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waveridden · 6 years

Text

FIC: and you breathe (one breath at a time)

Lovelace goes somewhere warm, and quiet, where nobody has any idea who she is. Nobody, except for somebody who died in space six years ago.

Wolf 359, post-canon. 7.7k. Gen, Lovelace-centric, some implied/background ships. content warnings for some discussion of death/grief and PTSD.

With all my love to @travismcelrcy, who helped shape the ideas.

Read on Ao3 || title lyric

Sydney is bright in the summer, a constant barrage of sunlight that slams into Isabel full-force the second she steps out of the airport. It was raining when she left Shanghai. Or maybe she’s still not used to sunlight - not blue light or red light or artificial Hephaestus lighting. Honest-to-god sunlight.

Isabel slips a voice recorder out of her pocket and switches it on. “Note to self,” she murmurs, “double-check which vitamins sunlight is supposed to give you. Just in case that matters.” She doesn’t need to record captain’s logs anymore, hasn’t for a long time, but it’s the fastest way to keep track of things. Grocery lists and memories from the old crew and whatever else is worth hanging onto these days.

She left her suitcase back in Brussels, so it’s easy to wander the streets with nothing but a backpack and a vague recollection of places she should visit. She’s never been to Australia before. She’d only left the country once, before the Hephaestus, and that was to go to Niagara Falls for the weekend with some friends in high school.

(Sam had laughed when she told him, and she’d raised her eyebrows, said “You telling me you traveled a lot, Oklahoma boy?” like it was a challenge. It always was a challenge, and maybe she’d feel bad about it if he’d ever stopped rising to the challenge. If he hadn’t met her every step of the way, until-)

There’s a list of names tucked away in her backpack. She’s been trying to visit people who deserve to know what happened. Kuan’s sisters, who grieved by screaming. Victoire’s mother, who’d cried as Isabel told her in halting French what happened to her daughter. Sam’s family, who barely reacted at all. Like they already knew he was dead.

They probably did know, she supposes. It’s not like it was hard to guess.

Sydney’s beautiful. She tries to imagine Mace in the city as she walks through it, slowly. He’s not from Sydney, of course, he’s from some smaller town. He used to talk about it, but she can’t remember the name of it, and of course his files with Goddard don’t exist anymore. There’s next to no proof that he was ever there.

But he was here. She imagines him squinting in the sunlight, trying to read a street sign. She imagines him pointing at some local business and saying that there, Captain, that’s his best friend’s uncle’s ice cream shop. She imagines him painted bright in the sun, laughing with his boyfriend, pushing a stroller.

Isabel blinks. That one felt less imaginary.

He’s gone by the time she looks back, of course. She’s been seeing ghosts for the last month. All of Kuan’s sisters had his smile. Every tall man with a suit and a carefully disarming smile is Cutter. Hell, she even sees shades of Minkowski and Eiffel sometimes, even though she knows both of them are safe and sound back stateside. She’s used to it by now. She should be used to it by now.

She still goes straight to her hotel room. Bolts the door once it’s closed. Moves a chair in front of the door just for good measure. Good things never happen when the dead start showing up again. She knows that better than anyone.

Getting back to Earth goes like this:

Goddard debriefs them. It takes weeks, plural, because nobody’s sure what to do with their story. Two of the most important people in the company are currently space debris, and the third doesn’t even remember her own name. And all the rest of them are officially dead.

It’s Jacobi, actually, who’s most helpful in moving things forward. Lovelace gets the impression that it’s because he wants to get out of there as fast as possible, but she has to admit, it’s nice having someone who knows people. Kepler’s name pulls weight, and by extension so does Jacobi’s. It gets things in motion, even with the gaps in the power structure.

The process is also kept completely secret from the public, which they probably weren’t supposed to figure out. Jacobi guesses as much on the second day, snorts and says “it’d look bad for them to be caught in a lie this big,” and that’s supposed to be that. It’s hard to bring people back to life, in terms of paperwork. Probably a nightmare.

But they’re debriefed. They see doctors, who don’t know what to do with Lovelace, human and also decidedly not. They see therapists, who kind of wave Lovelace off because there’s absolutely nothing in their repertoire that could help them deal with aliens. They sit in corporate meeting after corporate meeting where Lovelace tries to focus on getting out and not how badly she wants to rip this company to shreds.

Goddard lets them go on a Tuesday morning. They reach Minkowski’s husband that night, living just outside of Boston, and all of them pile into a house that seems far too empty for one man. Lovelace gets a bedroom to herself. They figure out how to install Hera in the house, because Doug refuses to let her live in a box. She’s up and running by Wednesday morning.

Jacobi’s gone by Wednesday afternoon without so much as a goodbye. It stings, maybe more than it should, but Lovelace has faith that he’ll come back one day. If only because he’s bored.

By the early hours on Thursday she has a list of cities. Shawnee, Brussels, Shanghai, Sydney. She writes and crosses out Moscow a dozen times - even if Selberg was hers he also decidedly wasn’t, and she doesn’t owe that man any more of her sympathy - and does the same for New York City. Who says you can’t go home? Probably other people whose entire families think they died in space years ago.

She makes a second list for good measure. Victoire used to wax rhapsodic about the summer she spent in Iceland, and Kuan had endless stories about visiting cousins in Hawaii. Sam traveled constantly, which she wouldn’t expect from someone from Oklahoma, but he wanted to see the world. Or, no, he felt like it’d be a shame if he didn’t. A shame? An embarrassment? It’s hard to remember his exact words.

It’s hard to remember his exact voice.

Lovelace lifts her voice recorder, brand new, purchased from a RadioShack with a shiny Goddard-issued credit card. “Get back in touch with Canaveral, see if they have any of Lambert’s old logs somewhere. Shake them down if you have to.”

Isabel Lovelace has a valid passport Thursday night. She says her goodbyes on Friday morning, promises to call and hugs Eiffel a little tighter than she should and leaves. She has more ghosts than the rest of them. It’s time to put them to rest.

The problem, which she learns in Oklahoma, is that as much as she wants to get this over with, she can’t start with the families. She tells Sam’s mother what happened one day, his father the next, and then if she stays in Oklahoma for one more goddamn second she thinks she’s going to suffocate, so she’s in Brussels the day after that.

(“That could just be an effect of Oklahoma,” Minkowski - no, Renee says, when Isabel calls her, now in Brussels and still not quite breathing right. “I mean, I’ve never really been there, but it sounds… like Oklahoma.”

“Maybe,” Isabel allows. “But if I’m going to be here, I should start with the tourist thing, right? Instead of just jumping in with the… bad news.”

“The tourist thing,” Renee echoes, in that voice that means she’s not laughing at Isabel, per se, but she’s definitely laughing and it just so happens that Isabel said something funny. “You mean relaxing?”

“I guess I do.”

“You’ve earned it.”

She has. She’s earned it and re-earned it and the universe probably owes her a full year of not dealing with other people’s problems at this point. “Then maybe I’ll stay in Belgium for a while.”

“Just make sure you call,” Renee says, soft and careful. She never says goodbye, only asks for Isabel to call again. And she always does.)

It takes two weeks in Brussels before she has the stomach to find Victoire’s family. After that she stops over in Moscow for all of two days, just to see the sights, and then it’s three weeks in Shanghai. And of course, by the end of that she’s ready to snap in half, so she takes a week for herself in Thailand to recover.

Sydney is warm, not as warm as Thailand but also sunnier. It’s not quiet, but it’s just her and her ghosts there. And it’s going to take a little more work to track down Fisher’s boyfriend - she knows his name’s Corey, he’s a history teacher, and he lives somewhere reasonably close to Sydney - so she might as well take another break.

She ends up on a beach, one of the quieter ones. It’s a weekday morning so it’s not terribly crowded, just a few families that Isabel makes a point of staying away from, carving out her own quiet corner in the sand. She sets up with a towel and an umbrella and a stack of books that she got from airports and-

-and her phone starts ringing.

Isabel sighs. It’d be easy, it’d be so easy to just ignore it, but the fact is not a lot of people call her. This number isn’t in enough databases to get calls, and it would be… inconsiderate if she didn’t take full advantage of Goddard generously footing all her bills for a little while. Including the bill for international calls.

