Prompt: I'm fine, I prom...(passing out, vertigo, collapse)
Fandom: Naruto
Pairing/Characters: Sai and Ino (from Healing Hands)
Rating: T
Words: 926
Notes: Requested by @cinlat . All the background stories from Healing Hands are getting to me XD they need their own place!
Ino stared at the papers in front of her, rereading each line to make sure that she understood. A headache nagged at the back of her mind, but she probably hadn’t drank enough water today. She’d been pouring over her father’s notes on mental health evaluations and the expectations of shinobi for hours. Inoichi cared about the men and women in the village, but he’d been more focused with getting information from enemies than protecting his own.
An uncomfortable feeling like disappointment tugged at Ino’s stomach. She hated to think anything less of the man for not enforcing tighter protocols. Her father had lived in a different world, one that was at war as often as it was at peace. They’d turned out child soldiers without batting an eye, and Ino knew they would do it again. But, she remembered the fire in her father’s eyes when she’d been nominated for the chunin exams, and the way he’d held her against his chest until her body spent its sobs after Asuma died. There was a tenderness to Inoichi as well.
The life of a shinobi wasn’t black and white; it was filled with contradictions. Ino understood that, now more than ever. Sakura had raised a lot of good points when she’d dropped by T&I the other day. So much so that Ino couldn’t stop thinking about it. She wondered about the Anbu who needed help and never showed up in her office, and the regular shinobi who thought it was a weakness to need help. They’d all been taught the same things.
Sakura was onto something with the idea of making T&I more friendly and accessible. Ino needed to talk to Osamu about the way he handled intakes, for starters. He’d always been a bit of standoffish—
“You’re working late tonight.” The words startled Ino from her thoughts. She jumped when hands came to rest on her shoulders. “Easy,” murmured a soft, familiar voice.
A smile slid onto Ino’s lips before she could stop it. “You’re back early.”
“Yes,” Sai agreed, removing the white mask that hid his features from the world when on mission. He must have just gotten back into Konoha to still be in uniform. “We didn’t encounter any resistance.”
Ino laid her head against the back of her chair, humming softly when Sai brushed his lips against her inverted forehead. “You should have given me some warning,” she chided, fussing over the hair she hadn’t bothered styling that morning. “A woman likes to look her best when she sees someone special.”
“You’re implying you don’t always look your best.” Sai’s pale features scrunched in confusion. He moved to sit on the edge of Ino’s desk, studying her face with dark eyes. “You’re a bit paler than normal perhaps, are you—”
Raising one hand, Ino cut off the words. “We’ve talked about this. I wasn’t speaking literally.” The start of a smile pulled at Sai’s lips, and she rolled her eyes. “Annnnd, you knew that?”
“I did.” The smile softened the sharp edges of Sai’s features. “I’m learning.”
Ino sat forward, resting a hand on Sai’s knee. Black fabric tensed beneath her fingers then relaxed. She glanced up through her eyelashes, watching the delicate blush play across his cheek bones. Her second hand came to the opposite knee, squeezing the muscle as she grinned. “What else have you learned?”
The blush on Sai’s cheeks shifted toward crimson, but his smile never faltered. “A few things, but you’ll need to come closer so I can show you.”
“Hmm,” Ino purred. She stood and leaned in. “Tell me more.”
The edges of Ino’s vision grew indistinct, stars bursting across the edge of her vision. The room tipped underfoot, and her stomach leaped into her throat. Ice washed through her body, numbing it entirely. She saw herself standing, saw Sai bring a hand up to her cheek, but couldn’t feel anything. Darkness swallowed the world.
Some time later, Ino opened her eyes to the familiar ceiling of her office. Sai had moved them to the floor at some point. He cradled head in his lap,and worry creased his brow. “What happened? Are you okay?”
“I’m fine.” Ino pulled herself into a sitting position, trying to ignore the way the room swam in and out of focus. “I just stood up too quickly.”
“You’ve never fainted before.” Sai didn’t move from his spot on the floor, wrapping an arm around Ino’s back. “I could go find Sakura and have her check you over. I’m sure she wouldn’t mind.”
Ino shook her head. The room steadied, leaving only a vaguely nauseous feeling in the pit of her stomach. Another inhale stilled the panic that fought to rise toward the surface. “I’m okay, really,” She squeezed Sai’s forearm. “I stood up too quickly, and I haven’t eaten much today. I’m fine.”
After watching Ino for a moment, Sai inclined his head. “Then, it’s my duty to take you to dinner.” At her frown, he laughed softly and brushed a strand of hair behind her ear. “My duty, and my pleasure, always.”
Sai stood, then offered his hand to help Ino back to her feet. She wobbled for a moment, then forced herself to stand firm. She took one step, then another. Sai nodded. “If it happens again though, I’m taking you to Sakura. Even if that means I have to carry you there myself.”
“Fair enough.” Ino brushed her lips lightly against Sai’s jaw before hooking her arm though his. “Now, tell me about your mission.”
im currently writing a potter family history fic which is getting wildly out of hand and i’ve decided the following things:
> fleamont potter is a fabulous dancer.
> euphemia hexed vittoria crabbe once for slapping a house elf in front of her.
> she did worse to walburga when they met for the first time after Sirius was disowned.
> fleamont experimented with potions a lot at Hogwarts. It was not always smooth sailing. One explosion left him with no pigment for a solid six months. He spent the time pretending to be a ghost, terrifying first years.
> euphemia didn’t attend Hogwarts, she was born in Agra in India. Her parents owned an apothecary exports/imports company. fleamont met her when trying to get her father to sell him ashwinder eggs for one of his experiments.
> harry’s hair is from euphemia’s side of the family. fleamont invented the smoothing serum for his wife.
> james did not enjoy the smoothing serum despite his mother’s pleading and demanding. sirius nearly died of laughter when he found out who is father was.
> fleamont was very close with his daughter in law Lily. Their mutual interests include: potions, making fun of James, Muggle soap operas & Euphemia’s perfectly brewed tea.
> euphemia had four miscarriages before james was born and it broke her heart; she and fleamont had only just decided to stop trying when she fell pregnant. james was a wonderful, terrifying surprise.
> fleamont never showed much interest in the family’s invisibility cloak; euphemia thought it was wonderful until james found it one day when he was four and the pair of them spent an evening running around their home chasing their invisible very naked son who did not want a bath.
> euphemia ordered fleamont to lock the cloak up after that.
> sirius calls euphemia mum. euphemia calls sirius her darling boy, the same as she does with james. fleamont calls him son.
> fleamont taught his son to fly; euphemia was afraid of heights.
> when james was little, he used to hate letting euphemia out of his sights. she didn’t mind because she hated letting him out of hers.
> when james was 12, there was a series of attacks on muggleborn families in perth, in scotland, which were accredited to voldemort and his followers. fleamont wanted to remove james from hogwarts immediately and euphemia had to talk him out of it. it was one of the worst arguments they’d ever have but they never told james.
> one of euphemia’s favourite expressions was borrowed from a former president’s daughter: if you don’t have anything nice to say, come sit by me.
> fleamont only permitted close friends, select family and his ingredients-supplier to call him ‘mont’ or ‘monty’ or any other derivative. after all, he would tell james. a wizard’s relationship with his supplier is a sacred bond.
> they didn’t often visit euphemia’s family in india but whenever they did, james absolutely loved it. one of his earliest memories is attending a magical holi festival as a little kid and getting a face full of blue powder that lasted nearly two weeks.
> after sirius came to live with them, euphemia and fleamont demanded that any owls from his teachers regarding his bad behaviour should be sent directly to them.
> this resulted in sirius being on his best behaviour for nearly four months. it was a record streak for him, broken only by he and remus getting caught on top of the astronomy tower.
> when the pair of them fell ill with dragon pox, everyone thought euphemia would be the first to go, since she was far more sickly.
> but fleamont worsened unexpectedly and passed away in his sleep. james was devastated. his mother died three days later.
To become Sith, no matter the background, one has to learn to be one first. For former slaves turned Acolytes this would be harder than for others who did not have the stigma associated with them
Tags:
Characters:
Original Female Sith Character(s)
Original Character(s)
Original Child Character(s)
Other
Sith Academy
Sith Politics
Canon-Typical Violence
Canon-Typical Racism
Canon-Typical Slavery
Sith Education
Background fic
I woke up this morning with this scene running through my mind, and decided to go ahead and write and share it, because why not. And so - have a one shot from the perspective of Abby’s father, Michael, about how he met her mother.
