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olivia-anderson-fanfic · 2 years

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Canary, Part 45

First

Marinette flinched awake when something cold and wet touched her forehead, but the movements were painful and sluggish and there was something heavy on her stomach so she didn’t get very far anyways. A hand grabbed her shoulder and pushed her back into place and her addled mind thought this was bad, bad, BAD but the punch she sent to the person’s shoulder was weak.

The person sighed deeply, and she faintly recognized the exasperated sound, before removing their hand and pressing the cold thing to her forehead again.

Now that Marinette was slightly more alert, she realized it was a wet towel.

Maybe they were going to waterboard her?

But, considering the circumstances and the fact that they had let go of her when asked (however impolite said request had been), she figured it was more likely that they were trying to help her.

Her eyelids felt like they weighed thousands of tons, but she forced them open and oh, it could get worse. For a moment her vision didn’t even seem to exist, only giving her a blackened and empty world, but then she blinked a few times and everything whirled back into color so quickly her head hurt.

Emma pushed herself off of Marinette’s stomach. “How’re you feeling?” she asked, and her voice was slightly off, there was a bit more of a drawl to her words.

Her eyebrows pinched until her mind processed that this was what she sounded like when speaking in French.

“I think death would be nicer,” Marinette croaked. She tried to turn over in bed, because her current spot was drenched with sweat, but all that did was make her consider the pros and cons of throwing up. (Pros: fuck. Cons: fuuuuuck.) She opted not to and let herself fall right back into place.

Her eyes narrowed into slits where they watched the ceiling, but it was hard to tell if she was glaring or just unable to keep her eyes open properly anymore.

“You’re so dramatic,” Emma teased lightly.

Marinette’s eyes narrowed even more. Or maybe she was just taking a very long blink. Who knew.

Something settled on top of her shoulder and she blinked over at Tikki.

Her lips pulled into a scowl. “It’s today, isn’t it?”

“Sorry, Marinette,” said Tikki, reaching out to pat her cheek as if that made up for the fact that the kwami’s very existence meant that Marinette had to go through the worst pain of her life every five years. It did not. The fact that Tikki granted her invulnerability to almost anything, however, did. So, she softened her cold look and forced herself to start trying to sit up.

Adrien was sitting on the other end of the bed, hugging a trash bin in his lap. His hair hung limp around his face like a mop and his skin was paler than she had ever seen it. When you added in the large white shirt he wore, he looked like a ghost.

Death would be nicer, she had said.

She glanced down at his blue-tinted lips and then worked at flexing her stiff fingers.

Death would not be nicer, because they were dead. Every five years the kwamis would have to recharge, which meant that all of the powers and abilities they granted their holders disappeared, and that left their holders in a sticky situation – for Marinette and Adrien had endured far too much to still be alive. Marinette was worse off… the multiple poisoning attempts, constant fighting, and disregard for her own health meant that her kwami had saved her quite a lot of what she had originally assumed were ‘close calls’ before Jonathan’s research proved otherwise. Adrien had spent a decent amount of time holed up trying to find her, and therefore was just suffering from the many normal bouts of sickness that Plagg had been kind enough to get rid of (and maybe the stab wound Talon had so lovingly provided three weeks prior, but who hadn’t been stabbed at least once?).

And Marinette knew that this was much better than the alternative, but that didn’t mean she liked what was going on. It was kind of inconvenient, being dead.

Still, they were lucky. If Emma had been checking for breathing or a pulse, she would have likely called a morgue before they had been able to wake up.

“Hey, look, the bug’s awake,” said Plagg.

She blinked at the kwami that was currently riding the fan like a merry-go-round. How dare he enjoy himself while they were dying – dead – over here?

She stuck her tongue out.

Plagg returned the gesture before swinging the fan around faster.

Marinette rolled her eyes. You’d think that billions of years of life would make someone mature, but here Plagg was, playing with a fan of all things.

She turned to look for Adrien again so he could share her exasperation.

His eyes were dazed and she was pretty sure he hadn’t even noticed the rapid movement above their heads, but he tried for a smile when he saw she was looking.

She flipped him off. No reason, really, she was just suffering and wanted to take it out on him. She was going to follow this gesture with a joke that he was bad luck to soften the blow (she wasn’t that mean) but the sudden movement made her vision spin and she quickly found herself on the floor. Karma, probably.

Emma leaned over the bed, frowning. “Are you okay?”

“I meant to do that,” Marinette informed her.

Adrien huffed. “She’s fine.”

She made a mental note to punch him when she got up from the floor. But that would not be for a while, both because the floor was pleasantly cold and her body currently wasn’t all that intent on responding to her.

Emma sighed and slipped out of bed. “Now that you two are awake… Ara and I have work to get to. I’ve called the bats to help you, they should be getting here soon. Try not to kill each other in the ten minutes before they get here.”

“If I killed him you would never be able to prove it was me.”

“I don’t like murder.”

Emma rolled her eyes. “You’re both exhausting.”

With that, Emma was out the door.

Marinette waited a few minutes before reluctantly rolling herself to her feet. It did nothing to help the fact that her stomach was rolling around within her, but she didn’t care as she stumbled her way into the bathroom.

She could hear Adrien give a small groan before the bed creaked and he must have spilled out of bed because there was a series of dull thuds.

She didn’t wait for him, instead she started a bath.

The door swung wider as Adrien crashed into it. She barely even bothered to glance up, and even then it was only to make sure he didn’t crash into her next.

“What’re you doing?”

“Drowning myself, obviously,” she said sarcastically.

He didn’t seem to catch on to the sarcasm. “We aren’t breathing right now.”

She turned and gave him an exasperated look.

It seemed to click in his mind that joking was a thing and he forced a laugh. “Oh. Duh. Right. Baths. I’ll…wait for everyone to show up, then.”

Marinette waved him off and then climbed into the cold water, fully clothed. It wasn’t that bad, to be honest. She had certainly dealt with worse before. It was better than taking a dip in Gotham Harbor to quickly get blood off. She wasn’t wearing socks, wet socks are the worst.

She closed her eyes.

It was strange, being dead. This was only her third time experiencing it… she wasn’t used to it. She didn’t appreciate it.

It didn’t make sense, not really. Her skin was burning and yet bodies were always uncomfortably cold to the touch. She could talk but didn’t breathe. Sweat soaked her skin and bile churned in her stomach but her physical processes shouldn’t be working. It was all strange and distinctly wrong and she didn’t appreciate not understanding things.

Jonathan would have a field day if he found out about this, she thought idly.

Her eyes opened slowly when she felt something touch her nose and she found herself submerged in the water. Disgust curled under her skin. Even if she knew that she couldn’t be any more dead than she was in that moment, the idea of drowning didn’t sit that well with her.

She forced herself to sit up more. Tikki floated away, carried by the tiny waves her movement caused in the water. Marinette reached over and picked her up, reminded strangely of the little bath toys that her mom had given her to play with when she was a baby.

The door to the bedroom banged open, pulling her from her thoughts. She laid low in the water again, her eyes narrowing.

There was no screaming, but that wasn’t a safe thing to rely upon.

Tikki zipped into hiding and Marinette dislodged the knife in her mouth.

The door to the bathroom opened with just as much fervor.

And, standing in the doorframe was Edward Nygma. His eyes were wild and his grip on his cane was tight and she couldn’t help but be reminded of the day she met him. But, instead of pointing a gun at her, he lowered the cane to lean on it heavily and said in clumsy French:

“Oh, you’re safe. Good. Okay.”

His shoulders slumped a little with relief, and then he turned his head to say something else. Marinette didn’t catch much of it, the language he spoke wasn’t something she knew naturally and Tikki’s help with foreign languages was noticeably absent when she was dead.

But she did catch a name: Jon.

Jonathan practically materialized in the doorway. He was holding Adrien in his arms like he was a baby and not a fully grown adult. Like Edward, his eyes were alight as he stood in the doorway, but instead of the anger that had twisted Edward’s expression, Jonathan seemed delighted.

“Adrien has informed me of… something interesting.”

It’s too early for this. That’s what Duke had been thinking for the past hour.

His day had started out perfectly fine and then it quickly nosedived the moment he set his eyes on two Rogues… which was typical.

What was less typical, however, was that the Rogues were outside his house.

Duke paused, gripping the strap of his backpack tighter, and, briefly, considered turning right back around. His early-morning class had been rough, and he was set to start patrols soon… but then they caught sight of him and all hopes of a normal (or, rather, ‘normal’, because his normal is far removed from everyone else’s) day flew out the window.

He stood perfectly still as they approached, as if they were T-rexes and standing still enough would stop them from noticing the kid wearing a bright red flannel that was about three sizes too big. But they were quick to make their way over.

Duke looked between Edward Nygma and Jonathan Crane warily.

“Am I being kidnapped?” he asked, keeping his tone conversational.

Jonathan waved him off. “Probably not.”

Duke wasn’t fond of the ‘probably’ or the strange glint in the man’s eyes... but at least it was better than a ‘yes.’ He nodded. “Cool. What can I do for you two?”

“Where are my babies?” Edward asked. His tone was sarcastic. The way he eyed Duke as if he could find his ‘babies’ hidden in his pockets was… less sarcastic.

“Um… inside,” said Duke carefully, pretty sure he was missing something. “We’re not supposed to be letting people in, though.”

Jonathan sighed. “First of all, why do you think that would stop us?”

Fair point.

“Second of all!” said Edward. “We just want to make sure they’re okay.”

“... If you’re scared my dad is going to adopt them, I don’t think he’s going to,” Duke said. He was careful to avoid saying that Bruce would never do so, because he couldn’t promise that, but he doubted that Bruce would ever be able to beat Edward and Jonathan if it ever came to a custody battle.

(Also, Duke was pretty sure that Tim would have a couple complaints about it.)

“You little –.”

Jonathan sighed and elbowed… (his co-parent?) Edward. “I don’t think he knows.”

“‘Knows’?” Repeated Duke, his lips tugging dowards in a frown. He pulled out his phone and checked his messages…

Ah. It seems that Marinette and Adrien had gotten ill.

He looked between the two men. ‘First of all, why do you think that would stop us?’ Jonathan had said. He considered this for a moment.

Well, at least he got to leave for patrols in an hour.

He sent a quick text to his family to warn them – not because he thought they had left any of their vigilante gear out, they weren’t stupid enough to do that when Canary was around, just because he figured they might need to prepare themselves – before letting them inside.

Ten minutes later, the Waynes had two doors off their hinges, two very sick metas, and two Rogues threatening a colony of very tired bats.

Batman looked more tired than Duke had ever seen him, which was insane considering Duke couldn’t even see the top half of his face with the cowl on. “You can not take them. The Court is after them. They’re safest here.”

“Yeah, because they clearly haven’t been poisoned,” snapped Edward.

“‘M fine,” said Adrien. But the fact that he was slurring his words and speaking between dry heaves made for quite a few skeptics.

Marinette curled tighter in the coat that Jonathan had dropped on top of her within about five seconds of seeing her. Duke had thought it kind of rude, but she seemed rather happy to string shaky arms through the holes and bury her face in it. Now, she barely lifted her head so her voice wouldn’t be muffled: “Not poisoned, poison doesn’t work on us, remember?”

Jason crossed his arms over his chest. Gesticulating wasn’t something he did much when out of the mask, but when you’re wearing a face covering it’s necessary to have overdramatic body language to get your point across. “So you two just so happened to get sick for the first time in years on the exact same day.”

“... yes. Listen, it’s a meta thing.”

That might have explained why Jonathan looked like he was about five minutes away from bursting into confetti… but Duke called bullshit.

“Signal is fine,” Jason said for him, because Duke hadn’t been able to slip away to change and therefore couldn’t do it himself.

“Good for him, he got a better deal,” said Marinette, scowling. “I’m not lying. It’s in my best interest not to right now. In case those ugly white domino lenses have finally made you go blind: I’m kinda sick right now, and I want it to stop.”

A good point, he supposed.

“I mean, your identity would be at risk if you gave them a sample of your DNA,” Jonathan pointed out.

Only for Duke to shrug and say: “Everyone here already knows who she is.”

It was silent for a moment.

And then Duke learned, very quickly, that not everyone knew who she was.

Jonathan and Edward turned on her in perfect unison. “THEY WHAT?!”

Marinette was not pouty, no matter what her friends might say. No, even if she scowled at the ground and drew Jonathan’s jacket tighter around herself when her two kind of adoptive dads insisted on testing her vitals to make sure she was okay, it wasn’t a petty thing. She had just… been cold. She was sick. That was believable.

And, listen, she knew that they weren’t the type to betray her. She was paranoid, she knew, but she wasn’t stupid. If they had wanted to betray her they would have done it already.

But, even knowing all this, she couldn’t help but remember the last time a Rogue had figured out her identity. She couldn’t help but think about how they had been almost worryingly quick to kill off Gabriel Agreste – they had only known Adrien for around a month at that point.

She reminded herself that Riddler and Scarecrow both wanted to adopt Canary, and that they (probably) knew that killing her parents wasn’t the best way to go about that if they didn’t want her to immediately go to Batman purely to spite them.

Marinette rested her nose in the collar of the jacket she had been given. She was pretty sure that Jonathan sprayed his clothes with extra cologne right before he headed out to see her, and it was appreciated. It was nice to have clothes that smelled like her friends on her bad days, it meant she could pretend that she was wrapped up in their arms without any of the hassle of being touched.

And god did she need a ‘hug’ right then. She really couldn’t think of a way to play off any of the information that was about to be revealed. Jonathan and Edward would figure out who she actually was, and the bats might just realize that her body was strange in the same way that Adrien’s was.

She squinted over at the bats that were currently there. Batman and Hood. Maybe she could get them to fight? But she was pretty sure that Red Robin was supposed to be showing up sometime soon, too…

Marinette blinked and offered her arm when prompted by Edward, her gaze slipping away from the bats to the lab equipment that the bats had provided for them to test the two miraculous holders for poison.

A cuff wrapped around her arm and she flinched. Ah. They were checking blood pressure. That wasn’t going to be good.

She kept her gaze determinedly away from the analytics that blared that no pulse could be found, instead focusing on the way Alfred Pennyworth’s wrinkles seemed to deepen as he stared at the screen, both aware of what this meant and uncomprehending of what he was seeing.

“... huh,” said Edward quietly. He moved on to Adrien, and found the same results. He scratched his head.

Marinette rolled her eyes. “As you can see, we’re fine –.”

“Literally the opposite of what that screen right there says,” Red Hood snarked.

“And our physiology is too weird for you humans, so can we please go back to suffering in our room?”

“No,” snapped Jonathan, and he was met by six eyes rolling skyward courtesy of Marinette, Edward, and Adrien. He forced himself to pull back a facade of calm. “I mean… we have to figure out what’s wrong with you, right?”

“But M’lady and I already know,” Adrien said, his lips parting in a sigh that didn’t exist.

“Would you please share with the class, then?” Duke said, apparently choosing to channel his professors in the wake of information that simply shouldn’t be.

Marinette pressed her lips together thinly, thinking.

Adrien held no such reservations: “Basically, the gods that sponsor us are having an off day. So, we have to go through all the stuff we were supposed to experience in the five years since their last break.”

It was silent for a moment.

“Us?” Repeated Batman.

The moment they were alive again, Marinette was going to murder Adrien.

She forced herself to pull a facade of calm (it was better than Jonathan’s, he was practically vibrating out of his skin, but there was a slight tremor in her hands that she couldn’t seem to stop) and turned to look at Adrien. “I’m surprised you’re like this –.” She carefully avoided using the word ‘dead’ aloud. “– when you’ve been behind a computer for the last few years.”

“Mas –... Fu wanted me to check out the League of Assassins, because their whole ‘Lazarus Pit’ thing was ungodly or whatever.”

“Got that right,” said Red Hood, raising a hand in an imaginary toast. He didn’t seem all that perturbed by this new information, or maybe he hadn’t processed anything weird, but she couldn’t really tell because of that stupid helmet.

Marinette smiled. “Oh, you’ve met the League, too?”

“I think ‘met’ is being polite about it.”

“Clearly.” She motioned to the… everything about his current state. “Who got sent after you? Couldn’t have been ‘Lady’, you’re okay-ish, so… just a random grunt? Lame.”

“‘Lady’?” Repeated Adrien, raising an eyebrow.

“Uh… the head guy’s daughter. She won’t tell me her name.”

“Oh. Lady Talia.”

Talia… Al Ghul… Something itched at the back of her mind and she frowned, contemplating this. She swore she had read that name somewhere but her head pounded too much to make sense of such a vague warning. She squeezed her eyes shut, trying to concentrate…

Duke pinched the bridge of his nose. “You two have the same kind of meta powers?”

She snapped back to attention. Shit. Distraction hadn’t worked. Not that she had thought it would – at least not for long – but she still didn’t have much of an excuse.

“I mean, yeah, if we’re looking for miraculous holders obviously I have to be able to protect myself,” Marinette said, rolling her eyes. “I’m a temp holder.”

Batman grunted in disbelief.

Marinette’s shoulders slumped. Yeah, she hadn’t really thought that would work.

She glanced over at Adrien and smacked him over the back of the head. “I’m going to curse you to never speak again.”

“Owwwwww,” he complained quietly, resting his forehead on the rim of the cold puke bucket that he refused to let go of. “I don’t get why you’re even scared. It’s not like they’re going to shout it to the world or anything.”

“But it’s an advantage that I’ve lost.”

“Because you totally would have used it at some point,” Adrien snarked, lifting his head to stick his tongue out at her.

She scowled and hit him over the head again just so she could watch him hit his head on the rim of his bucket. “Besides, outing people is wrong, y’know.”

He rolled his eyes and opened his mouth to respond.

Only to be cut off by a new, slightly perturbed voice that said, “Outing you? You’ve been out as bi since you got pushed off a roof because you were too busy staring at Ivy…”

She glanced over at Red Robin. He was standing in the doorway with a confused look. She mirrored it – not because she didn’t understand, but because she thought it would be funny to let the misunderstanding continue.

“Unless you’re coming out as…” He searched for the French word, but couldn’t seem to find it. “... asexual,” Red Robin said after a couple of moments of thought. “That would have been messed up of him to do.”

Marinette’s eyebrows knit, now.

She turned to Adrien. His English was limited, but it was far better than hers.

He seemed to be thinking, too… and then he snapped his fingers. “Oh! Like some plants do! They can reproduce without having a partner.”

“Sounds like something Emma would do,” Marinette mused.

Adrien nodded.

… it seems they were wrong, though. Jonathan looked embarrassed on their behalf (rude), and Duke’s shoulders were shaking with silent laughter (ruder), and Red Hood was outright pointing and laughing (rudest). Batman, as always, wore a serious look. Red Robin, it seemed, was the only person on their side.

(Edward was still concentrating on the screen in front of him. Which was good, Marinette would never hear the end of it if he found out she didn’t know something.)

After a couple of moments, Red Hood explained for them: “Asexuality is when your sex drive is lower than average. What that means depends on who you’re talking about. Sometimes it’s a straight up repulsion to sex, sometimes it’s just a lower sex drive, sometimes it means you don’t care either way and will go with what your partner wants, sometimes it’s not being attracted until you know the person well… there’s also aromanticism, which is the same thing but for romance… being aromantic doesn’t mean you’re asexual and vice versa…” He gave a tiny chuckle. “It’s complicated and confusing, but when is attraction not?”

Marinette stared for a couple of seconds before cringing. “I’d… rather not...”

“That’s fine,” Red Robin said quickly. “We don’t have to talk about that.”

She’d rather not think about it either. She’d never really stopped to consider whether her repulsion to sex was natural or not, she had just assumed it was due to Chat Blanc and mentally let the subject drop. She didn’t want to wonder, nor was she sure whether it even mattered if it was because of that. She didn’t know how to ask, either. Did she even want to know?

Red Robin floundered for a while before bringing them back on subject: “Wait, if you’re not coming out as ace, then what did you mean by ‘outing’?”

Duke and Marinette both winced, though she had no clue why Duke was wincing.

“She is a miraculous holder,” Batman explained shortly.

“Probably Ladybug,” added Red Hood. “Chaton versus M’lady… add on the fact that she’s the only old holder that hasn’t been identified – outside of Chat Noir, but…” He motioned vaguely to Adrien. “... yeah – so that’s all that’s left.”

Red Robin’s face lit up, however. “I got to go and brag to Signal that I was right, I’ll be back soon.”

Marinette wanted to question him on what he meant by the words ‘I was right’, because that implied he had somehow known… but Red Robin was already rushing out, pulling a phone from his utility belt as he went.

Duke sighed lightly and pinched the bridge of his nose. He pulled out his phone and checked the time. “I gotta go work on a project, so I’m gonna take my leave. Also, you guys raise my blood pressure and I want to live past 30.”

That was fair. Marinette and Adrien waved him off, however weakly.

A couple of moments passed in relative silence. Marinette closed her eyes and leaned back. She felt Tikki zip out of her pocket to come sit on her lap and gave the kwami a couple of short pats on the head before allowing her mind to drift.

“There is no poison!” Edward loudly declared after an indeterminate amount of time, and that was the moment everyone in the room remembered that he only spoke a little bit of French.

Jonathan rested a hand on Edward’s shoulder, which would have been a nice gesture if the other hand wasn’t stifling laughter (poorly). “Oh honey… we are so far past that…”

Tim walked back in just in time to see Marinette and Adrien having a fistfight on the floor.

“Uh… should I come back later?” He asked, glancing over at Jason.

Jason shrugged. “They’re fighting over the puke bucket.”

“Get them another one.”

Bruce grunted and tapped his foot against the second bucket that lay on the floor, perfectly pristine.

“... oh. So, it’s just a normal sibling fight?” He asked, just to clarify.

Marinette and Adrien stopped, which was probably a good thing because Marinette’s hands were closed around Adrien’s neck.

“We are not siblings,” they snapped in unison.

Their gazes turned on each other again and their scowls deepened.

They were back to fighting. Well, that was short-lived.

Tim glanced over at Jonathan and Edward, who were still looking over the results with interest.

“Are you two… going to do something about your kids fighting?”

“Nah,” Jonathan waved him off.

Edward shrugged. “The fighting is good for them, it builds character.”

Tim frowned and watched Adrien twist Marinette’s head to an angle that definitely wasn’t good for her. “They’re trying to kill each other. Like… actually kill each other.”

“It’s fine, they’re already dead,” Jonathan said absently.

Tim’s eyebrows knit together. He glanced at Jason for an explanation, who signed the words ‘I’ll explain later’. He sighed.

“I’ll get Marinette, you get Adrien?”

Jason shrugged.

Tim grabbed Marinette by the back of her coat and Jason hooked his arms around Adrien’s stomach and they yanked the pair apart. Adrien huffed and crossed his arms, Marinette went limp.

The two brothers glanced at each other. They really hadn’t thought they would just… let this happen.

He looked down at his respective miraculous holder and sighed. “I’ll take her to go play video games in the living room or something until she feels better, she doesn’t seem like she needs to puke as much. You should probably just set Adrien in their bathroom and watch him.”

Jason shrugged and shouldered Adrien.

Tim dropped Marinette and she seemed rather calm now that Adrien was no longer in the room. She did sway a little on her feet, though, and Tim considered grabbing the nearest chair. “What do you want to do?”

“I can take care of myself, Red,” she huffed.

“I know, but you don’t have to,” Tim shrugged.

She rolled her eyes just slightly, some color returning to her remarkably pale face. “Video games are fine, I guess.”

He allowed her to lead him through the house, his hands clasped together behind his back to make sure he didn’t try and catch her if she swayed too much. As much he wanted to sling one of her arms over his shoulders – or to just pick her up and carry her – he figured it was probably a bad idea. Between the illness and the sudden questioning of her sexuality (he felt kind of bad about that) there was no way she was going to be comfortable with touching at the moment.

They collapsed on the couch – Marinette, admittedly, with much less grace – and he fished out some controllers from the cabinet marked ‘consoles’. He then turned to the wide catalog of games.

“What do you want to play?”

She gave him a blank look.

He thought for a moment. She had enjoyed Animal Crossing, and Cass and Damian had mentioned her liking Minecraft well enough, so relaxing games were good… but she had also liked Undertale and its characters…

He found Stardew Valley and handed her a controller.

He grabbed one for himself and then, after struggling to sit on the couch between his wings (Marinette had ‘lovingly’ called them ‘showgirl wings’ and he was about five seconds away from removing them from his costume) and the bo staff strapped to his back.

She settled, moving the jacket so it was draped over her like a blanket. “Didn’t know you played video games.”

“When I get the time,” he said quietly.

“Awwww, look at that, Red Robin does have a personality hidden under all that boring.”

“I’m going to leave.”

“Nooooo, the Waynes don’t let me use their stuff without permission because they think I’ll steal – I probably would but that’s not the point here – so I need someone else to get in trouble with me.”

He rolled his eyes even though he knew she couldn’t see it behind his domino. “I’m honored.”

“You should be. Not everyone gets to get in trouble with me,” she said, batting her eyelashes even as a smirk played across the rest of her face.

A grin tugged at his own lips. “Yeah, they get to take the fall for you instead.”

“See? You get it.”

“Can we please leave the customization menu?” Red Robin asked after she had spent ten minutes finding the worst color combinations possible.

“No.”

“We love an anticapitalist game.”

“It’s more anti-corporation,” Red Robin corrected absently. “Money is still important.”

“Anticapitalist.”

“Okay.”

“That rock is so tiny the game should just let me jump it.”

“It doesn’t work like that, you have to mine it.”

“No. It’s offended me. I’m leaving it there.”

“It’s offended you so you don’t want to hit it into oblivion?”

“Exactly.”

“He really can do only three things before passing out.”

“Mood.”

“Dibs on Abigail,” said Red Robin.

Marinette rolled her eyes. “You can't have ‘dibs’ on a person, you don’t own people.”

“Abigail is a game character, not a real person… and I just did.”

“This is sexism.”

“Oh, hush.”

“I would die for Maru.”

“You can marry her.”

“Fucking nice. Dibs.”

~~~

Yummmmmm: Canary is sick, I will ask her to impart some wisdom upon us

TheBetterCanary: nif e

DeadHood: She has spoken.

~~~~~

@jayjayspixiepop @unoriginalmess @miraculousfanfic127 @probably-a-hologram @iloontjeboontje @mystery-5-5 @flyhighdreamer @starlit-dreaming @aespades @lowhangingtreebranches @twsssmlmaa @queenz-z @patton-ly-absurd @miraculous-mystery

#some kind of bug #i hope you all know im so proud of this pun #as i am with all my puns #especially the bad ones #like this one <3 #also if dc gets to be fucky with timelines then so do i :) as a treat #also because im bad at math #canary #maribat #timinette #shutterbug #timari #timmari #marinette dupain cheng #ladybug #red robin #tim drake

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eloxino · 6 months

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I really don’t think doing the ‘right’ things and making ‘good’ decisions is in my nature. I can force myself to for a decent amount t of time and I’m fairly successful at it, but without a shadow of a doubt some consuming desperate feeling to do the opposite will always creep back up on me. It’s as if I have a natural instinct to destroy myself.

Although the older I get the more of a mess it leaves so the periods of doing ‘good’ last much longer than they used to. I’m not a bad person, I don’t have the urge to hurt other people, just myself and I don’t even mean in the physical sense anymore. I guess I just find life painfully boring without some sort of chaos. Like ‘wow you’re doing really well in your career imagine if you just…threw it away. What would you find next?’ Or ‘wow that person is really in love with you and will treat you so well…why would you want that imagine if you just said you didn’t love them even if you did?’

Like really what’s the worse that could happen if I just told my job I won’t be around for a bit and disappeared and took lots of ecstasy and met new people and just vanished? I really don’t believe life is as fickle as we perceive it to be sometimes. It always somehow leaves people upset though.

I’m not sure if my body is just trying to enter a manic phase or if I’m just bored. I wish I knew why I get so manic because maybe I could just take a pill that stops it and allows me to continue living a normal boring life. Going to work, getting my wage, being kind and logical, eating healthy, sleeping well, paying bills…why do I want this lol. I don’t.

But then I’m also scared because the comedown from drugs makes me so suicidal and anxious and it’s been so long maybe I’d die lmao. Idk

I am so fucking bored of being normal

#personal

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drabbles-mc · 2 years

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Double or Nothing

Horacio Carrillo x F!Reader

Request by Anon: would you pls consider jealous Horacio??

Warnings: language, alcohol, Carrillo being a jealous lil dude

Word Count: 4.5k

A/N: I think I have been staring at this for far too long and I’ve made myself start to dislike it.😅 However that being said, the thought of Carrillo being jealous pre-relationship because he likes you but is too much of a chicken to tell you but also hates the idea of anyone else having you?? That track slaps every time. Plus, you know I love to pepper in a little Javi for chaos purposes.

Narcos Taglist: @thesandbeneathmytoes @garbinge @bruxasolta @winchestershiresauce @sizzlingcloudmentality @alm0501 @panagiasikelia @616wilsons @hauntedforsst @mirabee @buckybarneshairpullingkink (If you want to be added to the taglist, let me know!)

He could feel the tic in his jaw, the way his fingers involuntarily clenched into a fist at his side. His shoulders tensed and the more he tried to ignore the burning feeling growing in the back of his mind, the worse it became. And it only got worse when he thought about the fact that he had no right to feel how he was feeling, no right for him to have such a visceral reaction to the scene playing out in front of him.

You weren’t even doing anything wrong.

Before leaving work earlier that night, you’d mentioned to Carrillo in passing that a group of you from the embassy were all going out for drinks at a new bar that was only a few blocks away, a place that was supposed to have good drinks and a decent amount of space for a dancefloor. It was evident that he wasn’t super sold on the idea of spending extra time with a bunch of people from the embassy, but you told him that Javier was going to be there, along with Steve and Connie, and of course yourself.

You gave him a shrug, “Might be good for you to come out and have a little fun, hm?” you flashed him a smile before walking towards the door, “Think about it.”

The only reason he thought about it was because the smile you gave him nearly knocked the wind out of his lungs. The two of you had never really had a chance to talk to each other outside of work, the closest you’d gotten was when both of you stayed late and walked out to your cars at the same time. Even then, the conversations were short and he never pried about much, not wanting to say the wrong thing. He didn’t know what it was about you that made him so nervous, because he wasn’t one to second-guess himself. It wasn’t like you set out to make him nervous, either—you’d never been anything but kind, and professional. He didn’t know what it was.

Or, at least, that’s what he’d been able to tell himself until he walked into the bar and saw you talking and laughing with someone else. He didn’t have any room to lie to himself anymore, to plead ignorance about his own feelings.

He was about to turn around and walk right back out again. No one would’ve known that he even showed up in the first place, and he could just say that he hadn’t felt like going. And it’d have the added benefit of not putting him in the position of having to watch some other asshole from the embassy flirt with you.

He didn’t turn around quick enough, though, because Javier locked eyes with him before he could try to disappear back out the door. He waved his arm above his head, a smile on his face at the fact that Carrillo had actually showed up to something besides a raid or a mandatory meeting.

Swallowing his pride, Carrillo took a deep breath and made his way over to the end of the bar where everyone from the embassy was gathered. He managed to stay out of your line of sight, making a direct line over to Murphy and Peña. It wasn’t that he didn’t want to talk to you, but he hadn’t prepared himself for the onslaught of feelings he experienced when he saw you laughing and playfully bumping your shoulder against that of the man next to you.

Javier gave him a friendly pat on the back, “Guess I owe your girl there a round,” he shook his head with a laugh, “I bet her that there was no way you were gonna show up.”

Carrillo chuckled, trying not to stare at you, “You should be used to buying drinks for women at this point, Javier,” he paused, attempting to keep his expression and tone neutral as he asked, “New kid?” he nodded towards the man standing next to you.

Javier nodded before taking a sip of his whiskey, “Yea. He’s on the legal team with her—started a week or so ago I think. His name is…fuck. Steve, what’s his name?”

Steve shook his head, laughing at the fact that Javier seemed to have a conveniently selective memory when it came to whose names he remembered, “David.”

Carrillo clenched his jaw. Fuck David.

Javier nodded, “That’s right. Yea. They’re two peas in a goddamn pod now,” he chuckled.

Steve saw the look on Javier’s face and rolled his eyes, “Still bettin’ that she’s gonna say no when he asks her out.”

Now it was Javier’s turn to shake his head, “He’s never gonna actually do it. He’s not gonna risk getting rejected and having to sit at a goddamn desk next to her.”

Connie listened to the two of them bantering back and forth, listening as she silently shook her head. Steve saw the smirk curling at the edge of her lips, though, and immediately asked what her take was on the situation. Taking a long sip of her drink, she thought carefully about her answer, “It just seems like she’s having a pretty good time with him over there, that’s all. I wouldn’t count him out just yet.”

They were all laughing amongst themselves, but the entire exchange had Carrillo’s mind reeling. When he watched the way you laughed, the way you bit lightly on your bottom lip as you shook your head at whatever David was saying to you, he knew that Connie was right. You looked so happy. And as much as he wanted to go and break it all up, to go and say something, anything to you, he felt like he couldn’t will his feet to move.

You were torn away from your conversation by the sound of Javier calling your name. Raising your eyebrows, you replied, “Yea, Jav?”

He gestured to Carrillo, “You win, next round on me!”

You laughed but you couldn’t hide the excitement you felt when you saw Carrillo standing with them. Hopping down off your stool, you walked over to greet him. You couldn’t believe that you’d missed him coming in in the first place. You hoped that he hadn’t been there too long, since you had been the one who invited him. You almost hugged him, but stopped yourself, not wanting to make him uncomfortable. The Colonel had never given you an overly affectionate vibe, despite how nice he was during your interactions at work.

“I’m so glad you made it!”

The knot in his stomach loosened slightly when he took in the way you were smiling at him. Your face was flushed, maybe from the alcohol, maybe from the heat trapped inside the club, maybe both. Either way, you looked beautiful. A different kind of beautiful than how you looked when you were working.

“Heard you had a round of drinks riding on it,” his smile was small, but genuine.

You laughed, rolling your eyes, “That’s not why I’m glad. Oh, hang on, wait here,” you flitted back over to David, bringing him over to officially introduce the two of them, “David, this is who I was telling you about. This is Colonel Carrillo, hands-down the toughest man in Colombia,” your smile was impossible not to love.

David chuckled at your enthusiastic introduction of the man you’d mentioned to him a few times in passing, always with respect and admiration, “Nice to meet you,” he reached out to shake his hand.

Carrillo couldn’t hide the fact that he was sizing up the younger man standing in front of him. His grasp on David’s hand was firm, “Nice to meet you.”

If David felt anxious under the weight of the Colonel’s gaze, he didn’t show it in the slightest. You broke the staring contest that you hadn’t realized was happening by giving David a light squeeze on the arm, “Come on, you said you’d dance with me!”

It was evident that Carrillo wasn’t the only one who had showed up that night with the inability to say no to you. David let you pull him out towards the dancefloor, smiles on both of your faces, leaving Carrillo there absolutely dumbfounded. You made it look so easy.

“Be safe out there, kids!” Javi called after the two of you with a laugh. Turning back to Carrillo, Javi gave him a nod, “So, what was the magic pitch she gave you to get you out here?”

Steve laughed, “Maybe she’s just easier to say yes to, Javi, ever think of that?”

They all laughed before Steve and Connie made their way to the dancefloor as well, and Carrillo internally thanked Steve for saving him from having to come up with an answer to Javier’s question that wouldn’t expose the fact that the only reason he needed to say yes was just the thought of you even wanting him to be there. He tried to keep himself busy, ordering himself a drink in attempt not to stare at you. It was nearly impossible for him to not look at the two of you out on the dancefloor, and his blood boiled when he saw how close David had pulled you to him, how much you seemed to enjoy it.

His discontent was showing on his face clearer than he realized. Peña clapped him on the shoulder, “We’re off the clock, Carrillo. Lighten up a bit.” The Colonel nodded, but he wasn’t able to force the tension out of his body, and Javier picked up on that immediately. Arching one eyebrow, he asked, “What’s the problem?”

Carrillo shook his head, letting his gaze linger on you for just a moment too long, “Nothing.”

Javier followed where Carrillo had just been looking, and when the realization hit him, he couldn’t stop the surprise from showing in every feature of his face. He’d never seen the colonel express much interest in anyone in a romantic context, not even hearing him make a comment about a woman being attractive in passing. It was hard to picture the man being jealous, and yet, there he was. Javi nodded slowly, trying to figure out what to say.

“Drop it, Peña,” Carrillo spoke up before the other man could.

“She’s got no idea, you know.”

“Good,” he replied, his grip on the glass in his hand tightening.

He shook his head, “You won’t know unless you—”

“I said to drop it,” he took a sip of his drink, trying to distract himself and failing miserably.

It would’ve been different, maybe, if you didn’t look like you were having such a good time with someone else. Your smile brightened up the entire place as you swayed to the music, leaning into the man whose hands were situated so comfortably on your hips. Even though it twisted Carrillo up from the inside out, he wasn’t going to be the one to take that kind of enjoyment away from you.

“Ask her next time she comes back for a drink,” now that Javier knew, he was going to be like a dog with a bone.

“What?”

“When she comes back for a drink,” Javier nodded in your direction, “ask her to dance,” he saw Carrillo open his mouth to argue, “Or I can do it for you. And you don’t want that.”

Carrillo didn’t give any response other than another shake of his head. A smirk lingered on Javier’s face, and he should’ve known that that meant nothing but trouble for him. The two of them made conversation with a few of the others who had shown up for the night, and Carrillo forgot all about Javi’s persistence as he tried not to focus more attention on you than he already had.

A few songs later, you made your way back over to the bar to get another drink. David wasn’t far behind you, and Carrillo was shaking his head before he could even stop himself. He was snapped out of his thoughts by the feeling of Javi nudging him. He didn’t say anything, just looking back and forth expectantly between you and the colonel, making it clear that this was Carrillo’s last chance to do something on his own before Javi intervened.

Carrillo gave a dismissive shake of his head. Whether it was meant to call Javier on his bluff or not, it didn’t matter. Before Carrillo could get a word out to try and stop him, Javi was slipping through the clusters of people to land himself next to you at the bar. Carrillo watched intently, unable to move himself from his seat. It was like a trainwreck happening in front of him and there wasn’t a damn thing he could do about it.

You felt the arm drape around your shoulder, and when you turned and looked, you couldn’t hide the surprise on your face when you saw it was Javier. You laughed, leaning into him slightly as you asked, “Something I can help you with, Agent Peña?”

He chuckled, shaking his head, “Please don’t call me that when we’re off the clock,” when your laughter quieted, he continued, “Up for a double-or-nothing bet?”

You smiled, “Owing me one round of drinks wasn’t good enough for you? You wanna owe me two?”

“I think I’ve got you on this one, sweetheart.”

You laughed, “Let’s hear it, then.”

“Alright. Double or nothing, you can’t get Carrillo out onto the dancefloor tonight.”

Your eyes widened, jaw dropping slightly but not hating the prospect of the bet, “Do you always have so many bets involving Carrillo?”

His mouth twisted into a smug little smirk that you’d come to recognize so well, “Only with people who I think get just as much enjoyment out of it as I do.”

Your cheeks warmed at the comment, knowing that it was a joke but also a little bit of a call-out. Throwing back the rest of your drink, you gave him a nod, “Your tab is gonna be hurting at the end of the night tonight, Peña.”

You slipped out from underneath his arm and started to collapse the distance between you and Carrillo. Since your back was to him, you didn’t see the satisfied grin and nod that Javier sent the other man’s way, basking in the glory of the moment he had just constructed.

“Hey,” you leaned against the table next to Carrillo, whose expression you couldn’t quite figure out, “I have a question for you.”

He had an idea of where this was all going, but he couldn’t let you know what, “What’s that?”

“How would you feel about helping me win another bet against Peña?”

He let out a chuckle, one that could be disguised as amusement from your question, but it was actually him being slightly impressed by how Javier had decided to go about the entire thing. Trying to prevent himself from shooting Javi a look, he focused his eyes on you, not that it was too difficult for him to do, “What’s the bet?”

