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maybeimamuppet · 3 years

Text

I got you

surprise!! bonus chapter!! this is a thank you for 1.5k reads on this series on wattpad. featuring mostly janis being a cute mommy to the twins introduced in last week's fic.

tw for broken bones (popped joint, not actual break) and mentioned surgery.

enjoy!

one.

Janis is tidying her home studio while Leo is entertained with her toys in the next room. Cady took Layla out on a special one-on-one date for the day, so Janis gets Leo all to herself. They spent the morning in their pajamas playing with Leo’s favorite toys, and then napped together in the main bedroom, which Leo was thrilled with.

Janis does still have to work on a commission, unfortunately, but decides to set up a small easel and some kid paints so Leo can work too. She’s just finished squeezing out the last paint color when she hears tiny feet running down the hall, and what sounds like crying. She jumps slightly when Leo rockets into her leg in tears.

“Mommy,” Leo cries desperately, reaching to be held.

“Oh no, Bee, what happened?” Janis asks, assessing for any injuries as she picks her baby up. “Did you get hurt?” Leo shakes her head, making Janis breathe a quiet sigh of relief. She frowns as Leo throws herself at her, clinging to her neck and crying into her shoulder. “Shh, I got you. I got you. Tell Mommy what happened.”

“Mon’ter,” Leo whimpers in fright. Ah. A monster is anything that moves that Leo hasn’t seen before. Previous monsters have included her own shadow, the blender, Layla in the dark, and a small dog.

“A monster? Oh no,” Janis says. “That must’ve been scary. Shh, I got you. You’re okay. Come here.”

Leo squeaks in fright and clings to her tighter as they pass the playroom, but relaxes slightly when Janis carries them down the hall and to the living room. Janis sits on the couch and coaxes Leo off slightly, resting her baby on her knees so they can see each other.

“Can you take some belly breaths? Like Aunt Reggie showed us?” Janis asks. She coaches Leo through a few deep breaths, helping her calm down. Leo gradually does stop crying and lets Janis wipe her tears away. “Good job, Leo Beo! I’m so proud of you.”

Leo grins happily and cuddles back into her mommy.

“Bee, can you be brave and show Mommy the monster?” Janis asks quietly. Leo whimpers slightly and clings to her.

“Hol’ju?” She asks in fright.

“Yeah, of course I’ll hold you. I got you, I won’t let you go,” Janis comforts, picking her back up. “My brave little bee.”

Leo holds tightly to her as she’s carried back to the playroom. Janis asks where the monster was, and Leo points to the window. Janis approaches, feeling her child cling to her neck in fright. And then she finds it.

“Is this the monster, baby girl?” She asks, pointing to the little caterpillar inching its way across the windowsill. Leo nods desperately. Janis has to hold back a laugh. “Oh, Bumblebee, that’s not a monster. That’s a caterpillar.”

“A callapillar?” Leo asks. “Wha’ssat?”

“A caterpillar is a baby butterfly,” Janis explains. “She’s gonna grow a little bit, and then build something called a cocoon that she stays in for a while. And then when she comes out, she’s gonna be a butterfly.”

“A bullaf’y?” Leo asks in disbelief.

“Mmhmm. Should we keep her to show sissy and Mama?” Janis asks. Leo nods. “Okay, come on.”

She carries Leo out to the kitchen to grab a big jar and pokes holes in the lid. Leo helps add some paper towels and wet leaves, and then they head back to their new friend. Janis gently picks it up, letting the caterpillar inch onto her hand.

“Do you wanna touch it?” Janis asks, not moving it closer to Leo in case she doesn’t want to. “It’s kind of fuzzy.”

“Eat me?” Leo asks. Janis can tell she’s interested, but she’s also scared.

“No, baby, it won’t eat you. It won’t even bite, it wants to eat the plants we put in instead,” Janis comforts. Leo tentatively reaches a hand out, so Janis helps her gently brush her tiny fingers over the bug. Leo giggles at the tickly sensation. “See? Isn’t it nice?”

Leo nods, and helps gently plop the bug into the jar. She holds it carefully to observe the caterpillar now that it’s been contained, looking at it curiously. Janis is very glad she chose a plastic jar.

“Name?” Leo asks.

“Sure, we can name it. What do you think we should call it?” Janis asks, carrying Leo back to the studio to finish their original plan for the afternoon.

“Uhm… Mama,” Leo says. Janis does call Cady ‘Butterfly’ a fair bit, she supposes it makes sense.

“Mama the caterpillar, okay,” Janis chuckles. “Do you want to paint a picture of it?” Leo nods excitedly, so Janis snaps on her smock and sets her loose to paint a masterpiece while she finishes her commission.

Cady comes home with Layla after a while, and the delight on Leo’s face as she runs to show off their new friend and her painting makes the whole ordeal worth it.

—————

two.

Janis is home with Layla today. Leo had taken a venture into a thorn patch the day before and needed a doctor to help remove the last of them from her feet, so she’s out with Cady.

Janis plays with Elvira and Daffodil while Layla takes her nap. Suddenly, a cry comes through the baby monitor, and Janis rushes upstairs to see what the matter is.

Layla is, obviously, awake now, and holding on to her stuffed elephant. Janis doesn’t quite get what the problem is until she notices one of the elephant’s ears in her other hand.

“Uh oh, Lala, what happened?” Janis asks sadly, coming to hold her baby to comfort her. “Did Elmer’s ear come off?”

Layla nods with a pitiful wail, worried about her stuffed friend. Janis holds her closer and bounces her slightly to soothe her.

“Shh, Ladybug, it’s okay,” Janis hushes. “Mommy can fix his ear, shh. I got you, it’s okay.”

“Fissit?” Layla sniffles, looking at Janis curiously. Janis nods.

“Yeah, I can fix it. We’ll just have to sew it back on, he’ll be okay,” Janis confirms. “Come on.”

Janis carries Layla downstairs to the kitchen, stopping to grab a needle and thread from the sewing kit in the study and the twins’ play doctor kit from the playroom. Once they have everything, she rests Layla on the kitchen counter and Elmer in front of her.

“Alright Doctor Layla, you ready for surgery?” Janis asks. Layla nods curiously, her face still a heartbreaking red from her tears. Janis offers her a toy syringe. “Okay, give him the medicine so he doesn’t feel the pokes.”

Layla pokes it into Elmer’s arm, pretending to give him a shot. Janis threads up the needle while she does, then puts the stuffing back in and positions the ear where it should be.

“Can you hold his hand to help him be brave?” Janis asks. Layla gently takes a stuffed foot in her little hand and watches as Janis stitches the ear back on carefully. After a quick assessment, the surgery is complete, and Janis is confident that the ear won’t fall off again for at least a week. Toddlers are rough. “There we go, he’s all fixed!”

Layla claps her little hands happily and picks her friend back up, holding him close. “All bedder.”

“All better,” Janis confirms. “Now he can hear you again!”

Layla giggles as Janis kisses her chubby cheeks and helps her down. “T’ank you.”

“You’re welcome, Bug. I always got you.”

—————

three.

Janis takes the twins to the playground on a nice spring day. Cady needed them out of the house for a while to finish some work, so Janis gets to have some two-on-one time with their daughters for a little bit.

They both make a beeline for the swings as soon as they arrive, so Janis helps them into one together. The twins’ backs are against each other so they can both see out. Janis pushes them a few times to get them going and tickles Leo’s feet whenever they come back her way. After a few goes she switches to see Layla and does the same to her.

Janis takes a quick video to send to Cady of them swinging happily, with Layla babbling away about something very important. Janis can’t quite understand, since they both use a mix of English, Swahili, French, and their own special twin language. Leo just giggles the whole time.

After a while they both get dizzy and ask to get down, so Janis helps them out and sets them on the ground. Neither of the twins know what they want to do next, so Janis suggests they have a race just for fun. There’s a track nearby that joggers use, and they head that way.

Janis sets herself as the finish line a ways away, and the twins both set off on their shaky legs to run towards her when she gives the cue. They’ve only been walking for about six months, so they haven’t quite gotten the hang of running yet.

Layla makes it first on a technicality. She probably would have anyway, but Leo tripped just at the home stretch and hurt herself.

Janis scoops up Layla and comes to assess the situation as Leo starts crying where she rests on the pavement. She rests Layla in the grass nearby and scoops up the second twin.

“Oh no, Bumblebee, did you fall down?” Janis asks, already rooting through her backpack for the first aid kit. “Shh, I got you, let’s fix your owies.”

Leo sits on her lap and cries miserably as Janis gently brushes the small pebbles off her little chubby hands, assessing the scrapes. No bleeding, but they clearly hurt. Her knees are next, and Janis pouts when she sees the small scrape that is actually bleeding slightly. Layla looks on in concern for her twin as Janis opens a wipe and some bandaids.

Leo cries harder at the stinging sensation of the sanitizing wipe, but calms quickly as Janis tenderly sticks the fun smiley face bandaid over her scrape and kisses her little knee.

“There we go, all better,” Janis comforts, hugging her baby tightly. “Shh, Bee, I got you.”

Leo calms her crying after a good cuddle and is quickly ready to get back to playing. Janis holds their hands and leads them back over to the slides, deciding that the track has caused enough damage for one day.

—————-

four.

Janis sighs exasperatedly as she hears the twins kick off crying at the same time. Both babies are sick with a miserable cold that they unfortunately almost definitely picked up from Janis. Sick babies are miserable, especially when there’s not much you can do to help. And to make matters worse, Cady has a work event she can’t miss, so Janis is left alone for most of the evening.

Janis grabs the medicine and some bottles for them and heads up to the nursery. They both look miserable, pink cheeks from a mix of fever and crying, and pitiful little stuffy noses. Janis pouts and grabs both from their cribs, carrying them over to the comfy rocker and holding them on her lap.

“My poor girls. Come here, I got you,” she says quietly.

Janis quickly and carefully measures out the right dose of medicine and gives it to Leo, who pulls a face and whimpers at the metallic strawberry taste. Once she’s offered her bottle, though, she calms down and cuddles in. Janis measures out another dose and tries to give it to Layla.

“No!” Layla refuses, turning her head the other way with a sniff.

“Loopsy, it’ll make you feel better,” Janis coaxes, already exhausted herself. “Shh, come here. I got you. I know it’s yucky.”

“No!” Layla says again. Janis needs to resort to desperate measures, before this evolves into a full-blown tantrum. She stands up and carries the twins down to the kitchen. Layla looks excited but suspicious when she pulls out some juice boxes from the fridge.

Leo gets hers right away, no tricks. She sits next to her twin on the counter and kicks her little legs contently, sucking away at her tasty apple juice. Janis focuses on Layla, standing in front of her and having a little staredown with her baby.

She prepares the juice box, holding it in her hand and pretending to offer it to her. Janis secretly has the syringe of medicine in her other hand behind her back. Layla opens her mouth to accept the juice, but Janis quickly pops the medicine in instead.

Layla glares at her crankily but does blessedly swallow her dose of the syrup. Janis then actually gives her her juice, which she takes thankfully and drinks quickly to get the taste out of her mouth. Janis gets the death stare throughout the whole process of washing out the syringe and putting the medicine bottle away safely.

“Good job, girls! That medicine is yucky, huh?” Janis says. “My brave little twinkies.”

Leo beams, and even Layla gives a weak smile. Janis thinks for a while. The twins are both made lethargic by their cold, but it’s not quite bedtime yet. What can they do?

“Should we… watch a movie?” Janis asks excitedly. The twins don’t usually get much screen time, so any movie or show is a special treat. Janis thinks they deserve a Disney movie to help them feel better.

“Yeah!” Leo cheers hoarsely. Janis pouts slightly when she hears the grit in her voice. Layla nods eagerly around her juice box.

“My poor sickies. Okay, come on. I got you,” Janis says, scooping them up and carrying them to the couch. They both cuddle into her sides, all three of them watching Tangled and snuggling under a soft blanket.

Cady comes home a few hours later and smiles lovingly when she finds them all asleep together and the movie credits rolling on the screen.

—————-

five.

“I’m gonna get you!” Janis growls playfully, going into her ‘monster’ stance and preparing to chase her twins around the living room. They both squeal in delight and run away in different directions. Janis gives them a head start before she goes after Leo.

Leo shrieks as she’s captured, laughing heartily as Janis tosses her in the air and then blows raspberries on her belly before she’s gently tossed onto the couch. Layla is next.

She’s made it about halfway down the hall before she’s snatched up, screaming in surprise. Janis gives her the same treatment, but holds her by the hands to spin her around instead of tossing somewhere. Until she hears a pop and Layla gives a little yelp.

Janis quickly sets her down to check what the noise was. “What was that?”

Layla shrugs. She doesn’t seem bothered by it, but Janis has a gut feeling something isn’t right.

“Gimme five,” Janis asks as a test. It would make sense for the noise to have come from her arms. Layla only moves her left hand for the high fives. “Now this one. Can you move it?”

Layla shakes her head and looks at her in fear. She runs in for a hug, and Janis can feel her little body quivering in fright.

“Hey, it’s okay, I got you. Mama knows more about this than me, she can probably fix it. Let’s go see,” Janis says quickly. She’s absolutely terrified, but can’t let Layla know that. Did she break her own daughter’s arm?

She helps Layla sit next to Leo on the couch. Leo hugs her twin tightly, seeming instinctively to know something’s off. Janis goes to find Cady.

“Caddy?” She asks when she finds her in her study.

“Yes? Sounds like you guys are having a lot of fun,” Cady chuckles, spinning around from her desk to face her.

“IthinkIbrokeLayla,” Janis says quickly and quietly.

“You what?” Cady asks.

“I think I broke her arm,” Janis says desperately. “I’m a terrible mom, what-what am I doing?”

“Janis, hey,” Cady says gently. “You’re a wonderful mom. Our girls love you, and whatever you did, you didn’t mean it. You were playing with her. What happened?”

“I was… was chasing them, and then I grabbed her and spun her around, and then there was a pop and now she won’t move her arm,” Janis mumbles anxiously.

“Did you spin her by her wrists or her shoulders?” Cady asks.

“Wrists, I was holding her hands,” Janis says.

“You probably just popped a joint, then. I can fix that, let me see,” Cady says. Janis leads her back to the living room. Cady grins when she sees the twins cuddling on the couch together. “Hey, Bug, what happened to your arm?”

Layla shrugs. “Pop. Won’ work.”

“Uh oh,” Cady says. “Does it hurt?”

Layla shakes her head. “Not owie.”

“Good,” Cady says. “Can Mama see? I might be able to help it move again.”

Layla nods. Cady tells Janis to hold their daughter on her lap. Janis does, smiling as Layla rests her head on her shoulder and offers what works of her arm to Cady.

“It’s not her shoulder, it must be your elbow,” Cady says. She squeezes up and down the whole arm to make sure there’s not a real fracture she needs to take her to the doctor for instead. Luckily, nothing. “Yep. Easy fix. Ladybug, this might hurt a little bit, but it’ll be over super quick, okay?”

Layla nods anxiously, looking to Janis for comfort. In a series of quick motions, Cady shakes her hand, extends her arm out straight, and then brings her hand up to her shoulder. When she extends the arm there’s another pop, and Cady can feel the joint slip back into place. Layla yelps and starts crying, cuddling into Janis.

“Oh, Ladybug, shh,” Janis hushes. “I’m sorry, honey. Shh, it’s okay. I got you, shh.”

Cady rubs Layla’s back gently to calm her down, and tickles Leo’s foot to make her smile. She watched the whole thing go down, and looks very concerned for her twin.

“You’re all done, Loopsy. I felt it go back, we don’t have to do it again,” Cady hushes. “Your arm should work now, can you try?”

Layla wiggles her arm a little bit, bending her elbow curiously. Sure enough, it works!

“Yay, there we go,” Cady says. “All better. You were so brave, too! My big girl.”

“Alright girls, nap time,” Janis says quietly. She carries Layla and holds Leo’s hand as they head upstairs.

—————-

+one.

Cady frowns in confusion when Janis doesn’t come back downstairs after putting the twins down for their nap. She listens to the floorboards creaking above her, and it sounds like Janis is in their bedroom.

Cady heads up to check on her, and her frown deepens when she finds Janis curled into a ball on their bed and shaking with tears.

“Lovey, what’s wrong?” She asks sadly, cuddling up behind her. Janis rolls over and cries into her chest.

“I broke her arm! What kind of mother am I?” Janis sobs. “I broke my kid!”

“Janis, shh,” Cady comforts. “You’re a great mom. The girls love you so much, and so do I. You’re a wonderful mother.”

“But I hurt her,” Janis cries.

“By accident,” Cady hushes. “You were playing with her. It was just a popped elbow. Next time just spin her by her shoulders and not her hands.”

“But she was-she was so scared,” Janis whimpers. “I could feel her shaking.”

“And now she’s fine,” Cady says desperately. “Her arm is fine, and she’s clearly feeling well enough to nap alone. Layla trusts you. She knew you would make it better. She knows you didn’t mean to hurt her. It was an easy fix, love, she’ll be perfectly fine. Babies are bendy.”

Janis doesn’t say anything, she just continues crying into Cady’s chest. Cady holds her close and tries to comfort her. She knows the popped elbow isn’t the only thing Janis is upset about. She’s been insecure about her skills as a parent since before the twins were even born.

After about an hour, they hear the twins wake up and start moving around. “I’ll go get them. You take as long as you need,” Cady murmurs gently, kissing her forehead. She heads down the hall to the nursery to greet her babies.

Layla reaches for her, so she quickly changes her and then sets her down. Cady isn’t worried when she runs off, there’s nothing she can get into and the stairs are blocked off.

Layla pads down the hall on little feet carefully, on a hunt for her mommy. She’s confused when she finds her in the big bed, and is even more confused when she sees Mommy crying. Time to investigate.

She heads back to her own bedroom where Cady is changing Leo. Layla toddles up and tugs on her pant leg to get her attention. “Mama?”

“Yes, my little love?” Cady asks.

“Mommy cry?” Layla asks. Cady freezes for a second. Janis had just about stopped crying when she left, but maybe she picked up again. She decides it’s best to be honest with the twins.

“Yes, Mommy’s crying. She’s sad that she hurt your arm,” Cady says, resting Leo on the floor too.

“Oh.” Layla says. “Is okay. I fissit?”

Cady grins at her sadly and crouches down to her eye level with a ruffle to Layla’s curls. “I don’t know if you can fix it, Bug. But you can go see if she wants a hug, maybe that will help.”

Layla nods and sets off again at top speed, and Leo follows quickly. Cady finishes cleaning up the nursery and follows too.

Janis jumps as she feels small arms wrap around each of her legs, and little chubby cheeks rest on each knee. She looks down to find each of her twins hugging a leg and blinking those big blue eyes at her in concern. She smiles sadly and runs a hand through each head of dark curls.

