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rotworld · 6 months

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8: Roadkill

(previous)

the drift has changed. you set off on your next job and run into some trouble.

->sexually explicit. contains noncon, mild gore, gangbang, mild feral behavior, mention of breeding

The shift is a shimmering oil spill across the sky. Horizons tremble. Clouds spin. Rain from another world drizzles the roads, leaving quivering stains behind. Compass Hill’s children name constellations that will never exist again: Butterfly Eating Bird, Flying Seegris, Srivin Who Ate His Lovers. You bask in the tendriled shadow of a creature that is not there. The Drift stabilizes with the startling swiftness of a door slamming shut. The gray dawn comes.

Compass Hill’s couriers are those children who could not weave—grown now, fiercely loyal to the Singer and the haven he made. Some have gone home and found only disappointment. Some have not dared to try. The tug at the heart grows weaker, they say. Someday, they truly believe there will be no pull at all. Only the whisper of wind through silk and the scent of mulberries. But for now, they help you, plucking those old, unwanted threads to see where they lead.

Rivermouth is up north. Splitrock Junction is just west of there. The University is a fair distance southeast. You share an egg basket, the fragrant shells painted with edible floral art. The girl comes running to see you one more time, trailed at a distance by other children who have yet to grow their wings. She hands you a thin, handwoven cord long enough to make a necklace. You recognize the colors immediately; it’s her hopesilk.

“You made this?” you ask her. She nods proudly. “It’s beautiful. You should keep it, it’s very valuable.”

She shakes her head. “Take,” she insists. “Make more later.” She sits with you and the couriers for a while, enjoying the warm breeze and weak, watery light. Her hair has been washed and braided, little butterfly-shaped clips keeping her bangs out of her eyes. She looks so much more at ease than when you first met her, but also older. The roads have left their mark. “Go home?”

“Maybe,” you say. Home is west now, so far west that your map isn’t big enough to mark it.

She walks you back to your car. The Song is a mournful farewell, a keening that rolls through town. The Singer is waiting for you. He’s brought more food than you need. He presses his mandibles against your forehead and helps you load your car. A new egg box for the front seat. A new bag of dried meat and salty snacks in the back. A heavy box slid into the trunk, bound for the University.

“Painsilk shipment. They paid in advance,” he hums. “There’s anchorware in the box to keep it in one piece, in case you get stuck in a shift.”

“Thank you. I’ll try to visit again soon.”

He takes your hand and squeezes it gently. Your missing finger no longer aches, properly cleaned and healed, no longer hidden. The Singer touches the spot where something used to be with aching tenderness, bringing it to his hand to kiss. “Be safe. I’ll wait for the road to bring you back to me.”

You pass through a different gate on your way out. Chiffon is there to nuzzle against you one last time and wish you well. The colorful silks of Compass Hill wither and fade in your rearview mirror, vanishing into the gray. Home is west, says the heart. You try to conjure a fantasy of homecoming but you can’t picture the town, can’t even imagine what the people would look like. You take a deep breath, wipe your eyes, and keep driving.

[NOW PLAYING ON THE RADIO: KEEP THE STREETS EMPTY FOR ME BY FEVER RAY]

The road going south is smooth and peaceful, but there’s a lingering sense of unease. The car feels too quiet somehow. Something is missing. You find yourself glancing into the backseat every so often, staring at the empty space, the seatbelt no longer being worn. No curious eyes look back at you. No one scribbles softly on your map, or shares your snacks. She was only with you for a few days and she was so quiet and unobtrusive, but you’re keenly aware of where she used to be, the spot that was hers.

You’d never had company before, you realize. Some couriers offer the occasional taxi service but you’ve never taken work like that. Too much trouble, you thought, too uncomfortable having someone in your space, someone else to look after and take into consideration. You’re used to stopping on your own schedule, rationing your food for a single person. Any deviation didn’t seem feasible.

Loneliness is a bad trait for couriers. Unproductive. The silence won’t feel so heavy after a while, you think. You’ll stop looking back for a face that isn’t there.

The scenery changes. Rocky terrain turns to smooth, rolling hills. The trees thicken, clustered at the narrowing roadside. You’re in a town with dizzying suddenness, a lost and overgrown place. Vines strangle a flickering streetlamp. Old, crumbling houses appear and vanish in the distance like mirages in the fog. This is Verlinda again, a town in the throes of being devoured by ravenous forest. You drive slowly and watch for moving shadows. Something is shrieking in the fog.

