#but when nate appeared on the page i had to shut the book and sit up in bed bc i audibly giggled out loud like an anime girl

[georgieluz]

finally started reading this today, i've seen extracts and stuff before, but decided i'd better dig in properly

#julian reads #generation kill #it's actually embarrassing bc a few months ago i was like #yeah i'm probably not gonna end up being as into gen kill as the other shows bc it'll be harder to watch etc etc #and now not only was i very clearly fucking wrong #but when nate appeared on the page i had to shut the book and sit up in bed bc i audibly giggled out loud like an anime girl #just grinning like a chesire cat bc MY MAN IS HERE HE HAS ARRIVED REPORTER LOVES HIM I LOVE HIM LETS GO

[izzielizzie]

Rough on the Surface but You Cut Through Like a Knife

summary: When Bronwyn Rojas ends up next to the ever obnoxious Nate Macauley in Spanish class, she doesn’t really mean to hit him with a book. Well, she does, but she doesn’t expect to end up in the principal’s office with him. And she definitely doesn’t expect to find him amusing.

alternatively: Bronwyn hits Nate with a book and a long overdue conversation ensues (AU)

title from Willow by Taylor Swift

I’m about to drop into my regular seat in AP Spanish, my last class of the day, when Señora Trias calls “Don’t sit yet niños, we have some seat switching to do!”

I groan along with the rest of the class and catch Kate’s eye. We’ve sat together the entire year. I don’t even think I know anyone else in my class. She shrugs in a resigned sort of way. Señora Trias is a force to reckoned with, and we both know she’ll never let us stay in the same seats. We follow the teacher’s instructions, and I’m too busy trying to figure out the complicated dance we’re doing - row one to the left, row two to the right, front to back and back to front - that I don’t even notice that I’ve ended up next to a boy in a ratty leather jacket. 

Ugh. Nathaniel Macauley. The school’s notorious drug dealer/womanizer/delinquent/major headache. 

And this headache is smirking at me.

“Can I help you?” I ask.

“Nope, I’m all good… partner.”

I hate the way he says that word, it’s suggestive and disgusting and I suppress a shudder, turning instead to the front of the room, where we’re reviewing pluscuamperfecto. As a native Spanish speaker, I can confidently say I have no idea what the heck that is. 

“This is pointless,” Nate grumbles.

“Shhh,” I whisper back, taking a glance at his sharp jaw and deep blue eyes. I’ve known Nate from a distance my whole life, we’ve gone to the same schools since kindergarten, but this is the first time we’ve been so close - or exchanged words - in years.

I look back to the teacher, who’s now going over conjugations. I scribble them down in my notebook as Nate tips his chair back on two legs, rocking back and forth. 

“You’re going to kill yourself,” I inform him.

“Wow Rojas, I didn’t know you cared.”

I scoff and Señora Trias sends us a sharp look. “Señorita Rojas. Señor Macauley, no talking.”

I give Nate a sharp look. “Now look what you’ve done,” I hiss, feeling the reprimand as if it had been thrown at me. Nate just smirks. 

“You’ve never been in trouble have you?” he asks. I ignore him and he barks out a laugh, my silence serving as an answer. “Wow Rojas, I knew you were straight laced but I didn’t know you were that straight laced.”

And we all know you’re not I think, remembering the drug bust rumor Kate was whispering about last week. 

Nate clearly can tell I’m not interested in listening to him, so in the time it takes me to pull out the short novel we’re reading in class from my bag and read about a chapter, Nate doesn’t say a word. When I’m copying down the questions our teacher wrote on the board onto my notebook, he starts talking.

“What’s the answer to one?”

“Solo español por favor!” Señora Trias calls from the front of the class. I give Nate a triumphant look, expecting him to be unable to follow the teacher’s instruction of only talking in Spanish. Unfortunately this is Spanish class. And Nate’s not an idiot. He repeats the question in the correct language, and I decide that I’d be better off ignoring him. 

After a few moments, I can feel Nate leaning over my shoulder. I look over to see his eyes on my paper.  

“Stop that,” I whisper. 

“Spanish only,” he whispers back.

“That wasn’t even in Spanish!”

“Neither was that,” Nate points out. 

I huff and go back to my paper, flipping through my book to find the answer to my next question. 

“Help meeeee,” Nate whispers. 

“Shut up,” I say.

“Bronwynnnnnn.”

“Shhh.”

“Rrrrrrojas.”

My sister once told me about out of body experiences when we were children, and at the time I had scoffed because the supernatural does not exist. But when I close my book - marking my page with my finger because I’m not a philistine - and swing it straight into Nate’s face, I swear I’m not controlling myself at all.

“Would you shut up?” I snap as an unnatural silence overtakes the room. I look around for the first time, meeting stricken faces. Kate’s looking at me like she’s never met me before. 

“Bronwyn Rojas,” Señora Trias says dangerously. I risk a glance at Nate and feel a flash of sympathy when I see a red mark on his cheek. But he’s smirking at me so maybe he deserved it. 

I’m frozen, not quite sure what to say. Señora Trias points to the door. “Principal. Both of you.”

“Both!” Nate and I say at the same time.

“Yes, look at that you’re in sync, no use that rhythm to get to the office.” 

Not the best witty comment around, all things considered, but since Señora Trias looks like she’s ready to commit murder so I let it slide.

“So let me get this straight,” Principal Gupta says, staring at Nate and I, sitting side by side in the uncomfortable chairs in Gupta’s office. “You two were partnered in Spanish class, Bronwyn you were annoyed with Nathaniel, so you hit him with a book?”

Nate tips his chair back and I kick at his ankle. He kicks back. 

“Bronwyn.”

“Yes, sorry. This is correct,” I say. Principal Gupta stares at me. I’ve been getting a lot of stares lately. She opens her mouth to say something, but before she can, the secretary appears at the door.

“There’s a problem in the cafeteria,” she informs Gupta, who sighs. She looks sharply at us. 

“I am going to be gone for ten minutes tops. Please refrain from murdering each other.”

I nod vehemently while Nate tips his chair back farther, his smirk growing. I count backwards from fifty in my head just to make sure Gupta is really gone before wheeling back towards him. I push down on the arm of his chair with all my might. Nate crashes to the ground, a look of shock on his face.

“Jesus Bronwyn.”

“Stop tilting your gosh darn chair” I hiss, my face only a few inches away from his. I can see myself reflected back in his dark blue eyes. I look mildly deranged. He smirks again and I raise my hand. He flinches away. Ha. Take that. 

He holds up his hands in surrender, leaning away from me. “Would it make you feel better if I sat on the floor Rojas?”

“Yes, yes it would.” 

Nate slides to the ground, and before I can realize what’s happening, he’s pulling me down by the waist. “What the heck?” I ask.

Nate shrugs. “If I have to sit on the floor, then you do too.” He pauses for a beat. “And your legs look good in that skirt.

I slap his shoulder. “Jackass!”

Nate laughs. “She swears!” he announces to an audience of… no one. 

“Why is that notable?” I ask, self-consciously tucking my legs underneath myself, ignoring my tingling waist where Nate’s fingers ended up under my shirt. 

“Because a minute ago you said ‘gosh darn’ and not even grandmothers would say that Rojas.”

I can feel my face flush, but I cross my arms anyway. My little sister always teases me about how I don’t swear. Not that she swears either. “Is it really a bad thing?”

“Yes.”

I flush more, irritated at myself that Nate’s opinion matters this much to me. He senses that I’m done talking because he looks straight ahead at Gupta’s desk, where we can just make out a picture of her and her daughter.

“How’s your sister doing? Maeve, right?” Nate asks, and I turn to stare at him in shock. My sister Maeve left elementary school with cancer a long time ago. Nate was just starting to know her - they were on the same soccer team - and I don’t expect him to remember her, let alone her name.

“Yeah, it’s Maeve,” I say, my tone considerably softer. Nothing makes me happier than my sister. “She’s okay.”

“She’s in remission right?” 

I turn my body so I’m looking straight ahead at him, a concession maybe. My anger is ebbing, and I’m sort of guilty about that bruise on his face. “She is. Thank you for asking.” Not many people do. 

“You’re welcome.” What he says next surprises me so much I almost miss what he says: “Want to talk about it?”

I look at him for a moment, at his dark eyes and smattering of freckles and his closed off expression, and I can’t help the feeling that he’s being serious. And I don’t know why that’s so off putting.

I shrug, trying to figure out what to say. “It just sucks, you know?” I finally land on.

Nate nods. “I know.” I think back to his mother’s funeral, the dark, rainy morning where he stood in an old suit, his father too drunk to even show up. I kept thinking about Maeve, about how some day I might have to stand in the same place, shouldering the burden of a million worlds. 

I imagine that’s how it feels to lose someone.

I feel the need suddenly, to make those eyes light up so I shift slightly closer to him and pluck at the sleeve of his leather jacket. 

“Hey, remember when we were locked in that music room at St. Pi?” I ask.

Nate glances over at me through hooded eyes, his eyelashes unnaturally long. He nods, a half smile on his lips. “I remember. Sixth grade right?”

