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bodytoflame-ao3 · 3 years

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nothing good starts in a getaway car

a mildly faith/willow coda set inbetween ats 4x15 and btvs 7x18 or; a very awkward ride back to sunnydale.

title, obviously, from miss t swift!!

Read on Ao3

“So,” Faith says, kicking her feet up on the dash as she closes the car door, “You’re seeing someone?”

She doesn’t bother to tell her off. A clean car is pretty low on her list of concerns right now. “Um, yeah, kinda. This potential. Kennedy.” Though… if she and Fred weren’t dealing with two separate apocalypses… she might have thought it over more, because, whew, that mind.

“Potential, huh?” Faith nods, biting her lip in a smile. Her attitude, at the very least, clearly hasn’t changed. “God, I knew you were into chicks!”

“Was it really that obvious? ‘Cause it took me long enough to figure out…” She never thought Faith was particularly observant — so Willow really wonders who else might’ve noticed. Faith reaches for the radio dial before she has a chance to, making a face at the pop station she’d chosen earlier. Couldn’t she at least defy one stereotype? Like… liking country music? Or… 80s hair metal?

“I mean, wasn’t hard after I saw the way you were lookin’ at that witchy girl.”

“I— can we… can we not talk about it?” Willow’s hands grip the wheel tight. She has to remind herself that Faith doesn’t mean to. She doesn’t know anything. Thank goddess she wasn’t driving yet — she has to close her eyes and focus on her breathing to keep her cool. No breakdowns. Especially not in front of Faith. She’d have a field day.

Faith leans back, a suitable alternative station found. Willow notes, she leaves the volume low. “Alright. Touchy subject. Noted.”

She pulls out onto the street, only making it a block before her impulses take over. “It’s not that, it’s just—” Why is she even entertaining the idea of this conversation with her? Because there’s no one else to tell it to. No one that won’t take pity on her. Or fear her. “She died. Last year.”

“Fuck, Red, that’s… fuck…”

“Yeah.”

“Vamp? Demon?”

She shakes her head. Human. Faith is silent. “I kinda… killed him and almost caused the apocalypse.”

“…The guy?”

She keeps her eyes fixed on the road. It’s an easy excuse not to face her. “Mhm.”

“Sounds pretty familiar,” Faith determines after a few moments of thought.

I’m nothing like you — Willow bites back the thought — You are, though.

“You’re too pretty for prison, though. Wouldn’t last a week, two, tops.”

“Instead I got magic rehab in England with Giles, so I guess I got off easy.”

“Like… rehab with magic, or… rehab for magic?” Faith seems genuinely curious — it’s weird, seeing her like this; so different.

“Surprisingly, both.” Willow had been expecting more of a twelve step program. Well, first she expected dying, but when it turned out to be a genuine attempt to get her better, she was thinking more… Magicks Anonymous.

“Sounds fun.”

“It was actually pretty cool. I got to meet all these different witches from the coven, and they taught me so many things about keeping myself groun— and… you don’t care,” She glances over, seeing Faith’s bored expression for a fraction of a second before returning her gaze to the highway. Not much traffic out tonight. Plus, no one goes to Sunnydale, not for fun like they would LA.

“Not exactly.” Faith puts her feet down, so that’s one problem solved. “So, I got a coma, what’d they do to you?”

“I… got a rehash of embarrassing childhood memories.” Certainly not as dramatic, she’ll say.

“God, how did you almost destroy the world?”

Almost too easily. “The spell I did to give Angelus his soul back? Child’s play. You haven’t seen half of what I can do. And trust me when I say, you don’t want to.” Her words are bitter, and she almost regrets them before she recalls the person on the other end. No matter how ‘reformed’, it’s still Faith. Faith who went all big bad with the snake-mayor-thing and got all up in Buffy’s face about it.

Faith lets her outburst sit for a moment before she responds, “They’ve made a badass out of you yet, huh. Never would’ve thought that was possible.”

Willow thought she’d be that bookish wallflower for the rest of her life. But she also didn't expect to be fighting vampires and demons, so… hey, anything’s possible. “Yeah, well I’ve changed.”

She sighs. “So have I.”

They ride in silence for a while. The lights of LA slowly fade from view, as the highway ends; long, winding, increasingly empty roads bringing them closer to Sunnydale.

“I still see his face sometimes.” Faith says suddenly, under her breath.

“Me too.” In her dreams. Nightmares, really. In the men she sees walking by, always looking over her shoulder. In the mirror. “They don’t understand. What it’s like.” No matter how many times she’s tried to talk about it, even if her own words are there; it’s like she’s speaking an entirely different language from them. It’s not like she wants to like Faith, but when she’s speaking Willow’s language, it almost feels natural.

“No. They don’t. I thought out of everyone… Buffy would.”

Buffy. Right. That might be a problem, on account of the whole we-tried-to-murder-each-other situation. Faith doesn't seem too bothered, her being willing and almost enthusiastic to come back to Sunnydale, but she thinks Buffy might be a little less happy about it. “I don’t think she’s gonna be thrilled to see you.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Faith brushes her off, “I’ll deal with that when we get there. Plus, it ain’t like I got anywhere else to go.”

“But you helped,” Willow offers, “And Angel vouched for you. That’s worth a lot.”

“You think?”

“We need all the help we can get. And a second slayer? Major help.” Largely, the reason Willow didn’t hesitate to take Faith up on her offer to help. All the potentials are just that — potential. They don’t have the powers, the strength, or the healing that Buffy and Faith do. She hates seeing them have to risk their lives with every encounter. A second slayer doubles their chances of making it out of this. Of Buffy making it out of this.

“Guess I didn’t think of it that way.” Faith shrugs. “Why’re you being so nice to me?”

You get it. “They gave me a second chance. The least I can do is give you one.” Willow sighs, exhausted. “Shoot,” Just another thing gone wrong. “I need gas.”

“We could double back to the last town. Can’t be more than a few miles.”

They do. There’s LA, and Sunnydale, demon hotspot and Hellmouth, and then, there’s the in-between. Places like this. They seem so… normal. And they are. Normal, average places, with normal, average people. Stuck in the middle of all of this, with probably no sense of anything out of the ordinary, save for perhaps a slightly higher murder rate…

Faith follows her out of the car, lighting a cigarette.

“Do you want us to explode?”

She shrugs. “Could be better than the whole First Evil deal. I like my odds.”

Maybe. Willow sighs, and starts the pump, resigned: “You better not make my car smell like cigarettes.”

“Eh,” Faith shrugs, leaning up against the car and taking another drag. “World’s probably gonna end anyways.”

“You don’t know that. Buffy’ll find a way.” Willow isn’t sure how much she believes that. It feels nice to say anyways. “And I still don’t want to sit in a cloud of your smoke for another hour, apocalypse or not.” She also didn’t want to be sitting in some skeevy gas station with one Faith Lehane, but… here they are.

“You know, this is exciting for me. On account of, y’know, snoozing my way through the last one — or well, two, apparently, you’re tellin’ me.”

Willow chuckles, screwing the gas cap back on. “Try three. I can tell you from personal experience they’re not exactly good clean fun.” Not her fondest memories — and she isn’t looking forward to the next one.

“Yeah, but aren’t you supposed to do all kinds ‘a reckless things when your life’s in danger?”

Willow knows a thing or two about that, even if her crush on Xander is long-forgotten. She turns to face Faith. “Um. It’s been… known to happen.”

“See, that’s the kind of stuff I used to live for.” Faith drops the end of her cigarette to the ground, stomping out the last embers with her boot. “I mean, I know I’m all goody-goody now, but… hey, if we are gonna die, no one’ll care or even notice if I fall off the wagon for a second, right?”

No. No one noticed, Willow thinks. Even if it was just for a second.

“Yo, Red.” Faith waves her hand in front of Willow’s face. “Don’t go all blue pill on me.”

“What?”

“The Matrix. You know, Keanu Reeves, red pill, blue pill, face the big bad or live in the little world in your head where everything’s same-old-same-old til’ you die? I thought we were goin’ down to Sunnydale to kick some evil ass, not talk about our problems.”

Right… “But… they were… robots?” Artificial intelligence. Same thing. Not really. Not important, impending apocalypse.

So… Faith fell asleep after the first 30 minutes. Sue her. “Huh?”

“…Never mind.”

“Listen.” Faith stands up, stretching before meeting Willow’s eyes. “I know you don’t wanna talk about it, or whatever. I get it. For what it’s worth, I’m sorry.”

No, it wasn’t exactly on her list of pressing topics to discuss with her local recently-less-evil, escaped-convict slayer. “Thanks.” Willow nods, pulling on the cuffs of her sweater, “Sorry for the almost-getting-murdered-in-jail.”

“Nah, no big. They could’ve sent the whole block after me and I’d still be here.”

“That’s…” Frightening. “Good.” She doesn’t doubt the truth in it for a second.

“Spot me a dollar? I want some fruit snacks.”

“Yeah,” Willow reaches into her pocket, pulling out a few bills and change, dropping what little cash she has left into Faith’s hand. Somewhere, the universe must be laughing at her. She follows her into the convenience store, tailing just behind Faith as she grabs her candy and places it on the counter unceremoniously.

Faith counts out the change, leaning far over the counter with a devilish smile on her face. She slides the coins over to the teenage boy at the cash register, no older than them, one by one, as she talks. “So, uh, that potential you were talkin’ about. God, what’s her name…”

“Kennedy?” Willow asks, quiet. This random stranger doesn’t need to know her business. Neither does Faith, for that matter.

“Yeah. Her. What’s goin’ on there?” The register dings. The poor kid looks almost inhumanly disinterested.

“I don’t know,” she admits. “I wasn’t expecting it. She’s nice. Different.”

Faith tears into the bag with her teeth as the boy hands her the receipt, popping a red one into her mouth. “What’s she like?”

“Well…” Willow follows her back out to the car, still parked next to the pump. The place is desolate. “She came on to me… not so sub with the text.” Not something she’d ever seen, at least not directed at her — Buffy's flirting with Riley was just about as overt as it gets. “She’s… really pretty. Brown hair, just a little shorter than me. She’s badass. She has all these crazy stories from when she was a kid and the mansion her family owns. Never heard anything like that, growing up in Sunnydale and all. Kinda… feisty? I… I don’t think she likes Buffy. But Buffy’s got the whole impending apocalypse to deal with, so maybe she just didn’t make a good first impression.”

“Sounds like a handful.”

Maybe… not in those exact words. “Well… I mean, yeah, she’s loud, and bold, and strong — obviously, because potential — she’s… just completely different from anyone I’ve ever…”

“Fucked?”

“Faith!” She can feel the slight blush creep up onto her cheeks.

Faith raises an eyebrow.

Well… it’s not like anyone else wants to hear about it… “I mean,” Willow’s face heats up, mumbling, “she’s got a pierced tongue.”

It takes a second for Faith to recover, eyes wide and lips forming a smirk. She laughs, loudly, “God damn, Red, you’re fun now!”

“Yeah, well, comes with the territory.” The territory they share.

“Sure, but… just never figured you’d be a friends-with-benefits-type gal.”

“I—” Kennedy’s not… “She’s…”

“What,” Faith laughs, eyebrows raised in disbelief, “your girlfriend?”

“I mean, yeah, I guess so!” Isn’t she?

“You better quit guessin’, Red. Girl’s been through enough already if it’s as bad as you said.”

“What?”

“Whether you actually want this right now, or just want to feel something.”

She’s not sure what’s more worrying — the fact that Faith is right, or the fact that she’s been flinging herself into a post-almost-apocalyptic rebound without a second thought, until now. Willow crosses her arms, pulling them in close to her chest. “Since when do you give decent advice?”

Faith stops at the driver’s side door, blocking Willow’s path. “My own special blend of trying desperately to get over someone I’ll never have, and, well… prison changes a woman. You know half of that, yeah?”

“That would be a no on the prison.” And a yes to the other, in her own way. No need to explain. Faith’s gotten the previously on already. But Willow hasn’t heard Faith’s side. “Who was he?”

“He?” Faith laughs, stuffing her hands in her pockets. “Come on, read the room, Red. I haven’t exactly been subtle.”

Willow’s eyes widen, and she takes a small step back, bumping into the car door. “Are you saying…?” To be fair, she kind of figured Faith swung that way too. Violently. With her own two fists and a stake. She just didn’t think she was exactly the kind of person Faith would be into.

“No, not you, Red,” she chuckles. “Should I be asking you the same thing, though? ‘Cause Slayer Junior sounds like you gave 16-year-old me a trust fund and less mommy issues.” She steps closer to Willow again, running a finger down her arm. “I mean, all you had to do was ask.”

Willow doesn’t say anything — but she doesn’t move. She knows from experience it’s best not to entertain Faith in these kinds of situations.

Faith, to her credit, does back off, but stands her ground, continuing the conversation; “She likes you. She chased you.”

“I like her too.” Kennedy’s… cool. Yeah.

“But not the way she wants.” Willow knows that, on some level. “We’ve got enough emotionally fucked up slayers here with just me and B, Red.”

“I don’t know if I could.” The way she wants.

Faith nods. “Too bad we both got a thing for blondes. I guess we’re not so different after all. What with the whole, temporary-evil bit.”

She decides to ignore Faith’s comparison. “I don’t have a thing… and… and I didn’t think you were… picky.”

“I’m not,” Faith says, shrugging. “I think it must be a slayer thing.”

Oh. “Oh.” She means Buffy. “So… you were…”

“Absolutely screwed and not in the fun way.” She doesn’t take her cue (she was hitting on Buffy, wasn’t she?), just lets out what Willow can tell Faith was bottling up for so long.

Not that Faith crushing on Buffy is an easy thought to reconcile — it frames… just about every interaction they’ve had in a new light. Especially one: “So then why’d you pull a Freaky Friday on her?”

Willow hates that she thinks she might know the answer.

“Dunno. Wanted to see how the other half lived. Blondes have more fun, et cetera. And, well…” Faith smirks, letting out a laugh with a subtle wink. Not to mention, still shoveling fruit gummies into her mouth all the while.

Yeah. She shouldn’t have asked. “Please don’t make that face ever again.”

“What, you never noticed I was makin’ eyes at her way back?” Willow shakes her head. “Seriously? Damn, I knew B was oblivious, but you, Red? I figured you know, girl on — sorry, girl to girl — you woulda seen something.”

Willow can’t help the red-hot blush from Faith’s (clearly intentional) slip from flooding her entire face. “What is this, Faith?” She asks, and she’s honestly almost amused. For her to pull this, at a time like this, after telling Willow she's been crushing on her best friend for years… it's entirely Faith, and then some.

“What?” You know exactly what this is.

“What are you trying to do here?”

“Come on, Red,” Faith smiles, a sickeningly sweet veneer covering up every dark part of her. She moves in quick, catching herself with a hand on the car, just next to Willow’s head. “A girl can’t catch up and reminisce?”

“Not about trying to seduce my best friend and almost causing the apocalypse.”

“Then I guess you can’t talk either, huh?”

“Don’t,” Willow says, through gritted teeth, “go there.” How many times does she have to tell Faith she doesn't want to talk about it?

“I told you. Not so different.” No, not in so many words. You almost cause one apocalypse, and suddenly, you’re the bad guy.

“What’s your point?” Willow asks, her temper growing shorter with each passing second she has to spend in Faith’s presence. And it’s at least another two hours of this.

“I dunno,” Faith sighs, “Something about doing reckless things, blah, blah, I forget.” She leans in closer and Willow has nowhere to go. “But I do recall you saying something about good clean fun?”

Willow fumbles for the handle behind her. “I-I don’t know what you’re getting at.” That’s a lie. She knows exactly what Faith’s suggesting. The worst part is, she can’t say she’s not tempted — yeah, Faith’s hot — but there’s also about a million reasons she could list off the top of her head why it’s a bad idea.

“You, me, about four years of emotional baggage, what’s not to get?” She can feel Faith’s breath. “I know what it’s like to want someone you can’t have.”

“It’s not the same, Faith.” Her keys jingle as she fiddles with them.

“Doesn’t mean I don’t get it.” Faith takes a step further back, and cracks her knuckles, swaying back and forth on her feet. She reaches out her hand, and gestures her head toward the keys in Willow’s hand. “Come on. Lemme take it for a spin, Red.”

Willow takes advantage of the opening — her distance — slipping inside the car silently before Faith can respond. She crosses her arms. Willow raises her voice, looking at Faith through the dirty window. “Get in the car.”

#fic #willow x faith #faith x willow #~3k words #willow rosenberg #faith lehane #btvs #made #btvs fic

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deviant3lover · 4 years

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Hopeless Garou is my fave Garou. Imagine Badd (or whoever you ship him with) flirt with him, but with terrible cheesy line. Other people around will be like rolling their eyes or pitying them internally 'coz nobody will fall for such a trick these days, ESPECIALLY NOT the ex Hero Hunter himself. But then Garou is totally flustered and people just go "WTF?!".

Continuation from previous ask. Sorry had to make it two parts. Alternate scenario where Garou is still totally flustered but try to flirt back with even more terrible line. If he manage to make a sentence that is.HAHA YESSS. I LOVE IT WHEN PEOPLE DESCRIBE GOOD VISUALS. THIS IS GREAT, ANON!!

And don’t be sorry! I have the bad habit of sending long, long asks myself. Just see some of the old asks I sent to Raya and you’ll see. Especially the soulmate one. Whew. Sorry about that, @rayadraws!

Thanks for waiting for this one to be answered, Anon! I worked a little too hard on it, and I’m not sure if I’m all too happy with how the fic turned out, but here you go!

(Putting this under Read More because again, I have the tendency to go on a tangent lmao-)

Garou can recover from basic corny pick up lines with relative ease once he gets used to them. But it’s the real intimate AND corny ones that get him to be the flustered wolfboy that ties his tongue together, his wittiness coming to a halt.

“I’m fighting the urge to make you the happiest man on earth tonight.”