There’s a car in the ditch. You slow down even further. It’s compact, bags and boxes stacked against the back window; probably another courier. There are no skid marks off the road but the driver side door is hanging open. Pulled over, jumped out in a hurry? It doesn’t look like it’s been there too long. It’s not rusted or overgrown like the rest of the city. Just up the road, you find scraps of clothing and a crescent of splattered blood.

Something screams again. You turn the corner and your headlights sweep across a body lying in the grass. It’s a woman. Her blouse is ripped open and one of her legs is twisted and mangled, a glistening mess of blood, bone and shredded denim. You pull over but not beside her, putting some distance between the two of you. She writhes in your rearview mirror, trying to pull herself out of the ditch.

“Help me! Please help me!” she wails. Your fingers curl around the door handle but you hesitate. She’s either a courier, or the mimic that ate her.

You look at her again in the mirror, thoughts racing. If she’s the driver of the car you saw earlier, she would’ve seen something just like this, you think, would’ve seen somebody injured lying near the road and stopped to help. It might’ve lunged at her when she was close enough. It might’ve chased her a while, might’ve wandered off to wait for her to bleed out for an easier kill. She might be dying, cold and alone, on the side of the road.

She looks human. She’s solid, her shape stable, not warping or transparent. She’s talking to you—begging you to help her. “Please help me, please!” she cries, and is the simple repetition from fear and delirium or a restricted vocabulary, not understanding what she’s saying but knowing other things have said it? If she’s a mimic, she must be a crywolf. You won’t see anything unusual until you’re within arm’s reach, and by then it’ll be too late.

Suddenly, it’s quiet. She’s no longer screaming. She’s not even moving. You get out of the car and she’s lying there, nearly motionless. Her shoulders rise and sink with weak, shallow breaths. She’s thrown herself forward on her stomach and tried to crawl towards you, but she didn’t make it far. You hear her wheeze, wet, rattling breaths trapped in her throat. You don’t have much for medical supplies but you could be there, at least. You could sit with her, hold her hand.

You have a vivid memory of being young, so young you don’t think you should remember it—of being out here, along the road. Of lying in the grass. Of cars whizzing past, wind that rocked your small body and sent you sprawling, too weak to lift yourself. Sometimes you have dreams about that instead of forgetting how to breathe.

You step closer. She tries to lift her head but she just shivers, shoulders twitching, and gives up. A miserable sound comes out of her and you’re going to her without thinking about the consequences, without caution.

You’re halfway there when something else, something you didn’t hear coming, didn’t see in the underbrush, lurches out of the trees behind her. She twists and screeches and starts to come apart, splitting into sharp, drooling maws, no longer a woman but coils of flesh and teeth. The crywolf is like a snake with mouths for scales, hissing and contorting itself to lunge at the new threat.

It’s badly outmatched. The thing from the trees is far larger. You see a blur of legs, a centipede’s worth of hooves stomping and stampeding, antlers like forest canopy, and you are sprinting back to your car. The roar of your car’s engine struggles to drown out the unsettling sounds behind you, the nightmarish squealing of a frightened crywolf.

You almost swerve when you see a deer. It’s not quite in the road, just grazing beside it. You don’t want to slow down but there’s another one up ahead, a couple standing on a grass bank watching you go by. The next one is right in front of you, staring directly into your headlights with shining eyes and large antlers still fuzzy with velvet. It’s agitated, pawing the road with its hoof. You try to edge around it, pulling very slowly into the other lane. It rams against the side of your car and there’s a terrifying, breathless moment as you lurch in your seat where you aren’t sure if you’re about to tip over and end up trapped in an overturned vehicle.

The thundering footsteps of a colossal beast shake the ground and rattle your windows. You’re afraid to look in the rearview mirror. You hear hoofbeats—enough for a whole herd of deer. A dark shadow falls across you, an enormous shape blotting out the sky. Clutching the steering wheel, you turn to look out the window and it’s—

just a man.

There is no looming shadow. No enormous beast. But you feel it, even if you can’t see it. There’s a chill in the air, the instinctive terror of staring down something that could easily outrun you. The man is unusually tall but not monstrous. He has to bend slightly, tilt his head so he can peer into your window, one arm braced above it. He glares at you disinterestedly, occasionally glancing off into the distance as though he’d rather be doing something else. His hair is long, tumbling in unkempt tangles down his back. He’s not wearing a shirt.