“He said that I wouldn’t be able to get you out onto the dancefloor before the night is over,” you chuckled as you leaned against his arm a little, “And I know you’re not the kind of man who backs down from a challenge.”

There was something about the way you were looking at him as you said that, that sent a jolt throughout his whole body. He tried to contain it, offering you a small smile, “I’m not, no,” he cast a glance over to the bar where he saw David standing, watching the two of you with interest clearly written all over his face, “He won’t be upset?” he nodded towards the man in question.

You looked where he was looking, laughter spilling out of you when you saw who he was talking about, “David? God, no,” you shook your head, “Trust me, he’s not going to have any problem finding another girl to occupy his time.”

Carrillo hated how much comfort he found in your immediate dismissal, like the idea of you and David together was outlandish. He had no right to feel a sense of victory in it, but he did.

You saw the gears turning in his mind, and you held out your hand for him to take, “C’mon, you’re already here, right?”

Not that he planned on saying no to you in the first place, but he was powerless to turn you down once you held your hand out. He chuckled as he set his glass down and slid his hand into yours, trying to memorize the way you sounded as you laughed and tugged him towards the dancefloor. If you wanted to think that it was all for a bet, he wasn’t going to try and convince you otherwise.

You’d never thought much about whether or not Carrillo was a good dancer. You never had a reason to until you were pulling him across the club. He hadn’t hesitated, though, which led you to believe that maybe he was good with more than just a gun.

The hesitancy and nerves that had plagued him for so long, lingering in every interaction that he had with you, all seemed to disappear. He really couldn’t afford to be afraid now. The second your hands came to rest on his shoulders, fingers lacing just barely on the back of his neck, the chance to be this close to you became much more important than any of the worries he’d ever had before. His arms looped around your waist, careful not to stray too low—after all, he was still a gentleman.

You’d been out dancing plenty of times, and had your fair share of dance partners in the process. However, there was something about the ease with which Carrillo maneuvered the two of you that wasn’t like anything you’d ever experienced before. It was like he didn’t even have to think about it. For a man who had always seemed so rigid at work, even a little uptight at times if you were being honest, he certainly didn’t carry it with him into the club that night. Apparently, in the time before you knew him, he’d had plenty of experience actually going out and having a good time.

He saw the smile on your face, the sparkle in your eyes, “What?”

You shook your head, cheeks warming as you tried to think of how you wanted to answer that question, “I just, I didn’t know,” it was hard to think about anything other than the feeling of his hands on your hips, “You never mentioned that you could dance.”

It was the first real laugh of his that you’d ever heard, a sound that was going to be burned into your memory banks going forward, “You never asked.”

You were about to come back with a witty response when he gave you a quick twirl, causing you to laugh, soaking up the moment as his hands sild right back down to your hips again once you were back close to him. Shaking your head, you asked, “Any other skills I should know about?”

You could see it in his eyes for a moment that he thought about saying something to answer your question, but instead he wrapped his arm a little tighter around you, pulling you so that your chest was flush against his. It wasn’t that you minded the gesture, but he’d never been that close with you before, and it caught you off-guard. You refocused on him, expecting to see him looking back at you, but instead his gaze fell behind you. Turning to look over your shoulder, you saw David, the look on his face clearly conveying that he was intrigued by the turn of events.

“Hey, I think I’m gonna head out,” he tried to focus on you, but he couldn’t help but to let his gaze flicker to Carrillo, who was all but boring holes into him with his eyes.

“Oh, okay!” you stepped out of Carrillo’s arms, and you were sure that you were imagining it, but it almost felt like he didn’t want to let you go. Wrapping David in a quick hug, you said goodbye, “Get home safe, alright? I’ll see you Monday.”

“See you Monday,” the smile faded just slightly when he looked to Carrillo, “Nice meeting you.”

Carrillo’s arm was already snaking around your waist again as he spoke, “You too.”

This time you really got to watch the two of them interact. The man who had been dancing with you was not the same man who was all but giving David a wordless ultimatum. You saw the tension in his jaw, the way he nodded slightly in dismissal of the young man in front of him. Carrillo’s eyes stayed on him until he reached the door of the club, and you truly couldn’t believe that you’d just watched all of that play out.

“Hey,” your voice, although not loud, still came in clear to him over the rest of the noise of the club, “you alright?”

His gaze snapped back to you, body easing slightly, “Of course.”

Arching one eyebrow, you placed one palm flat against his chest, “You sure?” you let out a quiet chuckle, “You’re watching him like he’s a suspect.” Being called out so directly by you made him loosen his hold on your waist a little, eyes dropping down to the floor for all of a moment, “Did I miss something?”

All the confidence he’d had swaying you to the music disappeared in a snap. “No,” he finally forced out an answer to your question.

“Hey,” you waited for him to look you in the eye, “You’re not a good liar, Horacio.”

It hit him that you’d never called him by his first name before. He wracked his mind trying to come up with a response, “It’s nothing.”

You laughed, stepping back from him a little bit to get a better look at him, “Nothing? Are you sure? I don’t think I’ve ever seen you look at someone like that. What’d you think he was going to do, break up our dance?” you said it with a laugh but there was a beat of hesitation on his end and a smile instantly took over your features, “Did you?”

“It’s not…like that.”

You chuckled, not convinced, “Then what’s it like?”

He should’ve known better than to think this was going to go smoothly. He never should’ve come out for the night. His mind was already working overtime trying to plan an escape route. “I should,” his eyes darted towards the door, “I should go.”

The smile dropped from your face, and you reached forward and grabbed his hand before he could get too far from you, “Horacio, wait,” you pulled, more propelling yourself towards him than pulling him back towards you, “You…you can’t just leave. Come on, I, I was kidding.”

He saw the pleading look on your face, “I know you were.” He didn’t have the guts to say but I wasn’t, hoping that you would just know.

“Then don’t leave. Please. I…I don’t remember the last time I had this much fun.”

“Me either,” he didn’t know why that was so hard for him to admit to you.

Reassurance flooded through you at that, “Then stay. At least for one more song.”

You saw it in his eyes the moment he decided not to leave. Relaxing his shoulders, he let you draw him back towards the center of the dancefloor. He held you a little closer than he had before, and you didn’t comment on it, not minding it in the slightest.

One song easily turned into more than that, and before you knew it, the two of you found yourselves back at the bar ordering drinks again. You looked over at him, a smile on your face, “You know,” you chuckled, feeling a little braver than maybe you should’ve, “jealous is a different look on you.”

His eyes widened as he looked over at you, “What?”

You smiled, shaking your head, “It’s fine. I just, you know, I didn’t expect that. I didn’t see it coming.”

He wanted to argue, but the last of his resolve slipped away as he watched you sip so casually on your drink, “That obvious?”

“You looked like you were about to strangle the other half of my legal team,” you laughed, seeing the embarrassment creeping into his features, “All that from a guy who didn’t even want to come out tonight.”

He let out an embarrassed chuckle, “Sorry.”

“You’d only have to apologize if you actually strangled him,” you flashed him a smile before moving closer to him, your arm pressing against his, “I like you, you know,” never in a million years did you think you would ever be saying that to him, but nothing about the night felt real so what was the worst that could come of this?

He tilted his head, clearly surprised, “You do?”

You laughed, nodding, “Yea. That’s…that’s why I invited you out in the first place. Just, you know, wanted a reason to see you outside of work.”

“Oh,” he pondered over the statement.

“Yea,” your face felt hot all over again.

He stared down into the glass in his hands like it was going to give him the right thing to say next, “Could I take you to dinner?”

Your eyes widened, “Wh-uh, yea. Yes. That’d…yes. I’d like that.”

“Tomorrow?”

You laughed, nodding, “Tomorrow works.”

A smile was tugging at the edges of his mouth, and his voice had a softer tone than it had all night, or any other time you’d spoken to him, “Okay. Tomorrow.”

You could hardly bear the amount of butterflies in your stomach, “Tomorrow.

Carrillo looked over at you, a shy smile on his face despite everything that had just happened. His fingers drummed on the outside of his glass as he tried to figure out what he was supposed to say or do next. You, on the other hand, figured that there was no time like the present to just go for broke. Turning so that you were facing him directly, you leaned in and pressed your lips to his. You could feel the shocked response he gave you, but it only took him a second to catch up and lean into you. His lips tasted like whiskey and while you’d never been a fan, you were certain that there was nothing you loved more than that in that moment. Your hand gripped onto his bicep as his lips continued to move against yours, and for a moment you forgot you were at the bar in the middle of a crowded club.

Pulling away, you let out a breathless, slightly embarrassed laugh, “Sorry,” you shook your head, “I just, I didn’t want to wait until tomorrow.”

Carrillo had a bit of a dazed look on his face as he chuckled, “Don’t apologize.”

#narcos #narcos netflix #horacio carrillo #horacio carrillo x reader #horacio carrillo x you #horacio carrillo fanfiction #colonel carrillo #narcos fanfiction #narcos netflix fanfiction #my writing #fanfiction #drabblesmc

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manonblaqkbeak · 3 years

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Motel Living

this idea would not leave me alone, despite me having like three other fics barely done. it is very random. i dont even know what to say lol.

2554 words

enjoy!

Today was officially the one month anniversary of Aelin moving into a three-star motel. She did not think she'd be here for long, a couple of weeks at most, but here she was a month later, and on a Friday night no less. She should have been out with her friends, but she opted to stay inside.

She had to tell herself that she shouldn't complain. That there were people that were worse off than her. Living in a motel was fine.

But it still didn't change the fact that Aelin wished she wasn't living in a motel room. Especially one that was popular with long haul truckers whose snores sounded like chain saws and blenders on the highest level. That right now, down in the restaurant/pub that was only six doors down, an important football game was playing and the patrons inside were cheering wildly.

Aelin missed the house that she had been renting the last three years. Last year she had decided to start saving so that she could purchase the house itself, since it was still on the market since the day she moved in. It was hard, but Aelin was a determined woman and she set her sights on purchasing the house—she felt like she practically owned it anyway—up until the day she received a call from the real estate agency telling her that the house had been purchased and she had to move out.

Aelin disliked crying, but the waterworks started the minute she hung up. She really did love that house. Had created a small vegetable and herb garden to make it feel more homely. Made it hers in the three years she had occupied it.

There was a tiny silver-lining, however, since the new owners were coming from the other side of the continent, she had plenty of time to pack and move out.

But that silver-lining quickly disappeared once she started her search for a new home in-between packing and work. Every apartment, every house, every unit she looked out at was taken by the time she handed in her application. Every inspection starting to become fruitless when she knew that she wouldn't be the one to live in it.

Aelin hadn't realised that the market had become so cut-throat. She knew she was the perfect applicant because in all her years renting she never missed a single day, never received a complaint. Even when the landlord dragged his ass to fix something, Aelin kept her temper in its leash and did not throttle him the way she wanted too.

And as her luck ran out and Aelin had started to truly worry about where she was going to live because while she had multiple people in her life, she quickly realised that she couldn't ask any of them if she could move in for multiple reasons:

Aedion and Lysandra were recently married, and Aelin hadn't wanted to burst their newlywed bubble.

Chaol and Yrene were brand new parents, their baby girl born the day Aelin moved out, and she knew the last thing they wanted was someone else in the way.

Nehemia was in the same position as her, but her parents had invited her back home while Nehemia looked for somewhere else. Aelin's parents were dead, and her childhood home had been destroyed in a wildfire a five years ago, and Aelin had used the insurance money to pay off her debts. She cursed herself now for doing that, but Aelin hated being in debt and she did what she had too.

Fenrys lived in a one bedroom unit and had the worlds most uncomfortable couch, so he was out. And while Fenrys was one of her best friends, she didn't really talk with Connall, his twin. Nor did she often talk with Vaughn.

Dorian and Manon were travelling all over Erilea and Dorian's younger brother Hollin was house-sitting. Aelin couldn't stand Hollin for more than a few minutes at a time and she would rather live in the motel for a year than live in with him.

And then there was Rowan. He had been a close friend for years, until five months ago they decided that they had liked each other too much to keep being friends and officially started dating (at Lysandra and Aedion's wedding, of all places). If they had been together for longer, she would have asked him—but she didn't want to rush anything, because Aelin could so clearly see a future with him and she didn't want to hurt that future by moving in far too early in their relationship.

So that left Elide, her lifelong friend that was more like a sister. Elide was purely on the bottom of the list since she knew her friend cherished living alone after living in a shit-hole with her even shittier uncle—but Aelin knew Elide and if Aelin needed a place to stay, then Elide's door would be wide open. The two had gone to lunch and Aelin had been just moments away from telling Elide everything and asking for a world changing favour.

Until Elide had excitedly announced that Lorcan was going to move in.

And Aelin's plan had deflated. Again, Aelin knew that if Elide was aware of how desperate she was, Elide would invite Aelin to stay, but since Lorcan and Aelin didn't particularly get along, Aelin kept her mouth shut and congratulated her friend for the new milestone in their relationship.

So, all her options completely exhausted, Aelin looked for vacant motels, found that this was the best out of all the options and became a long-standing tenant.

Aelin had managed to keep everyone away from her new apartment by claiming that it wasn't ready for visitors. Most knew that Aelin was house-proud, a trait that she had inherited from her late mother, so they knew that when Aelin was ready, she would invite them.

It was getting hard, however, to keep Rowan away. Each date night and hang out ended up at his apartment and Rowan was becoming curious as to how her new place was looking.

Rowan wasn't judgemental, and he wouldn't look down at her for living in a motel room, but Aelin was the problem; she was too proud to show him her new place. Even when she was at her lunch with Elide, she had to beat down her pride at just the mere thought of asking Elide if she could move in.

Tonight, however, Aelin knew in her bones that Rowan would ask to come over. He had a completely shitty day at work—one that ended up in the hospital because for the first time in his career as a carpenter, Rowan had somehow gotten his hand in the way of his nail gun and shot right through the middle of his palm and was off work until it healed, which Rowan hated the most out of the whole ordeal, since Rowan was the type of person that always had to be doing something.

So when his face finally popped up on her phone screen, Aelin muffled a groan into her pillow (because there was no way in hell she was using the standard sheets the motel provided, she needed her bedding or she wouldn't get any sleep), took a deep breath and plastered a smile onto her face.

“How's the hand?” she asked by way of greeting.

“It'd be a lot better if there wasn't a hole in it,” was his groggy reply. “I just woke up from the longest nap and thought of you.”

“That's sweet of you to say,” Aelin said, “do you want me to come over? I could cook you my world famous grilled cheese.” Please say yes, she thought, please.

“As much as I love the sound of that, I just need to get out of my house,” Rowan said, “I know that you're house-proud and if you don't want me to see it, I understand, I'll even wear a blind fold if that'll make you happy, but I just...” he trailed off and Aelin could see his pained expression even though they were miles apart.

“Seeing all your work tools is making you miserable,” she supplied. Rowan grunted in confirmation. Taking a deep breath, Aelin said, “You can come over, I don't mind. I'd be happy to see you.” And she would be. She'd just have to kick her pride in the corner. “There's a pub right around the corner from mine and the cheeseburgers they have are really fucking good, and I mean that sincerely. Do you want me to get you one? Because I only have snacks and canned food at the moment.”

“A burger sounds good, with extra tomato, please.”

Aelin smiled. “Of course, I'll text you the address, and I'll see you soon.”

After ordering their dinner, Aelin tidied up (even though the space was immaculate) and waited, and waited. When a gentle knock sounded at her door, Aelin took the food from the restaurant worker and was just about to go back in when Rowan's truck pulled up.

Even ten car spots away, Aelin could see his puzzled expression from where she stood. Placing the food on the small, round dining table, Aelin waited by the door and gave Rowan her best smile when he stood in front of her.

His puzzled expression melted away momentarily when she kissed him hello, but it was back in full force when they pulled away.

“Fireheart,” was all he said, and it said everything that he didn't say.

“I know.”

“You're living in a motel room.” There was no judgement in his voice, like she knew there wouldn't be, but it was clear that he was confused about the whole thing. She should have just told him. She loved her late mother, but really hated the fact that she had passed her pride to Aelin. She hated the fact that, deep down, she was embarrassed, even if Aelin told herself that she had no reason to. The housing market was insane, there was no where else for her to go, and that she hated herself for not saving more money to buy her home of three years.

“I am,” Aelin said, “but it's not so bad. It's affordable and clean.” Aelin invited him inside and sat him down the small dining table.

From his spot, he took in the space. Saw the bar fridge that could barely hold a bags worth of cold food, her toaster oven and the dual butane stove she had to purchase because she didn't want to have to use the toaster oven all the time. The tiny closet that held a decent amount of clothes, but didn't make a dent in her considerable mountain of clothes that she had put away in the storage unit she was renting.

None of her candles were in sight and no books either. Aelin was taking full advantage of her library apps, but it wasn't the same. Aelin loved the feeling of a book in her hands, but there was no space and it would have been silly to bring in her bookcases.

“Where's all your stuff?”

“In a storage unit. I considered living in there, but it doesn't have an air-conditioner and this place does.”

Before Rowan could say anything, Aelin turned on the TV, put on whatever movie sounded dumb enough and ate her dinner.

Aelin could see the question burning in his eyes as she stuffed her mouth to avoid answering that very question.

Why didn't Aelin ask if she could stay with him?

Aelin wanted to tell him, she really did, but was afraid that if she showed how serious she was, Rowan might admit that he wasn't as serious as her.

But Aelin knew herself, knew that she was going to tell him at one point or another. She could tell Rowan anything and he wouldn't flinch. It was her own doubt stopping her.

“That really is the best burger I've ever had,” Rowan said when he was finished.

“It really is,” was all Aelin could think of to say. Gods, she felt so damned awkward. The question was still in Rowan's eyes, even as he laughed at the movie and its stupidity. So to avoid it for a bit longer, Aelin took the take-away boxes into the dumpster outback and immediately went for a shower afterwards.

When she came out, Rowan was lounging on her bed, his injured hand laying across his chest, the other arm fiddling with her comforter. Aelin dressed in a shirt that she may have borrowed without asking from Rowan and a pair of sleep shorts.

Borrowing underneath her comforter, Aelin rested her head on Rowan's chest and the awkwardness she felt deflated a bit as he pressed a kiss on her head.

Aelin told him how she ended up here. Including her embarrassment and annoyance at herself. Rowan listened attentively, as he always did. That was one of the biggest things she loved about him, that he listened. And Aelin was in love with him, she knew without a doubt. She was certain she fell in love with him when he danced with her at Aedion and Lysandra's wedding.

When the credits started to roll, Aelin took a deep breath and decided to plunge into uncharted territories. She kept her eyes glued onto the screen.

Aelin decided to bite the bullet. If it all went to hell, she would beat herself up later.

“I don't want to fuck things up with you.” Well, that wasn't how she wanted to start this conversation, but she supposed it was the best way to start off. “I wanted to ask you if I could move in, but our relationship is just so new, and I didn't want to ruin our future, because I can see a future with you, Rowan.” Moving so that she could look Rowan in the eye, Aelin took the deepest plunge imaginable and told him, “I love you, Rowan. I'm in love with you.”

The smile he gave her was the most beautiful she'd ever seen. “I love you, too, Aelin.” Reaching down to kiss her, all of Aelin's doubts melted away. When he pulled back, Rowan said softly, “If you wish to ask, I'll say yes. Because I see a future with you too. You're the one for me.”

“Rowan, can I move in with you?”

He kissed her again. “Yes, you can.”

Aelin's cheeks were started to become sore from all her smiling. Maybe it was a good thing after all that she ended up living here.

Hours later, after another bad movie and celebrating the new milestone in their relationship (which was mainly Aelin laughing as she rode Rowan because he kept forgetting about his injured hand), Aelin and Rowan got ready for bed, and as Aelin rested her head on his chest again, she said, “Just to let you know, I'm going to replace your mattress for mine, because yours is hard as stone.”

“That's exactly why I'm letting you move in, I'm in the market for a new mattress.”

Aelin playfully whacked his chest and muttered what a buzzard he was, but soon fell asleep with a smile on her face, ready for her future with Rowan.

#srsly what is this lol #rowaelin #rowaelin fanfiction

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greenninjagal-blog · 3 years

Text

The Rumor Mill Game (pt4)

I swear I didn’t forget about this au. This chapter is just....long.

Welcome back to this mess of an au :) If you need a refresher, you can find Part Three [here!] Or if you’re new check out the first part [here!]

Summary: Logan is...dealing with the fallout of him and his coworker, Remus, having created a rumor about them being married and now apparently having a kid except not because Logan screamed at the top of his lungs that Virgil wasn’t his kid. His boss has a different definition for what “dealing” actually means.

Words: 8292 (Holy shit remember when this au was 2k words)

Read on Ao3 || My General Writing Masterlist

When Logan had seen his boss after he made Virgil cry, he hadn’t expected it to end up like this.

Granted when he hadn’t exactly been expecting anything. He hadn’t been looking ahead, hadn’t been making plans, hadn’t been thinking at all. Which was most likely how he ended up outside the bar in the first place.

Logan could, of course, count the number of times he had been drunk on one hand. College had been a time for experimenting, and of course for his twenty-first birthday his friends at the time had been insistent that he needed to imbibe an unholy amount of alcohol in one night. They had turned it into an experiment, where Logan documented exactly what he was feeling after each drink and he still had the notes in his desk at home, despite the fact that his handwriting had become illegible after the fifth drink and someone had spilled an orange soda based tonic on the third page. The notes themselves were worthless, but they served as a memoir to people who he no longer associated with and a younger version of himself who had still been learning.

And Logan did have a soft spot for that imbecile: Twenty-one-year-old Logan Ackroyd who still believed in the goodness of people and who wanted to change the world and who could fall in lov--

Logan pitied him-- that kid he used to be-- which he was certain that his younger self would be indignant about. Logan always did hate when people pitied him. Those emotions had rarely ever been genuine, rarely ever been helpful, rarely been productive. What was he to do about people feeling bad for him? About others being disappointed? About others making assumptions about him and how he felt?

He didn’t need pity, and he didn’t want it. Not when he got rejected to his first three colleges, not when flunked that English class and had to pay to retake it the next year, not when he had bought that ring and gotten down on one knee and made a whole carefully edited speech and--

And he’s not nearly drunk enough to deal with these types of thoughts. Or any thoughts for that matter. Wouldn’t it just be great to stop thinking?

Then he wouldn’t have to remember the looks on his coworkers faces when he storming into the office less than fifteen minutes after initially leaving for lunch and demanded that Beatrice turn in her overdue spreadsheets in twenty minutes or he’d have her fired before slamming his office door hard enough to crack that frosted glass, or the look on Remus- fucking- Prince’s face when he tried to act like everything that had happened was not his fault and that Logan had taken the game to far by himself without any sort of prompting from Remus, or the look on Virgil’s face when Logan lost his self control.

Like an idiot. Like an asshole. Like someone who doesn’t think before he acts.

Like someone who should be alone for the rest of his life, because he can’t seem to get a hold of those useless emotions of his.

And Logan wanted so very badly to blame Remus Prince for this whole endeavor, the whole production, the whole catastrophe. He wanted to say that without Remus he never would have gotten that angry, wouldn’t have had that conversation, wouldn’t have even gotten Thai today.

Logan wanted to say that, but really it's his own fault. If he had just dismissed Remus’s rumor in the beginning, if he had just told Jen and Quin that his personal business was his own, if he had just ignored the urge to get coffee and finished the spreadsheets without getting up that last night.

His fourth finger itched around the base, the area where that little silver ring had been sitting for less than a day. It was ridiculous, utterly ridiculous, because Logan had never worn a ring before and now suddenly the absence of it caused his skin to crawl in a most unpleasant, unproductive way.

Distantly Logan realized that by gifting Remus such a wonderful present, he had also thrown away four hundred dollars. And perhaps ironically Logan noted that he feels annoyed about it-- four hundred dollars had been sitting in a pocket of a dress jacket in the corner of his office for over nine months and he had tossed it aside in a fit of impulsive anger.

Logan had not been hurting for money recently, with how decently he was paid, and the amount of overtime he worked, and how little time he had taken off since that disastrous night.

But perhaps he might have been able to return it to the jewelers and weathered the terrible, awful pitying looks they would give him when he requested about their refund policy or a location where he might be able to sell it himself. It was a ring that was worth four hundred dollars and he had given it to Remus, and isn’t it funny that that’s farther than he got with the one for whom the ring had been originally intended?

And as Logan downed his next rum and coke of the night, he hoped that Remus found a better use for it. Newton knows it hadn't done any good for Logan.

(Its stupid, Logan knew, to blame a ring for the way that he had screeched “He’s not and never will be our son!” Its stupid, Logan knew, to blame a ring for the way that Remus had hummed mischievously “I think I enjoy being fake-married to you, Logan." Its stupid, Logan knew, to blame a ring for the the way his last partner had said “We should see other people”. Its stupid, stupid, stupid--)

“Hmmm,” A voice behind him said, “I thought I would find you here!”

Logan didn’t realize he had closed his eyes until he heard the voice and felt every atom in his body figuratively threaten to combust. He wasn’t drunk enough to be thinking about him, and he most certainly wasn’t drunk enough to turn and look at the incessantly, perky man that had decided to sit down next to him.

Logan waved at the bartender and ordered another rum and coke and watched his freshly emptied glass disappear like the handful of others he didn’t bother to keep count of.

“And I’ll have two waters, please!” Patton Hart added with one of his peppy, happy, insufferable laughs, before turning to face Logan. “Hiya, Lo! It's been so long since we’ve seen each other!”

“Not long enough,” Logan disagreed, with a rueful smile that should very clearly, very precisely detail how much he does not want company at the current moment. “Don’t you have things to be doing tonight, Mr. Hart?”

Patton hummed, pressing his lips together as he thought-- a monumental task for someone like him, surely. Logan was partially convinced that if he removed his glasses he might be able to see the squirrels beginning to run on that rusted wheel in the other man’s brain. If Logan was of a less logical mind he might even be brazen enough to call this the first time Patton had used his brain all week.

“Well,” Patton said, carefully settling himself on the stool next to Logan. “I was graciously informed by my son that he would be enjoying the perks of being a teenager with no bedtime tonight and along with where exactly I could shove my homemade lasagna.” He laughed lightly, “Kids, these days! He really does keep me on my toes!”

Logan did his best not to roll his eyes. “I do not know the whereabouts of your son, Mr. Hart.”

“Patton,” He said easily, “And I’m not here for my son. I’m here for you, Logan.”

“If this is about the glass in my door, you are very capable of taking that out of my paycheck.” Logan told him.

The bartender placed Logan’s new rum and coke in front of him and he reached for it almost immediately, only stopping when Patton’s hand landed on his forearm.

“Mr. Hart--”

“Patton,” Patton corrected with that smile that Logan suspected was the worst thing in the world. Worse than Virgil’s blank expression when he told them to get out, worse than Remus’s smug one when he suggested that Logan did indeed enjoy the ability to manipulate his coworkers, worse than Beatrice faulty excel sheets, than broken glass of his door, than a ring he never wanted to see again and yet he still felt like it was missing from his finger.

“Mr. Hart,” Logan said again, “I am going to get horrifically drunk tonight, and I will be calling out sick tomorrow, regardless of what you say. So my advice to you is, say anything of importance now, before I am too incoherent to register and respond accordingly.”

“That doesn’t sound too smart there, kiddo!” Patton said, like he was any older than Logan was.

“I do not feel like being smart right now,” Logan said snippily. Because being smart involved thinking, and Logan had done quite enough thinking for the day. He was tired of thinking, tired of memories, tired of the lump in his chest that had formed during his lunch break and hadn’t dissolved in the eight hours since. He was tired.

“Would you like me to be smart for you?” Patton asked.

Ah.

Yes, Logan remembered suddenly with just a few words why he hated Patton Hart so much. Why he hated those too-wide brown eyes, those stupid freckles, that soft smile. Why he hated the way that Patton had tracked him down despite the fact that he had turned off his phone, the way that Patton had ordered two waters, the way that he hadn’t taken off his jacket. The way that he had taken out his keys and put them on the bar counter between them and Logan could pick out his own house key from the jumbled mess of bits and bobs.

“I heard something pretty interesting today,” Patton said, when Logan didn’t reply because he was too busy remembering why he hated Patton so much.

“Please don’t pretend like you didn’t know about my so-called affair before I did.” Logan snapped. “Honestly, Patton!” Logan dropped his arm from the glass and instead pressed his knuckles to his forehead. “Playing dumb about your own company is my least favroite thing about you.”

“I thought you hated my laugh the most.” Patton looked at him, letting the smile slip into something more serious.

“I hate everything about you.”

“Pay for the drinks, Lo.” Patton told him, “And I’ll take you home. We can have some of my lasagna and watch a space documentary, like we’re twenty years old again.”

Logan hated Patton and hated the way his chest ached at the offer. His knuckles bore into the side of his head, jabbing the frame of his own glasses into this temple. He hated the way that Patton was looking at him, soft and sweet and naive.

He hated the way his fingers itched to take Patton’s hand and go home.

“And after all that,” Patton continued so lightly, “You can tell me all about how Remus Prince got under your skin.”

Logan’s hand slammed on the counter, so suddenly he surprised himself. Patton, however, didn’t flinch, didn’t even blink, didn’t react other than to hold that smile.

“I am not drunk enough to be talking about Remus Prince,” Logan spat. “Especially not to you, Patton.”

Patton was quiet and at first, Logan really had thought that he had won something-- he thought that perhaps Patton would grant him mercy and let him drown his sorrows alone and miserable in a bar until he forgot his own name. But Patton was too good of a friend and Logan really should hate him less for that.

“You know,” Patton said with a cold type of humor that doused Logan with awareness. Bad awareness. The type of awareness that sunk it’s metaphorical claws into Logan’s chest and pierced straight through his heart before Patton finished what he was saying. “I think….yeah that does sound familiar. Do you remember the last time you said you weren’t drunk enough to tell me something?”

Logan did.

Logan couldn’t forget if he tried.

And he had tried so very hard for so very long-- except that Remus Prince had waltzed into Logan’s life, had called him a Robot, had smirked at him and run their coworkers around like cattle with pretty little words. Except that Remus Prince had gotten bored and decided that the only logical next course of action was to mess with Logan’s personal life.

Except that Remus Prince had played along with the rumor game, and smiled at him, and kissed him, and---

And Logan had started thinking---

And Logan’s mouth had started moving--

And Virgil face had--

Logan reached for the glass in front of him, reaching for the cool ice and the spritzy carbonation and the burn of the rum.

Patton watched him, blinking in the long, slow, dumb way of his that had fooled just about every person that he had come in contact with. With the goofy smile and the habit of deliberately misunderstanding key phrases and making puns and jokes when things were tense, it was hard to see him as anything other than a rich son who became CEO via thinly veiled nepotism.

Logan knocked back the drink, blinking back the burn behind his eyes that were from the alcohol and definitely not from the lump in his throat that had started dissolving.

He didn’t want to close his eyes, because he knew what he would see when he did: a nice suit, a fancy dinner, a walk to the bridge dotted with fairy lights of all things. He’d see that stupid ring, that stupid face, that stupid end of the night that everyone had told him would be nice, and perfect, and everything he would ever want!

And he didn’t want to think about how it had not been nice or perfect or anything either of them had ever wanted!

He didn’t want to think about how years ago he had come to a bar just like this, and tried to get so drunk he could pretend that it hadn’t happened, and Patton had shown up then and offered him a job and--

“He wants to go by Janus now,” Patton said, picking up one of the waters and taking a sip.

Logan squinted at him and tried not to be happy about the distraction from his own thoughts, “Who?”

“My son,” Patton said, like it was obvious he had switched back to a neutral topic. “He told me earlier during our phone call he wants to go by Janus, now. He said he’s hated the name Dante for forever. Can you believe it, Lo?”

Logan couldn’t actually. Because he had known Patton since they themselves were teenagers, since before Patton had brought up how empty being a CEO was without anyone to come home too, since Patton had first invited him to Sunday brunch and introduced him to the child he called “son”. Logan had babysat Dante when Patton had business trips and Dante had always been proud of himself, of his better-than-the-status-quo lifestyle, of his name that held power and prestige and weight.

Dante had been practicing saying his name in the mirror since before his voice cracked. Dante Hart, future CEO. Dante Hart, son of Patton Hart. Dante Hart.

“He’s a teenager,” Logan said, “He’s rebelling.”

“Maybe so!” Patton laughed, and it dwindled down to something that was easier felt in the air than definable in terms Logan was familiar with, “Gosh, I love him so much, Lo. My baby! He’s growing up so fast now! The other day he told me he had a boyfriend. He’s at that stage where he doesn’t want me to help him anymore!”

And despite the buffoon having not had a single drop of alcohol, Patton was tearing up. Logan gritted his teeth at the implications of a weepy, teary, so-full-of-emotions Patton. He had spent enough time in college trying to console him as he figured out the whole “Why does it always have to be about sex? Why can’t I just love hugging someone, Lo? Why does everyone make me feel so broken?” Logan hadn’t been any good back then, and he definitely hadn’t gotten better with time.

After that disaster with the last guy, Logan had decided that feeling things, frivolous things, emotion-like things, were not something he was into anymore.

Logan learned from his mistakes, after all.

Even the mistakes that started with “R” and ended in a $400 ring being thrown away.

“Is that why you’re here, Mr. Hart?” Logan asked, in that way of his that told even Patton with his squirrel run brain that it wasn’t actually a question at all. “You can’t baby your son anymore so you’ve moved on to the next best thing?”

Patton stuck his tongue in his cheek and set his water back down. “Patton.” He stressed. “And I’m not here to baby you, Logan. I’m here to be your friend.”

He said “friend” like it was a word in the dictionary Logan didn’t know. It was infuriating: the insinuation that Logan had never cracked open a dictionary before, that he was so unknowledgeable about the concept of a friend that Patton was about to show him the online Oxford dictionary definition, like someone who played dumb all day and peppered his windows with sticky notes in the shape of a game of Frogger knew more about something than Logan who had clawed his way up from nothing and was constantly needing to prove how he earned his position.

Patton nudged the second water in Logan’s direction.

Logan stared at it, at the condensation on the glass, at the ice cubes, at the refraction of the low lights from the bar counter. He stared at it like it was a portal back through time that would allow him to slam some sense into poor, pitiful twenty-one-years-old Logan before he let himself fall in Love.

Before he bought a ring or stopped taking days off unless Patton tromped down to his office himself. Before Remus Prince borrowed his cup and before Logan got it in his head that he was serving revenge rather than idiocracy. Before he let himself think too little and say too much and hurt a kid that had never deserved to be upset before in his life.

“If my son wants to be called Janus, I’ll call him that,” Patton says softly. “Because even if it doesn’t make sense to me, it means something to him. And even if my friend is struggling with emotions that don’t make sense to me, I’m still gonna try to help him, Lo.”

Patton ducked his head just a little, just enough that he managed to catch Logan’s strategically averted gaze and make something out of it: a swell of guilt, a sense of hope, a pinch of safety and unadulterated kindness.

His throat was dry, but it was the type of dry that couldn’t be fixed with a glass of water.

“I made a kid cry,” Logan said, because self loathing is a coat he had thought he’d outgrown but he can still fit his arms in the sleeves.

Patton nodded. “Yeah, I heard about that.” He sipped his water. “I think we all have at one point or another.”

“See, the distinct difference that you are missing here, Patton, is that you are a father.” Logan snapped, “And your son will cry at the drop of a hat if he thinks he can get something out of it. And you would never harm a child! Not for any reason in the entire world!”

“And you would?”

“I did.” Logan felt himself sink into the chair, sink like an anchor in the ocean, sink like the floor below him had turned into a blackhole. “I did, I did it. What type of person does that make me?”

“I hate to break it to you, Lo,” Patton said, as kindly as he could, which Logan knew was truly, sickenly nice. He wanted to choke on the sentiment but he found that he couldn’t quite make his chest hurt the way he wanted it too when it came to Patton’s pity.

“But that just means you’re a normal person.” Patton smiled dumbly, tilting his head and shrugging. “Everyone says things they don’t mean sometimes.”

“You don’t.”

“I do,” Patton countered gently, “Like when I hired Beatrice before realizing that she had lied about knowing how to use Excel.”

“Fuck, Beatrice,” Logan agreed, because if he closed his eyes too hard he thought he might still see grid patterns as much as he might see Virgil’s hurt expression and he hated it so much. So much.

“I also told-- Janus once that I would get him anything he wanted for his birthday, and he asked for a snake.” Patton shuddered, almost comically, “And you saw how that turned out.”

“I’ve always been impressed with his ability to sneak things into the school buildings,” Logan sighed. “I doubt anyone has ever forgotten that Show-and-Tell.”

Patton chuckled quietly. It was almost lost in the buzz of the other patrons in the bar. He drew a smiley face in the condensation on his glass and Logan reached over to wipe it away, like he had done a hundred seventeen times since college.

“So….Lasagna?” Patton offered. “We can make some garlic bread too.”

“I regret ever meeting you,” Logan said, even as he picked up the keys on the counter between them. He wished that Patton didn’t look so self satisfied, so pleased, so smug when the words tumbled from his lips, but Patton had never been one to pertain to the wishes and whims of Logan like that.

Settling his tab was quick; a pile of bills from his wallet that he didn’t actually check, but decided the bartender deserved anyway and then Patton linked their elbows together so that Logan couldn’t walk off the way that he used to when he would agree with Patton just to get him to shut up. Logan snagged Patton’s glasses from his head and fogged them up with his breath, before taking on the tedious task of cleaning the fingerprints off the lens meticulously while walking in a wobbling straight line.

Patton laughed like silver bells and it alone brightened the entire street with a type of magic that Logan had long since given up on trying to scientifically explain. The poet in him that Logan had buried under Calculus classes and Statistics courses and a Business degree and only let out when the alcohol out weighed the blood in his system, whispered that it was because it was Patton and his aloofness, and his kindness, and his generosity that never made any sense, and wasn’t that reason enough for the universe to lighten up?

It was drizzling outside, scattered raindrops and dark heavy clouds that whispered of a thunderstorm later. Patton skipped, Logan rolled his eyes and let himself be dragged towards the familiar pale blue punch buggy. It was the same exact car from their college time together, if one ignored the frankenstein replacements of just about every single component in it. Patton clung to the car the same way he had clung to the delusion of Logan being a good friend; sticking close through every breakdown, excusing every letdown, and spending far too much money on it when economically it would have been more beneficial to just let them go.

A wave of self loathing wrapped over Logan again when he pulled on the car door. Patton was genuinely a good person, a good friend. He was stupid at times and he made decisions that made Logan was to strangle him, but he cared so much more than other people. He offered fourth and fifth chances when Logan would have stone-walled his offender at one.

Not to mention, he had come out in the rain to find Logan specifically, probably traversing through three other bars to find the one that Logan had chosen to be his misery echo chamber.

By some sort of lucky happenstance, Logan had originally walked far enough to hail a taxi to get to this bar, leaving his car in the safety of the parking garage where Patton’s company paid a nice sum for security. Logan had tried to argue about that expense with him back in the day, but Patton had pulled out a picture of his toothy grinning son-- Janus-- and said “Lo!! What if my son comes to visit when he learns to drive?! I don’t want to worry about him getting attacked in the parking garage!”

Logan had brutally pointed out that his son would never visit him during work, and so far he had been correct in that assessment, but that didn’t stop him from feeling the slightest bit guilty about his bluntness even so much time later.

Patton had always looked for the best in people, had more strength than most of humanity, had more hope in happy endings that Logan had trust in fact and numbers.

“Is your son okay with me calling him Janus? I’m unsure of etiquette on this. Should I wait until he tells me his preference or should I just make the switch and not bring it up to him?” Logan asked with a sigh as Patton pulled out of the parking spot and set them towards Patton’s house on the other side of town. Unobstructed and following the driving laws, it would only take them about fifteen minutes, and yet Logan wondered about the possibility of Patton having Advil in the car.

The back of his head was already aching from the days events: banging his head on the keyboard all morning leading up to his disastrous lunch date, Remus, Virgil, squinting at spreadsheets until he couldn’t make out the numbers anymore, and the of course stumbling his way to the bar and dealing with Patton.

Patton giggled. “Oh yeah! I asked him earlier if it was okay to tell you. He said he wanted you to call him Janus now. He also said to tell you, you can take a hike.”

