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dantediscoversfic · 6 years

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Chapter 31: Oscar Ramirez

I got over the flu but it left behind a restless drawn-tight feeling inside me that I couldn’t shake. I went to visit Ari every day but other than that I didn’t leave my room much. My mom finally insisted on scheduling an appointment for me to see one of her counselor colleagues, Oscar Ramirez. I didn’t fight her too hard on it. I knew it was probably a good idea to talk someone. Oscar worked for the same shelter/halfway house my mom did in addition to having an off-site office. I’d met a few of her colleagues before but never Oscar, which made the idea of talking to him easier somehow.

Ari had been released from the hospital for about a week and a half by the time I went to talk to Oscar for the first time. I’d been going over to Ari’s house every day to visit him. Sometimes we’d go for “walk and rolls” around the neighborhood but mostly we hung out in his room. I decided to read The Sun Also Rises aloud to him (mostly because Hemingway’s sparse, terse writing style reminded me of Ari, but I didn’t tell him that). I read a chapter or two each visit and we’d talk about it after. One time we talked about where we’d go if we decided to become dissolute ex-patriots like the characters in the novel and travel the world together. I wanted to go to Paris; Ari wanted to go to Iceland or Norway. When I asked him why, he said he was sick of the Texas heat and wanted to see the Northern Lights.

“I bet there’s no light pollution up there,” he said.

“Sure, no light pollution, but the winter’s colder than a witch’s tit.”

He snorted. “I wouldn’t mind the cold.”

“How do you know? You’ve lived in Texas your whole life.”

“It snows here sometimes, you know. Like two Christmases ago.”

“I know, but El Paso winter is nothing like up there. We’d need to bring special snowsuits and camping gear or risk dying of hypothermia.”

“It’d be worth it though. To go somewhere so remote and cold and quiet.”

“Sounds like you really want to go on vacation to The Fortress of Solitude.”

“Hey, don’t knock The Fortress. A man needs a place where he can be alone and think.”

“And freeze his face and nuts off in the process.”

“That’s just the price you pay to stop everyone being all up in your business all the time. And anyway, Superman is impervious to frost bite. And don’t talk about Superman’s nuts. That’s sacrilegious.”

“I wasn’t talking about Superman’s nuts specifically. Just frozen nuts in general.”

“Okay okay enough with the nuts talk. Jesus.”

“What? They’re just a body part. No weirder than pinky toes or noses.”

“Yeah, okay, whatever. Hey I’m pretty wiped…so…I might take a nap or something.”

Ari’s face was flushed he looked sort of agitated so I cut my visit short after that. I could tell something was off between us but I didn’t try to press him. Sometimes when I went to visit I wasn’t even sure if he wanted me there. I figured he had every reason to be resentful of me. It was my fault he was stuck at home for the rest of the summer, at the mercy of his painfully itchy and useless legs. I was afraid more than anything that he’d want to stop being friends with me if I needled him too much or asked him what was wrong. So it was easier to talk about books or imaginary plans to travel the world together than what I actually wanted to talk about, which was how badly I was going to miss him when we moved and how sorry I still was about the accident.

When the time came for my appointment with the counselor, I was nervous even though I knew seeking counseling was a totally normal thing to do. Nothing to be ashamed of.

“Do I have to lay down on a couch?” I asked my mom on the car ride over.

She smiled. “Of course not. That’s the sort of thing you really only see in movies nowadays.”

“Good, because that part always seemed a little weird. Do I have to analyze my dreams?”

“Only if you want to.”

“What if I run out of things to say and we just stare at each other in awkward silence the whole time?”

“You’ve never had a particular problem with maintaining conversation, Dante. You can talk to him about whatever you want. Or not talk. No pressure.”

What I really wanted to ask her was if she thought the accident had messed me up somehow, or worse, messed Ari up, and that’s the real reason she wanted me to talk to a counselor. Not physically messed us up. But if I’d caused something to get broken inside us. I had no issue with the field of psychiatry in general, seeing as it was my mother’s profession, but I didn’t like the idea of a stranger realizing there was something wrong with me that needed fixing.

Oscar had an office in the El Paso Child and Teen Guidance Center, which was located in a shopping center. That sort of surprised me. I’m not sure what I expected, but it wasn’t the totally mundane looking storefront hiding in plain sight next to a hair salon, pet store and a travel agency. Oscar greeted us at the reception desk, where he kissed my mom on the cheek and shook my hand.

Oscar was around my parents’ age. He was on the stocky side, but not fat or anything. He was the type of solid build that you could describe as equally fitting for a linebacker and a big teddy bear. He had a round, friendly face and close cut salt-and-pepper black hair that didn’t do much to make his appearance less boyish and wholesome. He had a firm handshake and big hands.

“Dante, it’s a pleasure to meet you. Your mom has told me a lot about you.”

“Thanks, you too. I mean, nice to meet you, too.”

After my mom checked me in and filled out some paperwork, she left me with Oscar and told me she’d be waiting for me in the reception area.

Oscar’s office was bright and decorated with colorful furniture, throw rugs and artwork, which also surprised me. In my mind I’d pictured something much more stuffy and clinical. To one side of the room was a small couch and an armchair, both plush and comfy looking; between them was a coffee table with a box of Kleenex on it, which I was determined I would not have to use come hell or high water. On the other side of the room was a kid-sized table and chairs plus art supplies and toy boxes, set up like a mini preschool. Seeing the kid stuff made me feel strange. A little sad for the kids who needed to come in here. The office also had a desk, several bookshelves, and a beverage station. Overall it felt more like a living room than an office.

Oscar gestured toward the couch. “Please, take a seat. Make yourself comfortable. Do you want some water? Tea?”

“I’m okay.”

Oscar sat down in the armchair across from me. “So, Dante. Before we get started, I just wanted to let you know that even though your mother and I are colleagues and she let me know a little bit about why she wanted you to come see me today, I want you to feel like this is a safe space to share anything that’s on your mind with the understanding that I take your trust and confidentiality seriously.”

“Even though I’m a minor and you’re legally allowed to tell my parents what we discuss?” I asked. I’d done my research about confidentiality ahead of time. More than the accident I wanted to talk about what it meant that I loved my best friend who was a boy, but I’d decided already to keep that part of me sealed in the vault no matter what. I couldn’t be 100% sure he wouldn’t tell my parents about that.

Oscar smiled. “You are definitely Soledad’s son. Yes, you’re absolutely correct. Even though you’re a minor I would breach confidentiality only if I was worried for your personal safety or the safety of others or in the rare instance that my notes were subpoenaed by a court order.”

“Wow, that would be pretty badass.”

Oscar raised an eyebrow but was still grinning. “Let’s hope it doesn’t come to that.”

“Sure, yeah. I was just joking. Discussion of client confidentiality protocol: check.”

It was a relief to hear him say he wasn’t going to tell my parents everything we talked about, but I still wasn’t quite ready to dive right into the accident.

“I like your office,” I said, stalling. I pointed to the kids’ area. “Do you work with a lot of children?”

“A fair number.”

“Do you do art therapy with them?”

“Sometimes. It depends on the child.”

“I’ve read all about the field of art therapy. I think it’s fascinating. If I don’t become a professional artist I might become an art therapist.”

“Would you like to do any drawing right now? We could start with some art exercises if you’re not in the mood to talk at the moment.”

“No, that’s okay. It’s hard for me to draw because of my broken arm. I’m a right-y. But thanks for offering.”

“So you’re okay to talk?”

I nodded.

“I’m glad. So, I understand from your mother that you and a friend of yours were involved in a car accident about three weeks ago and she’s concerned you haven’t been quite yourself since. That you’ve been having nightmares and seem much more withdrawn than usual. Do you want to talk about the accident? Or about what’s been on your mind?”

“So she already told you what happened?”

“Briefly. But I’d like to hear it from you, if you feel comfortable talking about it.”

“Well, it’d been raining and I went out into the street and didn’t see a car coming.” For some reason I didn’t want to tell him about the injured bird I’d seen. “Ari pushed me out of the way of the car and broke both his legs and his arm. He could have died but he didn’t.”

“Ari is your friend?”

“Yeah, my best friend.”

“How is he handling everything?”

“Um. Ok. I dunno. He can be kind of hard to read sometimes. They recently let him out of the hospital. He’s stuck in casts for the rest of the summer because of me.”

“And how have you felt since the accident?”

“I think my mom is worried that I’m showing signs of anxiety, depression and PTSD and that’s why they want me to talk to you. But I don’t have PTSD.”

“No?”

“No. I looked it up in the DSM-IV.” I ticked each symptom off with my fingers. “I’m not having recurring flashbacks or panic attacks. I’m not avoiding cars or the street. I’m not having angry outbursts. Well, I’m still kind of pissed at my parents about deciding to move to Chicago but that’s a different thing. Yeah, my dreams have been a little weird and I’m not sleeping great but that’s because my arm cast is so annoying. So I think we can safely say I don’t have PTSD. Possibly a little low-level anxiety. But I do deep breaths if I start feeling weird.”

“I don’t want to rule anything out just yet, but I’m happy to hear you’re listening to your body and your emotions. What do you mean when you say you start feeling weird?”

“I guess…sad. Stomach crampy. Frustrated. I think I’m worried about Ari. About how he’s recovering. About not being able to help him when we move.”

“It sounds to me like you might blame yourself for what happened to Ari.”

“Well, yeah, because it was my fault.”

“Who said it was your fault?”

“No one said it was my fault. But it obviously was.”

“Why do you feel that way?”

“It’s not feelings, it’s the facts. I went out to the street, I wasn’t paying attention and Ari got hurt because I was stupid and off in my own little world instead of paying attention to the road. And the thing about Ari is, he doesn’t like it when I’m upset, so he only let me apologize once and then he said we’re not allowed to talk about the accident anymore. He has some kind of stoic boy code about it. He wants to pretend it never happened.”

“Is that what you want?”

“Well, I don’t think we should, you know, dwell on it or anything. But I want him to know how sorry I am that I almost got him killed and ruined the rest of his summer.”

“Did Ari say anything like that to you? That you ruined his summer?”

“No. But he’s not big on talking anyway. But, like I said before, it’s a fact. Now he’s stuck in a wheelchair until his legs heal and he can’t do anything except hang around his house and read books and I know he’s pissed about it even if he won’t say anything.”

“Has he ever expressed anger or regret about what he did? That he saved your life?”

“No. Nothing like that. He’s just been moody and sullen. I mean, he’s been in a lot of pain so I don’t blame him for being crabby. I just don’t want him to hate me.”

“Why do you think he would hate you? It seems to me to be quite the opposite, that he cares about you very much. Do you want to tell me about him? How did you two become friends?”

“We met at the pool. I offered to give him swimming lessons. Because he didn’t know how to swim properly.”

“You like to swim?”

“Almost more than anything. Well, I like swimming, reading, drawing, stargazing and hanging out with Ari pretty much equally.” I lifted my cast arm and pulled a face. “Now my life is pretty much limited to reading and hanging out with Ari and teaching myself to become ambidextrous. Not that I’m complaining. I mean, I’m lucky to be alive. I know it’s babyish but I miss swimming with him. I wish I could retcon the whole day of the accident.”

“Retcon?”

“Oh that’s a comic book thing. Basically when the writers change things retroactively in a story to make up for continuity errors. Sort of like a big do-over. Usually that sort of thing bugs the heck out of me because it seems so lazy. But I get the appeal now. Like you have God’s big eraser.”

“It’s natural to wish you could change the past so easily. But it’s equally important to learn how to move forward. And to not beat yourself up over something you can’t change.”

I shrugged and picked at my cast. “I just keep thinking that if it had been Ari in the middle of the road, I wouldn’t have been able to save him. I wouldn’t have been fast or strong enough. He was like Superman, the way he dove at me and pushed me out of the way.”

“Why do you think you wouldn’t have been able to help him if your roles were reversed?”

“Because when I saw the car coming, I just froze.”

“That could have been your body experiencing a fight or flight reaction. And also Ari saw the car coming whereas you did not, yes? So he had more time to think and react.”

“But still, I don’t think I could ever be as brave as he was.”

“You may be underestimating yourself and your strength. It sounds to me like you’re beating yourself up about a theoretical past as well as construing what actually happened to place all the blame on yourself. Just imagine what the people driving the car must have felt like. They most likely felt guilt as well. But motor accidents happen so quickly, in a blink of an eye, that it’s not helpful to play the blame game after the fact, particularly if it’s determined that the driver wasn’t under the influence of drugs or alcohol and the accident was just that: an accident. I would advise you to try not to blame yourself for the actions of others. And if that’s difficult, you may want to ask yourself, what am I getting out of continuing to blame myself for something that was out of my control?”

I didn’t quite know what to say to that.

He must have seen my confusion so he rephrased his question. “In other words, are you holding onto feelings of guilt and shame because you don’t think you’re worthy of having a friend who cares about you enough to put his own life in danger to save yours?”

I didn’t think I was worthy of it. But thinking about that made me start to feel like I might cry, which I had been determined not to do, so I clamped down and said nothing for awhile.

After a bit of silence Oscar said, “You know, I never read comics but my daughter loves them.”

“Really? Which ones? Betty and Veronica?”

“Actually The X-Men is her favorite. She loves all the Saturday morning cartoons based on comics, too.”

“How old is she?”

“Twelve.”

“And she doesn’t think X-Men is too scary?”