She smoothly reaches into her backpack, resting a carefully-calculated arm’s length away from her on the sand, and swipes to answer. “You’ve reached the phone of Isabel Lovelace. I’m currently unavailable because I finally got to a real beach where I can relax for a while, so leave a message if-”

“Oh, I’m sorry, is this a bad time?” Hera asks, not sounding sorry at all.

Isabel rests back on her towel. “No, Hera, it’s not. Unless there’s an emergency, because I am halfway around the world right now and can’t help.”

“No emergencies. Thank god.”

She smiles, relaxing a little as she does. “And you’re bored?”

“Horribly.”

“What do you do now that nothing’s constantly going wrong?”

“Not much,” Hera admits. “I’ve been teaching myself new languages.”

“Programming language or human language?”

“A bit of both?”

“Of course,” Isabel says. She thinks idly that maybe she would’ve been sarcastic about that, once upon a time, but now it comes out fond. Indulgent. Hera complained about being in a house and how it was so much smaller than the Hephaestus, but now she has the Internet. There’s only so much complaining she can do with the entirety of human knowledge at her fingertips. “How’s everyone?”

Hera hums. “Minko- uh, Renee- shoot. Is it weird that I’m still having trouble with that?”

“It’s only been two months, Hera.”

“But I talk to her every day.”

“And how many days did you call her Minkowski?”

“More than sixty,” Hera admits. “Okay. Uh, Renee’s looking for jobs, although nobody’s really sure what kind of thing she should look for. Doug’s a waiter now, all the customers love him.”

“And everyone’s in one piece?”

“In one piece.” She says it so proudly that Isabel can’t help but smile. “And Renee’s been helping me practice my French.”

“Do you need to practice?”

“Of course I need to practice, just because I know the whole language doesn’t mean I know how to speak it right.”

“One of these days, you should learn a made-up language. Or make your own.”

“I’ve already looked into making up my own, but it’s not as easy as you might think. It’s kind of a fun side project, it’d be nice to talk to a linguist or something sometime. Figure out how-”

“Lovelace?” says someone, about three feet to her right.

She drops her phone. She hadn’t noticed anyone coming towards her, and these days there’s no way to tell if it’s someone hostile or not. From the other end of the phone Hera says something but Isabel’s hand is already halfway into her bag, where she has a knife waiting for her, and she looks up to see who it is and squints against the sunlight and-

“Lovelace,” says Mace Fisher, like he thinks she’s going to disappear.

Slowly, Isabel pulls her hand away from her backpack and lifts her sunglasses, just as Fisher - it can’t be, it has to be - drops to a crouch, then his knees. His hair’s longer now, curling in loose spirals around his cheeks. He has the same scar down one side of his nose. He’s wearing the most horrific swim trunks that she’s seen in her entire life, and he’s staring, and he’s here.

“Fisher,” she says, and he gulps, and suddenly her eyes are stinging. He sits back on his heels, looking winded, and Isabel remembers her phone. She snatches it up and takes a deep breath. “Hera.”

“Ca- Isabel, what’s going on, is everything okay?”

Is everything okay. Of course, everything’s fine. Just Lovelace and her ghosts again. “I’m going to have to call you back.”

“That’s not a yes.”

“I don’t know yet, Hera.” She’s still watching him, of course she is. He looks somewhere off over Isabel’s shoulder, mouths something that she doesn’t bother to try and understand. He must not be here alone. “It’s… complicated.”

“Are you safe?”

“I think so.”

“Call us back,” Hera says, voice small. “Just- just to be on the safe side.”

“Of course,” Isabel says, and hangs up. Fisher is still there, so that’s a good sign, probably. If this isn’t real then at least her brain is collapsing all at once. Hell, they have no idea what the sun’s radiation is going to do to her weird alien brain. Maybe long-term exposure induces hallucinations. Maybe this is the last thing she sees before her internal organs turn to soup. It could be worse, she figures.

Fisher’s still staring at her.

“So,” she says carefully. “This… is new.”

“You died in space,” Fisher says. “I don’t know if you heard.”

“No, I’ve been told.” She looks him up and down. She listened to him die, during that meteor storm. They all did. “You… also died in space.”

He snorts. “Apparently not.”

They never found a body. Of course they didn’t, it was deep space, but they never had anything to remember him by, other than what he left behind. “Apparently not,” she agrees, and her voice is a little thicker than she expected. “How about that?”

Fisher swallows. “The others-”

Isabel’s breath catches. None of the others had been home, when she visited. “They- Mace-”

“Oh,” Fisher breathes, and lunges forward. Isabel lets him, reaches out, pulls him in. And he feels real, not like a hallucination, not a ghost. He’s as real as she is and he’s squeezing her like he’s trying to make sure of it, one hand pressing her head into the crook of his shoulder. “Captain-”

“Oh, god, don’t call me captain,” she laughs, and he huffs out something like a sob, warm against the back of her neck. “I’m nobody’s captain anymore, got it?”

“Aye-aye,” Fisher says, and fans one of his hands out on her back. Isabel laughs again and her eyes are still stinging but she’s not crying, she can’t cry until she understands. “What are you doing here, anyways?”

Isabel sits back on her heels, keeping one hand pressed against Fisher’s shoulder. Just in case he disappears. He pulls away too, a little reluctantly, but one of his hands drops to her knee. “I was, uh. Trying to say goodbyes, you could call it.”

“Ah,” Fisher says. “I take it you haven’t been back long, then.”

“A couple months.” She shrugs. “Goddard… wasn’t interested in letting us go.”

Fisher raises his eyebrows. “Us.”

“It’s a long story.”

“I can imagine.”

“What about you?” Isabel rubs a hand across her eyes, probably scrubbing salt and sand into them, which has to be why the stinging doesn’t go away. “What… how long have you been back?”

Fisher shrugs. “Five years, give or take.”

“So you got back after the first mission.”

“First mission,” Fisher repeats, something like dread creeping into his voice. “Captain-”

“Isabel.”

“If you’re Isabel then I’m Mace.”

Isabel nods and takes a deep breath. “It’s… a really long story. It’s one I can tell you, but-”

“Daddy!” a child’s voice shouts, from somewhere behind Isabel. Mace is on his feet in a flash, so fast that she barely has time to mourn the loss of contact before he’s off and running. It’s just enough to make her panic, so she whips around, climbing to her feet in the process. Her sunglasses tilt dangerously to one side, threatening to fall off, and she manages to settle them back on her face just as she spots Mace again.

He’s crouching low, looking seriously between two kids. Twins, if Isabel had to guess, both of them dark-haired and olive-skinned. They don’t look anything like Mace, but one of them has the same stubborn mouth, and one has the same honest eyes. His kids, if ever she’s seen them.

Cautiously, she takes a couple of steps closer. Mace doesn’t notice, talking in a low, serious voice to the twins. “Five minutes, alright? Five more minutes on the sand and then we can go back in the water, how does that sound?”

“But Kuan said he’s gonna squish my sand castle,” says the one with Mace’s mouth, and Isabel nearly takes a step back. “And I don’t want him to!”

Mace looks seriously at the twin with his eyes. “Kuan.”

“I’m not gonna squish it,” Kuan mutters. “But Sam said his was better than mine, and that’s not nice. ”

Mace turns back to the other twin, looking exasperated. “Sam-”

“Mine’s better,” Sam protests, but he falters instantly and turns to his brother. “I’m sorry, Kuan. You’re right, it wasn’t nice.”

“I’m sorry I said I was gonna squish yours,” Kuan says seriously. “That wasn’t nice either.”

“Good job, boys,” Mace says, and both of the twins brighten up instantly. It figures that Mace would have the most well-adjusted kids Isabel has ever seen. “Daddy just needs three more minutes to talk to his friend, and-”

“Friend?” Sam demands, and both twins turn to her immediately, with that uncanny perceptive stare that children always have.

Isabel’s hands are shaking. She notices it sort of absently, the same way she notices there’s a man with a sleeping baby lying on his chest watching them intently, the same way she notices that the only clouds in the sky are wispy and light and dreamlike. Like it doesn’t affect her that she’s having trouble breathing.

She glances at Mace, over the tops of her sunglasses, and he nods slightly, so she takes a couple steps forward and drops into a crouch next to him. “Hi, guys.”

“You’re friends with Daddy?” asks Kuan.

