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glassbangtan · 4 years

Text

stitches {kim namjoon x reader}

Words: 10.5k

Summary: People always said getting married at a young age was a mistake - could they have been right?

Genre: angst

Notes: support my writing or ask me about commissions! - masterlist

---

You would think that after 4 years of marriage, two people would have more to discuss.

The silence begs to differ. You haven’t seen Namjoon in weeks, purely for this reason - you don’t want to acknowledge the awkwardness, don’t want to sit at your - his - kitchen table and pretend nothing has ever happened between you.

But you can’t stay quiet forever. You need to collect your things at some point. You need to be a mature adult at some point. You need to face the facts at some point, no matter how painful they are.

The one thing keeping you from bursting into tears right here and now is the fact that Namjoon looks like he’s already shed enough tears for the both of you; he sits with his head bowed, staring at his fingers folded upon the table. His eyes are red and puffy, and he’s wearing his plaid pyjamas - enough to show you he hasn’t bothered with putting effort in today, enough to show you that he doesn’t believe he needs to make a lasting impression because this could very well be the last day you ever see him.

And it hurts. God, it fucking hurts, because it was only a week ago you were truly convinced Kim Namjoon was the one for you. And maybe that belief isn’t completely diminished, despite the divorce papers and the arguments; you look at him now and you don’t think of yourself as stupid or immature just because you got married at such a young age - you look at him now, and there’s a voice in your head telling you that you made the right decision, whether it worked out or not.

You inhale shakily, resisting the urge to reach out and tangle your fingers in his. “If you find anything of mine later on, you know my new address. Don’t - don’t hesitate to just send it all over. If you - if you don’t want it.”

He nods.

“And if - if you ever need anything from me, you can always call-”

“I don’t think that’s very smart.”

You bite your bottom lip; you expected that, of course. Namjoon has never been one for pretending things are okay when they’re not.

Despite this, you just need to hear him speak. “Why?”

He shrugs, messing with his bony fingers. “It’s just - like - this isn’t easy on either of us, is it?”

“Of course not.”

“So we might as well just. . . leave it as it is. I don’t want to get in another argument with you and then that’s all I can think about. I want to remember the good things, and the more we talk, the greater chance we have of tarnishing those good memories for ourselves.”

Ouch.

“So you just wanna. . . cut ties? You just want to pretend like we never happened?”

“That’s not what I said-”

“But that’s basically what you said.” You stand up; it’s not exactly fury you feel, more a heavy disappointment just below your rib cage. It will turn into a physical ache if you don’t leave now, just as it always does when you and Namjoon have an argument.

He rakes his hands through his hair, finally looking up from the table long enough to watch you scramble in your attempts to grab your stuff. “Y/N, that’s not what I-”

“I get it, Namjoon,” you say. “You wasted your entire life with me. You’ve seen your chance to get away and you’re taking it - who can blame you?”

Namjoon stands abruptly. “This isn’t a chance to get away. This is me putting both of our best interests at heart-”

“You don’t have a right to tell me what is for my best interests. Because let me tell you, getting a divorce in front of the entire world most certainly isn’t what I would class as my best interest.”

Namjoon shakes his head. “You do this all the time. You overthink everything I say and make it seem like I’m out to get you.”

“No I don’t!” You’re on the cusp of yelling. Your chest is aching. Your hands are trembling, gripping the handle of your bag; a few more paces to the left and you’ll be out of here, away from him, away from this argument - but instead you stay rooted to the floor, ready to start screaming your head off all over again. “My entire life, Namjoon, I have put up with shit from you that nobody else on the planet would have the willpower to put up with!”

His nostrils flare. “Like what?”

“Oh, I don’t know, how about constantly being in the press? How about me not being able to step foot outside of my house without people jeering stuff at me? How about me not being able to go online because there’s millions upon millions of people constantly claiming I’m using you for money, or you’re cheating on me, or I’m cheating on you-”

“I can’t control that.”

“I know you can’t, but you also can’t sit there and say I make you out to be the bad guy all the time when it’s me who’s put up with all this shit for the past eight years!”

Namjoon scoffs. He scoffs, and it sounds close enough to a laugh that a fresh wave of anger soars into your system, hitting you with the startling urge to throw something at the wall.

“Alright then, Y/N, alright,” he says. “If being part of my life bothers you that much, I don’t know why you’re still here. Them divorce papers gave you a Get out of Jail Free card, so why the fuck are you still standing in my kitchen?”

Never in your life have you heard Namjoon sound so angry. Your stomach stirs, a mix of interest and terror as you snatch your bag from the chair, turn on your heel and flee from his kitchen before any further words can be spoken.

You’re trembling. Your feet hurt with the speed at which you’re walking, trying desperately to get through your own front door before the tears start streaming, but it’s pointless - so, so pointless considering you were already crying before you’d even escaped the confines of the house you used to call your own.

It all escalated so quickly, so pointlessly, but at the end of the day, that’s how it has been for months. It’s the littlest things that set you both off, and by the end of it, those little things added up, were engraved into the divorce papers that neither of you really wanted to sign but did anyway, just to see if it would make a difference.

It did make a difference, of course. You moved house; you sleep on your own now; the media sees you as nothing more than a gold-digging whore, no matter how many statements Namjoon, BigHit and the boys of BTS put out claiming it was a mutual, respect-filled decision.

Yes, things have changed. Supposedly for the better, because at the end of the day, you’re single now, can potentially do whatever you want - but that can only be seen as a good thing when you ask for it, and you never asked for it. You never asked for a life without Namjoon. You never asked for your best friend to hate you.

---

Taehyung is nice for meeting up with you, even though he knows the inevitable backlash that will follow - mainly directed at you.

The coffee shop holds only a few customers this morning, and none of them stay long enough to pay much attention to you and the worldwide celebrity sitting in the corner. Taehyung with his beanie pulled over his head and his oversized coat, a passing glance is not enough to distinguish him as anyone important.

He stares at you as soon as you sit down, not saying hello in that cheery way you’ve grown so accustomed to in your seven years of friendship with him. You set your bag on the floor, look at him and meekly say, “How are you?”

Taehyung raises a brow. “I don’t think I’m the one that should be answering that question.” He leans forward, and it’s then you know this isn’t going to be some innocent little catch-up conversation; Taehyung most likely saw Namjoon last night and now wants all the details you can give. “What happened?”

“Can I at least order my coffee first?”

Taehyung slides his own cup towards you, folds his fingers on the table. “He was a wreck when he got to the dorms. Wouldn’t tell any of us what happened. Not even Yoongi.”

You fight off the wince that wants to fight to the surface; Namjoon hardly ever leaves his band members in the dark about anything.

“I don’t - I don’t really know what happened,” you begin, unsure whether it’s a lie or not. “We just started arguing. Namjoon said some things, I said some things-”

“I know how arguing works.”

“We just hurt each others feelings, and I ended up storming out.”

Taehyung sighs. “Again.”

“It was better than letting things get worse.” A lump forms in your throat at the thought of how things would have progressed if you hadn’t fled the scene. “He didn’t want me there in the first place.”

Taehyung perks up. “Oh yeah. Why were you at his house anyway?”

“Getting some bits and pieces I left.”

Silence. Taehyung continues to stare, like he’s waiting for another bit of a story that ended a while ago; acknowledging the fact that the house you remember picking, the house you lived in for four years, the house that holds so many memories for both you and Taehyung is now no longer a part of your life - it hurts. It makes it real. It makes all of it real.

You shrug, taking a swig of Taehyung’s coffee. “But yeah. Namjoon and I are probably just better off not communicating at all. That’s us done for good.”

Taehyung’s shoulders drop as if a boulder has fallen upon them. “You’ve got to be having a laugh.”

“Nope. Last night showed me exactly what happens when we’re in the same room together, and there’s no point putting either of us through that shit again.”

Taehyung looks baffled. A cartoon-ish type of baffled, with the knitted brows and the open mouth, leaning forward as if he’s convinced he misheard; you take a sip of your coffee, looking away as nonchalantly as you can muster with the lump in your throat.

“So how have you and the boys been?”

Taehyung slaps the table. Heads spin, you jump, salt pots rattle, but he doesn’t care.

You slosh coffee down your front. “Tae!”

“Oh, my poor little ears have heard it all!”

“Keep your voice-”

“I did not spend eight years listening to you flirt and have sex with Namjoon for you to sit here and tell me you’re not even gonna bother standing in the same room as him!”

You grab Taehyung’s hand and tug, a desperate attempt to get him to shut the fuck up.

But he barrels on, face growing redder with each word spoken. “That’s just - that’s just pure waste! Wasteful!”

“Okay, I get where you’re coming from, but-”

“I don’t really think you do, Y/N, or else you’d be apologising to me for getting me so panicked by even suggesting-”

“Alright, Tae, I’m sorry! I’m sorry. Now can you be quiet, for fuck sake?”

He inhales deeply, flipping his hand over and tangling his fingers with yours. “That wasn’t very funny.”

You slump back, glancing around nervously; thankfully, most of the people who once surrounded you have left, either to head off to work or scared off by the lunatic yelling in the corner. The only person still staring is the bartender, an elderly man who can’t stand up straight.

“You weren’t being serious, were you?”

You look across the table and shrug.

Taehyung sighs. “I understand there’s tension between you both at the moment - coming to terms with a failed relationship and all that - but I don’t think that’s a good enough reason to just. . . pretend the other one doesn’t exist. Me and the boys still want to see you - how are we gonna do that if you don’t even want to stand in the same room as Namjoon?”

You run your hands through your hair, gripping the roots tightly. “It’s not just a failed relationship, Tae - it’s a failed marriage. A marriage of four years, for gods sake. It’s a bit deeper than what you seem to think it is.”

Taehyung throws his head back and groans. “Fuck that.” He looks back at you. “The only difference is a lousy piece of paper that means fuck all in the grand scheme of things. A bit of legal stuff, sure, but that doesn’t mean anything. The only thing that matters is the fact that you and Namjoon love-”

“Loved.” You taste the lie even as you say it.

Taehyung pauses, purses his lips before barrelling on like you never even interrupted. “-love each other very much. You have done for a very long time. So where’s the logic in pretending none of it ever happened?”

You open your mouth to respond, but nothing comes out. You can’t think of a valid response, because Taehyung has once again offered you a question that does nothing but back you into a corner.

You shrug, sipping your coffee slowly.

Taehyung hums, snatching the cup out of your mouth to take a sip of his own. “That’s what I thought.”

You sigh. “It’s just awkward, though.”

“It’s only awkward if you make it awkward.”

“That’s not-”

“Why don’t you come to rehearsals tonight and have a chat with him there?”

You freeze. “I can’t.”

“Why not?”

You rack your brain for an excuse. A quick one. “Bethany and I are going to Spaniel’s tonight.”

Taehyung raises a brow. “Spaniel’s? That club that nearly got shut down last month because someone got threatened at knife point?”

You snatch the coffee back. “That’s the one.”

Taehyung hums, slowly leaning back in his chair, all the while staring at you intently. “Fair enough. Good to see you’re still getting out there.”

“Mhm!”

“Well.” His words take on a slower drawl, and you know instantly he can see right through you; he’s Kim Taehyung, for crying out loud. He’s not easily fooled, no matter how much he wants people to think he’s the opposite. “I hope you have a good time. Drink responsibly and all that.”

“I will.”

“Would you and Bethany like a lift? I know Namjoon can’t drive, but-”

You raise a hand, notice it trembling and immediately lower it beneath the table again. Taehyung’s brows knit together. “No, thank you. We’re getting a taxi, so don’t worry.”

Taehyung nods. His lack of argument is just further proof that he does not believe a single word you are saying - you decide then and there that you need to get in touch with Bethany as soon as possible to organise a night out. You would not put it past Taehyung to show up at your house just to make sure you weren’t lying.

You smile and sip your shared drink. “So, how are the boys?”

---

You only start truly regretting your decision when you’re walking into Spaniel’s.

The thing is, Taehyung was right; there’s no point locking yourself in your bedroom for the foreseeable future. You’re still young, still have an entire life ahead of you, and wasting that life because of some boy would just be stupid on your part.

But you’re also not used to this - going to a club without Namjoon, who once offered a certain sense of protection. You’ve never been big on dancing, never been big on drinking. Back in the day, you and Namjoon used to just sit at the bar and talk for hours over steady drinks that left you only the tiniest bit tipsy by the end of the night but sober enough to understand that you’d rather spend any night out with Namjoon and nobody else.

Now you have Bethany and her motley crew keeping you company, and it really doesn’t feel the same. They started on the pre-drinks before you had even arrived at Bethany’s house, and are down-right hammered by the time they get in the door of the club.

“This place is shiiiiiit,” Anthony, one of Bethany’s friends, says. “We should have gone to Monroe’s or something.”

“Monroe’s is even worse on a Wednesday night,” Bethany points out.

“Most clubs are pretty dead on a Wednesday night,” you mutter.

You don’t want to be here, but you don’t want to make that obvious, either. Prying Anthony’s arm from your own, you tell them you’re going to get yourself a drink and saunter off in the direction of the bar; you don’t really know what it feels like to be downright hammered, but at this point, if the rumours are true, you’re willing to try it.

You order your usual vodka and coke before taking a seat behind a fairly tall man, hoping his towering height will hide you from the group of people you walked in with.

The drink burns your throat on the way down, but you’re grateful for it. It’s gone in a matter of minutes, and you’re moving onto your next one.

It’s so frustrating that you feel this way, like you should be curled up in your house, wallowing in your own self pity. It’s such a shame that the mere thought of someone who once provided such comfort is now nothing more than a nightmare, a teasing thought in the back of your mind because you know for certain you can’t have him back again. You lost him once, and that’s it - your final chance has been taken from you, leaving you bare and drunk and sad, and it’s so frustrating.

You down another drink.

“Alright mate, there’s no need to rush.”

You jump, glancing to the side just as Anthony takes a seat beside you at the bar. His eyes are bloodshot now, black hair dangling in his face soaked in sweat that certainly wasn’t there thirty minutes ago. Leaning forward a little bit, you’re able to latch onto the pungent smell of weed wafting from his clothes. Immediately you crane your neck in an attempt to catch sight of Bethany; you would not put it past her to be high out of her head right now, and you care about her too much to let her wander around the club on her own in such a state.

Anthony leans to the side, blocking your view. “You feeling alright, love?”

You pull back, scowling. “I’m fine. Where’s Beth?”

“She’s with Joshua,” Anthony replies like that answers your question at all. “It’s just you and me now, I think.”

You turn back to the bar. “I’m not interested.”

“Not interested in what?” He slumps forward, knocking his elbow with yours. “You just looked a little lonely and I thought you would appreciate some company.”

It would be so easy right now to just tell him to leave you alone; you don’t want the company, you don’t appreciate it at all, you want to go home - but the better half of you pushes to the surface before anything else. You give Anthony a small smile.

“Thanks.”

He grins right back, settling down on his chair. “So how come you’re here all on your own then?”

“What do you mean?”

“Well.” He tilts his head back, stares up at the ceiling with eyes unfocused. “It just seems a little. . . bizarre to me that someone as pretty as you would be sat here on your own. No boyfriend? Girlfriend? Significant other of any kind?”

“Well, I have-” Your heart lurches into your throat and you catch yourself before the words can get much further forward. Anthony notices the sudden hitch in your speech, raises a brow and leans forward in an attempt to catch your eye, but you’re quick to look away and take yet another sip of your vodka and coke - it won’t be long until you can’t see straight. “Nope. I’m single.”

Anthony hums. “Weird.”

“Is it really?”

“Well, I think it’s weird, but that might just be because you’re the prettiest person I’ve seen tonight.”

His flirting doesn’t flatter you in any way. You glance at him through the corner of your eye, trying for another friendly little smile, but it fails and you instead take another drink to hide your distaste; comments like that don’t sound right when they’re coming from someone who doesn’t even know you.

Now, Namjoon on the other hand - he knew you better than anyone. He knew you better than you knew yourself. He would say things like that to you and you’d genuinely believe them, because if there was anyone in the world who knew the truth about you, it was him.

This guy has been in your presence for a grand total of twenty minutes and he’s only saying all this stuff because he’s drunk and high and horny.

“Do you have many hook-up’s, Y/N?” he asks suddenly, taking a sip of his own drink.

Your head snaps round. “Why would you ask that?”

“I was just wondering,” he replies, smirking into his glass. “You seem like a good egg. I can’t imagine you falling into anyone’s bed by accident.”

“By accident?”

“Unless, of course,” he continues, “you want a little bit of fun tonight.”

The anger claws its way into your system, but before you can say anything to hurt this guys feelings, another voice echoes out from behind you.

“Y/N! There you are!”

You whirl around just as Taehyung wraps a heavy arm round your shoulders, tugging you into his side. You gasp, surprised, but Taehyung barrels on before you can say anything to make Anthony believe you had no idea Taehyung would be here in the first place.

“Who’s this then?” he asks, motioning to Anthony who sits with knitted brows and pursed lips.

“Uhhh…”

“I’m Anthony.” He reaches forward for a hand shake. Taehyung stares at it a moment before slowly taking the offered hand.

“You two friends?”

“He’s friends with Bethany,” you reply quickly, before spinning in your seat and pushing Taehyung back, stumbling up after him. “Do you mind coming with me to the smoking area?”

Taehyung giggles. “You don’t smoke-”

“Be right back, Anthony!”

“Will we?” Taehyung asks once you’ve finally managed to push him through the crowd towards the back doors.

“Of course not,” you hiss, shoving him into the open air where he finally bursts out laughing. “What the fuck do you think you’re doing? You’re meant to be at rehearsals!”

“The good thing about being your managers best friend is that he lets you reschedule important meetings,” says Taehyung. “The whole group.”

You glare at him, even though you knew this would be the case from the moment Taehyung’s voice rang out behind you only minutes before; your stomach does a flip, one that you recognise as dread but wish was something else. Excitement, maybe.

Taehyung continues to grin, but it’s easy for him. He’s not the one who has to deal with the awkwardness. He’s not the one who’s just had their night completely ruined.

“You’re an asshole,” you spit.

He shrugs. “I’m not trying to set you two up - if you’re happier on your own-”

You glare at him, because he knows full well you’re not.

“-then I’m gonna respect that. But I couldn’t just go to the club and not bring Namjoon, you know? That wouldn’t be very nice of me.”

“Oh, God forbid you’re not very nice.”

He nods solemnly. “I know. I know. Now, can we go back inside? It’s fucking freezing.”

He doesn’t give you a chance to respond, merely turns on his heel and starts back towards the club. You suck it up - you have to, because at some point, people are going to forget you and Namjoon ever existed and this fear you have developed will be seen as nothing more than stupid and irrational. You might as well start making the progress now.

The club suddenly seems ten times more crowded than it did when you first walked in; people are dancing, drinking, singing at the top of their lungs, and you can hear every word, feel every limb as you shove your way through the thickening crowd. Taehyung is taller than a lot of the inhabitants, and with his good looks and glowing smile, most people move out of the way when they see him walking towards them; it’s not too difficult to keep up with him.

But then you see Namjoon, and you don’t really understand why you’re following Tae in the first place.

“Oh, God,” you whisper. Taehyung glances at you, tries for a comforting smile, but the look on your face must be something else, something not even Taehyung can try and settle. Instead he reaches back, grabs your hand and pulls you forward, more to keep you from sprinting out of the club than to give you any type of comfort.

Because Namjoon looks so good, as he always does, and you remember nights like this when the other boys would force the two of you from the comfort of Namjoon’s studio, or the comfort of your shared home, and the two of you would just waltz around the dance floor, lost in each other and nobody else. It feels wrong to be in his presence in a situation like this and not have that kind of connection, and when he turns and meets your eyes, it’s obvious from the sudden drop of his smile that he feels the exact same way.

“There you are!” Jungkook exclaims, bursting out from behind Namjoon and giving Taehyung a hug. “We were wondering where you’d run off to!”

“I was collecting a friend,” Taehyung replies, dragging you forward. The other boys turn, grinning as soon as they lay eyes on you. You are bombarded with hugs and incoherent yelling, questions you can’t answer because they pile on top of one another with little to no gaps in between.

“Hi,” is all you can manage to squeak out.

The boys continue talking over one another, but you zone out. Namjoon stands a little bit behind everyone else, hands tucked into the back pockets of his jeans, his eyes drawn to the floor as he waits for a change of topic - a topic that doesn’t involve you. His black hair hangs over his eyes, and you want nothing more than to reach forward and brush it out of his face, just like you used to do, but you don’t. You instead keep your hands knotted at your sides, smiling and nodding to whatever nonsense the six other boys are spewing at you.

“Right!” Seokjin suddenly exclaims, clapping his hands. “I’ll grab the first round of drinks. What does everyone want?”

Orders are tossed left right and centre, and somehow, Seokjin picks up on them all. You offer to go with him to help carry the tray, and it’s only by the grace of god and Seokjin’s obliviousness that he agrees and lets you break away from the other boys. You follow him up to the bar and wait for him to order.

“I can’t believe you’re here,” he says as the two of you wait. “What a coincidence! I haven’t seen you in ages!”

“I know,” you reply. “I came here with Bethany.”

Seokjin nods, even though he has no idea who Bethany is. “It’s good to hear you haven’t been isolating yourself - Namjoon’s been a right pain in the ass to get out of the house recently.”

You freeze. “Has he?”

Seokjin hums, messing idly with a paper straw he found discarded on the counter. “He’s been in a right mood. Obviously, like, we can’t blame him - he’s been going through a lot recently.” He flicks a glance at you. “You both have, huh?”

You shrug. You don’t have to lie if you say nothing at all.

Seokjin turns back to the bar. “But yeah, he just hasn’t been handling it very well. Hasn’t been handling himself very well.” He shrugs. “I suppose if you’ve been spending your entire life with somebody else, it’s kind of difficult to get back into the swing of doing things on your own, you know?”

You do know. You know far too well.

You nod slowly, biting your lower lip to stop the tears that suddenly want to make an appearance; you’re too drunk for this. You should be at home, not stuck in a club trying to avoid your ex-husband.

The drinks are passed across the bar once they have all been made. You reach out to grab the tray, but a voice by your ear startles you before you can pick them up.

“Where did you go off to?”

Both you and Seokjin whirl around at the same time. Seokjin grins when he sees Anthony standing by your shoulder, though Anthony does not repay him with the same level of courtesy.

“Who’s this?” Seokjin asks, already reaching out a hand in greeting.

Anthony scowls at him. “I’m Y/N’s friend. Who are you?”

“Oh, me too,” Seokjin replies. “Do you want a drink? You can have mine if you like vodka and-”

“I’m just here to retrieve Y/N.”

You pause, certain you must have misheard. Even Seokjin, forever the man to stay calm in moments like this, freezes with his hand hovering over the top of his drink.

Together, you both say, “Huh?”

“Well, Y/N came in with us,” Anthony says. “I don’t like the idea of walking around with someone I don’t know - especially when she’s slightly drunk.”

“I’m not-”

Anthony grabs your arm. “Let’s go.”

Seokjin grabs your other arm. “I don’t - uh - I don’t think that’s too good of an idea.”

“And why is that?” Anthony gives Seokjin a smile, warm and welcoming, but it’s the flash of anger in his bloodshot eyes that convinces you he doesn’t mean any of these niceties he’s trying to present. You quickly snap your arm from his grip, stumbling into Seokjin’s chest.

Anthony looks at you, tilts his head. “Y/N-”

“I’m going with Seokjin,” you reply. “Tell Beth I’ll call her when I get home.”

Anthony opens his mouth to respond, but you don’t stick around to hear what he has to say, certain it will be nothing more than a drug-induced attempt to get you to stay. Instead, you turn on your heel, grab Seokjin’s hand and drag him back through the crowd, Seokjin fumbling with the tray of drinks as he tries to keep up with you.

“Who was that guy?” he asks, glancing over his shoulder in bewilderment.

You tug on his hand, a silent plea to just ignore Anthony, who has now taken to yelling across the dance floor at you. “He’s friends with Bethany - they’re room mates or something. I don’t really know.”

“He’s frightening,” Seokjin says. “Did he hurt you?”

“No. He’s just high. You watch, I’ll have an apology text tomorrow morning.”

Seokjin snickers as the two of you finally arrive at the table one of the other boys managed to dig out. Seokjin sets the tray down and hoists himself onto the bench beside Namjoon, who is purposefully and oh-so-obviously trying to avoid your gaze.

At this point, you don’t even care; perhaps the alcohol has settled in your system at long last, leaving you slightly tipsy despite still being far too connected to reality. You’re still overly aware of Namjoon’s presence, but in the grand scheme of things, that’s just because he’s Namjoon. Around you, girls and boys continue to glance at him over their shoulders, whisper amongst themselves, pointing in a way that makes you want to wrap your arm around his just to tell them he’s mine.

But you aren’t his anymore, so you occupy your hands by grabbing a drink from the tray and turning to talk to Yoongi, who is busy tapping away at his cell phone.

As the night draws on, you become looser, more willing to have a good time than you were before. You and Hoseok have a dance battle that everybody laughs at, claiming you won despite the obvious winner being Hoseok himself. The bartender asks for your number, but Taehyung cuts in and says you don’t have a phone, and the bartender is too intimidated by Taehyung’s grand height to argue; you don’t even care. Taking another sip of your drink, you grin and thank Tae for a reason you are unsure of.

And the entire time, Namjoon keeps his distance.

It’s as the night starts drawing to a close that things start getting blurry; out of the seven boys you’ve been spending time with, three are left in your presence by the time midnight rolls around. Taehyung, Yoongi and Namjoon gather round the table as you stand beside them, too angsty to sit, too drunk not to make your presence known. You sip your drink as the boys talk, idly swaying your hips back and forth, not really paying attention to what they’re saying…

“Don’t you think it’s getting a little late?”

If it was anybody else, you could have convinced yourself not to turn around. But Namjoon’s voice has some kind of appeal to it that has you spinning, nearly sloshing your drink over yourself at the speed of which you do so. You half-expect him to be looking elsewhere, keeping to the pattern of the night of completely ignoring you, but this time, he’s staring right at you, one eyebrow raised.

You stare right back.”Huh?”

“Oh, come on, Namjoon,” Yoongi scoffs, not taking his eyes off his phone. “It’s only midnight.”

“I know, but Y/N doesn’t like staying out late, and-”

“I love staying out late!” Your voice is shrill, much louder than you originally intended, but you’re too far gone now to change that. “Now that I don’t have anyone to come home to, staying out late is my forte!”

Taehyung spins, eyes wide, face paling. “Where the fuck did that come from?”

You keep your eyes on Namjoon, watching his expression shift from genuine concern to anger. His teeth grit, fingers curling into fists upon the table.

“Oh,” says Namjoon slowly. “Is that right?”

“Mhm.” You sip your drink, wrap an arm around Yoongi’s shoulders. He looks up, startled, from his iPhone, cheeks growing red as he glances uncertainly from you to Namjoon and back again. “It’s like this sense of freedom, you know? Unlike anything I’ve ever felt before. I believe it’s called being single? Really great.”

“Yeah, I’ve heard it’s pretty good,” Namjoon mutters.

“Okay!” Taehyung exclaims, sharing a concerned look with Yoongi. “I think Y/N’s had a bit too much to-”

“No, no,” Namjoon cuts in. Taehyung and Yoongi close their eyes in exasperation, but you keep your gaze firm on Namjoon, who keeps his firm on you. “Y/N wants to stay out late, then she should stay out.”

“And who knows? Maybe I’ll get lucky!”

Namjoon’s scowl deepens. “Maybe.”

His indifference just makes you angrier; he should be yelling, telling you to stop teasing him, saying he misses you and that this divorce is the worst decision he’s ever made…

But he isn’t.

He’s sat in that stupid chair with his stupid half-drunk drink, and he’s scowling at you but he’s not doing anything to put a stop to whatever you’re saying because at this point, you don’t even know what it is you’re trying to say.

“Do you think Anthony needs someone to go home with?” you continue, tightening your hold on Yoongi.

“Anthony?” Namjoon suddenly bursts, the first sign of proper anger he’s shown tonight. “The drug addict?”

“He smokes a little weed every now and then.” You wave a dismissive hand at your ex-husband. “You just never liked him because he’s not willing to settle down with anyone - he’s living his life. He’s doing what people our age should be doing.”

Namjoon’s guard cracks.

Taehyung reaches for his arm, but it’s really no use - Namjoon is taller, broader, angrier, and he barrels past the table before you can do so much as blink. His fingers are wrapped around your upper arm in seconds, a feather light touch that does not equal the stormy expression on his face. You squeal dramatically, stumbling into him as he drags you away from the table.

“What are you gonna do to me?” you demand.

Namjoon scowls, says something to Taehyung and Yoongi before he’s dragging you out of the club.

“Get off me!” you exclaim, though you make no attempt to shake yourself from his grip; even in your overly-intoxicated state, the feel of Namjoon’s fingers on your skin - after so long - is like sipping water after months in the desert.

The two of you walk outside. Once you pass the exit doors, Namjoon lowers his hands to your waist, spins you around so you’re facing him and says, “What’s the matter with you?”

You’re taken aback. You stare at him, eyebrow raised.

He tilts his head. “You’re drunk. You hate getting drunk.”

“You have no idea what I hate,” you shoot back. “You don’t know anything about me anymore, Namjoon!”

He rolls his eyes. “Oh, give me a break. We’ve been broken up for two weeks!”

“And you don’t think I’ve changed in them two weeks?”

“Well, apparently you’re a lot more fucking stupid-”

“Oh, go to hell, Namjoon. So what if I had a drink? Not all of us want to be stuck-up little piss-babies like you!”

He scoffs, closing his eyes. “Is that your idea of an insult now?”

You wriggle out of his grip, even though it takes every fibre of your being, even though you want nothing more than to stay locked in his embrace forever. “I’ll do what I want, okay? And tonight, I want to go home with Anthony.”

“You’re gonna regret it in the morning.”

“I’ll deal with that in the morning.”

You spin on your heel, starting towards the door back into the club, but you only manage two steps forward before Namjoon has grabbed your wrist and is tugging you back; you’re ready to throw a hissy fit, a genuine, toddler tantrum if he doesn’t let you go, because looking into his eyes right now is hurting you so, so badly, and-

“Come home with me instead.”

You stumble, certain you’ve heard him wrong. Even through your drunken haze, you can’t bring yourself to believe he has truly said what he’s just said.

“What?”

“Just so I know you’re safe,” he mumbles, as if embarrassed to be admitting such a thing. “I’ll sleep on the sofa, you can take the bed. But I don’t like the idea of you going home on your own when you’re in this state.”

You stare at him; is he pitying you? Is that what this is? You can’t put your finger on it, but your heart is thumping at a million miles per hour, and your drunken brain is seeing this invitation as nothing more than an opportunity, a chance to spend one last night with him, whether it be completely platonic or not.

“Okay,” you croak out. “That sounds. . . Yeah. That sounds like a plan.”

Namjoon nods, once and certain, before he turns and starts walking back towards the car park.

----

The house hasn’t changed, and maybe that’s the worst part.

There’s still evidence of you once living here, and that bothers you. It irks you that Namjoon can sit amongst photographs and things that once belonged to you and not completely break down. Stood on the mantelpiece is a picture you and him took a few years back, still framed in the same old brown frame that you planned on replacing ages ago, but never got round to. One of your hair ties is still on the coffee table. A pair of shoes you grew out of are still tossed in the shoe basket by the front door.

He hasn’t touched a thing.

You swallow the thick lump forming in your throat, stumbling through the door. Namjoon goes to catch you, but you flinch out of his grip before his fingers can make contact, suddenly much too afraid of what is happening; you’re meant to be getting over him, for crying out loud. Yet here you are, walking into this house with this man with not a thought racing through your head.

“Let me get you a glass of water,” he says, keeping a loose eye on you even as he walks into the kitchen. You sit down on the sofa, cover your face with your hands and inhale deeply; this is going to be a mighty long night if you don’t get your head on straight.

Namjoon returns a few minutes later. He places the pint of water on the coffee table before sitting down beside you; his hands hang awkwardly between his knees as he continually shoots glances in your direction. Neither of you know what to do, or what to say. Do you even bring up what happened tonight? Do you apologise? Do you ask him why he even cared so much in the first place?

You do none of those things, instead choosing to bask in the silence. Your heart is thumping in your chest, the alcohol still pumping through your veins; you know you messed up somehow tonight, but you’re becoming too exhausted to really care about it.

Namjoon is the first to speak. “How are you feeling?”

“Good. Tired.”

“I’ll go set up the bed.” He starts to stand, but you grab his wrist before he can get very far. He pauses midway, glancing back at you. “You alright?”

“I’ll take the sofa.”

He raises a brow as if the mere idea of you sleeping on the sofa is ludicrous. “Don’t be an idiot.” He shakes his hand out of your grip. “Stay here and drink your water. I’ll be back in five.”

“Namjoon, I’m serious.”

“So am I.” And then he disappears around the corner, leaving you in the living room all on your own.

You take this moment of alone-time to wander the place that used to be yours. With your pint of water in hand, you slowly walk around the living room, glancing at old pictures and smiling at old memories - all of which he has kept, and not just placed subtly around the room; they’re at the forefront. To the untrained eye, it would look like you never even left in the first place.

Again, it bothers you that he can sit in here so casually. Back at your place, all pictures of you and Namjoon have been shut tightly in cardboard boxes and shoved into the roof space - not out of spite, but because seeing them everyday and remembering a time better than your own would be a form of torture.

You care too much. Maybe Namjoon doesn’t.

You trail a hand along the outside of a white picture frame, the inside containing a photo of the two of you backstage at the Grammys. This was the very day Namjoon and the boys won their first Grammy award; in the picture, Namjoon is sweaty with his shirt unbuttoned just a bit, and you look glamorous and happy with your arm around his waist and the biggest smile on your face, tears continuously flowing down your cheeks even as the picture is being taken.

