It’s a haunting, a love story, and a mystery all rolled into one midsized southern mansion—with the rapid stacking of love story upon love story into a disorderly Jenga tower. Polly’s the protagonist, so she knows she should be falling head over heels for the gruff, handsome caretaker. And she is, but she’s also falling in love with a dead man who used to sing her to sleep. The “gruff, handsome caretaker,” has never not been in love a day in his life, and Polly has to wonder where she's supposed to fit in all this.
Why are there so many goddamn people in her love story? It is hers, right?
This is the extremely brief story of how a rebellious, narcissistic little whelp fell in love with a smarmy, mustachioed bureaucrat (and vice versa).
+ Agent Mobius sits in an unremarkable cubicle in an unremarkable corner of an unremarkable building in a famously remarkable city. He wakes up and pages through his old travel magazines and not infrequently spills some of his coffee all over them. His subscription expired a year or so ago, and for whatever reason he has not been able to find the time to renew it. He finishes his breakfast and walks a couple blocks (if the weather’s nice) before hopping on the train another 30 minutes to the office, where he always greets security and they sometimes greet him back.
Agent Mobius has been working for the CI division of the Internal Revenue Service for the last 15 years, and he has been maddeningly close to catching Odin, the CEO of Asgard, Inc., for about 10 of those.
He’s worked other cases of course—made an impact in a plethora of other ways (his superiors take comfort in the consistent quality of his work), but they so rarely consumed him with the same degree of ferocity as this one. And it’s not because he’s been trapped within a “will they, won’t they” cluster-cuss with Odin’s impossible son (his youngest) for about 3-4 of the 10 years mentioned.
And no, it’s not a conflict of interest; if anything, he’s undercover.
B. (”Bee”) is his favorite co-worker. He knows almost nothing about her but is completely committed to making sure that he is her favorite co-worker. He’s winning her over. Absolutely.
“That is the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard you say, Mobius.”
He scoffs and adjusts his belt. He has almost certainly said things dumber than that.
Mobius treats himself to salads from Sissy’s Café 2-3 times a week. They’re on the pricier side because they’re so large, which is really the only way to eat a salad, otherwise you’re still hungry and it was nothing but a waste of money and wilted lettuce. On a seasonally comfortable day he’ll grab it to-go and grab a table at a small park nearby, which is generally speaking one of the nicer parts of his day, unless of course—
“You are terribly predictable, I hope you know.”
Mobius huffs and stabs his fork into a particularly thick bit of spinach and avocado. “You say that as if you’re not, which I find hilarious.”
“Well you would, I am famously quite funny.”
He tries to ignore the fact that the code-word “Young Prince,” has finally gotten the haircut he’s so desperately needed (even more so does he try to ignore the fact that he’d been the one to suggest it). Loki is in black today (surprise, surprise) despite the bright, warm sunshine, and his t-shirt fits snug across his shoulders.
“Nice haircut,” Mobius notes between sips of his ever-warming seltzer.
Loki gives the barest hint of a smile, which is unfortunately one of Mobius’ favorite things, if only because it is one of the few real things about the man.
“Not that you asked, but I stopped by because I have some information for you.”
Mobius sighs. Loki loves claiming to have information, which Mobius more-or-less loves to follow-up on despite the fact that it is unreliable about 85% of the time. Happily enough for Mobius, Loki isn’t a huge fan of his father either, although he is a fan of his father’s money, which doesn’t really work in the IRS’ favor.
“Oh?” Mobius replies, disinterested. “And I’m sure it’s just as helpful as your last little ‘tip’ was.”
“More, actually, and frankly I’m offended by the accusation.”
“I’m sure you are.”
The few seconds that follow would be familiar to anyone who had for whatever reason been observing this strange almost-mating ritual that had been occurring over the years. A comfortably quiet exchange of mutual gazing where Loki secretly admired the bent in Mobius’ nose, and Mobius secretly admired the crinkling around Loki’s eyes when he did that almost-smile he reserved for a lucky few.
Loki clears his throat and reaches across the table for the seltzer, taking a sip whilst decidedly ignoring the look of disbelief on Mobius’ face.
