magic, this he knew for certain. He had seen lots of practitioners with knives before--alchemists, sorcerers, witches, especially those who could summon--but it was always a simple means of self defence. At least, that’s what he thought.

“I guess I’ve noticed that, yeah.” As he flipped his blade, it seemed to make a more distinct noise than usual, as though slicing through the air around him. “Do you know anything about it?”

“A little,” they said. “My teachers said any practitioner needs to channel through something. Sometimes it’s written sigils,” they flexed their etched feathers as they said this, “Sometimes it’s tools or weapons. But I’ve only ever seen you use your freaky arm oil.”

The wanderer sighed. “It’s...from that shot. Hurt real bad, but now I can cast magic I guess. Lucky we stopped, I was starting to get sore.”

“Sore? You mean…”

The wanderer gazed at his bright young companion with pain, grief, and a pensiveness that conveyed thoughts of doom and dread. He took of his coat and vest and unbuttoned his shirt.

What Chipper saw was what they expected, but not what they were prepared for. His arm, up past his right elbow, was covered every inch by that black tar, several pitches darker than his natural skin. Creeping up to his shoulder and spiraling around a single point, which they took to be the site of the bullet wound, were tendrils of this tar. They swirled across his skin, seeming to blend in and scar the closer to his torso they got. Then, once they found the wound, his true condition became apparent all at once. Strands and tendrils and roots and scars of tar sprouted from this wound, traveling across the wanderer’s whole upper body. They wove and interlaced across his chest in a chaotic pattern of angles and spirals, occasionally breaking into a mazelike order and organization, and collapsing into the same mess just as easily. They crept up his neck to be just visible past where his jacket collar would be, and just past his left shoulder, as if beginning the conquest of his left arm as well. He took his left finger, and keeping eye contact with chipper, traced a thread on his chest, wincing in pain on contact with his own skin.

His own gift was killing him.

“I can’t go too long without Working. I’ve never stopped; too scared to find out what’ll happen if I do.”

“Oh…” Chipper said, their wonder and amazement at his natural gift quickly changing into concern and anxiety. “Is there um...anything we can do?”

“We?”

“Yeah, we.” They folded their wings, and gently bowed their head--a display of a pledge of service among their people. “I want to help you.”

“Lil fella,” he started, “You can’t…”

He wanted to push them away. He wanted to send this poor kid off on their way to some community they could live a normal life. He wanted to keep them safe from this wild unknown, the rough men who could be out here, but most of all, his own self.

He couldn’t. He had grown attached to them, and clearly they felt the same. He couldn’t pick Chipper up off the desert floor just to pass them on to someone else like an unwanted gift. He couldn’t even justify himself to them. You can’t help. Bullshit. As far as he knew, there was nothing this kid couldn’t do.

He sighed.

“Alright. We.” He bowed his own head, then reached for his shirt. “Think my coffee’s almost done. Want some?”

#land of falling sun #my writing

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rwbyremnants · 3 years

Link

THIS CHAPTER: Monochrome: assisted masturbation, cheating (kind of)

Yep this is definitely when it starts to get wilder. I'm trying to make sure I tag the chapters so everybody knows what's coming and nobody's shocked or squicked against their will but if I miss something don't flame me ;o;

=Chapter 37

Weiss felt numb all over. Those words couldn’t have been in the same sentence: ‘Schnee’ and ‘mayor’. It had to be someone’s idea of a bad joke. Cinder had planned this - she was just the type! Before she knew what was happening, Kali’s hands were on her shoulders and the sofa was underneath her; she couldn’t even remember sitting down.

“Father? Is he… is it true?”

“It is, sweetie,” Kali told her gently, eyes full of concern. “He just announced his candidacy this morning. I would have assumed you heard…”

“Nobody was talking about it at school,” Blake confirmed, not quite so affected but still concerned for Weiss. It would have been touching if she wasn’t completely beside herself.

Meanwhile, the others remained largely unaffected. Salem shrugged, eyes dark and piercing beneath her usual hood - even indoors. “Why should they have? Youth is wasted on the young. Children have no head for current events and political machinations.”

“That’s because they’re supposed to be children.” The frost in Kali’s tone as she addressed her own leader surprised her, especially since she had been so quick to tell Weiss that she wasn’t a child. Which one was it? “Haven’t they a right to grow into productive members of society before they have to vote and be disappointed in the world?”

“Touché, Duchess. Perhaps I truly have become jaded.”

“We need to nail down how to proceed,” Sienna hissed at them through her teeth. “Then we can worry about trivial matters. Are you sure you don’t want me to fill him full of-”

“No, no. Your methods are effective but… indelicate.” Salem’s legs crossed as she contemplated, dark eyes sweeping from face to face. A minute passed before she replied. “I don’t believe we’ll need to move immediately. The election is weeks away; plenty of time to let our minds percolate.”

Clearing her throat, Weiss said in a small voice, “Wh-why do you think he wants to become mayor? Why now? I… I really, really want to hope it has nothing to do with me and the Dragons, but if it does…”

“If it does, then what?” Cinder sighed impatiently.

“If it does, maybe I… could go back home. And he would leave you alone, and drop the whole-”

“Don’t be so gullible, Schnee. All that will accomplish is showing him that he can do whatever he wants.”

“She’s right,” Kali reassured her in gentler tones. “I know you want to do whatever you can to fix this problem; I would in your position. But a man like your father won’t bend to anyone’s will unless he’s made to bend. And if people can’t bend, if they aren’t flexible enough…”

“They break,” Emerald hissed through her teeth. Cinder patted her arm to help calm her.

Salem rose to her feet, smoothing down the front of her cloak. “This ‘not-meeting’ is adjourned. All we needed from it was to adjust our thinking… make sure we are all aware of the tribulations that await us, be contemplating until we meet again. We have done that, and we can proceed to other matters. Kali, I trust you will inform us if you become aware of another location?”

“Immediately, High Dragon.”

“Good. Take care, all.” Without waiting for anyone to bid her farewell, she swept from the room, Sienna immediately on her heels. Emerald and Cinder were next, though they favoured Weiss with smiles and nods as they filed out. Then it was just Weiss and the Belladonnas.

Kali was the first to speak. “Well, that was interesting. Let’s finish working on dinner.”

“That’s all you have to say, Mom? Nothing about… you know, Weiss’s daddy trying to take over the whole city?!”

“Maybe he’s going into organised crime himself. Maybe he’s got bats in his belfry - how are we supposed to know? Either way, we can’t do anything tonight. Let’s just worry about getting food on the table for now, alright?” When neither of them answered right away, she cupped their cheeks and smiled. “Good girls. Go and wash up for dinner.”

As they paced upstairs, Weiss whispered, “Is it just me, or did your mom get a lot more… motherly just now?”

“Not just you.” Glancing over her shoulder, she lowered her voice to a whisper. “I think it was what Salem said. Y’know, about us kids not being aware of politics, and the world? Think it really ground her gears.”

“Well, it’s creepy. She was flirting with me yesterday; I don’t want her feeding me jars of Gerber peas today!”

Lip curling, Blake murmured, “I don’t want her doing either one.”

“Oh… well, yeah, I know. I am sor-”

“Don’t. It’s weird for me, but like I said, I’m used to her flirting with anything that moves. Just… not somebody I’m close to is all. There are all kinds of reasons, trust me.”

Weiss’s cheeks bunched with the force of her sudden smile. “You’re close to me? Awww…”

Before Blake could sputter a response, the master bedroom door opened and Willow peered out, eyes a little round and fearful. The instant she saw her daughter, her expression clarified and she pulled the door open. “Weiss, there you are.”

“Mom!” She smiled and trotted over for a hug. “You okay? You looked kind of worried.”

“Well, Kali told me there would be serious business going on downstairs, and… and that I should stay up here.” Swallowing hard, she glanced at Blake briefly as if she would pounce on her at any moment. “Is… is anyone… dead?”

Both of the girls looked startled. “Mom, we’re not assassins! No, nobody’s dead! Gee whiz!” Willow relaxed visibly, though she was still shaking very slightly and breathing rapidly. Seeing that she needed the comforting, she wrapped her arms around her mother a little tighter. “It’s alright, Mom. Sorry I got you mixed up in all this mess, I didn’t mean t-”

“No, no, it’s… it’s alright. I’m already much happier than I have been in years and years, even if I’m a little afraid of what might happen next. But I’m more afraid of… of your father now.”

At the mention of him, the girls exchanged a glance. Blake raised a hand up to rest in the middle of Willow’s back and began to guide them both toward the stairs. “Come on, Mrs. Schnee. Dinner’s almost ready. And, uh… and I think we could all use it.”

----------------

The meal did go smoothly once they were all seated and avoiding the whopper of an elephant in the room. Weiss got to mention that she was helping Yang reconnect with her uncle, which pleased Kali - both for Weiss’s involvement and that Yang was reaching out to her family more and more. Her own mother might have been a little confused, but she got the general idea and also commended her daughter for helping to foster any level of reconciliation. There was a lot of blushing, and a little teasing from Blake before Kali tossed an olive at her daughter. A food fight was narrowly avoided.

So it was that despite the very notion of a potential Mayor Schnee hanging over their heads, Weiss could fall right to sleep that night. Blake flashed her a calm smile; for once she had looked just fine, not stressed or morose or irritated. Even if not everything was great, a lot of things were getting better.

This time, she couldn’t remember any dreams when her eyes popped open the next morning. Only this lingering sense of well-being. One of them probably had something to do with…

“Yang…”

Her eyebrows twitched downward. That wasn’t her own voice, was it? It was such a quiet whisper, too. Glancing over to the side, she saw Blake curled away from her, thrashing around very slightly. Another dream about lost love; it was sad, even though she definitely was beginning to move on during the waking hours.

The next whimper sounded so quiet, so plaintive, that she couldn’t help it. She leaned up on her elbow to reach up and shake Blake awake, spare her the agony-

And saw her arm was moving quite a lot more than was normal for a sleeping woman. One wrist was disappearing into her loose violet pyjama pants. Her breathing was pretty ragged for someone asleep, too… and those whimpers…

Suddenly, Weiss felt the bottom drop out of her stomach. Clearly this problem had not gone away for Blake if she felt the need to do this while she wasn’t alone in the bed.

“A-ah,” her friend let out from between her lips. Weiss was completely beside herself, and every idea she had of how to fix this situation seemed more terrible than the last. Should she clear her throat to let her presence be known? NO! That would be disastrous! Then again, if she kept on watching, or even just laid there and listened to Blake doing this, it would make her the worst kind of Peeping Tom! Nevermind how uncomfortable she would be the entire time. And if Blake ever found out…

‘What do I do?’ she thought frantically as her face began to heat up, and as Blake’s arm ramped up in speed. To be fair, the girl was doing a pretty good job of keeping herself from shaking the rest of the bed or making noises that would wake someone, but she was still being indiscreet.

Two things happened next. Blake shifted, and a wave of a very specific scent rolled over Weiss that made her blush brighten. But she didn’t just shift her arm’s position. Her head turned, to glance over her shoulder and make sure she was the only one awake in the bed - that she wasn’t being watched.

Which, of course, she was.

Both girls froze completely for at least a full count of ten, two pairs of eyes wide and gazing into each other in shock. At least the arm was no longer moving. Then Blake asked the only sensible question.

“How… how long were you… watching me?”

“I…” Swallowing hard, she whispered back, “N-not long. A minute? But I didn’t know what to… I couldn’t believe you were really…”

Though Blake’s cheeks had been blotchy with sheer heat before, now they were taking on a much deeper shade as she began to turn away again. “Oh… my… God.”

“Blake-”

“Of course. Of course you wake up this one time, I can’t- what was I thinking?!” Her voice was a mixture of panic and pure shame. “What is WRONG with me?! Why am I so… so…”

Weiss couldn’t think of anything else to do but throw her arms around Blake. Obviously another terrible idea, but it was her best in the moment.

“Are you kidding me?!” she hissed angrily. “While I’m doing this?!”

“Shut up!” she commanded Blake, squeezing even tighter. “I don’t care! Waking up to this might not be Fat City for me, either, but you’re… there’s nothing wrong with you, alright?”

Blake held completely still for a long moment, vibrating with a cocktail of emotions. Then things began to shift a little. She had tried to move her arm and shivered. Weiss knew why, but she still didn’t pull away - even though a little voice in the back of her head was telling her the hug should probably end sometime soon. Before things went in a direction neither of them exactly wanted.

“Weiss… I appreciate you… saying that. But I, um… I think I need to get up, and go to the bathroom, and… and f-finish what I started. So unless you want to help me with it, I suggest you let go.”

Why did she feel so bold and reckless? “But you sound really close. Just… hurry up and do it.” That did get her hand to slap over her own mouth, so at least it accomplished the goal of ending the hug.

“Are you out of your tree?! I can’t! Not with… with you watching…” Her voice started to sound less and less angry, or shocked, or afraid. There was only shame now, mingling with her desires. “With you watching me. And I don’t think you want that, either.”

“Hey, let’s not get carried away. I didn’t say I wanted to watch! Just… that you should finish it off, and then… then everything will be fine again. Right?”

Amber eyes gazed up into hers guiltily, a little pink mouth slightly open as she panted for air and tried to think her way out of the situation. Weiss had already thought to all possible conclusions, and in her half-awake state, this sounded like the one that would result in the least hurt feelings. Sending Blake out of the room, or leaving herself, would wind up making them both even more ashamed than if they stayed. And asking Blake to just stop and not climax was inhumane! That only left this solution, undesirable as it was.

“What if…” Blake bit her lip for a moment, then looked away. “What if I do want you to watch?”

That got her attention. “What?”

“It’s… getting really hard not to do anything,” she whispered, arm trembling and tense. “So either… cut out right now, or it’s going to get really…” Another swallow, and she looked sincerely apologetic. “You could stop me. Pull my arm out of there. I think you should.”

“Blake…” This was her out! But she couldn’t take it. “No. I think you need this. You couldn't even wait until I got out of bed earlier, and now you’re almost there. So, um, I don’t think I would stop you if I wanted to. And I don’t.”

She nodded, seeing the wisdom in that statement. “Schnee, you are… something else. I swear.” Then she licked her lips, letting out a nervous laugh. “I’ve never done this before, you know. Just… worked on myself while somebody else was… I might sound dumb, or look dumb…”

“Don’t worry about that. But if it helps, I won’t watch your face too much. Okay?”

“Well…” Reluctantly, she nodded. Then began to move her arm…

And the immediate moan of relief was enough to send shivers down Weiss’s spine. This was definitely a mistake; she knew that the minute she suggested it. But what a glorious mistake it would be.

“You… do not sound ‘dumb’,” she told her baldly.

“I don’t?” Blake laughed quietly, hips twitching back and forth. “Mmhh… you know, you don’t have to keep hugging me. Or even stay in the bed. I… it’s alright, Weiss.”

“I’m comfortable here.” Not that she was fully; she was comfortable lying on the bed, of course, but her libido was anything but comfortable with having a lithe, nubile body enjoying that kind of stimulation so close to her own. Why did Blake have to sound so incredible? Even just feeling her back and rear brushing against herself a little as she squirmed was setting her off.

And Blake was losing her fight to keep still, to suppress her reactions as much as possible. At one point, a wave of pleasure hit her that caused her to curl in on herself, pulling her head further away and pushing her toes against Weiss’s bare shins. Having their skin connect seemed to snap her out of it.

“S-sorry.”

“No… don’t be.” Moving her arm further down, she rested a hand on Blake’s stomach, slipping it under her arm to do so. “Keep going. You need this.”

“Yeah. Need this… I really need…” The stomach muscles flexed and moved underneath her hand, and Blake redoubled her efforts. Now, she could feel each and every movement, the vibrations of her attempts to wring an orgasm from the reluctant clutches of her own flesh. Her stilted gasps and groans were so hot…

But not enough. She knew what Blake needed. “You can call her name.”

“What?”

“Yang. I… understand why, believe me. So you should, if you want.”

“No, that’s- she’s your girlfriend. I shouldn’t…” But she didn’t sound terribly resolute. In fact, she sounded like she wanted to give in, even if the look in her eyes said that she would hate herself for doing so.

“Just imagine that Yang is behind you right now,” she whispered against her neck, prompting a brand new shiver. She wasn’t sure where these ideas were coming from, other than they seemed reasonable for an unreasonable situation. “That she’s the one watching you, listening to you… waiting for you to show her what you can do to that body.”

That easily, she convinced a little “Yang” to slip from Blake’s tongue as she sped up, her hips beginning to shift against her frantic fingers. The motions were butting back against Weiss with every pass, building a heat she was trying her best to ignore. Another whispered oath, and another whispered “Yang!” Her mouth was hanging open now, gasping for more breath as she climbed higher toward the peak of pleasure.

“Yes!” Weiss hissed against Blake’s neck, bucking her hips in time with the other pair as her hand began to pet a circle on Blake’s stomach, mimicking the movements of the other one doing the lion’s share of the work. “It’s so good! Just keep going, don’t stop now!”

“Nhhhhh, Yang!” she moaned out, a little louder than she meant to but still quiet enough that it might not wake up anyone. “I… I’m so damn close! Almost!”

“Finish for her, Blake! Finish for Yang!”

That was as much as she could stand, if the louder gasp and the spasms of her entire body were any indication. She could feel toenails scratching her shins beneath the blanket, abdominals clenching, and the vibrations of ragged breathing bleed through Blake’s back and into her own chest. By all outward signs, this was definitely one of the strongest orgasms she had ever witnessed - maybe that Blake had experienced.

After a minute or so, Blake had recovered enough to roll onto her back and gaze at Weiss in wonder. Then she whispered, “How… did you do that?”

“Do what?” she laughed.

“Make it so good, and… you didn’t even touch me. Not really; not that way.”

“O-oh. Well, I didn’t even do anything, really.”

Blake’s smile was a little dazed - understandably. “You didn’t… and you did. Weird. But that was one of the best I’ve ever had, and definitely way better than any other game of solitaire. How did you do it?”

All she could offer was a shrug. By now, not only was Weiss vaguely embarrassed by the praise, but she was also fighting off her own arousal. Even if she hadn’t ever truly thought of Blake as a potential bed partner before, there could be no denying how hot that entire show was. And certain parts of her anatomy were clamoring for an encore.

“Schnee? You okay?”

“Fine. Totally fine.”

A knowing glint in one amber eye, she rolled over a bit more so she could pet up and down Weiss’s stomach through her nightie. “You know… I wouldn’t mind returning the favour. If that’s what you want.”

“It… it isn’t.” Clearing her throat, she patted Blake’s forearm, and it stilled. “Yang can take care of it for me later, I… but thank you.”

Sorrow and frustration took over on the raven-haired girl’s features again for a moment. But then it faded into the background and she simply embraced her temporary bunkmate. “Sorry. Just say the word, though.”

“No, I’m sorry. This is probably so difficult for you. And your life would be easier if I never-”

“Shhh. Don’t bother talking like that; we can’t change the past, and I don’t want to. You’re alright in my book, Schnee.” In a mock-grumble, she added, “Even if you’re being a big baby about me working you over.”

A thought occurred to her - a memory from right after she had met Blake - and she decided to share it with a little smirk. “You know… I’ll have to confer with Yang about it, to make sure she still feels the same. But she did once say that she wouldn’t mind if I made whoopee with you.” To be more specific, she had said Weiss had free reign to sleep with more than just Blake, but that information wasn’t pertinent.

“‘Made whoopee’,” she snickered.

“Why does everyone keep laughing at me when I say that?!”

“Sorry,” she laughed a little louder, clearly getting comfortable against Weiss’s side now. “But… if she really meant that, then I guess… there are crazier ideas. But I won’t make any moves until you get word we have a green light, Schnee. Homewrecking is not a hobby I’m looking to take up, even for a cute pompom girl.”

“I think that’s an acceptable plan,” she said with a little firm nod, and Blake only grinned. Weiss eventually smiled, as well. “You must have really felt good a minute ago if you’re buttering me up so much now.”

One of her trim shoulders shrugged as they relaxed a little more into each other. “I did. And I’m not just buttering you up; you razz my berries, as much as that surprises me. Though I did always think you were a fine thoroughbred filly.” Her hand began to pet up and down her side, and Weiss felt her cheeks flare up even more. “Mmmm, yeah…”

“Okay, enough. Roll back over.” Blake obeyed, and Weiss pressed their backs together. “Mmm… I could get used to it, though. Watching you blow your stack. It’s better than Ed Sullivan.”

“You germ,” she mock-growled, pushing her feet back against Weiss’s feet. They battled for dominance very briefly before giving up and simply resting again. “You know… nah, that’s just weird to say now. Nevermind.”

