warnings: this chapter contains themes of depression, loss, and violence. reader discretion is advised.
thirty-nine | forty | forty-one
Max kicked the front door open with the heel of his boot, muttering under his breath as he hauled in a duffel bag slung over his shoulder and a half-finished espresso clutched in his other hand.
“Seriously, I’m gonna start mailing Logan his own damn knives if I find one more embedded in the goddamn stair rail,” he grumbled, stepping into the marble-floored foyer of the Circle’s mansion. “They’re throwing knives, not decorative art, psycho—”
The front door slammed hard behind him. He didn’t mean to do it — just had his hands full. Sauntering in with a backpack slung over one shoulder and a half-eaten protein bar in his hand, and the faint tang of gunpowder still in his hair from the range.
He flipped the light switch, the chandelier flickering on. Max stopped mid-step.
As the room illuminated, Lando’s figure apparated in one of the wingback chairs in the corner of the massive entryway, his frame half-swallowed by shadow. He’d been waiting there for hours, unmoving.
Max followed his gaze to where it was fixed on the floor. If he didn’t know any better, he’d say that he was somehow entirely unaware that Max had entered the space at all. The leader appeared statuesque – still, silent. The only sound in the whole house was the low hum of the heating system and the way the lightbulbs buzzed faintly overhead
“…You scared the shit out of me,” he muttered, quieter now.
Lando looked up.
Max flinched, just slightly.
There was something wrong in the way his eyes didn’t focus. They weren’t bloodshot or wild — they were just quiet. Dead, in that way that meant something had been gnawing at him, slowly and constantly, until the bone showed.
“…Lando?”
The man before him didn’t answer – just blinked once. Max took a careful step forward. “You okay?”
Still, Lando didn’t move, didn’t blink.
“Okay. Cool,” Max said under his breath, reaching for the fridge again. “I’m just gonna—”
The glass shattered before he even saw Lando throw it.
It exploded against the wall behind him. Max ducked instinctively, pieces of it bouncing off the tile.
“What the fuck? Mate–”
“Where were you,” Lando hissed.
Max blinked. He wasn’t afraid, but even he wasn’t immune to the caution that had his heart speeding up in his chest. “The docks. Uh, cleanup from the Vos case.”
“I called.”
“I didn’t see it.”
“You didn’t answer.”
Max dropped his bag. “What’s going on?”
Lando stood.
“You told her.”
Max froze.
“You know I don’t use that name with her,” Lando said, voice still even. “You knew that.”
Max took a step back. “Wait—”
“You knew,” Lando repeated, louder now. “And you said it anyway.”
Max’s mouth opened, but no words came out.
Lando crossed the room in two strides. “I asked you one thing,” he seethed. “One fucking thing.”
“Lando—”
“She looked at me like I was a stranger.”
Max’s back hit the wall. “I didn’t mean to—”
“She looked at me like she was afraid I’d kill her.” Lando’s hands curled into fists. “Like I was someone she didn’t recognize. Like you killed whatever chance I had left!”
“I didn’t know she answered—”
And that was when Lando shoved him. Hard.
Max stumbled, didn’t fall. No words came from his mouth – he didn’t even lift his arms. It pissed Lando off.
Why won’t he defend himself?
So Lando shoved him again, harder this time. “Do you even get what you did?”
Max’s head jerked back from the force, but he stayed silent.
“You gave me away. You gave her every reason to– to hate me.”
Lando’s eyes searched for a reaction, desperate for something, anything. But Max’s face remained painfully neutral – his expression one of sympathy if anything.
That pushed him over the edge.
Lando threw a punch.
It hit squarely across Max’s jaw, knocking his head sideways — but Max didn’t retaliate. He didn’t even flinch.
So Lando hit him again. Harder.
This time Max staggered, but still didn’t raise a hand. Lando delivered another blow to the ribs now, sharp and fast and angry. Max grunted from the impact, doubling over slightly but still never moving away.
“Fight back!” Lando yelled. “For once in your life, fucking fight me back!”
Of course, Max didn’t.
Who the hell did he think he was?
“Hit me back!” Lando snapped. He punctuated his words with yet another shove.
Max didn’t.
Lando swung — an open-handed crack across Max’s jaw. The sound rang out in the room, echoing against the high ceilings. Max barely turned his head.
“Fucking do something!” Lando yelled, shoving him again. “You ruined it. You ruined everything.”
Max stood there and let Lando push, swing, throw his fists again and again until his chest was heaving, fury spitting from every part of him except his face — his face stayed blank, controlled, like he couldn’t afford to crack.
“She looked at me like she didn’ recognize me. Like I was somethin’ she regretted.”
Lando’s fists kept coming, now low, angry hits that never quite landed right, like he didn’t actually want to hurt his friend. Like he didn’t know what he wanted, but just that something had to break.
“I had her,” he said through clenched teeth. “I was safe there. I was fucking— normal.”
“She was going to find out one way or another,” Max finally spoke. There was no agitation in his voice, only a sad sort of acceptance. But still there was no regret.
Each hit landed in quick, precise succession, each motion borne of years of practice.
He didn’t realize when his eyes had gotten misty. “Shut the fuck up,” he spat. Then, quieter, he confessed, “I didn’t want you to be the reason she did.”
The next hit landed higher, somewhere near the collarbone. Max flinched but still didn’t raise a hand of his own.
Lando hated it.
“You don’t get it,” Lando hissed, barely breathing now. “You don’t know what it’s like to lose the only good thing left and realize you’re the one who ruined it.”
Sweat dripped from his brow, running along his brow bone and into his eyes. His chest breathed with every breath. “Why won’t you fucking fight me?” Lando snapped.
Max finally stepped forward, not to swing — but to wrap his arms around him.
Lando froze.
“What the fuck are you doin’—”
Max didn’t let go. The older boy only pulled Lando in tighter, arms solid around his back, anchoring him like the only thing keeping his brother from falling apart. “I’m sorry,” Max murmured into the embrace, just loud enough to be heard. “I’m sorry she found out like that. I’m sorry it hurts. I’m sorry you feel like this.”
It wasn’t some soft hug or some gentle embrace. He’d wrapped his arms tight around his best friend like he was anchoring a bomb about to go off.
Lando struggled—panicked, almost. His hands shoved Max back, his fists pressed against his chest, but Max didn’t let go. Lando thrashed then, resisting it — hands gripping the back of Max’s shirt like he couldn’t decide whether to shove him away or hold on for dear life.
Then, all at once, he sagged. His fists uncurled, his breath broke, and he just sank into Max’s chest.
The first sound punched out of him like he’d been holding it in for years. It wasn’t a sob, nothing nearly as clean. It was just broken air – a gasp that never made it to words.
His fists curled into Max’s shirt like a child’s, like a man clawing for something to hold onto before he drowned.
Max didn’t say anything else. He didn’t loosen his grip either. He just held Lando there, steady and quiet, while the boy who’d built an empire on blood and bones finally cracked apart in someone’s arms.
And all Lando could do was cry into Max’s shoulder, fists clenched in the back of his shirt, like if he held on hard enough, maybe this wouldn’t be real. Lando let himself grieve.
Not for the job.
Not for the reputation.
But for her — for the look in her eyes when she realized who he really was, and for the version of himself that could never exist again.
His friend offered him no empty platitudes, made no shallow efforts to fix it. Max didn’t say she’ll come back, or she loves you, or you’ll be okay.
Because any of that would’ve been a lie.
Lando stood there in the middle of his own house, in the arms of the only person left who knew what it meant to be both loved and feared — and for the first time in a very long time, he let someone hold the weight with him.
Even if only for a minute.
Lando didn’t remember how they got to the couch.
One second he was breaking apart in Max’s arms like glass on tile, and the next he was crumpled into the corner of the leather cushions, legs pulled up, face buried in his hands, his chest still shaking with the tail-end of sobs that had no words left in them.
Max sat beside him – not close enough to crowd him, just there like a weight keeping Lando tethered to the floor.
Lando didn’t cry often.
He knew how to punch a wall, knew how to stare into nothing for hours, how to work until his hands blistered just to keep the demons quiet. But crying? That was something other people did. Something weaker men did.
Max didn’t let go when Lando collapsed into him, hands clutched in the back of his shirt like a man going under. He didn’t let go even when the sobs turned ragged — the kind of sound Max had only ever heard once before, in that dark office after Daniel died.
He remembered that night too well — Lando drunk off his ass, hands shaking, gun cold and pressed against the side of his own head, whispering, “I tried. I really fucking tried. But it doesn’t work. None of it fucking works.”
Max had disarmed him without a word, yanked him off the chair, and stayed with him until dawn.
Just like that night, he sat with him. They had never been the type for overt friendship or long speeches or grand gestures. Max could only look at Lando, this unmovable force he’s seen rise through the ranks of Monte Carlo’s darkest empires. He watched over his friend like a guardian angel dressed in a black sweatshirt and washed jeans.
With both hands holding the side of Lando’s face, Max looked directly into his eyes, fixing him with a glare. He didn’t say I love you – they didn’t do that.
He’d said, “Do that again and I’ll kill you first.”
It meant the same thing.
The pendulum clock on the wall ticked softly, each tick beating monotonously through the empty of the grand living room. Minutes or hours ticked by, but Lando remained slouched on the floor, his back pressed against the wall and his head in his hands like it might all disappear if he didn’t look up. His breathing had steadied, but only barely. The hiccuping edge was still there, wrecked and uneven.