The low, breathy, intimate lilt to their voice as they say that to him? Whispering it into his ear to make sure nobody knows what they’re saying? To make sure that their words are meant for him and no one else? That they mean it, and that this isn’t a prank?

Imagine that when they’re in private. Garou would try and bark out a laugh and taunting remark to cover up how flustered he is. But if they kept going, kept smooth talking him, tell him how much they loved him…

God knows how red Garou’s face would be. That bravado would slowly break apart until you have Garou hesitantly, but not unwillingly, be quietly more submissive. You order him to cuddle you? He’ll let out a half hearted huff, eyebrows furrowed down, eyes not looking at you, and nuzzles into your hand. Praise normally feeds into his ego, but heartfelt whispers about how sweet he is, how handsome he is, how he’s such a good boy?

Garou pretends that they’re cheesy lines that makes him groan in exasperation and tells them to stop, just like any other guy who hates corny stuff. But only part of it is true. One of the reasons he hated them was because they reminded him how alone and alienated he was from the status quo- he never particularly wanted a relationship himself, but with the way that the people around him kept cooing over their loved ones, a part of him knew that he was never particularly liked enough to have a sweetheart if he wanted a relationship. It’s just one of those things that made him bitter about what the popular can have but the hated cannot.

He’s witty enough to respond to cheesy lines over time, but the ones that really get him are intimate ones whispered only to him. Those ones aren’t challenges or playful teasing, but ones that cherish him.

Garou can act like the tough guy all he wants, but he’ll turn away so they don’t see his face. Way too embarrassing. ;3

(Audio CD’s are his guilty pleasure huehuehue-)

“Hey baby, I lost my number, can I get yours?”

Garou freezes, whirls around and sees a cute teen around his age asking for his number. Garou has a bit of a blush on his face, but it’s only a bit. Hell, no one hit on him before, so that must mean the lovesick sap meant that for someone else.

Garou turns around and keeps walking, scoffing to himself. Probably for one of the people in front of him.

“You don’t want my number, hero hunter?”

Garou chokes on his words and turns around again, the same guy/girl looking at him with a bit of a mischievous glint in their eyes, laced with a bit of confusion at him leaving.

Garou furrows his brow and slowly walks over to them, the visual not unlike a wary stray dog coming over to greet a human offering food.He stops right in front of them, glowering. “Look, you. I don’t know who put you up to this, but you’re messing with the wrong guy. Do you know who I am, dumbass?”

The offender just smiles, and takes a step forward. Garou’s glare intensified as a result of him not wanting to take a step back in response, but he’d be lying if he said he wasn’t a little wary of the look that they’re giving him. Scowls, glares, empty looks hiding disgust or rage, fear stricken eyes, he’s seen them all in his hero hunting career.

There’s no trace of it here. He can’t bargain to get them to leave him alone when they aren’t afraid of him or when they don’t want to capture him for some sweet, sweet cash.

He’s out of his element, but he’s survived worse, didn’t he? He can take out a squad of heroes while severely injured- he sure as hell can adapt and learn from a new threat.

The teen laces their hands together behind their back, and Garou’s eyes flick to them. Their clothing didn’t exactly have any pockets, and on this warm day, the material was pretty thin. The weapon they’d be hiding would be thin and all too easy to block or dodge. If they knew who he was, odds are that it’s going to be poisoned. Something powerful enough to kill him.

But they didn’t pull out a weapon. Nothing up their sleeves or from their pants.Their hands just laced together and their posture relaxed into a more coy demeanor. Garou’s eyes flicked back to their face, and holy-

“Everyone knows your name, Garou. But I want to be the only one who knows how you scream mine in bed.”

“WHA-“

Garou hisses in shocked mortification and bolts from them for a good foot or two. They were in a public space god damn it! There were only a few people around, but even they were starting to stare and whisper to each other. That little outburst got him more than a gasp from their ‘audience.’

Wait a fucking second.

Garou’s shock twisted into a hatred. No wonder they were acting so cutesy.“Real fucking classy, amateur. You think you’d have the balls and the wits to humiliate me in front of your fans?”

The teen’s eyebrows shot up to their forehead. Suddenly, the recognition sets in as they look to their sides, a few housewives whispering to each other in their doorways, quickly looking away when they catch them.

But none of it registers to Garou. The hatred- the self hatred- boils under his skin and wrenches his heart as an ugly feeling washes over him.

—

Memories of being torn down and humiliated as a kid- a girl who was the leader of her group laughing after revealing that her confession was a lie, her friends capturing it all on video. Memories of angry tears running down his face when they mock him for being such a sissy for blushing and smiling the way he did, and giving a heartfelt thanks for the beautiful bouquet of flowers she gave him.

The same one that was snatched from him and given to her boyfriend, who walked into the room upon her giving the cue. Taller, older, and playing for the school’s football team. A smug smile was the last thing Garou saw from her before a swift punch to his face from her boyfriend knocked his gaze to the floor, the aching, bruising feeling, the iron taste on his tongue, the loose tooth waggling from its place- it was all too much. He ran away from the little birthday ‘party’ he was invited to, the video and its views online acting as her sick present.

He didn’t bother coming to school that day. Tacchan would’ve seen it too.

—

But the H.A. was after his ass, and they’d do anything to pin any blame on his name for any sort of crime- misdemeanor or not.

He spat at the person’s feet and stalked away into the crowd, not noticing the apology on the tip of their tongue, the sorry look on their face, as he bit out some sweet, parting words:

“Piss off.”

——

Oh god, I really went into a tangent there didn’t I? And on an unhappy ending at that! I could’ve kept on going, but then I would have never finished it. ^^;; Anyway, hope you enjoyed~ :3

#opm #garou

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kdramaanon · 5 years

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Hotel Del Luna Ep 15 & 16

(Spoiler) I was bawling bc of Ms. Choi, whew chile, I didn't know what she was going to do.. I'm glad she found her peace because they did her so wrong. I'm glad that she & Man Wol were able to help each other with their resentments..people are brought into your life to teach you lessons.

I dropped the ball on Mr. Kim, shame can mess you up as bad as resentment can..duh! I didn't see that coming, anger isn't the only thing that can hold you back from your peace. Staying stuck, fear, shame, guilt, & isolation are big blocks too. I know it didn't matter anymore but I would've liked to find out if the baby was a boy or a girl.

I thought what Man Wol did to Mi Ra with the TV was HILARIOUS! Get that last word in girl!

Because I did not let myself have false hope with this show, I was (mostly) okay with Chan Seong sending Man Wol off. I did think he'd take the medicine though.

And, can we talk about Kim Soo Hyun y'all! Lawd, the military did him GOOD! 😋😍😍🙌🙌

I survived despite bawling my eyes out starting ar the 30 minute mark...I've felt much worse after watching finales of other dramas (Scarlet Heart Ryeo, Goblin, Memories of the Alhambra, Mr. Sunshine 👀👀, yeah I'm talking about all of you!!)

#hotel del luna

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leal-5 · 5 years

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Tomb of Time Destiny: Chapter 12

Erza POV

The knight beside me- I think I heard his name was Redus- used the momentary surprise of the Phantom Lord knights to lunge forward, piercing the first man in the shoulder. Juvia and I hesitated, caught off guard by the blood that literally spurted from the gash in the man's cloak and flesh. But then I tensed. They were attacking now, and they were seriously cranky.

I glanced back and was relieved to see the two women, on a ledge twelve feet above us, reaching for their next perch. They were nearly to safety. At least we would die for something. Jellal and Gray clearly needed to marry those chicks for some reason.

'Maybe they'll name their first girls after us-'

The four knights came closer to us, hands out in placating manner. "Now, this will not help you at all," said the first. "Women should never play with the weapons of men."

'When facing an opponent larger or stronger than yourself, use the element of surprise.'

"No, they should not play with them," I said, adopting a guilty look and pretending to agree with him. "They should learn to wield them," Juvia said, already circling to gain the momentum we needed, "properly," I finished, ramming our swords into theirs. He and the guy beside him barely brought their own swords up in time.

I arced it upward and used the weight of it to bring it down at him again, from the other side. Again, he narrowly blocked my blow, eyes widening in understanding that we weren't pretending. "Aww, we have two lioness's here," he sputtered in a delighted but patronizing tone, beginning his attack. He was as large as Gajeel. Surprise, my temporary ally, was gone.

"Erza! Juvia!" cried both Carmen and Ava, now on top of the cliff.

"Go!" I called back in irritation. She wasted precious seconds with the theatrics. "Go for help!"

They were rushing right at us, all four of them, yelling ferociously. Juvia and I stood back to back, calm and calculating.

'Once the element of surprise is gone, be relentless- but don't tire yourself out. Anticipate their every move. You must always be two or three steps ahead.'

We close our eyes and do as we were taught. A rush of air to my right. I lean to the left slightly and raise my sword, intercepting the hit. I can feel two of them rushing forward again. I block one hit with my sword and the other with my armored arm. Behind me Juvia matches me step per step.

Side.

Block.

Head.

Duck.

Strike.

Dodge.

The men quickly become even more frustrated- can you blame them? They're getting their asses handed back to them by girls- and they all rush at us with loud battle cries at the same time, intending to pierce us all at once from four different directions.

'Once you have them where you want them, attack!'

"Juv's."

"Ready."

Almost as if it happened in slow motion, Juvia and I simultaniously shift so that the tips of their swords met harmlessly in the middle, hitting nothing. Before they can even react, I slam the hilt of my sword onto one of the mans face and elbow the other one in the nose. In front of me Juvia does the same, except she kicks the other man in the face with enough force to send him sprawling. None of them get up.

I turn to see Redus finish off his own opponent, and frowned. 'Weren't there si-'

"AAH!"

"Juvia?!" I turned just I saw the missing man kick Juvia's side from behind. He caught her off guard!

My vision turns red as I see Juvia go down, her face crumpled in pain. The man had a satisfied look on his face until he caught sight of me. He had no time to think, only react, as I rushed forward with my sword. The imensity of the impact as my hit his sword caused him to drop his own sword. He cursed and shook his hands, trying to get the blood flowing back into them. His eyes widened when he realized I was swinging my sword again and he raised his arm to block the hit.

I don't know what stuff my armor was made out of, but it clearly wasn't the same as his because it dented and tore the metal pretty badly. The man's face crumpled in pain and I sent him flying with a spinning kick to his face. He slammed into the large boulder before shriveling down to the floor uselessly. I glared at him for a heartbeat before rushing back to Juvia's side.

"Juvia! Juvia! Talk to me! Are you okay? Where did he kick you?" I asked in english, growing more worried when her pained face didn't ease.

"Donne moi une minute..."Juvia muttered, her eyes squeezed shut.

"Hey, Juvs, I don't speak french." I said nervously.

"One..moment..." She said breathlessly, slowly proping herself up on her elbow.

"They guy must've had quite a mighty kick to have you in pain like this."

"It wasn't the kick that hurt me," Juvia said as she pulled herself up to sit on a nearby log. "When I fell over the hilt of my sword rammed into my thigh."

I winced slightly. That had to hurt.

"Wh-what happened?" Redus asked wide eyed, staring at the mess of bodies loitering around us. He stared at us in open shock and mild fear. "Only a witch could do such a thing!"

"N-no! Please listen to us Redus! We are not witches! We are simply well trained!"

"Y-yes! Juvia's guardian made sure she and her sister's knew how to defend themselves in case there was no one there to help them!"

"And also, look! They're still breathing! If we were witches don't you think we would've finished them off?"

Redus seemed to take this all into account. "B-but still even if you aren't witches, what you've done is extrordinary! You've single-handedly taken down five Phantom Lord knights! What do you really want of Fairy Tail?"

We shook our heads, practically pleading with him to believe us. "The only thing we want is to find our sisters and to go back home. It'll be like we never crossed paths with Fairy Tail."

We never heard his response because at that moment Castor and Pollux crashed through the trees like some wild animals, Jellal not far behind.

"Redus! Where are the girls?!" Jellal exclaimed when he saw him alone.

Castor immediatly trampled past Redus and over any unconsious Phantom Lord knights and headed straight towards me. I raise from my crouched position to properly hug him tightly, thanking him for the reinforcements. Jellal came charging at us so fast I nearly raised my sword out of instinct.

"Erza." He said in relief when he was close enough to see my face clearly. 'Cause, yknow, the bright red hair didn't give away.'

"Are you alright?"

I snorted. "Better than them." I said, jutting my head to the left. Jellal's eye's widened when he saw the floor littered with bodies.

"Whew! Redus you did this all on your own?" Exclaimed Natsu after he exploded into the clearing where we were located, Gajeel and Gray hot on his heels. "Remind me to spar with you next time!"

Redus only raised his arms in defeat. "As much as I would love to accept, you'll have to take that offer up with them."

All eyes followed the direction of where his arm was pointed till their gazed landed on us and the swords in our hands.

".......WHAT?! FIRST THEY GET CASTOR AND POLLUX TO LOVE THEM AND NOW THEY CAN FIGHT TOO?!?!?!" Fire spewed from Natsu's mouth as he ran around the forest screaming and raging.

"Gihi, I'm totally challenging both of you when we get back." Gajeel said with a vicious smirk.

Gray and Jellal, on the other hand, had their mouths wide open, ready to catch flies.

Juvia POV

'Juvia thinks we broke Gray and Jellal...'

I tried to do damage control. "It was six against one! We couldn't allow Redus to fight alone! And also it gave better chances for Ava and Carmen to get away!"

At the mention of their fiances they immediatly came back to their senses. "Where are Carmen and Ava?" Jellal asked as he looked around. Erza pointed at the top of the boulder. "Over there, they climbed the rocks."

"Carmen and Ava.....climbed?" he said incredulously.

Erza nodded, trying not to smirk at the memory.

"This day is just full of surprises," Jellal muttered, running a hand down his face. "No other knights reached the top? They reached safety?"

"They never even got close," Erza said, nodding.

As Jellal continued to ask Erza questions about what happened I leaned heavily on my sword. Pollux, noticing this, began to trot in place in worry. Gray noticed his weird behavior and crouched beside me. "Juvia? Can you stand?"

"Of course," I said in irritation, not wanting to seem weak as they so usually implied for women. But as soon as I straightened, I grunted loudly, barely catching myself from crying out from the pain radiating from my thigh again. Erza turned around so fast her hair whiped in Jellals face.

"Juvia!" Gray said. "You're injured? I didn't see blood." He looked around where I was seated, his face a mask of confusion. I took a step, stumbled, nearly fell, but Gray caught me and picked me up in his arms.

"Th-this is unnessecary Gray!" I yelled, lowering my head so my hair would hide the blush rising in my cheeks.

"I will not let it go until you tell me what happened. Were you...were we too late?"

"Were you too- NO!" I yelled, figuring out what he meant. "Please, let Juvia go," I said, squirming in his arms. "Release Juvia!" It was far too intimate, and my mind and heart were a mash of jumbled emotions and thoughts. Gently, he set me down where I could partially sit up on a boulder. Erza came and touched my shoulder. I nodded, telling her I was okay.

Jellal and Gray stood before us. "What happened? Out with it."

Erza sighed. "One of the knights managed to sneak behind Juvia and kick her, when Juvia fell the hilt of her sword came ramming down into her thigh."

"It's nothing serious! Juvia thinks she just has a bruised muscle. Nothing that won't heal in a few days." I said, trying to lighten the mood a bit. It didn't work, the look on Gray's face was one of barely unleashed fury.

'Is he...mad at Juvia?!' I thought with an incredulous expression.

"How many men did you lose?" Erza finally asked after a silent moment.

"Five. And one of the ladies in waiting suffered an arrow wound."

Silence hung in the air as we soaked that information in. Finally Jellal broke the silence. "Come on. We'll help you get on your horses. We need to meet up with the others and find Ava and Carmen."

Before I could say a word, Gray lifted me again in his arms and carried me to my horse 'dajfbaubfwiebfwbaqrftgyjhuklkmnbgvfdrsxzaqazwsxxdcfrvtgyuj-' He set me down alongside Pollux and then looked down at me.

"Juvia," He said after letting out a sigh. "I...I want to thank you, if it hadn't been for you and your sister, Redus, Ava, and Carmen probably wouldn't have made it."

"Oh, erm, uh..." I said intellectually. "Uhh, yeah don't mention it."

He looked amused at my embarrased reaction before- once again without warning- lifting me onto my saddle. He glances at me wierdly when I try to play off the my slight shriek by clearing my throat.

Erza POV

After a very sappy- and hilarious- reunion, we continued on our way. Ava and Carmen were so grateful that they said they would speak to their fathers- which apparently were some big hotshots of this dimension- about helping us find Levy and Lucy.

I was informed by Natsu that the injured woman was taken to a nearby village where her wound would be tended to.

About two and a half hours of chatting with Gajeel and Nastu later, a group of men thundered down the road toward us. Soldiers that guard the town, I guessed, patrolling the road. In minutes, they reached the front of our group and paused to speak with Jellal and Gray. They were strong, men at the height of physical perfection, like our modern Navy SEALs. The leader looked beyond Jellal and caught my eye. I stared blankly back at him. Were they like this everywhere, in this dimension? Or was it just the ones we was running across?

Jellal followed the captain's gaze, and I saw the muscle in his cheek clench. 'What was that about?'

"Hey Natsu," I said lowly. "Your brothers marriage, It's important to both families, right?"

He nodded his head "Yes, it's long been arranged. To go against our father's wishes would mean that Jellal would bring terrible consequences down on our family. You've seen for yourself that we live on the front lines of the conflict."

Of course, Juvia and I manage to fall for the unavailable guys.

I glanced forward again, and my heart skipped when I discovered Jellal gesturing toward me and Juvia, motioning for us to come forward. Natsu, Gajeel, Juvia, and I move to the front of the line together, as we neared the front the captain kindly smiled at me. Not wanting to be rude I returned his small smile.

"Erza," Jellal said, his tone a little sharp, like a scolding. I looked at him, and he cleared his throat. "I'd like you to meet Captain Orlando, Carmen's cousin."