“Go ahead. I don’t think anything’s too weird after what we just did.”

With another little shrug, she went on quietly, “I was thinking before this morning that… that it might not be too bad…” She fell silent again. When Weiss elbowed her, she went on in a rush, “That it might not be so bad if our parents were together and we were sisters! There, okay?!”

“Ohhhh,” she breathed, secretly very touched by the sentiment. Especially after worrying that Blake hated her! But what she said was, “I don’t think I could handle watching my sister do what you did.”

“Well, not- I said ‘before this morning’, dingbat! GOD! Try to have a civil conversation…”

But eventually, they did decide it was time to get up. Not before a little more play-wrestling and a lot of talking, but there was no more hanky panky; she wanted to leave that up to Yang.

As soon as was bodily possible.

#princess and the dragons #monochrome fanfiction #rwby fanfiction #rwby smut #rwbyremnants #nsfw-Text

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hookedontaronfics · 5 years

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Honky Dancer series - Chapter 5

Chapter title: Lazy Sundays and difficult choices Read the previous installments here: Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 3 | Chapter 4 Rating: M Pairing: Taron x OC Warnings: Cursing, brief mentions of sex but no actual smut A/N: Mostly just some fluffy fluff [daddy Taron feels, yes please] and more relationship drama in this chapter. More mature themes will develop, so be warned! Enjoy! X

I was awoken the next morning by a cold, wet nose pressed against my arm. It took me a few seconds to process where I even was, crashed out on my own couch in last night’s dress. Again.

Troy whined at me slightly, having waited as long as he possibly could before waking me to be let out. He whuffed at me slightly, looking at me with those deep brown puppy eyes of his.

“I’m up, I’m up,” I groaned as I pushed myself back up to sitting and wiped my hand over my face, smearing the remnants of makeup. I reached over and scratched Troy on the head, and he wagged his tail at me. “You’re a cute boy, yes you are,” I said in that special voice I reserved just for him. I spied a bottle of ibuprofen and a glass of water on the coffee table; Taron must have done that before he left last night, when I was dead to the world.

I got up and let Troy out to do his doggy business before finding my phone still nestled in my purse where I’d left it. <I am NEVER drinking again I swear to God> I texted Madison.

<What, why? What happened?> Madison instantly texted back, and I could just imagine the worried expression she was making.

<Nothing but I am an absolute IDIOT when I drink, Mads. I have got to stop just throwing myself at guys> I responded.

<Did you and Taron … ?> she texted, waiting for my reply.

<Until your wedding, eh!!> Madison sent back with the waggling eyebrows emoji, making me blush and squeal out loud at the same time. Troy just looked at me with a concerned expression; he probably thought his human was absolutely mad.

<Oh stop. I can’t think like that and you know it> I texted, blushing hard.

<Yeah I know it, but you should probably stop texting me and start texting Taron … Make sure his ass knows sober you still wants him too> she replied.

<Look, I’m not blind! The man is fit as fuck and I’m only a little jealous that he’s all heart eyes for you. Don’t blow your opportunity, is all I’m saying, cause there’s about a million fangirls lined up behind you waiting their turn.> Woah, I thought, staring at my phone for a long minute. I had never really thought about it that way. To me, he was just Taron; yes, Taron who could afford nice things and Taron who could act brilliantly and Taron who was impeccably handsome, but he was still just the Taron I’d gotten to know on a very human level. He was kind and sweet and lovely and I fancied him a lot, but a small part of me still wondered why he paid me any attention at all. If it had been any other girl that had bumped into him in the hallway weeks ago, would he be taking them out to expensive meals instead of me?

<Well thanks for the dose of reality. You’re always good for that> I sent back before calling Troy back inside from where he was sniffing along the fence line. I decided to take a shower before doing anything else, turning the water as hot as my skin could take it. Once I felt clean and refreshed, I wrapped myself in a bathrobe and left my hair wrapped up in a towel and walked over to the kitchen to start a pot of coffee. I grabbed my phone while that percolated and finally decided to text Taron.

<Good morning! I’m alive, I promise. Also, thank you for dinner last night, it was lovely. I can’t remember if I managed to say that or not but I don’t want to be rude.> I made myself a cup of coffee while waiting for Taron to reply.

<Good morning, love! How are you feeling?> he responded.

<Surprisingly pretty well for how much of that expensive wine I drank last night> I wrote cheekily.

<Would you require sustenance in the way of food? Because I’m completely lusting after those Tongue and Brisket salmon bagels and I could bring some over if you’d like.> Of course Taron would use the term “lust” instead of “crave” and of course my brain would go to thoughts it shouldn’t be thinking, on a Sunday morning no less.

<Yes of course, that’d be lovely> I texted back quickly, trying to calm my whore brain down.

<Should I order something for Clara too?> he asked, being considerate of my daughter.

<She’ll still be at her grandmum’s until afternoon> I wrote back.

<Ahh> was Taron’s simple response. Did I detect a note of disappointment there? I wondered.

<That’d be brilliant. I’ll be over in an hour or so> he responded. Clara must have made quite an impression on Taron if he wanted to spend more time with her. I texted my mum and made arrangements for her to bring Clara back over early and then quickly got myself ready, slipping into a simple dress and leggings and making sure the house was as clean as it was going to get in an hour. Troy let me know when Taron had arrived before the doorbell rang, prancing excitedly in front of the door, the entire bottom half of him wagging excitedly.

“Out of the way, boy,” I laughed, having to use my leg to try and scoot him back enough so I could get the door open.

“Hi!” I said, answering the door and trying to keep Troy from excitedly attacking Taron with all his doggy love at the same time, so I must have looked slightly flustered. Taron managed to take all of this in stride, of course, and I greeted him warmly once he managed to squeeze inside. I ended up putting Troy outside in the backyard so he wouldn’t be slobbering over our bagels, earning myself a look of betrayal until I tossed him a treat.

I rejoined Taron on the couch, and he had already pulled out our bagels and set them out carefully on the coffee table. “These look amazing,” I smiled and Taron grinned at me.

“Oh, they are amazing,” he grinned, handing me one with the wrapper carefully pulled back. I’d had many good bagels in my life, but the ones he had chosen blew me away. The bagels themselves had the perfect chewy but still moist texture, and the sweetness of the cream cheese balanced the smokiness of the salmon. For a long moment all you could hear were the sounds of our chewing because those bagels were that good.

“I think this bagel may have just changed my life,” I joked around a bite, making Taron chuckle.

“You sure it’s not the company?” he asked with a wink, making my heart stutter slightly in my chest. I tried to recover by taking a massive bite of the bagel so I wouldn’t have to immediately respond, but then I nearly choked and Taron ended up having to thump my back while I coughed, my face red and my eyes tearing up.

“Hey, easy there,” he said, making sure I was okay.

“Hi, have you met me? I’m always awkward,” I said once I could manage to talk again.

“Yeah, I kind of got that,” he teased me lightly. “And yet somehow you’re a brilliant dancer.”

“The world works in mysterious ways, T,” I laughed at that. We chatted a bit longer before my mum arrived with Clara. My mum seemed surprised that Taron was there, raising her eyebrows at me and giving me an “oh?” Clara had gravitated right to Taron, and I saw him giving her a high five, her laughter bouncing off the walls of the house and making me grin.

“Be right back,” I said, grabbing Clara’s bag from my mum and nodding toward the bedrooms so she followed me. “Before you judge anything, no, he didn’t stay the night,” I said in a rush as soon as we were out of ear shot. “He offered to bring bagels this morning and I figured, why not?”

“Dinner last night and breakfast in the morning, dear?” my mum asked, with that tone of voice that meant she thought a lot more than she was saying.

“He’s exceptionally thoughtful and has deep pockets?” I tried as I unpacked Clara’s bag, feeling myself blushing despite myself.

“Oh that boy fancies you so much. He just plays by the old rules of courtship, which is a fat lot better then these young kids who roll up thinking cat-calling a young lady from their car is going to do them any favors,” my mum huffed, and I couldn’t help but laugh at that.

“Seriously, mum?” I giggled. “They don’t really do that either. They buy you a drink and expect to get laid and there you have it.”

“Your pappi was a gentleman, through and through. Rather swept me off my feet back in the day,” she said with a far-off smile.

“Why did Pappi leave then?” I asked softly, gently setting one of Clara’s stuffed plushies on her bed and smoothing out the comforter.

“He had his own demons to reckon with, dear. It had nothing to do with how much he loved you or me.”

“I just don’t think I have any of this figured out, mum,” I sighed softly. “I’m more confused now than I ever was. Taron is amazing and every kind thing I could say about him but I don’t feel like I deserve this kindness at all. I feel like we’re from very different worlds.”

“Oh honey, don’t you ever close that door on yourself,” my mum said, crossing the room over to me and placing her hand on my cheek. “You are every bit deserving to be loved and cared for and if that means belonging in Taron’s world, then don’t you dare count yourself out of it. He clearly wants to be here for a reason. And you might even have more in common than you’re aware of right now.”

“Yeah, okay,” I said, giving her a small smile. “I just don’t want to bring him into a world that is messy and imperfect as much as mine is.”

“The world is messy and imperfect, dear. No one can avoid that. But maybe he sees who you are beyond that.”

“I just don’t know,” I said after taking a deep breath.

My mum just smiled knowingly and headed for the door. “Listen to your mum, she knows a thing or two,” she said before returning to the living room again, leaving me to my thoughts. I quickly finished unpacking Clara’s bag before going to let Troy back inside. He excitedly bounded his way to the living room, adding his happy energy to the scene in my living room, Clara squealing and hugging Troy as Taron seemed captivated by them both.

“I will get out of your hair but, it was nice seeing you again, Mr. Egerton,” my mum said, the absolute picture of poise and grace.

“Taron, please,” he smiled, offering to shake her hand but she just gave him a hug instead, which he cutely returned.

“Have a fantastic day, loves,” she smiled before seeing herself out the door.

“Mummy, can we go to the park now?” Clara said in her eternally enthusiastic way. “I want to throw the ball for Troy!” she said, and Troy perked his ears up at the recognized word.

“That’s a fantastic idea,” Taron grinned, looking to me, his face alight. I couldn’t say no to that, so soon enough we were out the door and heading for the park, Clara insisting on taking Troy’s leash and walking ahead of us as Taron and I enjoyed the nice weather of the day.

We let Troy off his leash as soon as we got to the park and took turns throwing his ball for him, which he thoroughly enjoyed retrieving and dropping at our feet.

“I wish I could throw as far as you and mummy!” Clara sighed dramatically to Taron.

“Well, you just need a little practice is all!” Taron grinned, picking up the ball and showing Clara how to step forward and follow through with her arm so the ball would gain some air. She improved a bit, Troy ever faithful in retrieving it no matter how far it did or didn’t travel, but eventually Taron scooped Clara up onto his shoulders and grinned. “Now try it!” he chuckled, and Clara squealed happily at being so high up.

“Watch, mum!” she said, tossing the ball and watching it soar before bouncing a fair bit away.

“Hey you did it!” Taron grinned at me, the whole interaction sending feelings through me that I was still having trouble trying to place. The way Taron was with Clara was just absolutely so sweet, and it really had me swooning. Eventually Troy gave up the game, landing in a fluffy pile and panting heavily, and Taron gently set Clara back on the ground.

“Tag, you’re it!” she said, patting him on the arm and then squealing and running away.

“Well I have to give chase now,” Taron grinned at me before running after her, easily catching up to her and wrapping his arms around her, their laughter traveling to me. I pulled out my phone and snapped that photo too, the joy so evident on Clara’s face it made my heart ache. I only ever wanted my child to know this kind of happiness, and I’d realized long ago I couldn’t provide that joy to her alone.

We wrapped up our time in the park and made the tired walk home, Clara still chatting our ears off about whatever it is that came to her 7-year-old mind. It was so easy to feel like a family at that moment, but I knew that was also dangerous. If Taron didn’t feel the same about any of this, I was setting myself up for a lot of heartbreak, and even more so, I had to protect Clara’s feelings as well.

We made it back to the house and Taron decided it was probably time for him to go so he didn’t wear out his welcome (as if he ever could), so Clara gave him a sweet hug and told him how much fun she’d had, and Taron of course agreed. I let her and Troy into the house to go play before turning to Taron.

“Thank you for today, it was really great,” I said as I faced him, now suddenly level with him as I was on the raised stoop.

“You know, I couldn’t have imagined a better way to spend a lazy Sunday,” he smiled at me, making my heart flutter yet again. “So, see you at rehearsal tomorrow?” he grinned that megawatt grin of his at me.

“Yes you will. It won’t be too long before screen tests and filming,” I said, my voice betraying the nerves I felt over that. It was one thing to rehearse in a studio room; it was another to realize I was actually going to be on film soon.

“It will be great, you’ll see. You’ll be with me and Rich, nothing to worry about,” he grinned.

“Yeah, nothing to worry about at all,” I said sarcastically before he took my hands in his.

“You’ll be as brilliant on screen as you are breathtaking in real life, I’m sure of it.”

“Oh Taron,” I said softly, having to stare at the ground until he gently tilted my chin up to gaze in his eyes. They were so light today, nearly peridot in color and sparkling in the sun.

“You’ll see what I see some day,” he smiled, leaning in and kissing me gently. I didn’t realize until that moment that I’d been waiting for him to do that all day. I could feel him smile against my lips, and then I kissed him back, my arms wrapping around his neck and not caring if my nosy neighbor next door, Mrs. Burnham, was watching through her blinds.

We kissed like that until we were both out of breath and giggling. “You take my damn breath away, Juliette,” he whispered sweetly, his breath tickling my skin.

“I’m sure it’s quite the other way around, Taron,” I whispered back.

“Then we’ll just stay breathless together, eh?” he grinned.

“I guess so,” I hedged, not sure I was totally understanding what he was implying.

“I want to keep having these moments with you,” he added, such softness in his gaze that it made something open up in my chest, a place where I had once been loved and yearned to be again.

“I do too, of course I do, but I have to figure some other things out first,” I said uncertainly, as Taron took a small step back from me.

“Like Markus?” he asked, his eyes narrowing slightly. “Are you still seeing him?”

“I…Tomorrow, after rehearsal. But that’s not your business really,” I replied.

“You’re right, it’s not, but please let me know when you’re done playing this game with him. He can never give you what I could,” Taron said, and I swore I could feel the jealousy under his words as tiny pinpricks in my skin.

“Um Taron, that’s not-” I said but he started walking away from me, cutting off my words.

“I’ll see you tomorrow, Juliette. Good day,” he said over his shoulder, as if I was just another acquaintance and not the person I’d spent my entire morning and day laughing with. I stood on the stoop feeling confused as he got in his car and drove off, but he at least waved and I raised my hand too, completely unsure about my own feelings or his for that matter.

I closed my eyes for a moment and tried to steady myself before returning inside, intending to have a good rest of the Sunday with my daughter. And we did have a good day, playing video games and Barbies and unicorns and god knows what else she came up with. She wanted me to help her paint a picture of Elton, so I did my best to help draw an outline of Elton at the piano, though the face came out wonky but she loved it and we hung it up on the fridge when she was done painting. Her love of Elton always made me feel happy inside, like I’d done something right in parenting her at least. The evening flew by and soon I was tucking my daughter in bed and crashing myself, having mixed feelings about rehearsals the next day, especially because I’d agreed to have another date with Markus that evening.

The night passed and soon enough I found myself getting Clara off to school and myself across the city to Paramount, where we’d be setting our choreography on the actual massive set piece they’d built, which was a bunch of steps leading up to what looked like a record. Working the stair steps was its own sort of challenge, but eventually we felt as comfortable dancing on the platform as we had been in the studio. Taron was cordial to me but I felt the coldness behind his demeanor and it hurt me slightly. I knew he was probably just trying to protect himself but I craved the sort of warmth he had brought into my life. But I still felt like I owed Markus one last chance before I “made my choice,” if that was even real. I think it was already clear to everyone but myself who I gravitated toward the most.

When rehearsals were over, Taron brushed past me, saying in a low voice “I should say enjoy your date tonight but I really hope you don’t.”

“Taron, please. This jealousy doesn’t look good on you,” I said.

“How else am I supposed to feel?” he asked, his dark green gaze searing straight into my soul until Richard came by, putting his hands on Taron’s shoulders and laughing about something. I think he realized he’d just interrupted a moment, but Taron just shrugged and smiled at me. “I’ve got to go, later,” he said before excusing himself and leaving with Richard. I felt my a pang in my chest but had to shrug it off.

I made it home in time to shower and slip into a pair of skinny jeans and a blouse and flats, checking in with my mum to make sure Clara was getting her homework done while on the tube back across town again to meet up with Markus. We’d agreed on a low-key pizzeria this time, just wanting a nice sit-down restaurant to try and get to know each other better.

And it actually was a good time, despite my misgivings about how our first date had gone. Markus even apologized for what had happened, saying he should have taken more responsibility and had been incredibly drunk himself.

“I hope you don’t think that I’m just this kind of asshole,” he said gently, his fingers pressed against my knee and his steel grey eyes soft in the table’s candlelight. “We got off to the wrong start and I want to make it right again. I’m not some ‘bro’ trying to get laid. I think you’re gorgeous and smart and incredibly talented and I was swept off my feet when I saw you dance,” he said.

I’d heard those words before but somehow coming from Markus it didn’t quite hit me in the heart the way it had coming from Taron, and I sighed at that.

“Thank you, that’s very kind,” I replied, staring at my hands folded primly in front of me on the tabletop. Markus was kind and lovely so why did he not stir my heart? He was the sort of person I could relate to - the kind of person who I deserved to be with. To think I deserved Taron at all was humor at its highest mark.

“What are you thinking?” Markus asked me, reaching over and wrapping his hands around mine. The gesture was meant to be sweet but I had to fight my initial reaction to jerk away.

“You’re a really sweet guy, Markus,” I smiled at him lightly, obviously unable to tell him I was actually thinking about Taron.

“We have a lot in common, don’t we?” he grinned beatifically at me. I suddenly had the urge to run my fingers through his brunette curls, to see if they were as soft and fluffy as Taron’s hair. My god, I chastised myself, what is my problem?

“We do, but there’s something else you should know,” I said softly, taking a deep breath before delivering the news about my daughter. I waited for Markus’ reaction, scared and anxious that he’d hate that idea and then it would make my choice so much simpler.

“Well, I’d love to meet her some day,” he replied sweetly, and then ended up spending the next half-hour asking me questions about Clara and wanting to see photos of her. I very nearly accidentally showed him the picture of Clara and Taron in the park, and the picture made my heart skip an extra beat when I saw the pure joy on their sweet faces. “What’s that?” he asked, obviously having seen my expression and trying to maneuver himself to look at my screen.

“Uh, nothing,” I said, but he’d already caught a peek at the picture.

“I could do better, if you’d give me the same chance you gave him,” he said, practically spitting out that last word.

“Do you even want to have a family, Markus?” I asked, a bit exasperated. “Nothing about our conversations has made me believe you’d suddenly want that responsibility. Clara mostly stays with me, you know. This wouldn’t be a part-time position and I have to do what’s best for her.”

“So you’ve already decided then?” he asked, grimacing slightly.

“I never said that,” I sighed, running my hands through my hair, which had dried into its natural soft waves.

“I know you don’t feel the same way about me, but he’s not the one in front of you right now. I am. So give me that chance to try and be that for you, because I think this could be really, really great,” he pleaded with me, making me once again feel guilty for the thoughts I’d been having. Had it really been that obvious? I wondered.

“Markus, I …” I started, not really sure what to say.

“Just don’t shut me out, okay? Let’s go on more dates. Hell, go out on dates with whats-his-face too. I’m not even jealous. All I can be is here for you. And may the best man win anyway, right?” he asked, making me sigh heavily. A battle of the boys was not even remotely what I had signed up for.

“It’s Taron. His name is Taron,” I said a bit weakly.

We wrapped up our meal soon after, mostly because I needed to go retrieve my daughter from my mum’s but also because the conversation had suddenly dried up. He kissed me on the cheek and wished me a good eve and I had far too much time to think as I rode the tube alone across the city. What the hell had I just gotten myself into?

I was so relieved to find myself distracted with my daughter for the rest of the evening, trying to leave thoughts of Taron and Markus both out of my mind. I was crap at matters of the heart and I knew that; I hadn’t grown up seeing a loving relationship between my parents so knowing what to choose now just made me feel anxious and overwhelmed. Markus was sweet and kind and understood me, but I didn’t exactly have deep feelings for him. Taron, on the other hand, took my breath away but was so beyond me it hurt to acknowledge. What would he even be able to make out of my chaotic life? He didn’t need me bringing him down, that was for certain. But oh, how he could make me feel, and I hadn’t even slept with him.