Isabel nods. “I am. I used to work with him, a long time ago.”

“In space?”

“Yes, in space.”

“Whoa,” Kuan whispers. “Was he cool?”

“The coolest.”

Mace snorts and nudges her with his shoulder, still as solid and real as anything. “Second after you, maybe.”

“Oh, definitely,” Isabel says, with an exaggerated nod, and both of the twins giggle. “But, you know, it’s hard to measure up to me.”

“Daddy’s cool!” Sam bounces up and down. “This one time, this one time he was making pancakes, and he flipped them in the air!”

“In the air?” Isabel repeats, trying to sound like it’s the coolest thing she’s ever heard. “You know, that might just be cooler than me.”

“Never, Captain,” Mace mumbles, and Isabel rolls her eyes. Maybe she shouldn’t teach kids to roll their eyes, but if they’re living with Mace, they’re probably going to be supernaturally patient. Someone has to teach them. “Boys, we can go in the water as soon as I’m done talking to Miss Isabel, alright?”

“Miss Isabel?” Kuan turns so he’s looking at her and leans in, putting his face very, very close to hers. It takes all her self control not to pull back. Children can smell fear, or something. “Like baby Izzy?”

“Baby Izzy,” Isabel repeats. “Is that… a TV show, or something?”

Kuan giggles. “No, silly, it’s our sister!”

“Sister,” Isabel echoes, feeling like a broken record. They have a sister named Isabel. That can’t be right. She turns, carefully, to look at Mace, who is staring intently at the sand by her feet. “Mace.”

“Middle name’s Victoire,” he mumbles, and meets her eyes, looking sheepish. “There’s not a lot else you can do to remember people, these days.”

She understands. When the world has already mourned and moved on, when Isabel’s mission to say her goodbyes was met only with acceptance and grief that’s still heavy on her skin, there’s not much else to do, other than remembering. He had to grieve already, without her.

“Mace,” she says again, her throat so thick that it hurts to say. She swallows a couple times, until she feels like she can breathe again, and says, “We can talk later.”

“Yeah?” Mace says, and she wonders if he expected her to want to talk to him. He looks so… hopeful.

“Yeah.” She takes a deep breath. “I can… you know, I brought books. I have a cell phone that I mostly understand how to use. I can kill time.”

Mace laughs. “Yeah, those have changed a lot. You want to come in the water with us?”

Isabel has gone swimming once, in the last two months. It was in a Goddard facility, for some kind of fitness check-up. It’d been nice at first, cool and refreshing. Chlorine is one of those things that she’d forgotten, not unlike the exact flavor of potato chips and how to talk to children, and she’d even appreciated the sting in her eyes.

It’d taken eight minutes and forty-one seconds, as per her official Goddard chart, before the panic set in. Before the water stopped feeling like water, and all she knew was that she was floating, and if she was floating she must’ve been back in space, back on the Hephaestus, and if she was on the station then she wasn’t safe, and-

Nine minutes. A new record, said the Goddard tech who was observing her. Most former astronauts don’t even make it to five.

“Maybe later,” Isabel says. As long as her feet are on the ground, she should be fine.

“She can sit with me,” someone says, off to one side. It’s the man with the sleeping baby, still watching them. He has one hand resting on the baby’s back, and he looks relaxed, but his eyes are as sharp as anything she’s ever seen. “If you want.”

Isabel nods slowly. “I think I’d like that.”

Mace reaches out and brushes some sand off one of Isabel’s knees, leaving his hand to rest on her thigh. “Alright.”

“Alright,” Isabel repeats, and looks back at the twins. “Sam. Kuan.” She has to take a deep breath, because fuck, even that is hard to say, isn’t it? How does Mace do it every day? “It was very nice meeting you.”

“You too,” Kuan says, very seriously. Just like any kid trying to pretend to be a grown-up. It reminds her of Hui, of her Kuan.

“Are you gonna still be Daddy’s friend?” Sam asks. “Because you look like a good friend.”

A good friend. A good captain who lost her crew and barely scraped out with her second crew. A good person trying to say her goodbyes.

“I will be his friend,” she says. It’s too awkward and stilted for a kid but it’s all she can manage. Friends are hard to come by these days.

Mace squeezes her leg and gets to his feet. “Who’s ready to go in the ocean!”

The twins both scream in excitement, and Isabel glances back at the man who is most certainly Corey. “You mind if I bring my things over?”

“Course not,” Corey says, amiable as anything. “Although I hope you don’t mind that I’m going to be asking you a few questions.”

Isabel smiles faintly. None of them talked about Their People Back Home too often, at least not in the first few hundred days, but she still remembers Mace talking about his boyfriend. He used to say Corey was smart. And suspicious. She can see that already.

As soon as she settles in next to him, Corey points out towards the water. “I had to come to Sydney for a work conference. It was Mace’s idea to make a trip out of it and bring the kids, and he’s been wrangling all three of them by himself for most of the week.”

Isabel follows where he’s pointing. Mace is in the shallows of the ocean, each twin holding his hand. Every time a wave comes in, no matter how small, they all try to jump over it. She can hear the twins shrieking and laughing, and Mace laughing with them. “How old are they?”

“They turned four last month.” Corey smiles faintly. “He was self-conscious about the name thing. Originally it was going to be Samuel Kuan, and then we found out we’d be adopting twins.”

“And you were okay with it?”

“Of course. My boyfriend comes back from space, from the actual dead, and says he wants to name the kids after the people he lost? What kind of a person would say no?”

Isabel nods, and looks at the baby still asleep on Corey’s chest. “She’s quiet.”

Corey snorts and strokes the baby’s - Izzy’s back, smiling down at her. “Tired herself out screaming earlier.”

“I hear that babies do that.”

“You have no idea.”

“How did he come back?”

“We’re still not sure,” Corey admits, and looks back out towards Mace and the twins. “He says the last thing he remembers is getting knocked off the station by a meteor, and then next thing he knows he’s back on the station two years later with nobody but that doctor of yours there.”

Something cold creeps up Isabel’s spine. “And what did the good doctor do?”

“Lied to everyone who came to rescue them.”

“Lied?”

“Said that there was some kind of misunderstanding, that Mace had been with them the whole time in a coma.” Corey shakes his head. “They made it back to Earth and Selburg disappeared. Mace looks for him sometimes.”

“That’s good of him,” Isabel says, because it is. Even if Hilbert doesn’t deserve a damn good thing anymore. Even if he infected Mace with Decima for the sake of research, for some greater good that turned out to be no good at all. Maybe it was his penance, bringing Mace back to Earth. After all, he knew the theta scenario. He probably knew there was no point in running experiments on an alien.

“You don’t sound like you mean it.” Corey looks at her, eyes narrowing. “Do you know how he came back?”

Isabel exhales. “I do.”

Corey takes a deep breath. “I’m not going to ask you to explain, but Mace will.”

“I know.”

“And be careful, when you do. Whatever it is, he already has questions.”

“What kind of questions?

“Doctors have been saying he’s in peak condition for the last five years. They also keep saying that he breaks some of their equipment.”

Psi waves, Isabel thinks. Psi waves, or alien biology, or one of those other things that Pryce and Cutter went on and on about.

Because he’s like her.

“I’ll be careful,” she says, and turns away from Corey’s eyes, back towards the shoreline. One of the twins jumps too high and crashes to his knees in the water. Mace lets go of his hand, just long enough to scoop him up and balance him on his hip. “I’ll tell him the truth, if he asks, but I’m not going to scare him away or anything.”

“Good,” Corey says quietly. “And I know we’ve never met before, but I’m glad you’re not dead.”

Isabel quirks a smile. “Thanks. I’m glad he came back to you.”

“Me too,” Corey murmurs. Mace picks up the other twin now, holding them both carefully, like it’s nothing. Like he was made to hold them. “Me too.”

Mace and Corey have to leave first, because when you have three kids you need to feed them lunch. They leave Isabel with Mace’s phone number, Corey’s number in case Mace’s phone dies, and a small collection of seashells that Kuan picked out for her.

(“I didn’t get her anything,” Sam whispers, looking absolutely horrified, and then proceeds to dump a child-size fistful of sand on each of Isabel’s thighs. “Is mud good for your skin?”

Mace, who’s reapplying sunscreen on Kuan, takes one look at Isabel’s face and laughs so hard that he has to sit down.)

