Warnings: mild sexual content, some language, angst
Author’s Notes: I was cleaning out my Google drive because it’s very full and I stumbled on this. It is more than two years old, written in September of 2015. I don’t know why I never posted it, it was edited, formatted and ready to go, but never posted. I tweaked it a little (very little). So, here you go.
***My work is not to be posted on any other sites without my express written permission.***
Howdy, kiddos, and welcome to the first installment of my ghost Laurens au! This AU follows history, so be prepared for some canonical character deaths. I’m so excited for you to finally be able to read at least this first part, and can’t wait to share the rest with you! A huge thanks to the anon who suggested I do this series! Buckle up those angst seatbelts, kiddos, because OHOHOHO, you’re in for a wild ride ;)))
PART ONE: Look at my son! January 1782
“Oh my god, Eliza,” Alexander exclaimed.
He’d just arrived in Albany and had flown up the stairs of the Schuyler Mansion, barely saying hello to Mrs. Schuyler and the youngest of the Schuyler children who were gathered downstairs. In the second room on the right was the room he knew he’d find his wife in; the room that was once her’s and Angelica’s and Peggy’s, and was now Cornelia’s and Catherine’s. The room where Eliza was lying in bed, their newborn son, asleep, cradled in her arms.
“Oh my––” Alexander couldn’t help the tears that came to his eyes as he took in his beautiful son–– skin a healthy tan, just like his father’s, hair no more than a brown halo glowing atop his head.
“He’s beautiful, isn’t he?” Eliza said, her voice soft and tired.
Alexander took her in, her pale skin even paler than usual, dark circles under her eyes where there previously hadn’t been even a trace before, her black hair frizzy instead of its usual sleek. Her eyes were fluttering shut in the way they did only when she’d been kept up too long. The first time he’d seen her do this had been at that fateful ball in Morristown, in the winter of 1780. And here they were, the winter of 1782, their first child safely delivered into the world.
He walked forward and ran a hand through Eliza’s hair. She shut her eyes, leaning into the touch. They stayed like that for a few moments–– Eliza finally relaxed now that her husband was there, Philip sleeping, Alexander marvelling at the fact that he had a family after so many years of feeling rootless, of feeling like he always had to prove himself to keep his place. Even in Washington’s military family, where he knew of his value, his worth, he never felt entirely secure. But here, with Eliza, and now with Philip, he knew he’d found what he’d always been longing for.
“Let me take him,” Alexander offered. “You need some rest, my Eliza.”
“Mmm,” Eliza hummed in agreement, allowing Alexander to lift Philip out of her arms.
Alexander kissed the crown of her head as he bent over to hold his son for the first time.
“Hello,” he said, voice cracking. “I’m your papa,” he said with a delighted laugh.
Philip opened his eyes and blinked once before shutting them again.
Alexander walked over to the window that overlooked the front lawn, the long staircase descending to the dirt road that cut through the trees and pastures. He could see the Hudson, sparkling in the early afternoon sun.
“You outshine the morning sun,” he said to Philip. “My son.” He couldn’t contain the smile that overtook his face.
He heard a quiet knock on the open door and turned to see his father-in-law, Philip Schuyler, standing there, smiling at the two of them before turning his gaze to his sleeping daughter. He strode over to Alexander and baby Philip, eyes locked on his grandson’s peaceful face.
“I remember when she was that small,” he said softly, nodding toward Eliza. “They grow up faster than you’d expect.” He placed a hand on Alexander’s shoulder. “Cherish the moments when you can still hold him, son.”
Alexander nodded. “I swear that I’ll be around for him.”
He looked back down at his sleeping son. He couldn’t describe what, exactly, he was feeling. Pride? He thought. No, pride is not the word I’m looking for. There is so much more inside me now.
For once, he was grateful he hadn’t died in the trenches of Yorktown, or while taking the British redoubts. He was grateful to have survived the war. He was grateful that he finally got to know how being complete felt.
John Laurens was certain of only one thing: he was dying.
