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morphituu · 4 years

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Milagro

Chapter 17: Summer Showers

Ch: 1 - 2 - 3 - 4 - 5 - 6 - 7 - 8 - 9 - 10 - 11 - 12 - 13 - 14 - 15 - 16

Oh, how he loved her like this.

It wasn’t just the way her mouth hung open in constant, delicious moans, nor was it the way her breathing hitched, a wide smile meeting his when hitting a favorable spot. Not even how fucking wet she was; he could hear everything happening.

It was the way she looked at him. Like he’d been the one to choose the colors of every sunset painted across LA every night. He felt like a masterpiece when she looked at him like that.

She absolutely fucking adored him and it showed in the way she secured his massive hands over her misty skin, bringing him along for that blinding race of euphoria that riddled her body with juicy shudders, her eyes cutting down to find his as she came upon the crest of her orgasm. The breathless shouts in his name, barely able to get out that she was cumming until she was crashing down all around him.

“Fuck, Callie,” he’d pant, her thighs twitching under his palms and breasts trembling.

Loud, throaty moans broke past his jaws when she pulsated around him, her smile growing wider and her fingertips ghosting down his thick, chiseled chest, continuing to ride his rigid cock.

Callie knew how close he was by the way his arms grew weak, his head raising off the pillow weakly, yet his eyes remaining shut tight.

A few more smooth rolls of her hips and some encouraging whispers later, and the grip at her sides was enough to make her whimper, a few languid pumps of his hips slapping softly in the stuffy room. He whimpered in time with the thick shots of cum shooting into her, the severity of his hold lessening when his stomach unclenched and wide shoulders lowered back into the sheets.

She rode out the last of him slowly, kissing his palm that reached blindly to touch her face. He cradled her cheek as her cunt massaged his slowly shrinking dick, the small bursts of tenderness making him twitch under her.

There was a low purr that mingled with the deep breaths he exhaled, his chest slowing as hers did. Sweat clung to both of them, her sloppily pinned hair even messier around her sticky shoulders and neck.

Callie ran her nails upwards along her scalp, holding the loose hair atop her head. “Esta bien?”

Nick nodded without opening his eyes, his wide hand dragging in a slow circle across her round stomach. “You?”

She nodded, reaching for his hands to lean into as she lifted off him. Nick tensed and whined as he slid out, his heavy dick falling onto his lower stomach.

Callie leaned over her stomach for a quick kiss before waddling to the bathroom, her last steps rushed when the extra weight of Leo pressed on her already touchy bladder.

The locks of hair that had fallen around her face were pinned back up as she relieved herself, in addition tenderly checking her sore earlobe after Nick had accidentally yanked when he hooked a finger in one of her hoops. She cringed, expecting a torn lobe but was relieved to find only minor swelling.

No more hoops during stripteases. Callie was mid-wipe when something felt… unfamiliar.

Her brows furrowed as the bizarre sensation of what she expected to be able to clean up quickly prompted her to look down, and gaze curiously at what she’d… produced?

“Is this from me?” she mumbled, holding the tissue at arms length.

Her eyes flickered to the door. “Nick?” she called out.

Her eyes followed every pass he made, from bedside table to sliding door, but just because she sat calmly at the edge of their bed with the phone pressed between her ear and shoulder did not mean her outward appearance accurately portrayed how she felt. It had only been about forty-five seconds she’d been on hold but Callie was certain something closer to ten minutes had in fact passed.

“Do we even have a hospital bag ready?” Nick asked out loud, suddenly looking in all corners of the room. “Does Leo!?”

Callie didn’t stop him when he suddenly zoomed from the room, surely scouring Leos’, in search of the bag that too did not exist. The receiver picked up, and Callie snapped her fingers fervently. “Hi Doctor Sangui!” she said louder than necessary, and Nick was near tripping into the room half a second later.

“Yes- yeah, I’m calling because um- well me and Nick had just… finished, and I went to use the bathroom and this mucousy clot came out of me,” Callie reiterated flusteredly, scowling at her poor elaboration.

Nick stood anxiously, his arms crossed and rocking side to side as he listened.

“Uh-huh, yes. Yeah it was,” she spoke, eyes jumping here and there. “Nope those haven’t been consistent at all. Nope. No I’m good right now, no pain,” she answered, and then there was a long pause as she listened intently, but the more her face soured as the seconds ticked by, the more unease grew in Nick’s stomach.

“Speaker phone! Speaker phone! ” he tried hissing, but was silenced.

“So I should be alright then? No need to go in?” Callie verified, giving Nick the thumbs up to rest some of his worries she could see immediately fall off his shoulders. “Okay, thank you so much! We- yes next week, yep, you too, thank you, bye.” She finished, ending the call.

“It’s all good?” Nick still asked.

“It’s called a mucus plug,” she cringed, and although just the sound of it was off putting, his curiosity was greater.

“Plug?” he repeated.

“She said it’s like a barrier from the outside to keep infections out, and when it falls out it’s a precursor to birth,” she brought her hands together, her lips pursed as she too absorbed that vital, terrifying, exciting little piece of knowledge bestowed only moments ago, but she was far more concerned with Nick’s subtle signs of distress.

It was how he looked down at her stomach, then crossed his arms tight- like they suddenly felt empty. There was a weak smile, then in a few blinks she could’ve sworn his color was paling.

“Baby? You need to sit down?” she asked, almost about to stand when he waved his hand.

It was a few beats later before Nick could ask without feeling like he would vomit, “How- how soon, is um… soon? How now- um, soon?” he struggled, suddenly flustered and clasping his hands to keep their shake out of Callie’s sight.

“She said it could be hours or weeks,” Callie exhaled, her toes curling when he held his head and spun away, ambling into the hallway. “Are you breathing?” she called, watching him lean against the wall adjacent to the open door so he could still look at her.

He patted his chest, shaking his head. “ Hours? ”

“It’s either or baby,” she tried to comfort him, but the anxiety was rising in her like water coming to a rolling boil. “Is- is this too much? Is it finally hitting home?” she asked in a panic, her hands fisting at her sides.

“What- no!” he exclaimed, honestly taken aback. “Baby, baby no,” he had her face in his hands once coming back to her, leaning down to press loving kisses to her lips. “I just didn’t expect hours to be an option,”

“Me too,” she half laughed, holding onto his wrists. “Do you still wanna go today?”

“Do you? Are you feeling okay?” he checked, angling her face up so the light revealed her glowing skin that had come back after another bout of morning sickness.

“I’m good, first time all day I haven’t had any cramps actually and I don’t want to sit around here just waiting for something to happen if we do still have weeks,”

“You better not be lying just to avoid the hospital,”

“I like hospitals, mensito,” she clarified, gripping his hips to hoist herself up. “It’s the pelvic exams I’m trying to avoid,” she kissed his chin.

“ Calista ,” he barked.

“You know I’m joking, calm down daddy,” she patted his chest while waddling back towards bathroom, leaving Nick to chuff and glare at her backside.

“Why don’t we have bags packed?” Nick called, leaning in the doorway of the bathroom as she undressed with the shower already on.

“Cuz we’re waiting to see what we get at the shower today, remember?” she reminded, suddenly groaning and holding her stomach.

“What!? Whaav whaav !?” he panicked, rushing to her side.

She pouted up at him. “We’re hungry,”

It took a moment before Nick could calm down enough to chuff angrily at her, stomping out of the bathroom.

“Nick it’s a joke!” she laughed, leaning out of the doorway to watch him trudge into the bedroom.

“It’s not funny!”

She rolled her eyes while stepping back to the shower, cranking it to near boiling temperatures.

“No lava showers or I’ll hide all your maternity jeans!” Nick yelled on cue. Callie rolled her eyes again, adjusting the levels ever so slightly.

↠

Nick turned his jaw side to side to carefully observe his reflection, more so the deep scars that at last were fading into a less prominent tone across his brows, cheek and chin. He tilted his head and flicked his half severed ear; he’d surely never grow completely used to that, just like his filed tusks. His yellow eyes moved down to his chest in the foggy reflection of the mirror, and before he grabbed the damp towel to ball into the crook of his arm, he wiped the mirror down in the steamy room to better see how his image changed.

No matter how at ease he tried to appear holding the mock baby, he still found himself feeling awkward and stiff, even with both arms cradling the balled up towel.

He tried to imagine Leo there, with no idea how he’d look or how he’d react to his father cradling him despite the more than lively response he always received when whispering softly to Callie’s stomach.

But this just didn’t feel right.

Cuz you’re holding a towel, dumbass. Don’t overthink it. Nick tossed the towel into the hamper and with a few small spurts of his cologne across his chest, he walked out of the steamy bathroom.

“Hey you almost ready?” he peaked in the room, but didn’t find her there.

“I’m reh-ee,”

Ahh, kitchen. Nick grabbed his shoes before heading across the house, stifling a snort once coming upon her with both cheeks full of food. “Are you breathing between bites?”

“Fuh you,” she glared, chewing forcefully.

“Do you not want any of the food there?” he asked, ripping off a small piece of the kimchi she already had wrapped around a bite of rice.

“When he’s hungry there’s no waiting,” she better spoke this time, rocking side to side as she took the next hearty bite. “This is his favorite,” she noted, her eyes fluttering in pure delight.

Nick nodded, he too wrapping his own little bites up as she went on to dance goofily beside him, picking up small pieces of pork leftover from the previous nights dinner. The prior motive to leave was momentarily paused as they snacked, Nick wrapping little bites and feeding them to her as she loosely braided her long hair over her shoulder.

“Do you have a bathing suit packed?” he asked, but she shook her head.

“Wearing it underneath,” she chewed, and he spotted the bikini ties at the back of her neck. “I don’t even know if I’ll swim, honestly,”

“What, why?” he exclaimed. “If I have to swim you have to,”

“Do you have a globe attached to your stomach? I look like a planet,” she grumbled, sucking her fingertips clean.

Nick sucked his teeth clean, his eyes dragging up from her painted toenails and over the spaghetti strapped, navy blue sun dress that flowed gently down to above her knees, continuing on to her bare face that was grinning up at him with a cocked brow, her own pink scars now a part of the smooth plain of her face.

“If you were a planet you’d be the moon cuz you’re glowing,” he professed lovingly, and even though the comment on her size ruffled her feathers some, she couldn’t be mad at him. She felt like a star he’d talk to secretly every night, professing his love tenderly in ways that still surprised her.

Instead, she lightly punched his chest, finishing the last of the kimchi and rice.

“Ready then?” he asked.

A few more well balanced spins and the salsa’s she’d made were out of the fridge and added to the other items they carried in a couple beach bags hung on Nick’s arm, then coming to steady herself against his shoulder as she slipped her sandals on. With a few quick taps to their security system, he was walking slowly after her, swallowing low chuckles when watching her waddle side to side. From behind she was still small and curvy; it was fascinating when she’d turn to reveal that pregnancy swell that was quickly becoming the culprit of a few tip overs in recent days when her little legs couldn’t keep her upright.

Nick wouldn’t let her even attempt climbing into the truck until he had hands on her frame, ready to catch her if she tumbled back despite the low protests.

“Baby I can do it myself,” she grunted, but he scoffed.

“Just wait a second-” Nick called, struggling to pull his jeans up whilst Callie was already grabbing her keys.

“I’m fine, I need to get out of the house,” she waved him off, slipping out the front door after looping her purse onto the crook of her arm.

“Cal!” Nick called, growling when the button to his jeans didn’t agree with him. “Callie!”

“I’ll bring back snacks!”

“Stubborn-” he grumbled, hastily pulling his shoes on. “Brat!”

He was across the house- without his phone, but whatever- in two seconds, throwing the door open and gliding across the patio and down the stairs just as she’d hoisted herself up onto the running board of the truck.

“Callie c’mon,”

She only turned enough to look at him, but that small shift threw off her balance. Her grip was neither strong or prepared for her center of gravity to swing, and her own stomach flung her back onto the hard concrete below.

Only a semblance of her name was punched from him before bolting to her side in panic.

“If you hadn’t distracted me…” she murmured, but he pinched her thigh.

