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tieronecrush · 9 months

Text

hot & heavy

chapter eight: up north

neighbor!joel x f!reader

series masterlist

series rating: E (18+ MDNI)

series summary:

over the course of three summers, joel miller becomes woven into your life. the first summer is spent falling for him; nannying his daughter and sneaking around with him in a burning love affair. you know how you feel about joel, he isn’t so sure about how it all is gonna work. the second summer is brief. a month spent at home after graduation and before you move to boston for your dream job. one look at you, one time hearing your voice, and joel is hooked again. he pines over you for that month, but you think — how is long distance of over a thousand miles going to work for a single dad? the third summer, you return home burnt out and pride bruised from your post-grad life. you need time to feel at home again, like your complete self, so you’ve come back home with no return ticket booked. it’s only a matter of time before joel seeks you out, slowly spending more time with you. without an inevitable end to the summer looming over you both, what chances are you willing to take?

word count: 11k

warnings: NO OUTBREAK (don’t need to worry about the mushies), no use of y/n, inexperienced reader, age gap (joel is 30/31, reader is 22), canon-divergent (sarah is 7 y/o), nanny au, pet names (sweetheart, darling, sweet girl, mariposa, etc.), polite southern manners, feeling familial and self-pressure, undefined relationship, likely poor spanish grammar, pining joel, fingering, oral (m receiving), unprotected p in v, soft soft soft joel, sprinkle of possessive joel, Big Feelings

a/n: end of another summer of these two </3 this is the longest chapter by far but i hope you all love it!

h&h will be taking about a 2ish week break so i can catch up on requests and some other WIPs before we start the final summer!

i must say a huge THANK YOU to el @northernbluess for beta reading this behemoth chapter & previous chapters and always screaming about joel & mariposa with me. my sister wife/shared brain cell/sweet, sweet girlfriend (always willing to be the oscar to your pedro) 🥰

ok i will shush now, enjoy xxx

TO: Mariposa

Hey sweetheart, gonna head over to pick up Sarah now

Are you girls out of the pool?

Yep! Brushing Sarah’s hair out with some leave-in conditioner, got really tangled when we were swimming

Door’s open if you wanna come in :)

Joel deposits his phone into the pocket of his jeans before he steps out of his front door and walks across the grass to yours. He opens your front door and steps in, waiting in the entryway after announcing that he was inside.

You peek your head out from upstairs, looking down at him and smiling.

“Hey, stranger,” you bound downstairs, jerking a thumb behind you where you came from, “I’ve got a bunch of old childhood stuff like stuffed animals and dolls and books that I need to get rid of before the move so Sarah’s looking through everything in my room. I hope it’s alright that I told her to take what she wanted—”

Joel closes the gap between you and grins, shaking his head as he reaches a hand out to wrap around your waist. He pulls you closer with a gentle tug, kissing you sweetly.

When he pulls away, he leans in for one quick peck, rubbing his thumb in circles on your hip.

“Sorry, interrupted you…” He says with a laugh as you roll your eyes playfully.

“Yeah, how rude of you,” you kiss him one more time before continuing, “Anyways, I told her to take whatever she wanted. Not sure if you will be going home with a few things or all of it, so I apologize if it doubles the amount of stuffies that she already has.”

“It’s alright, Mariposa. No harm in her having something or a bunch of things from her favorite nanny,” he rubs your back as you turn to walk back upstairs, him close behind, “My favorite nanny, too.”

A hand dropped to your ass, he squeezes it while you climb the stairs ahead of him, chuckling softly at you reaching back to swat his hand away.

“Alright, hands to yourself, Miller,” you scold before walking down the hall into your room; he follows and smiles wide when Sarah looks up at him from a pile of stuffed animals around her.

“Daddy! Posey’s giving me some of her stuffies, and books, and dolls cause she’s the bestest. Should I take the blue elephant or the bunny with floppy ears?” She holds up both options for him to consider and Joel steps further into the room toward her, squatting down to look at them closely.

“Oh goodness, I’m not sure, Bug. They’re both very cute,” he rubs his chin as he thinks, a low hum as he looks between the two options, “I would say the bunny. How about you?”

Sarah grins and nods, setting down the elephant toy and holding the bunny against her chest, “I like it, too. Does the bunny have a name already, Posey?”

“Oh! Hmm, let’s see him…” you walk over to her and Joel, kneeling on your carpet next to him. Joel fidgets with his fingers, itching to reach out for you when you’re sitting that close. He keeps his hands on his knees, running his hands over the worn denim and focusing on the feeling of it against his palms instead of the warmth radiating off of you, the smell of the chlorine mixing with your perfume that he wants to lick off of your skin, the soft cotton of the oversized shirt that he wants to rest his cheek against as he lays with you.

God, all he wants is you. All the time.

“Now that I think about it, I think this bunny was one of my favorites when I was your age. I think I had decided he was a boy, and I named him Flopsy. You don’t have to keep that same name, sweet pea. I’m sure he would love whatever you wanna call him,” you grin and shrug your shoulders to her, picking up a different toy that sits in front of you.

“I don’t wanna call him anything different. I don’t want him to forget about you, Posey, so I wanna call him what you named him so he always thinks about you.”

Joel looks over to you as Sarah gets distracted going through your old Barbies and babydolls; your hand is pressed against your chest as you set the toy back on the floor, your other hand reaching up to swipe under your eyes. When you turn to face him, he offers you a sympathetic look that you respond to with a sad smile, tears in your eyes. You stand up, using his shoulder for support, and move to retreat to the hallway to give yourself a moment. He covers your hand at his shoulder with his, squeezing and giving you silent comfort before your touch slips away from him.

It’s another moment before he asks Sarah to wrap up with her decisions; he helps her gather everything she chose, slipping it all into a bag that you’ve lent her to transport her new belongings back to their house. He picks Sarah up as she yawns, holding her up with one arm and grabbing the bag in his other hand. One deep breath and he smells the same product that you use in your hair, pressing his head into his daughter’s hair to take it in entirely and giving her a kiss at the crown of her head. It constricts his heart in his chest, a reminder of your imprint on his life. Maybe it’s strange, but he makes a mental note to get the same product for Sarah the next time he’s at the store.

Joel and Sarah walk out of your room and meet you in the upstairs hallway. When you turn around at the sound of his footsteps, he can see the dried tear tracks and desperately wants to wrap you up in his other arm, to hold you there and do anything he could to make you feel better.

That same butterfly that normally stirs each time he looks at you drops from his chest to his stomach, the fluttering of wings turning into rolling waves of anxiety. He hates that feeling, one he hasn’t felt around you ever — it’s been there before you, and when you were away, but each time he has had you around, one smile or touch or even just a look quells his panic. His vision always tunnels on you, everything else that was affecting him falling away.

This moment though, it has the opposite effect. His tunnel vision on you spurs the rush of worry, seeping dread in between his ribs and making his chest cave in.

Without knowing what to do to help you, he clears his throat and speaks plaintively, “We’re gonna head out, Mariposa. Sarah’s got her haul here.” He holds up the bag a few inches, a benign smile that doesn’t reach his eyes passed to you.

A silent question exchange between the two of you with his eyes:

Are you okay?

To which you reply with a forced smile, still beautiful but not nearly as breathtaking as your genuine one.

“Bet you got all the good stuff, Sare-Bear. You’ve gotta tell me how all your new friends like your original stuffy buddies,” you guide them downstairs and Joel lingers in the door with Sarah, thanking you again for watching her and giving her some hand-me-downs to play with and read. You wave off his thanks and watch from the doorway as he crosses your lawn to his, the click of the door heard behind him.

Sarah speaks up from her head on his shoulder, her innocent tone asking him curious questions, “Why is Posey moving away from her house and her parents?”

Joel hikes her up in his arms, debating in his head on how to answer.

“Well, she got an adult job that she has to move for. She really wanted to do that specific job, and it’s far away from home, so she has to move.”

“What is her job?”

“You know when you see posters or billboards or commercials that sell things? Posey’s gonna be the one who comes up with all those ideas on how to sell those things.”

“That’s cool. I hope she gets to make one for Bratz or Strawberry Shortcake,” she picks up her head and looks at Joel as he opens the front door, “Is Posey gonna come visit before summer is over?”

“No, I’m sorry, mija. Posey can’t come back for a while, her job wants her to be around to learn all the things she needs to know for her job so she can’t take any days off like Daddy can sometimes.”

Sarah sighs and her shoulders fall, holding onto Joel’s shoulders as he brings her up to the bathroom to get the shower ready for her to wash off the chlorine.

“Can I talk to her when she’s gone? Like on the phone?”

“I’m not sure, Bug. I guess I would have to see if Posey’s okay with that. I’ll ask her; is that okay?”

When he sets her down, he sees the slight disappointment from his answer, clearly wanting an immediate yes to stifle her nerves about her nanny moving away.

“Well, aren’t you gonna call her, Daddy? Cause you’re friends? I can talk to her after you do,” she stands straighter, proud of her problem-solving skills and it twists his heart in his chest even more than the sight of you crying.

“Oh, mija, I don’t know…”

“I know what you can do! There is this boy named Luke in my class that told my friend Katie that he liked her and now they’re boyfriend and girlfriend and they spend every recess together. If you ask Posey to be your girlfriend, maybe then she would stay and hang out with us all the time!”

Is it possible for something to be incredibly adorable and incredibly tormenting at the same time?

How is he meant to answer that?

Why is his kid so perceptive? He was never this smart.

God damn him for actually trying to raise this kid well.

He kneels on the bathroom tile in front of her, making himself eye level with his daughter as he struggles to find an answer that will make sense to her unjaded mind.

“Mija, mi princesa, you are so smart. That is a very good idea, but I’m not sure if that would work for us. When you get older, it isn’t as easy to spend time with people cause life gets busy or people have to make hard decisions to move away or break up, like Mommy and I did when you were very, very little. I really like Posey and she is a very nice person, but she’s gotta move away, Bug. I’m sorry, mija.”

Sarah’s eyes well with fat tears, her bottom lip pouting in a tremble. She wipes at her eyes furiously as her tears fall, small hiccups shaking her body as Joel wraps her up in his arms, soothing her with soft ‘shhs’ and rocking her side to side.

“I know, Bug, I know. It’s sad when a friend moves away. But Posey will come visit, I promise. It’ll be okay, mi mariposita.”

It takes a few minutes to calm her down fully, but once Sarah is feeling a bit better, Joel gathers pajamas for her to change into and leaves the shower running for her. As he crosses the hall to leave the bag of stuff from you in her room, he pauses once it’s set on the carpet, digging the heels of his hands into his eyes to stop what’s brewing behind them. A single sniffle is felt in his nose before he shakes his shoulders loose, stowing away the feelings to unpack when he’s alone in bed tonight, without you to wrap his arms around and lay his head on.

The noise of the annual neighborly barbecue muffles as you shut the front door behind you, sighing softly as you find some peace and solitude on the front porch. Wood creaks under your feet while you cross the large open space, taking a few of the steps down and sitting on the edge. Smoothing the skirt of your sundress over your knees, you rest an elbow on your thigh and your chin in your hand. The street is quiet, everyone inside the house or out in the backyard; it’s been a while since you’ve seen the neighborhood this way, everyone always hustling and bustling up and down the road. You tune into little changes from the stillness — freshly cut blades of grass blowing across the sidewalk, the mailbox flag barely hanging on by a thread at the end of your neighbor’s driveway, your car parked next to Joel’s truck in front of his house. The last one hits you with a bit more feeling than simple nostalgia for your neighborhood. You volunteered to move your car to give room for others from around the neighborhood to park at your house for the party, and Joel, of course, insisted you take a spot at his.

It’s a glimpse into a life you could’ve had if there were a chance for you two. But you have the calendar in your room, counting down the handful of days that you have until that car is packed up along with a U-Haul and driven the nearly 2,000 miles to Boston. The week after, you start your new job, and from then on, you have no idea what is going to happen. Christmas will be spent away from home, the tickets to meet your parents at your grandparents’ place in Wisconsin have already been purchased. No summer vacation to look forward to next year, no date on that same calendar when you would be home again. When you would see Sarah. When you would see Joel.

Grieving what could have been — a life full of love with your next-door neighbor and his kid, two of the most important people in your life despite the short time they’ve been in it.

The Millers.

Joel, Sarah, even Tommy.

Maybe it could have been you, too.

The sound of the door opening and the rush of conditioned air takes you away from your thoughts, looking over your shoulder as Joel steps outside onto the porch, shutting the door gently behind him. He crosses the porch and stands next to you, grinning down at you and nodding to the spot next to you.

“Saving that seat for anyone?” One of his hands reaches out, smoothing the hair at the crown of your head. You lean into his touch, a coy smile on your face.

“Maybe…Do you have anything to offer for the spot?” You raise your eyebrows expectantly and bite back your own laugh when Joel chuckles. He pulls his other hand from behind his back, holding the necks of two bottles of beer.

“Matter of fact, I do. Is a beer a sufficient offer?” he removed his hand from your head to twist off the cap, handing the opened brew to you, “Could even throw in a kiss.”

“Hm, I think that might make me rescind the offer entirely,” you pull on a grimace, taking a sip of beer as Joel steps down the stairs and moves to sit next to you.

“Oh, fuck off, smart ass,” he shakes his head with a scoff, reaching to take your beer, “Gimme that back if it’s gonna be like that.”

You laugh and hold the beer on the far side of you, arm extended completely as you fight him off.

“Okay, okay, enough! I take it back — I was saving the seat for you and I would gladly take your offered kiss. It would certainly sweeten the deal,” Joel laughs at the exaggerated smile on your face, shaking his head again as he leans in and gives you a quick, chaste kiss.

“You fold pretty quick when your alcohol is threatened, drunkard.”

You scoff at the playful jest, taking another sip and sending him a knowing look, “You’re one to talk, Miller. I still have the singular voicemail you left me when I was away, and you literally told me how drunk Tommy had gotten you. Lots of other things were said, too.”

“That so? Enlighten me, please, Mariposa. What else was said?” Joel settles back, resting his weight on his hands with his arm brushing your back as he places one hand behind you.

“Nuh uh, you said never to tell anyone on the voicemail. I think that also applies to your sober self,” a smirk slides across your face, another swig of drink taken as you turn your attention out to the street again.

“What brought you out here anyway, darlin’? Too much going on in there?”

You shrug, looking down at the foamy bubbles popping in the clear bottle. Condensation drips around your fingers and onto the fabric of your dress, drying in no time thanks to the heat.

“Guess so. Lots of people asking me about the move. Just got to be a little too much, y’know?”

Joel sighs and nods, his hand behind you lifting to rub circles in your lower back.

“I get it, sweetheart. Is it getting real stressful? Not too many days to go.”

“Yeah, and it’s not something I want to think about. I wish I could have y’all pack up too and move with me, but I know I have to go on my own. Spread my wings,” you look at him at the last sentence, one side of your mouth lifting in the faintest of smiles. He looks away from you at the echo of his words from last summer, taking a large swig of his beer.

It’s quiet for a few beats before you speak again, a confession rolling out of you in the intimate moment.

“Part of me wonders what would happen if we had all of this last year, too.”

Joel leans forward, forearms resting on his knees.

“I wonder the same thing, cielita. But you wouldn’t have to stay now for us to work. I think we could make a go of it this time, y’know the distance thing.”

“Joel,” you shake your head, a disbelieving chuckle leaving your lips, “If we couldn’t make a three-hour drive work, how are we supposed to make a three-hour plane ride work? You have work, so do I. And Sarah would either have to stay at her mom’s or come with you if you came up.”

“I know. I know you’re right,” he looks over at you, the look on his face so vulnerable it nearly makes him seem like a young boy. Wide eyes, softened with pleading, lips pursed to one side, chin turned down.

There’s something lingering between the two of you, the feeling in your gut that he wants to say something else, but instead, the conversation is dropped, and both of you turn back towards the street, watching as the sunset bathes your home in pinks and oranges and reds.

He should have said it then. Sitting on the porch, the sun setting in front of you both.

He should have said it then. After you confessed that you wondered what you two would be if he didn’t say anything last summer.

He should have said it then. He should have told you he loves you.

He was nearly there, words on the tip of his tongue and butterfly flapping its wings aggressively inside of him. But then you had said long distance wouldn’t work and he chickened out.

He should have said it then.

He’s going to say it.

He has to say it.

Since retreating back inside with you, both of you breaking off and filtering into the crowds of neighbors, he hasn’t stopped keeping tabs on you. Each time he gets close to grabbing you to the side to tell you to meet him later, you get wrapped up in conversations with random neighbors wanting to wish you luck and give you their goodbyes.

God, do they really need to? Do they even know where you’re moving or what you’re doing? How are they even worth the time, worth the goodbye when they don’t even know you?

They’re wasting the time he has left with you, and the frustration is sitting hot in his chest.

When he is able to catch your eyes across the room or across the deck, your eyes lock with a charge, jolts of energy and tension shooting down his spine. His fingers itch at his sides to have you near, running over the material of his jeans to satiate his tactile need.

Toward the end of the night, he lost sight of you for a good while as he chatted with your dad and the neighbor on the other side of you, Mr. Taylor. Matt he thinks? At a lull in the conversation, he excuses himself to head inside in search of Sarah watching a movie in the basement with other kids.

Closing the sliding door behind him, he turns forward and sees you at the sink, alone and washing up from dinner. He smiles to himself, attempting a stealthy approach but his heavy footsteps fail him. Over your shoulder, you look at him and grin, pulling your hands from the soapy water.

“Hey, Miller.”

“Hey, Mariposa.”

The two of you stand in front of each other, silent with gentle, closed lip smiles. It’s quiet inside, the sounds of everyone outside muffled through the glass, and the sounds of the animated kids’ movie stifled by the basement door.

What really would happen if he just grabbed you and kissed you?

Knowing his luck, your parents, brother, grandparents, everyone in your family would somehow walk in at the same time and see their responsible neighbor, and your former employer, with his tongue down your throat and hands on your ass.

That thought keeps his hands at his sides, and your voice hitting his ears pulls him out of his imagination.

“What’s up with you? You have a weird look on your face,” you laugh softly, tilting your head to the side curiously.

“I don’t have a weird look on my face. I’m just lookin’ at you,” he shakes his head and rolls his eyes, grabbing a dish towel off of the counter and starting to dry the clean dishes from the rack, “Am I not allowed to appreciate how beautiful my girl is?”

A chortle from you makes him grin, shaking your head and bumping your hip against his as you slip your hands into the water to start washing again.

“I suppose I can’t stop you from looking and thinking unless I blindfold you. But I need help drying and don’t want to clean up broken glass from you dropping something while blindfolded.”

“I am not that clumsy, Mariposa. Plus, I would clean up after my mess. Always do,” he nudges you at his side, grabbing another dish to dry and checking the time on the oven.

“So, I gotta go get Sarah home soon, but would you maybe wanna come over to my backyard once this all dies down? I wanna hang out with you,” he focuses on the dish in his hands, polishing it dry and setting it down as he glances at you.

“I’d love to come to hang out with you,” you place another clean dish in the rack, drying your hands again and waving him off, “Go grab Sarah, it’s getting late and I haven’t heard much noise downstairs so something tells me they’ve all crashed from their lemonade and popsicle sugar highs.”

Your quiet giggle brings a smile to his face, feeling as eager as a teenager to hear his crush say yes to going to the dance with him. He takes one step closer, only a few inches, and looks at you, biting his lip with a grin.

“I need you to know that I really want to kiss you right now. Like real, real bad.”

Your laugh makes that damn butterfly thrash its wings even faster inside of him, floating up to his head and making him nearly love drunk enough to forgo the boundaries around your house, around other people, and kiss you right now.

“Go,” you press on his chest and turn him around toward the entrance to the basement, “I’ll see you later, you can kiss me then.”

“Better hold up that promise, sweetheart. My feelings are still hurt after you nearly denied me earlier on the porch,” he winks over his shoulder and chuckles at your eye-roll. He makes his way downstairs, smiling when he sees all of the kids passed out with the home screen for Monsters Inc. on VHS playing over and over again. Scooping up Sarah from the couch, he holds her to his chest and slips out the front door upstairs and over to his house to wait for you.

TO: Mariposa

Heard everyone heading out from yours. I’m on the porch at mine whenever you wanna come over

Joel sends the message and watches the screen for a reply, bouncing his leg while he sits at the table on his deck.

“Long time, no see, cowboy,” you bound up the stairs and over to the table, producing two cold beers from behind your back, “Brought refreshments.”

“So polite of you not to show up empty-handed, darlin’,” he stands and steps over to you, taking the beers from you and clasping his free hand around one of yours.

“Of course, sir. Always polite, you know that,” you smirk when a groan rolls out of his chest, shaking his head at your teasing and leaning down to run his nose along the side of yours.

“Guess it’s only polite if I ask, so, may I please have a kiss, mi chica dulce?”

“Hmm…” You act like you’re thinking, squinting your eyes and tilting your head from side to side. Joel huffs again and drops your hand, wrapping an arm around your waist and pulling you flush against him.

“Pretty please?”

“Well, if you add the pretty,” a giggle slips from your mouth before Joel is dampening the sound with his lips attaching to yours in a heady kiss. A whimper is breathed from your mouth, your arms sliding up his chest and hooking around his neck to hold him against you. He lets his own sigh out, melting his tongue into yours and savoring the taste of you.

After a moment, you pull away, eyes fluttering open and staring up at him through your lashes with kiss-swollen lips still parted.

“Really glad you asked so nicely,” you laugh quietly and smile with closed lips, leaning up for a quick peck.

“You wanna sit here or inside or—”

“Tire swing! I wanna sit on the swing with you,” you beam at him, pleading with a pouted lip as he considers, sighing dramatically and retaking your hand.

“Lucky you’re cute, Mari. Lead the way,” he nods towards the stairs and laughs to himself as you eagerly guide him toward the far end of his backyard. Joel sets the beers on the ground, helping you to get onto the rubber swing before handing you the bottle and climbing onto the tire, starting a slow momentum and settling his legs on either side of you across the swing. Joel opens the bottles of beer, passing you one and cheersing with you.

It’s quiet for a beat as he leans his head against the rope next to him, taking you in with an amorous gaze and studying your features before he feels compelled to fill the silence.

“Can I tell you somethin’ Sarah told me the other day?”

Your grin is sleepy but eager, nodding slowly as you lean into the motion of the swing, “Course you can. I always wanna hear about Sare-Bear.”

He reaches for the backs of your legs, pulling them up and over his to entangle yourselves further.

“She was very sad about you leavin’ and was asking me a bunch of questions about your job and you movin’,” his fingertips skate over your bare calves, eyes trained on the soft skin shining with the trails of condensation from his fingers, “And one of her questions was if I was gonna call you, and if that she could talk to you on the phone after. She came up with the genius idea that I should ask you to be my girlfriend 'cause her friend Katie became this kid Luke’s girlfriend and they hang out every recess so if you were my girlfriend, then you would hang out with us all the time.”

“Oh, what a sweet pea she is. That is incredibly adorable.” A hand rests on your chest, Joel clears his throat before he continues, the words flowing out of him without any second thought.

“It is adorable. And it got me thinking, that maybe I should be fully honest with you before you leave so that you know exactly where I stand. I don’t wanna hold anything back with you anymore.” The butterfly inside of him has multiplied, feeling like thousands released in his chest as he looks into your eyes.

“Whenever you’re around, I feel like there’s a butterfly just fluttering around in my gut and up into my chest. I feel light as the air around you, completely calm with just one smile from you. And right now, I have to admit, it feels like there are about a thousand butterflies inside of me.”

“Te amo. I love you, mi Mariposa.”

He holds his breath, awaiting any response from you.

Are you speechless? Or thinking?

It’s been quiet for a good minute now.

“Joel…”

Fuck, that isn’t good. That is not a good ‘Joel’, that’s an ‘I’m about to say something that will upset you’ ‘Joel’.

Fuck, fuck, fuck. What could you have to say?

You told him last year. Months ago. Did everything change that much? Don’t you still love him? He thought he had understood some signs, but maybe he was blinded by his own feelings.

No. This isn’t how this is supposed to go.

He says it. You say it back, he kisses you, takes you inside, shows you how much he loves you, and you would consider staying. Consider long-distance even. Choose him in some way.

That’s what was supposed to happen.

Temper rises with bile, burning his throat and bringing stray tears to his eyes and a tingle to his face. Power manifests itself in the clench of his jaw, certain that he’ll break a molar the longer he keeps this wire-tight press of his teeth together.

Nothing from you, still.

Fuck this.

“Is there anything you can say?” He hears himself as if it isn’t him speaking. It doesn’t sound like him. There’s venom woven in every word, the question spat out as if it’s bitter in his mouth. The self that is outside of him, screaming at him to shut up watches you deject, shoulders dropping and the corners of your lips turning down as tears line your bottom lids.

“Um, yeah. I’m sorry, I was going to say something I was just surprised…” your fingers are nimbly gripping the neck of the bottle, focus completely on the light amber liquid, “I don’t know if I can do this right now. I’m moving, and I don’t know when I could be back…”

Nope. Nope, nope, nope.

This can’t be happening.

And there’s no way he can bring himself to say anything more, all he wants to do right now is get up and go inside, alone, and slam a few more beers to forget this even happened.

“It’s alright, darlin’. We don’t have to do this right now,” he clears his throat and avoids your eyes, body heating under your pitiful stare, “I think I’m gonna head inside. It’s late and I should probably be there in case Sarah wakes up lookin’ for me…”

His hands gently move your legs off of his, gracefully getting out of the swing quickly and rubbing the back of his neck as he nods up to his house.

“Stay as long as you want. I’ll, uh, maybe I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“Joel—”

“Night,” he adds your name at the end, the syllables foreign on his tongue after not speaking them for so long. You’ve been his Mariposa, Sarah’s Posey, even every affectionate nickname he could think of instead of your God-given one. It’s beautiful, of course it is, but the sound feels clunky in his mouth, short against his lips as he starts to retreat, to seek out those walls he feels so comfortable hiding behind.

Standing in your room with open boxes and plastic bins piled around, you can’t seem to quite focus on the task at hand. Your mind keeps replaying the end of last night — watching Joel’s face, hearing his frustration, seeing those walls go up in real-time. And hearing your name, clipped with his ‘goodnight’ as he withdrew from you, physically and emotionally, made you nearly feel sick to your stomach. It sounded so uncanny coming from him. You weren’t only ‘you’ to him, you were his ‘Mariposa’. With his voice repeating your name echoing in your head, you resigned to packing up more of your books and knickknacks, wondering what Joel was thinking about.

Maybe he shouldn’t have left you sitting there, alone and upset in his backyard, but God, his skin felt like it was burning him from the outside in, breath tight in his chest and barely squeezing out of his lungs. He settled that night, taking a pause to figure out precisely what these physical symptoms meant for his feelings.

He had been anxious to tell you such a big thing; it was a huge step for him so he was already on edge. He hadn’t said it to anyone, romantically, since Tiff. And looking back, he isn’t even sure he meant it. He’s sure with you though.

And when you said nothing, his anxiety turned into fear which mounted into frustration and anger. Mostly toward himself; he was frustrated he put himself out on the line to get hurt, but he was also admittedly a bit frustrated with you or his misunderstanding of you. He really did think you would say it back. It hadn’t been that long ago that he’d heard it from you. He’s reeling a bit, the boil of his irritation toward the situation he’s created is now simmering in his gut.

Sarah had come over to swim again, not wasting any time hanging out with her favorite nanny in the mere three days you have left at home. The two of you have a blast for the afternoon and evening, eventually drying yourselves off and heading inside to wait for her dad to come and pick her up. There’s no message this time, only a ring of the doorbell. Another tell that he’s stewing with something — upset, frustration, resentment?

When you answer the door, you tell him that Sarah’s changing into some dry clothes in the bathroom. You give him a sympathetic smile, heart racing as he steps inside after your invitation. Awaiting the moment he grabs your hand, wraps you up in his arms, rubs circles in your lower back — any of those little touches he’d sneak in when you’re alone, no stolen kisses ‘cause he just needs one’ — but those moments never came. Sarah came bounding out of the main floor bathroom and Joel scooped her bag from her, taking her hand and leading her home with a curt nod goodbye to you.

If he loves you, why is he acting this way? Did he really not mean it? Was he saying it only to appease you, what he thought you had wanted from him?

He knows he’s making things worse by being so closed off to you. But no matter how he tries, his mind keeps bringing him back to that moment where your face fell as he said the words. How instead of happiness, affection, and love of your own painted across the beautiful face he’s studied for hours, you were sad, disappointed, and even afraid of him when he lashed out bitterly.

Bile has been eroding his throat for two days now since he told you, and it is tasting more and more acrid as it sits there. It takes like his anger, his frustration, his avoidance. His disappointment in himself, his shame that he made you feel so small, so ignored.

It’s the afternoon before you’re meant to be leaving. You have the last bits of packing to get done, sitting on your bed with the curtains open and some of the last sips of Texas sun that you’ll have for a while seeping into the room. In front of you are mementos from the last few years — old movie tickets, photos of friends, football game souvenirs from college. Most are placed into a pile to be put into a shoe box to live here at home, to be opened years from now when your parents beg you to finally get rid of all of your things from their house. The few that don’t make the stay pile are memories of your family — vacation photos, funny gifts from your parents, the newspaper clipping of his first No Hitter game that your brother pitched in college. The very last item brings tears to your eyes — the tiny little butterfly magnet that Sarah begged Joel to buy that day at the farm, slipped into your hand the next time she saw you and told you it was for your new house. Looking at it with blurry vision, the colors of its wings kaleidoscope before you shut your eyes, sniffling and clutching it to your chest.

Joel watches you from his window, again, but this time it’s a much different sight. He’d come up here while Sarah is engrossed in her coloring book, needing a moment of peace to attempt to turn his brain off. It feels like these bad feelings are going to last forever; carved into his chest forever. But, as he reminds Sarah when she’s angry or upset, it will end. The disappointment in himself has evolved into understanding — you were scared but for good reason. You said those words to him last year when you had felt them, and he ignored them. He burned you so badly that you must have blistered scars on your heart that haven’t quite healed. He jumped to his anger, not bothering to pay any mind to what that moment must have been like for you. How terrifying to say anything, in fear it would be the wrong thing again.

Seeing you sitting on your bed alone and wiping at your eyes, he feels like the biggest idiot. Not only did it take him way too long to come to understand you, but he wasted what little time he had left with you. The person he loves, his Mariposa, is leaving, for real and possibly for good in less than 24 hours, and he’s let 72 pass without a second thought.

The two of you may only be transitory, seasonal in your time with each other, but he’ll be damned if he doesn’t try to make his love for you feel endless.