“Excuse me—”
“Yes, excuse you, if you’ll recall I was about to share some very valuable information. The most valuable, you might say.”
The last time Loki interrupted Mobius’ lunch with “valuable information,” he’d wasted an ungodly amount of time and money pursuing a lead (and raiding the office of a rather well-respected Senator) that went nowhere, all because this Senator had made a pointed and correct comment at some rich-person function and Loki has never been able to not take something personally for even one moment in his absurd little life.
“And why should I believe you this time?”
It’s the fidgeting that gives it away—how starts tapping his fingertips against the empty can, his eyes looking anywhere other than at Mobius. That maybe he’s telling the truth this time.
“I’m... tired, I guess.”
“You’re ‘tired.’”
He looks up, briefly, before he returns to this out-of-character bit of looking anywhere else.
“My brother’s off... saving the world,” he starts with a sneer, “Sylvie’s about to have a family—”
“She’s still your family,” Mobius interrupts, “don’t be stupid.”
“But that’s classic me, isn’t it?”
Mobius silently disagrees, but he’s so afraid to burst this bubble of self-awareness—to ruin what has started to feel like a critical, life-changing moment, that he cannot possibly bring himself to speak.
Loki opens his mouth as if he has more to say, but he closes it and places a small black hard drive in the middle of the table instead. When Mobius looks closer, he notices that it’s engraved with a small bolt of lightening. His heart starts to tap in a series quickening, uncomfortable beats.
“Loki—”
“I’ve had it for a while,” he admits, “if you knew how long you’d probably want nothing more to do with me.”
Mobius has made the moral arguments before; probably to the detriment of the argument itself. That no single man should be able to accumulate so much wealth—that his notoriously stuffy, humorless job is “really important, actually,” and stopping his father could help a lot of people, least of all his own son, and “good god, Loki, what the hell are you even trying to prove?”
“It’s for admittedly selfish reasons,” he continues before Mobius can correct him, “regardless of the final outcome.”
“Why’s that?” Mobius croaks, wishing his tie was just a little bit looser today (so goddamn tight, every single day—)
“Well,” he grins, looking back up at him, finally, “if you’re not undercover, there’s no... what’s the term? ‘Conflict of interest?’”
“Yeah,” Mobius laughs, “yeah, that’s the term.”
Loki pushes the drive across the table. “Take it,” he says, “it’s time you had it.”
"Feels like it should be heavier.”
Loki smirks.
“Shut up.”
Mobius glances at his watch and notices, with surprise, that he’s gone about 5 minutes over his lunch hour.
“Time to go?” Loki asks, the words painted with a nervousness that seems foreign to him.
Agent Mobius has never once returned late from his lunch hour. He respects the agency’s time too much, and what real good has ever come from his lingering? But when he looks back at Loki, who has so recently cut his hair—who suddenly fidgets and appears genuinely nervous, he considers the importance of making exceptions to certain rules. To “loosening his tie,” so to speak. And besides, Bee will cover for him (he’s pretty sure).
“Nah,” Mobius answers, sliding the drive into his coat pocket, “I can be late.”
Ted finally convinces Rebecca to bail on a formal event before it’s over. It’s way more Romantic than she’s entirely prepared for. (Thanks, @piratesails! xo)
“So, uh, what ya thinkin’ boss?” There’s an air of the unhinged to the grin on his face (and his demeanor generally) as he mimics a jaunty little walk with his fingers. “You maybe wanna…?”
The threat of a “skedaddle” hanging ominously in the air.
This is not and most certainly will not be the last time she pauses to wonder how in the hell her heart could be so vulnerable to this man and this moustache in addition to the frightful skedaddle of it all. There’s an entirely imaginary, ungodly screeching of rubber against asphalt and then there’s Keeley’s voice in her head, tinged with lip gloss and pink wine, More like ske-daddy, am I right?
+ It seemed as if one morning his husband had been sporting his usual high-and-tight, and the next? Fuzzy-domed disarray. At least, that was what it felt like. They’d both gotten haircuts before departing a month or so earlier; as had been the reasonable and practiced course of action. And it wasn’t as if they hadn’t done this before—both of them seemed to grow out fairly quickly, so giving one another a quick trim was par for the course.
