#detective leah kingston

[lykegenia]

Unicorns And Mistletoe

The Wayhaven Chronicles Nate Sewell x Leah Kingston No warnings except, as always, Rebecca being parent of the year

Read it on AO3!

She’s three, and old enough to know it’s part of the punishment. She still has yet to understand what the punishment is for, but she knows that if she can just work it out then her mummy will come back and everything will be alright again. The people she left her with – kind, smiling, smelling of gingerbread – are nice, and their warm house is nice, and all the Christmas lights twinkle together in a confusion of reds and greens and golds, and they told her the guest of honour gets to add a bobble – no, bauble – to the Christmas tree. They clapped and smiled when she picked the sparkly plastic reindeer from the box and hung it on the highest branch she could reach, and told her that was the surest way to summon Christmas magic.

They’ve left her alone now, though, because she said that she wanted to look out of the window, and they’re kind people so they set her up with a cushion and a cookie and milk in a plastic glass with a fairy on it. There’s a creeping feeling in her chest that it was the wrong choice, that she’s not doing what she’s supposed to, because every so often she hears footsteps and then a pause, and then they shuffle away again and murmur between themselves in way she’s come to learn signifies pity. But nobody stops her, so she doesn’t turn around. She sits by the window and stares out and eats the cookie slowly and puzzles over how to make the Christmas magic work so that everything stops being her fault.

--

She’s seven, watching the rush of her classmates burst out into the playground like a torrent of water from a leaky dam, straight for the line of parents waiting just beyond the gates. She herself goes at a steadier pace, the better to observe the crush of adults huddled under scarves and thick winter coats just in case there’s one she recognises. She’s a clever child, however – all her teachers say so – and she learnt quickly not to expect too much. The others are shouting and laughing, and holding up the Christmas decorations they made for proud inspection. Her own pinecone, dangling from one gloved hand like a talisman, has silver glitter and blue sequins to represent snow – like a glass one she saw on the TV – and has a length of silver ribbon that she tied around the top of it herself so it can hang on the tree. The other children needed the teacher to do it for them.

As she tears her gaze away, she notices an older couple all smiles as they wave at her, and suddenly it feels like she’s walking in treacle. The Wrights are nice. She has to repeat it to herself. Mrs Wright wears a woolly hat shaped like a Christmas pudding, complete with knitted holly leaves and two red pom-poms for the berries, and Mr Wright’s puffer jacket is unzipped over a green jumper decorated with snowflakes and reindeer.

“Where’s Mum?” she asks when she reaches them, although the answer doesn’t really matter beyond the obvious.

“We’re sorry, Leah.” Mrs Wright shakes her head. “Your mum tried to get back in time, but you know work keeps her very busy. She should be here tomorrow, and in the meantime, we can have a sleepover! I need your big strong arms to help me stir the Christmas cake.”

“Did you enjoy your last day at school?” Mr Wright asks.

She shrugs one shoulder, her eyes on a robin foraging for worms under the nearby hedge. There’s one in her garden that will come so close that she can sit next to it while it gobbles up the bacon fat she cuts into tiny pieces and sets on the wall, but she hasn’t yet persuaded it to eat out of her palm.

Mr Wright tries again and points to her hand. “What’s that you’ve got there?”

She stuffs the pinecone into her pocket. “Nothing.”

“Ah, well. Let’s get you home to pick up your night bag, and then we’ll get the magic started.”

“We haven’t put up our decorations yet, you know,” Mrs Wright adds. “Would you like to help?”

She shrugs again. “S’pose.”

When they get to her house, she sneaks away and puts the pinecone on the kitchen counter, balanced on its end with the glitteriest side towards the door so her mother will see it when she comes in.

--

She’s thirteen. Dusty, cold, but pleased with herself. She’s spent the day scouring the house, teetering on the ladder up to the loft and digging through the junk in the garage, and now there are three boxes lumped on the living room carpet. They read ‘XDecs’ in unfamiliar handwriting, and they’re so old that the tape on the edges is starting to disintegrate, but she found them.

She unboxes the tree first, brushes the dust off the plastic branches and works out how the pieces fit together, then fishes about for lights and tinsel. The longest garland she takes to wrap around the stair banister, the second longest drapes over the mantle, and then – through trial and error and a lot of sideways squinting to make sure it looks right – she daubs the tree with ornaments in what she hopes is a tasteful array of festive cheer. The pinecone she made when she was little isn’t among the baubles, but it doesn’t matter. It probably would have spoiled the aesthetic anyway.

There’s just enough time to clear away the empty boxes and vacuum stray bits of tinsel of the floor before an engine growls to a stop on the slushy driveway.

“Leah?” her mother’s voice calls from the back of the house.

“In here!”

She stands in the middle of the room with fists bunched, waiting for the big reveal. The crisp click of her mother’s high heels slow as they reach the hall. When she appears in the doorway, her face is drawn into a frown as she watches her daughter sidestep awkwardly to one side with a vague gesture to the lit-up Christmas tree.

“Surprise!”

A pause.

“Where did you get all this?” her mother asks.

She shifts under the scrutiny. “… Found it.”

“Where?” When there’s no answer, her mother sighs. “From the loft? Leah, you know you’re not allowed up there. It’s dangerous. What if something had happened?”

“Well it didn’t,” she counters. “And I knew you wouldn’t have time to decorate, so I thought…”

She scuttles backwards as her mother strides into the room, glancing to the tree and back again as if it’s an unruly pet one accident away from being sent to the rescue shelter. The critical eye her mother casts over the decorations makes her sullen, but there’s something else there as well, a wistfulness as a slow hand reaches up to cup a sphere of clouded blue glass etched with the words Baby’s First Christmas in elegant gold cursive.

“It’s very… thoughtful.” Her mother sighs again and drops the memory. “It’s been a long day, and there’s shopping in the car. I need a shower – can you fetch it in?”

“I guess.”

Her mother gives a prim nod of acknowledgement and slides from the room like snow off an overladen branch, only to pause in the doorway. “Don’t forget, you’re going to the Wrights tomorrow, so make sure you have everything ready – and make sure all of this is unplugged so there’s not an accident. Those lights are far too old to be safe.”

She deflates, and doesn’t bother to answer, and after a moment lunges for the socket to cut off the lurid glitter of the Christmas lights.

--

She’s nineteen, and ignoring half-drunk texts from her friends asking why she isn’t at the campus party. She’d turn her phone off completely if not for the unlikely case of an emergency, but she’s not even bothering to open the messages anymore. Instead, she hunkers down in the armchair, annoyed to find that the hot chocolate at her elbow hasn’t magically refilled itself. She’ll have to buy another one soon or the café owner might throw her out. She decides it can wait until the end of the chapter she’s reading.

“No way – Leah?”

She looks up. The boy smiling at her is in her class. He’s handsome in a roguish sort of way, but they’ve never really talked.

“Couldn’t be bothered with the party?” he asks. “Shame. I hear WelSoc managed to get a boost for the budget.”

“Why aren’t you there, then?” she retorts, confused. She doesn’t hear about the antics of the Welfare Society – the university’s main student organisation – all that often, and she would have thought Bobby would have been there to report on it for the student newspaper if nothing else.

He shrugs and flops down in the armchair on the opposite side of the table. “I might go later. It’s always more fun to be fashionably late. Besides, by that point people will be nice and drunk and happy to spill all their secrets.”

“What secrets?”

“Oh, you know, gossip and stuff. Why aren’t you there?”

“I’m not really a Christmas person,” she answers, turning back to her book.

“Oh?”

“It feels like wasted effort most of the time.”

To her surprise, he smiles. “I’ve never looked at it that way, but you have a point. All that excess just to roll around with indigestion for a week.”

“Putting up decorations just to take them down again,” she agrees, wrinkling her nose. “And most of them are tacky anyway.”

“Ah, you’re a woman of taste, then.”

She doesn’t quite know how to respond to that, but he waves her away with a private laugh and jumps to his feet.

“I’ll not inflict my presence on you any longer, in that case, but if you do decide to go to the party I hope you’ll say hello.” He winks. “Merry Christmas.”

“Oh, yeah – Merry Christmas.”

Still confused, she watches him saunter back outside, only pausing briefly to pick up something from the barista before the clipped view from the café window cuts off the sight of him. A little while later, when she gets up for another hot chocolate to go with her book, the woman smiles and waves away her bank card.

“That guy you were talking to already paid,” she explains.

“What do you mean?”

“He paid for your drink – it’s on the house.”

She snaps her gaze to the window, as if Bobby might be standing there staring in, with a big sign informing her that it’s an elaborate prank. But all she can see are the indifferent shadows of passing shoppers hurrying about in the last of the daylight, wrapped up in their own concerns.

“Oh,” she says, and smiles at the barista because it’s polite, and takes the hot chocolate back to the rest of her things.

--

She’s twenty-six and alone in her apartment. Tina thinks she’s with the Wrights, and she told them she’s celebrating with Tina. She hasn’t even needed to invent an excuse to fob off Rebecca. In front of her is a spread of ingredients for homemade tacos, and a stack of DVDs that are old favourites. There’s not a bough of holly or the twinkle of a fairy light in sight.

She decides that she’s content.

--

She’s thirty-one. Staring at the monstrous fir Felix has somehow managed to sneak into the warehouse.

“How did you even get it in here?” she blurts. She has to crane her neck upwards to take in the full might of the thing.

“I didn’t,” Felix replies, proud. “I got some delivery people to do it while we were out – for the extra surprise factor.”

The rest of Unit Bravo sidle forward, as awed by the presence of the tree as she is, though the levels of enthusiasm vary.

“I thought we could decorate it together,” he continues, flinging open the first of several boxes that have been left at the foot of the tree, “you know, since we get so little time to do things as a family.”

That appears to be the magic word. Adam answers Mason’s pleading look with a minute shake of his head, and Nate is already striding forward to help unpack the ornaments. It leaves her with an uncomfortable itch between her shoulder blades, as if she’s suddenly wearing clothes that belong to someone else. Years of memories come bubbling up like rising damp under paint, phantom emotions she’s tried for so many years to bury and which now burrow so easily through her flesh.

“Leah?” Nate asks, with his hands curled around a string of coloured glass beads.

She smiles. It feels wooden. “Are you sure we can reach the whole way up?”

“I’m sure we’ll manage with us all working together,” he says, and beckons her to his side with a chaste kiss to her cheek.

Felix has already draped a length of tinsel around his neck like it’s a feather boa, and grins wide as he turns to her. “Where do we start? I bet you’ve had loads of practice.”

It stings.

“Put the lights up the centre of the tree,” she suggests, grateful for Nate’s touch. “That way they’ll reflect off the baubles.”

“Great!”

The vampires take to their task rather well. The military precision with which Adam lays the lights is matched by the haphazard way that Mason – obviously unhappy with the glow – drapes the outer branches in tinsel to hide as much of it as possible. Nate, meanwhile, is trying to bring a bit of coordination to the chaos that is Felix’s method of flinging baubles on the tree with no care for size or colour.

“But it’s festive,” the younger vampire protests, as a shiny green chilli pepper is swapped with a more tasteful globe of frosted golden glass.

“I just think it will look better up here, because it’s smaller.”

“You mean because it’s somewhere I can’t reach to move it somewhere more fun. I can get a stepladder, you know.”

She smiles at that, content to watch the banter. The variety of ornaments that have been procured cover a dizzying array of styles, from traditional to psychedelic to things like the chilli pepper that she knows Felix bought because he found them amusing. It’s not quite the same as the Wrights’ collection, which they’d once told her had been built up over years gathering trinkets on holiday or been gifted from friends and family, but the effect is similar.

“Leah, you agree with me, don’t you?” Nate pleads, his eyes wide and helpless.

She smiles. “A little disorder gives it personality, don’t you think?”

“But…”

“Ooooh I think that counts as a top ten anime betrayal,” Felix cackles.

“What’s anime?”

“Never you mind,” comes the haughty reply as the younger vampire holds out his hand. “I’ll be taking my pepper back now, thank you.”

There’s a groan as Nate passes it over, and she gets the feeling his defeat is not as final as he’s pretending, but before she can voice the suspicion, he comes to fold his long legs down next to her on the carpet.

“You haven’t put anything on the tree yet,” he notes, brushing a loose strand of hair back from her face.

She shrugs. The ornament turning in her hands is a tiny wooden reindeer with a bell around its neck. It’s not sparkly like the one when she was three, but it’s similar enough for a wave of guilt to wash over her for all the years she turned down the invitation from the Wrights because she didn’t want to be reminded of that pitied, unwanted little kid who was once dropped on their doorstep.

“Hey…”

“I’m not a big Christmas person,” she murmurs, though she knows the other vampires could easily listen in if they choose to. “Don’t get me wrong, it’s not like I have horrible memories, but part of me always felt left out of that holiday magic, you know?”

With the Christmas tree lights reflecting off the sympathy in his brown eyes, he curls a gentle hand around hers and lifts her knuckles to his lips. “I’m sorry your past experiences weren’t what they should have been… though I hope you don’t feel left out now?”

It’s impossible to feel anything but dizzy with him so close, and yet as her gaze falls to his lips she wants nothing more than to be closer still.

“I’ve never felt more at home,” she tells him, smiling at the way confession makes his breath stutter.

The pad of his thumb brushes her cheek.

“You have no idea how much it delights me to – what are you doing?”

He pulls away to frown at Felix, who snuck up from behind to stretch out a bunch of mistletoe above their heads, the white berries and green foliage made richer by a ribbon of deep maroon.

“It’s Christmas,” the younger vampire explains. “Kissing under mistletoe is tradition.”

“You really think they need mistletoe to be going at it?” Mason calls from the other side of the room.

“Is that sort of language really necessary?” Nate demands.

“Not denying it though, are you?”

Mortified, he rubs a hand across his brow, and though her own cheeks are surely crimson by now, she keeps her fingers tangled into his to make sure he won’t pull away for good.

“You were so close you were practically on top of each other,” Felix offers, though whether he’s trying to be helpful or embarrass them both further is difficult to say.

“I was merely…” Nate clears his throat, tries again. “Why don’t you finish decorating the tree?”

Felix rolls his eyes, discarding the mistletoe on the sofa as he goes. The moment of heat has passed, but with attention gradually sliding off them, Nate inches close enough to wrap an arm around her waist. She snuggles into his side, ear over his heart, content to soak in the atmosphere of the room. Crackling fire, twinkling lights, and the good-natured bickering between Mason and Felix. She can feel Nate wince with every tacky bauble added to the tree, but torn as he is between protecting his décor and keeping her company, not even the glittery unicorn with the neon-pink mane and glowing horn stirs him to fully intervene, and she presses a kiss to the back of his hand to show her sympathy.

It's later, when the fire has burned down to embers and even the wind outside has fallen quiet, that she approaches the tree with the little wooden reindeer. There’s no ribbon loop to hang it on a branch, but she finds a bare spot in between a garish purple raspberry and an intricate crystal snowflake, and jams its legs on either side of the stem, like it’s leaping through a forest.

“It looks good there,” Nate murmurs, coming to stand at her back. He presses a kiss to the top of her head as his arms wind around her waist. “Are you sure I can’t just –”

“I’ll tell Adam it was you,” she warns. “Is it worth it for the wounded, puppy-dog look Felix will give you when he notices you’ve moved them?”

A sigh heaves through him that ruffles her hair. “For you, I suppose I can live with it, but I may have to stage a disappearing act in time for next year.”

“Even for the unicorn?”

“Especially for the unicorn.”

Chuckling, she turns in his arms. “It sounds like you could use a distraction.”

“What did you have in mind?” he asks, though with the way his voice lowers and his fingertips toy with the hem of her shirt, he already has some ideas of his own.

She licks her lips. His own part in response.

Instead of indulging him, however, she dodges the kiss and steps around him to where the mistletoe lies in a crumpled heap on the sofa. The room is warm, the lights in the Christmas tree like the glitter of a galaxy in the void of space, the weight of his gaze heavy enough to send a shiver across her shoulders as she plucks up the greenery with nimble fingers.

#the wayhaven chronicles #twc holiday magic #nate sewell #twc detective #unit bravo #n sewell #nate sewell x detective #detective leah kingston

[apenapaperandadoofus]

Here’s my exchange fic for Leah Kingston, @lykegenia ‘s lovely detective! I hope you enjoyed it! I had fun writing for her and Nate, one of the LI’s I don’t really have much experience with so this was a great writing experience! I really hope I did our boy justice lol!! I hope you enjoy it!

Thanks @wayhavenficexchange for this fun activity!!! Thank you for taking the initiative, this was really great!!!

#the wayhaven chronicles #nate sewell #n twc #twc

[dwellordream]

Wayhaven OCs

in honor of book 3 dropping tomorrow, and since it’s been like 2 years since i really engaged much with the fandom, i thought i’d do a round-up post for my detectives. 

Detective Kamala Batra

Kamala is my first and foremost detective, romancing Adam. Warm and charming, she is a natural people person, and her instinct is to try to keep everyone happy. She has the most positive relationship with Rebecca out of all my detectives - they have maintained a strong bond and hold a lot of trust for one another, despite the secrets and lies over the years. 

Kamala attended university for sociology, hoping to become a social worker or educator or some kind, but wound up working for Wayhaven PD while in between jobs, and ended up becoming an officer and then a detective. She has a wide social circle and many hobbies, and embraced Unit Bravo from the start as new friends and colleagues, though she has always found Adam the most difficult to gel with. 

Detective Holly Lin

Holly is my secondary detective, romancing Nate. Though she has a reputation for being calm and collected, she tends to overthink nearly everything, and is a lot more indecisive and sentimental than she’d like to let on. Her sleek, professional appearance is hiding a huge romantic and while she comes across as quite ‘refined’, even snobbish, she loves nature and the outdoors. 

She has a lot of loyalty and respect for her mother, but they haven’t been close since Holly was very small. While she was considered a bit of a ‘queen bee’ around town as a teenager, Holly is a bit more reserved and hesitant to make new friends since returning to Wayhaven as an adult. While initially training to become a psychologist, her best friend Tina convinced her to join Wayhaven PD, and Holly quickly became set on becoming a detective. Ambitious and a bit competitive, she is at her softest around Nate, who she feels she can truly relax around.

Detective Leah Greene

Leah is my third detective, romancing Mason. Guarded and snide, she has a wisecrack for nearly every occasion, and a pretty cynical view of the world, including the Agency and Wayhaven PD. She’s quick to point out hypocrisy and corruption, and extremely blunt at all times, though quick to apologize when she’s offended a friend. 

She struggled with drinking throughout her teenage and university years, and is pretty ‘straight edge’ as a result- she’s trying to quit smoking, her final ‘vice’. She has a very tense and hostile relationship with Rebecca, viewing her as a neglectful and self-absorbed parent who chose to have a child only to essentially abandon them for years on end in favor of her career. Both she and Mason are unwilling to categorize their relationship as anything more than ‘friends with benefits’, which they claim suits them just fine.

Detective Esme Kingston

Esme is my fourth and final detective, romancing Felix. Socially awkward and incredibly independent, Tina was the closest thing she had to a friend before Unit Bravo arrived. Esme prides herself on her organized, self-sufficient lifestyle. She doesn’t need anyone, but others need her, and that’s the way she likes it. She attributes her self worth to her career (previously, it was academics), and is civil and polite with her mother, but nothing more than that. Rebecca believes their relationship is healthier than it actually is, because Esme never introduces any conflict- she doesn’t see the point.

Esme has never had a successful romantic relationship before Felix. She struggles to communicate her feelings and can pull away and go radio silent for days on end while trying to articulate something to herself. However, she is deeply attached to her hometown and its citizens; she has only left Wayhaven once, to attend university, and returned immediately after, determined to join the police force. 

#the wayhaven chronicles #kamala batra #holly lin #leah greene #esme kingston

[laurelsofhighever]

I know your wayhaven stuff isn't on this blog but I would LOVE to know more about 'Wayhaven Murder Mystery. ft Kittens'

Thank you for asking!

I said a little bit about it here, but I’m really looking forward to planning this out and writing it, so here’s some more:

The story is going to explore bits of Wayhaven that we haven’t seen in the books yet, including the docks with its laidback tourism industry, the lighthouse that doubles as a nautical museum, and bits of the lake that Mishka mentions exists. My detective, Leah Kingston, is going to get to flex her skills as a detective, but since the victim is a supernatural she’s going to have to walk the line between doing her job as Wayhaven’s detective, and as the Agency’s liaison to Wayhaven.