And then they’re gone, and it’s Isabel, by herself on a beach. Just like she wanted.

The breeze keeps blowing. The air still tastes like salt. The waves keep crashing on the sand. There are still families around, but a few have filtered out, probably to go to lunch or school or whatever else families in Sydney have to do. Maybe they’re on vacation. Maybe they’re just passing through. Maybe she’s just passing through, although she’s not sure where exactly she’ll go after this. She still has that list: Reykjavik for Victoire, Honolulu for Kuan, Sao Paulo and Quebec and Copenhagen and San Francisco for Sam. Disneyland. New York. Boston.

She doesn’t remember getting to her feet, but the next thing she knows she’s standing in the shallows. The water’s around her ankles, lapping against her calves, gritty with sand and salt. It feels good. It’s grounding.

She’s holding her cell phone. Slowly, she punches in the numbers and holds her breath.

Renee picks up on the second ring. “Hey! I was just about to call you, I got a package from Goddard today. Apparently they archived all of your crew’s old logs on analog recorders. Less of a chance of a hacker accidentally finding some of Goddard’s dirty laundry. Hera and Dom are going to try and convert them to digital for you, although you can always come pick them up in person.”

Isabel swallows. The world seems too bright, suddenly. She’s not used to the sunlight, she might never be used to the sunlight again, she spent seven years in deep space and she was dead for three of those. Or maybe she was only alive for two of them.

She remembers Lambert’s voice. Or maybe she just remembers a ghost of it. It’d be another thing, another thing entirely, to have his logs. Or to have him in front of her. The way Mace was.

“Isabel?” Renee says cautiously. “Are you there?”

“There’s a baby here named after me,” Isabel says abruptly. It seems like the easiest entry point.

Renee goes quiet. Isabel takes the opportunity to lower herself so she’s sitting in the water. She’d forgotten what sand felt like, but it’s the kind of muddy sand that’s easy to bury your toes in. She has one foot halfway covered in mud when Renee finally says, cautiously, “We’ve only been back for two months.”

“I know.”

“That’s not enough time for that to happen.”

“She was adopted.”

“Who adopted her?”

“Mace Fisher, from my old crew.”

Another silence. This one only lasts long enough for Isabel to get the toes of her other foot into the sand, before: “Is there some kind of an explanation for this?”

“I think it’s another theta scenario.” She pauses. “Actually, I’m sure of it, because the only other option is that I just vividly hallucinated a two-hour encounter with five people, only one of whom I’d ever met before.”

“Who were the other four?”

“His partner and kids.”

“You never met them?”

“Never had the chance. Kids are all under the age of four anyways. For all I know-” Isabel swallows, hoping it wasn’t too obvious that her voice cracked. For all she knows it was just wishful thinking.

Renee sighs noisily. “Did you look them up on Facebook?”

“What?”

“Facebook. Finding a profile page to see if you were imagining them.”

Isabel blinks. “No.”

“Alrighty then,” Renee says briskly. It’s kind of a comfort: all business, no question of what it means if Isabel is seeing things, just another fact-finding mission. Isabel can hear her tap a few buttons, and then: “Hera, you busy?”

“No,” Hera says immediately. “No, I’m- Isabel! You hung up so fast earlier, was everything okay?”

“I ran into one of my old crew members,” Isabel says, as no-nonsense as she possibly can. Renee’s certainly not fooled, but Hera just might be, if she plays her cards right. “We’re trying to figure out what’s going on.”

“We’re looking for a Facebook page,” Renee explains. “Or some other kind of social media.”

“Ooooh, finally, something interesting!”

Isabel grins. She can’t see Renee, all the way in Massachusetts, but she can still imagine Renee grinning back at her. “I don’t have a lot for you to go on,” she warns. “His name is Mason Fisher, and his partner’s name is Corey.”

“Last name?”

“Don’t know.”

“Occupation?”

“Corey’s a history teacher, or at least he was seven years ago. Mace was in the military.”

“Anything else?”

“They have three kids, Sam, Kuan, and Izzy.”

“And they live in Australia?”

“Yes. Although I’m not sure where.”

Hera hums to herself. “You sure like to give a girl a challenge, I’ll tell you that. And my first Facebook search isn’t picking up anything.”

Isabel’s heart hiccups in her throat. “Nothing?”

“Not yet, but I started with all the parameters in place and I’m broadening the search as we go.”

“Try the other sites too,” Renee suggests. “Twitter, or Instagram, or whatever people are using these days.”

“I’m already running those too,” Hera says. Isabel knows that tone of voice. It’s the “I don’t want to tell you my systems are failing, but they are” voice. “I’m still not seeing anything. And I’m running Corey with an E-Y, Cory with just a Y, I’m putting K’s in there-”

“Have you tried LinkedIn?” a new voice says. “If they’re trying to fly under the radar, which they very well might be, they won’t be on Facebook, but most professionals are on there these days.”

“Oooh,” Renee says softly. “Good one, Dom.”

“Thank you. Hi, Isabel.”

“Hi, Dominik.”

“Are you still in Thailand?” Dominik asks, sounding completely unbothered by the fact that his wife’s best friend is searching for evidence of someone who might not exist. Isabel likes that about him. He takes everything in stride.

“Australia, actually.”

“Staying in the warm half of the world, I see.”

Isabel snorts. “Yeah, it’s great, it’s always sunny in Sydney.”

“Oh, god,” Renee mutters. “You know, it’s crazy to say this, but I’m still not used to the sun. Like, the actual sun, you know what I mean? Heat that isn’t from a vent, light that isn’t from a bulb…”

“Or a star outside the window,” Isabel adds. “And isn’t blue.”

“Isn’t blue!” Renee snaps her fingers. “I keep expecting everything to be blue!”

“And way colder.”

“God, way colder. And I keep forgetting about gravity.”

Isabel laughs, a little more wetly than she intends, but she can’t help it. “Earlier today I was lying on the beach, reading a book, and I went to put the book down-”

“Oh, no,” Renee laughs, like she’s already figured out the punchline to the joke. Or already lived it out a dozen times over.

“Except, of course, I just let go of it, and it fell-” Isabel smacks her knee with one hand. “Right into my solar plexus.”

Dom chuckles. “Hopefully it wasn’t too heavy.”

“Eh, just an airport paperback. Heaviest thing about it was the main character’s tragic backstory.” She sighs. “Worst part was that I cursed loudly on a public beach and almost woke up a sleeping baby, but-”

“Check your phone,” Hera says suddenly. “Is this him?”

Isabel pulls her phone away from her ear and looks at it. The message from Hera opens on its own, as messages from Hera are wont to do. It’s a professional headshot, much cleaner and more put-together than he’d been on the beach.

“Yeah,” Isabel says, a little winded. “That’s Corey.”

“Awesome,” Hera says, clearly relieved. “Corey Rapp, that’s C-O-R-E-Y, has a LinkedIn profile, thank you, Dominik. He’s still a history teacher at a secondary school north of Sydney. Government records show he adopted twins about four years ago and a daughter last year, like you said. No evidence of a spouse or partner, at least not on the record, but knowing what Goddard’s like, that doesn’t mean anything. Doesn’t look like Corey has a Facebook or anything under his own name.”

“Neither do I,” Renee points out. “If anything that makes them smart. Means they’re watching out.”

“Good choice,” Dominik murmurs. Isabel agrees, would say as much if she could remember how to breathe.

Mace is here. He’s alive, more than six years after he died, and he’s also definitely an alien. She’s going to have to tell him. Maybe Corey, too, depending on how Mace takes it. She’s not the only one in the world, and somehow, that’s worse than if she were alone. At least if it were just her she wouldn’t have anything to feel guilty about.

“Lovelace,” Renee says quietly.

Isabel blinks. Her skin is hot. Right. Sunlight. Beach. She’s here. “Hey.”

“You okay?”

“I’m good.”

“Hera and Dom left,” Renee says cautiously. “You kinda went dark for a minute there. Anything you wanna talk about?”

“Not really.”

“How about things you don’t want to talk about?”

“Oh, there are way more of those, don’t worry.”

“I’d be more worried if there weren’t,” Renee admits. “So. You found your alien crewmate who survived the most unlikely series of events that any human has experienced.”