These thoughts lingered in my mind through the entire night and well into my classes the next day. I at least could forget my troubles in 45-minute intervals, fully focused on my students as I led them through chasses and adagios.

I had a fun surprise for my 5-year-old class, gathering them around me to read a ballet storybook I’d found at the Waterstones a few days before. They were all so cute, their little eager faces turned to me as I read to them, and it reminded me how much I truly did love teaching. I dismissed my class, accepting their hugs and calls of “Thank you Miss Juliette!” before spying Taron haunting the doorway, remembering that we’d practiced here before so of course he knew where I worked. One little girl cutely stopped in front of him, and I couldn’t hear what either was saying but she giggled and her mum smiled appreciatively at Taron.

He walked in the studio, holding a small bouquet of flowers and handing them over to me. “What are you doing here?” I asked, accepting the flowers and honestly a bit surprised to see him.

“I just needed to apologize for being a basic asshole to you yesterday, and the day before that. You were right, I was acting jealous and had no right to be, and I hope you can accept that I’m completely sorry for my behaviour,” he said, biting his lip slightly. “I knew we wouldn’t see each other again for a few days, and I didn’t want this to wait so…”

“Thank you, of course I accept that apology but you didn’t really need to,” I said softly.

“I just want you to know that I want you to be happy, whoever that ends up being with. And if it’s not me, I can accept that. I’m your friend first, and I want you to know that I’m here for you and that’s not contingent on a relationship.” He fidgeted with his jacket sleeves slightly, obviously nervous about what he was saying and I felt the urge to just give him a hug.

“Taron, I … I do like you, a lot,” I said softly, about to tell him how much I didn’t belong in his world when he just kept talking through me.

“And the thing is, I mean, if Markus is your guy, then I’ll step away from this and respect that. Or… or if you can’t make up your mind, then I guess I’d be okay with you seeing both of us until you could decide, you know, who made you happier,” he said, stumbling slightly over his words and staring at the ground the whole time.

“Seriously?” I said, mostly in absolute shock but I think Taron misread it as eagerness.

“Is that palatable?” he asked, finally looking up at me. “Because I really don’t want to lose a chance with you,” he said softly, his face looking as though he was about to crumble.

“Taron, you’re not going to lose me,” I said, instantly going over to him and cupping his face with my hands. “We work together, remember?” I teased, earning a small smile out of that. “I’m trying to be as fair as I can and I never expected myself to be in this situation.”

“Right, I get it,” he said quietly, the vulnerability clear on his face. “Or at least, I’m trying to understand it.”

“I just find it hard to believe that you’d choose someone like me to want to be with. There have to be other girls, better women who are more in your world, you know?” I finally admitted.

“Better than you?” he asked, his eyes going wide. “Juliette, there is no one better than you in my world. This is where I want you to be and where you deserve to be.”

I couldn’t speak for all the emotions his words drew to the forefront. Doubt, disbelief, shock, love, vulnerability, yearning and passion, maybe even a little bit of fear coursed through me as he wrapped his arms around my back and pulled me in to him, kissing me without holding anything back this time. If I thought that man could make me feel before, that was nothing compared to getting lost with him now.

“Gross, get a room,” Madison joked, having barged in the studio thinking it was just me there. Taron and I broke apart instantly, and I couldn’t help but feel slightly embarrassed.

“Uh, Mads, this is Taron. Taron, my best friend Madison,” I said, trying to recover by introducing them.

“Oh, I know who Taron is,” she smirked, offering her hand to him but getting a cute hug instead. Oh my god, she mouthed to me over his shoulder. We chatted briefly but I had an incoming class and Taron knew he couldn’t really take up much more of my time, but he gave me another, much sweeter kiss and cupped my chin with his fingers.

“We’ll talk about this later, yeah? Call me,” he smiled, giving me the now-familiar phone gesture, and I nodded.

“You’ve got it,” I said, watching him go as he cutely waved at the both of us.

“Oh. My. God!” Madison squealed at me as soon as the door had swung shut behind Taron. “So are you together now?” she nearly screeched.

“I...uhm… I think so? It’s complicated, but I think I definitely need to let Markus down now,” I said, my lips still tingling from kissing Taron.

“Yeah, I’d say,” Madison snorted. “You were practically melting into him. You can’t tell me Markus sweeps you off your feet like that.”

“Or kisses like that, definitely not,” I mused slightly.

“Are you even going to survive sex with Taron?” she asked, making me blush a deep red.

“Holy shit, Mads, you can’t go around saying things like that to me!” I said as she cackled, giving me a wicked grin as my next class of students started filing in.

“Oh, I can, and I did. Have fun with your class!” she giggled, leaving me to it as I desperately tried to recover my composure.

I tried with some difficulty to keep my mind from wandering to what Taron might look like naked as I led my class through warmups and floor exercises. But I’d be remiss if I didn’t admit I had maybe fantasized about it before. If he hadn’t walked away Saturday night, if he hadn’t been the gentleman he was, I wouldn’t still be wondering this at all. But I knew the answer was no, absolutely not; I definitely wasn’t going to survive sleeping with Taron if just kissing him made me feel this undone.

Will Juliette be able to break things off with Markus? And will her relationship with Taron continue to grow? Find out in Chapter 6 HERE.

#taron imagine #taron egerton #taron x reader #taron fanfiction #rocketman imagine

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calzona-ga · 5 years

Link

Showrunner Krista Vernoff also opens up about her vision for spinoff 'Station 19,' which she added to her oversight in May.

After helping to resuscitate Grey's Anatomy over the past few seasons, Krista Vernoff will be pulling double duty as showrunner on both the ABC medical drama and its firefighter spinoff, Station 19.

Grey's Anatomy returns for its 16th season and will pick up immediately where May's finale left off as the typically outspoken Vernoff plans to further explore the country's immigration policies and the "broken" medical care system. Both will be part of the storyline involving Ellen Pompeo's Meredith Grey, who in the season 15 finale, saw her boyfriend Andrew (Giacomo Gianniotti) taking the fall for her having committed insurance fraud (and subsequently fired).

Below, Vernoff talks with The Hollywood Reporter about the larger themes she's looking to explore on Grey's Anatomy as well as Station 19, which she says will lean into exploring what makes firefighters want to do such dangerous jobs.

Last season was the "Season of Love." What's the theme for season 16? I don't have a label for it. Season of Love was a lucky swing. Those kids came on the Tony Awards and sang "Season of Love" and I was feeing a lack of cohesion. I came in and I said, "It's the Season of Love." Then the press ran with that and that was really fun. But we have never had a "season of" anything before that. It's hard to follow up on the Season of Love but I feel like there's the "Season of Family" and we've got our 350th episode, which is a big one. I don't have a theme for the season but we are doing a really good job of paying off the finale from last season. We are doing a direct pickup [from when the finale ended]. We are playing through the consequences of Meredith's decision and playing through the consequences of Bailey's decision, of Catherine's decision, of Teddy and Owen's decision. We didn't do a reset; we already shook it up.

Which means what happened to Jackson in the fog will be addressed … What happened to Jackson in the fog is answered almost immediately in the premiere. Everything has high stakes and high consequences and yet we are keeping alive the sense of humor, the sense of fun, the sense of joy that we've been doing the last couple of years.

The consent episode was sadly overlooked by the TV Academy after a big Emmy push. As an outspoken showrunner about topics in our industry, in politics and beyond, is there a "topic" episode that's percolating for this season? At this point in the season, we are having rich character discussions about the consequences of what Meredith did in committing insurance fraud and it's because of our immigration policies but also because of our broken medical care system. Because that story is very much in play, conversations about our broken medical care system are at play. In order to play that story through, we have to educate ourselves about the realities that doctors face and what works well in our country and what is broken. That is an essential part of our conversation this season but it all starts with character. It all starts with what are we going to do with Meredith now? She just got fired. Her medical license is potentially threatened by her decision and her boyfriend is in jail.

In the past month there have been three mass shootings in this country. Is gun control and gun reform something you've discussed tackling on Grey's? The writers and I have been talking about guns for a long time now — ever since the "this is my lane" movement happened where the NRA told doctors to stay in their lane, and there was a huge outcry from the medical community of this is my lane: "Here is a picture of my blood-soaked OR, ER, elevator; this is my lane, this is where I sit and tell parents that their children are dead, that's the chair I sit in, this is my lane." We read all of that and thought, "Our show is about doctors and this is what's happening in the medical community today, how do we illuminate this epidemic and how do we do it where it's rooted in character and it's not us wanting to make a political statement?" Our episode last season where the kid was shot from somebody shooting his gun off at a parade and there's this group of bagpipers and his father is saying, "Oh my god, how is this possible? How is my child maybe going to die and no laws will change?" All of that was born of this. And we are continuing to explore ways to illuminate the crises our doctors face every day.

This season, you're also showrunning spinoff Station 19, with the two series having a greater connection — including a romantic storyline. What are you looking to accomplish with Station 19? Will there be cast departures? What sort of changes can viewers expect? That's seven questions and many of them I cannot answer! (Laughs.) What I can say is I've never had so much fun in my career. The opportunity to merge these two worlds or further expand the Grey's Anatomy universe to include the fire station, which is down the street — it's exciting creatively. The writers' rooms are right next door to each other. The writers constantly interact with each other. I've got one writer — Kiley Donovan — who is doing both shows. There is an inter-show romance, which I am very excited by and which I think will be surprising. It's exciting and it's fresh. We've still got Ben (Jason George) and Bailey (Chandra Wilson) interacting between the two shows. And we've got first responders and doctors. By its very nature, that is a cohesive world. The first responders are the first step to the medicine. We are trying to lean a little harder into the idea that we can expand the world of Grey's Anatomy by expanding our understanding of how many highly trained hands a person has to move through to go from trauma and crisis to post-op.

Will there be tonal shifts on Station 19? What's working that you’re leaning into, what didn't work that you're doing less of? What I have discovered in diving into the world of first responders is how simultaneously high stakes everything those heroes do every day is. Everything they do is at a Level 11. They stay incredibly calm in the face of what you and I would be completely traumatized in a moment-to-moment basis. It reminds me of Grey's Anatomy in the early years: The conversation was surgeons are basically like auto mechanics. You want to believe that they're reverent in the OR but they do this all day, every day. So, they're talking about their love lives while they're operating on your heart and that is going to be a shocking thing for America to see. There are similarities in that these first responders are facing massive trauma. If you're meeting first responders, it's probably the worst day of your life. They are incredible and professional and then they go out and it was, for the most part, another day at the office. They may be occasionally traumatized by a loss but, for the most part, it was another day at the office. And I am fascinated by that. We're playing a lot of really high-stakes stuff on Station 19 this year. It was a great show, it's now I think going to be a great show. It's going to be slightly different by the nature of the change in the showrunner.

Is there a central theme you're exploring on Station 19? One of the themes we're working with at Station 19 is what makes a hero. We are working with a little bit of an occasional flashback motif where we take a look at what made these people want to run into fire for a living.

Which is something Grey's Anatomy viewers got to see with Ben, as he changed careers multiple times. We're going further back in Ben's past to take a look at why he became an anesthesiologist and then a surgeon and then a firefighter. What is it in his upbringing and in his nature that makes a person have that many big shifts? We know what makes a person want to be a doctor; it's celebrated culturally and financially. What makes a person want to run into fire for a living — for not a lot of money — is a really interesting question to me.

#grey's anatomy #station 19 #krista vernoff #season 16

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blueboxesandtrafficcones · 5 years

Text

Barcelona is for Lovers - Chapter 5

Chapter 5! Many thanks to @stupidsatsuma for beta’ing. @doctorroseprompts

Chapter 6 will be available on April 21st; chapters are posted every other Sunday

General warnings for: hanky panky. Take the ‘lovers’ part of the title seriously.

Masterlist

Summary

Three months after Rose and the Doctor are reunited and promptly ditched on a beach in Norway, they are still trying to find their feet. Rose plans a trip to Barcelona for them to relax, reconnect, and hopefully consummate their relationship.

Rose woke the next morning to tea on the nightstand, blinking blearily at the mug. “Wha’?”

“Good morning!” She wasn’t sure how it was possible for him to be twice as Tigger-like as the day before, but he launched himself onto the bed next to her making the whole mattress shake. “How are you, my love?”

“Still riding the endorphins, huh?” she teased, rolling over to kiss him. They’d called it an early night, the day of sightseeing followed by a spectacular, much-needed orgasm each having drained their energy.

“It’s a beautiful day, let’s go to the beach,” the Doctor declared, boldly slipping his hand under the hem of her negligee to settle firmly on her bumcheek. “Sand, sun. Whatever.” He squeezed, making her yelp out a laugh.

“Bit cheeky there, aren’t you?”

“Dunno, seems to me like you’re all cheek.” His other arm wriggled its way between her and the mattress to cup the other side of her bum and pull her towards him.

Rose moaned, kissing him deeply as his hands wandered over the curves. “Maybe you should spank me.”

She froze when he did, pulling back slightly and opening his eyes. “Is that… something you like?”

Eyes widening slightly, she studied his deer in the headlights expression. “Not historically,” she considered, “but then again, they didn’t ask, just did it. Maybe it’s something we could explore? At some point?”

“Anything you want.” He was still frowning, and she sighed, leaning forward to kiss him again.

“Stop thinking about the past,” she whispered.

The Doctor’s face smoothed out. “I’m thinking about what sort of bathing suit you’re going to wear today.”

“Got a request?”

He hesitated, and Rose perked up in interest. She could see something percolating in the back of his mind, and hoped he felt comfortable enough to share it. “Actually…”

“Yeah?”

“Maybe scarlet? And/or orange?”

“Okay.” Surprised, she tried not to show it. “Can I ask why?”

The Doctor licked his lips. “Does it matter?”

“No.” Rose rested one hand on his chest, over his heart. “You don’t have to tell me. But if you ever want to…”

He nodded, darting forward to kiss her. “Another time. For now, though, tea, breakfast, then beach!” Gently pulling his arm free he jumped from the bed, peering out the window. “Not a cloud in the sky! Shake a leg!”

Rose climbed out of bed, taking a sip of her tea and stretching before accusing, “You just want to see me in a bikini.”

“Less, ideally.” He grinned, unrepentant. “Allons-y!”

It took them an hour to get ready but once they were down on the shore, she had to admit it was the perfect day.

“Water?” Having already removed his shoes and shirt the Doctor was bouncing on his toes, raring to go.

Rose smiled, rolling her eyes at the oversized five-year-old. “Yeah, all right.” Kicking off her own sandals, she pulled off her cover-up before hesitating. A glance around showed no one in sight, and biting her lip, she deliberately untied her top and put it in her bag with her other things. “Okay.” He glanced at her, doing a double take, and she shrugged innocently. “What? I don’t want tan lines.”

“Come on.” He offered her his hand, and they ran into the water together shrieking.

They played together for more than an hour, swimming and splashing before the Doctor wrapped his arms around her waist, holding her tightly to him. “There’s snorkeling gear in the bag – d’you want to have a go?”

“I’ve never snorkeled before,” she pointed out. “But if you’re willing to teach me, I’ll try.”

“See, that’s why we’re such a good team,” he beamed down at her. “When one’s unfamiliar with something, the other takes the time to teach them so we can enjoy it together.” His meaning was abundantly clear even before he tweaked her nipple.

“You saying you want me to teach you about sex?” Rose shot back, unsurprised when he nodded. “Well, let’s see how snorkeling goes, yeah?” He scrambled out of the water, grabbing the supplies before hightailing it back to her as she laughed. “Eager, are we?”

He scanned her figure, eyes lingering as expected on her chest. For someone who claimed to be unpredictable, his tastes certainly weren’t. “Something like that.”

She shook her head, holding a hand out. “Let’s get started.”

It wasn’t easy, breathing underwater through a tube wasn’t quite instinctive, though she did feel better when the Doctor struggled as well.

“Sorry,” he said, as they headed up the beach to their things, “I didn’t know it was so hard. In all honesty, I’ve never done it before.”

“Why would you, with a respiratory bypass?” she let him off the hook, smiling reassuringly. “It’s all right. I’m glad we tried it, but let’s stick to just the masks.”

The Doctor stopped walking, grabbing her arm and pulling her towards him so he could kiss her. “I love you,” he muttered against her mouth. “So much.”

“I love you too.” She kissed him back, rising onto the balls of her feet to wrap her arms around him. Soft sand between her toes, warm sun on her skin, and they were pressed tightly against each other with nary a stitch between them from the waist up. “Want to go snog on the beach?”

“Um, yes!”

They made dinner together, steaks on the grill and a nice tossed salad. Rose carried the wine out to the table, pouring two glassfuls as the Doctor served the food.

She took one bite of the steak and moaned. “Bloody ‘ell, Doctor, this is absolutely brill- what’s wrong?”

He had stopped dead, staring off unseeingly behind her. His fork halfway to his mouth, he barely appeared to be breathing. A quick glance over her shoulder showed nothing out of the ordinary, and biting her lip, she gently reached for him.

“Doctor?”

He came alive all at once, shaking his head and taking his bite. “Sorry.”

“Where’d you go?” Rose was careful to keep her voice light, open and inquisitive without being interrogating. Since arriving in this universe he’d been pretty good about sharing things, but not everything. He was like a puppy or toddler - if you gave chase he’d head for the hills, but give him a little space and he’d come to her sooner or later. Usually sooner.

“I was just… the little garden back there… what was the name of the station?”

“What station?”

“The train- where we got the car.”

“Oh! Perpignan.”

“Perpignan,” he repeated. “Okay.” And he stuck a large forkful of lettuce in his mouth, making a show of chewing.

Rose waited until he was done. “D’you want to talk about it?”

The Doctor stared down at his salad as he stabbed at it. She kept eating, trying to keep the pressure off. If she pushed too hard he tended to shut down, but if she let it be, more often than not he’d share.

They were halfway through the meal when he spoke quietly. “The garden reminded me… I used to travel with a girl named Peri. She was a botany student from the States.”

“Ah. Were you- was she with you long?”

He snorted. “Too long, I’m sure she’d say. She met me right before a regeneration, and while the first was fine the second… it didn’t start well. That body was… a bit on the abrasive side. She didn’t like that me very much.”

“What happened? To her, I mean.”

The Doctor shrugged, leaning back with a sigh. “She died, but she didn’t. I think there’s still multiple versions of her running around. Just thinking about it gives me a headache. Various versions of her traveled with me. But they also didn’t. Some married this warrior king we met on our last proper adventure in various ways. The Time Lords… politics is politics, and she was used as a pawn by a number of factions. It’s complicated, suffice to say.”

“Oh.” Rose searched for a suitable reply but came up empty. “I’m sorry.”

“Thanks.” He started eating again, as she wrinkled her nose.

“Wait, sorry, what does that have to do with the train station?”

The Doctor began laughing, leaning back as he guffawed, making her raise an eyebrow at the uncharacteristic action.

“Doctor?”

“Her name,” he snorted, shaking his head and taking a sip from his wine.

“Peri?”

“Short for Perpugilliam.”

“You’re kidding me.” Rose’s draw dropped. “Seriously? That was her name?”

“She was born in the 60s.” He shrugged, grinning at her flabbergasted expression. “She pretty much always went by Peri, but, yeah – Perpugilliam.”

“Poor girl,” Rose muttered, staring out at the horizon as she considered it. She hadn’t always been fond of her own name – especially not when they were studying Romeo and Juliet in school – but now, she was thankful her parents had gone for something simple. And easy to spell.

“If you think that’s bad…” the Doctor teased, drawing her attention.

“Yeah? Come on, out with it! It is your name? Bet it’s even worse,” she shot back, straightening with anticipation.

He just smirked, shaking his head. “My name’s the Doctor, Rose, I thought we’d long since covered this. No, I was thinking of another Time Lord- well, Time Lady, in this case.”

“Yeah?”

The Doctor hesitated, watching as she bounced with anticipation. “My friend Romana?”

“From Paris?” Rose remembered vaguely from their conversation on the train.

“Yep. Romanadvoratrelundar.”

“Gesundheit.”

“Danke schön.”

“You’re killing me here,” Rose giggled. “Can you say it again?”

“Which one? Perpugilliam? Or Romanadvoratrelundar?”

“Wow.” She just shook her head, draining her glass before popping the last bite of steak into her mouth. “Just… wow.”

“See? Nothing wrong with nicknames,” he smirked, pouring her more wine. “Look at your own mum – who ever calls her ‘Jacqueline’?”

“Fair point.” Rose settled back in her seat as he dove into his likely now-cold meal with relish, cradling her wine glass to her chest. “So, have a number of your friends run off with alien men, then?”