Under a cut for length.
Michael slowed on the sidewalk, digging in the worn leather bag he wore across his body. With a sigh he opened it to peek in when he failed to find what he was reaching for, and he realized he must have left his journal in his room. There wasn’t enough time to walk back to get it, and for a moment he looked up and down the street. He’d need it for class, they were taking notes instead of sketching today -
The most beautiful shade of gold caught his eye, and he turned eagerly toward it. Walking slowly toward the window through which it was shining, he realized the gold was cascading waves of hair catching the sunlight. Thin fingers dragged through it and brushed it off a face, and his heart almost skipped a beat as the most angelic face he’d ever seen was revealed.
Soft cheekbones angled high on a heart-shaped face, small pointed chin resting below full pink lips, their corners curling up slightly as if they carried some secret only they knew. The slope and point of her nose made him want to trace it with his fingers, to memorize its angles and curves.
She rested her chin in her hand, staring down at something as she tapped her cheek absently with the eraser of the pencil in her other hand. Michael stood transfixed, unable to tear his eyes away, and suddenly the fact that he was running late to class slipped his mind. He found himself carried to the door as if compelled, knowing only that he had to get closer, to see her and maybe even speak to her if he could.
The old bookstore had a dusty quality to it, swirls of particles almost glittering in the dim yellow light. Sunlight streaming through the slightly grimy windows illuminated them and almost made them look like the tiniest snowflakes, falling over the books piled on tables lining the space between the door and the counter.
She was sitting behind the counter, a textbook and papers open before her. When she heard the bell above the door ring, she glanced up and quickly closed her textbook.
“Good afternoon,” she greeted, and for a moment she simply held his gaze. A soft, almost hesitant smile came across her face, and it felt as if he was staring into the sun. “Can I help you find something?”
“I - um,” he glanced around quickly, trying to think of an excuse before he realized he already had the perfect one. “Do you sell journals here? Or a sketchbook, maybe? I - I only just realized I forgot mine, and I need to get to class.”
She smiled and nodded, hopping off the stool she was sitting on so she could lead the way down one of the rows of bookshelves. She was short, and her wavy hair fell like silk to her waist, swinging as she took brisk steps. He followed behind her, fascinated by the way the it moved and caught the light until he almost felt himself having to resist reaching out to see if it really was pure gold as it appeared.
“We’ve got these, they’re not - the best, but if you just need one for class today,” she leaned over the small display table she had led him to, “this one’s pretty cheap.”
When she turned back to hand him the thin, plain notebook she smiled, her whole face lighting up. This close he could finally tell her eyes were hazel, though they were a golden green at the moment as if the green sweater she was wearing was reflecting back at him from their depths.
“Th-thank you,” he said when he realized she was waiting for him to say something. “It’s just what I needed.”
She continued smiling as she brushed by him, a whiff of something floral like gardenia lingering after her. Michael followed her back to the counter, scanning the shelves as he did, wondering if there was something else he could ask her about. But they reached the counter and she began to ring him up at the register.
As he dug in his wallet for his cash, he looked at the textbook she had sitting on the counter. “What are you studying?” he asked.
She looked down at the textbook and sighed softly. “English,” she answered.
“At NYU? Or -”
“Yeah, NYU,” she told him with a small smile. “How about you?”
“Same,” he said. “Or - I’m in my last year at NYU, but I’m not studying English. I’m an Art major.”
“Art?” she asked, raising her eyebrows as she accepted his cash and opened the register. The touch of her fingers was brief on his, but the feeling remained like a ghost whispering on his skin. “Do you - paint? Or sculpt or something?”
“Sketch and paint, not - not sculpting,” he replied as he accepted his change. He wished he could close his fingers on hers as he did, thinking of how much he wanted to study the lines of her palm. But he pocketed his change and picked up the notebook he had bought, gesturing it as he spoke. “I - well, thank you, this was - a lifesaver.”
She nodded and smiled. “Glad you were walking by when you realized it, that was lucky,” she agreed.
He took in the soft angles of her face, the bright gleam in her eyes, the secret that still remained in the upward curve of her lips, and he returned her smile. “It certainly was.”
After a moment standing in front of the counter, wishing he had a reason to stay but unable to think of one in the face of her radiant beauty. Instead he gestured the notebook in farewell and turned to leave. Once out on the sidewalk he stopped and looked back through the window, his heart racing again when he saw her watching him leave.
The next day he left early for class, running a hand through his thick dark hair as he hurried along the sidewalks. He slowed as he approached the bookstore, trying to act casual. One last run of his fingers through his hair, and he opened the door, enjoying the ring of the bell as he did.
“Good afternoon!” her sweet voice called, but it came from amongst the shelves, the counter to the right of the door standing empty.
He stepped into the bookstore, slowly walking along the rows of shelves and craning his neck to search down each. Her head popped out from the row next to him, mouth open as if she was about to offer assistance, but she fell silent at the sight of him. For a moment she held his gaze, a soft, almost shy smile coming to her lips.
“Hello again,” she greeted. “Did you forget your journal again? Or is it pencils this time?”
He chuckled and shook his head. “Actually, I was - hoping you could recommend something for me,” he told her, trying to remember the excuse he had rehearsed when he decided to come back. “We have a project to try to capture a certain style and period, and I was thinking of exploring the Gothic, or Romanticism. I thought maybe you could help me narrow it down, since you’re studying English.”
She considered him for a moment, but then smirked and nodded. Spinning on her heel she crooked a finger over her shoulder, and he followed, watching the way her golden waves swung with each step as they had the day before. She had the front of her hair pulled back with a black ribbon, so that it fell like a cascade down her back and around her face.
As she walked she spoke over her shoulder, “I mean, you could always go classic for Gothic. If you wanted to do Edgar Allan Poe, there’s a lot of scenes you could do that would capture the feeling. Or something like Frankenstein, but that almost seems too obvious, unless you want something insanely easy. Do you have to do a scene, or just the essence of the style with your own piece? I mean Gothic would just be - dark, and morbid, probably wouldn’t be putting yourself out depending on your choice...” She continued talking as she led him to a section in the shelves and began to pull a few worn books down into her arms.
He thought quickly for a moment as he listened to her ramble so eagerly, realizing she had asked him a question he needed to figure out the answer to. There wasn’t actually an assignment, but he had thought pretending he had a project was the easiest excuse to return to speak with her more. “Um, just the - style, it’s - it’s an odd assignment, trying to translate literature styles into an interpretation of art,” he told her when she took a breath. He secretly hoped it didn’t sound too far-fetched or odd, and that she wouldn’t realize he was making it up.
She gave him a fleeting look from the corner of her eye, but then shrugged. “So do you want something easy like Frankenstein? Or do you want a challenge?”
“A challenge,” he answered. “I - I like challenges, they’re the only way you can really grow. Especially with art.”
A smile flitted across her face, a look almost like approval and wonder in her eyes. “If that’s the case, honestly,” she put the books back and took down a different one, “then you should read this. Trying to capture the style of Shelley’s poems and writings would be a challenge, if you want to do Romanticism.”
He took the book of poems from her, running his fingers over the worn cover and opening it to find some of the pages dog-eared. The scent of old books wafted up as he flipped through the pages, and he raised his gaze to hers once more. “Shelley?” he asked.
“Well, I mean - he’s one of the most famous Romantic poets. His second wife, Mary, wrote Frankenstein,” she rested a hand on the shelf, turning to face him, “and they had a whirlwind affair. Quite scandalous, she was only sixteen, he was twenty-one and married. They used to sneak out and meet in a cemetery - the same cemetery where her mother was buried. There’s a lot of speculation that Mary Shelley even lost her virginity on her mother’s grave.”
At this he raised his eyebrows, looking down at the book he held. “That doesn’t sound like too much of a challenge,” he told her.
She shrugged. “Maybe not,” she agreed. “Read his poetry though, see what you think of his style. What’s the medium?”
“Uh - charcoals,” he told her, listing the first thing he could think of. He looked back down at the book, considering. “I’d never heard any of that, before. Is that what you’ve been studying?”
“We did last semester, but I did a lot of reading about it on my own, I - I tend to do that. I love learning,” she answered. “I found it incredibly romantic, too, I mean - as silly as it sounds.” She blushed and looked away. “It was probably foolish, her father disapproved, he was married, but they - went on to be two of the most influential writers of that time, together. For a time, at least, I mean he - died tragically young.”
