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the-name-is-z · 29 days

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SKELETONS | ch. 14

daryl dixon x f!oc

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Summary: As everyone reels at the events of the past few days, Glenn reveals a big secret, causing a larger conflict to develop. Warnings/Information: AMC's The Walking Dead OC Insert | 18+ Advised | strangers to lovers; the slowest of slow burns; gore; angst; horror; humour; m/f; group conflict, threat of violence/murder, Shane is an asshole, killing walkers that used to be loved family members (including children)

Chapter 14 - Out of the Frying Pan

The sound of steel scraping against stone did nothing to make the morning less awkward. Iris felt like she knew too much of everything, and she wanted it off her shoulders. Carol was cooking eggs over the fire, and Andrea was loudly and incorrectly sharpening a knife.

“It’ll be more comfortable if you swipe the other way.” Iris said quietly, coming to sit down on the chair beside Andrea. She looked up, staring questioningly at Iris. Andrea looked back down, at Iris’ plethora of knives, before she changed her grip, swiping the knife against the rock a different way. Iris nodded in confirmation. “I’m sorry about yesterday. I shouldn’t have taken my anger out on you or put myself in between you and Daryl. I’m just… glad it’s over.”

“It’s okay.” Andrea nodded after a moment. “I get it. I respect you, Iris. I could probably learn a lot from you. But you have to give me the chance.”

“That’s fair.” Iris replied. She extended a hand. “Truce?”

“Truce.” Andrea agreed, smiling as they shook hands. Iris pulled something out of her pocket, handing Andrea her survival knife sharpener. It had several slots depending on the size and type of knife, and Iris pointed to the second one.

“It’ll work faster. Pull evenly, in one motion. Also, if you’re gonna use a rock as a whetstone, it should be wet so you don’t damage the knife.” Iris explained, motioning with her hands. Andrea followed her instructions, examining the blade of her knife.

“Thanks.” She said with a half-smile. Iris nodded. Carol called the others for breakfast, dishing out portions of eggs as the group gathered around the fire. Shane kept a bit of a distance, considering the glares Iris was shooting his way.

“Um, guys?” Glenn called, standing up from a small tree stump. Iris paused, fork halfway to her mouth. Everyone looked up, turning to him. “So… the barn is full of walkers.” Everyone stopped, the sounds of chewing and polite scraping screeching to a halt.

“I’m sorry?” Iris asked, glancing from Glenn to the large barn a little ways away from the house, the one Hershel was fairly secretive about. The group collectively pilgrimaged across the land toward the barn, peering in through the wood slats to hear soft moans and shuffling coming from inside. Shane lurched back as a walker spotted him, pressing itself against the wall from inside. “No shit.” Iris murmured. Shane stalked back to where the group was gathering, at a safe, respectful distance.

“You cannot tell me you’re alright with this.” He hissed to Rick, brushing straight past him.

“No, I’m not, but we’re guests here. This isn’t our land.” Rick replied sharply. Shane scoffed, pacing.

“This is our lives, man!”

“Lower your voice.” Glenn warned.

“We can’t just sweep this under the rug.” Andrea protested, folding her arms.

“It ain’t right, not remotely. Okay, we’ve either got to go in there, make things right, or we’ve just got to go. Now we’ve been talking about Fort Benning for a long time—” Shane started.

“We can’t go.” Rick hissed.

“Why, Rick? Why?”

“Because my daughter is still out there.” Carol answered, and Iris was impressed she stood up for herself and her daughter. Plus, she was right.

“Okay.” Shane almost laughed, rubbing both hands down his face. “Okay, now I think its time that we all just start to consider the other possibility.”

“Shane.” Lori scolded.

“We’re not leaving Sophia behind.” Rick said firmly.

“We’re close to finding this girl, Iris and I just found her damn doll two days ago.” Daryl protested.

“You found her doll, Daryl, that’s what you did. You found a doll.” Shane replied.

“You don’t know what the hell you’re talking about!”

“I’m just saying what needs to be said! You get a good lead, it’s in the first 48 hours—”

“Shane, stop!” Rick yelled.

“Let me tell you something else, man. If she was alive out there and saw you coming all methed out with your buck knife covered in blood, she would run in the other direction!” Shane spat. Daryl threw himself at him and Rick shoved himself between the two before they could start swinging at each other. Everyone had to pull them apart, shoving them in opposite directions.

“Just let me talk to Hershel. Let me figure it out.” Rick told him.

“What are you gonna figure out?!” Shane cried.

“Enough!” Lori hissed.

“If we’re gonna clear this barn, if we’re gonna stay, I have to talk him into it. This is his land.” Rick insisted.

“Hershel sees those things in there as people.” Dale announced, turning to everyone. “Sick people. His wife. His stepson.”

“You knew?” Rick asked, feeling somewhat betrayed.

“Yesterday, I talked to Hershel.” Dale explained.

“And you waited the night.” Shane hissed.

“I thought we could survive one more night.” Dale shot back. “We did. I was waiting till this morning to say something, but Glenn wanted to be the one.”

“The man is crazy, Rick, if Hershel thinks those things are alive or no!” The noise they were making was aggravating the walkers and the chains on the barn doors began to rattle. They pounded up against the door, the wood shaking and creaking. Iris sighed.

“How many are there?” She asked quietly.

“I don’t know. Maybe… two dozen? More or less.” Glenn replied. Rick sighed, running a hand over his face. Shane stormed off and started to walk around the barn, scoping out its stability.

Glenn turned to go talk to Maggie, to inform her of what he’s told them. Carol, Andrea, Lori and Carl went back to the campsite to keep a safe distance. Iris and Daryl stood with Rick and Dale at the front of the barn, Rick and Dale conversing about how they could speak to Hershel in an amicable way.

“How do you think they get them in there?” Iris wondered, watching the barn doors shake every so often. Daryl shrugged.

“Does it matter?” He asked. Iris pursed her lips. She supposed not, but… a hundred what-if’s spun through her mind. “We gotta go look for her. I’m gonna go get the horse again.”

“You can’t, you’re still injured.” Iris protested, following after him. “And Rick had to talk Hershel down from skinning you when he found out you almost stole them last time.”

“I don’t care.” He grumbled.

“Well I do.” Iris replied, stepping in front of him. “We can go out later to follow the trail with Rick.”

“Yeah, well, I ain’t gonna sit around and do nothing.”

“You almost died, Daryl. We don’t even know if we’re gonna find her.” Iris continued, her voice faltering at the end. He blinked, looking down at the ground. “I can barely look Carol in the eyes thinking about it. But we can’t afford to lose anyone else.”

“You gonna come with me then? Or not?” He asked after a moment, his voice ever-so-slightly less harsh. Iris sighed, looking back at the barn before turning to him.

“Yeah. I’m coming with you. After Rick talks to Hershel.”

“Fine.” He replied. He paused, looking down at her for a moment before trudging back up to their campsite.

Rick talked to Hershel, going out to see Shane at the barn a little while after. They had what seemed like a small argument before Rick stalked back to the campsite. He gathered those that wanted to search for Sophia and brought them to their usual spot, at the map on the hood of the station wagon.

“It also shows she could be moving this way south.” He murmured, moving his finger along the creek. “If Sophia went in that direction, she might have gotten out of the forest and into the farmland. So we take 74 up to Ivy Road, then push down south on foot through the forest till we hit Christopher, go east a couple of miles, then double back.” He explained.

“Rick.” Iris mumbled, jerking her chin over to Hershel, who was rolling his sleeves up as he walked toward them.