“Hi, girls,” she says, trying to keep the thick lump out of her voice. “Did you have a good nap?” They both nod against her legs. “Good.”

Layla seems to be assessing her, and Leo is also clearly thinking hard about something. Janis remembers how strange it felt as child whenever an adult cried. Maybe she’s not hiding her tears as well as she thought. The babies look to each other and give a little nod before they each wiggle their way up onto the bed.

Janis is surprised when they both leap onto her and wrap her in a tight hug. They’re getting stronger, she’s nearly knocked onto her back by the force of them.

“Got you, Mommy,” Layla says quietly. Leo nods in agreement.

“Got you.”

Janis nearly starts crying again, wrapping her arms around them to hold them both closer. “Thank you, girls.”

Cady wipes some tears from her eyes and comes to join them too. They had plans for the evening, but sometimes a good family snuggle is more important.

They’ve all got each other.

#cadnis #paint by numbers #space safari #cady heron x janis sarkisian #cady x janis #cady heron #janis sarkisian #mean girls #mean girls broadway #mean girls musical

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westerhos · 4 years

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Our Story: Chapter 6

[December 24th, 1998]

There is something to be said for the peculiar hour of the blue-morning, when a hospital beeps into quiet life. Death rattles behind drawn curtains, expletives are spat over set bones, and shots are taken in the thigh. It is not like Jamie’s Grampian refuge, which springs forth naturally from the earth. Instead, Boston GH scars the landscape, numbing loneliness through morphine drips and the tug of sheer necessity.

It is during this gradual reawakening that Claire hides in a closet, imagines the pink, wet sacs of her lungs contract and expand. She counts her breaths to release the night’s chaos, still lodged deep in her throat.

During the wild evening hours, Claire sees only what exists outside her body. Such an easy thing to do as a doctor, this sudden corporeal separation—a leap into the procedural dance, a temporary loss of oneself to the staunching of blood and the sewing of sutures.

But eventually the window of calm arrives, and the wall of dissociation begins to crumble. Claire, in her closet sanctuary, returns to her body once more, the sight of her arms and her hands like four old friends reacquainted.

Claire hunkers down between two shelves, and relief travels from foot to torso, settling somewhere inside her gut. As always, she has brought her medical bag—a gift from her husband, CER embossed in golden filigree—and rummages through it. As always, she finds the folder and flicks it open, seeking the page that is stowed inside. She is forever tethered to its final sentence, which launches a fresh rip of longing straight to her chest.

And as always, she goes back to the beginning, following the words. Fingers like greedy sponges, text absorbing into skin.

NEW YORK CITY, 11:30AM - The diner hushes when the bell tinkles, announcing the arrival of literary darling James Fraser. He is a giant in more ways than one: six-feet tall, wide-set shoulders, and a critically-acclaimed author with legions of fans. But for all his inches and his clout, Fraser is blissfully unaware of the eyes on his back. When he sits opposite me and shakes my hand, I, like the rest of the world, find him to be impulsively likable.

Sporting one month’s growth of beard and a wrinkled v-neck, it doesn’t take long for Fraser’s roguish charm to earn a complimentary meal. He is quick to thank the waitress, and for not the first time, one has to wonder how the man could possibly be single. Surely his good looks, his talent, and Reformed Bad Boy reputation draws the ladies in?

Point proven: Our waitress lingers, hungry for Fraser’s attention, but he closes his menu after ordering a glass of lemonade. (An odd choice, but then our writing heroes are full of idiosyncrasies, aren’t they?) I almost leap to console the girl, that poor thing, as she runs a self-conscious hand down her apron.

Alas, one gets the impression that it isn’t pickiness keeping Fraser romantically unattached. Nor is it misogyny or closeted homosexuality (despite what those tabloid vipers spit). James Fraser simply enjoys his place in the lonely hearts club—and is perfectly content to stay there, sipping ice-cold lemonade.

Frank’s ring glides across the lines, pauses over “single”. Such a different life, so removed from Claire’s, though here it thrums beneath her hands. Suddenly, her head grows heavier, weighted by the chain draped around her neck. Jamie’s thistle ring dangles there, cold as death. Forever tucked inside her shirts, a secret between her breasts. (Frank lets her wear it, just as she lets him wear his stained button-downs, other women smiling from the collars.)

Fraser’s second and latest novel, Two Centuries in Purgatory, released just last month to stellar reviews. Hailed as a “modern classic” by The New York Times (and truly, it is), Purgatory has found a comfortable seat at the top of the bestseller lists, and shows no signs of losing momentum. Now touring the U.S., Fraser seems nonplussed by the bustle of the Big Apple, his eighth time to our concrete jungle (“I’ve a parade of publisher meetings and interviews tomorrow,” he grumbles). Though he’s a longtime resident of both Edinburgh and Glasgow, he says no city feels like home nowadays. “Where is home then?” I ask him, and in traditional Fraser fashion, he deadpans: “Lost.”

For all his fame and glory, there is something decidedly melancholy about James Fraser. But of course, we all know why. We’ve read his books, haven’t we? We know his story.

Gillian Edgars: Are you enjoying your lemonade, Mr. Fraser?

James Fraser: Aye, verra much so. Lemonade in Scotland doesna taste like this.

GE: Mmmm, exploring the pleasures of America. I like it. Now, shall we begin? Let’s start with Two Centuries in Purgatory.

Claire brings the page a few inches closer. This is not the first time she has read the article, its edges worn to yellowing curls.

A familiar anger sinks its claws into her side as this reproduction of Jamie staggers into a flickering half-life. Gillian Edgars thinks she knows the man behind the book jacket. The entire world, for that matter, believes they can claim the bold-faced names on their hardbacks.

But, Claire seethes, do these people know that Jamie smiles in his sleep? That he’s prone to seasicknesses, could not wink at the waitress even if he tried? No. Only Claire knows these smaller, intimate truths—but still, they are not enough. Jamie is no longer only hers, but a communal being disseminated and shared amongst millions. Strangers have molded her Jamie into something new, into hollow casts of their false impressions.

Without warning, the closet door swings open and Joe Abnernathy leans in. “Knew I’d find you in here,” he says, but he draws up short. His smile falters when he sees Claire on the ground. Falters further still when he reads the headline, "Scotland’s Newest Literary Hero," on the page and on her face.

“Lady Jane, why do you do this to yourself? We’re working, I know, but can’t you try to be merry? It’s officially Christmas Eve!”

Joe kneels down, and levels his gaze with hers—the gentle but silent disappointment of an older brother. Claire holds firm when he pries the clipping from her grasp, the paper snagging the skin of her palm. It glides over and up, a shallow curve that splits into fine, shining rubies. A jeweled J, just at the base of her thumb.

Claire presses the wound to her teeth, tastes the heady, metallic taste of herself. (Later, she will trace the cut with reverence, grateful to be marred, at the very least, by a shade of Jamie.)

Joe tsks and reaches for a shelf, bringing back the first aid kit.

“Perks of hiding in a hospital supply closet. Bandages, everywhere. Take this.”

“It’s fine, Joe,” Claire assures him but accepts the bandaid anyways. “I’m fine—just a bad day and a scratch. See? No significant blood loss.”

“Thought I’d witnessed the first fatal paper cut,” Joe says, but then continues, more softly, “LJ, I thought you’d given this up. That Frank made you promise you’d stop.”

“He did,” Claire replies. “And I did too, for a while.”

Her stomach turns as the memory resurfaces: her husband, feeding the shredder a feast of papers. The machine’s tight-lipped and fanged smile destroying Claire’s collection of articles, her glimpses of Jamie. Frank had held her as the teeth had chewed, tightened his grip when she repeated his words back to him, “Time to leave the past behind.” And afterwards, once the the bin had emptied into the trash, Frank had dragged the bag of shreds to the curb. Claire had looked on, standing in the doorway, a soldier’s wife already in mourning.

(That evening, she almost snuck outside to piece the words together, for old habits die hard and a planet will always yearn for her sun. But then Frank’s arm had risen in the darkness, flopped sleepily across her waist. The weight of it had held her there, and so she’d stayed, picturing the night creatures stealing Jamie away, piece by piece.)

“I just…wanted to see what people were saying. About his new book.” She sighs. “I know I’m being ridiculous. It’s just that…”

“He’s everywhere, isn't he? In the papers, on TV. Saw they’re making a Lifetime adaptation of A Blade of Grass. Jesus.”

Claire nods. “Steering clear of that one.” (But she won’t, of course. Claire will want to see herself and Jamie on that screen, their better, manufactured selves broadcasted in technicolor.)

“You’re really gonna let me down like that, Lady Jane? I thought we’d drink cheap Scotch, put the movie on mute, and invent the dialogue ourselves. Next weekend, the two of us. Drunk and vengeful. Whaddya say?”

“A hard pass, Joe. We’ll be in Oxford for the holidays, anyways. Visiting Frank’s family.”

“Well, la-di-dah. I’ll be on this side of Atlantic throwing popcorn at my TV.” Joe leaps to his feet when his pager beeps. As he walks out the door, his hand flies to his coat pocket and he withdraws a shabby paperback. “Before I forget—a Christmas gift, for the Lady. If you’re gonna scramble your brain with nonsense, let it be Tessa’s ‘membrane of innocence’. Not ‘Scotland’s Newest Literary Hero.’”

Claire laughs and flips through The Impetuous Pirate, inhaling its smell of antiseptic and mildew and the vestiges of long-ago fingerprints. A Harlequin, taken from the hospital waiting room. “Aye aye, captain. But if it’s all the same to you, I’ll stay here in Davy Jones’ Locker for a while longer.”

Joe nods, consoling, before he turns to answer an intern's cries for help.

Alone again, Claire tucks The Impetuous Pirate inside her bag, picks up the discarded article from the floor. For the first time, she notices its publication date, October 20th, was her 31st birthday. She cannot remember the details of the occasion—Did Frank take her to a concert, or to a movie? Buy her flowers or chocolates?—and yet a foreign scene plays so clearly in her mind. It is something cut from the script of her life, the stagehand’s hook pulling her to the wings before she has a chance to speak. Cast in the closet’s dim spotlight, it unfolds as the playact that could have been but never was:

Jamie, in the New York diner, drinking lemonade. Condensation like dew drops, rolling down the pitcher. A young girl in Gillian Edgars’ place, singing a high soprano. And Claire, beside her, blowing out candles in a single huff.

As she slices the birthday cake, this almost-Claire nicks her finger on the knife’s blade. “Kiss to make it better!” the young girl cries, and Jamie does, his lips are on the sting, and then Claire’s mouth. He tastes of citrus, of yellow and sunshine, a marigold paradise in a city of dying autumn leaves. “Does it still hurt, Sassenach?” he asks her. “Not anymore,” she says. And when the little girl giggles, watching them, it is something sacred. She licks the frosting from the candles. “So what’d you wish for, Mama?” she asks, not knowing that, in a moments like these, there is no need for wishes.

Claire’s pager rings, rearranging her memories. Now she remembers her 31st birthday—and knows it did not happen in that diner. On that day, there was no little girl; no citrus kisses in a molting New York.

Instead, Frank had taken Claire to the opera house, a drawn-out affair they had both fidgeted through. Back at home, he had led her to the bedroom and its king-sized bed, had slipped off her dress while she kept her chain on. “Talk to me,” he’d panted, silver thistles against her chest. And when she came, it was not Frank’s body that drew her cries. It was not Frank’s name that rose from her lips.

Claire scans the article, skipping again to the final paragraphs. Here lies the line she reads over and over, the very reason she shells $15 for subscriptions and scavenges in bins for scraps. Anything to discover some evidence of herself, some proof that she still lives in the peripheries of Jamie’s life. And whenever she finds it, it pours into her and lingers, like wine.

GE: Your debut was quite impressive—an instant bestseller, an Oprah Book Club pick, an upcoming TV movie. I’m sure you’ve been asked this before…but allow me to be a hack for just one moment. Let me ask the nosy questions. Let me pry.

JF: I dinna have a fear of rats [SMILES]. Get on wi’ it then.

GE: I appreciate it, Mr. Fraser, I do [LAUGHS]. The protagonist’s struggles in A Blade of Grass—the financial woes, the criminal record, the years of solitude—they seem to mirror your own. Is it accurate to say that the book is autobiographical?

“Randall?” a voice calls from outside the closet. “Randall, are you in there? Mr. Duncan in Room #18 needs to be—”

“Prepped for surgery, I know!” Claire finishes. Her voice is shrill, rising with her goosebumps as she nears the interview’s end. “I’ll be out in a second, Dr. Hildegarde!”

JF: In some respects, aye, A Blade of Grass is autobiographical. Mind, I made a lot of it up myself. Embellished a few things.

GE: Oh yes, certainly. But even without your embellishments, your life does make for such an interesting tale. In a way, your struggles are what made you a literary sensation. But still, I do wonder—do you regret any of it? The gamble, the money, the arrest?

JF: [LAUGHS QUIETLY] I thank ye for the compliment, Ms. Edgars, but I hope my sins are no’ responsible for the book’s success. And for the record, they were largely exaggerated by the press.

GE: Ah, right. We rats are despicable creatures, always desperate for crumbs. But they never fill the belly, not really.

JF: Have ye tried poetry before, Ms. Edgars? You’ve a knack for it [LOOKS AWAY]. But nay, it isna the crimes themselves that I regret most. Whether they were exaggerated or no.

GE: Really? There’s something else [LEANS FORWARD]? Will you tell me then, your life’s biggest regret? Or will you keep me and your readers in the dark, forever wondering what keeps our beloved James Fraser up at night?

Now Claire closes her hand into a fist, forces herself to bleed out from that thin, half-mooned J. She imagines Jamie’s face, inscrutable to Gillian Edgars, but fixed in an expression that she, and only she, can read. And if Claire had been there on that October afternoon, sitting in the diner’s vinyl booth, she would have understood. Would’ve known already what Jamie regretted most, what he would and could not say aloud. For within this precious, final line—their spoken and unspoken wishes:

JF: My biggest regret? I let the story end early.

(JF: I should have loved her better—God! I should have loved her better.)

_______

I have very few comments about this one, but I will say A) Jamie’s POV comes much more naturally to me—probably because I, like Jamie, love Claire so frickin’ much—so writing this was like pulling teeth. And B) As I was writing this chapter, I knew it was time to bring Jamie and Claire back together. Even I was rooting for them to reunite.

I love Joe and Claire’s friendship, and I wish I’d shown more of it in this fic (although what’s here I think fits pretty naturally). And I have to say...I love Geillis—or the idea of her: witchy, feminist, and confident—a whole lot, despite her Voyager crimes. Here, she is my Outlander version of Harry Potter’s Rita Skeeter, and I could write an entire fic from her voice any day.

#outlander #claire beauchamp #jamie fraser #myfic #i am so bad at dialogue!!!!!

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qualitytrashmaterial · 3 years

Text

Wolf

Wolf-mother, where you been? You look so worn, so thin You're a taker, devils-maker Let me hear you sing

Summary: Carmilla and Laura had broken up and to get her mind off things, Carmilla goes for a walk in the woods. However, she comes across a friendly face Pairing: Lawstein Word Count: 1,066

AO3 Link

Chapter 12/? of Always for You: A Carmilla Playlist

It had been a few days since Carmilla finally decided it was time for her and Laura to end things. It wasn’t an easy choice, Laura had been her everything since...well since the day they had met. Carmilla’s whole world suddenly revolved around Laura and at the time she wouldn’t have traded that for anything. Only, after graduation things had started to change. It was gradual, but slowly she seemed less interested in the life Carm was trying to build with her and more so focused on herself and her own career. She stayed later at the office, went on more frequent and longer trips, claiming she was chasing another story and never had much time to talk. Carm could feel the relationship slipping away. It was better to rip the bandaid off all in one go than to let it slowly peel and degrade. So she did just that.

The next time Laura was finally in town, barely unpacked and already preparing for her next trip, Carmilla broke the news. Seeing the confusion in her eyes hurt. Carm’s heart dropped into her stomach as the sea there churned. She swallowed the growing lump in her throat, knowing she had to buckle down. She couldn’t let Laura’s desperate eyes change her mind. The sad, pathetic puppy-dog look couldn’t win this time.

“I mean it, Laura, it's over. I can’t keep pretending to be in a relationship with someone who’s hardly here and never has time for me anymore.” That seemed to shut her up. Carmilla let out a heavy sigh and straightened up, standing taller.

“You can stay here for the night if you want, but I...I don’t want you to come back.” She said, trying to keep her voice steady. Carmilla couldn’t let Laura see her cry, she had to stay strong. The tears were already streaming down Laura’s cheeks. She hurriedly closed her suitcase and hulled it off the bed.

“Y-you...you don’t have to worry about that. I’m going to Kirch’s.” And that was the last thing she had said. Carmilla watched as Laura turned on her heel and fled from the bedroom. She heard the keys jingle and the door slam, hard enough to shake part of the house. Carm forced her feet to move, crossing the room to peer out the window. Her car pulled out of the driveway, tearing off down the street. Only then did she allow the tears to fall.

The house had felt empty since then. Even when Laura was off on one of her trips it felt empty, but knowing she was never coming back made it seem so much more so. It had grown so bad, she finally forced herself to wander through the woods. Anything to not be in that house anymore. It must have been hours since she left, wandering aimlessly through the surprisingly clear underbrush. Carmilla wasn’t even sure if she had been walking in a straight line or circles by now, but that didn’t matter. It's not like she could die out here or just poof back into that hauntingly empty bedroom.

Nothing would stop her from wandering, not even the setting sun, growing closer and closer to the horizon, casting its long orange light through the trees. Nothing...except for the loud snapping of a tree branch and the low growling that came from her left. She froze in her tracks. Most animals tend to keep a distance, sensing the death that came with being a vampire.

Slowly, she turned her head to see what dared to challenge her. Though, Carmilla didn’t expect to see a five foot, red colored wolf staring her down. It’s icy blue eyes pierced into her and its muzzle was twisted up in a snarl, its sharp teeth all on display. She stood still as its fur rose on its back. It was larger than any regular wolf and something about it felt...off. Especially its coloration. She had never known any normal wolves to be that red. No, there was only one wolf she recalled ever looking like that. As she stared into the eyes of the beast, she recognized how they seemed faintly human.

“Hey there, Xena. That’s not the best way to greet someone.” She said, stuffing her hands into the pockets of her jacket. The wolf snarled again, taking a step closer, the little bit of humanity that was briefly in her eyes, flashed and disappeared. Carmilla’s brows furrowed and she put her hands up in a defensive position.

