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retrievablememories · 3 years

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picture me | johnny (m)

title: picture me pairing: vampire!johnny x black!reader genre: fantasy, romance, smut, fluff, angst summary: you meet a vampire-slash-photographer whose self-identity is increasingly lost to him, and you try to help him find some purpose again. word count: 18.3k warnings: age gap (cuz you know, vampires...but everyone is legal), mentions of discrimination/prejudice based on species, self-identity issues/self-deprecation, general angst, sheltered!reader, mentions of blood and drinking blood, oral sex (female and male receiving), fingering, thigh riding, loss of virginity, corruption kink, use of lube, unprotected sex (do not try at home), creampie, johnny is packing in this fic ok! a/n: today (the 28th) is my birthday, so i’m posting this 100% self-indulgent fic that i’ve been working on between requests since september. it was very hard to get johnny’s characterization right for this fic and idk if i actually succeeded but i’m not revising this for the 1000th time lol. i love this fic with my whole heart tho.

i haven’t seen many vampire fics that really explore the whole “doesn’t show up in mirrors/photos” concept (shout em out if you know em) and...there’s probably a reason for that, this shit is hard af to write and there are some logic issues but whatever 🤪

(the beginning quote is from “criminal,” stan taemin!!)

The moment I fall for you is the end of my innocence

—

He sits in the same coffee shop everyday, like it’s a habit he just can’t break. But who are you to judge? You’re there, too. Watching him like a creep. Or maybe like an interested coffee shop patron, trying to be discreet and failing at it.

He wasn’t hard to notice. You’d never been to this coffee shop before, but your friend recommended it to you mostly for their in-house-made pastries; she claimed the coffee was good, too, but she wasn’t much of a caffeine person. You decided to give it a try when you had time between classes and a moment to breathe, not needing to talk to this advisor or that professor.

You saw him immediately when you walked past the shop window. He was sitting at a table near the front, staring down at his phone with a small cup of coffee sitting in front of him. Its miniscule size was almost comical in contrast to his...everything. He was tall—that much was obvious even with him sitting down—and imposing, wearing all black. His hair was equally pitch-black, his bangs hanging to one side and the rest shaved in an undercut. If you didn’t know much better, you’d think you’d stepped back into 2007 and landed dead in the middle of the emo craze.

He was interesting to look at. Not in a bad way, but in a way you don’t see very often. Deciding to walk in before you made yourself look totally weird staring at him through the window, you’d stepped into the coffee shop, the small bell dinging above your head. A barista greeted you at your entrance. Out of the corner of your eye you saw the man, to your left, still looking at his phone.

You’d given your order and waited for it to be ready before taking it to a table on the other side of the shop. From that vantage point, you had a good view of the man. You tried to keep your eyes on your food and your phone, not wanting to spend the whole time looking at him, but it was a little hard not to.

When you took a bite of your pastry, you quickly discovered it was just as delicious as your friend promised—probably even more so. You made a noise of approval before you could catch yourself, and you glanced around the shop in embarrassment to see if anyone nearby noticed. Didn’t seem like it, at first. But then you glanced over to the man again only to find him looking at you below his eyelashes with a small, amused smile on his lips. He only kept his gaze on you for a second before returning to his phone.

What? You hadn’t thought you were that loud. How did he hear you from over there, and above the noise of the café? Even now, you remember how embarrassed you’d felt, ducking your head and looking away.

The man finished his coffee not long after that; he slipped his phone into his pocket and stood up. You glanced up only momentarily when he stood, but your eyes soon slid back to his form when you noticed something odd. On the wall behind him, there was a big oval mirror sitting pretty in its elaborate silver frame. He stood just a few feet in front of it, yet there was no reflection of him. The only thing you could see was the other side of the café reflected back, with another man sitting alone at a booth enjoying his own coffee. The tall man’s reflection was nowhere to be found.

That was when you figured he must be a vampire.

You’d never met one before. At least, you didn’t think you had until then.

Unbeknownst to you, vampires are notoriously able to blend in more easily than most other supernatural beings—until faced with situations like that one in the coffee shop. Ultimately, there’s no faking a reflection no matter how hard you try to remain inconspicuous.

The man had caught your eye again. Thinking back on it, you aren’t sure of what expression you had on your face or what it must’ve looked like to him. It must’ve been something akin to surprise, though; you weren’t quick enough to disguise your reaction at his lack of a reflection.

He gave you another smile, though it felt sadder than the previous one, and walked out of the store, the small bell on the door ringing at his departure. He disappeared down the street in a swirl of black fabric, almost like something out of a movie, and you watched him retreat until you could see him no more.

You scraped your index fingernail over the wood table your food was resting on, your mind whirring with all kinds of thoughts. Your interest was piqued. And yet there was no way for you to know if you’d see him again.

—

At least, that’s what you believed then. Luckily for you, your subsequent visits to the coffee shop have proven fruitful; the strange, tall vampire is there more often than not, always in the same spot in front of that same mirror. Sometimes he reads a book, other times he looks at his phone, and other times still, he stares out the window at the passersby.

He acknowledges you whenever he sees you, either with a nod or a smile. You’ve never spoken to each other, though you know what his voice sounds like from hearing him talk to the baristas. It’s a nice voice, rich and handsome like him, and you find yourself gradually wanting to hear it spoken in your direction. But you aren’t sure how to talk to him, or what you should say.

There’s a lot you want to know about him and his vampirism, but you don’t think it’s fair to bombard him with questions right after meeting him—if you could somehow work up the nerve for that first step.

When you were young, your parents made sure to keep you safely sheltered away from anyone who could potentially be a vampire or any other nonhuman being. This game kept up until you went to college, where they could no longer “shield” you. Because of their lifelong fear and disgust, your knowledge of nonhuman beings is scarce and mostly inaccurate.

The man’s skin isn’t deathly pale like you’ve heard others say vampires always are. It’s nicely tanned, in fact. Nor are his eyes red, or his canine teeth abnormally sharp. And obviously, he has no aversion to sunlight, otherwise he wouldn’t be out here during the day. The only visible marker of his inhuman nature is his lack of a reflection. Maybe he’s not a vampire at all? Maybe he’s another type of being entirely. That only makes you more curious.

It’s not rare to come across supernatural beings, but they only make themselves known if they want to, or if it’s imperative to their survival. Most of them would rather quietly assimilate amongst humans or stay safe and hidden within their own communities. Humans are still too judgmental towards those who are different from themselves for nonhumans to feel truly safe or welcomed—at least not on a global scale. Small pockets of communities forged with human allies are helpful and sometimes vital for survival, but not always enough.

These small tidbits of information cycle through your mind as September gradually bleeds into October. You continue watching the thoughtful man in the coffee shop and making up your own secret theories about his life. You haven’t told anyone from school about this, because you already know the reaction would be nothing short of awful. Your parents would only let you go to school at the one university in the city that explicitly didn’t allow supernatural beings; it goes without saying that your classmates don’t view them in a positive light.

Part of you feels like you might be breaking the unspoken rules just by being at this coffee shop all the time and allowing this man to take up space in your mind. But who will know what’s inside your thoughts except you?

One day, your friend decides to accompany you on your lunch break, finally stopping by the café she recommended to you. The man is already there, as usual, and he smiles slightly when you and your friend enter. She doesn’t catch this, too busy wondering what she’s going to get off the menu today.

“I haven’t been here in forever, I wonder if Sam still remembers me?” You know Sam to be one of the baristas there, having read it on their name tag before.

“I doubt there are very many people who’d forget you,” you answer.

When you both have your food, you take a booth farther away from where the man sits, though you can still see him easily from this distance. Your friend settles into the seat in front of you.

You try to keep things inconspicuous throughout your conversation, but you must glance over at him one too many times, because your friend eventually raises her eyebrows questioningly. She turns around in her seat, making it obvious that she’s looking, and you groan as you keep your eyes in the opposite direction towards the window.

“Who’s that guy you keep staring at?”

You cough. “No one.”

“He’s obviously someone. Someone interesting enough to hold your attention.”

“I don’t know the man,” you say curtly. You shuffle your napkin and spoon aimlessly, your nervousness rising. What if he has some kind of enhanced hearing and can hear what you’re saying right now? He definitely heard you make that noise that first day.

Your friend looks at the ceiling and blows air out of her mouth. “Whatever. I’ll find out who he is sooner or later.”

You take a sip of your drink and lower your voice to just above a whisper. Although you want to leave the subject alone, you’re curious about one thing. “You mean you’ve never seen him before? This café was your hangout spot before it was mine.”

She shrugs. “No, I think I would’ve remembered someone as...visually striking as him. Why are we whispering, anyway? It’s not like he can hear us above all this noise.”

You think to yourself, I’m not so sure about that, but you merely shake your head.

You spend a few more minutes talking before movement catches the corner of your eye. At this point, it’s practically a reflex for you to look in that direction. You try not to, but your friend has already caught you and turns her head to spy, too. The man has gotten up for whatever reason to say something to one of the baristas at the counter. Your gaze darts back to your cup after you’ve gotten your eyeful, but you’re nearly startled into dropping the cup at your friend’s gasp.

Oh. The mirror.

She grips the edge of the table. “He’s a vampire…?”

You don’t know what to say to that, and you feel oddly guilty for some reason you can’t pinpoint. Like you’ve been caught with your hand in the cookie jar. “U-um, I don’t know…?” You can hardly finish your thought before your friend is scrambling to grab her purse. She hurriedly stands out of the seat, tugging your arm as she does.

“Come on. We shouldn’t stay here.”

“Are you serious—?” You feel embarrassed heat rip through your body at her display; some other café-goers are already looking at her curiously, probably wondering what the hell she’s doing. She tugs more incessantly, and you already know she’ll get louder if you don’t get up now and defuse the situation. Leaving your half-full cup behind, you grab your things and follow her out of the store, keeping your eyes firmly on her back as you pass by the man. You don’t know if he looked up, or if he could sense the reason for your sudden departure—you’ve never left the shop before him until now—and you don’t want to know.

Neither of you talk until you’re well down the street and around the corner. “That wasn’t necessary,” you huff, your hands still sweating from the spiked adrenaline at suddenly being rushed out.

“Yes it was! We all know bloodsuckers and all these other weirdos are dangerous...even if they think they’re being well-intentioned by living among humans. I hope you don’t go back there.”

“Whatever...you’re the one who told me to visit the café,” you mumble, unable to muster up the energy to say anything more. You both know very well she can’t tell you where to go, but you hope she doesn’t mention this to your other acquaintances on campus and make it into a bigger deal than it is.

When you part ways with your friend and get back to your dorm, you realize you’re missing your planner. The planner with all your upcoming assignment dates in it. You sigh heavily and roll your eyes, knowing it must’ve happened in the chaos of her pulling you out of the shop. Maybe if you’re really lucky, it’ll still be there, picked up by an employee or simply left untouched. Knowing how many people go through that café in a day, you’re not optimistic.

For the first time since visiting the quaint little shop, you’re not anticipating returning and seeing the man again, afraid he’ll ignore you or look at you with distaste—like you’re just another unsympathetic human. And would he be wrong to think that? You’re only strangers to each other.

You try not to dwell on it too hard when you go to bed that night.

When lunch rolls around the next day, you hesitate a couple times on your way to the café, not wanting to show up. However, the desire to see what became of your planner pushes you forward. You don’t even have to stay; if it’s there, you’ll take it and leave. If it’s not—oh well. You can still leave. It’s not hard to buy another.

He’s there when you arrive, of course.

He nods at you when you step inside, though he doesn’t smile as he’s become accustomed to doing. You nod back, but you can’t ignore the renewed rush of embarrassment you feel. You linger at the entrance for a second longer, wondering if maybe you should say something. Apologize, even? But what if he really didn’t know what was going on yesterday? Then how odd would you look for bringing it up?

You decide to move on and go back to the booth to search for your belongings, but his voice stops you. This takes you by surprise.

“Did you come back for this?”

You turn to him to see him holding your planner in his hand. You stare, momentarily dumbfounded, and almost shake your head before realizing it is yours. Definitely the same sticker-covered, scribbled-all-over planner.

“Oh—y-yeah. Thank you.” He passes it to you, though you notice he’s very careful not to let your hands touch. You’re a little perplexed about why, but then the rumors about vampires having cold skin pop up in your mind. Maybe that’s actually true, too. “I usually don’t lose things so easily, but…” Your voice falters, and you don’t know how to finish that sentence without bringing up the other day’s events.

He doesn’t seem to mind as he replies, “It happens to all of us sometimes...I don’t know what I’d do if I lost my camera.”

“You take pictures?” you ask, a tinge of curiosity in your voice.

He nods. “I take photos of anything that interests me. Which often ends up being everything I see. I work at an art museum, so I guess having an eye for photography comes in handy.” He hesitates for a second, then says, “I could show you some?” He waves his phone, indicating that the photos are there.

“Oh, sure.” The man gestures for you to sit down in the empty chair in front of him, and you do so. He swipes through his phone a few times until he settles on what he’s searching for, then puts the device on the table and slides it to you. You lean forward to look at it and see that it displays an album full of pictures, simply titled with the emoji “🌌.”

“It’s okay, you can pick it up.” He chuckles. You pick up the phone and swipe through the numerous pictures. Many of them are nighttime shots of the moon, trees, half-empty streets, darkened storefronts. Others depict nature scenes at sunset or the beginning of sunrise, with the sky colored in darker hues. No matter what the subject matter is, they all look to be professionally taken, even for an iPhone.

“Wow, these are nice. You said you work at a museum…are you a professional photographer, too?”

The man shrugs, and as you look at his slight grin, you realize you still don’t know his name. “Something like that, I guess.”

“You should be if you aren’t already,” you say, looking through more photos. “I’m sure you’d make a lot of money.” When you reach the end of the album, you go to hand the phone back to him but realize he’ll probably want to avoid contact again, so you slide it across the table. He takes it and slips it into his pocket.

“I don’t really care about the money,” he responds. “I just like it because…” He trails off, unsure how to convey his thoughts, wondering if he should even get that personal with a stranger. “It...helps me pass the time.” He’s not quite satisfied by that answer—it doesn’t feel like enough—but it’s all he can think of on the spot.

“Well, that’s nice too. It’s always good to have a hobby just for the sake of it...not for anyone’s benefit but your own.”

“Do you have one?” He takes a sip of his coffee. You don’t expect to be asked about your own interests, and your mind goes blank as you try to think. Why does this always happen when I’m asked these kinds of questions?

“Um, just different things here and there.”

“You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to,” he says, amused.

“It’s not that, I just don’t have a ton of hobbies or anything. I’m kinda boring, so…” And wasn’t allowed to do much of anything until I left home.

“Being boring isn’t always a bad thing.”

You lean back in your seat, shrugging slightly. “Maybe if you see it that way. My friends don’t.”

“Would one of those happen to be the same one who dragged you out of here yesterday?” He speaks casually, putting his cheek in his hand. You slump further down in your seat, feeling exposed. Of course there was no escaping this topic. He notices your mood shift and shakes his head. “You don’t have to feel so bad about it. It’s not the first time and it won’t be the last.”

“I’m sorry for all that mess,” you murmur, unable to meet his eyes. “Really, I am.” You stand up from the seat, gripping your planner. “Thanks again for this. I don’t want to take up any more of your time today.” You’re about to turn to leave when he speaks again.

“You don’t have to be afraid of me, you know…you could talk with me whenever you feel like it.” That’s the last thing you expect him to say. His voice takes on a quality that’s...not what you’d call begging, but it’s clear he’d enjoy some company. Maybe he’s doing this for your benefit as well as his own, because it’s obvious how your eyes always stray to his little corner.

You nod, giving him an apprehensive smile. “I’ll keep that in mind, then.”

The rest of your day after that is uneventful, full of classes and unexciting lectures, but you keep thinking of one thing. Though he appears to enjoy his time in the coffee shop, how lonely must he really be? There’s never anyone else around him. His eyes when he’d spoken to you held a certain sadness.

And you still didn’t get his name.

You don’t see him for the next few days, mostly because you aren’t at the café. You’ve gotten busy with a new project and haven’t had as much time to return to the coffee shop, mostly spending your time in the library instead.

When you finally get a chance to buy lunch outside campus, he’s not there. This disappoints you more than you thought it would, and you wonder what his absence means. Did he just decide not to come today, or has he found another place to frequent? You kind of hope the second option isn’t the case, though you also don’t know why you’re even caring this much about where someone else goes on their own time.

You get a drink to-go this time, deciding you’ll just take it back to the library and continue your studies there. The entryway bell rings behind you as you wait for your order to be made, though you don’t pay it much attention; half of your mind is still occupied with what you need to do next for your project.

When you turn around to leave the shop with your drink, you’re surprised to see the man standing there, waiting to get his own coffee. “You’re late,” you blurt out. You immediately feel silly for saying it, but he doesn’t seem to mind.

He gives you a slight smile. “Yes, I am.” Then he spots your to-go cup. “Are you leaving?”

“Uh, well,” you glance at your drink, “are you staying?”

He nods as he steps up to the counter. “Yeah, I’m staying. My offer’s still open, by the way.”

Right. The offer to talk to him sometimes. You’re tempted to stay awhile and talk to him now, though you don’t even know what about. Your project? That’s boring. Him being a vampire? Too invasive. Your school? Also boring, and probably not the best idea considering which one you attend.

“I...think I’ll stay, then.”

You both sit at his usual table, with you grinning nervously.

“How are you? I noticed you hadn’t showed up in a while,” he asks, settling back in his chair.

“Yeah, I’m doing fine, I’m just busy with school stuff. These teachers don’t give us a break.” You laugh a little, shaking your head.

“I’m sorry to hear that.” He grins. “I never did go to college, but I’ve always heard others talk about how tiring it is. And expensive.”

“They’re right.” You roll your eyes at the thought of it. “But I guess it’ll all be worth it in the end. Maybe. If the economy isn’t in the toilet.” The sound of his laughter is nice, and you’re glad you could make him laugh. “Also, I’m sorry—I don’t know how this flew under the radar, but I don’t know your name.”

He shrugs. “Nothing to apologize for, really. It’s Johnny.”

You tell him your name, too. “Since I haven’t seen you lately...how are you doing?” You circle your hands around your to-go cup, feeling its warmth transfer to your palms as you await his answer.

“I think I can say I’m the same as always—which is fine. Life slows down a little when you have a lot of time on your hands.” Johnny’s lips quirk up at that, and you think he might be referring to his vampirism. Your eyes widen a little.

“What’s that like? Having so much free time. I wouldn’t know much about that right now, but…”

“Maybe not as pleasant as you think it’d be. But there’s good in it. Like coming and going when you want to. And you can take up whatever interests you want without worrying as much about busy schedules.” You already know he’s alluding to his photography. “I do like having a job, though…it gives me structure.”

“You’re probably right…I wouldn’t know the first thing to do if I had a ton of free time…like, which hobbies to pick up first.” You consider how you initially thought about him being lonely and wonder if that’s one of the unpleasant parts he hinted to. “Speaking of hobbies...did you take any new pictures lately?”

Johnny nods. “Most of them were on my camera this time, but some are on my phone. You want to see?”

“Yes!”

Johnny lets you have his phone again to look through the newest pictures he’s taken. There are varying shots of car-lined streets and storefronts, some of the latter decorated with glowing jack-o-lanterns for the onset of October. A pigeon sits on a streetlamp during the daytime, holding its head up like royalty upon a throne. In another image, a stray cat and her kittens huddle in an alley, the babies grooming each other while the mother looks quizzically at the camera.

You recognize a few photos from the nearby park; he also had some pictures of it the last time you looked. “Do you go to this park often?”

“Yeah, it offers some great shots. It’s especially pretty if you go just before the sun sets...the light filters through the tree leaves and it looks kinda like a kaleidoscope.”

“Ah, I’ve never seen that before…” you say a little sadly. Your parents didn’t much like taking you to that park when you were younger because of how far it is from their house. And since living away from them, you’ve only been able to visit it during the early hours of the day—like now.

Johnny looks closely at you. “Would you ever want to?”

“If it’s as pretty as you say, I should.” You slide the phone back across the table to him, not catching what he’s trying to hint at as you keep talking. “Do you go anywhere else besides here and the park?” As soon as you say it, you realize this might sound a little rude and try to make a quick save. “I mean, do you have any other favorite places? I’m not trying to say you don’t have a life or anything!”

Johnny laughs at your slight panic at thinking you’ve offended him. “Nothing too out-there, I guess. The bookstore, the photography store, the theater. Pretty much all the same places others visit.”

“The movies are fun.” You trace your finger across the table’s surface, thinking of your own favorite spots. “Me and my friends like to go downtown. There are a lot of cute little shops down there…”

You and Johnny talk for a while longer, and you almost forget you have to get back to campus until you glance at the wall clock. “Oh no, I’m gonna be late.” Flustered, you jump out of your seat and crumple your empty cup. “Sorry to cut it short, Johnny, but I gotta go back now.”

He smiles good-naturedly and nods, his dark bangs sweeping his face. “I understand.” As he watches you gather your things and get ready to go, he speaks up again. “Actually, if you want to see the park at sunset sometime...I could show you? It’s up to you.”

You pause, suddenly curious at the thought of seeing him outside the café. In the back of your mind, you feel a little paranoid and afraid of your friend or maybe even your parents seeing you there with him, though the latter is extremely unlikely. It’s hard to shake that familiar fear of judgment and ostracism when it’s been ingrained in you since childhood. “That sounds good. If it’s not any trouble for you…?”

“Never too much trouble. I usually get off around 4 on Fridays, just before the sun sets at 5. Unless the weekend is better for you?”

You nod, holding your books tighter to your chest. “Friday will work for me! I’ll meet up with you then.”

Johnny smiles. “Great; I’ll see you then, kind stranger.”

Maybe he says it to be joking or quirky, to sound like one of those characters in a movie or drama, but it makes you smile. Nodding to him again, you step out of the café and rush towards the direction of your school. Johnny watches as you retreat, your roles reversed.