“Rick.” Hershel called.

“Hershel.” He replied. “We just have out guns out because we’re gonna go look for Sophia.”

“Before you do that, I could use your help with something.” He stated, putting his hands on his hips.

“Count me in.” Andrea said instantly. Iris waited, raising an eyebrow.

“Thank you, but I just need Rick.” Hershel said, looking to him expectantly.

“We’ll be waiting for you when you’re ready.” Iris told Rick, and he nodded to them, following Hershel toward the field.

“Iris, can I talk to you for a sec?” Carl asked, walking over. Iris nodded, stepping away from Andrea and Daryl with the kid. “I know Shane thinks Sophia is dead, but that’s bullshit. We’ve gotta stay here until we find her.”

“I know cowboy, I know.” Iris agreed, grinning. “That hat fits good, you’re like a real cowboy now.” He nodded. “Carl, we’re not gonna stop looking, okay? And if you heal before we find her, you can come help us look, okay? But not before.”

“Okay.” He nodded. Iris smiled softly. He took it all so seriously.

“And watch your language. Your mama will have my head if she thinks I’m teaching you bad words.” Iris joked, and he relinquished a smile. Shane stormed past them toward the RV, looking for the guns, presumably. Except Dale had taken them.

“Iris!” Shane called, stomping toward them.

“You go see your mom, alright?” Iris said quietly, sending Carl running to Lori. “What, Shane?”

“Where’d he go?” Shane asked.

“Where’d who go?” She asked, looking up nonchalantly.

“Don’t bullshit me, girl.” He spat, pushing her up against a tree with one arm across her shoulders. She shoved at him, but he was clearly stronger than her.

“Hey!” Daryl called, running over.

“You’d better learn some respect.” Iris snapped. She hooked her foot behind his knee and tugged, sending him off balance as she grabbed his arm and twisted it behind his back, brandishing her knife. She held it away from him, but the looming threat was evident. Daryl paused in front of them, Andrea following suit. Iris kicked Shane forward. “I’m sick of your shit. You want to find Dale, go find him, but don’t expect to push me around.”

He pushed up off the ground, looking at her like he looked at Dale that day. He turned away and stormed toward the SUV. Andrea paused before jogging after him, and Daryl raised an eyebrow at Iris.

“Where’d you learn to do that?” He asked, looking her up and down.

“I grew up in a bar. Didn’t have a choice.” She replied. Iris sighed, recalling her teenage years. “Assholes like Shane are not hard to come by.” Daryl sat back, seemingly satisfied with that answer as he looked over his shoulder at Shane and Andrea’s animated yet muffled conversation.

“Where the hell is Rick?” Iris asked, walking over to Glenn and Maggie who sat beside one another on the porch. Daryl and Andrea strode beside her, T-Dog and Carol coming up the other side.

“You know what’s going on?” T-Dog asked.

“You haven’t seen Rick?” Glenn asked in response.

“We were supposed to leave a couple hours ago.” Daryl grunted.

“Rick told us he was going out.” Carol said, shrugging.

“Oh, good. Brutus is back.” Iris grumbled as Shane appeared, the bag of guns slung over his shoulder and a rifle in hand. “What did you do to Dale?”

“He’s on his way.” Shane replied lowly. “Time to grow up.” He started handing out guns. “You already got yours?” He asked Andrea.

“Yeah. What’s going on?”

“I thought we couldn’t carry?” T-Dog asked.

“Yeah, well, we can and we have to.” Shane spat.

“Oh god.” Iris muttered, running a hand through her hair. “Shane—“

“I don’t wanna hear it.” He yelled, pointing a finger at her. She raised an eyebrow, folding her arms. Beth and Patricia came over from the other side of the porch, Carl in tow. “Look, it was one thing sitting around here picking daisies when we thought this place was supposed to be safe, but now we know it ain’t. How about you man, you gonna protect yours?” He asked Glenn, offering him a shotgun. He even turned to Maggie. “Can you shoot?”

“Can you stop?” She retorted. “You do this, you hand out these guns, my dad will make you leave tonight.”

“We have to stay, Shane.” Carl said firmly.

“What is this?” Lori asked, storming out from inside the farmhouse.

“44 BC, The fall of the Roman Empire.” Iris replied.

“We ain’t going anywhere, okay? Hey, look, Hershel, he’s just gotta understand, okay? He— well, he’s gonna have to. Now we need to find Sophia, am I right?” He knelt down in front of Carl, offering him the small pistol he’d stolen yesterday. “Now I want you to take this. You take it, Carl, and you keep your mother safe. You do whatever it takes. You know how. Go on, take the gun and do it.”

“Rick said no guns. This is not your call.” Lori hissed, pulling her son away from Shane. “This is not your decision to make.”

“Oh shit.” T-Dog murmured. They all turned to see Jimmy emerging from the forest, clapping his hands loudly. The noise was attracting walkers. Two, specifically, that also happened to be caught at the end of two snare poles that Rick and Hershel held. They were herding the walkers… somewhere.

“What is that… what is that?” Shane spat, bursting into a sprint.

“Shane, wait!” Daryl yelled. They all shot out after him, running across the field.

“What the hell are you doing?” Shane yelled, running over.

“Shane, back off!” Rick retorted.

“Why do your people have guns?” Hershel asked, scowling.

“I feel like there is a more appropriate question for this situation.” Iris pointed out, skidding to a stop as one of the walkers reached for her. Rick pulled it back and the others raised their guns, just in case.

“Are you kidding me? You see? You see what they’re holding onto?” Shane yelled, circling them.

“I see who I’m holding onto!” Hershel snapped.

“No, man, you don’t.” Shane replied simply.

“Shane, just let us do this, and then we can talk.” Rick grumbled as they continued shoving the walkers toward the barn.

“What do you want to talk about, Rick? These thing’s ain’t sick! They’re not people! They’re dead! Ain’t gotta feel nothing for ‘em, ‘cause all they do, they kill! These things right here? They’re the things that killed Amy! They killed Otis! They’re gonna kill all of us!”

“Shane, shut up!” Rick yelled. They were almost to the barn, but Shane put himself in between them and the barn, his pistol tight in his grip.

“Hey, Hershel, let me ask you something, man. Could a living breathing person, could they walk away from this?” He asked as he shot the walker Hershel was herding. The bullets went straight through it, the dress it was wearing already shredded.

“No!” Hershel cried.

“Stop it!” Rick yelled.

“That’s three rounds in the chest.” Shane snapped. The walker still lunged for them, bloody, broken nails scratching the air. “Could someone who’s alive, could they just take that? Why is it still coming?” He shot again, two more rounds in the chest this time. “See that? That’s it’s heart! Why is it still coming?” Three more rounds.

“Shane, enough!” Rick yelled.

“Yeah, you’re right, man. That is enough.” Shane growled. He stalked forward, and once he was in arms reach, he put a bullet through it’s brain. The walker collapsed, Hershel lamenting at the loss of someone he probably knew. Jimmy’s hands were on the back of his head in shock and Patricia clutched her chest. “Enough risking our lives for a little girl who’s gone! Enough living next to a barn full of things that are trying to kill us! Enough! Rick, it ain’t like it was before. Now if y’all wanna live, if y’all wanna survive, you gotta fight for it! I’m talking about fighting! Right here, right now!” He moved to the barn doors.

“Take the snare pole! Hershel, take the snare pole!” Rick urged. “Hershel! Listen to me, man. Please! Take it now! Hershel! Take it!” Shane cried out as he went at the chains on the barn doors with a stray pickaxe, pulling at the locks, the boards.