“Easy, Lawrence. You really don’t recognize me do you?” She asked, watching a moment. “How long have you been in that body, Gingersnap? Too long I take it.” The wolf’s body was still tensed, coiled like a spring ready to pounce, but her growl quieted.

She frowned. Why hadn’t she transformed back? Lawrence had always been one to effortlessly shift between forms, not caring about the condition of most of her clothes. Had she really been in the wolf form for so long that she forgot? Carm wasn't completely sure, it had been nearly two years since she had last seen Danny, let alone heard from her.

She dropped her hands to her side; Danny’s eyes still cautiously watching. Carmilla vaguely recalled an old English myth about werewolves, something about calling them by their name. But that was only supposed to work if that wolf trusted you. Carmilla and Danny rarely saw eye to eye, plus she wasn't even sure if that old wives tale was true. There had been many myths about werewolves and she never really bothered to learn which ones were true. Though, it couldn’t hurt to try.

A shallow, shaky breath passed her lips as she extended a hand out to the wolf. It flinched and started to growl.

“Hey now, Xena, I’m trying to help you out here,” Carmilla said. The wolf eased up a bit. “It’s time to come home now, Danele.”

Something flashed across the wolf’s face. The hair on its back flattened, her ears were still back but her tail dropped and she lowered herself to press her belly into the ground. She looked pathetic to say the least. A paw reached forward, flesh slowly replacing the red fur and soon a human hand took its place. A small smile tugged at the corner of her lip as she closed her hand around Danny’s.

“Welcome back, Lawrence.”

#Carmilla Karnstein #carmilla the series #danny lawrence #lawstein #laura hollis #hollstein #I will always die for werewolf Danny

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wildroseofarran · 4 years

Text

Pain, Relief, Closure || Kelly, Pete, Fletcher, Q, June, Emmanuel, Peabody, & Bridget

Fletcher: {Text to Peter Graham from Fletcher Goodman} FedEx guy swapped our shit

Pete/June: Pete was caught off guard so much by the name on his screen that he just stared at his phone for a few moments until June poked him.

"Respond!"

"What?"

"This is your chance! Respond, respond!"

"Okay! Jesus."

{Text to Fletcher} All right, I'll be over to get it in a second

{Text to Fletcher} Do I have one of yours?

Fletcher: {Text} Should have a small box of some cleaner I ordered

Fletcher held his breath and dropped his phone face-down. Enough of that. He tried to focus on - what was he doing?

Pete/June: He looked to June, who was reading over his shoulder. "Do we?"

"Maybe? I'll go look in the closet."

Sure enough, Fletcher's box of cleaner was sitting where their shipment of napkins was supposed to be.

{Text} Yeah I got it

{Text} Be across in a sec

Fletcher: Fletcher smoothed his hair, which he had allowed to grow for the last several months, longing for the length of his college years. His beard, finally trimmed, was given a feel as well. His navy blue shirt felt, collar fixed.

This didn't matter. Just shut the fuck up and make the trade.

The box was dropped on the counter. Here, he would wait, stomach contorting into knots.

Pete: Pete shrugged on his jacket and took a deep breath. This shouldn't feel as weird as it did. It wasn't like he was doing anything groundbreaking or foreign. He was just going across the street to get a package. Simple, right?

If only it felt that way.

He crossed the street, balanced the box of cleaner on his arm, and opened the door like he did this every day.

"Hey."

Fletcher: A visibly painful breath escaped as through from the pit of his stomach. No forced smile, but forced composure.

"Hey yourself."

Pete: At least he wasn't the only one who was nervous.

"I believe this belongs to you." He held up the box. "You'd think after all these years he'd learn to look at the shipping labels."

Fletcher: "Yeah, well..." The Samsa swallowed. He didn't know what he had expected from this, but laying eyes on the man he'd avoided for months, to truly see him without the dull sepia of a Samantha, he might as well have been that greasy teenager injured by Marion's lies.

"Here it is." The box was given a pat.

Pete: For Pete's part, this interaction was already surpassing his wildest expectations. He didn't want there to be any hostility between them, however much reason there might be for it to exist.

"And here's yours." He set the box of cleaner down. "Sorry if it took a while, my bartender signed for the delivery this week."

Fletcher: "Kay. So..." Yeah. He would open the box to see for himself. Something, anything for him to tear his eyes away.

Pete: Silence was worse than strained conversation. He had to say something.

"So how've you been? I see you grew your hair out."

Fletcher: "I just... wanted it." Another useless clearing of his throat. "Ya look... good."

Pete: "Suits you." Pete offered a smile. Not a weird one or a forced one or a polite one, just a small, genuine smile. "Thanks. I feel pretty good. Year off to a decent start?"

Fletcher: Might as well rip the bandaid. "Gettin' married. Spring, I think."

Pete: Aaaand there went the genuine part of the smile.

“I heard.”

Fletcher: "Figured ya would."

Pete: “Small town.”

Fletcher: Enough of that. "Thanks for the box." He forced a smile and began to break down the package. He'd keep his eyes to himself.

Pete: "Sure, no problem. Thanks for mine. Oh, um, June told me to tell you that she's inviting you to dinner at her house."

Fletcher: "When?"

Pete: "She said you have a choice between Tuesday, Wednesday, and Thursday."

Fletcher: "Right. Guess I'll give her a text." Didn't seem right to make Peter the messenger. But now he was left with nothing else to say. He knew the answers. How was he? He was well. His sister was having a baby, and Peter was a family man. Where was MJ? Anywhere but here. But then again...

"How's um..."

Pete: "I'll let her know." June could've texted Fletcher herself, of course, but she hadn't been able to pass up the opportunity to extend this visit for these two men she loved.

Pete gave Fletcher a gently expectant look. "Yeah?"

Fletcher: "...Nah. S'nothin'. Ain't my business. Anyway, thanks." This was what he did. How obvious that he would shrink in on himself. He was out of his element. As though their intimate nights, their lapses in judgment in the back room merely a figment of fantasy, forged on some particularly lonesome evening alone with his thoughts.

Pete: So close, yet so far. A perfect portrait of their entire relationship really.

"All right, well, you know where to find me if you wanna ask." Pete balanced the box of napkins against his arm. "I'll tell June that you'll text her."

Fletcher: "Ya ain't gotta tell her anything."

Pete: His real smile made a soft return. "I know. I still will."

Fletcher: "Ya know why-" The Samsa made a bitten off sound. A protest he couldn't heed. "-why you're here n'not her."

Pete: "I'm surprised I am, but I don't really know why I am beyond you maybe wanting to say hello?"

Fletcher: "Me wantin' t'say hello?"

Pete: "That's the only reason I can think of for why I'm here instead of June."

Fletcher: "It wasn't...me."

Pete: Pete’s brow furrowed. “What wasn’t you?”

Fletcher: "Ya know it was June. You're fuckin' with me."

Pete: Pete looked genuinely confused. “June told the delivery guy to mix up the packages?”

Fletcher: "No, that you're - that you're here t'pick this up n'not her - just forget it."

Pete: “June—did June ask you to text me to come get the package?”

Fletcher: "No, I was stupid."

Pete: “You’re not.”

Fletcher: "Right." Peter would get a wave goodbye.

Pete: “...Okay then. Thanks.” He nodded to Fletcher and headed for the door.

Fletcher: Stupid, stupid, stupid. He had meant to text June. He would swear by it. Yet it had been Peter Graham -- for some fucking reason his name was still in his phone. For some reason it had been that name - and he just couldn't steady his thoughts. His tongue wagged and he was helpless. Reckless.

The box was shoved from the counter the moment the bell jingled its goodbye.

- Two Days Ago -

Kelly: Kelly white-knuckled the bathroom sink and took slow, shaky breaths in and out.

Fuck he shouldn't have come in. He should've stayed home.

The pain that had begun in his hip had radiated outward until every last bone in his body felt like it hurt and for his rotten fucking luck he was tapped out of Vicodin. It would be six weeks before he could get a refill.

Fucking opioid panic.

He had to do something. He needed something or he wasn't going to make it through the next twenty-four hours, much less the next six weeks before he could get his prescription.

Another shaky breath. "Fuck."

He limped his way out of the bathroom and looked around the bar. O'Charlie's was quiet and sketchy and filled with melancholy as usual, but what he needed wasn't there.

"Dwight! I'm taking my dinner break!"

Q: Q passed two rum fireballs to Stacey, waving her off and rolling his shoulders. This wasn't a Pete's Pub kind of night, it seemed. The younger, vibrant crowd wanted to dance, make out in the darker corners, and throw their weight around with burning stomachs as fuel. His kind of night, but he wasn't nineteen with a fake ID anymore. This was a night to get paid.

Kelly: The Brig was close enough that on a good day, Kelly could've walked and been there pretty quickly.

Or on a bad day like today, close enough that he could drive there at break-neck speed without running the risk of the cops catching him speeding.

He didn't quite bust through the door--the limp prevented that--but he zeroed in on the bar and its tender with the single-minded intensity of a man on the brink.

The crowd and the music might as well not have existed; he was only there for the man known as Q.

Kelly approached the quietest end of the bar and waited to catch Q's attention.

Q: Not much of a feat for a man on guard. A smile, creasing the ends of his mouth, slowly diminishing with every step closer to his newest patron. That sexual energy he could read with absolute literacy was nonexistent.

"You look like shit," he greeted. "The hell are you doing here?"

Kelly: He knew he looked like shit. He hadn't been sleeping well for the past month, every single micromovement he made hurt like fuck. It was exhausting being in this much pain.

"I need help," he said slowly. Emphatically. Desperately.

Q: Elbows on the counter. Q leaned forward, studying the man from head to shoulders.

"What kind of pain is it?"

Kelly: "It feels like someone stuffed my body into a trash compactor. Everything hurts."

Q: "Why haven't you been to the emergency room?"

Kelly: "I've done this dance for years and I can't get more Vicodin for weeks now can you help me or not?"

Q: "Vicodin?" He thought for a moment. "I'll get it. Before I leave. How long can you stay?"

Kelly: "Vicodin, oxy, heroin, I don't care, man. I just need something." He looked at his watch. It was a slow-ish night.

"I can stay forty-five minutes."

Q: His phone was already out. "I might have to come to you, but I'm on it." Kelly was still a new face, but he could read honesty when it was staring him in the eyes.

"Hey, what do you wanna drink? On the house."

Kelly: Thank fucking god. He just might make it through the next twenty-four hours after all.

"Triple bourbon, neat. Thanks."

Q: "You got it. Hungry at all? Fried fish tacos tonight. I'll hook you up."

Kelly: "Might as well." It was his dinner break, after all.

He eased himself onto a stool with great effort and silently begged for death.

Q: Firstly, the bourbon. Slid his way after a quick smile and word to Stacey. Kelly was none of her business, and he intended to keep it that way.

Kelly: The bourbon was downed with gratitude. He wasn't in the mood for savoring, he just needed something to take the edge off. This dull pain was so much worse than anything sharp he'd ever experienced.

Sharp pain just killed you. Dull pain made you lose your mind.

Q: Q glanced to his phone for the third time. Still nothing. Tony had to be at work. Shitty, but he'd hear back soon enough. The man was addicted to the screen.

"Want another? I'll drive ya wherever."

Kelly: "One more. Gotta get back to work after this." And he couldn't give the appearance of resuming his shift drunk off his ass, much as he wanted to be.

Q: One more, and a round of beers for a table across the bar, close to the dance floor. Nearly ten minutes and a plate of fish tacos later did his phone finally vibrate.

"Hey, he'll be here in thirty. Either you're late back or I'll come to you."

Kelly: There truly was a god. He might just have to pop into the church to light a candle in homage. "I can be late. We're not busy right now anyway."

Q: "How long have you been like this, man?"

Kelly: “Ran out of pills a few days ago. Been downhill from there.”

Q: "Want something to smoke, too? I got you covered."

Kelly: “I’d have gone down that road already if I could. Lungs are fucked.” Along with every other part of this damn body.

Q: "You have asthma or something?"

Kelly: “Inhaled smoke and hot air during a fire.”

Q: "You look like a million bucks, sweetheart." A soft pat to his shoulder. "Or you will soon."

Kelly: “I’ll settle for looking like a buck fifty if I can get some relief.”

Q: Soon. "How're the tacos?"

Kelly: "Pretty good. Better than I expected actually."

Q: "Better than I expected too," said under his breath. "It's a hit or miss here.”

Kelly: "Didn't think ya'll did food beyond fried things."

Q: "Trust me, we don't. Tried doing caprese salad once. Didn't go over well. We're not in Europe."

Kelly: "This is the wrong crowd for that. This crowd just wants Jaeger shots and bass."

Q: "Not a bad crowd, just different."

Kelly: "Sometimes it's needed." Like today. His night would be extra miserable if he was working at Pete's. He'd have to endure so much more than pain.

Q: A question spurred from somewhere within. One he kept to himself. The first, it seemed, as far as intuition with Kelly. Pocketed for later. This was not Kelly's night.

True to Q's word, a man walked in at the appointed hour. Still in his hardware polo and as tired as Kelly looked.

The man took a seat beside Kelly, smiling politely at his bartender.

"Gimmie somethin' I shouldn't drive home after drinkin'."

"You got it."

"Where is-"

Q gestured vaguely to the man by his side.

Kelly: It seemed like a hundred years passed before his salvation arrived and even in a hardware polo, he looked like a goddamn angel.

"Yeah, me. Help me."

Q: Q left them alone to discuss the details. None of which were his business. He knew his friend to be fair when sober, and his first drink was now.

Kelly: Kelly's request was simple. Probably concerning, but simple.

"I need all of the Vicodin that you have. That's not an exaggeration. You did not hear 'I want a lot of Vicodin'. I meant exactly what I said. If you don't have it, I'll take oxy. I'll take heroin. I'll take crystal fucking meth. Just please, god, give me some relief, my body hurts."

Q: A question asked of anyone with such blatant demand was if this was some kind of suicide attempt. The man was obviously in pain, but his desperation was enough to make a man shift in his seat.

"I'll give you two now, n'I wanna see ya take em." Words muttered under breath before large gulps of dark bitter beer.

Kelly: "Trust me, if I was gonna off myself, I would've done it long before tonight. Unassisted. I'll take the two and thank you for all eternity."

Q: "Hey, man, I get it." He dropped his hand with dead weight onto the counter, explaining how every other finger was held together with steel. A construction job traded for a hardware store with less pay. Such was life. He understood, but he wanted his money.

Kelly: Kelly would all but throw it at him. Probably too much, he hadn't counted it. He'd just grabbed a wad from his stash before he'd left for work, having anticipated ending up doing exactly what he was doing.

Q: Under the counter. A hot fist with two white pills tapped against his knee. Q saw to his duties, smiled when appropriate and once quite inappropriately to a woman in a blue dress and her disapproving male counterpart.

Kelly: He'd never experienced such instant mental relief. And if he had, it had been years.

Kelly swallowed the pills dry and thanked his savior.

- Present -

Fletcher: Fletcher had paced the ugly brown carpet flat. This was stupid. He was stupid. Having expected in any measure for Peter to have sent June had been reckless. His stomach had known what his head and heart couldn't bear. He'd fumbled his words. He'd made things worse. He felt sick.

And all for a man that didn't love him.

A shot glass was the last thing on his mind. Straight from the bottle of honey whiskey.

This was fine. This was the natural order of things. He was getting married. Whenever it was Marion decided to set a date. He didn't fucking know.

He stared into his half-finished bottle. He should have been himself. Take it all back and just go back to a few years ago. There were more important things on his agenda. Had to be something.

June/Kelly: "I think you're coming down with something," June said to Kelly as she put chairs on top of their respective tables. He usually did this, but he didn't look like he could lift a feather right now.

Kelly put away the last of the glasses and tried not to wince. "What makes you say that?"

"Well for one, it's usually you doing this instead of me. For two, you're all pale and sweaty and if I had to guess, you're clammy, too. I think you have a fever."

If only. "M'fine. Gonna take out the trash."

"That's okay, I can--"

Kelly shook his head. "It's fine, I got it."

It wasn't and he didn't, but he'd rather balance the trash bag and his cane than stand there looking like shit and feeling like shit.

Fletcher: Fletcher checked his watch. Still time. The shop sign was flipped closed. Door locked. The back room was thick with the stench of cigarettes. A habit he needed to rid himself. A stench others could all too easily catch.

Away with his shoe. Away with a Samantha out a hidden passageway.

Kelly: “Fucking...opioid...fucking....crisis,” Kelly muttered in between steps, adjusting his grip on the trash bag. “Fucking—do-gooder fucking—drug dealer.”

He braced himself against the dumpster and hissed out a breath. “Since when does a fucking dealer have morals, fuck’s sake.” Man was as bad as the doctor, rationing out his meds. One didn’t want him turning into a junkie and the other thought he was going to OD. Couldn’t catch a fucking break.

Should’ve bought heroin, he thought as he struggled to lift the bag into the dumpster.

He barely got it to shoulder-height before the cloud cover above him moved away and cool, ethereal light filled the alleyway.

“.....oh, fuck....”

Fletcher: Hardly any toes left. Something to keep his mind occupied. The Harrak house; the hospital; the police station; a handful of vampires, to say the least; a dangerous game of hide and seek at his mother's tiny house. One across the street.

His eyes drifted, checking each Samantha.

June/Kelly: "No no no no no, please, please! Not here, no n--AGH!"

A sharp crack had June's head whipping around. "Kelly? Was that you?"

"Please, PLEASE--gah!" Another crack, two, three. Kelly's legs buckled beneath him as his bones began the excruciating process of reforming. It hadn't always been this bad. It hadn't always been this hard, this unwelcome.

Now there was only pain.

"Kelly?!" June headed for the back. "Kelly, is that you? Are you okay?"

Fletcher: Fletcher turned to face the frame covered wall. Behind it was brick, and the street, and the pub. Through the crack in the wall yet to be fixed. A single glance.

{Text to Peter} Pub NOW

June shouldn't have been there. Do-gooder sweetheart, helping a man that probably didn't deserve it. Nature could have run its course if not for this one variable.

The door slammed behind, rattling at its edges.

Pete/June: Pete's stomach twisted into knots the moment he got the notification on his phone.

{Text} What happened? What's wrong?

Fuck. He couldn't just up and leave, Graham was asleep in his lap. But what if something was really wrong?

"Goddammit."

God, what was that horrible sound? It sounded like branches breaking or something.

Oh shit, what if Kelly's cane had broken somehow and he'd fallen? He could be trying to get back up.

June jogged the rest of the way to the back entrance. The door was still open.

"I'm coming, Kelly," she called, stepping out into the alley. "Are you okay? Are you h--holygod!"

