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blueraineshadows · 2 days

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Blood Bound Part 8

Sebastian Sallow 🔺️ F!MC 🔺️Leander Prewett

Sebastian has a favour to ask his twin amid concerns about Rookwood’s intentions. Meanwhile, MC takes the first step into her new future, only it isn't what she planned...

Words 10.9k Tags: NSFW / sexual activity / angst / sibling tension / mentions of abuse / dark magic / anxiety

Chapter Master List and Ao3

Tagging List at the end.

Eight: The First Move

The years spent within the darkness of her cell had cut MC off from human interaction. The days stretched into a blur of cold shadows and screaming terror, the air of madness was so thick it had seeped into the very stone of the walls, encapsulating the horror with no escape. Starved of touch and affection, MC had hidden the soft parts of herself behind mental barriers to protect her mind, and around her heart she had erected stone walls of a different kind. These walls protected her from the madness, but it had also left her feeling numb and empty. She had become one with the darkness, a shadow of her former self. Lonely.

Outside, the real world was loud and bright, with people who spoke to her, their eyes meeting hers and probing against these protections that she had been forced to surround herself with. Fearful of making the mistake of placing her trust in the wrong person, unwilling to find herself trapped and utterly alone again, MC couldn’t imagine being able to lower these barriers.

Until now.

The cavern of emptiness behind her ribs ached to be filled. To feel wanted, to be seen as a person and not the number that had been branded into the skin of her neck. It was a deeply profound thing. Still frightened of what it could mean, she had come to Leander in the dark of the night to explore the sensations of warmth that had begun to slip through the cracks of her rigid control. Here, in his bedroom, she had dared to cross a line that made her tremble with anticipation.

Teetering on the edge of abandon, MC tipped her head back, Leander’s large hands cradling the back of it, his fingers threaded into her unbound hair as his lips tasted her exposed throat. Her own lips were parted in a soft sigh, a fierce ache beginning to grow in her lower abdomen as she worked her hips in a slow grind against his lap. Her hands smoothed up his chest to grip his shoulders, her teeth catching on her lower lip as she felt the growing hardness through the soft cotton of his pyjama bottoms. He had somehow broken through her shields leaving her a wanton, breathless vessel of need. It was scandalous how she rutted against him, and yet it felt so good.

Whispering her name against her throat, Leander held her hips, looking down to watch as she writhed against him. He moaned, his hips flexing towards her heat.

“Gods…you are so…tempting,” he groaned, leaning his forehead against her shoulder. His hands slid upwards towards her waist, dragging her nightgown in his grip to expose her thighs. The feel of his hands sent searing flame through the thin cotton of her nightdress, the sensitivity of her skin causing sparks to fly through her blood. The heat gathered deep within, her breathing heavy as she allowed herself to push back those mental barriers.

“Tell me you want more,” she whispered, her fingers caressing his neck and teasing at his hair. Capturing his lower lip with her mouth, she sucked slowly at the plump flesh, savouring the little whimper that came from his throat.

Despite the darkness of his room, she could still see the intensity of his gaze, looking into the honey brown of his eyes and feeling the fire that blazed behind them. It was a power all of its own to know she could capture him this way. It emboldened her, made her push past the insecurities of knowing she was still too thin, her skin pale from years in the dark. Slowly, she pulled at the ribbon on the front of her nightgown, loosening the fastening until the fabric began to slide off one shoulder.

Leander watched, his cheeks darkening as more of her skin became exposed to him, his tongue darting out to wet his lips. “We don’t have to…I mean, I wouldn’t want to take advantage of you,” he faltered, his eyes unable to look away as her nightgown slipped even further, the lace trimmed edge dangerously close to exposing her breast.

“What if I am taking advantage of you, Prewett?” She murmured, the curve of her mouth teasing as she took hold of one of his hands and placed it against her chest, her skin craving the contact to the point of exquisite torture.

His throat worked as he swallowed, the tips of his fingers trembling slightly as they ghosted against her skin, tracing delicate lines until the base of his hand nudged the edge of her nightgown. It slipped, dropping to expose the soft curve of her breast, her breath catching in her throat as his palm grazed against the tightening peak. He stared, transfixed as his fingers traced along the swooping curve, outlining the shape as his thumb grazed in a teasing stroke over her nipple. She gasped softly at the tingling fire spreading out from the stiff arousal, goosebumps erupting across her skin at his feather light exploration.

“Lee…please,” she whispered, her fingers gripping into the soft hair at the back of his head.

“Have you ever done anything like this before?” He asked softly, his eyes lifting to look at her more closely.

She could see the concern in his eyes, his effortless nature of being a gentleman strong enough to bypass the obvious need she could feel pressing urgently through his pyjama bottoms against her heat. It wasn’t an unreasonable question considering she had spent the last four years incarcerated in a prison cell, thrown there when she was barely sixteen. She realised it would be best not to go into too much detail about the how and when of her sexual past, not wanting Sebastian hovering between them at this moment.

She nodded to confirm that she had done this before, capturing his lips in a teasing kiss, grinding against his lap with slow rolls of her hips. It had been a long time, but her need bypassed her nerves, her body seeking relief now that she had opened herself to the flame. “I’m not a virgin,” she whispered, keeping her mouth achingly close against his. “Take me, Lee. Please, make me feel alive.”

The look he gave her stole her breath, his eyes darkening with a desire that pulled fiercely on the growing fire in her belly. The handsome lines of his face changed from his usual soft disposition into something edgier, almost dangerous, as his hands fisted into the soft cotton of her nightdress and dragged it upwards with clear intent. A ragged gasp left her mouth, her arms lifting willingly as he tore the garment from her body and discarded it into the room.

He swore under his breath, his fingers biting into the delicate flesh of her hips as he devoured her nakedness with hungry eyes. The change in him was palpable, and she had barely begun to work on the buttons of his sleep shirt before he rolled her onto her back, claiming her mouth with a passion bursting with confidence and unabated hunger.

Her breath was stolen at his urgency, the confident slide of his hands over her flesh waking up every nerve ending that had slumbered under tight control. The heat of his kiss seared her skin as he mouthed along her collar bone, working his way down towards her aching, heavy breasts. Her back arched in ecstasy as he sucked a peak into his mouth, his hand cupping the back of her thigh and adjusting her leg to his liking, his fingers dragging across quivering muscle to drift teasingly close to where she throbbed for him.

The anticipation was almost overwhelming, her lungs burning as she dragged in rasping breaths, her blood singing with desperation as she clung to him. “Please,” she whined, her brow creasing and her teeth dragging across her lower lip as his fingers brushed against her core.

“Don’t worry,” he promised, kissing his way along her jaw before finding her mouth. “Let me take care of you.”

A few deft strokes from his fingertips and he was in, twisting the length of his finger into her slick, tight heat. She echoed his breathless groan, closing her eyes as she lost herself in his torturous exploration. He definitely seemed to know what he was doing, the relief so sweet she could almost taste it as he worked her open, adding a second finger that had her nails digging into the flesh of his arm.

Just when she thought she could ride out the rhythmic thrust of his fingers, balanced on the wave of pleasure he was building, the pad of his thumb began to circle slowly, each delicate swipe thrumming over her unbelievably sensitive bundle of nerves.

“There…Lee,” she cried, arching against him, eyes wide. Her body tensed, overwhelmed and on the brink of shattering already. His hand slowed, his mouth pressing soft kisses along her neck until his lips were grazing her ear.

“Easy, easy. Relax,” he whispered, eliciting shivers along her spine. She closed her eyes, trying to steady her erratic heartbeat, the sensations he was awaking inside of her like huge, crashing waves. “I’ve got you, you can let go.”

He began to pleasure her again, slowly this time, each swipe of thumb and plunge of fingers throwing more fuel onto the building inferno deep in her core. Her hips rocked of their own will, low moans leaving her lips with abandon as she gradually loosened her grip on her control, giving in to the sensations he was giving her. Heat flamed across her cheeks, her fingers curling into the fabric of his sleep shirt as she felt herself tightening again, her gaze drifting down to watch as his hand moved with erotic ease. Lost for words, she allowed herself to give in, her hips bearing downwards as she slipped off the edge into pulsing, molten release.

His kisses danced across her flushed cheeks. “I hope you know how beautiful you are,” he said, the tip of his nose nudging against hers.

It felt so strange to hear those words on his lips, her head barely able to accept them as truth despite the way he was looking at her. Awestruck might have been the word to use as his hands soothed across her heated skin. Her heart was pounding, nerve endings still twitching with pleasure as her body floated on the ebbing tide of release. Wanting to repay him for making her feel this way, she opened his sleep shirt, her hands seeking out the warm flesh of his chest.

His pale skin was peppered with freckles that spread up and over his shoulders. Slipping the shirt from him, she caressed his soft skin in gentle exploration, watching his face to witness the effect she was having on him. Brushing against a pink nipple made him twitch, her lips curving into a soft smile as she teased down over his stomach to toy with the soft, copper hair that grew there, the fiery trail leading downward below the waistband of his pyjamas.

“Can I touch you?”

He smiled, huffing with amusement through his nose. “I’ve been wanting you to do just that since I was 16,” he said, his eyes lingering on her mouth before he kissed her, slowly. “I can’t believe I can kiss you like this, touch you like this…”

His hand slid upwards over her ribs, cupping a breast and rolling her nipple under his thumb. MC touched her hand to his cheek, the warmth she could feel pooling behind her ribs making her feel like she might be in trouble with Mr Prewett. She had wanted to feel something other than cold and empty, and he was stirring things she wasn’t sure she was prepared for. How had she missed his sweetness all those years ago? It made her wonder how different the trajectory of her time at Hogwarts would have turned out had she befriended this loyal Gryffindor sooner?

She did not deserve the light he bestowed upon her, and yet she was greedily taking it, basking under the burn of his gaze as he touched her. Maybe she was selfish for letting this happen, maybe she was going to destroy whatever this was between them, because that was the pattern her life seemed to follow. Anything good she ever found managed to slip through her fingers. But, right now, she didn’t have the strength to pull away from how he was making her feel. Her skin burned under his hands, each fiery tingle reminding her that she was, in fact, alive.

Dipping her hand lower, she pushed at the waistband of his trousers, sliding them down over his hips to expose the length of his arousal. Looking down, she bit her lip at the swollen size of him, the pink tip already leaking in anticipation. Making his teenage fantasy come true, she touched him, sliding her hand along the silken length and smoothing her thumb along the pulsing vein. His breathless groan filled her ear as he dipped his head, burying his face against her neck as his pelvis flexed towards her touch. Shifting beneath him, she widened her legs to accommodate him, a slight flutter of nerves awakening as she felt the thick press of him at her entrance. She had only ever been with one boy, and that was a long time ago.

Leander was gentle but determined as he took her, considerate as always. The stretch made her eyes water, her back arching as he carefully pushed testing thrusts into her, his cheeks flushed scarlet and his eyes closing in bliss. “Fuck, MC…” He panted, his voice strained as he bottomed out. Glancing downwards he made another low sound in his throat, shaking his head in disbelief. “That’s so…Gods, that looks amazing.”

MC felt her cheeks flush at his admiration, too aware of how her bones still poked up against her skin, how tired and weak she was already beginning to feel despite being on her back. Unlike him, towering above her, the muscles of his arms and shoulders were taut and strong where he was bracing himself to avoid crushing her. His hips pushed even deeper, grinding carefully and she pushed back against him, gasping as she felt him hit her limit deep inside.

“It’s a tight fit,” she murmured, meeting his gaze as he hummed in agreement.

“It’s a damned perfect fit,” he said, biting his lip. “You have no idea how desperately I’m clinging on to my restraint. I just want to…mmph…”

She moved her hips, rolling them gently and smirking at the twist of pleasure that crossed his expression. “Don’t hold back on my account,” she said, her voice low. It was so satisfying, and breathtakingly sexy to see him so close to losing it.

Bracing his forearm near her head, he began to move, his other hand settling on the curve of her waist. Building a rhythm that had them both breathing hard, MC found herself unable to stop staring up at him, the darkened glow of desire in his blown out eyes had her entranced. His moans made her shiver, her palms smoothing over toned muscle and reaching around to grasp the soft peach of his backside. Caught up in the intimacy of the act, MC felt the bloom of affection in her chest spread.

Had it only been days since she had been curled up tight in a cold cell, the darkness staring back at her, grief ripping through her at the thought that she might never see him again. Now look at her, spread beneath him, their bodies joined in an act destined for lovers. If somebody had told her that this is where she would end up that day he had first entered her cell, she would never have believed it, and yet this felt so spine tingling good.

As she traced her hand down his face, she caught a glimpse of the scar on her palm, the memory of cutting through her skin to pledge herself to Sebastian flashing through her mind. The fire in her blood was not pain, opening herself to Leander was not calling the pact to hurt her. The only flames searing her flesh were the ones Leander ignited with his mouth and his hands, every thrust of his hips elevating her higher onto a plane where there was no darkness, only light.

Burying his flushed face into her neck, Leander found his release. MC wrapped her thin arms around him, holding him tightly against her, savouring the deep, penetrating throb of him filling her up. She could feel the thunder of his heartbeat, her hands soothing the rapid rise and fall of his back as he breathed. He was hot, solid, his lips pressing against the sensitive skin of her neck. Laying here entangled in his arms, she felt safe.

Letting her head lean against his, she closed her eyes, savouring the moment because she wasn’t sure if it would ever come again. The thought turned over in her mind, the warmth behind her ribs drawing back as the uncertainty of the future lay in wait. She had to leave him soon, and this sudden closeness they had formed would no doubt slip away. She would be alone again. Her eyes burned beneath the lids, an ache that felt suspiciously like loss already forming, making a solitary tear leak from the corner of her eye.

Leander

He awoke to the sound of birdsong outside the bedroom window, blinking at the pale sunlight filtering through the curtain and stretching languidly with a yawn. He lay a hand against his bare chest, remembering he was naked, pushing himself up onto his elbows as he stared at the empty part of the bed beside him. The rumpled, turned back blankets showed the only signs that MC had ever been here with him, her disappearance throwing a cloud over the happy glow he’d fallen asleep with. Turning his gaze towards the closed bedroom door, he sighed. He hadn’t even heard her slip away.

Falling back against the pillows, Leander closed his eyes and replayed every moment spent with his night time visitor, savouring the memories she had given him. Her soft skin, the sounds she made when he touched her, the feel of her…he could list so many things that made his heart pound, his heated blood rushing downwards to make him twitch with arousal. Brushing back the tousled mess of his hair, he blew a slow breath through his lips to calm his thoughts, and climbed from his bed to start the day.

Washed and dressed, he entered the kitchen to make some tea, noticing the empty healing and restoring potion bottles that had been left on the table. MC must have already risen, and he could see the washed items from her breakfast on the side. As he picked up the empty potion bottles to return them to the box provided by the Healer, he frowned, realising it was missing. Checking the cupboard he noticed some food items missing too, and a ball of panic settled into the pit of his stomach.

Taking the stairs two at a time, he hurried to MC’s bedroom door and knocked. When there was no answer, he opened it, risking her temper, but the room was empty. Bed neatly made, her clothes gone, he felt his throat tighten as the signs pointed to the sickening realisation that she had fled.

Returning back downstairs, he fought back the burn of tears, his face and neck hot as he tried to squeeze out the emotions spiralling in his chest. He had told her she was free to go whenever she wanted to, but after last night and what they had shared, the idea of her running without saying a word felt like a fist to the stomach. Emotional turmoil aside, he was faced with a dilemma as her Auror. He said he wouldn’t have to chase after her, but they had not planned their meetings, and there was always the chance that she had run to avoid all of this, not just him.

Feeling nauseous, Leander pushed a hand through his neatly combed hair and left the cottage. Striding down the path, not entirely sure where he was headed in his panic, he came to an immediate stop at the gate and sucked in a huge breath of relief. Ahead, right at the cliff edge, sat MC. The sea breeze tugged at her hair and clothes, her arms were wrapped around herself as she stared out to sea, her bag of things at her feet. Leander rubbed a shaking hand against his mouth, relief so strong washing over him that his legs shook with it.

Slowly, cautiously, he walked towards MC, coming to a stop beside her and carefully sitting down without looking at her. Keeping his gaze towards the ocean, he balanced his arms on his knees and took a steadying breath. “There is something powerful about the ocean, isn’t there? It’s constantly moving and changing, appearing calm and welcoming from a distance, but you should never underestimate it.”

It was a few moments before she spoke, her voice low and soft. “I underestimated you.”

He turned his head to look at her, a slight crease on his brow. Her pale face was reddened from tears, her eyes darkened with sadness that made his chest cave. “What do you mean? Did I hurt you?” He asked, his panic seizing him again.

“Oh, goodness, no,” she said, shaking her head. She put her hand on his arm, turning to face him properly. “No, you didn’t hurt me, Leander.”

He looked from her hand on his arm to her face, searching her eyes. “You packed to leave,” he said, hating the tremor in his voice. He was supposed to be a professional Auror, in charge of this situation, and yet he had broken rules and seduced her. He shouldn’t blame her for trying to run, he was a damned fool.

MC nodded, her eyes shifting towards the bag beside her before hanging her head. “I thought about running,” she admitted, her fingers gripping a little tighter onto his arm. She huffed a humourless laugh and shook her head. “I couldn’t go through with it, though. I got this far and realised that I have nowhere to go, and no clue what to do. Not only that, but…”

“But what?”

A blush stained her cheeks as she met his gaze. His heart thudded wildly behind his ribs as they stared at each other, last night hanging heavy in the air between them. A small smile curved her lips despite the tears still shining in her eyes, and she let his arm go, settling down beside him again to look out at the ocean. “I didn’t want to let my Auror down,” she said.

He fought back his smile, fiddling with the cuff of his jumper as he thought about her words. She didn’t want to let him down. He rather liked how she called him hers, too, but he shouldn’t be getting carried away with things like that.

“Do you really have nowhere to go? Is there anybody I could contact for you? Family, or an old friend perhaps?”

“No. I don’t have any family. Sebastian was probably the closest thing to family I’ve ever had, and now I’m not even sure if he cares anymore,” she said, a brittle edge to her voice that sliced through him.

Thinking back to his confrontation with Sebastian down in the tunnels, he remembered the Slytherin saying that he would never give up on MC. Leander didn’t want to tell her, a selfish streak wanting to hold on to what he had with her, knowing that she would go to Sebastian eventually anyway. Why hurry that along? It wasn’t very honourable of him, and he bit his lip. He was so entangled with all that she was that he feared where it was headed, the soft warmth behind his ribs had grown again overnight, refusing to disappear despite his efforts to ignore it.

“Well, you are welcome to stay with me as long as you wish,” he offered, inwardly berating himself for being selfish, but unable to stop himself. “And I’m not just saying that because we shared a bed last night. It would, of course, be a no strings attached offer.”

“About last night,” she said, brushing her hair back behind her ear. “The last thing I want to do is hurt you, Leander.”

There it was. She was going to say it was a mistake, it shouldn’t have happened. The fact that she had tried to sneak off without saying goodbye spoke volumes, but hearing her dismissal of what they had shared was still going to hurt. With a sinking feeling in his chest, he nodded. “It’s alright. You don’t need to say anything. I know I shouldn’t read too much into it.”

“Please, don’t take it the wrong way, Lee. I’m not the kind of girl a man can take home to his mother,” she said, bringing her knees up and wrapping her arms around her legs. “I can see marriage to a respectable, young lady in your future. Someone who you can come home to everyday, and have lovely, red-haired babies with. That’s a future you deserve, Lee.”

He could see the way she was closing herself off, holding herself tightly, that carefully blank look coming over her tear-stained face. Whenever she was like this, her fingers would caress that blood scar on her palm, and he knew that Sallow was lurking in her head. Her eyes were dark and avoiding him, and he longed to reach out for her, hold her close and feel that connection he was sure snapped into place last night. But, he kept his hands to himself, pushing back his own desires. She was a vulnerable, young lady, and he wouldn’t be the man he aimed to be if he took even more advantage of her.

The future she had described did sound lovely. It would be nice to come home to someone everyday, especially on those days when a case had drained him. The idea of children seemed so far out of reach, a dream more than anything, and not something he wanted until his job could provide a bit more safety. Aurors lived on the edge when out on the field, danger lurking around every corner. That was far easier to deal with when you only had yourself to worry about.

“What do you see in your future?” He asked curiously.

Her sigh was so deep it pulled her shoulders down, her body hunched over her knees as she stared out over the ocean. “I don’t know,” she said wearily. “I’m not even sure I know who, or what I am, other than a convicted criminal with no roots, destined to float around in search of something. The only trouble is I don’t know what I’m looking for.”

“You can be anything you want, MC. Think about it. Your future is yours, it’s out there waiting for you,” he said, giving in and reaching out for her. He took hold of her cold hand, and she didn’t pull away, her gaze dropping to look at their linked fingers. “You’ve got a blank parchment , and you get to decide what is written upon it.”

Her lips twitched in wry amusement. “You mean, I can make myself the hero of my own story.”

“Why not?” He smiled. “It’s your story, after all.”

A shadow passed over her features, but she squeezed his hand, a soft sigh leaving her lips. “I need to start infiltrating the Ashwinders, Lee. That’s the first step. I don’t want to put it off any longer.”

He nodded, appreciating the bravery he could see in her eyes. Lifting his free hand, he wiped a stray tear from her cheek. He did hate to see her cry. “You’re right. Come on, let’s go back inside. I’ll make some tea, and we can make a plan,” he said, tugging her up onto her feet. He didn’t let go of her hand, turning to lead her back to the cottage. “I have something to give you that will help us communicate in private. A special parchment that we can charm so that only our wands can read it, and then we can arrange to meet through that. It’s too risky to keep a regular time and place, or send owls that could be intercepted.”