“Well, she’s always been a tough little cookie. Never was into any of the princess stuff. Except She-Ra Princess of Power. She adores She-Ra.”

“She-Ra is pretty rad.”

“Do you have a favorite comic?”

“Ari teases me about it, but I really like Archie. He thinks they’re lame. Which, sure, yeah, they can be pretty cheesy. But I don’t like the really dark comics.”

“There’s nothing wrong with that. There’s no rule that says you have to like all the same things your friends do.”

“Believe me I know that. I know I’m a little weird.”

“What makes you say that?”

“It’s not a secret or anything. Ari’s the first guy I’ve met my age who really gets me. I’ve never really had a best friend like him before. Not since we moved to El Paso anyway. I had a best friend in California but that was already years ago. We hardly see each other or write letters anymore.”

“And you’re worried that the accident and the move to Chicago will have a negative impact on your friendship with Ari? That you’ll lose touch and stop being friends? And you blame yourself for this future you see happening?”

I nodded, hoping to dislodge the traitorous lump that was forming in my throat.

“You’ve told me Ari hasn’t expressed anger or regret to you about the accident. It sounds to me like he values you and your friendship very much. He values you enough to have put himself at risk when he saw you were in danger. This doesn’t sound to me like a fair weather friend. And there are many ways to stay in touch. You can write letters and talk on the phone.”

“Sure, yeah.”

“I’d like to circle back to what you said at the start, about you being insistent about not having PTSD.”

“Okay…”

“It’s important to remember that everyone reacts to stress and trauma differently. You have in fact experienced a traumatic event. Your life and the life of your best friend was put in danger. For many people, acute stages of trauma may occur two to four weeks after the event itself. So it’s totally normal for your life and mental health to take some time settle back into place. You’re allowed to feel frustrated, angry, worried, scared and whatever other emotions might arise. It’s important to not rush to judge or ignore your feelings. You’ve mentioned that Ari isn’t talkative when it comes to expressing emotions, which is valid and what he needs right now to process the accident. But for you, I get the sense that you have a lot you’d like to express, either verbally or visually. Would journaling or drawing about the accident help you move forward?”

“Maybe…I usually keep a journal but I haven’t been able to write or draw much with my broken arm. When I draw with my left hand it’s like I’m in preschool again.”

“As I’m sure you know, artists express emotions in non-figurative ways all the time. If I asked you to express your feelings about the accident in abstract visual form and not worry how it looks compared to your other drawings, would that be a helpful thing to do?”

“Maybe. It still might look like chicken scratch.”

“Nothing wrong with that. If you feel more comfortable creating a collage we can try that instead.”

"I'd like to try to draw I think."

Oscar got out some paper and colored pencils and markers and charcoals for me. Instead of sitting at the kiddie table he let me sit at his desk to work. The first thing he had me do was draw how thinking about the accident made me feel.

Without really thinking about it, I picked up a black charcoal and started drawing the injured bird in the middle of the road. I used heavy black strokes. It was frustrating at first to not have complete control of the charcoal like I usually did but just putting marks and lines on the paper felt okay. But the drawing still left me with a hollow feeling.

“This is what I saw,” I told Oscar. “I saw an injured bird in the road and I went to pick it up and that’s why I didn’t see the car coming. I think I killed it. The bird.”

“And this makes you sad?”

“Yeah. I wanted to save it. But it still got killed. And Ari got hurt. It was stupid of me. I should have seen the car coming.”

“Is there anything you can do to this drawing now to make you feel less sad about it?”

“When I first saw the bird, it was on the road. But then I picked it up and held it close to my chest.”

I drew a hand around the bird, but it still didn’t feel right. Too stark and bleak. Not how I remembered the bird at all.

“The bird had colors on it. But I can’t really remember what they were exactly.”

“It’s your bird now, Dante. You can add whatever colors to it you want.”

I remembered the made-up birds I used to draw when I was little: the rainbow rocketbird, the tawny tailblaster. Pages and pages of sketchbooks filled with imaginary creatures. I hadn’t judged myself then about how anatomically accurate they were or how technically proficient I was. I drew and created because it felt good. Right now my drawing didn’t make me feel good so I added colors to my bird’s wings and I turned the hand into a nest. That felt better.

I felt calmer after my drawing was finished. But something still bothered me.

“Do you think me changing the drawing of the bird is like retconning the accident?” I asked. “I mean, when I started, I thought I would draw the bird like I remembered it. But that made me feel terrible to picture it all stiff and dark and lifeless. I wanted to protect it. Now it looks more like it’s asleep than it’s dead. But that’s not what actually happened.”

“If drawing the bird like this helped you reframe your sadness and anger into something beautiful, then I think it’s a good thing.”

“It’s not cheating?”

“No, I don’t think it’s cheating at all. In fact, I think it’s more like forgiving.”

“Forgiving who?”

“Yourself.”

#ari and dante fic

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theshannonlewis · 7 years

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Petrichor (Iwaizumi/Oikawa)

Haikyuu!!, IwaizumixOikawa, NSFW, 13,700 words.

When Iwaizumi stumbles into a vampire den on the night of the full moon, it seems like his luck has gone from bad to worse. But Oikawa is more than the lurking predator he tries to be, and promises to upend Iwaizumi's lone wolf existence before the sun rises. Iwaizumi POV, companion to Ichor by @carriecmoney

Also on Ao3.

Iwaizumi was twenty miles west of Baton Rouge when he heard a muffled burst and his semi veered sharply to the right. A blowout. Perfect. Because he needed one more thing to go wrong tonight. He clenched his jaw and eased on the gas, working against the tug on his steering wheel to correct the truck’s course, then pulled onto the shoulder and parked. He was three and a half hours outside Houston and moonrise was in two hours and fifty three minutes. Fifty two. He unbuckled his seatbelt and climbed out of the cab. Sweat started to prickle on his skin the second his feet touched the pavement, the heat and humidity in the air so heavy they were almost palpable. It made him hyper-aware of every hair and pore on his body, of the itch beneath his skin anxious to claw its way out. He did his best to ignore it.

This late, the two-lane highway was deserted, but he still checked both ways before dashing around the front of the truck. He knew exactly what had happened, but the sight of the ruined tire still made his stomach go cold. The shredded strips of rubber were letting out a hazy, burnt-smelling smoke. He stared at the mess for a long moment before shouting, “FUCK!” He kicked the tire and threaded his hands in his hair, pulling it in frustration. He wasn’t going to make it to Houston.

He pulled his phone out of his pocket, flipped it open, and held it up, but he was in the middle of fucking nowhere, too far outside the city for more than one flickering bar. He paced back and forth, lifting the phone higher, angling it, praying for the bar to steady, not even daring to hope for a second one, but no. No reception. He flipped the phone shut and took a slow breath, forcing himself not to clench his fist down on the fragile plastic. He pulled open the passenger’s side of the truck and hauled himself into it, then started rummaging around in the glove compartment, looking for a map. He ran this route all the time, but made a point never to spend the night in Louisiana. He had people he could call at every stop from Durham to El Paso, but this stretch of I-10 was a dead zone - literally. The vampires played by different rules.

He unfolded the map on the dashboard, weighing one corner down with his phone and smoothing the other out with his palm. If there was one thing Louisiana had, it was overgrown places he could hide out in, and sure enough, a quick scan of the map revealed that he was barely a handful of miles outside a wildlife refuge. But there was no telling who else he might find there, and he couldn’t just leave a truck with the better part of a million dollars in merchandise abandoned on the highway overnight. They were expecting him before dawn, expecting to have enough time to get the cars on the lot before the dealership opened. He slammed his hand on the dashboard and swore again. It wasn’t even his fucking delivery to make – someone had called in at the last minute, and his boss had said: cover the route, or find a new job. And it wasn’t like he could just say, sorry boss, no can do, full moon tonight, you know how it is. Because his boss didn’t know, and Iwaizumi had gone to a lot of trouble to keep it that way.

What were even the chances of getting a tow at this hour? He wouldn’t be able to get the tire replaced until morning, but if he could get the truck off the road, he might have time to find somewhere safe to ride out his shift. He flipped open his phone and looked at the screen again. Still no bars. He wasn’t going anywhere if he couldn’t make the call. He jammed his phone in his pocket and started refolding the map. When it wouldn’t bend on the creases, he let out a seething breath and crammed the whole thing back in the glove box and slammed it shut, kicked the cab door open, and jumped back out of the truck onto the shoulder. According to the map, he was still miles away from the next rest stop, and he didn’t want to rely on the uncertain hope of finding a working payphone there. He thought he remembered seeing a truck stop off the side of the highway a few miles back, and heading back toward the city seemed like a safer bet either way. With any luck, he’d bump into an emergency call box before he got that far. He double checked the doors on his truck to make sure they were locked, then started walking back the way he came.

Even after midnight he could still feel heat radiating off the pavement. The swampy night air was so thick with moisture it made his breathing sluggish and confused his sense of smell, intensifying his awareness of the faint, distant scents carried on the breeze – bloom and decay, stagnation and-

He stopped mid-stride and turned into the wind, closing his eyes and breathing deep. It was too faint to be more than paranoia – more than nerves – but the hairs on the back of his neck pricked at the musky hint of wolf he almost-smelled on the air, there and gone too fast to pin down. He started walking faster.

Two miles on, a postal freighter zoomed past him without slowing. He wasn’t holding out hope for catching a ride (and wasn’t in any shape to take one even if he got the offer), but if another driver saw his truck at the side of the road, there was some chance at least that someone would call 911 as a courtesy, and having even one car pass by was reward enough for resisting the urge to put the truck in neutral and drag the fucker to the next rest stop by himself.

He came to streetlights before he found a call box, and not long after that, he saw the truck stop he’d glimpsed in passing. Now that he was really looking, though, he realized the wide lot was empty and all the signs had been taken off the gas station. Sure enough, when he caught sight of the service sign leading up to the off ramp, the markers for gas and food had been taken down, leaving only an unfamiliar logo listed under lodging. But it was better than nothing.

With a quick glance in either direction, Iwaizumi dashed across all four empty lanes of the highway and the median in between, then jogged down the swampy grass incline that bordered the exit ramp and hopped the low chain fence that separated it from the abandoned truck stop. Up close, he could tell it had been out of use for a while: the windows on the small convenience store were boarded up, the paint was peeling off the overhang, and the dense trees had started to encroach on the edges of the lot. There was a payphone next to a metal cage that had probably once housed propane tanks, but when he picked up the receiver, there was no dial tone.

He sighed and looked back to the highway, letting his eyes follow the curve of the exit ramp. If the sign was right, there was a hotel nearby, and a hotel had an even better shot of being open and staffed at this hour than a gas station. He checked the coin return on the payphone for loose change out of habit, then started walking across the parking lot toward the road. He followed it for another half a mile before a narrow drive veered off into the trees. He almost missed the small sign with the hotel logo on it; like everything else, it was half-swallowed by the overgrowth.

At the end of the lane, he found a long, single-story motel with maybe a dozen rooms built in an oblong clearing. The building had probably been hip and new-looking sometime in the sixties, but now it was tired and faded, the paint washed out and the vintage sign short a few bulbs. It was the kind of place you wouldn’t stop for the night unless you really had to, but there was a light on in the front office, and that was all that mattered.

When Iwaizumi pulled open the front door, he was expecting avocado-green carpets and a pervasive, musty smell of age. He was less prepared for the reality – polished wood floors and wood paneling on the walls, expensive looking rugs, and a big candle-style chandelier illuminating it all. It was unbelievably tacky and unsettlingly out of place, like someone had tried to dress up the Bates Motel to look like the hotel from The Shining. The front desk was wide and grand – big enough for an actual hotel – but there was no one sitting behind it. Iwaizumi rang the bell and waited, but no one came. If there’d been a phone sitting on top of the desk, he might have risked grabbing it and making a call, but he didn't see one, and wasn't quite desperate enough to climb over the counter to look. There hadn’t been a payphone outside the building, either.

When minutes passed and still no one came, he started peering down the halls, looking for signs of life. To one side of the front desk was an enclave with a vending machine (broken), and to the other was a long hallway that led, presumably, to the rooms (deserted). Just beyond the desk, though, he found a beautifully carved wooden door with a small metal placard that read: Bar. He could hear muffled sound coming from the other side – music, maybe – and after a moment’s hesitation, he pushed the door open and stepped inside.

The bar was, if it was possible, even gaudier than the lobby – the walls draped with rich red fabric, a genuine mahogany bar running the length of one wall, and petite crystal chandeliers casting a dim light over the wide room. And, he realized, the music he’d heard was actually someone playing an honest-to-god grand piano at the far end of the bar. It was outrageously incongruous, not only with the exterior of the building and its location, but with the fact that there were only two other, poorly-dressed people there, both of them draped drunkenly over their tabletops. It was almost like-

-like the way you might decorate if you were a vampire making absolutely no attempt to pretend you weren’t a vampire.

He breathed in. The two people at the tables weren’t drunk, or sleeping. His eyes shifted back to the pianist, whose playing hadn’t faltered. Who hadn’t acknowledged his presence at all, in fact, but who was wearing a very small smile. He had elegant hands with long, graceful fingers, and played like he’d had a lot of practice. Just as Iwaizumi caught himself staring, the pianist’s gaze slid in his direction, a movement of eyes rather than a turn of head. It was just the barest sidelong glance, but there was hunger in it.