“You really think that’s more unlikely than what we went through?”

“Eh.” Isabel can picture the accompanying shrug, almost jokingly nonchalant. “It’s gotta be on the list, right? Anything involving aliens is… up there.”

“Oh, up there,” Isabel mutters, and Renee makes a soft noise that somehow sounds like a smile. “How’s Doug?”

“Definitely the most well-adjusted out of all of us.”

“Hera said he got a job?”

“He works the night shift at Olive Garden. Customers love him.”

“Wow.”

“Yeah,” Renee says, and then goes quiet, and Isabel feels… bad, for a few seconds. She’d been with Renee and Doug for a while, but what they’d had, the casual trust and the years of determination to survive, was irreplaceable. Doug-and-Renee is never going to be the same as Eiffel-and-Minkowski.

“How about you?” Isabel asks, and then kind of wants to kick herself. That’s not necessarily a better talking point.

Renee hums. “Better than I’ve been. Dom and I decided I can’t go back to the military, what with being legally dead, so I’ve been trying to put together the case against Goddard.”

“By yourself?”

“With Hera, sometimes.”

“So by yourself.”

“Mostly,” Renee admits. “I was going to wait for you to come back, but…”

But this trip was supposed to take two weeks, tops, and Isabel hasn’t come back yet. But she has a second list of places to visit. But now she found somewhere else that she could stay for a while. But you can’t plan on someone who might not come back, don’t you know that by now, Captain?

“I’ll help once I’m back,” Isabel says, which she figures is the most honest thing she can say. When she’s ready she’s going to burn Goddard to the ground. Which reminds her: “Have you heard anything from Jacobi?”

“Not yet.”

“And you haven’t tracked him down?”

“Isabel,” Renee chides. “He’s an adult, he’s not my responsibility, and if his way of handling it is leaving, then I’m not here to judge him for it.”

“So that’s a no,” Isabel says, and grins when Renee groans. “He’ll turn up sooner or later.”

“Yeah, I know. And what about you?”

“What about me?”

“Fisher’s alive,” Renee says, like Isabel could have possibly forgotten. “You’re not the only theta scenario. You’re in another new country by yourself. Take your pick. I have a couple reasons to be worried here.”

And Isabel thinks about it, actually thinks about it. It’d be easy to lie, sure, but Renee would know, and she figures if they’re in this whole space trauma business together she might as well be honest.

She pulls one of her feet out of the sand, sticking it into the water. “I'm coping,” she says slowly. “It’s early yet in the process. I think I might be going through the opposite of the five stages of grief.”

“Is that going through the stages in backwards order or experiencing the opposite of each stage?”

“I’ll let you know.”

“Thinking you were hallucinating could be a form of denial,” Renee says, far too thoughtful. “Or the opposite of acceptance? Is that how it works?”

“I don’t know, shrinks gave up on me, remember?” Isabel’s phone buzzes in her hand, and she glances at the screen. “Mace is calling me.”

“Then answer!”

“Okay,” Isabel says, and then, “Thank you.”

Renee doesn’t ask what she’s thanking her for. She’s smart like that. “Any time. Time zones don’t matter, just call.”

“I will,” Isabel says. It’s not quite a lie. “Talk to you soon, Renee.”

“Talk to you soon, Isabel.”

Isabel swipes over to answer. “Mace.”

“Isabel,” Mace says brightly. She almost doesn’t catch the note of surprise. “I realized I forgot to ask how long you’re in Sydney.”

“Until I leave.”

“No dates?”

“Well, you know, international travel gets a lot easier when a multibillion dollar company is footing the bill.”

“Huh,” Mace says. “Well, if you’re not busy tonight-”

“Isabel,” Renee says, sounding far too amused, and Isabel almost jumps out of her skin in surprise. “You didn’t hang up on me.”

Isabel frowns. “Apparently not. Did I make it a conference call?”

“You’re still not used to the new phone,” Renee says smugly, which is completely unfair. Phones have changed a lot in seven years, and Isabel is entitled to a few moments of staggering confusion. “That’s okay, you know.”

“Took me a while to get used to it too,” Mace says, in what’s probably supposed to be a sympathy move. “Touch screens and all.”

“You must be Mace Fisher,” Renee says, and Isabel’s breath catches. It’s so outrageously her, making a point of acknowledging that she can hear the person on the other end of the phone. “I’m Renee Minkowski. Former commander of the final mission to the USS Hephaestus Station, which is currently space dust.”

“Can’t say I’m sad to hear about that,” Mace admits. “And Captain, you owe me… so many explanations for all of that.”

“Many, many explanations,” Isabel agrees. “I can pay for drinks too.”

“I’ll leave you two to make plans now.” Renee pauses, and Isabel can feel the smugness from thousands of miles away. It’s strangely comforting. “Isabel, don’t worry, I can hang up on my own.”

“I’m so happy for you,” Isabel says as dryly as possible. “I’ll call you soon, Renee.”

“You’d better,” Renee says, and then there’s a soft beep.

Isabel exhales. “So. Drinks?”

“I probably shouldn’t leave my hotel, if Corey’s alone with the kids, but-”

“Hotel bar?”

“Hotel bar. I’ll send you the address.”

“Let me know when it’s a good time to come.”

“I will.” Mace pauses. “So, we can talk about this later, but…”

“But?”

“Renee, hm?”

Isabel groans. “Mace.”

“Are you guys close?”

“Come on.”

“No, I’m just saying, you sounded happy to talk to her.”

“That’s because I was.”

“Good,” Mace says, sounding pleased. “I have to run now, I just wanted to call and check.”

“Yeah,” she says softly. “I’ll see you tonight, Mace.”

“I’ll see you tonight,” he echoes, and then there’s that soft beep again, and Isabel’s alone on the beach.

One of her feet is still buried in the sand. Carefully, she wiggles her toes. The mud squishes between them. It almost tickles, and she can feel some of the sand dissolving in the water. The shallows are still lapping around her, against her hips, her thighs, one hand that she plants in the sand while she cradles her phone in the other.

There was a point where she thought she’d never make it back to a beach. She hadn’t been to many beaches before space, and definitely not many with actual oceans. The Air Force isn’t exactly interested in destination resorts, after all. But here she is. Sitting on a beach in Sydney.

Isabel swirls her hand through the water, letting the sand cloud around her. She never thought she would feel sand again. Or sun. Or the sheer gratitude of knowing that someone else made it out alive. She has another list, one that’s been getting longer: things she’s getting to experience again. Maybe for the first time, depending how you look at it.

Sydney is bright in the summer. There are people waiting for her in Boston, and a list of cities she has to visit. There’s a stack of books on the beach, next to her backpack, underneath an umbrella. She should go back to those and make some kind of progress, or at the very least make sure nobody takes her book before she can finish it.

She stays in the ocean, just a little longer. It’s not every day that she gets the chance.

#wolf 359 #wolf 359 fic #w359 fic #isabel lovelace #mace fisher #waveridden.fic #i'm not tagging anything else this is already niche as fuck

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sunshinemiranda · 7 years

Text

King of the Lost Boys - Anthony Ramos x Reader (Chapter 4)

Summary: Nibs seems to see a certain spark between you and Pan. Some Pablo Neruda is traded for intimacy. A waltz ends up in a fight. Hook wants Neverland.

Warnings: Swearing! (it’s pretty much all Nibs that kid curses like a sailor)

Words: 5,299 (listen...just listen...)

A/N: oh my god i have sucked so bad with writing lately. this helped me get over a block but i also totally procrastinated studying for an exam haha priorities so that’s great! there is a song that plays in this chapter so i’ll just link it on one of the words in the scene. please listen to it, oh my god, it is so good. enjoy.

askbox | masterlist

Change was in the air. Everyone could feel it crackling in the air like electricity. The future loomed, clouded, unsure and threateningly close. Time seemed to pull to an immediate stop in Neverland, but as soon as you stepped one foot on the highway asphalt, it was if the world had to compensate for the temporary freeze by speeding up instead.

“God, before this term is over, Mr. Kravitz will actually kill me.” Nibs was groaning from the corner, buried in piles of textbooks, loose pages and half-finished assignments.

“You’ll be fine,” you chuckled. “Besides, it’s too hard for him to kill a student who never goes to his class.”