The sobs didn’t stop quickly.
They came in waves — deep, ugly, bone-shaking things that tore through Lando like his chest might cave in from the weight of them.
Max didn’t say a word through it.
He just held him, hands braced between Lando’s shoulder blades like he was keeping him stitched together by force. His shirt soaked through from tears and heat. But he didn’t move. Didn’t flinch.
Not even when Lando finally sank to his knees, dragging Max down with him.
They stayed like that for what felt like hours — the mansion quiet around them.
Max knelt a few feet away, eventually getting up to rummage under the bar cabinet for something that wasn’t a bottle. He came back with a hand towel before disappearing into the kitchen.
When he returned, the cloth was warm.
He crouched down in front of Lando, still quiet, and gently pulled his hands away from his face. Lando didn’t fight him, though he did flinch at first — some ancient instinct to push away help –to handle it alone, to bury it deep and move on.
He didn’t say anything — just gently wiped Lando’s face, brushing the warm washcloth over his temple, jaw, the trail of tears that had dried on his cheek. The warmth of the hot water emanated from the fabric like a patch of summer sun, warming Lando’s skin with its lingering tendrils.
It was awkward and clumsy, but careful. Max had never been good at this kind of thing. He wasn’t the shoulder-to-cry-on guy. He didn’t have the gentle touch, didn’t know the right things to say, didn’t know how to make grief feel lighter.
But hell would freeze over before he left Lando like this.
So he did what he could.
“Sit still,” he muttered. “Don’t be a baby about it.”
Lando didn’t fight, didn’t speak. Just stared blankly ahead while Max knelt down in front of him and started wiping the salt tracks off his face. Gently, without making it weird.
There was something devastating about it — this man who’d snapped ribs without blinking now trembling like a kicked dog on his own leather sofa.
Max didn’t push, didn’t ask for the full story. Not when he already knew the shape of it.
She found out. She looked at him like he was a stranger.
And it broke him.
“Hurts,” Lando rasped eventually, voice thin and distant.
Max didn’t stop wiping. “I know.”
“She looked at me like I was something to run from.”
“You are,” Max said quietly, wringing out the cloth. “We both are. But we never were to her. That’s the difference.”
Lando’s mouth twisted like he might start crying again, but he didn’t. Not yet.
“Would’a told her. I was gonna tell her. I just… didn’t want to ruin it.”
“You didn’t ruin it,” Max said, standing. He grabbed the throw blanket from the side arm of the couch and tossed it over him. “I did.”
Lando didn’t argue.
Max ran a hand through his hair and let out a long breath. “We’ll figure it out.”
“You don’t know that.”
“I don’t need to. We’ll figure it the fuck out anyway.”
He helped Lando out of the leather jacket he still wore, peeled off his overpriced watch, tossed it aside. Instead, he got him a bottle of water and pushed it into his hands when Lando wouldn’t look at him.
“You’re gonna need that,” Max muttered.
Lando took it, and sipped silently. Max sat down beside him, shoulder to shoulder.
Max wrung out the cloth and pressed it to Lando’s jaw, wiping away the salt trails and blood where Lando had split his own lip on Max’s shoulder. He moved slowly, methodically — not like a soldier tending to a wound, but like a brother. A best friend. The only person who’d ever seen all of him and stayed anyway.
Lando didn’t look at him. Instead, he just stared past Max’s shoulder, those grey-green eyes far too hollow.
“She looked at me like I was a stranger,” he eventually murmured.
Max didn’t answer. He just kept wiping, moving to Lando’s temple, the corner of his mouth, the hollow of his throat.
“I thought if I could just keep it quiet, like, just long enough or somethin’— I could… fuck, I dunno. Be someone else? Be Liam, I s’pose.”
He laughed once. It was empty.
Max set the cloth down.
“You loved her,” he noted aloud, not like a question.
Lando’s voice cracked when he spoke again.
“She loved me too,” he whispered, a sinner in a confessional. “She trusted me.”
“She trusted Liam,” Max corrected, his tone far too gentle and patient for the dagger those words sent straight through wherever his heart used to be.
“Same fucking thing.”
“No,” Max insisted, more firmly now. “S’not. You made up a name and let her build a whole world around it. That world broke the second she found out you weren’t real.”
Lando flinched, like Max had finally struck him, the impact tangible.
Max sighed and sat beside him, arms resting on his knees. “But you were real,” he added. “That’s the messed-up part. You were real with her. Every minute you gave her? That was you, not some… persona. Don’t rewrite that part.”
“I can’t get her out of my head.”
Max nodded. “That’s how you know it’s real.”
Silence.
Lando didn’t respond. His breathing was shallow again, too fast. Max didn’t miss it. He turned, sudden and sharp. “Lando.”
No response.
Max grabbed his wrist with a sense of urgency. “Lando. Look at me.”
Those eyes — glassy, gone — finally met his.
“Don’t do that thing. Don’t disappear.”
Lando didn’t argue, but the way his jaw clenched said enough.
Max didn’t let go. He lowered his voice, steady and cold now. “I swear to God, if you pull the same shit you did after Daniel—”
Lando’s face twisted. “That was different.”
“Bullshit.” Max’s grip tightened. “You locked yourself in that office with a gun and a bottle. You think I’ve forgotten that?”
Lando looked away. Shame flashed across his face like a scar re-opening.
“You try that again,” Max warned, “and I swear I’ll fucking kill you myself. That Daniel shit? That gun-in-your-mouth bullshit? I swear to God, Lando, I’ll kill you myself. You hear me?”
Lando blinked at him, then gave a weak, almost-scoff of a nod.
Max leaned forward, pressing their foreheads together.
“I mean it,” Max insisted. “I’ll strangle you, bury your body, give a shitty eulogy and then cry about it for a week. Don’t test me.”
That got Lando’s attention.
He looked up, bloodshot eyes sharp with surprise. When he looked at Max, at the furrow of his brows and the intensity of his glare, all he could see was care.
Care that he didn’t deserve.
His voice was barely there. “I don’t know how to fix it.”
Max didn’t blink. “Do I look like I care?” he asked, his tone incredulous. “I already lost Daniel. I’m sure as hell not losing you.”
A beat.
Then Lando nodded, just once.
Max nodded, got up, reached over and pulled the blanket off the back of the couch, tossing it into Lando’s lap with a grunt.
“Now go to bed, dumbass. You look like shit.”
Lando gave a breath of a laugh — hollow, but real. Max stayed on the floor for a while longer, just in case, but didn’t say another word.
Once Lando’s eyelids fluttered shut, his body slumping into the mold of the sofa as it succumbed to the exhaustion of everything he’d been through, Max stood and pulled the blanket over him like he used to after night jobs when they were teenagers — before the titles, before the guns, before the blood.
Then he sat in the armchair across the room and stayed, just like always. Because sometimes loving someone — really loving someone — means holding their broken pieces until they can do it themselves again.
Even if it means bleeding a little in the process.
a/n: sorry for the extra long wait and a bit of a shorter chapter than we've been used to lately. hopefully you all still accept this as a thank you for all your patience while i was out.
not proofread, just wanted to get something out lol
hope you enjoyed <3
Whitecloud, taking after his predecessor, wasted no time. The Clan was back to work and hunting as much and as safely as possible. Apprentices (except for Aspenpaw, of course, by her own will) were permitted to travel in the southern part of the territory, so long as they were accompanied by a warrior. The apprentices were quite happy about this—though, try as they might, they couldn’t encourage Brightpaw to leave camp for anything more than making dirt. Any reports on potential dog-scents sent shivers down the marred molly’s body and she would shut down into silence. Frostfur stayed close to her, watching the entrance of camp like a dog was about to burst through and slaughter them all.
But it seemed the dogs were content with their carnage, at least for now; the one Fireheart had encountered was not seen again, its scent fading away with the piling snow. No massive pawprints littered the ground, no barks in the daylight… perhaps they had returned to the Houses, or wandered into another territory. Whatever the case was, everyone hoped, they would stay away as long as possible, if not forever.
Fireheart was, oddly, asked quite frequently about this by Whitecloud. He and Dustpelt, when not training their apprentices, were kept busy by leading patrols or by helping organize sessions for the apprentices to practice outside of camp without being in danger. Fireheart wasn’t bothered by it, but he was a bit curious about the very keen way Whitecloud looked at him and Dustpelt.
Dustpelt was fortunately in his element—he’d have answers before Fireheart could digest the questions, and went to work as soon as Whitecloud dismissed him. But in his downtime, Fireheart noticed his steps becoming more jittery, his tail tapping the ground where he sat as he chewed air. It was a very strange switch, and Fireheart didn’t know what to do with it or how to help.
One night, before they had even eaten breakfast, Whitecloud called the toms to him again, sitting by the elders’ den while One-eye and Halftail dozed inside the fallen log.
The deputy blinked at them in greeting. “Fireheart, how did the patrol you ordered last night find the Sycamore’s part of the territory?”
“Oh– right.” Fireheart straightened up, having the faint sense of being quizzed. “Mousefur said that they couldn’t find traces of anything over there. No dog, but no prey either. They stayed out as long as they felt safe, so they came in late.” He paused, blinking himself. “...I thought I told you that last night?”
“You did,” Whitecloud said. “But I wanted Dustpelt to hear it, too.” He turned to the brown tabby now. “You approached me earlier with questions about tonight’s patrols. What do you think about that news?”