It was too late to leave. Iwaizumi knew, academically, that vampires were fast, but he didn’t have the practical experience to know if “fast” meant pinned to the door as soon as you turn around or chased out into the parking lot and gutted like an animal. Too fast, either way. He took a breath, walked past the bar, and followed the sign around the corner to the bathrooms. There was a payphone hung on the wall between the two bathroom doors, and he picked up the receiver and put it to his ear.

No dial tone.

He pressed down the hook, then let it up. Still nothing. He tried once more, but the line was dead. It was still a little less than two hours until moonrise, but even if he was able to force the shift early, he wouldn’t be able to do it fast enough for it to matter. If he was going to fight, it was going to have to be as a human. He breathed out and set the receiver back on the cradle, found a quarter in the coin return, put it in his pocket, and headed back into the bar.

The pianist was now the bartender, graceful hands drying an old fashioned glass with a clean white towel. Iwaizumi sat down on the barstool across from him. “What’s your poison?” the vampire asked, his voice like honey with hooks in it.

“Actually,” Iwaizumi said, because if he was going to die anyway, there was no point in beating around the bush, “I was hoping I could use your phone.”

“Paying customers only,” he said, sounding so apologetic.

“I’ll pay you twenty bucks to let me use your phone.”

He tsked, soft and scolding, then drawled, “You ain’t from around here, are y’all?”

Iwaizumi raised an eyebrow. He didn’t know anyone that sounded that Southern that wasn’t trying too hard. “Alabama, actually,” he said dryly. “I’ll have a bourbon, neat. Can I use your phone?”

The vampire gave the glass a final wipe before setting it down in front of Iwaizumi and filling it. “In a hurry?”

“Just to make that phone call,” he said, swirling the liquid in the glass and trying to remember what hospitality rules vampires played by. He was pretty sure taking the drink wouldn’t protect him against his host, but he was less sure it wouldn’t oblige him to stay.

“What seems to be the trouble…” his eyes flicked down to the patch stitched onto the breast of Iwaizumi’s work shirt, “Hajime?” He said it the way no one but Iwaizumi’s mother ever did – smooth and fluid, the syllables familiar on his tongue, somewhere halfway between fond and teasingly reprimanding. Most people gave up after two tries and just called him “Jimmy.” It made Iwaizumi give him a second look, a quick glance at his eyes before he could check the impulse, then down to his lips, which wasn’t better. He leveled his gaze resolutely at the sharp line of the vampire’s cheekbone. The vampire’s mouth quirked, the hint of a smile, and he added with the little lilt of a question, “I.?”

“Iwaizumi,” he said, a second before thinking better of it.

“You wouldn’t think they’d need to use an initial,” he said, pouring himself some bourbon. He rolled the edge of the glass thoughtfully along his lower lip. “I don’t imagine there are too many Hajimes in Alabama.”

“I’m the only one I know,” he said.

The vampire hummed eloquently, amused and agreeing, and lifted his glass, “Oikawa Tooru. Yoroshiku onegaishimasu.”

If this guy – Oikawa – had any Japanese in him, it was as far-flung and watered down as Iwaizumi’s, but even with the flippant, ironic tone, the language suited him better than his overwrought drawl. Iwaizumi breathed out a soft laugh, lifted his glass, and clinked it against Oikawa’s, “Yoroshiku.”

He was surprised when Oikawa drained his glass in one long swallow, emptying it and leaving no room to suspect that he’d faked a polite sip. And if he was going to drink… Fuck it. Iwaizumi tossed back his bourbon. It wasn’t top shelf, but it was pretty good. “Now that we’re drinking buddies,” Oikawa said, leaning casually up against the bar, “you gonna tell me why you’re darkening my doorway this lovely evening, puppy?”

Iwaizumi smirked. It was like Oikawa had flashed the cards in his hand and winked, to make sure they were playing the same game. And since the game didn’t seem to involve either of them tearing the other’s throat out just yet, he said, “Blew a tire on my truck maybe two and a half, three miles west on I-10.”

Oikawa made a sympathetic sound, refilling Iwaizumi’s glass. “Hoping to call a cab, then?”

“A tow truck, actually.”

“Mmm, you sure? If you left now, you might make it to Homochitto.”

Underneath the reminder that he was trespassing, it was a surprisingly apt suggestion. Homochitto National Forest was the closest sizeable stretch of woodlands outside Louisiana state lines, and probably the only one he had a prayer of a chance of reaching before he started to turn. Any other route out of the state, he’d shift before he hit the border. Oikawa knew it, and knew that he knew it, too. Iwaizumi took a moment to consider. The tourism in New Orleans was enough to sustain the highest vampire population in the south outside Orlando, but unlike Florida – which was mostly new blood and spread out enough for the vampires and shapeshifters to keep to themselves – Louisiana was run by vampires who were very old and very territorial. All the major packs in the state were blood-bound to one leech or another, and if you weren’t pack-allied, you weren’t welcome. There were probably a handful of smaller packs, maybe a few pockets of loners, but without knowing who ran where, just being within state lines on the night of a full moon was all but asking to get attacked.

It was impossible to guess Oikawa’s age, but if he was a vampire of any standing, he probably had control of at least one pack – and if he did, he could probably, maybe, give him permission to run in his territory for the night. But he wouldn’t do it out of the kindness of his heart. In fact, it was entirely possible that he was stalling, cutting Iwaizumi’s options by running down the clock. If he was, there wasn’t anything Iwaizumi could do about it. If he tried to leave and Oikawa didn’t want him to, he wasn’t going to make it very far. Then again, if Oikawa wanted him out of the state, he wouldn’t keep trying to stall him.

“Can’t just leave my rig in the road,” he said finally. “If you’d let me use your phone, though, I’m sure I could get myself a lift. I know a few of the guys up by Homochitto that wouldn’t mind having me.” A handful of werebears that owned a bar in Jackson had the southern portion of the park on lockdown, but he’d managed to drink their big white-haired bouncer under the table enough times to earn himself an open invitation to run with them whenever he was in the area.

He could tell Oikawa hadn’t expected that, the subtle shift of his eyebrows revealing that he was maybe even just a tiny bit impressed. “I take it you were headed that way already?”

Iwaizumi shook his head. “Just came from there. I was on my way to Houston.”

“Houston?” Oikawa parroted back at him, and this time surprise flashed across his face, too plain to hide, before he was able to school his expression. “I was under the impression that Houston was predominantly feline-controlled.”

It was, and the pack that ran the east side of Texas was notoriously exclusive and aggressively territorial. But he and the packmaster were close; when he didn’t run with them, he usually rode out his shift in one of the pack’s heavily reinforced, soundproof storage units scattered throughout the state. Out loud, Iwaizumi said with a shrug, “I’m not picky about who I run with.”

It was a card well played, he could tell from the subtle curve of Oikawa’s lips. “And good at making friends.”

“I’m a friendly guy,” he said, letting something not so friendly show in his smile as he stood. He picked up his glass and swallowed down the last of his bourbon, then tossed some cash on the bartop. “Thanks for the drinks.”

“I can get your truck to Houston,” Oikawa said, plain and flat, no bullshit, smile dropping.

“And?” he said, looking at Oikawa expectantly.

He only realized he’d looked him in the eyes again when Oikawa said, “I can give you anything you want.” He felt the pull of it, more than words, like hot fingertips on his skin, like hazy lights and wisps of steam, sparks in the periphery of his awareness. He was momentarily drawn in by it, felt the pull of his breath leaving his body, his vision narrowing down to the sly promise in Oikawa’s heavy-lidded eyes. His feet were moving on their own, making him lean into the bar, bringing him closer to Oikawa, solidifying the ghosts of lips and hands, the phantoms of soft, short breaths dancing through his mind.

He could feel himself falling, but he could still see the trap. He slammed his hand down on the bar hard enough to make his palm sting, forcing himself to focus on the pain and tear his eyes away from Oikawa’s. He blindly grabbed Oikawa by the front of his shirt and jerked him forward, then growled, “I want to make a fucking phone call.”

Oikawa’s eyes widened minutely, and then he laughed, loud and genuine. The whispering, dreamy feeling sloughed away, but Iwaizumi’s skin was still prickling, like someone had breathed, softly, on every inch of his body at once.

“You’re going to break my heart, Iwa-chan,” Oikawa said, then stumbled a little when Iwaizumi let go of his shirt and shoved him backwards.

“Your mind games won’t work on me,” he said, only falling back a step before forcing himself to stand his ground.

Oikawa leaned forward on the bar, wearing a lazy smile and resting his cheek on one hand, “No, they won’t.” He looked smug and self-satisfied, a sated cat with a feather sticking out of its mouth. “An illusion’s no good when what you want is right in front of you.”

Iwaizumi grit his teeth, refusing to rise to the bait. “I think I’ll take my chances with your pack.” Oikawa’s smile faltered, just a little. “That’s who I smelled on my way here, right? Up in the wildlife refuge?”

The smile came back, but it was a little less genuine-looking. “I don’t think even your diplomatic skills are a match for my bloodhounds.”

“I’ll take my chances,” he said again, and this time he put his back to Oikawa and started for the door.

“They’ll kill you, Hajime.” The way he said it made Iwaizumi stop in his tracks, because it didn’t sound like a gambit – he sounded tired and resigned. “The reason you smelled wolves is because the leader of the pack doesn’t turn back except for the week around the new moon. He’s completely rabid, and the others are too afraid go against him.” Iwaizumi’s shoulders stiffened. It was the politest-possible way of saying the packmaster was a flesh eater. He had to resist the urge to let his eyes wander over to the bodies still slumped on the tabletops. So it was true; the Louisiana vampires really did use wolves as their own personal garbage disposals.

Iwaizumi clenched his fists, “Are the others-”

“No,” Oikawa said flatly, “and for what it’s worth, he was… a gift.” The word had an edge to it that made it very clear the “gift” had been unwanted. Before Iwaizumi could ask why he didn’t put the beast out of his misery, Oikawa added, voice dripping with disdain, “From the Bishop.”

Iwaizumi sighed. He’d spent years trying to stay as far away from pack and pact politics as possible, but one blown out tire and he’d stepped right in it. “How big is your pack?”

“Seven wolves total.” If it was true, it was a big pack – too big for the patch of land they had to run in – and with a vampire-appointed rogue werewolf leading it, it stank of the worst kind of gamesmanship. Iwaizumi wrinkled his nose in distaste, but Oikawa didn’t seem to notice. “I could mark you as a pack member, but even if I did, without an introduction I think Mad-Dog-chan would tear you to shreds.”

“What’s your offer?” Iwaizumi asked. He was running out of options, but the fact that Oikawa had tried to mind control him meant there was something he wanted that he couldn’t take by force. Iwaizumi just had to figure out what it was.

“I’ll get your truck to Houston and no one will know it wasn’t you who drove it. And I’ll give you a room where you can ride out your shift, and safe passage until sunset.”

“What’s your price?”

“One pint.”

It was Iwaizumi’s turn to show his surprise. “A pint,” he repeated. “Of my blood?”

Oikawa gave a small nod. “From the vein, or no deal.”

He took a moment to survey Oikawa’s expression, careful not to look him directly in the eye. He knew there was a trap somewhere in the offer, but he needed time to find it. He needed to stall. “Show me the room.”

“Of course,” Oikawa said. He stood and walked around the bar, passing Iwaizumi at a casual distance, then gave a flick of his hand, motioning for him to follow.

Oikawa’s movements were smooth and graceful; he knew how to carry himself, and how to draw attention to his… assets. Iwaizumi forced himself to look up at the back of Oikawa’s head. He was a few inches taller than him, which Iwaizumi found inexplicably infuriating, broad through the shoulders and lean in the hips and, shit, he was staring at his ass again. Iwaizumi dropped his gaze to the ugly carpet and forced himself to think. If all Oikawa wanted was his blood, he could easily have taken it by force – and more than just a pint. Which meant he had something else to gain. Was it the bite itself? But no – as far as he understood it, establishing a blood bond was more involved than just a bite or a fluid exchange. It was possible Oikawa wanted to trap him in his safe room – which was why he’d asked to see it before agreeing – but again, if vampires were as strong and fast as he’d been told, Oikawa wouldn’t have even needed to negotiate; he should have been able to just take whatever he wanted.

But he hadn’t, and for the first time it occurred to Iwaizumi that, just maybe, it was because he couldn’t.

Oikawa had drained and killed two humans earlier that night, which was strange enough by itself; he’d shown genuine-seeming distaste for the idea of feeding corpses to his hounds, and his location paired with his mind control abilities should have guaranteed him a steady and discreet supply of blood, assuming he played catch and release with his customers. Instead, he had two fresh bodies on his hands and was, apparently, still hungry after drinking both of them dry. That was, what, close to three gallons of blood? He should have been glutted, but instead he had a starved look in his eyes. It didn’t add up.

Iwaizumi walked half a step faster, narrowing the distance between them, then took as deep a breath as he dared to without being conspicuous about it. He caught it on his third controlled inhale – the subtle, cloying stench of decay, almost imperceptible beneath a layer of tasteful, expensive cologne. Oikawa was hurt.

For a brief moment, he considered turning around and bolting. He wasn’t certain he could outrun Oikawa, but he was pretty sure, now, that he could outmuscle him, which made speed less important. Even if he could get away, though, he didn’t have anywhere else to go. He still didn’t have a working phone, there was no safe place for him to hide, and he was running out of time to find a solution. The offer Oikawa had made him was the best one he could hope for; no other vampire would be so quick to cut a deal, and he doubted a blood-maddened werewolf would give him a fair shake, either. Oikawa’s offer was a fair one, and his injury – whatever it was – gave Iwaizumi all the bargaining power.