“I can take them down if you want.”

You jump, spinning around just as Namjoon steps out from the darkness of the hallway.

“If you don’t want to look at them, I mean,” he clarifies upon seeing your puzzled expression.

You wave a dismissive hand. “No, it’s okay.” You turn back to the photo. “Remember this?”

“How could I forget? It was one of the best nights of my life.”

“I know. Though I’m surprised you remember it with the amount you and the boys drank at the after party.”

Namjoon scoffs, coming up behind you to get a better look at the photo. “I didn’t drink that much.”

“I basically had to carry you home.”

“You didn’t have to do anything.”

“So, what? You just expected me to leave you there?”

Namjoon shrugs, picking the frame up to get a better look at the picture. You watch his eyes soften, grip tightening just that little bit; you know exactly what he is seeing, because it was only seconds before that you were seeing the exact same thing. A happily married couple with not a care in the world, a love so strong and so ever-lasting that - at the time - it seemed impossible to break. You’re all smiles and hands-around-waists and dreamy gazes being sent across the room; it was such a perfect day.

You wonder how anything could have broken you both after that day.

Namjoon coughs and hastily sets the picture back down on the mantelpiece. “The beds set up for you.”

You nod, because you don’t know what else to do; do you thank him? Do you argue with him again? In truth, you don’t even want the bed - the idea of sleeping upon the same mattress you and Namjoon used to sleep on together is just taunting, and you would much rather sleep on the sofa anyway.

But Namjoon doesn’t seem to be taking that as a suggestion. He wades across the room and throws himself down onto the sofa, placing one hand behind his head and closing his eyes, even as you stand over him, waiting for the conversation to move onto something you both know needs to be discussed.

Upon hearing no signs of you leaving the room, Namjoon cracks open an eye and looks up at you. “You alright?”

“You ask that an awful lot.”

“Yeah, well, it’s polite.”

You glare. “I’m fine. Just. . . Are you sure you don’t want the bed?”

He closes his eyes in response.

You groan loud enough for him to hear. He simply smirks - the bastard - and that is enough to have you cracking. You throw a pillow at him before marching upstairs and into the master bedroom - the master bedroom which still looks the exact same as when you last stood within it. The double bed with the checkered quilt cover, the bedside table with the broken lamp, the window with the curtains that are never closed, but which you now yank closed because the sun will be most excruciating tomorrow.

You throw yourself down on the bed. The scent of Namjoon explodes within your senses.

You start crying.

It might be the alcohol. It might be the memories. It might be the fact that you’re so young and already have one divorce under your belt, a divorce from the man you thought you would spend the rest of your life with, a divorce from the man you want to spend the rest of your life with. You’re in his house, and he’s downstairs on the sofa, refusing to let you sleep in such an uncomfortable space; why would you not want to spend the rest of your life with someone like that?

You pull your shirt off over your head, kick your jeans off and slip under the covers without replacing them with anything; you’re too tired, too emotional to really care about the consequences of such an idea.

It’s not like Namjoon hasn’t seen everything anyway.

----

You are woken by the sound of rustling in the corner of the room.

It doesn’t strike you as anything odd for a moment; you’re groggy, comfortable, can already feel the beginnings of a headache fighting to the surface. At this moment in time, you would gladly let a thief rummage through the wardrobe if it meant they left you alone to sleep.

However, as human nature entails, curiosity gets the better of you. Your eyes creak open slowly, head popping up inches from the pillow just enough to see Namjoon kneeling on the floor, rummaging through the chest of drawers.

“Morning,” you say.

Namjoon looks up and smiles. His eyes drift down a little bit, but he gives no reaction to your bare chest, and you can’t think of why he would; this used to be the state he saw you in every morning, and so you make no attempts to cover up as you sit up and watch his investigation.

“What you doing?”

“Looking for clothes,” he replies. “Do you want to borrow anything for today?”

“Yes, please.” You crane your neck as if getting a better look at the drawers. “Can I steal that grey hoodie you have?”

Namjoon sends you a glare. “That’s my favourite hoodie. And it’s always massive on you - you could wear it as a dress, for crying out loud.”

You simply pout. Namjoon rolls his eyes, digs a little deeper in his pile of clothes before he pulls out the grey hoodie in question and launches it at you.

“There.”

You grin. “Thank you!” You don’t slip it on, though, instead choosing to fiddle with the familiar sleeves whilst staring at Namjoon’s morning physique for a little while longer.

Finally, he sighs and slumps back on his heels. “I really need to reorganise this entire thing.”

“When do you ever have that kind of time, Namjoon?”

“I know. I’ll just have to do it when I get home from work one day.”

You scoff. “You’re exhausted when you get home from work.” You stand, dragging the hoodie with you but still not putting it on; when Namjoon looks up, again, he barely even registers that you’re currently topless. This is a sight he has seen plenty of times. “You get yourself off to work. I’ll reorganise everything while you’re away.”

You kneel down next to him and shove his shoulder, an attempt to get him out of the way though he’s quick to catch himself, refusing to move. “I can’t ask you to do that.”

“You didn’t ask. I offered.” You tap your watch-less wrist. “Now get going or you’re gonna be late.”

Namjoon stares at you for a moment longer, and it makes your stomach flip; only two weeks ago this would be the moment he leans in and kisses you, tells you he loves you. Now, however, he simply bites his lip, nods his thanks and exits the master bedroom.

You’re too groggy to think too deeply into it; you’re still tired, and you’re cold, but you’ve got a task to do that will hopefully get your mind off it all. You spend the day marching around your - Namjoon’s - bedroom, finding clothes in the most random of places, subconsciously looking out for clothes that may signify somebody else has been staying the night.

But there is none, and by the time nine o clock rolls around, you have the entire house back to full organisation, and not a single one of your feelings have been shattered. You would call that a day well spent in comparison to the horrible few weeks you’ve been having recently.

You slump back on the sofa and turn the TV on, pulling your knees into the oversized hoodie you’re wearing; Namjoon used to always tell you off for this, never appreciating the way you stretched his already four-sizes-too-big hoodie. But in the same breath, he never stopped you, knowing it was a habit you had gotten into when you were younger.

Namjoon returns at quarter past nine, carrying a bag of takeout. You glance over your shoulder, give him a smile that he quickly returns as he struggles to kick the door closed behind him. You giggle, standing up to help him, though you end up doing nothing more than trailing him into the kitchen.

“I was hoping you were still here,” he says, setting the takeout bags on the counter. “I got your favourite from the Chinese.”

You peek into the bag and grin. “Sweet and sour!”

“Of course. Grab a plate, will you?”

You do just that. “How was work?”

“It was alright,” he replies, sucking a bit of honey from his finger. “Yoongi and I are working on a song, but it’s proving to be a bit of a pain, I won’t lie.”

You furrow your brows, setting the plates on the counter before leaning forward to catch Namjoon’s eye. “Why? What’s wrong with it?”

“Nothing’s wrong with the song. Yoongi knows exactly what he wants for it, but my head just. . . hasn’t been in the right place.” Your stomach drops, but Namjoon doesn’t seem to notice the implications of his words as he continues bustling about in search of napkins, pint glasses, knives and forks. “They always give you so much. How am I meant to dish it out if-”

“Have you been alright?”

Namjoon pauses, thumb halfway to his mouth. “Huh?”

You grab his hand, taking the fork from his fingers and setting it down. “I’ve never known you to have trouble with something like that. Are you alright?”

“I - what - I mean-” He flicks a desperate gaze towards the living room, as if there is someone standing there that can help him out of this awkward situation. You don’t let it drop that easily, though, as you lean into his line of sight and raise a brow.

“Well?”

He deflates. “We just got divorced, Y/N. No, I haven’t been alright.”

And even though you knew - even hoped - that was the answer, it still makes your heart crumble. You stare at him, biting your lower lip as he shrugs as if to say ah well, what can you do? and turns back to dishing out the food. He starts humming to himself, dropping the subject as quick as it was brought up.

But you’re not that easy; even after he hands you your meal and leads you back into the living room, his words play on a continuous loop in your head. You flick glances at him, spirits lifting every time you see him laugh at something on the TV, dropping again when you remember what he’s just told you.

It’s so weird that only a few days ago the two of you were screaming bloody murder at each other. It’s so weird that only a few weeks ago you were scribbling your signature down on a set of divorce papers. It’s so weird that only a few weeks ago, you were convinced you had fallen out of love with him.

But god, how can that be true when the mention of his hardships make you feel this way, like they’re your own, like you should be the one comforting him when he gets home from work?

After dinner has been eaten, you offer to wash the dishes. Namjoon gives you a look as if to say are you crazy? and doesn’t even reply before he’s taking your plate from your lap and heading into the kitchen on his own. You clasp your hands in front of you, watching him leave, your stomach turning with the uncertainty of this entire thing - you want him to feel the same way. With everything in you, you want him to feel the same regret you currently feel at the signing of those papers.

But what are the chances?

You close your eyes, slump back on the sofa and wait for him to return. You used to talk to Namjoon about everything. He knows every single one of your deep, dark secrets - it won’t be difficult to just ask him how he’s feeling. Hell, that used to be something you did all the time, on a daily-

Your phone rings.

You jump, grabbing it and looking at the caller ID. Scribbled across the top of your phone is the name ‘ANTHONY.’

“Him?”

Your head snaps up. Standing above you is Namjoon, a prawn cracker in his hand and a scowl on his face.

“What the fuck is he ringing you for?”

You quickly click cancel, shoving your phone back on the coffee table. “He’s probably just ringing to make sure I got home alright. Are there any more prawn crackers?”

Namjoon grunts, throwing the bag of prawn crackers onto your stomach before taking a seat on the sofa - the sofa opposite you, whereas once before he was quite content sitting right beside you.

You stare at him, open mouthed. “Are you being serious?”

He doesn’t look away from the TV. “What? I didn’t say anything.”

“Are you huffing?”

“Huffing? What would I be-”

“Namjoon, I don’t like Anthony like that. Hell, I barely like him as a friend. You know that!”

Namjoon furrows his brows, taking a furious bite of his prawn cracker. “How am I meant to know that when you were talking about fucking him yesterday?”

You freeze. “Oh, Namjoon…”

Namjoon scoffs, head snapping round. “Yeah, I remember. You two were getting pretty fucking cosy last night.”

“I was drunk!”

“I don’t care!”

“Well clearly you do if you’re getting this worked up about it-”

“I’m not worked up.”

“Oh, really? How red your face is getting begs to fucking differ.”

Namjoon stands. “I’m going to bed.”

“Oh, so you want the bed tonight, yeah? Shall I take the sofa?”

“Do you want to change the storage room into a guest bedroom so you can invite Anthony over, too?”

“I don’t even-”

You pause, having just realised what has just been said - neither of you acknowledged the fact that you could easily just go back to your own home if you didn’t want to sleep in the same house as Namjoon. Neither of you wanted to admit the fact that this house is no longer yours, that you can leave of your own free will if you so choose.

Namjoon purses his lips and looks away. “Or you could go back - go back to your house…”

“Do you want me to go back to my house?”

“No.”

“Do you want me to stay here?”

“Yes.”

“Do you want me to sleep on the sofa?”

A pause, and then, “Not really.”

You close your eyes. “Namjoon, what are we doing?”

He falls onto the sofa next to you, dipping his head in his hands. “I don’t know. It’s been driving me mental, though.”

“Me too.”

You sit in silence for a few minutes, neither of you sure where to go from here; it’s been two weeks of constant pain and heartbreak, two weeks that could have been avoided if you’d just done this - sat and talked about it all before things got worse.

“What is going on between you and Anthony?”

You groan. “You know full well I wouldn’t touch Anthony with an eight foot pole.”

“So why did you say-”

“I was trying to make you jealous, Namjoon,” you burst. “It’s not my fault you have every single girl’s eyes on you when you walk anywhere. If you wanted to move on from me, you could have easily done so - I took the first bit of attention I was getting and jumped on it.”

Namjoon pauses. “Right, but if I could have moved on from you so easily, why haven’t I?”

“Because you’re sweet and-”

“Because I love you.”

You grit your teeth, digging your nails into the sofa cushion; you’re going to cry. You can feel the tears rushing to the surface, either from relief or terror that this is just another step in the wrong direction. You didn’t get a divorce for no reason - back then, it was the right decision to make, so what could have possibly changed now?

“Namjoon, please don’t say that.”

His shoulders slump forward. “Okay.”

And maybe it’s how deflated he sounds, how tired he sounds that makes you do it. Maybe it’s the fact that - only minutes before - you were coming to terms with the fact that you still love him just as much as you loved him when you were in the honeymoon phase, just as much as you have always loved him.

But you turn so quickly, grab his chin and kiss him, because you’re certain you’re going to explode if you don’t. He grunts against your mouth, eyes widening for only a split second before he’s shifting in his seat and wrapping an arm around your waist, cupping your face with the other in that way he always used to. You could bask in it, could literally live in this state if only it was him, always, always him.

You pull away first, tears slipping from your eyes. Namjoon rubs his thumb along your cheekbone, ridding you of them with a soft expression on his face that makes you want to melt into him all over again. Instead you choke on a smile, shaking your head in disbelief that this is really happening, that you were both so stupid to think you could live without the other.

“What are we doing?” he whispers, not once taking his eyes off you.

“I don’t know,” you reply. “But I’ve never known what you and I are doing. Ever. For eight years straight.”

He smiles. “Me neither, to be honest. And it was perfect.”

You bite your lip, your gaze being enough to form the silent question between the two of you; is this it? Is it over? Is the pain and suffering finally through?

Namjoon answers the question by kissing your lips, and you laugh against his mouth.

----

“Kim Namjoon and ex-wife Y/N L/N caught walking hand-in-hand through the streets of Seoul early this morning! Are the love birds finally back together?”

Taehyung looks up from the newspaper, examining the scene of you sitting in Namjoon’s lap, him messing idly with the necklace around your neck. Taehyung looks back down and says, “I think so.”

“You know I’m gonna take the piss out of you both for this for the rest of my life,” Seokjin says, biting into some seaweed strips. “A two week divorce. Almost as bad as a two week marriage.”

“We won’t acknowledge the divorce,” says Yoongi. “Look at them - it’s like they were never apart in the first place.”

Namjoon rolls his eyes, tilting his head back. You resist the urge to press your lips to the column of his throat, even though you know full well that’s exactly what he wants you to do. “Look, we’re young. We’re still figuring this shit out.”

“Have you got it all figured out now?” Hoseok asks. “Because I don’t think I can take much more of your brooding, Namjoon. It was like you’d lost a limb.”

You chuckle, sitting up so you can look into Namjoon’s eyes. He stares right back at you, not even trying to deny what Hoseok has just said. You press your lips to his cheek, uttering a quiet “Aw,” against the skin.

He tightens his hold on your waist. “I already told you I missed you.”

“But like you’ve lost a limb?”

Namjoon scowls. “Shut up.”

370 notes · View notes

queencocoakimmie · 5 years

Text

Wink Part 6

Apocalypse

/1/ /2/ /3/ /4/ /5/

A/N: This is it! The end of the Wink Series. I hope you liked it as much as I like writing it!

Warning: Blasphemy, smut, death, violence, fluff.

Word Count: 2,660

Summary: The Fall of Miss Robichaux’s, the Rise of Michael and Lilith.

Then the kings of the earth and the great men and the commanders and the rich and the strong and every slave and free man hid themselves in the caves and among the rocks of the mountains; and they said to the mountains and to the rocks, "Fall on us and hide us from the presence of Him who sits on the throne, and from the wrath of the Lamb; for the great day of their wrath has come, and who is able to stand?"

-Revelation 6:15-17

Laying there beside him, my mind is flooded with memories of our past lives. There we are at the opening of the Louvre in 1793. Again, at the start of the Renaissance Era in Italy, 1300. Standing in a crowd, as Mary Magdalene and John, watching the crucifixion of God’s only son. I remember everything.

He watches me, as the memories flood back, with pride. But a sad small smile plays on his lips and I ask him what’s wrong. “I’ve been waiting for you to remember for so long. Every lifetime that we are reborn, I wait for you find me, or I find you. Then we go through the blood ritual to release our memories, over and over and over again. Sometimes you remember and sometimes you don't.” He pauses, his voice catching. “There have been many times, where we never even find each other. We go through the span of an entire lifetime, empty and alone, ultimately dying without ever having seen the others’ face. Then the cycle starts all over again. I’m just so tired of doing it. And now, I feel like we’re almost done with our mission and we’re in danger of being torn apart again.”

He continues, “The world has gone through its ebbs and flows, but the time has never been ripe for the End of Days. Now things have changed. You’ve come back more powerful than my Father and I could ever imagine. I know in my heart that with you by my side, the time for the world to be remade is now. But, those goddamn Witches are in our way.” His words are sad and exhausted. I know that he is ready for all of this to be over.

I bury my face into his chest, “I’ll never let us be apart again, Michael.” His face is filled with sorrow, he nods his head half-heartedly. He knows something that I don’t.

I tell him about the conversation, I overheard Zoe having earlier. He takes a deep breath, “I know. I know it’s coming. I don’t know what they have planned for me. But, I’ve been preparing for it as best I can. I just don't know if I'm ready yet. I don’t know if I’m ready for the aftermath. The boys have been preparing as well, so they’ll be ready and will know exactly what to do.”

With confusion painted on my face, I ask “What do you mean?" He turns his face away from me, “In the Bible, The 4 Horsemen will bring fire and ash to the world. We’re supposed to remake it in my Father's image. Rex, Jin, you and I are meant to tear this corrupt place apart and make it ours. Make it His.”

I become suddenly afraid of this prophecy. Cordelia didn’t teach me this. I was taught that the Antichrist was evil, and the Apocalypse had to be stopped. Now, here I am at the cusp of it? And I’m intended to be apart of it? The fear rises in my chest. I begin to shake. I don’t know if I can do this? Will I fail him? I’m just a kid.

But, I look up at him, his face half hidden in the shadows. I can feel that he is being tormented. He is conflicted more than I am. Wrestling with his own mortality. The fate of the world is literally on his shoulders and he hasn’t been given instructions on how to carry out its end. He just knows he’s expected to do it. There is no set plan for this. I’m afraid we’re on our own.

He receives a text from Ariel and his demeanor completely changes. He tells me coldly that we should get dressed and head back to the school before anyone notices we’ve been gone too long. He’s not coming with me inside, though. There is something else he has to do. I begrudgingly get up and start gathering my clothes. I don’t ever want to leave this clearing. It’s so peaceful here. I know in my heart, it’ll be a long time before we can feel this type of calm again.

We dress in silence, lost in the noise crowding our minds, when he turns suddenly towards me and grabs my shoulders roughly, ”You mustn’t tell anyone what we’ve done tonight. If they find out that we are blood bound, they’ll know exactly who you are, if they don't already. I suspect that once I pass the Seven Wonders, they’ll come for me and everyone else, including you. I can’t have that. I can’t lose you again.”

Tears begin to well in his eyes, “Listen carefully, Lilith, I need you to get stronger in your magic. Learn to cloak your thoughts, because if I can read your mind this easily, so will they.” Heat blooms in my cheeks as embarrassment takes hold. I know that he’s seen my thoughts, my doubts, my uncertainty in what we’re about to take on.

He stares at me intently, “They’ll be watching and monitoring you. You've got to strengthen your powers on your own. You are more powerful than any witch in that Coven. Never forget who you are, Lilith. You are the First woman ever created. The most important piece of the puzzle. As long as Jin and Rex are there with you, they will help you. They’ll teach you and protect you. But, know this, the day will come when you’ll have to make a choice between the people who saved you from a life on the streets or me.” I can see in his eyes, that he’s not completely sure that I will choose him and it hurts.

Since we’re connected through blood now, I know that I’ll grow stronger and eventually I’ll be able to feel his thoughts and emotions too. But, communicating telepathically now, though, wouldn’t be safe for either one of us. Once I’ve developed more, we might try to link minds, but for now, it’s just too dangerous.

He explains to me that if something should happen to him, don’t reach out to him, don’t go look for him. He’ll come for me when the time is right. I’m extremely saddened by this because I can sense our time is ending soon and I can’t do anything to stop it.

When he leaves me at the doorstep of the academy, I know that this will be the last time I see him for a long time. He kisses me long and hard and walks away into the cold. A moment later, a long, black limo pulls up to the curb. The door opens and it’s Ariel, Baldwin and Ms. Mead, waiting for him. He turns back to me, says goodbye and winks.

I never had the chance to tell him that there is no choice to be made. I’m with him until the end.

Weeks pass and the rumors have spread that Michael has passed the Seven Wonders. He is the new Supreme. I felt his joy and his confidence in himself grow as he passed each one. We might be able to pull this off after all.

But, the witches weren’t taking this lying down. They’ve been having more and more closed-door meetings. Chittering away and conspiring against my dear Michael. I know that they've been watching and plotting against us and it makes me hate them even more. I never thought I would ever feel this way about them.

In the middle of all this chaos, Madison turns up missing and no one will tell us what’s going on, or where she is. Zoe has been keeping a watchful eye on me, even having my friends report back to her about me. They watch and listen to my every movement. Confused as to why they can’t fully read my mind. I know that Zoe has spoken to Myrtle about her suspicions. They’ve been devising a plan to use me and then have me murdered after Michael is dead. I have to lay now, conceal my parts of my magic, pretend that I’m one of them.

Cordelia decreed that The Hawthorne Boys were no longer welcome here, and by morning, they were all gone. There was no explanation about it. I panicked, knowing that now I would be alone, in this place. No Michael, no Rex, no Jin, to help me. I was afraid. Trapped in this den of vipers, all by myself, I start to lose control and feel the veil on my mind slipping. It’s too much stress, too many voices, my visions are too erratic. Until one night, crouched on the ground next to my bed, sobbing into my chest, I feel Michael on the outer reaches of my brain. We’re not supposed to communicate like this, but he’s feeling my suffering. I sense him reach into my mind and blanket me with reassurance and calm. I silently thank him and for the first time since he’s been gone, I sleep well that night.

Our bond has been growing stronger by the day. I experience everything that he feels. His anger upon finding out that Behold was missing from their school at the same time Madison was. This was no coincidence, something was going on. I sense him becoming increasingly more paranoid. His mind beginning to lose focus. His thoughts becoming are unstable. His feelings all over the place. I wish I could reach out to him like he did to me but I’m not as strong as he is. If I do it incorrectly, they will know and then our plan will be over before it even begins.

A few days later, Jessica texted me that Madison was back and with Behold in tow. After being locked up in Cordelia’s office for over an hour, they all emerged. Grim looks on their faces. I could feel an undercurrent of anger pulsing through my veins and I knew he could feel it. The time is almost at hand.

I know that I’m not strong enough to access Cordelia’s mind, so I settle on Madison’s thoughts instead. Her mind is an open book, so easy to read. Fragments of her memories show me that they met with Michael’s family. His mother and father and his wretched Grandmother. I saw the moment when Madison and Behold found out who he truly was. It terrified them to no end. I saw her fear and anguish at what they were up against. But, from her memories, I also saw that she had compassion for young Michael. A sad, scared little boy with innumerable powers. Maybe if given a chance, or proper guidance, he could have become something different. Maybe he’d be happy. But, now we’ll never know because his family was horrid and treated him as such.

Not long after, I felt a terrible ache in my chest. I doubled over in class from its intensity. My instructor sent me to my room to rest, but as soon as I got there, I was struck with a vision so clear, that I felt I was really there. I could see Michael standing in front of 3 burning stakes, with bodies tied to them. One was Ariel, one was Baldwin and the last one was Ms. Mead. He loved her like a mother, and to see her gone, it caused his heart and mind to break. I felt every bit of his misery and grief. I turn away from him to see Cordelia offering him a chance to join them and be good. I try to hold onto the vision long enough to see him threaten to kill her and everyone else. The pain in my chest gets deeper as his anger rises. I can sense him losing his grip on the world. He’s in such turmoil and doubt. But, I can’t be with him, and it’s agonizing to see him go through this alone.

I’m struck again with another vision. This time I see him go into the woods, see him go to the place where we made love. I watch, helplessly as he sits inside a pentagram made of stones, just like the one he made for us that night. Begging and pleading with his father for help and HIM not listening. My vision is fading, my eyes are becoming painful and blurry, my head is splitting in agony. I can’t take much more, but I whisper out to him, “I love you”. Before I pass out.

A text from an unknown number at 3 a.m wakes me:

“He’s in pain, Lil. But, he’ll remember his purpose. We have to have believe. We just can’t help him right now. Be patient.”

-R

I know that it’s Rex, and it gives me some modicum of calm. I delete the text. I can’t let them know that I’ve been talking to the boys.

Much time passes, and life goes on. I never forget about him. He’s always at the back of my mind. His ups and his downs, I’m cognizant of all of them. I sensed his pain and apprehension and then finally peace when the Satanists took him in and helped redirected his path.

I felt his resignation at meeting Mutt and Jeff at the robotics company. But they are useful and smart and assist him in making a plan to end this crude world.

My life here, however, was under a microscope. Every move I made, every spell I cast, was watched and reported on. They’ve taken to shadowing me wherever I go. Never leaving me alone, except for sleeping and peeing. Now my telepathy has become so strong that I could read every mind here at once. I could hear and see all of their mundane thoughts to the more malevolent ones regarding me and Michael. His name on their lips, speaking about him in such contempt, disgusted me. I know that they are planning for my death. Smiling in my face, plotting to kill me. They’ll use me in some epic battle against Michael, and then when he is dead, they will burn me at the stake. My own friends were in on this plan. I had been betrayed.

1 Year Later

I’m awoken by screaming down the hallway. There are loud bangs and cries for help. I open the door and the girls are running everywhere. I look over the railing of the stairwell and see blood splattered all over the walls. Bodies were strewn on the ground. I make my way down, passed several dead witches and I see my friends, Jessica, Alice, and Margaret. They’re hiding in a nearby room. They beckon for me to come to them. “What’s going on?” I whisper. “That Langdon boy is back. He’s here with that woman. I thought she was dead.”

Realization washes over me. He’s come for me. This is it. I begin to walk out of the room when I hear their thoughts. Jessica calls me a ‘traitorous bitch’ and that as soon as she gets a chance, she’ll kill me. I turn around and snap her neck in an instant. The other girls beg for mercy, but they’ve been a part of the scheme against me this entire time. They were never my friends. They all deserve to die together. I allow them this.

I hear Ms. Mead step behind me, “So you’re the one he talks about all of the time. You’re just a ruthless as you are beautiful. Come with me.”

I follow her down the corridor and watch in awe as he walks into the dining hall and systematically massacres the other witches including Zoe, Bubbles, and Queenie. I step over Zoe’s dying body, knowing that she is the one that devised the betrayal. She brought me here knowing who I was, what my true nature was. She knew that they would eventually destroy me. I spit in her face and say “Fuck you” with venom. I look around for more witches but there is no one left. Even, Cordelia and her new protégé, Mallory have fled now.

Michael is a vision. Just as beautiful as the day I first saw him. He rushes to me and amongst the dead bodies and blood-spattered walls, he kisses me, hungrily, impatiently. He doesn’t say a word but picks me up and takes me to his limo.

We made love in the backseat. It was hard and rough. He couldn’t get enough of me. My hands pressed up against the glass, as he fucked into me from behind. Pulling my hair, my eyes streamed down my face with tears. Joy mixed with pain. The first time we had sex was romantic and beautiful, this was so animalistic and visceral. We came screaming each other’s names so loudly, that I could hear the radio volume turn up in the front of the limo. I’m guessing they no longer want to hear us.

Sitting in the afterglow of our sex, he smiles at me. “I’ve missed you so much. I’ve dreamt of you every night.” I look down sheepishly, “I know,” I say. Those lonely nights, I’d see him touching himself to an image of me. I would do the same so he could see me too. Our minds were connected in this most intimate way, it was like he was there with me in my room. Those were also the nights that my phone would light up with text messages from Rex or Jin, telling us to knock it off, that we were making them uncomfortable. I understood how they felt, but if I could only be with him in this way, I was going to do it regardless.

“What about the boys?” I blurt out as he fixed his shirt, and smoothed down his wild curls. “Oh, everyone at Hawthorne is dead. I did that before I came to get you.” He says matter-of-factly. My eyes widen in shock, he looks at me and laughs, “Everyone except Jin and Rex are dead. We’ll see them at my meeting with The Cooperative.”

The who?

18 months later

Here we are, at the end of the world. I look out of the window, in this black horse-drawn carriage, and I see the decay and destruction of everything around us that we caused. The day the nuclear bombs went off, was glorious. It went according to plan and turned out better than we could have ever hoped to imagine. Michael was in full command of his powers and he...was...magnificent. Jin caused wars between allied countries, trying to escape the blast fallout. Rex brought about famine and disease throughout all of the lands. And I brought death to all of those who were unworthy.

But, now I think of my “sisters” at Miss Robichaux’s. I feel anger towards them, but also guilt. They saved me from being homeless on the streets, they brought in and took care of me. I remind myself, though, that I was brought there so they could use me and then ultimately betray me. It makes me sad, in a way, about what happened to them. But I was never like them at all. I know in my heart, that they are still out there, somewhere. Sniveling in the shadows. When they come out of hiding, we’ll be ready for them, and we’ll crush them.

Michael made me see who I really am. Unlocked my memories and helped me embrace my destiny. He and I are bound together, in a story that was written long before man. He and I were meant for more.

I turn to him and gaze at his perfect profile. His hair longer than when we first met. Gone were the baby curls that encircled his head like a Halo. No, that Michael was gone. In his place was something different, something better.

I reach out and turn his face towards mine. He moans at my touch. “My love, if we didn’t have to get to this Outpost before nightfall, I’d take you right here,” he says. I blush and laugh softly. His blues eyes, burning brightly against the background of his red eyeshadow. He is perfection. Words will never be able to express how much I love him. I am His partner, His new Right Hand, His blood mate.

And it all started with a wink.

@americanhorrorstory-trash @sensitivethot @tickled--pinkmoodpoisoning @heytherekidd0 @elangdon4 @whoviancumberbunny @queenie435 @ghostiesbedroom @iloveferns @michaelangdom @langdonsdemon @mads-maddie-madison @maso-xchrist @lxngdonscoven @ritualmichael @michaellangdom @michaellangdong @sweetlangdon @lxngdonscoven

@xtheinevitableprophecyx @avesatanormalpeoplescareme @michael-langdon-appreciation @petersfern-fics @katiekitty261 @lvngdvns @kinlovecody @sojournmichael @duncvn @duncans-donuts @lovelykhaleesiii @lovely-langdon @gelukstraan @confettucini @icylangdon @langdonsrapture @langdonfern @thedeviltohisangel @avessatanass @avesatanaslangdon @langdons-rep @cocotheangelchild @cocosfern @michael-langdon6 @sloppy-little-witch-bitch26 @khaleesimel @michaellangdonn @americanhorrorstudies @ccodyfern @langdonsoceaneyes @flowersiren

#michael langdon #michael langdon fanfiction #michael langdon smut #michael langdon x reader #michael langdon x y/n #fanfiction #fanfic #fan fiction #ahs #ahs8 #smut #fluff #my writing

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empressxmachina · 5 years

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by Imperial-Radiance (that’s me)

1|1: Faux Pas, part 1, is also on Wattpad.

"All the shit we do, and this doesn't get any easier."

"It's only because no one does it like we do or... or, ugh, at all, really."

The Center of Colors, the most marveled museum of art in all of Oswana if not the entire world, was a fortress in its own right, and all attempts by a not-so-young maho madam to push open the one door inside it that led to its underground car park were to no avail. The age of the door was a blink in comparison to the building that housed it. Looking past that, it still was not used as proportionally often as originally designed due to 'more preferred' transit options for safety reasons. But, with the particular event taking place there – the biannual meeting of the Continental Couturiers' Council – and a certain, small minority quickly rising up its rankings, putting some oil on the door hinges would have been the easiest courtesy.

Yet, here this lady was, having to force all her might just from an unlocked but still stuck door, adding to the lengthy list of surprises of the night. But she wasn't alone in the struggle.

"Uh, Mel?" a concerned Lyanna expressed, quickly simmering down her tense self after seeing how roughly her best friend was fumbling with the push bar. "You good?"

"Come on! Really!?" Melanie continued to grunt, not allowing herself to give in so quickly, even if it possibly ruined her blazer in the process – not the best look at a fashion event. "What is this!?"

"Damn. If Miss 'Moore Gains, Moore Power' can't open the thing, it really must be tight," Lyanna claimed in jest. She, despite being in similar, unfortunately-formal-for-the-task fashion, joined Melanie's efforts at her side, groaning as she repeatedly rammed her upper arm into the surface like a linebacker. "Maybe, urgh... Lanky Ly can be... a little help."

Melanie was all for the assistance, especially given all the reasons she had to not expect it. But, getting it with a shaded humblebrag, even if jokingly, was not going to happen. A critical look was sent Lyanna's way in protest, and sassy yet complimentary projections soon were, too.

"'Lanky', my ass. How many ball sports... did you say you... played in school again? How many of them... weren't co-ed... before you joined? Which one of us... qualified for... for the... Superhero Circuit... over thirty... on accident!?"

It only took the first rebuttal for Lyanna to regret making her lighthearted comment at all. But, like the mature woman she was, she took it in stride with an apology.

"Okay, okay. I get it!" she stretched through more grouses of strain. "I'm sorry. You happy?" Melanie paused her own pushes for a second to shine a grin at her buddy that epitomized 'I told you so'. Her receiving a set of rolling eyes and a scoff back followed right after, paired with Lyanna taking her exertion efforts to the next level. "But," she resumed, feeling her shoulders start to slide out their sockets, "my athleticism... means nothing if... if it can't help us... get through... the fucking... DOOR!"