Dustpelt cleared his throat, nodding curtly. “I hesitate to be overly optimistic, but we’ve gone quite a while without a new scent in the north. I think that we can potentially send a scouting patrol towards the Houses and check to see if they’ve made the neighborhood their home.”
“And if we don’t scent them there?” Whitecloud looked at Fireheart.
Fireheart tilted his head thoughtfully. “Then the other options are that they’re in another Clan’s territory. I don’t think they’ll head into the Aulmir, not with so many humans there.” He sighed. “I thought humans would help us here, but I guess the dogs are just as wary as we are.”
“Unfortunately,” Whitecloud agreed. “Then what do you two think our next move should be?”
Fireheart hummed, thinking.
Dustpelt was the first to speak. “I think our next move is to keep hunting where we can, but we should keep our patrols the same size and keep apprentices close to camp until we can confirm the dogs are gone for good.”
“Yeah…” Fireheart looked at Dustpelt. “Having them train in the south has been fine for now, but I think you’re right. We should train them closer to home if we can help it—at least, if we have even a hint of the dogs coming back. We pushed our luck too hard before, and, well… that cost us a lot.”
Dustpelt’s eyes darkened, but he simply nodded again.
Fireheart added to Whitecloud, “Not to mention that I think Brightpaw will feel better if her brothers and friends are around her to keep her company. She needs to have some sense of safety if we want her to recover from her trauma.”
Whitecloud gave him a contemplative look. “Is that a new idea?”
“Well, I just noticed she’s a little more relaxed when Cloudpaw or Cinderpaw are around to eat with her and tell her about their night.”
“That is true.”
“If she’s watching them train, she might want to get back to it herself.” Fireheart’s eyes flicked down to the ground unhappily. “I can see she’s feeling powerless to the dangers of the world outside of here. She flinches if anyone brings up something like poisonous plants or a stray owl they saw overhead.”
Dustpelt regarded him with surprise. “I never noticed that.”
“I’m glad you did, Fireheart,” Whitecloud said, eyes glittering. “It’s important to have an eye on all of your Clan, not just your closest friends.”
There was that keen look again. More importantly, there was apprehension on Duspelt’s face. The way he glanced at Fireheart was… weirdly afraid? About what?
“I have another question for you two,” Whitecloud said, both younger toms jolting and refocusing on him. “What should we do about border patrols? We haven’t had any in a long time, and our scents are sure to have faded by now.”
“Er…” Fireheart hesitated, wondering if Whitecloud would accept his thoughts. “I don’t think that really matters at this point.”
Dustpelt gave him a baffled look, but Whitecloud leaned forward a little in interest. “Why not? Shouldn’t we make sure everyone knows where our borders are?”
“If they don’t know by now, then there’s no helping them,” Fireheart said with a twitch of his whiskers. “The other Clans aren’t idiots, sir. They know the forest is ours. We already have the land split up by the river, and it’s clear where the treeline stops. ShadowClan has no reason to come over here, and the kittypets and loners are scared to even sniff a fern sticking out over the border.” He stood a little taller, more confident at the piqued curiosity on Dustpelt’s face. “Besides that, we shouldn’t risk wandering all around the entire territory, where a patrol could be found by the dogs, just to mark a bush or two. And wouldn’t that give the dogs a scent to go on? Or at the very least, something that tells them we’re still here and can be killed.”
Whitecloud and Dustpelt watched him in an almost impressed manner. Fireheart briefly fought the urge to look down sheepishly and just met Whitecloud’s eyes.
“You’re making more sense than I anticipated with that idea,” Dustpelt said, and now to Whitecloud, “At the very most, a hunting patrol could check on the border if their trail leads them there, but Fireheart’s right. We can probably do without testing our luck, especially when the dogs might be close by.”
Whitecloud slowly nodded, his voice carrying the faintest purr. “Very good. I’ll concede to that; hunting patrols only for now, and we’ll see how that goes. Why don’t you two get something to eat? I’ll get some patrols going, and I’d like you to train your apprentices later.” His eyes crinkled. “In camp, if that’s better.”
“Yes, sir,” the young toms said together, both dipping their heads respectfully.
Whitecloud dismissed them with a tail-wave before turning and walking away, heading over to Willowpelt. Fireheart shook out his pelt, flinging some antsy energy off of him like water droplets, and trotted for the prey-pile, dimly aware of the now-awake One-eye and Halftail peering at him and Dustpelt.
The prey-pile was thankfully larger than normal, and Fireheart caught sight of a mole. Thin though it was, he scooped it up and turned around to eat with Greystripe and Ravenwing, only to see an unsettled Dustpelt right behind him.
“Mind if I eat with you?” he asked, voice low.
“Uh…” Fireheart blinked. “No, that’s fine.”
Dustpelt moved past him, picked up a rat, and gestured with a tilt of the head for Fireheart to follow him. They made their way over to the lonesome corner of camp, across from a curious Ravenwing and Greystripe, and crouched down. Fireheart settled his mole between his paws and was about to take a bite when his eye caught sight of Dustpelt rolling his rat forward and backward in front of him, his jaw clenched.
Fireheart kept his voice muted. “Are you okay?”
Dustpelt didn’t answer at first, rolling a few more times, before turning his head with lizard-like quickness, his eyes wide and stressed. “Can I tell you something?”
Fireheart tilted his head. “Of course.”
“And you won’t repeat it to Whitecloud?”
Fireheart sensed trouble. “Y…yeah, of course. What’s…?”
Dustpelt jerkily glanced around, like he was expecting Whitecloud to be standing right over them, then leaned in towards Fireheart’s head and whispered, “I don’t really want to be leader.”
Fireheart squinted a bit, confused.
“I know what Whitecloud’s doing.” Dustpelt glanced in the direction of the tom in question, now talking to a group of cats that were assumedly a patrol. “He’s testing us to see which one he wants to make his deputy.”
Fireheart almost gasped and leaned closer, eyes wide. “You think so?”
“I know so,” Dustpelt whispered. “That’s why he’s been talking to us so much and having us organize patrols. He probably didn’t even intend to have border patrols, since he’s only been giving out hunting ones; that was just a test to see how we’d respond.” His tail tapped nervously on the ground, ever-so-slightly bristling. “He needs a young deputy who works hard and will be around for a long time after he’s gone. We’re his best options, so he’s been focusing on us.”
It took a long moment for the words’ implications to sink into Fireheart’s mind. When they did, he jolted and hissed frantically, “Wait, he thinks I’m an option? How does he—”
Dustpelt’s own tense air dissipated for a moment for him to give the shorter warrior a deadpan look. “Fireheart, you’ve been taking on deputy tasks since Bluestar started losing her mind, and everyone but Darkstripe listens to you. Of course you’re an option.”
Fireheart fumbled out several attempts at an argument or denial before giving up and staring at the ground. Shock seemed to have paralyzed his tongue.
“The only problem is that we haven’t finished training our first apprentices,” Dustpelt went on, musing to the ground as well. “I know there’s a loophole in the law that lets a young cat into the deputy rank so long as they’re on the path to successfully raising an apprentice, though I don’t remember exactly where. Thornpaw and Cloudpaw are both doing really well—yeah, I’ve seen him, Fireheart, don’t give me that look—so as far as Whitecloud’s concerned, they’re already warriors.”
Fireheart finally found his voice. “But… but I’m not even two years old, and you’re hardly older.”
“That’s the gamble.” Dustpelt looked up at him, almost relieved at the distress that must be on Fireheart’s face. “We haven’t been tested by life yet. Not in the way a senior warrior has. We’ve got a lot of capacity to make mistakes, just because we’re so inexperienced.” Another less-than-subtle glance at Whitecloud. “But on the other paw, we’re young enough for Whitecloud to be confident ThunderClan will have a leader and stability for a long time after he’s gone. He’s not all that young, you know—he needs someone who won’t die so quickly after him. Or before him.”
Fireheart didn’t say anything. He couldn’t find anything to say. His head was whirling with disbelief, shock, and a healthy dose of fear.
Dustpelt dropped his voice even lower. “I mean… look, I want to serve my Clan however I can. I’ll do anything for ThunderClan, and I know you will too. But… stars, the idea of having to stand on the boulder at Fourtrees, or lead a battle, or– or make such huge decisions…” He shivered. “I don’t think I can do that. I really don’t.”
This, at least, Fireheart could respond to. “You’re a lot more capable than you think, Dustpelt. Anyone could see that, even if you don’t.”
Dustpelt weakly attempted a chuff. “Well, thanks, I guess, but still. I’d rather just be a normal warrior who can lead a patrol and have that be the end of it.” He peeked at Fireheart, apprehensive. “And it looks like you’re not very eager to take on the role either.”
Fireheart stared down at his mole, giving himself a long moment to absorb and address his thoughts, which were mostly screamed questions about how in the world Whitecloud saw anything in him that could put him in such an important rank.
“I feel about the same as you,” he said at last, looking back up at Dustpelt. “I can’t imagine becoming leader—not me being who I am. I’m a kittypet from the Houses, and, well… I can’t see everyone following me, when they have much better options.”
“That’s the thing,” Dustpelt said. “We are the better options. Can you imagine Teaselfoot or Mousefur being leader? Or even Willowpelt?”