“If you would’ve kept your ass on that couch, you mean?” he corrected, but she stopped him.

“How do you expect me to be okay sitting around all day?”

“The same way I expect you to ask me to take you somewhere, anywhere you want as long as it means you’re not doing things that are gonna put you and Leo at risk,” Nick spoke vehemently, stifling Callie’s quick remarks.

She stared irritably, fingers drumming against her stomach. Her Orc only moved to lean against the door so he could keep looking at her, his amber eyes calm, yet resilient.

Callie sighed. “You don’t get it,”

“I get it to an extent. I was holed up in there for two months once,”

“I took you everywhere with me!”

“And I loved that but yeah, there were times when I wanted to do things on my own. I get it, Cal. I do,” he held her hand in her lap. “But you have this little boy attached to you. Just one more month you have to put up with me and you can go off wherever you want, but for now please just let me help,”

Callie scoffed, unable to pull from his pleadful pout. “You’ll let me run off with Leo in my arms but not in my stomach?”

“You’ll be able to run again with him in your arms,” he grinned. She smiled, caressing his cheek. It was times like these she tried to remind herself to be thankful he was so attentive and concerned with her well-being when he could’ve been the type of man who showed no interest at all, even when she was feeling crowded.

“One month and not a day more,” she played.

“Deal.” He even held his forearm up to bump hers, making sure she was tucked in before closing the door.

He already had his Clubmasters on by the time he climbed in beside her, forever adjusting the seat back to his settings before backing out of the driveway.

The cool breeze that tossed loose flyaways around was a welcome sensation over her invariably flushed skin as the sun hit her side of the car. Nick glanced over when she let out an audible moan of relief, her head leaned back and arm stretched into the forceful wind. Although it would’ve spoiled the shower they’d both been looking forward to for weeks, inwardly, Callie wished the rain that had blessed LA a couple weeks ago was still falling. She could stand warm weather, even the humidity that made her hair stand on end, but the white hot sun glaring down at her was just aggravating.

“At this rate I’m gonna spend the day in the pool,” she groaned.

“I think everyone else will too, honestly.” Nick nodded; he was already over the heat and they still had the second half of summer to make it through.

Thankfully Rosie’s wasn’t a trek across LA like everyone else seemed to be, but Callie was still eager to get inside once turning into her long driveway that was lined with baby blue and gold balloons, lines of sparkling raindrops hanging over the entrance of the wide patio.

“Wow,” Nick marveled, taking a moment to stare.

“Rosie goes all out for parties,”

“Yeah she does,” he intoned, quickly exiting the truck to help her down from her seat.

She gently ran her fingers across the decorations they walked under once before the door, letting themselves in.

The foyer was also covered in the shimmery balloons leading down past the staircase and into the wide family room where the furniture had been moved aside for fold out tables with snacks covered with baby blue table cloths and chubby star and cloud table settings surrounded by candles.

“Oh thank goodness she didn’t do the lions,” Callie mumbled, smirking when Nick elbowed her.

Everywhere they turned was some kind of explosion of cuteness, whether it be little golden star sprinkles littered across the breakfast bar where the booze was chilling or tissue paper ruffled and taped to the rim of the bucket that held all the ice. Everything was adorned and beautiful, the summer light coming in bouncing off the shimmery surfaces.

“Ah, mija! There you are!” Luciana came from Rosie’s wide kitchen holding a heavy pot filled to the brim with marinated chicken ready to grill.

“Where’s Rosie?” Callie asked, waddling over to give her mom a quick peck on the cheek as Nick took the pot for her.

“She had to run to the store for more plates,” she cooed, leaning down to pat and rub Callie’s stomach until she was chased away. From outside, Callie could hear that Dyani and Joaquin had seen Nick and were likely glomping him; often they’d use their towering uncle as a jungle gym, but Nick had just as much fun tossing them around like ragdolls.

“What can I help with?” Callie asked, her purse set down beside the bags Nick had stashed against the back of a couch.

“Nada, go sit somewhere ,” her mother ordered as she turned her daughter to push towards the backyard.

“Ma not you too,” Callie whined, reluctantly waddling towards the glass double doors that lead to the sprawling backyard.

“ Me and Trish have it under control ,”

Callie planted her feet, turning to face her mother. “She came ?”

“Hey,”

Just a moment she took to close her eyes and mentally prepare herself before turning to face her sister, but her determination to remain cold and calculated faltered when two big, dark eyes looked up at her from Patricia’s arms.

Callie’s heel started bouncing. “She’s getting big,”

“So are you,” her smile was guiltless; it made Callie want to slug her.

You’re lucky you have that baby in your arms, you witch. “That often comes with pregnancy, thank you for pointing it out,”

“I didn’t mean it like that,” Patricia rolled her eyes.

“Think before you open your mouth then,” Callie smiled, again moving to leave.

“Wait, can we talk please?”

“You gonna tell me how fat my ankles are too?”

“Callie,” she touched her arm, prompting her to turn. “Please?”

Luciana had already left, eager to give her daughters the space they needed to make up, but Callie saw it as abandonment. How many times or different ways would she have to voice that she didn’t want to make up when there was nothing she’d done wrong?

Yet here she was again, cornered. With a low groan and tilt of her head, she nodded. “Can I at least meet my niece?”

Happily she handed Yareli over and despite following Trish into the kitchen with the ominous presence of dread, she smiled lovingly down at the baby girl that peered curiously up at her tia, a wide smile curling her gummy face when Callie pressed kisses into her cheek.

Oh how she’d fought the urge over the past few months to call Rosie and set up a secret meeting with the beautiful little girl in her arms, and now she found herself bubbling with love, and even some hot tears burning her eyes.

In addition to just meeting her, she hadn’t seen Tomas in almost a year…

Trish turned to face Callie once they were stood at the far corner of the kitchen, pushing loose strands of hair behind her ears. “How’ve you been?”

“Keeping busy,” she answered, swaying side to side with Yare sat on her stomach.

Trish nodded. “Still have a couple months left before he pops?”

“Only a month,”

Her brows furrowed. “I thought-”

“He’s a halfling, they grow fast,”

“I didn’t know-”

“He’s half Orc, it’s kind of obvious,” Callie snapped knowing it wasn’t common knowledge, but she couldn’t keep her temper in check.

“Calista,” Trish exhaled, pinching the bridge of her nose.

“ Patricia ,”

“I’m trying here,” she implored.

“You think showing up and helping out is gonna fix everything? Do you remember what you did?”

“Does it matter if I’m trying to apologize?” she rolled her eyes.

It was a moment that Callie could only stare at her, her heart plummeting into her stomach. “You went out of your way to remind me more than once that it was solely my fault every time I had a miscarriage,”

“That was-”

“When I didn’t want to talk, because you were a monster, you made it your personal goal to remind me that I was dead to you,” her voice shook now, handing Yare back to her sister.

“There was a lot going on you don’t know about,” Trish sighed, wincing when Yare grabbed a fistful of her hair.

“Bullshit. Everyone has shit to deal with but family- my own fucking sister shouldn’t do that over something you never had any business weighing in on in the first place!”

“You were making a mistake and didn’t see that- you always do this,” Trish battled, her viper side coming forth.

Callie’s eyes narrowed. “Nick wasn’t a mistake,”

“That’s not what I meant-” Trish tried, but Callie’s hand rose.

“I’m done, Trish. I’m done, just… you get on with your life and I will with mine.” Callie ended the brief, heated exchange, realizing as she stepped away to head into the backyard that it would likely be one of the last times she saw or held Yareli; there was no knowing if she’d ever see her nephew again and that there’d be no returning to happier days with her sister she formerly looked up to for her strength. It wasn’t just ending it with her sister, but a portion of her family, but she wouldn’t allow herself to be smothered beneath her thumb anymore.

Callie was a little winded by the time she made it into the backyard and had found a seat at the patio set, slowly lowering onto one of the cushioned benches.

A robust flush coated her skin, the ire that spoiled her mood matching its power. It tingled in her toes and fingers; had she not been swollen with pregnancy, Callie could confidently say she would’ve momentarily reverted back to her more fiery, high school mindset and decked her sister right in the fucking-

“Calista?” Luciana’s soft call came, and Callie looked up just as her mother had sat beside her, her aged eyes finding the despair in Callie’s.

“ Why did Trish leave ?” she asked.

“ Why else, she didn’t get her way ,”

“ Calista ,” her mother exhaled.

“Don’t,” Callie held up her finger, fed up and unwilling to be the one everyone looked to blame. “Do not . It’s not my fault she’s such a-”

“ She was trying to fix it ,” Luciana pleaded, but Callie pulled her arm from her mother’s touch, looking out to Nick who was still swinging the kids off his arms.

“No she wasn’t. She wasn’t going to apologize,”

“Mija-”

“Ma please!” she snapped.

Nick slowed, squinting past the sun at his lover. Something wasn’t right.

“I’m done trying to get back in her good graces when she does nothing to fix what she did. I know she tells everyone her side of it but there’s two sides. My side that no one cares about, and if you’re at all interested in it then I’ll tell you another day, okay? Can it just end at that for now?” Callie urged, ready to leave if her own mother didn’t grant her this one small request.

It was clear Luciana wanted this to be settled now rather than later judging by the way she reluctantly nodded, but her agreeing was all Callie wanted. At this point the entire issue at hand could never be revisited and she’d be content with that, but life just wasn’t that easy. She knew it would come back around at some point when Trish started to stir again.

A lingering kiss was left on Callie’s head before Luciana stood creakily to move back into the house just as Rosie and Daryl had returned, leaving her to lean back on her hands and stifle a low groan when a roll of sharp cramps fired up her belly.

“Of course,” she ground out, her head dropping back.

“Braxton’s or Leo?” Nick asked, and she peered over to find him leaned against a beam without kids climbing all over him anymore.

“Braxton,” she frowned.

He hmm -ed, finding a spot next to her. His cheek rested at the top of her head when she leaned into him, counting between long breaths that did little to ease the cramps but were favored over just sitting and suffering through. A quick glance down revealed Leo was kicking, likely bothered by his already cramped home tightening around him.

“Do you wanna talk about it?” Nick asked, bumping his knee into hers.

She shook her head. “The problem left so let’s leave it at that,”

Ahh. “At least she left all the food she bought,” he said below his breath. Only when she chuckled did he, his thick arm coming to hang around her shoulder whilst placing a few kisses on her cheek.

“You two are neverending with the cuddling,”

Callie spun- as best she could- in her seat and gasped. “Hey!” Callie exclaimed, grunting as she stood to meet Morn who held her one year old on her hip.

“Hey, baby,” Morn smiled, hugging Callie tightly around the neck one-armed and giving her a quick kiss on the cheek.

“Hi mamas! Que paso hermosa?” Callie went on to sweet talk, lifting the beaming, kicking little Orc from Morn’s arms to hang off her own hip.

“Munguz!” she moved to Nick next, their forearms bumping before they exchanged quick hugs. “How’ve you guys been?”

“Good, same old stuff, how about you and this little one?” Nick asked, leaning down to smile at the pretty eyed girl who was the same hue as Morn and whose little tusks were starting to peak from behind her lip.

“Lots of Yo Gabba Gabba and chewing,” she sighed, evoking a giggle from Callie. “Won’t be laughing when your own is gnawing on your tit,”

“S’that why yours are deflated?” Callie smirked.

Morn grinned. “Bitch,”

“Bith,” the little girl repeated, tugging on Callie’s necklace.

“Oh no, no no ukour, Dejza, don'av ukaausan avhaav,” Morn frowned and smacked her own mottled hand despite Nick and Callie turning cheek to laugh.

“Yeah don’t listen to mama, she foul mouthed,” Callie whispered. “Que asco,”

“You wanna call me foul mouthed when your nickname for this dude is tall boy ?”

“Both of you are foul,” Nick hissed, snatching the little girl from Callie’s arm and moving inside to find her snacks. Dejza was already excitedly switching between hitting and biting his shoulder, giggling when he growled at her.