Giving in to all of the pressure, the bar lock finally began to budge. However, no one, especially not the designers of the door, ever figured for that much force, let alone by two, tired maho ladies, to be spread across the bar like that. They had much more strength than they realized, or the door was weaker than expected, and before they knew what they were doing, the door flew open out of their grasp, echoing with Lyanna's voice into the mostly empty garage as it slammed into the wall.

Inertia sent Lyanna and Melanie forward, unable to keep balance on their skinny, high heels. Melanie, closer to the hinges, managed to catch herself on a nearby parking barrier, but Lyanna found her stopping place not on the ground or on a structure but instead in the arms of an awaiting security guard.

"Got ya, ma'am," the uniform-donning young man assured with a slight strain in his voice upon catching her. "Are... Are you alright?"

Lyanna sneered at his brief struggle, knowing fully well that she wasn't that heavy until she realized it was not due to her at all, at least not completely. In the distance, the door to the office where all of the watching camera footage was housed was wide open with most screens showing the three of them right then. If he had been watching the ladies' struggles until not long ago and decided to help for himself, then he would've had to run to reach them in time. Looking at his tired but quickly recovering state, he probably did that, just slightly too late and switching to a catcher's role in the heat of the moment.

Getting over the drama of it all, Lyanna gave her savior some solace as she rose and composed herself. "Yes, thank you. I... I'm fine."

"Not as much as you, cutie pie," Melanie winked at the guard with her down-home charm, to which he returned a bashful gasp. "What's a handsome soul like yourself doing out on the town late on a weekend alone, guarding C-Cubed at CC, no less?"

"I, uh," the young lad had trouble finding the right words.

On one hand, getting a compliment was always nice, especially if both lighthearted and likely to result in an extra tip. On the other hand, if he egged it on too much, then it'd just be asking for a bunch of double-sided trouble for way too many reasons to count. Aware that he couldn't leave her hanging, he replied with something reasonable in between.

"I-I'm just working to pay for school, ma'am, getting what I can, whenever I can." He smoothed the wrinkles in his suit, hoping to worsen his seemingly bad first impression. "I'm not even a guard. I'm more like a concierge, though I can drive people around, too, so I don't even know if that's even the right term." He quickly recognized he was right on the cusp of rambling about his nondescript job position and soon reverted to a more robotic, reserved offer. "A-Anyway, shall I call you two a car?"

"You can do better than that," Lyanna surprisingly interjected, stretching her back with a backward, propped bend. "I'll call your bluff. Drive us home, then. The two of us aren't too much for you in this big city, are we?"

If Melanie's comment sent blood to the guy's face, then Lyanna's did the opposite, blanching it bright from assertive surprise. Though, knowing who they were and what they were known for, such responses were expected in the back of his mind. Nonetheless, he caught Lyanna's declaration of the challenge and accepted it.

"Let me, uh, just grab a key from the station," he stated, pointing back toward the office, "and we'll be on our way. Choose any one of the vehicles by the wall you like, and I'll meet you there."

Like a hummingbird, he zoomed away to grab the nectar of his choosing, leaving the two ladies to converse and corner a car... all the while cutting each other down.

"You were not just charming that child, were you?" Lyanna pressed, strutting over to her friend. "He's young enough to be either of our children, and I know you're not that crazy."

"Of course not, you dunce," Melanie defended, with an eye roll, offended being typecast from a simple false flirtation. "Like I'd court a kid to have a good time." She managed to get a chuckle out of her best friend as she wrapped an arm around her shoulders and led her to the back of one of the vans. "I'm trying to make that young man into a mannequin. You don't think he'd be a good look for the new line?"

"It's less that and more 'You couldn't have asked more normally?'"

"What's more fitting than looking for fashion models at a meeting for fashion designers?"

"I don't know, giving out a business card and telling him to call you at a normal hour? Damn it!" For a second, Melanie thought that Lyanna was actually mad at her. But the pause just turned out to be a dramatic one, replaced by more giggles. "Damn you, innovative bitch."

Melanie soon joined into the laughing fit. "You know it. See? I'm always making money moves, even if people don't agree with my vision."

Her wording was too specific for it to not be related to and reignite the tensions acclimated over the duration of the meeting she had to hide behind glossy lips and gritting teeth. "We're back to talking about what we were before we found ourselves fighting the architecture, huh?"

"We do too much for too little reward, apparently. Is that what you said?"

"Not... exactly," Lyanna hissed, clicking every T with purpose, "but you're not wrong, either." Leaning back against the trunk, thankful for a siren not going off in the process, she looked up at the ceiling and processed her thoughts. Her memories of the evening.

Drinks. Hors d'oeuvres. Designs for two seasons from now. It wasn't much different than usual. Lyanna's peers had finally gotten used to how she ran her business after so many years of it 'not evolving' except in styles. But it was just tolerance rather than full-on acceptance, and the constant stares and murmurs that they seemed to throw in overtime toward her tonight garnered an equal reaction back: allowed but never wanted.

The worst part of it, aside from the blatant prejudice behind Lyanna's doings, was that they never considered why she does it. Seeing things from her and maybe Melanie's views would be more help than harm. Though, given how they got where they were, they'd forever be oblivious unless she made a scene.

While the two prim pals measured the parking deck to easily house multiple homes, it was barely worthy of an under-bed shoe organizer to the khadra: the larger, other halves opposite their maho selves with whom they shared the world. Well, their nation, at least. One couldn't be sure about the rest of the planet nowadays. Even so, everything Lyanna lived and worked for, no matter how high she rose, would forever be under their noses, perhaps even underfoot.

Simply thinking back to the dastardly door, once again, only made her more upset, remembering how it was basically a metal slab wedged within floor molding shadowed by a nearby stand. The Council could've paid someone to at least act like a security for smaller folk, but the fact that the Center kept their half of the deal was a little reassuring.

Probably one-twelfth of what her full pleasure banks could hold: the standard fraction.

"Sure, we get flooded in respect for our abilities," Lyanna commented, still gazing toward the above ground, "but it's just a cop-out. The collabs we do are never enough; they want more out of us. It's like they assume we have to give them everything not because they deserve it or because it's right but because they're fucking—"

"Ah, here we go," the young guard cut in, to Melanie's favor. Having known her bestie for two decades, she knew he had shown up right on time and prevented an imminent Lyanna explosion. Jiggling his keychain with a glowing smile as he unlocked the van's doors, sidewinding the looks of respective relief and heat diffusion on the ladies' faces, he was completely none the wiser. "We're ready for action. If you'd allow me..."

Continuing his act like a gentleman, he opened the doors for the two women, first Lyanna on the passenger's side of the backseat and then Melanie seated right behind him. Considering they thought they were simply in for a glorified taxi cab ride, they had quite the shock seeing how decked up the innards of the vehicle were. It wasn't a party bus or anything resembling a limo rented for a promenade, but the selection of fun-sized snacks, drinks, and reading material, on top of how comfy the seats and lighting were, was a sight to behold.

The ladies were greatly impressed all around, quickly sharing a look of wonder with each other, but the oblivious driver wouldn't be able to see that, focused only on the job at hand. Plus, the sight of Melanie on her phone and Lyanna already sipping on a tiny water bottle as she looked out her window gave no hint to it, whatsoever. He was happy to see them fully adjusted, totally bounced back from their tumbles and fumbles, and it irked him that he might break that calmness for the last necessities of his job.

"I do apologize for this, but I almost forgot," he said, looking in the rear-view mirror at them as he started the engine. "The Center of Colors has this policy where the drivers have to get crossed confirmations for—" His declaration faltered at the ladies' look of confusion at his jargon, thus needing clarification in common, much more comfortable language. "Basically, they want two forms of authorization for each passenger. Usually, a quick clip where you say your name or something like that should be fine. I know who you are, and I'm sure most others do, too, but it's the tradition. If you wouldn't mind...." He pressed a button on his controls and started recording, signaled by a light on his rear-view mirror and a mechanical bloopy noise. "...giving a quick roll call."

The two thirty-somethings looked at each other, both not saying a word and both testing each other to see who would crack first. After what felt like forever, emphasized by the driver's nervous coughing and wheel tapping to crack the silence, and in a noble act of succession, the first to introduce themselves was,

"Melanie Moore."

Melanie Moore. Chief marketing officer. Queen of advertising. Flirtatious firecracker. Part-time yogi. Slayer of Oswanian style boundaries with her pop-up collections like her golden-hued 'Code Mellow'. C-Cubed's 'Best New Designer' a few years ago because of them. She was happy to have made a name for herself, specifically under her own name, but she knew and never denied that she'd never be where she was if it weren't for,

"Lyanna Paulson." Lyanna fucking Paulson.

Naturally a brunette. Currently a blonde. Visible exercise and sports fanatic. Drink connoisseur. A flash celebrity made in the blink of an eye all based on luck. The epitome of nouveau riche. The youngest member to have been inducted into C-Cubed (and receive its BND award like Melanie) back when she was twenty-four. The Designer of the Year not long after. Melanie's best friend. Also, Melanie's boss, technically, but she rarely states that aloud. She was a lot of things and known for many more. But she was a household name for two.

Her fashion and design company 'Moonsong', along with its occasional luxury dabbles via 'Lunar Serenade', was going fifteen years strong with top sales and quality. Yet, in all of those fifteen years, with the exception of collaborations with industry peers and the even more occasional one-offs, every product was strictly for maho, leading to an aura of presumed racism constantly washing over her.

The two buddies bickered back and forth on the openness of their projects to those that towered over them, each having solid reasons for their views. But, with Lyanna having more say and severity, it always went her way. The threats and attempts of harm that were sent her way in the beginning when people realized her khadra-closed doors weren't just a phase, along with a few every now and then, weren't fun to experience. But even her miffed adversaries and confused familiars had to give her props for standing her ground and defending the safety of her staff, and each trouble always seemed to dissipate as quickly as it came.

That, and all of her giving back to just as many khadran causes as native maho ones helped, but people just seemed to always gloss over that.

Lyanna, even with her brief smile into the camera and mic, was still fuming from the event, and thinking of all her conflicts leading up to it wasn't making it better. Luckily for her, Driver Boy seemed to catch that, even with his back turned. Pushing her was the last thing he wanted to do. He just hoped his body could follow his heart and mind.

"I, uh..." he struggled to speak at first, seeing the coldness in Lyanna's eyes as she gazed into the camera. But that soon passed over, and his goal to make sure the drive did the same launched in full force. "I know you two must be looking for privacy going through the garage," he observed. "It's good that I know some scenic routes around the city. So, please make yourselves comfortable, and enjoy the ride."

Melanie had already found her way back to phone diving toward whatever as the van left the safety of the parking deck and, for the pair of couturiers, waved goodbye to C-Cubed for six months. The carpooling posse simultaneously passed under the art museum's overly cheerful exit sign, getting an eye roll of her own out of Lyanna.

'Thank you for visiting the Center of Colors!' it expectantly exclaimed. That farewell stayed still on the sign, but its lower half in all its mechanical glory had to show off, switching between presumably planned puns every few seconds. The trio managed to go under just as one went off – 'We hope to color you impressed once again really soon!' – and another took its place – 'May we brighten your day with flying colors upon your return!'

The wish for any sort of spectrum wasn't necessary as the aura around was still lively and beaming, perhaps being that last thing Lyanna's somewhat buzzed, water-guzzling person needed in her face.

"Hello, Xesant," she sarcastically greeted the outside world. "Glad to see you're still lively on a Sunday night." From its art-bordering white LEDs to the rainbow of marquees and HIDs along the streets, it was back to the big city they knew so well yet still a long way from home.

Xesant. A city nearly ten million strong by itself, and it looked like all of those citizens had filled the sidewalks like a sardine tin. A gem of Oswana, the city was, despite not being its capital. Half a tourist trap and half a modern marvel... and everything no one would've thought Lyanna would've submerged herself in for two decades. Luckily, she had Melanie by her side through it all, but she only eased the tension, not rid her of it.

She'd never be rid of it as long as she lived there.

Oswana was right at, if not itself being, the intersection of the planet's two historically opposite halves together: the more land- and khadra-filled northern Drakh and the sparser southern Hoemue with the maho. Time followed its course, and the communities came together, finally coalescing at the major metropolis literally on the equator between them: Lyanna's anxiety-driving abode.

Out of all the places in the world, Oswana, especially Xesant, had managed to optimize integration to a T, and it still amazed Lyanna after twenty years seeing it all work in action. It just made no sense in her head.

Watching vehicles and souls that were the size of houses pass by so strongly yet swiftly and never be in the way. Alternating stoplights and substitute paths for both sizes for undisrupted travel. Mismatched yet complementary pairs of windows, doors, and on every building for everyone to have a place to take in their surroundings. Blended groups – a surprisingly large minority – somehow walking in pace with each other, neither too fast nor too slow.

That one khadran girl crossing directly in front of the van – shoes taller and possibly heavier than the vehicle itself – with a maho in hand, losing her balance, and managing to fall with a resonating thud toward the Moonsong troupe with both her companion safely cupped to the chest and all her long and loose limbs snaking between all the tiny cars, including their van, on their side of the road.

All of this at once, emphasized by a cacophony of horn blaring and muffled, concerned voices. Yet, as Lyanna drank her way through more than a handful of bottles in seconds at the sights, the driver didn't even flinch, and Melanie may not have even noticed. Her lockage in her phone was made even more apparent by her following statement, cracking the lull of silence within their four, glass-peeking walls.

"Oh, look," she announced, sliding her phone over to Lyanna's vista. "In case you cared..."

With her nonchalant tone and apparent lack of awareness for her surroundings, even as the driver drove around the still collapsed cohorts, one could've assumed she found an article pertaining to the current slip and trip debacle outside that looked a lot like fake news if it weren't actually true. However, her carelessness was genuinely due to the routine with C-Cubed finally updating their social media and website with details from the meeting's latter half. What particularly caught Melanie's and now Lyanna's eyes was the results of the unimportant-aside-from-a-trophy, aptly named superlative voting, 'In Case You Cared'.

Lyanna usually didn't care enough to view them as soon as they were posted, regardless of having voted herself, mainly waiting until the next morning to see what any newcomers had to offer. However, with Melanie thrusting them in her face, she knew it had to be something interesting. Lo and behold,

"Congrats, Ms. 'Styled and Profiled,'" Melanie praised her bestie, who looked more or less unenthused except for an eyebrow raise. The 'Styled and Profiled' Award. Something between Best Dressed and Most Pulled Together, in the corporate sense. At least, that's what they said it meant. "The glassware company for the awards should just sponsor you at this point. Damn. What is this, your third time getting this? Fourth?"

"Seventh," Lyanna lifelessly corrected, pushing the phone away, "not that it matters." Considering how many times Lyanna earned it, with her reputation, it was probably neither in reality. "Your look is way better than mine. This was probably a brownnosing move, trying to be hyperaware of the culture or whatever."

Melanie chuckled at first at her snide remarks, until she reviewed exactly what Lyanna had said. With every word, she found more and more wrong with her perspective. Was she self-deprecating? Did she genuinely think she was right? What the fuck did she mean by them being 'hyper-aware' of her when no one other than them two knew why someone would even have to be? Melanie retracted her phone and sat in her seat, waiting for any clarifications, but none came, leaving her to ponder for herself with a stony stare. Unfortunately, as much as she tried to do otherwise, only unsavory ideas came to mind. For Lyanna's sake, Melanie hoped, if they turned out to be true, they weren't due to—

"Excuse me, Ms. Paulson, if I may..." Before Melanie had a chance to rebuke, question, or instantly judge her friend's suspicious commentary, the driver felt the need to interject. Luckily for all involved, it had no faults and raised the subconscious heating mood. "...I think you look great."

Lyanna's brows raised at the compliment, and Melanie joined her in shock, though she was more impressed as his bravery in speaking out of turn. He didn't realize that meaning upon looking back at them, seeing their expressions. He figured they were from him only recognizing one of them as opposed to both, and thus he made an addendum.

"N-Not that you don't, too, Ms. Moore," he nervously saved his hide, spouting a just-as-shy smile. "I just—Uh... you both probably earned it, okay?"

Lyanna's face stayed blank, but the driver immediately blushed at the sound of a tip being sent to his phone. Looking behind him to Lyanna's left, Melanie wore a grin of her own as her phone confirmed a scanned QR code and a quick transfer of payment.

"You're already paying him when he hasn't even signed on, yet?" Lyanna inquired, shooting the driver a smug look before turning toward the window... and cringing again at the mongrelized mania of it all. "But, hey, at least you have a good eye on you, wanting to represent the company with people that actually wear our stuff."

The redness on said subject's face instantly flushed back to his natural pallor. From a distance, there was nothing that discerned his uniform from that of any other worker at the Center of Colors. In fact, his pants and polo combo were exactly the same as any other's. But each soul was allowed a few extra freedoms employees had via accessories, body modifying, etc., and he did take part in that. As subtle as he tried to be in doing so, there were sprinkles of a certain brand down his person.

There was no way for them to go unnoticed by their head designers...especially with their owner catching them in his arms as a first impression.

"Uh, yeah," Melanie replied matter-of-factly. "He obviously knows how to read a room, er, van... and speaking of..." Going restless, once again, Melanie relocated to her seat's edge, setting a hand on the driver's chair back. "Hey, uh, I don't think you actually introduced yourself. What did your code say? Bryan? Bradley?"

"Br-Brenden, actually," the driver corrected, at least relinquishing anonymity. "I can't believe you noticed my gear."

He ran a hand across the small charm at the helix piercing on his left ear that matched a ring on his opposite hand, both pieces from a years-old collection. He would've twirled his feet and ankles around, too, showing off their extremely new shoes, both in age and ownership, but driving kept them still. The job correspondingly reminded him of a concern that was sure to get him penalized if he didn't address it soon.

"I also can't believe I haven't asked where I'm supposed to take you two," he chuckled, attempting to hide the ringing of his inner panic alarm. "Where did you have in mind? The Moonsong office?"

The ladies looked at each other briefly – Melanie slumping back again to face Lyanna head-on – to make a choice. The mistress of marketing implied, "I wouldn't mind heading there. It's not like we can do a late- or half-day tomorrow if we run super late doing random bullshit." A smirk briefly popped on Lyanna's mug. "Though," Melanie then countered, thus dropping said smile, "there were some, uh, biz things... I wanted to talk to you about."

"And, it's nothing you can't screen me at home?" Lyanna fought. By her tone alone, Melanie knew her idea had pancaked. "Mel, I love you, but I want to go home, sleep, and forget today."

The night had gone somewhat uncomfortably for them both, despite Lyanna's award, so she couldn't be blamed for not wanting to deal with anything anymore. But, Melanie shuddered, knowing how much more difficult things were going to become from it. She didn't want to make it worse, so she kept it to herself.

"A-Alright," she conceded. "I still want to head there. Your place in deeper inward, anyway, so I can get Brenden here to circle around and stop on by for a bit before going back to CC." A mutter of acceptance poked out of Lyanna before Melanie, at last, gave Brenden a destination. "Just head on over to T-Sa if you can, please. At least close enough to where Ly won't fall on her face if she'll need to walk."

The implication of inebriation was concerning, and the increased reference to some Moonsong deal was hyped as hell, but of all things to catch Brenden's attention, Lyanna's home was the showstopper. A fitting one but a surprise, nonetheless.

"You live at Sat Ave!?" he gasped, beaming through the rear-view mirror at her.

T-Sa. Sat Ave. Ten Saturn Avenue. One of the ritziest and private locales in all of Oswana, in spite of it being one of the most noticeable silhouettes in the lower Xesant skyline. Lower mutually in latitude and the height of its inhabitants. Only maho allowed. It was a sight to behold, but to Lyanna, it was the one place she could call her own. A fortress to be reckoned with. Literally.

"If you say anything," Lyanna hissed, jerking her eyes to Brendan's with a glower that could crack glass, "I will end you."

"Uh... I... N-Noted." Like the lapdog he was and now felt like, too, he complied, focusing back on the roads, pinning down the complex in his mental GPS, and heading on his way.

Melanie groaned at Lyanna's aggression, but rather than calling it out, she simply rolled her eyes and let it be. After all, from what it looked like, she had a long night ahead of her, and all of her energy should be saved for then. Well, most of it. The quietness that had encroached in the van quickly grew uncomfortable, leading to soft small talk between the driver and the fully-present passenger.

Lyanna let her eyes close, taking away the towering shadows and reverberations of titanic travel on all sides. The escapism, though brief, was blissful, opening opportunities to ponder plans for the upcoming week and beyond.

As they distanced themselves from downtown, the ratio of khadra decreased to nothing. The signs and sights of the borough where she burrowed on the daily shined to greet its golden girl. Through her slumber, it was easy to see her body adjust to its most familiar surroundings. Perfect tranquility... but it, unfortunately, had to end.

Brenden pulled into the drop-off lane of Ten Saturn Avenue, where a doorperson approached the van to help her out before halting and waiting outside her door, made aware of her still napping self. Melanie, risking a slapping fit her way, bit the bullet and rocked Lyanna back to the real world. Her waking softness resembled that of a baby; however, her too-old-for-this-shit sentimentalities soon broke through, along with the groan-inducing headaches that should've been here a long time ago.

"Welcome back, L.P.," Melanie greeted, thanking the gods for a passive awakening. "It's your stop."

A sequence of incoherent mumbles entered the airspace as the drowsy damsel attempted opening her door. The doorperson, seeing those multiple failures, eventually aided her exit, grabbing a hand then bracing around her back. Melanie, meanwhile, made out everything she was trying to say – a skill she had perfected after twenty years of tipsiness – amalgamating it all into a simple assurance,

"Nah, don't worry. You don't have to do anything. I've got this." Lyanna, even in her word salad of a mind, didn't feel too sure of that. But a quick kiss of valediction on the cheek sent her way made all those worries vanish and replaced them with giggling. "Now, get up there before you pass out."

More laughs ensued, but Lyanna eagerly obeyed, blowing a kiss back as her doorperson led her away. "Don't stay up too late, Mel!" she directed. "You, too, Brenden! None of us need eye bags."

Brenden, almost too in awe of the glamorous complex to catch her speaking, was surprised to be included in the farewell, even more so with a happy tone. Nonetheless, he appreciated it whole-heartedly, joining Melanie in waving her goodnight as she disappeared from view.

He took some time to calm from his high-fashion high before setting his course to Moonsong. However, before he drove off, Melanie locked him in place, reaching from the back to the steering wheel. He started to panic again, not even considering the presumably sweeter of the dynamic duo as a threat. The look on her face clearly showed a hidden craftiness that curdled his blood. Little did he know that none of it had to do with him.

No, actually, it slightly did. That cash drop Melanie made to him allowed for some new insight to reach her. He was more than qualified for plans she had had in the works for what felt like forever. His future modeling was only the tip of the iceberg, and she proved it by asking the last question along that path he ever expected to hear,

"Hey, Brenden, you had an order for alterations recently... but it wasn't for you, was it?"

#g/t #my writing #the high low life #faux pas #sw #fashion bitches #angst and cattiness but make it fashion... and with size differences

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aviationfiction · 6 years

Text

XXXI

Autumn Dupont

“Okay, thank you so much. I’m so pleased that our services were suited to your taste. It’s a pleasure to have you and we’ll see you soon.” Like a young child, who found a brand new shiny toy, I carelessly twisted, turned, and halfway glided to and from Isaac’s desk in his ridiculously comfortable ergonomic leather executive chair. It’s high back and soft head rest had been my source of comfort more than half of the day as he busily moved in and out of meetings throughout the morning. He summoned me from my position at the service desk with a polite plea for help that I hadn’t been expecting and yet couldn’t turn down. The rare occurrence of him properly and humbly asking me for something took me for a loop; hell, Rachel too. His mood change may possibly be attributed to he and Lauren’s budding embryo or maybe he’s finally respecting the work ethic that I’ve brought forth since he threw me a bone by giving me this job. Either way, I have no complains because I’ve become exhausted with the back and forth tension between he and I. Despite our lack of proper conversations to get to the root of his issues with me, I don’t see why he and I shouldn’t find a way to bring about peace within our relationship as siblings. I’ve already lost one brother and though Isaac may not realize it, he is and has always been dear to my heart. No matter what, I’ll have his back and if necessary, will go to war for him. We’ve always been taught to protect one another in this world and that’s a rule that I haven’t and will never give up on.

“Get out.” The bass in Isaac’s tone startled me as I placed the receiver to his desk phone back on it’s base. Okay maybe I’m jumping the gun about the shift in his personality.

“I just finalized an account. I did all seven and I reorganized the files in that cabinet over there. No offense, but whoever organized them before did a shitty job. Oh, and stop being rude.” I never thought I’d be able to have an actual conversation with a billionaire, but today I spoke with two. Usually, it’s a personal assistant or a chosen representative who calls in to request whatever services they prefer, so it was quite a shock for me to have Amancio Ortega himself speaking with me about servicing for his forty five million dollar Bombardier designed jet. Hell, it was quite a shock that the company is even on his radar, but he proved me wrong with his unpresuming compliments about Isaac’s charm and ambition. They happened to have met at a business conference and have been cordial with one another ever since. While it took every bit of might I had not to burst into a fangirl moment with my love for Zara, my brother could coolly mingle amongst the world’s wealthiest men and not break a single sweat. Impressive. They second one? Jami Gertz, wife of Antony Ressler. He’s the co-founder of a forty billion dollar private equity firm. Though she may not technically count because his assets aren’t hers, in my opinion, she does. She’s quite pleasant as well. She complimented the tone of my voice and called it soothing.

“I’m not being rude. Get out. Oh and I mean of the building by the way, not just my office.” His chuckle was light and he carelessly tossed a file on the desk that I’d just neatened up an hour ago. He will have made it a mess by the time he leaves here this evening. “Glen’s waiting for you outside.”

“For what? I’m supposed to get off at three today.” Glen and I had already spoken about it when he dropped me off to work this morning. If he is outside, he must have misheard what I said.

“You’re getting off now. Go head and go. You were getting ready to go on lunch anyway, right? Take lunch and keep going.” The sly expression on his face unnerved me as I lifted myself up and out of his chair. With my phone in my hand, I stepped around the desk and glared at him as he coolly took the position I was once in. I planned to be in here with my feet disrespectfully resting on his desk while I occupied the phone for the rest of the afternoon.

“What’s going on?” Because something has to be happening.

“I’m not sure why you wanted to become a doctor. You should have had goals to become a detective or a lawyer. All you do is ask questions. If I went out there and told anyone else what I just told you, they would have zipped out of here without giving me a chance to have a second thought and here you are questioning me about why I’m telling you to take the rest of the afternoon off. What a nerd.”

“Shut up. I’m going.” After retrieving my jacket from his office closet, I bid him a playful middle finger as a departing announcement and closed the door behind myself on my way out. My trek down the hallway wasn’t a long one.

“You’re off?” Rachel threw an arm around my neck to draw me in for a hug and I nodded in the midst of it. We were supposed to grab lunch and get off together. Isaac ruined our little lazy girl’s afternoon.

“Yeah. Boss man’s kicking me out.”

“Good. I still can’t believe you came in on the day before your birthday.”

“What else am I supposed to be doing? It’s the day before, not the day of.”

“Anything but being here. Go and prepare for it. Go get pampered. Shit, go to the spa or something. You work hard enough. Get out of here and enjoy yourself. I’ll call you in the morning and use my beautiful vocals to sing you an unforgettable birthday song. Okay?”

“Beautiful vocals? Oh, dear. You don’t really believe that, but I’ll be looking forward to it.”

“That is unless you’re having some incredible birthday morning sex. If so, don’t answer me. I won’t be mad at all.” The gasp that spilled past my lips was loud enough to draw laughter out of the both of us and I quickly nudged her with my elbow. I absolutely wouldn’t mind it. Actually, I’m hoping to be woken up just like that. I can barely contain the faint throbbing between my thighs at just the thought of it. I’m not sure if I should be ashamed of how much I anticipate being unclothed with my limbs tightly wrapped around every aspect of him. It worsens when I have alcohol in my system. It’s everything about his aura; it not only draws me in but it entices my body unlike any other. It’s the way he steadily peels my layers away, physically and mentally, and focuses on pleasuring me until I am on the cusp of life and death. It’s the way he fills me. My God.

“Cut it out. There won’t be any of that.” My modesty instantly came to my defense.

“Yeah, okay. The way he looks at you says it all.” Keeping my relationship out of the workplace has always been my intention ever since we began seeing one another. I’ve been around here and Meridian long enough to know how rumors swiftly spread and the truth is swept under the rug and hidden for the sake of keeping the conversations sensationalized. Whether it’s the side relationships with married men, the sugar daddy situations amongst the younger women, or the plotting on whichever wealthy male walks through the doors of both companies, I’ve heard it all. When I’m around, I can’t go a day without hearing whispers about my man or receiving sly questions about what he’s like so they can figure out exactly what type of pass to make at him. I’ve already told him he’s a hot commodity around this place and though he couldn’t care less, in some capacity I cannot help but to do so. There’s this part of me that doesn’t want yet another aspect of my love life being a source of entertainment for whoever is childishly concerned with it, and there is also this part of me that wants to set the record straight so that I no longer have to hear about women ready and willing to drop their panties for the man I’m in love with. It’s a tough position to be in. If it were up to him, we’d breeze through here hand in hand, confidently, with no worries about who knows.

“Call me the morning.” I retrieved my bag from the bottom drawer behind the desk and placed a peck on her cheek.

“Will do. Have fun today.”

Have fun? My feet moved as swiftly as my thoughts while I pondered on what I could possibly be having fun doing. As far as I know, I have no plans today. Tomorrow? Most likely a birthday lunch with my mother and dinner with Dante since he insisted. If it were up to me, we’d order takeout at his place and lay around with food bellies while watching chick flicks.

“Marvin?” Dante’s driver and his wide grin warmed me. Certainly the hundred roses being cradled in the nape of his arm helped.

“From the boss.” I didn’t hesitate to grab the beautiful display out of his grasp and give them a smell like any other admirer would have done. This is the third time this week I’ve gotten flowers from him and yet it still feels like the first time. Goosebumps, butterflies, chills, you name it.

“He sent me here with specific instructions for you. I placed the envelope in the backseat. We’re going to have a nice day together.”

“Oh really? Will the boss be joining me?” While helping me into the backseat of the blackened SUV, he shook his head with a smirk. “No?”

“He says that he’ll see you later on.” Once the flowers were carefully resting along side me, the envelop was my focus. The contents inside were his American Express Centurion Card, hundred dollar bills that I’d actually have to take my time counting, and a little note that said nothing more than he loved me. Any other woman would have been squealing in this backseat and bursting with excitement at the opportunity to spend money that isn’t theirs and yet I couldn’t mask the indifference and reluctance looming within my mind. I can admit that though I try my hardest to not compare my life with Andreas to the one I now share with Dante, I do have a tendency to worry about there being parallels that align. The days of swiping his credit card to cure the boredom were plentiful. The shopping also served as a temporary pain killer for the hole in my heart that he continued to worsen. Imagine standing in a closet full of clothes that mostly went unworn because you had nowhere to wear them to until your brother or best friend happened to come to town. How foolish would I have looked to waste couture pieces from Chanel and the fabulous intricacies of Dior in an arena watching the Miami Heat battle their latest opponent on the court? I’m not interested in being in that kept space once again because it comes with preconceived notions about my character and it puts me amongst an exclusive circle of women who are nothing more than the image behind the large shadow of their men. Though I adore Dante’s image, my everyday struggle is to create my own identity since I failed to do so during the time when it truly should have been happening. I don’t want any of this if it puts me back in that space again. I just want him and in no capacity does he have to come out of his pocket to give me that.

“You promised me.” He answered after two rings and didn’t even bother giving me a standard greeting. He didn’t start with an endearing one either. Instead, he chose to began with those three words because he already knew what my call would be about. He’s learned so much about my complexities that he tends to jump ahead of them these days.

“What?”

“You promised me.” He repeated himself and the sigh that followed was one of exhaustion. I couldn’t tell if I was the source behind it or if his early afternoon at work isn’t flowing as well as he’d like it to.

“You haven’t even let me tell you why I called. You haven’t even said hi.”

“You promised me before we left L.A. that I had the freedom to do whatever I pleased when planning your birthday celebrations and that you would not shut me down about it. Once again, I made you repeat that promise a week ago and you agreed with me. Remember?” How could I forget? I was half naked, not feeling so great, and his hands were soothing my body while I rested in his bed. A person would have agreed to anything during a massage like that. I wasn’t of sound, mind, or body. I was blissfully drunk off of him, per usual these days.

“Yes, I remember. I just…is this my gift? If this is my gift then, okay.”

“No. That’s not your gift.” Of course it isn’t. I asked a dumb question to lighten the mood and the exact opposite happened as silence followed his answer.

“Do you trust me?”

“Of course I trust you.” And I do. I’ve trusted him since I met him, though my fears often resisted it. It’s the manner in which he handled our growing bond and my fragile heart that made me do so. I learned that his intentions were pure very early on.

“And you do believe and feel that I love and am in love with you, right?”

“Yes, Dante.”

“Then why are you about to argue with me about this? I should be able to give you whatever I want, if you genuinely believe both of those things. It’s what I want to do for you. I never protest what you want to do for me.”

“Fine. Fine. I’m going to go then.” There’s nothing more than needs to be said and if I go any further in what may come off as a complaint, I’d officially be treading into a territory of insulting him though it wouldn’t be my intention. Although the wounds are still healing, I don’t want to be the person who gives but has an issue with receiving love anymore. That mentality held me captive for two years and if I’m ever going to experience the freedom and liberation with breaking the chains of the past, I have to allow some spontaneity and risks to be taken.

“I have a meeting that I’m walking to as we speak. I’ll see you later on, okay? Enjoy yourself. Get whatever you want.”

