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revisionaryhistory · 3 years

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Three Days ~ 78

~*~Sebastian~*~

The sun shone brightly when we woke up. I made Emma coffee first and we sat at the bar with fruit and yogurt. I wasn’t particularly hungry. Nauseated, if I’m honest. Emma was going home today. Yes, it was only for a couple of days, but that wasn’t what the problem was. I was afraid of how I would feel when she left. We’ve been together almost a week. We said I love you. Went to a concert with her friends, planned a vacation with mine, and celebrated a month together. Everything is wonderful. I don’t know how it will be when she leaves. Will I be melodramatically sad, anxious, and insecure that while she’s away she’ll figure out she prefers to be without me, or when she leaves will I be glad to have my space back? Realistically, the panic is more likely to come when she leaves France and we’re apart for six weeks. Today’s just a preview.

Around noon Emma was ready to leave. She’d gone through the bags of new stuff and left what she wanted to take to France. No sense packing it home only to bring it back. Especially when she was dealing with her suitcase on the train. Early afternoon was the best time to get her back. I walked her downstairs to her Uber and stopped by the security office to find out where the parking garage was. The security guard walked outside with us and pointed to a keypad on a pole next to the building. I walked into the building hundreds of times and never really noticed the large panes of windows that matched my building was a garage door. The same code that worked on the outside door worked on the garage and my spot was the same as my apartment number. That’s easy.

The Uber driver took Emma’s suitcase and lifted it into the trunk while we said goodbye. “I love you and I’ll see you Thursday.”

Emma kissed me and patted my chest, “I’ll let you know when I’m home.”

“Thank you.” I’m always going to worry about her getting home safe. Can’t wait until there’s snow and she’s driving to work or worse, here. I kissed her again, told her I loved her and tucked her in the car. Stood on the sidewalk until she turned the corner too. Avoided going back upstairs by running across the street and getting a bottle of something. Didn’t really matter what. I wasn’t thirsty. Took a walk around the block to drink my bottle of whatever. Finally, throwing the bottle away in the garbage can at the end of the block, I headed back upstairs.

I walked in my door and stood there with my hands on my hips, waiting for something to happen. Everything looked the same. Felt the same. Not sure what I expected. The apartment wasn’t going to suddenly have a portal to hell open up in between the dining table and couch. If it happened, it would be in the guest bathroom. Maybe my closet. I checked both to be sure. Nope, no portals. What I did find in the master bath was a mauve lipstick kiss print on the mirror. It was at my eye level but on the edge close to the wall. I smiled, thinking how she would have had to crawl onto the counter to put it there. I imagined she’d get the same thrill when she found the notes I’d hidden at her place and school.

A little over two hours later my phone rang. The prettiest girl in the world was calling me, “Hello, beautiful.”

She grinned, “Hey, handsome. I’m home.”

Emma turned her phone around to show me her family room. “I can see that. How was the trip?”

“Uneventful.”

“Perfect.”

“What have you been up to since I last saw you?” The lilt of curiosity in her voice was funny.

“I’ve been busy. Checking email and seeing everything has changed.”

“You’re very flexible.”

“Not nearly as flexible as you, my love.” We shared a dirty smile. “Now, we’re shooting in Paris instead of London. Which is convenient and doesn’t require a flight. And tonight I’m having dinner with a former spy.”

Her eyes lit up, “That sounds fun.”

“It does.” I agreed. “I’ve been trying to schedule something with him for a while. Finally worked out. It will be good to get in person and ask questions about all the shit I’ve been reading and watching.”

“I’m excited for you. You can get the psychological emotional part down. I imagine in person makes it easier to internalize.”

Not that I doubted, but she’d been paying attention when I’d talked. Her interest in the how and why of the craft side was as enjoyable for me as it was her. I wanted to show her more. I wanted to know about how she taught too, how she knew what to do and how she designed lessons. Which reminded me, “Add me to your online classroom so I can watch you teach.” There’s the added bonus of pretty much having her “on demand” if I wanted to see and hear her. I had the video from the party with her, Eli, and Boone too. That would make a long night alone a little more . . . stimulating.

We didn’t talk long. I was having an early dinner to allow plenty of time to talk and I needed to shower and get ready. Emma needed to unpack and start gathering things to repack. There’s also the part about she’d just left.

Dinner lasted much later than I’d anticipated. It was awesome. Dan told me stories and let me pick his brain. I told him about my part in the movie and he was able to give me some specifics. Not that I’d play the part exactly as he’d said, but I knew what to avoid, what wasn’t realistic. I liked that because a complete mismatch with reality could put me into my head and that’s the last place I wanted to be.