“Munguz is adapting well it seems,”

“It helps having an army of kids around a lot,” Callie let out a pleased sigh, tugging on her wrist towards the tables lined with snacks and massive, golden balloons spelling Leo.

“At least there’s hope for him,” Morn intoned, her painted nails dancing over the elegant champagne glasses and bottles of beer.

Callie looked at her. “Things aren’t any better with Tandzh?”

The double set of silver hoops hanging from her pointed ears chimed when she shook her head. “I haven’t heard from him in a few weeks,”

“Not even to see Dejza?”

There was a pause before she scoffed lowly, grabbing a bottle of tequila by the neck to poor into a solo cup. “Why would he come see her when he didn’t even want her?”

Callie looked down at the swirling her drink. “He said that?”

Morn nodded, throwing the booze back with ease. There was a slight grimace, but with a slow exhale, she poured herself another. “I thought I could change him, but I was wrong,”

There wasn’t much of anything Callie could’ve offered to alleviate the harsh reality her beloved friend was living, but there was at least the repeated promise of everlasting help and support she could again present and offer, plus the arm around her waist with her head against her shoulder. To most it wasn’t much, but to Morn the hug meant everything when she’d so silently yearned for support.

“Anyways,” she cleared her throat after unwinding her arm from around Callie’s neck and pouring another slug. “Cut me off after this next shot,”

“We’re having a party, don’t worry about it. There’s a whole nation of people coming to help watch Dejza,”

Morn grinned around her ivory tusks that had newly been treated with gold carvings, matching her molten eyes beautifully. “Thanks, lambchop,”

Callie’s buoyant smile was interrupted by another sharp cramp; one that pinched an eye shut and called for a hand to the achy crook of her back.

“Someone’s close to comin’ out,” Morn pursed her lips in a quirky smirk, gently drumming her fingers against her stomach.

Callie blew a raspberry. “Please, I still have a month left,”

“Baby you got two weeks at most left, look how low your belly is,” she observed, and Callie looked down in wonder.

“Is it?” she muttered, but from her vantage point, it looked like any other day. Not even a few far leans and trying to observe her silhouette in the reflection of the windows did her any good.

“What’re you doing?”

They both turned to find Nick standing at the entrance, Dejza in the crook of one arm and his other hand holding a popsicle up for her to gnaw on, small grunts and chuffs slipping past her busy jaws.

“Does my stomach look lower?”

“Nah,” he shook his head, but upon a longer look, his brows pulled together in thought, his head slowly tilting. “Well actually, you do look a little deflated. Do you feel okay?”

“Yeah,” she nodded, rubbing her stomach. “It’s a little easier to breathe, actually,”

“Told you,” Morn smiled.

“What? Told you what?” Nick asked, the alarm rising.

Just as her mouth had opened, a loud collection of loud welcomings coming from inside caught all of their attention, and soon came cousins of Callie’s that Rosie was ushering outside. It appeared to be only a handful of individuals, but if there was one thing Nick had come to learn about her family over the years, it was that the way they clustered was much like that of an iceberg: the majority of their mass was hidden from plain sight.

They all took turns hugging Callie and greeting Nick, most of them even sweet talking the little girl in his arms he wouldn’t openly admit he was using as a shield. Morn scowled at him, but Nick dished out a cheeky grin.

After the first wave, Morn finally snatched Dejza back, hissing in Orkish at Nick who was more upset over losing his little buddy.

“Oh I’m already over-heating,” Callie fanned her face. “We should go hide in the pool,”

“There’s already a game a’chicken going on,” Nick pointed out.

“And there goes my hiding spot,” she unenthusiastically smiled, further deflating.

“You’re the star today,”

“Leo is, I’m just the middle man,” she sassed, chuffing- which was actually just a forceful exhale through her nose- back at him. “That’s gonna be the first thing your son learns,”

“It’s gonna be so cute,” he lamented, blocking a swift slap to his arm. It ignited a small mock fight, one that Nick found himself having to refrain from picking her up and tossing her in the pool.

“Assault on a pregnant woman is a class A felony,”

Nick spun. “Hey, partner!” he called happily, moving to greet Ward alongside Sophia at the door.

His friend had since shaken the hard edge to his shoulders, the deep glower that warded off most replaced with a drowsy grin, and had even packed on a few healthy pounds. It hadn’t been long ago that Daryl had suffered through a period of sleepless nights and deep paranoia that had severely impacted his health, so to see the color had come back to his face and scent of illness was gone brought great relief to Nick. All he wanted was peace for his best friend.

They exchanged brief hugs, but Daryl’s hold on his shoulders stopped him once Nick was at arms length. He clapped his hand there, further confusing Nick.

“It’s hard to believe I’m attending your baby shower when it wasn’t too long ago you were a lonely virgin,”

“Oh shut the fuck up,” Nick shoved his hands back, shooting Callie a look when she laughed. “‘Bout to ask how you’ve been but now I don’t give a shit,”

“Good, cuz nothin’ is new,” Ward explained. “Get so bored now I actually consider comin’ back to work,”

“Mama said you’re gonna move into the guest room if you do that,” Sophia piped, looking at her father with her hands over Leo who’d woken after hearing Nick speak.

Callie pulled her lips in to hide her smile, but it didn’t do much to actually mask it.

“Thank you, sweetie,” Ward intoned, slugging Nick on the arm when he too did little to mask his own amusement. “Don’t you go actin’ like Callie wouldn’t do the same thing,”

“There’s more effective methods than that, your wife is just cruel,” she countered, a sharp brow cocking.

Even Morn snorted that time, pretending to be deeply enthralled with the sparkling streamers Dejza’d had her eyes on.

Ward’s sour-puss stare was comical, but Nick decided he’d had enough and ushered him towards the table lined elegantly with lush choosings all glistening in full bottles. Somehow Nick convinced him to throw one Orkish vodka back, promising a quicker buzz. It was sharp, almost freezing with the slightest trace of teaberry, but after he took a few breaths to cover the burning across his tongue, Ward was impressed that his cheeks felt rosy right away.

Callie had warned Nick to not find himself completely wasted and face down in the water seeing as this celebration was equally his to be had, but she blessed him with one of her Long Island iced teas he absolutely loved, the Orkish vodka and rum of course taking it’s tame competitors place.

He kissed her on the cheek before running off with Ward, likely to further heighten their tipsiness under one of the umbrellas perched at the rented tables covering the expansive yard.

“You want the shade?” Nick asked behind a chair, but Ward waved him off.

“Nah the sun feels good. Been cooped up for weeks,” he exhaled as he melted into the padded seat, sipping generously on his drink.

“Want me to bring you on a ride-along?” Nick poked, pleased with his own joke. “Sherri couldn’t hate you for that, could she?”

Ward looked down at his drink, swirling the cup so the ice chattered. “F’not that she’d find something else to hate me over,”

Nick halted his teasing, overlooking the somber tone of his face. “How’s Sophia managing it?”

A long sigh. “She doesn’t know I’ve already been livin’ in that guest room,”

Nick nodded, looking to Callie who was hugging a friend that had come with her own teens that’d found the shady, quiet corner of the yard with the other ones their age. She waved secretly to him once she had the moment, motioning that she had her eyes on how much he was drinking.

“Don’t fuck it up with Cal like I did Sherri,” Ward said into his cup, but Nick scoffed.

“If we’re at this point, I don’t feel bad saying that Sherri was just a bitch,”

There was a pause, but Ward eventually nodded. “Not all her fault though. Maybe I’m just not made for marriage,”

“Ahh it’s only your second one,” Nick reasoned.

“Should’ve only ever been one,”

The Orc shrugged. “Third times the charm.” He grinned toothily, but straightened up when more family was directed towards his table.

Callie juggled greeting all of the family and friends, but just as she directed them towards Nick, she equally enjoyed watching the impressive tower of diaper boxes people brought under their arms growing by the gift table. At the rate they were going, Leo would be covered for a few months at the very least.

Sergey and Dura popped up soon enough, and when both Callie and Dura found difficulty in hugging one another because of both their bulging bellies, they both questioned why they hadn’t just thrown a joint shower.

With a quick hug around Callie and a cautionary glance in Morn’s direction- who he could’ve sworn he’d seen at a Fogteeth brawl at one point- he was off jogging to Nick and Ward, wiggling between them to dive in on the drinking and gossip.

Dura was just as eager to find a seat as Callie did after Morn insisted she keep her ass parked in a seat and let people come to her, but she only settled after convincing the both of them to strip down to their bathing suits with her and stick their feet in the pool.

Biting down the greater majority of a spiteful glare was near impossible on Callie’s part; Morn had snapped back to her slim figure after having Dejza, and there Callie was feeling like a watermelon with arms and legs as she waddled beside them to the pool.

Yet even as she worried people would tease her size, she couldn’t help but laugh as Dura did when they both struggled to help one another down.

And as people found their way over for hugs and smiles, despite even being beside the pool, it did work out better because the men eventually followed them over, but their rambunctious sides were coming out with every finished drink. They flung themselves into the pool, yelling like barbarians and Ward even mimicking Nick and Sergey when they flexed their arms and biceps, hollering in typical war Orc stances.

But soon more kids started to pile in; her endless list of cousins all had kids, not to mention some of the older tias and tios who still had some coming. Soon enough it wasn’t just the two grown Orcs and human thrashing like wild animals in the pool, but a swarm of little ones that drove them back to the steps where the girls sat soaking in the sun, their shades pulled down. It was near perfect timing, too. They’d started to worry one of them wouldn’t come up from beneath every time they were thrown aside, the beer cans piling beside the pool.

Nick wiggled back between Callie’s knees, his arms hung over her thighs and the cold skin of his back pressed against her stomach. It was a pleasant sensation on her part. He nudged his head back against her until she finally stuck his Clubmasters on his face, but he caught two familiar silhouettes coming their way.

“Look who’s here,” he jerked his chin in their direction, already grinning.

Callie looked over and gasped. “Matuk!” she joyfully exclaimed, pushing Nick forward so she could struggle onto her feet.

Her silent, lumbering friend simply opened his arms with a half hidden grin, leaning down to hug her tightly when she finally made it upright.

“Sorry we’re late,” he apologized, moving to bump forearms with Nick and shake hands with Sergey and Ward. Daryl stared up at him suspiciously, instantly recognizing the silver chains hanging around his neck.

“I’m just glad you made it. Hi Lala!” she smiled, moving to embrace Matuk’s much slimmer and smaller boyfriend.

“Oh my god the last time I saw you there wasn’t even a bump yet!” he declared, holding her hands up once they’d unwrapped from one another.

“Has it been that long?” Nick asked, squinting up at Matuk who shrugged.

“He doesn’t take me anywhere anymore,” Lala pouted, but Matuk reached over to wiggle his chin.

“Ah he’s busy Lala, hush up,” Morn rolled her eyes, having drifted from her conversation with Ward once they’d showed up.

“I’m gonna start making lunches at home instead of sending them so he’ll visit me,” Lala went on, smirking up at Matuk’s dark blush.

Callie had used Nick to sit back down where she once before, and it was then being at eye level with their feet did she spot something rather surprising.

“Are those Gucci slides, you boujie bitch?” she pointed, glancing up at him.

“Oh!” Lala posed, a gentle hand on his own thigh. “Yes, daddy bought those for me,” he suspired, an arm securing around Matuk with his cheek against his shoulder.

Nick and Sergey both choked on their drinks, but the girls could only cover their faces in laughter, leaving Matuk to quickly stomp away towards the drink table, his ears red hot and Lala trailing behind innocently until he caught his hand.

Matuk still hooked an arm behind his neck, people parting as the two Orcs strode over to the drinks.

It wasn’t until the chit-chat between Dura and Callie had died down that Nick nudged her silently, motioning in Ward and Morn’s direction. Callie found them chest deep in the water and hidden in the shade, lost in conversation that had only grow more enthralling as the minutes ticked by. Callie had always figured Ward would have difficulty speaking to any other Orc besides Nick and Sergey, but now he was being almost charming , which was something not commonly witnessed coming from such a normally salty individual.