“Rick!” Lori yelled from closer to the house, holding Carl close.

“No, Shane! Do not do this, brother! Wait!” Rick pleaded.

“Don’t do it!” Glenn yelled.

“Rick!”

“Come on! Come on! We’re out here!” Shane yelled as he tossed the board aside, slamming on the doors. There was one chain left at the top that he couldn’t reach, but the walkers could make quick work of that.

“This is not the way!” Rick continued. “Please!” Everyone trained their weapons on the barn as Shane took a few steps back, pulling out his gun.

The chain was nothing to the walkers, the barn doors folding like cardboard. An undead young man, tall, bald with overalls, was the first to push his way through, snarling, bleeding from every orifice. Shane kept his gun trained at them, shots firing, and Andrea ran forward as more started pushing through. That young man. A young woman. A teenage boy. A middle-aged woman, an elderly woman. The others began stepping forward, guns firing. There was double what they thought.

“Maggie…” Glenn breathed, asking for permission.

“It’s okay.” She replied, sobbing as she held her father tight. Iris took that as her cue. She pulled out her gun and joined the fray. Shot an elderly man. A teenage girl. A middle-aged man. Shane made a point of turning around and shooting the walker that Rick was still holding in the snare pole. One by one they fell, in a semi-circle of corpses around the door of the barn. It wasn’t difficult, it went quickly. At some point, Hershel’s wife. His stepson. It was impossible to know who, but if they were in there, they went down. There was a wave of silence as they seemed to stop coming.

Iris was worried about the gunfire attracting more walkers, but the thought dissipated rather quickly when the final walker stumbled out from the doors of the barn. Iris heard Carol sob somewhere behind her. The walker with short brown hair in little bow clips away from her face, a blue t-shirt with a glittery rainbow. Khaki capri pants and sneakers with red socks. Soft growls and slow shuffling. There was no denying it was Sophia, but it was a shock to see her anyways. No one moved but Carol, who darted to her daughter. Daryl was quick to catch her, holding her back even as she collapsed to her knees.

“Sophia! Sophia! Oh no, Sophia!” She wailed. At one point in her life, Iris would have looked away, but she stared through that walker, straight into her dead eyes. Lori was muttering to Carl, who had fat tears rolling down his cheeks. Sophia moved forward, her gaze cloudy with decay, stumbling over the bodies.

“Don’t watch.” Lori whispered to Carl.

In the end, it was Rick who stepped forward, taking his gun from it’s holster and pulling the trigger.

Taglist:

@heidiland05 @ryoujoking @catlalice @maxinehufflepuffprincess @lowkeyhottho

#thenameisz #daryl dixon #daryl dixon x reader #skeletons #the walking dead #the walking dead daryl dixon #twd daryl #twd daryl dixon #daryl dixon x oc

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womanoflettersinthebunker · 4 years

Text

Dean waited a few minutes to give Sam some alone time before he went out after him, thankfully he wasn’t too far off, at the same place they had been teaching Dean how to throw knives.

He was sharpening stakes and tensed up when he heard Dean approach but didn’t turn towards him or stop what he was doing.

“So when do you put me in the dungeon and throw away the key?” Sam finally asked, tossing the stake onto the table.

“Never, cause that’s not gonna happen.” Dean told him, just staring at his brother for a moment. “How you feeling?”

“Drained.” Sam said briefly, moving to place his hands on the table and lean against it, head bowed. “Dean...I’m not ready to go through that.” he gave a scoff, fingers digging into the wood. “I honestly thought that I was going to die.”

“Well...that’s cause you were doing it alone.” Dean said. “But Sammy...you’re not alone. You got me. You got our parents. You won’t be doing this alone.”

“Yeah well, it’s also not fair to put all of this on you.” Sam said, shaking his head and pushing away from the table. “You guys got enough with all this supernatural stuff, you don’t need me adding to that with my demon blood.”

“You act like we’re some sort of strangers.” Dean said, following him. “We’re your family Sam. And we’re going to help you whether you want it or not.”

Sam sighed, running his fingers through his hair. “Dean-” he started to say.

“No, Sam, listen to me.” Dean interrupted, walking around so that he could look up at his brother who seemed determined not to make eye contact with him. “You did this same exact thing seven years ago. You had those visions and you ran away, not even giving us a chance to know about it, let alone help you. And now you’re trying to do it again.”

“It’s not the same thing-”

“Yes it is!” Dean injected once more. “Yes it is! Why are you so damn against us helping you?”

“I don’t want you guys to be tangled up in my drama.” Sam half snapped at him. “This is something that I got myself into and therefore doesn’t involve you.”

“The hell it doesn’t!” Dean snapped back at him. “You’re my little brother, you’re still my pain-in-the-ass brother and I don’t give a damn what you want but I’m going to help you.”

Sam finally brought his head up to glare at him before stalking back to the table. “Leave me alone.” he muttered under his breath.

“No.” Dean told him. “Not now, not ever.”

He could hear Sam breathe out at that, cracking his neck from side to side. “You should realize a lost cause when you see it.”

For a moment, Dean couldn’t speak. “Is that what you think of yourself?” he asked in a horrified voice. “That you’re a lost cause? Why? Because of the demon blood? You’re a lot of things Sam, I’ve already mentioned the pain in the ass, but you are the farthest thing from a lost cause.” he stared at his brother before his voice softened. “Why would you think that?”

Sam took a deep breath, shaking his head once more. “I don’t want to talk about this.”

“Boys.”

The both of them turned around to see John standing there with a tired smile and hands in his pockets.

“Figured I might as well learn how to throw knives.” he said nodding at the knives on the table. “Dean, mind leaving us for a bit?”

Dean bit down hard on the inside of his cheek as he turned back to his brother. “We’re not done with this.” he told him before turning and going back into the house.

The both of them watched him leave before Sam spoke, “How much of that did you hear?”

“Enough.” was all John said before going to the table. “So which knives are for throwing?”

Sam breathed out but joined him, gathering a few knives and handing them to him. “You can use these against the tree. There’s a target already put on it.”

John nodded, shifting the knives into one hand as he moved a distance away from the tree. His wrist flicked and the knife was in the dead center of the target.

“So,” John said, taking the next knife and aiming for a moment before he threw it. It landed right next to the first knife. “I’m guessing you don’t want to talk about what you said.”

“No.”

“Didn’t think so.” John said, taking a third knife and throwing it. “But I’m going to ask anyway. Why do you think you’re a lost cause?”

“There’s a lot you don't know about me dad.” Sam told him. “I’m not that kid anymore.”

“Yeah, but you’re still my kid.” John said. “And I know you, you wouldn’t just say that you’re a lost cause due to demon blood or seeing things or moving things with your mind. There’s more to that than you’re telling us.”

Sam just stared at him and then looked away. “I really don’t want to talk about this dad.” he said, going back to the table. He stopped when a knife whizzed past him and embedded itself in the wood. “You know that dangerous?”

“Only dangerous if I don’t know what I’m doing.” John told him, twirling the handle of the last knife between his fingers. “Luckily I do.”

Sam just shot him a look and reached out to yank the knife free. “Dad,”

“Look, I’m not here to judge you, I don’t know much about the hunting life but I can tell it's a hell of a stressful one.” John told him. “And if you want to talk, I’ll listen, but let me tell you something Sammy. Nothing you could ever have done or will do or anything in between, will ever make us think that you’re a lost cause.”