They reached the end of the hall and Oikawa unlocked the last door – room 13, because of course it was – and as soon as he opened it, Iwaizumi realized the motel’s resemblance to the Overlook Hotel was more than just coincidental, because Oikawa’s room looked exactly like the hotel room from Interview with the Vampire: walls papered in gold and red, opulent furniture and heavy curtains done in red silk and velvet and brocade, polished wood floors, brass chandeliers and unlit candelabras, a second, somewhat smaller piano, and a lace-covered wood coffin in the center of the room in place of a coffee table.

Iwaizumi snorted. Vampires didn’t even need to sleep in coffins. “I wouldn’t have pegged you for a movie guy.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Oikawa said, throwing open a heavy set of curtains on the far side of the room to reveal, rather anticlimactically, a plain steel door. He wore the key on a chain around his neck, and he unfastened the clasp and slid the key free, tucking the chain in his pocket as he unlocked the door. “This key opens the lock from both sides,” he said, handing it to Iwaizumi as he pushed open the door, “and it’s the only one.” Oikawa gestured for Iwaizumi to lead the way inside. “Ladies first.”

“Age before beauty,” Iwaizumi countered.

Oikawa’s lips quirked, somewhere between irritated and amused, and he asked coyly, “Is that a question?” He didn’t wait for a response before heading through the door, and Iwaizumi followed after him. It was a squat room with concrete floors and cinderblock walls, both covered in claw marks, and there were heavy iron chains and manacles hanging from the wall that had obviously been used, frequently and recently. There was a drain in the center of the floor, and the concrete around it – and beneath the manacles – was stained. There were no windows, and only one caged light bulb in the center of the ceiling. Iwaizumi tested the key on the inside lock and tried to remember if there had been a time in his life when getting tours of people’s private dungeons would have seemed unusual or even unsettling. It had been a long time, and he’d seen a lot of private dungeons in the interim. This one wasn’t bad.

“How’s the door frame?” he asked, pressing his hand to it and putting his weight on it.

“I’ve had the door dent but never seen the frame give,” Oikawa said. “And the concrete is reinforced. You’d snap your neck on it before you broke through.” He smirked. “Of course, if you’re worried, I could always chain you up.”

“I’ll pass.”

“Too bad. You’d look good on my wall, Iwa-chan.”

“I take it you don’t have any qualms about mixing business and pleasure.”

“If there’s no pleasure in it, I want no business with it,” Oikawa said, a little too smoothly. It was a pretty good line, even if it sounded practiced.

“How do you want to do this?”

“Well, you should probably start by taking your clothes off,” Oikawa said. He didn’t sound like he was joking. When he caught Iwaizumi’s skeptical look, though, he clarified, “Unless you’re hiding a spare set of clothes somewhere, I assume you’d rather not turn in the ones you’re wearing.”

“I’ve got plenty of time before moonrise,” Iwaizumi said flatly. “I think I’ll make it.”

Oikawa let out a low, rolling chuckle. “You’ve never done this before, have you?”

He didn’t know well enough what it was he didn’t know to be able to argue without showing his ignorance, so instead he said, “But you have. I take it you have a taste for werewolf blood?”

“It has its charms.”

“They say, for a vampire, it’s like dropping acid.”

“They say a lot of things,” Oikawa said, and it was only when he pushed the door shut with a heavy clang that Iwaizumi realized they’d been circling each other. Oikawa’s posture had shifted from feline to lupine, his shoulders squared and body angled in a display of dominance and challenge that Iwaizumi had responded to on instinct. Even without eye contact, the way Oikawa moved made Iwaizumi prickle with eagerness, the giddy desire to clash and find out who would come out on top.

“Why only one pint?” Iwaizumi asked.

“Because if I’d asked for more, you would have said no, but once we get started, you’re going to beg me not to stop.”

They moved forward in tandem, closing on each other but still not touching, and Iwaizumi found himself smiling. Oikawa was good. If he hadn’t known better, he could have easily mistaken him for a wolf, and the beast inside him did – he could feel it swelling beneath his skin, reaching out and expecting an answer, eager to test itself. “You must spend a lot of time around wolves.”

“I like to watch,” Oikawa said, his smile like a knife.

They lunged at each other, grappling, a brief locking of arms before they both turned and danced back and away. Oikawa was cool to the touch and more muscular than he looked. More importantly, he was strong, strong enough to send a little thrill up Iwaizumi’s spine. “Why not go to your pack for blood?” he asked, his voice gone rough and gravely as he and Oikawa moved in tight circles around each other, drawing ever closer together. There weren’t many shifters who dared to dance with him at all, and fewer that stood their ground even half as well as Oikawa did.

“I’m sure you’ll be surprised to hear they're not very happy with me right now,” Oikawa said. He closed the last of the distance between them and pressed his hand flat against Iwaizumi’s chest, deftly undoing the top button on his shirt. This time, he didn’t dance away.

Iwaizumi let out a low, rumbling sound that was too contented to be a growl, and it vibrated through his voice, “But are they too stupid to have noticed, or are you hiding it because you’re afraid they’ll attack you?” He pressed his hand to Oikawa’s chest, mirroring his touch, but instead of bothering with his buttons, he dug his fingertips into the spot where Oikawa’s shirt didn’t sit quite right.

His aim was good. Oikawa hissed in pain as Iwaziumi’s fingers pressed into nothing where there should have been muscle. A second later Iwaizumi was on his back on the floor, Oikawa on top of him, pinning him down, fangs fully extended, the front of his shirt darkened and damp with ichor where Iwaizumi had touched him.

Iwaizumi didn’t fight, didn’t even attempt to defend himself. He just said, “They say werewolf blood has healing properties.”

“They should learn when to stop talking,” Oikawa said, sharp teeth turning his voice sibilant.

“I want a token of yours to grant me safe passage through the state,” he said, “and to meet with your pack on the next new moon. For that you get my silence, and enough of my blood – one pint at a time, at my discretion – to heal yourself.”

Oikawa let out a hollow, humorless laugh. “Then you’re going to be in my service a long, long time, puppy.”

“Show me,” he said.

“I could kill you,” Oikawa said, cupping his hand around the side of Iwaizumi’s neck, pressing his thumb down, gently, on his Adam’s apple.

“Are you sure?” he asked, a little prickling thrill racing through him. He had to fight the urge to put Oikawa on his back and pin him down.

Oikawa forced Iwaizumi’s face to one side, baring his neck, and Iwaizumi let him. “Let me drink and I’ll show you.” His voice was tight with restraint – with hunger.

“Show me and I’ll let you drink.”

Oikawa shifted his grip up so his thumb and forefinger dug into the soft spots beneath Iwaizumi’s jaw, forcing his head back, then leaned over him, pinning him to the floor. He smoothed his free hand blindly down his chest, keeping his eyes on Iwaizumi as he searched for the buttons on his shirt and plucked them open. Four buttons down, he pulled his shirt out of the way and showed him. He had a hole in his chest. It was maybe the size a pool cue would have left if it had been run right through him, but diamond-shaped and puckered instead of round, just barely off the mark from his heart. The wound was discolored around the edges and seeping a thick, dark liquid. “Another gift,” he said, “from the Bishop.”

“Silver?” Iwaizumi asked, reaching up to touch and framing the wound with his hand.

Oikawa gave a small, tight nod. “Barbed arrowhead, right next to my heart.” Iwaizumi recoiled. There wasn’t much that could leave a lasting wound on a vampire, but even a small piece of silver would burn up as much as blood as Oikawa could drink until his body ran dry. In such a sensitive place, it would be almost impossible to get out himself without running the risk of piercing his own heart. Someone else could probably remove it, but someone else could just as easily give it that last little nudge into his heart, too. “Turns out it’s a surprisingly practical and efficient way to put down a rival.”

“Fucking politics,” Iwaizumi said.

Oikawa hummed, both halfhearted agreement and dismissal, but it turned into something more contented when Iwaizumi turned his head to one side, good to his word, and offered up his neck. Oikawa leaned down over him, close enough to brush the tip of his nose along the prominent vein in Iwaizumi’s neck, inhaling deeply. “You smell like rain,” Oikawa said, the movement of his lips the barest ghost of a kiss. Iwaizumi gasped and reached up to thread his fingers in Oikawa’s hair.

Oikawa groaned and parted his lips, and Iwaizumi could feel the points of his fangs gliding along his neck as he opened his mouth wide. Before he could bite down, though, Iwaizumi tightened his grip on Oikawa’s hair and pulled his head back. Oikawa made a curt, angry noise, but Iwaizumi held him in place and asked, “How long will the marks last?”

“It’s too bad you asked,” Oikawa said, resisting Iwaizumi’s grip by running the tip of his tongue along the side of his neck. Iwaizumi grunted, low and hot, and Oikawa snapped his teeth at him. “If you were human, they’d be gone by morning. For you, maybe a few months, depending on how rough you like it.”

“Not on the neck.”

“Unless you want a bruise that’ll last twice as long, I need an artery.” He slid a hand between them, smoothly popping the second button on Iwaizumi’s shirt. “Your wrist will work, or your elbow.” He made quick work of the rest of the buttons, then slipped his hand under the shirt, pushing it down off one shoulder and murmuring against the curve of Iwaizumi’s neck. “Or if you really want to make sure no one sees it…” His hand slid down, fingertips toying with the buckle on Iwaizumi’s belt.

“Nice try,” Iwaizumi said, catching Oikawa’s wrist and pulling his hand away.

“I was only trying to be discreet.”

“I’m sure,” Iwaizumi said.

He pushed Oikawa back and sat up, shrugging the rest the rest of the way out of his shirt. He did it quickly, so he wouldn’t get caught with his hands tied up in the sleeves, then tossed the shirt aside. He reached back over his head and hooked his thumbs in the neck of his black tanktop, but before he could start to pull it off, Oikawa said, “Stop.”

He grunted. “I don’t want to get blood on my-”

“Shut up.” Iwaizumi’s gaze jumped to Oikawa’s face before he could check the instinct. His eyes were dilated inhumanly wide, brown irises swallowed up almost completely by his pupils, and he’d gone dangerously still. “Don’t move.”

Iwaizumi froze. He’d mistaken Oikawa’s easy, graceful movement for catlike, but he was more like a snake in tall grass, so fluid he seemed boneless. The inky voids of his eyes looked hypnotized. He slid a hand along the underside of Iwaizumi’s left bicep, cool fingertips angling his arm. Iwaizumi dropped his weight back on his right arm as Oikawa leaned into him and started working slow, wet kisses to the inside of his bicep, sucking on the muscle until he found the pulse thudding beneath the skin. Oikawa closed his eyes and groaned, opening his mouth again, and this time when Iwaizumi felt the press of fangs against his flesh, he didn’t protest. He flexed his arm, and Oikawa made a rough, hungry sound and bit down, hard.

Iwaizumi had been bitten before, but not like this. Being bitten hard enough to draw blood hurt, but after the first sharp stab of teeth breaking skin, the pain quickly gave way a slow, burning ache – the skin-tinglingly familiar sensation of being penetrated – and then to heady, dizzying pleasure as Oikawa started to drink. Iwaizumi curled his captive arm around Oikawa’s head and lowered himself back to the floor, closing his eyes. He’d never felt anything like this, like Oikawa’s mouth was sending a current through his veins, electrifying him between every heartbeat. His pulse throbbed and Oikawa swallowed, and it was like a tug that ran through his whole body, an insistent pull at something deep inside him. He didn’t realize what it was until it was too late, and only had time to grunt out a harsh fuck before Oikawa pulled and it unraveled him – a knot coming undone, a cage coming unbarred – and his wolf flooded through him, prematurely unchained.

He arched his back and moaned, feet scrabbling for purchase on the floor as it started to take him, teeth going sharp in his mouth, nails hardening, hair starting to grow thicker on his body. It wasn’t like moonrise, though, he realized – his wolf hadn’t been set completely free; more like the lead was being lengthened, one chain link at a time. It was intoxicating; his senses heightened as his natures mingled, but his transformation still held at bay. Oikawa had been right – Iwaizumi had no idea how much blood he’d lost already, and he didn’t care. He didn’t want him to stop.

As Oikawa continued to drink, Iwaizumi started to feel his own blood moving beneath the vampire’s skin. At first, it was bizarrely like butting up against another shifter, touch accompanied by a heightened awareness and deeper, more fundamental understanding, but instead of dipping into Oikawa’s mind, it was like he was seeing himself mirrored back in another body, his wolf staring at him from underneath someone else’s skin. He jerked, revolting against the alien feeling and trying to recoil from it, but Oikawa held him firm until they reached a tipping point. Until his body started to absorb the blood and make it his own, until Iwaizumi stopped seeing a mirror and started seeing Oikawa.

He didn’t feel like another shifter, now – there was nothing lurking inside him to answer Iwaizumi’s call – no warmth of life or familiar connection. Instead, he was like a still, glassy pool, infinitely deep and dark, in the shelter of a cool, empty cave, and Iwaizumi was filling him with life, lighting a fire and dipping toes in the water, letting warm laughter echo down hollow tunnels.