TO: Mariposa

You probably don’t want to hear from me right now but please come over tonight, sweetheart. I really want to talk, and I understand if you don’t wanna listen but I’ll come banging on your door and begging.

Please Mariposa

I’ll be over at 9.

He’s been restless ever since he tucked Sarah in about half an hour ago. All afternoon and evening, he rehearsed what he wanted to say to you, whispering it under his breath until he perfected it — all of his feelings laid out, nothing missed.

Shortly after 9, a weak knock comes from the front door. Joel shoots up from his spot on the couch, shaking out his shoulders and attempting to calm his inevitable nerves while he makes the short distance to the entry. A sweaty hand grips the doorknob, opening it to the sight of you in biker shorts and an oversized Astros t-shirt. Arms crossed over your chest, shoulders rolled forward, shrinking yourself in front of him. You look tired — of packing or of him, he isn’t too sure.

“Hi.” The word gets caught in his throat and he clears it, hand twitching at his side, overwhelming need to join your hands at the very least tingles his fingers.

“Hey.” It’s breathy, exhaled with a sigh and your shoulders drop back slightly.

You step inside after he opens the door wider for you, shutting it with a click of the lock and nodding for you to lead the way into the living room.

“You could use your key, y’know. Knew you were coming over, darlin’,” he tries to lighten the mood between the two of you, the jest falling to the ground between you two when you shrug.

“Didn’t really seem right to do…I didn’t know if you wanted me to even have the key anymore. It is from last summer so—“

“Don’t be silly, sweetheart. It’s yours. You’re always welcome here, whenever.”

Silence covers the room as you nod, taking a seat at one end of his leather sofa. You curl your legs under you, settling with a throw pillow in your lap. The position makes him assume you still feel comfortable here like you have a small claim over the space.

He thinks you do, he sees you in every little thing. The way you reorganized his kitchen, flitting around expertly at Sarah’s birthday last year.

You won’t be around for her ninth birthday this year.

He sees you in the throw blanket and pillows that you encouraged him to refresh. You’d complained about how crumpled they were, how they looked like they came as a set with the sofa. They did, he didn’t see anything wrong with them, but he knew it would bring a smile to your face to see new ones. And it did.

He needs to make more changes for you to smile at when you come back.

He hears you in little mannerisms of Sarah’s now, her calling him ‘cowboy’ the other day and her spewing all the gardening facts you’ve taught to her. Nearly made his heart burst — little reminders of your impact on not only his life but his daughter’s too.

You’ve made both of their lives infinitely better since they met you.

There are not enough ways to say ‘I love you’ that tell you what you mean to him. What he feels for you.

“Um, so what did you—You said in your text you wanted to talk?” Nervous fingers run over the threads of the pillow’s pattern, Joel watching you fidget as he finds his own seat opposite of you on the couch.

“Yeah, yes I did…” he sits up, a hand running through his hair before he runs them up and down his denim-clad thighs, “I owe you an apology, darlin’.”

“I’m sorry for leaving you in the dust the other night, I’m sorry for dropping that all on you when we didn’t have much time together, but I needed you to know. I don’t regret telling you, but I regret how I reacted and how that must have made you feel. Lashing out. Being bitter. Closing off and avoiding you. That wasn’t fair.”

“It’s no excuse for how I acted but I was so nervous to tell you, and when you didn’t respond, I got so scared and that turned into frustration — at myself — and I took it out on you. I was mean and then I completely shut down. I am so sorry if I made you feel anything like how I have felt for the last three days because of what I did last year. I never wanted to hurt you, and if you spent the last ten months feeling like this? That's a lot of hurt to cause you.”

“I’m just—I’m sorry, Mariposa. I understand if you don’t want to accept any of this and want to leave and never speak to or hear from me again.”

Nothing is said for a moment, and it takes him back to that moment a few days ago, bearing his soul and waiting with his lungs seized up, breath held inside.

His eyes meet yours when you flick them up from your lap, voice meek, “I’m sorry I’m quiet, I’m just thinking…”

You look as if you’re bracing for him to be annoyed with that, and he slumps forward in failure, standing up and walking over to you, kneeling in front of you. His hands hover over you, unsure if you want his touch until you nod minutely. He runs his palms along your thighs, settling them next to your hands in your lap.

“Sweet girl, you don’t have to apologize for that. I’m sorry I got angry last time. I don’t ever want you to feel like you can’t take any sort of time you need with me. I’d wait for you forever, darlin’. You talk to me whenever you’re ready.”

“I want to talk to you, I do. There’s so much going on in my head right now,” you laugh sadly and look down at his hands on your thighs, laying your own over them, “I didn’t mean to make you nervous or scared or frustrated. I was surprised, and then I got nervous, too. I couldn’t find words to tell you what I was thinking but I—I don’t think I’m ready to say it again. I care about you so, so much, Joel, but I’m leaving tomorrow and—and I don’t know when I’ll be back…”

You sniffle and look up at him, the look on your face nearly crushing his heart to crumbs. There’s anxiety in your eyes, looking around everywhere but his gaze, the corners of your lips downturned into a pouty frown. A crease between your brow, he can see the frustration you feel. Without a second thought, he reaches up, rubbing away the line and relaxing your brow. You lean your head into his touch, palm gently skating along the side of your face to caress your cheek.

“I know. It’s alright, Mariposa, I understand. You don’t have to say it back. I know I hurt you before, and I didn’t have the thought that you wouldn’t be ready now. But I told you, I don’t regret it. I love you. I would wait if you asked me to.”

“Joel, I can’t ask you to do that.”

“But I would if you did.”

“I’m not going to do it.”

“Not asking you to. Just telling you I would.”

A chuckle falls from your lips as you roll your eyes playfully, bringing a faint smile to his face.

“You’re ridiculous.”

“I’m in love. That’s not ridiculous, amor.”

“What a line, Miller.”

“Did it work?”

Another laugh, your gorgeous smile peeking through your emotion, and the butterfly inside him flapping its wings again. His thumb brushes along the high point of your cheekbone, locking his eyes with yours.

“Maybe it did, maybe it didn’t.”

Joel smiles wider, inching closer with his knees aching in the door.

“Stay the night? I’ll set an alarm for you to get back home. I jus’ wanna hold you, Mariposa. Fall asleep and wake up with you, while I still can.”

His hand moves from your face, pulling you forward from the back of the couch and wrapping his arms around you. He lays his head in your lap, your warmth easing his eyes closed. A low hum rolls from his chest when he feels your fingers card through his hair, pressing his head against your touch like a cat.

“Let’s go to bed, honey.”

Sighing, he opens his eyes but leaves his head in your lap, arms tightening around you.

“Gimme a second, I like sitting like this.”

“You’re gonna kill your back sitting like that, hon. C’mon, we can lay down upstairs,” your fingers leave his hair and he whines quietly, chuckling when you poke the side of his head before running your nails across his shoulders. He groans involuntarily, picking his head up and tugging you to the edge of the couch.

“Gonna need you to do that again, darlin’. But first, ‘m taking you to bed.” He stands and offers you a hand, helping you off of the sofa. You walk ahead of him, at least one hand kept on you the entire way up to the second floor and into his room.

Slowly shutting the door with a click, you turn over your shoulder and give him a delicate, closed smile. He’s drawn to you like a tide pulling him in, his arms finding their place around you and his lips finding their place against yours. It’s a fragile kiss, feeling with one false move the moment will shatter and reality will seep in and cloud this embrace. But for now, Joel allows himself to indulge in the narrative that his imagination is giving him; there’s no job in Boston for you, no moving truck parked in your driveway a hundred feet away. Instead, it’s him, standing with you in what should be your room, too. Kissing you so tenderly simply from the fact that he feels it’s what you need right now, what he needs. It’s another night that he is dying to show you how much he loves you, how much he cares. He would do it every night over if it meant you would stay, and right then he finds himself asking whatever power might be out there to give him a Groundhog Day situation so he never has to get to the minute he says goodbye.

Lips pull away from each other, you staring up at him as he rests his forehead against yours, eyes flickering back and forth between yours. His hands around you slip under the hem of your shirt, seeking out skin. Fingers splayed across your back, he lifts the fabric up, voice hushed as he speaks.

“You’re so beautiful, amor.”

You give him a bashful smile, one of your own hands finding space at his upper back underneath his t-shirt, “So are you.”

Another feathery kiss. Joel guides his nose along the side of yours, crossing your cheek to press a kiss to your jaw, hiking your shirt up higher as he raises his hands on your back.

“And so smart. Way smarter than me—”

“That’s not true,” you breathe out as his lips find a spot on your neck, grazing his teeth before soothing the skin.

“It is, darlin’, and I have no issue with it. You’re smarter than me, kinder, more patient, funnier…” He pulls your shirt over your head, kissing you again before the fabric is fully off of you. A heavier exchange; throaty, inhibited moans slipping between you two. The sound, and taste, and feel of you are making him lightheaded with desire, blood rushing below his waistband.

“Made me a better man, Mariposa.”

Your mouth drops from his with your chin, his own shirt getting tugged off and discarded with yours. He closes his eyes when your silky skin, such a contrast to his worker’s hands, grazes his cheek. Your thumb on his cheekbone encourages his eyes open again, a beat of silence exchanged before you speak.

“You were already a great man when I met you, Joel.”

“I don’t feel like one without you.”

“You are,” you rasp to him, trailing kisses on his chest as you work the button of his jeans open and his zipper down, “You’re honest. Confident. So incredibly thoughtful…”

You’re walking him backward toward his bed, pushing the denim down his legs. He kicks them off as he sits down, your hands find his shoulders and scratch your nails along them like you had before. Goosebumps spread over his skin, mouth falling ajar as he breathes heavily at the sight of you sinking to your knees in front of him.

“You’re solid, steady. Reliable. You make me feel so safe, so cared for.” You kiss the plushness of his belly, one of his hands holding your head as you rub your cheek against his hardness and kiss the spot where his tip is through the thin fabric. Another chill runs through his veins, your gentle affections overwhelming him.

It’s a blur as you strip him of his boxers, his hands cupping under your breasts as you stand to remove your shorts. You’re back on your knees in front of him, a deep exhale from his chest when you wrap your hand around his hard cock; the sight of you dribbling spit onto him causes him to shudder a moan. Your motions are slow and deliberate as you stroke him, kissing his tip. Fingers run through your hair, the warmth of your mouth enveloping him as you start a measured pace.

“Fuck, sweet girl…So good to me, so good for me always.”

As you swallow once around him, his head falls back with a reserved moan of your name, tilting his chin back down to look at you.

“Feels so perfect, sweetheart. Eres todo para mí. You’re everything to me.”

He hears a hum from you in response, the vibrations adding to the sensation. You work him toward a high, chest rising and falling shallowly. Before he can come, he eases your mouth off of him, shaking his head.

“Wanna come inside you, mi Mariposa, c’mere.” He helps you to stand, crawling back on the bed and pulling you over him. Catching your lips with his, his hand slips between your thighs, sighing as he feels your arousal coat his fingers. As he teases your entrance, you stop him with a grip on his wrist, pulling out of the kiss.

“I want you now. I wanna feel you.” Dilated pupils in your pleading eyes face him, brow knitting with concern.

“Baby, I don’t wanna hurt you.”

“You won’t. You would never. I want it, please,” you give a sly smile, pursing your lips, “Plus, I’m leaving tomorrow. You have to gimme what I want.”

Joel chuckles, shaking his head as he pulls his hand away, your grip loosening as he brings his glistening fingers to his mouth to suck clean. He holds them there, attempting to memorize the taste of you. Your hand tightens at his wrist again, coaxing his fingers away from his mouth.

“You’re right, Mariposa. Anything you want, I’ll give to you.”

“Can I—Could I try…” you trail off, looking down coyly.

“What, darlin’? What do you want to try?” Languidly, his palms run up and down your sides as you sit on his thighs, his back against his headboard.

“Could I try being on top?”

He smiles widely at your question, the sweetness in your voice taking him back to last summer, experiencing your firsts with you.

“You wanna ride me, sweet girl?”

A nod keeps his smile there, leaning in and kissing you — all teeth.

“I’m yours, sweetheart. Take what you need, amor. Déjame ser lo que necesitas. Úsame. (Let me be what you need. Use me.)”

A nervous walk on your knees brings your wet cunt to hover over him, one of his hands wrapped around the base of his cock while the other guides your hips. You grip his shoulders tightly, your nerves taut in your forearms. When you start to sink onto him, your face contorts with uncertainty, a look he can’t distinguish between pain or pleasure.

“You okay, darlin’? Does it hurt?”

“No, no. Well, a little, but I wanna keep going.”

“Maripo—”

“I can do it. I can take it.”

Hearing that dries his mouth, his face heating up with a craving for you.

“Okay, baby. Keep goin’. Talk to me.”

You whimper as he fills you up more, still not fully wrapped in your walls. Your brow relaxes as you adjust to the stretch of him, tongue poking out to wet your lips.

“Doesn’t hurt as much. Think I can do more.”

“Good girl. Take what you can handle, Mariposa. I’m here if you want to switch, amor.”

With a hushed exhale, you’re fully filled with him, a quiet moan of his name breathed out as your eyes flutter close and you lean into him.

“Fuck, Joel, feels so good like this…”

“I know, baby, feels real good. You always feel perfect.”

After another minute, your hips start a relaxed rhythm, rising and falling with a steady grind. It’s driving him mad, the sight of you over him, using his cock to get yourself off. Wanting him enough to give him this, the image of you over him — a fallen angel fucking him. That’s what you have to be.

Your legs tremble from the burn of them, and he swoops, holding your hips still as he starts to fuck up into you. Joel maneuvers his feet under him to get more leverage, giving it to you hard and steady how you like it.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck, Joel, honey—”

“Again, Mariposa, tell me again how it feels.”

You whimper, looking at him with a pained pleasurable expression, his cock driving into you at a perfect pace.

“Gonna miss this, miss you. Never gonna feel this good with anyone else.”

Joel groans from under you, smirking wildly as he moves faster.

“That’s right, darlin’, nobody’s as good as me. Ruined you for everyone else, didn’t I? S’cause it’s my pussy, remember? Mine.”

As you nod furiously, he uses the moment to flip you around, pressing his weight over you to drive you into the mattress with his strong, steady thrusts.

“Yours, honey. Always gonna be yours.”

“Fuck yeah, sweetheart.”

“M’gonna come, Joel, fuck I—”

“Come for me, mi Mariposa, let me feel it.”

A mess of moans and whines leaves you underneath him, breathless as he fucks you through the intense orgasm, your walls tight grip plummeting him to the edge and snapping the taut rope inside of him.

“Fuck, Mariposa, fuck. I love you, te amo. Te amo, mi Mariposa. I fucking love you,” he sighs, eyes squeezing shut as he fills you, fucking his come further into you with a few quick thrusts. He blindly searches for your lips, passionately kissing you with all of the emotion he can muster.

Once the two of you have come down completely, he eases out of you and slips on boxers to go out to the hallway, grabbing a washcloth. He wipes some of the sweat from your body, swiping the cloth between your legs before he deposits it in his hamper, padding over to his dresser and pulling out the navy blue shirt that you love. At the side of his bed, he gently gathers you up to sit straight, slipping the fabric over your head and guiding your arms through the sleeves. Your malleable form falls back to the mattress, pulling him to lie down with you.

“You can keep that shirt, y’know, for when you’re away. I want you to have it.”

“Thank you,” the two of you tangled up in each other, your head ending up on his chest with one leg between his, “M’gonna wear it all the time and then it’s not gonna smell like you anymore.”

“Jus’ send it back then, sweetheart. I’d give you another. And another. And another, until you’re sick of my shirts.”

“Doubt that’ll ever happen.”

“Never say never, Mariposa,” he brushes his fingers against your cheek, kissing the top of your head, “Gonna find someone for you, or it’ll end up in the bottom of one of your drawers. Nothin’ wrong with that, darlin’. Means you’re living your life, which is the only thing I could ask of you.”

At the sound of a sniffle, he tucks his chin in, pulling himself away from you to see your face. There’re damp paths down your cheeks, glossy eyes, and runny nose.

“Oh, sweet girl, why are you crying? Did I actually hurt you before? D’you feel okay?”

“No, you didn’t hurt me,” your voice is thick, tightening his chest and squeezing his ribs, “M’just…I’m gonna miss you so much, Joel. I feel like we could figure things out for us, and—and now I have to move across the country. And I don’t know when I’ll be home, and we can’t make promises to each other. And-and—”

You hiccup with a cry, Joel reaching to wipe away your tears.

“And I have to leave Sarah, too. I feel so sad that she’s sad and asking questions that you can’t answer. I feel like I’m making a mistake, Joel.”

It would be easy for him to lean into this spiral of yours, to convince you to stay, selfishly, to abandon your plans — your dreams. He would be the biggest asshole ever if he did that.

“Mi amor, mi Mariposa, it is scary to leave home and start over somewhere new. I am going to miss you so much, so fucking much you don’t even know, but you are not making a mistake. It’s never a mistake to pursue what you want, what you’ve dreamed about and worked towards for years. You gotta do this for yourself, baby, and it will be hard at first, but if I know anything about you, you’re gonna be kicking ass and signing checks at that place this time next year. We love you, Mariposa, we do. But that won’t change with you across the country. You’re a part of our lives. Always gonna have a place if you want it, my sweet girl. It’ll be alright.”

He nestles you into his side again, lips finding your hairline and pressing gentle kisses there. You rest on his chest again, sighing as your larger cries calm to smaller ones.

“What do you think about when you think about the future with me?”

He hesitates, not wanting to encourage any more thoughts about staying — you have to go.

“I don’t know if I should answer that, Mariposa, I don’t want you to be sad again.”

“Please? I want to have the same daydreams as you. So we can have a life together even if it’s just our imaginations.”

Holy shit, he thinks his heart is actually stopped and shattering.

How in the world is he going to get over you?

“Alright, for you, darlin’... A future with you…”

“I think about us actually giving it a proper go. Tellin’ your family, tellin’ Tommy and Sarah. She’d be over the moon. Think we’d date for a while, but I’m an impatient bastard, so I bet I’d be asking you to move in before we reached a year. And if you agreed, we’d wake up and fall asleep to each other every day. Go grocery shopping. You’d help Sarah with her homework cause you’re smarter than me and I’d make dinner for my girls. We’d be subject to many Disney movies, but I would make you watch all my favorites. And I would happily watch yours. We’d just live together. Be partners. Help and hold each other when we need it. I’d ask you—” he catches the words in his throat, “I’d ask you to marry me. Would be the easiest question, but I’d still be scared shitless about your answer cause I know I still wouldn’t understand how someone like you would want someone like me. We’d get married, live all that domestic bliss. And…and I’d wanna have a baby with you if you wanted to. You’re going to be a great mom. And I would be so lucky to be your husband and the father to your baby.”

He hears your sniffle again and shakes his head while holding back a smile.

“I told you I didn’t want to make you sad again, Mariposa.”

“No, no! Not sad. At all, I promise. I just, I would want all the same things if we could have it. I’ve thought about all of that with you,” you hold him tighter, taking a deep breath into his chest while he feels tears litter his skin.

Both of you lay with each other, the sounds of your steadying breathing the only noise in the room. Joel switches off the lamp, settling more on the pillows and closing his eyes after you do; his fingertips run up and down your back, compelled to break the silence at that moment with a hushed voice.

“Estás hecho para mí. El universo te hizo para mí. Te amaré durante toda mi vida. Te amaré mañana. Te amaré dentro de cinco años. Todavía te amaré incluso cuando soy viejo y gris, mi Mariposa.”

“What does that mean? Will you tell me?” you ask sleepily.

“You're made for me. The universe made you for me. I will love you for my whole life. I will love you tomorrow. I will love you five years from now. I will still love you even when I'm old and grey, my butterfly,” his own voice breaks slightly, opening his eyes to have his vision blurred around the edges. He blinks away the tears, quiet falling over the room again as you fall asleep in his arms.

When Joel is sure that you’re sleeping deeply, he whispers to you, “I just want you to be happy, mi Mariposa. Whatever that looks like, I want it for you. I love you. I miss you already.”

Metal rumbles as your dad pulls down the back of the U-Haul truck, securing the lock on it after you’ve double-checked that everything is packed securely. It’s a quiet morning on your street, the only other souls awake at this early hour are Joel and Sarah, the younger of the two having insisted on seeing you off so she can wave goodbye. They’re standing on their porch like last summer, Joel behind Sarah with his hands on her shoulders and sleep still in his eyes.

He woke you up just an hour ago to sneak back home, the goodbye between you two somber and prolonged. It was cutting it close to your parents’ alarm when you finally dragged yourself out of his arms and out of his house, looking back over your shoulder at least three times while your feet carried you across the lawn for the last time. He waited, watching you from his doorway until you couldn’t look anymore, quietly slipping inside and upstairs to get ready to go.

Now you’re standing on your driveway, your mom and brother in their pajamas while your dad is dressed to do the drive with you over the next few days. You exchange one last goodbye with each of your family members staying home, the truck rumbling to life as your dad ignites the engine from inside the cab.

You don’t know when you’ll be back here. Home. With the Millers right next door. With Joel, your Joel, always there for you.

One last look towards their house, Joel offers a wave, and Sarah’s lip visibly trembles, even from as far from her as you are. In the next second, she’s bounding down the porch stairs, little legs carrying her over to you in her pajamas. Her small frame slams into your legs, wrapping around you as she hugs you tight and cries.

“Please don’t go, Posey. Please,” she sniffles, looking up at you with wet eyes, “I don’t want you to go, I want you to be around for the summer and next summer and next summer.”

You bend down to her level, wrapping her up in a squeezing hug, whispering to her, “I’m so sorry, Sare-Bear. I have to go, but I promise I’ll be back and you’re going to be the first person I see. Gonna miss you so much, sweet pea.”

Joel has jogged over by that point, sighing to himself before he walks over to the two of you, picking Sarah up to continue to comfort her when you pull out of the hug.

“You’ll have the best summer, Sare-Bear. And I am definitely going to call to hear all about it, okay?”

She nods and wipes at her eyes with her whole hand, leaning into Joel’s shoulder. You look at him, a tight smile communicating the same sentiments you did this morning.

I’ll miss you. I care so much. You know how I feel about you.

I’m not gonna be able to forget you.

His voice pulls you out of the memory of an hour ago, the faintest glassiness to his eyes.

“Good luck, sweetheart. You’ll do great things.”

With a hard swallow, you give him a nod, holding back tears of your own.

“Thank you, Joel. Thank you.”

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pedrito-friskito · 1 year

Text

strawberry wine - joel miller x ofc!liv stone/fem!reader

during - part fifteen

series masterlist | main masterlist | read on ao3

this is happening.

a/n: ….I got nothing folks, my askbox is open if you wanna yell about it 😇 this is wildly unedited but it’s late so HERE U GOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO

word count: 6.6k

warnings: MY BLOG IS 18+, MINORS DNI, canon typical violence/injuries/it’s all for the PLOT OKAY

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Since the moment he set foot in Boston, Joel’s been loathe to leave you.

Even when he first arrived, when his head was buried so far up his ass, when he was keeping himself awake at night convincing himself that he didn’t love you anymore, that you couldn’t love him anymore, he still worried. He paced the floor of your apartment until Tess all but forced him to get some sleep.

Those two days you were in lockup, he thought he’d go mad, with the worry. And then when you did come home, dripping blood on the floor and collapsing into Tess’s arms. He had to remove himself from the room, because he knew if he didn’t, he would have fallen at your feet, have held you close and refused to let go.

Now, things are different. He’s yours and you’re his and everything is as right as it can be to Joel, but he worries more. Every run you go on, he wants to go with you. When he doesn’t, all he does is worry. He knows full well you can handle yourself, has seen you in action often enough to know he doesn’t have to put himself between you and the line of fire. But it doesn’t matter how many times he sees you with a gun in your hand, sees you swinging the bat he gave you so many years ago, watches the gears turning in your head when things don’t go exactly as planned.

You’re a badass, and he knows it, but he loves you and he has to protect you. That’s his job. And without Sarah to—

No.

He tries to cut off the train of thought, tries to blink away the memories that threaten to form behind his eyes. Time won’t erase them, and lately, they weave with his dreams, turn them to nightmares. He sees the faces of the people he’s killed, smells the gunpowder in the air. He loses his daughter, over and over again. He loses Tommy, loses Tess.

He loses you. Over and over. Hears your screams, feels the heat of your blood on his hands. He can’t—

“Joel?”

Your voice yanks him out of his head, deposits him back on the broken road he’s standing on. You’re a few feet ahead of him, your brow raised, the bat propped on your shoulder. There’s a smear of dust on your cheek, no doubt from the path you’d taken out of the QZ, squeezing through rubble until you popped out the other side — your least favourite way out, Joel knows. There’s a handgun strapped to your thigh, a knife hanging from your belt. His shirt hangs from your torso, the top buttons undone, the bruise he’d left on your collar the night before visible from where he’s standing, knowing he put it there. Your hair is half-tucked behind your ear, but a strand flutters across your cheek in the breeze.

You’re…beautiful. There’s no other word for it.

“Take a picture, Miller,” you say with a laugh, walking back the few feet separating you. You hook your fingers in the collar of his shirt, pull him forward and lean up on your toes to kiss him at the same time. His hand finds your waist automatically, fingers seeking bare skin, and you’re grinning when you lean back. “It’ll last longer.”

Joel grunts at you, unable to hide his smirk as your fingers twine with his, pulling him forward, boots shuffling across the gravel. “How much time we got?” he asks, falling into step beside you.

You glance at your — functional — watch. “An hour,” you reply, shaking out your wrist, tapping the bat against your boot. “Time to kill.”

“Gonna have to go through the museum,” he tells you, and you nod. You’d scoped things out at the hotel, like always, concern on both your faces when you saw the water that had begun to pool in the sunken lobby. An easily bypassed obstacle, but the decaying city was showing more and more wear, the Infected getting closer to the QZ.

“Fine by me, there’s a place I wanna check out between here and there anyway.”

“A place, huh?”

You shrug, your face noncommittal. “Yup.”

The place turns out to be a jewelry store, tucked between what was once a coffee shop and a dentist’s office. The entire strip has definitely seen better days, and Joel’s instantly wary, reaching for the gun at his waist while you bee-line for the front door, barely hanging onto it’s hinges.

You pay him no mind, using the bat to clear the jagged edges of the broken window, making a clear path into the store. You disappear through the opening and Joel follows, calling after you. “Liv, wait a sec.”

Joel’s sure the place has been well looted, probably nothing of any value left — not that it matters anymore, what good is a diamond ring when you could have a stack of ration cards instead? He can’t even remember the last time he saw a dollar bill out in the open. He still has his wallet, tucked away in one of your drawers in the apartment, still with a twenty in it, his driver’s license, a credit card that expired in 2004. None of it means anything anymore.

“It’s clear, Joel.”

Inside, just as Joel suspected, the place is a disaster. Shards of glass crunch underfoot with every step you both take, display cases turned on their sides, velvet cushions and those creepy hands used to showcase rings scattered across the ground. There’s no light inside, save for the bit of sunlight that creeps through the broken windows, and Joel watches his step, gun still in hand.

You’ve headed straight for the back corner of the store, and it takes Joel a minute to figure out why.

You and Tess have a bet going, of sorts. Every time you go on a run, you try to find the other person something outrageous, always trying to top the last item with something more ridiculous than the last. It started when you brought back this gigantic jar of marbles, then Tess came back with a whoopee cushion. On and on it’s gone, with Tess currently winning, returning from her last run with Tommy with a mostly complete deck of Uno cards.

“Shit,” you grumble, poking through the pile of glass at your feet, pulling the sleeve of your shirt over your palm so you can lift the display case. “It’s all broken. I wanted one of those little glass animal things. Like a turtle or a deer or something?”

“Baby, they bombed the city,” Joel retorts, putting his hand on his hip. “You really think the little glass animals survived?”

You blow out a breath, pouting, and Joel stifles his chuckle. But then your eyes go wide, and you crouch down, bat dragging through the glass as you move, reaching for something in the mess. “A-ha!”

It’s not a turtle. Or a deer. In fact, Joel has no fucking clue what it is, at first glance, until you place it in his palm for further inspection. It’s a fox, no bigger than his index finger, curled up in his hand. And it’s made of crystal, a slight crack up the middle of the tail, but otherwise intact.

“What d’you think?” you ask, laughing as you take it back from him, pulling your bag off your shoulders so you can stow the thing. “Do I win?”

“For now,” Joel says, smirking at the beaming look on your face. “I’m sure Tess’ll show up with a damn giraffe next time.”

You glare at him, zipping your bag shut. “Appreciate the vote of confidence, Miller.”

He offers you his hand, pulls you to your feet, leaning in to give you a quick kiss once you’re upright. “Anytime, baby. You good?”

“Yeah,” you nod, slinging your bag back on and heading back towards the front of the store. “Y’know, I think I might have her beat for a while now.”

Joel only half hears you.

Something’s caught his eye, on the ground. Tucked partially beneath one of the overturned displays, it glints at him, catching the dim light in just the right way. Joel crouches, uses the end of his gun to move the shards of glass away before he reaches for it. Not silver, not gold, but a rosy colour, something he’s not sure he’s seen before. It’s pretty, a flat band, no gems, but flowers engraved into the metal, all the way around. It’s light, in the palm of his hand, has a few scratches but nothing serious.

Instantly, his mind wonders what it might look like on your finger. The thought nearly bowls him over, and he almost stumbles back a step, reaching up and dropping the ring into the pocket of his shirt.

He could ask…couldn’t he? He wants to ask. The feeling bubbles up, crawling up the back of his throat. It’s not the same as it was before, not that anything is. There’s no fanfare or big white dresses — though knowing you and Tess, he’s sure you could find something — or drinking until you forget how sore your feet are from dancing. It’s just a piece of paper, signatures tying your lives together, indefinitely to FEDRA’s eyes. Another note in your file, the first person to be notified should you show up dead somewhere, lucky enough to be recognizable.

But…he wants it.

Fuck, he wants it. With you. For you. You.

“Joel?” you call, your voice laced with concern, and he calls back, jogging towards the front of the store, watching his step as he goes.

“Comin’, baby.”

You meet Gwen in the usual spot. She’s been your go-to for some time now. Her drops are always good, always on time, and you’re always happy to give each other something extra. The first chicken you traded for didn’t last long, and you’d tried to extend the life of the second, but the clucking pissed off the neighbours, and Tess makes a mean chicken casserole.