“Yeah.” I remember that day like it was yesterday. We had been arguing - much like today - in the middle of a music class, and our teacher sent us to the storeroom to sort flutes until we calmed down or something. But we - and the teacher - had forgotten that the door to the store room door locked from the outside. Nate and I were locked in for nearly an hour, which to twelve year olds, felt like forever.

“It was a pretty good day you know?”

“Really? I thought I threw a clarinet case at you.”

“Well you did,” Nate says. “But you know… it was nice. You’re nice.”

“Aww.”

“But you are violent.”

“Touché,” I admit.

He smiles at me, his eyes soft, and I smile back. I’m about to reach up to touch the bruise on his face when Gupta comes back, breezing through the door like she’s floating. She groans when she sees us. 

“Why are you on the floor?”

“Heat rises,” Nate says with a shrug.

“It’s November."

Nate and I just look at each other and smile. We climb back into our seats, and when he tips his chair back, I don’t say anything. And when I say “gosh” instead of “god” when I’m assuring Gupta that “I swear to gosh I didn’t mean to hit him I’m so sorry” Nate doesn’t even bat an eye.

Truce, I guess. 

Gupta spends ten minutes talking about pressure and how sometimes we cave but if Nate forgives me it’s okay before she lets us leave. Nate and I mockingly shake hands before we get up and it’s… nice. 

The bell has already rung, so we turn in opposite directions, me to physics and him to gosh knows where when he turns to me.

“Hey, want to go to the mall on Saturday? You can buy me a pretzel for my troubles.”

“Aren’t you afraid I’ll throw something at you?”

Nate grins his Macauley grin. “I think I’ll risk it, Rojas.”

My smile is his answer.

#bronwyn rojas #nate macauley #natewyn #one of us is lying #izzielizzie's fics #queued

[writer-ish]

Hello there! 🙂 Could you please do number 10 from the "Touching" prompts, for Mason and the Detective please? 😊 Thanks!!

prompt: spooning at night pairing: mason x detective (grace bennett) word count: 2.4k | rating: T cw: panic attack, mention of trauma (book 1 related) author note: write a prompt less than 2k words challenge? failed. thank you @silma-words for the prompt! hope you like it. ☾☾ touching prompts 

It had started with a light pattering of rain against the window panes.

Light rain is okay. Grace can handle light rain.

She doesn’t love it - especially not at night - but if it’s not torrential, if there’s no lightning or thunder, she can usually force herself to drink some tea, grab a book, and ignore it before falling into a restless sleep.

Light rain is okay.

The problem arises when, halfway through reading the same page for the fifth time, her tea already cold and missing only a sip or two, the rain picks up.

She gets up and pulls her curtains together tightly, but it doesn’t help. Even if she can’t see it, she can still hear it, the heavy slap of rain against the windows, steadily increasing in its ferocity.

Her hands begin to feel clammy and her breathing picks up.

You’re being so stupid, she tells herself, even as she feels deafened by the pounding of her own heart.

This visceral response to thunderstorms - rain, she reminds herself, it's just rain for now - is yet another fun side effect that has lingered since her encounter with Murphy all those months ago.

She tries not to dwell on those moments - the ones where she was certain she was going to die, the ones where she was dying - where the rain pounding on the roof of the warehouse, thunder splitting the sky, was the only discernible sound amidst the chaos.

But at home, alone, with only the rain and a tepid, useless cup of tea to keep her company, it’s difficult to think of anything else.

She paces a bit. Tries to get ready for bed. Lies down on top of the covers, hugging one of her decorative pillows close - the one that has a soft pink fabric designed to look like flower petals all over it, the one Mason hates probably the most - and the entire time the rain beats harder and harder against the few window panes in her small apartment until she feels like the glass might shatter from the force of it.

Her breath is coming in short, quick gasps now and no matter what she does, she can't get her heartrate to slow down. A numbness has begun to spread from her hands upward.

Am I having a heart attack? she wonders, semi-hysterically. Her chest feels tight, painfully so, but she can't tell if it's because of her breathing or not. The scar on her neck tingles sharply and her pulse feels like it might actually burst out from that spot.

At that moment, a clap of thunder reverberates through her walls.

Grace lets out a short scream and the pain in her chest intensifies.

Thunderstorms have been bad for her before, but never this bad.

Oh shit oh fuck, she thinks, it is a fucking heart attack. I'm having a fucking heart attack. Shit shit shit.

Her hands have gone completely cold, the tingling numbness persistent and all-consuming.

She staggers out of bed, black spots flashing in front of her eyes as her breathing worsens, all intakes and almost no exhales, while her sense of dread increases.

I'm going to die, she realizes in dawning horror. I'm going to die here, alone.

The thought is untenable. A collection of faces flashes before her eyes—Tina, her mom, Nate, the rest of Unit Bravo, Mason, Mason, Mason—

She staggers to her nightstand and grabs her phone, pressing the contact for the most recent number she'd called.

He answers on the first ring. “Hey, Gracie, we were just—“

“Nate,” she wheezes out, a sob caught in her throat.

She hears a clatter on the other end, maybe the sound of someone standing up abruptly. There’s a ruckus—voices clamouring.

“Gracie, what’s wrong?” Nate’s voice is urgent, inflected with a ribbon of steel that she barely registers as unusual. “Where are you?”

The voices behind him are getting louder.

“What’s happening?”

“What’s she saying?”

“What the fuck—”

“I’m—home,” she rasps, her heart feeling like it’s about to beat out of her chest. The room is spinning. “I don’t know—what—” What’s happening to me, she completes the thought in her mind, her ability to speak slowly dwindling.

“Something’s wrong with Grace,” she can hear Nate say to whoever he’s with. “I don’t think there's anyone else there, but something has happened—no, Mason, just wait—”

The phone clatters to the ground from Grace's numb fingers and she squeezes her eyes shut tightly as she sinks to the floor. The sound of Nate's voice coming from the receiver feels far away now. She's experiencing an odd sensation, like she's floating above her body, witnessing what's going on down below, and she wonders if that means she's dead.

Minutes pass, and suddenly there's a massive commotion at her front door. She startles, her whole body jerking in horror as she imagines the thunder and lightning from outside entering her home.

A dark figure suddenly appears in her bedroom doorway and swoops towards her and she lets out a pained gasp, her throat unable to emit anything louder than that.

"It's me," the figure says, its voice gruff and familiar, and she's so relieved she almost sobs. "It's me, sweetheart."

She feels herself being lifted up easily, gently, and cradled tight against a recognizable chest. Her heartrate decelerates ever so slightly, though her breathing is still ragged and short.

Mason carries her back to her bed, placing her down gently. His hair and his clothes are wet and the cold feel of his sleeve, the drops of water on her neck and arms, help as she settles.

She briefly registers the way he flings her pillows until each one smacks against the wall in a satisfying thwack of dismissal. When he goes to remove his other hand from her, she grips his arms tighter.

"No—" she wheezes, feeling the tears in her eyes spill over belatedly onto her cheeks.

"Hang on," he responds hoarsely, disentangling himself as he runs his hands over her arms, torso, legs, "I'm just checking you for—"

She shakes her head. "It's not that. I'm—okay." Not injured, she means, though she can't convey that to him because she can't control her breaths.

Her lungs begin to ache with the effort, her body trembling, although the overwhelming sense of dread, the certainty that this was the end, that has faded.

"Hey, hey, hey." He places his hand on her upper chest, his palm large and warm, a steady and comforting presence. "Just breathe."

She shakes her head, gulping air, the tears coming faster now. "Can't… can't."

"Hey." He leans forward looking at her intently and a sense of calm begins to permeate her body, starting from her head and working her way down. Her lungs expand fully for the first time in what feels like hours and she's able to release the entire breath in a motion that's not entirely shaky.

She grips his damp forearm tightly, his hand still resting on her chest as she takes a few other deep breaths. The feeling she had before, the lack of control, the fear, slowly fades until it's just a whisper of discomfort behind her eyes. Even the rain feels distant now; maybe it's passing.

"Is she okay?"

A new voice comes from the doorway, deep and resonant. Grace recognizes it immediately, even in her haze.

“Nate?” she asks, hoarsely.

“Yeah. Nate.” There's something odd in Mason's tone and Grace's eyes snap to his face. He's looking away, his expression indiscernible, but his thumb still strokes the bare skin under her collarbone gently.

Turning to the other agent in the doorway, he says, "She's okay. Tell the others. I got this."

Nate nods briefly, catching Grace's eyes with a warm smile, before turning and leaving the room. She can hear muffled conversation in the other room before the front door opens and then closes again.

She looks back at Mason. "You all came?"

He shrugs. "You called."

Her eyes well up again, her emotions too close to the surface to properly withstand the news that the entirety of Unit Bravo all came rushing to her at the first sign of any trouble.

Mason tsks, bringing his hand up to the base of her neck and applying the barest of pressure before removing it completely.

"Stop."

She closes her eyes and nods, lips quavering only slightly. She brings the heels of her hands up to her eyes and grinds them in, willing the emotions back as she continues to take deep, bracing breaths, in and out.

"What happened?" Mason asks softly after a moment.