"Captain," I said with a small nod.

"Miss," he returned. His green-brown eyes had a fun, mischievous glint to them. But then his face became more stern. "Tell me, your attackers... were any of them not in the Phantom Lord color violet?"

I frowned, thinking. "I think they were all from Phantom Lord. But it happened so quickly..." I shook my head and looked at Juvia.

"Juvia really didn't pay much attention to what they were wearing."

"I understand," he said, giving me another gentle nod. He looked to Jellal "We will find them, and bring them to justice. Attacking Carmen and Miss Ava like that was a foolish thing to do, knowing how powerful their families are. I will speak to Ava's father of this as well."

"Had they fallen into their hands," Gray said gravely, "they would've been the perfect tool for leverage."

Orlando's horse danced beneath him, anxious to be on his way. "We will go and remind them that such a tactic should never be considered again."

He had just turned when Carmen said, "Take care, Cousin."

"I will." He paused and to my surprise met my eye again, just for a moment, then back Carmen. "There is a going to be a ball in two days. I hope that all your guests will be there."

Okay, so what was the deal? In our time- and dimension- guys barely gave us the time of day. Here, we caught the eye of everyone we met. It was hardly fair. My head buzzed with all the attention. Maybe they sensed we were different somehow, and that intrigued them.

The soldiers thundered off, leaving six to serve as our rear guard, leaving no room for further attack.

"Gajeel-,"

"Natsu-"

"Do you dance?" we said together once the captain was out of sight.

"Are you asking us to accompany you?" Natsu brought his hand to his chest and fluttered his eyelashes as if I had asked him to prom. Gajeel rolled his eyes at his reaction.

"No," I said, stifling a smile at his messing around. "We're asking if you can teach us the proper steps of the dances of Fiore. I am certain they're different from those of... Bellum."

A slow smile spread across his face. "Certainly. It would be my pleasure."

"Thank you," I said, hating the embarrassed blush that crawled up my neck. "It comforts me," I rushed on. "Your friendship."

He studied me with his steady, green eyes before giving me his signature grin. To my left Juvia was staring expectantly at Gajeel with a huge smile on her face while he desperately tried to avoid her gaze. Eventually he glanced down at her and sighed at her excited expression.

"One hour." He grumbled while nudging his horse to move ahead so we couldn't see his slightly embarrassed look. Juvia squealed and hugged him before he got to far.

"Hey! Watch it woman!"

"Sorry! Sorry! Juvia got excited!" Juvia giggled and tugged on his hair lighty, much like a little sister would do.

"Tch." Gajeel glared the other way, but it wasn't difficult to see that he was secretly fond of Juvia. I couldn't help but grin at their interaction. 'In another life they would be the best of friends.'

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dp-pastandpresent · 5 years

Text

Past and Present: Chapter 7

There were few things Danny could remember from his previous life.

He had faint memories of his death and it's cause and his family was becoming clearer every day, what with the discovery of the Fentons' computer.

And then there was the girl: The one he couldn't name but remembered leaving behind. The one who's eyes haunted his memories. The one he had loved.

Could her really say love? ; maybe they were more like close friends.

Either way, when Sam told him her name atop the music store, several more memories of his past came flooding back.

"Sarah Manson," he said quietly to himself as things began to click.

"Hmmm?" Sam asked, but he wasn't listening.

''Sarah Manson. Where is this coming from? I had a girlfriend right? Is this the name? It can't be, because that would mean…"

"DANNY!"

At the sound of his real name, he quickly came out of his daze. She was still next to him, a worried look on her face.

"You did want me to call you Danny right?" She seemed very concerned.

Honestly, that was the least of his worries at this point, but he nodded anyways.

"Listen, Sam, right? I just caught wind of an accident, and this time they really do need me, so I should probably be going. But I'll be back this time. I'm just a ghost, don't worry about me."

Before she could even reply , he was flying off into the distance.

'No. You're more than a ghost. You were human once, you have feelings too. You deserve to live.'

She stayed up there a bit longer before something dawned on her.

"How do I get down?"

"She moved on, had a family, and now I'm falling for her daughter…"

He was sitting on a nearby rooftop, thinking out loud about what had just happened.

'Sarah…'

Sarah had been the one. The girl he had grown up with, started dating and eventually had come to love. But because of the fire, he had never even shared his feelings.

The fire.

Even though he was unable to remember the details, he clearly remembered how he had come to be where he was today, and it was all because of a fire.

'Hold up Fenton. Let's forget that for now and think about HER.'

His mind was right, he had more to worry about right now then how he had died.

"It's been fifty years… she's moved on"

'Of course she has, who wouldn't? I wonder how long it took her? Wait! Fifty years? That would make her — and me — 68. There is no way Sam is over 17, which can't make her the daughter. '

"Grandma," he whispered out loud.

'I'm falling in love with her granddaughter'

Just that thought scared him enough to phase through the roof of the building.

It had been a whole day since they had met last, and Danny had tried to move on and forget the whole grandmother/granddaughter relationship.

He had gone back to saving people, though not as often, and there usually wasn't a TV camera there anymore, But who needed that anyway?

However, today there were several surrounding a local fire that had broken out at the town hall.

Danny felt obligated to help the people; fires were his weak spot. He knew firsthand what could happen if the fire got out of control, and he didn't like it.

So naturally, when Sam came down that morning to find her grandma in the kitchen watching the local news, her heart jumped at what she heard.

"And local firefighters have given up! The fire is completely out of control, and going in would risk more lives than already are at risk. However, our very own Phantom, able to handle the intense heat and smoke, is in there right now, searching aimlessly for our illusive mayor!"

"Too bad the firefighters always seem to rely on that Phantom fellow lately," Grandma mumbled.

"Danny," Sam whispered as she sat down next to her, eyes glued to the screen.

The screen flipped to another scene of the fire as a figure emerged from the flames carrying the mayor. Having paid close attention to his recent TV appearance, Sam noticed that the hero seemed a bit more worn this time, walking slower as if the fire had affected him.

The TV announcer seemed to notice as well, adding the very blatant "Well, it seems as though our local hero may have had a bit too much today!"

"I'd be worn out too if the whole town relied on me to save them," her Grandma continued as they showed more footage of the fire, waiting to see if the mayor was ok.

"Yeah, but you gotta admit, Danny does a good job." Sam added, only to realize too late she slipped.

"Danny?" The Grandma asked, looking from the screen to her granddaughter.

'CRAP! Think! How do I get out of this mess?'

The last thing Sam needed was her family involved In her ghost love affair. She quickly made a straight face and tried again.

"Who?" she casually asked.

"I just thought you said… never mind, I must be getting delusional in my older years. You know how I get Sammy." Her grandma smiled innocently.

'Whew.'

"Yeah, you are getting up in there. You know, you're almost 70. Maybe you should take the chair out for a spin?

Sam had grown up knowing her grandma as always being in that chair. An accident early in Sam's childhood had paralyzed her, causing her to be confined to her hover-round. But grandma didn't care; she loved it!

And right now Sam wanted to try everything in her power to get her grandmother off the subject of the ghost boy.

"Good idea!" Her grandma grinned as she rode out of the room.

Sam didn't know it, but her grandma was a lot more alert than she let on.

"Danny? Why would she use that name? I haven't heard it in over 50 years…" She was trying to put the pieces together as she went on her morning trip around the block.

The more she thought about it though, the more she didn't want to. She had been thinking about him a lot lately, what with Sam's sudden happiness.

Every time she delved back into those memories, she felt worse about that night. How could she have not known something was wrong when he didn't call? How could she have just let whatever happened happen? As his girl, she shouldn't have just stood by.

'It's been fifty years, you moved on, met someone new and have had a wonderful son and granddaughter. He's in the past, so why should I worry about him now?"

But the line between past and present had slowly begun to blur over the past few days. It was the ghost boy, Phantom as he was called, that she believed had caused this.

She had yet to get a good look at his face, on TV or in real life, but there was something very familiar about him. Could he possibly be?

'No. If he's a ghost, which I can't believe, but with today's technology…. Ok stop rambling. If Phantom's a ghost, who's to say it's even…'

Sarah hated to even think the name

'There is no way the two can be related. It's just not possible. He disappeared over fifty years ago.'

She kept on scooting, trying to sort out the mess without getting too emotional.

'He seems so familiar, though…'

She was about halfway across the street when it happened. It was instantaneous, nothing more than a blur and a gust of wind going right in front of her face. But it was enough.

'Danny.'

#danny phantom #sam manson #phanfiction #fanfiction #danny phantom fan fiction #danny phantom au #danny phantom fanfic

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scribeofmorpheus · 5 years

Text

The Rebel Queen (vi)

Chapter Six: Aftermath

Pairing: Poe Dameron x (OFC) Princess Calista Ordell

Series Masterlist | Main Masterlist | A03

Words: 3k | Warnings: More ramblings of a delusional fanfic writer…

A/N: Ahhh! The Mandalorian’s trailer dropped and I’m… Whew! On a separate note, here is a post that links to causes to help aid Brazil Indigenous tribes and here is an article that talks about what is happening and other causes you may want to check out.

Taglist is open

Epilogue | About Thesmora

The Somnambulist strained against Odhen’s hands, the nav-stick rigid and stubborn. His hands were sweaty and raw, his muscles shaking as he tried to keep the ship from tearing in half from the intense speeds she was flying through. The Somnambulist had taken too much damage and hadn’t received nearly enough love. It was a miracle she was still holding fast.

“Climb, girl, climb,” he spoke endearingly to the metal ship as they broke through Takodana’s stratosphere. Heat from the friction of speed licked at his windshield.

Using the back of his hand, Odhen whipped the sweat from his forehead and pushed it up into his greasy hairline. A shaky laugh breaking through the empty cockpit as he finally saw stars.

He felt like he could finally slouch back in his chair, then he heard Koa scream loud and shrill. His heart started to race all over again as he swallowed against the dry lump in his throat. A weak sigh leaving him as he blinked away the images that plagued his mind. He blinked away the sound of his wife’s dying breaths coming through, delayed and nearly inaudible, via a weak tight-beam transmission. Now his eyes were watering and he stared down at the medal meant to signify heroism on his jacket and he sobbed, hand pulling the pin so tightly it threatened to tear through his jacket’s tough material.

Relief surged through him when Koa went silent. The whole ship was deader than a graveyard after that. The only sound was the Somnambulist’s soothing thrum. Ton-Ton waddled over, exhausted pants leaving his unseen mouth as he handed a data-pad to Odhen, revealing in Jawaese what was on it.

Odhen wiped his face with the rag that always hung on his belt, the smell of grease was strong, but he didn’t care. He read over the coordinates and swore. Fate was a cruel mistress. Of all the damned places in the entire galaxy, of course their next stop would be the one place he swore never to return to. D’Qar.

Ton-Ton jumped several times, trying his best to get into the co-pilot seat and Odhen chuckled with no humour as he watched his friend struggle to get up. The Jawa took offence at his rudeness and pulled out a wrench from under his robes and threw it at Odhen’s head.

In sluggish movements, using limbs too tired to function, Odhen blocked the wrench from hitting into his face but that just transferred the impact to his shattered elbow and he winced.

“The elbow, mind the elbow, you short devil!” Odhen hissed as he rubbed at his old war injury.

With a grumble, he picked Ton-Ton up and placed him on the chair, an accusatory finger wiggling in front of the Jawa’s one eye, “How many times have I lectured you about hittin’ people? This is my ship, I’m in charge and I’m orderin’ you to cut it out before I space you.”

Ton-Ton swore at him in rapid-fired shots, his little hands whacking the air causing his robe’s sleeves to swish about. Odhen was about to trade his own insults but then he suddenly stopped himself. He was no mood for their exhausting dynamic.

He punched in the coordinates and with a prayer that they wouldn’t be turned to stardust, he set the ship into hyperdrive and just watched the raining stars for a quiet minute.

“I need a drink,” Odhen complained as he licked the sides of his dry cheeks. “Keep us from collidin’ with a satellite will ya’.”

Ton-Ton dismissed him with a wave, then barked over his shoulder as Odhen stood to leave.

“I’m not your barmaid, get one yourself,” Odhen replied.

Ton-Ton made a snide comment and Odhen shook his head before giving in to the Jawa’s request, “Fine, what d’ya want?”

Ton-Ton’s pitch raised with uncertainty as he prattled on. Odhen held up his hand to stop the little firecracker from droning on and giving him a headache.

“We ain’t got none of that. I don’t even know why you think we would. We’re smugglers, not snooty aristocrats. We got some Thessi hooch and we got one cask left of that fancy Ne'tra gal stuff we were supposed to deliver. Pick your poison.”

Ton-Ton answered in monotone and Odhen nodded in response.

“Hooch. Commin’ up,” Odhen blinked slowly as he made his way to the lower decks.

Odhen passed the med bay on his way to the lower deck. Inside he saw Koa in a medically induced coma, her vital organs hooked up to old and beaten machines that needed replacing at least a decade ago. Her warm breath fogged up the mask that covered half her face. Fresh blade slashes and green contusions on her bronze skin marred her arms and legs to imperfection. It would be more accurate to say one and a half arms now.

There was a faint smell of antiseptic and burned hair. It itched at his nose. The white gown they had dressed her in reminded Odhen of funerals and with that simple, unwanted thought, his heart palpitated uncomfortably.

She was so young, too young to look like this. He didn’t think he could survive seeing someone die again. It filled him with fear.

He felt heavy all of a sudden, a name he hadn’t uttered in years slipping out as he braced his jacket at the left side, “Len…”

All of a sudden, the young, freckle-faced boy who held himself like a man, wandered up to Odhen, a sparkle in his eye that meant he knew who he was approaching –and it wasn’t Odhen Boro the smuggler, it was the other guy, the so-called hero.

“Heya, we didn’t get the chance to properly be introduced. I’m-“

Odhen frowned, he didn’t need another name to go with another face. He knew enough of those already and no good had come of adding more to his memory. “I don’t care.”

“Oh,” Zeeke’s mouth fell, his outstretched hand crumpling into a ball as he shoved it back into his pale blue utility pants, the other held onto a blood-stained brown jacket too big for his slender arms. “I just… I wanted to ask-“

Odhen brushed passed him, determined to be alone, “If you need something go ask the droid, it’s what he’s bloody there for.”

“I- Uh… sorry. Of course, I just wanted to say thanks, is all,” Zeeke ducked away in search of Watts.

Odhen pressed the pads of his fingers to his eyes until he saw white spots.

“Now I need two bloody drinks,” he grimaced.

Calista sat with her head in her hands and her body slumped against a cold metal wall. The floor was uncomfortable, digging through her thighs until it found bone. She didn’t care. At least it meant she was still capable of feeling. She was exhausted. After having a disagreement with Mokk-Toh about his not wanting to be put under to allow his wounds to heal faster, Calista decided that the one thing she needed more than anything was solitude. Or the next best thing in a smugglers ship.

The thrum of the engine was louder here below deck. It smelled of ozone and the air tasted like foam. It was probably the effect of being so close to the fuel converters. The darkness was soothing though, and that’s all that mattered to her.

The sound of clanking echoed from an equally dark compartment, the grumbling and grumpy swearing let her know it was Odhen. His frustrated argument with inanimate objects made her smile. He may have been ungroomed, greasy and of poor manner, but something about Odhen struck Calista as being a man with a heart too sensitive for this time. A man guarded because he feared his own empathy, his own vulnerability. He reminded her of what her father would have turned into had he lived to see another war engulf the galaxy.

Another set of footsteps descended the ladder. Poe’s voice called out and Odhen yelped in surprise.

“Sorry,” Poe chuckled lightly. “Just looking for the kid. You seen him?”

“He ain’t here, last I saw he was by the med bay,” Odhen said.

“I just came from there, he’s not in the cockpit or the comms room.”

Odhen cleared his throat, “Look, I can’t help you. I don’t have eyes everywhere. I’m a pilot, not a Jedi.”

“You been drinking?” Poe asked with concern.

“What of it?”

“I just expected the man in charge of navigating us through dangerous space to be sober enough to know the difference between which button launches a torpedo and which brings down the landing gear,” Poe said snidely.

“Why does everyone insist on talkin’ to me?” Odhen’s voice got an octave louder, “This is my ship. Don’t like how I run it, the airlocks that way.”

“What happened to you?” Poe asked almost with pity. “Those medals are Resistance issued. And assuming you didn’t steal them, you used to be more than… this.”

“Yeah, well if you’re the best General Leia has to offer, you’re in for a rude awakening kid. Wipe those stars out your eyes, this is war, war ain’t no place for poster boys like yourself. If you expect to live through it, you’ll be sporting a tough shell too,” Odhen spoke rudely and yet his words held an ominous premonition to it.

Heavy feet clomped away and the whir of a door sliding open followed after.

Calista heaved a sigh. All she wanted was some damn peace and quiet for two minutes. Two. Minutes.

She took a breath and cast her eyes up, staring at the buzzing light. Poe walked into the room and froze for a moment, taken aback by the fact someone else was down there with him.

“Uh, sorry, I didn’t mean to…” His dark eyes narrowed, a thumb pointing behind him. “You didn’t hear any of that, did you?”

Calista smiled and said lazily, “I didn’t hear a thing.”

Poe chuckled, motioning to leave before something in his face decided otherwise, “You alright down here?”

“I’m fine.”

For some reason, he didn’t buy her words. Poe ruffled his hair before skittishly moving towards Calista, one thumb looped around his belt loop. After rocking on the balls of his feet, he sighed and slid down beside her.

There was only the sound of the engine thrum for a long time. Calista’s eyes kept wandering through the ship, her nails digging at the patterned panelling on the floor. Poe held his wrists with his knees digging into the crooks of his elbows.

“So, princess huh?” he said softly.

Calista chuckled, “You assumed. I merely went along with it.”

“A heads up would have been nice, now I look like a right fool in front of royalty,” he mused.

“Well, fool is a good look on you,” she joked.