There’s also going to be lots of fluff with Nate, and all of UB is going to fall in love with the kittens (with varying degrees of reluctance)

#professionalfruitgremlin

[lykegenia]

But as always, he twists from the unintended snap and reaches across the space between them, tucking a flyaway lock of hair behind her ear as he shifts closer.

“I didn’t mean to imply you aren’t capable,” he tells her. “One of your many talents seems to be the ability to tangle my thoughts into an inarticulate mess.”

“Really?” Sarcasm was always her strong suit. “But you’re always so charming.”

A smirk. “Do I charm you, Leah?”

Everyone look at the gorgeous commission I got from @javsarts of Nate and Leah from Chapter 7 of my Wayhaven murder mystery, Like Glitter And Gold. Isn’t it wonderful? I can’t stop staring at them. Go and grab a commission slot immediately

#i love it so much #the wayhaven chronicles #nate sewell #nate x detective #nate sewell x detective #detective leah kingston #like glitter and gold #twc

[lykegenia]

The Towel Started It

Fandom: The Wayhaven Chronicles Pairings: Nate Sewell x Female Detective (Leah Kingston) Rating: Explicit Warnings: None

So this art by @greyhands lives rent free in my head, and what follows is shameless smut. No regrets.

Read on AO3

--

Leah frowns as she takes in Nate’s empty bedroom, the leatherbound notebook she borrowed from him clasped in one hand. She’s sure she heard a muffled response to her knock, inviting her in, and yet…

“Nate?”

“In here.” His voice reaches her from the opposite doorway, where a lazy waft of steam billows into the main room.

“Oh – sorry,” she calls. “I didn’t know you were in the bathroom.”

A chuckle. “It’s quite alright.”

“I just came to give you back the research notes you leant me.” She waves the hand containing the journal as if he can see it, and casts around for a flat surface that’s not already covered in books. “Is there somewhere you’d like me to… put…”

Nate has emerged to lean in the doorway, his usual fond smile giving way to a smirk as he drinks in the strength of her reaction. She tries – she really does – to keep her gaze on his face, on the way his still-damp hair curls slightly as it falls around his ears, but the expanse of his toned chest, still glistening a little with moisture, draws her eyes like the pull of a magnet. He’s only wearing a towel. It’s tucked around his slim hips and conceals down to just below his knees, the fluffy white contrasting with smooth, tawny skin. She watches, and he brings one arm up to rub a hand contemplatively along the stubbled line of his jaw, the movement flexing his bicep in a way that she knows is entirely on purpose. The part of her brain still monitoring systems reminds her lungs to inhale as he apparently comes to a decision and pushes off the doorframe.

“You’re early,” he purrs, lazing across the floor of his bedroom.

“Um.” She shakes her head. “Yeah. The meeting with Agent Markham didn’t last as long as it was supposed to. I thought I’d…” Trailing off, she waves the notebook again, vaguely, aware of the burn climbing the back of her neck.

“The research notes, yes, you said.” His brown eyes don’t leave her face as he reaches for them, and a jolt goes through her as his fingertips deliberately brush against the back of her hand. “I’m very grateful.”

She wonders if this is how the vampires feel all the time, needing to consciously remember to breathe – but so close, it’s a mistake, because the clean, rain-fresh scent of his skin is all but overwhelming, the glitter of water droplets still in his hair dazzling.

“Are you alright?” he asks. “You seem a little flushed.”

She can see the smile he’s trying to hide beneath the play of concern he wears, bringing his hand to her forehead as if to check her for a temperature. As if he doesn’t know exactly what he’s doing.

“Fine – I’m – I just wasn’t expecting you to be so…”

“Informal?” He glances down at himself. “It’s nothing you haven’t seen before, rouhi.”

“You know that’s not the point,” she manages.

“Is it not?” His gaze is focussed like the sun through a lens – it’s a wonder she doesn’t actually burst into flames – and at some point he took the journal off her and spirited it away, but she only notices now because of the way his touch moves to the inside of her wrist. “Perhaps you could enlighten me.”

Her heart hammers in her chest as he leans down, but ghosts away from her lips to the exposed edge of her clavicle instead, warm breath chasing over her skin. Eyes closed, she has to reach out for his arm to keep her balance.

“I – you’re seducing me, aren’t you?”

There’s a pause, and then a laugh as he draws back to frame her face in his hands, a mutter in some foreign tongue that she can’t quite catch. Amusement crinkles at the corners of his eyes.

“I must be doing a poor job if you had to ask,” he says.

“No, it just – I mean –” she flounders, searching for the right thing to say “– it was good, but I really did just come to give you the notes. I didn’t expect… you know… anything else.”

With a sigh of fond exasperation his fingers skim down to twine with hers, his forehead a welcome balm against her embarrassment, because at least it means he can’t see the flare of crimson across her cheeks. But standing so close, there’s heat of a different kind brewing between them, one that makes her swallow against her dry mouth and clench her thighs together.

There’s no way that towel isn’t going to fall off.

“Ya rouhi,” he breathes. “Will you permit me to start again?”

It’s her turn to laugh. “Do you really think you need to?”

“Oh, yes.” He pulls back with a half-lidded look that has her smouldering. “I think I will need to make sure you are thoroughly” – an inch closer – “unequivocally” – a thumb brushing her bottom lip – “irredeemably seduced.”

A knock on the door makes her freeze. Her eyes flutter open to find Nate frowning, the look of a man searching for patience where there is none to be had.

“I hope you two aren’t up to anything in there,” Felix calls from the corridor. “Rebecca saw Leah turned up early and wants to brief us on tomorrow’s mission while we’re all here.”

She bites her lips together, bows her head.

“Library in five minutes!”

“There’s always something,” Nate mutters as the footsteps fade down the hallway. “I suppose we’ll have to –”

She dodges the kiss. “I don’t think so.”

“Wh–”

“You said you’d seduce me.” Grinning, she ducks out of his arms completely. “I’m not feeling very seduced.”

“Leah…”

The strangled tone of his voice almost makes her cave, but there’s a certain amount of perverse enjoyment to be had from knowing how much she affects him, from denying him what he hoped to get so easily.

“I only came here to drop off the research notes, remember?” she reminds him as she backs towards the door. “Besides, I think you might need a little more than five minutes if you’re going to be ready for this meeting.”

His brows draw together, and she casts a slow glance downwards to the tented front of the towel, which gives a brief, definite twitch.

“Don’t worry, I’ll save you a seat.”

Still smirking, cherishing the near-desperation her retreat has baited to the surface of his usually suave demeanour, she fumbles for the door handle, her heart bounding with the uncertainty of his self-control. The way he stutters towards her ignites anticipation in her gut, but instead of closing the space entirely his hands clench and he reels away, a harsh breath blown between his cheeks.

“Cruelty does not become you, you know,” he says, with a sidelong glance that shows off the perfect arch of his throat.

Unfair.

She swallows. “Maybe not, but it’s fun.”

A groan is the only reply as she escapes into the hall.

--

Leah still feels a little overheated as the team gathers in the living room, her forced calm betrayed by Adam’s glower, and the grin spread wide as a crescent moon across Felix’s face. That last sight of Nate as she closed the door, eyes hungry and every muscle coiled with want, kept her blood fizzing the whole way through the warehouse. She refuses to look Rebecca in the eye.

Five heads turn when the living room door opens.

“Finally,” Adam grumbles, without a slip in his professional veneer.

To his credit, Nate barely lets his gaze flicker over Leah before turning to Rebecca. “Sorry, there was something I had to take care of. What did I miss?”

He’s dressed in a regular shirt and jeans, and he seems to be in no discomfort as he slopes into the room. Felix’s gaze shifts between him and Leah with the anticipation of a pundit at a boxing match.

“We hadn’t started yet,” Rebecca says crisply.

There’s a pause while he crosses to the sofa, where Leah shifts in invitation and gives him room to settle against the cushions close enough to almost touch – but not quite – one arm stretched casually along its back.

“Nice of you to join us,” she murmurs.

“Now that we’re all here,” Rebecca interrupts, before he can answer, “there has been a change from your regular patrol routes. There have been reports of magical activity south of the lake, so you’ll be starting from Cairn Point to see if further action needs to be taken.”

From the corner of her eye, Leah watches him nod along to the brief, blithe and apparently unconcerned by her scrutiny, his presence buzzing against her skin like the noise of an unseen fly she’s determined to ignore, until after a moment of imagined, prickling heat caused simply by his closeness, a featherlight touch finds the back of her neck. She throws a sharp glance sideways as a shiver tenses across her shoulders, but he’s not looking at her, pretending instead to be oblivious to the reactions drawn out by the caress of his fingertips. To the shallowing of her breath and the uptick in her heartbeat.

Across the room, Mason rolls his eyes.

She swallows. Her body’s autonomic responses might be beyond her control, but that doesn’t mean she’s going to let him get away with it.

“What about the regular patrol routes?” she asks, shifting in her seat. Her knees draw up to tuck against Nate’s side, not quite inappropriate but it disguises her real aim, which is to slide her hand across the top of his thigh and rest it there, right on the inner seam of the denim. A breath hisses in through his teeth and she has to bite the inside of her cheek to keep the victory from showing on her face.

Somehow they make it through the briefing, neither breaking the veneer of composure despite their subtle attempts to one-up each other. None of the rest of Unit Bravo are likely fooled, and even Rebecca’s lips start to purse when Nate has to clear his throat and cross his ankle over the opposite knee to give himself more room, but nobody comments. Eventually there’s nothing left to say and Rebecca stands with a brusque instruction to have reports filed promptly by the morning, before she sweeps out of the room.

Leah watches her go with what she hopes is a polite expression. One index finger is tapping a faint rhythm against her lips, as if she’s pondering something innocuous and not bending all of her attention to the way Nate sits taut as an overwound spring next to her, unable to do anything except tighten his knuckles in his lap.

“Can the rest of us leave now too,” Mason demands, “or are we going to be treated to the whole fucking show?”

Her face burns, but she doesn’t rise to the bait.

“I’m not sure what you’re talking about,” Nate says.

“I need a cigarette.”

He stalks out. A silent conversation is raging between Nate and Adam, the team leader’s arms folded so tightly his shirt nearly bursts with the effort of keeping his disapproval contained. A moment passes where Leah contemplates leaving too – to give them more room for their little staring contest – but as if sensing the thought, Nate’s fingers give a minute flex on the back of her neck. Instead, she looks to Felix, who’s watching the scene unfold with open glee. She’s still in control enough to look down, bashful, her lips rolled between her teeth, when he throws her a wink.

Finally, Adam moves towards the door. “Felix, you wished to show me something in the training room.”

“I did?”

“Yes.” The word seems to cause Adam physical pain. “Now.”

“I don’t remember – Ohhhh, right.” Felix grins. “Well, if you really want me to show it to you now…” He rises from his chair with a dramatic roll of his eyes, only to turn with another wink when he reaches the far end of the room. “Hope you two don’t mind being left on your own!”

“We’ll manage,” Nate replies. “Thank you for the concern.”

The younger vampire dodges around Adam, who stands to cast one last meaningful look over his shoulder before pulling the door shut behind him.

“Well, that was about as subtle as –”

The rest of the words are consumed in the hungry crush of Nate’s mouth, the instant of surprise giving way to a whimper as need unspools through her limbs. She meets him, fingers dragging at his collar as the hand on the back of her neck winds into her hair, as the kiss deepens into a rough press of lips and tongues. Her legs are still folded across his lap – he winds around them, so close all she can feel is the warm, firm plane of his torso.

“Do you have any idea what you do to me?” he gasps against her mouth.

“Is it the reason you were late?”

He growls and slips a hand beneath the hem of her shirt, grinning when her back arches under the touch. It makes her laugh, to be so giddy, and when her head falls back  out of reach of his kiss he obliges by dropping his attention to her collarbone instead, peeking out from the edge of her shirt, and with a blunt scrape of teeth the sound deepens into a groan.

“You know why I was late.” His mouth lifts again to her jaw – not her neck, never her neck – and trails a path towards her ear.

“It’s – your fault.”

“How so?”

“You started it.”

“No, that can’t be right.” He pouts and draws back, his touch running down her arms until their fingers can lace together. “I’m sure I’m perfectly innocent in all of this.”

“I was trying to do you a favour by giving you your notes back!” she cries, playing up her outrage.

His expression turns lofty as he tilts forward again. “And I only wanted to thank you for such kindness.”

The moment hangs between them, teasing, her heart thundering in anticipation as she catches his face and brings him to her lips. “Then thank me.”

It’s easier said than done, despite Nate’s obvious enthusiasm. The sofa, generously proportioned though it is, is narrower than his bed, the back a hindrance to her limbs as they shuffle for a more comfortable position, but she’s too busy kissing him to care, too happy to have his fingers dancing over her ribs. When they finally get their legs untangled he finds his place between her thighs, weight settled deliciously over her, arms wrapping around her back to eliminate the last of the space between them. His hips roll and sparks fly behind her eyelids.

“Fuck.”

He smirks against her cheek. “That’s what I was thinking.”

She laughs again, breathless, clutching at his shoulders. “I can tell. I’m pretty sure everyone else could as well.”

“Was it too much?” he asks.

Her face is scarlet, the bare need of a moment before giving space to his concern, the worrying bright in his brown eyes. The scent of arousal is now so thick in the air around them that it overwhelms even her human nose.

“No?” she tries. She wants to reassure. “I’ve just never done anything that… public. God, in front of my mother.”

“Perhaps I should have been more restrained,” he allows, tracing her jaw. “But when I walked in and saw you sitting here, the thought of not touching you was unbearable.”

To emphasise the point, he leans forward and kisses the same path as his finger, little nips that tense her legs around him.

“Is that so?”

Instead of a true answer, he hums and covers her mouth again. She draws him close, seeking friction, arching into the brush of contact as he once more slips a hand beneath her shirt.

“We’re really doing this here?” she asks.

He stops. “We don’t have to.”

“I don’t want you to stop,” she breathes. “Though usually in my head – when I’ve thought about this – we’re the only ones in the warehouse.”

“Are we?” His eyes light up. “You’ll have to tell me more. But first…” A pause, and his touch falls to the top button of her shirt, his gaze dragging upwards to focus on her face. Waiting.

He really is beautiful. His hair is tangled from her fingers, his lips swollen from her kisses, his lashes a dark flutter against his cheek as he leans into her touch.

Compelled forwards, she shifts beneath him until they’re close enough to share breath. She hears him swallow, thrills with the power she has to hold him back.

“Don’t stop.”

He surges forward. Still mindful of her comfort, he holds the back of her neck as he slants his mouth across hers, the other hand already at work on her shirt buttons, and as she gasps and rolls against him, slow and deliberate. The last of her thoughts go out of her head.

“This is what I thought about,” he purrs, dipping to lap at newly exposed skin. “When you left me, I had to use my imagination.”

Her breath catches.

“Would you like to know what imagined?”

She gives a desperate nod, grounded only by the iron strength of his arms. His fingers drop to the button on her jeans and unfasten it with ease, and when he hesitates – deliberate, poised – she tries not to squirm.

“What might we have done if we hadn’t been interrupted…”

“Nate –”

“I’m here,” he tells her. “The way you respond to me, ya rouhi…”

Another undignified noise as he undoes the fly, her hips stuttering to chase the movement. Instead of giving her the friction she wants, however, he caresses upwards again, pushing aside the fabric of her shirt with a nonchalance she knows is being drawn out for his own enjoyment.

There’s an appreciative hum when he reaches her chest. He would never say he dislikes her sports bras, which provide many benefits for someone with a semi-regular acquaintance to peril, but even so he craves her in silk, in lace, in fine embroidery that glides beneath his palms. Not that she owns anything quite that fancy, but as he runs his hands over one breast and bends to tease the nipple of the other through the sheer fabric, she allows a flare of triumph for taking the time to change.

And he’s thorough. He maps her curves with patient fingertips, with a light graze of teeth that breaks into sharp counterpoint when he bites down. His hair is cashmere-soft in her fists, her lips clamped together to keep quiet, but even so noise slips out – bitten-off, broken throated moans that she can’t help, and which bring a smirk to his generous mouth.

“I could keep you like this for hours,” he confesses, like it’s a sin. He knows the rough edge to his voice does things to her, and no doubt catches the hitch in her breath as he pours the words into her ear, the tick in her pulse as desire throbs low in her belly.

Almost beyond speech now, she can only turn into him, arch into his palm, bracing against the taut muscle of his shoulder to keep herself from flying away.

“Fuck – Nate –”

His touch moves down again, slips beneath her jeans. She bucks, pins him there by the wrist as two fingers press in a slow, firm glide against her, and has to bite back a whimper. A brief thought passes through the haze of sensation that she’s not being very fair – his breath is as ragged as hers, after all, and he keeps shifting his hips to find relief – and so her hand drifts lower, seeking out the hard outline of his own arousal, and maybe a little bit of payback.

“Ah-ah,” he scolds before she can touch him, pushing her away. “Don’t distract me.”

Her laugh verges on a sob, her gaze half-lidded and flicking between his lips and the hand once again inching between her legs. His eyes are intent on her face, on her reactions, the rich brown of his irises swallowed by black. He doesn’t resist the curl of her fingers on the back of his neck, but before she can demand a kiss he chooses that moment to finally slip beneath the thin cotton of her underwear and suddenly there’s no space in her head for anything else. Her muscles lock, her eyes squeeze shut, and he’s whispering in her ear now, rocking his fingers just stubbornly shy of the pace she needs. As her breath shortens into harsh, hummed pants she feels him, too, straining against the rising tide of pleasure, trying to make it last. Cramp threatens in her calf – she ignores it, grinds harder against his palm, uncaring of the whine in her throat as sensation condenses into one bright, glowing point.

She feels the orgasm coming an instant before it crashes through her. Drawn tight, her back arches, lips bitten hard together on the moan that tries to escape her throat. Legs clench together. Nails bite into skin. For a long, lovely moment the waves of it carry her in suspense, and when it finally subsides Nate is there to catch her, with a kiss pressed to her temple and strong arms that run calming patterns along her side.

“Are you alright?”

Little aftershocks skitter across her shoulders. “‘m gonna need a minute.”

His chuckle blooms against her cheek. Turning, she presses a blind kiss to it, secure and safe, enveloped in his scent, with his pulse a focus beneath her fingertips. It’s this moment she loves as much as what comes before, the casual affection and assurance in gentle touches that tell her she won’t be left alone. In a minute, she’ll care again that they’re in the warehouse’s living room, wrapped around each other on a sofa other people have to use, but for now she’s content and absolutely does not want to move.

“Do you not want a turn?” she asks when she finally finds her voice again.

“I took mine earlier,” he rumbles. “We’re even now.”

Her laugh comes out more like a sigh, drowsy and replete. “Nobody said we only get one turn each.”

“True. Though perhaps the finer points of that discussion should be had somewhere with less chance of interruption.”

“You’re still the one who started this,” she points out.

“You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

“And you’re far too pleased with yourself.”

He hums and nudges a kiss against her cheek. “Should I not be?”

“I think you’re –”

A gurgle from her stomach interrupts. There’s a beat of silence before they collapse together into quiet giggling.

“I suppose that settles that,” Nate says when he’s recovered. “May I treat you to dinner?”

She nods. “Dinner sounds good.”

“And then… the rest of the evening is ours.”

#twc #the wayhaven chronicles #n sewell #nate sewell #nate x detective #nate x leah #detective leah kingston

[lykegenia]

Have you already answered the ship meme thing for Nate? If not, here's me asking about it! Or the actual shipping part of the ask game for Nate and Leah, whichever you prefer <3

Thank you for playing! I haven't anwered it for either of them yet, but I'll restrain myself and stick to just Nate x Leah ;D

When I started shipping it: Immediately XD Nate walked into Leah's office and I knew he was going to be the one she would romance, because he's the only one who was nice to her.

My thoughts: There are far too many to put here. I think about the pair of them every day, both in general and in the many plots and fics I want to write about them.

What makes me happy about them: Can I say everything? Nate is such a romantic and Leah is too though she pretends really hard otherwise, so they're great together. There's so much casual touching and affirmations, it's a great romance to be soft about, but there's still enough drama there to make it compelling to endlessly read and write about.

What makes me sad about them: They end up misunderstanding each other a lot, ironically because they're pretty similar. Both have feelings of inadequacy and reserve about being in a relationship even though they want so badly to be wanted. I'm worried about what Mishka has planned for the N route...

Things done in fanfic that annoy me: I haven't read a Nate fic yet that annoys me. The TWC fandom is excellent at writing Nate.