Everything else was a blur. There was the South Carolina heat, the buzzes of the mosquitos and flies that he knew would descend upon him like he’d seen happen to other fallen men, their eyes left half-open, as if they couldn’t bear to stop looking at this world as they entered the next. There was shouting, the whiz of bullets, the groans of the injured, the dying. He wondered if his groans were joining them. He couldn’t tell.
John Laurens had imagined death many, many times in his short life, but he’d always failed to actually imagine how it would feel to die. It wasn’t painless, but it also wasn’t as unpleasant as he’d have guessed it to be.
He’d known the war was over. He’d been there, at Yorktown, with Hamilton, with Lafayette, with Washington. He knew a treaty would be signed, and the Americans would be declared the victors. So why had he not hung up his sword? His gun? Because he longed for death, and that was the one thing he could not honorably give himself. So he prayed that some damned redcoat would do it. And some damned redcoat finally had.
There was one other thing, or person, rather, he could not honorably have. Laurens prayed he wouldn’t be damned to Hell for thinking of the object of his affections as he bled out on the marshy South Carolina ground. But even if he was sent to the icy depths of Hell for all eternity, thinking of Alexander during his last moments on this earth were worth the punishment.
He knew Alexander had all but hung up his own sword and gun. He knew his love was out of harm’s way, at least in the sense of war. He also knew that Alexander could never truly be out of harm’s way because he was Alexander–– a constant danger to himself because he never knew when to stop. Not that John had ever been much of a help in getting him to stop, but he liked to imagine that he had at least provided some aid.
This whole dying business sure had him indulging his own vanity.
He could feel himself slipping, slipping into blackness. It wasn’t a scary darkness, though. It was rather comforting. It made him feel surrounded, protected. He wondered if he’d see his mother first. Oh, how he’d missed her.
John Laurens took one shuddering gasp, and then breathed no more, his half-open eyes witness to the remaining violence, and, soon, the mournful silence.
/We are on the road, don’t know where it goes,
But doesn’t matter when you’re with me.
Cold wind is blowing as we pull up our jackets,
Snow paved roads, taking us somewhere./
/Can you see the snow capped mountains over the horizon,
They seem to be calling us.
We struggle to wade through this depraved road,
Made through the coniferous trees,
Cut down to create this,
God forsaken road./
/But no, you tell me it’s beautiful,
And I reply nothing can be as beautiful as you.
You look away, points to the sky,
Clear sky covered with clouds,
You smile, I fall for you,
All over again./
/God forsaken road, heck,
It’s beautiful with you,
Cold and snowing or maybe not,
Still worth it, with you.
Yet every minute of this journey,
Exquisite with you./
Summary: Occasionally her hair spills down and he has to brush it from his face, but that gives Bellamy an excuse to dip his head until he’s breathing at the nape of her neck. She smells good there: a little like rain, a little like clean skin, a little like home.
The end of a long day of diplomatic efforts finds Clarke and Bellamy racing through the woods back to their Rover, pelted by rain til their clothes stick to their backs as they fumble with the car doors. It’s normal rain–your standard hydrogen and oxygen combination that Arkadia desperately needs these days–but that could change at any time, and they’ve all seen what happens to people caught in the poison downpour.
“Yes!” Bellamy shouts as he yanks the resisting door open and hops into the driver’s side. In a heartbeat he’s reaching across and popping Clarke’s door open too, giving her a hand up inside. They close the doors and sit there, panting side by side as little streaks swirl down the dark windshield.
“We can’t drive in this.” Clarke has always been good at saying what they’re both thinking, and Bellamy grunts in agreement. The rainfall is too heavy, the road through the trees is too rough, and the night is too dark. "We’ll go in the morning,“ she adds. "Is there a blanket in here?”
“In the back,” reports Bellamy, locking the doors and pulling turning the dashboard computers off. Better to remove temptation to fools or bandits passing through in the storm. That leaves them with a single overhead light, and Clarke scrabbles between the seats into the cavernous rear of the vehicle, pushing around in the dark until she finds a stash of blankets under one of the benches on either side.