He tilted his head in consideration, chewing thoughtfully. “A handful. Well, not all were alien men, but still. Erm- one, Jo, she was my assistant when I was at UNIT, the one before Sarah. She met a professor who wanted to go off and protest… something, and save the world, and she wanted to go with him. Within a few days, they were engaged.”

“Now, that’s a fast relationship,” Rose commented with a grin. “What happened to them?”

“Oh, a lifetime of environmental and political activism. Seven children, twelve grandchildren at last count. I popped by once in a while to check on her, but I never- she never saw me.”

She hummed in reply. “Anyone else?”

“My granddaughter.”

She froze, barely breathing as she took in his statement. He’d mentioned, casually, not long before they’d been separated that he’d been a father, not that she’d been able to get him to expand on that. But a grandfather? “Oh?”

The Doctor pushed back abruptly from the table, coming around to offer her his hand. She took it automatically, and he led her over to the couch where they curled up together. Rose allowed it, but didn’t miss that he’d positioned them so she couldn’t see his face.

“Yes. We were on Earth, 22nd century, and… she met a boy.”

“And she left?” His arms tightened around her, and she had a feeling of foreboding. “Doctor?”

“I left her,” he whispered into her hair, and her heart stopped. “I knew she’d never leave me, so I left her. Locked her out and took off, as she pounded on the door.”

Now, I've just got to go and power up the Game Station. Hold on! One of her last clear memories on the GameStation came to mind, how he’d tricked her. Sure, she’d been stuck inside the ship, but she’d pounded on the door, begged him not to. Because of Bad Wolf blocking most of those memories that was her last clear image of that Doctor before he regenerated, his quick smile and gung ho attitude, filling her with confidence and hope. False hope.

She didn’t know if it made her feel better or worse to know he’d treated his own flesh and blood, his granddaughter, just the same. It also explained quite a bit – like why he was always so certain she’d meet someone and run off, leaving him behind. Or why he never fought harder for her to stay. Why he pushed her away.

“Do you know-”

“They got married.” He shrugged, the movement shifting her against his chest. “I know they raised children, though I don’t know if they were biological – she probably wouldn’t have been capable of that. Gallifreyans were long since sterile.”

Rose’s spine stiffened, her mother’s babbling about grandchildren echoing through her mind. “What about us?”

“What about us?”

“Would we be able to-”

“Have children?” he finished, sounding surprised. “No idea- hadn’t thought about it. Is that… something you’ve thought about?”

“Thought about? Of course. I don’t know what I want, necessarily, but I’ve thought about it.” She’d dreamed about it, been unable not to imagine herself in that situation as she watched her mum’s pregnancy then Tony growing up. How he might dote on a tiny daughter, giving a pretend tea party his all. How he would show a toddler son how rain and dirt made mud, and what fun it was to make Jackie and Rose yell.

“Oh.”

Rose bit her lip, shifting on his lap to be able to see him. “Mum, however, has been buying me baby name books since you got here.”

He blanched, arms squeezing her. “I’m open to the conversation – later. Much later. That’s as much as I can promise.”

“Oh, is that it?” The moment felt too heavy, too real, and Rose sought to diffuse it, grinning cheekily.

“Yes?”

“Well, ‘s just- I thought you were interested in practicin’, is all.”

“Practicing?”

Rose shifted on his lap so she was straddling him, letting him see her smile as she wrapped her arms around his neck, forcing images of tiny newborns cradled in his long arms out of her mind. “Practice makin’ the babies.”

After a moment his expression lightened, and he snickered. “Well, you know me – be ready for anything.”

Combing her fingers through the hair at the nape of his neck, Rose let her smile fade. “I won’t ask, if you don’t want me to, but- I hope you know you can talk about it, with me. Any of it. Past companions, your family, Gallifrey… I love you, and I’m interested, but I know it’s a sensitive subject so I won’t push. Just know that I’m here.”

He grew serious as well, nodding slowly. “No promises, but- thanks.”

Rose held his gaze for a long moment, willing him to see her sincerity, before she changed the subject. “Now- let’s go dive into that chocolate cake we bought, yeah?” She climbed off his lap, offering him a grin with her hand, and he reciprocated both.

“Oh, I know better than to stand between a Tyler and her chocolate!”

#bbatcfic #doctorroseprompts #ficandchips #Doctor Who #TenTooxRose #TenToo #Rose Tyler #prompted #Barcelona is for Lovers #oohlala

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in-the-bookish-dark · 4 years

Text

Light of Day - Chapter 1 - RL

The morning was wet. It wasn't humid or muggy. Just plain wet. Everything was wet. The rains had swept through town the night before at ten and two, but since then, no water had fallen. It just hung heavy in the air and gave every surface in the house a misting of earth sweat.

Miles padded through the house. Derek, transient houseguest, was gone. Windows were open. Kids were down the street, already squealing. They always played tag between the cars on either side of the block. In the mornings, it was okay. Then, when things got busy, lunchtime or after, they'd find a back yard to congregate in. Fun was fun, but getting run over was not. Ten or twelve years ago, he'd have been out there with them. Right now, he'd give his right hand, or part of it, to be out there playing in the new day. New day or old day, just a different fucking day.

He went through the motions with the coffee. Muscle memory, they called it. He sat at the dinette and shook out a cigarette as the percolator started to rumble. At the first drag, he wanted a shot of Jack, but he'd start with coffee.

When he came in the day before, the letter was buried between two magazines and grocery store flyers in the mailbox. He'd done the physical a month ago. Clean bill. Son of a bitch. He didn't have to read this letter to know what it said. He did anyway. He needed to know his drop-dead date.

He mentioned it over dinner - Chelsea had come over and made spaghetti. He drank most of the Riunite and two beers. It was right at the end of the second beer. They cleaned the table. She had questions and a deer in the headlights look. He said he was tired. Then he ushered her out by picking a small fight and poking and prodding until the room and the house were too small for more than him. They'd talked about her moving in, but they still both liked to have some space. He sat on his front porch and smoked two joints and drank the rest of the sixer. He didn't care who smelled the bud that night.

Maybe he'd call her this morning, after he had some cleansing coffee. Maybe he's walk 'round to her place. When he poured his coffee, he went ahead and poured a shot. Why wait? He threw it back and poured another. Why wait? Time's burning. The Jack burned going down and he liked it. He needed something burning inside at that moment. Everything was burning, and he wanted to feel it inside like he felt it outside.

They did the draft lottery in December. His number came up in the first half hour. His birthday was July 9th, so his number was 1. Couldn't be much more in the crosshairs than that. Can't even pretend to hope. It burned going through his mind. He didn't hear anything after the number showed on the tv, just helicopters. Waves - no, fleets - of helicopters, slicing through the humidity of Vietnam. What felt like their rotors pounding the air, though was his heart trying to escape his chest. Chels was with him that night. She asked what was wrong. He took a while before he said "Nothing." It was a big nothing growing in the pit of his stomach. He remembered Polyphemus and Odysseus. "Who is killing you, Polyphemus?" "Nobody. Nobody is killing me." Then shut the fuck up, they probably said. He did soon enough, and then he was silent for all ages.

Odysseus pretended to be mad in order to get out of war. It didn't work. They put a baby - his son - in front of the plow, in front of the plow he was turning the field with, dressed as a woman. If he was really mad, which they knew he wasn't, he'd have plowed on through Telemachus, on through his legacy. He stopped, though, then accepted his fate and went off to death and Troy.

Dressing as a woman, (was Odysseus actually the world's first cross-dresser?), wasn't going to get him anywhere. It had been done. Done to death. Canada? It was 1000 miles up the Mississippi and then some. A hell of a trek to a place where he knew nobody. Did he know anyone in the movement ... surely someone ... but nobody came to mind. He sympathized - sympathized like crazy, but music kept him busy. Maybe Kyle or Kenny knew someone. Practice was at two and their gig at nine. Maybe they knew someone. He'd see. And maybe he'd ask someone. It seemed right but maybe it was someone else, like Achilles or someone. But that was back in Dec., even before the order for physicals came in.

His coffee cooled when he stared toward the window. Not at the window or out of it, just roughly that general direction. He padded back into the living room and grabbed some vinyl. "In a Silent Way" by his namesake. He sprayed and wiped and blew little flecks of lint off the disk before cueing it up. Mademoiselle Mabry started up as he sat down.

There was a smear of vinyl cleaner on his fingertip and he flicked it off before reaching for another cigarette.

He looked and rubbed the tip, spreading the little bit of moisture that was left. His finger. His cousin Greg had found his own answer. Two weeks before he was supposed to do his physical, he managed to get his index and middle finger yanked off at the second knuckle at the [steel mill.] He was always careful, except the one time when he wasn't. Without both fingers, there was a lot he couldn't do, including things like filling out forms, firing machine guns, throwing grenades, and whatever else fit the job description of a grunt in 'Nam.

He rubbed slowly around the finger tip, imagining its absence. There he was at Cafe du Monde, dipping his beignets left-handed. Or he was claw-lifting them with his right. Pool. He could still handle his stick with those fingers gone. Grip the stick tighter. Maybe that angle would even be better. It could start a trend. Everyone would start lifting their fingers off the stick just so they could play like him. Albums. Could he get them out of the sleeve with "the claw?" Could he cup Chel's face with his hands the way she likes with the claw? Down at the rec center, could he play pickup b-ball with the claw? Where would his control go? Two fingers isn't a lot when it comes to a basketball. Four fingers weren't that much to start with. But he'd be playing ball at home, and not on some muddy clearing outside Saigon or wherever the hell they would send him. No b-ball deep in the jungle where Charlie is waiting around to shoot it - and you - out of the air in the middle of your jump shot. Two finger b-ball is always better than dead.

He picked up the spoon for his coffee. Rolled it finger-to-finger with his left hand. Dropped it six times. Didn't even try it with his right. Couldn't imagine how. So maybe he's stop putting cream in his fucking coffee. If I can take a finger or two off, I can drink my damn coffee black. He went back to staring toward the window. He drummed those two fingers on the table. Might be his last chance, better take it.

Maybe two other fingers. Left hand? Nah. He'd be double screwed. Lamed up and still in 'Nam. What do they care about your left hand if you're a rightie? Ring and pinkie? Still useless.

He called his mom, then he called his dad. They both didn't know what to say. Literally. "I don't know what to say, it's ..." his mom said. "I don't know what you want me to say ..." came from his father.

After he finished the calls, he sat on the couch. Then he laid on the couch. Then he methodically spooled his phone cord in one hand, until it was snug between wall and phone. He tugged both ends, then he yanked the cord from the biscuit jack on the wall in one clean jerk. His elbow nudged the casement window open and he flung the phone out into the yard, as far as he could.

At La Casa, forty-five minutes later, he was already on his third boilermaker. Maybe he should pace himself. Maybe he didn't care because in less than three weeks, he was going downtown to the induction center. He got another shot. Still working on the second beer, but then he was already ahead of the game. Whatever the game was. A shadow came in through the Decatur side door, and walked up behind him.

"Hey, Miles, what's the haps?" It had to be Carl, from the old band. The rasp and Irish Channel accent was unmistakable. He and Chelsea grew up together.

"Hey, Carl, where y'at?"

"So?"

He shrugged. 'So ' what??

"Talked to Chelsea."

"Jesus. And?"

"What's goin' on, man?"

"I got mail yesterday."

"From?"

"Uncle Sam."

"Shit, man."

"Yeah. Order to report."

"When?"

"The 23rd."

"Whatcha gonna do?"

"Exactly."

"No, I mean, really, what are you gonna do?"

"Man, I don't fucking know."

Neither of them said anything.

Carl glanced at the setup. He flagged the bartender and waved two fingers at their glasses and bottles.

"Thanks, man."

"Hey, least I can do."

"So, what's going on with Chelsea?"

"Nothing, man, I just wasn't in a mood. If we started on it as soon as I got the letter, she'd freak, and then we'd go around and around, and I just wasn't going to deal with it then. I don't have an answer; how the fuck am I supposed to give her an answer."

"Answer about what?"

"About ... how I felt, what I was going to do, what about us, shit like that. I wasn't thinking. I was just falling down this long, dark hole, man. I don't think I've still hit bottom. When I was first on the draw, I knew my number was up - literally. Then I got the physical exam letter a month ago, and I knew they didn't find shit that was going to save me. I'm not an athlete, but I'm healthy."

'Well, listen, guy, Amy has a connection to Canada ~'

'Canada.' Heavy. Not interested. Dropping it on the floor.

'Hang on, buddy.'

Carl walked off. Miles sat there, rocking his empty shot glass back and forth. After a while or two or three, Carl came back.

'Uppers, man.'

'What?'

'Take a bunch of uppers the day before your physical, and then one the day of, and your blood pressure will be off the charts. They won't take you for that. Maria ~' he shrugged back where he'd come from ' ~ she can hook you up good, compadre.'

Miles flicked the shot glass. It slid across the bar and hung over the edge before dropping. There was no crash, so it must've landed on something. 'Goddamit, Carl, I already took the fucking physical. How the hell does that help me?'

'Oh yeah, shit, man. I'm sorry. Little high. Good fucking buzz, actually. I forgot.'

Miles tried to rub away the tension in his skull, but it wasn't going anywhere.

'Anyway, man ' hey, let's get together before you have to go in. Get totally wasted and strung out. My tab. Least I can do.' Carl slapped his shoulder, then wandered. Somewhere. Miles didn't see.

He finished his drink. He finished the drink Carl left behind. He waved for another shot and threw it back, then paid out.

Chelsea was waiting on the front step when he got to the house. She had a beer beside her, sweating on the concrete, and her cigarettes, untouched, as well.

He sat back to back with her. "Hey."

"Yeah?"

"We can talk. I just couldn't do it then."

She picked at a single thread sticking up from the knee of her jeans. "Yeah, well ..."

"I'm sorry."

She nodded. He put out his hand and she took it. She reached across her body for her beer and took a long draw.

"Want to go inside?"

He wanted one of her cigarettes. He reached, but then stopped. "Yeah, hey - how about I cook tonight?"

"In a bit."

She walked him into the shotgun house; walked him straight back to the bedroom. She held him and he held her. They didn't manage sex. The alcohol and the draft board saw to that. They did have spaghetti again, his way, with wine in the sauce and big chunks of meat. Almost meatballs, but smaller and ragged, and no breading or seasoning.

She got up in the middle of the night and found him by himself in the living room. He was passed out, a dry bottle of vodka next to him. His index and middle fingers were folded down and taped together. Layers and layers of masking tape. She turned off the snowy tv and threw her grandma's quilt over him and went back to the bedroom.

When she got up the next morning, long after dawn, he'd been up for a while. A corner of the quilt was soaking in the sink. He was at the dinette. "I, uh, threw up a little. Cleaned it up, but some got on it. I'll hang it out in a bit."

She nodded and took a cigarette from the pack on the table. His were stronger and they burned, but she didn't care just then. She took his mug of coffee and pointed him to the cabinets. The steam told her it was fresh.

He poured a new one for himself and sat across from her. She remembered and looked at his hand. No tape, but some redness from where it was yanked off.

"What were you doing with the tape?"

"Nothing. I was just drunk and wanted to see what it would be like."

"Kinda odd."

He shrugged. "Drunk guys do odd fucking things, Chels."

"What do you th~"

"I don't fucking know." He stood and walked to the sink. "Honestly, Chels - I don't know. I'm not trying to be an asshole. I don't know what to say yet, don't know what to do."

She blew out smoke and fiddled with the lighter. "I'll finish up the quilt."

"Nah, I got it, babe. Hey, let's get dressed and go down to the park. We'll grab po-boys and watch the kids on the flying horses."

She nodded. He squeezed the excess water out of the quilt corner, then smoothed it. The screen door banged behind him, taking it out to the line.

They got out there on the streetcar just as the lunch wagon rolled in. Miles went over to get the po-boys. Chelsea found a Magnolia with a grassy patch underneath. The breeze was soft but refreshing. They couldn't see the carousel from there, but they could hear it when the wind shifted. It was the most relaxing thing they'd done in days. She gathered their sandwich trash. He reached into the bag for two Hubig's pies. Cherry and lemon. She took lemon. He finished the cherry in half the time she spent on hers, but it was all good.

By the flying horses, there was a Coke machine. Coke for him and Tab for her. He folded up the pull tabs and stuck them in the coin pocket of his jeans til they found a trash can. They leaned on the rail around the carousel and watched the squealing kids. Their cans sweated and dripped down. A little cluster of droplets formed under hers. His drips were all over the place.

It really was the best afternoon. They had laughing kids in front of them, surrounded by wide greens, greens without snipers or tripwires or landmines or flamethrowers, and somehow, he managed not to think of them. Southeast Asia was somewhere on the far side of Mars.

There was a bench nearby, close, but not right on the main paths. She kissed him and he kissed back. Her hand rested on his thigh; he glanced around, then slid one hand up her shirt to her bra-less tit. His hand was still cold from the Coke can. She jumped, but didn't complain.

Back at the house, they again went straight back to the bedroom. Windows were open, but windows didn't matter. She laid him back and straddled him, riding him face-to-face. His wood was weak, but it firmed up inside her. She rocked until his hardness filled her, then leaned down and let him thrust. She had little bruises on her thighs the next morning, but it didn't matter. They rode together, and her tits dragged back and forth over his chest. She panicked a little when he came - they hadn't stopped for a rubber - but she was too close herself to think too hard. She douched after, though, as he laid, catching his breath. Don't take too much of a risk. Nine months on, he was going to be in the jungles or worse. They hadn't talked marriage before, and she wasn't going to talk it now. She also wasn't going to be a single mother. If the douche didn't take care of things, there were other ways.

They skipped dinner and had popcorn and beer in bed. The little tv set wavered and wobbled, but they saw most of the Saturday night line-up.

Around 2am, storms woke them. He rolled her over, again without preamble, and glided deep into her. She was wet from his cum and wet from the douche. Lightning snapped around them. Thunder shook the windows. Winds slapped the blinds back and forth. All the rage outside was inside, too. This was a fuck. His cock pounded in; her ankles met behind his ass. He reached a hand behind her neck and pulled her up to him. Every thrust, he grunted; every thrust, she gasped. The angle worked for her, and she came and came. Hard orgasms from far inside, like they'd been waiting for a dark summoning. They liked it a little rough sometimes, and they'd cum with fireworks and cannons. She came hard like that. Angry orgasms. She fucked back against him as hard as he fucked down into her. She would hold him there and fight to keep him home inside of her. He fucked like he never planned to leave, or planned never to leave. She couldn't cum anymore. She just shuddered around and under him. She keened and clutched and scratched. Her nails sank in and Miles himself went over the edge. The last thrust, he didn't want to stop there. He wanted his whole fucking body inside her cunt, swallowed up by her. He squirmed, like that would help, but in twenty seconds, it was all over. His cock was still hard, but it was the only muscle with any strength. He sagged down on her, and they both wept, then faded out.

He woke and he was face down, naked, and alone. His cock was slimy and sticky, but alone. She was in the bathroom, running water for minutes on end, then going into the kitchen. She came back and shut the door again. The water came back on. He drifted in and out, but noticed when the water cut off again. The light under the door flickered like she was walking back and forth. He drifted in and out more. By the time he got his head around checking on her, she snapped the light off and came out. Chels sat on the bed and ran her fingers through his damp hair, then walked out. His first thought was she was walking home at 4am. He was about to roust himself to stop her. He heard the chain on the door and the couch creak, and knew she wasn't going anywhere.

In the morning, he made coffee. He poured mugs for both and set hers on the coffee table. Close enough to reach from the couch, but not so close she'd knock it over. He drank his on the way to the corner for a paper.

He got the paper and kept walking, wondering about the night. He'd cum in her twice without protection. Did it mean something more than convenience? Chels was good about keeping condoms on hand for them. His place, her place, her purse, just in case. Didn't even bother last night. She was always in charge of protection, the condom cop. Just was. Except last night. He didn't know what it meant. Something? Nothing?

When he came in, the couch was empty. She called from the kitchen "Hey!"

He went in and she was scrubbing down the countertop. The stove shined as much as that old shitpile would shine. This confused him more. Was she nesting or working off tension?

"Hey, Chels."

"... hey."

This was fucking reading tea leaf time. She only half-glanced at him.

He walked up behind her. His hand landed on her shoulder. She kept scrubbing. Not scrubbing harder. Not scrubbing any less. Not leaning back, and not trying to escape. Just not engaging. He stepped back and she slowed. Two strands of hair had escaped her cleaning scarf, and she brushed them back.

"I've been thinking ... Miles ..."

"Yeah, Chels?"

" ... I don't know."

"About?"

" ... I don't even know that."