You’ve never seen him before, but you’ve heard enough stories to know you’re looking at the Verlinda Stag.

He taps his index finger against your window. The nail is curved like a wolf claw. His hand is slick with fresh blood all the way up to his wrist. “Courier,” he says, voice low and rough like gravel. “We need to talk.”

“I didn’t hit anyone,” you insist.

“Don’t make me repeat myself.”

Reluctantly, you roll the window down. There’s more blood freckling his face and splashed down his chest, a wide, arcing spray of red dripping all the way down his hips and—

He’s not wearing anything, you realize. Not just a shirt. No pants or shoes, either. By the time you realize you’ve been staring, he’s stuck his arm through the window and unlocked your door. You’re yanked outside and slammed into the pavement without a word, lying in the glare of your own headlights. Footsteps close in around you. There were deer here earlier, you’re sure of it, but all you see is people. Men with irritated scowls and curious smiles, just as naked as the Stag and visibly excited.

You make yourself sit up in a hurry. The Stag crouches beside you, catching your shoulder before you can stand. “Where are you from?” he asks, sneering. “And where are you going?”

“West. Somewhere west. I’m going to the University.”

You’re not sure he’s even listening. He’s looking up, past you, and you hear someone going through your car. One of the men passes him your map. He scrutinizes it briefly, scoffing, then hands it back. “You’re going to do something for me,” he says. They’re rummaging around in your trunk now, moving things around. You try to look back and see what’s going on, but the Stag catches your chin and makes you look at him. “I’m giving you something very important. You’re going to deliver it to the University. You’re going to take it straight to Dr. Loyola at the College of Medicine. If you don’t, I’ll know.”

You nod quickly. The Stag nods at someone behind you and you hear the trunk slam shut. His hand drops from your chin but it’s on your shoulder again, firm enough that you know he doesn’t want you moving. “Is there…something else?” you ask nervously. You’re aware that you’re surrounded again, the other men milling around, standing in a wide circle around the two of you. They’re talking quietly, whispering sometimes. They keep looking at you with hunger in their eyes.

“You should’ve known that was a crywolf,” the Stag says.

You avoid his gaze. “I figured it might be.”

“I know. You reeked of fear. But you still got out of your car. Talked yourself into ignoring your instincts.” He shoves you suddenly and you’re on your back, pinned there by his hand on your sternum. “Desperation,” he says the word with disgust, “is going to get you killed, courier. I can’t have you doing something stupid when you’re making a delivery for me. If it doesn’t make it to its destination, I’ll be very upset.”

“It will, I swear it will!”

He lifts his hand only for one of the other men to take his place. This one is smaller, his build more slender, and he keeps a hand on your throat to choke you whenever you start to squirm, the other tugging at your pants. The Stag stands and begins to pace around you, just outside the circle of eager faces looming above you. “You will,” he agrees. “But it doesn’t hurt to make sure.”

The man on top of you works his hands into your clothes. You flinch when he touches you, rough, calloused fingers stroking you hard and fast. He leans in, inhaling against your neck, and then he laughs. “Ohh…this one’s been here recently,” he says. “Smells like rabbit.” You try to buck him off again and his thumb digs into your windpipe. Your hands go instinctively to his wrist, trying to scratch him, pry him off. One of the others is there, kneeling by your face. He pins both of your hands above your head.

The Stag leers at you. “Rabbit, eh? We don’t have to go easy on you, then, do we?”

They let you keep your shirt on, stripping only your lower half. The road is cold and hard against the backs of your legs. The man on top of you watches tears fill your eyes with a condescending smile, stroking his hardening cock. “It’s not gonna be so bad,” he assures you. “We’re just gonna mark you. Anything with a brain’ll smell Verlinda all over you. Keep you nice and safe and protected.”

You shake your head desperately. “Please just let me go. I’ll go straight to the University. I won’t take any detours, I swear, I’ll be fast—”

“Will you hurry the fuck up?” one of the others snaps. It’s the one holding your wrists, one large, clawed hand trapping both yours. “Stop jacking off and fuck them, we don’t have all day.”

The one on top of you laughs. He bites his lip watching you twist and try to kick him away, easily catching one of your ankles. “Don’t do that,” he scolds you. “By the end of this, I’ll be your favorite. You’ll beg me to have a turn again.” You wheeze when he surges forward, bending you nearly in half. He hooks your knees over his shoulders and you feel his tip at your entrance, rubbing and prodding.