“Got it,” she announces, her face suddenly back under the light again, smiling his way. She holds up one blanket and tilts her head, her best appeal. “Come on, Bellamy, we should take a nap.” He sighs, runs one hand through his wet hair, and dutifully climbs back to join her.
It happens so quickly: one moment, the road is
clear, and the next, a clutch of Saviours are bearing down on them like a
hurricane sweeping towards the shore. Gunshots and people swearing filter
through the dust kicked off of the road, the whistling through the trees which
flank either side of the highway. Jesus’s heart slams into overdrive as he
spins around, trying to get a clear view. Dante and Eduardo are making
progress, pursuing the attackers into the dust cloud, and behind him Tara is
shouting as she deftly takes down walkers with clean shots between the eyes.
Jesus cuts through the dust, working his way over to Daryl, who lets off a few
shots with his rifle before letting out a grunt of pain and crumpling over his
Time stops as Jesus spots the splash of blood on the
pavement, and Daryl, caught off guard by the injury, is immediately pulled down
by walkers. There’re only two, but they’re strong and undaunted enough to
overpower Daryl, who disappears beneath their grasping, skinless limbs.
Jesus springs forward, but he’s not fast enough,
tripping over himself and swearing in his head oh God come on let me get to him, watching a bullet blast through
the head of one walker and slamming his knife into the skull of the second. Daryl
is able to get upright; there’s blood on his hands and legs but he seems
cognizant, though he lets out an agonized sob when he bends his leg to sit up
on the asphalt.
Eduardo and Tara gather to surround the two of them,
guns raised, and Jesus doesn’t even ask if it’s a bite before frantically
ripping and pulling back Daryl’s pant leg to reveal the wound. It’s a gunshot,
a through-and-through, and he’s bleeding a lot.
“Fuck, fuck…” someone is swearing, Jesus thinks it’s
Daryl or it might be himself. He plants his gloved hands over the wound to
apply pressure, spinning around and grabbing for something, anything, until he
finds a cloth in his hand. It’s an extra shirt, he realizes, and he doesn’t
know who gave it to him but he quickly replaces his hand with it, tying it
tight around Daryl’s leg, just under the knee, staunching the seeping blood.
“We gotta…gotta…” Jesus mutters, reaching for
Daryl’s hands to try and support him up. Daryl lets out a groan as he
straightens his leg again, panting and whining through the pain but standing
just the same. He can stand. Jesus thanks whoever’s listening for the small
mercy—but gunshots still ring out around them, popping through the bark of
trees and ricocheting off of the asphalt. They haven’t run into Saviours like
this—ones who shoot first and antagonize later—but ever since the last battle
drew Negan out, the entire faction has been a powder keg, ignorant, terrified,
and worst of all, over-armed.
“We gotta get you back to Hilltop, come on, it’s not
far—” Jesus mumbles, reaching out to touch Daryl’s arm, only to have it pushed
“No!” Daryl yelps, pain evident on his reddening
face. At least it’s not turning white, Jesus thinks with growing horror, as the
image of Daryl reanimating and lunging at him makes his stomach turn. “Lemme
go. I’ll lead ’em off.”
Eduardo and Tara hear the comment—it’s hard to miss
it with the determined way Daryl shouts it, his voice cracking over the chaos
around them. They both shoot Jesus anxious looks that he returns, at a loss.
His mind can’t even comprehend what Daryl said, white noise filling in between
his ears as the surrounding gunshots pound in his head.
“No, no, Daryl,” Jesus moans, “don’t. You can’t—”
Tears spring to his eyes. This can’t be. This can’t be it.
“Get me on one’a their bikes,” Daryl shouts,
pointing at an overturned motorcycle. Eduardo and Dante rush forward to upright
it, setting down the kickstand and then returning to sentry. Daryl stumbles
over to it and Jesus grabs him, supporting him as he swings his uninjured leg
over and digs into the pedal. He lets out a cry of pain that he tries to bite
down as he lifts himself up on his bleeding leg, stifling a whimper. He slings
his rifle onto his back and stares at Jesus.