For a moment Michael stood, admiring the way her cheeks pinkened as she avoided his gaze, as if she hadn’t meant to ramble quite so much about something so romantic. “Parents disapprove of a lot of things,” he mused, trying to keep the topic going, to add anything worthwhile to the beautiful things she had said. “If I had a daughter, I’d want her to be happy and love whoever she chose.”
She looked up at him, that same soft smile playing at the corners of her mouth, the secret he wished dearly to discover for himself. But then it was gone and she looked at where her fingers were fidgeting with the edge of the shelf. “Um, was there anything else I can help with? Pencils you need to buy?”
Michael smiled and shook his head, glancing at his watch. “No, I should - probably get to class,” he said with a sigh. He wanted to linger, to continue speaking with her, to hear more of her interests or things she found fascinating. Instead he let her lead him to the counter and he paid for the book of poems before he put it in his leather bag. “Thanks, again.”
“Of course,” she told him. She smiled and then bit her lower lip. “You’ll have to tell me how it turns out, if I see you again.”
He felt himself flush, but he laughed and nodded. “Yeah, maybe I will.”
The next day he went after class, when he would have more time to spend in the bookstore. He had spent the evening reading the book of poetry in his room, and was better prepared to ask her questions about Shelley and Romanticism.
When he arrived, an older man with wire-rimmed glasses was sitting behind the counter, and he greeted him with a muttered ‘good afternoon.’ Michael paused, looking around the bookstore, but it seemed to be otherwise unoccupied. Deciding he’d rather ask he stepped up to the counter and waited for the man to look up from what he was reading. “Excuse me, there’s a - a young woman who works here, is she - is she working today?”
“Not today,” the man answered. “She’ll be back tomorrow.”
“Oh,” Michael said, trying to hide the disappointment from his face. “Th-thank you.”
“Need me to pass on a message?” the man asked.
“No, no, that’s - fine,” Michael said. He turned to exit the shop again but then paused. “Oh, actually - tell her thank you for the suggestion. It was just the challenge I needed.”
The man gave a noncommittal grunt and Michael showed himself out of the bookstore, burying his hands in his pockets as he began the walk back home.
After his morning class the day after, he hurried down the streets until he reached the bookstore. He could see glints of gold through the window, and he smiled brightly at the sight of it. Taking a deep breath he walked inside, the now familiar ring of the bell above the door greeting his first step into the musty store.
“Good - oh, hello,” she greeted him, and she sat up straight at the sight of him. “Back again? What is it this time?”
“Just - just a thank you,” he told her, slowly crossing to the counter. He rummaged in his leather bag and pulled out the book of poems, carefully opening it and withdrawing the thick paper he had tucked into it. “You were right, this was -”
“The challenge you needed?” she finished for him. “Mr. Nicholson told me someone stopped by to say thank you, I figured it was you.”
He smiled and nodded. “It was,” he admitted, and he put the piece of paper in front of her. He watched as her eyes lit up, as she carefully picked it up and let her eyes wander over it. “What do you think? Did I - did I capture the style well enough?”
“I - I’d say you did,” she murmured. “I never thought - did you paint this?”
“Watercolors,” he told her. He leaned his elbows on the counter as she laid the piece back down between them.
Her fingers traced the lines, delicately moving over the scene. “It’s - it’s beautiful,” she said after several moments of silence, raising her gaze to his. “I thought you said charcoals, though -”
“This is for you,” he interrupted. “I - I wanted to see what you thought of it, if I - if I captured the romance well enough.”
Her lips parted slightly, her cheeks flushing again as she looked between Michael and the painting. She seemed unable to speak, and she moved her fingers to the small initials at the bottom corner of the painting. “M - F - H?” she read out, looking up at him.
“Michael Frederick Henderson,” he told her with a smile.
“Well, Michael Frederick Henderson,” she replied with a smirk, seeming to regain her composure from the shock of receiving the painting. “I’ll have to make sure I hang onto this so I can say I had an original Henderson from before you were famous.”
He chuckled and shook his head. “Then it’s only fair I know your name, so I know whose essays to look out for on the romance of young love and poets,” he replied.
She held his gaze for a moment and then smiled. “Jackie,” she answered.
“Just Jackie?” he teased, quirking an eyebrow.
“All right - Jacqueline Moreau,” she told him with a smirk.
“It’s nice to meet you, Jacqueline Moreau,” he said. For a moment they held one another’s gaze, both leaning on the counter, the small painting between them. But then he cleared his throat and straightened once more. He glanced around the small shop, taking note of a corner with a worn wingback armchair and table, a standing lamp beside it for reading. “Do you work tomorrow, Jackie?”
She smiled and nodded. “In the afternoon,” she answered. “Will you - need more help then? It’s Saturday, so no rushing to class…”
There was the slightest hint of hope in her voice, and he felt his heart race. “I may need some more research,” he mused, and he glanced back at her. “I’ll - I’ll see you tomorrow.”
She chewed her bottom lip and lowered her gaze to the painting still resting on the counter. “Sure, see you tomorrow, Michael,” she agreed.
The next day he went in the afternoon, leisurely making his way down the street. Once inside the bookstore, he nodded at the man who must be Mr. Nicholson and then walked through the rows of bookshelves. He settled into the armchair, pulling out the book of poetry and his sketch paper, working on the piece he had begun planning when he decided to come that day.
His work was meticulous, and time passed quickly as he sat perfecting his sketch. By the time the bell above the door rang and he heard Jackie’s voice greeting Mr. Nicholson, he was almost done with the background. He smiled to himself when he heard her footsteps approaching, and he hurried to hide his work.
“Hello,” she greeted, stopping near him to pretend to straighten a few of the books. “How’s your research going?”
“Very well,” he answered with a smile.
“Maybe you can tell me about it later,” she said, and she lingered for a moment before she went back to take her seat at the counter.
Mr. Nicholson left, and a peaceful silence settled over the bookstore. Jackie sat at the counter reading from a textbook, but more than once Michael caught her glancing his way when he happened to be looking at her for reference. He continued work on his sketch, trying to be discreet, hoping he could manage to surprise her with it.
When he was finally done, he wrote the quote he had the book open to on it and signed his first name beneath it. He studied the piece for a moment, looking between it and his angelic model sitting behind the counter. With a satisfied smile he closed his book and slipped it into his bag before he stood.
One deep breath, trying to steady his nerves, and he crossed the bookstore to the counter. He set the sketch on top of her textbook, and watched as she gasped and gently reached for it.
“I - it’s - beautiful,” she stuttered out, staring open-mouthed at it. Her eyes wandered over the lines, one finger delicately tracing the slope of her nose, the bow of her lips sketched in pencil before it moved to the words.
Soul meets soul on lovers’ lips.
She looked up at him, eyes wide, and for a moment they simply stared at one another. Michael finally smiled and gestured to the sketch. “I - I don’t think I’ve ever had such a beautiful muse,” he told her. “Maybe - sometime, we could go to Central Park and I could bring my watercolors -”
“Yes,” she interjected, a tender look in her eyes. “I’d - I’d love to. I’m - I work in the morning tomorrow, we could go after?”
“Perfect,” he agreed. “I’ll - I’ll see you around noon?”
She nodded, chewing her bottom lip as she looked back down at the sketch. “Yes, noon - noon works. I - thank you, it’s - beautiful.”
“As I said, it was - the muse, more than anything,” he told her. He stood for a moment, considering, but then he cleared his throat. “I should - go. I’ll see you - see you tomorrow.”
“Yes,” she said softly, looking up at him.
He returned her smile, drinking in the way she was looking at him, and he felt as if he had to drag himself away from the sight. Once outside the bookstore he stopped on the sidewalk, his feet unwilling to carry him home.
He had always been impulsive, and the urge overtook him, the desire he didn’t want to fight. Without another second’s pause he turned and walked back into the bookstore. She wasn’t at the counter, and he hurried along the rows of shelves until he found her, almost dreamily putting a few books away.
Jackie glanced up at his approach, something like eager surprise in her eyes when she saw him back once more. “Michael -”
He slipped his hand into her hair, his other at her waist, and he pulled her to him. Pressing his lips to hers he held her to him, backing her into the shelf behind him as he did. Her lips were soft, and when she parted them his tongue delved into her mouth to search hers out. She tasted sweet, and her fingers gripped the front of his jacket as she held him to her in turn.
The kiss tore through him, until his every nerve felt keenly aware of her, his every sense full of her until he felt as if he hadn’t truly experienced life until this moment. He was dizzy in response to how she was returning his overeager passion, looping her arms around his neck, fingers running through his hair as she kissed him desperately.