Knowing Janus, it was probably something more volatile than “taking a hike”. Most likely it had been something that might have required him to put a full five dollars in the swear jar that they kept on the counter next to the cookie jar. Not that it would matter much. Logan had stayed over at their house dozens of times and every single time he had come across Janus taking that money back out of that swear jar.

As far as Logan was aware, the swear jar had never actually been full. Patton must have noticed at some point-- probably that very first time Janus had taken the money back out-- but he was irritating insistent that he play dumb about it. Thus, Janus continued to swear in excess, Patton continued to make him put money in a swear jar for no real reason, and Logan continued to never understand either of them.

The radio in Patton’s car had been broken fifteen times since Patton had gotten it, but Logan assumed from the silence of the drive that it was now sixteen. He rested his elbow on the window and watched the drizzle turn into a steady rain and the windshield wipers flutter across their vision to occasionally bring them clarity.

The night life was somewhat dreary. The driving pace was slow, and they hit every single stop light in the city because that was just Logan’s luck. There were a few people running around in the rain: a family with a small child who was jumping in every slowly forming puddle on the sidewalk, a couple sharing an umbrella walking so close together they appeared as if to be one misshapen form, a group of friends chatting outside a 24 hour dinner in raincoats, and a few smokers huddled under an alcove with embers burning just enough for Logan to make out their forms through the downpour.

Logan realized almost immediately that the pit in his stomach was much more bearable if he instead focused on the raindrops on the window that are much easier to look at, much less representing something that Logan had always expected he might one day have, much less accusatory in wondering what is wrong with him that he can’t act like a normal human being, this isn’t working, who wants to marry a robot like you--

That was the reason why he wasn’t expecting the sudden jerk of the car coming to a hard stop at a yellow light that they absolutely could have made.

“PATTON!” Logan yelled.

The car behind them blared it’s horn and Logan rubbed his neck and reset his glasses from the sudden movement, ready to question what exactly Patton thought he was doing, because truly of all the things Logan was not in the mood for, this was one of them.

Except that before Logan could get any words out, Patton had put the car in park and whipped off his seatbelt to kick open his door. A wave of rain came pouring into the car as the man threw himself from the driver's seat like there was something wrong with the car, and for a second Logan entertained the absurd idea that they were going to blow up.

Which truly, would have just been a fitting end to his horrific day.

“Patton!” Logan hissed, grabbing after the other’s coat to pull him back inside before the rain soaked into the seats. “Get back in th--”

The other man ignored him, frantically waving to someone in the rain. “REMUS!! MR. PRINCE!! OVER HERE!!”

If Logan knew slightly less about human biology he might have been inclined to say that his heart jumped straight to his throat and climbed its way up his esophagus to strangle him. He wouldn’t have recognized the figure on the street corner on his own: Remus Prince was wearing a black leather jacket and jeans with holes in the knees. He was soaked to the bone, without an umbrella, and his usual bouncy brown curls were matted to his head, as if he had been walking out in the rain for much longer than the rain had been sweeping through the city.

He was standing with the smokers under their minimal tarp, although he, himself, was without a cigarette at all. When he turned at the call of his name, there was only confusion and exhaustion in his face. None of the smugness, or the ego, or the energy that he usually had.

Logan didn’t know why that bothered him. He was hurting from earlier; that was good.

After all, it was Remus’s ridiculous game that he had dragged everyone else into.

((Logan’s finger itched and he dug his nails into his skin so deeply he was afraid to glance down in case there was blood pouring off hands.))

Remus ventured out to meet them, dodging across the lanes of traffic without a care in the world, or perhaps with a death wish. Remus didn’t seem particularly like he would mind getting run over by the way that he opened the back door, climbed in, and shook the excess water out in the interior of the car like some type of undomesticated dog.

“Is this a kidnapping?” He asked, rain dripping down his face. “A murder? Do I get to know your name before you dismember me, cutie?”

Patton laughed joyfully, even as Logan felt his face screw up at the sound of Remus calling their boss “cutie”. It was beyond unprofessional, even if Remus was apparently unaware that his career hinged entirely on not insulting Patton. It took a lot to make Patton angry enough to fire someone-- his patience was the best and worst thing about him, as Logan had been reminded every time they interacted-- but once Remus crossed that line, not even a cockroach like him would be able to drag himself out of the metaphorical wasteland Patton would make out of his life.

Cutie, honestly. Who calls anyone they’ve just met cutie. Logan could understand Remus having called him Lovebug and Lolo, but cutie?

For Patton?

Patton climbed back into the car, snapping on his seatbelt and managed to get out of park at the very same moment as the light turned green. He wiped his sleeve along his glasses, and brightly said, “I’m Patton! And you already know Logie here!”

“Logie?” Remus repeated, sitting back against the seat taking in Logan for the first time. “Oh shi--”

“Do not call me that,” Logan said. “Patton, you can drop me off at the next corner. I will walk home.”

“Don’t be silly!” Patton said, in the same tone that he had used during their college days to coax Logan into driving him to the nearest grocery store after he had successfully managed to pull two all nighters in a row. Logan hated that tone, and Patton knew that well.

“If you do not stop the car, I will throw myself from it while it is still moving.”

“I can get out, actually!” Remus said far too loud for the small car. Logan resisted the urge to turn around and scowl at him. Surely, his pea-sized brain had managed to figure out that he was the point of contention here and that his best move would be to shut up, so why had he decided to open his mouth? “I need to get home anyway. Big day tomorrow and everything.”

“Oh?” Patton said delightedly because Logan would not ever play into subject changes willingly. “What’s tomorrow?”

“I’m getting fired,” Remus said with a nonchalant shrug.

Patton blinked for a moment-- his squirrel-run brain jamming at the sudden twist of the words because whatever he was expecting from his visitor it was not that. Logan resisted the urge to reach over and give him a shake at the shoulders: of course he wouldn’t be able to expect anything with Remus Prince. The man was insufferable and illogical and he wrought chaos for fun.

With everything that had happened, did Patton really think that there was an exaggeration in there?

Remus wanted attention. And he said whatever he needed to in order to get it: a fake affair, a fake divorce, a fake child-- Of course he would say he was getting fired tomorrow if it got Patton to have to use all of his meager brain cells to figure out how serious he was.

“Is that something to celebrate, Mr. Prince?” Logan cut in coldly. “Getting fired?”

“And here I thought that you would be happy, Ackroyd,” Remus said. “Unless you think you’re going to miss me.”

“If only I would be so lucky,” Logan said, digging his phone from his pocket, and turning it back on. The screen was blindingly bright and Logan’s eyes ached just glancing at it in the corner of his vision. “Patton, pull over. I am not doing this tonight. Or tomorrow. Or ever again.”

“I’m not going to let you walk home after however many rum and cokes you had, Logan.”

“Patton,” Logan snarled. “If you continue to treat me like you treat your son, I will tender my resignation tonight. Pull over now.”

Patton opened his mouth, but whatever he was going to say was swallowed up in Remus’s empty voice speaking.

“You went drinking?”

“Do not talk to me, Mr. Prince.”

“You’re not even yelling.”

Logan wasn’t sure what that was supposed to mean, which may have irritated him more than the fact that he was so insistent about continuing to talk when Logan was liable to push the car to crash and kill all three of them. Remus was already staring at him, his expression dark and serious in the passing car lights and somehow Logan thought that he looked vulnerable.

Logan gritted his teeth as his headache pulsed behind his eyes.

“Shut up,” he said. “And put on your seat belt.”

“Or what? You’ll divorce me?” Remus pushed forward between the seats until he was just a few inches from Logan’s own face, grinning with all his teeth. It was at once the same smile that Logan had catalogued through every week of working with him and also something completely foreign.

Remus had pulled him into a kiss earlier that morning, and Logan remembered the taste of pickles on his lips just as well as the smirk he kept as Logan walked away. But this expression is somehow inverted, somehow shifted, somehow a weapon more than a challenge.

“Boys,” Patton said. “Please don’t fight in my car!”

“If you did not want us to fight, why did you invite him in this car?” Logan asked. “You, of all people, know my opinions on--”

“Logan, you’re drunk.”

“What does that have to do with this?!” Logan bit out. He glared at his phone: there were three missed calls from Patton and a handful of text messages from him that Logan couldn’t actually read in the combination of the bright phone light and darkness around them. His eyes were blurry even with his glasses on and the frustration of not being able to read only heightened as he made out the notification for his email which meant that Beatrice had managed to finish her work (allowing Logan to be able to go fix it) or that news of him yelling at a child made it around the office and now he was going to harassed by them as well.

All because of Remus Prince’s inability to shut up.

Patton threw a hand out and grabbed Logan’s phone from his hand and carelessly tossed it over both their shoulders to Remus.

“Patton!” Logan hissed, rubbing the irritated tears from his eyes. “Remus, give it back!”

Remus, however, was just staring at the phone in his lap like it was some type of bomb. Logan’s phone locked itself and the screen went dark, and still Remus sat inhumanely still in the seat, staring at it, with a type of blank expression that Logan oftentimes related to their coworkers when Logan asked them to perform any sort of math without a calculator.

“Remus,” Logan said again.

Remus jerked at the sound of his voice, snapping out of whatever fit the phone had put him in almost meekly-- if Logan could describe anything Remus did as meekly without it being a blatant falsehood. “Meekly” itself had never seemed to be a word in Remus’s vocabulary which was another irritating fact about him that made Logan break out in figurative hives.

Logan knew how Remus was.

He knew Remus.

It didn’t matter that he had never talked to Remus before today, that his thinly veiled contempt for his coworkers kept him from being willing to stand in their presence more than he was being paid to, that this fake affair was the first stupid relationship of any kind he had gotten outside of Patton and his son since his last boyfriend had dumped him on the night he was going to propose and hadn’t he thought he’d known him too? Isn’t that what led to all this?

It didn’t matter.

Logan was smarter, now. Logan was better now. Logan was--

“I don’t…” Remus said, trailing off as he stared at the messages popping up on Logan’s phone and Logan wondered why it felt like his lungs had shrunk right in his chest. “I don’t think you should be reading these right now.”

“He definitely should not!” Patton said, with a very convincing amount of forced happiness. “Hold that for him will you, Remus? Oh and why do you think you’re going to get fired tomorrow?”

Remus looked up at Logan and then at Patton and then back at Logan, like Logan was supposed to know what that meant in addition to every other stupid look he’d given Logan all evening. Logan shoved his glasses up to his hairline and rubbed his aching eyes, and yet somehow that still didn’t fix the pounding in his head or the exhaustion hollowing out his bones. It also didn’t make Remus disappear from the backseat, which was equally annoying, even though Logan hadn’t truly thought he was a shared apparition for him and Patton.

“You didn’t mention anything about today to your… what are you a fuck buddy?” Remus said.

And Patton laughed.

Logan grabbed the door handle and yanked on it, but of course the ridiculous safety locks were engaged, and Logan had spent far too many sober years getting locked in this car to try to puzzle out the broken locking system in order to drunkenly throw himself out of the car. He was not in the habit of wishing for miracles, or even believing in deities, but he imagined that some powerful entity was finding ruining Logan’s life to be semi enjoyable.

“See this is why I can’t fire him!” Patton said through giggles and Logan thought maybe he was being addressed for this. Patton met Remus’s gaze through the rearview mirror and shook the last bit of water from his damp hair. “You make everything so entertaining!”

“What?”

Logan grit his teeth and yanked on the door handle again. “Remus, meet Mr. Hart, the CEO and your boss. Also put on your seatbelt.”

Remus blinked at them both, leaning between the seats and definitely not putting on his seatbelt. Logan counted backward from ten, reminding himself that one of the hiring requirements for Patton’s company has always been must be the stupid beyond belief. He’d known for a while that his coworkers were idiots on a good day, hazards to his health on bad ones, and yet somehow in the whirlwind of the day he’s had, Logan had forgotten that Remus counted as a coworker still.

“I’m not… getting fired?” Remus said, acting much like a computer after being turned on. “Why do you know my name then?”

Patton shrugged, flicking on his blinker to change lanes before the next light. “You have interesting ideas for your advertising strategy! Of course I would know your name! I’m sorry about vetoing that last one. I know Logan liked it, but I wanted to stick to the family-as-a-whole angle.”

“Patton,” Logan warned with an edge.

“Logan liked…?” Remus echoed, before turning towards Logan with a look of bewilderment that annoyed Logan far more than it had any right to. “You actually look at my shit?”

“Put on your seatbelt, Remus,” he said, because wasn’t it obvious that Logan looked at his things? Before the whole Robot incident Logan hadn’t had a problem with Remus at all: he was effective and efficient and the rumors were irritating but below him to indulge in. Before Remus had dragged him figuratively kicking and screaming into this mess, Logan approved the budgets that came with the projects Remus created.

He still did that, just with more anger than before. Petty feelings for Remus himself aside, his work was objectively good.

Logan knew that about him.

“So!” Patton said over both of them, with his signature grin that Logan suspected he would still be wearing even if Logan decided to kill him right now. It must be the by-product of being controlled by rodents running on a wheel. “How was your volunteer work Remus?”

Remus froze in the back seat, going unnaturally still again. “Are you some kind of stalker-- uh sir?”

“Will you knock that off?” Logan snapped, which only made Remus’s shoulders jump straight to his ears. “And put on your seatbelt.”

“Just curious!” Patton said, ignoring Logan entirely. “Darlene is a good friend of mine! I make sure to send monthly donations to the organization since I don’t have a lot of free time to jump over and help.”

Remus didn’t say anything to that. He swallowed audibly and leaned back against the seat, dragging fingers through his wet hair and then tucked his arms in his own armpits. Logan pressed a palm to his forehead watching the street lights bend from behind his eyelids because that was easier than staring at Remus act like Patton was trying to pull his teeth out.

“You actually do volunteer work?” Logan said. “You don’t seem like the type.”

“Ha,” Remus said without any inflection. Logan thought that was the quietest that he had ever been. Where was that stupid ass smirk? Where was the stubbornness that pushed back against everything? Where was that loud voice and that confidence?

“Put on your seatbelt,” Logan said again.

“Why do you care if I wear the belt or not?”

“Remus put on your seatbelt or, so help me Newton, I will climb back there and put it on for you, myself!”

The air simmered from the acid in his tone, making the silence figurative chafe against his ribs. Remus stared at him, blinking slowly, with the street lights casting roving shadows on his face. His dark eyes were just so-- so--

Logan dug his nails into his palm. Why was it Remus Prince could make him feel like this? What gave him the right?

“It’s okay!” Patton said, setting the car to park. “We’re here anyway!”

Logan reached up and pulled his glasses back onto his face properly, but it still took him a moment to realize that they were near a bunch of townhouses, double parked outside one that Logan had considered moving into all those years ago when he had first been looking for an apartment for after college.

Remus too, apparently needed a moment to recognize the area. “We… are at my apartment? Holy shit, you are a stalker.”

Patton giggled, flashing Remus with his blinding smile and reached back to pick up Logan’s phone from his hands. “Thank you so much, kiddo! We’ll wait until you get inside all safe and sound, and I’ll see you tomorrow!”

“You will not,” Logan said. “Tomorrow you have a business deal two hours away to complete and if you miss it--”

Patton stretched back in his seat and let out a hugely exaggerated yawn. “But they’re so boring! Maybe I should bring Janus with me. He always makes my business deals entertaining. I love when he sets his snake on people. He looks so happy and he laughs and--”

Logan squeezed his eyes closed and recited the first twenty digits of pi in his head to keep from grabbing Patton’s squirrel run brain and slamming it into the steering wheel.

“Homicide is wrong,” Logan said.

“I’ll help you vouch for insanity,” Remus said. “I mean, tied together through a murder, and possibly hiding a body is much more juicy than a fake marriage that’s falling apart. We’d be the talk of the office.”

“They would not find any body that I hid,” Logan said. “Nobody would.”

Remus opened his mouth to say something more, but whatever it is he decided against it. Instead he slid over the seats and kicked open the door right behind Logan and stepped out into the night air.

“Thanks for the ride, Mr. Hart, sir,” he said, strangely formal, then squinted and added, “Daddy?”

“I’m not firing you, Remus,” Patton said. “No matter what you call me!”

Logan ran his tongue over his teeth counting each and every one. Remus looked at him but ultimately finally adhered to that whole shutting up thing. He closed the door to Patton’s blue punch buggy and started towards the door to the apartments.

“Oh,” Remus said, and turned back at the last second. He knocked his knuckles on Logan’s window a few inches from where Logan’s gaze fixed itself on a light. Patton apparently knew more about what to do than Logan because he pressed the window lowering button and Remus reached his entire arm into the window to drop a small object right into Logan’s lap.

Logan caught it mainly due to reaction rather than skill and his skin tingled at the familiar item. Even in the dark, Logan’s fingers roll over the shape of the ring that had always reminded him of the worst day of his life. It was still warm from being in Remus’s pocket.

“I think that should stay with you,” Remus said, like it wasn’t a big deal at all. “You know… for the next boytoy you take to your sex dungeon or whatever nerds like you do on weekends.”

And then he turned around and fled towards the apartment building. Patton turned off the hazard lights and slipped back into traffic and Logan wondered if he would be polite enough to not comment if Logan started crying right then and there.

His throat felt swollen, his tongue too big for his mouth, and the headache thrummmmmmed painfully.

Logan knew Remus Prince.

“You know that Remus Prince isn’t gonna be like him,” Patton said to fill the silence.

“Remus Prince isn’t like anyone.” Logan didn’t whine. To whine would be unbecoming. And childish. And embarrassing.

So Logan didn’t whine and Patton mercifully didn't call him out on his not-whining.

And neither of them mention the choked tone that Logan had for the rest of the night.

When Logan had seen his boss after he made Virgil cry, he hadn’t expected it to end up with him clutching that ring like a lifeline, but as he ran his fingers around the rim, he wondered if it had fit on Remus’s finger at all.

(Part Five)

#intrulogical #sanders sides #logan sanders #remus sanders #patton sanders #Far too many OCs gross #Rumor Mill Au #rumors #well fake marriage #sympathetic remus #Logan is bad at feelings #so bad #now with more logan angst #Patton is a good friend #This au is so old that I called Janus Dante and I decided to fix that #alcohol #drunk logan

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1engele · 3 years

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daybreak | sal fisher x fem!reader - 8. solo

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[warnings: underage drinking, smoking, weed, near death experience?, crying]

"never have i dealt with anything more difficult than my own soul." — You leave the roof late in the night. Sal had gotten up and retreated into his apartment a little while earlier—but you'd decided to stay and make sure he didn't come back there.

Three days pass. They all consist of fleeting glances and irresolute tension. Things remain the same with the group dynamic, except for between you and Sal. Neither of you seem to know how to continue from that conversation on the roof. No one else notices, though. They'd never suspected anything from the beginning, it seems.

The beginning of your involvement with Sal involved a little bit of buildup and then a snap which resulted in a sexual encounter (or two).

Now it was a bit different. Now things were a little less lighthearted.

It's a Saturday—you'd planned to spend it inside as usual. That's until your phone starts ringing.

You flip your phone open, read over the contact, and answer the call.

"Hi, Ash."

"Y/N," she starts. You hear the excitement to continue in her voice. "There's a party tonight."

"Oh?" You get up from your seat on your bed.

"Some stoner Larry has connections with invited him and said to bring friends. He wants to bring us—save for Todd. He doesn't do parties."

"Wait," your eyebrows furrow. "Me?"

"Yeah!" She says from the other end of the line. "It'll be fun. Cmon."

You bite your lip nervously, anxiety knotting in your stomach. "I don't know. I've never really.."

Ashley is momentarily silent on the other line. She must be contemplating what to say to convince you. "Sal's coming too. Parties aren't necessarily his thing, either—so maybe you guys could try it out together?"

You open your mouth and then promptly close it. Something inside of you suddenly really wanted to go to this party. "Um... alright. Okay."

"Cool! What're you gonna wear?"

You look toward the drawer that contained your clothes and bit your lip. "Not sure yet. I'll update you on that."

"Okay, don't forget to text me! See you at eight."

The call declined from the other line. The phone that held the phone to your ear slipped into your lap. You pressed your lips together and tried to ignore the familiar feeling of sickening nausea and anxiety.

You don't rush yourself on getting ready for the party, because the time you're due to be done won't be for a while.

You take your time with the hours you have. You shower, take your time on eyeliner, mascara, and lipgloss—and finally decide on what you'll wear.

You decide on a square neck white cropped tank with short sleeves and your nicest pair of light blue, slightly washed out jeans. You slid on your favorite, sort of chunky white sneakers over white socks.

It isn't long after you finish when Ashley calls and informs you she's arrived at the apartments and Larry and Sal have already joined her out in the car. You give yourself a once-over in the mirror and then leave the apartment.

Your mother was nowhere to be found. She's either at work or drinking with her coworkers.

Once you've opened the door and climbed into the Ford Fiesta, you immediately realize your predicament—Sal is the only person in the backseat with you.

The drive there is decently long and painfully tense. Neither you nor Sal know how to speak to each other, so no words are exchanged beneath the heavy metal music emitting from the radio.

When you finally arrive at the party, it's recognizably crowded, drunken teenagers are flowing from the front door, in and out, and there's a good amount on the lawn. The newest radio hit is playing on a considerably loud speaker, and the vibrations are notable even from a distance.

"Woah," Larry says, staring at the house as Ashley pulls onto the side of the road. "Didn't realize he was so popular."

You all exit the Ford Fiesta and cross the road. You cringe as you watch someone vomit onto the grass, and another person ripping from a bong in the wide open.

Smoke flies into your face and your eyes as you enter the home. You cough, waving a hand as you blindly follow after your friends.

Eventually, the four of you find yourself on two couches directly facing each other. You on one, Larry and Ashley on the other. Sal is stood to the side.

Larry materializes a bottle of Fireball that you guessed he stole from someone on the way in, opens the cap with his teeth, and takes several gulps.

"Where did you get that?" Ashley laughs over the music, pulling the sleeves of her lavender sweater over her hands.

"Stole it," he looks to Sal and directs the bottle toward him. "Want some?"

"Sure," Sal replies, to your surprise—taking it from Larry's grasp and walking away and in your direction.

"You're drinking that?" You ask him, testing the waters.

"No, actually," you watch Sal round to the other side of the couch to linger behind you. "I'm limiting him. He'll thank me later."

Once he's out of your field of vision, you tip your head back and gaze up at him—your perspective on him being upside down. Your gaze zeroes in on the bottle of Fireball he's clutching in his hand.

"Hey," you say, meeting his eyes. "Give me some."

It was time to give him that excuse—the excuse to break the ice.

He leans in a bit, gesturing toward you with the bottle. "You want it?"

A grin pulls at your glossed lips. Instead of reaching for the bottle, you open your mouth and tilt your chin up.

Sal looks on for a moment but laughs once he realizes what you want. Everyone else at the couches seem decently distracted with each other and the overall environment—so he doesn't seem to worry about it too much.

He reaches his hand around and towards your neck, gripping your jaw in his fingers and holding you firmly. You feel his cold rings press into your skin when he tips your head further back just a bit—and then steadily pours a shot-amount of Fireball into your mouth with his other hand.

Sal stops at the right time, looks on as you pull back and sit up, and cautiously watches the back of your head as you assumedly swallow the whisky. But when you turn a bit in your seat to peer at him over your shoulder, you're holding your mouth closed and pressing a closed fist to your lips while soundlessly giggling.

"What?" He laughs, a hand moving to the top of the couch. He leans in a bit. "Can you not swallow it?"

Your shoulders shake slightly as you continue to laugh. You shake your head up and down.

"Do you need to spit it out?" Sal asks, his tone warming into concern.

You shake your head from side to side. You meet his eyes and swallow, gasping as the liquid slides down your throat and burns all the way down. You cough, the flavor of cinnamon and what tasted like Big Red gum overloaded your senses.

"God," you breathe out, giggling all the while. The alcohol is gross but you're feeling good. "It's not great."

"Yeah, that's why I'm holding Larry off, so he won't be puking his guts out later."

You look up to the boy, who's sat on the arm of the couch opposite to you. He's busy talking to some equally stoned guy, so you can't manage to catch his eye—but you catch Ashley's.

She had this look of astonishment on her face.

Had she been watching what happened? When Sal poured Fireball in your mouth?

Your face grew hot thinking about it.

Sal wanders away from you again, and you find yourself drinking more than you should. Eventually, your rationality disappears.

It's been a few hours and Sal hasn't seen you for a while. So when he hears about a girl wearing a white crop top walking across the roof of the house, he feels like he's going to vomit.

It takes him a record time of 6 seconds to get out of the door and onto the lawn. Upon looking up at the roof, his suspicions are confirmed. He shoulders past multiple people to place himself near the front of the crowd and gazes up in horror.

"Sal!" You yell, gesturing toward him with something between a wave and a point. "I'd recognize that hair anywhere!"

Multiple heads within the crowd turn away from you and towards him. He puts aside his social anxiety and the wave of unease that washes over his body and tries to focus on you. "Please come down," he rushes out, raising his voice just enough for it to be audible over the crowd.

You laugh like he's told a hilarious joke and he quickly realizes his mistake. That's the worst thing he could've told your intoxicated self. You move toward the edge of the roof, shaky and uncoordinated. "You want me to jump?"

"No!" He exclaims, his hands flying up, fingers splayed. "No. Don't do that!"

"Holy shit!" He hears Larry shout from somewhere closer to the front door of the house. Sal guesses he's just now catching wind of the current situation. Moments after, both of his brunette friends are at his side.

"What the hell is going on?!" Ashley yells, verdant eyes glued to the sight before them.

You lost your balance once again, but this time a bit worse—your foot catching on a shingle on the roof and effectively knocking the red solo cup out of your hand. It dropped onto the downward slope of the roof and the liquor inside of it spilled down the side.

Whenever Sal witnessed the toe of your white sneaker catch onto that shingle, he felt as though his very soul had been ripped from his body. Immediately after he watched you regain your footing and stable yourself, though—his heartbeat calmed to a steadier pace.

"I'm going up there," he stated beneath the chatter.

Both Ashley and Larry's heads whipped toward him.

"You'll kill yourself!" Larry exclaims incredulously. Ashley opens her mouth to assumedly second Larry's statement, but Sal cuts her off by walking away.

"Not before she does," he mutters, pushing his way through the density of bodies and forcing his way through the front door. His senses are disoriented like he's been submerged beneath water as the volume of the music scratched at his eardrums and pulsed the innards of his skull. Adrenaline courses through his blood like a drug whilst he shoulders past both mindlessly drunk and carelessly high teenagers.

Sal doesn't spare them a second glance, but their unconcern does remain in his mind. The fact that they're continuing their lives while he feels as though something that's growing into something of importance in his is about to be taken from him... it's mind-numbing.

He's never been an optimistic person, he's always tried to view things in the way they're most likely to happen—and all that's beneath that two-story house is a long drop and concrete. If you fall, you'll break your head open and you'll die.

He finally makes it to the stairs. He makes a break for it then, tripping over his own feet multiple times. Anything could happen in this amount of time, and he knew no one else was going to help him.

Sal's thoughts grow more and more disordered as he navigates the dark halls of the house. The music seems to have only grown louder, the deafening mixture of guitar and drums taunting him.

He remembers the window on the outside of the house. Sal estimates which room it would be, locates it, and approaches the door. He turns the knob, but it doesn't fully rotate.

The door is locked from the inside. Of course. Who would have a party and leave the bedroom unlocked so people could fuck all over your comforter?

He bites out a curse only he hears and prepares himself to force the door open.

Sal grabs the doorknob tightly, prepares himself, and rams the side of his body into the wood. He doesn't even feel the pain, just does it again, and again.

He goes until that half of his body is numb.

The door finally budges, and he wastes no time entering the room. He doesn't hesitate when he reaches the double-hung window he'd been seeking. He grips it at the bottom and pulls it up and open, clenching his teeth together painfully.

Sal stares out at the vastness of the night, the golden streetlights, and how they shine down on the crowd of people below him. They all seem to be looking at the same place, up, but not at him—and he can only swallow thickly.

Carefully, Sal moves to sit on the windowsill, gripping what was above him tightly, his legs outside. He then ducks to leave the room and shivers as cool air hits the front of his neck.

He starts walking the roof, steadily—like his life depends on it. Because.. it does.

Or yours. Yours depends on it.

"Y/N!" Sal calls as he finally reaches a point where you're in his line of sight. Momentarily, he's worried he'd scared you. But you turn your head, meet his eyes, and smile. Despite that, your face spells fear all over it. Something must have sobered you up a bit while he'd been inside.

"I'm going to come to you. Do not walk towards me!"

You blink lazily, because you were drunk, and nodded. You shivered, hugging yourself. It didn't seem to do much, though. Your arms were bare.

"Fuck," he breathes, gazing down at the fall that could await him if he misstepped and immediately reverted his gaze. Blood rushes between his ears as he steadily makes his way towards you.

"Please don't fall!" You suddenly exclaim, your hair tussling in the breeze. A strand blows over your face, so you quickly raise a hand to move it back in place.

He looks up from his feet and stares you in the eyes. "I won't," he affirms, you and himself, continuing across the roof. "Just stay put, okay?"

It doesn't take long to get over to you. He's mostly sober, so it isn't hard on that part. What's difficult is calming his steady heart.

He's not scared of falling. Not necessarily scared of injury or death. But he is scared of not making it to you.

Once he's at an arms reach of your shaking form, he reaches out a hand, palm facing the darkness of the sky.

You seem to read his mind, slowly grabbing his hand. Sal maneuvers your joint hands to where your palms press together and your fingers are interlaced. He doesn't know if it's the blood rushing through his ears or the distance from the ground, but it's as if everything below becomes very quiet.

You meet his gaze, your pretty eyes glossy with tears. The eyeliner you were wearing had just begun to collect beneath your lower lash line.

He squeezes your hand and leads you to be in front of him.

It's not long after that that he's gotten you off of the roof. Sal watches you slip through the open window before turning toward the density of people beneath him on the ground. He breathes in as he catches both Larry and Ashley's eyes—he can't read their expressions, but he wouldn't be surprised if there was shock written all over it—and then ducks back into the window.

As soon as the window is shut and it meets the windowsill once more, Sal whips his head toward you. "Y/N-"

Before he'd saw your face, and the language of your body as you were sat on the edge of the bed, he was going to scold you, and then go downstairs and find you some water and sober you up—all of that falls down the drain when he sees the stream of tears falling down your face. Every time you blink, more drop—quickly staining your cheeks with black makeup.

"Oh," he breathes, suddenly speechless. "Y/N-"

You attempt at taking a breath in, it seems—but it's a failure because it hitches and turns into a shoulder-shaking sob.

"I'm sorry," you cry, roughly dragging the tips of your fingers beneath your eyes. This only smears the running mascara further. "I'm just drunk."

Sal momentarily feels like breaking down in tears himself, that's how much this entire ordeal stressed him out. He approaches your trembling body and crouches down in front of you.

"Hey," he says, softly. "It doesn't matter whether or not you're intoxicated. Your feelings still matter, okay?"

You sniffle, still attempting to wipe your tears away, and reluctantly nod. "I'm sorry," you try again.

He places his hands on your knees and squeezes them firmly. "It's okay."

You jerk into a sob, leaning forward and pressing the side of your face on his shoulder. You slowly tuck your arms beneath his and cross them over the expanse of his back, palms flat on each shoulder blade. The convulsive gasps were hard to stop, making it hard to breathe.

Sal breathed out softly against the prosthetic, raising his arms and encasing them around your torso.

He didn't wonder about the reason for your tears. Assuming things wouldn't help you anymore.

"I don't know why I did that," you whisper, quieting yourself to swallow your saliva. "Maybe I do. I think I was trying to prove something to myself."

He finds himself holding you tighter, your chest pressed to his, feeling your heartbeat through the fabric that separated you both—oddly enough, even at this moment, it reminds him of that night in the car. You had been even closer to him then, though.

"It was stupid," you murmured. "Why would I do that, after what we had talked about last night?"

"What if we jumped together?" he remembers saying.

"Some things can't be explained," he replies earnestly. "You don't need to know why you did what you did. It was stupid, though. I'd probably walk across the roof of a two-story house for you again, but.."

You pull back and meet his eyes, your face wet. The majority of your makeup had been cried off and your lipgloss had been smudged.

You must've sensed his examination, breaking the visual contact and sniffling. "I know I look ridiculous right now."

Sal smiles. He knows she can't see it, but maybe she'll hear it. "I don't think so," he murmurs, looking off to the side. "I think that's a bathroom. You can clean up in there if you want."

You follow his gaze and then return your eyes to his and laugh a bit. You still sound drunk, he notes. Obviously. He'd poured a good amount of Fireball into your mouth and watched you drink plenty of other things.

"Feels kinda weird using a stranger's bathroom," you laugh, your breath hitching from the earlier crying.

Sal rolls his eyes humorously, gripping your knees tighter as he pulls himself off of the floor. "The guy who lives here is Larry's friend—and a stoner. I doubt he'd mind. And if he does get mad, I'll take responsibility for it. I forced that door through, anyway.."

Your gaze swivels toward the door, which is not shut but mostly closed. When he glances to where you're looking, he notices it seems a bit.. crooked.

He inwardly cringes. "I'll pay for it. Come on."

Sal follows you into the bathroom. You seem reluctant to enter first, so he does, opening the door and reaching to the side to turn the lights on. They do what they're supposed to—eventually. They're momentarily unresponsive before becoming alive—the illumination brightening the room with a dull yellow hue.

You step onto the tile and began to search for whatever it was you needed. You kneeled at one of the cabinets below the sink, opened it, and ducked your head lower.

"Oh!" You exclaim quietly, reaching in and pulling out two things. A bottle of half-empty makeup remover and a bag of some cotton rounds.

"Maybe he has a girlfriend?" He hears you say to yourself, standing up, nudging the cabinet closed with your foot, and placing the things you found beside the sink.

Sal reaches over and closes the door. He'd rather not have to witness the sight of some drunkards wandering in and fooling around on the bed.

"Lock it," you say. "I'd rather no one- no one see me like this."

His hand was already on the doorknob, so he just reaches down a bit and locks the door.

He watches you struggle a bit with the bag of cotton rounds, trying but failing to open it, so he reaches forward and delicately plucks it out of your grasp.

Sal slides the makeup remover over and pats the place on the counter it was previously. "Sit."

You peer into his eyes inquisitively but waste no time hoisting yourself up and onto the cold surface.

After that, he plucks the bottle of makeup remover off of the counter and douses the cotton round in the liquid. He reaches forward from the distance that your knees created between the both of you, but you spread your thighs and press the heel of your shoe into his lower back, pulling him in so he's between your legs.

Sal doesn't see it suggestively, because you're drunk—but he's glad you asked him to lock the door because, with his luck, Larry or Ashley would find their way into the bathroom and get all of the wrong ideas.

The firmness just beneath his navel presses into the edge of the counter as he cups one side of your face and began wiping away at the eyeliner and mascara and everything it messed up.

"Thank you," you say sweetly, blinking at him with appreciation in your eyes. "Where'd you learn how to do that?"

He remembers a silhouette. Her back was turned to him, golden hair cascading just past her shoulder blades. He remembers blue eyes that looked a lot like his own staring into a mirror, a hand which adorned a wedding ring wiping away makeup from the day.

"Read it on the label of the bottle," he replies, meeting your eyes and looking away.

As he's finishing up, he hears a rapping of knuckles against the locked door. He tosses the used cotton rounds into a trash bin in the corner and then locks eyes with you curiously.

"Occupied," he calls out, still looking at you. The knocking only gets louder, which makes you laugh.

"He said it's occupied!" You yell over the unintelligible music downstairs, your words breaking into a giggle. You press your knees against his waist, and he doesn't even realize it when his hands meet your thighs.

The knocking ceases, fading into a voice. "Is that you guys in there?"

Fucking Larry. Speak of the goddamn devil—that's what he would've said if he'd come knocking sooner.

The both of you seem to be thinking the same thing, locking eyes in terror. You quickly get off of the counter, and Sal unlocks the door and swings it open.

Sure enough, he's standing there—in all of his glory and highness. Larry blinks, the whites of his glossy eyes tinted red. He looks between the both of you before speaking. "Why were.."

"I had to pee," You choose to deadpan.

Sal feels himself grow even paler than he already is. "I came in.. after.. that."

Larry intakes a mouthful of whatever is in the red solo cup he's holding in his tan, lanky fingers, and swallows thickly. "Okay," he croaks, instinctively cringing as the alcohol passed through his chest. He gestured the cup toward you. "Uh..crazy stunt you pulled up there, huh?"

Sal saw your face shift in his peripheral vision. "Huge lapse of judgment," you reply.

"Nobody could tell who you were, so don't worry about that," the brunette smiles a bit. He returns his attention to Sal. "They've started playing country," sure enough, Sal hears the sound of a banjo from the speakers downstairs, effectively punctuating Larry's statement.

"Yeah.." Larry mumbles, sipping his drink and looking up and through his eyebrows. "Ash said to come find you guys so we can leave."

It doesn't take much, after that.

As you're leaving, Larry pulls the door open and furrows his brow at the condition of the hinges. "Wow. How old is this thing?" He mumbles.

Sal hears you snort.

The three of you descend the stairs, skirting past countless teenagers standing on the steps drinking or smoking. Sal makes the mistake of letting you fall behind and feels you stumble and smack him in the back. It's easy to steady himself, quickly gripping the railing—but he's concerned about you, so he turns around.

A guy with a cigarette balancing in his teeth is eying you with frustration pulling at his features. His gaze pulls from your face and down your body absentmindedly.

"Watch it," he murmurs.

"Sorry," you breathe, jerking your head away and meeting Sal's eyes worriedly. Keep walking, you express in the hues of your eyes.

Sal reaches forward and interlaces your fingers with his as he'd done on the roof. He makes a show of it, too—so the guy with the cigarette sees the rings on both of his hands. Sal gives him a distinct look when they lock eyes, rolls his jaw, and lets you lead him down the stairs, instead of the other way around.

By the time you're all nearly shot from weaving through the multitude of sweaty bodies and navigating through plumes of smoke thicker than fog, the three of you find Ashley petting what he'd assume is the host's dog.

No one questions it.

"You good to drive?" Larry asks, placing his cup on a nearby surface.

"Oh, yeah," she rises from her crouch beside the dog. The animal walks away, his golden tail wagging excitedly at the next person who would give him pets. "A gross sip of something put me off of drinking tonight a while earlier. And, uh.. the whole roof thing dried me out."

You sigh. "I'm sorry about that. It sobered me up, too."

She shakes her head, a wispy strand of light brown hair falling over her face. "It was stupid, yes, and I hope you don't do it again, but all that matters now is that you're safe."

Ashley blinks kind green eyes at you and smiles, reaching forward, taking your hand, and leading you away. Sal hears you laugh and follow after her as both of you head for the front door.

He turns to look at Larry once he loses sight of both of you in the crowd. He examines Sal with bleary dark eyes and looks as though he's about to say something, but he doesn't get to.

Even over the blaring country music, Sal hears a yell and then some fearful shouting. He whips around toward the sounds, which were toward the front of the house.

Red and blue flashing lights shine through the windows.

"Shit!"

"Ah, fuck," Larry groaned, nimbly wrapping his fingers around Sal's wrist and dragging him into the density of the panicked crowd. "Did you see where they went?"

Sal shakes his head. "No," he knows you're intoxicated. Panic settles in. He chews his lip, his eyes desperately scamming for a girl wearing a white top squared at the neck—you. "Y/N's had a lot to drink, Larry. If the police-"

"Don't worry about the Five-O, let's worry about the girls," Larry replies absentmindedly, keeping his firm hold on Sal.

"They must've gone to the Ford," Sal shouts over the music, which, for some reason, is still playing. "We were leaving anyway. I'm sure they're in the car."

Larry releases Sal and motions toward the back of the house. "There's a back door. I'll text Ashley and tell her to drive down the block and we can meet them on foot."

It was an agreeable plan. Waltzing out of the house and walking straight up to the car wouldn't be wise.