So, it was indeed a matter of sincere curiosity that David’s hair had managed to grow so wildly beyond the norm. How had neither of them noticed? How had it come to this?
“I’ve... never seen it like this.”
“Sure you have, don’t be dumb.”
“No—no, I am fairly certain I would have remembered such a thing.”
17-18 year old Killian Jones, halfway in love with David Nolan before he’d even really known him? He absolutely would have remembered the curly-haired chaos that now stood before him. Peppered with delightful spots of gray and white. No, David Nolan was somewhat infamous for his put-togetherness. It was in fact something Killian had even occasionally envied him for; so to suggest that at one point in time he had forgotten to trim his hair down to its usual cleanliness? Unfathomable.
“Love, have you even glanced in the mirror lately?”
Truthfully, that was one of the perks of taking these annual extended boat trips. It was easy and even expected to forgo certain rituals that society at large might usually demand. Things like brushing one’s teeth twice a day, wearing appropriate clothing, or drinking after 5 PM. Or, as it turns out, regularly trimming one’s hair.
“To be fair, you apparently didn’t notice either.”
“And I am not complaining, no need to get defensive, darling.”
It had likely only come to his attention because of the fog—it was almost noon and the sun was only just managing to pierce the haze that had surrounded the boat all morning. And while it was deeply amusing, Killian was having no particular qualm with this somewhat out-of-character look. The unshaven, pouting face didn’t hurt too much either.
“Now, now, no need for that,” Killian tuts, running a hand through Dave’s well-salted nest, “you do look rather dashing.”
“Oh, please,” he mutters, trying and failing not to smile. “It’s the humidity, it’ll be back to normal after a swim.”
“Shame.”
David smirks, but not before casting off his t-shirt and making for the bow of the ship—his tanned back and shoulders smattered with distracting freckles.
“Somehow,” he laughs, turning back to face Killian’s somewhat dazed expression, “I think you’ll live.”
BEAR WITH ME, but. deancas (the anti-tragedy of) coriolanus AU:
>> had a good think about this and have no other choice but to assume that cas is the coriolanus in this scenario (because ROME is HEAVEN, obviously);
>> me, halfway through this nightmare with @soft-october-night: oh god, do i need to give cas a wife? yes, cas needs a WIFE;
>> first thought is meg obviously, and i guess their daughter is claire? is that weird? idk;
>> but the other reason cas as coriolanus makes sense is because everyone kept trying to make coriolanus lead and he was just... not for it (although cas is gonna be less of a fascist, i promise);
>> all this means that dean is our good and totally heterosexual friend aufidius, who used to fight with cas but then rebelled and hates the State like a good boy;
>> cas keeps on keepin’ on like the good soldier he is, winning medals and pats on the back for fighting dean’s forces even though it kinda hurts a little bit because no one else can understand you like the guy who’s watched you execute intense Violence;
>> something, something, something, cas says some shit the State (HEAVEN) doesn’t like and is cast out (as is his nature) so he drags his ass to dean’s camp out of anger (and desire probably);
>> this is kinda where it falls apart since i refuse to make it a tragedy and the whole thing is that aufidius becomes afraid that his armies will follow coriolanus instead, so i’ll have to think of something else;
>> regardless, rome falls and no one dies. the end.
>> p.s. the only good and gay thing about ending this as a tragedy is the incredibly intimate murder scene, but again. i will not be doing that.
>> p.p.s. there is however a lovely and bloody fight scene where no one dies so, that’ll have to do.
author’s note: “nobody does it better” by carly simon is a vibe for this particular one; also “mama, you been on my mind” by jeff buckley. this is more canon divergence than AU, but whatever. i don’t think ur gonna mind the distinction.
+ It smells like... salt and coffee. The tiled floors hold the heat of each and every impossibly warm day, so when she’s behind the counter (and sometimes when she sweeps at close) she slips her shoes off. The sand is a problem she has given up trying to solve. There’s simply no way around it, not with the beach being so close. And so long as people aren’t getting bits of it in their coffee and complaining about it, she’s inclined not to care so much.
It’s not exactly what she had in mind, but at least she’s (mostly) happy. At least she’s free.