You meet up with Johnny at the park that Friday, just as you both agreed. You spot him sitting on a bench near the park entrance, waiting on your arrival.

Johnny’s wardrobe is still mostly dark, but it’s a little lighter than usual today. He’s changed things up with a white polo shirt underneath his black sweater. Seeing him dressed like this, you wonder what he’d be like as a student, or maybe even a university professor.

He stands up when you get closer, hearing the sound of your footsteps approaching and turning towards you. His camera sits safely around his neck, the lens catching in the light of the sun.

When you stop in front of him, he smiles at you warmly. You try to relax into the genuineness of that smile and ignore the still-lingering traces of anxiety about being out with him. “Hi, Johnny!”

“Hi, Y/N.”

You and Johnny walk around the park as he looks for something interesting to shoot. He snaps a few shots of the trees, fallen leaves, bushes, and other natural elements along the way, though it seems like he hasn’t quite captured what he wants yet.

“Are you looking for something specific?” you ask, peering at his camera as he holds it in his hands.

“There’s an aster bush around here,” he responds. “It hadn’t fully bloomed yet the last time I was here, but it should be open by now.”

It turns out he’s right as you two finally come up on the bush. Its blooms make bright purple smudges against the rest of the landscape, which is a monochrome red-and-orange palette from the leaves changing their hues. You watch as he comes up to the bush carefully and quietly, like it’s a small animal he’s afraid to scare away. Johnny is very attentive while taking pictures of it, always conscious of getting the correct lighting and securing the exact angles he wants to capture. “Compassionate” is not a word you’d usually associate with the act of taking photos, but that’s the only word you can currently think of to describe this display. He treats the flowers with a peculiar sense of respect, as if they’re a human subject.

After he’s gotten the images he wants, Johnny offers you his camera to take a few of your own. You’re anxious about holding his prized possession and are afraid you’ll find a way to mess something up, but he promises you it’s fine. You take a few shots of the sky, still with a few wisps of clouds left, and a nearby tree that’s almost stripped bare of leaves. You know the shots will probably end up blurry from your unsteady hands, but Johnny tells you you’ve done a good job anyway.

Something about getting his approval makes a pleasant warmth settle in your chest.

As you both walk down a long trail, you finally ask him, “Sorry if this is invasive, but I was wondering how old are you? Like...as a vampire.” Your voice becomes hesitant on the word vampire, even though you’re the only two in this part of the park.

He chuckles a bit. “I’m 85.” You try not to look surprised. “I’ve been turned for 60 years. Old, but probably a little younger than most vampires you’d think of.”

“Kinda,” you say quietly. “They’re always like 2,000 years old in movies.”

“The ancient vampires are purebloods. They keep to themselves and avoid mingling with turned vampires, let alone humans. Some people are even skeptical if they exist. Supposedly, they use humans as servants or blood banks.” He gives you an apologetic look after saying this, though you don’t really know why. You don’t get the feeling he’d do that to another being, but he is still mostly a stranger... “At least, that’s what my mentor told me.”

Your curiosity is roused at all this new knowledge. “You had a mentor?”

“An older woman. She was also a turned vampire.”

“Turned, huh…”

Johnny nods, toeing at a small pile of leaves on the ground. “She went away eventually, said people are meant to pass in and out of each other’s lives. I don’t think she ever had intentions to stay. But I enjoyed her company while she was there.” Johnny stops at a short bridge above a small manmade lake, and you both look down into the water.

You place your arms on the bridge railing so you can lean over more. You notice he doesn’t have a reflection in the water, and this startles you more than you expected. Before meeting this strange man, you’d never thought much before about why vampires don’t have mirror reflections, but it seems even more unnatural to see this phenomenon happen again in the lake.

You find yourself looking at the side of Johnny’s face, trying to read his expression as he peers into the water’s depths. He turns to you, and you flinch at being caught staring, but he only smiles slightly. You force yourself to form words and break the silence. “What—what did you do after she left?”

“Lived on my own. She taught me a lot of things to help me live independently as a vampire, so it wasn’t too difficult to get along without her...but emotionally? A different story.”

“You sound like you had a very close relationship with her.”

“Yes. Quite close…” Johnny’s tone suggests something deeper, more intimate than a regular friendship. You feel a bit astounded at the idea of him having an older, more worldly lover while being only a newly changed vampire. Your reaction makes you feel foolish, inexperienced. Still, you can’t help imagining a scenario of them living in a big, dark mansion somewhere in the mountains, rolling around in a bed with bloody red sheets—and maybe drinking from the occasional naïve, misled human hiker.

Strangely, too, you feel jealous at his freedom, his ability to go wherever and do whatever with whoever he wants without overbearing relatives always just a step away.

You continue staring at the ripples as they circle in and out of the water’s surface, the motions triggered by a small orange leaf falling into the lake. You’re unsure of what could be the right thing to say to his admission, so you blurt out whatever comes to mind next. “You said she taught you to live independently as a vampire. What does that mean? How do you get...you know. Blood?”

“There are ways,” Johnny says cryptically, which makes your own blood rush faster. He turns to you with a grin, like he finds your naivety endearing. “It’s nothing drastic, though. At least, not for me. I never drink directly.” It does make sense that there are other ways to drink human blood without taking it straight from their necks, though you can only speculate on which methods he prefers. “Drinking directly is lethal, and often not worth it.”

“So, it’s true that vampire bites can kill?” You watch as Johnny pushes himself off the railing, and you follow him as he continues down the trail.

“It’s not false. But it’s never really that simple.” Johnny’s answer is mysterious, and he doesn’t elaborate further. He turns to you. “Where did you hear that, anyway? Your university? The one that bans all nonhuman beings?”

“You know where I go to school?” You feel embarrassed, thinking he must assume you’re like the rest of the student body who hates nonhumans but still nurtures an odd obsession with them.

“I saw it on your notebook one day, the school insignia. I’m not a stalker, by the way.” You laugh only slightly, and Johnny seems crestfallen when he notices your apprehension. “I don’t care if you attend school there. Just because you do doesn’t mean you think the way they do.”

“You must think I’m some weird opportunist, then,” you mutter, heat finding its way to your face. “Asking you all these questions...I’m sorry.”

“I don’t think anything except that you’re a pleasant person to be around.”

You’re quiet for a moment, letting the compliment sink in. You think you should probably give him one of his own, but before you can, he says, “Look. The sun’s already setting.” Just like he told you before, the dying rays filter through the tree leaves and create impossibly intricate patterns on your surroundings. You hold your hand out and watch the latticework that the leaves create dance over your open palm.

You let Johnny take a picture of your hand with the tree shadows flitting over it, but you shy away from the camera’s lens when he points it higher to your face, a questioning look in his eyes. “Maybe some other day.”

You walk around for a while longer until the sky bleeds into a dark purple. “I guess I should be going soon. It’s getting late,” you say, though you’re also a bit sad over your evening with Johnny meeting its end.

“Do you want me to take you back to campus? You shouldn’t walk back alone. My car is just in the parking lot there.” He points to it where it sits in the distance.

You look at Johnny with a confused gaze. “But you can’t come on campus. They have...things to ward off vampires.” Like gates made of pure silver, displaying intimidating, elaborately designed crosses. You don’t know if any of it actually works, but it’s probably better not to find out.

Johnny doesn’t seem bothered by this information. “Yeah…I know. I can just drop you at the street across from the main gate.”

You hesitate a moment longer but eventually agree. He is right; you’d rather not walk alone at night, and getting a ride with him is better—and cheaper—than calling for a rideshare.

The ride to the college is fairly quiet, with the radio filling the silence. It’s not an awkward type of stillness, at least, which you’re grateful for.

As he said he would, Johnny parks on the side of the street that sits in front of the main gate, just outside the immediate vicinity of the campus. The metal crosses stare back at the both of you, glinting in the light of nearby streetlamps. You turn your face away from them, biting the inside of your cheek.

You unbuckle your seatbelt. “Thanks again for the ride. I guess I’ll see you back at the shop next week, yeah?” Again, you get the urge to say something, anything, to remedy or cover up the foreboding source of discomfort sitting just in front of you, but there’s no one sentence you could say to wipe away decades of hatred.

Johnny nods and smiles, and still he shows no signs of being disturbed. He doesn’t cast another glance at the gates. “It’s no problem. See you then.”

You get out of his car and cross the street to get inside the gate; it’s early enough in the evening for it to still be open. Any later, and it’d be locked shut to even humans. You risk another wave at him before turning back around and heading for your dorm, which sits a few yards from the entrance. Johnny lets the car idle on the side of the street until you’ve walked into the dorm, and only then does he drive away.

It doesn’t take very long for you to warm up to Johnny inviting you to other places. The next time you and him go somewhere other than the coffee shop, you accompany him as he buys some film for his camera on one of his free days. You don’t know a ton about photography, so you’re more than happy to let him tell you all about how film works and why he buys certain kinds over others.

The place he frequents is a specialty photography shop that still carries older varieties of film—ones that fell out of favor once digital cameras became a thing. The store looks noticeably old, but not in an unkempt or decrepit way. You can tell it’s been around for a while, holding all kinds of history in its structure.

“There are so many different types.” You look over a shelf of film rolls in awe. “How can you tell them all apart?”

Johnny laughs. “It gets easier if you’ve been doing it for a while…or a few decades.” He picks one up from a row of them and holds it in front of you. “35mm is the most common type, which is what you’ll find the most of when you look through any film shop. That’s what I use.”

He sets that one down and walks past another display of film rolls, gesturing toward them. “There’s also 120 and 220 film formats here…those work for even older cameras, sorta like ones you’d see in 1930s movies. You can even turn a film camera into a digital camera.”

You nod to his words, looking over what seems like millions of film canisters—and occasionally glancing at the lines of his broad back as he walks ahead of you. “You should teach a photography class. I’d be more willing to listen to you than some old professor.”

Johnny snickers. “Huh, I don’t know. Not a professor, but I am old.”

You both continue walking through the store, with Johnny giving you the rundown on every item that catches your interest.

Like the coffee shop, there’s another mirror in this store. Many more, actually—there are whole rows of them on a series of shelves, all in varying sizes and shapes. They create a fragmented view of your form as you stand in front of them, though you don’t initially realize you’ve crossed into their glassy line of sight. You’re busier with looking at a roll of film Johnny’s handed you. When you notice your reflection shifting in your peripheral view, you look up.

Johnny’s only a few feet behind you, and you know this because you can hear him and feel his presence. Yet, it’s strange to see yourself as the only person in the aisle.

Eventually, he notices what’s got you preoccupied and comes to stand next to you. Though you see him clearly in front of your eyes, there’s no trace of him in the glass reflections.

Suddenly, you’re hit with the aching loneliness of it—how it must feel to never see yourself. You can see him with your own eyes, and so can everyone else who encounters him, but what must it be like to be virtually invisible outside of other peoples’ perceptions of you? You almost feel utterly alone even though you know he’s beside you.

Noticing your sudden melancholy, Johnny takes the film roll from your hand and tosses it up in the air, making it look like it’s moving on its own in the mirrors. He means to lighten the mood, if only to see the cloudiness disappear from your expression. It works to a degree, though you still feel downcast deep below.

“It’s not good to dwell on it.” Johnny presses the film roll back into your hand, still carefully avoiding skin contact. He has no problem meeting your eyes, though, and you shyly look away from his dark gaze after a few prolonged moments.

“You’re right,” you say softly, turning back to the aisle and away from the rows of mirrors.

—

You and Johnny head to the coffee shop after your trip to the photography store. Once you get your drinks and sit down in your usual spot, he speaks suddenly. “Something’s wrong.”

Your eyes dart around the shop, thinking he’s referring to one of the patrons around you. “What? What’s wrong?” Your voice comes out a bit panicked. He doesn’t want to laugh, but he does.

“No, I mean...something’s wrong with you. You seem far away.”

“Oh…” You wonder if you should even bring it up and potentially ruin the mood. But you have been curious for weeks now, and you don’t think you’ll get a trustworthy answer by asking anyone other than him. “I just...I was wondering why you don’t have a reflection. I know it’s a vampire thing, but I’ve never really known why...you don’t need to answer, though. Like you said, it’s not good to dwell on it.”

Johnny makes a motion like a half-nod once your question is revealed, his eyes darting to the window and back to the table. His fingers trace across the rim of his coffee cup, a thoughtful but stormy expression on his face, and you’re afraid you shouldn’t have reawakened this topic. “You know...being undead means being in two places at once.”

“Two places?”

“We are caught between the living world and the world of the dead. Something that’s not really supposed to exist, yet…” He’s quiet for a moment. “You can only imagine the kind of issues and side effects that can cause. One of them being no reflection.”

“I never thought of it like that,” you say. “Two planes of existence...what does it mean to be a part of the world of the dead?”

“Our blood runs slower. Ours is more like sludge compared to yours. The heart beats only a few times per minute. Don’t need to eat or sleep, either, though many vampires still do.” Johnny pauses. “How much do you really know about vampires?”

“I don’t know much about any of this...stuff.” You gesture vaguely, meaning all supernatural beings and not just vampires. “No one ever told me these things growing up, and it’s hard to tell truth from fiction at school. People will say anything, horrible things, and you just take it at face value, I guess. I never really thought to try to find the reality.” You sigh. “Sometimes I feel like I’m the only person in the world who doesn’t know anything.”

“Learning is good. You can always learn. I don’t think it’s too late for that.” Johnny’s voice is a little lighter. “Anyway, everyone’s knowledge is different. Sometimes it slips my mind that everyone doesn’t know what it’s like to live as a vampire, though the world never lets me forget for long.”

“Then…do you hang out with other vampires who do understand? Or…maybe humans who can sympathize?”

Johnny gives a humorless laugh. “Most humans are hesitant to interact with us, if not full-out terrified or disgusted. At the museum...it’s less pronounced because all the employees already know. They…tolerate it. But every time someone else realizes what I am and doesn’t take well to it?” He shakes his head, acts like he’ll say something else, and then abandons that line of thought. “And do you really think I’d want to spend my free time around other bloodsuckers?” He tries to play it off as a joke, but you’re more inclined to think he actually feels that way. You can only nod, feeling bad for him but also a little disturbed by his view of his own kind.

“I think you’re a kind person, and you being a vampire doesn’t affect that,” you say hesitantly. “I like talking to you. And even if you feel that way about other vampires, I…wish you wouldn’t feel that about yourself.”

Johnny remains quiet, but he nods. You wonder about the struggle occurring in his mind. The only outward hint of his uneasy state shows in the furrow of his eyebrows and the tense set of his mouth. With his right hand resting on the table, he rubs his fingers together absentmindedly, like he’s analyzing your words. You have a sudden and startling desire to hold his hand, to twine your fingers together and feel his skin on yours for the first time, but you don’t dare cross that boundary.

He finally replies with, “You’re much kinder to me, an old and bitter vampire, than you probably should be. But maybe that’s a good thing about you.”

“I think it’s a good thing,” you agree, your voice low. “Every living being needs companionship. Good companionship, anyway.”

The corners of Johnny’s lips shift in something reminiscent of a smile. He turns a rueful gaze once again to the window, lifting his coffee cup to his lips. “Aren’t I lucky to have yours, then.”

On a day when you don’t have as many responsibilities to juggle, you visit Johnny at the art museum after his working hours are up. He’d already invited you to come to the museum any day you felt like so he could show you around.

When you get there, he’s waiting in the visitor’s lobby for you, framed by receding sunlight as the day starts fading into night. He looks the same as he always does when you see him in the café on his lunch breaks, but within the context of the museum, he suddenly seems more…alive? Vibrant? He could’ve served as a muse for one of the many statuesque, perfectly proportional sculptures in the museum, and you’d never know anything different.

Your heartbeat increases at the sight of him, just enough to be outside the normal range.

“Hi, Johnny. I hope your day went well?”

“It was fine, nothing too crazy. But it’s better now.” And he smiles at you, sincere enough to make your heart ache.

“Oh—that’s great.” That’s it? You scold yourself internally, but you aren’t quick enough to think up a witty reply to his comment before the topic shifts.

“Is there anything in particular you wanna see first?” Johnny asks, leading you further into the museum.

“I guess I hadn’t thought too deeply about that…do you have a favorite exhibit? I want to see what you like.”

Johnny smiles faintly. “Let’s see, then.”

The dark-haired man takes you to a section of the museum filled with oil paintings, all by one singular artist. At first, all you see is varying shades of black and gray and red, with some white splashed in between. When you begin looking at the paintings more closely, it’s easier to see that each one depicts a different scene of chaos. Maybe a sort of organized chaos, but disarray all the same.

There is one picture that holds a clearer subject than the rest. One of the oil paintings is of a vampire—obvious by the fangs—with bloodied lips and anguished eyes. You pause when you catch sight of it, your steps stilled by the sheer frenzy in the other being’s painted eyes. Their hands reach out for the viewer as if begging for an escape that can only be provided by whoever’s observing.

“This one was painted by a fellow vampire, you know. The same one who did all the rest of the paintings in this gallery,” Johnny explains. He points at the placard next to the painting that displays the artist’s name and a short description of the piece. The word fellow comes off his tongue wrapped in cynicism. “And it was one of the ones I personally chose for this exhibit.”

You glance at him, a tinge of surprise blooming in your chest. “Really?”

He nods. “Who better to depict the ills of vampirism than a vampire themselves? I thought it was a…fascinating change of pace from all the humans who try and fail to do so, ironic as that is.”

If you look at the painting for long enough, you think you can recognize sadness in the corners of the vampire’s eyes—pure, unadulterated sadness. Different from anguish or panic. A similar mask of sadness you’ve seen on the man next to you.

You say nothing for a while. You simply feel the painful throb of your heart in your chest and listen to the small sounds around you. Even now, there are still other people exploring the museum and walking through this very exhibit, but you can’t hear or see any of them. Johnny notices the disconcerted look on your face, and his forehead creases. “But I’m sure you want to see something less…morbid than this, right? Come on.”

“Uh, I-I don’t mind,” you insist, even though you feel like you’ve just awoken from a painful trance by the sound of his voice. But he’s already gesturing for you to follow him elsewhere.

The next set of paintings you end up in front of are a series of sunflower studies. One frame depicts the long green stems; another provides an up-close view of their lined petals. One zooms in close on the flower’s brown center, only small glimpses of yellow left at the edges of the frame.

“This is definitely very different.” You look at him, a small smile pulling at your lips. “But it fits you. I see why you like it.” You remember him back in the park, taking careful pictures of the aster bush and of your hands…and then offering to take one of you. You don’t know why that last one makes your stomach jump.

“I thought you might like it.” Johnny’s eyes linger on your face as he observes your reaction to the paintings. He’s seen these flowers probably a hundred times by now in this permanent exhibit, but the wonder in your expression is new to him.

—

You both walk through a few more exhibitions after that, all with different subjects and mediums—some consist of sculptures, others are clay vases and figures. There’s still a lot to see in the museum, but you’re starting to get hungry, and you know Johnny has already heard your stomach growling.

After the 2nd time it happens and you think you might melt from embarrassment, he grins at you and makes a suggestion. “Let’s go to my office. I’ll get my things and we can eat. The restaurant here is pretty good—or at least that’s what everyone else says…”

When you get to his office, you feel almost like you’ve stepped into a room from years past. Your gaze drifts across his desk immediately; it’s not sleek and modern like you’d expect, considering the rest of the museum’s aesthetic, but wooden and heavy and vintage-looking. It’s olden quality resembles everything else in his personal space. Even his desk chair, a big and plush thing, feels vintage with its soft leather and rustic design.

This feeling is far from a bad thing, though. You enjoy the aged look of the bookcases, the picture frames, the chairs, the small decorations here and there—everything about this room.

Johnny notices how you look around, studying everything in sight, and smiles. “It’s not the most modern, but I like it.”

“It’s perfect. Like a world of its own.”

“A woman of taste, I see.” Johnny puts a hand over his heart, giving an expression like he’s truly touched, and you can only grin sheepishly. When he has his belongings, he leads you out and locks the door behind him.

“Let’s see what they have on the menu today, then.”

—

You get dinner at the museum’s restaurant, just as Johnny recommended, and he even decides to eat too. Maybe he does it so you won’t look odd being the only one eating, or because he really just wants to; he doesn’t let on. Either way, sitting across from him like this in a fancy restaurant with both of you having a nice meal feels almost like a date. You let that thought amble around for a few minutes longer before tucking it back into one of your mind’s many small niches.

“I’ll probably be digesting this for the next few weeks,” he says jokingly, pulling a mock-disappointed face at his plate.

“That sounds like the worst constipation in history.” He snorts at your comment, his eyes creasing as he laughs. You notice he has a dimple when he smiles, and your grin mirrors his. You don’t think you’ve seen him laugh quite so genuinely before, but now that you’ve experienced it, you want to hear it again and again.

Anything is preferable to the perpetual gloom, always slinking around the corner.

—

When Johnny gets back home after dropping you off at the university, he undresses himself and showers and pulls on his bedclothes, which are nothing more than his underwear and a pair of sweatpants. His upper canines ache in his gums the entire time he goes through these motions, like two pulses of red-hot heat positioned on either side of his mouth.

He takes a blood bag from the fridge and drinks it in bed, leaning his arms against his knees. A sudden remembrance manifests itself in his mind; he hears the hazy echo of his mother’s decades-past voice in his head, reprimanding him for eating in bed. A sharp pain grips his chest, and he tries to send it back to the depths where it belongs.

When the blood hits his stomach, the pain is eclipsed by the bloodlust, which is no better. His fangs drop immediately, spiking into his lower lip. Johnny closes his eyes and, very gingerly, allows himself to draw a picture of you in his mind, of your blood in his mouth and your heartbeat roaring in his ears. The way your blood would flow out so delicately, crashing into his tastebuds like the high tide. He is usually better than this at curtailing his bloodlust, not even letting it reach the point of his canines hurting—he can’t remember the last time that’s happened—but being around you sets him on edge. Awakens him in some strange, raw way.