When he finally pulled away, he stared down into hazel-green eyes wide with surprise and desire. Neither of them spoke for a moment, simply holding one another’s faces as they tried to catch their breaths.
But then he smiled, a feeling like perfection overcoming him until he knew that whatever fate had led him to leave his journal that day was something he would always be grateful for. He blinked to clear his vision, trying to resist the powerful emotion swelling inside of him, the overwhelming joy crashing over him.
“Jackie,” he murmured, and she smiled when he said her name. “I’m going to marry you,” he told her softly, and he watched the way her lips curled up in the way he had watched them since the first time he saw her. Only now, he knew what the secret they held was, the secret meant only for him. “I just know it - without a doubt. I’m going to marry you, Jackie Moreau.”
A little series I’m working on to show how various people were inducted into Clone Club, when we never got to see it on TV. It will eventually have four chapters. The work can be found on AO3 here: http://archiveofourown.org/works/12073659 although for some reason AO3 isn’t doing my chapter titles the way I want it to.
Chapter 1: Cosima Niehaus
The email still sat in her inbox when she got back from campus on Tuesday. It had such an innocuous beginning.
Dear Ms. Niehaus,
I know that we've never met, but...
Cosima had seen it the night before, when she was baked, and skimmed it that morning, when she was rushed, and now she could read it carefully. With a clear head, she knew now that was not misreading or imagining anything – a certain Detective Elizabeth Childs from Toronto claimed she was Cosima's genetic identical. The attached photos were certainly compelling. Detective Childs in a sports bra, running in the park. Detective Childs in a business suit. Detective Childs as a child, a teenager, a young adult. Detective Childs as a baby. Those were the photos that caught Cosima's eye the most.
I was contacted by another identical, the detective wrote, from Germany.
A picture of the German was attached, too, though the similarities were harder to catch there. Katja Obinger's hair and makeup were dissimilar enough that Cosima would have dismissed a similar email from her.
I used facial recognition software to search driver's licenses in North America, Beth went on, and I found you and one other person.
One other person? Detective Childs said nothing more about her.
I understand you may be skeptical.
“You bet your ass I'm skeptical,” Cosima muttered. She'd grabbed an avocado from the farmer's market on her way home, and she paused from reading to cut it open, remove the pit, and scoop some of the meat out onto a cracker. Avocado really was the butter of plant world, she thought.
The detective's email went on. I found your student researcher page on the UC Berkeley website, and your Facebook page...
Cosima paused with her next spoonful of avocado halfway to her mouth. She put it down and opened a new tab on her computer. Facebook had at least fourteen users named some variation of Elizabeth Childs. Only half of them had pictures of adult women as profile pictures – the others were pictures of pets, children, or the blank Facebook standard silhouette. None of the seven she could see looked like her, and none of them lived in the Toronto area. Cosima tried searching the Toronto PD's webpage, but there was no information about individual detectives there. Probably for the best.
I'm especially interested in speaking with you because of your work in biology, particularly in genetics. You could be a great asset in our investigations.
Cosima finished off the avocado before reading on. The pictures were enough make her believe Detective Childs' claim of genetic relation, at least for the two of them, but Cosima wasn't sure how that was possible. They would be distant relations, and while the chance that distant relatives could look so similar was greater than zero, it wasn't much greater.
My mother used a fertility clinic to conceive me, the email said.
Well, that was something else they had in common. Cosima's parents had gotten help after struggling for almost ten years to get pregnant on their own. They'd told Cosima all about it, about how hard it was for them, and how lucky they felt to finally have a daughter. Still, though, it did not explain the physical similarities between her and this detective. Cosima's parents had used their own cells to make her; the clinic just ensured the cells combined properly to form a healthy zygote and embryo before implanting the microscopic Cosima into her mother's womb. There had been no sperm or egg donor involved, which otherwise could have explained her resemblance to this detective all the way in eastern Canada.
I'd like to fly out to Berkeley to meet you face-to-face, Elizabeth Childs said at the end of her email. If you have the ability to run genetic tests, I'd be happy to give you some samples of myself for you to test. I'll be as transparent with you as possible, but I'm sure you understand that I don't want anyone outside of our little genetic club to know about this. There could be safety concerns.
Safety concerns. Cosima lit a joint and leaned back. She could run the genetic tests, she thought. Why not? It could be a fun little exercise, something to do one day while her dissertation data compiled or her samples mutated. Hell, she could even run some tests on her parents while she was at it.
Outside the apartment, she heard Emi rustling in her bag for her keys.
Sure, Cosima typed. Come on down. I'll meet you near campus sometime.
She hit send just as her girlfriend walked in the door, and Cosima closed all the tabs on her computer.
* *
Detective Childs, or Beth, as she asked to be called, arrived at the coffee shop at exactly four o'clock. Cosima had been there for most of the afternoon, or she probably would have been late. She sat at a table by the window, watching college students and tourists going by with one eye trained on the door. It was a familiar position for her. Her past five first dates had met her here, and it was hard to remember that this was not a date. Instead of looking for a sexy girl who seemed to also be looking, Cosima was keeping an eye out for herself. Or rather, a professional version of herself. And then she walked in, wearing a light blue blouse and sunglasses.
“Hi, I'm Beth,” Beth said.
Her smile was so similar to Cosima's own that she pulled back. Not even the pictures of Beth could have prepared her for this. They were the same height, had the same eyes, the same bone structure, the same ears.
“I know,” Beth said. “It's weird.”
“Have you, uh, met any of the others?” Cosima asked after Beth got some coffee from the counter. She wasn't even sure how to refer to them, all of these women who looked like her but didn't.
“Just briefly.” She didn't expand on that, but Cosima was too fascinated by the way Beth sat down and crossed her legs, the way she folded her sunglasses, and the way the she tucked her hair behind her ears, to push for more.
“Okay. Um.” Belatedly, Cosima cleared a space on the table for Beth, who glanced over the assembled books and papers with some interest. “You mentioned something about a theory in your last email. What kind of theory or hypothesis are you going with?”
“A crazy one. It's Katja's idea. She thinks we're all clones.”
“Clones?”
“Yeah, like Dolly the sheep clones. Only, under-the-radar, totally-not-legally-made clones.”
Cosima took a minute to absorb that thought. She was familiar with some of the research into cloning and the potential medical benefits thereof, such as somatic cell nuclear transfer and the use of stem cells. “Okay,” she said, writing down CLONES in block letters on a piece of paper. “Any proof of this so far?”
Beth gave her a little half smile. “I've already shown you all the proof I have so far. We all look the same.”
“Right, but, I mean, that doesn't automatically mean we were cloned. Even just one human being that's cloned would be huge international news.”
“Like I said, under-the-radar, totally-not-legally-made. If we are actually clones.”
“Right.”
“You said you could do genetic tests?”
“Yeah, sure. Give me a couple days, maybe weeks. I don't do genetic tests very often.” She smiled at Beth, but Beth just nodded.
“No problem. I'll give you hair and blood samples, just to make sure we're thorough.”
She had offered this before, via email, but hearing it come out of her mouth wiped the smile off Cosima's face. This woman was serious. “I can't really collect the samples here,” Cosima said, gesturing to the coffee shop around them. “But if you wanna come to the lab with me...”
Beth interrupted her. “That could get complicated. At least here, not too many people are looking at us, but in the lab it'll be pretty obvious we look the same. Don't you think?”
Cosima didn't see the big need for secrecy the way Beth did, but she humored her. “True. I'd still feel more comfortable collecting the samples myself, or watching you take them and bag them for me.”
“Of course. I'm staying at the Hilton nearby. We could do it in my room there if you'd like.”
It wasn't the first time Cosima had heard those exact sentences spoken together, and she smirked. “Uh, that's a little too intimate for me right now. Tell you what. There's a bathroom in the basement of the bio building on campus that not too many people use. It's usually empty, but people come in and out often enough that you can't really get away with a murder in there. How 'bout that?”
Beth smiled off into the distance like she was remembering a private joke, and nodded. “That sounds good. Right now?”
“Let's go.”
* *
An hour later, Beth dropped a few strands of her hair into a sterile baggy and used Cosima's scalpel to draw some blood from her left thumb, which then dripped into a glass vial.
“You're sure no one's gonna notice that?” Cosima asked.
“Nah. I'm staying her for a week; it'll heal up enough by the time I get back.” Beth put a bandaid with bacitracin over the cut.