Larry does what he'd said he'd do. Turns out, Sal was right, they had made it to the car moments before the police had rolled up. Ashley informed him it was two squad cars and four officers. Seemed like overkill for a house party—but he wouldn't know. He didn't do this often.

When Larry was on the phone, Sal was very tempted to ask about Y/N, but refrained.

On the way to the back door, they crossed through the kitchen. Larry snatched an unopened bottle of alcohol of a brand Sal didn't recognize and carried it along with him for the road.

As soon as they made it out of the house, they both made a break for it, running between houses and into multiple different backyards on their way.

They slowed down once they were at a measurable distance from the party, gasping for air. Sal panted against the prosthetic, placing his hands on his knees and slowing his gasps into slow breaths, attempting to calm his racing heart.

They stood on the side of the road, the music in the distance (albeit a lot quieter) still pounding into the night.

Sal lowered himself down onto the curb. Larry joined him, raising the bottle he'd chose to bring with him to his mouth, and opened the steel cap with his teeth. He spits it onto the road and gestures it toward Sal.

"Bottoms up," he said, bringing it to his lips and taking several gulps.

Sal rolled his eyes playfully, eyebrows rising as Ashley's Ford Fiesta cruised down the road and slowed to a stop in front of them. He stood up from the curb and pulled Larry off of it as well.

They entered the car, sliding into the backseat. Larry continued to down the beer he'd found as Ashley turned around in her seat.

"The night's still young," she says. "Any ideas of what we could do?"

It's really not. Sal's a bit disoriented so he doesn't know what time it is but he wouldn't be surprised if it was 3 AM.

You then turn around in the passenger seat and grin mischievously. "Let's go to the lake."

Oh, great.

#sally face #sally face x reader #sal fisher x reader

172 notes · View notes

please-buckme · 3 years

Text

Makeup.

Bucky Barnes x fem!reader

Summary: Bucky and reader are old friends of a sort and have secretly, but not so secretly, had feelings for each other. What will arise when their feelings for each other are finally brought to the surface? Read the warnings and you’ll find out.

Words: 4.1k

Warnings: Smut 18+ NSFW, a lil fluff, self hate, oral ( m receiving, f receiving) unprotected shmex

A/N: It’s been a minute, but I’m so excited to share this with you guys! Thank you @gogolucky13 for putting up with my constant self doubt and questions 😅❤️

The days dragged on as she worked tirelessly through the week. Once Friday hit, though, there was an excited heaviness that ran through her chest. Friday’s always excited her because Friday, of course, meant the weekend was here and so was the bottle of wine that awaited her at home.

This Friday, however, excited her for another reason: Bucky.

Bucky Barnes is the best friend of y/n’s, newly single, ex husband. She had despised her husband for many years, and for good reason.

Y/n was never allowed to do anything without her husband’s approval. Her ex had her stuck under his thumb for over ten years. She couldn’t go out with friends, had to dress appropriately; which to him meant a dress, stockings and heels. And she wouldn’t dare leave the house without makeup. If he were strict on her on one thing more so than anything, it was makeup.

When y/n woke up in the mornings she had to put makeup on before he saw her, or else he’d make nasty comments. In the beginning, the things he would say to her made her feel horrible. She felt like crawling into a whole and never coming out, to save people from seeing the bare skin of her face. But after a while she’d snap back saying things like ‘I only wish you’d wear makeup, I can’t bear looking at your ugly mug for another second.’ she was harsh, but he was far worse.

She hated her life with him. He was dreadful to be around and a horrible man to be married to. At times, y/n felt like the only good thing that came from there marriage was Bucky. The second they met she’d adored him. Bucky made her laugh, made her feel human anytime he came over, which was quite often. She never really understood why Bucky was friends with him, but she never questioned it. She loved Bucky’s company and missed him so much. Since she’d divorced her husband she hadn’t seen Bucky; it’d been almost a year.

She called Bucky the other day to let him know that her ex had left some stuff at her house and wondered if he’d pick it up. She was elated when he agreed to come.

Y/n had just gotten home when she’d heard Bucky at her door. Shit she cursed to herself, he’s early. Her hands began to shake while the butterflies in her stomach began to flutter. Taking in a few deep breaths and a calming voice telling her ‘you got this, now open the fucking door before he leaves’ , she opened the door.

“Oh god, Bucky,” She purred. He was dressed in a tight leather jacket, adorned with his shiny, muscular, metal arm on full display. She shamelessly looked him over, practically drooling over the greek-god-like man in front of her. “Are you trying to kill me?” She giggled, feeling the blush burn on her cheeks.

“No, of course not.” He laughed, showing off his beautiful smile. Y/n’s breath hitched in her throat, totally enamored by his natural beauty. She stopped laughing and looked towards the floor mat at the door, suddenly feeling self conscious. Before she could be consumed by her self doubting thoughts, bucky continued, “I rode my bike over, which I now know was kind of stupid. I hope you didn’t have too much for me to grab.” He gave her a toothy grin, leaning against the door frame.

“I guess you’ll just have to come back for the stuff you can’t get, which is totally fine by me.” she countered with a wink. His blue eyes bored into hers, making her stomach twist. She bit back a moan then realized she hadn’t invited him in yet, “Oh my gosh, please, come in. How rude of me.” Bucky laughed, following her into the house and closing the door behind him.

“I did just get home, so do you mind if I get dressed down?” She asked, fiddling with the pins in her hair.

“Oh no, go ahead,” He sent her a soft smile, “Just tell me where the stuff is and I will go ahead and bring it down to my bike.” She nodded and had him follow her to the master bedroom closet.

“It’s these four boxes and a few of these dress shirts that I know he needs. I’m just gonna throw away the others.” She smirked and Bucky chuckled.

“Well, since I brought my bike, I can grab two of the boxes and the shirts but I’ll have to come back for the others.” He scratched the back of his neck. He brought the bike to impress y/n, which he realized worked when she gave him a look that could kill, at the door. It took everything in him not to take her right there, same for y/n too. He was secretly praising himself for bringing the bike, too, because now he has an excuse to come back.

Y/n smirked, “Sounds good to me.” She paused, biting her lip as she watched him grab the boxes from the top shelf of the closet. “I’m gonna go take my makeup off now, you good?”

“All good, Doll.” She blushed at the nickname before disappearing to the bathroom. She did her whole unbeautify skin routine, then slipped on some comfy leggings and an old t-shirt. Bucky got her the t-shirt years ago and it’s one of her most cherished articles of clothing, she wonders if he’ll recognize it.

By the time she was done, Bucky had finished strapping the boxes to his bike and was sitting on her bed, facing the bathroom.

“All done?” They simultaneously asked each other, both of them shyly laughed. The room was dimly lit, making y/n wonder what it would be like falling asleep next to him.

“Hey, I remember that shirt. It still looks great on you. Best purchase I ever made.” He smiles weakly. He looks sorful, looking back on the memory wasn’t great for him. He was going to tell y/n of his feelings that day but chickened out. He’s regretted it ever since.

Her nerves got the best of her in that moment as she cleared her throat and laughed breathily, “Uh, thank you. It’s one of my favorites, actually.” Bucky was lost in his thoughts as he stared at her “So- you got it all?” She asked, timidly.

“Um, yeah. As much as I could. Is everything okay?” He asked, suddenly sounding concerned. She tucked a few strands of hair behind her ear.

“I.. uh, yeah- why?”

Bucky huffs, “oh, no reason I just noticed you changed but didn’t take your makeup off. ” The flush on her cheeks turns to a little pink tint, was he being serious or mocking her?

“Shut up.” She laughs off the comment.

“What? Did I say something?”

“Well, yeah. I mean, I did take my makeup off. This is my face.” She says, framing her face and sucking in her cheeks and puckering her lips.

Bucky laughs, “I guess I didn’t notice. You’re just as beautiful with it off. Might as well not wear it, in my opinion.”

“W- what?” She was stunned. No one has, not even her ex, told her she was beautiful in years. As time went on she started to hate the way she looked. Sometimes she couldn’t even bring herself to look at her reflection, not disgusted but certainly not proud of her appearance.

To hear someone as handsome as Bucky say she was beautiful made tears well up in her eyes, because even though it was only a comment, y/n finally felt beautiful for the first time in a long time. “What did you just say?”

“I said you look beautiful, y/n.” Bucky visibly gulped, standing up from her bed. He’d always thought y/n was beautiful. The first day he saw her he felt his chest fill with butterflies and fuzzy, lovey-dovey feelings. Then, when he realized she was the one his best friend had been fawning over, he felt envy and jealousy trump the pure, sweet feelings he’d had before.

All he wanted, though, was for her to be happy and just wanted what she wanted. If she wanted to date his buddy, he wanted it for her too. If she wanted to marry his buddy, fuck it, he’ll be the best best man a guy could ask for. If she wanted to act like she was happy in your miserable marriage, then Bucky was right there to comfort her when she felt unwanted. So, when Bucky heard it was finally over, he couldn’t wait to show up at her doorstep as her knight in shining armor. To show her the love she deserved and never let her doubt her worth again.

When she came out of the bathroom without her makeup, he was a goner. He knew she wasn’t allowed to go without makeup around her husband. And seeing her without it just made him love her more. Not only for her beauty but for being so comfortable with him that she didn’t care if she had it on. Her being comfortable around him is all he could ever ask for.

Y/n felt shy in front of Bucky. In all honesty, Bucky always made her feel a little flustered. When he’d come over to hangout with her ex, he’d always spend a decent amount of time with her too. It never passed the point of ‘you’re my best friend's wife, so you’re off limits’. He had never complimented her, not really, too afraid he’d be crossing a line. Afraid that she’d never want him to talk to her again or even want him in her house. He’d tell her she looked nice. But beautiful? This was new and she liked it.

Y/n felt all the feelings she’d had for Bucky over the years creep up inside her, boiling over. A second ago she was worn out, had plans to eat leftovers and go to bed; now she had a taste for something more.. appetizing.

“Take your pants off.” She nearly growled, pulling her hair back into a messy bun.

“W- what? Are you-“

“Bucky, take them off or I’ll do it for you.”

This made Bucky grin, “I prefer the latter.”

A whimper left her lips as they walked towards each other, meeting in the center of her bedroom.

Y/n was hungry, almost desperate, to feel Bucky on her tongue. She sank to her knees and ran her hands along his outer legs, slowly. Bucky took his bottom lip between his teeth while running his fingers through her soft hair, gripping at the bun and yanking it just enough to have a whimper escape her lips.

“I’ve dreamed of this day for so long, but never in my wildest dreams could I have pictured such a beautiful sight.” Bucky whispered just before y/n ran her hands over his fully erect and still clothed cock; earning a hiss from the man above her.

Y/n timidly undid his zipper. She was trying to calm her nerves. She hadn’t had a man in her mouth in so long. She always enjoyed giving head but her ex was never really into it. She was nervous. Nervous because she didn’t want him to feel how eager she was. She didn’t want him to think of her as a slut who would let just anyone fuck her mouth. Bucky was special to her and she felt like, in some way, she needed to prove that. Bucky calling her beautiful though did send a shiver down her spine and caused a wet patch to grow in her underwear.

“I want you in my mouth, Buck.” Y/n moaned, reaching into his boxer and pulling him from his confined space. They both gasped. Bucky gasped at the feeling of her small hand wrapped around the base of his cock and the cool air that hit him when she pulled out his member. Y/n gasped at his size. Bucky’s cock was beautiful. It was soft but hard, intimidating but welcoming. His cock was begging to be touched as the veins protruded, pulsing in her hand. The tip was a painful red, leaking; crying for her to taste his precum. “Oh, god.” She exhaled.

“Like what you see, Doll?” He smirked, rubbing his calloused thumb over her cheek.

“I love it, Buck. May I?” She asked, stroking him softly. He nodded, still smirking. He grabbed her chin and brought her face to the tip of his cock. Y/n hummed, licking the precum from the slit and watching him bite his lip in approval.

“Don’t close your eyes, Buck. I want you to watch me.”

“I wouldn’t dream of it.”

She giggled before kissing the tip of his cock and sliding it into her mouth.

“Fuck!” Bucky breathed. She worked his tip, loving the salty taste of his precum on her tongue. She sucked delicately which was nice but Bucky needed more. Purely by accident, if you ask him, he bucked his hips, causing his cock to hit the back of her throat. Y/n moaned her approval and that’s all Bucky needed. He grabbed the back of her head and slowly thrusted back and forth into her mouth.

It was killing him to go as slow as he was but he didn’t want y/n to feel any discomfort. He did as she asked, though, and never peeled his eyes from hers. He groaned when she removed him completely out of her mouth.

“Shit, did I do-”

“Fuck my mouth, Bucky, hard.” She said kissing and stroking his shaft.

“Oh god, are you sure? I don’t want to hurt you.”

“I don’t mind a little pain.” She smirked, leaving an open mouthed kiss to his tip and slipping him back into her mouth. Bucky didn’t hesitate, positioning his hands around her face and thrusting harder and faster. She gagged when he hit the back of her throat, sending vibrations through his body. Tears ran down her cheeks as drool ran down her chin.

“You’re takin me so well, Doll.” Bucky groaned. Y/n hollowed out her cheeks and sucked a little harder at his words of encouragement. “Oh shit. Just like that, just like that. I’m gonna cum.” Y/n moaned, rubbing her thighs together. “You want my cum, huh? Want me to cum in this pretty mouth?” She nodded, never taking her eyes from his as his orgasm approached.

Bucky’s thrusts became sloppy, hitting the back of her throat every time before pushing all the way in and holding himself in the back of her throat. He groaned and cursed loudly as his cum ran down her throat. “Oh, god!” He whimpered before realizing her. Y/n gasped and coughed once he exited her mouth.

Bucky couldn’t wait any longer as he pulled her to her feet and smashed their mouths together, immediately slipping his tongue into her mouth.

The taste of her mouth was heavenly, making him even dizzier than before. She was sweet like candy with a hint of saltiness from his spend. He was overwhelmed with her. He felt like he could melt into her touch, live inside her bones so they never had to part. Just thinking of having to leave her side frightened him. He couldn’t be without her touch now. Didn’t want to spend one more second of his life without her.

Y/n moaned into the kiss as she undid the zipper of his leather jacket. “As hot as you look in leather, I need to see you.” Bucky shuffled the jacket off his arms and lifted his arms so she could remove his shirt. She hummed, “You have no idea how badly I've wanted to touch you. So many years,” She kissed down his chest, “Watching you at pool parties, seeing the water glisten on your skin. When you’d help fix stuff around the house, I couldn’t take my eyes off you. Especially when sweat trickled down your throat in the summer heat or when you drank water and the tiniest drop would spill from your lips just before you’d pour it over your head to cool off. It took everything in me not to touch you, Bucky.”

Just then, he yanked her up by her arm. He brought his forehead to hers, stifling his breath as he spoke, “I have no idea?” He asked, slipping her t-shirt off, revealing she had no bra on. Bucky groaned, “You think I didn’t notice the way you watched me? How hungry you looked when I’d slip my shirt off. It drove me crazy. I’ve wanted you since the second I met you.” He pinched her right nipple in his metal fingers, making her whimper, softly. “There isn’t one day that has passed since then where I hadn’t thought about you. Picturing you wrapped around my cock, screaming my name. Or wondering how you felt and taste when you cum on my tongue.” He kissed her left nipple now, making her shiver.

“Bucky.” She whined.

“I know, sweetheart. I’m gonna give you the life you deserve. You are my queen and I’m gonna treat you as such.” Before she could comprehend what was happening, Bucky had her in his arms and thrown to the bed. He removed her leggings and underwear in one quick movement, ripping them slightly, before spreading her legs with a loud groan and diving in. Licking a strip from her heat to her sensitive bud.

“Fuck, yes .” she hollered. Bucky hummed against her folds. He never would’ve guessed someone could taste so sweet, so delicious. He couldn’t help but stick his tongue as deep as he could into her heat. Y/n moved her hand into his hair and fucked his face, unable to control herself with how good his tongue felt inside her. “Yes, Bucky, yes.” She whimpered, more tears falling from her eyes as he sucked up all of her juices. She felt such a massive wave of pleasure like she had when he started suck on her clit, replacing his tongue with his fingers in her heat.

“You’re so sweet, y/n.” He groaned against her. “I could cum just by the taste of you.” She moaned at his praises and screamed when he sucked a little harder. “Cum on tongue, please.” Bucky begged and within seconds she’d reached her peak. Her legs trembled around his face as she desperately tried to keep them open. She could feel her juices gush around his fingers just before he removed them and sunk his tongue back in, licking up every ounce of her nectar.

Bucky was in heaven. Groaning his approval as he slippered up everything she could offer him. He was in a complete trance when he pulled his tongue from her heat. He needed more. He kitten licked at her sensitive bud, watching her shiver and squirm at his overstimulating actions.

“Please, Bucky I can’t - fuck .”

“Just one more.” He said between sucking and licking. “God, I could live on you alone. You’re drivin me crazy, Doll.” Y/n cried as the pleasure consumed her body, leading her to another mind numbing orgasm. Her hips bucked erratically into his mouth as she chased the high he’d just brought her to. Once he’d licked up all the juices from her again, he pulled away only to bring his cock to her throbbing entrance. Y/n felt dizzy, almost sick, from all the pleasure. She held her hand to his chest, panting,

“Bucky, please, kiss me.” She was exhausted. Bucky sucked all the juices and life out of her, but she wanted him. She wanted him now or more than ever. Bucky put on a lazy smile and leaned down to kiss her. Both of them moaned the second their lips met. The kiss was slow and passionate. Giving them both a headrush they’d never felt before. Tongues wandered and teeth clashed and bit. Lips puckered, pulled and sucked. Y/n had a strange feeling. A feeling like they’d done this before but in another life. Like they were always destined to be each other’s no matter the situation or time. She was his and he was hers. They would grow old together in this life and grow old in the next one too. Before she could stop the words she whispered, “I love you, James Buchanan Barnes.”

Bucky pulled back. She expected confusion or maybe mild discomfort, but Bucky just smiled and said, “I love you too, y/n. I love you so much.” They both laughed kissing each other even deeper. This is the moment they’d both been waiting for since day one and nothing could ever top this moment right here as they both held each other.

Y/n’s body powered through it’s tired state and the kiss had become needy and sloppy. “Fuck me, Bucky.” He chuckled softly as he pushed into her tight entrance. They both moaned into each other’s mouths as he pushed all the way in and stilled.

Bucky loved her so much. When she said those words he felt his heart drop into his stomach. He’d wanted to hear those words for so long and here they were, coming from the one person he loved most in the world. She was finally his and he was going to show her that. Show her that she belonged to him.

Once he felt her walls relax he pulled all the way out and slammed back in. Hips collided and breaths were shared as Bucky made her his. He groaned in her ear, the knot in her stomach tightened with every sound he made. “You’re mine.” He growled into the crook of her neck just before sucking on the pulse point on her neck.

“Yes, Bucky. I’m- I’m yours. Forever.” She smiled, so close to her climax when he rutted up into with new-found strength. He’d dreamed of this moment with her for so long and now here she was, underneath him, panting and about to cum for the third time tonight. The sounds he admitted from her were heavenly, pushing him closer to his release along with hers.

His metal fingers found her clit, rubbing needy circles over the sensitive bud. Her body jolted at the new sensation as screams of praise left her lips. Her words had become unintelligible as the knot in your stomach had finally snapped.

“Oh, god. Yes, baby. Cum all over my cock. You feel so good, so - good.” He whimpered. Her walls tightened around Bucky, adding to the pleasure, sending her into a trance of her own as her juices leaked all over the both of them.

She could feel the veins of his cock pulsating as his thrusts became sloppy once she came down from her high, signalling his high was about to hit him as well.

“Please, Bucky. Please cum inside me. I- I need to feel you cum inside me.” She panted, sucking at his earlobe.

“Oh, fuck!” He groaned loudly before filling her up with his spend. He rutted into her slowly, punching his thrusts with every sinful groan. Y/n watched Bucky as he lost control, it was beautiful. Someone so powerful and strong, crumbling before her, because of her. She rolled her hips up towards him, matching his thrusts. He whimpered at the action, making the knot grow in her stomach again. “You’re so perfect. So. Fucking. Perfect.” He punctuated every word with his hips smashing into hers. He continued his assault on her walls until it became too much.

His breathing was erratic above her, his face scrunched up as he came down from his highest of highs. Y/n smiled, running her hands over his chest and torso, so beautiful. Bucky lowered himself down to her, placing a kiss to her temple. Before he could pull out she stopped him.

“Don’t.” Her legs wrapped around his waist, securing him to her stretched hole. A gasp left both of their lips when she pushed him back in.

“What?” He asked, huffing out a breathy laugh.

“I just want to feel you inside me. I want to bask in this moment forever, with you.” She stared into his glossy blue eyes, getting washed away in his presents. She watched as his cheeks reddened, bowing his head and laughing. Bucky's bashfulness was breathtaking. Everything Bucky does makes her breath hitch in her throat.

“God, I love you, Y/n.” He breathed, kissing her lips, open mouthed and passionate.

I love you so much, Bucky. Never leave me.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it, Doll”

Masterlist

Taglist: @haydens-moles @animefangirl425 @valkyrieofthehighfae @aurora-sweet @dinos-lavapit @hoeforcuteguyswithcharmingsmiles @sebbystanlover-vk @youre-a-wallflower-charlie @nebulastarr @meegggoooo @skylerrae-solo @alyssa-skywalker @blondekel77 @notwithoutbarnes @gogolucky13 @buckysm3talarm @heavenlyseb @writersbuck @badassbuchanan @buckyownsmylife @buckysdolls

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luluwquidprocrow · 3 years

Text

(the three-part folding mirror)

the denouements & the snickets, olaf, r, olivia

teen

15,985 words

The year the schism gets worse is the year one of the quarterly information costume parties is held in the grand ballroom on the third floor of the Hotel Denouement.

@lyeekha won my commission in the @asoue-network fandom against hate raffle and asked for the denouements, so i put together some shenanigans with the denouements and the snickets, with slight ernest/lemony kit/dewey frank/jacques, and a few other associates hanging around ~

some minor warnings – language; smoking; brief mention of murder; referenced parental death; identity anxiety about being seen physically and personally

title from i am alone by they might be giants

10:59 PM—The Ballroom—East Drink Table

Kit skirted the perimeter of the crowded ballroom, stopping at the side wall by the drinks, one eye on the table and the other on the dance floor. She couldn’t put her back to it. Not now. There was a tall, potted boxwood nearby, unreasonably lush, almost slouching against the decorative golden pillar beside it. She picked up one of the wineglasses, the only signal she could think of to properly get his attention. She’d have to find Lemony as well; where was he?

The plant coughed.

“J,” Kit whispered, “listen to me.”

A few of the branches parted, and Jacques’s blue eyes appeared out of the green. “What happened?”

Kit breathed slowly. Her free hand curled into a fist, crinkling up the fabric of her dress. She swallowed. It did not help. She gripped the glass. Beneath her feet, the floor gave a slight shudder as the clock out in the lobby readied itself to chime the hour.

“Someone in this very room has—”

WRONG!

7:25 PM—Above The Lobby

It was Saturday night, and Saturday night always meant one thing—Guess The Guest.

Ernest stood in the small alcove situated around the gears of the hotel clock, far above the lobby, and looked down. Like any other night, the sleek gold and red lobby was filled with people, loitering around the front desks and the fountain and each other before they made their way up to the grand ballroom on the third floor. Well, the ballroom was different. This was a work event, as Frank had so brilliantly labeled it on their schedule, so no one was a regular guest tonight. Frank, who had never appreciated the joy in making up grandiose lies or exaggerated half-truths about the strangers who came in and out of the hotel, certainly wouldn’t appreciate the thrill in watching all of his associates in costume and trying to guess who was who, either. Dewey thought the game was slightly mean, because Dewey was just too kind for this sort of thing.

It was good that Ernest was not Frank or Dewey. Not right now, anyway. Ernest knew how to get joy out of the little things.

He watched a flash of green scales move erratically through the lobby, a cheerful voice calling enthusiastic greetings that echoed all the way up to the ceiling—Montgomery. There was a reason he did undercover work so sparingly. Two women in nearly identical butterfly costumes by the door, one purple and one white, hand in hand, standing close together—Ramona and Olivia. It was nice to see them together. A woman with a deep blue dress that swept around her like a wave—Josephine, here alone. Ernest had it on good authority that the Anwhistle brothers weren’t coming. Another loud voice, but deeper, following the confident swath a tall figure in black cut through the crowd—Olaf. Ernest turned away, in time to catch a glimpse of a long red cape shifting from behind one pillar to another around the edge of the room, carefully avoiding Olaf—aha. Kit. Which meant another one was nearby. Not that the Snickets had arrived together, because none of them ever did, but where there was one there was always at least one other, ready to make a decent amount of trouble. (Ernest liked trouble. The little things, of course.) And there, near Ramona and Olivia, Lemony Snicket, a figure shaped in grey shadows.

The alcove door opened. Ernest knew exactly who it was, so he didn’t give him the courtesy of turning around, keeping his eyes on Lemony. Grey was a fitting color on him, on the long line of his shoulders, his legs. Ernest’s stomach flipped over, once.

“It looks like a full house tonight,” Frank said, standing beside Ernest. He adjusted the sleeves of his jacket and folded his hands behind his back. “I wasn’t sure.”

Ernest leaned a hand on the alcove railing. “Takes more than a murder to stop a party, I suppose,” he said.

Frank didn’t reply, but Ernest knew that for once he agreed. The double murder in Winnipeg two months ago had, like any other sudden, suspicious death they’d dealt with over the years—Ernest shuddered and flexed his fingers—barely made a ripple in VFD, except that after the funeral, everyone had closed ranks significantly tighter.

This worried Frank; this did not worry Ernest. Very little truly worried Ernest, at the end of the day. That, of course, only made Frank worry more, but Ernest couldn’t help that. Frank would find something to worry about if Ernest was still on “his side”. Ernest had much more pressing commitments than the heavy, idle worry that everyone else shuffled between themselves without any results, and it wasn’t that he’d be found out. It was change. The real kind of change, not the noble one, not the fragmentary one. Change Ernest could see.

He shifted his hand on the railing once more. If he kept thinking about it, he was going to argue with Frank, and they’d rehashed the argument so many times the past few months without any resolution that it was better, Dewey had eventually insisted, if they just didn’t talk about it at all. So they wouldn’t. Ernest stood next to his brother, and the silence dragged out between them, punctuated by the soft ticking of the clock gears, and they wouldn’t talk about it. Not at all.

“Ernest.”

Almost.

“Frank,” Ernest said back, in the same critical tone, tilting his head to the side and giving his brother a look.

Frank shot him a flat and unimpressed stare in return. At least he still did that. “Promise me you won’t do anything—” he paused, his face pinching in an aggrieved sort of way before he settled on a word. “—rash tonight,” he finished.

Ernest laughed. “I don’t intend to do anything rash, Frank.” Of course not. You couldn’t carry out a pre-established plan rashly.

“I should hope not. I—”

The door opened, again. Dewey burst into the alcove, all smiles as always, and stopped on Frank’s other side and leaned over the railing, gazing into the lobby. Like Ernest and Frank, he wore the muted red manager uniform, because somebody had said it was the “host prerogative” to not dress up for a costume party. Somebody had felt bad about it when Dewey was disappointed, but somebody had still not relented, and there they were, a matched trio, everything outwardly perfect.

“Everyone’s costumes are so beautiful,” Dewey said. “Who’s that, in the big blue dress?”

“Josephine,” Ernest and Frank said at the same time.

Ernest raised his eyebrows. Frank, stooping so low as to actually guess the guest? Even Dewey blinked at him in surprise. The tips of Frank’s ears went slightly pink, but he didn’t say a word.

“Oh, Frank, you left your name tag downstairs again,” Dewey said. He pulled the name tag from his pocket, the slim gold rectangle glinting briefly in the soft light of the alcove, and pressed it into Frank’s hand.

“Thank you,” Frank murmured. But when Dewey turned away, Ernest saw the tag disappear from Frank’s fingers, most likely slipped up into his sleeve. None of them wore their name tags with regularity—the black ‘manager’ embroidery on their jackets was really enough—but Frank’s kept showing up places, and Ernest and Dewey kept giving it back to him, every time. Ernest didn’t quite know what to make of it. He wondered about asking Frank about it, but he didn’t want Frank to take it as another argument. Ernest didn’t actually enjoy arguing with Frank. About small things, sure, like Dewey’s stupid poetry and Frank’s inane hotel schedules, the sorts of things brothers argued about. But Ernest was sure Frank would make it into another one about VFD.

Dewey was studying the lobby, one hand on his chin. Ernest watched him go from one friend to another, then stop when he got to Kit’s red cape sweeping towards the stairs. It was an unusual color for her, but Dewey, whether he thought it was nice or not, knew how to identify someone from the pieces they let slip through too. Kit was straightforward about everything, and the way she walked, determined and with an endpoint in sight, was no different.

Ernest and Frank exchanged a quick glance.

“So,” Frank drawled, “when’s the wedding?”

“I look best in black,” Ernest put in. “Take that into account, Dewey.”

“I look best in blue,” Frank said. “Take that into account.”

Dewey’s face went its typical six shades of red, flushing through to his ears as well as he jumped back from the railing and sputtered, “What—we’re not—we haven’t even—I don’t—Kit’s not—you two are impossible.” He stormed out of the alcove, shutting the door with a slight snap behind him, because Dewey had never slammed a door in his life.

Ernest enjoyed a brief chuckle with Frank before his brother fell silent again. The lobby crowd was thinning as everyone made their way to the elevators or the stairs, or to the bathroom, or, perhaps, to some clandestine hallway somewhere else. Ernest could see the ring of neatly-trimmed boxwoods lining the lobby now. He wasn’t sure, but he thought there was one more than usual, sitting right inside the door.

He leaned forward, squinting. “Did we always have a boxwood there?” he asked.

Frank moved his head down a fraction of an inch and considered the lobby. “Of course,” he said. Then he straightened his sleeves one more time, and left the alcove.

7:35 PM—The Lobby

Among the Snicket siblings, there was an ongoing discussion about the best hiding place. Kit preferred the quiet, professional approach. She stood behind newspaper stands, put her face into books and brochure racks, stayed in the shadows of a store awning. Lemony was difficult about it. He thought the best place to hide was the least likely place someone would look for you; the place you wouldn’t look for yourself. He took dangerous perches in train station windows, seats in restaurants he vocally hated, or sophisticated and cramped corner cafes that had never heard of a root beer float.

Jacques, meanwhile, with a lifetime of hiding experience, always liked to hide in plain sight. People barely ever remembered what was right in front of them as long as it appeared relatively normal. And there were a number of options—a large potted plant could be overlooked among a dozen other potted plants, people received packages every day and wouldn’t notice if there was one more oversized box, every city park lost track of how many statues were supposed to be there, even a regular man in a fine suit crossing the street or driving a taxi was expected and forgettable. Another boxwood was just another boxwood sitting in a free space in the empty Hotel Denouement lobby, slowly making its way to the ballroom for optimal eavesdropping. Another volunteer in costume was just another volunteer in a lion costume borrowed from Bertrand, for the moments tonight when Jacques had to communicate information to an associate.

That was the point of the party, after all. Jacques couldn’t deny that everyone liked dressing up—he liked dressing up, a little—but the main objective for most of them tonight was the passing of relevant information that had happened in the three months since the last official gathering (not counting the funeral). It should have been at Winnipeg, as they usually were, the organization taking over the Duke and Duchess’s sprawling, sparkling mansion, the couple’s easy laughter flowing from room to room. Jacques didn’t blame Ramona for not wanting to do it after what happened there. He doubted she’d actually been in the mansion since, although it was entirely hers. But the Hotel Denouement was a suitable replacement. It was too public to ever lose its neutral position among both sides. No one was going to get killed here, Jacques was certain. But he was mildly worried something else would happen. He didn’t know what. But something.

Especially considering Lemony was here. Not that his brother was a troublemaker—Jacques would never say it out loud, at least—but because Lemony wasn’t supposed to be at the hotel tonight. He had told Jacques that he was going to be with Beatrice and Bertrand, who were working on plans for an upcoming assignment. This meant two things—one, that Lemony had lied to Jacques. But Jacques had counted on that. He had assumed, however, that Lemony meant the three of them were finally going on a date and hadn’t wanted anyone to know. Two, that if Lemony never did anything idly, without a specific purpose, then he was here for an unknown reason. Something else was going to happen, Jacques was certain. Something Lemony wanted to be here for.

First, though, he had to get the boxwood he was hiding in from the lobby to the ballroom upstairs. The pot was significantly heavier than Jacques had counted on.

8:05 PM—The Ballroom—Main Doors

Every time they all got together, Frank was so amazed at how many of them there were. Despite some noticeable gaps—Beatrice’s overbearing presence, for one, which Frank was happy to do without for an evening—the grand ballroom had barely any free space. Every available and noble associate was here, and it filled Frank with a sense that everything was going to be alright. All these people, including himself, doing what was necessary to keep the world quiet. Tonight would be fine. Ernest wouldn’t do anything regrettable; Dewey would forgive him about the costumes and the gentle ribbing; the meeting would pass without incident. Tomorrow would come. Sometimes Frank almost thought that it wouldn’t. Typically when Ernest was being difficult, but tonight even he seemed to agree that the organization—their organization—was impressive.

He spotted a potted plant by one of the drink tables, a boxwood that matched the ones lined around the room and back in the lobby. One branch was bent out of place. Frank would have to have a word with the person responsible later. But he should fix the branch now.

Everyone he passed on his way across the room gave him a quick nod, a brief smile. Frank returned it as that familiar buzzing started under his skin, like it tended to in groups. He shrugged it aside. He gave the controlled smile of a manager with everything in place, and no one said a word.

All of a sudden, his view of the boxwood was blocked. Through the mass of associates came Olaf, head to toe in a suit and mask of black, spiky fur, smiling with all his teeth, unceremoniously pushing a woman in a silver dress painted like a large, rocky moon aside on his way towards Frank. Frank steeled himself. You never knew what you were going to get with Olaf, if he would try and charm you with a reckless humor or annoy you with a joking cruelty. It was one of the many reasons Frank had never particularly cared for him.

“Ernest!” Olaf exclaimed when he got close. He hooked an arm through Frank’s. “Lovely to see you, wonderful party.”

The cold, dark hand twisted its way along Frank’s insides. It gripped down through his chest, put a film over his eyes that made the room seem distant and wrong. The party continued around him, Olaf was still talking into his ear, and Frank couldn’t hear any of it. The name tag pressing into his wrist up his left sleeve didn’t help. Just because it was his didn’t mean it was him. His name meant nothing if no one was going to care about who it was, about what made Frank instead of Ernest or Dewey. No one should need evidence to tell the difference. No one should make a mistake between the three of them. How many times would it happen?

Time was still passing. Frank blinked once, twice, until Olaf’s voice filtered back in and the noise of the ballroom swelled up once more.

“—incredibly delicious, I have to say, but, to be frank with you—ha! This champagne has seen better days, which one of you is responsible for this travesty?”

Frank smiled, a little turn of the corner of his mouth, the professional smile of all three of them. If Olaf wanted Ernest, alright. Frank would be Ernest. “Frank,” he said. The word sounded like it couldn’t possibly have come out right, but Olaf didn’t break his stride, so it must have.

“That does not surprise me in the least,” Olaf said. “Meanwhile, allow me to take up one single minute of your time,” he continued, and pulled Frank into the shadows by the door. Frank’s stomach gave a terrible lurch as the stark terror he woke up with every morning came back, riding over the dissonant gap he still felt between his body and his brain. What did Olaf want with Ernest? Had Olaf found out about him? Frank had covered up for Ernest before, but would he be able to keep doing it if more people knew?

“Have you thought about it any more?” Olaf asked, leaning close.

The sheer relief that Olaf didn’t know battled with the swooping fear that Ernest was doing something new Frank didn’t know about, and with Olaf. He remembered, with startling clarity, the last time he talked to Kit, when she told him that Olaf had been spouting dangerous ideas about the organization and trying to rope in as many people as possible. It was one of the reasons, according to the rumors Frank had heard elsewhere, why he and Kit had ended their relationship. What was he trying to get Ernest into? Ernest needed absolutely no encouragement, and neither did Olaf. He had to say something.

“I have,” Frank said. It was the safe answer when you were pretending to be someone else.

Olaf grinned again, big and excited, which was a terrible sign. “And?”

“No,” he said, because it was also the safe answer, and the faster Frank could untangle Ernest from whatever trouble he was into this time, the better. “Sorry to disappoint,” he added, with the cool tone Ernest used.

Olaf frowned. “Really? I must admit, I am a little surprised. I mean, I know you weren’t entirely on board, but you’d given it a shot before, and I was hoping you’d come around again.”

Before? They’d talked before? Frank thought a series of incredibly inappropriate words Beatrice was always using that he would never say out loud.

“But!” Olaf pivoted quickly, in his speech and his actions, spinning on his heel away from Frank and shrugging broadly. “Who am I to bend your arm about it! I’ll keep you in mind, though, in case.” He showed all his teeth, his eyes glittering. “And keep me in mind, next time you have anything else worth sharing, will you?” He flounced off again, tearing through the crowd.

It took a few minutes for Frank’s heart to go back to where it was supposed to be from where it was thundering in his throat. He put his hands in his pockets and gripped the fabric, something real and his to hold onto.

Anything else worth sharing. Since their apprenticeships, Frank and Dewey and Ernest had been tasked with organizing a great deal of information, mostly about the history of the organization, but sometimes, and especially as they got older, the very information that was passed along between volunteers. It was part of the reason Dewey had started building his personal archives in the basement. He liked the business of collecting facts. Of course all three of them were still being given that information. Of course Ernest still had access to every single piece of that information. Ernest, collaborating with Olaf, Ernest, sneaking around behind Frank’s back, Ernest, who had promised, at the beginning of all this, that he wasn’t going to jeopardize their positions by doing something stupid.

Ernest, what are you doing?

8:40 PM—The Archives, In Progress

Dewey was not hiding. He liked parties a great deal, and he loved people, but like his brothers and everyone else, he too had his own appointment to keep tonight.

His just happened to be in the basement.

He still sort of felt like he was hiding, especially the further he went into the archives. But things always needed organizing, and while he waited, he had to do something to keep his hands busy. He searched for a set of organization accounting records for five minutes before realizing he’d already shelved it, last week.

So Dewey was nervous. Plenty of people were nervous. Olivia went around all the time being nervous and no one gave her any grief for it. But Olivia didn’t have a sister to give her any grief for it. And Dewey didn’t mind, not really. He loved it when his brothers teased, because it meant they were getting along. But this time it was slightly personal. Because he was meeting Kit, and he was nervous.

Kit was—well, normal. Like Dewey was normal. He loved his brothers, but Frank was high-strung and made it everyone else’s problem, Ernest was often disagreeable for the sake of it, and with the Snickets, Jacques was always hiding in furniture and Dewey didn’t think he’d ever seen more of him than one hand and possibly an eye at a time, and Lemony was wonderful but sometimes too cryptic and morbid for Dewey’s taste. He liked things a little more sensible, comfortable, pleasant. And Kit was organized, reasonable, quiet when other people were reading, cool under pressure. She let herself get lost in books and people she cared about, underneath all the professionalism. Her smile was a careful, slow thing, something private she only showed you if she genuinely liked you. And it meant a lot to be on the receiving end of that smile.

His brothers didn’t get it. He wasn’t involved with Kit, and he wasn’t going to ask her out, because you didn’t do that with Kit. If Kit wanted to spend time with you, that was her own choice. She never did anything she didn’t want or she hadn’t thought through first. That she wanted to spend time with Dewey, specifically, to see him, and no one else, was nice. It made the whole of him feel all tingly and weightless. He wanted their meeting in the archives to be as nice as that feeling.