“That is all very secretive and cunning of you, Leander,” she said, raising an eyebrow. “I’m impressed.”

“I’m just trying to consider all options, a bit like Sherlock Holmes. He never ruled out the impossible,” he said, smiling at the thought of one of his favourite books.

“Who’s that?” MC asked, frowning.

“You haven’t read The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes?” He looked down at her in surprise, and then he flushed bright red, biting his lip. He winced and squeezed her hand, realising his error. “I’m sorry. Of course you haven’t. It was only published in recent years. I can lend you my copy if you wish to read it. It’s about a brilliant Muggle detective solving crimes in London.”

“Part of the reading list at Auror boot camp, was it?” She smirked.

“Not quite,” he said, chuckling. “Although, Detective Holmes would make a brilliant wizard.”

They entered the kitchen and he set about putting the water on for tea. MC took a seat at the table and slid the file closer that contained the information on the Ashwinder gang members, opening the cover and staring down at the image of Rookwood, her face tight. She was going to be walking right into the lion’s den, and he had to pat her on the back and encourage it. He couldn’t even go with her because it would blow her cover.

“I meant what I said about having a place to stay if you need it,” he said, putting cups down onto the table. He blushed slightly at his next offer. “If not here, then my own place in London. If I show you where, then you can Apparate in whenever you need to.”

She stared up at him, her face carefully blank. “That is very trusting of you, Leander.”

“I do trust you,” he said firmly, swallowing down the nerves that fluttered in his stomach. His mother definitely wouldn’t approve of him allowing a convicted murderer into his home, and a Slytherin one at that. MC had been right about that point, at least. He still wanted to give her the option to come to him, though, even if it was for his own selfish reasons. “But, only you. All I ask is that you don’t tell anybody else.”

Her eyebrows lifted slightly as she leant back in her chair. “There is only one problem with that,” she said. Leander felt his stomach twist up even sharper, wondering if she would finally bring up the subject of Sebastian, his presence lingering between them despite him being miles away. “I don’t know how to Apparate. I was too busy being locked up to catch that lesson.”

He stared, lips parted at the dry sarcasm of her quip. At least she hadn’t rebuffed his offer to stay at his place, and not one comment about Sallow. He straightened, his hand lifting to fiddle with his tie as he fixed her with a determined look. “Then we shall have to remedy that,” he said with a nod. “After our tea, we can go outside and I’ll teach you. I’m sure you will pick it up swiftly being the brilliant witch that you are. You will be popping up out of nowhere in no time.”

Feeling better with a fixed purpose for the day, Leander made the tea, taking the chair opposite MC at the table as they began to discuss the gang members again, and the best place to begin approaching them. They settled on the Black Rose pub as a starting point, and Leander couldn’t deny the tight ball of worry that was beginning to form in the pit of his stomach. She may have reminded him that she wasn’t the girl for him in the long run, but that didn’t stop the soft part of him that was falling even deeper into trouble over her.

He had the creeping feeling that the hard part was only just beginning.

Sebastian

The little tea shop where Anne worked had been busy, people coming and going, the tables full inside as Sebastian watched from his spot in the alley across the street. The small glimpses of Anne he had seen through the windows had shown her looking well today, her face seemingly less drawn than usual. He wondered if Ominis had told her much about MC’s case, and what sort of mood she was in today. He hoped it was a good one because for once, he planned to actually approach her. He had a favour to ask, and he would need every advantage he could get.

As he waited for the flurry of customers to die down, he leant against the brick wall of the alley, his hand in his pocket where he could stroke over the blood amulet. He threw the occasional glance towards the tea shop, but his thoughts were fixated on the incident in the back room of the Black Rose pub. The sight of the broken man as his magic had been forced from his body had haunted Sebastian ever since, chasing his sleep out of reach, and making his temper shorter than usual. Rosier had been keeping out of his way, and Luella was still sulking about him not taking her into his bed again.

Rookwood was also absent, Carrow running the helm in London while their sly leader was off elsewhere. It worried Sebastian what Rookwood was up to. The comment about extracting and absorbing magic leaving a cold, nagging feeling at the back of his neck. The man was obsessed with MC and her ancient magic, desperate to have her within their ranks because of the power she could wield. What if Rookwood had his eyes purely on that power? The thought of MC lying broken on the ground whilst that bastard syphoned her strength had him gritting his teeth painfully, his hand fisting around the symbol of their pact.

The loss of Slytherin’s grimoire was deeply regrettable. No doubt it would contain important details he may have forgotten since reading it. He had recognised the extraction spell, but he wanted more information. His gaze swung back to the tea shop, and his twin. Anne had blasted that book to smithereens down in the catacombs in her rage, robbing him of a valuable tool. She was good at that. She loved having control over him. So much so, that she had hidden all of their parents' research from him.

They were young at the time of their parents death, and there was no doubt many things that had been held back from them in order to protect their innocence, but Sebastian knew that whatever they were researching was dangerous. Solomon had let slip a few things in his drunken rants, swinging his fists at Sebastian and predicting that he would come to the same sticky end as his meddling father. Whenever he had tried to fish more information out of his belligerent uncle, he had been rewarded with a split lip, or being locked in the shed with no dinner.

Whatever his parents had been researching, it was regarding dangerous magic, and his curiosity burned with a fervent flame whenever he thought of it. Anne knew where that research was, and remained closed lipped about its location, siding with their bastard uncle on thinking it best Sebastian didn’t know any better.

Sebastian wanted that research. Something in his gut told him there were answers in those files, answers not just for their deaths, but for dangerous magic and its history that might just help with current problems. He had just as much right as Anne to those files, if anything, he would appreciate them more. Locked away in some dusty storage was no use to anyone. If only he could read them, pore over words written by his father and mother. He wanted it, no, he needed those files, like a desire that consumed him.

When the tea shop looked quieter, he crossed the street, avoiding witches and wizards still milling up and down Diagon Alley, and strode towards the door. A little bell rang above his head as he entered, the scent of fresh tea and baked goods wafting under his nose as he glanced around the quaint little space.

“Table for one?” Anne asked, folding her arms as she looked at him, one eyebrow raised in a manner that reminded him of their mother.

“I’d like a table for two, actually,” he said, bestowing his most charming smile upon his pale faced sister. “Surely, you are due a break by now. I thought you could join me.”

Anne led him to a table near the window, the autumn sunlight warm through the glass. He took a chair, sitting down and gesturing for Anne to take the one opposite. She did so, her eyebrow still raised as she clasped her hands together on the tabletop before her.

“Come on, then, out with it,” she said, tilting her head. “What is it you want?”

“I wish merely to spend some time with my sister,” he said, plucking the menu card from the stand on the table and scanning it quickly. “What is the carrot cake like here? I was always partial to a slice of that.”

Anne’s eyes narrowed slightly. “You don’t fool me, Sebastian. You want something. The last time we spoke, you were pretty clear on how you felt about me. Now, out with it.”

Sebastian sighed and lay the menu card down before him, eyeing his sister across the table. She was too smart for her own good, and it was something he had always respected. It was a shame her smartness was matched by her stubbornness, and unfailing ability to piss him off.

“Fine,” he sighed, slouching back in his chair as though he had not a care in the world. “I would like to read Mum and Dad’s research. We are no longer children, nor do we need to be sheltered from whatever it was they discovered.”

“No,” Anne said calmly.

He blinked, staring at the unmoving expression on her face. She didn’t even flinch, frown or sigh. She just said no, as though that would be the end of it. She was mistaken.

“As far as anything goes, our inheritance has always been a shared thing. I have just as much right to access those files as you, sister dearest. I would very much like to read them, please,” he said, keeping his voice as calm and level as possible.

Her clasped hands clenched a little tighter, the only tell he could see that she was becoming agitated by his request. Her face remained annoyingly serene. “I said, no.”

“Why would you deny me access to them?” He frowned, leaning forward. “They were my parents, too, Anne. I miss them. Reading their work would let me feel closer to them again.”

Anne huffed a laugh and shook her head, her gaze drifting out of the mullioned window to the street beyond. “Wow, you really do pull every angle to get what you want, don’t you? Sauntering in here as though we aren’t fighting with that Sallow charm plastered all over your face, but pulling the grieving son act is a low blow, even for you.”

Sebastian’s face tightened, and he placed his hand carefully down onto the table top, the darkness hovering at the edge of his vision as he glared at Anne. “You think I don’t grieve for them, Anne? They were our parents, taken from us when we were so young. Our lives have been nothing but utter shit since they died. Don’t you dare say I pretend to grieve them. If we are talking of low blows, then that was sinking below a dangerous level, and that’s saying something for you after what you did.”

“What I did?” She gaped, fury flaring in her eyes. She leaned across the table, her gaze livid. “You murdered someone.”

“Yes, I did,” he hissed back, his fingers curling into the wood of the table top. It was that, or reach for his wand. “And you lied in a courtroom before the Wizengamot to condemn an innocent witch to prison. All I did was silence a rotten drunk who used his fists to communicate, what you did was far worse in my book.”

“Well, that’s just it, isn’t it? In your book it’s alright to murder and commit crimes, to keep company with the lowest scum of the wizarding world, and you want me to hand over precious files that contain information highly dangerous in the wrong hands. Do you think I'm a fool, Sebastian? You are not getting those files just so you can share them with the likes of Victor Rookwood and his rotten band of followers.”

“As if I would share those files with anyone else!” He ground out, eyes flashing. His chest was tightening with anxiety, flutters of panic spinning in his stomach as the darkness teased at his mind. “They are family heirlooms, Anne. To keep them from me is a betrayal, and I think we have had our fair share of those already. What is so terrible about them that you feel the need to keep them from me?”

Her face twisted as she studied him, a look of anguish that tore him up and made him sit back a moment. She looked down at the table top, her fingers trembling now. “Look at you, Seb,” she said, her words hushed and pained. “You look like a ghost. I’m the one who is cursed, and yet you look ill, brother. I can tell you are not sleeping, you are shaking and your eyes are wild and dark. You have been dabbling with dangerous magic, I know you have. These people you insist on being around are no good for you. Handing over our parents' work is only going to send you spiralling off even further away from me. What kind of sister would I be if I let that happen? Please, Sebastian. You have to stop.”

Dismay flooded through him, his hand coming up to touch tentatively at his brow. Did he really look that bad? He had taken the time to shave the growth on his jaw this morning, hoping to make himself look a bit smarter before seeing her. He never liked the beard to grow too long anyway. Where his body had become more thick-set over the years, he did not wish to resemble his late uncle.

Anxiously tugging at his sleeve on the arm where his tally of deaths were branded on his flesh, he took a steadying breath. “What kind of brother would I be if I did not search to the ends of the Earth to find a way to help my sister?”

“Oh, Sebastian,” she sighed, slowly shaking her head. “What makes you think that there will be anything in mum and dad’s files that will help with what ails me?”

“No knowledge is bad, Anne. There is always something to learn from information discovered, no matter how dark or dangerous it may be,” he said firmly. “Mum was a pursuer of knowledge, and she always taught me to read everything and anything, to question what I learned and consider all angles. Even if that means searching through the darkness, I will always follow her teaching. I don’t mean to do bad things, honestly, I don’t. But, I would do anything for you, Anne. Anything to keep you safe. You are all I have left.”

“What about her? Have you seen her?” Anne’s eyes had the shine of tears, but her face hardened as she asked that question.

“If you mean MC, then no. I’ve not seen her,” he said, clenching his jaw against the stab of disappointment that seared through him.

Anne considered that for a moment, her fingers toying together as she looked out of the window. “Perhaps that is for the best,” she said softly, her eyes shifting back towards him. “I know that’s not what you want to hear, but she is another reason I’d rather not share those files with you. MC is a dangerous witch with too much power. I don’t want her seeing those files either.”

His curiosity over that research spiked even higher. There must be something valuable in those files, powerful information that would mean something to the likes of people like Rookwood and MC, who already had power of their own. He hungered after that knowledge, his hands curling into fists through frustration at being blocked off from it. “Please, Anne. I only want to read their research, not share it with anyone. If not for me, do it for them. I’m sure they wouldn’t have stopped me from looking at it, especially Mum.”

“Yes, well, you always were Mummy’s golden boy,” she muttered, letting her hands fall into her lap. She looked drained, tired, her shoulders slumped as she considered him. “I will think about it.”

Thinking about it was one step closer than a flat out no. A smile lifted his lips, a smile of hope that seemed to push back some of the shadows that lingered over his face. “Thank you, Anne,” he said, inclining his head in acknowledgment of her offer.

“Let me get you that slice of carrot cake,” she said, getting to her feet. She paused, holding her hand to her stomach, a grimace of pain crossing her face. Sebastian moved to stand, his worry for her creasing his brow.

“Anne…”

She waved him off, breathing heavier but managing a grim smile. “I’m alright, don’t fuss. Sit back down, or I won’t fetch you that cake. If you behave yourself, I’ll even bring some tea along with it.”

Sebastian slowly sat back down in his chair, giving her one of his best smiles, but the worry lingered in his eyes as he watched her walk across the tea shop, her frame so small and frail. He would always worry about her, no matter how much they squabbled. She was his blood, his kin. And he really would do anything for her.

Dressed in dark clothing, a dark green silk scarf at her throat, and a black robe about her shoulders, MC descended the stairs of Shell Cottage with a stomach full of butterflies. After an afternoon of practising Apparation she was tired, her limbs aching from the exertion she had expelled trying to shift her body through space and time, but the day wasn’t over yet. Rather than face another sleepless night waiting to take the next step, she had decided to brave stepping out into the world. This evening, she was going to take a sneaky look at the Black Rose.

Leander was waiting for her at the bottom of the stairs, that familiar glow of fire in his gaze as she stepped off the bottom step towards him. It was hard not to stare at his mouth, remembering the feel of his kiss against her skin. Nervously adjusting the clasp of her robe, she kept her chin held high, pretending she couldn’t see the worry on his face. “So, will I do? I think I will blend into the shadows enough not to be noticed.”

“You look…perfect,” he said, attempting a smile as he reached out to pull the generous hood of her cloak up over her head. “Keep this up if you wish to remain unrecognised for now.”

She nodded and took a deep breath, looking towards the fireplace where she would travel by Floo Powder to Diagon Alley’s network point. It was too far for her to Apparate there yet. She needed some more practice first before taking on longer distances.

“Don’t worry,” Leander said, rubbing her arm. “If it doesn’t feel safe, Apparate back to the Floo point and come straight back here. Are you sure you don’t want me to get an undercover Auror to accompany you?”

She could hear the tremor in his voice. He was worried for her, and it pulled on that feeling that was burrowing deeper behind her ribs. Her attachment to him had only been strengthened after sharing his bed, proven that morning when she’d had every intention of running, but being unable to leave when it came down to it. Even now, she wanted to step into the circle of his warmth and bury her face against him, feel his hands on her. Let him make her feel alive again.

“I’ll be fine,” she insisted, managing a smile. “You’re the only Auror I trust, anyway.”

He held out the pot of Floo powder as she stepped onto the hearth, her pulse throbbing like a wild thing. Taking a handful, she met his eyes and nodded. “Diagon Alley!”

The rush of the air filling the space she had occupied seemed to roar in her ears as she was transported through the network, landing unsteadily on the stone platform of the Floo point near Gringotts bank. Taking a breath and getting her bearings, she moved quickly through the darkened street, avoiding the street lamps as she followed Leander’s directions into Knockturn Alley. The outside world felt huge and open, and even though she was small and cloaked in comparison, she was sure that everyone had eyes on her. It was like a strange prickling sensation on her skin. She felt too exposed, the freedom overwhelming as she walked unchecked along the path.

Keeping her head low and her hood firmly in place, MC slipped through the shadows, feeling the oppressive atmosphere of the notorious backstreet pressing down upon her. The enclosed feeling combined with the darkness made her chest squeeze with panic, the chill night air against her skin making her shiver. She tried to keep her breathing steady, her palms sweating as she reminded herself that there were no Dementors here. Feeling for the comforting shape of her wand at her hip, she continued on until the old building of the infamous pub came into view.

Keeping to the shadowed recesses, she eyed the Tudor style building. It was impossible not to notice the crooked charm of the place despite its dark reputation. As she let her gaze wander over the mullioned windows, wondering who was inside, she heard the delicate sound of female laughter. Pressing back into the darkened doorway she was in, she watched as a couple walked along the cobbled street towards the pub, her throat almost closing in a choked gasp as she recognised the blonde curls and beautiful profile of Luella Rookwood from the picture in Leander’s file. As jarring as it was to see the witch in the flesh, it was enough to make her knees almost buckle beneath her as she realised who walked beside her.

Sebastian was taller than she remembered, and definitely broader, his shoulders and arms thick and strong looking under his black coat. He strolled with the confidence she recognised from their youth, her eyes devouring the way he tilted his head when Luella spoke, the street lamp glow catching the highlights through his brunette tumble of hair. She couldn’t make out the words he spoke from where she stood, but goosebumps spread like wildfire up her arms as she caught the deep tone of his voice, memories rushing in of him speaking close to her ear in private moments shared.

Longing pierced her, robbing her breath from her lungs as she stared at him, her feet desperate to inch off the step she was hiding on and reveal herself. Her left hand curled so that her fingertips could brush up against her scar, savouring the connection that she had with the man across the street. Just one glimpse of him and it was ripping up all the emotions that she had tried to bury, feelings she had suppressed through the fear of not being able to trust him anymore. Feelings she had closed down and hidden in order to give herself to another man.

Heat bloomed across her cheeks, her body still aching and showing signs of the passion that had flared between herself and Leander, the gaping hollow in her chest swirling with a confusing blend of feelings as she watched Sebastian touch his hand to Luella’s lower back, guiding her towards the door of the pub. They looked familiar with each other, Luella’s gaze one of heated intimacy as she stepped past Sebastian and through the door.

MC pressed a hand to her mouth, her eyes burning as a swift and crippling blow of pain echoed through the cavern behind her ribs. There was no denying that look Luella had given Sebastian. MC knew that look, she felt it. It was a look she had given him herself many years ago. He had moved on, found another.

Sebastian paused as he stepped up to the threshold of the pub, glancing back over his shoulder with a slight frown on his face as he scanned the shadowed pathway near where she stood. Clamping her hand tighter against her mouth, MC pressed herself even closer into the shadows, her heart pounding as she feared being seen.

It was not what she had been expecting when she laid eyes on Sebastian again, hiding from him in the dark, tears burning the backs of her eyes as she watched him escort another witch for the evening. But, what right did she have to be envious? Had she not taken a lover herself? She had gone to Leander willingly, lost herself in the throes of desire, her body eagerly responding to his.

Confused and lost, MC waited until Sebastian finally followed Luella into the pub, a slow breath leaving her body in relief that he hadn’t seen her. Her mission to stake out and get an understanding of the pub was forgotten, her head a jumbled mess as she stepped out from the doorway and hurried away. All she could think about was escaping this dark street, running from Sebastian, and running from her own messed up feelings over him. So lost in her own head, she didn’t see the man until she collided into him, stumbling backwards with a sharp gasp as strong hands reached out to hold her steady, her hood slipping back from her head.

“Woah, sorry miss,” he said, his hands firm but gentle on her upper arms. “Someone is in quite the hurry. Are you alright?”

MC blinked, her gaze lifting to meet a face she recognised from Leander’s file, but she couldn’t think of the name. He was handsome, his features rather pretty, his hair dark in this light. His smile was devastatingly charming and her own mouth curved in response without hesitation, such was the effect he had. “I’m fine,” she murmured, although she really wasn’t. She needed to get out of here.

The handsome man’s brow furrowed slightly. “Your face is familiar somehow, although I don’t believe we have met,” he said.

Panic fluttered behind her ribs, but she immediately settled her face into one of blank indifference, gently pulling herself out of his grasp. He was an Ashwinder, and she had to be cautious. “No, I don’t believe we have met before,” she said. “What’s your name?”

His eyebrows twitched with curiosity, his smile still charming but with a new, predatory gleam in his eyes. “Leo,” he said, holding out his hand towards her. “Leo Rosier.”

Recognition dawned on MC and she studied him even more closely, her interest piqued. Leander’s case notes had this rascal connected to Sebastian, his family full of criminals and dark deeds. She had even shared her prison with a couple of Rosier convicts. She glanced down at his hand, slipping hers into his grip whilst her other hand lingered near her wand.

“Pleasure to meet you, Leo,” she said slowly, switching her tone of voice to something a little softer. It didn’t go unnoticed, his smile widening.

“What’s your name?” He asked, tilting his head.

She smiled, keeping her face carefully neutral while she silently panicked inside. “You already know it,” she said cryptically, letting her fingers linger against his longer than necessary as she let her hand slip away from his grip. “After I am gone, you will probably realise who I am.”

His eyes narrowed as he studied her, his gaze drifting over her face. “Do I get a clue?”

She smirked and lifted her hand, cupping it slightly so that her fingers were pointed upwards. Concentrating on the crackle and fire of her ancient magic, she channelled it towards her hand just as she had been in her daily practice. Watching for his reaction, she allowed a flicker of blue and white flame to dance at her fingertips, the glow of it lighting their faces in the darkness of the street. Allowing a few blistering seconds of magic, she then closed her hand into a fist, shutting off the flames immediately.

Rosier’s eyes widened, unable to hide the stunned disbelief from his face. “It’s you!” He gasped, stepping forward. “I knew I had seen your face before. You’re the girl with the ancient magic.”

MC immediately stepped back, wagging her finger at him. “Now, now, Mr Rosier, calm yourself. You’d be wise not to touch me,” she warned, allowing some of her magic to flare to life in her eyes. He immediately backed off, swearing under his breath.

Rather than looking scared, he looked intrigued, his gaze sweeping over her from head to foot. He chuckled and shook his head. “Bloody hell, I can see why Sallow is obsessed. Beautiful, dangerous, and wickedly powerful,” he said, a grin plastered across his pretty face.