This time is no different, at the start. There are faces amongst her crew you don’t recognize, a couple younger guys that are clearly just getting their feet wet. The trade is for first aid supplies from Gwen, produce seeds and a few boxes of ammo from you. The pharmacy in Boston has been running low on things for weeks now, with no promise of anything coming anytime soon. Deanna’s been worried as hell, grumbling at you any chance she gets, and you know this’ll help some.

“Who’re the newbies?” you ask, jutting your chin towards the two guys, your bag filled with Gwen’s supplies, zipping it shut once more. They’re young, maybe mid-twenties, and it makes you uneasy to see unsure hands on such a large gun.

“My brother, Trevor,” Gwen offers, and you lift a brow. “And the other, Noah, just arrived in Hartford a few weeks back.”

Joel glances at the men before turning to Gwen. “Not wastin’ any time, huh?”

Gwen’s face goes dark as she look between you and Joel, and it makes your stomach turn. “Hartford’s not what it used to be. I don’t…I don’t know how long it’ll be until we can make another trade, Liv. Things are changing.”

“Meaning?” you ask. From the corner of your eye, you can see Joel’s jaw go tight.

“FEDRA’s making it harder and harder for us to live in peace. Let’s just leave it at that.”

Her tone tells you you’re not getting any more information besides that, so you just nod, thanking her for the supplies. She offers a hand to shake, and you take it, nodding to her. “Stay safe, Gwen.”

“You too, Liv.”

“SHIT!”

Everyone whirls at the same time, watching as Noah goes toppling backwards. You’d met up at one of the intersections near the remaining chain link, same as always. A crater left by the bombs takes up the right half of the road, and Noah falls straight into it with a loud yelp. As he goes, his gun goes off, spraying the wall of the crater with bullets, and your heart sinks into your toes when you see where they land.

The crater is filled with cordyceps.

It’s taken a while, for FEDRA to figure out just how the fungus operates. They still don’t totally know, that much is for sure, but it’s not just in people. It’s underground, everywhere, branching out for miles in every direction, sprouting up through the earth in strange patches that you would almost think beautiful if you didn’t know firsthand the devastation they’ve brought. Disturb a patch in one place, and all you could do was pray that the Infected you’d awoken were too far away to get to you before you could get away from them.

The crater is lined with it, the cracked asphalt painted like a canvas, tufts of grass poking between, signs of nature taking back the earth. The sound of the bullets rings through your skull, the noise almost muffled as it breaks through the fungus.

Not a second later, you hear the screams.

There’s seven of you, total. You and Joel, Gwen, four of her men. Well, three, since Noah is now at the bottom of that crater, and hasn’t reappeared. You’re not optimistic.

Joel grabs your arm, pushes you behind him, towards the drugstore on the corner of the road. “Inside!” he barks, and you obey, purposeful strides carrying you towards the storefront, pulling your gun from the holster at your thigh as you go. Gwen waves her guys towards the building as well, and as soon as you’re through, Joel presses you into the wall, keeping himself between you and the outside.

Your heart is beating so hard you can hear it, your jaw solid and your grip on the bat so tight your knuckles are screaming in protest. Joel’s chest is heaving, his face a hard mask. You reach out, wrap your hand around his arm, squeeze lightly.

I’m here.

The screams echo through the city. It’s nothing new, to encounter Infected on a run. You’ve killed dozens of them at this point, bat, gun, knife. Whatever works. It’s become second nature, an unfortunate old habit. But the sound of them, no matter how many times you hear it, you still feel your spine bristle, like a cat that’s been cornered, making you want to hiss and spit.

Joel covers your hand with his, the other brandishing his gun. Slowly, he moves you back further, your back against the wall, inching away from the storefront. Maybe you could slip out the back, take the long way around back to the QZ, lose the Infected that way.

You open your mouth to suggest it to Joel just as the swarm of Infected sprints past the front of the drugstore. It’s unnerving, how fast they are, the way their bodies move in that almost-inhuman-almost-human way. Nerves rise in the back of your throat as your boots slide backwards on the tile, Joel still leading you backward.

It all happens in one instant.

There’s a door, towards the back of the drugstore. An office, break room, you don’t know, but it swings open, and something lunges at you, knocking you to the ground with insane force that pushes all the breath from your lungs, your head smacking against the ground, bat flying from your grip, ringing when it lands beside you. You slide into a long-empty shelf, metal cutting into your shoulder.

You hear Joel shout your name.

You feel something rip into your side, tearing flesh. You scream.

You smell blood.

You see flash of Joel’s gun, the barrel bright silver. Has it always been that bright?

The gunshot rings loudly through the drugstore, and all the heads that had turned to you — Joel, Gwen, her men — all turn back towards the outside. Most of the horde had gone straight to the crater, bodies tumbling into it, but some, maybe ten of them, all turn their heads towards the drugstore.

Joel stares at you, his eyes wide as dinner plates. You shove at the now-dead Infected, ignoring the drips of blood down your shoulder and side as you scramble to your feet, pulling your handgun from it’s holster. Your arms are shaking as you lift it, cover one hand with the other to steady your shots. This isn’t happening, this isn’t happening, this can’t be happening.

As the Infected start to draw into the drugstore, you all start shooting. The sound is piercing, echoing through your head, every nerve in your body pricking with pain with each shot that’s fired. Bodies drop, screams bounce off the walls, but you’re focused, picking them off one by one, ignoring the way your stomach turns with each one, the way you know what just happened, but you don’t — you can’t address it. Not yet.

This is happening.

Your clip runs out, and you drop to a knee, grabbing another from the holster, letting the empty clatter to the tile as you reload. For just a minute, Joel looks at you over his shoulder, his gun still raised, something you have no name for in his eyes.

This is happening.

Your blood is thrumming in your veins, birdsong you haven’t heard in a long time, making your ears ring, making your heart race. You keep pulling the trigger, half a mind to grab your bat off the ground and charge headfirst into the swam.

What difference would it make, anyway?

Gwen and her men move forward, brandishing knives to pick off the stragglers that climb through the broken windows. Joel lowers his gun, you shove yours back into its holster. He’s on you an instant later, turning you towards him, pulling at the fabric of your shirt. “Let me see.”

“Joel—” you start, pushing at his hands.

This is happening.

“Let me see,” he growls, and you relent, feeling your lip start to quiver as you let your arms drop, turning your head as he lifts the hem of your shirt. You hear his sharp intake of breath, see the crease between his brows deepen, and you know it’s exactly what you think. You felt it, different from the scratch Dean had given you on Outbreak Day. This was much different. Teeth, tearing, blood, saliva.

Infection.

Joel turns away, his face now pure anger. He kicks at the wall so hard his boot goes through, and you lift your shirt again, peering down at the wound. It’s a bite, no question. Teeth marks at the edge, blood seeping down your skin, turning the waist of your jeans dark.

This is happening.

Slowly, Gwen walks towards you. Joel cuts her off before she can get close, watching you inspecting your wound. “Oh god, Liv,” you hear her say, and behind her, someone cocks a gun. It makes you gasp, the sound choked, and Joel lifts his own gun.

“Get out of here,” he barks, his voice a terrifyingly deep register you’ve never heard before. “Now. I’ll deal with it. Go.”

Gwen just nods, gives you a sympathetic look before she’s herding her guys out, all of them picking their way around the bodies littering the floor. You let your shirt fall back down, the blood making the fabric cling to your skin. Your shoulder aches, blood soaking your shirt there too, but you’re too busy starting to lose your shit to really notice.

This is happening.

“Liv,” Joel says, his voice softer now, cracking around your name. Your chest aches. You just got him back. You can’t leave him, you can’t go, you can’t turn into— “Liv.”

You sink into a crouch. You bury your face in your hands, feeling the tears pour down your face. It’s done. It’s over. There’s no getting out of this. I’ll deal with it, Joel said. Meaning he’ll deal with you, meaning he’ll put you down. Knife or bullet, bullet or knife. What’s the kinder way to go? What’s the better way to let the love of your life kill you?

Which one will haunt him less, when you’re gone?

It’s not fair.

But it’s happening all the same.

Joel sinks down with you, slides his bag from his shoulders. You peek between your fingers just enough to see him pulling out bandages, a bottle of water, an alcohol wipe.

“Don’t waste it on me,” you mumble, pushing at his hands when he reaches for you. There’s blood on your hands, streaked up your forearms. “Don’t, Joel.”

“Stop it,” he says, shaking his head. His hair’s gotten longer, you notice, watching the dark curls ruffle along his scalp. “I’m gonna fix it.”

“You can’t!”

You scramble back, out of his reach, until your back hits another shelf. The metal rattles, your skull along with it, and you pull your knees to your chest, wrap your arms around them. It makes your side sing with pain, but it just adds to the mix, to the riot in your head, the ache in your heart.

“I’m sorry,” you murmur, barely above a whisper. Your voice is thick with tears, and they won’t stop. You know they can’t stop. You can’t stop.

“Liv—”

“I don’t want to leave you.”

The bottle of water slides from Joel’s hands, and your eyes track it as it rolls across the floor. You don’t want to spend the time you have like this, hiding from him, keeping your distance. It’s not fair. You just got him back, just got comfortable. Why did you let yourself get comfortable?

You want to die in his arms, to breathe your last breath with his eyes on your face, you want to—

“I saw Anna.”

The name makes you stop short, your head snapping up, eyes glued to him. Your heart skips, you’re sure of it, every drop of blood inside you freezing for one singular moment. He stares back at you, those dark eyes impossibly shiny, lined with silver tears that haven’t fallen yet.

“Anna?” you repeat. Are you going already? Is the fungus already in you, creeping up your spine, taking over your brain? You’re supposed to have more time, you’re supposed to—

“Anna, Liv. Anna, your sister. Six months after the outbreak. I saw her, when Tommy and I were on the road. Some makeshift shelter FEDRA set up in Cincinnati. She recognized me, nearly bowled me over when she saw me and Tommy.”

Your mouth drops open. “My…sister.” My sister, my baby sister, Anna, my little sister. Your mind whirls, Cowan’s voice in your head, the radio room before the walls went up. There is no record of Anna. Your heart is shattering in your chest, you’re sure of it. “She’s alive?”

His head drops. “A few of the soldiers got infected, started turning, started biting.” Joel swallows hard, and your eyes flick down as his throat bobs. “She got caught in the chaos, fuckin’ soldier bit her ankle. I put him down. And she hid it, at first, asked me and Tommy to get her to some guy outside the city. I can’t remember the name, said it was her boyfriend or something, I can’t…it doesn’t matter.

“We were planning to leave the shelter, trying to gather supplies to get the hell out of dodge, when she got caught. Someone walked in on her changing the bandage on her ankle, saw the bite, screamed for help. I tried to stop them, but FEDRA doesn’t take chances.”

“So they killed her,” you say, the words blunt, laced with tears.

“They took her away. I never saw a body.”

You shake your head, let your eyes drop closed. “Then why tell me, Joel?”

He slides across the tile to you, pulls at your limbs until your legs are spread either side of him, your arms limp in your lap. Before you can even try to shrink away, he’s got your face in his hands, wiping at your tears, warm palms pressed to your cheeks.

“It was three days, Liv. Three days between her getting bit and FEDRA taking her away. She never showed any signs, never turned, never fuckin’ twitched. She was immune. What if…” He leans forward until his forehead touches yours. “What if there’s a chance? What if you are too?”

Your mind is racing. The pain in your side throbs with every beat of your heart. You don’t have words, you can’t bring your lips to form them. Your brain offers up images, only making your thoughts move faster. The infection running rampant through you, replacing your blood stream, clogging your veins. Your sister, bruised by the outbreak, the loss of your parents — did she even know that they were dead? — but alive, those eyes bright as you remember them.

Her ankle, Joel had said. The soldier bit her ankle. In your head, she hides the bite beneath thick socks, cleans it and pulls her jeans down over it. Her eyes snap to yours, big and filled with tears.

“It’ll be okay, Liv. Just wait.”

Wait. Wait it out, wait to lose your mind, wait to turn into one of them. Wait to feel like you’re not in control of your body anymore. Would it still be you, buried beneath all of that? Does the fungus keep you alive, turn you into a puppet, make you watch the harm you cause, the violence that ensues?

But Joel wouldn’t let it get that far, would he?

Knife or bullet, bullet or knife. What’s the better way to go?

Your mind cycles through everyone back in Boston, Tess, Tommy, Emily, Henry, Deanna. Hell, even Cowan shows up. You see their faces, hear their voices, immediately imagining the reactions when Joel tells them what happened. And Emily, she—

Your brow goes hard, more tears slipping down your cheeks.

Emily watched her father kill her mother, after he turned. In the mall, before the wall went up, when you were still considering leaving. Contaminated food, they said, moved you to the apartments, made you wait it out. Six other people turned, FEDRA put them down without batting an eye. But you never did. You’d ate the same food as Tim, Emily’s father, the night before he turned. You both wanted Thai, Marcy and the kids had soup instead. You still remember Emily’s giggles when you slurped your noodles.

But you never turned.

Anna’s voice is in your head again. It’ll be okay, Liv.

You curl your fingers in the collar of Joel’s shirt, pushing at his chest slightly, enough that he pulls back, enough that your watery eyes can meet his. “We wait it out,” you tell him, and his brow crumples completely, a sharp sob in your ear as he collects you into his arms. “If I start to turn, Joel, I swear to god, you put me down and you don’t think twice about it, you understand?” You keep your gaze on his face, watch his eyes slip closed, and he nods. “You put me down, and then you go back to Boston. All right? You promise me. You go back, and you tell everyone I’m sorry.”

“Liv—”

“Promise me, Joel.”

He swallows so hard his throat bobs.

“I promise.”

You wait it out.

Joel feels like he can’t breathe. He doesn’t want to take his eyes off you, doesn’t want to miss anything. He’s memorizing you, all over again, trying to paint you in his mind. Something clear, something pure.

Something to remember.

In case he’s wrong. In case he has to put a bullet in your head before the sun comes up. In case he’s about to lose you. He wants to remember you as you are, not what you might become. Alive, intact, whole.

Liv.

You let him tend to your wounds, after a bit of convincing. Joel cleans the blood from your skin slowly, meticulously, tapes the gauze to your shoulder, to your side. He clears out the office your attacker had been hiding in, makes it as comfortable as he can. He can feel you watch him, just like he’s watching you, and one it’s safe — as safe as it can be — he sinks down beside you, puts his arm around your shoulders, pulls you against his chest.

And waits.

There aren’t many words. You flinch with every sound that echoes through the city, the creak of buildings, the shrieks of the Infected. Joel shushes you each time, hauls you closer until you end up across his lap, one arm banded around your back, the other hooked behind your knees, keeping you close. Closer. As close as possible.

Eventually, it gets so quiet that he can hear the thump of your heart, feel the flutter of your lashes where you face is buried in his neck. He rubs his hand up and down your arm slow, pushes his nose into your hair. You stretch out a bit in his arms, roll your head onto his shoulder, your eyes shut.

“Sleepy.”

He presses a soft kiss to your forehead. “Get some rest, darlin’. M’right here.”

You blink once, and your eyes are so shiny that Joel’s heart jumps in his chests. “What if I…?”

You trial off, the rest of the question left unsaid, but Joel finishes in his mind. What if you turn? What if you bite him? What if you take him down with you? He doesn’t care, he thinks, and is suddenly acutely aware of the ring sitting in his pocket.

“You won’t. I’ll stay awake. I won’t let you…I won’t let you turn, okay?” He leans down more, brushes a kiss across your mouth. You whimper, tightening your grip on his shirt. “I’m right here, Liv. Not goin’ anywhere.”

Your brow furrows as your eyes drop shut again, and Joel lifts his hand, drags his thumb over the crease in your skin. “I love you, Joel.”

He moves his thumb again, over and over until your face softens, but keeps it up even then. “Love you.”

He doesn’t mean to fall asleep. Knows he shouldn’t, knows he should be keeping an eye on you, but as the sky outside gets darker and darker, his lids get heavier and heavier. You’re a warm weight against him, your own eyes twitching as you dream, your breath hot on his neck. Dreams take hold of him — dreams, not nightmares — and he dreams of you, in a pretty white dress, his scavenged ring on your finger, a smile on your lips. He holds you in his mind, too, keeps you impossibly close, kisses you until he’s not sure where he ends and you begin.

And then he wakes.

To you.

To you, shoving at his shoulder, climbing into his lap, curling your fingers in his shirt. You’re crying, your hair a mess about your face, and it takes a moment for him to pull himself out of the dream version of you, to the real version.

“You were supposed to stay awake, you jackass!” you’re shouting, your voice breaking on the words. Your fist thumps against his chest. “I could have killed you! I could have—”

He’s very awake, suddenly. It’s…daytime. He can see the sunlight through the little window in the office door. Joel catches your wrists, stops you from hitting him again. You suck in a breath, freezing, and your head lifts, hair falling away from your face, fresh tears on your cheeks. He can’t stop himself from smiling, and his chest explodes with warmth when your grin matches his.

“But you didn’t.”

He pulls you against him, and you kiss the air from his lungs. Your mouth is hot and insistent on his, yanking your hands from his grip so you can dive them into his hair. His own drop to your waist, curling around your hips, pulling you closer, closer, closer.

You’re alive. You’re you.

He’d sit there and let you kiss him all day, but the echo of an Infected scream makes you both freeze, and his instincts kick into gear. With one last kiss, you disentangle from each other. Joel’s back screams in protest from sleeping sat up against the wall all night, and he groans as he gets to his feet, helps you to yours. You wince at the movement, one hand gripping your side, and Joel inspects you, lifts the hem of your shirt and peels the bandage back.

He’s seen bites before. Seen the strange, spidery lines the spread from them, the infection curling beneath the skin like a raised tattoo. Your wound is still angry, still seeping blood, but not enough to soak through the bandage. You might need stitches, Joel’s not sure. You wince again as he presses it back into o place, smooths his fingers along the tape.

“We need to get you home.”

You just nod, leaning against him, and he kisses your temple. The relief in the air is palpable, unbridled joy laced with nerves and worry. You have to keep this a secret, that much Joel knows. He still remembers the terror on Anna’s face, when they took her away. He tried to fight them, tried to stop it, but they put a gun to his head, to Tommy’s. Anna told him to stand down, to let her go, and then she was gone.

He won’t let them take you. Never.

It’s slow going. He takes you out the back way of the drugstore, avoiding the bodies littered at the front. Joel’s learned the city a little more with each run, he knows your shortcuts, the long and short ways, the quickest way back to the QZ in a pinch. He knows which routes you favour, which ones are last on your list.

He keeps your fingers laced with his, lets you lean into him as you walk. The pain you’re feeling is clear, but you grit your teeth and carry on, squeezing his hand tighter every few miles. He asks you if you need to stop a few times, and each time, you just shake your head.

It’s even slower, getting back over the wall. It’s midday, by the time you’re nearing the gate, and the ideal path — the one that takes you right under the wall — is too dangerous in broad fucking daylight. So you take the same path you’d lead Joel and Tess in with. Your chest is heaving by the time you reach the top, and Joel lifts the hem of your shirt to see you’ve bled through the bandage, drops of blood sliding down your hip.

You stop inside, Joel forcing you to wait a goddamn second so he can clean you up, replace the bandage. He grits his teeth; he can’t take you to the clinic, can’t involve Deanna in this. Can’t involve anyone in this.

“What the fuck are you two doing?”

Corporal Nick fucking Cowan is standing at the mouth of the alley, gun hefted in his hands as Joel lands on the pavement, holding his arms out as you climb slowly down the ladder of the fire escape. It’s a good five foot drop down, and he knows even landing on your feet isn’t gonna feel great.

Joel stumbles back as you drop, your boots sliding against the asphalt. He tries to support your weight as much as he can, and you let out a sound that’s not so much a wince as a sob. You bury your hand in your side, gripping tight as he slides his arm around your waist.

“Nick,” you breathe out, and Joel looks up to see the soldier glance down the road before jogging towards you, concern on his face.

“Where the fuck have you been?” he asks, and you heave a breath, your head lolling onto Joel’s shoulder. “Tess came to find me last night, asked if I’d seen you, if you’d gotten yourselves thrown in lockup.” His brow hardens as he looks at you, looks at Joel. “You were out all night?”

Joel tightens his grip on you. “Didn’t plan it like that.”

“We got cornered by a fucking horde of them,” you breathe out, hissing as you take a step forward. Cowan holds a hand out to you and you wave him off. “I got…”

You trail off, and Joel bristles, scared you’re gonna say it.

Bit.

Cowan wants answers, pressing harder, and Joel can see how he’s inspecting you, his eyes darting all over you. “You what, Liv?”

“I got hurt, asshole,” you spit through gritted teeth, trying to angle yourself away from him. “Is that really not obvious?”

“I’ll take you to the clinic,” Cowan says instantly, and reaches for you again. Joel nearly growls. He knows you made your peace or whatever, but he still doesn’t like the guy. Doesn’t like that he acts like he’s got some kind of claim on you. “Deanna’s working, she can—”

“No,” you both say at the same time, nearly shouting, and Cowan takes a step back, staring between you, trying to meet your eyes. Joel can see it, the wheels working in the soldier’s head. You straighten a bit, staring back at Cowan. “I’m fine, I just wanna get home.”

For a minute, Joel thinks Cowan will accept the answer. He pulls you tighter against him, tries to sidestep the soldier, taking you with him. But he’s still blocking your path, and everything in Joel turns over as he reaches for the handgun on his hip.

“Show me.”

You freeze, your entire body going taut in Joel’s grip. “What?”

Cowan doesn’t lift the gun, but Joel sees his thumb pull back the hammer, cocking it. He reaches for his own gun.

“Nick, what’re you—” you start, but then the soldier lifts his gun, aiming for you.

Joel steps in front of you, shielding you with his body, holding an arm out, lifting his pistol, aiming right back at Cowan. “Cowan, stop it,” Joel grits, and the soldier just stares back, his eyes wide.

“You are the last fucking person who gets to give me orders.”

“I know that,” Joel replies, and lifts both his hands, something like surrender. He points his gun at the sky, feels your hand curl around his hip. “I know you hate me. I’d hate me too, if roles were reversed, and I don’t expect you to do me any fuckin’ favours. But I know you care about her. So, please. Do this for her.”

The gun wobbles slightly, but Cowan shakes his head. “Don’t.”

“Please, Nick,” Joel hears you say, a waver in your voice, your nails biting into his skin. “Please, just let us go. We’ll leave the city, we can just—”

“No!” Cowan shouts, the sound echoing down the alley. “You know I can’t.”

“Nick, please,” you say again, and the gun wobbles again, Joel moving to put himself in front of it, to keep it away from you.

“Put the gun down, Cowan,” Joel says, his hands still in the air, trying to force reason into his voice. “Just put it down, we can fix this, we can talk this out, just—”

“Shut up!” Cowan yells, and Joel’s heart is in his throat. “You don’t deserve her, Joel. Look what you did, you put her in harm’s way, over and over and over again. You nearly got her killed, and still she chooses you over me.”

“Nick, stop—” you cry, and Joel can hear the tears in your voice. The gun points at you again, and anger, fear, terror rises in Joel’s gut. He points his gun back at Cowan, finger twitching on the trigger.

“You don’t fucking deserve her.”

“And you do?”

Joel’s not sure which one of them fires first.

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#my fics #strawberry wine #joel miller #joel miller fic #joel miller x you #joel miller x reader #joel miller smut #joel miller fluff #joel miller angst #the last of us #the last of us fic #the last of us spoilers #joel miller x oc #joel miller x liv stone

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hellowoolf · 4 months

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on strawberries and masonry: chapter iii

series summary: you atone for your sins, now, in a jackson garden, learning to care for soft things and yourself. joel miller is a lethal sort of similar, and misery loves company

you live in jackson and meet joel and you’re both damaged little babies and fall in love (but i’m drawing this shit out🫶🫶)

warnings: angst, age gap (reader late 20s/early 30s, joel 50s), blood & gore, scars (NOT self inflicted), knives, guns, SMUT!!, unprotected p in v, fingering (if i left out any, let me know!)

word count: 9k

authors note: the fucking. at long last. thank god. (this is my first time writing smut omg goodbye)

series masterlist | masterlist

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joel speaks to you like copper oxidizing in the sun. it’s slow at first, a shiny amber thing you covet, bestowed every once in a while on patrol or in the dining hall. but when the green catches hold, the gloss of it gone but easier, softer, it’s only a week or two from start to finish. he remains taut with you, strung into a tight wire you weary your hands trying to soften. even still, his prevailing silence makes him a vault, and at every moment you deem appropriate, you store your secrets there.

you tell him about the strawberries first. of the redness of that first one, and the way you’d wept with tommy and noah over the soil. of your hoarding of them, too. you recall to him your brisk walks in the biting air with ellie, smuggling handfuls stained red in the warmth of your coats, to deposit the bunches of them in your kitchen.

he doesn’t ask you again, after his vulnerability on your porch that night, about ellie, but regardless you tally your moments with her to recite for him. you watch him grip to them like a wounded animal in the snow, though still he is joel, and so mostly he is quiet as you recount your greenhouse conversations. you’re certain, now, that he isn’t her father, but she mirrors him to a degree of uncanniness, what with her constant bristling. this you do not say to joel, but mostly because you suspect he already knows.

you pull from joel what he lets you. you learn he lived in austin, before. you learn he worked in a boston qz most recently, up until the trek with ellie to wyoming (the motives of this are strictly off-limits, and though you enjoy pushing him, you allow this omission to stand). you learn he loves music, and played the guitar a lifetime ago. and you gather scraps of him in the moments between the stories, too; he is performative, despite himself, and runs inhumanly hot, and reaches still for his southern manners like he’ll someday be rewarded for them. most of all, though, you learn he is not very good at covering the craters of himself. the small set of moments from his life before jackson he allows you to see are censured, punctured through by his own tongue, you deduce to muzzle the voices of the characters of his past he won’t let you meet. but his recollections remain wounded by his carving of them, and so the ghosts of his memories, unnamed as they are, are clear to you. there is one in boston, and another set along the path to jackson. most incurably, there is one in austin, but unlike the rest, joel carries this specter with him.

the dining hall is always bloated with townspeople when you return from your rounds. the warmth of them overcomes the cold of the outside (it has persisted into late january this year) and as you find a table with joel at your side, the buzzing heat tickles at you from under your coat. you sit down at an empty table with joel on your left.

“but i do think they’re being weird. quiet, i guess, and tommy isn’t ever quiet.” you turn to joel, whose mouth is full already, and he leans back in his chair. tommy pulled away from you, and joel, too, over the last two weeks or so. maria has kept her distance—you have learned to expect this—but tommy is so insistently social, and so his waning outings in town seem odd to you.

“i dunno. tommy’s tommy, ain’t he?”

“yes, tommy’s tommy. but tommy hasn’t been tommy. you see what i’m saying?”

joel shrugs, stabbing again at his plate. “i guess,” but his thought isn’t finished, so you don’t respond quite yet. the brown of his eyes flickers when he’s let the tail of his sentence go, and you’ve learned to make space for them. “i…i don’t think maria’s too comfortable with my bein here.” he won’t look at you, but still it’s as vulnerable as joel ever is with you; he thinks tommy is distant because of him. you’re thrown to that night with maria in your kitchen, asking (demanding, really) that you patrol with joel, to the unyielding truth that your forced proximity to him begins and ends with your proclivity for violence. you aren’t quick to guilt, but it lays its clammy hand on your shoulder while you watch him eat. you’re reminded of how hot the room is, and begin to pull your arms from your jacket, turning your head slightly to lay it across your chair.

“maybe not, but she’s never been too excited about me, either. maria’s protective, very protective. but tommy’s different, too, he–” you don’t know if it’s the looking or his finger that comes first, but in any case you’re jolted somewhat ungracefully into silence. joel’s face has contorted into something unrecognizable as he looks down at your arm, bare in a tank top for the first time in months, and you watch as his pointer finger follows his eyeline down the scar on your left bicep. oh fuck. the callous of his touch just barely dances along the top of it, padding his fingertip along the skin in what feels like disbelief and disappointment and something else entirely. the mark closed up years ago, but the feeling of joel’s hand along your skin nearly burns the thing off. your sanity and your wanting of him are so flammable, and the spark of his touch sets the whole of you in smoke. after a few seconds of it, of the looking and the touching and the silence, joel remembers himself and stiffens again in his chair.

“i’m sorry, darlin, i-” he stops himself. “i'm sorry.”

and him calling you darlin is entirely unfair. you flush, across your chest and down your spine and down through your sex. there is something truly wrong with you. “no, no. it’s okay. i didn’t realize you hadn’t seen it.”

though he’s retracted his hand, joel’s stare remains clutched across your bicep. his fists curl in on themselves in his lap, and he stays there, firm and looking at you and cupping on nothing in his palms. you fill the silence.

“it was a long time ago. i don’t think about it much anymore.” this is only halfway dishonest.

“i shouldnta touched it.” he almost sounds bashful, boyish. he finally looks away from the scar and back at his food. “shouldn’t be starin either.” the depth of his voice tears through you despite the softness of it now, a whisper nearly unintelligible under the sounds of the dining hall. it strikes you that he thinks you a victim, and the thought nearly makes you sick. by maria’s fear of him, you’re certain joel has as blood-stained a past as you do, and late at night you tell yourself he would understand. still, you haven’t had the heart to tell him. what would you even say?

joel shakes his head slightly side to side like he’s reprimanding a child, though the child is him, now, and you could laugh at how awful and sweet and misinformed it is. you’d like to forgive him again, but you think he’ll excuse himself if you say any more about it, so you let the whole thing dissolve away.

“you like strawberries, sting?”

joel groans. yes, along with the lusting and your little fruits, the nickname is a luxury you cannot deny yourself.

“‘n so i played, but never out at bars or anything. tommy sure as hell wanted me to,” he said, securing his horse back in the barn.

“so who’d you play like?” you called from your stall in the stables.

“nobody,” he grunted back.

“you play like sting?”

noah found an old record of his on a run once, and you sat by jesse’s record player for hours at a time listening to it. in truth, it was some of the only music you really knew by heart. as you asked it, the both of you stepped out from your corners of the barn, and he stood with his hip cocked. you grinned at him, but he looked incredulously back at you.

“like sting? are you serious?”

you crossed your arms over your chest. “i’m asking a question. can’t i ask a question?”

“jesus. sting played the bass,” he said, exasperated, as he turned from you to walk out. you thought of his thorniness and guitar playing and the colors of his voice. sting. you decided you’d call him that as you followed out after him.

“i think so. i think i used to.” he seems far more relaxed in his chair now, and it makes you sink further into yours.