Dewey grabbed a set of Agatha Christie translations he kept on hand for when things got boring (rarely, but Beatrice got bored easily, and if you gave her a translation she sat down for a while to prove she could read it) and walked to the next aisle to shelve them. His foot snagged on something in the middle of the floor and he stumbled, hugging the books close to his chest so they didn’t fall. He turned around to see what it was, and found Kit blinking up at him with wide eyes from where she sat on the floor, a thick book open in her lap, her long red dress pooled around her on the floor. Her dress had an off-the-shoulder neckline, but most of her shoulders were covered by the matching red cape pulled around her. In the wide diamond of skin left between the cape and the top of the dress, he could see the sharp edge of something black around her collarbone, a point of the nearly-finished tattoo she’d been getting done. The red sleeves disappeared into short white gloves, with her hands folded together at the bottom of the book pages. Oh. Dewey’s heart pounded for a horrible, exhilarating moment, his mouth going dry. He swallowed once, twice, a third time.

“I’m sorry,” she said, smiling wryly, closing the book and sliding it gently back in the middle shelf. “I got distracted.”

“Oh, no, that’s completely understandable,” Dewey said. He folded himself down beside her, crossing his legs, still clutching the books to him. “Happens to me all the time. What were you reading?”

Kit smiled again, and it was that slow, beautiful smile, her eyes lighting up. “Have you heard,” she said, “about the cookiecutter shark?”

Dewey had absolutely heard about the cookiecutter shark. “Isistius brasiliensis,” he said. “It can travel in schools, and it bites little circular sections out of fish, like a cookie cutter. Have you heard about the brownsnout spookfish?”

“Barreleye fish, has mirrors in its eyes. Toothless upper jaw,” Kit replied easily. “Anostraca.”

“Fairy shrimp, they swim upside down,” Dewey said. He leaned forward, grinning. “Sometimes even found in deserts. Frilled shark?”

This was his favorite game, with his favorite person, in his favorite place. Both of them were librarians, or librarian-adjacent, so he and Kit dealt in information, not only about nobility but about the rest of the world around them. And the whole world was so fascinating, and there was so much to know and share, so how could you not try and see who could stump the other first?

“An eel-like living fossil, with six pairs of gill slits. Chaunacidae.”

Dewey scrunched up his face, thinking. “I think you got me there,” he admitted.

“Sea toad,” Kit said, looking pleased, “and coffinfish. Deep-sea anglerfishes. The sea toad has fins that can be used as leg flippers.”

“Really? Wow.” Dewey made a mental note to check that out later. He hoped, on the scale of unsettling sea creature to pleasantly spooky sea creature, that it was somewhere in the middle. “So besides oceanic intrigue,” he said, “what else is going on with you?”

“I’m supposed to get something from Frank tonight,” Kit said. “But, I also came to give you this. From Bertrand,” she clarified, and then picked through the seams of her dress, which revealed themselves as hiding at least ten different pockets.

When he had the time, Dewey wanted to study clothing design. Kit and Beatrice always found the place for so many pockets that you could never see from the outside, and Dewey wished he had the same capacity in his slim manager’s jacket and trousers for all the things he wanted to carry around. Poetry; chocolate-covered pretzels; the pencils Kit always left behind; spare buttons; sturdy rope, in case he needed it; maybe a mini chess set. He’d have to work on it. Maybe he could hide them in shoulder pads, or his shoes.

Kit pulled out a book from a side pocket. Dewey finally put the Agatha Christie down, piling it in a neat stack between them, and took the book. It was the one Bertrand had spoken to him about last week—Undercover Underwater: Diving For The Truth, a truly terrible murder mystery novel he said Dewey had to read to believe. He was greatly looking forward to it.

“That was awfully sweet of him,” Dewey said, running his thumb over the cover. He looked for a place to put it, and then just put it on top of his book stack. It felt a little sacrilegious, if it was as bad as Bertrand said, to put it on top of Christie, but he didn’t want to misplace it. “Thank you very much.”

Kit shifted on the floor and put her back to the bookshelf. “Did you hear the Anwhistle brothers finished building that marine research and rhetorical advice center?”

“Yes,” Dewey said. “I guess that’s why they aren’t here tonight? Josephine was all alone when I saw her earlier.”

“They should’ve celebrated with the rest of us,” Kit said. “What a massive architectural achievement—and I wanted to hear about the leeches, too.”

“Yes!” Dewey exclaimed. “Have you seen them yet? I haven’t.”

“No,” Kit said, crossing her arms over her chest. “Not in person. Ike gave Lemony one of the earlier ones as a paperweight some time ago but I haven’t been able to see their recent work yet. I hear the teeth are impressive.”

“Cookiecutter shark impressive?”

Kit grinned. “Potentially.”

Dewey laughed. He wished he and Kit could go see them, together. For the scientific curiosity. For spending time with someone who really, really wanted to see him. No, for the oceanic intrigue, of course. “You know—” Oh no. He hadn’t intended to actually start the sentence, but it was out, and Kit was looking at him expectantly, and Dewey was rapidly losing all handles on the conversation. His face was heating up. Everyone else made talking to people whose company they enjoyed look so easy, but the words jumbled together in his mouth. “We should—go? I mean—not right now, but, soon, we could—to the research center—for the leeches, for, for science.”

Pink colored Kit’s face under the freckles along her nose. “For science,” she said. Then—“Not a date,” she added firmly.

“Definitely for science,” Dewey insisted. “Oceanic intrigue, and everything.”

“Yes,” she said, blinking quite a few times. “That would be fine.”

They stared at each other for the longest minute of Dewey’s life.

“We should probably get back up to the party,” he said. The archives were feeling much, much too close, all the books and shelves pressed up against him, the point of Kit’s tattoo still peeking out from under the edge of her cape.

Kit nodded quickly. “Yeah.”

8:55 PM—The Ballroom—Near The Piano

Next—Jacques had to find Olivia.

He abandoned the boxwood by the east wall, for the time being, out of sight near the piano, where a man with a white half-mask played a pleasant Beethoven sonata while a woman in a sharp, pointed gold suit argued with a man dressed as an octopus with a hat. They did not notice Jacques, even in his own costume, but he noticed them. He noticed everyone in the room so singularly. He’d almost forgotten so many people could be in one place at the same time. You spent a lot of time alone, hiding in small spaces, you got used to yourself.

Olivia was easily identifiable. Nothing she did could ever disguise the tightly-wound nervous energy coiled inside her, not the shimmery white butterfly wings curled over her shoulders or the mask of purple flowers on her face. Something always gave her away. Tonight, it was her hands, twisting together as she talked to someone in a large, leafy tree costume, so consuming Jacques couldn’t make out the face. He scanned the crowd, trying to locate Ramona in her reversed purple wings and white mask. He saw her making her way towards one of the drink tables. Ramona wouldn’t leave Olivia alone for long.

The tree left soon after, and Jacques made his way over to her, getting a decent amount of elbows into the side along the way. “Olivia,” he said, when he stopped in front of her.

Her eyes passed over him and onto the rest of the room, like she was staring straight through him. Jacques frowned. He’d certainly said something. He’d certainly moved, Olivia was right in front of him. People moved around them without sparing him a second glance; someone said a cheerful hello to Olivia and she returned it. His voice dried up in his throat, like if he tried to speak he’d never make a sound. When was the last time before this he’d spoken out loud? No one expected him to talk, in his line of work. When had he done it? No, perhaps she simply hadn’t heard him.

He cleared his throat a few times. That was a sound. That was undeniably a sound. Jacques existed here.

He touched his hand to her wrist. “Olivia?”

Olivia jumped nearly a foot. She turned her head from side to side frantically, and Jacques gave her a short wave.

“Oh!” Olivia pressed her hands against her chest and laughed, breathless. “Oh, Jacques, you startled me. How are you?” she asked, as unfailingly kind as always, as if he hadn’t just frightened her. She looked like she wanted nothing more than for Jacques to tell her the long, substantial answer, instead of the polite one. He almost did. But Jacques was here for business.

“Fine,” he said. “And you?”

“Alright,” she said, still smiling. “Ramona’s gone to get some champagne, would you like to join us?”

“Not tonight,” he said. “I have a message for you.”

Her bright smile faltered, her hands seizing together again. “I see,” she said quietly. “What is it?”

“We’d like you to take up the outpost at Caligari Carnival.”

Olivia blanched. “The—the hinterlands?” she repeated. Her voice trembled. “That’s, ah, terribly far away, isn’t it?”

“It is a distance from the city,” Jacques conceded, “but not far.” It was far from Winnipeg, though. It was very far. Eventually, Ramona would be back there, at least in some capacity. Things would be different, especially if Olivia was wanted in the hinterlands permanently.

“Jacques, I really—I don’t—I’ll think about it,” she said finally. “I promise, I’ll think about it.”

An assignment from headquarters was not exactly optional. Her eyes darted somewhere behind him, and Jacques knew who she was looking at. She and Ramona had just gotten together only recently, before the Duke and Duchess’ deaths. Any kind of love was difficult within the confines of their organization, but the solace here, Jacques thought, was that she and Ramona were both there. They would never be that far away. They might see each other a good deal less, but they would see each other.

“You can take your time to leave, if you wanted,” he said.

“I’ll think about it.” Her voice was firm. “But, thank you for letting me know, Jacques.” She gave him her soft, breezy smile again, and slipped off through the dance floor.

Jacques watched her go. They would see each other. That was an invaluable thing, in their line of work. Being seen. Sometimes even the best person you loved with your whole being couldn’t see the part of you that mattered. To be seen when you disappeared from the rest of the world—that was worth holding on to. It would be difficult. But he had no doubt Olivia and Ramona would do it.

The floor rumbled, like it always did before the lobby clock chimed.

9:00 PM—Room 687

Miranda raised an eyebrow. “Does the clock always sound like that? Like it’s saying wrong?”

“Incessantly,” Esmé sighed, tossing her hair over her shoulder. “I think Frank’s responsible. Heaven forbid he goes an hour without reminding everyone else how little he thinks of their decisions, you know.”

9:00 PM—The Ballroom—North Drink Table

The hotel was not Winnipeg. But right now, that was exactly what Ramona wanted. The modern angles, the warm, well-lit ballroom, the dark corners and firm rigidity of it all currently felt homier than the soft, open pinks and whites of the Winnipeg mansion. She was glad to have another excuse to avoid it and the constant questions. Tonight, she was going to see her friends, and dance with Olivia, and drink champagne, because Olivia said every occasion was cause for celebration and champagne, and Ramona was going to have a good time. She picked up two champagne flutes from the table and took a sip of one in the careful way her mother taught her, so she didn’t leave lipstick on the glass. Her heart stuttered as she saw the press of plum purple streaks on the glass when she pulled it away. The hotel clock was chiming, sounding like a heavy, distorted vibration of a word. It was right. The lipstick was wrong.

Who had done it? Everyone wanted to know. The firestarters? Likely, but they had been quiet for some time, and Ramona wasn’t going to point fingers without evidence. Some older enemy? Ramona didn’t know enough about whoever that was to consider them. Someone new?

She didn’t want to think about it. Her parents were dead, and she’d found them, and she didn’t want to think about who could have done it or why they did. It wasn’t going to change that it had happened. Ramona wasn’t looking for answers. She was looking for—

An arm slung around her shoulders, jostling her and the champagne, which sloshed around in the flutes as she lurched forward. Scratchy fur and outrageous cologne bore down on her, and she knew exactly who it was.

“My dear duchess,” Olaf said, squeezing her tight. “How have you been?”

Ramona found it in her to roll her eyes. Some people didn’t like Olaf, which she completely understood. There was something about him though, as brash and outlandish and obnoxiously tactile as he was, that had to make you laugh sometimes. She felt comfortable, close to a friend. “Just peachy,” she said. She offered him the other champagne glass; she could get another for Olivia. “Champagne?”

“Oh, absolutely not,” Olaf said. He hooked his free hand around both glasses and set them back on the drink table. “Look, I wanted to give you my sincerest condolences—” And he did look sincere, sliding around in front of her, his hand still on her shoulder, the joy immediately gone from his face and replaced by an uncharacteristic seriousness. She was struck by it, by how glassy and shiny his eyes were under the dark of his mask. “I’m sorry about your parents, Ramona.”

Her mouth wobbled at the edges. She knew Olaf could understand. They’d had similar positions in the organization their whole lives—their parents their chaperones, their time split between assignments and society, the safety that existed in his manor as well, its own controlled pocket of the world, like Winnipeg had been, like the Hotel Denouement was, too. She thought of the Count and Countess, still alive. She hoped they’d stay alive.

It wouldn’t do to cry at a party. Ramona picked up her flute again and took another small sip. “Thank you,” she said.

And just like that, he straightened up and pulled away from her. Some of the mirth found its way back into the shape of his mouth and his arm found its way back around her, this time a tight grip at her waist as he steered her back into the crowd. Ramona felt slightly less consoled than ten seconds ago. Easy come, easy go, with Olaf. “I hate thinking about you all alone in that big house,” he said with a sigh. “All that room, all those things—remember when I knocked into that vase in the hallway?”

“Very vividly,” Ramona said.

“A glorious time!” he crowed. “Well! At least you’ve got all of us, haven’t you. What are your friends if not your family, et cetera, et cetera.”

But he still understood. That was what made it so important to be here tonight. What were all the people in the room, the friends she’d grown up with, people she knew and loved, if not her family as well, just as much as her parents had been? They were more than associates or volunteers, stepping in around her not to fill a void, but to offer back some little part of what had been taken from her. Her throat tightened up as she thought about it. Everything they did was hard, but it was also so special. Ramona wanted to hold it close to her and never let it go.

“And what wouldn’t one do for one’s family, am I right?” Olaf continued. “So, if you ever need me for anything—a shoulder to cry on, although certainly not in this jacket, or, say, a partner in crime, or a willing participant in any daring assignment you might come across otherwise—do not hesitate to let me know, okay?”

“Of course.”

“I mean it.”

Ramona stumbled to a halt as Olaf stopped abruptly. He looked down at her with a gash of a grin. “People like you and me, we’ve got to stick together, duchess.” He gave her a squeeze one more time and then finally let go, dashing away.

Goodness, but he was rough about things. Ramona gave herself a shake, trying to collect herself back into order. She stood up on her toes to try and see where he’d gone. She didn’t get much more height, already being in heels, but she did manage to see him already making grandiose hand gestures across the room to those white-faced triplets Ramona had seen once or twice. They were younger than she was, still in their training. The three of them stared at Olaf with three immaculately raised eyebrows. Ramona chuckled a little, dropped back down, and went back for Olivia’s champagne glass.

9:40 PM—The Ballroom—Center

Over an hour had passed, and Frank hadn’t seen any sign of Ernest. He had better things to be doing than keeping track of Ernest, and yet here he was. He couldn’t have gone far—the hotel was enormous, but it was a hotel. The whole world contained on nine floors. You couldn’t disappear from it.

Frank edged his way through the dance floor, searching for him through three separate groups of associates doing three slightly different versions of a circle dance. A snake and a tree frog whirled past, a phantom with them, a tangled shape of dark greens and blacks and bright blues and exuberant laughter. When they’d gone, Frank found himself in the center of the floor and face to face with Dewey, coming towards him from the other direction, his cheeks pink.

“Are you alright?” Frank asked immediately.

Dewey blinked. “Of course,” he said. “Just dancing. Is everything okay?”

He should have known, but Ernest had him on an edge he hadn’t expected to be tonight. He tried to look apologetic but wasn’t sure how well he succeeded. “Have you seen Ernest?”

“Not since earlier,” Dewey said. “Oh, and Kit was—”

“When you see him, could you tell him I’m looking for him?”

Dewey’s shoulders drooped down. “If I see him,” he said. “Then I’ll tell him.”

“Thank you,” Frank said, and he meant it. He smiled at Dewey until he smiled back, and then Frank moved past him, pushing back into the crowd.

He hadn’t meant to be short about it, but Frank’s worry never came out like he wanted it to. It became biting irritation instead, or a slow-simmering temper he never let boil, or professional, distant orders about hotel business, or a refusal to talk at all in case he said the wrong thing. More often than not, he still wound up arguing with Ernest. He didn’t argue with Dewey, but their conversations were so much more stilted than they should have been lately.

But it was because he feared Ernest was going to slip away from him one day and never come back. Realistically, it was unlikely. After all, Ernest was still here. Indecision entering their home hadn’t taken him away from it. But what if that changed, one day, and it was Frank’s fault, because he reacted too quickly or too slowly? And Dewey—Dewey was so sweet and so kind Frank thought the world might crush him. He had to keep them close, and he had to keep them safe. It would’ve been so much easier, though, if Ernest wasn’t so difficult about it, if Dewey understood that Frank didn’t want anything to happen to him, if they would listen.

Frank glanced at his watch. It was getting late. He’d look for Ernest on the way, but for one small hour, Ernest was going to have to wait.

9:59 PM—The Floor Behind The South Drink Table

Through typical party events, The Herpetology Squad (Plus Hector) found themselves on the floor behind one of the drink tables.

“So how do you tell them apart?” Gustav asked, stirring his drink with a spoon. “Because, and I do feel terrible about this, but I can’t do it. We’ve known them for ages, and I can’t do it.”

“Frank is taller,” Monty said immediately, and very confidently.

“What, no, he can’t be taller, they’re triplets,” Hector said. “Do genetics work like that?”

“Hey Haruki,” Monty called around Gustav and Hector, “do genetics work like that?”

Haruki leaned into Hector’s shoulder and considered it. “I’m really not sure,” they said. “But, I always figured, Ernest was kind of quiet, and Frank was kind of stern, and Dewey was kind of, well, kind.”

“But that seems so reductive,” Gustav pointed out. “You can’t just identify a person down to one base trait and leave it at that. And I say this as a screenwriter and director. You need to be creative.”

“All your characters sound exactly the same, though,” Hector said, frowning. “Or, like, so different, I don’t think you’re keeping track of them between scenes.”

“Oh, that’s awfully rude,” Haruki said.

“No, he’s right,” Gustav said. He hung his head into his hands, his glass tipping sideways through his fingers. Haruki reached over and grabbed it, twisting their arm around and up to slide it back onto the drink table where it’d be safer. “I always thought they did, and now I know for sure. I’ll have to renounce film making and go back to herpetology. Or, submarines. I can’t disparage your honor too, Monty.”

“Oh, Hector, you hurt his feelings,” Monty said. He patted Gustav on the back consolingly. “Gustav, you write wonderful scripts. I loved the, the Werewolves In The Rain.”

“You’re just saying that.”

“I can’t handle a drunk Gustav,” Hector said, closing his eyes. “Gustav, I’m sorry. To be fair, I only watched—what was it—” He waved his hands around. “—the one with the—you know—”

“Vampires In The Retirement Community,” Haruki said.

“And it was once. And—hey, weren’t we talking about something else?”

10:10 PM—The Short Hallway Between Rooms 40-45 and 46-49

Unassigned numbers within the Dewey Decimal System were not the trouble they appeared to be to a hotel based on it. They still existed in the hotel, no matter how much Ernest had protested that it made no sense to have rooms that had no theme or purpose in a hotel whose very purpose was theme—Frank and Dewey’s rebuttal was that it made no sense to nonchalantly remove numbers out of their sequential existence because they didn’t fit in neatly otherwise. They existed. They didn’t have themes, even this stretch of ten, which had been previously designated but was now just a blank space between encyclopedias and magazine publications, which left the rooms relatively blank and boring, typically unnoticed and unused, but they still existed.

In the brief, dark hallway between the two sets of unassigned rooms, Frank could sit on the bench against the wall, and he didn’t have to think about family or the hotel. Frank sat featureless in the shadows and thought about himself. Usually, it meant he felt better about everything. But tonight, with the worry set aside once more for now, all he felt was that chill through his insides again, when Olaf mistook him for Ernest.

He took the name tag out of his sleeve and turned it over in his hands. Frank was a man in a manager’s jacket, with a face that looked like two other faces, someone who could be anyone. The name tag did nothing but identify him without caring who he was. What was it that made Frank himself, the imperceptible, innate existence of him that mattered? His love for Ernest and Dewey? Visible. His organization? Trivial. The fear he was going to lose everything? Meaningless and a weakness, in the face of everything else. It was hard to say for sure. He had gone his whole life getting mixed up with Ernest and Dewey and it was exhausting to keep trying to prove he was real when it felt like the world was rubbing him out. He leaned his back against the wall.

He heard Jacques before he saw him, like always. Exact, economical footsteps, nothing extraneous, the tap of his expensive shoes on the rugs, the swish of his jacket. Everything measured, as it had to be.

Jacques appeared around the corner, that bent piece of the boxwood plant stuck in his hair. He seemed to brighten when he saw Frank, like Frank’s presence set something off inside him. Frank watched him. What did Jacques see, when he looked at Frank? What was it that made Jacques notice, over and over again, over other people? How was Jacques so certain that when he looked at Frank right now, at that moment, that Jacques was looking at him?

Jacques sat down next to him on the bench. Frank had seen him in a mask earlier, something terrible and orange, but it was gone now, and he faced Frank fully. He was inches away from Frank, and Frank could see every part of him, even in the dark—the calm, if tired, resolution in the set of his jaw, the way he waited, still and patient, as if he could do nothing else. He had the darkest eyes of his siblings, a steady and unchanging deep blue.

“That which is essential is invisible to the eye,” Jacques whispered.

Frank let out the breath he’d been holding. How long ago had he said that to Jacques? “I initially said that to insult you,” he said.

“It was deserved,” Jacques said. “And I never forgot. Do you know how I always know it’s you now?”

“Enlighten me.”

He put his hand against Frank’s jacket, resting his fingers against the fabric to the left of the buttons. Jacques kept it there, and he didn’t take his eyes off of Frank for anything, not even when the heartbeat under his hand sped up. Frank felt almost split open to the core. He always did, every time. Jacques saw whatever it was. The man who was always hiding knew exactly who he was, because he looked.

“How very sentimental of you,” Frank managed. His breath hung between them. He traced the side of his thumb over the collar of Jacques’s shirt, just below the skin. If he moved his hand just a centimeter he’d be able to feel his heartbeat as well.

“It’s the truth,” Jacques murmured. “Sentiment is—dangerous. Truth is immutable.”

“Do you know how I know it’s you?” Frank said against his mouth.

“How?” Jacques asked.

Frank finally pulled the branch out of Jacques’s hair. “You do terribly stupid things.”

Jacques laughed, and the sound vibrated all the way down through Frank’s throat.

10:19 PM—Room 366

Frank had to be somewhere. Kit was not overly concerned with finding him, but she would rather do it sooner than later. She worked from the ground floor up, combing through the hallways but finding no sight of the Denouement, until she was on the third floor again. The faster she found Frank, the faster she could, maybe, go back to talking to Dewey. About completely professional things, of course. The fact that she felt different when she was with Dewey was simply because he was pleasant, welcome company. He wanted to look at leeches with her, for the delight of science. They expected nothing from each other but a nice time.

She immediately pictured Beatrice waggling her eyebrows at her, if Kit had said that out loud. Not that kind of nice time, she thought, but the mental Beatrice kept laughing joyously at her.

“He’s a nice person,” she grumbled to the empty hallway. He was calm. Regular. Okay. The exact opposite of everyone else, Beatrice. Could she go five minutes without them all picking apart her romantic life? This was why she wasn’t interested. This was why it was strictly nice. There were other, more important things that needed her attention.

The door to Room 366 was ajar, and Kit, who had naturally been trained to investigate the suspicious, investigated the suspicious. She slid herself carefully through the gap in the door and into the dark room. She’d been in there a few times to know it was an absurdly comfortable meeting room, with plush chairs and a bookcase that spanned the length of the far wall. A figure sat against the side wall, reaching up and tapping ash from a cigarette out the open window. For a moment, they looked like a blank, featureless shadow, until a light outside the window shifted and Frank—no, Ernest’s face resolved itself in front of her. The tip of the cigarette burned bright orange against his fingers.

“I heard about you and Olaf,” he said. “Would you like an apology, since I’m sure you’ve been getting enough I told you so’s?”

Kit sighed. “I really don’t want to talk about it.” But she shut the door and walked over, sitting down on the floor beside him. She took her own pack of cigarettes out of one of her dress pockets and accepted Ernest’s lighter to light one. She never carried her own.

“He did,” she muttered, giving the lighter back. She brought her legs up and wrapped an arm around them. “Tell me, I told you so. Not in so many words, of course, but I knew he was thinking it.”

“Ah,” Ernest said. “The disappointed look of, I’m not going to say it, but I’m going to think it, in your general direction. Which is worse.”

“Exactly,” Kit said. “At least argue with me so I can tell him he’s wrong.”

Ernest breathed out a long line of smoke. “Yes.” She thought he was going to say something else, but when he didn’t, Kit pressed on.

“He acts like it was my fault,” she said. “Should I have known better? I—” It was a harsh thing to admit, but she and Ernest didn’t do this to lie to each other. “Yes. Fine. But he acts like I can’t be left alone now to make my own decisions. He keeps following me, hanging around.” She slouched against the wall. “My own brother thinks so little of me.”

Ernest hmmed. “Well—”

“Do not. Do not say I’m short. I’m not short. Jacques has one inch on me, Ernest. Esmé is short. I’m not short.”

“Sorry,” Ernest said, laughing.

“Say it,” she said, and pushed her elbow into his side.

“Ow—Kit, you are anything but short.”

“Thank you.” She took her elbow back. The two of them sat in silence, blowing out small circles of smoke as the cigarettes smoldered down. “What’s Frank disappointed about?”

Ernest waved his hand with the cigarette dismissively. “Frank’s disappointed he can’t find a tie that matches the custom paint in the lobby,” he said. “It doesn’t take much for him. I was five minutes late, I didn’t give him the mail on time, I missed a meeting, and he just—” He did an obviously perfect impression of Frank’s unimpressed stare.

Kit snorted. She had to admit, Frank did look like that a lot, even if you caught him in a good mood.

“If he wasn’t so difficult,” Ernest muttered, “he’d be almost bearable.”

“Wouldn’t they all,” Kit sighed. “Brothers.”

“Brothers,” Ernest agreed.

10:25 PM—The Ballroom—West Hors d’oeuvres Table

Dewey stood at the hors d’oeuvres table, away from the crowd of his friends, surveying the food. At least, with everything going on, there was always good food to look forward to. It was awful to glare at it like he was. He’d felt so good after talking to Kit, and now he was glowering at little rows of canapes like they were the source of his problems.

He wasn’t usually upset with his brothers. No matter what they did, he knew they had their reasons, and Dewey loved them regardless. But sometimes they really were impossible. Frank’s quiet temper and Ernest’s secrecy and indifference had driven such a wedge between the two of them that when Dewey suggested they didn’t talk about it, it had seemed like the best idea at the time to get them to go forward. Otherwise, he’d been worried that Frank was going to say something he’d regret, because he wasn’t going to change Ernest’s mind, and Ernest might’ve done something terrible. Dewey didn’t think he was capable of something truly terrible, because Ernest was his brother, and he knew Ernest. They both believed in a right way to live, just in different ways, so Dewey respected him. You couldn’t let anything change that. But he was still as worried about Ernest as Frank was, and he had just wanted the arguments to stop.

But it had led to Frank and Ernest almost refusing to talk to each other, ninety percent of the time. The other ten percent was pleasantries or conversations that skirted the edge of an argument, which was worse. Dewey particularly hated it lately, when he was asked to pass messages between them, typically from Frank. He wasn’t a messenger system, he was their brother, and he was, in fact, if either of them cared to remember, the oldest. But they treated him like someone to protect because he wasn’t as forceful as them. He frowned down at a section of tiny shot glasses of—he picked one up. Gazpacho. It looked so charming and Dewey couldn’t even appreciate it.

What it came down to was, the schism couldn’t come between him and his brothers if they didn’t let it. Just like his current irritation couldn’t come between him and his brothers if he didn’t let it. He considered it, because he was angry, but he didn’t let it change anything.

He found a narrow, palm-sized spoon from one of the other hors d’oeuvres and poked at the gazpacho with it. He thought, for a moment, about the Anwhistle brothers, sitting in their brand new marine research and rhetorical help center, probably having a lot of fun together talking about fungi and grammar. Gregor and Ike were two of the most different but most companionable people Dewey knew. Nothing got between them. They probably didn’t forget who was the oldest. Who was the oldest out of them, anyway? They probably didn’t let it matter.

Oh, Dewey was letting it get to him. He piled some of the gazpacho onto the spoon and took a bite. He wished Bertrand had been able to come. Bertrand would’ve loved the appeal of the gazpacho as well. Bertrand didn’t have a single sibling to complain about and he would’ve enjoyed the gazpacho wholesale. He could’ve stood around with Dewey at the table, and maybe they’d have brought in Lemony, too, and talked about flavor profiles. Lemony, who was legitimately the youngest of his siblings, commiserating over cold soup about how they never stopped trying to protect him either. Who could possibly think Lemony of all people needed protecting, too? There was always that quiet, competent energy around him.

Dewey finished the gazpacho and put the jar on a passing hotel attendant’s silver tray. Where was Lemony, actually? He was sure he’d seen him earlier. Dewey remembered, because it was the first time he’d seen Lemony in a long while. Wherever he was, Dewey was sure it was probably more enjoyable than here.

10:32 PM—The Ballroom—Dance Floor

“Josephine,” Olaf said, sidling up behind her, “Jo, angel of my eye—”

“The correct word for that expression is apple,” Josephine interrupted. She did not take her eyes off of her plate of puff pastry. “We’ve been over this.”

He continued, persistent as ever, his smile stretched like candy. “Would you do me the honor of dancing with me, angel of my apple?”

“No.”

10:45 PM—The Elevator

The night was passing by, and Kit still hadn’t found Frank. She’d made it all the way up to the ninth floor with no sign of him. Was he the type to be on the rooftop sunbathing salon? Unlikely. But she should check, just in case.

She had her hand against the rooftop door when the elevator dinged behind her. Kit turned to look. The elevator doors parted, revealing the gold-walled interior with rather harsh lighting, and there was Frank, standing with his hands folded behind his back. He caught Kit’s eye and gave her a slight nod. “Kit.”

“Frank.” She stepped into the elevator beside him and pushed the button for the third floor. As the doors closed, she smelled smoke for a moment, and her heart leapt before she realized the cigarette smoke must’ve clung to her gloves. She tugged them off and stuffed them into one of her pockets.

“I heard the Anwhistles finished the research center,” Frank said, as the elevator started to move down.

“Yes.”

“And the mycelium—are they still working on it?”

“As far as I know, yes.”

Frank sighed. “Do you have any concerns?”

“Some,” Kit admitted. There was no denying it was dangerous. Necessary, but catastrophic if it ever got out of hand. “If anything happens, it can be dealt with.”

“Good,” Frank said, decisively. Silence dropped through the elevator, the hand counting down the floors moving slowly from eight, to seven, to six. Frank raised an eyebrow; Kit realized she’d been staring at him. “Is something wrong?”

“I was under the impression that there was—” More, or something else entirely. It was Kit’s understanding that Frank was to give her a list. There was usually only one kind of list that mattered in their organization, and unless she had radically misjudged the ages of the Anwhistle brothers after personally knowing them for years, they wouldn’t be on that list. “—something more specific,” she wound up finishing.

Frank looked at her with his impassive, unimpressed mask. “I’m sorry to disappoint you.”

The hand moved again, six to five to four. Kit had the strangest sensation that she was missing something. She should’ve been given that list, not subjected to a brief interrogation, especially about something she was already aware of. The smell of smoke flitted in front of her again.

Disbelief shot through Kit like an arrow, pushing the air from her lungs. She felt like the floor was dropping out from under her. She didn’t want to believe it. She couldn’t. She stared at the man in the elevator, and he stared back, cool and collected. It couldn’t be. Because that would mean—but the longer she looked, the more certain she was.

“Frank quit smoking,” she said quietly, “but you didn’t.”

The corner of his mouth turned down. “I—”

Kit slammed her hand against the stop button on the button panel, and kept her hand there, boxing him in against the wall even after the elevator had halted, the counting hand stuck between four and three.

“Don’t lie to me, Ernest.”

One Month Ago—City Headquarters

It wasn’t like there was, say, an initiation ceremony or anything. They’d been through that already, there was no need to do one again. You knew what you were getting into this time, you were just, “changing sides”. And it was so subtle that it barely mattered. Nothing about Ernest’s life really changed otherwise. He ran a hotel with his brothers. He ranked tea brands with Dewey during lunch. He played loud music in Room 784. He carried a lighter in his pocket that he used for other things. He went to headquarters, sometimes as himself, sometimes as Frank, never as Dewey. He acquired messages, and took his sweet time delivering them or delaying them, spaces of time where nothing changed, either. He almost wondered what the point had been, until he overheard Frank spout off some noble patter again. At least he wasn’t like that. At least Ernest knew better.

And since nothing had changed, no one knew. Not even the “firestarters” knew there was another one, namely because Ernest hated the name and disliked a great deal of them, but also because Frank made him be so careful about it. He thought a few people in VFD suspected, or at least suspected someone of switching, because everyone could feel something was happening and they were trying to pinpoint a source, and it was only a matter of time before someone suspected a Denouement. Triplets were naturally suspicious. But it wasn’t like they could do anything, even if they ever had proof—how often did anyone know which Denouement they were talking to, anyway? It was likely Ernest could exist like this for the rest of his life.

The thought almost stopped him on his way into the city headquarters. Day after day of calculated, performative nonsense without an end in sight. Age sagged through him. His bones were too heavy and to move them another step was impossible. He kept walking.

What had made Ernest change? That, exactly that. Change. He’d lived in VFD for practically his entire life, and nothing was different there, either. There had been no great strides made towards the nobility they all talked about, only tiny little steps that were easily set back. Ernest watched his friends and his family get sucked in by this big, dramatic fight that never ended, a fight none of them had ever initially had a part in. He’d learned that you couldn’t achieve “nobility”, whatever that even was, by a bunch of absurd spy behavior and kidnapping, or by coded messages and age-old discussions that went nowhere, or by acting like information weighed more than your life, by pretending any of that was normal. None of it did anything. Ernest was going to find some way to make something happen, to make what they’d lost worth it, and if it meant Frank thought he was a traitor, fine. He’d do it even if Frank didn’t appreciate that Ernest was doing it for him.

The note for Frank that he’d intercepted said that there was a file under the fifth floorboard of the back staircase in the city headquarters. Frank was supposed to give it to Kit.

He made his way to the back staircase. It went up to the observatory, which no one had used since Esmé burned that spot into the rug with her telescope out of protest. The corridor and the staircase were, predictably, deserted. Ernest slowly lifted the fifth board, but it came away without resistance, so he pulled it up all the way and saw the slim folder waiting inside. He took it out, replaced the floorboard, and sat down at the bottom of the stairs. He opened it.

He wanted to crumple the folder in his hands but he made himself breathe and look at it. It was the upcoming recruitment list. There were some he recognized faintly, distant associates, long-lived families in VFD, but a majority of the names he’d never seen before. New families to carve apart. He flipped through the pages—addresses, dates, times. A few photographs. Ernest closed his eyes and held them shut tight. When he opened them, he was still looking at the folder.

Of course none of it mattered, he thought bitterly, shoving the folder into his jacket. He could intercept or stop a thousand messages and there would still always be more. There would always be more children, more fires, more lies, and he couldn’t do it. He couldn’t stop it.

Ernest leaned the side of his head against the banister. He thought about Olaf, suddenly. He’d been trying to corner everyone lately, Ernest among them, talking his ear off about big ideas that Ernest agreed with, but Olaf had a habit of taking an age to follow through with them. Ernest did not have the time to wait an age. He’d shared some information with Olaf a few times, on the off chance that it would spur him into action, but Olaf had hidden it away, for “later”, and it obviously had not helped.

Maybe the only way you could fight a long game was to play the long game back. Maybe that was what Olaf was doing. He was on to something, at least, with his words. Maybe Ernest could try again. Maybe he could learn to wait. Maybe the payoff would be worth it. Maybe.

Ernest stood up. He didn’t at all feel like going home, but he wasn’t going to stay at headquarters any longer.

The staircase creaked. When he looked up, he saw Lemony Snicket at the top by the observatory door, standing like he’d always been there.

“What are you doing up there?” Ernest asked.

Lemony watched him carefully. Ernest got the distinct feeling that he was being appraised. He shivered. When they were younger, you could look at Lemony and see the gears working in his head, like watching—yes, like watching change take shape and form and meaning before your eyes. Lemony Snicket was going to do anything, lead them all anywhere. Ernest hadn’t been foolish enough to believe a twelve-year-old in a brown hat was going to demolish VFD from the ground up. Then Lemony had disappeared, and in the years after resurfacing at sixteen, he looked less and less like that powerful, mythical figure everyone had worshiped and more like he’d seen too much. Ernest sympathized.

But here, Ernest finally saw it, that hunger they’d all talked about. In his eyes, bright blue in the shadows. Physical change, a juggernaut of determination. Ernest’s breath caught in his throat.

“I’m sorry to disturb you,” Lemony said softly. “Do you think we could talk?”

10:50 PM—The Elevator

Damn.

The disbelief on Kit’s face was gone, replaced by a blazing, dangerous fury, the threatening and exacting professionalism she hid inside her on full display. She wasn’t all that short, Ernest thought, inanely. He wasn’t going to be able to bluff out of this one. She knew. It was significantly more terrifying than Ernest had imagined it would be. How stupid could he have been, to forget about the way that cigarette smoke would cling, to think Kit Snicket wouldn’t notice. “Kit—”

“How long?” Kit demanded.

“Does it matter?”

He could see that it very, very much did. Kit was already disgusted over dating Olaf; that she’d spent so much time with Ernest when he wasn’t on her side was going to eat her alive, Ernest knew. He winced.

“It wasn’t personal,” he tried.

She glared at him. “What were the names Frank was supposed to give me?”

That, he was going to hold on to. They’d already burned the papers, anyway, up in the observatory. No one was going to get that list now. “I guess you’ll never know,” Ernest said.

Her hand clenched on the button panel. She stepped closer. For a wild and uncontrollable second that seemed to spin out into eternity, Ernest imagined she was going to kill him.

“The elevator is going to start again,” she said lowly. “We’re going to walk out into the lobby. You’re not going to make a sound. We’re going to go to headquarters.”

Ernest didn’t like what he was going to do next. But he was always going to have the upper hand for one distinct reason.

He swallowed and straightened the edge of his sleeve. “Who’s going to believe you, Kit?”

She raised an eyebrow. “Excuse me?”

“Regrettably for you, I am at a distinct advantage,” Ernest said. “You and I are the only two people in this elevator. You did think I was Frank. Who will be able to figure out who was who when you try and tell on me? Who can really know for sure?” He hesitated, but it was true. “Why, I could be Dewey, even.”

Kit slapped him across the face, her cheeks flushed a fierce red. The force of it stung hard, knocking Ernest’s head to the side. She removed her hand from the wall and stepped back.

“Does it help if I’m sorry?” he asked, gingerly rubbing the side of his face.

“You aren’t,” Kit said.

Ultimately, it was true. He wasn’t. He was sorry he’d been caught more than that he’d done it. Ernest regretted nothing about what he’d decided to do. Not in his line of work; and Kit was the same, too. But he was sorry he was going to lose a friend.

Kit didn’t have friends, though. You were with or against Kit Snicket, and she always made that abundantly clear. Ernest touched his cheek again, and then lowered his hand.

“I’m not,” he said. He took the elevator key out of his pocket and put it into the lock on the button panel, watching Kit the whole time. She watched him back. The elevator slid into motion, settling down on the third floor.

The doors opened.

11:00 PM—The Ballroom—East Drink Table

“Who?” Jacques asked.

Kit turned slowly back to the dance floor. Was one of them still here? Had she been followed out of the elevator? She locked eyes with a Denouement across the room. Which one? Was it Frank? Was it Ernest, again? Was it Dewey? The clock was still rumbling under her feet. The glass trembled in her hand and she felt almost sick, anger and shame and fear churning through her. She was in a nightmare and she couldn’t shake it off. The triplet held her eyes for a long moment and then walked away.

“Kit.” Jacques had a hand on her arm; he must’ve gotten out of the boxwood. “Who?”

But she couldn’t get the words out, not here. Ernest was right. She was at a disadvantage when she couldn’t prove it. If she pointed the finger now, what would be done? What could be done? How could he do that to Dewey and Frank? To put them in the position where they’d unknowingly cover for him merely by existing? Did they know at all?