“What do you mean?” She asked, her heart jumping into the back of her throat.

“He is going to be very pleased to see you, sweetheart,” he said, reaching out for her. MC gasped as he made a grab for her arm, twisting out of his reach at the last second. His hand caught her scarf, their momentum yanking against the silk and making her choke as it slid from her neck. She shoved against him, staggering away from him, his look of surprise and her scarf hanging from his grip the last things she saw before she squeezed her eyes shut and pictured the Floo point.

Her body flooded with adrenaline as the sharp crack of her Apparation sounded through the night, her feet stumbling for balance as she reappeared next to the Floo. Panicked gasps left her lips as she scooped up the powder with a shaky hand, her mind set on one thing, and one thing only as she stepped onto the stone plinth. She wanted Leander. She needed to see him, feel the comforting, enduring strength that he exuded. She wasn’t sure what scared her more, what just happened outside the pub, or the knee jerk reaction to flee towards her Auror.

“Shell Cottage!”

In a flash of green flames she left Diagon Alley behind, landing in the hearth of the cottage, the familiar distant roar of the sea welcoming her as she staggered into the living room. Leander was on the settee, a book in his hands, his face startled as she appeared. He was on his feet instantly, book tossed aside.

“You’re back so soon,” he said, hurrying to catch her as she lurched forwards. She crashed against him, hating how vulnerable she felt, but craving the solid feel of him. Her fingers curled into the softness of his jumper as his hand stroked her hair. “What happened?”

Nothing had happened, not really. She had barely got close to the pub, and one sighting of Sebastian had sent her head and heart spinning in all directions. Rosier had seen her, though. He knew she had been there, and no doubt he would tell Sebastian. He would know she had been there.

“Rosier saw me,” she murmured against his chest. “I panicked and ran. Maybe I wasn’t ready after all.”

The feeling of losing all control slid down her spine and made her fingers clutch even tighter into Leander’s jumper. The first piece had been moved on the board, and she wasn’t sure if she was ready for the next. She had to be, though.

Lifting her head from Leander’s chest, she looked up at him, blocking out everything else and focusing on the warm concern in his honey, brown eyes.

“What if I can’t do this?” She whispered. “They will send me back to Azkaban. I can’t…I can’t go back there.”

“You are not going back there,” he said, cupping her face, his thumbs caressing her cheeks. “You can do this, and I’m going to help you. I won’t let you go back to that place.”

His forehead was leaning against hers, the heat of their mingled breaths fanning across her cheeks. After last night, she had sworn to herself that she wouldn’t let it happen again. It wasn’t fair on him. Yet, here she was, drowning in dark, honey-brown eyes, her blood firing up as it pulsed wildly through her veins. That blurred line between them was so messed up now that it didn’t take much for her to lean closer, her eyes fluttering closed as she pressed her mouth against his. Warmth, comfort, oblivion.

His lips returned the kiss, his fingers sliding into her hair, and she moaned, savouring the feel of him. Desperate for more, her hands tugged at his clothes, her robe falling to the floor forgotten. Running from the dark, running from the confused mess in her head and chest, she once again lost herself in the flame of Leander’s fire.

Sebastian

He stared at the green silk in his hands, running it over his palms and through his fingers, lifting it closer to his face to catch again the scent of lavender soap and soft perfume. “You’re sure it was her?” He asked again, his voice strained.

Rosier nodded. “Like I said, she lit a blue and white flame in her fucking hand, Sallow. Not only that, but you should have seen the look on her face when I said your name. She went as white as a sheet.”

Sebastian had made Rosier tell him over and over about his encounter out in the street, his heart hammering so fast he could hardly breathe. He had run outside, his eyes scanning the dark despite knowing that she had Disapparated right in front of Rosier. Someone had taught her how to do that, she hadn’t known before. He had promised to teach it to her, another piece of magic that he had wanted to show her how to do, the delight at seeing her learn from him now robbed along with everything else over the last four years.

Prewett probably taught her how to Apparate, the idea of it making his hands clench and his stomach twist with envy.

MC had been there, right there on the bloody street, and he hadn’t seen her. He could hex himself. He had felt an odd tingle on the back of his neck earlier, that feeling of eyes upon him as he had gone to enter the pub. He had even taken a last look around, but there had been nothing but shadows. Had she been there watching for him?

He clutched the scarf tighter in his hand, frustration making him want to scream. Everything he wanted always seemed to be just out of his reach.

“Do you think she was looking for me?” He asked.

Rosier twisted his lips, uncertain. “When I bumped into her, she was walking away from the pub, and she definitely got all skittish like a wild pony when I tried to take her arm.”

“I wonder what she was doing,” Sebastian muttered, thoughtfully. “Whatever it was, she is getting closer, Leo. We need to keep our eyes open, just in case. I need to get to her before Rookwood does, no matter what.”

“I don’t mind keeping an eye out for her, Sallow,” Rosier smirked. “I’ve got to hand it to you, mate. You’ve got impeccable taste in the ladies.”

“Eyes only, Rosier,” he warned, narrowing his gaze at his room buddy. “Keep those wandering hands to yourself.”

Sitting down on the edge of his bed, Rosier chuckled as he lit a cigarette. “I know, I know. She’s all yours, mate.”

Sebastian smoothed the silk through his fingers again. He imagined it close against the skin of her neck, the warmth of her there, and sharp longing pierced through him.

All his.

As the silk slid against the scar on his hand, he thought about his conversation with Ominis, the plan for MC to spy on Rookwood and bring him down. It looked like she was already beginning to make her moves, and he needed to be ready. It was only a matter of time before she was at his side again. Where she belonged.

To be continued…

Tag list: For always being superstars @eternalremorse and @slytherin-paramour thank you! To @marketfreshfics for being such a supportive cheerleader, and for bouncing ideas around xx

@evaslytherpuff @ravenbronze @sevprince-91 @writing-intheundercroft @loving-him-was-red13

#hogwarts legacy fanfic #sebastian sallow #mc x sebastian sallow #leander prewett x mc #leander prewett #blueraineshadows #blood bound

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pennylanefics · 1 day

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Nighttime Comfort - Seth Jarvis

a/n: thanks to @human-trainwreck for the idea of the "best friend's younger brother" trope! i got the idea and ran with it and finish this in one night <3 if anyone has more seth ideas, send them my way! i had more ideas and definitely missed some things...part 2 maybe?? 👀

summary: you've always seen your best friend's little brother as just that, until one night, after thinking about him for months, everything changes when he comforts you after nightmares

warnings: mention of nightmares (no descriptions), slight age gap (i envisioned seth being 22 and reader being 23 or 24, so not terrible, but it's brought up multiple times)

word count: ~4.2k

“Seth should be gone by the time we get home, so you won’t have to deal with him while I’m out,” your best friend Daisy says to you as you near her home. The two of you had been out shopping all day, finally having time to spend with each other after your hectic schedules failed to line up for so long.

With your job at a local publishing company and the influx of demands your boss needed to meet the proper deadlines, and her traveling with her boyfriend, who is a hockey player in the NHL, it was hard to meet up. But finally, now that the off-season is here and your work has slowed down some, you could meet up and catch up on all the lost time.

“You know I don’t mind him,” you tell her. “He’s fun to be around.” She rolls her eyes at your words and you can’t help but laugh.

You grew up next to Daisy and Seth in Winnipeg and as time went on, you and Daisy became nearly inseparable, doing everything together and playing in each other’s backyards every day after school. That also led you to becoming rather close with her younger brother, only two years younger than you and her, but he was always around as their parents practically forced Daisy to include him.

Not that you minded, he was very amusing and a great joy; he was extremely chaotic and energetic, and was always trying to get you to laugh and mess with you in a teasing and fun way. Daisy was so embarrassed by him every time, but you truly weren’t bothered by it.

Things changed a little right before you entered high school. During the summer between eighth grade and ninth, your family moved away, although it was still in the same district and within driving distance, no more than fifteen minutes. It did hinder your ability to see her and Seth outside of school or on the weekends. Things did go back to normal when you and Daisy got your licenses and could see each other whenever.

As the years went on, things continued to change and shift. With Seth going into the NHL, and Daisy becoming a WAG for the Winnipeg Jets, you rarely had time to see them over the past couple of years, but through different interviews and videos of him from the Hurricanes and other media, you could tell Seth was still the same guy you grew up with and knew so well.

“I haven’t seen him in a while anyway. I think the last time was around Christmas, when he came home. That was almost seven months ago.”

“Believe me, seven months is not enough time away from him,” she grumbles, making you throw your head back in laughter.

He was always the life of the party. He could light up a room with his energy and sweet smile just by walking into it, and he’s cheered you up countless times after numerous events that upset you over the years.

And you didn’t want to believe it, but deep down, you always felt something more for him. Some little voice in your mind was screaming that he’s a sweetheart and would be an incredible partner. But you pushed that idea down for many reasons, one of which is because you figured he never would see you as anything more than his older sister’s best friend; it was an unspoken rule, really, and neither of you wanted to cross that line.

The two of you drag your number of bags into her house, where you were staying for the week since her parents were on vacation and your apartment was being renovated because of a flood issue on your floor.

“Just set them down and we can go through everything when I get back,” she states.

She needed to run an errand with her boyfriend, to check on his grandmother about an hour away and bring her the prescription she needed. That meant you would be alone for the next three hours or so, and after the long day you had, it was exactly what you needed.

She left shortly after dropping everything off, and in the meantime, you showered and then ordered some food. Everything in the house was calm, you were watching your favorite TV show on the TV, and it felt peaceful to have this kind of downtime after a full, busy day.

But that peace was quickly ruined an hour or so later. The time rolled around to 7:45 and in comes Seth and a couple guys, who you recognize as fellow players on the Hurricanes. Turning around, you stare at them, wide-eyed in surprise, and as soon as Jarvy takes the sight of you in, he shouts excitedly.

“Oh my god! What are you doing here?!” He yells, running over to you on the couch. Standing, you jump into his arms to hug him tightly, inhaling the musky scent of his cologne, a smell you’ve thought about every day since you got a whiff of it on Christmas.

“My apartment is being worked on and since Daisy and I haven’t had time to see one another very much, she invited me to stay here. I know she said you are back here for a short while, but she said you’d be out.”

“What, not so happy to see me??” He teases, shoving your shoulder playfully once you pull away from the hug. “Yeah, well, the guys and I wanted to go to some bars, but after sitting around we decided to come back here and play video games instead.” He points to the two men behind him, one who has blond hair and piercing blue eyes and one has short brown hair and deep brown eyes.

“This is Jack and Jesperi, or you can call him KK,” he points to the brown-eyed hockey player, who smiles sweetly at you and waves.

“Nice to meet you guys. I can move up to Daisy’s room if you’d prefer the living room. She’s still gone and I don’t know when she’ll be back.”

“Oh no, don’t worry about that!” Jarvy stops you from moving your things. “We’re going to the basement to play, we won’t bother you at all. Unless we have to come back up for snacks and drinks, but we’ll try to keep it down.”

Chuckling softly, you nod and watch as they file into the furnished basement, yelling and shouting as they go. Thankfully, the noise wasn’t too loud to distract you, so you go back to watching your show with no worry.

As the hours tick by and your eyes start growing heavier, you knew you should have headed up to Daisy’s room to get some rest instead of on the couch, although their couch was rather comfy. It was a large sectional, big enough to fit their entire family for movie nights.

You were curled up in one corner of the L-shaped section, under a soft, fuzzy blanket that was keeping you warm. The low lighting that you had set in the living room and with the quiet lull of your comfort TV show was enough to ease you to sleep, though you were unaware.

Suddenly, you are jolting up, your neck feeling slightly sweaty and clammy, your breathing slightly erratic and your eyes trying to adjust back to the bright TV that remained on. Slowly, you become aware of your surroundings and turn to find Seth sitting near you, a worried expression on his face.

“Are you alright?” He wonders, his voice low and calming, not wanting to startle you anymore than he has. “You were mumbling something in your sleep and shaking a little.”

Your hand wipes across your face as you shift your body to sit up a little. Being in the moment, you were finally able to get a really good look at Seth, since earlier you were too taken by the excitement of seeing him and meeting new people.

His hair was long in the back, but on the sides, you could tell that he had recently gotten them shaved down some, but the top section flopped over to hide that area; it was something that was visible when he wore a hat, and it was a look you always liked. His facial hair was newly trimmed, his beard slightly scruffy and his mustache somewhat full.

He was wearing an old Canes t-shirt, the neckline cut off to fit him loosely, and a pair of basketball shorts that were slightly smaller than usual, riding up his leg and showing a small glimpse of the tattoo on his right thigh.

“I-I was having a weird dream,” you murmur, taking a couple deep breaths. Seth moves a little closer, sensing all you needed was some comfort. “What time is it?”

“Around 11:30. Daisy called me and said something came up and she won’t able to make it back tonight. She said she tried calling you but you weren’t answering. Now I see why,” he answers with a lighthearted laugh.

“Yeah, I didn’t mean to fall asleep out here. I should head upstairs.”

Seth thinks for a moment before he holds his hand up, silently telling you to stay put.

“Give me two minutes,” he says before darting off. You sat there, confused as hell as he ran up the stairs, leaving you alone once again.

You quickly text Daisy back, letting her know you had fallen asleep and everything was good, and that you’d see her in the morning, before reaching for the glass of water that had been left untouched for the past few hours and taking a large sip.

Minutes later, Seth comes trudging down the stairs with his comforter and an extra blanket, along with two pillows. He also had a change of clothes for himself, and once he reaches the couch, he piles everything onto the cushions at your feet.

“We’re having a little sleepover,” he states. “My sister ditched you so I’m stepping in. Plus we haven’t spent time together in a long time so we have to make up for it.” He winks and laughs at your shocked face.

“You really don’t have to do this. What about KK and Jack? Aren’t they downstairs?”

“Nope. They left right before you woke up. They’re staying in a hotel nearby so they’re gone for the night. Just you and me.”

After he gets everything set up, he runs off to the bathroom down the hall to change and when he returns in a pair of sweats and a different t-shirt, he sighs heavily and stares down at the couch.

“Okay, so I’ll sleep this way, and you can sleep with your legs out that way so you have more room,” he tells you, waving his hands all over. He specifically pointed to the spot you were sitting in, how he’d have his legs on the cushions jutting out and you would sleep perpendicular to him.

“Where would my pillow go?” You wonder, grabbing onto the extra one he had from his bed. You can’t help but smile at the scent that covers it, a mixture of Seth’s shampoo and conditioner and his cologne. His comforter was the same way, soaked in the smell of his body wash, a woods-y and earthy scent that you were most familiar with, similar to his cologne.

“Here,” he gets situated on the couch, his legs stretching straight out on the cushion. He places the pillow down on his legs and pats it, signaling that’s where you can lay. It was nothing out of the ordinary, really, the three of you used to sleep on each other like this when you were younger, more innocent.

Not that he was asking in an inappropriate way now, but it was something you figured you’d grown out of. But being too tired and too scared to fight, you just laugh it off and get under the covers. He left his comforter for you and used the two blankets for himself, something you found unfair to him.

You place your head in his lap, against the pillow, and immediately, his hands start playing with your hair softly, making sure not to tug at any knots that he couldn’t see. He was more so twirling the ends for his own comfort, something you picked up on when you were kids.

After laying there for a bit, no words spoken between the two of you, the guilt of him being down here, keeping you company was rising in your chest; you knew you shouldn’t have felt this way, but he didn’t have to do all of this.

“Seth, you don’t have to sit down here with me,” you suddenly sit up, looking over at him. A hurt and confused look crosses his face as he adjusts his body.

“I know I don’t have to, but I want to, trust me. I know how you used to struggle with nightmares and no one should be left alone after having one.” His voice is gentle and soothing, trying to get across the fact that he wants to be here with you, and it’s no obligation or issue at all.

“I think I’ll be okay,” you whisper. But he wasn’t going to take no for an answer.

“Well I’m not leaving,” he shakes his head. “What’s going on? I thought it would be nice to see each other again and be with one another now that you’re here.”

You pause and let his words sink in. He was right. Why were you pushing back? But with one look into his brown eyes, lit by the soft glow of a nearby salt lamp you had turned on earlier, you were very aware.

You had fallen for Jarvy and now there was no denying it.

You think back to the last time you saw him, in December. You couldn’t quit stealing glances at him throughout the day, watching as he laughed with his loved ones and how bright his unique smile was, how much you loved seeing it and how you longed to be the reason he was smiling so joyfully.

How you longed to hold his hand and cuddle up next to him on the couch, watching whatever Christmas movie was playing on the TV, surrounded by your family and his, having him press kisses to your temple.

It made your chest feel all warm and fuzzy thinking about what being his partner would be like. Was he serious in times when it was needed? Or did he used humor and laughter to cope with everything?

“(Y/N)?” He waves his hand in front of your face, bringing you back down to earth. You sigh softly and grin at him.

“Sorry, was just…thinking about something. But you’re right, it is nice to see you and be able to spend time with just you…” you trail off, hoping the tone of your voice didn’t give your little crush away. He smiles at you and opens his arms.

“So how about we cuddle instead? I’ve been told I give wonderful cuddles in times of need like this,” he states playfully, which in turn makes you giggle. He gives you that bright, wide smile as you move your body, but before you can super comfortable, you motion for him to switch positions and lay parallel with you, so both of your legs were on the actual couch rather than the sectional.

Since the space was big enough, you both fit rather comfortably, once Seth finally gets settled. You curl into his left side, nuzzling your face into chest, your eyes fluttering closed. What you couldn’t tell was the fact that Seth’s heart was racing in his chest at the turn of events.

He’s now under his own comforter, your legs tangling with his underneath. His arms wrap around you, holding you close to him, and one is softly rubbing up and down your back underneath the covers. It’s such a sweet and intimate movement, and it makes your own heart beat faster.

Silence falls over the two of you, neither of you knowing what to say, but instead, you enjoy the silence and the presence of each other.

“Would now be an acceptable time to admit that I’ve had a crush on you for the longest time?” He whispers, avoiding moving in case you wanted to pull away from him. But to his surprise, you stay put, reaching for his right hand that was stroking up and down your arm.

“You have?” You wonder, a little taken aback by his admission, threading your fingers with his. He watches in curiosity but smiles as he feels your touch in his.

“Yeah. Ever since you came home from school that one day in eighth grade, I was in sixth. You said some boy made a comment about you and you cried to me because Daisy wasn’t home yet. I-”

“You started telling me all these strange things about what the kid does and how awful he is to try and get me to laugh,” you fill in his sentence, remembering back to that day as clear as can be.

Seth had started telling you weird things that were very obviously not true, but what else is an eleven year old supposed to say? He was making things up like, “he keeps his boogers on a piece of notebook paper in his binder” or “his fingernails grow so fast he has to have them cut every day, and then he saves them to try and get in the Guinness Book of World Records for most amount of nail shavings collected”. Outrageously ridiculous statements.

But by the end, you were laughing with him, forgetting about all the mean things he said about you, and thanks to Jarvy, feeling better about yourself, even though you knew none of what he was saying was true.

“I know we were never super close the way that you and Daisy are, but I could never deny my crush for you. I expected you to think it was weird, considering I’m her younger brother and that’s all I knew I’d be. But goddamn, seeing you again, especially in such a soft and laid-back setting, it’s reignited that feeling.”

You were truly speechless. You had no idea what to say. He really had a crush on you?

“Then I think it’s fair to admit that I also like you, but pushed it away because I thought you only ever saw me as, well, as your older sister’s best friend, I thought it would be weird. But I like you a lot, Seth.”

His hand drops yours and it comes to rest on the side of your face, gently bringing your chin up to look up at him. His eyes were filled with adoration and tenderness as his hand cupped your cheek, careful with the amount of pressure he was using, letting you know you could push him away at any point still.

“So when was the moment you fell for me?” He asks, that crooked smile threatening to break. Heat rises to your cheeks when you realize you don’t have a story similar to his.

“This past holiday season. When you came home for Christmas, I realized quite a few things, and one of them is I can’t deny that I have feelings for you and wish what it would be like to be yours,” you whisper to him, gazing into his eyes. His thumb rubs against the apple of your cheek as you explain your side. He then takes a moment to tuck a loose strand of hair behind your ear, and it sends your heart into a frenzy.

“Oh really?” He pushes in a teasing manner. “Like what?”

“Like falling asleep in your arms, but in a more romantic way than platonic way when we were younger. Being able to come up and hug and kiss you whenever, wearing your jersey to your games, knowing that only you and I know that I’m yours and the most important person in the crowd wearing your number.” He can’t help the blush that dusts his cheeks at your last comment. “And I can assume that’s something you’ve thought about plenty of times, right?”

Seth laughs and nods his head, still looking down at you with so much love.

“I won’t lie, I have. And you’d be able to get a WAG playoff jacket, and how adorable you’d look in them.”

Your heart was pounding in your chest as he continues to hold your cheek in his hand.

“You know, my parents always joked with your parents about when we’d get together. And Daisy always shut them down whenever she heard them talk about it because how weird, right? But there was one night, a few years back, right before I was drafted. We were in the backyard, looking up at the stars, and she told me I should go for it with you, if I liked you. How she thought we’d be good together, how I’d treat you right and how you would love me for as I am. I think she could always sense that I liked you more than a friend, but was too scared to say it because you two were friends first, and pretty close.”

You are stunned by his words. You never knew Daisy said that, but to hear that she thought her brother was good enough for you, you knew that this decision, or whatever outcome for tonight was going to be, it was going to be a good choice.

Seth is a good guy, and you’ve seen this for many years. Now, you are seeing him in a different light, one where his smile sends butterflies to your stomach rather than a simple “Daisy’s younger brother is so adorable” kind of way. One where you got to see the fun and excitable, puppy-dog energy side but also his serious and down-to-earth side where he could settle those feelings and be real with you.