“i just have too many now. i’ve been thinking of giving some away,” you say, looking at him. “would you take some?” and it’s true; they’ve been overflowing into your sink and onto your windowsill. your little plant has been bountiful, and you had insisted her harvests were yours, but watching them mold on your counter has not proven as indulgent as you had thought. another, quieter and much more dangerous piece of yourself, tells you that really, you just want to give something to joel, to give anything to joel, but you cite instead the rotting by your fridge and allow yourself to ignore that little voice.

joel eyes you. “you really askin? or you bein courteous?”

“am i ever courteous?” you laugh. he smiles a little and laughs, too.

“no, no. i guess not.”

you’re giddy with the shake of his chest and his grin. he doesn’t laugh all that often, you suppose because it exhausts him so, but when joel laughs it’s an anatomical revelation. the whole of him wrestles with it. you’re wet, again, (it’s nearly constant for how often you’re together), and you eat what’s left of your lunch.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

your favorite of the group before jackson was danny. you’d met eliza first, in the salt lake qz, but danny was your age, and beautiful in a delicate sort of way that struck you as unnatural. you remember the stories your father told you from the bible, of the angels with eyes and wings and bloodlust, and danny was of that sort. it surrendered you to him, you think, and so you let him fuck you when the moon wasn’t out. he never made you come, really, but it wasn’t about the coming then. you were teenagers and guilty, so heavy and ashamed and good at the killing, and so the rub of a tree at your back as you let him put his cock in you was an escape from your being and the blood on your hands.

in his back pocket danny kept a polaroid, folded up and frayed around the edges, of him as a child, much of the same abnormality and prettiness, and ellie reminds you of that photo. for a thing you’re certain has seen death on and about her, ellie remains strange and stunning. she sits to your left with her legs out in front of her, sorting through your stock of seeds. you spin your knife along your knuckles as you sort through a pole bean plant to harvest the ripened pods, the orange light of sunset filtering through the leaves and quilting shapes along your skin.

“okay, mainly you’re almost outta radishes. everything else you gotta pretty nice setup on,” she says, setting the box down next to her. ellie had broken her outstanding silence with you, and you determine quickly that she isn’t disillusioned with who you have been. she’d told you once that you hold your knife like you’re worried someone will take it from you. she’d laughed and laughed, conjured scenarios of your vegetables rising against you, and you laughed with her. still, she sees your practice with it, the disjoint of your grip against the unmoving of your plants, and inherits the knowing of the damage you’ve done.

“alright. i’ll see if anyone going through the set of cabins down south can find anything,” you say back, sifting still through the bean leaves.

“and what do you say now?” ellie’s voice lilts with her smile, all childlike wickedness, and you turn to her, grinning back.

“thank you, ellie.”

with a grunt and a stumble she stands back up and gives you a half bow, echoing self contentedly, “thank you, ellie.” you snort.

as she leaves, you watch tommy approach through the greenhouse walls. you think he’s frightened of her, hides himself in his coat as though she may reach out and tear him apart, but still he tips his chin to her as he makes his way towards you and crosses her path. you can’t help but smile, tracking the peeking green of a few pole beans she’d stolen bounce from her pocket as she walks away. you walk out the doors to lean on the outside greenhouse wall.

“i see you’ve risen from your crypt,” you say as he arrives fully in front of you.

tommy grins tight lipped, his arms cradled to his ribs as he keeps his hands in the pockets of his jeans. there’s an anxiety to him, to the way he rocks back and forth before you. “yeah, yeah. i already heard it from damn near everyone i’ve seen today.”

“i’ve been more social than you these past two weeks. you know how fucked up that is, tommy?” you’re trying your hardest to show him you’re joking, coax him into honesty. he’s come to confess something to you, you think.

“oh give me a break,” he replies.

you raise your eyebrows slightly and holds your arms out in front of you; you have the floor. a beat.

“well i came to tell you the news.” you hum. “maria and i are, well i guess maria is, shit,” he says, but he’s smiling now, coy and wistful, scratching the back of his head as he asks, “how did people used to do this?” you say nothing, still. “maria and i are having a baby.”

and something between your lungs shifts out of place. they are going to have a child. a child. your first thought is that they will be good parents, tommy and maria; their flesh and blood is warm with sun and work and something lovely, and it will make for something worth growing, you’re certain. they will be of jackson, like your plants and the snow, and maybe the whole of humanity is forgiven for children like this, born into safety and wood cabins.

your second thought is so horrifically selfish you can hardly stomach it, let alone recite it. you swallow it back down.

“tommy, that’s amazing,” and you hug him there, a copy of your embrace standing in the reflection of the greenhouse walls. “how are you feeling about it?”

he pulls back grinning. yes, he will be a good father. “well shit, scared out of my mind, you know,” he chuckles, “but real excited. maria, too.”

you give him a smile that you mean. “well, you guys let me know if i can do anything,” you say, and gesture towards the garden, “if there are any herbs or things that could help maria with any of it you just let me know.”

tommy nods and puts his hands in his pockets, nodding. “i thank ya for it.”

for a moment, the two of you stand there in the waning sunlight, watching what you’ve become. tommy, you think, is precisely what he was meant to be. he has always been far too content with existence, molded over as it might now be, to deny fatherhood. you wonder what he sees in you.

“well, give maria my congratulations. lord knows she’s doing the heavy lifting,” you chuckle as you move to go back into the greenhouse, “and come knocking if i can help.”

you make it to the door before tommy calls your name and you turn around.

“how’re you doin on patrol with joel?” he asks you from his spot, letting the words cross the now sizable distance between you. you’re thankful for how far he is, hoping whatever grin is laying itself across your face is too subtle for him to make out.

“we’re doing okay, i think. he’s a little tense…and can be fucking terrifying.” and now you really smile. “but i can handle him.”

tommy barks out a laugh and begins to walk backwards towards the town square, calling out with a palm cupped to the side of his mouth, “you’re good for him!”

and you let yourself be jovial, laughing as you kneel to your beets, but really you might never forgive him for saying something like that.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

joel still hasn’t come to visit your garden, though you’re grateful for this now. the warmth of the greenhouse has become your respite from the constant wanting, and you think if he materialized in the doorway you’d melt there in the soil. pacing through your kitchen, you eye the little basket of strawberries on your counter. you’ve named them joel’s already, but each time you’ve made to bring them to him your resolve disintegrates down your thighs.

but oh, they are so perfect now, reddened into a vivid blush, and if you don’t hand them off today you’ll have to throw them out. you grab the basket and slip out the door, doing your best to avoid spitting up your heartbeat on the walk to joel’s porch.

it’s nearly dusk, and when he opens the door he has a glass with about a finger of whiskey in his right hand. it sloshes as he looks you over, eyes measured a little with surprise and something else, but you stay tied to the wrap of his fingers around the glass and lock your knees to keep from dropping to them.

“hey, sting,” you grin (or grimace, more like).

“uh,” he leans a shoulder on the doorway and the movement brings his chest closer to you outside of the threshold. you smell the whiskey and the pine of him as he continues, “hey.”

his voice is deeper, now, hoarse with the weight of the day, and you conclude that you are, in fact, doomed for madness, if he keeps looking at you like that. you bring the basket of strawberries up to your chest and gesture them to him. “i just wanted to drop these off. they’ll go bad in a few days.”

joel peers down into the basket and grins a little, turning to put the tumbler on a table behind him before stepping more fully out of the house. you think he expects you to take a step back to make room for him, but you allow his chest to crowd yours, tilting your head further back. “well shit,” he laughs, “these are real.”

“yeah, well, now they’re real and they’re yours.”

joel lets his eyes circle once more over your face before extending his hands to take the basket. the warmth of his fingers as they brush yours along the weaving makes you clench and expand in the span of a moment. “thank you, really,” he says softly, sincerely, and the basket is so much smaller, now, held to his front.

you shove your hands into your back pockets. “eat them soon, though, please.”

joel turns around again to put the basket inside just beside the whiskey glass, and says to you behind him, “can always make jam or somethin if i can’t go through em all.”

your stomach twists up and it pushes what can only be described as a giggle (an awful thing) from you. “jam? you know how to make jam?”

he shifts back around and cocks his hip, sticking a knee out. “the fuck you mean by that tone?”

you laugh harder, earnestly, nearly folding over with it as he grips the door, ready to close it. “jam?”

“yes, jam. it ain’t that hard.”

you keep laughing just for the sake of it now, but as joel begins to swing the door shut with a quiet jesus you hold your hands out. “i’m sorry, i’m sorry, you just don’t look the type is all.”

with a tilt of his head he asks, “oh yeah? so what type am i?”

this quiets you. please, do not give yourself away, do not bleed your hand, do not. you narrow your eyes at him, dramatizing your assessment, pleading with yourself to construct an answer suitable for near sunset, but you take too long, boots nearly reaching his. he grunts, bringing his thumb and pointer finger up to hold your chin and twist you away from him. you feel the calluses on the pads of his fingers for the moment that he grasps your head between them, and your pussy drools a little. still, you begin to make your way down his porch; this is far from the most aggressive way joel has decided the conversation has ended, and so despite his push of your chin from his palm you make it to the final step pleased, the warmth of his skin still licking where he touched you.

“goodnight.”

you stop, take a deep breath in, the silence behind you petting down your spine. he hasn’t closed the door. he’s waiting for you to say it back. and you die a little death there, with one foot on the road. “goodnight, sting.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

the air is noticeably warmer this morning as you drag it into your mouth, padding along the beginnings of spring towards the stables. joel has prepared his horse already when you walk in, giving you a mornin, and he’s leaned up statuesque on her side with an elbow. the sling of his gun’s strap hugs his chest through his flannel, and the barrel peeks up over his shoulder, but only just. you salute to him as you saddle your horse.

“morning yourself.” you feel him stretch behind you as he mounts his horse (you are always so painfully aware of his body) and smirk, “rough night? did the jam give you trouble?”

“christ, i didn’t make any, darlin i’m just tired.”

you mount your horse. darlin. jesus.

“well you rest up, cowboy, i’ll cover you.”

joel grunts and says nothing as you trot out the gates together. he doesn’t think you capable of protecting him; in all, it is your best kept secret.

as the both of you wind through your northern route, you notice again the opening forest floor, weeds and flower beds resurfacing again beneath the trees. elderberries start to bloom out here this time of year, and in years past noah has uprooted the bushes for you to replant and harvest. the flowers are edible, too, and beautiful, and you wonder if joel will let you stop a moment to look for them. you wait until the trees grow thick and quiet around you before asking.

“joel,” he makes a noise in response, “could we stop here for a little? there are berries that grow around here and i want to see if i can find any to take back to the greenhouse.”

joel looks at you from his horse, affectless. “you serious?”

“yes.”

he lets out a sigh that morphs into a yawn midway through and shakes his head around a little, dusting something from his mind. “alright, alright. fine. but stay close, please,” and he trails off as he says it but you catch the end all the same.

you smile up at him, feet already on the ground and setting your rifle at your horses hooves to pull your knife out. as you weave through the shadows of the brush you call back to joel, “maybe you can make some marmalade out of these, too,” and you’re buzzing with the scoff that passes even through the feet between you, but he’s grinning, small and against his best efforts, and you spot that, too.

“you ever gonna let that go?”

and you don’t answer, ducking into an embankment of bush and leaves.

it’s been years since you’ve foraged like this. you used to pick mushrooms and berries from the ground with danny at night when you ran with the raiders, eat them together and take your chances. this feels different, though, charged with a tenderness and gentle knowing that’s new to you now. the world out here looks so much like your garden, feels so much like yours, and it strikes you that the mountains answer to you in your own small way. you could find a spot, up and away from the snow, and decide what grows there, play god with the grasses and the weeds. so though you find no elderberries in this brush, you are quiet with that little victory as you pace back to where you left joel.

as you approach, joel’s voice calls through the trees. a deep and pained “fuck!” and the rustling of clothes grows louder as you pad forward. there’s a shrill grunting, too, not joel’s, not joel’s. you take stock of your heartbeat and your fingers and the blade in your coat. there is someone else here. you move silently on the dirt, hiding your body in the bark and greenery, and then you spot him, kneeling with his hands behind his head, his gun kicked a few feet away, and a scrawny figure holds a glock to the skin of his forehead. suddenly you’re 19 again, and unafraid. joel spots you from your place halfway behind a tree and his eyes widen a fraction. don’t come out, he’s pleading with you, but you will not listen. your father’s knife, tucked into your jacket, coughs to life.

you trample the ground below you as you stumble out, hands in the air. you whine, “please, please, don’t hurt him,” and the man whirls around to you. he looks gaunt, his cheeks pressed into his face, but his beard, which hangs wiry by his chin, is streaked with something bloody and dead. he bares his teeth and laughs with delirium.

“so there is another one,” he says as he approaches, gun pointed now at your nose. you let him think you a coward and flinch as he presses it to your face. “you’re prettier ‘an your partner, ain’t ya?”

you keep your eyes wide, say nothing. not yet, not yet, he isn’t close enough. joel barks from behind him, lowly and wild, “don’t you fucking dare,” but the man has already brought his other hand to drag around your face, through the hollow of your collarbone, down your sternum. you let your lip tremble and joel flinches ahead of you.

the man calls behind him to joel, saying “if i hear you move a goddamn inch i’ll shoot ‘er.” joel’s face is pulled up into fury and brutality and helplessness, nostrils flaring and chest heaving, but he stills.

“please, please, i’ll do anything, let us go,” and as you say it, already his right hand is tilting, the barrel of the gun slowly drifting from your cheek. just a little more.

his breath is soiled with rot as it fans over your face and he’s so close to you now, whispering, “anything?”

the gun is pointed just to the right of your ear.

now.

you twist your arm between your shoulder and his wrist to grab his hand, pointing the gun to the treeline as you duck under it to spin behind him, your free hand reaching into your coat and stabbing through the artery that runs through his neck. blood pours from around the handle as the man falls to his knees, and you grip him by the filth of his hair to pull your knife back out. you let out a breath, standing over what is now a corpse. it’s been years, but you are always yourself, aren’t you?

you falter only when you turn around and joel is there. he’s sat fully on his haunches, arms hanging loosely by his sides as he looks up at you. and the look on his face is…you don’t entirely know. his eyebrows kiss, knit together on his forehead, and his eyes look through you, like you’re an apparition before him, but still his mouth hangs open slightly. you think if you stay here, standing above him, the whole mangled history will come clawing from your mouth, so instead you move to sit beside him, the both of you now facing the body you left behind.

the silence survives, for a few seconds. joel’s shoulders slump as he adjusts himself to sit with his legs out, and he pulls in a deep breath.

“you done that a lot?”

you take a moment before replying, “yeah.” you think of how the truth seems to demand to be known regardless, regardless of your stifling of it and your wanting of joel and whatever innocence you’ve never had but cling to when with him. you think of this, and begin speaking.

“i was 18 when they found me in the salt lake qz. there was a group of them, 9 at the time, and this woman, eliza, she promised they’d take care of me. feed me more than the qz had. and i wasn’t starving or anything, really, or in any kind of trouble. i could take care of myself, you know. maybe i should’ve had a stronger moral compass. i was just…” you take a breath, “i was so alone, then. my father died on outbreak day, and mom was never really in the picture. some of them were my age, some were older. i don’t know. i’d learned how to use the knife like…” you look again at the corpse, “like that by then. i’d killed by then. it didn’t feel like i was losing anything, being a raider.”

joel is still beside you, looking down at his hands, but you know he is listening.

“and so we used to trap people like that. men, mostly. they’d throw me out in groups of them, let them get close and then…” you wave your hand around, a stand-in for the killing. “i ran with them for a few years. they kept their promises.” your scar throbs beneath your sleeve and you take another breath. “and then another group got the jump on us. we’d been looking through a warehouse and they’d been hiding there, i guess. they killed a few, nearly killed me, i think. they sliced through the artery down my left arm,” and you trace the line of the scar as you say it, “but matteo killed the rest before they slit my throat. he tried to stitch me up a little with what was left of our twine. still, they left me there. i didn’t really blame them. still don’t.

tommy found me there. he patrolled with noah, back then, and they came passing through after everyone else had left or died. at first they said i could only stay until the wound was healed, but in the end nobody had the heart to turn me out.” finally, you look at him, and he shifts his head up to look back at you. “i’m sorry i didn’t tell you.” and you are.

joel’s eyes flit over your face, scowling still but soft, too, and brings a hand up, slowly. he cups his palm around your cheek to turn your head, thumb soft along your face, and wipes the blood splatter along your neck and jaw with his other hand. when he shifts your face back to his, he lets his thumb trace the line of your nose, around the curve of your chin, once, featherlight, under your bottom lip. your mouth opens up a little, watching him watch you. he nods, then, decisive, and pulls himself off the ground, helping you up after him.

you ride back to jackson in silence, leaving the dead man in the open. you let joel turn over what he saw, what he heard, in the quiet of your horse’s footsteps. he leaves you in the barn when you’ve dismounted, tells you to stay put, and reports the man to tommy. you stay, leaned up against the barn wall, waiting for him, something inside you scratching along the lining of your body, wondering what he’s thinking and knowing you have no right to it. when joel comes back, you notice the streak of blood on his thigh where he’d wiped his fingers after holding your face. you consider each other a moment from across the stables, and something passes between you. you saved his life today, and he’s grateful for it in a way he’s struggling with, and you can both agree you needn’t mention it again, at least until tomorrow. these thoughts he lets you read, before dropping them.

“you like whiskey?” he asks. and god what you wouldn’t do for a drink, so you nod. he jerks his head behind him and grunts, “c’mon.”

you let him lead you to his house, and for the first time you come inside.

joel has lived in jackson for years less than you, but still he’s filled it more than you have yours. there are books, on little tables and in the shelves, and half-done whittlings, and pencils. you flush with the scent of him, so strong in the curtains and the couch.

joel pours you a healthy shot into a tumbler, and then one for himself, and he lets you roam as you sip on it, following at your back without a word. you approach each of his shelfs, run your fingers along them, linger on the pieces of him he’s littered around. you finger through a pile of guitar picks and set your glass down there.

“what did you think of me when you first met me?” and you don’t entirely know why you ask it, at first. it comes, maybe, out of a selfish need to be reassured, or an even more dire want to hear his voice.

“what did i think of you?” he asks, and you can feel him approaching your back slowly. you hum, and joel reaches around you to set his glass down next to yours. he’s so close now and you squeeze your thighs together. “why d’you wanna know?”

and really you do your best at keeping yourself even. certainly, you tell yourself, he doesn’t mean to have this effect on you. certainly, he’s only trying to be kind after you sliced someone open for him. “i guess…” you think a moment, and then, “you asked me last night what kind of person you were. i want to know what you thought of me.”

he sighs a little, inches closer still. and his voice is so deep when he says at your back, “can i touch you here?” and you see in your periphery his pointer finger at your shoulder, hooking lightly over your hair. you barely muffle the shake in your chest and nod, and he pulls your hair over your other shoulder to bare your neck.

joel runs his nose along the line of your shoulder and lets out a breath there, pained and dismantled. into the seam of your neck, he whispers, “as soon as i saw you darlin i thought,” and he pauses to bring the backs of his knuckles, desperately light, down your spine, and you clench around nothing. “i thought you looked so goddamn soft. the fuckin garden and the strawberries, jesus, the strawberries.”

the paw of his hand, now at the base of your backbone, stretches itself along one of your hips. he says, now, “what about here? can i touch you here?” you nod again. joel’s fingertips press into you over your jeans there, but still he keeps his palm raised with a tremble that feels like restraint. “i thought i’d scare you.”

you let out a breath, slow, and muffled by your own attempt at control, and press your thighs together. the growing wetness at the nexus of your legs sears you, all lightning and heartbeat, and you will yourself to stay standing against the insistent pull of your arousal. joel tips his nose above the lobe of your ear to speak into it, lowly and gruffly and nearly apologetic (but not quite), “i’m too goddamn selfish.” he rests his forehead on your shoulder and breathes deeply again. “and violent.” this time, his words really do sound like repentance, and you stay silent to make space for the full of his confession. but his lips hover over the crest of your shoulder again, barely grazing, branding you all the same. “but you’re…” his jaw unhinges slightly, but he collects himself, “you’re vicious, baby.”

you whimper, then, and the sound of it makes him press his entire hand into your hip, suddenly frantic and squeezing at you.

“you hurt people, haven’t you darlin?”

you have to gasp for air, your pussy leaking into your underwear, because he’s seeing you, horrific and violent, and choosing to seek you out anyway. you nod cautiously, and his hands feel like they’re everywhere. and then gruffly, into your ear:

“you gonna hurt me?”

and you figure now, at least, you must be honest with him. “probably.” you barely recognize your own voice, the color of it darker with want than you’ve ever heard before.

joel pulls himself flush with your back, letting you feel the hardness of him, and allows himself a single push of his cock on your ass, muffling something animal in the back of this throat. he bands his free arm around your front to splay his palm on your sternum, pressing unforgivingly, and you feel the wild screaming of your heartbeat echoed back at you through his skin. he’s shaking, whispering, “don’t let me do this.”

you lay your head back into his shoulder to bring your mouth further up to him, arching yourself into his hold, making a home for yourself there. and pleading is a crime you refuse to commit in the presence of others, but you cannot help your own desperation now. “please.”

he spins you around then, and the lip of the shelf behind you presses determinedly into the skin below the hem of your shirt, but he’s kissing you (like he hates you, almost, or maybe himself) and so you take in the pain like it’s easy and you love it. his hands cup your head on either side, cradling the base where it meets your neck and threading his fingers through your hair as he nips at your bottom lip, laving over it with his tongue. he moans into your mouth as you kiss him back, lord forgive you for what that makes you feel, and you hitch a leg up to his hip to press your cunt into him. even through your jeans and his, he is an inhuman kind of large, and you wrap a handful of his shirt between your fingers to anchor you to sanity as you grind your hips at him. i need you i need you i need you, and you don’t say it, won’t say it, but you think it all the same.

his hands move from around your head to grab at both ass cheeks, dragging your center across the front of his pants and you groan at each other from the feeling. whatever it is that sews you together is being reaped. you let yourself be dramatic; you’ll die if he doesn’t fuck you now.

“joel, please,” you whisper into his mouth, which continues to eat at you.

“please what?” he pants back through your lips. “say it. what are you askin for?” despite this torture, his hands start to grope down your sides and pull at the buttons of your jeans. you move to press yourself into his grip but he insists, pushing you back into the wall. “tell me,” he growls, and it’s shadowy and lustful and deep, but as desperate as you feel, and it emboldens you.

“fuck me now, joel, please, please,” and you continue to beg, though your words turn incoherent, as he brings you up the stairs, holding your pussy still against his cock as it hardens behind his zipper. your pleading tightens joel's fingers on your waist, your thighs, the crook of your knee.

joel splays you on his bed, the tendrils of his hair haloed out around him as you run your fingers through and hold, and joel sucks and bites down your neck as he smooths his hands under your shirt to feel your skin. you whine out as he grabs at you, tight and wanting, and he pulls away so the both of you can pull your clothes off. you’re frantic as you sweep away your shirt and then your jeans, left bare besides your underwear on his bed, and you’d be embarrassed at your frenzy if joel wasn’t equally so pulling at his pants and shirt, but as it is you let yourself marvel at him. the broadness of his shoulders and biceps as he opens himself to you, the softness of his tummy, and oh, god, his cock tents in his boxers and you feel the already overwhelming wetness in your panties spread itself further. as soon as he’s on the brink of nakedness he’s on you again, caging your head between his palms on the mattress and pressing the hard line of his cock into your aching sex. his eyes bite at you with as much physicality as his teeth and tongue. something rumbles and unlocks in joel’s chest watching the rise and fall of your breasts as you heave, still grinding on you like he has no choice.

“goddamn it darlin,” he grits out, letting his eyes close a moment to feel the drag of your pussy against him. “you think about this?” your jaw falls open as you let a sigh out, one that means yes, and he moans deeply as he wraps his palms around each breast and squeezes. “you think about it as much as i do?” you nod again; you are past embarrassment, even humiliation, you are unreachable. it is only joel and his depth and you under him. “you touch yourself thinking of me?” and now you moan with the full of your chest, letting it loose in the sliver of air between you, and he returns it. “show me,” he pleads.

you let yourself a moment to pull the air, now heated with your body and his, into your lungs before you drag your fingers down your front and into your panties. he watches the movement of it, and his mouth stays open around a silent groan watching your fingers circle and push under the fabric, hearing you. you’re fucking dripping, and the squelches of your digits as you fuck yourself on them makes him groan and thrust his hips a little into nothing. you whimper his name and he falters a little.

as a tightness grows in your belly, approaching without mercy with the scent of him at your lips, he finally brings his own hand down into your panties. he cups his palm over your moving hand and you begin to pull it out, but he catches your wrist.

“no. keep going,” he groans. and you realize now he’s feeling how you touch yourself, barely resting his hand over your fingers as you pet inside, and you nearly come at the sight and thought and feeling of it.

as you near your high again, he tightens his grip on your wrist and pulls your hand from your cunt with a growl. you whine at the loss, but he pushes two fingers inside you and suddenly you’re yelping like an animal, thrashing as he grinds the heel of his palm into your clit. he whispers, mostly to himself, “oh jesus christ you are so fucking tight,” and you keen. joel circles the spongy spot deep inside you and you clench around his fingers, pushing your clit further into his hold, and you’re so close, so close, so close. you tell him so, and he smiles a little, lustful and wicked but nearly in disbelief, too, and he says back to you, “it feel good, honey?” and you could almost laugh at him for questioning something so glaringly obvious, but any thought is cut off by a white and swirling pleasure that coils and then unties itself, and you come with a high pitched moan while he groans above you. that’s it, baby, oh my god. he whispers this to you as you come, but it sounds underwater and you can barely process it even as you come down from your high and joel pulls his fingers away.

when your vision clears, you look above you to joel with his fingers in his mouth, eyes closed and stroking himself over his boxers, and now you really think you’re hinging on death.

“fuck me now, joel, please, jesus,” you say, though it’s breathy and broken with the intensity of your orgasm, which throbs still through your clit and around your walls.

joel pushes you further up his bed and lets his head dip again into your neck as he pulls his boxers and your panties off, biting with a diminishing mercy and chastising, “greedy.” you nod because you are.

when finally, finally, his bare cock is running through the wetness of your cunt, barely catching on the opening, and you’re two heaving bodies with the feeling of it, the both of you pause for the first time since joel’s entryway. you press a little foot into the back of his bare thigh, and you watch each other there, nearly in and of one another.

you whisper, “you gonna be okay, sting?”

joel breathes out onto your face and you feel his cock jump and pulse along your dripping seam. he looks pained, but you grin because you know better, can feel better by the rawness of him on you.

“yeah,” he replies. “are you?” and he looks down to where you nearly connect, gyrating his hips again and prolonging the feeling of his head at your entrance. you have just enough sense to notice his cock is as massive as you’d felt it to be, red and weeping along your pussy, and you’ll take him in your mouth sometime but not now, he has to fuck you now or you’ll blind yourself with your own wanting heat.

you murmur back a yes (it’s the best you can do), and he fists his hands in the sheets by your hands as he pushes himself in.

you imagined joel would fuck you roughly, unforgivingly; in this, you were right. but he is not rushed. joel drags his cock deep through your walls, letting the head bump your cervix before pulling nearly all the way out, and then reburying himself inside, but it is meticulous, intentional. you press back up, as best you can, to rub your clit in the dark curls at his base, and in return he curves his hips deeper into you; the friction there makes your walls pulse, and you feel every ridge and vein of his cock as it pistons in and out.

only when you’ve recovered from the initial stretch of him can you hear the noises the both of you are making. it is unholy, unceremonious, and loud. you’re moaning in his ear as he fucks you, and he groans into your mouth, the side of your head, your neck, every patch of skin on the expanse of you that he can reach.

so fuckin wet f’me, huh?

fuck, baby, this pussy is so fucking good.

yeah, yeah—oh fuck—clench me like that, fuck.

you know you won’t last long, and from the stumble of his hips each time you whimper at him you know he won’t either. with each thrust his balls slap and stick to your skin, the bed frame bumping on the wall.

joel sits up straighter, eyes trained on your stretch around him and the wetness that pours out there. he looks wild, awed at how you suck him in, and you’re mewling just as wildly because he’s so fucking deep and you think you can see the bump of his head below your navel when he thrusts inside. you curl your hand over his bicep and press your nails in, moaning out, “joel, joel, oh my god, you’re so deep i can see it.”

joel follows your eyeline and moans out something broken and incoherent, pressing a palm down where he knots up from your skin to feel himself moving in your walls, and you scream. the sensation makes you clamp down harder on him and joel grips the other hand on your hip.

“stop, oh my god, stop,” he grunts, cock still hard and unyielding and beating inside you.

“i won’t last, joel, please,” you whine back, and joel lets his eyes slip closed for a moment before nodding. he mutters out a fuck and presses your knees up to your chest, slinging each calf over his shoulders as he fucks you harder, deeper, and your eyes roll back in your head.

“jesus christ, darlin, you’ll kill me.” another moan. “come on my cock, baby, c’mon, let me feel it” and it’s a demand and a prayer at once, and who are you to refuse? you feel your cunt soaking him, the squelch of your bodies together intensifying, and the filth of it unravels you a second time. you come like a punishment, hard and drawn out and expansive in your body, and joel is moaning out at the feeling, “so good, so fucking good.”

you drag your nails down his back, hoping the marks are harsh enough to stay, and joel’s head tips back with his mouth pulled open. his cock swells and twitches inside you, and as his fingers turn white with his grip on your legs he pulls out, pushing your thighs together and fucking the skin there until the white ropes of his come paint your chest and stomach.

you both pant as joel slumps slightly over you, keeping an elbow at the side of your head to keep his weight off you but allowing your legs to fall to the bed again. despite the fucking, this is by far the most intimate; your breaths meeting between your faces, his nose pressed against yours. you look for something to say, but come up short. joel spares you by pushing himself off the bed and retreating to the bathroom.

you are both quiet as he wipes you with a cloth, though he remains gentle, diligent. when you’re clean, he throws it somewhere off the bed and sits on the edge, back to you and head in his hands. you shift to let your legs hang off his quilt, but don’t turn to him.

“joel,” you say, lowly. it’s only his name, but you know you’re asking something of him now, something you’re not sure either of you are strong enough to give. still, you wait for his response, keeping your gaze on his floorboards.

“what are we gonna do?” and it’s so soft, it reminds you of the day you met months ago. he is timid again, and it frightens you. the weight of your friendship, which you feel finally has bloomed into something worth nurturing, presses along your airways. you’ve wanted him for so long, and now you’ve had him, and you want him again. and so you’ve had your cake, and you move now to take a bite.

