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ggukcangetit · 4 years

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Dreamcatchers Chap 3

Pairing: jungkook x oc

Synopsis: DI Jeon didn’t need a new partner. Unfortunately, his superiors felt otherwise; especially considering the extremely high-profile murder that had just taken place in the port city. Recent transfer, DI Choi Yuri finds herself confronted with a new cityscape, unfamiliar people, a hostile partner, and a homicide that is certain to bring back unpleasant memories.

Genre/AU: fluff/action/mystery | detective! au | police!jungkook, police!oc

Word Count: 4.1k

Rating: NC-17

Warnings: mentions of violence, alcohol, blood, drugs, death. Basically stuff you’d associate with a murder mystery/crime drama

Previous: 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5

Acknowledgement: shoutout to @stutterfly for designing this beautiful banner which i am completely in love with and stare at for no particular reason throughout the day

A/N: reminding everyone that this story features a named oc because i’m still very unfamiliar with writing second person reader inserts. i’m not aiming for strict accuracy in this story, and all criminal investigation/forensics knowledge i have has been gathered by watching crime drama/procedural dramas! my knowledge of geography is also not totally accurate so apologies for that. once again, one thing right by @hobios prompted me to write a police inspector! jungkook story. would highly recommend reading that because it’s probably one of my most favorite pieces of writing!

18th December

Ahreum parked her motorbike outside the bakery and checked her phone for messages. There were none. This wasn’t unusual in itself, except for the fact that she had been supposed to meet him 2 hours ago at the other end of town. Which meant that he was hiding from her.

“Where is he?” she asked, walking up to the counter and heaving a tired sigh.

Seokjin pressed his lips together, trying to suppress the grin that was threatening to break out. Ahreum was definitely a force to be reckoned with - usually bright and overflowing with energy, there was only one situation that caused the optimist in her to hurtle towards a speedy demise.

“Can I interest you in some raspberry choux au craquelin?” He picked up a tray with freshly baked pastry and waved it enticingly in front of her.

“This doesn’t work on me, Seokjin. Although-” she picked up a few and wrapped them in some paper napkins - “I’m sure Yuri would love to try these. Now, where is he?”

Seokjin sighed and took off his apron. “He’s in the room right at the back where I do the accounts.”

Ahreum sighed and walked around the back of the counter, heading towards the rooms at the back of the bakery. Seokjin had three areas at the back - his kitchen (really no one other than him was allowed in here), the store room (which was way too small to fit even one full grown person in it), and the accounts room (where a certain someone had taken to hiding whenever things got a little too difficult).

And sure enough, a mop of curly black hair was visible from the door to the accounts room. On any other day, Ahreum would’ve found his shenanigans extremely hilarious; but she was really not in the mood for any silly games today.

“You were supposed to meet me two hours ago.” Her voice was soft but it still made him jump up and nearly knock over the PC he had been fidgeting with.

“Fuck!” he gasped. “What the hell? I nearly died!”

Ahreum rolled her eyes as she helped him up. “Don’t be dramatic, Tae. It’s really not as attractive as you think.”

Be that as it may, there was not much that could be considered unattractive on Kim Taehyung. He was somewhat of a social media celebrity thanks to the aesthetically taken pictures of his undoubtedly handsome face - all of which Ahreum had taken. In fact, when Ahreum had shown Yuri some of the pictures from her instagram page, she had gasped rather loudly.

“He’s literally a piece of art!”

“I mean, yes, he’s definitely conventionally attractive,” conceded Ahreum, a little annoyed that her photography was almost completely being ignored. “But what do you think of the pictures?”

“‘Conventionally attractive’? Is that the best you can do with your Literature & Creative Writing degree?”

Ahreum peered over his shoulder to see what he was working on so intently, only to find that he was-

“Playing a game?? You ditched me to play a fucking PC game?” she gasped, whacking his shoulder hard. “What the hell is wrong with you, Kim Taehyung?!”

“No!” He held his hands up to protect himself from further blows. “I just started playing a few minutes ago! I swear!”

“Why’d you ditch, then?”

“Because…” he trailed off, looking away guiltily. That, in essence, was the entire problem regarding Kim Taehyung. He ran at the sight of any kind of responsibility or hard work. Correction - any kind of hard work that wasn’t related to his hobbies.

“You were supposed to finish reviewing company policies today so that you wouldn’t be unprepared when you meet your dad tomorrow.”

“I know.” He looked downcast, switching off the PC monitor. “I just-”

“If this isn’t what you want to do, you should just tell them.” Seokjin walked into the room, untying his apron carefully.

“I don’t know,” sighed Taehyung. “I’m not sure if this is what I want to do, but I don’t know what else I could possibly do. I’m not like you.”

“You don’t have to be like me, Taehyung,” sighed Seokjin.

Taehyung let out a humorless laugh. “Eomma and Appa sure are trying their damned best that I do become like you. At least, like you till you ran away.”

Seokjin snorted. “They’re tenacious, if nothing else.”

“Are you ever gonna come home?” asked Taehyung, looking up for the first time.

“No.”

This had never been an easy topic of discussion. Mr. and Mrs. Kim were owners of the largest financial consulting firm in Busan. They were well-liked in society and highly respected for their unusually ethical business practices. So it was a huge shock when their elder son - who had gotten an MBA and possessed all the qualities of heading a large company - had left home suddenly, leaving only a single note.

This is not the life for me. I have dreams of my own. I don’t think I can stay in touch. Please forgive me.

There were many tears shed, but recovery was quick as a new successor had to be found. Thus, the Kims’ younger son - the one who had lived a charmed and carefree life while his brother learned about business techniques and the history of the company - was suddenly thrust into the front line.

Naturally, when Taehyung had run into his brother a few miles outside of the metropolitan, running a cozy bakery, he had been less than thrilled. Ahreum still remembered the angry tears that had rolled down her friend’s usually cheerful face. Seokjin, on the other hand, looked so conflicted that Ahreum thought he might just combust on the spot. It had taken a few weeks, but the brothers had eventually reconciled. Taehyung had made a deal with his parents - he would attend all meetings and grooming lessons as long as he was allowed to live somewhere else. And that somewhere else happened to be Seokjin’s small, but tastefully done up, apartment.

Taehyung usually had 4 meetings in a week; all ending by 4 pm so that he could drive home before nightfall. The rest of the days, he was free to do whatever he pleased. This arrangement had worked well for almost 3 months, but Taehyung’s free-spirited nature could only hold out for so long. He had been reaching meetings late, forgetting to complete paperwork, and even sneaking out early if he could manage it. Seokjin had requested Ahreum to make sure his younger brother attended all his meetings because he was always managing the bakery at those times. Seokjin himself made sure that Taehyung didn’t forget to do any of the work that had been assigned to the younger boy during his meetings.

Today, however, Ahreum realised that her friend was at his breaking point. He had done everything in his power to avoid her so that he wouldn’t have to prepare for the meeting. Not just that, Seokjin-

“Why’d you let him hide here?” Ahreum turned towards the older Kim brother, her hands on her hips - a sure sign that her patience was running thin. “After the dozens of lectures you gave me about making sure he’s doing what he’s supposed to, you go ahead and help him play hooky? What the hell, Seokjin?”

Seokjin didn’t know how to explain to her that he felt guilty. Guilty that his younger brother was suffering like this, guilty that his parents were so desperate that they had decided to entrust the future of the company to a young boy who had missed his final university exam because he had found a stray puppy during his morning cycle rides (and had promptly decided to adopt it). But Seokjin couldn’t leave behind his dream - his resentment towards his family had been growing with each passing year, and the drastic move and change in communication had been a desperate attempt to stop himself from hating his family forever. Caught between doing right by his own self and by his parents and younger brother, Seokjin often questioned if any of this was worth it.

But rather than explain all this to his brother’s friend - who had pinned him with a rather glowering look - he did what he always did in difficult situations. He avoided answering directly and used humor to deflect everything.

“I was cleaning up your mess, unfortunately. I’m not the one who lost him during a fixed study session, Ahreum. You should be thanking me,” he grinned, dodging the pencil Ahreum threw at him. “But since I’m such a generous, handsome, charming, and talented individual, I’ll let it slide and pack two large boxes of pastries for you to take home. One for your friend and the other for Namjoon. No charge, it’s on the house.”

Ahreum rolled her eyes while Taehyung giggled at his brother’s speech.

“I’d better get 4 large iced teas along with the pastries,” she said, finally relenting. Seokjin winked at her and went back to the front of the store to get everything prepared.

“I’m sorry for ditching you,” Taehyung said softly, his black curls falling over his eyes. “It won’t happen again, I promise.”

“Maybe we should try and figure out a different system. How many more of these meetings and lessons do you need to attend, anyway? Why don’t you ask your parents if you can reduce the number of meetings in a week?”

“I guess I could,” he replied, thoughtfully. “By the way, did you see Jimin on your way here?”

Ahreum shook her head. “Nope. Was I supposed to have?”

“No… it’s just that-” he checked his phone absentmindedly. “He hasn’t been answering any of my calls or texts since last night.”

“Since when does Park Jimin start his day before 3 pm?” scoffed Ahreum. “He’s probably hungover at some girl’s apartment.”

“Aw come on, Ahreum. He’s been so much better recently,” whined Taehyung. “And I’m not saying that just because he’s my best friend. He barely parties anymore - unless it’s a business appointment. He’s been helping his dad with the business as well. Unlike me, he actually goes to work 5 days a week.”

“Wow, let’s give him a medal for doing the bare minimum.”

Seokjin appeared at that moment, holding two bulging pastry boxes and a cup holder with 4 cups of iced tea.

“Tell Namjoon to drop by sometime, or that’s the last eclair he’ll be seeing!” he yelled as Ahreum strapped on her helmet and bade goodbye.

xxx

Jeongguk sat at his desk, his mind straying to that night in November. He could clearly recall the murder - the young woman on the ground, blood leaking from the multiple stab wounds all over her abdomen. She lived on part-time jobs, her demeanour quiet and unassuming as recounted by the handful of employers who had managed to recall her face. It was not surprising that she did not have too many possessions of her own, her life neatly tucked away into a one-room storage on the ground floor of a run-down building. But it wasn’t all of this that kept distracting Jeongguk from almost everything in his life - it was the picture of a three year old girl, the only evidence of life in the entire room, smiling brightly at her mother. The mother who lay in a pool of her own blood, and the little girl who had been missing since that day.

“The ramen’s gone cold? Things must have really changed since I last saw you, Jeongguk.”

Jeongguk turned around at the sound of a familiar voice, his eyes lighting up in surprise.

“Yoongi? What are you doing here?” he asked, getting up and hugging his friend. “Why aren’t you in Seoul, putting bigwigs behind bars?”

“Let’s get some lamb skewers. My treat.” Jeongguk grinned at the suggestion, the grisly murder and the missing girl temporarily forgotten.

20 minutes later, they were sitting at a hole in the wall diner that Jeongguk hadn’t been to since he had been promoted to Detective Inspector.

“Are you telling me that our own Min Yoongi is now a father? The same guy who instilled fear in the hearts of the juniors by narrowing his eyes at them?”

Yoongi laughed, his gummy smile appearing for the first time. “She’s almost 4 weeks old. Sometimes I’m not even sure if she’s real. But then Eunbi puts me on diaper duty and there’s no way that smell can’t be real.”

“Knew she was something special the day she called you out on your bullshit,” grinned Jeongguk. “The famous Min Eye Narrowing technique didn’t work on her.”

“Yeah, she told me to stop pulling all-nighters and get a new prescription from my eye doctor,” recalled Yoongi, adjusting his glasses. “Turns out the famous Min Eye Narrowing technique was just plain old myopia.”

“But enough about me,” he continued, once Jeongguk had stopped laughing. “Why was that ramen sitting out and getting cold?”

Normally, Jeongguk wouldn’t discuss the details of a case with anyone else. But Yoongi wasn’t just anyone - they had trained at the same police academy in Seoul and the older boy had quickly understood that 18 year old Jeongguk wasn’t a standoffish troublemaker; just extremely homesick. Even after Jeongguk had moved back to Busan, he and Yoongi still kept in touch with each other, no matter how sporadic.

Jeongguk sighed and explained the details of the November case. “I just can’t let it go. Where is that little girl? We haven’t found a body either - so there’s a chance she might still be alive. It’s just- I think I’m going crazy.”

“I understand,” said Yoongi, wiping his mouth with a napkin. “That pathetic partner of yours can’t be of much use either, I’m sure. Still don’t know how they promoted Song to Detective Inspector. I’ve always maintained that he’s one shot away from becoming an alcoholic.”

“Well you weren’t wrong,” said Jeongguk, with a resigned chuckle. “They relieved him of his duties a couple of months ago.”

“Oh? Who’s your new partner then?”

“Some annoying Captain America wannabe,” grumbled Jeongguk. It was a well-known fact that he was a huge Iron Man fan and had not appreciated the ending of Civil War. “Choi Yuri - she’s from Seoul.”

“Choi Yuri?!” asked Yoongi, his eyes widening comically. “Your new partner is Yuri??”

“You know her?” asked Jeongguk, frowning.

“Of course I know her! We worked together for almost 3 years!” exclaimed Yoongi. “Wait, why’d you call her a Captain America wannabe? You hate Steve Rogers.”

“I do not hate Steve Rogers. I hate Captain America. There’s a difference.”

“Still doesn’t explain why you don’t like Yuri.”

“She’s too by-the-book.” Jeongguk frowned, his fingers twirling the chopsticks absentmindedly. “Perfect first impression, perfectly friendly to everyone, perfectly punctual; Goh absolutely loves her. I’m sure she’ll get in the way of the investigation because of her need to follow procedure to the t.”

Yoongi frowned. “That... doesn’t sound like her. I mean, she’s definitely punctual but she’s never made a great first impression. She usually comes off as reserved, aloof - haughty even.”

“Maybe she’s changed,” shrugged Jeongguk, not particularly interested in the personality changes of his new partner.

“She has. I didn’t think that incident would have affected her like this. But…” Yoongi trailed off, staring at nothing in particular.

“What incident?”

“The reason she was transferred from Seoul. Hasn’t she told you?”

“No.”

“I don’t know if I should…” muttered Yoongi, his face reflecting his inner conflict. “But if knowing the truth makes it easier for you two to work together, then…”

Jeongguk frowned, wondering what exactly the big mystery was.

“We were investigating a homicide and it led us to a very high profile family in Seoul. It was quite clear that the eldest son was involved in the murder. I was Chief Inspector at that time, and we were getting a lot of pressure from above to wrap up the case without involving the family. But Yuri was determined to pursue the investigation. She had even rented an apartment closer to work so that she could devote more time to the case. One night, when she got back to her apartment, someone attacked her. It was quite brutal and she needed a couple of surgeries and two months of therapy after that. We eventually had to drop the case against the eldest son. Right after that, Yuri got her transfer letter. I didn’t know she had been transferred here, otherwise I would’ve told you about her. She’s a smart detective, Jeongguk. Just try and work with her. Maybe she needs some time to adjust to getting back to work after that entire fiasco.”

Jeongguk was stunned. He would never have thought Yuri had gone through something so traumatic if Yoongi hadn’t told him. Her outward demeanour hinted at nothing of the sort, and he felt a small bubble of guilt forming in his stomach.

xxx

Yuri sat at her desk, going over the autopsy report for the twentieth time. There were no leads (other than a very uncooperative Park Jimin), no physical evidence, no concrete motive - things were looking increasingly hopeless. On top of that, she still had to contend with an asshole of a partner.

“Yuri?” Seulgi ran up to her desk, slightly out of breath. “Where’s Jeon?”

“Dunno,” she shrugged. “Why? What’s wrong?”

“I think we may have something.” Seulgi pulled up a chair and sat down beside her. “After the autopsy concluded that Eunwoo hit his head after being pushed, I wondered if there was a proper fight preceding that. So I examined his clothes and hands once again - to try and find any evidence of a scuffle. And I did. There was dried blood, not a lot, put enough for me to run a test on it. And you know what I found?”

“It wasn’t Eunwoo’s blood.”

“Exactly. Which means...?”

“It might be from the person who fought with and then shoved him to his death.”

“Unfortunately, the blood on the sleeve doesn’t belong to anyone in the system so I would need a sample to test it against.” Seulgi waved a hand in front of Yuri, trying to get her attention.

“Oh yeah… Sorry. Yeah, a blood sample. Our only suspect right now is Park Jimin. But we let him go yesterday because we didn’t have anything concrete to hold him.”

Seulgi frowned. “So what are you waiting for? Ask him to come in and provide a blood sample.”

“It’d be completely voluntary, though. He has every right to refuse,” said Yuri, closing her eyes in frustration. She had a feeling there was no way Park Jimin would cooperate with her now when he had blatantly refused to provide an alibi earlier.

“I know you’re new here, Yuri,” said Seulgi. “But Jimin’s an asshole. Everyone knows that. He’s evaded the law so many times because his father has the best lawyers on his payroll. That’s why he’s not in the system even though he deserves to be - he’s bought his way out multiple times.”

“You really don’t like him, do you?” asked Yuri, genuinely curious.

Seulgi’s body stiffened at the question and she stood up suddenly. “I’m just stating facts. I don’t know him personally.”

Yuri could see that she had touched a nerve. “I’ll try and get him to give a blood sample. How long would you need to run the test?”

“I can have it done the same day if I get the sample early enough.”

Yuri pocketed her phone and keys, swiping the half-empty bottle of water from her desk, and walked towards the exit. Her mind was thinking of how exactly she could convince Park Jimin to willingly provide a blood sample. Try as she might, she couldn’t shake off the wariness she felt around young sons of influential businessmen and politicians. She no longer knew what the right step forward should be in an investigation. Something that was instinctive and almost second-nature to her, had been robbed from her and she had no idea how to get it back. Her continuous second-guessing would eventually show in the investigation, and she had no doubt that Jeon would jump at the chance to expose her inadequacies. Once again, she felt alone and vulnerable; somehow trying to survive while her weaknesses were laid bare for anyone to pick at. She had never felt this powerless since graduating from the academy.

In her distracted state, Yuri almost ran into heavy incoming traffic. Almost. Fortunately, someone grabbed a hold of her and yanked her back by her elbow before she could become roadkill.

“Oh my god! Thank you so much! I-I wasn’t looking where I was-” she stopped short as she realized who had pulled her back to safety.

“Yoongi?!”

“Don’t sound so surprised. I’m not the one who was heading directly into peak traffic,” said Yoongi, rolling his eyes. “Are you okay?”

“Y-yeah I’m fine,” she said, still trying to process everything. “What are you doing here?”

Before Yoongi could reply, another voice spoke up.

“Why don’t you guys go ahead and catch up? The coffee shop across the street isn’t too bad. I need to attend to some paperwork anyway, so don’t worry about me. I’ll see you later, Yoongi.”

Yuri stared open-mouthed as Yoongi grinned and thanked Jeon for lunch.

“So, coffee?”

It had been a few months since Yuri had seen her friend and senior. He didn’t look too different, except for the bags under his eyes. Maybe he had become a little thinner as well.

“You didn’t tell me why you’re here,” said Yuri, once they had both gotten their orders.

“I came to pick up something for the little one,” said Yoongi, opening a packet of sugar and offering it to her.

“Shit. I totally forgot! The last time I saw you, Eunbi was approaching her due date! How is she? And how’s baby Min doing?”

Yoongi scrunched his nose at the last question. “Baby Min is a horrible way to address anyone. Let’s not do that. Eunbi’s fine, and so is the little one. We still haven’t decided on a name yet.”

“I’m sure you’ll think of a really beautiful name,” Yuri said, smiling softly. “There’s no need to rush.”

“How are you?”

Yoongi’s question was simple. But they both knew that the answer to it was anything but.

“I don’t know.” The frown on her face told Yoongi that a direct approach was not going to work.

“I heard that you haven’t been getting along well with your new partner,” he asked instead, suppressing a grin when her eyes lit up furiously.

“About that,” said Yuri, crossing her arms over her chest. “How do you know Jeon?”

“Jeongguk and I trained at the same academy. I was a couple of years ahead of him. But we have a mutual love of lamb skewers that helped us bond. He’s a good kid.”

“Could’ve fooled me,” muttered Yuri. “Didn’t think I’d ever doubt your character judgement abilities, Yoongi, but I’m gonna have to disagree with you on this one. Jeon’s an asshole. And he’s made things really difficult for me, even though it’s barely been three days since I started here.”

“I won’t lie,” chuckled Yoongi. “He didn’t have the best things to say about you either. But I think I know you both quite well. And I think you’ve both got bigger things weighing on you right now which have clouded your personalities. I’m not saying you should go ahead and become best buds right away. Just… keep an open mind.”

Yuri remained quiet, not sure how she felt about what Yoongi had just said. It annoyed her that her friend didn’t appear to be on her side completely.

“I can see that you aren’t liking what I’m saying and the annoyance has already started to show on your face,” said Yoongi with a twinkle in his eye. “So I’m just going to say one last thing on the issue. The 2nd November case that Jeongguk’s been overseeing - I want you to go over it. You might be able to help.”

“I don’t know if that’s such a good idea…”

“I know that you’re scared. Your fear is completely understandable. But that’s just a part of you - maybe a bigger part than you would like, but a part nonetheless. You didn’t choose this and you definitely didn’t want this. But it’s something that you are going to have to accept eventually. The scars that are formed unknowingly, unwantedly, mistakenly - they are all part of your constellation.”

It was strange. Yoongi hadn’t told her to overcome her fears - he hadn’t even asked her exactly what it was that she was afraid of. But his words had struck a chord somewhere.

When they parted outside the station a little later, Yuri stared at her friend while trying to decide what to tell him. In the end, she settled for something professional whose meaning was deeply personal to the two of them.

“I’m sorry they demoted you.”

xxx

hey everyone! hope you’re enjoying the story so far. feel free to drop a message/ask if you have any questions/thoughts on the story.

#jungkook #jungkook x oc #jungkook fic #bts fic #namjoon #taehyung #jimin #yoongi #seokjin #hoseok #c me write bangtan #btsbookclub

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talltalesandbedtimestories · 4 years

Text

Cremation Charlie

Title: Cremation Charlie (COMPLETE)

Characters/Pairing: Dean Winchester x Reader, Dean Winchester, Sam Winchester

Summary: A lot has happened since Vegas. Dean meets up with you in Albuquerque. Takes place in Season 7, after Plucky's.

Word Count: 14,000

Warnings: fluff, flirting, angst, explicit language, smut, heights

A/N: Originally posted on AO3. So, I have to thank Winchesters_queen (on AO3) for this story idea. Seeds were unknowingly planted when I chose Albuquerque as the reader's place of residence. It took me a while to get a feel for how the story should progress. And, I do like the idea of trying to follow the canon of the show. Hot or not, I feel like if the reader found out Dean had been on the FBI's Most Wanted List, there'd be a little hesitancy in meeting up again. I mean, yeah, everyone's got a type and to each their own. I just don't think this reader would find serial killers hot. But the pieces and plot fell into place. Happy with that.

Dean peeled out of the back alley of the restaurant slash playland. It was the perfect mix of a young kid’s fantasy and an adult’s hellhole. He was still chuckling, feeling the remnants down deep in his belly. He hadn’t laughed like that in a long time. Not since the time he spent with you in Vegas.

He wasn’t sure where he and Sam were headed. One thing he was sure about. Even though he missed Baby, ached to run his fingers along her steering wheel and rev her engine, he was relieved to be driving this ‘73 Mercury Cougar right now. He would have never gotten the glitter bomb Sam was covered with out of Baby’s passenger seat. Hell, Sam wouldn’t have been allowed inside her with his sparkly ass.

They would hotwire another POS car soon enough. Would have to in order to stay under the radar of pretty much everyone at this point once they made it out of Wichita, Kansas. Or got a lead on exactly what Dick Roman was planning from Frank. Something had to give soon. Roman’s toothy grin, hiding the leviathan underneath, required some serious restructuring under Dean’s hands.

Dean gripped the steering wheel and floored the gas on the dark open road. Fields spun out for miles, merged with the horizon in every direction. He’d missed Kansas. Wanted to hug these back roads for as many hours as he could. The peace and quiet. He rolled down the driver’s side window. Memories triggered. Not memories as much as... snapshots. Before Sam. With Mom in the passenger seat. Him behind Dad in a booster seat. Tiny. Looking up. Seeing her blonde wavy hair bouncing in the wind. Her smiling profile, directed at Dad. Her turning back to tap his little knee with a soft caress.

Movement beside Dean broke him out of the slideshow recall. Sam shifted, his lengthy frame crumpled like a broken pretzel in the seat. Head lolling, dreaming or nightmaring about God knew what. Dean got distracted by Sam’s occasional sparkling. The glitter reminded him of strippers. Strippers reminded him of Vegas. Vegas reminded him of you.

“We’re gonna find a motel, Sammy. So you can wash all that shit off.” Dean decided.

“Hm?” Sam grunted. His eyes blinked slow, pried open with a wide yawn.

“All that clown jizz. You need to wash that crap off. Pronto.”

“Sure. Whatever.” He groaned and rubbed at his eyes. “Ah, shit.” His eyes blinked with a rapid concern. “I got fucking glitter in my eyes.”

Dean’s chuckling started up again. From deep down, genuine. Most of his chest got in on the laugh.

“It’s not funny, Dean. I could go blind. And, this isn’t plain glitter. It’s supernatural, fear manifested glitter.” Sam stared at his offending hand and continued blinking.

“Jesus. There’s some bottled water in the cooler. Rinse it out.” He thumbed behind his seat.

Sam turned to him, “What about the…” he stopped himself.

Dean knew Sam remembered they weren’t in Baby just then.

“Bend forward and flush it out.” Dean directed.

A minute passed. Dean pulled a hand towel out of his duffel in the back seat. Splashes of water dampened Dean’s jeans. He pushed the towel in Sam’s face, his eyes closed. “Pat. Don’t rub. Better?”

“A little.” Sam sighed and shook his head like a freshly washed dog.

Dean blinked his own eyes at the droplets hitting his face. “Well, don’t get it on me for Christ’s sake!”

“Not as funny, huh?” Sam huffed.

Dean sighed.

Dean took a shot of whiskey from Bobby’s flask, tapping away on the laptop. Browser windows opened and cascaded on top of each other on the screen. Dozens of articles on Dick Roman, his enterprise, his holdings, his ventures. Dean was sick of seeing that pompous, arrogant ass. But couldn’t stop searching. He needed to find the thing that killed Bobby.

His fingers dipped into the duffel resting on the nearby empty seat. He rummaged through, found the shape he sought out by touch, and pulled out one of Bobby’s cells they’d kept with them after he’d died. Well, Dean had kept it for a specific reason. One he hadn’t shared with Sam. Sam was currently occupied in the bathroom; scrubbing himself under the shower stream for what was going on a half hour.

He’d heard the message for the first time a month after Bobby’s death. And you’d left it a couple months before that. He should have reached out to you then. Talking to you might have helped. He’d be able to confess, explain, as crazy as everything would sound. It might have grounded him for an hour or so, talking to someone normal, outside of their circle of crazy. And, if you’d hung up and never reached out again, so be it.

But? What if you didn’t? What if you were just a little crazy enough to give it all a listen? To be open to all of the things under the veil of normal? He’d gotten a feeling, maybe more of a suspicion, you might during those few hours you shared on that October night. Hell, maybe he would have taken off without Sammy and driven to Albuquerque to meet up with you. Finish what you’d both started in Vegas five months ago, a lifetime of pain ago. Escape. Even if it was only for a little while.

But then he got sucked into 1944. Then he’d hooked up with the Amazon Lydia, and Sam had to kill Dean’s teen daughter, Emma, the result of said hook-up. That was a whole thing. And hours earlier they’d taken care of an employee of Plucky Pennywhistle’s Magical Menagerie, who’d been using manifestations of children’s fears to play judge, jury, and executioner to whoever he thought deserved it. Dean grinned at the still wrapped giant Slinky on the kitchenette counter. At least one good thing came out of it.

He listened to ensure the water was still running in the shower. He’s gonna be a fucking prune when he comes out. Dean hit the speaker button on the phone.

“Um, yeah. I’m looking for FBI Director, Mike Kayser.” Your voice was hesitant. Dean smiled at the way you stated your full name, all formal. You even added your middle name, a new piece of information he hadn’t heard the night you spent together. “This is insane.” You mumbled. “Look, anyway, I got this number from a guy. He said his name was Dean Winchester. I was told to call this number if I couldn’t reach him.” He frowned, anticipating the next part of the message he’d listened to a dozen times. “But, I’m calling because, well, I’m a little, no, a lot concerned. So, I met this Dean Winchester after he apparently had died. From what I found out he and his brother had themselves a murder spree across the country. Ended up on the FBI’s Most Wanted List. Got captured in Ankeny, Iowa, and were killed trying to escape.” You sighed into the phone. “Look. I really just need to know what the hell’s going on. The guy I met…” You stopped. “Well, he didn’t seem like a serial killer.” Dean pictured you rolling your eyes. “Of course, that’s what everyone says after the fact. But, he didn’t. And, I find it odd that of all the phone numbers he’d give me to contact would be that of an FBI Director. If that’s even true. So, if someone could call me back and let me know something. At the least, I’d like to know if I need to be put in Witness Protection and get an alias.” You laughed that laugh that made Dean grin. You left your number. “Thanks.”

Dean exited and scrolled through the call list. Again. For the tenth time after he’d noticed that Bobby had called the number you’d left. And, it had been a long talk for Bobby. Fucking twenty minutes. And even more curious, you had called him back a couple weeks later. Talked to Bobby again for another half hour. Chatty fucking Cathy, huh Bobby. What the hell did you talk to her about? Whatever it was had some finality to it, because there hadn’t been another call from you. And Bobby had died soon after that.

Must have been why she never tried to get in touch with me after that last time. She’s got some sense. But, I could already tell that. He knew he should leave it alone. Leave you alone. But he really wanted to know what Bobby had told you. And why the hell you’d called Bobby back.

The shower cut off. Dean yelled. “Sammy! Want me to grab us some grub? I’m starving.”

“Yeah. Something not artery clogging for me.” He sounded even more exhausted.

“It’s two am. Your kale eating ass will have to settle for whatever greasy joint is open.” Dean grumbled and grabbed his jacket off the chair back. He slipped Bobby’s phone in a pocket and headed out.

Dean put in the order at the diner counter, paid in advance, and stepped out in the cold March night for some privacy. The misty drizzle prickled his cheeks. His breath steamed out from his mouth. He scrolled through Bobby’s call list and pressed your number. Stared at it. Hesitated to dial.

Dean had been properly buzzed that Vegas night with you. But parts of your conversations, especially back on the rug at his motel were clear and vivid. One fact you’d told him was that you had terrible insomnia. Stayed up late most nights and existed on not much sleep. He could definitely relate to that.

He shrugged. “What the hell. I can chalk it up to a Friday night drunk dial.” Dean called your number. He felt his eyes widen when he heard you pick up on the second ring.

“Bobby?”

He could feel his eyes bug out even more. Sonava bitch gave her his real name. “Not Bobby.”

Silence for some seconds. “Dean?”

“Long time no talk, sweetheart.”

You were shifting, doing something. “How-how are you doing?”

“Been better. How about you? I know it’s late, but…”

“You knew I wouldn’t be asleep.” Your laugh was a delightful mix of soft and scratchy to Dean’s ear.

“Yeah.” He smiled. “Are you playing hard to get with me or don’t want to be found altogether?”

“Me? What about you?” You tossed back the question.

“Hey, I haven’t heard from you since those few texts a week after Vegas. Then, come to find out you’ve been chit-chatting with Bobby. You didn’t seem like the Sugar Daddy type to me.” He leaned against the side of his parked car. The bright interior of the diner and neon sign above lit up his waiting spot. It would be some minutes before his bag of food would appear on the counter.

“Do Sugar Daddies own junk yards? I didn’t realize how lucrative a business that was. Impersonating federal agents can only get someone so far, I guess.”

Dean held up a hand. “Wait. Wait a minute. How do you…”

“Bobby told me a lot, Dean.”

Dean swallowed. “How much?”

“You should ask him. My mind is still trying to process most of it.”

“Yeah, well…” Dean trailed off.

“Why are you calling me on his phone, anyway?” Silence again. “Oh. How long ago?”

“It’s been a couple months.”

“I’m so sorry, Dean. He sounded like a decent, upstanding man. And, I could tell… he cared a lot about you and Sam.”

“You could tell that over a couple phone conversations?”

“Yep. Men of little words say a lot when it’s important. You have to pay attention. And, catch them on a good day, I guess.”

“I heard that voicemail you left.”

“Ah. So, you know how freaked out you had me? Thanks, by the way. You owe me two months worth of sleep.”

“Sorry.”

“Bobby didn’t mention talking to me?”

“No. I guess he figured it was better you didn’t have anything to do with me.”

“Or he was occupied with more important things. It sounded like you all were working on saving the world again.”

“What the hell did he…”

“Where are you?” You switched gears on him.

“Wichita, Kansas.”

“How far is that from Albuquerque?”

Dean smiled. He’d already Googled it back at the motel. “About ten hours.”

“Think you can make it here around midnight tonight? I mean, if you have time...”

“I don’t think the world’s going to implode between now and then.”

“If that’s a joke, you have a fucking twisted sense of humor, Dean Winchester.”

Dean chuckled. “Kind of goes along with the job.”

“Yeah.” You sighed. “So, do I send you the location to meet me on this phone or the original number you gave me?”

“You still have that?”

“Yep.”

Another smile. “Send it to mine, sweetheart.”

“Will do. Oh, and bring a bottle of champagne.”

“Huh?”

“Bottle of champagne. Can be a cheap bottle. As long as it pops and fizzes when you open it.”

“Okay…”

“See you in a few hours, handsome.” You hung up.

Of course. The early morning nap at the motel after the greasy diner food turned into a passed out until two in the afternoon snooze fest. Sam’s unwillingness to let Dean up and leave without a detailed explanation delayed the trip as well.

Dean tapped a Sorry, gonna be late. Still okay or should we try another time? to you before he attempted to pacify his brother. “What’s the problem here, Sammy?”

Sam raised his hands. “Are you serious? You’ve had nothing on the brain but Dick since Bobby.”

Dean raised a finger along with his brows. “Rephrase.”

Sam pursed his lips before continuing. “And now, it’s ‘I’ve got something to do I’ll be back’ and you expect me to believe you’re not going off half-cocked to take care of it without me? Did you hear from Frank?”

Dean’s phone buzzed back a reply from you. Still okay. You got my directions?

“Is that him?” Sam rose from his bed and stormed over to Dean.

“No.” Dean sighed. He typed a quick Yes. “Okay, look. It’s a woman, alright.”

Sam’s brow furrowed. “I thought you were done with the ladies, after Lydia. That’s what you told me three days ago, Dean. Accidental fatherhood, uncle having to kill his niece and all that.”

“I am. I just… Sam.” Dean slipped the phone into his pocket and went back to packing his duffel. “There’s always another job to keep our minds off how badly we’ve screwed up until we find a way to save the world.” He zipped the bag. “I met this woman back in Vegas. That night before you went all bonkers for Becky and I had to attend your wedding.”

Sam shivered at the memory.

“I’ve got a second chance to just…” He dropped his arms in defeat and exhaustion. “Just be, man.”

“Get laid, you mean?”

Dean shrugged. “Maybe that, too. But, I didn’t have to work at being anything but me with her.”

Sam’s eyes widened. Dean could tell he was ready to call bullshit with that grin. “So, she knows all about us, huh? The hunting? The apocalypse? You going to hell? Me following you a year later, stuck in Lucifer’s cage? Castiel? The leviathans? You tell her all that?”

“Bobby told her something. Before he… I just don’t know what.”

Sam shook his head. The confusion and incredulity washing over his face. “What?”

“Look, I’m going, Sam.”

Sam nodded. “I’m coming then.”

Dean shook his head.

“There’s no way you’re going anywhere without me. Besides, if we get a lead on Roman, we’ll need to move. Fast. And, we need to be together. We don’t have the back up like we used to.” Sam nodded again. “You know I’m right.”

Dean rolled his eyes and tilted his head back. “Fine.”

He sent you a message. Hope it’s okay but brother wants to tag along.

You wrote back a minute later. The more the merrier.

The Midwestern plains transitioned into Southwestern mesas and red rock landscapes over the trek. Sam and Dean approached the city of Albuquerque eleven hours after the start of their drive. They’d taken turns at the wheel, with Dean a much more willing passenger without Baby as their mode of transportation. Multiple signs greeted and pointed out they were on Route 66 as it became one with Central Avenue in Albuquerque.

The urban stretch of the route through this city covered around eighteen miles, according to Mr. Walking Talking encyclopedia aka Sam Winchester. The temptation to swing into a casino they passed was great for Dean. He smiled to himself, wondering if you’d gone in there since Vegas to try your luck on roulette again. Always bet on black. A funky, pueblo style motel, named the Tewa lodge, got Dean’s attention. Note to self in case I ever find myself in the area again. He read the amenities under the VACANCY sign. ‘$29.95 and Up. Free Cable TV and FREE Local Calls’. Oh baby, you had me at ‘Kitchenette’s’.