It was almost like wearing a second set of skin, like it was him bringing strength to Oikawa’s limbs, filling him up and reviving him, warming his skin and making his heart beat and heat pool at delicious points on his lean, muscular body. He could feel himself being drawn, inexorably, to a hungry point in the center of Oikawa’s chest where the arrowhead sizzled and burned, the shape of it becoming clearer with each throbbing pulse of blood. He hated that sharp piece of silver, blindly and furiously, hated the way it grazed against their heart every time they drew in a breath.

He curled his hand in the front of Oikawa’s shirt and tugged, pulling it tight across his back. Then he twisted his hand, wrapping the fabric around it, and pulled until the seams gave out and the cloth shredded. Oikawa made a low sound that was not, precisely, a protest, surprised enough to relax his jaw and lose his grip on Iwaizumi’s arm, and that was all the opportunity Iwaizumi needed. He flipped Oikawa onto his back and pinned him to the floor, pushing one bloody arm across his throat, knees at his hips, shins pressed down hard on his thighs. Then he pushed his thumb and forefinger into the hole in Oikawa’s chest.

Oikawa screamed, choking on the blood still thick in his mouth and clawing at Iwaizumi’s arms.

“I’m not trying to kill you,” Iwaizumi said, his voice hardly human as he pushed deeper into the wound, “but I might if you keep moving.” Oikawa went breathlessly still beneath him, and Iwaizumi let up his grip on his throat, just a little, as he continued to probe the wound with his fingertips. He expected to find at least a little bit of the arrow’s shaft to grab onto but found the threaded base of the arrowhead instead. It wasn’t attached to anything – like the shaft had been precisely removed, or the arrowhead had been driven into place by force. It wasn’t an accident that it was wedged in such a treacherous spot. “Don’t move,” he said, trying to get a grip on the small piece of metal. It was like pinching the tip of a hot soldering iron. When he was pretty sure he had it, he pressed his wrist to Oikawa’s mouth and growled, “Drink.”

Oikawa sunk his teeth into Iwaizumi’s wrist, and Iwaizumi pulled.

The base of the arrowhead was small and slick with blood, but the threading was enough to give him purchase, and he held onto it tightly, not letting it slip from his grip as he drew it out. He could feel the barbs like they were pulling out of his own body, shredding everything they touched and, inevitably, dragging like claws along the vital muscle of Oikawa’s heart. But the silver was already pulling blood to the wound, and Iwaizumi’s blood was potent, flooding in to seal the cuts as soon as the poisonous metal was removed. Oikawa gasped as Iwaizumi ripped the arrowhead free, his eyes wide and dazed and his jaw going slack, freeing Iwaizumi’s wrist.

Iwaizumi held the arrowhead up, blood and flesh sizzling and smoking, and growled out, “This is my token.” He held it in front of Oikawa’s face until his eyes registered it, until he nodded, then he flung it across the room and swore, looking down at his burned fingertips. The silver had all but melted his skin, leaving deep, ridged indentations where he’d gripped onto the threaded base of the arrowhead. The wounds would be slow to heal, and they were on his dominant hand, but at least he couldn’t feel the phantom barbs digging into his chest anymore. That thought made him realize that the intense feeling of connectedness between them was starting to subside. His blood had become Oikawa’s blood and was beginning to burn away as it repaired the wound in his chest. He was surprised by the feeling of loss as the fading connection pushed him back into his own body, his own mind, leaving Oikawa closed to him.

“Is this how you always make friends?” Oikawa gasped out. His voice was steady, almost teasing, but he was trembling. The blood smeared across his mouth made him look wide-eyed and pale. “Random acts of heroism?”

“I keep my promises.”

Oikawa laughed, abrupt and edging on hysterical. “Who are you?”

He made a gruff, irritated noise and said, “You could at least try to remember my n-”

Oikawa pulled him down and kissed him. Iwaizumi groaned, hard, and leaned into him, letting out a low, contented rumble deep in his chest. Oikawa’s mouth was still thick with blood, but Iwaizumi didn’t care; Oikawa knew what he was doing. It was immediately obvious that he was more practiced at navigating two mouths filled with sharp, pointed teeth; he knew how to bite gently enough not to break the skin, how to angle his head to keep their fangs from clacking together, how to lick and tease without bloodying his tongue on their teeth. Iwaizumi shifted on top of him, putting his weight on his forearms to either side of Oikawa’s head so he could lean down into him, and when he did, Oikawa coiled his legs around his waist and rutted up against him. Apparently now that his blood wasn’t racing frantically to heal him, it had had a chance to relocate. Iwaizumi groaned and thrust down against him instinctively, but it made his focus slip, and he sliced the tip of his tongue on the sharp edge of Oikawa’s fang. Oikawa moaned in answer, drawing Iwaizumi’s tongue into his mouth and sucking on it greedily.

The next thing he knew, he was on his back on the floor and Oikawa was straddling his thighs and tugging at his undershirt. He sat up, settling Oikawa in his lap and raising his arms, but Oikawa only got as far as tugging the shirt over his head before his hands fell to Iwaizumi’s belt, undoing the buckle and then the button on his jeans. Iwaizumi tugged his shirt the rest of the way off and tossed it aside. “You could at least buy me dinner first,” Iwaizumi said, his voice a low, gravelly rumble that kept it from sounding as teasing as he meant.

Oikawa showed just a moment of surprise before a slow, lazy smile spread across his features and he started to laugh, low and sultry. Then he closed his eyes and tipped his head back and to the side, baring his pale, pristine neck – perfectly submissive, perfectly prey-like – his voice smooth and velvety. “Help yourself.”

Iwaizumi lunged. Before even he had time to process Oikawa’s offer, he had an arm around his waist, a hand in his hair, and his teeth in Oikawa’s neck. Oikawa made a soft, heady little sound that wasn’t quite pained as the sharp points of Iwaizumi’s fangs broke through his skin. Blood welled into his mouth, thick and slightly sweet on his tongue, and when he swallowed, his wolf flared to life, surging through him hard enough to make him sway.

Oikawa gasped. “What was that?”

Iwaizumi growled and bit harder, gripped tighter, and shuddered against him, because his wolf hadn’t just stirred beneath his skin, it had pushed through him and flowed into Oikawa, and Oikawa had felt it. He whined, a low, animal sound, each swallow of Oikawa’s blood expanding his awareness and fortifying his wolf, until it stretched between them like pulled taffy. It was breathtakingly intimate – something that shouldn’t have even been possible, something that was rare even among shifters – his most private self rubbing contentedly against a still, glowing ember in the center of Oikawa’s chest. It wasn’t a wolf, but it was something like it – something more than the lifeless, graveyard chill he felt before; something essentially him. He whimpered, soft and needy, and Oikawa loosened his arms from around Iwaizumi’s head, leaned down over him, and sunk his teeth into his shoulder.

His blood pulsed into Oikawa’s mouth, and when he swallowed it down, something more than blood moved between them – the ember burning bright and igniting, sending a rippling rush of warm air racing through Iwaizumi, the sultry heat of a pleasured sigh. It was an echo of Oikawa’s failed mind control, but – it hadn’t failed. It had showed him exactly what he wanted – not Oikawa the desperate, starving vampire, but Oikawa as he really was: that cool, fathomlessly deep pool turned scalding hot, a subterranean spring that filled the air with thick, velvety steam; the slide of wet skin and slow, breathless kisses; the embrace of hot water and strong hands, every sound echoing off the high stone ceilings.

It flowed into him, an answer to the part of himself he’d given over to Oikawa, each swallow of blood laying Oikawa bare, peeling back his layers and exposing the hidden corners of him. Iwaizumi didn’t know what Oikawa was seeing in return, didn’t know the price of this exchange, but he didn’t care. Oikawa was letting it happen, was letting him see, and that alone was enough to be dizzying even without the electric hum of Oikawa sucking on his shoulder, keeping the wound from closing, keeping the blood flowing, keeping the connection open between them. Memories that weren’t his own flickered at the edge of his awareness – faces and smells and half-forgotten moments – and beneath them the faintest whispers of Oikawa’s thoughts – gratitude, awe, hunger that was only partially for blood, and a soft, hushed murmur of his name, Hajime, Hajime, looping in the back of his mind, a tug that pulled at the core of Iwaizumi’s chest, calling his wolf and coaxing it loose with every repetition. His change was so close his skin was tight with it.

They drew back at the same moment. Oikawa gasped, “We have to stop,” just as Iwaizumi groaned, “Do it.”

Oikawa threaded his hands in Iwaizumi’s hair and pulled, holding his mouth away from the pulsing wound on his throat and murmuring, “You don’t know what you’re asking.” Iwaizumi looked over at him, dazed and bewildered, and when Oikawa realized he wasn’t going to bite him again, he started rubbing gentle circles against Iwaizumi’s scalp with his fingertips. “If you keep drinking, you’re going to become my thrall.”

Iwaizumi let out a raspy laugh, because that wasn’t what he’d meant – was the last thing on his mind, though he could feel it at the forefront of Oikawa’s. “Don’t pretend that’s not what you want,” he said, Oikawa’s thick, dark blood dripping from his open mouth. “I know how badly you want to chain me up and point me at your enemies.”

“I don’t think you’d take well to a leash,” Oikawa said a little murmur of amusement in his voice. He turned his face into Iwaizumi’s hair and lowered his voice, soft and serious. “I want you willing or not at all.”

They were miles beyond concepts like “willing” and “unwilling,” but that wasn’t something a vampire would understand. He liked the idea of a blood bond even less than most other kinds of obligation, but it didn’t really matter anymore; in decades of searching and dozens of packs, this was the first time he’d ever had his wolf slide under someone else’s skin like it belonged there. And he didn’t think it was a trick of the blood, because when he pulled Oikawa into another kiss, slow and hard, the boundaries still blurred between them. With his eyes closed, it was hard to tell where he ended and Oikawa began, a tangle of lips and hands and sensations that made it easy to forget they were two instead of one. When he drew back, he was breathless. “My wolf is already yours to call,” he said, pressing their foreheads together, “and if you don’t realize it, you’re a fucking idiot.”

“Hajime,” Oikawa breathed, but it was more than enough to make Iwaizumi let out an abrupt, startled moan, his back arching and something important straining and popping in his chest, his hands shifting to claws and the color draining from his vision as his eyes turned golden and lupine.

“Fuck,” he said, scrabbling at the concrete and twisting beneath Oikawa, “fuck, please.” He saw the smile slide across Oikawa’s face, but before he could test this newfound power and say his name again, Iwaizumi flexed his misshapen hands and barked, “I don’t care how pretty you are, if you say it again before you take my pants off, I’ll claw you in your smug, shitty face.”

Oikawa smoothed his hand up the center of Iwaizumi’s chest, laying him out on his back, then slid down between his legs, murmuring teasingly, “You think I’m pretty, Iwa-chan?”

Iwaizumi growled, slamming a fist down hard enough to crack concrete, but Oikawa was already making quick work of the last of Iwaizumi’s clothing, tugging off his shoes and socks, then pulling his jeans and underwear down and off in a single fluid motion. “Please,” he said again, rough and harsh, because moonrise still hadn’t come, and with his wolf curled at Oikawa’s ankle like an obedient dog, he couldn’t force the turn himself, no matter how achingly close it was. “Please.”

But instead of saying his name again, Oikawa smoothed his hands up Iwaizumi’s thighs, then leaned down over him and licked a slow line along his cock. Iwaizumi’s hips jerked and he had to resist the urge to curl a hand in Oikawa’s hair as he closed his mouth around the tip.

“Mother fuck,” Iwaizumi growled. “I swear to god, if you bite my dick, I-”

Oikawa’s lips curled, the promise of a smile, and he hummed before plunging down, taking Iwaizumi all the way into his mouth.

It was too much, the mounting pressure of the wolf inside him, the pull of Oikawa’s mouth (just slightly cooler than it should have been), the muddied boundaries of his awareness. It overloaded his senses, blurring the line between pleasure and pain. It was the first time his impending shift had ever felt good, the first time it had been something he was eager for, rather than the particular, chronic pain that he was so accustomed to.

Oikawa proved as deft with his mouth and careful with his teeth as he had been when they were kissing, and Iwaizumi found himself mesmerized, watching Oikawa as he moved. This time, though, it wasn’t magic or mind tricks that held his gaze – it was the new and different kind of hunger he saw in Oikawa’s dark eyes. It wasn’t long before Iwaizumi was drawn bowstring tight, trembling with the effort to keep himself together – balanced on the cusp of too many sensations. A heartbeat before he tumbled over the edge, Oikawa drew back, mouth pink and wet, then struck, snake-fast, sinking his teeth down into the hollow of Iwaizumi’s thigh.

He moaned, loud and sharp, as his orgasm tore through him and his wolf broke free of its chain.

Nothing had ever felt so good, the surge of pleasure and relief darkening over his vision as his muscles started to tear, fur flooding over his skin and his joints dislocating as his limbs reshaped and remade themselves. He only noticed Oikawa was still drinking when his pelvis shifted and his leg didn’t slide into place at his hip because Oikawa had a death grip on it. Iwaizumi let out a sharp, pained yip and kicked, and though it felt feeble – like he was moving underwater, half drunk and hardly himself – it sent Oikawa flying across the cell, blood blossoming on his arm where claws had struck flesh.

As soon as Oikawa was gone, pain flooded over him, but with one last wrench of his spine, Iwaizumi’s shoulder blades slid into place and his tail twitched to life, his body settling the rest of the way into its new shape. Iwaizumi closed his eyes and panted, staying spread eagle on his back on the floor. He ached exactly as much as he always did after he turned, his limbs loose and useless, but he could still feel the whisper of Oikawa’s presence in his mind like silk, and he was dizzy with blood loss, his heart beating just a little too fast in his chest.