“Now that I think about it, around that time she did start trying to push me for gossip on if I thought you were cute or if I was seeing anyone, because she was wanting to set me up with someone. And I’m going to safely bet that it was you.”

He chuckles and then clears his throat, becoming all serious again. But you have one more comment you need to get out.

“I love your smile,” you state. His cheeks redden slightly and your own smile tugs at your lips. “I’m not sure what it is about it, but every time I saw it in an interview, or some fun little video, and especially at Christmas, I can’t help but fall harder and harder each time.”

Your statement elicits that lovely smile from him, but in a more bashful sense, something you never thought you’d see.

“You’re so adorable,” you giggle, reaching up to hold his face in your hand as well. The tension between the two of you was thick, and with your breathing mixing together, you were starting to get dizzy from it all.

This was all so much.

“Can I…” he starts, but hesitates, trying to gauge the look in your eyes. He takes a deep breath and then continues. “Can I please kiss you now?”

You can’t help the laugh that escapes you from how he phrases his words. He sounded so desperate but also so careful.

“Please,” you beg quietly, inching your hands into his hair to tug at the locks at the back of his neck to pull him down towards you. Within seconds, your lips meet in a searing but gentle and nervous kiss, both of you testing the waters for now. But when Seth feels you leaning more into it, he deepens it just slightly, not wanting to go too far tonight, but also wanting you to know he’s serious about this and it wasn’t a one-off thing.

The kiss ends much to your dismay when Jarvy pulls back, his forehead resting against yours.

“Go on a date with me,” he all but demands. This elicits a giggle from you before you kiss him once more.

“Of course I will,” you reply, moving down to cuddle back up with him.

Finally, the two of you were settled in all cozy, no longer on edge and wondering if one thing is going to upset the other. Now that the admission of your feelings was done and over with, the two of you could relax against each other, knowing this meant more than just two friends falling asleep with one another.

With his soft touch running along your back, soothing you to sleep, you were out like a light in minutes, but Jarvy stayed up, watching whatever episode of your show that was on, often looking down at you to make sure you remained asleep.

He fell asleep not long after, the grin on his face remaining there like it was stuck forever, holding the person he loves most in the world, feeling like he was on cloud nine, knowing life could only get better now that you two had admitted your years-worth of pent up feelings

#seth jarvis #seth jarvis imagines #seth jarvis x reader #seth jarvis imagine #seth jarvis fanfic #hockey #hockey fanfic #imagines #fanfiction #fanfic

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idyllcy · 17 hours

Text

this is a drama. i am the drama.

word count: 10.4k

WARNINGS: mentions of SA, mentions of sex trafficking, mild violence (all r kinda glossed over but still warning), Nonexplicit smut

summary: your soul drowns Tim, but he finds comfort in it.

The city of Gotham is not phased by much.

From the drug trafficking in the docks to the human trafficking happening under everyone's nose, the average citizen doesn't really care. Though, arguably, they do mind when their sleep is disturbed by the sound of racing cars— something else that isn't necessarily new in Gotham. However, there had been news that the racers were steering off into the city at night, so Tim finds himself in civilian clothes, holding up a pass to access the venue that the racers were using, stepping in past the loud noises and people screaming. Ah, he made it in time.

He's surprised to find actual racing cars— cars that look like they could be in a grand prix.

From the seats, he meets eyes with a racer. He can't tell anything, but from posture and body frame, a woman. Now that he looks at it, all the racers seem to be female-presenting. He turns down the drink offered by one of the men, striking up a conversation instead, batting his lashes at the man, hoping to seduce him in some way. He wore too much clothing to be able to do so with his body, but it was still worth a shot. He hates dressing up like this anyway.

"So, what's a goody two shoes like you doing here?" The man smiles, sliding an arm around his shoulder.

"A friend gave me his pass because I said I'd never watched a Gotham street race." He bats his lashes. (Hopefully the fake lashes Stephanie glued don't fall off. God, did he hate dressing as Caroline)

"Really? Usually we place our bets on a racer." He hums, waving a guy over, dropping a twenty in a box. "I'd recommend you vote for Spitfire, she's an oldie and usually wins."

"Who are the others?" Tim slips a twenty from the back of his phone, blinking at the other names.

The man chuckles. "Lightwing is another good contender. She's been around forever. But also, her vision is spotty from an accident last time, so she's not as popular as before."

Tim nods slowly, staring at the other two names. "Who's Moonknight and Aquastar?"

"Moonknight is making her debut tonight, but her test run streaks were pretty bad because she doesn't have as big of a team as the rest of them." The man waves his hand. "You don't need to bet on her, pretty girl." He grins toothily. "Oh, and Aquastar is a visiting racer from a nearby city. We usually have more racers, but Cardinal got suspended for going off the race tracks and breaking into Gotham two weeks ago."

Now that he thinks about it, all of the names were practically knockoffs of the vigilantes and heroes who protected the cities. Although, he's surprised the street racing had ended up this big without any of the bats shutting it down. Someone must have a hand somewhere. He just wonders if it's Hood or B. It could be neither for all he knows.

"How does one race?" Tim blinks at one car in particular. It looks too much like a batmobile for comfort.

"You'd have to talk to the racers for that."

"Ey, Chris, are you hitting on newbies again?" A woman walks up the stairs, shoving him to the side playfully, tilting her head at Tim.

"Oh, come on, Spitty. You know I only do that so I can collect profits when you win."

"Arguably," She tilts her head at Tim, pausing. "You should bet on Moonknight."

"A-ah?"

"If she wins," Spitfire smiles, "then you collect all the profits. It's only a twenty, after all."

Tim frowns.

"But there's also a tradition for newbies to bet on newbies." She laughs. "You never know. That girl's got more speed in her than Cardinal. She just refuses to tell people."

"What's the cash prize?" Tim raises a brow.

"Driver gets ten percent of the bet money on top of the two million that WE pours into the track." She pauses.

"WE pours money into this?"

"We're not sure why, but they have been for a while now. The whole race track was from them." Spitfire sighs. "It's an old story, so it's not that surprising anymore."

Tim glances at the car again, pausing. Ah. This was where Bruce tested out his batmobile by using other people. No wonder he didn't push anyone to check the driving out. If Bruce was testing out all of his vehicles here, then there was no way he'd want it to be shut down. It would explain why he handed him an access card without having him get one. Tim glances around to look for seating, and Spitfire notices.

"You wanna sit in the grandstands?" She smiles. "My treat."

"Really?" Tim puts the money into Moonknight's box. The woman was right. It's only a twenty. Worst case, he loses the money. Though, he wonders what kind of a racer would have a leading champion telling him to vote for her. "Oh, is there a reason all the racers are girl?"

"We tried co-ed racing for a while." Spitfire holds her hand out for Tim, and he takes it. "But the men would get too aggressive and lead to unnecessary accidents on the track. Our goal is to test out cars for our sponsors before they're taken onto the field."

"Is that why there's a pass to get in?"

"Yeah." She hums, pulling the door open. "Come on in."

"Spitfire, favoring a newbie?!"

"Spitfire, who do you think is going to win!"

The woman turns her head, smile on her lips. "Me, obviously."

But it proves wrong when Tim meets eyes with the same woman from the first time.

You stare into his eyes, white racing suit snug on your body, a look in your eyes he recognizes. Though, the longer you look at him, the more you seem to read him— as if his entire past were exposed in front of you at a table. There is a sort of darkness to both your eyes and hair, the stare of a thousand souls. He breaks eye contact first, waving goodbye to Spitfire as she hops back to her position, final checkups of the cars in progress as Chris asks him if he wants a drink. Tim waves him down, but he mentions a can of Zesti would be fine. Chris barely makes it back in time for the announcements.

Tim catalogs the majority of the announcements in, checking for their voice on his phone, blinking when he finds a lack of match for it. He'd ask Chris, but the man is practically leaning over on the stand, eyes glittering as the cars prepare to race. He stands up, cracking open his soda, blinking when the four racers seem to fly off, and his eyes glance at the big screen, camera flying after the cars.

Moonknight goes from second to third, and Spitfire goes from third to first. He doesn't have much faith in his twenty bucks, but he wonders if the batmobile would really be helpful in a race like this. It didn't—

Moonknight goes from third to first at the final moment, boosting past Spitfire and racing to first place as she makes it into the second lap. Tim pauses while recalling the batmobile, and he remembers the change he had made just a week ago on the car, letting it accelerate faster than the other cars. Seeing his own creation in action hits something in him, blinking as she swerves.

"Oh, I might actually lose my money today." Chris laughs. "I didn't think she'd be able to do it."

"Who is Moonknight?"

"She's a completely new racer. She's called Moonknight because he sponsor gave her a car that looks eerily like a batmobile every time. Though, her car is in light grey." Chris points. "I'll hand you the pamphlet later."

"Thank you." Tim mumbles, watching as Spitfire races neck to neck with Moonknight. Tim wonders if it's going to be a tie. Though, he did add something else to the car. Maybe Bruce told you, maybe not. If she manages to find it, she could win. Though, he's more curious to know if rocket boosters were technically allowed in a race like this. Who knows.

You grimace in the car, pressing a couple of buttons as your fingers brush over something new. You wonder if it's the self-destruction button that Batman had told you not to touch. Yet, you shrug it off, clicking it anyway, slamming back into your seat as you speed past Spitfire, breaking past the finish line, steering with one hand as you try and stop the rockets on your car, clicking on the screen, grimacing. You'd rather not call Oracle. Last time you did, she tried pulling your social security number on you, only to find a lack of one.

Your heart races in your chest as you press the button again, the rockets only growing stronger, and you groan as you type in a code you had memorized from the Batcave, successfully shutting down the systems on the car, turning it back into a regular vehicle. You don't know who invented that line of code, but god were you thankful that you memorized it. The car eventually slows, and you drift next to the other racers, parking successfully. You step out of the car, leaning on the door as it closes, the blood in your body flushing your skin.

"Moon, are you alright?" Spitfire rushes next to you, hand on your bicep.

"I'm fine." You pull the helmet from your head, meeting eyes with Tim's again. You raise a brow, and you lower your voice to Spitfire. "That girl isn't a girl."

"Drag maybe?"

"No." You mumble, turning to shield your mouth from his eyes. "Undercover cop. Either that or they're a vigilante. They used Batman's card to get in."

"Ah." She frowns. "Are we safe?"

"I'll deal with it if he throws a fit." You stretch your neck, placing your helmet onto the top of your car. "Gotta submit a report later."

"I'm not looking forward to that." Lightwing groans. "Our next race is supposed to be motorbikes."

"Ewwww." Spitfire shudders. "I hate racing those."

"I hope they don't have rocket boosters like on my car today." You shudder.

"Alright, go get your cash prize, girlie." Spitfire smacks your back to send you walking to the podium.

You step over to the makeshift stage, taking the cheque from the announcer, blowing a kiss at the phones as you stare at the blank cheque. Two million was the max, but you were told you'd get to cash out five if you could win the race. You pause, though, when the girl you were staring at earlier makes her way out of the stands and walks over. Spitfire tries stopping her, but she seems to say something that has her quiet as she steps up the podium to meet you. You tilt your head at her.

Tim opens his mouth to speak before you cut him off.

"You know." You pause to wave the announcer off, hooking your arms under her knees to rest your chin on her chest. "You're real hot as a woman, but I'm sure you'd look better as a man."

Tim flushes as you press a kiss to the crown of his head, and you set him on the podium, lips pulled into a pretty smile. Your voice lowers as you rest your chin in the valley of his tits, blinking up at him. You jut out your bottom lip as Tim swallows thickly. Your fingers lace into his hair, nails digging into his scalp gently, blinking slowly, reading his emotions, his expressions, his everything. You look entranced, and Tim almost feels bad that he's here undercover and you're staring starry-eyed over someone who doesn't exist.

"What's your name, pretty girl?" You raise a brow at her, grinning.

"Caroline." He swallows again, heart racing in his chest. You're too attractive for your own good. Maybe you were using that against him. "Caroline Hill."

"Well, Carrie," You hum, tucking his hair behind his ear. "I think you're gorgeous. Care for a drink sometime?"

"A-as much as I would like to, I'm not into w-women." He stumbles. (A bold lie. He's never had a worse panic over a woman in his life.)

"Quite a shame." You mumble. "You're so pretty too..."

You step down the stage, holding the cheque up as the girls cheer with you.

Tim should really talk to Bruce about what the batmobile was doing in a street racing event.

Though, as Tim tries to run a background check on you, he finds nothing come up. Even in the private files of the batcomputer. Even on the card that gave him access, all the fingerprints were wiped clean. He finds practically nothing, not that it gets to him, he just looks harder. He practically lives in the cave now. He doesn't remember the last day he got regular sleep. He has nothing on you.

So, he shows up at the next race as himself this time. He enters with the same card, and this time, you find him first.

"So? You related to B?" You hand him a can of unopened zesti, and he raises a brow at you. You raise a brow back at him, pointing at his card. "Card. That's a B exclusive card."

"How so?"

"Sponsor card." You smile. "Since it's light grey, that means it's my sponsor. My sponsor is B."

Tim frowns. "Who are you?"

"My question first."

"He's an aquaintance. Now my question." He opens his can, pressing the drink to his lips.

"I'm a racer." You smile.

"I meant as a person." He clicks his tongue.

"Why don't you find out?" You bat your lashes at him prettily, hand pressed to his abdomen, leaning in to blink at him devilishly. "Or are you not into women too?"

Tim's heart races in his ears, swallowing as he tries his best to match your pace. "What does the media say?"

"Lots" You grin, pressing yourself closer to him, arms wrapped around his neck, your air mixed with his, lips pulled into a dangerous smirk. "But all I hear these days is how someone keeps trying to hack my personal information."

"Yeah?" He tilts his head, placing the can to the side.

"Mhm." You hum.

Tim smiles at you, dangerously, all while his mind is a jumbled mess. You had an effect on him that he dared not to pry further into, but god were you intoxicating — bad for his brain even. He finds himself leaning closer to you, all systems going off about how this was bad for him, but he doesn't care. Not when your perfume smells tantalizing and the only thing he wants to do is kiss you sick— make out with you until you're whimpering against his lips, knees giving out under you, and brain fuzzy with only him. His eyes darken with the thoughts, a smile on his face.

You remove your arms from him, tapping his shoulder twice with an innocent smile. "Thanks for giving me the last piece."

Tim raises a brow as you peel yourself from him, his mask in your fingers, smile not so pure anymore.

There was no way.

Tim grabs it back from you as you back up, both hands in the air, and as he shoves it into somewhere you can't touch, you hop over the stands, landing on the dirt with a thud. Tim frowns in frustration as you send a wink his way, starting final check-ups for the race. It's bikes today, and Tim recognizes all of the models. A copy of his own bike is in Spitfire's hand right now. Maybe this was how Bruce figured out whether or not his bike was safe to ride after his own customizations. Jason's bike is in another rider's hands, red helmet with black— presumably Cardinal, and Dick's bike is in Lightwing's hands. You have Bruce's bike still. It checks out now.

This was the testing ground for the vigilante vehicles in Gotham.

The fact that you had figured him out so quickly only meant that you had realized faster than everyone else.

But there had to be a reason that no one part of the team saw the similarities between their vehicles and the ones that the Gotham vigilantes used. There had to be a reason that only you would be crazy enough to figure it out just based on vehicle models. Maybe he could use the status card to talk to you all for a little. Too bad you were already checking the vehicle. He should have asked earlier— strange. It's not like him to be this disoriented.

You win the race.

It's obvious. B's bike was designed with the fastest engine possible, and in a race of pure speed, it would win. No matter how much Tim tinkered with his bike, he wasn't allowed to go faster than Bruce. The man had said it was too dangerous, and Tim could see why. The Batbike was a nightmare to steer at such high speeds. Though, he does wonder where everyone on the track gets their practice. There's never a peak of sound during the day on the track, and neither was there much noise at night when you weren't racing.

Tim does not dig the idea that he has to pull his money card out, but the more competitive part of him does wonder what it would look like to have you fold for him.

"A drink?" He leans over the railing, card held up, raising a brow at you.

You wave him off, handing your helmet to someone else, clicking your tongue.

"That's not the way to ask a pretty woman out on a date, boy." You raise a brow, lips pulled upwards in a grin. "Maybe ask better next time. Some of us have black cards too."

So Tim watches as you leave with the rest of the racers, his heart racing in his chest.

It takes ten more tries for Tim to trace from someone else to you.

He blinks at the woman on the screen, and he pauses to ponder. Perhaps.

However, all of his thoughts are thrown off when a command is called from behind him by Bruce with a new case. A file is handed to him, a file with a rather unoriginal name, and it makes Tim raise a brow. Surely it was a jest.

"I assure you, they are very much real." Bruce rolls his eyes, cowl peeled off, humming with a drink pressed to his lips.

"Is this related to the serial murder of rapists going around in Gotham?" He opens the file.

"Not just Gotham." Bruce hums. "Clark did a report on the serial murder of both registered and unregistered sex offenders in Metropolis as well. It has been a trend. Despite the vigilantism, it is still very much illegal to kill someone."

"I don't see too much of a problem with killing a rapist." Tim presses his coffee to his lips, scanning through the files Bruce hands him. The target seems rather clear. The killer does not regard anyone in the way, knocking everyone out and always only killing the rapist. A maneater. The name given to the murderer was maneater, as if it were some ploy. In some cases, the victims were found with their pants unzipped and an anti-rape condom stuck on them, writhing in pain as they were almost always found dead with poison in their system.

Those who suffered more gruesome deaths... either found castrated with their genitals lying not too far away, or a hole where their heart was supposed to be, the organ missing. It reminds him almost of Heartless, but... that is not the case. This is a vigilante no different from them... just less sparing and guaranteed murder. Now, does Tim solve the case or let the vigilante free...

He does not know what possesses him to ask you of all people, but your response does not help much.

"Moonknight." Tim hums, adjusting his glasses as he puts them on. "May I pick at your brain?"

"Is this about the serial murders?" You wipe the helmet in your hand, cheque tucked safely into your wallet.

Tim nods. "Thoughts?"

"I feel like the murderer's doing us ladies a favor." You shrug. "Think about it."

"I know, but murder is a little..."

"Little hypocritical of you, you know?" You raise a brow. "Must I name your war crimes?"

"No." Tim hums. "Perhaps I should do some digging anyway."

"Wouldn't hurt to have it on file in case you do need it one day." You eye one of the newer men on the track, grinning at Spitfire as she greets him. "Hm?"

Tim's eyes trail up to Spitfire.

Similar build. His glasses indicate the same.

"It's not any of my girls." You crack open the can of soder. "I promise they're clean. B runs background checks on all of us."

Tim mulls over your words.

Scary.

Yet, he visits you anyway, money piling in his back pocket as you win round after round, small talk rolling off your lips in a sort of practiced way, smile inviting as you turn down his request to grab a drink again, humming quietly as Tim's eyes trail down to the small of your back, brow raised as he notices your shorts peeking out past your pants.

"What does it take for a date with you?"

"Maybe not being part of law enforcement." You hum. "Legal or not."

"Why? Worried I'll turn you in?"

"No..." You trail off, chewing your top lip as you turn your head at Lightwing. "Well, if you save Lightwing from some trouble, I'll consider."

"What's wrong?"

"You see the man talking to her?"

Tim raises a brow and spots another group of men not too far off. "Bingo."

You wink in her direction, and Tim hums.

"Hey big fella. Having fun so far?"

You watch as Tim tears the man apart, Lightwing leaving at one point to stand next to you.

"Really, I don't know what you see in that man."

"Not much." You purse your lips, smiling. "Something tells me he's the one."

"I'm willing to bet that he is not." She mumbles.

Yet, as Tim barely lifts a finger to piss the man off, you grin.

"Oh, he's definitely the one."

Tim runs the information, stalking down the final member of your racing team, matching the majority of information to the final member, brow raised when he realizes that Cardinal was not part of B's files either, hunting the woman down as he searches for her current location, and it makes Tim's stomach churn uncomfortably when he realizes how eerily similar the racer is to the described criminal. The person who was dubbed Cardinal had been face-matched to someone who had entered Metropolis just a little bit before the serial murders. It made Tim nauseous.

"Got any leads?"

"Might be one of the previous racers." Tim grimaces. "Of the race tracks."

"Cardinal? I assure you it is not her."

"Really? There had been rumors—"

"It is not." Bruce mumbles. "You know who Cardinal is. It is not her. They may have similar builds, but it is not her."

"Who is Cardinal?"

"You'll figure it out soon enough."

Bruce's evasion of his question does not help the uncomfortable feeling in his stomach.

You end up with Tim on the date, hair ruffled as he picks you up in his bike, hand held out to you as you take it, humming. It's supposed to be simple. Though, you suppose simple for a Wayne is impossible to determine. You never know what to expect from him. Though, when he pulls you to the local diner, you find it impossible to not know he's the one. It's really too simple.

"Would you tell me about Cardinal?" Tim finally asks you proper questions once the two of you finish ordering.

"Do you think she's the one?" You raise a brow.

"You said your girls are innocent."

"The ones I currently race with." You hum, reaching for the bread on the table.

"And Cardinal?"

"I don't know much about her. She didn't talk much."

"But she was aggressive, no?"

"No." You hum. "She drove into Gotham because she saw something. She also raced her own bike. No one knows who she is."

Tim connects something in his mind, and it sends him back to step one.

"Would you be able to help if I gave you the file?"

"Isn't it just what's available online?"

"One final thing. The killer in Metropolis might be the same person." Tim mumbles. "Thank you."

The food is presented before the two of you, and you stab into your pasta. "I don't think so. Did you track anyone else that entered and exited Metropolis that was a Gothamite?"

Tim shakes his head. "I find it strange."