A diner called Loyola’s, decked out with a large neon steaming cup of coffee, served breakfast burritos when it was open according to the window stenciling. Dean’s mouth salivated at the large number of diners on the strip. My kind of city. He had to pull up to read the menu of yet another tiny restaurant called The Doghouse. The long rectangular neon sign resting atop the boxy building had an animated brown weiner dog wagging its tail. Dean slapped Sam’s chest. “Foot-long chili dogs, Sammy. Foot. Long.”

“Dude, I would never get in the car with you after you ingested something like that.”

“This is definitely my kind of city.” Dean beamed in the dark under the flashing neon. “Hey, what do they call those food tours, where you taste tons of different things?”

“Gastronomy.” Sam chuckled.

“I wanna gastronomy all over this bitch.” Dean pulled back onto the road.

“They certainly like their neon.” Sam pointed to a bright cowboy riding a horse as it lassoed the “El Don” in the name of the El Don Motel sign. “Lots of history here.”

“Yeah, I’m guessing EMF is off the charts in a lot of these places.” Dean added.

Modern and Spanish mission style mingled together on every street. For every building with crisp edges and straight lines there was another with stucco, a red tile roof and rounded edges. They took in as much as they could in the early morning drive, ticking past two am. They drove over the Rio Grande River. But the city wasn’t their ultimate destination. At least not according to your directions. Once through the city, it was another twenty minutes of solitary travel through grassland and barren, desert vistas. Mesas cut silhouettes against the night sky. The Mercury Cougar’s wheels finally spun onto the dirt road they’d been in search of after Sam had to pull out a road map when the GPS gave out.

Sam caught the beacon of activity first. “Down that way. Looks like truck lights.” He pointed. “Sure we’re not walking into some sort of trap, Dean?”

He patted Sam’s shoulder. “Well, I guess it’s good you came along to protect me from myself, little brother.” Dean’s stomach flipped. But not with unease. It was in anticipation of seeing you again. “She’s cool, man. No weird vibes, even if we are in Breaking Bad territory.”

“You don’t have a stellar track record with the ladies you’ve picked up lately.”

“Shut up.”

On approach, the headlights of four 4x4 trucks came into focus, parked in a neat row one next to the other by the road. A group of people were assembled around the back of the vehicles. A couple seated on the open tailgates, some standing, and all looked to have beers in hand.

Dean slid the Cougar alongside one of the trucks, parked, then smiled when you walked over to greet him and his brother. Every shitty moment of the past five months slipped away when your figure was spotlighted in his headlamps. Whatever, wherever this was, you looked in your element here. Relaxed and confident in faded jeans and the kind of t-shirt Dean liked on a woman. The kind that grips all those dangerous curves and leaves nothing to the imagination.

“Come on, Sam. Let’s make our introductions.” Dean hopped out without waiting for Sam’s response.

You strolled up to the open car door and met Dean on the other side, an open beer bottle gripped in one hand; two dangling by their necks between fingers in the other. “You found it.” You smiled.

“Could have warned us it’d be a huge pain in the ass to get here.”

A grin this time. “What would have been the fun in that?”

Damn, he didn’t realize how much he missed that look on your face until he saw it again. Dean made the introductions between you and Sam. You offered the beers.

“I hear you like desert treks, Sam.”

Sam’s eyebrows rose. “Really?”

“Well, that’s what you were off doing when I met Dean in Vegas. Where’d you end up, anyway, that night?”

“Married.” Dean answered for him.

Sam spit out some of his beer. He wiped his face with the back of his cuff. “Quickie wedding. Quickie divorce.” Sam explained.

It was your turn to raise eyebrows. “Wow. How come that wasn’t on your agenda of things to do that night, Dean?”

Dean leaned against the side of the car. “If we’d been together a few more hours, who knows, sweetheart.”

You laughed. “Sure.”

The cold beer slid easy down Dean’s throat. His lips smacked together. “So, what’s the deal?” He pointed to the group. A huddle of three eyed the newcomers. The other two were kissing in the truck bed and didn’t take much notice of anything.

“That’s my crew. We’ve got a job at sunrise. Testing out the equipment.”

“Job? This doesn’t look like an office job.” Dean grinned.

“Little side business I started a couple years back. More of a passion you might say.” You shrugged.

“At three am in the morning I’d say so.” Dean quipped.

You stepped into Dean’s space, your sneaker tapping his boot. “Maybe I can get some free labor out of you boys?”

“Depends.” He licked his lips, staring at you.

“On?”

“If I get some alone time with you later.” His eyes looked dead straight into yours, unblinking, waiting to see if you’d cave. He remembered how good you felt, so close, when he’d gotten the nerve to do his Luke Bryan impersonation in the motel room. He wanted to feel your lips pressed to his again. See if they were as soft as he remembered.

Sam cleared his throat a few feet away.

You backed away. Dean smiled in victory over the blush he’d caused. “Come on over.” You sighed, shaking your head, as you released the statement.

Dean eyed the curve of your hips leading the way. Sam elbowed him and gave the “Dude, take it down a notch” expression.

“Everybody,” your voice was loud, in charge, and Dean appreciated the change. “This is Dean Wilton and Sam Jackson.”

What the hell? Dean could feel Sam’s quizzical look burrowing down at him, even without turning.

A younger guy, tall and almost Sam’s height but with a buzzcut, thrust himself in front of them with eager handshakes. “It’s an honor to even be considered for an article in the BFA journal.”

Sam and Dean stared wide-eyed at each other and then you.

“Don’t pay Stan much mind. He’s still wet behind the ears.” A tubby man spoke up in a baseball cap, his arm around a cute little blonde sitting next to him in the truck bed. They’d been the two kissing earlier. “You lucked out. It’s gonna be a nice morning to launch.”

Sam mouthed the word launch? to Dean.

“So, you two are freelance journalists?” Stan asked.

Dean gave your grin only a second of his attention. “Uh, yeah. You know, love the open road… love to… freelance.” He waved the beer around in a dramatic gesture. “Go where the wind takes us.”

Stan tapped his biceps and let out a chuckle. “Where the wind takes you. I see what you did there.”

“So,” you continued. “along with Stan, we have Marvin,” she pointed to the man on the truck, “Cleo,” the girl under his arm, “and over there is Gen and Gabe.” A female and male, both Native American, gave a quick nod.

Sam waved. “Nice to meet all of you.”

“I told them you’d basically be observing and might help out if you felt so inclined.” You clarified to Sam and Dean. “We want to get two trucks out over there to shine some light on the situation, give us a little halo to work with?”

“On it.” Stan raced away to the farthest truck. Marvin and Cleo hopped off the bed and got into their cab.

“Gabe.” You nodded. “How about you and Gen over there in the middle, and start to unload the equipment?”

“Got it, boss.”

Once it was the three of you, alone, Dean was the first to speak. “Journalists, sweetheart? And, what the hell is going on?”

Your eyes stared back at him, innocent with a little hint of mischief. “Isn’t this what you boys do? Go undercover a lot? I thought the FBI thing would scare them. And, Marvin might actually try to look like he’s working if he thinks someone’s writing a story on us. This might be his last launch if he can’t get it together.”

“Shit, you really do know a ton about us.” Sam blinked his eyes in rapid succession.

“Bobby told me about the ghosts, monsters, angels, demons, and those nasty suckers you're dealing with at the moment. The reason you ended up being on America’s Most Wanted.” You shrugged. “Your last names were apparently everywhere along with those cute mugs of yours. I didn’t want to connect all the dots for my crew, in case any of them care about what’s happening in the world and actually track the news.”

“Thoughtful, I guess.” Dean tilted his head. “But, still. What the hell is going on? What’s the BFA?”

Sam added, “And, what exactly, are you launching?”

You smiled. “BFA is the Balloon Federation of America.”

Dean’s mouth hung open. “Balloons? You're launching balloons?”

“One very big balloon, Dean.”

You smiled at how agreeable and accommodating the boys were at taking directions. And it was kind of fun bossing Dean around. You got a sense he was enjoying it as well.

Dean assisted Gen and Gabe with pulling all the heavy equipment out of one of the truck beds. The propane tanks and inflation fans were the most cumbersome. Dean helped Gabe with the four passenger gondola, much lighter made of wicker, but awkward in size and shape for only one to maneuver. He worked from atop the truck, guiding it down to Gabe. He was wearing way too many layers for what was to come. But, for now, the March temperature was chilly enough that you didn’t bother to mention it. He’ll find out soon enough.

“Gondola, huh?” Dean hopped down. His boots hit the ground. His body, silent and agile, like a cat. “I thought only boats in Venice or at The Venetian were called that.” He brushed his hands together and wandered over to stand beside you.

“You can call it a basket. You aren’t an official part of my chase crew, so I’ll give you a pass.”

He shook his head. “We talked about a lot of things that night. Why not this?”

“Could say the same about you.” You tilted your head, studying him in the dark. His jaw clenched at the call out. That scruff begged for you to run your nails over it. You wanted to hear the scratch and feel the grit under your fingers, like fine sandpaper. Focusing, even on your train of thought, was a true struggle with him in such close proximity. You did your best to continue. “This is sacred to me. Not a lot of people understand why I love it so much. Or, why I have to do it. So, I’m a little protective.”

“So, why show it to me now?” His voice was low, tentative.

“Cause you called. And, you were close. And, who knows when I’ll see you again.” Another question was begging to be asked by Dean. The expression on his face was pained and confused, like a little boy. How does he go from sexy to cute in a fraction of a second? “What?”

“I still don’t understand why Bobby would tell you… everything.”

Stan and Marvin placed the large canvas bag, with Sam’s help, by the gondola, resting on its side. Gabe and Gen positioned the inflation fan and readied the burner.

“If you do a good job, Winchester,” you lifted onto your tiptoes to whisper in Dean’s ear, “maybe you and I can go somewhere private later and talk more about… everything.”

His lopsided grin fueled the flirting. “I’m up to any task. Here to learn all about ballooning, right?”

You smiled back. “So, right now, we are in the putting up phase.”

“Putting out?” Dean questioned for clarification and licked his lips.

You giggled. “Putting up. This is the setup and inflation phase.”

“Ah.” He pointed to Sam, holding the large bag open while Stan and Marvin unpacked the contents. “Kid’s a natural.” He nodded to the first part emerging from the bag. “What’s that?”

“That’s the skirt of the envelope. Envelope is the balloon. That’s in the bag, too. Those wires are what connect the envelope to the gondola.” Gen and Gabe fastened the skirt in place. Stan and Marvin began to unfold the balloon out to its full length.

Dean’s eyes widened as they continued unfolding. “How tall is it?”

“Almost 70 feet.”

Dean whistled.

“Sam?” You called out to the younger, but taller, of the brothers. “Would you mind meeting Stan and Marvin down by the other end? Tell Stan I asked you to help with the crown line, please?”

“Crown line. Got it.” Sam was all smiles. He really looked like he was enjoying himself.

“What’s the crown line?”

“You’d make a really good journalist, Dean.” You waited for his Okay, Wise Ass look to form before answering. “Think of it like an anchor. Sam will be in charge of holding that rope nice and taut while we inflate the balloon.”

“What am I going to help with, boss?” Dean mused and watched Stan pull at the balloon, unwrapping the folds with great care like a present on one of the sides.

You appreciated Stan’s excitement in ballooning even if he could be a little over the top. Marvin’s lackluster attempt as he unfolded the other side to match Stan’s light bulb pattern produced a frown on your lips.

“Boss?” Dean waved a hand in front of your face, pulling you out of your internal staff assessment. “Wow, this really is a passion, huh?” Dean’s narrowing eyes studied you.

You nodded. “I told you it was.”

He smiled and shook his head. “Here I am trying my best to compete with a bunch of polyester fabric.”

“Nylon, actually, and fire resistant material to boot.” Dean sidled up closer in the dark that wasn’t that dark, with the bright moon low in the sky and the truck lights criss crossing over the scene. The heat of his body broke through the chilly March morning, entering your space.

God, you had missed him more than you thought was possible. In the space of a few hours that October night, he’d imprinted a want that you hadn’t been able to shake. It had been nights and days of thoughts of him. And, then, when you came across the rather terrifying information that Dean and his brother had been serial killer fugitives on a murderous crime spree - one that had ended up in their deaths - well, the thoughts had turned ominous and life threatening. Thank God Bobby called me back. You’d been saddened by the news of the gruff and sweet hunter who’d helped so much in such a short amount of time. You were debating when to hit Dean with the other information you had been holding back. If there would even be time to do that tonight.

A finger tapped on the side of your chin. “What do we do with you, Dean?”

His brows rose in one uniform gesture. “I’ve got some ideas.” The voice crept out low with a ton of possible innuendos ready to spill out.

“Since you can’t keep that mouth of yours shut... you and Gabe can hold the mouth open while we inflate.” You resolved. “May want to lose a couple layers. It’s gonna get pretty hot up in here. Go help Gabe with the fan and ready the burner for me.”

“Sassy and bossy.”

You nodded. “It’s my night to call the shots. You had your fun in Vegas.”

“Aw, come on. You had fun, too.” Dean peeled the jacket and button up off together in one deft motion. The discarded clothes draped over the side of your truck bed. “Remember Cherie?”

You cleared your throat. “How could I forget?”

Dean tilted his head, looking a bit taken aback at your enthusiasm. “I was there, too, remember?”

The self-deprecation made you giggle. “How could I forget?” You repeated. Pointing to the balloon, you reminded, “Less talk, more action.”

A half-hour had passed and the inflation process was almost done. Stan and Marvin had released some small helium balloons to gauge the wind conditions, chasing them in the dark sky with their flashlights. Sam did a great job at the top of the envelope with the crown line. You could hear him conversing with the men and Gen with genuine interest in the launch preparations. You took special note of how animated Gen was with Sam, the very opposite of her normal broody demeanor. Massive mountain of a man with flowy mane and mutton chops is her type. Code is finally cracked.

You’d manned the burner, shooting fire into the mouth of the envelope like a dragon in staccato bursts. Dean had spent a lot of time talking over the roar of the flame and the fan’s motor. His questions were directed at Gabe on the other side of the opening. Your silent sympathy went out to both of the men. Their arms had been extended and their bodies positioned in awkward stages for a long time to tent the envelope in order to get her airborne. You remembered your own burn and fatigue endured as part of a chase crew growing up. Their muscles might be screaming in agony the next day.

Gabe was pleasant enough to the so-called reporter, answering Dean in short statements. But his attention was elsewhere. He kept peeking down the other end to the crown line where his sister Genessee had wandered to talk to Sam. The protective older brother was emerging.

Your gaze kept going back to Dean for much of the process. His initiation began with burrowing into the balloon's mouth, head first, on his hands and knees. It provided a sweet view of his even sweeter ass before he gathered the fabric over his shoulders and rose up in victory.

He was quite the distraction with all of the delicious little details you got to inspect. His biceps bulged and stretched the sleeves of his white t-shirt. The sweat that caused the shirt material to stick to random parts of his torso also drenched his forehead. Being so near to the burner and its heat had every patch of exposed skin glistening in the fire’s flame. He licked the perspiration pouring down his face and onto his lips. Your heart stopped a few times when he tugged his shirt up to wipe at his face, giving you a glimpse of the firm chest and undulating tummy you had only dreamed about on occasion.

He called out to you once, his grin bright in the orange glow, “Like blowing wind up my skirt, sweetheart?”

You smiled back and nodded, relishing the flirting just enough without making Gabe uncomfortable. Your assessment of the inflation continued even with the distraction. It always brought butterflies to your stomach, watching the rise of the fabric, bowing bigger until you could stare into the tunnel ahead, like some psychedelic acid trip. You directed Dean to change position and follow Gabe’s lead when the envelope hinted its impending lift off the ground. You checked in with Stan, your point person walking back and forth from the crown line to the gondola, screaming over the fan and burner. “Get Marvin here to hold her steady! Won’t be much longer before we launch!”

Stan saluted and ran off in search of Marvin.

“Gabe, I think Sam can ease off the crown line. Want to get him and Gen back here.”

Gabe’s wary glance went from you to Dean.

“Dean’s got it.” You calmed his concern.

Dean gave Gabe a thumbs up. Gabe nodded and hurried to pass along the instructions.

“Dean, can you help me pull the gondola back and then tilt up when I give you the word? Don’t let her go or you owe me forty grand.” Dean’s surprised expression made you chuckle. You shut off the fan and flashed the burner steady. The balloon was rising up like a drawbridge, quicker and quicker. “Now.”

He nodded, staring up in awe, so close to the imposing object and its dominance of the sky above them. The sheen of her metallic panels were muted and dulled in the dark.

“She’s even prettier in the daylight.” You answered Dean’s silent inspection. “Pink, purple, and blue. She sparkles in the sun.”

He gave you a smile right as Marvin and Stan returned to your side.

“Clear out the fan and get that extra propane tank.” You called to the men and tugged the flame bright again. “Short ride still needs some backup fuel.”

Soon the whole crew was back, hands clamped on the sides of the gondola, keeping your baby in place, tethered to the ground for a few more minutes. Sam and Dean smiled at each other like kids. That alone made your whole night.

“Walkie-talkies on and ready?” You tapped yours on, snug on your belt buckle, and confirmed the nods from Gen, Stan, and Marvin. You grabbed one of the rails and hopped onto the edge, then swung one leg in followed by the other and slid into the gondola. Gabe secured the tank into its holding spot beside you. “Alright, Mr. Wilton? Ready for that ride?”

It took Dean a couple seconds to realize the question was directed at him. “Wha-what?”

“How are you going to write that article if you don’t get in?” You asked, perplexed and confused, smiling through the question.

Dean’s mouth rounded into an “O” and then he shook his head. “Oh. Yeah. No. I can’t.”

Your heart dropped.

Sam whispered somewhere behind you. “He’s scared of flying. Airplanes.” You looked at Sam, who shrugged. “Probably heights, too.”

You shook your head at Dean. “I can guarantee you, Dean, that after a couple minutes you’ll be fine. No relative altitude, if it's a height thing. And, we don’t have much of a choice but to work with the wind, not enough power to fight an air current. I promise not to take you higher than 3,000 feet.” You smiled.

His look was filled with dread and apprehension. “Is that all?”

You thought back to your first night together and opted for the flirty approach. You waited for his eyes to land on yours as they glanced everywhere in worry. “You’ll be glad you took the chance.”

That cracked the surface of worry. “And if I’m not and want to jump out?”

You nodded. “I’ll lower this baby enough for you to skydive out.” The seconds ticked by. A sigh left your mouth. “Mr. Jackson might be better suited for this part of the reporting.”

Sam chuckled. “Oh, I’m up for it. But, I think Dean will be kicking himself if he doesn’t take you up on the offer.”

Dean shrugged. “We could both go.”

You looked at Dean in amazement. Geez, he really is scared if he’s turning down an opportunity to be alone with me.

“We can’t both go. Somebody’s gotta interview and be a part of the chase crew.” You caught Sam’s slight nod to Gen, standing behind him as he spoke directly to Dean across the gondola. “Don’t be a wuss.” Sam egged.

“I’m not a wuss.” Dean mumbled. More moments of indecision worked over his face. “Fine.” He hopped into the gondola before he could debate any further with himself. It teetered with the additional weight and Dean looked ready to bolt out again.

“Keys, Dean?” Sam questioned

“In my jacket, on the truck.” He leaned forward, wedging his ass into a corner of the wicker basket and staring at its floor. Fingers white knuckled the side edges, his arms locked and splayed out. He looked like he was bracing himself for a rocket launch. Or perhaps anticipating motion sickness.

You shook your head to yourself. There didn’t seem any point in trying to comfort him at the moment. He’ll just have to see for himself. “Gabe, you drive my truck and lead the chase.” You readied your hand on the burner.

Gen raised a hand to alert her brother. “I’ll ride with Sam. Answer some questions.”

Sam seemed quite happy with the decision. Gabe, not so much.

You pulled out your trusty baseball cap, out of your secret stash pocket with essentials, and grabbed an extra one for Dean. A slight shove placed it in his sight line in the arm’s length of space between the both of you. “Put this on, going to get hot.”

He hesitated with a grunt, then hurried with a swift and snug placement of the cap on his head. The death grip returned to the basket. He still didn’t look up. His eyes scrunched shut nice and tight.

When you turned back to Sam, you whispered. “He’ll be fine.”

Sam nodded.

You nodded to the crew, gave the thumbs up, then tugged at the burner. The flame roared. Everyone’s hands lifted up at once, releasing your anchor to the ground. The balloon rose up soft and steady, an almost imperceptible shift, like you knew it would. The slight hiccup in your stomach from the elation reminded you of all those countless balloon rides growing up. A tilt to glance down over the edge saw your crew shrink below, awash in the headlights, their necks craned up to survey the flight.

Dean asked, disgruntled and impatient, eyes still closed, once the burner silenced for a bit. “Are we doing this or what?”

“Done, Dean. Open your eyes if you want. Tiny Sam down below.”

“What?” His face shot up. One eye popped open, staring at you, then the motion of the scenery behind you. “We…”

“We’re in the air.” Pilot mode was second nature to you at this point. Scanning the environment for any potential hazards, changes in wind conditions, flaming so you could rise were just a few of the dozen things you multitasked as you calmed your nervous and oh so handsome passenger. You had to admit some of the elation you felt was due to his presence this early morning. “How are you doing?”

His other eye opened and his head rotated left, right, up, down. Wide-eyed under the baseball cap, he ventured out of the corner. His boots slid with care along the basket’s side as if he was scaling a wall. A quick lengthening of his neck allowed him to peer down at the group on the ground. “Holy shit!” There was more awe than fear in his voice.

You radioed to Gabe, “Looks good up here. I don’t think Mr. Wilton will be joining you all down below just yet. Over.” The look on Dean’s face was priceless as he took in the atmosphere. You could see the hesitancy fading away and the relief building.

“Copy that, Silent Lucidity. Which direction you headed? Over.”

“Looks like she’s going where the little ones headed earlier. So, Northwest. Keep an eye on her and I’ll check in at fifteen. Over.”

“Got it. Over and out.” Static punctuated the end of Gabe’s statement.

“I’ve got a little lantern light I can flip on, if you need it.” You offered to Dean. “But, it can mess with the view. So, let me know.”

“Will it make it hard for you to steer or whatever?” Dean asked.

“Not steering, but no, not really. We picked this launch site for a reason. There will be a beautiful sunrise view for the job. Not a lot of things to stare at but sky.”

He chuckled. “So, you’re really gonna be up here again in less than a couple hours with a guy who’ll be proposing to his girlfriend?”

“Yep. Still doing okay?”

“Yeah. I’m good. Surprisingly good, actually. Nothing like being in an airplane or staring out of a 40th floor window.”

“Told ya.”

“You did. I’ll never doubt you again.” He was working his way closer to you, edging with care. “What’s it take to become a pilot?”

“Hundred clocked flight hours, FAA certification.”

His features came into bright focus under the burner flames, only a foot away from you. He’d taken off his baseball cap. “Wow. That’s impressive.” You could tell he meant it. Then, the gears of some random thought fell into place. “Queensrÿche?”

You smiled. “Yeah.”

“So, her name’s Silent Lucidity?”

Another nod. “Sometimes I like to play the song when she launches.”

“Nice. You really are full of surprises, sweetheart.”

“So are you, Dean. How can someone who’s battled Lucifer be afraid of heights?”

He shrugged. “Hey, I’m still human.”

“From the stories I heard, you leveled up beyond most of us mere mortals a long time ago.”

His eyes flashed in the flame. You were the only thing he was focusing on now. “So, what did Bobby tell you? Exactly?”

“He told me that your dad got into hunting because a demon killed your mom. You and Sam were brought up in it. You’ve dealt with pretty much every monster anyone could think of. Nothing much surprises you anymore. Not after Heaven and Hell.” You stopped, watching him study you. “Told me that you went to Hell and came back. Then, there was the impending Apocalypse. Thanks for saving the world, by the way.” Your mind was a swirl of impossible details as you tried to recall things in the correct order. “Then, you tried to save your brother from Lucifer. But, he ended up in some cage with the devil and the archangel Michael. Sam came back to the surface, not quite whole after that. When you tried to put him back together again, well Lucifer decided to scramble his egg instead. And, that now, Sam’s dealing with some major PTSD. And, that you lost a good friend recently.”

He couldn’t hide his confusion. “Why would he tell you all that?”

“He said he heard how scared I sounded when I left the message. That the only way he could explain the crazy was with even more crazy. That if I wanted to believe my life wasn’t in danger, I’d have to believe what he was going to tell me. And, that if I ever told anyone else, they’d more than likely have me committed. He also said you never, ever gave anyone outside of the hunting circle that particular number. So, you must have wanted to stay in touch with me. Or, he guessed, you’d want to be there for me if I needed help. Bobby said if that was the case, you’d want me to know the truth if it would make me feel better.”

Dean shook his head and smiled. His eyes were glassy in the burst of another flame.

“He cared about you a lot Dean.” Your thoughts reversed with your own past. “He sounded a lot like my dad.” You shook yourself out of them to focus on Dean. “So, Sam is…”

“Putting up one helluva fight to keep Lucifer at bay.”

“And, you?” You didn’t ask for permission and tapped on the lantern light. His features glowed in the amber light cascading into the gondola behind your right shoulder.

Those murky green eyes stared back with a set, clenched jaw. His tall frame dipped down, you guessed to get a better view of your reaction from under the rim of your baseball cap. “What about me?”

“It sounds like you sacrifice a lot for the good of the mission. For the good of Sam. Always.”

“Really? You got that out of a couple phone calls with a drunk old coot?” The smile teased. His low voice dripped with sarcasm and exhaustion.

“Maybe. You left me that night in Vegas. For Sam. When he called.”

The smile was gone in an instant. “Sweetheart, if I could have…”

“But, you couldn’t, Dean. Because of Sam.” Both shoulders rose. “And, hey, I get it. Family and all. It’s not like you were bailing your brother out of jail after another night of hell raising.” You shook your head. “Bad choice of words. But, you know what I mean. You both have had monumental, earth shattering decisions, universe affecting choices to make. What’s a night with a woman you’d just met in Vegas mean in the grand scheme of things?”

His hand lifted up over both your heads. His fingers draped over yours on the burner control. The touch was light, delicate, electric, and warmer than the flame. “It meant a lot to me.”

You swallowed hard, tilting your chin up to stare. The propane smell was thick in the air. You sighed. “Alright, Cremation Charlie.”

That broke him from his swoon worthy stare. “Huh?”

“Cremation Charlie was a nickname for a poor sap, back in the day before they’d invented inflation fans. The guy in the chase crew who put his life on the line. He was the one that would stand in the mouth of the envelope, hold it open while the burner heated the air to get the damn balloon off the ground. Risked burning himself to a crisp for the mission. Over and over again.”

Dean closed his eyes and grinned. “Yeah, that sounds like me.” His fingers skimmed over yours. You took the moment to spy and pay homage to his physique. His body still damp in spots with perspiration. His smell. His heat. “It’s pretty quiet up here.” He mumbled, eyes still closed, his frame swaying a couple inches back and forth.

You didn’t want to disrupt the silence. But you’d need to warm the air again to stay in the current floating you to where you hoped to end up. “Give it a tug.” You whispered.

His eyes jolted open at the soft command. “Huh?” The green in his eyes sparkled.

You slipped your hand out from under his. “Let’s get a rise out of you.” You grinned. “Heat us up, big boy.”

Dean smiled and tugged at the burner, looking up into the mouth and watching the flame burst alive. “What happens if we get too high?”

You wrapped your fingers around another dangling rope. “I pull on this and a vent opens to let air escape. Helps us descend.”

“So, if I get too carried away, you can put on the brakes?”

“Something like that.”

He shook his head and stared down at you. The fear was gone. The Dean you met that Vegas night was back and in full force. “You, in charge. Sexy as hell.”

You giggled at the tease. “You like bossy women?”

“Don’t tell anybody.” You gasped at the other hand pushing into the small of your back, pulling you into his embrace. His hand on the control, your hand on the rope, tangled against each other in a dance of commands and directions. “I wish Sammy had stayed on his desert trek that night.” Dean licked his bottom lip, inspecting yours. “Things might have been a lot different.”

“Dean?”

“Yeah?”

“Shut up and kiss me already.”

He smiled, bent down, tilted at just the right angle to fit under the rim of your cap, and pressed his mouth to yours. It was eager and investigating, searching with his tongue, making you moan. You felt him tug on the control, the flame roaring above you.

You broke for a second. “Easy there, tiger.” Your eyes scanned the area around you.

“Hey, I was just following orders.” He smirked.

“Yeah.” You sighed. “Okay, that’s enough playing pilot.”

He chuckled and released his hold from the burner, but not from you. “When are you done with your job this morning?”

“We should be done and packed up no later than nine. Do you have to leave right after?” Your mouth dropped into a frown.

“We’re waiting on some word about the…” He censored his information even though you already knew about it all. “Trail’s gone cold for a bit.” He tugged the walkie talkie from your belt without asking and brought it to his mouth. Your mouth opened in protest, but he began to speak before you could voice anything. “Sam? You there? Dean, here. Over.”

A few seconds passed. “Dean? What’s up? Over.”

“I think we’re going to need more hours of... investigative journalism after the job. Over.” The smirk on his face and naughtiness in his eyes made your core ache.

Sam cleared his throat over the radio. “I’ll get a room. Over.”

Dean smiled down at you. “Copy that. Over and out.”

Never would have thought. Bossy looks damn good on her.

After swallowing down the panic for the first part of the balloon ride and realizing how skilled of a pilot you were, Dean switched into his autopilot mode around a beautiful woman. Flirty, feisty, and all fingers. It was as necessary as breathing for him. And, he missed it. Especially how easy it flowed with you, regardless of the environment. Whether the chaotic energy of the Vegas strip or the sublime floating dream that he was in right now, in the air above Albuquerque. You were the constant he was craving to touch.

Your eyes were shy to hold his gaze one minute, then challenging him in a staring contest the next. You’d roll your eyes at a cheeky joke, then blush at a flirty turn of phrase. And your voice. It was light and airy, not bouncy or super peppy. With just the right amount of conviction and authority when you needed it to be. And those lips. Damn. I gotta find out all the things they can do.

He tested the waters again. Snaked his fingers around your waist and pulled you close. He’d pulled the cap off your head without asking. The questions thrown out were due to his interest but also his wanting to distract you. He needed to get at the skin under that tight sky blue t-shirt. He held back a sigh and clenched his jaw at how warm and welcoming you felt. He thought you might be onto his ulterior motives but were more than willing to go along for the ride.

Turns out you had been ballooning for as long as you could remember, growing up in Colorado. Your parents had been what one would call enthusiasts when it came to hot air balloons. And as their only child, well there was no way you weren’t going to get the balloon bug. Your dad was a pilot, your mom a part of his chase crew. They held balloon rallys, hosted events and it was just another Sunday for you to be up in the Colorado air surrounded by a dozen other balloons.

You’d moved to Albuquerque right after college. Dean smiled when you told him the city you called home was known as the Ballooning Capital of the World. The International Balloon Fiesta was held in the Rio Grande Valley every October. It had been one of the main reasons you settled there. You were geeking out with the facts, explaining more about the intricacies of piloting, talking about balloon glows and mass ascensions, while his grip on you tightened. Goddamn adorable.

Then he asked about what your parents were up to now. A frown replaced his smile, finding out your parents had passed away a year after you moved. They had been on a hunting trip at their cabin in the mountains. Authorities deemed a horrible bear attack had been the cause. That had been eight years ago.

He wanted to ask if that had been the impetus for Bobby telling you so much; if you had mentioned that before his truth spilled out. Bobby knew, had known, loss better than anyone. And, if he knew you had no close family? Well, he was a softie when it came to helping out a lady in distress. Hell, isn’t every hunter that appreciates a pretty woman? But Dean held it in, stared into your eyes, and told you how sorry he was. You gave him a soft peck on the lips in thanks.

You didn’t play when it came to your balloon, Dean learned quickly. You’d found a field to touch down at after a half-hour in the air and radioed to the chase crew. Dean gave you some space to pilot for the all important landing. He watched with great interest at your actions, venting and burning, guiding your baby. He felt a pang in his chest, missing Baby, squirreled away under a tarp in a barn miles away.

You were working with the wind to get to your hoped for spot. Patience. She has a ton of it. Accepting what she can’t control and working with what she’s given to get to her destination. Maybe she needs to give me some lessons.

The four trucks and Sam in the Cougar roared up the nearest road from down below. Headlights bright in a caravan formation. The sky was starting to lighten. Dawn would arrive soon. Got a ride in a fucking hot air balloon with the prettiest pilot there is. Dean smiled at you.

You caught the look on his face with a turn of your head. The balloon was careening downward at a nice clip as you vented. “What?”

“Crash landing?” An eyebrow rose.

“Not if I can help it. But you might want to hold on to something.”

Dean pressed himself to your back, trapping you between his arms as he gripped the edge of the gondola. “This good?”

You cleared your throat and he chuckled.

The chase crew made good time, ejecting from their vehicles to rush over. The gondola swooped down. You tried to keep her parallel to the ground as she propelled forward. Her front end hit first, bouncing like morse code. Dean leaned back like a counterweight. Gabe and Stan caught up to the back end and grabbed a hold, braking and slowing the motion.

Marvin appeared to hold the basket down as well. You pulled the vent open all the way. The fabric of the envelope began to puddle like a discarded dress. Dean spotted Sam grab at the crown line with Gen as they helped to guide it down.

You were directing and ordering again, reminding everyone you didn’t have a lot of time to deflate and pack up to get back to where you had launched. The blush and heat in your cheeks was noted by Dean in silence as the crew pushed out the remaining air in the balloon and folded it up. Dean helped get the gondola back onto one of the trucks and secured all the other equipment. The entire event had exhilarated and lit up all of his senses. He wanted to take you in his arms and kiss that energy all over you. But the crew would only have more questions.

Everyone had hauled collective asses back to the launch site to start the putting up process all over again. Dean rode with Sam, discussing the balloon ride and how much time he thought he’d need alone with you. Sam shook his head and laughed, extolling all of the fun things he’d learned about Gen. There was a lighter feeling in the air of their car. No talk of leviathans or hunts or Lucifer or the loss of Bobby. For a short amount of time, they were two guys comparing notes about pretty girls and having some goddamn fun with a group of people.

When Dean closed the passenger side of the car, he ran to your truck for his next order. He gave you a cheeky salute. “Cremation Charlie, reporting for duty.”

You smiled back, cool and deliberate. Sam slid up to Dean’s side. “I can go and help with the crown line again.” He offered.

“You guys have been great. Really.” You nodded. “But, we’ve got this round. And, after this next part, you’re going to want to head out.”

Dean frowned. “Not leaving yet, sweetheart.” The tone in his voice was insistent.

“Not leaving Albuquerque, yet.” You agreed. Another smile. “You bring that champagne like I asked?”

Dean tilted his head toward the car.

“Grab it.”

He sighed. Sam shrugged and stood his ground. A quick trip to the car and a reach into the open window of the back seat found the bottle. Dean jogged back only to find you and Sam had moved to the rest of the crew, even Cleo, now beside the gondola. The envelope had already been unpacked and unfurled on the ground.

“If you’d be so kind and open that, Dean.” You motioned to the champagne.

Dean fumbled with the wire cage over the cork.

“We have a tradition for first time riders. Sam, even though you didn’t go up, you certainly proved an invaluable part of the crew. So, I think you should get to partake as well.” You continued.

Dean eased the cork out of the bottle with a satisfying pop and a small bit of fizz leaked out, down his hand.

“May I?” You reached for the bottle.

Dean passed it over with a smile.

“On your knees, boys.” You ordered.

The entire crew chuckled at Dean and Sam’s expressions.

You pointed to the ground.

Dean cocked his head to his brother. Sam sighed. They knelt down in unison, staring up at you.

“This is what we call your initiation, a baptism you might say.” The seriousness in your voice made Dean’s eyes narrow as he stared at you. “Let us pray.”

The crew bent their heads. Sam elbowed Dean to do the same. But all he wanted to do was keep his eyes on you. You lifted your eyelids at his gaze and coerced Dean to follow suit with the rest. His grin rose one side of his mouth upward before he gave in.

“Sam and Dean.” Dean spied your sneakers strolling closer, the earth crunching beneath your steps. “May the winds welcome you with softness.” Your voice was low, reverent. “May the sun bless you with its warm hands.” Dean thought back to when it was only the two of you, up in the air, free. “And then set you gently back into the loving arms of Mother Earth.” You finished.

He couldn’t wait to be alone with you again. And, then, Dean felt the cool bubbling liquid pour over his head. Son of a bitch.

The entrance bell dinged when you stepped foot in Loyola’s. Your eyes lit up when you chanced upon Dean, sitting in one of the booths, digging into a breakfast burrito at 11:00 am. He waited. The sign by the register encouraged you to seat yourself. You made your way over to the Winchester brother that made your insides somersault.