“we…” you let out a breath, as steady as the moment allows, “we’re friends.”

joel runs his fingers through his curls once before looking at you, and you gaze back. his eyes squint as he assesses your naked body on the edge of his mattress. “you gonna want me to fuck you again, darlin?”

you think he’s trying to panic you, euthanize whatever amalgam you’re constructing on his bedroom floor before it overcomes the both of you, but you do not shrink from him. “probably.”

he nods.

“are you?”

joel sighs. “probably.”

and so you redress yourself and return home, legs trembling and aching unbearably between them, and wonder for how long you and joel can deny absolutes in favor of the gray area you’re carving out together. probably probably probably, the both of you are clinging to probably. but you have no qualms with using nails and teeth to find purchase, and so despite all better judgment, you mostly feel sated, at last. what price could you possibly pay for this anyway? your heart? your soul? you forwent your ticket to absolution years ago, and you suppose the last half holy thing you can do is want, so why deny yourself this carnality? this is your last testament to living, to fuck joel and be his friend and deny the inevitable complication. you have taken and taken and taken and the blood remains on your hands, so what’s one last smeared fingerprint on the walls of your existence? when death comes for you, she’ll have such an awfully easy time, for you’ll have left a walkway in red behind you. what’s one last sign post? i am here. and it will be painted in your wanting and platonic insistence and the piece of joel you took within yourself tonight.

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taglist: @koshkaj-blog @shotgun-shelby @limerence4u (if anyone wants to be added let me know!!)

#joel miller #joel miller fic #fem!reader #jackson!joel #the last of us #tlou #on strawberries and masonry #joel miller smut

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beefrobeefcal · 6 months

Text

Dark!Frankie Saga: III

Chapter Three: Sweet Dreams

Pairing: Dark!Frankie Morales x Fem!Reader

Summary:

Boston. The Frontiersmen is a crime syndicate that deals in drugs, arms, and anything else they can to keep themselves on top. Since the original ring leader, Tom, was allegedly taken out by a rival gang, it's now run by Big Fish, with Pope second in command. Ironhead runs the numbers and Benny is the muscle. Your family member put you down as collateral when they needed credit to score more smack. Problem is, they can't pay it back, and Big Fish & the Frontiersmen always get their payment...

Rating: Explicit 18+ (MDNI)

Chapter Word Count: 2,720

Content Warning: Not smut yet (apologies), references to SA, almost SA, violence, threats of violence, crime, weight talk, eating, belly admiration, cooking

Author's Notes:

Thank you for your patience, Friendos! I promise to make it up to you for missing a week.

Once again, a gigantic and orgasmic thank you to @neverwheremoonchild for contributing ideas, being a sounding board, essentially co-writing this chapter and beta'ing this. Thank you, Nevy! 💜🥩💜

And thank you to @theywhowriteandknowthings for their love and support.

And this is not the Chubby!Frankie we know and love in the Catfish & the Mouse universe; he's dark, mean, and hungry. I'll be updating this each week (Monday/Tuesday) until you lose interest or I finish it - let's see what happens first! 👌

Beefro’s Master List | Previous Chapter

--------<3---------

The next week went on like it had that first day. Will would come collect you, have you help him with bookkeeping and filing, provide lunch, and eventually deposit you back to your quarters. You had no further run ins with Pope or Frankie, but Benny would come sit with you if Will needed to step away. You were falling into a routine and making the best of it.

It was later in the afternoon, coming close to the time that Will would be telling you to wrap it up when Benny came into the office.

"Hey honey...”, he smiled at you, then quickly turned his attention to Will. “Fish’s sayin’ we’re needed.”

Will looked up at him, over his ledger he had resting in his lap on his crossed leg. “Needed?”

“Yeah. All hands on deck.”

Will swore under his breath and motioned at you. “And her?”

Benny looked at you with a nervous smile, then back to Will. “Fish wants to handle her.”

Both Will and Benny looked at you when your breath hitched in your throat. Your face and neck bloomed with a red blush, and you quickly averted your eyes back down to the stack of receipts for the bowling alley in front of you.

Will let out a soft huffing laugh and twirled his pencil in between his fingers as he watched you, and Benny looked you over sympathetically.

“Won’t have Benny here to help clean up your mess, honey.”, Will chuckled.

“He wants her in the kitchen.”, Benny added in a soft tone.

Will scoffed as he stood up. “Last thing he needs is that... Jesus...”

“Dude...”, Benny sighed, then turned to you. “Come on. I’ll help you get this put away then take you down.”

*****

After being taken to the kitchen and given a quick rundown of where everything was, Benny left you alone to sort out dinner. He gave no instructions other than to make ‘a lot’, and you assumed he meant enough for all four of the men.

Frankie had yet to arrive, but Benny had said he wouldn’t be too long. It didn’t matter. Your insides were churning; you were mentally preparing yourself for his intimidation. The way he hollered at you, the way his eyes sized you up, the way he stood so close but never touched you. You didn’t know if you were terrified of him or turned on by him... maybe it was both. Either way, you gave yourself a mental peptalk while you sorted through an old recipe book you found in the cupboard above the fridge.

Deciding that despite the unseasonably warm fall weather currently outside, you were going to make an autumnal favourite of yours – shepherd’s pie. You found all the ingredients you needed and a large casserole dish to assemble it in, and you got to work.

As you got started on peeling potatoes, you heard the door open and close, followed by heavy footsteps. You kept your back turned, wanting to seem aloof and unphased by him as long as you could manage, knowing the risk this would entail as it would either impress or enrage him.

After feeling his eyes boring into you for a few moments, you heard his footsteps move and a stool pull out. The metal stool squeaked and groaned under his weight as he sat on it, you felt his eyes on you again.

It was a battle of wills; who would break first?

After peeling and dicing the potatoes, putting them into a large pot on the stove, you began cutting up carrots and onions.

You felt his eyes on you the whole time and you refused to turn around. At this point, you would have preferred him to corner you and holler, intimidate you, make you call him Mr. Morales. Goddammit, you remembered how he looked at you when he told you want to call him - his voice pitching deeper, his eyes getting darker, his large frame dwarfing yours in more ways than one. Christ, you could feel your legs getting weak under you just thinking about it, and how he looked watching you. Were his eyes dark? Was his lip curled? Was he sitting back in the stool, resting his thick, veined arms over his middle, making his stomach more prominent, or was he leaning over the counter letting his belly hang?

But you were also nervous. What if he was glaring at you, eyes full of disdain? What if he was waiting for you to turn around so he could ridicule you, belittle you, make you feel insignificant? What if he decided you weren’t worth it and you were taking up precious space when you were of no use to him? What would he do with you? What would he do to you?

Your mind began to creep to dark places as you tried keeping your composure. Thinking about what he would do to you or what he could have someone else, like Pope, do to you made your hands tremble as your breathing became shaky. You prayed he didn’t notice, but you knew he would. He didn’t get to where he was by not being perceptive and he was watching you carefully.

Finally, after cooking the beef and other vegetables then mashing the potatoes, you could assemble the shepherd’s pie. The problem was that the casserole dish you wanted to use was on the counter directly in front of Frankie.

You debated looking for another dish but knew this was the only one that size based on when you found it in the first place. That, and where the dishes were stored still would have you facing him. You sighed to yourself and turned around.

Despite your attempt to keep your eyes aloof and away from his, as soon as you turned, you were met with Frankie looking right back at you. He was sitting forward leaning on the counter, eyes meeting yours, and his mouth in a neutral line. You must have kept his gaze for a beat too long because he raised his eyebrows in a question, but you quickly grabbed the dish and returned to your workstation.

Once you’d assembled the different layers, you put the dish in the oven and set the timer for 30 minutes. You could still feel his eyes on you. You couldn’t bring yourself to turn around, your hands on the counter in front of you, leaning forward.

Before you could do anything further you heard Frankie breathe out and then the stool creak as he lifted himself off it. His footsteps moved towards the barracks and the door closed behind him. You let out a breath you didn’t realize you were holding.

****

You spent the 30 minutes the food was in the oven mindlessly cleaning the kitchen up – not just your mess, but the neglect this room had received from only being used and not cared for.

You weren’t quite done cleaning when the timer went off, but enough was done. As you pulled the casserole dish out of the oven you heard it: the door opening. Heavy foots step came towards the kitchen and you almost dropped the dish.

Placing the dish on the stove top, you refused to look up at him, instead looking for a serving utensil and a plate for him. You waited for the creak of the metal stool, but nothing came. After finding what you were looking for, you finally turned and found him standing at the door of the kitchen, watching you.

He looked down at the casserole dish then back at you; his eyes dragged up your body, lingering at your chest then back up to your face. He smirked and huffed a cold laugh, then moved towards the two-person table in the kitchen and sat down. It dawned on you that he was waiting for you to serve him, to bring him his dinner.

If it wasn’t for the fact that that having his full attention made you wet, you would have scoffed at his audacity. Instead, you plated a serving and brought the food to the table and placed it in front of him. As he picked up the fork and took a bite, you turned, heading back to the kitchen.

“Bring the rest.”

You jumped at his voice, then looked back at him, noting he’d consumed a good chuck of his food already.

“M – Mr. Morales… it’s dinner for every – “

"Fuck’em!”, he snarled. “They can have ramen. You feed me, honey.", he grunted as he shoveled another forkful into his mouth.

Your core grew hot, and your face flushed at his command. You grabbed the dish, brought it to the table and loaded up his plate again. Once his plate was loaded, he tugged you closer to him, pulling you onto the chair next to him. You felt your body catch on fire as his eyes raked over you again. He let go of your wrist and picked up his fork to eat.

As he ate, he would periodically look up with a slight grin and make sure you were still seated and watching him, like he wanted you to know he was enjoying what you prepared for him.

“Tell me, honey…”, he said between mouthfuls. “Will being good to you?”

“He’s been decent. Quiet. Only speaks to me when he needs to.” You withheld telling him about the clear annoyance Will harbored against you, apparent in every glace he shot your way.

A small smile blooms on his face and he huffs a laugh. “Sounds about right.” He takes another bite and after he swallows it, he continues. “And Benny. He seems to be treating you good. Anyone else causing issues? Anyone touch you, honey?”

“Other than you? No.”, you said flatly, not realizing the mistake of your candor.

He looked up at you, fork suspended with a warning eyebrow raised at your tone. You felt yourself shrink under his stern gaze, and you couldn’t pry your eyes away from him.

“Sorry. I - I meant… no one other than you, Mr. Morales.” Your voice was small and pathetic, but under that glare, you had no other way of getting your voice out.

“That’s better, baby…”, he said in a lower voice, his eyes going back down to his plate of food as he took a mouthful. “Mind your manners with me. Last warning.”

“Yes, sir.”

He gave you a small nod and ate a few more forkfuls in silence before talking again.

“You don’t have anything to say to me? No questions, honey?”

You stared at him, debating asking the question that you wake with and fall asleep to chanting in your mind. You didn’t want to anger him… or did you?

“How… How long am I going to… be here, Mr. Morales?”

He didn’t look up at you. Instead, he reached across the table for a napkin, and he wiped his face.

“You ready to leave so soon?”, he said with a smirk. When he saw that you were looking back at him nervously, he chuckled and licked his lips.

“Baby, you’re here until your brother’s debt is paid.”

You opened your mouth to speak, but he raised a finger to silence you.

“And how long that will be… not sure yet, honey.” He smiled and picked up his fork again.

*****

The casserole dish was empty, and you stared at his empty plate. Frankie sat back, toothpick in his mouth as he stifled a burp. He’d eaten the whole thing, and the swell of his stomach was proof. Swell was putting it mildly. His belly was pulling the buttons of his bowling shirt to the max, and his belt was digging into his waist.

He shifted with a wince in his chair, trying to get comfortable. Taking that as your cue, you stood up and began to clear the dishes when he grabbed your wrist again.

“Honey… no.”, he said in an unnervingly soft voice. “No, sweetheart. That can wait. Benny’ll handle it.”

He released the grip, but kept his fingers on your arm, gently touching your skin. At the involuntary goosebumps he drew out of you under his touch, he gave you a lopsided grin while keeping eye contact. He then moved his hand down to adjust his belt, even though it didn't budge under the weight of his belly. You watched his big hand wiggle the belt and adjust himself over his worn jeans.

“Need your help, honey.” He spoke in that unnervingly quiet voice.

“Yes, Mr. Morales?”

He chuckled and gave you a menacing grin. “Help me to my room, baby.”

Your blood froze in your veins. Despite how hot he made you, you didn’t want this. Not like this. You hesitated.

The grip on your wrist returned, even firmer; his large hands enveloping your arm. An ounce more of pressure and he could probably snap your wrist, no issue, and you looked at him, eyes wide and breath quick. His eyes darted to your heaving chest then back to your face, and his eyebrow, once again, raised in warning.

Maybe this was part of the debt you were paying for your brother. Letting this goliath of a man turn you into a hole he can abuse at his leisure. Your mind raced, and you worried that you’d underestimated Frankie and what he was truly capable of doing to you with no repercussions.

You nodded quickly, feeling your body begin to tremble. His glare never broke from you, but his hold relaxed. He gave you a curt nod and put his hand on the table to steady himself as he used his grip on you to hoist himself out of the chair. If you thought his belly was impressive before he ate, you were astounded at it now that it was full. A dinner for four full-grown men sat heavy in his middle, and his shirt pulled tight across it. He groaned once he stood up and pulled you towards him, wrapping his arm around your shoulders and encasing you against his side.

“That was good, honey. Shit… you might actually be useful.”, he grunted as you walked with him to the door to the barracks.

Once in the hallway, you tried to put some distance, even a fraction more, between you and Frankie, but he held you firm against his side. His body pressed against yours as he unrelentingly guided you towards his room. His scent was overwhelming you; sandalwood, clean laundry, his natural musk all rolled together and forcing itself into your memory banks. Your body once again trembled, but also were losing your resolve to fight this. Your mind reeled at the seesaw of wanting and not wanting what he was going to do to you.

As you approached his door, he stopped at yours and opened it. You stood next to him, not sure what to do. He moved around to face you, keeping a grip on your shoulder.

“Just too fucking pretty…”, he crooned lowly to himself, his free hand coming up to gently touch your jaw.

You were staring right into his eyes and suddenly, any and all softness and warmth disappeared, replaced by a cold, hard, menacing stare. He gripped your jaw hard.

“You ever hesitate when I tell you to do something again, I’ll fuck that pretty mouth yours till your teeth break. Is that understood?”

Your breath came out in short, labored pants through your nose, and you nodded, tears welling up in your eyes.

“Say it.”, he growled.

“I… I w-won’t hes - hesitate again, Mr. Mor-Morales.”, you sputtered out, whole body shaking.

He huffed and tightened his jaw. Eyeing you one more time before shoving you into your room and slamming the door.

You stumbled in and heard his door open and slam as you stood in the dark of your room alone. You listened and heard the dampened sounds of him grunting and groaning as he flopped hard onto his bed.

You didn’t even bother turning your lights on as you crawled into your bed. You fucked yourself with your fingers, his furious “Mind your manners with me” playing over and over until you came, biting on your pillow to muffle your whimpers and you calling out his name.

--------<3---------

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blurredcolour · 1 year

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Extrication in G Major | Part One

Extrication in G Major Masterlist

Summary: Your first encounter with Lieutenant Commander Jake Seresin gives you the impression that he is rude and arrogant, but he is determined to convince you to get to know him better.

Pairing: Jake "Hangman" Seresin x Female Cellist Reader

Warnings: Language, Blood, Reader Injury, Dress Uniforms, Jake Being a Bit of a Jerk, Jake Being a Lot of a Flirt, Alcohol Consumption

Word Count: 3738

The door to your apartment wavered in the slight breeze, the latch broken – likely to never function again. Warm liquid dripped from the underside from your worn kitchen table, bearing the scars of your childhood and its journey across the country in the back of a U-Haul. The droplets hit the linoleum tile with a soft pat, pat at first, before enough of them accumulated to change the sound to a sharper plink, plink.

Your eyes scanned over the hunting knife driven through your ruined hand and into the wood of the tabletop, the blood pooling in your palm. As the bitter taste of fear belatedly flooded your mouth, panic setting in at the gravity of your situation, it was ironic that the fingers of your free hand were reaching for your phone, fumbling across the fractured screen to call Lieutenant Commander Jacob Seresin of their own volition. Or perhaps it was not ironic at all.

Driving cross-country in a ten-foot rented moving truck from Boston to San Diego in January had not been an act born of choice, but one born of necessity. You had needed to leave the east coast. To put more than just a few states between you this time. The opening with the San Diego Symphony, courtesy of an early parental leave, had presented itself at the perfect time. And was geographically ideal in that it was in the diagonally opposite corner of the country from the orchestra you had just left.

Given that it was well outside the top twenty symphonies in the country and maybe, just maybe you would have just a little time to do what you loved before what you had left behind caught up with you.

With your finances in their abysmal state, you barely had enough to make a security deposit on a dubious studio apartment in a neighbourhood the internet indicated you probably should not consider. But San Diego was expensive, and this living situation would hopefully be temporary until you received a few pay cheques in your new position. You were careful, however, to never leave your cello unattended in your apartment; carrying it with you everywhere as you rode public transport and relied on ride shares to get around.

It was with great relief, then, that you happily accepted an invitation to join a few of the other musicians in a performance quartet. They had approached you after string sectionals as their usual cellist was out with the flu and they had a performance booked for that Friday. Four days of focused practice would be more than enough for you to prepare, you assured them, agreeing to stay after ensemble rehearsal to practice together on Thursday evening.

That was, after all, the life of a professional musician – a great deal of your rehearsal time was spent in isolation, perfecting your portion of the piece, learning your cues, and studying the composer, with the expectation of arriving at the final rehearsal able to play flawlessly.

The four of you were roughly halfway through the selection of pieces to be played, when the lead violinist Marco asked you and Haeun, the violist, to the work through a section together to ensure a more complimentary sound. The door to the auditorium opened, immediately bringing your bows to a halt, and sending all of your eyes to your watches. The security guard, Hal, had assured you it would be no issue for you to remain until ten. But it was only half past eight. And the man who strutted in was most certainly not the retired police officer with a shock of white hair sprouting beneath his black security officer’s cap.

No. The man who strolled in was tall and broad, tanned and blonde, dressed in military khakis with biceps that tested the limits of his shirt sleeves. He had a pair of aviator sunglasses dangling from the breast pocket of his uniform, and suspicion in his eyes as he looked towards the four of you on stage.

“Lieutenant Commander Seresin!” Marco gasped and set his violin and bow on his now empty seat before disappearing in the wings, only to re-emerge off stage, meeting the imposing man in the front row.

There were about the same height, just under six foot tall, but next to Marco the width of the man’s shoulders made up from any lack of altitude.

“Good evening Mr. Campillo, just thought I’d come by and see how the preparations are going…” His eyes raked across the stage before settling on you, narrowing slightly. Instinctually, your fingers tightened on the neck of your instrument, knees hugging the sides slightly under his scrutiny before he turned back to Marco. “I see your quartet has a new member…”

You gritted your teeth at the doubt in his voice, trying to keep your face passive as you were really counting on the extra funds this gig would afford you.

“Yes, she graciously agreed to step in for us as Cecily caught the flu this week. We are extremely fortunate to have her on such short notice.”

“You’ll forgive me if I’m not as excited as you, Mr. Campillo, to have a brand-new cellist in the quartet I hired for an event I’ve been personally charged with. Admirals don’t retire every day, and everything must be to the highest of standards.” He cast a glance back at you over his shoulder, hands coming to rest on his hips. “No offence, miss.”

Your spine stiffened as the second violinist Benoit was barely able to contain his gasp beside you.

“Now, Lieutenant Commander, please let me assuage your concerns. She’s Julliard trained and most recently played for the Boston Symphony Orchestra, widely considered one of the top five in the country, truly, I assure you that…”

Marco’s words barely reached your ears, blood rushing through them as you tried to take deep, calming breaths. The fingertips resting on your bow grip were losing colour from how tight you were holding it…from the audacity of this military man waltzing into your practice, insulting your capabilities at merely a glance. You had swallowed more of your pride in the last few weeks than your stomach could manage, and this muscled idiot was more than you could stand.

If the moron needed proof of your worth, then you could certainly deliver that. Fresh in your memory from your audition for the seat, wordlessly you relaxed into a proper playing position began to play Bach’s Cello Suite No. 1: Prelude. It was perhaps the most famous cell solo, mostly due to the efforts of Yo-Yo Ma, and a rather melancholy piece. There was no lack of sadness in your life upon which to draw from and mixed with the burning sense of challenge the Lieutenant Commander raised within you, your fingers flew across the fingerboard, head bobbing slightly with the rhythm of the piece. As you played the higher notes, your eyebrows naturally rose, not unlike that of a singer, and neck extending backward slightly on the longer notes, it was as though the music was being produced from within you rather than through an instrument.

So absorbed in the music, you missed the way the group fell silent until you pulled your bow from the strings, the last of the vibrations fading away, and opened your eyes to find him staring openly at you. You swallowed tightly to clear your throat.

“Will that suffice, Lieutenant Commander?” You asked pointedly.

He supplied you with a vague nod in reply, reaching behind him to fold down the nearest seat before sinking into it. Marco stayed by his side for a moment, hesitating, before jogging back to rejoin the three of you on stage. Lieutenant Commander Seresin remained there, seated in the front row, until nearly ten o’clock, watching the four of you finish your rehearsal. You could not help but wonder if he had more ‘important’ things to do.

You could hear him and Marco making final arrangements as you packed up your cello, pulling out your phone to summon a ride share to make the trip home. You frowned slightly at the jagged crack down the face of your screen; yet another thing that would wait until funds allowed for a replacement. You slung your cello onto your back, making your way out to the parking lot until a blur of khaki halted you in your tracks.

“I really meant no offense, darlin’.” Seresin grinned from much closer this time and you were irritated to note that the pale, jade green of his eyes reminded you of sea glass. “You know how it is…” He shrugged in a way you were certain had previously charmed the undergarments off countless bodies.

“I’m certain I don’t, Lieutenant Commander, being a civilian and all. But your concern is wasted. A musician is accustomed to proving their abilities to anyone and everyone who demands it of them.” No matter how unqualified. You kept the last to yourself and moved to step around him.

You caught the way his eyes shifted to your cello as you hiked it higher upon your shoulder.

“Please, allow me…” He reached for it, and you shook your head firmly.

“No thank you, Lieutenant Commander, I’m fine.”

“Please, darlin’, it’s Jake. There’s no need to be so formal…” He flashed his perfectly straight, white teeth and you had never been more grateful to receive a notification on your phone.

You looked down to see that your driver ‘Andy’ had arrived before the glow of headlights shone through the glass doors ahead.

“Looks like my ride is here. Good night, Lieutenant Commander.” You nodded to him, swallowing back a sigh as he still insisted on holding open each of the lobby doors for you.

“I’ll see you tomorrow, darlin’.” He nodded, undeterred, helping you and your cello into the maroon sedan.

“Tomorrow.” You replied with a nod before he shut the car door for you, sighing heavily and dropping your face into your hand as the car pulled away. San Diego was supposed to be simple, so why had the universe just set this stubborn, gorgeous man in your path?

The ride share driver and you had competed to vacate the parking lot of your building once he had dropped you off. He had won, but just barely. Locking the door behind you, you breathed a sigh of relief to find your meagre possessions intact. You tucked the cello into the back of the closet, inside one of the moving boxes you had saved for just that purpose, to make it as unappealing as possible, and pulled out one of your performance dresses to be sure it was free of wrinkles for the party tomorrow night.

After another dinner of cup noodles, you put on some white noise on your phone and did your best to get as much sleep as possible, forgoing any practice the day of the party to ensure you were as rested as possible. You arrived at the hotel an hour before the party was scheduled to begin, freshly showered and wearing subtle make-up, the breeze from the nearby ocean catching the skirt of your dress as you climbed out of your ride share.

“You clean up nice, darlin’.” You heard the familiar voice and looked up, the moisture in your mouth suddenly evaporating at the sight of Lieutenant Commander Jake Seresin standing before you in his dress whites and…was that a fucking…sword at his hip? How had you not been mentally prepared for the possibility of dress uniforms.

“You, too…” Your lips somehow mustered to ability to move, and you barely heard your voice above the buzzing in your ears as you watched him reach into the car to fetch your cello, too stupefied to protest this time.

“Why thank you, you’re too kind.” He flashed that ruinous smile again. “Follow me.” He jerked his head to the right and turned to lead you inside.

You followed without a word, past the reception desk, down a few hallways, and into a ballroom decked in Navy decorations. Of course, the dress whites meant the Navy. He was a Navy man. Slowly your cognitive skills were returning to you.

“Your fellow musicians are set-up right here.” He led you over to a platform in the corner of the room where the others were just unpacking their instruments and gently set your cello case on the carpeted floor. “You all have programs on your music stands, but please let me know if need anything else.”

“Thank you very much.” You nodded earnestly, nibbling on the corner of your lip as you quickly went about setting up so the four of you could be in place and ready to play before the guests arrived.

He grinned, looking more than a little pleased with himself, before stepping away to take care of other responsibilities. You could not deny that your eyes found him several times throughout the evening during your warm-up, between songs, as the guest of honour arrived, as they served dinner. The military most certainly had numerous lethal weapons in its arsenal and Lieutenant Commander Jake Seresin was handcrafted to bring about your death it seemed.

It was a miracle that you made it through the full set, the evening a true test of professional abilities, taking a bow as the emcee took to the podium to ask those in attendance for a round of applause for the music your quartet had provided. He then announced they would be moving onto speeches as the four of you began to pack up as quietly as possible.

“Hey, thank y’all again that was fantastic.” Jake whispered, shaking each of your hands with a warm grin, a hint of whisky on his breath. “We’ve got some extra dinners from folks who couldn’t come are any of you hungry?”

While Marco and Haeun opted to head home to their families, you and Benoit agreed. Jake got you set up at a table in the back, speaking to one of the waiters who promptly brought out two plates. Jake slid into the empty chair beside you as the speeches echoed through the ballroom, glancing at you happily as you did your best to act like this was not your first proper meal in weeks. You carefully cut and savoured each bite – even the veggies tasted like heaven. When they cut the intricately decorated cake, Jake disappeared only to return with three sizeable slices.

“I’m glad you approve of my meal selection.” He winked and you sipped your water sheepishly.

“It was very good.” You admitted before looking over the cake. “Did you select this as well, Lieutenant Commander?” You tilted your head, enjoying the way his eyes crinkled at the corners in annoyance.

“I’ve told you to call me Jake, darlin’, and yes, yes, I did. Lemon cake with a vanilla bean buttercream but there’s a surprise in the middle. Go on and tell me what you think.” He leaned in watching you expectantly.

Lifting your fork, you used the edge of it to slice through the soft piece of cake, mouth already watering at the promise of something sweet, before stabbing a bite-sized portion and sliding it past your lips. As you chewed thoughtfully, you fought back the urge to moan at the delicious combination of flavours but could not help the gasp that flew from your mouth when the bright tang of raspberry cut through the sweetness of the buttercream.

Jake grinned broadly and leaned back in his chair, nodding heavily with satisfaction. “Raspberry compote.”

“That is fantastic.” You grudgingly admitted before going in for a second bite.

He chuckled richly and watched you enjoy a few more bites, nodding to Benoit as he excused himself for the evening. You swallowed nervously, realizing you were now alone in a room full of dress uniforms, under the intense gaze of one Lieutenant Commander.

“Are you enjoying San Diego?” He asked, breaking the silence as the DJ began to set up for the dance portion of the evening.

You nodded slowly, swallowing your most recent bite.

“Haven’t really been here long but it’s beautiful….” You glanced at him and tilted your head. “So aside from choosing dinners and cakes and musicians, what do you do for the Navy?” You asked, hoping to distract him by getting him to talk about himself.

His lips twitched into a smirk.

“Well darlin’, I’m a Naval Aviator…a pilot…” He replied confidently, tapping the set of golden wings on his chest, making you swallow the last of your cake painfully.

“Fuck me…” You breathed as the DJ introduced herself through the sound system. You tensed and quickly took a deep sip of your water.

“Sorry didn’t catch that?” He leaned in, eyes twinkling with a dangerous mischief.

“F... Fancy.” You said loudly into his ear as the first song of the night began throbbing through the speakers, something from the eighties – the retiring admiral’s heyday.

He straightened with a knowing smirk on his face and offered his hand.

“Dance with me.” It was more of a command than an invitation.

“I should really head home; we’ve got a concert series next week and I…” You swallowed hard as he raised an eyebrow and stood, extending his hand to you once more.

You glanced at your cello beneath the table, loathe to leave it unattended, even in a room filled with commissioned officers.

“Is that the real problem? One moment.” He nodded and squeezed your shoulder before disappearing into the crowd, the heat of his touch lingering through the fabric of your dress.

You had just risen to your feet, prepared to make your escape, when he returned with another officer with wings on his chest but no sword at his hip.

“This is Lieutenant Javy Machado, my wingman. There’s no one else here I would trust to look after your cello.” Jake slapped him on the back proudly and you pressed your lips together trying not to grin at how adorable a picture they presented.

“Your instrument is in good hands ma’am, though might I persuade you to dance with me instead? Hangman is a terrible dancer…” He trailed off as Jake pushed him down into his recently vacated chair and silently accepted defeat as Jake offered his hand to you once more.

“Please?” He asked, raising an eyebrow hopefully and you swallowed, not quite finding the heart to turn him down after he had found someone to mind your cello – despite how complicated this was getting.

“One dance, Lieutenant Commander.” You acquiesced, setting your hand in his, licking your lips involuntarily at the intensity of his responding smile.

He led you out onto the dance floor, sliding his arm around you to rest against your lower back and your heart leapt into your throat as you realized at some point between the table and the floor the music had changed to a slow song. Sinking your teeth into your lower lip at the warmth of his palm seeping through your dress, you set your hand in his, letting him lead. He easily navigated past the other couples, and despite his wingman’s warnings, he was an excellent dancer.

“Why did he call you Hangman?” You looked up at him, startled to find his eyes already fixed down on you.

“It’s my call sign, we use them in the air. Javy’s is Coyote. Still working on getting you to call me Jake first, though. One step at a time.” He smirked and you could not help but laugh softly, shaking your head. “I have to say…” He murmured, leaning in close to your ear. “I’ve never been jealous of a cello before…Wish it was me between those lovely legs of yours.” He breathed against your tender skin, making you shiver involuntarily.