He held out his hand, “We didn’t get the chance to have a proper introduction. Poe Dameron, Commander with the Resistance.”

Calista blinked slowly, fatigue circling her eyes, “Calista Ordell, Princess of Thesmora.”

They shook hands and then returned to staring at the wall in front of them.

“How’s your friend doing?” he asked.

Calista inhaled deeply, “I’d rather not… if that’s okay with you.”

Poe nodded, changing the subject, “You know, you two look a lot alike.”

Calista eyed him, nibbling at the corner of her mouth as she felt the muscle tug, “Is that your way of saying it wasn’t your fault that you mistook her for me?”

Poe scratched at the scruff under his chin, “Maybe…” he smiled. “But you do resemble each other.”

Calista started undoing one of her braids to keep her hands busy, “There’s some Ordell in her blood. A great grandmother or something other, I think. She got the warmer eyes though.”

“And yet, why do I sense that she’s pricklier than you are?”

“Because you spent five minutes arguing with her. That’s like arguing with a stone wall.”

They turned to each other and laughed in breathy puffs of air. Calista’s eyes growing smaller from the smile on her face. A bit of the weight was taken off her weary soul. She was thankful to him for that.

“She means a lot to you, huh?” he asked, fingers brushing against the letters stamped on his dog-tags, mind split between two places.

“I’ve known her for more than half my life. She’s the closest thing I’ll ever have to a sister,” Calista remarked with fondness, her voice quaky. “I can always count on her never be afraid to boss me around –to challenge me or have a normal conversation with me.”

Poe’s shoulder nudged hers, “What do you call this?” his finger circled between them and the dark, empty room.

She smirked, answering truthfully, “A distraction. One I was in dire need of… thank you.” She said earnestly. “It feels good to talk about anything other than war.”

Poe let go of his dog tags, a sliver of sadness pulling his lips back down, “I know the feeling. Vaguely.”

“I’m sorry about your men, on the ship,” she said wholeheartedly after another beat of silence.

Poe smiled with gratitude, but he didn’t look like a man in mourning, he was just shaken, “The apology is appreciated but not necessary. You didn’t kill them.”

“What were they like?” she asked out of curiosity.

Poe’s jaw tensed before he replied with hollow words, “They were soldiers.”

Footsteps descended down to greet them in their small space.

“Hey hotshot, you down here?” it was Paige.

“In here Tico,” he called out.

She followed after his voice, knocking into a few things on her way over. The first thing Calista noticed about her was that she wasn’t wearing her woolly hat. She looked much younger with her jet black hair falling in waves to shape her face. Poe was stunned for a moment but shook himself back to reality. The atmosphere had changed.

Paige’s eyes went wide when they met Calista’s, “Oh, uh… Your majesty –Am I allowed to call you that?– I wasn’t expecting to find you down here. I just…” She pointed at Poe. “Came down here looking for him.”

“Calista is fine, titles don’t matter much this far out in space,” she reassured the flustered Resistance soldier.

Paige let out a breath, fingers running through her much tamer hair, “Good, thought I botched that one for a moment. I’m new to this whole… socialising with royalty thing.”

Paige shuffled awkwardly before tossing a brown jacket at Poe, “I found Zeeke. He got the droid to clean that for you by the way.”

Poe gave a mock salute with two fingers, “Where was he?”

Paige’s eyebrows rose high as she folded her arms, “In the comms room sending a tight beam.”

“That was the first place I looked,” Poe informed her as he slipped into his Resistance issue jacket.

“You guys must have gotten your wires crossed,” she huffed with an amused smile.

Poe stood from the ground, but didn’t offer Calista a hand up. Somehow he knew she wanted to stay in the dark a little longer. He nodded curtly at her with a knowing look and started towards Paige.

“You feeling better? No more nausea or vertigo?” his voice grew lighter.

Paige shrugged as she walked beside him, “Won’t lie, the nap helped a bunch. Mostly, I’m excited to get back to Rose and scraping the gunk off the wing thrusters…”

Calista closed her eyes as she took in the encompassing comfort of silence once more. The vibrations of the engine burrowing even deeper into her bones, all the way to her marrow. The vibrations turned comforting, like being held safely inside a womb with the sound of a mother’s heartbeat echoing throughout. Calista’s heavy lids grew heavier and she wasn’t strong enough to keep them open any longer.

Calista dreamed she was back on Thesmora, feet bare and planted on the white sands of the beach. The water was so clear it reflected the golden sunset back in a spectacular fashion. The warm water rushing up the sand lapped at her toes. She felt unburdened here. Free.

“Calista,” her mother’s voice sounded out from behind her and Calista gasped.

“Madani?” She whispered in shock as she spun around.

Mother?

Lo and behold, there she was, the magnificent Lenora Ordell. Queen of Thesmora. Mother. Wife. Sister. Ruler.

Her smile creased at her face, coily hair styled elegantly, eyes dusted purple –her signature colour. She held out her hands and Calista practically fell into her embrace. When she did, she felt smaller, shorter… younger.

Looking up, her mother seemed to be taller. Calista looked down at her hands and noticed they had shrunk to a child’s size, so had her toes. Her foot stepping in a footprint nearly three times the size of her own.

“You’ve got big shoes to fill,” a familiar masculine voice spoke out.

Calista removed her face from the sweet-scented fabric of her mother’s dress.

“Farhi?” she mumbled with joy

Father?

Calista turned to the side, eyes catching sight of the handsome and poised looking man who held his shoulders square and had the kindest golden eyes in all the galaxy. Duke Romaine Andrastas Belamon, consort to the queen, father and senator stood proudly before her. He looked barely a day older than when Calista last saw him. All her life, her father had been the older of her parents, but now, in the dream, it was her mother that looked older.

Childish Felix, beautiful, wryly and ill-mannered as he was, sprinted close to Calista’s stubby feet, tripping her onto the sand. Tears streamed down her face as she watched her brother run back to the ocean, her father lecturing him for his bad behaviour.

Lenora knelt down, knees digging into fine sand.

“Always find the courage to stand, my child,” a beautiful smile graced over Lenora's timeless features, her hand reaching down. “For as long as you believe you have the strength to keep going, then you will have the strength to keep going.”

Calista rubbed at her cheeks, wiping hot tears away as she dusted her trousers and accepted her mother's outstretched hand. The sounds of her brother’s laughter tickling at her ear.

“Remember Calista, just because you got knocked down, doesn’t mean you belong there.” Lenora helped Calista to her feet, glancing over at the golden shores of the beach, a content look in her eyes.

As Lenora stepped to the side, a purple water lily grew in the spot where her feet had been planted. It was her coronation flower. The symbol that marked the start of her administration. To her people, purple meant strength in the face of adversity and great willpower –it also meant stubbornness and beauty. The water lily symbolised balance –someone of old faith with an open mind.

Calista stared back at her own smaller footprint and noticed bare hyphae strands twining in the ground. No flower as yet. No identity as a ruler.

Boots crunched into the sand, clunky armour grinding at the joints. Calista jumped in fear when she saw Versengen encroaching towards her family. His footsteps turned the sand to glass, heat effervescing off the boot prints.

“You look so much like your father,” he repeated.

Calista spun around to look for her father, eyes darting anxiously, but he was gone, so was Felix. Nothing but clouds in the sky and waves on the shore.

Something warm meandered along the length of her hand and she was shocked to discover it was blood. Calista’s head snapped up, seeing Maligma’s polished, dark nails wrapped around her mother’s throat while a sharp dagger was held close to her mouth. A fresh cut opened her mother’s throat so all she could do was gag voicelessly.

“Did you have a good day at the beach?” Maligma asked with an unhinging smile, her hair and body caught on fire, devouring everything like wildfire.

When she looked back at Versengen, he was inching his helmet off his head. The sun’s glare blinded her momentarily, and in that moment she thought she saw a familiar face hiding underneath the helmet.

Then a cold touch shivered her out of her dream.

Mokk-Toh hovered over her, his body looking the same; bruised, cut up and in need of rest. He removed his hand from her arm and stood upright, “We’re here princess.”

“Where’s here?” she rubbed her eyes to chase the blurry vision.

“D’Qar.”

To be continued...

Taglist: @carolinamalo53 @everything-intertwined

Permatags: @gruffle1 @thechickvic @notawarriorjustyet @savethehoneeybees

#star wars #poe dameron #poe dameron imagine #star wars fic #tlj #tfa #sw eu #sw tlj #sw tfa #original characters #lore #planets

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fierypen37 · 6 years

Text

The Oasis: Chapter 3

Sooo, this took a bit of a turn. Enjoy!

The throbbing ache between her thighs was unbearable. Even the chafe of the sheet was almost too much against her overstimulated skin. Everywhere his hands landed was an erogenous zone. The back of her calf, really? A shimmery glow of pleasure throbbed at her core, her skin felt thin, dewed with sweat. During every torturous moment of the massage, Daenerys used every ounce of mental focus on staying still. Staying quiet. Red-faced. Panting. Flooded with lube.

Her crush—and there really was no better way to categorize it now—was just that: hers. Ȳdrago drēje. High Valyrian, the language of her ancestors, now codified as the language of law, spoke simply. Speak truth. A maxim Daenerys carried through her life. A servant of justice, a mouthpiece of truth. High ideals, but at the moment, it was hard to think coherently.

Jon. Gods, Jon. He stalked in the room wrapped in a different sort of energy. Focused. Strangled almost. In her shameless staring as he massaged her scalp, his face was set in a ferocious scowl. Brooding, sexy. Even before he began melting her mind in earnest, that gentle teasing, the shared joke. Not good. No matter the state of her relationship with Daario, strained and withered though it was, she was still engaged. A cage of wrought gold.

Daenerys heard him whisper something as he kneaded her arm. A chirp announced the end of the allotted hour. Daenerys quelled a rush of disappointment. This was a good thing. This situation was profoundly unhealthy, seeking nonsexual physical touch from a stranger. She was starved for it. Touch. Comfort. Jon wasn’t responsible for her crush, the way her heart leapt at the sight of his half-smile, or the way the delicate rasp of his calluses had her teetering close to orgasm. The swift thud of her heartbeat felt abnormally loud in her ears.

“That’s it. I’ll leave you to dress. Remember to take care of yourself. Drink plenty of fluids,” Jon said, his tone a touch brusque. Daenerys almost cried out at the loss of his touch. Inside rang a greedy chant of more, more, more! She rose up on her elbows, gobbling up the sight of his strong back, the way his ass looked in his jeans.

“Thank you, Jon.” He half-turned. In the dark she couldn’t read his expression.

“You’re welcome, Dany. I’ll meet you in the hall with some water.”

The door shut behind him with a soft thump. Daenerys buried her burning face in the hem of the sheet and tried her best to collect herself. Deep breaths. She let her mind go blank and white, pliable. It was a trick she’d learn to manage stress in the boardroom or courtroom. Words were just sound. Emotions were just chemicals in her brain.

Lawyers learned to discern the trick of rhetoric, spin. Jon was talented and empathetic, friendly. His other clients must feel the same way Daenerys does. The thought reminded her of Doreah, an intern at her office who relished the effect of her sexual attention on men. That thought twisted the sexual glow into oblivion.

On shaky legs, Daenerys climbed off the table and dressed. The fabric of her clothes rasped against her sensitized skin. Daenerys tied her hair back in a sloppy ponytail. A glance at her phone found seventeen texts from Daario, another three from Vis. She shoved the phone back into her purse, messages unread. Daario could scold her in person.

Jon waited with a foam cup of water in the hall. The soft lighting seemed too bright after the dim massage room. Gods, he was even more handsome. Rich brown eyes behind his glasses. The bold bone structure. The smooth well-groomed beard framing his mouth. That mouth. That body: compact and muscled and . . . down girl. Daenerys accepted the cup with thanks, chewing on her lower lip. The cold water was soothing on her throat. An awkward air breathed between them. Had her feelings been obvious? Daenerys felt her cheeks heat.

“Thank you again, Jon. You’re a great masseur,” she said.

As a lawyer and businesswoman, it behooved her to understand little tics in body language and expression. The talent had been honed to a near sixth sense. The compliment seemed to make him uncomfortable. Jon raked a hand through his hair, yanking it loose from its tie. Black curls fell against his jawline. His answering shrug was tight. The fabric of his black polo strained against broad shoulders and muscular arms.

“You’re welcome. Come back anytime.” Daenerys had an ear for catching lies. His deep voice with a trace of that lovely northern accent sounded genuine. Daenerys managed a small smile.

“I’ll talk to Shae about my next appointment,” she said. Jon shifted his weight and cleared his throat.

“Shae went home. She left me to lock up for the night.”

Alone. With a warren of warm, comfortable rooms. Mood music. Blankets.

“Oh.” The inanity of the word made her wince.

A fantasy burst fully-formed in her mind. Some smooth lead-in to a kiss. Pulling him back into the room and showing him in explicit detail how his massage had affected her. A fun erotic romp with a near-stranger. Her mouth watered at the thought. In her head, she was confident, relaxed. No hang-ups, no freezing, no invasive anxiety. That Daenerys belonged in someone else’s world. Not hers.

The silence was growing uncomfortable. Say something! Jon watched her, his face set in a polite, attentive expression.

“Oh. Well, goodnight then,” Daenerys blurted. A pause. Jon glanced at the clock on the wall. Eleven fifteen. Damn, it was late.

“Hey, it’s getting late. Give me a second to lock up and I’ll walk out with you,” Jon said.

“Ok.” The word fell out of her head.

No, no, no she should gently extricate herself from this situation and march her ass home to her undeniably and justifiably irate fiancé. That logical voice in her head was growing smaller, its nattering mosquito whine held no power. Jon’s quiet, uncomplicated energy was soothing—though a simple touch of his hands made her a frothing sex-crazed creature. Daenerys took a seat in the deserted waiting room as Jon bundled up used linens and tossed them in a hamper. He checked and locked each of the room doors, turned off the lights, emptied the trash bins.

“Ready,” Jon said, Shae’s keys jangling from his finger. Daenerys stood, tugging her jacket hem straight.

He shoved open the door to find the gale of a fierce rainstorm. Daenerys breathed in a fresh, cool air. The rain striking the pavement and roofs created a splashing din. In the light of the blue streetlight, the wind rippled the sheets of rain like unseen hands. Thunder rumbled overhead. A sharp spike of lightning arched through the clouds. Usually, Daenerys loved rainstorms. But not now when she was without a coat or umbrella. In a white silk shirt, full makeup, and spike heels.

“Whew, it’s really coming down!” Jon said, letting the door slide closed. A gust of cool, rain-scented air followed him. The waiting room was dark save for the soft gold accent lights. Like candlelight. Quiet, save for the humming central air unit. Isolated from the noise and trouble of the world beyond. The silence stretched, uncomfortable in the best way.

“You wouldn’t happen to have a car, would you?” Daenerys asked, breaking the moment into shards. Jon grinned and shook his head. Gods, he should smile more often. That flash of white teeth framed by his beard, the crinkle at the corners of his eyes carved itself into her memory in heart-rending detail.

“Sorry. I have my license, but living in the city, I don’t need a car,” Jon said. He gave her an assessing glance, and the sidelong look said he was laughing at her.

“Sharp dressed lady like you doesn’t have a car?” he asked, with a note of teasing. Daenerys bit back a smile, along with several possible responses. In the aftermath of her parents’ divorce, after her mother’s long cancer battle—leaving her and Vis almost penniless—the everyday cost of her car service and security detail would have made her retch.

“I took the El here,” Daenerys said gloomily. Now Jon did laugh, a husky chuckle.

“Oh no! The train stop is eleven blocks away.”

“Got it in one. And I didn’t bring my umbrella,” Daenerys said. Jon flicked his chin, tossing his hair from his eyes.

“I bet it’s cute. Polka dots.” Daenerys didn’t know whether to laugh or bristle at him.

“Black on the outside. The inside lining has blue sky and fluffy clouds.”

“Practical and a little fun,” Jon said with that devastating sexy grin. Danger. Danger zone. Joking, bonding. She was already in deep, crushing hard on him.

“That’s me,” Daenerys said, a little choked. Jon didn’t seem to notice her husky tone. Instead, he cracked the door open again. No break in sight. In fact, it looked like it was raining harder.

“I wish I could help. The bus stop is six blocks away, and the next one won’t come for another fifteen minutes.”

“What about you?” she asked. Jon shrugged.

“I only live seven blocks away. I’ll get soaked, but there’s hot cocoa waiting for me when I get home.”

“Your girlfriend makes it for you?”

A transparent fishing question that made her wince inwardly. Jon eyed her and shrugged.

“No girlfriend. Just me and my mutt. But my neighbor’s a good friend. His wife makes the best hot chocolate.”

“With the little marshmallows?”

“No, better. Real chocolate, a dust of cinnamon . . . and a slug of whiskey.” Daenerys rolled her eyes in exaggerated delight.

“Mm, that sounds like heaven.”

“I’m sure your husband will make you some if you ask.” There was a hint of sharpness in his tone that she wondered at. She made the ring no secret, and hadn’t flirted with him. Not until now anyway. Her bodily reactions, though powerful (mind-altering), were entirely involuntary.

“Fiancé. And I don’t think so. His idea of creativity in the kitchen is the takeout menu drawer. Me too.”

The air between them chilled. Daenerys bit back a shiver. It raised Daario between them, slicing painfully through the hint of flirtation. She shouldn’t get her feelings hurt. It was eleven shades of wrong to use Jon to make herself feel better. He was just so damn easy to talk to. Devastatingly hot and a magician with his hands. Women of King’s Landing beware. A triple threat.

“Whiskey will have to do for us. Goodnight, Jon.” She congratulated herself on the even words, the tone a fraction cooler.

“Goodnight, Dany.” Jon said.

She didn’t wait for more pleasantries.