John nodded at him and without looking he threw the last knife at the target on the tree, hitting dead center once more. He walked past Sam and reached out to squeeze his shoulder.

“Just remember that.” he said before going back inside.

#supernatural #Supernatural fanfic #supernatural fanfiction #spn fanfiction #366 #119/366 #366 day challenge #366 days of writing #family broken apart au #Sam Winchester #dean winchester #john winchester

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miitgaanar · 5 years

Text

Misdirection

SERIES: Marvel SHIP: Cassie/Bucky Barnes and Cassie/Quentin Beck CHARACTERS: Cassie Theron, Bucky Barnes, Nick Fury, Quentin Beck, Maria Hill WORD COUNT: 5,137

Chapter 2

Ch. 1

***********************

For all that Cassie had seen in the last thirteen years, all of the death and trauma she’d lived through, you’d think that she would be fearless in the face of any and all obstacles.

But, as it turned out, that fearlessness didn’t extend to planes.

“How did you think we were gonna get there?” Bucky teased. “Sailboat?”

“I don’t like those much either, thank you,” Cassie replied, staring up at the massive onyx cargo plane Fury had managed to commandeer for them. The sunlight glinted brightly off of its aluminum paneling, forcing her to squint as she watched a group of engineers examine the engines and undercarriage. It was nerve wracking. “Flying over land is bad enough, but the ocean? Do you know how often the wrecks from plane crashes just go completely missing? And you likely wouldn’t die on impact. You’d be trapped in there. Clawing at the windows begging for air as the cabin fills with ruthless, icy water—”

“Okay! Okay, I get it, you hate the ocean,” Bucky quickly said, his hands outstretched as he sat down on one of the crates that had yet to be loaded into the cargo hold. He was infuriatingly okay with all of this, especially considering he wanted nothing to do with this whole world saving business.

“I don’t hate the ocean,” Cassie grumbled. “I just don’t trust it to not swallow me whole when plummeting from forty thousand feet in the air. ”

“How did you even survive that trip we took across the Atlantic to get to Europe?”

“First of all, I didn’t exactly have a choice in the matter. You were going whether I went with you or not.” Bucky’s face softened a bit at that. Those years they spent in hiding were dear to them both. It had been a weirdly simpler time, all things considered. “Second of all, I lived in perpetual fear that a rogue wave would capsize the ship before we made it to Spain.”

Bucky relieved himself of the black hoodie he’d come to favor, revealing a plain dark blue t-shirt underneath. He folded the cloth into a vaguely square shaped cushion as he rested his head back against the larger crate behind him, his hands clasped neatly over his abdomen. He had no right to be so at ease right now. “What I’m gathering from all of this is that you don’t travel well, and clearly we don’t travel enough if I’m just realizing this now.”

“I travel fine. I love traveling! Just, y’know, not in planes.”

“If we take a cruise after this mess, what kind of manic behavior can I expect from you?” Bucky’s smile was mocking. If she wasn’t so sure he would catch her fist before it came anywhere near him, she’d punch that smug smile right off his face.

“If we have clear skies and calm waters? I’ll be sunbathing on the deck and soaking in the pool.”

He raised his eyebrows. “And if we don’t?”

Cassie glared at him, huffing angrily. “I’ll be sleeping with my life vest on.”

Bucky hummed to himself. “Not as bad as I was picturing.”

“And what were you picturing?”

“You setting up shop in a lifeboat while I go clubbing.”

Cassie laughed out loud. “You? Clubbing? You’re like a hundred.”

“A hundred and seven, excuse you,” he corrected. “We just celebrated two months ago. Don’t be going senile on me already, babe. I don’t know if I can take it.”

She looked up at the plane again, her hands on her hips. “I take it back. I can’t wait to fly in this thing. I can just flip a switch and push you out the loading ramp.”

A deep, throaty chuckle escaped him, and she couldn’t help but smile in return. He had always been rather good at distracting her from the various anxieties that plagued her mind. It probably came from all of the demons that still haunted his.

“Are you two done? Or can we get this show on the road?” Fury strode over from where he had been overseeing the arduous process of getting the necessary tools and gadgets loaded onto the plane. “You’re sitting on my seismograph, Barnes.”

“Yeah? I gotta say it’s awfully comfy.” Not even the barest hint of amusement crossed Fury’s face. Bucky sighed and pushed himself to his feet, draping the hoodie over his shoulder as he came to stand next to her. “What do you even need something like that for?”

“These things don’t exactly come on quietly,” Fury said. “At least that’s what I gathered from the one we saw in Mexico. Beck said it was better to bring it along just in case.”

Bucky glanced around the abandoned tarmac. “Where is Houdini, anyway?”

Cassie wasn’t fast enough to stop the snort that escaped her, a hand flying up to her face with an audible smack to stifle her laughter. It turned out that Quentin Beck was not just your run of the mill soldier on his Earth, but something akin to what Tony Stark had been. The major difference lay in the fact that he could apparently use some kind of magic.

Bucky, for whatever reason, wasn’t convinced.

Fury pointedly ignored the quip. “He should be here soon. Said he wanted to make one last sweep of Manhattan to make sure he isn’t reading the signs wrong.”

“So he is coming with us?” Cassie asked. She still had some questions for their newfound ally, the most pertinent centered around this other dimension he claimed to hail from. And there was also the issue of his strange behavior around her. He hadn’t even so much as waved at her when they went their separate ways to prepare.

She needed some time to attempt to wheedle it all out of him, and a nine hour flight in the hold of a cargo plane seemed like the perfect place for that.

A frown pulled at the corner of her mouth. On second thought, best not think about how long the flight would be.

“As far as I know,” Fury said. “Don’t really know how keen he is on flying solo across the Atlantic.”

“Please,” Bucky pleaded half-heartedly, “don’t get her started.”

Cassie elbowed him in the gut, earning her a satisfying ‘oof’ from the larger man. Though it may have just been for her benefit.

Fury shook his head before turning to wander back toward the rear of the plane, calling over his shoulder, “Be ready to board in thirty minutes.”

“Oh, joy,” she mumbled, her hand coming up to press the heel of her palm to her forehead. The fact that she could already feel a headache blooming behind her eyes probably wasn’t a good sign. And she’d forgotten to buy gum for the flight. Great.

“So,” Bucky began, his gaze on the horizon. It was a beautiful day, with puffy, white clouds perfectly complimenting the sky’s azure coloring. Ideal flying weather. And if Beck was everything he claimed himself to be, they would be able to see him coming from miles away. “What do you really make of all of this?”

Cassie let out a long, deep breath through her nose, tucking a lock of her burgundy hair behind her ear. A loaded question if she’d ever heard one. “Well, monsters made of the four elements wouldn’t be the worst thing we’ve ever seen.”

He shook his head. “That’s not what I meant.” He looked down at her, his six-foot frame dwarfing her five-foot tall stature. “‘Another Earth’? Really?”

She shrugged, keeping her eyes on the horizon. If she squinted, she could make out the vague outline of the Manhattan skyline in the far distance, the skyscrapers piercing through the light haze shrouding the city like freshly sharpened knives. “It’s… definitely a lot. But not outside the realm of possibility, I guess.”

“Am I the only one here that smells a rat?” He sounded genuinely frustrated. “Even Fury seems on board with this whole thing.”

That was the most bizarre part of all of this. As much as she wanted to believe Beck’s story, something about it just didn’t feel right. Like she was missing something. She thought back to the way he spoke, his theatrical cadence. Even his bearing seemed… rehearsed, as ridiculous as that sounded. It was subtle, only just barely there, but enough to catch her attention, enough to make her wary.