Things I look for in fanfic: The main themes I love for any Nate x detective ship is hurt/comfort, fluff, and dare I say a little bit of spice XD Writing Nate x Leah specifically, I love to explore them learning how to communicate with each other and just... learning how to be SOFT.

Who I'd be comfortable them ending up with, if not each other: I choose not to think of it that way, as if the only source of happiness would be finding a specific partner. Even if they didn't end up together, Unit Bravo will always be there for them both as family.

My happily ever after for them: Leah becomes a vampire, and they spend a romantic eternity travelling and watching history unfold

Who's the big spoon/little spoon: Nate defaults as the big spoon and Leah is perfectly happy with that, but she moves a lot in her sleep so they often wake up the other way around (or she's just clinging to him like a vine)

What is their favourite non-sexual activity: At some point in long evenings of research they tend to move to the couch and cuddle while they read, and it's something they both cherish. Other than that, going to local museums while they're on assignments is their go-to kind of date, because they're both absolute nerds. --

Send me a ship or a character!

#ask game #nate sewell #detective leah kingston

[lykegenia]

For the commentary track, I'm so curious to know about your thoughts during the Chapter 12 interrogation scene in Like Glitter and Gold :) (-wayhavenots)

Chapter 12 gave me such trouble XD I'd love to talk about it!

The difference between Samantha and her husband is stark as she sits on the far side of the table in the interview room, prim in her work blouse and heels, defiant rather than cowed. Leah watches in silence from the observation gallery, chewing the inside of her cheek. Mason and Rebecca work seamlessly together in their questioning, like a pair of collies herding sheep towards the inevitable gate at the end of a field. It must have taken them years to become so used to each other, and the thought sparks an unwelcome resentment in her chest, a twitch like a phantom limb. She stamps it out before it can fully form. That Rebecca’s colleagues know her better than her own daughter isn’t news, even if this is the first direct evidence she’s seen of it; the disappointment should have worn off long ago. Besides, she should be paying attention to the interrogation. Next to her, Nate stands poised, utterly still in the way she’s noticed vampires go sometimes. They don’t need to breathe, or fidget, but he at least only forgets to do so when something has captured his full attention. His arms are crossed, the knuckles of one hand pressed against his mouth as he frowns through the glass, as if it’s an effort to bite back whatever is on his mind. She spares a glance to look at him properly, but he doesn’t meet her gaze, and it worsens the discomfort dancing like static down her arms. Unaware of this small drama, Rebecca slides the photo of the murder weapon across the table. “You know what this is.”

So, first off, this whole fic was very inspired by crime dramas so there was a very cinematic quality I was envisioning when writing. In this scene especially, I was trying to split the focus between Rebecca and Mason doing the interrogation, and Leah and Nate reacting to it. There's not much to say about Rebecca and Mason because the emotional weight of the scene is with Leah, seeing how practiced they all are at this sort of stuff. In a way, the cuts back and forth were meant to feel disjointed because there's a lot of emotional turmoil going on: Leah is worried about the shadiness of the Agency (which I don't dismiss as easily as Mishka) and Nate is hung up on the fact that relationships between humans and supernaturals don't always end well. And of course there's the lowkey jealousy Leah always feels when one of Unit Bravo shows they know Rebecca better than she does - she doesn't want that familiarity, but she recognises that it's just a little bit fucked up.

“This is taking too long,” Mason huffs, and leans forward, reaches out. “Why don’t you relax?” A cold shiver crawls across Leah’s shoulders. The sterile scent of a blood lab, an iron grip around her forearm. Without meaning to, her thumb strays to the silver bump of scar tissue on her left wrist.

Leah likes to pretend Murphy doesn't affect her, but he does. I specifically went back to Book 1 to find Murphy's exact words to properly freak her out. It's not just her reaction to the pheremones that's important here, though, it's that Mason is so casual about using them to get what he wants. Is it simpler than due process? Maybe, but the ethics of it don't square away with her sense of justice.

“He thought I loved him. He thought I could love him after I found out what he was. How could anyone? I had to do it. God, I let him touch me. And the chain – when I –” Her hands come up clenching around imaginary iron links. “The chain was stuck to his skin. His eyes were so dark, just… staring. But I had to do it. I had to.” By now she’s nodding to herself, rocking on the chair as her lips press together and her arms snake around her middle as if otherwise she’ll shatter.

The whole process of weaving together the details of the mystery took a while, and I'm not sure when I decided who the murderer should be. The most important thing was the thematic parallel between that relationship and the one between Leah and Nate. There are obviously Dark Tragic Backstory things about Nate that we don't know about yet, but the idea of secrets and revulsion leading to rejection is something that's clearly on his mind.

This particular bit was tricky to get right, because I couldn't quite find the right level of despair in Samantha without her seeming to lack remorse for what she did. She's horrified by Russell, by what she did, and by what the aftermath looked like, and that was surprisingly hard to convey.

“Are you ok?” Leah asks. He glances up from the floor, but can’t quite break his face out of a grimace. “I can’t believe she did it.” “It’s not so surprising. People have committed murder for less.” “For less?” He says it like an accusation. “Leah, you don’t… you cannot think as she does.” “I can understand her motive,” she retorts. “Isn’t that the whole reason all of this is secret? Finding out there’s an entire world of supernatural beings hiding in plain sight isn’t something everyone’s going to be happy about, even without insane vampire serial killers wanting to hunt you down.” She thinks of Verda, of the way he hunched over his desk in the morgue and the deep, exhausted shadows under his eyes. “He hid a lot from her – lied to her. All I’m saying is I understand why she was angry.” His hand drops from her waist, leaving a cold echo behind. “Her reaction goes a little beyond anger.” “Yeah, well, maybe if Russell had told her what he was instead of letting her find out through someone else it wouldn’t have gone that far.” It’s a bitter point, spiteful, but the day has gone sour and he’s the only person left to take it out on. For a moment he just stands there, searching her face for something he cannot see. She recognises fear in his eyes. “Sometimes people have reasons for keeping things to themselves,” he replies at last, quietly, looking away. “And he did tell her in the end.” “Only when he was forced to,” she snaps. “Pretty familiar, don’t you think?” He reels at that, like it’s a physical blow. “It almost sounds like you blame him for what happened.”

They're misunderstanding each other so much here. The real point of the argument is so I can have them make up in the next chapter, but the heart of the problem is that they're talking about different things. As already mentioned, Nate is thinking about the things in his past he's worried about sharing, but Leah doesn't know that exists, and instead she's seeing parallels to Book 1 and the fact that it ended badly partly because everyone around her was so determined to keep secrets. The body language between them is important here as well - most of the time, Leah isn't a very touch-y person, but Nate is the exception, and it means something when he pulls his hand away. It's a fine line to draw between letting the dialogue speak (haha) for itself and detailing every little gesture, but I wanted to get the broad strokes of how they move towards or away from each other.

#commentary track #plasticdodecagon #the wayhaven chronicles #detective leah kingston #nate sewell #nate x leah

[lykegenia]

Character Songs Tag

Heyyy thanks for the tag @sillyliterature!

The game: Pick a character and then share some songs that represent them.

Time to give my N-mancing TWC detective Leah Kingston some love. I haven’t put together a proper playlist for her yet, but these fit her journey pretty well

War Of Change - Thousand Foot Krutch

It's a truth that in love and war Worlds collide and hearts get broken I want to live like I know I'm dying Take up my cross, not be afraid Is it true what they say, that words are weapons? And if it is, then everybody best stop steppin' 'Cause I got ten in my pocket that'll bend your locket I'm tired of all these rockers sayin' come with me Wait, it's just about to break, it's more than I can take Everything's about to change I feel it in my veins, it's not going away Everything's about to change

Boulevard Of Broken Dreams - Green Day

I walk this empty street On the Boulevard of Broken Dreams Where the city sleeps And I'm the only one and I walk a My shadow's the only one that walks beside me My shallow heart's the only thing that's beating Sometimes I wish someone out there will find me 'Til then I walk alone

Runnin’ - Adam Lambert

'Round and around I'd go, addicted to the numb Living in the cold The higher, the lower the down, down, down Sick of being tired and sick of waiting For another kind of fix The damage is damning me down, down, down My heart's beating faster, I know what I'm after. I've been standing here my whole life, Everything I've seen twice, now it's time I realize It's spinning back around now, on this road I'm crawling Save me cause I'm falling, now I can't seem to breathe right Cause I keep runnin', runnin', runnin', runnin' Runnin', runnin', runnin', runnin' Runnin' from my heart.

Center Stage - Poets Of The Fall

So weave the world a play Such turns of fate To let you have your way Lest the only one betrayed Will be standing center stage Like a thread from a seam Drawn away to reveal That we all make this dream And sometimes it feels so real Do you see how it's your thoughts Come conjuring? Emotions show the world You keep within

Like Real People Do - Hozier

I had a thought, dear However scary About that night The bugs and the dirt Why were you digging? What did you bury Before those hands pulled me From the earth? I will not ask you where you came from I will not ask and neither should you Honey just put your sweet lips on my lips We should just kiss like real people do

The Call - Regina Spektor

Just because everything's changing Doesn't mean it's never been this way before All you can do is try to know who your friends are As you head off to the war Pick a star on the dark horizon and follow the light You'll come back when it's over No need to say goodbye You'll come back when it's over No need to say goodbye

Tagging forward, no pressure: @serenpedac @mutantenfisch @ellenembee @vhenad4hl @agentnatesewell

#tag game #song tags #detective leah kingston

[lykegenia]

Like Glitter And Gold Ch.13

COMPLETE Fandom: The Wayhaven Chronicles Characters/pairings: Nate Sewell x f!Detective Rating: T Warnings: None Summary: Wayhaven has had its ups and downs in the past few  months, and  for Detective Leah Kingston, dealing with vampire serial  killers and mysterious plagues has become something of a routine. Good  thing, too.  The body of a murdered supernatural has just been discovered  in the   alley behind a local bar - and everything, really, just gets  weirder   from there.Between the search for the dead man's killer,  keeping the   Agency at bay, and trying to navigate the new, uncertain  waters of a   relationship with a very suave vampire boyfriend, Leah has  her work cut  out solving the mystery, especially when it beomes clear  she's hunting  more than just a murderer. Additional tags: murder mystery, fluff, angst

Read on AO3

--

If there’s one thing that can improve a shitty day, it’s a cup of fancy tea and a cinnamon swirl from Haley’s, which is why Leah suspects Tina was so desperate to get her out of the station. Instead of taking their usual corner, they’re eating in the car for better privacy, brushing flakes of pastry into the footwell and aimlessly people-watching as the sun sets behind the buildings of the square. It definitely beats staring at a computer screen – or hiding behind it, as Tina insists she’s been doing.

It’s been three days since official news of the arrest went public, long enough for Bobby to pen a grudging article about the case being solved. Thankfully he’s kept the salacious details to a bare minimum, a run-of-the-mill crime of passion next to the sensational reveal of the Pegasus’ lost treasure, which for him has the added bonus of inspiring reams of editorials and interviews with the bigwigs of the town.

He's welcome to the attention. There’s a lot missing from the bare-bones report she had to write for station records, everything from a fudged motive to the significance of the murder weapon, and Bobby’s flaunting creates an easy smokescreen to excuse the lack of detail. The Captain’s only thoughts when she emailed him the final forms were grief for the whisky, salvaged from the lakebed only to be squirreled away into the mayor’s private collection.

The separate report for the Agency has taken longer as it contains not only the full details of the case but also the measures taken to keep said details contained, with the assurance that none of the town’s residents are any the wiser about the existence of the supernatural. If she’s been more meticulous than strictly necessary, well, it just means she wants to do a thorough job – and it has nothing to do with wanting to avoid Unit Bravo and anywhere she might happen to run into them.

Tina, of course, knows her too well, and traces the line of her thoughts as if they were sketched out in front of her.

“So… what’s Nate’s opinion on all this craziness?”

Leah tears a shard of pastry from her danish. “He’s three hundred years old, he’s probably seen it all before.”

“Not what I meant,” Tina retorts. “And three hundred? Seriously?” She blows a stunned breath through her cheeks. “I meant about Samantha Harrs being the killer.”

“I don’t know…” She’s been trying not to think about it. “He wasn’t happy. But I’m not happy either – the Agency just sweeps everything under the rug like it doesn’t matter.”

“That’s probably not why he’s upset.”

“What do you mean?”

“Look,” Tina huffs, with an exaggerated roll of her eyes, “the murderer you just unmasked killed her partner because she found out he wasn’t human and it sent her postal, and you and Nate are in the middle of some weird disagreement. I don’t know how common it is for humans and supernaturals to be in relationships with each other where the human knows, but it can’t be a great reminder of how everything can go horribly wrong for him.”

Leah can only stare. Could that really be the source of Nate’s strange defensiveness the last time they talked? She’s been so busy trying to sort out her own feelings, the possibility never occurred to her.

“And they made you the detective,” Tina remarks, when the thought finally settles.

“You didn’t want the paperwork.”

“You should talk to him,” she says. “And not just because you’d be stupid to let someone who looks like that and who’s so clearly into you just walk away.”

It’s easier said than done.

“Sometimes I wonder what he wants.”

“Maybe ask him?”

“And what if I don’t like the answer?” Leah asks. What if it’s the answer she’s afraid of most?

Tina shrugs. “I guess you’ll be moping forever, then.”

Without the energy for a proper reply, Leah turns her attention to the passersby on the street. As much as she wants to protest that the situation is complicated, that she never expected her life to turn in this direction, or even that dealing with a relationship is by far the most stressful thing she’s ever done, the simple heart of the matter is that the path she’s walking is one she can’t see, and it’s terrifying. A conversation is inevitable – not least because she’s scheduled for a debrief at the warehouse in a few hours – but she has no idea what to say. How to explain herself.

--

“Is there anything else you want to add?” Rebecca asks, a few hours later. She’s sitting at the kitchen table in a charcoal grey business suit, prim as ever as she scans the contents of the manilla folder in front of her, like a teacher marking homework for an underperforming student. Adam hasn’t deigned to sit, and instead looms over her right shoulder, arms folded but otherwise at ease.

Leah shakes her head. At some point she’ll have to talk to Verda about the medical report, and hopefully persuade him to keep his silence once the case goes to trial. It won’t be a pleasant conversation, but that’s between them. The Agency has nothing to do with it.

Adam raises an eyebrow at her technically-not-a-lie, but says nothing.

“If that’s all, then it’s getting late.”

As she stands, Rebecca looks up from the file as if surprised her daughter doesn’t want to hang around for a cuppa and a nice chat. “Of course, I’ll need to file your report in any case.” She chews her lip for a second. “Leah? You did good work on this.”

“I did my job,” she replies. “I don’t need praise.”

The discomfort is better in the corridor without Rebecca’s scrutiny on the back of her skull, but now the final barrier has fallen away, the last excuse keeping her from Nate. He must know she’s in the building, but he’s nowhere in sight. It’s telling. Guilt twists deeper in her gut.

As she winds through the warehouse the feeling hardens into worry at what he’ll say when she finally finds him – if he lets her find him at all. A part of her wants him to be on patrol in a deliberately far corner of Wayhaven, avoiding her, because that would be easier; it would feel deserved, and then she could curl herself up and hide away somewhere in the hope that the problem would go away.

But how to make him understand the alarms that wake in her head every time he puts himself forward? It’s mean and it’s ridiculous, but his earnestness chips away at the protective wall she’s built around old scars. Still deep in thought, she nearly collides with Felix in the corridor, his arms full of cat food, and gets a worried, sympathetic look for her trouble.

“Nate’s in the library – he’s, uh, not busy or anything. Just so you know.”

“Thanks, I was looking for him.”

Sure enough, faint scales of classical music echo down the hallway as she approaches the library. The plush carpet has muffled her footsteps, but as she pauses outside the door to steady herself, there’s little chance he hasn’t heard her. And yet, she can detect no audible movement from inside. What if he’s hoping she’ll walk away? Perhaps… Yes. If he doesn’t want to talk, she can pretend she only wandered in to look for a misplaced hoodie, or a notebook, and bid him an impartial good evening – and then hopefully make it to her room before the tightness in her chest can overwhelm her entirely.

The doorknob under her palm is cool brass, its raised decoration pressing smooth bumps into the skin of her palm as she turns it and pushes into the room. Nate is over at the far end with a pile of books balanced on one hand, frowning down at a piece of card in the other as if it’s in a language e doesn’t understand. When she crosses the threshold, he glances up, his surprise feigned but his smile genuine enough, even if there’s more wariness than warmth hidden in its corners.

She doesn’t go closer, greets him instead with a self-conscious little wave. “Hey.”

“Hi… Have you seen Adam and Rebecca?”

“Yeah, I just submitted my report.”

“Good.” He nods, brittle. “It’s good that everything’s wrapped up.”

“For now.”

A shrug, and another silence falls between them, sharp enough that she fights the urge to tug her sleeves down over her hands, to shrink away from the inevitable blow.

“Look,” she starts, and rolls her lips together. “I just wanted to say, it was awful, what Samantha did. I – Tina said –” no, Tina’s not supposed to know “– it’s occurred to me that this case might have seemed a little… close to home, because Russell was a supernatural, and stuff. But doing what she did, I – the way she reacted wasn’t right.”

He sets the books on the shelf when her voice falters, turning towards her like a compass, but her courage falters and her gaze stays riveted on the pattern of flamingos on his socks.

“And… in case it was a concern, I just needed you to know I would never – I mean I couldn’t –” She shakes her head, waves off the unfinished sentence. “It doesn’t matter. Ignore me. I’ll get out of your way.”

She’s barely reached for the door when a hand catches her arm, light as a cobweb.

“Leah…” Nate breathes. “Stop. Did you really think I feared you capable of murder?”

She shrugs, doesn’t dare look at his face. “I don’t know? You were upset, I don’t know what to think, and in case you’ve missed the newsflash, I’m really bad at this.”

“At what?”

“This,” she replies, gesturing between them. “Being a normal person. Not fucking things up. Relationships are something other people get to have – I’m just the one who clears up the mess when they go wrong.”

A gentle finger curls under her chin and tips her head upwards, but she still refuses to meet his eyes. That way lies the ruin of the last fine thread of her control.

“You haven’t fucked things up,” he tells her gently, brushing the pad of his thumb over her bottom lip.

The gesture is what finally lifts her gaze to his face, every muscle tensed against her body’s urge to tremble. He looks pained.

“Whatever I have said to make you think so,” he says, “I wish you’d tell me.”

“You don’t get it.” She jerks her head away from his touch. “I don’t get to have things like you. You’re so… so nice. So interested in me. The way you look at me sometimes, it feels like I’m just waiting for the other shoe to drop – wondering what you really want from me. It’s stupid but I can’t help it and it’s exhausting. I thought I could handle it and that I’d get over myself so you wouldn’t have to deal with it, but then Samantha turned out to be the murderer, and there was the picture in the paper, and then –”

The rest of the words are swallowed by the cashmere softness of his jumper as he wraps her in a hug. Stunned, it’s all she can do to breathe in his scent, to register the steady beat of his heart beneath her ear or the thread of fingers into her hair.

“Forgive me,” he murmurs after a long moment of silence.

“What?” She tries to push away. “No. I’m apologising. I’m the one who –”

“I thought I was being obvious,” he interrupts, though he loosens his hold. “It didn’t occur to me that my actions might be read as insincere.”

“Probably because a normal person can fucking read.”

Nate sighs. “It seems unfair to argue for normalcy in someone as extraordinary as you.”

She should have known he wouldn’t take her seriously. Annoyance hisses between her teeth as she tries to disentangle herself again, but he only lets her get to arms’ length before he catches her once more.

“Leah, stop. You’re right.” He turns a palm upwards against her cheek. “I’ve been so consumed by my own feelings that I didn’t take the time to make sure of yours. I wish you’d asked,” he adds, but quiet enough for it to not feel like an accusation.

“Nobody likes someone who’s clingy,” she snaps, her gaze once again drifting to the sofa, the rows of books that line the walls, anywhere but him.

“That’s not what I think of you,” he says, as if he can see right through to the wellspring of bitterness she’s buried deep. “You are brave, and driven, and one of the most intelligent people I have ever met. I hope you believe me.”

And just like that, he’s disarmed her.

“Well when you come right out and say it…” she grumbles, with another inelegant shrug.

“I think I’ll keep saying it,” he replies, with a crinkle of amusement in his smile. “Until you stop doubting it.”