He goes agonizingly slowly. Every thrust is shallow and teasing, just kissing your hole. When he starts to push, it’s with the same infuriating patience, gentle motions that give you time to breathe, adjust, and feel everything. The wind is cold on your skin but his skin is scalding. The pavement digs into your back. He rests his palms on either side of your head, savoring every small gasp and whimper.

“What’s it like to fuck a human?” one of them jeers.

“Mm…tight.” His next thrust is harder, squeezing the head of his cock inside. “And they smell good. Makes my mouth water.”

The Stag saunters back into view, circling behind the man on top of you with his claws trailing over his bare shoulders. For just a moment, his silhouette seems larger, crowned with arching antler shapes. “They’re not just human, Garvan. Not just of this world. Little lost thing doesn’t know where they’re from.”

“Ohh?” Garvan grins as he leans in, resting his weight on top of you. He rocks forward and you feel him sink deeper, more of his length pushing past your resistance. “Poor thing. Does this one have to go? We could keep them. You don’t have a mate for the season, do you?” He withdraws to the tip and then slams into you, making you keen. All that gentleness is suddenly gone. His pace is slow and brutal, deep, pounding thrusts that scrape your back against the concrete.

The Stag hums thoughtfully. You’re barely aware of the sound over your own panting and gasping, Garvan’s moans, the harsh slap of skin on skin. “Hmm. You’re right, I don’t. But I can’t keep every cute thing that wanders into my territory, tempting as it is.”

Garvan hilts inside you and rests there, grinding his hips in a slow circle. To your horror, a bolt of pleasure shoots up your spine. Maybe you can’t hold your voice in, or maybe he scents your arousal; he knows. You see his smile widen, feel his cock twitch inside you. “That’s alright. Verlinda’s a big place. You’ll be back before long, won’t you, courier? Back here, under me…”

Slowly, he pulls out. You expect another harsh thrust but then he’s letting your legs down, stroking himself over your chest. He never looks away from you, holding your gaze with half-lidded eyes and a sick, delirious smile, until he throws his head back with a curse. Cum splatters your skin and he doesn’t stop until he’s wrung himself dry, emptying everything has onto your thighs and stomach.

“Next time I’ll fuck you properly,” he groans. “In my den…during my rut…breed you all night long.”

There's barely time to struggle before someone else takes his place and you're being flipped over, shoved onto your belly with somebody heavier on top of you. "You're gonna share, right, Garvan? Not gonna keep 'em all to yourself." You're dragged partially upright and wince, skinning your knees on the road. The next one is not slow or gentle. A hand grabs a fistful of your hair and pulls just as he slams inside you in one merciless thrust.

The sight of them surrounding you, all sharp teeth and glinting eyes, makes a whimper slip out involuntarily. They're all watching. Pleasuring themselves to your pain and humiliation, eager to be the next to tear you apart. The Stag takes the spot directly in front of you, hooking his fingers beneath your chin. It's hard to focus on him when someone's slamming into you from behind. "You look good on your knees, courier. But you'd look even better in your own skin." The Stag drags his claw over your lips, tracing the shape of your mouth. "Come find us again when your teeth come in. I want to taste the real you."

You don't know how long they take you like that, ravaging you in the middle of the road. You scratch up your palms on the asphalt trying to crawl away, your knees raw and bleeding. One will mount you, fuck you senseless, and then finish across your ass or back. Your vision swims and your head feels hazy. Your insides are sore and your body is a bloodied canvas from raking claws and nipping teeth. The Stag is always there, stroking your hair or dragging his claws down your back. When the others have finished, panting and satisfied all around you, he forces you up onto your knees and takes your throat.

You don't fight him. You don't have the strength. Your arms are sore and weak, dangling limp at your sides as he holds you by the back of the head and fucks your mouth. You choke on his girth, jaw stretched uncomfortably. You look up at him through blurry, tear-filled eyes and that makes him worse, more excited and demanding. He slams into your throat all the way to the base, balls slapping your chin, and then he holds you there. Your throat spasms and your nails dig weakly into his thighs. You can't breathe.

"Shhh." He strokes your head like he's soothing a startled animal. "Relax. You did well. Just take it." His hips jerk and you feel him cumming, thick and bitter on your tongue. You try to pull away and his grip tights, claws digging into your scalp in warning. You don't have to ask; you know he wants you to swallow. He hushes you again when you gag, gently pressing his fingers into the side of your neck in massaging motions. You're surprised at how much it relaxes you, melting against him. You swallow and his eyes follow the movement of your throat, his cock twitching against your tongue.