The next morning I hit the gym and had a good workout. Mirrors everywhere told me I needed more than a little personal grooming before leaving. A haircut was already scheduled and I called the salon to add on what I thought I needed. I had lunch with my manager to go over the next few weeks. I don’t have a full time PR person, but I do have a firm with which I contract. Emily had been in contact with them. About my girlfriend. Amazing how fast my mood went from good to not.

“Seb, don’t make that face.”

“What face?”

“The annoyed one where you’re holding in a tirade.”

“I’m glad you recognize the precarious ground you’re standing on.” I drank the last of my wine and crossed my arms across my chest. “I’m going to sit here and be very quiet for a limited amount of time. Talk fast.” I don’t have many tirades. A big part of that is due to the relationship I have with Emily. She’s been with me forever. She knows when to push, when to back off, and when to let me have a tirade. Girlfriends are and always have been a tricky area. Usually, Emily wants me to be more open about a girlfriend. Much like what previous girlfriends wanted. That never turned out well for either of them. Emma was altogether in another class. I wasn’t sullen because I didn’t want to hear about what I should be doing. I was feeling protective and didn’t want business in my personal life. Same issue, different reasons.

“Everything is good. Emma is good. She doesn’t have much of a social media presence and hers is private. Family and friends sometimes tag her, but there’s nothing problematic out there. Once her name is out there she won’t be hard to find because you and several of your friends follow her. It’s a quick find that she’s a teacher, where she works, plays volleyball, has a twin, and has musician friends. She’s known by Pearl Jam fans. They’re protective of all the females in the band’s orbit. Best guess is anything negative is wiped quickly. We called Pearl Jam’s PR people and they’ve worked with her, so we don’t need to. Until something comes up and then we’ll probably have to work with you too. Unless you go silent again.”

I must have twitched.

Emily held her hands out like she was calming a wild animal. “Everyone’s a little concerned because you let Will post something. Oh, and any pictures of her in a bikini are always in a group.” She smiled comically and sat back.

“The ones she sends me are solos.”

“Good to know.”

I sat a second, my blood pressure dropping. “Okay.”

“Okay?”

I nodded and shrugged, “I told Will to post the picture. Don’t know exactly why. I’m happy. I’m in love. I’ve grown. Past is past and I’m moving to the future. All of them.”

“So, the comments and everything. You’re okay?”

“No, Emily, I’m wonderful.”

I waited until I got home to call Emma. She hit voice call. I pouted even though she couldn’t see. “I am at Target replenishing my travel supplies.”

“Sounds fun! Are you in for shampoo and leaving with three hundred dollars worth of who knows what?” Isn’t that the way it usually works at Target?

“I have a list. I’m staying away from parts of the store I don’t need to be in.”

“Smart. What time do you have to be at the court?”

“We’re going to meet for dinner about five. Game at seven.”

“Give Sam your phone so I can pack and watch.”

“I bet if you ask nicely she’ll alert you when something big is going on.”

“I’m a decent multitasker.”

“How was dinner with a spy?”

"Dinner with a spy was" I shook my head and looked up, "fascinating. Books, even non-fiction, and video are good, but watching his expression and mannerisms was so cool. Especially when he had neither." I went on talking while she shopped. She laughed and gasped at the same parts I had. I was excited to see how I could incorporate this new knowledge. We hung up when she was checking out.

~*~*~*~

"Sorry about the loss." I cringed to soften the blow. I knew she didn't like to lose. Who does?

Emma growled, "Frustrating. I want a chocolate brownie or something."

"I think the bakeries are closed." It was a little after ten. "I'll get you one tomorrow."

"You're the sweetest."

"When will you be here?"

"Well before lunchtime. I got everything packed before the game. I'll shower tonight. Get up and be on my way. Do you have plans?"

"Yes. Vanity kicked in. I have a facial and haircut, before therapy. Want a facial?"

"No seaweed."

"Damm, that's what I booked for you."

~*~*~

I spent the morning packing. I’m not a heavy packer. I’ll wear the same thing over and over. I’m working so costuming will be taking care of most of my clothes. I’m invited to the fashion show. Being dressed is part of the package. Emma and I had made a list of places we wanted to see and things we wanted to do while in Paris. I composed an email and sent it on to the hotel’s concierge. I heard back almost immediately. They would create an itinerary and we could adjust it once we arrived. Perfect.

Emma would be back about noon. Our spa treatments and my haircut were set for three and my therapy appointment was around five. I cleaned up around the place. Nothing drastic. I had a cleaning service come in after I go away. I just make sure everything’s put away. I had my suitcase closed and in the dining area when my text notification went off.

Emma ~ Are you home?

Sebastian ~ Yes.

Emma ~ Alone?

Sebastian ~ Yes.

I am sensing something is about to happen.

Emma ~ When I get there would you like to play a game?

Sebastian ~ Yes.

I neither know nor care what she’s talking about. It would be nice to know what I’m going to be playing, though.