She snorts. “Not sure it works like that. Ugh, I’m sorry. I want to be better, I just…”

With a hum, he draws her back into an embrace, tension easing out of him when this time she returns the gesture. “It’s alright… And I’m truly sorry, too, for failing to see how much you were struggling with this. We’ll work it out.”

“Is there a seminar I can attend?”

A deep chuckle rumbles against her cheek, chased by the brief press of a kiss to the top of her head. Leah, unable to remember ever receiving such a fond gesture, burrows deeper into his chest and tries to steady her breathing, to push away the conviction that he deserves better.

“I have something for you,” he says after a while.

Muffled against the soft scratch of what is probably actually cashmere, she grins. “That sounds like a Mason line.”

“I should hope I have a little more subtlety,” he teases. “And it’s two things, really. They’re in the kitchen.”

Despite not wanting to move, she lets him take her hand to lead the way. The corridors are empty, perhaps because the other vampires have picked up on the uneasy mood and decided not to get caught in any crossfire, but it’s nice to have the quiet, and Nate’s warm hand secure in hers even after she spilled all her fears to him. Every so often as they walk he glances to her, swinging their hands like they ought to be skipping through a field of wildflowers.

When they get to the kitchen, he leaves her at the island and crosses to one of the upper cupboards. A cacophony of sweet and savoury odours pours out from the rows of small, uniform jars that fill the shelves.

“Nice hiding place,” she comments.

He grins. “I like to think so.”

He takes down a small, oblong package and hands it to her. The plain brown paper comes away easily to reveal a simple A5 picture frame, already mounted with a photo.

She bites her lip. “This is the picture Bobby took.”

Even a second time, the vulnerability on display constricts unpleasantly in her chest, a curl of shame for how easily she got caught. And yet, something about this particular version of the image is off – its edges are crisper than they should be, with a gloss from high-quality photo stock.

“You didn’t cut this out of the paper.”

“No…” Nate has the grace to look abashed. “I went to see Bobby and asked him for the master copy, as well as any others he’d made.”

“And he just gave them to you?”

He ducks his shoulders in a brief shrug. “He might have needed a little persuasion. I also might have suggested that it would be better for his health if he refrained from running any more such speculative articles in the future.”

“You threatened him?” she checks. Leaving aside the fact that she’s pretty sure using pheromones on civilians is against some sort of Agency code, revealing anything supernatural to Bobby in particular feels like poking a leopard with a short stick. “Does Adam know?”

“No, Adam doesn’t know.” Another shrug. “I meant what I said the other day – he shouldn’t have done what he did.”

Underneath his concern, the ever-present gentleness he tries so hard to project, his voice is betrayed by a note of anger that rings like cold steel, the predator he could become if he ever let himself loose. Leah has to look away, unused to the idea of such an effort on her behalf.

“Why give it to me?” she asks.

Nate has stepped closer, one reverent hand playing with the stray wisps of hair around her face. “Because Bobby Marks’ photography skills far exceed his manners,” he says, “and it reminds me of a beautiful day spent in your company. If there’s one thing I’ve learned, it’s that the best way to avoid being hurt is to take an enemy’s weapons from them and turn them to a different purpose.”

With a heavy sigh, Leah considers the photo again. “Pretty and wise. How do you cope?”

He chuckles. Soft fingers trace the line of her jaw as he leans in, and with a nervous swallow her gaze drops to his mouth. Even after only three days – hardly an eternity – getting to kiss him again is like the prospect of rain in a desert, her heart a seed bursting into flower at the merest drop of water as she presses close and wraps her arms around his neck.

“I almost forgot the other thing,” he murmurs against her lips.

“Do we really need it?”

“I want to share it with you.”

This time, he reaches into one of the bottom cupboards to pull out a pair of cut-crystal tumblers, and then into another for a dark, scuffed bottle, which he presents to her with all the pomp of a waiter in a fancy restaurant delivering the wine list. The label is faded, crinkled into the rough texture paper gets when it’s been soaked and then left to dry, and instead of a modern plastic film around the neck, the stopper is held in place with a thick daub of bluish wax.

“Don’t tell me that’s from the Pegasus?” Her hand stretches out of its own accord, riveted by this small, insanely valuable piece of Wayhaven’s history.

“One of the salvage team owed me a favour,” he explains, and sets the bottle on the counter. “The mayor has agreed that a portion of the proceeds will go to Stanley Harris to make up for his great-grandfather’s treatment after the wreck, and the rest is going to fund various social projects around town.”

“No doubt with a healthy commission left aside for himself – Walter Greene must be thrilled.” She probably shouldn’t relish as much as she does the fact that, after fronting so much money for Russell’s diving equipment, the local crime boss won’t be seeing a penny from the proceeds. Even this single bottle is more than he’ll ever get to tuck away into his private stores.

And Nate is actually going to open it.

“You know,” she ventures, “that’ll probably be wasted on me. I’m not exactly a connoisseur.”

He offers her a smile. “The important part is not the whisky, it’s being able to share it with such excellent company.”

He even sweeps her hand up to kiss her knuckles. With lines like that, and those rich, doe-brown eyes drinking her in like she’s starlight, it’s hard not to sympathise with all those heroines of Victorian literature who had to keep piles of cushions within fainting distance. Strangely, it doesn’t bother her as much as it might have done a week ago. The talk they shared in the library has cleared the air enough to allow her the moment free of suspicion, easy and relaxed as he breaks the wax seal and pulls the cork with a faint pop. A rich, peaty aroma rises up from the dram of amber liquid he pours for each of them. She doesn’t say it, but philistine that she is, it hardly seems worth a hundred years of fuss.

“To successfully solving your case,” he says, raising his glass.

“To… clearing the air.”

The glasses clink with a pure, brilliant note. To her uneducated human nose, the smell of the whisky doesn’t impart any great epiphany on closer inspection, and if her face flushes with warmth it likely has more to do with Nate’s amusement at her caution than any particular effect of the alcohol. She takes a sip. At first, the taste is almost pleasant, mellow and smoky. And then the burning starts. She coughs, forcing it down, while Nate’s bites his lips together to keep from laughing at her grimace.

“Yeah, no,” she gasps. “I am not a fan of that.”

Rubbing a soothing line between her shoulder blades, he murmurs something she doesn’t catch and feathers a kiss against her hair.

“Are you alright?”

“I just choked on my whole salary.” Another cough. “I told you it would be wasted on me.”

“I wouldn’t call that performance a waste,” he teases.

“Ha ha. Aren’t you going to try it?”

One elegant eyebrow lifts, his gaze fixed on her as he sniffs, sips, savours the feel of it on his tongue. There’s rapture in his expression, a groan that falls from his lips in the brief instant his eyes slip closed. Her mouth goes dry.

“So, uh, is it good?” she asks, trying to ignore the flush of heat to her face.

He knows exactly what he’s doing, the bastard. His eyes open lazily, his smile lengthened into an easy smirk just shy of breaking into a full grin.

“It has some pleasant notes.”

Her weight shifts; her tongue darts out to wet her lips. “It sounds like there’s a ‘but’ in there.”

A hum. He takes her hand again and turns so that she’s between him and the counter – not trapped, but pinned all the same as he searches her face.

“I merely had a thought about what would make it sweeter.”

“Oh?” He’s close enough now that she can taste it on his breath.

“Mhmm. May I show you?”

#the wayhaven chronicles #twc #nate sewell #nate sewell x detective #nate sewell x f!detective #tina poname #detective leah kingston #like glitter and gold #i can't believe i finally got to the end of it #murder mysteries are hard

[lykegenia]

Like Glitter And Gold Ch.10

Fandom: The Wayhaven Chronicles Characters/Pairings: Nate x f!Detective, Unit Bravo, Rebecca Warnings: Mild thalassophobia I guess?

Read on AO3

--

Back at the warehouse, Adam is still adamantly refusing to believe Russell was killed for anything other than being a selkie.

“It is still possible this was a Trapper kidnapping gone wrong,” he insists.

There’s a groan around the library as the rest of Unit Bravo, settled on various pieces of furniture for the debrief, voice their collective opinion.

“We’ve patrolled both nights and found nothing,” Mason growls, an unlit cigarette between his lips.

“Martin Johnston said there was only one attacker,” Leah adds. Of them all, she’s the only one out of place, keeping a careful distance from Nate. With the memory of their argument still a hot itch across the back of her neck, sitting in his embrace like nothing’s wrong grates on her nerves – but at the same time, she can’t sit elsewhere because it’ll only sting more, and worse, everyone else will clock the reason for the weird tension in the room. So instead, she sticks to a compromise: she paces.  

Felix is watching her with worried eyes. “Leah has a point, oh glorious leader,” he points out. “Trappers swarm like rats.”

“It is looking more likely that Russell being a supernatural was incidental to his death.”

At that, even Rebecca siding against him, Adam straightens from his lean against the mantelpiece, ruffled like a cold pigeon. “So what’s the answer, then?”

“We’re still missing pieces.” Leah turns, paces in the other direction. “The text to Russell’s phone, the sunken treasure…”

“And now an affair between the victim and one of the suspects.”

“At least Walter Greene seems less likely now,” Rebecca offers. “It would have complicated things.”

Leah has to bite down on the inside of her cheek to keep her retort at bay. Even in the little time she’s known about the supernatural, the Agency has taken care to craft an illusion of control, smashed apartments and rogue vampire killers bustled out of sight lest any of the messy edges be noticed. It’s hardly a surprise, considering Rebecca’s love of composure, of practicality.

The vampires tense, and she lets the thought go.

“Is there anything about this woman in that secret diary?” Mason asks after an awkward moment. “Her name surrounded by little love hearts, maybe?”

Nate carefully doesn’t look at Leah. “He mentions her, though not by name. He… he thought it was a soulmate bond.”

Instantly, the energy in the room shifts. Mason curses, Adam and Felix both go still, and even Rebecca’s hands curl into fists on her knees.

Completely at a loss, Leah chooses to focus on Unit Bravo’s leader. “What just happened?”

“A soulmate bond is… powerful.” It’s Rebecca who answers, suddenly hunched and brittle on the edge of the armchair she’s perched in. “It’s possible for two souls to find each other, and when they do they bind together. They don’t… complete each other necessarily – they’re whole on their own – but once the bond is made, a separation is… unpleasant.”

“You’re telling me soulmates are real?”

“Here we stand,” Adam points out, “and you’ve seen werewolves and fae.”

“Yeah, but…” Leah tears her gaze away from this new, unsettling vision of her mother. “You’re real, I’ve seen what you can do. You’re not some ephemeral concept that exists to sell Valentine’s Day cards. Besides,” she adds, pacing again, “are you sure? She said it was just a fling – she broke it off.”

“Could she have been lying?” Felix asks, anxious.

“She was lying about her husband not knowing about the affair, I’ll tell you that.” She shrugs. “Is it possible it was just a one-way thing?”

Nate is frowning at the carpet. “If their souls were bonded, they should both have felt it.”

“Sometimes there’s more than two in a bond, but never less,” Felix explains, then waves a hand as if the whole subject is an annoying fly he intends to swat away. “Enough about that. If you’ve finished reading that journal, Natey, do you know where the treasure is?”

Leah’s phone buzzes in her pocket and she turns away before she can hear his reply.

“Are you sitting down?” Tina asks on the other end of the line, before she can even manage a greeting. “You’re going to want to sit down.”

“Is this about the husband?” Behind her, four pairs of supernatural ears perk up.

“You bet it is. For starters, he has a record. Drunk and Disorderlies – four of them.”

She frowns. “I don’t remember arresting him.”

“Before our time.” Tina’s shrug is almost palpable. “Reele was the arresting officer. But that’s not important. The real kicker is that the text Russell got just before he died came from his phone.”

Leah goes still; she’s always found it strange how often one detail can suddenly shift the whole perspective on a case, the way lighting a face from a different angle can reveal a whole new identity.

“Do you want backup?” Tina asks.

She glances over her shoulder. Unit Bravo is already rising, waiting for her instructions, having clearly heard every word. “I think I’m good for backup.”

“Oh I see how it is,” comes the dry response. “Don’t need me anymore now you’ve got Unit Boyband to do your backing vocals, do you?”

“Tina…”

She knows they can hear her – she’s having far too much fun with it. There’s going to have to be a conversation about that.

“I’ll get the fanciest suite prepared for our guest in the meantime, shall I?” she asks, as a peace offering.

Leah nods. “Complete with bubble bath and pillow mints? I’ll call you when we’ve got him.”

She clicks off the call and can’t help a smile at the mix of incredulity and affront that faces her across the room.

“Unit Boyband?” Felix whines. “That’s not fair.”

“We do not provide ‘backing vocals’,” Adam adds in a peeved voice.

Mason grins. “I know some vocals that –”

“Please don’t finish that sentence,” Nate grinds out, covering his embarrassment with a hand.

“Will someone please explain what’s going on?”

Ignoring the heat in her own cheeks – because she absolutely knew where Mason’s comment was going – Leah turns to her mother. “Stanley Harris sent the text that led Russell into the ambush that killed him.”

Rebecca’s eyes widen. “The Agency will want to know. Excuse me.”

The others are still gathered around as she leaves, all eager for the chase.

“Are we all going?”

“If this man killed a supernatural, better safe than sorry,” Mason points out, having already tucked his cigarette back out of sight. He leads the way out of the library with Felix fast on his heels, all but bouncing at the prospect of a real, human arrest. Even Adam seems tenser than usual, though he spares a flat glance for Leah’s hopeful expression and tosses the SUV’s keys once in his palm.

Before she can retort, a gentle hand brushes against her wrist to halt her in the doorway.

“Leah…”

Her fingers curl around Nate’s, though she’s too much of a coward to look upwards into his face. “We have to go.”

“I know,” he murmurs. “But once this is over… will we talk?”

“We haven’t really done that yet, have we?” She sighs, bites her lip. “Sometimes… trying to figure out what you –”

“I meant what I said at the carnival.”

He’s stepped close enough that to see him she’d have to tilt her head all the way back, expose her throat and the way her cheeks flame at the memory of the Ferris wheel. Of course, he can read her pulse regardless, and the bright flood of adrenaline through her veins, hear the slight catch in her breath as his fingertips reach up for the edge of her jaw.

“I still want to focus on the case,” she manages, though she sways forward. In between one heartbeat and the next, her eyes slip closed. “For now.”

“Of course.”

His hand falls away. The loss of his presence hits like a blast of icy air, but it gives her space enough to lead the way after the others before anyone comes looking.

--

“We’ll be questioning him at the Agency, not the station,” Adam announces as the sat nav tells them to take the final turn along the boatyard track. His knuckles are white enough on the steering wheel to suggest he’s expecting a fight, and there’s a flicker of a glance sideways to gauge Leah’s expression. “Regardless of whether Seakirk was killed because he was a selkie, the killer saw him without his Veil. We need to see how much he knows.”

“And then you’ll make it all go away, right?” A huff blows through her cheeks, her boot taps in the footwell. “Just like Murphy.”

With an uncomfortable cough, his hands readjust their perfect nine-and-three position on the steering wheel, while in the back seat the silence deepens at the reminder.

“It’s for the best,” Adam rallies. “There would be panic if people knew. We’ve seen it before.”

“I get it,” she snaps. “The intelligence of a crowd is the intelligence of its biggest idiot divided by the number of people in it – but I don’t have to like it. Just don’t break any Geneva Conventions where I can see you.”

It’s petulant to hunch down in the seat but she does it anyway, bearing the jolt of the suspension as the rough silhouettes of birch and pine flash past the window. Eventually the view opens out as the terrain switches from forest to scrubby lakeshore, and the track ends in the concrete facing of the guest car park. The chainlink gates are padlocked shut, the yard deserted.

“Well that doesn’t seem promising,” Felix comments, leaning through the gap between the front seats.

Adam lets out a rumble of agreement. “Nate?”

“On it.”

The flash of movement is too quick for Leah’s eyes to catch before there’s a ping of snapping metal and the grind of rusty hinges, with Nate stepping back to wave the SUV through. Even before it crunches to a halt on the gravel, Felix and Mason pile out and speed off to check the perimeter.

“There’s no one in the shed!” Nate calls a moment later.

“Not along the shore either,” Mason confirms.

“Something isn’t right,” Adam grumbles. A deep scowl creases his forehead as he joins the others on the foreshore, the green eyes beneath scanning for whatever must be out of place. As ever, the gulls jeer in the air above, their flight an effortless slice through the wind churning up the water beyond the little bay.

“Russell’s boat is missing,” Leah notices, and turns to Nate. “Isn’t that where it was moored?”

“It was.” He frowns. “You don’t think Stanley is –?”

“He must be after the treasure!” Felix cries.

“How would he even know where it is?” Mason scoffs, though he, too, is looking out over the water, one hand shading against the glare. “We’re the ones with the journal, aren’t we?”

“Nate?”

“The second-to-last entry says Russell found it,” comes the hesitant reply. “But I don’t see how… wait.” He jerks his head round to the shed. “The GPS readouts. Stanley must be tracing them back to the wreck site.”

Adam hummed. “You said there was diving equipment on board?”

Taking in the vastness of the lake, it’s not the salvage they need to worry about. The problem is the far shore, the craggy miles of coves and wooded inlets where someone on the run might drive a boat into hiding and then lose themselves in the endless stretch of hills beyond. Even with supernatural senses, Stanley might make it halfway across the country before they even found the start of his trail.

“Does anyone know how to drive a boat?” Leah asks.

“We don’t need a boat.” At her confused look, the corner of Adam’s mouth twists into his equivalent of a smirk. “We can catch him on foot.”

“How the…” Her gaze alights on Nate, hunched and shifting his weight, and it clicks. “You mean on the water? You can walk on water?”

Mason grins. “We can move fast enough not to sink.”

“Of course you can,” she says weakly. “Why not? That’s still only about the fifth weirdest revelation this week.”

A moment later there’s a commiserating pat on her back as Felix hands Nate a pair of binoculars from the SUV’s equipment store. Ahead, Adam pushes aside the security gate to the dock with the ease of a child crushing eggshells, before leading the way to the edge of the dock.

“Check comms,” he orders.

“I see the boat,” Nate says, his expression hidden behind the binoculars.

He points to a white speck bobbing in the distance, and an instant late both he and Leah are soaked by a plume of spray as the rest of Unit Bravo blink and take off like comets across the surface of the water. An instant later she has to grab at Nate’s arm as the ripples assail the pontoon and throw it upwards, slapping hollowly on the boards and against the hulls of the vessels moored closer to the shore.

“Are you alright?” he asks, as the waves subside into the fizz of innocent, foamy bubbles.

She takes in the tightness at the corners of his eyes, but nods. “Glad to see you kept your sea legs. Can you see what’s happening?”

“Yes,” he says, squinting through the binoculars again. “They’ve reached the boat. Adam is being his usual charming self.” A pause. “They’ve gone inside the cabin, I can’t see anymore.”

There’s noise coming over the comms though. A clatter and the smash of a lock; heavy footfalls. Someone yells, and then there’s a muffled thump, followed by the voice of their suspect, shrill and thick with fear.

“How did you get… You’re like him, aren’t you?”

“We have no desire to hurt you, Mr Harris.” Adam, low and even, probably with his palms spread wide, blocking the doorway with his huge frame as he waits for an opening.

“Stay back!”

“Mr Harris –”

“No! You can’t have it – I’ll shoot, I swear I will!”

Shit.

“He’s got a gun,” Leah hisses, turning to Nate.

His jaw clenches. “I should be over there.”

“No.” She touches his arm again, more gently this time, and turns his face towards her with the other hand. “Adding another person now won’t help.”

“But I –”

“It’s not your fault,” she interrupts, firm. “Let the others handle it.”

Her heart skips at the way he leans into her palm, how the line between his brows softens and the corner of his mouth lifts as he drinks her in. So many colours reflect in the wistful brown of his eyes.

“Uh, guys? Guys?”

Nate shakes himself and straightens, pushes the button to activate the comms. “We read you Felix.”

“You know we’re still in the middle of a case, right?” the younger vampire teases. “There’ll be plenty of time for longing gazes later.”

“We weren’t –” Nate bites off a sigh. “What’s the situation over there?”

“If you two lovebirds had been listening, you’d know everything’s under control. Mason found the controls for the submarine thingy – it’s already at the bottom.”

“Has he found anything?” Leah asks, far too quickly for nonchalance.

“Lots of mud,” Mason grunts. “Thought there’d be more fish.”

Nate licks his lips. “Is there any sign of the wreck? Can you see it?”