And Morn looked just as glamorous, her witty remarks and gift at keeping conversation rolling no matter what direction it took more than enough to hold Ward’s attention.

“I feel like I should give him a heads up,” Nick mumbled, meeting Callie’s confused expression. “He doesn’t know how Orcs are in bed,”

Callie smacked the back of his head with a wet hand, but before Nick could retaliate with a splash of water, everyone scattered about the yard was called in once the food had finally finished cooking just as Nick’s parents and more extended family had arrived.

They brought with them their own unique feasts: marinated, smoked and shredded pork, the mountains of sides like potatoes and grains and pastries, and of course what Oleg started offering generously to the other fathers of the family: robust shots of Orkish whiskey that guaranteed to turn eyes red.

After helping Rosie finish heating up the last of the tortillas and bread, Dinara came out to keen lovingly over Callie, who in agreeance with Morn, insisted she didn’t have much longer judging by the state of her dropped belly.

The massive mob of family and friends all piled the selections high on their plates, moving to one of the many tables laid out or even sitting on a tossed towel under the shade of the few trees in Rosie and Daryl’s backyard.

The kids were ordered to keep out of the pool until they’d finished eating, but were free to take bites between sprinting games of tag, some of the young Orkish children teaching smaller ones how to wrestle.

Another majority had formed around Nick and Callie where they’d chosen to sit at the main table, the topics of conversation flipping as fast as the flip of a coin.

They at one point even demonstrated how lively Leo became when Nick talked to her stomach but then having to waddle around for a while to settle him back down. Yet as long as she kept piling the food, unable to resist dipping her hands into all the savory, delicious options, Leo would keep jumping in joy.

Just before everyone had began to clean up their empty plates and most of the kids had exhausted enough to lay in the cooling grass at sunset with popsicles, Callie silently, and with a coy smile, watched Morn nervously invite Ward along in tow of Rosie when Daryl and herself offered anyone to ‘partake’. Where she’d expect hesitation, Ward looked starry eyed when he nodded and stood to follow her,Callie happily accepting Dejza and winking up at her friend who wore a bright smile around her tusks.

“Am I the only one seeing that?” Sergey leaned over towards Nick, pointing obviously at Ward and Morn’s departure. “Isn’t he married?”

“Barely.” Nick scoffed, in addition laughing at Sergey’s perplexed expression.

After some maneuvering of the tables and Callie’s mock throne covered in balloons and more sparkly streamers was dragged over, she was sat before the impressive pile of gifts and literal mountain of diapers she insisted Nick take a photo of her beside.

Neither of them were really given a chance to change out of their bathing suits before having the first of the gifts dropped in their laps or the photos that began to flash as they graciously opened them all, one by one.

From Dura and Sergey they were gifted a homemade thick woven blanket for Leo, painted in soft tones of earthy reds and browns, some splashes of gold here and there. Callie held the blanket close to her chest, thanking them lovingly.

Morn had found the bag Callie had dubbed impossible to find: a diaper bag that wouldn’t sit bulkily under her arm nor a backpack that looked like a turtle shell. Somehow, with that vague yet steadfast preference she managed to find a messenger bag that could hold plenty in it’s divided main compartments but wouldn’t puff up like a pillow if all the items were lined up correctly.

Callie winked at her once spotted how closely she sat to Ward, Dejza sleeping peacefully against her chest.

Matuk saw it and shuddered.

But his displeased expression was squandered once they moved onto the gift he and Lala had both bought together, and the one Dorghu had personally sent along with them when his attendance wasn’t expected.

Nick waited to open the bag in his hand, much more curious as to what was inside the small, teel box tied elegantly with a white ribbon Callie carefully unfolded.

Her eyes softened once the light from the hanging lamps above them shined down on the golden bracelet showcased softly in the box, Leonardo engraved into its face.

It hit home for Callie then. Why this bracelet and not the already building pile of onesies or little booties her cousin had gifted them was the thing to bring clarity to the thought that soon Leo would be laid in her hold was unknown, but she blinked back hot tears, keeping the small box close to her side.

Nick was earlier instructed to open his half of the present in private, but he almost buckled until both Matuk and Morn shook their heads. Nick chuffed, setting the box aside.

Callie was lost in a stream of squeals whilst opening Oleg and Dinara’s gift. The same winter sweater Nick had worn as a baby was clutched in her arms, wailing hysterically at the significance and cuteness of it despite Nick trying to get a look at the small article of clothing he couldn’t believe he once fit in. That too was kept close to her side, clutching Dinara’s hand thoughtfully.

And on it went, bag after box after wrapped gifts that would secure Leo’s wardrobe and toiletry needs for a solid six months at least, not to mention a few of those gifts given to Callie; a few sleeping gowns that were baby friendly, some gift cards, things she’d put into good use.

Although most of them were stuffed, most found room for a slice of the round red velvet cake with small candied jewels shaped like raindrops gleaming around it, a small standing moon and stubby stars sat at its base, but not before Callie took a photo from every angle, marveling at its beauty.

Only when she’d convinced Nick to let her take a photo of him cutting it did she ease up, threatening to behead anyone who tried smashing cake in her face.

Her warnings were well respected, and after everyone had been served a slice, they at last settled into their spots to run out the remainder of the party, but with the barbeque still warm and reheating food, it looked like it could go well into the warm summer night.

A stool had been slyly stolen from under a few kids who they tricked into jumping into the pool so Callie could keep her feet up, and thankfully Nick’s beefy shoulder was there to lean back into after he looped an arm behind her shoulders.

With Dyani passed out at her side and Nick lost in a cloud of chatter with his dad and Sergey, Callie once again had her sights set on Morn and Daryl.

She thought by now Morn would’ve noticed her staring and shot her a look, but her pretty amber eyes were trained on Ward, their proximity continuing to close ever so slightly as the night drew on. At one point she could’ve sworn she saw Ward take a half step closer to brush his knuckles against hers, but it was hard to tell if Morn’s tusked smile was that of bashfulness, or trying to pull him in closer.

“What’re you staring at?” Nick whispered against the shell of her ear, and she inconspicuously used her raised pinky to point at them when she sipped her drink.

Nick’s coordination wasn’t as graceful as he swung his head in their direction. “Where’s Dejza?”

“You mom snatched her a while ago,”

He snorted. “Figures,” Nick took a hearty gulp of his beer. “If I hear those two end up dating I’m gon’ give him the same shit he gave me,”

“He didn’t give you shit,” Callie snickered.

“Defending him now?” he snarled quietly, but she jabbed his side.

“They look like they have good chemistry, don’t ruin it for him,”

Nick took another hard look, noting the relaxed manner of his friends shoulders. “Yeah I guess you have a point,”

“What if we just set up soul mates?”

Nick’s chuckle was low. “We didn’t set them up,”

“In a way we did. Third times the charm,” she whimsied.

“Morn’s been married twice?” he asked, and she nodded. “Poor thing,”

“She always did come off a little more human tempered than Orc,” Callie observed.

“Ward’s got a mouth like an Orc, they even each other out,” Nick said into his cup as she giggled. “He found the Callie to his Nick.”

Her smile up at him was dazzling, her big eyes catching the lights above them and twinkling beautifully. He kissed her cheek before she snuggled tight against him, a lopsided smile remaining as she looked down at Leo’s soft bumps.

It took a few trips between the truck and their house before all the gifts were at last piled haphazardly in Leo’s room, ready for organization some other day, but definitely soon.

Morn’s words had hung in her mind the remainder of the day, bringing her anxiety up a notch, but this would’ve happened eventually as she approached her due date. But as the days went from a month down to a mere fourteen days, maybe seven- a week, Callie couldn’t help but feel like she needed to start organizing promptly despite the exhaustion and slight burn across her shoulders urging her to lay on the cold sheets of their bed.

In greater caution she stepped carefully, taking her time to stand from a seat or asking Nick to pick up objects she’d drop, going out of her way to make sure her body had no extra reason to rush in labor early.

Maybe a couple more weeks would be better.

Peeling off the cold bikini and slipping into one of Nick’s big shirts sent goosebumps all over her skin, her damp hair falling around her shoulders so she could scratch her scalp. The sunscreen that did little to help was washed from her face, and with a gulp of water went her final vitamin of the day.

She padded quietly from the bathroom to find Nick’s back to her at the dinner table.

“You okay?” she asked, walking around his arm.

In his hands was a brand new, glossy Fogteeth jersey he’d pulled from the gift Matuk and Morn had told him to open in private, and now the two understood why.

Munguz was embroidered in Orkish across the back once Nick lifted it clear from the tissue paper, a breathless scoff punching from his chest.

“My mom would’ve fainted if she saw this,” he realized, studying the silky material just as Callie did.

“Your captain would, too,” she added, both of them chuckling. Surely one of the other officers at the party would’ve let it slip he’d been gifted an official jersey, and they didn’t need that kind of heat falling on them. “Do you not like it?”

“No, I really like it, actually. Just caught me off guard,” he explained.

Callie looked back to the box, and upon pulling back the tissue paper found a small note card scribbled in Orkish. “What’s this?”

Nick took it, his eyes scanning over the words. “From my clan to yours. We take care of our own and theirs,” he read. Callie grinned when she understood it’s meaning.

“You should try it on,” she suggested, holding his shirt when he pulled it off.

It was snug around his biceps and chest, but Callie wouldn’t outwardly express that as an issue, even when he swung his arms in mild discomfort.

“I think they’re supposed to be like that,” she made up, ogling.

“Matuk’s wasn’t like this,”

“I’m sure he got to pick his own size though,”

“Ehh, true. Look good?” he posed, catching her heavy eyes moving up and down his frame. “Are you undressing me with your eyes?”

“Trying to but you’re still fully clothed,” she frowned.

Nick’s ears flicked, but just as he’d motioned to remove the jersey, she stopped him, her small palms sliding into his.

“Leave it on, munguz,” she breathed against his mouth. Nick’s brows raised, carefully kissing her parted lips before his mouth wandered to her neck with another step closer. The smallest of breaths blew past his ear when he leaned slightly forward to hold her, his mighty grip landing on her ass.

“You’re into costumes now?” he groused, his heavy touch dragging up her hips under the shirt.

“I’m into you,” she mumbled, kissing him when his lips sought hers. “So I’m into this,” she moaned as her hands slid up his broad chest, his fingers digging into her sides as hers hooked around the collar.

Nick chuffed softly, appreciatively when she stroked him through his trunks, already warmed up and ready to roll.

She gasped when he suddenly dipped down to scoop her up bridal style against his chest, her arm securing behind his neck and her other hand holding his jaw so she could kiss him. He briskly stepped into their room, kicking the door shut behind him all with his mouth still locked against hers.

↠

It was some time before he decided to open his eyes after waking but remaining still, enjoying the soft humming of their fan and the breeze gliding across his bare form. The room was dark when he dared a glimpse; still nighttime.

With an arm tossed back, he quickly assessed Callie wasn’t there, but the lack of heat on the sheets told him she hadn’t been there for some time.

Nick rolled, sitting up on an elbow and searching blindly under the pillows for his phone.

He squinted at the bright screen; it was two AM. A look at the door revealed the light coming from the other side, and with a grunt he sat up, taking his time to yawn and try to reach the itchy, fresh scratches covering his back but went ham on the ones across his chest.

Maybe smacking her hand when she bit her nails wasn’t the best idea, afterall…

A quick step into his sweats and a few wobbly steps later brought him into the hallway, looking with narrow eyes at the illuminated kitchen.

His sleepy steps had gone unnoticed until he rapped his knuckles softly against the kitchen entrance, grinning when he found her in a sports bra and tights, a couple gallon bags opened with spoons dipped into the food.

She looked at him with round cheeks, her messy hair pinned into a bun. “I got hungry,” she admitted shyly, taking a bite of a rolled tortilla.

He nodded with his arms crossed and leaned in the entryway, a smirk teasing her.

“Want some?” she offered, but he shook his head, choosing to shuffle over and wrap his arms under her bust from behind, kiss landing behind her ear. Callie giggled, trying to pinch her shoulder in before finally dropping it and holding his strong arms, her cheek pressing into his kiss all with a bitten slice of cheese held up.