Squaring her shoulders, she marched out into the rain. The deluge was a cold assault, a heavy pounding of her head and back. Soaked to her skin before she’d made it a block. A passing thought said she could call her car, but in her current mood, a walk in the rain would be restorative. Penitent, even. Flirting with Jon was wrong, given their relative status. It wasn’t fair to Jon or Daario. The cold undid all of Jon’s patient work relaxing her. Tension sang through her muscles, both to generate warmth and conceal her pebbled nipples in the drape of her suit jacket.

Heedless of her clinging clothes and ruined heels, she stomped through puddles and stalked down the steep grade toward the train station. There weren’t many clubs or restaurants in this area, so the crowds were thin. Grim commuters ambushed by the storm. A handful of passerby marched with her at the streetlight. The white florescent glow of the El train wavered ahead through sheets of rain. Thunder roared and echoed, lightning darted between the clouds. Cold rain pounded down. Daenerys clenched her jaw to keep her teeth from chattering.

A tall man in a thick overcoat wove on his feet from the mouth of an alleyway. Drunk. Beer fumes clung to him, along with an oily slick of body odor. Probably homeless. The commuters rippled around him with determined indifference, like water around a river stone.

Daenerys edged to one side of the sidewalk, hemmed in by a bench. The man staggered into her, hard. A step back and her ankle twisted. She exhaled a gasp of pain.

“Watch your step, ser!” she said sharply. The man staggered again, an arm sliding around her shoulders for balance. A cold metal circle pressed against her back.

Gun.

Daenerys cast her eye around wildly for help. No one within shouting distance. Oh gods.

“Follow me into the alley quiet, bitch, or I shoot you through the kidney and you bleed out in the gutter.” Gutteral, heavily-accented Common.

“Take my wallet and leave me alone.” A cold appeal to greed. Whether on the street or in the boardroom, it usually worked. Beneath the hood of his overcoat, dark eyes gleamed. He smiled, an ugly thing with several gold teeth gleaming. His breath was a hot reek of onions.

“We warned you, Daenerys Targaryen. We warned you what would happen.” Fear sank cold talons into her lungs, her intestines. Talons. Like a Harpy. The gun barrel prodded her ribs with a bloom of pain. Daenerys moved on wooden legs toward the alley.

Shit shit shit shit! That fucker was dragging her toward an alley! Jon burst into a sprint, still more than a block away. Following her had been a (stalkerish) impulse but he couldn’t help it. Drop dead gorgeous with a steel spine. That quality in Dany, apparently, was a huge turn-on for him. Her soaked black trousers clung to the ripe curve of her ass. A damn fine view. Add to that, he worried for her. Alone, in the dark, in the cold. Just until she gets to the train stop, he told himself. Just until she was safe under those blinding florescent lights, surrounded by exhausted throngs tapping on their phones.

Now some piece of shit was dragging her into the alley to mug her. Not on his watch. Maybe a block left.

Jon fumbled with his phone, rain pattering on the lock screen. He shoved past some poor bastard crossing the street, ducking between two more waiting at the streetlight. A blaze of headlights. A taxi screeched to a halt amid a hail of Flea Bottom-flavored abuse. Jon careened over the taxi’s hood, crashing to his knees in a puddle. Fuck! His phone’s sullen glow rebuked him from the bottom of the puddle. Through his jeans, his knees were on fire.

“The fuck you think you’re doing? You an action star, eh?” the cabbie shouted through a cracked window. Jon staggered to his feet.

“Hey, call the goldcoats! There’s a lady being mugged!”

“Big deal, man. Lots of ladies get mugged. Meter’s running!” he said. Jon slammed a fist on the guy’s hood.

“Fuck off, then!” he barked, tearing off up the street.

Dany, Dany! Which street was it?

Jon skidded to a stop, glimpsing a flash of white. Dany! Shit, the fucker was at least a foot taller, built like a brick. Jon zeroed in on the revolver aimed at Dany, lit by a garish pink reflection of neon. Pinned against the wall with that big guy leering down at her. Blond hair plastered to her head, she stared the fucker down without so much as a quivering lip. Blood was dark dribble from the corner of her mouth, diluted by rain. Red spilled over him. He would grind that piece of shit through a fucking blender!

Jon charged, rugby-tackling him to the ground. It was like hitting a brick wall, but the bastard went down. The gun skittered across the concrete. Jon’s glasses bounced off. The two of them scrambled across slimy cobbles. Heavy ham-fisted punches rained down on his back. Jon thrashed, like in a scrum, and kept his grip around the man’s thick waist. An arm snaked out to encircle Jon’s throat. Jon wrenched a finger back until he heard a snap. The mangled hand fisted in his sodden shirt which clung to him like a second skin.

Pain burst red as a blow landed on his temple. His ear rang, the ground lurched in a nauseating whirl. Get up! Get up, idiot! Dany’s scream jolted him to his feet. The bastard was struggling for the gun clenched in Dany’s hand. Thick fingers clenched in her ponytail, yanking her head back. Jon staggered to his knees, the world tilting beneath him. A shrieking male roar rang in his ears.

“Bitch!”

Dany crumpled, arms wrapped around her waist, gasping for air.

With a roar, Jon lunged. He slammed punches into the man’s side. A couple right in the kidney and he’d drop like a stone, Jon knew from experience. The fucker exhaled a wheezy breath, struggling and fishtailing in Jon’s grip. Warm wetness dripped from one of his hands. Dany had bitten him. Half-smothered by the oily reek of the overcoat and blinded by rain, Jon hung grimly on.

Jon broke the clinch, staggered back in a ready position. Jon threw a jab, catching him on the chin. The guy feinted, threw a haymaker Jon blocked with his forearm. The follow through landed a hard blow to his side. Wind wheezed out of his lungs, white flashing at the edges of his vision. Jon fell to one knee, clutching the sharp burn of pain in his side. A gold-toothed smile leered down at him.

“You’ll pay for breaking my finger,” he snarled.

Jon mustered up flagging energy, flashing forward. He led with a cross to the jaw, then finished with a vicious knee to the groin. He crumpled, snarling something in a language Jon couldn’t recognize.

Jon scrabbled back, fists raised, poised to kick the living shit out of the fucker—Dany whacked the butt of the gun across the guy’s face. Gouts of blood poured from his broken nose. The man clutched his face with a phlegmy wheeze.

“You fucking cunt!” he said, swiping a hand out to snag her wrist. It was almost funny, the nasally tone. Dany slammed the butt of the gun down on his head again, catching him in the temple. A dull thunk and he fell like a stone. Silence rang, save for gurgle of rain from the mouth of the gutter and Jon’s harsh breathing.

“Is he dead?” Dany asked, teeth chattering and gripping the pistol with white-knuckled hands. Squinting down at his bulky chest, there was a definite rise and fall.

“No, just knocked out.” Probably a serious concussion, if not coma, judging by the blood bubbling from his nose, but Jon kept that to himself. She was shaken up. He took a step toward her and flexed his throbbing hands, unsure if she would want comfort.

“Are you ok? You’re bleeding.” Jon said, gesturing to her cut lip.

“Fine. What are you doing here?”

Washed in faint pink, her eyes glittered beneath her forked brow. Busted. Jon spat a glob of bloody spit on the ground. A blow had cut the inside of his lip. Exhaustion was a heavy grey wave, his knees quivering beneath him. The hot energy drained away. Soaked to the skin, the cold was beginning to penetrate. Gooseflesh stippled his exposed arms. She must be freezing.

“I wanted to make sure you got to the station ok,” he said in a small voice.

“You followed me?” Her voice sounded accusing.

“Good thing I did,” Jon said, with a gesture to the guy on the ground.

“I can take care of myself.”

“I can see that,” Jon said, unable to wipe the slight smile from his face. Pistol-whipping a guy twice her size, what a woman. Dany held the gun with ginger fingers, like the tail of a dead rat. Gods, she was cute. There was a tight squeeze in his chest. He flexed his hands again to check the impulse to hug her.

“I need to call the goldcoats. Give them our statement.”

“Good thinking,” Jon said, plucking the gun from her hand and setting it on the cobbles between them. Dany wobbled around, finding her purse tossed behind a trashcan. Jon frowned.

“Wait, you had your purse the whole time? What kind of mugger was he?” Dany’s eyes looked huge and haunted.

“He wasn’t a mugger. He was trying to . . . kill me.” Jon froze.

“What?”

She broke his gaze, riffling around in her purse. Jon glared at the inert would-be assassin, more than slightly tempted to stomp on his fucking head. Dany muttered a curse.

“My phone’s gone. Do you have yours?”

“Mine took a bit of a dunk chasing after you. Now who’s the guy?” Jon demanded. Dany met his gaze, radiating steely self-possession.

“He works for the Harpy Triumvirate. They’ve sent me death threats every day for three years.” The pieces fell into place with an inevitable click in his head.

“You’re Daenerys Targaryen. CEO of Rising Dragon and founder of Breaking Chains, the anti-trafficking coalition.” It was a statement, not a question. Her gaze was clear and direct, her spine ramrod straight.

“Yes.”

#jonerys #snowstorm #the oasis #masseur!Jon #CEO!Daenerys #danger #UST

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atomic-taco-muffin · 3 years

Text

The Lost Princess Chapter 31

Warnings: same as the last part

Rating: SFW

You and the trio had exited the Seventh Floor entrance and had entered the world of Neverland and you four had found yourselves in a ship.

“Where are we now?” you asked.

“The floor is kinda unsteady. I can hear the ocean too...” Goofy said.

“I know! We must be inside a ship!” Donald said.

“Well, we’d better find a way out. But which way do we go?” Sora said. Tinkerbell flew in and surprised you four.

“Wak!” Donald said.

“Who are you?” Sora asked. Tinkerbell said nothing but flew around you four. Jiminy jumped down from his spot on Sora’s shoulder.

“Maybe she’s trying to help you,” he said.

“Looks like you’re right!” Goofy said. You and the trio followed Tinkerbell to another part of the ship.

“Is it just me, or are all of the rooms starting to look the same?” you asked.

“Maybe we’re just going in circles?” Goofy asked Donald.

“Some help SHE was,” Donald said. Tinkerbell heard Donald and flew around him angrily.

“I think you mighta ruffled her feathers, Donald,” Goofy said.

“Tink, what are you doing?! You weren’t supposed to bring the pirates WITH you!” someone said. Peter Pan flew down from the ceiling and landed in front of you four. You and Sora ran to him but Peter pulled out a dagger.

“Stay back, pirates! Or this will be the last fight you pick!” he said.

“What’s the big idea! We’re not pirates! We’re only here because...hmm...Why are we here, Sora?” Donald said.

“Huh? How am I supposed to know, Donald? Goofy, (Y/N) what do you think?” Sora asked. You shrugged your shoulders, not knowing as well.

“Gawrsh, beats me,” Goofy said.

“Okay, okay, I understand. (Y/N), Sora, Donald, Goofy, right? I guess if you were real pirates---you wouldn’t get lost on your own ship. Plus, you’re dressed funny,” Peter said.

“There you go again!” Donald said.

“Wait, so if you thought that we were pirates...This must be a pirate ship!” you said.

“That’s right. You’re trapped inside the Jolly Roger---ship of the ol’ codfish, Captain Hook.”

“Well, if we’re trapped, that means you are too!” Donald said.

“Me? Don’t be silly. No one can capture Peter Pan! I’m just laying low until it’s time to spring my plan.”

“What plan is that?” Goofy asked.

“The pirates kidnapped my friend Wendy. She’s got to be somewhere on this ship.” Tink flew next to Peter Pan.

“I didn’t expect there to be so many pirates on watch, though. I sent Tink to look for a way around...but all she found was you,” Peter said.

“I bet I know what Tink had in mind! If we all make a big enough racket---we can distract the pirates!” Sora said. Tink flew around Sora.

“Gawrsh, you musta read her mind!” Goofy said.

“So how ‘bout it? Let’s work together, at least until we get above deck.”

“Well, why not? Of course, I could save Wendy myself, if I wanted to. But you guys look like you'd be stuck without me.” Peter flew away.

“Don’t you have ANY manners?” Donald asked. Peter Pan and Tinkerbell flew into the room inside where Wendy was.

“There she is!” Peter said.

“Peter? Peter Pan!” Wendy said. You, Sora, Donald, and Goofy had entered the room.

“Wendy, are you alright? I’ve come to rescue you with my three new Lost Boys and my new Lost Girl. C'mon, let's get off this leaky ol' tub and do some exploring! Ha ha! We'll never grow up!” Peter said.

“Listen, Peter. I've got something to tell you... I want to go home to London,” Wendy said. Peter looked at her shocked.

“What are you talking about? Why would you want to do that? You'd have to turn into a grown-up. Besides, goin' on adventures is a lot more fun! If you go back to London, you'll have to leave the nursery. You'll grow up and we'll never see each other again!” he said. Wendy turned away.

“I know, Peter. But... I still want to go home,” she said.

“I came to rescue you! And you don't care if you ever see me again!” Peter said.

“No, you don't understand!”

“Suit yourself! And while you're at it, rescue yourself! I'm leaving.” Peter soon left.

“Hey, wait a minute---” you said.

“There he goes,” Donald said.

“Peter...” Wendy said.

“Not very thoughtful, is he? What do we do now?” Sora asked.

“Hey, I've got an idea! Why don't we think of something once we get up on deck?” Goofy said.

“That doesn't make any sense...I think,” Donald said.

“Well, there's still trouble waiting outside. Wendy, you stay here. We'll try to create a distraction,” you said.

“All right. Be careful,” Wendy said.

“Maybe if you stay here, Peter will change his mind and come back,” Goofy said. You and the trio left the room and entered the deck of the ship.

“Whew! We finally made it out!” Donald said.

“There you are, you rascals!” someone said. You and the trio looked towards the voice and saw Captain Hook.

“I'll teach you to play stow away on my ship! Friends of Peter Pan, I'll wager!” he said. You and the trio turned to one another.

“Are we his friends?” Donald asked.

“He sure didn't seem to think so,” Goofy said.

“Yeah, the way he took off like that,” you said.

“He even ditched Wendy,” Sora said. Hook became angry.

“I'm not finished talking yet! How dare you ignore me and plot behind my back! Uncivilized brats! You're in cahoots with Peter Pan, no mistake!” he said.

“If you say so. Either way, you're gonna let us off this ship,” Sora said.

“And Wendy's coming with us,” Goofy said.

“Think again, you scallywags! Hook's one step ahead of you!” Wendy was on the edge of the plank, which shocked the four of you.

“Wendy!” you and Sora said. You and the trio ran to the edge of the ship.

“Any trouble, and Wendy takes a long walk off the plank!” Hook said.

“You wouldn't!” Donald said.

“Believe me, I'd rather not. After all, I need Wendy to bait that blasted Peter Pan!”

“Then I'll just have to take the bait, you old codfish!” Peter said.

“Huh?!” Peter Pan and Tinkerbell appeared in front of Wendy.

“Peter!” Wendy said.

“Here I am, Hook! Miss me?” Peter said.

“Insolent BRAT! Today is the day you pay for taking my hand!” Hook said. Hook ran toward him, but Peter flew behind Wendy and held her in his hands. He then flew out of the way, leaving Hook hanging at the edge of the plank.

“Uh-oh!” Peter said.

“Agh? Wa-wa-wa-wa-whoa!” Hook said. Hook regained his balance. He then got angry.

“You've made a fool of me for the last time, Pan! I'll cleave you to the brisket!” he said. You and the trio fought Captain Hook and defeated him.

“Thanks, Peter, we owe you one,” you said.

“Well, at first I thought I'd let you handle it, but it really looked like you needed help. But hey, you three did pretty good, though. Wendy, about London... Are you sure you won't change your mind?” Peter said.

“Peter, I'm sorry. But I really want to go home,” Wendy said.

“I was afraid of that... Everyone grows up---and grown-ups always forget. First you'll forget what it feels like to be young, and then you'll forget about me.”

“How can you say such a thing, Peter? I'll never, ever forget you.”

“Sure, that's what you think now. But when you try to remember me, the memories will be gone. You'll forget---little by little, one memory at a time. Once you're grown up, there won't be a single memory left.”

“Don't say that. Memories---even important ones---don't come back to us whenever we want them to. But that doesn't mean the memories are gone. It's more like...like they're sleeping. So when the right thing comes along and wakes the memory up, we can remember it. The memories engraved in our hearts never go away. I'm sure of it,” Sora said.

“He's right, Peter,” Wendy said.

“Never, huh? It's funny. I thought everybody who left Neverland forgot all about it. But I have a feeling you guys just might be different. Okay, Sora! If you say we'll meet again, then I believe you!” Peter said.

“Oh, Peter!”

“Let's go, Wendy. London is waiting.” Wendy nodded and Peter picked her up and started to fly.

“Goodbye, Sora. I'll be waiting to see what you look like all grown up!” he said. Peter, Wendy, and Tinkerbell flew away, but then Tinkerbell flew back to you and Sora.

“What's the matter, Tink?” you asked. Tink created a card of herself and gave it to you and Sora.

“This must be a gift from Peter,” Sora said. The two of you put the card away.

“Maybe he's not such a thoughtless guy after all,” Donald said. A Moogle fell from the sky and landed on Donald.

“Oww!” he said.

“Another gift from Peter?” Goofy asked. You, Sora, and Goofy laughed. The Moogle flew away and you all left Neverland. You and Sora entered the Seventh Floor Exit Hall. The two of you gasped as you entered, seeing Riku, walking towards you two.

“You're... Riku?! What are YOU doing here?” you asked.

“Not happy to see me? Lemme know if I'm getting in the way---ya know, of something that's more important,” Riku said.

“Huh? She didn't mean that...” Sora said.

“Hmph. Spare the excuses. I bet that you had all but forgotten about me.”

“Are you crazy? C'mon. We came all this way looking for YOU!” you said.

“But you're not anymore, right? Now it's only Naminé that you two are looking for. You don't care about me. Just like you never cared... ...at all about her feelings.”

“Naminé's...?” you and Sora asked.

“Hmph. I knew it. Never even gave it a thought, did you? Just cuz you want to see Naminé---sorry---doesn't go both ways. Tell ya the truth, Naminé doesn't even want to look at your face.”