“Hang on –”

Felix’s voice drops away to an indistinct mutter, leaving silence in his wake until Leah’s pocket starts buzzing, the echo of the call clear over the audio. He waves when she swipes to accept the call, his grin bright in the dim light of the cabin.

“Thought I’d cut out the middleman,” he explains, before turning the camera towards a grainy image of the bottom of the lake. Some kind of frondy weed drifts in the foreground, but most of the screen is taken up by an expanse of illuminated grey-brown muck, and beyond the arc of the ROV’s lights, a halo of almost absolute dark.

As Leah tilts her phone to let Nate see, the view shifts, the undulations of the lakebed broken by smaller lumps of hazy matter that cast black shadows behind them. An eerie, expectant silence accompanies the drift of disturbed silt, and even exposed to a brusque wind and the cry of gulls above, it’s far too easy to imagine being down there, with the cold, crushing void, the weight of the water a prison with no escape. When Nate presses closer, his hand anchored to her waist, she slips her fingers between his and pulls his arm further around, eager for the barrier of his warmth.

“Wait, what’s that –” he starts. “Turn around.”

Obediently, the ROV swivels on the end of its tether.

“Go forward.”

Mason still hasn’t entirely figured out the controls. Some part of the sub hits the bottom hard enough to scare up a cloud of debris that blocks the camera, but as they wait for it to clear, breaths held, slowly the unnaturally straight edge of something coalesces out of the gloom.

“Is that a… crate?” Felix checks. “That’s not very exciting.”

Mason huffs. “People put things in crates, dummy.”

“I knew that.”

The crate’s size is hard to tell without anything to give it scale, but the wood it’s made from seems almost like new, solid, with only the thick layer of mud settled on top to show how long ago it was lost. As Mason carefully directs the ROV around to the other side, the torchlight reflects off the jagged edges of what must be another crate a little way away, this one fractured, its boards opened at harsh angles like the ribs of a carcass picked clean. Something glints where its guts should be.

“That looks like glass,” Leah murmurs.

“Not gold?” Felix checks. “Jewels?”

“Get closer,” Nate says.

Mason is behind the camera, but his eye roll is obvious. “Aye-aye, captain.”

A few fragments are scattered about, glittering like stars revealed by a rolling-back of cloud where the ROV has passed over the stillness of the lakebed, still sharp, and still recognisable.

“So much for sunken treasure, it’s just a load of old bottles,” Felix complains, as the broken neck of one comes into focus, the top still sealed with cork and wax.

But Nate is tense as a wire at Leah’s side. “People put things in bottles,” he says.

“Valuable things?”

“Look.”

Nestled in the bottom corner of the broken crate, another bottle rests on its side, the label faded but the smoky-dark glass is intact, spotless, sheltered even from the drift of time.

“What is it?” Leah asks, because Nate’s eyes have blown wide and his lips have parted in something akin to rapture.

“It’s whisky,” he manages, hoarse. “Century-old, perfectly preserved whisky. If that crate is intact, it’ll be worth… I don’t care to guess how much.”

Dazed, she turns back to the unremarkable image, the small fortune illuminated in the depths of the lake. For something with such an unremarkable appearance, it makes one hell of a motive.

#the wayhaven chronicles #twc #wayhaven fic #wayhaven fanfic #nate sewell #adam du mortain #felix hauville #agent mason #agent rebecca #nate sewell x f!detective #nate sewell x detective #detective leah kingston

[lykegenia]

Like Glitter And Gold Ch.8

Fandom: The Wayhaven Chronicles Characters/Relationships: Nate Sewell x F!Detective Rating: T

Read on AO3

--

The rest of Unit Bravo have already arrived at the station by the time Leah pulls into the parking bay with Nate. Having waited for an Agency team to arrive to secure the boat and box up Russell’s stash of artefacts for cataloguing, a good chunk of the afternoon is now gone, the blustery sunshine of earlier in the day clouded over and spotting with rain as they bundle through the main doors.

“Detective,” Adam greets without preamble. “Did you have a successful morning?”

She shoots him a wry smile. “You could say that. Some answers, and a whole load of new questions.”

“We can start with the answers,” he says, but Nate interrupts.

“Where’s Mason?”

“He said he had a report to write,” Felix says from the borrowed chair he’s pulled up by Tina’s desk. “But we all know he’s using the excuse to spend time with the kittens where we can’t see him.”

“Who wouldn’t want to spend time with them?” Tina cries. “They’re so cute! Leah, have you seen these?”

“They have names now!” Felix adds helpfully.

Without waiting for a response, he jumps out of his seat and bounds across the room to hold up his phone. A muscle ticks in Adam’s jaw, disapproving of more than just the younger agent’s burst of preternatural speed, but does nothing to actively discourage the behaviour.

“We called the black and white one Lucky,” Felix informs them, swiping to a photo of the little runt asleep on his back with his front paws tucked up to his chin.

Beside Leah, Nate chuckles at the image, the sound a low rumble in her ear as he uses the excuse to lean close. She can feel his body light and electric against her back, one hand resting on the curve above her waist, and even if there’s no intent to the gesture she’s sure he can feel the way her heartbeat spikes. Luckily, Felix seems too absorbed in swiping through the dozens of photos crowding his phone to notice her distraction. After Lucky sleeping, sitting, loafing, and sleeping again, he swipes to a photo of the two splashed tabbies, their baby blue eyes wide with curiosity as they huddle together in a mess of blankets.

“These two are Strawberry and Shortcake,” he says, flicking through more pictures. “You can tell them apart because Strawberry has the patch above her eye. And then this is Van Helsing.”

Nate coughs. “Van Helsing?”

The little orange ringleader stares up from the phone screen, velvet paws planted on the carpet, intent on the end of string that dangles just out of shot.

“That’s an… interesting choice,” Leah says. Her gaze flashes to Tina, who holds her palms up in surrender and mouths it wasn’t me! before going back to her screen.

“My Insta followers thought of it,” Felix explains. “I asked them to come up with something vampire related – you know, for reasons. Adam doesn’t like it, obviously.”

“No, I do not,” the team leader agrees, and jerks his head towards Leah’s office. “If we could return to the case?”

With a dramatic roll of his eyes, Felix slips his phone into a pocket and obeys the directive, mollified only by the commiserating look Tina throws his way. Leah is about to follow when the far door squeaks open and Verda appears clutching a manilla folder to his chest. He looks like he hasn’t slept. His clothes areas put-together as ever, but the heavy bags beneath his eyes and the slump of his shoulders are easy enough for anyone to read.

“I thought I heard you back,” he says. “I have some new evidence for you, and the lab called back with a print match on the sports bag. They must be having a slow day.” His eyes dart to Nate, then to the silhouettes blocked against the interior windows of her office.

“Thanks, I’ll check it out.” She tilts her head. “You alright?”

He blinks. “Nothing to worry about. Do either of you want anything from Haley’s while I’m there?”

With a quick shake of her head, and an instruction to Tina to run a background check on both Harrises, Leah completes the party in her office and closes the door behind her. Nate is already making himself useful attaching printouts of the GPS history of Russell’s boat to the board, but he catches her gaze as she steps up beside him, passes her a smile she can’t help but return.

“You two are adorable,” Felix interrupts, holding his chin in his hands.

Her face heats. “Did you guys find anything on patrol?”

“No sign of Trappers, or rogues,” Adam says. “So far. It would be unwise to rule them out completely.”

“That’s fair, but it’s still a dead end for now.” She crosses to the desk and slaps Verda’s folder down over the keyboard. “We, on the other hand, have had more success. It looks likely that Walter Greene’s money was being used to fund a salvage operation for sunken treasure.”

“Really?” Felix asks. “Cool.”

“He would have done well to tell you that when you visited him yesterday,” Adam notes with a scowl.

She shrugs. “I’m not surprised he didn’t. Not sharing what he’s up to also means he doesn’t have to share any profits.”

“Maritime salvage law can have – ah – muddied waters, let’s say,” Nate adds. “The ownership of the cargo could be too easily disputed if people knew it was there.”

“I can’t believe you just made a pun!” Felix cries. “Do we know what the treasure is? Is it gold?”

“The equipment on Russell’s boat did look pretty heavy duty.”

Adam huffs. “This is all irrelevant unless it can be tied to a motive for murder.”

He’s right, though so far the sunken treasure is squatting in the middle of the case like a toad in a fairy tale, defying all attempts to get past it. As she gazes at the murder board, the possibilities nag at her, twisting this way and that to fit into the facts they have so far. Maybe Russell found what he was looking for, and Walter didn’t want to share his profits – or Russell didn’t find anything and didn’t want to pay back the loan – or did find something and decided he wanted a bigger cut. The problem with all of these ideas is squaring away the fact that the treasure is still missing, if it exists at all, and without it there’s no profit in Russell’s death. And then there’s the way the body was found, still with the murder weapon in place, out in the open where it was guaranteed to get the attention of the police. Walter Greene and his lackeys would never be so sloppy.

“We’ll table it,” she says. “Unless…”

Adam lifts an eyebrow. “What is it?”

Verda never fails to disappoint. The first thing to meet Leah’s gaze as she flips open the folder is a close-up photo of an uneven bruise on Russell’s torso. Next to it, a note in the examiner’s neat handwriting indicates that it was taken using a filter to enhance the details. Impression of a ring found on several contusions across subject’s body, concentrated around the midsection and one along the jaw. Minimal defensive wounds. Normal human rate of healing suggests injuries are at least two weeks old.

“How fast do selkies heal?” she asks.

“Faster than humans,” Nate supplies. “Not as fast as vampires.”

“They’re more resilient than humans too. It takes more to hurt them.”

Felix is the one who asks her why.

“Someone gave our victim a going over in the very recent past. Someone with a ring.” She holds the photo out to show them. “One of Walter Greene’s henchmen was wearing a ring yesterday.”

Nate moves closer, a frown knotted between his brows. “If you’re going to go back there, Leah, you should take one of us with you.”

“I’ll go,” Adam decides. “You need to help catalogue all those artefacts the Detective found, to see if they have any relevance.”

For a moment, it looks like there’ll be an argument, but with one last worried glance, Nate swallows back his reply and nods.

“You can’t keep our Detective to yourself all day, Natey,” Felix teases.

“I wasn’t trying to!”

Leah, still looking at the folder, ignores the banter as best she can. “We also have a name and address for the person who dumped the kittens. They’re still potentially our best witness.”

“Then that will be our first destination.” Adam is already moving. “You two should return to the warehouse.”

“Are you sure –”

“But I wanted to –”

“There will be no debate,” Adam snaps. “Detective, shall we?”

She’s glad she didn’t take her coat off. With an apologetic look back at the other two, she follows the commanding agent to the front of the building, already fishing in her pocket for Nessie’s keys.

He gives her a stern look. “I will drive.”

“You have something against my car?” she asks sweetly.

“It’s a death trap, and it’s tiny,” he retorts. “And it doesn’t have air conditioning.”

“Can I choose the music, at least?”

“Detective, please.”

With a loud and very obvious click of her tongue, she follows him out. “Worth a shot.”

--

After relaying the address for Adam to punch into the sat nav, the rest of the journey passes in silence, though that hardly counts as a bad thing. It’s refreshing not being expected to make conversation. When they finally pull up in front of a bland semi-detached house in what passes for Wayhaven’s suburbs a few miles from the old wharf, they share a look that says he’s as unimpressed with their environs as she is. A line of leggy, parched shrubs overgrown with grass line the wall beneath the front window, the PVC window frames in good enough repair but grimy with dirt.

Leah leads the way up the garden path, alert for any movement inside that might suggest an attempted escape.

“Bloody hell,” she complains as she knocks on the door, “could you try to look less like a government agent?”

“I’m not an agent for the government,” Adam replies, sullen, his folded arms bulging the fabric of his t-shirt.

“It’s not a distinction most people –”

“Hello?”

She turns a friendly smile on the man clutching the edge of the door. He looks to be in his mid-thirties, rather scrawny, a balding IT type with a trimmed brown beard and wire glasses that frame dark brown eyes.

“Martin Johnston?” she checks, and holds up her badge. “I’m Detective Kingston, this is Adam du Mortain.”

The man has already flinched away as if to shut the door, but she stamps her foot down across the threshold before he can follow through.

“We were hoping for a few minutes of your time?”

“Are you from the government?” he asks.

“No,” Adam answers with a pointed glance sideways. “We are not.”

Leah tilts a polite smile at him. “Why would you ask that?”

“No reason.”

“May we come in?” she asks, with yet another smile. “You’re not paying to heat the street, after all.”

Martin glances over his shoulder. “No, I’m… No.” He swallows. “I’m – I’m very busy – with work – I don’t have time to –”

With a chirp, a tabby-and-white cat dashes out from between his legs and runs straight to Adam, then halts and sniffs the air with a plaintive meow, tail lashing. He frowns as he crouches down to offer his hand in greeting, and when the creature butts its head against his knuckles, purring like an engine, he lets out a hum that positively radiates displeasure.

“This cat recently given birth,” he says as he picks her up.

Their witness flinches again. “It’s not my cat.”

“But she ran out of your house,” Adam points out. Somehow, having his arms full of a madly purring cat that’s enjoying a scratch on the chin only makes him more intimidating.

“Uh… A friend of mine left her here while she’s away.”

“Well, I’m sure that friend wouldn’t want her getting run over,” Leah says. “We can bring her back into the house for you.”

“No!” Martin yelps. “You can’t come in!”

He tries to shut the door again but Leah is quicker and jams her foot properly in the doorway, glad of the heavy-soled boots he wears for work.

“I don’t like being heavy-handed, Mr Johnston,” she warns, leaning closer, “but I have a sports bag of abandoned kittens with rocks in the bottom and your name and fingerprints all over it, and now a nursing cat associated with your property, all within spitting distance of a murder scene.” She looms in, lowers her voice to a pitch little more than a growl. “You saw something the night you went to drown them, and I want to know what it is, otherwise I will make sure you’re brought up on animal cruelty charges, obstructing an investigation, and anything else I can make stick. Do you understand?”

Martin’s gaze flickers between Leah and the burly, glaring figure at her back, the fear in his eyes a palpable thing. And then, at long last, his shoulders slump. “You won’t believe me.”

“What did you see?” she presses.

He breaks. He reels back, running one hand through his thinning hair as he holds open the door and leads them into the living room. Adam still has hold of the cat, who seems to find the curl of his massive arms a suitable cushion, and he takes a perch on the edge of the worn sofa as their witness flops into the mismatched armchair opposite.

“It was dark.” He falters. “I…”

“Tell us from the beginning,” Adam instructs.

There’s a momentary struggle, and a fearful glance at the cat. “I… like to go for walks at night, to clear my head, you know?” It’s an obvious, inelegant lie, but she lets it go. “Sometimes I go to the docks.”

“And two nights ago?” Adam prompts. “What time were you there?”

Martin shrugs. “About midnight, or slightly later maybe? I wasn’t thinking about checking my phone. I heard a door open, then someone spoke, and then… it sounded like a struggle, something got kicked over, and there was a – almost a scream, but gasping, you know?”

“The voice you heard,” Leah asks, “what did it sound like?”

“It was a man, or at least, I thought it was. God.” Here he stops, drags a hand down in his face. “When I got closer to see what was going on, the light from the door –” His eyes narrow. “You are from the government, aren’t you? You’re here as a cover up, to silence me!”

Before he can do more than stagger upright, Adam is across the room, laying a hand on his arm. “Please calm down, Mr Johnston,” he says, in the same slow, deliberate voice he used on Garrett Hayes’ mother. “Tell us what you saw.”

Martin’s voice flattens, the inflection gone. “It was a monster, there was smoke coming off it, and it was struggling with someone behind it but it couldn’t turn around.”

“Can you describe the other person?” Leah asks, biting back disapproval at the use of pheromones.

“All I saw were these huge black eyes and bared teeth – grey skin.” He shakes his head. “I got out of there as fast as I could.”

Leah and Adam share a glance as Martin drops his head into his hands.

“That’s useful information,” she says, cold. “Now about that sports bag…”

“Wait, don’t I get some sort of deal, or something?” he wails. “You said I helped!”

“You were going to toss that bag off the end of the dock,” she snarls. “Those kittens were zipped up, trapped. They never stood a chance.”

“I didn’t know what else to do!” His eyes go wide, pleading. “I’m sorry. My useless ex didn’t tell me the cat was pregnant when she dumped her here. What was I supposed to do with kittens?”

“Most people don’t choose drowning them as a first option,” she snaps. “Stand up.”

Still under the influence of the pheromones, he complies, says nothing as she recites his rights and places the handcuffs around his wrists. When she walks him out to the SUV she gives him a brief warning look before depositing him on the back seat and stepping up beside Adam, who for the lack of anything more suitable has secured the cat in the equipment store in the boot.

“If you swing by the station and drop me off, I can get him processed while you take mama back to her babies,” she suggests, then spies his phone. “Who are you calling?”

“The Agency has a unit to take care of this,” he replies, features set.

“What do you mean, ‘take care’?”

“They will extract the memories of Russell Seakirk and erase them.” As if it’s obvious. As if it’s normal.

She folds her arms. “What if he’s needed to testify?”

“It is clear that whoever the murderer is, they are a supernatural or are aware that supernaturals exist.” He stares her down. “Ordinary measures will not work here, Detective. Will you still have enough evidence to press charges for the kittens?”

Trying to ignore the familiar feeling of having a case wrenched from her grasp, she turns and leans against the car. “I can ask the vet to do a DNA test to confirm the kittens belong to this cat, and if it comes back positive, combined with his prints on the bag and the fact that we found her in his house, it’s a solid case.”

“Good.” He nods, but his brow furrows as if he’s struggling with something. “I understand your hesitation in this, but this is the cost of keeping both supernaturals and humans safe.”

She scowls. “Let’s just get on with it. The sooner we drop him off, the sooner we can go piss off Walter Greene.”

--

Walter Greene is not in his office.

Expecting him to be there was probably a longshot, given that it’s past five and the Agency SUV is about as subtle as a brick through a window, but even though his secretary has clearly had practice dodging investigators for the big man, the combination of Leah’s badge and Adam’s sheer size flusters him enough to mention that his boss is out to dinner with the mayor. From there, it’s just a quick phone call to Douglas to find out his father’s schedule, and they’re off along the darkening country roads to the fancy golf club patronised by all the big city’s biggest fish.

By the time they get there night has truly fallen, though the spotlights beaming up beneath the immaculate topiary do their best to compensate. The whole place reeks of elitism – not the self-assured disdain of old money, but the neurotic overbearance of those fighting for a seat at the same table. From the purse in Adam’s lips, he doesn’t think much of the gilt wood panelling or the beige tartan carpet either, though the server at the front desk is polite enough and leads them through to the clubhouse’s dining room with little fuss.

Perhaps she just knows a losing battle when she sees one.

“Ah, Detective Kingston – and Commanding Agent du Mortain!” The mayor waves them over from the far corner, the broad, genuine smile on his aged face. “How wonderful to see you both – and how is your mother? I mean Agent Kingston, of course,” he adds, with a self-deprecating chuckle. “I hope she’s aware of all the fine work you do for our town.”

“Work is why we’re here, I’m afraid,” Leah answers, declining the chair the server pulls out for her.

“Ah, the murder, no doubt.” The mayor eyes the manilla folder in her hands. “Dreadful business. Well, anything I can do to help, I’m at your disposal.”

“We’re grateful,” Adam bites out. “Agent Kingston appreciates the accommodations you have made for the Agency.”

The mayor’s smile falters at the brusque tone, but he recovers valiantly. “And I’m sure you know Walter Greene, one of our foremost backers for the new development on Briars Lane.”

“We were actually hoping to borrow Mr Greene for a moment or two,” Leah says.

The businessman narrows his gaze at her. “I’m not sure what use I could possibly be to you, Detective.”

“Walter, be reasonable,” the mayor scolds, like his business partner is a misbehaving toddler. “It’s not like our young detective is here to arrest you – is it?”

“Not at all,” she tells him, her smile forced.

“We have some follow up questions about the statement he gave us yesterday,” Adam supplies. The deflection comes with surprising ease, the formal language like a soundbite from some crime show.

She shakes the thought away. “It should only take a few moments.”

“Well, I see no reason not to cooperate,” the mayor decides. “It’s not like your crab salad will scuttle off your plate if you leave it unattended for a few minutes, eh?”

With a terse smile Walter Greene sets his napkin on the tablecloth and rises from his chair. He’s about two inches shorter than Adam, but stretches himself outwards like a bullfrog as he leads them to a quiet corner of the lobby.