And yet Fury believed him. Trusted him, even. And Fury didn’t trust anyone.

“There’s an odor for sure,” Cassie agreed. “But I’m not sure of the source yet.”

The familiar, cool touch of his metal hand on her chin sent a delightful shiver up her spine as he angled her face toward him, forcing her green eyed gaze to meet his. Beneath the light of the sun, his eyes were the color of snow-capped mountains.

“We don’t have to do this,” he said softly. Tenderly. “Just say the word and I’ll tell them all to go fuck themselves, and we can go home. Fury and the carnival sideshow can deal with whatever this is.”

She gnawed on her bottom lip. He would do it, she knew he would, but not just for her. He wanted peace, he wanted rest. There were others that could step in now, as Beck’s presence proved. There was no need for him, for either of them, to keep fighting, to continue to balance the fate of the world on their shoulders. Bucky more than deserved to live out the rest of his days as a simple, normal man. He had earned it decades ago, but now it was actually possible, within his grasp.

But she couldn’t rest. Not while those nightmares continued to haunt her. Not while plumes of ash floated through her mind like so many snowflakes.

And she hated herself for it. Because he would never let her take on the world’s enemies alone.

Cassie attempted a smile, though she was sure it must’ve come across as more of a grimace. Her hand came up to pat at his chest, the comforting feeling of his heartbeat beneath her fingers a balm on her frayed nerves. “It’s fine,” she said, her voice mercifully steady. “One last hoorah, huh? Then we can go on that cruise to the Bahamas, and we can see how that arm of yours holds up when surrounded by nothing but sand.”

The briefest flicker of disappointment shone in those ice blue eyes, the only sign that he had so hoped she would want a way out of this as much as he did. It was gone within the span of a single breath, replaced by a warm smile and loving gaze—but it was enough to make her heart drop into the very bowels of her stomach.

What a selfish, vile person she was.

“One last hoorah,” he said, his voice wistful. How many times had he been told that this time would be the last time? That he just needed to fight one more battle, and they would leave him be? “I guess we better make it a doozy.”

The corner of her mouth twitched upward, though the sour taste of bile coated her tongue. “I guess so, soldier boy.”

A small huff of a laugh slipped through his lips, but it was cut short as his gaze was drawn to something in the distance. He squinted, gently pushing Cassie behind him.

“What is it?” She followed his line of sight, expecting to see—well, she wasn’t exactly sure what she was expecting to see, but it certainly wasn’t Beck coming to a stop in midair before them, hovering at least ten feet off the ground.

With what looked like a mist filled glass orb where his head should be.

“Well, then,” Bucky said, his hands resting on his hips as he stared up at the interdimensional soldier, “son of a bitch can fly.”

——————————————————————

To Bucky’s credit, it took about thirty-two minutes into the flight for him to make a snide remark about Beck’s strange headgear.

Although, she wasn’t an entirely reliable source, as she spent pretty much every moment leading up to takeoff alternating between praying to whatever gods still deigned to listen and dissociating. She might have missed a quip or two.

“So, did you buy it at that gift shop on forty-first and sixth?” Bucky asked nonchalantly, his brow furrowed in faux-curiosity. What an asshole. “I always thought they had the best souvenir snow globes.”

“Bucky,” Cassie admonished, kicking at his shin from where she still sat in one of the seats lining the plane’s hollowed out cargo hold. They were far from the minimal comforts of even the cheapest accommodations on a commercial aircraft, the seats placed parallel to each other on either side of the hold and made of the same tightly stretched canvas you’d find on a military cot. Not even the slightest bit of cushioning lay between the occupant and its cold, metal frame, the mercilessly straight backed seat forcing you to sit with your back pressed flush against the meager padding that acted as a buffer between you and the hard surface of the wall.

The ability to recline and maybe exit the plane without a spinal injury wasn’t a top priority on a military grade transport, apparently.

“What?” Bucky didn’t even pretend to be remotely pained by her vain attempt to silence him. God, she hated him sometimes. “It’s an honest question.”

“Barnes,” Fury cut in, that same bluish hued hologram of the planet hovering in the air before him, somewhat distorting the clear irritation upon his face. Beck stood to his left, seemingly unperturbed by Bucky’s remark. “We’re now down to a little more than eight hours to get something resembling a plan together. Unless, of course, you’d prefer this be a ‘fly by the seat of your pants’ kind of mission?”

Bucky had the good sense to look properly chastised, straightening slightly as whatever mirth had been playing upon his features drained away into a blank mask of neutrality. Served him right.

“No, sir,” he said, his voice low and his body stiff. She had a feeling he was resisting the urge to stand at attention. A habit he had yet to break.

“As I was saying,” Fury said, “there’s been a spike in electromagnetic activity in a town on the coast of Morocco. I’d usually write it off as a sun flare or an anomaly in our satellites, but Mr. Beck assures me that this is a telltale sign of one of the Elementals preparing to attack.”

“They draw their energy from the earth,” Beck said, studying the hologram intensely. “We were always able to predict where they would hit next by the electromagnetic pulses they emitted. Sometimes seismic activity, as well. It depended on which one we were facing.”

“And what are the signs pointing to now, Mr. Beck?” Cassie asked.

Beck was quiet, his gaze locked on that highlighted point at the north-western tip of Africa, his brow furrowed in concentration. “Have there been any drastic changes in the weather, Director?”

Fury glanced over his shoulder toward where Maria Hill was standing a few feet behind him, her sharp features accentuated by the rather harsh fluorescent lighting. “Satelites indicate a storm is brewing a few miles off the coast. Morocco’s known to be pretty dry this time of year, but an errant storm wouldn’t be entirely out of character.”

Beck hummed, his eyes still focused on that single splotch of red in a sea of blue. “Can you overlay the satellite imagery with this hologram?”

Fury nodded and Hill rapidly keyed something into the tablet she had resting in the crook of her arm. A second later, the hologram changed from a flat, texture-less view of the planet to what she could only assume was a live view of Earth and the various storm cells that dotted its surface. To the southwest of their destination sat a rather large cluster of clouds, the dark gray mass undulating slowly as it made its way toward land.

“There,” Beck said, pointing at that swirling bundle of clouds. “Far too close to the source of those pulses for my taste. That must be it.”

“And what exactly is ‘it,’ Beck?” Bucky asked, only just the barest hint of edge to his words.

“The air Elemental,” Beck said, his voice grave. “Back on my world, it was known to take the form of cyclones, masking its presence within massive storm cells. We usually didn’t realize it until it was too late.”

“It’s also hurricane season, y’know.” Bucky locked eyes with Cassie briefly before he continued. He was fishing for any inconsistencies in Beck’s story, inconsistencies she could hopefully exploit whenever she got a moment to talk to him. “Sure, it’s a bit early for something this big, but climate change has been kind of a bitch lately, hasn’t it?”

Beck shook his head. “The Elementals rely on such assumptions, Sergeant Barnes. They know how to fool you. They fooled the people on my Earth long enough to get a foothold, and we were never able to recover.”

Bucky just released a resigned sigh. “So, what’s the plan? Not exactly sure how we fight a storm.”

“Leave that to me,” Beck said, and Cassie couldn’t help but quirk an eyebrow at the subtle change in his demeanor. His voice was sharper, confidence bleeding into every word. He stood just a bit straighter, his shoulders a solid frame upon which his golden armor and plum colored cape sat. The very embodiment of a soldier ready for war. “I have experience fighting these monsters. Were it up to me, I’d have involved none of you in this.”