Sebastian ~ Could I get more details?

Emma ~ Porn

Sebastian ~ You want to watch porn?

Emma ~ Pretend we're in one. Over the top, things that only work in porn, excessive moaning, name calling, filthy talk porn.

Fuck. I’ve watched enough porn to know how this was going to go.

Sebastian ~ Yes, I would like to play.

Emma ~ I never doubted you.

Sebastian ~ Are you texting and driving?

Emma ~ Traffic and voice to text. Delivery girl, booty call, escort? Me. This time.

Sebastian ~ I don't know yet.

Emma ~ Text when you do.

Sebastian ~ I love you.

Emma ~ I love you.

Woman has been away for forty-eight hours and shows back up with this shit. I wasn't a sex-starved horn dog five minutes ago. I wonder what she's wearing? Delivery girl, booty call, escort. I like her choices. I have to seduce the delivery girl. Or be seduced. Booty call would be a repeat. Familiarity without expectations. There are zero expectations with an escort. Well, there are expectations, but only mine. I feel like it's a question of how selfish I want to be and what questions I want to answer after. Booty call it is!

I texted her my choice and that the door would be unlocked. I sat in the chair to wait. Patiently.

#oscar isaac #fanfiction #rpf #oscar isaac fanfiction #oscar isaac X OFC

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webcricket · 6 years

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Looking Glass

Chapter 14 - You Can’t Go Home Again

Pairing: CastielXAU!Reader

Word Count: 1547

Summary: The past, present, and Castiel all catch up to the reader leaving her more uncertain than ever about the future in a strange world.

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Yellow fender of the cab long departed from view down the iron lamp-lit dusk stretch of street, you stand across from home where the driver dropped you. The strap of the bag containing your belongings, all borrowed, none really yours per se, sags loose in your grip; slipping from your fingertips, it drops in a soundless heap on the sidewalk beside you. Eyelids clamped, dampness of disbelief overflowing at the tight pressed edges, you count to ten; when your wet lashes lift it’s all still there – a memory made tangible.

Azaleas flower along the foundation; the deeply green shrubs heave their fragrant burden of pink blooms up toward a wraparound porch unique in the neighborhood for its impractical lack of a railing – a feature you considered a benefit until the afternoon you broke your wrist launching a brand spanking new 10-speed bike on a bet off the side in a daredevil effort to bridge the neighbor’s neatly trimmed boxwood border; the long-knitted break in bone throbs as the recollection races through your mind of the summer spent in a cast frowning longingly at that cherry red beauty of a bicycle gathering dust in the corner of the garage.

There hangs the green shutter, slightly askew, missing several slats, outside your bedroom window. It sways on the hinge just so in a gentle buffet of wind producing a creak so familiar you would know, blindfolded, there’s surely a powerful storm sweeping in from the East. The burgeoning breeze blows loose strands of hair across your cheeks to tickle your nose as if in teasing confirmation of the impending tempest. Texas storms exist both fearsome in destructive potential and astounding in grandeur, and the walls of home always kept you safe from their wrath. A subtle shiver of excitement courses your body at the familiar electricity surging in the air.

Even the cliché fairy-tale white picket fence perimeter surrounding the front yard – whose upkeep you were charged with every summer from when you were old enough to wield a brush and dip it in a paint bucket – sits intact; the pristine white luster of each post gleams, a welcoming toothy smile enticing passersby to step on up to the doorstep and ring the brass bell framed beneath matching brass house numbers to say ‘Hello neighbor!’ and partake of a glass of your mother’s locally legendary lemonade. You can almost taste the sweet sandy grit of sugar on teeth mingling with peels of tart rind swirling over your tongue to quench the thirst of a hot afternoon.

And yet, for all the welcome likeness whose brick walkway looms not ten yards away, you remain a frozen fixture out front. The effect of seeing your lost home – a haven in a world that technically isn’t yours – instead of being comforting, vaguely unsettles; it’s very much like looking into a funhouse mirror, except you’re the one grotesquely distorted in the face of non-apocalyptic normalcy. The slightest tentative movement forward on your part toward the facade seems to skew you to the depths of your soul; it shines a paralyzing beacon into that alcove of your heart that knows coming here, especially like this, at the expense of Castiel’s trust, was a mistake.

Stuck in this dithering delay, you hear Cas’ truck approach before you see it; the squeak of the stiff suspension unmistakably cleaves the otherwise suburban silence. Pulling up to the curb, cutting the cantankerously sputtering engine, squinting at you through the dusty windshield, he climbs out without a word. His stare drifts over his shoulder to the innocuous seeming house so raptly holding your attention as he shuts the door; faint recognition rises in his awareness that this place matches the home he saw sprawling in the smoky vestiges of your memory.