That only makes him more wary. And more guilty about imagining himself drinking your blood. He shouldn’t even be around you if he’s losing his grip on his hard-won control. But although it makes him feel ashamed, it also causes his heart to rush.

He drains the blood bag to the last possible drop. To his relief, it calms him significantly, though the thoughts of you don’t leave. More innocent ones now, of your outing earlier in the evening. Deep beneath, they are tinged with his ever-present guilt at his vampiric nature.

Johnny doesn’t need the sleep, but he drifts off anyway, if only to quiet the conflict sending daggers into his mind.

You’ve known Johnny for a few weeks now, not counting the time you spent silently staring at him in the café, but you find yourself intertwining yourself further into his life. You end up visiting his apartment sooner than you anticipated. You didn’t think of anything as ridiculous as him living in a coffin or sleeping in the rafters like a bat, but you also had a hard time imagining what his place might look like.

You come over on a weekend when you have more time to simply hang out and not worry so much about anything else.

Like usual, he waits in that spot on the side of the street for you to come out. In the daytime, you’re more apprehensive about him being here and someone potentially seeing him and trying to cause trouble for him, but there’s a part of you that likes the rebellious aspect of it. And if he truly doesn’t mind coming near the campus to pick you up, you don’t have much issue with him doing it.

Johnny’s apartment is clean—and a little sparser than you’d expected. Maybe he’s a fan of minimalism. One side of the wall is taken up by a wide bookcase, which features a bunch of different knickknacks, books, and a collection of larger hardcovers that look like photo albums. On the other walls are a few framed pictures of different scenes, and you assume they’re ones he must’ve taken.

“This is a nice place,” you say as he takes your jacket for you and puts it up. “It must cost quite a bit, too…” You sit down on the couch, stroking the soft material of it.

Johnny shrugs. “Thanks. It’s nothing I can’t handle...being nearly a century old gives you plenty of time to save money.” He appears charmingly self-satisfied when he’s able to make you laugh. “Do you want anything?”

“Water is fine…thank you.” Johnny nods and goes off to the kitchen.

Despite trying to keep your eyes on the wall photos, your gaze follows him as he leaves. You discreetly watch him move around his kitchen. With his dark clothes, he’s like a splash of black paint against the pale tile and stainless steel.

There are blood packs in Johnny’s fridge. Lots of them. You know because you saw them from your vantage point on the couch when he opened the fridge door. They look like the blood bags you’d see in a hospital, which makes you wonder how he even gets access to those. Another mystery you struggle to wrap your head around.

He comes back to the living room with your water, and you take it gratefully, though you also feel a little awkward. You think maybe the blood bags are something you shouldn’t have seen, although you know he probably would’ve made more effort to hide them or put them away if that were the case.

“You have a good supply of blood, a nice apartment, and a great job. Does every vampire get these kinds of perks?” Admittedly, it sounded better in your head. Your attempt to stave off the awkward feeling—which was really only coming from your end—only makes it more intense. Johnny laughs dryly in response. You can’t tell if he actually finds it amusing or is just trying to humor you, which makes you feel incredibly silly.

“All of it’s government-issued if you promise never to bite any humans.” Johnny gives a wry smile. “But it’s a mistake to think vampires live glamorous lives, filling up on blood and having no cares in the world.”

“N-no, I get it,” you stutter. “Bad joke.”

“I’m not trying to embarrass you or be mean. It’s just the way things are.” Your roles are suddenly reversed, and now he seems to feel some sort of sympathy for you, like you’re just an ignorant little human who doesn’t know any better. The last part of that is more your insecurities speaking out than anything else, but you try to ignore that and take him for his word.

Johnny gets up from the couch to go over to the bookcase as you sip your water. After looking through the photo albums intently, he takes one off the shelf and hands it to you. You set your water down and hold the album carefully as you open the front cover. The cover itself has a neat little label that reads Telluride 1976 - 1980, so you can already expect what you’ll find in it. There are numerous photos of trees, bushes, snowy mountain ranges, lakes, brilliantly vibrant flowers, and woodland creatures. You stop at a picture of a deer looking straight ahead, its black eyes wide and curious as it examines the lens.

“I lived in the mountains back then, a little after my mentor had left. I spent some time trying to reconnect with nature...and all that other hippie shit people used to do back in that era.”

You chuckle. “Did you wear the same kinds of clothes, too? Bell bottoms and tie-dye T-shirts and all?”

Johnny laughs and shrugs. “Maybe…but that’s only for me to know.”

You grin and look at the photos again. “Well…did your plan work, at least?”

Johnny gives a wistful smile. “In some ways, I think it did.”

You continue looking through the rest of the album, which you could probably do for hours if you had the time—just sit and trace every possible line, curve, and ray of light. Johnny sits beside you as you do, occasionally explaining some pictures and their backstories.

“Lately, I’ve been wanting something else to take pictures of...someone else, maybe.”

“What, like a subject?” you ask.

“Yeah, it’d be nice...I haven’t taken pictures of another person in a while.”

You nod quietly as you flip through the pages—another possible hint flying right over your head. Then a thought comes to you—one that makes your skin warm. “Have you ever taken pictures of anyone you were...involved with?” You don’t say it directly, but you hope he can get the gist of what you’re asking.

Johnny nods as if he doesn’t want to admit to it, a nervous smile gracing his lips. “A few different people…but I always gave them the pictures after we, you know, stopped seeing each other...so there’s none left here.”

“I see…” For a few moments, your thoughts circle around that concept. What was it like to bare yourself in front of someone else like that, immortalized on film? What might it be like to allow Johnny to see you like that, to take pictures of you in your most vulnerable form? The idea doesn’t make you as downright anxious as you expected it to, though you can’t completely shake the lingering embarrassment about it.

After you finish looking through the entirety of his Telluride adventures, Johnny shows you some recent pictures he’s developed, and you’re giddy to see your own blurry creations among them. Now that you’re holding them physically in your hands, you can agree that they look nice, each with its own little personality.

“I thought about putting them in a new photo album,” he says, “but you can keep them, if you prefer.”

You hold them to your chest. “Yes, I’d like to keep them. Thank you.” You smile. “I’m sure I’ll leave you with plenty other photos to put in your album, anyway.”

—

The sun is close to setting again. You aren’t ready to leave yet, though, and Johnny is content to let you stay longer. He pulls out another album for you to look at, this one dated with 1960 - 1964. Unlike the others, there’s no title to describe what’s in it except for that year range.

“This is a picture of me someone took before I was turned,” Johnny murmurs, sitting back down beside you. He turns the album to you, and in the middle of the first page is a sepia-toned photo of him sitting on a bed—or maybe a couch?—wearing a suit. White, handwritten lettering on the bottom right of the photograph reads August 4, 1960.

“Oh wow...” You touch the photo gently over its protective lining. “You look exactly the same. Of course.”

“It’s the only photo I have left of myself,” he sighs, leaning back on the sofa. “If it weren’t for that...I’d feel almost like I didn’t exist at all.”

“Do you remember this day?” you ask.

“…Vaguely.” His answer doesn’t feel like the whole truth, and the way his eyes dart anxiously as he says it confirms your suspicions. Then he sighs again, heavier this time, and he seems to be exhaling all 60 years of his burden along with it. “I was...going to be married. It was for our wedding shoot.”

You’re surprised for a reason you’re unsure of, never even imagining that Johnny could’ve been married at one point in time. Could’ve had an entire life and a family, if it hadn’t been for...

“I’m sorry, Johnny.” You know you never would’ve met him if things hadn’t happened this way, and that knowledge tugs at your heart in a way that makes you feel intensely selfish.

Johnny shakes his head and avoids your eyes. “It was long ago.” He wets his lips and his jaw clenches like maybe he wants to say something else, but he remains silent for a while.

You continue exploring the photo album in silence. With its thin size, there aren’t as many pictures in it as the others—much less, in fact, but each one is still enough to keep your interest. Your mind keeps drifting back to the one of Johnny.

You hand the album back to him when you’re done. He takes it from you, but in a gesture you don’t foresee, he allows your hands to touch for the first time. You make a tiny flinch at the unexpected coolness—not ice-cold, but enough to be noticeable—but you don’t draw away from him. You let his fingers slide across yours as the photo album leaves your hands, and it sends electricity racing up and down your spine.

“S-sorry.” You’re not sure if you’re apologizing for flinching or for making contact at all, though there is no reason to because he initiated it.

“Doesn’t it ever disturb you at all that I’m not human?” Johnny asks softly, still holding the album.

“What?”

“You’ve taken all this so easily...much more easily than many others. You aren’t even disgusted at my cold hands.” A ghost of a grin comes over his face.

“If I were disgusted, I wouldn’t even be here,” you say, trying to lighten the tension. It’s not the kind of tension that arises from anger, offense, or upset, but something else that you are lost on comprehending in this moment. “Some of it’s unfamiliar, obviously, but I’m not disgusted.”

He glances down at the album in his hands, as if contemplating something. Maybe thinking about the only living photo of himself beneath the cover. Or maybe he’s thinking back to how he was turned in the first place and subsequently lost the life he was about to have. He still hasn’t told you anything about how he became a vampire, and though you’d like to know, it’s obviously a sore spot for him.

Eventually, he nods, willing himself to smile at you. “I’m glad.”

—

Night has fallen by the time you’re done exploring the decades of his life, though there is still much you haven’t seen and don’t yet know. You let him drive you back to the school as you stare out at the passing cars, wondering how many more of these people sitting in their vehicles are nonhuman and you’d never know it.

You hesitate after he pulls up across from the main gate.

“What’s wrong?” he asks.

“Uh, nothing really, it’s just—I still don’t have your number or anything.” And I want to talk to you more often. I want to hear your voice more often. You don’t want to say anything overly dramatic or cheesy, so you just keep those last thoughts to yourself.

Thinking it had been something serious, he smirks at your concern. “Oh, I see. I’ll give it to you now, then.”

Once your numbers are safely in each other’s phones, you finally bid each other goodnight.

Though you try to steer your thoughts towards other things, you keep veering back to Johnny. His apartment. His fridge full of blood bags. His photo albums full of years of history. Even when you get into bed that night, you can’t keep him off your mind.

You wake up gasping and sweating when you dream of him with his fangs in your neck, your own blood running down your neck and chest. You glance over at your roommate to make sure you haven’t woken her and rest your head on your knees, trying to catch your breath and settle your racing heart. Your skin still prickles with how you could practically feel his heated breaths on your neck, ice-cold hands gripping your shoulders.

The worst part of it is that you can’t quite say you completely disliked it.

“It doesn’t make much sense to have a Halloween party and dress up as the very beings that you hate, but whatever…” you mumble, looking through a rack of costumes with a certain impassivity. You’re not very enthusiastic about going to this Halloween party, but your friend refuses to go alone. You haven’t been spending as much time with her anymore—partly because of Johnny and partly because you feel even more out of place around her than normal—and with all her begging and pleading, she refuses to let you opt out of this one.

“It’s about having fun, no one really cares Y/N. They’re freaks, aren’t they? That’s why people dress up as them, they’re practically meant for this.”

You become even more apprehensive about the party after hearing that, if that’s even possible. You smooth your hand over the fabric of a witch’s robe and sigh again, shaking your head. It doesn’t feel quite right to keep spending time in her presence—or anyone else who goes to your school—but you feel trapped on all sides, left without much of a choice. You would never hear the end of it if you tried to switch universities…or even drop out.

Your mind strays back to Johnny as always, with his melancholy aura and weird jokes and pretty pictures and monochrome clothes. The smell of his cologne, the lingering scent of roasted coffee beans, and his toothy smile, when he does show it to you. Something in you makes you want to drop everything you’re doing right now and go to him. It might even be nice to settle in his arms, feel them strong and solid around you—though he’d probably need just as much comforting as you.

“Dress up as this!” Your friend breaks the reverie as she prances over to you with a pair of fake fangs, the tips of them painted in acrylic blood. She holds them up to your mouth, and you struggle to manage a smile, if only to sate her enthusiasm. “It actually reminds me of…that vampire at the café. Say, have you seen him since then?”

You shake your head, moving away to sift through another rack of outfits as you try to maintain a detached expression. “Nope, not a glimpse. Haven’t even thought about him.”

When your friend doesn’t suspect anything, you let your expression drop just a tad, breathing out quietly.

The night of the party, the full moon is heavy and bold against the black blanket of the sky, which feels horribly cliché. You wonder if there are any werewolves out tonight, and what they might be doing right now.

“We’re going to have a good time tonight,” your friend insists as you both walk up the front steps of the host’s house. It’s someone you only vaguely know, a friend of a friend of a friend, but clearly a person who has an abundance of money judging by this expansive home. You don’t know why she feels the need to convince you, but maybe it’s because you haven’t seemed very enthusiastic so far. You only give a thumbs up to her words, which feels like an unconvincing gesture. Luckily for you, it works.

After a few hours, the party is still going strong but your head is starting to hurt from the music, and you’re growing weary of all the men crowding in too close, looking at you in your angel costume like you’re something to be devoured. You’ve rolled your eyes at way too many of them and their haphazardly put-together costumes, dressed up as vampires with terrible fake fangs or werewolves with manes of matted up fur.

Your friend keeps flitting around the party, talking to whoever she recognizes from classes or campus organizations, and you’ve given up on trying to follow her around any longer. Every time you turn around, she’s somewhere else. Noticing that you’re currently solo, a guy from one of your history classes comes up to you and begins what he thinks is an interesting conversation on how angels actually look more like Eldritch abominations than the cherubic humans depicted in paintings—so your costume is “technically inaccurate” —and your eyes glaze over as you pretend to listen to him.

You eventually manage to get away from him and get to an undisturbed corner, wedged next to two girls drinking cider and critically rating all the guys’ costumes. You pull your phone out and think about calling for a ride back to campus, but your thumb hovers over the message icon. You press it without thinking too much about it, and Johnny’s name appears as one of your most recent conversations. Though you feel somewhat nervous, you will yourself to open the box and begin typing.

To: Hi Johnny. I hope I’m not bothering you, but can I come over? 🙏🏿🙏🏿🙏🏿 I’m over this party

You put your phone back in your purse, trying not to get your hopes up for a quick response. You know there’s a good chance he’d still be awake at this time of night since he doesn’t need to sleep, but he has his own life and is probably off doing...vampire-y things. Whatever those things could be.

However, your hopes are met when your phone pings only a couple minutes later.

From: Of course. You’re not scared about spending your Halloween with a vampire? 😏

You smile at that.

To: I think I’ll be fine…as long as you don’t bite me.

From: 🦷🩸

—

You get to Johnny’s studio apartment not too long after, and you hang around outside his door for a few moments before knocking, suddenly feeling bashful about your costume. Maybe you should’ve changed before coming over here; what if he thinks it’s childish? Or maybe too revealing? Does he even care about that kind of stuff? Doesn’t matter now, though. You’re here, and there’s no way you’re turning back around.

He answers a few seconds after you knock, wearing a sweater and black pants. You notice his sweater is a cream color and not the usual black. He looks a little surprised to see your costume, and his Adam’s apple bobs as he swallows.

“Wow, you look pretty. Nice of you to visit me after falling straight from Heaven.” You cringe at his cheesy line, though you also cannot deny that you secretly enjoy every bit of it.

“Thanks, Johnny...” you say timidly, stepping into his home as he lets you in. “Nice work with changing up the color scheme.”

He’s confused for a moment before realizing you’re talking about his clothes. “Oh yeah, that...um, haha. Thanks.”

Unbeknownst to you, the back of his mind is buzzing with a form of excitement he hasn’t felt in a while. Not the clawing, frantic spikes of bloodlust, but a more physical kind of desire. It’s pleasurable, but he also feels guilty about pining over how sweet and innocent you look in your all-white outfit, stockings hugging your legs perfectly and your dress just short enough to tempt the imagination. Really, you’ve painted a picture of perfect purity, and the only thing he can think about is ruining you. Putting his hands on you and peeling your dress off to reveal the soft skin underneath.

He casts those thoughts aside as you sit prettily on his couch, legs crossed at the ankles—though it’s hard to do so. “Do you want something to drink? Or eat? There isn’t a whole lot of food here, but I can order something…”

“Do you ever make your own coffee?” The question seems a bit random at first, and you try to explain. “You know, since you always get it from the café.”

Johnny smiles. “Do you want coffee? I can make it.”

You nod. “That would be nice…whatever you have.”

“I pretty much have your usual order memorized by now, so I should be good on making it.” Johnny walks to the kitchen. “You can look through the albums while you’re in there. The ones you haven’t seen yet.”

“Oh, thanks.” You feel a little nervous to be looking through the shelf of his treasured photo albums by yourself, but you’re also glad he trusts you enough to let you do it. It makes you feel important. Maybe even important to him, as silly as that might sound.

It isn’t long before the scent of coffee wafts out into the living room. Johnny returns soon with two cups of it, and just as he promised, yours is made just the way you like it.

“Thank you.” You set the album back on the shelf and take the cup from Johnny. For a while, both of you talk of nothing important—just filling the space with the details of your days.

“So how was the party?” Johnny finally asks, and he raises his eyebrows as he scans your outfit again. You grin halfheartedly.

“It was…alright. Kinda weird. I think it’d be more fun if I went to a regular university, but you know…”

Johnny shakes his head. “I can’t blame you for bailing out.”

“Yeah…I’ve been to college parties before, but the Halloween theme was a bit…”

“Strange for an institution that bans all supernatural beings?” Johnny finishes your sentence. He doesn’t look offended or irritated by it—only slightly amused.

You shrug, biting your lip. “Yeah, that.”

“Well, look on the bright side. I wouldn’t have gotten to see you in your natural form otherwise.”

This one almost goes over your head, too, but you catch it just in time. Johnny’s compliments make you feel warm all over, like you’re sitting under the sun. You grin and look down into your cup of coffee, unused to receiving such bold praise and unsure how to respond to it. Something pops into your mind, though, and you think it might be a good idea to run with it.

“You could...take a picture of me, you know. If you want to...since I’m all dressed up now anyway.” You meet his eyes only for a second and then look away, twisting the mug in your hands.

Johnny sits up a little straighter at your words, trying to catch your eyes, though you don’t hold his gaze for long. “You’re sure?” he asks.

“I’m sure. Go ahead! Before I change my mind.” You laugh nervously and carefully set your half-empty mug on the table.

Johnny’s camera is never too far away from him, so he grabs it and plays with the settings for a bit before looking back to you, a small smile on his face. “I’m gonna start, okay?” His voice is surprisingly soft. This, yet again, reminds you of him and the aster bush. He acts as if you might run away at the first shutter click, which makes you feel babied, but you don’t totally hate it.

The first few photos are a little awkward—at least to you. You aren’t sure how to pose, or if you should try to look more casual, though Johnny assures you you’re doing well. He gives you directives throughout, telling you to look in his direction or angle your face a certain way, and you follow his instructions to the best of your ability.

At one point, one of your dress straps slips down. When you go to fix it, Johnny says, “Wait. Could you keep it like that?”

You look at him, your body heating from the suggestion.

“Is that okay with you?”

“…Yes.” Your throat is dry, and your body reacts in a way you don’t expect—little nervous thrills in your hands and feet, though you try to internally explain it away as the coffee’s effects. Johnny takes a few more photos like this, and then he steps closer to gently touch your chin, guiding your face to the angle he’s looking for.

“So good for me.” It slips past his lips in a reverential murmur before he can really consider what he’s saying, and you both freeze. Your heart rate increases, and you wonder if he can hear how hard the red organ is beating in your chest. Probably.

You want to hear him say it again.

Johnny laughs awkwardly, his hand coming back to his side almost a little too quickly to be natural. “Um, I’m really sorry. That was a bit...”

“It…it’s fine.” You avoid his eyes. Johnny takes a few more photos, but the set of his mouth is a little tight, as if he’s stressed about something. Or regretting what he let slip, maybe. You want to tell him you really don’t feel bad about it, but you aren’t sure how to do that without making things more awkward…or revealing your true desires.

When Johnny has taken enough pictures of you to be satisfied with, he sits next to you on the couch, setting his camera on the coffee table and looking suddenly timid.

“I can’t wait to see them,” you say, attempting to break the tension that never really cleared the room after his earlier comment. He blinks for a moment like he doesn’t know what you mean, and then realizes—obviously, he’ll be developing the photos.

“They’ll come out nice, I’m sure. I think you’ll photograph well.”

“Thank you,” you murmur, and now it’s your turn to be unsure of how to resurrect the conversation.

“You’re beautiful.” It’s an abrupt comment. It makes your stomach twist in a pleasant, fluttery way, and you become hyperaware of his form sitting next to yours.

“Haven’t heard that one much, but thanks.”

Johnny turns to you. “Anyone who’d think otherwise is a fool.”

There’s a pause after this where you both simply study each other, watching for hidden reactions that can’t be read on the surface. The way he says it is…decisive, assured. But it also manages to be tender, as if he needs you to know what he thinks of you. Needs you to see yourself the way he does—the same way you do for him. You don’t know where the confidence comes from, but maybe his tone and his words and his endlessly dark eyes have pulled it out of you. “I want to kiss you.”

Johnny’s lips part. “Are you certain?”

“I’m certain.”

He doesn’t hesitate anymore. Johnny moves closer to you and cups the back of your neck. Something awakens in his eyes in the seconds before he presses his mouth to yours. Though he wants to drink eagerly from your lips, his kiss is languid to avoid overwhelming you, and there is an audible smack of your lips whenever he pulls away and presses back in.

His mouth tastes like the coffee you just drank, but underneath that you swear you can taste a hint of the deep iron of blood, and you don’t know how to feel about that. You think about what his fangs would feel like scraping against your bottom lip, if he’d ever show them to you, and you moan quietly.

“Do you want this? With me?” Johnny confirms once more, pulling his gaze away from your lips and up to your eyes. His own eyes are yearning, but there is also an element of something like fear roiling in them. As if you’d turn him away, even though you’ve already shown your desire for him.

“Yes. Just you. No one else.”

Johnny’s body gravitates towards yours, and you think he’s going to push you down onto the sofa, but he scoops your legs up and carries you to his bedroom instead. Even his hands on your waist and legs makes you burn inside.

