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3pirouette · 3 years

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Fic: Domestic Bliss and International Espionage (1/1)

Title: Domestic Bliss and International Espionage By: TriplePirouette/3Pirouette Spoilers: General TFA and AC Disclaimer: They're not mine. Word Count: 8109 Distribution: AO3 Anyone else please ask first :)

Story Summary: For Tumblr’s @superhero-daugthers11 as a pinch hit for the Steggy Secret Santa. Steve and Peggy, back in the US after the war, go undercover as a newlywed couple to find a Hydra scientist hiding in the suburbs.

A/N: This is 100% inspired by several things. 1. One of my all-time favorite X-Files Episodes “Arcadia” 2. The first episode of WandaVision 3. My giftee saying she liked the idea of Steggy married/dating and working together for SHIELD, and 4. Getting another Steggy Bingo Prompt in there… sentence prompt: “Did you really just insult Captain America in front of me?”

Please assume/add in your headcanons for the following: Steve was rescued shortly after the Valkyrie crash and OBVIOUSLY has pursued a romantic relationship with Peggy. Due to this, the events of the Agent Carter series have NOT happened. They’re both working for the SSR, tying up loose ends from the war.

Easiest way to see what I see is to imagine Steve and Peggy in the Petrie’s house from the Dick Van Dyke Show… but if you’re not familiar with that, the house from the first episode of WandaVision will do nicely.

~*~

Steve turned from the suitcase where he was lifting folded shirts out. “Just… consider this a test run.”

Peggy smirked, leaning against the doorjamb of the bedroom. She held out her hand, one of Steve’s socks dangling from her two fingers. “What, for me finding your stinky socks on the bathroom floor? Strike one, Rogers.”

Peggy tossed the sock to him, moving into the small bedroom with its double twin beds. She sat heavily on the side of hers, shaking her head. “If this is anything like moving, I’ll never do it again. I’m exhausted.”

Steve tucked his shirts away in the drawer, turning back to her, balling the sock up in his hand and tossing it into the hamper in the closet. “Most houses don’t have top of the line surveillance equipment we would have to hide in the roses.”

“The neighbors are already peeking out,” Peggy said, kicking her shoes off and sliding them under the edge of the bed with her toe. “I saw some from the back door peeking over while I was finishing in the kitchen. I’m sure we’ll have visitors tomorrow.”

Steve grabbed his empty suitcase from the bed and slipped it in the closet, shutting the door. “I’m surprised we didn’t have any today, what with all the commotion of moving in.”

Peggy shrugged, bouncing back to lie on the bed. “In my experience, deep cover Hydra scientists trying to hide out in suburban communities don’t just knock on your door and announce themselves.”

Steve chuckled, moving over to sit on the side of her bed at her hip. He gently took her left hand, running his thumb over the fake wedding band she wore. Peggy smiled up at him. “You know, Angie told me you’d asked her about my ring size.” Steve’s eyebrows rose to his hairline, and she could see his mind trying to scramble to salvage the surprise. “Oh, I know it’s coming, Steve. Don’t try to pretend it isn’t.”

He smiled softly. “I was hoping to surprise you is all.”

“You will,” she whispered, shifting to hold his hand tight. “When, where, how… I’ll try to avoid using my super spy powers on you to divine those things.” She reached her other hand to slide up his arm. “I’m an inpatient woman, so don’t make me wait too long.”

Steve smiled wolfishly at her, leaning over and putting his weight on his left hand, trapping her under him. “I mean, this counts, right?” He leaned down, letting Peggy traverse the last few centimeters to bring their lips together, kissing her sweetly. “This counts as being married?”

She chuckled as she kissed him, reaching one arm up to twine in the short hairs at the nape of his neck. “Absolutely does not.”

He pulled back a bit, teasing. “I mean, I am sleeping right over there…”

“In your own bed,” Peggy pushed them up to sitting, wrapping both arms around his shoulders.

“And it would be so easy to just push them together.”

She shook her head, teasing, despite the fact that the idea seemed like a good one to her. “Scandalous.”

Steve kissed her gently again. “Well, I suppose I should at least pretend to let you get a good night’s sleep?”

Peggy nodded, smiling. “We’ve got a bit of work ahead of us, I think. Very few men trying to hide from prosecution for war crimes make themselves known.”

“Good night then,” he kissed her softly and pushed away from her, “Mrs. Harper.”

Peggy tipped her head with a sultry smile. “Mr. Harper.”

~*~

Peggy moved the eggs around the pan, eyes tight on them as Steve walked into the kitchen the next morning. “Don’t distract me,” she mumbled. “The second I look away they burn.”

He watched her for a moment as she gently stirred the scrambled eggs, eyes intent as he’d ever seen them. “Stove burning too hot?”

“Simply out of practice, I’m afraid. Already ruined four eggs this way.” She pulled the pan off the heat and separated the eggs on to two plates. “Anything I’ve eaten for the last few years has come from a mess, out of a can, or from the automat.” She set the empty pan down and snapped off the heat. “Why you ever married me I’ll never know.”

He moved over, taking both plates and kissing her on the cheek. “Why, I like it so much, I might do it twice.”

Peggy chuckled, moving the pan to the sink and running water in it. “Easy there, soldier. We haven’t made it through this mission yet.” She peeked over at his silence, then turned around all the way, meeting his intent stare. “It’s the apron, isn’t it? I’ve gone too far?”

Steve watched, hands still full of plates, as she spun in her dress, looking for something out of place while her perfect curls bounced around her face like something out of a beauty magazine. He smiled, “No, no- I just…” he cleared his throat, moving to set the plates on the small table in the kitchen. He took a gentle deep breath and moved over to her. “It’s all a little… too perfect, you know? Not quite us, I think, but like something out of a movie.”

Peggy bit her lip, stepping closer to him so he could wrap her in his arms. “This whole thing is a bit spot on.” She played with the edge of his cardigan, the blue doing amazing things for his eyes. “But needs must when trying to build a trap.”

He moved his hand to trace over her chin, feeling content and happy despite the threat. “Will you cook me eggs after this is all over?”

Peggy would her arms around his neck, humming happily. “If you’re a good boy.” After a moment, she pushed back, centering herself. “Though you haven’t eaten them, yet, so you are taking a large chance there, darling.” She pushed him towards the table and followed shortly, two mugs of coffee in her hands.

“Peg—”

“Betty,” she demanded, stopping and looking at him. “I agree that this little fantasy is a bit of a slippery slope for the both of us, but we really must start doing better.” She sat and slid his coffee to him, looking him in eyes pointedly. “Roger.”

Steve nodded, taking the coffee. “Right. Betty,” he paused, the name not rolling off his tongue easily, “I can help with the cooking.”

“And risk someone seeing?” She picked up her fork, face stern. “From this moment on, no matter what, we’re happy newlyweds Roger and Betty Harper. I’m a stay-at-home wife who loves to knit and worked in a bullet factory during the war, you’re a veteran and you do figures at an accounting firm in the city. Perfect little wife, doting husband. Suburban life to a ridiculous, stereotypical T, got it?”

He held out his hand and she took it, looking at her plate rather than at him. “Hey,” he waited until she lifted her eyes. “I was just enjoying it too much. I know our cover. I’m in this one hundred percent, okay?”

Peggy held his hand and squeezed lightly, the smile returning to her face. “Yes, dear.”

~*~

By mid-morning they’d had five of the neighboring wives stop in to introduce themselves. Most were kind, young, gregarious and a bit overly excited to get to know them once Steve showed his face.

“You should stay in the kitchen when the next one comes over,” Peggy complained, sitting heavily on their small couch. “I can’t stand another wide-eyed housewife dazzled by your smile.”

Steve laughed, sitting next to her. “There’s only one housewife I want dazzled by my smile.”

Peggy collapsed into his lap, looking up at him. “She’s a little too tired to be dazzled right now. Somehow social pleasantries are more exhausting than the battlefield.” She closed her eyes, letting Steve’s fingers running through her hair lull her into a sense of calm. “Anything on any of the cameras?”

“No,” Steve didn’t slow his movements as his hand combed through her hair. He’d spent his morning when he wasn’t meeting neighbors “working,” keeping an eye on all of the cameras and equipment they’d set up. “So far just people mowing their lawns and taking walks.” She could feel his chuckle. “Not that I expected to see anyone building a bomb in their back yard…”

She reached up a hand, gently hitting him in the chest. “Don’t be flippant about it. Some people are quite stupid.”

The doorbell rang again and Peggy hoisted herself from Steve’s embrace, straightening her dress and forcing a smile on her face. “You look perfect,” Steve reassured.

She huffed, her eyebrows bouncing high on her forehead as she moved to the front door. “Hello?” She asked, her tone changing as she pulled the door open.

Standing across from her was a young woman, similar in age to Peggy, with sharp features and immaculately styled blonde hair. “Oh, hi! I hope I’m not interrupting?” Her Midwest accent was sharp, just a little too bubbly as she held out the dish she was holding. “I just wanted to welcome you to the neighborhood.”

Peggy swept back, opening her arm. “Please come in. I’m Betty and this is my husband, Roger.”

“Dottie Underwood,” she said quickly, smiling back and forth between the both of them. “I brought you some cookies, I baked them fresh last night, and if I leave them around the house I’m afraid my father just eats them all.”

Peggy carefully took the dish, smiling as she set it down. “They look wonderful, thank you.”

Dottie’s eyes swept around the house, somewhat more intent than a simple curious glance. “You’re quite welcome. How are you settling?”

Steve stood tall, smiling brightly as he moved next to Peggy, gently laying his hand on her back. “Well enough, people have been very kind. I think we’ve met most of the neighborhood by now, haven’t we, honey?”

Peggy giggled, leaning into his side and watching how Dottie tried to keep her smile straight. “Oh, at least the whole street, I’m sure.”

“That’s wonderful.” Dottie smiled brightly. “I was hoping maybe you’d come over for dinner tonight? I live with my father and I’m afraid he doesn’t go out much anymore, but he does enjoy meeting everyone.”

Steve and Peggy shared a short look. To the average person it seemed just a husband and wife consulting one another, to the trained eye, the conversation that happened was much more in-depth and quick. “Well,” Steve replied quickly, “I think we’d be delighted.”

“Oh, that’s just wonderful,” Dottie replied, her smile growing wider, eyes sparkling as she moved toward the door. “I’ll go tell father, he’ll be so pleased.”

Dottie smiled at them, the three standing quietly until Steve nudged Peggy I the back. “Oh, yes, is there anything we can bring?” Peggy asked, trying to hide her forgetfulness with a fluster.

Dottie laughed lightly, moving towards the door. “Just yourselves. Six o’clock, sharp.” She stopped, hand on the knob. “We’re the little blue house, 1013, just on the other side of the street.”

Once she was out, Peggy scooted to the window, watching as Dottie meandered down the driveway and sidewalk, eyes never leaving her until she disappeared into her own home. “Did she strike you as…”

“Trying to hard?” Steve supplied, looking over her shoulder. “Suspicious?”

Peggy turned, looking at him, the agent emerging from the housewife. “Do we have a camera on their house?”

Steve smiled. “Rosebush 3.”

~*~

“What do you mean you invited them over?” Fennhoff bellowed, slamming his fist on the small kitchen table. “What about in hiding do you not understand?”

Dottie rolled her eyes at him, sitting across the table. “Sometimes the best place to hide is out in the open, Papa.” The title dripped from her lips, sarcastic and biting. She pulled the notebook he was scribbling in away, forcing him to look at her. “If we want to fit in, we need to get to know these people, make them want to help and protect the old man and his daughter.”

He grabbed the notebook back. “We should stay inside.”

“You can’t build a new identity by staying inside you helpless oaf.” Dottie stood, pushing away from the table and letting the legs of the chair scrape along the floor. She rounded the small table, leaning over the scientist’s shoulder, eyes dark. “My job is to protect you until Hydra builds itself back up and is ready for you to come back. You trust me, or you get caught. Your call.”

He pursed his lips tight, unhappy. “We should be at their home, going through their things.”

Dottie made a noise in the back of her throat as she rolled her eyes and moved away. “Like I haven’t thought of that.” She moved away, leaning on the kitchen counter. “I’ve already told them you’re unwell. At some point we’ll make your excuses and you can go see what you can find.”

His eyes narrowed dangerously. “I am not the one who is a spy, you are.”

Dottie smiled like a snake, her teeth sharp and gleaming in the light. “You’re whatever I tell you you are until this whole thing is over.”

~*~

Steve looked at the young man across the dinner table, knowing he was lying. As hard as he’d tried to get in the Army, there had been more people trying just as hard, if not harder, to get out of it. “4F you say?”

“Yeah,” Dan from across the street cleared his throat. “Asthma. Wouldn’t let me enlist over a little thing like that.”

Dinner was a strained affair. Steve and Peggy saw upon their arrival that they hadn’t been the only people invited. Dottie has also invited her neighbors, Dan and Laura Smythe, to try to help them get to know people. Though they tried to keep the conversation moving, it was stilted and uncomfortable. Dottie, all smiles, kept trying to shift topics of conversation while her father sat grumpily at the head of the table.

“Beastly affair, that war.” Dottie’s feigned sadness was easy to see through. “It’s how I lost my Earnie.”

Laura wasn’t quite as sharp as Peggy and fell for the faux sadness, letting her hand rest on the woman’s arm. “Your beau?”

“We were engaged,” Dottie continued, sniffling dramatically. “He was a pilot with the 107th, got shot down over enemy territory.”

Steve and Peggy shared a look. There hadn’t been any pilots in the 107th, definitely none named Earnie. A quick glance at the older Underwood revealed nothing. He had no feelings about the loss of the man who supposedly was going to marry his daughter, which struck them both as odd.

Laura, however, was eating it up. “Was he one of the soldier’s that Captain America saved in that amazing rescue? Didn’t he save nearly that whole battalion?”

Dottie shook her head. “No, he was lost just before that, I’m afraid.”

“Well, that didn’t happen, anyway.” Steve said with a bold confidence that made every face turn and look at him.

Peggy’s jaw tightened as she turned to him, putting a hand to his arm. “Darling.”

“No, you know how I feel about this, Betty.” Steve turned and patted her hand, every inch the dismissive husband. “I was out there, fighting for my life, fighting to get back to you, and they parade this guy around in tights on newsreels?”

“Laura and I saw him at one of those USO shows,” Dan started, causing Peggy to squeeze Steve’s arm in concern that their ruse was about to fall apart, “I swear I saw wires. Guy was an actor and a hack.”

“Right?” Steve threw up his hand, nodding appreciatively at the man. “No way he was that strong.”

Laura giggled a bit, leaning towards Dottie. “He was quite handsome, though, don’t you think?”

Dottie, hoping to defuse some of the tension she could feel radiating around the table, just laughed along. “Oh yes, very handsome.” Dottie turned her smile across the table. “Did you ever get to see him, Betty?”

Peggy folded her hands under the table. “Oh, a few times.” She snuck a look at Steve then leaned forward, whispering towards the women though she knew full well everyone could hear her. “Those tights were quite the uniform!”

The women giggled, Dan pressed his lips into a tight line, and Steve had to bite his tongue to keep a straight face. The elder Underwood, for his part, was growing more and more upset.

“That man won them the war,” the elder Underwood grumbled.

“Impossible.” Steve turned to him, almost enjoying the part he was playing. “Hollywood smoke and mirrors. I was out there and I never saw him or that shield. Not once.”

Underwood pushed himself away from the table, his face growing red. “Did you really just insult Captain America in front of me?” He stood, leaning over Peggy and Steve with enough menace that Steve put his arm across Peggy, ready to move her behind him if the man became any more aggressive. “You come into my house and you say these things?”

Steve had been having fun with their plan to insult his alter ego, see if their hosts were sympathetic, showed any leanings to the Axis powers, but this hit home. He knew people had idolized him, and as much as that had made him uncomfortable, he understood how important it was to have a symbol of hope in such a bleak time.

Before Steve could reply and apologize the man stormed off. Dottie stood, stuttering an apology, and followed him into the house.

“Well, I for one am with you,” Dan said, raising his fork and diving back into his dinner. “Man was a fraud.”

Peggy grabbed Steve’s hand under the table and squeezed.

~*~

“What was that back there?” Dottie demanded in a hushed voice once she’d closed the door to Fennhoff’s room behind them.

“Distraction,” he said sharply, his accent becoming more pronounced. “You want distraction, you get distraction.”

Dottie huffed, crossing her arms. “And what am I supposed to tell them now?”

“That your father is a great patriot. That he needs his rest. You say whatever you say while I go pretend to be spy.” Fennhoff waved her away and opened the window in his room, grumbling about how he was supposed to slip out. “Lock the door.”

~*~

Steve stood as Dottie joined them back at the table. “I should go apologize.”

“No, no,” Dottie shooed him back to his seat. “My father gets grumpy sometimes. He just needed to take his pills and lay down for a spell.” She sat herself back down and laid her napkin on her lap with deliberate flair. “It’ll all be forgotten after a quick nap, I promise.”

“Still, I’d feel better if I could,” Steve reluctantly sat, rearranging his own napkin.

“I’m sure he’ll be back out in a bit.” She smiled widely, a motion that did not reach her eyes. “He just never misses dessert!”

~*~

Anyone fluent in Russian would have been scandalized at the string of words coming from Fennhoff’s lips as he snuck into the back of the Harper home.

“Don’t even lock their doors,” Fennhoff mumbled as he slipped in their back door. He moved carefully through the dark kitchen, futilely opening and closing cabinets. He did not expect to find anything in the home of that vapid man who didn’t believe Captain America was real.

He’d seen the damage that man could do with his own eyes. Anyone who believed Captain America hadn’t won the war for the Allied forces was either dimwitted, a fool, or both.

He tried to stay quiet as he moved through the house, but there wasn’t much light and even less to see that was interesting. The house was only sparsely decorated with few, if any, places to hide things. He made his rounds quickly, opening and closing closets and doors and saw nothing that would make him think these people were anything other than what they said they were: boring American suburbanites.

He stopped on his way out and opened the small broom closet he’d neglected on the way in, sighing when there was nothing more than a broom, mop, and bucket there.

“Dumb woman spy,” he mumbled, letting himself out quietly.

~*~

“Next time we’ll have you over,” Peggy said, holding both of Dottie’s hands at the door. “Dinner was simply marvelous.”

“Oh, shucks,” Dottie took one hand to bat the compliment away. “It was so lovely to get to know you and welcome you to the neighborhood.”

The corner of Steve’s mouth crooked up sadly. “Please give my apologies to your father.”

“No need,” she reached out, stroking Steve’s shoulder in a motion that was just slightly more than neighborly. “He’s a stubborn old man and you are a great war hero, Mr. Harper. You’re allowed a difference of opinion, especially since you were there.”

“All the same,” Steve stepped back out of her reach, taking Peggy’s hand and moving away. He felt like if he didn’t escape, they’d be exchanging pleasantries all night. “Have a great night.”

“You too!” Dottie called, watching from the door as they turned.

Steve pressed his hand to Peggy’s back, pushing her down the pavement just a little faster. “She’s still watching,” he mumbled. “Gosh, such lovely neighbors around here, don’t you think, honey?” he let his voice drift louder.

“Absolutely, darling. I’m so excited to get to know them all. Maybe join the Women’s Auxiliary.” Peggy leaned closer to Steve, her voice lower now, “Is she still watching? My face hurts from smiling.”

“Few more feet, dear,” he whispered. He leaned down, “I think Dan and Laura are out there now,” he pointed to his ear, signaling he could hear them talking, “Want to give them a show?”

Peggy raised her eyebrow, the false suburban smile she’d been sporting morphing into a smirk he was much more used to seeing on her face. “Show?”

He led her up the steps, stopping to dig the keys out of his pocket. Once he did, he reached out and unlocked the door, pushing it open. Before she could step in, he swept her off her feet, carrying her like she was a brand-new bride. Peggy squeaked, grabbing on to his shoulders more out of surprise than fear that he would drop her on the front porch.

She laughed. “This is what you had in mind?”

He leaned forward, kissing her gently. “Gotta sell that newlywed cover,” he whispered against her lips. “They watching?”

Peggy shifted her head as he turned them a bit, his lips on hers again. Peggy squinted, making it look like her eyes were closed. She didn’t normally like to do double duty while Steve was kissing her, but he managed to avoid distracting her too badly. She could see the Smythe’s and Dottie on the porch, eyes glues to them. From the window, the elder Underwood peaked out. Peggy dragged her lips away. “All watching. And slightly scandalized.”

“They’ll be very scandalized in a minute,” he mumbled, kissing down her neck.

Peggy hit him playfully in the shoulder. “Barbarian!” She laughed as he growled in her ear. “Inside at once!” She kicked a bit as he straightened up, laughing as he bounced her in his arms. Steve made a show of almost losing his balance and nearly dropping her as he stepped over the threshold for their audience. For good measure he kicked the door closed, wishing he could see all of their faces.

He’d absolutely go back and check the surveillance tapes just to see what they looked like.

He turned, putting Peggy down and pressing her up against the door, letting his lips meet hers again. “That was fun.”

She hummed happily, but pushed him away. “Quite, but we still have work to do.” She moved past him, then stopped as she flipped on the light. She held out her hand, then pointed. “And you made fun of me for vacuuming us out before we left.”