“A week?”
A student came into the bathroom then, and Beth turned to hide her face. When the student was in a stall, Beth asked, “Is that a problem?”
“No, no problem. What are doing here for a week, though?”
Beth pointed to the samples in Cosima's hands. “Waiting on those. And maybe taking a little vacation.”
* *
Once Cosima got access to the gene sequencer and a tech who could help her use it, it only took two days to run the tests on all four of the samples she had – her own, Beth's, and her parents's. Her parents had been more than happy to provide hair and blood for her; compared to the science experiments she used to run, this was banal. When the tech called to tell her the results were in, she jaunted down to the lab with an Eskimo Pie in one hand, excited to learn something about her resemblance to Beth Childs, but actually more excited to see all the similarities she would have with her parents. Everyone always said she had her mother's eyes, her father's hair, and her grandmother's hands; she wanted to see how much the DNA backed that up.
The tech was a friendly guy in his early thirties with a beard straight out of the seventies. He pulled up the results and mansplained a while about what they all meant while Cosima halfway tuned him out. She had color-coded the samples – red for herself, blue for Beth, white for her mother, and black for her father. On the screen in front of her, the results for red and blue were identical, while there were no significant similarities between red and either white or black.
“I'm sorry,” she said, interrupting the tech's flow. “Just to make sure I'm seeing things correctly, are these two samples exactly the same?”
“Yes. Red and blue came from the same person.”
“With no relation whatsoever to white or black?”
“That's correct. I mean, they're obviously all human, probably from the same basic ethnic region of the world, but there's not immediate relationship there.”
“That's not possible.”
The tech stared at her. “Why not? Were you expecting similarities?”
“Yeah. Yeah, I was. Can I get a copy of these results?”
He gave them to her and she went out into the bright California sunshine, heart beating fast even though she was completely sober. Something had gone wrong. She said nothing to Beth, but googled DNA tests, unsurprised when all of the results were for ancestry sites or paternity tests. She chose the later. As she chose a lab in San Francisco that could do the tests in two days, she thought of her father's face. At no point in her life had she ever questioned the legitimacy of her parentage; there had been no reason to, and she loved her parents. She did not want anyone else to be her father, or her mother, for that matter.
The lab in San Francisco came back two days later with the same results – no genetic relation between Cosima and the people who raised her. A day after that, she sat down with Beth Childs in her favorite coffee shop, her hand over her mouth, looking at the results with her.
“Genetically identical,” Beth said. “Just like I thought.”
“Don't you have a way of testing this through the police station or whatever?” Cosima asked. It wasn't the most pertinent issue on the table, but it had been bothering her.
“Of course, but I have to give a reason to run tests, and I'm not telling any of them about this. Besides, this way I kill two birds with one stone – I get the results, and I convince you that I'm right.”
“How is this even possible? How did my parents get a clone baby instead of their own child, when they...” Her voice broke and she stopped. She needed to talk to her parents, but what the hell was she going to tell them? Had they known about this all along? No, she thought. There's no way they knew about this.
Beth had no answers for her. She gave Cosima a pink cell phone, identical to the one Beth carried, with Beth's number preprogrammed in it. “We'll talk more soon,” Beth promised.
Warnings: violence as always, branding, Antonio is kinda mean to Lovino
Rating: T for language
Summary: Captain Arthur the bounty hunter pirate is after Lovino.
This bastard again. Antonio looked through his telescope at the silhouette of a ship he knew had been following them since they left the Spanish colonies in North America. He snapped the telescope shut and shoved it in the inside pocket of his red coat. He turned on his heel with a huff, the plume of his hat brushing his neck with the movement.
“Laura, turn east and pick up speed. That bastard is still following us and catching up quick,” he ordered as he stomped across the deck.
“Ay sir!”
Antonio rolled his eyes as he passed Lars cleaning a gun on the deck beside his sister at the wheel. He stomped to the back of the ship and rested against the rail as he watched the other ship get closer. He bared his teeth in a silent growl.
“You’re in a lovely mood, captain,” Laura commented from her spot at the wheel.
Antonio grunted at her. “Just do your damn job or I’ll throw you overboard.”
Laura just happily ignored him. She was used to this. This flip flopping personality only got worse when Lovino had joined the crew. He was sweet more often than he was vial but it was still a toss up as to which one they were dealing with that day.
Antonio played with the gold ball in his tongue as he watched the ship get closer and closer. Who the hell was this guy and why was he so adamant about catching up to them?
“Lars, prepare the canons. Get Lovino to help. Make it quick,” he barked without taking his eyes off the sea.
Lars grunted in reply and stood up to walk down the stairs. Antonio snorted and pushed his hat back to keep his vision clear. He ran his tongue across his teeth as he finally saw the flag waving over the opposing ship. Of course it had to be Arthur.
Arthur was more bounty hunter than pirate now. He was young, only slightly younger than Antonio was, and he was vicious. Damn bastard never backed down from a fight. His first mate wasn’t any better. Antonio pushed off the rail in a flurry of red fabric and white feathers and stalked across the deck, barking orders at his crew as he went. He slid down the ladder to the decks below with the grace of a feline. He stalked over to where his new cabin boy lay in a net hammock. He yanked the boy out of the netting by the blue bandana around his neck and dropped him to the floor.
“God dammit, what’s wrong with you?” Lovino snapped, rubbing his sore back.
Antonio rolled his eyes and lifted the boy up by the leather strap across his chest. He glared at him with glowing green eyes. “Why is there a bounty hunter after us?”
“How the hell should I know that?”
Antonio promptly dropped the boy on the floor. He wasn’t in the mood to deal with his shit. “There is no other reason that a bounty hunter would be after us unless they knew I had something valuable. I know for damn sure Arthur doesn’t know that I have treasure stored here. The only thing he could know about is you,” he growled, pushing Lovino face down into the boards with his boot. He leaned down and grinned, his tone changing to something sweeter. “Silly little rich niño who ran away from his familia. Now there’s a bounty hunter after us. ¿Por que?” He pushed down harder on Lovino’s back. “Because somebody is looking for you and you’re important enough to send the best damn bounty hunter in the colonies! Explain to me why that is!” He was shouting now.
Lovino coughed back tears. “I don’t know! I don’t know why my family would send somebody after me! I’m not the only one to run away. My brother did too! The only one they care about is Sebastian anyway!”
“So you do know!”
“No!”
The ship rocked sharply, nearly knocking Antonio off his feet. He heard running footsteps on the deck above. He cast one last glance at Lovino before stomping to the ladder and pulling himself up. What he found above deck pissed him off even more than he already was. That damn British bastard had boarded his ship and already captured his crew. He cursed under his breath and stomped to where Arthur stood smugly on the top deck.
“What do you think you are doing?” Antonio demanded.
Arthur simply smirked and snapped his fingers. Before he could react, Antonio found himself flat on his back with his arms and legs pinned. Arthur approached and stood above Antonio, his feet planted on either side of his hips. Arthur sank down until he was straddling Antonio’s hips. Antonio felt the panic start to build up in his chest. No. Not again. He had managed to avoid being taken advantage of since the Sea Witch had brought him back to seek revenge. Now Arthur was leaning over him, the plume of his hat tickling Antonio’s face. No. Not here. Not in front of his crew. Antonio clenched his teeth and turned his face away.
Arthur lifted the cross around Antonio’s neck and played with it between his fingers before he tossed it aside. The rope snapped and the cross skidded across the deck. Antonio turned his head away from Arthur when he felt the other yank his shirt open, ripping the fabric.
“Alfred,” Arthur called. His voice was loud and commanding but didn’t hold any anger or maliciousness.
Antonio saw a pair of boots stop inches from his face. He heard the sound of metal against metal as something was passed into Arthur’s hand with a ring for every finger. The owner of the boots crouched down and looked at Antonio. Big blue eyes behind glasses made with red metal and blond hair falling around his head. If an angel could brandish a nasty curved knife and hold it to a man’s throat that was Alfred Jones at the moment. First Mate under Captain Arthur Kirkland. Antonio swallowed against the blade.
“You both know damn well that blade won’t work on me,” Antonio snapped at Alfred.