“Why not?!” you asked.

“You two should ask your memories...why Naminé disappeared from the islands. Remember that, and you'd know.”

“Did we... Did we do something? Is it our fault? Riku...” Sora said. Darkness enveloped Riku and he was in his darkness armor.

“Go home, you two. I'll care for Naminé. Anyone who goes near her...” Riku said. He summoned his weapon, Soul Eater.

“...goes through me!” he said. Riku attacked you and Sora, who blocked the attack with his Keyblade and your dagger causing the blades to clash together.

“What's---What's wrong with you?! We're supposed to be friends!” you said.

“Please. Since when have you two ever cared about me? Naminé's not the only one who's sick of looking at you. So am I!” Riku said as he jumped backward.

“Riku, stop it!” Sora said. The three of you continued to battle. After the battle, Riku panted and ran away into the Eighth Floor.

“Riku!” you said.

“Please wait!” Sora said. You and Sora chased Riku into the Eighth Floor. By the time the two of you entered the floor, Riku was gone.

“Riku!” Sora said.

“Where are you?!” you asked. You and Sora didn’t see him, and put your heads down. Donald and Goofy entered the room.

“Sora, (Y/N), are you okay?” Goofy asked.

“Don't worry about us,” you said.

“Riku...what happened?” Sora asked. Jiminy popped out of Sora’s shirt.

“Hmmm... Sure was strange. Almost like Ansem was back controlling Riku again,” he said.

“But we got rid of Ansem for good,” Sora said.

“Then I wonder what is wrong with Riku...” Goofy said.

“Hold on... The king! If he's with Riku, he might be in danger!” Donald said. Goofy nodded. They both looked at you and Sora, who was still upset over Riku.

“Sora...(Y/N)...” Donald said. Jiminy hopped down to the floor.

“I know... You're thinking Riku isn't your friend... But that's just not true,” he said.

“Ya sure?” Sora asked.

“Well, I know he said some awful things to you back there... But you gotta remember---we are in Castle Oblivion. Why, folks lose their memory here a little bit at a time. Riku's probably just forgotten that the three of you were such close friends. That's all.”

“So he just forgot?” you asked.

“My guess is that's so. But guys...instead of being sad, we have to figure out a way to help Riku get his memory back. If we all work together, why, we're sure to get you through this. No need to mope.”

“Jiminy's right. You shouldn't push your friends away,” Goofy said. Donald and Goofy nodded.

“Yeah, okay,” you said, still upset. Donald and Goofy exchanged looks and nodded.

“Sora, (Y/N), do you remember our very first promise?” Donald asked.

“Huh?” you and Sora asked.

“Always smile!” Donald and Goofy said.

“That was the promise we made to each other the first time we met!” Goofy said. Donald nodded in agreement.

“We promised to never forget to keep smiling!” Goofy said. You and Sora started to cheer up.

“You're right,” Sora said. You and Sora held up the cards to the next floor entrance, and entered to the next world.

to be continued...

#kingdom hearts #kingdomhearts #kingdom hearts imagine #kingdom hearts x reader #kingdom+hearts+x+reader #kingdom+hearts+imagines #kingdomhearts x reader #kingdomhearts imagines #kingdomhearts+x+reader #kingdomhearts+imagines

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generalkenobi22 · 6 years

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Fic: Bad Girls Do It Well (Uncharted) - 10,000 words

SUMMARY: Chloe has never considered herself a particularly sentimental person (perish the thought!), but certain memories, certain snapshots in time have an inconvenient way of sticking with a person. After all, only two things have remained constant in her life, amidst the chaos, the adventure, and the danger: music and photography. And...perhaps adopted family along the way? Nope, no, absolutely not. Her sentimentality must have *some* limits, surely

So after actual MONTHS, I’m thrilled to have finally finished this! Awhile ago, Sony put out playlists on Spotify for the characters of Uncharted: the Lost Legacy (they were awesome!). Chloe's was particularly inspiring, and after finishing the game, I found myself really attached to the idea that using a camera to document her adventures was something she's done since the beginning. Please enjoy Bad Girls Do It Well (title from M.I.A.’s “Bad Girls”)!

Can also be found on AO3 - Fanfiction

Oklahoma, 2002 - Nate

I said to the man, “Are you trying to tempt me Because I come from the land of plenty?” And he said, “Do you come from a land down under?”

—Men at Work “Down Under”

“Would you put that away, and give me a hand?” Nate grits out, clearly not amused by this as much as she is.

“And miss out on this view?” Chloe bites her lower lip as she watches his boxerbrief-clad backside through the lens of her camera. He audibly groans at the sound of the lens shutter, and she’s powerless against her smirk turning into a full on grin. “Unlikely.”

She imagines he would throw her an exasperated look right about now, but as it is, he’s crouched on top of a radiator, toes gripping around the edges, while his unclothed torso—along with the rest of his upper body—is dangling outside the window of their fourth story hotel room.

She watches as he contorts himself unnaturally in an attempt to retrieve one of his Para 9’s that was accidently thrown onto the fire escape during what Chloe is referring to as a particularly enthusiastic bit of foreplay. Not wanting to further encourage the suspicions of the front desk manager with patron complaints of an unregistered firearm, Nate lunged after the gun almost immediately, nary a second thought to his own livelihood.

Initially, she had protested, but after watching him writhe about, his muscles extending and contracting every time he moved, she had to admit it was far more entertaining than whatever she could pull up on the telly.

She lets him struggle a moment more before snapping a particularly gratifying shot and adds, “If you consider me your moral support—and you very well should—then I am absolutely lending a hand.”

He ignores her, focusing all of his attention on retrieving the blasted weapon, fingers splayed in the hopes of extending just a few more centimeters. “Almost…got it.”

He flashes her a huge grin once he’s back inside, twirling the Para 9 in his right hand like he’s Steve McQueen, rather than the bloke who was just hanging out of the window in his underpants. It would be absolutely embarrassing if it weren’t so endearing.

“Are you impressed, or what?” he wants to know.

Chloe considers commemorating the moment on film, but suddenly, she really likes the idea of keeping it to herself. Something she can chide herself for being overly sentimental about later. She sets the camera on the table next to her armchair, careful not to knock over the radio, which is providing ambience in the form of 104.5’s eighties at eleven.

(“Is this your guys’ national anthem?” Nate had asked last night once they had collapsed onto the bed. “Down Under” was playing then, too.

“Mmm, yes,” Chloe hums with laughter, her hand tracing aimlessly on his stomach, her head resting comfortably on his chest. “We praise the Queen and country and the musical genius of Colin Hay.”)

In response to Nate, she makes a show of fanning herself dramatically. “Whew! You certainly had me—and the residents of Tulsa who bared witness to your little show—hot and bothered.”

Much to her delight, he rolls his eyes before turning his attention to the desk next to the radiator, the same one he had just vacated. His shoulder holsters (as well as his shirt) are draped haphazardly over the accompanying chair, and he carefully places the firearm back into its holder, snapping it closed.

“You’re a piece of work, y’know that?” he says with his back to her. She can hear the amusement in his voice, but she’s more interested in the patchwork of scars stretched across the broad expanse of his back.

“I distinctly recall there being less complaints where my behavior’s concerned prior to your acrobatic performance,” she replies offhandedly. As if sensing her staring, he turns around and leans against the desk, arms crossed over his chest. “Back when we were…”

Nate grins. “…Preoccupied?”

“Is that what we’re calling it?”

“Among other things.”

“Really?” asks Chloe with a raised eyebrow. “Because I was going to refer to it as ‘being-interrupted-by-a-roving-firearm-before-I-could-even-get-my-top-off.’”

His eyes darken in distraction as he takes in her appearance, and for the first time in…well, ever, she feels herself flush. It’s nothing scandalous—more coverage than a bikini, certainly, in her tank top and knickers. But it’s the harsh light of day and her hair is down, and for the life of her, she can’t recall ever sticking around long enough the morning after for firearm antics and flirtatious banter.

It’s bordering dangerously close to domestic, which should raise all sorts of red flags, but...well, she isn’t exactly running away, is she?

All red flags are blissfully swept away, however, when he closes the distance from the desk to where she’s seated and grips the arms on either side of the chair, effectively caging her in place.

“There’s at least one good thing to come out of all this,” Nate insists, not even trying to be subtle as he rakes his gaze over her from head to toe.

“Which is?” It takes every ounce of restraint she possesses to not break into an absurdly delighted smile. Instead, she brushes her fingers, feather light, over one of his lower arms, lingering far longer than necessary.

“That at least you know it wasn’t a gun in my pocket,” he clarifies, barely holding it together. “I really was happy to see you.”

Now it’s her turn to roll her eyes, which she absolutely does, with only a hint, mind you, of amusement. Nate’s arms shake along with his laughter, but his antics are effectively cut short when she sits up and pulls him into a kiss.

Nate’s jokes only get worse from there, but it doesn’t change the fact that they don’t leave the room for at least two more days.

London, 2009 - Harry

We’re hell raising And we don’t need saving ‘Cause there’s no salvation for a bad girl We’re rock bottom But there ain’t no stopping ‘Cause it’s you and me against the world

—Natalia Kills “Problem"

She comes back from Nepal with insomnia and a spare key for a flat in London that belongs to a dead man. There’s nothing particularly fanciful or noteworthy about the place, except that she spent a lot of time (a lot of nights) there researching and planning their steps from Istanbul to Borneo for Marco Polo’s fleet back when Harry…

…back when Harry was alive.

She can’t bring herself to sleep in his bed, so she sets herself up on the couch, but after two hours of listening to rain pelt against the front window and staring wide-eyed at the ceiling, she can’t take it anymore. She throws on a pair of runners and an ancient gray hoodie before heading out into the night.

It doesn’t take her long to find what she’s looking for. She spots the tattoo shop just up the road and turns into the adjoining alley, bypassing a couple of bins before walking down a small set of worn concrete stairs to the building’s side entrance. She walks inside.

Dim, flickering overhead lights expose a seedy gym underneath. There’s a roped off boxing ring in the middle, a few punching bags near the back, and wooden benches with free weights and barbells off to the side. No treadmills or ellipticals to speak of, but there is faint music coming in through tinny speakers around the room.

She heads toward the back, ignoring the unsettling leers coming from some of the male patrons as she walks by. It’s a little more difficult to block out the bald guy in the ring, his swear-laden diatribe directed at the bloke being pummeled, but Chloe manages.

There’s no one else by the bags, which suits her plenty. She wraps her hands, but before she can start, she feels her burner phone vibrate. It’s two messages—one from Nate and one from Sully. R u ok? Nate wants to know. Damn it Frazer pick up, is Sully’s less subtle text of choice. Chloe doesn’t have the closure or emotional maturity to deal with either of them at the moment. Not until she hits something, anyway.

She thinks about Nate’s stupid face, how he traded in death and bloodshed for picket fences and HOAs, while she was left to deal with the fallout of a dead partner, a-a turncoat. She cracks her neck, left to right, before slamming her fist into the bag. A jolt reverberates back through her arm, and it’s enough to light an unseen spark, to set her off.

Sure, Chloe thinks as she unleashes a series of jabs and hooks, Harry could be an absolute tosser, but she’s not entirely sure he deserved the way he went out. Hell, she’s not entirely sure anyone deserves to go out like that. Except maybe Lazaravec. He brought his demise on himself.

But, a small, resolute voice suggests, so did Harry.

She sinks a roundhouse kick, grunting when it lands. The arsehole didn’t even think—just pursued his own ambition, not caring what or, in her case, who became collateral damage.

She blinks as a drop of sweat lands in her eye, swiping at it before landing another uppercut. It wasn’t like she was in love with him (perish the thought!), but he could be charming and sarcastic when it was just the two of them. Admittedly, being with him didn’t require much acting on her part.

She punctuates her next flurry of hits with a muttered swear, and tries to gulp down air. It’s only then that she notices how her chest feels like it’s going to burst open. With an anguished cry, she lands an axe kick that somehow manages to break the punching bag from its chains and send it flying back a few feet. It takes her a moment to calm down, for her shoulders to stop heaving and her heart to stop racing, before she realizes just what has transpired.

“Oi, watch it!” The bald guy from the boxing ring vaults over the ropes and approaches, taking in the broken heavy bag and her disheveled appearance, soaked through hoodie and all. Up close, she notices the cleft in his chin and the scars across his nose and eyebrow.

She brushes the sweat-plastered hair out of her eyes. “Sorry, I—”

“Got swept up in the moment? Yeah, yeah, I’ve heard that one before.” He crosses his arms over his chest. “I dunno if you’ve taken the time to assess what type of establishment this is, but it certainly doesn’t have enough funds to cover property damage every time some lady’s off her nut.”

Chloe bristles at that and reaches into her pocket, too exhausted to call him out on his overt sexism. “Here.” She hands him 50 quid. “Apologies to the establishment from the knackered lady.”

He pockets the money, mouth lifting into a slight smirk, but he doesn’t apologize. “Y’know,” he says instead, “we run an amateur boxing match every week. If your affinity for property destruction can be equally applied to people, you should consider signing up.”

He hands her his card (his name is Charlie, apparently) before he hops back into the ring, presumably to continue his coaching efforts. The tension in her shoulders dissipates, and she shoves his card into her front pocket. Breathing steady once again, she wipes a hand over her brow and snaps a picture of the downed punching bag. She sends it to Nate and Sully.

I’m processing, she writes back.

Sydney, 2010 - Sully

The time has come To say fair’s fair To pay the rent, now To pay our share

—Midnight Oil “Beds are Burning”

“This easily could have been discussed over the telephone, Victor.”

Sully swivels in his bar stool and looks at her over his glass of scotch. His smile is visible beneath his mustache. “Would you believe me if I said I missed the hell out of ya?”

“No,” she responds emphatically, but her laughter betrays the hardened exterior she has worked so hard to uphold over the years. She absentmindedly stirs her own drink. “I don’t buy it. What I would believe more is if you said you were here on behalf of one Nathan Drake.”

She knows she’s spot on when his cheeks go slightly pink.

“Can’t it be both?” he asks sheepishly, which says a lot about their relationship and his sincerity because Victor’s not sheepish about anything.

She laughs. “I knew it! So what is it this time, hmm? The latest treasure hunt’s gone belly up, and Nate needs a couple hundred quid to bounce back? Or perhaps his latest adventure brings him down under, and he and Fisher need a place to crash? Is that it?”

Sully remains silent and pointedly avoids her gaze. It’s so uncharacteristic, Chloe becomes concerned that Nate and Elena may be in serious danger. “Victor,” she presses, placing a hand on his shoulder, “Just tell me what’s going on. Are they—?”

“Nate and Elena are getting married.”

Chloe nearly chokes on her spritzer. “Married?”

“Don’t act all surprised, Frazer. This was bound to happen sooner or later.”

“Or perhaps,” she offers, “not at all?”

Sully clicks his tongue at that in an annoyingly condescending way. He pauses, shifting in his seat, clearly uncomfortable. “Don’t tell me you’re still sweet on him after all this time?”

‘Him’ meaning Nate. She doesn’t even have to convince herself anymore. She scoffs. “Hardly.”

“Good. Because for a second there…” He lets out a nervous breath, and slams back the rest of his scotch.

“Wait just a minute, I’m not supposed to be comforting you in all this,” Chloe insists. She motions for the bartender to come over. Before she proceeds any further, she’s going to need a much stiffer drink. “You’re supposed to be offering me false platitudes like, ‘she can’t possibly compare to you, Chloe.’”

“Oh.” Sully takes that information in. He scratches the back of his neck, and then lifts his gaze to hers. “…Do you need me to?”

“Of course not!” Chloe blurts. Mercifully, the bartender returns with her whiskey sour. She pouts, then: “But the gesture would have been appreciated.”

Sully smirks at that. “Forgive an old man his impertinence then, will you?”

They sit in companionable silence for a moment as Chloe nurses her drink. Sully’s turned around, his elbows resting on the bar top as he takes in the view of the beach behind them. When the bartender returns to settle their tab, Sully brushes her off and says he’ll take care of it. Unable to muster any energy to protest, she closes her eyes and relishes the feel of the sun on the bare skin of her back.

“Well, mazel tov to the happy couple, but why would this warrant an in-person rendezvous?” she finally asks when her curiosity becomes nearly insufferable. “Not that I’m complaining about the exceptional company by any means,” she amends.

Sully doesn’t answer right away, but when he finally does, it sounds like he’s tiptoeing across a minefield. “They need another witness, and when I suggested you as a potential candidate...well, Nate and Elena thought it was a great idea.”

Chloe lets that marinate a moment before she asks, “Who, if I may ask, is the other witness?”

Sully beams. “You’re lookin’ at him, sweetheart.”

“Should have guessed.” She sighs dramatically, letting her head loll back. I’m going to regret this, she thinks before she squeezes her eyes shut and blurts, “Fine. But I’m bringing a plus one. This bloke, Charlie, we’re working a job together."

Sully raises an eyebrow at that, but mercifully doesn’t say anything. He claps a hand on her shoulder and pulls his phone out. “I’ll let them know.”

“Wait.” She grabs the phone out of his hands, flips it open, and holds the phone out. “Here, move in closer.”

Sully puts his arm around her shoulder while she gives a thumbs-up with one hand and snaps their picture with the other. They’re both in frame when she looks at the phone screen (of course they are—what is she, an amateur?), so she hands it back to Sully.

“There. Send that over to Nate with the message that I’m in, but he owes me one.”

“From you?” Sully hits send and flashes her a smile of solidarity. “I would expect nothing less.”

London, 2011 - Charlie

So slide over here And give me a moment I’ve got to let you know You’re one of my kind

—INXS “Need You Tonight”

“Do you need any help?” Chloe hollers again, hoping her voice is loud enough to carry to the loft on the second floor. Selfishly, she hopes the answer is ‘no,’ as she has finally settled into the end of his worn, leather couch with a hot mug of tea.