What would she do if her own brothers—no. She couldn’t even think it. Kit couldn’t fathom the idea of her brothers doing anything like this.

“We have to find Lemony,” Kit said.

11:02 PM—The Ballroom—Main Doors

Frank still couldn’t find Ernest. He did not have the time for him to be hiding like a child; where was he? Frank had looked everywhere over and over and was back in the same ballroom again, scanning through the associates for what had to be the hundredth time. He caught Kit’s eye—and stopped.

There was cold and intense fear looking back at him. It was unbearable to have it directed at him, and Frank turned away after a few seconds.

Ernest. A thousand possibilities ran through Frank’s head, each of them worse than the last. He had had enough. Frank strode towards the main doors, just as he saw Ernest making his way out of them as fast as possible. Finally. Frank followed him out into the hallway and grabbed onto Ernest’s arm, whirling him around.

“I asked one thing of you tonight,” Frank said.

“Don’t do anything rash,” Ernest repeated. He wrenched his arm out of Frank’s grasp and put his hands in his pockets. “And I didn’t, thank you.”

“Apparently I wasn’t specific enough,” Frank said. “When I said that, I clearly meant, don’t do anything stupid that’s going to compromise the family and our position in it. What information have you been giving Olaf?”

“Who said I was?”

“Olaf.”

“You know, that hurts a little, that you’d believe Olaf over me.”

Frank’s jaw clenched. Fine. Olaf was less important, anyway. “Then what did you do to Kit?”

Ernest raised an eyebrow. “Did I do anything?”

It was agonizing, seeing such a carefully blank mask on your own face staring back at you. Frank didn’t hate him, but he came close. “What have you done, Ernest? Do not lie to me.”

Something fractured through Ernest’s expression. “I just—miscalculated,” he muttered. “She found out.”

“She found out?” Frank echoed, his heart skittering in his chest. It had finally happened, and Frank couldn’t protect Ernest this time. Kit wouldn’t keep this a secret, not by a long shot. By morning—by midnight, because nearly the whole organization was already here—everyone would know. And Ernest didn’t seem the least bit concerned about it. “Ernest—”

“It’s fine,” Ernest said coolly. “Considering she can’t prove it.”

The world detached from Frank’s consciousness. Kit’s fear made a sudden, terrible sense. Ernest had used him as a shield between himself and the organization, on purpose, he’d positioned Frank and Dewey as pawns whose only use was whatever Ernest wanted. Frank could feel his hands shaking. They didn’t feel like his hands.

Ernest sighed. “Don’t look like that,” he said. “You’ve pretended to be me, that’s the only way you would’ve found out about Olaf. Don’t act like you didn’t use our face as an advantage too. That’s what we do. That’s what this family does.”

Anger burned through Frank, hot behind his eyes. That had been different. A sharp fury that had been building somewhere inside him all night snapped apart. “You are not a part of this family.”

He regretted saying it the second the words were out. Of course Ernest was still his brother. That was an immutable fact. But Frank was so tired of trying to hold onto Ernest when Ernest so blatantly didn’t care. He wasn’t looking at family, he was looking at a stranger, who stole his face, who used his name, who threw it around like it meant nothing, who denied everything noble and proper and real. It wasn’t how a brother was supposed to act. But it was how Ernest acted, and now Ernest was staring at him with an open, wounded expression, something Frank hadn’t seen since they were children.

Frank ran a hand over his face. “I didn’t—”

“No.” Ernest’s jaw trembled for a second, his mouth pressing into a thin, flat line. “I don’t think I am.” He took one step back, a hard glare in his eyes, and then walked away from Frank.

11:20 PM—The Rooftop Sunbathing Salon

Ernest hadn’t figured on Frank being angry, because, primarily, he hadn’t figured on Frank finding out at all. He hadn’t figured on Kit realizing what he was doing, either. Well, that was on him, but Frank didn’t need to be so—he didn’t have to say—

Shit, Ernest thought, breathing hard. He came to a stop in the dark, empty hallway some floors up from the ballroom and let himself think it, pressing his palms into his eyes. Shit, shit, shit. He’d have a brother after this, sure, a family member who stood by him and ran a hotel with him and played nice, but he didn’t know if he’d have his brother. He would have an associate, like everyone else, a found family of people who loved on conditions, not a family. Not his family.

He had to find Lemony. Just because he’d been hiding all night didn’t mean he was exempt from this.

Lemony disliked heights, open spaces, and decently-sized bodies of water, which was why Ernest found him on the roof, sitting on one of the pool chairs, his mask discarded beside him. He was studiously avoiding looking at the pool or the ocean or the night sky, dark and enormous above him. The rooftop salon was never used at night, but there were small lights along the edge of the pool and the railing, giving off slivers of stark white light. The brief anger Ernest felt downstairs evaporated the longer he watched Lemony not-watching the world around him. He wanted to say a million and one things to him, but the one that came out was, “Why do you keep doing this to yourself?”

“What do you know about exposure therapy?” Lemony offered as a response.

“Enough to know you probably shouldn’t use it for heights,” Ernest said. “Among other things.”

“Point taken,” Lemony said. “What would you say if I told you I was now too frightened to move?”

“That you brought it on yourself,” Ernest said, but he didn’t mean it. He walked over and sat next to Lemony on the pool chair. Ernest stole a quick glance at him again, brief and fleeting. To look consistently was dangerous; Ernest always had to make a distinct effort not to touch.

“Your sister found out,” he said. “Not about you, but about me. She also hit me.”

Lemony’s head shot up. “What?” He reached out, his fingertips lightly brushing Ernest’s jaw as he turned his face towards him. They trailed warm over his right cheek, where his skin still smarted from Kit’s hand. Here in the dark, Lemony’s eyes were so bright again, full of concern, directed right at him. Ernest held himself so still, barely breathing.

Falling in love, if you could call it that, with Lemony was what Ernest personally considered the most ill-advised thing he’d ever done, even after lying to Kit. Lemony loved other people, and it was clear in everything he did, in the way he looked when they weren’t there. But Lemony understood what Ernest wanted, and Ernest craved that with a destructive ache.

Really, who else were they supposed to fall in love with but each other? They didn’t know anyone else. No one was going to get this life but them. It was probably why half of VFD had a crush on Beatrice, honestly. It was terrible, but none of them seemed to be able to stop doing it. Ernest included.

“You—” Lemony’s hand jerked back, shrinking down between them onto the chair. “What happened?”

“She knew I lied,” Ernest said. “About the information and about being Frank. I got out of it, but—she won’t trust us again, I think. And Frank—probably won’t trust me either.”

“I’m sorry,” Lemony said. “I didn’t mean for—”

Ernest shook his head. “It wasn’t your fault,” he said. It wasn’t. He and Lemony had both just wanted something, desperately. Ultimately, they’d still succeeded, in the end. They had. Change he could hold in his hands had happened. He still felt hollow about it all, everything drained out of him, but he didn’t regret doing it. Not at all. The hurt would go away and he’d do it again. “What we did—that mattered.”

“It did,” Lemony whispered. “But I never like the cost.”

“Why did you do it?” Ernest asked softly.

Lemony smiled ruefully. “I guess I didn’t want to stop trying.”

The real, noble answer, Ernest thought. Why the “firestarters” and Ernest would never get him. He raised his hand. Slowly, without looking, he put it on top of Lemony’s. Lemony turned his hand over and gripped Ernest’s tightly. He knew that the way Lemony would try from this moment forward would be different than the way Ernest would, and he wanted to have this moment while it lasted.

Ernest stood, tugging Lemony up with him, and let go of his hand. “You should go back downstairs,” he said.

11:30 PM—The Ballroom—South Drink Table

The party would be over soon, but you’d never know it, the ballroom still thronging with people. But most of the dancing had died down, and Dewey was taking mental stock of how clean up would start. He found one of the attendant’s silver trays and picked it up, estimating how many glasses he could fit on it.

Frank came back into the ballroom and made a beeline for him, pale. Dewey’s shoulders tensed up yet again. What had happened now?

“I can’t believe it,” Frank muttered, grabbing a wineglass.

“Whoa, hey, hold on.” Dewey took the wineglass back and set it off to the side. “What happened?”

“He—” Which meant it was Ernest. Again. Dewey’s patience with both his brothers tonight was wearing extraordinarily thin. “He’s been passing information to Olaf this whole time.”

“To Olaf?” That was not what Dewey had been expecting. A flare of worry burned through him and curled his hands around the tray. “But—”

“No,” Frank said. “This time, I’ve had enough. I’m tired of covering up for him, and he’s going to have to deal with this mess himself.”

Olaf was certainly a threat in one way or another, but it seemed a disproportionately vicious answer for Frank. Dewey frowned. “Did something else happen?”

Frank looked so—frantic, was maybe the word, a terrifying energy breaking out of him in quick bursts of anger on his face. He looked at Dewey, and the emotion seemed to cage itself back in.

“He was found out,” Frank said quietly. “About being a firestarter.”

Dewey had counted on it happening. It seemed unlikely that it would be able to remain a secret forever. It still hurt to hear. Things wouldn’t be the same as they had been, if people knew about Ernest. Dewey imagined the division between the three of them only growing larger, and he didn’t know if he’d be able to do anything about it if it got too wide.

Something broke in Frank’s expression again, and Dewey startled—it looked like guilt. “Don’t defend him,” Frank hissed. “Dewey, he’s going to get away with it. He’s going to ruin what we’ve worked for, what you’ve worked for in the archives—do you want all of that information in the hands of the enemy?”

Dewey clutched the tray. “Ernest isn’t the enemy,” he said, darkly. The agitation from earlier at the hors d’oeuvres table shot back into him.

“You know exactly what I mean,” Frank said. “I—”

Dewey slammed the silver plate down on the drink table. A real, genuine slam, like he’d never done before, the glasses around it rattling. Frank stared at him, gaping a little.

“He’s still here,” Dewey said. “That’s enough.”

“Dewey—”

“That is enough.”

12:00 AM—The Lobby

Jacques had never seen Kit so unsettled. Even when she’d been arrested she’d kept her composure. But she stood beside him in the empty lobby, tapping her foot against the floor, her arms crossed over her chest. He still couldn’t get out of her what had happened, but it was obvious from her face in the ballroom that whoever betrayed them had to be one of the Denouements. It was a sobering realization, the worst possible outcome of the schism that had been building for too long. One of three identical triplets being a traitor complicated matters, although it was easy to figure out which one it was that had done it. Things were going to change after tonight.

He took a small, brief moment to appreciate that Kit actually wanted to stand next to him and acknowledge him as her brother. Lately, he’d gotten the impression that she couldn’t stand him. But now she needed him, and it was a relief to Jacques to still be needed by his siblings. He never thought he did that successful a job of managing to keep them all together.

The elevator dinged, and Lemony stepped out, adjusting his jacket. The only evidence he’d been at the costume party was the mask tucked under his arm, because his suit was as plain as ever.

“Finally,” Kit muttered, and she ran over to him, throwing her arms around him and hugging him tightly, something none of the siblings had done since they were children.

Lemony froze, and then hugged her back. He met Jacques’s eyes across the lobby.

Jacques knew it, immediately. Lemony had played a part in what had happened tonight with Ernest. It shouldn’t have surprised Jacques as much as it did. Lemony had held a perilous position in the organization for years now, and this wasn’t the first time he had wound up disagreeing with Kit about recruitment. But it was the first time it had involved other people. That made it dangerous.

Lemony shook his head a fraction of an inch. Part of Jacques relaxed. The three of them might still be okay. He wondered, with a slight jolt, how the Denouements would fare.

Kit pulled away from Lemony. “Where were you?”

“Did you know the rooftop sunbathing salon has night lights?” Lemony said. Jacques couldn’t help but chuckle as he walked over to his siblings. “Very pleasant. I recommend it.”

Kit rolled her eyes, and she led Jacques and Lemony through the lobby and out of the hotel.

“I’ll drive you both back,” Jacques said. “It’s on my way.”

“You brought the taxi?” Lemony asked.

“Regrettably,” Jacques sighed. “I still seem to have it.” Headquarters refused to take it back for some reason, even after Jacques insisted he didn’t need it. It had been six months since the initial assignment with it and he was still driving it, and probably would be, for the foreseeable future. He took his keys out of his pocket.

“I’ll drive,” Kit said.

“You will not drive,” Jacques said.

“Oh, I’m sorry, I don’t think I heard you correctly,” Kit said, snatching the keys out of his hand and walking briskly out of his reach. “Jacques, did you say something about hives? There aren’t any bees nearby.”

“Trees?” Lemony said. He jogged ahead a little and caught up with Kit’s pace. “They do look particularly lush this time of year, now that you mention it.”

“No one is in a rush, and Kit, give me my keys you are not going to drive—” His siblings raced ahead of him down the front drive, and Jacques ran after them into the night.

1:55 AM—The Ballroom

Olivia and Ramona stayed on to help the Denouements clean up. Ramona had insisted, saying that it was no trouble at all, and she owed them for being so kind to host the party. She was very good at insisting; Olivia had never seen anyone able to resist the charm of Ramona cheerfully demanding she was going to help and they were going to have to deal with it. She hid her smile in the champagne flutes she was stacking on a tray as Ramona talked with one of the triplets on the other side of the ballroom. She picked up the one rimmed with half-rings of Ramona’s deep plum lipstick and giggled.

She’d have to tell Ramona about what Jacques told her, of course. But for once, Olivia wasn’t all that worried about dealing with it. It had been an extraordinarily pleasant night otherwise. Ramona was happy, some of the glow back in her face, so Olivia was happy too.

All the glasses were stacked, the plates piled together, the tablecloths folded up, the lights finally dimmed. There was only one Denouement left in the room, and he stopped Olivia and Ramona on their way out. “Olivia, could I speak with you?”

“Of course,” Olivia said.

“I’ll wait for you outside,” Ramona said, squeezing her hand, and she disappeared down the hallway, the hem of her dress sweeping the floor behind her.

Some people expected Olivia to be able to tell the Denouements apart, and some people expected her to be as clueless as most others as to who she was talking to. It wasn’t terribly hard to tell them apart, because Olivia liked to pay attention, but what she could never remember what when she was supposed to know and when she wasn’t. Here, she knew the one in front of her was Frank, most definitely. There was a weight to the way Frank carried himself, not like he assumed he was in control, but like he assumed he had to be.

“What is it, Frank?” Olivia asked.

He hesitated, which was rare for Frank. “When was the last time you saw Miranda?”

Olivia blinked. Had she misheard him? “What?”

“Miranda,” Frank said again. She hadn’t misheard. “When was the last time you saw her?”

Miranda?

“I—I don’t know,” she said quickly. “I—” When was the last time she saw Miranda? Years and years ago, wasn’t it? Shortly after they’d been taken. Olivia hadn’t minded. Miranda was older than her, not by much but by enough, and enough that they weren’t kept together. Miranda had thought it a chore to look after her, and Olivia hadn’t liked being seen as a chore. She wanted a sister, not a babysitter. So she’d been okay when Miranda was gone. They went to different classes, made different friends, passed each other in the hall without saying a word until their apprenticeships, where Olivia was shuffled around from chaperone to chaperone and Miranda—went where? What had become of her?

The questions spun through her head, dizzying, but they kept coming. What did Miranda look like, now that she thought of it? Had she looked like Olivia at all? Would she recognize her own sibling, like she could easily identify the Denouements? Would she know Miranda if she saw her in a meeting, on the street, at one of these parties, if she was an enemy? But what made a person wasn’t appearance—how did Miranda act? What made Miranda, in the way Frank’s quiet made him? How could she not know what made her sister? Miranda was her sister and it hit Olivia, squarely in the chest, that she didn’t know a single thing about her.

She pressed her knuckles to her mouth, her gaze darting across the floor. How had she gone all this time without thinking about her? How could she not know? How much had she forgotten?

“I’m sorry I asked,” Frank was saying. “Olivia. I’m sorry.”

“Don’t worry about it,” Olivia whispered. She took one step back, then another, almost hitting the edge of her dress with the point of her heel, and another, then made herself turn around and leave, back downstairs, through the lobby, anywhere else but there.

Olivia hurried out into the night with the front doors banging open after her; the humid air was sticky on her skin, sitting heavy in her lungs as she tried to inhale. She saw Ramona past the front archway, leaned back against her car a way down the front drive, her shoes beside her and her feet in the grass, the shape of her soft and fuzzy in the heat. Olivia tore off her mask and scrubbed her hand over her eyes, wiping the tears on the side of her dress.

There was a weight on her shoulders, more than just the heat. She had the horrible sense that she was going to turn around and see Miranda. Olivia wanted to leave. She wanted to leave the city, she wanted to go somewhere she’d be away from this. She wanted to take Ramona—would Ramona go with her? She had her own things to care about besides the violent anxiety shaking Olivia from the inside out. She had a duchy to take care of. She didn’t deserve to have to deal with Olivia.

We’d like you to take up the outpost at Caligari Carnival. The carnival was miles from the city, out in the hinterlands, flat and desolate blankness. Maybe she should go. Maybe that would be better. She would be away from the city and be one place where no one had to bother her and she couldn’t bother anyone else. Maybe.

Olivia squeezed her eyes shut again, and when she opened them the tears were gone and Ramona came into focus, all of her slender and beautiful in the moonlight. Olivia ached to look at her.

She went over to Ramona and slid her hand into hers, tucking her face into the smooth skin of Ramona’s shoulder. “I want to go somewhere else,” she whispered.

“Hey,” Ramona said, her other arm coming up and folding around Olivia, drawing her close. “We can go anywhere you want.”

Behind her, through the open front doors, Olivia heard the hotel clock starting to chime again.

#asoue #a series of unfortunate events #lemony snicket #jacques snicket #kit snicket #frank denouement #dewey denouement #ernest denouement

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consumeconstantly · 4 years

Text

Innocence, avoidance

Summary: Jason Todd cracks crass jokes and dirty comments like they’re his lifeblood. It turns out, he’s just getting it out of his system before he sees his little sister again. (Or: Marinette gloms onto Red Hood after her parent’s death, and there’s no way anyone can stop her from being with her older brother.)

___________________________________________________

Jason Todd, AKA Red Hood, is not the kind of man people go to when they want to complain about their life problems. They go to him when they want a quick, oftentimes violent solution; Red Hood isn’t exactly a renowned empath. In comparison to his other Bat Family counterparts, he is at least 10 times more crass and almost 15 times more violent.

It is accepted that although Red Hood makes situations turn out for the better, he is no shining paragon of human virtue and kindness. People trust him to watch their backs and not to fuck them over so long as they’re working within his very clearly defined set of values, but he’s just not the kind per person that anyone would entrust their kid to during their Friday date night.

Until somebody does.

The door to the warehouse is already open, and he has a gun in his hand, ready to threaten the little crowd he’s gathered today when a woman hops out of her car and shoves a pig-tailed girl with wide blue eyes and an almost blindingly neon pink outfit towards him.

“There you are, you weren’t at the drop site!” says the woman, who instantly begins to back away from the two of them once the little girl picks herself up off the ground that she landed on. Red Hood notes the license of the getaway car, making a mental reminder to deal with them later, but the car makes tracks. The little girl frowns at the disappearing car, eyes the gun in his hand, then decides that she’s going to stay put.

Red Hood looks at the rabble that has convened in the warehouse, down at the little girl, then back again. There are at least five people in the room that are eyeing the little girl greedily, and he’s sure that if he just lets her go, she’ll be captured by one of them faster than he can bat an eye. He doesn’t exactly have time to put the girl in a safe place, not when it’s taken him months and a good number of heads in order to draw these people here.

She looks wary of the gun and of him, but not scared. Everyone else? Half of them look like they’re about to burst out laughing, and the other half have looks that he’s eager to wipe off their faces.

“Aww, look at that! Hood has finally found his way into the dark side of the business. What’s next, prostitution?”

Without hesitation, he shoots with deadly accuracy at the man’s hand. The man keels, bending over and clenching his bloodied appendage. Other than the man’s screams, the room goes completely silent.

Red Hood casts another glance at the little girl, who has, slowly but surely managed to inch away from him and into a safer position. She’s holding onto her sparkly purple plastic backpack like it’s the only thing that’s keeping her alive. Smart kid, not to run. Or was it dumb? He wouldn’t shoot her, and he’d take out anyone else who tried to, but the girl didn’t know that. She probably just assumed that she was going to his next target.

“All of you shut up while I deal with this.” He inhales deeply and kneels down to get on eye level with the girl. Not that she can see much of his eyes, given his helmet, but still.

He has half a mind to go after the woman, but he’s not about to leave the little girl amongst the group of criminals that are gathered in the warehouse with him. Briefly, he wonders how the hell that couple even knew that he was going to be here tonight. He also wonders what he’s going to do with the kid. “What’s your name, kiddo?”

She looks up at him, hands clenched around a plastic pink backpack with some kid’s cartoon on the back, then looks out at the people that have gathered. There’s a moment of silence, and Red Hood is sure that she’s weighing her current options. Smart kid. Eventually, she shifts her body weight closer to him, apparently drawing the conclusion that he is the safer option than the other people who are here tonight. Smart kid.

“It’s Marinette, sir.”

No last name. Not sure if that’s a pointed decision to keep her identity at least partially concealed, or just because she doesn’t have one.

“And those weren’t your parents?” It stands to reason that the people in that care aren’t her parents, but he needs to make sure.

Marinette clenches her backpack tighter. “No, sir.”

“Where are they?” He has a sinking suspicion if those weren’t her parents, and she’s not up in tears, asking for a phone to call them, that--

“They’re dead, sir.”

Sometimes, Jason wishes he could be wrong on things like this.

“Then who were they? And don’t call me sir. Too formal.”

“My mom’s... second cousin, I think? I never met her before, but I got sent here anyway.”

One of the men shifts. He’s one of the men who Red Hood pegged as a possible child trafficker. Underneath his helmet, Jason’s eyes narrow. He now has a fairly good idea of how the couple figured out that he was going to be here tonight.

“Do you know how to get back home?”

At that, Marinette's mouth almost twitches up into a smile. “No sir. I don’t think there’s a home to go back to, anymore.”

Red Hood sighs. Putting the information presented to him together, he quickly comes to the conclusion that Marinette’s parents have died recently and that nobody in her immediate family has found out about their passing, or they don’t want her. Somehow, the couple picked her up-- possibly when she was going to a friend’s house, judging by the whole school girl look she has going on-- and thought she would fulfill the trafficking requirements laid out to them.

That means that there aren’t a lot of options available to her. He can redirect her to the foster care system, but everybody knows foster care messes up kids permanently. Even though she looks to be pretty street smart, he couldn’t just let her live out on the streets in good conscience. Her outfit looks too clean for her to ever have lived in poverty, and she definitely checks the box for a lot of the trafficking rings that have been popping up recently. Mixed descent, the possibility to be pretty when older, and very, very pure. She’d get picked up off the streets within hours if she just let her be.

He decided that he’s let her have the final say. “What do you think I should do in this situation?”

She shuffled her pink ballet clad shoes, eyes darting to the sides. He had to give the girl this much at least; even though she had the whole innocent look going for her, she was very aware of her surroundings. Her body language implied that she didn’t believe him to be that much of a threat— and in any other case, he’d fault her for that, but given that let their surroundings were a drug den he’d let it go— and tilted herself so she could have as many people in her sights as possible. “Sir, I think as long as you could get me out of here safely, I’ll figure out how to take care of myself.”

The man Jason was watching, the possible trafficker, tensed. Yeah, Jason is definitely going to have to take care of him later. This kind of a reaction as good as cements the suspicions he’s had.

“Tell you what, princess. Do you mind waiting outside for me? I’ll help you out once I’m done here.”

Marinette eyed the rest of the room. “How long will you take?”

She’s asking all the right questions. Maybe it will be easy for her to fit into the slums of Gotham.

“Not long,” Red Hood promised. “Ten minutes at most.”

The collection of people who have gathered in the warehouse all swallowed uncomfortably. Everybody knew that when Red Hood dealt with things quickly, it typically ended in copious amounts of bloodshed and shock.

“Okay,” Marinette paused, grip loosening on her backpack. “Ten minutes.

Red Hood doesn’t particularly want to have Marinette around for the violence that’s about to occur, but she’s already seen him shoot one person, so it’s too late to shield her innocence. And violence? It’s a slippery slope.

He makes quick work of the room; half of the people he brought out here, he kills off directly. The other half are made to watch as the people they’ve associated with for years die in front of their eyes. This is a power play. A way to… persuade them to reform. Because the people he’s left alive? Red Hood has left them alive for two reasons. One. They’re not nearly as bad as most of the higher ups in Gotham. Two. If he kills all of the people who have dabbled in anything bad, the chain will be completely messed up, and there will be too much room for unknown variables to make their way up the ranks. He wants people he can control. And the people he’s left alive? He can keep all of them in line.

Marinette is not waiting outside for him. They’re right next to Crime Alley. This is not going to end well.

He’ll give the little girl props for somehow managing to avoid his detection.

To be more precise, he’s hoping that she’s simply avoiding his detection, and hasn’t gotten swept up in something bad.

It takes Jason three hours-- three hours-- to find the girl who can’t be much older than ten. Probably not even ten, judging by her size.

“You’re lucky it’s me finding you, and not someone else, Pixie.” He finally catches a glance of her glaringly sparkly backpack, complete with fairies and unicorns covered in some sort of holographic overlay.

Marinette immediately backs up, looking definitively worse for the wear. She’s gained rips in her clothes and a nasty looking scraped knee. Her face loses all color when she sees him. “S- sorry, sir. I swear I wasn’t running away, it’s just that there was someone outside who tried to grab me, and--”

If Jason didn’t know better, he’d believe the girl.

However, he does have a decent number of connections, and those connections ensured that nobody was going to be able to come near the warehouse once his ‘meeting’ started. Though, he’ll have to have a talk with them, given that someone tried to pass the goods right before it started. Jason is fairly sure that the couple has been apprehended by now, but checking later tonight won’t hurt.

Which means Marinette made the decision to run.

Again, that would have been a very, very smart decision had she not found herself in Crime Alley of all places. It looks like she’s learned a little bit about why she should stay away from places like this.

“It’s fine, Pixie. Like I said earlier, just call me Red Hood, or Hood. I’m not going to hurt you.”

Marinette balks.

Jason sighs. “Look, I know it’s hard to believe, but you can trust me. I’m not going to force you to do anything you don’t want to do. All I want is to see you safe.”

“But,” Marinette bites her lip. Her eyes drop to the guns at his side. That’s… that’s a good reason not to trust him, to be honest. If he were in her position, he’d already be running.

“Do you have anyone you can contact? Anyone you trust? I can take you to them.”

She’s starting to tear up, and god, Jason cannot deal with crying children. Marinette’s big, blue eyes and pigtails and her general smallness. He just can’t. “Please don’t cry. Please don’t cry. What, do you-- do you want a cookie or something? I can bring you to a bakery before we talk? Sweets are supposed to cheer kids up, right?”

Marinette lets out a watery laugh.

“I like macaroons,” she offers.

“So, how old are you?”

In the warmth of the bakery, Marinette looks markedly more relaxed. She went to the bathroom to clean her face and cut off, and now she looks like the poster child of one of those band aid ads. Lively, a little mischievous, and, you know, a child.

She takes a delicate bite of the shortbread cookie-- not a macaroon, there aren’t many reputable bakeries in Gotham that are close and have French pastries. “Nine and a half.”

Oh man, she’s younger than Replacement.

“You’ve really got no family here? None at all? No friends you can call?”

“No, I’m from France.”

Well, that certainly answers a lot of questions. But brings up additional ones. “You speak English very well.”

“Maman and Papa ran a very popular bakery. We got a lot of foreigners. Before we moved to Paris, we lived in New York.” She takes a sip of her drink, whipped cream stuck on her nose. “And I don’t remember anyone from New York. We moved to Paris when I was three.”

Jason sighs. “What do you want to do?”

“Maman said that if I were ever left on my own, my only job was to survive by any means.”

“That’s…” He tries to find the right words. “Interesting advice.”

In what parallel universe do parents of a bakery in Paris-- one of the major cities in the world with the lowest crime rates--tell their children to survive by any means?

“Did she tell you how?”

Marinette tilts her head, pigtails bouncing. “She told me to trust my instincts and never to trust the police.”

Great. That explains why she didn’t ask for someone’s phone to call the police. Not that the police in Gotham are the best people to go to for a case like Marinette’s, but then again, there’s not really anybody good to go to for a case like hers.

Vague advice is the best way to get a kid killed. But since Marinette isn’t already dead, it stands to reason that her instincts haven’t failed her yet, and he really does have no clue what to do with her.

He briefly contemplates taking her to Bruce, but strikes the idea down almost instantly. Marinette fits all of the requirements to become a Robin. Tragic backstory, black hair, blue eyes. He’s not going to put another child into Bruce’s hands just so he can ruin their life by not doing his job. Besides, Bruce doesn’t know he’s alive yet, and he wants to keep it that way for now.

“Then what do your instincts tell you to do?”

Does he feel like an idiot for asking a nine year old that? Yes, but what else is he supposed to do? Taking care of kids was never part of the job description when he signed up to be Red Hood. (Then again, it wasn’t like there was a job description to begin with.)

Marinette takes another bite of one of the cookies on her plate. “They tell me to stick close to you.”

Even better. She’s imprinted on him.

@jasonette-july-2k20

#you bet your ass marinette grows up to kick ass and take names #does the summary fit the fic? not really but none of my summaries do #jasonette july #jasonette #how do you tag platonic ships #platonic!jasonette #jason todd #marinette dupain cheng #maribat #miraculous ladybug #dcu #innocence #child!marinette

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dancingwiththeplanets · 3 years

Text

Relief

Paz Vizsla x fem!reader

masterlist

Summary: “I know that we’re strangers but something really awful has happened to me and I need you.”

A/N: highly recommend listening to “everything i wanted” by billie eilish before reading because that is just the vibe.

Warnings: angst, ruminating, lots of dialogue, mourning the death of a parent, deals with depression and anxiety, soft!paz, a big brute with an even bigger heart

Word Count: 11k (oops)

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“Death changes people, it brings some people together, pushes other people apart...” You remember your buir’s words as if they were spoken to you just yesterday. They were the words he said on the day of your mothers funeral. “...but you and I, we do not let such things hurt us. We are stronger together, my ad’ika, we can only get through this together. Yes?”

“Okay, buir.” You said. Your wide, 5 year old eyes not fully comprehending the situation.

He nodded, pained, and whispered, “That’s a good girl,” before leaving a gentle kiss on your forehead and departing to the ceremony, your small form in tow.

He was right, death did change people. You remember seeing him in pure agony, as much as he tried to hide it from you. Your aunts and uncles would always be over, consoling him, distracting you, oftentimes just having you stay with them so your father could grieve away from your eyes.

But he never let it hurt your relationship. No, he was the best buir anyone could dream of. Your buir.

He was a proud man, respected and admired by all the warriors in the covert. Fierce, honorable, diligent and selfless. He would and did do anything for anyone. And the tribe respected him immensely. They even elected for him to be the Alor on more than one occasion, and he practically was. But he refused the title again and again, preferring to do all the work without carrying any official status. Even so, he certainly inherited the same amount of respect that the actual Alor had.

“All of the privilege and none of the responsibility.” He would tease, winking at you as the two of you would sneak out of the kitchens or any other ‘off-limits’ part of the covert, everyone turning a blind eye to your buir and ad’ika antics. Mainly just because they respected him too much to chastise you.

Truly though, he was a very respectable man. He trained the little ones, led hunts and security protocols for the covert, found lost Mandalorians and brought them home to the tribe. He dedicated his life to building the strongest and most operational covert that Mandalorians had seen in years. And he did it all for you. All so that you would have a safe place to grow up, so that you would lose as few brothers and sisters, and as few aunts and uncles as possible. So that you wouldn’t lose anyone just as suddenly as you’d lost your mother.

But he never prepared you for the day you would lose him.

The two of you were unimaginably close, so close that now you regretted ever developing a relationship that strong with him even if he was your father, because look at what it got you.

How were you supposed to go on? What was your life without your buir? What was this covert without your buir?

You look around the room, dozens and dozens of armored warriors here to pay their respects to your father, his body already having been buried. The tears leak out of your eyes without reserve as you hold tightly to your friend's hand, scanning the room for the comfort of your boyfriend. “He’ll be here soon” She whispers, though you sense doubt in her voice, “I’m sure of it.”

------------------------

You’re not sure what time it is, only that you’ve spent yet another restless night collecting tears in your pillow. Your booted feet pad down the deserted hallway of the covert. It’s aboveground, hidden beneath the treelines of a dense forest on a nearly desolate planet. It’s beautiful, unlike most every other secret covert that exists, though very few do. It has bulletproof glass paneling all around to allow for light to peek in through the trees. It’s warm and inviting instead of cold and gloomy.

“We need a home. Not a prison.” Buir had said.

You wince, face contorting in pain at the memory of him sharing the design with you. He had a dream. He wanted to live the way he used to, on Mandalore. Embracing nature and training warriors in the traditional way. He wanted your small tribe to grow into the hundreds. And that it did, well, to just over a hundred at least.

The most recent tribe came in from Nevarro, about seven months ago. He’d managed to track them down and get into contact with their Alor. Though some members of their tribe were reluctant to merge- they always are- they soon decided to join forces with your own, strengthening your numbers. Plus, they got to move to a much more beautiful, safe, and spacious planet.

Regrettably, you hadn’t gotten to know many members of the new tribe still. They were...different. Still pleasant from the interactions you’d had with them at least, good sense of humor and all, but they were devoted to the old ways of Mandalore, conservative, reserved, passionate. Most unusually they didn’t arrive with any women in their tribe, aside from their Alor. For some reason odd, universal reason, Mandalorian women were hard to come by. It was a troubling issue that distressed many people in the tribe, in any tribe. It felt like a curse on your people. But this tribe literally had only one. They obviously cherished and admired her immensely, they made her their Alor.

Also, their creed didn’t allow for them to remove their helmets, a drastic difference from the one you had sworn that didn’t even require you wear your armor all the time, though you and most everyone almost always did. You were still Mandalorian; Training, honor, armor...they were still as big a part of you as your soul was to your body. But everyone around here knew your face, and vice versa, even if you did spend most of your life behind the shield.

This week however, you couldn't bring yourself to put it on once. Hell, you didn’t even bother with your flight suit. You just stayed locked up in your tiny room all day and night, only leaving when you were forced out by your friends. “It’s for your own good,” they would say. You suppose they were right, but no matter how good of friends they were to you right now, their company seemed to make it all worse.

A part of you wanted Collin, your boyfriend of two years, but he seemed to disappear from sight every time you caught his eye, an action that made your friend, Brie, chase after him in a rage the last time. He had been so blatantly obvious. You were in tears, yet again, mourning your father, yet again, when you caught the flash of his grey armor slip past your crying form in the common room. The hurt you had felt was unimaginable. The betrayal. You know that your relationship was strained as of late, but this, the death of your father, how could he not be around for you? Even if just as a friend?

So here you were. Another sleepless night, another late hour gone by without the noisy comfort of the of the tribe at work. Your head was pounding from the tears, the dehydration and the pain. The kriffing pain.

This time you couldn’t do it. You couldn't stay trapped within the dark walls of your room any longer, quickly pulling on something decent to wear in the late night or early hours of the morning- you didn’t know what time it was- before mindlessly wandering the covert.

Empty. It must be smack in the middle of the night. Well, at least you could sulk freely, allow the tears to escape without worrying about what a blubbering mess you must look like. A part of you was thankful, this was...kind of nice? There was nobody hovering around you. No visors following your every move in pity or concern, waiting to catch you when you break. You did pass one or two guards patrolling the halls, but you avoided them as best you could, hoping to avoid being questioned.

You finally take a moment to sit, hiding yourself beside some phony shrub in the corner. You’ve wandered to the dining hall. You look around, hoping to distract yourself with the silent chatter of the five or so warriors lounging around, probably on break from late night duties. Your eyes finally resting on a group of three of your vods sitting around, talking. They’re from the new tribe, well, most recently new.

You don’t know any of them particularly well, least of all the heavy infantry warrier whose figure commands your attention. He spends most of his time with the higher ups or teaching the foundlings, and you fall somewhere there in the middle. But he’s broad and robust and by maker if he doesn't captivate your attention.

You listen to the quiet echoes bouncing around the spacious dining hall. There’s hardly anybody here, it must be so early. You groan, to you it just feels unbearably late.

You don’t know how long you sit here, hidden behind the leaves of the plant, hazy eyes focused on the blue warrior. You just sit, staring, he’s...peaceful to observe. His arms are crossed over his chest, leaned back comfortably against his chair. He huffs at something one of his brothers says, you can barely hear it, but you see the shake of his shoulders before he adjusts his posture and a small smile pulls at your own lips for some reason.

You shake your head. Is this wrong? You think, averting your eyes away from Paz’s form. You feel guilty for some reason, you mind reminding you of Collin. The guilt impacts you painfully for a moment, adding to the feelings of loss and exhaustion before you shake the thoughts away.

No. You think, eyes squeezing shut at the new wave of emotion hurting your already distraught mind. I’m just people watching. Not admiring. This is allowed. This actually feels...kind of nice, it’s allowed.

You permit your gaze to return to Paz and his friends, watching them nod at another couple of Mandos who pass by.

There was something so...comforting about Paz. You don't even know how you can think that? You don’t know him.

You watch his attention shift to his boots which are sprawled out in front of him, heels resting on the hard floor. He kicks his feet out a little bit, watching them wiggle from their movements. His action again tugging the teeniest of smiles to your lips.

You feel a small and brief glimmer of warmth in your chest, though quickly replaced by a pain that pinches from your gut to the back of your throat. Tears gloss over your vision before you’re able to fight them away with slow, deep breaths. It feels as though your body is chastising you for daring to feel a degree of happiness so suddenly.

No. You cower away from the invisible being hurting you, eyes squinting shut again.

You yearn for the slight relief and warmth to return. You need it. It just...feels so damn hard to breathe like this.

The anxiety, the fear, the distress. It just won’t leave you alone.

You don’t even realize what you’re doing until you’re already out in the open. You’d abruptly stood from your hiding spot and started walking toward the source of relief, before nearly choking on air realizing what you were doing.

Holy shit, you gasp, It’s too late to stop walking. You’re already out in the open, and you’ve made it well into their field of vision. If you stop, they’ll notice you.

Kriff, kriff, kriff, kriff, kriff.

The anxiety is burning in your chest again. Your steps falter before you stop, you’re not even sure what you’re doing anymore.

What you do know is that now you’ve caught the attention of the Mando sitting next to Paz, whose visor now watches your frozen form in the middle of the hall. Your heart beating loudly in your chest as you stand there motionless, eyes wide and breathing faltering at having been detected.

You must look absolutely deranged.

But of course, it had to get worse. Noticing the stillness of their friend, the other two shift their attention to see what’s silenced him.

Three visors. There are now three visors on you. Staring down your shaky, frozen form.

You can’t walk this off, you can’t play it cool. They’re already looking at you, you’ve stood still here now watching them for now who knows how long.

What do you do?

Kriff.

You recoil slightly, crossing your now shaking hands in front of you, hoping they wouldn’t notice your trembling palms.

What the hell is wrong with you? Relax. You’re a Mandalorian, just think.

What is the least horrible way out of this?

Carry it out. Whatever it was that you were doing, whatever mission your subconscious had led you on, just execute it.

You breathe in a shuddery breath, placing one foot out in their direction and hesitating before allowing the other to follow its movements.

Geez, walk much?

It’s so quiet in the empty hall, only 5 or 6 other Mandos out on the other end, so each tap of your feet is as audible as that of a bantha on crackling ice as you make your way to them.

“Okay, vod’ika?” One of them asks kindly. You recognize the maroon helmet from up close. Ramsey?

Ramsey, you think.

You nod slightly, suddenly remembering how out of it you must look. Eyes puffy and red, lips swollen, hair in disarray. You feel even more anxious to desert the mission than before, resigning to just get it over with and face the object of your desire.

“Paz,” you say, internally groaning at how pathetic and fatigued your voice sounds. “May I please speak with you for a moment?”

Kriff, what’s the plan now, di’kut?