This is the first time you've seen his bedroom. The sheets are cloud-soft when he sets you down on them, and his window lets moonlight shine through the open blinds and scatter in thick beams across the floor. The only other light source is the bedside lamp, which emits a comfortable yellowish glow.

Johnny joins you on the bed and lets you climb into his lap—encourages you to do so. His cool hands pulling at your thighs as you settle them on either side of his waist makes tingles go through your body. You don’t hesitate to bring your lips back together, kissing each other deeply as one of his hands cradles the back of your head and the other settles on the small of your back.

You are certain vampires don’t have any powers of enchantment—that’s for magic wielders. And yet, you feel like you’ve been put in a trance by his kisses alone, and you wonder how you could’ve lived this long without knowing how his lips feel—how they fit perfectly against your own. As if everything up to now has purposely led you together.

You shift in Johnny’s embrace, and the movement causes his thigh to slide between your legs. Your heat is pressed against his thigh directly now, your silken panties catching against the denim of his pants. You murmur against his lips, not really saying anything of substance but wanting to vocalize your desire to him. Johnny’s hand tightens slightly on your back, and he experimentally lifts his leg higher and slides his thigh across you. That draws a gasp from you.

Noticing your positive response, Johnny continues rocking his thigh up against your pussy and kissing you until you’re breathless and your nipples are straining against the fabric of your dress. You pull away from him for a moment to try to ground yourself, feeling like your nerves are already being singed with fiery pleasure. Johnny’s face is noticeably more flushed than before, but he also looks much more composed than you feel at the moment.

“It takes longer to get hard,” he explains, as if reading the lingering question in your own expression. “Since...you know. Slow blood.” You rock your hips over his thigh more enthusiastically, motivated to get him hard underneath you, and you listen to his choppy breaths as you move. Your movements aren’t the smoothest, but he helps you guide your hips in a way that feels good for you both. You’ve never been with anyone before, so it doesn’t much matter to you how long or quick it takes for him to get there as long as he does.

Feeling the bulge grow underneath you excites you. Johnny groans against your lips as you kiss him and rub yourself over his member. The sound comes from somewhere deep inside him, as if it’s something he’s been containing for a long time. Your hand goes to his waist and tugs at his belt loops, then drifts closer to his belt buckle, pulling the leather and metal apart. Johnny pauses when you get off his lap and slide further down, grips your arms like he doesn’t want you to go. “Are…you sure? You don’t have to…if it’s too much—”

“I want to, Johnny.”

With your affirmative, he lets you kneel between his legs, pull his zipper apart, and trace your curious fingers over the bulge beneath the fabric of his underwear. Johnny loses his breath when you drag his underwear down, sliding it over the heated skin of his dick. His length is thick and long—even with him not being fully hard yet—and the tip glistens wet with precum. You weren’t sure what to expect, but this is much bigger than you think you might be able to handle. It makes your face warm and your stomach do another series of flips. Still, you want it and you want him, so you aren’t going to stop now.

You lean closer to press your lips against his shaft, leaving a few soft kisses behind. Johnny’s mouth parts when your mouth touches him.

Johnny gently holds the back of your head as you leave small licks over his shaft, tasting the salty skin on your tongue. He lets out a shaky breath as he watches you, his other hand brushing the side of your face.

“Just like that…” he murmurs, his voice heavy with lust as you circle your tongue around the thick, darkened tip, catching drops of his precum. He never takes his eyes off you, and this makes you feel a little exposed, but you continue with your actions. When you suck Johnny’s tip past your lips, his thighs tense under you, the thick muscle reacting beautifully to your actions on his body.

More precum drips from him, and you find the taste strangely pleasing. It makes you want more of him, of whatever he has to offer you. You wrap your hand around his shaft, though it doesn’t fit entirely around, and begin stroking him in a way you hope feels good.

Johnny’s hand slips over yours to guide your movements and show you how much pressure to apply, what pace to stroke him at. “Like this, baby…yes, that’s so good…” He showers you with praise as you get the hang of it, and he eventually lets your hand go so you can do it on your own, his own hand drifting back to the bed to grip the comforter.

It’s hard to quantify just how much seeing you like this turns him on, you kneeling between his legs with his cock between your lips while wearing your pretty, angelic outfit. His previous guilt about “corrupting” you descends to the very back of his mind as he savors every moment of your hands on his cock and your tongue circling his slit.

“I’m close,” he whispers. You quicken your movements on him, hollowing your cheeks tighter around his dick, and the moan he gives shoots straight between your legs.

Johnny carefully pulls your head back so you won’t choke before he comes, streams of his seed shooting into your mouth and running down his cock. Your hand still squeezes around him as he comes, and he slowly thrusts into the tight circle of your fist as you milk every drop from him. By the time he’s spent, your mouth and hand and part of the sheets are completely sticky with his release. You imagine it must have been a long time since he’s last had an orgasm.

The vampire watches intently as you swallow his cum, which causes his softening dick to throb in your hand. He takes your face in his hands and kisses you deeply, uncaring of the taste of himself in your mouth. His hair tickles your face as he kisses you feverishly, his nose bumping yours and his tongue prodding past your lips.

“Come here, angel.” Johnny pulls your body up onto the bed before you can get yourself up there first. The pet name makes warmth flood through your body, like drinking a hot chocolate at the café, except a thousand times more satisfying. Johnny’s hands are once again caressing your thighs, though this time they slide up underneath your dress and squeeze your hips. “Can I take these pretty panties off you?”

“Please.”

He hooks his fingers into the sides of them and pulls them down your legs and past your ankles. One of his hands goes underneath your dress to feel you soft and wet against his fingers, and you both moan at the same time. He slides his digits through your lips and over your clit, and him leaning forward to bring his mouth to your throat is enough to have you nearly overwhelmed. His fingers tease your entrance but don’t push inside until you nearly have to beg him.

“Please, Johnny…” You push your hips up to get his attention.

“Do you want my fingers?” he asks softly.

“Y-yes…” At your words, he eases the middle one into you, slowly enough to avoid discomfort. It feels strange to have someone else’s fingers inside you. His finger reaches further than yours can, touching you more deeply than you’ve felt before; it makes you gasp a bit too sharply.

“Are you hurt?” he asks, freezing and thinking he might’ve done something wrong.

“N-no, I’m fine. Keep going.”

Johnny’s mouth edges closer to the cleavage of your dress as he starts thrusting his finger into you, warming you up enough to take a second digit. Shakily, you bring your hands up to slide the straps down and make it easier for him, and his breath hitches when you pull the top of your dress down.

His mouth envelopes one of your nipples as he slides the second finger into you. His fingers encounter a part of you that makes you moan unexpectedly and grab onto him, a little surprised at the sudden spike of pleasure.

“You’re so pretty,” he purrs, his lips moving against the curve of your breast as he speaks. “And so responsive.”

As Johnny’s mouth and fingers work you closer to an orgasm, you marvel at how handsome he looks and how good he feels. He opens his eyes to see you staring at him, your pupils wide and mouth desperate, and he separates himself from your chest to kiss you deeply once again.

When you come around his fingers, Johnny whispers more compliments to you about how good you are and how he wants to watch you come undone because of him all the time. When he thinks you might be on the brink of overstimulation, he takes his fingers out of you, slipping them into his mouth to taste you.

“I’ll take this off now. Is that okay?” He whispers this into your ear with his hands on either side of your hips, caressing the fabric of your dress.

“I-it’s okay.”

Johnny slips your dress off, leaving you in nothing but your white sheer stockings. The sight of you sitting there on his bed, breathing heavily from your climax in your pretty thigh-highs, has his cock throbbing and rising to life once again.

“Lay back on the bed.” You do, and he settles himself between your legs like you did for him earlier. When you glance at him, his eyes are heavy and piercing. In this moment, you are acutely reminded of the fact that he is not a human, with how he looks like a beast of prey about to devour a meal. You are too nervous to look back at him for long, so you stare at the ceiling with your legs shaking from anticipation.

Johnny’s mouth on you is almost jarring in how wet it is, and you arch up into him in surprise and a rush of pleasure. He gently presses your legs back onto the bed and continues licking into you, parting your lower lips with his tongue and making your thighs tremble under his grasp.

If you had to describe it in words, you probably wouldn’t be able to. He kisses your pussy the same way he kisses you on the mouth, passionately and with more than enough tongue to satisfy. Johnny slips his fingers into you again as he curls his lips around your clit, and you moan unabashedly.

You’re quickly spiraling towards another orgasm, maybe quicker than you expected; but it makes sense with you still being so raw from the climax you just had. You gain enough courage to give another glance down at Johnny, and you see the way his other arm moves back and forth from beneath the bed, stroking himself while he eats you out. Something about that pushes you over the edge, and you cry out as you come on his tongue.

As Johnny gives you time to calm down again, he stands and finally pulls his clothes off, baring his body to you. You’re not sure if you’ve ever seen a man so beautiful.

He goes to get a condom, and your words stumble from your lips before you can psych yourself out of saying them. “I-I’m on birth control.” Johnny looks back at you, his gaze filled with something you can’t quite read. He comes closer to you, holding himself above you on the bed so his face is hovering just above yours.

“You want to feel me raw?” he whispers.

You nod under his burning stare, feeling like you’re on a high you won’t be able to get off of. “I need you, Johnny.”

Johnny climbs fully onto the bed then and positions himself between your legs. His cock is thick and heavy between his thighs as it bumps against your inner thigh and leaves a smear of precum behind. After putting some lube in his hand, he slicks himself with the sticky substance, preparing himself to fuck you open. Something deep in your abdomen shudders, and your walls clench around nothing as you watch him stroke his shaft, the squelching, wet sound of his hand on his dick loud in the quiet room.

When he’s done, he grabs your thighs and pulls you a little closer to him. “If it hurts, tell me, okay?”

“O-okay.”

The slick tip prodding at your hole makes you want more, though you are a bit afraid of how this is going to feel. When it finally pushes inside of you, you gasp. Johnny watches your face for signs of pain as he slides forward further.

With two previous orgasms and the lube to help, his cock stretches you open with some discomfort, but not the kind of sharp pain you expected. Your nails leave little half-moon shapes on Johnny’s biceps as you squeeze his arms and try to keep your lower half relaxed, wanting to take all of him in—or as much as you can manage, anyway. You try to keep your breathing even as he pushes into you slowly.

Your eyebrows crease and your mouth tightens when he slides deeper still, and he pauses. “Johnny…” You worry your lip with your teeth, feeling like you’ve been stuffed to the brim—and he’s not even all the way in yet.

“Do you want me to stop?”

“No,” you beg, maintaining your grip on his arms. “Just…try moving.”

Johnny pulls out and slowly thrusts back in again, angling his dick to find that sensitive spot within you. Your mouth falls open silently when he does; this feels much, much different from his fingers. This is better.

Johnny repeats the movement, being mindful not to push himself too deep—only enough for you to handle. Beneath him, your body begins unwinding at the pleasure he’s delivering to you, and your eyes flutter closed as the ecstasy takes over your mind. One of his hands goes to tease your clit as he settles into a good rhythm, and you cry out at the extra dose of pleasure.

“You’re taking me so well,” Johnny mumbles as he sits back and watches himself slide into you, both of your lower halves slick from lube and your own wetness. “So warm and wet, angel…” You can tell he’s using a lot of his energy to keep his pace controlled and gentle enough for you to actually enjoy. The idea of being fucked harder makes you ache deep inside, but you figure it’s best to save that for when you’re more used to this. You already know it’ll be difficult to walk in the morning after this.

Johnny leans forward to kiss your lips, changing the angle again and circling his pelvis into you, and a choked gasp escapes your mouth at the slow wind of his hips.

Johnny lavishes your neck and throat with kisses, and though he is a vampire, you aren’t worried about him biting you. His fangs have not made an appearance since all this started, and you doubt if he would ever bring them out in front of you. You don’t know if you should ask about it, either, wondering if it’s too soon after only a month and a half of knowing each other—but maybe you could say the same about him being inside of you right now.

“Johnny…” you whisper into the air, your fingers scrabbling against his sweaty skin. The mounting tension in your abdomen is close to snapping, and you are almost frightened by how intense it already feels. He moves his face from your neck to be face-to-face with you again and plants a heavy, dizzying kiss on your lips.

“It’s okay,” he murmurs against your kiss-swollen lips. “I’ve got you, Y/N.”

Falling apart in Johnny’s arms feels like a form of Heaven that’s meant to be kept hidden, because you might become addicted to it otherwise. Your inner muscles squeeze around his dick as you come. His name flows from your lips in a high song. You can’t imagine any physical sensation that could be better than this, his hips rocking into you as you tighten and cream around him, and you know innately that Johnny has ruined all chances of you ever feeling this fulfilled with anyone but him.

The constant pulse of your walls against his dick is too much to withstand for long, and Johnny’s muscles pull taut with pleasure when he comes, groaning into your neck and spilling overflowing streams of thick cum into you. His hips falter in their former rhythm, and he resists the urge to push himself as deep as he can into you.

When he pulls out, you whine from the discomfort of it, but also because you wish he could stay in you forever. You know you’ll be sore when you wake up—and you can already feel the very beginnings of exhaustion and ache settling in your body—but you’d do it a hundred times over without changing a thing.

—

Johnny curls himself around you after he’s cleaned the both of you up, as if he means to shield you from the world. You’re quiet for a while as you listen to his slow-beating heart and feel his cool skin against yours.

You look up at his face, which is hard to see distinctly in the dark of the room. With the lamp turned out, the only source of light comes from the moon now, but you can decipher enough to make out the shape of his lips and his glittering eyes. You know he can see much better than you in this light, and he takes his time tracing his fingers across your face and cheek, studying your features.

“Would you ever…make me a vampire?”

His body tenses at your question. “Don’t say anything ridiculous. You still have a whole life ahead of you to live. What I have here...this is no existence.” He’s not mad, at least not at you, but his voice hardens at the very idea of it.

“But what if I wanted to live it with you?”

Johnny takes a breath, but he doesn’t say anything to that. He just continues stroking your face and looks at you for a long time, like he’s searching for something. You don’t know if you truly expected an answer from him, or how you would feel if he did give one.

Eventually, your eyes begin to fall low, and sleep overcomes you. The last thing you register is Johnny’s chilly hand touching your cheek. When he notices you’ve drifted off, he pulls the covers tighter around you both. Then he presses you to his chest as he tunes out the sound of cars rumbling on the streets below in exchange for the beating of your heart—still alive, so red with blood.

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tearblossom · 3 years

Text

Orbital Station Scene Analysis: Part 3

Lmao here we go again. Ready to fall even deeper down the rabbit hole that is this scene with me!? This one scene functions simultaneously as my source of joy and depression and I watch it more than I would care to admit. So, naturally, I have even more to say about it! It’s going to be long. Sorry.

Part 1- https://tearblossom.tumblr.com/post/645095661644251136/scene-analysis-this-is-just-what-i-personally-feel

Part 2- https://tearblossom.tumblr.com/post/645776311115186176/i-was-thinking-some-more-about-the-final-scene

In this one, I’ll be going into more detail explaining the emotional mask that I believe Takemura is trying so desperately to keep on during this scene (and undeniably fails at several times, with it coming off entirely upon the scene reaching a certain pivotal moment) and also pointing out the instances that I feel the mask slips occur. Honestly, it’s pretty easy to tell for reasons that I will explain. I’m going to reiterate the fact that I am not a facial expression/body language expert. This is just one human being looking at another human being and trying to figure them out. This is just my personal interpretation of this scene. Prepare yourself for many, many screenshots and gifs. Also, I will be using the same video sources as the other two posts because I don’t have my own footage.

https://youtu.be/ra-Ij1KU8r4

https://youtu.be/PUmQqVOq5oY

I failed to mention before the reason that Takemura even had to put up the cruel facade in the first place because I didn’t want to state the obvious and insult everyone’s intelligence. We all know the reason but I’ll just say it here anyway: Arasaka.

Arasaka is listening to Takemura’s every word so he literally cannot say shit to V that would hint at any sort of affection for him/her and absolutely nothing that would indicate any growing uncertainty in said corporation. Words mean nothing here. He has to speak through his eyes and expressions because that is all he has to offer, the only cards he has to play. That is why the meaning of this scene can be so easily missed and flies over so many people’s heads. I do not fault anyone that may have missed this on a first playthrough or even those that are still unaware of it whatsoever because Takemura is very, very convincing at first (his face becomes an open book once the contract gets brought out but we’ll get into that later) and besides, to truly understand something that involves emotions as complex as these caused by equally as complex reasons or anything involving subtext really, takes multiple viewings to truly appreciate.

In summary, what I believe is happening here is that during the entire scene up until the contract gets brought out, his mental state is constantly teetering on the edge of a cliff so to speak. He is trying so hard to fight his sentimentality and control his emotional responses not only to V’s misery and pain but also his own wavering faith in Arasaka because they are watching, listening, and monitoring. And he succeeds extremely well at first but it gets harder and harder for him to maintain the mask. The closer he physically gets to V, the harder it is to pretend, to hide. His eyes alone betray him on several occasions but eventually the whole facade just crumbles and he falls. And when the contract comes into play is when he truly, honestly looks at V and the communication through his eyes really begins.

Here is the key thing- it is the most important visual clue to understanding when things happen: When Takemura is feeling any doubt or his emotions begin to overwhelm him or he fears that they might, he promptly averts his eyes to get himself under control and readjusts the mask that has slipped.

He looks away from V during these moments!

(Just to clarify, I don’t think that every single moment in the scene that he looks away from V has this deeper meaning behind it. When people talk it’s completely natural for them to turn their heads, avert their eyes to look at other things, etc. These are just some moments that particularly stood out to me as signs pointing to my little theory.)

Okay...let’s start deciphering this conflicted, broken mess of a man.

Scene starts. Takemura is fiddling with the Rubik’s Cube. He puts it down. Expression cold as ice.

mask on full display in all of it’s glory

They talk about Saburo being back in the body of his son and have this exchange of words:

V: “Saw Saburo Arasaka’s back. In Yorinobu’s body.”

Goro: “Yes. Justice has been done.”

And then it happens for the first time...

(Could this be...doubt perhaps? Has justice really been done?)

Moving on- he walks over to stand behind the chair across from V, telling them of their imminent death.

Goro: “I will be blunt - the surgery did not help. You will be dead before winter.”

And then he proceeds to make this face immediately after...

(Lovely, isn’t it? Just full of sympathy. His mask game is strong. But don’t worry though because V wins in the end BIG TIME.)

Understandably, V gets very upset upon hearing this news.

V: “How... how’s that possible? Arasaka’s got the best and the brightest.”

And then something happens again. Whatever could it be, I wonder!

But wait, there’s more!

(He couldn’t even wait until he finished talking before looking away! It’s getting more difficult for him to look at V with a straight face every second! Also, his expression here is the most broken looking yet.) :(

He must not reveal what is hidden behind this emotional wall that he’s worked so hard to build up specifically for this meeting because the room they are speaking in may just as well be made of glass with Arasaka’s unrelenting gaze, an ever-present entity, on the other side of it. He will do so soon though, when he offers V salvation. The contract raises the stakes. The rules change. He feels the wall breaking and there isn’t anything he can do about it and he knows it.

IT’S CHAIR TIME, CHOOMS!

He looks away another 6 TIMES! Leaning more and more over that edge. Feast your eyes...

IT’S CONTRACT TIME, BABY!

Oh, shit!

It’s happening!!

He does look away here but there’s no mask on when he looks back...only despair.

It’s gone.

TO SIGN OR NOT TO SIGN

The disguise is off now. From this point onward, Takemura looks at V with his true feelings on display. This is where the ability to read the emotion portrayed solely through one’s eyes really comes into play because even though he’s not trying to hide anything anymore, he still can’t say what he really wants to say. We have to feel it through his expressions. His thoughts are so loud during these final moments of the scene that we don’t even need words to know what he’s saying.

REFUSE TO SIGN

SIGN

HOLY GRAIL MOMENT!

(I’m literally going to copy and paste what I have in my part 2 analysis about this section because I explained my thoughts on it about as well as I am able to there and have nothing else to add. My apologies for repeating myself but I feel the exact same way about it so it still applies here.)

These reactions make perfect sense because we’ve always known that he cares deeply for V and never stopped. He just couldn’t hide it! But even with this treasure trove of emotional mask slips and unintentional displays of affection, I still wasn’t sure exactly how deeply he cared for V. In other words- if he was actually in love with V or not.

Is he already in love or is he still in the process of falling in love? Is it just a friendly love? (hell no! I knew that was definitely not the case but I still had to ask just so I could cross it off the list!)

And then the two of them walked to the door and said their parting words.

V: “Gonna see each other again?”

Goro: “I believe we will.”

V: “So… see you.”

Goro: “Visit me in Kagawa - I will show you what is real food.”

And then…

he proceeded to make these faces…

HOLY

SHIT!

(The mask isn’t just gone now- it’s burned, splintered, shattered, exploded in a million pieces, disintegrated!)

This man just had the biggest revelation of his entire life: the realization that he is in love with V. These are looks of love and I will not be convinced otherwise. I’m not a facial expression expert or anything, only stating my humble opinions here, but are you seeing this!?

He realizes the truth and it catches him so off guard that he has to look away. He contemplates these newfound feelings and tries to sort them out in the few seconds that he has left with V. And he does. He accepts them. He welcomes them. The gentle, knowing look he gives V when he looks back at them is saying just this.

He also knows that he is now fucked because his love for V is going to complicate things so much more than they already were. Now that he is fully aware that he is in love, these feelings are going to directly conflict with his duties to Arasaka later if a situation arises that places V and Arasaka on opposing sides and I think we all know that is most definitely going to happen at some point.

And now he has to see the love of his life die and just leave this place and go on with his day. Damn. This is turning into one of the saddest love stories I’ve ever seen. Something major is going to happen in the dlc that is going to force his hand one way or another: V or Arasaka? I hope that Arasaka somehow fucks up so bad that it makes his choice easier but my heart breaks imagining the amount of conflict and torment that await him.