“Wait. Wait. Before you go, what’s my budget?” His snicker was loud but lacked anything snide. He was genuinely amused.

“Talk to you later baby.” I didn’t get a chance to say another word. A double beep filled my ear and my connection with him was no more. Embarrassment flushed through me as Marvin looked on through the rearview mirror as I picked up my jaw and flushed out the shock in him hanging up on me.

“The boss gave me instructions to specifically take you to Saks Fifth Avenue and then to Bergdof Goodman. From there, any other store is of your choosing. Okay?”

“Okay.” At this point, who am I to argue?

“One more thing from the boss.” Marvin reached over into the passenger seat and revealed a box of Krispy Kreme doughnuts and passed it back to me. Of course, he didn’t forget to include the frozen Mocha that I enjoy so much. I couldn’t be less than impressed with the choices: two original glazed, one glazed sour cream, and one cinnamon twist. It’s exactly the way I order them whenever I feel like indulging on the oh so good treat that goes straight to my thighs. God, I love him.

“Thank you.”

“Of course.”

I wasted no time and immediately took a bite out of a doughnut. My eyes then panned towards to window to admire the scenery as we took the journey from Teterboro to New York City. Though I’ve been to a decent number of places in the world, I’ll never tire of the tri-state area. It’s vibrancy stimulates me and has yet to lose it’s hopefulness. I may be biased, there’s nothing like a new beginning here. I know that now more than ever. There was a time when I’d criticize the tourists who clogged the major areas of the city with their cameras and sightseeing or the newcomers who couldn’t figure out how to get from point A to B without asking a billion different questions and still getting lost in the process. Now? I get it. I understand why Shane marveled in the lights. With him, I understood why it was our playground and without him I understand why he introduced me to what would become a focal point of his world. It was his saving grace and now, it acts as mine.

“More champagne Autumn?” I’d only sipped the glass of Dom Pèrignon the eager woman placed in my hand upon my arrival and yet here she was offering to refill the glass.

Money talks. I’ve always known that, but it’s far more noticeable when you’re the centerpiece of it and there are hankering individuals catering to every step they most likely would have discriminated against had I not walked beyond the department store’s doors with the black card of one of the most prominent business men in New York City. Instead of following me around this store and pointing out items with prices tags containing four and five digits, they would have wondered why would I ever subject myself to stepping into such a store and ran my card more than twice to make sure I wasn’t committing one of those infamous credit card scams that have become the popular thing to do within the other boroughs. Instead, they were awaiting my arrival. A brunet by the name of April introduced herself as a consultant who works with Stacey in picking up pieces for Dante when he isn’t available. Her elation in catering to my every fashion need certainly ousted mine. Some would call her an enthusiast but her movements were like that of a vulture.

“No thanks. I’m okay.”

“What do you think of this?” Though the intricacies were quite interesting, I couldn’t connect with the fringe pealing out from the bodice and sleeves of the turquoise leather jacket. It’s color would have been ridiculously loud amongst the fall wear that is now filling the streets. I may be a risk taker and occasional rule breaker, but going that bright is a fashion felony.

“How much is that?” My curiosity arose.

“With tax? It’s about four thousand fifty dollars.” That number would have meant absolutely nothing to me had it been Andreas’ card in my wallet. In that situation, the cost of a “painkiller” had no limitations. She could have told me the price was a million dollars and I probably would have purchased it with the intent to spark an argument since we’d gotten to a point where arguments were the only time we’d speak to one another. Now? Lord knows I’m hesitant about blowing through any of this man’s money for trivial desires. I don’t have to force him to speak with me. I don’t need any painkillers. I’m assured in having him. I suppose that’s what should make this more comforting. Maybe that’s his point.

“I do like fringe, but not that particularly. It’s too loud.”

“There are quite a number of special order pieces that I have in the back for you. Mr. St. James’ assistant called about this a month ago so we were able to call up a couple of houses to get some pieces that we believed were birthday and everyday wear friendly. There’s a fringe number from Versace that’s to die for. It’s from this year’s Spring collection.” If it’s the golden metal mini dress and it’s glorious plunging neckline, I might be on board. I seen it months ago and loved it. Actually, I enjoyed the entire collection as I tend to do with most of what Donatella serves. Though she’s had more misses than her brother, she’s upheld the brand quite well over the years and I haven’t hesitated to splurge on pieces that have caught my eye. The jumpsuit I wore to Dante’s opening in L.A. is still one of my all time favorites.

“A month ago?”

“Yes. Stacey. I’m sure you know her. She stated that this was for the love of his life, so we needed to make sure you’re well taken care of.” Stacey served the dramatics while threatening these people. I’d expect no less from the woman who claims and honestly shows that she is the dominant side of Dante’s brain. Though she believes I’m beginning to edge her out in that department because I have a connection to him unlike anyone else, the credit is still due to her.

“Well, thank you. I appreciate it.”

“Oh no, thank you for coming in. You’re already stunning, so we’re just going to make sure we do everything within our power to further compliment that.”

Had Heather not blown me off with previous plans that she hadn’t realized she made around the time of my birthday, she would have been here with me and squealing at the sight of every piece I tried on like a proud mom. Instead, I’m left to make all of the choices by myself and it’s been quite of a challenge between both Saks and Bergdof Goodman. I’d already decided the Versace dress was a go for tomorrow night before I could even get it’s heaviness over my head. The sight of it alone left my eyes bulging out of my head and my skin trickling with chills. Everything else is simply pieces to fill up what may be more than half of my boyfriend’s closet once it’s all inside of his apartment. He’ll regret ever offering me the space soon enough. The clothing aside, my favorite part of my shopping activity for the afternoon was choosing the accessories. My enthusiasm heightened as I paired bangles with rings, necklaces with earrings, and sunglasses with bags and shoes. For over an hour, my feet were donned with Jimmy Choo, Giuseppe Zanotti, Christian Louboutin, Gianvitto Rossi, Miu Miu, Saint Laurent, and Sergio Rossi. Then there were the Balanciaga sneakers that I couldn’t pass on. Though I’d contemplated back and forth on it, wondering if I should feed into my fantasy, I couldn’t help myself. After trips back and forth to fill the trunk of the SUV with bags, I jogged back in the store for the famous blue smooth satin and crystal encrusted Manolo Blahnik stiletto pumps worn by Carrie Bradshaw during her court house wedding with John James Preston, better known as Mr. Big. I’d always said that my something blue would be my shoes whenever I got married and they were. With Andreas, I wore a decent pair from Jimmy Choo, but I’d like a do over. If God is on my side, I’ll have a do over and it’ll be with the one who fills my days with endless joy and has uplifted me since our first conversation.

“Marvin, can we go to Zara?” The higher end brands are great, but Zara has been and probably will always be my favorite place to shop for simplistic and interchangeable pieces. I like to mix things up and toy around with textures and patterns. Often times, I’ll have on a really affordable top and bottom, with expensive shoes and bags. Style is never about the price tag. Confidence is first and then there’s the skill in being able to take anything and make it look like it cost me a million bucks.

“We can go wherever you like Autumn.”

What do you want for dinner?

Before returning to his apartment, I figured I’d stop by a grocery store and pick up a couple of things to make dinner with tonight. His tone during our brief phone conversation had a bit of exhaustion mixed in with the frustration, so if I make something, he’ll be able to eat and get some much needed rest.

You don’t have to cook. I can grab dinner on the way in or you can. Whichever way is best for you.

While I’m thinking about his filling his stomach, he’s thinking about inconveniencing me. This man never fails to amuse me. Any other man would have quickly listed off a couple of things to put me to work in his kitchen.

That’s not what I asked Mr. St. James.

Maybe I’ll make pasta. That’ll get me in and out of the kitchen in less than an hour.

Whatever you choose to make is fine with me, baby.

And here I thought women were the most indecisive people when it comes to eating.

Pasta?

I think I’ll do penne with a spicy arrabbiata sauce and grilled chicken on the side. Simple, yet great in taste.

Perfect. I love you.

His words of endearment were a sweet way of blowing me off and I’ll accept that, for now.

I love you too.

I love him so much.

“Okay, so Zara and then somewhere for groceries Marvin.”

“Sure thing.”

I’d blown off my growing exhaustion in Bergdof Goodman but it got the best of me on the journey to Zara and during my time in the store. I walked in with the hope of picking up a couple of items and left with two shirts. My final stop at one of New York City’s crappy grocery stores took longer than I wanted it to, but I couldn’t leave without enough to at least halfway fill up his refrigerator and cabinets for myself more than anything. He couldn’t care less about the tumbleweeds blowing through them.

“Marvin, you are a lifesaver and the most generous man ever. If there’s anything that I can do for you, please don’t hesitate to let me know.” Not only had he been my driver the entire day, but he even went out of his way to help me bring the absolutely absurd number of bags upstairs in three trips. Three damn trips.

“Just keep making him happy. The man turns into a disco ball whenever he speaks of you and I’ve never heard him speak of anyone like that. That’s how I know you’re special and he deserves that. He’s such an upstanding man and he always compliments the union between my wife and I. I told him soon enough, he too will be blessed with a life partner, and I believe that’s you. So, take care of him, because I know that he’s going to do everything in his power to make sure you’re taken care of. Even when he called and gave me all of the directions for you, he told me, Marvin, make sure you take care of my lady.” The dramatics bubbling within me urged me to fall to the floor and squeal in a giddy school girl manner, but my pride stepped into the forefront and only allowed me to genuinely smile at his kind words with a nod of assurance that I’d do as he requested.

“I will. You don’t ever have to worry about that.”

“That’s all I want to hear. If I don’t see you tomorrow, you have a happy birthday okay? Enjoy yourself.” Instantly, I opened my arms for a hug and embraced the warm and knowledgeable older man. A handshake is for people you can’t quite figure out. Marvin’s a teddy bear in human form.

“Thank you so much. I will. Thank you again for all of your help today. I’m appreciative.”

“You’re very welcome. See you soon.”

“Yes. See you soon.”

I was left to a empty penthouse and a tedious task of finding the proper placement for everything I acquired during my gifted splurging day. Though I had my doubts about a potential argument that may have come from me taking up a ton of space in his closet, I still made sure to avoid the possibility by placing a portion of it in his closet and the rest of it in the guest room closet since no one other than myself uses it whenever I’m around. Putting away the groceries was easier and so was whipping up the pasta and grilled chicken I planned to make. I attempted to wait for him for at least two hours and gave up once my head began to ache with the looming hunger within my body. I lazily enjoyed the quick meal from the couch with a glass of red wine and repeat episodes of the trashy yet entertaining Black Ink Crew. The couch became my little haven as I awaited the man of the house. Though I could have, I had no plans on going to bed without him.

“I’m mad you.”

“Happy Birthday to you.” Heather’s cheery voice met my ear as soon as I answered her call. I didn’t give my phone a minute to ring before the I slid my finger across the illuminating green answer signal on the screen and voiced what I’d been wanting to say to her all day.

“I’m mad.”

“Happy Birthday to you.” She sang with no regard for my playful feelings about her absence.

“You do this singing shit every year. I’m not impressed. I’m mad.” I finished the last bit of wine left in what was my second glass and listened to her chipper giggle.

“Happy Birthday dear bestie.”

“Shut up. I’m mad.”

“Happy Birthday to you.”

“Yeah, yeah whatever. Thank you and all of that, but I’m mad. You’re supposed to be here.” She never misses my birthday. We don’t do that. It’s been our tradition since we were kids and this would be the second time we’re breaking it. The first was my doing. I wasn’t doing quite well two years ago and I couldn’t bare to celebrate anything for anyone. Now, it’s her turn. She’s ditching me for work and her push toy looking husband.

“Don’t be upset with me. I may not be with you tomorrow, but you know we’re going to link up and celebrate regardless. It just won’t be on the day. I’ll make it up to you with a great gift and the best seats in the house to any Broadway show of your choice.”

“Harry Potter and The Cursed Child, please and thank you. It’ll be in New York next year.” I know the tickets are going to be ridiculous in price and now I have an excuse to not have to pay for them, though I wouldn’t have mind at all. Also, it’s torture for Heather, because she hates Harry Potter.

“I forgot you love that wizard shit. It’s so damn boring. Why couldn’t they have put Twilight on Broadway?”

“Because glimmering and animal blood sucking vampires is the silliest shit ever. No wonder you like it so much. Silly ho.” Our laughter soon followed my comment on her love of the mostly senseless Stephanie Myers series and though I couldn’t see her, I know she stuck up her middle finger at me.

“Whatever bitch. What are you doing?”

“Laying on the couch watching TV. I just finished a great glass of wine. You?”

“Eating chocolate ice cream with sprinkles and almonds. I’m indulging at this time of night and I’ll pay for it in the morning, but who cares. Are you at your parents house or home?” My expression contorted into one of confusion at her question.

“Did you forget that I live with my parents?”

“Please. You live with your man. That’s home. You sleep next to him more than you sleep in their house these days, so home is wherever he is.” I had the urge to slickly shut down her commentary but her accuracy swept in and silenced me. Her statement contains a decent amount of truth. Whether we’re in New York or somewhere else in the world, I do spend more of my nights laying next to him rather than being home alone in my bed. I believe that plays a part in why my mother is so hesitant about me moving out. She’s already feeling the affects of my absence even with me still residing there. I’ve never taken the time to consider any of this until now and ultimately, it feels completely normal. The normalcy is why I’m waiting up for him right now. Well, it’s that and my raging hormones that thoughts of him and the wine triggered. I’m damn near antsy in anticipation of us going to bed together. I don’t have any plans for sleep tonight.

“Shut up.” It’s the only response I could muster up.

“Exactly. You got quiet because you know it’s the truth. Is he home?”

“No. I think he’s working late so I’m waiting for him. He’ll probably be in within a couple of minutes or so.”

“What are your plans for tomorrow?”

“I have to get my hair and nails done in the morning. That’s a must. After that, probably lunch with my mother and whatever Mr. St. James has planned for the evening. I told him I only wanted to go to dinner, so that may be what we’re doing. He hasn’t told me anything else other than we’re going out tomorrow night.” I’d be fine with eating at Baraya, honestly. Of course he’d never allow that to happen, but it’s just a of sign of how simple I wouldn’t mind the night being. Us spending it together is special enough.

“That sounds like a nice time. Dinner, some good birthday loving, and I’m sure a nice gift. What did you ask for?”

“Nothing.”

“Of course. I don’t even know why I asked.” I never ask for anything for my birthday. Christmas? I throw hints out there for sure. I typically leave the gift creativity up to whoever intends to get me one. I’m appreciative of anything. It could be a pack of socks and I’d love it. Just make sure they’re colorful and ridiculous looking.

“There is one thing that I really wanted. It’s crazy because I spoke about it in L.A. Remember when we were on the phone? I went to the website and the glasses were gone.”

“You talking about those Chanel sunglasses? The ones that were like thirty five hundred?” I found this incredible website that sells all things vintage and I’m typically a junkie for a throwback designer piece. A part of me wished I was born in the seventies, so I could have lived through the nineties as an adult and really experienced the good times and most of all, the fashion. Of course, Lil’ Kim was and still is one of my fashion icons and I’m always trying to find sunglasses similar to the ones she wore in her prime. I found a couple of pairs of early nineties Chanel sunglasses on the website and I instantly wanted an extremely rare white pair with the “Chanel Paris” logo printed on both sides. I loved the black ones as well but the six thousand five hundred dollar price tag on a pair of glasses is going overboard and the pearl ones that I could have cried over were even worse with their damn near ten thousand dollar price tag. Sadly for me, I won’t be getting any of them because they were purchased as of a couple of days ago. I wanted to throw my iPad Pro when I saw those “sold” signs. I’m slightly bitter. On the brighter side, there’s a Versace pair that I have my eye on.

“Yes. I’m so pissed. I had every intention to lay on a beach somewhere and post twenty selfies in those. I’m inconsistent with Instagram but I would have been consistent as fuck with those on.”

“You’ll find them again. I’m sure those weren’t the only pair in the world.”

“I hope so.” My eyes panned towards the television and I smirked at the traditional midnight birthday phone call. She has yet to forget to do it. I anticipate it every year and it’s just as special as it always has been. I hope we’re calling one another for our hundredth birthdays.

“I love you. You’re still the first person to tell me happy birthday, year after year.”

“And I better always be the first. I don’t care who tries to call you before me, don’t answer. If Dante had of been there, you should have clogged your ears until I called. It’s a ritual, like some chakra shit. Don’t shift our thing.”

“Our thing?” My laughter filled the room as her superstitions poured out. She’s always had them.

“Yes, our thing.”

“Okay. I won’t shift our thing.”

“Good. I have to get up super early, so I’ll call you tomorrow around noon and a couple of times after that. Enjoy all of your birthday festivities. I have a feeling that it’s going to be a great day.”

“I will. I’ll miss you.”

“You’ll see me in a couple of days. Don’t be a brat. I love you, okay?”

“I love you too. Tell your hubby I said hello.”

“Will do. You tell your hubby I said the same.”

“My boyfriend, you mean.”

“I meant what I said. Goodnight, Tum Tum.”

“Tum Tum?”

“Yeah. Autumn. So I just took the t, u, and m. Tum Tum.”

“Don’t ever call me a fucking antacid again.” It took a couple of seconds, but my laughter meshed with hers as I shook my head. Her random nicknames have been and will always be annoying. It’s payback for me calling her Skipper during our sophomore year of college. After one year in L.A. , she developed a weird valley girl accent and has yet to rid herself of it. Skipper’s probably the whitest name I could have thought of at the time.

“Talk to you later.”

“Yep. Later.”

As our call ended, I turned off the television and made sure to clean up after myself before heading to lay in the bed. His ridiculously sized plasma television watched me as I stared up at the ceiling for a while and eventually I turned it off and allowed my body to do what it had been calling for. I couldn’t predict when he’d be home and I had no intention to bother or interrupt whatever he has going on. He’d come in whenever he was done and I’d have to accept that, though my once high anticipation transitioned into disappointment.

My slumber was unexpectedly a short lived nap. Around two thirty in the morning, I could hear him trying but terribly failing to maneuver around his home without waking me. He came in and out of the bedroom twice and found whatever he was looking for without turning on the light. While waiting for him to finally join me in bed, I made sure to move out of his spot and properly place his pillows the way they usually are but he didn’t show up. My curiosity led me to finding him in the kitchen.

“Did I wake you?” I didn’t expect him to want to eat so late, so I put his portion of the food in the refrigerator. I was proven wrong at the sight of a now almost empty plate sitting in front of him. Off to the side was a stack of folders that are probably responsible for the scowl that he’s trying to hide from me.

“Sort of, but it’s not completely your fault. I was in and out of sleep anyway. Are you okay?” He gulped down a large swig of the lemon-line Gatorade I bought for him while grocery shopping. With a nod as an answer, he used his hand to summon me closer to his body. When I was within arms length, he pressed his lips into my own and endearingly brushed his large palm over my shoulder.

“I apologize for being late. I had two long and extensive meetings today and then I had a very important meeting this evening that ran over much longer than I expected.” I wasn’t awaiting an explanation. I’ve damn near developed a don’t ask what you don’t want to know mentality when it came to men or should I say one particular man. Though your gut is telling you everything that you need to know, the state of denial is a temporary comfort zone I did my best to bask in for the sake of my sanity and conscience when going to sleep at night. I can’t leave out his belief that he didn’t have to explain himself in the first place. I was to stay in my place and be grateful for the bills being paid and all of the luxuries I have. Funny enough, he didn’t tell me that part of it. It was advice from a fellow NBA wag. With Dante, I don’t want him to feel like he has to always explain himself to me, because I’ll trust him with hopes that he’ll never give me a reason not to. I give credence to his loyalty.

“No need to apologize. It’s okay.” My teeth lightly ran over the skin of my bottom lip as I gazed over his frame. It was something about the after effects of the wine and the manner in which his tie was loosely hanging around his neck that enticed me with the thought of him tying my hands behind my head with it and having his way with me.

“Did you enjoy yourself today?”

“I did. I split all of what I bought between your closet and the guest room so that I wouldn’t take up so much space.”

“You didn’t have to do that. I think I left enough space for you to fit plenty in there.”

“You did, but I still didn’t want to take over. Thank you for today though. You continue to spoil me despite my resistance and it’s always special.” It was my turn to kiss him. He deserved it and so much more.

“Anything for you.”

“So where are we having dinner?”

“It’s a surprise. You already know I’m not revealing anything.” My eyes rolled before he could complete his response and he chuckled while his towering frame stood up and headed towards the sink. “And you should be heading back to bed. You said you’re getting your hair done early, right?”

“Yes.”

“So go and get some rest.”

“Says the man who is struggling to keep his eyes open.”

“Oh, I’m right behind you. I’m fucking exhausted.” Right behind me? Sadly, that part of it childishly took my mind to the gutter and I nearly kicked myself for currently having the mentality of a horny dog. Would I be selfish if I asked him to muster up just a bit of energy for a quickie? “I’ll meet you in the room.”

“Okay.”

I’d been curled up on my side of the bed for about forty five minutes while awaiting him to finish his shower and whatever else he was doing in the bathroom. The alluring scent of his body wash filled the room and worsened my yearning for him. Though I can’t quite figure out all of the ingredients, the hints of sage, tonka bean, mango, and sandalwood are there and mesh beautifully.

“You smell so good. Is that the Ralph Lauren shower gel?” His navigation around the darkroom was seamless.

“Yes, the one you bought me.” I’d forgotten about that. Typically, when I resupply my own hygienic products, I do the same for his, so it makes sense that it was me.

“It’s sexy. The scent and you.” A light chuckle coolly flowed from his lips and I felt the bed finally dip, signifying his presence. He halted my body with a grip to my thigh so I’d stop moving further to the left of the bed and drew me to the usual place he likes me in, the middle, within a comfortable reach for his arm to rest around my waist. His warmth irradiated my soul and a sense of peace immediately washed over me. Ambien has never aided me like this. No potent pain killer has the capability to ease my mind and body night after night like he effortlessly does.

“You’re the sexy one.” While glancing over at him, my eyes rolled at the sight of his playful smirk and I physically did my best to brush him off. He always turns my compliments for him into ones for me. His modesty never takes a vacation, even just for a minute or two.

“We’re talking about you.”

“And I’m talking about you.”

“Well, thank you.” My lips meshed into his bottom lip and I purposefully ran my tongue over it in hopes that he’d get even a fraction of a hint of where my mind had been for hours. The sight of him immediately hovering over me and peeling away the satin nightgown I slipped into for comfort not long after I came home nearly filled my hazy eyes with tears. I’ll never know how he just knows or how we’ve become so synced to one another since day one, but I have to believe that all of my suffering had a purpose behind it. Something greater was coming and I needed to make room for it. I’m still doing so, with openness for endless possibilities and enough caution for my insecurities. In my willingness to try, I’m being rewarded in ways that I never seen coming.

In the number of mistakes, selfish decisions, and pipe dreaming I’ve had, there was still a plan for me all along.

While serenely glancing over the New York City skyline, I did so from behind the curtain so that I would refrain from awaking Dante with the luminous rays of sunlight peaking from behind the clouds and faintly cascading a morning light to awaken the soon to be busy streets. A year of my life has gone by. On my twenty sixth birthday, I bundled up well enough to be protected from the early morning autumn breeze and took a run that was longer than any other I’ve taken thus far. I reflected on the struggles of the prior year and the ones that were still lingering behind and tormenting every thought of progress. The “irreconcilable differences” choice marked in black ink on the divorce papers that sat in the top draw of my nightstand served as a trigger for thoughts of every reason why it was the absolute truth of our fate. I ran for every fight and tear I shed, for the depression I ignored and denied, for the loss of my brother and his love, and for the moment I collapsed onto the floor of my parents home with a dangerous sense of relief that my soul would finally leave the flesh and I’d no longer have to deal with my earthly troubles. I ran for my life and a renewed sense of ambition. Despite every pessimistic thought I mustered up when thinking about the future, a small flame burned within me for a year of progression, if not for myself then for Shane. If he were here right now, I believe he’d be proud of me.

“Happy Birthday beautiful.” The mesh of grogginess and the perfect rasp ignited a round of chills over my caramel skin and I drew the curtain back just a bit to allow the sunlight to reveal his striking appearance. I didn’t hear him move and yet there he was, resting against the blackened headboard, with his eyes penetrating my frame.

“Thank you my love.” The depth of his eyes never hinders on piercing my essence. Everything he wants to say to me often lies within them. I don’t believe I’ve ever had anyone look at me in the way that he does. It wrecks my nerves and yet covers me with a comfort in knowing that I am loved and shielded. There’s something about his eyes; those eyes. When I opened my tear stained set and stared into his during our first encounter, I’ll never forget what I felt and how I carried it with me from then on out. Are we supposed to feel fate? If it’s possible, was that it?

“Who usually tells you happy birthday first?”

“Heather. She always calls me at midnight or purposefully calls me five minutes before midnight so that no one can beat her. It’s our tradition. After her? Shane would be the first one to tell me in person. When we were kids he used to wake me up by jumping on the bed and startling the shit out of me. During out teen years, he’d stick a candle in a stack of buttermilk pancakes and bring it to me. The man could make some pancakes. He gave my mother some competition in that area. Her skill of being able to literally make them from scratch is the only reason why she edged him out in the end. He was an Aunt Jermima expert.” I could smell his pancakes in my sleep. Not only would he cook the batter in butter, but then he’d turn around and put extra butter on top to take it to a fattening and even tastier level. We’d share the stack while laying in my bed and planning out what we were going to conquer throughout the new year of my life and then an hour or two later, we’d ready ourselves to go out with our mother and eat some more. Birthdays were treated like holidays before his death. No matter whose it was, we’d miss a day of school or work to celebrate.

“He said in his book, during your adulthood years, he’d always write the same quote in every birthday card he to gave you.” Laughter spilled from my lips at him knowing that and I nodded to verify it as truth. He did. I have every card he’s ever given me and that quote is certainly in most of them.

“Yeah, it was one of those Rumi quotes. He had one for every situation you could think of. You were born with potential.”

“You were born with goodness and trust. You were born with ideals and dreams. You were born with greatness. You were born with wings. You are not meant for crawling, so don’t. You have wings. Learn to use them and fly.” I was silenced as he finished the quote for me and my eyes tightly closed as the words flowed through me. He’d say it out loud just as Dante did while I read along with the card in my hand and then he’d plant a kiss on my forehead and warn me to never forget.

“That’s the one. So you’re a big Rumi fan too, huh?”

“That’s a great one and yeah, I’ve read a lot of his work.”

“Can I share something with you?” He’d been asking since we spoke on our hidden talents while on vacation together and though I agreed to share mine, I’ve been avoiding it ever then since because much like any other creator, I’m sensitive about my shit. My sketches started off as a whimsical outlet for me as a child due to films and plays, that turned into something I considered doing for a living at some point in my life. The thought of multitasking being a full time doctor and potential business owner certainly makes me sweat with rattled nerves at the stress of it, but I had high hopes that I could easily pull it off before I got involved with my ex-husband.

“Anything.” While he awaited my return, I jogged to the living room and retrieved my thick dark chocolate colored leather folder out of my personal bag in the living room and rejoined him in the bed.

“Don’t be mean about it.”

“Be mean about what? I haven’t seen anything yet.” He held his hand out with a snicker at my reluctance and I slowly eased it down into his palm. Though he gripped it, I still hadn’t let go.

“I may sound like a wimp, but I’m definitely sensitive about my shit.”

“I understand.” Our eyes remained locked on one another for a few seconds and I eventually let go of what I’ve kept between Shane and I, with my mother having an occasional glance, for damn near two decades.

I did all that I could to keep my attention off of him but his presence alone made it hard for me to do so. I don’t care where we are or how beautiful the sights are, he will always stand out and command my attention with very little to no words at all. His presence is formidable and I’ve found myself attempting to view him through the lenses of others as they turned to give him a glance and immediately looked again in awe or dreamily stare at him from a table a few feet away. I’ve seen men readjust their ties and jackets in hopes that they’re looking as dapper as he is and the most random people figure out ways to approach him for a handshake or quick conversation. If they cannot help themselves, how the hell am I supposed to?

“Holy shit. These are fucking incredible.” I nearly fell over to the side as he quickly hunched forward and focused all of his attention on five out of the hundreds of sketches I sloppily have tucked away in that old folder. The more he pulled out, the more I had the urge to began putting them back inside as he did so. If I don’t, he’s going to have them everywhere.

“Autumn.” I haven’t heard him use my first name in quite some time.

“What?” His head whipped around in my direction and he held up a specific piece that I’d drawn with Jacqueline Kennedy Onassis in mind. I drew that three years ago.

“This looks like something out of the sixties or maybe the seventies. Shit.”

“It’s inspired by Jackie Kennedy.”

“Why wedding gowns? I’m sure your skill can do far more. These are incredible. Also, why the hell haven’t you done anything with these? How long have you been doing this?” He didn’t even give me a chance to begin answering the others before he blurted out his follow up questions.

“I don’t know. I suppose it’s the hopeless romantic in me. There’s something extremely magical about a woman putting on a gown that signifies her finding her the man who swept her off her feet and promised to spend the rest of his life with her. It’s a moment that’s unlike any other. I don’t care what kind of events you attend after it happens, nothing will ever compare to that dress. It’ll be the dress for all of your days. It’s the dress that you’ll always reflect back on, the one you’ll want to pass down to your daughter in hopes that she’ll cherish it just much as you did, and the one that has it’s own special photo album for the family’s keepsake. You’ll look at that album every anniversary and smile whether it’s been one year or fifty years later. So, that inspired me along with gowns from royal weddings and films of course. Whether it’s Vera West’s stunning veil that was worn in Frankenstein, Scarlett O’ Hara’s Vivien Leigh design in Gone With The Wind, or every single gown Carrie Bradshaw tried on during the photo shoot she did in the first Sex And The City film, I’ve been inspired to keep sketching them.” I could list off nearly a hundred gowns that I’ve loved from films. Helen Rose is arguably my favorite designer of all. If only I could have had a chance to meet her.

“Why haven’t you done anything with these?”

“I don’t know baby.” And that’s the truth. Well, that and Shane not being here. We were going to open up two boutiques together; one here in New York and the second in Paris. Both would serve as our only locations. Though it sounds odd for my Pulitzer Prize winning journalist brother to be involved in my love of ball, A-Line, trumpet, and mermaid gowns, but he’d been onboard since he saw my early on crappy designs. It was him who damn near caused me to ruin my fingers by practicing sewing and beading from home. Though he was influencing me to go to Parsons School of Design or the Fashion Institute of Technology so I could further enhance my skills in sewing, I chose NYU as a safety net. The fashion world is fickle and I couldn’t chance attempting to make it a full time job and struggling because no one gave a damn in the long run. Now that I think about it, given the decisions that I did make after two years of undergrad, what did I have to lose?

“Are you going to now? You need to.”

“I want to. I need to go back to school and take more courses in business. I figure I can wrap up my undergrad degree in that and then go from there.”

“Or you can just come straight to a great source who just so happens to be your man and ask him for all of the information professors will give you and all the things that they won’t.” My head met the plush pillows as I erupted into laughter and I nudged him for the sarcasm. Of course I can go to him, but there’s a part of me that believes having that piece of paper hanging up in my mother’s house along side Isaac’s and Shane’s would mean the world to them. There needs to be at least one more college graduation they attend to make all of their handwork full circle. It’s a priceless gift that I’d love to give to them.

“It’ll be important to my family for me to finish up what I started and besides, education has never hurt anyone. I don’t mind going back for the two years that I need to wrap things up. Harvard has an extension school that I’m looking into. I can do most of it online with an accelerated seven weeks during two summers to get it done. So I can be anywhere in the world for most of the courses I have to take and for two summers I go to their Cambridge campus for seven weeks to take two four credit courses.”

“That’s not too bad. We can rent a place up there while you’re there.”

“You’d do that?” My lips parted at how easily he suggested it.

“Of course I would. That’s damn near two months. If you have to be in Massachusetts, then I’ll be there too.”

“Even if I’m not paying you any attention because I’m smothered with school work?”

“Even then. So when are you going to do something with these? You should start now.” Of course he’d switch the subject back to all that he scattered on his king sized bed. I didn’t think he’d be so fascinated.

“It’s not easy. I have to get a team of people involved. It’s a process but I do want to start working towards it. I’m not getting any younger; I’m twenty seven now. If I’m going to do it, now is the time.”

“Can I be an investor?” He threw up a hand like a know it all middle schooler who couldn’t wait until the teacher finished asking the question.

“When the time comes, I’ll consider it.” A year ago, I would have immediately told him no. Now? I know I can’t do it all on my own and most of all, I know that I don’t have to. So, I’ll take his offer into consideration. That’s fair enough.

“You’ll consider it? Whatever. I’m an investor. We’re about to put that store out of business. What’s the name of it? My mother loves that boring show. It’s the show that has the women trying on the wedding dresses and they come out and let their families aggravate them. What is it called?”

“Say Yes To The Dress?” My eyebrow rose as he snapped his finger and nodded.

“And the name of the store?”

“Kleinfeld.”

“That’s it. They’re out of here.” His assurance in the famous store going out of business tickled me. The arrogance about my hypothetical business is already through the roof. I don’t even hear him speak about A& M in that manner and he’s their prized possession.

“Babe, Kleinfeld is like a department store for wedding gowns. It’s like a Saks in a sense. They sell many different brands. For example, Pnina Tornai is an exclusive designer for them, so her gowns are sold there. So, you know how Gucci has their own stores but their products are also carried in luxury department stores? Same concept.”

“So putting them out of business is a bad thing huh?”

“Kind of. I may want to have my gowns sold there one day or maybe I won’t and I’ll keep all exclusivity in my own shops. We’ll see when the time comes. For now, let’s worry about today. I need to hurry and go get my hair done. I need to try and beat traffic to Brooklyn.”