Grace, heels of her hands still in her eye sockets, shrugs.

"I'm an idiot?" she offers, voice slightly watery.

He's silent and she can't even see his expression to determine whether or not he agrees.

The silence stretches and she recognizes that he's giving her time to sort through her feelings. Taking a few more deep breaths, she removes her hands from her eyes and looks at him, blinking until he's no longer blurry. He's sitting on the edge of her bed, one hand braced in the soft, quilted duvet, the other resting on his black jeans. His long sleeve tee is the same familiar deep red it usually is, his top buttons undone as though he'd dressed hastily. The crystal he always wears seems to glow with its own preternatural light, coming from within.

"It's the rain," she says finally, softly. "I can't…" She takes a deep breath. "I have a hard time when it's stormy out, ever since everything that happened with Murphy."

Mason stares at her assessingly, eyes narrowed in a grumpy concern that was so characteristic of him she wanted to cry again.

"It's probably rained over a dozen times since then," he says eventually, eyes still narrowed, the silver-grey highlighted by a thin sliver of moonlight peeking in through the blinds she hadn't managed to close all the way.

She nods, understanding what he's getting at. "I…have always found it difficult. But I can manage it by myself, usually." She sighs shakily. "This time was…different."

"Why?"

She shrugs. "I don't know. Maybe the news about the trappers. Maybe just stress, I—"

"No," he interrupts her, waving away her words. "Why do you manage it by yourself?"

"I—" She looks at him in surprise, unable to form an answer. Because I always have? Because I don't know how else to manage things? Because I don't want to bother you, when we haven't even defined what we are. Instead of saying any of that, she simply shrugs.

"Call Nate sooner next time." He gets up and stretches and her eyes are immediately drawn to the band of freckled, umber skin that is revealed as his shirt rides up. "Are you going to be okay?"

"Wait—" She looks at him perplexed. "You're not—staying?" His other words register suddenly. "And why would I call Nate?"

He shrugs, hands in his pockets as he looks down, a dark lock of hair tumbling over his eye.

Understanding dawns slowly. Nate had been the person she'd called when she'd been in the midst of—whatever that was.

She'd called him because he'd been at the top of her call list.

He was at the top of her call list, because earlier that day she'd had a research question and she'd called him to chat for a bit.

Nate is easy to talk to on the phone. Nate is easy to talk to, period.

Her and Mason, on the other hand—

Her and Mason communicate mainly in their silences.

Through touch, through knowing glances, through all the things they don't need to say. A quirk of an eyebrow or a smirk is all it takes sometimes for understanding to pass between them.

Phone calls aren't really in their repertoire. Grace isn't even sure he knows how to text.

She reaches out suddenly, grasping his hand, warm and rough between hers.

"Stay," she says quietly. "I want you here."

Not Nate, she clarifies in a way that she hopes he understands, her lips pressing together apologetically.

He narrows a glance at her, his expression softening almost unwillingly and in small increments.

With a quiet sigh, he allows her to pull him closer. She kneels on the bed and he looks down at her, hands cradling her jaw and his thumbs stroking her cheeks. He draws them over her eyelids, traces the sensitive skin under eyes, passes them gently over her lips.

“No more storms alone, got it?”

She nods. “I promise.” She places her hand over his heart and looks up at him.

He nods as well, briefly, understanding passing through them once more in the silence, as his eyes take in the room before meeting hers again.

"Let's get you to bed, yeah?"

She nods, suddenly feeling how overwhelmingly tired she actually is. Her whole body sags, sapped of whatever frenetic energy was fueling it before. Despite her exhaustion, she still takes note of how he made a bed reference with no innuendo whatsoever. Simply the soft, gruff tone she's come to understand as his concern.

Still, she can't help but joke, if only to ease the awkward-borne tension of their poorly defined relationship: "Sorry if I'm not up for the usual—"

"Shut it." He cuts her off swiftly, pinching her chin with his forefinger and middle finger gently. "I'm not in the mood for your nonsense."

She leans back to look up at him indignantly, only to feel her ire fade away as she sees the teasing smirk on his lips.

"Only sleeping," he confirms. "Come on."

He throws back her covers and she snuggles under, watching as he removes his boots and jeans before joining her.

Immediately, he yanks her towards him, the curve of her back and her bottom fitting perfectly into the concave line of his chest and thighs. She feels the hair on his legs tickling the backs of hers and she tucks her cold feet between his ankles.

He hisses at the feeling and she laughs softly, already yawning. She clutches his hand in hers and brings his arm, wrapped around her stomach, higher up her chest until she's cradling it against her, his knuckles skimming her chin. He smells clean, like soap and fresh tobacco, and it's a smell that is so uniquely Mason she can't help but sigh contentedly.

She feels him kiss the top of her head. "Sleep."

His low command puts her even more at ease as she feels herself sinking deeper into slumber.

The rain still patters against the window, picking up again in its intensity.

She snuggles deeper into Mason's embrace, revelling in the warmth of his skin and the comfort and security of his arms.

The storm doesn't bother her again that night.

*

☾ feel free to send me a prompt

tags: @utterlyinevitable , @ethansramsey , @otherworldlypresents , @aworldoffandoms , @raleighcarrera , @ejunkiet , @starrystarrytrouble , @terrm9 , @openheartthot , @octobereighth , @campsearchlight , @coldshrugs , @kelseaaa , @homeformyheart , @intothestrawberryjar , @magebastard , @kodysteach (if you don’t want to be tagged for twc, mason x detective, and/or prompts, please let me know!)

#the wayhaven chronicles #twc fanfic #mason x detective #twc prompts #twc mason #specialist agent mason #agent m #mason x grace #soft mason is soft #thank you for the prompt! #i really need to try and make these shorter #like damn #if I tagged you more than once I apologize

[fandomrewrites]

Season 2; Episode 7: Restraint

Hello all! As you can see in the pairings, this is the first episode where (Y/N) is going to have some romance after Nate. I want to keep it a secret until you read the chapter which is why I don’t include the name in the pairings. Also I’ll probably never write hardcore smut just because I don’t think I’ll be good at it, but please give me any tips you may have about writing smut/mild smut. I’m not really sure if I did a good job or not so any feedback will be extremely helpful! As always constructive criticism is appreciated! I hope you all enjoyed this chapter. 

Season 2; Episode 7: Restraint

Pairings: Scott McCall x Twin Sister, Lydia Martin x Best Friend, ?? x Reader

Warnings: very mild smut (more like making out)

Word Count: 2,041

Season 2 Masterlist

Lydia brought me home after she finished translating the Kanima pages for us. The minute I was in the house I texted Allison to see if she talked to the boys yet. She hadn’t. Instead she was waiting for me so we could call them together.

I couldn’t stay at her house because Lydia would have gotten suspicious and I don’t need Lydia to think I’m choosing someone else over her. Allison called me and then I called Stiles, making a three way call.

“If Jackson doesn’t know what he’s doing then he probably doesn’t know someone’s controlling him.” Allison says.

“Or doesn’t remember.” Scott adds. 

“What if it’s the same kind of thing that happened to Lydia when she took off from the hospital?” Stiles asks.

“A fugue state.” I say.

“He’d have to forget everything. The murder, coming home...” Scott trails off in thought.

There is a brief moment of silence, then Allison continues, “Getting rid of the blood.”

“But he had help with one thing. The video. Someone else helped him forget that.” Stiles pipes in.

“Probably whoever’s controlling him. I whisper, biting my lip in thought.

“Are you sure Jackson has no clue about any of this?” Allison questions.

“He thinks he’s still becoming a werewolf and that being with Lydia somehow delayed the whole thing.” Stiles states.

“So we try to convince him he’s not?” 

“If it helps us figure out who’s controlling him, then yeah.” Scott says.

“You think he’ll talk to us after what we did?” Allison asks.

I scoff as Stiles answers, “Yeah. Totally. Right?”

“Don’t get your hopes up, it’s Jackson we’re talking about after all.” I say before hanging up.

*_*_*_*_*_*

Before first period Allison, Scott, Stiles and I go to the library. The two boys and I make sure we arrive before Allison and meet in a secluded section, where the security cameras cannot see us.

Allison and I stand in one aisle while Scott and Stiles stand in the one beside us. Allison opens her bag and pulls out a tablet, placing it on the shelf between us.

“It’s everything Lydia could translate. And trust us, she was very confused.” Allison says as I nod in agreement.

“What did you tell her?” Scott asks.

“That we’re part of an online gaming community that battles mythical creatures.”

“I am part of an online gaming community that battles mythical creatures.” Stiles says.

I immediately cover my mouth with my hand to hide the smile threatening to appear.

“Does it say how to find out who’s controlling him?” Scott asks.

“Not really. But Stiles was right about murderers. It calls the Kanima a weapon of vengeance. There’s a story in there about a South American priest who used the Kanima to execute murderers in the village-” I don’t get the chance to finish my sentence.

“So maybe it’s not all bad.” Stiles cuts me off.

Allison and I share a look before I continue, “Until the bond grew strong enough that it killed whoever he wanted it to.”

“All bad. All very bad.”