“You were wearing pearls and an evening dress.” Steve pointed out, bending low to look at the fresh footprints that showed against the new, freshly cleaned nap of the carpet. “What do you think?”

“Man’s shoe, fairly large.” Peggy moved around, following the path. “Came from the kitchen, so… in through the back door.”

“Looks like he took a peek in each room,” Steve added, opening the doors and following the trail, “then back through the kitchen to go out.”

“You think they found…” Peggy started, but didn’t finish, following Steve into the kitchen and watching as he opened the closet door.

“Doubt it, everything’s exactly as I left it, including that little bit of flour by the wall.” He smiled up at her, trying to show off the tricks he’d slowly been learning from her since they’d been working together stateside. He warmed at bit at her smile, then moved the mop, broom, and bucket. With a firm push to one side of the back wall, it spun, sweeping the flour on the floor into a wide, tell-tale circle and revealing that the closet was actually three times the size, hiding a small bank of monitors and recording equipment. “Shall we?”

They both slipped in the small space, Steve on the stool he occupied for most of the day while surveilling, Peggy peering over his shoulder as he found the reel trained on their back door and rolled it back. It was fuzzy in the darkness, but the figure creeping through their rosebushes seemed quite familiar. “Is that Underwood?” Peggy asked, waiting for Steve to roll the tape back and forth until they had a fairly clear picture.

“Looks like it,” Steve mumbled, marking down the time and reel for future reference. “What do you think he’s looking for?”

“Same as we are,” Peggy said quietly, slipping from the closet to lean on the door jamb. “If they’re in hiding, they’re looking out for anyone wanting to find them.”

Steve reloaded some of the reels, marking others and setting the film aside to review tomorrow. Peggy watched him work, smiling as he rolled up his sleeves, concentration fully on his task. She leaned on the doorway, slipping off her heels and content to just be for the moment. Steve slipped out of the hidden space, pushing the fake wall back in place and sweeping the flour back into an indistinguishable line along the bottom of the wall.

“Do you think it will be like this?” Peggy mused, watching as he ran a damp cloth along the visible floor of the closet, hiding the existence of the flour even further to sell their ruse.

“Do I think what will be like what?” Steve asked, standing and laying the wet dishcloth over the back of a chair to dry.

Peggy bounced over to him on her toes, hands holding her heels behind her back, hips swaying and swinging her skirt around her in a manner that was much more carefree than Steve had seen her in a long time. “Do you think our marriage will be like this? Domestic bliss and snogging against the front door one minute and international espionage the next?”

Steve tilted his head, his forehead creasing in thought as he wrapped his arms around her. “You know, it probably will. Though I’d like to say we’ll need much less surveillance at our house.”

“Our house…” she mused, smiling widely. “Kind of thrilling, isn’t it?” Peggy wrapped her arms around him with a sly smile, heels still dangling from her fingers.

His brows knit together for just a brief moment, the concern replaced by amusement on his face. “I don’t think life with you will ever be boring, dear.” He leaned down, kissing her gently.

Peggy leaned back, eyes still closed, a smile on her lips. She blinked her eyes open, half lidded and dreamy. “What say you to pushing the beds together tonight, Mr. Harper?”

He kissed her again, nipping at her bottom lip. “Sounds like an excellent idea to me.” Without warning, Steve bent his knees, grabbing behind her thighs and lifting her up.

She wrapped her legs around his hips, a sly smile on her face. “You enjoy showing off like that, don’t you?”

“For you?” His smile lit up his face. “Absolutely.”

Her face went blank, her eyes darting around the room as if people were there that might overhear her. “Small confession.” She leaned close to him, eyes sincere. “If, tomorrow, you woke up and were that 98 pound asthmatic man I first met, I’d love you all the same. But, and I’ll deny this until the day I die to anyone else,” her eyes grew mischievous, “I like it when you show off very much. Please don’t ever stop.”

He laughed, full and hearty, as he started to move toward the bedroom. Peggy bounced her heel off his lower back, trying to turn him like a horse. “Ah! Back, soldier. We’ve got doors to lock!”

Steve laughed, turning back and shifting her to his hip so he could see and secure the house without having to put her down. “Yes, ma’am!”

~*~

“They are not spies,” Fennhoff insisted, pushing past Dottie.

She shook her head, closing the cabinet door with more force than necessary. The kitchen was still in a state from the dinner party and as usual she was left to clean everything up. “I’m telling you, you’re wrong. You just didn’t know where to look.”

The man grumbled and disappeared down the hall, the sound of his bedroom door slamming and locking echoing through the house.

~*~

The morning sun was bright coming through the front room’s picture window. Steve squinted as he stepped up behind Peggy, wrapping one arm around her waist as his other hand wound around her to offer her the cup of tea he held. “A little sunny, isn’t it?”

She hummed in agreement as she took and sipped her tea, her eyes never leaving the street where they were staring intently. “See that tabby?”

He followed her line of sight, things clearer as he got used to the brightness, to the small grey cat bouncing up and down the curb across the street outside of Dottie’s house. “I mean, it’s cute, but I don’t think right now is the best time to get a pet, Betty.” A soft humor infused his voice, knowing that Peggy’s plans were far past pets as she stayed intent on the creature.

“Hum, maybe not. But nevertheless, it’s been in and out of our yard, too, and I’ve noticed it doesn’t have a collar.” She let her free hand run over the arm around her waist. “What’s the range on those bugs Howard gave us?”

“With a direct line of sight, 100 yards.” He shrugged, thinking. “Obscured? Maybe 50. Could be more or less depending on what’s between us and it.” He buried his nose in her hair, inhaling her soft scent before pressing a kiss to the crown of her head. “You have a plan.”

She turned and smiled at him. “I have a plan.”

~*~

It started with a small saucer of milk late that morning. Peggy left it on the front stoop and spent a little while just sitting outside next to it, waving at neighbors and smiling. “You haven’t seen that little grey tabby, have you?” she would ask each passing person, concern all over her face, “I got a glimpse of him this morning and I could have sworn he was limping!”

By the afternoon, Steve was trying very hard to keep a straight face as he helped her “search” for the cat in their yard.

Just before dinner, Peggy palmed the small listening device, a thin disk that was barely the size of a quarter, and headed across the street, making tiny whispering and clicking noises, eyes, wide and sad.

Laura Smythe popped her head out of her kitchen window as Peggy knelt next to the storm drain between their house and Dottie’s. “Betty? Are you ok?”

“Oh, fine, Laura!” She stood and waved, her face tight. “I just could have sworn I saw that little grey stray cat and it was limping. I just want to make sure the poor thing is okay.” She huffed and stood, straightening her skirt. “Have you seen him?”

Laura shook her head. “Not since yesterday.” She smiled at Peggy. “So sweet of you to want to try to help him.”

“Well thanks, I—oh!” Peggy turned, eyes set on Dottie’s front yard. With a fake wobble in her heels, she was more adept in running in them than she’d like everyone to know, she darted towards the azalea bush and stopped short. She smiled back at Laura, “I think I’ve got him!” With a smile that had nothing to do with a cat, Peggy pushed her way into the bush and along the front side of the house. She made some noise, swished the plant a few times, and smiled to herself. It was going perfectly.

Dottie was on her porch before Peggy could even catch her breath from the run over, voice loud. “Goodness, Betty, what are you doing?” She demanded, incensed.

Peggy stood, using the ledge of the window to haul herself up and the exaggerated surprise she feigned to hide how she set the small bug in the corner of the sill and the window. “Oh! Dottie I hope I didn’t startle you!”

Dottie, less neighborly than yesterday, started at her. “You did, Betty. Why are you in my bushes?”

Peggy dropped her head, shaking it sadly. “Oh, I just saw that poor neighborhood cat limping this morning and I’ve been trying to get my hands on him and see if he was ok. I could have sworn I saw him over here!” Peggy looked around herself, as if she was just noticing what a mess she made. “Oh, goodness, what have I done? I just don’t think sometimes!”

Dottie couldn’t hide the suspicion on her face, but stepped down and offered Peggy her hand. “Let me help you out.”

“Oh, I am so sorry! Your beautiful flowers!” Peggy brushed the leaves and petals from her dress and gestured towards the slightly rumpled bush. “I’ll pay for any damages, I am so, so very sorry.”

“No need,” Dottie said coolly, her smile never reaching her eyes. “I never liked that one anyway.”

~*~

Steve was still laughing when she made her way back into the house. She rolled her eyes, but couldn’t deny that it must have looked a sight. “You almost done?” She crossed her arms, trying to hide her smile as she leaned against the counter.

He was still catching his breath as he emerged from his small control center in the broom closet, hand pressed to his chest. “Oh… oh that was priceless.”

She eyed him as he moved closer, leaning his hands on the counter on either side of her and looming with a bright smile on his face. Peggy rested her hand on his shoulders, enjoying the closeness. “Yes, but did it work?”

He nodded, reaching up with one hand and picking leaves and petals from her hair. He picked the last one and held the pink petal up for her to see. “It did. Not the clearest sound, but good enough.” He kissed her quickly, a peck full of pride and happiness. “You’re brilliant.”

“Why, thank you,” she replied happily, lifting up on her toes for another brief kiss before she ducked away under his arm. “Then you’re making dinner. I’m simply exhausted from looking for that cat all day!”

~*~

The chatter from the Underwood residence was tinny and quiet, but there wasn’t much to expect from the small transmitter. It did its job and Steve and Peggy could hear clear enough the woman and her father bickering in half sentences. Anytime they were in the back of the house they were out of range, but the front room and kitchen came in clear enough.

“They know they’re being monitored,” Peggy sighed, pulling off her headphones. Dottie’s tone had been harsh and clipped, and more than once her “father” had stopped short mid-sentence, either because he didn’t want to keep talking or because Dottie wanted him stopped.

Steve pulled off his own headphones and leaned back. He tried to stretch but his arms hit the wall of the small closet. “You’re right. They’re far too close lipped.”

“And the language is not nearly familiar enough to be father and daughter,” Peggy muttered, scooting to the side and leaning back onto Steve’s shoulder. His arm would around her immediately, stroking over her upper arm. “I’m not sold that they’re who we’re looking for, but I know they’re not who they say they are.”

Steve tipped his head into hers, cuddling close for a second. “What do you think? Time to turn in?”

She nodded against him “They’ll still be there tomorrow, I suppose.”

~*~

Peggy snuck out of her bed, tiptoeing as she picked up her robe and slippers, trying to avoid waking Steve in the middle of the night.

“Peg?” he murmured, turning.

She stopped, shifting her load to one hand to push his hair out of his eyes with the other as she bent by his bed. “Can’t sleep. Just getting some water.”

He hummed as her fingers moved over his cheek, catching her hand in his and turning his head to kiss her palm. “Don’t be long. You need to rest.”

She smiled as his eyes fluttered closed, sleep already pulling him back. “I’ll do my best, darling.”

Peggy slipped through the bedroom door, closing it behind her before wrapping herself in the robe and putting the slippers on her feet. There was a chill in the air, enough to make her wrap her arms around herself as she moved through the living room and to the kitchen.

She didn’t bother with the lights, the moonlight through the windows was enough to see by. She’d been lying in bed for hours, her mind running over scenarios of who the mysterious “father” and “daughter” team across the street could really be. She quietly opened the refrigerator, pulling out the orange juice. She filled the first glass she found and slipped the bottle back, sitting at the table in the darkness. She’d been expecting to find a man named Fennhoff masquerading as a widower. They didn’t know much about him, never mind what he looked like, but the presence of Dottie was baffling to her. The woman was suspicious and sharp, and deep inside Peggy thought she was smarter than she let on.

Peggy sipped her juice, not really wanting it but needing something to do with her hands. She thought about slipping back into the little closet, reviewing the tapes for the night, but decided against it. She needed to shut off her mind, quiet it, not rile it up. She needed rest so she could figure out what their next step would be. Steve was good, and getting better every day, but his real expertise was on the battlefield, not as a spy, and he still deferred to her in almost all matters for missions. She needed to be ready with a new plan by the time the alarm clock went off in the morning.

She wasn’t sure how long she was sitting in the dark, letting her mind wander, before she heard it: soft, crunching footsteps in the backyard. She lifted her glass and slowly made her way to behind the counter, crouched low and waiting. She didn’t have much of an advantage, but the juice would at least sting enough to give her the element of surprise.

Peggy steeled herself as she heard the doorknob slowly turn, the person jiggling it gently to confirm the lock was thrown. She slowed her breathing, mind clear and ready for anything as she heard the soft click of lock picks and the tumblers moving in place. The door opened almost silently, a small figure slipping in based on the shadow Peggy could see along the wall.

The person slipped in, looking quietly around the room. Peggy held her breath, waiting as the footsteps got closer, waiting for the person to be just close enough.

Without thought she stood, tossing the juice towards the intruder.

Dottie Underwood screeched as the acidic juice burned her eyes, stumbling back.

Peggy pressed forward, pushing her against the cabinets with both hands. She knew the rattle was loud enough to wake Steve and that he’d be there to back her up any moment. “What are you doing here?”

Dottie, eyes red and blinking furiously, took only a second to choose between lying and the truth. Truth, though, didn’t quite come with words. Instead, she threw her head forward, connecting her forehead with Peggy’s with a sickening crack. Peggy stumbled back, but had the advantage of knowing exactly where everything was in the kitchen. She didn’t need to look to get the pan from the stove, sitting and waiting for breakfast to be cooked up in a few hours, and swing it around.

Dottie threw a hand up just in time to keep the pan from connecting with her skull, and grabbed Peggy’s arm with her free one, grappling and forcing her to drop the pan with a clatter.

“Who are you?” Peggy ground out between her teeth, grabbing a fistful of hair and using that to hold Dottie in her frame of vision.

Dottie countered with a leg sweep, sending Peggy toppling over and off her feet. Peggy didn’t let go, though, and Dottie went down with her, landing them both between the island and the counter. “Just a concerned neighbor,” Dottie managed to huff out, pushing with her legs to try to get the upper hand and roll on top of Peggy. “Thought I saw a robber.”

“How kind,” Peggy grunted, managing to get her hand on a corner of the cabinet and use the leverage to get a leg out so she could knee the woman in the chest. Dottie lost her breath, leaving room for Peggy to pounce once again as she stumbled to stand and move away from her. Peggy started to move towards her again just as Steve rushed through the door of the kitchen, eyes wide and in nothing more than his pajama pants.

Steve’s arrival somewhat stymied Dottie. She paused, still trying to catch her breath, with Peggy huffing beside her. Steve looked between the two women and Peggy stared at him, disbelief in her eyes. “Her, please!”

Steve snatched Dottie around the waist and lifted her off her feet, keeping his head away from her flailing arms as she struggled. Peggy pulled the tie from her robe, using it to secure her hands behind her back once Steve had set her in one of the kitchen chairs.

“Still plan on sticking to your story,” Peggy huffed, sitting across from her as Steve stood guard, “or are you going to tell us what we need to know?”

Dottie smiled like a shark, her red, tearing eyes fighting the visual she wanted to present. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

Peggy and Steve shared a look, and without a word he slipped out of the kitchen, headed back to the bedroom.

Dottie watched as he returned only moments later with a shirt and shoes to go with the pants, and a very brightly painted shield on his arm. He stepped in the kitchen and handed Peggy her gun before he disappeared out the front door.

Dottie winced; her eyes painful. “Betty, is it? Are you two even married?”

“Does it matter?” Peggy asked pragmatically, rounding the woman and checking her bindings. “I think what matters here is that you’re hiding something and I’d very much like to know what it is.”

“Do you have twin beds? Or just one big bed?” Dottie asked dreamily. “If I could have that in my bed…” she hummed, the salacious tone somewhat ineffective when combined with her sniffles.

“Are you here on behalf of Hydra?” Peggy asked, picking up a towel and mopping the orange juice from the floor.

Dottie continued rambling. “I mean, that’s one hundred percent American beefcake right there. USDA Prime. And strong.” She sighed happily. “When he picked me up… mmm mmm mmm.”

Peggy rolled her eyes behind the woman, picking the pan from the floor. “What about that man you’re with?”

“Oh, he’s about to have his day ruined.” Dottie laughed manically. “You see, when that Greek God of a man of yours riled him up about Captain America, he wasn’t lying. He gets riled up. Mostly because he hates him so much.” She laughed again. “When he wakes up and sees that shield over him… oh, he might just have a heart attack.”

Peggy checked the robe tie as she passed again, knowing it was hardly enough to secure someone who knew what they were doing before she opened the broom closet and pushed out the fake wall. “Last chance to give me anything before I throw you to the wolves.”

Dottie just sat, head held high, eyes still watering.

“Have it your way.” Peggy reached in and pulled out a beacon, tapping it twice. “The cavalry will be here shortly.”

~*~

Steve didn’t exactly feel fantastic about waking the old man up, but when he started cursing in Russian at him and pulled a gun from under his pillow, Steve reassessed his position.

He still felt bad when he had to knock him out though.

~*~

Peggy stood at the doorway, watching the rest of the SSR team pack the surveillance equipment away and hurry the rented furniture back in the truck as the forensics team was going over Dottie’s house. Dottie was safely in custody and Peggy would be interrogating her tomorrow at the SSR when everything was back to normal. It had been only four days since they moved in, but Peggy could admit, at least to herself, that she’d enjoyed playing house.

Steve came up behind her, his hands still at his sides rather than at her hips. They’d set clear ground rules when it came to the office and the SSR, and that meant no touching in front of co-workers. The absence of his hands when he was so close was causing the hairs on her arms to stand at attention. “What do you think about suburbia?” she questioned lightly, though it weighed heavily on her mind.

“Well, when there aren’t sleeper Hydra Agents hiding in it, it seems pleasant enough to me.” He shrugged, leaning on the doorjamb to look at her. “I grew up in the city, but I’m not attached to that as some idyllic idea of what life should be. Might be nice to have a little garden, some grass to cut, a front yard to build a snowman in and rake leaves…”

Peggy jutted her chin out the to Smythe house, where, like everyone else on the street, Dan and Laura were looking out the window, trying to get every bit of gossip they could. “Neighbors being neighborly.”

Steve dropped his voice. “I think we’d do well in someplace like this.”

Peggy smiled up at him before turning back to the men in the yard. “Agreed.”

“It should be bigger, though, to make room for the kids.” He nudged her with his elbow, a smile threatening to break out on his face. “Four, at least.”

Peggy raised her eyebrows at him. “Two.”

“Only two?” He asked, partially teasing and partially actually let down.

Peggy turned so the men in the yard couldn’t see or hear what she was saying. “Will you be popping them out then? Because until you are, I think the person actually carrying the children should have her opinion weighed slightly more.”

He nodded, eyebrows together tightly. “Point taken.”

She stepped closer, nudging him with her shoulder. “Perhaps we start with one, and see how we do, hum?” She pushed past him, the bump intentional and flirty. “Besides, I’m still waiting on that ring.”

Steve smiled out at the front yard, shoving his hands in his pockets. Good thing the ring was sitting back in his apartment in the top drawer of his dresser. Seeing as this little test run had gone well, maybe he’d pop the question sooner rather than later.

Domestic bliss and international espionage… Steve couldn’t think of anything he’d like more.

#steggy secret santa #Steggy Bingo Bash #superhero-daugthers11 #Steggy Fic #3P's Fic

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sjw-publishings · 4 years

Text

Stay Straight Babe

“Im so glad I still have my lovely boyfriend with me during Quarantine, Amirite Cherry?”

“Yeah...hehe, so glad to have Sammie with me too...”

Anton, the Drama Queen laughed with his lesbian shy bookworm bestie as they discussed about theatre and all about. Of course, they would’ve invited their lovers along, but they were too busy being techno geeks and talking computer games in their gaming rooms.

“Did you have lunch yet?”

“Yeah, tried takeout from that famous Chinese restaurant downtown! Was super good!”

“Oh my god! Me too sistah!!!”

“OooooooAHHHH!”

A large groan came from their study, where his boyfriend’s currently at. Anton naturally looked concerned for his boyfriend.

“What was that?”

“I don’t know! But something came from Sammie’s room too...”

“Yeah! I gotta check Kenny, Brb!”

Ending the call, Anton left the bedroom, and headed his way outside the study, about to open the door, but then a loud masculine voice rumbled from behind the door.

“Samantha? You’re just such a great fri... girlfriend... eungh so hot...”

Samantha? Who is that....But more importantly, why would his friend...boyfriend be moaning to a lady? Is he...cheating on him? But that can’t be, his geeky nerd cutie is as queer as a three dollar bill! But still, he had to check it out....that deep voice certainly did not sound like a nerd’s...

“SO HOT!”

As Anton walked into the room, his eyes widened at the pile of clothes and tossed garments on the ground. Large XL sandblasted jeans, track pants, sneakers. Tons of sports posters and trophies decorating the shelves, and a large television screen playing the latest soccer match...though for some reason, he vaguely recalled seeing football and baseball at intervals.

But it definitely did not look like a study room...despite him initially thinking that it was. Alongside a couple of dart boards, some sports equipment, and a pool table, seemed like a recreation room...but since when could they afford...

“oooooOOOOAAAAAAHHH!”