Alfred didn’t speak. He looked over at Arthur and nodded. Antonio cocked his head, trying to understand why the first mate would give an okay to a captain. Alfred moved around Antonio, removing the knife as he went, until he was crouched above his head. The younger man pinned Antonio’s arms crucified style while Arthur sat back on his legs. Antonio caught the shadow of a bar in Arthur’s hand as hands tore his shirt open. His eyes widened and he tried to fight to no avail. He knew what was happening. He knew what was coming yet he was in no way prepared for the searing, burning pain in his chest as metal met skin. He screamed at the top of his lungs as the smell of burnt flesh spiraled around him with the smoke. He tried to kick Arthur off, tried to yank himself free of Alfred’s impossibly strong hold, but neither would let him free.
“Where is he, Toñio? Where is the boy?” Arthur demanded, leaning over the bar and pushing the brand down harder.
Antonio spat in his face. Arthur frowned and grabbed the knife Alfred left beside Antonio’s head. Arthur pressed the blade to his throat.
“The brand will remain on your skin, spirit or not. I used holy water instead of fire, you know. Tell me where the boy is or I’ll make you drink it.”
Before Antonio could bark a retort, he heard an angry shout from the ladder. Lovino was watching what Arthur and Alfred were doing. He saw Laura and Lars tied to the mast. Despite how cruel Antonio had been to him only a short time before, he felt the heat of anger building inside his chest.
“Leave him alone! You want me!” Lovino shouted, stepping closer.
“Lovi, no! Antonio can take care of himself!” Laura shouted only to be rewarded with the butt of a rifle straight to her cheek.
“Take me and leave them alone. Stop hurting them. It’s not their fault. They didn’t know I would be looked for.”
Arthur looked down at Antonio and back at Lovino. A grin spread across his face.
“This boy would stick up for dirty pirates, ay? Well, might as well make his sacrifice worth while.”
Arthur aggressively pushed the brand down hard with all the force he could muster. Antonio screamed again and thrashed some more. Arthur yanked the brand away and tossed it to one of his crew members near by. He stood from Antonio but Alfred didn’t budge.
“Kyle, restrain the boy and take him to the ship. Only once he is gone can you release this pathetic crew,” Arthur ordered, careful to step on Antonio’s newly formed brand.
Alfred didn’t move until his crewmate had Lovino tied up and away. He released Antonio, who sprung to his feet and gripped Alfred by the front of his shirt.
“Give him back. Give him back, hijo de puta,” Antonio growled, his green eyes fading away to black holes in his face.
Alfred looked back without expression. “You don’t scare me Antonio. I’m dead too. You can’t hurt me.”
Antonio growled. “If you dare hurt him, I will hurt you. I will find a way. I am a spirit like you. I know how to hurt you like you’ve hurt me. I will find a way to kill you and your pretty little captain too.”
Alfred flinched. “I won’t hurt him. No one will. Arthur is not as cruel as you are. A job is a job. We only needed to hurt you to get him.”
Antonio let the younger man go before stalking off to check on Laura who was bleeding from her nose and mouth. Alfred didn’t hesitate to leave. Antonio vowed that he would get Lovino back even if it killed him on the way.
((This one is a little rough but I did it this way so that you understand why Antonio is the way he is. If this sort of thing is sensitive for you, please don’t read it. It isn’t graphic but I know for some people it’s still hard to read. Warnings are there for courtesy. I’m not tagging the warnings. The story is under the cut so you won’t see it anyway. I put the warnings at the top for a reason. This is also super long sorry.))
Warnings: child sex slave, mentions of sexual acts, violence, abuse, and rape
Characters: Spain and Belgium
Summary: Antonio was orphaned young and fought through a painful childhood. As if things couldn’t get worse, the new world proved that it was even worse than Spain was.
All he remembered about his life was suffering. He was born into poverty in Spain. His parents died early in his childhood. His father died in a fight over food and his mother died of fever. He was orphaned so young. He was picked up in the street and told he would be given a home. He thought he would be happy. He thought he would be fed well, given a loving, living family. Happiness wasn’t real though. Not in Antonio’s life. He was sold into child slavery. His beautiful features landed him as a child sex slave. He was beaten, violated, raped. He didn’t know happiness. He didn’t know peace. He didn’t know comfort. None of it was allowed to him. Everyday a different dirty disgusting despicable man had his way with the child, leaving him a bruised, bleeding, sobbing mess in a bed made from more springs than cotton. He was scared and dirty and alone. He was chained always in golden cuffs and dressed only right before a customer requested him. He was put on display for anyone to pick him. He was dolled up and prettied enough so that the men could pretend he was a pretty girl instead of a scared boy. He was always hungry and tired, never allowed to eat or sleep unless he satisfied properly. They pierced his tongue with a golden ball to make his mouth more stimulating when he was ten. The tattooed a brand to his thigh in case he ever escaped when he was twelve. He would lie in the uncomfortable bed he was chained to at night and stared at the peeling plaster of the ceiling above him. The rope around his throat was his only comfort. It was a thin black leather braid with a dark metal cross hanging on it. It was the last thing he had from his parents. His mother had given it to him after his father died. He imagined it was his father’s though he couldn’t remember him wearing it.
When he was fifteen, he found himself on a ship. It was a trade ship set to sail to the new world and the new Spanish colonies south of British America. It was a long trip, months and months on a rough ocean. He never saw the sunlight in all that time. Of course, he hadn’t really seen the sky since his captivity, only glimpses out the windows when he was led to the viewing room to be chosen. He lay in his own sick throughout the entire journey, unable to move beyond the length of the extremely short chains. He would have cried as he did the first time they had made him allow a man to have his way with him but after so many years, the tears just didn’t come. They were dried long ago when he had given up on life itself. In the new world, he was sold off to a brothel in the Caribbean where he met a girl who was barely a woman. She was an escort like most of the people locked within the stone building. He shied away from her the first time they met. It was right after they had hosed him down to be sold. She complimented his eyes and his cross the first time they met. In the brothel, they treated neither much different than he had been treated back home in Spain. He always wore golden chains and was rarely allowed to leave his room. The girl brought him his food and usually apologized for his treatment. At least they fed him better here since he performed excellently. He was trained well after all. He was requested often and was treated as a prized possession when it came to customers. They were not allowed to mark his skin or hurt him in any visible way. He was to be kept pristine. However if a customer complained of his performance, his owners didn’t hesitate to beat him. The girl would apologize the next day when he was allowed some form of food or water.
When he was eighteen, he escaped successfully. He had tried numerous times in the three years he had been in the new world brothel. Thirteen years of being treated as nothing more than a doll to be played with was enough. He was only successful because the girl had helped. She had helped him escape late into the night, unchaining him and dressing him in the clothes of a patron she had drugged and hidden. Of course, the clothes hung off of him like elephant skin but they covered his tattoo. They took off into the night, paying a merchant captain with the money the girl had stolen. They went to the continental colonies just south of the British colonies.
Her name was Laura. They became close despite Antonio’s unstable personality. Normally he was rude and mean, almost evil. He was cruel and cold hearted and felt no remorse toward anything he did. But sometimes he could be sweet and cheerful and happy when he wanted to be but it was rare in his youth. Laura learned to balance both aspects of his personality and was the only person who could handle him. Until he got a job on a merchant ship.
He left her side and went to work with a merchant who was traveling up and down the coast of the colonies and even over to Europe if he got the right products. Antonio wanted to see the world after being locked away his whole life. Laura tried to insist that he didn’t go, tried to persuade him otherwise, but he didn’t listen. He never really did. At twenty-three he set sail. Life seemed good but that was always a lie wasn’t it? The crew of the ship he worked for was no better than the people who took him in when he was an orphan and alone. They tied him up with rough ropes and forced themselves on him. He tried to fight but to no avail. Sailors tied good knots. They forced themselves inside him, in his mouth, in other places. They loved the little ball pierced through his tongue the most. He had hoped he would never have to taste cum in his mouth again after his escape but that was too good to be true. His trust in people collapsed as they journeys up to Virginia. When he wouldn’t perform for them due to weakness from hunger and thirst on the way to Massachusetts, they beat him bloody. They tried to drug him but found that they wouldn’t work. His body had grown immune to aphrodisiac drugs when he was younger. When he was no use for them and their boredom, he was dumped off the side of the ship into the Atlantic. He prayed that this meant death. Oh how he wanted to die. He prayed that God would take him in the cold dark depths of the unforgiving ocean. But God wouldn’t give him mercy. Not to a dirty whore like him. Instead, God sent an angel, or perhaps he was a devil. Antonio didn’t really know the difference but he knew somebody was sent to him.