All told, it had simply gotten to be too much to handle. She didn’t regret her intentions at the start—she really had believed there was a better way. But ultimately, the collateral damage, no matter how much it might’ve been mitigated, was still damage. It still kept her awake at night. Still took her friends and family away. So she packed it in. Not that it had been easy. If anything it had been one of their more challenging skirmishes, but... they did manage it. A few years had passed since then. She walked with a mild limp and her knee hurt a bit when it rained, but she relished in the mild discomfort all the more for its wonderful mildness.
She had wandered into the coffee shop one morning and never left. It was close to the beach and her bungalow, and she enjoyed the company of the older woman who ran it. Pote would’ve liked her too. At first she’d just sit out on the patio in the morning sipping a blend of espresso and cachaça; usually reading or chatting with Bernadette (Bernie, for short). Sometimes she did nothing at all—would merely sip her drink and listen to the waves crash against the shore.
She tried not to dwell on the things she could no longer change. It did little good, and more often then not resulted in a discomfiting itchy sensation somewhere beneath her sternum that was impossible to scratch. And it made her want to cry, which she absolutely hated. The key word is “tried” because she would almost certainly fail from time to time. When she wasn’t locked away in her bedroom feeling sorry for herself, she would occasionally feel sorry for herself at the café, where Bernie would be waiting with a bottle and two shot glasses.
As the years went by those days occurred less and less, but they were still there. Waiting. And she wasn’t sure she wanted them to disappear entirely. She wasn’t sure she deserved that kind of peace.
It was fitting that he’d show back up on one of the murkier days. Both literally and figuratively; the dark, heavy clouds hovering across the water reflected her ever-darkening mood. She had woken up that morning and known it was coming, but endeavored to work through it. Bernie was out of town visiting family, and she had promised she’d be able to open. Not that anyone would be around much with the storm rolling in. Something about the rain made her think of him. Maybe it was the pain in her knee coupled with the smell of it in her nose. Maybe it was all that trauma and heartache rattling around in the soul-heavy parts of her—it didn’t matter. She tried not to dwell.
The rain starts before she’s ready for it, so she’s soaked to the bone in an off-white sundress (another incredible bit of on brand luck), ringing the water out of her hair when a man appears. His face is obscured by the shirt he’s pulled over his head, and she’s about to offer him a towel when he looks up and the thunder rolls. The waves crash, and the people living along the water shout and laugh and run back to their homes and she can merely choke.
“Hey,” he says, soft. Like he’d only seen her yesterday, and not years ago with a gun pointed at the back of his head. The shadowy, indefinable shape of him fading away in the back of a black SUV.
“Hey,” is all she can manage in return—the way that they used to. So much in so few words and oh, how she’s missed it. The privilege of silence.
He stands in front of her, his hands warm against her arms even with the rain and she has absolutely failed in her attempts to not cry today. “I’m sorry,” he answers in a near whisper, “I’m sorry it took me so long.”
The storms here are powerful, but they’re quick. Sometimes, when she’s in the throes of it, she wishes they were longer. It can be a bit difficult to really stew in your despair when the sun is shoving its way into every single crevice. Not that she can’t manage it, but it doesn’t seem right—that the weather can’t meet her emotions where they are.
Now is somehow both the same and blessedly different. The rain starts to slow almost as soon as its begun, and somewhere over James’ shoulder the evening sunlight peeks through the parting clouds.
“That’s okay,” she sniffles, her arms wrapping around his torso as she hides her face in the crook of his neck that smells exactly as she remembers. Like magic. “You’re here now.”
01. wip, “dearly departed,” spn, deancas: Despite all this, and perhaps in keeping with his own preference for following through on his habits, he has never once stayed for Open Mic Night. It’s not as if he has anything against it in theory, he just never felt especially compelled to do so. And he was never a big fan of crowds generally.
“You should think about staying tonight,” Meg advises, sliding his third cup back over the counter. “I’ve heard this guy before, he’s good.”