“Here’s the thing, though. The Kanima’s actually supposed to be a werewolf. But it can’t be until...” Allison pauses as a teacher passes by us.

Scott starts reading from the tablet, “Until it resolves that in its past which manifested it.”

“If it means Jackson could use a few thousand hours of therapy, I could’ve told you that myself.” Stiles says.

“What if it has to do with his parents? His real parents.” Allison asks.

“Does anybody actually know what happened to them? (Y/N)?” 

I shake my head, “I’m pretty sure they died when he was still a baby, but I honestly don’t know. Jackson isn’t really someone who openly has heart-to-hearts with his friends. Lydia may know, though.”

“What if she doesn’t know anything?”

“Well,” Allison sighs, “He didn’t get a restraining order against me. So I’ll try talking to him myself.”

“What do I do?” Scott questions.

“You’ve got a make-up exam, remember? For a few hours you need to concentrate on not failing out of high school. Otherwise, you’re not going to be helping anyone.”

Scott looks at Stiles and I. We both nod backing Allison up. “Promise me.” She speaks once more.

Allison reaches a hand between the books, taking his. “Okay. But if Jackson does anything, you run the other way.”

“I can take care of myself.”

“If you get hurt while I’m busy with a stupid test, someone’s going to need to take care of me. If he does anything...” Scott trails off.

“LIke?” Allison prompts.

“Anything weird, bizarre, anything.”

Stiles then pops his head through the shelf, “Anything evil.”

Allison nods then pushes his face back as I shake my head and mumble, “Dork.”

*_*_*_*_*_*

I run a hand through my hair as I lean against the wall to take off my heels for a minute. I sigh and walk down the empty hall. Just as I turn the corner I nearly crash into someone. “You scared the hell out of me.” The person exclaims.

I let out a breath as I looked up at Matt, “I could say the same to you.”

“Nice heels.”

I look down at the black heels in my hand, “Oh. They’re new and bothering my feet.”

I bend back down to pull my heels on once more, “Same reason I never wear mine.” Matt jokes.

I lightly chuckle, “Funny.”

He opens his mouth to say something then pauses. I raise an eyebrow, “Yes?”

He takes a breath, like he’s trying to get the nerves to talk to me, “Did you hear about the underground show? I guess they’ve got some big name spinning.”

“You mean like a rave?”

“Is it still a rave if you don’t roll? I just call it a concert. I’ve got a hook-up for tickets if you’re down. Should I grab you one?”

“Uh... Like a date?”

“I mean, only if you want it to be one.”

I awkwardly smile, “I’m not really sure if I’m ready to start dating again.”

“That’s fine. It can be two friends hanging out then.”

I bite my lip, “Yeah. Sure.” I agree hesitantly.

“All right, cool. It’s Friday.”

“Looking forward to it.” I watch as he walks off down the hall.

*_*_*_*_*_*

At the end of the school day I find Stiles, “I can’t bring you home unless you want to wait for detention to get out.”

I gape at him, “What did you do now?”

“Why do you think I did something?” I raise an eyebrow, “It was Scott and Jackson who got into a fight. Harris just threw everyone that was around them in detention too.”

“Who else?”

“Erica, Allison, and Matt.”

I scrunch up my face, “Have fun in detention. I’ll figure out another way to get home.”

***

After getting a ride home from Lydia, who still hasn’t told me about what she wanted to talk to Allison and I about, I sit on my bed doing some homework and contemplating who could be controlling the Kanima. So far I have nobody on the mental list. So clearly I’m doing great.

My ears strain as I hear a noise downstairs. I slowly slide my notebook off my lap, placing it on my nightstand. I then quickly grab the metal baseball bat from underneath my bed. I grip it tightly in my hands as I move quietly down the stairs, my eyes rapidly moving to take in every inch of the room in front of me.

I hear a sound from my left and swing with all my strength.

“God, (Y/N). You have a damn powerful swing for someone so tiny.” The person says.

“What the hell are you doing in my house?” I look on in shock as Isaac grips the bat, stopping it just inches from his face.

“Maybe I was hoping to catch you in the shower.” He smirks.

I scoff, “You’re disgusting. Seriously what are you doing here?” I gently place the metal bat at our feet.

“I was going to talk to you at school but you were too busy getting asked on a date.”

I roll my eyes, “It’s not a date. I don’t like Matt like that.”

“Does he know that?”

“I told him I wasn’t ready to start dating again.”

“That doesn’t mean you don’t like him. And trust me, he likes you a lot.”

“Why does this concern you? Oh wait, it doesn’t.” I respond.

“Maybe it concerns me because I like you?” He says it as more of a question.

I narrow my eyes at him, “Are you asking or telling me?”

He smirks but stays quiet. I suddenly realize just how close the two of us are. His smirk widens, probably because he can hear just how fast my heart is beating at the revelation. “I really want to kiss you right now.” He mumbles.

Before I can stop myself I whisper, “Then what’s stopping you?” In an instant his lips cover mine, one of his hands are on my waist while the other is tangled in my hair. Both of my hands are tightly gripping onto his shirt trying to bring our bodies closer together.

I release the death grip I have on his shirt to instead lightly pull on his curly hair. He brings both of his hands to my butt muttering a ‘jump’ through the kiss. I do as he says then quickly pull away for breath. “My room,” I gasp out. He nods then starts to climb the steps as I lightly suck and nibble on his neck.

Isaac kicks my door shut as he lets out a low growl. He gently lays me on my bed and rips his shirt off, climbing on top of me. Our lips attach once more, his hands roughly grabbing at my hips, pushing my shirt up. We quickly break apart only to pull my shirt off then reattach our lips for a third time.

I break the kiss again so I can catch my breath, Isaac uses this moment to stat kissing my chest. Instinctively I push my chest closer to him as I moan out his name, “Isaac.” My hands grip his shoulders and legs wrap around his waist.

He places sloppy kisses on my chest and neck as my hands start to wander down to his jeans. I start to unbutton his pants but he stops me, pulling away. “What’s wro-” I cut myself off as his breathing becomes heavier and his claws start to grow from his fingertips. He quickly backs away from me and closes his hand into a tight fist.

“Isaac...” I tentatively whisper, slightly nervous that he won’t be able to regain control.

I sit up as he answers, “I’m alright.” He turns back around and opens his hands. His claws are now replaced by fingernails. “Maybe we shouldn’t try that again until I have control.”

I nod in agreement. Then quirk an eyebrow, “So you think we’re going to try that again?”

All he does is reaches down and tosses me my shirt with a small smile on his face. “Thanks,” I mumble as we fix ourselves. “I’m guessing that wasn’t the original reason why you came here?”

He looks at me and hesitates to answer, “No. Derek thinks you know who the Kanima is.”

“Derek’s a smart guy. I’m sure he can put it together.” I stand up and cross my arms as I answer.

“That’s all I’m going to get?” Isaac raises an eyebrow.

I nod, “And you won’t be telling anyone what happened between us if you want it to happen again. I don’t need my brother freaking out about me sleeping with a werewolf.”

Isaac smirks, “Are you sure you’re not concerned about what your date might think? Also, you think we’re going to try that again?”

I roll my eyes and flip him off but can’t stop the smile that falls onto my lips, “I already told you, it’s not a date. And about this,” I gesture between us, “You’re hot. So I personally don’t mind doing this again. Now get out of my house.”

#teen wolf imagine #series rewrite #sister mccall imagine #lydia martin imagine

[theawkwardterrier]

things left behind and the things that are ahead, ch. 15

AO3 link here

Peggy is thinking about the unpleasant meeting she has later in the day. She is thinking about whether or not to institute a typing element to SHIELD training. She is thinking about Thanksgiving coming up next week and how long she has been in this country if she’s actually beginning to remember the holiday. She is thinking of the lovely weather outside, and about what Steve might be making for supper. She is thinking of calling ahead to request something particularly decadent for dessert, as she’ll certainly deserve it after her meeting.

She is thinking all of that, and then Agent Azad appears in the doorway, white-faced, saying the exact words that make her forget all the rest.

The windows are almost entirely dark by the time she arrives home, though she can see the glimmer of the few lamps that Steve has left lit to guide her inside. He sits up waiting for her sometimes, but she suspects he wasn't sure whether or not she would be home before morning. She had doubted too.

She has the feeling that he's still lying awake in their bed, regardless.

He had caught her in her office that afternoon, around 2. He rarely calls there although he knows that she will always answer for him.

"I had the radio on," he told her, and though the timbre of his voice was familiar, the bleakness there was not. "I was tuning past one of the soaps and they broke in. Are you alright? How are things there?"

"It's absolute chaos." Her office was usually on the quieter side, set slightly away from the more highly populated areas of headquarters, but it didn't seem to matter today. She shut her door anyway, turning her back against it as she pressed the receiver to her ear and held the telephone base at her hip. "I should have pushed about the open topped car."

He was quiet, refusing either to blame or to speculate. Her phone line was likely not monitored, but it felt risky anyway. "I'm going to pick up the kids at school," he said instead.

"Now? It's nearly time for them—" she protested automatically, although the care of the children had largely and traditionally been his domain.

"I'm going to get the kids," he said again. "I'm going to bring them home."