It was by no means an inventive pick-up line to receive as a cellist – had even been successful a time or two during your studies at Julliard, but it had become tired and cliché as you had matured. Yet there was something about the earnest way in which he delivered it. Or maybe it was the Texas drawl, thickened by the whisky you could still smell on his breath. It sent a thrill of desire through you that was altogether dangerous.

Mercifully, as the song came to an end a rather frantic looking individual bustled up to Jake and tapped him on the shoulder. He reluctantly released you and turned to look down at the smaller man.

“Terribly sorry to interrupt, Lieutenant Commander but Admiral Simpson is looking for you…” He fidgeted nervously and you honestly pitied the man for the murderous look Jake was currently raining down on him.

He turned back to you and frowned.

“Forgive me darlin’, duty calls. I hope you might stay but I…”

You shook your head sadly and he all but pouted yet nodded graciously. You took a deep breath, knowing you would probably regret this, but selfishly wanting to see his smile one last time.

“Goodnight, Jake.” You smiled softly and bit your lip painfully as he pressed both hands to his chest, green eyes glittering and smile stretching his lips wide as his face lit up with glee.

“Goodnight, darlin’.” He crowed, walking backward through the crowd towards his beckoning admiral.

You shook your head, ducking your face as more than a few people turned to glance your way. Picking your way quickly across the dancefloor, you returned to your table, smiling fondly to see Lieutenant Machado waiting patiently with your cello.

“Thank you very much, Lieutenant. I hope you enjoy the rest of your night.” You smiled warmly and grabbed your instrument, slinging it over your shoulder and booking a ride as you wound your way through the halls to the front of the hotel. You walked quickly, nearly holding your breath, hoping the admiral would keep Jake long enough, or deliver a request complex enough, that you could make your way out of there before he realized he did not have your number.

Despite your initial impression of him, the evening had more than confirmed that the man did not deserve to be entangled in the morass of your life. It would be best for you to disappear tonight and for him to take that charm and those ruinous good looks elsewhere. Your paths were highly unlikely to ever cross again, anyway.

Read Part Two

Extrication in G Major Masterlist

Image Credit: Devotion (2022)

#jake seresin x reader #hangman x reader #jake seresin x you #hangman x you #jake hangman x reader #jake hangman x you #jake hangman fic #jake hangman imagine #jake hangman seresin #jake seresin imagine #top gun fanfiction

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cariantha · 18 days

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A Chance Encounter (3/3)

Book: Open Heart (Pre-Series) Pairing: Dr. Ethan Ramsey x F!MC (Dr. Sawyer Brooks) Rating: Teen Category: Fluff Word count: 1.3K Series Summary: Ten years before meeting at Edenbrook, Ethan and Sawyer have a chance encounter during spring break.

Chapter Summary: Almost two years after moving to Boston and meeting Ethan Ramsey, Sawyer realizes her spring break dream guy and current boyfriend are the same person.

Part One | Part Two

Part Three: The Realization

March 2024 - Boston, Massachusetts

“Okay, okay! Truce!” Sawyer surrendered with breathless laughter. She and Ethan, and most of the surfaces in the room, were dripping wet in the aftermath of their impromptu water fight at the kitchen sink.

Ethan playfully swatted her bottom with a dish towel before he started mopping up the countertop. “Hey!” she jumped with a laugh. “You started it, mister.”

“Uh-uh. You did when you gagged at my recipe idea.”

“Sorry, not sorry. But it was a terrible idea. Who puts raisins in pasta? Who puts raisins in anything? Gross,” she shivered in disgust. Changing the subject, “Hey, speaking of terrible things… did you hear about all those spring breakers who ended up in the E.R. last night?”

“I did. I saw it on the news as well. It’s a miracle no one drowned. Fifty people crammed onto a pontoon boat… what a bunch of drunken idiots,” Ethan commented and shook his head.

“So, I take it you never did anything crazy or reckless on your spring breaks?” She stopped what she was doing and turned to face him. “Did you even go on any spring break trips?”

“Once.”

Nearly a year and a half since meeting in the lobby of Edenbook, Sawyer still hadn’t remembered their encounter over a decade ago. And Ethan didn’t want to tell her. He wanted her to realize on her own and was still hopeful she would. Something would eventually jog her memory and he wanted to witness the moment she finally connected the dots. The more senior doctor had always been fascinated with how his protege’s mind worked, how an everyday random thought became the key to unlocking a medical mystery. He wondered if it would be like that when she finally remembered. But then again, Sawyer didn’t even know there was a mystery to be solved, so maybe not.

“Once what?” Sawyer asked, walking to the dining table to collect the wine glasses, “Once you were reckless or once–” She cut herself off as her foot slipped out from under her. “Whoa!” she yelped, clipping her elbow on a metal cabinet handle as she fell on her rump. “Owww,” she whimpered, cradling her throbbing funny bone.

“Shit! Are you okay?” Ethan rushed to her side and crouched down. He peeled Sawyer’s hand away from her elbow and saw red. “Come here.” Scooping her into his arms, he stood and gently deposited her on top of the kitchen island. Reaching for a roll of paper towels, he tore a couple off. “Here, keep pressure on it. I’ll be right back.” A minute later he returned with a first aid kit.

Needing a distraction from the throbbing pain, Sawyer watched him sort through the kit. “Tell me more about your spring break. I can’t quite picture you partying on the beach in Florida. Isn’t that where all the east coasters go?”

“It was during med school,” he answered. “Tobias’ stepdad had a house at the beach, right on the water. We spent a few days there with a couple of other buddies from school. It wasn’t anything wild like the scene in Florida… pretty upscale… but Tobias did throw a big party while we were there.” Having gathered the needed supplies, he lifted the paper towels and examined the gash on her elbow. “What about you? Let me guess… Mexico? Lake Havasu? Vegas?”

She shook her head as she also assessed her injury. “I was on scholarship. I couldn’t afford to go anywhere. But sophomore year, my roommate invited me to go with her to New York. She was a nanny for a super-rich family from L.A. They let her bring a friend since she was giving up her spring break to travel with them.”

Standing between her legs, Ethan cleaned the wound. When Sawyer turned her head and flinched from the sting of the antiseptic, he leaned down and blew on her elbow.

Sawyer snapped her head back to him. When he lifted his eyes to meet hers, memories of her time in the Hamptons with a handsome young stranger came rushing back. The stranger who traveled with three friends and whose roommate had a wealthy stepfather who owned a house on the water. A medical student at John Hopkins. A coffee snob with eyes the same color as the ocean.

“You– You didn’t say where you went for spring break,” she commented quietly.

Ethan stepped away to dispose of the bloody gauze and paper towels. His back was to her when he answered. “The Hamptons.”

When he turned around, he saw the realization dawning in her glassy eyes.

Sawyer stared back at him for a moment. "Moondoggie?" she asked softly, her throat suddenly tight as she swallowed her choked-up tears.

Ethan smiled as he returned to the counter and rummaged through the first aid kit for the right size bandage.

“You’re… it was… it was you?" she stammered, putting the puzzle pieces together. As he applied ointment to her wound, her mind wandered to the countless times he had lovingly kissed and caressed the barely there scar on her thigh. "Why haven't you ever said anything?"

"It was complicated. You were an intern. I was an attending. Cracking that door open would have made it even harder to keep things professional.”

"When exactly did you realize?" she wondered.

"In the waiting room of the E.R. The moment I saw and called you over to help,” he admitted, tearing the wrapping away from the bandaid.

“But you acted like you didn’t know me.”

“I recognized you immediately. How could I ever forget these bewitching green eyes?” he said, his knuckles caressing her cheek. “I just didn’t know your name.”

She held her tongue as he concentrated on placing the butterfly bandage just right. When he was done, Sawyer slugged him.

“Ow! What was that for?” he moaned, rubbing his shoulder.

“We met. We had this incredible connection. Had a magical night together. And thennn, we meet again ten years later, unable to resist each other, and you still don’t believe in soulmates?!”

Ethan shrugged. “You know I believe in science, not star charts. There’s a perfectly logical explanation–”

Sawyer shook her head and cut him off before he bored her to death with scientific reasoning. “Ethan… I can’t believe this… you were my… my–”

“Spring break hook-up?” he tried to finish for her.

“No… well yes, but you were my– my first.”

He stopped what he was doing and looked her in the eyes. “Are you serious?”

“Yeah.”

“Well, clearly it was not very memorable,” he poked fun at himself as he started to move away and clean up.

Sawyer quickly grabbed his shirt and tugged him back. “Are you kidding?! I’ve never forgotten that night, Ethan. I never forgot how you made me feel,” she told him, wrapping her hands around his wrists to keep him close. “You know, the first time I saw a picture of you, I thought you looked like him. The guy I met on spring break. It was always at the back of my mind, but I figured it was just wishful thinking...” She trailed off, stroking his cheek with her thumb. “It's probably why I didn't recognize you as my medical hero when we saved that woman's life. Seeing you again short-circuited my brain," she chuckled. Locking eyes with him, her tone became more serious. "That guy from the beach was my dream guy. I’ve never forgotten him and I compared everyone who came after to him.”

“Is that so?” he asked in a near whisper, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear.

“Yes.” Sawyer shrugged her shoulders. “I’m sorry I didn’t remember right away. I suppose once I started to get to know you… once I found the real thing… I didn’t need to hold onto the memory of the dream guy anymore.” She locked her legs around his waist and her arms around his torso, drawing him as close as possible.

“I see,” he said, planting a soft kiss on her lips. “Well, maybe if I play my cards right, I can be your first and your last.”

“Take me to the bedroom, Moondoggie,” she smiled. “You can be my first, last, and right now.”

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phykios · 1 year

Text

Holding Out For A Hero, co-written by @darkmagyk [read on ao3] [written for the @pjo-hoo-bigbang] [thank you to @ashilrak for the absolutely stunning art!!]

[part 1/2]

---

At twenty-seven years old, Annabeth had had enough. Truthfully, she’d had enough at seventeen. And at seven. But at twenty-seven, she had enough bravery and arrogance to refuse the next time a god came to her with a quest that needed taking. Even when it was her mother who offered.

“You will not take it, then?” the goddess asked.

Annabeth nodded. “I will have to decline. Respectfully.”

There was a beat as Athena appraised her, gray eyes calculating. They softened, then, apparently finding Annabeth worthy. “You have become very wise, my daughter. The hunger for glory has brought the downfall of many a hero; I am glad that it will not take you as well.”

“It’s not about that,” said Annabeth.

But Athena ignored her. “Fear not, Annabeth. I am not disappointed–rather, I am proud. You have done very well.” And then she rewarded Annabeth with a rare, sincere smile, a queen bestowing her favor. Even a few years earlier, Annabeth would have flipped for joy. She would have fallen to her knees and begun to weep at this display of motherly affection.

“Thank you, mother.”

It was just too bad that Annabeth no longer cared.

---

She didn’t think she had taken a breath all day. Something was going to go wrong; she just didn’t know what yet. She watched the movers, carrying her things, telling them how she wanted her new house to set up. It wasn’t very much stuff. Her apartment in Boston had been so much smaller than the house in Maine. And she didn’t want to fill it up yet. She’d bought the place, more crumbling manor then one woman’s starter house, because she wanted to build it and shape it to be everything she needed.

It would be great if she could figure out what that was.

But she was starting with a house. She was an architect after all, even though she’d sold her firm.

This was supposed to be her oasis. This was supposed to be her retirement.

So, something was bound to happen. She scanned all of the movers. Looking for a flick of a tail, the clump of a hoof, the shimmer of scales, anything that would give the game away.

She knew that monsters stopped bothering demigods as they got older, but they didn’t normally completely leave them alone. She’d killed a lot of monsters in the last decade. And she couldn’t imagine moving into her new home, her quiet retirement, without one last great battle.

She felt for her knife, tucked into her waistband. Ready for her, always ready for her.

But none of the movers turned into monsters all day. They just unloaded her things, unwrapped and unpadded things, deposited boxes in the rooms as marked.

And then they left, without attacking, without breathing fire or raising a weapon against her. For dinner, she pulled out the phone book and rooted around for the pizza place, and lamented that there was only one in town, and that her house was barely in delivery range.

When she settled into her new house, in her new bed, with cold Dominos in the fridge. And no one tried to attack her.

Annabeth Chase, Daughter of Athena, Hero of Olympus was almost thirty years old, and she was trying to figure out what you did, when all the best and worst things that could ever happen had happened to you, happened before you were eighteen.

She tried not to feel like the protagonist of a shitty romcom, but it was not like she was making it easier for herself.

Helena, Maine, was very small. It felt kind of ridiculous to say that Annabeth was feeling culture shock. But it was just so small, and Boston had been home for so long. She swore that she would miss the colors, the skyline, the crush of souls. She had promised up and down at her goodbye party that she would miss it all…

And yet.

The smell of sea air was much, much stronger here, and somehow even more intense inside of the fixer-upper she had recently acquired, the salt smell soaking and permeating every pore of the wooden beams. It was a beautiful piece of property, a couple blocks away from the shoreline, placed neatly between the evenly-spaced trees of the neighborhood and the wilder, more overgrown forests as the land stretches inland. She didn’t really want to know what happened to the previous owner, or when, how, and why the gods of Olympus decided to try their hand in real estate, but a house in Nowheresville USA was a small price to pay for years of blood, sweat, and tears, she supposed.

It had a little downtown area, which was just a mainstreet with local grocers, a beauty salon, a couple of restaurants that all claimed to have the best lobster, a diner that did have the best pie she’d ever had in her life, the most historic building, now a hotel that she’d helped restore, had more or less sold her on the town, a little gift shop and tour right next door that advertised historic district walking tours, sun set cruises, and the best whale watching tours on the East Coast, a clothing store she’d bought some new sandals from, a coffee shop, a record store with a decent selection, and a little book store that had already told her they did not have anything in ancient Greek, and was therefore useless to her.

The arts and craft store was actually a little ways out, but they had some great wool and she’d already stocked up.

She was retired. But she was still planning on taking the occasional consulting job, or even a few independent design projects. But not yet. She wanted to give herself some time to sit and relax, and let the sea air soak into her veins.

And she’d knit while doing it.

Oh, she did a lot of other things too: she compared all the lobster restaurants in town, ordered a full pie a week from the diner. She bought new leggings at the store. She bought Into the Gap and the Footloose soundtrack at the record store. She broke down and bought Firestarter because the guy in the bookstore wouldn’t stop talking about Stephen King. She had lunch with the hotel manager and talked about architecture, and she went on walking tours, the Blueberry Tour, and even the ghost tour. She walked on the beach, and on the little docks.

She went back to Boston, too, sometimes. They had not yet finished the renovations on Magnus’s shelter when all the paperwork from selling her company and buying her house came through. And she liked to visit her dad, too. She was always worried about him getting out and talking to people, after the divorce. Sometimes she wondered if her dad had ADHD, too, given how he could go for days, absorbed in his books.

She was shocked, twelve weeks in, when she drove back into town on Monday, after her fifth trip to Boston, and found her shoulders loosening as soon as she spotted Main Street. She rolled down her window, and breathed in the sea air.

And she felt herself relax. Really and truly relax, for the first time since she was five or six.

No monsters or Harvard admissions or deadlines hanging over her head. Just home.

One day, she drove into town, and got dinner in the little hamburger place near the boat docks. It was the third best hamburger in town, but it was the only restaurant with a window onto the ocean. The patio was closed for the winter, but it was still a phenomenal view.

She ordered a glass of wine, automatically sending a prayer of thanks to Dionysus, and made herself a pair of leg warmers in between bites and sips.

“Those are cute,” said her waitress, Sarah, who went to the local high school, and worked every Monday, Wednesday, and alternate Saturdays. She had a boyfriend who was more serious about their relationship than she was, loved Danielle Steele, and was ambivalent about college unless it could take her someplace romantic like New York, or Los Angeles, or even some magical, faraway place like Paris–if she got really lucky.

You learned too much about everyone in a small town. Privately, Annabeth thought it was kind of delightful.

“Thanks,” she said. “Honestly, this is the fifth pair I’ve made this month.” She considered them. They were a bright purple. She liked the color, but probably not anymore than the blue and gray ones she’s been wearing.

“Fifth?”

“I’ve had a lot of time on my hands.”

Sarah’s eyes flashed. “Uh huh?”

“Yeah, just–it’s been nice to get back into a hobby and everything.”

“So, do you… um…” Sarah twirled her pen around her fingers, looking decidedly left of Annabeth’s cheek. “What does your boyfriend think of them?”

“Oh, I don’t have one.” And thank all the gods for that. And may the gods curse the lot of the male heroes for their idiocy.

Her eyes went wide. “You don’t? What about an ex?”

Annabeth shook her head.

“Never? But you’re so ol–I mean… uh…”

Annabeth shrugged. She wasn’t that old. “Never had the time for one.” She blinked away the flash of sandy hair and angry blue eyes, and took another sip of wine.

“O–okay.”

If Annabeth hadn’t been retired, maybe she would have taken more notice. Maybe she would have correctly clocked Sarah’s interest in her newfound free time as more than a little concerning. Maybe she wouldn’t have forgotten the conversation after she went home, snuggling down into her bed after another half a glass of wine, drifting off into a thankfully dreamless sleep.

Then again, what was the harm? Annabeth was new, and interesting, and her lack of things to do was just a little bit of small-town gossip to pass around. Gods knew they needed some kind of excitement in their lives.

Big mistake.

It wasn’t two more days before Brenda, Sarah’s mother and co-owner of the dive, made her move.

Which was a damn shame. Annabeth really liked this grocery store.

“Oh, Annabeth!”

Brenda’s bright, brown eyes were ringed with blue in a way that she imagined Silena might quietly approve of, and at least today, they had all the laser-focused intensity of a Gorgon stare as she came barreling towards Annabeth in the cereal aisle.

She acknowledged Brenda, but didn’t quite smile. Smiling sometimes gave people the idea that these interruptions were desired.

This had never been a problem in Boston or New York. You could go on fifty shopping trips, and never run into someone you know. That was a big drawback of small towns, all the people.

“I’ve seen you at the restaurant a lot lately,” Brenda said. “And Sarah has, too.”

She nodded. “I love your patio.” Because she did. It reminded her a little bit of her own back deck. Except for someone else cooked, and then cleaned up at the end.

“I’m glad,” Brenda said, “but several of us have noticed that you always eat alone.”

That was true. In her five months here, her dad had visited four times. And she hadn’t taken him to Brenda’s place, because that would involve way too many questions. “Yeah, I feel like I always run into someone I know at the restaurant.” She said.

“How long have you been in town now, Annabeth?”

“I moved here in September,” she said, cocking her head to the side, unsure of where this was going.

“And do you think you’ve really settled into the community?”

“Um…” What kind of question was that? “Yes?”

“Because I worry about you.”

“Oh Brenda,” she sighed, “that’s sweet, but…” But she could already see where this was going. She’d had this conversation four or five times with a few of her neighbors. She looked Brenda up and down and wondered if she was Catholic or Lutheran or whatever Presbyterian was. Also, if someone was ever going to explain to her what the differences between all those things were.

“I’ve spoken to some of the others, they say you eat at one of our restaurants nearly every night.”

Oh… well, that didn’t seem like a lead up to invite her to church, at least. And it wasn’t like it wasn’t true. “I can’t cook.”

Brenda frowned. “And how does your boyfriend feel about that?”

Again with the boyfriend stuff. “Well, I don’t have a boyfriend, so nothing.”

“Yes,” Brenda nodded, “Sarah mentioned that. And so, I was thinking, there are a lot of great guys in Cabot Cove. And with you being so new, me and my book club might be able to help you out.”

“Out… with a guy?”

“Yes,” She smiled, “exactly.”

“Um…” That mostly sounded like a headache and a half. “I don’t know if… that’s… the best idea…” In fact, she knew it wasn’t the best idea. It was, plainly, the worst idea anyone had ever come up with. Never mind the fact that daughters of Athena didn’t date on principle–dating a mortal sounded like a very particular brand of Tartarus. And she had tangled with enough of Tartarus to be wary.

Undeterred, Brenda powered through. “Oh, that’s fine!” she said, patting Annabeth’s arm. “The book club is usually just for us girls, anyway.”

Annabeth chuckled, weakly. That didn’t make it sound any more appealing.

“So will we finally see you on Thursday?”

Internally, she sighed. Brenda and her entourage–Denise from the bookshop, Susan the grocery store clerk, and Linda, the receptionist at her contractor’s–had been gently hounding her to stop by their book club for weeks now. Annabeth already didn’t particularly enjoy hanging out with many people her own age. The fact that she was officially invited to the realm of forty-year-old mothers with too much time on their hands didn’t sit well. What she wouldn’t give for Clarisse and Chris and a no-holds barred beatdown to let off some steam right now.

Brenda’s eyes were wide, the bright blue making them look even wider, a pleading look that was wildly out of place.

Maybe if she went once, it’d put them off for at least a few weeks.

“...So, what are you guys reading?” she asked, finally, withholding most of the skepticism from her voice.

Brenda cheered, giving her a hug.

Which was how Annabeth–a known dyslexic–found herself in Denise’s living room at 8 PM on a Thursday night, reading some new romance novel called Snow on the Beach by Sally Jackson (where had she heard that name before…) after choking down some of Linda’s cheeseburger pie which did not at all pair well with the cheap Chardonnay Susan brought with her.

At first, Annabeth had been worried, as dyslexia did not exactly make her an avid reader. Luckily for her, it turns out none of the other women were avid readers either, preferring to spend most of their book club time drinking and talking shit on their husbands. It almost reminded her of being in college, only a little bit sadder.

Right down to gossiping about cute boys.

“I’m telling you, ladies,” said Susan, throwing her wine hand a little wildly, her third full glass nearly tipping over. “There’s no way he uses mousse. His hair just looks so touchable all the time–and the way it whipped in the wind!” She sighed, her eyes fluttering.

Apparently everyone’s favorite hunk had given a presentation about local marine life to the town’s boy scout troop, and they could not shut up about him.

“You know,” chimed in Denise, “I heard from Karen who heard from Nancy that he rescued little Jennifer Woods’ cat from a tree just last week!”

They all broke down, cooing.

Annabeth just barely contained her eye roll.

She was almost glad when the talk turned to the town doctor and his recent divorce.

“I could see it coming from a mile away,” said Brenda, taking a sip of water. “I have some experience with that, after all.”

“I just can’t believe it happened so soon!” Susan said. “They had only been married for, what, two years? And he’s still so young!”

Linda tutted. “How could a woman who landed a man like that–a doctor, of all things–just give that up?”

Susan leaned in. “I heard,” she whispered, conspiratorial, “that she ran off with some childhood sweetheart of hers. Joyce lives across the street, you know, and she said she saw a strange car pull up to their house in the middle of the night, before taking off! It was such a racket, it woke up her yappy little dog, oh, what’s-his-name–”

“Have you ever met him? The doctor?” Brenda asked Annabeth, obviously sensing her disengagement with town gossip.

She blinked, stupefied for a split second. “Oh–uh, no, I still go to my doctor in Boston.” Her doctor being her cousin with magical healing powers, or either her ambrosia supplier when she could get a hold of him.

As one terrifying, multi-voiced entity, they all shrieked. “He’s so handsome!” Susan cried.

“And he’s so sweet!” said Denise. “My sister works at the front desk part time, and he always gives her a smile and a ‘good morning’ every time he comes in!”

Wow. A smile and a good morning? What a keeper. “I’ve only heard good things about him,” she said, attempting to shrug off the attention. “I’m sure he’s a very nice man.”

Which was when Linda decided to make her move.

In hindsight, Annabeth really should have seen this coming.

“You’re not seeing anyone right now, right, dear?”

All that attention she had hoped to avoid was now all focused on her. She hadn’t felt this intently watched since she had taken on those gorgons last year.

“Um…” she began, intelligently, her mind racing. No, but they didn’t need to know. Also, she was going to kill Sarah the next time she saw her.

“That’s perfect!” crowed Denise. “I’ll talk to Katie, and she can get you two set up on a date!”

“I–”

Brenda and Susan cheered. “Oh, you two would make such a cute couple!” Susan said, taking another very large sip of wine.

“But–”

“And I’m sure you’d be a much better woman to him than his bitch ex-wife–”

“And your kids would be just adorable! With his brains, and your beautiful hair–”

“Hold on!” Annabeth finally cut in, face hot. “I am so not interested in kids right now!”

“Well, you’re not getting any younger,” Linda said, her voice just a little too sharp to be entirely friendly. “But you don’t need to bring that up on the first date.”

All her cleverness and strategy, and somehow, she couldn’t figure out the right combination of words to get these old ladies off her back. “I just think that–”

“I think it’s a great idea, sweetheart,” Brenda said. “Why don’t you just give him a chance?”

Which was how Annabeth Chase, daughter of Athena, hero of Manhattan, Harvard graduate magna cum laude, ended up on a blind date with some doctor from some podunk New England beach town in the only bar for miles.

Jack’s Bar operated out of the town inn, appropriately named the Helena Inn. Presumably unable to recoup its costs with just the few out-of-towners, it was open to the general public until well into the early morning. It had an interesting kind of energy–with the low ceilings, poor light throw, and creaky floors, you could certainly feel the age of the eighteenth-century building. But the exposed beams gave it an interesting charm, and no one could deny that they made a damn good lobster roll.

Despite herself and her low expectations, she had dressed up for the occasion. Her outfit was an older one, but it still fit her, even if it didn’t exactly fit the bar’s atmosphere. Her black skirt was long, and a little bit faded, but it still mostly matched her black suspenders, and any wonky coloring would be hidden by the contrast of her gray sweater. Sitting at the corner of the bar, she pulled her skirt down, even though it already fell below the knee, feeling distinctly out of place among the blue jeans and stretched sweaters of everyone else around here.

“What are you having?” said the bartender.

“Some wine, please,” she said, softly. “White.”

He raised an eyebrow, but didn’t argue. “You from out of town, or something?” he asked, pouring her a glass.

Her shoulders sagged. “No. I actually live down on Meetinghouse Circle.” Gods, she stuck out like a sore thumb. This was a mistake. “I just… haven’t gotten the chance to stop by yet.”

Her bartender just nodded. “Just wondering, since you seem a bit too dressed up for a little old place like mine.”

Jack’s Bar. “You’re Jack, then?”

He shook his head. “My dad. I’m John.”

Annabeth stuck her hand out. “Nice to meet you. Annabeth.”

Shaking her hand, he didn’t smile exactly, but his face relaxed in a way Annabeth found pleasing. “So you’re the mysterious newcomer I’ve heard so much about.”

“Guilty.”

“You meeting up with someone?”

She nodded. “Brenda and her friends set me up on some stupid blind date…”

“Excuse me,” came a smooth, deep voice from behind her. “Are you Miss Annabeth Chase?”

She turned.

He was wearing well-fighting trousers and a clearly expensive unbuttoned Izod button down–she could almost sense the tightness of the stitching. On his broad nose was a pair of gold-rimmed glasses, resting delicately atop his prominent cheekbones, and his dark gold hair swooped gracefully across his forehead.

Also, he wore his lab coat.

Oh, brother.

“Dr. Martin Stasiovsky,” he said, holding out his hand. “And may I say, I am very pleased to make your acquaintance.”

So he was that kind of guy, huh. “Me too,” she bit out, shaking his hand.

“Shall we?” He held out his arm to her, brows raised expectantly.

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw John suppress a laugh, disguising it as a cough.

And then he led her to a sticky wooden table, pulling out a chair with a cracked leather seat, before sitting himself down opposite her with a flourish, as though his lab coat were a cape. He rested his elbow on the table, placing his head in the crook of his palm. In the dim light, you could certainly call his features handsome, even seductive–or at least they would be, if he hadn’t already advanced to playing footsie with her under the table.

She pulled back her feet, tucking them beneath the rung of her chair.

“So,” he said, undeterred. “Tell me about yourself.”

She tried. Gods of Olympus, did she try. But every time she began a sentence about herself, he would swiftly interrupt her, going on a barely-related, irritatingly erudite tangent. For example:

“I’ve lived all over, but I actually grew up in Boston for a bit–”

“Ah, Boston, yes, you know it was the staging ground of the Revolution? When I was younger, I was able to correct the tour guide at the Old North Church on a thing or two–”

Or:

“I work at an architectural firm–”

“Oh, architecture is very important. Do you know, it was famed nineteenth-century skyscraper architect Louis Sullivan who said the iconic words, ‘Form Follows Function,’ which has become something of a motto of mine–”

Or even:

“No, I don’t really see my family–”

“My family and I tend to summer in southern France every year, though we recently had the opportunity to visit Vienna–an absolutely marvelous city–”

The thing that finally got him to shut up was: “I did my undergrad and grad school at Harvard.”

He stiffened, nose wrinkling like he had just got a whiff of something really bad. Maybe it was the gross-ass whisky he ordered. “You,” he said, absolutely dripping with patronizing disbelief, “went to Harvard?”

“I did,” she replied. “And I graduated magna cum laude.”

A pause, and then he laughed, short and ugly. “No, you didn’t.”

“Um… yes I did.”

“Please,” he scoffed. “A pretty girl like you doesn’t have the head for Harvard.”

Anger began bubbling up in her, like lava in the pit of her stomach. She clenched her fingers around the stem of her wine glass, and tried to breathe through her nose. “And where did you go to school?”

He pulled back, frowning. “Well, I mean–I went–my first choice was Harvard but I ultimately settled on–”

So he didn’t even get in. She didn’t even let him finish. “Ah, that’s a shame. Must have been one of my girlfriends who took your spot.”

“Well, when I was applying to school,” he sniffed, “they knew better than to let girls into Harvard.”

“Wow,” she whistled. “Fifty percent more spots, and you couldn’t even get in then.”

Leaving him sputtering, nearly speechless with shock, she stood up, downed the rest of her wine, then walked over to John to pay her tab.

She skipped next week’s book club. And the one after that. She tried to tell herself it was because she was mad at them for setting her up with such a douchebag, and not because she felt that she had somehow failed at being a proper girl.

Unfortunately, she couldn’t hide forever in a town as small as this one. Once again, she was accosted in the cereal aisle by one of the well-meaning but perhaps a touch over-bearing town ladies.

Maybe she should just stop buying cereal.

“Oh, Annabeth, dear,” said Susan, setting down her green plastic basket. “It’s so lovely to see you! We’ve missed you at the book club.”

She had only gone once. “Yeah,” she replied, for lack of anything else to say. “You know…”

“And I was so sorry to hear about your date.”

Annabeth bit her lip. “Oh?”

Susan nodded. “Denise’s sister told us all about it. May I just say–how rude!”

Annabeth looked away, rubbing at her arm. Sure, she had been a little forceful, but he had kind of deserved it.