A large moan came from the couch, as Anton came to the front of it, all his eyes focused on was an incredibly muscular asian hunk man-spreading in bliss, dressed in a white tee with an iconic sporting good logo in the front, left hand gripping his cellphone while his right hand dug deep into his clean white boxers. The man panted out of relief, and relaxation, like a weight lifted off his shoulders. Whispering into branded phone with his deep husky, asian tone.

“Stay Straight Babe~”

CLICK!

So hot...NO! Anton get a hold of yourself! Who was this Asian man? Where was his roommate? He had to get questions, even if this...extremely hunky cutie, looked so sexy dazed and looking up.

“What?...Who are you!”

The Asian man snapped out of his trace, eyes opened...but ever so slightly. He was asian after all, but he was chill...in control. Still leaning back on the couch, he looked at Anton, puzzled, before looking down at his exposed boxers and then back at the stranger. His mind cleared up in an instant, forcing out a-

“Kevin Lang, Fag!”

The man said it, and gave that signature sarcastic response from only a jock bully like him. Smirking condescendingly, he was in charge, and that theatre gay started to tremble.

“Listen Queer, I know you’re thirsty and all for men during this. But some of us got girlfriends who we can’t visit. So stop being a WUSS and deal with it.”

“I...wasn’t...I...”

Now this really pissed him, not even caring about the stickiness on his right hand, or that he had a pitched tent. All he knows now is to deal with this gay of a roommate who spied on him and his girlfriend. The tall 6ft 2 jock cornered Anton to the door.

“Go jerk to your boyfriend or something...oh that’s right! Even a FAG like you doesn’t have one!”

Anton was in tears, he remembered the countless dates that he had, alongside the taunts made by this douchebag Kevin who somehow managed to wolf his way into his life throughout college. He had to get out of there..., quickly opening the door and running back to the bedroom, locking it.

“I...I have to call Cherry...”

As he typed for her number, a sudden ringing notification popped up for the name Chelsea. Must be a typo when he was saving Cherry’s contact right? Cause that number definitely was Cherry’s.

“Anton....”

“What happened?”

Almost suddenly, his mind shrugged off of whatever his homophobic roommate had said. His best friend was weak right now, he had to help her.

Gripping ahold of the phone, he didn’t notice the warm tanned spot spreading on his palms, down his wrists every second as he held the cellphone.

“Samantha...called me a dyke.”

“Samantha?”

“You know! My roommate, the one that’s dating yours!”

It made sense now, the two of them bonded over how much they despised their roommates bullying...and the strangeness of how the douchebag jock and queen bee couple somehow always interfered in their respective love lives...

Clutching the phone tighter, his wrists tightened as definition thickened his forearms. Curling his biceps subconsciously, toning strongly till they were the size of baseballs.

“Yeah Kevin was such a douche, had to defend myself from him tryin’ to whoop me...”

“Yeah, had to backflip and dodge Samantha’s attacks. Didn’t feel good knowing she still holds a grudge about me being a dyke.”

Heh, he knew his best friend could handle herself. She was still a cheerleader in training, but could whoop Samantha’s arrogant butt anytime. Must also be her half asian genetics like his.

Sitting up straighter, Aiton’s broad shoulders filled out his sweater, which almost ripped if it was not for that white stain sealing up the cracks. That white stain...which came from Kevin...right? Was there a stain?

The white coloration spread all across the attire, shrinking up the sleeves to simply resting just below his shoulders, accentuating his large biceps which he proudly admired. Alongside his large back which occupied his entire bed...wait, didn’t he?

Taking a closer look at his bedroom...wait, looking DOWN at his bedroom. He was on the upper bed of a double decker, with training equipment at the side and a couple of sports memorabilia which looked reminiscent of the recreational room.

Yeah of course that douchebag Kevin had to have most of the room with his crap...though it was not all bad. He worked out quite often during his spare time...outside of that artsy degree he had no idea why he took...did he take an artsy degree? He shrugged, doesn’t matter, he worked out.

Anyways it showed, leaning back and taking full charge of the entire bed. At least he was the alpha HERE! Listening to what his best friend spoke...though she was mostly talking about drama with her roommate, not the kind of thing he was interested in.

But he always liked her voice...

“At least...I think I like girls? But that was an accident! I don’t like Samantha!”

Aiton nodded, unsure of what to say, but felt...pretty cool about it. Crossing his legs, as he saw those large trunks that trained...almost like for years. They which reached the end of the bedside, as those khakis lengthened and stretched into XL sweatpants...gotta snatch that back his junk from Kevin later, but not now. He was cool, now. Kicking off his large trainers which went-

CLUNK CLUNK!

As they hit the floor, wiggling his size 12 feet beneath those white socks. Kevin could insult him all he wants later, it was his room too. The fledgeling Jock can say whatever he wants to anybody, and he says-

“You were like ‘I think I like girls’, sounded pretty dyke to me.”

Aiton smirked, teasing the cheerleader from across the phone. He always liked doing that, he was in charge after all.

He knew how icky the two cheerleaders felt towards homosexuals...but then again, wasn’t he a bit rude towards them as well? Not as bad as Kevin but an occasional joke here and there meant nothing right?

“Who you callin’ dyke, Fag?”

“Who you callin’ Fag, Dyke?”

Okay...maybe he didn’t like being called Fag either. But it was just insults between him, Cherlse, and Kevin and Samantha. Anyone else and they answer TO HIS FISTS....except maybe ladies...especially hot babes.

He began to palm himself, and as he kneaded his hard rocket, he sneered in disgust over a rainbow wristband on his wrist. He blinked, in its faggy place was a white sports watch. His rocket doubled up in size, while darkening in tan, its always time to be a Jerk, just like his Bro Kevin.

“You know i get weak when you use my own words~”

Cherlsea opened up her phone webcam, and Aidon did the same. Both smirking at the other. The Jock knew it was always ladies first, but he was a Jerk so-

“Oh damn...she’s hot!”

“Of course I am, do I still look pretty dyke to you~?”

Watching her seductively pose on her bed, it felt like ages since he had seen a woman like that! In that revealing tank and double Ds he could just!

SQUEEZE!

“Oooaahhh!”

Squeezing his own chest, feeling rock solid muscle layering his nipples, pectorals filling his sports shirt massively like the man he was. Feeling those abdominals as a well deserved 6 pack emerged from years of crunches.

“I....I NEED RELEASE!”

“So hawt~”

“I...I AINT A FAG!”

“Course you aren’t hunky~you are so hawt, ooooooaaaaah!”

The Queen Bee’s second in command had let out her mating’s call, the asian babe was too much for the Douchebag Jock’s right hand man, and vice versa. As their desires linked up, with the help of a fortune cookie they ate prior, they were about to finally be set into motion.

Each of them felt a tight stinging to their holes simultaneously. As the Asian Jock’s butt hole tightened, the Cheerleader’s lady hole expanded. Like a trade of preferences, but that is not all.

As testosterone pumped in the man, churning larger sacks, as he watched his babe’s hair lengthen, his shrunk, and BUZZED off the sides and back, leaving a stylish gelled top, maintained with a pair of shavers, scissors, and his Bro. Not actually brothers, but they were asian , jocks, and total jerks. Wouldn’t be surprised if they were related.

Speaking of Asian, his tan had bathed his facial features alongside the rest of his body. Cleansing the GAY away from him as his jaw hardened into a fierce square. His lips snarled in momentary disgust, before his raising his cheeks, as that scowl shifted to an arrogant smirk as he watched his girlfriend do the same.

“Ooooaaaaaah~”

His brows complimented his prominent features, as they frowned, closing his eyes as his girlfriend’s moan was too much to bear...he needed RELEASE! RELEASE!

“OAAAAAAAH!”

Aidan Long expelled a thick goo from below, as his eyes gave way to a thin fierce asian dark brown. Staring into the ceiling in a haze...before the sounds of his lover’s panting sent him back to reality.

“Man...that feels good, but still miss our hot damn ‘Dragon and Empress’ sessions before all this happened.”

“Yeah totally...stuck with bestie the whole day is fun and all but...she and your douche roommate keep doing it all day.”

“Caught him jerkin’ off too jus now...”

“Whaaaaaat! Omg same, saw Samantha doing that too!”

“Course...nothin’ beats my empress...”

“Same for you too...my long muscular dragon.”

Almost instantly, the doors slammed open. Of course, Kevin had the spare keys to the bedroom too, and he was sneering right at the door.

“AND YOU SAY IM A FAGGOT!”

“SHADDUP KEV! YOU GAY!”

“NO YOU GAY!”

“HAHAHA!”

The two jocks laughed arrogantly, before sneering at each other. The two of them were thirsty, and they understood and respected that.

“Ohhh almost forgot, mwah mwah mwah!”

“Mwah mwah mwah back to you GAY!”

Kevin left the room, most likely going to order more of that Chinese take out or something. Doesn’t matter to Aidan though...he was friends with the man, but he wasn’t INTO INTO him.

“I swear this stay at home thing is turning me gay...”

“Oh there’s nothing wrong with some bonding sessions. Me and Samantha are pointing each other’s nails later on, and that isn’t DYKE!”

“Yeah, should probably binge watch soccer with that douche. Felt like We haven’t did a sports marathon in ages!...No homo of course.”

The two of them chatted for a while more, loving the company of the other intimately as they teased one another like the lovers they are.

But they eventually have to go to other stuff. And by stuff he wants to do, is CHILL.

“Love you hunky, talk to you l8r!”

The Jock simply posed to the camera,and spoke.

“Stay Straight Babe”

#gay to straight #g2s #mental change #jock #asian #racial change #dumber #gay #lib to cons #to #straight #nerdtojock #personality change #gay2straight #stay #babe #chinese

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roadmotel · 3 years

Text

tagged by: @co-dependent, @itstartswithbloodshed, and @stanfordera!

name: leila

nicknames: my sister calls me lur

starsign: leo

gender: s1-2 sam winchester

height: 5′9

sexual orientation: dyke

favorite color: dark green

current time: 9:35pm

current location: the couch!

average hours of sleep: either 2 or 12 there’s no in between

lucky number: 7

last thing i googled: “words like moss”

number of blankets i sleep with: only one i’m boring and warm blooded

favorite fictional characters: sam & dean winchester (obviously), antigone (specifically anne carson’s translation because she’s a genius), ronan lynch, merlin (from bbc’s merlin), harry potter, patroclus (specifically the song of achilles), & ari mendoza (from aristotle and dante discover the secrets of the universe)

favorite bands/artists: phoebe bridgers, mitski, neutral milk hotel, sufjan stevens, the mountain goats, the national, hozier, m83, the japanese house, bon iver, radical face, perfume genius, beach house, frank ocean.

dream job: i simply do not dream of labor (lmao but really if i could get paid to make media comparison posts on tumblr.edu that’d be ideal)

random fact: my cat is currently on my lap :’)

do you have any other blogs?: boy i sure do

when did your blog reach its peak?: i’ve got like five blogs and one of them has around 96k followers even though i’m barely on there anymore but i’d say once it hits 100k i will have truly peaked on this site lmao

what made you decide to get tumblr?: i’ve had tumblr since i was eleven because my sister (who’s two years older) had one at the time and i’m forever a younger sibling just wanting to copy my cool older sister. she, however, has moved on and i’m stuck here :/

why did you choose your URL?: roadside motels hold a special place in my heart <3

tagging: i think i might be the last to do this so if you feel like doing it you can say i tagged you!

#text #leila.txt

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artificialqueens · 4 years

Text

I Choose You, 2/2 (Vanique) - Ortega

a/n: oh my god HELLO!!!! i thought i’d never finish this in time but the lord loves a trier so here we have the second half of my Vanique behemoth (the first being 2003!). this might be the most self-indulgent and pretentious thing i’ve ever written. who knows if it’s good! certainly not me. i very much hope u all enjoy it anyway.

(p.s. the title is from I Choose You by Kiana Ledé. listen to it it’s very good. the acoustic version, not the one with the rapper feature. that one sucks ass.)

trigger warning: there’s some homophobia in this, both internalised and…externalised (is that a word?), including use of the d slur, so please read at your own risk. there’s also mentions of bereavement but not of any of the main characters. I promise u this fic is not as depressing as i’m making it out to be xo

fic summary: Vanessa Mateo and Monique Heart start Year 9 as entirely different people. At least, that’s what Monique firmly believes. Vanessa suspects they’re not as different as Monique would like to think.

***

High school is high school, and nothing is ever simple. The idea that Vanessa had had about hanging out in Summer was soon pushed to the side. Monique was dropped in favour of hanging out with Akeria and Silky. In all fairness, Monique was too busy riding the carousel of shopping trips and sleepovers at her new friend’s houses. Monét’s house is her favourite though because it feels like a castle- it’s surrounded by a gate with a combination instead of a key and in the lobby there’s a sweeping marble staircase and an actual pillar and an expensive-looking sculpture in the corner. Monét’s parents are kind and caring and they supply the girls with endless snacks and fizzy juice and face masks. Monique imagines it’s like what staying at a hotel is like. She wouldn’t know, she’s never stayed anywhere other than her old house with her Mum, the high flats, or Vanessa’s house.

She feels guilty about not hanging out with Vanessa. They text, but it’s not quite the same; she knows Vanessa hates writing in any format so it’s a little harder. They could phone, but they just…don’t. Still, despite their distance that night at Vanessa’s in the tent still plays on Monique’s mind. The whole thing was weird. Vanessa had wanted to kiss her, and in Monique’s mind that was only something you wanted to do with a person if you had a crush on them. Monique knows what a lesbian is, and she’s sure Vanessa isn’t one. She’s damn sure she isn’t one either. Aside from liking girls, lesbians dress like boys and they have short hair and they’re definitely not as beautiful as Vanessa. They’re different, and Monique is different enough. She isn’t a lesbian. She doesn’t fill any of the criteria.

So when Vanessa comes back after the summer holidays and begins Year 9 with hair that stops at her jaw and an undercut as well as a set of pink traintrack braces, the whispers start right away. Monique hears two boys talking about her at first, as she’s putting her books from second period away in her locker. She hears brash laughter, Vanessa’s name, the words “dyke” and “rug muncher” and “lesbian” all spat out venomously, and Monique’s heart hurts. She wants to tell them to shut up, wants to tell them they’re wrong and that Vanessa is pretty and soft and none of those things. Vanessa is just a normal girl. Hell, the only reason she’d wanted to practise kissing with her was so that she could be good for boys.

It’s lunchtime when it gets brought up again, and by that point it’s all round the school. Brianna starts the conversation mid-chip, speculating between chews.

“Have you guys heard that rumour going around that Vanessa Mateo is a lesbian?” she almost whispers, and Monique rolls her eyes. Not this.

“Oh my God, no! Tell us!” Asia says excitedly, pushing away her plate of suspicious-looking penne bolognese made up of too-soft pasta and too-watery mince.

“What’s there to tell, sis? That’s all there is.”

“She’s in my Spanish class. She definitely looks like a lesbian,” Antonia widens her eyes in disbelief, and Bob cackles a laugh.

“What the fuck does that even mean? Looks like a lesbian. They’re just girls who like girls, lesbian isn’t a fucking…skin tone.”

Brianna casts a glare at her from the other end of the table. “Oh, come on, Bob, you know what we mean. She’s got that haircut and the shaved bit at the bottom. And have you ever seen her wear skirts to school?”

“Gee, short hair and trousers make you a lesbian. By that logic half the fucking boys are lesbians.”

The girls splutter a laugh, which Monique joins in with half-heartedly.

“It’s not just that, though. You know she’s friends with that Akeria Davenport…Silky Ganache. You ever see her with any boys? I wouldn’t be surprised, you know,” Monét shrugs, having seemingly thought it through enough to pass judgement. Asia laughs.

“You never see us hanging out with boys.”

“Yeah, but there’s six of us! There’s only three of them. Maybe they have like…threesomes,” Antonia gasps, her eyes sparkling wickedly. The girls all follow suit, gasping and widening their eyes and clucking like hens. Monique feels sick. The whole conversation feels wrong. She doesn’t want to be part of it any more.

As if she’s read her mind, Monét cocks her head at her. “Monique, didn’t you used to be friends with her? You ever get lesbian vibes from her?”

“Oh my God, yeah? She ever try and kiss you?” Brianna asks, open-mouthed. Monique feels the colour drain from her face. Luckily there’s a shout from the other end of the canteen that cuts the girls off from the conversation they’ve been having.

“Bob!”

The girls stop talking, turn around to see Tomi and Katie standing smiling in that fake as fuck way that Monique loathes. She knows they’re probably behind most of the rumours about Vanessa and that puts her back up even more. Bob seems unbothered, and she’s regarding them in a lazy sort of way. Monique swears she’s seen a lion watch a gazelle with the same expression.

“Yeah?” Bob asks simply, humouring them. The two girls giggle behind their hands.

“We just think your hair is so gorgeous. Can we touch it?” Katie simpers, tucks her blonde hair behind her ears unflatteringly. Bob turns briefly to Asia and gives an earth-shattering roll of her eyes. Monique can feel Monét bristle beside her defensively and she puts a hand on her shoulder in reassurance.

Bob smiles indulgently at the rejected extras from White Chicks standing in front of her. “You can try, see what happens.”

Tomi has her hand out and then falters, clearly noticing Antonia glaring at her like she’s daring her. Monique’s never actually witnessed her throwing hands but she knows that’s how she got her detention last year, after a boy in the corridor made monkey noises at her. Tomi clearly decides against it and the two girls curl their top lip at them all instead, slinking away. Bob turns around to shout after them.

“Wait! Tomi! Can I touch your hair? I’ve always wanted to know how it feels to be a weak, limp, lifeless, greasy Rapunzel!"

The girls erupt in hysterical laughter, and the rumour is forgotten for now.

Or at least it is until two o’clock in the afternoon. Monique’s not been thinking straight all day and it shows when she turns up to Chemistry when she’s meant to be in English, the lower sixth formers all looking at her as if she had two heads when she opened the door to the lab and had to slink back out again. So she’s running down the back stairwell panicking, knowing she’s going to have to explain why she’s late. The stairwell is empty with everyone already in class, but aside from the noise she’s making as she thunders down the stairs Monique can hear two other voices at the bottom. Two boys’ voices, and they don’t sound kind. They’re spitting out insults, and Monique heard the crash of something heavy against the floor- a book, a folder. It’s against Monique’s better judgement to investigate- she should really get a teacher- but she can’t stand bullies, so she gets to the last set of stairs and peers over the bannister to see what’s happening.

The sight makes her heart drop, because it’s Vanessa. The two boys are yelling at her, blocking her path every time she tries to move past them. She’s not crying but she’s all hunched in on herself, almost concave with her arms hugging herself and her head positioned towards the ground. The boys are relentless with their taunts and Monique can’t bear to hear any more.

"Hey!” she shouts, her voice all too loud in the silence of the stairwell. It echoes and ricochets off the walls, and the boys narrow their eyes as they look up at her. She meets Vanessa’s eyes. She seems just as shocked as the perpetrators. Monique’s started, so she follows it up with, “Leave her the fuck alone.”

The boys laugh, begin to mock Monique amongst themselves. She doesn’t want to play her ace, but as their words bury themselves deeper and deeper under her skin, Monique’s face turns into a snarl. “Or am I gonna have to call my brother?”

The boys seem to make the connection between who they’re talking to and the implication Monique has just made, and she’s happy when a glimpse of fear passes on their face. One of them has the bravery to speak up again. “Your brother won’t do shit, soon as he steps in our ends he’s dead."

"Well, I can always call him and you can tell him that for real. Or, even better…” Monique shrugs, pulling her phone out of her blazer pocket and scrolling it lazily. “…I can have him here by lunchtime and you can say it to his face?”

The boys frown at her and seem to make the mutual decision to let the situation drop, but not before one of them spits on the floor at the bottom of the stairs Monique is standing on. She lets out a sigh. She knows her brother’s reputation precedes him and it’s not a pretty one. She knows he’s infamous and that the teachers were all happy when he finally left, saw the look on all their faces when they reached her name in the register on that first day and could practically hear what they were thinking. Oh shit, that’s his sister. She’s not proud of having used her brother as a threat but as she looks down and sees Vanessa’s kind, grateful smile, she knows it was worth it. Monique wants to hug her, wants to pat her back and tell her that she’s not in any danger anymore and that it’s all okay but she doesn’t because things aren’t the way they used to be. She descends the steps and lets Vanessa pick up her folder, waiting until she’s back up standing with her arms hugged around it and the tiny smile still on her face.

“Thanks.”

Monique wants to blush. She’s maybe already doing so. “It’s okay.”

There’s a pause. Vanessa’s smile wavers and she pulls her lips in on themselves, holds them between her teeth for a moment before letting them go. She looks to the ground awkwardly. Monique wants to say more, she wants to say everything, whatever the hell everything is. Instead she says nothing.

Vanessa rubs the back of her neck awkwardly. It’s just the two of them at the bottom of the stairwell now, and it looks like she’s about to release something she’s holding back. “Uh, hey. You ain’t tell anyone about…you know-”

“No, I didn’t,” Monique replies instantly, firmly. They both know what she means. Vanessa nods curtly. They’re standing alone, nobody else around to pass judgement or start a rumour or look at them funny. Monique wants to just…talk to her. She doesn’t open her mouth again, but she wants to. She can feel her speech rising in her throat, and she’s about to say something. She still doesn’t know what.