He glanced up at your approach, looking adorable and sinful at the same time. He chewed with gusto and reverence. To your surprise, he dropped the burrito and bolted out of his seat to stand by the table. It gave you the opportunity to inspect his sturdy frame. The change of clothes confirmed he’d found somewhere to shower. A faded denim button-up draped over his shoulders. Amazingly, you thought he might only be wearing one layer atop the wide span of his chest. He was doing the entire city of Albuquerque a civil service, swaddling those fine bow legs and ass into a tight pair of dark jeans. Do not drool. “Hey.” The dab of a napkin wiped away some scrambled egg from his chin. “You finally made it.” His smile extended from ear to ear.

You gripped the shoulder strap of your bag. The soap scent filled your nostrils. Damn. How did his smile make your mind cease to function? “Yeah. Sorry. Wrap up took longer than expected.” You shrugged. “And, I needed to clean up, too.” You grinned.

“Hm. Well, you didn’t have someone pour champagne all over you. You're lucky I don’t have Baby with me.” He motioned for you to sit.

Your bag hit the bench seat before you slid in across from him. “Baby?”

“All that storytelling and Bobby didn’t mention my pride and joy?”

You frowned, wondering who or what in the hell Baby was.

“My car. Was my Dad’s.” Dean frowned as well.

“Where is it?”

“We had to stash it when the leviathans made those murder Xeroxes of us. They even drove around in an exact copy of my wheels.”

“I’m sorry.” The whole subject matter was surreal; made you feel like you were talking to a sci-fi character from a television show. If that nagging, gnawing suspicion hadn’t been with you for years, you knew you wouldn’t believe a stitch of the yarn Bobby had told you months back. You looked over the laminated menu. You already knew what you’d order. You needed something to distract you from how pretty his green eyes shined in the sunlight streaming through the diner window.

Dean tilted a shoulder a fraction, making you look up. He’d trapped you in that gaze again. “Hopefully, I get to see her again soon.” He tapped his fingers on the tabletop. “I mean, hey, I got to rendezvous with you again. Things are looking up.” He grinned.

The waitress swung by and took your order, dropping off a glass of water and pouring you a cup of coffee. Dean’s eyes widened when you told her you’d have the Southwest Sizzling Sampler and to please keep the caffeine coming. “What?” You questioned with a raised eyebrow when it was only the two of you.

“Not for nothin’, but a woman with a healthy appetite is kinda hot.” He licked his lips and went back to his plate of food. A finger pointed to his burrito. “Want some?”

You chuckled. “I’m good. Thanks.” You suddenly realized you were down a Winchester. “Where’s Sam?”

Dean gulped down his mouthful. “We got a room at the Tewa lodge. He’s doing some Roman research.”

“Ah. Should I tell Gen of his location?”

A gruff laugh left his throat. “I think Sam beat you to it.”

“I guess research is a big part of the whole hunting thing.” You turned behind you, noting the other patrons within earshot. You recognized Stella from the bookstore. She immediately said hello, chatted you up for some seconds, only to put you more on guard. You turned back to Dean and took a quick swig of your water. You resumed your topic. “So, research?”

He raised a brow and donned a smile variation you hadn’t quite seen from him before. “Yeah. The boring part of hunting. But, necessary. Jobs don’t actually fall into our laps. Not often.” Dean shot into another thought. “Did Bobby give you my new number? At least, the number I had when you made contact with him?”

You shook your head. “He didn’t want to put you in danger. That’s what he said, anyway. In case I really wasn’t who I said I was. He’d done some research of his own on me before calling back. See if the info I left about myself in the voicemail checked out. But, he said, he couldn’t be too careful.”

Dean nodded. “Sounds like Bobby.” His eyes narrowed. “Mind if I test you?”

“Test me? Like multiple choice?”

He plopped a trial sized plastic bottle of mouthwash on the table. But, the cloudy white liquid was most definitely not mouthwash. “Pour some of that on your hand.”

“What?” Your entire body stiffened up on defense. “What is it?”

“Just a household cleaner with Borax in it.” He responded like they were discussing the weather. “If you’re a baddie, it’ll burn you.”

“It could burn me, regardless. Ever read the warning labels on the back?”

“Not skin irritation. Talking, eat your skin away if you’re a leviathan.”

“Jesus.” You shook your head, opened the bottle, placed a stack of napkins from the dispenser under one hand, and then dripped cleaner over your knuckles. You wiggled your fingers and patted away the liquid. “Did I pass?”

He smiled. “Yep. Demon test, too.”

“Huh?”

He secured the cap and snuck the bottle back into his leather jacket resting next to him on the bench. “I snuck some holy water in your glass.”

You ran your tongue along the top of your mouth. “Ew.”

“Can’t be too careful. A lot could have happened since Vegas. And, I would have had to add avenging you to the top of my to do list if those fuckers got to you, too.”

The thought of him extracting violent revenge on your behalf gave you a weird sense of comfort and safety. You smiled.

He smiled back. “Anyway, with the thoughts I’ve been thinking, gotta make sure you’re not going to gank me when we’re alone later. My guard will be down.”

Your mouth dried up. “Are we going to be alone later?”

He nodded with certainty. “Oh yeah. You’re taking me back to your place.”

God, you loved that cocky assuredness. Any other man would come off as a smug bastard. But, there was so much charm covering it up in Dean’s whole being that you couldn’t resist. “Am I?”

“Yep.” Another slight nod. The waitress disrupted your flirting and dropped the plate in front of you. “Wow. That’s beautiful.” Dean commented on the piles of breakfast food.

You rubbed your hands together and shot back. “Fueling up for later.”

He chuckled. “My kinda woman.”

He followed you back to your apartment in his Cougar. You were distracted for most of the ten minute ride. Thinking about what he was going to do with that gorgeous body of his; that this was actually happening. Glancing in your rear view mirror at a red light pulled you into a long study of his perfect face. His cocky grin followed a horn tap on his steering wheel when the light turned green. He probably knew you’d been staring. Son of a bitch.

Your palm was a sweaty mess turning the knob of your apartment door. It didn’t help that he was breathing down your neck, looming over you.

Tyrion greeted you with his usual rumbling of purrs. “You have a cat?” Dean queried from behind. He sounded disappointed. You heard the click of the door closing.

You scratched the top of your buddy’s head. Tyrion eyed the new male in the room with a proud tilt up of his long-haired chin and twitchy whiskers. “I do.” You confirmed the obvious.

“I’m allergic.” Dean sighed. At that, Tyrion strolled up to Dean and did a figure eight between his bow legs.

“So am I.” You stated and flung your jacket across the back of your, and Tyrion’s, favorite chair.

“So, you’re a masochist?” Dean chuckled and pinched his nose shut.

“Okay, Ew. First, don’t pull my cat into some sexual kink. Second, I don’t derive gratification from pain and humiliation...”

Dean raised an eyebrow. “I’m intrigued and aroused that you actually know what a masochist is…”

You shook your head and forced yourself not to focus on how sexy his voice sounded wrapping around the word aroused. “Third,” you continued, “Tyrion is a Siberian. He’s hypoallergenic. Us cat allergy sufferers can usually tolerate being around this breed.”

“Really?” The genuine surprise on his face went to inspect the furball, plopped onto his back, displaying a belly to Dean for some rubbing.

You nodded. “But, to be on the safe side, I keep him out of my bedroom.��

Dean shot his stare back up at the word bedroom.

You cleared your throat.

He grinned and bent at the knees to give Tyrion a few pats for good measure.

“Want something to drink?” A quick dash around the breakfast bar gave you a chance to escape. You grabbed a bottled water from the fridge and sipped away, trying to cool the burning of your cheeks.

“I’m good.” You heard him respond from the living room. He was still bent down making friends with Tyrion.

You tapped at the bottle with your fingernails and stared at the fridge door and your assortment of magnets. What the hell? What am I supposed to do now?”

“Nice little place.” He leaned against the edge of the breakfast bar. His leather jacket had been discarded.

“Thanks.”

He stuffed his hands into front jean pockets and mosied over like a gunslinger. “Am I gonna have to make the first move again?”

You smiled. “‘Fraid so.”

He stared down at you with a smile. “Something tells me you don’t mind it.”

You shook your head and swallowed down a sigh.

He pulled the bottle from your grasp and dropped it somewhere. Your stomach tumbled in excitement at the grasp of his warm hands around your waist. He lifted you like you weighed a feather and sat you on the bartop, right in front of him. You were almost at perfect eye level. He pried your knees open and wedged into your legs. He was hot and so close, face inches from yours. “I don’t have a lot of time to do everything I want.” His breath snuck into your open mouth. “I’d need days.”

And, then, his lips were pressed into yours again. Firm, decisive, and a little needy. Not quite as needy as yours, returning the want and the build from your alone time up in the air together. He released your lips, kissed along your jaw and cheek. Rubbed his scruff against your skin. Encapsulated your earlobe with a glorious suck between those billowy lips. He ran his tongue against the diamond stud. Moaned a breathy, “Do you taste good everywhere?” into your ear.

You gripped the edge of the breakfast bar. He was making you unsteady, drunk with desire. Your eyes widened. His fingers snapped the button of your jeans open and worked the zipper down.

He broke from his work and stared at your face. “I shouldn’t be having all the fun.” He grinned. “Put your hands on me, sweetheart.”

Your shaky hands lifted off the bartop and rested on the lapels of his denim shirt. You snuck a squeeze at his pecs and he chuckled.

“We good?” You knew he was asking for permission to dip his fingers under your panties. He was currently skimming the band of it, lighting up the skin around your belly button. “Once I start, I’m not stoppin’.”

You nodded. “We’re good.”

His mouth went to your neck, licking, pecking, sucking. He moaned against the skin when his fingertips found your wet warmth. “Damn.”

Your breath hitched with the prodding and searching. He teased the sensitive nub with his thumb, hand sandwiched tight between you and the denim as he cupped your sex. His mouth was at yours now, examining every inch with his tongue.

Senses came back to you in bursts and blips. You undid the buttons of his shirt as he continued his own exploration. Once you’d freed the last button you danced over the ridges and planes of his chest. His body reacted with a twitch when you scraped nails over his perky little nipples. He groaned into your mouth. You moaned when his hand pulled out of your panties. He kissed through his request and stared into your eyes. “How about we go somewhere we can be alone?”

You followed his gaze to the floor where Tyrion was darting between Dean’s legs again. You laughed and nodded. Dean tried his best not to trip over the cat, stepped back, and helped you off the bar. You grabbed his hand, wet with your excitement, and guided him to the bedroom. You couldn’t resist turning back at the sight of him, shirt unbuttoned and peeks of tummy, chest and pecs. There was a tattoo on his chest above his heart that got your attention for a split second. Walking backward, you lost your balance at the hunger in his eyes. He leaned in, pressed you into the bedroom door, then tumbled you both through after fumbling at the knob. Once inside, he flung the door shut with a kick of his boot heel.

He wasted no time, grabbing at the hem of your t-shirt, pulling it up. He cursed and gave it a firm tug when it caught on your chin to release you from the confines. The giggle from you was more to calm your unease of what he was actually capable of when he put his mind to it. The strength behind his movements was unquestionable. He quashed the sounds of your laugh with his mouth, gulping down the vibrations leaving your throat. He was literally taking your breath away.

Fingers squeezed at the bra cups, finding taut nubs and rubbing over the fabric in circles. He guided you down onto the bed with the push of his mouth. His arms were around you in an instant, cushioning your fall onto the mattress. He leaned above, one knee between your legs, all smiles. “Never done it with a pilot before.” His knee settled against the warmth and rubbed you through the layers.

You lifted up on your elbows and leaned up to suck at his bottom lip. It provided him the opportunity to unclasp your bra. You released his lip and fell back on the bed. “Never done it with a monster hunter before.”

He removed your bra. His eyes widened and he licked his lips. “I guess we’re both in for a treat.”

God, his mouth. The way it worked over each inch of your body. He talked about not having enough time but seemed in no hurry to get on with the actual task of fucking. At least not with the package you had yet to unwrap. But, you got a hint of what he was working with at the bulge tenting his jeans.

His tongue lolled about the dip in your neck, your collar bone. He nipped and tugged at your flesh. Circled your nipples, sucked and tweaked them into bliss. Stoking the heat in your core and readying you.

He slipped out of his shirt like a snakeskin, slithering down, peeling your pants and panties down to your calves. He popped off your canvas shoes, finished your disrobing, and then stood to take you in, completely naked.

It was the middle of the day. Sunlight crept into your bedroom through sheer curtains. Any other man, any other time, you would have covered up in embarrassment. But, you let him take you in so you could do the same. The creamy, bronze kissed skin of his chest made you ache. The scars all had some history behind them. Dappling of freckles here and there ground him into some sort of reality; confirmed he was in fact human and not some god, come to earth to ruin anyone he touched for anyone else.

He bent down, forced you to maintain eye contact. His tongue flicked out and teased your folds. He savored the taste, smiled, then went to work on you. He talked you through everything he was doing and was planning to do to you. Stopped talking long enough to follow through on his promises. His fingers found that spot deep inside he said would make you crumble for him, come for him, into his mouth. And, you did. Twice. Cause that’s what he said he’d make you do.

You were panting, trying to catch your breath when he rose up and fished his wallet from his back pocket. He tossed a foil wrapper alongside you on the sheets. “Gonna feel so good inside you.” He murmured, taking off his jeans.

“Shit.” You gasped when you finally saw all of him.

He smiled in pride. “Thank you.”

“Dean, I…”

He nodded. “I can already tell it’s gonna be a tight fit, sweetheart.” He bent down and kissed your lips. “We’ll get there. Trust me. Gonna be so much fun getting there.”

He snatched the wrapper, ripped it open, and worked the condom over his hard length. He slid over your body, capturing you between those muscled forearms and kissed you in languid waves.

And, then, he was pushing against your entrance. Steadying atop of you on one forearm while his other hand assisted, seeking a way to penetrate. His held breath released, slow, when he finally breached and made some headway inside.

“Goddamn.” He settled in, listened to your moans. “Alright, sweetheart?”

You nodded and tried to control your breathing. The searing and stretch of him in you was like nothing you’d experienced. “You’re amazing.”

He smiled and kissed your chin. “You’re awesome.”

You made him work hard that afternoon. And he loved every second of it.

He’d come down from the high of his second orgasm a half hour ago. He thought maybe it had been your fourth, but he wasn’t going to ask. You snuggled into his side, the both of you now under the covers, dozing in and out. Tyrion, on occasion, would scratch and meow on the other side of the closed bedroom door. He played with your hair, delaying the inevitable for as long as he could.

You spoke first. “Have a clue where you’re headed next?”

“Uh-uh. We’ve got someone trying to help track Roman. But…” He pinched his nose, “Wild goose chase. Who knows? Maybe Sam will have something when I get back.”

He felt your fingers trace over his anti-possession tattoo. “Dean?”

“Hm?” He was ready for you to ask for details on his tat.

“Do you and Sam ever go on those run of the mill hunts anymore? Or is it all leviathans and angels and demons now?”

He smiled. “All the time. I kind of look forward to a simple ghost hunt every now and then.”

“Do hunters have cold cases they work on?”

“Sometimes. Why?” You felt so good in his arms. Like you fit just right.

Your head lifted up. Your eyes stared into his. “My parents…” Your voice trailed off. “I’ve always had this feeling. The way they died. It didn’t seem…”

It was all you had to say. His arms wrapped you up tight. “How about once Sammy and I take care of these leviathans, I come back and we figure out what happened. Together. Supernatural or not, we get you some answers.”

He wiped a tear from your cheek. You nodded, burying your head back against his chest.

For another hour, Dean closed his eyes and drifted away. In that tiny one-bedroom apartment of yours in Albuquerque that felt like something he could call home. With you.

Sam could wait. The work he had to do on the road could wait. The inevitable sacrifice he’d have to make, again, could wait.

What he wanted, what he wished for, what he dreamed was to be up in the air with you again. In your Baby.

And let you pilot them wherever the wind would lead you both.

THE END

MASTERLIST

#dean winchester x reader #dean winchester fluff #dean winchester angst #dean winchester smut #spnfanficpond #dean x reader #dean winchester pov

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thehobbycollector · 4 years

Text

The Seer and The Wolf - Ch. 2

50 years later

Kestra Nightshade strolled through the towering trees that covered the western foothills of the Cambrian Mountains, munching on an apple. Morning sunlight trickled through the canopy, sparkling over leaves, making her feel like she was walking through a jewelry box. She had forgotten how ridiculously beautiful the land surrounding Doranelle was. Or she had never noticed. It was hard, she supposed, to appreciate beauty when you’d never known anything else. Technically she wasn’t even in Doranelle, but the magic of the Fae kingdom leaked across the mountains here, like ink into water, enhancing everything it touched.

She kept her ears and her magic alert for any danger as she made her way parallel with the mountain range. She had never been to this part of Doranelle, but she remembered Narenes’ stories of the terrors that lived in these woods: wights, and skin walkers, and worse things. She’d grown up in the south-east of Doranelle, on a country estate where the only monsters they had to worry about were rogue Fae or raiders who didn’t understand that Fae females were just as deadly as the males. Narenes’ land had been bordered on the west by a sprawling vineyard, owned by another of Doranelles noble families, on the south by her parents’ land, and on the east by a river. That river marked the eastern border of Doranelle. And had nearly drowned Kestra when she had fled 65 years ago. She’d been a strong swimmer, even then, but the current had pulled her south for miles.

Kestra chucked her finished apple into the underbrush, noting a trail on her left side. She veered away from it slightly and continued her stroll, carefully casual. She was nearing one of the many fortresses Maeve kept in these mountains, and she didn’t know what the sentries patrols looked like, how far they ranged. She had been on the northern coast three weeks ago, debating taking a ship to Erilea, when she’d had a vision of a pretty blonde girl surrounded by demi-Fae, and had felt a tug under her ribs. A sign of her magic pointing her in a specific direction. She did not want to be this close to Doranelle, but her gift hadn’t steered her wrong yet.

She barely remembered her parents, or their home. Her father had died in one of Maeves’ wars when she was three, and her mother had followed her mate into the Afterworld three years later. The ancient and noble Family Nightshade had never been very prolific in bearing offspring, so Kestra had no siblings or cousins to take her in. Narene and Kestras mother, Avenna, had been friends for centuries, working together to defend their lands when their mates were off at war. Even though Narene already had two sons, both 18 years older than Kestra, she had taken her in and raised her as her own, absorbing the Nightshade lands and funds, to be held until Kestra reached her majority. That was the only home she had any memories of: running wild through the countryside, doing her best to keep up with her adopted brothers. Probably annoying the shit out of them every time she used her gift to find them whenever they tried to hide from her.

She smiled slightly at the memories as she topped a rise and stopped to study the fortress before her. It rose up out of the trees, hugging the spine of the mountain slope, three watchtowers of dark stone encircled by a ring of towering rocks and held together by a large connecting building covered in moss and lichen. It looked like one good kick would send it crumbling to the ground. Kestra could practically hear the magical wards humming between those rocks, setting the hair on her back on end. It’d been so long since she’d been anywhere with that kind of warding. She noted males and females in light leather armor patrolling each of the towers, as she started toward the gate.

***

As Kestra entered the large courtyard beyond the wall, a hooded sentry with his sword strapped across his back stepped out of a door and walked up to her. She stopped and let him come to her, watching how he moved, noting every detail in case this went horribly wrong. Being this close to Doranelle was such a bad idea. When he reached her he pulled back his hood and studied her for a moment, also noting every detail: the sword on her back, the pack over it, the various daggers under her ragged cloak, and the dirt, mud, and stains on her leather pants and jacket. Her blue leather pants. His eyes lingered on her legs, noting that color, before he met her gaze.

“Welcome to Mistward. I’m Malakai.”

“Keina,” Kestra offered.

“Well met, Keina,” he said. “What can we do for you?”

“I was hoping I could stay for a while, if there’s a room available,” she glanced around the courtyard, at the figures going about their daily chores.

“I think we can probably find something for you.” He noticed her glance and added, “Everyone here works for their room and board.”

Kestra nodded at the subtle inquiry in his voice. “I trained with the Vareshi Warrior Priestesses for 15 years, and have walked off about a dozen battlefields. But I’ll take any work you give me.”

Malakai nodded and turned back toward the fortress. “Come with me.”

He led her past the door he had come out of and around a corner to another door at ground level. The top half of it was open, providing a view of a large kitchen filled with work tables and shelves crammed with chipped serving and cookware. Another male was busy layering ingredients into a pan, and chatting with someone she couldn’t see through the open door. He looked up as they entered.

Malakai gestured to her, “This is Keina. Keina this is Emrys, my mate.” Kestra nodded her greeting and acknowledgement of the warning in Malakais voice. He turned to Emrys. “Keina needs a room.”

“I’ll see she gets one,” Emrys responded with a smile for Kestra, and a softer one for Malakai. The sentry stepped closer to his mate and kissed him softly.

“I’m on patrol this afternoon, I’ll be back for dinner.” He turned to Kestra as he headed back out the door. “You’ll be on rotation starting tomorrow. Second shift until you’re familiar with the area. Training ring is on the other side of the fortress, be there at seven.”

“Thanks,” she said to his back as he disappeared.

“Hungry?” Emrys asked. She turned to look at him, and he gestured to a work table covered in platters of food. “Help yourself. We’re between breakfast and lunch, eat as much as you want.”

“Thanks,” Kestra repeated. She grabbed a plate and loaded it down with potatoes, eggs, bread, tomatoes, and a pile of bacon. Emrys waved his hand toward a table on the side of the kitchen that she hadn’t noticed before, where a pretty blonde was sitting holding a cup of tea. The girl from her vision. Her long hair fell past her shoulders, pinned at the sides to keep it out of her face. Her skin was tan from time spent in the sun. Kestra smiled at her as she slid onto the bench across the table, noting her eyes: turquoise, ringed with gold. “Hi, I’m Keina.”

“I’m Evalin,” she smiled back. She took a drink of her tea, allowing Kestra time to dig into her food. Here was another thing she had forgotten: the utter deliciousness of food prepared by the Fae. Her tongue could taste every layer of flavor and spice that had been lovingly blended into everything, even as she covertly studied the girl across from her. She was wearing a tunic and pants, well made of high quality fabric, with subtle details stitched at the cuffs and collars. The pins holding her hair up would have cost a small fortune, but she wore them casually. Kestra noted her rounded ears, but her scent… not entirely human. The girl, Evalin, seemed to be studying her too. Eventually, Evalin spoke.

“What brings you to Mistward?”

Kestra shrugged as she paused her eating to drink from her own tea. “Nothing, really. I’m a bit of a wanderer.”

From the other side of the kitchen Emrys asked, “Where all have you been?”

Kestra took another bite of bacon and thought it over. The information was probably harmless. “Varesh, Akkadia, Ishmalen, Karstok, Amarna…” she mixed up the order, just in case. “And all the little places in between.”

Evalins brows rose slightly at the list of kingdoms that were spread across most of their world, and Emrys let out a soft whistle. “That’s quite a bit of travel to do on your own,” he said. She noted the question implied in the comment.

“I trained with the Vareshi Warrior Priestesses for 15 years, “she repeated what she had told Malakai. “I can handle myself.”

Evalin sighed across the table. “I wanted to be a Vareshi Warrior Priestess when I was a kid. Do they really walk around the Vareshi temple wearing only their weapons?”

Kestra heard Emrys choke as she snorted her tea, and grabbed a napkin to wipe off her face before answering. “No,” she laughed. “Though their style of dress could be considered scandalous in most areas of the world. Blue leather leggings under a black skirt split up both legs to allow for easier movement in battle, and either a short shirt showing the midriff or just a breast band,” she explained.

“No armor?” Evalin asked.

Kestra shook her head. “According to temple code, armor is only for acolytes or the untrained. The theory is that true warriors are so skilled they don’t need armor, and every wound acquired is a lesson in where you let your guard down. I always thought it was kind of stupid, especially since most of the priestesses are human…” she trailed off and shrugged again. She had never really understood that rule. Not when armor would have provided them a better advantage in battle. But she had to admit, their training went a long way toward keeping the priestesses alive. There was a reason they were famous across the world.

She looked at Evalin again, “why didn’t you go train with them, if you wanted to be one?”

The girl sighed. “According to my father, princesses aren’t warriors.” Kestra cocked a brow at the word princess, and Evalin added, “My family rules Wendlyn.”

Both of Kestras brows rose at that. Her magic had sent her to meet an Ashryvver? This definitely was a bad idea. The Ashryvvers were related to Maeve through one of her sister-queens. She couldn’t remember which one. “What are you doing at Mistward?”

Evalin fiddled with her tea cup, glancing at Emrys. “My brother is the Crown Prince, so while I’m a princess of the realm, I don’t really have any… responsibilities at home. I came to Mistward to learn more about the demi-Fae, since I technically am one.” She sat forward and crossed her arms on the table in front of her. “Did you know that Maeve doesn’t allow them into Doranelle?”

There was an ever so slight tinge of disgust in Evalins voice when she mentioned Maeves name, that made Kestra sit up straighter. She shook her head at the question. She couldn’t remember having ever met a demi-Fae when she had lived in Doranelle, though she knew they existed. Mostly in places like the City of Rivers, Doranelles capitol. Humans were allowed into the cities for trade, but they were rarely seen in the countryside where she had grown up.

“Only purebred Fae are allowed to live in Doranelle,” Evalin went on, warming to a topic she had clearly discussed many times. “The demi-Fae are relegated to places like this, on the border between Doranelle and Wendlyn. She lets a few special demi-Fae into her kingdom, if they’re powerful enough, but that’s it. I may have initially come to learn about my heritage, but I decided to stay for a while to help them.”

Kestra tried not to gape at the girl. “You’re… in contact with Maeve?”

Evalin grimaced. “I’ve sent her a few letters. She’s only written back once. She won’t deign to leave her palace in the City of Rivers. Not even for me.” She shifted in her seat. “She’s being remarkably unhelpful, even for her. So, I’ve started lobbying with my family to increase the demi-Faes rights in Wendlyn. The Fae might belong to her, but technically they live in Wendlyn. And should have the same rights as the other citizens.”

Kestra stared at the princess. She didn’t know what to say. This was… What the hell was she doing here? She glanced side-long at Emrys, diligently working on another dish and pointedly trying to look like he wasn’t listening to this conversation. Her gift had brought her into contact with a Wendlynian princess, who was related to Maeve, and… clearly didn’t like her. Kestra looked back at Evalin and asked, casually, “Want some help?”

#fanfic #fenrys #throne of glass #sjm fandom #feedback

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blankdblank · 5 years

Text

Glass Heart

Tale Teller 52 wk challenge - Wk 5

Warning – Emotional Loneliness, Brooding/Agitated Thorin, Judgmental Durins/Dwarves

Modern Thorin x my OC

… This is pt 1, hope you like it :D ...

A nasally giggle and a pat of a sturdy hand just a bit too far away from a crossed knee and your heart string gave a pained twang. Averting your eyes from the sight of your cousin Lei still continuing her habit of flirting shamelessly with your boyfriends the harbor view on this family cruise you had been forced into for a week long reunion beckoned you lying that it could keep your mind off the pair. But as always a seed of doubt was planted. Would it grow or would it be weeded out? The answer seemed to be all too clear due to your tumultuous past with your cousin, yet you would try to continue on pretending you believed otherwise.

Wrong, so painfully wrong. The perfect man you had been sold on years prior. So good for your image in the fledgling years of your career with all the right connections for you sat at what should be your birthday dinner turned into a black tie event, one of dozens being your only time with him these days in the growth of his own career as a lawyer. In a painfully pinching dress coated in bunches of pearls across the layered sheer nude material strapped up with a collar that would strangle you if you sat up to straight or turned certain ways you sat. Topped by a silver pearl necklace matching the heirloom silver pearl ring he had gifted you in a sign of his commitment to hold off engagement just a bit longer.

Each plate containing yet another dish you knew to have been chosen by your cousin, just like this glass formed monument to ‘simplicity’ forming the gaudiest show of idiocy she could possibly muster up. Lowering your eyes you forced your stomach not to growl at the untouched course of stomach churning food being taken away from you in the clear lull in food signaling the fetching of your possibly horrendous birthday cake.

The room filled with chatter and the grin on your face flinched a bit wider at the return of the conversation with the trio of head lawyers at the firm your boyfriend was sucking up to, the entirety of which filled this room with their wives and current flings. None closer to you than a passing face past the head of the firm as father to your best friend from school, all mingled in with the twenty odd relatives from your deceased mother’s half Elven side of the family and his heavily opinionated brood.

On your left again clearly as day a comment of marriage came up from the head of the firm was promptly followed by a nasally giggle in the familiar patting of that same hand now making your skin burn as it hit her upper thigh on the leg crossed forcing a patch of skin to appear between her thigh high boots and barely ass covering dress similar to yours but far more see through. Lowly he crooned in the long standing ‘joke’ of theirs, “Sometimes with a family like this, it begs one to wonder which is the right choice.”

In a mind of its own your hand rose to unhook your necklace and ease your ring off you left silently in the center of your plate in a silent rise, one motion, his mother and the men from the family oriented firm around you took in perfectly, all watching your stroll far from unnoticed by all but your relatives and now, ex-boyfriend. Tears welled up in your eyes and in his continued joking the invisible burns across your skin lulled just a tad through the short drive in the waiting car for you outside taking you straight to the duplex you shared with your ex. Up the stairs you trotted and in the closet you instantly unhooked the dress that dropped to your ankles.

Shivering through a tear rolling down your cheek ruining the pound of makeup on your face forced on you for the horrid occasion you stepped out of the dress you hung back up. Planting your hand on the wall by the hook it rested on you reached down to remove your shoes that came with the dress you put back into the box. Sniffling in your underwear you moved to collect hidden duffel bag you hastily filled with all your jeans and shirts, all that you hadn’t been gifted by any relatives friends or your ex.

There wasn’t much left through the apartment that was yours, and wrapped in old jeans, boots and a sweater when you had scrubbed your face and torn the painful pins binding back your long curls that fell down to your waist nearly and bounced around you in your flurry down the stairs to the garage. There your fully owned powder blue Audi was loaded up with the blankets and pillows stripped from your bed your ex refused to sleep on you tossed your bag onto alongside your box of sketches and designs in dozens of notebooks.

This was his last chance, a final night you hoped he could show that he cared. All you left him was a simple note, “I’m done. It has never been a joke to me. Now you don’t have to choose. Anything that is left is all you have given me, if you don’t want it, give it away.”

A safe car length nearly to the next state over you missed the return of your ex along with his closest relatives, all of whom saw the random scattered items missing along with the wall of portraits, your place in each group picture marked out with the couple photos cut in half and those just containing you were missing entirely. Now they were housed in a box in your trunk half full of the shattered glass from when you had thrown them there.

Lost in denial he tore through the apartment fully realizing why his boss now had left without a word to him taking all his coworkers with him just moments before the planned reveal of the cake, when he noticed you had left. It took looking over the film recorded of the night for him to realize you hadn’t eaten and when you had left exactly. In his apartment, once yours, he sat in a sea of memories finally realizing what he had done and with confirmation your studio had been cleared out weeks prior he knew there was no chance for him to get you back.

…

Family is family, and from one deceased relative to another, just as you had planned your car was driven inside a carrier plane and up to the passenger seating you made your way handing over your paperwork to be stamped and passed back. Wringing your fingers for the day long flight you sat in your own private booth with windows covered freeing you to silently sob into your pillow at all the time you had wasted on the pair of them.

Weeks now you had planned your escape, your paternal grandfather was off to his fatherland to join his brothers for the passing of their father that was a long time coming. His return less than likely anytime soon, so beforehand he left all he had to you, including a patch of land long since used with ruins from back before the First Age in what was the beginning of a garden courtyard outside his far from sturdy family home he had raised your father and his brothers in. Your uncles, all of whom traveled along with him would miss your arrival but as promised they had passed you information for a rental home you would be assured for as long as you needed it from a clan always very close to yours not far from your grandfather’s land housing your new studio.

All day you let go and settled into your notebook of floor plans and rebuild notes. Two centuries you saved up and finally you could take a break, especially with the cash flowing in from your touring show now on display in Vanyar Regency Art Museum. With full copies of the clan family home floor plans and sketches you had made of pictures you had been given of each room inside. It had all been emptied into the great barn for storage recently refurbished freeing up the house to be repaired. Thousands of feet encased and formed from solid grey stones with empty doorways and window arches now coated in tarps easing your ability to do repairs to the seemingly spacious castle of a dwelling.

Safely landed in the airstrip you drove out of the carrier and followed the route your Uncle had given you for the safest path. Miles of green and pines surrounded you already making you feel at home from your few years of living here until your mother had forced custody away from him and you were left to her family when the pair had passed within a few months of one another. The closer you got the more you felt him with you again almost stirring tears to your eyes again on the simple drive with miles stretching filled with random clan castles surrounded by scattered smaller cottages. Your castle being closest to the town with the empty lot straight on many a path to town or back out of it meaning you had to do things right.

Curiously the new bright car in town turning many a head along the way and stirring up whispers as to who the new addition to their formerly stagnant rumor mill until one of the main clans had been seen as abandoning their clan’s land under the force of some money loaded Elleth supposedly talented enough to have earned it all. You had been talked up to the Durins especially, the owners of the cottage you would be renting and the entire town was adamant to let you know just what they thought of having to be hospitable to you.

Sure the plans, while deemed authentic by fulfilling the initial plans of the designs from your founding clan father, had been approved by the council of clans due to the historic classification of that strip. A feat not applicable to the lands your family home was plotted on, one that you were grateful not to have gone through the process again so you could do all you pleased to the castle without any argument. Though still the town was settled upon hating you for all of eternity deciding that all you did was always going to fall short of what the founding father had planned. Just another Elf trying to butt into where they didn’t belong.

.. * ..

“Why do I have to go?!”

Diaa turned to her son Thorin saying, “Because you are free and no doubt Dis would scare the woman off right away before the ground will even be broken.”

Thorin rolled his eyes, “I still do not see why I have to be the one to welcome the woman.”

Her brow arched up, “Thorin, she is renting our cottage, one of us must go.”

“Balin is so much better suited-,”

Dia rolled her eyes, “Then take him with you and silently brood through his speaking with her.”

Thorin huffed and turned around heading out to find Balin and give him the news that he had been roped into this as well. Down the steps and through a winding set of halls he found Balin, who all but choked on his tea in hearing the decision Diaa had made, no doubt at the reluctance of his younger cousin. When the last of his tea was gone Thorin drew the keys from his pocket saying, “Come on, our tenant awaits.”

Balin rolled his eyes following Thorin through the door mumbling under his breath, “You could handle this alone.”

Thorin grumbled back, “I heard that.”

“Good! It’s true you giant goat!” A growl was his only response in the path they took to the truck outside.

A short drive later, in the midst of his humming a far too childish tune in honor of a believed lost friend on her birth week, and following the road up to a hilly patch of their land they spotted a pale blue car making Thorin huff again, “Of course that’s what they’re driving.”

Balin, “I am certain those are very sensible cars for the city.”

Thorin scoffed, “Not much for country living. Hopefully it means they don’t intend to stay long.”

Balin, “You and I both know she’s leased ours for six months at least.”

Thorin turned the wheel again for another bend, “Good. One can only hope we have fair weather to hasten their departure. Blacklock workers are agreeing to aid in the swapping of those beams you know! Traitors!”

Balin, “Honestly, they are repairing the clan castle, what if she is simply the overseer in their absence and leaving once it is complete, what then with all your brooding and insults?”

“My mood will affect nothing.”

Balin chortled, “Not if Diaa keeps choosing you for our spokesperson.”

“Let’s hope not.”

Making Balin smirk to himself, “Aye.”

. * .

Peering at your rear view mirror behind you the blue truck made you draw in a deep breath and flex your fingers around the wheel. It had been centuries and still those blue eyes lingered in your mind. Trapped in the body of a scowling teen refusing to sit still and learn who you were before racing off to go wrestle with his cousins in your first memory with him. Tall dark and brooding with a far too gangly frame to be a Casanova early on in his youth. But in pictures from your uncles and cousins to keep you in the loop to small town life you felt your heart race always in seeing those bright eyes and brooding expression on a far from recognizable body earning a squeak from you in your first spotting it. The drop dead gorgeous Durin no doubt wouldn’t remember you and why should he, being here for all of your infancy and little of your childhood, barely a noticeable creature.

Then again deep down you hoped he might, somewhere it might click who you belonged to, even in your far from appealing beardless state, the only female in your clan to be so. Exhaling slowly you made the last turn only to have your mouth fall open at the three story cottage wrapped in floor to ceiling windows between securing arches and frames. “Oh no.” A deep sigh left you in a flickering memory of one of your former houses with someone sprinting across your lawn to dive through your living room window in the dead of night tearing you from a nap after a long flight for work. Thoroughly spoiling you for windows at night ever since, even when explained as a dare a group of drunken frat boys had thought up believing the astoundingly clean windows to be open arches.

Parking in the driveway you caught the truck pulling in only to turn around facing the other way before parking, as if they meant to toss the keys at you then flee. But they stepped out and instantly you knew just who they were, inside your car you forced in another deep breath and then opened your door to step out. A grin eased onto your face in your usual nervous habit only for Balin’s eyes to lock on yours seeing the familial purple shade under your telling pitch black curls parting his lips. Though in his haste Thorin crossed the distance then plainly stated in the common tongue, “We do apologize for our abrupt meeting, though we’ve a schedule to keep. It is fully furnished and hopefully up to your standards.”