The question directed at him takes him aback, but his posture instantly straightens. “Of course,” He says, rising from his seat.

You blink back a little as he stands to his full height. Have you ever been this close to him? Surely not, you would remember the feeling of being towered over like this. Paz hesitates, waiting for your instruction. Osik, were you just brazenly sizing him up right there? Great, and now he must think you’re intimidated by him.

Abort, abort, abort.

He tilts his helmet at you, snapping you out of your thoughts. You move for him to follow, which he does. You try to move as far away from the others as possible without being terribly obvious in hopes that they won’t overhear your conversation.

“Is.. everything alright?” He asks once you’ve guided him a safe distance away.

“Yes.” You say instantly, eyes locked on your hands. “I-I mean, n-no.”

This is weird.

What have you done?

You force your gaze up to meet his, noticing his visor tilt in concern. He no doubt already knows what’s troubling you. Everybody in the covert knows about your father’s passing, there was a ceremony for kriffs sake. Paz was probably there.

Your lip trembles suddenly, embarrassed, and instantly you’re cursing yourself for having put yourself through this. With everything in you, you squeeze your eyes shut and look down, the only way you know you’ll be able to ward off the tears, though you know your conduct is a dead giveaway as to what you’re trying to do.

He says your name, and there it is again, relief. Fleeting and short-lived, but making that one small breath easier to inhale than the rest.

“I’m so sorry,” You whisper in frustration. Opening your eyes to see his feet having moved closer to you than they were before.

Always concerned with the wellbeing of his tribe. You remember. That’s what this big brute is known for anyway, right? You can trust him.

“No,” He says, his tone soft spoken, a sharp contrast to his intimidating form. “Take your time.”

You take a deep breath, nodding your head at the floor before forcing your eyes up once again.

Always maintain eye contact. It’s a show of respect. And you always show your superiors that you respect them. Your dad's words remind you to keep your head level to Paz’s. Or...at least as level as it can be to Paz’s.

The reminder that you are indeed speaking to an alor’ad stirs up new nerves in your belly, you were falling apart in front of a captain. Worse, a Vizsla, Mandalorian royalty.

“Um,” you eventually sputter out, collecting your thoughts. “Well I...I kind of have a weird request.” Your murmur.

Are you going to faint? It feels like you’re going to faint.

“Okay,” He nods to indicate you have his full attention, “What is it?”

“Um,” Your voice wavers, suddenly feeling very shaky and lightheaded again, and incredibly annoyed that you didn’t just opt to put on your helmet for the sake of hiding your face. Only...it makes it really hard to breathe when you already feel like you can’t get enough air. And pulling it off every five minutes to clean your face of newly gathered tears was difficult.

He says your name again, this time slowly raising a hand to your shoulder. You exhale in relief when you’re met by his touch. “Hey,” He says, “It’s okay, what do you need?”

You take another calming breath, soothed by the weight of his hand that hasn’t left your shoulder. “Well first, are-are you busy today?”

What a stupid question, you think. He ranks high up in the chain of command, of course he’s busy. Not to mention, it’s probably, what, 5 a.m. right now? And he’s sitting in the dining hall. He certainly didn’t wake up this early because he didn’t have something to do.

“Not at all.” He assures with a shake of his helmet.

Sure.

You dismiss the obvious lie, staring his blue visor straight on. You can see your pathetic, teary-eyed reflection staring back at you in the space where his eyes would be.

He wants you to tell him what’s wrong, you remind yourself, just do it.

Using what remaining courage you have, you open your mouth to speak. “I...I know you don’t know me that well. I don’t really...know you either. I-I don't even know why I’m here asking you this right now. But, um, my-” you choke on your words, confidence diminishing “-my dad is dead, and I’m hurting and afraid and feeling completely unlike myself. I don’t know when the last time I slept was or if I’ve eaten anything in the last couple of days. I just know that-that something really awful has happened to me and I know y-you and I we-we’re practically strangers but right now I just n-need someone and I r-really want that person to be you-”

You hadn’t even realized the flood of tears gushing down your cheeks or the defeated sobs suddenly shaking your body until you were pulled into a pair of arms, his arms.

Strong, protective, shielding arms.

You hear the gentle sounds of Paz shooshing you, his hand pressed to the back of your head and cradling you in a comforting manner.

“I’ve got you, cyar’ika.” He hums, voice light and sweet like honey.

You almost don't mind the heavy sobs racking your body for a moment.

Sweetheart. He called you sweetheart.

You feel his body stir above you, either looking around or else...motioning something to someone. “Hey,” He whispers, keeping your head tucked into his arm, “Come over here with me.”

He guides you away from the dining hall where no doubt, despite your best efforts, whoever was in there had both seen and heard you throw your fit. At the very least catching your sobs at the end.

Ushering you around the corner to an empty hallway, he helps you down on a bench, sitting next to you. Your sobs slowly subsiding to small sniffles under the gloved hand moving soothing circles up and down your back.

He doesn’t say anything for a while, allowing you time to gather yourself. Once the wobbliness in your breathing evens out to a calmer, drawn out, pace, he asks again, “What can I do, vod’ika? I’ll help you, just tell me what you need?”

You nod your head, electing not to rub the abused skin around your eyes that was being continuously irritated by tears. “Could you maybe, stay with me today?” You ask timidly.

“Yes,” He responds instantly, “Yes, of course. Wh-what would you like to do? How can we...divert your attention?” He attempts to sidetrack the word distract, acknowledging that his word choice probably doesn’t make much a difference. “Is there anything on your agenda today?”

“N-no.” You sniff. “All my responsibilities this week were redistributed to other people. I have nothing to do.”

He hums, considering your words.

“But um,” you offer, “I suppose it would be good to take a shower.” You chuckle lifelessly, tugging at the unwashed ends of your hair.

You see his form tense beside you, and your eyes widen in horror in realising your error.

“O-oh maker, no. I was kidding, cause I’m a mess and all that’s - kriff - that’s not at all what I was insinuating-” You panic, fumbling for words.

He chuckles lowly beside you, raising a hand up to ease your stammering, “No, it’s okay. I understand. Allow me to...escort you then?”

“To the-” You swallow, cheeks no doubt pinkened by the encounter, “You really don’t have to I wasn’t seri-”

“Self-care is important.” He says, rising to his feet. “It’s the start of a new day, and it’s early enough that you’ll likely have the entire washroom to yourself. C’mon,” He extends an arm out to you. You contemplate taking it for a moment, briefly, again, considering Collin.

Who isn’t here.

“Really?” You ask, stunned both by his willingness to wait outside the washroom while you shower and his consideration of your privacy.

He lifts his elbow again in response. You rise from your seated position, hand hesitantly grabbing a hold of his arm as he lowers it back towards his side, making the gesture less obvious to prying eyes.

You hold onto the crease of his elbow, your other hand mindlessly joining your other so that you practically hang onto him. He tugs you forward, and you begin walking at a comfortable pace.

“Thank you,” You say, sounding stunned again. “I...I can’t imagine that when you woke up this morning you thought you’d be babysitting a stranger.” You mumble, embarrassed.

He huffs, “You are not a stranger,” then he says your name, again. Honey, pure honey.

“You are a member of my tribe,” He continues, “Even though we do not know each other well, I still care about you.”

You blink back your surprise at his words. This man truly is honorable. Caring and considerate and selfless. A big brute with an even bigger heart. You can’t stop yourself from looking up at him, nearly gaping at his words. “You care about me?” You ask.

He hums, looking at your wide eyes staring up at him.

“You don’t even know me.” You mutter as he looks away. You can’t possibly care about someone who you don’t know.

“I’m observant.”

You hesitate, feeling another foreign feeling flutter in your belly.

“Observant?” You challenge.

His visor looks back down at you, your puffy eyes swimming with curiosity. You want him to prove it.

He takes a tentative breath, hoping you’ll allude his suspiciously observant behaviors of you with the fact that he was trained to be hyper aware of his surroundings. He speaks slowly, “Your favorite food is vegetable pie, probably because it’s a main course, but also sweet. You like to busy yourself with your hands, often tinkering with whatever small, broken objects you manage to find around the covert. Every morning, you head to the training room early to run your own drills and stretch before everyone else arrives. You have a boyfriend, Collin I believe, who you like to align your chores with so you can do them together, except for cleaning the kitchens, which you always try to switch off with somebody else.”

Your eyes stare unblinkingly at his profile. “How-how do you know that?”

“Because kitchen duty is always crossed out under your name on the chores chart, and a different chore is always handwritten underneath.” He says, unable to contain an amused laugh. He opts to only remark on the last of his observations.

You slow to a stop, feeling suddenly incredibly ashamed. “Wow,” You say in admiration. “I-”

You can’t think of anything to say in response, you don’t know anything about him. And here he was telling you that not only does he care for you simply as a member of his tribe, but he actually knows things about you.

You’re overwhelmed by his thoughtfulness, “Paz- I’m...I’m ashamed to say that I don’t even know what your favorite color is.”

He barks out a laugh, surprising you. “Are you concerned with what my favorite color is, cyar’ika?”

“Yes.” You answer, perhaps a silly amount of gravity. “Upon hearing all the things you know about me that most others don't, I mean I’m...I’m touched Paz.”

His tilts his head, visor lingering on your face a moment, and you’re sure that while it was a somewhat silly conversation, he can see the annoying little pools of water that gathered in your eyes again.

He’s silent for a moment. “My favorite color is brown,” He says.

“Brown.” You reflect.

He nods, “It’s warm, soothing.”

“Okay,” You say, hand reaching for his elbow again. “Brown. I’ll remember that.” You squeeze his sleeve in promise.

“I’m sure you will,” He smiles. Or at least you think he does. It sure sounds like he does.

You continue walking on in silence, only passing one other vod in the spacious hall. You’re fairly certain that the Mando approaching does a double take as he sees you clinging to the heavy infantry warrior, but Paz just gives him a nod as you pass in silence. It’s still terribly early. Or late, to you at least. For it to be early you would have had to have slept in the first place.

Your pace is slow, and you wonder if Paz notices the utter exhaustion plaguing your body.

Oh. He must, you think upon catching a reflection of yourself.

Kriff, you look about as good as you feel.

He stops outside your room so you could run in and bag some clothes, before you venture down to the washrooms. You walk comfortably in silence, despite having enjoyed some distracting conversation with him, it feels like the most you’ve spoken all week, and it was tiring, though not unpleasant.

“Could I, ask you something?” He hesitates, clearing his throat. Noting that you keep your eyes glued to the space in front of your feet. “Where is your...uh, Collin?”

He should be doing this. Paz reflects. Taking care of you.

You raise your eyebrows at the floor. “Sleeping I’m sure.”

“Well yes,” He says, “But why hasn’t he been, you know...around?”

His brows furrow at his own words. Well done Paz, you di’kut. First the poor girl’s dad dies, then you offend her by asking why her boyfriend hasn’t been taking care of her. Let alone the fact that you just made it known you’ve noticed his absence. That did not come out at all how he wanted it to.

He’s surprised by a little laugh emitting from your lips. Small and half-hearted and barely audible, but by maker if even then it isn’t one of the prettiest sounds he ever heard.

“Cause..” you sigh, searching for the answer. “-cause he’s an asshole.” You mutter, blunt as the truth leaves your lips.

Oh.

“I’m sorry, I shouldn't have overstepped-”

“It’s okay,” you mumble, “what’s one more thing in my life..”

Paz is silent for a moment. You’re surprised your eyes haven't welled with tears again. Lately it seems like they prefer looking through a blurry lens rather than a clear one. But maybe a part of you expected this with Collin. Your relationship isn’t what it used to be. For the last six months it seems as though his interest in you has slowly diminished. It takes having something fun and interesting for him to seem excited about spending time with you. Cause maker forbid anytime you try to just sit and hang out with him you enjoy yourselves, he’s always got some excuse on hand to get him out of it.

“No,” Paz insists, interrupting your ruminations. “I’m sorry. Perhaps he thought space is what you wanted?”

I think space is what he wanted.

You don’t answer, arriving to the washrooms. Being the only two people in at this hour, the echo of his heavy armor clinks around the wide space. You pass door after door of the enormous shower rooms. Kriff, this is weird. Why was the first thing you thought of when he asked you what you would normally do to shower? I mean sure that was true, but certainly you could have forgone this item on your agenda for the sake of being...proper?

You glance at your passing figure in a mirror and flinch.

Although.

Maybe you...need a shower.

You must have showered within the last few days, right?

“Okay,” Paz says, breaking the silence. “I’ll wait out here.” He says, standing in the communal space with sinks and benches. “You just, take your time vod’ika. Let the water...freshen you up or, soothe you or..some shit.”

Your frown abruptly turns into a wide smile as you giggle.

Victory. He thinks.

His breath hitches behind his own helmet. Kriff, you have a lovely smile. How had he never noticed your smile before?

“Thank you, Paz.” You say, retreating to a random facility and briskly closing the door.

You lean against the door once it’s shut, the ghost of a smile still on your cheeks.

He’s really just going to stand out there. Just so that you know he’s there, that you’re not alone.

“Wow.” You whisper, soaking in the warm feeling in your stomach. It feels like forever since you’ve felt that, giddiness.

You move to turn on the water, slowly stripping yourself of your clothes. You were still wearing your nightshirt from your fruitless sleep endeavors. It was nothing indecent, just a plain, black, elbow-length shirt. Luckily, you had had enough sense in you to pull on a sports bra before you abandoned any notions of sleep, lazily just slipping on some green cargo pants over your leggings before wandering aimlessly through the covert.

You look comfortable but...certainly not like a fierce Mandalorian.

You try your hardest to wash the gloom off your face, focusing your attention on the mission at hand in hopes of keeping distracted. Now you remember why you’d been putting off showering. For some reason, whenever you’re buried under the protective warmth of the loud, secluded shower, at least since it happened, you started to-

The first sniffle comes before you sense its approach, and within seconds your body is shaking in silent sobs.

“Shit.” You whisper.

Pull it together, it’s okay, just breathe. Paz is out there, you don’t want him to hear you.

Your tears blend together with the water running down your body from the shower, making it impossible to discern what is the result of your own pain and what procured it.

You let out a silent whimper, quiet enough that thankfully, you’re sure Paz couldn’t have heard.

Breathe. It’s okay, you’re okay.

No. I’m not okay.

I’m all alone.

“Stop it.” You scold yourself harshly, your soft breath echoing only in your ears.

You are not alone.

Someone is here for you.

Paz. Paz dropped everything to take care of you.

He’s right outside that door, waiting for you.

You take another moment to compose yourself, allowing the last few suds to wash down your form before turning the water off. You quickly dry yourself off and pull on your change of clothes, now wearing a blue sweater and leggings. You didn’t even bother bringing a flight suit. What’s one more day of not suiting up. But at least you’ve still got your boots.

You walk to the mirror, sighing once you get a good look at yourself.

Great.

Swollen, red, angry eyes stare back at you with a red nose to match.

Fuck. You shove all your things back into the sack, giving your hair a final few shakes with the towel before moving towards the door.

It swings open, and you’re met with the sight of Paz leaning against the opposite wall. Arms crossed, one foot propped up against the wall. His visor turns in your direction as you emerge from the chambers. He hmphs, observing your appearance.

“What?” You ask, hesitating to step closer.

“I like the color.”

You look down at your sweater, unknowingly having sported a blue in the exact same shade as his armor. You hide your gaze in your chest, mumbling a half-amused, “Oh.”

“It signifies reliability, did you know that?” He asks.

You still don’t meet his gaze, but smile. Makes sense.

“It is very fitting for you.” He finishes.

You finally look up at him. For you? He believes you to be reliable? “Oh, th-thank you.” You stutter, feeling truly flattered by his compliment.

His visor tilts silently back and forth on your features as you step up at him. He notices your freshly irritated eyes.

“Are you-”

“-it’s nothing.” You interrupt, shaking your head.

“I um,” You shift awkwardly from foot to foot, trying to lighten the mood with an obviously forced smile. “I tend to emerge from showers with angry eyes, at least, as of late.”

Paz’s hand surprises you as it reaches up, gently cupping your elbow, so swiftly you’re not even sure he meant to do it.

“Not angry, mesh’la,” He mutters, “sad.”

Your mouth gapes open slightly, not having expected such a remark from him. He seems slightly distressed by his own slip of the tongue as well, immediately tensing.

His mind is reeling, guilt flooding over him like a tidal wave in a storm. He feels as though he crossed a line. He’s supposed to be caring for you, distracting you, not calling you beautiful when you already belong to someone else.

“I’m-”

“What the hell is going on here?”

Both your gazes snap up in the direction of the source.

Standing under an archway, halfway between the entrance of the washrooms and you, is Collin.

Your breath hitches, “Collin.” You breathe out.

Paz’s hand jerks instantly from your elbow, hanging tensely by his side.

Collin says your name questioningly, taking another step towards you. He’s wearing his armor, but his helmet hangs down by his side. Blonde eyebrows furrowed suspiciously at the two of you.

“I said,” he repeats, “what is going on in here?”

“Nothing.” You say instantly, taking a step away from Paz.

Well that was a suspiciously guilty maneuver.

Collin eyes Paz for a moment, whose form hasn’t moved even an inch since Collin interrupted you both. He closes the distance between the two of you, but still stays a generous space away.

“What are you doing down here at this hour?” He questions, eyebrows furrowed tightly together.

“I..I couldn’t sleep.” You say.

“Again?”

Again? Your father died not one week ago, does he really expect you to be sleeping soundly?

“Yes it’s- been difficult to find the right headspace for rest.” You answer. “I thought perhaps a warm shower would help alleviate the uneasiness.”

His eyes flick to Paz before quickly landing back on your own, suddenly morphing his face into one of concern. His posture loosens slightly and he reaches towards you, showing you more affection than he has in months. “Well, are you okay? You don’t look very good.” Collin says.

Your frown deepens, suddenly you feel very offended.

“Yeah? Well I look the way I feel, wise guy.” You snap, startling both of you by your outburst. His hand retreats from your space, moving to clench and unclench by his side.

“I’m sorry,” He scoffs after taking a tense breath, “Have I done something wrong?”

“Collin-” Paz’s voice breaks his role as an audience member to your discussion, polite but still warning in his tone.

“-No, I am not speaking to you.” Collin spits out, “I’m speaking to my girlfriend. My girlfriend who you were getting awfully close to in the privacy of this empty washroom.”

Your heart is thumping in your chest. He’s right, this certainly was not a good look. It was highly irregular for you to be up so early. And here you were alone at an ungodly hour with a man who wasn’t your partner. Kriff, how could you be so stupid? You should have known that Collin would stumble in here at this time, he does early morning flight training every week, today must be his lesson. It must have slipped your mind, or maybe you’d forgotten his schedule. Had he even shown you his schedule?

No. No, he hadn’t. When was the last time you even saw him? Surely a few times a day but had you even shared a moment of substance together since the funeral? You’ve gone to him for comfort yet you can’t remember how any of those interactions went. He dismissed you, or offered you a peck on the forehead before changing the subject.

Come to think of it, how dare he come in here angry with you for anything. If anything, you should be the one who’s angry. Paz was right, where has he been?

“You’re right.” Paz says, shocking you and Collin both, your gaze quickly snapping in his direction. “I shouldn't have reached for her. But I was only trying to comfort her, I swear to you that is all. Regardless, you need to relax.” He speaks calmly, the warning back in his tone.

Collin huffs, taking a menacing step in Paz’s direction. He always was arrogant.

Your eyes widen, “Collin-”

He rasps out his next words in with a snarl, cutting off your attempt to de-escalate the situation. “Listen here, vod-” He spits, but not before being cut off by a startling quick grab to the front of his chest plate, yanking him forward.

Collin’s heels barely graze the floor as he looks directly up at Paz’s visor, who seems to have grown another six inches, the two quite literally helm to helm.

“You do not address me as your vod in such a manner of disrespect.” Paz growls, his voice sending a harsh shiver down your spine, slightly in alarm, slightly in...something else.

Your breath hitches, frozen as you watch the scene unfold. If you’re too frightened to move, you can’t imagine how Collin feels. Although...maybe a small part of you wishes you did.

“Jare’la,” Paz scoffs, shaking his head. “I am your alor’ad. And I do not tolerate a lack of respect. If you are confused about your place, then I will gladly show you where it is. Tayli’bac, vod?” He spits the words out menacingly, challenging Collin to oppose his authority.

“Elek! Elek, alor’ad!” Collin stammers, “N’eparavu takisit!”

Paz huffs, visor staring Collin down a moment longer before releasing him, shoving him back in the process.

He stumbles to catch himself, grabbing onto the side of the sink for leverage. You’ve never seen him look so...cowardly.

He looks to you, taking a moment to gather himself. Your eyes are still wide, mouth agape as you just stare at him in disbelief. He wets his lips with his tongue, seeming to swallow down another remark, eyes darting to Paz before returning to you. “So, that’s the way it is, huh?”

You’re speechless, “I- I don’t..”

You contemplate the severity of the moment, what’s at stake. Your silence is answer enough, you decide, before opting to look down, relinquishing your chance to speak. With it goes your willingness to explain, to try and salvage whatever pathetic excuse of a relationship you thought you had had with him. “I’m sorry, Collin.” You say, unsure of the words as they leave your mouth.

You hear only the sound of heavy breathing. Two sources of heavy breathing, and neither of them are coming from you. Then, a sound akin to that of a growl. You look up to face him again, only to see his focus on the man beside you. Paz looks back at him, unmoving, domineering, daring him to overstep.

Was Collin challenging you, or Paz?

Was Paz simply defending you or...challenging Collin? And for what?

You feel another spike in anxiety, suddenly feeling as though you were observing a mating duel, a challenge over possession of a lioness, a female...not...terribly uncommon in Mandalorian culture, though nonetheless offensive.

“That’s enough.” You whisper, though with enough exertion to be heard by both males.

You see Paz’s visor turn to face you out of the corner of your eye, but you don’t move, keeping your gaze averted to Collin.

He stares Paz down for another moment before meeting your eyes, saying your name with a stiff nod, and uttering a “Goodbye,” before briskly leaving the room.

You let out an exhale once he’s rounded the corner, catching your breath. That was it.

You’ve lost him.

You stare at the empty door, at the ghost of the shadow where he once stood, waiting for the tears to fall. You feel heavy, you feel distressed, but perhaps not anymore than you already had. There’s not a swirl of emotion in your gut nor rising in your throat that compels tears to swim in your eyes again.

You hear your name being called once, twice. The third time, you look up, much higher up than you’d expected to, at the imposing figure now standing directly above you.

“Are you alright?” He asks softly.

You hold his gaze, watching your reflection blinking up at him. He doesn’t move, waiting for your response to his question. Your gaze drifts down slightly and to the side, staring at the plain wall behind him, before reconcentrating your focus.

“What um,” Your voice comes out somewhat both hoarse and mellow, quiet as you continue, “What should we do next?”

------------------------

“Are you sure you’re alright?”

Paz was guilt ridden. Surely he could have let the little brat mouth off to him one time to spare you from getting hurt. But no, he just had to go and threaten the kid right in front of you. It was just instinctual. He would have done it without restraint any other time to any other member stepping out of line, but upon reflection, maybe the whole thing was his fault. Collin had walked in on you two nearly close enough to embrace. Of course he was pissed. And then, he degraded him, ordering him into submission right in front of your eyes.

You didn’t blame him. Not in the slightest. I mean, what did Collin expect? He straight up challenged the alor’ad. It was foolish and insulting, and quite honestly Paz wouldn’t have been out of line to clock him then and there. But you suppose he was holding himself back for the sake of your wellbeing, not wanting you to watch your boyfriend - ex-boyfriend - get pounded on while you were already in such a state.

“Yes.” You say, emitting a heavy exhale. You really were.

The halls have started filling with armored warriors, the covert finally beginning to come to life with a sunrise shining through the trees and early risers popping up.

“Vizsla!” Someone shouts, the two of you turn to see Stephan jogging towards you.

“Hey,” He says, walking once he reached a comfortable earshot, “We missed you on that perimeter run. Was surprised you didn’t show up, is everything-?”

His voice trails off, visor finally ticking in your direction. He seems a little taken aback by your presence, or rather that you were within Paz’s company.

“Vod’ika,” He finally says. “What are you doing with- uh, I mean, how are you?”

“What am I doing with Paz?” You smile, “You don’t think I could handle a perimeter run, Steph?”

His helmet ticks back in surprise at your banter, “N-no, vod’ika.” He says, looking at Paz and huffing in amusement. “We’ll gladly have you join us on the next one.”

“Sure.” Paz nods.

“So…” Stephan continues with uncertainty, “How-how are you?”

Couldn’t make it thirty seconds in without having that question thrown out at you.

You hesitate, the frown slowly returning to your face. Should you answer truthfully? Lie? How are you?

“I’m…”

You seem stuck on the word. Did you choose a word? What word are you even looking for?

You’re still talking. You remind yourself.

Shit, now you look like you’ve shut down.

You feel a hand rest on your back, blinking forward from your gaze that had somehow been drawn down towards Stephans boots.

“We were just heading to the kitchens.” Paz responds, you tilt your face in his direction without raising your eyes, keeping them glued to the space in front of you, ashamed.

“Okay, yeah.” Stephen says hastily, “Well, uh, Jay made some really good morning muffins, vod’ika, and they’re still warm I bet.”

You nod your head in acknowledgement, offering a pitiful smile, “I’m sure.”

Poor Stephan, it’s not his fault you were like this. He’s just checking in on you, and here you are making him feel bad for asking about your wellbeing. It’s just a question.

Kriff, why are you so weak?

You conceal yourself back in your thoughts, sure that you look absent with glazed over eyes. But you can't bring yourself to care. That’s the weird thing about feeling so desolate, you just don’t have the energy to hide it sometimes.

You hear the foggy exchange of words between the two warriors, simply choosing to retract yourself from the conversation and instead focus your attention on the gloved hand rubbing soothing circles on your back.

Stephan’s modulator rises to a more upbeat tone before stepping forward and offering Paz a light slap on the arm as he passes, evidently dismissing the two of you to carry on with your business.

Paz’s form shifts to watch Stephan leave before turning to you. “Okay?” He asks.

“Okay.” You nod.

He hums, sounding unconvinced as he lightly nudges you forward again, letting his hand drop from its place on your jumper.

No... come back.

You walk side by side in silence, trying to get him to walk a step ahead of you so you can follow. But anytime your step falters purposefully to give him the lead he slows his own, silently insisting you walk side by side. Instead, he steers your direction with fleeting contacts. A hand pulling your arm, his gloved fingers tapping your shoulder. You’re happy to let him guide you, appreciating the delicate touches in direction.

Feeling a sliver of life breathed into you at each one.

The touches stop far sooner than you need them to upon arrival to your destination. You notice you’re heading towards the mess hall again, feeling discomfort at the idea of seeing more of your vods, or worse, having a repeat of your public meltdown you’d had just a few short hours ago.

You’re more alert now, having picked up on the light buzzing from the dining hall. There’s probably quite a few people out there now. And you’re not sure you’re ready to face another wave of concerned and attentive brothers and sisters.

“Paz-” You say, ready to object, but not before you’re steered off to the side, scarcely missing exposure to the hall full of bustling Mandalorians.

Instead, Paz opens a door and gestures for you to walk through, which you do.

Oh. The kitchen.

You’ve been in here many times, but not often during the day. Jay keeps a tight lockdown on the kitchen, only allowing his apprentice to be in here during the working hours of the covert. He’s got a considerable number of Mandalorians to feed, yet he prefers to tackle the challenge alone. Usually kicking anyone out who pops in to help, scolding them for messing up his rhythm.

He has no problem allowing people to make their rounds of kitchen duty though, but that only consists of cleaning up the space once it’s shut down for the night. Mopping, washing, organizing...he tends to lock up all the good treats and hide away the key, making the task totally not worthwhile for you.

Of course, being the daughter of the unsanctioned Alor and all, you had special privileges. One of them being you could hang around the kitchen without Jay kicking you out every time. He still did, but he gave you more leeway than the others if you stayed out of his way and only snacked on the scraps he wasn’t saving.

The door swings shut behind you and you round the corner, the clink of your armored warrior just behind you.

Whoa, whoa. You stop yourself. Your?

You catch sight of a red Mandalorian viciously attending to something on the stove. “What are you two doing in here?” Jay shouts over his shoulder, turning back to his frying.

Paz looks around the empty kitchen, “I heard a rumor about morning muffins.” The deep rumble of his voice saying the words prompts a breathy giggle from your lips, catching his attention, before he continues to glance around for the treats.

Jay huffs, motioning with his wooden spoon to the corner, “Over there. Take one and get out.”

“Thanks,” Paz says, his hands lightly resting on your shoulders from behind and nudging you forward. “Nice attitude.” He mumbles for your ears, an amused smile still lingering on your lips.

“Nice signet.” Jay scoffs, evidently having heard, “Or lack thereof.”

“Nice apron.”

“Okay- get out of my kitchen.” Jay says, looking up from his dicing.

You surprise yourself by letting out a lively laugh. Paz’s hands tighten over your shoulders at the sudden sound, feeling damn near enamored by Jay for having caused it.

He looks to Jay and gives him a grateful nod, who nods slightly in return, so as not to be caught by your gaze, before returning to his work.

You make your way to the tray of muffins in the corner, boldly sitting down on the couch in front of the fire. Exactly where you and your dad would sit and enjoy the freshly baked cookies or cake made by Jay that morning, the small area being off limits to everyone else in the covert.

Paz is certain Jay would have snapped at them to get away from his personal space if it weren’t for you. You’re sat next to him, gazing at the fire that Jay lights every morning to warm the frigid kitchen.

“For you.” Paz says, handing you a small muffin with a napkin wrapped protectively around it.

You smile at him, accepting the gesture, just allowing it to slowly warm up your fingers in your lap. The movements of the fire captivating your attention as the flames dance in the soft lighting.

“Cyar'ika.” He says softly, the word sending a shiver down your spine. “You really ought to eat something.”

You look to your side again, taking in Paz’s appearance on the tiny couch. Its small size having forced you to sit right up against each other. The leg closest to you is propped up and over the other comfortably, his knee resting elevated slightly above your own.

You wonder if you clink your knee against his own if his hand will slip off it and land on yours.

A silly thought, you think, amusing yourself.

His tilting visor alerts you that you’ve been shamelessly gawking at him. Twice in one day.

“I- um,” You stutter, averting your gaze. “I’m not terribly hungry, Paz.”

He hums, “Well it’s a good thing you’re not terribly hungry because all you’ve got there is a teeny muffin.”

“Yes, it would appear so.” You smile, still making no movement to eat it.

Paz breathes in a slow, contemplative sigh. Guilt starts to flood your senses again, he’s done so much for you today, why can’t you just do this one thing for him?

“Tell you what,” he offers, your eyes rising to meet his visor, “You eat that muffin, maybe have a little bit of tea, and I’ll tell you about the time your vod and I went to Jabba’s Palace.”

Your eyes widen, and you boldly swing your hand down to grasp his arm as you straighten. “The Hutt story?” You choke. “You’ll tell me the Hutt story?”

Paz’s modulator rumbles as he chuckles, knowing he’s got you entrapped by a golden exchange.

He nods, “I’ll tell you the untold and widely sought-after story about the time Devin and I went to visit the Hutts-”

“-Deal!” You squeeze his arm, still gripping tightly from earlier.

“Yeah,” Jay utters, his looming figure now standing directly behind you both, “Kriffing deal.”

“Get out of here.” Paz huffs, shoving Jay back over the arm of the couch. He doesn’t argue, but you see his retreating form adjust the volume settings on his vambrace.

Paz shifts back cheekily with his arms spread around the couch. He gestures to the uneaten muffin on your lap, waiting for you to uphold your end of the deal.

You sigh, unwrapping the baked good. But the thrill of getting to know the story that caused such an uproar in the covert shoo’s away the discomfort, replacing it with a slightly giddy feeling.

You take a bite, looking at him expectantly. He just scoffs, gesturing again to the tiny muffin in your hand. “C’mon, that thing is like the size of a whistle bird, you finish that before you get the story,” He says, with much emphasis on the “before.”

Fair.

You down the muffin faster than you thought you could, much too excited to finally hear the secret tale. You were going to have bragging rights around this place forever. Paz shakes his head at you, lightly laughing, “So that’s all it takes, huh?” He nods to the empty napkin in your hand.

You ignore him, knowing he knows full well the value of this information. Whatever it was that happened when those two visited Jabba’s Palace, Devin had come back damn near afraid of his own shadow. It took months for him to pull himself together. Your vod would literally jump at the sound of an egg cracking open, reaching for his blaster and slipping up on his grasp. It was kriffing hysterical to you and everyone else in the tribe. And you assumed you weren’t really being malicious. Paz had been there too and returned unscathed, and laughed all the same. And even though he teased Devin to no end about it, he swore he’d never tell a soul what happened, so up until this point, nobody knew what it was. But here you were.

Paz turns over his shoulder, “Hey Jay,” He says politely. “How about a cup of tea for your vod’ika?”

“What am I your maid?” Jay retorts.

“You are the cook.”

Jay mutters something under his breath, but you don’t pay him any mind, having heard him fill up a pot of water immediately upon Paz’s request.

You avert your gaze from Paz’s helmet as soon as he turns to face you again. You look to the fire, biting your lip as a smile slowly grows on your face. It crosses your mind that you feel not only okay in this very moment but actually...happy. The fleeting moments of relief you’ve been feeling all morning, small moments of peace jumbled in with all the sadness and the anxiety, were all because of him. This man who you did not even know three hours ago. Who let you cry in his arms, who stood guard outside the washroom while you showered, who defended you, called you sweetheart, made sure you knew he was always there with you. The same man who now sat next to you on the couch you weren’t allowed to sit on in a kitchen you weren’t allowed to be in. Your smile grows wider, and in your peripheral you’re very aware of his visor still staring at you.

“What?” Paz chuckles.

“Nothing.” You giggle, tears gathering in your eyes. But for the first time today, first time all week, forming not in pain but in relief.

“What is it?” He insists, still playful in his tone. His knee nudges you as if to prompt a response.

A tear slips down your cheek and he leans forward instinctively, his hand finding yours in your lap without hesitation. “Mesh’la, what is it?” He asks again, this time void of all silliness, concerned.

You shake your head, your small smile still present, but certainly reflecting more of the emotion you were feeling.

You place your other hand on top of his own that covers yours, trapping his gloved fingers in your two hands, before looking up at him.

“Just, thank you Paz.” You say, admiration and gratitude dripping from your voice.

------------------------

He likes your voice, he decides, it sounds so sweet, like pure honey.

His eyes are lost in yours behind the visor, watching another tear slip down your delicate cheek. He can hear the relief in your voice. The pure relief and admiration. Admiration? Do you feel admiration for him? He sure hopes you do, otherwise you might find it weird that he’s staring at you for so long. Kriff, he should stop staring at you. But look at those eyes. Those wonderfully expressive eyes that aren’t looking angry or sad or pained, but warm. He feels ensnared by your gaze, a light smile trailing your features, a sprinkle of tears sliding down your cheeks. He watches one slip down the shape of your cheek, rounding your nose and lips before forming a teardrop on your chin. He watches it glisten, unable to bear letting it fall. Mindlessly, he raises a gloved finger to catch it.

Your breath hitches at the contact, and his finger hovers under your jaw before sliding up to catch another.

Your eyes flit back and forth along the dark shade of his visor, searching, wondering what his eyes look like, head tilting unconsciously into his glove.

He takes the gesture as permission, slowly lifting his thumb, his palm, his whole hand up against your cheek.

You both feel suspended, his hand frozen caressing your cheek. Your eyes have dried up now, carrying a glow of wonder in them. His head tilts slowly and unknowingly to the side, almost like he can’t hold up the weight of his helmet a second longer.

The sound of approaching footfalls brings you back to reality, Paz’s hand drops from your cheek and your faces turning towards the source that dared to interrupt your moment.

“Geez, no need to cry about it, I’ve got your tea.” Jay quips, perfectly deescalating the tension of the moment. Making it a point to show you he was minding his own business.

“Um, thank you.” You mutter, still coming back to the present.

“It’s sleepytime tea.” Jay says, “Ground with dandisonyl.”

“Dandisonyl?” You ask, more alert, “That stuff is rare and expensive.”

“And strong.” Paz huffs.

“And expensive.” You insist again, looking down at your tea. “Jay, why would you waste this on me?”

He leans down against his forearms, now looming over your shoulders. His smug nature radiating off his posture alone, “Now, and this is just an observation, but you look kriffing tired. And that there,” He gestures to the cup of earthy smelling tea you’ve placed on the table in front of you, “That’s sleepytime tea. And you, vod’ika, of all people, look like you need some serious, quality, sleepytime.”

His statement ends with a pinch to your cheeks, and it’s your turn to aggressively shove him backward, causing Paz to let out a sweet laugh.

“Paz,” You say, looking to the only superior present, “He wasted good, expensive herbs on me. That stuff can be used medicinally.” You say with reprimand in your voice.

Paz surprises you by shrugging, “He kind of did use it medicinally.”

“Oh, alor’ad.” You chastise, using his official title to remind him of his role here.

He shrugs, using his whole body for the movement, before picking up your cup and placing it back in your hands. “I suppose you’re right, alor’ika.” He teases, “So you’d better drink it all so as not to let it go to waste.”

You roll your eyes, taking a sip of the tea. With your nose nestled into the cup you miss the silent exchange of approval Paz gives Jay.

Readjusting your position so that you’re facing the fire again, you turn your head towards Paz, taking another sip of your tea, it is surprisingly good. “Get on with the story then.” You command, grinning at your victory.

“Okay.” Paz says, grunting as he adjusts himself to sit comfortably once again on the small couch, opting this time to keep one arm swung over behind your head. You smile in content, looking down sheepishly at your tea and having a bit more.

“Well, it all started on the ship. I mean before we even got to Tatooine. Devin, being the utreekov that he is, forgot to bring the kriffing-...”

You listen intently to his story. He’s using his hands as he talks, passionate and perhaps a little dramatic. He’s taking extra care to include all the details, probably indulging in the fact that you and, undoubtedly, Jay, are paying him your absolute, undivided attention. You sip at your tea, the taste warm and comforting alongside Paz’s sweet voice. Your eyes are getting heavier, and you blink at the burning feeling stinging your eyes from the light of the fire, deciding that you’ll be able to listen better with your eyes closed, and gently placing the empty mug on the table.

“So, finally we get to Jabba’s palace. And Devin’s already a nervous wreck after that encounter with the Trandoshans, and-”

His voice carries a hint of thrill in it. You wonder if he feels exhilarated in finally getting to tell this story. Your lips twitch slightly, content that he’s trusting you with it.

Feeling heavier on one side, you allow your head to swing slightly in his direction, snuggling more into the embrace of the couch.

You notice his words trailing off, realizing you weren't paying much attention. Hearing only the sounds of the crackling fire in front of you, you slowly force your eyes open.

Paz’s head is turned down as much as it can in his position. And though you can’t see his visor, you’re certain he’s staring at you.

“Keep talking.” You mutter, resting your head back again.

You hear the sweetest breath of a chuckle sound from beneath his helmet, which you suddenly realise you're very near to. “Close your eyes again.”

“No, I wanna listen to the story.” You mumble, your low energy blending the words together.

“You can only evade sleep for so long sweetheart.”

“We’ll see.” You challenge, eyes fluttering closed against your will.

“Yes, we will.” He whispers. He’s silent another moment, admiring you and your peaceful expression with a smile on his face before carrying on with the story, speaking much more softly than before. The light humming of his voice is soothing, and you notice it growing quieter and quieter, yet the feelings of security and warmth and relief all stay with you.

Paz looks towards the fire as he speaks, trying to draw out the story as long as he can. He feels the light weight of your head resting against his shoulder, not daring to move a muscle and disturb your peaceful slumber.

It’s still early in the morning. Behind the fireplace and through the density of the thick wall, Paz can hear the covert coming to life. And while their days are just starting, yours has finally come to a peaceful end. He listens to your serene breathing through the long pauses he takes in his story, knowing that really, he’s only telling it to Jay now, who notably moves through the kitchen swiftly and with as little clicking and clanking as he can muster.