“…Fair point.” Fireheart watched Whitecloud pad away out of camp. “I guess… if I had to, I’d do it. I’d like to take care of my Clanmates however I can.” He shuddered, a bit more jokingly than sincerely. “But having me on the boulder next to Rookstar and Blackstar… they’d all be staring at me, thinking ‘What is this runt doing in ThunderClan’s spot?’.”
Dustpelt did chuff a bit more humorously at that. “Crookedstar would make so many jokes.”
“Which is why you’re the better choice.” Fireheart tapped his side with his tail. “At least then, ThunderClan would be taken seriously.”
“Yeah, right up until I stutter and stumble over my words.”
“You haven’t stumbled over a word in your life.”
“And you haven’t disobeyed the code or your superiors a single time, then?”
Fireheart sniffed. “Hey, I just do what’s right. It’s not my fault if someone disagrees with me.” Realization hit him and he shook his head. “Honestly, that’ll probably get me disqualified. I’ve broken and helped break a lot of Clan rules.”
Dustpelt rolled his eyes, his anxiety gone. “Must be why everyone’s telling Whitecloud, ‘You’re making a mistake, you should exile Fireheart right now for not letting Lionface scare off elders’.”
“That was—”
“I’m joking, ant.” Dustpelt gave him an amused look. “It seems like pretty much every time you’ve broken a rule, it works out in your favor. Did you even get in trouble for disobeying Lionface?”
Fireheart shook his head. “Or for hunting for RiverClan—er, honestly, before we had to. I mean, that was Greystripe’s idea, but I went along with it.”
“I knew it,” Dustpelt hissed to himself, slapping the ground with a paw. “I knew there was no way Lionface and Bluestar would’ve ever given them food on their own.”
Fireheart stared at him. “Why didn’t you say anything?”
“I’m not going to question our leader and deputy!” Dustpelt’s whisper got a bit louder while still fighting to stay quiet. “Sandstorm said you must’ve come up with the idea yourself, because that’s such a ‘you’ thing to do. But Greystripe did it first?”
“He felt bad for his friends,” Fireheart admitted. “He explained himself to me and Ravenwing, and I thought it was a good idea, so I helped.”
“No wonder RiverClan likes you so much.” Dustpelt shook his head in a humorously-disappointed way. “Well, if you become leader, maybe they won’t fight for Sunningrocks anymore. They’ll be your best buds and just happily pass it over if you ask nicely.”
Fireheart snorted. “There’s advantages to being kind, you know.”
“Yeah, I’ve seen that with you.” Dustpelt’s whiskers twitched as he bent his head to start on his rat.
The conversation seemed to be at a positive end, so Fireheart was content to eat, too, but he didn’t miss his friends staring at him. Greystripe said something under his breath to Ravenwing, which, if Fireheart was reading his lips right, was, “What in the world is going on over there?”
I made my friend read six of crows and thought he’d get attached to kaz and inej the most but he loves Nina and Matthias which is awesome they’re lovely it’s just that he associates his girlfriend and Nina so now he projects i to helnik and
I’m scared for when he gets to chapter forty of the crooked kingdom guys I’m really fucking scared
TWO TORMENTING DAYS DRAGGED BY, EACH MOMENT PLUNGING DEEPER INTO A SUFFOCATING ABYSS OF ISOLATION... For the last 48 hours, y/n l/n existed in a dark, frigid cell — a prisoner of uncertainty, with no tether to reality. Every second stretched her sanity to its breaking point, her mind a battleground of terror and despair. Lost in the labyrinth of her confinement, she was a ghost haunting her own existence, infested by questions without answers. Where was she? How long would she be held captive? And what fate befell her dearest friend? The walls closed in, a sinister embrace that offered no solace, only the icy grip of fear.
Denied even the basic comfort of warmth, she shivered in the chill, her pleas for reprieve falling on deaf ears. Hunger gnawed at her insides, but the thought of consuming whatever sustenance the Nazis provided turned her stomach. She existed in a limbo of mistrust, teetering on the brink of collapse. In the shadows, her thoughts turned to him, the man she loved, the one whose disappearance led her into this nightmare. Did he even know of her plight? Was he alive, or had he met the same cruel fate that awaited her? The ache of longing burned within her, a fire fueled by hope and desperation of their seemingly impossible reunion.
The tortures inflicted by her captors knew no bounds, each hour a relentless onslaught of pain and degradation. Yet, amidst the agony, her loyalty to her homeland burned unwaveringly. Her body bore the marks of their cruelty, a canvas of bruises and bloodied wounds — truly a testament to her defiance. With every blow, and every scream torn from her lips, she remained resolute, her spirit unbroken by their barbarity... In the depths of her suffering, she found a grim solace in her silence. No matter the horror they devised, she met their inquiries with only a hollow, psychotic laugh, a defiance that echoed through the chambers of her incarceration.
Blood mingled with tears as she tasted their assaults, her resolve a shield against the onslaught. Each scar etched into her flesh was a badge of honor, a reminder of her unyielding resistance in the face of tyranny. But beneath the mask of stoicism, a fire burned within her, a primal urge to fight back against her oppressors. She bided her time, conserving her strength for the moment when she would seize her chance at freedom. Through the haze of misery and despondency, she clung to hope, a flickering flame in the darkness. Scarred and battered, she remained a beacon of rebellion, a symbol of the indomitable spirit of those who refuse to be broken.
In the oblivion of her imprisonment, she poured her heart onto paper, each word a documentation of the ordeal she survived — a love letter tinged with bitterness and longing. With every beat of her heart, she clung to the certainty of their eventual reunion, whether in the depths of hell or amidst the clouds of heaven. Though her limbs trembled with fatigue, thinking of him kept her going, motivating her to endure weight of her suffering for as long as she could, for in the crucible of her tribulation, she was like a phoenix rising from the ashes of her jeopardy, ignited by the flames of her undying love.
Her senses, dulled by days of absolute solitude, snapped to attention at the sudden cacophony outside her prison cell. For what felt like an eternity, she had been trapped in a suffocating silence broken only by her own ragged breaths and the distant shuffle of the Krauts. Now, as the clamor of activity erupted beyond her confines, her heart pounded with a mixture of dread and anticipation. Every fiber of her being strained to decipher the source of the disturbance, a flicker of hope kindling within her weary heart.
The air crackled with tension as she listened intently, the first real sign of life beyond the confines of her cell. It was a symphony of chaos, a stark contrast to the bleak stillness that had engulfed her for what felt like a lifetime. With bated breath, she waited, her pulse racing in time with the distant echoes of the outside world. For the first time in days, the walls of her prison felt less like a tomb and more like a stage upon which her fate would be decided. Her limbs ached with the desire to move, yet her body was too sore to obey. Words of protest formed on her lips, but her swollen throat suppressed them.
Before she could muster the strength to rise, a guard stormed in, yanking her up with brutal force. Dragged along by aggressive strides, she struggled to keep pace, her weakened body threatening to pass out at any moment. As the grey light of the day greeted her starved eyes, her heart surged with hope at the sight of fellow prisoners, all American faces, though none from her own group. "Bucky?" She called out, spotting the familiar raven locks amidst the crowd. "Bucky!" Her cry was met with a rough shove from behind. "Duck?" The voice pierced through the chaos, her heart skipping a beat as recognition dawned.
Egan's ears perked up at the familiar cry of his friend, his frantic search intensifying amidst the sea of captives. "Holy fuck... Ducky, where are you?!" The words rang out, filled with urgency as he scanned the faces around him, searching for her amidst the sea of prisoners. "Y/N!" Exclaimed the Major, relief washing over him at the sight of her, once his cold blue orbs finally met with hers. But their reunion was short-lived as the guards barked orders, threatening violence if they dared to defy them. With no strength left to resist, they continued forward, their eyes never leaving each other even as they were herded outside.
Forcibly shoved into the waiting train, they exchanged one prison for another, the destination a mystery shrouded in dread. Amidst the chaos of their surroundings, their only anchor was the fleeting comfort of each other's presence. "Welp, you look like shit. What happened?" Bucky's concern cut through the air once they were settled. "Accidentally blew off one of the interrogator's family back in Bremen... Let's just say he didn't appreciate the achievement." She rolled her eyes jokingly. Throbbing and aching, her body betrayed her with each faltering second. But fortunately, the raven drew her close, offering his support as her legs gave out.
Together, they glanced around the cramped confines of the carriage, searching for a seat in the midst of this vast expanse of devastated souls bound for an ill fate. "Now what happened to you?" She then asked, noticing a scar on his cheek that wasn't there before. "Ah, just a little love tap from an average Hitler devotee." He replied with a shrug, trying to play it off. "Apparently, my charm doesn't translate well in every language." He sighed, earning a chuckle from the deranged Major, who couldn't help but feel a pang of longing for his company, realizing just how much she missed him in the span of those two harrowing days without her loved ones by her side.
In a silent understanding, the y/h/c pulled him into a tight embrace, clinging to each other as if their very lives depended on it. No words were exchanged, no emotions verbalized, but in that hug, they found peace in each other's presence, a silent acknowledgment of the bond that held them together. Tears welled in their eyes, but they refused to let them fall, unwilling to show any hint of vulnerability in the face of their grim reality. As the train continued to fill with passengers, another train passed by, a haunting reminder of the atrocities unfolding around them.
The cries of women and children, their desperate pleas for help echoed through the air, piercing through the somber silence like daggers. The sound sent shivers down their spines, their hearts heavy with the burden of witnessing such unimaginable crimes. The realization hit y/n like a freight train, slamming into her with the force of a revelation. As she watched the train filled with innocent souls pass by, the chilling thought pierced her to the core: if circumstances had been different, if Rosie had been born on a different continent, it could have easily been him. The mere notion stung her heart, a cold dread settling in the pit of her stomach.