“Take the car.”

“You’re going to let me drive that fancy ass car of yours?” He didn’t bother to look at me. Instead, he held yet another sketch in his hand and reached over to the nightstand for his keys. Instead of a response, he placed the keys on my lap and lazily dropped back against the headboard.

“Mike’s picking me up later on, so don’t worry about rushing back.”

“You want to take a shower together?” The question easily caught his attention. His head jerked back and the smile that graced his face was nothing less than priceless.

“What’s up with you? We barely slept and you’re ready to go at it again?”

“You coming or not?” My fingers tugged on the hem of his t-shirt as it grazed my thighs and he carefully placed the leather folder down on the opposite side of himself and drew the covers back.

“I see you’re trying to add one more holiday to the list of the ones you already celebrate.”

“What? Which one?” I didn’t expect him to lift me up into his arms, but he did so effortlessly and I tightly wrapped my legs around his waist for support.

“Mother’s Day.”

I wished I didn’t find his so called joke as funny as he did, but while he kicked the door close behind us, our laughter filled the spacious bathroom.

That was a good one.

When we’re dining outside of her home, my mother is more of a bougie eater if I must say so myself. If she’s choosing, we typically end up somewhere where we’re damn near flipping the menu’s upside down to find a meal suitable enough for our taste buds while she’s comfortably ordering foreign dishes that she’s enjoyed in her travels or has no fear of experimenting with for the first time. With it being my birthday, it was my choice, so we met one another over at Amy Ruth’s in Harlem so that I could overindulge with a Southern breakfast. I’m not sure where I intended to put chicken wings, a waffle, salmon croquettes, and home fries but I certainly attempted to eat most of it as we sat across from one another and enjoyed a conversation with an array of topics. She, much like my brother, picks my brain so that she’ll be able to update the database that is mind with even more information about me so she can keep up with her truth of knowing me better than anyone else does. I’ve always found that no matter what I do, she always takes an approach to understand my decisions and then accepts them despite her disagreement, if they’re not absurd. I don’t want to say that I’ve lived my life as an unrefined free spirit, but I certainly did have the freedom to express myself however I saw fit to do so and I suppose I took advantage of that in college. Even then, she still accepted me. I just didn’t understand it at the time. It’s still difficult to put her strength into words. I know she inherited that nature from my grandmother and is the polar opposite of my overly sensitive aunt, but how does a mother have the capability to hold it all together after having been faced with the death of one child and the potential deaths of two others. I’ve witnessed the moments when she looked like the life was sucked out of her body. I’ve treaded carefully in her eerie silences. In the midst of my own late night crying, I too, heard hers. I know the pain is still there and yet, here she is, standing tall and being resilient in every position she plays in the world. If I could live up to be half as much of the woman that she is, I’ll know I’ve done well for myself.

“You’re driving Dante’s car today huh? You look good in it. I was caught off guard when I saw you getting out of the driver’s side.”

“Yeah, he had some errands to run so he couldn’t bring me anywhere and I didn’t call Glen.”

“Mhm. Do you know that your face lights up whenever someone mentions his name?”

“You’re stretching it.” A huff followed as my head dropped to look down at the recipe she was placing her signature on. Her lighthearted laughter worsened my blushing.

“Oh, there it is. The blushing. It reminds me of your father and I. What’s amazing is when the person that you’ve been with for so long still makes you feel that way. I knew I was going to marry your father a week after knowing him.”

“A week.”

“Yes. One week. I just knew.”

“Would you have married him after knowing him for a week?” Though it sounds unrealistic, I needed her perspective.

“It would have seemed like one hell of a risk to take, but I would have. Sometimes you just know when you’ve come across a person who is worthy of being a life partner. These days, it seems like it takes three to five years for people to figure out if they want to marry one another. I’ve seen situations where people were together for decades, with kids, and waited until they were in their forties and fifties to actually get married. The younger generation feels compelled to be in a relationship and live together for years before getting engaged. The reluctance is often due to financial stability, the fear of a family withholding you from certain career aspirations, and most of all, change. Your grandmother and grandfather were together for sixty five years. Your great grandmother and great grandfather were together for seventy. Those two got married when they were teens. When you know, you know, and once you do, why wait? Ultimately, it’s up to you.”

“But what if it doesn’t work out?”

“You know, I wasn’t mad that you married Andreas. You thought I was, but I wasn’t. I was mad because my daughter married a stranger to me. I’d never conversed with the man or shook his hand. I didn’t know him any better than I know the strangers sitting around us in this restaurant. If anything, I worried for you because I knew he wasn’t going to be the one. The method that you took to be with him said it all; the sacrifice and the hostility. No honest man would have ever allowed you to do that. That marriage was doomed from the start. It just took one hell of a ride for you to realize that.” If it were two years ago, we would have embarrassed ourselves with an aggressive verbal sparring as I disagreed with her overview of our fate, but now? The accuracy is undoubted.

“And what about now?”

“What about Dante? You tell me.” Her long tresses flipped as she stood to her feet with that all too knowing smirk.

“Well, I love him very much.”

“I know that. You want to know if I think he’s the one?”

“Yeah, I guess so. I’m almost afraid of your answer.” I tossed the strap of my MCM bag over my shoulder as I eyed the vintage Chanel one loosely hanging by her side. I’m tempted to ask her for a trade off.

“Let me just put it this way. There’s this champagne colored dress that I bought from Roland Mouret the other day that is to die for. It’s asymmetrical with a one shoulder style of design and it’s sculpted in this goodness like silhouette that I fell for instantly. It’s fairly simple and yet very mother of the bride like. If you planned to get married in a week, I’d pull it out of the closet.” If I didn’t know she liked him already, I certainly know it now.

“Now who’s the one blushing? His charm got to you too huh?”

“Well, he is very charming. It’s undeniable.”

“Well, if you can, save the dress. If things keep going the way they are, you may get to wear it in a couple of years. You’ll be too preoccupied with your grandchildren to even notice the wait. Isaac and Lauren already conceived their one. I think the others are going to be one after the other from here on out.”

“Don’t make me wait too long.”

“You go to weddings all the time and besides, it’s not up to me.”

“Then I may not be waiting long.” As we stepped out onto the Harlem sidewalk, we shared an endearing embrace with pecks to our cheeks.

“Enjoy your birthday baby. Make sure you drop by home tomorrow to see your dad. We want to give you your gift together.”

“I will. I’ll be home in the morning.”

“And send me pictures of whatever you’re going to wear tonight. I want to put them on Facebook. Send some to your aunt as well.”

“Mom, no one uses Facebook anymore.”

“I do. So send them.” Her finger tapped my nose.

“I will. I’ll see you in the morning okay?”

“Okay. I can’t believe you’re twenty seven. I remember giving birth to you.”

“Mom.” I knew her sentimental moment would run over into some random conversation about my childhood and I’d rather she do that tomorrow when I’m not on a tight schedule set by Dante. For now? I need to rush and get my nails done and a pedicure. Thankfully it’s not cold, because I’d be suffering tonight in the open toe shoes I plan to wear.

“I know. I know. Go ahead. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

If I didn’t connect my phone and turn on some music during the hour commute back to Brooklyn, I probably would have engaged in road rage and gotten pulled over. I could have gone to a salon in Manhattan but there’s nothing like a good ol’ hood nail salon to do your nails. It sounds damn near stereotypical but I’ve been getting my nails done at the same spot in Brooklyn for years whenever I feel like going. I couldn’t pass up the opportunity to do so today, though the traffic is beyond ridiculous. I hit the same amount of traffic on the way back, lessening the leisure time I needed and whatever left over time I’d have to prepare myself for the plans Dante has for me this evening. I’m paying for our lack of sleep and the ice cream I stopped for on the way in did absolutely nothing to assist my fight. I needed a nap and though it’d only be for an hour and a half, it would have to do me enough justice to make it through however long our night out on the town would be.

Late or not, I took it.

“I can’t believe I’ve finally gotten to see Hamilton! The tickets cost a damn kidney and I considered getting them but I sort of fell off of the idea. That was one of the best shows I’ve ever seen.” As soon as I heard about Hip-Hop being infused into a play about Alexander Hamilton, I nearly combusted with excitement because if anyone can pull off such creativity it’s certainly Lin-Manuel Miranda. I’m baffled with awe of what I just witnessed. Genius. Brilliant. Electrifying. Addicting. It was all of those words and then a dictionary full of others.

“It was pretty good. That’s the first Broadway show I’ve enjoyed in a minute.”

“So you didn’t enjoy An American In Paris?”

“I enjoyed watching you enjoy it.” My hand tightened around his as I cut my eyes at him and he shrugged in amusement for what I now know to be true. He doesn’t care for my all time favorite musical.

“I can’t believe you didn’t like it.”

“It was okay. I didn’t hate it.”

“But you wouldn’t watch it again?”

“I would, with you. You watch it religiously, so I’m going to have to get used to it.”

“Okay, you get brownie points for that.” A kiss to his cheek was his reward as we trekked down the West 46th Street. I certainly didn’t say it to him, but with the heads that have turned, I know we’re overdressed for a Broadway show that we both witnessed people arrive to in jeans. I look like I’m on my way to the MTV Awards while Dante on the other hand is suited up, per his usual. The squints from strangers were their way of seeking some sort of familiarity from the both of us and I’m certain nothing rang a bell; at least I hope not. I specifically asked him if my attire for the evening was appropriate because if not, I had a nice pants and top look from Givenchy on standby. He eliminated my second guessing by assuring me that I looked absolutely perfect. Now, I want to smack him in the back of his head.

“Babe, where’s dinner?”

“Buddakan.”

“Buddakan?”

“You think you’ve never heard of it, but you have. You’ve seen it and I’m sure it’s more than once since you were mimicking the movie word for word a couple of weeks back when you were watching it on HBO.”

“What movie?”

“You’ll see.” I consider myself to be one hell of a walker in heels, but the city’s streets are brutal when you’ve parked the car quite a length away from where your destination is. He wanted to pay for a parking garage and my silly ass told him not to. If anyone needs a smack to the back of the head, I now realize it’s me.

“What kind of food do the serve?”

“Uh. East Asian, I believe.” Dear God, please don’t let this be a dinner with my mother type of situation.

“Have you eaten there before?”

“No. I guess we’ll be experimenting together.”

“That can be fun. We’ll pick two dishes a piece and share.”

“We can do more than two.”

“And then we can have dessert at home.”

“Why are you in such a rush to go back home?” As he turned to look at me, the flustered expression on my face was the cause of him roaring in laughter. We both held expressions of shock because I certainly meant it in the way that he took it, but I didn’t want him to notice. I simply wanted an agreement that we would.

“Wow, Peaches.” The Beyoncè reference worsened it.

“Shut up.”

“Is that the energy turning twenty seven brings? I’m liking the way things are going.”

“Dante.”

“Peaches.”

“Stop calling me that.”

“Stop being nasty. Actually, don’t stop. Keep that going.” I left him giggling behind me as I let go of him and walked ahead. His laughter tormented me the entire way to the car. Can you blame me? He’s a turn on at all times. It’s his fault, not mine.

A Miguel playlist served as the soundtrack for our twenty minute ride to the restaurant. He’s yet another artist we share a common love for. Shane introduced me to his underground sounds early on and I followed his career ever since. I’m thankful we were able to obsess over both “All I Want Is You” and “Kaleidoscope Dream” together.

“It doesn’t seem too busy out here. You made reservations right?”

“Of course.”

“And we’re parking right out front. Blessings.” My feet are so thankful.

“You ready?” I dropped my lipstick back inside of my chrome metallic bag as he took the key out of the ignition.

“I’m ready and hungry.”

“Alright.”

My anticipation heightened by the expression on his face when he opened up the passenger side door. The mischievous glow was alarming and yet all the more amusing as he held my hand and guided me towards the entrance. The lack of a hostess made it all the more awkward and the silence didn’t help.

“Is this place open?” The faint lightening should have answered the question for me yet I still asked for the sake of my impatient curiosity.

“Of course it is.” He tugged my reluctant frame along despite my whispered protest of a budding embarrassment if it actually is closed. It’s damn near eleven o’clock.

“Surprise!”

My soul swiftly pulled beyond the barrier of my skin and loomed somewhere around me as I shivered and took a step back at the sight of the awaiting crowd at the applewood table. Their eyes beamed at the sight of my reaction and hysterics filled the room as I turned to look at the man who is clearly responsible for it. I had not even the slightest hint that any of this was happening. The coy nature of my mother was flawless this afternoon. Isaac damn near dismissed my birthday with a nonchalant text message about my aging and a gift card for a couple of Botox sessions. Lauren called during my pedicure but, that too, was brief. Rachel texted me instead of making sure I received the call that she promised. And Heather? That jerk hadn’t called since we spoke at midnight. My aunt and uncle are here. Who the hell told them?

“You pranked me!” My face met his chest and I buried my head in it to keep the tears tucked away. Dinner had always been the plan but I never thought that it would be anything more than something between he and I. It’s all I wanted, honestly, but this? It’s far greater. I can’t remember the last time I’ve actually celebrated my birthday with more than just one additional person at my side. The last birthday party I had was a sweet sixteen planned and executed by my brother and mother. Since then, I’ve kept it simple. In Miami; even simpler.

“I said we were having dinner. I never said we were having dinner alone.”

The table at the center of the room was filled with familiar faces that I’ve loved all of my life and those who I have come to love as they came into my life. I had no desire to sit and had never been so thrilled to walk around a table to greet people with hugs, kisses, and appreciation for their presence. Both Stacey and Rachel brought their significant others along and I was more than glad to finally meet the men who are making them happy. Stacey being married to a retired football player is exactly like her. He’s just as adorable as she is. Fine too, if I must add. The surprise guest was Camille. It was an unexpected invitation and yet one that I’m so appreciative of because I’ve already taken a liking to her. There’s something so pure about her spirit and it aches me to know that it’s being wasted on such an unworthy man. The best part of all? The empty seat at the end of the table with an oversized golden ribbon tied around it in honor of my brother. Earlier I couldn’t figure out just how much more I could love Dante and yet here is another moment that takes that love to a place that not even I can comprehend.

“I was slightly afraid of the menu, but this lobster fried rice is on point.” I hadn’t ordered it for myself, but I was certainly enjoying it out of both Dante and Heather’s plates since they were on opposite sides of me. I chose the vegetable fried rice to be on the safe side.

“What’s on point is that dress. Is it heavy?” As her fingers explored the material I dug my fork into her plate again.

“Kind of. It’s not as bad as you think though. When did you get here?”

“When I was on the phone with you, I was laying on your mom’s couch trying not to laugh at how rude you were being as I sung to you. Rude ass. Mario sends his love. He couldn’t make it because of the season but he did send a gift.”

“I’m so happy you’re here. Really.” I learned over to plant a kiss on her cheek and she instantly shrugged me away.

“No, Rudeness. Apologize.”

“I apologize and I love you, Skipper.”

“And I’m the best friend you’ve ever had.”

“You’re my only best friend though.”

“Say it.” She wasn’t going to move on until I did.

“You’re the best friend I’ve ever had.”

“Now you can kiss me.” My two kisses were finally welcomed and so was my fork as it invaded her plate again.

I’d been such a long time since I laughed and smiled until my face and body hurt, but it was all I could do as nearly everyone reminisced on an nostalgic memory and recent flashback about myself. Instead of wanting to crawl under the table until the moment is over, I basked in my childish stupidity, high school memories, and the moments that my love ones still hold near and dear to them. There were some I shared with Dante and others that I’m sure he mentally stored to tease me about at a later date.

“You have to bring Dante to Martha’s Vineyard for spring break, so that he can see where else you’ve grown up at.” I hadn’t realized that so many of the memories being reflected on were from out times on our family vacations. Initially, I disliked going up there because I thought it was the most lifeless place to to have a vacation home, but I eventually came to appreciate it as I aged. Besides that, President Obama gave it his seal of approval on his family’s many trips there, so who am I to knock it?

“I will Auntie, for as long as you’re there to make cheesecake.”

“Yes, I know. One for you and then one for the rest of the house.”

“And when she says one for Autumn, she means exactly that. You won’t hear the end of it if you try and sneak a piece of it.”

“Don’t put my greed on the spot Uncle Ray.”

“Please do, because I certainly got snapped at over it.” I knew Heather would butt in with her side of the story. It was the last piece and I told everyone not to touch it. The late night sneak eater that she is disregarded what I requested. She deserved it.

“Can I give a toast?” Isaac annoyingly tapped his sterling silver folk into the body of his glass of water and stood to his feet. I made a mental note to whisper how proud I am of his continued efforts to remain alcohol free. Every single person at this table is having a cocktail and he’s been sitting there with a glass of water sparkling water filled with cucumber, mint, and lemongrass the entire time. His resilience is admirable.

“Please don’t.” His snicker at my response opened up the floor for even more laughter as he continued to stand to his feet anyway.

“So, my little sister has hit the late twenties.”

“Is it really the late twenties? I’m thinking the seven keeps it at the midrange. Twenty eight is late.”

“I remember when mom told me that she was pregnant with you. I was annoyed. I only wanted a little brother and I had that, so I wasn’t so sure where she was going with things.” Instantly, my hand rose and it’s middle finger followed. While funny, I know his block head ass really did feel that way.

“When you were born, I instantly felt this sense of protection towards you. You were so innocent but there was this strength within you that mirrored moms and it manifested as you grew. You’re the cool sister. I know you may not believe it but I bragged about that often. We could sit around and argue about the NBA and you’d be just as knowledgeable about it as any guy. We would watch the Super Bowl together and we even attended the U.S. Open together. Remember?”

“Of course”. How could I forget? That was one of the coolest experiences ever.

“There was something about you that I knew was special and I knew you were going to shine in some kind of way. I still see that within you. You were always a source of support and encouragement for both Shane and I. Often times, we felt like you were were the oldest because you used to and still do talk like you’re someone’s grandmother. That forehead of yours holds all of the world’s wisdom.”

“Not my fault you have dad’s box head.” It felt like we were at the dining room table in New Jersey having a Sunday dinner when my dad balled up his napkin and threw it at me. Usually, he’d be scolded for it by his demure wife but this evening she found it just as funny as everyone else.

“It’s been a great year for you and having you working along side me has been not only been relieving but also incredible. Your work ethic is of no surprise to me because I know that you’re capable of greatness. So thank you for bringing your A-game to the companies and being an example for everyone else. I’m proud of you. I know I don’t say that enough, but I’m going to work on that. I’m proud of you and I’m happy to feel like my sister is reachable again. So, Happy Birthday, Autumn. May this birthday be as beautiful as your spirit and may the man upstairs grant you a hundred more for us to celebrate. I love you.” A moment so unexpected and yet probably the most important of the night goes to Isaac. It’s been quite some time since we’ve shown one another our appreciation by the way of words and we’ve treaded around doing it with actions. I’ve never doubted that he loves me, but I did began to believe that he’d never like me again. I’ve never been more relieved to know that isn’t the truth. I need my brother and now I understand he needs me just as much.

“Thank you brother.” Though improper, we leaned over the table for kisses to one another cheeks. I know there’s been a photograph taking photos, but God do I hope that this moment was recorded. I want it for keepsake.

“My turn?” Stacy giddily stood up and Mike followed.

“Our turn.”

“I want in.” Fredrick too joined them in standing and I clapped before anyone else could because I knew their moment was sure to be silly yet filled with genuine love.

“Autumn, I knew of you before Dante ever mentioned you. Why? Because his whole entire demeanor changed. There was something occupying his mind, but I didn’t know what until I questioned him about you and he damn near rushed me of the phone in nervousness. I asked him were you pretty and I literally heard his heartbeat over the phone.” I’d finally been taken out of the spotlight and it was now the humble man beside me who reddened in sheepishness and shook his head at his wordy executive secretary.

“When I had Kaylee, he came to visit me at the hospital and though I didn’t say it because he was already trying to figure out what he was feeling, I knew that he was falling in love with you. He may kill me for this later, but I asked him what is it about you that drew him to you and he told me two things, one being that you saw him beyond barriers that no one else has reached and two that you made him confront things about himself and his life that he had tucked away for quite some time. So many people here have spoken on your strength and you instilled so much of that within him. As I watched you two in his office the day you came by for the first time, I just knew. I felt the energy in the room as soon as I entered it and it thrilled me to know that someone who I consider to be my little brother has now found what I’ve wanted for him all along.”

“And it only took thirty years.” Mike butted in to draw giggles out of the entire table.

“Autumn, we not only like you, but we love you. You’re family now, so you’re stuck with us. I figured you would be once I saw you and Dante trying to make love in the club.” I’m not sure if I gasped or choked at his sensationalized version of what happened. I’m not even sure which night he’s referencing to.

“We were just talking, Mike.”

“That’s not the night I’m talking about!” In an instant my mother’s brow perked up as she amusingly awaited some sort of explanation. I’m never going to hear the end of this from she and Auntie Larissa.

“We were dancing.”

“If that’s what you call it.”

“Mike…” Though he did his best to conceal it, the smirk on Dante’s face was priceless. I don’t care how old I am and how many of my own bills I pay, I would rather not have my elders hearing anything about me making any type of love, especially in a damn club. Besides that, Mike is lying.

“And I knew it before then.” Fredrick added. “ But it was something about the night of the grand opening in L.A. that really sealed it for me. Though it was a special moment, your presence made it even more special for him. I felt like he stared at you in pride more than he did the establishments that we opened up. That’s when it really dawned on me that we have a new member to our little family. I think it’s time for that to be official.”

“Aw shit. We getting tattoos?” Though Dante would probably never do that, I asked for the sake of the laughter and to earn a deserved side eye from him. He’s not interested in ink though he doesn’t mind mine. One of these days I’ll convince him to get one with me.

“Not quite.”

The pace in my chest slowed to the point of an intense tightening as Dante stood to his feet. He wasn’t there long. With one leg extended, he slowly inched himself down until he was properly on one knee along side of my seat. My surroundings slowed as the sights I was once admiring blurred to an unsteady view. The trembling of my hands had absolutely nothing to do with the after effects of a stroke and everything to do with the moment that is snatching every bit of breath I have within me. The squeals of every estrogen filled body did nothing to tear my attention away from the vulnerable man who stared up at me with his soul completely exposed and his heart on the most unsteady line. What have I done to deserve this? How is this happening?

“Autumn. I spent days trying to figure out how to put into words how much you mean to me. Yesterday, I sat in my office for hours writing different things to say to you and even trying to rehearse, but nothing felt right. I just know it needed to be something from my heart. It’s so crazy that you’re here. I did a lot of hoping for you. I did some praying. I wondered what you’d be like and where you’d be from. My insecurities questioned whether I’d be enough and if you’d accept that I’m still growing. I even questioned if you’d ever come, but I knew if my faith was genuine then I had to realize that blessings come on God’s time. I’m not sure if I ever pictured the love of my life literally falling into my arms like something out of a movie, but I suppose he can be a clever God huh?” Every tear met my chest and rolled down into the napes of my bosom as his lighthearted moment earned a reaction from our boisterous audience.

“I know that you once had someone in your life who broke some of the most important vows there are, but I’d like to show you that you now have someone who intends to honor every single one of them until my very last breath as an old man. I want to share everything that I have with you and most of all, I want to share all of my days with you. There’s nothing more to look for. You’re right here. This is it. I spoke with every single family member of yours at this table yesterday for their approval and then I sat with your mom for a long time just to gain her perspective and she told me, when you know, you just know and I’ve never known anything in my life as quick as I’ve come to know this. I love you, Autumn Nicolette Dupont, unconditionally and irrevocably. So, would you do me the honors of being my wife? Will you marry me?”

There have been a number of dreams that contained variations of this moment; most have been while I’m awake. There was a particular one where I envisioned him asking me this life changing question in the backyard of a Malibu home that I hadn’t even seen yet. After each fantasy, I’d chuckle at myself and shrug it off as a farfetched possibility. I never doubted that he loved me, I only wondered if I’d be enough and if my baggage is too much for the both of us to carry. My doubts were foolishness. He’s been showing me how worthy I am all along. Every moment we’ve shared thus far had signs within them that this moment would come. His every word. It was the way his eyes looked into mine and studied me. It was the months of him welcoming me into his world and showing me just a bit of what he has to offer. It’s the way I become one with him when we’re making love. All of it. All of it leads to right here, right now.

“Yes. Yes. Of course. Yes.”

I could feel the ring being slid onto my finger, but my tears wouldn’t allow me to see it. All I could do was throw my arms around his neck while the moment continued to consume me.

What a way to welcome twenty seven. It’s one that I’ll never forget.

#j. cole fanfiction #j cole fanfiction #j. cole fanfic #j cole fanfic #fanfiction #fan fiction #fanfic #rihanna fanfiction #rihanna fanfic

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theonceoverthinker · 6 years

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OUAT 1X07 - The Heart is a Lonely Hunter

We’re finally here: This episode. This is another one of those episodes that feels a little nerve wracking to touch upon for reasons you probably know. At the same time, I’m really interested to see how my perception of a character who I used to really like changes given how so far I’ve found his appearances to be lackluster.

I guess we’ll find out. Join me under the cut for a journey most heart-stopping because there was LOADS to unpack here.

Press Release One of the town’s residents begins to remember their fairytale past, and Storybrooke mourns the loss of one of their own. Meanwhile, in the fairytale world that was, the Evil Queen attempts to find a heartless assassin to murder Snow White. General Thoughts Past Okay, so I know Regina’s emotions were fake in that opening scene between her and Snow, but they have so much chemistry. I love the way that Snow trusts her. She really does see Regina as her step mother and you feel the friendship that they’re later revealed to have had in the past. And it’s a real testament to Lana’s acting how she can go from this sympathetic mother figure in one shot to vile and sinister in the next! We also get to see more of Regina’s cleverness here. The Huntsman is a really well-defined character. The way he’s shot by the cameras show his size and strength well and the way others view him characterize his loneliness. We see his skill and his heart immediately and how he has no shame over it. That’s so important to see with men in the media.

Additionally, I like how at first the Huntsman refuses to speak but when Regina calls him birth parents his “parents,” he wastes no time correcting her. It’s important that this was shown because while they do do a really good job showing the nuances of the situation in the struggles between Emma and Regina, the fact that the show and our sympathies are supposed to align with Emma can give people who aren’t paying attention the feeling of an anti-adoption sentiment to the show. In addition to reinforcing The Huntsman’s bond with the wolves, we get to see that adoption sentiment shown unwaveringly positive. But here’s what I don’t get. Why does The Huntsman agree that he doesn’t have compassion? He literally just killed two guys and a deer for his wolf friend and in that very scene, he shows compassion for his wolf kin. It’s not like he’s trying to prove he’s strong in front of Regina. She’s not holding anything above his head - not even pride. I feel like this would’ve worked better if we saw the wolves in danger of extinction or something, but as is, the very thing The Huntsman wants goes against the very reason Regina sought him out in the first place: She wants a being with no compassion, and The Huntsman’s primary motivation is compassion. And it shows. Snow’s actions that are supposed to be a big show to the Huntsman that she’s worth saving aren’t big enough to combat the way he expresses how he views humans and sincer there’s never been anything else to betray the words he says, it feels weird. I’m not sure if Snow is supposed to be shown as a woman so above the standards of humanity that Huntsy has been exposed to or that Huntsy is just too nice a guy to kill someone not threatening him or the wolves. If Snow had shown an appreciation for wolves, I feel like that would’ve been a good compromise, but as it stands, the relationship between Snow and Huntsy feels flaccid. Present While I detest the scene that brought it on, the journey of Graham recovering his memories is really well paced and is an interesting one to take. You can hear how Graham’s manner of speaking changes as he recovers his memories. The way he describes the wolf in his dream’s eyes “one was blood-red and the other was black as night.” That’s a very sudden, but interesting change, showing the impact of the curse beginning to crumble at his feet. Additionally, he gets to talk to a fair variety of characters and while it’s his final episode, it never feels like it’s too sudden or inappropriate. Everything - thanks to his bits of memories and the words of others - feels natural in that respect. I also found the counter journey Regina takes to nip Graham’s recovery in the bud to be fascinating too. You can see the subtle “oh shit” in her eyes as Graham states that his wolf dream was more than that.

I take issue with how Graham doesn’t feel things. Where is this coming from and why was it never touched upon earlier? I get that when your heart is taken, your emotions feel more dulled, but the show hasn’t done a good job showing Graham as having dulled emotions and this episode blatantly shows him feeling panic, lust, and curiosity in droves. This is the driving force behind his character in this episode, but the writing and acting aren’t doing a great job in selling that concept to me and it makes the primary driving force behind Graham’s journey not work. And the argument that the kiss he and Emma shared revealed those lack of feelings doesn’t work either because he was already talking about how he doesn’t feel things before they kissed. That scene with Emma and Mary Margaret was just adorable! Emma and MM are each other’s life coaches - MM is teaching Emma about trust, and Emma illuminates her on stuff like one night stands. And they’re very supportive and adult about the whole thing! That said, I do take issue with the direction it takes. I mean, relationship aside, Graham’s actions were pretty fucked up last night and flowers weren’t going to solve that. I’m going to leave it there because I have a space for both shipping and anti-shipping below. I’m torn between liking Graham decision to leave Regina and thinking that it came out of nowhere. Regina hasn’t done anything out of the ordinary that Graham would have heard about in this episode, so why is he suddenly blaming her. Hell, it’s not like he knows that she’s the Evil Queen! And even if he did, this scene is supposed to imply that he’s taking a point of view more founded in reality, and again - Regina hasn’t done anything strange that he’s heard of. In the scenes they’ve spent together and the scenes that he’s spent with other characters, he hadn’t learned anything new about his relationship with Regina or how that relationship relates to itself. For a story like this to work, the character should learn that while he can’t get what he thinks he wants (his heart), he gets what he needs (an understanding that he’s in a relationship that needs to end). However, since we never got to see point outside of the flashback where their relationship was bad - apart from not believing him about a dream, something Emma didn’t believe him about either - we don’t see a reason why he should end things off. Still, with the knowledge (that is only in hindsight because it wasn’t revealed at that point) that Regina took his heart, it is great to see him stand up to her. Insights “What the hell” is right! That dart scene just left a bad feeling in my insides. And then that loud public scene Graham makes of it. So there’s this letter that I found on TV Tropes from Graham to Emma, and it’s rather dramatic. I’m thoroughly convinced that it was made after this scene. Oh God! That CG deer! At least the one in “Snow Falls” looked a little real! This one looks like it jumped out of a PS2 game! “Since when do you want me to stay, anyways?” I have to wonder who was it that initiated their “relationship” (And don’t worry, we’ll get to how fucked up that is over at the “Darker Aspects” segment)? Did Graham just one evening show up at Regina doorstep raring to go? Gold, who gardens in the forest?! I imagine this was when he buried the dagger. I wonder, did Regina just happen to get a mirror’s view over The Huntsman at exactly the wrong time? He killed them because they were threatening to kill him and his wolf and he cries over his animal kills, not because he’s heartless! OR, do you think perhaps that she manipulated the guys at the bar to talk to him like that so she could scope his strength out? I wonder who this wolf was to Graham when he was growing up? A father figure? A mother figure? A sibling? Friend? Second cousin twice removed? “Those who kill and those who are killed.” Regina, you’re starting to sound like Flowey! Avoid golden flowers! Really, Isaac? A baby animal is the best illustration you’ve got for that desperately emotional encounter? Did they fire their artist and just use whatever the most artistic intern submitted? And then some of the other artwork in the book is so detailed and beautiful! Were there multiple artists for the book in-universe? Holy shit! I forgot about the physical fight between Regina and Emma! I actually shouted “FUCK” when it came on! Arcs Emma’s journey of belief AND Regina’s control over the town- While I take large issue with this episode, I do like that Emma actually had to suffer a loss here. Regina by this point had “lost” in every episode - maybe not the war, but certainly the battle. Emma had managed to earn the friends and relations that Regina clearly didn’t want her to obtain. And now, just on the cusp of another small victory, Regina (I apologize for the literal objectification of Graham to follow) takes it away. It reinforces her menace, something we’ll see in the next episode. This aspect of the episode - while unfortunately used through a really terrible love triangle - does give the emotional impact necessary. Favorite Dynamic Graham and Henry. This dynamic was the only one in the episode for me that almost fully worked. GRAHAM-ted (I needed a joke after this episode), it was a short scene, but here’s why I like it. Both characters are in the perfect place to be having this conversation. Graham is on the verge of mental collapse and is in desperate need of both validation and answers. And Henry is able to give those answers. I only wish he had been more enthused since someone was finally believing him. However, their moment together brings a level of calming insight as well as a genuine connection between both of the characters. Writer How the mighty have fallen. After two stellar episodes, A&E give me this dud. It’s weird, this episode - like the prior successes - is focused externally. Graham, Emma, and Regina are the focal characters, with MM, Henry, and Gold serving as supporting cast members. However, where it different is that there’s no internal focus in either plot or continuity. Problems with Graham arise out of nowhere and aren’t expanded on in a comprehensible way and Huntsy’s motivations and feelings in the flashback are frustratingly unclear. Since he’s the main character of the episode, because of these faults, it feels sloppy.

That and the issues in the next section really weaken this episode, to say the least. Darker Aspects Trigger warning for rape and consent issues discussion below.

I didn’t hate this when I first watched it. However, it’s been over three years since I’ve watched it and “the villain can do terrible things like that because they’re the villain” doesn’t fly any more in my book. Now, watching those kisses between Graham and Regina in both realms makes my skin crawl. And the fact that it never gets touched upon again set a shitty precedent for non consensual sex that would repeat itself a number of times and will remain as an unwavering black spot on Regina’s redemption arc (Which otherwise worked for me pretty well).