“It’s gonna be common soon seeing you up at this hour,” he said quietly.

“Midnight snacks with Leo?”

“Well you’re his snack,” he teased, hiding his smile when she smacked his arm playfully. He found himself consumed by sleepiness the longer he swayed back and forth, his face pressed into her neck as she nibbled the selections before her.

Soon their home would rarely be silent, yet at the same time he couldn’t imagine it growing any more lively compared to how silent it was a few years prior.

“You’re almost there.” Nick reassured her, holding tighter when her head leaned against his.

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did we just slyly progress leo's birth by 2 weeks? i think we did 😨

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spookyspaghettisundae · 4 years

Text

Things Below

Voices. Voices, everywhere. Emily peered out the window from the backseat of the patrol car. Locked in, but free to hear all these confusing voices. She could hear the thoughts of the people the car drove past, picking up fallout from the minds of people on the sidewalk.

“He gave me too much change. Tough shit, sucker. I’m not telling and I’m keeping it. Those stores are insured against this kind of—”

“I’m late, I’m late, I’m late; oh my god, I’m gonna lose my job. What about—”

“I forgot to lock the front door. To hell with whatever he’s saying, I’m sure as hell that I forgot—”

“Stop staring, dumbass. Jeeze, I think I need to jack off in a bathroom stall, otherwise she'll—”

Emily didn’t even care about reading the thoughts themselves. She used to figure people to be thinking drivel like this just by looking at them. No, the reporter wanted to see how well she could focus this ability—how well she could control it. As far as she was concerned, she had developed a superpower. With it, she could change the world.

Only one thing gave her reason for pause; gave her a reason to worry. If she wasn’t dreaming—if this all was real—then it meant the demon she had met at the delicate age of 21 had been real, too.

The edges of her vision turned into streaks, stretching into infinity, blending together in a wild blur of colors and shapes. She only caught glimpse of their faces, all unimportant and forgotten within seconds, but their thoughts reached her mind in fragments, like a rain of glass shards falling into a bottomless pit. Clipped, ripped out of context—like switching rapidly through radio stations and never hearing anything out.

Officer Stanton glanced back at Emily through the rearview mirror. Judging by his furrowed brow, he was concerned about her mental well-being. That was when she realized that her head kept bobbing erratically, moving on a constant swivel. She must have looked like a crazy person to this cop.

“Your nose,” he said after clearing his throat and training his eyes on the road again.

Confounded, Emily dabbed her nose, only to find blood on her fingers.

The splitting headache set in. Or it had been there all along, except that it now cranked the dial to eleven in the very second she stopped tuning in to the thoughts of all the passers-by. She muttered a short curse and a emitted a soft, nervous chuckle.

Looked like the superpower came with a little price tag.

But it had already paid off. Under other circumstances, she would have had to go out on a limb in trusting this “Officer Stanton.” Letting him lock her into the backseat like a common suspect or criminal. But what choice did she have? A bomb turned her apartment block into a blazing inferno, she woke up naked in a dumpster, and she had no phone, no money, and was now wearing the borrowed clothes of her friend Maria—who probably had her pegged as crazy and she should never talk to again.

Scanning Stanton’s thoughts had revealed a certain level of surprising purity. Blue-eyed, this shmuck hadn’t seen anywhere near the amount of horrid things Emily had seen in her time as an investigative reporter, looking into human trafficking and pedophile rings. He was as concerned as she was about Detective Tanner, her single only trustworthy contact in the police—who had gone missing.

Reading Stanton’s mind, Emily knew that this cop had his heart in the right place and was going out on a limb himself. She looked and sounded like a crazy person, had no identification, and lied to him first thing upon their meeting. He had a lot to lose himself.

And she couldn’t tell him everything she had witnessed.

“I was drugged and abducted,” she had admitted to him in that first encounter. Only part of the truth she could speak without sounding like she had lost every last marble.

The other part involved what she could only describe as a trip into hell, where she was hounded by an antagonistic demon she dubbed “Stinky Jim.”

Eight years ago, Emily met Stinky Jim for the first time, though she did not have such a name for the demon yet. Had she known it was real, she would have lost her mind. She would have been the Other Emily, the Lost Emily—the one sitting in a padded cell, rocking back and forth, gibbering, and disconnected from reality.

If her recent awakening—the event since when she could read minds and bend space itself—had taught her anything, then it was that reality itself was a strained, malleable concept.

Even human identity crumbled in the face of enlightened scrutiny.

Back when she was 21, working the sixth McJob in a row before she got smart, got her GED, and got into studying to become a reporter; she still hung out in a basement with the rest of the “gang.”

She remembered that night with stunning clarity. The edges on everything remained sharp. The dive in the basement of the home of Rodney’s parents had burned itself into the pages of her memory.

Her birthday—the night Emily turned 21.

Both on the surface and in all things below, she was a different person. Dyed her hair pink, piercings in her ears and on her brow, royal blue lipstick, torn heavy metal T-shirts. Loved ranting about politics, economy, and social justice; but never lifted a finger to do a damned thing about it.

Just like then. They were sitting in Rodney’s parents’ basement, sprawled out over ratty old couches and chairs with the TV set and old video game consoles, smoking weed, and the four boys listening to one of her many unnumbered tirades on LGBTQ+ rights.

“Shut the fuck up if you ain’t gonna do anything ‘bout it,” Chris told her. “Gay Chris,” as he was nicknamed, which didn’t bother him at all once they grew older—he wore the name like a badge of pride.

His voice cracked as he kept the smoke from the bong in his lungs and passed it on to Carlos, and Chris added, “The fuck do you know about any of that, straightie?”

That stunned Emily. That’s when everything clicked for her. When it all changed. Speechless, she silently agreed with him. Everything she knew about the gay experience was theoretical or secondhand, drawing from Chris’ experiences.

But that’s when she found her true calling.

She wouldn’t “shut the fuck up about it.” She refused to, because it would have been against her nature. She would do the legwork, and tell the world. She would relay the truth, even when it hurt, or when it got her and others into hot water. That would be her strength. Her destiny.

It would take till the end of that week and some feverish reading until she figured out that journalism was the way for her to go, but that was the same night when Emily really took the reins of her life into her own hands, and forged the path she now followed with furious determination.

Carlos chortled, then took a long toke from the bong before passing it on to Rodney. Emily remained silent.

With her most recent rant dead in the water, and the only active water being the one making the bubbling and churning sounds whenever anybody inhaled another hit from the bong, her thoughts drifted. The night of her birthday dragged on like many others in this very place, the matter of her birthday only standing out by the amount of weed they would have burned through by the end of the night.

She loved these boys like her brothers. Loved the countless nights they spent together, shooting the shit about their work, their messes of what could barely be described as love lives, playing video games together on the couch in this same basement and getting into swearing matches more heated than the actual gameplay, going to metal concerts together, or talking about philosophy and spirituality into the ungodliest hours of the morning.

Some time around 2 AM, Carlos had already passed out. He snored in the corner with a pile of empty potato chip bags and plastic bottles piled onto him like a work of art. Chris had gone home to get some sleep because of an early shift the next day. Only Jimmy, Rodney, and Emily remained. Stabbing Westward’s Ungod was playing back from the old iPod in a soft volume.

Rodney climbed back onto the couch and slid onto the cushions between Jimmy and Emily. His eyes were bloodshot from all the beer and weed they had been kicking back and he gave her a stupid grin.

“Got something special for this special occasion,” he said in a conspiratorial tone.

He unfolded his fingers and presented three little things. To Emily, they looked like stamps or pieces of perforated cardboard just resting on his palm, each of them marked with a pastel yellow smiley face.

Before either Emily or Jimmy could ask, Rodney said, “LSD, hoes. Lucy seeing diamonds—in the sky—or something. So, uh, anyway, how about we go on a real trip?”

Jimmy’s brow furrowed and Emily snickered at him. Buff Jimmy over there, the racing car enthusiast who loved tuning cars and speeding in them, accustomed to acting like the biggest badass of their little gang, was now all skeptical and intimidated by this harmless-looking drug resting in Rodney’s hand.

“Fuck it, why not?” Emily asked.

“Nah, I’ll pass,” Jimmy predictably said. “Y'know what, you should too. Also, I should get back home and get some sleep.”

Jimmy scrambled to leave, looking half asleep already, and muttered a goodbye to Carlos who continued to snore away, oblivious to everything going on now.

“Pussy,” Emily called out after Jimmy just before he flipped her off and closed the basement door behind himself.

Rodney and Emily got a good laugh out of Jimmy’s departure. Then Rodney turned his head and waggled his eyebrows at her, holding out the three slips of LSD still.

“I could put one back, or one of us takes two of ‘em,” he said, letting his voice rise sharply towards the end in challenge.

Emily squinted and then snatched two of them out of his palm.

“Happy fuckin’ birthday to me, I guess,” she said, grinning with him in challenge, wondering if he wasn’t going to chicken out himself.

She stuck her tongue out at him like she was about to lick Rodney’s face, then placed the two pieces of LSD on her tongue and retracted it. Swallowed.

“How long?” she asked.

“My dick?”

“Fuck you.”

Rodney cackled and told her it would take two hours. They settled on re-watching Scream—one of Emily’s favorite horror movies. They talked over the flick, as usual. Laughed as Carlos turned over in his sleep at one point, knocking over the pyramid of junk piled onto him without even waking up, and they both wondered loudly if they weren’t going to have a horror trip if they watched a horror movie while tripping on LSD, like the idiots they were.

The movie ended and Emily still couldn’t tell if the drug was having any effect on her system.

“Get me another beer, beer bitch,” she told Rodney, softly kicking him in his thigh while she drooped lazily over the other half of the couch.

He got up and went to the small fridge in the corner of the room. She blinked and wondered why he did that without giving her any lip. Even on her birthday, Rodney wasn’t wont to do what she told him to. Returning to her, he uncapped the bottle of beer and held it out to her.

She took it and looked at him in disbelief. Rodney himself looked befuddled. He blinked and looked around. Was the LSD finally kicking in for him? If so, why was it taking so long for her?

If him tripping balls meant he was a compliant little sheep, she was going to have some fun with this. She pulled out her flip phone and started recording a grainy video on the device.

“Hey, Rodney, why don’t you stand on one foot and spin around in a circle for the audience,” she told him, biting her lip and sensing that he would do exactly as told.

And he did. Almost stumbling over the coffee table and falling onto his ass in the process, he did exactly that. Emily covered her mouth to stifle a giggle. She stared at him through the display of her phone, making sure to capture his dumbfounded facial expressions.

“Rodney, tell the world how much of a little skanky whore you are,” she said, mouth agape with a grin so wide that it almost hurt her cheeks.

“I’m such a little skanky whore that I’d eat Paris Hilton’s ass with whipped cream and a cherry on top,” he said, slurring it out as if his consciousness slipped farther away into a trance or delirium with each additional word.

Emily burst out laughing, “You will never live this one down when the others see the video, dipshit.”

Yet something crept up behind Emily. A dark, foreboding sense of something alien and sinister. It only reached the back of her mind with a delay: she heard Rodney’s thoughts before he did or said anything that she told him to. Or rather, she projected her self into him and he complied, pliable like a piece of wet cardboard.

These thoughts made more sense now, in the present, when she knew she could read minds. But back then, she had chalked it up to the acid trip. The day after, she would go back to her normal life, letting the details fade away into oblivion, dismissing them as nightmarish nonsense.

Except for the knock on the door.

Not the door leading in and out of the basement, but the door to the boiler room. A room where nobody should have been inside.

The hairs on the back of her neck stood up and she stared at it, wide-eyed and terrified. Rodney followed her gaze because she willed him to pay just as much attention to it.

Knock knock. Again.

Or rather: THUMP THUMP. Deep, bass. Menacing.

“Rodney, go check on the clown hiding in there,” Emily told Rodney, not even thinking things through. She couldn’t even chalk it up to the booze and drugs.

All she knew was that she feared whatever awaited behind that door.