Before you could say a simple thanks your hand curled around the keys he dangled from his fingers and he turned back to the truck making you look to Balin who nodded his head saying, “Miss, please do call us if you find anything amiss.”

You nodded and watched him turn to claim his place in the truck, that when driving away missed the tear rolling down your cheek in your turn to head for the front door. Wiping your cheek you strolled through the thick wood and took in each detail of the warmly furnished spacious cottage you no doubt didn’t need all of due to the countless sleepless nights you would be toiling away unable to sleep until some headway had been made. After moving your things into the master bedroom closet you rolled up your sleeves and made your way down back to the driveway after locking up to head out on foot to your family home through a back path.

. * ,

Balin, “That was less than hospitable.”

Thorin, “I gave her the keys. What else could she have needed?”

Balin scoffed, “Perhaps a tour of the place, few tips on how best to get to town or how to manage the storm shutters if needed.”

Thorin, “Those shutters are programmed to seal on their own when rain is called for. No need for explanation. Besides, our town is so small, I doubt she will be spending much time exploring it when so much is to be done on the properties.”

Balin sighed unable to forget the color he now convinced your eyes to have been in that momentary meeting of yours. “Auntie Diaa will not be pleased about this.”

Thorin glanced his way only to look back refusing to think of that right now.

. * .

A million memories seemed to flood back all at once in the gentle sway of the tall grass. In the distance a grey castle with a tall tower in which you would imagine yourself guarded by a fierce dragon hoping for a Prince to save you. But of course not just any Prince, a tall broad and sturdy Prince no doubt scowling from the heat and weariness forced upon him for the journey there.

Curses would fill the air in the frenzied try to best the beast and in a trick of luck the dragon would be trapped then granted a moment of mercy, the action gaining the dragon’s blessing for your union. Surely then there would be a great deal more cussing on the maze like search for your tower top room and with a hefty drop his stained and scuffed armor would fall and he would collapse at your feet. Hours later he would awaken from his slumber to find a blanket stretched over himself and a hearty stew roasting atop the stove in your lush abode. A simple gesture, all you could offer in return for his feat. But a generous helping of stew later and you would be coiled tenderly in his arms, for a few tender moments at least until his bear like snoring would begin through your nonsensical sleep induced humming for a joint nap before you decided to ride off into the unknown for the beginning to your happily ever after.

Well, you were here, strolling through the castle open to the elements should you remove the tarps. Lost in what could have been. You had the castle, a Mithril dragon etched into the front gate, and still your Prince remained agitated as ever with a scowl that could make a bulldog flinch into a grin to sate his anger. Though your Prince had clearly forgotten his task, or that damn raven had taken off with your plea for help now no doubt as nest trimmings.

The ever hopeful romantic, you cradled your poor fragile heart in your hands still holding to the girlhood love you held for your enforced babysitter on not one but four occasions. A fellow music lover who fell hard and fast for the storybook you carried around reading religiously once you had learned the talent, a precious gift from your gran before she passed, Alice in Wonderland. The books the film adaptation and even on one sitting occasion your Prince had been forced into a tux to take you to the quirky musical rendition with magical effects, acrobats, wires and all due to the diligent workings of The Wizards Grey and Brown theatre company. Those pictures you cherished kept alongside the ticket stub for the occasion as well as the pressed petals from the flower from his lapel he took off afterwards not caring what happened to it.

For a few precious hours with him you were his Princess and your protective Warrior Prince was utterly devoted to your safety and every desire. It was an odd relationship though, entirely forced but since that day in passing the tune of Painting the Roses Red could be heard in passing whistles and random quotes and drawings would be left for the other. All along with an unspoken agreement that when eating in The Cave town diner at the same time all his toppings forced into his favorite burger would be stolen by you in the reminder from his gran to ensure he ate them.

But your relationship was even odder now, as all that seemingly had been wiped clean out of his memory. No doubt the centuries had done little to coax a grin out of him at the passing of his father but you had hoped he would at least recognize you. A deep sigh left your lungs and you stared off up through the doorway into the attached intricate wrought iron lined greenhouse near ruin and overtaken by plants and weeds with broken windows all around leading to the path out to the secured future garden and you relented that you would have to wait. They would have to remember you eventually, and you could do nothing but wait until the usual walls fell and you were greeted kindly by that giant scowling teddy bear of a dwarf. Centuries you had hoped you would fall out of love with those deep heartbreaking blue eyes of his yet here you stood still pitifully hoping that even in a glare they would be focused on you.

Through the tall grass you wandered until a familiar statue of your forefather stood in a circle of seated bears marking what would be the center of the courtyard for the new garden you would bring to life. With lips parted you moved closer peering up at the copper statue in good need of a polishing, though greatly protected by the townspeople from rains along with the bears around him they would cover with spare tarps. No matter the inconvenience it was common courtesy for all clan fathers, a showing of respect for them and their descendents. Reaching out your fingertips felt at the layer of moss growing up around his feet testing its give until your eyes dropped to the trail of four small black bear footprints tattooed diagonally up to your palm on the underside of your wrist.

Drawing your hands back you tugged your hair back into a high messy bun before you turned back to the large cart you had been pulling behind you sinking into the tall grass outside the circle where you fetched the shovel there leaving the other tools beside the cart. Turning around you drew in a deep breath and extended your hand hearing a tearing of earth in the rolling back of the grass within the circle that bounced out of it forming a sort of ring around it. The lumpy earth hardened and against the original design sat a good six feet above what it should hiding the intended and unformed full base of the statues. A single hard shove later and you scooped up a shovel full of dirt you turned to toss into the three foot deep cart ignoring the growing number of Dwarves on the plot of land across yours in the distance on their way to town.

One shovel full at a time you uncovered more and more of the circle clearing a good two feet around the statues as well by the time the third car full of Dwarves did a slow drive by to guess what you were doing. Two feet was all you got until you hit what your forefather had adored of this location, massive slabs of black fire opals split jaggedly from the explosions of the wars centuries prior occurring after you had left that had torn through this town, part of how your family home had fallen to such disrepair for lack of funds to repair the damage. Leaving the shovel aside you bit your lip and planted your hands on the end of the slab in front of your knees when you lowered, a mental tug later and the earth under it rose up lifting the slab you secured before letting the earth fall again.

On the ground around the circle you set the first stone soon added by more when you moved back to grip the second and raise the two hundred pound foot thick slab up to set it on top of the other. Groaning and grumbling to yourself eventually the first layer was cleared and you found a harder patch of dirt bringing you back to grab your shovel outside the dip you were in. Each shovel full burned and hurt in the aftermath of moving the slabs, at least for a bit until the second layer of stone was found, this one in a gorgeously stone filled near boulder-like soil that would be perfect to hold the base to the centerpiece. Around the statues were oddly jagged clumps of black opals sitting dully in their unshapen form inside a circle of uneven walls of the layered gem and earth walls around you.

In a reach out you moved to the side of the cart to grab your shaping tools in a bag you pulled down inside to begins on the walls. In firm strokes focusing on the earth in the stones you smoothed the edges into a perfectly rounded circle in staggered layers forming wide steps up. After this you moved to the bases of the statues working each into a more rounded shape you worked down more into rimmed mini pillars with your crest and a traditional scene from the tale of how your founder uncovered his companion, the bear to be with him and his kin for all of their days. The bears’ pillars much simpler in design but still coated in the traditional runes enforcing their promised protection on him and your kin.

Exhaling steadily you climbed out of the pit and glanced over to the land across from yours seeing an even larger number of onlookers who saw you drop your bag on the stack of slabs closest to you before your hand waves to tear back another patch of grass nearly to the street nearly fifty yards away. Lowering down you grabbed a bag of stake markers with painted tips along with spools of thread.

… * …

Gruffly Dwalin looked on with the others gathering across from your lot asking, “Well she didn’t miss any time getting an early start there, did she?”

Bofur shook his head, “It would appear not.”

Thorin, fresh from reporting he had handed over the keys to his mother crossed his arms glaring daggers at you shoveling dirt from the waist deep pit you were in. “What is she doing?”

Gloin, eyeing the diagram you had sent in to the council months prior said, “Must be for the center pit.”

Thorin leaned over to peer on at the diagram, “How deep is the damn thing?”

Gloin eyed the notes closer mumbling, “Six, feet? No, that can’t be right. It would flood.”

Dwalin huffed, “Let’s hope that our brilliant architect can master that problem before our first deluge.”

Thorin huffed again only for Balin to roll his eyes, “I am certain that lovely young woman can do a great deal more than you all are granting her credit for.”

Thorin and Dwalin both looked at him for the latter to ask, “And just what has you on her side all of a sudden?”

Balin shook his head, “Just a hunch.”

Thorin rolled his eyes, “You and Amad with your hunches.” Turning his head back to glare at you again only to have his mouth drop open at the first slab of black opal you carried almost effortlessly out of the pit.

Dwalin, “That’s got to be hundreds of pounds!” Balin chuckled watching your turn to head back to the pit again unaffected by the weight to their eyes.

... * …

More and more grass was moved back and using the bear statues as markers you marked out the first entering path along with the strips of dirt you would also be tearing out to place the planters. Starting narrowly near the bears in joining points to branch out widely through the intended courtyard out to where you would set the support beams for the overlapping cover. Each selected beam location you began to tirelessly dig out the required depth, at first with the shovel before using your control over the earth to free each spot, the last one just in time for a truck to drive up with a flatbed loaded with the timber pillars you had chosen.

A soft giggle left you in the arrival of an old friend of your cousins, tall broad and blonde, head of the Broadbeam clan who lowered with arms extended folding around you in a tight hug ending with a peck on your cheek, “Turo, excellent timing.”

He chuckled lowly looking you over in pulling back, “I see you’ve not wasted a moment and we couldn’t have picked a better time to show.”

..*..

The embrace stirred a deep growling exhale from Thorin, who scarcely understood why he had given the sound at all. Though the amusement from Balin at the noise died with the focus from the others upon your aiding the small team of men carrying the five ton pillars into place you then raised up to drop easily into the holes you had formed that fit just right and were sealed in after with your Dwarven ability to shift the earth and stone the team shared and aided you with. As soon as they had arrived the team seemed to vanish, along with you once shockingly to the onlookers surprise the states were removed from their seats and carefully loaded onto the flatbed.

Thorin, “Did, they just-,”

Balin, “Aye.”

Dwalin, “No one is ever mean to remove those statues.”

Balin, “I’m certain she has good meaning to.”

Thorin, “She better!” he growled out again joining the others in turning away while in the distance another truck could be seen arriving to aid you in removing the roof and ruined beams in the castle.

…*…

“We put them down in here.” You guided the men through the doors of your studio to set down the statues in their preset stands for proper refurbishing after so long without them causing the metal to weaken.

One after another they were settled down and left with a respectful whisper from you stirring a long since seen lighting of their eyes showing that they understood. Once covered with sheets you joined the men with tool belt in hand to start in pulling up the metal shingles for the roof across the full castle to free up access to the beams. Hours you slaved on doing so and well until nightfall rusted hinges and bolts were released and worn metal beams were melted down and fresh beams raised up into place and shaped to fit perfectly for the top three floors by your team after a team of four went to ensure the solid stone carved lowest basement floor walls were unaffected by time or the terrible wars.

The following morning the lowest level of timber and wooden supports for the roof for over the metal ones you had swapped out would arrive along with the rest of the roofing supplies. In the loneliness of the team abandoning you for the night you returned to your shop where you sat on the wheeled stool and uncovered the first of the bears you named with a grin, “Now, let’s get you shining again.” The glow in its eyes returning in your soft hum to yourself in grabbing your polishing tools to rub off the ages until it had a soft glow in the moonlight shining through the glass sunroof shaped in a dome in the center of the hive shaped shop. One by one you had the bears glowing gently through the low echoing hums from them joining in your song while you started on your forefather’s boots.

... Pt 2 ...

All – @himoverflowers, @theincaprincess, @aspiringtranslator, @sweeticedtea, @ggbbhehe4455, @thegreyberet, @patanghill17, @jesgisborne, @curvestrology, @alishlieb, @jogregor, @armitageadoration, @fizzyxcustard, @here2have-fun, @lilith15000, @marvels-ghost, @catthefearless, @imjusthereforthereads, @c-s-stars

x Thorin – @evyiione, @deepestfirefun, @queenoferebor

@sdavid09

#Thorin x OC #Hobbit #lotr #Tale Teller's 52 Week Writing Challenge

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thecreativeangel · 5 years

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aut neca aut necare: VI

Peter Parker x Fem!Reader

*Please don’t plagiarize my work, thank you :3*

Summary: You try once more to apologize to Peter (not successfully) and Spiderman thinks it’s a good idea to bring up your family.

Warnings: A hoe needs D E P R E S S O

Words: 3.1k wow i need a life

Previous Chapter Next Chapter

“Hi Peter. Sorry I got in a completely meaningless fight with you and brought up the death of your parents. We're cool, right?”

Yeah, that wasn't going to pass. You stared with half bleary eyes at the phone in your hand, a paragraph long text message highlighted in blue, about to be deleted. This was the fifth…sixth? Sixth attempt at an astounding apology that would make Peter so emotional he’d forgive you in an instant. So far, everything you wrote turned out to be shit. Every text was too long, too pathetic and clingy. And it became apparent to you that as of recently, your texts to Peter had to be perfect. Even before the fight you’d been double checking the spelling, triple checking to make sure there weren’t too many emojis.

Is adding a period too formal? Too strict? And yes, you knew very well why you were acting like this but refused to say it out loud.

After huffing through your nose, you pressed delete and half an hour’s worth of typing was gone. The sound of heavy boats cutting through water was really helping right then, to calm nerves and such. You closed your eyes and dangled your feet over the side of the warehouse. The tracker you'd put on one of Kim’s “henchmen” (could a high school student really have henchmen?) had been still for two hours now, and the video you could get on your phone was of the spider-tracker crawling up and down a man’s pant leg. The doors were locked. The live feed was silent, save for the man pacing; he was alone.

A boat horn rang through the night air, startling a cat that was sleeping on the fence down below. That reminds me, you thought. Haven't gone to Delmar’s in a while. Your phone screen’s light illuminated your face, the blank text box ever present. Okay, go simple. Don't be a dumbass. Straight to the point. I've got this. Your fingers moved nimbly by themselves, typing out the shortest thing you could think of.

“‘I'm sorry’ isn't enough right now, I know. See you at school.”

You hit send and watched the text until “delivered” appeared in small blue letters right below. Was that too up front? Probably. Was he going to forgive you because of one text, no matter how long? No. Never. You looked up at the stars and sighed, feeling a cold gust of wind flow past your cheeks. With the mask off, details about your surroundings were more clear. Everything was in high definition, but that made it hard to focus. Spidey was right; your senses were dialed up to 11, too much input and not enough capacity for storage.

Looking back down at your phone, you saw that “delivered” had changed to “read”.

Peter already saw what you wrote. He didn't bother to reply.

You made a high pitched scream at the back of your throat, frustration and shame warming your cold cheeks. I’m an idiot! Of course he still hates me- I brought up his fucking dead parents! I was the first person he opened up to after they died, and now I’ve gone and fucked up. You kicked your legs over the side of the warehouse and laid spread angled on the tin roof. This was the warehouse you’d been visiting for a few days now. Almost a week. It was only half a mile from where you saw the tall grey alien talk to Kimberly and her bosses. Sure, you should be more careful than texting while hunting down dangerous criminals, but after a few days of spending nightly hours on the roof, it had grown boring. Tame. The giant garage door was locked and from a tiny crack in the wall you only saw a giant, empty warehouse.

You were close to giving up when a car pulled into the alley on your side of the roof. A boy stepped out, loudly smacking on gum and locking the car equally loudly. Still laying down, you peeked over the side of the roof. He, a younger kid, by the sound of it, was with a girl. She talked quickly, nervously. A lazy grin slid across your face; Kimberly was never good at whispering.

“Spit that shit out before I make you,” she finally snapped. You heard a “whooey” sound and a wet splat, meaning he did as told.

“It calms me down,” he explained serenely, as if appeasing a toddler. “Maybe you should try it, since you’re so worked up. Maybe you’ll stop annoying dad all the time.”

The garage doors slid up, rumbling so badly you felt the tremors in your entire body. Their voices faded and before they did, you heard Kimberly retort: “Dad likes me better anyway.” So that’s Kim’s brother? The three menacing, scary hooded figures that talked to the grey alien were a...family? SERIOUSLY?

“Hey,” a voice hissed, poking your shoulder. On reflex, you blindly grabbed (an...arm?) and threw them away, fully prepared to then launch yourself at the target because if they wanted to fight then-

“Ow, what the fuck!” Spidey gasped, holding his bruised bicep.

“Shit- don’t sneak up on me like that!” you cried.

“Why-” he seemed to wince, rubbing the sore spot. “D’you always try an’ kill people when they do that?!”

“Well I was kind of in the middle of something!” you argued, glancing nervously over the ledge at the half dozen parked vans. “Friggin’ intense bad guy shit was happening and you just sneak up on me outta nowhere…”

“What’s intense is your grip,” Spidey murmured, rolling his shoulder. “Is that ‘cause of your powers or are you a gym rat?”

“Okay Mr. ‘I Can Stop A Moving Train’,” you said, putting a hand on your hip. "Not everyone knows how to control their strength.”

He snickered and plopped down on the ledge of the warehouse. “No seriously. Powers or its always been like that?”

“Uh…” you sat down next to him. “Powers I think. Dunno, I’ve always been able to slap a bitch who needs it.”

Spidey pouted under his mask. “Aww, am I your bitch?”

You had to bite the inside of your cheek to keep from cackling. “Say that again, but slowly.”

“Am I y- oh,” he laughed awkwardly. “Whoops. Welp, guess this partnership is terminated. Nice knowing you, I’m going to go kill myself now.”

The boisterous laugh finally escaped your lips, all thoughts of Peter leaving your conscious. Spiderman made a gun with his hand, held it to the side of his head and jerked his thumb back as if pulling a trigger. “Now that my sidekick knows I’m an idiot, might as well drop being Spiderman, right?”

“Sidekick?” you managed to scoff between giggles. “Please. I’m the dominant one in this relationship.”

“Kinky.”

The tips of your ears suddenly felt hot. “S-shut up!”

Spidey laughed when you shoved his shoulder, rolling your eyes under your mask. “That’s not what I meant, dammit! I’m like the biggest virgin you’ll ever- Stop laughing!”

He kept doing so but somehow, you felt lighter than you’d been a few minutes ago. Free. Like a kid. Which was odd, because this was a nightly patrol and Kim was right below- “We need to get down there.”

The lighthearted aura was sucked from the air. “Huh?”

“I’m supposed to be down there! I was going to sneak in and- and now we’re talking about bullshit when we could be doing something!”

“Oh-kay crazy,” he dismissed you with a wave of his hand. “I called the police, they’ll be here in less than an hour. All we have to do is make sure they don’t leave the premises.”

You frowned inside your mask, thankful that it didn’t change to show facial expressions like his did. How could this superhero, especially one who was known to deviate from law enforcement, sit here and wait for people to do work for him? People who were defenseless unless they were armed with a weapon, no less. You impatiently tapped a gloved hand on your thigh, ears perking up to the muffled arguing that traveled up a nearby air vent.

“Go patrol the city,” Spidey suggested, tapping commands into the sensors on his wrist. “Better that than sitting here and doing nothing. I’ll call you if I need backu-”

“No way,” you said sternly. “I’m gonna kick their asses myself if they try to escape. Not leaving.”

“Don’t- you shouldn’t hurt them, they’re just doing their job,” he said finally, after at least five minutes of thick silence.

“They’re dangerous-”

“So are you,” he fired back. You drew away, fingers tightening around the ledge in surprise. He must have noticed the outburst was uncalled for because he released a shaky sigh. “So am I. We’re dangerous, you know that- right? Only difference between us and them is that we aren’t desperate enough to go into that line of work.”

You bristled at that. “That’s a damn big difference.”

“Not a hard line to cross, though,” Spidey noted, ceasing his tapping of instructions. “People do shit when they’re desperate. For money, for safety, for family…” he looked away from the skyline horizon and turned to you. “I’d do a lot for my family, more than I’d ever tell you about.”

“Well,” you said frankly. “That hurts a bit. Thanks, man.”

“You’ve been getting more...reckless,” he said, “The whole fiasco with the United Nations-”

“I told you that wasn’t me!”

Peter said the same thing, about the United Nations. About the little epic failure you achieved in one night. He was wrong, though; you were framed, it was synthetic smoke. Who was trying to make you Public Enemy #1? You didn’t know and it was killing you. Maybe I should tell Peter about this superhero gig. He could help me deal with it, I guess, you considered the notion. That’d be a huge chip off my shoulder. Too bad I was a complete dumbass and ruined the friendship with one stupid fucking offhand comment-

“Okay, say it wasn’t,” Spidey said patiently, drawing you out of the stream of furious thoughts. “But you stole from that jewelry store a while back.”

“I stopped a potential robbery!” you said defiantly. “He was an idiot for trying to steal at Fifth Avenue- who the hell does that? A-and I only took one little diamond-”

“‘One little diamond’?!”

“Whaaat?” you whined, looking down at your dangling legs guiltily.

“What would your parents think?” Spidey asked, probably expecting you to open up more. Probably raising an eyebrow under his stupid mask. Good luck with that, bud.

“Okay, okay,” you immediately dropped the playful tone. “I get it, that was bad. Let’s move on please.”

“No, c’mon,” he pressed. “Everyone thinks about their family when they do bad shit.”

Your lips were pursed in a thin line and you felt your head tilt in a small nod. He would get no other answer right away, but he sure did try. “Do you...not have a family?”

No response. “Shit, I’m sorry. I assumed-”

“I have a family,” you forced out, and it sounded so disgusting to say that you prayed you’d never have to say it again. Spiderman did this thing where he leaned forward and turned his upper body towards you, cocking his head down and waiting for a continuation. You huffed.

“It’s a complicated situation, webhead,” you lifted one leg onto the roof and pulled your knee to your chest, letting the other one dangle. “S’not a big family anyway, so at least it’s not completely out of hand.”

“Dead relative?”

You shook your head. “Single mom.”

“Oh,” his hand patted your shoulder, a surprisingly welcomed gesture. “My best friend’s got a single mom. They’re not very close, though.”

“Good for them,” you said flatly.

Spiderman shifted awkwardly. “So maybe don’t...steal jewelry? For your mom’s sake?”

He looked at you for a reaction, even a tiny nod, and got none. “You really hate talking about her, don’t you?”

“It’s not- ugh, I dunno,” you hung your head lower. “If I talk about my mum for another second I’d probably start on a whole rant ‘bout how she utterly failed as a parent and, despite technically being there my entire childhood, is constantly ignoring her responsibilities-”

You opened your mouth to continue but choked on the words, realizing that the conversation was 90% you oversharing. “Anyway she’s an okay mum or whatever. Hasn’t done anything that bad. Very average.”

How else were you to phrase it to someone you met so recently? “Very average” was giving her way too much credit but it wasn’t abuse...anymore. In the past two years she’d gone from hitting you for being a disappointment to not caring at all. She didn’t yell every week, she didn’t slap you upside the head or box your ears. She tried to do Mother/Daughter nights but they always ended with her screaming about kicking you out while you wiped away tears. Frankly it wasn’t “caring” as much as it was random fits of rage but- it wasn’t physical anymore. You didn’t have hand shaped bruises anymore, nor split lips. You still had to be careful around your mum ‘cause hell, who knew if she was having a bad day. Who knew what she’d do if she had a bad day. But despite the bad days...she was still your mum. She always apologized after a week or so, told you she hadn’t meant it.

Spiderman was nodded slowly. “You’ve...got a lot to say about your mom.”

“Trust me, that barely covered my opinion of her,” you grumbled. “But what the hell, right? Not like I know you,” your hands felt clammy and hot from frustration.

“Don’t look,” you warned him briskly.

“What?”

“I need some air, don’t look at me.” Your fingers grasped the bottom of your mask and began to tug up. Chilly night air tingled pleasantly wherever it touched, almost making you sigh out loud.

Spidey’s neck must have snapped with how quickly he looked away. “Are you crazy?! Why are you taking the mask o-”

“Relax, I’m just lifting it a little,” you bunched the mask up on the bridge of your nose, inhaling deeply for the cold, dry New York air. It rattled in your lungs yet you took another calming breath, glancing at Spiderman.

He was covering his eyes.

“You don’t have to-” your quiet laugh got his attention. “Don’t cover your eyes, dude. Jus’ don’t look at my face.”

“Uh, yeah,” he hesitantly took the hand from his face. “Gotta be cautious thought.”

“S’ just my mouth, Spiderboy,” you grinned at his awkward nature. “What- can’t handle seeing a girl’s lips?”

“Yes I have!”

You giggled at his voice crack. “Pretty sure you’ve a bigger virgin than I am.”

“I am not!”

“Oh yeah?” you quirked an eyebrow, knowing he couldn’t see it. “I’m making my ‘I-don’t-believe-you’ face, by the way. Seriously starting to doubt that you’re my age ‘cause…you act like a twelve year old. No offense.”

“I’m sixteen!” he defended and honestly, seeing him angrily wave his arms around without facing you was hilarious. And the suit sounded like it was frantically trying to adjust the voice modifier to his high pitched rambling. “I swear I’m sixteen, it’s fucking puberty-”

You put a hand up to silence him, smiling maniacally before pulling your mask over your chin again. “I kid, I kid. Mask is back down.”

If this were a cartoon there would have been steam shooting from his ears. Not like, angry steam. Flustered steam. Or maybe both. Either way, it was funny.

“I hate you,” he groused. “And my voice had to crack! God, that’s worse than when we met!”

A fresh bout of laughter erupted from thinking of that memory alone. Your cackles, once again muffled by the shitty mask, had to be stifled by biting down on the inside of your cheek.

“Pfft, ha! Oh-” you gagged on the words. “Oh that was fucking amazing! D’you- d’you remember when the kid was running-”

“Please no.”

“And you tried to grab him-”

“No, no you said you wouldn’t bring that up!”

“And he threw the bag of quarters at your dick! Ha!”

Spiderman groaned in agony. “Take the mask off so I can deck you.”

“Come at me scrub, I’m- shit,” your metal wristlet beeped, flashing the word “Urgent” in neon blue block letters. “Ah, damn. There’s a robbery near my place, gotta check that out,” owners of a small Korean place near Delmar’s are being threatened at gunpoint. You’d been there with Peter and Ned few times, and that made thought you somber again. “That’ll be a few minutes to get to.”

“You’ve gotta stop bugging the cameras,” Spidey said disapprovingly.

“Well some of us don’t have fancy Super-Conducting 4.2 Tera whatever to help us,” you answered snidely, projecting a small image of the restaurant's security camera view. “Fuck, you’ve got patrol too. Who’s gonna guard this shit?”

“I can stay here,” Spidey offered quickly. He’s not asking to swing me there? That’s...weird. Last time I checked he was the biggest Mom Friend I’ve ever met.

You paused at the ledge of the warehouse, eyes moving from the him to Queens in the distance and back again. “Are you sure?”

“Go!” he urged, shooing you away. “I can handle one night without a partner. S’ your chance to prove that you’re not evil.” You scoffed, wheeled around and raised your middle finger, falling backwards off the ledge with your arms spread like wings. Your body dissolving into a column of smoke seconds before hitting the ground. Spiderman didn’t call for backup that night and the ordeal was stopped with a few “magic tricks” of yours. The robber was easy to take down as he was stupid high and though you disappeared before they could say anything, you saw the restaurant owners talking to a local reporter with relieved expressions. You doubted the old couple would say anything bad, but being tentative never hurt anyone. Hopefully Spidey’s call sent a few officers to the warehouse.

Funny thing was: you hadn’t seen any police cars heading to the warehouse as you flew Queens. Not a single one.

A/N: idk why i got carried away with this. like on one hand...character background. on the other...character background that will cause some depressing shit vv soon

Tags: @everythingthatisrandom, @mcheung0314,@spiderdudeparker, @lou-la-lou, @4-a-m, @miss-glitch, @runs-with-sciss0rs, @lubrielx, @kaitlynthehuman, @b-lyn-k, @hotsocke, @therealwatermelon, @shipping-the-unsinkable-ship, @vivideley, @rosieredcheeks

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nobodysuspectsthebutterfly · 6 years

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So... I know your wrist is broken, all my sympathies and you don't have to answer right away, but thoughts on that first taste of Fire and Blood?

I’m in a brace now! With only two weeks needed to wear it! And my typing is remarkably improved! I’m so happy. :D And then, while I’m at the doctor’s, GRRM goes and drops an Alysanne excerpt of F&B? eeeeeeeeeeeee. :D :D :D

So! Reactions under the cut:

That is a very nice picture of Jaehaerys and Alysanne. No slight to Magali Villeneuve, but her generically-Targ-pretty pic of J&A and a baby in TWOIAF didn’t really have anything distinguishing them as people. With Doug Wheatley’s, Jaehaerys is wearing his seven-gem crown, Alysanne has her “feminine version” of his crown, and you can really see the love between them. Also, the way Alysanne stares at the viewer, that’s the insight and intelligence she was known for (GRRM compares her to Eleanor of Aquitaine, Katherine Hepburn in The Lion in Winter), not Magali’s distracted-and-pregnant-again-sigh mom. (Moms can be very intelligent, for sure, but the picture didn’t show it.)

58 AC - Jaehaerys is 24, Alysanne is 22. They’ve probably had a few kids (they were married 8 years earlier, when J’s regency ended), but they’re in between them at the moment.

The logistics of a king’s progress when the king and queen can fly but none of the rest of the party can are super complicated. Good plans, though, to send everybody ahead to clear the way

It’s interesting that Tyrosh and Pentos look at Westeros as a neutral party and guarantor of terms. Is it the Valyrian cachet? The fact that the country is so damn big, a nearly united continent? (Especially compared to divided and warring Essos.) When did this stop being a thing? (I’m guessing the Dance, but possibly Aegon IV.)

White Harbor, a big city with a ton of people come to see the dragon and the queen

Alysanne setting up betrothals to unite Westeros! Alysanne taking on ladies-in-waiting and already having a bunch to begin with! Alysanne and her cupbearer Jessamyn Manderly! Alysanne and her female sworn shield!!!

I need fanart of Jonquil Darke, the Scarlet Shadow (!!!) like yesterday

you don’t need to draw her dueling the wildling girl (who needs a name, GRRM), you don’t need to draw her standing besides the queen with her hand on her sword, just on her own, that’s fine

quick history facts: the Darkes are from Duskendale, kin to the lordly Darklyns, who would provide seven Kingsguard over the centuries. Duskendale is near Maidenpool, home of the legendary Florian and Jonquil (Maidenpool castle even has a Jonquil’s Tower), so it’s probably a popular girl’s name in the area. There was also a Darke who was a squire to a Darklyn Kingsguard at the start of the Dance of the Dragons, and both went over to Rhaenyra (bringing her father’s crown, the crown of King Jaehaerys). Harrold Darke later became one of Rhaenyra’s Queensguard, and died defending her at Dragonstone. Jonquil was probably a relative of his great- or great-great-grandfather. There are no more Darklyns in the present day (Aerys II killed them all after the Defiance of Duskendale), but there’s still plenty of Darkes.

a women’s court! 200 women sharing their thoughts and grievances with the queen! highborn and low! you know the ban of the practice of the first night came from this

unlike the trip to White Harbor, this time the queen just drops in at Winterfell on her dragon and lets her retinue catch up eventually

Alaric Stark, Stannis v0.25 (Maekar is v0.5)

no seriously @poorquentyn read this excerpt and immediately had multiple threads on what Alaric and Alysanne foreshadows for the meeting of Stannis and Sansa, lol (I hope he’s right even though I have doubts, but that’s not important right now)

Alaric is extremely Stannissian in that stiff unbending but really slowly melting hapless charm way, apparently humorless but actually just having a very dry wit, etc

missing the Stannis misogyny though, which is nice (Alaric still a bit unnerved by girly things though, can’t expect everything), and his late Mormont wife sounds marvelous (she needs a name, GRRM)

Alaric is probably still very unhappy about his great-something-aunt who needs a name GRRM married Ronnel Arryn because Queen Rhaenys matched them, and got defenestrated out the moon door (along with him and their kids) by his evil brother

as many as a dozen southern houses that still keep the old gods? Where are they? Just Blackwood bannermen, or what? Have they died off or converted since this time?

I hope Alarra Stark is relevant later in the J&A section of F&B; I hope she’s not relevant because of something bad

fanart of Alarra and Jonquil and Alysanne would also be nice, please

this good relationship between Alaric and Alysanne probably won’t survive the New Gift, alas :(

I wonder how this history – that Jaehaerys was delayed at court and took a long while to even come north – became the story that Bran tells, how “Jaehaerys and Lord Stark were talking business but Alysanne was bored with man stuff so she flew to the Wall”

I mean, I know how, but still

“smaller holdfasts” - yay, Queenscrown

“assembled 800 of his finest men” - sigh, how the Night’s Watch has fallen. though it’s possible it was a larger complement of NW men than usual because of all the Faith Militant who’d gone to the Wall after Maegor’s war with the Faith

mammoth for dinner ugh

no offense, I’m sure it’s filling, I appreciate Alysanne saying it’s nourishing and not demanding more queenly fare, but ugh furry elephant meat ugh (my kosher disgust bells are ringing hard)

I wonder how common mammoth was at the time? Leaf says there’s only a few hundred left now. Though despite them being endangered, mammoth would be very good to feed dragons on, if needs be

what with Silverwing being so bothered by the Wall, and the whole thing about refusing to cross over, I can see why Alysanne thought it was so important that the Night’s Watch be supported in their duty of protecting Westeros from what lies beyond

(note Alysanne herself seemed to have no problem in the North or at the Wall, good for hot-blooded Targs, eh?)

God I love Alysanne, she’s the best, always and forever

OK! The big question GRRM leaves us with: Why did Silverwing refuse to cross the Wall?

First off, the story that Viserys told his grandkids about Jaehaerys fighting wildlings and giants and mammoths beyond the Wall (as related in TRP and TWOIAF) was only a story, made up for the kids, it didn’t actually happen – so we have no records of any dragon ever crossing the Wall yet

I’m pretty damn certain there were no awakened Others at the time to unnerve the dragon

However it’s apparently a significant plot point that warg senses cannot cross the Wall

The Wall is known to be imbued with spells – the Others and wights can’t cross from their side either (the wight that attacked Jeor Mormont in Castle Black was carried through, apparently a dead body)

Does the Wall block all magical beings? Or just ultimate ice and fire creatures like the Others and Dragons? (Leaf wandered Westeros for many years, but she’s not a magical being, just a COTF who can do magic; the mama direwolf apparently crossed over no problem)

@jimintomystery insists I ask the question – what about going around the Wall? Where does the magic stop? Does it cover the whole latitude of the Wall around the world, or does it stop a mile from its edge?

(that doesn’t bode well for Davos’s trip to Skagos, what with the “dead things in the water” up at Hardhome)

also note that Varamyr skinchanged Orell’s eagle to spy on the Night’s Watch, and it crossed the Wall no problem – is there a height limit to the magic too? if Alysanne had flown Silverwing higher, could they have found an altitude where they could cross?

This is certainly a plot point that GRRM will come back to later!

Gosh, what a lovely excerpt. So looking forward to Fire & Blood now, even more than I was before…

#pretenderoftheeast #asoiaf #asoiaf meta #fire and blood #alysanne targaryen #jaehaerys i targaryen #house targaryen #white harbor #house manderly #jonquil darke #alaric stark #house stark #alarra stark #the wall #the night's watch #silverwing #dragons #asoiaf theories #alysanne was the best

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clicklinder-blog · 5 years

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The Chronicles of Cambodia

One can travel in different ways: observe the surroundings comfortably through a car window; or blend into the local people’s life, experiencing and going through their pain and joy, troubles and concern, just like the author of The Chronicles of Cambodia did. In this book Vlad Linder described in detail his journey to the land of The Khmer Rouge, which took place in April 2012…

A week after my arrival in Sihanoukville, I was rather tired of the predictable life of a settled tourist. Staying at a snug little house right on the shore of the Gulf of Siam, I kept feeling I was looking at the world through a well-polished, barely visible glass. I set off to a place, where you could hardly hear a foreign tongue and where you wouldn’t have pancakes with strawberry jam for breakfast.

After roaming several miles away from popular tourist places, I found myself on a plain narrow cobblestone street packed with small hair salons, bars and various street food stalls. I turned from the main street onto one of the numerous side streets, walked several yards along a high brick wall and was happy to discover a cozy courtyard surrounded by three houses. On one of the porches several middle-aged women were sitting absorbed in a cash card game. At the same time they were giving instructions to the pedicurists almost lying on the ground at the women’s feet. I addressed one of the players with a question, if she had a room for rent in this wonderful and peaceful nook. Her card partner gave an affirmative answer at once and invited me to see the place.