Transfixed by a light switching on and the shadow of a figure moving beyond the illuminated red-checkered curtains of the kitchen – someone clearing dinner dishes you suppose – you inhale a shaky breath and avoid looking at the angel now standing beside you.

The demand for some kind of an explanation resides implicit in his continued silence. He gazes ahead, hands shoved in his pockets, indirectly reproving you with taciturn fortitude.

Tucking your chin to your chest under the weight of your duplicity, deeply regretting disappointing him, you quietly mumble, ��I’m sorry. I wanted to tell you.”

He knows you’re not lying; it doesn’t make deceiving him – any of them – okay. Lips a taut line, he still says nothing.

You glance sideways – his stone-faced expression defines indeterminacy. Thunder rolls nearer. Wind violently bangs the green shutter. The hem of his trench coat flutters around the rigid column of his body. Your voice quavers. “Cas, please say something.”

Blues fixed on the lighted window, irises reflecting the shimmers of lighting piercing the churning clouds overhead, he asks in a curtly clipped cadence, “What I don’t understand is how you coerced Rowena into going along with this charade.”

“It wasn’t like that-” you falter when his regard inclines to you. Unlike his stoically set features, his eyes aren’t unreadable; the hurt of your betrayal dims their brightness. Feeling the coolness of their sustained scrutiny prickle your skin, you look at the ground to avoid the pain and reproof. “When I brought her the feather, she asked where I was from. You know, small talk.” A self-recriminating shrug over how quickly the stupid little thing snowballed into this mess. “I-I told her.” A stutter. “When she did the location spell …” An earnest glance upward. “I-I didn’t know she was going to say it, I didn’t-”

“No, you didn’t, did you?” Jaw flexing, his mouth thins further; a subtle flare of the nostrils discloses the unsuppressed anger. He shakes his head slowly as he speaks, “Didn’t stop us from taking an unnecessary detour. Didn’t think about the lives you put at risk by saying nothing – not just Sam and Dean pursuing a potentially dangerous archangel on their own, but the entirety of this world if we failed in the task.”

You step backward, shrinking from his condemning manner.

He seizes you by the upper arm to inhibit your withdrawal and spins you, forcing you to face him.

The firm clasp of his fingers borders on being unkind in roughness; it reminds you of the other him. The gesture compels you to meet the dejected glaze of his eyes where a flicker of fire flares within that dark glower when you choke out a startled whimper.

Fingertips digging into your flesh, he growls, “Y/N, the people in there – they aren’t your family. That’s not your home. You don’t belong here.”

Tears springing at the cruelty of his words – and the harsh reality of them – shuddering bodily with a sob, you yank your arm from his grasp. Stumbling into the street, you catch your balance slumping against the bed of the truck.

Bending to pick up your discarded duffle, he makes no motion to comfort you. “Get in the truck, we’re going-” He stops himself before referring to the bunker as home; it’s not yours – thoughts diverting to Heaven’s current angel-less predicament and its imminent demise, a part of him still resolutely believes it’s also not his, not exactly. He glances once more toward the mirror of your remembered home.

The first fat pellets of rain begin to spatter the surface of ground so desiccated by drought they bounce. Brilliant white energy unleashes in a blinding flash above. A shocking peel of thunder cracks the atmosphere.

Prying open the passenger door, Cas carelessly tosses the bag into the foot well and circles to the other side.

Ducking from the onslaught of rain, shivering in the cold slick of wet saturating your skin, you clamber numbly up into the seat and tug the door closed.

Observing your form huddled in the seat as far from him as physically possible, realizing his callousness was perhaps in part redirection of his own frustration with a sense of belonging, he gazes at the mud-streaked glass for a moment, heart aching for you, but not quite knowing how to apologize. “Y/N, I-”

Before he can utter a missive of remorse, you sniffle, “Are you going to tell Dean?”

Too worried about where you went, whether you were safe, tracking you through the cab dispatcher, and ultimately presented with your subterfuge, he hadn’t planned that far ahead. Anticipation of Dean’s antipathy again agitates his ire over the situation. Any softness of compunction he feels dissipates – he’s done defending you to Dean. “You mean, am I going to tell Dean he was right about you distracting me from the mission?” He cranks the ignition and shoots you a scowl. “No, I’m not going to tell Dean.”

For an instant, the warmth of relief wraps your trembling frame. The feeling is transitory.

“You are,” he grumbles. Revolving the steering wheel, revving the engine, he swerves the truck wide back toward the highway and the direction of your penance.

Twisting to peer out the window through the waves of windblown rain, you watch the house and hope disappear; it occurs to you that the angel is right, you don’t belong here, and what’s more, you can never go home again – it’s lost forever to you; and now, you fear, you’ve lost him, too.

Next: Ch. 15 - Rifts

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