Fletcher: A body slammed hard against the dusty brown brick of the alleyway. Fletcher bounced his shoulder from the wall into a defensive stance. A gruff man to say the least, but nothing as intimidating as the scene before him. Not yet.

"Get back inside, June."

June: June didn't seem to hear him. She was frozen to the spot, eyes wide and horrified as the animal-like mass on the concrete a few yards ahead of her shifted and writhed and made that awful cracking sound.

"I-is--that's...oh, god..."

The mass of cracking bones and torn flesh was Kelly.

Fletcher: The only defense between June and jaws. He couldn't afford to tear his attention away. If he had to intimidate her to safety so be it.

"Get inside, June! NOW!"

June/Kelly: It was hard to tell whether it was the volume of Fletcher's voice or the tone, but either way it had her scrambling back to hide just inside the door.

Her heart was going a mile a minute, breathing quick and growing more panicked with every new crack, every tortured yelp, every godawful wet sound coming from the alley.

It was like being flayed alive. Any fluidity and ease had long ago been erased, severed when they'd severed him from the moon.

She seemed to mock him now as she forced him to change, as she punished him for their sins.

Scarred skin and fabric gave way to matted, patchy fur. Bones struggled to shift correctly, one leg seemed to atrophy and turn lame as with one last strangled cry, a dire wolf emerged where Kelly had been.

Fletcher: This was never a scenario Fletcher had prepared himself for. A bar fight; a troublesome vampire; for Peter to accidentally change. Kelly had a stench to him. Unmistakable. A viable excuse to maintain surveillance. He wondered now if he had cursed them.

Fletcher hunched his back, shoulders tight but hands loose, ready to snatch a wolf from pounce. He doubted this would end well. Never fucking did with wolves.

"Kelly!" he shouted. "Look at me. Can ya fuckin' hear me?"

June/Kelly: The wolf snarled and snapped its jaws in warning. Its eyes were feral, devoid of any understanding or acknowledgement.

"Oh my god. Oh my god." June slipped back behind the door and squeezed her eyes shut. This wasn't happening this couldn't be happening things like this didn't happen.

You're dreaming, she told herself, hugging her arms around her middle. You're dreaming this is a dream it's not real, it's not real, it can't be real!

Fletcher: A wolf like this, would he retain this memory? Carried knowledge in the same manner as a Samsa?

The sharp screech from his throat an equal warning. Hunched forward, meeting the creature at eye level. Back bowed and threatening.

June/Kelly: June's eyes flew open. That sound....that wasn't--what was that?

Steeling herself, she dared to peek around the doorframe and immediately had to cover her mouth to keep from screaming. Kelly was gone. The horrible pile of flesh was gone. In its place was--holy god. That was a wolf. That was the biggest fucking wolf she'd ever seen. No no no no, th-that was--was that Kelly? He was--and Fletcher--had that sound come from Fletcher?

The wolf growled again, desperation and its fight or flight response making it take a careful step forward. The wolf wanted out. The wolf wanted the woods, wanted freedom, and Fletcher was standing between it and the way out of the alley.

It crouched and measured the space.

Fletcher: He couldn't let Kelly go. Not this deep into town. Much against his mother's wishes and against his better interest, this had become his purpose.

"Calm the fuck down."

Where the fuck was Peter?

Pete/Kelly/Emmanuel: "What's going on?" Emmanuel whisper yelled to Pete as he took the sleeping bundle that was Graham from his arms. "What happened at the pub? Where's Stella and Ryan?"

"They're at a wedding in Savannah with my parents," Pete whispered back. "I don't know what happened at the pub, I just know it's an emergency and you were on the way." He kissed his nephew's head. God love him for being such a heavy sleeper. "You sure this is okay?"

"Yeah, it's fine, go. I'll look after him."

"Thanks, man, I owe you one."

"Just be careful. And call Brett if it's bad."

"I will."

Pete practically flew back down Emmanuel's walkway to his car and floored it to the pub.

{Text to Fletcher} On my way

{Text to Fletcher} Do I need to call Brett?

There was no sign of understanding, only more snapping and snarling and slow, deliberate steps forward. Perhaps it was a warning. Perhaps it was careless. Perhaps it was both.

But all Kelly could see through the haze of pain and anger was the freedom just beyond Fletcher.

He leapt forward.

Fletcher: There were too many possibilities Fletcher couldn't allow in his escape. His back bowed, gaining height and the beginnings of chitin on his forearms. As the creature leapt, the Samsa made a grab for whatever he could. He would use his center of gravity to his advantage in an effort to bring the creature onto its side. Enough reasoning at this point.

Kelly: The leap had accounted and calculated for the height of a man; not the height of what that man was becoming before his eyes. It all happened too quickly for the wolf to make out what it was, but it didn't matter.

Balance already off, Kelly was caught by his useless back leg and hit the unforgiving concrete. Hard.

His fight was pure pain response. He scrambled to try to get away from the creature, growling and biting anywhere he could in his attempt to free himself of the threat.

Fletcher: "Fuckin' stay!" This was exactly why he fucking hated dogs. The wolf was yanked by his useless limb and pulled underneath his weight. Forearm to his face, elbow against its snapping muzzle. He'd participated in enough fights with Garou over the years to know how to deal with less than friendly jaws. Less dangerous forcing the mouth wide than trying to keep it closed.

His voice was becoming hoarse, broken by sharp clicks and screeches. "Swear t'fuckin' god, Kelly, I will put ya down if ya don't chill!"

Pete/Kelly/June: Pete couldn't have begun to guess what sort of scene was going to greet him when he arrived at the pub. Fletcher hadn't answered; he was flying blind.

Perhaps that was why he felt so unsettled as he pulled up to a still scene.

He could hear some sort of sound coming from somewhere but couldn't see the source. The lights were still on. Blinds still open. No movement inside. He couldn't tell if that was reassuring.

He got out of his car and unlocked the door as quickly as he could, immediately looking around for June and Kelly. Nothing. The cleaning supplies were still out. Only about three quarters of the chairs rested on top of their respective tables. But no June and Kelly. There was only that sound he'd heard earlier, which was louder now.

It wasn't coming from the main room. It wasn't muffled enough to be coming from upstairs. Could it be coming from backstage or one of the storage rooms? Were June and Kelly there too?

He ducked behind the bar, intending to check on each of the closets and the kitchen when he turned and saw the door to the alley wide open. And hiding just behind the frame, peeking outside, a petite figure he immediately recognized as June.

"June?" he called, startling her into turning around.

The look in her eyes slammed into Pete like a ton of bricks. Even in the low light, he could see how pale she was, how she trembled in fear.

Pete crossed to her in a second, pressing his keys into her hand and ushering her away from whatever untold horror was in the alley. "Take my car and go home, right now!"

"I--"

"NOW!"

What came out of Kelly's mouth wasn't a growl; it couldn't even be called a howl. There wasn't enough fight in it for that, if there was any fight in him at all.

It was a scream. It was raw, exhausted anguish. The woods were so far away. He couldn't see them anymore, couldn't see anything except a haze of red that he didn't realize was blood. He could only feel pain, could only hear voices. One angry, and one that called, "Fletcher!"

Fletcher: He knew that voice. Recognized the tone and every emotion behind it. That blame which lay in his name better than anything else. He was a disgusting thing doing a disgusting job. His arms were covered in chitin. Fingers filed to sharpened points, where nail and bone and skin became a single entity. Eyes of rich amber glowing through the limited light at the Gurahl. What would be his superior, had he been anything but a Mockery.

"Help me!" he screeched.

Pete: Pete couldn't begin to name the emotions he was feeling. All he saw was Fletcher--in many ways as if the first time--and the giant, thrashing wolf he had pinned beneath him.

He rushed over, careful to avoid claws and jaws. Kelly was making a sound that was making every hair on Pete's body stand on end. "Fletch, come on, let him up. Let him up, you won, he's not fighting you!"

Fletcher: "No shit he's not fightin' me! M'not lettin' a wolf loose on this fuckin' town. I don't care how injured it is!"

Pete: "Then I'll take him with me to the woods! He won't be loose!"

Fletcher: "Move your goddamn hands n'do somethin'!"

Pete/Kelly: "Dammit, Fletcher, let him--fuck."

Pete pulled a pendant from under his shirt as he crouched beside Kelly's head.

His bartender was still making that godawful sound and trying to move from underneath Fletcher's weight, to no avail. Kelly's pain was plainly obvious when he was up and human; now it was nearly unbearable to see.

Sooner or later someone was going to hear and either come looking and call the sheriff, and then they would really have a problem on their hands.

"Kelly. Kelly! I need you to calm down." Pete pulled his necklace up over his head and clasped it in one hand while gingerly attempting to place the other on the wolf's head.

Not an easy task with Kelly just waiting to clamp his jaws down on something.

"I'm gonna make you feel better, okay?" he said as gently as he could. "I'm gonna try. It won't hurt you more, it's just green light. You ever heard of Druids? It's just some of their magic. It'll help, I promise."

He squeezed the pendant tighter, willing its magic forward.

Fletcher: "He can't fuckin' understand ya. I've tried! Don't ya think I've tried?!" But then again, maybe true breeds understood one another. He didn't fucking know. But this was somehow his fucking fault. Where would June be right now had he not bolted across the street? Peter would say she would have been fine. He was sinking into self-doubt and further paranoia.

One more snap at Peter, though, and that muzzle was going to be wrapped.

Pete/Kelly: Fletcher was right; Kelly showed no more signs of understanding Pete than he had of understanding him. At the moment it was hard to say whether that would've been the case in different circumstances, but as things stood, Kelly understood nothing and perceived everything as a threat.

That didn't mean Pete was going to stop trying, however.

"Come on, Kelly, try to think through it. You've gotta try." Pete squeezed the pendant harder. What the hell was taking it so long?! "I've almost got it, Kelly, you're gonna be okay. You're gonna be okay, Kelly. That's your name, remember? Kelly George Rose. You've gotta understand that, you--fucking finally!"

At long last, a soft green light had begun to flow from the pendant. Pete immediately pressed it against the wolf's head, hoping the bit of magic would help calm and relieve him.

"Fletch, you have to let go of his leg. We have no chance of getting him to calm down if you don't."

Fletcher: Fletcher lifted onto one of his now amber elbows. A soft crunch of not-skin against concrete. He'd release the leg, focus almost entirely on snapping jaws and frantic claws.

"Lemme guess. France?"

Pete/Kelly: Pete shook his head, gaze trained on Kelly. "Callum's cousin."

There was a rush of something that could technically be called relief but fell far short of the mark. It wasn't really relief in the sense Pete had been hoping; it was just a bit less pain.

Kelly continued to struggle, more weakly but with the same amount of desperation.

At the very least, the screaming had stopped.

Fletcher: "Where d'ya wanna take him?" Because this alleyway shit had to end. He turned, checking for June. A sound, a scent. On guard while Peter did whatever it was he was doing.

Pete: "The woods. I have more of this magic along the riverbank. The pendant only has so much."

Fletcher: Fletcher closed his eyes. The fight against his nature in order to set himself to rights was painful as always, but an otherwise thoughtless transition.

"Help me get him up."

Pete: Thoughtless on Fletcher's part but definitely not Pete's. When this was over and done with he was going to have to take a second to process everything he was witnessing.

"Not yet. Give it another second." He didn't trust that Kelly wouldn't snap right now. Best to let the magic work a little bit. "Anyone pawn an ATV recently?"

Fletcher: "What? No. He can fit in the back of my Dart." He'd have to, torn upholstery be damned. One more idea. It had been some time since he'd looked, but, "How crowded is the attic?"

Pete: "We won't be able to get to the part of the riverbank we need to in a car. I usually hike out there on foot or walk there in bear form."

Pete's brow furrowed. "The attic? There's no magic in the attic."

Fletcher: "I don't give a fuck about magic right now, Peter. We just need him where humans can't fuckin' see. Make him walk with ya when he's got two semi-functional legs in the mornin'."

Pete: "He won't be seen by anyone if we take him to the woods. He'll be out of sight and he'll get some relief for his pain. He's not just some wolf, Fletch, I see this man every day. He works for me."

Fletcher: "Why does no one in this goddamn town have any fuckin' sense of self-preservation." A hand was thrown about. "Whatever then. Ya deal with it."

Pete: "My self doesn't need to be preserved, his does. What would putting him in the attic do that taking him to the woods wouldn't?"

Fletcher: "Uh, expose him t'fuckin' people."

Pete: "And who exactly is going to see him deep in the woods? There's more risk keeping him here. I'd be truly surprised if someone hasn't already called Brett because a wild animal was screaming in town."

Fletcher: "We're not in the fuckin' woods, Peter."

Pete: "So let's get there! And if you don't want to help me that's fine!" He could call Callum to help him. He'd be able to provide magic and possible transport.

Fletcher: "You're out of your goddamn mind." The wolf - because that's all it was in this form - was lifted in impatient arms. So goddamn ignorant and no sense of safety for himself or those in this town. Absolutely ridiculous. Pentex could have Peter's head tomorrow and it would be his own fucking fault.

But no matter the torture, he was in love with this idiot bear. If he breached the veil for anyone, it seemed, it would be in the name of half-love.

"Let's fuckin' go then."

Pete/Kelly: The wolf wasn't exactly going to go easily. Just like in his human form, any amount of movement at all sent waves of pain and discomfort all throughout his body. This amount of magic had been intended to help Pete sleep or meditate, not offer relief to a horribly injured direwolf. The most it could do was offer a calming effect.

"Since when is helping a friend being out of my mind? The goddamn woods are the safest place for him and for everyone else. He's out of sight to them, and they are to him."

Pete tried to keep the pendant pressed to Kelly's head as best he could as they started for the woods. Tried being the operative word. There was still a lot of snarling and struggling and there would no doubt be more as the magic ran out.

They just needed to get inside the tree line. They needed to get at least that far.

Fletcher: "We gotta go through fuckin' buildings, train track, homes, Peter. Homes. I don't know how this ain't gettin' through t'ya. Ya hang out with that druid way too fuckin' much."

Pete: "The hell are we, ghosts? We're not going through anything. Vampires didn't take over this place for the flurry of activity. It's nearly three a.m., there's no one out in the back streets to see what's happening."

Fletcher: "They didn't make this place an Elysium by marchin' a fuckin' werewolf through the goddamn streets just 'cause 78% of people are asleep."

Pete: "No, they did it by covering shit up which is exactly what we're doing."

Not a single major street would be taken if Pete had anything to do with it. Back streets and alleys only. Not a single streetlamp would be walked under. He wanted to take the most lowkey route possible while also doing it as quickly as possible.

Not an easy feat, but then Edenton wasn't terribly large.

Fletcher: "I'm so grateful you're such an expert now. Really, it brings me peace of mind that all my upbringing and knowledge is a goddamn lie."

Pete: Pete tried his best not to give Fletcher a snippy reply back. It would be far too easy to fall into an argument just for its own sake and they had a very pressing issue to deal with.

"Really, with the sarcasm? You telling me vampires aren't like the goddamn mob? I'm not trying to make your life hard, Fletcher, I'm trying to help Kelly."

Fletcher: "The sake of one over many." He was angry in the moment. Flabbergasted at the situation he'd allowed Peter to place them in. Pissed beyond measure that Kelly thought he could work under such condition. The man was gonna get a fair right hook in the proper moment.

"You're..." A glance at the moon. "Is it a tattoo? That necklace? Why ain't ya changed, too?"

Pete: "The many are tucked away at home right now and they're not my concern. My concern is my friend and if that really steams your clams that goddamn badly, I'll look after Kelly on my own!"

The green glow seemed dimmer. The magic was running out. Or maybe it was his own paranoia making it seem that way.

"Callum's cousin helped me. I couldn't change tonight, I'm looking after Graham."

Fletcher: "Ya do that enough you're gonna break yourself. But whatever." That was becoming the theme for everything tonight. He knew truths, but whatever. Feelings outweighed facts apparently.

Until it didn't, and a door just yards away opened with a slam. Less than a second and Fletcher was on his knees, armful or wolf and eyes caught in moonlight.

Pete: "Is there anything you're not gonna fucking jump down my throat about tonight? This is the first time I've ever done it and it'll most likely be the last. My nine year-old nephew was my only fucking reason."

He could've kept going, but the sound of that door made every drop of blood in his body run cold.

Fuckfuckfuck they needed a shadow any shadow please god don't let them look in our direction--

Fletcher: "Just don't move," he whispered. "You're fine, Peter."

Pete: Forget moving, Pete barely breathed. He motioned for Fletcher to be quiet; even that whisper sounded way too loud.

It had been a back door opening. He heard shuffling footsteps, a clinking sound followed a dull thud.

He finally let himself relax when the door slammed shut a few moments later. "Who the fuck takes out the trash at three in the morning?" he hissed, pulling his phone out of his pocket.

"We're not gonna make it before the amulet runs out, we need Cal."

Fletcher: Fletcher's face could best be described as deadpan, seeing as he was the point attempting to reassure Peter. Seeing as he was the one carrying two arms' worth of unnerved wolf.

"Gee. Sure sounds like we shoulda stayed fuckin' put. Sounds like it's gonna be a crowd of us in the middle of bumfuck and exposed. Sounds like ya shoulda listened t'me."

Pete: "Absolutely not, we're not staying exposed, we're still going to the woods. I need magic to calm Kelly. And by all means, Fletcher, set him down and wash your hands of this if you want to." He pulled up Callum's name and dialed.

"You need to hear you were right? Fine, you were right and I was wrong. You know best and I should've listened to you."

Fletcher: "If only I believed anything ya ever said t'me, it might actually make me feel better."

Pete: "God, Fletcher, what do you want from me?!" Pete whisper yelled. "I am trying to do right by Kelly. Maybe it's not the best way and maybe I'm being a reckless, naive idiot but dammit I have to try! The woods are safe, he needs to be safe!"

Fletcher: "Ya ask me now?!" Plenty willing to have a whisper fight right there and then.

Carefully, he returned to his feet. "Move t'that bit a'trees. I'll scout."

Pete: "Might as well since in your infinite wisdom I can't do anything right! Jesus god, why won't he pick up?" He'd been sent to voicemail. Callum was either dead asleep or away from his phone. He dialed again.

"You can't scout with an armful of wolf, give him here." Pete propped his phone between his ear and shoulder and held out his arms for Kelly.

Fletcher: "S'three in the mornin'. His husband probably turned his phone off." Something he'd been known to do when Callum needed sleep. Something Fletcher wasn't about to reveal in its entirety.

The wolf was handed over. Almost instantly did he disappear among the shadow and branches. Off with his shoe. The one with a reasonable toe to spare.

"Don't say a fuckin' word," he hissed. The distinct and nauseating crack of bones. The tear of flesh far too easy than it should seem. Two abnormally large roaches flew away with impressive speed.