“You’re incorrigible,” Charlie calls back, his voice muffled. She thinks he may have rolled his eyes, which, rude. “I’m fine. I broke my leg, not my executive function.”

She shrugs, causing her oversized jumper to slip off her shoulder. “Have it your way, then. Just don’t come crying to me when you fall and break your neck.”

The warmth from her mug radiates past her fingertips all the way down to her sock-covered feet. She closes her eyes, sinks further into the couch, and pulls her jumper back over her shoulder.

It’s good to be back on solid ground again, she thinks.

They were lucky to be alive after what happened in Syria. Once they were certain none of Marlowe’s agents had successfully tailed them, all three of them (excluding Charlie, of course, who kept groaning and swearing under his breath each time they hit a particularly rough patch of road) took turns driving until they were able to reach a small airstrip some distance from the main road and far away from the ruins they vacated.

(“An old work acquaintance. He owes me one,” was all Sully would say once they parked the tour bus, and he began leading them toward a dilapidated hangar.

“Which leads me to believe,” Charlie chimes in, hobbling and leaning on both Nate and Chloe to remain upright, “that no one we’re about to meet is licensed to operate a bloody tin opener, let alone an aircraft.”)

It was there that they parted ways. Nate and Sully boarded a relatively stable looking plane headed for Yemen, while both she and Charlie were stowed in the back of a run down cargo plane headed for southwest England, surrounded by caged chickens and other small livestock.

As it turns out, Charlie is exceedingly allergic to feathers.

It’s suspiciously silent before Chloe hears the labored sounds of someone trying to hobble down a spiral staircase. When she finally does open her eyes, she’s greeted by Charlie—red faced and wearing a cowboy hat and a pair of white boxer shorts with hearts on them. She has to stifle a disbelieving snort when he proceeds to sling his Danelectro guitar over his shoulders, allowing it to hang low on his hips.

“What are you—?”

Charlie turns his back to her and flips on his stereo, effectively drowning out the rest of her question. When he turns around—nearly losing his balance with his broken leg in the process—he pulls his hat down low and moves his hips in time to the music.

It’s a lot to taken in, but Chloe doesn’t fully dissolve into actual giggles until he lifts his gaze back to her, his brow raised and a wink at the ready. So slide over here, he mouths, hopping across the space in front of the couch with his only good foot, and give me a moment. Things enter into truly mental territory when he mimes playing his guitar.

“Are you insane?” Chloe demands. “The doctor said not to put any direct weight on it for at least a few more days.”

She tries to sound stern, but the smile that keeps breaking out on her face betrays her true feelings. She grabs one of the throw pillows to cover her face when some of his dance moves become slightly more…inappropriate. However, it does nothing to hide her laughter or the flush she feels up around her ears.

He pries the pillow from her grasp and tosses it to the side. “What can I say?” He gives her a come hither gesture. “There’s just something about you, girl, that makes me sweat.”

“Absolutely not,” Chloe says, shaking her head emphatically. She sets her mug on the nearest end table, right next to her mobile phone. Seeing it gives her an idea, so she grabs it, easily switching it to camera mode.

“Sorry, love.” She grins wickedly, not sounding even the least bit apologetic.

Before Charlie knows what’s happening, she snaps the picture. It’s a perfect still of him mid-hop, mid-lip sync, and mid-guitar solo. It takes Chloe breaking into fresh peals of laughter before Charlie realizes what has happened.

“Oi,” he cries, pulling his guitar up and over his head. He props it against the stereo. “This was meant to be a private showing.”

“And it will be,” Chloe assures him. A beat, then, “Right after I send this to Nate, Elena, and Victor.”

Charlie does his best impression of crossing the small distance between them in an intimidating manner. “Chloe,” he says warningly.

She rolls her eyes. “Oh, alright, fine.” She sets the phone aside and crosses her arms, pouting. “You’re no fun.”

“Oh, I’m plenty fun, darling,” he retorts, slowly lowering himself down onto the couch. He nearly loses his balance again, but Chloe crawls over to help, holding his arm to guide him. Once Charlie’s settled (“Bloody hell,” he grumbles under his breath.), Chloe reminds herself that she’s still holding on to his arm.

She makes an effort to pull her hands back, but Charlie snatches her right one, his grip sure. He turns to her, and one glance at his face tells her he has sobered, all mirth quickly gone. She swallows and tries to steady her heart, which begins beating absurdly fast.

Run, her mind tells her, but before she can obey or even protest, Charlie brushes a stray piece of hair behind her ear. His hand lingers, thumb brushing over her cheek.

“Sully would have killed me, back in Syria, if you hadn’t been there to stop me,” he finally says, voice barely above a choked whisper. She can hear the rawness, the slight waver in his voice, and it, frankly, terrifies her.

“Charlie, that’s not—”

He cuts her off. “No, it is. I was a downright mad man, and if it weren’t for you, Nate—“

“—is alive,” she finishes. With her free hand, she scratches her thumb against his stubble. He closes his eyes, pain evident on his face. “There’s no use in dwelling on what could have been. I was there, you weren’t yourself, and that’s that.” She pauses before adding, “In any event, I would have easily bested Victor. He’s incredibly old.”

Charlie lets out an abrupt bark of laughter before he forces himself to look at her again. It’s a new sensation for Chloe, being looked at with such adoration, that is. She’s not sure how she feels about it, only to say that the desperate commands to flee have simmered.

“Thank you,” he says. He searches her eyes for permission, and she nods imperceptibly before he captures her lips with his.

Run, her mind tells her once again, but she throws her arm around his neck, disobeying the command entirely.

One week later, during his follow up appointment, Charlie’s doctor gives both he and Chloe a long lecture about the need to avoid any direct weight on his broken leg. Chloe doesn’t even wait until the doctor is out of earshot.

“I told you so,” she tells Charlie proudly. His eye roll is nearly audible.

Glasgow, 2013 - Sam

I don’t want to go to school I just want to break the rules

—Charli XCX “Break the Rules”

There’s no reason Chloe should even be contemplating this. No reason she should even be here in the first place. It’s like salt and vinegar crisps: absolutely no nutritional value whatsoever, and yet...

…there’s no use in denying the insufferable do-gooder she has become.

A sea of writhing people, colorful, epileptic seizure-inducing lights, and pulsating bass: immediately, Chloe’s senses are assaulted as soon as she enters the club.

This has to be some kind of fire code violation, she thinks to herself sourly as she pushes her way toward the bar, serpentining through throngs of gyrating bodies and one particularly grotesque snogging couple. (“Excuse me!” she practically bellows at them, but they either can’t hear her or simply outright refuse to move out of the way.)

Finally, she reaches the bar. The bartender gestures to the glass in his hands, then back at her, but she waves him off. She wants to have clear reflexes and a sound mind for this particular meet up. Although she had insisted on a public meeting space, there’s still every chance for danger, never mind that she has no idea what her mark looks like. She imagines something like his brother, but that’s certainly not much to go on, is it?

“Now there’s a lovely lass,” she hears over her shoulder. “Curious that she’s all alone though, innit?”

Chloe turns just in time to see the stranger at the bar drag his gaze over the entirety of her person. He’s stocky with a bristly black beard and a terribly unfortunate complexion. She crosses her arms over her chest, doing her best not to shudder, and challenges him with a surly glare of her own.

“Perhaps,” she grits out, her restraint nearly in tatters, “it’s because she prefers solitude over the company that a man, such as yourself, is able to offer.”

In a magnificent feat, the stranger’s face grows even redder. When he makes an attempt to lunge after her, she can feel her heart pound in tune with whatever eurotrash music—noise, really—the DJ keeps churning out. Before the man can embarrass himself or do any lasting damage, another man enters the fray—his back to her—and keeps the other man from moving any closer by placing an outstretched hand square in the middle of his chest.

“Beat it,” the new guy says. He nods in her direction. “She’s with me.”

Chloe doesn’t even have time to enjoy the first guy’s harried retreat (she thinks he may have mumbled an apology, but it’s difficult to be certain with the heavy bass of the music bludgeoning her eardrums) before she rounds in on the new guy.

“I beg your pardon,” she blanches, her hand on her hip. “I am with no…one…”

Her speech falters once the new guy turns around, and she’s suddenly staring into a pair of hazel eyes (though, admittedly, it’s difficult to tell precisely with the uneven lighting). Everything, from the small bump on the bridge of his nose to the slight slope of his shoulders, overwhelms her with a sense of familiarity. She narrows her gaze at him suspiciously.

“Are you trying to tempt me because I come from the land of plenty?” Her tone is airy, but she chooses her words carefully, testing the waters.

“Do you come from a land down under?” he shoots back hopefully, eyebrow raised. In response to her visible relief, the tension in his own shoulders gives way, and he smirks, wiping his hands on his jeans. “Men at Work, huh? Do you do this for all your meet ups, or…?”

Apparently, all the good looks skipped right on down to Nate, she thinks idly. Not that Sam is horribly disfigured, by any means, of course. It’s just with his slightly receding hairline and his two-decades-too-old-to-be-fashionable jeans jacket, he’s not traditionally handsome like his brother.

“No,” she answers, hating herself slightly for her train of thought. “Only for known affiliates of Nate’s. Hazard insurance and all that, you know?”

He continues smirking. “Oh, I know.” A scantily clad woman stumbles past them both, brushing his shoulder as she steadies herself by grabbing onto the bar top. For what it’s worth, Sam’s eyes stay trained on her. He shoots his hand out. “Sam,” he says.

“Chloe.”

As they shake hands, she notices a couple of brutes dressed in oversized parkas just behind Sam. This isn’t her scene by any means, but even she knows that’s too much clothing for this kind of environment. They’re ideal for expertly concealing firearms, though. “Not that it isn’t a pleasure putting a face to a name after all these years, but why am I here, precisely?”

He starts to answer, but she’s barely listening, eyes still trained on the two overdressed men behind him. She watches as they push past the sea of people separating she and Sam from the two of them. It’s likely that they’re tailing them, but Chloe doesn’t want to stick around long enough to be certain.

She promptly grabs hold of Sam’s hand. “Let’s walk and talk, shall we?”

It’s less of a suggestion when she begins pulling him forward. “I—yeah, okay,” he relents.

It grows brighter and louder the closer they get to the center of the dance floor. She can feel a bead of sweat roll down her neck as they continue fighting through people, who are essentially packed in like sardines. Thankfully, the two thugs seem to be unable to bypass a particularly rowdy group of dancers when she glances behind her. It will give them enough time to regroup, at least.

“We’re being tailed!” she yells to Sam once they come to a halt. She has to avoid being hit by the elbow of a nearby dancer jumping up and down.

“What?”

“Followed,” she tries again, this time accompanying it by walking her fingers over the palm of her other hand meaningfully.

He follows her line of sight, and she can see the understanding hit him almost immediately when he turns back around. “That’s what I was saying earlier,” he yells back. “I’m in a lot of trouble.”

“Well, yes, I was able to deduce that on my own, but whatever for?”

A nearby group of girls nearly knocks Sam over, but he steadies himself by holding on to her hips. Almost immediately, he recognizes his error (it doesn’t actually require a reproachful look from her, but she tosses one in anyway) and lets go, holding his hands up for good measure. Sorry, he mouths, looking fully repentant.

“It’s a long story,” he hollers, narrowly dodging a wayward arm, “but I got roped into working for Rafe Adler—”

“Who?”

“Rafe,” he repeats, holding his head in a haughty manner and running his thumb over his index and middle fingers.

Money, she immediately thinks before making the connection between obscene wealth and heightened levels of tossery.

Ah.

“Adler,” she spits out distastefully.

Sam nods. “Exactly, and he’s got us searching for Avery’s—” He covers one of his eyes with his hands, curves the other hand into a hook shape, and mouths arghhh. “—treasure, which is why we’re in Scotland. The trail led us here.”

“Here, as in this horrible den of iniquity in Glasgow?” Chloe yells. They both have been forced into moving along to the music to avoid being hit by any number of the people dancing near them.

“No,” he yells back, barely holding back an eye roll. “St. Dismas Cathedral. We’re not supposed to leave the site, but I had to let someone know in case—” He swallows, the thin sheen of sweat on his Adam’s apple glistening. “—in case something happens. Which is why we’re here, here.” He gestures to the ground meaningfully. “Far away from Rafe’s goons.”

“Have you at least told Nate?” she hollers.

His whole expression falls. “I can’t,” he insists. “He—He already thinks I’m dead—”

Chloe lets out a frustrated groan, her head lolling back. “Of course he does.”

“—which is why I came to you,” he finishes.

“Well, you’ve done some abysmal covert work,” she yells back, her eyes focused just over Sam’s shoulders. He goes to check for himself, but she holds his face in place with both hands. “Our friends are heading toward us. We need to blend, pretend like we’re not dead as soon as they reach us. Follow my lead?”

Sam nods, rather than answering verbally. He follows her as she pushes forward, a little closer to the DJ’s table. When they come to a stop, she drapes her arm over his shoulders, and pulls her phone out of her jacket pocket.

“Hey! Everybody!” she shouts, switching her phone to camera mode. A few of the nearby patrons stop to stare at them. “This lad—” She gestures wildly at Sam. He sheepishly waves. “—just found out he’s going to be a father!”

Sam makes a choking sound just before everyone around them erupts into cheers and excitement. She has to pound on his back a few times for him to stop. When he can breathe again, she holds out her phone until the two of them are in frame, as well as a number of strangers wanting to wish the new dad well.

“’Baby’ on three, everyone!” she instructs. “One…two…three—baby!”

A chorus of ‘baby’ can be heard when she takes the picture. The cheers transform into an overwhelming roar as the patrons around them begin dancing wildly, slapping Sam on the back, and splashing drinks everywhere. It’s the precise level of pandemonium needed to make the brutes lose them. At least, for now, anyway.

Sam flinches as a particularly muscular guy claps him on the back in congratulations. When he moves away, Sam fixes her with an aggravated look. “Thanks for that,” he yells, his dour expression particularly hilarious in light of the glitter and champagne raining down on the two of them.

Chloe sighs dramatically, an infectious grin breaking out on her face.

“I live to serve. C’mon, mate,” she adds, brushing some of the glitter off of his face.

Just as she finishes, another bottle of…something douses both of them, and at its conclusion, Sam—hair soaked through over his eyes, mouth in a hardened line—spits out a mouthful like a tiny fountain. Chloe absolutely loses it as she grabs his hand and starts navigating both of them through the crowd.

“Let’s get out of here before your tail notices,” she barely gets out in between laughter.

Brussels, 2015 - Elena

We bury it, bury it, bury it And rise above

—CHVRCHES “Bury It”

It’s incredibly late—or really early, more accurately—when she gets the call.

The initial ring doesn’t even rouse her. Rather, she groans and turns over, pulling the covers over her head to block out the sound of snoring. But when it grows louder and more persistent, she grudgingly cracks an eye open, only to be blinded by the blue light filtering out from under her mobile as the vibrations cause it to skitter across the end table.

She takes a moment to reorient herself with her surroundings before carefully extracting herself from Charlie’s arm, which is draped across her waist, and wrapping a nearby blanket around her. Sufficiently cocooned, she grabs her phone and pads across the carpet over to the balcony off their hotel room, careful to close the sliding glass door behind her quietly.

She doesn’t recognize the number on the screen, but this is a new phone (the last one not only ran out of minutes, but also plummeted to the bottom of the Thames), and there’s every chance this could be a known affiliate.

She swipes up. “Hello?”

There’s silence on the other end, then, “…Chloe? It’s me, Elena.”

Well…shit, Chloe thinks rather unceremoniously, sinking on to the cheap plastic chaise lounge, pulling her blanket more tightly around her.

“Elena.” She hopes her voice doesn’t betray the sudden onset of fear sparked by this unexpected phone call. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

It’s not that the two of them don’t communicate—quite the contrary, actually. There’s the occasional e-mail and a handful of texts containing memes about their circle of acquaintances (the last one Elena sent was Chrissy Teigan’s cry face with the text: when he scales the building to enter through the 8th floor window but you could have picked the lock on the front door). They even follow each other on Instagram (in fact, she had just given a like to Elena’s last uploaded photo, the one of her new camera). However, they rarely speak over the phone. The last time had been—

…Well, the last time had been the night she and Nate separated.

There’s some shuffling on the other end before Elena responds. “Nate mentioned you were traveling, so I tried to time it correctly. Did I wake you up?”

“No,” Chloe insists, clearly stifling a yawn, “nothing less than bright-eyed and bushy-tailed on this end.” She hesitates before quickly adding, “Charlie, on the other hand, is still asleep.”

Chloe can practically hear Elena’s knowing smile on the other end. “How isCharlie anyway?”

They’re not even in the same time zone, yet she can still feel her ears grow hot. “He’s fine, if you must know,” Chloe relents, unable to stop the small smile that stretches across her face. “But now you’re clearly trying to distract me. Is…?” She hesitates, uncertain whether she will be able to stomach whatever Elena throws at her. “…Is everything all right?”

She hears Elena sigh. “Eventually, you’re going to have to give me some more details, you know that, right?”

Chloe rolls her eyes. “Obviously. But out with it, Sunshine: is everything okay? Are you and Nate—?”

“We’re fine,” Elena cuts her off, more hurriedly than defensively, which seems to bode well, in Chloe’s opinion, “or at least, we will be. We’ve decided to…leave the life.”

“Leave the life?” Chloe repeats, her voice hollow. She’s heard this one before.

“More like continue the life, but do it in a strictly legal sense,” Elena clarifies, “including permits, dig crews, no firearms, et cetera.”

Chloe snorts. “So…all things I’ve no patience for?”

Elena laughs at that. “More or less.”

“But this is something you want?”

Elena nods, or at least, Chloe assumes she does. “I suggested it, including funds for a really expensive camera and a small crew, so I can reboot Uncharted, my old show."

“And Nate’s on board with all this…gentrification of sorts?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Fascinating. I wonder what’s got him so generous all of a sudden.” Realizing how that comes across, she hastens to add, “Other than him being irrevocably in love with you, I mean.”