"Perhaps magic?"

"Not impossible." Tim mumbles. "What do you do in your free time?"

"Tinker." You hum.

"With your bike?"

"No. That's B's property. I tend to tinker with smaller things. It's always fun to build a PC from scratch."

"Ah, you're quite handy with tech." Tim hums, blowing on his pasta. "Anything else?"

"I like watching detective shows." You pause to think. "And racing. I think that's about it. How 'bout you, boy wonder?"

"That's my brother." He laughs dryly.

Tim finds that it's intriguing to talk to you. You know everything that he does, and it seems you know much more than what you let him in on. Dare he say it, perhaps he's met his match.

Tim sends you home and starts patrol. Gotham had become eerily quiet since the murderer had been on the loose.

Though, he has a knack for saying things too early.

A man dies the same day, and B finds his way there with Tim, the two of them sweeping down and kicking the man down, a woman shaking as Tim shields her, holding his cape out, making sure to not look at the way her clothes are ripped up and she's shaking with an intensity unknown to him. He can feel the vibrations of her skin through his cape. The fear is easily contagious had he not known.

"B?"

"Dead. The poison spread too fast."

The woman doesn't look like she was aware.

"Did you buy the product?" Tim raises a brow, eyes scanning her face for any changes in emotion, and she shakes her head.

"I... a-a friend got me o-one on because—" She gasps, shoulders trembling still. "I-it saved her life."

"Do you know where she bought it?"

The woman shakes her head. "Th-they were giving them out on the streets a while back. It's been m-months."

"May we take one back?"

B shakes his head. "Gordon is coming. We will decide then. Oracle?"

Oracle has no intel either, and Tim wonders just how far this murderer is willing to go. If he just let them kill all the rapists in Gotham, then it would result in a number of the population as gone. If he checked them, perhaps the offenders in Gotham would assume they are protected by B — which truly could not be further from the truth.

"Where are you living? I will take you back." Tim catches a figure in the corner of his eye.

"B."

The man shakes his head.

"I-I'll be fine." She mumbles. "May I borrow a... clothes?"

B nods, and Tim hands the woman to him as he takes a good look at the man on the ground.

Familiar. He looks familiar.

The scan from his mask indicates the same. The man who had been talking to Spitfire at the tracks. It was the man who had been talking to her. Some clicks in the back of Tim's mind, his fingers pressing to the silicone, pressing the dirt and grime to the back of his glove to check for DNA.

Just the shaking woman.

"B, I need one of them." He speaks firmer this time. "There has to be some unidentified DNA on one of them."

"There are in one of the files on our computer. It was sent this afternoon." B hums. "The police are arriving. Come on."

Tim doesn't need to be told twice, yet he lingers, eyes trailing on the woman as he waits.

One of the policemen is an unregistered sex offender.

He clicks on his mask as he zooms in, a dark figure flying out of the alleyway at the man, and Tim watches as a claw digs into the man's genitals, ripping off with a sound that shakes the walls, followed by a guttural scream. The policemen shoot at the figure, but they don't react, only retreating back into the walls, seemingly unhurt by the bullets.

"Oracle, did you catch that?"

"No face was detected."

"How about figure?"

"Non-human." Oracle mumbles. "I can't identify anything."

"Tsk." Tim clicks his tongue.

"Though, it has to be a shadow ability. Perhaps something adjacent to it. They're gone, right?"

Tim hums into the mic. "Affirmative."

Tim ignores the way the shadow shapes weirdly underneath his feet.

"You can come out." He taps the corner of his mask for reinforcements, taking a step back into the moon as the shadow forms, a smile of white forming into a human.

"Can you—"

"Neither. All indications of sex are missing."

"Oh..."

Their voice is nothing short of horrifying to him.

"I caught a bird." It grins, and as Tim takes a step back, he finds that his other foot has a shadow warping around his ankle.

"Who are you?"

"We are the night." It sings. "We are the darkness..."

Tim knows what's next.

"We are... vengeance."

"That's rather cringe, don't ya think?" Tim raises a brow.

A batarang flies from behind him, and the shadows only create a hole for the weapon to fly through. The shadow splits into two people, and Tim smiles.

"Gotcha."

"Ah ah," The one on the left shakes its hand. "We were promised... freedom."

"Only where you belong." Batman shines a flashlight at the creature, and Tim watches as it retreats back into the shadows, his ankle free. "And you. Next time, just shine the flashlight."

"Are they weak?" Tim raises a brow. "Just to light?"

"It stuns." Batman nods.

"Go track the leftovers on your ankle back in the cave."

"Will do." Tim pauses before he goes. "Is it an alien?"

"No. Something worse."

Tim does NOT know what could be worse than an alien. (He lies. He does.)

The DNA tracks too many women to count. One shows up and then the next, and eventually, Tim has at least twenty women pulled up on his screen, all pronounced dead after being found used and discarded. It is horrifying. Tim may not understand just how terrifying it is to be a woman, but as he finds children, he seems to understand just how disgusting this is. Girl after girl, woman after woman, every last one of them were used and discarded bare for the world to see, photographed and made a case study out of — all who met their unfortunate end and their rapists never see the end of their life the same way they did.

It is disgusting, but something else is discovered.

He does not remember if it is something new, but it seems strange. It is not a shadow, but rather a composition of human souls forced to merge into an unrecognizable shape. It is science, not an alien, and Tim understands why it is worse. It is an unfortunate victim and not an alien. It is someone who had been forced to change into something unloveable. He wonders if the souls of the unfortunate make up the shadows.

Ah. If they are shadows...

Tim turns around as the shadows form a human again, shorter than he is, apple of its cheeks soft and gentle. A girl. It is a girl this time; not a woman.

"Are you a victim?"

It does not answer him.

"Tim? Tim, do you hear me? Red!"

"It has not attacked yet." Tim answers. "How many of you are there?"

The child does not respond, holding up one finger, and then two, and three, and eventually there are too many fingers sticking out of the hand that Tim had lost count.

"Many."

"What's the deal?"

"I matched the DNA." Tim swallows. "I won't hurt you, but please—"

The shadow dissolves, and Tim lets out a breath, staring at the faces plastered across the screen of the Batcave.

"Tim?"

"Oracle." His voice goes quiet. "They are all victims of... The computer just keeps going."

Eventually, B returns, staring at the wall of faces Tim left, finding the man in his room, glasses on as he stares at his PC, case file after case file being read, news article after news article. There is more than one soul occupying the shadows, and Tim reads one after the other of how they were murdered. Stabbed, strangled, shot, mangled, burned. None of the souls were able to escape death at the hands of their rapist. It was sickening.

"It is not a human." Tim speaks, staring at Bruce at the door. "We can not arrest it."

"Is it humanoid?"

"No. It is a shadow of vengeance."

"There has to be a way to stop it from collecting more souls."

Tim closes his eyes, brows furrowed as he sighs.

"And if I do not want to?"

"Tim."

"I know." He mumbles, exhaustion written all over his face. "How will we destroy the remaining souls?"

"How many women were identified?"

"There are currently twenty seven." Tim mumbles. "There may be even less if more of the men die."

"The vengeance of a ghost." Bruce mumbles. "Just find a way to stop the addition of souls. Surely, someone is collecting souls and adding them."

Tim finally closes his eyes when the sun starts peeking over the horizon.

"Sorry." Tim shows up to your meetup place, eyebags extra bad, and you raise a brow at him.

"Something up?"

"What would you do if someone was collecting the souls of the victims of rape and kill and turning them into a shadow of some sort to let them have vengeance on their rapist?"

"Wow, what a loaded question." You mumble.

"Thoughts?" Tim closes his eyes to pinch the bridge of his nose. "Feel free to ignore it if not—"

"I mean... it makes sense." You hum. "Is it scientifically immoral? Yes. Is it in some way morally correct? Perhaps. Their lives were taken and their souls haunt the earth because they are still held down by things they could not resolve while they were alive. Perhaps to the living, they are a monster, but to the dead? to the dead, they are a savior."

Tim pauses to think. "Should the person be punished?"

"Under the law? Sure."

"How about according to yourself?"

"No." You mumble. "If I was raped like that, I would love to ruin the life of the man who ruined mine. I heard a police officer got his dick ripped off. Is he still alive?"

"Alive." Tim nods. "Vitals are stable, but he can no longer procreate... obviously."

"Deserved, maybe. I heard he got off with only two months of jail time after the initial trial."

Tim does not answer, pausing to mull over the case.

"I'm sure you'll figure it out." You stand up, stretching your legs. "Shall we get something to eat?"

"You have food by here?"

"No, but since you brought your bike, I can take us somewhere."

"It better not be the diner from last time."

It is NOT the diner from last time

Instead, Tim finds himself seated outside of a Batburger place, thanking you as you hand him his order, clear view of the alleyway.

"This place is a little..."

"It's where a lot of drug trades happen." You hum, staring at the alleyway behind him. "Also where a lot of sex trafficking occurs."

"Ah, right." He mumbles. "Red Hood manages that, no?"

"Not as much." You bite into the burger, humming happily. "Sorry if this wasn't what you were expecting."

"I think the burgers and shake could fix me."

You raise a brow.

"As much as it can try, of course."

"Nah, I have those days too." You hum. "Did you find much on the souls?"

"I just wonder if they are decreasing after extracting revenge on their former rapist." Tim mumbles.

"I heard somewhere they started off in the fifties." You hum, continuing with your burger.

"...fifties? Where did you even hear that?"

"Rumor gets around quickest at the racetrack." You mumble. "Cardinal kept closely with the news. Apparently the figure was as large as a human at one point."

"Is twenty souls not enough to form a full grown woman?"

"Perhaps it picks a child for other reasons." You reach for a fry. "Am I being of much help, mister detective?"

"Somewhat." Tim pauses when he hears rustling behind him. "...May I?"

"Careful, they carry stun guns."

Tim nods, leaving you alone, and you click on your phone as you watch Red Robin swing in, kicking and freeing the poor girl, handing her off to the police as you stare at the two men knocked out. Tim had overestimated just one thing.

From behind, a spike of darkness pieces through the men's hearts, killing them on the spot as Tim holds a hand over the eyes of the woman.

Dead. The two men are dead.

The shadow forms behind them, three young women who look no older than the one that Tim is covering the eyes of.

"How many of you are left?"

This time, the shadow forms a 24.

The number is going down.

So, Tim reports the findings to Bruce, changing out of his suit to get back to you, nodding as he sits down and sighs.

"Sorry, stomach died."

"Nah, don't worry about it." You sip on your shake, humming. "Duty calls."

"Are you racing sometime soon?"

"I think B's trying to have us race less lately." You hum. "I won't be racing for some time. The only reason we raced so often a while back was because there were so many upgrades being implemented."

"So you have more free time?"

"Yeah." You hum. "I was thinking of traveling."

"Where to?"

Tim knows something you don't. The gentle taps of your painted nails omit some eerie sense of death, and it seems that no matter how much Tim likes you and feels fine around you, it is impossible to ignore that eerie sense of death. It reminds him of the first time he met you, stare of a thousand souls. Yet, it seems that...

"Staring?"

"You're rather pretty." He hums, pressing his napkin to his cheeks. "Is it not normal to stare a little?"

"Oh, look at you and your smooth words." You hum.

"I mean them." Tim stares at you.

You only give him a weak look.

You don't seem to believe Tim when he says you're everything.

And maybe at some point in time, Tim had realized that your words swayed him harder than they need to. He does not know when he had ended up so deep with his fingers and hands stained with a passion for you, but as it drags him under, he finds that it's fine. Maybe you were just destined for him in some way. If he would be dragged under, then he would simply find a way to clear it out. He enjoys the sensation of drowning in you. Maybe he is just weak for you.

"Do you love me?" You tilt your head, milkshake straw on your lips as Tim sorts through his files.

Tim stares at you, pushing his glasses up. "Why?"

"Curious." You hum. "You've brought me to your place, after all. Isn't this the nice little boat you got with your boyfriend? I remember the media going insane."

"Perhaps." Tim mumbles. "I brought you here to help me with the case, though. I don't think love is the right word for what we feel towards each other right now."

"Mm." You nod slowly, picking up some papers. "The number went down?"

"Yes. The two men who were killed resulted in three less entities in the shadow." Tim mumbles. "I just wonder if the number is going to increase."

"You wouldn't want it to, huh?" You hum.

"Prefferably no." Tim pauses. "Though, I suppose if the entity is acting on its own, then I can not do much to stop it. Someone is letting the souls merge into the shadows."

"If it's just cells, shouldn't it be the act of a human? That must mean they have some sort of way of accessing the victims' bodies."

"That would be the case, but a further search indicated that they were not picking up the cells, but rather just souls. I don't know when we got an upgrade to be able to locate souls, but—"

"It was probably when you tried cloning your best friend." You don't bother letting him finish the sentence.

Your statement freaks Tim out.

"H-how the hell do you know?!"

"B." You puff out your cheeks, continuing with reading the file.

B does NOT have that information open to just anyone to access.

Yet, Tim shuts his mouth, continuing with the file, taking the chance to seal your fingerprint. He runs the match while you continue checking, and he ends up in a dead end again. You do not exist in the database. Your fingerprint is not a real person. Surely there was a chance that you were not quite human either.

"Just how cautious are you?"

"Very." You hum. "My fingerprint won't show up."

"What gives you the boldness to say that?"

"A gamble." You hum. "I race for B. Surely, he would not do something as cruel as that."

"He is consistently paranoid."

"That does not matter." You click your tongue. "He could not hold me down if he tried."

Tim senses that there is a certain level of untruth to your words, but he can not say just what it is.

Three days later, four more men are found dead by the docks. Tim checks them with the police, Oracle's voice in his ear as he observes them. All three have had their hearts pierced through, a gaping hole left behind. Tim looks to the side at the shadows brewing beneath the water, and he observes that the number shown is four less than before.

"These men have to be part of an organization."

"They are." Oracle notes. "Human trafficking. These are the men who are part of a human trafficking specifically for sex workers."

"So... rapists."

"Yes."

"Did we ever get a number on them?"

"No."

Tim nods at the police as they arrive, grappling away.

Maybe he's committing a sin by letting the shadow get away with the murders. It would be impossible to hold them down, but he wonders if he should ever shine a light on them when they kill.

Back at the cave, the young girl emerges again, smiling at Tim as he raises a brow.

"What?"

"Twenty." The voice speaks, much younger this time.

"Are you all children?"

The widening of the smile indicates a yes.

"How old were you?" He holds his hand out for the shadow.

His question goes ignored, the shadow disappearing as B returns to the cave.

"The number of shadows decreased again." Tim stares at B as he undresses.

"How do you know the shadows aren't lying?"

"Here." Tim shows B the newest scan of the souls, and the number has shrunk.

"How did you scan it?"

"I do not know. We hadn't been able to scan based on soul previously."

Bruce clicks on the computer, eyes focusing on the application, taking over as Tim sits to the side. He looks further, digging into the code as he pauses and points at a line.

"Moonknight."

"The racer?"

Bruce reads the code, and Tim follows, pausing.

"She's a computer system?"

"No, but you probably scanned some system in when you ran her through the system the first time."

"Just what is she?"

"I don't ask questions, and neither does she. Just a worker."

"Alright." Tim mumbles. But the issue was you do ask questions. You ask plenty of questions and each one brings you closer than the last. He had already lost his identity to you because of your charm. Perhaps Bruce was not far off. Though, if Tim could not find you, then Bruce probably could not either.

The next time he meets up with you, you finally let him into your apartment.

"Oh, if I didn't know any better, I'd say you love me." Tim hums. "What brings you to invite me here?"

"No, I didn't feel like going out today." You shut the door behind him. "Pizza's on the counter."

"Where are the others?"

"Racing." You hum.

"I thought you said there weren't any races?"

Tim finds that you're a liar.

Somewhere down in the place he's been pulled to, he finds that there is endless amounts of darkness, something brooding behind your soul as you talk to him, smile on your face. You called him the one, but if you were the one, he wouldn't feel so turbulent. Shaking waters. The water he's been pulled under is unmoving and serene, only in the middle of the sea, making the peace eerie rather than soothing. Rather than the liquid moving, he finds that he's spinning further and further down.

"I'm not racing for the time being." You hum. "The others are racing with their own bikes."

"Do you not own one?"

You shake your head. "I prefer other forms of transportation."

Tim raises a brow but doesn't question it.

Even when the two of you are tangled under your sheets and he listens to your heartbeat, the sense of uneasiness doesn't leave. You are too perfect. Even if you were to drag him down with you, he would only know how to hold onto you and not swim. Maybe this is his end. Unless you free him, he fears he will be stuck with you forever. Drawn to the beating of your heart, Tim is stuck being in love with you for the rest of his life. If you would drag him into the depths of your world and ruin his life, then so be it. As long as neither of you cross the line, neither of you would be hurt.

"Would you like to race?"

You raise a brow at Tim.

"Once in a lifetime." He offers.

"On the track?"

"We can race during the day." He hums.

"Not a day person."

"Then at sunrise."

You pause to think about it.

"If that's what you want."

"You make it sound like it's something I want to do." Tim whispers, chin resting on your chest as it rises and falls.

"Is it not?" You run your fingers through his hair, vibrations of your voice making him purr.

When Tim wakes in the morning, Oracle sends him a news article. Ten men found dead at the docks. Ten men were killed, and Tim can only wonder how many of the shadows found peace from their deaths. Though, as your fingers scratch at his scalp again, he could worry about it later. He'd rather not stir up deep waters.

"Ten died?"

"Mhm." Tim closes his eyes, mumbling. "Ten men."

"From the same organization?"

Tim is too tired to consider how you would know all the men are from the same organization when it has not been disclosed to the public.

"You seem to know much more than you let on."

"Of course I do." You hum. "But I won't race you until you find out."

"Then give me a month." He mumbles, eyes closing as he drifts back to sleep. You're warm, and for the first time in a while, he gets some rest.

The next race Tim goes to, he notices Spitfire and Lightwing are missing.

You tilt your head at Tim from the track, waving as he waves back, lips curled upwards in a gentle smile.

He refuses to meet the truth.

There is some sense of security that lies in playing stupid, eyes closed and fingers reaching out into a void of nothingness, knowing that as long as he did not know, he would be safe. Yet, there is always the nagging in the back of his mind, uncertain about his future, uncertain about what would happen if he continued to play dumb. He knows he'll get called out for it by Steph soon, but it really... he was only a fool in love. He can not do something so terrible to his heart.

Even as you bring back the trophy and greet Tim with a thrashing kiss against his lips, breath hot against his as he tries to ignore the truth of the world beneath his feet embedded into the shadows, he knows that he can only play stupid for so long. Soon, this racetrack will become empty, and one day, you too will leave him for the world that he refuses to uncover for his own safety. He loves you, but he can only do so much when he's young and stupid.

"Can I take you back to mine?" Tim whispers, eyes begging quietly as you lick your lips, helmet in your hand as you confirm with a kiss.

The gentle rocking of Tim's place is peaceful in the Gotham waters, port comfortable as he pushes back all of his knowledge. It is a curse to be wise, yet Tim finds that there is nothing he can do when he just refuses to. He would choose you even if it meant laying what he had known before down. It pains him to know that he should not, and you would not let him, but he is foolish and young, eyes gentle as he drinks up the way you lay beneath him, the moon coating you in a lovely white as he furrows his brows to forget about it all.

Your skin is soft against Tim's hands, plush of your waist filling the spaces between his fingers as you stretch your arms above your head, eyes half-lidded as he pleases you — himself. It makes no difference. Turbulent waters have long become the place where he finds his rest, eyes half-lidded as he listens to the way you breathe, both beneath him and in the dead of the night. Life becomes slightly more bearable with you around, exhaustion no longer as suffocating as he's used to. Perhaps he loves you or such. Perhaps he does not. Most certainly, he knows he cares.

In the afterglow of sweat and skin, Tim finds that you are no different from him.

"How many of them are left?"

Tim stares outside the window, recalling the last murder in Gotham.

"They're almost gone."

"That's good."

You close your eyes, lashes brushing Tim's neck as you rest your neck over his arm.

"When will we race?"

"I told you. When you find out."

"Find what, exactly?"

You do not answer, closing your eyes and succumbing to exhaustion instead.

Ultimately, Tim knows.

He knows what he's to look for, and he knows just what you might be. It scares him that you might have lied to him for so long, the shadows and souls lurking beneath the surface of the water finally snaking around his ankle and pulling. The big screen in the Batcave is of no help either, only a single person with an obscured soul, and Tim knows deep down that it is yours. You are a victim of the same organization, an amalgamation of vengeful souls all combined together for the sole purpose of seeking vengeance.

Tim stares at the shadow forming behind him, digits dropping by the day as he reports to Bruce about just what was happening in Gotham. The moral code to prevent murder is strong, but the understanding that a few lives of a few criminals for the cost of a safer Gotham was not a world-ending trade-off. Tim understands that much, at the very least. He knows Bruce does too. In a world where neither of them have to work against human trafficking as hard as previously, Tim finds that the waters are both comforting and vicious. He can not be touched in the warmth of your skin, but others will die from the toxin that he is immune to.

So, as Tim crosses off the final ones in the list of souls, he texts to let you know that the organization has been wiped, asking you which sunrise would work best for you.

You refuse to pick a time during the day because you are afraid of being burnt.

You do not exist in the database because you are not quite human.

You exist because you are someone's hatred and memories, manifesting in the form of the shadows and risking a life you do not have in order to see what is worth living for, vehicles meaning nothing to you as you speed through the racetrack at night, only Aquastar left next to you as she too disappears into the shadows after all the guests leave. There are barely any guests now that Tim looks. Perhaps more than half of them had been tired souls, begging for some sort of help, seeking refuge in the way you would risk your life for some sort of power above the law.