She remembered, almost against her will, the way his voice had been steady, so steady, nearly entirely steady, as they had talked about dancing at the Stork Club after the war was over. She could hear the underlying tremble more clearly these days.

"Yes," she said. "Alright. I'll see you later tonight...well, later sometime. Kiss them all for me."

"I will."

She isn't hungry, although she knows that there would be a covered plate or a neatly arranged container in the refrigerator if she looked. She hadn't eaten earlier either, even once she'd been called to the White House and the vice president—President Johnson, newly arrived back in Washington, had requested some food. He was taking easily to the position, perhaps because he had always thought it should have been his.

She'd had to wait until the general meeting had ended, until the rest of the intelligence heads had taken their opportunities to brief their new commander in chief. Her briefing had taken a while even once she had the chance to start. She could see the strain in him by the end, and not only because it was now morning and he probably just wanted to join Lady Bird at The Elms, not only because the things that she was discussing were about more than diplomatic affairs or an understanding of weaponry systems. She recalled that he'd had a heart attack while still in the senate which had nearly killed him, and had to bring out her poker face to avoid the thought of the country moving further down the line of succession.

"You should get some sleep, sir," she had told him as she finished, and he'd laughed.

"The last time I slept, Director, the world was an entirely different place," he said. "You know what that's like?"

The poker face again. "I think I have something of an idea."

She switches off the lower floor lights and walks up the stairs. She carries her shoes in her hand, and the sensation of the carpeting against her feet feels particularly luxurious.

Nate’s room is first, which is lucky. An echo of terror grips Peggy’s heart as she imagines what would have happened if she had started elsewhere and found an empty bed. The two of them are curled together, Nate against the wall, And—Drea, Drea now, she must remember—Drea pressed close against him. This isn’t the first time Steve or Peggy has found them like this, though they have been a part of the family for close to nine months now, but tonight she suspects that the need for closeness came from something more than habit or a general desire to be with the person who has always meant safety. She listens to their deep, matching breaths for a moment before she closes the door and returns the room to darkness.

Rose's room next. Peggy’s eldest lies amidst tangled blankets, her face halfway mashed into the pillow. She has always been an energetic sleeper, seeming in motion even while dead to the world. Peggy remembers coming home some days to find her passed out mid-tantrum in the middle of the living room while Steve tiptoed around her, thankful for the reprieve.

The bedroom floor is a considerable mess, clothing dropped at random, stacks of books, crumpled pages overflowing the wastepaper basket. She will tell Rose to take some time to clean over the weekend. No, how can it matter? No, that will be the best thing, returning to normalcy, not allowing the uncertain fear to fester and become overwhelming.

Her own room is nearly across the hall from Rosie’s but she passes by it. She skips Drea’s closed and empty one now and walks to the end instead, to where Emma sleeps. The tiny shine of her nightlight is visible in the crack beneath the door. Her youngest daughter is not afraid of falling asleep in the dark, but she is afraid of awaking in it, unable to process the world, something Peggy certainly respects. They’ve kept a light on for her since she was old enough to ask for it.

Peggy cracks the door and peers around it, taking in Emma’s space. Her eyes roam past the open closet with the neat row of dresses swinging over the rod, past the dollhouse Steve had built, to the bed where Emma lies watching her back.

Peggy holds a finger to her lips and grasps the doorknob, ready to slip back out, but Emma sits up instead. She turns on her bedside lamp, squinting adorably and blinking through the return to full brightness.

“We ate soup for dinner,” Emma signs. Peggy holds back a wince. Steve’s soup recipe is one of the few he has left from his mother. When he makes it, the occasion is either especially happy or quite dire. “You weren’t here.”

Peggy comes closer, resting herself very lightly at the foot of the bed. “I’m sorry,” she tells Emma. “I was working. We got very busy.”

“Because President Kennedy was shot?” Emma asks, and it turns Peggy’s stomach a bit to see her small fingers forming first those famous initials and then the shape of a gun. “Daddy says the president is dead. He heard it on the radio. Somebody killed him.”

Peggy nods. For a moment that is all she can do. She gazes down at her hands until she knows that they will not tremble, even with simple exhaustion, when she raises them. “Yes. The president was killed.”

The afternoon of his inauguration, she had given Jack Kennedy the same sort of briefing that she’d just given his successor. The next evening, returned home to New Jersey, she had sat at the kitchen table with Steve and pronounced herself unimpressed. Oh, the new president certainly seemed charmed and charming, and one couldn’t deny the energy he brought to the country, but did he have the sharpness and decisiveness and balance to truly do the job?

“This is the presidency, not a garden party, and certainly nothing his father can simply fix up for him if he makes a mistake,” she had said.

“Give him time,” Steve offered. “He’s young. Sometimes you need time to grow into these things, and I guess he has enough extra now.” In another world, Bucky Barnes, unknown and unknowing, would shoot this president only a few short years later. In this one, Bucky was getting married next month. Steve allowed a smile to come over his face. He covered her hand with his. “And besides, he has you to guide him.”

She’d tried her best, but every time they met simply reinforced her earlier impression. The president was bright enough, but too stubborn on certain issues and too passive on others. He allowed his brother to argue his part in meetings, opening himself up to charges not only of nepotism but weakness as well. It was not truly her domain, but she had once demanded of him the precise reason he was not doing more to support civil rights work in the south, to push for better legislation, pressing him until he burst out at her in that ridiculous accent, “Not that your agency has any role in it, Madam, but I am the president of an entire country, and some of the citizens of that country see things differently than you do.”

“And sometimes those citizens are wrong,” she had snapped back. “And as a leader, it is your responsibility to do the right thing regardless of what it makes people think of you.”

He had sat down behind the desk and picked up some brief, giving only a single cold glance up at her. “I assume you can see yourself out, Mrs. Carter.”

Pouring her tea that night, Steve said, “Of course he isn’t right. But in some ways, he isn’t wrong either. He’ll need congressional support if he wants to get civil rights legislation passed and he isn’t likely to get enough of it.” He sighed and passed a hand over his face. “It was something that was able to be pushed through out of national grief. So the nation doesn’t mourn that one thing, but it will keep mourning in a different way.”

“Well.” Peggy set her jaw. “If they were able to pass a law then, we will pass it now. And before that, I will have the man standing up and publicly showing support instead of waiting on the sidelines and hoping that history will forget his faults.”

“Nana called,” Emma says, and for one brief and strange moment, Peggy’s mind translates the sign for “grandmother” and brings up an image of her own Grandmother Carter, who had passed at home during the war. She blinks it away. “She was crying - Rose said.”

Winifred Barnes wouldn’t hear a word against the man. The descendant of Irish immigrants, a Catholic boy who had managed to become president. She had cried when they had buried the baby a few months back. Peggy wasn’t surprised that she had cried today. “She—” Peggy nearly signs the word “admired” but changes without fully realizing the choice. “Nana loved the president. Many people loved him.”

“So why? Why did somebody kill him?” Emma asks, the signs coming faster now even as confusion is gritted across her features. “Why did somebody want to hurt Mrs. Kennedy?”

“Mrs. Kennedy being hurt - it was an accident,” Peggy tells her. That is the speculation at this point, at least. She had seen the woman first at the air field, then more closely during her visit to the White House. It had felt as if she was offering condolences to a ghost, albeit one with a heavily bandaged arm. (Someone had finally convinced her to take off the blood-spattered suit, but it had done nothing for the look in her eyes.) One of the bullets presumably meant for her husband had gone wide and needed to be removed by Dr. Burkley. What happened, Peggy supposed, when instead of a specially trained sniper, there was only a man with neglected marksmanship skills and a troublesome weapon who had somehow still managed to become an assassin.

Emma curls her knees up against her chest. “But why did he hurt anybody?” she asks with the stubbornness which is a near universal family characteristic.

Peggy holds herself still. “I don’t know,” she finally admits, the words forming slowly between her hands, as if she is dreaming them. Her mind has been racing all day with other possibilities: something international, something supernatural, someone inspired by hatred for a man finally standing up for racial equality, Hydra returned with its ugly and many-headed menace that they thought they had buried. “I think the man - he had troubles. He was angry.” In the end it would probably come back to that: simply this man and his rage. She barely has the energy to reflect the emotion in her face, certainly none for the foolish exaggeration they sometimes use to make Emma laugh. Her daughter doesn’t seem to notice. She yawns, but still looks ponderous. Her fluffy curls tremble as she shakes her head.

“Even if he was angry - it is not okay to hurt people.”

Peggy stands, using the motion to keep her face clear. She kisses the top of Emma’s head, guiding her carefully back toward the pillows even as she does. Her daughter’s hair smells like Johnson’s No More Tears.

“You’re right - it is not okay.” She tries to keep the words slow on her fingers, her expression calm. “But sometimes people do things that are not okay.”

“Then you catch them? You fix it?” Emma yawns again. Her signing is growing muzzier around the edges, her hands dropping onto the blankets as soon as she’s finished the question.