“I should get going, I’m late to English,” Vanessa suddenly makes the decision for her, nods at Monique in thanks again before turning on her heel and pushing open the double doors at the bottom of the stairs.

Monique is left standing there and the silence seems to echo around her.

She goes back home instead of class.

***

Year 10 starts and the unthinkable happens.

Vanessa’s sitting in P.E. at the time. She’s not at all academic- she knows this, it’s evident from all the extra help she gets and how she’s in the bottom set for everything- so she likes P.E. because she just plays sports, tries to win. All the girls and boys in the year have it at the same time and they split off- boys get taken out onto the astroturf in the pissing rain to kick a ball about for an hour and the girls stay inside and do basketball or volleyball, dainty ladies’ sports that make Vanessa mad because she knows she could whoop any boys’ ass at football. Anyway, Monique’s in her set and so are all her friends. Vanessa doesn’t like the girls she’s friends with- they’re too stuck-up for her taste, and she likes the fact that Silky and Akeria are down to earth and don’t have any airs or graces. But she still casts an eye over to Monique every so often, just to look at her. She thinks about the fact they used to be best friends, used to share everything with each other. Her cheeks burn when she thinks about the time she asked Monique if they wanted to kiss. She still hasn’t made herself confront that properly yet, still hasn’t addressed the very obvious elephant in the room of her brain. That can wait for another day, though. Everybody already says she’s a lesbian anyway, she’s been getting flack for it for a solid year now, so she supposes when (if) she comes out she can’t get bullied more than she already is.

Monique’s dark eyes are framed with eyeliner and mascara, and her perfect cheekbones are highlighted with a dust of gold. Vanessa’s jealous. She runs her hands over the spots that’ve bubbled up on her forehead self-consciously, reminding herself to spread more concealer over them when class is over. Monique’s so beautiful and it isn’t fair. Vanessa is so busy thinking and so lost in her own head that she doesn’t even notice their guidance teacher’s arrived at the door.

“Can I speak to Monique, please?”

Vanessa watches Monique’s eyes grow wide as her friends all wind her up and make ominous noises at her as she leaves. Vanessa wonders if Monique’s in trouble. She was always the biggest goody two-shoes in Primary, and she’d always get so nervous whenever Vanessa did something mischievous. Vanessa smiles at the memory but it’s quickly forgotten when their teacher tells them to get into partners and she immediately grabs Silky, leaving Akeria to pair with Mercedes, a shy girl who’s terrible at everything P.E. related and would truly be the booby prize if there was ever a partner-related game show.

Vanessa forgets about Monique until lunchtime when she’s sitting with the girls in the cafeteria and scanning the hall judgmentally. Her eyes fall on the table Monique and her friends usually sit at, and they’re all eerily quiet. They sit with their heads in their hands, stare into their plates of food and pick at them, and nobody says a word. Monique isn’t there. Come to think of it, she didn’t return for P.E.

“Sheesh,” Vanessa scoffs, gesturing over to them. “Who died?”

It’s a joke she’ll regret making, because all over Monique’s facebook wall that night when she gets home from school is post after post after post of sympathies and apologies and heart emojis and kisses.

Because Monique’s Gran has died.

When Vanessa realises she pushes her phone away, turns over in bed and brings her knees up to her chest. Her head is spinning. All Monique has is her Gran- well, her and her brother, but she’s known so much pain and heartache in her life and all she has ever wanted is a happy family. Vanessa knows this. She wonders what will happen to her. Her brother must be around 19 now, so he could get granted guardianship but God knows he’s never been the most ideal role model. He loves Monique though, deeply cherishes his sister. Everything Monique’s been through, so has he. Maybe Monique will be put in foster care? Vanessa doesn’t know. Everything about the situation makes her feel sick to her stomach. Apart from all of that Monique has to deal with the grief of losing the woman who raised her, who was a mother and father rolled into one.

Vanessa makes a decision, turns over in bed and snatches her phone back up. Her stomach is churning as she types out what she wants to say. Everything feels wrong and absolutely zero consolation, but she sends it anyway. She has to send something.

V: hey

V: i’m so sorry to hear about your Gran

V: i hope your doing okay

Vanessa stares at her phone for the full five minutes until it vibrates again, lights up with a message from Monique.

M: Thanks

Vanessa’s previously-rising heart suddenly drops. The reply is disappointing, but she doesn’t know what she expected. Monique has lost the closest thing to a parent she’s ever had. It’s not exactly the right time for a cosy reunion. Still, Vanessa misses her. She knows she could help Monique feel better, she was always able to make her laugh when she was sad.

V: i’m always here if you need someone to talk to

V: i know we don’t talk as much as we used to but your still my friend

Vanessa stares at her phone until her retinas start to burn. Is she even Monique’s friend any more? She wonders what they would talk about if they got to talk again, wonders if they ever had anything in common at all. The thought isn’t a nice one, and Vanessa goes to sleep that night with tears stinging her eyes and a terrible dull ache in her heart.

***

Monique doesn’t remember Year 10.

That sounds silly, as day 1 of it was only 365 days ago, but she doesn’t. She’s blocked it all out, bad memories of grief and pain that she’d rather forget. Even though her life has been full of struggles, the last year has truly taken the biscuit and she doesn’t ever want to think about it again.

There are always silver linings, though, no matter how awful the situation is. Monique’s brother is granted parental responsibility and he makes the effort to turn their lives around in whatever ways he can. They apply for a new council house, one in a slightly nicer area, and it has a garden and a number on the door and lots of windows to let in light. It’s the nicest place Monique has ever lived, and the summer before Year 11 the pair of them decorate it with furniture they find at the recycling centre and fix at home, and free stuff they pick up from Facebook Marketplace, and they paint the walls bright colours to keep their spirits up. Money is still a problem, though, but Monique is thrifty. She’s timed when the supermarkets put their yellow reduced labels on food, she can make her one free school sandwich last for lunch and dinner if she needs to. She charges her phone in class so she doesn’t have to use the electricity at home and she knows that if you put rocks in the pockets of the clothes you donate to Cash4Clothes then you get more money for them. They’re getting by- not easily, but they’re surviving.

Monique’s friends look after her, making sure she’s okay on those days when school is just beyond her and the only thing she can do is lie in bed. On the days she does manage into school the girls flank her, surround her like a shield against the staring eyes and whispers of the other kids. She still hears the odd murmurs of “her gran died” and “she doesn’t have any parents” and “her brother looks after her”. She knows they’re not malicious, but they still sting. So she’s glad when it gets to around October and people stop whispering about her and go back to whispering about Vanessa instead.

Because she’s got a girlfriend.

Brooke Lynn’s in lower sixth. God knows how she met Vanessa- probably at a house party or drinking in the park at some point, Monique supposes. She’s tall and statuesque and everyone is afraid of her, partly as a result of her resting bitch face and partly as a result of her intimidating good looks. Brooke is a living Barbie doll- pale skin, blonde hair, long lashes, full pink lips. Everything Monique’s not.

She’s sickeningly PDA with Vanessa. Monique sees them together at lunchtimes; the pair of them holding hands or with their arms around each other as they sit with their two friendship groups merged together- Monique didn’t think Silky and Akeria would have anything in common with straight A students Nina and Scarlet but she supposes that Scarlet’s girlfriend Yvie’s been put in isolation a similar amount of times to Silky so they’ve at least got that to bond over if nothing else. They laugh uproariously and chatter loudly and Brooke Lynn and Yvie eye girls like Tomi and Katie with suspicion and dislike, the two girls not even daring to make a comment about the two same-sex relationships at the table.

Monique hates Brooke Lynn. She doesn’t know why. She’s weird because she’s a lesbian but she doesn’t even fit in with what a lesbian should be with her long, blonde hair, makeup, short skirts. But then again, Monique reminds herself, neither does Vanessa really. They both just look like…normal girls. She wonders how that can be. Vanessa looks so happy all the time even though most of their year group hates her, or at least makes snide comments about her behind her back. How the hell is she so damn cheerful? Maybe Monique is just jealous. Jealous of the way Vanessa has an accepting group of friends and an accepting Mum and is comfortable being out even in school, unlike Monique who has to banish those thoughts to the dark of her mind because of course she’s not gay; she joins in with her friends when they talk about cute boys and talks about the celebrities she has a crush on. But she doesn’t really mean any of it. When she looks at the boys her friends all drool over, she just feels…nothing. She’s wondered to herself about her own feelings, even got as far as typing “girls kissing” into Youtube but closed the app before she could click on a single video, too embarrassed to go any further.

Nothing’s wrong with her. She’s fine, and her Gran always told her that God didn’t make mistakes. So she pushes and pushes the feelings down as Autumn turns to Winter and Spring turns to Summer, and before she knows it she’s finished her exams and is starting Sixth Form. Her brother’s proud of her- he hadn’t stayed in school that long, of course- and her Gran would be proud too. Monique’s sure her Mum would be as well, wherever she is. And her Dad. Whoever he is. Her exam results are decent, and she takes solace in the belief that maybe she’s clever, maybe she can forge a different path for her and her brother than the one she was born into. She’d like to be a nurse- nurses help people, and her Gran was looked after by one before she passed, so she decides that Sixth Form is going to be spent getting the grades she needs to get to university. Imagine. Her at uni. The first in her family and maybe even the first in her neighbourhood.

Still, it’s Sixth Form and she can at least have a little fun. She’s invited to her first house party along with the girls- Connor from Upper Sixth is hosting because his parents are out of town and Bob’s managed to blag them all an invite, so they get ready together and get Antonia’s cousin Shea to get them all alcohol from the off license, the six of them all giggling as they drink bottles of Lambrini in the street on the walk over to the party. When they arrive the house is packed, the music is loud, and everything is dark inside. Everyone already seems to be drunk and Monique finds herself guzzling the cider almost sickeningly quickly as she attempts to play catch-up. She’s surprised that some of the boys start talking to her and her friends. She’s never really received male attention before. She’s still not even kissed anyone; nothing’s changed since she was thirteen years old. Connor is showering her with attention and he’s maybe even flirting and all Monique’s friends say he’s attractive and Monique’s hoping she’ll feel something for him over the course of the conversation she’s having with him in the kitchen, her head all light and the alcohol coating her mouth. Eventually she sees that he’s moving to kiss her and she’s going to say no, turn him down gently but-

Vanessa’s here. She’s in the hallway looking at her, and Monique feels her eyes almost burn a hole in her heart. Her and Brooke broke up in the Summer- it was messy and all over Facebook, and Vanessa took it badly. There’s something to her gaze that Monique doesn’t recognise and she’s not sure she wants to. All she knows is the way she’s looking at her makes Monique focus her attentions on the boy in front of her, pulls him in for a kiss that’s sloppy and way too much and Monique feels nothing, beyond fucking empty inside, but the rush she gets when she opens her eyes mid-kiss to find Vanessa still looking at her is inexplicably exhilarating.

Except when she goes to bed that night she lies on her back and cries silently until she feels the tears stream into her ears. Why couldn’t she feel something for Connor? Why can’t she feel anything for any boy? Why can’t she shake this nagging feeling that something about her isn’t right, made differently to everyone else? She wishes she had Vanessa to talk to. She would know what to say. She’s been through all this already, Monique supposes. But Monique doesn’t want this. She doesn’t want to be happy like Vanessa is, she wants to fit in, she wants to keep her head down and not attract any attention and just be fucking normal, normal, normal.

Monique goes to sleep with a damp face and a stuffy nose and a feeling of self-loathing she can’t shake.

This feeling isn’t helped by what she finds when she wakes up on Monday morning. She’s checking all her socials as she’s walking to meet Monét and she’s got three new CuriousCats. The first reads,

Opinions on Asia O’Hara hehehehe

Monique laughs at Asia’s obvious fishing for compliments. She types,

the best friend EVERR and so pretty, ilysm!!!!!

The second one makes her stomach flip over.

did u get with Connor Monaghan on Saturday lmao

She thinks about it before typing and sending her response.

yea lol

She scrolls to the next one and her heart stands still.

Do you like girls

Monique is aware she’s stopped walking; she’s standing in the street like an idiot with every muscle and bone frozen in her body as her eyes dart across the screen again and again, reading it over and over. Why did somebody even send her this? Are there rumours going around about her too?

Quickly, she types out an ew no and publishes it. That should be the end of it. That’s it. She’s said she’s not, and that’s that. But there’s a concrete mixer of emotions and thoughts that swirl around in her mind and in turn churn up her stomach. She thinks about her kiss with Connor at the party, how she’d watched Vanessa instead of closing her eyes. The look on her face when they’d made eye contact. The way Monique feels as if something inside her is broken and can’t be fixed despite the fact she’s so normal on the outside contrasting with the way Vanessa is living happy and carefree despite constantly being made fun of and getting weird looks.

God, why does she even keep thinking about Vanessa all the time? They’ve not had a proper conversation in years, but Monique still remembers the way she’d texted her when her Gran died, the way she cared, the way she still called her her friend. Monique wonders if she’d still say the same thing. After all, she’s never said a bad word about Vanessa, never bitched about her or laughed about her behind her back.

Vanessa had said she still cared about her. Monique still cares about her too.

Monique is so in her own head that she doesn’t notice Monét standing waiting on her at the corner of the street until she almost walks past her. Monét grabs her arm to stop her and Monique very nearly swings for her until she realises who she is.

“Hey, bitch, slow down! It’s just me,” she laughs, and Monique gives a nervous laugh, still rattled by the anonymous question. “God, your head’s buried in that thing.”

“You sound like my Gran. Hey, Gran, I’m cold! Cause you always on that damn phone,” Monique impersonates, making Monét laugh. It coaxes a smile out of Monique too to remember how funny her Gran could be.

“What’re you lookin’ at anyway?”

Monique frowns, tells Monét about the message she got. Monét rolls her eyes and shakes her head in response.

“God, it’ll be fuckin’ Katie or Tomi pissing about and starting rumours. Just ignore them. Everyone knows you’re not gay anyway after Saturday night,” she waggles her eyebrows and tries to make a joke, but Monique’s still worried about the start of her sentence.

“But I don’t wanna be a rumour! I don’t want people talking about me!” she clamours, feeling ever-so-slightly helpless. Scratch that, hugely helpless. Monét pokes her in the arm just as school comes into view.

“Hey, Mo, chill! Nobody is gonna talk about you, everyone knows it’s a crock of shit! Just relax, alright? Ignore it, don’t let it ruin your day.”

That’s easier said than done, though. Monique’s mind is a mess and she can’t tell what’s real and what she’s making up. She walks past Tomi and Katie on her way to her locker and she thinks she hears them say her name but when she looks back at them they’re totally disinterested. In English, she’s sure everyone is staring at her when she walks into class. At breaktime she’s convinced the whole school knows. So when it gets to Biology and she’s sure, she’s positive, that she hears her name being whispered by someone in the row behind her followed by the word gay she thinks she’s going to be sick. The whole school knows, everyone is talking about it. Monique feels her chest tight, her mouth completely dry. She tries to take a deep breath but it feels as if she physically can’t do it. She doesn’t know how, but she manages to ask out of class and the moment she’s allowed she runs out of the door, hurtles down the stairs and into the girls’ bathroom, hyperventilating and clinging to one of the white porcelain sinks so hard she feels as if her knuckles are going to break. Her breathing makes her feel as if she’s a chew toy that someone is squeezing and squeezing over and over again, coming too quick and too shallow but she can’t stop; she’s stuck in the worst kind of cycle and she doesn’t know how to break it. She’s aware of the door creaking open, somebody saying her name in surprise but Monique can’t tear her gaze away from the crack beside the plughole to even see who it is. She feels the person take her hand off of the sink, squeeze it gently, and this forces her to look around and see who it is.

And of course it’s the one person who she doesn’t want to see right now.

Vanessa’s dark eyes are full of concern and care, and there’s furrows in her brow around the cracks and blemishes on her skin. Her bottom lip is worried between her teeth which are caged in by her pink traintracks, even though Monique knows they’d be beautiful and straight if she got them off.

Vanessa’s gaze is trained on Monique’s shaking hand now, and she’s holding it open with Monique’s palm outstretched towards her. It’s weird that Monique feels so exposed by that action alone. Vanessa’s got one of the fingers of her other hand positioned beside her thumb, a raggedy painted red nail standing out bright against her skin. “Focus on my finger. You’re gonna breathe in when it’s goin’ up one of your fingers and you’re gonna breathe out when it’s goin’ down.”

In the absence of anyone else to lean on, or indeed any rational thought, Monique simply obeys. Vanessa traces around her hand with her finger, slowly and gently, and it allows Monique time to calm down and breathe. Vanessa’s touch is grounding and soothing and eventually, when it’s clear Monique has calmed down, she watches as Vanessa wordlessly laces their fingers together, strokes her palm with her thumb. Monique’s heart is ricocheting off her ribcage, but not in the same way it was before. Now it’s as if her heart feels too big, like she’s been left out in the sun to melt, and Monique finally gets it.

This is how the other girls feel about boys.

“You okay now?” Vanessa asks her quietly, her voice hesitant and quiet and gentle and so out of character. Monique listens to the silence of the room. There’s nobody else there, nobody hiding in any cubicles. There’s only the drip of the tap and the hum of the air conditioner and Vanessa’s kind eyes and her long eyelashes.

If everything is as simple as an empty room and a silence like purgatory and a beautiful girl’s eyes, then maybe kissing Vanessa can be as simple as all that too.

So Monique does. She leans forward, closes her eyes before their lips meet softly, and neither of them do anything for a moment until Vanessa sort of pushes her lips against Monique’s own so then Monique pushes back with hers and then they’re kissing each other, Monique’s lip balm against Vanessa’s sticky gloss. They’ve still got their hands entwined and even though they’ve been so distant for the past few years she still ends up feeling so close to her because Monique knows Vanessa, but even though she’s got Vanessa’s soft lips on hers and her fingers curled around her own the magic starts to dissolve away and Monique remembers where they both are, who they both are, and how serious and completely not simple any of this is at all.

She pulls away, frantic and panicked, ripping her hand out of Vanessa’s like she’s touching fire. Her heart is going too fast again but it’s not a nice feeling like before; she knows she’s been away from class for too long, knows she needs to get back. She doesn’t want to look at Vanessa as she leaves, doesn’t want to be reminded of the last five minutes, doesn’t want to be reminded of what she is, of who she is. Vanessa takes her by the elbow gently, tries to turn her around.

“M’nique, hey-”

Everything collides together in Monique’s already crowded mind and the result is a crash of Big Bang-style proportions, one that makes her shove Vanessa away with both hands on her shoulders. Monique regrets it instantly, knows she’ll have to deal with the shock and hurt and betrayal on Vanessa’s face etched into her mind for as long as she’ll be able to remember it.

“Go away, Vanessa!” she cries, squeezing her eyes shut and curling her hand around the doorhandle. “Just stay the hell away from me!”

“Hey, you were the one that kissed me!” Vanessa bites back, her fists clenched by her sides in anger. If Monique looks at Vanessa long enough she can see tears beginning to form in her eyes but she’s trying her hardest to look at the floor, to not keep eye contact for long.

“No. I’m not like you, I’m not a fuckin’ weirdo, I don’t kiss girls, I’m not a dy…” Monique starts off insistent and strong but she has to hear herself tail off as she falters, the word she was about to say feeling barbed and sharp in her mouth, not right, a razor blade held on her tongue that she wants to spit out but now has to swallow.

Vanessa’s face has twisted in hurt and it’s impossible to ignore the tears trailing down her face. “You’re not a what, bitch? A dyke? Fucking say it, it don’t hurt me any more. Can’t hurt me any more than what you just did.”

Monique stands frozen and silent. She’s not sure what to say or do. Vanessa walks towards her and Monique flinches back against the wall as Vanessa reaches for the door. She gives Monique one last withering look up and down, the hurt in her eyes betraying the anger in her body.

“I really hoped that one day…you know what, forget it.”

Monique tries to forget it. But, almost as if it’s trying to make up for the fact she lost all of Year 10, her mind replays and replays the whole situation every day, until it’s the last day before the holidays and she knows she won’t have to see Vanessa around school for another six weeks, won’t have to face up to what she’s put in a double-locked safe in the back of her mind with a combination she’s so dangerously close to remembering.

***

Vanessa can’t quite believe she’s halfway through her final year at school.

In fact it’s a miracle she’s still even going to school. She’s got three GCSEs to her name (five No Awards, one D, a C in English which she has no idea how she managed and a C* in Maths, her proudest achievement to date). She’s been working away at an A-Level in Health and Social Care over both of her two years at Sixth Form now, and re-sitting the GCSEs she’s failed. Vanessa has no interest in either health nor social care, but it’s allegedly the easiest A-Level there is so she’s signed up for it regardless. What she’s really going to do after school ends is go to college, get her HNC and HND in beauty therapy with Silky while Akeria studies business management and then they’re going to open a beauty salon together, ’Dreamgirls Beauty’. It’s a plan they’ve had since Year 11, and it’s amused Vanessa to see Akeria and Silky begrudgingly calm down, to stop wreaking havoc around school and actually have to study and work hard so the three of them can achieve their dreams.