You are home to the souls, regardless of whether they are alive or dead. If someone seeks death, they reach for your arms, holding their hands around your shoulders as you stare past their skin, into the depths of the darkness beyond — something Tim is terrified of touching, Yet, with the feeling of your skin memorized between his fingers, he knows why people go to you to look for something.

You are so living yet so dead.

There is comfort only you can provide.

You meet Tim at the racetrack, sitting on your bike as Tim drives in past the gates. The darkness in your soul has grown lighter. Something has changed from when he first met you. You are still so lovely in his eyes, yet it seems that you can not be together in a case like this. It is a shame. At least he gets to race you, popping off his helmet as he notices how empty the stands are compared to when you used to race. The end of your need in Gotham has arrived, and the end of your services to WE has ended as well. There will be no more of you one day in the future, and Tim knows that one day, he too will be cursed to forget everything about you.

The people are gone.

The racers are gone.

And perhaps after this race, you will be too.

You enable the speaker, fingers clicking on the screen at the podium, giving the two of you a twenty-minute warmup.

Tim wonders just how fast he can go. He watches you from the side as you warm up your bike and drive, speeding around the track with practice that can only come from muscle memory. Yet, he drives around the track and gradually speeds up, trying to get a hand on how to race around. Tim finds that he's a little rusty, making several more rounds around the track as you sit on the side, clicking on your phone and scrolling through. Tim does not know how to bring it up.

"What does the winner get?" You look up from your phone, hopping on your bike as you wait for the countdown.

"Whatever the winner wishes."

"That's quite the bet." You hum, staring up at the light as Tim gets ready.

"Of course."

You start your bike, speeding past Tim as the light shows green, Tim tight behind you as he catches up to you. You wonder and think, leaning to the side as the bike follows, letting Tim pass you as you trail behind him. Tim finishes the first lap relatively quickly, and he realizes that you've fallen back a significant amount. He's unsure whether or not to speed up, but as he finishes his second lap, he finds that you're still far behind.

You cut him from the left, successfully stopping Tim from hitting a wall.

Tim speeds up to chase after you, wondering when you had the time to cut him off.

Yet, the end is evident, your bike parked at the end after your third lap, a grin on your face as he stares at you.

The souls are gone, and you look so, so lonely.

The lights shut as the two of you sit by the podium, tablet in your hand as you kick your legs, and you finally speak up.

"I know you found out."

Tim grimaces. "...why?"

You stare at Tim, peeling back your jacket, throwing it at him as he stares at you, watching as your eyes turn pitch black, shadows forming underneath your skin and turning the entire podium dark, some sort of ancient power creeping up your hands to your forearms, darkness evident in every blink at him, lips curled up into an apologetic smile, and Tim feels the water surrounding him drain all at once. If he would not leave you, then you would leave him. You would force him out of the comfort of your waters, knowing that it would drown him one day.

"The shadow moves with you." Tim stares at you, swallowing thickly. "There is only one victim left. We both know who it is."

You stare at Tim, lips curling upwards as he remembers why your smile started looking so familiar at one point.

"You are the last." Tim picks his words carefully. "Are you a shadow?"

"No. Just a medium. I am very much alive." You smile.

"Who are you waiting to kill?"

"No one." You hum. "I am alive because I must hold onto the shadows for the next ones seeking vengeance."

"You are the source."

You ignore him.

"Are you human?"

You blink at him again, ignoring him once more. "Luckily, it seems the victims have lessened lately."

"Why had there been so many at once?"

"There was an organization." You rock on your heels, lips curled upwards. "Everyone in the organization has been wiped. No fret. They alone resulted in over fifty deaths of women after they reached the age threshold."

"The youngest was ten."

"Yes."

"And the oldest?"

"Most of them were killed once they turned 21." You hum. "Occasionally, if someone looked young enough, they would be killed later, but the majority of them were killed at 21."

"How many souls were there initially?"

"Well over a thousand." You hum.

"And only you are left."

"Yes."

"Why play savior?"

"Why not?" You grin. "I have done nothing but host the poor souls. That does not warrant for my arrest."

Tim knows there is an argument against it, but he does not think too hard.

"Next time a soul finds you, notify me. Send me an invite to your race."

"You know, Tim." You hum. "B no longer needs me."

Ah.

"Will you be gone?"

"Very much so."

"To where?"

You do not tell him.

"Write to me." He speaks again.

You shake your head.

"I can not."

"Why not?"

"Send me some flowers when you see me on the news. That is my wish."

Tim tries to not think too much about your final words to him. You left the next morning, morphed shadows in the city leaving with you, and Tim finds that soon, almost everyone forgets you had ever existed. You had come and gone, shadow of death leaving with you, but he finds that occasionally on the news, he hears word about a new racer, gender unidentifiable, face consistently hidden, only known by their speed. You have become a criminal under the law, racing between the crevices of cities, fake trophy after fake trophy taken home, death following wherever you went, sex trafficking decreasing whenever you rested at night.

Tim tries not to follow you all that much, but when you show up on camera on accident, your home is raided and you are killed on sight by the same men who had killed so many others.

It hurts Tim in the head, eyes closed as he tries his best to not think too much about your death and how you had known all this time, but it would forever haunt him. He still remembers the way the waves would rock gently underneath the moonlight when he was engulfed by you, eyes always tired but comfort always found, knowing that you would be his rest when he needed it. So, for him to see you dead on the news, he finds that perhaps he was just cursed to not be able to hold onto you — that he was destined to be stuck in place and watch as you died because you had made a minor mistake. A mistake that would not have cost his life, but cost yours instead.

Yet, he honors your promise, white chrysanthemums placed at your grave as he holds onto the umbrella, humming quietly. The rain splatters gently against the plastic, quiet drumming calming him as he stares at the carving on the grave. The media had reported this was your place of burial, though Tim did not know if it really was you. He could have only assumed off of the information given, matching your age slightly, and he wonders if there is some sort of universe out there where he would be able to just stay with you.

"Here to see her too?" A masked woman steps next to Tim.

"Yes. I promised I would send flowers once she showed up on the news."

"How lovely of you." The woman hums, placing down a blue lotus.

"Did... you know her?"

"I knew her quite well."

Tim stares down at his flowers, finally looking up at the woman.

"It's such a shame, huh? That she would die to the very organization that she had been working to take care of."

"Well, perhaps she had just understood what it meant to live when she died." You turn to Tim, pulling down your mask as you wait for it to register in his head. "What do you think, Ca—"

You don't get to finish your words before Tim wraps his arms around you with closed eyes.

"I love you too, boy wonder."

#good morning tim drake tag did you miss me? no? GOOD.#tim drake x reader #tim drake imagine #timothy drake x reader #tim x reader #☾.fics #☾.suggestive #contemplated not posting this but like. 10k words r NOT about to go to waste when my queue is empty

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aesfocus · 1 day

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TW: ANIMAL DEATH

A tiny little celebration and recounting of this lil old lady, who passed away yesterday april 22 2024, 6 years to the day her adopted sister left the world.

Read on to learn about her adoption story and some of her fav things!

I made sure she had a comfortable lovely weekend, but she let me know it was time.

So who was Turtle?

In Aug 2010 I went to a local shelter and adopted 2 kitties. One a kitten we named Genki, and another a 1+ year old mystery owner surrender they named Hello Kitty.

She saw us and started yelling and slamming herself on the glass to show us how to pet her. She snugged onto my lap immediately in the little private room to meet her and I was in love instantly.

But back at home she was very scared. She hid under the couch for three days only peaking her head out to eat some food and then she went back in. This would be the last time in her life she would be shy, but I didn't know it so I named her...

Alligator Snapping Turtle; Turtle!

She quickly became my shadow. Clinging to me night and day. She would jump onto the back of my chair, lay on my back and slowly slide down towards my butt. She did this so frequently she managed to break the chair, eventually. After that all my chairs have been bought with more room for her to snug me. For a whole decade.

If someone visited, she would insist they hold her, or she'd sleep on them in their sleep. She once was held through a 3 hour long DnD session by someone she had just met; she loved people. Loved being pet, but above all, she adored me.

She had a specific meow for me, she spent every single night for nearly 14 years in between my legs, and unfortunately, as she got older she got separation anxiety real bad. She would cry and cry for about an hour each time I left. (I rarely do as I no longer work but even a trip to the grocery store did not leave her happy!) I know this because my husband had plenty of videos of her standing at the door hoping I would return.

No matter what I did in the house there she was.

But lets back up a moment, remember that bit about owner surrender? That intake form was interesting. with questions like "What is your pets favorite toy?" came answers like 'small glove'. She spent at least a year in someone with 7 children's garage. They fed her 'cheep food' and knew very little about her past other than they found her about a year prior. No judgements to them, but this girl was a lap cat to end lap cats. You would pick her up and move her to stand and she'd jump right back into your lap. She's dig her claws in if she thought you were trying to leave. She wanted the warmth god damn it!

Here is her on top my husband. Human's were good options.

Heat vent? Also a great option.

She would, when I worked, stay in bed in the covers right where I left her until I came home from work, all nice and cozy.

She loved it when my husband worked from home, gave her ample time to try and fry his laptop during his breaks or lunches.

But her fav place was on top of me. I set up my desk just for her actually! This big living room chair was purchased so she could always be near me.

Because the previous snug situation was not cutting it!

Here she is on the chair I bought for us.

She was never very photogenic, because she saw my hand and wanted pets. If I wasn't petting her she'd cry and show me how to pet her with her paws, or she'd flop around or rub herself on something and look up at me like 'come ooooonnn you know the good spots.'

Or she would do a 'turkey twerky'(where cats twitch their tails and step from foot to foot rapidly in excitement).

Her fav toy it turned out was not a 'small glove' but in fact the simple spring. Yellow was her fav color of the springs, but past that any small bit of plastic she could chase around and yell at was great. She was a very loud little lady!

I sang her a song daily for about ten years;

"Her name is turtle! and she's a turtle! And she's got a lot to say!"

after which she'd generally make a BIG meow and I'd give her tons of attention. Because she was my lil baby girl.

But her all time fav thing, beside me of course, was going outside. She didn't get to much as I believe in, and have, indoor only cats, but on special nice days we'd go outside and she'd gets some nice supervised time with the grass. (She made the other cats jealous because only she was let outside without a harness, but that's because if she wasn't in about a 2 foot radius of me she'd come back and yell at me to follow/I was able to out run her.)

Last year I had her shaved, because she was a fat cat who was struggling with cleaning herself so we were going to get on a rotation of shaving and baths and brushing to make sure she stayed nice and clean...

But unfortunately she began to drop in weight very quickly, the primary sign something was very wrong.

She was adopted on the same day as Genki, and six years to the day she passed on the same day as her sister. Genki lost a very long fight with a fungal pneumonia in 2018 and our hearts shattered and then yesterday they did it again.

If Turtle was my heart, my little shadow, then Genki was my husband's.

Turtle was such an amazing good friend, I have so many memories of her and it doesn't seem real that she's gone. But I wanted to keep this light, and positive, and so I will end it with, adopt.

Don't shop, adopt. You never know who is waiting for you in a shelter, what kind of very full wonderful life you can provide each other! Hello Kitty became Turtle and she knew that name, she'd come running any time I called, she was my very best friend and I miss her so fucking much.

#tw: animal death #tw; animal passing #turtle #mine cats #cats #cutie pies #a farewell #pls be respectful and don't rebagel it thank you

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apparitionism · 1 day

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Asleep 2

For the anniversary this year, I have the second “half” of my @b-and-w-holiday-gift-exchange story for @kla1991 : an involuntary bed-sharing situation that turns not sexy but disastrous. The first part took on Myka’s perspective; this conclusion is written from the other side of the bed. A confession: I find in-universe Helena’s head voice a somewhat difficult register to compose—because while she can’t be fully insane, she needs to teeter or list, sometimes more than a little (but without falling into histrionics). Which is to say that if you don’t entirely buy the turns of thought and/or coping mechanisms I’ve given her here, your skepticism is well-placed. Ultimately I hope it’s the case that a person can be broken but still want in a way that’s... pure? Justified? Sweet? Reciprocatable? Maybe just “vaguely recognizably human”?

Anyway, this is long, first because it extends well beyond the point at which the first part ended, but also because when a Bering and a Wells get to talking (as they at last do!), they need to work things out at their own pace...

Asleep 2

My arm is asleep.

Under normal circumstances, a person would, upon becoming aware of this, shift position so as to restore blood flow.

Under normal circumstances.

But very little is normal about the circumstances under which Helena’s arm is asleep.

She is in a hotel-room bed, in the dark of night, lying on her left side, with her left arm, her now-asleep arm, pinned beneath her. So ends the disturbingly limited “normal” portion of the situation.

Here begins the larger portion: she absolutely must not move.

Irony guts at her with that, a shiv-and-twist remembrance of bronze restriction—but that prohibition had involved a significantly different auxiliary verb: “cannot” rather than “must not.”

Grammatical particulars aside, her immobility now is barely less a torment. This is because her other arm, her alive right, terminates in an even-more alive sensate hand, one that now rests—but is in no way at rest—on Myka’s right hip.

Myka, too, is lying on her left side, a small distance in front of Helena, lying in this hotel-room bed. Such proximity in such a space might, under other circumstances, signify the fulfillment of a long-held dream... but here, now, it seems a nightmare. For Myka is Helena’s colleague and no more; they are in this bed for sleep and no more; and Myka is playing her part correctly while Helena is not, in contravention of what she has sworn to herself she would do no more.

Such drowsy sense the placing of that hand had seemed to make, when she had found herself facing Myka’s back. She had in the past regarded that length covetously, relishing the idea of touch both salacious and tender.

For all her coveting, however, she had in fact only once laid hands on that back, both hands with intention on the clothed blades of Myka’s shoulders: a terrifying embrace, one that was in the most basic physical manner right but overall searingly wrong, screaming bodily truth but surrounded by words that said nothing they should. A perversion of promise, like so much else that had happened in Boone.

Yet Helena had clung to its memory all the same.

She’d thought, here in this unexpected proximity, to supersede that, to touch once again, once again but brief, once again though brief. To erase and replace.

First she touched the right blade, light; yet her hand wanted stillness, more connection than a mere pat against cotton-clad bone. And there was Myka’s hip, a beckoning promontory jut... a place to rest. Rest, however brief.

Once placed, however, her hand had proved reluctant to retreat.

Brief, she reminded it.

No, the hand had responded. I belong here.

Helena knows this is true. She knows also that it cannot be true.

But she is no stranger to holding contradictory thoughts in her head. This has been essential to establishing and maintaining, in these new Warehouse days, a functional equilibrium. Functional. Indeed her goal, in this “reboot,” has been to function, which she has lately defined as something on the order of “to move through time nondestructively.”

This definition had come about due to her realization, pre-reboot, that her difference from others, her inability to fully perform a modern self—her arrogance about that inability, even as she attempted to hide both the inability and the arrogance—chipped at, chipped from, the good (the good nature, the good will, the goodness) of those around her. Over time, such chips accrued as wounds.

Nate. (Adelaide.) Giselle.

She had as a result finally understood that coming back to the Warehouse would mean, at the very least, that those with whom she interacted had already made a bargain, perhaps even a peace, with the inevitable violence of history: with the way the forces of the past could—would—affect, even infect, the present. Helena herself was, at her simplest, merely one more of those forces.

She did consider requesting that she be re-Bronzed, now absent any pretension of traveling through time, but rather as a way of neutralizing a dangerous, and demonstrably unstable, artifact. But then an image had come to her, possibly as an omen, possibly as only a desperate wish: Myka’s devastated face upon hearing such news.

Boone all over again.

Thus the reboot. Because the most significant entry under “function,” with additional emphasis on the “nondestructive” portion of that definition, was her resolution to spare Myka pain. In the past, Helena had been both careless and careful—surgically so—in her infliction of damage on Myka above all others. But she had sworn to herself that those days were done.

Done, but Helena knew she had not paid anything near a sufficient price.

So. To maintain distance, no matter how troublesomely ardent her wish to close it, was—had to be—part of her penance. And to do so decorously was—had to be—the gentlest approach. That was what Helena told herself in her more rational moments.

This moment, in this bed, is not one of those. If it were, she would simply remove her hand. Simply remove it, then roll over.

But her mind races, finding complication: She doesn’t know what sort of sleeper Myka is. Had Helena’s placing of hand awakened her? If she had awakened, has she now fallen asleep again? If she has, would she then be reawakened by the hand’s removal? Or would she, if still awake, draw some negative inference about the entire situation based on removal?

Ideally, Helena would maintain a facsimile of entirely blameless sleep while engaging in that removal, but can she make such a performance believable?

Never in her life has Helena been so concerned about her ability to mislead convincingly as when she has attempted to deceive Myka. That was the case in the past, even at her most nefarious, and now she worries day-to-day that her strictly disciplined disguise of near-constant wishing ache will slip and fail. A simple I am asleep should be... well... simple. But it is not, and Helena is reminded of Claudia’s tendency to observe, in situations both dire and banal, “Here we are.”

Here we are, because Myka is apparently indifferent to the idea of sharing a bed with Helena.

Here we are, because Myka is apparently indifferent to history.

Here we are, and that latter indifference is a surpassing irony, due to the fullness of—

Helena sees that she needs to divert her train of thought, as descending into unjustified anger will help absolutely nothing.

First, she entertains a fantasy of sitting up, turning on a light, and explaining to Myka that this entire situation is untenable, and that if they are going to share a bed, they should share a bed. But it’s true that Myka did not seem even to consider that as a possibility, which seems ludicrous, given the past... no, that’s back to unjustified anger, for who is Helena to resent what Myka wishes not to consider? And indeed, who is she to interpret the past in such a way as to believe she understands what Myka would have considered?

Focus on the facts, she tells herself. What actually happened in that nefarious past. And do so dispassionately.

Regrettably, the word “dispassionately” brings to mind another word: “passionately.”

Again. For she had thought that word not long after she and Myka had first entered this room, first entered it to find, as Helena’s unrestrained fantasies might have conjured, only one bed. That they were clearly intended to share. Thus her mind’s unruly leap to... an adverbial manner in which they might do so.

But Myka had said not one word about the accommodations, so Helena had held her tongue as well. She nevertheless couldn’t help but feel it an elaborate lack of remark on both their parts, the silence practically baroque in its fullness.

Baroque too had been the courtesy with which they jointly prepared for bed, a you-first-no-you stutter-choreography of politeness that ensured privacy, yes, but also reinforced the barrier between their past and their present.

Which Helena understood was necessary. It did nothing, however, to mitigate the breath-hold of preparing to lie down beside Myka.

Once she had managed that lying down, however (with a relative aplomb for which self-congratulation was not, she felt, unjustified), she hoped her torment might ease. A bit. If she could manage the additional task of pretending the body beside her was no more significant than any other human. Some flesh, recumbent.

But when they were situated thus beside, Myka spoke. “You seem a little upset,” she said.

Helena had barely been able to restrain a snort. Now Myka saw fit to comment? As if allowing this portion of the play to pass without remark would create some undue strain upon collegiality? As if their incongruous bonhomie might buckle under the weight of that silence? Oh, that was rich.

Bottling her pique, Helena questioned: “With?” To make Myka say it. Mere saying wouldn’t hurt. Would it?

“You haven’t been yourself since you put that camera in the static bag. Was it a problem, seeing it again?”

Helena held herself rigid so as to keep her body from betraying neither her disappointment at the question nor, contradictorily, her relief...

It was a reasonable question. A good question. Not one on which Helena particularly wanted to focus (although it indicated a certain attention on Myka’s part, an attention on which Helena suspected she should not dwell), but it did deserve an answer. “It closes a door, doesn’t it,” she told the ceiling, for turning her head to address the other body directly seemed an invitation to peril. “That one I opened so nefariously, long ago.”

“Or—and—maybe it closes a loop,” Myka said.

Unexpected. “A loop?”

“Right after college, I went through a self-help phase,” Myka said. She paused, and Helena found herself on relative tenterhooks regarding the applicability of this (new!) information to the current situation. Which reminded her how much she had missed talking with Myka... because of the very sound of her voice, yes, but also because her conversation could range so unanticipatedly. So rewardingly unanticipatedly. Helena had known few people who could lead her on such unpredictable, yet productive, journeys.

Was Myka’s apparent willingness to begin such a journey now indicative of... anything? A softening, perhaps, of relations between them? Not a rebooting of their once-burgeoning intimacy, for that had to remain taboo, but could it be that some restoration of their previous intellectual engagement might be, at the very least, neutral rather than harmful?

Helena had moved a tentative pawn in that direction during their conversation on the airplane. Perhaps this was Myka’s answering move?

With an exhale that seemed like resignation at what she was about to say—to reveal?—Myka said, “I felt like I needed to be someone different—someone better.”

Another pause. Helena considered that such a feeling seemed very Myka (and she heard that phrase in Claudia’s voice), but also very misguided. Of course she was not at all placed to make such judgments, and even less so to convey them to Myka. Thus she said a simple, “Did you,” to encourage without prejudice.

“So I read a lot of books,” Myka said, to which Helena had responded internally, Of course you did. “One was about how to get things done.”

“All things?” Helena asked.

“Sort of.” That was followed by yet another pause. Yet another puzzle.

All these pauses. Was Myka on the verge of sleep? Helena said, soft, thinking she might go unheard, “Perhaps I should read that book. As a help to myself.”

At that, Myka had laughed, more delay, but also soft. “I don’t think it’s any kind of help you need. The guy who wrote it had a big system, all these rules, and I love rules, but these... I admit I didn’t stick with most of them. Honestly, any. But an idea that did stick was actually a pretty minor part: open loops. Stuff you track subconsciously, all the time, because it’s incomplete. How troubling that is. And what a difference it makes when you close a loop, when you each a resolution. I mean, he was talking about stuff like answering emails.”

“Emails,” Helena echoed. So far from artifacts.