02. wip, “the apportioners,” og: Case in point: Never betray a demi-god. Particularly one so unbelievably busted. Who would go so far as to force her to watch the other demi-god she is almost certainly (and regrettably) falling in love with, commit one more atrocity. To force her to watch her son die. Again. To force her to watch him choose between her and his family. Far, far more trouble than they’re worth. And sure—sure. She is angry. She may well always be angry. And yet. There’s the kitchen. The small, warm kitchen with the cream-colored tiled floors, inlaid with red grout. Where Edie makes too much bread and Estelle stores her spelled sourdough starters. Where Greg made her a cup of chamomile tea and described the unique softness of Clemente’s thread—how it curled and straightened and existed. And so she refuses. She refuses to do what some other irreparably broken version of her friend has expected her to do.
So. She lets him go. Again.
>> 02. first lines of my last 20 10 (20 is just... so fucking many; if you wanna do 20 be my guest but i have shit to do today) fics
01. wip, “dearly departed,” spn, deancas: Creative writing is so not his forte and really, what’s there to say about The Lodge that hasn’t already been said? A revolving door of adjectives that infect the collegiate discourse every few years—when some starry-eyed freshman sees the tall, thin door frame in all its carved, unknowable glory and gets it in their sweet, sweet head that surely no one has ever thought to opine on the virtues of a local, now-legendary establishment that seems to have haunted Main Street since long before time began. So, what is there to say that hasn’t already been said?
02. complete, “untitled,” spn, deancas: The two of ‘em establish the somewhat rude habit of bailing during get-togethers without telling anyone. They stop answering their phones at any point before noon shortly after that. He’d call it a side effect of New Couple Syndrome (NCS), but it’s something they continue doing long after any reasonable person would call something “new” (and honestly, he’s not even sure you could say it was “new” when it was new, technically).
03. complete, “untitled,” spn, deancas: There’s a fucking manticore in Memphis. Seriously. Human face, body of a lion, the whole freakin’ nine.
“Certainly one of the more… imaginative of God’s creatures,” Castiel muses, “albeit, unsustainable.”
04. complete, “herbalist’s guide to skyrim,” star wars, reylo: Rey Kenobi really needed to get in the habit of bringing dates to restaurants she had no emotional attachment to. She had already lost an unacceptable number of extremely dear favorites that had been there for her when she’d had less than nothing and now? Blighted by the memory of mediocre men who she knew she had given far too much power. She knew she had an association problem, okay? She and her mildly overpriced therapist were working on it. Had been working on it. For a while. She really missed the dumplings from Hunger Pang.
05. complete, “a grief observed,” star wars, reylo: The presumptive triumph inherent to the return of the self? Painfully short-lived. It is brief and blinding and there is a feeling akin to invincibility singing in his veins. A humming that echoes in the gruff tenor of what could only be his father’s voice. How it must have felt when the heroes made yet another daring escape—against all the odds. The euphoria that occurs when you have begun to think that maybe, just maybe, you’ve finally won. It makes the loss so much worse than he could have ever imagined. Not when you’ve gotten so close to having everything you never even knew you wanted. And that’s half the battle, isn’t it? Knowing what you want. Like it’s easy.
06. complete, “a super solid history of the “good old fashioned lover boy(s),” c. the beginning (or there about) to now-ish,” good omens, aziraphale x crowley: Perhaps one of the cruelest tricks that God has ever played (and the list was indeed long) was in allowing angels to believe they were incapable of love. There is some amount of debate as to whether or not this was entirely by accident. She was a busy woman after all━perhaps that was why it, the question of whether or not angels were truly capable of love, had slipped through one of her metaphysical cracks (of which, admittedly, there were many). Those who managed to refrain from falling had quite an easier time believing this particular theory to be very much the case. A largely unspoken, slightly offended, “She would never,” followed by an affirmation of the belief in the long held assumption that they were above such things anyway, so really, what did it even matter, and can we please return to the task at hand?
07. complete, “first family,” ouat, captain charming: If the chronically thin, awkward, and punk-ass 15 year old version of Killian Jones could have, somehow, opened a portal in time and space; a feat which might have allowed him to peer into the future in an attempt to witness what it might hold, he would have likely imbibed several ill-advised shots of cheap bloody rum, and then quite dramatically flung himself atop the rumpled sheets of his perpetually unmade bed. If the younger Jones had even an inkling of the type of life he’d be living as a 35 year old man─with a full time job, a mortgage, a husband, one wildly photogenic dog─he would have done everything in his power to steer himself off such a disturbingly clean-cut, well-behaved course.