In that moment, she understood just how fortunate the brunette was, escaping the horrors that so many others faced. And with that understanding came a newfound appreciation for her people, for the sheer luck of having them all in her life, safe and sound. The severity of the moment washed over her like a tidal wave, leaving her breathless with gratitude and fright in equal measure. In the midst of such ambiguity, she clung to the light that was Bucky, realizing just how precious their camaraderie truly was. Sensing her uneasiness, the raven did what he could to comfort her, wishing that it'd be Buck soon, the man she really deserved.
"We're gonna make it, Duck... All three of us, I promise."
***
With each passing hour, Major l/n's condition deteriorated further. Five days of starvation had left her malnourished, dehydrated, and riddled with injuries. Her strength had long abandoned her, and keeping her conscious became a relentless battle for John Egan. But amidst the dire circumstances, a glimmer of hope emerged when one of the soldiers managed to smuggle in some whiskey while the guards weren't looking. Though a far cry from ideal, it provided a desperate form of hydration, easing their immediate plight. News spread among the soldiers that they were being taken to a Stalag, a prisoner-of-war camp.
Unlike their initial fears, the Nazis, perhaps mindful of potential repercussions, were providing basic human essentials like food and water. It was a small mercy in the midst of their misfortune, offering a sliver of relief in the face of overwhelming adversity. As dusk descended upon the horizon, the Americans arrived at Stalag Luft III in Sagan, Germany. With jaded bodies and troubled hearts, they stepped onto the soil of the camp, their spirits tempered by the hostile reality of their imprisonment. Yet, amidst the compunction that lay ahead, they remained united in their resilience, determined to persevere against the odds.
Disembarking from their mode of transport, the girl summoned every ounce of strength to stand, even though she leaned heavily on Bucky for support, his arm wrapped firmly around her waist. Together, they hobbled forward, adamant on facing whatever awaited them on the unforgiving earth below. As their feet touched the deserted stretch of land, the shrill wail of alarms shattered the silence, setting the camp ablaze with activity. With a frantic cry, the guards flung open the gates, unleashing a flood of previous prisoners who rushed to the barbed wire fences, straining for a glimpse of the newcomers.
Each face in the crowd held a mix of curiosity and desperation, searching for a flicker of familiarity betwixt the ocean of outlanders. "Smells like shit." y/n complained, her voice strained with exhaustion as she struggled to keep her eyelids from drooping. "Yeah, looks like it too..." Agreed the raven, casting a horrified glance around at the grim surroundings. The sight of so many of their comrades held hostage by the nasty Nazis took him aback, a stark reminder of the harsh future they were yet to face. Amongst the uproar their advent had triggered — the prisoners desperately calling out for their friends, the y/h/c's ears perked up at the sound of her name being uttered.
Through the discord, her name echoed like a beacon of recognition, cutting through the mayhem with a surge of energy that electrified the air. "Hey, look! It's the Bremen Bomber!" Someone announced, admiration laced in their tone. "Damn straight! She took those Nazi bastards down!" Another exclaimed, awe evident in their voice. Remarks of respect and admiration rippled through the crowd as they recognized her formidable reputation.
"Hot damn, they really let a lady loose in the military..." Scoffed one, followed by rude remarks about her looks. "The least they could do was make sure she's hot." Grumbled a ginger. "So uh, did they send her in here for mass reproduction or what?" Questioned someone snidely. But any disrespectful comments were swiftly shut down by a familiar voice. "That's Buck's lady you're talking about, gentlemen... He may be a calm guy, but you mess with her, and he won't think twice before unleashing hell at your vulgar asses without breaking a sweat. And don't even get me started on what she might do to you if she hears it instead." Came the stern warning.
"Egan and l/n in the flesh! The dynamic duo!" Demarco cried out, the excitement palpable in his voice. "Bucky! Ducky! Over here!" Reverberated the enthusiastic cheers of their comrades throughout the entire territory — a chorus of celebration that filled the air. Spotting familiar faces amidst the crowd, Bucky's grin widened with relief and euphoria. "Crank, Murph! GLEN-" He greeted each one with heartfelt joy, embracing the moment of reunion. "Duck made it! Ducky made it- She made it you guys! Our captain made it!" Ham's exuberant glee cut through the din, mirroring the shared sentiment of triumph and alleviation.
"Gale..." The y/h/c whispered, feeling his presence like a whisper on the wind, her heart soaring with hope. "What was that?" Bucky leaned in, catching her words in the midst of her coughing fit. "Gale." she repeated, her voice stronger now, a passion lighting up her dead, y/e/c eyes. Instantly, Bucky sprang into action, asking around for any sign of Gale. "Hey, any of you know if Buck made it?" He asked, still marching. "What?" Crank asked, following him from the other side, but the noise making it harder for him to hear very clearly. "I said if any of you knew if Buck made--" But before he could even finish his question, the answer found him.
"John Egan, your 2 o'clock!"
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Tag List: @deathwho @beebeechaos @sc4rl3tteb1tch @abysscorpus @darkwindysoul
Your past will always catch up with you. No matter if you leave it behind, it will always become part of your present again at some point. Rearing its ugly head at a seemingly inopportune time, or welcoming you back under its fold like a weighted blanket to keep you in place and on your destined path. But what if the past is...complicated? What if the path that you chose in your past no longer fits into your future? And what if you left your past self and everything in it behind for a reason? Does it still impact your future? My ancestors would say yes. But I don’t think they ever dreamed of a future where sworn enemies become unnatural friends or a scenario where you must always bend and but never break.
Maya found herself sitting at a too grand table at Emily’s house for their pack gathering feast. No one had come to sit outside with her though and the wind was biting at her bare shoulders.
Where is Paul? She wondered as she let her eyes scan the treeline that backed up Emily and Sam’s property.
The table was empty save for her plate and when she looked down at it, a single frost covered leaf lay in the center of it. From within the house, she could hear murmuring, cheerful laughter, warmth, but she didn’t go inside. Instead, she stayed rooted to her chair, scanning the forest and wondering, He should be here.
Just as it began to get dark, Maya heard laughter bubbling toward the back door and she turned to look over her shoulder to see the broad figure of Jacob with Becks tucked under his massive arm. Maya gave a small smile and Becks, who had been laughing and looking at the ground, raised her eyes to meet hers and returned the smile. Maya finally stood up as they drew closer, but knew they weren’t alone.
Where is Paul?
Jacob was looking over his shoulder at the added company and talking, as Becks kept her eyes glued forward, a permanent smile on her face. When they finally reached Maya, they parted to reveal a figure, with stark red eyes, almost burning in the dark. Maya sucked in a sharp breath, ready to scream, as she felt an icy cold chill settle in her belly.
Only then did she realize, the sounds of laughter within hadn’t been laughter at all, but screams, and a pool of blood was now leaking from the door and down the porch steps behind the red-eyed figure. Maya felt the scream rise and burn in the back of her throat only to be met with the lightning fast hand that gripped her throat to silence her.
Maya jerked awake in the cool, darkened room that was beginning to brighten with the cold blue light of early morning. The icy grip she had felt tightening around her throat had evaporated as she realized that it was a dream and Paul….Paul was right here. When she had startled awake, she felt his grip around her back tighten ever so slightly, instinctively, but now as she breathed a little easier, his hand softened and his quiet, even breathing filled the room.
Maya cuddled closer, pressing the front of her body flush against his side as she draped her arm across his chest and laid her head in the crook of his neck. His arm that wound around her responded and tightened her against him as his hand rubbed along her hip absently. His breathing never changed though and Maya settled back into the comfortable quiet of him as she tried to shake off the image of the burning red eyes in her dream.
“My, let’s go!” Paul called up the stairs as he fastened a watch around his wrist and threaded a button through the cuff of his green plaid jacket lined with thick sherpa wool. After a few seconds, the soft clop of Maya’s heeled boots could be heard coming down the stairs. She was affixing a gold hoop earring into her left ear.
“We match,” Maya said with a feigned look of surprise. Paul humored her, raising an eyebrow and letting his eyes coast the length of her body. She was wearing a dark green cropped knit sweater that showed the smallest sliver of skin at her waist before making way to her long, curved legs sheathed in tight black jeans. The light brown suede boots ended just above her ankles and gave her a good three inches of new height. Paul couldn’t help himself wrapping an arm down around her back and letting his broad hand squeeze the curve of her ass stuffed into those skin tight jeans. He leaned forward and chuckled pressing a kiss to her forehead before saying in a low voice,
“We do match. How did that happen I wonder?” Maya smiled up at him, holding onto the opening of his jacket and pressing a kiss to his throat. Whether it was intentional or not, Paul noticed that Maya would try to incorporate the same color or a complementing one into her outfit when she peeked at what he wore. He assumed it made her feel more in step with him considering how she had felt since she got home—seemingly disconnected from her home. But she was feeling warmer, more settled now, despite the growing anxiety Paul felt between them as the fall break began drawing to a close. He’d avoided thinking about letting her out of his arms, back onto that plane, and flying nearly 3,000 miles away from him. His hands ached at the thought and so he ran them up and down the back of her ass a few times before giving one cheek a quick, gentle slap.