“Which this is so much bigger than,” Myka said, exhibiting, not for the first time, an uncanny ability to scoop from Helena’s thoughts. “But maybe the principle holds. You don’t have to tell me. But I hope you have fewer open loops now than you did. Before.”

“Yes. The number. Fewer,” Helena said, factually.

She of course couldn’t say out loud (but it was equally factual) that Myka herself was the loop most capaciously open. The one that gaped, superseding, never mind the number of lesser.

Indeed, however, that number was now minus-one. Oscar. Oscar and his ballad... that loop closed.

Helena had in fact, while handling the camera, begun to ideate a wish that someone (Steve? Claudia?) might be persuaded to use the camera to capture her image... for it had occurred to her that a spark of art, some production on which to concentrate, might animate this reboot... something to pursue, rather than to be pursued by...

But. Lying abed, still and strangely hopeful—a state she should have known would not endure—a realization had struck her, as an open hand to the face, a realization of why Myka had brought up loops and the closing thereof: she had somehow discerned Helena’s wish, via that scooping of thought, and was discouraging her from pursuing it.

So much for any softening. This was instead a warning: Helena should not open a loop that Myka might be obligated to close. And Helena had no trouble grasping that the warning was in no way limited to the use of a single artifact... no, it doubtless applied to any burdensome loops Helena might be thinking of opening, any new incompletions that might come to trouble Myka.

“I understand,” Helena had said, regretting that pawns could not be moved backwards.

At the same instant, Myka said, “I’m glad.”

That collision had canceled communication entirely; in its wake, Myka had turned out her light and turned away from Helena.

Leaving Helena to her thoughts.

Well, fine, had been the first of those.

Next had come an equally mulish sniff of And I will have no difficulty directing any subsequent away from this shared bed.

Whereupon she had proven herself both wrong and right, thinking about history, about the fact that, whatever Myka’s commentary or lack thereof had or hadn’t signified, the fact of Warehouse agents lodging together, sharing beds completely platonically, was certainly nothing new.

This line of thinking had enabled Helena to distract herself by recalling a mission with Steve and Claudia, one in which Steve had announced, after checking in at their hotel, “Bad news. Just a king room left, but they said they’d bring up a cot.”

He had then immediately assigned Claudia to said cot, prompting her to protest, “No way! This situation screams rock-paper-scissors tournament! Loser gets the crappy night’s sleep!”

“No way,” Steve protested back, far more mildly. “The father of science fiction gets first dibs on the lumbar support, and my back’s got a decade on yours, so I call second. If that father agrees.”

Helena had. Sharing with Steve had been fine.

Sharing with Myka should of course have been no different.

Should of course have been...

But now, here in the impossible present, as Helena’s left arm slumbers and her right hand sparks, what should have been? Isn’t isn’t isn’t.

She needs further distraction, so she casts her mind again to Claudia and Steve, to the compensations they have offered her during this strange and estranging reboot: at first Claudia, who had welcomed Helena back so unreservedly and continues to offer wholehearted allyship; and then Steve, who had quickly become an unanticipated boon companion, a partner upon whom Helena has felt increasingly, and increasingly exceptionally, lucky to be able to rely.

And yet these compensations, though Helena hopes she conveys all appropriate gratitude for them, are never sufficient, for Myka—necessary yet unreachable—is always present.

She’d been so, even during that cot-delineated retrieval. Its aftermath had (so much for distraction) involved a significantly Myka-related incident, for Helena had dared, as she, Steve, and Claudia were relaxing in the hotel lounge prior to retiring, to broach Myka as a topic of conversation. As one might do, she’d thought: speaking about a colleague.

“I have an inquiry,” she’d phrased it. To make the ensuing question sound... scientific?

Dispassionate, she jeers at her recalled self.

She jeers also at what she’d said next: a too-bald, “How is Myka?”

She had known, even at the time, that what she had truly wanted was to say that blessed name, to speak about that blessed person. She could not speak to Myka in any meaningful way, and she was starving.

Steve and Claudia had then shared what seemed an extremely charged glance, so Helena hastened to dissemble, making sure to use questions so as to prevent Steve from finding her immediately untruthful: “Given that her liaison with Pete ended? They’ve... recovered, as it were? Both faring well?”

But her tone had struck her own ears as too bright; a desperation rippled behind it, and Helena knew from experience that behind that tiptoed a still deeper threat of rupture, which required work to be kept at bay. As Helena had been instructed by her most successful therapist to do when such awareness overtook her, she began to breathe with attention.

Neither Steve nor Claudia spoke as she did so.

When the danger passed, she smiled, as best she could, to signal to them her appreciation—and to herself, her success.

Steve then said, “You’re not asking about Pete.”

Helena valued—as a personality trait—Steve’s discerning willingness to push. She did not in that moment value how he thus so easily revealed a glaring flaw in her initial approach: she should have asked about Pete; with that as her entrée, the talk might organically have turned to Myka. Foolish of her to think so unstrategically... or was her failure to do so a paradoxically positive sign?

“Give it time,” Steve said, and Helena knew he was making no reference to Myka and Pete’s recovery.

“My relationship to time,” she said, with contempt. Time: she’d taken it. Now she had to give it? A forfeit. Well, that was fair.

Claudia said to Steve, “Speaking of, we’re wasting it. Are we gonna do the thing?”

“Only if H.G.’s on board,” Steve told her. It was an unexpectedly mind-your-manners utterance.

“What is the thing?” Helena asked.

“Claudia’s trying out alcohols,” Steve said. “We can’t do it around Pete, obviously, which means retrievals are our—”

“So many questions to answer, right?” Claudia interrupted, her avidity increasing. “You know, am I über-suave James Bond with the martinis? Or a fights-against-my-general-cool-geek-vibe Carrie Bradshaw with a cosmo?”

Helena had had no idea what she was referring to, but the investigation seemed entirely fit for someone her age. “What have you determined thus far?”

“Turns out cosmos don’t work for me,” she said, “as the prophecy foretold, and Bond-wise, I like a martini all vodka, no gin; sorry, Vesper.”

“Is that all?” Helena asked.

Further avidity: “Oh god no. Vodka drinks aren’t perfect: white Russians are way too sweet. Also in the white family, the wine category pretty much bores me. Also there was this one time Steve ordered a gin drink called a white lady that I couldn’t even think about because it had an egg white in it and one look made me retch.”

“Quite the wide-ranging experiment,” Helena said, hoping to forestall further off-putting description. “Not conducted with inappropriate... ah... intensity, one hopes?”

Steve patted Claudia’s shoulder, at which she rolled her eyes. “I’m supervising,” he said. “No more than a few tries in one sitting, and we’re doing it mindfully.”

Claudia abandoned her attitude and nodded. “Paying attention to what I’m tasting. How to find, you know, notes and stuff. Except for the disgusting egg-white thing, it’s honestly been fun.”

“I’m not opposed to fun,” Helena said, and she was a bit surprised—but pleased, and pleased to be pleased—that Steve didn’t squint in response. “So, Mr. Supervisor, what’s next?”

“I’ve been pushing for the wide and wonderful world of beer, but—”

“Seems too jocktastic,” Claudia said. “You know, ‘Beer me, bro.’”

“I don’t know,” Helena said.

“Anyway that’s really not me,” Claudia continued, as if Helena hadn’t spoken. She did have a tendency to ignore Helena’s ignorance, a tendency that Helena enjoyed and found frustrating in equal measure.

“Her beer perspective is severely limited,” Steve lamented.

“I myself have always found a strong stout ale quite enjoyable,” Helena said: her contribution to Steve’s cause. It was also true, the fact of which he seemed pleased to affirm with a quirk of lip and a quiet “so you have.”

Claudia’s expression remained skeptical, but she shrugged weakly and said, “I guess I could give it a shot?”

“Oh, because H.G. says so,” Steve twitted.

To that, Claudia squared her shoulders. “Yeah. Don’t you know who she is?” she demanded.

“Who I was,” Helena hurried to emphasize, “and given that Steve assigned me the bed on that basis, he—”

“Who you are,” Claudia corrected, throwing the emphasis back.

“And who is that?” Helena asked. What distinction did Claudia imagine was relevant?

“The person who told me my destiny was glorious. You’re still that guy, right?”

Relevant indeed. Helena was taken aback, indeed taken back to that extremity, back in a novel way. She had been so mired in the Myka of it all in the intervening time, that she had lost her view of the bright salience of Claudia’s presence. Wrongly. “I am,” she said. She hoped Claudia believed her.

“Okay,” Claudia said. “So I’ve got this big-as-Pete’s-biceps incentive to hope the stuff you say is true. And by the way, one of you has to casually drop in front of him how I said that, because I want the points.”

Steve snickered and said, “I know my job. But in the meantime, I think I’d like to toast to all these sentiments, and to the agents offering them. With a strong stout ale.”

They tasted the three strongest the hotel bar had on offer, and Claudia pronounced that her favorite, one purporting to convey roasted notes of coffee, chocolate, and other darkness, was “way too complicated for your average broseph.” Which Steve seemed pleased by, as a judgment, so the overall experience scored a success.

There was no further talk of Myka, however, the avoidance of which topic seemed quite deliberate... as if Steve and Claudia had determined that Helena would not benefit from it.

Or that she did not deserve it.

For the best, Helena had concluded. Either way.

Now, in a similar “for the best either way” sense, she makes to raise her hand, with that intended overlay of feigned sleep, so as to shift away and at last regain equilibrium, restoring feeling to her sleeping arm and calming that oversensitive hand. But instead—in what she can interpret only as a stupidly id-driven attempt to bank some never-to-be-repeated sensation, to the memory of which that desperate id might cling in a touch-deprived future—she moves her hand, not away from Myka, but further down her leg.

And her worst fears are instantly realized: Myka’s body reacts violently, as if in revulsion at the very idea of Helena touching her.

It was only a hand at rest, Helena begs, with no conception of why or to whom she is rendering that supplication. That was all.

Alas, that was—is—not all, for in the next split second Myka is falling from the bed and crying out in pain.

Helena, at a loss, attempts a faux-innocent inquiry, which Myka answers unintelligibly. In trepidation, Helena ventures to the mattress-edge, then lowers herself to the floor next to Myka—and she is appalled, for the situation that confronts her is all debility, even more so than the absurd “my arm is asleep” with which this farce began: Myka’s shoulder is dislocated.

Further, Myka is now unconscious.

Spare Myka pain. How utterly unsurprising Helena finds her inability to obey such a dictum in even this most basic physical sense.

Unsurprising... worse, dispiriting, and it brings her low, such that again the incipient rupture asserts its subterranean power, urging Helena to give up, to run away and leave this broken Myka to someone else to bind up and save.

You’ve done it before.

That resounds in her head as both accusation and affirmation, and the voice pronouncing it might be Myka’s, or some deity’s, or that of any of the other personages who jockey audibly for primacy in that space, including Helena’s own.

She initiates breathing with care, even as an eddying undertow tempts her to entertain the notion that escape, too, might be rebooted, tempts her to entertain and revel in its ostentation as a response to Myka’s indifference, her rejection of history, even her revulsion.

Here is my answer to all that, a departure would declare.

Helena labors to breathe herself away from such perfidy, but the scenario creeps along, with an undertone of sinful relish, as she imagines leaving Myka to awaken alone and in pain.

But then—because her labor leads her there—she further imagines the various permutations of “someone else” who might be called upon to save the day in her absence. Whereupon the thought strikes her that moving through time nondestructively requires her to think seriously of, and to think seriously out, such knock-ons... how, for example, would Steve and Claudia respond to having to clean up this mess, knowing that Helena had made it?

Moving through time nondestructively. Interesting, here, the overlap with moving through time selfishly: selfishly, she does not want to destroy Claudia’s image of her as someone whose opinion matters. She does not want to destroy Steve’s image of her either, for it seems to have at least some positive components. Further, she does not want to destroy the fellowship they three are building.

If for no other reasons than those, she concludes that having caused this quite specific damage, she must fix it.

Because she can.

The fact of the matter is, Helena cannot fix most things. She has tried mightily to maintain the pretense that she can... but she has been forced over and over to confront the absurdity of that bravado. This very specific fix-it, however, she can perform. And while that performance—inconveniently, in the present circumstance—requires touch, here it can be functional. Perhaps in success she might in some way efface her earlier invasiveness...

Yet she can do nothing without two functional arms. She thumps her still-insensate left against the bed, hard—too hard, for Myka’s eyes open. She mumbles out something Helena decodes as “whatareyoudoing.”

“Preparing to remedy a situation,” Helena says.

“Okay.” Myka murmurs. She seems oddly comforted by the answer, to such an extent that she relaxes, losing consciousness again.

That’s fortunate, given the required manipulation.

Helena prepares herself to do it quickly, efficiently, as she has done in the past... rather dramatically on one occasion, as she recalls, for an agonized Wolcott... but she should not think of Wolcott. For the regret.

She sets that aside, preoccupying herself instead with the necessary activity. Her manipulation, determined and strong, is rewarded: what begins as a sluggish resistance resolves into a slip-pop of relocation, one that shudders a familiar path through her own bones. She then cushions Myka’s arm with a fresh towel and uses a pillowcase to fashion around it a tight sling.

Levering Myka up onto the bed would most likely cause further injury, so Helena sits beside her on the floor, ensuring periodically that she continues to breathe. The wait is calming, cleansing, its peace a renewal of a soothing activity of which Helena has been long deprived: observing Myka closely, at actual leisure. At no point since her return—so at no point in, literally, years—has she had such an opportunity.

She’s reminded, in that observation, of the true fundament: this precious person. Who could never be merely some flesh.

After a lengthy time, during which Helena is pressed to consider, to remember, to value Myka’s singularity, that precious person’s eyes flutter open.

That person tests her bound arm, a tentative physical investigation that approaches elegance in its delicacy.

But Myka’s delicacy and elegance, too, Helena should not think of. For the regret.

“I’m not in the hospital,” Myka burrs.

Reasonable, practical. This is what Helena should think of. “Not yet,” she says. “But we’ll go if necessary. If you’re in pain.”

Myka’s face contorts. “Not if. I am. Some. More than some. I’m sorry.”

“For being in pain?”

“That. But also, for changing this whole thing.”

Helena leaves the latter alone, for she cannot begin to interpret it. Focusing on functionality, she asks, “Can you dress yourself?”

Myka nods, but she winces far too much with even that motion, so Helena screws her courage to it and says, “I’ll change and then help you.”

Herself, fast, then Myka: Functional, she snarls internally as she addresses the situation, and even faster. She’s relieved to find that Myka’s trousers and boots are less complicated than she’d feared, and as it happens, preventing Myka suffering additional physical pain—even while undressing and redressing her!—is, paradoxically or not, far easier than navigating emotional shoals, or even hand-on-hip physical shoals. Focusing on Myka’s face for twists, listening for labors in breath, adjusting accordingly... it’s distractingly, satisfyingly concrete. Only the present moment matters.

Only the present moment matters. This is the mantra Helena iterates internally as they proceed to the nearest urgent care facility.

Yet as they wait there for attention, Helena finds herself increasingly unable to ignore why they are waiting there for attention. In the present moment, which matters. She begins—or does she intend it as an ending?—with, “I’m assuming you flung yourself to the floor in an attempt to escape a circumstance.”

Myka hiccups a laugh that makes her cringe in protection of the shoulder. “That’s weirdly accurate. As an assumption.”

Helena recoils at the confirmation, but she must acknowledge it. “A circumstance in which I touched you in a way that was unwelcome,” she agrees, with gloom.

“Unwelcome,” Myka echoes.

It’s so... definitive. It was one thing for Helena herself to think it, believe it, say it aloud. Quite another—though it shouldn’t have been—to hear it from Myka.

A punctuating end to what never truly began between them: there is some consolation, if only philosophical, in the idea that after so many starts that were false, they may at least enjoy a finish that is true.

“Of course it was,” Helena says, following with, “and how could it have been otherwise.” She puts the final period upon it by adding a bare, spare dig: “Given history.”

Myka closes her eyes... in acceptance of the cut? When she opens them, they are glistening. Tears? Helena is egotistically gratified by such a response, never mind that it means she has yet again failed to hold to her resolution.

“Helena,” Myka says, and now Helena is gratified simply by Myka’s low utterance of her name. Myka does not always use that deeper voice, and Helena does love (yes, love) the rare pleasure of hearing her name in it. “I’m so tired,” Myka says next.

That is less gratifying. It’s yet another utterance Helena should leave alone; of course Myka is tired. But in what she is sure is a mistake, Helena says, “Of?”

“Everything. But particularly, you.”

A dagger, that was. A cut back. Testimony to Helena’s concatenating mistakes.

“This you,” Myka adds.

The additional twist of blade leaves Helena unclear on the devastation Myka intends. “Of course” is all she can think to say.

Myka closes her eyes and exhales heavy, a near-sob. “Sorry. Sorry. Sorry,” she intones, but what need has she to apologize? “That was the pain talking—or, no, I still know you well enough to know you’ll hear that wrong. What I mean is, I’m saying something I could keep holding back if the pain wasn’t cracking me open.”

The pain. Cracking her open. Which would never have happened in the absence of Helena’s stupid, thoughtless touch. Which in turn makes abundantly clear that the stupid, thoughtless person who applied that touch is the “this you” Myka means.

If Helena is to remain in this situation she must take measures, so she lengthens her inhales and exhales, entirely ashamed both at needing such a crutch and at having to exhibit that need.

After a moment of silence, Myka asks, “Are you breathing differently than you were just a second ago?”

Myka isn’t Steve. Helena could at least attempt to lie about this, to cloak her shame... but it’s effort, either way. “Yes,” she says, choosing the unpredictability of Myka’s interpretation over the unpredictability of her own performance.

“Is that good or bad?” Myka asks. “Or both?”

The questions stop Helena, stop her in the same way her at-leisure observation of Myka had. I still know you well enough, Myka had said, and it is true. This is why, Helena would say if she could. Your knowing to ask that.

But she can’t say it, and, worse, she doesn’t know what she should say. What should come next.

Apparently Myka doesn’t either. That not-knowing persists, hanging, until “next” arrives, as an intrusion from outside their suspension: medical attention is at last directed Myka’s way; she is escorted out of the waiting area and taken elsewhere.

“We’ll call you when you can see her,” Helena is told.

Alone in the waiting area—for no other human seems to have suffered damage this night—and uncomfortably situated on a hard plastic chair, she tilts her head back against a similarly unforgiving plaster wall.

She closes her eyes. She’s had no rest, no rest for so long. She is drained. Physically empty.

Philosophically as well.

She imagines trying to sleep... or rather, she imagines not trying to remain awake.

Doubtless futile, either way.

She next imagines constructing an airtight argument that could not help but persuade all who hear it—Myka in particular, but all others as well—that this entire situation is Artie’s fault.

Also futile.

This despite its being the fact of the matter, for indeed he did bring the situation about. Perhaps not in a proximate sense, but in the ultimate... the idea of which, after a moment, strikes her as both comic and tragic: Artie as the ultimate cause? Of anything, from the universe on down? Though he would doubtless like to imagine himself so... even at the Warehouse, however, he must be not even penultimate, given the bureaucracy that sits over the entire concern...

Helena thus spends the bulk of her time in the waiting area stewing about—stewing over? stewing under?—the relative positions of god, Mrs. Frederic, and various Regents in the universe. None of it, however, requires her to alter her breathing; rather, she composes in her head the opening paragraphs of several publishable monographs on these and related topics. It isn’t restful. But is evidence of something other than emptiness.

When someone does at last call her to see Myka, everything has changed.

Well. Not everything. Helena herself hasn’t, as her bureaucracy-pantheon thought may have been philosophically valid but made no difference.

Myka, however, has changed entirely: her arm is now professionally dressed, but more importantly, the knit of pain has left her face. “They medicated me,” she says, giving the word “medicated” a rapturous cast. “The X-rays said I didn’t break anything, so we’re waiting on results of a scan to see if I need surgery but in the meantime I feel better than I maybe ever have in my life and I am so happy to see you. All these doctors were like ‘why did she think she could fix you’ but I knew why and it was because it’s you. and that scan? It’ll shout out how Helena Wells relocated Myka’s shoulder so she didn’t need surgery, and they don’t know this, but actually H.G. Wells relocated Myka’s shoulder, which is even more amazing. Wait, that’s not more amazing. You’re the most amazing when you’re you than when you’re that guy. Even though I guess you are that guy. Sort of. Wait, Claudia’s been saying ‘that guy’ a lot now. And I cut and paste from her so much, but I don’t like it. The way things are.” She heaves an enormous sigh and blinks at Helena, as if she’s just re-understood that another person is present.

Is there some ideal way to answer this flood? Helena settles for an antiseptic “I’m pleased to see you out of pain.”

Myka gasps and flails wildly with her uninjured arm, which gesture eventually resolves into an index finger directed at Helena. “That’s it exactly. I’m out of pain. All out. No more pain to give. Particularly not to you. So saying I’m tired of you? I regret it, and I apologize for it, and I promise that’s the end of it. I was wishing to get something back, and you don’t want it back, and so I have to be fine. Without it. Without you.”

Without you. Helena supposes she should be impressed by how concisely Myka can foreshadow disaster. “Should I not... be here?” She braces herself for the answer.

“Of course you should. I have to be fine without how you were,” Myka says, very quietly. The collapse of her volubility gives Helena pause.

She knows it would be better not to probe; she ought to, as Claudia says, “take the win.” But “Of course you should” is only facially a win... “How was I?” she asks. To wound herself by making Myka clarify what has been lost.