Having negotiated the price for a while, I paid several tens of dollars and became a rightful tenant of a tiny room located on the ground floor of one of the three houses, overlooking a piece of a brick wall and a narrow strip of the sky as a perk. The delighted landlady handed me a heavy padlock and a small key, hurried back to the game and placed all the rental income on a bet then and there. At any time of the day or evening she could be seen at the same place with the same people and engaged in the same fascinating pastime. However, it was rather convenient, especially when I needed her to solve some household issues.

The next day I was walking back from a nearby market in a cheerful mood, when I saw the usual company, but the atmosphere was completely different. Instead of lively amusement usually accompanying the thrill of the game, I saw everybody with cards put aside, their heads shaking from time to time. They were all ears, listening to a woman from the neighborhood, who was telling something and sobbed violently. Her red tearful eyes searching for support said it all. I offered the girl some water and asked what had happened and how I could help. Weeping and trembling in emotions, she answered in a rather good English, as far as I could judge, that she needed badly to get to her family house situated 236 miles away from here as soon as possible. The locals couldn’t help — they mentioned lack of time or ‘important’ gambling affairs. I decided not to go deep into the story, but asked her to stay there a few minutes. I took the stuff I’d bought out of my backpack and filled it with the essentials we would need for a trip. A few minutes later our tuk-tuk rattled down the cobblestone road to the nearest bus station, bouncing and swinging, bumping every pebble and pothole.

It turned out the bus tickets had been sold out, so we had to make the first 155 miles to the Cambodian capital in a small old Toyota together with several more passengers. Mile by mile my neighbor kept us immersed in her sad story. An hour before our first meeting she found out that one of the three brothers of hers had had a motorbike accident. A paramedic, who had arrived in an ambulance to the accident scene, was the first to let her know about the tragedy. The three young boys were taken to the closest district hospital. There were several phone calls from the doctor while we were on our way. Each call made the gleam of hope in her eyes get dimmer and dimmer. She fainted twice in my arms: the first time — when she heard one of the injured had deceased without regaining consciousness, and the second time — when she was told her 19-year-old brother had passed away. None survived.

‘‘I will never pray to Buddha again,’’ she whispered weakly in her mother tongue, slowly regaining consciousness, her eyes still closed. I will never forget what I felt, when I heard those words slipped out of her heart in despair. Emptiness filled all the inner and outer space, like ink spreading over a blank piece of paper. The bright day gave way to a black night. The only sound I could hear in the darkness was the thud of my own temples; the pain in my chest meant my heart was still alive. The sky, usually distant, airy and light, now came crashing down on me. It is always unbearable to see the hope and faith die, but if love dies, the heart turns to stone forever. Her love was strong.

At last we covered the most part of the distance. In the capital we dropped by one of the numerous bike rentals and, following my companion’s advice, I took Honda sportbike with studded tires. It reminded a racing greyhound — slim, high and slightly arched. When I straddled the bike, my feet could barely touch the ground. Sixty odd miles at 95 degrees Fahrenheit was a tough challenge, I must say! Furthermore we had to maintain a high speed to arrive before dark. When the asphalt road ended, we made a stop before the last and the most challenging part of our trip. My hands trembled as if electricity had passed through them. My T-shirt and shorts were drenched in sweat. The ride was immortalized in an exhaust pipe burn on my leg. The girl coped with the situation quite well in spite of what she had been through.

It had rained in the province the night before, so a once normal country road had turned into squelching mud, however a little sun-dried. The bike, bored with the asphalt road, now shuddered in anticipation of impassability and started getting its studs into the ground so furiously, that huge lumps of mud splashed yards away in all directions and onto us.

For the first time since the beginning of our trip I looked around to see a real Cambodian village. Dozens of kids playing outdoors, peasants tired after the work day, and jolly drunks — as soon as they noticed us, they all greeted us cheerfully and waved. We had to move slowly and carefully, trying to avoid huge puddles and boggy places, where indifferent tall herons were standing still, domestic ducks were scampering around with their ducklings, dogs were barking, and white cows were walking solemnly with their calves. Smoldering fires were seen on both sides of the road. The smoke formed white vaguely-outlined arches. When, amidst an endless field of tobacco, a young stallion galloped out of one of the arches all of a sudden, its bell on the neck ringing, crossed the road in three long jumps and disappeared in heavy smoke in a blink of an eye, I thought it was hallucination, as the picture was quite surrealistic.

Having overcome all the obstacles we reached the ferry. My companion’s home village was right across the river. We got down to the water along a stony but easy trail in complete darkness. Without cutting the engine I directed the headlight at the opposite bank and honked several times. The opposite bank answered with a starting engine, and after some time a big floating structure took us onboard. The ferryman was a very young boy sitting on the edge of the boat and hugging an old diesel motor fastened to one of the crossbeams with wire. On my way back after several days, I noticed how serious and responsible the boy looked. His daily important mission of taking people across the river made him a grown-up beyond his years. We paid half a dollar and crossed the river.

A local brindle dog was the first to greet us near the house. It barked crazy and ran around us in circles until I got off the bike and let the dog sniff me. Nuzzling its wet nose into my legs, it found the fresh burn on my left calf and started licking it enthusiastically. That was how we made friends.

The rustic courtyard was lit by the only fluorescent lamp. Its cold light covered only the central part of the courtyard, not reaching the remote corners. They had electricity for several hours a day starting from 6 p.m. — it was rather expensive, so one bulb per house was a matter of course. People from the neighborhood gradually filled the courtyard and encircled us. When I realized I was still wearing the helmet, I got rid of its stuffy and tight embrace, and appeared at my best before the spectators. All over in mud, my bristle almost as long as my hair, and soaked in sweat, I was standing there, in the middle of nowhere, lit by an electric moon, looked at by dozens of attentive eyes. When it turned out that I was the first foreigner ever visiting this village, I felt ashamed for my appearance. I looked around smiling guiltily, which caused excitement, and everybody present — from kids to old people — smiled back. The people gave way to us, I made several steps and sank to the stairs leading into the house. My companion brought a pot and a bar of soap, and pointed at a row of big jars with water seen here and there in the courtyard. ‘‘Grab any and wash yourself,’’ she said. I turned round the corner of the house, where nobody could see me, and poured half a big jar of warm rainwater over myself. While I was tampering with the pot, cleaning one spot and soiling another at the same time, they made a dinner and bed for me. So many things had happened during that hard day! I went up the stairs into the house, expressed my gratitude for the dinner and fell asleep immediately, enveloped in the delicate smell of tobacco leaves cured downstairs. The population of this and many other neighboring villages made their living by growing and curing tobacco, and preparing it for further export to Vietnam.

When I woke up the next morning, I realized I had fallen ill. The planned return trip was postponed. I was down with fever the following days, coughing and sneezing vigorously. At the same time I saw the family making arrangements for a funeral. The girl’s relatives lavished care and attention on me, as if I were part of the family. One after the other they gave me ginger tea and lime drink, rice and mango, telling me about their hard life in the village.

Soon I got well, and we started back after several days. I left the house with a heavy heart. I got used to the people who gave me shelter, and got a taste of the joy and grief of real life.

Life goes on!

Cambodia, April 2012

If you love what you just read, please like & repost it. Thanks

Buy book online at Amazon, Google Play, iTunes

#travel #art #book #writer #new #2019 #adventures

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rachelclewis · 6 years

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My Pioneer Stock (Happy Pioneer Day!)

Ever since I left the Mormon Church to join the Church of Sleep-in on Sunday and go to Brunch, I have experienced a significant improvement in quality of life. But that doesn’t mean that I don’t still love my Mormon ancestors. I am particularly proud of the Mormon women. The men did a lot of interesting stuff, and the polygamists are just wacky fun. But the women? The women could give birth in a back room with nothing for pain management but a stick between their teeth and not even wake up the other wives sleeping upstairs. And then they got up and washed the sheets. Those women were ballers.

In honor of Pioneer Day (or, as we heathens call it, Pie and Beer Day), I want to write a brief biography of my Great Great Great Great Grandmother, Phebe Draper Palmer Brown. Phebe was the daughter of William Draper, for whom the town of Draper in Salt Lake County is named (or for her brother William Draper – I have heard it both ways). She was born 1797 in Rome New York. The Drapers moved to Canada when Phebe was a girl and she married her first husband George Palmer at the age of 18. The Drapers joined the LDS church a few years later (though George never did) and Phebe was baptized by Brigham Young. George and Phebe had six children and another on the way when he up and died on her in 1833. She was 38.

Phebe packed up her family and followed the Drapers back to the states. They met up with other Canadian Saints but were driven out of Ohio and then Missouri by Mormon-haters. They eventually settled in Nauvoo, Illinois. She received a patriarchal blessing from Joseph Smith who told her to be good and that she would get another man. This was a little ahead of the polygamy trend, but I don’t think Joseph would have snatched her up in any case. He preferred 14 year-olds who had not yet pushed a half a dozen babies out of their vaginas. Phebe was 40 and she looked like she had pushed two of her seven children out of her eyes.

My sisters and I often joke about having inherited our looks from Phebe.

Phebe worked hard to support her family and I have read she had some talent for nursing. Luckily she wasn’t too good at it, because after Phebe failed to nurse her friend Ann Brown back to health, she married her widower, Ebenezer. That was in 1842. Ann left him with four young children and it just made sense to join forces. He was a looker, also.

The Mormon situation in Illinois was becoming untenable. In 1844 Joseph Smith was killed. In 1846, Phebe and Ebenezer joined the group of Saints who were following Brigham Young (now president of the church) west to the new “Promised Land.” They were passing through Council Bluffs Iowa in July and were met by US soldiers. The war with Mexico was in full swing and the soldiers asked Brigham to give them 500 men to take to California to fight. He complied – hoping to obtain government aid for the migration (because he was a "taker").

Along with another 550ish Mormons, Ebenezer and Phebe both volunteered – probably to get away from the children. Actually, Phebe’s 14 year-old son Zemira Palmer joined also. They pawned the younger children off on relatives in the wagon train.

What would come to be known as “The Mormon Battalion” marched 2,000 miles from Council Bluffs, Iowa to San Diego, California. Phebe worked as a cook and laundress and Zemira served as a Colonel’s aid. The trek was pretty miserable, by all accounts. They walked through the deserts and mountains... for a year. Phebe was one of only four women who made the entire trip and at 49 she was by far the oldest of the four (the second oldest was 22).

Considering the distance and the difficulty of the terrain, they actually made pretty good time. But by the time they got to San Diego, the war was over and the Battalion was dismissed. (There is one story about a herd of wild cattle attacking the Battalion as they crossed through Arizona, so they did see some action.)

Ebenezer and Phebe were out of money so they re-enlisted for another year. They were sent to Sutter’s Mill and were among the group who found flakes of gold in the American River, a discovery the led to the California Gold Rush. They collected a small amount of gold but then received the call from Brother Brigham. It was time for them to re-join the Saints in Salt Lake City.

On their way back through the California mountains, they were part of the group that discovered the remains of the Donner-Reed party. (I know what you are thinking. “What? Not possible! Was your GGGG Grandmother Forest Gump?” I don’t know how much of it is true. I just know what I have read.) The survivors and rescuers of the Donner Party had been unable to bury the dead due to the ice and snow, so the Mormons stopped and buried all the bodies they could find before pressing on to Salt Lake City.

Phebe, Ebenezer and Zemira arrived in Salt Lake in 1848, at the end of a 3,000 mile journey. Phebe had a mule to ride by then, so that’s nice. They settled in Willow Creek, which would later be renamed as “Draper,” as I mentioned before. Ebenezer became the Postmaster, but he couldn't read so Phebe (who was well educated for the time) served as Postmistress. She also ran a school for small children. Zemira was sent to work in Orderville, which was Brigham Young’s big communist experiment. Two guesses as to how that turned out. (Hint: We are not currently communists.)

Unfortunately, Brigham Young wasn’t finished with the Draper-Palmers yet. Brother Brigham told Ebenezer that he wanted him to become a polygamist and have more children. Phebe is said to have approved, and in 1853 and 1854 Ebenezer married two more women. One of them died a decade later, leaving Phebe with yet another brood of small children to raise.

Phebe died in 1879 at the incredible age of 82. (Granted, in the photo she appears to be about 127, and it looks like she made at least part of her 3,000 mile march by walking with her face.) That lady was a stone cold badass, and I’m proud to be her descendant.

Also, in reading up on all of this stuff, something has occurred to me that may be a brilliant bit of insight as to how Mormon services are operated. Perhaps the reason that those damn meetings are three hours long is because it was the only time those poor people got to sit down! It HAD to be as long as they could possibly get away with!

One more thing – this is a letter from Zemira to Phebe from Orderville. I think it is adorable in its presciently passive/aggressive tone, which is still the Mormon modus operandi. I especially love the way he waves off his inheritance and then signs the letter from “your unworthy son.”

#blog #humor #former mormon #pioneer day #family #geneology

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astudyinfreewill · 6 years

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"i almost lost you" for pynch please

so this is 3 months late because i’m literally the worst but HERE ENJOY THIS THING that was gonna be a short drabble but devolved into 4k of angst/fluff. sorry for the wait anon, and thanks to @adamparrush for helping me navigate the intricacies of american high school schedules!

(you told me) this is right were it begins || read on ao3

‘Cause I clutched your arms like stairway railingsAnd you clutched my brain and eased my ailing

Is There Somewhere - Halsey

The aftermath of dealing with the demon leaves behind a wake of emotional debris they were not – couldn’t have been – fully prepared to tackle. They all have a lot on their plate: assessing the damage, picking up the broken pieces, allowing the wounds to scar over.

There’s the matter of Gansey, and what exactly he is now that he’s been brought back to life. There’s the matter of Noah, who had been fleeting and barely-there for a while, but is now completely gone, leaving the group to struggle with grieving someone who was already dead. There’s the matter of Henry, and how he fits into this new, fragile balance they have.

And, of course, there’s the matter of Gansey-and-Blue, and the matter of Adam-and-Ronan.

The first couple of weeks go by completely smoothly – dreamlike, almost. Adam goes back to school, and starts picking his jobs back up, shift by shift. Ronan drops out – officially, this time – and goes back to the Barns. Declan and Matthew come back to town for a short while, and Aurora gets a funeral, the elaborately carved white coffin as lovely and vacant as she had been in life. (Adam doesn’t really understand dream people, or what it’s like to lose a beloved parent, but he understands enough to recognize the fractures in the Lynch brothers: the cracks in Declan’s politician facade, the clouds rolling over Matthew’s sunny disposition. He understands enough to see Ronan break again: quieter, this time; with less anger than when Niall was killed. But he still breaks.)

They don’t talk about it, because they just don’t do that kind of thing – they never have; they wouldn’t know how. Instead of words, Adam offers himself: a shoulder for Ronan to rest his head on, lips trailing over his cheek, a hand lightly placed on his when they’re at Nino’s. Gentle, anchoring touches to keep him from spiralling into his grief. He drives down to the Barns after work and plays with Opal when Ronan is too heartsick to manage it; he lets Ronan crash at St. Agnes at 3 in the morning, when it’s pitch black outside and the world weighs hopelessly on Ronan’s shoulders, and shields him with his body, curled around the black hooks of Ronan’s tattoo.

Sometimes it’s enough. And sometimes it isn’t.

The fact of the matter is that before being Adam-and-Ronan, they were Adam and Ronan: two satellites orbiting planet Gansey, inevitably colliding with each other over and over, and only taking stock of the damage when the impact had already left craters in both of them. Even as they’d slowly become friends, then better friends, then something more altogether, Adam had never harboured any illusions that they would ever stop fighting. So, logically, he should not have expected them to stop butting heads now just because they were… whatever they were (…together? Boyfriends? That was something else they had not talked about).

But Adam hadn’t been thinking logically ever since Ronan had kissed him in his childhood bedroom, taking reason away and replacing it with soft white light and the foreign feeling of being loved, loved, loved. If he had, he might have seen it coming when their new, unspoken peace suddenly came unspooled around them on a winter night.

As it is, though, it’s ten minutes to midnight and Adam is tired. The end of the semester is fast approaching, Aglionby teachers apparently trying their best to fit as many test as they can in the last few days; his shift at Boyd’s has been relentless today, the garage drastically understaffed because three of the mechanics are home with the flu. He stayed up until 3am last night revising for an algebra quiz, skipped today’s lunch in favour of cramming in some last-minute Latin homework, and he knows tomorrow’s schedule is not looking any better. His stomach growls loudly, the grilled cheese sandwich he had for dinner not nearly enough to make up for the meal he missed, and all he wants is to crawl into bed and catch up on lost sleep, but he has college applications to write; he has sent out most of them already, but there are still a few he needs to finalise by the end of December, and they’re not going to write themselves.

He’s so absorbed in his work that he barely hears the first knock on the door, his head only jerking up when a second round of knocks comes, louder and more impatient. There’s no question of who it is – there’s only one person it could be at this time of night – and normally Adam would go greet him at the door, kiss him, pull him inside by his belt loops. Tonight, though, he’s just so exhausted and hungry and done that he can’t even bring himself to get up. “Come in,” he calls out wearily, scratching out a mistake in the rough draft of his cover letter.

Ronan walks in, bringing with him an eddy of cold night air and a metaphorical storm cloud over his head. Adam doesn’t know what it is, exactly – but something in him picks up on Ronan’s obvious bad mood, and his own already grim mood ricochets dully off it, grating at his patience.

“God, Parrish, how the fuck are you still working?” That tone, the bored, casually dismissive one, has not made an appearance since before – before the demon, before Aurora, before the kissing and this newborn thing between them. Adam can’t say he’s missed it, and his hackles instinctively rise with the muscle memory of a dozen previous fights.

“Because I have no choice,” he huffs, dryly. “I could’ve been more ahead of schedule if I hadn’t had to spend all of lunch break on Latin homework. I tried calling you to check if I had the vocabulary right, but you didn’t pick up.” As you never do, is the unspoken but still obvious add-on to that sentence. Adam knows it’s petty, but he can’t keep the petulance out of his voice. This is another thing he had expected to change after, even though he had no logical grounds for it, and it annoys him to be proven wrong.

“I was out,” Ronan shrugs, apparently unperturbed, but he has felt the silent barb, and his own defenses rise in response, in an all-too-familiar mechanism: guilt leading to self-deprecation leading to insecurity leading to anger. His shoulders are tense as he props himself down on the floor against Adam’s bed.

Adam watches him out of the corner of his eyes. Ronan is a spring coiled tight, the black cloud trailing after him apparently only getting denser and denser as he chews restlessly at the leather bands on his wrist. His eyes are bright and his cheeks are pink, as if he’d been driving with his windows down. As if–

Adam puts his pen down with deliberate calm.

“Have you been racing?”

Ronan snorts. “Okay, Gansey.”

Adam turns to look at him more fully, and despite the fact that yes, historically it’s Gansey who’s been the one dealing with a street-racing Ronan, Adam has still seen it often enough to know the signs. The adrenaline crackling in and around him, the restless way he taps his boot against the floor, the combative glint in his eyes.

“Well, have you?”

“So what if I have?” it’s a childish response, and once upon a time, Adam might have fired back something cutting for that alone, rolling his eyes at Ronan’s antics. Now, he knows better than to do that, but he’s unable to stop his thoughts from derailing frantically in another direction.

It’s mid-December. Even in Virginia, the weather has been hostile, especially over the past week, with on-and-off spells of merciless rain, which combined with the temperature dropping at night makes for a constant chill in the air. And it makes the roads freeze over at night.

There’s ice on the roads, and Ronan’s been racing.

Adam’s heartbeat picks up speed in his chest, going faster for every mile he imagines Ronan going over the speed limit, shooting down a poorly-lit country road, trying to outmaneuver some good-for-nothing delinquent.

“Are you an idiot?” he blurts out, before he can think better of it.

“What the fuck, Parrish? Just because you’re busy applying to fancy schools you don’t get to be all high and mighty with the resident drop-out,” Ronan sneers, but there’s a beat of genuine hurt under the sarcasm. Adam hears it, but he can’t make himself acknowledge it right now. His chest feels too tight, and his mind keeps reliving the same dreadful possibility.

Gas pedal. Gear shift. Wheels on slippery ice. Crash.

“I thought you’d stopped racing,” he says, forcing his voice to remain even.

Ronan shrugs. “It’s fun.”

That’s not a lie, not exactly; Ronan does love racing. But it’s a lie right now. Because this, this isn’t Ronan racing for fun. This is Ronan racing the way he did right after Niall died, or the way he did before he could master his night horrors. This is Ronan lost and helpless and grieving for his dead mother, reeling from almost losing his best friend, unmoored with the fear of Adam leaving for college. This is Ronan racing like maybe he doesn’t care so much if he wraps the BMW around a tree.

Adam slams his notebook closed. “Yeah? How fun is it going to be when you crash the damn car because you couldn’t be bothered to check if there’s ice on the ground?”

Ronan rolls his eyes. “Jesus, Parrish, can you relax and take the stick out of your ass for like five seconds?” he drawls. Adam knows, technically, that he’s just committed his first mistake: he’s getting angry, which means Ronan will act as infuriatingly aloof as he can to balance it out. But he can’t seem to stop himself, hurtling towards anger the same way he imagines the BMW skidding along a dark road to a fiery end.

He imagines Ronan on the ground, crushed under metal sheet and debris.

He sees Ronan on the ground, blood pooling around him as the demon unmakes him piece by painful piece, gasping for air and desperately creating with every ragged breath.

He can’t stand it.

“If you’re gonna be an asshole, you can just leave. I’ve got shit to do anyway,” he bites out, getting up and gesturing towards the door.

Ronan immediately gets up as well, hurt and rejection tumbling into anger. “Of course you do. Like you have time for anything apart from your fucking homework.”

“Oh, give me a break, Lynch” Adam exclaims, his voice rising in volume despite his best efforts. “Excuse me for wanting a future. Not all of us care so little about their lives they can just drop out of school and spend all their time racing cars.”

“What the fuck is your problem, huh?” Ronan shoots back, stepping closer to him in the cramped little room. “No, really, what crawled up your ass and died? It’s none of your business what I do with my free time now I’m not stuck in that shithole of a school anymore.”

It’s a sore spot – unlike Gansey, Adam has always recognised the futility of trying to force Ronan to stay in school against his wishes, but it doesn’t mean he agrees with the choice. It doesn’t mean he doesn’t miss him. He can’t help himself from leaning closer, into Ronan’s personal space, matching him step for step.

“Right, of course, because sticking it out a few more months in high school was gonna kill you, but speeding down frozen roads in the dark for shits and giggles isn’t.”

“Jesus Christ, would you get the hell off my back?! I’m fucking good at driving, and I know what I’m doing! Why the fuck do you even care if I race?”

“Because I almost lost you!” Adam all but yells at him. His fists clench spasmodically at his sides, and he feels the bite of it, wondering if he’s broken skin; he wants to punch a wall, kick a chair, something, but every time the idea of violence crosses his mind he sees Blue’s frightened face, and a wave of self-loathing clamps his muscles into place.

Ronan seems to be similarly frozen into place, his eyes wide. They’re both breathing hard, despite standing perfectly still. Adam takes a shameful step back, unable to meet Ronan’s eyes, his fists still balled hard at his sides.

“You don’t know– you have no idea–” he starts, low and unsteady, his traitorous accent weighing on every vowel. “I had to watch as that thing took you apart. Watch as it killed you. I thought it was over. I thought you–” his voice cracks and he shakes his head, biting down on his lip to keep his eyes from welling up, because he’s not doing this, he can’t do this – but he is anyway, his ribs constricting around his lungs painfully, his throat working uselessly against a lump. Everything inside him is chaos, knocked asunder with the knowledge of how Ronan – this miraculous boy, this god-like dreamer – is ultimately just as fragile as any human, perhaps more so because of how much life he holds within himself.

He sees, again, Ronan unmade by the demon, but he also sees Ronan drowning in Cabeswater, sinking in acid to try to save Opal; he remembers the desperation with which he’d tethered himself to the ley line and asked Cabeswater to please save him please please save him just save him. He remembers Ronan’s dream double, lying on the floor of the church they’re standing above just now, convulsing and bleeding out, looking so much like the real Ronan that even the memory twists Adam’s stomach painfully. He remembers rushing to the hospital after getting a panicked phone call from Gansey and seeing Ronan in a hospital bed, pale as death, his arms bandaged with red-stained gauze.

He remembers his own hands clenching around Ronan’s throat to choke the life out of him.

The fear and disgust are an almost physical weight on his chest, and he still can’t bring himself to look at Ronan, even as he finds his voice.

“I know maybe you don’t care about your life right now,” he says quietly. “But if you care about me at all, even a little bit– please, please, just– stay alive.” He closes his eyes, recognising the battle as lost when he feels dampness against his eyelashes but too tired to care, sleep deprivation and physical exhaustion and emotional upheaval getting the better of him.

The next moment, Ronan’s hands are on his, taking hold of his fists and gently teasing them open. Adam looks up through slightly blurry eyes to see angry red crescent marks on his palms, and Ronan running his thumbs over them. Ronan’s face is doing complicated things, regret and confusion and grief warring with each other, his eyes still wide with something like wonder. “I’m sorry,” he says, looking helpless, like he doesn’t think that’s enough. Adam blinks back more tears and thinks somewhat hysterically that this is the first time Ronan’s ever apologised first for a fight.

“God, don’t– I’m the one who should–” Adam stumbles, then heaves out a ragged sigh. “Don’t be sorry. Be safe.”

He allows himself to look at Ronan’s face more steadily, and watches his expression shift through something like shame, then pain, his eyes very bright, like maybe he’s close to crying as well, and Adam’s heart flips over in his chest, wishing desperately he could undo the entire night, go back to before they ever fought. Ronan brings Adam’s hand up to his cheek, presses the palm there, then turns his head just enough to brush his lips to it, barely a kiss.

“It hurts,” Ronan says in a very small voice, breath warm against his hand. It’s vague, and he doesn’t offer any clarification, but Adam knows what he means. Losing Aurora, losing Cabeswater, losing Gansey without knowing how they were going to get him back, his treacherous dreams telling him he’s going to lose Adam as well.

Adam is new to love, but he thinks he’s starting to understand loss, because for the first time in his life he feels he has things to lose. He thinks about Persephone, the first adult to ever be good to him. He thinks about Cabeswater, whose absence still feels like a gaping hole in his chest. He thinks again about the possibility of losing Ronan, losing Gansey, losing Blue, losing Opal, and his hands tighten around Ronan’s.

“I know,” he says. “I’m sorry.” He means it in more ways than he can put words to, his eyes dropping to the floor again. But Ronan, perceptive as he can sometimes be – and Adam knows this by now, should be used to it, but it somehow always blindsides him – seems to pick up on it anyway.

“Parrish,” he says softly, “You know it’s not your fault, right?”

“I know,” Adam murmurs. Unlike Ronan, he’s no stranger to lying. He knows that it’s not his fault – not technically. But all he can think of is the demon using his hands to strangle Ronan, the demon using his eyes to spy on them. Ronan’s hands covered in Aurora’s blood and Adam standing by, unable to help, a useless magician.

“Adam,” Ronan says, more steady now. “It’s not your fault.” He slides Adam’s hand down, to rest against his neck, thumb pressed to the pulse point. Fear lurches deep in Adam’s gut as he instinctively recoils, trying to take his hand back. Ronan doesn’t let him.

Instead, Ronan – stubborn, impossible Ronan – takes his other hand and places it on his throat as well, an achingly tender mimicry of Adam’s worst nightmare.

“It’s not your fault,” he repeats, conviction weighing in every word. “That was not you. It could never be you.”

“Ronan,” Adam tries to protest, with a note of pleading. Ronan’s throat is warm and smooth and alive, and he forces his hands to stay as limp as they can and resist the urge to touch.

“Adam.”

They just look at each other for a long moment. It probably looks stupid from the outside, Adam thinks distantly; but all he wants right now is to collapse against Ronan’s chest, to hide his face into his shoulder, to listen to his heartbeat’s constant reminder that they’ve won, they’re alive, they get to have this.

“I trust you,” Ronan says, his tone gentler than it is on most occasions. Adam is reminded fleetingly of baby mice and baby ravens, back when he was still discovering that Ronan wasn’t all sharp edges and thorns.

“What if I don’t trust myself?”

“Then you’re an idiot,” Ronan replies easily. “But it’s okay, because I trust you enough for both of us.”

Adam swallows, the motion almost painful. “Yeah?”

“Yeah. I trust you more than anyone.” It’s the truth, because Ronan never lies.

Adam wants to cry again, but he doesn’t. Instead he allows his hands to move, to settle more firmly around Ronan’s neck, not pushing but feeling, gently pressing his index fingertips to the spot behind Ronan’s ears, his thumbs to the pulse under his chin, all smooth skin and rough stubble.

Ronan closes his eyes and lets out a long exhale from his mouth, letting his hands fall off of Adam’s as if giving Adam control has dislodged a weight from his shoulders, allowing him to breathe more easily.

The sudden surge of love clutching at Adam’s heart right then is stronger than even the ley line coming to life inside him, and he can’t help himself from chasing that exhale, pressing his lips to Ronan’s, softly at first, then more firmly, again and again and again. When they part for breath, their foreheads stay touching, Adam’s head tilted back slightly with the height difference he pretends to be bothered by.

“Can we like, go for hot chocolate or somethin’?” He almost kicks himself for how trivial of a question that is to alight upon, his Henrietta accent making it even more prosaic, but right now, all he wants is to stay close to Ronan, to forget about demons and death and sorrow and just revel in everything they haven’t lost, sitting together like two normal teenagers in the booth of a 24 hour diner.

Ronan lets out a surprised laugh, and when Adam looks up to see, with relief, Ronan’s eyes crinkling up with a smile, he thinks maybe that wasn’t the wrong question to ask after all.

“Thought you had homework,” Ronan says, his voice rough.

“Fuck homework,” Adam replies, and Ronan sucks in a breath, only half for show.

“Parrish,” he says, “you’ve literally never been hotter to me than in this exact moment.”

“Fuck off,” Adam laughs.

“Damn, it gets better and better,” Ronan comments on a wolf-whistle, not missing a beat.

Adam rolls his eyes at him, grinning, but then a thought makes him sober up for a moment. “I think we need to get better. At this talking thing, I mean.”

Ronan makes a face of exaggerated distaste, everything in him rebelling at the idea of conversations about feelings.

“You know I’m right,” Adam says.

“I didn’t say you were wrong,” Ronan mutters, then offers: “I’ll… pick up my phone?”

“It’s a start,” Adam concedes, amusedly, even though that’s not the real problem and they both know it.

“Hey, I’m sorry, I didn’t know you couldn’t survive Latin class without my help,” Ronan shrugs with false modesty.

“Right,” Adam drawls. “Anyway. I’ll… try not to freak out about things?”

“Sounds fake,” Ronan hums, poking his nose at Adam’s cheek.

“Your face sounds fake.”

“That doesn’t even make sense, Parrish. Maybe they shouldn’t make you valedictorian after all.”

“Maybe, but your ass better stay alive till graduation, ‘cause I want you there anyway.”

“Yeah. I guess I better,” Ronan replies simply, but his tone is serious; it’s a promise, and they both know it.

Adam nods. “Hot chocolate?”

“Hot chocolate,” Ronan nods back. “Whipped cream and a metric fuckton of marshmallows?”

Adam’s stomach growls at a frankly ridiculous level of decibels, which would be mortifying except for the carefree way Ronan laughs at that, which kind of makes it worth it.

“Shut up,” Adam mutters without any heat, trying to hold back a smile. His ears feel warm.

“Let’s get some marshmallows in you, Einstein,” Ronan chuckles, kissing his cheek.

The drive to the diner is quiet, and Ronan keeps carefully below the speed limit. That’s not new per se, as he’s taken to doing it more and more when Adam’s in the car with him, but it feels especially significant tonight. Like an assurance, maybe. Adam stares at Ronan’s profile in the dim light, all sharp and handsome lines, and enjoys the simple pleasure of knowing that they have each other, that moments like these are theirs and theirs alone.

“I used to wonder how long it would take before we fought again,” he says, without really deciding to. “I think maybe I thought we wouldn’t, but clearly that was dumb of me.”

“Ah.” Ronan’s tone gives nothing away, but the tightening of his jaw loudly broadcasts his fears – that Adam will decide this is too much effort, that it’s too much work, that it’s more trouble than Ronan’s worth.

“Yeah. How else are we supposed to do better if we never fuck up?”

It’s clearly not what Ronan was expecting, and as he takes the last turn for the diner, a small, almost surprised smile plays around his lips. He glances at Adam out of the corner of his eyes, the motion practiced and familiar; Adam, as always, looks back, feeling a burst of simple, uncomplicated satisfaction bloom in his chest as he rests his head on top of Ronan’s on the gear stick.

They’re going to be okay.

#trc #adam parrish #ronan lynch #pynch #the raven cycle #my writing #otp: young gods #wow i haven't written anything in???? eons????#hopefully this is ok #anonymous #answer

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livinginlandmarketing · 3 years

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This story is Part 3 of a series

What actually happened to David O’Sullivan?

Two weeks into what was supposed to be a 2,650-mile hike of the Pacific Crest Trail, the 25-year-old from Ireland made it to the Riverside County town of Idyllwild. He stopped for a couple of days to resupply, checked out of his hotel room the morning of April 7, 2017, and was never heard from again.

After that, there are three broad possibilities.

One: He died somewhere in the San Jacinto Mountains north of Idyllwild.

Two: He died somewhere else.

Three: He’s alive, which would mean — unless you believe in sci-fi or soap opera plots — he disappeared on purpose.

“Oh God no,” his mother, Carmel O’Sullivan, said about the third possibility. “99.9% of my heart says no. … He wouldn’t have been so cruel to do that to us.”

Read the series

Part 1: The mysterious disappearance of Pacific Crest Trail hiker David O’Sullivan

Map: David O’Sullivan’s 180-mile Pacific Crest Trail journey

Part 2: Who’s looking for David O’Sullivan? At first, almost no one

More: Missing in the mountains: 4 families ache for those lost

Part 3: 4 years later, searchers seek an answer: What was David O’Sullivan’s fate?

A team of volunteer searchers who haven’t given up hope of finding answers are focused on the first option. But they face some formidable challenges.

No one knows which of the many possible routes he planned to take from Idyllwild back to the Pacific Crest Trail or how far he may have gotten.

“If we only had one haystack, we’d eventually be able to find the needle, but we have half a dozen different haystacks,” said Jon King of Idyllwild, a prolific local hiker who’s helped searchers try to figure out the likeliest scenario.

The terrain where the group believes O’Sullivan is most likely to have met trouble is steep and thickly forested, and quickly becomes inaccessible when you get off trail. Drones would be the best way to search, but the area is designated as state wilderness, where drones aren’t allowed, and federal rules say pilots have to keep their drones in sight at all times, which wouldn’t be possible. Even if the group could get permission, the trees and boulders can obscure objects on the ground.

One dark possibility that his mother worries about is whether O’Sullivan could have gotten lost and wandered into an area where marijuana was being grown — a significant problem in California’s national forests. Some of the people searching for O’Sullivan wonder, even if he met a natural or accidental death, could someone else have found him first? If people involved in illicit activity found his remains, could they have disposed of them so as not to attract law enforcement’s attention?

If O’Sullivan’s remains are out there in the wilderness, the forces of nature — from rain, snow and sun to gravity and animals — have had four years to claim them. Every season that goes by makes the task harder, and 2020 was a lost year because of the pandemic.

A photo taken during an aerial search of the San Jacinto Mountains shows Fuller Ridge, the portion of the Pacific Crest Trail where volunteer searchers believe missing hiker David O’Sullivan is most likely to have encountered trouble in April 2017. (Photo courtesy of FireWatch)

Still, the volunteer team has some reason for optimism. In late 2019 and again in early 2021, they found the remains of two other people they searched for: Paul Miller, a Canadian who went missing in Joshua Tree National Park in summer 2018, and Rosario “Chata” Garcia, a local woman with dementia who disappeared in July 2020 after getting her car stuck on a rocky trail 40 miles from her home.

Western States Aerial Search, a nonprofit group of drone operators based in Utah, was able to fly over the areas around where Miller’s and Garcia’s cars were found — they got permission from the national park, and none was needed in the area where Garcia went missing. Volunteer image searchers then began scouring the photographs. In both cases, a Missouri man, Morgan Clements, was the one who first spotted bones.

After Miller was found, Carmel O’Sullivan said the success gave her hope. But while she’s happy for other families to get good news, she’s a little jealous too.

Not knowing what happened to her son, not being able to bring him home and bury him, is an ache that won’t go away. She still hasn’t been able to bring herself to give away his clothes and books.

“The passage of time — in one way, it does ease (the pain), but in another, I don’t think it ever will,” she said recently.

Her son’s 30th birthday is this August, and it’s hard for her to think that as she and her husband and David’s brother grow older, David never will.

The force behind the search

After seeing the struggles of the O’Sullivans and other families, Cathy Tarr, the woman leading the volunteer search effort, was inspired to start an organization to help. The Fowler O’Sullivan Foundation achieved nonprofit status in 2020 — a bright spot for Tarr in a year that included not just the pandemic but a breast cancer diagnosis.