Just...why would they do that? I’m not a rape victim, and I don’t feel comfortable telling anyone - victim or not - how to show it - if at all - in media. I have my own opinion of it, but that’s neither here nor there. Still, I will say this: This just isn’t the way to show it - never giving the victim a lucid moment to reflect on their own rape is fucked up. What’s worse is that I remember reading A&E deny that it was rape in Storybrooke, and that’s just doubly awful. Rating 3/10. This was a genuinely terrible episode, and not just because of the *ahem* Darker Aspects, although that really didn’t help. Thematically and from a character perspective, I wasn’t sold on either Graham or Huntsy’s journeys. In the past, there was no focus and in the present, there was no establishment, and in the case of both, they had the beginning and endpoints of the episode down, but clearly didn’t know what to do with the middle to get them there. The two parts are a cluttered mess vaguely threaded together, but bereft of the meat that a journey needs to entail to work in terms of storytelling. The only saving grace of the episode - in addition to the acting, which is always good - is the line of characters that Graham interacts with while on his journey to...breaking up with Regina. Dark Side of the Ship Normally, I have another segment here called “Flip My Ship” and it’s supposed to be a place for all things “shippy goodness.” However, today, I have no “shippy goodness” to flail about. In fact, I have negative thoughts about the ships here, and unfortunately, while I try to keep anti-shipping out of my episode rewatches, this pairing is frustratingly story relevant and I feel like I need to touch upon them. If you like Gremma, I suggest ending off here. You have been warned. Now that I’ve fully seen Gremma for a second time, I can fully say that I hate it.

It’s weird. I used to like it. Before this rewatch, it was up there in my favorite Emma ships. However, I despise it now that I’ve taken a closer eye to the series and his character. While I’ve had negative feelings towards their relationship for the entirety of episodes 1-7, I’ll do what I can to focus on this episode specifically.

I hate how the ship bastardized that scene with Emma and MM because where do we see feelings between Graham and Emma to the point where her rejecting an advance that didn’t even happen was a problem? The most I can see is her rejecting the hot chocolate because those are just her walls, and a bit of banter. They’ve known each other for maybe a month and we’ve barely seen them interact. I think they’ve spoken fifteen lines to each other maximum. With all of the good Emma dynamics out there, this is the only one so far that is bad because it tries to tell much more about Emma than it’s bothering to show. If this episode was happening in episode 14 or something after a couple of episodes of Graham and Emma working on cases together, that would work. I’d believe it. But they haven’t. The only bits of police work they’ve done together have had Emma interact with other characters (MM in “Snow Falls” and Regina in both “Pilot” and “That Still Small Voice” and if there’s a crush at all, it’s only been shown on Graham’s side, and shoddily at that. It just feels unearned for the focus and buildup they’re trying to give this couple. I liked them a bit more towards the end of the episode, but that’s only because Graham had stood up for himself and protected Emma so I can actually see there being some romantic chemistry there. But that’s right before he dies, and far later than I was supposed to feel for this couple.

()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()

I never like writing negative reviews. No one does, and unless they’re based on comedy, reviewers who say they like writing negative reviews are to be avoided. It broke my heart that an episode that I formerly liked disappointed me so much upon my second viewing of it and I hope that future shitty episodes are few and far between. Thank you again to the fine folks at @watchingfairytales for putting this project together, and I’ll see you next time.

Operation Rewatch Archives Season Tally (56/220) Writer Tally for Season 1: A&E (23/70) Liz Tigelaar (10/20) David Goodman (9/50) Jane Espenson (6/60) Andrew Chambliss (8/10) Ian Goldberg (8/10)

#watching fairytales #ouat 1x07 #ouat #ouat rewatch #jenna watches ouat #ships mentioned #anti-gremma #anti-graham #rape tw #tw: rape #consent issues tw #tw consent issues

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welllpthisishappening · 6 years

Text

Tripping Over the Blue Line (35/45)

It’s a transition. That’s what Emma’s calling it. She’s transitioning from one team to another, from one coast to another and she’s definitely not worried. Nope. She’s fine. Really. She’s promised Mary Margaret ten times already. So she got fired. Whatever. She’s fine, ready to settle into life with the New York Rangers. She’s got a job to do. And she doesn’t care about Killian Jones, captain of the New York Rangers. At all.

He’s done. One more season and he’s a free agent and he’s out. It’s win or nothing for Killian. He’s going to win a Stanley Cup and then he’s going to stop being the face of the franchise and he’s going to go play for some other garbage team where his name won’t be used as puns in New York Post headlines. That’s the plan. And Emma Swan, director of New York Rangers community relations isn’t going to change that. At all.

They are both horrible liars.

Rating: Mature Content Warnings: Swearing, eventual hockey-type violence AN: Happy playoffs! Happy flirting in the hallway post-game! Happy it’s kind of obvious how much Laura hates the Pittsburgh Penguins! I am still just constantly stunned by you guys and how fantastic you are, but just know that I appreciate it a ridiculous amount. This story would be nothing without @laurnorder, @distant-rose & @beautiful-swan. Also hanging out on Ao3, FF.net & tag’ed up on Tumblr.

“Is there a reason you’re lurking in the corner?”

Killian’s head snapped up, smiling out of instinct as soon as he heard the question and the tone of her voice and Emma was staring at him incredulously, arms crossed over the front of yet another team-branded t-shirt.

“You’ve started quite a collection of my jerseys, Swan,” he pointed out, nodding towards the ‘C’ on her shoulder.

“This is a t-shirt.” “Semantics.”

Emma rolled her eyes and dropped onto the edge of the stool next to him, kicking her feet out slightly. “Come on, seriously. What’s the matter?” “Nothing’s the matter,” he said and it wasn’t a complete lie.

It wasn’t.

It was, just, as they say, all happening. And he was somewhere in the vicinity of excited and nervous and anxious and something that felt a bit like terrified – which was all kind of weird because Killian couldn’t remember the last time he’d been terrified of anything that had to do with hockey.

There’d never been quite so much riding on hockey either.

Emma’s lips twisted slightly and he could nearly hear the thought appearing in the back of her head, the flash of understanding in her eyes making him fall in love with her just a little bit more. Maybe terrified wasn’t the right word.

Maybe determined was better.

“Did you send out season-ticket blasts?” Killian asked, already certain of the answer. He was certain she’d sent out the e-mails and the announcements and the Facebook video celebrating the Rangers’ clinched Wild Card spot as soon as the buzzer went off.

“Are you kidding me?” Emma countered. She kicked at his leg again and he groaned dramatically when the toe of her heel connected with his ankle.

“Jeez, careful, Swan.” “Come on, you’re honestly asking me about work? We’re supposed to be celebrating. Easy playoff path and all that stuff.” “Who’s saying easy?” “Every newspaper in the greater New York City area and Yahoo Sports.” “You’re reading Yahoo Sports?” “Aren’t you?” Killian shrugged and Emma scoffed, tracing her finger across the bar. Of course he was. He didn’t normally – ever since Liam had gotten hurt, he’d avoided media reports like some sort of athletic-themed plague – but in the last few weeks, since they’d been just on the cusp of clinching, he’d found himself actually searching out stories and links and playoff projections. It was like he was actually trying to torture himself.

There was no easy path.

This was the playoffs and the Cup and everything from here on out was a very distinct type of challenge, but he was that mix of emotions and determination and he kept reading everything he could get his hands on.

The coffee table in his apartment was like a shrine to the National Hockey League at this point, a mess of sports sections and copies of Sports Illustrated he’d forced Ruby to get for him.

“You know,” Emma said pointedly, nodding in Eric’s direction when he left a plate of onion rings in front of her. “You left your Daily News sports section sitting next to the bed this morning.” Her bed. In her apartment. Several blocks away from his.

Not that it was a problem – it wasn’t. Really.

He wasn’t a complete ass. Killian really did understand why she’d gotten her own apartment and he hadn’t really been considering some sort of joint living arrangement until Emma had explained that there wouldn’t be one and Mary Margaret’s mom-disappointment probably extended to him as well.

The last month had been a back-and-forth schedule of nights in his apartment and her apartment and wrapping up the regular season and it was no wonder he’d left the sports section of a New York daily next to her bed because he could hardly remember where he had to be later that night, let alone putting a few sheets of newspaper back in his bag.

“If you were trying to make sure I didn’t find that story about what happens if you don’t win a Cup, you weren’t doing a very good job,” Emma continued, whispering the last few words so as not to draw the ire of an entire hockey team.

That got him to smile again.

“It was more just forgetting I’d left it there than any sort of overly dramatic attempt to get you to notice me,” Killian laughed.

His thumb traced over the bend of her knee and it wasn’t lost on him that they were back where they’d started – tucked into the corner of the restaurant with a very loud, very excited, team a few feet away and he didn’t care about any of them.

He kept staring at her.

It was the same spot as the set-up, but it couldn’t have been more different and he would have trekked back and forth between her apartment and his for the rest of the foreseeable future to ensure that Emma Swan kept looking at him like he was the best goddamn player in the league.

“That kind of seems like a problem,” Emma said. “Can’t score goals if you’re all distracted like that.” “Not distracted. Focused.” “On forgetting newspapers or what the newspapers are saying?” Killian’s thumb stopped moving and he gripped her knee a bit tighter. “I totally read the story,” Emma continued, tilting her head to the side as she ripped an onion ring apart.

He’d lost track of the number of times he’d read the story or the number of times Regina had told him about the story and, eventually, someone was going to just let him play hockey, right? He hoped so.

That might make this easier.

Emma leaned forward, balancing precariously on the edge of the stool and Killian’s hand moved to her waist out of instinct. “Jeez, Jones, relax,” she mumbled.

“I’m just making sure Eric doesn’t have to deal with cleaning up after you when you kill yourself from falling off this stool.”

She groaned, but she didn’t actually move his hand and the smile was still tugging on the edge of her lips when she sat up straight. The story was in her hand. “I think I’ve read it like a dozen times today,” Emma mumbled. “You’d look good on TV.” “Yeah, that’s what Regina keeps saying.” “Doesn’t surprise me at all.” It didn’t surprise him either – Regina’s promises that this was something to consider and, well, he’d already told the Av’s no and there was no guarantee any other team would sign him if the Rangers didn’t and they might have a playoff spot, but Wild Card wasn’t easy and...the list went on and on.

He could probably recite it verbatim at this point.

“The story seems to think you’d make several zeroes worth of money for your very attractive face,” Emma said and he didn’t think he imagined the way she leaned toward him, knee brushing against his and hand landing on the top of his pants.

Killian quirked one eyebrow and a slightly embarrassed Emma – the one who blushed just a bit when she’d been caught calling her boyfriend attractive – was something he was far more interested in than he realized.

“You telling me you think the TV people only want me for my face, Swan?” Killian asked, propping his elbow up on the bar and resting his chin on his hand.

She rolled her eyes. “I said no such thing.” “You did. You just said the story claimed I’d get several zeroes for my very attractive face.” “Slip of the tongue.” He widened his eyes and he was certain Emma’s face was nearly as red as the highlights in Ruby’s hair. “Oh my God,” she sighed. “Shut up.” “Your words, not mine.” She was quiet for a moment, lips pressed together tightly and Killian knew she was thinking exactly what he was – it was a good offer, it was a lot of zeroes, it kept him in New York no matter what happened this season.

His attractive face would, probably, look pretty damn good on TV.

“You don’t know that someone else wouldn’t offer after the run,” Emma whispered. “And this is the only time I’ve seen this story.” “It’s definitely true,” Killian said. “Gina thinks it’s some kind of fantastic back-up plan.” “Isn’t it?” He shrugged. It was. It made as much sense as Emma getting her own apartment.

Be prepared. Or something.

He didn’t want that. He wanted to win a fucking Stanley Cup. He wanted this to work. He wanted Emma to move into his apartment more than he’d been willing to admit to himself in the last month.

Emma narrowed her eyes and he’d never actually answered her question. He didn’t really get the chance – attacked, as per usual, by a seven-year-old whirlwind, decked out in head-to-toe blue and one of the fansite shirts that claimed the Rangers weren’t interested in easy victories.

“Hook,” Roland shouted, arms already thrust into the air so he could get pulled up onto the edge of the bar. “Oh, are those onion rings?” Emma laughed softly and for half a moment Killian forgot about the story and the playoff run and anything that wasn’t that sound and the look on her face when she tugged Roland towards her. “Come on, Rol,” she huffed and at least the kid tried to help her, pushing up on the balls of his feet before climbing up onto the bar himself. Eric only looked vaguely scandalized.

“Thanks,” Roland mumbled, mouth half stuffed with onion rings already.

“Slow down,” Killian said, tugging Roland’s hand away from the plate. He’d already eaten half the onion rings. “You’re going to choke and then Gina will kill me.” Roland shook his head and for a recently-turned-seven-year-old, he was deceptively strong, yanking his arm out of Killian’s grip. “Nah, she’s busy.” “Is she on the phone again?”

If Regina was talking to people without telling him again, Killian was going to break something. Or maybe throw something. Or maybe get two minutes on purpose in the season finale the next night. Probably not the last one.

Arthur would make him skate sprints if he did that.

“Not about TV,” Roland said seriously and Killian was momentarily stunned at that. Emma tried to turn her laughter into a cough.

“What about then?” “Henry.” “Henry?” Killian repeated and Emma’s eyes got impossibly wide. He glanced up, meeting her slightly stunned stare with one of his own.

Henry was, in fact, sitting a few feet away, legs stretched out at one of the tables in the corner of the restaurant with his arms crossed over his chest and he looked every inch like he belonged there, wearing his own playoff shirt and a smile that Killian was certain would never actually leave his face.

“What’s going on?” Killian asked, not sure if he was talking to Roland or Emma.

She bit her lip and he resisted the urge to mutter open book at her when Roland started babbling excitedly while trying to devour seven onion rings at once.

“He’s going to move in while you guys are in Montreal and Gina’s trying to make sure the house gives him all his stuff and he doesn’t have any stuff, not really, that’s what he told me, but Gina keeps calling and she’s using that serious voice she used when she talked about you going away, Hook and I asked Henry if that made him my brother and…”

Emma breath audibly caught and she was blinking quickly enough that Killian’s hand found hers almost immediately.

“Wait,” Killian interrupted and Roland froze with an onion ring halfway to his mouth. “Brother? What are you talking about?” Roland’s eyes got as large as Emma’s and his gaze darted between the two of them. He dropped the onion ring on his pants.

“Robin didn’t tell you,” Emma said. It wasn’t a question.

“He told you?” Killian asked.

“No, no, Henry did.” “When?” “A couple weeks ago.” Killian’s mouth hung open and Emma’s lips had all but disappeared behind her teeth, something in her expression that looked like an apology. “But it’s not final yet. They were still in paperwork then. It probably isn’t still. That stuff takes some time.” “Paperwork?” “I’d imagine there’s a lot of it if you’re going to adopt a kid.”

He’d been holding his breath. He hadn’t realized. And, somewhere in the back of his mind it made sense – everything about this whole night made sense – but it all hit a bit too close to home and no one had told him anything.

Old habits coming back to haunt or taunt or just be particularly annoying at the start of some kind of career-defining playoff run.

Killian ran his hand through his hair, desperate not to meet Emma’s worried gaze and this was what he’d been trying to avoid in New York in the first place. This was why he hadn’t wanted to come to that party all those months ago, the family that wasn’t quite his family and everything moving and changing and evolving around him.

And he just sat still.

“I thought Robin would have told you,” Emma muttered, squeezing his hand tightly. Oh, that was different.

Emma.

Emma was there now and she hadn’t let go of his hand and, well, Page Six wasn’t wrong. There was a reason he was staying in New York. And considering TV.

“Nah,” Killian shook his head. “You’re right though, probably didn’t want to jinx it or something.”

Roland looked distraught. “Dad didn’t tell you, Hook?” “It’s ok, Rol,” he promised, trying to take a deep breath. He smiled at the kid and tugged on the bottom of his t-shirt. “This is a good thing.” Roland beamed. “I’ve never had a brother before. And neither has dad and Gina doesn’t have any either and...” “And?” “And you and Uncle Liam are brothers.” Killian sat up a bit straighter, Emma’s hand gripping just a bit tighter than it had to. “That’s true.” “And you guys played hockey together and he taught you how to check somebody and, well, maybe Henry could teach me how to check somebody.” He hadn’t gotten enough sleep for this kind of conversation.

This was Robin territory. This was actual dad territory, not quasi-parental figure who let you eat more onion rings than you were supposed to as dictated by the Food and Drug Administration.

This wasn’t what Killian signed up for.

Roland, however, didn’t seem to care – eyes bright and expectations written on his face clear as day and Emma still hadn’t let go of Killian’s hand.

“You’d probably be the one doing most of the teaching in this case,” KIllian said, eyes flashing towards Emma. “Henry doesn’t really even know how to skate.” “What?” Roland shouted and he moved so quickly, he nearly flew off the edge of the bar. Emma only managed to save the plate of onion rings from crashing onto the floor. “We’ve got to fix that, Hook! How come he doesn’t know how to skate?” It was if the idea of not knowing how to skate was the most scandalous thing that had ever crossed Roland’s mind. It might have been.

“Not everyone grows up with an entire hockey team around them, Rol,” Emma explained. “Some of us just kind of fall into it.” Killian might have squeezed her hand at that point. God, the playoffs needed to start. He needed some kind of consistency.

“Can we do that, Hook?” Roland continued, undeterred by Killian’s soft exclamation when he tried to jump back towards the floor again.

“Stop, you’re going to kill yourself,” he muttered, pushing a grumbling Roland back into the center of the bar. “And you’ll have to ask your dad and Gina. Maybe after the playoffs are over.” “After you guys win a Cup?” Killian grimaced, but didn’t say anything, something about ancient superstitions sitting on the tip of his tongue. It didn’t matter – Will yelled it from the other side of the restaurant.

“You know the rules, Rol,” Will shouted, arm slung over Belle’s shoulders. She almost looked embarrassed. “We don’t talk about that.” “But you guys are going to win,” Roland argued. He tried to push himself up again and Emma laughed when she pulled the onion ring plate completely out of harm’s way, eating the last one for good measure.

“Well, of course we are,” Killian said evenly. Roland sat back down. “But we just don’t talk about it. Bad form.” “Is there form for that kind of stuff?” Emma asked. “Or just ancient athletic superstitions?” “Bit of column A, bit of column B?” “Yuh huh.” “And Henry said he’s going to wear your jersey during the run too, Hook,” Roland continued, seemingly undeterred by whatever Scarlet was still complaining about from the other side of the restaurant. “And once he gets his stuff in his room, Gina said we could get sticks and put them on the wall.” The whole restaurant froze – or at least the front line. Scarlet, at least, stopped yelling.

“Well, there went the secret,” Emma muttered. Killian shook his head.

Robin and Regina sprinted towards the corner of the bar, matching looks of dread on their faces when they skidded to a stop in front of Killian.

“It’s fine,” Killian promised. “Some would go so far as to say good.” Regina didn’t look convinced. She almost looked mad when she noticed the empty plate a few feet away from Roland. Robin looked a little nervous.

“You think?” he muttered, hands stuffed into his pockets as he rocked back on his heels.

Killian glanced at Emma again – and there was some kind of deeper meaning to that, that also might have been based in not-quite-reasonable superstitions, some kind of good luck charm or the force behind everything – and she barely moved her head when she nodded, smile tugging on the corners of her mouth.

“I know,” Killian said. “When did you guys decide to do this though?” “You really want to know?” “Why wouldn’t I?” Robin made some kind of noise in the back of his throat and Killian knew the answer to that question – because he’d been busy lying to everyone about going to Colorado and running away from every ounce of family that had ever existed in New York and turning down a considerable number of zeroes.

“Yeah, well,” Killian started, “that’s different now.” “Yeah?”

Emma was blushing again. It was lighter that time, just spots of red on her cheeks and eyes trained on Roland and Regina and Mary Margaret had showed up at some point, probably responding to some kind of Emma sense that just knew when there was something potentially emotional about to happen.

“I guess so,” Robin said, answering his own question as soon as he looked at Killian.

“If you’re going to get sentimental on me Locksley, I swear, I’m going to leave.” “Nah, that’s a waste of time when you’re there already.” Killian scoffed and there was a small crowd around them now – Scarlet and Belle and Henry had his own stool and even David had moved as well, hand landing protectively on Emma’s shoulder like it was a flashing neon sign regarding sentimentality.

“And since the break,” Regina said suddenly, not even turning to look at Killian when she spoke. “No one wanted to tell you because you were being stupid.”

“Always so good with words, Gina,” Killian mumbled.

“Stop feeding my kid an obscene amount of onion rings and I’ll be nicer to you.” “Ah, but now you’ve just set yourself up for even more disappointment, because you’ve got two kids and that’s just more onion rings to spread around.” She did turn around at that, eyes narrowed and glare plastered on her face and Killian smiled in response. “I wish you’d left when the Av’s offered,” she said, but the words didn’t quite ring true.

“That’s just rude.” “Control the onion rings then.”

“Big job.” Regina groaned, but there was almost a smile on her face and Killian felt something settle in the very center of him – or maybe resettle. Like he’d found something all over again.

Emma moved off the stool, squeezing Henry’s arm once, before she took a few steps towards him, fingers finding the back of his hair and Killian’s hand was around her waist before he could stop himself, pulling her closer to his side.

Maybe he’d consider TV. Maybe it was good to be prepared.

Maybe he was hedging his bets to keep Emma pulled up against his side.

“Will you two stop arguing,” Ariel hissed, cutting into the conversation with practiced ease. Eric sputtered when she moved behind the bar, grabbing the remote out of his hand and Killian was a mix of impressed and vaguely intimidated. “Some of us are trying to see how this all shapes up.” She changed the channel and the restaurant went silent again – a dozen pairs of eyes trained on the TV screen and the Penguins game and she’d timed it almost perfectly because there were only a few minutes left.

“That was impressive, Red,” Killian said and she just stuck her tongue out at him.

“Shut up and watch the game. And then show up on time for PT tomorrow.” “Are you not showing up on time for PT?” Emma asked sharply, pushing on his shoulder like that would get him to follow the final-day-of-the-regular-season-schedule he was all too aware she had.

“She’s making that up, Swan,” Killian answered. “I was no less than two minutes late for PT yesterday and I made a fist, at least, a dozen times. She’s just greedy.” “I am doing my job,” Ariel argued, still staring at the TV. The whole group groaned when some third-liner scored an empty-net goal for the Penguins. “Ah, there it is.” Emma slumped against his side and Killian, head resting on his shoulder and, Ariel was right. There it was.

The Pens won the President’s Trophy.

“God, I hate them all,” Will mumbled and Belle clicked her tongue in reproach as a line of gold and black skated to center ice and the obligatory post-game celebration.

“Why are we watching this, exactly?” Robin asked. “We knew they were going to clinch tonight.” “Well, to be fair, they could have done it tomorrow,” Killian said, trying not to actually sigh too loudly when they brought the trophy out onto the ice to the sounds of a crowd that had, just recently, won a Stanley Cup. “God, this is depressing.” “Which brings me back to my original question.” Ariel huffed loudly, rolling her eyes as if she couldn’t quite believe any of them were still talking. “Are you guys serious? This is motivation!”

“I don’t think we really need that,” Killian said.

“Wild. Card.” “Which seems like plenty of motivation to begin with.”

“Ugh.” “Did you just say the word ugh out loud? That’s your argument right now?” “Show up to PT on time, Killian!”

He laughed softly, hand still lingering on Emma’s waist and she’d started tugging on the front of his jacket like it was an old habit she couldn't quite shake. “You’re going to drive her insane, you know.” “Nah, she’s used to it by now.” Ariel stuck her tongue out at him again, but Killian barely registered it, eyes flashing up to the screen when the crowd started to cheer again and a collective ooooh moved across the restaurant.

“Oh, well, they’re totally fucked now,” Will said, immediately chastised by everyone over the age of twelve. “Right, right, sorry, we’re a family team.” “That’s bad luck,” Robin muttered and Killian was somewhere in the realm of almost hysterical at this point, head thrown back as soon as Soyer’s hands landed on the trophy.

“See, Red,” he said, nodding towards the TV as the entire Penguins roster passed the President’s Trophy down the line. Some of them kissed it. “We don’t need any motivation. Not when they’ve already broken the rules.”

She didn’t argue immediately – and that felt a bit like a step in the right direction. “I can’t believe they touched it.”

“Too confident.” “You think?” Killian shrugged. “Certainly looks that way, doesn’t it?” “What a bunch of idiots,” Emma mumbled. “Look at them. They’re all posing with it like they’ve already won the Cup.” “This anti-Pittsburgh side of you is fun, Swan. I like it. Keep going.” Emma yanked on his zipper again and he fell forward dramatically, huffing out the air in his lungs like he’d been punched. “They’re not going to win again,” she said and Killian nearly forgot there was an entire hockey team standing behind them.

“Of course not.”

“Plus,” Will added, nearly pushing his hand in between Killian and Emma. “We’ve got to win so Cap doesn’t get screwed over by the entire franchise.” “The soul of tact, Scarlet.”

Will hummed in the back of his throat, grunting slightly when Robin hit against the back of his head. “What? I mean that’s true, isn’t it?”

“Shut up, Scarlet,” Emma said and it sounded a bit like a threat. Her hand was flat on Killian’s chest, eyes tracing across his face like she was waiting for the blow-up in the middle of the restaurant. It wasn’t going to happen.

“We should toast,” David said suddenly and, it appeared, a bit out of his own control as Mary Margaret pushed him a step closer to Emma again. “Um, I mean, well you guys did it at the start of the regular season, right? We should do it again. For symmetry.” “Nice save,” she muttered.

“That’s a good idea,” Robin agreed, nodding towards an expectant Eric behind the bar. He handed out glasses and alcohol and soda and cleared his throat when David didn’t immediately start talking. “Your move, Detective.” “Oh, oh, right,” he sputtered. “Well, there’s no sense in talking about how long we’ve all waited for a run like this or a team like this. Everything is there and not just because that’s what the reports say. Because you guys, and well, all of us, are certain of it. No extra motivation needed. To the postseason.”

“To the postseason.”

The alcohol burned the back of his throat and landed in the pit of his stomach with an almost audible thump, but Emma hadn’t ever moved, head back on his shoulder and shot glass in her own hand and that very specific type of smile on her face.

That was more than enough motivation.

The first three games hadn’t been particularly easy.

He wouldn’t say that. This was the playoffs – nothing was easy. It was do or die and every sports cliché Mrs. Vankald could come up with was one-hundred percent true in situations like these.

There were no easy games, no easy shifts, every single hit hurt just a bit more and the bruises on his left hand were a testament to that.

It wasn’t easy. Hell, they’d nearly lost game three and Arthur’s whiteboard casualties were starting to get even more violent now, hitting them up against the boards and using them even after he’d cracked them, the lines tracing across them making it difficult to actually work out the plays he was trying to draw up.

The game’s hadn’t been perfect and Killian’s hand was black and blue and he hadn’t actually scored in the series, but he woke up with hair in his face and a smile on his lips and they could clinch that night.

He shifted slightly, breathing in slowly and maybe that had been a mistake because he breathed in more hair than he’d been entirely ready for and his whole body shook when he started coughing and Emma grumbled when she woke up.

“God, what are you doing?” she asked, voice scratchy from sleep and fingers splayed across his hip.

“Trying not to suffocate on your hair.” She scoffed and opened one eye, keeping the other squeezed shut and that might have made it even more difficult to breathe. Or it might have been the team-branded she was wearing, oversized t-shirt and not much else, legs twisted up with his and there’d been no conversation about coming back to her apartment after another home win, just an expectant smile on her face when he slung his arm around her shoulders in the back corner of the restaurant.

“Did you know that the reason they call the Canadiens the Habs is because of Madison Square Garden?” Emma asked.

“What?”

She nodded. “Yup. Tex Rickard, who owned the Garden in 1920-something, said the ‘H’ on the jerseys stood for Habitants. He was probably an idiot, but Habitants, Habs, it stuck.” “And why was he an idiot exactly?” “It stood for hockey.” “Ah, well, obviously.”

Emma grinned, pushing her hair back behind her ear and she did something with her eyebrows – or at least tried. Killian was paying more attention to whatever it was her fingers were doing, tracing out a circle with her thumb and she laughed when his breath actually caught, shoulders rolling back into the mattress.

“You know,” she said slowly, hand still moving and he wouldn’t have moved even if he wanted to. He didn’t want to. “You can clinch tonight.” “A fact I’m very much aware of, Swan.”

“Step forward and all that.”

“Also true.” “The tabs will have a field day if you sweep.”

“When,” Killian said instinctively and he wasn’t certain when he’d started being so positive, probably somewhere around the time the tips of Emma’s fingers found their way underneath the edge of his boxers.

He must have let out some kind of strangled Swan because she actually laughed, teeth tugging on her lower lip and that wasn’t even fair.

“Ah, that’s true,” she amended and he moved immediately as soon as she started pulling on fabric. “I just didn’t want to jinx it.” “You couldn’t do that, Swan.”

The words kind of felt like they were choking him, not quite as easy as the three games they’d won already and it was absolutely because of the look on her face and the feel of her next to him and if they did clinch that night, then Killian was half certain it was only because of how desperate he was to stay in this moment.

“I thought there were rules,” she challenged. “God, you’ve got to take these off.” “What are you trying to do exactly?” He knew exactly what she was trying to do – was halfway on his way to ensuring that she got to do it several times before either one of them had to get on the downtown one.

“Have I not made that clear?” “You’re not exactly talking, Swan. Except for some very early-morning facts.” “That was just my lead-in, get you interested with pertinent hockey facts and then keep you appropriately distracted with...not hockey facts.” Killian chuckled, but it might have turned into a groan when Emma’s foot found its way in between his legs, trying to push boxers into blankets and there was absolutely no need for a lead-in.

He should have said that.

He’d lost the ability to think. Or speak. Or do anything that wasn’t kissing his girlfriend a few hours before they could clinch a berth to the next round.

Emma gasped softly when they moved, her back on the mattress and Killian hovering just above her and his hand worked its way up underneath the fabric of the shirt she still had on. He’d probably think about that sound for the rest of the day.

That would probably make morning skate weird.

And if these last three games had been some kind of easy sweep, then this was even more simple. This – over-eager mornings and hockey facts and not-hockey facts and waking up with hair in his face – was as simple as breathing or stick-handling in between two defenders.

That wasn’t quite as romantic as Killian had been hoping for.

It hadn’t been some kind of straight line to this, had hardly been the stringent blue line he’d been certain had shaped his entire career and what he was allowed. It had been a criss-cross of emotions and feelings and finding and if he’d been looking for some kind of family and some sort of home somewhere, then he was positive he’d found it in Emma Swan and that sound she kept making whenever his lips found hers.

Emma’s hips hit his and then he was the one making that noise, sighing against her mouth and the hands that kept holding onto him like they were trying to make sure he didn’t go anywhere.

Not anymore.

Not ever again.

Not for a ridiculous number of zeroes or even after she’d gotten her own apartment or whatever happened in the playoffs.

He wasn’t a fool.

He knew it wouldn’t always be easy and they might sweep, but there were still three more rounds and his hand would probably be perpetually bruised by the time all of this was over.

Killian didn’t care. And for the first time in his entire career, he was ready for all of it, no matter what happened at the end.

“You didn’t have to have a lead-in, you know,” he mumbled, tracing down her jaw and there were goosebumps on her skin. He smiled at that.

“No?” “No,” Killian promised. “Although I am consistently impressed by how many facts you just have at your disposal.”

His fingers traced along her thigh and he could hear Emma’s breathing pick up, smile inching across his face at that and he was some kind of reaction hoarder now because he was documenting every single one of them.

“Good, that’s...good to know,” she said and it came out a bit like a sigh when he moved his hand again. “Are you teasing on purpose or just because you’re the only one who actually took their clothes off?” “Swan, are you suggesting you’d like me to take your clothes off?” “You’re infuriating, you know that?” “I choose to see it as endearing. I seem to remember someone once saying it was charming. Too charming, if we want to get technical.” “I must have been delusional.” “Ah, somehow, I doubt that.” “So confident.” Killian hummed and Emma’s hips were moving again, chasing after exactly what she’d had planned with the lead-in and there was something to be said for waking up early if this was how it ended up. It seemed to end up like this more often than not.

He moved again, fingers tracing out patterns on the inside of her leg and he was only vaguely concerned with the amount of damage she was doing to her bottom lip. The rest of him was very focused on the way her chest kept moving, like she was trying to catch her breath and couldn’t quite get there.

He loved her an absolutely ridiculous amount.

“Killian,” Emma sighed, her grip on his hips tightening.

“What, Swan?” She tried to glare when he started smirking at her, eyebrows moving quickly and hand slowing until he was barely moving. “I’m afraid I don’t know what it is you want. Exactly.”

He swiped his tongue over his lips when her eyes met his and something flashed across her face at his words. It looked like determination.

Emma Swan knew what she wanted – always.

And it might have been him.

That made it difficult for Killian to breathe.

She grabbed his hand, fingers wrapping around his wrist and yanking him forward until he was balancing on one forearm so he didn’t fall on top of her.

“Still not being very descriptive, Swan,” Killian muttered and if this was some kind of game, he was almost enjoying himself too much.

“Visual learner,” she challenged, shifting again and he didn’t care about anything outside of that apartment when his hand moved in between her legs.

Killian groaned, determined not to actually collapse and Emma squeezed her eyes shut and if he didn’t love her more than anything then it was the biggest lie he’d ever tried to tell himself.

He lost track of time at some point, far too focused on everything else and that database of sounds he was, apparently, collecting. And he might have mumbled a handful of promises in her ear, everything he’d been thinking for the last month, but had never been willing to give credence to.