It sounds as though Elena has a retort for that, but instead she simply blurts, “Nate has a brother.”

The silence that falls between them is deafening. “Oh,” is all Chloe can manage—guilt slowly coiling in the pit of her stomach—before Elena launches into the story of what has occurred over the last couple months.

On the street below, there’s some kind of festival still carrying on from earlier in the evening. Colorful string lights dot the perimeter, while the sound of excited chatter and electronic music, as well as the smell of deep-fried smoutebollen, waft up to where she is on the fourth floor. Her stomach growls in response, but she ignores it, focusing only on Elena’s retelling of the events at King’s Bay, how she met Sam, and later, how they barely escaped from New Devon with their lives in tact.

“That’s actually why I’m calling,” Elena says, after she recalls the circumstances that led to she and Nate buying Jameson’s business for their new Stepford—rather than crime—inspired lives. “The last time we talked, you mentioned going back to India to…follow your father’s trail and track down the Tusk. Have you—is that still your plan?”

Chloe makes a choking sound, the question catching her completely off guard. “I—“ she sputters, shocked that Elena remembers any of that conversation at all. “Yes.”

“Since I’m basically retired, and since there’s no chance you would ask Charlie to come along…?”

Chloe glances through the window behind her, the outline of Charlie’s sleeping form visible. “Absolutely not,” she says emphatically.

Elena snorts. “I thought as much,” she admits, “but I think I have another option. The way Nate tells it, Rafe’s right hand man—Nadine Ross—abandoned them right as Avery’s ship caught fire. Questionable alliance aside, Nadine seems like a competent partner to have in the field.”

Chloe pulls her blanket closer around her, eyes narrowing, as a sharp breeze passes by. “And you know this because…?”

Elena lets out an unexpected bark of laughter. “Chloe, she kicked Nate’s ass. Not once, but twice over the course of our trip.” She pauses and then quietly admits, “There’s something especially cathartic about it happening on two completely different continents.”

Chloe wipes the tears from her eyes—a combination of laughter and the relentless wind. “Say no more,” she insists breathlessly. As soon as her teeth begin chattering, she decides it’s time to head back inside. “Do you have a way to get in touch?” she asks quietly, gently closing the sliding door behind her. She makes a beeline to the bed, sighing when the covers come up and over her frozen feet.

There’s a slight hesitation on Elena’s end before she suggests, “Call Sam. He probably knows how.”

It takes a moment for the unspoken meaning in her words to settle in, but once it does, Chloe’s face falls and her stomach plummets to the ground.

She knows.

“Elena,” Chloe breathes, her knuckles white and hands frozen in place as they clutch onto the covers. “I’m so—”

“I know,” Elena interrupts. Her tone isn’t angry, but it’s not exactly warm either.

“I wanted to tell you about him, truly,” she confesses, flinching at how desperate her voice sounds, “but I didn’t feel it was my place. I thought it should come from Nate, and—”

“I know,” Elena says again. “Listen—” she continues, trying to stifle a yawn in the process, “—I don’t want to interrupt your beauty sleep any longer than I already have, so…just keep me posted on your plans for India, okay? Oh, and tell Charlie I said hi.”

That makes Chloe chuckle. “Of course. And, Elena?”

“Hmm?”

“Thank you,” she tells her, hoping her emphasis is enough to cover all multitude of her own sins.

“Of course,” Elena echoes.

The line goes dead, and Chloe is nowhere near satisfied with the residual guilt and accompanying broken record playing over in her mind, especially because she can’t seem to fall back to sleep. So she snaps a quick photo of Charlie (he’s sprawled out on his stomach, boxers riding low on his hips, and a small stream of drool seeping from his lax, open mouth onto his pillow), and texts it to Elena with the caption six minutes into Jet Lag & Chill.

She wakens the next morning to a three-crying laughing emoji response from Elena.

It’s a start.

Maharashtra, 2017 - Nadine

And I don’t really care if nobody else believes ‘Cause I’ve still got a lot of fight left in me

—Rachel Platten “Fight Song”

It figures that her hero’s journey doesn’t play by the rules in the least bit. Sure, she stopped the villain, survived all sorts of danger, and even walked away with the treasure. But rather than riding off into the sunset while the credits roll, as is tradition, she finds herself...pushing her ride off into sunset.

Because it bloody well figures that the battery would go dead here, three-quarters of the way up a hill, at the end of their journey.

“Do I have to do all the work over here?” Chloe huffs out. She sets her feet into the dry dirt and throws her whole body into her next push, powered by a second wind. “Or do you plan on stepping up in front of the wicket?”

Sam tears his gaze away Nadine (…which, Chloe doesn’t even begin to have enough emotional, physical, mental—etc.— wherewithal to address any part of whatever that whole situation may be), and shoots her a bewildered look. “Wicket?”

Americans, she thinks irritably before making it her top priority to reach the top of this God forsaken hill, if only to sink a fist into Sam’s incredibly punchable face. Up front, she can hear Nadine—who, in addition to pushing, is also gripping the steering wheel to guide the jeep forward—snicker.

“You mean, like, baseball?” Sam wants to know. “As in ‘step up to the plate?’ Because that—” He grunts, pushing into the vehicle, trying not to loose his footing. “—I understand. That I can—shit—that I can work with.”

His stumbling and flailing cause Nadine to burst into outright laughter. She tosses a rare grin behind her in Chloe’s direction. “I follow you, Frazer.”

“Thank you!” she cries. “At least someone is sensible in this group.”

“Yeah, okay, have your fun,” he mumbles petulantly, “but who do you know that collects cricket cards, huh? I’m feelin’ pretty confident that number’s a big ol’ zero.”

Chloe doesn’t trust herself to say anything further, so she sinks all of her physical and mental efforts into pushing the jeep to the top. Her back and legs are killing her, but the thought of a bath and dry clothes in Mumbai once they get this monstrosity up and running is enough to motivate her to keep going, keep pushing.

“Easy, easy!” Nadine calls back. “Just a little more, and we’re over the precipice.”

By some small miracle, they’re on flat land again, and instead of dirt and rubble in her line of sight, Chloe can see the cerulean sky above and a sea of lush green and brown vegetation below. With few clouds for cover, the sun beats down on them relentlessly, doing absolutely nothing whatsoever for the pool of sweat collecting at the small of her back and her chest. At this point, the dark sweat stains on her shirt resemble some kind of beginner’s abstract expressionist painting.

The vehicle settles into place absent the momentum, creaking to a halt. Exhausted, Chloe and Nadine lean against the jeep, trying to catch their breath. For his part, Sam circles around to the front and pops the bonnet. He coughs and wheezes as a plume of smoke unfurls from the engine compartment. Thankfully, it’s white, not black, which—according to Chloe’s very limited motor vehicle knowledge—is the better of the two kinds of smoke.

“I’ll take a look at this battery, see if I can’t get this thing up and running again,” Sam says. He disappears behind the bonnet, and it’s all very gallant until he adds, “You girls just stay there and look pretty.”

Nadine and Chloe exchange looks before they both break into disbelieving smiles. Pretty is certainly the last word Chloe would use to describe her current appearance. Perhaps artfully disheveled instead? Nadine gestures for her to follow her into the front of the jeep, which she does, and the two of them collapse into the driver and passenger seats.

“Are we certain we can entrust this vehicle and our livelihoods to this uncultured American?” Chloe directs to Nadine, but says loud enough for Sam to hear.

“You’ve already said ‘American,’” Nadine adds as an aside, “the ‘uncultured’ bit is understood.”

Sure enough, Sam chimes in with a protest. “Hey! I’ll have you know that I used to have a completely cherried out, 1962 Indian motorcycle back when I was in Boston, so I know a little something about cars. Just…let me have this one area of expertise, huh?”

“Okay, okay,” Chloe sighs as if it’s taking a lot out of her to grant him this request, “let’s allow this strapping man’s man to fix our ride home.”

She can’t tell for certain, but she thinks Sam might be frowning. “Thank you,” he deadpans from behind the canopy of the engine compartment, which only serves to make both Nadine and Chloe snicker quietly.

Silence falls over them (with the exception of the clink clank of whatever Sam’s doing to the jeep) as Chloe leans back against the headrest and closes her eyes to the overhead sun. It’s short lived, however, when Nadine speaks up.

“Sam—” He pops his head out to look at her. “—what on earth possessed you to get this ridiculous thing?” she asks, gesturing to the side of her neck that mirrors his, the one with the bird tattoos.

Chloe pops an eye open to witness his response. He ignores Nadine’s insult and instead clears his throat. “If you’re good, maybe I’ll show you my other tattoo.”

Chloe shouldn’t find his concluding wink so…visceral. And yet… “More than one?” she interjects, while Nadine mimes heaving up the contents of her stomach, accompanied by some over the top retching sounds.

He shrugs. “My cellmate was doing a buy one, get one sort of thing.”

Against her better judgment, Chloe laughs at that. His returning smile does absolutely nothing to her. “I can appreciate a man who recognizes a good bargain when he sees it.”

Sam returns to his work, but Nadine clearly has more thoughts on the matter. She turns to Chloe and jabs a thumb in his direction. “If that’s the case,” she says, referring to Chloe’s earlier comment, “I wonder what kind of bargain resulted in that floral shirt.”

The sound of the engine sputtering to life cuts off any protests Sam may have (and Chloe is quite confident he has more than a few). It doesn’t stop the sound of raucous laughter from she and Nadine, but it certainly drowns out a lot of it.

“See?” he says smugly, slamming the bonnet shut and approaching the passenger seat. “Told you I could do it.”

He goes to grab the door handle, but Nadine holds it resolutely shut. “Back,” is all she says, jabbing her thumb behind her.

Dejected, Sam hoists himself up and over the backside of the jeep and settles onto one of the wheel hubs with one arm draped over his knee. “What a show of appreciation,” he mumbles, somewhat bitterly.

“Now, now,” Chloe begins, shifting into first gear, but her knuckles hit a button on the dash, and she’s interrupted by the sound of the radio. And not just any radio, either: pop radio.

In English.

Sam’s the first to recover. “What the hell is this?” he demands, a look of pure disgust hilariously present on his face.

Chloe turns the dial tuner to other stations, but only finds static in response. “I have no idea,” she admits, perplexed. “Surely, out this far, you would expect something in Marathi, not this. It’s—”

“—it’s noise,” Nadine interjects sourly.

She goes to turn it off completely, but Chloe bats her hand away as soon as she recognizes the song. “No, listen,” she admonishes, the smile spreading on her face almost painful. “This is actually the perfect song to close out our adventure.”

“How? Is this—is this an American torture device?” Nadine tries again.

“No, this is a ballad of empowerment,” Chloe explains between laughter. Sam leans forward and reaches across to turn the radio off, but Nadine elbows him for his efforts. He falls back, coughing and wheezing. “I’m listening,” she says skeptically, a questioning brow lifted.

“Ow,” Sam hisses, rubbing the spot on his chest Nadine hit.

Chloe ignores him as she transfers the weight from the clutch to the gas pedal to begin their ride home. The resulting breeze, though warm, is wonderful. “Our journey has been one of growth and realizing untapped potential,” she explains. “Between Rafe for you, and Nate for me—”

“—eww, what?” Sam blanches, suddenly no longer interested in his chest pain.

“—we haven’t let anything come between us and our success,” Chloe continues as if he didn’t speak. “So this isn’t just our fight song, it’s our ‘prove we’re alright song.’”

“Our…‘take back our lives’ song?” Nadine asks tentatively.

Chloe beams. “Exactly! Elbows,” she says as she goes in for the high five, and their hands collide with a resounding smack. They both smile as Chloe digs her phone out from her back pocket. Using voice command, she switches it camera mode.

“Alright, everyone. Say ‘Tusk of Ganesh!’” she implores.

Sam sinks back onto his seat, arms crossed over his chest. “I hate both of you,” he’s sure to add.

The picture takes, and they don’t stop singing American pop songs until they cross over into Mumbai.

Florida, 2033 - Cassie

You ask yourself When will my time come? Has it all been said and done?

—Missing Persons “Destination Unknown”

“Is it here yet?”

Elena looks up from the stack of mail she’s leafing through on the kitchen table to see Cassie bounding into the living room, bouncing on the balls of her feet when she comes to a stop. She gives a small smile as she looks at one of the return addresses through her reading glasses. “I don’t know yet,” she tells her daughter. She offers the stack to her. “Do you want to look through?”

Cassie takes the proffered stack with a quick thanks and begins her own search.

“Is what here yet?” Nate asks, heading for the refrigerator with the intention of grabbing a beer. When he doesn’t see any, he grunts and grabs a vitamin water instead.

Cassie rolls her eyes at her dad (a behavior that has become increasingly common, Elena notes with a mild level of concern) before she explains, without tearing her gaze from the mail, “Aunt Chloe. She promised she would send something for my birthday.”

Elena frowns, placing her reading glasses on the table. “Cass, that’s not for another week.”

“Yeah, I know,” she agrees, “but Aunt Chloe always plans ahead—”

Elena and Nate share a knowing glance (his raised eyebrow makes her chuckle).

“—plus you have to account for international shipping rates and time differences, and—here it is!” she exclaims, holding up an abnormally shaped package wrapped in brown packing paper. Rather than tape, it’s held together with strategically tied twine.

“Hey!” Nate calls as she practically runs toward the stairs that lead up to her room. “I thought we were supposed to go fishing out on the boat today?”

“We are, Dad. Let me just look at this a second,” she calls back, her voice muffled by the floor of house between them.

Once she’s in the privacy of her own room, Cassie closes the door and flops down onto her bed. She examines the package a minute (her name and mailing address are written in Chloe’s scrawl, the purple ink a nice little addition) before pulling apart the twine ties. The contents of the package spill out once she finishes unfolding the packing paper. She reaches for the folded letter first before the enclosed CD case catches her eye. The cover is bright—there’s a blonde woman on the cover with wild hair, bright pink lips, and a swipe of blue over her eyes—and she flips it over to the track list.

“Cool,” she exhales quietly before placing it aside and picking up the letter again.

When she unfolds it, something falls on her comforter, but she ignores it temporarily as she reads the contents of the letter:

Cassie—

I hope this finds you in time for your birthday. I’ve been in Argentina with Sully and your Uncle Sam for the last few weeks. We’re supposed to meet up with Nadine and Charlie your Uncle Charlie Charlie in Morocco for a job, so apologies in advance if I time this incorrectly.

I pride myself in being the ‘cool’ aunt; however, I’d be remiss if I didn’t express some disbelief over the fact that you will be 16 this year. How time flies! I could launch into stories of you still in nappies, but I do not wish to embarrass you further (we’ll leave that to your father, surely?).

I don’t dawdle in sentimentality. In fact, I loathe it for the most part. However, a sixteenth birthday certainly calls for some level of sentimentality, even if we simply dip our feet in for a short while.

Cassie, you have grown into a remarkable young woman, and I very much look forward to whatever accomplishments you pursue in your future. You are incredibly fortunate to have the parents you do, even though I am sure their own accomplishments may lord over you, somewhat intimidatingly.

Here’s the shared wisdom bit: I’ve been the bad guy, I’ve been the hero, and I’m here to inform you that regardless which direction your path turns, there is always a chance for second chances. Always a chance for growth into something different, something better. If you don’t follow your parents already tread path exactly, there is still hope for you yet. You command your own way forward, and in the event that you make a wrong decision here or there, you are fortunate to have parents who truly love you and will help you get back on track. And for the truly bad decisions, you can always come to your Aunt Chloe. She knows a guy.

Or gal, in the case of Nadine.

Annnd…sentimentality over. Whew. Have the happiest of birthdays, love. Your Uncle Charlie and I plan to be back stateside close to the Christmas holiday next month. Until that time, when you must update me on that cute boy in science lab situation (the one with the neck tattoo, I believe? Which, please don’t take cues from your Uncle Sam), don’t do anything I wouldn’t do ;)

With love, Chloe

P.S.: I’ve enclosed a CD, which is an ancient form of technology that was used to play music in the late 20th, early 21st centuries. Do young people listen to CDs anymore? (Bloody hell, do young people even have to ask, “Do young people, etc.?” Please don’t actually answer that.) Regardless, this is a fantastic album by the Missing Persons (track 4 is a personal favorite), and I thought you might enjoy it as well.

Cassie sets the letter down and directs her attention to whatever fell out of the letter earlier. It’s a photograph of both she and Chloe from nearly a decade ago, Cassie thinks. Chloe’s crouched beside Cassie with her arm around Cassie’s shoulders. They’re both decked out in fedoras and bull whips—Cassie’s even wearing a tiny leather jacket. Cassie remembers the night pretty clearly, including when Sully secretly dumped some extra candy into her trick or treat bag. And then Charlie tried to kiss Chloe on the cheek, but she thought he was a stranger and ended up having to drive him to the ER later for a broken nose.

The memory is enough to make her smile. She flips the photo over and reads the caption:

Keeping up with the Joneses —2023

Her dad interrupts her thoughts as he calls out her name (pretty impatiently, actually). She quickly tacks the newly acquired photo next to some other family pictures—there’s one of her on Sully’s shoulder after a soccer victory in elementary school; one of she and Sam in sunglasses, trying to look effortlessly cool; one of she and Vicky in life preserver vests on the boat; one of Charlie teaching her how to play the Martin guitar he bought her in middle school; one of Nadine showing her how to properly land a punch; and one of she and her parents at Disney World (her dad looks so dorky in mouse ears and a Hawaiian print shirt).

“Coming!” she calls back, grabbing her fishing rod, and racing down the stairs to meet him.

#uncharted #uncharted fic #fanfic #chloe frazer #the lost legacy spoilers #my fic #My writing #nathan drake #charlie cutter 2kalways #sam drake #victor sullivan #elena fisher #nadine ross #cassie drake #(because that is the person I've become: the one who reflects A LOT on vidya games)#vidya games

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