The foundation will use what Tarr and her team have learned to become a resource for families of people who have gone missing in wilderness situations, especially once the official search-and-rescue efforts end.

“When that’s called off, that’s when families are lost,” Tarr said. “They don’t know what to do — how to read a map, how to look for clues, how to attract volunteers. It becomes random. We do it systematically.”

The foundation’s other focus will be proactive safety initiatives. Tarr said they gave away six rescue beacons to Pacific Crest Trail hikers this year and partnered with Nomad Ventures in Idyllwild to offer discounts on microspikes, which go on hikers’ shoes to give them better traction in the snow.

Cathy Tarr stands at the Devil’s Slide Trailhead in Idyllwild on Wednesday, May 12, 2021. She considers that trail the most likely route that David O’Sullivan would have taken from town back to the Pacific Crest Trail on the day he went missing. (Photo by Will Lester, Inland Valley Daily Bulletin/SCNG)

Cathy Tarr sits near the Devil’s Slide Trailhead in Idyllwild on Wednesday, May 12, 2021. Tarr is leading volunteer search efforts for David O’Sullivan, a young man from Ireland who went missing in the Idyllwild area while hiking the Pacific Crest Trail in 2017. (Photo by Will Lester, Inland Valley Daily Bulletin/SCNG)

Cathy Tarr holds a rescue beacon similar to ones that a nonprofit group she founded last year, the Fowler-O’Sullivan Foundation, gave away to six Pacific Crest Trail hikers this year. (Photo by Will Lester, Inland Valley Daily Bulletin/SCNG)

Cathy Tarr’s research into the David O’Sullivan case and other missing hikers has included research on how people are likely to behave when they get lost. (Photo by Will Lester, Inland Valley Daily Bulletin/SCNG)

Cathy Tarr walks to towards the Devil’s Slide Trailhead in Humber Park Idyllwild on Wednesday, May 12, 2021. (Photo by Will Lester, Inland Valley Daily Bulletin/SCNG)

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Tarr’s involvement in O’Sullivan’s case began with unrelated events in two corners of the United States far from Southern California.

Tarr, now 58, had been planning to hike the Pacific Crest Trail herself in 2017, and had been in New Hampshire training for the snow. Two weeks before she was supposed to head out, she was in a car crash.

She couldn’t hike, but she heard about another PCT hiker named Kris Fowler who’d gone missing in late 2016 in a snowstorm in Washington, and she figured she could help. She traveled there for a four-day search and ended up staying six or eight weeks, she said. (Fowler — the other namesake of Tarr’s foundation — also has never been found, though volunteers and the local sheriff’s department continue to search and Tarr remains involved in those efforts, too.)

While she was in Washington, word of O’Sullivan’s disappearance began to spread north up the Pacific Crest Trail.

Tarr had previously lived in Southern California and her daughter still lives here. Tarr was planning to visit and found out that O’Sullivan’s parents were coming from Ireland at the same time, so she arranged to have lunch with them after they met with the Riverside County Sheriff’s Department.

“They were very unhappy with the meeting they had just had, so I said let’s do our own investigation,” Tarr said.

She was surprised by how little was being done to search for O’Sullivan compared to Fowler’s case. “I thought, ‘Woah, this is weird. Where are all the flyers? Who’s searching for him? What’s going on?’”

Tarr knows the heart-wrenching feeling of having a son go missing. A year or two before meeting the O’Sullivans, she got a call in the middle of the night that her own son hadn’t returned from a hike to the mountains.

“I know that initial shock that a family gets,” Tarr said. “I’ve felt it. I remember pacing back and forth … I remember calling the police. I remember how scared I was.”

Thankfully, her son was found safe in less than a day. But even now, she visibly tenses up talking about it.

“Once you experience that, it’s something you never forget,” she said.

That feeling is part of what has motivated her in the almost four years since she first met O’Sullivan’s parents.

“If it weren’t for her, there probably would be no search going on,” Carmel O’Sullivan said.

Solving the mystery

Over the past four years, Tarr and the team of volunteers she assembled have done extensive research to narrow down the possibilities of what could have happened to O’Sullivan.

Working backward through that list of three broad possibilities, they don’t believe he could still be alive.

David O’Sullivan, then 25, of Ireland, took this photo of himself while he was hiking the Pacific Crest Trail in Southern California in spring 2017. (Photo courtesy of the O’Sullivan family)

Friends and family say O’Sullivan was as enthusiastic about the trip as he’d been about anything, and his messages from the trail showed someone who “had set himself a personal challenge and was enjoying the journey,” in his mother’s words.

Sgt. Sean Lawlor, a Murrieta police officer who first took O’Sullivan’s missing-person report, also did some investigating and doesn’t believe O’Sullivan survived. Knowing he was an inexperienced solo hiker and had a good family dynamic, he believes O’Sullivan probably got lost, maybe dehydrated or washed away by a river.

“I didn’t get any inkling of signs of foul play or that he would have run off,” Lawlor said.

Once word of O’Sullivan’s disappearance got out, his family received many tips from people who thought they saw him at points north of Idyllwild.

“He was even ‘found’ a few times, even to the point where we rang hostels to speak with ‘him’. None of these sightings were him,” Niall, his older brother, wrote in an online post in July 2017.

During the reporting of this story, someone Tarr’s volunteer team had never heard from before, despite all of their outreach, came forward on Facebook claiming to have seen O’Sullivan that summer in Kennedy Meadows, an area known as the PCT’s gateway to the Sierra. “I even joked with him and a few other hikers that he was the missing Irish dude. Guy basically told me to mind my business,” the commenter wrote.

Tarr believes sightings like those are cases of mistaken identity. She’s found at least three or four other hikers from that year who look very similar to O’Sullivan. The accent is what stood out to some people who thought they’d encountered the Irishman, but hikers came to the PCT from all over the world, including places with similar-sounding accents such as Scotland.

O’Sullivan had been stopping in towns and making financial transactions all the way to Idyllwild, but nowhere after that, including the next town where he would have needed to resupply, Big Bear, about five days up the trail from Idyllwild. Several thousand dollars were left sitting in his bank account. His Kindle was never turned on after April 5.

Why, Tarr reasons, would he have kept hiking without doing any of those things — let alone without contacting his family again. She’s convinced that he couldn’t have made it to Big Bear or else his family would have heard from him there.

While a hiker can run into trouble anywhere, everything that Tarr knows about the trail and the conditions that year tells her that O’Sullivan faced the highest risk on the trail just north of Idyllwild.

Heavy winter storms broke a five-year drought and covered the San Jacinto Mountains in snow that was still up to 3 feet deep when O’Sullivan was coming through. Multiple hikers reported trouble in the mountains, especially along a 5-mile stretch of the PCT that traverses Fuller Ridge. People were sliding downhill and enduring exhausting, injury-inducing battles to get back to the trail. Several hikers required rescue that spring.

A sign at the northwest trailhead to Fuller Ridge, part of the Pacific Crest Trail in the San Jacinto Mountains, warns hikers to be prepared for hazardous conditions. (Photo by Nikie Johnson, The Press-Enterprise/SCNG)

When O’Sullivan set out, “He was very ill-prepared,” Tarr said. He hadn’t trained in the snow and, as far as anyone knows, didn’t have the proper equipment for safe snow hiking. He didn’t have a working phone, and his Kindle only connected over WiFi. He had paper maps but no GPS-equipped device, and no rescue beacon that he could have used to summon help in an emergency — something Tarr strongly recommends.

His last email to his parents indicated he was going to get a later start back to the trail the next morning because he had to stop at the post office again, so there may not have been anyone left behind him that day.

If he got hurt or lost, he would have been all alone out there.

Other PCT deaths

O’Sullivan wouldn’t have been the first Pacific Crest Trail hiker to die in the San Jacinto Mountains, and he wouldn’t have been the last.

In March 2020, 22-year-old Trevor Laher of Fort Worth, Texas, was killed when he fell about 600 feet into a ravine near Apache Peak, about 13 trail miles southeast of Idyllwild. The trails were snowy from a series of storms that had rolled through over the past week. Laher had been with two other PCT hikers he had befriended along the trail, and they were able to call for help with an emergency GPS device.

The risky mission to recover Laher’s body and rescue his two friends — winds were so strong that they grounded a helicopter, so searchers had to cut trail into the steep, hard snow slope to reach them — was one of several in just a two-day span. One PCT hiker slipped and fell in the ice and snow and had to take shelter under a rock through a snowstorm until rescuers could get to him the next day. Another fell 150 feet off the trail and also spent the night lost. Then two PCT hikers from France needed rescue when one fell about 60 feet off the side of the trail and the other got stuck in a section of ice.

Any of them could have ended up lost like O’Sullivan if just a few of fate’s dominoes had fallen a different way.

Then there’s the case of John Donovan.

John Donovan of Virginia, shown in an undated family photo. (File photo)

The newly retired Virginia man came to hike the Pacific Crest Trail in 2005. He was last seen in the San Jacinto Mountains on May 3, headed toward Fuller Ridge as a storm moved in. Despite multiple searches, it was a year before his remains would be found by astonishing accident.

In May 2006, a young couple visiting from Dallas rode the Palm Springs Aerial Tramway into the San Jacinto Mountains. Brandon Day and Gina Allen hadn’t intended to go for much of a hike, but took a few wrong turns while looking at the scenery and ended up hopelessly lost.

In an essay for their hometown’s D Magazine, Day and Allen described spending the next two nights trying to fend off hypothermia and the days clawing their way through thick vegetation and sliding down rock faces in terrain so rugged, they wondered if any human had ever been there before.

They ended up following a creek to a canyon where not just any human, but Donovan himself, had been until he perished.

Gina Allen and Brandon Day, both of Dallas, Texas, tell about their ordeal of being lost for two days in the San Jacinto Mountains in May 2006. (File photo by Rodrigo Pena, The Press-Enterprise)

“We couldn’t walk our way out,” Day told The Press-Enterprise at the time. The canyon was too steep. “We were stuck.”

Day and Allen used some of Donovan’s matches to start a small fire that attracted rescuers; they credited him with saving their lives.

They also found some papers that Donovan scrawled notes on, chronicling his final days.

According to an in-depth story in Backpacker magazine, Donovan described in the makeshift journal how he couldn’t find the trail back to Idyllwild amid the blizzard conditions, so he tried heading toward the lights of Palm Springs below. He ended up in the canyon, injured and down to 12 crackers. He spent more than a week there, including his 60th birthday. In his last entry, dated 11 days after he got lost, he wrote: “Goodbye and love you all.”

“Nobody knew where he was, nobody knew to come looking for him, so he was preparing for the end,” Day told The Press-Enterprise. “We were looking at the words of a man who was passing.”

Assuming Tarr is right that O’Sullivan never made it out of the San Jacinto Mountains, which scenario befell him? A quick death like Laher’s? Or an ordeal more like Donovan’s?

An image shows the flight plan for a plane hired to do aerial photography over the San Jacinto Mountains in 2018 by a group searching for the remains of David O’Sullivan, who came from Ireland in 2017 to hike the Pacific Crest Trail and was last seen in Idyllwild, Calif. The search areas were identified by previous helicopter flights. (Image courtesy of FireWatch)

Searchers will ‘never give up’

Since late 2017, Tarr and her team have conducted numerous ground and aerial searches north of Idyllwild. Always on the lookout for bright blue — the color of O’Sullivan’s backpack — Tarr jokes that they’ve become the mountain’s mylar balloon cleanup crew.

The Idyllwild area’s many hiking trails are well-used and have been searched thoroughly for signs of O’Sullivan. The group has been back out already this year, but Tarr is frustrated that the areas they have left to explore now are too dangerous to reach by foot.

“I feel right now we’re at a standstill, and that’s not where I want to be,” she said.

“I’ve always felt we could find him. Always. But, I don’t know … It’s the one case I have that I’ll never give up on,” she said.

Members of her team are equally committed.

“We will not stop,” said Gloria Boyd of Yucaipa, “because for me that’s the worst thing that could happen: Not only did the authorities walk away but the only people you have left who could potentially help walk away? I’m not going to stop. I don’t see an end in sight. If it’s 10 years it’s 10 years, but damn it we’re getting him back home.”

How to help

Anyone wishing to help the Fowler-O’Sullivan Foundation, whether by volunteering or donating, can go to www.fofound.org/joinourteam.

The O’Sullivan family asks that anyone who is hiking in the Idyllwild area and spots something potentially of interest leaves it where it is and emails information to [email protected].

Hiker safety

Here are some of the Pacific Crest Trail Association’s safety tips, which are good advice for hikers on any trail.

There is intrinsic risk in the wilderness, and you are responsible for your own safety. Be prepared, and learn first aid.

Let someone know your plans. If you’re on a day hike, tell someone where you’re going and when you expect to return. Long-distance hikers, leave a copy of your itinerary with someone, check in regularly, let them know when you’ll check in next and have a plan for what they’ll do if you don’t.

Be mentally prepared for the risks you may encounter. Think through scenarios ahead of time and decide how you might respond.

Travel within your skill level.

Always carry current maps and know how to use them.

Cellphones and rescue beacons can save lives in emergencies — but they don’t guarantee your safety. Rely on your own skills and intuition, not on your technology.

Use extra caution if hiking alone.

Be wary of people who make you uneasy.

Stay on the trail. The moment you leave, you’re in the wilderness. If something goes wrong, you may never be found.

-on May 26, 2021 at 01:01AM by Nikie Johnson

#riversidenews

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cassidydanvers · 6 years

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Coffee and Contemplation || Solo

She never really knew how to deal with anniversaries. Not like birthdays or weddings; not the fun stuff. The harder stuff. There were two of them now. April first marked one full year since she got here. Since the merge from Ashford to Ashkent. How exactly were you supposed to mark something like that? Involuntary relocation, whatever you were supposed to call it. Ignoring it was an option, but that felt weirder somehow. Hey, maybe this kind of thing called for a stack of pancakes, a cake, maybe bring out the sparklers. Make a day of it. Interdimensional travel should really come with a how-to manual she mused wryly with a sip of her coffee.

Out of those options she was camped out at Flopped like she started out with her back to the last booth at the back with full view of the room. Just a regular day. Or as close as she could get to it researching ghosts. After the mess at the hospital it became all the more apparent that she really needed to get her act together before some other catastrophe got there first. There was also the small matter of That was a whole other issue she’d have to deal with a little later, but with that in mind she pulled out her notes from the books back at Scribe Headquarters and got to work with her highlighter and a small notepad to list down anything she was going to need on a practical level apart from salt and scribbled down a quick list with a sheet from her notepad:

Basil

Sage

Angelica

Lasagna That vegetable pasta stuff - switch out sauce for pesto?

Garlic

Bay Leaves

Chalk/Chalk pen

Salt

Something Iron Something borrowed something blue

Graveyard dirt find alternative.

Looking at those last ones again this was stacking up to being the weirdest grocery list in a while.

Cassie pushed the plate to one side and pulled out and opened her laptop and took out a solitary post it note with some hurriedly scrawled writing from inside her bag:

Mydiumspace

?????

Helpful, Cass, real helpful. She unstuck it from the back of the piece of paper it was attached to and smoothed the strip across the top left hand side of her laptop and typed the name into the searchbar, looking for something that wasn’t a link to some computer game or obscure tv show when she found it on the second page of results. Hoping for something along the lines of ‘Welcome to intro to ghosts 101: tools tech and tutorials’, or something along those lines she filled out her details, creating a throwaway email account and logged on. A welcome message flashed up on screen and she clicked on the first most recent post to see what she was dealing with exactly.

New User has joined the forum – Welcome New User: Cassper

General Chat> Encounters>Positive Encounters>”Stories welcome”

Ramblinman: I just got back from taking a case out by the subdivision. I just saw a former tenant stop a client’s child from taking a fall down some stairs. Moving the guy on didn’t feel right so I just left it. At least for now. I told the owners he wouldn’t be bothering them and left it at that. Has anyone else had anything similar happen?

DarkandStormyNight: For me there for every hostile one I’ve had there have been three to tip the scale back. Some of them do just want to be heard. To be helped.

Allcatsaregrey: It’s the other way around here. There’s been maybe one or two that haven’t lashed out. As soon as they get wind of me for most of them I get hit with projectiles and freezeouts.

Icydeadpeople: Yeah and I bet if you are extra nice to them they don’t go ape shit when whoever they’re after snuffed it twenty years ago or Great Aunt Sally moved to Argentina. They tend to get friendly with the kitchen utensils around then. Don’t let them fool you.

NELSONAR345TY:If I have to I just call in one of the cleaners. They are my go-to to get rid of anybody violent, but those people give me the creeps. Stone cold some of them. I saw one of them waste some poor SOB. Brutal stuff.

DarkandStormyNight: The closest I get to anything like that is the occasional banishment. Only as a last resort.

Banishment? She was already in over her head. At that moment it felt something akin to those nightmares she had once or twice about being given a test she didn’t study for a class she didn’t even know you were even taking. Some kind of improv class or interpretive dance usually, when her mind really wanted to torture her. Cassie bookmarked the page for later including a few posts about book recommendations and came out of that page and moved onto her next project. She had a name and a location, should be enough for something useful to come up. Sure enough a quick search on google returned a few newspaper articles. Cassie opened up the first link.

Black Ice causes Fatal Bridge Accident

A fatal road accident on the Landon Road bridge yesterday claimed the lives of two local residents. It is understood that the pair were returning from Ashkent General Hospital in the early hours of Sunday morning of March 29th when they hit a patch of black ice on the road leading the car they were travelling in to verge from the road onto another oncoming vehicle. Scott Landon, thirty two, had been driving the vehicle when it lost control was pronounced dead at the scene. His sister, Maya Landon, thirty five was treated at the hospital but later died of her injuries. The family declined interview but made a statement wishing for privacy but thanking everyone involved in their aid.

Moving away from the page to a quick cursory glance over a Facebook account she came up with a profile that matched Maya’s brother on the search engine. A hesitant click took her to a photo pinned to his page of him crouching beside a pleased looking golden retriever, a carefree smile across his face. He had that look of someone who was the heartthrob next door in just about every teen drama growing up. Sandy Blond hair, Henley and a plaid shirt. Just a regular guy. It suddenly didn’t feel right snooping. Exiting out of the site she sat back in her seat and watched for a moment as a small group of people passed by to take one of the booths a little further forward from her. Now at least she knew who to look out for. Narrowed it down a little. Another coffee refill later she packed up her stuff, started up the car and made her way back across the river to Callahan Cathedral, or what was left of it, as promised.

The cathedral was perhaps not the smartest location to have picked for a meetup, especially not a long abandoned one. Hindsight was twenty-twenty, but considering the events that even led her to being there in the first place she’d have said she did okay all things considered. Hard to be rational when you were being chased down by a half dozen or so pissed off ghosts. Which on the subject were also a topic of conversation for some sort of churchyard tour going on a few yards away from where she waited.

“…and here is where Obadiah Smith has been reported as being sighted right next to this marker,” the speaker stopped by a toppled grave marker, his hands clasped in an attempt to look solem.“Several psychics we’ve had out here tell us that the disrepair of the graves and the surrounding grounds have made these formerly peaceful souls angry. We set up a donation page and ten percent of our book sales and a small percent of our ticket fees go towards our funs to restore the site and we appreciate every penny you can give, now if you’d like to follow me to…”

Cassie watched them go and turned her attention ahead again and closed her jacket over as the wind cut through her clothing and stuffed her hands into her pockets as she waited.

I wasn’t long before she felt what was quickly becoming a familiar sensation of pins and needles down her back. She followed the feeling and looked over towards the grass, expecting to see Maya, the former- was that the right term?-nurse. Instead there was a trio of ghosts headed her way. Any worry about being approached by any of them were thankfully snuffed out. Seemed they were more interested in trailing what she realized then had to be some kind of ghost tour party going on and watched as a small group followed along slightly behind them.

“This guy’s full of crap,” one of them huffed as they passed nearby. “Most of these you can’t even read the names. You could feed them any old shit, what a load of bull,” he kicked out at one of the markers and passed through it, trailing after the others leaving Cassie alone with her thoughts again.

After checking her watch a few times and wondering why she hadn’t picked somewhere less cold and creepy, like Del’s or one of the fancier places. Somewhere, anywhere warm when her guest finally appeared. As she approached Cassie had been close for a moment to asking how she wasn’t in the least bit cold in just her scrubs like that before she realised her mistake with an inward roll of her eyes. “Hey,” she called over tentatively, taking careful steps past what was left of several grave markers dotted along the grass turf.

As she approached Maya tucked her hands into the pockets of her blue nursing scrubs, shoulders turning inwards, almost hesitant behind the nonchalant expression on her face, “I didn’t think you’d show up.”

“Says the person who’s late,” Cassie countered with a not unfriendly shake of her head. “Right,” back to why she was even here, “so, I did a little digging. Got a picture and um, some background,” she looked away, “with, you know, what happened…I’m sorry.” She tumble that last part out, “but, um, remind me again, why can’t you just tell him yourself again?”

“Any time I get near he’s out of there,” she moved to stand beside Cassie, ankles crossed and leaning against the cathedral wall. She let out a sigh, looking out towards the rest of the grounds. “I can’t get within a mile of him,” she turned to look at Cassie, meeting her eyes, “I just want to see him, set the record straight.”

“And you think he’s going to listen to me, to some random over you?” That seemed likely.

“It’s better than nothing,” Maya’s gaze focused on the ground and into her own thoughts.

There was a lull in the conversation after that. Cassie shifted uncomfortably and cleared her throat, “okay, not promising anything, but I can try.” For the moment at least that seemed to be something.

“About the other thing,” Maya folded her arms, “I want them, the rest of them gone. That stunt back at the General-“ she bit at one of her nails, letting out a huff, “I’m done. Anything?”

“Oh,” she was hoping the first thing would be enough, that maybe Maya would have forgotten she’d even asked about it. No such luck. “Right. About the other thing, Working on it,” not a total lie, “but that’s going to take a lot more work. I wouldn’t even know where to start with that stuff. Might take some time, not sure how much I can get hold of, but I’ll…I can try. Time for a change of subject, “oh,” she pointed her finger, “before I forget, for future reference if I ever need a distraction do me a solid and give me a heads up on the game plan first,” she looked over towards Maya, one eyebrow raised and what she at least hoped passed as slight a teasing smile considering the cold.

“Noted.” Maya gave a slow tilt of her head, “and thank you,” she added after a beat.

“Okay, ‘s fine,” she shrugged it off. She hadn’t done anything yet.

Tracking Maya’s brother down was the least of her worries. Keeping ghosts out might be one thing, but getting rid of them was a whole other thing and a route Cassie wasn’t even sure she wanted to go down. Unless she didn’t have to, maybe she could find somebody who could. One thing at a time.

#solo #coffee and contemplation #//I forgot how to title #but ok #Ghostly Encounters

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wayward-marvel-sommer1196 · 7 years

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More Like Daughter

Pairing: Dean Winchester x Sister!Reader x Sam Winchester

Warnings: Language, SPN cannon violence, nightmares, sibling abuse (Demon Dean), Angst, and then Fluff

Word Count: 3109

A/N: This was written for Katie’s AKA @winchesters-favorite-girl One Year Celebration. Congrats on the year girly. My prompt was “You’re the greatest thing that ever stumbled into my life.” This got a little angstier than I anticipated but I love writing fluffy Dean so you get that as well. Reader is 16 and this takes place in season 11 if you couldn’t tell so for the guys age you can do the math lol. No Beta and feedback always appreciated.

Summary: You’re sick of the distance between you and Dean and just want your big brother and best friend back. You figure the only way to do that is to confront Amara and break whatever link it is she has on your brother. Will it work or will you pay the consequences? Will you get Dean back?

You were sitting in the library reading, or at least trying to read, some new lore book that Sam had found in the basement. As your eyes scanned the page you couldn’t help but notice you didn’t have a clue what you just read. Your head was in another place and had too many thoughts swimming around to retain any new information.

All you could think about was Dean, your big brother who you used to be thick as thieves with but was no more of a stranger to you. It has been almost 2 years since he started pushing you away. It all started when he got that god forsaken Mark of Cain. The fucking thing started to change him and slowly but surely, he saw it and pushed you further away. Then Metadouche killed him, he became a knight of Hell, and the shit really hit the fan.

Dean had escaped the dungeon in the middle of being cured and was on the hunt. You had your blade gripped tightly in your hand and quietly stalked through the halls. You had all your senses on high alert. You knew this monster wasn’t Dean meaning you were most definitely in danger.

However, when Sammy knocked out the lights it knocked you off your game. In a single moment, you felt a warm breath on the back of your neck and before you could turn around his hand was on your mouth dragging you into the nearest room.

He let you go and you fell forward onto the ground. You knew it was Dean and you knew you were screwed.

“Dean, please-,” you said.

“Dean, please,” he mocked. “Little y/n. What to do. What to do. You know I think I will enjoy killing you.”

You stomach turned at his words and you lifted your blade to at least try and defend yourself.

“Really, y/n? Do you actually think you are going to use that? Can you actually kill the man who has raised you? Go ahead. Here I won’t even fight back,” he said as he stepped forward with his arms behind his back.

You held the blade to his throat and tried to push but you couldn’t. He was right, he was the one who raised you. Your father died when you were still a toddler and your mother never wanted you so Dean took over. You loved him with every fiber of your being. He was much more than your big brother. Demon or not you couldn’t kill him even if you wanted to.

You dropped the knife and let the tears you were holding back fall.

“You don’t have to do this, Dean. I know you are still in there somewhere. My big brother. The only person in my life that ever truly wanted me and stuck around to raise me. Please,” you begged.

“You see y/n, I know I don’t have to do this, thing is I want to,” he said as he rushed towards you and punched you in the face. He smiled and began to kick you.

You curled up on your side begging him to stop but that inly seemed to egg him on. He grabbed you by your hair and stood you up straight and dragged a knife across your abdomen eliciting a scream from your lips.

“Princess, you have been nothing but a burden since the day you walked into my life. I was only 21 I didn’t want to take care of a kid. I already had to raise Sammy, why should I have had to raise you too?”

“D-Dean, Pl-please stop. I love you.”

“Well, I don’t love you,” he said as he dragged the blade across you skin a few more times across your skin. He let your hair go and you fell to the floor. He gave you another kick to the stomach and then one last one to the face to knock you out.

You don’t know how long you were out, but you came to when Sammy was lifting you from the ground telling you that you were going to be alright.

Sam was able to cure Dean, but only after he cleaned and bandaged you up. Your recovery however took much longer.

Since then you barely ever saw Dean. Sammy became your rock. Your everything. He became what you needed to get through this trauma, especially since the person you usually went too was avoiding you like the plague. You didn’t blame Dean, not one bit but he still avoided you. You felt like he didn’t love you anymore.

When the nightmares started Sam was right by your side to soothe you through them, but you couldn’t help but want Dean. It wasn’t that you didn’t love Sammy, you did with all your heart, it’s just you were closer with Dean and he knew exactly what you needed in times like this even when you didn’t know you needed it.

So here you were sitting in the library wallowing. You knew this all had to do with the Mark. Dean losing control, the angry outbursts, the demon thing, and now the darkness, it was all the damn Mark. For the last couple of years Dean has had something that has had a hold on him and you were sick of it. Now there was Amara who was stirring the pot in his head and messing with him.

You figured it was this lack of control that began the deterioration of y’all’s relationship and the fact that you weren’t strong enough to handle any of it. But, that was all about to change. You wanted your brother back and just some normal peace for one fucking minute with the only two people you have left for family. So, the only way to achieve that would be to confront Amara and that would be what you did.

The next day you let the guys know you were going out and would be back soon.

You arrived at the abandoned salvage yard and started to call out for Amara praying that she could hear you. To your surprise, she did and showed up.

“Look, I don’t know what your deal is with my brother, but I need you to leave him the hell alone. He has already been through enough in one life time and doesn’t need you adding to it. He is one of the few people I have left that I love so I need you to back the fuck off,” you said with such ferocity that you shocked yourself.

“I can’t do that. We are linked through the Mark and are destined to become one. He is a part of me now so I won’t let him go,” she replied back only managing to infuriate you.

“If that’s how it’s going to be,” you said as you lunged at her but to your dismay she manages to throw you back with barely lifting a finger. You lifted yourself up only to be thrown back down again causing you to groan.

You reached behind you and grabbed your gun from your waistband and shot her with a bullet that had been enchanted by a spell you made Rowena give you. To your disappointment, it didn’t kill her but it did weaken her a bit.

However, that only seemed to piss her off more. For a woman who pretty much relied on her powers to do her work for her she was pretty strong. She punched you in the gut causing you to hunch over. She grabbed your hair and lifted your head and punched you in the face. She kneed you in the stomach causing you to drop.

You however were a Winchester and got right back up and threw a few punches yourself knowing a blade wouldn’t help you here. You managed to give her a bloody nose and a busted lip. She wasn’t too happy with that and was able to muster up enough power to throw you into your car knocking you unconscious.

Once you were able to regain consciousness your whole body felt stiff. You had cuts everywhere, blood was seeping through each, not all of them shallow, and you were pretty sure your right arm was broken by the purpling of your skin and the excruciating pain coming from that area.

You reached into your back picket to get your phone to call Sam to come get you only to discover it was shattered. You looked back at the car you had driven to the location had been the one Amara so graciously threw you into rendering it useless now. So, you had no choice but to walk the 5 miles back to the bunker.

Back at the bunker both men were starting to panic and worry about your whereabouts. You said you’d be back soon but that was 8 hours ago and you weren’t picking up your phone. Both men filled the answering machine with worrying messages. They sent you dozens of texts that went unanswered.

At that moment Dean had had enough. You were his little sister and if you were gone this long it meant that something was wrong. So, he grabbed his jacket and his keys and headed towards the door to start looking for you.

Before he could make it out the door you entered the bunker all bloody and bruised and literally fell into his arms exhausted from the fight, the walk, and all the blood loss in between. The last thing you heard before you completely lost consciousness for the second time that day was Dean saying, “Everything is going to be alright baby girl, I got you.”

Dean picked you up bridal style and carried you to his bedroom. He called out for Sam who came running and followed you both to Dean’s room.

Dean and Sam began to get to work. They picked all the glass shards out of your skin, stitched up some of the deeper gashes, wrapped up your broken arm, wiped up all the blood, and patched you up.

“What did this to her, Sammy? The last time I saw her this beat up I …” Dean trailed off knowing her was the last person to hurt her this bad.

“I have no clue. She hasn’t said anything to me about tracking anything but Amara. But, Dean she’s strong we both know that. She’ll be fine,” Sam said as he left the room to head to his for the night to hopefully get the images of his sister all bloody again out of his head and get some sleep.

Dean, however, did move an inch. He sat at your bedside holing your hand and watching you to make sure you kept breathing. He couldn’t help but think back to when he hurt you. After Sammy cured him and he saw what he had done he wanted to die. After getting physically ill, he knew he had to stay away from you no matter how much that hurt it was the only way to keep you safe with the Mark still affecting him.

Dean was pulled from his thoughts when he felt you stir. He was instantly by your side. But before he could get a word out you started mumbling.

“ ‘M sorry, De. ‘M so sorry,” you managed to get out for him to hear.

Dean wrinkled his forehead in confusion. Why were you sorry? You hadn’t done anything wrong. You never did anything wrong. He was the one who should be apologizing. He was the one that hurt you not only physically, but emotionally when he decided to basically sever all ties with you.

“Why are you sorry, baby girl?”

“ ‘Cause I went after Amara alone and she was the one who did this to me and I barely knocked her down half a notch.”

“Y/N, why would you go after her alone? That was dangerous and reckless. You’re never reckless. You’re always yelling at Sammy and I for that. Why did you do it?”

“For you De. I went to her to get her to leave you alone. I miss my big brother and my best friend De. The last couple of years you have shut me out and I know it has to do with something always having a hold over you so I figured if I could get Amara out of the picture that was half the battle. I could work on being stronger and being able to handle all this better and make you love me again. I’m sorry I haven’t been strong enough and I know that’s probably why you pushed me away, but I’m working on it. I-I just need you back De. You are the only person in my life that has truly wanted me and I can’t lose you. I-I just can’t,” you spouted as the tears started to roll down both yours and Dean’s cheeks.

“Stop! Just stop,” he said. “Baby girl, you being strong was never an issue. You are strong, probably the strongest one in this bunker. You’ve had to be. Sure, it takes guts to step up to the plate and sacrifice yourself for the greater good, but those who have to deal with the aftermath are a hell of a lot stronger. You have been left behind to deal with the aftermath of all of mine and Sammy’s dumbass decisions, including mine taking on the Mark, and have handle them all with grace and maturity that you shouldn’t have had to.”

“Dean-“

“Let me finish. You are strong. I’m the coward. I felt so damn guilty for hurting you last year that I couldn’t handle it so I just pushed you away thinking it would keep you safe not thinking about how it would make you feel. You are the greatest thing that ever stumbled into my life, y/n. Those things I said as a demon weren’t true. They were things I knew would hurt you so I said them. The day I met you I was in awe and watching you grow up into the amazing young woman you are has been the greatest joy of my life. Y/n, you may be my little sister, but to me your much more than that. You’re more like a daughter to me always have been. I know it may be weird to think of me like dad but-“

“It’s really not since that’s basically the way I have seen you since I was 6.”

Dean smiled at that comment and continued. “Well, that’s why when I saw what I had done to you, I couldn’t forgive myself and pushing you away seemed to be the best option so I wouldn’t hurt you again, no matter how much it hurt me to do that. I love you kiddo and just seeing you hurt breaks my heart. I know you can’t forgive me for what I’ve done but can we move forward?”

You sat up and put your hand on his stubbled cheek. “You were forgiven the moment Ii woke up. I knew it wasn’t you, it was the demon acting in your worst fears. I love you De. That is never something you’ll have to question. Like I said you were the only one that wanted me and for me that’s everything.”

Dean looked at you in awe. How did he raise such an amazing girl? You were everything he wanted to be so good and innocent and just kind to your very soul. He knew he would die protecting that. He let the tears he had been holding back fall and carefully grabbed you into a hug and held you relishing in the feeling he had missed.

He let you go and kissed your forehead. “I’ll let you get some rest,” he said as he got up and moved to go to the door.

“De, wait.”

“Yeah, baby girl?”

“Can you stay and lay with me at least until I fall asleep, like we used to do when I was little?”

He looked at you with concern. You knew his answer was yes but you also knew you had to tell him why.

You took a deep breath and looked down at your fingers. “It’s nightmares. I’ve been getting them off and on since the incident. Sammy was helping but they started up again a few days ago and you always seemed to know what I needed before I knew I needed it.”

“Of course, baby girl. I’m sorry I haven’t been here for you like I should have and I promise that’s all gonna change,” he said as he removed his boots and removed his top layers so he was just in his pants and t-shirt and laid down next to you. “If you don’t mind me asking what are your nightmares about? Are they about me attacking you?”

You snuggled into him and spoke. “Some are, but they are just a culmination of things from over the years. Some are Sammy jumping into the cage, some are of Crowley, some of are you and Sammy hurt, and some are of people we have lost like Bobby and Charlie and Kevin. But I think the one that happens the most and sticks out the most…” you paused trying not to choke up.

Dean cringed thinking your answer was going to be him as a demon slicing you up. God, knows that’s the nightmare that keeps him up the most.

“The worst one was watching you die. When Metatron killed you and Sammy and I were helpless to do anything about it. I’m assuming that’s what it feels like to lose a father because I was to younger to know what was going on when Dad died,” you confessed as you let the tears fall freely.

“Well, I’m right here now so get some rest and let that body of yours heal.”

You nodded and not soon after you were dead asleep. Dean was sad that you had nightmares from this life and that you have had to watch everyone you ever cared about die, but he was glad to hear the one thing that haunted him most didn’t haunt you nearly as bad as he thought it would.

He squeezed you one last time and placed a kiss on your head and closed his own eyes to get some much-needed shut eye. The last thoughts before peaceful slumber took him away where he was glad that he hadn’t lost you completely through everything and he was more determined than ever to catch Amara and put an end to her madness.

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shotgunsandstars · 7 years

Text

They Were Giants 3: A Stranger Calling

This chapter is written on commission for rampakslue amd Anglophilicsins. If you’d like to commission something you can find information about it here

If you read and/or enjoy this fanfic a reblog would be very appreciated so other people can learn about this fic as well.

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Desmond was waiting for him when he left Aquilae. Malik felt heavier as he left the crumbling city and found Desmond sitting at a fire his all his armor still on, nervously watching the city with difficulty thanks to how purely black it was out here without the stars and no lights for dozens of miles. When Desmond saw him he leapt to his feet. “Malik! You’re back. How did it go? Did you take care of those other priests?” Desmond asked.

Malik wasn’t really listening. He just put the naked godkiller sword into Desmond’s hands, picked up his gear, and didn’t stop walking. He was headed north west, out of the land of no stars, towards the Belt of Aquila that surrounded the Eagle at the furthest north western edge of the sky. Desmond scrambled to kick the fire out and followed after Malik. His plate jingled as he jogged to catch up and tried to talk to Malik. Malik didn’t answer him once.