“I see you brought a bodyguard this time, Detective,” he notes. “I do hope our last interview didn’t leave you too rattled?”

“Do you have a problem with my colleague?” she replies.

Said colleague is probably flexing his muscles behind her back, given the flicker in Walter’s regard.

He snorts, bull-like. “What is this about?”

“Your goons beat up Russell Seakirk shortly before his death, and I want to know why.”

“What fanciful –”

But she’s ready for him, slips one of Verda’s photos out of the folder and shoves it under his nose.

“Seakirk was a supernatural,” she bites out. “No ordinary human could have made these marks, especially not when the symbol in the middle of that bruise is so unusual.”

“Did he ask for more money?” Adam presses, when the only response is a clench of the jaw.

“Maybe he refused to share the findings of his little expeditions with you,” she suggests. “I know he was looking for something in the lake, and that he either found it or was very close.”

“And we also know that whoever killed him knew what he was.”

The last nudge from Adam does it. With a roll of his eyes, Walter steps closer so his voice won’t carry. “As I already informed Detective Kingston, I am a businessman. It does not do to destroy the things that make me money.” He swallows. “There were rumours that Seakirk had found… what he was looking for, and others that he was planning to abscond with it, without providing me with what was contracted. If – when my associates went to remind him of his obligations – he got aggressive, they were perfectly within their rights to defend themselves.”

“By beating him half to death?” Leah checks.

“My associates cannot help it if a selkie isn’t built to take the same hits as a minotaur,” he retorts.

She decides to change tack. “Did he ever show signs of reneging before this?”

“No,” comes the answer, as if it’s mildly interesting. “This was a recent change in attitude. I couldn’t say why. And if you want more proof that I am not the murderer you seek, you should know I had a meeting scheduled with him for the morning after he was killed – you can check with my secretary.”

“What was the meeting about?” Adam asks.

“The return on my investment.” He leans back, tugs on his suit jacket to straighten it. “You guessed correctly, Detective. He found what he was looking for. And now, I think you’ve trespassed on my patience long enough. If you have any more questions, you’ll have to ask my lawyer. Good evening.”

He pushes past them, though carefully enough to avoid making a scene, and as he rounds the corner back into the dining room Leah blows a breath through her cheeks and sinks against the wall. There’s a raised eyebrow from Adam. She wafts it away with the case folder and pushes herself back up, eager to get away from this stuffy place with its pretentious lack of taste.

“I guess that officially makes that a dead end,” she says when they finally step outside.

“It confirms that something changed just before Seakirk’s death,” he replies.

“True.” She shrugs her coat tighter to keep out the chill. “You’re getting better at this, you know. Investigating. It’s almost like you’re a different person to when we first met.”

“Your praise is touching.”

She answers the stubborn quirk of his mouth with a grin, but it falls quickly as her mind turns back to the case.

“What is it?” he asks.

“There’s something about this treasure that’s not adding up. There’s nothing except that journal to say there’s anything valuable down there.” She shrugs. “Maybe he found out it wasn’t real after all and tried to escape, or maybe he knew it already and this whole thing was a con from the start, and that’s what got him killed.”

“Perhaps,” Adam allows. “Perhaps the treasure means nothing to the case.”

They reach the SUV, parked just beyond the reach of the clubhouse lights.

“It means something,” she insists. “Too many things keep coming back to it.”

Or perhaps it’s just her. As she sinks into the passenger seat and clips the seatbelt into place, doubt winds in like ivy to smother the certainty of her assumptions. At the first mention of sunken treasure, she tried to ignore the spark of excitement that lit in the pit of her stomach, the hope that the case would turn out like one of the adventure stories she read as a kid, even though every part of it – the journal, the legend, the mob boss, fucking selkies – seemed too perfect to be real. The sceptical, calculating, adult part of her brain should be keeping a tighter grip on reality.

And yet, between moonlighting for a supernatural Agency and having weird, mutated blood that makes her extra delicious, any standard definition of reality is so far out of sight that a mysterious sunken treasure at the bottom of a perfectly ordinary lake seems the least outlandish feature of the last few days.

“Will you drop me off at the station?” she asks, to stop the chase of her thoughts. “My car’s still there and I have to write up the interviews from today while they’re still fresh.”

Adam doesn’t take his eyes off the road. “Of course. Will you be coming to the warehouse when you’re done?”

“Mm – If I don’t finish too late.”

Really, there’s a headache starting behind her eyes, and it’s joining battle with the leaden, drowsy feeling that always steals across her when she’s in a car at night and someone else is driving. The steady pulse of the road markings as they’re eaten up by the windshield has a hypnotic effect, the drone of the tyres and the engine a low vibration beneath her skin. She shifts in the seat and blinks hard to banish the itch in her eyes, but it doesn’t get her far. The yawn still comes. It looks like dinner with Nate will have to be put off yet another night.

#the wayhaven chronicles #unit bravo #nate sewell #nate x detective #nate sewell x detective #adam du mortain #felix hauville #detective leah kingston #wayhaven fic #murder mystery

[lykegenia]

Like glitter And Gold Ch. 9

Fandom/Pairing: The Wayhaven Chronicles/ Nate Sewell x f!Detective Rating: T Warnings: None

Read on AO3

“You, uh, haven’t seen the paper yet this morning, have you?”

Leah glances up at Tina from the login screen of her desktop. “I never read it,” she says, suspicious. “The astrology column is the most accurate journalism in it. Why do you ask?”

“Oh…” Tina takes a swig from her coffee. “No reason in particular. Just –”

The desk phone starts ringing.

Still keeping a leery eye on her former partner, Leah plucks it from the cradle, but barely gets halfway through her name before the mayor starts shouting.

“This is an absolute disgrace! I gave you the benefit of the doubt last time because it was your first case, but if I’m to expect this lack of professionalism every time Wayhaven is faced with a crisis, it might be time to find a more competent replacement. What do you have to say for yourself?”

“Um,” she says, eloquently.

“Yesterday you assured me that you were handling this case!” the phone line crackles as flecks of spit hit the receiver.

She learned in her first crappy job in customer service that the best way to deal with situations like these is to tune out the words and let the arsehole on the other end of the line wear down their batteries, so she waits. Deciding on sympathy, Tina creeps forward as if the mayor might realise she’s also in the room and slides a copy of the local paper into her line of sight.

And suddenly it’s very obvious what the mayor’s morning tirade is about.

Most of the front page is taken up by a photo of her and Nate sitting together on the bench outside the museum. Whoever took the picture – and she has a fairly solid guess – has caught the moment that he reached out to tuck her hair behind her ear, the tender look in his eyes that even now as a distant observer makes her breath catch. They’re leaning close, intimate, smiling. She didn’t know she could look so sappy.

“Are you still there, Detective?” the mayor demands. “Detective!”

“I’m listening,” she lies. The headline below the photo reads FINDING LOVE: But where’s the murderer?

“Are you?” he shoots back. “This is unacceptable!”

She bites back her preferred retort. “I completely agree, sir. At some point I, too, would love to be able to find out about local news through some other medium than a loud phone call.”

“That is –!”

“My investigations are continuing,” she interrupts, “and they will do so without interference from my personal life, or from Bobby Marks, who – as I remember telling you only a few months ago – is not somebody I can control.”

She slams the phone back down without waiting for a response and has to draw a deep, calming breath in through her nose.

“That’ll probably come back to bite you,” Tina points out, with not a little bit of awe.

“I’m going to kill him.” It’s hard to think how else to deal with the vibrant, visceral anger locking her limbs into place. If she moves, she might fling all the stuff from her desk. “I’m actually going to wring his neck and dispose of the body in a vat of acid. I can’t believe even he’d be this – this – petty.”

“It says more about him than it does about you,” Tina soothes. “But even so… you and that agent of yours…”

“Don’t. It’s –”

“Babe, don’t you dare say ‘complicated’. He’s looking at you in that photo like he wants to eat you – which now I say it out loud feels kind of tactless.” A frown. “You know, considering.”

“It’s not relevant right now.” Leah bites it out, a poor substitute for explaining the need to keep Nate separate from work, the itch beneath her skin at having the two halves of her life crash together in such a public way. She knows why Bobby did this, knows it’s a move he calculated well because he knows her, and that galls as much as the photo itself. Nobody is meant to see her like this, exposed and doe-eyed as a tragic heroine, careless enough with her heart that a stranger could capture it on film. Even with the low res of a newspaper image, she can’t tear her gaze from Nate’s, the rich intensity of his eyes, the expression playing around his mouth – and it’s too much. Immense as the edge of a cliff.

“What new leads do we have this morning?” she asks, turning the paper over.

Tina watches her carefully for a moment before dropping her gaze to her notepad. “We have Seakirk’s phone records, finally. There’s a text from a withheld number sent very shortly before TOD, but the delightful person I spoke to at the phone company didn’t think we might want to un-withhold it, so I’ve asked for that to be chased up. In the meantime… Douglas had a strike of brilliance this morning.”

“Oh?”

“He’s decided to go back through the Swordfish’s CCTV from weeks ago to see if he can find anything while we wait, since Seakirk was a regular.”

Leah blinks. “That’s… a surprising amount of initiative.”

“I think you’re having an influence,” comes the teasing reply.

She nods, making a mental note to thank him for the good work, but it’s not something that’s going to offer immediate results. Between that and the phone company, the case is now a waiting game, dependent on other people to do their jobs. There’s nothing that makes her twitchier, especially when it means there’s going to be no distraction from how much she wants to throttle Bobby.

Except, there is one avenue that might have made progress. She’s already moving towards the door.

“Let me know if anything turns up,” she throws over her shoulder. “I’ll be –”

Nate almost collides with her, only managing to cushion the impact by slipping his hands around her waist. The unexpected wash of his scent makes the breath stutter in her lungs.

He smiles. “Careful.”

Her hands are braced instinctively against his chest, so close she has to tilt her head back to see him properly, the look in his eyes so like that in the photo that for a second it feels like she’s taken a blow to the head. There’s something more sombre in it, though, concerned, which she realises at the exact same moment that her face is flaming and that her office has filled with a heavy, dead silence.

“Sorry – didn’t see you there,” she manages. “I was just coming to see you about the journal.”

He gives her a long look. “I finished translating it this morning, but that’s… not entirely the reason I came here.”

Mortification wraps around her like a python.

Tina, sheepish, edges into her line of sight. “I’m going to go pop the kettle on. If I could…?”

They step to the side so she can squeeze through the doorway, Nate’s hands still settled on Leah’s waist as if glued to it, and once they’re alone he heaves a breath and turns his attention fully to her.

“I saw the article Bobby wrote,” he murmurs. “Are you alright?”

She drops her gaze. “I don’t want to talk about it.”

“He shouldn’t have done what he did.”

“As if that’s ever stopped him.” She snorts. “Vindictive little shit. Why are you looking at me like that?” He’s frowning like he doesn’t believe her, like she’s easier to read than Russell’s book.

“I want you to feel you can talk to me,” he urges. “You can talk to me.”

“I’m fine.”

“Leah –”

“I don’t know what you want me to say,” she snaps, pushing away. “All of this, it’s…”

She turns and pulls the end of her braid over her shoulder, twirling the end in nervous fingers. In the absence of words, she lets loose a frustrated snarl, and Nate stands there watching her scrabble for purchase like a dog bracing its legs against the sides of an imminent bath. How he can be so placid, she doesn’t know.

“I’m not… good at this,” she tries. “I don’t know what I’m doing. I hate feeling so out of control.”

A frown draws down over his features, though if it’s worry or hurt, she can’t tell. “What do you mean?”

She shakes head, eyes squeezed shut, keeping the words crammed in her throat so that’s the only place they can sting.

“Leah…” he says, and steps closer.

“I knew something would go wrong.” Her knuckles connect with the desk, not quite hard enough to be a punch. “I – Can we just focus on the case? I don’t want to deal with anything else right now.”

When he doesn’t reply, she looks up to find him by the window, staring through the glass with his hands shoved into his pockets and a new stiffness in his shoulders as he tries to put distance between them. The frown has worked its way to the corner of his mouth, turning it down in a way she doesn’t know how to fix.

“Nate–”

The door bursts open again before he can answer. Douglas, his cheeks tinged an embarrassed pink, doesn’t look up from the floor as he holds out the printed photo in his hand.

“I thought you’d want to see this, Detective,” he explains, an awkward, apologetic cough in his throat.

The grainy image is a still from a CCTV camera with a timestamp about three weeks old, showing Russell Seakirk in the same corner booth he was sitting in the night he was murdered, only this time he isn’t alone. A blonde woman is seated next to him, one hand on his arm as he leans close enough to whisper in her ear. Even in the bad lighting, the identity of the woman is obvious.

“Gotcha.” Leah glances up. “Good work, kid.”

“Really?” Douglas grins.

“What is it?”

Her heart seizes as Nate comes to peer over her shoulder, but she disguises the slip as best she can by holding up the evidence for him to see. “Proof that Samantha Harris knew the victim a lot better than she wanted us to think.”

The clock on the wall reads 9 am, plenty of time to tackle the winding roads to the museum before it opens.

“I’m going to go talk to her again,” she decides, grateful or the escape, eager to be on the scent again. “I’ll meet you back at base?”

Nate blinks as she pulls on her coat. “Oh. If you’re sure?”

“Someone needs to tell Adam what’s going on.” She’s a coward. “It’s just going to be a quick chat.”

“Of course.” He flashes her a smile, but his shoulders are hunched, and his hands still sit deep in his pockets.

She tries a smile. “I’ll see you there.”

An instant passes. She starts forward with half an impulse to kiss him, to reassure him that she regrets the brittleness in his expression, but Douglas is still hovering in the middle of the room and the fear that she’ll make things worse tightens in her chest like ice. So she leaves. Her feet march her to the car and the key turns in the ignition and her hands grip the steering wheel as she fights back the prickle of heat behind her eyes. As she pulls in deep breaths to collect herself, a pair of elderly ladies pass on the opposite side of the low wall that separates the station car park from the street, and when one of them glances her way, it’s clear she’s been recognised. The pair huddle into conspiratorial closeness as they walk by, giggling behind their hands.

“Ah, infamy,” she gripes. “Just what I always wanted. Thank you so fucking much, Bobby Marks.”

She shakes her head and puts Nessie into gear; dwelling on it won’t help her solve the case.

--

She pulls up in the museum car park fifteen minutes before opening time, and catches sight of Samantha juggling keys and coffee in a to-go cup. The grumbling of the engine makes the other woman turn, and Leah’s seen enough petty vandals in her time as a beat officer to recognise the split-second reaction of someone wondering whether to run. But they’re on the headland here, with nowhere to go but the woods and a narrow strip of beach below, and despite her flat shoes Samantha’s flimsy office clothes would be no match for comfortable jeans and a pair of sturdy, heavy-soled boots. She decides to stand her ground instead of making a chase of it, offering a fawning smile as Leah steps out of the car.

“Detective! Our museum must have made quite an impression on you if you’re back again so soon.”

Leah waits until she’s within arms’ reach, just in case. “Why didn’t you tell me you and Russell Seakirk were having an affair?”

The smile falls, and with it, all colour drains from Samantha’s face. Beneath a careful mask of concealer and blush, the shadows of her eyes offer a stark contrast to the vibrant, artificial shade of her hair, and only serve to underline the delicate red threading of eyes that have gone too long without sleep. Her lip trembles as she tries to rally.

“I’m afraid I don’t know what you mean,” she says.

“This looks like you, don’t you think?” Leah counters, unfolding the CCTV image from her pocket. “We also found a blonde hair on his body, just about the same length as yours.”

“My hair isn’t –”

“It is on the museum website.”

Samantha twists her lips together, her gaze falling to the photo for only the briefest moment before she shoves it back into Leah’s hands.

She slips it back into her pocket. “Think carefully before you try to lie to me again.”

Heartbeats pass, with the morning gulls wheeling overhead to catch the updrafts rising from the cliff.

“We met when he was researching the Pegasus,” Samantha admits eventually, caving under the weight of Leah’s patient stare. “He wanted to know about it. He noticed my surname and we started talking.” Something sour passes over her features, like a child petulant about being caught stealing sweets.

“He can’t have been the first to come treasure hunting,” Leah prods.

Samantha rolls her eyes. “Every so often some Indiana Jones type comes waltzing through, convinced they’ll solve the big mystery, but he was… different.” She frowns, troubled. “Before I knew it, we weren’t even talking about the wreck.”

“And you didn’t mention this before because…?”

Instead of answering, Samantha clutches tighter at her coffee cup, as if the warmth it offers might act as a shield between the question and whatever it is she wants to hide. A heavier hand might threaten an interview at the station, but aside from anything else if Leah goes back there now it’s likely Tina will be lying in ambush with an earful for how badly she handled the situation with Nate. She prefers patience, and the stare people have always found a little disconcerting.

“I broke it off,” Samantha says at last.

“When?”

A shrug. “He started talking about running away, starting a new life, how he was so close to getting enough to never have to worry about money again.”

“And you didn’t want that?” Leah guesses.

“What was I supposed to do, leave my job – my life?” She draws her jacket closer against the wind.  “He thought I’d just drop everything. He – it was just a fling. It didn’t mean anything.”

Leah decides to let it go. “How did he take the break-up?”

Another, more defensive shrug. “He was fine. Maybe a little upset, but he was fine. We went our separate ways.”

Old Detective Reele kept a list of questions for revelations like this, when a person of interest changed their story and the facts had to be teased out from the mess of poor memory and deliberate misdirection. There had never been much call to use it in a town where tacky lawn ornaments were considered serious crime, but he was thoughtful enough to include it in the rushed orientation Leah was given with her promotion. As she works through them all – Did you see him the day he died? What time? Where did you meet? – the answers get more agitated, until Samantha looses an angry huff and throws her arms up in frustration.

“Look, I really wish I could be more help, but I can’t,” she snaps. “We talked down in the woods beyond Hope Point, no one was around, and then we walked in separate directions. I spent the rest of the day at home. Alone, before you ask.”

“Where was your husband?”

She drops her gaze again. “He stays late at the boatyard sometimes. He drinks, he does it there so he thinks I won’t know.”

“Did he know about the affair?” Leah asks. It’s not the question she really wants to ask, but there’s no delicate way to shatter someone’s worldview, and Adam might pop a blood vessel if she tries.

In any case, the only response she gets is a sullen look, answer enough, and apparently resentful of being forced to thrust her husband into the role of prime suspect, Samantha retreats into the museum with her cup of coffee in her hand and an air of wounded dismissal haloed around her.

#the wayhaven chronicles #twc #nate sewell #nate sewell x detective #nate x detective #detective leah kingston

[lykegenia]

Fic Masterpost

My number of fics has breached containment, so I’ve split them into two. Peruse here, enjoy, and check out my Dragon Age fics on my other blog here, if you’re so inclined.