“You ready?” he asked as she grinned up at him widely with that warm, honey look of love.
She nodded, excitement brimming behind her eyes and he led her outside to the forerunner after helping her into her thick coat.
The gathering at Sam and Emily’s was boasted as a family gathering, which meant the invitation was extended not just to the pack but everyone they considered family as well. When Paul and Maya arrived, the clearing in front of the expanded bungalow was already packed with vehicles. Maya could hardly contain her excitement as she jumped down from the car and quickly took Paul’s hand as he came around the hood of the car and started pulling him toward the door. When she pushed open the front door, her eyes wide with expectation, she was not disappointed by the howling greeting of hellos and “You’re here!” as she was scooped up and spun around into the arms of Paul’s brothers.
“Ladies and gentleman, the biggest brain in the room,” Embry joked and Maya dropped into a lazy curtsy. Emily pushed her way through the throng, her pregnant belly clearly protruding from her before wrapping Maya into a warm hug, “Welcome home, we missed you!” she said softly into her hair. Maya blinked back the tears that she felt threatening to form at the corners of her eyes and grinned like an idiot.
The house was packed—not only were Paul’s brothers there, but Embry’s grandparents, Sue Clearwater, Chief Black, Quil’s mother, and the parents of a few younger members of the pack were all stuffed into every corner of the home. And it was clear that not everyone had arrived yet. As Maya was pulled into conversation about her time away at college, Paul mingled in with some of the pack’s family members to allow Maya to be surrounded by his brothers and their imprints. Her head was spinning a little bit but when Seth and Sadie showed up to cheers of congratulations, and Keye barreled through the door nearly tackling Maya in a prolonged hug that left her void of breath. She couldn’t have felt more at home if she tried.
The room was buzzing with conversation when Jacob and Becks sauntered through the door looking rosy. Maya watched as Jacob tightened his grip on Becks’ hip as he nodded at Chief Black and gave a quick, “Dad.” in confirmation. Chief Black smiled back genuinely, and gave Becks a satisfied look that she pretended not to notice before locking eyes with Maya. Her face flooded with hesitance, but Maya crossed the room quickly and pulled her out of Jacob’s one armed grip into a tight hug. Becks let out a loud huff of air followed by a squeal of excitement as she returned the hug. Keye was quick to join in and Maya struggled to keep it together again.
She hadn’t realized the hole that had been forming within her after she’d left for college. She thought things were going to be easy, that coming back wouldn’t feel like taking the first gulp of fresh air that she’d had in awhile, but she’d been wrong. She hadn’t realized how her family, this family, with Paul and Becks and the pack, were the ones that connected her to who she was becoming. She hadn’t quite lost the thread of herself in New York, but new pieces of her were being pasted over the old Maya that she knew and she'd realized a little too late that it had been slowly peeling parts of her away. She’d have to find a better balance between La Push and school to stay connected to this part of her and ensure she never felt like this when coming home again.
As timers announced rolls were ready and pots bubbled over with delicious sauces, potatoes and corn, and more, Maya, Becks and Keye, found themselves sitting on the floor of the open living room with a few pack members, Sadie, Kim, and Sam’s son Luca and daughter Lenora. Paul had ambled over amidst his conversation with Chief Black to hand Maya a glass of wine which she took gratefully as they all crowded around a board game spread out on the floor. Becks was answering questions about her first semester at Northwestern and how she was liking her courses. She was studying architecture and had gone to a department mixer the week before that had her seriously reconsidering her major after she joked that the schools soccer team had ambled into the bar they had occupied. Jacob, within earshot rolled his eyes and carried on his conversation with Sam and Quil near the kitchen as Maya tried to stifle a laugh. Seems like she wasn’t the only imprint who liked to drive her partner crazy.
When the front door tentatively creaked open, a few heads whipped toward it. Maya didn’t think another person could possibly fit in this tiny bungalow, but her eyes widened with surprise when a shaggy haired Jeremy ambled through the door, nodding his head and trying to quell a smile as Seth, Embry, and Jared shouted an exuberant hello. Maya jumped to her feet, completely overwhelmed and flung herself at him. She hadn’t seen him since the day after Jacob had imprinted on Becks at Paul’s party. He caught her easily, but was surprised when she clamped her mouth shut around a breaking sob.
“Jer!” she said into the side of his head. Jeremy laughed a little and nearly crushed her in a hug.
“How’s my favorite fake girlfriend?” he said. His voice sounded different, thinner, as if words were an effort, but Maya didn’t care just then. She pulled back to look at his face and beamed. Jared clapped Jeremy on the shoulder and he set Maya down as his brothers began crowding around him save for Paul, Sam, and Jacob of course.
“Man, what the hell! I didn’t know you’d be here!” Jared crowed.
“Long time no see,” Seth said with a spark of gratitude in his eyes. Maya kept her eyes glued to Jeremy’s face as it filtered through moments of appreciation, recognition, fleeting happiness and then quick flashes of pain. Her hand gripped his forearm in consolation but he gave her a pained smile and just shook his head.
“Yeah, yeah, you guys can’t get rid of me yet,” Jeremy said offhandedly as he scanned the faces before him, careful not to linger on any outside of his immediate circle.
“Alright!” Emily’s voice echoed over the crowd and a hushed silence fell save for a few laughs and mumbles, “Gather and distribute people! We’ve got the table set up outside with a bunch of heat lamps, but bundle up if you’re prone to being cold.”
Brady jerked Jeremy under his arm and jostled him forward as Maya watched everyone begin to crowd into the kitchen to grab a food dish to bring to the table. Becks hurried into Jacob's side and as she shot him a worried look. Jacob ran a reassuring hand down Beck's cheek and murmured reassurances that Maya couldn't hear. Paul sauntered over and scooped up her empty wine glass she’d left in the living room.
“Feeling good?” he asked with a grin. Maya let out a satisfied breath and smiled up at him.
“Yeah, really good. Feels like home,” she admitted easily. He nodded and kissed the top of her head before rubbing her lower back.
“Good, let’s go have some more fun,” his eyes were determined and Maya felt her stomach drop.
He had been working so hard to make her feel better and the swell of gratitude and love in her stomach pressed against her lower belly again, much as it did when he looked at her in the taco shop the other night with Seth and Sadie when Sadie had asked about kids. Maya absently fingered the promise ring on her right hand and pushed it around the base of her middle finger. Paul’s face crept into a slow awakened smile as if he could see what she was thinking when Maya herself couldn’t even collect her own thoughts long enough to know what she was thinking. Instead, she just allowed this warmth, what she could only recognize as their imprint anchored bond, fill her up.
Paul placed one warm hand on the line of her jaw, his thumb stroking the expanse of her soft cheek that was pricking with pink and leaned his face slowly toward hers. Maya’s heart accelerated, her hand coming to circle his wrist as if this was the first time she was being kissed like this when in reality, Paul had kissed her like this many times. But something about how she felt now, enveloped in this home with her family and Paul anchored easily to her side, made her see everything so much clearer than she had before she left for Columbia.
Just as Paul’s lips brushed the tips of hers, a gentle smile still playing at his lips, there was a soft knock behind them. Paul’s eyes pulled across Maya’s face, her eyes wanting and needy. He nudged his nose gently against hers before straightening and crossing the living room to the front door. Maya took a few steps to follow him, placing both of her hands in the back pockets of her tight black jeans and as Paul pulled the door open, the chill of the sea breeze sliced through the air and cut Maya to the bone. She was briefly reminded of the cold she felt in her dream last night, the sharp red eyes, the laughter turning into screams—but she shut her eyes quickly to shake away that image. When she looked back at Paul, his entire body had hardened in what she could only assume was defense and Maya automatically took a step closer to him.
“Well if it isn’t big ole Paul Lahote! I didn’t think you could get any bigger from the last time I saw you, but they sure do feed you boys out here pretty good,” a comforting laugh could be heard coming from the doorframe. Maya raised her eyebrows in confusion, unable to discern what could be the cause for Paul’s alarm at such a kind and warm voice, but she couldn’t see around his giant frame to get a good look at the visitor.
“When did you get back?” Paul said in a tone of forced interest.
“Ah well, it felt like it was time and I heard Jake made his way back too. Billy called,” he said. Strange. Maya thought. She didn’t recognize the voice that dripped with so much familiarity for her family which meant maybe he wasn’t from the rez. As if on cue, Chief Black clambered through the back door that led to the festivities that lay beyond it and bellowed a greeting.
“I thought I heard a deserter!” he said, clasping his hands together. Paul stepped away from the door revealing an older man in a grey shirt and tartan plaid long sleeve. His face was friendly, if worn, and his hair was a pleasing salt and pepper gray, tinging the same around the corners of his prominent mustache. Paul immediately closed the two steps toward Maya and pulled her away from the door, closer to the living room, slotting her into his side, almost trying to keep her from the new arrival’s field of view. Maya, still confused, looked up to Paul’s face to try and discern some silent explanation but none came.
“Charlie,” Chief Black confirmed as he wrapped the man in a warm hug and patted his back.
The man returned the hug and patted his back roughly in greeting.
“It’s good to be home, finally,” Charlie said as he glanced warmly toward Paul again.
“A lot has changed,” Chief Black pulled back and held Charlie at arms length, looking upon him with the love that only a very old friend could. “I’m sure you remember Paul.” Chief Black gestured to him.
“Oh yes,” Charlie said with a glint of mischievous recognition in his eye, “Caused enough trouble back then to make his face known to us all at the station,” he joked. Chief Black let out a barking laugh.