Pete: Pete took the wolf as gently as he could, careful not to jostle him too much. And although there was some protest and half-hearted struggling, Kelly remained relatively calm.

However little magic there was, it was having the intended effect.

"Your toes are really the least of my concern right now, Fletcher." Still no answer from Callum.

Pete sighed.

Fletcher: "Just sit a moment. No use wastin' energy." His eyes, still reflective in certain angles, had taken a faraway glaze.

"Where ya keep the blue roses?"

Pete: Pete didn't bother wondering how Fletcher knew about the roses he'd planted. At this point, he simply assumed Fletcher knew about everything that happened in Edenton.

"Along a secluded part of the riverbank. Off any paths."

Fletcher: A simple nod, eyes forward. Peter would have to wait through the flinches and stuttered breaths, watching a mind in multiple places simultaneously.

Pete: “It’s about a two-mile hike from Callum’s house. There’s a big rock nearby.”

Fletcher: "I know," he muttered.

Pete: “Right. Of course you do.”

Fletcher: "What's that mean?" Not a lot of fight left in his voice.

Pete: “That you know everything.”

Fletcher: "I don't."

Pete: “Probably more than anyone else in town.” His voice was quiet, void of any accusation.

Fletcher: "S'all I do. People think I'm crazy but m'just not... m'just not."

Pete: “People think everyone’s crazy.”

Fletcher: "Yeah, s'easy t'dismiss when you're not me."

Pete: “I don’t mean to dismiss it.”

Fletcher: "I bet ya don't mean a lot of things."

Pete: Pete heaved a long sigh. “They find the roses?”

Fletcher: "Almost there. Not lil Ferraris."

Pete: “Just asking.”

Pete looked down at his armful of Kelly. His eyes were closed but he wasn’t asleep. His breathing was too labored to be restful.

And the light was definitely dimmer now.

Fletcher: The path was clear. Fletcher felt at the tree and forced himself upright.

"Follow behind me, alright? Walk where I walk."

Pete: He nodded and carefully adjusted his grip on Kelly.

"Lead the way."

Fletcher: He needed something to fill the silence. "Did ya ever trust me, Peter?"

Pete: "I trust you now, Fletcher."

Fletcher: "How can ya say that n'we're walkin' this way?"

Pete: "I wouldn't be here if I didn't trust you. I'd be home still, with Graham."

Fletcher: "What was trust?"

Pete: "Dropping everything and leaving my nephew with Emmanuel in the middle of the night because you texted me that something was wrong."

Fletcher: Fletcher fell into silence, chewing a wound into his lip as they continued along the path to Peter's sanctuary. The declaration of love to a leech. What a sad, pathetic life he lived.

"Do your thing. I'll... keep watch."

Pete: Pete had never been more relieved to see a blue rose in his life.

The moment he stepped into the serenity garden, more of that soft green light began to emanate from each of the roses, covering the immediate area in a soothing haze.

He lowered Kelly to the ground as delicately as possible, giving extra consideration given to the injured leg.

As for Kelly, he was too exhausted to put up much of any kind of struggle. The Druid magic couldn't quite take away all the pain, but it was lulling him into a half-asleep state.

And now that Kelly was calm and still, the extent of the damage to his body was plain to see. He looked like he'd been put through a meat grinder and left to heal poorly.

Fletcher: Fletcher looked back over his shoulder. "What kinda Garou can't heal proper? The fuck ya think happened t'him?"

Pete: "I couldn't even begin to guess," Pete sighed, settling beside Kelly's head. "He's a vet."

Fletcher: "That don't - I dunno, man. Seen wolves heal from some crazy shit. Ya felt his leg? Some unnatural shit in there."

Pete: "Could a vampire have done damage like this? Made it so he wouldn't be able to heal?"

Fletcher: "Maybe a witch. Maybe somethin' like ya. Y'all supposed t'be the manipulators of health or some shit."

Pete: "Whatever it was, they were either really pissed or really powerful. Or both."

He put his pendant back on and tucked it away again. "Stronger ones of me probably. I'm just a bear."

Fletcher: "Ya ain't ever been 'just' anything."

Pete: "Guess not. My first transformation made that clear."

Fletcher: "I shoulda smelled it on ya."

Pete: “I was a late bloomer, weak bloodline.” He shrugged.

Fletcher: "You've only dipped your toes in."

Pete: “Not much of a puddle to dip them into. What I know about being a bear I learned from my mentor.”

Fletcher: "I mean all of it. Bein' 'round Callum ain't the whole of it."

Pete: "What else am I gonna do? I come from a river guardian tribe. I guard the river and hang out with Callum on full moons."

Fletcher: "More than that, Peter. There's... so much ya don't know." You have no idea how much I worry.

Pete: “I don’t doubt that. But since I have no mentor who is like me, I make up for it by just living my life and transforming quietly and looking after the river. It’s all I can do. It’s what I’ve got to work with.”

Fletcher: "Is that what ya want? T'just... be like that?"

Pete: “I never asked to be this, Fletcher. I was human my entire life until I got sick one random day and transformed a few days later. I just want the life that I built.”

Fletcher: "Wow, ya never asked for it. Amazin'. None of us ask t'be born, Peter. Ya either adapt or ya don't."

Pete: “Well it may not seem so to you, but I think I’ve adapted pretty damn well for not having transformed until I’d been alive for over three decades.”

Fletcher: "Ya ain't been caught yet, 'cept by vampires, n'me, n'maybe a hunter."

Pete: "I was never going hide it from you, or from the vampires. Comes with the territory."

Fletcher: "What territory is that? They'll kill ya as sooner look at ya."

Pete: "The territory of living in Edenton. Even if I prevented my transformation every single full moon for the rest of my life, I can't hide it. My aura's changed. My scent has changed."

Fletcher: "Ya can stay away from em. You're not me. You're not strong enough. If Guildias' boss told him t'kill ya, he would. Ya just..."

Pete: "My life is here, Fletcher. And I've kept that life as quiet and private as I can to stay off the Prince's radar. I'm doing the best I can."

Fletcher: Fletcher could only sigh, at a loss for words that would not result in an argument or further heartbreak. Best to just turn his back and watch their path.

Pete: Fletcher didn't have to say anything more; that sigh spoke volumes. It said his best wasn't good enough, that he wasn't good enough. It said he was doing everything wrong. It said he was naive and idealistic and overemotional and irrational.

So...everything he'd gotten used to hearing about himself.

He laid his hand on Kelly's head and asked god to help them all.

Fletcher: Shouldn't that have been said for himself? Fletcher would have corrected several mistakes in that line of thought had he said them. Just a further widening gap between those unforgettable few weeks they would never share again. The further from those days, the more Fletcher convinced himself they were just a dream.

"How's he doin'?"

Pete: “I think he’s mostly okay.” Pete gave Kelly a good once over. “His breathing seems a little labored. Leg’s twitching.” He leaned in close to listen. “And he’s whining with every exhale. Probably still in a lot of pain.”

Fletcher: "Could steal somethin' from the vet's office." A partial joke with no accompanied laugh.

Pete: Pete snorted. “Vet’s offices keep morphine?”

Fletcher: "Gotta be a dog equivalent."

Pete: "He's on medication. Maybe that'll be enough once he turns back. Unless you want to risk breaking into the vet's office."

Fletcher: "I mean, we're already breakin' rules." But he took a breath. "I might have somethin'."

Pete: "Is whatever it is safe for giant wolves?"

Fletcher: "Are ya bear in all things when you're a bear?"

Pete: "Right down to scratching my back against a tree."

Fletcher: "So ya think it would hurt ya t'take some oxy?"

Pete: “I don’t know, probably. Animal systems aren’t equipped to handle heavy meds.”

Fletcher: It was all relatively new. He knew of other breeds because he had been forced for one reason or another to kill them.

For the good of his species and the security of this town.

"Stayin' here til dawn?"

Pete: Pete nodded. “Yeah. I’ll help him home when he transforms back.”

Fletcher: Fletcher solidified his stance. Arms folded like a hug.

"Alright."

Pete: “It’s okay if you don’t stay, you don’t have to. Kelly’s my responsibility.”

Fletcher: "You're mine."

Pete: “I’m here every full moon, Fletcher,” he said softly. “I’ll be okay, promise. You have a life and I don’t want to keep you from it.”

Fletcher: "...So am I." All Peter had to go on with that faraway tone was Fletcher's back and impossibly tight shoulders.

Pete: Years of knowing about Fletcher's vigilance and somehow reminders of it still surprised him, even if it was brief. Of course Fletcher watched him on full moons. Fletcher watched everything.

Better to quit arguing and focus on Kelly. Maybe he'd text Gaetan and ask about the injuries.

Fletcher: Every day with Peter was a foot-in-mouth situation. Best to let the silence stretch between them. The whispers against his ears were making him miserable anyway.

"Fuck off," he tried to hiss. Whomever was vying for his attention tonight was particularly insistent.

Pete: Pete frowned and turned toward Fletcher's back. Who was he talking to? Was someone coming toward them?

"Is everything all right?"

Fletcher: "S'fi - S'fine." Composure. Not another argument. He was tired.

After a moment, Fletcher turned his shoulder in Peter's direction. He doubted he would remember their night together, the rain, the power outage, the embarrassment caused by the blackout. But, "Ya ever... hear anything in the dark?"

Pete: Fletcher needn't have doubted; Pete remembered every moment of the time they'd had together.

"I didn't used to, but I do now, sometimes."

Fletcher: "Anyone ever tell ya what it is?"

Pete: He nodded. "Yep, my mentor. Said it was the Veil."

Fletcher: "Dead fuckin' people?"

Pete: "Not dead. The in between."

Fletcher: "Whatever that is." He flicked at his ear, as though swiping at a fly.

Pete: "The way it was explained to me, it's the space between life and death. The spirit world where ghosts and ideas and dreams happen. That's where the voices come from."

Fletcher: "It can fuck right off," he muttered.

Pete: Pete pulled his phone from his pocket and checked the battery. There was a decent amount left.

He turned on the flashlight and set it down on a nearby rock.

Fletcher: Fletcher turned at the click of the light. Confusion tangled with caution in those gray eyes as he approached the illuminated sanctuary. He would crouch quietly, akin to the very creature they protected.

Pete: "Light helps right?" Pete asked softly. "I remember, from before."

Fletcher: "Yeah... Helps." For some indescribable reason, a verbal thank you felt like too much to give.

Pete: He nodded and offered Fletcher a smile.

"Did you know Druids can borrow light and play with it?"

Fletcher: "Heard somethin', but just sounded like a fairy tale." He'd seen things from Callum, more his cousin, but nothing he cared to disclose.

Pete: "Callum told me that he and his cousins used to make soccer balls out of light. His cousin Bronwyn still does it with her son."

Fletcher: "I..." know her. He chewed his lip. Stomach churned. "...be glad when this is over." Not what he meant to say, but the bottom line was he felt sick to his goddamn stomach near Peter.

"I just don't get this luna shit."

Pete: Pete looked up at the sky. He could just make out the moon through the canopy. "I really don't either. It's strange being controlled by something you can't touch. Something so far away."

Fletcher: "I mean, gravity," he scoffed. "Sunburn. Insanity. Love n'hate."

Pete: He hummed. "You can feel all those things all the time. You're always aware of them. The moon is just a space rock every single day of its cycle except for one, and on that one day..."

He shook his head. "It's just its position relative to us and the sun. It's math."

Fletcher: Fletcher shook his head, but then shrugged. "I mean, if that blows your mind, I'm a fuckin' cockroach. You're a goddamn bear. Callum is married t'a vampire that can explode into ash. It all means somethin' we can't see. The moon ain't just the moon. Magic n'shit."

Pete: "The second you think nothing can surprise you anymore, something does. And it's not even just magic shit, it's normal shit too. How can you be a were-roach and I be a were-bear when we've only explored five percent of the ocean? None of it makes any sense."

Fletcher: "I mean, that's "we" as ya know it. Someone probably has. Only surprise I've had the past few years have been you."

Pete: “That makes two of us. Well, three. Callum was really damn surprised too.”

Fletcher: "Oh. Yeah. The bear shit. Yeah, that's surprisin'."

Pete: Pete wanted to ask Fletcher what he'd thought Pete had meant but refrained.

He was quiet for a moment. "Do you think someone not-human has explored the ocean?"

Fletcher: "Oh, yeah," he repeated. "Heard some things. Really interestin' things."

Pete: "Any you can share to pass the time?"

Fletcher: Deep breath. "'Bout a guy, his father is... a bloodsucker. N'he lives in the ocean."

Pete: Pete blinked. "He lives in the ocean? How--well I guess he doesn't need to breathe."

Fletcher: "N'he don't gotta look like us."

Pete: "Yeah. Man, that's crazy to think about. Does he ever come out or does he just feed on fish or?"

Fletcher: "Couldn't hear too well. Think he only comes up like once in a - like a century or somethin'."

Pete: "That's....actually kind of terrifying. I'm just imagining some deep-sea creature-looking vampire emerging from the depths."

Fletcher: "Somethin' like that... was here, once. When we were little."

Pete: "He's not still here, is he? Creeping around just out of reach of the sunlight?"

Fletcher: "I don't think it was a bloodsucker. Mama wouldn't tell me."

Pete: “Something bad or just not human?”

Fletcher: "Definitely not human. The way she described it in her book was like... somethin' ya'd see in the deep."

Pete: “So terrifying, probably with transparent skin and creepy eyes and razor sharp teeth.”

Fletcher: "Loose things." He indicated to his throat, arms.

Pete: Pete shuddered. “Scarier things than any of us are at the bottom of the ocean.”

Fletcher: "N'sometimes they get out. Remember... I guess not."

Pete: “Remember what?”

Fletcher: "That week I wasn't in school. I'd spent the night with Tristan Seger, and then bounced."

Pete: “Oh yeah, I do remember that.” He remembered being jealous and upset that Fletcher would go over to Tristan’s house but not his.

“Did something come to town that week that freaked your mom out?”

Fletcher: Another one of those things he wouldn't know. "Somethin' like that. She took me huntin'."

Pete: “Normal hunting or humans killing non-humans hunting?”

Fletcher: "Non-human killin' non-human."

Pete: “Well then. Must’ve been life or death if she took you away for a whole week.”

Fletcher: "Think she just wanted t'teach me." Much more important to her than being a student in some school for humans. With valid reason.

Pete: "Well, you missed Nicholas Maurey wetting himself during reading time."

Fletcher: "Wow. I missed so much." He managed a smile.

Pete: "At that age, that was the hugest thing to ever happen. Still remember the principal stepping over the puddle."

Fletcher: "Did he ever live that down," he mused.

Pete: "Mitch Borden teases him to this day. But Mitch never matured so."

Fletcher: "Did ya... really notice? When I wasn't there."

Pete: Pete nodded. "Yeah. I did."

Fletcher: I hate how much I love you.

"Ya n - mm." He shook his head.

"I'll keep an eye on him, if ya wanna rest your eyes."

Pete: "I'll be fine," he said with a shake of his head. "Used to pulling full moon all nighters, remember?"

Fletcher: "I know what ya can do, n'I'm offerin' anyways."

Pete: "I appreciate it. Truly. I don't think my brain would let me rest."

Fletcher: Another span of silence, then, slowly turning away from the light, though remaining in its protection.

Pete: Pete alternated between staring off into space and staring at Kelly's scars. The cane his bartender had been sporting lately made perfect sense.

This wasn't just a limp, that leg looked atrophied.

"The hell happened to you, Kelly?" he asked the air.

Fletcher: Fletcher stared into space, wondering why it was he constantly threw himself into these situations. Why was it he protected this town, besides self-preservation, had to be more significant than Peter Graham.

"What happens t'all Fera? Battle."

Pete: "Seems like he never fully recovered from that one." He couldn't help but wonder what had caused this kind of damage. What had prevented Kelly from healing the way a Fera should.

He fell silent for another few long moments. Then, "One of us should talk to June."

Fletcher: "I will," said without hesitation. "But I don't think she'll wanna."

Pete: "I think she will. June makes sense of things by talking them out, alone or with someone. And she can't talk this one out alone."

Fletcher: "Nah, she's got a sense of survival."

Pete: “She was still by the door when I arrived. She didn’t run, I had to make her.”

Fletcher: "Some freeze, some frenzy, some just haul ass."

Pete: “Well, looks like she’s a freezer. Now that is. The old her probably would’ve lost her mind.”

Fletcher: "Maybe. Maybe she'll call someone n'this place'll be crawlin' with Pentex."

Pete: "This is the same woman who's kept promises she made in kindergarten. If she talks about it at all, it'll only be to one of us."

Fletcher: "Maybe should be both of us."

Pete: "Maybe. Might help her understand better."

Fletcher: "When are ya gonna tell your family?"

Pete: "I'm not."

Fletcher: "I don't get that."

Pete: "Stella's about to have a baby, my dad's nearly recovered from his accident, he and my mom are still going to therapy. They don't need to know the world the thought they lived in is a lie."

Fletcher: "Luke already knows shit."

Pete: "He hasn't told anyone either."

Fletcher: "Y'all need a damn heart-t'-heart. That shit'll separate y'all eventually."

Pete: "Or it'll tear us apart if I rip the fabric of their reality in two. Enough damage has been done to my family already."

Fletcher: "Not Luke. Ya trust me, remember? It won't break him."

Pete: "He's already broken. Every time I see him he looks more and more wasted away."

Fletcher: "He'll be alright. People are workin' t'fix him."

Pete: "He doesn't need supernatural shit on top of everything he's dealing with."

Fletcher: Deep breath. "Man, that whole separation shit's already good n'happened."

Pete: "You mean his boyfriend being murdered?"

Fletcher: "I mean the two of ya. Believe me. I know what keepin' secrets does t'relationships."

Pete: "If I know he knows, then he already knows that I know."

Fletcher: "For sayin' ya trust me, ya sure don't act like it."

Pete: "What am I gonna say that'll be any help to him, Fletch? Hey Luke, I know you're horribly, horribly depressed but to make your day, let's talk about how our pregnant sister and our parents are surrounded by vampires."

Fletcher: "More like, fuckin, 'Hey, brother, this shit ya know? ya ain't alone. I would really appreciate your company n'I want ya t'know ya can come t'me 'bout your wraith boyfriend.'"

Pete: "His what? His boyfriend is haunting him?"

Fletcher: Fletcher simply stared.

Pete: "So you watch him too every weekend. And his best friend."

Fletcher: "For twenty years. Every fuckin' vampire, hunter, breed. Every fuckin' fairy n'every goddamn witch I can find."

Pete: "How do you walk, Fletcher? Your toes are everywhere."

Fletcher: "Had t'learn. Could be worse."