Jesus’s eyes are wide, his mouth slack and blood
pounding in his ears. The voices crying no
please no not now quiet and there’s nothing but silence and cold. Daryl’s
dagger-sharp expression is grim, but his gaze doesn’t waver from Jesus’s.
“Listen, I’m—” Daryl begins, voice dragging out of
him like it weighs a ton.
“Don’t,” Jesus protests, “can’t—”
“Listen!” Daryl shouts as gunfire sparks up anew in
the distance. His eyes are vibrant through the smoke and dust and they narrow
into a desperate glare. “I ain’t never got to say goodbye! Not to Beth, Glenn,
my brother, none’a them! So let me say it!”
Jesus’s eyes feel hot as he leans closer, puts his
arms around Daryl’s neck, rests one hand on his shoulder, the other cupping his
head, sifting through thin, sweaty locks.
Daryl blinks at him a moment, lips twisted in a
melancholy frown, eyes dark. He licks his lips like he wants to say something
important but words just don’t work. He opens his lips.
Jesus breaks down sobbing. He squeezes his hand in
Daryl’s hair, knowing he’s pulling tight enough to hurt but everything in his body hurts at once.
“Hey,” Daryl whispers, trying to get Jesus to look
at him again. Agonizingly he looks up, catches Daryl’s gaze, and sees it the
kindest and most vulnerable it’s ever been.
“Goodbye, Daryl,” he mutters back, leaning in to
nuzzle Daryl’s nose with his own. Their foreheads come together, Daryl’s face
still twisted in pain as he leans nearer, turns his jaw to place a kiss on
Jesus’s lips. It’s quick, just a see you
later, be back soon kiss, and for a moment Jesus can actually imagine that’s
all it is before Daryl pulls away and the sound of battle comes back.
“Drop your stuff on the side of the road, make it
look like y’all ran away,” Daryl calls out, and the group immediately complies,
tossing bags and spent firearms on the pavement, “hide there in the bushes—” he
points to a patch of brush in a ditch—“and come back out once I led them off.”
Adrenaline carries Jesus off of the road, and he,
Tara, Eduardo and Dante skid into the bushes, throwing themselves low to the
ground and listening through the ash cloud as Daryl’s bike revs up, the engine
so loud it sends a shooting pain through Jesus’s head. He can’t see straight.
Daryl’s last, ringing, “this way, motherfuckers!” echoes out and then fades as
he speeds away. More motorcycles spring to life soon after, and a truck engine
joins them before they fade off too, the shouts of angry young men following,
along with the tired groans of a few interested man-eaters.
It seems like only seconds that they wait in the
brush before emerging again, though Jesus’s wrists have fallen asleep beneath
him. The walk back to Hilltop seems to go just as quickly, as he makes it in
sort of a half-conscious daze, eyes red and itchy and ears ringing. They report
what happened to Maggie who takes the news with a grim look and then gets back
to her work.
The trailer seems emptier than ever, Jesus realizes
as he steps into it alone for the first time in months. For a while it housed
five, and now it’s only one again. He should be out working, planning for their
next assault, but he can’t even think. Can’t move. It happened so quickly. He can
only see Daryl falling beneath a pair of grasping biters, looking him in the
eye, then disappearing down the highway.
The night is one of the longest Jesus has
experienced, though he sleeps soundly, like a child who’s sobbed himself to
sleep. He’s so tired he can’t even lift his head when a light flickers on out
on his porch, like someone’s come to check on him.
He does, however, find the strength to move when he
hears the faint hum of a motorcycle’s engine in the distance.