He looked like a human being. He had long black hair tied back and he had the features of somebody from the Far East, a place Antonio always wished he could see. He had dragons tattooed around his arms and over his bare chest. What Antonio failed to register as the pain in his chest spiked and his vision started turning black was that this person had no legs. Instead, he had the tail of a lionfish. He looked like a dragon. Antonio slipped into the cold depths with only the image of this bizarre being left in his mind.
He awoke in a cave somewhere. It was cold and wet and he felt like he was floating. He sat up and looked around. He found the man who had come to him in the water sitting on the edge of the rock with his tail in the water. Antonio approached cautiously.
“¿Que eres?” Antonio asked.
“My child, I do not speak your language. You are lucky I speak the one of the people in this part of the world,” the man replied.
“¿Que? No sé…”
“Aya, you are a hopeless one.”
The man pulled himself up out of the water and dragged himself closer to Antonio. He grabbed him by the front of his shirt and yanked him to his knees. Antonio cried out in surprise and would have landed on his face if the man didn’t have a firm grip on him. The man shoved something in his mouth and held his jaw shut until he swallowed. He wiggled and squirmed and kicked in protest until he couldn’t stand it any longer and finally swallowed. When he was released, he coughed and choked, falling to his knees.
“What the hell did you do to me?” Antonio demanded between hacking coughs.
“I’ve done a lot to you. I’ve saved you, helped you speak and understand any language presented to you, healed your wounds, and made you immortal.”
“You what? Why didn’t you just let me die?”
The man frowned. “What kind of Sea Witch would I be if I let a poor, beautiful man drown out there?”
Antonio stared at him. “Sea Witch? You used magic on me and now I can’t die?”
“Aya, you listen like a sack of potatoes, young man. Yes and now you may live forever. You should really thank me for my gifts. Now you may seek revenge for the things done to you.”
Antonio bared his teeth. “You’ve cursed me! I can’t die! How will I escape this awful world now?”
The Sea Witch raised a brow. “You are a confusing human. Why would you want to die?”
Tears stung Antonio’s eyes but he bit them back, not wanting to show weakness to a fish person. “You don’t understand the things done to me and now I can’t escape them.”
“But you can get revenge for them. You can prevent it from happening again to yourself or others. Although it really wouldn’t matter. You’re little more than a lost soul now. Only certain things can harm you now and only I and other souls like you know about it.”
Antonio stared at the Sea Witch. “Only a lost soul?”
Only time would tell for Antonio where his life would take him next.
There was a Southern drawl to the brunette’s voice that brought up memories of being an orphaned mutant caught in the Bible Belt. Growing up in Oklahoma was an odd mix of Southern and Southwest but enough people had a drawl it could still prick at Sam’s past. It didn’t make this situation any easier for him. In fact, he’d argue it made it much worse.
But he didn’t have any more choice in this than the girls who’d been hired by his guardian. That had been made imminently clear to him. It’s not even that Sam didn’t know it was part of what Jeremiah wanted him for. The man had enough of a fortune to rival Stark and more connections than Sam could even begin to untangle. Besides all the HYDRA training, Sam had learned Jeremiah expected him to help in his various corporate espionage schemes. Which often meant observing competitors at parties and various functions as well as using his dimples to charm. He hadn’t expected seduction to be part of the game though and Jeremiah had been extremely displeased to learn of Sam’s significant deficiencies in the area. Sam was informed it was unacceptable, which was what had brought them here.
He hadn’t expected to spend his summer break during his sophomore year at MIT being taught by professionals how to have sex adequately. Jeremiah expected this of him and the threats of losing everything he had fought to gain over the last four years wasn’t even thinly veiled this time. Which did nothing to help Sam’s more than simple anxiety about the whole thing.
Cady was the third girl in as many weeks. Sam and the first had not only not gotten on well, she had been less than impressed with Sam’s very physical and altogether unflattering response when all was said and done. Which could possibly have had more to do with him not making it out of the room before he threw up violently and her clothes being part of the unfortunate real estate so decorated.
Shana and Tess, the first two, had both been in their early 30s, professional down to the last inch. They’d both intimidated the hell out of Sam. Not just by virtue of knowing what would happen if he failed, but because it drove home just how little control he had over his life.
Cady was 23, closer to his own age, and while she was professional there wasn’t the same feel about her. The other two women had been all business, almost clinical in their approach. Cady had an entirely different look and feel, as evidenced by the actual concern lighting her grey eyes. She didn’t look anything like what Sam would have assumed a ‘working girl’ would look like. She was dressed casually, her brunette hair falling in soft waves around her shoulders and looked more like a cheerleader.
She hadn’t moved to get right to things so they were both still fully clothed and sitting on the foot of Sam’s bed while he tried to hide the way his hands shook. He felt like an idiot. He wasn’t even a virgin. Technically. But sex…
Cady touched his shoulder lightly, her grey eyes studying the way Sam tensed up, averted his face and shoved his hands between his knees. While she’d had those clients who were shy for whatever reason, Sam seemed terrified and it seemed to go deeper than the situation.
“Sweetheart, how ‘bout if we just talk a bit?” She kept her voice soothing and not at all sultry, nothing implying sex at all. Her time had been paid for the week but she couldn’t do her job with this gangling teen who was more than just awkwardly shy at doing something new.
She also felt sorry for him. She got the distinct feeling this hadn’t been his idea at all and it went against her nature to force him to do anything. She’d been hired to teach him about sex, not force him.
Sam lifted his head enough to give her an uncertain look, confused terror lurking in the backs of them like shadows threatening to swallow him whole. “Talk?” Talking seemed like a much safer subject but not one that was any easier. When he knew the rules of the game he was good at charming, saying just the right thing. But this…
Cady gave him a small smile even as her heart hurt a little at the shadows in his eyes. “We ain’t gotta do nothin’ you don’t feel like doing right now. So… we talk. Don’t have to tell me nothin’ ‘bout you if you don’t wanna. Could ask me questions if you like.” Anything that might put him at ease.
She didn’t expect the sudden flare of suspicion in those hazel-green eyes or the way his look suddenly turned penetrating.
Sam studied her intently for a moment before brushing lightly over her thoughts. The suspicion in his eyes melted back into confusion as he realized she was being honest. It wasn’t a trick. She meant what she said. Which was a rare thing for him. She also wasn’t asking him questions about himself, which everyone always seemed to want to do.
Unfortunately, he was also aware of the price of failure and butterflies fluttered briefly in his stomach.
“How’d you end up in this line of work?”
The question was hesitantly asked, a flicker of curiosity highlighting the confusion and Cady gave him a wry smile. “I expect you know how expensive college is? Sometimes you start doing something with one idea in mind and end up doing something completely different along the way. Strippin’ paid more than waitin’ tables, sugar. The rest jus’ grew from there.”
Sam nodded warily and looked back down. He couldn’t think of anything else in the moment to ask her, his brain running through all the various ways he would suffer if he didn’t end up performing to Jeremiah’s exacting standards.
Cady, feeling the tension ramp up in him again pulled her hand away and continued to study him thoughtfully. “You do like girls, yes?”
Sam’s eyes flew to her face but instead of fear all she saw was confusion. Like he wasn’t sure how to answer the question.
“I mean… do you wanna have sex with girls or do you prefer to think ‘bout havin’ sex with boys,?” The question was asked gently. She’d heard that there were some parents who would try to straighten out and ‘fix’ their gay sons by forcing them to have sex with prostitutes and the man who’d engaged her services seemed controlling enough to fit the bill. But it wasn’t a practice she subscribed to or believed in and if that was the case here she wanted to know. She’d give the man his money back. He was paying her well but not anywhere close enough for her to compromise the few principles she still had and possibly contribute to traumatizing someone else.
Sam continued to blink at her in confusion, seeming to think the question over. It was honestly the first time anyone had ever asked him and for a moment a slew of memories from his two years in the Boys’ Home flickered through his mind. He looked away from her inquisitive grey eyes and swallowed hard. “I… don’t really think about having sex at all.”
The way he said the words made Cady wonder what had happened to him. She didn’t ask, it wasn’t her business. But she could tell whatever it was made Sam think something was wrong with him.
“Some people don’t, you know?” She said it lightly, no judgment. “There are some people who never want to have sex ever. An’ some people that it’s somethin’ they can take or leave. There’s nothing wrong with that.”
Sam’s shoulders curled. He could hardly explain to her he didn’t have that option. It didn’t matter what he wanted.