He touched her one more time on the shoulder. Light touch. Lighter even than before, and just for a second. He walked toward the dinette, then changed his mind. He yanked hard on the paper towel roll and eight or ten spooled off. He ran them under the tap and smeared the water around the front of the fridge, avoiding anything that was taped or clipped to it. The wad of paper dripped water down the fridge to the floor.

She glanced over. "Goddammit, Miles ..."

He froze. Yeah. He couldn't - or wouldn't - clean for shit. Bad time to remind her.

He stepped back and they stood stock still for a moment.

She slapped her rag down on the counter. "Here comes the shit storm" he thought. One Mississippi, two Mississippi, three Mississippi, four M~ ... and she hugged his side. She kissed his shoulder. She said, "It's okay, babe. I got this. You go do something." She pointed outside, so he went outside.

He sat on the stump of the old Magnolia that had snapped apart six years ago when Betsy blew through. He was surrounded by dandelions a foot high, and those nasty, milkweed kind of weeds even higher, so that's what he did. Probably snapped off more than he yanked out of the soft soil, but it was something, maybe.

He fucked around, making a mess, for about half an hour. After that, he got shame, and he got serious. Instead of throwing them around the yard, he stacked the weeds. Instead of yanking, he dug with the fingers he while he had, and pulled them by the root. Thirty more minutes and he was rolling a joint from the stash in the roof of the shed. At least he'd done something, though. He tapped on the kitchen window and she glanced over. Ten seconds later, they were sharing the joint. She was leaning in to him. They were pulling down the beers she'd brought out and taking their time on the doob. Their little time machine where everything stops. That Twilight Zone episode with the guy and the stop watch. They had their own.

Their eyelids got heavy. They rocked back and forth. He sang "Brown Eyed Girl" to her, or what he could remember. They went to the bedroom and rocked against each other. The condoms never left the drawer again, and the afternoon passed before either of them stirred.

He heated up leftover spaghetti in foil in the stove and she douched again. Twice. Salt and vinegar, until it burned. They sat on the stoop with paper plates and ate dried out spaghetti, with burn-brown ends, and watched kids ride by on their bikes in the twilight.

The next morning, he had to do something. He didn't know what, but he couldn't sit still. It could be the wrong thing, as long as it was something. Between 5 and when he got up at 6, he rolled in and out of dreams. Asians in black pajamas chasing him through the Garden District and into the Quarter. The Greek sailors at the Acropolis bought him glasses of Ouzo, then tried to shove him into a tiger trap with big, sharpened bamboo stakes. He took one through the thigh, but still managed to run down Dauphine to Bourbon, then around to the Old Absinthe House. They poured a schooner of green liquid and told him he'd be fine - and that he'd be better off without any of his fingers, and when he looked down, his right arm was a stump ending just below his wrist. He crossed the levee and jumped into the Mississippi. When he came up, he was surrounded by screaming GI's in rat cages half-under the water.

He flung himself out of bed; every inch of him, pooled in sweat. Chelsea didn't stir. He wanted to scream her awake, but what good would that do? He just needed someone to hear him. The phone was still fucked, and laying in the yard. He could go to [pirate place?]. They were always open to people they knew. A drink would help. Two, three drinks would help. Maybe. They were down to four joints, but he took one from the house stash and slipped out the front screen door. He left the front door barely latched, so she wouldn't hear.

Jerry pegged him as soon as he walked in. "What the fuck, man? Are you on acid?"

Miles explained the past three days, jittering as he did so. Jerry poured him a big glass of something brown. "On the house, dude."

Miles fired up and they passed the doob back and forth until it was too small even for a roach clip.

"What are my options, man?"

"You could fake going nuts, man, but there's a price. You could claim you were a fag, also a price. You could run off to Canada~"

"No. Ain't going anywhere." Funny, the option with the least price was the one he ruled out immediately. But there was a price. It was the fact that it didn't cost him anything. He might not want to fight or die, but he didn't want to run, either. He'd take the consequences, but the one consequence he couldn't take was nothing."

"Conscientious objector?" Jerry said it, then shook his head.

"Yeah. I'd still go. I just wouldn't get to shoot back. That's assuming I convinced them of my 'longstanding beliefs' of the past two days."

Jerry nodded. "You could kill somebody, man."

They held their breaths. The words filtered down out of the air. When they were on the floor, still and safe, they went on.

"I ever tell you about my cousin? Greg?"

"Pineda? Down at the garage?"

"One and only. He got his letter a year and a half ago." He held up a hand, two fingers folded down.

"Shit. So that's what happened to them ...?"

Miles nodded.

"I actually thought it was an accident."

"Maybe it was on purpose, maybe not. He had fucking great timing, though. Day after he got his letter to report for physicals, bam! He still had the stitches in when he reported. Doc didn't even want to look under his bandages. Checked a couple of boxes and told him to put his fucking pants back on and go home."

Jerry nodded. A moment later, Miles' glass was full again. He reached for his wallet. Jerry waved for him to put it away, eyes out the window, squinting at the sun that wasn't there yet. The next joint was Jerry's. Big fat blunt. Twice as big as the one Miles shared. By 8am, Miles was toasted. Jerry moved him to a booth and brought a bag of Fritos for him to munch on. Around 1, he walked home.

The day was as wasted as he was.

Next day, he had to have a plan. Getting fried was no plan. The clock was running, and in another seventeen days, his ass would be on its way to wherever the fuck they do basic, and then he'd be hopping through the jungle with a target on his head.

Chelsea was off at work by the time he woke up at 7. The bakery started at 4 and she would get in at 5, and run solid to 5 that afternoon. He was off til tomorrow, and had promised to clean up more shit in the yard. That's what she said. Banquet TV dinners on trays in the living room last night, which he fell asleep on. Salisbury steak and potatoes spilled all over the floor. "Can you at least do something with the yard tomorrow?" She went to bed. Around 2 he woke up enough to clean up his mess. He crashed on the couch.

The big Bradford pear in the back, past the magnolia stump, near the sagging back fence, needed trimming. The branches dragged toward the ground. When the wind blew, the pears skittered and thunked along the ground. Some were already falling off and rotting. Chelsea hated walking around back there. They had lawn chairs for sitting in the shade. "I might as well have to walk through a maze of dog crap, though." She hated it. They ended up sitting at the stump, in the sun, most of the time.

He dug the bow saw out of the shed. He stared at the tree, not sure where to start. Cut off the heavy parts at the end, the part with all the pears? That didn't seem right. Maybe the ones that were way overloaded. No, start back by the trunk, where the problem started. He cut of a couple of middle size branches, long, but not too heavy. That gave him confidence. Next, he went for a branch half way out on a bigger one. It had to have 50 pears of different sizes. He held the baby branch and started sawing. He was half way through when things twisted. There was a little crack-crack and the whole branch rolled forward. The saw blade was trapped. On the in-stroke, it jumped and grazed his thumb nail.

"Son of a bitch!" He threw the saw down and jumped back. The branch crackled more and sagged to the ground. It didn't break. Just hung. He checked his thumb. There was a long gash, and a little glow of pink, turning to red, showing through. He picked up the saw and banged on the branch, hammering until the back of the bow was dented.

"Son of a bitch. Son of a bitch. I coulda lost my thumb. Son of a bitch." Even as he said it, even as he was angry of the near miss, he was getting angry over the missed opportunity. A thumb was probably worth two fingers. He should have taped his goddamn thumb down the other night. What would that have been like? What the fuck can you do without a thumb? He picked the saw up again. He swung it at the trunk like a hatchet. It bent in two and the blade popped out of its anchors and warbled across the yard.

Then he sat down in the grass and stared at the thumbnail. His eyes swept the thumb from the nail down to the joint and back up, again and again. The saw was fucked, but ... maybe there was a way to salvage this without being obvious. Maybe if he ... fuck. Wrong goddamn fucking thumb. Shit. He almost lost a thumb and it would have been the wrong goddamn thumb. He was halfway through a plan to get it done anyway. It still would've been useless. He berated himself. "You cut off a thumb, you cut off the right one, fuckass. Not the left. The left won't get you off a fucking bowling team, much less off a plane to 'Nam." He picked up the saw blade and the bow.He flung them. They tumbled end over end as they swirled high in the air. Two, maybe three houses away, he heard the clang. Then a dog went crazy barking. Someone's mutt must've got the piss scared out of him. Good. Fuck him and fuck his owners.

He came in, washed the thumbnail in peroxide, then put on the smallest bandaid he could find. It barely covered the nail, though the edges easily overlapped across his thumbprint. On his way out, he thought about leaving a note for Chelsea, but he was in a mood for niceties for himself or for anyone else.

He took the streetcar back to the Quarter and drank all his cash away at La Casa. His buddy Ivan walked him back to the house at 2am. Chelsea had come and gone long ago. There was a plate of food in the sink, filled up with water. The peas and corn just floated in it. The meatloaf was soggy and gray by then, just a ring of oozed Ketchup . No note. No hello; no goodbye; no "kiss my ass."

It pissed him off. He hated it, but he knew he deserved it.

She didn't come by the next day and she didn't call. Not that she could, actually. The phone and its cord was still sprawled across the lawn on the side of the house. He laid on the couch most of the day, watching who knows what wobble across the screen. There was Dialing for Dollars, random soap operas, a couple of news breaks with updates from 'Nam. There were dozens of furniture store commercials. Some guy named Crazy Larry who windmilled his arms as he talked and talked and talked. He would've gotten his ass off the couch, but every time he seriously considered it, he decided he didn't give a tinker's fuck, so he settled back down, grabbed another warm beer out of the four six-packs in the crate on the floor, and relit the joint that kept going out on him. Shadows came and shadows ran off to the east, and then abandoned him completely.

The door was open, a breeze blowing through the screen. The only light in the house was the tv. Saying something. After the six o'clock news, [carol bernett] came on. He thought it was her, anyway. People ran around in dumb-ass costumes. Now and then the audience would laugh and applaud. Now and then he would, too, though he was only vaguely aware of why. A lot of it was probably no more than laughing because others were laughing. He muttered to nobody but himself, "Dumb-ass ... yeah, laugh because they're laughing. Why don't you get your ass on a fucking plane for Saigon just because everyone else is doing it? We'll see how fucking funny that turns out to be."

He closed his eyes and rolled that thought around in his head. Getting on a plane. Getting off in whatever fucking base everybody lands in when they get sent to Vietnam. Laughing and laughing about the horrible humor of it. Him. Vietnam. Wanting to survive. Not just his body, but who he is. Coming back intact. How funny it is that he's thinking about avoiding 'Nam by becoming not intact. Maybe he'd mail his fingers Vietnam. They'd be casualties. They'd belong there, right? He imagined. Getting a box. Packing it with excelsior. Maybe straw. Straw seemed more appropriate. They could throw the whole goddamn thing into a field and let a water buffalo eat it. Did he know anyone over there? Someone he could send them to? Someone who would do him a dark and disgusting favor? "Hey, man, is it okay if I send you two of my fingers? Nah, it's just because I want you to throw them out somewhere. Field, road, rice paddy, land mine, shove 'em up a VC ass for all I care. Yeah, that's pretty much it. Huh? Yeah, I cut them off so I wouldn't have to go, so it only seemed fair that they go anyway. Right. Ok, my man, have a good day and come back safe. Love to your wife, if she hasn't left you."

That would go great. Oh yeah. He played it a couple of times in his head. Two or three or ten or more. Maybe not the whole thing, but the bones. He savored it. Wanted it right. Do you say it pissed off or calm? Do you say it all twisted up, or safely from behind the mask? He mulled, wanting to come up with a version that didn't openly offend anyone, but would be clear.

He mulled, and when he opened his eyes, it was already morning. Had he really mulled for six or eight hours? From the light and shadows, it had to be easily 10am, which would mean that they whole night had passed as he moved each word, each thought, from one side to the others.

Chelsea came in at noon and he was still glazed, still red-eyed and in his own hash fog. She came in and touched his forehead. He stirred. Another hour or so, and he'd have sat up on the couch. He stayed down. She might be gone before he managed to prop himself up. She walked through the house. He could see into the kitchen, and a little way down the hall. She touched things. She ran her fingers across the back of her usual chair; she looked out of the window she could count on seeing a bird's nest from. Down the hall, she stopped and adjusted a picture of them riding the paddlewheel steamboat. She swayed for a bit, like she could hear the calliope calling them aboard. She walked on down to the bedroom. He heard the bed squeak. Minutes later, his eyes followed her up the hall. She disappeared in the other side of the kitchen, then came out again, and stood in the hall for a moment. She adjusted another picture. Tapped the frame three times. She glanced his direction. He thought his hand went up in a wave. He wasn't sure. It probably didn't, though. After glancing his way, she picked her purse off the kitchen counter and walked back out the front door.

Two hours later, he was focused enough to realize he was hungry. Thirty minutes later, he was sprawled over the kitchen table. He had three of four hot dogs to go. A mountain of ruffles spread across the tabletop. He scooped chips onto the hot dogs. He worked his way through them, barely propping himself up.

His pitcher full of iced tea was almost gone. No glass, just the pitcher. When everything on the table had been eaten or drunk, he leaned back. Restless. Now that he had energy and a slightly clearer head, he was restless.

He grabbed a hat from the table and headed back out to Finnegan's. It was a cave in there, dark and wooded, and the a/c was powerful enough to store beef. For locals, the dark and quiet were the biggest draws; for tourists, it was the cold.

Trish was tending bar. He liked Trish. She always had a smile for him. She had on a loose tie-died halter top and a big fake sunflower in her hair. She shimmied. That was one of his favorite things about her, even better than the smile. She looked over her wire rim, yellow lenses and said, "You look like shit."

She slid him a beer and he told her the whole story. He wasn't trying to stare at her cleavage, but his head wasn't doing much of anything else. It was heavy from four days of heavy drinking and smoking. And he liked the view.

"Y'know, you have to be square with her, if you really care. She just wants to know what's going on. She's not expecting you to be Johnny Hero. She just wants you to be you. That's what she signed up for."

He nodded and finished off his beer.

"Hey," she put her hand on his. It was warm, despite the icicles hanging off everything else. "Y'all should come hang out with me and my old man tonight. My sister will be there. Rap, smoke some. It'll be good."

He went by Chelsea's. He knocked and knocked, went from window to window. After ten minutes of no response, he saw her old lady neighbor out picking shit in her garden. 'Hey, Mrs., uhhh ~ have you seen Chels? I mean, Miss Jackson?' She wobbled up to one knee, grabbing air. Her cane had fallen over. He grabbed the cane and boosted her up. The dirt on her hand was warm and soft. The skin on her hand was cold and dry. She dusted her hands, swaying a little without any anchor. He thought about reaching over and taking her elbow or shoulder, but he was afraid. His hand was still cold from touching her. He imagined the cold spreading all the way down his arm to his chest. Worse, he considered the possibility that he'd accidentally touch her breast. He shuddered. Just the thought chilled him. 'Uh ''

Her eyes snapped to him. She took the cane and inspected it, as if he might have tampered with it. Only then did she put her weight on it. 'She's gone, cher. Didn't say where. I didn't ask, me.'

He looked back at Chelsea's house, like it had more clues. 'Did you notice anyone with her, ma'am?'

'They was ' hmm ' no, that was the other day.' She eyed him up and down. Her glasses slipped down her nose, following a drop of sweat that just hung at the tip. She smelled of Ben Gay and chewing tobacco. Maybe a little like his grandmother and her perfume, L'air du Temps. 'Might-a been you, young man. That other day, I mean. No, they wasn't anyone with her.' She patted his arm and wobbled away.

She stopped at her back door, hand on the screen door. 'Do you know anything about water bugs?' He shook his head. 'It's hot out here.' She shook her head and disappeared through the door. He picked up her basket, half full of something that looked like squash, and dropped it on her back door. She was right. It was hot out there. Hot out everywhere.

He went by Chelsea's mom's house. Barbara didn't even open the screen door. That was fine. He didn't need to go inside with her and her tits down around her knees. "She's not here. Ain't seen her since day before yesterday." He started to ask another question, but the words didn't make it through the screen before she shut the door. "Damn bitch stinks of rum.' He kicked the screen door. It rattled in its frame. It wasn't satisfying. What was the point in breaking something that was already broken?

She never liked him. She always compared him to Chelsea's last boyfriend who was a football player. Unfortunately, he was also a dirtbag who almost got her arrested by hiding three lids of pot in her purse. They'd been at some party in Algiers and the cops stopped them just this side of the Connection for speeding and not maintaining a lane. Fortunately, the cops got another call before they got a good whiff of the pot they'd already smoked at the party, or the fifth of whiskey on his breath. He laughed as they drove off, then fished the bag back out of her purse. The next morning, after she'd sobered up, she dumped him. Barbara didn't care, though. She was always talking about how Roger could have gotten an NFL contract with the right woman supporting him. Chelsea was supposed to be the right woman. More to the point, Barbara was supposed to be the right mother-in-law. That was her whole thing.

He stopped by Anna Marie's apartment. No dice there, either. At least Anna Marie liked him. sometimes, she even flirted just a bit, and just for fun, not with any intent to go further. But she hadn't seen her best friend in over a week. Hadn't talked to her since yesterday.

That was it. He knew she wasn't at work. The two people who always had an idea where she was, had no clue. He wasn't going to try to track her down house-to-house among half a million people.

He stopped at a random place in the Irish channel and had two beers, killing time until he was about ready to go to Trish's place. He checked the piece of paper he had scribbled the address on.

When he got there, a double shotgun out along Magazine, there must've already been about a hundred people there. That was good. He wanted a party. He wanted to get outside of his head for a while, but he also wanted to get lost. He worked his way past the two flimsy grills in the front yard. They were loaded down with enough hot dogs and burgers, they should have collapsed. The beer had to be in the back yard. He brushed past Trish's old man, but the dude didn't recognize him. The guy's eyes were red and watery. Miles was a little surprised the man was even standing. He made his way down a little sidewalk, between groups of couples who were making out against the fence. There wasn't any fucking ' yet ' but there were lots of hands already in clothes. At one of these parties, by the end of the night, you were either totally wasted, or if you were lucky, you were fucked and wasted.

That made him a little annoyed that Chelsea wasn't there, but he got over it quick. No point in bitching and moaning about something you can't change. He was almost to the back side of the house when some crazy bitch with a hurricane glass spun around hard. She and her girlfriend were dancing to 'Bang a Gong.' There was a lot of slow swaying, but they were already on round heels. He couldn't tell how much was them and how much was the shoes. Either way, her hurricane came out of her hands and bounced off his chest. He now had a very wet and sticky chest and whole right sleeve. 'Oh, goddamn, man. Wheredju come from? I soooooo sorry!' She mopped with the hem of her dress, lifted up over her waist, until he grabbed her hands to stop her.

Her, he didn't know. The woman with her, though, was Trish. 'Hey, luv.' She dragged it out, letting it float on the wind. She was higher than a kite. The wind was about the only thing carrying her or her words anywhere. She tucked herself under his right arm. Her elbow length, loose hair immediately stuck to his shirt. That was a hell of a sticky hurricane. Probably not a mix, but then what New Orleans native would use a mix?

Trish grabbed his sticky hand and took him back. The other woman bobbed along behind in their wake. When they turned to stop at the back stoop, the woman kept going, through the waves of people. Probably got stuck against the back fence, walking, walking, walking until she passed out. Trish reached between her wobbly tits and pulled out a decent-sized doob. She looked around for someone she didn't recognize, someone who looked like a narc. She must not have seen anyone.

They passed it back and forth for a while, let two others take a hit, and pretty soon it was gone. He was pretty gone, too. Good weed. Better than he could usually afford. One minute he was in the clear, then as the smoke cloud encircled them, he was drifting in a fog. That woman had come back. She was yapping at Trish about their dog. How big he was, and how fast he could eat her little chihuahua. To be fair, Trish listened for longer then he could pay attention. Out of the blue, though, she put her hand on the woman's lips. "Shhhhh... sh-sh-sh-sh." She wobbled a little and her hand dropped. That crazy bitch just picked up where she was. Whatever she was saying. Trish took her face in both hands and said, "Shut the fuck up, Marissa. If you don't shut up, Miles here is going to take you inside and fuck your brains out. Seriously."

Marissa's eyes floated over to Miles'. Bobbed some. She was wasted. She tried to smile, but her face just hung there. Maybe it was supposed to be a bluff, because all of a sudden her face got serious. She had enough muscle control for that, evidently. She shook her head side to side, and nearly toppled over on one swing. She slid down the rail and landed hard on the stair.

Trish smirked at him. "All it took was making her take a breath, and she blew herself over."