The Beginning and The End

#cyberpunk 2077 #goro takemura #takemura #takemura romance

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geniusgub · 3 years

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north//chapter thirteen

genre: angst

pairing: season twelve spencer reid x female oc

warnings: prison arc, blood, implications of being drugged, self harm under implications of being drugged, physical violence, mentions of abuse (lmk if i missed anyting)

word count: 8.2k

summary: spencer’s post-mexico hardships continue on, and get much worse, while amelia has a concerning experience in her own apartment

i hope u all like this chapter! enjoy!! like, comment, and reblog!! reblogging helps so much❤️

SPENCER

The feeling of abandonment is one that I'm far too familiar with. I hadn't expected to be completely abandoned by the FBI and to not have their support in this battle. I know that I have the support of my team and of Amelia, but when the FBI says that they won't support me and help me stay out of jail or prison, it's disheartening. It’s crushing. It leaves me feeling cold as I sit against a cinderblock wall.

Sitting in jail is boring. It is, by far, the most boring thing I've ever done in my life. I sit and stare at the wall all day while I regret my decisions and listen to the detainees around me scream and shout. The team individually comes by the visit but it's only for a short amount of time because they're working so hard. They're working on my case at the same time they're working on other cases that they would normally take and I know that they can't come to entertain me. I fully understand why, but I wish it didn’t have to be this way. I wish I could be home.

But Amelia never comes. I told her not to come. She doesn't need to see me like this. She has seen enough. I'm a completely broken mess, rotting away in a jail cell and I don't need her crying over me or providing more content for her nightmares. I asked Emily to relay this message to her and I was told she cried and didn't speak to anyone for a few hours. She's been staying in a BAU interview room and will only go home for a few hours every few days, and I don't blame her. If the roles were reversed, I wouldn't want to go home. But it breaks my heart to know how much Amelia is hurting without me and that I can't help her. I choose to pretend like she doesn’t exist so I won’t think about her. I pretend like I’m living the way I was before I met her. Alone, work-obsessed, with nobody but myself to confide in. It’s easy to forget her during the day when there’s a stream of sunlight flooding in from the tiny window to my right. But then I lay down at night and reach for her waist, or wait to feel her hand on my cheek, or crane my neck to kiss her, I crash back down to earth and remember that I can’t be with the woman I love because of my idiotic decisions.

Emily manages to get me in touch with an old friend hers who is willing to be my lawyer, a wonderful woman named Fiona. She's blunt and she knows what she's talking about and I appreciate that. And now that I have representation, we can move onto the trial and maybe I can go home. I try to absorb some of Amelia’s optimism and stay hopeful that I’ll be released on bail, but my own nasty pessimism rears its ugly head and pulverizes any sign of hope.

Fiona wants me to plead guilty to a crime I didn't commit. I'll only get two to five years as opposed to twenty-five to life, but how could I plead guilty? My memories may be blurry for the first time ever but I know I would never kill that woman. That medicine she was providing me with helping my mom. Why would I kill her? There was another person in that motel room and if my brain would just cooperate and just confirm that it was Scratch, this could all be over.

If I plead guilty then Fiona says I can be released on bail pending trial. Rossi said he would be willing to post my bail, no matter the cost. I'm grateful for him and his generosity but as I spend my time sitting and staring at the wall and the ceiling and the concrete and the mold, the more I don't want to plead guilty. I want to fight this. I have complete faith in my team and their abilities to find Scratch. We found him once and we'll find him again.

"I'm gonna fight it."

That's what I tell Fiona. Being the supportive lawyer she is, she nods and goes on her way, but she comes back far too soon. She doesn't return with a suit for my trial or a date for my trial or handcuffs so I can be transported to my trial. She comes back with Emily.

"Spencer," Fiona sighs, "the Mexican authorities found the murder weapon in the desert. The theory is that you threw it out the window in the car chase. The previous offer you didn't want is off the table. The new offer is to plead guilty to involuntary manslaughter and get five to ten years."

"Gosh," Emily breathes, hanging her head. "There's nothing you can do?"

"Your DNA is on it and the blade matches the blade that cut your hand," Fiona explains. "Spencer, if you don't take this offer, there will be no more offers. And if you lose your trial, you're going to prison. I need to know what you're going to do."

"I'm-"

"Spencer," Emily cuts me off. "Can we talk privately?"

Fiona nods and collects her things, leaving the room and Emily takes her spot. As soon as the door is closed, I shake my head at Emily. "I can't plead guilty to something I didn't do."

"You could do life in prison," she whispers, and I can see her eyes start to tear up. I ignore them.

"You guys will find Scratch. I know you will." I nod stubbornly, falsely confident.

"Yes, we will. We will never stop looking for him. But what if we can do that this month? Or this year? Or this-" she shutters, "decade? Because we sure as hell can't do it before your trial."

I look down at my hands, observing the bandages over my hand. It stings and burns constantly and I wish it would go away. "How's Amelia? Is she still staying at the BAU?"

"Mostly," Emily responds. "Her friend- Jenna, I think- has come by a bunch to take her home and back. She's stayed at Jenna's a few times but she stays mostly in the interview rooms and in Garcia's room. She's, um, well, she's mad at you, Reid."

I scoff out a laugh, rolling my eyes. "Because I won't let her come here?"

"Exactly," there's no humor in her voice. "She just wants to see you. She wants to see that you're okay and it might help you feel better to see her and talk to her a bit. You can talk out decisions like this with her. She's your girlfriend and you were planning on moving in with her and JJ told us you were supposed to go buy an engagement ring for her. She deserves to be involved in this and not at the BAU, suffering and crying and having panic attacks-"

"She's having panic attacks?" My eyes widen, my back straightening up as the red flags start popping up in my head. Is she okay? Have her attacks been so bad that they have warranted a hospital trip? How is her breathing? Has she gone nonverbal? "Wha- is she-"

"Yeah, she’s had some. She obviously had that one with JJ and Garcia and she had one on Monday and she couldn’t speak for an hour.”

"She usually goes nonverbal," I murmur, bringing my hands to my face and trying to avoid biting my nails out of nervousness. "Okay, okay, don't ever touch her until she can speak again. Keep a really calm and low voice and don't freak out because that makes it worse. Get her head between her knees and keep her sitting and get her water and-"

"Spencer, I know how to help a panic attack. We need to be talking about your trial," Emily protests.

"And after her attacks, she usually needs physical attention and she needs comfort and sometimes-"

"You're gonna go to prison, Reid!" Emily shouts, effectively shutting me up. "It's scary to accept but we have to talk about it! You could go to prison for a very long time if you don't accept this deal! Stop talking about your girlfriend’s panic attacks and talk about the situation at hand."

My face hardens and I drop my hands again, sighing. "I can't plead guilty. I just can't."

It's the answer she should have expected, and I'm sure she knew it was coming. Before I even finished, she was out of her seat and banging on the door for a guard to take her away. And yet again I'm left to myself and my thoughts, playing the blurry images over and over again, trying to make out faces and events and names. But there's nothing and I'm left to wonder if I'm going to die in a prison cell.

///

AMELIA

///

My dress has bunched up around my thighs but I can't find it in me to pull it down, even in a courthouse. My legs are full of goosebumps from the air conditioning and my denim jacket isn't doing much to help. I stare down at my lap, my hands resting there with Spencer's medallion between my fingers. The empty space on my hand between my pointer finger and thumb looks too empty and it makes my heart beat faster. I look from the medallion to my hand and back, and I suddenly want to rush out of this goddamn courthouse.

"Amelia," I hear Penelope's voice coming closer, and when I look up, the whole team is approaching.

"Hi," I smile weakly, standing and finally adjusting the hem of my dress. "You guys made it. How was the case?"

"Did they call Reid's case yet?" Luke asks, ignoring my formality question about the case.

"No, but they're about to," I shake my head, gesturing to an open door a few feet away.

They all start walking that way, but I don't follow. I make the decision to choose the horrible wooden bench over the even worse pew-like benches in the court. I had been so upset about not seeing Spencer, but maybe it was a blessing in disguise. Now that I'm faced with the idea of seeing him, I don't want to. I don't want to see him in handcuffs again, or sleep-deprived, or being told off by a judge or prosecutor. I know the BAU has virtually no evidence to support Spencer and that the judge isn't going to rule in his favor. I know that, the pessimist in me knows that. I don't need to see that.

"Amelia?" Dave is standing in front of me and I know it's him from his expensive looking shoes. "You're not coming in?"

"No, I don't need to-" I choke on my words, clutching the medallion in my hand, "to see this happen. I don't want to hear it."

"This doesn't have anything to do with the fact that you're not on Spencer's approved visitor’s list?"

"Maybe," It's taken me two years to learn not to lie to a profiler. "I don't know. But I don't want to see him, Dave. Please go. I'll be here."

I don't even need to ask. The look on their faces tells me everything. The way everyone holds themselves when they walk out and the way they glance around tells me what I need to know. Nobody looks up at me and nobody is running to me for a hug. Spencer isn’t at my side.

I chew on my cheeks and choke down my tears as I stand, meeting them in the middle of the hallway when they walk toward me. "So how bad was it?"

Stephen is the first fearless one to speak up. "The judge decided he was a flight risk,"

I furrow my eyebrows. "A flight risk? Seriously? My Spencer?"

Tara nods shamefully. "He didn't use his FBI passport, he didn't inform the bureau, the prosecutor claimed he had connections all over the world and could get a fake passport and go on the run if he was released on bail. The judge agreed."

"So what now? What happens to him?" Penelope moves towards me and grabs onto my hand, enlacing our fingers. If she didn’t do that, I might have fallen to the floor in a puddle of tears.

"He's gonna go back to the federal jail," Luke answers. "His trial is in three months and that'll determine if he goes to prison or not."

"Penelope?" I whisper and she just hums in response. "Will you come with me?"

"Of course. Whatever you need," Penelope nods, giving everyone a soft, slightly concerned smile before I lead her away.

///

"Um, seriously?"

"Yeah."

"Now?"

"Yeah, now."

"You or me?"

"Me. Why, do you want one? I'll draw whatever you want."

"No thanks."

I pull open the door and let Penelope walk in first, even though she seems incredibly hesitant, practically tiptoeing through the threshold. She manages to get me to crack a tiny smile, but that's the most she gets before I just revert to my sadness.

"Zav!" I call, noticing the front desk is empty. Nonetheless, I walk up and grab a post-it and a pen, starting to scribble little drawings.

Zav comes wandering from the back of the tattoo parlor at the sound of my voice, smiling. "Oh, hey there! Been a while since I've seen you. Here for some new ink? It's about time you added to your sleeves."

"Just something really quick," I tell him, picking up the post-it with the sixth design I'd drawn. "Not on my arm. On my hand, right here," I gesture to the empty space between my thumb and pointer finger.

"Sounds easy enough," Zav nods, then smiles at Penelope. "Hi, friend. Do I get the pleasure of inking you today?"

Penelope's eyes widen and she hastily shakes her head. "No, no, I'm just here with-- with-"

"No tattoos for her, just me." I save her from more stuttering and Zav puts his hands up in surrender. He winks at Penelope before sitting me in a chair and starting on the stencil.

“So,” Garcia asks over the buzzing of the tattoo gun, “what does this one mean? You've said that all your tattoos mean something. What's this one? And why is it so important that we do it now, after the trial?"

Careful not to disturb Zav's work, I reach into my pocket and pull out Spencer's medallion. I hold it up and show Penelope the compass, and she nods in a confused understanding. "When Spencer was in recovery, he was always told that north is the right way to go and obviously, going the right way is the road to recovery and being clean. Well, he told me that ever since he met me, he considered me to be his north or his reason to go north. I've been wanting this tattoo for a long time. Just never got around to getting it."

"That's really sweet," Penelope whispers, smiling at me. "How much pain are you in?"

"A lot," I answer through gritted teeth. "This one is right on my bone and those are the worst, but it's small so it's fine. It'll be done soon."

As anticipated, the tattoo is done within another few minutes. A compass rose with north labeled. Simple. But it’s beautiful and it’s the perfect reminder of Spencer while he’s gone. Temporarily gone. He’s going to come home. Soon.

He's going to jail. He's going to be sitting in jail for three months and I won't be able to see him, and then after that, he still might go to prison. No matter how much he reminds himself that I'm his north, and no matter how much time I spend at the BAU, no matter how many of his shirts I wear, no matter how many times I visit Diana and Cassie, it means absolutely nothing. The justice system is horrible and I know they have a job to do but why can't they see that my Spencer is innocent? Sure, he broke some protocol but all he was doing was trying to help his mom. It's not his fault that a serial killer was targeting the team and decided to sabotage his trip. He should be at home on bail and he should be searching for Scratch so his name can be cleared.

"Amelia?" Penelope's voice breaks me out of my trance and I notice that Zav has already walked away, probably to the front desk to ring me up. She rests her hand on my shoulder and gives me that same pitiful smile that everyone keeps giving me. "We're gonna get him out. We know he didn't do this."

"I miss him," I admit shakily, eyes locked on my new ink. "I know that I spend all my time at the BAU but everything reminds me of him. When I go home with Jenna, we pass by the cafe that me and him went to almost every day. Whenever I see someone carrying a revolver on tv or in the building, it makes me think of his gun. God, P, whenever I braid my hair, it makes me think of him. I functioned before I met him but with him, I was living and actually enjoying my life for the first time. But now that he's gone again," I look up at her, my lips quivering, "how am I supposed to live?"

Penelope opens her mouth to answer but then closes it again. She drags me into a hug, tighter than any hug we’ve had before. I let her squeeze the life out of me because it’s the only thing that feels similar to the way Spencer scoops me up and hugs me after being away on a case. "I wish I had a good answer. We're all hurting and we're all trying to get through this. As long as we lean on each other and you leave the crime fighting up to us, we'll get through this."

///

I stir awake, bundled up beneath a scratchy, knitted blanket and my head resting on a flat pillow. A yawn escapes my mouth before I even open my eyes, my body begging me to go back to sleep. I blatantly ignore it though, swinging my legs over the side of the couch and yawning again.

"Good morning, sunshine," Jenna comes wandering into her living room, holding out a cup of tea for me, "sleep well?"

I shake my head, sipping the not-well-made tea. "No,” I keep myself from scrunching up my nose at the odd taste, “I didn’t.”

Jenna gives me a tiny smile as she sits on the couch beside me. "Maybe you should try melatonin. I heard you watching tv at three in the morning." When I don't respond to her really smart and helpful suggestion, she moves on. "How's the tattoo?"

"Itchy," I glance at the covering of my tattoo, then shrug. "It's whatever. I'm used to it. What are you doing today?"

"Well, me and Frankie were gonna go do a shoot today. You should come. You haven't done any shoots in a while. I'm sure Frankie would love your help," Jenna encourages softly.

I shake my head yet again and take the last drink of my tea, then put the mug on the floor. "Thanks but no thanks. I'm gonna go to the BAU today. But I'm gonna shower first. I'll let you know what I'm doing tonight. Thanks for letting me stay here." And without another word, I stand and walk off to the too-bright bathroom.

Going into the BAU used to always be a fun experience. I looked forward to seeing Penelope and lounging around in her lair, and I looked forward to leaving little gifts for Spencer on his desk, and I looked forward to greeting the team when they arrived home from cases. The BAU quickly became like a second home to me when I started dating Spencer and I went there at every chance I could. But now the BAU is a reminder of the situation at hand, and despite the fact that I'm spending so much time here, I wish I didn't have to. The constant reminder is painful. Seeing Spencer’s desk and all of his belongings arranged in the perfect way he needs them to be is maybe the hardest part. Every time I look through the glass doors, my heart breaks a little more.

I've come to learn that seeing the team huddled up and speaking in hushed tones is never a good thing. But it's the first thing I see when the elevator doors open. My eyes are locked on them before I even open the glass doors to the bullpen. Penelope's eyes are wide and she's clinging to Luke's side and everyone is just looking concerned. That's never a good sign. They are federal agents and have seen the worst of the worst. They should be able to have some kind of poker face, no matter the situation.

JJ is the first to notice me, and when she looks up, she almost grimaces. "Amelia."

Okay. They didn't get a case. This is about Spencer. Something happened with Spencer. Did he get beat up in jail? Did they find more evidence? If they found more evidence, then it's surely not in Spencer's favor. What did they find? What are they hesitant to tell me? Why does everyone look like they’ll burst into tears if I say one wrong word? What the hell happened?

I keep a few feet between me and them, clutching the straps of my backpack, my breath caught in my throat. "What's going on?" I ask, my voice quieter than I expected it to be. "Is Spencer okay?"

The team shares glances and Penelope bows her head, and all the horrible thoughts in my head intensify. Emily clears her throat and my eyes dart over to her. "Spencer," she speaks strongly and confidently, "was transferred to prison this morning."

Spencer likes to put a mountain of sugar in his coffee. Spencer can only fall asleep if he’s read at least two books while lying in bed. And, of course, only after he has received what he deems as a sufficient amount of kisses from me. Spencer prefers to take the train to work instead of driving. Spencer likes to hold my hand when we walk the street. Spencer orders swirled soft serve at every ice cream parlor. Spencer wears purple whenever he gets the chance.

Spencer doesn't fight. Spencer isn't violent. Spencer isn't a criminal. Spencer hates shooting his gun and he wouldn’t even walk around with it on his hip until I told him it didn't bother me. Spencer doesn't resort to violence to solve his problems. He’s the one who puts the violent people where they deserve. Those killers and rapists deserve to be in prison. Not the man who thinks it’s bad luck to wear matching socks. Definitely not the man who mumbles my name in his sleep and whines if he reaches over and I’m not sleeping beside him.

My Spencer doesn't belong in prison.

I'm stunned into silence for a moment and it's almost like I'm waiting for someone to tell me this is a joke. Spencer's not in prison with the worst of the worst. That he's not with the people that he has spent his life hunting and putting away. He isn’t locked inside with people who could be sentenced to life in prison, or in a cell people who will kill him just to have a new pair of shoes, or people who have nothing left to lose.

"He's-" I gulp but my saliva tastes sour and it burns my throat, "he's in prison?"

"There was overcrowding in the jail," Tara explains softly. "I know it's not ideal but-"

"He's-" I cut her off, my voice sharp, "he's in prison? He's in prison with the same people that you guys put away and he's-" my hands fall from my backpack and tears start to fall down cheeks, my eyes darting around until they land on Rossi. "He's with people like my-"

"Why don't you come with me?" Dave cuts me off, stepping forward, holding his arm out for me.

As I break down into sobs, he leads me into his office, sitting me down on a couch as he closes the door. I curl up into myself and cry, and cry, and cry for my boyfriend who is suffering immensely for a crime he didn't commit. He's locked inside a cage with horrible people like my father and he can't escape.

"Amelia, we're gonna get him out," Dave pulls up a chair in front of me, letting out a sigh that doesn't do much to convince me. "We're spending every second we can on his case and searching for evidence that will-"

"He's gonna be in a fucking prison," I sneer, lifting my head, revealing my smudging makeup and tear-stained cheeks, "with people like my father!" Dave sighs again, ducking his head. He doesn't say anything and I don't know what to make of that. "He's gonna be with killers and rapists and abusers and men who kill their wife and son and leave their orphaned daughter to be abused in foster homes!"

"Amelia, I don't know if this will help you at all but, just so you know, serial killers are not held in general population. Serial killers have their own specific wings and they don't get mixed up with the other inmates."

I scoff, staring down at my lap, watching as my tears drip onto my clothes. "Inmates. I guess that's all he is now, right? An inmate?"

"No, Amelia, he's not just another inmate," Dave shakes his head and leans forward, trying to offer me comfort by proximity, but it just makes me feel cramped and overwhelmed. "We're going to get him out of there. I promise."

His promise only makes me cry more. I'd do anything to hear Spencer make another promise to me. I'd do anything just to see him again, but Spencer didn't want me in a jail and I can't imagine he'd want me in a prison. I won't be able to see him, or hear him, or feel him until he gets exonerated. That's going to take days, weeks, months. It could take years. Could go years without seeing his smile and feeling his touch and listening to him ramble on and on about whatever random factoid surfaces in his brain.

"You should go back to work," I whisper, wiping my cheeks. "Sitting here and watching me cry doesn't help anyone. I'll go somewhere else and worry by myself."

I stand and adjust my backpack, but the whole world just seems wrong. It seems like it's spinning and it feels like I just don't belong here. It feels like I've slipped into a different dimension that I don't belong in. It feels like I should just be able to take a nap and wake up and Spencer will be right next to me, kissing my neck and telling me he has to go to work. I'm waiting for the day that I can experience that again.

///

SPENCER

///

I never thought I'd be in prison. Maybe that's a dumb statement, but it's true. I thought my closest relation to prison would be sending criminals there, occasionally going in to interview inmates, and seldom breaking up riots and breaks. I never thought I'd be forced into blues and shower shoes and thrown into my own cell. I never thought this would become my life. I never thought I'd be sitting out on the prison yard, surveying my fellow inmates and wondering who I should avoid and who I could trust enough to keep me alive long enough for me to return home.

"Sup?" A group of three men I recognize from previously stroll up to me, their hands tucked in their pockets, and that alone makes me more nervous than their confident aura. I rise to my feet when they approach me, not out of obedience, but just because I don't want them to hold too much power over me in height. "Got any bats?"

I furrow my eyebrows in the slightest. "Bats?" Maybe I should've listened to Amelia when she rattled off her slang. Amelia.

"Cigarettes," the same guy clarifies as if it's the most obvious thing in the world, glancing towards his buddy next to him. I fight the urge to jump as the redhead slings his arm over my shoulder, standing uncomfortably close to me. If I wasn't in a prison, I'd rattle off how many germs he passed on to me just by doing that, but I know I'd get beat up for doing so. I keep my mouth shut.

"No, sorry, I don't smoke," it's my honest answer, but I almost instantly regret it. Will they kill me just because I don't have any cigarettes to give them? Is that how it works in here?