Peggy swallows. There are certainly occasions when she has been untruthful with her children - when necessitated by her work, the little fibs or kind falsehoods that parenting sometimes requires - but this feels more visceral. It is not the first time there has been a misstep in the way she and Steve try to guide things along. It is not the first time she has agonized over the choices she’s made, the choices that might have made things worse. Only this time, the whole country knows what they have lost. This time her own children will wake up a little warier, believing a little less in the world as they had known it, because their parents had the hubris to think that they could anticipate everything, shape the world as they wanted it between their hands.

“Yes,” Peggy lies. “Then we fix it.” She kisses her daughter again and then she turns off the lamp and creeps quietly out the door, shutting it behind her, leaving the room in just about darkness.

More chapters here

#Steggy fic #Peggy Carter #Steve Rogers #things left behind fic #I legit almost didn't post a chapter today because I was so *uninterrupted groaning* about this one #doesn't that make you want to read it?!

[maculategiraffe]

won’t you meet me at the gates to the garden

Little snippet: Nora and the gang, at the Castle, Halloween night. ~1500 words, and a lot of that is quotes from The Canterville Ghost. 

Happy Halloween, my darlings.

They can’t celebrate Halloween the way she remembers it, back in Sanctuary Hills, or before that, when she was a kid.  Dressing up in fancy store-bought costumes, based on TV and movie and radio superheroes: Grognak, the Silver Shroud, Mistress of Mystery.  Nora remembers going as a cat, a cowgirl, a witch, a hippie in thrift-store bell-bottom jeans and a peace sign painted on her cheek.  More nervous than excited, holding out a pillowcase or a pail for a neighbor to drop something into.  

She didn’t like how you weren’t supposed to say please.  Trick or treat, as if you might do something bad to people who didn’t placate you with candy.  She didn’t like that idea as a kid.  Still doesn’t.

Now Shaun’s the only kid around of trick-or-treating age, and he’s not the type to enjoy filling a sack with sugary treats at others’ expense, anyway.  He’d rather run around distributing any available treats to his brothers and sisters, and the other settlers at the Castle.

He’s enough like Nora that he doesn’t much like the idea of disguises, either.  Monsters are too real, these days, to take pleasure in the dressing-up of someone dear and familiar as someone, or something, less so.  

And the dead are-- well, Nora doesn't believe in ghosts, not that way, not seasonally.  If Nate can be here with her, and if there isn't a good reason why he shouldn't be, then he's here a lot more often than once a year.  

(She hopes he isn't.  She hopes he's with Shaun-- their first Shaun-- in heaven.  He believed in heaven, completely.  She's about fifty-fifty.  But if there is one, Nate's definitely there, and she can't imagine whoever's in charge wouldn't let him have his son with him.)

This time of year, she thinks more about the war, the bombs falling.  Ghosts, kind of, but not the fun, spooky kind.

But this year they’ve carved jack-o-lanterns, out of gourds and winter melons, scooping out the seeds to roast with a little salt and a little oil, carving cheerful, jagged-toothed moon faces and setting candles inside.  She was just going to show Shaun how, but then everyone else wanted to join in too.  After tonight-- after a night of bright faces all over the courtyard, grinning and spilling light-- she'll gather the gourds and melons and cook them, so the meat of them doesn't go to waste.  

It's Dee's turn to read aloud tonight, and he’s picked Oscar Wilde's "The Canterville Ghost.”  He’s reading outside instead of in the library, so they can all enjoy the jack-o-lanterns, for the little time they last.  The night's cool, but not cold; her kids curl against each other, for warmth and for love.  Shaun sits in her lap. Hancock's arm rests on her shoulders.  A real lantern, not a jack-o- one, lights the page, and Dee's face, in that spooky, atmospheric campfire way.  Dee has such a great voice for reading.  It's low and gravelly and dramatic as he reads,

"Right in front of him he saw, in the wan moonlight, an old man of terrible aspect. His eyes were as red burning coals; long grey hair fell over his shoulders in matted coils; his garments, which were of antique cut, were soiled and ragged, and from his wrists and ankles hung heavy manacles and rusty gyves.

"'My dear sir,' said Mr. Otis"-- Dee's voice switches registers, turns prim and nasal, so that everyone's laughing even before he goes on-- "'I really must insist on your oiling those chains, and have brought you for that purpose a small bottle of Tammany Rising Sun Lubricator. It is said to be completely efficacious upon one application, and there are several testimonials to that effect on the wrapper. I shall leave it here for you by the bedroom candles, and will be happy to supply you with more, should you require it.'"

Dee switches back to the dramatic voice to continue, "For a moment the Canterville ghost stood quite motionless in natural indignation; then, dashing the bottle violently upon the polished floor, he fled down the corridor, uttering hollow groans, and emitting a ghastly green light. Just, however, as he reached the top of the great oak staircase, a door was flung open, two little white-robed figures appeared, and a large pillow whizzed past his head! There was evidently no time to be lost, so, hastily adopting the Fourth dimension of Space as a means of escape, he vanished through the wainscoting, leaned up against a moonbeam to recover his breath, and began to try and realize his position. Never, in a brilliant and uninterrupted career of three hundred years, had he been so grossly insulted."

Shaun is having a fit of the giggles in her lap, struggling to breathe.  Everyone's laughing, as Dee keeps reading, about the family that just refuses to be scared.

"He laughed his most horrible laugh," Dee reads, "till the old vaulted roof rang and rang again, but hardly had the fearful echo died away when a door opened, and Mrs. Otis came out in a light blue dressing-gown. 'I am afraid you are far from well,' she said, 'and have brought you a bottle of Doctor Dobell's tincture. If it is indigestion, you will find it a most excellent remedy.''

"Oh my God," says Victoria, laughing.  "It's Mom!"

Even Dee cracks up at that, and loses his place for a second.  Nora laughs, breathless with happiness, with her family around her, in the darkness that makes the flickering golden light so incredibly lovely.

The story takes a sadder, sweeter turn towards the end, when the daughter of the family befriends the ghost.  Dee's voice goes soft, gentle, when he does her voice: 

"'I am so sorry for you,' she said, 'but my brothers are going back to Eton to-morrow, and then, if you behave yourself, no one will annoy you.'

"'It is absurd asking me to behave myself,' he answered, looking round in astonishment at the pretty little girl who had ventured to address him, 'quite absurd. I must rattle my chains, and groan through keyholes, and walk about at night, if that is what you mean. It is my only reason for existing.'

"'It is no reason at all for existing, and you know you have been very wicked.'"

"That sounds like Emily," says Michael, and everyone laughs again, and the story stays funny for a bit, until Dee's voice, his gruff rusty ghost-voice, changes:

"Far away beyond the pine-woods, there is a little garden. There the grass grows long and deep, there are the great white stars of the hemlock flower, there the nightingale sings all night long. All night long he sings, and the cold crystal moon looks down, and the yew-tree spreads out its giant arms over the sleepers.

"Virginia's eyes grew dim with tears, and she hid her face in her hands.

"'You mean the Garden of Death,' she whispered.

"'Yes, death. Death must be so beautiful. To lie in the soft brown earth, with the grasses waving above one's head, and listen to silence. To have no yesterday, and no to-morrow. To forget time, to forget life, to be at peace. You can help me. You can open for me the portals of death's house, for love is always with you, and love is stronger than death is.'"

Nora's eyes are stinging, now.  It's Dee's voice, the tenderness and the pain in it, the yearning.  

He reads on, and little Virginia bravely helps the wicked old ghost be laid to rest, and everyone lives-- or dies-- happily ever after, and everyone is quiet for a bit.  Shaun's asleep, slumped on Nora's arm and chest.

Nora's heart is full, overflowing.  He made me see what Life is, and what Death signifies, and why Love is stronger than both.

Max says, "Good stuff.  Good pick, Dee."

Dee shuts the book, as everyone murmurs agreement, and says, "Thanks.  I thought, you know-- I kinda forgot about all that heavy stuff, there at the end."

Cog says, "It was funny.  It was good."

"Thank you, Dee," says Danse gravely.  

Dee waves them off.  "Yeah, OK.  Bedtime.  For people that sleep.  Look, 2.0's already out."

The night rustles and creaks with everyone's rising, flashes as they move through light and dark.  

Nora stays still the longest, Shaun breathing in her lap.  Wondering, or imagining.

She isn’t afraid.  If they're here, the beloved dead, called by her longing, or by the thinness of the veil tonight, then they belong here, just outside this circle, making the dark gentle for the living.

And if they're not-- 

(Emily’s voice, remembered: Sleep is a sweetness, so I hear it said.)

Someday she'll be with them, wherever they are.

But no hurry.

"Here, ma'am," says Michael, reaching down.  "I'll carry Shaun to bed."

She shifts, lifts her smallest son towards her tallest, feels her husband's hand on her back, as Michael lifts Shaun's sleepy weight from her, as she begins to rise.

#fiction #how life goes on the way it does #nora bowman #grief

[brooks-schreave]

Brooks: Ficlet 1

Heyyyy it's Grace back with another poll-voted-royal-ficlet. Very sorry for typos! Also, remember that the selected don't know about anything said in this fic!