“Oh, how you were...” Myka says, her words dragging. How much—any, all?—of this might be due to the varying effects of the medication? “Putting me into this story,” she continues. “It was so big, and I didn’t understand what it was, really or at all, but it felt so big. Yearning and tragedy, and there I was, still me, but in it, so in it, all in it, next to you. Bigger than life, and I... loved it? Needed it? Something to take me over. But my wishing for any of it back, when of course you don’t?” She raises that free arm, then lets it fall. Futility, it says. “So small. Only somebody little and desperate would want to make you revisit any of that.”

Medication effect or not, Helena can’t let Myka keep on with this. “Make me revisit it? Yearning and tragedy? I’m the one who inflicted that, and with malign intent; I damaged you. And I cannot imagine a scenario in which that debt is discharged.”

Myka squints. “Debt,” she says, as if articulating a new noun, but not one that names an abstraction; no, this thing is big and blunt, a dumb object that takes up space. Unfunctional furniture. That I carry on my back, Helena moods.

“Oh!” Myka then yelps, her tone shifting to excitement. “But I just damaged myself. So now we’re even!” She delivers that last bit big and broad, for all the world as if she’s the comic lead in a panto.

Helena has not spared a thought for panto in years. “That makes no sense at all,” she says, because it’s the case, but also to scorn the memory. This is no time for that past.

“Would you like me to dislocate your shoulder?” Myka asks, as if it were a reasonable proffer. Still comic, but now strangely sincere.

Helena meets this bizarrely compelling, ridiculous combination with as much severity as she can muster. “Honestly no. I would not.”

“I see,” Myka says, and she points again, this time without preambling flail. “Some prices you aren’t willing to pay.”

Helena can at the very least be honest about this. How nice it would be if Steve were here to verify. “Willing to... in the sense of volunteering to? No. In the sense of understanding that I deserve to? Certainly. So do me damage if you must. In particular, do me damage if you think it could even the score between us. It won’t, but if you think it could? Please do.”

“That’s pretty twisted,” pronounces the only arbiter who matters.

“You sound like Claudia again,” Helena observes. To push the judgment away? Yes, and she tries to make certain of it with, “Is that another cut and paste?”

“Maybe. But now that I think about it, she sees things pretty clearly a lot of the time. Don’t you think?”

“I would like to think,” Helena is compelled to admit. Hoist by her own petard.

At this point—suspending any resolution—a doctor reenters the curtained area. “Good news: no surgery,” she tells Myka.

“See, I told you she fixed it,” Myka preens.

“You did,” says the doctor. “Several times,” she adds, dry.

Helena says “I’m so sorry,” only to hear Myka say, at the same time, “Sorry not sorry!” Another echo of Claudia... this one, however, clearly heartfelt.

The doctor turns to Helena. “Don’t try anything like this again. You got ridiculously lucky.”

“That’s kind of her M.O.,” Myka says. “Except when it isn’t.”

The doctor sighs. “I’m pretty sure that’s my point. And listen, make sure to follow up with your local doc. They’ll prescribe a ton of PT, so brace yourself.”

Myka snorts. “Brace myself? Sure, but not for the PT; my boss is going to flay me alive.”

The doctor barely reacts. “Oh, maybe this one can fix that too,” she deadpans, directing an eyeroll at Helena, accompanied by a murmured, “not a suggestion.”

“Oh, she’s in for the flaying,” Myka says, with more than a little cheer. “If not for this, then for something. Eventually.”

The doctor shakes her head, eyes unfocused. “Good news for me: I don’t have to care.” She points at Myka: “You go to PT.” Now at Helena: “You don’t try to practice medicine.” At both of them, her eyes flicking back and forth with purpose: “Got it?” Helena nods; she senses Myka doing the same. “Excellent,” the doctor says. “Or whatever. I’m done with you now.”

She conveys with her rapid exit that interacting with both of them has been a most exasperating experience.

While Helena does not appreciate being chastised—and especially not for attempting to care for Myka—she does appreciate expertise. Especially when it contributes to Myka’s well-being. It’s a conundrum. “I find your doctor’s aspect strangely appealing,” she says. “Speaking of bracing.”

Myka grins. “I was totally thinking the same thing.”

“And yet I would practice that medicine again.”

“For me that’s good news.”

As they prepare to depart, Helena says, “I confess I’m curious as to what you intend to tell Artie.”

Myka offers a slight stretch of her right shoulder in the direction of her ear: the only version of a shrug available to her, bound as she is. “Maybe I should leave that to you. You’re the writer.” Forestalling Helena’s reflexive objection, she adds, “I know, I know. The research. The ideas.”

“And yet I don’t have any. I certainly don’t see a path to inventing anything that would—”

“How about I take your photo with that camera? Think that’d help?” This is accompanied by a different grin: sly.

Whither the warning? Or is this a test? Myka isn’t Steve, yet Helena goes with truth: “It might. With any number of things.”

“If only,” Myka says, inscrutably. “Anyway I intend to tell Artie that this is all his fault, because he sent us on this retrieval in the first place. Obviously I won’t say what really happened.”

While Myka bestowing such grace is not surprising, it moves Helena all the same. “Thank you,” she says.

Myka opens her mouth, then closes it. She does it again. This wait... it’s grace too. “You’re welcome,” she eventually says. “I mean I’m tempted to tell him how you saved the day—the arm—but I know I shouldn’t, because I don’t want to draw attention to the hotel charging us extra.” To Helena’s quizzical eyebrow, she says, “For the missing towels and pillowcase. Which I tried to talk the nurses into giving back to me, but they’d already tossed them as hazardous waste. Or something. Or maybe I’m just not very persuasive? Or clear in what I’m asking for?”

Helena would very much like to explain that her own answers to those questions are negative and affirmative, respectively: no, you are persuasive; but yes, you are unclear.

“On the other hand, they did medicate me,” Myka says, perking up. “I keep thinking it’ll wear off, but not yet!”

The consolations of intoxication. “To the delight of your shoulder I’m sure,” Helena says. To my delight as well, she wishes she were free to say.

Their return to the hotel room offers another “everything has changed” hinge: no longer a stage for new and awkward performances of politesse, the space is now familiar, a place they have reentered. For the next act of the play?

Myka, who has preceded Helena in, stops and sways—just a bit, but Helena instinctively steps close, taking her by the elbow of her uninjured arm with one hand, stationing the other around the curve of her waist.

She feels Myka’s breath catch at the contact; immediately, she curses herself, loosens her hold, and says a terse, “I’m sure you want to lie down.”

“More than maybe anything. Or, wait, no, not anything.” Myka turns and catches Helena’s eyes with hers, but Helena cannot use that gaze as the basis for any inference.

She backs away as Myka lowers herself onto the bed; eventually, she backs her way into the room’s one armchair. It lacks give. It also lacks arms at a height that might provide anything resembling support. Helena slumps down, trying to be grateful that it exists at all.

Long minutes pass. As in the hospital’s waiting area, Helena imagines trying not to remain awake.

Similarly futile.

She chances a glance at Myka, who meets her eyes again and says, “That looks uncomfortable. Or what I mean is, you look uncomfortable. Which honestly is pointless, unless you’re doing some hair-shirt thing, because we’ve got this big bed. Not a lot of hours before we have to leave it, but we’ve got it for now.”

“That went poorly before.”

“I think circumstances have changed. Don’t you?” Weighted.

Circumstances are always changing, Helena could say. Usually for the worse. Instead she ventures, “You’d let me lie down with you?”

“I never wouldn’t.” Myka squints. “Wait. Did that come out right? Anyway, yes.”

Medication: not yet worn off. “You’re sure?” Helena asks.

“I’m pretty sure this bed is almost as big as a field where Pete’s favorite sport happens. It’s at least as big as an ice rink anyway, and those aren’t small.”

Helena refrains from pointing out that that was no help in the previous disaster. She doesn’t, however, appreciate being able to recline. For the first while, the fact of being beside Myka is less relevant than the slow loosening of her lower back and hips.

“Can you sleep?” Helena asks, as they are both evidently lying with eyes open to the ceiling.

“Not now,” Myka answers, and the sentiment seems clear: not after all of this. All of this with which we must deal.

The bed first, perhaps.

She turns to look at Myka, if minimally. “Did you request a cot?” she asks, because she doesn’t know. Because the answer might reveal... something?

Myka’s eyes widen. “Oh my god I should have,” she says. Stricken.

“Why didn’t you?”

“It didn’t even cross my mind.” She’s talking more to herself—or perhaps to the room at large?—than to Helena. Is this continued evidence of the medication?

“And do you know why that is?” Helena asks, hoping for that revelation, even if drug-induced.

“Honestly I think I thought I was being given an ultimatum. Like it was something I had to be fine with or else.”

“Fine with ‘or else.’” Helena means the echo as rueful agreement.

But: “Sharing a bed with you. Platonically,” Myka says, taking it instead as a request for explanation.

“Platonically,” Helena scoffs, unable to avoid the idea that agreeing to accept that adverb would, paradoxically, usher in others. (Passionately.) (Speaking of paradoxically.) “That word is so often misused.” It’s a push-off. A push-away.

“But I’m using it correctly.” Myka sounds not offended, but rather self-satisfied.

Fine. Harden the position. “You are not referring to our consciousness rising from physical to spiritual matters.”

“Well... but how about love for the idea of good? As a path to virtue?”

Myka is well-read. In this moment, that fact is not entirely pleasing. “I suppose we were both attempting to be courtly,” Helena concedes.

“I mean I’ll grant you that nobody ended up transcending the body,” Myka says. Helena is about to agree, to snap away from churlishness, to express regret and apologies, when Myka exclaims, “Hey! I just had the best idea for a joke. So you’re not a hologram anymore, right? So you know what you were trying to be? Last night, in bed?”

Jokes. They confound Helena nearly as completely as metaphors do Steve. “I have no idea.”

“A Platonic solid,” Myka declares, triumphant.

Helena is mortified to find that in this case, she “gets it.” “Myka,” she sighs.

“Too soon? But come on, it’s not bad!”

“Alas, it is.” This quality, Helena can recognize.

“Right, but the good kind.”

Helena is not made of stone. Or bronze. How much easier everything had been then, sans choice and sans reason... and most importantly, sans the near-irresistibility of this one human. “I did always enjoy the word ‘icosahedron,’” she tenders.

“See,” Myka says, now in indulgence rather than triumph. “Pretty sure you have more than twenty faces though.”

“You do as well. Some revealed only under the influence of opioids.”

“Here’s one I don’t think I’d have the guts to use otherwise: my explain-it-to-you-using-words face.”

“Explain what to me?” Helena asks. It’s a surrender. She should better have said she did not wish that face revealed, but that would never have stopped a determined Myka.

“Why I flung myself to the floor.”

“I thought that had been explained? You were attempting to escape a circumstance.”

“First, the flinging was more involuntary than an attempt. And second: your hand.”

“Perhaps you don’t remember”—a strange thing to say to Myka—“but we had this conversation previously.” Helena does not want to have it again.

“Not this conversation. In that one, you drew the wrong conclusion. Or relied on an invalid assumption. Actually both of those. Anyway, your hand.”

“Please stop saying that,” Helena requests. Begs.

“Fine, I’ll finish the sentence: Woke up every nerve in my body,” Myka says, causing Helena to cringe and wish she could this very instant construct a truly useful time machine so she could fly backward, overleaping this latest passage so as to muzzle Myka before she could say that, because she believes it but knows it leads nowhere functional. To her continued mortification, Myka carries on, “Woke them all right up.” This, she says rhapsodic. Helena feels that tone in her gut, a hot twist of something she deserves as pain, but that manifests, shamefully, as pleasure. “Then your hand moved, and it shorted out the system—my system—and I fell out of bed, and the rest is history.”

“On the contrary, the rest is quite present.” Helena tries pushing all of it away, striving for detachment. For function.

“So, your hand,” Myka says again.

Helena raises the offender. “Also present.” Detachment. Humor, even; pushing, pushing, pushing. Trying to maintain.

“No, I mean why,” Myka pushes in turn.

Helena bats back, in faux innocence, “Why is it present?”

“Why was it present. On me.” Low now, her voice, just as compelling as, and even more commanding than, when she uses it to utter Helena’s name.

“I have no excuse,” Helena says.

“I don’t need an excuse. I need a reason. Do you have one?”

“It isn’t exculpatory.”

“As long as it’s explanatory.”

No escape now. No excuse, and no escape. “Here is my reason: I wanted to touch you. So against all better judgment, I did. Intending only that, nothing more.” Myka’s response to these words is an exhale. Loud. Unlike the hospital sob, however, this is slow and controlled. Helena allows a decorous pause, but no words ensue, so she goes on. Myka deserves an explanation that is complete. “But then I found myself unable to... un-touch you. Competently. And the rest will at some point be history, upon which I will never cease to look back and berate myself.”

Waiting for whatever may come next, Helena feels exhaustion inch through her, infiltrating her eyes, limbs, brain, sapping every vestige of energy... her surrender to the creeping leach is imminent when Myka says, “I like that reason.”

All right then. Awake and aware. “You do?”

“You really can be impossible to talk to. Listen to me: if I did that—touched you—I would find myself the same. Unable to un-touch. Do you understand?”

What would be the cost of abandoning her resistance? “I don’t know...” she begins, then reverses course and begins again. Truth, never mind the cost. “Yes. I do understand. But I don’t know what to do about that.”

Myka turns her head full toward Helena, twisting her long neck. Helena turns her own head, but that isn’t enough, so she shifts onto her side—her left side, punitively aware that it will be weeks before Myka can turn in such a way.

They look at each other, Helena both knowing and fearing how her guilt must freight her gaze. Regarding Myka so close, looking now into eyes that are open, is a boon she does not deserve.

After a time, Myka says, “I know what I want to do.”

Her intent is abundantly clear. The entirely of Helena’s being balks, stranding her again in Boone: if she makes a move for the momentary better, it will most likely end worse. She cannot find the... courage? or is it foolish disregard for consequences?... to reach for that moment of joy. Neither, however, can she find the discipline to dismiss its possibility.

“But I also know I shouldn’t,” Myka says, breaking with clarity into Helena’s indecision.

Well. Helena can certainly see the wisdom of that, so perhaps at last they are approaching a real accord that will render all hopes and wishes moot, so that neither courage nor discipline features in the—

“I can tell the meds are messing with my head,” Myka says, “and if there’s one thing I want to remember in picture-perfect detail, it’s this.” She moves her right index finger near to Helena’s lips, then withdraws it.

Unable to un-touch. That withdrawal reaffirms that Myka believes what she says. “This,” Helena echoes, mesmerized.

“So I’m going to wait till tomorrow to—listen to me saying it out loud—kiss you. For the first time. I want to be all there when it happens.”

There is a practicality to Myka’s thinking, and to Myka, that Helena worships. She tries to match it with a bit of her own: “If it happens.”

Myka’s jaw drops. “Come on! I said it out loud! It’s real now!”

“It’s been real for some time, hasn’t it? But I’m being realistic about the circumstance. You might not remember that you wanted to.”

“Seriously? I’ve remembered it since we met.”

Helena has remembered it just as long. She has. Denying it is pointless. But she has a larger concern, and though this is the wrong time to address it, perhaps medicated Myka will afford an unfiltered read...

“Or you might think better of it.”

“Of kissing you? I don’t think so.”

“Of what could ensue. The possibility of a... relationship. Between us. What if it doesn’t work?”

“Relationship.” After she says the word, Myka’s lips part and close, as if the very word is savory. “What if it does?”

It is savory. However. “I’m asking as a practical matter, not philosophically. I’m constrained: I can’t leave again. That’s why I came back.” The thin strand to which she is clinging... refraining from attempting to rekindle an intimacy hasn’t been only to keep Myka safe. It has also been to keep the Warehouse safe for Helena herself to inhabit.

“Then don’t leave again.”

“But what if that means you do?” This is not philosophy either. This, too, is history.

“If I do, then I do, but I’d like to think I won’t. We’ve both had our walkaway crises, and they didn’t take. So if it doesn’t work, we put it behind us like adults. If Pete and I could, then so can you and I. But I’d rather not have to. So let’s be careful.” She pauses. “Breathe however you need to.”

The words are an embrace. A physical clasp might be more galvanizing, but right now, Myka is managing just fine with words. “If this works, it will be because you say things like that.”

“Good news, because I mean things like that. And I intend to keep saying them. Hey, speaking of saying, do me a favor and write down what I said just now, about the adults and the careful, because I want to remember it.”

Sluggishly, Helena ideates rising, going to the room’s desk, finding logo-bearing paper and pen, writing...

****

Helena and Oscar are in a salon. They are engaged in a dispute regarding choices and consequences. Helena is standing at a lectern, and Oscar is reclining on a lavishly upholstered chaise longue, kicking his right leg such that its calf bounces in a languid little rhythm against the low cushioned edge.

Kick. Kick. Kick.

“The choices that create a circumstance will not, repeated, resolve it satisfactorily,” Helena says. Is she reading from a monograph? “As we see in the case of your own Ballad of Reading Gaol, do we not? And yet injury need not lead inevitably to future debility, so clearly some choice in the matter is—”

“Helena,” Oscar says, interrupting her monologue. “Helena,” he repeats. He sounds nothing like himself, but rather someone else, and Helena is straining to connect the voice to the correct person.

Kick. Kick. Kick.

“Time to wake up,” Oscar-as-someone-else admonishes. Encourages?

“I know,” she tells him, hugely frustrated, fighting. “I’m trying.”

His impassive mien is no help. It never was.

Kick. Kick. Kick.

Trust Oscar to cast some part of himself as the pendulum of a particularly annoying clock—

“Seriously, wake up,” Helena hears, and consciousness jolts at her: Myka’s voice.

Oscar dissolves. Into laughter or tears, no doubt, as he was wont to do...

Helena’s eyes open, meeting Myka’s, and she is brought back to it all: the hotel, the bed; the shoulder, the hospital... then hotel again, bed again... and finally words, as if for the first time.

Myka is lying on her right side, facing Helena. Her eyes are bright, her gaze intense.

“Are you in pain?” Helena asks.

Myka leans forward, as if that were a signal. The signal: for Helena is the astonished, grateful, transported recipient of a kiss, a first kiss—the first kiss—one that is swift but soft, gentle, genuine. Like morning... “Better now,” Myka says when she pulls back. “I’m going to brush my teeth. Stay there.”

Better now. Not lost on Helena are all the ways that signifies, including: better that this happened now than at some point in the desperate past. Then, such a kiss would have been a tragic wish for all they would never have. Now, instead, it can stand as a reward for having survived all of that, as well as, universe willing, a mark of embarkation.

By the time Myka returns, Helena has sat up, stationing herself on the edge of the bed. She has also realized that she must apologize—for they should not embark on this new voyage with yet another of her many faults unaddressed. “You charged me with writing down part of our conversation. I didn’t. I fell asleep instead.”

Myka hesitates before joining her on the bed’s edge, clearly considering which arm should be next to Helena. She chooses the functional right. “It’s okay. Even if I don’t remember exactly what we said, I remembered what we needed to do.”

“Needed to,” Helena reprises. She could supply words of her own, but why? Myka is saying the ones that matter...

“Needed to,” Myka affirms. “So where were we?” She raises her useful hand to Helena’s cheek, cradling. Helena leans into it, saying nothing, because silence now says everything.

This is a longer kiss, more wandering, more suggestive of possibility, more likely to lead to such possibility... Helena is the one to this time pull away. “A place quite new,” she says.

“And yet I’m pretty sure we’ve been headed here all along.”

“It wasn’t inevitable,” Helena says. She is thinking now of dream-Oscar, who is slipping from her mind, dropping, like a poorly initiated painting, but he must have obstreperously been maintaining something about inevitability. He always did.

“No,” Myka agrees. “And it still isn’t. So let’s be careful.”

“You remember that part? Despite my stenographic failure?”

“Even if I didn’t—but I do—I’d know it’s important.”

Helena turns and touches her right hand to Myka’s right hip. She would certainly not be able to do this now if she had not done so in the night... the night’s ontogeny recapitulating the phylogeny of their shared history. Myka covers Helena’s hand with hers, and there is healing in the simple fact of their sitting. But eventually that is not enough, and another kiss ensues, longer still, and lips outweigh quiet hands—or no, lips add to quiet hands, but hands are not content to remain so calm, and so this continues and might continue—

Myka makes a noise that is clearly not of pleasure; she moves entirely away, her right hand pressing protectively at her left shoulder. “We’re going to need to be careful about this stupid shoulder too. I’m so, so sorry.”

“You’re sorry? I’m the one who can’t keep my hands to myself.” Ontogeny, phylogeny.

“It’s not like I’m some paragon of self-control... and I am sorry, because I’d like to be able to participate fully. But also I’d like to not have to hurry on account of catching a plane. In good news, eventually my shoulder will heal. I know we can’t stay here till then, but...”

“It would help,” Helena supplies.

“If only because we have to come up with how this supposedly happened. I still think maybe I should take your picture. Or you could take mine? Because by the way, here’s a funny thing: I was trying to write a novel.”

“You were?” More that is new... “Speaking of icosahedra,” Helena notes.

“I want to tell you about it.”

“You do?” Trying to convey her incredulity. That Myka would allow her such... access.

“I want to tell you everything. But in the meantime we have to tell Artie something... I guess we’ve got both flights plus the layover in Denver to get our story straight.”

Stories. Narrative. Novels? “But we’ll tell Steve the truth. Won’t we?”

“Of course we will. And Claudia, right?”

“Also necessary. Although most likely mockery-inducing.”

Myka smiles. It’s a sunrise. “Stress testing. If we can take it from her, we’ll be fine. Then again we might need the time on the planes to rest up for that.”

“Weren’t you able to sleep, this past while?”

Myka shakes her head, and just as Helena opens her mouth to express regret and apologize again for her own sleep, Myka silences her with a kiss, one that lingers, lingers, lingers... still half against Helena’s lips, she says, “The un-touching part really is difficult. But don’t worry about my not sleeping: for the first time in a long time, I was happy to be awake.”

END