“The nerve of that man, to say you weren’t smart enough for Harvard!” Susan took her hand, patting it. “Don’t worry: I have a first cousin who lives in the next town over, she has a son who’s single, and you will love him.”

“That’s really kind of you, Susan, but I don’t really think–”

“Nonsense! He goes to Dartmouth, working on his PhD. He’s an intellectual, dear, and he’ll be able to appreciate just how smart you are.”

Despite herself, she found she was a little bit interested. “What is he studying?”

Susan frowned, thinking. “I believe he’s a historian of some kind,” she said. “He studies something very old. I think the Middle Ages?”

For a split second, Annabeth was worried she would say that he studied World War II. That would have been a little too close for comfort. But she did like history, and people with multiple degrees, so… why not?

“When is he free?”

He ended up being free that Friday night. Annabeth and Malcolm met up at Jack’s Bar, only this time, Annabeth had chosen to tone down her outfit, opting for a brown, blue and white striped sweater, with a pair of nice black jeans instead of a skirt. “So, Susan tells me you’re studying the Middle Ages?”

Malcolm nodded. “I’m writing my dissertation on the 1204 Sack of Constantinople.”

Ooh, a siege. “What about it?”

“How it directly led to the eventual collapse of the Byzantine empire,” he said, his eyes lighting up. “The Latin invaders, by destroying Constantinople, left it wide open for the Ottoman empire to come riding in and capture one of the key military bases in the Mediterranean.”

Gods above, he sounded just like her dad. Strangely enough, she didn’t seem to mind. “Win the battle, lose the war, huh?” she offered. Every tactician worth their salt knew that way failure lied.

“More or less,” Malcolm agreed.

“Reminds me of a paper I wrote in college, actually, in a history class. About the civil war, and how the confederates had aimed for a lot of splashy victories, but not a cohesive strategy,” she said.

“I’ll admit, I haven't focused much on US history in recent years. But I’d love to read it.”

She felt herself blush. “I mean, it was just an undergraduate paper in a history survey course,” she told him. “It wasn’t like it was written with publication in mind.” Though it had made her professor more or less beg her to become a historian.

“I mean, you clearly had a lot of interesting ideas. And I’m a TA, I read undergraduate papers for a living. I’m sure yours would be a breath of fresh air.”

“Well, you’re in luck, because my dad felt the same way, and kept a copy. So I might actually be able to read it. I can maybe have him fax it to you sometimes.”

“I’d like that,” he said.

“But you’ll have to share some paper from your past, too. What was your master’s thesis about?”

“The repurposing of Athena as the Madonna in Medieval art.”

Annabeth had already been paying attention, but she felt herself lean forward. And she thought some battle strategy was her kind of research. “That sounds amazing,” she said. “Now I have to read it.”

“Did you do art history as part of architecture?”

He remembered what she did! Her opinion of him went up a few notches. “Yeah, but more than that I’ve always had a… an interest, you could say, in Athena.” That might be putting it mildly.

“Me too,” Malcolm said.

“But you aren’t a classicist?”

He shook his head. “This is going to sound weird, and maybe kind of arrogant, but… the classical world always almost made too much sense to me. Everything I ever learned, I got it, I understood it. It made researching it… almost harder. It was hard to form questions, because everything felt like it had an answer. That’s why I like the Medieval period. It's almost like taking some of the puzzle pieces from the classical world, and some new ones, too, and trying to figure out a new picture. Like… Christianity. No accounting for Christianity. And that makes learning it so much more interesting.”

“Not a church every Sunday kind of kid?”

“No, my moms,” he paused, coughed, and cleared his throat. “My mom wasn’t really for it, and so it wasn’t a part of growing up. That a problem?”

“Oh gods, no,” she said.

Malcolm seemed nearly as invested as she was, they’d both leaned forward, and he had a clear view of his gray eyes. They were nice eyes, she thought. Intelligent and maybe a little dangerous. She thought maybe she’d seen them before. “But, we’ve talked too much about me. Tell me about your work.”

And so she did.

“...and I like the idea of Neoclassical, but it always seems so flat to me. I feel like what it’s missing is color. I want more color in architecture in general, I think, but all that white marble is grating.”

“Have you ever been to the Parthenon?” He asked, with an almost breathless reverence in his voice.

“I have,” she said, smiling, “my dad took me as a graduation present.” Or, really, more of a one-two punch, graduation present for her, divorce present from him. Visiting Athena’s holy place seemed fitting for both reasons.

“What was it like?” He asked. “I’ve never been able to go, but gods, I want to. More than anything.”

Malcolm got it. Malcolm got the Parthenon and Athena.

And so maybe, Malcolm could get her. Maybe Malcolm could understand a child of Athena.

She looked at him. He was handsome in a way. His chestnut brown hair, his clear gray eyes, his…

His gray eyes.

His moms.

But gods, he’d said.

He was looking at her now, and frowning.

“You’re a child of Athena!” They said at the same time, accusatory, surprised.

They leaned back and looked at each other for a long moment.

“Well, damn,” Annabeth said. “I think we might be siblings.”

“I… yeah.”

“Um…”

Just her luck. Here she was, actually enjoying herself, having fun with this guy, and it turned out he was her half-brother.

“That sounds about right,” Annabeth said. “The first guy I can stand, and it’s because he’s my little brother.”

“Sorry,” he said.

She sighed.

“So… I guess our date is over?”

She thought of her home, quiet and lonely, and sighed. “No. I’d rather not go back to my place just yet. Besides, if I left early, Susan would never let me hear the end of it.”

Malcolm laughed.

“But, tell me more about your research,” she said, resting her head on her hand. “I’ve never spoken to another child of Athena before. Lay out the battle for me, and the strategy for Byzantium going forward.”

She saw her dad the next weekend. He came up from Boston, excited to see the progress she’d made on her house. And for the first time in a long time, recounting her new friend Malcolm, she had something to actually update him on other than the contractors finding termites or the pipes needing to be replaced.

She was actually excited, until she said the words “Turns out having a half brother is actually pretty fun.”

Cause she’d tried half brothers before, and it hadn’t really worked out.

But her dad just smiled, said he was so excited for her, and then complimented her on all the structural work she’d gotten done, before they both got distracted by a discussion of the tactics of the Germans in World War I. Her dad was kind of awesome. It was so much fun to talk to him.

She couldn’t really explain to Susan and Brenda and everyone that she and Malcolm were half-siblings, and so she would not be entering a relationship with him, but they did start spending a lot of time together, and so she endured just a little bit of teasing, and figured it was alright.

She and Malcolm plotted out the siege of Constantinople half a dozen times, trying to find the perfect strategy to defend it. They broke out swords and knives and sparred in her backyard. She even had lunch with his mortal mother, and heard someone else’s reminiscences of Athena, which was much more fun, and less desperately sad then her Dad’s.

It made his return to Dartmouth in early March a new kind of struggle. So much so that she not only returned to book club, she asked about another date.

She brushed them off when they asked about a break up, but she did find herself enthusiastic when Brenda suggested a new person. A firefighter and beloved local hero. He volunteered with kids and saved kittens from trees and “He’s just so handsome, Annabeth.”

She was actually kind of looking forward to going on this date, especially when Brenda called her to tell her excitedly that he was going to take her on one of the world famous whale tours they had in town.

Annabeth showed up all ready for water and whales. It was an unseasonably warm March morning, so she had on a yellow shirt, an older pair of overalls with monster claw marks in the knees that she had successfully disguised as deliberate rips, and she looked through her sunglasses for the dark haired man in the Fire Department shirt.

She found him. He was broad and stocky, with a fire department shirt under a light washed denim jacket. His hair was dark and clearly gelled and hair sprayed into its perfectly coiffed place.

He was probably two inches shorter than her, and she could see his face drop when she introduced herself.

After some brief, stilted small talk, they followed another couple and a family of five onto the boat. And the man at the front, driving the boat, announced that he was a replacement, that the normal tour guide was out this week, but that it would still be just as fun.

And if that was the case, Annabeth vowed that she would not be coming back for the regular guy. They saw one dolphin far off, and found themselves sprayed with the water as the speedboat choppily stopped and started, sending her stomach roiling angrily.

Graham, her fireman friend, complained every ten minutes, and then every five minutes, and then every other sentence out of his mouth.

She couldn’t get an answer on what movies he liked, or his family, or his work. He asked her questions, but looked angrily at the ocean while she answered.

She gave up, and sat on the gloomy boat, in the hot day, and listened to the tour guide swear they’d see something interesting soon.

They didn’t. And Graham was uninterested in dinner, as they had originally planned, whining that he needed to go home and change.

Annabeth let him go. And skipped book club again.

And again.

“You should go back,” Malcolm told her on the phone. “A date might do you good.”

“Fuck off,” she said, leaning her head back against the wall. “Children of Athena don’t do romance.”

“I would like to remind you, I also went on that date. And I even had fun. Companionship is nice. Even mom knows it.”

Clarisse said something similar when they chatted about her upcoming wedding. Which was infuriating.

Clarisse, of all people.

It was enough to raise her hackles, and to complain about it to Malcolm, again.

Which led to him getting invited to his mom’s house for lunch. Which led to Polly Pace proving she could replicate Susan and her friends' notions of how to get Annabeth a proper boyfriend.

“I might have a few ideas.”

She groaned. “Polly…”

“Look, sweetheart,” Polly said. “So many of those women around have one or two young men they have their little crushes on, and they are never going to give up that hope. So they try and live vicariously through you.” She rolled her eyes. “But I promise, I want what’s best for you. Let’s just have one more try.”

Annabeth couldn’t believe she agreed, but she did. And here she was. Polly swore up and down that this one was the most handsome man in Helena and that Susan had been trying to entice him for something like an affair for weeks.

Annabeth decided to go just to see what it looks like.

But she opted not to dress up for this one.

Annabeth slid into her usual spot at the bar, dressed in baggy jeans and a faded pink sweater on the last cool night of the spring, her back as close to the wall as physically possible. Wordlessly, the bartender slid over a glass of the house red, with a sympathetic smile. “Another date?” he asked.

She grumbled, taking a sip.

John just laughed. “Word on the street is Brenda’s declared you the most eligible bachelorette in town. I wouldn’t be surprised if she has half a dozen more dates lined up for you after tonight.”

Groaning, she resisted the urge to slam her head against the bar, settling instead for digging her palms into her eyes.

She felt, rather than heard someone come up beside her. “Evening, John,” said a male voice. A… sort of familiar voice.

“Hey, kid,” he replied. “Haven’t seen you here in ages! Still not drinking beer?”

The mystery man chuckled. “You know it. A coke, please.”

Annabeth frowned into her hands. Where had she heard this voice before? Was he a news anchor or something?

John tsked. “I don’t get you, kid. Why come down all this way if you’re not even going to have a proper drink?”

“What, the pleasure of your company isn’t enough?” Mystery man laughed again. “No, but I’m supposed to be meeting someone here.”

Annabeth’s ears perked up, attention fully grabbed. Was this…?

“Oh?”

“Yeah, a friend of Polly’s, or something.”

She jolted back, as though she had been shocked, and turned to face her blind date.

He was tall and broad, with tanned skin and messy black hair. He had gotten taller, she thought, and she could see the lines of his pecs where the muscles had developed under his plain black t-shirt and denim jacket.

His voice was deeper, but the timbre was the same.

And then he turned, his sea green eyes widening, and she had no doubt.

Percy-fucking-Jackson.

Oh dear gods. Percy-fucking-Jackson, son of Poseidon.

She had her knife in her grip before she even registered she had taken it out.

He swore in Greek, and then his sword was out in his hands.

“Whoa!” John yelled at them from behind the bar. “You gotta take those outside!”

Annabeth glanced around. Him, and all the other patrons, were staring at them, eyes wide in fear. “Huh?”

“No guns in my bar!” She glanced down at her knife, and could see, out of the corner of her eye, the mist swirling around, coalescing into the flicker of a gun. “Either put them away, or get out.”

Why did the mist have to pull this shit all the time?

“Sorry,” Percy said. He shot her a glare, like this was all her fault, as though she were the one who had apparently stalked him to fucking Helena, Maine of all places, and then he tucked his sword away, turned his back on her, and stomped towards the door. Like she wasn’t a threat. Like she didn’t matter.

Fuck him very much.

She didn’t put her knife away, but she did chase after him, out into the gravel parking lot. “And just where do you think you’re going?”

“You know, Chase,” he said, “I was supposed to have a really nice night.”

He had his sword raised again as he glared at her from under the one streetlight in the parking lot, which made her feel much better about not putting her knife away. “Well, so was I.”

“And now, some girl is going to think I’m an asshole who stood her up, all because you couldn’t keep it in your pants.” He eyed her knife, like he was funny.

“Newsflash: I was the girl you were meeting,” she said, “Gods, I can’t believe Polly thought I should go on a date with you.”

Percy scoffed, looking her up and down. “Well, you really turned out all the stops for your date.”

She gritted her teeth, too angry to flush. “I wouldn’t have bothered if I’d known it was you.”

They glared at each other. And then, again, infuriatingly, Percy put his sword away.

“Stop doing that,” she nearly growled.

“Doing what?”

“Putting your sword away.”

“Excuse me?”

“I am a threat!” Annabeth pointed her weapon at him. “So, pull your sword back out, and act like it!”

He looked blank for a long minute, and then he smiled. “Annabeth Chase, you are absolutely a threat,” he agreed, “but I don’t think you’re going to attack me.”

“I could so attack you.”

“You absolutely could,” he agreed, and nodded at her knife, still out, clutched tightly in her hand. “But you know better than to start a useless fight. It's a waste of resources and energy, and you’re too smart for that.”

She glared, and pretended she didn’t enjoy being called smart by him. “You don’t want to fight?”

Shoving his hand in his pockets, he sighed. “It’s been a long day, Annabeth. I don’t feel like getting my ass kicked and wasting what little nectar I have left on your knife wounds.”

That, more than anything, caused her to pause, and lower her knife. She didn’t put it away, though.

Percy Jackson wasn’t just a demigod hero. He was the demigod hero. He’d fought gods and lived to tell the tale. He raised storms or probably armies, if he really wanted to.

When Kronos had risen, Percy Jackson had been at the head of the defending army, an army cobbled together from the handfuls of demigods spread across the country.

Annabeth had been by his side.

To hear him say that she was a threat, that she would kick his ass. She… found herself blushing. And hoped that in the darkness he could not see.

But she still kept her knife out. “What are you even doing here?” she finally asked.

“Same thing you are–living here.”

“You live here? But you’re a New Yorker.”

“And you're a Bostonian,” he said, and then he sighed. “I’m tired, Annabeth. I thought I might be able to escape. To relax. To retire.”

Well, that was relatable.

“Yeah,” she sighed. “Yeah, I get that.”

They stared at each other again. But it was less charged, now it was almost lost. That day, on the 600th floor of the Empire State Building, she had been so sure she was never going to see Percy Jackson again. So very sure she would never again hear his voice, roll her eyes at his stupid jokes, fight with him, laugh with him. And why not? He had been offered the most priceless gift the gods could offer.

And then he had refused the gift, and fucked off.

“Why Helena?” She asked, her teeth gritting despite her best efforts. “You could have stayed in New York.” Or gone literally anywhere else.

“You mean, ‘Why did I decide to follow you to some little beach town in the middle of nowhere’?” He sneered, and she glowered. “If I had known you had moved here, too, I would have already left town.”

She rolled her eyes. “When did you show up then? To intrude on my quiet retirement.”

“It will be two years in June,” he said, and she clenched her mouth closed. She hadn’t even been here six months. By all accounts, she followed him here. Fuck. “Never thought I’d find you in a place like this.” He glanced around, but there was nothing around them. “Not a lot of skyline here to add to.”

She was surprised he remembered. She did not remember what his career goals were. “What do you do? I haven’t seen you around before today.”

Percy… suddenly looked away. “I give whale watching tours.” There was something so awkwardly earnest about his statement, she almost felt bad that she burst out laughing.

“Of course you do,” she said. “I went on one of those world famous whale watching tours, you know. Honestly? Not impressed.”

“When the hell was that?” he said. “I’m pretty sure I would have recognized you if you came on one of my tours.”

“It wasn’t with you, it was some other guy, but–”

He scoffed. “Annabeth Chase, surely you know that a child of Poseidon would make a better tour guide to the wonders of the ocean then some mortal.”

“Yeah, sure,” she said, with a dismissive wave of her hand.

“Just for that, I’m going to take you on a tour.”

“Excuse me?”

“I’m taking you on a whale watching tour,” he said. Ordered, really. “Tomorrow. Meet me at the east docks at three, and I’ll show you.”

“You’re… serious?”

“Of course. My honor as a tour guide has been besmirched.” In the darkness of the parking lot, she couldn’t tell if he was being serious or not. “And I’m going to prove to you just how amazing I am at it.”

She didn’t have anything to say to that, so she just rolled her eyes one last time and turned towards her car. She didn’t put her knife back in its sheath until she was half way home.

She had no intention of showing up the next day.

She knew that, and Percy knew that, and the gods knew that, and no one expected anything differently of her.

Which is why it was so strange that she found herself driving towards the East Marina at 2:30 the next day.

Why? She could not say. It was so dumb.

Percy didn’t actually want her to be there. He’d probably just laugh if she showed up. This wasn’t even where the last tour had set off from.

Fucking Jackson. If this was all an elaborate prank to get back at her for accidentally… okay, maybe accidentally-on-purpose leading him into Clarisse la Rue’s secret safehouse so she could ditch him that one time, she was going to kill him.

She was stupid to come out here, she was stupid to even entertain this, she was…

“Annabeth,” Percy Jackson called, from where he was leaning against a wooden post at the edge of one row of boats. “I’m so glad you came.”

And he sounded like he meant it, too. Or at least that he hadn’t been dreading her presence.

He was not dressed so differently then he had been last night: acid wash jeans, a gray henley which was starting to thin around the shoulders, hair again looking like it had never seen a brush or comb in his entire life. He looked like he had just rolled out of bed and straight onto the dock. And yet he was still disgustingly handsome.

It made her even angrier. She had spent all morning trying to tame her stubborn curls so that her hair looked nice, and he couldn’t even be bothered. Prick.

“Yeah, well,” she said, crossing her arms as she came to a stop in front of the boat. “You better make it worth my while.”

She looked at the boat, it didn’t look like the one from her last whale tour. It had a small deck surrounding the steering. And then what looked like a door going down to somewhere. On the back, in blocky letters, it said Little Star.

“Come aboard,” Percy said, “welcome to the Little Star.”

“Different boat from the other one.” Annabeth said.

“Well, yeah, that was the tour company’s,” Percy said, “this is a personal matter.”

“Personal, huh?”

“My honor has been challenged,” Percy said. “So have a seat while I blow your mind.”

“I’m hard to please, Jackson,” Annabeth said, “so we’ll see.”

She sat in the seat he offered, a little white bench. And watched Percy lean over to the dock to untie the rope.

She had a clear view of his ass. He probably was doing it on purpose.

Asshole.

“Annabeth Chase,” he said, grinning as he turned back to her. “You, unlike every mortal I have ever taken out, know that I can do anything on the ocean. Once we get far enough out, we can even do our own private scuba diving tour.”

Her eyes narrowed. “Don’t you dare cheat.”

“What?”

“You can’t just… charm me with the temple of Poseidon or whatever,” she said. “You have to give me what the mortals get.”

He paused, a flash of disappointment crossing his face, but then he shrugged. “Suit yourself.”

He didn’t touch the wheel as the boat headed out from the dock, just sat down in the captain’s chair and turned to look at her. “So.”

“So.”

“How long have you been in Helena?” He asked.

“I moved in September,” she said.

“Was it because you heard through the grapevine I was here, and you couldn’t resist?”

“As if.” Annabeth said, making a face.

“Well, if you’re not stalking my every move, what are you doing here?” Despite his tone, she thought she should be offended. But she couldn’t bring herself to feel bad.

She shook her head. “It was like you said, about wanting to retire, relax. I just…” Annabeth sighed. “I just wanted to get away from the monsters, the gods. The expectations.”

“This is a nice place to disappear, I think,” Percy agreed.

“How many monsters have bothered you?” Annabeth asked. She hadn’t seen hide nor hair of one, even out of the corner of her eyes, but she was not ready to be so relaxed from the constant fear that had plagued her since she was a little girl. She’d been told that they would become less insistent once she reached adulthood, and strictly speaking, that was true. But that had been saying that the biweekly occurrences had trickled down to once a week, and after many more years, twice a month or so. And she dreaded to know just how long this peace might last. Or not last.

“I’ve never been bothered by any out here,” Percy said. “A few when I was in the city, visiting Ma, but that’s it.”

Annabeth let out a breath that she maybe hadn’t known she had been holding for months. “Oh.”

“It has been a relief.” He said, “Nearly fighting you was the most exciting thing I’ve had in like a year.”

“It's not too late,” she offered. She did have her knife on her. Some things would never change.

“Do you want to fight me on the ocean, on my boat, Chase?” He raised an eyebrow. “Because you’re good. You’re very good, but I don’t think you’re that good. And it seems like a waste of a good architect.”

“Whatever,” she said, because it was easier than admitting he’d kick her ass in a boat, on the ocean.

He took her acquiescence with grace. Which was nice. He was much much too smart to not know what was happening. “So, what have you been up to? Did you decide you wanted to build your monuments somewhere untouched?” He glanced behind them, and the shape of Helena.

And she could admit to seeing it, to seeing the temples and palaces she could build there. But Maine had no place for temples and palaces. “I bought a big old house,” she said, “1870.” Over a hundred years old. Only the Helena Inn was older. “And now I’m trying to renovate it.”

“I bet it will have ionic columns, over-designed pediments, and domes out the wazoo, huh.”

“Not sure that goes with the Victorian style.”

“You’re a great architect, you can invent your own style.” He was being much much too complimentary of her talents. She needed to get them on a better footing, tease him properly.

“Where are you living?” She asked.

He gave her a slightly lopsided look, that twisted into his dumb, troublemaking smile. “Here.”

She glanced around, trying to figure out how literal he was being. “You… bank out at the bottom of the harbor?” She finally asked.

He let out a laugh. “No, I live in my boat.”

She glanced around. “This isn’t a houseboat.” Unless it was. But she’d seen some before, and they seemed to have more space. More everything.

“No, it's not, but it's got a cabin below.” He motioned to the door. “Galley, table that turns into a bed. Even a bathroom. I can hook her up to utilities on the dock. But houseboats don’t normally move that much. I wanted mobility.”

She glanced around, and tried to reassess the fact that she was in Percy’s house.

“You let me into your house.”

“It isn’t that big a deal.” He said, “I mean… I trust you. And the boats for the tour aren’t mine. So, welcome aboard. We’ll be reaching our final destination momentarily.”

He looked uncomfortable, and for the first time, turned his attention to the wheel in front of him. And Annabeth did not know what to say. So she turned away, too, looking out at the view.

It was pretty, she had to admit. The murky water of the Atlantic expanded out before them. She thought she could see some scattered schools of fishes beneath the waves. “No cheating,” she said again. “I want the mortal experience.”

“I cheat with the mortals basically all the time.”

“Bullshit.”

He walked over the edge of the boat, leaned over the side, and grinned. “Hey, they pay for the beautiful ocean life, and I am happy to provide. I’d have taken you on a Poseidon Adventure, if you wanted, but everything I’m doing now is stuff I’ve done in front of a hundred mortal tourists.”

“So, what, the whales just hang around and wait for you to come out?”

He shrugged. “Pretty much.”

“And the other guy?”

“What the whales do with the other guy is not my business.”

They hid from the other guy, if Annabeth’s experience was anything to go by. “Well, you’re not allowed to–to talk to them or anything. No summoning sea creatures.”

“There’s really not much summoning on my part, anyway,” he said, turning them alongside the wind, taking them further out of the bay. “They sense me coming, and then…”

From behind her came the sound of something breaching the waves. From… close behind her.

He grinned. “They come out to say hi.”

Twisting around in her seat, she nearly shrieked at the sight of an enormous, fifty-foot-long humpback whale, not more than a handful of meters away from the side of the Little Star. Its large, dark eye was fixed on her, peering into her soul, before gently blinking, bobbing its head up and down so its bumpy nose caused little swells to rock the boat.

“That one’s Tiffany,” Percy said. “She’s waiting for you to say hi.”

Annabeth swallowed. “Um… Hi there, Tiffany.”

The whale blinked at her, slowly. Like a cat.

“It's really nice during calving season when all the babies are just born. They come so I can bless them. And people go wild for the babies.”

She almost couldn’t tear her eyes away from the giant frickin’ whale that was close enough she could spit on it, but she managed it, turning back to Percy. “You… bless sea creatures?”

“Of course.” And he sounded almost surprised by her question. Like most people just… blessed baby whales as part of their day job.

“Does it help?”

“I mean, I’m no Poseidon, but yeah, a little bit.” He looked at her for a moment. “Has no little owl chick ever asked for your blessing before?”

She reached out, and kicked him. And though it connected with his calf, he laughed.

Asshole.

He didn’t just show her the sights, he talked her through everything, offering a collection of facts about whales and dolphins, the Atlantic Ocean, and even Maine history. She knew she was getting the tourist spiel, but it was also pretty interesting. For instance, did you know that once lobster was considered food for only the poorest of people, and laws were passed so that even prisoners wouldn’t have to eat it every meal.

“How did that change?” She asked, almost despite herself.

“Businessmen started selling it as a delicacy on railroads.” Percy said, “It was cheap, and not available elsewhere, so they were able to turn a big profit, and position it as exotic.”

He did tell her other things too, mostly, he pointed out different dolphins they ran into by name: Lana and her son Todd. Betsy and Chaz and Anna. A school of fish who he said operated as a collective named David. He gave a little bit of a running commentary on most of them, including explaining how he named little Sally himself, earlier this year, when her mother asked for a blessing.

She tried not to think that it was really, really cute that he named her after his mom.

After last time, she really hadn’t been expecting much, but the day ended up being really fun. And beautiful beyond belief. She was really regretting not bringing her camera, or her sketchbook. She’d used so much of her drawing skills for blueprints and designs, but perhaps she could capture a different kind of beauty.

Maybe he could bring her out here again sometime. Let her take in the shoreline or the horizon.

“So, have you seen enough?”

She blinked, and then looked at him. “What?”

“Have you seen enough to know that I am the person in charge of the best Whale Watching tour on the Atlantic? Are you dazzled and amazed by my charms and natural beauty?”

“In your dreams,” she snapped. That was dumb. This was dumb. This was about him proving a point to her. And she hated that he was succeeding. She didn’t want to encourage him. Or give him any more credit then she had to. She wasn’t going to come out here again.

And she certainly wasn’t going to think about how nice it was to spend some time with him again.

They didn’t talk as he guided the boat back into port. He actually used the steering, this time, hands on the wheel, not looking at her, or really anywhere but the shoreline.

When they got there, she watched the easy way he tied the knots, almost missing it when he offered his hand to help her onto the dock. She just gave it a scathing look.

He laughed a little, and she nearly stomped her foot in indignation.

It was spring, so there was still enough daylight left at 6 PM. Maybe she could sit on her porch and sketch in the natural light. Try to remember what she’d seen today.

“Do you want to get dinner?” She looked up, and he was smiling at her, cocksure grin, hands in his pockets, body totally open to her.

“Are you serious?”

He shrugged. “Well, I figured that neither you or your siblings had developed a way to inject sustenance directly into your veins, and therefore still needed to eat. But if you don’t want to eat, no skin off my nose.”

“I think I’ve had enough Seaweed Brain for one day, thanks.”

Something flashed on his face for a second, but it was too quick to know what it was, and then he rolled his eyes. “Well, I hope you’ve become a better cook since high school.” He said. And then turned around and walked away from her.

Which was a pretty profound statement, given that she was standing next to his house.

She let out a breath, anger or annoyance or something else, and then jogged over to her car, in time to see Percy walking down the sidewalk, and turning towards main street. A place he could get dinner, without her.

“Asshole,” she said it out loud this time, if only to herself. And then she drove home.

She had some leftover lobster mac and cheese in her fridge, between the blueberries and the half-empty bottle of maple syrup. The freezer at least had a couple weeks worth of TV dinners. The rest of the fridge was empty. Just like the cupboards.

She ate the mac and cheese cold. It was still pretty good, but she couldn’t help thinking, as she chewed on meat once considered fit for only widows and orphans, that it was pretty fitting.

The loneliness was certainly the same.

Her dad came up the next weekend. School was officially out, his grades had been sent to the registrar's office, and he’d decided to start his summer visiting her. It was nice to see him. And the fact that he brought a box of Mike’s Pastries cannolis and a separate box of lobster tails brought her no end of joy.

He brought her a couple of other things, too. At her request, he’d picked up the order she’d called into her favorite yarn shop in Wartham. It was run by her half-sister, apparently, as Malcolm had told her, an expert weaver who no longer had an eye for quality, because at age eighty-eight, her vision had started to go, but she still knew everything but texture and touch.

He’d also gotten the other things, the painting and sketching supplies she’d battered Alex Fierro with questions on ravens wings about.

She was going to embrace the beauty of this town.

And she needed more to fill her days.

You could only make one hundred pairs of leg warmers before your craft got a little boring. And they had passed sweater season a while back. And she’d redesigned the entryway about seventeen times in three weeks, before her contractor had told her he needed to be elsewhere for a month while she finalized her plans.

Ironically enough, it ended up being Brenda’s idea. Despite having sworn to never return to book club, she found that her Thursday night TV dinners were becoming just too interminable to bear alone. The other women hadn’t commented on her long absence when she showed up at Denise’s house with a blueberry pie that Susan had seen her purchase, only poured her a glass of wine and made room for her on the comfortable couch.

It was nice. It was really nice.

And it was that nice mood that must have made her more agreeable to Brenda’s suggestion.

“Sarah talks about your knitting all the time–she says it’s better than some of the store-bought leggings that the girls like to wear these days.”

“Thanks,” she said, weakly, not wanting to admit that knitting, by itself, wasn’t really that hard… though she did certainly have a significant advantage.

“Have you ever thought about starting a business?”

“I actually have my own business,” she said. Despite being up in the boonies, the fruits of her architecture consultancy was more than enough for her to live on. “I’m really not interested in another one.” What would her lawyer say, if she asked Connor to incorporate her legwarmer business? There wouldn’t be enough celestial bronze in the world. She had been thinking about getting rid of some of her excess leg and arm warmer supplies, but it was so easy to make them, actually making a profit would seem underhanded.

She said as much.

But then, Brenda lit up. “Oh! What about the Flea Market in Norfolk?”