Pete: "Worse than having to dedicate brain power and appendages to watching Gertrude's Elysium for two decades?"

Fletcher: "N'as reward people call me fuckin' crazy n'an asshole. A know-it-all n'paranoid." Not all was incorrect, but whatever.

Pete: "You're not. You just know too much about too many things." You must be exhausted all the time.

Fletcher: "Pentex is just next door. An ugly beige outer space buildin' in every state. Got one outside Raleigh. Works with the military. Ain't no such thing as knowin' too much."

Pete: "Knowing too much has a nasty habit of getting people killed."

Fletcher: "Why ya think I watch everyone?"

Pete: "To stay alive."

Fletcher: "N'everyone else I give a shit about."

Pete: "Talk to June. She won't tell a single soul anything."

Fletcher: "Talk t'Luke. Ya can lean on him. He needs t'lean on ya."

Pete: "I'll talk to him about it when he gets here on Thursday. This isn't a phone conversation."

Fletcher: "No, it ain't."

Pete: "Tomorrow's June's day off and she plans to stay home all day. Bring a pizza and talk to her."

Fletcher: Fletcher looked over his shoulder, stared at the wolf, stared off into space. Stared at the sky with that familiar lost gaze, and shrugged to himself.

"I shouldn't have left ya."

Pete: Pete was still gently petting Kelly's head, offering whatever comfort he could even if Kelly wasn't aware or couldn't feel it.

"It is what it is, Fletch," he said softly. "I don't hold it against you."

Fletcher: "Of all the times t'fuckin' slack."

Pete: "Don't beat yourself up. You couldn't have known."

Fletcher: "But I knew he was fucked."

Pete: "She didn't get her way. I'm okay. It's not your fault, Fletcher."

Fletcher: It was obvious, even in such dim lighting of the full moon, that words waited on the tip of Fletcher's tongue. Words that he knew would be meaningless.

So he shrugged again.

"Marion wants t'move t'the city."

Pete: Of course she did. Why the hell wouldn't she.

"Gonna do it?" he asked, quieter than he intended.

Fletcher: "Not really my speed, but... I'd blend in with the other crazies."

Pete: He nodded, because what else could he do.

"What about your building?"

Fletcher: "I dunno. Dunno if we will. S'just somethin' she's in my ear about."

Pete: Another nod. "Have you ever thought about it? Living in a city?"

Fletcher: "Ya know I did. Before. N'ya didn't want me to."

Pete: "No, I didn't. Wanted you to be able to be where your life and mom and home are." Where I was.

Fletcher: "Yeah..." What more could he say? "Ya know why I wanted t'leave."

Pete: "Yeah. And I was the one who ended up leaving."

Fletcher: Fletcher shrugged. Stared at the exhausted wolf.

"Ya were never with me t'begin with. What I miss?"

Pete: "Stole a few weeks before it all went to hell. The only thing I regret is hurting you."

Fletcher: "Stole," he scoffed. Nails dug into the back of his hand. His humorless laugh was broken by a "Fuck you."

Pete: "I stole them," he said to the ground. "You didn't. You did nothing to deserve what I put you through. I hurt you, and I'll be sorry for it all my life."

Fletcher: "How'd ya use me?" If this was going to be the subject, let's have it.

Pete: "You've been beating yourself up for leaving me with Victoria but I'm the one who went out that window. You deserve so much better than me. I wasn't brave enough when we were younger and I wasn't brave enough then. You deserve someone who's brave enough. You've been watching this town for two full decades, you've gotten yourself into hot water more than once to protect it and protect the people you care about. You're in hot water now with me and Kelly and you're still here when you can tell me to go fuck myself and deal with this on my own."

Fletcher: "Peter..." He had wanted an apology, but hearing any semblance of regret now felt empty. A goodbye. Just that black void in his gut he couldn't fill and never had.

"Ya could take a knife t'me right now n'I'd let ya. Told ya when ya jumped in the water ya... only did it 'cause he wasn't here. I knew." Hands rose and fell. "Ya can't be blamed."

Pete: "Yeah, I can. I can because I made choices and those choices hurt you. I deserved every bit of what happened in the woods that night. And if you had come along and decided to get a few hits in, I would've deserved that, too. I wouldn't have stopped you then and I wouldn't now. You've had to put up with so much of my bullshit and I am so goddamn sorry, Fletcher. You're not the asshole, you never were. It's always been me. And after all you've had to deal with, the only thing I want is for you to be happy. Genuinely and truly happy. Because jesus god, you've earned it."

Fletcher: A visceral heat burned its way from that void to his fingertips. A blissfully empty mind fueled on instinct. Slowly Fletcher reached for him, intent on curling rough fingers around Peter's throat.

Pete: Pete was too focused on Kelly and too caught up in his thoughts to react in time to stop Fletcher.

He braced for a hit; he expected one. He'd all but given Fletcher permission.

Fletcher: Not a strike of brute force. Only a squeeze of powerful fingers against important arteries. The command of his nearness with a simple flex of his arm. He was warm. He was Peter, as always. Being a bear didn't change much.

"Don't ever say that again. Don't ever let anyone lay a hand on ya... like that. Not ever."

Pete: There was a small, quiet part deep in Pete's mind that completely believed he deserved what Victoria had intended to do to him, and this was the first time it had ever been voiced aloud. At the very least, he deserved MJ's anger. He deserved Fletcher's, too.

And everything in his face reflected that sentiment.

"I'm sorry," he whispered.

Fletcher: "What d'ya have t'be sorry for?" he whispered. "I got t'taste what it was like. Your mouth. Your skin. Your you. I got that. S'mine. It hurts, but everything does."

Pete: "I'm sorry that it hurts. I'm sorry that that's all I ever do to you. I want to make it better but I don't know how."

Fletcher: "Ya can't. Ya can't... be with me." Though it destroyed his spirit to finally say it. "I'll say anything hateful so it don't kill me, 'cause I know ya can't. M'not him."

Pete: Everything Pete wanted to say would only hurt them more. He wished Fletcher had come over to his house for a sleepover instead of Tristan's. He wished Fletcher had been the one to give him his first kiss under the bleachers. He wished he'd gone right up to Fletcher and asked him to prom.

So many things. None of which could be changed, all of which were painful enough to bring tears to his eyes.

"I've said so many awful shitty things to you and I didn't mean a single one. That's what I did so it wouldn't kill me. I need you to know that, even if it's too little too late."

Fletcher: "Well, s'what we do. Ain't it? What I said t'ya months ago. What I said for twenty years. What m'sayin' right now." And despite everything he'd just said, he pulled Peter that much closer. Dangerously close. Less than a mistake would crush their mouths.

Pete: Pete had made that mistake once and hurt the man he'd loved for two thirds of his life. To do so again would put him beyond all redemption.

"I know it can't be with me, but I want you to be so happy. That I did mean. You deserve it so much."

Fletcher: "It coulda been, though. N'it always will be you, Peter."

Pete: He closed his eyes. "I'm sorry for that, too. If there's another me and another you in another universe, I hope he's more worthy of you than I am."

Fletcher: "What's that bloodsucker got that I ain't got?"

Pete: “I wish I knew. I wish I understood why.”

Fletcher: "When ya figure it out," he released his throat, "lemme know, so I can be a better man."

Pete: Pete gave Fletcher a sad smile. “You’re a good man, Fletcher. A far better man than I could ever hope to be. Don’t ever let anyone tell you different.”

Fletcher: "Shut up with that shit."

Pete: “I mean it. Ask June.”

Fletcher: "Ya are good."

Pete: “I’ll take your word for it.”

Fletcher: "Trust me, right?"

Pete: Another small, sad smile. “Yeah, I do.”

Fletcher: "You're the best thing I've ever met."

Pete: It took every ounce of strength he possessed to take even breaths and not break down sobbing.

He would absolutely never deserve Fletcher Goodman.

“I hope I can spend the rest of my life proving you even half right.”

Fletcher: "Ya can start by listenin' t'me next time some shit goes down. Deal?"

Pete: Pete nodded. “Deal.”

Fletcher: Fingers softly brushed against Peter's chin, and fell into his lap.

"Should keep hatin' ya in public. Ya know, reputation."

Pete: “No one would blame you. People around here care a lot about reputation.”

Fletcher: "A man is his reputation. S'why I got nothin' t'lose."

Pete: “Well, you kinda do. Emmanuel Gaia’s daughter thinks you’re secretly a pirate. So as long as you don’t disprove that you should be good.”

Fletcher: "How the hell sh - the pawn shop."

Pete: A true smile and a nod. “Gold coins are all the proof she needed.”

Fletcher: "Mm. Gold coins..."

Pete: “Everyone knows only pirates have those. Her words.”

Fletcher: "They mean more t'me now, ya know."

Pete: He nodded. “Yep. Never gonna look at one the same way.”

Fletcher: "If I gave ya anything," he smiled, wrinkles plaguing his face.

Pete: “You sure did. Gold coins, donuts. All in a new light.”

Fletcher: A growl escaped the Samsa before he could catch it. He turned back to Kelly to save face. He couldn't talk about those memories without warming his body.

Kelly: The growl stirred Kelly from his half-asleep state. Not enough to put him on high alert, just enough for him to lift his head for a moment before unceremoniously plopping it on Pete’s lap.

Fletcher: Fletcher leaned closer with his stirring. A primal reminder of his current rank amongst the three of them. A mockery of breeds, but the alpha of this mishmash nonetheless.

Thin amber antennae sprouted from his scalp. Began to feel with gentle taps at Kelly's body.

Kelly: Just beneath the calm, it would be very obvious that Kelly’s body was in distress.

His heartbeat and breathing had slowed but remained erratic. His muscles were tense. Touching the area near his leg, however softly, would elicit a whine and a whimper.

Fletcher: "Hush." His antennae were the equivalent of tiny feathers. He felt and studied and judged the mangled body.

"We're gonna carry him t'the hospital at sunrise. Say ya found him on the floor at work, passed out."

Pete: “Okay,” he said with a nod. “It’s probably for the best, he’s in no shape to just go home, even before tonight. He’s been getting worse and worse all month.”

Fletcher: "Ya didn't say anything?"

Pete: “I tried. He either ignored me or bit my head off just enough to make me back off but not enough to get himself fired. I wouldn’t have fired him but he doesn’t know that.”

Fletcher: "Well," he turned back to him, "welcome t'the family. I'm in charge."

The antennae began to recede.

Pete: “I’m his emergency contact, you know. When I hired him I asked him if he was sure he didn’t wanna make it a relative or a friend and he just stared at me.”

Fletcher: Kelly's memory was still in question. Whether he would remember the abomination preventing his escape. Either way, he was a liability.

"Maybe they did it. Not our problem. He ain't goin' anywhere."

Pete: “Nowhere but the hospital.” He began petting Kelly’s head again. “Makes me sad that if something happens to him, his boss is the only person that’ll know. One of his bosses.”

Fletcher: "Not much Charlie could do."

Pete: “Probably why he made it me, not to toot my own horn. Could’ve chosen Dwight I guess.”

Fletcher: "Ya smell like animal."

Pete: Pete nodded. “Giving me the edge over Dwight.”

Fletcher: Fletcher turned to rest his head on the opposite of Peter's lap.

Pete: That was just fine by Pete. A small moment of peace for them all was exactly what was needed.

Fletcher: "M'watchin' everything. Ya really can rest your eyes, Peter."

Pete: It felt like his eyes got itchy and grainy the moment Fletcher told him to rest them.

"Feel like we should build a fire."

Fletcher: "Build a fire?"

Pete: "For light and heat."

Fletcher: "He'll be fine. Ya can have my jacket."

Pete: "I'm okay. He just seems so frail." It was strange calling a giant friggin' wolf frail, but oh well.

Fletcher: A noncommittal noise was all he would receive. He couldn't say how he felt, except that this man had been reckless.

Pete: Pete wouldn't have disagreed. How had Kelly ended up transforming in the alley? Surely he must've know what day it was. Had he forgotten somehow? Had he used something to prevent his turning that had failed on him?

There was no way of knowing. Not right now at least.

Fletcher: Fletcher remained vigilant, despite his position. This was Peter's life, which meant more to him than the wolf sharing his lap. No sense in checking his watch when Kelly was their alarm. He would only stir when the first rays of morning poured over dark fur.

Pete/Kelly: Much as he wanted to keep watch over Kelly, Pete was just too tired. It hadn't been a particularly taxing day but the night was something else altogether. He was emotionally and spiritually exhausted.

At some point he began to doze where he sat, head occasionally lolling to the side in the brief moments where sleep won, only for him to jolt awake again.

Kelly didn't fare much better. He never fully fell asleep; just continued to drift in his the magically-induced relaxed state.

The moment the moon lost her hold on him, however, he too would startle awake as the first loud, excruciating cracks signaled his return to his human form.

Fletcher: The first crack forced Fletcher into a crouched position, wide awake and diligently on guard, waiting for whatever reaction, no matter the severity, to put this man in his place should he decide to lash out on his only protector.

Pete/Kelly: Pete wasn't quite so awake or quite so on guard, but he did try to comfort Kelly as much as he could as the cries of pain started up again.

The magic of the flowers simply wasn't enough. It was meant to soothe and comfort; only an actual Druid could've offered Kelly any significant relief but Pete wasn't entirely certain a Druid could even help right now.

Kelly rolled off of Pete's lap in an attempt to curl in on himself as his bones reformed. Fur receded, his form elongated, and slowly the howls of pain became more and more human. They became ragged, tortured sobs. Every movement hurt and with good reason.

Kelly had transformed back fully clothed, but what skin was visible was covered in horrible, nasty bruises.

Fletcher: He recognized that pain as though he could remember his deaths. Stolen memory, but unadulterated resonation.

Slowly, he approached his side. Movement quite feral. Now, they were in the recovery phase. It was time to assess.

"Kelly. Look at me."

Pete/Kelly: Bleary eyes attempted to meet Fletcher's, only vaguely aware of his surroundings. He could smell that he was in the woods and he could hear the rush of water from the river but beyond that Kelly was completely disoriented.

And then there was the matter of the bruises, which had concern plastered all over Pete's exhausted face.

They were everywhere. Shouldn't they only be in places where Fletcher had hit him or where Kelly had made contact with something? His fingers were bruised for god's sake.

"Fletcher, something's not right. Have you ever seen someone change back like this?"

Fletcher: "I see em," he sighed. "Go get his keys n'bring his truck this way. I'll ride with him in the back." Gently, Fletcher shimmied his arms underneath Kelly's weight. He expected more whining, given his current state. Maybe even a snap of that human jaw his direction.

"Go on now, Peter."

Pete/Kelly: Gentle wasn’t gently enough. Kelly had yet to form any kind of coherent word but the moment he was jostled Fletcher would be treated to more ragged cries. Even trying to struggle sent waves of sharp pain absolutely everywhere.

Meanwhile, Pete did as Fletcher asked and pulled some adrenaline out of somewhere so he could run back to the pub as quickly as his legs could take him.

Fletcher: "I hear ya," was his version of soothing. Kelly was brought to his chest and adjusted. "Gonna lift in three, two..." and up. Now was not the time to chide. He'd be talking to himself, he assumed. The man was too far gone in his agony. He couldn't be blamed for deaf ears.

Kelly: Kelly didn't have the presence of mind to even swear. He just screamed.

At least, in his mind he was screaming. In reality it was just more of the same; cries and grunts and whimpers.

He didn't really hear what the man was saying but he was aware of him. There was even a glimmer of recognition somewhere in his mind. Or was there? ....Yes. Maybe....yes? He knew who this was....right...? Right? Ri.....

Kelly's head fell back. He'd lost consciousness.

Fletcher: Fletcher walked to the nearest bit of road, where he assumed Peter would show. Just shy of the clearing, waiting by a tree for the first sign of his partner in rescue.

And with his arrival, he would motion with his elbow to the door. Kelly was traded off long enough to settle in. Still the crack of dawn, they had time to make this without being noticed.

Pete: Those gladiator workouts were finally coming in handy for more than just staying in shape.

Pete had gone back to the pub at a full run, letting that second wind do its job and propel him forward. It also helped that he didn't have a giant ass wolf to carry or any prying eyes to hide from. It was too early for anyone to be awake anyway.

He got back in record time, making quick work of retrieving Kelly's keys and cane and anything else he'd brought with him. The place was still only half shut down since Kelly and June hadn't finished closing up but that was a problem for his future self.

Back he went towards the woods, taking advantage of the early hour and driving at breakneck speed. It felt like he was racing the goddamn the sun but really he was racing every person in Edenton.

Thankfully he spotted Fletcher quickly.

"God, he feels so much heavier now," he said as he took Kelly. "I don't think we're going to be able to get away with just saying we found him."

Fletcher: "June can corroborate seein' him last n'lookin' like dog shit. S'either we take him, 'cause we are not the hands t'fix him, or you're knockin' on a druid's door at five in the mornin'. S'your call, Peter."

Pete/Kelly: Pete shook his head. "I'd ask Cal but I think this is way outside his wheelhouse. I guess if they ask we can--"

Kelly came to with a start, cutting Pete off and violently coughing up what was unmistakably blood.

Fuck.

"Fuck, okay, we gotta go. Got him?"

Fletcher: Kelly was held loosely, enough for him to move about and cough as he needed to.

"I got him. Drive." He took a breath. "Callum might be low grade, but his cousin ain't."

Pete: "It's four in New Orleans," he called as he got back in the driver's seat, not even thinking to question Fletcher's suggestion. "She can take a crack at him later, he needs medical attention but quick."

Once more taking advantage of the empty road, Pete floored it to the emergency room.

Fletcher: "That suddenly matters?" Seemed Peter was still... young. That was to be expected. Callum wasn't about to tell him everything, best friend or not.

"Easy does it, man. Don't breathe deep."

Pete/Kelly: It probably didn't in a situation like this, but Bronwyn had a kid and Pete was loath to force her to scramble like he had with Graham earlier.

Besides, there was no guarantee she'd be able to help Kelly. At least not to the extent the hospital could.

Kelly couldn't have breathed deeply if he'd wanted to, and being jostled around by his own crappy truck and crappy suspension system didn't help. If it wasn't the coughing, it was the shocks of pain after every single movement as they drove. It wasn't long before he was unconscious again.

Fletcher: Fletcher knew nothing of meditation that an ex and a best friend hadn't attempted. Considerable willpower was spent in remaining in that back bed as the truck pulled left down the long driveway to the hospital.

He could do it, he thought. Disintegrate into an intrusion of American cockroaches, scatter little by little until one remained, inconspicuous.

One steady breath. Another. Another. The simple act of remaining ached from the inside out.

Pete: Pete hoped to god that the fact that it was five in the morning meant that the emergency room would be empty as the roads. Empty and loaded with nurses.