"Yeah," that same inmate keeps speaking, "I think I'm gonna quit." But then he narrows his eyes at me and takes a step closer. "You okay, man?"

"Yeah," I answer, but I know my unsure sounding voice has completely betrayed me, "I'm o-okay, thanks."

The third man chuckles and crosses his arms over his chest. "Does he look okay to you?"

The redhead leans in closer to me and it takes all my self control not to cringe. "Looks like he's gonna cry."

"Or wet his pants," the first man laughs, and the other two join in with their own chuckles. "Hey, we're just messing- out of respect, you know? It's all over the yard that you stole from Milos."

I quickly shake my head, finally gaining the confidence to shake the redhead’s arm off of me. Well, if they said they respect me, I might as well. He doesn't put up a fight when I do so. "But I didn't steal from Milos. That was my stuff."

"No," Redhead interrupts, "that was a tribute. Everyone has to pay when they join the group."

I glance between the three of them and they're all stony-faced, but I'm confused. I don't get it. What are they talking about? It's clear to them, but not to me. "What group?" I dare to ask the question.

The third man scoffs yet again. "You're kidding, right? Take a look around. They outnumber us.”

"So we gotta stick together," Redhead goes on, and it all starts to make sense. A gang. They want me to join their gang. Am I gang material? Is this a compliment? Is this some weird, sick, twisted, prison-style compliment? "In here, we're the minority."

They're serious, and it's obvious. There are no chuckles. There are no side eye glances. My profiler skills aren't going off and telling me that they're lying. They're serious. They want me to join a gang.

What would happen if I accept? Does that make me a target by the majority? Will that make the majority look at me and want to take me out? I have to survive three months, at most, in here and that's it. I have to do whatever I need to stay alive for three months, and that's it. But what if I reject them? Will that make me an even bigger target if I say no? Will they take that rejection lightly? I can't imagine they would. Which is the lesser of the two evils? Do I really want to join a gang during my three month prison stay? Would I want to join a gang at all?

"I'm not interested," I say quickly, and attempt to make a quick exit. "Thanks anyway."

Before I can even leave, they catch me. "No, no, no," the first guy shakes his head, his arm now around my shoulders, his jaw clenched, "that's not the way this is gonna go."

"Hey," the third guy interrupts, "Tony-O is over there and he's waiting for us,"

The first guy pats my chest and, thankfully, lets me go. "Okay, my man, we gotta go. But," the three start to back away with devious smiles that I've seen far too many times on psychopaths, "no worries, we'll catch you tonight."

They'll catch me tonight. That can't be good. My eyes follow them as they approach someone else, but when they start chatting like friends, I look away. But then my eyes land on someone I can't look away from because he looks familiar. I know for a fact I didn't see him in the room of cots, but I know I've seen him before.

Ever since the situation in Mexico, my brain has been a little bit slow to react and recall faces and facts, but suddenly, it comes to me. I squint my eyes as a name flashes in my head. Calvin Shaw. He was an FBI agent who killed a criminal agent who was working for a Russian mob. He turned himself in and he's been here ever since, but I studied his case in school and he's become an example at the bureau of what not to do.

He's here? At this prison? And why is he staring at me like that? Does he know who I am? Do I radiate federal agent energy? Amelia talks about people's energy's all the time. Maybe I should've listened to her. I'm realizing that maybe I should have appreciated her more than I did. If I get out of here, I need to lay down all my love for that girl as soon as possible.

The guards blow their whistles and shout for us to line up so they start the process of corralling us back inside. Some inmates are brought back to their cells while others, like me, are brought to rooms with a bunch of cots lined up.

Time takes forever to pass by in prison. There's nothing to do and there's no type of stimulation. I just sit on my bed and try to tune out the chatter surrounding me. I try my hardest not to let my mind wander off to my friends or my girlfriend or my mother because I'll go crazy if I start worrying about them. They're fine without me, I bet.

I sit on my bed with my knees to my chest and guard the box of things I'd fought to get back from another inmate, making sure they don't get stolen yet again. That decision to reclaim my things almost got me killed once and I don't feel like getting in that situation again.

It's nearly impossible to tell what time it is because there are no windows but eventually, a few guards come by to scream at us to shut up. Wilkins looks around as the room falls silent and then informs us that it’s lights out.

My heart starts to pound when the lights go dark and the guards walk away because, despite the darkness, I see three familiar men rise from their cots and stalk over to me. Like on the yard, I rise to my feet just so they don't get too much power over me. I know that I've made the right decision to do so when one man pulls out a makeshift knife he's clearly made from a bed frame or something he smuggled in. The panic and unfiltered fear settle in. My instincts tell me to run, but there is nowhere to go. I don’t have a gun to defend myself, there is no way to talk these men down like I’ve done to others in the past, there’s nothing I can do. I’m all on my own.

One guy smirks, stepping up to me. "It's party time."

The two other men quickly grab my arms and tie my wrists behind my back, then shove a sock in my mouth to keep me quiet and muffle the sounds of me screaming, just so a guard doesn't come in and interrupt. Is that good? Does that mean they're not planning on killing me? They're just going to beat me up?

They start dragging me off, into the connected bathroom and my screams echo even louder off the wall. I'm doing what I can to get out of the grasps of the men but I've never been physically strong. Maybe I should've taken the fit tests more seriously. Maybe I should've gone training when Morgan asked me to go. Maybe I should've taken my life more seriously.

"So," there's another man with a thick accent standing there already, his arms crossed over his chest, "you're too good to be with us? We offer you friendship and what do you do? Spit in our faces."

The redhead tightens his grip on my arm. "Thinks he can survive in here without our help."

"You," the man with the accent grabs the knife, "you need to show some respect," he brings the knife up to my face and traces the blade across my skin. I'm not sure what they're planning on doing to my face but I know it won't feel good.

"Do it," one guy encourages, smirking.

"Back off," there's another voice now, and the four men holding me stop in their tracks, "now." I turn my head to see who my savior is, and it's none other than Calvin Shaw. "Untie him," he says, and the guys behind me quickly do so, and take the sock out of my mouth. "Now get out of here," he tells me and gestures back into the main room. I hesitate, but Calvin gives me a pointed look. "Go on. Go."

I high tail it out of there, my heart pounding harder than it ever has before. I think it could positively burst out of my chest as I return to my cot. It dawns on me now how many people are in this room, and not a single one of them stepped up to help me. Nobody yelled for a guard or helped me fend off the gang or did anything at all.

So I sit down on my cot and I don't even lay down. I don't dare to go to sleep and I barely even blink. I'm even paranoid that, due to the position of my cot, there are people behind me that I can't see. I'm too freaked out. I'm too scared that those men will come back and kill me for real.

I've faced the scariest men and women in the world. I've witnessed things that I never should have and I've talked myself out of horrible situations. I can't escape this. I can't flash my identification or shoot a few bullets and then go home to Amelia. I can't do that. I have to spend every second of my life with my guard up, watching my back at the same time I'm watching my front and my sides just to make sure no one is coming for me. It's day one and I'm already panicked and I'm already lost. I just want to go home.

///

The next two days are like walking on eggshells. I'm constantly watching my back, front, and sides and I'm making sure to keep everyone in front of me at all times. I can't move my cot without risking a fight so I'm barely sleeping at night. I force myself to stay awake to guard myself and protect myself from any possible attacks.

I get to have a talk with Calvin at a time when the cell blocks are open, and he shows nothing but compassion for me. He believes my innocence, shares the story of his sentence, and gives me a book I've never read before. It feels good to have someone I can trust. I can tell he's powerful in this prison, judging by the way he told those gang guys to stop beating me up and they immediately complied. Sitting in his cell is the only time I allowed myself to relax in the slightest.

But that relaxation is short lived because soon the guards are telling us to get back to where we belong. We get cuffed and shoved along to our cells or wherever else, and I get back to my cot. I sit with my knees to my chest and prop my eyes wide open, despite how utterly exhausted I am. I've barely slept in the three days I've been here and I don't know how much longer I can stand this.

"Reid," my name is called by a guard along with a few other names, and we all quickly rise to our feet. "Grab your things and let’s go."

I quickly grab my little bucket of belongings that I've been guarding with my life and hold it close to my chest as I approach the guards. I'm thankful that they don't cuff us as they take us one by one into different blocks.

Wilkins, of course, is gripping my arm harder than he needs to be as he shoves me along a corridor. I keep my eyes forward and no matter how badly I want to see what prisoners I'm walking past, I don't let my eyes wander. I've already seen a guy beat someone else up on the yard just for looking at him and I'm not wanting that to be my future.

"Hold," Wilkins snaps, and I force my feet to freeze in their spot. Then I feel him shoving me inside with, again, more force than needed. "Now get in there." Once I wiggle my way through, not really fitting with the tray I'm holding, Wilkins shouts for the door to close. He gives me another look before stomping away, leaving me all alone in my new home.

I set my tray down on the little table beside me and immediately notice the book on the bed. It's the one that Calvin had told me about yesterday, and I guess he arranged for it to be in my cell.

"Hey," I suddenly hear Calvin's voice from the cell beside mine, "welcome to the neighborhood!"

///

AMELIA

///

I throw my backpack onto the floor of my apartment, locking the door behind me, groaning in pain with every step I take. I dread when I'll eventually have to walk up to my room, but I plan on avoiding it as long as possible.

I start on my walk to the kitchen for a drink, probably a huge glass of wine, but then I stop in my tracks when there's a small, cold breeze against my legs. I shake it off and drag myself into the kitchen. The window is closed and the plants on the windowsill are half dead. Of course, they are. I haven't been home enough to water them.

I grab a wine glass from a cabinet that's far too high for me, definitely placed there by Spencer, and fill it almost to the brim. I toss the entire drink back in seconds and then pour another drink. Once I have my second glass in my hand, I fill a new glass with water and start to feed my dead plants that are probably past the point of return. Once I've quenched the kitchen plants, I move to the bigger one beside the balcony door.

As I approach it, I roll my eyes. I've located the source of the breeze and it's coming from the cracked open balcony door. I’ve left the door open for two days straight. I shake my head at myself and pour the rest of the water into the plant before closing and clicking the lock on the balcony door.

I barely even realize that my hand starts to shake while I pour the water into the plant. I'm blinded by tears that I don't feel coming and something in my mind tells me that the more wine I drink, the less I'll cry. Drink more wine. Drink more wine. So I gulp down the rest of my wine glass and ignore it as my head starts to get fuzzy.

I throw both glasses into the sink and then grab the cracked open wine bottle, taking a long sip. Drink more wine. Drink more wine.

It smells sweet in the kitchen. Did I light a candle? What in the kitchen smells like bubblegum?

My body is moving around the kitchen and through the living room, but my brain is so fuzzy and everything is so blurry that it doesn’t even feel like I’m moving. I feel like I’m floating with my lids drooping closed, hands moving like they’re being told to. I nearly collapse against the couch, but it feels like I’m pulled back up and pushed back to my feet. Drink more wine. You want to drink more wine.

I grab the bottle and chug down the rest of the contents, my trembling hand dropping it to the ground. I barely even jolt when it shatters at my feet.

The glass, it feels like I have a voice whispering instructions in my ear. Pick up the glass. I fall to my knees and grip a piece of jagged glass in my hand, watching blood come to the surface and stain the clear surface. Tighter. I oblige, watching a drop of blood fall to the floor. A drop stains my jeans. Go to the stairs.

I toss the glass aside and crawl to the stairs, collapsing at the bottom and dropping my head onto a stair. I bring my knees to my chest, my cries fill the apartment as I slump down, my whole body shaking as I sob. I'm not sure how long it takes me to fall asleep on the staircase, but I do, and the alcohol keeps me asleep the whole night, something I haven't been able to do in a while.

///

"Amelia? Hey, are you here? I hope you are, the door's unlocked."

I whine as I'm roused from my sleep, and as I start to move, I'm expected to be comforted by my duvet. But instead, I go sliding down two steps of my staircase, groaning as I hit my hip. I press the heels of my hands into my eyes as I process the intense pounding in my head.

"Are you-" Penelope comes and stands in front of me, freezing when she sees me, "whoa, you look awful."

I let out a humorless laugh, rolling my eyes. "Gee, thanks."

She observes my surroundings- bloody hand, smudged makeup, messy hair, wrinkled clothes, tear-stained cheeks, sleeping on the stairs. It's not hard to tell what's going on, especially for someone who has been hanging around profilers for over a decade. I'm sure everyone on the team can see that I'm spiraling, and it's obvious to Penelope too.

"How'd you get in?" I ask, shakily pushing myself to my feet and grabbing onto the railing to steady myself.

"Well, I knocked and you didn't answer but the door was unlocked. I came to check up on you because I know you were really upset yesterday. I, well,” she pauses, wringing her hands together, “I'm not really sure what I say but I'm really sorry if I-"

"No," I cut her off, shaking my head, hugging the railing and trying to hide my bloody hand from her view. She looks utterly heartbroken, but I'm not sure what the cause is. If it's because of Spencer or because I lost my cool at the BAU, I'm not sure. "I should be the one apologizing. It was my fault. I overreacted. Um," my eyes wander down to the ground and I ignore the few pieces of random broken glass that have trailed towards the stairs, "I was just kinda upset. Then when Dave was talking to me, he promised that you guys would get him out of prison. Promising was kind of mine and Spencer's thing. Him saying that just made it so much worse."

"O-Oh," Penelope's eyebrows pop up, "I had no idea."

I nod and fall back onto the stairs. "When we first met and he told me he didn't shake hands, I went home and I just thought about how we could do something similar to shaking hands but not actually shaking hands. One of the options I presented to him the next time we saw each other was pinky promising. He liked it and it just stuck. Promising just became our thing." Penelope stares at me, her lips turned downward and her hands laced in front of her, head bowed. “Well, I’m gonna go take a shower. Thanks for checking up on me.”

“Yeah, of course,” Penelope just slightly perks up now, lifting her head and giving me an attempt at a smile. “If you need anything, let me know. And make sure to double check that your door is locked.”

“I will, thanks,” I turn on my heel and start stumbling up the stairs, clinging to the railing for support. My brain is pounding against my skull and I can’t keep a thought in my head for more than a second. My hand is throbbing.

“Hey,” Penelope pauses at the door, looking up at me, “did you light a candle?” I shake my head. “Hmm. It smells like bubblegum in here.”

TAGLIST

@babybloodstonebones @bxnnywriting @blameitonthenight21 @feralreid @anepiphany @reidscardigan @itsmyblogandillreblogifiwantto @stxrrywildflower @penemily @whollytaciturn @thegingerfairchild @yasminwashere @shrimpyblog @anamelessfacelessnerd @wonderlandhatter @whxt-to-write @inkandexchange @just-call-me-non

#nikos north fic #spencer reid #dr spencer reid #dr reid #criminal minds #spencer reid fic #spencer reid fanfiction #spencer reid x oc #matthew gray gubler #matthew gubler #mgg #criminal minds fic #criminal mind fanfiction #spencer reid fanfic

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crystalessenceswrites · 3 years

Text

Shadows- Chapter Two

*not my gif* I’m using a Javi one because the vibes match the chapter, sue me

Shadows

A modern monster AU Pairings: Din Djarin x fem!reader Rating: T (at the moment- subject to change) Warnings: Swearing (like a lot, I’m sorry), dark themes, attempted drugging, mentions of drugs and alcohol, canon-typical violence, death of a background character, mention of blood Summary: Crypto- concealed; secret. You have always lived your life in the shadows; after all, you’re one of the creatures who go bump in the night. He has sworn his life to a creed that aims to protect the world from monsters like you.

[Masterlist] [Chapter One] [Chapter Two] [Chapter Three] Cross-posted to AO3

A/N: yeah I’ve got no chill this week apparently

Chapter Two

A long five weeks pass without any major incidents. There were sightings around town of the mysterious Mandalorian, but everyone went out of their way to stay off his war path. He was busy, sticking his nose in many known crypto communities and businesses. The hunter leaving a trail of bodies in his wake. It was obvious he was getting information for someone, but no one had been able to locate an informant yet. With how accurate his targeting was the assumption was he had another crypto tipping him off, though others were skeptical. Who in the right mind would help a Mandalorian? Everyone was on edge; five weeks was too long for a lone wanderer to stick around and the longer he was in town the higher the risk there would be another run-in. The only upside to it all was that even after all this time he was still alone.

You went about work as close to normal as possible. Zachriel was still in the wind so whatever lead he could have given you was moot for now. There were plenty of other bounties to work, plenty of other criminals and scum to deal with. The jobs went smoothly but you could not help but look over your shoulder every step of the way. It was like you were expecting the Mandalorian to burst through the door again, try to kill you for doing your job. Even after five weeks the paranoia was still there. You were getting rather tired of it. Kira was too. She’d gone on about it all afternoon, saying your stress was stressing her out. Insisted you needed to relax. It had been weeks, you lived and worked in a large city, you did not need to worry about seeing the Mandalorian again. So, with cash in hand from a successful bounty Kira had convinced you to come out for a bit and unwind. Some greasy food and drinks in a mediocre pub was apparently the cure for what ailed you. It had been too long since you’d spent time together outside of work, so you agreed, sliding onto the barstool next to Kira at the waterfront pub.

“See? You don’t spontaneously combust when you take a break,” Kira jokes, bumping shoulders.

Rolling your eyes, you flag down a bartender. “Just like you don’t spontaneously burst into flames when you come into work.”

“Rude. Not everyone is a workaholic like you,” the woman pouts. “Plus, I’ve got a niece to look after. Ally’s shop has been doing well so I get to babysit more.”

“That’s good to hear! I’m always saying I need to stop by more, get some flowers for the house.”

“Ally would love to see you, I’m sure. Kayla too. She misses her other aunties.”

“I miss the little angel too. I’ll have to come by next time you’re watching her.” You adored the little bundle of energy that was Kira’s niece. Going on five years old she was incredibly well behaved and beyond sharp. Kira credited her mixed bloodline, thinking Kayla carried more magic in her blood that her mother. Not that Ally didn’t have a little something, there was no way her success as a florist wasn’t in part due to her fey bloodline.

“You can take her instead-” Kira grins- “little squirt tiring you out might do you some good.”

“Not sure why you think wearing me out would be a good idea-” you pause as the grinning bartender approaches.

“What can I get you lovely ladies?”

You shiver as the man blatantly looks both of you over. Kira rolls her eyes at him before passing along your orders.

“This is why I hate going out.”

Kira makes a gagging face when the pasty man turns his back to you. “I can’t blame you there.”

Sighing you glance out over the growing pub crowd. It was still early in the evening; you were sure the place would fill up soon and you would rather finish up and go home before that happened.

There’s a strange prickle of familiarity as your gaze sweeps over the crowd gathered in the back corner by the pool tables. You look over the group again, picking out a broad-shouldered man with a mop of dark curls and neatly trimmed facial hair.

The universe had it out for you, didn’t it?

Kira picks up on your sudden tension, “what’s wrong?”

Spinning back around to the bar you bury your face in your hands. “Five o’clock. Heavy grey jacket, dark curls and facial hair.”

The blonde fakes a laugh, causally looking out over the crowd, “spotted him.”

“That’s the Mando from Lunar.”

“Well shit.” Kira turns back to you, “do you think he’ll recognize you?”

Worrying your bottom lip between your teeth you nod. “If I can pick him out of a crowd my best guess is, he could do the same to me.” It was not as if you’d been wearing anything to disguise your identity when you’d gone to Lunar.

Kira groans.

“We need to leave. Neither of us are armed enough to deal with a Mandalorian.”

“We’ll attract too much attention,” Kira shakes her head. “Just keep your back turned. We’ll have our drinks and then we can leave.”

You were so screwed.

“It’ll be fine. He won’t attack us in public.”

Kira’s point is not all that reassuring. He’d shot at you feet from a crowded crypto-bar. Didn’t seem all that worried about it then either.

With perfectly awful timing the bartender returns, grin still plastered on his face. He passes you both your drinks with a wink, “enjoy ladies.”

“Thanks,” you mutter, absentmindedly passing him a few dollars in tip.

Swirling the drink in one hand you stare vacantly at the glass, no longer in the mood for alcohol. Kira gags at the retreating mans back again. You can’t help but give a halfhearted chuckle at her antics. She always was one to diffuse tense situations.

Kira goes to take a sip of her drink, a sharp acidic odor reaching you as she raises her glass to her lips. You nearly slam her hand down onto the bar top to stop her.

“What in the actual fuck?” She hisses at you.

Wordlessly you swirl her glass around, look for the source of the smell. The slight tinkling against the glass is barely noticeable above the din of the pub crowd.

The bartender was more than just a sleaze.

“There-” you swirl the glass around for her so she can see the last of the opaque orb dissolving into her drink- “succubus tears.”

Human date rape drugs were bad enough. Crypto drugs were beyond insidious in their effects. Was this what the Mandalorian was here about?

Kira’s lip curls into a snarl, “son of a bitch.”

“I’d heard there was something hanky going on in the neighborhood, but his face isn’t on any of the bounty lists.”

If looks could kill the bartender would be long dead from Kira’s piercing gaze. Not that she wouldn’t actually kill him with her bare hands without so much as a second thought. “I’m sure I’d remember his ugly mug if it was. Drugging patrons’ drinks, fucking monster in a target rich environment.”

He had been kicking around the pub for over an hour when Din began to doubt Karga’s information. There had been more than a handful of women who had come and gone at the bar with nothing out of the ordinary occurring. Din wondered if Karga was just trying to get rid of some local competition. The police reports he’d supplied Din with were the only reason he stuck around. Six women had disappeared in the last three weeks, all of them had last been seen at the bar. The bartender on shift was a known narcotics dealer but the police had not been able to pin anything on him. Karga had suggested maybe he was using some sort of drug humans wouldn’t know how to look or test for. It was entirely possible. So, Din kept sipping at his beer, watching the crowd with his back to the wall.