He opened his eyes as Oikawa knelt down beside him and started running cool fingertips through the shaggy, deep brown fur on his belly. Iwaizumi let out a soft huff, but stretched under the attention, letting Oikawa pet him. “You’re a big boy,” Oikawa cooed. Iwaizumi snapped his teeth at him, but made no genuine move to stop him, and when Oikawa stilled, looking down at him pensively, Iwaizumi leaned in and gave the wound on his arm an apologetic lick. Oikawa curled his fingers under Iwaizumi’s chin, stroking the soft fur there, and murmured, “I’ve never seen anyone so calm after a turn.”

Iwaizumi chuffed, then leaned in and bumped his cheek against Oikawa’s before tucking his head gently under his chin. He didn’t know if Oikawa understood the gesture, if it meant anything more to him than just a touch, but it was enough that Oikawa coiled his arms around his neck and rested his cheek against the top of his head.

“Where did you come from?” he asked no one in particular, and Iwaizumi huffed again, butting his head against Oikawa’s chest, then yawned and flopped onto his side, stretching and kicking his legs out in front and behind him before curling up next to him. When Oikawa didn’t get the point, Iwaizumi let out a soft little bark to draw his attention, then rested his face between his paws and sighed. Oikawa laughed. “Okay, okay, I’ll let you sleep,” he said, starting to push himself to his feet.

Iwaizumi grabbed the hem of Oikawa’s pants with his teeth and let out a little grumble of displeasure.

“Or not?”

Iwaizumi shifted on the floor again, uncurling and rolling, just slightly, onto his back, showing his belly.

Oikawa’s face went placid for a moment, picking at a puzzle behind an impassive expression. Then, just as abruptly, he started to laugh. “Oh my god, you want to cuddle.”

Iwaizumi growled, rolling back onto his stomach defensively, but when Oikawa dropped back down to the floor, he stilled. Oikawa wrapped his arms loosely around Iwaizumi, one draped over his side, the other around his neck, and nuzzled his face down into the thick, soft fur on his flank. Iwaizumi rested his head gently on top of Oikawa’s and huffed out a little sigh, closing his eyes.

***

When Iwaizumi woke, he was alone and naked, but his cell was no longer empty. There was a chair by the door with folded clothes and towels, his cell phone, two protein bars, and a small bag of cookies set neatly on the seat. There was a piece of paper tented over the back of the chair, and a big bottle of apple juice and large metal basin sitting on the floor next to it.

Iwaizumi pushed himself to his feet and found that he was still sore and a little lightheaded from the night before. He braced himself against the wall and took stock of himself. He hadn’t quite managed to shed all the dried blood and other bodily fluids between his transformations, but the bite marks were far more healed than he expected them to be – like they were weeks old rather than hours. Oikawa’s blood had probably expedited the process, but he couldn’t help but laugh at the sight of himself. He looked like a vampire junkie – like he’d been bitten too many times for even a vampire’s saliva to heal the marks, like he’d given himself over to a whole nest of vampires at once for the thrill of it.

…But the burns on his fingertips were almost healed, too, and other than being a little, well, drained, he felt surprisingly good. Strong. Really hungry. He staggered across the length of the cell and grabbed one of the protein bars and the note off the back of the chair and read while he ate.

Iwa-chan:

As promised, your truck made it to Houston this morning before the dealership opened, and no one is the wiser. The pickup in the parking lot is all yours for the day; the keys are under the visor, just park it outside your dealership when you’re done with it and someone will pick it up. The token you requested of me is in the right front pocket of your jeans, which I believe resolves both of our debts to one another.

Oikawa Tooru

P.S. My apologies for the lackluster accommodations; while I was indisposed, the water heater broke and I haven’t had an opportunity to have it repaired; the only running water in the building is currently in the kitchen, which incidentally has no food in it. Also, I’m unsure about the particulars of your physiology, but be cautious of your blood pressure and iron levels, refrain from operating any heavy machinery, etc. etc.

Iwaizumi read the letter over twice more and frowned. “Debts resolved” wasn’t quite what he’d been hoping for, though he shouldn’t have expected anything else. He was a means to an end, and lucky to be that rather than a meal, or an example. Maybe what they’d shared the night before had been a trick of the blood after all, or maybe Oikawa just hadn’t felt it, or wasn’t able to. It wasn’t like he had much point of reference. He crumpled the paper and dropped it on the floor, then squatted down next to the big metal basin, which was filled with water that had probably been piping hot some time around dawn, but was now just a degree or two warmer than room temperature. It felt good anyway when he splashed it on his face and arms, washing away the sweat and blood and other things. He dunked his head in the tub and scrubbed his hair. When he was about as clean as he thought he was going to get, he lifted the tub and carried it over to the drain in the center of the room and poured the whole thing over his head, rinsing himself off.

He shook off the excess water, toweled dry, and dressed. In the pocket of his jeans, he found the arrowhead affixed to a black leather cord, and he carefully slipped it over his head, making sure to leave it resting outside his clothing so the silver wouldn’t burn him. He turned his phone on while he was eating the second protein bar, and of course now – now – the fucking thing was working just fine, and from the look of it, he’d been bombarded by messages over the course of the morning:

BossMan: Great work tonight, Jimmy! Sorry about the short notice, but you really pulled through for us!

BossMan: Next round’s on me!

CatBreath: Yo, where are you? You’re missing brunch

CatBreath: Seriously man, we’re not waiting for you. You should see what Bo ordered

CatBreath: Dude, I just went by the storage facility and they said you didn’t show last night. Are you okay??? Message me back when you get this

BirdBrain: BEHOLD THE NEST:

That message came with a picture attached: a slightly blurry snapshot of a stack of Belgian waffles piled eight high, layered with bacon and whipped cream, set atop a massive pile of hashbrowns dotted with fried eggs.

It was the last set of messages that surprised him, because half of them he’d apparently sent himself, to a contact that hadn’t been in his phone the night before.

Me: Had a great time last night. Wanna do it again?

⋆*♡Tooru-chan♡*⋆: You’ll have to ask nicely, Iwa-chan~ My time is very valuable, after all.

Me: Well, I know you said that we’ve fulfilled our debts to each other, but I can’t help but feel like it would be cosmically unfair of me to give you one little taste of my (frankly magnificent) cock and NOT spend at least ten consecutive hours showing you what I can do with it.

⋆*♡Tooru-chan♡*⋆: You make a very compelling point. Dinner and a movie, next week?

Me: I’ll be dinner, you can pick the movie ৲( ᵒ ૩ᵒ)৴♡*৹

⋆*♡Tooru-chan♡*⋆: Hmm, sounds delish (ᵒᴗ-)b

⋆*♡Tooru-chan♡*⋆: Zoltan: Hound of Dracula, or The Forsaken?

Iwaizumi snorted. Apparently Oikawa wasn’t ready to let him slip away after all, if not quite for the reasons he’d hoped. He scrolled through his contacts and changed “Tooru-chan” to “Booty Call,” then stopped, hesitated, and changed it to “Oikawa” instead. He bit his lip, chewed it, then swore softly and changed it back to a simple “Tooru” before pulling up his messages and typing out a reply.

Me: How about From Dusk Till Dawn or An American Werewolf In London?

Me: I’ll bring some popcorn for you to smell

Me: And get your hot water fixed. I’m not actually a dog.

He pocketed his phone before he could think too long about it, then ate the cookies Oikawa had set out for him and drank half the apple juice straight from the bottle while he wiggled his feet into his shoes. He double checked the room for any stray belongings, then fished the key to the cell out of his pocket, only to realize the door was unlocked. He shook off his surprise. Of course the door was unlocked – he had the only key. Still, he hesitated with his hand on the knob. Deep down, he expected to find the hotel empty. Even if Oikawa was genuine in his desire to see him again, a secret hideout that wasn’t a secret wasn’t much good as a hideout, and for a vampire a resting place that was known to others wasn’t a safe place to rest.

But when he pushed the door open, he found Oikawa’s room exactly as it had been the night before… and Oikawa fast asleep on one of the low sofas. He was stretched out on his stomach, arms curled around an overstuffed pillow, face turned to one side, evidently completely nude except for a red satin sheet draped low on his hips that spilled over onto the floor.

Iwaizumi stilled in the doorway, breath caught in his throat and heart squeezing off-time in his chest, because Oikawa had left himself defenseless as a newborn - not just where Iwaizumi could find him, but directly in his path to leave. With an unlocked door between him and an unfed werewolf. Oikawa was too smart and too careful to do that for someone he only counted as a booty call.

Iwaizumi approached cautiously, not wanting to wake Oikawa and wanting less to startle him, but he hardly stirred as Iwaizumi knelt beside him. In sleep, he was changed, and not merely softened in repose. In the dim light of the room, Iwaizumi could see what he hadn’t the night before: the old, mottled tissue of a bullet wound on the back of Oikawa’s shoulder and a small hooked scar to one side of his chin, both obviously from before he’d been turned. The more he looked, the more subtle differences he found – there was a smattering of freckles across the bridge of Oikawa’s nose and the broad span of his shoulders, more faint, pale lines of scar tissue etched into his skin, and the littlest finger was missing on his left hand – all visible only because he wasn’t awake to conceal them. The gouge he’d left on Oikawa’s arm the night before had mostly healed, as had the neat lines of claw-sized puncture wounds framing his spine that Iwaizumi didn’t remember putting there, but the bite on his neck looked just short of fresh, and that made something primal and possessive bubble up inside him and come out as a low, pleased rumble.

Oikawa made a soft, sleepy sound and shifted subtly, murmuring, “Hajime?” The sun was still up, so Oikawa couldn’t wake up short of someone smashing open a window or setting him on fire, but he made a good effort of it, propping himself on one elbow and reaching up to card his fingers through Iwaizumi’s damp hair, a lazy smile on his lips. “You’re all wet.”

Iwaizumi breathed out a laugh. “Go back to sleep.”

A small furrow of thought – of worry – marred Oikawa’s forehead, and the unguarded openness of his expression made him look terribly young. “You’re coming back, right?” he asked, settling onto his back and brushing the pad of his thumb along Iwaizumi’s cheekbone.

“Apparently I have a cosmic injustice to right,” he murmured, grinning at the slow flush and lazy, satisfied smile that spread across Oikawa’s face. After a moment, he let his gaze drop to Oikawa’s chest. The wound there had closed, but the cross-shaped scar was fresh and puckered, the skin around it still faintly discolored. He reached up and touched the mark, gently, and asked, “How’re you feeling?”

Oikawa breathed out a chuckle, just a low rumble in his chest, and stretched out on the sofa. “Like I’m not dying for the first time in six months.”

Iwaizumi recoiled. “Six months?”

His reaction made something change in Oikawa’s expression – the drowsiness disappearing and the small scar on his chin vanishing with it. Oikawa waved a hand dismissively, the sleep-heaviness of his voice becoming affected. “An exaggeration, Iwa-chan. No one could survive-”

“Liar.” Oikawa stilled, gaze leveled at him like an expectant cat. “Don’t lie to me,” he said. When Oikawa shifted his eyes away, a little petulant, Iwaizumi leaned in and pressed a soft kiss to Oikawa’s chin where his scar wasn’t anymore. Oikawa drew in a soft breath, relaxing into him by inches and closing his eyes. “Don’t hide from me,” he said, letting his voice drop low as he moved to kiss Oikawa’s lips. Oikawa moaned softly, reaching up to curl his hands in Iwaizumi’s hair, but he didn’t pull him away. Iwaizumi pressed his hand to the base of Oikawa’s throat, pushing him back down against the couch and looking him in the eye. “I’ve seen you. I know you, and unless I’m very mistaken, I think you know me, too. So let’s make a point to be honest with each other, okay?”

Oikawa looked up at him, his gaze unfocused, then allowed himself a long blink, a smile tugging at the corners of his lips. “When you realized what I was, the first thing you did was turn your back on me. I don’t think I’ve ever been so turned on in my life.”

The haze of sleep was settling over him again, unconsciousness tugging him under, his scar and freckles just a suggestion on his skin but slowly becoming more visible. Iwaizumi leaned down and pressed a kiss to the corner of Oikawa’s mouth, murmuring, “No one’s ever been able to call my wolf before.” He rested his forehead against Oikawa’s temple, voice dropping to a low breath. “You’re the only person it’s acknowledged as an equal.” It was a confession Oikawa wouldn’t understand, but one that weighed in his chest and left him feeling winded when he said it out loud.

Oikawa reached up and pressed his hand, deliberately, to the base of Iwaizumi’s sternum, and Iwaizumi shuddered and closed his eyes. That simple touch was enough to draw his wolf to the surface, to make it butt affectionately against Oikawa’s palm.

“Please tell me you can feel this, too,” Iwaizumi gasped, bracing his arm on the back of the sofa and leaning on it heavily.

By way of an answer, Oikawa gave a small curl of his fingers, carding them through the invisible strands that stretched between them. It was like being stroked on the chin, and Iwaizumi let out a soft, involuntary little croon.

“I can call all the wolves in my pack,” Oikawa murmured, winding and twirling the tendrils of Iwaizumi’s wolf around his fingers, “but this is new.”