08. complete, “untitled,” ouat, captain swan: Rather predictably (and not without a somewhat inevitable feeling of frustration), Emma Swan was one of those people who had never put much stock in the notion of “vibes.” She had a “freaking superpower,” according to Ruby, which allowed her to suss out the truth about people, but as soon as Ruby suggested that the same might be true of certain places, Emma had chuckled, as if it was some unheard of thing.
09. complete, “untitled,” ouat, captain charming: In the end, he’d chosen the place because to be quite bloody honest it was precisely where you might expect the writer of an obscure indie mag to live. It was an older building (a suitably generous designation), tucked in between the modernist monstrosities of the last 20 or 30 years. Replete with gorgeous, if not ill-kept, accoutrements framing the windows; crumbling steps and a brick exterior in varying shades of red and orange. The aesthetic was rounded out by the kind of neglectful landlord you might expect, a horrid man who frequently enjoyed reminding his tenants that he lived, “out of state,” and they’d have to, “be patient.”
10. complete,” untitled,” ouat, captain charming: There’s an old adage about assumptions that Killian Jones finds physically repulsive. It is so unerringly awful, in fact, that he won’t even deign to repeat the thing in his own head. You know what it is, it’s not as if he needs to speak the actual words. And regardless of the fact that there’s this old, tired saying about assumptions, people still do it, and he’s done it, and ya know what? It kind of worked out in his favor, so, take that.
author’s note: about 2 yrs ago i started a captain charming enchanted au that i never finished (surprise, surprise). i had actually stopped writing right before the two first meet, and this seemed like a good opportunity to start working on it again. will i finish it now? no idea, but i enjoyed hopping back in because i was very excited about it initially and i kinda hate that it’s unfinished. you can read the first chapter on tumblr or the archive. oh also for @phiralovesloki, who never gave up on me or this stupid story.
+ Killian’s adult life, his pre-Prince-from-another-land life, starts like this: With a handful of unfortunate “misunderstandings” with local law enforcement; a worrisome drinking habit that he often ignored; a nebulous, unexamined fear that he’s been left behind; and a large number of fleeting, meaningless relationships that had only become so due to his own infuriating habit of allowing them to be. So, yes, according to most, Killian Jones was living what some would refer to as a “sad life” (or perhaps a lonely life, at the very least).
He might respond that he in fact “liked it that way,” but any discerning sort of person would be able to suss out that lie rather quickly.
If his life were like one of his mother’s wretched storybooks, the otherwise mundane, rainy evening in October when he almost totaled his bike would be considered the “incendiary incident.” The moment when the story really begins—a suggestion that all of the blather leading up to this has been nothing more than literary window dressing. There is an argument to be made however, that the moment in question would indeed feel less like the “inciting action” had it lacked the proper and necessary context.
The real trouble with saturated, dark city roads at night is the fact that they become nothing more than garbled reflections of the circus of light that surrounds them. While they might be perfectly black and impermeable during the day, in darkness they become quite a bit more ominous. Despite the most logical parts of you screaming otherwise, there’s still a niggling concern that if you’re not careful you could take a wrong step and tumble into the odd, rippling echo of an inverted city you’ve never seen before.
Killian’s traversed these same streets on a number of previous evenings, and through worse weather than this, but for whatever reason, on this particular night, it seems to be unusually bad. The wind whips between the buildings creating paralyzing pockets of frigid air, as the drains clog with garbage and leaves, causing the puddles to become dangerously deep; those confounding, reflected surfaces becoming even more unknown and void-like.
He’s only a few blocks from home, on the cusp of admitting to himself the precariousness of current travel conditions when he sees it—a gleam out of the corner of his eye. City lights do not gleam. Soft, yellow light glowing from behind long, sheer curtains also hold no unique, eye-catching sheen. Speeding through city streets on the back of a motorbike requires a certain degree of concentration. If you’re the sort to become easily distracted by twinkling lights and the occasional odd bit of human movement, you’re not fit to be driving. It’s why he thinks of it as a “gleam,” rather than say… a light you might see emanating from a billboard or a traffic stop. Not to mention the fact that if this were any other normal kind of illumination, it wouldn’t have caused him to become distracted enough to completely miss the crater-like pothole on the road in front of him.