She’s actually enjoying her last year of school too. She knows part of the reason she’s stopped getting so much hassle from the others in her year group is because of her transformation after Summer. Her Mama finally saved up enough for flights back to Puerto Rico so they’d spent the Summer there with her family and Vanessa returned full of happiness, love, and fried plantains. All the home cooking and enormous meals have filled her out a bit and she doesn’t know exactly when she’d developed curves but she’s not exactly complaining about them. The sunshine has done wonders for her hair and skin too, the latter becoming clearer and darker and the former becoming longer and shinier. Adding to all this that she got her braces off and learned how to properly do makeup by averaging one NikkieTutorials video a day and she’s suddenly not just some small, spotty girl who fades into the background anymore. She’s confident, she loves herself, she’s genuinely happy.

And that’s more than can be said for Monique.

Vanessa doesn’t care. She doesn’t give a rat’s ass about Monique Heart, doesn’t give the girl a second thought. Certainly doesn’t think about the kiss they shared last year in the bathrooms which was so very obviously such a huge mistake. Doesn’t think about her long locks of hair she got dyed bright fiery orange over the Summer which compliments her eyes so well, doesn’t think about her huge bright smile and screech of a laugh that gets flashed at her friends whenever they say something hilarious. Doesn’t think about her lips even though she knows what they feel like, doesn’t think about how perfect it felt to kiss her after hiding a crush for so many years.

All of this is a lie of course.

Monique seems happy, any outsider would say that, but Vanessa knows different. If Vanessa looks at her long enough she can see the way her shoulders slump when she doesn’t have her friends around her and she’s left alone with her thoughts. She can see the small frown that appears on her face, lost in her own head and drowning in overthinking. She can see the way her smile falters after she laughs before it drops off her face completely. Sometimes Monique meets her gaze and gives Vanessa a look that communicates words in a language she cannot understand.

Still, Monique is hiding a secret that Vanessa already knows even without being told.

Vanessa had always naively and childishly imagined that she and Monique might get together one day. She’d almost confessed that to Monique that day when they’d kissed, before she decided to hang onto the last shred of her dignity. She’d loved Brooke so deeply but she knew that heartbreaks were a rite of passage, a part of life that some people had to bear the burden of. She’d always thought that if she and Brooke weren’t meant to be then her and Monique surely were (and how ridiculous a thought is that, given the fact they barely speak?).

But Vanessa likes to think she still knows Monique. Her biggest fear is needles, her favourite food is anything cooked on a barbecue. She’s always loved girlbands and near the end of their friendship Monique had told Vanessa her Gran had got her into trouble because she’d made twenty-five phone calls in one night to vote for Little Mix in the X Factor final, so Vanessa can safely assume she still listens to them and probably Fifth Harmony as well. She knows that Monique is caring and kind, even despite that day in the girls’ bathrooms. Still, though…Vanessa doesn’t know. A person can change and grow so much over a few short years, and Monique’s been through a lot.

It’s dark and cold outside but Vanessa is warm in bed as she scrolls her phone, absent-mindedly returns to her messages with Monique like she’s done many times since the day she kissed her- Vanessa always reminds herself that no matter what Monique had said, it was her that kissed Vanessa, not the other way round. She re-reads her words over and over like the prayers she chants at Mass on Sundays:

M: Vanessa I’m so sorry

M: I didn’t mean to hurt you I’m just going through so much right now

M: I’m trying to figure myself out but it’s so hard

M: I really miss you

She hadn’t replied to any of them, a fact she deeply deeply regrets because perhaps if she had then they could’ve been something, she could’ve helped Monique with whatever feelings she’d been dealing with, is maybe still dealing with. But it’s been months and months and months now, and Vanessa feels the moment has passed.

That is, until she gets a message on CuriousCat.

Opinions on Monique Heart

When she sees it, Vanessa’s breathing catches in her throat. She feels as if Monique’s eyes are on her and watching her, because really, who else would’ve sent that ask in? Okay, it could’ve been one of her friends trying to stir shit up, but Vanessa knows how it works on CuriousCat and usually the anons are quite easy to work out (which is why she’s still so amazed that Monique never seemed to know it was her that had asked her if she liked girls). Her fingers hover over the screen as she tries to figure out what to type. Unlike the other girls in her year, Vanessa doesn’t bullshit over CuriousCat- if she’s asked an opinion on somebody she calls a spade a spade, and she’ll never forget the hassle she got when somebody asked her her opinion on Tomi and Vanessa had outright labelled her a racist cunt. She wants to say that she’s gorgeous and beautiful, and that she misses being her friend, and that she’s been crushing on her for a while but never had the courage to speak to her because they both move in different circles now and nothing could ever happen.

But obviously, she doesn’t.

Instead she thinks up a white lie, tries to tell the truth without telling the truth, and instead replies:

dont want to say something ill regret

She yells goodnight to her Mama and switches off the lamp beside her bed, turns over and pulls the covers up to her chin. Just as she’s drifting off, a repetitive sound drifts into her consciousness. It sounds like hailstones that are falling from the sky just one at a time. She can hear somebody shouting in the street- probably just somebody drunk stumbling through the estate, it happens a lot- until she makes out who the voice belongs to. Opening her eyes, she sees tiny pebble after tiny pebble hitting her window, and all at once she’s shooting out of bed to look out of it.

The yellow glow of the streetlamp is a spotlight and Monique is taking centre stage on the pavement outside Vanessa’s house. She’s dressed in a huge black hoodie which is paired with blue tartan pyjama bottoms and she’s wearing her black Nike trainers, the same ones she wears to school with the scuffs and the holes and the laces that look like a dog has chewed on them. She’s hurling pebbles and her face is twisted into an upset and mournful frown. Vanessa doesn’t realise she’s crying until she hears her yell again, hears the crack in her voice and her words thick with emotion.

“Open the fuckin’ window, Vanessa!”

Vanessa does as she’s told, feels her own face scrunch up into a frown. She hisses down to Monique. “Stop fuckin’ yelling, my Mama’s asleep!”

Monique looks up at her, face illuminated in the artificial light. Vanessa sees the tears streaming down her face and her heart feels as if it’s breaking. She grabs her dressing gown and shoves her feet into her slippers, tiptoes as quickly as she can down the stairs and out into the street. She shoves one of her school shoes that’s beside the door into the doorframe so it won’t slam closed behind her, and then she feels the cold night air envelop her as she steps outside. There’s already frost forming on the ground, a tiny layer of wet cold over everything. It’s so dark that the only thing she can properly see is Monique as she walks up to her iron fence, absent-mindedly sticks her feet through the bars and curls her fingers around the rust.

“What the hell are you doin’ here?”

Monique’s face is angry as she addresses her. “What’s the something you’ll regret? Huh? What’s so bad that you can’t fuckin’ say it? You’ve always got something to say, you’re always calling people out. So what the fuck is it?”

Vanessa’s back is instantly put up. “An’ what if I don’t tell you, you gonna throw names at me again? You gonna kiss me then pretend like I kissed you? Nah you won’t, because that would mean havin’ to address your problems an’ act your fuckin’ age for a change instead of caring so much about what other people think of you that you won’t let yourself be who you are!”

Monique is staring at her wide-eyed and Vanessa thinks it would’ve been easier if she’d just slapped her across the face. She is thinking rapidly about what she could say to save the situation and her heart drops like a rollercoaster when Monique gives a sob.

“I’m so fuckin’ scared, ‘Ness,” she says through a shudder of a breath, and Vanessa wants to reach out to her but she’s frozen onto the fence, an ice sculpture in the freezing air. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me, and…you’re so happy, and you’re different, and I just…I don’t want to be talked about, I don’t want any of the whispers or the mean words or anybody judging me but I’m so fucking…sad and empty and the last time I remember feeling really, properly alive again was when I kissed you that day and…fuck-”

Monique dissolves into sobs which she muffles with hands wrapped in hoodie sleeves. Vanessa has been through all of this already. She has been through the denial, the Catholic guilt, the repression, letting the thoughts drip, drip, drip into her consciousness then locking them away and ignoring them but the thing about a drip is that there’s always the threat of the dam breaking and when it does, a tsunami of repressed feelings creates a flood and the tears are streaming uncontrollably from Monique’s eyes. Vanessa thaws, reaches forward to take one of Monique’s hands away from her face, and when their eyes meet she can see a speck of hope in Monique’s gaze like Vanessa has a life belt and a raft.

“M’nique,” she says softly, and the girl’s sobs quieten. “Sometimes you just need to ignore the thoughts that make up the what-ifs. You need to stop imagining fiction and just focus on the facts. At some point…you need to allow yourself to be happy.”

Monique snuffles. “But what if I try that and I’m still not?”

“What if you try and you are? Monique,” Vanessa sighs in exasperation, trying to word it better but being unable to find anything more.

And then the thought strikes her.

Actions speak louder than words so she leans over the gate and pulls Monique close. This time there’s no lipgloss, no chapstick and no overthinking; there’s her lips on Monique’s, and she’s been here before so she kisses her just like she kissed back last time but now she’s less hesitant and nervous. She’s sure. She’s never been more sure of anything in her life. Monique is kissing her back and their hands are entwined just as they’d been the first time. Everything is the same, and yet at once all so different.

When she pulls away (because the fence is digging into her stomach and it’s making her a little too breathless), Monique doesn’t let go of her hand. There’s a hint of a smile on her face, one that makes Vanessa feel as if they’re both going to be okay.

“I never thought we’d get here,” Vanessa laughs a little. She’s emotional, and if she doesn’t check herself then she’s going to start crying but the tears are out before she knows it along with her words. “I know that we ain’t properly spoken in years. But I also know that I love you. I care about you so fuckin’ much, M’nique, I never stopped carin’.”

The pair of them are crying now, and Monique pulls Vanessa in to kiss her again. Vanessa feels her murmur it back against her lips- I love you, I love you so much. I missed you.

It’s still dark, and the streetlamp is still the only light outside Vanessa’s house, but everything seems a little brighter.

“It ain’t safe to walk back to your ends now. C’mon.”

Vanessa takes her friend’s hand, leads her back inside where it’s warm and safe. Her bed is tiny and there’s only really room for one person but they make it work, Monique pressed against the wall and curled up with her arms around Vanessa, Vanessa with her head resting against Monique’s chest and her arm slung protectively over her. She feels Monique give her a little squeeze, press a kiss to the top of her head.

Monique gives the relieved and heavy sigh of someone who’s been rescued from deep water. She wriggles a little in bed to get comfortable and, seemingly satisfied, she whispers into the dark. “G’night, Vanessa.”

Monique’s arms feel comforting around her, and she chooses to settle in them. “Night, M’nique.”

#rpdr fanfiction #2003 #ortega #vanique #vanessa vanjie mateo #monique heart #best friends to girlfriends #s10 #lesbian au #high school au #fic challenge #black girl magic fic #diversity fic #tw homophobia #tw d slur #tw bereavement

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vee-angel · 4 years

Text

Non-consent Nancy (part 1, repost)

(Part of the Pervert Pentet Series)

Chapter 1, parts 1 and 2

WARNING: This story focuses on a lesbian black woman who fetishizes rape, misogyny, racism, and abuse. As such, there will be copious amounts of offensive language and themes, including the sexualization of victims. The story is fiction, and nothing written here should be taken as an endorsement for any of these view or activities. In fact, I wholeheartedly condemn nearly everything the main character thinks and does in this story. I believe that consent is a central tenet of morality, and violations of it are only acceptable in the context of fiction.

***

Introduction:

Nancy had grown up in a conservative, affluent neighborhood. Being one of the only black girls, she became a target for bullies and bigots at an early age. The fact that she dressed and acted like a lesbian before she even fully realized her sexual orientation certainly didn’t do her any favors.

Her mother worked hard to give her a better life than she’d had; as such, she could be a bit dismissive of her problems. When she was little, and informed her that she was being bullied at school, she simply suggested that she try to turn her abusers into friends. Taking her suggestion to heart, from that point on, Nancy always responded to cruelty with kindness. She want out of her way to accommodate bullies, to show them more kindness than she showed anyone else.

In middle school, she pressed her mother to tell her about her birth-father. After a long conversation, her mother finally admitted that Nancy had been conceived through rape by a man her mother had never met. She reasoned then, that her mother had virtually nothing to do with actually creating her. Her father was the one who took the initiative that resulted in her existence. Therefore, every moment of her life, every instant of joy or pleasure she took from being alive, she owed to a rapist. Her gratitude and affinity for rapists and abusers began to reach a level that bordered on worship, with those who defied them being, in her eyes, akin to heretics.

When she reached high-school, her views became even more extreme. She had internalized her affinity for sadists so much that she began to hate victims that tried to fight back. She felt as though they were dishonoring the blessing they had been given. When her best friend, Janet tearfully confessed that she’d been date-raped by a boy she had a crush on, Nancy insisted that she not tell anyone, convincing her that she must have enjoyed it and that she should call the boy and apologize for being such an ungrateful brat. She was proud of herself for facilitating the three-month abusive relationship that followed. Even prouder that she thought to secretly ask the boy out herself, allowing him to cheat on her best friend, as was his right and her honor.

Nancy loved how creative the young man was. He often had Nancy come over right before a date with Janet so he could fuck her and have Janet unknowingly suck her best friends cunt juice off of his cock. He liked to ask Janet for particularly humiliating naked pictures which Nancy insisted it was her duty as a good girlfriend to send him. She often assisted Janet with these photoshoots, helping her write humiliating words on her body, making sure she spread her ass far enough to make her holes clearly visible, ensuring that her tongue really was making contact with the inside of the toilet.

Their friendship ended after the boy mentioned to Nancy that her friend refused anal, and fought vigorously when he tried to force her. Nancy was appalled at learning of her friend’s refusal, insisting that she would help; that night, they stripped her naked and Nancy held her down and covered her mouth while the boy raped her ass. It’s no wonder she thrashed about so much, her barely-lubricated asshole was bleeding pretty badly by the end. Nancy made her apologize for ruining the boys sheets and made her give him money from her purse to replace them.

Janet didn’t talk to Nancy after that, which annoyed the budding rape-enthusiast. That left Nancy with the problem of how to distribute her former friends humiliating pictures as punishment for her ingratitude. Certainly she couldn’t allow the boy to be blamed for sharing them with their classmates. Hell, she would have happily lied under oath to ensure he didn’t suffer the consequences of taking what was his.

Eventually a solution became apparent. There was another girl in her school who always rejected the advances of the boys, a nerdy type who talked back when people made fun of her. Nancy eventually figured out that this girl was a dyke as well. She had no problem with dykes, per se, she was one herself. She had a problem with bitches who thought they were too good to be a plaything for cruel men. So she hatched a plan.

She pretended to befriend the dyke, and eventually the two of them became lovers. A few weeks later she broke up with her very publicly at school, making sure to loudly announce how bad her pussy tasted and claiming she was breaking up with her because she couldn’t stand the girl’s hardcore scat-fetish. This would ensure that the little bitch would be made fun of for the rest of her Senior year, and it would open the door to blame her for posting Janet’s humiliating pictures online.

When the authorities investigated, Nancy admitted that she’d helped Janet take the pictures (claiming that it was Janet’s idea, and backing up the boy’s claim that it was actually Janet who pushed for kinky sex, a story she’d arranged with him earlier). She said that the dyke must have hacked into her computer after she broke up with her, and distributed the pictures as payback. Nancy made sure to include a few compromising pictures of herself in the photo-dump just to make the story more believable.

The plan had worked, in one fell swoop Nancy had managed to humiliate that ungrateful bitch Janet, and teach that stupid dyke what she gets for refusing men their right to use her body. It was one of the great triumphs of her young life, but she only just barely got away with it. Nancy knew that she’d need to be more careful from now on if she wanted to continue abiding by her life’s mission to help all bullies, abusers, and rapists.

So when she got to college she reinvented herself. Publicly she was an advocate for every marginalized group. She went to feminist marches, she spoke at Black Lives Matter events, and collected donations for LGBT causes. This way, she could be seen as a champion for the abused, they would trust her. Never suspecting that she actually masturbated each night to the teary-eyed confessions by dumb bitches whose boyfriends smacked them around or sorority cunts who didn’t appreciate getting gang-raped when they were stupid enough to get drunk at a party.

A few years in, Nancy was majoring in psychology and volunteering at a rape crisis center as a counselor. This is when she met Darla.

Part 1

Nancy walked in that day with a button-up shirt and tie beneath her black vest. Her masculine fashion sense left little doubt to onlookers that she was a lesbian. It was form-fitting enough to display her slim body. Had she had her clothes ripped off in public, as she so often fantasized, observers would see a strong, athletic body with clear muscle definition beneath her smooth, dark brown skin. They would also notice the ample curves of her large breasts atop her six-pack abs, a contrast rarely seen in non-black women. Her hair was styled in neat dreadlocks that hung down just past her chin. Her whole style screamed liberal black lesbian feminist. Yet she dressed with enough allure that she hoped every misogynist, racist, and sadist that saw her went home and planned how to make her scream while they raped her dyke-nigger asshole bloody. She secretly believed it’s what all women deserved, and made it her life’s mission to ensure it happened to as many women as possible.

When she saw the defeated-looking woman with a bruised face in the rape crisis center office, she knew she was in for a treat.

“Hi, have you been helped yet?” Nancy said to the girl in a gentle voice.

“They said they don’t have anybody who can see me right now, and they said I have to wait.” she responded meekly, still staring at the ground, but obviously in distress.

Nancy squatted down in front of the girl to meet her eyes and gave her a reassuring smile. “My name is Nancy, would you like to go somewhere private and we can just sit together? If you want to talk, I’ll listen. If you want to just sit, that’s okay too. If you need a shoulder to cry on, or a hand to hold, I’ll be there for you if you want. And if, at any point, you think you’d feel better being alone, you’re welcome to leave, I won’t judge you or think less of you no matter what. I only care about making sure you get what you need right now.” She gave some version of this speech to almost every ungrateful cunt that came in. It made it easier for them to open up to her.

The girl nodded and Nancy led her to a small, quiet room where they sat across from one another. “Would you like to tell me your name?” Nancy asked.

“Darla.” She replied.

“It’s very nice to meet you Darla. What can I do to help you, today?” She asked softly.

“He raped me again last night.” Darla replied, her tone hectic. “I don’t know what I did! He always does this, even though he says he’s going to stop!”

Haha! What a stupid cunt! Nancy thought. “Who did this to you?”

“My ex boyfriend. Back when we were started dating, he said he understood that sex is something that’s really, really hard for me because of my childhood. But after a little while he said he didn’t want to wait anymore. And after that he stopped caring, and he didn’t even stop when I said no and begged him! That’s why I broke up with him, but he called me and said he changed. Except it seemed like he really meant it this time! He asked me to come over so he could give me a gift to apologize. But when I got there he…he…”

Oh, come on, don’t tease me you little rape-slut, Nancy thought, “It’s okay, you’re safe with me.” her gentle voice reassured the girl.

“He…put it in my butt.” Darla replied blushing, though the bruising on her face made it difficult to tell.

“This was the first time he’d forced you to have anal sex?” Nancy asked

Darla nodded, “That was always like really, really super off limits.” Tears rolled down the girls face. “And, and, and he knew that! I said I’d break up with him if he ever did that. He said he always wanted to, and that he was going to do it now that I can’t break up with him again.”

Well I can’t fault his logic! she thought as the girl cleaned the tears from her face with a tissue. Nancy briefly had a fantasy in which she congratulated the girl’s ex-boyfriend for a stellar job of tricking her into getting raped so many times, followed by the two of them laughing over how stupid she was to fall for it so many times. A brief moment later she considered how improved the fantasy would be if Darla were bound naked and gagged listening to them during the exchange as they prepared to rape her together. She was tempted to smile as she contemplated the scenario, but fortunately she was practiced at not letting her inner thoughts show on her face.

“You mentioned that sex was difficult for you because of your childhood. Was there something that happened when you were younger that resulted in you having a strong negative reaction to that particular act? Nancy asked.

“My parents used to make me do that when I was little. They used to make videos and let strangers do it to me for money.”

“They made videos of you having anal sex when you were underaged?”

“They stopped when I was fourteen, they said I was too old. But they only had men put it in my butt, because they said it’d be really bad if I got pregnant and had to see a doctor.” Darla explained, her lip quivering.

Jackpot! Nancy thought, I’ve got a real life porn-star in front of me! She wondered how many men and women had masturbated while watching her little asshole get sodomized. A spark of anger suddenly shot through Nancy. Ungrateful cunt, do you know what I would have given to have a childhood like yours?!? Her thoughts alternated back and forth between arousal and resentment. She compromised between the two emotions when she vowed to make Darla properly suffer for how blind she’d been for all the wonderful honors that her family and boyfriend had bestowed on her.

“Your boyfriend knew this when he anally raped you?”

“Yeah! He said he thought it was funny. He laughed and said that this keeps happening to me because I’m a whore, and I deserve it.” Darla said with tearful anger.

Smart AND a sense of humor! How dare this dumb bitch deny this charming boyfriend of hers the right to use his victim! She should be begging him to blister her cunt with a belt to show how sorry she is! God, I hate her!

“You’re a good-hearted person. It was very kind of you to keep giving him chances. But your kindness doesn’t mean you deserve to be raped.” The fact that you’re weak and you have a cunt means you deserve to be raped. Nancy finished the thought in her head.