My go to good dream seems to be me and my husband in an old square body truck, our Shiba-inu riding along. We’re cruising around the mountain roads, windows down, autumn air flowing in. His left hand is playing with my right hand as it sits on the seat next to him, a plain gold band on my ring finger. There’s no sound until the truck slows and eases off of the pavement and onto a narrow gravel road that winds through the trees. The truck squeaks softly and the gravel crunches loudly under the wheels. Several deer stand at attention as we pass in a cloud of white dust. After several minutes, we turn off the gravel road and onto an even tighter gravel path, this one only wide enough for us with grass and puddles between the tire ruts on both sides. Our hands separate so I can steer on the bumpy terrain. We come to a stop in front of a metal gate, weathered green paint chipping off, I get out to open it, he slides into the driver’s seat and I wave him through, then I hop back in the cab. We continue down the trail, truck rocking occasionally as we drive over tree roots growing across our path. After a while, the trees thin out and we pull into an opening in the woods where a small blue cabin with tin roof and red door is perched right beside the river. I pull right up to the porch and park. I open the door to get out, the dog jumps past, almost knocking me down to get there first. My man and I embrace in front of the truck and then walk to the door, calling the dog to our side as we step inside. The smell of pine wood instantly overwhelms us and our footsteps echo through the simple shack. And that is where I snap back to reality…
So, all that talk of alpha/emissary bonds the other day produced this weird little thing:
Emissary Stiles Stilinski returns to Beacon Hills to find that the Hale pack has been destroyed, except for Derek Hale.
Stiles Stilinski arrives back in Beacon
Hills the week before his sixteenth birthday.
He is late.
His father picks him up from the bus
station, and Stiles hugs him tiredly and tries not to notice how much older he
looks. It’s been five years since Stiles saw him last. Five years since the
family convinced John Stilinski that a trip to Poland was just what Stiles
needed to get over his mother’s death, and just what John needed to sort
himself out. Stiles remembers packing for a few weeks, but it’s been five
His dad no longer smells like whiskey.
He no longer smells like home either.
Stiles stares out the window of his dad’s
cruiser at the familiar streets of Beacon Hills. Familiar, but somehow brand
new. Things aren’t exactly how he remembers them. Sometime in the last five
years his memories have faded, have cracked around the edges. They’re flawed. They’re
false in entirely unimportant ways that make Stiles worry that maybe none of
his memories can be trusted, and that everything he’s ever thought he knows is
build on a shifting foundation of sand.
The fire hydrant is on the other side of
the intersection than he remembers. The book store has a red awning, not a blue
one. The house at the end of the street has two stories, not one. Tiny things,
but a ball of anxiety sits heavily in his stomach. How can this be home when it
didn’t even stick in his memory right?
How can this be home when Stiles knows he
speaks with a slight accent now? When sometimes the first word he thinks is
Polish, not English. How can this be home when his dad steals glances at him
like he’s a stranger?
Stiles is a stranger, and he is set on a
stranger path than his dad could possibly know.
The house is the same as Stiles remembers,
but the dimensions have shrunk. Stiles was ten when he packed a bag and went
with his babcia.
It was only supposed to be for a few weeks.
“You remember the way to your room, right?”
his dad asks him. His voice sounds like it’s close to cracking.
“Yeah. Thanks.” Stiles lifts his suitcase
and carries up the stairs.
He passes through the ghost of a little boy
dragging his the other way, thump thump
thump all the way down.
Derek is up to something, Stiles is in some deep shit and Isaac has got it all figured out.
The first time it happens, Stiles doesn’t really think much of it. It’s summer, it is hot and he is in desperate need of Ben & Jerry’s. He gets the cookie dough flavour and stands in line, sighing wistfully as he stares at the pint on the conveyor belt. There’s even a small layer of frost on it and Stiles is in love. Perhaps it is a testament to how distracted he is by the ice cream, because a moment later the man in front of him turns to scowl at him. Stiles really hopes his jump isn’t too obvious.
“Hey, Derek.” Stiles says, cringing not so internally at the way his voice sounds an octave higher than normally. It isn’t as though he is too afraid of Derek these days, but he thinks he is justified in freaking out a little when he just shows out of nowhere with his perfect angry brows Stiles has to make a conscious effort not to touch. They’re magnificent, okay. He’s not weird or anything.