She leaned in. "Hey, what I said there ..." He thought she was going to apologized. He was wrong. "Clearly, Marissa isn't up for it, but ..." She slid her hand down to his waist and hooked her fingers under his belt, an arrow straight toward his dick. "I'm not doing anything right now." Her lips reached up and drew his down. They were good lips. Soft and moist, and she knew how to use them. Miles immediately started getting hard. The moment his dick realized how good her lips were, it was talking loud to him, begging to let her use them on him.

She stood slowly. His lips followed, and the rest of the body with them. When she turned and latched her hand around his belt buckle, he gave no resistance. Up the steps and straight through the kitchen into her bedroom. Their bedroom. She spun him backward and he flopped on the bed, right between a pile of laundry and a damp beach towel. She poured herself on top of Miles' torso. He could feel the heat and moisture of her pussy grinding into his thigh. She was driving - grinding herself against his thigh, Frenching him, with a fist full of his hair. With her other hand, she was undoing his belt. She unzipped and fished his cock out, pumping it right from the start. Definitely better than Chelsea - better with her hand, better with her mouth, and over the top with passion. He convinced himself easily. Clearly, wasn't at fault. How was he supposed to resist someone better than Chels on every level? he scooped one hand into her top. Her tits were the perfect size. Her nipple was already erect, poking itself into his palm. She moaned when he squeezed, so he squeezed harder. He kneaded her tit and thrust his tongue almost to her throat. He took a fist full of her hair with his other hand, tightened and twisted. She moaned louder and clamped her legs around his thigh. When she shuddered, he tightened his fist in her hair. She shuddered again in a way that announced loudly that she was coming. Little hip thrusts that tapped out on his thigh said she was losing control for a moment. She just laid there, panting for a moment. She'd stopped stroking him while she came. She picked up stroking and slid herself down Miles' body. Again, something she must have done thousands of times until she had the move down perfectly.

She slid down and with no adjustments to her glide path, took his dick into her mouth. Definitely well-practiced. He held her hair as she bobbed up and down. She made slurpy sounds and yummy sounds, and stroked the exposed part of his cock with her hand. Every now and then, she'd look right up into his eyes. When she did, she would flutter her tongue on the underside. He'd read about that somewhere, but couldn't remember where. Playboy, some paperback ... didn't remember. He said "I'm gonna cum" and she didn't even slow down. More than that, she moved her hand away and tried again and again to take him all the way. She would gag and then pop back up, then try again. The very last stroke, the head popped into her throat, and that's all it took. Boom. He went off like a fire hose. He must have pumped ten shots right into her throat. She bobbed up after the first two, then forced herself back down for the rest. He didn't have to do anything. He couldn't remember ever cumming that much or that hard with Chels. Granted, he wasn't exactly in the habit of taking notes while he fucked. She licked him clean after he finished, fished two pubes off her tongue and cheek, then slid back up and under his right arm. They laid there. She played with his chest hair. He squeezed her tit and rolled her nipple between thumb and finger.

"Jesus fuck, Ch~Trish ... Marcus is a very lucky son of a bitch."

She laughed, "Miles, I haven't been with Marcus in ... what, four months, I think. My old man's name is Reince."

"Rench?"

"Reince. Like ... rents."

"Ok, he's the lucky bastard then. Where did you learn that tongue thing?"

"On the underside? The flutter?" Miles nodded. "I read it in an old dirty paperback my folks had. Sounded like fun."

"Hell fucking yeah, it's fun."

"Been using it since I was fourteen, no complaints so far. Hey ... umm ... so how does Chelsea feel about girls - or couples?"

"When she was in college, she fooled around a little bit with her dorm mate." He could've said more, but didn't. He wanted to hear what was behind the question.

"Hmm, so, she might be interested in a threesome? Or some girl-on-girl? Swapping? An orgy?"

"Damn. That's like a hard sell."

"No, I'm just wondering. I haven't said anything to Reince. Just curious. I don't know her well, but Chels seems fun. You're definitely fun, and y'know, Reince and me, we like fun people."

Suddenly, he felt miles from Chelsea. Were they broken up officially? Hard to say. Certainly felt like it.

"Y'know, lemme feel her out, see if she might be cool with it. Ya never know, right?"

Her answer was to french him. That must've been an "Ok." She patted his chest and said, let's get back out there. She left her pants behind, and they walked out of there with her in just her long peasant top, no pants, no panties, no bra. He could dig that - dig that very well.

He tried to think about Chels, but couldn't seem to get his head to go there, aside from vague visions of two women fighting over his cock.

When they were back outside in the crowd, by the beer keg, it was back to reality. The pot hadn't lasted near long enough. Here he was at a party where he knew only two people. He was three weeks from induction. He'd just fucked this chick and might or might not be cheating on the girlfriend he might or might not still have. He had about thirty minutes of escape, then it was back in the box. That made him think of Cool Hand Luke. "Man, what we have here is failure to communicate." He said it out loud before he even realized.

Trish turned around. He hadn't even noticed until she did so, that she'd leaned across the keg to French kiss some beardy freak in a Grateful Dead t-shirt.

She said, "Huh?" and slipped her tongue in his mouth. He tried to figure out if he tasted only her, or that other dude, or even lingering traces of his cum. Next, she reached inside his pants deep enough to cup his balls. "I think we communicated pretty well."

"Huh? Yeah, no, babe. I was thinking of something else."

She laughed at him and shook her head. She didn't get it, and she couldn't care less. Her fingers dipped into her cleavage and she pulled out another joint. He thought, holy Christ, where'd that come from. It hadn't been between her tits when they were screwing, that's for sure. Somewhere between the bedroom and the keg, it had just magically gotten deposited in her top.

He frowned down at nowhere, for no particular reason than his own moodiness. In seconds, she leaned in for another kiss. When he opened his mouth for her tongue, she breathed smoke into his mouth and down into his lungs. Knowing that wouldn't quite do it, she then passed the doob to him. He took a deep drag, then pulled her in and returned the favor. She was ready, and breathed him in deep. Thirty seconds earlier, he was down, and the war was racing toward him. Suddenly, it was all very cool and copacetic again. The war would wait. He didn't care whether her old man was there, or if he was watching, or if he cared. He doubted he would. If Trish was telling the truth, he was good with whatever she got them into.

Trish wandered off when the joint was done. She pointed his way from across the back yard. The older couple she was talking to made their way to him. They introduced themselves as Hank Something and Junebug. They stood close and looked around. Junebug had great tits. Big and full, but not enormous. Well-rounded and just the tiniest bit of sag. She didn't seem to mind him noticing. Maybe that was part of their game. Maybe they thought he was carrying weed and she thought a little jiggle and wiggle would get some free samples. Their cautious glances around, though, seemed excessive given the company. If they wanted weed, nobody within a hundred feet was going to narc them out.

"Listen, Trish says you might be in need of a favor."

Miles didn't respond, so Hank continued . "She says you've got your back up against a date with induction, and you might could stand some help finding some options."

He couldn't remember words, but he did nod. Sure could use options. That's what the word was.

Hank was explaining - without excessive detail - that he might have some strings he could pull. A favor for a favor. A string here and there, a package delivered here and there. While he talked, Junebug dug a a little foil packet from his shirt pocket. She took out a little yellow pill and washed it down with a mouthful of beer, then took a beat and popped a second yellow pill into her mouth. No beer this time, just a swallow. She picked a third out and offered it to Hank. He shook his head and reached up to stroke her cheek. Junebug looked for a moment like she was going to offer him one. Maybe she decided he was too far gone to really profit from whatever the pill was.

Hank handed him a business card and said, "Come by or give me a call - but soon." Miles held it close enough to read. Hank walked off as he focused on the words. Junebug trailed behind Hank, their hands connected by fingertips. He could have sworn she dragged her hand across his crotch, lingering on the zipper. As soon as it registered with him, both of them were gone. He had to have imagined it.

Things faded just a moment later. When he woke, he was seated on one of the stumps, leaning against a garbage bin, with a cat licking his pounding forehead. The moon was low in the east, but there was just enough light in the yard to see half a dozen others also snoozing in random spots. It must have been around three o'clock. He could check his watch, but that would've been work. Too early for such exertion. When he opened his eyes again, the sun was just topping the roofs. The humidity was starting to simmer. He was warm and clammy, as much from the partying as from the humidity.

Time to go home.

He got up and stepped over and between the litter, the bottles and cans and paper plates soaked by food and the morning dew. Up by the gate, there was a cowboy in a buckskin joe hat sprawled up against the fence. More like on his buckskin joe hat. It was crumpled up under his head, a crude pillow. It was either that or the half gallon of Jack Daniels a foot away, with a slow trickle out of its mouth.

He was a mile down the road, two pair of sunglasses on his head. They barely blocked the sun enough for him to wobble down the road, but barely was still enough. He got home and laid down on the living room floor, wrapping his arm around a pillow from the couch, pinning it under his head.

Later, much later, but not nearly late enough, he woke enough to notice something different about the room. He wasn't alone. The room sounded different. It was quiet, but the silence sounded angry, sullen, and sad.

"Chelsea ...?"

"Miles ... I see you've been ... having adventures."

"Listen, I ... I'm sorry I haven't gotten hold of you. I tried this morning (no, that wasn't right) - I mean yesterday morning. Your mom's, Anne Marie's, somebody else's ... " he couldn't remember who else, but surely there was."

He rolled to his side, facing her. He found her face, her gaze pointed up and toward the window. There wasn't a lot of warmth there. He could understand that.

"Listen, Chels ..."

She stood up, towering over him. "Miles, I'm going to give you some space, give you time to clear your head or purge your soul or whatever it is you're doing. I want to talk, I want us to talk, but I can see that's not happening today."

She stepped over his legs, "I'm going to grab what laundry I have here and get out of your hair. Please ... don't get up."

He felt like shit, but heard the sarcasm in her voice. It was a warm, damp rag across the back of his neck, not soothing but unsettling, down in the pit of his stomach. He might have been able to get up, if he used up all his energy reserves, but it was a solid maybe. More likely, he'd get five feet, fall over, and throw up.

He drifted away again as the living room wobbled into the dark. He woke past dusk, another day in the toilet. It was half past 9 when he made it as far as the kitchen. He leaned against the refrigerator, then leaned inside, surrounding himself with the cool air. He rubbed a big glass bottle of Coke on the side of his head. He knew it was throbbing, but only realized then just how much it was pounding. The left side was cool and nicely numb, the right side pulsing like a neutron star.

He sat at the table and dug at a carton of chocolate ice cream with the first spoon he found. Spoon after spoon, without stopping or slowing. In time, by 10 or so, the cold had soaked its way into his upper body, blanketing the ache in his head. He chased it with glass after glass of water, and when he was done, grabbed the Playboy from the end table by the sofa and worked his way to the bedroom. He fell asleep with the open magazine covering his face and dreamt of escaping to Amsterdam with the Girls of Holland. It was a good dream, full of sex, alcohol, and pot, and spiced up with the repeated motif of nearly falling into one of the canals. It seemed wherever he went without a handful of girls, he was in danger of falling into the water ways. He never actually fell in, but came close plenty of times.

* Wednesday. 7am. His eyes opened and he was done sleeping. Mind clear; eyes clear; even his goddamn sinuses were clear, and they never were. He'd been in New Orleans since he was six and his family moved from Lake Charles. He couldn't remember going more than a week at an stretch without antihistamine or decongestant. Given how much alcohol and pot he'd consumed in the past several days, he couldn't believe how alert and sober he was. Had the last week even taken place?

Wednesday was Chelsea's day off. She usually slept in until ten or so, then went off for lunch with friends. He wanted to see her. He felt like shit for how he'd been acting. Childish, self-absorbed. Chels was always talking about some sex therapist and her opinions. Not just sex but relationships, too. Being self absorbed and selfish were right up there at the top of the danger sign list. Things were going to sort themselves out, though. They always did. With him and Chels, anyway, they always worked out in the end. He'd talk to her and they'd get things trued up.

He'd go see that guy who gave him the card. He'd do what he needed to, make whatever deal. He'd stay here. He'd stay with Chelsea. They'd get married. Maybe. Or, she'd move in. They'd talk about it.

Suddenly, he wasn't as sober any more. He sat up and put his head between his knees - or as close as it would go. His eyes watered. His throat was dry and tight.

Start with the coffee, a couple of mugs, and think out the situation. Find Hank's business card and stop by to see him. Or call or whatever. Get things rolling. While he was waiting for the coffee to perk, he got the phone from the yard and crudely reattached it to the biscuit jack. When he was done, he tried it. There was a little static, but it worked.

The coffee got him going. He was out the door as soon as the second mug was done, business card in hand. Hank's office was on the edge of the quarter, down by the French Market. First there, then to Chelsea's. He'd talk her down like he always did, she'd be happy again, and then to celebrate they'd have lunch at Galatoire's. Or Antoine's, if was later. Maybe just hang out at the Famous Door and have some drinks and list to music. At any rate, it would be a whole new start for them. G's was always the perfect place to start something new. Oh, right. Antoine's. Or the Famous Door. Things were tight at the moment, yeah, maybe they'd just go to the Door. Or she might want to stay in and cook. He could go out and get them a fifth of Jack. Anyway, new beginning, that was the thing to focus on.

He started the car, set the radio to WWOZ, and was starting to pull out, when a guy with a beard and a bald head popped up from around the front of the car parked at the neighbor's. He looked familiar, but he couldn't place him. Someone recent. Whoever he was, he wasn't happy. Very not happy, actually, and probably high as a fucking kite. He lurched side to side as he walked. He came around to the window and reached to pound on it, but the glass was down, so he just flailed a couple of times. Very high not to figure it out on the first try.

"Hey, fucker. Shit, man. Hey, are you Miles?"

"Who the fuck are you?"

"I'm Trish's old man."

"What's your problem, man?"

"You son of a bitch, you knocked her up!"

"What the hell, man? You have no way of knowing ..."

"... fuck, man, I got no sperm. No swimmers, you hear what I'm saying? Aint no baby comin' out of this cock, hombre."

"Oh, shit, man ... I ... wait ... I know y'all's score. Y'all swing all over town, you might as well have vines hanging from the trees. Are you trying to tell me ~" he paused as he popped the door ajar, and the guy jumped back like he was being attacked. "Calm down, dude, I'm just getting out to talk about this." The car lurched forward - he hadn't remembered to take it out of drive. He shifted gears, slapping the knob into place, and snapped the key off.

"Calm down and back away a little - " he leaned against the front fender - "... you're telling me that there's no way anyone else can have knocked that bitch up?"

The guy, whatever his name was looked bewildered, and staggered back again. His red face screamed back, "I know what you're trying to do, you son of a bitch, and it ain't gonna work. You have a responsibility and you are going to fucking pay. The last motherfucker did, and the other guy before, and the same fucking shit is going to happen to you. We ain't having no baby, so you know what that means. You're going to cough up $200 for an abortion and we'll get this shit taken care of before it gets too far." As his speech played out, he slowly walked toward Miles, his head tilted, jabbing with a finger, until the finger was actually jabbing into Miles' chest.

"Don't do that man. Gimme space. I'm asking you." His ears were pounding. It was like he was under water, no under six feet of red jello. Everything was dark and tinted and sluggish, like that time his uncle Fidelio had come after him.

The finger kept jabbing. He didn't see anything but the finger making brief ripples across his shirt. He couldn't see as far as the end of the arm. Everything was dark and red and starting to slant to the left.

His own hand moved across his chest. It locked on the man's finger and twisted, which brought his body to just the right angle to take Miles' knee in the groin. Twice, and then again for good measure. Something cracked. It had to be the guy's finger. Or fingers.

Reds turned to greys, and the pounding in his ears was replaced with the ocean. His stomach wanted to vomit, but his throat told it to shut up. [Frank] or whoever the hell he was, laid on the verge next to the sidewalk. One hand was cupping his balls. The other was waving in the air like a flag, trying to keep that pain as far from the other as possible.

It was time to go. He had to go and meet ... that guy... the card... from the party. With the hot wife. Jesus, what was his name? He couldn't concentrate. Then there was Chels. He wanted to talk to her about something. It would come back. That guy was still screaming and cursing. He wasn't going to figure out a goddamn thing with all that racket.

Time to go. Go see that guy with the card. He turned back to the door. As he was stepping around it, he slapped the guy's hand out of the air, "Shut the goddamn fuck up! Do you fucking thin you're the only fucking goddamn fucker who has any goddamn fucking problems!?" The other guy might've been loud, but people in Algiers probably heard that.

The guy choked on his curses and choked on the flashing surge of pain. Once Miles was in the car and pulling out of his space, he was just a memory buried inside the massive flaming cottony headache he now had.

Despite his hurry to get moving, when he got to Hank's office, he sat outside for a good thirty minutes. The car would warm up; he would start it up and run the A/C for a few minutes, blowing ice cold in his face. It was a losing game. He'd start to drip sweat, then blast himself with iced air. In moments, the sweat would chill and he would shiver.

At ten thirty, he decided it was time. He'd get out of the car and either go in to Hank's office, or walk down Decatur and grab a beer. At least he was doing something.

He walked past Hank's door, and was a good ten feet further down the sidewalk when he pivoted. That's how he worked, stress, stress, stress about something, then the moment he decided not to do it, he was relaxed and could carry through with it.

The receptionist was an older women, slight and slender and easily in her sixties, but kind of steely. She was probably a good screen for Hank, and had a look in her eye that said she probably played for the Packers. "I'm here to see Hank. Mr. ..." he had to dig the card out of his pocket to get the last name. "... Sinclair." He turned the business card to her - Mrs. Prideaux, her desk sign said - and handed it to her like a movie ticket. The eyebrow that arched when he stumbled over the last name, came back down. It knotted with the other for a second, then they both went back to neutral.

"And your name, Mister ... ?"

"Miles. Mikes Parker"

She didn't seen to regard the name well. Maybe she wasn't the jazz fan that his mother was. She asked "And he will know what this in regard to?" Her tone was solicitous but skeptical.

"This is regarding ... " not exactly a job "... an opportunity. I ran into him and Junebug recently and he suggested, requested, that I come see him at my earliest convenience." He could tell she didn't like the reference to Junebug. That was a mistake. The rest of it seemed to ease her annoyance just enough to maybe open the door.

She set the card down and centered it on her blotter. She sighed. Then she reached for her phone and punched the intercom button.

"Mr. Sinclair, I have a Miles Parker out here with one of your business cards. He'd like a few minutes of your time." She threw her glance up and down him as she said it.

"Miles ... oh, yes ... from the other day. Would you buzz him back through, Miz Emma."

She punched the intercom off, then pressed a button on the side of her desk. A buzz told him that something was unlocked for the next couple of seconds, and he'd best be moving. He reached for his card, but she'd spirited it away in the half-second he'd looked off.

He didn't even have to turn the knob on the door. All it took was a push and it swung wide. Medium sized office. Nice, hundred year old desk that took up half the room. Must've been goddam oak and probably weighed two hundred pounds. He couldn't imagine how it came through the door, but it did. The rest of the office, eh. Crappy, warped wood paneling. A window behind the desk, no blinds, curtains, nothing.

He looked up, over the rim of his glasses, and said "Miles." He looked back down and slid something into a grey folder and tossed it to the corner of his desk. He pointed at one of the $20 armchairs.

Miles took the offer. Neither spoke. He grabbed a pen from his desk and crossed his legs, turning sideways a quarter. "So, how's the weather out there?"

Miles stumbled through a confused explanation of current meteorological phenomena, then fell silent again. Sinclair nodded.

"So, anyway. I'm glad you stopped by. We've got some things going on you might be able to help with." He glanced at the door. Miles pushed it shut.

Sinclair reached for another folder buried underneath three other folders. This one had the words "Parker, Miles" on the tab. It wasn't empty, or anywhere close He glanced through it. One, two, three sheets, then skipped down to pages that were paperclipped together. He glanced at the top sheet, then closed the folder. "You've got a little bit of a record, my friend."

"I, uhh ... yeah ... like what are you talking about?"

"DWI, public intoxication, a gram of weed, trespassing ..." he glanced into the folder. "... one hot check? Just one? Nothing big, just a lot of fucking around, really."

Miles nodded and relaxed a little. It was all good.

Sinclair tossed the folder on top of the gray one.

He smiled and tapped the desk like he was trying to remember a funny story. Miles smiled, waiting for it.

"Anyway - tell me about the Mexican jail."

Fuck. The goddamn Mexican jail. It wasn't on his NOPD rap sheet. He knew that. What the hell?

"You've been watching me for a while ...?"

"Aw, nah, Miles. I had this stuff sent in this morning just in case you showed up straight off."

"But you invited me in ... for ... because you could tell ..."