He parked at the curb, cutting the engine and leaping out in one fluid motion.

"Okay okay, we're here." He hopped into the back. "We need--are you okay? Are you having a panic attack?"

Fletcher: Fletcher managed his best glare. The torch of mangled Garou was passed to Peter's arms.

"What are ya gonna say?"

Pete: Even though Kelly was unconscious, Pete still handled him as carefully as possible. "I'm gonna say I found him in the alley outside the pub. He looks like someone beat the hell out of him and I'm not gonna offer any theories to the contrary. Come on, let's take him inside."

He studied Fletcher for a moment. "Or would you rather wait with him while I get a nurse?"

Fletcher: His skin was burning. Palms slick with sweat. Not a smell Peter needed up his nose.

"Brett's gonna show up 'cause of this. Ya only called me t'help ya. That's it. Got it? Go get a nurse."

Pete: Pete nodded. He wouldn't push or insist or pry. If Fletcher was uncomfortable or simply didn't want to be anywhere near this, Pete wouldn't make him.

"Okay. Wait here. Once they take him inside you can slip away." He gently set Kelly down and hopped off the truck bed, running inside and shouting for help.

Fletcher: He couldn't leave. For Peter's sake. He remained by Kelly's side and wished he was religious enough to pray to anything capable of sparing him from exposure.

Pete/Peabody/Bridget: The first person Pete saw when he burst into the ER was Bridget, Peabody's girlfriend, and standing beside her was the man himself. It was Peabody who spoke first.

"What is it, what's wrong?" he asked, immediately going from relaxed to cop mode.

"It's Kelly Rose. I've got him out in the truck. He's hurt bad, he's all bruised and coughing up blood, I think he was attacked."

Pete didn't get a chance to finish speaking before Bridget was calling for whichever one of her colleagues was closest to get the doctor and a gurney.

Fletcher: Fletcher waited with Kelly's head in his lap, keeping his airways absolutely clear. He didn't know much about anything medical. Never a need for it. His assistance was pretty much what he'd seen from film.

The sight of Deputy Peabody straightened his spine.

"He passed out on the way here," he muttered.

Peabody/Bridget: Fletcher wouldn’t have to wait long. Bridget and the other staff came through the automatic doors like bats out of hell just moments after Pete had gone in. Peabody came as well, giving Fletcher a nod of acknowledgement and greeting as he opened the tailgate so the nurses could get to Kelly.

They immediately began checking vitals and attaching equipment, alternately telling each other readings and giving instructions to each other for getting Kelly out of the truck and onto the gurney.

While they worked Peabody turned to Fletcher. “The hell happened? Pete said he was attacked?”

Fletcher: Fletcher watched with his chin down, eyes to himself. This wasn't his rodeo. If he could be nothing more than an inanimate object...

To all but Peabody. He was his whole world for the next five minutes.

"Dunno. Peter banged on my door. He's a big motherfucker. Couldn't get him up on his own."

Pete/Peabody: Peabody looked back to Kelly's prone form and couldn't help grimacing at the sight of all the bruises. "Yeah, he is. Too big for one person to do that to him. Probably a group."

There was blood on Kelly's face and facial hair and down his front and far as Peabody could tell, that was all the blood there was. Surprising considering the state the poor bastard was in.

He didn't have time to ask more questions before he was asked for help in getting Kelly onto the gurney, along with Pete who had finally come out of the ER.

Fletcher: Fletcher exchanged a look with Peter when he could. As though the sight was too much to bear, he turned his back to the scene and wiped at his mouth with both hands. Not alarming or alien or stomach churning. The less his face was seen, the less he would be remembered.

Pete/Peabody: Pete offered what he hoped was a reassuring smile. Fletcher's discomfort was practically rolling off of him; it didn't take a lot to see how much he wanted to get out of there.

They managed to get Kelly off the truck without tossing him around too much, but that little bit of movement was enough to make him come around in a flurry of coughs and cries.

The nurses were trying to offer both care and comfort as they finally wheeled him inside, leaving Pete, Peabody, and Fletcher outside.

Peabody was the first to talk. "My shift's about to end but we need to get a report going on this. Can you stick around, Pete? Since you found him?"

Pete nodded. "Yeah, no problem. Fletch, you wanna drive Kelly's truck to his house?" And get out of Dodge?

Fletcher: Eyes darted between the two men. I see what you're doing.

"D'ya need his truck, Peabody? Otherwise I'll... do that."

Pete/Peabody: "Was he in the truck when you found him?"

Pete shook his head. "No, he was by the dumpster. Truck was parked in the lot, just easier to bring him here in it."

The deputy nodded. "All right, should be fine then. Go ahead and take it."

Fletcher: "Not gonna CSI: Vegas his truck or somethin'?"

Peabody: "Even if we had the resources for that, we'll have better luck with Kelly himself. Parker will probably look around the alley though."

Fletcher: "Right." He held his hand out to Peter. "Keys, then." Whatever it was Peabody was about to do, whatever this investigation would lead to, he wanted no part of it. Putting aside the fact that Kelly's wallet was still intact. An attack without greed as the motivation made everything stickier. He was still trying to wrap his head around a Fera that could keep his clothes on during the transformation. That was more his artificial species. So those wheels were busy turning.

Pete: Pete handed Fletcher Kelly's keys and with them, the opportunity to escape Peabody's probing questions. And Brett's too, when he finally arrived.

"I guess you can put the keys in his mailbox when you get there. Or under the mat or something. I can go get them later and keep them for him until he goes back home."

Fletcher: "Could just leave it in the parking lot, right? I can walk home."

Pete: He nodded. "Yeah, yeah, that should be fine. Gives Parker a chance to take a look at it if he wants to."

Fletcher: So, reluctantly, the keys were handed back. "Ya know...where t'find me."

Pete: "Yep. Sure you wanna walk?" It's been a long night.

Fletcher: "Yep. Yep, I'll see y'all."

The best goodbye he was going to give, waving a behind as he headed back to the road.

#Pain Relief Closure #kellygeorgerose #petegraham #junelujano #fletchergoodman #qtraxler #emmanuelgaia #deputypeabody

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nix-writes · 5 years

Text

for you i can do anything but fly

Day four of Thominho Week! @thominho-week

Minho had had his doubts for a while about his relationship with Thomas. They'd been good friends for years before they realized there was mutual pining. Maybe they were better off as friends. They hadn't sprouted wings yet. Wings were hallmarks of love and devotion. Hs parents had gotten theirs after a year of dating. He and Thomas were going on eighteen months. Nothing. It didn't seem to bother Thomas, and Minho knew that plenty of people lived in healthy, caring relationships without wings. (There's a difference between knowing and wanting.) And now Thomas was excited about this cat at work, had asked Minho to come to meet her to see if they'd like to adopt her. Minho had said yes. "One last shot at this," He promised himself. "One last try with Thomas, and, if it ends, it ends. No big fuss at all." "Hey, Minho, right?" Thomas said you'd be coming by to see that cat he's so fond of. It's nice to meet you, Minho, I've heard so much about you." That last part was said loud enough for someone in the back to hear. "Come on back. I must warn you, this cat is a bit of an odd looker. She's really pretty after you get past that." The boy--no older than fourteen--led him to the kennels. "Here she is. I'll go grab Thomas for you, he was working with a potential adopting family last I checked." The cat was certainly odd, but Minho had two dozen years' worth of memories about the strays his mother liked to feed. They had been odd colors too, due to inbreeding of marked cats. This one was inbred, but somewhere along the line, the inbreeding had been diluted slightly. She was large, almost overly so, and was a rich turquoise mixed with a dusty green. She had one of the famed marks on her forehead: A white circle. Minho crouched down to pet her. She preened at the touch, and Minho smiled. He knew how to deal with cats. "Beautiful, isn't she?" Thomas asked. "She's smart, too, very independent." "You want to keep her, don't you?" Minho could see it on his face. "Yeah," Thomas scratched his ear; Minho absently noted the bandaids covering his arm. He'd been handling the rougher animals again. "But I didn't want to spring her on you by just bringing her home, I wanted to make sure you wanted her too." "Maybe we should do a trial run? Take her home for a few days and see how it goes." Minho suggested. They both knew that meant he was halfway to yes. "Want me to get to work on the take-home papers?" The kid had turned up again. "Just bring them to my office, thanks, Chuck." Thomas picked up the cat carrier. "I hope you know some good cat names."

"She doesn't have a name?" "Not yet. We've presented her with a few, and she said no to all of them." "Well, we'll just have to keep trying then." "Of course." Thomas grinned at him, and stars, Minho wanted this to work. (Wanting is different from acting.) They filled out the papers and Minho took the cat home. Thomas would join them in a few hours and they would work on homes.

Thomas drove home with the radio off. He was worried--worried about Minho. A few weeks ago, about when the cat had been dropped off, he'd been telling stories from his childhood and his mom's penchant for adopting strays, but he'd hardly reacted to the cat Thomas had quickly grown fond of. She really was beautiful, even with colored cats being less of a rarity in their world than even ten years ago, and came from pedigree. She had been dropped off with all her paperwork and a note: The family who had adopted a twelve-week-old kitten couldn't take care of a twenty-week-old kitten who had doubled in size. She was young, sure, but the size of a full-grown cat. It was hard to imagine her as a kitten. Since then, she hadn't responded to any attempts to place her in a new home and even stopped answering to her name. Thomas hoped that he and Minho could be the solution to that problem, but he now he was thinking that he had been wrong.

They'd only planned to keep the cat (kitten, he'd learned from Thomas) for a few days, really. But she was cute and cuddly and playful so after three works they found themselves signing adoption papers. Minho couldn't help but think that this was a stopgap, that teasing arguments over the kitten's name (Emilina Cassira, princess of Glade Acre Apartment A27) were just replacements for actual arguments. That he and Thomas were falling apart and instead of trying to fix it, they were just hoping it would go away. (It wouldn't.) But they were happy, for now, and Minho knew he loved Thomas. It didn't go away. Rather, it all blew up quite spectacularly, right in their faces.

"You're always working, Thomas, most days I feel as if you care about those animals more than me!" Minho was careful to keep his voice low. Couldn't have the neighbors investigating a simple argument between partners--it had happened before. He folded his arms across his chest, unwilling to back down. "Minho, you know I don't. But we need the money, I'm still in school and we can't afford to miss our rent this month. We'll get evicted if we do." Thomas was pleading with him, moving closer with careful steps, and Minho knew what he was saying made sense, but he missed his boyfriend. Missed sleeping in together, missed Thomas's shy kisses, missed dancing around the kitchen. "We do need the money, but you make enough to take one day every few weeks. So why don't you?" One hand slammed onto the counter, the other at his side. "Minho, please..." Thomas sounded like his heart was breaking, one hand pressed to it like it meant help. (Minho's had been shattering for months, with each morning they woke up wingless.) "You're cheating on me, aren't you? Or you're lying when you say you love me." Stars, Minho missed easy smiles and Thomas's eyes bright with joy. Not with tears, like they were now. He missed the feeling of knowing that he was irreversibly, unequivocally in love with his best friend, with or without wings. "Fine. You wanna play that game? I've never understood why you think wings make or break a relationship, or why we would get ours after a year like your parents did. But I listen when you explain how important they are to you, and I support you with your coaching job and running clubs. I love you, Minho, but it's pretty clear you don't feel the same way." Thomas had started throwing his things into his school bag. "Goodbye, Minho." Emilina stared at him for a moment, then padded away to where their office was--Thomas used it the most. It looked like the cat hated him too.

Thomas was close to tears as he ran to Teresa's. He worked so much because they needed to save! Because he was going to school in the fall! And Minho acted like he did it as an escape, as a way to ignore him and get away. And then to say he was cheating when he knew full well that Thomas didn't like sex and that he liked having only one romantic connection at a time. "Thomas? What the hell happened?" Brenda opened Teresa's door. "I had a fight with Minho." "I'll get the ice cream. Teresa! Your brother's crying on the couch!" Thomas heard running footsteps and then someone landed on him. "What did he say." It wasn't even a question, it was a demand. Brenda handed him a tub of ice cream with the spoon already in it, sitting beside him. "Want to talk or just cry and eat ice cream?" "Cry and eat ice cream for now." Thomas managed, hunching into himself. Minho had just... crushed his heart, all in one go. He didn't want to linger on that more than he was going to already. "I'm going to finish making dinner." Brenda stood up, allowing Teresa to shift to the spot next to him. "You're staying here for the night and one of us will get your stuff tomorrow." Brenda gestured around the room to the girls standing around. Thomas recognized a few of them. "If Emilina wants to stay, let her." Thomas managed. "Who?" Sonya asked. "The cat," Teresa answered. "You absolutely adore that cat, Tom, I'm not leaving her if I can help it." "She'll scratch, and you and Brenda are both allergic to cats anyway." "We've got allergy meds, we'll be fine." Teresa rubbed his back for a moment. "I'm going to help Brenda." Neither of them had ever been that great at comforting; they preferred to take action over anything else. "He's upset that you don't have wings, isn't he?" Harriet asked softly, stealing some of his ice cream. He didn't have the energy to push her away. "I've known him his whole life." "Yeah. He said that I must be cheating on him or lying when I say I love him." "Because you don't have wings?" "That's part of it. At first, he was mad because I work too much, I guess." "You need the money." Harriet was one of the junior financial advisors at Paige Hall, the main branch of their college. "You won't be able to stick through the year if you don't work sixty hours a week, and that's just for tuition." "I'm working ninety, across three jobs. Minho doesn't know about the other two. He brings in enough to cover a month's food and a quarter of the rent in two weeks, but with my one job we have nothing to save." "Why doesn't he know?" "Whenever I try to mention it, he thinks I'm asking him to get another job." "Which he should if you're working ninety hours a week." Sonya looked up from her phone. "There are 168 hours in a week, Thomas, you're left with 78 to do with as you please. When do you sleep." Thomas ducked his head. He caught naps at work sometimes, when it was slow... "Teresa, your brother isn't sleeping!" Harriet called into the kitchen. Teresa sprinted back out. "Traitor." Thomas hissed at Harriet. He'd stopped crying, he noticed, and the ice cream had made its way to Sonya, who was sharing with another girl. Harriet shrugged, a smirk on her face. "I'll take his feet if you get his shoulders." She said to Teresa, and Thomas found himself being picked up (and why hadn't he let Harriet introduce him to her personal trainer again?) and carried into the guest bedroom. "You stay here," Teresa said gravely, "And you will sleep. When do you work in the morning?" "Nine thirty." "Then you will wake up no later than eight, and you will shower and have breakfast. And I will drive you to work." Her tone left no room for argument. "Don't dream without sleep, Teresa." Thomas blurted. Her lips turned up at the mention of their childhood phrase. "And don't sleep without pleasant dreams." She finished. Thomas kicked off his shoes and tugged the blanket up to his neck. He was asleep in minutes.

Minho was pacing the floor. His dinner sat abandoned. The door stayed closed. (He feared the door would never open to Thomas's smile again.) He threw his hands up in the air. Thomas was working almost the whole week, came home, ate, spent more time with Emilina than him, and then left for work again, what was Minho supposed to think? That Thomas enjoyed his company? That he wanted to stay together? That he wasn't cheating and lying? That he cared? But Minho knew better. When Thomas came home, he was often working: planning a new route for his runners or looking for another job that was flexible (At this point, he was even considering Uber.). It was as much his fault as it was Thomas's, for not reaching out or saying anything. Why did communication have to be so hard? He knew where Thomas was. He'd be at Teresa's, maybe crying because of what Minho had said. (He would have taken a shattered heart over the heaviness that covered him any day.)

Thomas moved into Teresa's guest bedroom for a few days, choosing to ignore Minho's calls and answer his texts curtly. He knew they'd have to talk this out--they'd had little spats here and there but nothing as big as this; nothing where hurtful things were purposefully said and not to tease. Of course, they would only talk it out if they decided to stay together. Emiliana seemed to spend her time going to between the apartments, and Thomas didn't know what to make of that. He'd figured she might have a preference either way and it didn't appear to be so. Thomas knew they had to talk, but he didn't want to, not yet. (Not to mention that he was still working ninety hours a week. If he had to find a new place or rent theirs on his own, he'd definitely need the extra money.) "You have to talk to him," Teresa told him one day. "I love you, and don't mind having you around, but you're moping, Tom, moping. Please go talk to him so you can have one big mope session or come back happily for your stuff." "Healthy relationships need communication, Thomas," Brenda said. "You might have argued, and there were certainly better ways for Minho to express that he was feeling neglected. But right now you're both in limbo--you need to decide if you're over or going to try and work this out." Newt took him out for a hot chocolate. "You've a right to be mad, Tommy, but now you've had time to calm your temper so text Minho and set up a time to talk." Gally even sat him down. "Listen, you might not be my best friend--" Thomas chose not to say that for years all they'd done was antagonize each other--"But you and Minho are great guys and you both deserve to be happy. Stop being stupid and go talk to him." In the end, it was Emilina who convinced him. She was messing around in the closet, climbing in and out of the boxes he'd left sitting open. "Hey, hey, hey," He crossed to her. "Don't mess with that. Oh, you got into the box with Minho's stuff..." He stopped and stared at the item on top. It was from their high school days. Minho had given it to him in their junior year. His letterman jacket. 'PARK' was spelled out on the back in big blue letters, and Minho's sports were listed under that, in much smaller print. His captaincy pins were still on the front, and Thomas remembered the day he'd gotten the cross-country one. Thomas had pinned the badge on himself, grinning up at his boyfriend and kissing him. He'd been so happy. They both had been. Thomas pulled the jacket on; it had been far too long in the sleeves and too big in the shoulders for him as a junior and senior in high school, but now it fit much better. Thomas remembered the day Minho had given it to him, casually, like it was nothing. It'd been homecoming night; before the dance, they went out to eat and outside, walking to the dance, Minho had slid it over his shoulders. (They made the front page of their school newspaper and followed it up by making the running for cutest couple for the second year in a row. (They won that year and the next.)) Decision made, Thomas took the jacket off and put it back in the box. Then he pulled out his phone and texted Minho.