The rest of the session continued along the same theme, with Darla pouring her heart out about her tragic life full of rape, molestation, and abuse. Nancy struggled to contain her excitement, but managed to maintain her professional disposition. Her only worry was that her cunt may have soaked through her slacks and left a stain on the chair. She resented this pathetic girl for having been given so much, yet being so stupid as to complain about it.

Finally finished with her cathartic confessions, Darla was finally ready to leave. Nancy, not wanting this delightful encounter to be fleeting, wrote down her phone number on a slip of paper and handed it to Darla. “I know you feel better now, but this isn’t something you can get over in one session. I’m taking a special interest in you. Feel free to call or text whenever you need, and I absolutely expect to see you back here soon.”

“Thank you, Doctor. That means a lot to me.” Darla replied before hugging her tightly. Nancy only had an Associate’s Degree, but chose not to correct her, hoping the assumption would work to her advantage at some point in the future. Darla walked out, riding on the high of catharsis.

***

Nancy stayed for a few more hours, but the rest of the afternoon was rather banal. A few girls came in asking about domestic abuse resources or abortion services. Much as she didn’t like helping these little rape-dolls, she had to if she was to keep her cover intact. Normally, she’d at least get a kick out of making girls give a few extra details before she provided them with what she wanted, but all she could think about is how she wanted to ruin and violate Darla.

When she left the center, she was so lost in thought, she hadn’t even heard the awkward footsteps of the girl racing to catch up to her.

“Hi, Nancy! I’m really glad that I get to volunteer here with you. You’re such an inspiration.” the girl said, failing at coming up with a natural way to start a conversation.

“Oh, Hannah. Hi, I didn’t notice you.” she replied. Hannah was a pansexual Jew-cunt that answered phones at the rape crisis center. She also took care of all the accounting. She’d been raped by her friend’s older brother when she was ten years old and it fucked with her self-esteem. She was desperate to get people to like her, a fact which Nancy regularly took advantage of. The big-nosed bitch always tried too hard, especially with people who treated her like shit.

“So, do you have any plans tonight?” Hannah asked.

Nancy smiled and took the Jew-cunt’s hand as they walked, interlocking her fingers. “I do! I’ve been dating a lot; getting pretty lucky in the romance department lately. But I don’t want to tell you about that, it’d be inconsiderate of your feelings. I’m sure you have something interesting going on. Tell me about that.”

Nancy knew that Hannah wasn’t especially popular and had a bit of a crush on her. Her background in psychology allowed her to utilize her knowledge to hurt Hannah in subtle ways while still pretending to be her friend. In a few sentences, she’d managed to remind her of the humiliating rejection that had occurred a few months ago; impress upon her the fact that while she has trysts with lots of women, she doesn’t find Hannah attractive enough to date; and put her on the spot to share plans that Nancy knew she obviously didn’t have.

The pair of them walked hand-in-hand as Hannah’s eyes frantically darted back and forth in thought as her chest slightly tensed, not knowing how to respond.

“Oh… ya know.” she finally replied with a forced smile.

“No, I don’t know. Come on, Hannah! Open up a little, you’re always so timid.”

“Ummm. Just… just catching up on some reading. Heh. Guess we’re not all as popular as you.”

“Hey, you’re a wonderful person. Any man, woman, or nonbinary would be lucky to be with you!” With that, Nancy kissed the lonely, desperate kike on the cheek and veered off in the other direction.

Nancy’s mind began to reel with delightfully villainous ideas. It’ll probably be a few days until I get a chance to see Darla again, she thought, Maybe it is finally time to give Hannah some attention.

***

Part 2

That evening, Nancy went home and ordered a few spy cameras that she could use to record subsequent encounters with Darla. With that quick errand finished, she focused her attention on ensuring that her good friend Hannah the big-nosed Jew-cunt finally got put in her place.

Nancy worshipped individuals who violated others, but she did have a certain affinity for rapists on a cultural or societal scale as well. It’s why she has a strong veneration for men, whites, and authority figures (the last group being made up, predominantly, of white men). It was no wonder that she had developed a fetish for misogynist white-supremacists; in fact, she’d become a bit of one herself.

Jews like Hannah were among the worst, Nancy believed. As a shit-skin dyke, she couldn’t exactly claim superiority, but at least Nancy knew her place in the world. Hannah, however, was such a stereotypical Jew that it almost seemed intentional. She whined about being raped when she was little, she whined about her ancestors being tortured in the Holocaust, she even sometimes whined about her ancestors being enslaved in Egypt. In typical Jew fashion, she played them off like jokes, but Nancy knew that the little kike actually did feel as though these things were injustices.

Nancy hoped her friend would eventually learn her lesson and join her in honoring all the wonderful contributions that rapists and abusers make to society, but she was impatient and wanted to help her along.

A few months before, she sent Hannah a naked picture of herself out of the blue. She had picked up on the girl’s crush on her and hoped to use that to subtly humiliate her. Hannah’s response was ecstatic, she poured her heart out, saying how she’d loved her from afar for so long and was overjoyed to know that she felt the same way. After that followed a series of lewd images of the black-haired kike. Nancy didn’t reply, despite the increasingly nervous-sounding texts that followed. Instead, she confronted Hannah the next day in person. She remembered the conversation vividly…

“I felt like I owed it to you to explain this in person. I think you got the wrong idea yesterday. I had a great day at the gym and I was just feeling really good about my body, so I sent pictures to some of my close friends, but it was completely platonic, Hannah. I’m just a very body-positive person. I’m so sorry you got the wrong idea, it must have been so humiliating to you, but I could never be intimate with you. I value our friendship so much, so I just want to be clear. You are not attractive….to me. I still think you’re a great person, but I could never find you physically appealing.”

Nancy smiled as she thought back on that moment with pride. The look of pain and humiliation on Hannah’s face was priceless. She had run to the bathroom just after the conversation, and Nancy snuck in a few minutes later to hear her crying loudly. She felt an exhilaration at knowing she’d hurt the girl so deeply. In just a few moments, Nancy had left a mark in her mind and soul that would last for years, probably decades; words that would echo over and over again. There was a sort of romance to that, knowing that her friend would carry that moment with her for such a long time. It was the kind of gift that bullies left their victims with. But tonight, Nancy wanted Hannah to have an even better gift.

She knew that Hannah would be home alone tonight, so Nancy reached out to some of her online resources. She could be herself on the internet, and it made her many friends among rape-baiters and rapists. Those were the people she needed that night.

Nancy was posing as Hannah online, she was uploading the obscene images that the Jew-cunt had sent her a few months before and claiming that she was finally ready to fulfill her fantasy of being brutally violated by racists. She had even photoshopped an image she’d found of Hannah online. The original image showed her face holding a sign reading “I need feminism because no one believed me when I told them I was raped. I was 10.” But with some slight touch ups, in the new image, the sign read, “I don’t need feminism, I need my Jew-holes brutally gang-raped by Nazi cock.” Photoshopping “I need feminism” signs had become a bit of a hobby for Nancy, and she’d become pretty good at making them look real.

She was sure to include this new picture along with the other images of her naked body. She sent them to anyone with potential, even posted them online in a few spots with her name and location. Finally she got into a conversation with someone who was close enough and real enough to get it done tonight. Nancy shared private details, still posing as Hannah and claiming to consent to anything he and his friends wanted to do to her. She begged him for an assurance that he’d violate every hole, that he’d beat her. Even made him promise that he’d break her big Jew-nose. She warned him that she wanted it to be real, so she was going to beg and cry a lot, but they weren’t to stop raping her, no matter what.

The stranger online gave assurances that he’d do everything she asked and more. Nancy proceeded to give him Hannah’s home address, along with details of her house, and the location of the spare key. She finished by thanking him, then went off to masturbate for hours as she thought about all the wonderful things that could be happening to Hannah that night.

I’m such a good friend. She thought with a smile before falling asleep.

#pervertpentet nonconsentnancy

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librarycards · 4 years

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Also, I guess, to understand... how do YOU define lesbian? If the bodys being attracted to each other don't matter... and woman-gender ISN'T femininity... what is it? What's the woman feeling I should pinpoint in myself? Where's it come from? How do I spot it on someone else? Do I have to do interviews to find partners? Why'd my attraction develop right around cis women, nb females, and trans men despite all sorts of pressure not to love this way? What's the name for all the dykes like me?

I don’t have a hard and fast definition. I guess at its most basic, I’m a lesbian because i 1) prioritize relationships with women and other non-men, which are 2) relationships of similar-difference between myself and the other person and 3) I am, to put it simply, not into guys.

I don’t know how your attraction developed, nor do I care which partners you choose. I speculate sexual orientation is a result of cultural context, lived experiences, and, of course, desire, which is pretty ephemeral and not something I claim to understand. I think you can call yourself what you like. But claiming that your definition does not leave room for people without vaginas is exclusionary. We can choose which women we do and do not have sex with. But this “fuckibility” is never a barometer by which we determine their belonging — that’s ridiculous and cruel.

Also, I know a lot of trans men who’d be pretty pissed about the equivalency you made there. I don’t appreciate being termed an “nb female” either lmao. (And yes, I know the border wars discourse intimately. Yes, I understand liminality. No, I don’t think that pussy to pussy attraction makes relationships with trans men “lesbian”).

#i dont know what tonsay to you if you determine gender based on who youd fuck #cissexism #transmisogyny #ask #anonymous #essentialism

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brohogany · 3 years

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Hodgkin's International Newsletter (December 15, 2020) Meet André Singleton!

André just recently discovered the long-term Hodgkin's survivor family, and we are very happy that he did! We feature Andre in this month's "Q and A"- happy reading!

1. When were you diagnosed with HL? How old were you? I was diagnosed in October 2004 when I was 18 years old. 2. What was the biggest challenge during your treatment? Everything was the biggest challenge for me. I was 18 years old and fought tooth and nail to get to college. I was a freshman at Morehouse College in Atlanta, Georgia. It was 5 weeks into my freshman year and during midterms. I couldn't wrap my head around the fact that I wouldn't be returning to school AND I was no tasked with fighting for my life. I returned to my hometown, Kansas City, Missouri, to undergo all the blood tests and biopsies which ultimately led to me being diagnosed with and treated for Stage IV HL. Heartbreaking to say the least. So, everything from leaving my peer group to beginning chemotherapy in the winter left my deeply crestfallen. 3. When did you first meet another HL survivor? I met Quiana Parks through her cousin, Adriane Brown, in 2016. She is the same age and went through treatment at the same time. It was an extremely emotionally expressive moment for me. I love her. 4. What has been the most difficult thing about being a survivor? The most rewarding? The most difficult part about being a survivor is the intersections of my survival. Not only am I surviving HL but I am also surviving as a Black man and a gay man. As an artist. As a poor person. It's been so lonely trying to navigate the world with having so many strikes against me. How the oppression of the world really crushes each one of these parts of me and collectively they are crushed. A beloved artist, thinker, feeler, activist and someone who faced breast cancer, Audre Lorde once said, "There's always someone asking you to underline one piece of yourself. Whether it's Black, woman, mother, dyke, teacher, etcetera… that's the piece that they need to key in to. They want to dismiss everything else." I wish the main part of my struggle was at least one of these things that I have been being penalized for embodying (as mentioned in the beginning of my response to this question) but the truth is that they all do and I am punished and denied systemically a chance to live decently. At 18 years old I never had a starting chance to be self-sufficient and independent. I have been tethered to a medical system that has never cared about me. I haven't had consistent care and I struggle with even using the word "care" because it didn't, hasn't and doesn't feel very caring. So, the compounded factors make survival a very very difficult thing. I am often afraid I won't make it to 40 years old. I'll be turning 35 on December 23rd. What a surprise. I feel like I am withering away. The most rewarding has been my ability to understand the shadow side of life. To understand how "darkness" serves me. With such a young and pivotal diagnosis I was ushered into the realm of sickness, dying and death. I have deeply connected with many people who are sick and dying. I continue to honor my dear loved ones who have died. The urgency to care and share what resources I have - whether inner or outer resources - is paramount to me. Creating the world I need/ed for myself inspires me to listen deeply and serve others in whatever way/s that I can. I never personally feel limited but I do feel the limitations that are put on me because of anti-Black racism, homophobia, classism, elitism, ableism and the countless forms of oppression. The struggle has been very real and the truth is that even iron wears down. I can't do it alone no matter how inspired I am or inspiring others find me. I need/ed critical help and support for a very long time. So, I guess the reward has yet to come. Coming? 5. Name the most interesting place you have ever visited or would like to visit after COVID? I would say the most impactful place I've visited is Salvador, Bahia, Brasil. I don't believe that there will be an "after COVID" just like there isn't an after cancer/HL. However, I do look forward to when I will be able to properly visit Africa. I've spent some time in South Africa over the years. But I really see myself spending time in Burkina Faso and other African countries. Burkina Faso is the home of two very important Spiritual teachers that have been major healers and instrumental in fortifying my faith in my body and genetics as an African person. Malidoma Patrice Somé and Sobonfu Somé (may she rest in peace) have written books, journals and lead workshops that are rooted in their traditions of the Dagara Nation/People and they have made this living experience a bit more tolerable. They have reminded me through their words that the reliance on Spirit is essential to not only living but also dying. I have infinite reverence for their understanding and eons of practiced faith which is tremendously left out of the West and the belief systems and all systems that impact everyone. Sobonfu once said, “There is a deep longing among people in the West to connect with something bigger — with community and Spirit. People know there is something missing in their lives, and believe that the rituals and ancient ways of the village offer some answers.” I want to be in a place where this isn't a concept or something you can buy but it is essential to the day to day experiences. 6. Who is the person you admire most? I admire people who endure suffering and really try to make sense of what they have or don't have. The ones that can't help but express what happened to them and how it still impacts them. The ones that keep repeating how they feel because they haven't and don't feel heard. Because I know that this chips away at their Soul/s. That hurts me deeply. But I admire the tenacity and inability to give up in their eye/s and heart/s. The ones that go out with a fight. I never say people "lost their battle to cancer" or "cancer got the best of" because cancer died too when said person departs the physical plane. 7. What would you say to your pre-Hodgkins self? Words of wisdom, advice, "If I had only known..." (Continue to) trust yourself and your heart, mind, Spirit and Soul. Be firm but lead with soft hands, a soft voice, soft heart, soft eyes and love. Always give thanks. 8. Where do you see yourself in five years? Hopefully, still living if the world can give me that grace. I can't be here if others don't see me here and/or want me here. It's not even that I refuse to have the onus on me. I just can't simply do it alone. No one can. Especially not one who has already been fighting vigilantly just to be here on this earth physically.

LINK TO ENTIRE NEWSLETTER

*Bless all the other survivors who contributed to the newsletter + all the folks who know this battle well ... deceased and living. Axé* 😔❣️🙏🏿

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faveficarchive · 5 years

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The Secret Histories: Part 2

An Archaeologist, High and Low

By Vivian Darkbloom

Pairing: Mel/Janice

Rating: Mature

Synopsis: Set soon after All the Colors of the World, an old flame wanders back into Mel’s life, and threatens a relationship already wrought with unspoken problems. Janice is sent off to Bavaria to work with the Monuments Men, and Mel isn’t far behind. Will their shaky relationship withstand the test of distance, violence, and ancient obsession?

September 1945

Sergeant Sally Phillips stared anxiously at the pair of khaki legs that emanated from under the car she usually drove. Grunting sounds came from the partially hidden body. "Janice, can you fix it?" she said.

"I don't know yet, Sal. Cars other than Fords...I don't know much about," Janice replied from under the vehicle. They were in a driveway outside the U.S. Embassy; Sally, with whom she became friends during basic training at Fort Oglethorpe, was a driver for the U.S. Ambassador's Office. She had called Janice in a panic, remembering that her friend knew something about cars...and she, hardly Rosie the Riveter, knew nothing about them, except how to drive one.

Sally despaired. "I know. But I can't take it back to the garage. They'll kick my ass. This is about the third time this thing has died on me, and Murtlock'll kill me..."

"It's not your fault. They should know that," Janice said, her voice muffled.

"You know how that bastard is. If anything goes wrong, he blames one of us."

Janice chuckled. "Yeah, you're right. Murtlock is a real prick."

Unfortunately, Sally felt his presence before she could warn Janice. She snapped to attention. Major Murtlock, their commanding officer, was standing right behind her. There was no telling how much of the conversation he heard, but the last statement alone was more than enough to...she sighed inwardly. She knew that Janice would get the worst of whatever shit Murtlock would ladle out; her friend was too outspoken and too indiscreet about her affair with the beautiful black-haired woman that Sally had met only once...whatever her name was...she was a looker, though, almost enough to make me switch teams...

"Stupid foreign cars...ACKPHLT!" Suddenly Janice slid from under the car, covered in oil. "God, I think I swallowed some..." Janice tried to wipe the oil off her face with an equally black hand, which made it worse.

Then she noticed Murtlock.

From her position on the ground he looked even bigger than usual. And he was a big man, probably six and half feet in his stocking feet. This was one of those moments when she envied Mel her height; if she were as tall as her beloved companion, she might feel a little less intimidated, even sitting down. The Major scowled at her, his heavy black brows crashing in consternation. "Don't get up, Covington," he rumbled. "I have something for you." He pulled a packet of papers out of his jacket, and tossed them down to her. They landed in her lap. "I'm very pleased to say you have new orders. You're shipping out in two days. The information"—he nodded at the papers—"is all there. I hope you have a pleasant trip," he grunted sarcastically.

"Yes, sir," Janice replied perfunctorily. Her lips shifted nervously in a frantic attempt to dissuade a smart-ass smirk off her face.

"Oh, and by the way, you've been promoted. To Lieutenant." He glared at her in disgust while she raised both eyebrows in surprise; the idea that such a woman could be an officer was simply too much for him to bear. "Congratulations, you little dyke."

He turned on his heel and left.

Sally exhaled with relief. "He sure knows how to sweet-talk a girl," she cracked, pulling a handkerchief from her pocket. She handed it to Janice, who took it gratefully and proceeded to wipe oil off her face. Sally peered at the papers in her friend's lap. "Hey, where do you think you're going?"

Janice handed them to her gingerly, clasping them between greasy thumb and forefinger. "You tell me," she replied. "I'm too sullied to touch them. At least Murtlock thinks so."

She was also too nervous to read them, and didn't give a rat's ass about Army protocol—at this point in my so-called military career, I'd announce my orders with a bullhorn to anyone who would listen, she thought.

Sally unfolded the papers and scanned them quickly. "You're going to...Bavaria? Some place called New—what—stein? Fucking Krauts and their mile-long names."

Sally watched as Janice scratched her cheek thoughtfully; her friend did not seem too surprised at the news—in fact, her green eyes narrowed knowingly. "Huh, I'll be damned." So I'm the bait. Good. At least I'll be there to keep an eye on that blonde bitch.

"Why?"

"Long story. Wanna get some lunch?"

"Sure, Lieutenant Covington."

"Now that was a surprise." Janice hoisted herself up from the ground.

"Yeah." Sally grinned, and poked her friend in the ribs. "Congratulations, you little dyke."

***

June, 1937

"You're amazing," Catherine said. She laid on the floor of her room, gazing up at Mel, sprawled in her divan. The Southerner's feet dangled pleasantly over the edge and she hummed "Oh Susannah" in her rich, pleasant voice. Her dark hair cascaded over one arm. She was quite drunk, having consumed five gin and tonics. Catherine had thought it would only take two; but she is a big girl...a very big, beautiful girl. "I can't believe you've never been drunk before."

"No...once I got just a little tipsy on some sherry, at a Daughters of the American Revolution benefit..." Mel suddenly found the ceiling very fascinating, as her head lolled back of its own accord.

"What the bloody hell is that?"

Mel burst into laughter. "I don't want to tell you...it's so stupid."

"Then don't." Catherine wiggled the empty bottle. "Wish we had more."

"Me too."

"I bet we could get some from Daphne."

"Oh dear. Daphne doesn't like me. You better ask her yourself."

"She's merely jealous of you, my darling." Catherine stood up. "Come on, let's go."

"Jealous?"

"Of course. Don't play Miss Modesty with me, Melinda. You're both incredibly beautiful and smart."

Mel giggled. "Oh, thank God someone said it. I really wanted a compliment."

"Really? I couldn't tell at all." The blonde held out a hand to Mel, who hadn't moved from the couch. "Come along."

"Must I?"

Catherine smirked sadistically. "You must."

Reluctantly Mel took the proffered hand and hauled herself up. Trailing behind Catherine, she was amazed at her own ability to walk in such a state, and quietly marveled at herself as they navigated the stairs to a lower floor, where Daphne's room was located.

They were giggling quite loudly when they crashed against Daphne's door simultaneously. Catherine pounded upon it. "Come on, Daph, open it," she roared.

Another minute of pounding, plus the threat that Mel would sing "Swanee River," finally persuaded the reluctant Daphne open the door. Like in a Keystone cops film, the two lovers spilled through the doorway. Catherine was on the floor, with Mel atop her, laughing like children.

"Oh, for Christ's sake," said a voice above them. Daphne, of course.

"Hallo, darling," Catherine trilled. "Melinda and I seem to be having a crisis."

"Yes, you're both in my room, uninvited."

"What, I thought we had an invitation!" Mel burbled. She and Catherine began a new round of giggling as they stood up.

"Don't be a bad hostess, Daph. There's a quite simple way to get rid of us."

"I know. All I have to do is let you continue to make a ruckus here, and they'll expel you."