Like sleepwalking, Rodney approached the boiler room door. Twisted the knob. Opened it.

A soft red light glowed, engulfing him. A light out of this world. It flickered, danced—like flames. But no heat or fire awaited beyond the door. Only madness.

Emily walked there herself, intrigued by the mysterious light. Her whole body tingled with dread, yet she could not help but approach. She knew deep down, lurking beneath the surface of her thoughts, that something evil awaited there. Something that would drive her insane. She didn’t need to approach, should have turned and fled from Rodney’s basement. But curiosity won out over common sense.

She stood next to him and peered into the place beyond the door.

There was no boiler room there. Instead of the dingy little room with the big cylindrical something, some old plastic crates, and a bunch of pipes and valves—a flight of stairs stretched down, winding around a curve. The fiery red light flickered from the depths, beckoning her.

“Rodney, go lie down and sleep.”

He acknowledged her order, not speaking the affirmation out loud but just thinking it. Emily, however, didn’t even register how the thought had reached her like a spoken word. She could taste his dread riding on the back of those thoughts—salty, smooth, bitter, clamping his throat shut and cutting his breath short.

But her eyes fixated on these stairs. Made of obsidian, covered in strange, indecipherable symbols, bearing names on each step. Names of the lost and the damned. The forgotten and the famous. She could not read them, but she knew the names were important. She would read them again one day, but that was not this day.

Rodney laid down onto the couch and fell asleep within an instant. His thoughts turned into a soup of drugged dreaming and Emily shut them out, probing for any presence at the bottom of those stairs. To see if anything dwelt there, any things below.

“Come on down and find out,” something replied. Not in words, but thoughts. Smoky, crackling like wood in a fireplace, with embers rising into a dark and starry night.

Emily took her first step down those stairs in this other-space. Then another. And another. She tread down this path, and the stairwell narrowed as it twisted and turned on her way downward. She burned with curiosity to find what things lay hidden in the depths.

The door slammed shut behind her and something laughed. Something in a deep, bellowing baritone, like a monster straight out of some horror movie. The laughter died down into a chortle, egging her on to turn around and see for herself.

Fear overtook her and prevented her from turning to behold this demon. This madness. She knew it was there, right behind her. Fetid breath rhythmically struck the exposed skin of the back of her neck. The thing was huge, like a man two heads taller than her.

“If you don’t have the balls to look at me, then you better keep movin’, little girl,” the demon spoke to her, cackling some more. The words carried the air of a threat. “What are you afraid of finding down here, anyway?”

More laughter. Sinister. Knowing. Knowing her deepest, darkest desires, and secrets she would learn in the future

Her heart thumped against her chest, pounding so hard that it threatened to explode out of her rib cage any minute now. And whether she was tripping on the LSD, having an overly vivid nightmare, or this was indeed real, she dreaded turning around and instead continued on her descent.

“Welcome to the maze, Emily,” the thing’s voice crackled. Flames licked from its voice and the biting smells of charcoal smoke and sulfur filled her nostrils, stuck to her tongue. Way too real to be imagined, yet even now, she struggled to explain how this experience or even this memory could be real.

Because right now, she sat on the backseat of Officer Stanton’s car. But the vivid recollection of this memory sliced through time and space, reaching her in the now. The demonic presence still lingered, lurking behind her, occupying the space in her mind.

The unwanted guest renting one of the rooms in the mindscape of Motel Emily. The neon sign of vacancy flickered unsteadily.

Where the stairs wound down further, she reached a door branching out to the side. Or rather, the word “door” didn’t really cut it. It was a stone portal, covered in more symbols or otherworldly runes.

Without thinking, she pushed it open, hoping to find escape from this place, praying to reach Rodney’s basement again, or appear back in Stanton’s patrol car. The past and the present started bleeding together. Had she really experienced all this, back then? Was this the madness, overtaking her mind, surfacing now, tainting the present and overwriting reality?

“This is as real as it gets, bitch,” the demon said, cackling yet more.

The pink-haired Emily celebrating her 21st birthday and tripping on LSD didn’t understand what she saw beyond the portal once she strained herself, putting her legs and back into pushing it open, her nerves fraying with each inch accompanied by the sounds of stone grinding against stone.

Beyond that portal, she saw another Emily, stripped half-naked, handcuffed to a curtain rack, with some man with a painted face sliding a knife into her exposed back. Bodies of the dead and the dying littered the dark and ruined room of some derelict house in that place and Helpless Emily screamed in agony.

Younger Emily gasped and backed away from this scene of carnage and despair, recalling a memory of something yet to come, which Present Emily knew already and remembered as the time the Grinning Man came close to killing her.

The man with the knife, with the face painted to display a horrid grin over a face of cold and sociopathic indifference, turned to look at Younger Emily. She pulled, tugged at the portal with all her might, desperate to close it before something worse happened.

The Grinning Man, that serial killer, turned from Tortured Emily. He tilted his head, staring into the stone portal in disbelief, studying its frame. Before Younger Emily succeeded in fully shutting the portal, he approached with swift steps, ready to pass from one place into another.

But she slammed it shut just in time, just before she could decipher shouts from beyond the portal.

Worse, the demon remained. Right behind her.

She dared not turn around completely to look upon its horrid visage, but glimpsed it from the corner of her eye. Red like a devil, covered in spikes and horns and smiling at her with a maw lined with rows and rows of jagged, shark-like teeth. Blackened, knife-shaped claws opening and closing in anticipation, ready to rip her to shreds if she looked at it for too long.

It cackled again and Emily continued down the stairs.

“That was you,” it said. “That’ll be you, in the future. You fuck-up. Nobody’s proud of you, Emily. Accomplishing nothing of value. Only watching people die in squalor and misery. You are nothing but a worthless witness. A voyeur in a voyeuristic world.”

Hearing the demon speak in such a modern vernacular and imagining to be such a clichéd presence clashed in her mind, and she almost turned to confront the creature. But she read its thoughts and they mirrored her own.

The first time she realized that turning only meant embracing the madness, and ending up in that padded little room, all alone, locked inside her head with drugs—and not the sort that Younger Emily found fun.

Picking up the pace, she continued down the winding, hellish stairs. The walls drew closer together with each step, never moving, but converging in angles that made her descent more claustrophobic with each passing moment.

Present Emily knew she had to break free of this memory, because it was bleeding into reality. The demon was taking hold. She dabbed more blood from her nose and barely perceived the world outside the patrol car, rolling by. This memory was real, made even more real through recent realizations, and recalling it now was rendering it even more visceral than ever before. The knowledge of Present Emily collided with the memories of Younger Emily and they coalesced. They coagulated.

She passed by another stone portal, almost screaming at what she felt from behind it. Younger Emily did not know what awaited there, but Present Emily did not want to see it, and the two of them refused to push it open and look inside.

“Yeah, you keep walkin’, you hypocritical asshole. Eager to discover the truth, but just another chickenshit,” the demon said.

Instead of the inevitable laughter she expected to ensue, the demon growled with anger, reflecting a rage welling in her bowels, only overshadowed by the terror and fear now gripping her heart and driving her down the stairs, faster and faster.

“He’s dead, Emily. Julian’s dead, and it’s all your fault,” the thing snarled.

Its hoofed feet thundered down the steps behind her, keeping pace with ease, the hulking presence chasing her down deeper into this pit of insanity.

“No,” she finally dared to reply, but the demon mimicked her word, mocking her. Then she repeated herself, “No, that’s not my fault. Not like with the others. Not everything is my fault.”

“Maybe not directly, but what if you never entered his life? What if he hadn’t been on that parking lot, that day? He might not have had some crazy stalker cave his skull in with a two-by-four. So maybe it’s still your fault,” the demon growled.

“Shut up,” she said. Then screamed it. “Shut the fuck up!”

“Yeah, shut the fuck up if you’re not going to do anything about it, right, Emily?”

The demon’s voice reached a fever pitch and now chased her. She ran, taking multiple steps down the well in strides, pushing through the narrow pathways, wasting no time to wonder how the demon’s sheer mass could fit through here behind her. The stink of fear erupted from her pores in a sheen of sweat, the heat of this hell engulfing her, and the stench of burning flesh rising from the depths.

The stone walls wriggled. They were not made of obsidian anymore, but worms. Millions and millions of pitch-black worms, things that did not belong in reality but were all too real. Slippery, alive. Writhing, as the mass reached out to her like walls of tiny fingers covered in myriads of chomping little mouths, provoking a shriek of terror to escape Emily’s throat, and the demon to laugh its sadistic laugh at her.

“Run, Emily! Run away, you disgusting fucking coward!” The demon spoke in many voices, those of Chris, her father when he slapped her cheek, the monster on her heels, and even herself. They all blended together. One of many, many in one.

There it was again: rocking back and forth, drool dripping from the corner of her mouth. White, padded walls all around.

Was she truly there? Was this even real? Was her entire life just a lie? Figments of her imagination, trying to make sense where none was to be made?

The stairs split into different pathways and Emily knew what to do. Present Emily wiped more blood from her nose and stared at her bloodied fingers in disbelief. Younger Emily had discovered her destiny, was glimpsing horrors from her future. Of the three possible ways to go, she squeezed into the narrowest one, screaming silently as she felt the wriggling mass of worms engulf her with the heat of a thousand fires, causing her skin to blister and painfully peel back. She clenched her teeth shut and feared the things entering through any orifices but pushed forward.

She had to live. She had to fulfill her destiny. She remembered all the people who died, or rather, those who would die.

She could change the world, but only if she didn’t give in now.

“Shit, I’ll give you a tissue once we reach the precinct,” Stanton said. His offer; his words helped, centering her in the now. The words he spoke bled through into that dark place where Younger Emily found herself, an unknown voice from a stranger from another world, or another time, piercing the veils of different realities, and guiding her through this horrid darkness.

The demon grunted and cackled and choked on the worms entering its maw as it squeezed itself through the narrow, suffocating passageway, following Emily without fail. It clawed its way forth, causing a cacophony of disgusting squelching noises, and sensations that reminded her of bones snapping to the point of sharp edges bursting through skin and protruding from human flesh, and teeth gnashing on exposed innards with blood spurting out, gushing, and the reek of feces in the air.

Her eyes long clamped shut, she dared not breathe but had to, and felt first worms trying to wriggle their way into her mouth. She sputtered and spat them out with an angry scream, controlling the rage that drove her, clawing her own way forth, mimicking the demon’s motions. Or it mimicked hers.

The stairs went upwards and she ascended, pulling her way through the narrowest spot of these walls of worms, fleeing up the stairs. The demon tumbled, but then continued giving chase on all fours, like the beast that it truly was. Like the beast in the back of her head, the madness always just a few steps behind her.

“You can’t get away from me,” Stinky Jim cackled, only to abruptly choke on his words, gagging and coughing up more worms. Through rows of bloodied, gritted teeth, he said, “I am always with you, Emily.”

She tripped, fell, scraped her hands on the jagged edges of the obsidian steps, right in front of one of the names inscribed upon the stairs: Xerxes. Younger Emily blinked, did not quite register what it meant until years later, first dismissing this memory and experience as a bad trip, induced by popping too much acid and being tired out of her mind.

Screams echoed through the infinite, infernal stairwell, bouncing off the walls and curdling her blood until she realized: the screams were her own. The demon’s growling matched them, blended in with them, and she screamed in pain as claws dug into her back, lifting her onto her feet and pushing her up a few steps until she ran on yet farther, stumbling forth and upwards, ever away from the madness that followed her wherever she went, ever away from the things below.

The things below the surface of her mind. The horrid things she pushed deep down to still her mind; the darkness she drowned in whiskey and cigarettes even as she grew older.

This could have been her awakening but she skidded right past it. It wouldn’t be for years until she had her world turned upside down. Never realizing the power she held. The demon followed closely, keeping her blood pumping and the adrenaline flowing like fire in her veins.

She reached a stone portal at the top of the stairs and pushed it open. Instead of meeting resistance and stone grinding upon stone once more, it swung open with ease. She burst right through it and stumbled again.