He honestly wasn’t really with Desmond. He was still back in Aquilae, looking down at Tarazed before stabbing his sword straight through his chest and how hot the sword had become. Too hot to hold. Altair had been so pleased but Malik had shown him the same attention he now showed Desmond. That had annoyed him and he’d vanished in a flash of fire. All he could think about was what Tarazed had said as his last words. That there was something wrong with Altair.

It wasn’t so out of character for Altair as Tarazed made it sound. He’d also acted cold and calculated with Aquilae the first time Malik had entered Eagle. He’d been so ready to burst into flames and throw them either back into the sky or deep into the earth when they’d all come one at a time to inspect Altair’s new priest. It was how he was protective of Malik before Malik could protect himself. Tarazed’s priests had been a real and significant threat to Malik’s existence and not something Altair would have tolerated. In turn Tarazed, who would go out with the express purpose of finding priests to bring back to Eagle to murder Malik, could not be tolerated. Neither things that so fully threatened Malik’s life were allowed to continue existing as far as Altair was concerned. It made sense that he’d ordered Malik to kill him, since he couldn’t do it himself, so that Malik would stay safe.

He came to the conclusion that what had happened last night wasn’t as wildly out of character as it had seemed in the moment as the sun was starting to rise. They’d made good time but they should really be stopping to rest for the day. He looked over his shoulder and saw Desmond some fifty feet behind him, dragging his feet tiredly. “Oh, I’m sorry, Desmond,” Malik said once he was in ear shot. He forgot Desmond had been on a strictly nocturnal schedule for only about seven nights and followed after Malik in full plate. They also hadn’t stopped since they’d left Aquilea and Malik forgot that mortals were significantly more delicate than Malik was. Barely more than a week ago Malik had had nearly all the bones in his body broken and he was as right as rain. Humans didn’t come back from that. They usually died.

“It’s fine,” Desmond sighed. “But… are we stopping for the day?”

“Yes. We are,” Malik assured him.

“Oh good,” Desmond groaned and immediately flopped down on the ground.

Malik chuckled and left him to take off his plate before it got too warm and went to find both food and some firewood to cook it if needed. At the very least he wanted some fire to heat water for tea. He didn’t find anything out here in the brush but he saw old signs of antelope which was something. He did find some good dried out saplings from when life used to grow more here when Aquilae had tended the land. He returned to Desmond who’d removed his shiny plate armor and numerous padding and was sitting in only the thinnest of clothes, using a cloth to wipe the surface of the breast plate clean of dirt. Malik put the little branches in a pile and snapped his fingers. Fire erupted from nothing. He pulled a small kettle out from his gear and poured some of his canteen into it. He set it to hover over the cracking fire and laid out his bedroll. Desmond had since done the same.

Malik did the same as Desmond and removed his armor, neatly laying it down on the ground and checking all the ties, buckles, and talismans carefully to make sure they were secure. He also checked the plates that made the armor up and that they were unblemished. His water was starting to boil by the time he was done and Malik put it down next to him and opened the top. He put a rolled up tea bomb into the kettle. It was only a little bigger than the biggest knuckle of his thumb but immediately burst as it hit the water and quickly stained it amber. As Malik was putting the lid back on the kettle he thought to himself that it reminded him of Altair’s eyes.

Malik watched Desmond clean his armor and didn’t offer to help. He’d done so at first but now knew Desmond preferred to do it by hand.

Out of his armor Desmond looked much smaller than Malik was used to. The plate and padding added significant mass to him. Not that Desmond was weak by any means. He was a smith and used to carrying around heavy ingots or tools and smacking metal into shape but only his arms were big and had any muscle definition. Everywhere else was soft. Malik couldn’t help but think that if Tarazed had gone so far with two priests because Aquilae was dead what would the other gods do now that there were two dead Eagle gods? As it was neither he nor Altair were on good terms with the northern gods. Alshain especially had secluded herself and didn’t even come out of the sky for festivals celebrated in her honor. Tso Ke and Tseen Foo equally resented Malik for very different reasons.

In the north east they called him Mountain Breaker to this day because he’d shattered the mountain that had had a huge carving of an effigy of Tso Ke that overlooked the city that bore his name. It had caused an avalanche that had consumed the entire city. Tso Ke had promised Malik would regret it when he’d seen the destruction. On the other side of the country Tseen Foo had branded Malik Firestorm and still deeply resented him for the Red Lash he’d inflicted upon the north west where he’d burned down a hundred miles of old pine forests and the city of Tseen Foo during the Eagle War. It was called the Red Lash because the sky had been red for days as the fire blazed until all that remained was ash that had been washed away by a later rain, revealing the red earth characteristic of the north west. Even fifty years later the Red Lash had not recovered and it had crippled the land’s timber production which in turn strangled the rest of Eagle’s ability to get large quantities of lumber.

Both of Alshain’s neighbors had every reason to hate Malik and now even more that he’d killed their brother. They’d been wary and afraid when he’d just killed Aquilae. But a Cardinal Star? This would breed anger.

A young smith without real combat training would be slaughtered in moments. It made Malik’s stomach roll. “Hey, Malik,” Desmond said.

“Hmm?”

“Your tea is going to get cold if you just leave it there,” Desmond said. He was laying on his bedroll now and eating some of his rations.

“Oh, right,” Malik said and poured himself a cup of the deeply amber tea. The cup was one of the ones his father had made him. It had a chip in the top but Malik liked it like that. It, unlike Malik, aged, and reminded him of actual passing of time. He added a little sugar to his tea and sipped it.

“So… You killed those priests?” Desmond asked him slowly.

“I did,” Malik said.

“The Eagle looked different last night,” Desmond ventured.

“I also killed Tarazed. With that very sword you’re carrying for me.” Desmond swallowed.

“So… now what?”

“Now I’m taking you home, where you belong,” Malik said and took a sip of his tea.

“What!” Desmond sat up quickly. “If I go back you’ll have to carry the evil sword yourself, Malik,” he said.

“That is something I must live with. What I do not have to live with is your life on my hands.”

“What?” Desmond didn’t get it. Malik told him that since he’d killed a Cardinal Star the others would probably be angry. He didn’t want Desmond to get mixed up in such things. “That’s… fair I guess. But I could still help you.”

“Desmond, it’s safer and better for me and you if you were home.”

Desmond sighed and thumped down on his bedroll. “I guess,” he looked at Malik across the fire, not lifting his head. “I just liked traveling with you. Even if the pace was horrid. I’ve never left that stretch of river before now. Thought I was going to live and die knowing only that river. I got to see a lot of Eagle with you. You see a lot of things with a priest.”

Malik’s face softened. “Yes. I know. But it is better for you if you were home. We’ll stop at Altair at the very least before then so you can see the capital. Altair is a beautiful city.”

“Is it as big as Osetalla?”

“Bigger,” Malik said. “It is the largest city in all of Eagle. The last compass… city,” he ended slowly, sadly.

“You destroyed the others,” Desmond said. It wasn’t accusatory. It was simply a question and a statement.

“I did,” Malik said. “And a lot of other things too. Let’s not speak of it.”

“Of course. I can only imagine it’s horrible to think of,” Desmond said.

Malik had another cup of tea and emptied the spent tea bomb with a bit of magic, throwing it into the fire. There it didn’t burst into flames but rather rolled and sparked, dancing across the top of the flame and rolled back into a tight little tea ball once it was dry. Desmond had seen him do that several times now but still looked amazed when he did it. Malik got a lot of use out of his tea like that which was good because since the Eagle War the land it used to be grown had been partially destroyed. Most of the tea had once been grown in the northern mountains, especially around Alshain and Tso Ke but Malik had ripped up a lot of the land there to make a point. It was coming back but fifty years was only one human life time. It would take more time yet for all the things Malik had broken to come back to their old strength.

He tucked the tea ball into his pack and snuffed out the fire. Then he laid down with a yawn. The sun was fairly high in the morning sky by now and after a long walk all night Malik was exhausted, Desmond even more so. Malik was still getting situated and when he looked over saw that Desmond was already asleep, the flap of his bedroll draped across his head and eyes to block out the sunlight. Malik did the same and mercifully slept without dreaming.

—

They’d arrived at dawn and in the imperfect early morning light the city was soft and backlit by a pink and yellow sunrise. Malik had not been exaggerating when he’d told Desmond Altair was a big city. It stretched to the horizon in both directions in the middle of a huge lake that was fed by the rivers from all over Eagle. Altair came into view a few hours before they were actually close enough to see it in full as a smudge in the distance before it blossomed like the flower it was with the passing of time and distance. Desmond just stopped and stared once they got closer to the shore. Osetalla was a large city in the land of Bezek and had swelled in size after the city of Bezek had been raised but it had nothing on Altair. It was truly massive and was the largest city Malik had ever heard of. Maybe the city that surrounded the grand temple of Sirius far to the east of Rigel would be bigger but there were only a handful of stars brighter in the sky than Altair. His city, by definition, was greater than others. Even before the Compass Cities had been destroyed none of them had stood up against Altair’s magnificence.

Buildings rose up from the raised and levied island like neatly coordinated boxes, each of them made of gleaming white, yellow, and pink sand stone bricks and painted in stunning murals. Some buildings coordinated their paintings and showed larger scenes that splashed across entire streets. Even at a distance you could make out some of the scenes. In the middle, barely visible at this distance beyond all the buildings, was the tip of the huge tower that sat in the middle of Altair’s temple.

He looked at Desmond and the boy was just staring open mouthed at the city. Malik chuckled. “Cmon,” he said.

“H-how do we get across,” Desmond squeaked.

“Well, normal people pay a toll and take a ferry of some sort. I really don’t like boats,” Malik said and stepped down the shore.

It took more than a simple hand wave for this. Stars, and thus Malik’s, heart of magic lay in fire. Their magic was icy so they had to keep themselves aflame to not be killed by the very nature of their freezing existence. So fire, explosions, and destruction came easily with magic because fire was, at its most basic state, something that ate, consumed, and destroyed. In opposition it meant water and liquid were much more difficult to deal with. Malik usually just didn’t deal with them because it took a few extra seconds of concentration and took a little more magic. But he really did hate boats. They always made him seasick and it was undignified for the priest of Altair to get seasick and throw up on a ferry to or from his star’s city. He much preferred to walk.

Malik drew a mark in the air, leaving a trail of shining fire light in its wake and it burst when he completed it and Malik’s boots felt a bit warm. “Desmond, c’mon,” he beckoned to the boy still on the shore. “Unless you want to take the ferry?” Desmond quickly came down to the edge of the shore. “This will make your boots hot, so don’t freak out,” Malik said and drew the same mark in the air.

Desmond still jumped a little. “What did you do?”

“You’ll see,” was all Malik said and took a step into the water. As he did the water shot away from where his boots touched. He walked into the lake and the water crawled away from where he walked creating a wall on all sides of him and a few feet around him in all directions. The wall was over his head when he looked back to check on Desmond. He could see Desmond through the wall of water and he was still standing on the shore. “Hurry up,” Malik called and laughed when Desmond started. “The magic doesn’t last forever.”

He waited just to make sure Desmond followed. He stepped tentatively into the water. Then, with greater confidence as water rose up around him strode towards Malik. Their columns of air met. “This is amazing,” Desmond said, eyes so wide they looked like the moon. “I didn’t know you could do this.”

“I did tell you names like Godkiller were my least interesting names, didn’t I?” Malik asked him and continued on towards the city. Desmond followed after.

The island was a mile and a half from the shore and as they got near it the land mass rose up in front of them like a massive wall. Desmond had his neck craned back to look up at it as they came up against the slick algae covered mass. The city soared a good two hundred feet above them. Malik put his hand against the rock and gave it a little push. The entire face shifted and with a great grinding sound Malik pulled a stairway out of the very island. The steps themselves were dry for the most part, at the very least were free of slick algae. Desmond stared at that too. Then Malik started up the stairs and Desmond followed.

At least for a little bit. Desmond got tired from the stairs fairly quickly. “Malik,” he said when Malik stopped because Desmond hadn’t anticipated how tiring the stairs would be.

“Hmm?”

“Is this… just what life is like with you? You just don’t think about doing impossible things all the time? You didn’t… really talk a lot or do this much on the way to Aquilae, which I understand and all. But is this normal with you?”

“That’s a silly question,” Malik said. “Of course it is. I use magic all the time. Going from your town to Aquilae I was— anxious. Anxiety does not mix well with magic. I thought something bad was going to go down in Aquilae; and I was right. But the danger is over now too so there’s no reason for me to feel anxious.”

“So you just do ridiculous and impossible things all the time then?”

“I have told you; I’m not just Godkiller or Firestorm or Orphaner. Before the Eagle War… it was different. You grew up after it, you can’t really understand. Now are you ready? The mark is going to wear off fairly soon and I don’t fancy getting caught in the wave.”

“Right. Of course,” Desmond got to his feet with a grunt and got to the top of the stair well without having to stop again.

A few people had gathered by the edge of the stairwell, confused as to what was happening and how a staircase had appeared when there hadn’t been one there before. Then they saw Malik and all their questions were answered in a single moment.

Unlike elsewhere in Eagle the citizens of Altair didn’t look away from Malik or steal glances or directly move away from him as quickly as possible. Here the horrors of the Eagle War were only nightmare stories happening to people far away from themselves. They weren’t afraid of Malik and in Altair his older names were still more common to hear than the ones he’d earned during the Eagle War. They nodded politely to him when he and Desmond stepped onto the street but did walk away. They weren’t drawn to his spectacle of existing for so long anymore. If he wanted them to actually be amazed by him he had to do something amazing. Some children did linger and gasped when he tapped the top stair with his foot and the entire staircase went back into the island.

“Keep up now, Altair is an easy place to get lost in,” Malik told Desmond who nodded dumbly. Desmond followed after him but was openly staring at everything around them.

The smaller buildings didn’t have grand murals like the larger ones but were still decorated with brightly colored paint of flowers or fish or animals. They complimented the fact that most of the buildings had little plots out front of either grass filled with flowers or had been turned into gardens. Most buildings also had porches and people used the space as gathering areas to see friends or watch people walk the streets. The streets themselves were neatly ordered paving stones made of white granite with sidewalks of painted limestone. Of course the paint on the sidewalk was worn away in places but it was part of a festival every year for people to paint the sidewalks in front of their homes with things they wished to forget or forgive over the year so that foot traffic and rain would erode it from both the sidewalk and their minds. The deeper they got into the city the more magnificent the murals became. Those on the edges of the city often depicted basic landscapes or animals that could be seen easily from afar but deeper in the city the buildings had people painted on them or magnificently detailed landscapes. Some buildings, trying to one up their neighbors, commissioned murals done entirely in mosaic.

Desmond kept close to Malik. Osetalla had been Desmond’s first real venture in lots of people in one place but Altair was a teeming throng of people that moved about back and forth across the streets with ease. It was also loud as merchants called out wares or animals brayed from both pulling carts and from their stock holds. Deeper in the city the streets and sidewalks were filled with people with the city guard walking amid them in their deep red livery making sure things stayed orderly. The town Desmond had grown up in had been about two hundred or so people. Altair contained several tens of thousands of people and they all had places to go and things to do and you better not get in their way.

None of them got in Malik’s way. There was about a foot air bubble around him on all sides from people keeping a respectful distance from him so they didn’t bother him. The fact that he had a tall man in full western style plate armor didn’t even factor into it.

Eventually they made it to the temple and the crowds thinned. The temple complex itself was massive and made up of several domed buildings and nine minarets. The tallest minaret was perched atop the large central building in the middle of the complex and topped with a magnificent golden star many times larger than a man. Once the temple of Altair had also served as the palace of the king that ruled over Eagle by a perceived divine right. That had been put to an end when Malik had come to Eagle. Altair had literally kicked the ‘divine king�� out of his own palace and told them it would once more be his temple and that it would be home of his priest. Malik had been mortified at the time but now knew it was just Altair showing off to Malik and hoping Malik approved. Now the king lived in another palace across the city but had since dropped saying they were ‘divine’ since Malik was around to tell them to fuck off.

If the city of Altair was an exhibition in showing off the temple complex was then on a completely other level. Every inch was covered in mosaics made of both perfectly polished tile and gemstones and what wasn’t covered in mosaic was exquisite carvings of plants and animals painted in perfect, true to life, colors. Long ago one of Altair’s first priests had been a craftsman before Altair had found them and made the entire temple himself in Altair’s honor. It, of course, had sparked the first Eagle War with his siblings being too jealous of the beautiful temple and had found their own priests to worship them and because they naturally bickered anyway they used their priests as an extension of their own infighting. That had been the last time all gods of Eagle had had priests at the same time. It had been far before Malik’s time.

Desmond looked up at the huge temple in open wonder. “What is this? Is this the palace I’ve heard about?” he asked.

“Hmm? No. This is where I live,” Malik said.

Desmond looked at him so fast he nearly gave himself whip lash. “You live here?” he demanded.

“Yes, of course. This is the temple to Altair, in his city. Of course I live here,” Malik said. “C’mon now, we can rest here a bit before we continue on to your town.”

Desmond was still in shock but followed after Malik. The great courtyard that welcomed them led up to a set of perfect pink marble stairs into the largest building. Malik walked into the building and Desmond clanged behind him in his plate armor. Inside the biggest building it was mostly empty on the inside with a huge antechamber held up by columns of ancient tree trunks brought in from the north west and painted in the colors of dusk and dawn with thick gold bands wrapped around each one. At the back of the hall was a throne that had been there since the temple had been created as a place for Altair and had been later used by the king. Now it was the backdrop of an altar where a collection of people dressed in white and gold robes where kneeling in front of, praying. Altair’s clerics.

Malik gave them only a passing notice. Honestly he wanted to lay down in his bed for a little while and eat some real food. He hadn’t been back in Altair in weeks since Bezek had come to him on his little excursion to get away from these clerics.

The clerics heard the both of them and Desmond at least knew better than to ask things even though Malik was sure the boy was bursting with questions. As they walked past finally one of the clerics tried to stop them as they tried to make it back into the temple proper. “You there, you can’t- Oh. Malik,” they said.

Malik stopped only briefly. “Did you need something?”

The cleric got to their feet. The others lifted their heads to watch. “You were gone for some time and another star… well it, how to say-

“Yes, I made Tarazed go nova. Don’t wanna talk about it.”

“O-oh! Of course. Of course,” they swallowed and nervously adjusted their high collar. Malik saw fear in their eyes. “Ah… who is this? Is this the paladin we’ve heard about?”

“Paladin?” Desmond was as confused as Malik.

“This is Desmond, my sword bearer. We’ll be staying a few days, no more, and then I am taking him home.”

“Ah. I see. Well, everything was left for you.”

“Good. We’ll talk later, I am in need of a wash.”

“Oh! Of course. How thoughtless of me, you must be exhausted from your journey here. Don’t allow me to keep you any longer,” and the cleric bowed deeply to Malik and stepped away.

Desmond followed Malik when he started walking again. “Who was that?” Desmond whispered once they were away.

“An annoyance,” Malik rolled his eyes. Desmond didn’t ask anymore. Malik showed him to a cleric’s cell he could call his own and then went to his own quarters at the back of the temple that overlooked a vast and beautiful garden. There gardeners were gently tending to the flowers there in the midmorning light.

Malik entered the apartment that had once been the rooms of a king and before that other priests. It was huge and decadent made of perfectly smooth and light pine wood and covered in elegant paintings and wall scrolling. A pair of huge windows overlooked the garden and the floor was wood so shiny Malik could see his face in it. He’d lived here for the entire time he’d been in Eagle and it had taken him years to get used to the size of just how huge it was even now. The main sitting room was as large as his childhood home and his bedroom was nearly as big. There was also a library and an office and a training room and a bath with a pool so large he could actually swim in it. Ornate and perfectly placed pieces of art dotted the walls and potted plants hung from elaborate wrought iron hooks and were filled with flowering hanging vines.

Malik went to his bedroom and removed his armor and clothing all the way down. He was covered in dirt and sweat and smelled like an armpit. At the very least he hung up the armor and left the cloth in a basket he’d leave out front his door for washing. He just wanted to wash all this disgusting road dirt off himself and maybe wash off the feeling of regret that he had stabbed Tarazed. At least Altair hadn’t asked him to stab Alshain. He wasn’t sure if he could have actually done that.

Normally you were supposed to wash your body before getting into a bath tub but Malik really didn’t give a fuck today. He walked right into it with a pleased grin. Thanks partially to magic and partially to just genius engineering the bathing pool in the priest’s apartment always circulated perfectly warm water. Running water had since spread all across Eagle and Malik loved every moment of it. So much better than back in Rigel where he’d grown up where they didn’t have running water. Malik sunk down to his eyeballs into the pool and the water around him turned grey from the dirt. The flow of water pushed it away eventually and Malik grabbed soap to wash his hair and body. He ended up sitting on a seat that lined the edge of the pool feeling relaxed and good. He did doze off a little since it was very late for him with the sun almost at its apex.

When he woke he pulled himself out of the pool and dried himself off with a hand motion. His bed beckoned him and he crawled into it and promptly fell asleep.

He woke a bit after dusk and stretched before laying heavily back down on the bed. He looked up at the ceiling and wondered why the hell he’d woken up by himself. It took him several minutes to realize that this usually happened now but it hadn’t always been like this. Time moved faster the older you got and things that seemed to have just happened had been going on for a while. It used to be when he was in the city Altair would come down and Malik would often find him having crawled into his bed during the day.

Malik pushed himself up on one elbow. “Altair,” he said. “Altair, come here.” He waited but as time stretched on Altair didn’t come. “Really?” Malik asked, looking up at the ceiling which was painted with an elaborate mural of the Eagle constellation. “I know you’re awake, come here.” Malik waited some more but still Altair didn’t come. Malik lay back in the bed, annoyed, for several minutes before his stomach demanded he get up. He rolled out of bed and got dressed in some common clothes, one shoulder and part of his arm exposed from the how large the neck of the shirt was.

Once he was dressed he left his room and went to find Desmond. He found the kid in his cell, polishing his armor. Malik knocked and opened the door to see him doing that, “Hey,” he said. “Hungry?”

“Yes!” that was a trick question. Desmond was a tall kid, big too, he was always hungry. He put his armor away and jumped to his feet, following after Malik.

Malik showed him to one of the smaller buildings in the temple complex and the cook there bowed when they saw Malik. They’d just finished dinner for those who lived during the day but had breakfast ready for them in no time of well stuffed camdari shells of fragrant fruit paste and sweet raw quail yolk on top. The camdari shells crunched when you bit into them and Desmond only ate it because Malik did. They didn’t have camdari in the west, they only lived in the lake around Altair. Here it was local fare to have stuffed camdari for breakfast since they basically kept forever and were cheap to get but tasted great.

When breakfast was over Malik said, “We aren’t going to stay long. A day or so.”

“Just a day?” Desmond asked, deflated.

“Afraid so,” Malik nodded. “I’m sure your father misses you by now and you left with only telling your neighbors.” Desmond sighed. “I’ll have one of the clerics show you around Altair at least so-

Malik didn’t even flinch at the woosh of flame that sprang up in the building. Instead he just turned and looked at Altair, then looked down. “You burned another ring in a lesser house, Altair,” he scolded him.

Altair looked down as well at the wooden floor. “Oh. My mistake,” he said and delicately took a step away from the singed floor boards.

“I called you this morning. Where were you?” Malik asked him.

“You called me?” Altair asked. “I didn’t hear you.”

“Yes. I did. Where were you?”

Altair looked very confused. Then he looked even more confused. Tarazed’s last words echoed in the back of his head as he said, “I don’t remember.” Then he shrugged. “No matter. Did you need something? I heard you say my name.”

Malik gave him a look, “I was speaking of the city.”

“Oh,” Altair frowned.

Malik slid out of his chair. “But since you’re here you might as well stay. One of your clerics is going to show Desmond around. I could use the company before we leave again.”

“Alright,” Altair nodded.

Desmond followed Malik out of the lesser house and he took Desmond to where the clerics were doing post dawn prayer. It was a simple matter of getting someone to show Desmond around the city. The head cleric looked like they wanted to speak to Malik but with Altair around they were all cowed and reserved. Malik was glad Altair was there. He really didn’t want to speak with these clerics. It was all ceremony with them. They just didn’t get it that Altair hated ceremony. He didn’t want ceremony.

Malik went back to his quarters but didn’t go into them. Instead he walked out into the garden. Altair followed him and when he found a place to sit Malik just made the grass grow thicker so he didn’t have to sit on the dirt. Malik sighed contently as he leaned back on his elbows. “Feels like we haven’t done this for some time,” he said as Altair joined him.

“Done what?” Altair asked.

“Just been here,” he laid back. Between Malik hating staying in one place for long and Altair deciding he needed to go somewhere Malik rarely just stayed in the temple. Above the stars of Eagle twinkled, the shape of the wings filled in with a thousand lesser stars and nebula. There were two stars missing now. Altair didn’t say anything to him and just lay next to him. “Are you upset with me?” Malik asked him.

“What?” Altair asked.

“Are you angry with me?” Malik looked at him.

Altair looked very confused. “No. Why would you think that?”

“You never just come see me anymore,” Malik said. “Used to be you’d just come and spend the day with me, regardless of where I’d lay my head. Or you’d walk with me in the night. Have I done something?”

“What? No!” Altair pushed himself up some. “You haven’t angered me at all. Do I come across as such?”

“The last time you spent so much time away from me you were angry at me about Deneb,” he said. “Remember when you wouldn’t kiss me for a few decades?”

Altair’s face dropped a little. “Have I been so negligent?” he asked, more than a little stricken.

“Not as much,” Malik assured him. “I just miss you.”

Altair frowned at him. “Why didn’t you say something sooner?”

“It just occurred to me that you aren’t with me all the time anymore,” he tugged a little on Altair’s deep red sleeve. “Happened so slowly I didn’t even notice. Where do you go at night?”

Altair stared at him. “Nowhere. I just…” he shrugged. “I have no good excuse for why I do not spend time with you.”

“Are you bored of me?” Malik asked.

“What! No. Never,” Altair said fiercely and to Malik’s great surprise Altair kissed him firmly. So hard it was more like smashing their faces together, pressing Malik’s nose down. Altair didn’t want Malik to get it into his head that Altair did not feel for him. It made him feel a bit better honestly. “You are mine. Only mine and I love you dearly,” Altair said, holding Malik’s face in both hands. “Do not ever think anything other than that,” he said firmly.

Malik smiled a little. “Alright,” he said. He reached up to touch Altair’s face and he kissed Malik again. This one wasn’t so fierce and was sweet and kind. When they parted he said, “I still miss you, though. We’re leaving tomorrow. I want you to come with us.”

“Us? Who’s us?”

“That boy who made my sword. I’m taking him home to his father now.”

“Ah,” Altair nodded. He was hesitant than he nodded, “Yes. I’ll do that. I’ll come with you. It has been a while,” he admitted.

“Good,” Malik said. “I missed you.”

“I’m sorry for that,” Altair said. “That was not… my intention.” Malik just nodded and smiled again when Altair kissed him.

—

The next night Malik met a very exhausted Desmond in front of the temple. He’d stayed up half the day to see Altair when more people were about and was tired from not as much rest as he was used to. He was in his full armor again, the last of the sun’s afterglow making it sort of sparkle and the eagle motifs burned the color of the sunset. Altair had gone off and said he’d rejoin the two when they left the city. He wasn’t interested in having to walk through the city if he couldn’t help it.

“You ready to go home?” he asked Desmond.

“No,” Desmond sighed. “The city is… amazing. Like nothing I’ve ever seen,” he lamented. “I wish I didn’t have to leave.”

“Heh. Yes. Though I’m sure your father will be happy to see you’ve returned home safe.”

“I suppose,” then Desmond realized something. “Where’s the sword?

“I left it in my quarters,” Malik said and started off, his talismans jingling as he walked. “I don’t have need of it now.”

“Oh… do you still think it’s evil?”

“It killed a god, Desmond. It is an evil thing. I don’t need to carry it with me everywhere.”

“I’m sorry,” Desmond said.

“It isn’t your fault. You didn’t know what it was. You couldn’t even feel its energy. There is no reason to be sorry.”

“You’re very understanding, Malik,” Desmond said.

Malik glanced up at the Eagle in the sky. “I find it better to be understanding than to act rashly or to blame people for things they have no control over. So I prefer understanding and acceptance.” Malik didn’t say that it also made it easier to not feel so guilty for the things he’d done this way. It was easy to let guilt consume you. It was harder but better to face it with understanding and acceptance. That he’d done horrible things. He didn’t let it consume him. It would have been easy to do so. There was so much blood on Malik’s hands. He decided accepting it was better way to handle it.

They made it out of Altair with only minor distractions from Desmond. Where they went Malik would sometimes hear a muttered ‘paladin’. He didn’t stop to correct them. Like before they walked along the bottom of the lake with some mark magic and ended up on the western shore.

“So, where is he?” Desmond asked Malik.

“He’ll show up. He wants us to be away from the city before that happens,” Malik said and just started walking.

“Why doesn’t Altair want to be seen? Surely if people saw him walking about so many misgivings from the Eagle War would be forgiven. At least by the people,” Desmond said. “Just so they knew he wasn’t angry with us.”

Malik looked at Desmond as they walked. “It isn’t my place to tell Altair what to do, or yours.”

“I know. But why doesn’t he?”

“He doesn’t like being seen. He’s odd like that. Bezek enjoys walking the fields so people know the harvests will be good. Altair’s not like that. He’s private.”

“Oh.”

They walked in silence but Malik still thought about what he’d said. Altair hadn’t always been that way. He’d once accompanied Malik everywhere. No one recognized him of course because he so rarely came down from the sky before. He did his best to remember the past century. When he’d first arrived in Eagle Altair had rarely been up in the sky and as the decades passed he’d spent more and more time there. Now he spent most of his time there and only rarely came down to the earth.

Around midnight when they stopped to rest and eat Altair appeared in a tower of flame. At first Malik thought it was someone else. Like Thailmain or Tseen Foo since he was dressed head to toe in black with a deep hood. Thailmain always dressed in black and indigo the rare times he came to the ground. He was the only one who didn’t care that Malik had destroyed his city. He wasn’t interested in the goings on of Eagle. “Sorry I came so late,” Altair’s voice came from the hood and that was how Malik knew it was him. Malik frowned.

“What was the issue?” Malik asked him.

“Nothing,” Altair said and joined them around the little fire, mainly to help Desmond see in the dark. Even in the light Altair looked like the void shaped like a man. There wasn’t even a drop of color or light on him and Malik had trouble seeing the top of his face.

He pulled Altair’s hood back some so he could see him better. For a second he swore Altair looked angry, pupils hissing white before it was gone. “What are you wearing?”

Altair looked down like to make sure he was dressed. “Clothes?” he asked.

Across the fire Desmond was just watching, slowly eating his meal. “You almost done, Desmond?” Malik asked him. Desmond nodded, mouth full but hands empty. “Alright. Let’s be off then,” Malik said and got up. He kicked the fire and it snuffed out, scattering apart in an instant with more force than his boot could muster. Desmond’s armor clinked as he got to his feet and picked up his things.

It was dark now without the fire, the moon only a fat wax crescent, and Altair’s form looked darker still when he stood up next to Malik. “Malik if you keep making that face it’s going to get stuck like that,” Altair said and put his hands on Malik’s face, using his thumbs to smooth out Malik’s frown and furrowed eyebrows. He hadn’t even realized he’d been frowning.

“And what if I want wrinkles?” Malik asked him but didn’t push Altair’s hands away.

Altair cocked his head to the side, “I don’t know why you’d want to look old,” he said.

Malik rolled his eyes and just started walking. Altair kept pace with him and Desmond followed behind in the darkness. “After this do you need me to go anywhere?” Malik asked him.

“No,” Altair said. “Why?”

“Because I think I will stay in the city a while. I want you to stay with me as well.”

Altair didn’t say anything for a few minutes. “Is this about last night?” he asked, at last, his voice coming out of the man shaped darkness that Malik knew too well to be afraid of.

“Yes,” Malik said and reached out to grab Altair’s hand. “I miss you.”

That eased whatever worry was in Altair’s chest because he leaned over and kissed Malik on the cheek. “Alright.”

They talked some as they walked but of nothing of import. Desmond mostly asked them questions about the city and what it was like and who lived there and how it sustained itself out in the middle of the lake. Malik answered as best he could but it wasn’t really something he knew a lot about. He was literally at the top of the pyramid as far as class was concerned. He didn’t even bother to think about how things were dealt with below him. It was classist but Malik had once been nothing from another town who didn’t appreciate him and had earned the affection of a literal god. Why the hell would he worry about how a city was supplied anymore?

As the sun started to rise Malik heard Desmond’s yawns become more frequent. Not nearly as wide as Altair’s. “You’re so dramatic,” he scolded the both of them.

“The sun is up, I'm tired,” Altair said as the stars started to dim overhead.

Malik rolled his eyes. “We're almost to a town.”

“Good, then I don't need to stay,” and before Malik could say anything Altair disappeared in a gout of fire. Malik glared at the singe mark on the ground.

“He always do that?” Desmond asked.

“What? Act like a baby about the sun? Yes,” Malik huffed. “We are almost someplace we can rest so let's get going and we can sleep in a bed tonight.”

“Okay,” Desmond said and followed Malik. “Malik, can I ask… what's it like?”

“What's what like?”

“Having the attention of a God?”

“Sometimes it's very annoying,” Malik huffed.

“You don't mean that.”

“Sometimes I do. But it's nice, I suppose. I never want for anything. Even if Altair didn't exist I'd always have what I needed because of my power. It is nice having a city to call my own.”

“I hope this isn't too intrusive but… where are you from, Malik? You don't look anything like the people of Eagle save for your darker complexion shared by us.”

“I come from a very far away place, Desmond. Out beyond the Cloud Rift where each town worships its own star and each town is part of its own chain so we looked like constellations strung across the land when you looked at a map.”

“Wow, that sounds so different,” he frowned a little. “I can't imagine a land like that,” he admitted. “It's too much. That there is a place not watched over by the Eagle and our nine gods… well, seven now I guess,” he frowned. “I know there are other gods but I was taught they were dangerous, violent, horrible things. That only because of the Cloud Rift created by the Eagle are we kept safe and secluded from them.”

Yes, Malik had been hearing that teaching slowly emerge over the past hundred years. It troubled him that it coincided with Altair becoming more and more distant from him. “They are dangerous,” Malik said. “But gods are not violent towards humans. We are too insignificant to them. They enjoy when we are violent because they are by nature and that's why we sacrifice to them. Or rather, why men do.” Women didn't have to give blood to the gods. They gave blood once a month. That was their sacrifice while men had to prove themselves that they could give blood of equal worth to them.

“Hmmm,” Desmond said and had much to think about. They finished the way to the town to Desmond's pensive silence. Malik purchased them a pair of rooms and dinner at the local inn, or rather a breakfast they ate as dinner. The innkeeper was very polite and tried not to take Malik’s money until he insisted. He took it then because good manners was well and good but you didn’t want to actually anger the priest.

After dinner Malik retired early though Desmond stayed awake to speak to the inn keeper and others who were too nervous to speak to Malik. How funny that they were more comfortable talking to a young man in full plate than they were speaking to Malik with his more light weight armor that looked more like clothes than actual armor. Malik just made himself some tea before sleep and slept deeply into the day, keeping the shutters and curtains closed tightly against the brightness of the sun outside.

When Malik slept he dreamed of the sun. The sun sat in a blue sky full of clouds. Twilight came and darkness crept across the sky but the sun remained where it was in the dark sky with the moon as company. There were no stars and it was just those two points of greater light in the sky. He watched the sun crack like a pane of glass and shatter into a thousand different little diamonds.

He woke up and the sun was setting. He blinked from his pillow and yawned widely. The dream was already slipping away. All he remembered was that he dreamed of the sun. It was an odd dream. It wasn’t like he didn’t see the sun anymore. He yawned again and stretched his arms above him. He heard things going on below on the street and pushed himself up to lean on the sill. He pushed the shutter open and looked down onto the street. Desmond was down there in his padding he wore under his armor, dragging a man along by the scruff. There were some people gathered around the entrance of the inn speaking in hushed tones of concern.

“Oi!” Malik called out to him.

Desmond turned and looked up. “Oh, Malik. Sorry for waking you,” Desmond called back up to him.

“What’re you doing?” Malik pushed himself further out the window. The setting sun made the shadows long.

Desmond looked down at the man. He wasn’t struggling. “Local was getting out of hand. Guess you didn’t hear him. Bit too much ale.”

Malik cocked his head at Desmond. “Where you taking him?”

“Back to where he comes from,” was all Desmond said.

“Mmm.” Malik pulled himself the rest of the way out of the window and there were a few startled yelps when Malik jumped out of the window and landed lightly on the ground just under it. He made a surprising appearance still dressed for bed and having jumped out of the window. Malik gave the man in Desmond’s hand a second look. He had a beautiful shiner on the left side of his face and was unconscious. The inn keeper was there and Malik turned to him. “That true?” he asked them.