"No, dammit. I want a bottle. Of scotch."

"Or gin. That's my favorite," Mel interjected.

"I don't have any fucking alcohol, Cat. It's all gone." Daphne drummed her fingers on her desk.

A dead giveaway, Catherine thought, watching the spidery fingers drum their distress signal. She always does that when she's nervous...or lying. "You don't expect me to believe that, do you?"

"I had guests over yesterday. We drank everything here."

Catherine's dark eyes narrowed, and the mood of the room seemed to alter with it; it was one of those sudden shifts that occur deep in the night, and/or deep into drunkenness. "You bloody little mooch. All the time I've paid for your drinks, bought you things...you won't even give me a damn bottle of booze?"

Daphne returned the angry glare, a fire blazing across her cheeks. But she said nothing.

Mel rolled her eyes. She didn't know why Catherine had insisted on coming down here in the first place. "Let's forget it, Catherine," she said. "I'm tired anyway. Let's just go back upstairs and go to bed."

Daphne's cold eyes did not leave Catherine's. "Go on, then. Listen to your little tart. Get out."

Mel wanted to laugh out loud. She had never been called a tart before, or anything even close to hinting at sexual promiscuity. Usually she was called "cold," "aloof," "frigid" (by a Freudian acolyte at Vanderbilt who had stuck his hand up her skirt within 20 minutes of their first date), or a "tease." It was an amusing change of pace.

"You should mind your manners, darling," Catherine threatened in a low voice.

"Or what?"

Mel gripped Catherine's arm. "Leave it," she said quietly. "Let's go."

"Look, you cow, will you just shut up?" Daphne spat at Mel. "Everything was fine until you came along, you miserable twat. Do you think she really loves you?"

"Shut up," Catherine growled between gritted teeth.

Daphne was on a roll. She inserted herself between Catherine and Mel. She was not as tall as either one of them, but stood her ground menacingly, her angry, contorted face near the Southerner's, the curls of her marcelled hair shaking and threatening to unfurl into Medusan tresses...or so it appeared to Mel's gin-addled mind. "Come on. You don't really think Catherine feels anything for you, do you, you little fool? She only wanted to bed you because you're supposedly so damned beautiful." She paused, grinning triumphantly, before delivering the coup de grace. "And because she wanted to deflower you."

Catherine opened her mouth to file the obligatory protest (true enough, but...), but she saw something that intrigued her. It was like a translucent film were covering Mel's face, darkening her features and her cerulean blue eyes. It was an anger that transformed her entire being. She had never seen her lover so angry. And it excited her. She watched, fascinated.

Daphne had noticed the transformation too, but bravery—or, more accurately, stupidity—caused her to fling one final insult in Mel's face. "You're just another notch on her belt," she drawled.

When Mel swung her arm, it was in a wide, lazy arc, as if hitting Daphne were barely worth expending energy. But this belied the force of the backhanded blow which sent the woman hurling through the air, across the room.

Mel blinked. Jesus Christ, did I just do that? She looked down at her hand, which trembled. It had been like a splash, a blot of black ink, that had spread within her, into a terrible rage. She clenched the shaking hand.

The few seconds that they stood there seemed like hours. Catherine’s look was one of amused amazement as she turned her eyes from the body slumped in the corner to Mel’s confused face. Then she slowly made her way over to the body. She felt around for broken bones, checked Daphne's breathing and pulse, and returned to Mel. "I think she'll be fine," she remarked airily. "Let's go."

Mel blinked. "What? We can't leave her here. We should take her to the infirmary. We need to tell someone...the dean..."

The blonde laughed. "Don't be ridiculous. We'll both be sent down if that happens. And she's fine, trust me. She's a stupid girl with a thick skull. She'll live. And she'll know better next time." She placed her hands on Mel's warm cheeks and kissed her soundly. "You're magnificent. I love your strength. Your power. You think you don't have it, but you do. You really do."

Blue eyes narrowed at her in disbelief. "You're crazy," Mel retorted bluntly. Or maybe I am the one who’s crazy. What did I just do? What's wrong with me?

Catherine's lips twitched a little, biting back a dozen different retorts. "I'm crazy, but I'm all yours." And you don't know how true that is, my dear Melinda.

She was on a black horse, chasing a group of men who ran away from her on foot. There was a dull pain traveling through her legs, which were twisted and crippled; when she looked at them, she wanted to scream. A rage in her was so thick and bitter she could bite into it. With each stroke of the sword it seethed, then cooled, until the need struck again: the black urge to lash out, to kill, to obliterate. Man after man fell under her. The last one begged for his life, and then a man on horseback, his dark hair pulled into a ponytail, shouted at her not to kill the last one. But she did it anyway. It felt...so good. Better than anything in her miserable life up to that point. Better than the money. Better than the fucking. Better than the power.

It felt so good. It feels so good. Doesn’t it?

The question burned in her mind as she woke up. And she woke Catherine as her body jerked forward, out of the blonde's loose yet possessive grasp.

"What is this?" Catherine murmured a sleepy protest.

"Nothing," Mel replied perfunctorily, Southern manners always at the ready. I could be bleeding, I could be dying...yet I'd still say "Oh please, don't mind me, I'm fine." Her voice felt so hoarse that she hardly recognized it.

"Bad dream?" The tone was casual.

"Yes." She sat up, on the edge of the bed, and groped for the glass of water that she knew would be on the night stand.

"Tell me." An edgy hint of command in the voice.

"I don't want to."

"Come on," Catherine cooed gently. She let her fingers trail along Mel's bare back. A shudder—desire, disgust, perhaps both—shimmied along her skin.

The tepid water felt good as it soothed her ragged throat. "All right," she murmured. Cautiously she settled back on the bed, as if sleep itself would reach up and claim her again, and the nightmare replay itself. But it didn’t. And so she told Catherine about the dream.

The blonde's legs had wrapped around Mel's as she told the dream, and contracted, almost painfully, then relaxed. "Very interesting," Catherine commented. "Why do you think you're having these dreams?" Well, at least those sessions with Freud were somewhat helpful—I get to steal his inane questions.

"I'm not sure...when I was little my Daddy always told me these stories, about some ancient warrior woman—we're supposed to be her descendants somehow. They were scary sometimes, but she—my ancestor—always wore the white hat. But in this dream, it's like I am her, but she is...not a good person."

"Hmmm. Funny how things get twisted around like that." This time Catherine sounded amused. She let her fingers run along Mel's smooth shoulders.

"I think...I'm just feeling bad about what happened the other day." Mel alluded to the Daphne Incident, which had occurred a scant three days prior. But this morning, in the courtyard, she had encountered Daphne as she and Catherine left the quad. Instead of entering the building, as she obviously intended to do, the girl bolted like a prized race horse, in the other direction. Mel had never seen anyone look at her with such abject fear.

And Catherine had laughed. This time, her laughter seemed brutal as it echoed through the air. And so familiar.

"Oh darling, just let it go." The fingers skittered along her skin.

There was something about the way Catherine touched her...it was stimulating, yet there always a threat — implicit in the curl of her hands, in the way she held back, in the way she pulled back when her touches grew too wild or passionate — of anger, as if that tactile contact would erupt into violence...if they were not careful.

And the funny thing is...I sometimes think I feel it too. Am I just projecting it onto her? Mel slid her arm out of Catherine's grasp easily. She stood up and threw on a deep blue robe. "I think...I'll read for a while."

Catherine laughed derisively. "Do you still remember how? I don't think you've picked up a book in at least a month."

Mel rubbed her aching head. She did not know how she could possibly read with such throbbing in her skull—another hangover contributed to her dissonant state of mind, already troubled by the dream—but she wanted to try. "I know," she replied grimly, and left the bedroom.

***

1945

"Guess what."

"What?"

"I'm a lieutenant."

"Have they gone mad?"

"I think so. But guess what else."

"What?"

"I have orders to go to Bavaria."

Mel stared at Janice in shock. "Why didn't you tell me sooner?" she demanded.

"Sorry, sweetheart, your needs seemed more...pressing." Janice had been sprawled out in the wing chair—her favorite seat—in Mel's hotel room, her legs flung comfortably over an arm of the chair, when Mel arrived. Before she had a chance to say anything, she felt Mel's mouth on her own, and the delicious combination of kisses and caresses made her forget about the promotion, about Germany, about everything.

"Damn it all," Mel muttered. She stood up from her kneeling position in front of the chair, impatiently shoving locks of her loosened black hair behind her ears and straightening her skirt.

"Hmmm, Miss Pappas is swearing. Never a good sign," Janice teased gently. She sat up in the chair and buttoned her shirt, which had become undone in their proceedings.

"If Catherine had anything to do with this, I'll..." Weeks ago, she had officially turned down the offer. She had thought the matter closed. And every day, she hoped for Janice to be discharged, so they could get on with their lives. It all seems like some sinister plot. And if Catherine is involved, it probably is.

"Of course she had something to do with it," Janice retorted gently. "You were the one who said point-blank that you wouldn't go without me. She obviously wants you to be there, Mel. So she ships me there, you follow. I should be grateful I'm not being sent somewhere else."

"I don't trust her."

"Neither do I. But I can't refuse orders." As much as I’d like to.

"This is ridiculous! They should be discharging you. We should be going home." The tall Southerner paced a little, hands riding on her hips. It was rare that Janice saw her so agitated.

Janice smiled. "You look like you’re gonna bust me out of the Army, like Jimmy Cagney busting out of jail."

Mel scowled and hung on stubbornly to her bad mood.

"Mel, we will go home soon. I promise you," Janice replied soothingly. Wherever that was, she thought sarcastically. But I do know...my home is wherever you are, baby. She watched as Mel scanned the room disconcertingly, as if searching for something. She chuckled a little, then withdrew the scholar's glasses from her breast-pocket and held them out to her. "Here."

How did she...? Mel smiled. "Thanks."

"You know," Janice began quietly, "it's not as if we haven't done dangerous things before." She watched as Mel slipped on the glasses. Much as Xena was transformed by the sword in her grasp, the armor on her body, the chakram at her side, so Mel was transformed with glasses. They were a shield, and a weapon: her well-honed intelligence glinted in her magnificent blue eyes, refracted by the glasses. Her scholarly demeanor, self-effacing at times yet always rigorous and keen, was firmly in place. "Battling Ares was a pretty impressive stunt," the archaeologist added.

"That was Xena, not me."

"Well, it was you and not Xena who went to Macedonia in the first place. Pretty risky for a Southern belle in high heels."

Mel conceded this with a hum. She rubbed her neck. "I just...want some time with you. We nearly lost each other, do you know that? You've spent over a year getting in and out of dangerous situations. You got shot. Your friend died. You...almost died." Her voice wavered. "It's all too soon to risk losing you again."

"My life has been pretty dangerous in general," Janice smiled bitterly. "That's probably not going to change...much." Will it change? Also, did she want it to change? She loved the danger of what she did, thought little of risking her own life, but now...looking at Mel, she found a very good reason to keep herself in one piece. A very good reason for telling the Army to go to hell. Which I'd very much like to do at this point, she thought.

Mel sighed in exasperation. "Don't patronize me, Janice Covington. I'm not totally naive. I know what you do is sometimes risky. And I know it's worth it, for the scrolls. That is a risk I'm happy to take. But this was a war. In a way...it's not really over yet. And that is a totally different ballgame, as you would put it." She looked at Janice, who had raised an amused eyebrow. "I did use that word correctly, didn't I?"

***

September, 1938

When she was a child the sight of Manhattan from the sky was exciting. She could forget her fear of flying as they sailed over the toy city. It felt as if she could reach out and touch the tip of the Empire State Building—if only because she wanted to.

Now, as the plane descended toward Idlewild, she did not look out the window at the glorious city. Indeed, she had not looked out the window in hours. She had fallen into a light sleep; a stupor, almost, where she kept the conscious world at bay. The plane was not crowded, fortunately, and she sat alone.

She opened her eyes at the stewardess's touch upon her sleeve. "Miss, we're landing in five minutes...please fasten your — oh, I see it is fastened! Good girl!" She smiled at Mel (a blonde, a damned blonde just like Catherine, thought the irritated Mel) and moved on to another passenger.

Good girl.

She turned her brooding gaze to the window. Her father was supposed to meet her at the airport; they had a suite at the Plaza. He thought that staying in New York for a few days might cheer her up before they headed home. He informed her that he had bought a new house, in North Carolina, where they would live. But...why? she had wailed on the phone, immediately thinking of their home in South Carolina, where she grew up, where she could still look at a chair, or a curtain, and still recall her mother being there, inhabiting that particular physical space.

She could practically hear his shrug over the transatlantic connection. I think we both need something new in our lives, don't you?

She had not told him what happened, why she suddenly decided to leave Cambridge. She used the increasing conflict between the English and the Germans as an excuse, but she knew he wasn't entirely fooled by that. What could she possibly say, how could she possibly phrase it? (Even though he knew her nature...) Sorry Daddy, I fell terribly in love with this debauched girl who dumped me after six months...who made my body come alive, who did things to me I couldn't even imagine, yet who made me see the darkness in myself...I never hated myself so much as when I loved her.

If this is what love is about, I'll have no more of it. This is what happened when I stopped being a "good girl." No more love. No more desire.

She glared at the stewardess.

No more blondes.

Her father had a taxi waiting at the airport. She had to admit that it felt good to be really taken care of again; he had hugged her fiercely when she came through the terminal, after her passport and luggage had been checked.

The minute they entered the cab her head fell back against the seat, as if a lead weight had burrowed itself in the bun of her hair. She closed her eyes.

He squeezed her arm affectionately. "You haven't been sleeping." His tone challenged her to contradict the obvious.

"Not...very well." She scrunched her eyes as if in pain, then opened them with an effort. "Daddy, I've been having dreams...they're very odd."

"About Xena," he said flatly.

She seemed surprised. "Yes. You've had them?"

He nodded. "I used to have dreams about her...oh, all the time it seems, when I was young. Rather horrible at times. Violent. She wasn't always a great heroine, you know."

Mel frowned. Yes, he had always said that—that Xena had been "bad" but then she turned "good." But Mel had pictured Xena, her wicked past, and her ultimate redemption in terms of, say, Bette Davis in Jezebel. Not hacking people into bloody little bits. "But you don't anymore?"

He smiled wistfully, and rubbed his chin with his thumb in a thoughtful manner. "No, I don't. It's strange...I stopped having the bad ones, not long after I met your mother."

The following day at the office, Mel informed Frobisher of her decision.

He did not seem surprised. "So you're going?"

She nodded.

"I assume Janice is being transferred there."

She nodded again.

"That's the only reason why you're going, isn't it?"

She paused, looking guilty. A slight smile creased her face. And she nodded again.

He returned the smile wearily. Again, she felt bad; his office was busier than ever, and she hated leaving him in the lurch like this. But as busy as he was, he gave her top priority. "Then let's get cracking on the paperwork, shall we?"

The day seemed to pass quickly, once she made the decision, as if a burden had been lifted. When she arrived back at the room she found Janice already there, sitting comfortably in her favorite chair, a few envelopes scattered on her lap.

"The Army has finally seen fit to deliver my mail," she growled. "All of these are about six months old."

"What did you get?"

"A letter from Dan's mom...which was nice," she added cautiously. She had written to Blaylock's mother after his death, and now she had received a kind letter in return. I thank you for all that you did, his mother had written. But I didn’t do a goddamn thing, she thought. And it called forth that feeling again, the empty burning sensation...of failure. It was easier to get it under control now, but there was no doubt it still existed within her. She continued. "And, um, something from Harvard—they want me to teach a class in the fall. I think they figure that since they can't get any alumni donations out of me, they might as well put me to work. And this." Amused, she held up a pink envelope.

"Janice, darling, I think you better inform your army of ex-girlfriends that you are quite unavailable now."

"Look at the return address."

Mel peered at the upper left corner of the envelope. "Jack Kleinman?"

"I always wondered if he was a nancy boy," Janice said idly, as she tore open the letter.

Mel smirked, recalling Jack's puppy-like attentions to Janice. "I don't think so."

"Let's see what he says here....He apologizes for the stationery, says it belongs to his sister...says our cousins are fine..."

"Cousins?" Mel blurted in alarm. Good God, she can't be related to Jack.

"He means the scrolls. That's his 'code' for it."

"Oh." Mel was impressed. "I didn't know you two had worked out a 'code.' "

"Actually, we haven't...it just says right here in the letter, in parentheses, 'you know I mean the scrolls when I say cousins, right?' "

Mel laughed as Janice continued to scan the letter. A strange look came over the archaeologist's face. "What is it?"

"He asks...about you, how you're feeling...if you've fully recovered from your..." The deep green eyes turned up from the letter and stared at her. "...influenza."

It hung in the air between them. Oh...damn, Mel thought, surrendering to an obscenity. She couldn't think of what to say.

"He...misspelled it, of course." Janice tapped the paper with a finger. "I know Jack exaggerates things sometimes, but..." Her hard, inquisitive eyes caught her lover's guilty look. "He's not making this up, is he?" she demanded quietly.

Mel closed her eyes for a moment to regain herself. "I...no, Janice. He's not. I was...very ill."

The lithe young woman stood up so quickly that it startled Mel. She paced, something she loved to do when angry or frustrated. "Why didn't you tell me?" Janice spat out. "You...you could've died." Now you know how I felt, Mel thought. "Why did you keep that from me?"

"It wasn't important at the time." Mel was surprised at her calmness. "Finding you was."

Janice continued to fume. "Goddammit! Well, you found me, and you still didn't tell me!" she shouted.

"I'm telling you now." It had been a long time, it seemed, since she had encountered Janice's temper. Probably not since they first met in Macedonia. It threw her a bit, but she hoped that by remaining calm, she could get her companion's blood pressure to decrease.

"Only because you had to. You got caught." Is that a sneer on her face?

"I...I didn't think it was important," Mel responded helplessly. The Southerner felt as if she were in emotional quicksand.

"Bullshit! It's more than important. You withheld the truth from me."

Whatever thread of patience Mel possessed snapped. So she wants to be honest here, eh? She couldn't fight the dark impulse to lash out. Hello, darkness...hello, Xena. "Since we're discussing the truth here, Janice, there is something I must ask you." The tone was low, the accent almost gone under the burden of the deepening voice. The eyes were icy. "Would you care to tell me if you've made an acquaintance with an Englishwoman named Meg? During the war?"

The look of shock on Janice's face was simultaneously satisfying and sickening to Mel. So it's true. Janice's jaw shifted. "How did you know...about that?"

"I was mistaken for her in a pub. The gentleman who did the mistaking told me a little tale he heard, about Meg's amorous encounter on a ship with, I believe he said, 'A little American WAC.'" She let her eyes run over Janice's figure in a mocking appraisal. Even in her anger and pain she felt a flicker of desire. And love. "I believe you fit the bill."

"Christ," Janice swore softly. "How did—"

"Everyone on the ship knew. You're fooling yourself if you thought otherwise."

And I thought I had been so...discreet. Everyone hid it well, I must say. No one acted different, no one said a damn thing. But they sure as hell didn't keep it to themselves. Janice rubbed her temple. "You? You were in a pub?" she asked distractedly. The dizzying revelation of events left her disoriented. And picturing Mel in a smelly pub seemed the height of this surrealism. Yet it seems anything—everything—is possible these days. The whole fucking world has been possessed by madness, why not us as well?

Mel shook her head in disbelief; she did not know if she would laugh or cry. "I was looking for you," she retorted angrily.

A silence stretched out for a few seconds, as they took it all in. "I never thought I'd see you again," Janice whispered.

The tall Southerner slammed her hands down on the table that separated them, and left them there, spread out before her. "Did you think I'd let you go so easily?" Mel growled fiercely. "Couldn't you tell how much I loved you?"

Frankly, no, Janice thought. "I didn't know...I thought...I meant very little to you." She saw the pained look on Mel's face. And instantly felt sorry. "Why? You know why, Mel. You did since the day we met. Since the day we recognized who we truly are. You were the noble heroine and I was your sidekick, never measuring up to you. I know now...that's not the way it was for them. But I didn't know—I still don't—if that's the way it would be for us."

Mel walked away and sat down for a moment. She felt...very tired, and her voice was edged with resignation. "I suppose...I had no claim on you at the time." Tell me otherwise, Janice. Please.

Janice leaned uneasily against the table, unable to say the words that sprang instantly to her mind. Actually you did. You already had my heart. I just didn't know it, really. Before she could get past the shame, the anger, the hurt, and say the words, she heard the door slam.

***

Mel entered Hyde Park. The sky was already darkening and a fine rainy mist descended from the sky and drizzled her hair and face. Good....she thought. That means I can cry and no one will notice. The rain came down harder, and it felt good, even strangely comforting. She sought shelter under a large tree for a few minutes, then realized that wandering around in the rain was doing little good, for the same thoughts circled around in her mind. Confounding woman! She cursed the skies. Why do I love her? It's probably some sort of karmic debt. She walked back to the hotel, her coat wet, heavy, like armor. Probably not as heavy as armor, but if Xena had to wander around the hot sticky ancient world saddled with such weight, then my respect for her has risen even higher.

As she entered the lobby she encountered a strange sight: Sergeant McKay was standing awkwardly in the lobby, nervously twisting his cap. The big ruddy Irishman looked rather incongruous within the ostentatious elegance of the hotel. His stricken look told her all she needed to know.