Iwaizumi let out a low grunt. “What about this?” he asked, pressing his hand to the center of Oikawa’s chest and reaching for what he knew was hidden beneath the surface. It answered his call, like a puff of steam released from an opened door.

Oikawa gasped, arching up into the touch. “New,” he panted, “very new.” Iwaizumi couldn’t help but smile. Not a trick of the blood, then, and something appreciably different than what Oikawa shared with the wolves that were bound to him. “I thought I was hallucinating last night,” he said between heavy breaths, “but this…”

“Let me show you,” Iwaizumi murmured, drawing Oikawa’s hand away from his chest and leaning down over him, letting the reaching parts of both of them find each other and grab hold. Iwaizumi let out a shuddering sigh. It felt like belonging. It felt like being whole. And when Oikawa pulled him down into a kiss, he was drawn in by more than just lips and hands.

He kissed Oikawa slow and languid, leaning over him so their chests pressed together and slowly losing himself in the sweet softness of Oikawa’s mouth and the inexplicable sensation of being joined. It was only the sharp, unexpected taste of blood welling up in his mouth that reminded him that Oikawa wasn’t in full possession of his faculties. When he drew back, nursing the cut on his tongue, Oikawa curled a hand in the front of Iwaizumi’s shirt, eyes closed and breathing hard, and panted, “You should probably take your pants off immediately.”

It was more than tempting, but Iwaizumi shook his head. “You’re half asleep. I don’t even know how you’re awake at all.”

“No rest for the wicked?” Oikawa breathed, eyes heavy-lidded.

“You must not be so bad, then,” he said, brushing Oikawa’s bangs back and pressing a kiss to his forehead. Oikawa whined. Iwaizumi smiled and murmured against his skin, “You wouldn’t want to fall asleep while I’m fucking you, would you Tooru-chan?”

Oikawa moaned, but it was hard to tell if it was the promise or the endearment that brought the flush to his cheeks. “Not fair.”

“Get some sleep,” he said, brushing his fingertips along Oikawa’s jawline. “I’ll call you the next time I’m going to be in town.”

“You could stay,” Oikawa said, leaning into his touch. “Until sunset.”

Iwaizumi shook his head again. “If I don’t get back to Houston soon, a lot of people are going to start scouring the road looking for my body, and I don’t want to bring them to your doorstep. Not until I’ve had a chance to explain in person.” He grunted. “And as much as I appreciated the cookies, if I don’t eat some real food soon, my muscles are going to start to atrophy.”

Oikawa groaned, long and low, reaching up to press a hand to Iwaizumi’s mouth. “There’s nothing less sexy than logic, Iwa-chan.”

Iwaizumi kissed the palm of his hand and murmured, “You look cute with freckles.”

Oikawa blinked up at him, and Iwaizumi forced himself to stand. Oikawa dropped his hand, but it still felt like they were anchored to each other, rooted as firmly as though they were clasping arms. “You’re going to come back?” Oikawa asked again.

“I’m going to come back,” Iwaizumi said, then grinned. “As long as you promise not to put any more shitty emojis on my phone.”

“There’s no purer form of expression than kaomoji,” Oikawa said, but the end trailed off in a yawn. He stretched out on the sofa, closing his eyes, and was asleep again before Iwaizumi could muster a comeback.

It was a damn shame all the arguments he’d made against staying were true, because on his back, Oikawa was a portrait of muscles and pale skin against blood red fabric. One long leg peeked out from beneath the silk sheet, which looked like it might slide to the floor if he stared at it hard enough. He would almost have accused Oikawa of posing himself intentionally if it weren’t for the uncomfortable-looking way his arms had tumbled back around his head and the fact that he was snoring. Even so, he was absolutely stunning.

Iwaizumi sighed. There’d be time to stare later. He slipped out into the hall and pulled the door shut behind him. The hotel was deserted and eerily quiet, but he retraced his steps back to the lobby and headed out into the parking lot. There was a vintage baby blue Chevy pickup parked right in front of the door, and as promised, it was unlocked. He slid into the seat, ran his hands over the steering wheel, and took a deep breath, filling his lungs with the artificial vanilla scent of an air freshener. Then he fished his phone out of his pocket, pulled up his missed messages, and started typing a reply.

Me: Hey TK, call off the search party, I’m fine.

The response was almost immediate.

CatBreath: WTF HAPPENED MAN? WHERE ARE YOU?

Me: Long story. Face-to-face long. You free tonight?

CatBreath: I’ll make time. But seriously, wtf? Some people at your work said they saw you this morning after moonrise.

Iwaizumi sighed, rubbing his eyes with his thumb and forefinger.

Me: Wasn’t me.

Me: I got stranded in Louisiana last night. Blowout.

He chewed his lip, then let out a slow breath. If anyone would be able to help him figure this out, it was TK. Before he could decide out how to phrase what he had to say, though, a new message popped up.

CatBreath: Holy fuck. You’ve been hiding out?

Me: No. I walked right into a vamp den. I thought I talked my way out of it, but…

Me: Fuck

Me: I’m like 98% sure I just pair bonded with the Deacon of Baton Rouge.

This time, there was a long pause.

CatBreath: Is that even possible?

Me: Beats the fuck out of me. I was hoping you would know

CatBreath: Shit.

CatBreath: I’ll ask around.

CatBreath: Did he bind you?

Me: No. He made a point not to.

CatBreath: Weird.

CatBreath: …is he hot?

Me: He’s fucking perfect

Me: And it scares the shit out of me

#haikyuu!!#iwaoi #iwaizumi hajime #oikawa tooru #iwaizumi x oikawa #werevamp #my fic #didja miss me?

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yeehawbisexualold · 7 years

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You're a Marshmallow, Emma Swan

A CS Veronica Mars AU.

Rated T. 4.3k words. (1/?)

A/N The first chapter very closely follows the pilot in order to set up the characters and plot. Future chapters may not be as verbatim. Also, words in italics are used to represent voice-overs. Although David will be her father, I decided to keep Emma’s last name as Swan because Veronica Mars is such a distinctive name and so is Emma Swan and I don’t think Emma Nolan or the Nolan family would pack quite the same punch.

Welcome to Storybrooke high school. If you go here, your parents are either millionaires or work for millionaires. Storybrooke, California, a town without a middle class. If you’re in the second group, you get a job—fast food, movie theaters, mini-marts. Emma Swan’s after school job means tailing philandering spouses or investigating false injury claims.

She gets out of her car, a beat up, yellow bug, to see a crowd formed around the school’s flagpole. The source of the crowd’s interest, she finds, is a naked boy, duct taped, precariously to cover his private bits, to the pole with the word snitch (misspelled as “snich”) painted across his bare chest. She pushes through the hoard of spectators, gawking at the scrawny boy’s misfortune. “Who’d that guy rat out?” “Why doesn’t somebody cut him down?” “Yeah, I’ll do it. I wanna be the guy up there tomorrow.”

Reaching into her pocket, she tells the guy snapping a selfie on his phone to move.

“Who died and made you the queen?” the jack ass asks as she pulls out her pocket knife. He backs away silently when she snaps it open near his face.

“You’re new here, huh?” she asks the kid as she begins sawing away the duct tape near his wrists. He nods. “Welcome to Storybrooke High.” The bell for class rings and as the crowd begins to disperse, she sardonically cheers “Go Pirates!”

She cuts away enough to free him but leaves him with the pieces that protect his modesty.

In advanced placement English, she rests her head on her desk, falling asleep to the sound of her droning teacher’s voice.

“Did anybody complete the reading?” the woman inquires, removing her glasses. “Emma? Emma Swan, congratulations you’re my volunteer. Pope, An Essay On Man, lesson one.”

“Hope springs eternal in the human breast: Man never is, but always to be blest. The soul, uneasy and confined from home, rests and expatiates in a life to come,” she speaks from memory.

“And what do you suppose Pope meant by that?” the teacher quizzes.

She twiddles her fingers. “Life’s a bitch until you die.”

“Thank you, Miss Swan, for that succinct and somewhat inappropriate response.”

Random locker searches are the latest tactic the administration has adopted in its losing war on drugs. Except for Emma Swan, the searches aren’t random. She knows when they’re going to happen before Vice Principle “Grumpy” does. (His real name is Leroy but the students of Storybrooke aren’t much for respecting authority.

“Emma Swan. This should be good,” one of Sheriff Zelena Mills’ lackeys says with a smirk.

“Will you please open your locker?” Grumpy asks.

She twists in her combination and swings open the door to reveal a perfectly bare locker. Well, bare to the exception of a photo of Grumpy framed by a red heart and taped to the metal door

“Wow,” she huffs with a grin. “This is a little embarrassing.”

Emma sits alone at a round, red plastic lunch table, stabbing her disposable fork into the atrocity the school calls lunch. She stares blankly across the outdoor cafeteria at a group of rowdy students.

I used to sit there, at that table. It’s not like my family met the minimum net worth requirement. My dad didn’t own his own airline like Greg Mendell’s or serve as Ambassador to Belgium like Tamara’s. But my dad used to be the sheriff and that had a certain cache. Let’s be honest though. The only reason I was allowed past the velvet ropes was Neal Hood, son of software billionaire Robin Hood. He used to be my boyfriend. Then one day, with no warning, he ended things.

The most obnoxious of the students perches himself on Neal’s lap, rubbing his chest as he smirks at Emma.

And let’s not forget Killian Jones. His dad makes 20 million a picture. You probably own his action figure. He built his career on being the British bad boy and his son tries his damnedest to upstage his levels of naughtiness. Every school has an obligatory, psychotic jack ass. He’s ours.

Neal pushes him off and turns his attention back to Tamara who’s snuggled herself up against his side and Killian simply sits next to him clapping his hands together and pointing at Emma with a wild grin.

A figure sits down across from her, partially blocking her vision of Killian’s antics.

“You ok?” they ask, startling her out of her focused glare.

“What?“

It’s the kid she cut down earlier.

“You look, I don’t know, hypnotized.” He explains, opening his lunch.

“Did I say you could sit here?” she snaps at him. As soon as he stands, shoving his lunch back in the bag, she feels remorse. Killian pisses her off but that’s no reason to treat the new kid, who’s already had a rough enough first day, like shit. “Wait. Of course, you can sit here.”

He sits back down with a smile.

“That was cool what you did.”

Before she can respond, she’s interrupted by a voice behind her.

“My bitch. Weren’t you supposed to wait for me at the flagpole?” The bare sleeved, tattooed interrupter crouches down and gets in the kids face. “I’m not sure I could have made that any clearer.”

The kid looks like he’s going to shit his pants.

“Leave him alone,” Emma demands and the guy turns his attention to her.

“Love, the only time I care what a woman has to say is when she’s riding my big ole hog and even then it’s not so much words as just a bunch of oohs and aahs, ya know?” He asks planting himself in front of her.

“So it’s big, huh?”

“Legendary.”

“Well, let’s see it. I mean if it’s as big as you say, I’ll be your girlfriend.” She smiles brightly and gasps as if she’s just had a thought. “We could go to prom together!”

When he just laughs and leans back she continues “What seems to be the problem? I’m on a schedule here.”

“Dude, don’t let blondie talk to you like that!” his friend chimes in.

“Sounds like your buddy here wants to see it too.”

“Hell, I’ll show you mine!” the buddy shouts but is interrupted by Grumpy, arriving to break up the disturbance and ask Emma why trouble follows her around.

“So what did you do?” she asks the ‘snitch,’ who’s name she learns is Henry, after everyone clears away from the table. If she just confronted Will Scarlet, the leader of the local biker gang, she deserves to know what she was standing up for.

He explains how he works at the local gas station and while he was working alone last night, some of the guys walked in and stole alcohol from the store, stuffing bottles in their jackets and only paying for a pack of gum. He tripped the silent alarm but when the police came—"We don’t have police here. We have a sheriffs department.“—and he went outside, he realized an entire gang sat in the parking lot. Intimidated by all of the guys, he told the sheriff he pressed the alarm by accident. “You need to go see the wizard, ask him for some guts.” The sheriff told him before hauling the two bikers away.

“Go see the wizard? She said that?” Emma asks once he’s finished his story. “Congratulations, in your short time here, you’ve already managed to piss of the biker gang and the local sheriff.”

She heads to her fathers P.I. office, Swan Investigation, after school and is surprised to find Regina Hood’s car there. She hates Emma almost as much as she loves her son.

She sits down at the reception desk and busies herself with paperwork, waiting for Regina to walk out. Ingrid, the local, low-level lawyer walks in and offers “her father” a case to discover how the strip club her client works for keeps their liquor license and help her client make a deal.

After Ingrid leaves, Regina walks out of her father’s office.

“Don’t get the wrong idea, David. I don’t like you,” she says coolly, strutting past in her clean, pressed, white pantsuit, her chin tilted back in an air of arrogance. She turns her icy gaze to Emma. “I hate the fact that I’m here. But I know if anyone will be dogged and resourceful in this matter, it’ll be you. Don’t call me at home, I’ll call you.”

And then she’s gone, the air feeling decidedly less chilly without her presence.

Sure she’s a bitch. But can you blame her? After all, dad did try to send her husband to jail for life.

Her dad joins her to eat and she attempts to figure out why Regina was here. He ignores her attempts at questioning him, joking about the plastic resemblance of the cheese on their sandwiches. But after enough grilling, he reveals that Regina believes her husband Robin is having an affair—late nights and motels—and that he took the case because they need the money.

“Good, I would have been pissed if you hadn’t.”