---------------------------------------------------------------

I straightened out my tie as I looked over my appearance in the mirror. I seriously hated wearing suits and even more, The Report. It's not like anyone was looking at me anyway, I should at least be able to wear something even slightly breathable.

Assuming I looked well enough, I glanced in the direction of Nate. “Nervous,” I asked. He was currently playing with his sleeves.

He shrugged. “Wouldn't you be?”

“Probably, but you won't have to do anything. Just sit there and smile. You'll be fine.”

He nodded. “Spoken like a true advisor,” he said as he patted me on the back.

“We start in ten!” A random woman with a headset bolted in and out of our room with the notice.

“Better get out there,” I shooed Nate out and followed him.

~

With all the bright lights, the large crowd, and a choking tie, I felt anxious. It was a well known fact I contained a bit of social anxiety and situations like this didn't help much.

I tried my best to ignore most of the show, only bothering to tune in when Harvey Steve started announcing names.

As I listened, it only hit me midway through that the names started to chant a certain mantra. Famous, high caste, famous, actress, influential, ties to royalty, etc. I frowned.

The main thing about the Selection was the randomness of the choosing. It just seemed bizarre how similar all the selected were.

I glanced around the room in search of any curious looks matching my own but found none. I looked towards my father. He was stoic with a pleased smile on his face. It did nothing to settle me.

~

I tapped my fingers against Mallory’s door. “Hey, Mal, you in there?”

“Yeah,” she called out. “Come in!”

I tentatively opened the door. Mal was cleaning off her makeup, something she only did when she was upset. She usually left her maids to do the honors. “You alright?”

She stopped scrubbing at her concealer and looked at me in the reflection of the mirror. “Just peachy.”

I leaned against her chair. “Let me guess, you're mad about the selection.”

She rolled her eyes. “That too.”

“Too?”

She turned in her chair quickly to look up at me. “It's just that the guys are going to be all over a whole new batch of crown-chasing posers just begging for fame. It's pathetic.”

“This wouldn't have anything to do with your little fantasy of you know who, would it?”

She turned back away. “Shut up.”

“Whatever,” I said, leaning back against the wall. “Have you noticed something a little off with the Selected?”

“What, that they're all completely desperate,” she giggled at her own joke.

“No, Mallory. It's that,” I began to pace, “they all seem weirdly famous o-or in a high-ish caste. I don't know, it just seems weird. It gives me this weird feeling and I can't help but listen to my gut an-”

“Woah, woah, woah, Brooks. Calm down. It's just the batch this year. There's nothing weird about it,” she claimed as she rubbed moisturizer on.

I stopped pacing and leaned back once again. “Yeah, yeah, you're probably right.”

“Honestly, Brookie, you and your conspiracy theories. It's as if you want something to be tragically wrong.”

My face fell. “That's not true.”

“Whatever you say.” Mal stands up and sits on her bed. “Hey, did you notice Clove was picked.”

I scowled. “How could I not?”

“You're, like, such a jerk.”

“What? Why?”

“You're unnecessarily rude,” she retorted matter-of-factly.

I frowned. “I'm charming.”

She snorted. “You're confusing yourself with Nate. Face it, Brooks, you'll always be the smartass brother. That's all.”

“Thanks, Mal. If it's okay with you, the smartass will take his leave,” I bit and left the room quickly.

Why did it always feel like that, like I was just some middle child in the shadows. There was Nate- the heir, Quinn- the first daughter, Mal- the exciting one, Max- the baby, and… Me. Just me.

I sighed and ran a hand through my hair, deciding to walk back to my room. Maybe I'd grab a book first. I could read myself to sleep.

I climbed up the stairs towards the floor containing the library. Most people were asleep by now or at least in their rooms, so my surprise was understandable when I could hear the faint murmur of faraway voices.

I followed the sound until I was standing behind a wall, eavesdropping. “...successfully chosen. I'm glad it all went according to plan,” the first voice said. “Yes, thankfully. Can you imagine what would happen if-” the second voice was cut off by a maid waltzing down the hall, linens in hand, heels clacking against the marble floors. I cursed.

I went over the voices again and again in my head. They sounded oddly familiar. Unsettlingly familiar. I shook my head and kicked off the wall. I made a beeline for the library doors, determined to look into this.

As I arrived, I immediately started ripping the history books off the shelves, searching for something. Problem was, I wasn't sure what I was looking for. Or if I even wanted to find it.

I put my glasses on quickly and flipped through the pages of each book, eventually coming up empty handed. I let out a frustrated groan. There's gotta be something, I thought.

I went to the journaling section and pulled out one last book. The Selection And Its Misguidance, the title read. I cracked it open and skimmed the pages before noticing messy cursive in the margins. I looked closer, trying to force myself to understand the writing but it might as well have been another language.

I shut the book quickly and clutched it in my hands. I sped towards my room and shoved it in a drawer. I had no idea what I was looking for, but I had a feeling that I was even more terrified of what I might find.

#brooks ficlet 1

[heyitsthatgirl]

Nights of Malta

It's a quiet night in Malta, the successful job in Malaysia wrapped up, when Elena receives a few unexpected phone calls. (My first foray into writing fic for this particular fandom and pair, so I hope it’s up to snuff! Any and all feedback is very much appreciated!) (AO3) (FFN)

It’s the quiet moments that stick, the soft brush strokes of orange and blue that bleed across the sky like watercolor, the gentle swell of a rising tide cresting against the old stonework of an ancient city on the sea. The rhythmic scratch of Nate’s pencil against his journal as the daylight dies on the glassy horizon, images of sixteenth century architecture mixed with boxy modern busses beginning to appear on the pages. It’s a habit, he says, an instinctive need to commit important things, cherished memories, to pages in a book. (She knows the feeling, the weight of her camera sitting heavily in her lap. Memory card full of images she intends to cherish for a very long time. Records of their life, their new adventures.)

There’s a gentle breeze blowing in from the sea, the salty air of the Mediterranean filling her lungs and tossing strands of blonde across her eyes. It’s only day two in Malta, but a girl could get used to this. The aimless wandering through ancient streets, a husband who won’t shut up about Knights and the Crusades and local legend, and the crystal blue water that greets her every morning. Well, maybe two out of three, anyway. She feels a nudge at her side, sucking her back to reality and the quickly approaching twilight, Nate nodding down at her lap as her phone buzzes in her pocket.

“You gonna get that?”

“Damnit,” she mumbles, shoving her camera into his hands as she fishes the phone from her pocket, swiping across the screen and tucking her hair behind her ear. “Elena Fisher— Oh, hello!” Nate’s eyeballing her carefully as he tucks his leather-bound journal into his pocket and drapes the camera over his shoulder. He’s got an eyebrow raised, his hand twirling, urging her to divulge more information, but she just gently smacks his hand away as she presses a finger to her ear, straining to hear the voice on the other line. “Oh? Tomorrow? And everything is… We’re good to go with the— I see. I see. Yes. Okay. Thank you.”

Quickly thumbing the screen to hang up, she twists to face him, a mixture of excitement and, perhaps, a little disappointment (just a little— goodbye relaxing vacation) painted across her face. “Well?” He asks, hopeful smile plastered on his face. So she simply shrugs and turns back to the sea.

“Crew arrives tomorrow, network’s given us the go-ahead to start shooting.”

He’s up like a shot, all fiery red in the glow of the fading sun, camera still swinging at his side as he beams down at her. “We got it?”

“We got it! They loved the Malaysia demo.”

“You know,” he starts, crossing his arms across his chest while leaning back against the rusty green railing behind him, “Part of me still thinks this is crazy.”

“Which part?”

“The top half,” he smirks at her before going on, “But then part of me knows we can actually pull this off.”

“The bottom half?”

“Oh, oh I see,” on a chuckle he bends down to grab at her hand, tugging her to his side and twisting her to face the sunset, “Joke all you want, Ms. Fisher,” he tuts, snaking his arm around her waist and pulling her against his hip, “But this, us, here… This is all you.”

“Malaysia did go pretty well, didn’t it?” She hums, letting herself relax ever-so-slightly into his grip, her cheek coming to rest against his arm.

“Well, those cable network idiots sure seem to think so,” he agrees, thumb brushing gently at the bare skin of her arm, “And I gotta admit, not getting shot at by thugs with guns is a nice perk.”

“It’s all about the perks,” she laughs, pulling back to look up at him, “Now come on, I’m starving. Treat me to something nice for all my hard work.”

“I think I saw a nice little kebab stand back there,” he’s already tugging her away from the vista and back to the quickly filling streets of evening travelers, “What are your opinions on shawarma?”

“Nate,” she groans, tugging his hand as he leads her into the twilight glow of streetlamps and cobblestone, “You’re ruining the moment!”

“Oh? Are you in more of a fish n’ chips mood?”

“Torture,” she sighs, letting her fingers slide between his as they make their way through the crowded city streets, “You’re torturing me.”

She can’t help but notice the shit-eating grin plastered across his face as they eventually make their way down a series of stone steps to an understated-looking Maltese restaurant. All soft lighting on the edge of a marina, in the shadow of a looming stone sentry box at the top of a small peak. She’d describe it all as old world meets new world, centuries-old stonework wrapped around glass and glowing fish tanks that play home to tonight’s main courses. As she’s about to jab her thumb into his ribs and tease him about playing his cards right tonight, she’s interrupted by her phone buzzing. Again.