Catching her breath, wheezing, lungs screaming but only pained sounds emerging from her lips, she looked around. There was no demon behind her. Younger Emily, with her pink hair, and her piercings, and completely stoned, stood in Rodney’s basement. Behind her was only the door to the boiler room.

Rodney slept on the couch, curled up into a fetal position. Carlos slept on the chair, sprawled out, still blanketed by some empty plastic wrappers. Static on the TV screen.

Emily ripped the door to the boiler room open, needing to know if that had been real, but there was no hellish stairwell behind it. Just the regular old boiler room that it should have been, reeking of oil.

The demon’s laughter echoed in her mind. She checked the time, noting how many hours had passed and chalking this whole experience up to a bad acid trip after all. She didn’t go home, afraid to be followed or stalked out there in the dark and cold and wet autumn streets, all alone.

Even though she found blood when she wiped her nose, Younger Emily figured it fit. Demons and hell weren’t real. She didn’t have the power to control minds or enter strange otherworlds.

She curled up on the end of the couch, wrapping herself in a smelly old blanket that Rodney should have washed weeks ago. Although she thought the nightmarish imagery and things she had just witnessed would keep her up until the other two boys woke up, exhaustion dragged her into the realm of sleep within minutes.

Emily sat in the back of Stanton’s car, finally escaping from this memory. She looked out the window, at the people in the streets of New Haven. Instead of reading their minds, scanning their thoughts, and testing the limitations of her newfound powers, she decided against any of that.

“I’m still here,” the demon said—Stinky Jim. He sat right next to her, just out of sight.

The fear welled up again, churning in her guts as if the monster gripped her stomach with a claw and twisted.

“I’ll always be with you, Emily. Just one step behind. You ever want the security of that little padded room—to surrender all responsibility, let the world sort itself out and sink into darkness while you drool in the corner—you just turn back. Let me take the wheel,” Stinky Jim said. He cackled again, showing no hint of mercy.

“Or you keep going deeper down, scratchin’ at those wriggling walls, and dive into those lakes of blood and shit and fire. Find out what’s beneath the surface. Drown in the secrets of those things below, or spit ‘em out and curse the world with your wretched knowledge.”

More cackling.

Emily clamped her eyes shut. She willed Stinky Jim to shut up.

She centered herself. Pushed away every thought. Blocked it all out—she had gained that much control over it now. Focused.

Breathed.

Pushed the demon deep down, where it would lurk. And wait.

With the things below.

—Submitted by Wratts

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sweetdreamsjeff · 6 years

Text

Remember Me? - Extract from Dream Brother Part 1 of 2

Jeff Buckley drowned three years ago. He’d seemed on the brink of a brilliant rock ‘n’ roll future. Yet he had never shaken off his obsession, part anger, part yearning, with the father he had barely known - Tim Buckley, legendary singer-songwriter. David Browne on their lives and destiny

Friday 15 December 2000 19.17 EST

Although dusk was in sight, the moist, breezy Memphis air still felt mosquito-muggy inside and outside. It was May 1997 and Jeff Buckley, who had turned 30 about six months earlier, emerged from his bedroom in black jeans, ankle-high black boots, and a white T-shirt with long black sleeves and “Altamont” (in honour of the Rolling Stones’ anarchic, death-shrouded 1969 concert) inscribed on it. Though officially out of his 20s, he remained a rock'n'roll kid at heart. As he and his tour manager Gene Bowen stood outside on the front porch, Jeff said he was heading out for a while. Generally Bowen would accompany Jeff on expeditions while on tour, but tonight Bowen needed space. Some mattresses would be delivered shortly, and the last thing he needed was Jeff bouncing around the house when they arrived.

So, when Jeff told Bowen he would be leaving with Keith Foti, Bowen was mostly relieved. Foti was even more of a character than Jeff was. A fledgling songwriter and musician and a full-time haircutter in New York City, Foti had accompanied Bowen from New York to Memphis in a rented van, the band’s gear and instruments crammed in the back. Stocky and wide-faced, with spiky, blue-dyed hair, Foti, who was 23, could have been the star of a Saturday morning cartoon show about a punk rock band.

Jeff told Bowen that he and Foti had decided to drive to the rehearsal space the band would be using during the upcoming weeks. Bowen told them to be back at the house by nine to greet the band. Jeff said fine, and he and Foti ambled down the gravel driveway to the van parked in front of the house.

Suddenly it dawned on Bowen: did Jeff and Foti know where the rehearsal space was? For non-natives, Memphis’s layout can be confusing; it wouldn’t be hard to get lost or suddenly find one’s self in a dicey part of town. Bowen bolted through the front door, but the van was already gone. Oh, well, he thought, they’ll find the building. After all, they had been there just yesterday.

Cruising around Memphis in their bright yellow Ryder van, past weathered shacks, barbecue joints, pawnshops and strip malls, Jeff and Foti made for an unusual sight. Foti was in the driver’s seat, which was for the best; Jeff was an erratic driver. They cranked one of Foti’s mix tapes, and the two of them sang along to the Beatles’ I Am The Walrus, John Lennon’s Imagine and Jane’s Addiction’s Three Days. Foti and Jeff both loved Jane’s Addiction and its shamanesque, hard-living singer, Perry Farrell. It took Jeff back to the days in the late 80s when he was living and starving in Los Angeles, trying to make a name for himself.

It wasn’t Jeff’s fault that he shared some vocal and physical characteristics with his father and fellow musician, Tim Buckley. Both men had the same sorrowful glances, thick eyebrows and delicate, waifish airs that made women of all ages want to comfort and nurture them. It wasn’t Jeff’s fault, either, that he inherited Tim’s vocal range, five-and-a-half octaves that let Tim’s voice spiral from a soft caress into bouts of rapturous, orgasmic sensuality. In the 60s, Tim wrote and sang melodies that blended folk, jazz, art song and R&B; he had a large cult following himself, and some of those songs had been recorded by the likes of Linda Ronstadt and Blood, Sweat & Tears.

When Jeff had begun writing his own music, he, too, moved in unconventional ways, crafting rhapsodies that changed time signatures and leapt from folkish delicacy to full-throttle metal roar. None of this, he insisted, came from his father’s influence. His biggest rock influence and favourite band was, he said, Led Zeppelin. To his friends, Jeff talked about his bootleg of Physical Graffiti out-takes with more affection and fannish enthusiasm than he ever did about the nine albums his father had recorded during the 60s and 70s.

Tonight, for once, Tim’s ghost was not lurking in the rearview mirror. If anything, Jeff seemed at peace with his father’s memory for perhaps the first time in his life. Whenever Jeff had mentioned Tim in the past, it was with flashes of irritation or resignation. He sounded as if he were discussing a far-off celebrity, not a father or even a family member. In a way, Tim was barely either: he and his first wife, Mary Guibert, had separated before Jeff was born, and Jeff had been raised to view Tim’s life and music warily. But in the past few months, Jeff seemed to have begun to understand his father’s music and, more importantly, his motivations.

Jeff’s years in Los Angeles hadn’t been fruitful, but when he moved to New York in the autumn of 1991, a buzz began building around the skinny, charismatic kid with the big-as-a-cathedral voice and the eclectic repertoire. Many record companies came calling, and he eventually, hesitatingly, put his name on a contract with one of them, Columbia. After an initial EP, an album, Grace, finally appeared in 1994. A brilliant sprawl of a work, the album traversed the musical map, daring listeners to find the common ground that linked its choral pieces, Zeppelin-dipped rock and amorous cabaret. Certainly one of the links was Jeff’s voice, an intense and seemingly freewheeling instrument that wasn’t afraid to glide from operatic highs and overpowering shrieks to a conversational intimacy.

Beyond being simply one of the most moving albums of the 90s, Grace branded Jeff as an actual, hype-be-damned talent for the age. The record business was always eager to promote newcomers in such a manner, but here was someone with both a sense of musical history and seemingly limitless potential. Like Bob Dylan and Van Morrison before him, he appeared to be on the road to a long and commanding career in which even a creative misstep or two would be worth poring over. Comparisons with Tim were inevitable, and a disturbing number of fortysomethings had materialised at Jeff’s concerts to ask him about his father. But, much to Jeff’s relief, the comparisons had begun to diminish with each passing month.

Grace hadn’t been the smash hit Columbia would have liked, but worldwide it had sold nearly 750,000 copies, and it was talked up by everyone from Paul McCartney and U2 to Zeppelin’s Robert Plant and Jimmy Page. Fans in Britain, Australia and France adored him even more passionately than those in America. To his managers and record company, Jeff was a shining star, a gateway to prestige, money and credibility. A very great deal was riding on the songs he was testing out on the four-track recorder in the living room of his house in Memphis. Jeff didn’t like to think about those pressures, which is partly why he moved 1,000 miles away from New York. Here, he could think, write, create.

The drive from Jeff’s house to Young Avenue, where the rehearsal room was located, should have taken 10 minutes down a few tree-lined streets. But something was wrong. Before Jeff and Foti knew it, nearly an hour had passed and there was still no sign of the two-storey red-brick building. They found themselves circling around a variety of neighbourhoods, past underpasses for Interstate 240 and pawnshops. To Foti, everything began to look the same.

Jeff had an idea. “Why don’t we go down to the river?” he said. It sounded good to Foti, who had brought along his guitar and felt like practising a song he was writing. Having a talented, well-regarded rock star as an audience wouldn’t be so bad, either.

The Wolf River did not look particularly wolfish; it barely had the feel of a river. The city government had passed an ordinance banning swimming, but no signs indicated this restriction. According to locals, there didn’t have to be, since everyone in Memphis knew it was far from an ideal swimming hole. The first six inches of water could be warm and innocuous-looking, but thanks to the intersection with the Mississippi the undercurrents were deceptive. All day long and into the early hours of the morning, 200ft-long barges carrying goods from the local granaries and a cement factory hauled their cargo up and down the Wolf. With their churning motors, the tugboats that pulled the barges were even fiercer and had been known to create strong wakes. Local coastguard employees had once witnessed a 16ft flat-bottom boat being sucked under the water in the wake of a tug. Memphis lore had it that at least one person a year drowned in the Wolf.

Even if Jeff had heard these stories, he either didn’t care or disregarded them. Hopping over a 3ft-high brick wall, Jeff and Foti strode across a cement promenade strewn with picnic tables. Then Jeff hiked his black combat boots on to the bottom rung on the steel rail that ran alongside the promenade and jumped over. Foti, gripping his guitar, followed, and they found themselves barrelling down a steep slope, swishing through knee-high brush, ivy and weeds.

On the way down, Jeff shed his coat - just dropped it in the brush. “You’re not gonna leave it here, are you?” Foti asked, stopping quickly to pick it up. Jeff didn’t seem to be listening. Carrying Foti’s boom box, he continued down to the riverbank. The shore was littered with rocks, soda cans and shattered glass bottles, and it quickly sloped into the water just inches away. As gentle waves lapped on to the shoreline, Jeff set Foti’s boom box on one of the many jagged slate rocks on the bank, just an inch or so above the water. “Hey, man, don’t put my radio there,” Foti told him. “I don’t want it going in the water. It’s my only unit of sound.” Jeff didn’t seem to pay particular attention to that request, either.

By now, just after 9pm, Foti had strapped on his guitar and started practising his song. Looking right at Foti, Jeff took a step or two away, his back to the river. Before Foti knew it, Jeff was knee-high in the water. “What are you doin’, man?” Foti said. Within moments, Jeff’s entire body eased into the water, and he began doing a backstroke.

At first, Foti wasn’t too concerned: Jeff was still directly offshore, just a few feet away. He and Foti began musing about life and music as Jeff backstroked around in circles. “You know, the first one’s fun, man - it’s that second one … ” Jeff said, his voice trailing off as he continued to backstroke in the water.