Minho hadn't known what to expect when he arrived at the cafe; all of Thomas's messages had been as short as possible. He got there early, hoping that this talk would be a good one. The boxes hit the table with a thud. Not so good, then. Minho couldn't see Thomas behind the boxes. "This, Minho, is all the stuff you've ever given me." Thomas tapped the first two boxes, still behind them. "This is the stuff that's yours," "And this," Thomas stepped out from behind boxes and Minho's heart caught in his chest. "Is all the stuff I took when I moved out, that I'm bringing back to the apartment." Thomas was wearing his letterman jacket. The one from high school. "Guess you have to get another one of these, huh?" Thomas was smiling at him, the way he used to when they were just happy kids with no worries except for homework. "This one won't fit you anymore, and besides, it's been mine for years." Thomas moved the boxes and sat down. "Thomas..." "I know, Minho. You were feeling abandoned, neglected, and that's my fault. But I have something to tell you, too. I've been running on fumes for months. I've got three jobs; I'm working ninety hours a week to pay my tuition. You have a full ride but I'm working with a conditional academic scholarship that covers a third of my tuition each year. Add that to my portion of the rent and food and everything else, and the fact that we're saving to move, and I've got almost nothing left. No time, no energy, no money. Nothing." "You drop one of your jobs, I'll get another one," Minho said immediately. How had he noticed this? Of course Thomas didn't have time for him. "And you've got a harder course load in the fall than I do, you're cutting way back on hours then too." "Alright. Two jobs puts me at sixty hours a week, and if I cut back in the fall I'm at thirty." "That's better," Minho said. "I don't you running yourself into the ground, Thomas, we need to work together to make this work." "Yeah, I've been getting that a lot these days." Thomas laughed. "What do you say we go home? I took the day off, and I could really use a good cuddle session with my boyfriend." "That sounds amazing," Minho knew he was grinning. He kissed Thomas over three boxes each and they made their way home, giddy in a way they hadn't been in years.

They woke up with wings a year later to the day. "Happy we stayed together, Minho?" Thomas teased; his wings were mostly blue and brown with the edges of his feathers being green, Minho's color. "Of course," Minho's wings were the inverse of Thomas's: Mostly green and brown, with blue on the edges. "I've never been happier."

(On their college graduation day, Minho gave Thomas his college letterman jacket. Thomas gave Minho a ring.) (They never did buy a house, instead moving into a much larger apartment.)

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idolizerp · 5 years

Photo

LOADING INFORMATION ON ATLAS’ MAIN RAP NO GUNWOO...

IDOL DETAILS

STAGENAME: Gun CURRENT AGE: 24 DEBUT AGE: 20 TRAINEE SINCE AGE: 16 COMPANY: KJH SECONDARY SKILL: Music production (hip-hop and r&b)

IDOL PROFILE

NICKNAME(S): gun pd and dj gun (both from his two main career interests, producing and radio hosting), 단호건/danhogun (a play on his name and danhobak, because he’s stern/decisive), 총우/chongwoo (gun in korean + the second syllable of his full first name), 노센스/no sense (play on his surname and the fact that he has no variety sense), 건담/gundam (play on his name and a popular character that he has a moderate collection of) INSPIRATION: several older hip-hop groups and artists that he started listening to back when he was younger, most notably epik high and tiger jk and a plethora of western artists. he says he felt really connected to the music and wanted to make his own that other people could connect to as well. SPECIAL TALENTS:

freestyle rapping

playing songs on piano by ear (simplistic versions)

good at random games like 딱지/ttakji, 공기/gonggi, and 제기차기/jegichagi (he attributes this to the fact that his little sister always wanted to play them)

NOTABLE FACTS:

prior to atlas’ debut, he released a few solo tracks and mixtapes that were moderately successful in the local underground scene

can play the piano, has learned it since he was six, mostly self-taught with a few lessons here and there

he’s very handy, can assemble and fix a lot of random furniture/appliances and things of that nature

his moderate collection of gundam collectibles started due to fans gifting them in the beginning, but he started buying them on his own after as well and has them in display cases in his studio

IDOL GOALS

SHORT-TERM GOALS:

after his solo debut as atlas’ gun essentially flopped a few years back before they really blew up, he wants to attempt another solo release. now that there are a lot more eyes on them, he really wants to show off more of his personal work. in addition, he’s always wanted to be a radio dj and after hosting a few as a special guest, he wants his own radio show in the near future.

LONG-TERM GOALS:

funny enough, despite his short term solo goal, gun’s love for performing live has been fading the more popular atlas gets. getting on stage and hearing screams is still one of his favorite parts of the job, but the side-effects that it comes with (the lack of privacy and stalker fans, the public scrutiny and pressure, the insane work hours and ridiculous amount of traveling, the way his career has become his entire life, etc.) are starting to outweigh all the positives. so, in a way, his long term goal is to get away from all that once atlas is done. he still wants to work with music, but he’d much rather be behind the scenes as a producer and lyric-writer, as opposed to an active performer.

IDOL IMAGE

no gunwoo -- no, gun, is atlas' stone, atlas' rock in more ways than one.

he is: rough around the edges.

they tell him not to lose his daegu accent, not entirely. to let it slip on purpose more often than not. to not let people forget that he's just a country boy at heart who had a dream, a passion for music and risked it all by coming to seoul to pursue it. they say not to censor himself too much, either, let a cuss word or two slip every now and then, let his face betray all his emotions sometimes, even negative ones when he's annoyed or angry or confused or sad. if you're feeling down, post some thoughts on the fan café, maybe go live. obviously, they say not to do it too much or at the wrong time, but just enough to give off the feeling that he's genuine, unpolished, not some cookie cutter idol. he won't be relatable by any means, but real. believably flawed like anyone else. just a daegu boy who happens to rap because he wants to.

he is: stubborn. or, in nicer terms, strong-willed. immovable.

he's the poster boy for 'if you just work hard and take risks you can do anything you want'. from the country to seoul, from no one to someone, from giving up his artistic integrity for the first few years of their career to risking his entire life to get it back and not backing down, not caring who he threw under the bus. in the end, gun seems to have gotten everything he's wanted and they leverage that, too.

of course, atlas as a whole stands for hard work making the dream work, but gun's inherent stubbornness is played up just that much more. like when they tell him to talk about how long he takes to produce tracks sometimes because he won't let it go until it's exactly how he imagined it. or to talk about how he couldn't dance worth a damn and almost got kicked out of the tentative lineup, but, well, look at him now. he still can't quite dance anywhere near as well as the rest of the group, but that's fine, they say. that's all part of it too, because now his ability to follow choreography as well as he can is the product of pure hard work with no natural talent to back it up.

he is: foundation.

when it comes to atlas' music (post 2015), gun is a large part of the foundation it lies upon. he's not the only one, of course, but he is often the one they turn to when questions about their music come up. about the concept. about the lyrics. about the meaning behind it all and the process with which they came up with it. they tell him to go all out, go ahead and answer with technical terms to show he has a deep understanding. this is what he threatened to leave for, after all, so he may as well make use of it. show the people that there was good reason kjh yielded, that he knows what he's talking about. that atlas' music is good because "of course, the members helped write the lyrics" or "of course, the members helped produce it" or "as expected of self-producing atlas~"

he is: well grounded.

with gun, what you see is what you get. he is confident sometimes veering on cocky, he is decisive often veering stubborn. he is real, genuine, flawed, human, just with a particularly strong passion for music. at least, that's the vibe they want him to give off. a real, serious musician.

it's a precarious image, to say the least, still manufactured in its supposed genuineness. an image he has trouble balancing because sometimes he's not quite sure anymore where gun ends and gunwoo begins.

(if he begins anywhere at all anymore).

IDOL HISTORY

FATE PANN TITLE: WOW THEY 'RE REALLY GONNA LET THIS GUY DEBUT? ㅡㅡ

let me start with my proof: i went to school with this b*stard, here's my school id and here's my picture in our yearbook and here's no gunwoo's picture. he looks exactly the same ㅋㅋ

anyway, wow i heard he ran off to seoul but i didn't know it was so that he could train to be an idol... f*ck, this guy used to curse at idol groups all the time and now he's going to be one? ㅋㅋㅋㅋㅋㅋ i hope his group f*cking flops

he was just annoying? he always made stupid jokes during class and would get so pissed when he actually got in trouble for it. he cleaned our classroom almost all year round because he really got in trouble that much. and he was just such an a*shole so he got into fights a lot even though he was so skinny ㅋㅋㅋ

but yeah that's all i have to say for now~ i just thought it was annoying that someone who cursed at idol groups so much is now becoming one because ah... i still remember when he spilled his water on my precious midnight album ㅡㅡ

no gunwoo is born in daegu in the middle of winter and spring and this sets the tone for his childhood.

he is the middle child, the awkward transition, the unwanted and accidental. the classic case of the second child of three. he's born when his parents are hoping for a daughter after already having a son, and that foundation of disappointment never seems to disappear as he grows up. everything he does pales in comparison to his hyung of 2 years if his parents have anything to say about it, and this quickly takes a toll.

everything becomes a competition and he's already two years behind. so he just tries that much harder, at least in the beginning. his grades are good, and at six he picks up the piano after minwoo picks it up too. none of it matters, though, because minwoo is first in his grade and can play their mom's favorite classical music while gunwoo's stuck in the middle once again and his little hands can only do so much on the piano keys.

even when gunwoo rises in class rank and bikes back home to their little farm on the edge of the province excitedly to tell them, minwoo's already there with an award for some math competition and a sign-up form for another one waiting for their signature. even when he's now eight and has practiced piano at his grandparent's house for the past year almost every evening to play his mom's favorite songs, minwoo's already there telling them about a recital he's been asked to play at.

he's always two years too late and his parent's don't expect anything from him. gun is ten years old when he learns how to accept that.

he stops studying in the library after school and explores the city with friends instead. his street smart grows while his grades drop, and his parents just act like they've known it all along, that they're just proving him right, that, as expected, he can't amount to anything anyway.

soon enough, anger replaces his desparation for their approval.

he acts up in class and comes home late, he starts fights and comes home with cuts and scrapes and bloody bandaids, he finds hip-hop music that sounds like what he feels and the seed is planted, watered every day until it blooms later in his life.

the only thing that stays constant is his love for piano and his little sister. jiwoo, at least, has always been the light brightening up the shadow behind minwoo he stands in. the only one whose eyes sparkles when he plays her favorite songs for her, who congratulates him when he comes home with good news, who is happy, proud even, to be his family. he's just three years older, but he likes to claim he's raised her as much as his parents have, has protected her more than they have (if the guy that ended up with a damn near broken nose has anything to say about it).

and so jiwoo is the reason he still holds onto the name gunwoo to this day, but it's also jiwoo who helps him become gun.

FATE PANN TITLE: DOES ANYONE ELSE KNOW WHO THIS GUY IS?

i went to hongdae this weekend and saw this guy busking there, he looked really young but i was so impressed with his rapping??? i waited around until he was done to talk to him a bit and i found out he's a kjh trainee! his name is gun and he's seriously so impressive for his age.. i was shocked when i found out he's the same age as my seventeen year old little brother... ㅠㅠ

anyway, if anyone else wants to listen to his music he has a soundcloud and he's posted a few of his tracks on there! i'll link it here ~ soundcloud.com/n0gun

when gunwoo is fourteen, the seed blossoms. his love for hip-hop evolves into something more than just an interest in the music, but in an interest for the process of creating it, too. performing it, writing lyrics, producing the beats.

he spends the time he used to spend studying and playing piano penning his own lyrics to already made songs. he picks up odd jobs from his neighbors and from the grandmas he’s gotten to know in the city to pocket as much under-the-table income he can come by and buys second-hand music equipment he can then call his own. he uses free online tutorials to teach himself how to use the software then just goes at it. he creates and creates and creates.

it's all rough, of course, but it's something. it's his and his only. it's something his brother's never done before and it's something he loves, something he's done for his own personal interest only, something he wants to keep doing.

he's sixteen when jiwoo shows him a way for him to keep doing it by way of a kjh audition flyer. he resents the idea of becoming an idol, but after one particularly bad argument with his dad gets all of his hard-earned music equipment thrown out the window and broken beyond repair, he bikes into the city, into an audition he’d been subconsciously been preparing for for years.

when they present him with an offer, he signs right away.

when he presents the same to his parents, they sign even quicker.

to get him out of their lives, he assumes. but not without one last comment about how he would probably fail this too, anyway.

he tries to forget their words when he moves up to seoul, tries to ignore it, but it stays with him for years

otherwise, the move to seoul is just as difficult. miles away from all his friends and jiwoo and the city streets he knows by heart, the river, the isolated farm, he feels more alone in the most populated city of the country.

so he throws himself into training. they all do, of course. but for the second half of his teenage life, it is almost all he knows. the company makes it clear that their next group will have a heavy focus on their dancing, and gunwoo is anything but a dancer. what takes others minutes takes him hours to learn. he gets frustrated easy, remembers those words he keeps trying to forget, and it's the anger that boils every time he remembers them that motivates him to never stop. he practices in the tiny dorm until others tell him to shut up. he sits outside the doors, the windows of dance classes provided at other dance studios that he can’t afford and tries to mimic them on his own time. he stays up at night with his stomach grumbling and his eyes heavy producing song after song after song to show the company that he has something to bring to the group, despite his weakness.

it never gets easy, but it becomes routine and seoul is no longer scary. no longer lonely. he finds friends, he finds his passion in music like he’s never done before and with proper equipment and training at his disposal, he prospers.

he busks at hongdae, he performs at café open mic nights, he throws together a soundcloud account and gives himself the stagename gun. he posts tracks whenever he can and when he posts his first mini mixtape at eighteen, the response is more than he expects. it’s nothing much in the grand scheme of things, but it gets passed around a little, and when he requests to book performances, some organizers recognize his name, his music. it’s euphoric, getting on stage and hearing a few people sing along to his lyrics. his music. his work. it fuels him, drives him to release another mixtape the following year to the same amount of moderate success, drives him to train, train, train because if this is what it feels like to be on stage, to make everyone know your name, then so be it.

he’ll be an idol.

he'll be gun. if gunwoo is fated for failure, at least gun doesn't seem to be.

FATE PANN TITLE: DO YOU GUYS REMEMBER THIS GUY FROM THOSE PICTURES OF VIXEN?

i heard from my uncle's friend that he's a trainee at kjh and he really did date one of the members. i can't say which member, but i'm sure everyone can guess which one~ apparently, aside from the main rapper's mess... another reason kjh dropped vixen was because of all those pictures and rumors about him dating that vixen member.

kjh is about to debut his group soon and they wanted to make sure his name's not attached to someone like her ㅋㅋ so they're just getting rid of the group entirely ㅋㅋ kjh is really sly... i bet they made them break up too or something like that~ it's funny though, this guy's already making trouble and he hasn't debuted yet... kjh is really a mess right now aren't they

that is, until he makes a bit of a mess and even gun is at risk of failing.

he does as he's always done and breaks the rules. specifically, he dates. and not only that, but he dates one of the company's active idols. his own debut is right around the corner around when they're caught and vixen is already in a mess of their own. there's talk about dropping him from the lineup entirely, but they do the opposite instead. all the rumors about him and the vixen member are just that anyway, rumors with blurry photographic proof that can easily be denied and they'd already been on the verge of disbanding all of vixen.

so, they take this chance and do. they keep gun on track to debut (with a tighter leash around him now) and try to drown out all his rumors, then disband vixen instead.

this is the first real taste he gets of the company's stronghold on him and his anger starts heating slowly within him again.

he stays, though, because what else does he have?

FATE PANN TITLE: CAN YOU GUYS BELIEVE KJH WENT FROM VIXEN TO THIS?????

i was a fan of that gun guy's old mixtapes before so i was looking forward to his debut but... what is this sh*t... ah, why did he have to debut as an idol, what a waste.. the group seems so f*cking try hard...

maybe because i knew of him before but gun especially made me cringe, he was trying too hard to seem cool but ㅋㅋㅋ his chain necklaces look like they weighed more than him....

after the mess is cleaned up and atlas debuts, he gets to keep his stage name because it fits their image at the time and with his moderate success at least around the hongdae scene, they think it may bring in some fans.

they're wrong.

when he sees their debut concept, he’s –

well, he’s upset. but he’s an idol, so what can he do but go along with it?

the seeds of doubt have already been planted, though, and they only grow the more they prep. the choreography is hard, the styling feels gimmicky, and the music video does too. it feels like everything he never wanted to do, it feels like tarnishing what he’s done so far as gun underground, and it just feels. miserable. he feels miserable.

useless, too, like his father always said. because nothing he suggests gets taken into account, waved off instead. because he’s just a prop, or at least that’s what he feels like and everything in him sinks.

they debut the day after he turns twenty to little fanfare but plenty of criticism, those who were fans of his mixtapes commenting he’s sold himself out, that they’re not looking forward any longer. he agrees.

but he’s an idol.

he performs on stage because that’s his job, but the euphoria isn’t there like it had been underground. replaced instead with some sinking feeling he doesn’t know how to define at twenty years old. doesn’t know how to get rid of except with anger, with alcohol.

his drinking starts with just a shot or two of soju upon returning to the dorms, snuck into his room and hidden from their managers. then shots turn into bottles, and dorms turn into convenience store fronts. then his anger bleeds into his work environment and some staff leave blind items about him on pann.

no one ever guesses his name, though, because who is atlas anyway?

two years into their career and the public still refuses to respond well to their releases. two years, and the company still refuses to listen to his, and the other atlas members’, ideas. and so two years is how long it takes for gun and the rest of atlas’ rap line to band together and threaten for what they’ve wanted the most, what gun has always dreamed of: having more creative control with the group direction.

it’s a huge risk, he and the other boys know this. going behind the other half of the group’s backs, risking their contracts, their livelihoods, their chance in this industry because if they fail they know there’s no chance in hell anyone will take them in anymore. but it’s a risk they’re willing to take, and one that pays off massively, because to their surprise: they get what they want.

and the public loves it too.

suddenly, they’re thrust right into the spotlight.

suddenly, there’s more responsibility shoved onto his shoulders.

but gun loves it, thrives in it. the stage feels better, now, the feeling he’s missed from all those years ago returning in full force. the music feels good, too, the lyrics. because they’re now actually his in part, songs he can proudly put his name on, songs he will gladly ramble on and on about on vlives and interviews.

there’s a crack in the atlas infrastructure, but gun thinks it’s all been worth it. even if they are running a marathon now, and have been for three straight years. it’s not without consequences, of course. what used to just be small pann rumors and blind items of some nobody idol being an asshole to work with, or of some nobody idol supposedly dating around the stylists and flirting with fans, with other idols and every girl he ever collaborates with are now rumors of an idol everyone in the business knows and have become very real threats to the image he and atlas have built up.

now the pressure and stress keeps building and building, weighing heavier with not only the threat of those rumors blowing up, but now also with every new milestone reached, every comeback, ever growing expectation.

and so slowly but surely, the euphoria fades again, replaced with worry, with burden, with feelings of not being able to meet impossible expectations. with his parents words from all those years ago resurfacing and reminding him that he's never good enough.

now, it’s only a matter of time before gun cracks, because even atlas shrugged while holding the weight of the world.

#id.bio #id.atlas #id.kjh #id.min yoongi

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