Derek merely stares at him for a moment, says absolutely fucking nothing and then turns to scowl even harder at the cashier who is glancing between the two of them with an unsure expression. She grows more and more suspicious as she scans Derek’s items which include gaffer tape, zip ties and firecrackers. Derek doesn’t say a word as he pays for his items and Stiles doesn’t bother hiding his exaggerated eyeroll. What a ridiculous man.
animalasaysrauer said: Jack runs the marathon, Bitty’s the fastest man in the world. (Please and thank you)
(I keep doing the zimbits ones from Jack’s POV. Sorry Bitty!)
Jack doesn’t care for sprinters.
On TV he has great respect for all different sports, of course. But personally? In the corners of his mind? He doesnt see the point of sprinting. Of course he can pour on the speed for 100 yards or so. But what’s the point? The point is excellence under duress. Jack’s learned how to turn on almost superhuman speed when he’s already run twenty-five miles. He pulls out speed when nobody’s expecting it. That ought to count for something more than coming into a stadium completely rested, warming up, and then rocketing around a track for a couple of laps.
But nobody idolizes marathon runners. Even Jack’s father figured that out early on in his career and went for the short sprints. And now all eyes are on this American sprinter, the one they’re calling the “fastest man in the world.” Eric Bittle, his name is, and he’s won fame not just for being a rare American medal favorite in the dashes, but also for being the kind of personality that just sparkles on the screen. He grins and waves, telling the interviewers in a sweet Southern lilt that “Well, I’m just gonna run like all get-out and we’ll see what the timer has to say!” It’s not the temperament of a serious athlete. It’s.. too playful. This is serious competition, not a race across the yard of your parents’ house.
And yet that very same Eric Bittle has just blazed past him in his morning run. Not just blazed past him - slapped him on the shoulder and shouted “Tag!” on his way.
Jack speeds up. Bittle has turned and is jogging backward, waving a bright hello. He probably thinks Jack’s another one of his fawning fans. Jack catches up to him and tries to scowl down that smile. “I didn’t realize running backward was an effective training technique,” he says.
“Boy, you’re just about as pleasant as they say you are,” Bittle replies lightly.
Okay, so he recognizes Jack. That’s… gratifying, in a strange way. “I’m here to run, not be pleasant,” he says.
Bittle gives him a wary look. “Did you know you can do both?” But the smile he gives is uncertain.
Jack’s going to leave it at that, let Bittle have his zinger and jog on in silence. But something about that uncertain smile bothers him, and as he and Bittle run side-by-side down the winding streets of Rio, he keeps glancing down. Bittle’s slight, but his body is defined and his features are strong. Attractive, even. The soft glisten of sweat at his hairline is inviting somehow. An image flashes through Jack’s mind, unbidden: the two of them, stopped at the side of the road, Jack lifting his fingers to wipe off that sheen of sweat.
He shakes it away. “A bit longer than your usual run, eh?”
Bittle lifts his chin, and his gaze registers dim surprise that Jack’s broken the silence. “I usually do 5 to 10 K in the mornings,” he says. “All depends on how I’m feeling and what all I’ve got coming up later. How about you? Suppose you do a hundred miles a day, hm?”
“Something like that,” Jack says with a soft smile. “Think you can keep up the whole way?”
“Suppose that depends on how much you have left to run today,” Bittle answers. His eyes flash. “How much farther you going?”
“That depends on how long you can keep up,” Jack says. He’s surprised to feel a smile stretching across his lips.
“Oh, really?” Bittle gives a soft whistle. “Well, it’s on now, Mr. Zimmermann.”
“Fair enough,” Jack says, and ups his speed a mite. Bittle makes a noise of surprise behind him.
He catches up without a problem, though, and Jack gives him an approving nod. He heads for a side street that crawls up one of Rio’s challenging hills. Bittle follows him without complaint, but Jack is gratified to hear his breathing accelerating. Up and down the streets they go, and onto some back roads that take them through tree-lined ascents and up to a scenic overview of the beach.
Jack can’t help but slow down as they jog past the vista. He thinks he sees Bittle’s expression go slack with relief, and he takes it as a small victory. But he’s starting to dread the moment Bittle really can no longer keep up. It’s been such a great run so far.