This strange new land is loud—loud enough that he would almost feel compelled to clap his hands over his ears… if not for the bright, flashing lights that look nothing like any open flame he’s ever seen. He would be tempted to shut his eyes… if not for the sight of the tall, tall, tall vertical structures that he would maybe call castles if he weren’t so terribly confident that he wasn’t in his kingdom any longer and they likely weren’t castles at all. If the sights and the sounds weren’t enough to convince him, the throngs of oddly dressed people staring at him as if he were the strange one certainly was. It takes him a few moments amidst the chaos of his new surroundings, but he remembers all the same—the sickeningly red, wet sheets; the sound of his newborn daughter’s cries, and that final glimpse of her in the arms of some nefarious, hooded figure, disappearing into a swirling vortex.
He breaks into a run, his cape flapping heavily behind him.
He has no earthly idea where he’s running to; only that he’s a father who’s lost his only daughter and he is entirely unmoored. Perhaps for the first time in his life. There’s no specific destination in mind but speed has to be a factor, right? After all, he jumped right in after them. Maybe they’re not so far ahead that he can’t catch up, so long as he runs. He’s finally stumbled on a somewhat quieter street when he witnesses the strange metal contraption only just manage to skirt a rather large hole in the ground before emitting an ear-piercing screech and collapsing onto its side. He’s stunned for a moment, and wonders if perhaps it’s some kind of animal, but when it fails to move and he notices the man who seems to have fallen underneath, he rushes over, his curiosity temporarily waylaid in favor of playing in a more familiar role.
It’s difficult to discern in the dark, but at a glance the man in question is dressed almost entirely in black (which doesn’t seem smart in any land), with short, unkempt hair that’s grown over his ears and across his forehead. For a few moments he’s worried that the man is dead, but he emits a small groan and David springs into action, pushing the “beast” away and pulling him off the street.
As he slowly regains awareness he curses himself for having gone on what feels like a historic bender. Because how could his head hurt this much otherwise? And it’s only when he starts to feel the numerous aches growing elsewhere, along with a distinct lack of dry, soft bed sheets that he starts to remember the painful, confusing reality of a few minutes previous—that bloody gleam, the pothole, the momentary sensation of dreadful weightlessness. Christ, his bike.
“Hey,” he hears (along with a mild, worrisome ringing), as if from a distance, “Hang in there, okay? You’re gonna be okay.” And then, at a softer pitch, “...I think.”
“Ugh,” Killian manages, a nauseous feeling building in his stomach, “please tell me you didn’t call an ambulance.”
Even in his post-nearly-flattened-by-his-bike state, the thought of cumbersome medical bills on top of the repairs he was certain needed to be made on the bike was a whole other kind of headache he could happily do without.
“You’ll be pleased to know that I don’t know what that is,” replied the deep, noticeably pleasant voice floating somewhere above him.
In any other circumstance there likely would’ve been a short chuckle after that, but Killian feared some for the state of his ribs at the moment, and merely grunted some more. “Bully for you then mate,” mumbling, “overpriced nonsense. I’ll be fine.”
This is one of my favorite parts of this story—no matter how many times I’ve heard it. The first time he laid eyes on him. Before all the mess that came after (myself included); before he started to realize the kind of story he was in, the only thing he could see (so he says) was dad’s eyes. Which, as a teenage girl, I am fully ready to believe. And dad does have pretty eyes.
“Not that I don’t appreciate the help,” Killian started, wincing from the streetlight overhead, “but is that a cape you’re wearing?”
Not just a cape (although really, who just wore a cape these days)—the man hovering over him, his rescuer, for all intents and purposes, who he was slowly beginning to realize might have actually been the cause of his current predicament, was draped in an absurd amount of Renaissance faire finery. From the fur-lined cape to the loose-fitting blouse, Killian began to suspect that the man in question had not been trying to be funny when he claimed to have no knowledge of ambulances. Or perhaps, Killian began to think worriedly, he had ridden in a fair number himself.