McKay did not hate Janice, but he did possess an irrational fear of the beautiful young woman. No doubt it stemmed from his belief that she was somewhat unnatural: the attire (even off duty, she never changed out of khakis), the smoking, the swearing...she was, he thought, everything a woman shouldn't be. Melinda, on the other hand, met with his approval. He suspected the nature of their relationship, and didn't really want to know any more but, he thought, a woman should act like a woman, and not—he concluded, watching Janice pace the hospital corridor like an expectant father, cursing under her breath—like that.

He was the first to see Mel emerge from the room down the hall. When he jumped up from his seat Janice glared at him in alarm, then stopped as she saw Mel's approach. Still damp from the rain, she pushed rain-curled hair out of her face with an absent-minded air.

They looked at her expectantly.

"He's had a stroke," she said, as calmly as she could.

Approximately two hours ago McKay had entered his superior's office, to see if the old man needed anything before he left for the day, and he found Frobisher slumped over the desk, unconscious.

"Will he...?" whispered Janice.

"They don't know. It's rather touch and go right now." Wearily she sat down.

"Bloody hell," murmured the Sergeant. "I've got to get back to HQ, then. Have to let everyone know..." he sighed. He already felt exhausted. Mel touched his sleeve gently; despite his gruffness, she knew McKay was quite devoted to and fond of his commanding officer. "If you need anything, Sergeant, let me know. I'll probably be here most of the night."

"Miss, you should go home," McKay insisted. "You're all wet—your coat, your hair...don't want you to get the flu, you know."

At the word flu she felt Janice's hard gaze on her again. And she returned the glare. "I'll be fine, Sergeant." McKay nodded, yet squirmed as he sensed the discord between the two women. I don't want to know, he thought.

Her eyelids fluttered, and the blue eyes emerged like butterflies from a chrysalis. The clock at the end of the corridor read 6:35. Morning, she realized, and stretched her long, aching limbs. The doctor would be around soon, she remembered, and would update her on Anton's condition.

Her sleepy eyes blinked in disbelief

Janice was curled up fetally in a chair across from her, sleeping. She clutched her cap as if it were a teddy bear. She stayed here with me. Last night, Janice had left with McKay, and returned a half-hour later with clothes for Mel. Wordlessly she had placed them beside Mel and walked away, down the corridor, without a word. Mel never knew that she had returned; when she drifted off to sleep around 2 (or was it 3?) she was alone.

She felt relief. When she watched Janice walk away from her last night, she wondered when she might see her lover next. Will she run off and join the Foreign Legion this time? Disappear on a dig? Go on a bender? She sat and studied the sleeping woman, as she had done on many an occasion: the brows, darker than the red-gold hair (which was pulled back in a pony tail), were pressed together, as if the archaeologist were deep in thought, even unconsciously; the cheeks were slightly flushed, the full lips parted sensually, the breathing deep and regular. I think you tamed her, Anton had said to her about Janice a few weeks ago. Was this proof of that, the fact that this woman was back at her side? I like her a little wild, Mel conceded, but I'm also glad she's here.

She was so engrossed in her study of Janice that she did not notice the nurse who had crept up to her on little cat feet and gently touched her shoulder. "The doctor's here," she told Mel.

The doctor, waiting for her at the end of the corridor, was young. Yet like so many young men of his generation, he carried around a sense of permanent fatigue, as if the rest of his life would not be long enough to recover from the war. And it probably wouldn't. "You're Colonel Frobisher's...wife?" he asked, with uncertainty.

She almost laughed. "No, just...his family."

He looked confused for a moment, then continued. "I see. He's had a rather nasty stroke, as you've been told. His chances for survival are good, since he made it through the night. As for a full recovery, I can't say. Only time will tell. I'd like to keep an eye on him for a few days, then we'll send him home. He's a bit groggy, but you can see him in a few minutes."

"Thank you," she replied quietly.

Later she entered his room. He looked smaller, paler, fragile. As did her father, when he was dying. It was more dramatic with Daddy, she thought, since her father had been a big, strapping man. It had been agony to see him waste away. And it was almost as horrible to see this. Not again, she vowed. I don't want to go through this again.

Janice could smell coffee. Coffee...I need to get Mel some coffee, her foggy brain registered the imperative. Her body jerked awake. The first thing she saw was a cup of coffee in front of her face, held by a familiar, beautiful hand.

"Good morning," Mel said softly.

"Oh Mel," groaned the archaeologist, as she stretched out the kinks in her back and legs.

"Hmmm?"

"Goddammit, I was going to wake up before you and get you some...coffee" She took the proffered cup. "I fucked up again."

"You didn't." She said it gently. But she knew it would not convince Janice—or even herself, she was ashamed to admit—of that fact.

"Thanks." Janice stared into the black liquid, as if she had never seen coffee before. "How is he?"

"He's...better. They think he'll pull through. How much damage has been inflicted to his body, and to his mind...well, they just don’t know yet. We have to wait and see."

An uneasy silence passed between them.

I should apologize, Janice thought. I should tell her I didn't mean to hurt her, I didn't mean for it to happen...it meant nothing, I love her, I really do.

I should apologize, Mel thought. I did lie to her. And I really don't care about what happened. She could sleep with everyone in England right now, and I wouldn't care...would I? Okay, maybe everyone is pushing it...but it doesn’t matter as long as she loves me. Right?

But what Mel thought—and what she said—were quite different. A deeply imbedded impulse to hurt, something she scarcely acknowledged, something she was afraid of, reared its head and bared its ugly truth.

"I can't go with you," Mel blurted. I'm such an idiot, Mel sighed. I could have said it...in a better way. "You know that."

The words were like a hammer. "Uh...yeah," Janice acknowledged in a husky voice, while blinking like a punch-drunk boxer. "I know that. You should be here. For him."

"Janice, I'm sorry."

The newly promoted lieutenant stood up and stretched quickly. "You know something? I've got to go. I need to be briefed before I leave tomorrow."

Mel felt helpless. "I...will I...?" God, you can't leave like this. She reached out to touch Janice's arm, but she skittered easily out of Mel's grasp.

"I'll...see you later. Okay?" Janice managed to force the words out. Before Mel could respond, she was gone, striding quickly down the bleak corridor.

She had reached her threshold of exhaustion. She finally left the hospital in the afternoon, returned to the hotel, and collapsed. When she awoke several hours later, she was contorted on the bed, in her slip, and the wild colors of the sunset were flooding the room. She chastised herself for not closing the curtains earlier, and was debating getting dressed merely to go over and close them, or to dash over, scantily clad, and risk having someone see her. Propriety strikes again, she thought heavily.

Then she heard the key in the door.

The door swung open, and Janice swayed in. Drunk. Her rolling gait managed to carry her over to the bed, where she plopped down on the edge. Mel slid over to where she sat, and gasped. Blood dribbled from the archaeologist's nose, and had coated her lips. "Oh, God," whispered Mel.

"Fight," Janice supplied.

I thought so, otherwise that was one very rough debriefing you got, Mel thought. She stood up with the intention of going to the bathroom and procuring a washcloth to clean off the blood. Janice grasped her arm. "No," she moaned the protest. "Stay here for a minute."

Mel sat down on the bed and touched the bloodied lips with her fingers, wiping away some of the blood. "What?" she whispered urgently.

"Kiss me."

She did not. Instead, she pressed a cool hand to Janice's warm forehead. "Why, why do you always insist on hurting yourself?"

"Do you think I punched myself in the face?" Janice was angry, but did not pull away.

"No, that's not what I meant." But I can probably guess what happened to you, darling. You went into a pub, and you picked a fight with the biggest, nastiest piece of work you could find. If beating yourself up isn't sufficient enough, you find someone else to do it for you.

"Don't say anything else. Please."

"But—"

"I need you." Janice's lips, saturated red, claimed Mel's. The bitter, coppery tang of blood seeped into the scholar's mouth. It did not bother her. I know you so well, your blood has mingled with mine since our beginning. How many times has your touch burned through me and quenched itself within my blood, my heart? Could anything you give to me, could anything you do, be so horrible? Nothing, except leaving me. She felt Janice's hands tangle carelessly within her hair, and she slid a hand inside a khaki shirt, her touch gliding over the smooth neck and rippling shoulders. She felt guilty, thinking that perhaps they should be talking about everything that happened. But the desire was a way of coping with the imminent loss, the easiest way of doing so. It was a way of saying goodbye. As she stripped away the clothes, so she hoped someday she would be able to strip away all the layers of defenses, the bravado, the insecurities of this...complicated woman.

And I’m not complicated? she asked herself.

She gently pulled Janice back on the bed, and covered her with her own long body. Then her mind stilled and she listened as their bodies spoke to one another.

Later in the night Janice had awakened. Another nightmare. Mel held her as her breathing slowed, and until the sweat on her brow cooled. Janice never really talked in detail about the dreams, or what happened in them...all she knew was that they were somehow connected to what happened in France, to her friend's death—Janice somehow felt guilty about it. She gently traced the small scars on Janice's strong thigh, where she had been shot. She felt a muscle twitch under her fingertips. As the scars intersected each other, like pieces of a puzzle fitting together, so did something formulate in her mind.

"You've never killed anyone before, have you?" Mel probed gently.

Janice's head, buried in her chest, shook from side to side. No.

The gun she always carried, the Smith & Wesson...she knew that Harry had given it to Janice, and, from seeing her in action with a gatling gun, she knew the woman could shoot. But she hadn't really thought it through—in a way, didn't want to know—if Janice had ever really shot anyone. Or killed anyone. She didn't want to know if the rumors about "Mad Dog" Covington were true, didn't want to know if Xena's bloody legacy tainted them both. But one afternoon in Macedonia—after Ares, just before they returned to the States—she recalled the Smith and Wesson flashing in the sun as Janice twirled it around, like Jesse James. It was a romantic image. And she had felt the first glimmer of desire for Janice at that moment: her quick hands, her wide grin, her tanned, lithe body, the golden hair that rivaled the sun in its luster....Janice had caught her fearful yet fascinated look at the gun, and laughed. Usually I just wave it around, fire off a few shots maybe, and people leave me alone, the archaeologist had assured her.

***

Alexandria, 1933

A wooden ramp lead down into the excavation pit. The crew of a dozen young men watched as a bloodied, unconscious body rolled unceremoniously down the ramp, staining the pale wood on its journey. Dust swirled around the body, as it thudded to a halt in the dirt.

Fayed, the foreman of the group, looked at the body unsympathetically. He clucked and pushed back a lock of his unruly black hair. He had known that the man who lay at his feet would not last long here: He had seen the way Cherif had eyed Harry Covington's daughter. And since Cherif was his wife's cousin, he felt an obligation to warn him that it wasn't worth it—that Covington would beat him within an inch of his life if he tried to seduce her, and would definitely kill him if he succeeded in bedding the girl. And he had been right.

He turned his attention to Covington, who loomed above them at the edge of the pit. He was short yet powerfully muscular, built like a wrestler. Shouting in Arabic, hands on hips, he informed them all that the next man who laid a hand on his daughter would die. Then he ordered them back to work.

Reluctantly, the group of men walked away from the body. Except Fayed, who awaited Harry's instructions.

"Fayed..." Harry began wearily.

"Yes, Harry?" Fayed was the only one in the crew who was bold enough to call the archaeologist by his first name.

"Get that bastard out of here. Drive him home. Get someone to help you if you need to."

Fayed nodded.

"And Fayed?"

"Yes?"

"Tell your wife I'm sorry."

The Arab nodded again, a smile tugging at his lips. He couldn't wait to tell his wife I told you so.

Harry walked back to his tent. He hesitated in front of the flap, and took a deep breath. He pushed back the flap and entered.

Janice was curled on the cot, her legs tucked up against her chest, and her arms wrapped around them. Her head was pressed against her knees. She did not look at him as he came over to her. He sat down carefully on the edge of the bed. "Janie?" he whispered.

Almost a minute passed. then finally she raised her head. Her lip was bleeding and, he noticed for the first time, there were violent bruises around her neck. His anger flared anew, and he recalled the scene he had found just a half-hour ago, when he came back from the marketplace ahead of schedule: Cherif in the tent, one hand pinning Janice down by the throat, she half-naked and squirming under him, his other hand fumbling with the buttons on his trousers.

The guilt hit him. Dammit, I shouldn't have left her here. In fact, she shouldn't even be here at all. This is no place for a girl. But where would she go—willingly, for that matter? She'd follow me here every time. I know her. Gingerly he reached out and touched her hair. she did not pull away, but he felt the shudder travel down her body. "I'm sorry, Dad," she said hoarsely.

"It's not your fault," he said emphatically. "If that man knew the proper way to behave, it wouldn't have happened." He sighed. "Honey, let me take care of that lip for you. Then I'm gonna show you how to take care of yourself. It's been a long time coming."

Intrigued, the girl looked at him quizzically.

He stood up and walked over to the other cot in the tent. He threw off the thin blanket and reached under the pillow. Grinning, he pulled out a Smith & Wesson revolver. "I'm gonna show you how to use this. Between that and some boxing lessons, kid..." his smile faded, and he concluded darkly, "...no one's ever gonna hurt you again."

***

A jeep sailed across the runway. Catherine, watching from the hangar, half-expected the thing to rise off the ground, as if it were a plane too. As the vehicle drew nearer she recognized the red-gold hair flying in the air, the eyes hidden by sunglasses. The jeep stopped at the other end of the hangar. Covington climbed out of the vehicle, exchanging a few words and a quick hug with the driver, another WAC. Interesting. Is the little bitch capable of cheating on her lover? I couldn't be so lucky. It would make things too easy.

With her rucksack slung over a shoulder, Covington swaggered over to her. She wasn't in full uniform, Catherine noted with disapproval. A leather jacket covered the white t-shirt she wore, which showed off her taut physique quite nicely—and Catherine did approve of the flat stomach and the full, rounded breasts that were available for her viewing pleasure. They probably fucked like rabbits last night. In fact, I hope they did. For it will be the last time, I swear.

"Lieutenant," she drawled in greeting. "Glad you could make it." Upon a closer view, she saw that Covington’s nose looked a little red, a little bruised. Oh dear...did she make Melinda lose her temper? It takes a lot...but it is possible, and this one is just as annoying as Daphne ever was.

"Sorry about the delay. I woke up late."

"Of course," replied the OSS operative archly. "I won't ask what detained you. That wouldn't be terribly lady-like, would it? Not that either of us are ladies." She let a grin curl her face. Let the torture begin.

To Covington's credit, the young lieutenant did not rise to the bait. She smirked in return. "I agree, neither one of us are ladies. But that shouldn't keep us from our mission, should it? Are we ready to go?"

Catherine nodded toward the bomber that sat on the runway. "Yes. Over there. Shall we?" together they walked toward the plane. Catherine pulled a silver cigarette case out of a pocket and opened it with one smooth gesture. "Cigarette, Lieutenant?"

Janice hesitated for a nanosecond, then accepted. No point in antagonizing the woman. Sometimes a cigarette is just a cigarette, no? And besides, I could use it. When she left in the morning Mel had still been asleep. She had not the heart to wake the slumbering scholar, nor had the time to leave a note. She only hoped that Mel understood somehow. But I ditched her again. Maybe now she'll ditch me...for good. I guess I deserve it.

"Thanks," she said to Catherine, as the blonde agent lit her cigarette.

"Who knows, Lieutenant...this may be the beginning of a beau-ti-ful friendship," the OSS agent declared in a sing-song voice.

Janice let the angrily spewed smoke speak for itself.

***

October, 1945

"Thank bloody Christ," Sergeant McKay said, as he opened the door of Frobisher's home, and saw Mel standing on the doorstep.

"Hello to you too, Sergeant." She strode into the townhouse, bringing with her a gust of crisp autumn air. Once again he felt like a troll next to her, and cleared his throat anxiously.

"Er, sorry, Miss Pappas. But the Colonel's been acting funny today...and I'm just glad you're here."

"What's happening?" Mel asked, as they mounted the stairs to Frobisher's bedroom.

"He won't stay in bed, and he's been wandering around everywhere. It's like he's lookin' for something, but he won't tell me what."

He probably can't, thought Mel. Since his release from the hospital almost three weeks ago, the Colonel had been unable to speak, and barely able to move. Usually when he did speak, it was nonsense, although the notes he handed to Mel yesterday made more sense than usual. Every day since he left the hospital she would come by and spend the better part of the day with him and the nurse. Usually she read to him. Her unconscious selection of reading material — Trollope's Can You Forgive Her? — irked her, the title wailing its insistent question, immediately bringing to mind her errant lover.

Yesterday, however, he had seized the notepad she had bought for him, and a pen, and rather laboriously scrawled out the following message:

I hate Trollope, it said.

She nodded sympathetically. "How about Austen?"

He made a face.

"Balzac?" I'll go through the alphabet if I have to, she thought.

He shrugged. Then nodded. Then, as if he suddenly remembered something, started to write on the pad again. After a few minutes of watching him grimace and scowl with the effort, the pad was thrust at her.

Go to Germany.

"I can't...not now," she replied firmly, mentally begging him to change the subject.

He shook his head vigorously, like a wet dog trying to get dry. "Oh!" he cried softly, in frustration, which startled her. Again he set to work on the pad. Beads of perspiration popped against his forehead.

"Take it easy," she cautioned him gently, laying a hand on his arm, which trembled under her touch. He handed another message to her:

You don't understand. It's danger.

It hit a nerve. She closed her eyes and drew a deep breath. "I know it's dangerous. I know. But she's a grown woman. She can take care of herself." And she better...because when I get my hands on her, I'm going to kill her, Mel had thought angrily. And while that had been the day prior, her anger still lingered, of course. She leaves without so much as a word, not even a "goodbye"...what am I supposed to think? It's my own fault too, I should've said something, I should've said so much...she is driving me insane...this whole situation is driving me insane. Mel was agonizing over this in her mind for what seemed like the millionth time when she and McKay entered the Colonel's bedroom.

The old man stood in the center of the room. His bathrobe hung limply around his thinning frame, as did his fleur-de-lis pajamas. His gray hair, uncombed, stood out in wild tufts here and there. He looked utterly confused.

"Uncle Anton, I never thought I'd ever be saying this to you, but...get into bed right now!" Mel chastised.

"Nonsense," the old man muttered. "I need..." he trailed off with a sigh.

McKay looked at her, concerned. She tapped her shoulder bag, hoping to distract him. "I did bring some Balzac," she said. It was an old leather-bound volume that she bought at a bookseller's on Portobello Road earlier in the day: A Harlot High and Low. Another title that prompted her mind to wallow in all sorts of scathing commentary concerning Janice Covington. None of which she said, of course.

He sighed and looked around the room.

"Are you looking for something?" she asked.

"Love in all the wrong places," he replied.

McKay rolled his eyes. "If you could tell me what you're looking for, I can help you," she offered. "Maybe if you try to write it down."

He shook his head. "My...bag," he said emphatically. "Leather!" he cried.

"Your briefcase!" she clarified.

He nodded vigorously.

"What d'ya need that for?" McKay asked impatiently.

Frobisher growled.

"Just...look for it, Sergeant. Please?" Mel asked.

It took him half an hour, but finally McKay found the old leather briefcase. It was in a broom closet downstairs, where McKay had shoved it weeks ago after bringing home the Colonel's clothes from the hospital. The Sergeant had apparently mistaken it for a real clothes closet.

He brought it up to Frobisher, who snatched it from him and proceeded to rummage through it with great speed. He sat on the edge of his bed, Mel beside him. Papers fell at his feet as he dug through the briefcase. Finally he was staring at a black leather binder. He thrust it at Mel.

She took it and opened it. The first word she saw, screaming out to her in blood-red letters, was CLASSIFIED.

"Anton," she protested, "I can't read this!" She shoved it at him.

He shoved it back.

She exchanged a look with McKay, who appeared just as confused—and nervous—as she.

Anton's eyes were pleading as he held out the binder to her. Reluctantly, she turned her head to the document, and started reading in her usual brisk manner. But as she progressed her mouth dropped open in quiet shock. "Oh...God," she whispered.

The classified report—it was not directed to Anton but the London head of OSS, and she had no idea how he had got a hold of it—detailed Catherine Stoller's activities in Berlin during the war. She and a fellow agent had been posing as an SS official and his wife: Hans and Lotte Steiner. Three months before the end of the war, her fellow operative was dead, an apparent suicide — an encoded radio message sent by Catherine indicated that their mission had been found out. She had escaped capture, but he did not; rather than risk revealing anything to the enemy, he took his own life. Catherine had then disappeared until resurfacing in London just after Germany's surrender.

An additional document, attached to the report, was a deposition from an SS soldier, a prisoner of war. This man claimed that, indeed, the Germans had discovered — indeed, had known for quite some time — that the officer known as Hans Steiner was a British agent. They monitored his movements for some time before arresting him. After a unsuccessful attempt at extracting information from him, he had been executed by one of their agents. A double agent. Catherine Stoller.

She let the sheaf of papers fall to floor. History repeats itself. Even the history you do not know, even the history you are not aware of.

Anton's hand sought hers, and squeezed it with more strength than she imagined he had. "Go," he said simply, his voice ravaged.

She nodded mutely. Didn’t I say I had a bad feeling about this?

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