“I can almost feel it,” he murmurs. The pads of his fingers rub up and down your throat, massaging something tender beneath the skin. “Right here, deep down…there you are, courier.” When he steps back, you collapse on your hands and knees. You’re cold and in pain, sick to your stomach. Garvan offers you your clothes, chuckling when you snatch them from him.

They leave you there without a word. The men split off in different directions. The Stag cross your headlights, stepping off the road. You see him slip between the trees. That paralyzing feeling of being beheld by something so much larger and stronger, being pinned by its gaze, finally fades away.

(next)

#rotpeach writes #goretober #the drift

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sl-walker · 12 days

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Neither Fox Nor Rose (ST:TOS, Arc of the Wolf) for the ask game please!

Ooh, boy. The story that goes after Forty-Eight, which was and remains the hardest tale I've ever told. Neither Fox Nor Rose refers to The Little Prince, sort of roundabout, and the discussion between the Little Prince and the Fox. In a part of the story not yet written, Mel Corrigan tells Corry that Scotty's not his fox nor his rose, and she's referring to that. And it's sort of-- not a refutation of the (paraphrased) line, "You are forever responsible for what you have tamed," exactly, but pointing out (correctly) that Cor's and Scotty's relationship is a helluva lot more complicated, and that it's also pretty erroneous to ever consider Scotty 'tamed'.

And that ties into a few scenes towards the end of this story, not quite written yet (though well known), where Cor tells Scotty that wolves and dogs are genetically almost identical. So-- what's the difference between them? And Scotty -- out of his head on narcotics and probably frankly also on anxiety medication -- says that the difference is that wolves don't need humans the way dogs do. Cor replies that that means the first wolf had to have chosen to come to the light of man's fire, and Scotty answers, "Not just once. The first wolf to the fire woulda had to have made that choice over an' over again."

Anyway! For a snippet (which takes place between those two yet unwritten scenes):

The sea fog weighed everything down as dusk fell; ghostly beyond it, the lights of homes intermittently faded into the dim radius of their constricted world, then out again. Against the darkening sky, the evergreens and bare branches reached up and out, leaving the road a slick ribbon navigable by sight and sensor both, as it vanished into the silhouettes.

The decision to stay down on the peninsulas, hopping from one to the other on old backroads, wasn’t discussed; Corry didn’t need to speak up to know that both of them wanted to stay down there in the fog, bypassing even the relative gentleness of Damariscotta and Newcastle in the off-season. Instead, he wove them along Splitrock Road and, where it ran into Bristol Road, stopped at the old, gray-boarded general store long enough to get a cup of hot chocolate for himself and a cup of ginger and mint tea for Scotty.

It wasn't exactly routine, but not too far from it; they had often ended up running the roads before, and if this particular time was heavier, then at least they were together for it.

Exchanging small talk in the store (New England politeness in full force) was a rote action that Corry went through, taking comfort in the normalcy of it even as he spoke the words automatically, the usual questions and answers, the gentle routine of it; when he came back out, the lids of the cups steaming in the thick and wet air, Scotty had his window down and his arms folded on the door, chin resting on those.

He blended well into the near-night, all gaunt highlights and shadows, but there was something softer written even in those stark lines than Corry had seen in quite some time; when Cor got back into the driver’s seat, only then did Scotty sit back again to take the offered tea, the barest wince accompanying the motion. “What did ye say those were? A kind o’ tree frog, aye?”

It took Corry a couple of long moments of combing through those words before he was able to make full sense of them and pull up the memory they related to; he’d been so caught up in his own thoughts that he hadn’t even noticed the peepers singing in the twilight.

It was a sound he had looked forward to whole-heartedly every remembered year of his life. He wondered what it meant that he hadn’t even caught onto it this time.

“Peepers,” he said, closing his eyes for a moment, not only to mark the sound of them calling into the dark, but to mark the conversation they’d first come up in, years ago. Him and Scotty in the Wôbanakik Preserve, hiking together on a sunny autumn Saturday; it might as well have been a different lifetime altogether, for all that had happened since. “I mean, I’m sure they have a scientific name, but we just call ‘em peepers.”

Scotty made a quiet noise in the affirmative, a low hum, and they sat sipping their drinks for another unmarked piece of time before he spoke again, “I hacked her jacuzzi.”