Cady wanted to pat his shoulder but she’d noted how he’d tensed when she’d touched him before so she didn’t. Instead she studied him and tried to figure out what to do. She wouldn’t force him. But she had a good idea if she did decide to not keep her contract for the week he’d only be shoved at someone else. And she got the distinct feeling Sam was rarely given a choice in things.
“Could do somethin’ else instead. I could… show how we girls give each other makeovers.”
The comment was said in jest, trying to provoke a reaction other than terror. The way Sam looked at her, eyes slowly studying her face, made her suddenly wonder how much of himself Sam hid on a daily basis. He took her in silently, her hair, her face, her clothes before meeting her eyes, head tilted to the side and his eyes hesitant.
“Is it hard?”
Cady blinked and tried to stifle a soft laugh. “Well, sugar it entirely depends on your definition of makeover. I tend to stick to makeup and maybe a nice outfit an’ my hair. My roommate though… he thinks it means facials and full mani-pedis, whole brand new ensemble from jewelry to shoes an’ likely a whole new color for his hair.”
Sam’s eyes widened slowly and she could see him seriously trying to make that fit into what he seemed to know of the world.
“He’s also a clothes horse, a bit of a diva an’ the reason we’re often broke. He’s also my best friend.” She did grin at that, imagining Sebastian’s reaction to being called a diva.
Sam’s eyes flicked to study her face again and she could swear she saw something almost like hopeful curiosity flicker through his hazel green eyes for a moment.
“Can we do that?”
It was the hesitance in the question that got to Cady. The feeling that he expected to be turned down. Did he ever ask for anything he wanted, this one?
She studied him in turn, tucking her hair behind her ear. “I didn’ bring a lot with me since I was thinkin’ we’d be doin’ somethin’ different. But your colorin’s not too far from my own. I could show you some basics if you like?”
Cady wasn’t expecting the sudden shy smile and the dimples that sprang up in response. When he wasn’t terrified, Sam was absolutely beautiful. Without the defensiveness that she suspected he always had up, he seemed like a younger boy. He’d assured her he was 18 but at the moment he seemed closer to 16. Oddly Cady didn’t think he’d lied about his age but she got the distinct impression Sam didn’t socialize willingly often.
It was the shy dimpled smile that made her decide to keep the week’s contract she was hired for. The man had paid her to teach Sam about sex. The implication was by practical application. But there were other ways she could still fulfill the letter of her contract without compromising herself or putting Sam through more than he could handle. And she rather thought he desperately needed someone, even if only for a week, who didn’t actually want something from him.
Sam watched her retrieve her bag, scared at this fragile feeling. He rarely socialized with people on his own terms. He went where Jeremiah told him to when he was told to. Even at school Sam spent far more time buried in his studies and pushing, always pushing himself. He didn’t talk to people in his classes, avoided people in his dorms. Even the casual rivalry he had going with another of the top computer science students wasn’t a social thing.
He’s not even sure why he went with her suggestion. It had the feel of something she hadn’t really meant, something to be a joke or innocuous comment. But he’d had such a strong, visceral want flare in him at the thought. Sam hadn’t really given much thought to it, was pretty sure it had never occurred to him before tonight, to wear makeup. But then, there were a great many things he’d learned to not even let surface in his head.
He knew what he was. He knew why he was here under Jeremiah’s care. Personal wants and desires meant nothing at all to a weapon, a tool. Not if he wanted to keep what he’d fought so hard to get. Sam had just started feeling like he wasn’t that same boy he had been four years ago, had started feeling like maybe he had left him behind. He had accepted and adjusted to what was wanted from him. Until the last few weeks.
Cady didn’t make him feel that way. She wasn’t pushing him, forcing him. She didn’t expect anything from him, want anything from him. Sam was well aware he’d likely never see her again after the week and fear still fluttered in his gut at failing in Jeremiah’s expectations.
But he’d rarely wanted something like this before. Like his music, it was like something in him fighting not to suffocate under the weight of who he was expected to be and had been dying bit by bit. He didn’t know what it was and he’d long since learned hope was a dangerous thing to have. But for this moment, just this moment, he wanted to see if he could figure out what it was and why it felt so fierce.
So he sat, following Cady’s bewildering instructions and listened to her soft explanations interspersed with conversation about her roommate Sebastian and a few other friends she had loosely tied to what her steady hand were doing. He could follow directions easily enough, and he soaked up more than he thought he did listening to her. And once she was done and sat back on her heels to study him, Sam saw something honestly appreciative and delightedly surprised in her eyes.
“You should look at yourself, sugar.” His hand trembled as she offered the compact to him, flipped open to show the mirror.
Cady really thought a full mirror would be better but he seemed so shy and uncertain she thought maybe starting with just the compact mirror would be good. She watched him take it with a hand that shook, watched his own eyes widen in surprise when he caught sight of himself, surprise and awed wonder.
She hadn’t expected how much just a little makeup would change his face, his look. He wasn’t delicately boned and his jaw was strong and square, but good God with the right tools Sam would be devastatingly gorgeous as a girl or guy. And while she was certain he was used to comments about his looks by now, watching the way his eyes just stared at his reflection as though he’d never seen himself before she rather thought he didn’t tend to put much stock in people’s opinions of his looks.
“I’ll make you a deal, sugar,” Cady said softly. “I was paid to teach you about sex, but it doesn’t take a genius to know it’s the last thing you wanna do.” She watched those hazel eyes shift from the mirror to her face, could almost see the color drain from his face.
“But teachin’ don’t always mean doin’, sugar. And you seem to be far more interested in learnin’ other things. So, this is my deal. So I can say I did my part honestly, I’ll be teachin’ you abou’ sex. But I swear on my life I will not touch you sexually unless you decide it’s what you want. While I do that, I’ll teach you about makeup an’ clothes an’ whatever else you might wanna know or have questions about. I’ll bring my full makeup kit with me every night an’ I will teach you how to do that on your own. Would you like that?”
Sam stared at her, trying to keep his breathing even. He’d forgotten, in the wonder of seeing his face once she was done, that she had been hired by Jeremiah. Glancing back to his reflection in the mirror, the way she had expertly done things to his eyes to make them seem bigger, the color seem brighter, emphasized his cheekbones and toned down the square of his jaw while softening the whole look of his face, he knew he wanted this. Wanted to learn how to do this himself. He didn’t know why but that part of him that had felt like it was slowly dying was lit up, lifting like a flower to the sun after a storm had passed. He didn’t want to give that up, wanted to keep that little piece, something that was him and not anyone else’s to hold on to under the weight of who he was being told he was.
He looked back up into Cady’s grey eyes to find her gazing solemnly back at him. She meant what she said. Even without dipping into her mind he could feel the truth of it. It was a rare enough moment for him that being given the chance even at a choice of any kind was overwhelming and he looked down, blinking rapidly as he tried to keep the tears in. He was horrified at showing such a weakness to a stranger and he shoved at the emotions until they were more manageable. When Sam looked back up his eyes were bright but no other sign of tears could be seen.
The simple act of Sam pulling his tears in so quickly told Cady almost as much about what he’d been through as every other thing he hadn’t said through the night and she became determined to give him this week. So when he suddenly gave her a small shy smile and nodded agreement she smiled back widely.
Cady would never know, over the course of their acquaintance, which ended up spanning much more than a week, that she was a large part of why Sam didn’t break that summer. That she gave him the strength to find a way to do what Jeremiah wanted of him, and do it damn well, without losing the last parts of himself to what was being demanded of him.
She would never know that she and Sebastian were the first two people in Sam’s memory who had never put expectations on him or how much it truly meant to him over the next few years that they were willing to teach him anything he asked without judgment, without censure. That they accepted him as is and never asked for anything more than he was willing to give or show.
But Sam knew. He never let himself think of them as friends. Never let the word slip his lips or surface in his brain. Jeremiah had killed a puppy he’d dared to bring home once. Sam had no doubts Jeremiah would feel anything about ordering two people who meant nothing to him in the grand scheme of things to be ‘taken care of’. Especially if he knew Cady and Sebastian helped to keep some small part of Sam alive under the weight of his being shoved into HYDRA’s mold.
He treasured every moment, learned to laugh without restraint. He stored every memory because he knew the day would come when he’d have to walk away. He’d have to leave without looking back to keep Cady and Sebastian safe. But for the moment, he reveled in the moments he had with them, in what he learned. Most of all, he learned it was possible that under all of the masks he wore on a daily basis he could still keep a part of him for him that no one could touch.
It wasn’t the first secret he hoarded, but it was the most intensely personal one.