With each stroke, Jeff inched more and more out into the river. Foti noticed and said, “Come in, you’re gettin’ too far out.” Instead, Jeff began singing Led Zeppelin’s Whole Lotta Love. “He was just on his own at that point,” Foti says. “He didn’t really observe my concerns.” Jeff had an impetuous, spur-of-the-moment streak. Many of his friends considered it one of his most endearing qualities; others worried that it bordered on recklessness. Like his father, he liked to follow his muse, to leap into projects passionately and spontaneously, even if they weren’t fashionable or appropriate. Take that night in 1975. Tim was on his way home from a gruelling tour. His record sales were in freefall, but lately he had tried to cut back on his drinking and drugging, and was attempting to get his music and even a potential acting career on track. On the way home from the last stop on his tour, he stopped by the home of a friend, who offered up a few drugs. What was wrong with a little pick-me-up after some exhausting road work? No one knew if Tim realised exactly what he had snorted that late afternoon, but it ultimately didn’t matter; he died that night of an overdose at the age of 28.

Although Jeff had experimented with drugs, he steered clear to avoid his father’s fate, both physically and artistically; he had learned from Tim’s mistakes in the matters of artistic integrity and handling the music business. Onstage, Jeff would often make cracks about dead rock stars, pretending to shoot up or breaking into spot-on mimicry of anyone from Jim Morrison to Elvis Presley. Once this new album was completed, he was planning to dig deeper into his family heritage and unearth the truth behind the seemingly ongoing series of tragedies that haunted his lineage.

Tonight, as he backstroked in the water, Jeff appeared to feel freer than he had in a while. The mere fact that he was in water was a sign of change. Although he had grown up near the beaches of Southern California, Jeff was never a beachcomber.

It was now close to 9.15pm, and Jeff had been in the river nearly 15 minutes. His boots and trousers must gradually have become more sodden and heavy. He began swimming further toward the centre of the river, circling around before drifting to the left of Foti. Then he began swimming straight across to the other side, or so it appeared to Foti. Directly across from them, on the opposite bank, was a dirt road that ran right up from the river. It looked so close - maybe Jeff felt he could reach it and take a quick stroll.

The tugboat came first, moments later. “Jeff, man, there’s a boat coming,” Foti said. “Get out of the fucking water.” The boat was heading in their direction, up from Beale Street. Jeff seemed to take notice of it and made sure to be clear of it as it passed. The next time Foti looked over, he still saw Jeff’s head bobbing in the water.

Not more than a minute had passed when Foti spied another boat approaching. This one was bigger - a barge, perhaps 100ft long. Foti grew more concerned and started yelling louder for Jeff to come back. Once again, Jeff swam out of its path, and Foti breathed another sigh of relief. In the increasing darkness, the speck that was Jeff’s head was just barely visible.

Soon, the water grew choppy, the waves lapping a little more firmly against the riverbank. Foti grew worried about his boom box. The last thing he wanted was to see it waterlogged and unusable. Taking his eye off Jeff for a moment, he stepped over to where Jeff had set the stereo down on a rock and moved it back about five feet, out of reach of the waves. Foti turned back around. There was no longer a head in the water. There was nothing - just stillness, a few rippling aftershock waves, and the marina in the distance. Foti began to scream out Jeff’s name. There was no answer. He yelled more. He continued screaming for nearly 10 minutes.

On the other side of the river, Gordon Archibald, a 59-year-old employee of the marina, was walking near the moored boats with a friend when he heard a single shout of “help”. Concerned, he looked out on to the water. But he saw nothing, nor heard anything more.

The folk singer Tim Buckley, who was to become Jeff’s father, married Mary Guibert in 1965.

It was spring 1966, Mary Guibert was three months pregnant, 18 years old, and Tim was out of town. Even before Tim left for New York, his wife suspected he was spending time with other women. “By no stretch of the imagination was this a marriage made in heaven,” she says. “He hadn’t been faithful to me for very long. And I thought that was perfectly acceptable because, after all, he was so wonderful, and I was so nobody.”

Mary says she told Tim about the pregnancy before he left for New York, but that he told her he had to leave town and that she should move back in with her family in Orange County, near LA, get a job, save money, and “maybe get an abortion or whatever you want to do”, she recalls him saying. Even then, Tim made no mention of another woman. “I just had no idea,” Mary says. “A lot of denial going on. Tons of denial on both sides, because he wouldn’t bring himself, to the very end, to say, 'You know, I really don’t love you very much’.” She sent Tim letters to various addresses in New York; his replies came fitfully and were pointedly vague. Finally, a mutual friend gave her the news: Tim was in New York with a new girlfriend, and would be back in Los Angeles shortly.

Lee Underwood, guitarist in Buckley’s band and a great friend, recalls the situation being a topic of discussion while he and Tim were in New York that summer. Given the choice of returning to Mary and Orange County or following what Underwood calls “his destined natural way”, Tim “decided to be true to himself and his music, fully aware that he would be accepting a lifetime burden of guilt. Tim left, not because he didn’t care about his soon-to-be-born child but because his musical life was just beginning; in addition, he couldn’t stand Mary. He did not abandon Jeff; he abandoned Mary.”

Finally, some action had to be taken. Tim came to meet Mary at a coffee shop near her home. What exactly happened remains unclear. Tim never talked to his friends about it, while Anna Guibert, Mary’s mother, recalls Tim giving Mary an ultimatum: divorce or abortion. According to Mary, she asked Tim what they should do about the marriage and pregnancy, and he replied, “You do whatever you have to do, baby”, and hung his head.

Afterwards, Mary, who was by now many months pregnant, walked home, told her mother the news and cried. As Anna Guibert remembers, “I said, 'That’s the best thing, honey. If he doesn’t want you, be free.’ She was crazy about Tim. But he wanted his career. There was no place for a baby in his life."Mary, however, did want her baby.

He was born on Thursday, November 17, 1966, at 10.49pm, after 21 hours of labour. The issue of identity loomed even before the child left the hospital. Mary named her son Jeffrey Scott - "Jeffrey” after her last high-school boyfriend before Tim (“my last pure boy-girl relationship, my last pure moment”) and “Scott” in honour of John Scott Jr, a neighbour and close friend of the Guiberts who died in an accident at the age of 17. Yet because Mary preferred Scott, the child was instantly called Scotty by his family. Tim was not available for consultation, since no one knew his whereabouts.

At school, Scotty was the eternal clown, making jokes, craving attention and being more interested in music (including cello lessons provided by the school) than grades. His second-floor bedroom became a rock enclave, his most valuable possessions being a Hemispheres picture disc by the prog-rock band Rush and all four of Kiss’s solo albums.

He had a guitar given to him by his grandmother, and although he hadn’t learned to master it, he would sit and cradle it, “like Linus’s blanket”, according to Willie Osborn, his childhood friend. Although Jeff had taken his father’s name, his music tastes reflected none of Tim’s influence. He was just eight years old when Tim died; they had had their only proper encounter just months before.

The meeting between Tim and Jeff Buckley, April 1975.

Mary Guibert was flipping through a local newspaper when she saw a listing for Tim Buckley’s upcoming show. It was, she says, “an epiphany”. It had been six years since she and her first husband had seen each other, and nearly as long since they had spoken. Mary and Jeff took the hour-long drive to Huntington Beach, an oceanside town 10 miles southwest of Orange County, and arrived at the Golden Bear just before Tim walked on-stage. They took a seat on a bench in the second row.

Jeff seemed enraptured, bouncing in his seat to the rhythms of Tim’s 12-string guitar and rock band. “Scotty was in love,” Mary says. “He was immediately entranced. His little eyes were just dancing in his head.” To Mary, Tim was still a dynamic performer, bouncing on his heels with his eyes shut, but she also felt he looked careworn for someone still in his 20s.

At the end of the set, no sooner had Mary asked her son if he wanted to meet his father than the kid was out of his seat and scurrying in the direction of the backstage area. As they entered the cramped dressing room, Jeff clutched his mother’s long skirt. It seemed a foreign and frightening world to him, until he heard someone shout out, “Jeff!” Although no one had called him that before in his life - he was still “Scotty” to everyone - Jeff ran across the room to a table where Tim was resting after the show.

Tim hoisted his son on to his knees and began rocking him back and forth with a smile as Jeff gave his father a crash course on his life, rattling off his age, the name of his dog, his teachers, his half-brother and other vital statistics. “I sat on his knees for 15 minutes,” Jeff wrote later. “He was hot and sweaty. I kept on feeling his legs. 'Wow, you need an iceberg to cool you off!’ I was very embarrassing - doing my George Carlin impression for him for no reason. Very embarrassing. He smiled the whole time. Me too.”

Tim’s drummer, Buddy Helm, recalls. “It was a very personal moment. The kid seemed very genuine, totally in love with his dad. It was like wanting to connect. He didn’t know anything personally about Tim but was there ready to do it.” The same seemed to be true of Tim; after years of distance from his son, he seemed to feel it was time to re-cement whatever bond existed between them.

Shortly after, before the second set began, Judy, Tim’s new partner, asked Mary if it would be acceptable for Jeff to spend a few days at their place: Tim would be leaving soon on tour, but had some free time. It was the start of the Easter break, so Mary agreed. Next morning, she packed Jeff’s clothes in a brown paper bag and drove him to Santa Monica to spend his most extended period of time with his father.

Tim and Judy lived a few blocks from the beach. As Jeff remembered it, the following five days - the first week of April 1975 - were largely uneventful. “Easter vacation came around,” he wrote in 1990. “I went over for a week or so, we made small talk at dinner, watched cable TV, he bought me a model airplane on one of our 'outings’ … Nothing much but it was kind of memorable.” Three years later, he recalled it with much more bitterness: “He was working in his room, so I didn’t even get to talk to him. And that was it.”

Mary recalls Jeff telling her that he would dash into Tim’s room every morning and bounce on the bed. At the end of his stay, Tim and Judy put Jeff on a bus out of Santa Monica, and Mary picked him up at the bus station in Fullerton. When Jeff stepped off, she noticed he was clutching a book of matches. On it, Tim had written his phone number.

By his teens, Jeff was exhibiting impressive musical skills, as another school band member, drummer Paul Derech, discovered when he visited Jeff in the Guibert home in early 1982. Sitting on his bed, Jeff played songs from Al Di Meola’s Electric Rendezvous and the first album by Asia. Even though Derech had to listen closely to Jeff’s guitar - Mary couldn’t yet afford an amplifier for her son - his dexterity was so apparent that Derech literally took a step back.

Once, Jeff pulled out a picture of Tim from his closet and softly said, “I’ve spent a lot of time looking at that picture”, before moving on to another topic. Derech, like other kids, sensed immediately that his father was a sore point. Instead, they talked music. Although punk and new wave were the predominant rock styles of the moment, Jeff had little interest in them. He preferred music that challenged him and transported him to imaginary worlds. In the late 70s and early 80s, that music was prog (short for progressive) and art rock - bands such as Yes, Genesis and Rush that revelled in complex structures, science-fiction-themed lyrics and virtuosic, fleet- fingered guitar parts that only a few teenagers could hope to master. In a friend’s garage, Jeff and Derech soon began jamming on versions of Rush songs. Jeff declined to sing, though; he told friends and family he wanted to be a guitarist, plain and simple.

The reason, some felt, was because he didn’t want to be compared to the musician father he barely knew. “He had exactly the same speaking voice as Tim,” recalls Tamurlaine, the daughter of Herb Cohen, Tim’s one-time manager. She befriended Jeff when he and Mary would visit the Cohen family for dinner. (Cohen and Mary kept in touch after Tim and Mary’s break-up.) During those meals, Jeff’s vocal and physical resemblance to his father led Cohen often to mistakenly call Jeff “Tim”.

Jeff moved to New York City in 1990.

Often sporting his black Hendrix T-shirt, Jeff immediately took to New York, hauling his guitar into the subway to play for change and roaming the streets. “I talked to him right after he got to New York and he was loving it,” recalls his friend Tony Marryatt, a fellow student at Musicians Institute in Hollywood. “He said it was just like a Woody Allen movie.” To support himself, he took a series of day jobs, from working at an answering service (for actors such as F Murray Abraham and Denzel Washington) to being an assistant at a Banana Republic clothes store.

#jeff buckley #remember me? part 1 #dream brother: the lives and music of jeff and tim buckley #david browne

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