A sudden movement at the far end of the counter caught his eye. The two women who had come in maybe ten or so minutes ago were talking rather hurriedly, leaning in with their gazes fixed on the bartender. Din perked up when the man noticed their stares. He could see the sweat forming on the man’s brow from his vantage point. Had these two caught him in the act?

Eyes glued to the floor the bartender skitters away to the back of the venue, Din moves to follow, only pausing when he notices the two women also rushing after him. The blonde has a piercing gaze that could kill, only confirming his theory. Din’s whole body tenses when he catches the profile of the second woman, the same cold look on her face as when she stared him down, sword in hand.

What was she doing here? What was she doing with his suspect? Again.

Karga had looked into her after the events at Lunar but had come up empty. He didn’t even have a name for the mysterious woman, just a series of security cam photos from outside the club every few months over the past few years. She was obviously doing business with the bar owner but Karga had been right, she left him with more questions than answers.

Din pauses for a moment before following the three into the back. He clears what appears to be a storeroom and the office before coming up on a busted loading dock door.

“You know all we wanted was the night off.”

Din inches through the dark dock, following the voices to the back alley.

“Then walk away, bitch!”

Crouching behind a pillar Din can make out most of the scene. The bartender stands next to a second, knife-wielding man with greasy grey hair. The mystery woman and her friend both have swords drawn and pissed off looks in their eyes.

“Slayers don’t walk away until the bounty’s dead. You should know that,” the blonde taunts.

Slayers? Bounties?

“You two are gonna’ be the dead ones!” the bartender shouts, pulling a handgun out of thin air, and aiming for the pair.

Din allows himself a moment of awe as the women spring into action. They’re well trained and comfortable with the weapons they wield. Swords were not Din’s preferred choice for a gunfight but the two were fast. Inhumanly fast. Although Din had yet to identify what species they were, he knew they were not human.

Despite the inherent disadvantage the blonde woman appeared to be fending off the bartender without too much sweat. His mystery woman on the other hand almost appeared to be toying with the accomplice. She had him cornered and disarmed; the corner of her lips ever so slightly quirked up.

“Last chance to surrender or I’m collecting the bounty on your corpse.”

They never surrender but you offer anyways. If you didn’t have to deal with a dead body, you’d gladly take it. The idea was particularly tempting considering you were not exactly prepared to dispose of a body right now.

The man snarls and gnashes his inhuman teeth at you, façade slipping off his visage. You’d take that as a ‘no’ on the surrender.

“I hate imps,” you mutter, lunging at the bounty. A gunshot echoes through the alley as your sword pierces the heart of your bounty.

“Shit!” Kira spits, her blade clattering on the pavement.

“Serves you right, bitch!”

You spin around to find the bartender aiming for Kira’s head, feral grin splitting across his face as she clutches a now-bleeding arm to her chest. No matter how fast you were, you couldn’t get to him before he pulled the trigger. What a great situation you two had unknowingly walked in on.

Every part of you freezes as another shot reverberates in the alley. It takes you a moment to process it wasn’t aimed at Kira.

The bartender stumbles back, hands scrambling to put pressure on the new hole in his leg. You track backwards to find the Mandalorian standing on the loading dock, smoking gun hanging loose in one hand.

“Fuck,” Kira notices him too, clumsily grabbing at her sword with one hand.

Before you can blink, you’re at her side, helping to put pressure on her upper arm. The wound doesn’t look life threatening but that doesn’t mean you want to wait around for blood loss to kick in. You need to get Kira back to the clinic.

“So, what, the Mando is gonna try and kill us now?” At least she’s lucid enough to have an attitude.

“Mando?” The bartender’s eyes go wide, “hell no.” And he was gone, his blood the on the pavement the only indicator he had occupied the space before you’d blinked. Damn handy dark magic.

Kira rolls her eyes, “coward.”

The Mandalorian scoffs, dark gaze still trained on the two of you.

“What?” you snap back. Two run-ins, you were beyond sick of this guy.

“Since when do you go around killing your own kind?” His gaze flickers back to the body behind you like he could not believe you’d skewered a man through the heart moments ago.

“First off, don’t lump us in with criminal’s-” you sneer- “two, it’s our job.”

You wish you could savor the look of pure confusion that passes over his features, but you are too tuned in to the way his grip tightens around his gun.

“You hunters think just because you know we exist, you know everything,” Kira snickers.

Shaking your head, you try to put yourself in between Kira and the armed man who had no qualms with shooting cryptos. This was not the time for Kira’s abrasive personality. “We’re not your enemy, Mandalorian. Slayers and hunter have essentially the same goal.” That was a bit of stretch but you couldn’t care less. The blood running down Kira’s arm was your first priority.

Kira scoffs, “nah, (Y/N), they kill indiscriminately- they’re the enemy.”

Mando quirks an eyebrow but does not make any move to shoot or approach.

“Kira, enough. We aren’t allowed to kill humas. That’s that.”

She rolls her eyes, “he’s tried to kill you twice. I think that counts.”

“He’s not trying to kill me right now-” you glance back at him- “right?”

The Mandalorian shrugs but slides his gun back into the waistband of his jeans. Maybe this day wasn’t completely hopeless after all.

#fic: Shadows #the mandalorian x reader #the mandalorian x f!reader #din djarin x reader #din djarin x f!reader #din djarin #reader #the mandalorian #the mandalorian fanfiction #x reader #fanfiction #modern au #enemies to lovers #monsters and monster hunters #chapter two #crystalessences writes

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potatocrab · 4 years

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Salvation is a Last Minute Business (14/18)

Chapter 14: A Face and a Number

After a few weeks of preparation, Nick, Madelyn, and Deacon make their way to Fort Hagen undercover, searching for information on their suspect. At the agency, the group is joined by Piper and Hancock to discuss their findings. Madelyn makes a solo, impromptu visit to Concord. Later, at her apartment, Madelyn is faced with the realization that this time, she may have dug too deep.

“To me, you're a face and a number, and let's keep it that way.” - Cody Jarrett as played by James Cagney (White Heat, 1949)

[read on Ao3] x [chapter masterpost]

Just south of Concord, situated between the highway to the east and the hills to the west, was Fort Hagen, a sprawling command center for the United States Armed Forces. The military base was a township in itself—amongst the soldier’s barracks and administration buildings was a gas station, medical clinic, corner grocer, preschool and playground. But this wasn’t like any other town or city in Boston that could be visited while on a scenic drive-by. The satellite arrays, relay towers and other military equipment required the upmost of security measures. One did not simply walk into Fort Hagen.

As much as Nick wanted to storm the gates and follow-up on the lead they had discovered while snooping around Kellogg’s apartment, that was a sure-fire way to find himself locked up in a military prison. No amount of Madelyn’s charm or connections at city-hall would get the detective out of a court martial. And so, the two spent nearly two weeks carefully researching and organizing, coming up with the perfect plan that would get them onto the well-fortified base. A few weeks was nothing in comparison to how long the Eddie Winter investigation dragged on—they knew how to be patient.

Piper was still busy hunting down anything and everything she could about the Institute, so Madelyn and Nick made use of the rest of their resources and contacts throughout the city. MacCready had sweet-talked his way to receiving blueprints of the fort from the registrar’s office downtown. Like most of the files they had, it was heavily redacted, but still provided some clarity on what the two might find inside—if they ever got a chance. Preston and his so-called Minutemen monitored the Parkview Apartments in case Kellogg decided to make an impromptu visit. It was a longshot, but Nick didn’t want to take the risk in allowing the elusive man to slip through anybody’s fingers if there was even the slightest chance he could be caught.

Meanwhile, Madelyn and Nick poured over their case-notes and files, working in tandem with Tinker Tom who had continued to decode and reconfigure redacted report from Railroad cache sights. It was a slow process that ultimately yielded nothing the agency didn’t already know about Fort Hagen or their investigation. A breakthrough didn’t come through until Deacon revealed he’d gone through the old Switchboard files and discovered long-forgotten Defense Intelligence Agency clearances. At first the credentials seemed too good to be true—tucked away in some catacomb just waiting to be found at the opportune time—but Madelyn wasn’t going to look a gift horse in the mouth. They had their saving grace—all the more fitting that it was found in the basement of a (mostly) abandoned church.

That’s when the real planning started.

Even though the DIA wasn’t technically part of the military, they still belonged to the Department of Defense—the credentials were sure to get them past the security checkpoints at Fort Hagen. All they needed was a plausible reason for being there. Seeing that he was a master of disguise and skilled in the art of lying, Deacon was tasked in creating their personas and cover-stories, while Tinker Tom worked on updating the clearances to match their profiles. It was collectively decided that the best time for their visit would be right before Decoration Day, with the theory the base would be scant of soldiers, the top brass busy with coordinating celebrations elsewhere. The entire operation was full of unknowns and would require a healthy mix of luck and skill to navigate the variables. But this was their only shot if they wanted answers—only time would tell if their plan would work.

May 29th, 1958

Madelyn could tell from her spot in the backseat of Nick’s Cadillac that the detective wasn’t entirely pleased with his role in what Deacon had dubbed Operation ‘Lapins de la Mort’—jaw set tight and gloved hands gripping the steering wheel tight as he drove the trio west towards Fort Hagen.

“Remind me again,” he began in a measured tone. “Why I’m being ousted from my own investigation?”

Perhaps Nick was being a little over dramatic—he wasn’t being removed from the case, but he didn’t necessarily have a starring part in the grand scheme of their undercover operation. Simply put—he was the driver—the go man in the getaway car, on standby in case anything went awry. Safe to say he wasn’t happy about being resigned to wait around while Madelyn and Deacon snooped around inside the facility.

“No offense Valentine,” the Railroad spy mused from the passenger seat. “But since you won’t even try to wear a disguise, you’ll only stick out like a sore thumb.”

Deacon wasn’t wrong. Madelyn glanced up through the rearview mirror to observe Nick’s appearance—his stubble had grown out in the last week and a half, and for once, he’d swapped his tattered fedora and trench coat for a newer, cleaner set. But any Bostonian with a brain and a recent copy of the Boston Bugle or Publick Occurrences would likely be able to recognize him as the hardboiled detective that took Eddie Winter down. Not to say Madelyn hadn’t had her fair share of recognition lately, but it had always been easier for her to blend into the background as Nick’s nameless partner—the broad—she only hoped it would benefit her that day. That, and the long, brunette wig and glasses would help disguise her features.

She was also trying to settle into her undercover identity, chosen to play the part of a DIA investigator, who travelled between military sites to inspect operations and ensure they were running smoothly. Deacon—with a differently styled wig and his signature shades—would act as her second-hand-man. At first, she thought it would be better if their roles were reversed—he was the better liar and showman by far. She was reminded then, that she possessed what neither of her partners did—female persuasion. Madelyn would need to rely on all her skills in order to be successful—litigation, intrigue, investigation, and a whole lot of charm.

“This plan of yours better work,” Nick muttered as he turned down the private road towards the Fort Hagen security checkpoint.

“Our plan,” Deacon corrected, reaching up to adjust his tie. “Little late to start having doubts. I had you pegged as a man of faith.”

“I used to be.”

While Nick’s somber tone worried Madelyn, she didn’t have time to console him the Cadillac slowed, compelled to stop as they were flagged down by an approaching soldier. Another watched the exchange from a small, but well-fortified building, and his expression made it clear he had no intention on raising the barricade—not without knowing their business first.

“This is a secure area,” the armed soldier expressed as soon as Nick rolled down his window. Madelyn peered through the glass to see the name-patch and insignia on his uniform—Specialist Rhys. “I’m afraid I’m going to have to ask you to turn around and leave. Immediately.”

Deacon leaned over to address the man on the driver’s side. “Don’t you recognize a DIA agent when you see one?”

He wiggled his badge for the soldier, who bent in to try to get a better look at both his and Nick’s credentials. Madelyn straightened in her spot, attempting to look as dignified and important as she thought a government agent should.

“Just got in from DC this morning,” Deacon continued. “Hagen is our first stop today, best not to keep us waiting. Miss Kitty doesn’t like to be late.”

Madelyn gave Specialist Rhys a pointed look for good measure when he glanced to the back seat, and just as quickly diverted his gaze away. Still, the soldier didn’t look wholly convinced.

“We don’t have any scheduled visits for today, on account of the Decoration Day preparations,” he explained, looking over a logbook on a clipboard. “Are you sure you’re at the right facility?”

“Are we at the right facility, he says…” Deacon mumbled, lightly tapping Nick on the shoulder in mock amusement, though the detective was clearly on edge, eager to get moving. “That’s the thing about the DIA, we like our secrets and surprises. Like to keep the rest of you army types on your toes—”

Nick made an uncomfortable sound—something between clearing his throat and a groan—hinting that he was growing increasingly frustrated by Deacon’s posturing. Madelyn remained silent, only wishing he’d had the chance to see the spy in action prior to this little excursion—maybe then he wouldn’t be so anxious. The Railroad didn’t call him the best for nothing. Before anybody could speak, Specialist Rhys signaled back to the man standing guard in the building, and the road gate lifted.

“Sorry about the confusion, sir,” he nodded, pointing up the path. “We’ll radio ahead to have a delegation meet you at the command post in front of the main building.”

Deacon flashed a beaming grin. “Thank you kindly! I’ll be sure to put in a good word back at—”

The car lurched forward as Nick pressed on the gas, causing Deacon to tumble back to the passenger side. The detective let out a soft chuckle, and Madelyn had to hide her own amusement. “Don’t want Miss Kitty to be late.”

The streets and buildings of the Fort Hagen military base were already lined with Decoration Day fanfare—banners of red, white, and blue, flags waving on every lawn and from every storefront post. Between the many ribbons, streamers and balloons, however, was a noticeable lack of military personnel—dismissed for the holiday weekend or sent to other sites in preparation for the next day’s events. Madelyn knew it was tradition for soldiers to plant flags on the gravesites of former soldiers, and she couldn’t help but wonder if they’d leave one for Nate. A sobering feeling washed over her as she thought about finally visiting the Concord cemetery where he was buried, but the idea fell away as quickly as it materialized. She didn’t have time to be melancholy when they had a job to do.

As they pulled up to the command post outside the main building, it was clear that delegation meant two, well dressed, uniformed men. Their attire and insignia signified that they weren’t the average enlisted private, either. Nick pulled up to the designated spot along the curbside and released a sigh.

“Here goes nothing.”

Deacon and Nick exited the car in near synchronization, the detective rounding the vehicle to meet the spy as he opened the back door for Madelyn to step out. She silently thanked the two with a polite nod, steadying her composure as she approached the waiting soldiers, gripping the briefcase in her hand tightly as if to ground herself. There was a slight hesitation, as she nearly defaulted to a handshake before remembering to salute.

“Special Agent Catherine James of the Defense Intelligence Agency,” she flashed a demure smile. “Gentlemen.”

“Colonel Kells,” the man in dress uniform introduced himself, extending his arm for a handshake—finally a gesture something she was used to. He politely motioned to the taller man standing to his left. “This is Lieutenant Colonel Danse. To what do we owe the pleasure of such a visit?”

Madelyn could sense the tension in his tone, but it was filled with more irritation than suspicion as he eyed both her and the men she’d arrived with. She continued to smile, not wanting to waver or show weakness. “You know as well as I do that the government doesn’t hand out grants without proper inspection. We like our ducks shiny and all in a row, so to speak. And what better way to ensure everything is running smoothly than to show up when you least suspect it?”

“In war, the enemy never gives you a fair warning,” she added, with a wink.

While the Lieutenant seemed taken aback, nervously glancing away from her face, Colonel Kells appeared impressed. “Right you are.”

“As you can tell, we are in the middle of Decoration Day preparations,” he further explained. “You’ll have to forgive my absence, but I’m needed elsewhere. Lieutenant Danse will escort you through the premises and answer any questions you may have.”

Without further clarification, Colonel Kells saluted the Lieutenant. “Is that clear?”

“Yes, sir,” he answered, copying his superior’s actions.

The Colonel silently nodded to Madelyn before walking away to his own escort, and she didn’t dare to move or say anything until the officer’s vehicle was moving away from the outpost. She turned to face Lieutenant Danse, offering her hand in greeting. The man was tall, husky—built like a damn wall—fitting for the United States Army. With dark hair and dark eyes, he was handsome too, all the more easy to charm. But with the Colonel gone, his expression had shifted, and he eyed her with much more skepticism than before—she’d need to change that, fast.

“Agent James was it?” he asked, one eyebrow arced high. He reluctantly shook her hand, as to not appear rude, but she could tell he wasn’t completely comfortable with the action. Madelyn wondered if it had to do with her sex rather than her presence—something she could use to her advantage. What was it with military men and being unable to act rational around women?

“You can call me Kitty,” she grinned, letting his hand go as she noted the subtle flush of embarrassment on his face. She turned towards the waiting duo just a few feet away. “Agent Johnson will join us,” she gestured to Deacon, who was already hiding his amusement at the names he had chosen. She almost dared to go off script, just to spite him for being so smug. “Agent Johnson will monitor the perimeter.”

Nick barely maintained his composure, sighing at the Lieutenant’s brief confusion. “No relation.”

“Right,” Lieutenant Danse answered, clearing his throat. “If you’ll follow me. We’ll make our way through the visitor’s center to the main offices.”

Madelyn shared once last glance with Nick, who stared back, expression stuck between a pout and a scowl—he wouldn’t be happy until she returned, evidence in hand. She only hoped the fort actually held the secrets they were after.

The interior of Fort Hagen was not unlike the Switchboard—a state of the art government facility, technology tailored for the times and to their specific branch of the military, albeit functioning and filled with a moderate amount of personnel, even with the approaching holiday. As Lieutenant Danse led Madelyn and Deacon through the halls of desks and offices, she kept a careful eye out for anything out of the ordinary, or anybody familiar. A shiver ran up her spine as she thought about the probability of running into Kellogg himself.

“Is there anything in particular you wish to observe during your visit?” Lieutenant Danse asked, his voice pulling her back to reality.

She scanned the room, pretending to observe the military staff with a keen eye, silently nodding to Deacon as if it was part of their secret code. It was and wasn’t at the same time, mostly used to confuse their guide. Madelyn knew they needed to play their cards carefully. Ask for the goods too soon, and the jig was up—she didn’t want to think of the consequences.

“Can you give me an update on daily operations?” she questioned, looking back to the Lieutenant. He was carefully watching her movements, hands clasped behind his back. “Our last report showed this facility was performing live training with protectrons in accordance to military contracts with RobCo.”

“That is still accurate, ma’am,” he answered with a firm nod. “The robots Mister House provided may move slower than your average soldier, but they certainly pack a harder punch.”

Madelyn raised a curious brow at his phrasing. “Concerned about being replaced by technology, Lieutenant?”

“N—no, ma’am,” he hesitated in answering, turning away as he led on through the offices to an observatory area. Below, army specialists were hunched over a spread of diagrams and blueprints, the charts too far away to discern.

She tilted her head, thinking back to the dossier Tinker Tom had compiled based on all the information he’d been able to drudge up on the fort’s activities. “And here I thought we’d stopped production on MK-1 turrets.”

“We have,” Lieutenant Danse confirmed, his eyes darting across the various people through the tinted glass. “Truth be told, I’m not privilege to everything that occurs within these walls. You’d have to speak with General Maxon, and I’m afraid he’s currently off-site.”

Madelyn wondered if he was holding something back, eyeing the soldier’s body language for any tell-tale signs. Not that she felt comfortable interrogating him for more information, but if there was even the slightest hint something sinister was occurring behind the scenes, she wanted to know. But whatever anxiety the Lieutenant appeared to be showing was more indicative of her close proximity and not some big secret he was trying to hide about Fort Hagen’s operations. With a disappointed sigh, she gave another nod to Deacon, who tapped his nose in return.

“Director Gould was explicit that we inspect the records room,” she spoke, driving the conversation and tour forward. “She has quite the reputation as being the most organized member of the DOD. Her demands aren’t to be trifled with.”

“Yes, of course,” Lieutenant Danse agreed, motioning with his hand towards a long hallway. “This way.”

In the next corridor, there was a secure door that required a keycode for entry. She was polite enough to look away as the Lieutenant entered the passcode, but she knew Deacon snuck a peak, unable to resist the forbidden knowledge. The room itself was enormous, akin to a library with tall shelves of books and binders, metal cabinets filled with files and paperwork.

“We’ve been following Director Gould’s suggested methods ever since she sent out the new directives two years ago,” Lieutenant Danse explained, walking them past the front desk where a lone clerk flashed a curt salute. “Every piece of intelligence is properly archived within these walls. Only authorized personnel are permitted to remove records, and all requests must be logged with the clerk.”

As she looked around, listening to his explanation, it started to sound and feel more like Fort Knox than Fort Hagen. “Would we permitted to perform an audit?”

The Lieutenant’s stern expression hadn’t changed much, but even then she felt like she might have crossed the line, shown their hand too soon. After a few moments of silence, he slowly nodded.

“I believe that would be…permissible,” he agreed. “What would you like to assess?”

Madelyn paused, even though she had her answer long before they’d made their trip that day. “K—for Kitty.”

The three navigated through the rows of shelves and cabinets until they reached a section, little flags with black lettering blocking off every few feet. Ka—Ke—Yes, that would do. She set her briefcase down by her feet and pointed to the cabinet she wanted to inspect. “This may take a while.”

Lieutenant Danse didn’t seem phased at first, content to watch her as she clicked open the drawer and began filtering through the various files. Under his watch, she had to at least pretend to be slowly inspecting that the paperwork was in order, humming under her breath and smiling to herself as if she enjoyed playing secretary.

Deacon decided it was time for him to shine. “Catch the game last night?”

“Excuse me?”

“The game,” Deacon clarified, earning the Lieutenant’s attention. “Baseball. Ya’ know, America’s pastime. I swear, it was a close one—”

Madelyn tuned them out as soon as she confirmed her partner had managed to engage the soldier fully, rambling on about player statistics and the next day’s game against Baltimore. A part of her was humored, imagining Deacon studying up on the Red Sox players before wondering if he was actually, secretly a fan of the sport. God willing he never dragged her to a game. She quickened her pace, lest she become distracted by whatever the hell Vito’s save was.