Narrowing his eyes, he flipped his middle finger in your general direction, to which you replied with an affectionate grin. Things with Daveed had smoothed over in a way that you had never thought possible. He was more insecure than anyone believed him to be and a new bond of trust between the two of you made talking through it much easier. You had worked past your prejudices, and he had finally gained a friend through more than compensation. It was the perfect equation.

“So, (Y/N), since you’re a new member of the Lost Boys,” he drawled, standing to make his way to sit across from you. “I’ve got to ask. When are you going to fuck Pan?”

You, in the middle of drinking from a mug of tea, choked ungraciously as you sputtered through words. “Oh my God. You can’t just spring that shit on me. The answer to that is: A, I don’t have to tell you anything and B, don’t ask stupid questions, dickhead.”

He reached one of his long legs out to kick gently at your shin, a bit of a laugh bubbling from his chest as you choked on mint tea. “You do have to tell me something because you’re one of us now, and my questions are gloriously stupid, thank you very much. It’s one of my talents with the ladies. They all think I’m dumb.”

You couldn’t help but snort out a laugh as he made a show of himself, puffing his chest out in mock pride and flexing to the point of it looking painful. “You know, that’s probably the truest thing you’ve ever said in your life. I always did wonder how you got so many dates. You have a truly unmatched talent and being unintelligent. Congratulations.”

“Don’t you try to get purposefully carried away now. We have to talk about this.”

“Nibs, there is nothing to talk about. Pan and I kissed like, once at a bar. He was drunk, I was drunk. People do that all the time and never even interact again.”

“First of all, Pan was sober as fuck when that happened. It’s not that he doesn’t drink, it’s just that he hadn’t gotten to it when you guys made out. He made that decision in good judgment and through a valid choice.”

“Fine,” you rolled your eyes. “Then let’s just say I was drunk. That still doesn’t change anything.”

“Actually, yes it does. It takes Pan at least, like, four shots to actually find a girl he’s willing to swap saliva with. It didn’t take any for you.”

“Gross. We did not ‘swap saliva’, Daveed.”

“Right. And I don’t think your friend is hot. Anyway, you’re right when you say people do that all the time and never speak again. Remember who you’re talking to, babe, I’m the master at avoiding. Problem is, you guys interact. A lot. And half of it is charged with this weird, frustrated, sexual tension that just makes everyone uncomfortable.”

You gave a groan and let your head fall back on the couch. “Can we please not discuss my love life? I already feel like enough of a sinner in your presence.”

“So it’s your love life with Pan, now? Hm. Interesting.” Daveed nudged your leg again, a shit-eating grin on his face.

“Fuck you, Diggs.”

“Wrong person, (Y/N). The person you want is Anthony, who, by the way, should be getting here any minute now.”

You cocked an eyebrow at him. “Wow. You’ve really painted me into a corner. Way to use your clever wit. I’m not scared of being in his presence, Daveed.”

“I believe that,” he nodded, and it was sincere. “I just think it’s better for you guys to be alone, so I’ll be leaving when he gets here. That way, you guys can talk it out without other people in the room, and when I say talk it out, I mean use that couch for what it’s for.”

“Nibs, you don’t understand. He’s…different with me, and different with you. It’s like he has-“

“Two personalities.” Daveed gave a sigh, reaching into his pocket for a cigarette and a lighter. “I know. It’s a problem for him.”

“You knew this entire time?” You couldn’t do anything but stare. Up until this point, it had been a Jekyll and Hyde case with Anthony that you thought had been under wraps this entire time.

“We all do. It’s hard to talk about it with him, he gets so defensive. We were all hoping that he’d realize he doesn’t have to pretend to be a hard-headed dick in the public eye now that he’s met you.”

Eyes widening, you opened your mouth to pull a snarky reply together but the screen door clattering open dragged your attention away.

Anthony stood there, in all his leather-jacket clad glory and God, it seemed like he looked even more beautiful than the last time you’d seen him. His hair was down for once, and the sun had brought out his star-kissed freckles. He shot you a smile and the part of your brain that could not be controlled whispered, fuck. Daveed was right.

“Right, that’s my cue,” Daveed stood, throwing his leather jacket over his shoulder. “I should get going. Nice to see you, Pan.” He reached out and grasped his leader’s hand for a moment before sweeping by you, shooting you a quick, almost imperceptible wink as he exited.

Anthony took a seat, letting out a tired breath. The smile was still on his face but it was uneasy now. The atmosphere had changed. “Was Nibs bothering you?”

“Yeah, but just the usual kind of bothering. I don’t think Daveed can help but get on everybody’s nerves, at least a little.” You offered a smile, an olive branch of sorts.

“Oh, God, I know. I still don’t understand how these women fall at his feet while he manages to still be that childish.” A laugh fell from his lips and it was as if the sound dissolved all the uneasiness in the air. He was truly a magic kind of boy.

“He’s undeniably good at what he does,” you chuckled, leaning back on the couch as you took a sip of your tea.

He let out a breath, closing his eyes with exhaustion momentarily before he shook himself and glanced at the table in front of you. It was covered in different books, highlighters, colour coded page markers. A Pablo Neruda book was open on the table, orange highlighter picking out special lines.

“Did I interrupt anything?” He asked, concerned, and gave a gesture to the table.

His comment ripped you back to reality and, blushing, you reached forward to scramble your open books and highlighters into a pile. “No, no, I was…I was just reading.”

“You need all that,” he chuckled, moving from the wooden chair to take a spot next to you on the couch. “Just to read?”

“Well…yes,” you smiled, staring at the half-open Neruda book in your hands, still open to a poem titled Absence. “I can’t read a Neruda book, or Whitman’s words without knowing I have a highlighter. I feel like if I don’t remind myself which parts made me feel something, that I’ll forget it altogether and I’ll never remember why Charles Bukowski made me feel a certain way.”

A silence passed and you looked up to see him staring at you, eyes deep with awe and reflection. You blushed, looking away hurriedly, embarrassment coiling deep in your chest.

“It sounds stupid, doesn’t it.” You attempted a laugh, looking down at your hands as your face burned.

He paused, and then reached out, gently taking the Neruda book from your hands. Gently, he reached out to tip your chin up, encouraging you to meet his eyes again. He was smiling.

“I love Neruda.”

It was a silent assurance, a wordless comfort that he understood, more than anyone you had ever met, what it meant to be at the mercy of words.

“Then let’s read some,” you smiled, reaching to take the book from his hands. You flipped through the pages thoughtfully, silently wondering which beautiful passage to read from. Finally, you found something.

“Beloved of the rivers, beset by azure water and transparent drops-“ you started, but the look of recognition on his face dragged your attention to him.

“I love this one.” He grinned.

“Me too,” you admitted, tucking a stray hair behind your ear.

“(Y/N), please, could you continue?” He asked, voice soft. “It sounds so good when you read it.”

The way he stared at you with the wondrous eyes that seemed to reflect in the curious gaze belonging to children made your heart clench painfully. The realization that the two of you were still, simply kids came flowing back. Somewhere in the past, he had been let down and you felt a strong willingness to right every wrong committed against him rise up in your chest. You sent him a fond smile before continuing.

“Like a tree of veins your specter, of dark goddess biting apples; and then awakening naked to be tattooed by rivers, and in the wet heights your head filled the world with new dew. Water rose to your waist, you are made of wellsprings and lakes shone on your forehead. From your sources of density you drew water like vital tears, and hauled the riverbeds to the sand across the planetary night, crossing rough dilated stone, breaking down on the way.” In glancing up, you caught a sight of him mouthing the words of the poem to himself, leaning ever closer to hear you say them.

“All the salt of geology, cutting through forests of compact walls, dislodging the muscles of quartz.”

You set the book down and looked up to grin at him, to which he returned it.

“That one always reminds me of Neverland. I didn’t lie, you know?”

“About what?” you enquired.

“About it sounding good when you read it. It really did.”

“Thank you.” You found yourself blushing harder than you had planned. “You’ve got a good voice too, you know. You should read one.”

“Okay. My turn then,” he smiled and you reached to place the book in his hands. He flipped through the pages until he found a particularly highlighted page, marked all over with notes in the margins and orange streaking line after line.