“This is his partner Maya Sunriviere,” Chief Black said. Paul let Maya fold herself out of his side somewhat as she pushed toward the two older gentlemen, but he kept a firm grasp on her hip as if to yank her back behind him at any moment. What the fuck is going on? This old dude seems fine.
“Nice to meet you,” Maya said, clearing her throat and reaching out her hand. Charlie shook it genially and his eyes transformed into one of hopeful recognition.
“Well, it seems like Paul has gotten a taste of his own medicine,” Charlie gibed, “More trouble,” he said kindly to Maya who could only take it as a compliment at that point and let out a little laugh. Maya felt Paul's fingers tug at her hip to guide her back to him and she obliged, not wanting to stress him out further when she had no idea what was going on. Charlie gave them a once over and said almost dreamily, “Reminds me a bit of my Bells,” before turning to look at Chief Black who gave a conspiratorial laugh and pulled him under his arm to steer him toward the backyard.
“Let’s hope not,” he returned. Maya heard a deep growl coming from Paul’s throat as he kept them firmly planted in the living room.
“Paul,” Maya said gently, her hand patting his chest. His eyes were trained toward the two sauntering men as if they’d morph into ungodly creatures and turn and attack at any moment. “What’s going on?” she whispered.
Paul’s grip tightened again to almost a bruising degree and he shook his head before looking down at her. “Nothing,” he said as he began steering her after them toward the backyard. His shoulders had relaxed, but the grip he held on her was still tight and protective.
As they entered the backyard, the noise returned as the crash of voices rose and fell over one another. There were shouts of laughter, jokes, and general murmurings of discussion, but it quelled somewhat when Chief Black cried out, “Look who made it!”
The reception out here was much more welcoming than the one Paul had given Charlie inside. Sue Clearwater scurried around the table to wrap Charlie in a warm hug and Sam gave him a kind smile and shook his hand. Seth’s smile could be seen from space as Charlie gave a whoop of noise and yanked him into a tight hug. Everyone seemed pleased to see this mystery man which made Maya worry about why Paul was so defensive and hesitant earlier. Everyone gathered around Charlie as if he was a prodigal son returning, a long lost relative back from the dead—everyone except…
Jacob’s POV
This had to be a joke. Charlie fucking Swan was standing in front of Jacob Black with the widest grin he had ever seen. A knot formed squarely in the center of Jacob’s belly and when Becks’ hand coasted gently down the length of his arm, he tensed. Jacob glanced to his right where Becks stood next to him, her eyes washing over his in question: Who is that? What’s going on?
But Jacob couldn’t bring himself to answer those questions in her eyes right now. Becks had threaded her arm neatly around his massive one and clasped his hand in hers. The relief was immediate and he squeezed her hand tightly in his before glancing back over to Charlie. His past came roaring back to haunt him it seemed and he hadn’t had time to tell Becks everything yet.
No. He hadn’t had time to tell Becks about...her.
Jacob was acutely aware of the overwhelming dread he felt now that signaled his misstep. He’d had quite a few in their relationship so far—and he was no stranger to making mistakes based on emotion. Now, all he wanted was to keep her safe from all of this. To keep things uncomplicated between them as their relationship had slowly become recently. But with Charlie coming toward them now, only a few feet away, that thought evaporated. Nothing would ever be easy when it came to them.
“Jake,” Charlie said in warm recognition. Jacob tried to soften his expression into one of welcoming kindness. Next to him, he heard Becks’ breathing change, as she shifted away from him and let her hand fall from his as Charlie leaned in for a hug. Jacob wrapped his arms around him and slapped his back much like Charlie did to him. When he pulled back, Charlie kept his hands on his arms.
Jacob towered a good five inches above Charlie’s six foot frame, but it did nothing to the feeling of how small Jacob felt in Charlie’s eyes—dwarfed by their shared history together and tied to that one singular person: Bella.
“I swear, you get bigger every time I see you. How is that even possible?” Charlie chuckled and the genuine joy at seeing him was clear in his eyes. Jacob tried to relax, for Becks sake at the very least, but the uncertainty that hung in the air at Charlie’s presence was palpable.
“Well, you know what they say: the bigger the problems, the bigger the wolf,” he joked. Becks sucked in a sharp breath next to him, realization dawning on her quickly that this stranger knew about the pack.
“Do they say that?” Charlie joked giving him an amused smile and the two men broke into a light chuckle. “And who’s this?” Charlie turned his attention to Becks making the side of Jacob’s mouth twitch ever so slightly. Becks was in no real danger here, not with his brothers and him nearby and it wasn’t like Charlie was a remorseless bloodsucker, even if he was related to one. Jacob internally winced at his characterization of the people he used to consider his family. But things change. He didn’t need to take that out on Charlie anyway.
“This is—” Jake started, but Becks took a step toward Charlie and held out her hand, wide smiles and amber eyes glittering.
“Rebecca. My friends call me Becks, though,” she was unwavering, strong, sure footed and Jacob hooked his arm down around her back to anchor her to him hoping that her strength could rub off on him.
“Well, I sure hope we can call ourselves friends,” Charlie said, completely enamored as Becks gave a genuine bubbling laugh and replied,
“A man wearing that impressive of a mustache is bound to be a trustworthy friend.” Jacob cracked a smile and Charlie hooted with laughter.
“My girlfriend,” Jacob confirmed with a nod and Charlie nodded back in appreciation and —was that relief? Jacob gripped Becks a little tighter and she gave him a small smile, peering up at him as if the world began and ended with him. He knew that look, but now he knew he could trust it as long as it came from her.
“Charlie!” a call came out from behind them and Seth waved them over to the table, gathering to eat. Jacob leaned down to kiss Becks’ temple and murmured softly to her, “I’ll fill you in later.” She nodded, seemingly unperturbed and patient and he patted her hip gently before steering them toward the table together.
The rest of the dinner passed without much incident. Paul continued looking over at Jacob as if he was to blame for Charlie’s arrival, the firm line of his frown and accusing eyes made him internally groan. But it wasn’t his fault—he had no idea why Charlie had come back or if he was staying or for how long. And if he was back, did that mean—? No, definitely not. That would be too soon, they’d barely been gone a decade and people would remember them. No, Charlie must be back because he was tired of wherever they had settled and wanted his quiet Sundays fishing to himself. Jacob kept throwing glances at Paul who wouldn’t stop glaring every chance he got despite Maya elbowing him in the ribs a few times and telling him to quit it. Becks sat patiently beside him, chatting with Sadie and Jared as if no world alternating incident had occurred and for that Jacob was thankful. This woman was the definition of steadfast.
He never had to worry if she’d show up or get mad at him for his occasional mood swings. She was just always there, holding his hand, giving him that soft reassuring smile that let him know everything was going to be alright. She was the lungful of fresh air that filled him up after staying around creatures who didn’t even need to breathe for so long.
She gave him a home, a landing in which to keep his feet firmly planted where he didn’t feel like he was being pushed or pulled one way or another, or having to give chase. The least he could do was provide her with a physical home—and anything else she wanted for that matter. But Becks was patient and kind and kept him coming back for more with her sweet humor and level head.
When it came time to leave after the bonfire they had lit on the beach winded down and the cool evening air gave way to deep midnight, Jacob took Becks’ hand and said his goodbyes. He was happy to be home in a place he never thought he’d set eyes upon again.
Before they could make it back up to Sam and Emily’s backyard and back to his bike, Charlie intercepted him.
“Come by soon, yeah?” Charlie asked, “Becks, you’re more than welcome too. We can do some fish fry.”
“Yeah, soon,” Jacob said giving him that gentle smile and he patted his shoulder before weaving Becks around him who gave a kind goodbye.
The ride back to the garage was short, and when he and Becks climbed the stairs to the lofted, renovated bedroom suite above the garage, it didn’t take long for Becks to fit him with that knowing stare.
“I know, I know, just give me a second to….get it all together,” Jacob said guilty as he ran a hand over his face, the other stacked on his hip. Becks kicked off her shoes and nodded while hanging her coat.
“Charlie Swan, right?” Becks confirmed not looking at him as she moved toward the kitchenette to make herself some tea.
“That’s the one,” Jacob replied with a deep sigh, “For the record, I didn’t know he was going to be there tonight or that he was coming back.”
“I didn’t think so,” Becks said as she filled the teapot. Jacob shifted from one foot to the other, uncertain on how to proceed, where to begin. He flipped one corner of their bedsheets down and straightened a wolf figurine he’d carved and perched atop a lonely shelf by the bed. “You’re stalling, Jake.” Becks said as she grabbed a mug and dropped a teabag in. Jacob let out a knowing groan.
“It’s...complicated,” he breathed.
“More complicated than a weird baby pact that the council has with one another? Or more complicated than my ex-boyfriend showing up for pack dinner tonight and giving me such a wide berth that it was made clear that I am categorized alongside the plague to him?”
“Ah, yeah, I completely forgot Jeremy was there. Fades into the background yah know?” Jacob put his hand on the back of his neck and rubbed. Becks didn’t respond and he’d worried he had offended her. “He hasn’t been giving you any trouble lately has he?”
“Trouble?” Becks asked as she swiveled around with a steaming mug in her hand raising an eyebrow and trying to hold in a laugh that was apparent in her eyes.
“Yeah, has he been like calling you and stuff?” Jacob was not giving it his best here.