The entire infiltration of Fort Hagen was a long shot. So, as Madelyn skimmed through the folders, she didn’t expect to find much, if anything of consequence. But then, right as she reached the back of the drawer, she saw lettering typed out in a bold font, displaying a familiar name—C, Kellogg. She almost gave herself a papercut yanking it out to inspect, refraining from opening the folder at the last moment when she thought about how to get the file into her briefcase. Deacon’s distraction wouldn’t be enough.

The idea struck her instantly and without a second to overthink her next movements, she tugged on the metal cabinet, shouting dramatically as the entire structure came toppling over. As hundreds of papers flied out, she swiftly captured the one she had been searching for, tucking in with a few others as she knelt to the floor, feigning collapse. Lieutenant Danse and Deacon were by her side in an instant, the two quickly lifting the cabinet back into place. Madelyn took the opportunity to stuff the handful of files into her briefcase, clicking open and shutting it closed again like a blink-and-you’ll-miss-it magic trick. By the time Deacon leaned to assist her, the job was done. Her hand in his, she gave him one last signal—three quick squeezes.

“Agent James, ma’am,” the Lieutenant’s concern was evident, even if he also appeared worried about the mess of files. “Are you alright?”

“While your files are organized Lieutenant,” Madelyn explained, breathing a sigh of relief—genuine, but only because their real task was complete. Well—so far. “They don’t appear to be structurally sound.”

The soldier frowned. “I apologize.”

“I appreciate it,” she answered, with a broad smile. “I will be kind in my report. You may lead on.”

For the following hour Madelyn and Deacon continued to follow Lieutenant Danse through the fort, her hand squeezing the handle of her briefcase so tightly she thought her fingers would snap in two. As confident as she had felt about securing supposed evidence on Kellogg, it was quickly dwindling the longer she was subjected to a farce of a tour. She didn’t know how much longer she could keep the façade up, pretending to be interested in what constituted as military secrets. Thankfully, Deacon appeared to be engaged and as collected as ever, silencing maintaining their cover.

When they were finally back outside, Nick was still standing by the Cadillac where they’d left him, left foot twitching as he tapped it against the sidewalk impatiently. When the group was close enough, she flashed him a wink, twitching her nose as she subtly glanced to what she was holding. The detective was barely able to hide his surprise, eyeing them as he eagerly awaited their return. Madelyn wouldn’t share in the excitement until they were far away from the military base, certain they had completed their operation without detection.

Lieutenant Danse turned to them near the curbside, never relaxing from his rigid military posture. “Agent James, Agent Johnson,” he nodded to both of them. “I hope your visit to Fort Hagen was satisfactory.”

“Very,” she answered, glancing to Deacon. “Johnny boy and I have a few more stops before we return to D.C, but I believe you’ve set a precedent.”

The Lieutenant, for once, showed the slightest bit of reaction—pride. He offered a salute, and parting words. “Ad Victoriam.”

“Defendam hoc,” she replied, copying his gesture. “Until we meet again.”

It shouldn’t have been surprising that Piper was waiting for the trio when they returned to the agency that afternoon, as the reporter had a knack for occupying the space even though she had a perfectly suitable office on the second floor. Madelyn hadn’t visited the Publick Occurrences suite in a long while, but assumed it was just as cluttered as the last time she saw it, covered in newsprint, photos and paperwork. That day, Piper wasn’t alone.

“Nicky boy, good to see you.”

It had been over a month since Madelyn last saw Hancock, when she paid him a visit at the Old State House during Nick’s hospitalization. He hadn’t changed much, not that she expected him to, still wearing his red coat and golden pin—of the people, for the people. He was leaned back in Nick’s chair, ankles crossed with his feet on the desk, flashing a lazy grin.

“Been a while,” he mused.

The detective was less than enthused by the sight, walking over to shove Hancock’s boots back to the floor, hovering intimidatingly until the other man finally moved. This time, he perched himself in an armchair, lounging back without much decency or care that there were others in the room. Even though Madelyn barely knew him, she understood the behavior aligned with his reputation. She crossed through the room to sit opposite of their guest, while Deacon followed to settle into his usual spot against the back wall.

He smiled at her, offering a low whistle. “Love the look, dollface.”

She returned the expression but couldn’t wait to slip into her office and remove the wig and return to her usual self. How did the saying go? Gentlemen prefer blondes—well, so did Madelyn, at least when it came to her own hair.

“What do you want, John?” Nick finally asked, removing his hat and coat before practically collapsing into his seat. Within seconds, he struck a match and lit a fresh cigarette, ignoring Hancock’s request for a spare. After a long day at the military base, it was to be expected—especially if they were about to reconvene on what they’d discovered.

“Miss Wright and I were just discussing the fascinating attributes of one, Mayor McDonough,” Hancock answered. “Otherwise known as my sleazy, good-for-nothing brother.”

Piper had never agreed with the mayor’s policies, or ethics—read any article she’d written on the subject and you’d get a clear understanding of her stance within seconds. She had McDonough pegged as corrupt before half the city knew what corruption was, only learning it was possible after Eddie Winter’s dirty laundry was left hung out to dry in the papers after his death. But that investigation hadn’t been able to link the mayor to anything nefarious. It seemed now that Piper was after the Institute, she was determined to root out McDonough’s secrets once and for all.

“He hasn’t been seen since the MIT demonstration,” she noted, and even Madelyn had to admit that was strange for a government official. The mayor of Boston couldn’t just disappear for two weeks without suspicion—thank God for intrepid reporters. “Even Hancock can’t get an audience.”

“Shut out by my own flesh and blood,” he mocked offense, holding a hand over his heart. “Guy has always been a pain in the ass, but hell, even on our worst days he’d still call me up on holidays and birthdays. Shake my hand in public. And on rare days, join me for a scotch in the Old State House.”

Nick was listening, but his focus was clearly on the briefcase Madelyn had situated on her lap. Piper sighed, resigned to the fact that the detective had his priorities. Until the Shaun Perlman case was solved, his interest in her investigation was limited. With all eyes on her, Madelyn took the cue to click open the case.

“I might have grabbed more than necessary,” she said, shuffling through the extra files before leaning over to place one on Nick’s desk. He read over the typewritten name, confirming it matched their suspect—Conrad Kellogg.

The group continued to sit in relative silence as Nick skimmed through the paperwork, tracing his finger across redacted lines and mumbling under his breath with a furrowed brow. “Most of this reads like any military dossier.”

“So your man really is a soldier,” Hancock suggested, inferring he’d been brought up to speed on their cold-case.

“Looks like it,” Nick muttered, but his eyes continued to scan, flipping through page after page of information. Suddenly, he blanched, and momentarily flicked his gaze to Piper as his mouth twitched. “MIT is mentioned.”

“What?” the reporter yelped, rushing to the desk and practically yanking the file from Nick’s hands. He didn’t resist, leaning back in his chair as he thoughtfully rubbed at his chin. Piper gasped as she read over the text. “This is his medical history. It says that in 1945, after returning home from the war in Europe, he received experimental brain augmentation in an attempt to cure a traumatic head injury.”

Her voice was shaky, clearly alarmed by what she’d recited. Madelyn sat in stunned silence, unable to believe was she was hearing—could it be possible Kellogg was linked to the Institute after all? “As far as these reports indicate, MIT considered the operation a success.”

“I’ll say,” Nick muttered, shaking his head. “This goes back to your theory on Institute experiments. Who’s to say they didn’t implant something while rooting around, only for it to backfire?”

Piper reluctantly nodded. “That means we were right. MIT has been hiding secrets for years. Decades even.”

An eerie silence filled the room as Nick stared down at his right hand—the prosthetic that he’d received after returning from the war, courtesy of the Massachusetts Institute of Technology. Similar circumstances to Kellogg, and yet set on entirely different paths. Madelyn knew there was little she could do to settle the questions that were likely running through his mind.

“Could this explain his crimes?” she asked in a hushed tone. “Any of his actions?”

Nick didn’t answer, so Piper took the initiative. “Anything is possible. The Institute has made that much clear.”

“Maybe they put one in Guy’s brain too,” Hancock joked.

At first, his statement didn’t resonate with the others, but Piper’s expression quickly shifted, her interest piqued. “That—that would make sense. It would explain everything about his actions.”

“Gives a new meaning to government puppet,” Hancock muttered.

Madelyn focused on her partner, and his continued silence. “What do you want to do, Nick?”

The detective didn’t answer for a long time, still focused on his hand, studying the hard lines of his palm. Only when his cigarette was burned down to the filter did he let out a deep sigh. “Only one thing left to do.”

He lifted his head to stare at the others. “We go after MIT.”

They’d managed to infiltrate Fort Hagen—how hard could sneaking into the Institute be?

There was something to be said about the dangers of women walking the Boston streets alone at night. Even though Eddie Winter and his crime syndicate had been shut down, and the corruption within the police department and government had been culled, there was always an underlying threat when living in the city. Between rumors of a so-called Fens Phantom and the Cola-Killer, or worries of running into a crazed, scarred gunman—there was always the possibility of running into something sinister behind every dark corner.

Madelyn wasn’t afraid, and it wasn’t because of the pistol strapped to her thigh-holster under her dress, or the backup stored in her purse for good measure. For all the potential danger lurking about after sunset, nothing was more terrifying than the idea of what she was about to do. Since the visit to Fort Hagen and subsequent discovery of evidence linking Kellogg’s involvement with the Institute, she’d had the overwhelming desire to return to Concord. Not with Nick to follow-up on their investigation, but to visit a place she thought she’d never come back to—the church. Perhaps something within her snapped when the connection had been made at the agency. Nick would sort out their leads, coordinate with Preston’s Minutemen on surveillance for the university. Piper would work with Hancock on locating Mayor McDonough in an attempt to shake him down for answers. Deacon would return to Railroad headquarters so Tinker Tom could mine the redacted information from the smuggled Fort Hagen files. Madelyn would rendezvous with the others in the afternoon, after she paid a visit to city hall to research caselaw and any court documents on file for the Institute. Their plans were set into motion without a moment to lose—the totality of it all, frightening.

Then again, she’d been delaying the visit for months—years—best not to fool herself into thinking some wild event had finally pushed her over the edge. If trauma was what she needed, Madelyn had plenty of opportunities in recent memory to travel north to Concord, and to the little church cemetery in which her husband had been laid to rest for all eternity. It was better late than never. If ghosts, spirits—guardian angels, were real—she hoped he could forgive her for the delay.

Madelyn stood at the gates for a long time, before musing to herself that if anybody were watching her, how strange it must be for a young woman to be staring longingly into a graveyard. Even then, her movements were slow as she navigated the tombstones and tiny monuments, paying them no attention. Underneath a shady tree near the back corner was her husband’s grave, the inscription easy to read thanks to the dedicated groundskeeper who worked to maintain the site, even when nobody visited.

Nathaniel James—Devoted Son, Husband, and Soldier

Madelyn swallowed back the flood of emotions that threatened to knock her down to her knees and released a shaky breath. “Hi honey.”

What? She shut her eyes tight, groaning at her own frustration. A year and a half, and all she could think to say was that? Instead of flowers, she fumbled with the most expensive bottle of whiskey she could find at the corner store and turned it in her hands, showing off the label as if he could see.

“I brought the good hooch,” she attempted to tease, but the words felt forced. Finally, with a defeated sigh, she slumped. “I—I don’t know how to do this.”

Tears prickled her vision and she gripped the bottle in one hand, reaching up with her other to wipe at her eyes. “I don’t know a lot of things. How to feel about you being gone, for starters. Guilty for the slightest bit of happiness? Sad and wallowing in self-pity? Nick doesn’t think so.”

A breeze shook the branches of the tree, startling her. She glanced around in the darkness before deciding to sit down on the ground, uncaring of the dirt and grass that would likely stain her dress—Codsworth would have words with her on laundry day. After some consideration, she unscrewed the bottle of whiskey and carefully poured a little out onto the ground in front of his headstone.

“Is Heaven a dry county?” she joked, smirking as the liquid disappeared into the earth. “They don’t teach such blasphemy in Catholic school.”

She took a sip straight from the bottle, wincing at the smooth burn as it travelled down her throat and radiated through her chest and gut. “Everybody always wants to offer unsolicited advice,” she lamented. “I know Nick means well, he always has. And maybe I shouldn’t give him such grief after—”

Madelyn broke off when she thought about her partner’s own, recent loss. “At least you and Jenny have each other now.”

The only sound—or response—were the rustling of the leaves in the oak tree. She sat in the quiet for a while, alternating between pouring more whiskey onto the ground and into her mouth until her skin felt tingly.

“All I know is—” she steadied herself as the tears clouded her vision again. “Damnit Nate, I miss you.”

“I have Nick, and Piper and—” her breath hitched, unable to prevent herself from crying. “I activated Codsworth. He’s such a sweetheart, for a robot with artificial intelligence. Worries so damn much. I—we—have a dog too,” she softly laughed, thinking off all the times she’d seen the Mister Handy walking Dogmeat outside her Cambridge apartment, much to the confusion and wonderment of her neighbors. “But I miss our house, I miss our life. Our plans. I miss dates at Shelly’s—they tore it down last summer—”

Madelyn stopped cold, realizing she’d gone on an emotional rant to an inanimate object, admitting more to empty air than she had to any living person. Remorse trickled through her mind as she realized there was one name she’d omitted, perhaps purposefully. She wasn’t lying about the way she felt—not in the slightest—but her feelings went beyond that of her late husband.

“I have more bad news,” she hushed, side-eyeing the grave like it could come to life and take his form at any moment. Maybe she’d taken too many sips of the whiskey. “I—I met someone. Maybe. Still trying to figure out the circumstances of our paths crossing. He might’ve stalked me. Might be stalking me now.”

She glanced up to the nearby church steeple window, looking for a looming shadow. “Despite the warning signs, and odds, and…cons list, I—”

Madelyn’s face felt warm, and it wasn’t from the alcohol. Why was she unable to admit how she felt, even though she’d made peace with the realization time and time again? Maybe it was the absurdity of expressing it aloud, to her deceased husband’s grave—I’m in love with somebody else.

“I’m a fool,” she sighed, tipping the whiskey bottle so more amber liquid spilt onto the ground. A little moved to dampen the edge of her dress, but she was beyond caring. “To want something after all the death and destruction—not to mention explosions—it’s new and exciting and terrifying.”

“And I’m still carrying around all this guilt and shame,” she tossed her head back, grimacing when her skull thumped the hard stone. “We’ve been busy with this case, but I’m afraid my apprehension is obvious. Even if I started it.”

“Was I always this stubborn?”

Madelyn shook her head. “Don’t—I know you can’t, but—don’t answer that.”

“I don’t know why I’m telling you all this,” she continued, quietly. “I don’t know why I finally decided to come see you. Like I said—I don’t know a lot right now, but I’m trying. Waiting for the next big break—though, I guess that’s already happened. Don’t suppose you can tell me if Nick and I are on the right track?”

Silence. Well—what did she expect?

“I need a sign,” she mumbled, gesturing to her surroundings. “Something a little louder than the wind in the trees. You know I’m not a fan of subtlety.”

Madelyn wasn’t sure if she was asking for divine intervention on the agency’s investigation, or for something else. Maybe both. Regardless, it didn’t hurt in asking for assistance from the other side. Unable to drink anymore, she capped the bottle of whiskey and tucked it safely against Nate’s gravestone, digging it into the soft dirt so it wouldn’t topple over so easily.

“There,” she sighed. “Now you can get shitfaced with the apostles.”

A sad little smile pulled at her lips as she wondered if her husband would’ve found the joke in poor taste. Somebody else she knew would’ve laughed like she was Lenny Bruce performing in New York. She pushed away the thoughts of another man and the associated guilt that ensued, focusing as she ran her fingers across Nate’s engraved name.

“I love you,” she whispered, closing her eyes for a brief moment. “No matter what happens next.”

Madelyn didn’t linger for long, unsure if she wanted to know what could possibly occur in a cemetery after midnight. However, as she left the Concord graveyard and stood on the sidewalk to hail a cab, she couldn’t shake the sense that she was being watched.

It was late when Madelyn managed to haul herself up the seven flights to her apartment door, the hallway quiet and dark save for one flickering, fluorescent light near the stairwell. She wondered, as she fished the keys from her purse, if her neighbors were fed up with her late-night escapades or were suspicious of her line of work. If they hadn’t seen the fruit of her labors plastered across the newspapers, she was sure they’d probably think of her as some kind of floozie. Maybe when the Shaun Perlman case was closed, and Kellogg was captured, she could settle down and return to practicing law at the District Attorney’s office downtown.

Laughter bubbled in her throat—first at the assumption there would be no more cases to solve, that the work would ever truly be gone. Second, that she’d ever leave the agency and Nick behind. Or anybody behind. To finally be part of something larger than oneself as she assisted not one, but two organizations—Nick’s partner with the agency by day, Deacon’s partner with the Railroad at night. Settle down? Never.

Deacon’s parting words at the office suddenly echoed in her mind and she turned on her heel to face Drummer Boy’s door. She hesitated before knocking, not wanting to disturb him at such an odd hour. But Railroad agents were habitual night-owls, and not a moment after tapping, the lock clicked open and she was greeted by a familiar, kind smile.

“Just checking in. Doctor’s orders,” she pursed her lips in thought. “Not Carrington, but—”

“Deacon called ahead,” he explained, cutting her off.

While Drummer Boy would never come out and interrogate her, the way he was eyeing her with one raised brow told her he’d been listening for her return. She liked having the Railroad agent nearby, but she didn’t need to be on surveillance—something she’d need to remind her partner of the next time she saw him. It was bad enough she had a Mister Handy unit that was likely ready to report her missing if she didn’t walk through the door in the next ten minutes. The last thing she needed was a babysitter.

“Late night?” he simply questioned.

“You don’t know the half of it,” she sighed, cutting him some slack—he was just doing his job. Madelyn’s head still felt dizzy from drinking all that whiskey at Nate’s grave, and exerting herself on so many stairs didn’t help the unsettling feeling in her stomach. Maybe some food would help. “Did you have dinner yet? Thursday…I’m sure Codsworth has some kind of casserole in the oven.”

“Rain check,” he grinned, even as he shook his head. She was remined that despite his duties to the underground organization, they had managed to form a good friendship. It was only natural, seeing as they were neighbors. “I’ve got a stack of dead drops to sort through and run to their next location before dawn.”

Madelyn didn’t take offense to his rejection, understanding that his Railroad obligations came first. “I’ll save a piece for you,” she said. “Well, if Dogmeat doesn’t lick the pan clean.”

The two shared a laugh before bidding each other goodnight. Keys in hand, she stepped through her door to find her apartment unusually dark. She tossed her purse and coat over the back of her couch and reached to turn on the lamp on the table, but even after a few tugs on the chord, no light shined through the bulb.

“Codsworth?” she called for the robot, and heard his buzzing from the hallway, but only Dogmeat came bounding out into the living room to greet her. “Hey boy, is the power out?”

She patted his head and looked around the room, trying to remember where she’d last stashed a flashlight or some candles. Curiosity filled her mind when she thought about the fact she’d seen light coming through Drummer Boy’s door—had she forgotten to pay her electric bill amid the chaos of recent investigations? Dogmeat barked, and Codsworth finally appeared from the hallway.

“Miss Madelyn, you’re finally home.”

She moved to meet him halfway near the kitchen island, ready to crack a self-depreciating joke about the circumstances when something shot through the nearby window, whizzing so fast in front of her that she barely had a chance to react or realize what it was—a bullet. A second shot caused the glass of the window to shatter and Madelyn was unable to hold back a frightened shriek. A third flew by, ricocheting off the kitchen counter and into Codsworth’s chassis. The Mister Handy didn’t seemed phased, brushing off the attack as he rambled off threating phrases to the phantom assailant, hovering closer towards the window.

In the next second, Drummer Boy burst through her front door, gun drawn. With quick strides he was at her side, colliding with her body as another bullet whistled by. They fell to the floor in a heap, Drummer Boy scooting them out of sight from the window and behind the kitchen counter to best of his abilities. Muted gunshots continued to echo through her apartment until finally—there was silence. Madelyn’s adrenaline continued to rush for a long while, and neither her or Drummer Boy dared to move, unsure if it was really safe. Judging by the way Codsworth was moving around the room, celebrating their survival, the coast was clear—for now.

It was only when she felt a dampness seeping against her chest that panic started to bloom and she thought to move—had she been injured? Her thoughts shifted as Drummer Boy flashed her a pained expression, breathing out through gritted teeth as he pulled away if only to collapse flat against the tiled floor.

“Robby?” Madelyn knelt over him, uncaring of Railroad protocol on codenames. Blood soaked through the side of his shirt where he’d obviously been shot. “Jesus, you’re—”

He shook his head and forced a smirk. “I’m fine.”

“Just a flesh wound,” he assured in a hushed tone.

Madelyn had a hard time believing it, considering the painful expression he was struggling to hide. He slowly gestured to her arm, and she realized she really had been injured—blood trickling down her arm from a tear in the shoulder of her dress. It was a small graze, as far as she could tell. Considering the wound could be worse—and that she’d suffered worse before—she wasn’t fazed. The shock would likely catch up to her later, as it typically did. All she cared about in that moment was finding out why she’d been shot at in her own home—who wanted her dead? Her sense of security was shattered, all over again.

“On second thought,” Drummer Boy mumbled, catching her attention. Madelyn found his hand and gripped it tightly, listening as the sound of police sirens wailed outside the apartment building and filtered in through the busted window. At least somebody had the decency to call for help. Tears began their silent roll down her cheeks as she wondered, how much more harm would come to those she cared about?

He barely squeezed her fingers in return. “I’ll take that slice of casserole now.”

#fallout 4 #noir au #deacon x f!solesurvivor #deacon #madelyn hardy #nick valentine #paladin danse #piper wright #hancock #drummer boy #...and other spoiler characters #more easter eggs than your body can handle!#...and a cliffhanger!#longest chapter yet jfc

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