Avatar: The Last Airbender

The Things We Hide - In a world where the Southern Water Tribe didn’t fall to the Fire Nation, Katara must infiltrate the Fire Nation capital to bring an end to the war (Zutara, complete)

A Life, Together - A collection of oneshots based on Zutara Week prompts, all set in the same timeline (Zutara, complete)

Eventually Closer - Every nation has its own version of the Tale of Two Lovers (Zutara, complete)

Jubilant - Katara and Zuko train together (oneshot)

DOTA: Dragon’s Blood

The Dragon Knight’s New Clothes - Set after episode 2: Davion, Mirana, and Marci stop for the night at a farmstead, and Davion reflects on what he was - and what he has become (Miravion, oneshot)

And The Snow Reflects Back - Set after episode 3: A moment of reflection for Davion about his growing feelings for Mirana, while the blizzard rages outside (Miravion, oneshot)

Conversations In The Dark - With everything they worked for in ruins, Davion and Mirana reflect on how things went wrong - with some help (oneshot)

A New Dawn - Davion wakes, with Mirana at his side

Collide - Mirana, god-empress of the Helio Imperium, lost everything she loved to save the world. And yet, even in the depths of grief, hope is a fire that refuses to go out (oneshot)

The Wayhaven Chronicles

Trust, But Verify - Detective Leah Kingston suspects Unit Bravo isn’t all they seem to be, but when she goes back to investigate the warehouse with Tina at her side, their conversation about a certain tall, dark, and above all handsome agent might just be overheard. (Nate x Detective, oneshot)

Tea - With the investigation going nowhere, Nate and Leah bond over a cuppa. (Nate x Detective, oneshot)

Goodnight, Detective - Waking up in the middle of the night is far more interesting when there are vampires standing guard in your living room. (Nate x Detective, oneshot)

So Let Us Melt, And Make No Noise - The morning after rescuing Sanja, Nate wakes mostly heals, and finds Leah kept her promise to stay with him. (Nate x Detective, oneshot)

Haiku - It's become a regular thing, Nate cooking her dinner after sparring with Mason. She enjoys the time she gets to spend with him. But all it takes is one little slip to remember that having a vampire for a boyfriend isn't so easy. (Nate x Detective, oneshot)

Once More Around The Sun - Leah, as a rule, does not enjoy her birthday. (Nate x Detective, oneshot)

Like Glitter And Gold - There’s only one thing that’s going to shake the town of Wayhaven more than a murder, and that’s the murder of a supernatural. Pitted against crime bosses, deep secrets, and the mystery of what lies in the bottom of the lake, Leah can only hope this doesn’t go the same way as her last murder case. (Nate x detective, ongoing)

#my writing #fic masterpost #avatar: the last airbender #atla #a:tla #zutara #zuko #katara #dota #dota: db #dota: dragon's blood #dota dragon's blood #davion the dragon knight #mirana princess of the moon #miravion #twc #the wayhaven chronicles #nate sewell #nate sewell x f!detective #detective leah kingston #wayhaven fic

[lykegenia]

Like Glitter and Gold Ch.6

Rating:  Teen And Up Audiences Fandom: The Wayhaven Chronicles - Mishka Jenkins                             Relationships: Female Detective/Nathaniel “Nate” Sewell, Female Detective & Tina Poname, Female Detective & Unit Bravo Additional Tags: Murder Mystery, Worldbuilding, Romance, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Fluff and Angst, Established Relationship, Post-Book 2, AU - Canon Divergent

Summary: Wayhaven has had its ups and downs in the past few months, and for Detective Leah Kingston, dealing with vampire serial killers and mysterious plagues has become something of a routine. Good thing, too. The body of a murdered supernatural has just been discovered in the alley behind a local bar - and everything, really, just gets weirder from there.Between the search for the dead man's killer, keeping the Agency at bay, and trying to navigate the new, uncertain waters of a relationship with a very suave vampire boyfriend, Leah has her work cut out solving the mystery, especially when it beomes clear she's hunting more than just a murderer.

Read on AO3!

--

A full meal and a night of decent rest make the shadows pale by morning, the doubt chased away further by the way Nate straightens when he spots Leah emerging from her building. She hopes he wasn’t waiting long, though it’s amusing to see him leaning against the bumper of her run-down car as if it’s going to be featured on a magazine cover, when the flashy red sports car is right there practically crying out for someone to drape themself across the bonnet. He seems oblivious, of course, and greets her with another melting kiss, his touch lingering at her waist even after they part.

“Are you ready to go?” she asks.

He beams at her. “I am, and very curious about our itinerary for today.”

“We’ll still be working,” she reminds him as she unlocks the car, and spooks herself with how much she sounds like Adam.

“I’d expect nothing less.” As always, he has to fold almost in half to fit into her passenger seat. “But it doesn’t make me any less happy to be spending time with you.”

A small, glanced smile is all she can spare as she pulls out onto the road. Most of the early commuters and school runners have already cleared the roads, so they make good time. With the caffeine from her morning tea still kicking in, Leah spends the journey in between small bouts of conversation thinking ahead to what they might find at the museum, how it might fit in with what they have so far, the suspects, evidence, and gaps where the puzzle is still missing pieces. They do have a lot more to go on so far than in the Murphy case, at least – and this time she isn’t handicapped by being kept in the dark about what they’re really dealing with.

When she makes the final turn onto the road to the old lighthouse, she sneaks a look sideways. The attitude of her passenger is relaxed, his arm braced as always against the doorframe, but there’s energy in the smile tugging at his lips. He’s trying to hide it, as if determined to let her surprise him. It’s sweet.

“I know you saw the sign,” she says.

“What sign?”

A consummate actor he is not.

“Alright,” he confesses when she tilts a raised eyebrow in his direction, “I know where we’re going. What are we looking for?”

She shrugs. “The reason why our victim kept coming back, or maybe why he was looking in the lake – hopefully someone with a nice convenient sign saying, ‘it woz me what done it.’”

“That would be helpful,” he agrees.

“I’ll know it when I find it. I hope. Though I say that realising I didn’t exactly solve the last murder case I was leading.”

“You did your job well, Leah, even though we did our best to hinder you.” There’s guilt as well as reassurance in Nate’s voice as he easily reaches across the space and slips his hand over where hers rests on the gearstick. “I have every faith in you.”

They lapse into silence, the comfort of touch working to push back the memories of Murphy’s victims, the weeks of frustration knowing that important evidence was being kept just out of reach. As the trees of the headland break into morning sunshine, however, and the white pillar of the lighthouse comes into view against a backdrop of silver clouds, the picturesque nature of the scene is enough to refocus her mind on the present.

“It shouldn’t mean we can’t enjoy the exhibits,” she points out. “Though… shit, I can’t believe I didn’t think of this.” It really, really should have crossed her mind – might have done, if she’d planned this at all. “You haven’t been here before, have you? I wouldn’t want to drag you around if you’ve seen everything already.”

He chuckles. “Not that it would bother me, but no, I haven’t. In fact, I’ve thought once or twice about bringing you here, for a real date. I had the same worries.”

He ducks his head as he says it and strokes his thumb across the back of her hand, shy and tentative, a scratch in the confident veneer that sets her so on edge. She likes this uncertainty. It feels real.  

“I haven’t been here since they refurbished the place,” she tells him as she pulls into a parking space. “I always meant to, but now I’m glad that I didn’t.”

Up close, the lighthouse makes the perfect poster child for the grand plan to turn Wayhaven into a modern town, an icon worth more for publicity than the whole district of gentrified bars along the wharf. Investing in cultural projects has proven effective at bringing in a new tide of tourists and businesses, even if the more cynical might point out that whatever the results, it’s also proven to be a good way for the mayor to line his own pockets.

But at least the façade is cheerful. Fresh whitewash acts as a frame for brightly filled flowerbeds and trimmed, emerald lawns, with a picnic bench for those inclined to enjoy the ambience of the car park rather than the view over the lake that makes it onto all the postcards. That vista currently lies hidden behind the three-storey extension to the tower that houses the main body of the museum. Nate, robbed of the ability to hold Leah’s hand by the official nature of their visit, strides ahead to pull open the door before she can reach it, passing close enough that she catches a heady lungful of his scent before the warm, guiding weight of his hand brushes against the small of her back to usher her into the foyer. She thanks him with a smile, a brief touch to his waist.

The middle-aged employee at the front desk doesn’t notice the small intimacy. They smile in welcome from behind thick, black-rimmed glasses, the combination of the museum’s navy-blue polo shirt with the colourful badges pinned to their lanyard lending an eccentric air to their appearance.

“Good morning, welcome to Wayhaven Museum!” A plethora of bracelets clack as the sales computer is nudged into life. “Two tickets?”

“Please.” Leah smiles and leans on the counter. “And some information.”

“We have a guidebook,” the seller says brightly with a gesture to a stand of pamphlets. “That gives you more information on all of our exhibits, and –”

“No, thank you.” She pulls out her badge. “I didn’t catch your name?”

“Uh… Theo?”

“Theo. I’m after a different kind of information, and I’m hoping you can help me.”

Their eyes widen. “Is this about that murder yesterday? It’s been all over town.”

Leah sidesteps the question. The first rule of investigative work drummed into her head during training was to not give out more information than necessary, in case it ends up leading the conversation. Instead of an answer, she pulls out the photo Tina found on Russell Seakirk’s website.

“Have you ever seen this man before?” she asks, sliding it across the counter.

Theo leans forward to examine it more closely, but after a moment gives up with a shake of their head. “Sorry, I’m really bad with faces. He might be familiar?”

“It’s alright,” she assures, and takes the picture back. “We have reason to believe he came to the museum quite a lot.”

“It’s possible.” A shrug. “When we’re busy, one face just fades into another, you know? And it’s not always me on the front desk so he might have come in when I wasn’t around.”

“How many people work here?” Nate asks, and now that the glamour of the police badge has faded, that winning combination of soft smile and warm brown eyes turns Theo a rather flustered shade of pink.

“Oh, well… um.” Their gaze drops to their hands, ticking off names. “There’s me, Steve, and Jadine – we’re the dogsbodies. You know – cleaning toilets and managing the gift shop and stuff. Then there’s Claire, she handles Education when we get kids in, and then Samantha is the one who actually works with the exhibits. I guess you might want to speak to Michael, maybe, he’s the top manager – all about PR, if you know what I mean.”

Unfortunately familiar with the politics of keeping the mayor on-side, Leah offers a sage nod. “What about the café?”

“Oh, they’re technically not museum staff.”

But they still open the pool of suspects. It’s another thing she was taught: sometimes the leads are clear, and sometimes you just have to make an educated guess and run into each dead end in turn before you can find out what’s really going on.

“Is Samantha in today?” she asks.

“Sure, she’s around.”

“Thank you, you’ve been very helpful.” With a final nod, she picks up the tickets and heads for the turnstile, only waiting for Nate, charming as always, to buy one of the guidebooks.

“A souvenir,” he explains as he catches up.

She shoots him a wry look. “I think I’ll keep you supervised in the gift shop.”

“I’m not entirely without impulse control.” There’s just the hint of an indignant pout. “It just seemed like a nice idea to have a reminder of our day.”

Coming from anyone else, such a sentiment would merit an eyeroll rather than a bashful smile, but she doesn’t dodge away fast enough for him to miss it, and an answering grin spreads across his features as she leans close enough to acknowledge the gesture with a nudge against his arm.

“It’s almost like we’re undercover again.”

“Almost,” he agrees. The back of his fingers brush against hers as they pass under the sign directing them to the museum’s exhibits. She shouldn’t take the offer while she’s on duty, but the feel of his skin sends a jolt along her nerves and her hand moves without permission, turning into his palm like they’re the opposite poles of a magnet. Even so, she’s glad he doesn’t try for anything more overt that would leave her completely distracted.

The first room they enter quickly closes off in a crowd of fibreglass tree trunks and plastic leaves, the lighting dimmed to shades of yellow and rich green as a tinny soundtrack of jungle noises plays over a set of disguised speakers. A spotlighted glass case displays the first specimen, a slab of pale sandstone dotted with fossilised trilobites, with the delicate impressions of their antennae still immaculately preserved. Above the piece, a big sign artfully hidden by moss invites them to ‘Follow the trail through Wayhaven’s Prehistoric Past’. There are even dinosaur footprints stencilled on the floor in orange paint.

“‘Life in the Cambrian Explosion’,” Nate reads, bending over the trilobites for a closer look. “Fascinating.”

For a moment, she’s lost in the glow of new knowledge that sparks in his face, content to hold his hand and watch as he scans the museum’s description of some of the oldest animals on Earth. It’s just the two of them, not on a date.

“I always did want to know what it would be like to be an immortal visiting a museum,” she says as they follow the winding trail through the room. The jungle sounds intersperse with chitinous clicks as they reach a display with a fossilised fragment of a millipede as long as a car.

The immortal presently in her company tips a bemused look sideways. “How so?”

“There’s all this history and knowledge on display, but none of it existed when you were…” She shrugs, apologetic for the right word “… younger. We’re still making scientific discoveries every day, but three hundred years ago the concept of science wasn’t even a thing – we didn’t even have dinosaurs until the 1820s.” And now there’s a plastic one poking its snout out of the artificial underbrush to scare the kiddies.

“Why Leah, are you trying to imply that I am some kind of fossil?” Playfulness glitters beneath the warmth in Nate’s gaze.

“Not quite that old,” she teases. “Hmmm… maybe a relic.”

Mock outrage paints his expression as he slips closer and snags her by the waist, drops his voice to a purr by her ear. “I will remember you said that.”

He hears the catch in her beath, she’s sure of it. Before he can do anything about it, however, the moment gets stampeded by the yells and slapping feet of a pair of young children running from the main doors, and an exasperated father with a buggy towed inexorably along behind. She uses the distraction as a cover to steal back some composure, shoving her hands into her jeans pockets with a polite smile as they wait for the family to pass them. At least having others ahead makes for a good excuse to linger.

“So what is it like?” she asks, once the exhibit is theirs again.

A nervous hand cards the hair away from his eyes. “Adam is older than me, he would be a better person to ask.”

“I want your answer,” she retorts.

“Fair enough.” He sighs. “Working for the Agency doesn’t allow me the best perspective, given that we spend most of our time apart from the rest of the world, but the distance humanity has come is remarkable. No less so that the knowledge gained is celebrated the way it is.”

“But?”

“For me it is bittersweet,” he explains. “Museums are a reminder of how many generations I have lived beyond my own time. Much has been gained, but what places like these don’t say is everything that has been lost.”

“I see.” It’s not something she’s ever thought of, that a museum might be considered an objective insight into the world only because a human eye lacks the perspective to see it change. Is this how everything appears to an immortal? How do you respond when everything around you is so fleeting? The thought stirs the disquiet she thought safely shoved under a mental rock, gives it a fulcrum around which to pivot.

Nate notices, though luckily he doesn’t seem to realise the cause.

“The good outweighs the bad,” he says, reaching for her.

“I’ll say,” she teases, because it’s simpler. “You didn’t have life-sized plastic dinosaurs in the seventeenth century.”

There’s a flash of disappointment in his eyes. “Not in such virulent shades of maroon, anyway.”

“But it’s probably not why our victim kept coming back.” Her grin fades. “We should see what else is here.”

Quiet settles on them as they wander into the next exhibit, broken only by an occasional comment about the artefacts on display. The second room shows the human history of Wayhaven, from the first flint and antler tools to industrial rubbish found in excavations for the new building at the hospital, and nothing of likely interest to a treasure-hunting selkie. However, it does offer a distraction from the new uncertainty in Nate’s manner, gives her space to work out what she did to cause this morose, chivalrous distance. Give her a puzzle, or a problem with an objective solution, and she’s on it like an arrow, but the delicate stuff – people and their expectations – is beyond her area of expertise. Her one real experiment with a relationship was Bobby, and – well. There’s a reason her only friends now are the people she works with.

For a moment, she thinks the sound of his voice is imagined. It wafts to her as she’s bent towards a collection of Victorian clay pipes, and once she realises it’s not just a delusion she stiffens like a dog catching a stranger’s scent at the door. Of course.

Think of the devil and he shall appear.

She turns despite her better judgement and sure enough, Bobby is blocking the stairwell, his stance and smirk part of the standard pitch to win people over, but she doubts he’s here just to flirt. Museums aren’t his thing, and his target, redhaired and waifish though she is, is wearing a lanyard over a formal blouse and slacks.

He spots her before she can sneak closer to eavesdrop.

“Well, well, isn’t today just full of surprises!” he calls out, before turning back to offer a business card to the woman Leah presumes is Samantha. “I was going to call at the station, but maybe you’d like to have a chat now, since you’re here?”

She doesn’t blink. “About what?”

“I think you know.”

“All requests for formal statements will be responded to in due course,” she answers, deadpan, her eyes on her potential suspect’s retreating back. “You know how this works.”

He sighs, pouts. “Always so formal. Tell me, will this official statement from Wayhaven’s finest include the reason why you’ve decided to patronise the arts while a vicious killer is on the loose?”

“Leah?”

Nate emerges from behind a display, concern thick in his voice as he comes to stand beside her. In an instant Bobby’s gaze slides to this new variable, and the predatory edge to his smirk appears like a portent of her future suffering.

“Is there any particular reason you’re here?” she asks, to forestall any conclusions his weaselly little mind might be concocting. “It all seems a bit… cerebral for you.”

“I go where the stories are, angel.”

“It’s Mr Marks, isn’t it?” Nate asks. His tone is mild, smooth and cold as marble.

“Bobby – please.” He saunters forward and sticks out his hand. “I don’t think we’ve been formally introduced. An oversight, I’m sure.”

There’s a distinct pause before Nate takes the offered hand. “I’m sure.”

“So you are…?”

“Agent Sewell.”

“One of the infamous Unit Bravo!” The corner of Bobby’s mouth twitches as his hand is ever so slightly, deliberately crushed. “I – ah – would really love to do an interview sometime, help ease the minds of readers who are concerned. What do you have to say about the correlation between your arrival in Wayhaven and the local increase in violent crime?”

“Nothing that can’t be spun into sensationalist drivel, I’m sure,” Leah snorts.

“Aw, angel, that hurts – I know you know me better than that.” He leans closer and lets his gaze drag down her body. “I definitely know you better.”

She imagines tasering him with the Volt gun. “You really don’t. And as witty as this banter is, I would like to get on with my day.”

Before he can retort, she slips past him, taking care not to touch.

“Let me know if you want help with the murder investigation.”

She doesn’t turn. “Goodbye, Bobby.”

The museum employee has disappeared up the stairs to the first floor, and following her has the added benefit that it will leave Bobby and his crude suggestions far behind. A vague sense tells her Nate is following at her heels but it doesn’t truly register until she makes the first floor and his fingers close around her wrist.

“Leah…” he murmurs as she stumbles to a halt. “Are you alright?” His touch almost scorches against her skin.

“I’m fine.” She answers without looking at him. “He likes to think he gets to me is all. He still can’t stand that I’m the one who gave him the boot.”

“I’m glad you did,” he says, soft.

“At least my taste has gotten better.”

The smile that lights his face at that helps to drain some of the tension from her limbs, but not the dregs that remain to curb the impulse to simply put her arms around him and set her ear above his heartbeat. She would, if not for the badge at her hip. And then there’s the obvious curiosity he swallows back in favour of comfort, the gentle way he runs his hands along her forearms as if worried she might be cold. The difference between him and her good-for-target-practice ex is almost funny.

“Shall we go and find what we came here for?” he asks eventually.

“Let’s.” She passes a cautious look over her shoulder to make sure they haven’t been followed. “At least if Bobby’s here it probably means we’re on the right track.”

“You don’t seem entirely reassured by that,” Nate points out.

“Because he now knows he’s on the right track, and he’ll spin whatever he’s dug up until everyone’s in a panic.”

“But at least whatever he writes won’t come as an unpleasant surprise.”

A smile touches her lips. “I hope you’re right.”

Apparently satisfied, he lets his arm run down to her hand again, giving it a gentle tug to lead the way forward. The room they’ve found themselves in now looks more promising. It’s dedicated to information about the lake and Wayhaven’s maritime history, taking advantage of the large windows that overlook the water to merge past and present, with large transparent panels that superimpose a grainy black and white photograph over the modern shoreline. Old lighthouse lenses stand in glass cases, and on the far wall there’s an infoboard of all the animals to be found along the lakeshore.

The children who ran past them earlier are out on the balcony, shouting about sea monsters and swinging off one of the telescopic viewers set up for people to watch the seals, while their father has snagged the attention of the same employee Bobby was accosting. Her smile is easy, but it doesn’t match the way her weight shifts between her feet, or the nervous twisting of her fingers around the silver wedding band on her left hand, and closer to – in better light – the deep, dyed red of her hair gives her thin face a weary, pallid look.

“Excuse me,” Leah asks, watching how the woman blinks. “Are you Samantha?”

“I am.” She smiles and nods farewell to the father, who retreats to the balcony to round up his offspring. “What can I help you with?”

Leah taps a finger on the badge hooked into the top of her belt. “Detective Kingston, Wayhaven Police, this is Agent Sewell. I was hoping you could answer a few questions for me.”

Samantha spreads her arms in invitation. “Of course. Whatever you need. Is there something wrong?”

“Do you recognise this man?”

There’s a frown as Samantha takes the offered photo, then a pause before she shrugs and hands it back. “Vaguely. I’ve seen him around.”

“Did you see him the day before yesterday?”

She shakes her head. “Fridays are my day off. Is he alright?”

“He was murdered yesterday morning.”

“Oh.”

“We have reason to believe he came here quite a lot,” Leah presses. “Did he ever speak to you about any of the exhibits?”

“I don’t usually talk to the museum’s guests directly. I’m only out here today to take some new pictures of the upstairs gallery for the website.” To illustrate, the woman holds up her phone, but Leah is busy watching the uncertain dart of her eyes. “You’re welcome to stay and look around as long as you want, though. The tickets are for the whole day.”

“Thanks. I was thinking about grabbing a coffee on my way out, actually, if you have any recommendations?”

“Oh.” Samantha offers another shrug. “They do a vanilla latte that’s pretty good.”