“Crap,” she sighs, sliding the phone from her pocket as he cocks an eyebrow at her, “Go, go,” she shoos, “Get the table, I’ll be in in just a sec.”

“Maybe they called the wrong Elena Fisher before,” he teases and she’s shoving him toward the host stand.

“Order me something expensive.”

With a shrug and his hands thrown up in defeat, he wanders toward a young hostess in black while she slips back into the warm night air to bring her phone to her ear. “Fisher.” She says curtly, very much annoyed to be back on the phone, especially with her stomach growling as the smell of fresh fish sizzling wafts out the restaurant.

“El… Elena?”

The voice on the other end is male, faintly familiar, and definitely not the network executive’s assistant who had called earlier (female, British, mousy.) “…Yes? Who is this?”

There’s a long pause, and she can’t help but feel her chest grow tight, her pulse quicken. Like the mystery voice on the other line is about to deliver some kind of soul-crushing news. Like she should be steeling herself for some tragedy. It’s absurd, but it’s where her head goes on instinct. Knowing full well her husband is only a few hundred feet away, most likely fiddling with his flatware and attempting to order a glass of wine in stilted Maltese, she can’t stop herself from suddenly being back in a hotel room in Yemen. Hearing the words “pirates” and “shipwreck” and “no sign of survivors.”

She hears the man on the line puff out a breath, some kind of nervous, soundless chuckle, before he goes on, “It’s Sam. Sam Drake.”

Well, shit.

That feeling in her chest, the tight, pinched, something bad is about to happen sinking feeling is suddenly quadrupled and now she’s imagining her brother-in-law pinned down as goons with machine guns spray the side of a crumbling building. So sue her, it’s where her mind goes as he nervously clears his throat on the other end. Sounding not at all in danger or like he’s in the middle of a firefight. But damnit if that’s not what she imagines. “Sam?” She lowers her voice, as if Nate could hear through glass and mortar and suddenly appear at her side. But he doesn’t of course, though she still tucks herself into a dark corner at the side of the dimly lit building. “What’s wrong?”

He pauses again, but this time it’s shorter and he’s letting a small chuckle puff into the mic, “I, uh, why would something be wrong?”

“Well,” she begins, feeling her mouth draw into a tight, crooked smirk, “For starters you called me, not Nate. And secondly, you’re a Drake.”

“Fair enough,” he laughs, before going on hesitantly, “Actually… I wanted to talk to you. Just you.”

“Well that’s ominous,” she deadpans, peeking out of her shadow to eyeball the door to the restaurant. Still no curious husband with superhuman hearing. Her nerves calm just slightly, even if the phone call is still off the scale on the unexpected weird shit-o-meter. Not that she doesn’t know Sam, it’s just… Their only time spent together was gunning their way through hordes of armed mercenaries and that’s probably not normal in-law quality time (though she’s fully aware of what she’s married into. What’s normal anyway?) Still, she isn’t exactly used to getting evening phone calls from said in-law.

“Nathan isn’t around, is he?” Sam asks cautiously, and Elena laughs out loud because anyone listening in to this conversation would definitely get some weird ideas.

“He’s currently sitting inside of a very charming restaurant waiting for his wife to get off the phone, why?”

“No, I—” He cuts himself off, “You guys just did a job in Malaysia, right? It went well?”

“Why do I get the feeling this isn’t just small talk?”

“I know you guys are in Malta now, Nathan said a shipwreck job off the coast. World War One-era, isn’t it?”

“Uh huh…”

“Well, it’s just… I got this lead. Something possibly big, just off the coast of Sardinia, and I need someone I trust, someone who won’t dick me over on this and I—”

But before he can continue, she’s already sighing, rubbing at her temple and leaning herself against the cool stone, “Why, of all people, would you call me? Isn’t this something that the dynamic duo of Drakes should be discussing?”

“Well,” he begins, slowly, before going on, “I didn’t want to ask Nathan, I wanted to ask you. The last time I dragged him into something, I nearly got him killed and almost ruined his marriage. And I just thought, you know, I should ask you. Avoid all that… Shit.”

Elena can very much feel the beginnings of a headache start to settle in the back of her neck. Because for all his well-meaning, good intentions, Sam is still going about this all wrong. And now she’s the one in the position to try and set things right. “Look, Sam…”

“Before you say anything,” he cuts her off, his voice raised just an octave higher. He sounds desperate and it’s evident in his tone. “It isn’t a dangerous job. Just a dive and retrieve, and I need a partner I can trust going down with me. No war lords, no mercenaries. Just an old wreck with some valuable cargo.”

“Sam.” She stops him, her head falling back against the building and eyes searching up at the pinpricks of starlight dusting the night sky. Closing her eyes she sucks in a big breath of salty sea air, “First of all, Nate is the only one who jeopardized anything— life, marriage, so on. Not you. And, honestly, that’s something we’ve worked through and moved past. And secondly,” here, she pauses, opening her eyes to find the thin sliver of the moon peaking out through misty clouds overhead, “I’m not in the business of making my husband’s decisions for him either. Look, I know you mean well, and I appreciate that. But… The three of us? We’re family. And anything you think both Nate and I need to know, or be a part of, you gotta come to us, talk to us, together. None of this cloak-and-dagger stuff.”

There’s silence on the other end of the line and for a moment she wonders if she’s lost the connection. But then she hears him clear his throat, “No… You’re right, I’m sorry. It’s just. Well… I’m not very good at this. I don’t really know how to do the family stuff anymore.”

She smiles sadly at his confession and relaxes a bit against the wall, “Email me the details, Nate and I will look it over tonight. But we’re pretty married to our camera crew and network funding, so any side quests are gonna have to be on the QT, you know?”

“You guys lock down the deal?” His tone changes at once and instead of a timid, unsure man poking around in uncharted waters, he’s suddenly alight with excitement.

“Locked, loaded, set to shoot this week.” She can’t help but feel awash in pride. Proud of what they’d accomplished, how far they’d come, and what new adventures lay ahead, “Thanks to you, of course.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.” He says with full cheek, laughing as she shakes her head toward the mossy cobblestone beneath her feet. That’s when she hears it, footsteps coming toward her. A somewhat baffled, “Elena, what the hell is taking so long?” muffled by the sway of the tide in the harbor and the wind rustling through the trees.

“That’s my cue,” she says into the phone, earning an understanding, “Enjoy your dinner,” from the other end. “Shoot me the email, and we’ll take a look okay?” Sam agrees, says his goodnights, and they both hang up just as Nate approaches. Face all twisted into an annoyed, confused expression, one hand clutching a glass of what looks like it could be merlot. What she hopes is merlot. And he expectantly waves his free hand toward her.

“What?” She asks as she stuffs her phone back into her pocket and reaches for the wine glass. But he’s quick, pulling it back and cocking his head to the side to scowl at her.

“What what? I’m starting to get pitiful looks from the waiters. I think they think I’ve been stood up. Wait— have I been stood up?”

She just clicks her tongue between her teeth and snatches the glass away from him, taking a quick, defiant sip, “A little stewing in your own juices is good for you.”

“Clearly you never went to Catholic school,” he says as she pushes past him with a smile, his footsteps falling in behind her as he goes on, “I’m pretty sure that’s a cardinal sin.” She finally lets herself laugh as he reaches around her to pry open the front door of the restaurant. The incredible smell of aromatic spices, fresh cooked seafood, and steaming heaps of pasta hitting her in a sensory overload. Damnit she was hungry. “So?” He asks as he steers her toward the waiting table, a small setting for two against a glass railing overlooking the murky harbor water below. “Are you going to tell me about your mystery phone date or do I have to stew some more?”

“No,” she says as she settles down at the one untouched setting, his own glass of wine across from her already half finished and his napkin crumpled into a heap. Flatware askew, having been fiddled with. “No more stewing. It was your brother.”

“Sam?”

“Unless you’ve got another one lurking in the shadows somewhere.”

Giving his face a quick scrub, Nate settles back in his seat and looks up at her, “Well? What’s the crisis?”

She only shakes her head through a smirk, “That’s what I asked. But no, no crisis. Just a dive he wants some help with. I told him to send us the details and we’d take a look. He says it’s legit.”

“Why would he call you?” He begins as she plucks the evening’s menu from its perch on the table.

“Weird, right?” Her fingers tap against the paper, the mussels catching her eye, before she looks up at him, sighing, “He was trying to… Make up for Madagascar, I think. Asking for my permission. It was sweet, if not… Completely missing the mark.”

He laughs a bit at that, finally easing forward and propping his chin up with his fist, “I can only imagine what other surprises are in store for us tonight.”

Her mouth quirks in a knowing smile and she studies his face with a soft, wistful look. “Yeah,” she says gently, watching as he takes a slow pull at his glass of wine, “I can only imagine.”

#nate x elena #uncharted fic #elena x nate #nathan x elena #uncharted #myfic #im hella nervous about posting this buuuuut #i really need to polish my writing of these characters