“-And so, that’s what happened on Tatooine.” Paz whispers, looking at your parted lips and lightly closed eyelids.

The fire casts a harmonious glow on your face, making your features look warmer, livelier, serene.

You look utterly angelic.

He remembers how you crumbled in his arms not five hours ago, pained and distressed and lonely. You sought him out even though you didn’t know him, not knowing how much he’d admired you from afar. To see your normally light and radiant face masked with such despair, he couldn’t bear to see it again.

He watches your sleeping form take a staggering breath, your body relaxing into its position, nudging your face further into where it fell on his shoulder. He dares to let the arm wrapped around the couch lower slightly, so that it rests comfortingly around your form.

“Sleep, cyar’ika,” He whispers. “I’ll be right here when you wake up.”

He hopes his silent promise is enough to soothe your sleeping form, listening to your breathing even out to a more peaceful rhythm.

“I’ll be here for as long as you need.”

---------------------

Translations:

Alor - chancellor Vod’ika - little sister Osik - shit Di’kut - idiot Jare’la - stupidly oblivious of danger / asking for it. Alor’ad - captain Tayli’bac, vod? - Do you understand, mate? (menacing) Elek! Elek, alor’ad! - Yes! Yes, captain! N’eparavu takisit! - I’m sorry (lit. I eat my insult) Alor’ika - little leader Utreekov - fool, idiot (lit. emptyhead)

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a/n two: They both think the other person’s voice sounds like pure honey.. 🥺

also we need more Paz x reader content on Tumblr my dudes.

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Taglist: @wandsmith 💖

#paz vizsla #Paz Vizsla x reader #paz x reader #the mandalorian #soft!paz #mandalorian x reader #angst

209 notes · View notes

drabbles-mc · 3 years

Text

House Call

Neron “Creeper” Vargas x Reader

Request by my #1 @est1887: Ok here goes for creeper can you make it fluffy lol I love a good love story clearly lol: “Anything, just call me okay” “Call me now it urgent” “Actually I just miss you”

Warnings: language, mentions of blood/injuries, hospitals

Word Count: 4.9k

A/N: Soo this is my first time writing for Creeper and I’m pretty happy with how it turned out! I may have gotten a little carried away...hence the 4.9k but this was a really fun one to write haha. Hope you guys enjoy! xo

Taglist: @mayans-sauce @thesandbeneathmytoes @paintballkid711 @tomhardydallasstarsgirl @queenbeered @sillygoose6969 @sesamepancakes @yourwonkywriter @chibsytelford @gemini0410 @multiyfandomgirl40 @behindmyeyes-insidemyhead @plentyoffandoms @georgiaaintnopeach @twistnet @garbinge @amandinesblogofstuff @bucky-iss-bae @encounterthepast @everyhowlmarksthedead @rosieposie0624 @mylittlelonelyappreciationtoo

He winced, letting out an exaggerated groan as you stitched up the cut. You knew it probably hurt, but you also knew him well enough to know that he had been through much worse and wasn’t so dramatic about it. You smiled as you continued his stitches, “Pretending it hurts more than it actually does isn’t going to make me give you stronger painkillers, you know.”

He instantly dropped the act as a smile crossed his face, still looking up at the ceiling for a moment before looking at you, “What if I’m really convincing?”

Your eyes met his for a moment as you arched on eyebrow, “You’re not that good of an actor, Neron.”

He chuckled, and a genuine pang of pain shot through him as he did so he tried to still himself again. You hated how often he seemed to get banged up, but he was at least a good patient. You weren’t positive that he always took the full amount of recovery time, but all of his injuries seemed to heal with minimal issues so you couldn’t complain. His stitches always stayed clean, and he swore that he always did the full run of whatever types of meds you had him on when necessary. For someone who seemed so accident-prone, he took good care of himself.

There was a comfortable familiarity between the two of you. Friends may have been too strong of a word, but whenever he had to come and see you, or the rare occasions that you had to stop by the clubhouse to patch someone up, you always enjoyed talking to him. Even if it was while you were swabbing out and stitching up stab wounds or bullet holes.

You were putting a light bandage over the stitching so it wouldn’t get dirty. The slice went down the inside of his bicep and it wasn’t exactly the shallowest cut. It would take a bit of time to heal but you had no doubts that he would be back to normal sooner rather than later.

“I think,” you lightly traced your finger along his arm, inspecting your work, “you’re good to go.”

“Sending me away already, Doc?”

You smiled, “You’ll have to come back soon anyway so I can keep an eye on your stitches. You’ll be seeing me again in no time.”

“You always take such good care of us,” he was looking down at his bandage.

“That why you keep getting busted up?”

“It is a bonus.”

You laughed and shook your head, “Right. Well, I’m gonna send your prescription out. It’s a low-dose pain killer. Nothing crazy. Only take it if you need it. You know the drill.”

He chuckled, “Something like that.”

You looked at his arm and let out a small sigh, “Alright. Just because I know how you boys are, and that cut isn’t exactly in an optimal location, I’m gonna give you my number so you can get in touch with me if something starts to feel off or the stitches rip,” you scribbled your number down on a piece of scrap paper before handing it to him, “Anything happens, just call me, okay?”

He nodded, carefully folding and tucking the paper into the pocket of his kutte, “Thank you.”

You nodded, saying goodbye to him before walking out of the room to send his prescription to the pharmacy. The other doctors didn’t understand why you always jumped at the chance to treat the guys from the MC, but you did genuinely enjoy their company. They were all good to you, and you weren’t put off by the ink and kuttes like some of your coworkers.

He walked out of the room while you were sending out his prescription. You only noticed because you could hear all of his friends in the waiting room, instantly starting to crack jokes at his expense when he walked over to them. You smiled, shaking your head slightly—you couldn’t hear exactly what they were saying but you were sure that it was amusing.

Once it was all sent out, you made your way over to Creeper and the few guys from the club who had been there waiting for him to get patched up. They were all smiles when you walked over, and it was impossible to not return the gesture.

“You guys are in charge of making sure that he doesn’t get any new injuries while this one is healing, alright?” you gave them all pointed looks, “And no bikes for him until further notice.”

“They aren’t my parents,” Creeper said with a chuckle and a shake of his head, “I can take care of myself.”

You glanced at the bandage on his arm, “Mhm. I see this,” you laughed as your eyes met his, “Give me a call if anything happens, okay?”

He nodded, “Sure thing, Doc.”

As you walked away, you could hear Angel’s voice, “Give her a call? Alright, ‘mano. Good for you.”

You chuckled quietly as you walked off to see your next patient. There were, but one of your favorite things was the fact that you really got to meet and help so many different kinds of people. Stumbling into the circle of the MC had been completely out of your control, but you were glad that it happened. You just so happened to get assigned the right case in the free clinic a couple years ago and since then, you were essentially on Bishop’s speed dial whenever anything went down. He knew you were good at what you did, and could be discreet about it.

Days came and went, and you hadn’t heard anything from Creeper, or anyone for that matter. You supposed no news was good news, but you were curious to know how your patient was doing. You didn’t have his number, though, he only had yours. So you waited. You waited for a call from him, or a notification from the hospital that he had scheduled his follow-up appointment. Either one would be fine by you.

You were just getting off your shift, walking out to your car when your phone started to ring. You didn’t recognize the number, but you picked up anyway.

“Hello?”

“Hey, Doc,” you recognized his voice immediately.

“Neron,” your tone was cautious as you fished your keys out of your purse, “Why do I get the feeling that this isn’t a good call?”

“Because…it’s not,” he chuckled, “It’s not terrible. I just…did something stupid.”

“Oh did you?” you shook your head as you sat down behind the wheel and threw your purse over into the passenger seat.

“Think I could come in and have you fix me up?”

You sighed, “I’m leaving for the day. Text me your address and I’ll just come to you—you shouldn’t be driving anyway.”

“O-okay,” he fumbled over his words for a moment, “I, I can do that.”

“I’ll see you soon,” you laughed, “Don’t do anything else until I get there.”

You were surprised by how close he lived to the hospital. And, by extension, how close he lived to you. Your house was only about a ten-minute drive away from his, if that. You knew it was a small world, but you didn’t think it was quite that small.

You walked up and knocked on the door, medical bag slung over your shoulder. You’d taken to keeping a decent amount of supplies on-hand once you became the on-call doctor for the club. A few moments later he opened the door, a nervous smile on his face.

“You called?” you offered up with a laugh.

You noticed some of the tension disappear from his body as he nodded, stepping out of the way to let you in. You didn’t know what you had been expecting the inside of his home to look like, but what you were seeing didn’t surprise you. Everything was clean and orderly, but it was sparse. He didn’t strike you as the kind of man who was super into interior design anyway.

You took off your shoes, nudging them off to the side as you followed him to the living room. You noticed that he was keeping his arm pinned to his side, trying to hide whatever damage he’d done. It was amusing to you solely because he was going to have to show you what happened if he wanted you to fix it.

He sat down on the couch and you pulled a chair over from his table so that you could sit in front of him facing him. You looked back and forth between his face and his arm, waiting for him to start offering up some sort of explanation.

“Before you get mad,” he gestured with his good arm, “let me explain.”

“Please do,” you smiled as you started taking things out of your bag.

“I was being good,” he was almost pleading, “I was staying home—no rides, no club shit. Figured that since I’m stuck in the house I might as well get a few things around here taken care of.”

You looked at him, eyebrows raised, “Did any of the things that needed to be taken care of involve any kind of heavy lifting?”

“I didn’t think it was heavy! Not until,” he finally showed you his arm.

A few of his stitches had definitely ripped. It would be a quick and easy fix, but you could tell by the look on his face that he felt like he was about to get in trouble in the principal’s office. You smiled as you carefully undid the bandage and started wiping the dried blood away.

“It could be worse,” you said with a chuckle.

You could see the relief in his body language when he realized that you weren’t frustrated or upset with him. His injury wasn’t at the top of his list of concerns—he knew that you’d be able to fix it. He just didn’t want you to be pissed off at him during or after the process of doing so.

You re-wrapped his arm and reiterated your previous instructions as you did, “No rides, no heavy lifting. You are a one-armed man for the foreseeable future,” you reached into your bag and pulled out a sling, “And just in case you forget I’m gonna strap you down with this,” you laughed as you fitted it onto him.

He shook his head, but smiled, “This isn’t necessary, Doc.”

“Clearly it is,” you laughed as you leaned back in the chair.

A few beats of silence passed before he looked you in the eyes and let a small smirk pass over his face, “Thank you, by the way. I owe you.”

You shook your head as you packed everything back into your bag, “You don’t owe me. I’m happy to help.”

You were putting the chair back in its rightful place when he asked, “I was gonna order pizza if you want to stick around. I know I just made your long day even longer,” he chuckled nervously, “It’s the least I could do.”

You smiled, nodding, “Pizza sounds good.”

The evening was much more comfortable than you thought it might be. It was the longest that you’d spent with any of the guys from the club, especially in a one-on-one setting. Creeper was easy to be around though, and he kept your laughing. You really didn’t even notice the time going by as the two of you lounged on the sofa, television on just for background noise.

“I would love to stay,” you stood up and stretched, “But I don’t get to stay home on bedrest tomorrow,” you laughed.

“Can doctors call in sick?” he asked with a smile.

You nodded, “We can. I try to save my sick hours for hangovers, though.”

He walked you out to your car, and you couldn’t believe how dark it’d gotten. You tossed your bag into your trunk and shut the door with a quiet sigh. Despite how long your day had been, you couldn’t deny that the ending to it all had been worth it. You hadn’t expected to have so much fun, to so badly want to stay a little longer.

“Thanks again for this, Y/N. I owe you.”

You smiled and shook your head, “The only thing you owe me is updates. That way I know your arm is still attached and healing.”

He laughed and nodded, “I can do that.”

You hugged him gently, careful not to press against his injured arm, “Take care of yourself, Neron.”

His smile was soft, “Get home safe.”

Telling him to keep you updated was all it took for him to keep in touch with you. Over the next few days, seeing text messages from him were welcome distractions in the midst of a lot of chaos at work. At some point in the morning, he would always send an update saying that he still had both arms, and that he was still wearing the sling. He would usually include whatever joke the other guys had made at his expense that day, just to reassure you that he was still taking it easy. You’d usually text him back on your lunch break, if you got one, or just when you had a spare moment to breathe for a couple minutes.

Soon it was more than just the once or twice a day check-ins. Slowly but surely the conversations started lasting all throughout the day. You obviously weren’t always able to respond to things right away, but nonetheless the two of you kept the conversation going regardless of what it was about. It was the first time in a long time that you had someone that you could talk to all day and not get bored. It was nice.

You were texting him as you were leaving work late one night, drained and pissed off at a call your supervisor had made. You were glad that you had a couple days off before you had to be back so you could cool off a bit and not say something that you’d regret.

“Free tonight?” you figured the worst that could happen was that he would say that he was busy.

You got his reply as you sat down in the driver’s seat of your car, “Yea. You ok?”

You sighed but smiled as you typed out your response, “Shitty day”

His reply was immediate, “Come over whenever. Not like I’m going anywhere anytime soon lol”

You chuckled, shaking your head. You let him know that you were going to go home to shower and change and then you’d be over. You hadn’t been back to see him in person since you fixed his stitches. And, despite the fact that the two of you had been texting every day, you found yourself missing him a little bit. Even though it had been a rough day, you were glad that you would be able to stop in and see him.

You knocked on his front door, shifting your weight from one foot to the other. Showing up for something that wasn’t medical felt a little strange. You had no idea why there was a hint of nerves coursing through your body, but there was.

He opened the door, a smile spreading across his face, “Hey, come on in,” he stepped aside so you could come inside.

You slipped out of your sneakers and turned around to see Creeper staring at you. There was a smirk tugging at his lips and you felt your face get hot. You tugged at the hem of your tank top, letting out a nervous chuckle, “What?”

He shook his head, “Nothing. Just never seen you outta your scrubs, Doc,” he smiled, “Beer?”

You nodded, “Please.”

You collapsed down onto his couch and he appeared a few moments later with two open beer bottles, handing one to you. You took it happily, taking a long drink from it as he sat down on the couch next to you. He looked over at you, concern flashing across his features for a moment. Before he could ask you anything, you beat him to the punch.

“I know I’m not in my scrubs,” you looked at his arm, “But I’m still your doctor. What happened to the sling?”

He laughed, shaking his head, “I’ve been on my best behavior. No mishaps. I can’t go one night without it?”

You smiled, “Fine. One night,” you paused, can I look at the stitches though?”

He shook his head, “No. You had a long day. You’re not here to be my doctor. Just relax for a bit, will you?”

You rolled your eyes but smiled, “Fine,” you sipped on your beer, “No big club plans on a Saturday?”

“Just following the doctor’s orders.”

You laughed, “Man, she must be a real buzzkill.”

He chuckled, “Yea, but she means well.” You gave him a light shove as you let out a laugh. He smiled, “You this mean to all your patients?”

“Just the ones who make fun of me.”

He finally got you to start venting about what had been going on at work over the past few days, but that day in particular. He didn’t say much, just nodding and encouraging you along. He could see that you just needed to talk about it, to be able to be bitter and complain about it so that you wouldn’t combust from keeping anything inside. Throughout the course of the conversation he’d gotten you each a couple more beers. You took them gladly, just happy that you were able to unwind and have some good company.

As it started to get later, you found yourself not really wanting to leave. It was comfortable at his house, with him. You didn’t quite know what it was about it, but you really had no desire to go home.

He’d put a movie on, and somewhere along the way you found yourself leaning against his good side. You settled against him, soaking up the heat that was emanating from him. He cautiously draped his arm around you, his hand resting lightly on your side. You let out a quiet hum of approval and felt the tension disappear from his body.

You didn’t remember falling asleep, but you woke up to the sound of Creeper snoring. You forced your eyes open, trying to get your bearings a little bit. Your head was rested in his lap, blanket draped over you and his hand still resting on your side. He was leaning back against the couch, head tilted slightly upwards as he slept. You sat up slowly, running your hands over your face.

He felt you stir and started to wake up. You smiled over at him as he wiped the sleep from his eyes, “Sorry I ended up crashing here.”

He chuckled, tiredness still weighing on his voice as he struggled to wake himself up, “No worries. Glad you got some rest.”

You got up and got ready to head home, already feeling like you definitely overstayed your welcome. He wasn’t rushing you out, but he wasn’t going to try to force you to stay, either, assuming that you had other things you had to take care of. He still walked you out to your car despite the fact that it was daylight now. He hug he gave you lingered for just a little bit longer, and you didn’t mind.

“Thank you. Sorry again about the impromptu slumber party,” you laughed.

He smiled, “You don’t gotta apologize.”

You fished your keys out of your purse, “Don’t forget to make an appointment for your stitches soon, alright?”

“Was hoping you’d be willing to make a house call for that.”

You smiled, cheeks getting hot for a moment, “I might be able to swing that. I’ll stop by sometime next week.”

The following week, you were making your way out to your car after your shift. Things were a little calmer at work, and your frustration had decreased drastically. You were digging around for your keys when you felt your phone vibrating in your pocket. You pulled it out, brows furrowing in concern when Bishop’s name flashed across the screen.

“Hello?”

“Hey, Y/N.”

“Hey…everything alright?”

He didn’t sound overly worried, “Yea. Just wanted to ask a favor of you if I could.”

“What’s up?”

“You think you could take Creeper’s stitches out early? Need him on deck for some club stuff. He’s gotta be able to ride.”

You sighed. You know that realistically he’d probably be fine, but you couldn’t pretend that you wouldn’t be worried about whatever it was that was going on. You weren’t going to say no, though. “Yea, I could do that. Was planning on taking them out this weekend anyway.”

“Great. Think you can stop by his place tonight?”

“When do you need him by?”

There was a pause—he didn’t want to answer the question, “Tomorrow.”

“Fuck, Bish. Seriously?”

“I know. I’ll owe you.”

You chuckled, “You sure will. I’ll stop by his place tonight.”

“You’re an angel.”

“Yea, remember that,” you laughed as you hung up the phone. With a sigh, you texted Creeper to let him know that you were on your way to his house as per Bishop’s orders. He probably knew already, but you still felt weird popping by without saying anything first.

He opened the door for you when you got there, a smirk on his face, “Wow. I bet Bishop that you weren’t going to cave on taking them out early.”

“If your arm didn’t seem to be healing so well, I wouldn’t be,” you shook your head slightly as you got ready to take his stitches out, “You’re lucky you’re such a good patient.”

The two of you were quiet as you went to work on his arm. It really wasn’t the worst thing in the world that the stitches were coming out a little ahead of schedule. He’d been careful with his arm, and you really didn’t have any pressing concerns about it. Your worries branched far outside the scope of his latest injury.

“Do I get to ask what’s so important that Bishop needs you to speed up your recovery time?”

He raised his eyebrows slightly, “You really wanna know?”

You sighed, shaking your head, “No. It’s probably better for my sanity if I don’t.”

“You worried?”

You flicked your eyes up to him for a moment, “Usually urgent club business ends with at least one of you guys needing to come and see me to get patched up. Odds aren’t really in your favor.”

He laughed, “I guess you’re right.”

Neither of you said anything more about it. As much as you wanted to stay, and maybe pry a little more into what was going on, you fought the urge. You knew that he probably had last-minute shit to take care of, and it wasn’t your place to get in his way. You slung your bag over your shoulder as you headed back towards the front door of his house. The knot in your stomach wasn’t going to go away until they were all back and safe from handling whatever it was that they were getting into.

After tossing your bag into your car, you turned around and wrapped him in a tight hug. For the first time since he got injured, he was able to properly hug you back. He kept you snug against him for a few moments, and you really didn’t want him to let go.

You finally stepped back, “Please stay safe, alright?”

“Doctor’s orders?” there was a small smile on his face.

You laughed and nodded, “Yes. Doctor’s orders,” you paused, gnawing at the inside of your bottom lip, “Let me know when you’re back?”

He nodded, “I will.”

“Good. Okay,” you stepped in and hugged him again, pressing a light, quick kiss to his cheek before getting in your car, “Stay out of trouble, Neron.”

He smiled, “I’ll do what I can.”

A few days ticked by and you hadn’t heard anything from anyone. Which was perfectly on-brand for the MC, but this time it made you worried. You had debated texting creeper, but you stopped yourself. They were busy, probably wrapped up in dangerous shit. The last thing that he needed was you bothering him. Still, though, you wished that you knew what was going on.

You were pulling something together for a very late dinner at the end of the week. Your shift had gone way longer than it was supposed to. You were too tired to cook, but it was also too late to get anything delivered. So you were pulling random things out of your cabinets in the hopes of putting together something that resembled a meal.

Your phone buzzed once on the counter. You glanced over and saw that you had a notification from Creeper. Instantly you opened the message, “Call me now. It’s urgent”

Your heart dropped into your stomach as you called him. Your hand trembled as you held it up to your ear, waiting to hear the worst when he picked up on the other end of the line.

“Hello?”

“Neron?” you couldn’t hide the worry in your voice, “Are you okay? Where are you guys? Are you all safe?”

“One question at a time,” there was a touch of humor to his voice, and you couldn’t tell if you found it reassuring or frustrating.

“What’s wrong? You said it was urgent,” your heart was pounding inside your chest.

“It is,” he paused, “Kind of. I mean,” you heard him take a deep breath, “Actually, honestly, I just miss you. Been thinkin’ about you all week.”

You let out a laugh, some of the tension disappearing from your body, “I miss you too. So…you’re still in one piece?”

He chuckled, “Yea. Me and everyone else.”

“Where are you?”

“About to head home.”

“Can I come over?” you blurted out.

You could tell he was biting back a laugh as he responded, “Yea. Of course.”

You let out a sigh of relief, “Alright. I’ll see you soon.”

When you pulled in, you saw his bike in the driveway and knew he was already home. You didn’t bother knocking this time, electing to just let yourself in. He was standing in the kitchen, looking in the fridge when you walked in. He turned around, smiling when he saw you. Without giving it a second thought, you all but ran over to him and wrapped him in a tight hug. He laughed, arms snaking around you and squeezing you tight. You shut your eyes, taking a moment to just breathe him in as one of his hands came to rest on the back of your head.

“I really did miss you, you know,” his voice was softer than you were used to. It was the first thing either of you said to each other since you got there.

You smiled against his chest, “I missed you too.”

He pulled away from you a little so he could get a good look at your face. You could see the exhaustion in his features, but you could see the happiness too. His hands stayed rested on your hips as he spoke, “I know I’m technically not your patient anymore,” he cracked a smile, “But if you wanted to keep stopping in to make house calls, I wouldn’t mind.”

You laughed, hands resting on the sides of his neck, fingers lightly tracing over the ink there, “You wouldn’t, huh?”

“I like you,” you could tell by the look on his face that he was choosing his words carefully, “And I like it when you’re here. Feels more like home. Not being able to talk to you for a week…really fucking sucked.”

You smiled, liking his simple honesty, “I agree. And…I like you too.”

He pulled you closer, fingers drumming lightly on your sides, “Can I kiss you?”

Your eyes widened, not expecting that to be the next thing that he said. Despite the shock, you smiled and nodded. The grin that broke out across his face was contagious, but you didn’t have time to really take it in as he cupped your face and pulled you in so your lips crashed against his. You practically melted into him, hands sliding to rest on his chest. His thumb traced along your cheekbone as his lips moved against yours.

You pulled back to catch your breath, and you could feel his chest vibrating with laughter beneath your hands. Your face was hot and you found yourself smiling when he pulled you close and rested his forehead against yours.

“I guess you were right,” you said with a quiet laugh.

“About?”

You chuckled, “About this being urgent,” you smiled and closed your eyes as he pressed a kiss to your forehead, “I’m glad you’re safe.”

“I’m glad you’re here.”

You rested your head against his chest and sighed, leaning into him. He wrapped his arms around you, one hand sliding gently up and down your back. His arms felt strong, and they made you feel safe. You didn’t know for sure what was in store for the two of you next, but you were ready for whatever the next adventure was.

#mayans mc #mayansmc #mayans fx #mayans mc imagine #neron vargas #creeper vargas #creeper vargas x reader #creeper vargas x you #creeper vargas fanfic #my writing #fanfiction #drabblesmc

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galacticxcosmos · 3 years

Text

𝑭𝒂𝒍𝒍𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝑯𝒂𝒓𝒅𝒆𝒓 ♕︎ jjk

Pairing :- Jungkook X Reader

Genre :- Suger Daddy AU, Romantic, Erotic, Angst and Fluff

Word Count :- 3.5k

Summary :- You didn't need a Sugar Daddy, but you still have one. What could make things worse? You having feelings for him probably?? But things were already messed up beyond your imagination, you heard of the saying, "Love hurts", but this much??

Warnings :- Explicit Sex, Noona kink, Dom Jungkook, Sub reader, A lot of angst (idk how I managed to write), mature theme, confused feelings, Jungkook with his smooth ass lines to melt your heart.

A/N:- I am still working on my series, mean while I just posted this quick Oneshot. I did go into depth of literature to give out the finest of my capabilities but it's not that bad, you can give it a try I guess. P.S:- Ignore the typos ans slight grammatical errors, I am too lazy to do proof reading. :P

«────── « ⋅ʚ♡ɞ⋅ » ──────»

The night fell, covering the sky with a dark blanket, the one that had holes through which you couldn't see light spots that resembled shimmering starts. You were standing in your large walk-in wardrobe, looking over the racks on racks of designer dresses, trying to decide what you were going to wear tonight.

A pit of uneasiness formed in your stomach, the feeling where you go back to back with feeling nauseatic to not feeling anything at all. You wondered what you were doing, why you were still doing this, even though you knew perfectly well why you still did.

You didn’t need a sugar daddy, yet you had one. You might have succeededly lied to everyone but lying to one's own self is indeed a difficult job. You had a good job when you first met him, you had your apartment, you had a decent income. A really good income, actually. There was just something about him, something that drew you in and captivated you and when he’d made the offer you hadn’t been able to refuse.

He got you a bigger apartment, you didn’t need to work. The only thing you needed to do was look pretty and be available for him whenever he needed or wanted you. You’d made one mistake in all of this and it was the one thing that kept you here and somehow simultaneously made you want to leave. You made a mistake, did something that you weren't supposed to.

You had fallen in love with him and you were falling harder.

You weren’t sure how much more you could take if you were being honest. You had given up so much just to be near him and you were starting to realise that the sex and accompanying him to certain events as his ‘friend’ weren’t going to be enough. You wanted more and you knew that he wouldn’t give it to you.

That was one of the most important rules that he had put in place when this first started. No one was to know about the two of you. Not one single person. You didn’t want that anymore though. You hadn’t wanted that in a long time but you knew that it wasn’t going to change.

You weren’t even the only girl that Jungkook had and your heart hurt a little bit more deeply each time he gained another conquest. Jungkook might be paying you to keep you around, for whatever reason you didn’t know, but that didn’t stop him from being the same playboy that he’d always been.

You sighed, pulling out a short black dress for the event tonight, knowing that Jungkook would love the way that it hugged your body tightly. It was sexy, but not in a way that flaunted your body, just the way that Jungkook liked it. The black fabric hugged your curves in all the right places, the long lace sleeves covering your arms adequately. The scooped neckline covered up to your collarbones, a cutout back showing just the right amount of skin.

You walked over to the floor to ceiling mirror, slipping on your black heels and double checking your appearance, knowing that Jungkook would be here soon. Just as you finished adjusting the way that your hair fell around your slender shoulders, the doorbell rang. You let out a small sigh, knowing that Jungkook was here to take you to the new years eve party.

He always rang the doorbell when he came, despite the fact that he had the code to get in and the fact that you’d told him repeatedly that he didn’t have to. You figured it was his own way of keeping certain boundaries in the relationship that you shared. You walked over to the bed, picking up the red clutch that you’d filled with your things earlier, glancing at yourself in the mirror one last time before leaving the room.

You pulled open your front door your eyes landing on the beautifully put together man waiting for you. His dark brown hair fell across his forehead in a soft wave, his silk soft lips pulled up into a small smile, his beautiful eyes wandering over you in approval of your choice of outfit.

He was wearing a quite obviously expensive black suit that accentuated his body to perfection. The crisp white shirt he was wearing had the first couple of buttons open and you wondered how he could manage to add a casual influence to the outfit and still look as good as he did. "Noona..." His voice was effective enough to send chills down your spine.

“Are you ready to go?” he asked in that soft, melodious voice of his that seemed to make your insides melt whenever you heard it. You found yourself nodding, stepping out into the hall beside him and pulling your door closed, steeling yourself to your feelings and the night that was to come as he wrapped an arm around your waist and leading you to the elevator.

You sat at an elegantly decorated table, drinking another glass of champagne, surrounded by beautiful rich people who talked about nothing and yet somehow never ran out of things to say and wondered what you were doing. Why you were here, why you kept doing this?? Confusion was bubbling up inside you.

You didn’t belong here, you knew that you didn’t belong here and yet you couldn’t bring yourself to leave, to remove yourself from the situation you had willingly put yourself in for something as silly as love. You downed the rest of your glass, waving over a waiter and grabbing another with a small thank you and continuing to drink the one that you had just taken.

It wouldn’t be so bad, if the man you loved actually harboured some kind of feelings for you in return, but he didn’t. You knew he didn’t and yet you just couldn’t seem to tear yourself away from him, desperate for any scrap of attention he threw your way.

You let out a small scoff, taking another sip from the crystal glass that you held. You didn’t even know what number drink this was, you’d had a fair few since Jungkook had disappeared, leaving you alone in a sea of people that you didn’t know and didn’t really want to know.

It was late, you knew it was late and you found yourself wondering just how late it was. Was it almost midnight yet, almost the new year? A time when people vowed to themselves to change in some small or significant way that they never usually saw through. Did you really want another year of this? Another year of being nothing but a plaything, something to be hidden and kept a secret? Another year of loving someone that would never feel the same way about you?

Your eyes drifted around the room, taking in the countless people adorned in jewels and expensive suits. Did you really want another year living a life that you knew you shouldn’t be living? Hell, half of the people here thought you were an escort and to be perfectly honest you weren’t exactly far from it. You missed your old life, where you were respected and had friends, where people didn’t look down upon you because you were nice and a hard worker.

Your eyes landed on Jungkook, arms wrapped around a beautiful girl on the dancefloor, your mouth dropping open slightly from shock. He was kissing her. Right in front of you, in front of everyone else, in the middle of the large dance floor.

You felt a stinging in your eyes, knowing that you were going to cry and that you needed to get out of there. It was the final push you needed, the final nail in the coffin. That you couldn’t do this anymore was the only thought you seemed to have as you rose to your feet before unsteadily leaving the large and opulent ballroom.

Back in the apartment that you had called home for such a long time, you were sat on the floor in the middle of your bright living space, two suitcases open in front of you and surrounded by clothes that you were trying to pack.

Your phone had been vibrating incessantly for a while before it had stopped completely, probably Jungkook wondering where the hell you had gone and what had happened but you had ignored it completely.

You had changed into comfortable leggings and a sweater, much more to your liking. You had begun to raid the closet, grabbing the least expensive items that you had purchased since you had moved in here.

You wiped your eyes for what felt like the billionth time, wondering when you were going to stop crying about this. It was for the best, you knew it was for the best. You couldn’t keep doing this to yourself and you should have had this much respect for yourself before this entire thing started. You were pulled from your thoughts at the loud banging that sounded out on your front door, your eyes shooting up to look at it as you nibbled on your lower lip nervously. You weren’t going to let him in, you couldn’t let him in.

Your eyes grew wide and you froze as you heard numbers being punched into the keypad at the door and you could have slapped yourself for your stupidity. You’d forgotten to change the code, how could you forget to change the code? Your panicked eyes locked with his as he walked into your apartment, his eyes filled with a frustration that changed to slight panic as he took in your position on the floor, surrounded by suitcases and your belongings. “No-- Noona... What are you doing?”

There was a slight tremble to his voice that he couldn’t seem to hide and your eyes took in just how disheveled he looked, his hair no longer perfectly styled and now looking as though he’d run his hands roughly through it more than once. You dragged your eyes from him, looking back down to the suitcase in front of you and reaching to pick up some of the clothes beside you, tucking them into the suitcase as you spoke.

“I don’t want to do this anymore Jungkook. I deserve better than this and I need to learn to respect myself again. I’m going home.” You looked up at him as you finished speaking, noticing the way that his face had seemed to lose a little color, the way his adam's apple bobbed as he swallowed deeply.

He began to walk toward you, closing the distance between you quickly and you dropped your eyes from him once again, reaching out to put another stack of clothes into the suitcase. His hand found your own and you almost flinched from the contact, refusing to look up at him and meet his eyes as he spoke to you in his soft, calm voice.

“I don’t want to lose you, I can’t lose you. Whatever you want, I’ll give it to you. Just tell me what you want Noona, please.” There was a desperation in his tone, one that he didn’t seem to care to hide at this precise moment. Your eyes slid shut as you drew a shaky breath, knowing that he couldn’t give you what you so desperately wanted.

“You can’t give me what I want Jungkook, I know you can’t. I’ve done this for as long as I can, this needs to end now.” Your voice was barely a whisper, your heart seemingly breaking more at your own words. You wished he could give you what you wanted, you wished for it with everything that you had, but you knew it wasn’t a possibility.

Jungkook’s hand tightened around your own when you tried to pull it away, a hand reaching out to force you to look at him. The tips of his fingers felt ever so soft against your skin and you had to fight not to lean into the touch. “You don’t know what I can give you Noona. You don’t know what I would do for you,” you could hear the nerves in his voice when he spoke and you couldn’t tear your eyes away from his own as he continued to speak. “Noona, listen to me. I want to wake up next to you every morning. I want to fall asleep every night holding you. I want to come home from work to see you dressed just like this. I want everyone to know how much I love you, because I do love you, Noona. You and only you.”

Your heart almost stopped beating with his last words, your eyes widening as you looked into his own beautiful orbs. Your brain scrambled to try and process what he’d just said to you, that he loved you the way that you loved him. When you took too long to respond, Jungkook drew in a shaky breath, before speaking once again. “I was just scared. I knew that there was something about you the first moment that I met you and I wanted to keep you by my side as much as I could Noona. I know you think there have been others besides you, but there hasn’t. I’ve loved you for a long time, I want a relationship with you. I want you by my side forever Noona..”

You sat there, looking at him as he crouched before you, your mind frantically trying to process what he was telling you. You wanted nothing more than to believe him, but there was one thing that kept nagging away at you. “What about the girl earlier tonight? I saw you kissing her,” your voice shook when you spoke and you almost cursed yourself for showing how nervous you were about that question. You wanted nothing more than to believe him, but you knew that you needed to know.

Jungkook’s voice was soft when he answered you, a certain look in his eyes that made you believe him. You knew that he was telling the truth.

“She kissed me, I pushed her away and went to look for you, but you were gone. I’m sorry.” His hand gave your own a gentle squeeze, his eyes searching your own. “I really do love you. I want to give us a chance. What do you want?” Jungkook was practically handing you everything that you had wanted since you’d met him to you on a platter and you were feeling overwhelmed. You had dreamt of this for so long and you’d suddenly found yourself at a loss for words now that he was offering it to you.

Unable to form any words, you answered him in the only way that you could, leaning forward and capturing his lips with your own. He instantly reached out to you, settling himself more comfortably on the floor and pulling you into his lap, his hands gripping your waist tightly as though he was scared to let you go.

You shifted yourself so that you were straddling him, somehow never once breaking the kiss. His tongue brushed the seam of your lips, looking for access which you granted, his tongue dipping inside as your hands reached up to tangle in his silky hair. The kiss quickly grew more heated, both wanting each other with a desperation that was surprising. Jungkook’s lips pulled away, moving along your jaw to your throat, nibbling and sucking on your sensitive skin and causing a small moan to escape you as heat shot through you straight to your core.

His wandering hands found the edge of your sweater as he removed his lips from your skin, pulling the sweater up and over your head quickly and throwing it somewhere in the room, before quickly returning his mouth to your neck. You ground yourself onto him, a small whimper escaping you as your hands flew down to push his jacket off of his strong shoulders. The action caused Jungkook to let out a small groan of his own as he pushed up against you.

His voice was practically a growl against your ear when he said “Bedroom, Princess. Now,” his tone changed, dominance was evident and you didn’t have to be told twice, getting to your feet with Jungkook following quickly behind you into your plush bedroom. You had barely made it into the bedroom when Jungkook pulled you against him once again, your tongues tangling together with the same desperation that had been present in the other room.

Your hands flew to his shirt, fighting with the buttons for a few minutes before you finally managed to get them undone, the fabric falling to the floor as Jungkook maneuvered you toward the bed. His hands reached down to unclasp your bra, that quickly disappearing too, before he also removed your leggings and your panties, finally pushing you down on to the bed.

He quickly removed the rest of his clothes, before joining you on the bed and settling himself between your parted thighs, capturing your lips once again in a searing kiss. You whined into his mouth, desperately wanting him to touch you, the sound seeming to let him know exactly what you wanted from him as he removed his lips from your own and ghosting soft kisses along your throat.

He kissed his way along your collarbone, finally reaching your chest and drawing one of your stiff nipples into his mouth as one of his hands drifted along your thigh, eventually reaching the place that you wanted him the most. His tongue circled your hardened nipple as he drew a finger along your wet slit, a soft moan escaping him when he felt just how wet you were for him. Your hips bucked up, desperate for more contact with him and you felt him smile against your skin before he gave you what you wanted.

You moaned as he slid a finger inside your wetness, his thumb drawing circles into your clit when he eased another finger inside. His mouth came up to meet your own, your small whimpers and whines being caught by his mouth as his fingers worked you, your small hands gripping his shoulders tightly. You were a shivering mess beneath him when you finally pulled your lips away from his own, your voice coming out as a shaky whine when you spoke.

“I want you inside me Jungkook, please.” He chuckled against your throat, where he’d moved his mouth when you had pulled away. “Whatever you want, Princess,” was all he said as he removed his fingers from your wetness. He shifted, aligning himself with your entrance before slowly pushing into your wet heat.

You both moaned, Jungkook burying his face in the crook of your neck as he buried himself to the hilt before giving you a few seconds to adjust. His hands moved gently along your arms, fingers wrapping around your wrists to hold your arms above your head. He began to move almost painstakingly slowly, before suddenly slamming back into you with a force that pulled a surprised whimper from you. Your moans and whimpers filled the room as Jungkook continued to pound into you. “Is this what you wanted Noona?” he asked, his breath coming in short pants as he fucked you hard. You couldn’t find your own voice, your own whimpers and moans coming out as breathless pants as he continued to slam into you and you could only nod in response.

Jungkook released one of your wrists, your freed hand instantly flying to tangle itself in his soft hair as Jungkook shifted slightly, the new angle allowing him to hit you even deeper than before. Your legs began to shake slightly, the knot in your stomach growing tighter as you grew closer to your release. Your walls clenching around him told Jungkook just how close you were as he moved his free hand to rub circles against your sensitive bud and that was all you needed to fall over the edge.

Your body shook around him, your walls clenching him tightly as your orgasm washed over you. Jungkook’s movements became more sloppy and less controlled, before finally reaching his own release. his body tensed, head buried in your neck as he groaned your name, coming deep inside of you. He collapsed against you, his grip on your remaining wrist falling away and you held on to him gently, almost afraid to let him go. As if he sensed your worry, his lips quirked against your shoulder before he lifted his head, brushing a soft kiss on your lips and looking you straight in the eyes.

“I love you Noona, and I always will” he said gently, brushing his lips against your own once more. You gave a small smile as he pulled away, unsure of how this one day had ended the way that it had but unbelievably happy that the man that you loved also loved you. “I love you too Jungkook,” you whispered, "Don't say 'too' it sounds like a contract" he pouted that had successfully melt your heart, "I love you Kookie" he giggled at the nickname, "I love you more" he wishpered, you placed your lips against his soft ones, a happy smile of his own gracing his lips as you captured them in yet another loving kiss hoping the night to not end.

The End.

Feel free to like or reblog, you can follow me for more. Let me know how was it in the comments, this is the first Oneshot that I have written in this account

~peace out.

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