With a nod, Leah thanks er again and pulls one of her own business cards out of a back pocket. “If you think of anything, that’s my number.”

“Of course, Detective.”

The card is plucked up with a bare glance and a quirk of the mouth too sour to be a true smile, and then Samantha turns away. For a moment, Leah watches her progress back towards the stairs, waiting until she’s out of earshot to pull out her own phone and load the museum’s website.

“Her heartbeat increased as soon as you introduced yourself,” Nate murmurs as she waits for the page to load.

She hums in agreement. “She was lying through her teeth about not knowing our victim.”

“Why ask for coffee recommendation?” he asks. “You don’t drink it.”

“No, but whoever Russell was treating to coffee does.”

She tilts the screen to let him see the museum’s bio for Samantha Harris. Next to a short list of her qualifications, academic interests, and contact details is a picture of a smiling woman with shoulder length, straw-coloured hair.

“Verda found a blonde hair on the inside of our victim’s coat that’s about the same length as hers,” she explains. “And did you notice? There are still dye stains along her hairline. She changed the colour in the past few days at the most.”

Nate frowns as he examines the photo. “So they were something to each other,” he checks. “Lovers?”

It would be the most obvious explanation for the hair and the coffee receipts, but since the answer to her first murder case was ‘a vampire did it’, it’s not something Leah’s going to take for granted.

“You’re quite brilliant, you know.”

She shrugs off the compliment. “It’s my job. There’s more than one blonde in Wayhaven, and this is all speculation unless we can find CCTV here that shows them together. I’ll get Tina on it later.”

It’s still not a complete answer to what they’re looking for, however. A little way along, the path pools into a kind of cul-de-sac lit by wavering blue lights, scattered about with shipping crates and bordered by a partition designed to look like the rusted hull of an old steamship. One part of it is cut away to make an entrance to an interior room, and from inside the muffled sounds of a storm play over more tinny speakers.

“Very… atmospheric,” Nate comments. The slight strain in his voice distracts from the tickle of memory at the back of Leah’s skull, but he only waves away her look of concern. “Really, it’s quite the impressive setup.”

The false interior of the ship is dark. Opposite the entrance, a black felt wall stands emblazoned with ‘The Last Voyage of the Pegasus’, below which are various old photographs of a steamship and a map of the lake with a red dotted line that shows a route from the main harbour to a point just off the southern shore marked with a star. A panel describing the history of the ship, where it was built and when it was operated, sits next to this, drawing Leah further on into the exhibition, a bubble of excitement growing in her chest as the soundtrack loops back to the beginning.

“The storm begins in the early afternoon while the Pegasus is in the middle of the lake,” explains a cool male voice over the whistle of a harsh wind. “Visibility decreases rapidly as clouds close in and the waves rise –”

She turns a corner into a small theatre as the voiceover is cut off by a crack of thunder. A projector screen has been set up in front of a row of padded stools so that people can watch a recreation of the story. As the soundtrack swells with a hiss of rain and more wind, more thunder, the picture shifts to a CGI shot looking out from the recreated wheelhouse. Towering, roiling waves stretch out to the horizon, their white crests gnashing like rows of teeth as they surge over the bows and pitch the vessel up towards the sky for an instant of weightlessness before it’s plunged straight down into a trough of sickening, violent blue.

The scene in the mirror.

“Nate –”

He’s transfixed. One hand grips the edge of the wall.

“– As a veteran of many a winter storm, Captain Brian Harris knows how much punishment his ship can take. With sixteen lives depending on his experience, he makes the decision to cut his cargo loose –”

He doesn’t react when she crosses to stand in front of him, doesn’t even see her. The screen holds all his attention, and even in the dark she can see his eyes starting to bleed crimson at the edges.

“– with a resounding crack, the Pegasus runs aground, out of sight of the town and beyond any help that might reach her passengers and crew. Water pours into the hold, and the ship lists as it sinks, pushed by the storm –”

“Nate!”

The instant her hands touch his face he starts, gaze snapping to her wild with confusion. When he opens his mouth, the sharp edges of his fangs peek from behind his lips, and he grips her wrist with crushing force as he presses further into her palm.

“Leah…” He gasps it, ragged.

“Let’s get you out of here.”

Somehow, she manages to lead him to the balcony, bathed in late morning sunshine and cooled by a stiff breeze. There’s still the view over the water, though, and she moves to block his view of it as she coaxes him down against the nearest wall until he’s folded double, knees bent up towards his chin.

“Focus on me,” she instructs.

His eyes are squeezed shut as he flexes his grip on her arms. “Gladly.”

“Breathe.”

He inhales, deep through his nose, and though every muscle in his body still hums with tension, a smile cracks across his face.

“What is it?” she asks, worried. Vampire panic attacks are not covered in basic first aid training.

“You smell like green tea,” he says. “And cotton. You made something with apple and cloves yesterday, after you showered.”

“I –” Heat rushes to her face at the thought of Nate thinking of her in the shower. “It was a crumble.”

He nods, a voiceless huff of laughter passing his lips, and moments tick by in silence as bit by bit the harsh drag of his breathing lightens and his shoulders lose their tension. Eventually, the danger feels far enough past that she turns and sinks against the wall beside him, still with one hand firmly clasped in his.

“I’m sorry you had to see that,” he mutters when he at last regains his voice.

She settles her head on his shoulder with a sigh. “Don’t be. I should have noticed sooner –”

“If I’m not allowed to apologise then you certainly shouldn’t,” he interrupts, and rests his cheek against her hair. “We’ve had quite a day so far, haven’t we?”

“That’s one way to put it. But at least we can assume what Russell was looking for now.” She watches idly as a seagull veers close on an air current and then glides away. “I remember now. There was a story I heard as a kid about sunken treasure hidden in the lake. I always thought it was just one of those playground legends.”

“Like vampires?” he muses.

“Mm. And unicorns.” A pause. “Are you alright?”

“I… am now.” A shiver runs through him. “But I could have done a lot of damage without your quick thinking.”

“You did dent a wall, actually,” she replies, teasing. “Adam would be proud.”

She feels his wince in the slight tightening of his fingers around her hand, but as she smooths her thumb over the knuckles, turns his palm upwards to give her better access. The size difference between them is marked, as is the lack of callouses or scars to mar his skin, and he relaxes into the attention as she traces the lines of muscle and tendon. It’s just a way to occupy herself, really, to make the silence feel less awkward. There’s a freckle at the base of his thumb.

“Why don’t I finish up in here and meet you outside?” she suggests. “There are a few more things I want to check out before we leave.”

He sighs, long and deep. “I suppose we can’t stay here all day – however entrancing it is to watch your hands.” He purrs the last, his lips poised next to her ear.

She turns into the gesture, heart stuttering, close enough to bump his nose but not enough to eliminate the distance completely. “You’re clearly feeling better.”

“Thanks to you.”

It’s a simple nudge forwards for him to kiss her, harder not to turn into it, or cup his face to hold him forever to her lips, but work always gets in the way.

“Will you be alright?” she asks, to prolong the moment.

Another, too brief press of his mouth. “Go get your evidence.”

She brushes his cheek. “I’ll find you outside.”

#the wayhaven chronicles #twc #n sewell #nate sewell #nate sewell x detective #nate sewell x f!detective #wayhaven fic #wayhaven fanfic #detective leah kingston #like glitter and gold #my writing

[lykegenia]

Like Glitter And Gold Ch. 7

Fandom: The Wayhaven Chronicles Characters/Pairings: Nate x f!Detective Rating: Teen

Read it on AO3

--

It’s not long after leaving Nate on the balcony that Leah steps through the doors of the café into bright, midday sunshine. The barista on duty has confirmed there aren’t any CCTV angles of the café itself, and there’s little more information on the wreck of the Pegasus that might tie it to the murder, but her second meeting with Samantha in the art gallery on the top floor of the museum wasn’t a total dead end, and it feels good to be making progress.

A few other patrons are sat at the scrubbed picnic benches on the patio overlooking the lake, huddled against a boisterous wind with determined fingers clasped for warmth around their mugs of coffee, eyeing the gulls that gather hopefully nearby. A figure a little further off beckons her over, tall enough that he’s easily recognisable even against the glare, and she smiles to see he’s bought her lunch already and saved a seat on a bench that looks out over the cliff edge towards the shore.

“Have you been waiting long?” she asks, cracking the lid of the juice bottle.

“For you?” He grins. “All my life.”

She shoots him a dry look. “That one was cheesy as hell.”

“I don’t think you mind all that much,” he replies.

“Of course not – you brought me food.”

For a moment, he leaves her to tuck in, watching fondly as she tries to find an angle that won’t blow stray wisps of hair into her mouth as she takes a bite. “I do recall you saying that so long as I did so, you’d stick around. I only hope you don’t change your mind.”

“Not likely soon,” she says around an undignified mouthful. “But in my defence, this is a really good sandwich.”

He smiles, turns to look over the water. “I’ve been thinking while I was out here… the curator’s surname –”

“It’s her married name,” Leah supplies. “But her husband is a descendant of the Pegasus’ captain – it’s how they met.”

“And to think I was hoping to be of help to you today,” he chuckles, stretching arm languidly along the back of the bench. There’s a sidelong glance to make sure she’s happy with the gesture, and a smile as she turns towards him with one tucked-up knee close enough to rest on his thigh. “So what now?”

Ignoring the burn in her cheeks – it’s definitely, definitely just the wind – Leah throws a cautious look over her shoulder to make sure they won’t be overheard. “We still have a few leads we can follow. Russell owned a boat, for one thing. But I can handle that… if you’d rather not.”

“I would brave anything for you, Leah,” he murmurs, an intensity to his gaze that seems to pierce through the brittle face she shows to the world.

She drops her gaze to brush away the last crumbs from her lap. “I wouldn’t ask you to, not if it was something that made you uncomfortable, or brought up such bad memories. I can manage.”

A tense silence engulfs them; even the sun is swallowed by a drifting tuft of cloud. When she peeks a glance sideways, the frown as he studies her catches her breath with all the doubts just waiting for a chance to pounce. Of course that wasn’t the right answer, it’s all she can do to mess things up, to bite at the hand offering a heart on a silver plate.

But as always, he twists from the unintended snap and reaches across the space between them, tucking a flyaway lock of hair behind her ear as he shifts closer.

“I didn’t mean to imply you aren’t capable,” he tells her. “One of your many talents seems to be the ability to tangle my thoughts into an inarticulate mess.”

“Really?” Sarcasm was always her strong suit. “But you’re always so charming.”

A smirk. “Do I charm you, Leah?”

“And you don’t even need pheromones to do it.”

The line brings a light chuckle to his lips as his touch moves from her shoulder to brush the edge of her jaw, soft as spring petals. She could stay here all afternoon, snuggled into his side to hide from the wind while they follow the movements of the seals bobbing in the waves, but it won’t help them catch their murderer. A sigh, and she squeezes her eyes shut, leans into his palm for all too brief a moment.

“I’m on the clock,” she reminds him, letting the sour note of regret sit heavy in her voice.

Nate’s smile falters, but he nods. “Next time, we’ll come when you’re not.”

The promise is made quietly, hopefully, and as they stand the movement brings him close enough to see all the varied shades of brown flecked within the depths of his eyes. A part of her still baulks at the softness she reads in his face, distrusting its sincerity like a child clinging to the steps of the swimming pool because she doesn’t believe she’ll float, but it makes her heart skip faster all the same. Perhaps, when they have a chance to be alone, without any prying eyes or Agency business to interrupt, she can find the words to expel that little black glob of fear, and perhaps he won’t hate her too much for her honesty. For now, however, there’s still the puzzle to solve, so she swallows it back down and takes his arm, focusing on the warm, solid presence at her side as they make their way back to the car park.

--

The drive to the marina is short, and Leah buries the shadows on her mind by mouthing along to the songs on the radio. Considering how much of a tourist trap the place is in the summer months, the final stretch to the car park is in poor repair, and only a delicate hand on the steering wheel keeps Nessie from losing wheels or undercarriage to one of the many potholes that line the track. By the time they reach the open chainlink gate and the unmarked patch of gravel by the waterfront, her teeth have been all but rattled out of her skull.

Lanes of moored boats stretch out in front of them, docile as a flock of grazing sheep with their masts bobbing contentedly in the breeze. Along the edge of the car park, rusted bits of junk lie in disorder next to sun-bleached buoys, chains, and thick lengths of frayed nylon rope that carry a brackish, bitter odour. Nate flashes a glance in her direction, nervous. The only sign of life is the clan of sparrows hopping like fallen leaves along the boardwalk.

Their phones buzz. Quicker off the mark, Leah pulls hers out to see a spam of photo messages from Felix, at least a dozen, all of the kittens. The poor signal at the lighthouse must have stopped them getting through before.

“You’ve created a monster,” Nate chuckles as she tilts the screen to let him see.

“Mm,” she agrees. “But you’re the one who to live with him.”

She taps out a quick response and refocuses. The yard is deserted, but the whirr of an angle grinder leads them to a large, open shed with a corrugated iron roof. As they head towards it, the sound stops and a man emerges, pushing a safety shield up from his eyes. An inch or two taller than Leah herself, he’s built broad in the shoulders, rounded about the middle by age, with a red face and thinning, mousy hair.

“Saw you pull up on the CCTV,” he calls across the space. “Can I help you?”

She nods and flashes her badge. “I’m Detective Kingston, this is Agent Sewell. We’re here about Russell Seakirk.”

The man’s eyes dart away. “Aye, I thought that might be it. Stanley Harris,” he adds, holding out a hand. “I own the marina.”

“Harris?” Nate asks. “We just came from the lighthouse museum –”

“Met Sam, have you?” Stanley flashes a weak smile. “She’s the wife. The museum’s actually how we met, you know.”

Leah nods. “She told me about it, and about the Pegasus.”

There’s a deep pause as Stanley crosses his arms over his chest and turns away.

“You must get asked about it a lot, and about the supposed treasure,” Nate suggests.

“Load of rot, all of it.” Their new person of interest blows a harsh breath through his cheeks. “Brian Harris was my great-grandpa. He saved lives cutting that cargo loose, and in thanks the liner company cut him off – gave him and his a black name so they couldn’t get work as honest hands anywhere.” He shrugs. “The only good the Pegasus ever did me was meeting Sam.”

“And the treasure?” Leah presses. “We have reason to believe Russell Seakirk was trying to find it.”

Stanley scuffs his boot at the gravel. “It’s a story, nothing more. If it existed, do you think I’d scraping by with this place? Russell wasn’t the first idiot who thought the lake was going to make him rich, but look how he ended up.”

“You didn’t like him very much, did you?”

He bristles. “Are you trying to say I killed him?”

“Did you?” she checks.

“No.”

Nate holds up placating hands. “Did he ever ask you about the Pegasus?”

“Never came up,” Stanley snaps, shrugging his shoulders higher.

For a moment, Leah lets him stew in his obvious discomfort, cataloguing the sullen body language and just how far to push it.

“We understand he had a boat here,” she says eventually, and watches as the discomfort shifts, but doesn’t quite turn into relief. “We’d like to see it.”

“Right.” He glances back to the boatshed. “Let me just put the tools away.”

The marina proper is locked behind a spiked, padlocked gate set into another chainlink fence, adorned with red signs warning of deep water and heavy equipment. As they follow along the concrete walk of the main dock, Leah passes a worried glance to Nate, who merely returns a wry smile and shoves his hands deep into his pockets. There’s tension in the line of his shoulders, but he seems to be coping.

Instead of commenting, she focuses back on getting more information out of Stanley. He seems more comfortable walking and talking, shrugging answers to her questions now that the subject of the Pegasus has been left behind. Seakirk paid his bills on time, kept to himself, ran tours and diving courses out on the lake during the summer, and like every other person with a berth, he had his own key for the gate and came and went as he pleased.

“What about in the winter months?” she asks.

Stanley shrugs again. “Not many tourists looking to swim in near-freezing lakewater. A fair number leave their boats docked in the off-season, some take them out for personal trips or for fishing.”

“And Russell?”

“I don’t keep tabs,” he answers, short. “That’s his over there. The Gillie Mhor.”

It’s easy to spot. Bigger than most of the pleasure craft around it, it’s moored to the main dock instead of one of the floating pontoons that sit lower in the water. The stern is open, with a ladder leading up to an enclosed wheelhouse and a bulkhead door into the interior. The deck must once have had quite a lot of space for tourists, but it’s been crowded out by a winch and a mechanical crane attached to some sort of lifting platform. It’s shiny, and new, and looks very expensive.

So that’s where Walter Greene’s money went.

“I don’t have keys, mind,” Stanley warns as they come up alongside it.

“No problem.” She waves the bunch of keys Tina relieved from the body before stuffing them back into a coat pocket. The dozen feet or so of water below them could become a huge problem if she develops butterfingers.

“Careful,” Nate murmurs as she tries to judge the gap.

He takes her hand to steady her – or maybe pull her back out if she falls in – and doesn’t let go until she’s stepped down safe onto the open lower deck. The movement of the boards beneath her feet take a little adjustment, but it’s subtle enough in the sheltered bay to not make her feel nauseated.

“I can look around here,” she tells him, answering the tightness at the corner of his eyes.

He nods. “Then perhaps… could I look over any logbooks you have for comings and goings, Mr Harris?”

“Uh, you want to do it now?” Stanley shifts an uneasy glance between them. “I’m not sure I’m comfortable leaving you alone, Detective – for safety. You’ll not be covered on the insurance if there’s an accident.”

“I’ll be fine,” she replies, as much to Nate as to him. “I promise not to pull the plug out.”

“If you’re sure…” He shakes his head and turns to Nate. “There’s a security camera on the gates, and as for people going on the water the boats are all fitted with GPS. Technology, eh? Everything’s automatic now.”

“I’ll be grateful to take a look,” Nate says, before glancing back to Leah. “Shout if you need help.”

She nods and waves him off, already casting her gaze over the deck as his footsteps fade away. The boards are clear, but as she reaches for the keys in her pocket she spots the damage to the cabin door that says she doesn’t need them. The lock has been smashed in.

With the unholstered Volt gun at her side, she inches closer, ears straining to catch any sounds of an intruder over the gentle lap of the water and the gulls overhead. The door swings inwards with barely a touch.

The dank, algal smell of the marina multiplies inside the cramped space of the cabin. Like the exterior, it might once have been roomy, but crates and spare parts are stacked in every inch of available floorspace, scattered in such a way it’s difficult to tell if the mess is a natural habit of the victim, or if his belongings were searched. The room beyond contains a narrow bed and a novel on the nightstand, and a tiny bathroom with a toothbrush in a mug next to the sink. Cupboard doors have been thrown open, their few contents spilled onto the floor.

At least the place is empty. Sighing, she puts away the Volt gun and pulls out her phone.

Nate picks up on the second ring. “Leah?”

“It’s alright, I’m fine,” she answers, endeared by the worry in his voice. “Can you ask Stanley if he’s had any break-ins at the yard, or anyone weird hanging about?”

“Of course.” Something muffles the audio for a moment before Nate puts the phone back to his ear. “Not that he knows of. Why – is something the matter?”

“The boat’s trashed like the chalet,” she says. “I’m going to have a look around.”

“Be careful, won’t you?”

“The worst I’m going to get here is a stubbed toe,” she chuckles. “But I will.”

As she clicks off and turns back towards the crates, her eyes catch on a corkboard screwed to the wall. Something was ripped off it with impatience enough that one of the four corner pins still clings to a scrap of blue paper. It might have been another map – or the same one she found in the journal – but it’s definitely not anywhere in the present mess.

The contents of the crates are just as baffling, a collection of junk – bits of wood, clumps of rust, pottery shards, and even a glass bottleneck with a stopper crusted over in decay – that on closer inspection have all been inked with strings of Echolian characters. After a long moment searching, she finds some that match, but without the journal and Nate to translate, there’s no telling what the labels mean. It’s probably just lucky that whoever broke in decided not to look too closely. After snapping a few quick photos for the layout of the space, she ducks back outside for cleaner air and phones Adam.

“What’s your status?”

“I found evidence that needs securing on Russell’s boat – it looks like someone came in and tried to find the journal, so I want forensics here as well in case they were careless enough to leave prints.”

“Understood.”

He cuts the call with an efficient lack of small talk, and Leah shoves her phone back in her pocket before hopping back over the side to find Nate.

#the wayhaven chronicles #twc #n sewell #nate sewell #nate x detective #nate x f!detective #detective leah kingston #wayhaven fic