“I have scarcely left you, when you go in me, crystalline, or trembling.” His voice struck a resounding, plaintive chord within you and the air itself seemed to still at the sound of his voice speaking poetry. It was all of a sudden imbued with a magic that was incomparable. It seemed that he was practically made to speak beautiful words. “Or easy, wounded by me, or overwhelmed with love, as when your eyes close upon the gift of life that without cease, I give to you.”

He looked up, saw the rapt attention with which you listened and moved closer to you, took one of your palms in his. His fingers ran rampant, tracing lines over your fingers, exploring, and yet still preoccupied with the words on the page.

“My love, we have found each other thirsty and we have drunk up all the water and the blood, we have found each other hungry and we bit each other as fire bites, leaving wounds in us.”

You could hardly breathe with his presence and yet you were so enraptured that your body seemed to tremble at his tone. It was overwhelming in the sweetest way possible.

“But wait for me,” his voice had softened. “Keep for me your sweetness. I will give you, too, a rose.”

The room fell so quiet that even the birds of Neverland ceased their singing. Then, in unison, the two of you drew a breath and released it at the same time, as if your lungs had synced on purpose, your hearts matched beat and oh God, his hand was still tracing shapes over yours.

“My turn,” you murmured, voice barely a whisper.

It didn’t take long to find the poem you had pored over endlessly. After the first night you had met this boy, someone who had managed to reinvent your world in the space of one hour, you had read these words over and over, finding relevance and bittersweet memories in every line. It was painfully familiar.

“We have lost even this twilight. No one saw us this evening, hand in hand, while the blue night dropped on the world. I have seen, from my window, the fiesta of sunset in the distant mountain tops.”

His fingertips started their motion again. You had to remember how to breathe before you could continue.

“Sometimes a piece of sun burned like a coin in my hand. I remembered you with my soul clenched in that sadness of mine that you know. What were you then? Who else was there? Saying what? Why will the whole of love come on me suddenly when I am sad and feel you are far away?”

You ventured a glance past the book and saw him staring intently at you, eyes searching, searching, and then finding. You weren’t sure what he had been looking for but by the look in his eyes, you assumed he had found it. Your stomach fluttered.

“The book fell that always closed at twilight and my blue sweater rolled like a hurt dog at my feet. Always, always you recede through the evenings, toward the twilight erasing statues.”

A prolonged silence marked the end of Pablo Neruda’s words flowing between you and his hands wandered past the heel of your palm, pushing back the leather jacket that marked you as one of his circle to start tracing shapes against your wrist. An involuntary shiver travelled down your back.

“There’s this one that always reminds me of you.�� He whispered.

“Read it to me.”

He flicked through the pages gently, as if afraid that a sound too loud would break the balance you two had created with so much poetry heavy in the air. Finally he found the desired page and you caught a glimpse of the title: Sonnet XVII. It was your favourite.

“I do not love you as if you were salt-rose, or topaz, or the arrow of carnations the fire shoots off.” By the first line, his voice had punctured the air like a golden arrow. It was boyish and youthful, soft, powerful and undeniably magic. Everything with Pan seemed to be touched by fairy dust.

“I love you as certain dark things are to be loved: in secret, between the shadow and the soul. I love you as the plant that never blooms but carries in itself the light of hidden flowers; thanks to your love a certain solid fragrance, risen from the earth, lives darkly in my body.”

You leaned closer to hear his words and revel in the atmosphere he created and so did he, an ever-present desire for closeness deep in his heart. Soon enough you were tucked against his side, hand on his chest as his voice created vibrations that tickled your palm. His arm draped gently over your waist and there you sat, knee to knee, hip to hip, side to side, as you listened and he read.

“I love you without knowing how, or when, or from where. I love you straightforwardly, without complexities or pride. So I love you because I know no other way than this: where I do not exist, nor you, so close that your hand on my chest is my hand, so close that your eyes close as I fall asleep.”

The air crackled as he closed the book and set it down. His eyes went to you immediately and stayed there, searching for that same thing he had been looking for just a moment ago and staying locked on that. You slowly realized that he had found it with more ease this time. You had let your feelings become too obvious and it was time to stop being a child. Pulling away quickly, something in the air broke and the world started to spin again.

“I have to go. I promised I’d meet Nat at the Lagoon for a few drinks.” You stood, posture wooden, pretending to brush at your clothing to avert your eyes.

He stood too and as you looked up, you were astonished to see that he hadn’t closed down and exhibited his defense mechanism of lashing out. There was a soft smile still on his lips.

“Okay.” It was a simple but genuine reply and before you could realize the significance of that, he leaned forward and pressed a kiss on your cheek, light enough to be the brush of a fairy’s wing. “Be safe, (Y/N).”

You could do nothing but smile as you nodded, pushing out of the screen door as your stomach tumbled like a clothes dryer.

Pablo Neruda would never be the same again.

“So you guys read poetry to each other…and still didn’t make out.” Daveed’s voice was disbelieving and you could see him cocking an eyebrow at you from where he sat.

“Yeah, pretty much.”

“Oh, for fuck’s sake, (Y/N), just jump his bones, it’s not that hard, I don’t see why-“

“Am I interrupting something?” Slightly grinned from the doorway, a messenger bag likely full of pages of writing draped over his shoulder.

“Nothing at all,” you replied, glad for another presence. “Come on in. Nibs was just being lecherous, as per usual.”

“You know it,” Daveed grinned, shrugging shamelessly.

“Why am I not surprised?” Lin laughed, setting his stuff down before taking a seat next to you on the couch.

“Hey, don’t you put this all on me. (Y/N)’s the one who won’t take initiative.”

“Oh, sure, ‘take initiative’, is that what you call it now?” You sent Nibs a glare.

“Ah. Are we talking about the sensitive subject of Pan’s softening towards our newest member?” Lin added.

“See? See? Slightly sees it too!”

“Oh for fuck’s sake.” You gave a groan and fell sideways, head landing in Lin’s lap. He chuckled, reaching down to ruffle your hair.

“What? Trouble in paradise?”

“Lin, there is no paradise. Jesus, you guys just don’t get it.” You pouted.

Lin’s hands had began to smooth over your hair gently, not unlike a caring sibling would to quell your stressing fears. “(Y/N), reading poetry with Pan is pretty much as intimate as anyone has ever gotten with him. Ever.”

“Can we please talk about something else?” You groaned, about to huff but soothed by Lin’s touch against your hair.

“Sure. How about the fact that Slightly’s hair makes him look like one of the founding fathers?” Daveed grinned.

Wordlessly, Lin reached for a pillow and whipped it at him as you laughed, unable to stop your giggles.

“Fuck you, man. I like it long.”

“Totally. John Adams could only wish.”

Lin flipped him off with a huff. “Shut up. Besides, if I was any one of the founding fathers, it would be Washington, the guy was a badass. Do you guys have any idea what he-“

“No, we don’t, and we don’t want to.” Nibs interrupted, rolling his eyes.

As you giggled, Lin’s hand still tugging through your hair, a movement out of the corner of your eye pulled your attention.

Anthony swept through the door, a grin already in place on his mouth but it faltered as he caught sight of you, mid-laugh, looking quite comfortable on Slightly’s lap. What made it worse was that Lin had clearly made no attempt to curb that behavior and the sight of his hands brushing gently through your hair made Pan’s hands tighten into fists.

“Anthony, yo, what’s up man?” Daveed stood to reach out for a one-armed hug as a greeting. Pan went along with it half-heartedly.

“I…” he started, taking a breath before straightening. “I was just dropping by, wanted to see who was here. I should go.”

You frowned, sitting up from Lin’s lap as you fixed him with a curious look. “Why don’t you stay?”

“I’m just not feeling up to it, okay?” He threw back, a bit of bitterness leaking into his tone. You startled back, hurt and confused.

Daveed quirked an eyebrow, looking between Pan and you. “Oh…kay. Huh. Alright, well, see you around Anthony.”

Before Nibs could even finish his farewell, the screen door rattled closed and the room fell silent.

“What the hell was that all about?” You huffed.

“Oh, honey…” Daveed simpered, shaking his head. “You really don’t know?”

Lin sent you a sheepish smile. “I think he’s jealous. Sorry, I didn’t mean to make anything weird.”

“No, no it’s fine.” You breathed out, reassuring him with a half-hearted smile. “I should go explain.”