They head back down toward sea level, and finally, as they cross onto one of the main drags, Bittle lets out a breathless laugh. “All right, uncle! I’m done.” he says. “Whew! I’m impressed. Think I’m going to walk back to the hotel.”
“You did well,” Jack says, turning toward him.
“You don’t have to sound so surprised about it,” Bittle says. His pout is… well, shit, it’s adorable.
Jack can’t help himself. He lifts his hand and draws his thumb across Bittle’s hairline. There’s more than a trickle of sweat there now, and Jack has to wipe his fingers on his shorts. But the moment of contact with Bittle’s damp, flushed skin is worth it.
“Same time tomorrow?” he hears himself say as Bittle’s about to turn the corner to head toward his hotel.
Bittle turns back and flashes him a grin. “If you’re lucky,” he says, and is gone.
Hair like the trees. Hair like life. Hair like the bushes you stumble upon at night. Hair like the wind that blows you everywhere..wild, loud and without a care. Hair.
In this day, it defines you. It can bind you to the standards of beauty set by the European, not only to confine you and blind you but this should remind you of the natural rarity and beauty that’s inside you. Hair.
Hair shapely like the oceans and seas, windy like the roads through the trees; daring, limitless and wavy. Definitely careless, fearless, bold and direct. One minute cool and chill, wild, puffy and fluffy the next.
Yes. My hair is kinky. Its coily. Yes. Sometimes it’s oily and it ignores me when I pin it, gel it, comb it, brush it, dye it..ultimately, deny it of being who it is and doing what it does.
My hair is an interchangeable crown that cannot be cloned or created by even the highest of scholars. I wear my hair with pride and the understanding that I am great. I am the way. I am light…with hair like the trees blowing in the breeze that you and I breathe to sustain our life force energy. That’s me.
Lucas trudged up the hill, his pace steady despite his heavy suitcase, despite the endless icy drizzle, despite his poorly suited dress shoes. Despite fucking Scotland, he thought grimly.
He’d been walking for an hour and hadn’t seen a single car pass by. The walk did little to temper his anger towards the cabby either. He just trudged on, squelching shoes accompanied by sharp pain from his blisters.
The road led through thick trees, finally clearing to reveal a big white house set in manicured gardens.
‘Sinclair House’ read a sign.
There was a fair number of cars in the driveway. So that’s where all of Scotland’s cars went.
Lucas marched up the garden path, feeling every inch the intruder. What if they’re like the cabby? Whatever it takes, just need to use their phone.
He stopped at the big front door and sucked in a deep breath through his nose to calm himself. There was music coming from inside. Must be some kind of event. Lucas wiped most of the rain off his face and smoothed back his wet hair. His white shirt was soaked through, practically semi-transparent against his skin. Maybe I should dig out the jacket - no, that would be a waste.
Lucas raised his hand, about to knock on the door when he heard movement behind him.
A romance between rogue highwayman Hannibal and the newlywed Will Graham dedicated to ter0rr. HAPPY BIRTHDAY ♥
The pale gold of the October moon shone full on the silvery dust of the mountain road, leading nigh unto the deep dark forest. Its light danced serenely in soft glimmers on discarded, exposed steel, wetted with blood and brain matter.
The expirations of the dying mingled in the murmurs of the wind, which swept mournfully down the deserted road and through the shuddering trees.
Standing just inside the flickering glow of a spilled lantern, Will determinedly hung onto his new husband’s scepter, holding it at the ready. It was only one man facing him after all— one highway rogue— and although his husband’s entourage all lay dead or dying, Will wouldn’t let himself meet the same fate!
It was Lenalee’s craziest idea, but Lavi couldn’t find it in him to deny her. He looked down, saw black on white on white on black, and grimly agreed.
In the dark, when the moon was obscured by clouds and not even God looked down on them, Lavi helped Lenalee sneak through the new headquarters, Link helping and never saying a single word. He hadn’t, ever since it happened. Quiet, quiet, a bird with his wings clipped, song forever lost.