She didn’t say anything back, just kept her hands on his back and fingers in his hair and when he, finally, moved again, she seemed to breathe him in and it was easy as that. It was as easy as breathing.

This made more sense than anything else ever had.

“Do you want to talk about it?” Emma asked later, head on his shoulder and arm flung over his stomach and he’d been tracing across the back of her hand without even realizing he was moving.

Killian lifted one eyebrow and she groaned, burying her face against his chest. “God, not that. Jeez.” “What do you want to talk about, Swan?” She tapped her fingers against his side for a few moments before answering and Killian couldn’t see her face, but he would have bet a fair amount of money he maybe didn’t have that she was biting her lip.

“TV,” Emma mumbled.

“No,” he said immediately and, perhaps, a bit sharper, than he’d intended. “I don’t.” “Oh.” He sighed and Emma propped her head up on her hand, staring at him expectantly and a bit more nervously than he would have wanted, all things considered. “It’s awfully greedy, don’t you think?” Killian asked and maybe this conversation would have been easier if they were in his apartment.

Home ice or whatever.

“What is?” Emma pressed.

“Wanting everything.” Her smile almost looked sad and for two people who were just a few hours away from moving on to the next round of the playoffs, this conversation had taken a decidedly negative turn. Maybe they should just start kissing some more.

That seemed like a distraction.

“That’s not true,” Emma said and there was a determination in her voice that caught Killian off guard. “No?” “No,” she repeated, shaking her head. Her hair almost hit him in the face again. “This team is...it doesn’t make any sense. You have a restaurant that you’ve claimed as your own and everyone knows everything about each other and, God, the Locksley's are going to adopt Henry. We should be featured on some sort of SportsCenter special.” “E60, definitely.” “A 30-for-30 at least. Multi-parter” Killian barked out a laugh and some of the tension that had taken up residence in his shoulders and his slightly bruised left hand dissipated at the look on her face. “You said we again,” he pointed out.

“Aren’t we? Like a mini team or something.” “As in you and me?” Killian asked, hand moving again and there were goosebumps on Emma’s arm.

“Yeah.”

“Absolutely.”

“Then no,” Emma said, smile wide and Killian would have sworn he could feel it settle into the very center of him in the middle of that bed. “That’s not greedy. You deserve this, Killian. A playoff run and a max deal and another picture on the side of the Garden. No one should have that more than you.” It wasn’t very often he didn’t know what to say – they’d been given media training after they got drafted and Killian could answer questions as easily as anything, even if he sometimes did his best to avoid him – but he wasn’t quite prepared for the certainty in Emma’s voice or the palm pressed flat against his chest like she was willing him to get her to believe him.

“Careful, Swan,” he mumbled, wrapping his hand around hers and dragging his lips over her knuckles. “That was bordering dangerously close to a compliment.” “Ah, well, maybe I’m just feeling generous. Make sure you’ve got some positive thoughts heading into a clincher.”

“I’m not going to take the TV deal.” “I know you’re not,” Emma said. “I wouldn’t expect you to.” “Why?” “Easy. You’re going to win a Stanley Cup.”

“I love you, you know that?” Emma nodded, smile still on her face and laughter ringing in his ears when he tugged her flush against him. “Weird, I wasn’t picking up on that at all.”

He kissed her and it wasn’t a distraction or even an attempt at a distraction, it was just that want he’d been talking about before and it would have been somewhere in the realm of perfect if the front door to her apartment didn’t swing open at the same time.

Emma yelped, eyes going wide and hand desperate for blankets and Mary Margaret looked like she was going to pass out.

“Oh my God,” she sputtered, face flushed and mouth hanging open. Killian laughed, but it turned into a groan when Emma smacked at his shoulder.

Mary Margaret appeared frozen.

“Jeez, Reese’s what are you doing?” Emma asked, blankets pulled up over her shoulders. “Didn’t we say noon?” “Yeah, yeah,” Mary Margaret said quickly. She was staring at the ceiling. “But it’s almost noon. I just figured…” “What?” “Shouldn’t you be at morning skate?” “I don’t have to be downtown until two,” Killian explained. “Morning skate is more mid-afternoon skate when you can clinch.” “Oh, yeah, that kind of makes sense.” “Kind of.” “Reese’s you’ve got to go back outside,” Emma implored and her face was red as well. Killian did his best not to laugh again.

“What? Why?” “Oh my God. C’mon Reese’s don’t make me actually spell it out for you.” Mary Margaret’s eyes, somehow, managed to get even wider and she nearly dropped whatever it was she was holding – what appeared to be several containers filled with food. She wavered for half a moment, eyes darting towards the refrigerator and Emma and back up to the ceiling and she nodded once before nearly sprinting out the door.

Killian laughed loudly as soon as she was gone, body shaking and Emma punched against his side. “You’re going to hurt me, Swan,” he said reasonably, grabbing her hand and grinning at her.

She huffed, falling back onto the mattress. “God,” Emma muttered. “She wasn’t supposed to be here until noon.” “Well, it is, apparently, almost noon.” “We had a schedule, though.” “Somehow I think we’ll survive. Is she just trying to feed you?”

Emma hummed, arm thrown over her face. “She thinks I’m starving. Something about having nothing in my fridge and I’ve got my own apartment, but no time to really make it mine. Just, you know, normal mom stuff.” “That’s not a bad thing, love.” “No, no, it’s not. And if she’d shown up at twelve it would have been totally fine.” “That embarrassed to have Mary Margaret see me?” Killian asked, pulling Emma’s arm away from her face. “I think she’s already aware we were doing this before.” She pressed her lips together and open book had never been more obvious. “What?”

“I wasn’t embarrassed by that.”

“What then?” “I’ve never brought anybody back,” she said quickly, refusing to meet his gaze. “I mean, you know, to my place or whatever. Reese’s did and David basically lived in our apartment in Boston and then, obviously, here. But when I was in Vancouver and LA, I didn’t do...this.” “This.” “Yeah. I had my space and they had their space and I was cool going to them, but not so much vice versa.” Words, it appeared, were becoming more and more difficult the longer Killian spent in that bed. Emma squeezed her eyes shut and made a noise in the back of her throat. “Anyway,” she said, trying to brush over his lack of response. “That’s why. She was probably just surprised you were here. We should probably get dressed though.”

She moved, half sitting up and Killian wrapped his fingers around her wrist, pulling her up short. “I’m glad I’m here,” he said and Emma’s eyes widened slightly.

“Yeah?” she whispered.

“Always.”

Emma nodded once. “Put some clothes on, Cap. We can’t afford to let Reese’s leave here totally scandalized.”

Mary Margaret hadn’t let him leave without, at least, taking ten minutes to eat and he’d have to tell El that someone else was giving her a run for her mom money. And morning skate was as easy as Killian had promised it would be, hardly anything more than taking a few shots at an empty net and Jefferson hadn’t even bothered putting on his pads.

They were going to win – Killian was certain and he was mostly just anxious for the game to be over so he could get back to his apartment or Emma’s apartment and wake up with hair in his face again.

He could hear the cheers already, the pregame noise and he shifted his weight between his skates, tapping the end of his stick on the floor.

“Relax,” Robin muttered a few feet behind him. “It’s going to be fine.” “I know,” Killian said easily, glancing over his shoulder. Robin looked the opposite of fine. “What’s the matter with you?” “Nothing.” “Locksley. You’re doing that thing with your eyes.” “That thing with my eyes?” “Yeah, like you’re trying to look in two different directions at once.” “That’s impossible.” “What’s the matter with you?” Will groaned loudly at the other end of the line and it sounded like he was hitting his stick up against the wall. “Are you two really going to do this now? Right now? They’re literally about to drop the puck.” “Well, to be fair,” Killian argued. “I have no idea what we’re doing because Locksley’s got that thing with his eyes.” “I hate that thing. It’s unnatural.” “See,” Killian said, staring at Robin and this couldn’t have been good for his neck.

Robin glared at him, but his shoulders sagged and they were, apparently, doing this right now. “You’re really ok with this?” “Clinching a first-round series? Yeah.” “That’s not what I meant.” “Be more specific then.” He took a deep breath and his gaze was heavy when it landed on Killian. “About Henry,” Robin sighed. “You’re really ok with that?” “Why wouldn’t I be?” “Cap. For real?” “Don’t blame him, Locksley,” Will shouted. “He’s been spending all that time at Emma’s apartment. His mind’s not totally focused on anything else.” “Shut up Scarlet,” Killian muttered, not looking away from Robin. “Seriously though. Why wouldn’t I be? This is a good thing.” Robin made a face. “No, no, it is. I just…” “You were running away before, Cap,” Will finished. “And you were all anti-this and all of us interfering and Locksley’s terrified his painfully adorable family is going to scare you off again.” Ah.

He really had almost fucked up everything.

Robin’s eyes were going to bore a hole in the Garden floor. “No,” Killian said. “It’s not.”

The music in the Garden was ridiculously loud and they’d already started Potvin sucks chants. It would have been impressive if Killian didn’t feel like he was waiting for something.

“We should probably buy Emma something,” Will said and it lacked his usual sarcasm. “Like a thank you or wait, what’s she always drinking? Hot chocolate, right?” “We could show up at her post-game thing,” Robin suggested and the lights at the end of the hallway were starting to flicker. They needed to get on the ice.

Killian wasn’t certain how anyone would expect him to skate after this.

“What do you think, Cap?” Will continued. “You think we’d start some sort of riot if we showed up at a fan event in midtown?” “I don’t think we’re that famous,” Killian said. He didn’t fall over when his skates hit the ice. That probably meant something. “And it’s during the game, anyway.” “Ah, well that’s dumb.” “I’ll be sure to mention that.” “Don’t be an ass.” “But you make it so easy.”

Will grumbled, skidding to a stop next to him on the blue line and Robin was still staring at him like he’d never quite seen him before – it probably had something to do with the smile practically plastered on Killian’s face at this point.

“You’re right, you know,” Robin muttered.

“About?” “This is good.” Killian didn’t answer – notes of the anthem filling the arena, but he didn’t stop smiling either.

They won.

A series sweep in the first-round and a 2-1 victory and Scarlet would probably never stop talking about his game-winner. There were cameras everywhere and reporters and phones pushed in faces, all of them a bit desperate to get thoughts on the win and who they’d face next and whether or not they heard the Penguins had won that night too.

They had. The reporters made sure they had.

“It was just all instinct,” Will said, grinning into half a dozen cameras with that stupid hat on his head and it was all so different than it had been a year before.

Killian rolled his eyes when Will kept talking about reading a defense and how he knew his shot would come if he waited for it and Robin didn’t even try and mask his laughter. “Idiot,” Killian mumbled.

“He hasn’t had a game-winner all season,” Robin reasoned. “Leave him alone.” “Sure thing, Dad.” They were definitely breaking some kind of fire code, bodies packed into the locker room and there was barely enough room to move, let alone hear anything, but it would have been impossible to mistake the voice shouting for both Killian and Robin when she marched towards them.

“Ten-hut or whatever,” Ruby said, arms already crossed like she was ready for a fight. “Time for your post-game reaction.” “We did post already, Lucas,” Robin countered.

“Fan videos. Emma’s in the hallway where it’s at least, kind of, quieter. And you guys can talk about how psyched you are for the next series and how great Scarlet’s goal was.” “I’m not talking about Scarlet’s goal,” Killian said immediately, already halfway out the door.

“Too bad. Game-winner is a game-winner. Talk about it, Cap. And, speaking of talking, any reviews on Mary Margaret’s macaroni and cheese?”

“You know gossipping is a very unattractive habit.” “Luckily you don’t have to be attracted to me. Go help your girlfriend do her job.”

Killian saluted and Ruby made a face, heels echoing behind him as he made his way down the hallway.

The team-merch from that morning was now a dress and a blazer and Killian was only vaguely frustrated by Ruby’s gaze flitting between him and Emma, that expectant smile on her face like she was about to take credit for even the idea of them being happy. Emma’s head snapped up when she heard them, eyebrows pulled low and she tugged her hair over her shoulder.

“You’re not Scarlet,” she said.

“That’s true,” Killian agreed. “Should I be?” “Well he did score the game-winner. Fans were kind of clamoring for him. You guys’ll work though. Just, you know, talk about Scarlet’s goal. That’s all people care about.” “God, don’t tell him that, he’ll never shut up about it. How’d your in-game stuff go?” “Good,” Emma said, taking a step towards him and Ruby made some kind of gagging noise when her hands pulled on the front of his shirt. “Ridiculously good actually. I think Rol’s a bad influence on Henry now, by the way.” “What, why?” “They’ve fine-tuned some kind of round-robin cheer that incorporates both the goal song and Let’s go Rangers and it’s both the most adorable and annoying thing I’ve ever heard in my entire life.” “It’s definitely annoying,” Robin muttered, feet crossed at the ankles as he leaned back against the wall. “They were practicing the entire car ride home last night.” Emma laughed softly and something felt like it stuttered in Killian’s chest or maybe in his pulse. “They going to let you go to Boston?” he asked, fingers lacing through Emma’s.

“Yeah, actually. Since it’s so close. I won’t be able to go to the Garden, which kind of sucks, but we’ll do some Rangerstown stuff when you guys are there.” “She’s been e-mailing some hotel bar since the second intermission,” Ruby added and there was no mistaking the pride in her voice.

“Second intermission, Swan?” Killian asked. “We weren’t winning yet.” She clicked her tongue. “Film your post-game thing, Jones.” “You know, love, I think this is what some people would call evading the question.” “Was there a question?” “You started making phone calls to a hotel during intermission. Before Scarlet’s game winner.” “Just being prepared,” Emma muttered, nodding towards a Rangers backdrop he hadn’t noticed before.

“Good at your job.”

“Was that a compliment, Captain?”

Her eyes flashed up to him and the smile on her face was enough to warrant turning down all those zeroes – from TV and other teams and this was the year. It had to be. Killian took a step towards her and he could feel the turn of her lips when he kissed her, hand tight on her waist as she moved her arms around his neck.

They might have been there for days or weeks and maybe they’d won the Cup already. Ruby coughed loudly and Robin laughed under his breath when they finally moved apart.

“God, don’t come to Boston, Emma,” Ruby sighed. “This is gross.” “The worst,” Emma laughed, twisting when Killian kissed the top of her head. “Come on, film your stuff and then we can go eat, I’m starving.”

The video went out to fans just a few minutes after they filmed and there were more reporter questions and desperate cries about deadlines and Killian walked out of the arena with a smile still plastered on his face and Emma’s hand tied up in his.

And it was good and perfect and everything it hadn’t been at the same time last year – or it would have been if either one of them had noticed the cameras.

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dani-ellie03 · 7 years

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Fic: Wednesday’s Child (15/?)

Title: Wednesday’s Child Summary: The next time Emma Swan wanted magical help, she was on her own. Because now they were stuck with a pint-sized savior who clearly had an attitude problem and a terrified but pretending not to be pre-pirate. Spoilers: If you’re current, we’re good. Rating/Warning: PG-13, mostly for safety. Family angst/fluff, as per usual. Disclaimer: Once Upon a Time and its characters were created by Eddy Kitsis and Adam Horowitz and are owned by ABC. I’m just borrowing them but I’ll put them back when I’m finished! Author's Note: This ended up a bit heavier than my normal fluff but it was clearly time for it because it came out on its own.

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{1} {2} {3} {4} {5} {6} {7} {8} {9} {10} {11} {12} {13} {14}

At ff.net and below.

Tagging @shealivedarnit (If anyone else wants to be tagged, let me know!)

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After a bit of soft conversation among the adults, little Robin began to fuss, which Regina took as her cue to usher her sister and her niece back to the vault. "We still have a lot of work to do," she explained, "and we were on the cusp of something before lunch. I don't want to lose that momentum."

"Of course," Charming agreed. The two magical experts losing their momentum was not high on the list of things he wanted, either.

"Thank you for letting us come over," Zelena said, her tone surprisingly sincere. "They're precious." After letting the sentiment settle for a beat, she resumed her typical teasing. "Plus, now I have the perfect blackmail pictures."

"Hard to blackmail people with pictures you've already sent everyone," Regina reminded her, rolling her eyes.

"Everyone in this house, maybe. Not everyone in Storybrooke."

Charming and Snow both swallowed snickers. Zelena wasn't going to do a single thing with those pictures except aww over them occasionally and they both knew it.

After walking the Mills ladies to the door and making sure they left safely, Charming and Snow headed back to the living room to check on their charges. Henry had engaged little Neal in a rudimentary game of catch that involved rolling a ball across the floor to each other. A surprised Snow raised her eyebrows, clearly wondering how Henry had gotten the baby to sit still that long. Now that Neal was walking, keeping him in one place for more than a few minutes at a time had become ridiculously difficult.

Evidently not wanting to interrupt the miracle happening between nephew and uncle, Snow instead ducked into the blanket fort to tend to the sleeping children. It seemed little Emma was every bit the bed hog as her adult self; she'd already vacated her own sleeping spot and had taken over half of Killian's.

His heart exploding with love, Charming watched as Snow gently guided Emma back onto her own pillow to give Killian a little more room and then spread one of the blankets padding the floor at the outer edge of the fort over them. "Sleep well, sweethearts," Snow murmured, ghosting each of their temples with a kiss.

Whether it was coincidence, Charming would never know, but both children snuggled deeper under the covers at Snow's gentle touch.

By the time Charming and Snow ducked out of the fort and stood up straight, Neal had decided he'd had enough catch. He toddled toward the blanket fort only to be scooped up by his father before he could enter. The poor baby frowned, babbled some gibberish that sounded awfully insistent, and thrust a chubby hand towards the fort.

It took Charming a beat to recognize that his son was annoyed with being thwarted. "I know you want to play with your big sister and Killian," he said, swallowing a snicker, "but they're napping now and you'd just wake them up."

Now that he didn't have a baby or two ten-year-olds to entertain, Henry begged off to read in his room upstairs. "And no, I'm not reading Bunnicula without them," he teasingly assured his grandparents.

Since Henry and the kids shoving the armchairs aside to make room for the fort meant said armchairs were free for sitting, Charming and Snow plopped down themselves to take a well-deserved breather. Snow set Neal up with some Mega Blocks on the floor at her feet where she could keep an eye on him.

For a long moment, Charming and Snow sat in comfortable silence. From his vantage point, Charming could look out onto the front yard through the window and was pleased to see the sun peeking through the remainder of the clouds. The occasional strong gust of wind and the puddles in the driveway were the only indications that a storm was raging less than an hour ago.

"Looks like Killian will be a bit calmer when he wakes up," Charming said, nodding towards the window.

Snow turned in her seat to look out the window as well. "Yes, looks like." Facing forward, she caught her husband's gaze. "Is it weird that I find it a little unsettling to see him so … hesitant? He's always so decisive and he has so much experience behind him that it's easy to forget that he was once a scared little kid, too."

"It's not weird at all," Charming assured her.

She gave him a small, grateful smile. "I just hope we're doing enough to make him feel comfortable with us."

"I hope so, too," Charming agreed honestly. "He seems to have settled in decently enough; they both have. It's just … he seems so lost. He and I talked a little bit when we were feeding the animals this morning and it's abundantly clear that he misses Liam terribly. All he wants is his brother back and Snow, that's the one thing we can't give him."

Charming had so far managed to dodge all of little Killian's questions about Liam but he wouldn't be able to dodge them forever.

"No, we can't," Snow agreed, swallowing hard as her gaze traveled to the fort where the boy in question lay sleeping. "All we can do is try to help him get through the next couple of days. When Regina and Zelena turn them back to adults, the question of Liam will be moot anyway."

Snow had a point, one that Charming strangely kept forgetting. That the children would eventually return to their adult incarnations was always there in the back of his mind but it was hard to keep that certainty in the forefront when looking at them and talking to them and worrying about them.

Almost as if she could read her husband's thoughts, Snow heaved a sigh. "I didn't expect it to be this hard."

Without even having to ask, Charming knew she was still feeling guilty about the misunderstanding that had sent Emma running. "Snow, this morning wasn't your fault."

A small but unconvincing smile tugged at her lips. "Maybe but I should have been more careful. Before yesterday we only knew the generalities of their childhoods but now we can plainly see how utterly lonely they were. It hurts to see how tentative they are, how hesitant they are to trust. The way Emma examines my face every time she asks me a question guts me, Charming."

Oh, gods, how he knew exactly what she meant. It gutted him, too.

"And it's not even just that! I miss them, the adult them. I want the Emma and Killian we know back but I also don't want to let go of the little kids in that fort." Snow finally tore her eyes from the fort, shaking her head and dropping a pained gaze to her hands. "I don't know, I'm not making any sense."

"Snow, you're making perfect sense," Charming assured her, and gods, she was. She'd just spoken of the conflict in his own heart, the conflict of adoring this opportunity to be with these children and not wanting it to end while also wishing he could have adult Emma and adult Killian back. Of wishing he had an eternity with the children while being aware of the ticking of the clock counting the seconds since he'd last seen his adult baby girl and son-in-law.

He longed to make everything sunshine and puppies and rainbows for the kids while also knowing that all the sunshine and puppies and rainbows in the world wouldn't take away the pain they'd already lived.

After a brief glance over at the fort to make sure the kids were still asleep, he murmured to Snow, "I don't want to let them go, either. These are the moments we should have had with her and I am clinging to every single one of them. I'm treasuring every second I spend with them, trying to commit every detail to memory because I don't want to lose any of it. But at the same time, I'm counting down the minutes until Regina calls us and says she's figured out how to turn them back because I miss our Emma and Killian so much it hurts."

He paused to swallow the lump that had risen in his throat and blink back the tears that had welled in his eyes. "This is hard, Snow. It's hard looking at our baby and seeing a hurt, reticent, frightened little girl looking back. It's hard looking into her eyes and seeing no recognition of who we really are to her. It's hard watching our baby learn how to trust all over again when all I want to do is just pull her into a crushing hug and never let her go. And Killian … he makes me profoundly sad. Seeing him as a little boy who just misses his brother has made me realize that he spent centuries like that. He turned to piracy after losing Liam and revenge after losing Milah and all the while, he was just a lost little boy who missed his family."

Snow tried to no avail to blink back her own tears. "I knew they both had it bad, Charming, but seeing them like this? Gods, I don't know how they survived it."

"They survived it in any way they could," Charming told her softly. "They survived it by putting up those walls of theirs. They didn't let anybody get too close because of how much it would hurt when that somebody went away."

"Such an unimaginably brutal way to grow up."

What else was there to say to that? Snow had spoken the absolute truth.

Charming again glanced over at the silent fort and smiled when he caught Emma once again infringing on poor Killian's personal space in her sleep. Once a bed hog, always a bed hog, apparently.

"Which is exactly why we're doing what we can now, Snow," Charming reminded her. "It was your idea to take this time and give them some of the happy experiences that, as is blatantly obvious, they very much need. No, it won't fix everything. It can't rewind time or change the past or keep them from feeling any of the pain they've experienced but it will help. These kids now know that someone somewhere loves them and when they turn back, if we've eased even an iota of that pain for them, it'll be worth it."

Snow took a shaky breath in and held it a moment before exhaling and drying her eyes with her index fingers. "Thank you."

"What, for telling you your idea was brilliant?" Charming teased. "You're welcome."

That thankfully got her to chuckle, which had been his intention. After taking a moment to settle her emotions, Snow cleared her throat, nodded towards the fort, and asked, "What should we do with them when they wake up?"

Charming considered their options. It was still too wet from the rain for outdoor play, though he did need to check the animals now that the storm had passed and let Wilby run around for a bit. As much as Wilby enjoyed taking care of his new lost lamb, he was typically an outside dog and was itching for the time and space to run free. Henry might be up for another round of video games but Charming wasn't sure he wanted the children to spend a second afternoon in front of the television.

The memory of making dinner with Emma the night before rose to the surface and suddenly Charming knew of the perfect activity. "Emma did ask yesterday if we could make pasta from scratch."

Since Snow enjoyed leading cooking lessons of any kind, it was not a surprise that she jumped readily aboard his train of thought. "I'm prepared for the impending mess if you are."

"The dustpan and broom will be at the ready," he chuckled. "I know Emma will pretty much be in food heaven having spaghetti twice in a row but we'll just have to make sure no one else minds."

Snow ticked family members off on her fingers as she made her way down the list. "Neal's a baby who eats what we give him, Henry's a fourteen-year-old boy who eats anything and everything as long as it's food, and Killian, even in his little state, is fine with whatever Emma is fine with. I have a funny feeling no one's going to complain."

"Well, when you put it like that," Charming said, chuckling, "I think another cooking lesson is just what the doctor ordered."

Snow let her gaze drift to the blanket fort, where her tiny daughter and son-in-law lay sleeping. Preparing dinner as a family was the perfect way to make the children feel even more at home. "Yes, I think it is, too."

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Chapter Sixteen

#ouat fic #charming family ff #cs ff #cs fic #mama snow #daddy charming #henry mills #regina mills #zelena #my fic

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rosyscorp · 7 years

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The Composite Chart & The 12th House: The Ghost At The Door

And now we come to the house that causes more furrowed brows than any other. It’s bad enough that we have difficulties with the 12th house when it involves the natal chart, but it often is downright cruel when we’re trying to negotiate it’s slippery slopes in a composite. It confuses us, as is appropriate with a house that Neptune rules. We feel it has a nebulous, yet mysteriously powerful influence on our lives when we have planets there, even though we can’t quite fathom the type of influence it wields–are we being seduced to a precipitous cliff by external forces, or are the demons within driving us to the edge? Whatever the motive, we know we are facing some sort of extreme–and a choice.

One thing is certain, and that is planets in the 12th house don’t behave like any other. The 12th house is the culmination of all that has come before it–it’s our last chance, our last ride, and planets there can often go to extremes without knowing why (they can blame it on the limitless nature of Pisces, which respects no boundaries). Planets in the 12th can behave in one of several ways. Either the energy of the planet is lost, confused, diffused and (at least in our early years) ineffective, or the planet can completely embody its archetype for all to see, often after overcoming great difficulties and reversals, sometimes in extreme circumstances. The house is famous for being the house of ‘self-undoing’, but it can also be the house where we find our fame and fortune. The twelfth house is about vocation, our divine calling, and is a very different energy from the status-oriented tenth. Fame has its roots in the 12th because that is where we can serve as an example of a prime archetype–we can embody the zeitgeist of our age. We move from the personal world, giving up our individuality along the way, to become a plaything of the collective unconscious.

What the twelfth house demands of us always is that we give the ego a rest, but often challenges regarding the ego are exactly what we have to face with twelfth house planets. We feel that our twelfth house planets don’t ‘work’ the way our other planets do, or the way that same planet seems to behave in other people’s charts. Sometimes the twelfth house energies become lost, and we create false gods from what we cannot find within us (for example, those with Leo on the 12th house cusp may worship creative expression, but not be able to find it in themselves). A recent class in assassins revealed that the victims often had many planets in the shooter’s 12th house. There is, without a doubt, an element of longing in the 12th. This is the empty space, the place where we are not like others, the place where the pieces don’t fit. And this is where we must reach out beyond our small lives to touch the greater life that is possible. Now, what to think of this powerful symbolism in the composite chart?

Like individuals with 12th house planets, couples with a lot of twelfth house may feel that there is something fated about their lives together. Something is whispering in their ears. It is not so much a question of choice, more that the universe has chosen for them to be together (at least, that’s what it feels like). It’s a bit like getting knocked off your feet by a powerful wave–you and your partner are going to have to swim in the tide for a while, and deal with whatever watery beasties swim your way. I”ve seen couples with a heavy 12th house influence utterly befuddled and bedazzled by their lives (which don’t go the way their friends’ lives go). It isn’t that they’re unhappy–no, they seem to go more the extreme of bliss altering with despair. On the one hand “We are meant to be…” on the other, “But if we are, why is it so hard?”

When a couple has planets, or an important planet, in the 12th, it can go a couple of ways. One, that planet’s energy can be confused and diffused in their lives, especially when in difficult aspect to other things in the composite. You don’t want, on the whole, a composite Mars in the 12th square to Neptune, unless you are missionaries or you plan to open up a swimming pool installation company. It usually indicates that there is something karmic surrounding that planet that needs fixing–it is, in a prior life, something that was missed or misused between them. It’s the last chance to get it right, and there will be a struggle to use this planet’s positive expression easily. In contrast, couples who come together to create something for the collective often have the appropriate planets in the composite 12th, there for all to see. (One expression does not contra-indicate the other.)

This ‘last chance’ element, sadly, often leads us to relationships that are destined to exist only to fix this thing–when the lesson is learned, both these people move on. It often indicates couples who seem to have a lot of shared experience and shared history–even if they are new to one another, it feels ‘old.’ They recognize one another when they meet. They seem bonded before a word is spoken. We romanticize all of this (and well, a little romance never hurt anyone) but the truth is that this familiarity is there to ‘hurry up’ the bonding process so that the lessons and the challenges can be quickly assimilated. These are the couples who are magnetically attracted to one another and who, after making the necessary commitments, find themselves on strange and unfamiliar territory.

Couples where the 12th is strong can often experience–well, let’s say it–Neptunian weirdness. Telepathy, visiting one another out of body, lucid dreaming where they communicate with one another, strange psychic links and melding of the two energetic bodies. (You can have this without the 12th of course, but the 12th is inclined to it.) This can happen in composites of unrequited love, where one person loves another who doesn’t know he or she exists. Now, you can either say it’s karma, or you can say that person A is psychologically hooking onto the archetype formed with person B’s chart, but whatever it is, it can be a very powerful pull. I’m not quick to say its an illusion, but it’s not quite ‘real’ either, and you can get into some dangerous territory in the 12th by telling yourself things that aren’t really true. The weirdness of the 12th usually happens when one or both of the other parties has a heavy 12th influence in the natal.

Again, sadly, this being the 12th, most of the time the lesson is learning to love and then let go. Neptune’s great teaching is that love is a powerful force in and of itself, and should not be used as a binder. Neptune, as the higher octave of Venus, is all about connections, and the 12th house allows us to dissolve the boundaries of ordinary life in order to reach out beyond our mundane reality. Those of us with composite 12th emphasized will be asked to step away from the mundane and step into the world of the extraordinary, where unlikely connections are day to day things. Sometimes we will be asked to make leaps of faith. Oftentimes, once we surrender to the powers of the 12th house, our lives are transformed by meaning, because those unlikely connections have brought us a wisdom beyond our time together. Eventually, we learn that life is not as random as we thought, but full of purpose and meaning. It may have felt like chaos, but later on we know that there was method to the madness.

Couples with a heavy 12th house/ 6th house polarity have to find a way to put their wisdom to some practical use. It often helps to work together on projects they find meaningful, or to spend some time doing community or charity work. Once they have hammered out their imbalance (too little, too much is often a theme with the 12th) they must find a way to make something real of their inspiration. Find a way to bring the god down to the day to day world, so that it, too, is considered sacred. It’s a huge task, but often one the 12th house couple is uniquely suited for.

You may now be more confused about the 12th house than you were at the beginning of this piece, but such is the nature of the 12th, beautiful and terrible. We are fated, but we are meant to part. We have a meaningful journey to take together, but we must ultimately be alone. Our lives are silly and sublime at once. We have the ultimate intimacy side by side with the knowledge of ultimate separateness. We grasp for the handrail, and find nothing to hold on to. We fall, and find the world.

 (source)

#this is really interesting u guys should read! :)#mine #composite #12th house #Neptune #composite chart

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thorne93 · 7 years

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Not What You Thought It Was (Part 2)

Prompt: What happens when Victor Frankenstein and an electrician’s assistant meet? History.

Word Count: 2633

Warnings: Spoilers, if you have NOT seen Victor Frankenstein and want to - TURN BACK. Maybe language. gore, etc.

Notes: This took me forever to write, and for that, I’m angry. But thanks to @queendivaofthedark I finally got it. Also, this is based on the 2015 Victor Frankenstein with James McAvoy and Daniel Radcliffe

Tagging: @cocosierra94

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Life with Igor and Victor became a rather easy routine. Within two weeks, you and Victor had extracted every organ from the animal, and even added others, and Igor had given life to them. When Victor was at school though, and Igor reading in his small study, you went to work at the electrician's.

And your sole focus wasn’t simply the experiment with Victor, either. You had a few small projects of your own regarding electricity, building all sorts of small to medium contraptions.

Finally, Gordon was ready. The first time he was given life, you ran to Victor and kissed him hard, throwing your legs around him. He cheered happily and kissed you back. You and Victor had tested the electricity to him once and he started to breathe, then the charge would get lost, but it was progress. The night it worked, you both agreed to show Igor just what his work had accomplished. But before that, a celebration was to be had for the achievement.

You and Victor got ready in your room as Igor dressed in his. Victor picked out a satin royal purple gown for you and you quickly got ready in it. As quickly as one could with stockings, petticoats, and a corset. You let your hair fall down in tight ringlets, with the top part sweeping back up out of your face. Matching your gown, you had some fine jewelry of a deep amethyst necklace that smattered over your collarbone with chandelier earrings. You put on some petite black lace gloves and you were ready. Victor of course wore his greatest finery and grabbed a cane as you met Igor in the middle of the flat and set out.

“Where are we going?” Igor asked.

“We’re going to a club that I have rights to thanks to my father.”

“Oh, I’m not sure I’m cut out for this,” Igor said, suddenly nervous.

“Nonsense, Igor, you’ll be fine,” you said sweetly.

“All you need to do is keep your back straight, your words clean, and try your damndest not to embarrass me,” Victor said.

You all entered and quickly joined in on the festivities. You all sat with a group of ladies as Victor started to talk about how women weren’t needed for the fertilization process. Talking of babies in vats, and sperm, and thinks not exactly suitable for his status. The women seemed disgusted by the notion and Igor embarrassed. You were used to his outbursts though and thought nothing of it

Obviously, Victor had started to drink too much, as he could in social settings. Well, he could drink quite a bit no matter where he was. You left him for a bit to go dancing as Igor went off by himself as well.