Which was how Annabeth ended up with a corner stall in the Norfolk Outdoor Flea Market, the shadow of a great oak tree protecting her delicate skin from the first truly hot day of summer.

Interest hadn’t been as high as she’d hoped, less because she wanted to make money, and more because she wanted to reduce the pile of knitting that was sitting on the chair in the living room.

But she’d probably sold about twenty pairs, and only managed to knit two more in the time, so she would call it a win.

The market had started at 11, and the crowds had thinned out after 4. She’d gotten lunch at a cart down the little line of tents from her, some of the best falafel she had ever eaten in her life, and that was saying something, since Magnus knew all the best spots in Boston. All the ladies from the book club had stopped by, cooing over her socks and scarves and leg warmers, and even seemed enthusiastic about buying a thing or two. Now, though, it was getting late, and looking over her leftover stock, she frowned at the idea of having to pack it up and take it home.

She had hoped to empty her tub. Maybe she’d price it lower, next time.

“Annabeth Chase and knitting.” She paused, closing her eyes, and resisted the urge to groan. She’d know Percy Jackson’s voice anywhere. “Who’d have thought it?”

She looked over at him. He was in a green and blue color blocked shirt and acid wash jeans. His green eyes sparkled in the late afternoon sun, his black hair looking like he just stepped off his boat.

He probably had.

“That fact that you don’t know anything about my mother shouldn’t surprise me, Seaweed Brain.”

Understanding dawned on his face. “Weaving!” he said. “Right.”

He reached out and picked up one of the few non-fashion items. It was a little fish, of indeterminate species, but rendered in shimmering blue, made, she wouldn’t admit, after their whale tour.

“How much?”

“What?”

“The fish, how much?” He looked at some of the other things, and then grabbed a pair of shocking pink leg warmers. “And these, too.”

She just stared at him, confused. “You need bright pink leg warmers?”

“They’re for my sister.” He said, running the knit between his thumb and forefinger. “These feel nicer than anything I could buy at the mall.”

“Oh.” She said. And was caught out. Not least because she wasn’t sure if she knew he had a sister. It couldn’t have been a sister on the Poseidon side, otherwise Annabeth would have heard about it.

“How much?” he asked again.

“Um…” What had she been charging again? “Three dollars.”

“For which one?”

“For both.”

It was Percy’s turn to say “Oh.” He pulled out an old leather wallet and handed her the money. He gathered his things, but didn’t wander away. She looked at her watch, and looked at the booths around her. And with a sigh, she started to pack up.

“Do you want help?”

It was on the tip of her tongue to tell him to fuck off, but then, the pile was large, and the box was going to be heavy, and she could see the muscles in his arms pushing against his shirt. “Yes please, I’m just throwing everything in it.” She demonstrated her haphazard practice. “It’s yarn, it will be fine.”

“How long have you been making these?” Percy asked. Distracted by a green scarf that would match his eyes.

“Since I moved here,” she said. “I mean, I’ve always knitted and stuff, but I’m basically retired now, and I have a lot of time on my hands and…” She shrugged.

“That’s a lot of work in just a few months.”

“I’ve had a lot of time,” she said. “Hopefully it will sell better in the winter.”

“Do you make a good return?”

“I don’t care about the money, but I know I’m not going to stop, so I’d love to get rid of some of it so it doesn’t migrate from the chair to the coffee table or something.” After she said it, she looked up at him, fearing for a moment that he was going to make a joke about how she never had visitors, so never had to clean up her knitting projects. It would have… hit its target.

“Fair enough.” He let her put the lid back on the box, and then he lifted it up, just like she knew he would. She grabbed her bag, and led the way out to her car.

“What are you doing out in Norfolk?” She asked. She didn’t even know if Percy owned a car. For a New Yorker who lived his life on boats, it seemed strange.

“Cindy likes to come up to get for the preserves, and she invited me along.”

Annabeth had no idea who Cindy was, but she found she did not like her. Not one bit. “Oh, where is she?”

He shrugged. “One of the guys selling wood sculptures was her old high school boyfriend, and I’m pretty sure the reason I was invited along. I was dismissed about two hours ago.”

Oh. “Sorry,” she offered, chagrinned. “You’ve been having bad luck on dates, I guess.”

He laughed, and it was such a nice sound, different from his derisive snort. “Cindy driving me here wasn’t a date,” he said. “Though, I guess you’re right. The last actual date I went on did almost end with a daughter of Athena gutting me.”

“That was an actual date?”

“Sure,” he nodded, “most eventful blind date ever. Normally it's all ‘Oh, where are you from?’,’What’s your favorite color?’, ‘What do you do?’”

“New York City, blue, blesser of whales,” she said, automatically.

“See, we skipped the boring stuff and went straight for the throat,” he grinned.

She rolled her eyes. “I see, now. It’s because no one else ever believes you.”

He said nothing, only shutting her trunk with a broad grin.

“Do you need a ride back?” The offer was out of her mouth before she could really think about it. But when she paused, she decided it wasn’t a mistake. It was about a twenty minute drive. And she suddenly realized that she wouldn’t hate spending it with him.

He looked at her for a moment. “Are you sure? I don’t want you to put you out.”

“You wouldn’t be. And this way Cindy doesn’t need to be interrupted in her pursuits.”

“Thanks,” he said as he crawled into the passenger’s seat.

Annabeth closed her eyes, breathing through her nose, then swallowed.

Into the fire.

“Thor, really?” Percy said, about ten minutes later.

They had actually been having quite a nice talk so far, comparing pantheons. Last time Percy was in New York, he had ended up tangling with some kind of Egyptian alligator monster, and Annabeth had plenty to share about the vikings. “It was weird.”

“And how do the Norse gods compare?”

She shrugged. “They’re fine, I guess. No ban on alcohol, so things are considerably less…” She paused, casting about for the right word. “...Contained, I guess, when you get a bunch of them in one place.”

Their own god of wine and madness had been banished to an arcade in New Jersey some time ago, cursed by his heavenly father to a century of sobriety for some infraction or other. The few times Annabeth had run into him, though, he still managed to make her life more interesting than she cared for.

Even without their god of revelry, the few times during the war that the Greek demigod army had gotten together, they’d managed to pull enough of their tattered and tired spirits together to have something resembling a shindig. Maybe throwing a party in the woods of Long Island the night before laying siege to the Empire State building wasn’t the best idea, but after Beckendorf’s death, they needed to let off a little steam. Especially Percy.

Especially Annabeth.

Percy may have been the one on the Princess Andromeda with Beck, but it had been her plan that had gotten him killed.

Pollux and Travis provided the drink. Katie, a daughter of Demeter who Annabeth hadn’t gotten a chance to get to know very well, provided the weed. Austin, Will’s brother, brought the music on his boombox, something hard and loud and thumping.

And Percy and Annabeth, they had spent most of the night together.

Not… not the night, but…

She glanced over at him. His eyes were on her, unfathomable as ever. She wondered if he was thinking about the same thing: kissing the taste of wine out of her mouth the night before they thought the world was going to end.

“Sounds like a party,” he said.

“Yeah,” she replied, her voice hoarse. “It was.”

It had been different, exploring the nine worlds with Magnus. Likely because she was only a lost legacy. People, in general, hadn’t wanted too much from her. But it had been pretty funny the few times she had to introduce herself. The Norse were matrilineal.

“Now I want to change my name to Percy Sallyson,” he said after she told him about it.

“You already have her last name,” Annabeth pointed out.

“Sure,” he agreed, “But I could make it better.”

They were almost back to town, almost back to the marina. But she didn’t want their conversation to end. “Do you want to get dinner?” she blurted.

He’d asked her, last time, after they’d gone whale watching. She’d been mean in her reply.

“That sounds great,” he said, without skipping a beat. “Where do you want to go?”

The answer ended up being the Italian place, which Percy promised was delicious, though, “Nico swears it's not authentic and is therefore an affront to Italy. I told him that was only because Helena didn’t have a mob scene worth its salt.”

It was good, but after childhoods in both Boston and New York, she got what Nico probably meant about the lack of authenticity. She’d also never been to this particular place before, it was a little off Main Street, and the few times she’d seen it, it had seemed too fancy for her. There was another, cheaper, greasier pizza joint she defaulted to when she was in the mood.

“So, things are better with your dad?” Percy was asking as he tore the last breadstick in half, handing one of the halves to her.

She couldn’t even believe he remembered that. “Yeah, much better. Charlotte’s still weird about the divorce, but Dad is much happier. And he’s glad to be back on the east coast, too.”

“I saw one of his books on cassette at the library,” he said, “I was thinking of grabbing it and listening to it.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. I wanted to see if I could spot the hidden demigods in World War II.”

“You’ll have to tell me how it is,” she said, twirling the breadstick around her fingers.

Percy started. “You don’t read your dad’s books?”

“Not anymore.” She paused, then sighed. “When I was really little, he used to read me drafts. But he got busy, and married, and had more kids, and… It never felt right, I guess, to read them myself. I’m not a big reader, anyway. You know that.” Demigods always struggled with reading anyway. If it wasn’t in Greek, it wasn’t even worth it.

“My mom used to do the same when I was a kid,” said Percy, his voice wistful.

“That’s right–she’s a writer, isn’t she?”

“She is. She actually just had her fourth book come out a couple of years ago. I’ve got them all on tape.”

She felt her lips quirk up. How could someone so infuriating be so adorable?

“You know…” She could hear Percy tapping his foot under the table. Their plates were bouncing a little. “If you wanted, I could–I could give you one.”

“A tape?”

“Yeah.” He shrugged, dragging his breadstick through the remnants of their communal olive oil. “If you wanted. I think you’d really like her latest book.”

He wanted to give her one of his mom’s books. That meant he’d have to come by and drop it off. And then come by to pick it up. Or she would have to go to him.

She… did not hate the idea. “Sure. What’s it called?”

“Snow on the Beach.”

Annabeth started. And then laughed.

Harder than she meant to.

“What?” Percy was defensive, his arms crossed, eyes narrowed.

“Nothing, nothing,” Annabeth chuckled, coming down from her momentary insanity. “I just–I already read it. In Brenda’s book club.”

“Oh.” He sounded unsure. “I um… hope you liked it.”

“I loved it,” she said, without hesitation. It had taken a few false starts, but the story of Joanna and Mr. Taylor had been so compelling, she had powered through dyslexia by sheer force of will just to be able to see how they slowly fell in love, despite the regency class pressures that surrounded them.” She felt a slight flush cross her cheeks and she didn’t know why. “Um, please tell her I really enjoyed it.”

But he didn’t comment on it. “I’ll definitely let her know.”

She kept expecting them to run out of things to talk about, or to be forced to revert to the war, to the demigod expectations that always hung over them a little.

But they never did. They made it through breadsticks and pasta bowls with anecdotes about mortal families and movies they’d liked and a little cafe up in Cabot Cove she just had to go to.

They fought over the check, and he won. But they walked out together.

“You were right,” she said as they stepped into the evening. It had been a long dinner, but summer was barreling towards them, so it was still mostly light out.

He blinked, and a slow smile spread across his face. “Me? Right?”

She rolled her eyes. “Don’t let it get to your head.”

But he was still smirking. “What was I right about?”

“Dinner with you was lovely.”

His smirk dropped, and she could see his blush in the not quiet setting sun. “Oh.” He coughed. “Um, yeah, it was really really great to properly catch up. We should do it again sometime.”

“How about Tuesday?” She said impulsively, before really thinking about it.

But the cat was out of the bag now.

“Um…” The hesitation was not what she wanted.

“We don’t have to,” she added, quickly. “If you’re busy, or if you have other plans–”

“Would it be weird if I asked to have dinner at your place?”

“My place? You mean my house?”

“Yeah.”

That gave her pause. No one had ever been to her place before. Ever. Not even Malcolm. And there were boxes she still hadn’t unpacked, painter’s tape she had left on the wall, kitchen cabinets empty of pots and pans… “I mean, we could, but we’d probably have to order a pizza.”

“No, I…” He paused, “I’d cook for you, if you’d let me.”

“You’d… cook in my kitchen?”

He nodded. “My boat has a galley,” he said, “but it can get a little cramped in there. I haven’t had the opportunity yet to make my mom’s famous blue chocolate chip cookies.”

She frowned. “Blue?”

Percy grinned, sly and easy. “Yep.”

“Dare I ask why?”

“They taste better when they’re blue,” he said. “Trust me.”

Trust me. He’d said that to her once before, the first time they’d met when they crashed into each other during a quest to the sea of monsters. She’d been looking for the Golden Fleece to save Thalia’s tree, and her spirit, from dying. He’d been doing it to keep Kronos from getting it. They’d ended up on a boat together, but despite his skill at sailing, she hadn’t wanted to trust him. She hadn’t trusted him. She had wanted to go to the beautiful world then sirens had offered her. But she’d done it, some little spark of her soul had wanted to trust him. He’d saved her from drowning.

And then she’d said those same words to him two years later, when she’d been on Olympus with him and had a knife in one hand, and Luke at his feet.

And he had.

“Alright,” she said. “My kitchen, Tuesday.”

She then spent the next three days summarily freaking out.

She had one, pathetically small sheet pan. Her oven wasn’t clean. Her sink was somehow overflowing, despite the fact that she had less than ten dishes overall. Her remaining bell peppers had begun to grow a brand new colony of mold. The fridge was full of leftovers she never remembered to throw out and the freezer-frozen dinners. And those were just the kitchen problems.

Her knitting had taken over the loveseat and was migrating to one of the end tables. She’d managed to put the leftover items from the flea market right into the spare bedroom she was using for a storage room while she continued to work on the house, but too many boxes had migrated out of it when she’d needed something, and never managed migrate into the recycling or back into the room.

And three days was not really enough ramp time to psych herself up for a major cleaning. And unlike Boston, Helena didn’t have a maid service she could call last minute.

But, she was honestly proud of herself for managing to throw out everything that had obvious mold or smelled really bad in the fridge, get all the dishes in the dishwasher and turn it on, though not unload it, and crochet a new afgan for the couch that matched the picture she’d painted of the ocean, inspired by the tour, that hung in the living room.

The last one probably wasn’t strictly necessary, but it had certainly seemed like it come Tuesday morning.

Annabeth had only just barely finished putting her mop away when there was a knock at her door. “Just a minute!” she called. In quick succession, she straightened the afghan on the couch, pushed in the wooden chair at her kitchen table, and checked her reflection in the mirror, moving a stray curl behind her ear. After some consideration, she had decided on the light blue dress from the back of her closet, pairing it with an old set of owl earrings that her father had gotten her for her birthday when she was young.

There was no hiding the big grin on her face as she opened the door.

“Hey!” Percy was smiling back at her, his eyes sparkling in the late afternoon sunlight. His arms were laden with plastic grocery bags, and she tried not to notice how tight the sleeves were of his black, Social Distortion t-shirt.

She stepped back, making room for him. “Come on in.”

“Your place is gorgeous,” he said as he stepped inside.

“Thanks,” She said, “I got it because I felt like it was a real diamond in the rough. I’m doing a lot of work on it, off and on.”

“You redesigned something that could please the gods, I think making a perfect house is something you can do in your sleep”

She blushed, and showed him into the kitchen. “I’m… I don’t have the most extensive kitchen set up, I’m afraid.”

“That’s alright,” he said. “We can make do.”

And make do they did.

Percy had had the foresight to bring all the necessary ingredients at least, though they did run into a bit of a snag after dinner. (Percy had made her beef stroganoff. It was without a doubt one of the best things she had ever eaten. Not that she would ever tell him that.) “So,” he said, plopping his bag of flour on her counter. “Where’s your stand mixer?”

She blinked. “My… what?”

“Stand mixer. We’re going to need one if we want cookies.”

“Oh.” She wasn’t even sure that she knew what that was. “I… don’t have one.”

“Oh.” Percy blinked, taken aback. “You don’t?”

She shook her head. And made a mental note to get one, as soon as possible. Brenda would be able to help her. Or Susan. Or somebody.

He bit his lip, his eyes darting around. “That’s–that’s okay. We can–we can wash out the marinade bowl,” he picked up the dirty bowl in the sink which had held the raw beef, “use that to cream the butter, and then we can mix it by hand. Do you have a whisk?”

“Uh…”

Percy opened his mouth as if to say something, then shut it, shaking his head with a rueful grin. “You know what? That’s fine.”

“Sorry.”

“It’s okay.” He took out the eggs from the fridge. “They made cookies before stand mixers were invented, right? I think we can manage.”

After a brief pause to clean some of the dishes, they were off to the races. Percy had unearthed a wooden spoon from the back of one of her cabinets, and was mashing the butter with the eggs and sugar while Annabeth sifted the dry ingredients together with a fork. She was perfectly aware that Percy had given her the easier task, but from her vantage point at her little kitchen table, she was perfectly content to sit and observe as Percy leaned against her counter, one arm cradling the bowl to his chest while he mashed with the other.

He was a lot taller than she remembered him being. During the war, she was only an inch or so shorter than him; now she wouldn’t be surprised if he had nearly half a foot on her. And he had filled out, too–broad shoulders and big hands and sturdy thighs. He had just the barest hint of stubble on his sharp jaw, and strong brows… one of which was raised as he looked at her, his lips quirked in a smile. “Hm?”

“I said, can you pass me the vanilla and the food coloring?”

“Oh.” She cleared her throat, setting the bowl down so hard that the flour mixture jumped a little. “Yeah, sorry.”

He just chuckled to himself.

“So, what’s the deal with the blue food coloring again?” she asked as she passed the little bottles to him. Their hands touched and she tried not to think about it.

His face dropped, just a touch. “How much did I tell you about my mom?”

She frowned, taking her seat. “Not much, I don’t think. She’s a writer, and…” Screwing up her eyes, she racked her memory for something, anything, any small inconsequential detail he might have shared with her when they were younger. Back then, though, there really had been no reason to talk about their pasts. They didn’t spend that much time together. Not a lot of time for sharing in the middle of a war. “Was she married?”

He nodded. “Twice. Her first husband, he was a real piece of shit.” A scowl overtaking his face, he measured out the vanilla, but dumped nearly the entire bottle of blue into the flour. “I didn’t know at the time, but when I was really little, he would beat on her.”

Her shoulders sagged. “Oh, Percy, I’m so sorry.”

Percy shrugged. “It’s okay. It was a long time ago. Almost… wow.” He paused. “Almost twenty years.” Shaking his head, he stuck his hand in, mixing the cookie dough. Slowly, inexorably, the color changed: from tan, to periwinkle, to cerulean. “They had this dumb fight–I don’t even remember what. But somehow, the topic of blue food came up. He swore up and down that there was no such thing. But my mom insisted. And ever since then, she would have blue food all the time. Blue tortilla chips, blue candy, blue gatorade–and eventually, she started adding blue food coloring, too. He hated it.” Percy grinned, reaching for a spatula. “Blue food was her way of fighting back. Her one act of rebellion. Eventually, it just became our thing.”

She could picture it, a young Percy looking up at his mother with those big green eyes as she whipped up a batch of blue cookies. “How is she now?”

His face didn’t change much, but it was almost like there was a glow about him, a warm little fire lighting him up from within. “She’s good. She’s working on a new book, and she remarried almost ten years ago.”

Oh, that was right–he had a sister! “You have a sister, yeah? What’s her name?”

“Estelle.”

She inhaled, something clicking. “The Little Star?”

The smile spread across his face, lighting up the whole room with his love. “Yeah. She’s pretty great.”

Together, they spooned out the cookies, fitting as many of them onto her sheet pan as they possibly could, and she settled back into her seat as Percy slid the tray into the oven.

“So,” she said, about six minutes into cooking. “Whatever happened to her first husband?”

Percy crouched, peeking into the oven. “Remember that time we ran into Medusa in Jersey?”

“Don’t remind me,” she said, shuddering.

“Well, I gave her head to my mom.”

“How did you even get–”

Annabeth stopped. She blinked.

“Wait. You gave… she…”

He smirked.

Dang. “Are you sure she’s not a secret viking?”

“She’d never wielded an ax, as far as I know,” Percy said, “but she’s a dangerous one.”

She did have a spatula, which she mainly used to get frozen pizzas off the baking sheet, though the cookies had to wait on a plate, because she didn’t have a cooling rack.

“Oh gods,” Annabeth said, ten minutes later when she bit into a still warm cookie. “Oh my gods. This is the best damn cookie I’ve ever had in my life.”

“I’m telling you, it’s the blue,” Percy said, having already swallowed his cookie whole. “There’s just something missing without it.”

“You might be right,” she said. “Might be.”

“Thanks for the vote of confidence.” But he was smiling, “I’ll just have to keep proving it, blue food. It's the best.”

“What else can you make blue?”

“Lots of things: cakes, bread, pasta, mashed potatoes,” he shrugged. “I like trying new things. And my mom has been teaching me some of our family recipes.”

“Do you take requests?”

“Sure. Whatever you want.” Somehow, despite being taller, he managed to look at her from under his eyelashes. Expectant. Hopeful.

And really, what did Annabeth have to lose out on? Another fantastic meal? “Are you free on Friday?”

He was.

Friday rolled around, and Percy arrived, once again loaded down with groceries. Only this time, he stepped into a full kitchen. “Whoa,” he said, quietly stunned as he opened a cabinet. And then another. And another.

Annabeth felt her cheeks heat up.

“Where did you get all this?” he asked.

“Oh, here and there,” she said.

Maybe one day she’d tell him about driving to Boston on Thursday and practically buying out the Sears kitchen department. But not today. Not tonight.

That night, they made pastichio, and split a bottle of wine Annabeth had picked up from the grocery store.

The next week, it was Swedish meatballs. Then, the following Monday, Percy stopped by unannounced, bringing with him an extra container of vodka sauce for pasta, because he had just made too much and wouldn’t be able to eat it before it went bad. Eventually, he started showing up to drop off a cassette. Then to watch the game. Then just to say hi.

And he always stayed for dinner.

By the end of June, he was over every night, making great use of Annabeth’s kitchen. The fridge was still full of leftovers, but it was leftover soup or pasta or vegetables or to die for chicken. And she wasn’t worried about the onions in the crisper going bad. She even learned what the crisper was for, and what it was called.

She didn’t think she’d ever eaten so well in her life.

“Are you doing anything for the holiday?” he asked, after he had finished the dishes.

Annabeth shook her head, sipping her wine. “Dad’s in Europe, and Malcolm and his mom are visiting family in Virginia. You?”

“Paul’s family is taking a vacation in Chicago.”

“You weren’t invited?”

“I was, but I don’t think the risk of inciting dear old uncle,” he flicked his eyes upwards, “is worth flying out for it.” he shrugged, “and I might be joining my mom the day after, so I’d have to come straight back anyway.”

“Shame,” she said. “But I hear that Fourth of July here isn’t so bad. Apparently the local scout troop puts on a pretty great fireworks show on the beach.” According to Denise, it was quite the romantic evening. Asking a girl to the fireworks show was a very common step in the romantic playbook around these parts.

“So I heard! Polly says that the beach is always packed full of people, so I’m going to take my boat out a little ways away and watch there.”

“That sounds really nice.” She said, before chomping on a bite of the blueberry coffee cake he’d made them for dessert.

When she looked back up, he found him looking at her, half trepidation, half excitement in his face.

Percy took in a breath, and licked his lips. “Would you want to… come with me?”

His eyes reflected the color of the water outside her home, the sea where he lived, this town where they had come together by some twist of fate.

And she nodded.

They were both grinning as she showed him out that night, a sort of youthful giddiness bubbling up inside her when she looked at him.

She shut the door behind him, and as soon as he was out of sight, she felt the bubble pop.

The enormity of what had happened sinking in.

And the absolute imperative she not fuck it up.

She didn’t just go dress shopping, she went to Boston, and spoke to a magical tailor and Blizten had to talk her down four times while he fitted her for a dress for her… date… with Percy Jackson.

Because Percy Jackson had asked her out.

On a date. On his boat. To see the fireworks.

Even thinking about it like that sent a weird shock through her. It made her feel like she was sixteen, instead of pushing thirty. What kind of woman, on the eve of her twenty-eighth birthday, would feel butterflies in her stomach as she thought about going to see some fireworks?

Well, sure, when she’d been sixteen, she hadn’t even thought she’d make it to twenty-eight. But still.

And with Percy Jackson of all people.

Yeah, they’d kissed the night before the battle of Manhattan, and yeah they’d been on Olympus together and saved each other’s lives, and yeah Percy had turned down immortality for… for his mom.

But then he’d walked away. From all of it. From her.

Did he regret it?

Her dress ended up being a light blue with white pinstripes, with a wide collar and a cinched, belted waist, coming down right to the tops of her knees.

She stood in Blitzen’s shop, in front of the three way mirror, while he worked on accessorizing it on July third, and wondered how she was supposed to make it until tomorrow without throwing up from nerves.

But make it she did, and at 8:30 in the evening, she met Percy at the east dockyard, in her blue dress and brown sandals. She had spent upwards of three hours on her hair, teasing and curling and spraying until her hair was as poofy as it could possibly be. The humid ocean air still managed to penetrate the layer of hairspray, however, stray curls escaping at her temples.

“Annabeth, hey!” Percy waved at her from the deck of the Little Star. In the evening light, she could see that he had dressed up for the occasion too, trading in his t-shirt for a white button down and a pair of dark jeans. “Did you get some wine?”

She held it aloft. “Last bottle they had!” The grocery store wine selection had been nearly cleared out by the time she got there, but luckily she had managed to snag the last good red left. It was odd, though–she could have sworn she had walked past that shelf about four times before spotting the bottle. Maybe she had just missed it.

“Great,” he grinned. “Come aboard!”

In short order, she had boarded the Star, Percy had set off from the docks, and they were anchored a little ways away from shore, sharing the bottle of wine over a Greek pasta salad. They were sitting together on a bench at the stern, a blanket thrown over their legs. “This might be the best feta I have ever had,” she said. “Where the hell did you get this? Did you fly it over from the motherland?”

Percy laughed. “No, my mom brought it up from New York last time I saw her. There’s this little grocery in Astoria run by this old yiayia, Sophia, she’s got all the best stuff.”

“And the olives?”

“Same place.”

“Damn.” She picked off another olive, popping it in her mouth, savoring the deep, salty flavor. “If we ever go back to New York, you’ll have to take me there.”

A strange silence fell between them after that.

“Would you… ever go back?” he asked her, quietly.

“To New York?”

He nodded.

Annabeth rolled another olive between her fingers, frowning. “I… I don’t know.”

She hadn’t meant to say that. It wasn’t like she’d been thinking about going back–not permanently anyway. She liked Helena. She liked Brenda, and the little restaurants, and the pattern of people who waved to her during her morning walks on the beach. She liked the quiet, the peace, the space she had to relax and breathe and be, without the threat of monsters or gods. She liked not having to look up at the Empire State Building and be reminded of all her failures.

“Would you?”

He shrugged. “Maybe. I’ve been thinking about it. I mean, my whole family is there, you know? My mom comes up every so often but…” He sighed. “It’s hard, being so far away from them.”

Her heart panged.

She liked having him here. She didn’t want him to go.

His eyes flicked up to hers, softening as soon as they met. “But it’s been easier, recently.”

“Yeah?” she breathed.

“Yeah.” He smiled back at her, gentle as a sea breeze. “It’s… I’m really glad I ran into you.”

“Even though I pulled my knife on you.”

“Especially because you pulled your knife on me.”

In the back of her mind, she wondered if her mother would be mad at her. And then she remembered that she didn’t care anymore. “Me, too.”

They sat in companionable silence, drinking wine, watching as the stars came out over the water. Eventually Annabeth dropped her head on his shoulder, scooching closer.

“Are you cold?” he chuckled.

“A little,” she lied.

A pause, and then she felt him rest his head on hers.

“What time is it?” she murmured.

She felt the muscles of his chest shift as he checked his watch. “Almost ten.”

Then, a clap of thunder. Beneath her, Percy jolted. She sat up. “Percy? What is it–”

But out of the corner of her eye, there was a brilliant flash of light, a little yellow star exploding into showers of red and green and blue.

Percy relaxed. “Oh thank the gods,” he sighed, sagging back against the boat. “I thought Zeus was coming to kill me.”

It wasn’t funny, but she started giggling. “For what?”

“Does he need a reason?”

“I’m sure you’ve given him plenty.”

“Hey!” he pouted. “It’s not like you haven’t done plenty to piss off the gods, too.”

“Oh yeah? Who mailed Medusa’s head to Olympus?”

“And who turned her back on Hera?”

“Well, who turned down Zeus’ gift?” she shot back, kicking his shin.

He stilled, shifting closer to her. And he didn’t reply.

“Do you regret it?” she asked, turning from the fireworks to face him.

“Hm?”

“Turning him down.” In all of mythology, there was no greater boon from the gods than immortality. It was the ultimate reward for any demigod. After all that Percy had done–defeating Kronos, saving Olympus–she had been sure he would have taken it. And why shouldn’t he have? Demigods were scattered across the United States. Most of them never even knew that they were special, and how. She could count the number of times she had met her own mother on one hand. Percy had had the chance to live among the gods, with his immortal family, for eternity.

And he had turned it down.

He bit his lip. “Not really.” He looked off, not towards the shore and the fireworks, but out over the ocean, “I remember being just sixteen, and thinking when he made the offer, that I could stay in my prime.” he shook his head, “I don’t know what my prime is, or was, or might be. But I am so sure it wasn’t being sixteen. I… there might be a time I want forever, sometimes having that kind of power… it does have its appeal. But I realized that I didn’t want that.” Then he looked at her. “What about you?”

She almost laughed, “It didn’t occur to me that it would be on the table until they offered it to you.” She shook her head. “I’d have taken it if they’d offered it to me first. I know that. I’m certain of it.” She smiled. “But I am so, so glad they didn’t. You’re right. Sixteen forever isn’t what I should have wanted.”

She saw him open his mouth, and then snap it shut.

“What?”

“Nothing,” he said, too quickly, with too much force.

“No, really, Seaweed Brain, what?” Between the boom of fireworks, all she could hear was her own heartbeat. They were already so close, but she leaned closer, like they were going to share a confession around a fire while they were camping out during the war. She wished she could roast a marshmallow. “You can tell me.”

“If they’d offered it to you first, and you’d taken it, I wouldn’t have…” She could feel his breath on her face. “I would have…”

Well, fuck. What else was she supposed to do, but close that centimeter gap and kiss him?

The fireworks exploded behind her closed eyelids, but that didn’t matter.

She could feel the sparks on her lips, and smell the sea air all around her.

She kissed Percy Jackson, and it was everything.

#my fic #darkmagyk #pjo fic #pjo #percabeth #pjo hoo bigbang #au #the rivalry ends here #new au woo!!!

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