“I wouldn’t have cared if you were.”

They continue eating together until the phone rings and her father announces he has to leave for a trip to El Paso, demanding she leaves the Hood case alone. She nods in response, knowing full well she’s lying.

She follows Robin Hood to his office. As she sits in her car, staring up into the windows of the building, she thinks about her best friend Milah, Robin’s daughter. Leaning back against the seat she recalls the pep squad car wash they worked in October of last year, both of them wearing the tight t-shirt and shorts combo, Emma with her hair in pigtails and Milah with hers long and loose.

“I’ve got a secret, Emma Swan,” she giggled, conspiratorially as she rubbed a soapy sponge along the hood of a car.

Those were the last words Emma ever heard from Milah. Later that night, she was found dead by her pool.

Emma’s father had been driving her home when he received a call about a disturbance at the Hood estate. When they arrived, David instructed her to stay in the car. But she saw Neal, sitting on a bench with his arms tucked around himself, rocking back and forth, his face ashen and his eyes wide, filled with an emotion to this day she can not name. All it took was one look at him and she was rushing in the house to see what happened.

“Where’s Milah?” she asked, her chest tight. All he could offer in response was a scrunched brow and a mouth, shaking into a frown.

Outside she found the area swarming with cops, a grieving couple, and by the pool, the lifeless body of her dead best friend—eyes wide and unseeing, blood dripping down her face from the gaping wound above where her temple met her scalp.

But everyone knows the story, the murder of Milah Hood. It was on the cover of People Magazine. It made entertainment tonight. The town was flooded with journalists. And of course, everyone remembers the bumbling, local sheriff. The one who went after the wrong man.

That bumbling sheriff was my dad.

Six weeks after Milah’s death, her crime scene video was leaked by someone in the sheriff department. In a matter of hours, millions of people around the world had seen the grizzly footage. Someone had to be held responsible and that someone was David Swan.

“So, Swan, does your dad still think that Milah’s father did this?” Killian confronted her in the school computer lab. “That’s my girlfriend. Your friend. Neal’s sister. Your dad is destroying the Hood family. What’s the matter with you people? What’s the matter with you?”

She knew he was lashing out because he was hurt but so was she. When he maliciously spit out the words, “I’m done with you.” She thought good because she couldn’t help but hate him a little bit for the way he was treating her.

Her father’s belief that Robin was the murderer no longer mattered. An emergency recall removed him from office and the investigation was no longer in his hands. Her mother wanted to move out of Storybrooke. The loss of status and loss of income was too much for her.

They had to move because they could no longer afford to stay in their house but Emma and David were not going to be run out of town.

A pair of Milah’s shoes were later discovered on the house boat of one Triton King and her father’s successor, Sheriff Zelena Mills’ face was plastered across the news for her amazing arrest.

Emma’s dad may not have been right about Robin but, sitting in the parking lot of a skeezy motel named the Camelot, she knows Regina is right about him now. She can’t imagine it’s a business meeting that’s being conducted at one in the morning, behind the door of one of the upper-level rooms.

Before she can get any substantial evidence, her car is swarmed in the parking lot by none other than Will’s gang.

“Car trouble miss?” he asks with a smirk.

“Might be a loose belt but if you wouldn’t mind checking under the hood,” she answers sweetly.

One of the guys walks up to her open window and her dog Wilby, affectionately nicknamed backup, jumps out. The guy lands flat on his back as the dog snarls at his throat. Another stomps up, yelling at her to call off her dog and she tazes him in the chest. Down he goes.

She calls Wilby off.

“I’ll tell you what. I’ll call it a draw,” she tells Will.

“Love, come on, it’s too late for that.”

“Here’s the deal,” Emma informs him, no bull shit face in place. “Leave that kid at school alone for a week and I’ll make sure your boys walk.”

“Why do you care for that kid so much, anyway? Things I heard about you… You must really lay the pipe right.”

“Yeah, that’s it,” she says cheerfully with a sarcastic nod of her head.

Mr. Electricity begins to lift himself up, using her door as leverage, and she charges her tazer in front of his face as a warning.

“Alright, one week. But if you don’t get them off, I’m coming for you, your boy, and your little dog too. And remember, if you get lonely out here, Will love you long time.” He kisses the air at her as he revs his engine.

Quite a reputation I’ve got, huh? You wanna know how I lost my virginity? So do I.

It happened at a party at Tamara’s, that much she knows. She’d curled her hair and put on one of her favorite dresses—white, knee length, and flowy. Her reason for going was simply to show everyone that the way they treated her didn’t affect her.

It was a mistake.

As she walked through the crowded room of people from whom the only attention she received was pointed whispers and giggles, people whom she once considered friends, she was handed a drink. She didn’t know who handed it to her but she chugged it down.

Before long she was stumbling around dizzily and then everything went blank. She woke the next morning, alone in bed, a soreness between her legs and her underwear on the floor. She walked through the house, crying silently, an entirely new type of pain tightening her chest.

She’d thought she’d felt all the pain a person could feel—being unceremoniously dumped by whom she thought was the love of her life, having her best friend murdered, all of her old friends turning against her, and her mother leaving her and her father. But there was at least one thing left the world had to throw at her, one more thing to show her that life truly was a bitch and things would never be the same.

In the present, Robin Hood steps out of the motel room door and Emma snaps as many pictures as she can before he shuts it behind him.

She doesn’t actually get a shot of the woman’s face but she gets some pretty good images of him talking through the door way and the license plates of each car in the lot. That should be enough to get her started.

The next day at school, she sits at her usual table. The kid she’d saved is already there.

“You should hear the things people say about you,” he begins.

“You didn’t have to sit at my table,” she grumbles. Who is this kid? She saves his ass and he chooses to sit at her table for what? To make fun of her?

“And what a fine table this is. What do you suppose it’s made of?” he ponders, tapping his closed fist against the shiny top. “Oak?”

“Look, if people are saying such awful things…” she trails off, shaking her head.

“Well, I figure I’ve got a choice. I could either go hang out with the jerks who laughed at me, took pictures of me while I was taped to that flagpole. Or I could hang out with the chick who cut me down.”

It feels good, his kindness, and a warmth blooms in her chest at the thought of a possible new friend.

“So you wanna get the bike club off your ass?”

“Can we come up with a code name?” he asks, eyes wide with hope.

“Sure, kid.”

She laughs at school for the first time she can remember since Milah’s death.

Her dad returns that night and as he prepares steak on the grill, Emma tells him she got pictures of Hood at the Camelot. He reprimands her for disobeying him but then asks to see the photos. He looks through the stack of images and pauses on one of the license plates of a car.

“I want you to stay away from Robin. You hear me?” he commands firmly, in the serious father voice he so rarely uses.

“But dad, why?”

“Listen to what I said, Emma. Stay away from him. I’m telling Regina I’m dropping the case.”

He storms into the apartment, leaving the grill unmanned.

When Grumpy conducts his next “spontaneous” locker search at school, he makes a stop at Killian Jones’. Killian opens the door, expecting to be in the clear, only to showcase a lovely bong in the shape of a naked man, one hand on his hip, the other grasping the bowl placed where it’s penis should be.

“What’s this, Killian? This appears to be a device used to smoke marijuana.”

Killian looks around the hallways, flooding with people now that the class bell has run and as he’s lead away, his confused eyes land on Emma standing beside Henry.

“I know it was you!” he shouts, angrily, jamming his finger in her face. “This isn’t over, ok?”

She fake yawns at him, patting her hand over her mouth. Henry grins at her side.

“You’re so cute and innocent. I’ll get you for this,” he threatens as he’s pulled away by Grumpy and the deputy.

Jefferson, the residential stoner, passes by and offers her a high five. She’d recruited him in art class the day before to make the bong for her.

Phase two of operation freedom was done.

After school, she drove home to the sheriff’s department. Phase three. With a remote control detonator, he sets off a spark in the bowl of the phallic bong residing in the evidence lock up. The smoke from that sets off the fire alarm and the woman behind the counter calls the fire department.

Then, after the flaming crisis is handled, she heads to the fire department.

“Did you make the switch?” she asks the fire chief who then hands her a large envelope with a video tape inside.

A lot of people in this town still love dad. That comes in handy.

The residual love of her father only gets her so far though and sometimes she is left to her own devices.

Using a phony accent she makes a phone call pretending to be the secretary of the sheriff’s department, claiming to be having trouble with the computer’s system. She asks the man on the phone to run a set of plates involved in a hit and run for her. Except there was no hit and run and the plate number she if reading off is from the car parked at the Camelot the night she watched Robin.

“I’ll be damned, that’s some family,” the man on the other line says, chuckling.

“What is it?”

“That car is registered to one Kathryn Swan.”

She hangs up the phone in shock just as her father opens his office door.

“Explain to me again why we’re dropping the Hood case.”

She’s going to give him one more chance to explain himself, to tell her the truth, to tell her why her mother’s car was parked outside the Camelot the night Robin Hood visited it. But he doesn’t take it. Instead, he sips his coffee and gives her some bullshit excuse about corporate espionage, telling her it’s dangerous and they don’t get paid enough.

He asks if she wants to rent a movie and she walks out, leaving him alone in the office.

She heads to the court house and asks the receptionist which direction the bikers case is.

“Emma! I haven’t seen you since…” the woman trail off uncomfortably.

The last time I was here? Come on. That’s easy.

The last time she was there was the morning after Tamara’s party. She’d limped up to the counter, eyes smudged with mascara, and said she needed to report a crime.

After she sat in front of Zelena and reported what happened, Zelena chuckled in her face and asked “Is there anyone in particular you’d like me to arrest? Or should I just round up the sons of the most important families in town.”

Emma sat silently, shocked and dismayed. She knew Zelena was mean but this was downright wicked.

“I’ve got not a shred of evidence to work with here. But that doesn’t matter to your family now does it?” The woman continued on ignoring the tears streaking down Emma’s face. Ignoring her disheveled appearance, her wild hair, her red eyes, her torn dress. Ignoring the pulsing pain Emma could feel through out her entire body, not a pain physical in its origin but manifesting itself as such and causing her anguish never the less. “Look at this, she cries. I’ll tell you what Emma Swan. Why don’t you go see the wizard, ask for a little backbone.“

Emma left Zelena’s office with no answers to what had happened to her and no hope of ever finding out.

Now she sits in a courtroom, watching a smug Miss Mills deliver her testimony of her account of the night she arrested the two bikers at Henry’s place of work.

“Your honor, can we show the tape?” the opposing lawyer requests.

When the tape is loaded, no robbery is to be seen. Instead, an officer walks a prostitute to his car and is seen opening the door for her, getting in on his own side, and then guiding her head down to his lap.

Phase one of operation freedom had been staking out the strip club and recording the footage of their interesting ways of keeping a valid liquor license.

“Sheriff Mills is this how you run your department?” the judge questions.

Emma finger guns at Zelena and walks out of the court room.

She meets Henry at the beach and presents him with the actual footage of the robbing. He thanks her and tells her that “Underneath that angry young woman shell there’s a slightly less angry young woman just dying to bake me something. You’re a marshmallow, Emma Swan.”

She grins and turns her head away, amused but unwilling to admit it.

They spend some time flying around his remote controlled airplane. Just as she’s getting the hang of it and actually having some fun, Henry interrupts her.

“Emma, look at your car.”

She turns to see Killian lounging across the hood, crowbar in hand, surrounded by his 09er buddies (the richest of the rich, those residing in the the prestigious 90909 zipcode.)

“Do you know what your little joke cost me?” he asks, hopping off the car and swinging the crowbar.

“Well, I’m pretty sure you won’t be getting your bong back.”

He smashes a headlight. “Wrong answer.” He twirls the metal in his hand. “Would you care to guess again?”

She crosses her arms across the chest of her red leather jacket, keeping her face impassive, unwilling to let him phase her no matter what.

“Clearly, your sense of humor.”

And he smashes another head light.

“Nope, the correct answer is my car. That’s right my daddy took the Jolly away. And you know what I won’t be having?” He questions, resting the bar behind his neck and stepping closer to her. He leans in her face and answers his own question with a smirk and raised brows. “Fun, fun, fun.”

She wants to smack his British accent right out of his mouth.

“Uh, Killian,” his friend warns as a heard of bikes pull up along side them.

It doesn’t take long for Will and his friends to flip the situation in her favor.

“What do we have here? Vandalism?” Will asks. “No, the only vandalism that happens in this town goes through me.”

Killian tells Will he doesn’t have a problem with him and Will tells him he’s wrong. With Will smashing in the hood of Killian’s friend’s car (with the crowbar he’d pulled out of Kilian’s hands) and his biker buddies tearing apart the inside, they’re easily convinced to “head for the hills.”

Emma sits in her car outside of her father’s office building, watching him move around through the window.

This morning, when I woke up, I had one person in the world I could count on. But if there’s one thing you learn in this business, the people you love let you down.

David leaves, driving away in his car and she heads into the building. Her dad thinks she doesn’t have the code to the safe but he’s wrong and until now she hasn’t had to use it. She types the code in and opens it to find a large file, stuffed with folders and papers. As she pulls the contents out she realizes it’s the Milah Hood murder file, some of the evidence less than a month old, including the photo of her mother’s car she took the Camelot.

If the confessed killer is already in jail, why hasn’t dad given up on the case?

#captain swan #cs ff #cs au #my fic #i'm really excited about this so i hope y'all like it #cs fanfiction

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