Suddenly, Victor had gotten louder and you broke your dance to calm him down but he said he wanted to find Igor. He immediately found him upstairs with a girl. You jogged to keep up with him.

“He finds ordinary people--” Igor was saying.

“Ordinary,” he finished as he slid between the two. “You’re the fallen angel,” Victor noted. “Plummeted from any other great heights lately? Maybe you should try this one. It's only, oh...all of 30 feet,” he said as he leaned over. “You've had worse.” He laughed and you groaned internally at him. He could be a downright ass when he was drunk, but you remained quiet.

“I'm afraid the only thing plummeting here is my opinion of you, Mr. Frankenschteen.”

“Excuse you,” you spoke up, a fire lit inside you. “That’s my fiance you’re speaking of.”

“Well your fiance is being incredibly rude to me.”

“My fiance saved your bloody life,” you said as you moved forward toward her.

“No, Igor did,” she argued.

“Victor did,” you asserted, your eyes burning with irritation. “It’s not his fault you failed to execute your act as an acrobat.”

“I beg your pardon,” she said, offended as if you just slapped her.

You narrowed your eyes on her but Victor pulled you back. “Alright dear, that’s enough defending me. Would you care to join us?” he asked the girl that you were rapidly growing to hate. You wanted to turn and slap him for inviting her. She joined you down at your table and he began to explain his experiment.

Now, of course, I can't tell you everything, but suffice it to say...Igor and I stand upon the cusp of...creating life out of death,” he informed as he animatedly spoke, reminding you of why you loved him.

Mr. Frankenstein,” she started.

Victor, please.”

“I find your promise more than a little unsettling.”

“Oh? Superstitious, are we?” He glanced at you and winked and you tried to hide your knowing smile.

She slightly shook her head. “No. Are you not afraid to challenge the natural order?”

You scoffed as Victor asked for Igor’s opinion.

Igor hesitantly answered her. “Once, I would have agreed with you, Lorelei, but think about it. Twenty years ago, electric lights would have been thought of as magic. Your injuries in the circus would have been fatal. Everyday science and technology changes the way we live our lives. Look at me.”

“Precisely,” you agreed. “Igor speaks the truth. Science is ever changing.”

“Oh, and I suppose a lady would know all about science?” she challenged, her eyes steely on yours.

“As a matter of fact, not all of us parade around in nothing to earn a living. I am a scientist.”

“Oh? So you are in on this lunacy as well. You’re as deranged as your fiance.”

“Have you ever lost anyone?” you suddenly asked.

She took a moment to respond before shaking her dark curls. “No.”

“No, I didn’t think so. And that’s why you don’t understand. Because if you did lose someone, you would understand why research such as ours is groundbreaking and life changing.” Your jaw set as your eyes stayed on hers with a strong conviction.

Victor went on to explain your shared dream of healing the dead. Where victims can face their murderers, where soldier’s can be brought back to life. He did a small demonstration with his card trick and then you all left for the evening.

“Igor, you shouldn’t see her again,” Victor instructed. You agreed by nodding.

“What? Why? She’s kind to me.”

“She’s uneducated. She lives in the dark ages,” you explained, picking up your skirts.

“But…” Igor started to object.

You spun on your heel and stood before Igor. “But nothing. Igor, that girl was incredibly rude to all of us. To mainly Victor, who need I remind you, saved her life and yours.” You’d defended and protected Victor far too much to let some half-wit girl from the circus tarnish his name, reputation, or assistant.

“Yes but…”

“Come, we have something to show you. It’s our monster. Our creation,” you promised with a wicked gleam in your eye.

----------------------

The next day, you helped Victor and Igor get Gordon loaded and over to the college for the demonstration.

“Oh, darling, I’m so excited!” you almost squealed, sitting in your skirts in the carriage. “If only I didn’t have to wear all of this garb,” you complained with a pout. Victor leaned over and kissed you.

“Not for much longer, my love. We will be the most wanted scientists in all of Europe and you can wear any damned thing you want!” he howled and stamped his cane.

“Do they know what we’re bringing?” Igor asked.

“No, merely that it’s a private project,” Victor answered. “But soon enough, the world will know what we’ve created.” He turned to you and said, “Darling, I want you to check out the electrical equipment, if you don’t mind.”

“I’d love to,” you said with a beaming smile.

Victor and Igor worked on getting Gordon into the hall, unbothered, while you checked the power units, tested them, and calibrated them.

“They’re ready, my love,” you quietly informed as you stepped up behind Victor.

“Excellent, thank you.” Victor had started his speech and you and Igor primed the dynamo for him. Once it was ready, he charged him and the only thing that happened was an awful smell filled the room as well as flies exploding from the exposed orifices of the homunculus. The patrons that were watching seemed disgusted, and started to leave.

You’d been hopeful, of course, but what if this monstrosity was not what you thought it would be? What if it was just an empty shell of nothingness? What if this housed a breathing being, but not life? What then?

“Wait, don’t go. Y/N, more. Harder,” Victor instructed. You ran and cranked the wattage and voltage and told him it was ready. On three, you shocked him again, but nothing happened. In the midst of the failure, a young blonde man was cracking jokes at your team’s expense. At your fiance’s expense.

“Full charge, you two!” Victor shouted when the spectators started to leave. You primed it and when he was ready, you hit the lever. He was knocked back and Gordon had life. You checked on Victor but he was entirely fixated on the monster. “Do you see?” he asked, his mouth nearly foaming. Gordon sat up, he seemed calm at first, but then he started to turn. He attacked everyone and slammed Victor back into the machines.

“Victor!” you screamed as you ran to him.

“Not me! I’m fine! Go after him! Don’t let him escape!” he shouted at you as Igor was already on the way out the door. You debated for a second more but joined Igor in the hunt for the thing. Finally, you found him, and he was entirely rabid. He had pushed Igor over the banister when Victor found them quarreling. You were trying to knock Gordon off and help Igor over the side, but when Victor came out, he was more concerned with Gordon.

“Victor, help me! Not the monster!” you instructed, agitated.

Once he got him off, you and Igor both yelled, “Kill it, Victor!”

He seemed to hesitate, but then he knocked him out and killed him.

--------------

You were all home, you’d taken off your false skirts and stood in breeches, vest, undershirt, and riding boots. Igor and Victor had started a screaming match while you made a pot of tea.

“It was out of control!” Igor shouted.

“We made progress today!” Victor retorted.

“Yes, we did, love, but at what cost?” you asked. You’d been quiet while they argued but he was becoming out of control himself.

“It was homicidal!” Igor said again.

“I had no way of knowing that Gordon would do that,” he countered.

“We know that, darling,” you agreed as you rubbed your hand on his arm. “But perhaps...perhaps it wasn’t meant to be,” you tried.

“What are you saying?” he asked, yanking away from you. “You want to throw away years of our work for one failed first attempt?”

“No..” You turned to Igor. “Igor, please. It was one bad apple. That doesn’t mean the next one will be like that.”

“The next one?” he scoffed. “Have you gone completely mad? We can’t make another one. No.”

Suddenly, the blonde student--who’d been quietly observing the fight with you--had spoken up and was lavishing Victor in compliments as you stood with your arms crossed. He asked if you could create more. Victor said he could if he had more money, to which the boy, Finnigan agreed.

“More.”

“A man. A thinking, intelligent being.”

Soon, talk of building a human being took place and Finnigan said he wanted another demonstration once it was done. They bickered a bit more and soon as the door closed behind Finnigan, Victor turned on Igor viciously.

“You did not create this technology and yet you presume to tell me how to use it. You should know your place! Your ignorance of the ways of the world cannot hinder the furtherment of my experimentation.”

Victor, don’t shout at him. Maybe he’s right,” you tried as you stepped forward.

“Oh, so now you’re siding with him?” he asked savagely as he pointed at Igor.

“I’m merely saying that this time was a bit of a disaster, why do you think a human will be better?”

“Because he’ll be civilized!” he shouted as if it was obvious. “You fail to understand this! I thought you wanted this! I thought you wanted this as much as I did!”

“I do, but perhaps we should try another animal before we try to build an entire man,” you tried. “We couldn’t control a chimp, how can we control a man?”

He got closer to you and Igor and darkly said, “That man represents our only ally on this planet. And if he wants us to make him an entire zoo of homunculi, that is exactly what we will do. If it ensures the furtherment of our research. Am I making myself clear?” Neither of you responded and he raised his voice, making you both jump. “Am I making myself clear?!”

“Yes, Victor,” Igor said, as if he’d had the fight beaten out of him.

“Victor, please, this isn’t rational,” you tried as you started to race after him.

“Leave me be!” he shouted as he opened the door to the basement and descended. You sighed and spun to face Igor.

“Don’t mind him. He’s a bit of a mad scientist. Someone threatens his work and he goes entirely bonkers,” you joked, trying to make light of what you knew was a very serious situation.

“Why is he like this? Why is he so determined to do this?” Igor inquired.

You bit your lip, not sure you should share something so intimately private. But you decided to divulge. You led Igor to a sitting area in the flat.

“When Victor was little...He and his brother went out into a wintery storm. A blizzard had come up, they had no way of knowing. Henry had kept Victor safe, but when they found them in the morning, Henry had died. He blames himself, of course.” You smiled sadly and tried to keep the tears back. “So...he feels like he has to put the balance back.”

“And you?” Igor questioned as he dipped his head down to look at you. “Why do you go along with it?”

“He isn’t the only one who’s lost someone,” you informed, your eyes meeting his, another sad smile playing at your lips. “My sister Margaret, died of scarlet fever.”

“That wasn’t your fault.”

“No, but I would like her back.”

“But...this...what we’re doing. It’s clearly not bringing them back to how they should be,” Igor argued.

You leaned forward and put your hand on his face, gently stroking down. “My dear, you’ve never lost anyone either, have you? If you had, you would know you’d give up anything to have them back. So maybe Gordon didn’t work...But that doesn’t mean we should stop trying. No one’s experiments work the first time.”

“Yes, but, do you honestly believe bringing your sister back that she’ll be the same?”

“I don’t know. I just have to hope. Science gives us miracles every day. Gordon was a mish-mash of parts that weren’t his. Applying the same science to a human who’s already whole, might be a different result.”

Igor didn’t say anything for a moment.

“I know it sounds mad. I know.” You hesitated for a second. “So you see, he’s not mad. Merely heartbroken. Our broken hearts is what kindred us too each other. But if it could happen, think of how happy we could make people.”

“Or how scared. I think very few people would agree with this,” he said softly.

“Well...you did,” you reminded him.

#not what you thought it was #victor frankenstein #igor #victor frankenstein fic #james mcavoy fic #victor frankenstein x reader #james mcavoy

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thisdiscontentedwinter · 7 years

Text

bound by the wolf

So, all that talk of alpha/emissary bonds the other day produced this weird little thing:

Emissary Stiles Stilinski returns to Beacon Hills to find that the Hale pack has been destroyed, except for Derek Hale.

Stiles Stilinski arrives back in Beacon Hills the week before his sixteenth birthday.

He is late.

His father picks him up from the bus station, and Stiles hugs him tiredly and tries not to notice how much older he looks. It’s been five years since Stiles saw him last. Five years since the family convinced John Stilinski that a trip to Poland was just what Stiles needed to get over his mother’s death, and just what John needed to sort himself out. Stiles remembers packing for a few weeks, but it’s been five years.

His dad no longer smells like whiskey.

He no longer smells like home either.

Stiles stares out the window of his dad’s cruiser at the familiar streets of Beacon Hills. Familiar, but somehow brand new. Things aren’t exactly how he remembers them. Sometime in the last five years his memories have faded, have cracked around the edges. They’re flawed. They’re false in entirely unimportant ways that make Stiles worry that maybe none of his memories can be trusted, and that everything he’s ever thought he knows is build on a shifting foundation of sand.

The fire hydrant is on the other side of the intersection than he remembers. The book store has a red awning, not a blue one. The house at the end of the street has two stories, not one. Tiny things, but a ball of anxiety sits heavily in his stomach. How can this be home when it didn’t even stick in his memory right?

How can this be home when Stiles knows he speaks with a slight accent now? When sometimes the first word he thinks is Polish, not English. How can this be home when his dad steals glances at him like he’s a stranger?

Stiles is a stranger, and he is set on a stranger path than his dad could possibly know.

The house is the same as Stiles remembers, but the dimensions have shrunk. Stiles was ten when he packed a bag and went with his babcia.

It was only supposed to be for a few weeks.

“You remember the way to your room, right?” his dad asks him. His voice sounds like it’s close to cracking.

“Yeah. Thanks.” Stiles lifts his suitcase and carries up the stairs.

He passes through the ghost of a little boy dragging his the other way, thump thump thump all the way down.

***

His room belongs to a ten-year-old boy. His old clothes have been cleaned out, but everything else is still here. Stiles wonders if that’s for his benefit. Did his dad really think this day would come, or could he just not bring himself to throw anything away?

Did he ever really dare to imagine Stiles was coming home until Stiles called last week?

There is a Lego robot on the shelf. Stiles picks it up and holds it in his hands. He stares at it for a while, trying to remember how to play with it, and then sets it down again beside the framed photograph of his mom.

***

Dinner is awkward. His dad asks about his flight, and Stiles tells him about his two-hour layover in Frankfurt, and how it was a long flight from there but he was lucky enough not to have anyone in the middle seat. His dad doesn’t ask about Poland, or about the family there.

Stiles doesn’t ask why his dad never tried to come and get him.

He goes to bed early, claiming jetlag.

He doesn’t sleep well.

***

Stiles walks to school on his first day, and resolves to get a driver’s license as soon as he can. He wonders if his mom’s old Jeep is still in the garage. He wonders if he can even bring himself to ask his dad if he can have it. He’s not sure he has that sort of claim to his dad’s affection anymore.

School is school. It’s startlingly different than school in Opoczno was, while at the same time depressingly similar. Stiles finds himself struggling for his first few lessons. He has to train his brain to be receptive to learning in English again. Most of the kids give him curious looks when the teachers announce the newest student and then proceed to stumble the fuck over his name.

“It’s Stiles,” Stiles tells them. “It’s just Stiles.”

“Oh thank God,” one of his teachers says. It’s the one with the crazy eyes who wants to be called Cupcake. “Because it looks to me like your parents just painted you in treacle and let you roll around in a Scrabble set.”

And Stiles gets the Scrabble set thing. But treacle? What the hell is that about?

Finstock is definitely going to be his favorite teacher. He’s too weird not to be.

There’s a boy at the next desk who chews his pen and wrinkles his forehead at his textbook and looks quietly panicked when Finstock starts talking about an upcoming quiz. Stiles is almost certain he’s a werewolf.

He’s probably even in the Hale pack.

Stiles doesn’t tell him who he is.

That’s not the way this thing works.

Stiles hasn’t even finished his compendium yet.

***

A compendium is kind of like a résumé, and kind of like a bill of sale.

This is all the shit I know.

This is what you’re getting.

It’s yours now.

I’m yours.

Stiles’s is dedicated to Laura Hale.

***

Stiles finishes his compendium a few nights before his sixteenth birthday.

Stiles doesn’t like to do the math.

Stiles is sixteen in three days. Laura Hale is—he thinks—ten years older than him.

It’s not ideal.

But neither of them have any say in it. This was decided before either of them were born.

***

“Hey, kiddo,” his dad says, leaning in the doorway. He’s wearing an expression that’s caught between hope and fear.

“Hey, Dad.” Stiles closes his compendium and drums his fingers lightly over the leather cover. Stiles went hunting with his Uncle Bogdan to kill the wolf himself. His Babcia showed him how to skin it. He learned how to make the cover for his hand-stitched book, and how to carve runes from the bones.

A wolf for a wolf, Babcia said.

It was also a symbol, Stiles thought.

Everything I know, everything I am, and it is bound by the wolf.

But maybe that’s not what the wolfskin leather means at all.

But maybe it’s as simple as I will kill other wolves for you. Here’s my proof.

“It’s your birthday on Monday,” his dad says. “Anything you want to do?”

“Oh,” Stiles says, and blinks. His mind is a blank. “Um.”

“I thought you might want to catch a movie or something after school,” his dad says. “Or we could pick up some burgers and a new video game?”

Those are the exact things Stiles would have loved to do if he was still ten. Of course, he kind of still wants to do them so it’s hard to resent his dad even a little bit for still treating him like the kid he was. Apparently the ghost of that kid is still haunting this place, and he’s slipped back into Stiles’s body and has burrowed deep in his bones. It would be so easy to give voice to him again.

So easy.

“That’d be cool,” Stiles says, chewing his lower lip for a moment. “Could we get In-N-Out? I haven’t had an In-N-Out cheeseburger in forever.”

His dad gives him a shaky smile. His eyes are shining. He clears his throat. “I think we can arrange that, son.” And then, like he’s afraid if he stays too long that his presence will shatter something between them, he backs away. “Goodnight, Stiles.”

It wasn’t your fault, Dad.

It wasn’t true.

I lied to you.

Stiles’s throat aches too much to make his voice much louder than a whisper. “Goodnight, Dad.”

***

Beacon Hills feels wild at night, like it’s been built on the cusp of a storm about to break. Stiles sits in front of his open window and listens to the howling wind.

***

On Friday afternoon Stiles lines up at the DMV with his dad beside him.

“You’d think your uniform would get us to the front of the line at least,” Stiles says.

His dad snorts.

***

On the day of his sixteenth birthday, Stiles skips school. He shoves his compendium in his backpack, picks up the keys to his mom’s old blue Jeep, and navigates his way out toward the Preserve using a combination of his childhood memories and Google maps.

He’s nervous. His sweaty palms slip on the steering wheel more than once, and his heart is beating too fast.

This is what he trained for though.

This is what he came back for.

He’s sixteen today, and he has his compendium, and he knows the ritual.

Stiles follows the curve of the road through the Preserve. The trees crowd the road, and Stiles drives slower than he needs to, because he’s not used to driving yet and because there’s a part of him that really doesn’t want to get there any quicker.

When he rounds the final curve, Stiles slams on the brakes and gasps in shock.

What the fuck?

The Hale house is a burned-out shell.

***

The kid smells like ink and anxiety. Derek watches him from the trees as he approaches the house, his red flannel shirt flapping in the wind behind him. He’s pale and slim. His movements are jerky and sharp. He stares at the house, mouth open and eyes wide, and curls his fingers around the straps of his backpack.

And then he climbs back into his Jeep and drives away.

***

Stiles can’t just ask his dad for all the details, because how’s he going to explain why he needs to know?

Oh, yeah, Dad. By the way, I come from a long line of emissaries on Mom’s side, and we’re totally supposed to get bonded to werewolves when we turn sixteen. And since Mom really dropped the ball on that since she came here and met you, everyone’s kind of relying on me not to fuck it up.

He says, instead, “I went out to the Preserve. What happened to the Hale house?”

His dad tells him about the fire, and Stiles knows, okay? He knows that a pack of werewolves don’t get taken out by a goddamn electrical fault but he nods and makes a sympathetic humming noise and tries not to let his dad see the flash of horror in his eyes.

What the hell happened?

***

The next day at school Stiles introduces himself to the werewolf kid in his economics class, and gets invited to sit with him at lunch.

“So, like this might be really insensitive,” Stiles says over his tater tots, “but are you affiliated with the Hales?”

Scott McCall’s jaw drops. “Um, what?” He tries for a casual laugh, which really doesn’t fly at all. He’s terrible at lying. “Why would you ask that?”

“Well, I figured your family is either a part of their pack, like some second-cousins or whatever who inherited the place, or you’re a part of the pack that killed them and took their territory.”

Scott’s eyes get very big. “Wh-what?”

“I know you’re a werewolf,” Stiles tells him, keeping his voice low. “If power’s shifted, that’s cool. I’m not looking to start anything with your alpha. I’m just trying to get the lay of the land, okay? Because last I heard, Beacon Hills belonged to the Hales.”

“Hunters killed them,” Scott says in an undertone.

Oh god.

“All of them?” Stiles asks in a hoarse whisper.

“Yeah,” Scott says, and then blinks. “Well, except for Derek.”

***

Laura Hale is buried in the cemetery with the rest of her pack. Peter Hale is in a coma in the hospital, and Derek Hale… Derek Hale is living in an abandoned railway depot, according to Scott.

It’s all very confusing.

Scott is an omega, he doesn’t know what happened to Laura, there’s some unknown feral alpha roaming the town, and everything is a mess.

Stiles goes to the railway depot.

He doesn’t know if Derek Hale is there or not. Maybe the noises he hears are the rats in the walls, or the possums in roof. Maybe it’s the wind again, howling in the absence of the wolves.

Stiles takes his compendium out of his backpack, and squints around in the gloom. “My name is Stiles Stilinski. My mother was Claudia Kozłowa. I was supposed to bond with Laura Hale, because she would one day become the alpha and I would be her emissary. I don’t know…”

His voice trails off.

He doesn’t know what he’s supposed to do now.

***

That night Stiles has a frantic conversation in Polish with his babcia, his voice strained with anxiety. When he turns around he catches his dad staring at him, his face drawn.

No, he wants to say. No, I’m home now. This isn’t what you think it is.

But his dad barely speaks a few words of Polish—certainly not enough to correctly interpret Stiles’s rising panic—and he is already moving away from Stiles, heading for the kitchen and putting space between them again.

He doesn’t say anything.

Stiles goes to bed early.

***

When Stiles was ten, he learned that magic was real and that he was magic.

He learned that werewolves were real and that one day he would bond with one.

When Stiles was ten, Babcia didn’t go into details about that.

When Stiles was ten, he learned that magic was a secret and that he couldn’t tell anyone about it. And he learned that magic had a price.

When Stiles was ten he choked down his tears when he spoke to his dad on the phone.

“I don’t want to come home,” he said, the lie threatening to shatter him into a million pieces. “I don’t want to come home because you drink too much and you frighten me!”

Never true.

Not ever.

Stiles was never scared of his dad. Scared for him maybe.

And he wanted so much to come home.

***

Stiles is drawn to the Preserve when the night is dark and the canopy of the trees waves above him like the surface of the ocean. The woods are wild on nights like these, and Stiles is as restless as the wind in the leaves. He is drawn to the Hale house, to the blackened bones that stand in the clearing, to the charnel ground.

It’s there that the wolf falls into step beside him.

“You’re late,” Derek Hale says.

“Yeah,” Stiles says, tearing his gaze away from the burned-out remains of the house. “Sorry.”

Derek Hale is pale in the moonlight, all angles and sharp edges that are hardly softened by the moonlight at all. He is the only member of the Hale pack left in Beacon Hills. Well, apart from the catatonic uncle.

Stiles knows what he has to do. He knew it even before he checked with Babcia.

“I—” Stiles’s heart skips a beat. “My name is Stiles Stilinski. My mother was Claudia Kozłowa. I have completed my compendium, and I offer it—”

“Go away, kid,” Derek Hale says, and curls the corner of his mouth in a snarl. “I’m not interested. There’s no Hale alpha anymore. There’s no Hale pack. Get the hell out of here and leave me alone.”

Stiles retreats.

***

Beacon Hills is wild at night.

There is no Hale alpha and there is no Hale pack, but there is an alpha.

A hulking beast of an alpha, caught in some twisted, corrupted form that is a mockery of both wolf and man, and its red eyes flash as it lopes alongside the Jeep.

Stiles grips the steering wheel tightly and drives as fast as he dares.

***

The boy is the sheriff’s son. Derek follows his scent to the sheriff’s house. The old blue Jeep is parked in the driveway. There are claw marks on the rear fender.

***

Stiles opens his compendium and looks at the name inside the front cover: Laura Hale. He crosses it out.

***

“You’re a very troubled young man, Bilinski,” Finstock tells him when he hands back his assignment.

It was supposed to be on economics.

Instead, Stiles wrote five thousand words on male circumcision.

He still gets a B+.

“Very troubled,” Finstock repeats.

Yeah. Finstock doesn’t know the half of it.

***

There are deaths. There are late night phone calls to the Stilinski house. There’s Stiles’s dad’s sigh as he dresses again, the dull thunk of the gun safe being closed after his dad gets his firearm, and the click of door being locked behind him. Minutes after that there’s the sound of the cruiser’s engine turning over.

In the morning there’s a note on the fridge.

Had to go into work – Dad.

Stiles traces his dad’s handwriting with his finger, and imagines that there is still love behind those words, when maybe there is nothing at all.

***

The Hale house draws him. Stiles circles it in his mind, swept closer and closer with every rotation, a piece of debris pulled in by the maelstrom. He is haunted by the destruction, frustrated to find his own future in ashes too, and a secret part of him aches for the pack he never knew. He wants to spit in the eye of the universe for this. For the last five years he’s spent learning, for the father he pushed away, for everything he’s already sacrificed because he was born to be the Hale emissary… so fuck the universe.

Fuck it.

All those hours, his hand cramping as he wrote out his compendium, and Laura Hale’s pack was already dead. And then so was Laura, before Stiles even set foot back in America. Stiles doesn’t know who the punch line of this sick joke is: him or the Hales.

Stiles is drawn to the Hale house.

He leaves footprints in the dew-damp grass as he circles the remains of the house in the night. The woods are encroaching on the house. What was once the lawn is overgrown now, and saplings grow in place of blades of grass. The stars are very bright out here, and Stiles tilts his head like a sharp-eyed bird and picks out the constellations.

Mountain ash trickles from his fingers like an afterthought.

The alpha growls, eyes flashing red.

It is a beast. It is monstrous.

Stiles extends his hand, turns, and encircles himself with ash.

“You can huff and puff all you want, alpha,” Stiles tells the beast. “I don’t belong to you.”

The beast growls again.

“I was promised to the Hales,” Stiles tells it. “The Hales.”

The beast roars.

***

The boy smells of fear when he enters the depot, but he doesn’t falter.

“Derek Hale? The alpha’s after me. I need your help.”

He holds his leather-bound book up, and turns so that he shows it to every dark corner of the place.

Then he sets it down on the floor and waits.

***

“Jesus fuck,” Stile says when Derek Hale’s teeth break the skin of his wrist. Derek’s not an alpha, so it won’t turn him—the main reason most emissaries are bound to betas before they become alphas of their packs. There are other ways to ensure immunity to the bite, because the system isn’t perfect and sometimes an alpha bonds to an emissary post-alphahood if their previous emissary dies, or if there was no emissary available before now, but those methods of ensuring immunity are apparently incredibly fucking painful. Not the only reason Stiles has chosen to bond with Derek Hale over the feral alpha, but he won’t pretend he didn’t factor it in. Although this right here? This fangs tearing into soft, bloody flesh? Yeah, this here hurts like hell too.

Derek holds his wrist and lifts his bloody mouth away long enough to inspect the wound. Then he ducks his head again, and licks the wound.

“So,” Stiles says, his voice ragged with unshed tears, “we’re bonded. I no longer have a feral alpha on my ass, and you have yourself an emissary.”

Derek’s expression is hard to read. It’s customarily hostile, but there’s also a vulnerability to it that can only come from being a pack animal completely bereft of pack.

Bad timing.

If Stiles had been here…

He curls his fingers, brushes the tips of them against Derek’s jaw as Derek licks the wound again.

Derek meets his gaze.

“So,” Stiles says, drawing a deep breath, “what do we do now?”

***

A bond is a shifting, mutable thing. It will take a while to settle. It will take a while for Stiles to sink into all of Derek’s grief and guilt and misery and anger and remember how to breathe.

God.

His tears sting when he cries for the pack he never got to meet, but whose loss he feels acutely through the bond.

He wonders if it works the other way.

Will Derek get to mourn two dead moms now?

Is that the gift Stiles has given him?

***

“Stiles.” There’s heartbreak in his dad’s eyes.

Stiles sets his homework aside and resists the urge to squirm.

His dad steps inside his room. “We need to talk, son. I know…” He clears his throat. “I know you’re not happy here, but—”

“No, Dad, I—”

His dad steps forward, and grabs Stiles’s sleeve. Tugs his arm up, shoves the sleeve of the hoodie back to expose the dressing on his wrist that Stiles thought he’d hidden so fucking well.

“It’s a dog bite!” Stiles blurts. He pulls his wrist back, and unfastens the clasp holding the dressing closed. He starts to unwrap it. “It’s just a dog bite, Dad!”

His dad looks torn between relief and horror as Stiles exposes his wound. “Oh, Jesus, kid. Did you go to the hospital? What if it was rabid?”

“It’s fine,” Stiles says. “Dad, it’s fine.”

“Jesus, I thought…” His dad straightens up, drags his fingers through his hair.

“Dad,” Stiles says. He stands up. “I wouldn’t do that. I wanted to come home. I’m sorry I didn’t come sooner. I missed you.”

And suddenly they’re hugging, and Stiles is crying and his thinks his dad is too, and he’s ten years old again, and he’s sixteen, and he’s every age in between, every day when he squares his shoulders and swears not to let his hurt show, every night when he cries into his pillow because he misses his dad so badly, and it’s a different sort of pain than missing his mom, and some days it hurts even more than his mom dying, because his dad is alive, his dad is right there in Beacon Hills, but Stiles isn’t allowed to go home yet.

“Proszę, Babcia! Proszę!”

It was an unfair burden to put on a child.

It’s still an unfair burden.

“I missed you,” he repeats, and his tears choke him.

“God,” his dad says, voice muffled somewhere in Stiles’s hair. “I missed you too, kid. Missed you so much.”

***

The bond wraps around him like the coils of a boa, and squeezes. Stiles tries to sleep and can’t. He’s restless. Too cold, and then too warm. He can’t find a comfortable position. The patterns the moonlight makes on his wall and ceiling are distracting.

There is a wolf lurking around the edges of Stiles’s consciousness now. A silent, brooding presence in the corner of his mind. Watchful.

Stiles bares his throat to the wolf, and then he bares his teeth.

Stiles is as deadly as a wolf, in his own way.

***

Stiles wants the alpha dead.

Stiles lays a trail with his spark, and follows it through the darkness.

It leads him to the hospital.

It leads him to a man who tilts his head on an angle and smiles and says, “You must be Stiles.”

It’s Peter Hale.

***

Fire is cruel. Fire cracks Derek’s veneer too. Peter Hale’s skin blisters and burns and melts like plastic, and Derek watches, jaw clenched so tight it’s trembling. Stiles wonders what he sees. He wonders if he sees the man that Peter was as the rest burns away under the flames.

There’s a saying, isn’t there, about cleansing the world with fire?

Except fire isn’t clean at all.

“Derek!” Stiles reaches out and grips him by the wrist. “You have to end him!”

Because Scott is here too—it feels like half the fucking school is, actually, it’s a total mess—and Scott has this crazy idea that if he kills there werewolf who made him, he can become human again. Stiles can’t let that happen.

“Do it!” Stiles screams at him, and Derek steps forward.

He swipes his claws through Peter’s throat.

When he turns around, his eyes are red. “I’m the alpha now.”

For the first time since coming back to Beacon Hills, Stiles feels something inside him settle into place.

***

Stiles has burned as many bridges as he’s built. The friends he almost made at school keep their distance now. Scott wears a look of betrayal whenever he glances at Stiles. His dad has noticed how many nights he’s not at home, and his hurt is morphing slowly into suspicion. Even Derek, who holds the echo of Stiles’s heartbeat in his own ribcage, growls at him when he goes to the depot after school.

“You planned it.”

“I planned for you to kill the alpha,” Stiles says, lifting his chin. “I didn’t know it was your uncle at first.”

Derek folds his arms over his chest. “And when did you know?”

“Why does it matter?” Stiles asks.

“Because he was pack!”

“He killed your sister. You had every right to kill him.”

“That wasn’t your decision to make!”

Stiles snorts. “Someone had to!”

Derek’s eyes flash. “Get out.”

Stiles’s stomach clenches. “What?”

“Get out.” Derek shakes his head. “Take your fucking book, and get out.”

***

Nobody told Stiles what would happen if his alpha rejected him after they had bonded. It feels like he’s swallowed razors. Stiles lies curled up on his bed, whimpering in pain, with his compendium open in front of him, and his cellphone clutched in his hand.

It hurts.

Everything hurts.

He closes his stinging eyes. When he opens them again, he flails back. Derek is standing beside his bed, scowling.

“You’re hurting.”

“Fucking bond,” Stiles mutters.

Derek sits down on the edge of his bed, and puts a hand on his shoulder. A wave of relief rolls over Stiles, lifts him, and carries him. He shivers, and closes his eyes again.

“You crossed Laura’s name out,” Derek says.

Stiles opens his eyes again. “Yeah.”

Derek meets his gaze. “You wrote mine in.”

Stiles nods.

“You chose me.”

Stiles nods again. “I mean, it was you or a feral alpha, so.” He shrugs.

Is that a smile from Derek Hale? That has to be a sign of the impending apocalypse.

“But also,” Stiles says, “I’m going to choose you in the future too. Just so you know.”

He wonders when the last time was that someone chose Derek Hale. When someone looked at him and judged him worthy.

“You don’t even know me.”

“Not yet,” Stiles says. “But I’m going to.”

***

Beacon Hills is quiet at night. The wind whispers through the trees in the Preserve, gentle and soft. Stiles closes his eyes when Derek runs, and follows the glittering string of the bond in his mind. His wolf is strong and fast.

Stiles sits in front of his open window, and leafs through his compendium.

Everything I know, everything I am, and it is bound by the wolf.

The compendium says many things in many languages. It also says unwritten things:

This is all the shit I know.

This is what you’re getting.

It’s yours now.

I’m yours.

It says: I will kill other wolves for you. Here’s my proof.

Stiles crossed out Laura’s name once, and wrote in Derek’s.

I’m yours.

You can read it on AO3 as well!

#teen wolf #fanfic #sterek #alpha/emissary

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