“But it’s not up to you,” Fury interjected. “I am the authority on the safety of this planet, so all plans go through me first.”

Beck turned to face him, his hands held out in a placating gesture. “Of course. I meant no disrespect. It’s just that I know them. I’ve fought them countless times in countless battles. I know how they work and what will bring them down.”

“And I know a suicide mission when I see one,” Fury snapped, staring down Beck with an intensity that would have sent any sane man running—but Beck’s shoulders simply slumped, his lips pressed together into a tight, thin line, and he was silent.

An emotion Cassie was afraid to place suddenly seized at her heart, her gaze drifting down to stare at the scuffed, gray floor. Anything was better than having to see the stricken look that now sat in plain view upon Beck’s face.

A look she knew all too well.

“Barnes,” Hill spoke up, breaking the tense silence that had settled over them. “We need you to go through our inventory and decide what you think you’re gonna need.”

Bucky snorted. “I don’t think a grenade launcher’s gonna be much help against a cloud.”

Hill raised a single, finely manicured brow, her lips twisting into a wry smile. “Would you rather go running into a mass of panicked and terrified people unarmed and wearing jeans and a t-shirt?”

Bucky’s rather self-assured expression crumpled into something akin to embarrassment, a muscle in his jaw feathering as he undoubtedly resisted another witty retort. After a beat, and yet another resigned sigh, he strode forward to follow Hill toward the rear of the plane where numerous wooden crates lay strapped to the steel floor, mumbling under his breath all the while.

Fury regarded Beck with a steely-eyed gaze. “Keep thinkin’ on that plan. The clock’s ticking, and by the looks of that storm, we’re gonna be cutting it close.”

With that, Fury turned on his heel to follow Hill and Bucky, their voices echoing indistinctly against the bare, metal walls as they rummaged through crates of supplies and weaponry.

A hot pang of irritation rippled through Cassie as she watched him go. As much as she knew that she was only there to ensure Bucky followed through with his agreement, it didn’t exactly lessen the sting of being so blatantly left out of all of the prep and planning.

She let out a long, drawn out breath through her nose as she crossed her arms over her chest. Whatever, she’d find a way to make herself useful.

She glanced sidelong at Beck, his expression willfully blank as he stared up at the hologram that continued in its slow rotation, his jaw clenched tight enough to show the strain in the muscles along his cheeks.

Well, she’d wanted time to talk. She certainly had it now.

“Don’t mind him,” she began, allowing a small, amiable smile to grace her lips. Beck started at the sound of her voice before he looked at her, as if he had forgotten she was there. She fought against the urge to scream. “He was never really the most cheerful guy around, but since he came back after being dust for five years, he’s been an especially giant dick.”

Beck emitted a soft, amused hmph, the slight quirk of his lips hardly visible from where she sat a mere few feet from him. “I’ve fought under men like him before. They mean well, but they’re never ready to relinquish even a modicum of their power to someone else, no matter how qualified that person may be to take command.”

Cassie leaned forward in her seat, her legs crossing at the knee as her chin came to rest in the palm of her hand. The picture of interest. There was no better way to get someone to talk—especially a man. “So, you really were a soldier, then."

“Still am, as far as I can tell,” he said, gesturing to the space around them. “The last of a lost battalion, it would seem.”

Her head tilted to the side a fraction. He hadn’t been the only one fighting them, then. “There were others? Like you, I mean.”

He hesitated, taking a deep breath before he answered. “Yes. Many others, in fact. My battalion specialized in arcane warfare. It was the only thing that seemed to have any effect on the Elementals.”

“You all fought with magic?” She didn’t have to fake her surprise. She thought he’d have been the only one with such power. “Does that mean you all had this whole—” She gestured up toward her face, her finger making a circular motion around her head, “—thing going on?”

A quiet chuckle escaped him, and Cassie couldn’t help the triumphant smirk that pulled at her mouth. This was a far cry from the Quentin Beck she’d met in the warehouse. “Those of the arcana, yes,” he replied, taking a step toward her, his hands clasped in front of him. “A sign of our experience and rank. A beacon for the infantry to flock to on the battlefield.”

“You weren’t part of the rank and file, then.” Her smile turned cheeky, teasing. Now she was getting somewhere. “Should Bucky and I be standing at attention when you enter the room?”

“No, no.” He shook his head, his eyes crinkling in amusement. “Not at all. Besides, I’d say Sergeant Barnes and I are on pretty equal footing.”

Her brow shot up. “You’re a sergeant?”

He made an uncertain hand motion. “Sergeant equivalent, I’d say. I lead my own squad, but I still have plenty of people to answer to, if that’s what you mean.”

“Interesting,” she said, and she meant it. “Did you lead a squad of magic users? Or were you put in charge of a bunch of poor saps with guns?”

His face fell, and she knew she’d overstepped. “We were all of the arcana, yes.”

She caught his use of the past tense, her playful mask slipping as a terrible dread settled into her blood.

“You know,” he said, his voice soft. Perhaps even sad. “I don’t know what happened to them. I haven’t really had much time to think about it. We were among the remnants of a final attempt at a counter offensive. A last ditch effort to salvage what was left of the world.”

A yawning pit opened up in her chest, his expression uncomfortably familiar. She thought of Bucky and the survivor’s guilt that still tore at his heart. More than once she’d caught him staring at the various World War II memorials they’d come across in their time together, his face blank and his eyes hard. He didn’t talk about that part of his life very often, but she knew it played more than a small role in whatever nightmares jolted him from his sleep.

She swallowed, suddenly hesitant to probe into Beck’s all too recent grief. Bucky’s still ached after all this time, with decades to heal and forget.

“I’m sorry,” she said softly, averting her gaze to the floor as a sudden wave of shame washed over her. The gentle rumble of the plane’s engines filled the silence, the noise almost overtaking the hushed discussions coming from somewhere toward the back. “I didn’t mean—”

“Don’t be,” he said, and Cassie looked up to meet his gaze. A faint fondness danced in his light eyes. “I’m just surprised. This is the first time anyone’s asked about me since I got here, not just what I know.”

That only made her shame deepen, her hands fidgeting where they lay in her lap. She’d been so eager to pick apart his story, to find the source of that nagging suspicion that had vexed her since he walked through the doors of the warehouse, that she hadn’t even considered the road the led Beck here, the loss and horror he had experienced.

And he was grateful for it, for her probing questions and playful curiosity, because he thought her to be the first to see him as a person, not as an asset.

Just as Bucky had been all those years ago.

A terrible burning sensation crept its way up her throat. She wanted to throw up.

“Still,” she managed to say, trying her best to hide how her hands trembled, “that was insensitive of me. You’ve been through a lot. The last thing you want to do is answer a million questions about your life back on your world.”

“It’s more a comfort than you might think,” he said, taking another step toward her. He stood less than three strides from her, and she could see now that his face had softened considerably. “I don’t want them to have died in obscurity. I don’t want this all to have been for nothing. Talking about them, no matter how vague the terms, makes me feel like they’re still here with me, even worlds away.”

If only she could relate to that. Just the mere thought of Bucky, of all they had lost after that fateful day, had been enough to send her into a grief fueled rage. She hadn’t wanted to remember, she hadn’t wanted to reminisce—she had wanted them all back. Memories did little but make her ache for a future she couldn’t have.

She could only hope that Beck wouldn’t wind up like that, bitter and angry and filled with the desperate desire to join those he’d lost.