“Lester’s known to cause a ruckus,” the innkeeper nodded. “Better to just get him drunk enough so he passes out from the drink than argue with him.”

“And what happened now?”

“He was drunk, causing a scene with my maid when the young paladin came downstairs to see what was going on. He tried to peacefully get Lester to leave and… well, he didn’t right like that. There was an altercation.”

“Did that altercation involve Lester getting punched?”

“He deserved it, Malik,” Desmond said from where he was still standing in his armor padding.

Malik ignored him. “Yes. It did,” the innkeeper said.

“This happens often?”

“Yes.”

“Lester’s a drunk? Known problem?” The innkeeper hesitated. “You can tell me. I’m a priest.”

“He is a problem. Can’t keep a job, lives out in a hovel outside of town. Any money he does get he comes and spends in my inn on drink. Dunno how he gets the money. Suspect he plays a highwayman during the day. Don’t ask,” they shrugged. “He used to be a nice fellow. Just snapped a few years ago and became a drunk. Not sure why.”

Malik frowned and turned away. He walked over to Desmond and crouched in front of Lester. “Let him go,” he said.

“Malik I was protecting myself-

“I know. I’m not angry with you. Now let him go.”

Desmond frowned but obeyed. Malik caught him by the face with two hands. “Wake up,” he said. Lester woke with a start and immediately went swinging. Malik just glanced at his hand and it and his entire body froze. “Hello Lester,” he said.

“The fuck you?” Lester asked.

“My name’s Malik. I’m the priest of Eagle. I heard you’ve been causing some trouble for your town and neighbors. That true?”

“S’what?” Lester slurred a little.

Malik gave him a little tap on the cheek. “Speak right,” he said firmly. “And know who you speak to.”

Lester’s eyes cleared of alcohol. He blinked and looked up at Malik. “Priest,” he said with complete clarity.

“Yes, I am,” Malik stood up, keeping his hands on either side of Lester’s head. Lester moved to his knees, head tipped up to Malik. “Now Lester. The innkeeper has told me you’ve been very bad lately, causing trouble, robbing from people. That true?”

“N-no-

“Do not lie to me,” Malik said sweetly, his hands warming dangerously.

“… Yeah. I been robbin’,” he said.

“Well you’re going to stop. You’re going to stop drinking too. This town doesn’t need you as a problem. Whatever happened to you years ago to make you like this I am sorry for. It must have been something terrible and you surely didn’t deserve it. But this behavior is unacceptable in this town, in Bezek, and in Eagle.” He lifted one hand off Lester’s face and drew a mark on his forehead in the shape of a stylized eye. Lester’s eyes watered as it burned his skin with a warm glow. “If I see you disrupting this place again, bothering the maid in the inn, out robbing or drinking too much this will know. You think the black eye the paladin gave you hurts now? The mark will make sure you stay on the straight. Do we have an accord?”

“Y-yes priest,” he stammered.

“Good,” Malik said. “I’m glad.” Malik released his face and Lester scrambled away, touching his forehead. There was no physical mark, his forehead was totally smooth. Instead his fingers passed across the mark drawn in light. “Desmond, go back inside. We’re going to be leaving after breakfast and I don’t want to take too long.”

“Yes, Malik,” Desmond said. He still sent a dirty look at Lester before going back into the inn. The sun had finished setting by now and the world was a collection of shadows and darkness at the edges.

Malik went over to the innkeeper again. “He shouldn’t be a bother now. I do apologize for the trouble he’s caused.”

“It- it- thank you kindly, priest,” they said.

Malik just smiled a little. “Desmond and I will require a meal before we leave. I’m going to get dressed and would like it to be ready.”

“Of course!”

Malik walked past and into the inn. The rest of the early evening patrons all looked like they’d hastily returned to their seats and were doing their best to not stare at Malik. He ignored them and went upstairs to the room he’d rented. He finished getting dressed and when he came back downstairs he found Desmond still in his armor padding surrounded by people who were asking him about what Malik had done. Malik cleared his throat loudly and everyone darted away. He and Desmond found a seat and food was brought immediately.

“You do that normally?” Desmond asked him.

“When I have to,” Malik said, eating without pause.

“So you’ve done it before?”

“Mhm. It’s not Eagle magic. Not really at least. I just adapted Eagle style magic for my purposes.”

“What do you mean it’s not Eagle magic?”

“Well; it’s a curse,” Malik said candidly. “Not big on curses in Eagle. It’s more a town chain thing. My brother told me about curses. They’re not quite magic so alchemists could use them.”

“Oh… what’s an alchemist?”

“Like a cleric or paladin,” was Malik’s explanation. Desmond looked thoughtful. “That it?” he asked when Desmond didn’t ask anymore.

“Yes? Was I supposed to ask something else?”

“Most people are surprised I have a brother and ask.”

“You’ve been in Eagle a long time Malik,” Desmond said. “I’m not going to ask you about your dead brother, that seems insensitive.”

Malik chuckled. “Smart boy,” Malik agreed.

They finished their breakfast and Desmond went to go put on his armor and get his things. Malik followed suit and gathered up his pack and things. He had to wait for Desmond outside in the early evening. As he did he looked up and east a bit to see the Eagle in the sky. It looked like a crippled bird and Malik frowned. Desmond appeared before he could dwell too much. “All set?” Malik asked him.

“Yes,” Desmond nodded. “Where’s… uh, our friend?” Malik smiled a little. Desmond didn’t want to speak Altair’s name so he wouldn’t feel uncomfortable.

“He’ll join us once we leave the town,” Malik assured him. He glanced back at Eagle and saw Altair still up in the heavens. Desmond followed Malik out of the town.

“Malik,” Desmond said once they were out of the town and alone on the road. Malik grunted to show he was listening. “What was Bezek like? Before I mean?”

“I prefer not to talk about it,” Malik said.

“Right, of course. Sorry,” Desmond stammered. Then he ventured again, “Why?”

“Why what?”

“Why did you do it?”

Malik looked at him, “You will not like the answer. You sure you want it?”

“Yes,” Desmond said. “Everyone always talks about it. Even in my hometown people wonder about it. There was never an Eagle War like that one.”

“And there won’t be again,” Malik said firmly. Desmond nodded. “I did it because Altair told me to,” he said. Desmond’s pace slowed a little but Malik didn’t wait for him. If the kid needed a moment to work through that he could do it alone. As he thought Desmond didn’t like the answer.

As they walked Altair joined them and made up to pace with Malik. “Morning,” he said in greeting. He was in deep reds today, so bruised and dark they were practically purple. There was a fine pattern in the fabric made of gold and light that draped low over part of his chest showing off his collar and left shoulder under which he wore a black and grey patterned shirt. He wore a kufi that was pitch black with little red triangles along the bottom and Malik considered that an improvement over the hood.

“You look nice this morning,” Malik said.

Altair’s pretty amber eyes brightened a little, shifting to more gold a moment, and he smiled. “You think so?”

“Yes. Very northern of you. You visiting your sister before you came or something?” He of course meant Alshain. Before the Eagle War she and Altair had been very close. It was as close to what stars could get to to twins.

“Hmm? No. I haven’t seen her in some decades,” Altair said, he didn’t even sound sad about it. The slight smile Malik wore dropped.

“Maybe we should visit her when we’re done here,” Malik said.

Altair grimaced, “Let’s not.” Malik didn’t say anything to that and eventually Desmond caught up with them again. He was still curious about things around Eagle and Malik was a perfect resource.

They walked all night and in the morning Altair left them and Malik found them another town to sleep in for the day. The next evening was less adventurous than the previous but when Malik woke up the next morning he found Desmond was gone. His things were still in the room but the armor was gone. Malik didn’t bother with his own armor and just wore more comfortable clothes to go look for him.

He found Desmond down the block helping with some sort of disagreement of some sort. He just stood there in his big armor, arms folded. No one noticed Malik approach and he looked rather unassuming outside of his own armor and lacking any signifiers that he was a priest unless you knew what he looked like. The two people in the argument were doing so over the ownership of a litter of puppies. The bitch belonged to one and the male, belonging to the other party, had gotten her pregnant on accident but the person wanted ownership of some of the puppies since they were good sheep dog stock.

Desmond listened to both of them for a few more minutes before lifting his gauntlet covered hand. They quieted immediately. “Finus has to pay for the upkeep of the puppies since Jaren is the one keeping them and making sure they’re healthy. Since he’s paying for their food and any calls to the veterinarian in the town over he gets two of them when they’re old enough to be separated from their mother.”

“That isn’t-

“Would you rather I side more with Jaren on this one?” Desmond asked him. “You could get nothing since you didn’t control your dog and if anything you should have to pay for them anyway for inconveniencing Jaren so much getting his best dog pregnant during the busy season for him and good sheep dogs are not cheap to buy or breed. Now you can take the offer or fuck off. Makes no difference to me,” Desmond said firmly.

Finus looked at Jaren, frowned, and muddled it over. “Fine,” he huffed. He extended a hand.

“Knew we could have an understanding,” Jaren said and shook it firmly. “I’ll send you any bills.” Finus grimaced but didn’t disagree. The two men walked off.

“That was interesting,” Malik said and Desmond, bulky armor and all, jumped and spun towards Malik. “What was that about?”

“They were arguing in the street and someone came inside and got me. Said it wasn’t important enough to bother a priest over but a paladin could weigh in.” Then, suddenly shy, he said, “I don’t think I’m one of those really.”

“Altair isn’t… really a paladin sort of star,” Malik said apologetically. “He has clerics but he isn’t really into the whole organized religion thing. He enjoys worship but on a more personal basis.”

“I figured that since he’s so secluded. But I… well I wasn’t going to say no when people needed some help before the argument grew into an actual fight.”

“Of course,” Malik said nicely. “You did good,” he patted Desmond’s big shoulder. “Let’s go get some breakfast and get out of here. Hmm?” Desmond nodded and followed Malik back to the inn. They ate, Malik changed into his armor, and they left the town. That night Altair came in deep pinks and indigo in a southern style of loose and billowing clothes that covered every inch of skin including the top of his head with a loose hood held in place with a gleaming headband across his forehead made of starlight.

They found a new town before morning came. “I should-

“Stay, please,” Malik said when Altair acted like he was going to leave already. “It’s dark yet, you aren’t even tired.”

Altair pulled a face but nodded. Despite being so early some things were open already and people were moving to go about this business and start their work for the day. Malik felt a little bad waking the inn keeper so early. If you could call it an inn really. There wasn’t even a tavern attached. It was literally just the biggest building in the town and rented out spare rooms to tired travelers. He had Desmond get the rooms since he knew Altair would draw attention. This far west and north no one wore loose southern clothing and most wore three quarter sleeves with shirts that buttoned along the side of the chest. Left for women, right for men. They were closer to Desmond’s home town now and would arrive at it in another night or so. This town marked where the river ended in a large, deep, lake. Not as big as the lake surrounding the city of Altair, but it was plenty big.

Desmond came back, his face rosy and flustered from something or another. “Everything go alright?” he asked Desmond.

“Huh? Oh, yeah, went fine,” Desmond nodded. “My accent surprised them, that’s all.”

“Why would it? You’re from Bezek,” Malik said, confused. Desmond grimaced and glanced at Altair who wasn’t paying him any mind. “Oh,” Malik said knowingly with a nod. They hadn’t expected a ‘paladin’ to sound like one of their own.

“They were really nice,” Desmond continued. “Surprised we were stopping here when there’s a city so close. Just round the lake bend she said.”

“Because this lazy one here doesn’t walk in the daylight,” Malik said. Desmond’s eyes got huge when Malik roughly grabbed Altair under his chin by both cheeks with one hand and gave his head a soft shake.

“Ah! Malik,” Altair huffed, yanking his face out of Malik’s hold. “You’re so rude.”

“You’ll forgive me,” was all Malik said.

“And I can’t help I have trouble staying awake in the light. I’ve literally had that sleep cycle for tens of thousands of years,” he rolled his eyes. “You thought becoming nocturnal was difficult,” he scoffed.

“C’mon, Desmond got us a place to sleep.” Altair ‘hmmd’ and followed after him. There was no one in sight when they walked to a side door and were greeted by a short hallway with doors.

Desmond showed them to one, gave Malik the key and he opened it. “I uh… only got two rooms.”

“That’s fine,” Malik said. Altair gave a noise of protest when Malik shoved him into the room and closed the door with a solid click. Malik held the door knob even as he felt Altair try to turn it. “You didn’t give them all my cash did you?”

“No,” Desmond said. “They gave me a deal,” he flushed, “Since I’m from Bezek. I didn’t have the heart to tell them that that I’m from the north side of the river.” That made Malik chuckle.

“This is a strange river,” Malik agreed. It made the border between Bezek and Tseen Foo and was often both the provinces and neither of them. Most other provinces had less easily distinguished borders but the divide in their people was greater. Where Bezek and Tseen Foo met the border divide was very clear cut but the people were nearly identical. Malik held his hand out palm up. Desmond dropped his change into it. Unlike back where he’d been born where the coins were round the coins in Eagle were all different shapes so you could tell what you held by feel alone in your pocket. “And it was just that they thought you were from Bezek?”

Desmond grimaced, knowing he’d been caught in the lie, and in a low tone said, “They said they’d feel bad if they charged a paladin full price. I… didn’t tell them otherwise.”

“I’m glad you were truthful with me.”

“I don’t like lying but—“ he looked at the door. Altair had given up trying to open the door and had gone off to investigate the room. “They’re just stories you know.” He shrugged. “I’m gonna settle in. The owner said we were welcome to join them for breakfast down in the dining room in an hour.”

“We’ll be there,” Malik said. Desmond nodded and awkwardly retreated to his room next door. Malik opened the door to Altair lounging on the bed, entertaining himself with magic, bored already. “I left you alone for less than five minutes,” Malik huffed.

“Felt like forever,” Altair said.

Malik went over to the bed and took a knee on it. “You’re one to talk when you spend so much time away from me.”

“I do?” Altair seemed confused. His brows drew down over his eyes. “Do I?” he asked Malik.

Something is wrong with him. Malik couldn’t help but think Tarazed’s madness filled last words. “No,” he lied. “I just am needy is all,” Malik leaned down and kissed him. Despite not being cold yet it still warmed him from the inside out like Malik had just taken a shot of strong alcohol that didn’t burn his throat. “Breakfast is in an hour, I’m going to take a bath.”

“Is that an open invitation or are you just telling me?” Altair asked, eyeing him.

“I dunno. Have you been ignoring me or not?” Malik asked and left him there. Malik went to the bathroom down the hall and drew himself a bath of cold water, turning it hot with a bit of simple magic. He was soaking in the water when the door opened a little and a pair of amber eyes peered in through the crack. Malik acted like he didn’t see him. He looked up, not moving his head when a pair of arms came around his shoulders and down the front of his chest. Altair’s long sleeves pooled in the water turning dark in the water, the dark color running up his arms turning the sunset pink almost the color of blood.

“Malik, you know I love you, right?” Altair said.

When you feel like it, Malik thought but didn’t dare say it. “Yes,” Malik said.

“Good,” Altair said moving his hands down Malik’s torso. For a split second his hands were unkind, the perfectly manicured nails digging into his stomach. It was so brief Malik was sure he’d imagined it because Altair nuzzled his neck and pressed a kiss against his jaw. Altair eventually joined him in the tub.

They were in there until there was a knock on the door. “Malik? You in there?” Desmond called.

“Yes, what is it?” he called back.

“‘Breakfast is ready.”

“Mmm. Be down in a moment,” Malik said and heard Desmond walk away. “You going to join us for breakfast sleepy head?” he teased Altair who was already dozing against his chest.

“If it means I have to get up from here, no,” Altair said, as cranky as a child.

Malik chuckled. “Well I’m hungry. So get up, I want to go have dinner.” He pushed Altair off him despite him complaining and whining. Malik wasn’t impressed by that and got out of the bath. He snapped his fingers and dried the water off his body and ran a hand through his hair to give a bit more attention to drying it so it didn’t get all frizzy and puffy. He gathered up his clothes, pulling on the long undershirt and left the bathroom back to his room. He dressed casually and went downstairs to the dining room where Desmond was already there with the tired from waking so early in the morning family of the boarding house owner. He sat down next to Desmond.

“He’s not joining us?” Desmond asked him.

“No. You know how moody he gets in the morning,” Malik rolled his eyes a little.

“I guess,” Desmond grinned a little. The table was fairly quiet for breakfast. The children of the owner stared at Malik and Desmond the entire time but had probably been told very sternly to not ask questions or bother the priest and ‘paladin’ during breakfast. Malik was just happy to have some quiet honestly.

Towards the end of the meal the teenage daughter looked towards the door and her eyes got wide. She dropped her fork with a clatter on the plate, mouth falling open. Malik looked where she was staring. “Oh my!” the lady of the house cried.

“Really?” Malik asked Altair, unamused. Altair was standing in the doorway, naked as could be, too lazy to even have magicked himself dry and simply was allowing his natural heat to evaporate the water from his skin. It caused his body to steam a little.

“What?”

“Put on some damn clothes, Altair!”

Altair looked down at his nakedness. “Oh. Knew I forgot something. Ah well,” he didn’t do it anyway. The man had covered his daughter’s eyes by now. Not that Malik exactly blamed her. Altair was a perfect male specimen.

“Altair, put on some clothes before you make everyone uncomfortable.”

“So?” he asked. “I’m Altair, I can do whatever I want. Besides, this is probably the most exciting thing that’s happened here in a while,” he said with an infuriating smirk.

Before Malik could do anything Desmond got up from the table. He grabbed the edge of the table cloth and Malik was actually impressed when with a sharp yank he pulled the cloth out from under all the tableware without disturbing a single glass. He walked over to Altair and wrapped it around his waist. “Your holiness, it’s improper for young people to see a man like this.”

“Well, luckily for them I’m not really a man,” Altair said. Then he realized what had just happened and gave Desmond a scrutinized, puzzled, look.

Malik had his face in his hand at this point. He sighed and pulled it away and down his face. “I apologize,” he said. “I assure you he’s usually much more… grand than this juvenile behavior.”

“That- that’s-“ they finally seemed to get it. The lady promptly fainted and Malik caught her.

“Desmond, be a good lad and take him out of here, please,” Malik said.

“Malik I don’t-

“Just figure it out,” Malik groaned.

“Uh—“ Desmond swallowed. “If you could stop inconveniencing your priest that’d be great. We just wanted dinner.”

“Whatever,” Altair said and walked out of the room. Desmond glanced at Malik before following after Altair nervously.

Malik still had his arms full of the lady of the house. “I really apologize,” he said sincerely to the man.

“That was really him?”

“That really was Altair, head god of Eagle, yes,” Malik said. “Oh for fuck’s sake,” Malik groaned when he fainted too. “And what about you three? You going to faint too?” he asked the children. There were two teenagers, a boy and girl a few years apart in age, and a younger boy.

The little boy shook his head, not quite knowing how to react to two fainted parents but looked about to cry because he didn’t know what to do. “He doesn’t always walk around without clothes on?” the girl asked.

“No.”

“Too bad,” she said. That surprised Malik so much he almost let go of her mother when he laughed.

“And you?” he asked the teenage boy.

“I think I like men now.”

“He has that effect, yes,” Malik couldn’t help but agree. He hadn’t really liked men before Altair either. “Why don’t you help me get your folks somewhere comfortable hmm?” He nodded and got up to help Malik. Once both parents had been placed somewhere comfortable Malik left the children to deal with them. He just said they’d be staying the day and leaving at sunset and not to worry about dinner.

Malik found Altair already passed out on his bed still wearing the tablecloth and Desmond had obviously retreated to his own room by now. Malik went over to the bed and got in but didn’t lay down. Instead he grabbed Altair’s face in both hands and played with his cheeks until he woke up. Which he did with an annoyed whining sound.

“What?” Altair whined, batting at Malik a little.

“You are so annoying,” Malik said.

Altair opened one eye. “I should smite you for that.”

“No you won’t,” Malik gave him a look. “Why did you do that downstairs?”

“Because I could,” Altair finally pushed Malik’s hands away. “Now come to bed. I’m tired,” he yawned widely.

“Why must you be so difficult, Altair?”

“I’m not. I just don’t care. There’s a difference,” Altair grumbled and snuggled back into the pillow. Malik huffed at him and took off some of his clothes. He joined Altair in the bed and Altair snuggled against him.

“You made that young man gay you know,” he said idly.

“Wouldn’t be the first young man I’ve done that to,” Altair said, eyes half open. Malik felt himself flush. No it wouldn’t be since he’d done the same thing to Malik. Jerk. “Now shush, the sun is well up and it’s late. Go to sleep,” he put a finger gently on Malik’s lips. Malik rolled his eyes and wasn’t surprised when Altair fell asleep immediately. Malik fell asleep shortly after.

At sunset they set out. They probably wouldn’t reach Desmond’s home that day but definitely the next. Desmond didn’t seem pleased about it. No, Malik supposed not. When he got home it’d be the end of his adventure.

When they stopped for the midnight meal Altair didn't join them by the fire right away. Instead he stood out in the darkness looking up but at nothing Malik could see. Malik started a pot of tea while Desmond went off to find a rabbit burrow or something because he was tired of cold food during the midnight meal. Altair came back before Desmond and sat next to Malik, leaning against him while Malik waited for his tea to steep and was rummaging in his pack for his rations.

When Desmond came back with a rabbit Altair sat up and watched him. He had a strange look in his amber eyes. Desmond took off some of his armor, mainly the chest plate and the gauntlets before skinning and gutting the animal. Then he looked around for a stick before Malik just used a bit of magic to make it slowly spin in place above the fire to cook. “Good job,” Malik said.

Desmond shrugged, “Was tired of jerky and hardtack,” he said.

“Heh, yeah,” Malik agreed.

“Where did you get that armor?” Altair asked him suddenly.

“Hmm? My father made it. It's his finest work. Really pulled out all the stops for it,” Desmond said proudly.

“Not the sword I had him make?”

“... He didn't make it. I made it. He didn't know how to work the metal but I did.”

“So that's why it took so long,” Altair said. He was still staring at Desmond and the kid was starting to fidget from the scrutiny. “So you stole your father's prized armor and went with Malik to Aquilae. Doesn't sound like the thing a good son does.”

“Altair,” Malik scolded him.

“No, it's okay,” Desmond said. “But well… this is my armor. My father made it for me. I figured if I was going to go on an adventure with Altair's priest out into the dark of night I should be dressed for it.” He patted the pieces on the ground and it clattered a little.

“Why'd your father make you something you'd never actually wear? Especially shaped like that?” Altair asked. Malik was confused by that.

“They were my favorite story growing up,” Desmond said shyly. “He made it when I was thirteen, supposedly for ‘when I was older’ but there's no use for this armor.”

“What story?” Malik asked.

“You don't know?” Desmond asked.

“I'm a transplant here. I don't know all the songs and stories of Eagle there are,” Malik said. “Just as you wouldn't if you went to live in the town chains for years.”

“It’s in the style of paladin armor. A very, very, long time ago, back when Eagle Wars were a bit more common there were a group of people in Eagle,” Altair said. “They were known as the Convocation.”

“I swear you people take your bird shit too seriously,” Malik huffed.

Altair gave him a stern look. “This is new to you?”

“Oh stars no,” Malik said. “I'm just saying is all. I don’t really know a lot about the paladins. The clerics speak of them sometimes but I always got the feeling it wasn’t something they wished to talk about.”

“They were knights,” Desmond said. “And star champions. Not like priests are though. They weren't chosen by the stars. But they satisfied their—” he realized what he'd been about to say and who was sitting across from him at the fire.

“You can say it. The Convocation satisfied our vanity,” Altair said. “None of us were under any impressions that they didn't start off as a means to stroke our egos to improve things in Eagle or gain favors.”

“Oh… well, with them around there weren't as many Eagle Wars because they fought each other instead. Sometimes they killed each other and it was entertaining. They also tried to make Eagle a better place. They fell out of favor a few hundred years ago but we still talk about them all the time in Tseen Foo since there was a very famous one from there, legendary even. His name was Rami and they say he could walk on water and planted ten thousand pine trees that make up the Green Trim. He was a great warrior and fought in a lot of mock wars for Tseen Foo. He never lost a single fight. Well except one,” Desmond frowned a little. “But all the provinces have paladin stories. There were a lot.”

“Any for you?” Malik asked Altair.

“For my entertainment? Yes.” Altair was practically dismissive of them. “I had a hundred. They weren't like clerics or alchemists. They didn't pretend to know the stars. They knew what we were and appeased us the way we wanted.”

“So why did your father make you armor you'd never wear if paladins are all gone?” Malik asked Desmond.

He was more than a little flustered about the question. “I just… Rami is an old hero but people still tell his stories. I liked his stories. I always said when I was a grown up I wanted to be like Rami. That's obviously impossible since the paladins are all gone but I was too little to understand that. My father made this anyway to show off and as a present, though he never intended me to wear it. It's supposed to look like Rami’s armor from the stories.” He looked at Altair but Altair didn't say anything.

“That… is such a strange thing to me,” Malik said. “And nice that your father would encourage your interests. Mine didn't understand mine.”

“No?” Desmond asked, seemingly anything to not talk about himself anymore.

“He was a potter. It was a big thing in my home town. It sat near a huge clay deposit that made very fine ceramic. I don't have very artistic hands. They hold a sword better than work a wheel. Doesn't matter now,” he shrugged. “Now let's have that rabbit. Smells good. Looks done.”

“Oh, yeah sure,” Desmond said and Malik deposited the rabbit down somewhere where Desmond could cut it better.

Between the two of them they ate it without hassle. Altair just leaned against Malik, watching Desmond the entire time. It made Desmond uncomfortable and shy away from Altair's eyes. He didn't say anything, he just looked at Desmond. When they finished Malik rerolled his tea ball and they picked up their camp. Desmond put on his armor awkwardly and Malik pushed Altair off him so he could get his things together. They got up and Desmond followed after Malik.

They stopped for the day along the river but not at a town. Altair was complaining too much about the amount of people so it was probably for the best. They ate dinner but before they'd finished Altair was already curled up next to Malik. Malik got him to wake up long enough to crawl into the same bedroll as him (Malik had specifically brought a larger than normal one this trip in case of this very reason) and Altair tucked himself under Malik's arm.

When Malik woke the next evening the sun had already set but Altair was gone. He woke up and saw both he and Desmond were already awake. Altair was standing, facing the afterglow of the sun in his red and orange thobe. Desmond was sitting at the fresh fire warming water for tea. He looked visibly upset and upon closer inspection Malik saw he was shaking.

Malik climbed out of his bedroll and went over to the young man. “Hey, everything alright?” he asked.

That made Desmond jump. “Huh?”

“You look upset. Are you okay?”

Desmond looked at him, then at Altair who was further away from them, back facing them. His silhouette cast a long shadow across their camp. Desmond leaned over to him to tell him softly, “He's mean, you know.”

Malik scowled. “What did he say?”

“Why the paladins fell out,” Desmond said. “They… they had too much hubris and thought they were too close to the gods. And they didn't fall out of favor. They just killed each other out of vanity.” He cast his eyes down. What a thing to hear about people who were looked up to as heroes. Especially Desmond who had such hero worship for his provinces paladin, Rami. “He said I should remember that before I go around pretending.”

“He did now?” Malik asked him, angry. He couldn't believe Altair! Desmond, like most people, loved Altair, despite what he'd had Malik do to their country. Despite the last Eagle War Altair was still the most worshiped, the god who received the most gifts, the one who was most loved. And he'd just said such horrible things to a boy who loved him.

Malik got up, patting Desmond on the knee as he went. He went over to Altair and grabbed his hand. “Good morning,” he said pleasantly. “It's a lovely sunset.”

“It is,” Altair said and looked at him. “You are more so.”

Malik wasn't going to let him get away with being cute after being an asshole. He did appreciate the cuteness though. “Yes, I am. Will you walk with me?”

“Of course,” Altair said. They walked towards where the sun had set.

Malik didn't say anything until they were well out of Desmond’s earshot. Then he stopped and turned Altair to face him. “What is the matter with you?” he demanded.

“What?” Altair seemed genuinely surprised.

“Why did you say those things to Desmond? You didn't have to be cruel to him.”

“I just told him the truth of things-

“Don't you know it is always a bad idea to tell mortals the truth of things?” Malik asked him harshly. Like when he’d told Desmond about why he’d destroyed the compass cities. Altair tried to pull his hand out of Malik's grip but Malik wouldn't let him. “Desmond is one of yours,” he went on. “He loves you Altair, you are his star. More so than Tseen Foo.”

“He acts like something he isn't,” Altair growled back.

“He's a boy, Altair. A boy traveling with a god and his priest like something out of old stories told in Alshain and Aquilae.” He tugged on Altair's hand roughly when Altair looked away, trying to get out of the blame. “Desmond has never called himself a paladin. Only everyone else has. He knows he isn't one. This is an adventure to him. You need not be so cruel to tell him how his heroes died or make yourself look like such a villain.”

“Even when I am?”

That made Malik angry. “You are not! You are the head god of Eagle. You are the furthest thing from the villain. You don't need to act like you are!”

“Why do you care so much, Malik? He's a stranger.”

Malik looked at Altair, shocked he’d say such a thing. His shock gave way to hopelessness. “Because that's what made you chose me in the first place. Because I cared for a stranger who fell out of the sky without any clothes and didn't even know his name. You chose me because I show compassion even to those I do not know.” He released Altair's hand. “If you speak like this than it is you who is a stranger to me, Altair, not Desmond.” He walked away from Altair and Altair did not follow him. His chest hurt, heart feeling heavy. When had Altair become so horrible and neglectful of everyone? He squeezed his eyes shut for a moment as Tarazed’s warning echoed in his mind. Something was wrong with him. And just what was Malik supposed to do about it?

—

They arrived at Desmond's home town just before sunrise. A few of the fisherman, always early risers, saw them first and rushed over. They spoke to Desmond with wonder and pride and told him his father was angry and worried he'd left. Malik figured as much would be true.

The smithy was on the other side of the town and had a water wheel attached in order to work the great billows without too much labor. Along the way they were stopped seemingly every ten feet by someone of the town. It was like they knew Desmond had come home and they had all heard the rumors of a so called paladin. A paladin come again, and from their town no less! They were very excited and eager to ask Desmond about where he'd been and what he'd been doing. It usually took a minute or so for them to look past Desmond's mirrored breast plate to Malik standing just behind him in his lacquered armor, ochre cape over one shoulder. And then their eyes would travel to Altair standing next to him dressed splendidly in clothes Tseen Foo lumberjacks wore of reds and greens and heavy boots with spikes in the toe to help them climb the great conifers of the North West, the clothes more finely made than any they’d seen before. They usually stopped their talk then and humbly moved along, eyes down and bowed respectfully to Altair and his priest. It still took them well past sunrise to make it across the small town. Malik quite enjoyed himself and Desmond just humbly tried to explain that he wasn't a paladin and there wasn't need for this sort of fuss. It didn't help.

Finally they arrived at the smithy. Malik could tell Altair was annoyed he was being kept up so late but Malik saw he was also staying on purpose to prove Malik wrong about what he'd said the other night. Malik appreciated his stubbornness.

Desmond pulled a set of well made keys out of his bag and unlocked the building. “I don't know if you want to come in-

“Yes, of course. So I can tell your father what a fine young man he has,” Malik said. Desmond smiled uneasily. He opened the door to the shop.

“He's probably still asleep. He never wakes up early anymore,” Desmond said and went behind the counter. Altair walked around the shop, looking at everything and admiring the work, as if to assure himself that it was good that he'd selected Desmond's family to make that evil sword. Desmond took off some of his armor and set it on the counter. “Uhm… I could get us some tea while we wait for him to wake up if you wanted.”

“I think that would be a fine idea. And Altair can nap,” he smirked when Altair gave him a dirty look.

“Alright I'll go start some you can come through the back-

The door opened. “What's all this racket? Can't you see we ain't open?” Desmond father, William, asked. Malik could tell he was very hung over; maybe even still drunk from the night before. He hardly noticed Malik and Altair and just saw Desmond. “You! You got a lot of nerve coming back here you little thief,” he snarled at Desmond. Malik's hand drifted to down to his dagger at his waist. “Leave without warning, took the priest sword and the armor. Look at cha. Pretending like always. Get inside. Now.”

“Dad I was-

“You back talking me?” William practically yelled.

“No, dad, I was just-

“In the house. Now. I'll deal with you in private. And you,” he waved a drunken finger at both Malik and Altair accusingly. “Get off my property before I call the guard. We ain't open!”

The door slammed shut once Desmond had passed over the threshold. Malik looked at Altair who looked back. “Charming,” Malik said. Altair scoffed.

They waited a minute, just to see if Desmond would tell his father they were there and the door would be opened with an apology. Instead they heard William yelling at Desmond. What exactly was lost through the wall and distance but the intent was clear. William was furious and sounded violent. Malik looked at Altair and he was staring at the door and his eyes slowly turned searing yellow white in anger. Malik took his hand off his dagger. This would be interesting. Malik was looking forward to it honestly.

Altair went over to the door. It was locked but Altair just blew it open with a bit of magic and it crashed against the opposite side of the wall. Malik followed after him and it wasn’t hard to find the father and son. William was not a small man, even taller than Desmond and twice as wide thanks to working in the smithy his entire life. He had Desmond in a painful looking headlock while he yelled at him. He stopped when he saw Altair. “I told you to get out. You aren’t allowed on my private prop-

Altair had had quite enough of this. Malik folded his arms to enjoy what was going on when Altair used a little magic to lift William up off the ground like Altair had his hand around his throat. Desmond was released and he dropped to his knees, gasping as he could finally breathe normally. Altair’s pretty human form melted away as he walked over to William and was replaced by something vaguely human shaped made of fire and left charred footprints on the wooden floor. “How dare you,” Altair’s voice sounded like a roaring fire. “How dare you speak to my paladin like this. How dare you lay your filthy mortal hands on the boy who made my priest’s sword when you and your father failed for fifty years. You must think very highly of yourself when you and your father failed me so much when I blessed you with the privilege to forge a legendary weapon. Then to treat the boy who did what you could not as you do. How dare you have so much hubris. I should burn out your eyes for this. I should turn you to char for your failure. I should leave you for sky burial in Tso Ke.

Malik went over to Desmond and helped him up while Altair lectured his father. Desmond stared, wide eyed at Altair’s fiery star form. Altair looked over at the both of them. “Are you alright, Desmond?” he asked him.

“Ah— yes, you’re holiness,” Desmond stammered. “He didn’t harm me.”

Altair’s white eyes narrowed and he looked back up at William who was struggling against an invisible hand around his throat that was burning the shape of fingers into his flesh like a brand. He dropped William and the big man crashed onto the ground, gasping and crying from the pain of having the skin of his throat burned and charred. “You don’t deserve the things you’ve been given in blessing. May you forever have misfortune knowing you pissed off Altair of Eagle you pathetic, mortal, waste,” Altair said. Then he looked at Malik and that was all the acknowledgement Malik needed. He pushed Desmond away from the man towards where the bedrooms were.

“Malik-

“Get the rest of your things,” Malik said.

“What? I thought Altair didn’t like me?”

“He’s a fickle thing. Now go along. We’ll be going back to Altair now.”

Desmond was in shock but did obey. Malik looked back at Altair where he was standing over William who was moaning in pain of his burned throat. He was still in his flame form, crackling gentle in the still air. Desmond didn’t have a lot and came back with a bag. He was staring at the image of Altair standing over his father and Malik had to push him along to the exit. Malik picked up Desmond’s other bag, shoving the gauntlets into it so he could keep Desmond moving out. Altair followed eventually.

“You didn’t kill him, did you?” Malik asked in his native tongue so Desmond couldn’t understand them.

“No,” Altair said in the same tongue, layered with the sound of flame. “Not that I did not consider it for how he disgusts me.”

Desmond was very much lost and confused and didn’t know what was going on. “What?” he asked.

“Let’s find somewhere to spend the day,” Malik said in a way Desmond could understand. “I’m tired.”

“Are we really going back to Altair?” Desmond asked.

“Yes,” Malik said. “I’m sure the clerics will be thrilled.” Desmond looked very concerned. Malik just acted like nothing had happened. As far as he was concerned Desmond was an orphan like so many orphans Malik had made fifty years ago. Malik had made many friends with orphans and personally helped build orphanages in places after he’d ruined the cities so there would be a slightly lesser amount of unhappiness in the world after he’d burned it to the ground. “Now where is a good place to stay in this town, Desmond? An inn?”

“Y-yes. There’s an inn,” Desmond said.

“Well lead the way,” Malik motioned. Desmond nodded mutely and walked off, still stupefied. Malik looked at Altair who was still all fire. “I’m glad you’re not really a stranger, Altair,” he told him and leaned over, kissing his flaming lips. They didn’t burn Malik. During it Altair shed his fiery form for one of flesh and blood. He smiled at Altair held his hand before following after Desmond to where they could get some food and shut eye.

If you read and/or enjoy this fanfic a reblog would be very appreciated so other people can learn about this fic as well.

#Assassin's Creed #Altair #malik al sayf #Desmond Miles #altair ibn-la'ahad #They Were Giants

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