"Hey, buddy, you're at a yard party being thrown by someone who has his finger on half the pot and heroin coming across the border or across the Gulf up to Orleans Parish. You disappear for thirty minutes to fuck the guy's wife, do some dope, then vanish." He shrugged. "So, that generates some interest. You're not a big player. Sorry, no disrespect, but you just don't have that elan. On the one hand, sure, we've got a certain leverage we can use on you - it's what we do, the stick, but at the same, you've got enough scruples that ... you're not going to go rogue. For that, at the end of the day, we’ll be happy to throw you some carrots."

Miles just sat there. It was an insult and a compliment. It was also precursor to a threat. He was brought in to be worked. Not only that, just by looking at him that night, the guy, whoever he was, could tell that he was ripe for working.

Sinclair handed him a folder. He read through it and handed it back. By the time it left his hand, though, he’d forgotten everything it said. He was a little distracted.

Sinclair walked him through it, as though he’d never glanced at the folder, which was just as well, since as far as he could tell, he hadn’t. There was a guy, mob connected, maybe even a made man, that they were wanting to get a finger on. He was the main drug conduit as well as the buddy of several prominent, established businessmen and a couple of up-and-coming politicians in Orleans Parish. Plan A was to hook him. Plan B was to hook him and implicate his important patrons.

There was an interruption when some skinny guy in a narrow-tie suit and a lot of Brylcreme came in and whispered into Sinclair’s ear. They both looked at him and then Sinclair looked at his watch and back at him. There was a smirk that blossomed, then he waved tie-boy off. When the door was closed, he just smiled and said “You sure don’t lack for drama, do you?” before resuming. Had news of his little event with Trish’s old man already trickled in to him? It was at most an hour, hour and a half ago.

Sinclair could manage to get him on a bartending gig at one of Gianolo’s regular haunts, the Napoleon House, and boost an introduction, but it was Miles’ job to work his way in further. He could take all the time he wanted, as long as it didn’t take more than two weeks, after which they expected him to be ass-deep in Gianolo’s pocket. They’d feed him information to help him become an asset, but it was still up to him to sell it in a way that it wasn’t obvious to Gianolo and his crowd.

There was more, but he’d get that when he came back in two days for his briefing session with the ops guys. Until then, it was his job to keep his nose clean and his mouth shut.

There was still a tight fog wrapping around his body when Sinclair got up, grabbed his shoulder, lifted him, and walked him to the door as if it had been his decision to leave at that moment. “Remember, Thursday at 1pm. You won’t make us come looking for you, would you?”

Miles tried to shake his head reassuringly, but it didn’t much care to move. Sinclair was probably past being reassured by anything anyone else said, anyway. Instead, he made a little wave with his left hand, said “Later,” and clipped the door frame as he passed through. At least he didn’t drop the sealed envelope Sinclair had given him. Just more embarrassment under the bridge.

He didn't open the envelope until he was someplace safe. The chair at Lafitte's, however, wasn't even warming when he ripped the end off. He expected a new identity. Some cool spy shit like that, maybe a passport in case things went tits up, like the british spies in the books say. Nothing like that. He had to stay Miles Parker. He just got some backstory written for him, filling in gaps here and there. Made sense, he guessed. Not like it was happening in a town where nobody would know him. Just sweetened his history a little.

The plan was to go next to Chelsea's, but one drink became six drinks at Lafitte's, and by the time he got back to his car on Esplanade, he smoked a joint and took a little nap. It was good shit. The dreams he had were all about fucking big tit redheads over and over, and having them fight over his cock - and some weed. When he finally woke up, the sun was hanging over the business district. He didn't feel like doing much more that day, so he got on St. Claude and headed home. She was probably still pissed anyway. Give her more time to cool down. He'd go fetch her the next day and bring her back to the house for burgers and beer and they'd split a joint and fuck, and everything would be back to normal again, and they'd be fine. Besides, if Sinclair could really get him off the hook for Vietnam, he didn't have a big fucking deadline hanging over him. He had all the time in the world to square things with Chels.

When he got back to his house, he laid on the living room floor, smoked his last joint, and drifted off to sleep until six the next morning.

He had eggs and boudain for breakfast, and then realizing he hadn't eaten since breakfast the previous day, ate twice as much. He flipped through the envelope Sinclair had given him, doodling in the margins as he moved front to back. Devils and large breasted women mostly. His default doodle. Blocks of squiggly lines in random spots.

He went out and talked to his mechanic. He'd had two tours in 'Nam and came back with a shattered knee and pelvis from a mine. Why, exactly, he was consulting him, he didn't know. He liked the guy. He trusted the guy's instincts. He also bought half his dope from the guy. He danced around the idea of working for the feds. Didn't ask him outright, but told him a story about a guy he'd known who'd gotten pressured into working as a mole. The guy winced and drank his beers twice as fast, and got red-faced as Miles unwound the story, but he was more angry at the government for using people than he was at Miles' "friend" for taking the deal and giving in to being used. Miles felt better when he left the garage. Yes, he was high, but there was also a certain weight off his shoulders.

He went back to the house, found a note from Chels on the door, asking where he was. Actually, what it said was "Where the hell are you hiding? C" He got a glass of water from the sink, sat down at the table to call her, and didn't wake up until midnight.

When he called her at 12:30, her mother answered ... the phone cut in and out, due to his crappy repair job, but he managed to hear her say, very clearly, "I'm sure she's not in for you, but I will take a peek." She came back in twenty seconds. "She's dead asleep. Maybe you'll have better luck tomorrow." The click and dial tone made it clear that she was done talking.

He phoned in sick the next morning. He got up at 6 and worked his throat up unto a gravelly rasp just to make it more interesting. He needed to get back on the crew, 'Nam or no 'Nam, but he also realized he needed to stop stalling with Chelsea. He didn't bother calling. He just went over and camped out on her front stoop. He had no way, short of knocking and waking someone up, of finding out whether they were up yet, so he did the next most logical thing. They always, both Chels and her mom, always came out to the front porch for a cigarette first thing. They'd drag themselves out of bed, grab a mug of coffee and a pack of Winstons, then sit out on the glider and rock until they were awake or the coffee was out, whichever came last. He'd wait. If nobody showed up in 30 min, he'd assume they'd already been up and had their morning porch smoke. Otherwise, it was just a matter of time.

He only had to wait ten minutes. The knob on the front door rattle, then quit, then rattled again for longer. It turned and the door gaped several inches, then came to an abrupt and thudding halt. It closed again so someone could remove the chain, then swung full open on its creaky hinges. A housecoat backed through. The cigarette hand reached for the screen door frame, just in case there was a gust. What he expected in the drink hand was a mug of coffee. What was actually there was a Coors fat boy. He looked at it, then up at the face of the woman holding everything. It wasn't Chelsea, but her mother, Berniece. She gave a start when he came into view. She looked in his eyes, then down at the beer, then back up at him. She said "Aww, hell ..." and set the beer on the railing and went back inside. It was ten seconds before the door slammed. She must'v'e done it as an afterthought.

Two minutes later, Chelsea peeked through the curtain, then came out to join him on the porch, holding a pack of Winstons and an oversized coffee mug. They were several minutes into saying hello, slowly and cautiously, the way sumo wrestlers squared off with each other, Berniece came out in due time to retrieve her beer, pausing long enough to eyeball him and make a sniffing sound. Eventually, they both came to agree that he'd been an ass the past several days. He admitted to her everything a reasonably cautious male would admit to. Indiscretions that had come uncovered, admit everything. Where questionable, ask questions. Where fishing, feign laughable innocence. All she knew was that he was getting high as fuck and avoiding anything and everything, completely bailing out on her and the whole Vietnam thing. That was close enough to reality for him to own sincerely, without excuses. She didn't mention any rumors of anything else and he didn't ask.

Two hours later, all was good, or good enough for now, her mom had gone off to work, they'd gone back to Chels' room for a make-up fuck, and then she shooed him out so she could start the restaurant set up for lunch opening.

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modernart2012 · 6 years

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My Doctor Told Me To Murder People (How to Reduce Your Stress)

for @fiery-chicken

On AO3

or, Where everyone is in medicine and Yuri is this close to murderizing everyone with a scalpel.

Yuri was going to murder the attendings. This was surgery not eye fucking over the surgery table. Okay, sure Dr. Katsuki had a graceful and elegant suture on the operating table, but fucking Viktor didn't need to contaminate the field with his DROOL over it. Maybe if he made desperate enough eyes at Dr. Baranovskaya she would kick Viktor in his gluteus maximus with the end of her pointy pointy high heels.

No such luck; instead the tumor was excised and field sterilized for final closure. Yuri had to extend sympathy for the poor sot. Gets his leg crushed by an I-beam and gets diagnosed with Stage 3 leukemia. Nothing says good times like disability and chemotherapy. And sepsis due to drool. He throws his surgical gown and mask in the biohazard cleaning bin, the gloves already trashed in the right trash can.

He walks With Purpose towards the cafeteria. He needs a coffee stat. Anything to get the taste of someone being too lovey-dovey out of his mouth.

He’s half through a espresso with caramel syrup and cinnamon when he’s paged. Why the ever loving fuck a surgical resident is being paged is beyond him - he’s a Year One resident, he’s got so fucking long in front of him before he's half qualified to be paged on his own. Hopefully it’s just something stupid simple like the demented patient they had to stick pins in pulled her stitches. He can take care of that no problem.

Only it’s not. “You paged a resident for a piece of rebar sticking out of someone’s skull.” He’s breaking this down slowly for the Emergency Doctors, because sometimes they’re one harsh comment from bursting into tears or having a mental break and going on a mass killing spree and it’s hard to tell which it could be at any given moment. “This might just be me, but I’m not a neurosurgeon.” He points at the patient, strapped like a mummy to the bed. “That is definitely going through the brain.”

The blank and glazed look from the Emergency Doctor gave Yuri everything he needed to know. “I’ll have the nurses page neurosurgery for you. Glad we had this talk.” He reaches out to pat him on the shoulder, then thinks better of it. Who knows what strange and nefarious diseases the Emergency personnel have? What new and subversive bacteria are percolating in the air? The best medicine is prevention after all, and if Yuri doesn’t touch them he doesn’t have to decontaminate himself to prevent infection.

With this in mind Yuri takes the rest of his lunch break to dash up the secret ENT stairs - or the stairs ENT residents and fellows conspired hide behind the perpetually out of order vending machine, the one that's really just a facade to the door to the secret stairs and that the ENTs horde to themselves - from the ground floor to the 5th in order to hide in Otabek’s office. Because Otabek might be the last sane man in this whole damn hospital (including everyone but Dr. Baranovskaya, who is a legend and Yuri will begrudgingly worship at her feet in honor of the superior orthopedic surgery skills she has deemed him almost worthy of inheriting).

Otabek looks up from an MRI of a skull, “Rough day?” In a practiced move, Yuri hauls out the only comfy extra stool in the ENT lounge - a space that previously held the hospital refrigerators for the morgue until the morgue got sent to the basement, that is technically on the hospital blueprints as housing a supply closet because the ENTs managed to persuade the administration they needed a 9 foot by 16 foot by 10 foot space for the oh so many supplies they need. They even had a twin bed at the ready, for the residents and fellows who had 28 hour call, unlike the “hospitality” suite for the other speciality residents and doctors. “Yura, you hate ears, noses, and throats, and the little kids and elderly who normally have problems with them.”

It's like Otabek can read his mind, Yuri was about to think about how he'd gone into the wrong speciality. He takes the proffered mug of caffeine - the good fancy Godiva hazelnut stuff that tastes like pure sugar - and sips at it carefully. Besides, he wouldn't trade training under Dr. Yakov and Dr. Baranovskaya for the world - even given Viktor and his idiotic infatuation with Dr. Katsuki at its worst in the operating theaters. Still, for want of maintaining his reputation, he glares daggers and flaming hellscapes of death over the rim of the cup. “I accept that you are attempting to placate me. I will deign to let you believe that it is working in exchange for a foot rub.” He knows Otabek is laughing at him, because Otabek always laughs at his best Potya impression - spoiled brat of a cat really, Yuri wouldn’t trade her for anything - and usually gives Yuri a foot rub. Long surgeries in those stupid pinchy dress shoes Dr. Yakov insisted upon. Yuri hadn’t had time to go buy any Dr. Scholl’s or the gel heel guards, and it took its toll.

“Eat your lunch, “ Otabek chides instead and turns back to the MRI.

Yuri frowns and leans over to peer at the lightbox. “Is that...?”

Otabek nods. “5mm tumor in a 3 year old’s skull. It’s pressing on the child’s ear canal enough to cause hearing impairment.” Which means Otabek has to break it to a kid and their parents he needs surgery - because it could be benign and any number of things that aren’t cancer, but it’s equally likely that it could be malignant and then you have to consider treatment options, but those are both discounting the fact that the tumor might have (probably) caused permanent hearing damage. Kid ear bones are still malleable, after all. But it also means Yuri gets to watch tumor removal from the pediatric surgeons. It’s a lose-win situation, one that’s more lose than win.

It’s easy enough to set aside his coffee and gather Otabek close. Curl around him like his Deda did to Yuri when Yuri was much smaller and much much angrier with the world. Yuri rocks back and forth like the metronome Otabek used once when he tried to teach Yuri the C scale on a piano, steady to Otabek’s turmoil. “We didn’t go into medicine for this.”

“No.” They didn’t. Not for the money or the prestige, but to help people, give them better lives. Some days that was harder to hold on to than others. He hears Otabek’s breaths fall back into their usual calm rhythm - how funny that wild and temperamental Yuri was the surgeon under pressure and calm and steady Otabek was the ENT - then opens with. “So I’m pretty sure Viktor gave Dr. Baranovskaya’s patient sepsis in the OR.”

It’s worth it to hear the full laugh that spills from Otabek’s chest in spurts and hiccoughs. “Please don’t murder Viktor. Dr. Katsuki would go back to being unapproachable and cold.” Because Dr. Katsuki was weirdly cold when in public and otherwise difficult to gauge unless otherwise engaged by Viktor.

“Meh. I could take Katsuki and Viktor without getting caught.”

“Careful Yura. Your Russian is showing.” They stay like that for one more moment, letting the physical comfort of human touch flood their brains with comforting hormones.

Then Viktor - the ass - slammed open the door, startling both Yuri and Otabek but also Viktor. “Ah, Yuuri, the ENT suite is a no-go, it’s currently occupied! Maybe the chaise lounge in Yakov’s office?” Then as he was closing the door, he paused and threw a handful of condom packets at them. “Be safe kiddos!”

Yuri would definitely have chased after Viktor to kill him dead if not for the three condoms that had smacked themselves onto his person. “Cherry Flavored, Ribbed for her pleasure?” Otabek read out as he picked off the one from Yuri’s head. Then solemnly, “You’re free to kill Viktor now, but you might want to wait until tomorrow.” At Yuri’s puzzled look. “If that was Dr. Katsuki with him, he’s probably otherwise.... Engaged for murdering.” The lightbulb of comprehension comes on, and Yuri is furious. Yuri was going to murder all the attendings.

#otayuri #yuribek #otabek alitn #yuri plisetsky #medical au #art writes

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seenashwrite · 7 years

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The Midwife: Part Four

Status: Complete (Part 4 of 4) Word Count: 5.6K Category: Mini-series; Behind-the-scenes canon compliant; Mystery; Teamwork; Historical; On-the-hunt Rating: Teen & Up Character(s): Various O.C.s; References to familiar people/places Pairing(s): N/A Warnings: None Overall Summary: In the mid-1950s, a member of the New York City chapter of the Men of Letters is sent to the United Kingdom to assist with what appears to be another stack of cold case dead-ends, when he suddenly finds himself questioning one of his closest-held convictions.

*~* The Midwife : Master Post *~*

"He's still resting. I'm going right back."

I turned at the sound of the voice, instantly feeling my annoyance return at the interruption. I'd just agreed to - to what, a tour? The chance to read some of the books I'd noted lining the shelves in the wall of recessed cases in the lounge? I wasn't certain, but whatever it was, it was apparently going to have to wait, judging by Fen's wide smile and the sparkling eyes that appeared as soon as they'd fixed on her charge.

"You don't have to babysit him," Fen informed her, a gentle admonishment. “He's perfectly fine.”

Fen received no acknowledgment but I was getting the once-over of a lifetime.

“Hiya, kid,” I tried. “Ever, right?”

Ever gave me a curt nod, then walked to the large stove, snapping her fingers and bringing up a fairly strong flame from one burner and a smaller one under the kettle Fen had used to make our tea. It elicited a bit of a gulp from me. And a not-so-subtle double-take.

If she noticed, or cared, I couldn't tell. She busied herself pulling out what looked like an absolutely ancient percolator, filling it with water, then out of a cabinet came a coffee grinder. A handful of dark beans from a small bag were added and she pulverized them quickly, with a surprising amount of grit for those lanky arms. She tossed them in, settled the percolator onto the burner, then moved on to taking the kettle from the stove. Coming to the table, she removed the lid from the teapot and brought lukewarm back to piping-hot.

Fen didn't make another attempt to engage, so I followed her lead, keeping quiet. She watched the girl with equal parts amusement and something I interpreted as a form of concern, not speaking until Ever was freshening up her tea.

"We'll come look in on him."

Ever glanced up, then back down, finished her pouring. The pot was returned to its trivet with a sharp tink. She'd ignored my cup completely.

"If you like," she replied brusquely.

Approaching the percolator again, she made a huffing sound, and as she curved a hand around it near the base, I found myself involuntarily rising from my chair, as if I were going to rush over to stop her, pull her away, maybe even yell at her for being so stupid - but it was my hand which was grabbed, by Fen. I glanced at her and received a subtle head shake in return. So I slowly lowered myself, my heart rebounding beat by beat from the gallop it had taken on.

Damn this kid for making me so jumpy.

Then I understood - she'd hastened the percolation. But my heart rate sped up again when Ever took two mugs from another cabinet, filling each with the coffee, and walked back over, keeping one in her hand and setting the other in front of me. She asked a question, even though I had the distinct feeling it was more out of formality, some sort of rehearsed politeness.

"Black, yes?"

"How do you know that?" I blurted, followed by another involuntary reaction - I recoiled from both her and the mug, shifting to the far side of the chair.

Ever tilted her head as if she were curious as to why I'd even ask. "Fen's already told you - you're very loud." And that was seemingly that - she turned on her heel, headed to the door.

"Ever."

She paused, but hesitated before looking over her shoulder at Fen, who’d said her name with a touch of sternness, and pointedly glanced at the stove. A snap of Ever’s fingers, and the flames receded. Then Fen received a pair of raised eyebrows, sending the clear message of - Will that be all?

"Not planning on straightening up?" asked Fen.

"It's Ozzy's turn on kitchen duty. He left peanut butter smeared on the second floor veranda's rails when it was my turn there. I was not pleased."

"Understood."

Ever took her leave.

I stared down at the mug in front of me. It smelled wonderful, so I had a taste. It was wonderful.

"A training excursion to Kenya," Fen told me.

I sipped a little more, wanting to ask about what training excursion meant, exactly, but I opted to hold back. "Ozzy? You sure have some names around here."

Fen laughed, and it made me smile. "They all choose their own, some mythical, though most seem to opt for literary or historical. Ozzy's is short for Ozymandius. One of my more colorful charges."

"That's... interesting. So why'd she choose 'Ever'?"

"It wasn't always, she's changed it several times, though this one has lasted the longest. Came about from a deep-seated love of Mr. Poe. I managed to talk her into it - very nearly could have been Nevermore."

I couldn't think of anything to say to that, so I kept drinking.

"You don't seem unnerved that she knew you preferred coffee."

I swallowed. "I'm plenty unnerved. That kid is the walking definition of unnerved."

"Not a kid," said Fen, and in as soft a voice as I'd heard out of her to that point.

"Oh?"

"While in appearance she seems the smallest and the youngest - Ever is my oldest charge. She is also my most..."

"Powerful?"

Fen nodded.

"Are any of them the age they appear to be? Actually children?"

"In a manner of speaking. And they all have a healthy sense of fear. Fear of what they can do, and fear of what the world could bring upon them once they leave."

I'd been taking another sip, and promptly sputtered. I coughed a bit, wiped the moisture from my chin with the back of my hand. My slightly shaky hand. "They... they're amongst... once they... they're out there?" I managed, and it came out louder than I'd intended.

I was still focused on Fen telling me as much as possible, didn't want her to hold back. So I was mentally kicking myself for the stunned - and somewhat accusatory - reaction. If she believed I'd act this way to anything she told me, I didn't think it'd bode well for getting all the information I wanted. That I needed.