“Yeah, you should. Kiss him while you’re at it too, huh?” Daveed laughed.

You sent him a goodbye in the form of an affectionate middle finger before stepping out of the projection room, taking a breath of Neverland air that always seemed to be tinged with a sort of un-placeable sweetness.

Ahead you saw Anthony’s receding back, just about to enter the path that lead back to the highway. His pace was quick and you needed to jog to catch up but that started to become pointless too, so you called out.

“Anthony!” He didn’t turn at the sound of your voice but he did stop and that gave you enough time to make your way to his side. “Why did you leave like that? Is something wrong?”

The concern in your voice seemed to pull the tension from his shoulders and he deflated, looking down at the ground. “Just tell me one thing.”

“Anything.”

“Did you read poetry with Slightly too?”

So he was jealous. A small smile turned the corners of your mouth up and you reached out to brush your hand against his, just barely, pinky against pinky.

“No. No, I would never. What you saw back there was just friendliness. Nothing more.”

He took another breath then finally met your eyes and the relief that you found in his gaze both delighted and terrified you. Attachment could not be far behind and your heart quivered at the thought.

“Good.” He grinned. “Come on, I have something I wanted to show you, it’s what I came here to do.”

He reached and grasped your hand in his, a motion that seemed hauntingly familiar. It tingled an electric current through all your nerves, every limb of yours feeling a jolt of something you had never felt before. You followed happily, a part of you feeling terrifyingly satisfied with going with him anywhere he wished.

“Where are we going?” You questioned, eyebrow raised.

“It’s a surprise.” He shrugged, focusing forwards after a vague reply.

“Anthony, last time you showed me a surprise was-“

“Was when I showed you Neverland. And how did that work out?” He turned to you, raising an expectant eyebrow as a triumphant grin spread across his face.

“Okay, okay.” You resigned, pretending to grumble as a wave of curiosity and excitement rattled your stomach.

He took you down a path you had never seen before and the lack of familiarity delighted you. It was like taking a final plunge off a cliff’s edge or willingly throwing yourself into a dark room that you had no idea how to escape from. The possibilities became endless and soon there was nothing to concern yourself with other than Anthony’s presence and the forest around you. It wasn’t a long way to travel and after fifteen minutes of throwing banter back and forth, complete with a few Neruda references, you arrived at the mouth of a clearing. The grass seemed to thrive better in this area, becoming a healthier, deeper green. The trees seemed to take delight in the clear magic in the area, their branches reaching taller than any of the other pines in Neverland. Birds sang sweeter, the air was charged with a peacefulness that seemed to be balanced perfectly. Right in the centre of the clearing stood a huge stump, much too big for you and Anthony to wrap your arms around, even at full wingspan. It would have been a regular sight if it weren’t for the unmistakable glow that seemed to flow from every crevice and crack of the stump. Something inside was shining brightly and you weren’t exactly sure how the hell it could work but being a Lost Boy led you to leave logic far, far behind.

“I call this place Fairy Hollow,” Anthony smiled, voice returning to a shy softness.

“I can see why.” You sent him a smile, glancing to his face then back to the enchanting light that seemed to touch every surface in the clearing.

“Sometimes,” he whispered, eyes trained on you as if he couldn’t get them away. “You can hear music, if you listen really closely. It’s quiet.”

You nodded, following his advice immediately and nearly cutting off your own breath to keep the silence that suspended the clearing in a perfect sort of cradle. Frozen, the both of you waited with baited breath, not daring to speak a word. The only movement that could be visibly seen was the slow circles he traced into the back of your hand, your fingers still inevitably splayed into his.

You waited for a long time. Almost too long and you were considering giving up your temporary vow when suddenly you heard the first chords ring out, clear as day but whispered as if it the music was brought upon the wings of pixies. It was like the sound that came from music boxes with dancing ballerinas, or elegant carousels. The sound of a harp joined in. You turned to him, wonder glistening in your eyes and you found the exact same childish excitement in his gaze. Your grip tightened on his hand.

A string section seemed to join in and soon an entire symphony of melody was streaming from between the bark of what had just been an ordinary stump, the remainder of a tree. A choir started to sing and you didn’t wait to question such a phenomenon. It was only then that Anthony dared move again. He raised your clasped hands and stepped forward, his hand going to rest lightly on your waist. You, in turn, reached out and placed a cautious hand on his shoulder and soon enough he took a step back, leading you further into the clearing.

He bowed; you curtsied, unable to push away a smile. His hand reached out and you slid your palm into his, the warm of his touch creating a fire in your nerves. A smile from him reassured you that no previous experience was necessary. He stepped back, leading you and soon enough, you were engage in an airy waltz that felt like flying. Every step of his was planned out perfectly and with him leading you, nothing could go wrong. Each move was meaningful and as the music hit a crescendo he lifted you up, twirled you around with his eyes never leaving yours. Slowly, he set you down and you froze there, caught up endlessly in the way he looked at you, God he did that well. The clearing settled. The music faded.

“Anthony?” You could hardly dare to bring your voice above a whisper.

“Yes?” He grinned back.

“Tell me,” you breathed. “What-What are we doing?”

He paused, cocking an eyebrow before looking down, remembering the way you had stepped, perfectly in time, at his side. “Flying.”

“No, I…I mean you and I.”

His face clouded over as you said that. “What do you mean?”

“I don’t even know myself,” you whispered, reaching out tentatively to brush a fingertip across his cheekbone. “But I think that if I were to tell you I love-“

“Love?” He spat the word, pulling away from you within a moment. Too soon, did he leave your arms, pulling with him the delightful warmth you had felt just moments ago. You froze, a rolling wave of hurt attacking your chest as you waited for his next words.

“I have never heard of it.” All at once, he had closed himself off. You were now dealing with Pan.

“I think you have, Anthony,” you pleaded, desperate for just a second longer of that sweet boy’s presence, the truth behind an enigma. “Perhaps for someone long ago, someone you felt for-“

“You don’t understand, (Y/N).” A tone of desperation leaked through the coldness of his voice. “Everyone leaves.”

Your heart gave a great ache. He had been hurt, and bad. “It doesn’t have to be that way. There is more than just-“

“More than just what? I showed you Neverland, I made you a Lost Boy, I took you on adventures. What more is there?” He stepped forward, despairing, pleading for an answer.

“You’re just a boy,” you whispered, realization washing over you. He was still so young.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Anthony’s hands closed into fists, searching your eyes again but finding nothing.

“Anthony, I think…I think we need to grow up.” Even as you said the words they drilled holes in your heart. If only everything was as simple and innocent and magical as Anthony saw it.

“No,” he shook his head, creating further distance between the two of you. “No, you cannot make me.”

You plead with him silently, reaching out only to fall short as he flinched away. Slowly, your hands dropped and resignation fell like a rock into the pit of your stomach.

He stepped forward, gaze vulnerably soft for just a moment. “I want always to be a boy, and have fun.”

You closed your eyes and in a second saw so many possibilities: the adventures, the flying, and every bit of the world under the pad of your thumb. It was painful to watch.

“Then I can’t,” you shook your head, stepping toward the pathway. “I can’t be here.”

“Fine,” he threw back, arms crossed. “Leave, (Y/N), just like how everyone else does. You know what, while you’re at it, don’t bother coming back.”

You turned around, eyes bright with fury. “I will not be banished.” The statement took him by surprise but you ventured further. “Do whatever the hell you want with your Lost Boys, but there is a piece of Neverland that, whether you like it or not, belongs to me. You cannot keep me away from it.”

“Like hell I can’t. If you think-“ He was interrupted by Slightly’s voice.

“Pan!” His tone was despairing, searching. Something was wrong. Immediately, it took priority and your argument was left behind. “Pan!”

“What is it, Slightly?” Anthony replied, not even bothering to turn to his friend, fists clenched at his sides.

“Hook is here.” Lin was pale, out of breath and rattled. “He wants a fight.”

“How many of them?” Anthony asked, turning to face his comrade now.

“All of them. Pan, every single Pirate in town is here.” Slightly’s tone dipped with importance. “I think they want Neverland.”

#ok anyway i suck but i hope you like this #i took so many quotes from the movie holy shit but i love that scene #anthony ramos x reader #anthony ramos imagine #hamilcast imagine #king of the lost boys #kotlb

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