That had Corry looking over, caught off-guard; he was too wrecked internally to smile about it, but he could feel some small jolt of baffled amusement at the words anyway. “To what end?”

“Pain relief.” Scotty quirked his eyebrows, looking out the windshield and absently shoving his overgrown hair back out of his way, though to no avail. “Upped the salinity in it well past protocol so I could float. Meant I had to cycle the cleaning system far more regularly than it'd normally call for, but it's none the worse for wear.”

“Did floating hurt less?” Corry asked, taking in his brother’s profile, heart aching in all too familiar ways at the thought of that pain.

Scotty seemed to think about it for a moment, narrowing his eyes, then said, “Hurt different. A little less, but mostly different. Not quite so localized.”

"And now?"

"More tolerable'n usual." There was a beat, then Scotty added, "I went over to Boothbay Harbor with yer father."

The fact that Scotty had been in Maine often enough and long enough that there was no 'r' left in harbor, even used in the same sentence as over or father, made Cor smile for real, briefly, and made something ache in his chest. At least until all of the implications of those words sank in.

Dad had been going over there for his monthly pulmonary workup for years now, ever since he’d retired. He wasn’t ready to commit to a lung transplant because he was mostly able to change his lifestyle enough that the residual damage was manageable without too much disruption. But that did mean he went to St. Andrews regularly to keep up on it, especially because he was the first person to ever be infected by that specific strain of bacteria and live to tell about it.

There were papers written about him on file; given his own field, Corry had some very mixed feelings about that.

But if Scotty went with Dad, that meant he probably didn't just go along for the ride itself. "What did they find? And prescribe? And recommend?" Corry asked, once he was sure he could do it with a neutral-to-positive tone that didn't give away his own, probably sad question of why didn't you let me take you?

Scotty answered the second one first; he pulled an orange prescription bottle out of his (borrowed? permanently appropriated?) coat’s pocket. After Cor took it, looking over the label -- and noting that the address under Scotty's name was 139 West Side Road and not 22 West Side Road, where he was currently staying -- he said, a little reluctantly, "They only did a quick tricorder scan, so it only got so detailed. But aside wantin' to do more in-depth scans to confirm it, they figure all that new bone they put me back together with in Baltimore, especially where it was knit to hardware, is micro-fractured all through.” He worked his jaw for a moment, then admitted, “There were a few larger cracks that were lit up, too. Not gettin’ into the connective stuff, anyway."

Corry barely held down a shudder, before finally managing to absorb the rest of the prescription label; it was a pretty hefty anti-inflammatory, the kind you could only get from a doctor. Two weeks worth, presumably to give Scotty time to make some decisions without really letting him kick the whole thing even further down the road.

Cor wasn’t too surprised, though. Even when they bolted from Maryland, he knew that his brother wasn’t going to heal without actual, active, professional medical care. He just-- hadn’t anticipated the amount of time it would take before Scotty would even be tentatively willing to seek it.

Then again, now that he knew more, it wasn’t so hard to see why. No matter how godawful it had been, having to wait and watch and note the inevitable deterioration. Or the torment of knowing how much it had to hurt and being unable to do a single damn thing to help.

He handed the bottle back over, breathing out. “That’s a-- lot. To get confirmation on.”

Scotty shrugged, though there wasn't really anything dismissive or casual about the gesture, even if his tone was firmly entrenched between those two as if he could downplay his own words. "Aye. And apparently I've lost seven and a half kilos somewhere between now and the last record they've got access to."

That also wasn't any real surprise; the numbers, not the fact of it. Cor could see it especially on Scotty’s face, the softer curves and lines whittled down in a way that didn’t quite fit him; mostly, he was always too bundled up to see it anywhere else. Another thing that Corry had been fretting over and was unable to do anything about.

“Maybe having the pain under better control will help with that,” he said, still stepping carefully.

“Maybe. First thing I’ve had in hand that hasn’t seemed like some manner o’ self-punishment,” Scotty replied, saluting with the cup of tea, the two tags fluttering against the side. “I mean, yer mother brought food, and the soup wasn’t too hard, but...”

He trailed off there; Corry had little trouble filling in the gaps.

He wished he knew what to say. Instead, though, he started the skimmer again; figured to drive a little more, maybe in the hopes that he’d be able to leave his heart-soreness in the parking lot and just let himself be relieved that they were talking and together.

#montgomery scott #andrew corrigan #corry #scotty #arc of the wolf

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