Fen frowned slightly. "I'm no warden. I do not imprison them. I educate them in the ways of the world. We are more a boarding school than anything, I suppose."

"Then why hasn't she---"

"She will leave when she is ready. Until then, she is welcome to stay. As long as she needs."

"And your teachings include making them - what, frightened of people? People like me?"

Fen’s frown morphed into a fierce glare. "They're young, not morons. They grasp the concept of being prey. They live with it."

"Prey," I scoffed. "But you're teaching them how to be, what, 'good'?"

"The fear is innate. I - and the more experienced of their peers - teach them how to manage their abilities."

"How's that going?"

"No mayhem for going on three centuries now. Not from these kids. Not out of my house. Can your organization claim the same?"

"Can the angels?"

The glare faded and she watched me carefully for a few moments before responding. "This vitriol towards heaven... towards angels... towards God, perhaps. Where does it come from, Jack? Or shall we wait for Ever to unearth it?"

Now I glared, at what I interpreted to be something touching on a threat. "So in addition to transporting people against their will and what, putting them to sleep when the occasion arises, she reads minds, too? Nice."

"She has exceptional hearing."

I made myself take a deep breath, trying to exhale my frustration at the conversation's lapse into shots across each other's bows. I had no desire to talk about my personal life, not to her, not to anyone. So I changed the subject. "I want to see Burt."

Fen nodded and rose from her chair, then gestured to the door. "If you'll follow me."

As Fen and I entered the room, I saw with a touch of relief that Burt was still sleeping, snoring to beat the band, and Ever had resumed her post nearby, reading while drinking her coffee.

Burt's boots had been placed beside the bed, coat and hat hung neatly on a row of pegs affixed to the wall, and the backpack was leaning against a small bedside table. I’d noted none of it before. I hadn’t even realized he’d been put under the covers, I was so distracted by my surroundings. Once again, I reminded myself I was not in the running for a friend-of-the-year award.

On the table was his notebook, and it appeared undisturbed - not that it would have needed to be read. It had become most clear to me that nothing about what we'd been up to was a secret. Not to Fen, not to Ever, probably not to any of them.

Ever closed her book and stood when we came in, setting her mug onto the vacated chair. She met us near the bed. Her hands were clasped behind her back and she adopted an impeccable, almost militaristic, posture. I half expected her to salute.

"I was just telling Jack about your love for Mr. Poe."

"It wasn't love," Ever replied, in a slightly disgusted tone. Then she looked up at me. "I found him to have a most fascinating mind."

"You met him?" I asked, and my answer was another one of those stiff nods before she looked to her... her teacher? Her guardian? Her friend? I still wasn't sure of this household's dynamics.

"I'll thank you not to tease me - Fen," she said pointedly.

I looked questioningly at Fen.

"A nickname one of my former charges gave me when we took up residence here," Fen explained. "I became quite good at navigating the moors early on. Chasing after curious toddlers."

Every mention of Nephilim being outside her house, away from this carved-out mystery spot, made my stomach churn.

A boy's shout had echoed down the hallway, prompting Ever to roll her eyes.

Fen sighed. "Ozzy has entered the kitchen," she informed me. "I'll be back shortly."

As I turned from watching her leave the room, Ever had moved away and was standing right by Burt. She had a hand on his forehead. I didn't like it.

"Hey," I said, forcing my voice to keep steady.

She looked over her shoulder, but didn't remove the hand; she seemed a little sad.

"What are you doing?" I asked.

Stepping back, pivoting to face me completely, she countered my question with one of her own. "You hate me, don't you?"

"I don't know you, how could I---"

“That’s right. You don’t.” She glanced to Burt, then to me again, still looking sad… or concerned… perhaps even sympathetic. “Mrs. Rawlings has a boy on the way.”

There it was again - that pit in my gut - and it was getting deeper with her every word.

"And that son will have a son. He won’t deserve what happens. I hope he’ll know it."

"You see the future?" I asked. It came out in a whisper, despite my wanting to sound tough, as if she could be intimidated somehow, as if it could quell my newest worry. That sadness she'd shown, it was for Burt. The ache in my belly shot to my heart.

"I see possibilities, Jack.” She paused, gave me another once-over as she'd done in the kitchen, though this time the corners of her mouth twitched upwards which for her, I suppose, was a smile. “I see them in you, too.” Ever suddenly shook herself out of it, right back to her expressionless norm. “Make certain he and his wife and his son are gone from America in 1958. Best to be gone the entirety of the year.”

“What?”

“You'd do well to be gone, too... should you still be there, that is."

Fen returned just then, and Ever went back to her chair, her coffee, her book, her silence.

"Shall we, Jack?" asked Fen, extending a crooked arm in my direction.

With one last glance at Ever - who paid it no mind, though I suspected it didn't go unnoticed - I looped my arm through Fen's and allowed her to lead me through the house, back to the kitchen and then out a pair of windowed doors, to the enormous wrap-around porch.

There were probably fifteen children scattered about the lawn, clusters of them talking and playing. A few were engrossed with checkers; another group - older - were perched on a blanket, playing cards; a pair of teenagers, a girl and boy, were on a bench, heads down, reading a large book that was spread across both their laps. They glanced up at the sound of the doors closing and gave us friendly waves, which Fen returned.

She'd dropped her arm, freeing mine, and I gripped the rail, glad for something other than a cup to hold onto. She watched me as I took in the green grass, the near-cloudless sky, the peace. I closed my eyes briefly, enjoying a little breeze as it passed over us.

"I never actually thought it was witchcraft, not... not deep down," I confessed.

"So I thought."

"Why?"

"You tell me."

"I... I don't... I didn't want to believe angels were real."

"There are demons, yet you denied angels?"

"I know it doesn't... well, none of my work has made much sense, but... if angels were real, it... it meant... could mean..." I trailed off, and Fen didn't try to fill the silence at first, but I was glad for it when she did.

"What happened, Jack? What made you---"

"Hate them?" I interrupted, bitterness in my tone. "Just that heaven seems to have a criteria for whose prayers get answered and whose get tossed."

"It would mean you’d been purposefully ignored.”

I nodded.

“You've never told anyone this, have you?"

“Burt thinks I have family back home. I don't have anybody, just him. He'd worry himself to no end if he knew I was alone. The Mrs. is just as sweet, they'd insist I move in with them, and their apartment's so damn small, the baby'd be in the bathtub.”

I turned my head to face hers, and found what I thought was more than just attentiveness; seemed like sympathy was swimming in those sharp eyes. So I told her the rest. Things I hadn’t told Colleen. Burt. Anyone.

"My mother died slowly. I was a kid, never really knew what took her, and my dad never told me. I prayed like crazy, though, I remember that. And then I was around thirteen when my dad got sick. Took him four years to die. Dropped out of school for awhile to take care of him. Prayed then, too."

"He was a good man."

"How do you know?"

"Because he raised a good man."

I stared at her for a few moments before responding. "You know a lot, Fen. But you don't know that."

"So this contempt isn't only reserved for the heavens, then?"

I sighed, ran a hand over my face, trying to regroup, trying not to grow frustrated. I did want to get this out, tell her, make her understand. She needed to know who I really was before she told me more. She needed to realize what I'd likely be doing the minute I got back to New York.

Besides - I’d made a deal. I tell the truth, I get the truth. So I’d have to believe in her word, much as it pained my nature.

"The Men of Letters found me when I was sitting in a jail cell, okay? First time I got caught, lifting a stupid scarf for Colleen's birthday, even though we'd broken up for the millionth time. I was seventeen years old, and I didn't know how else to survive. I scammed people. I stole everything. Food, clothing, hell - even broke into shops at night, took cash. Still don't know why they chose me."

"You were young, you had no one to look out for you. You did what you needed to. I imagine they chose you for your ingenuity."

"And they fudged my school records from when I was gone, put me through college, got me a job at a newspaper," I went on, then paused and chuckled. "I was actually a pretty good reporter."

"Then?"

"Then they called up the debt. Put me into the next batch of initiates. Colleen took me back, and the rest... it's history."

She didn't comment, didn't level platitudes at me, like how my past doesn't have to dictate my future. I appreciated it. And she seemed to appreciate my honesty.

"Turnabout is fair play. My history... I don't know if I find it as colorful, though your opinion may differ."

And Fen told me her story. She was born in the mid-sixteenth century. Her mother was raised on a horse farm of sorts, and was looked upon as a natural when it came to foaling, possessing an intuition that allowed her save the lives of even the most devastated mares, the sickliest colts. As she grew older, those skills then turned to the women of her small township, guiding them through labor, preventing the death of dozens upon dozens there, and further, to neighboring areas as her reputation grew. But it came to an end with one particular birth, the first casualty on the record.

"The woman died, following days of labor," Fen said. "I was perhaps twelve years old, but it's like it happened yesterday. The moment the baby was born, everything about her stopped. She exhaled her last breath as the baby drew his first. I cleaned and wrapped the baby while my mother went practically wild, checking and re-checking the woman, pounding on her chest, shaking her, screaming at her. Nothing."

"The woman's family?"

"She was alone. She'd approached Mother and I behind the market, beckoned us into the woods. She was very close to giving birth. Mother immediately agreed to deliver the baby - she never turned any woman away - but this one worried her, and my mother did not worry, not about her skills. It was because she recognized this woman - she'd been run out of town earlier that year, though I didn't know it. And she'd been living in a cabin out in the middle of nowhere."

"How was she surviving? If she had no family, no husband... wait, that was why she was run out, wasn't it?"

Fen shrugged. "I imagine. But someone was looking after her, at first, at least. I remember thinking the cabin must've been nice once. It was filthy and run down by the time we saw it. She had nothing ready for a baby. And she was scared out of her mind."

"I don't understand what---"

"The baby was Nephilim. Mothers don't survive the birth." Fen paused a moment, a touch of pride sneaking into her expression as she added: "Typically."

I glanced out over the yard, processing her words. I found myself making mental inventory of her charges again before I stopped myself and looked back. Not colorful, my ass, I thought. "So you carried on the family business - you delivered all these kids, didn't you? You were their mothers' midwife."

Fen nodded, went on with her tale. "My father had long been dead, and as there was no one to ask permission of, my mother took in the baby. Once his powers began to show themselves, we lived a nomadic life, all to try to protect him. And that, we did. I think of him as my brother to this day."

"Where is he?"

"He helped me establish my first home for these wayward souls, but left to keep us safe. I don't know where he is now. I hope he is alive, during my every waking moment. Jack, you aren't completely wrong about the angels. They believe slaughtering the Nephilim is one of their divine duties."

"And you... you can overlook that? Could you forgive them for that? If it turns out they killed your brother?"

"I can understand their allegiance. I can understand their fear of being cast out. Of losing the only family they've ever known. But I can't abide their mission."

"So your solution is to, what, utilize Nephilim power? To keep all of you hidden? Are the mothers here somewhere, too?"

"No. They are returned to their lives with no memory of the experience. The angels who impregnate them tend to have a habit of running, and they are alone and frightened. And they have no concept of what their children will become."

She noticed the look on my face, and interpreted what I was thinking correctly.

"I have their permission to do so. I've yet to meet a mother who considers her situation a welcome one. Most were in danger prior to their arrival. I've long suspected the heavenly host must have some way of knowing when a Nephilim is conceived, though I've not been able to determine how. And so I hide them here----"

"I want to know right now - what is 'here'? For that matter when is 'here'?" I demanded.

"Think of it as... as a patch of time. Here they grow, they age, but as slowly as they need. As for me, time moves even slower."

"And they power it? Your youth, keeping themselves young if they don't want to leave, keeping all this camouflaged - how do you reconcile that in your mind? You say you want to protect them but you're--- you're---"

The heat of anger was beginning to wash all over me. So much so, I couldn't manage to finish my thought. Fen didn't seem angry on the surface, but every word she shot back in response was clipped.

"How else do you think this could be managed, hmm? How I could manage it on my own? Would you have expected me to try keys in doors, stare into mirrors til something other than my reflection materializes? Look for happenstance in furniture, or in warrens along rivers? Perhaps try our luck on a train, or should I have waited on a charitable fairy?"

I opened and closed my mouth a few times, still unable to call up words.

"You folks and your ideas of time. You chalk it up to magic words and drawings, resetting clocks and watches, flipping hourglasses, flicking little charms to make them spin."

"You talk about yourself like you're not human anymore!"

"I shouldn't even be alive! So perhaps I'm not! My time passed long ago, and... if I leave this place, I don't know what would happen. My former charges bring the mothers to me, but... the last child we welcomed was little Ozzy. Forty-two years ago. And I’ve known nothing since. I don't know if they are out there being slaughtered, if the mothers are... are..."

Fen looked away from me as tears filled her eyes, and she brought her hands down rapidly, slapping her palms against the railing.

"I need help. I don't know what will happen to them, the ones who aren't ready to leave. I'm not going to be able to hide who remains as the others move on. There isn't enough energy to keep this going much longer, and I won't ask them to shoulder it, to stay. There aren't many of them left. I don't know how to stay a step ahead of those who want them destroyed."

The strain in her voice and the pain on her face - I could not say what came over me. But I took a step closer, laid one of my hands atop hers, and it flew out of my mouth before I could stop it. The same words she'd said to me, ones I'd needed to hear, words I suspected she hadn't heard in a long, long time.

"Tell me what can I do for you."

Fen jerked her head up and over, clearly stunned. And neither of us had a chance to speak because the teenagers who'd been on the bench had approached, now standing on the grass just below the porch, without us realizing. The boy cleared his throat, and Fen gently pulled her hand from under mine as she stood up straight.

"We're sorry to---" the girl began.

"Don't apologize. Jack, these lovelies are the only set of twins we've had gracing the premises in going on... how long had it been, Artemis? Before you two?"

"We were just looking at that," the girl replied, holding up the large book she and her brother had been reading. "It'd been one-hundred-eighty-nine years."

"Your time or my time?" I asked hesitantly.

They all laughed, but it was good-natured, and the boy answered for the group.

"Your time. Fen doesn't let us get away with not knowing what's happening beyond our borders."

"So I'm told."

He climbed the steps, extended his hand. "I'm Apollo. Nice to officially meet you."

"Right, right," I replied as we shook. "You're one of the ones who helped Burt earlier. Thanks for that."

Artemis came onto the porch as well, then handed Fen the book.

"Signed off and ready to go?" Fen asked.

The twins nodded in unison.

"Go?" I repeated.

Fen allowed me to join her as she saw the twins off, their tenure done, the rare birds ready to fly after seven-some-odd decades. Following the retrieval of two small bags, they enveloped Fen in tight hugs as we stood by the front door. Apollo helped Artemis with her coat, then they turned to face us, absolutely radiant with excitement.

"And where will your adventures begin?" asked Fen.

"France," Artemis answered immediately.

"Have you decided on your new name?"

She nodded, though her wrinkled nose seemed to indicate she was having second thoughts. "Well, almost. I can't choose between Marie and Cosette."

"Ah, Cosette - 'she who triumphs in war' - I like it. It suits you," said Fen. Addressing Apollo, she asked, "And, you?"

Apollo glanced at me briefly, then looked back at her. "I had a few in mind, but now... now I'm thinking Jacques."

"A strong name. It has my approval, as well."

The twins took turns shaking my hand, gave Fen one last round of quick hugs, and walked out the door, straight into the mist - then they were gone.

"I misled you before - regardless of whether you chose to tell me the truth or not, neither you nor Burt will lose your memories," Fen said quietly, both of us continuing to gaze into the grey.

"That's... thank you."

"Will you stay?"

"Are you asking so that I won't go back and tell them? So they won't come back here and find you?"

"We won't be here if they do. It's time to move on."

"Why me?"

"You have much to give. It's being wasted in your current life. Besides... you deserve some grace."

"And you can give that to me?"

"No. Not me."

I wasn't so sure. She turned, walked back into the foyer, closed the door, then continued on down the hallway. I followed her without hesitation.

We made our way back to the porch. I watched as the children gathered up their things, preparing to come inside. Evening twilight was upon us.

"I don't have many selling points. You have much to learn, there's no way 'round it," Fen told me. "But we don't pray here. You'll like that."

She said it so seriously, it amused me. I grinned so hard my cheeks hurt. I'd forgotten what it felt like, true joy. And it prompted me to share a thought.

"When's the last time you changed?"

"I couldn't say - I'm stubborn."

I laughed. "Changed your name, Fen - when was it?"

Now she laughed - and while I’d only heard it a few times, I was all but certain it was going to become my favorite sound.

"Why in this world do you---"

"You should consider it. I think 'Joy' might be good."

"As in, ‘make a joyful noise'?"

"As in, that's what you bring," I answered, tilting my head in the direction of her approaching troupe. "To them." Then I looked her right in the eye. "What you're bringing to me."

I think she might've blushed a bit.

Ever and a few of the others made sure Burt was safely returned. When he awoke, he would find several pages in the back of his trusty notebook filled with my handwriting. I asked that he forgive me. That once everyone had given up and declared me officially dead, he'd write a good obituary for me, hold back on exaggerating my unimpressive character traits and mild accomplishments.

I told him little things, like the name of the jeweler who had Colleen's ring - said get it to her or don't, I couldn't imagine she'd care about my absence beyond the socially acceptable amount of time. His wife would likely take her a fattening condolence casserole that she'd immediately throw away. But Burt would be convincing at playing bereft for any suspicious Moles. I believed in him.

With Fen's approval, I added in Ever's warning about a danger ahead, which I felt certain he'd take to heart. I felt certain about another thing, too - that he'd be able to leave America and take up with the British brethren easily, due to the juicy bits of information he'd gift them. He should dole it out slowly, Fen advised me to note, lest the Moles drop dead of shock from getting such tips on one of their oldest cold cases.

I could just picture Burt settling into a vantage point so as to observe the space between the ninth and tenth platforms at King's Cross one early September. He'd bring several cameras, one to shoot with and two to drop by accident. I assured him he'd be in no danger as long as he stuck to his principles - that not everything and everyone beyond the Moles' understanding deserved elimination.

The kids - which I had every intent of continuing to call them, whether they liked it or not - had also brought back a few of my things from the inn, even popped over to New York and grabbed some things from my chapter room there, too, the thought of their infiltration delighting me. I didn't have much sentimentality in me, but I did want the handful of pictures I'd kept of my parents. The rest, Burt could throw out or let rot.

Amongst the random items they had inexplicably brought back - including two umbrellas, several pulp novels, and a bag of Burt's taffy - was the portable typewriter the Moles required anyone on assignment to bring along. We’d yet to use it during this last leg of our trip, but I ended up thinking it might come in handy. I wanted to tie up one last loose end before I forgot about my past for good.

Well, not everything. I'd still be visiting my world, be calling upon those investigative journalist skills I'd never quite had the chance to hone. I'd get back in the routine soon, now that I was no longer in the Men of Letters, no longer beholden to their way of thinking.

Now these heavenly creatures would be tracked for a different purpose. She had people to save. So I had hunting to do.

A dark corner was illuminated by a flashlight held by a tall man. He dropped into a squat, shining the beam back-and-forth, scanning for anything of interest. A few swipes at cobwebs, a tug or two on a crumbling box, a setting-aside of several ancient books, and his eyebrows raised. He lifted the old typewriter carefully, stood, and took long, quick strides back toward the doorway. The typewriter came to rest upon the top of a trunk within reach of the hallway’s light.

He frowned - his discovery had seen better days, as had the paper wrapped around the roll - but to his surprise, while the ink was faded and no longer jet black, it seemed newer, perhaps even fresher, than it should’ve.

It was removed as gently as possible, but chunks of the edges had long crumbled away, rendering some letters lost, having only been stamped onto the roll. But there was still enough to read. Enough to make the man's eyes grow wide and prompt him to lean around the door frame, call down the hallway, ask his brother to join him. .

---------------------------- ------------------------956 ------om It May Concern:

Though I am uncertain when this message might reach you, it is in poor taste to simply disappear from one's job without submitting a letter of resignation, as late in arrival as this one may be.

Please allow me to express my thanks for all of the education and experiences that were granted to me during my time as a member of the Men of Letters. I take with me a vast amount of knowledge, which I can say is already proving to be most invaluable. You have my gratitude, as well as the undying gratitude of my new colleagues.

It is my hope that with such intimate familiarity of your organization, I can offer as much aid and support to those souls - those whom you classify as monsters, abominations, vermin, scourge - as humanly possible. So that they might not merely survive, but thrive. They are nothing short of exceptional and I have been humbled by their grace.

I cannot sign off with well-wishes for your organization's continued growth, so I'll simply say to you as an individual - and please do convey this to the rest of your roster, both here and abroad -

Good luck, boys.

Regards: Ja----------------------------- -------------------------------- --------------------------------

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