“We find comfort where we can,” she agreed, suddenly weary.

Beck smiled in return, though it was tight and strained. It reminded her of the smile he had given her upon their first introduction, and the fondness she had seen in his eyes had dissipated into something heavier, something like… yearning.

And she found it made her distinctly uncomfortable.

“Uh, Mr. Beck?” she tried, a nervous smile playing upon her lips. “Everything okay?”

He blinked a few times, as if he were fighting back tears. “Yes, of course. My apologies. It’s just…” he trailed off, his voice thick. He looked at her as if he had seen a ghost, a ghost he longed to be of this Earth once more. “You remind me of someone, is all.”

It was like a punch to the chest, forcing all of the air out of her lungs in one swift exhale. She knew that tone, had used it more times than she could count.

But she never realized how much it would hurt to be on the receiving end of it.

Cassie pushed herself to her feet, moving to close the distance between them, to offer some sort of comfort. Anything at all. Anything to push that agony back into the recesses of her mind where it belonged, to wipe away the ashes that clouded her vision.

“Mr. Beck—” she began, her hand outstretched. A strange look crossed his face, one that made her hesitate. What could she possibly say to him? She thought of every platitude she’d ever heard, and how much she hated every single one of them. They were a reflex, something to say to make yourself feel better, with no real consideration for the one in need of genuine compassion.

And there were no words that could fill the hole in his heart, just as there had been none to fill the hole in hers.

It was then, right as she opened her mouth to speak, that the telltale sound of combat boots upon the metal floor reached her ears. She looked away from Beck, an overwhelming feeling of relief rushing through her as she saw Bucky approaching. He was newly outfitted in loose, black cargo pants and a fitted black shirt that was conveniently missing the left sleeve, leaving the dark silver metal of his arm free to glint brightly beneath the fluorescent lighting.

And based on the tentative smile on his face, he could see something was wrong.

“Everything okay over here?” he asked, his right arm wrapping itself around her waist, pulling her close to his side. He kept his voice light, conversational, but his grip on her told a different story.

“We’re fine,” she said, looking up at him with what she could only hope was a subtle, pleading expression. I’ll tell you later, she thought. Just let it go. “Just talking. You know how I am when I’m nervous. I babble like an idiot.”

Bucky must’ve caught the hint, because he merely rolled his eyes. “Better him than me.”

She forced a laugh as Beck wandered wordlessly over toward where Fury and Hill now stood around the hologram, joining them in their continued planning. “Real charming, Barnes.”

He chuckled, leaning down to press a quick kiss to her lips, his hold on her tightening a fraction.

And out of the corner of her eye, she spied Beck watching them, his hand fidgeting with that simple gold band upon his ring finger.

#otp: tell me who I am #otp: misdirection #fic: misdirection #big Oof at that word count guys #writings from Mandalore #god this is so bad im sorry

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bastardtravel · 6 years

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August 11, 2018. Portsmouth, New Hampshire.

In the deepest hidden recesses of the internet, on a vague Wikipedia page about “brewing in New Hampshire“, I learned that there is one beer that stands above all others. It is a Russian imperial stout lovingly handcrafted by an unusually tall hill dwarf, undoubtedly from an ancient recipe that his clan brought from under the mountain untold ages ago.

Wikipedia claims it is “the best beer in America” and also “the most sought-after beer in America”. It’s called Kate the Great, and legend has it that it can only be obtained by locating this master brewer on his home turf, the Portsmouth Brewery, and praying to whatever gods you keep that the stars have aligned and it’s in season.

It was drizzling on Mystery Hill, but it hadn’t quite started to monsoon in Portsmouth yet. Thunderclouds loomed in the sky like hanged men, shrouding the little downtown in portentous darkness. Everyone we encountered hated us. This isn’t altogether foreign to me, I’ve chosen the Bastard moniker for a reason, but the Girl tends toward amicability and we hadn’t done anything yet.

In The Shadow Over Innsmouth, an archaeologist crossing New England in search of genealogical information finds a foggy, derelict port town. He thinks it might be interesting to check out, so he books a room and pokes around. The locals seem to share a common deformity, a scaling skin disease, puffing around the face and eyes, and unusual hydrocephaly. They spurn him outright. We’re talking like, Amish shunning. The inhabitants call him an outsider and refuse to sell him anything. They bar most public places against him, and retreat into their homes if they see him on the street. As the novella goes on, he discovers that the inhabitants of Innsmouth have been interbreeding with a race of cannibal fish-people, the Deep Ones, who conduct grisly rites in worship of a bloodthirsty aquatic god called Dagon.

I thought the parallels were cute at first, but as our time in Portsmouth wore on, they got more distressing. We’d driven across New Hampshire into an HD remaster of Call of Cthulhu: Dark Corners of the Earth.

The Portsmouth Brewery was wall-to-wall with people, easily the most active building in the town. The hostess sneered that the wait for a table would be 20 minutes. The Girl said that would be fine, and asked if we could get a drink while we wait.

“Yeah, I guess.”

We dodged around the teeming masses of people and, for some reason, all their infant children, to get to the bar. When did the bringing babies into bars phenomenon start? And why? Babies don’t go in bars. Babies go in, I don’t know, parks. McDonald’s Playplace.

Eventually, the girl tending came over to us.

“Hey, we’re here treasure hunting,” I said, trying for charming. “Legend has it this is our best shot at getting Kate the Great. Do you have that right now?”

She scoffed. “We’ll never serve THAT beer again.”

I exchanged a glance with the Girl.

“Is this like, a sensitive subject?”

“No,” she said, providing the exposition she really should have led with, “It’s just, the brewer just quit working here, it was this whole big thing, so we don’t have Kate the Great anymore.”

“Do you know where he went?”

“He opened his own brewery, Tributary. It’s in Maine. But here, you can see our draft list.”

This was technically true. It was in Maine, across a bridge, an 8 minute drive from our present location. It was also technically true that we could see the draft list. It consisted entirely of IPAs, which would have been clutch if I’d ever liked one.

“Can we have a minute to think about it?” the Girl asked. The bartender nodded and drifted off. We escaped to the place next door, which had a similar draft list, substituting one of the IPAs with Budweiser which it listed as a “light lager”.

“I can’t Yelp,” the Girl said. “This is impossible. Two for two. You do it. I’m losing hope.”

dolphins have had it good for TOO LONG

A few blocks away was a brewery called Earth Eagle, which specialized in a hopless proto-beer called “gruit”. It’s a Danish word, and should be pronounced “gryoo-IT”, but I pronounce it groot and will continue to do so until dead.

We made our way past the cute little technicolor New England cottages to Earth Eagle. Random assignment from day two of any outdoor music festival would give you the clientele. It was also crowded, but not as bad as the Portsmouth Brewery.

“Could we sit outside?” the Girl asked. The waitress glared at us balefully.

“You can if you want,” she said. “But it’s gonna rain.”

“If it starts to get bad, we’ll move back in,” the Girl said.

“You should probably just sit inside.”

The Girl was ready to fight her on this. She was hangry. I’m always hangry, and so I’ve developed a tolerance. I steered her aside.

“Not worth it,” I said. “If we sit outside, no one’s going to come take our order.”

It looked like no one was going to anyway. After a while, one of the Deep Ones waddled over, and we ordered gruit. It tasted like beer-flavored juice. They also played the entirety of Rancid’s “And Out Come the Wolves”. I found that suspicious. Like they were humoring me, and when I left they’d return to their backward recordings of whale song and those high-pitched meditation bowls.

The scene was about to turn. I could hear them sharpening their knives. During the next ponderous waitress’ circuit, we waylaid, paid, and am-scrayed.

“I’m so hungry,” the Girl said. “This is where we die.”

“Very possible. I’ll bet they have a sacrificial table here, too.”

“Bastard, we need to find something,” she said. “I’ll go back in there and eat tofu puffs if I have to.”

“Don’t talk like that,” I said. “Listen. We’ll go back to the pizza place. We don’t need to drink there. We’ll just get a pizza. It’s impossible to ruin pizza.”

She was hesitant, but I kept saying, “Huh? Piiizza?”, and that eventually won her over. That’s a pro strat for you, fellas. No charge. Just remember where you learned it.

They were kinder at the pizza place, probably because it was in a basement full of aquariums, and being below sea level and surrounded by their brethren soothed the agitated merfolk. They had a giant neon sign for RED HOOK, which I presumed to be of “The Horror At” fame, and would have won me a prize had I remembered my Mythos bingo card.

We asked the first pleasant waitress in New Hampshire for garlic and it baffled her.

“Garlic? Like, whole garlic?”

“No, like, powder,” the Girl said. “Or salt, if that’s all you have.”

“We… might have some in the kitchen.”

“That’s only a thing where we’re from,” I told her. “When I went west, none of the pizza places had garlic. A lot of ’em didn’t even have oregano.”

The Girl looked as though she might cry. “But… but why?”

“Forgive them. They know not what they do.”

We were given this.

garçon! a ration of garlic powder, s’il vous plait, and your finest sprinkling fork

We walked back out into the building tempest. The fishfolk were growing stronger as it became soggier. It was like you could hear the Jaws theme playing in the distance.

“We gotta look at the whale wall,” I said. “That’s like the only other attraction. Then we get the hell out of here.”

We looked at the whale wall. It was both.

Then, we scurried back to the car.

mood

Unfortunately, the Deep Ones were lying in wait for us. A supply truck was sitting in the middle of the street, right next to my car, parking us and only us in. I couldn’t get around it, and there wasn’t enough sidewalk for any real desperate escape maneuvers. I waited, crouched in the driver’s seat with a fileting knife clutched to my chest. The Girl sat shotgun, slowly pumping up a super soaker full of tartar sauce.

Some other lost tourist/genealogist had parked in front of us, and finally returned to her car. She got the hell out of my way and we made our daring escape.

We crossed the bridge into Maine. It immediately stopped raining. Whatever ancient cult magic held sway in Portsmouth didn’t extend beyond its borders.

Tributary Brewing Company even had a parking lot for free! It was busy, as one would expect for the chosen brewery of the creator of America’s alleged best beer. We sat on the bench along the wall and had a flight and took in the ambiance, most of which consisted of impressionist paintings of this dude’s face.

Mott the Lesser is what he renamed Kate the Great, presumably in order to avoid legal disputes with Portsmouth Brewing. It wasn’t in season, but that was all right. Ask Tennyson. It was never about the Grail. The quest is all.

The man himself sat at a table, eating his lunch and grinning the grin of a man presently living his dreams. He was surrounded by a squadron of adoring Dads. I will admit the dude had an aura, and his biere de miel and porter were magnificent. The porter tasted like smoked joy.

We went next door to a tasteful mermaid-themed restaurant with walls colored in equally tasteful mermaid tiddy art. In retrospect, I should have photographed that, instead of whatever the hell it was we ate. (I know mine was scallops, and I know they were excellent).

Our next stop, continuing with the supernatural theme along New England’s eldritch ley lines, would lead us to the most haunted restaurant in America.

But that’s a spooky campfire story for another day.

Love,

The Bastard

The Shadow Over Portsmouth August 11, 2018. Portsmouth, New Hampshire. In the deepest hidden recesses of the internet, on a vague Wikipedia page about "

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bastardtravel · 6 years

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August 11, 2018. Portsmouth, New Hampshire.

In the deepest hidden recesses of the internet, on a vague Wikipedia page about “brewing in New Hampshire“, I learned that there is one beer that stands above all others. It is a Russian imperial stout lovingly handcrafted by an unusually tall dwarven man straight out of Lord of the Rings, undoubtedly from an ancient recipe that his clan brought from under the mountain untold ages ago.

“Yeah, I guess.”

Eventually, the girl tending came over to us.

“Hey, we’re here treasure hunting,” I said, trying for charming. “Legend has it this is our best shot at getting Kate the Great. Do you have that right now?”

She scoffed. “We’ll never serve THAT beer again.”

I exchanged a glance with the Girl.

“Is this like, a sensitive subject?”

“Do you know where he went?”

“He opened his own brewery, Tributary. It’s in Maine. But here, you can see our draft list.”

“I can’t Yelp,” the Girl said. “This is impossible. Two for two. You do it. I’m losing hope.”

dolphins have had it good for TOO LONG

“Could we sit outside?” the Girl asked. The waitress glared at us balefully.

“You can if you want,” she said. “But it’s gonna rain.”

“If it starts to get bad, we’ll move back in,” the Girl said.

“You should probably just sit inside.”

The Girl was ready to fight her on this. She was hangry. I’m always hangry, and so I’ve developed a tolerance. I steered her aside.

“Not worth it,” I said. “If we sit outside, no one’s going to come take our order.”

The scene was about to turn. I could hear them sharpening their knives. During the next ponderous waitress’ circuit, we waylaid, paid, and am-scrayed.

“I’m so hungry,” the Girl said. “This is where we die.”

“Very possible. I’ll bet they have a sacrificial table here, too.”

“Bastard, we need to find something,” she said. “I’ll go back in there and eat tofu puffs if I have to.”

“Don’t talk like that,” I said. “Listen. We’ll go back to the pizza place. We don’t need to drink there. We’ll just get a pizza. It’s impossible to ruin pizza.”

She was hesitant, but I kept saying, “Huh? Piiizza?”, and that eventually won her over. That’s a pro strat for you, fellas. No charge. Just remember where you learned it.

We asked the first pleasant waitress in New Hampshire for garlic and it baffled her.

“Garlic? Like, whole garlic?”

“No, like, powder,” the Girl said. “Or salt, if that’s all you have.”

“We… might have some in the kitchen.”

“That’s only a thing where we’re from,” I told her. “When I went west, none of the pizza places had garlic. A lot of ’em didn’t even have oregano.”

The Girl looked as though she might cry. “But… but why?”

“Forgive them. They know not what they do.”

We were given this.

garçon! a ration of garlic powder, s’il vous plait, and your finest sprinkling fork

We walked back out into the building tempest. The fishfolk were growing stronger as it became soggier. It was like you could hear the Jaws theme playing in the distance.

“We gotta look at the whale wall,” I said. “That’s like the only other attraction. Then we get the hell out of here.”

We looked at the whale wall. It was both.

Then, we scurried back to the car.

mood

Some other lost tourist/genealogist had parked in front of us, and finally returned to her car. She got the hell out of my way and we made our daring escape.

We crossed the bridge into Maine. It immediately stopped raining. Whatever ancient cult magic held sway in Portsmouth didn’t extend beyond its borders.

Our next stop, continuing with the supernatural theme along New England’s eldritch ley lines, would lead us to the most haunted restaurant in America.

But that’s a spooky campfire story for another day.

Love,

The Bastard

The Shadow Over Portsmouth August 11, 2018. Portsmouth, New Hampshire. In the deepest hidden recesses of the internet, on a vague Wikipedia page about "

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