“No, Jake, he hasn’t. Anyway, spill,” she said, crossing her legs in front of her and leaning back against the countertop.
“Ah,” Jacob started, glancing at his feet and then back up at her, “Charlie is Bella Swan’s father. And Bella was the girl I was in love with for...a long time. It’s why I left,” he said already feeling the words coming out as stupid. Becks didn’t say anything, just watched him carefully and waited for him to go on. “I left with them because I thought I could never be happy anywhere where she wasn’t. Even after she turned into one of them, I...still couldn’t stop myself from chasing her. Hoping that she’d love me back. But then, after a few years of living with them, I realized that I was only this shell of myself. I’d lived without warmth for so long that I started to feel frozen. I knew I’d die there...if I stayed,” he said the last part in an exhale as he tried to decide if he should tell Becks what happened next or just skip to the sad, depressing bit.
“So, I left,” Just skip to the sad, depressing bit then. “And I lived on my own for another 4 years mostly in wolf form and I lost all sense of everything. Who I was, where I belonged, my home. It’s pathetic really,” Jacob said. Becks scoffed at that and her eyes hardened. He watched her carefully and took soft slow steps toward her, as he said, “I don’t know why I came back when I did, but I’m so glad it happened, Becks. And Charlie being here doesn’t change anything. I’m not leaving again. I won’t leave you,” He was in front of her now and she peered up at him around her mug, her eyes flooded with love and trust and not a hint of wariness. Her perfectly plucked mouth was just begging to be kissed and the corner of Jacob’s mouth quirked into a warm, brightening smile. He cupped the sides of her face, nearly swallowing her small face in his broad hands and let his pinkies touch the side of her neck, feeling the uptick of her pulse as he brought his face down toward hers. “I’m all yours.” He said with such finality that it felt like a door slamming, a key clicking in a lock.
Becks set her mug down and brought her hands to hold onto his wrists as she peered up at him, hovering her lips just above his. “And I’m all yours, too. But Jake,” she said, her eyes casting around his face, “There’s more that you’re not telling me. You don’t have a reaction like the one you did tonight with Paul staring daggers at you without there being something else. You don’t need to tell me now, but you do have to tell me.” Jacob smiled and had to stop himself.
“You know too much,” he admitted sweetly before letting his lips drift across hers lazily, feeling the sharp intake of breath she sucked in.
“You’re not as smooth as you think, Black,” she teased and that made him growl with unbridled joy as he let one hand slip down her back and yank her toward his chest so there was no space between them.
“Oh, I can be smooth. You want moves? I got moves,” he joked and Becks laughed, letting out quick shriek when he dipped to scoop her up, one arm under her butt as she wrapped her legs around his torso and he carried her toward the bed. He flopped her onto the bed and she bounced a little, laughing like a kid on Christmas morning. “You ready for smooth, honey?” And when she nodded enthusiastically, he grabbed her ankles and gave her quick tug down the bed. Kneeling in front of her, he unfastened her jeans and peeled them down her body, kissing along her inner thigh to her calf. Once removed, he pressed a rough, open mouthed kiss to her core through her panties and that gifted him with a delicious moan from that full lipped mouth of hers.
As he kissed up her hip bone, he pushed her shirt easily off of her and in one fluid motion, he unsnapped her bra and quickly pulled it from her body, leaving her completely bare to him save for the pink lace underwear. His jeans were now painfully tight as he felt himself harden and as he peppered alternating kisses and bites down her neck to her shoulder, he let out a low groan as his slipped one deft finger beneath her underwear to find her dripping with heat. As he crushed his lips on top of hers, feeling her soft, plump lips mesh perfectly against his, he let his finger tease from her clit to her opening in soft, even strokes. She began to pant, wrapping her arms around his neck to anchor herself to something and he smiled beneath their kiss.
When he wrenched his mouth away from hers and kissed down the length of her throat, he pushed her onto her back with his other hand, taking her pebbled nipple between his thumb and forefinger and rolling and pinching. His mouth landed on her other breast and nibbled and sucked until she was letting herself freely whimper into the softly lit room. “Did your boobs get bigger?” he joked and Becks let out a breathy laugh before smacking him on the shoulder. He finally slid his index finger into her wet opening as he flicked the pink pearl of her nipple with his tongue.
“Jake!” she gasped. “I need you.” He grinned, satisfied and left small pleasing bite marks around the soft flesh of her breast and down her stomach before removing his hand and taking her panties with it.
“I know honey. And I’m going to take care of it for you, you know that, right?” he murmured sweetly as he quickly removed his jeans and boxers, tossing aside his shirt after them. Becks bit her lower lip and nodded eagerly, spreading her legs for him so he could see the mess he already made of her. “So sweet, so good for me,” he said as he leaned down again to dip his head to her center and swipe his tongue along the slit. She let out a surprised cry, her hands kneading her breasts as he dipped his tongue expertly in her and then slid up through her slit, circling around the bead of her clit.
He sucked at her until she was begging for him again and then he stood up, pulling her legs up so her ankles rested on his shoulders and pressed into her fast and deep. They both groaned as they pressed together and Jacob shut his eyes tight at the wild feeling of love and desire and need that pulsed through him every time he entered her. She rolled her hips on him, begging him to move and with a sharp smile he began to slowly move in and out of her, watching her face melt into that blissful look of pure devotion.
As he picked up his pace, angling his hips to hit at her most well loved spots, he watched her tits bounce perfectly, as she used the back of her hand to cover her mouth every so often, and her cheeks reddened with heat. So fucking beautiful and all mine, he thought to himself. Jacob turned his face to kiss her ankle as he steadied her with a hand on her waist and slapped his hips harder against her. Becks’ cries were coming fast now and he leaned forward to angle her body more, stretching her wider for him. He felt her cinch him within her in response and knew she was close. Licking the tips of his fingers, he pressed it between them and rubbed fast needy circles on her sensitive nub. Becks’ eyes began to roll back and with a pleased exhale, and Jacob said, “You want me to fill you up, honey?”
That was all it took to make Becks explode, her walls fluttering and tensing around him as she reached her end. Jacob had now fully bent her legs so that they were almost parallel with her face as he pressed his mouth to hers, pumping wildly into her with obscene slapping noises and grunts that would no doubt pull jokes from his brothers if he’d ever rejoin the pack mind. With a few more jerks of his hips, Jacob spilled inside of her eliciting a pleased moan from Becks who kissed him like he just won her a prize. They panted into each other's mouths and after a few heady moments where Becks let her legs slide back down, he said, “See? I got moves.”
“You do,” Becks panted with an exhausted laugh, “Good job.” Jacob leaned his face into the crook of her neck and let out a few good huffs of laughter before settling into comfortable silence, not daring to untangle himself from her just yet.
“It’s gonna be fine,” Paul said as he leaned down to kiss the side of her head. Maya wasn’t so sure about that. She puffed her cheeks up with air and let out a dramatic huff as Paul chuckled next to her before leaning forward and ringing the doorbell to her parents house.
Paul had set it up and thought it would be a good first step to mending the broken pieces of her and her mother’s relationship. With only a couple days left before she was due back to New York and with the crushing onslaught of finals, this was her last chance before winter break to patch things up with her mom.
The door creaked open in its same welcoming groan that had punctuated Maya’s childhood and Paul gave her a hand a squeeze. Her parents opened the door together and Rish gave an ecstatic smile but worry was painted in her eyes.
“Tom,” Paul said brightly, holding out his hand. Maya’s father grinned widely, his eyes shining with hope as he shook Paul’s hand hard.
“Good to see you!” He said as his other arm wrapped gently around his wife’s shoulders. Maya was frozen to the spot, her eyes glued to her mother as if one misstep would set off a chain reaction in her. Paul glanced from Rish to Tom, the chill causing Maya’s neck to sprout in goosebumps. Paul’s hand automatically rose to cover the back of her neck, the warmth spreading through her.
“Oh! Come in, come in!” Tom said, pushing away from the door frame awkwardly and pulling Rish with him. Paul nodded and looked down at Maya but her eyes stayed forward.
“Yes, come in, we’ve got quite a chill rolling through, don’t we,” Rish said with a warble running through her voice. She was desperately trying to act as normal as possible, but Maya could tell she didn’t know what to do with her hands and she wrung them by her sides as if they punctuated each breathy word. Rish’s eyes darted from Paul to Maya to the floor then to every item in the front living room.
This is going to be so awkward. Maya thought to herself as she deflated into Paul’s side as they stood quietly in the front room. Paul tugged gently at the collar of her coat and she came to a bit to shrug it off her shoulders and into his waiting arms. He hung it by the door and Maya instinctively wrapped her arms around her midsection. Paul returned placed a warm hand on her hip. All of this had passed in terribly long silence and Maya internally cringed—okay maybe outwardly too. She tried to smooth the features on her face before her father brightened, as if remembering why they were all there and said,
“How about some drinks? Maya! You have to tell us about school. Your email updates are too short,” Tom swivelled and walked down the hallway that lead to the open kitchen and their dining room. Maya let out a huff of breath and followed quickly, Paul lingering to urge Rish down the hall with them with a gentle smile.
“I don’t have a lot of time to write full length journal entries about my day, dad. This school is kicking my ass,” Maya said as she entered the kitchen and leaned against the counter top as she watched her father pull down wine glasses from the cupboard. Her mother tutted at her curse and Maya glanced at her as if she was finally going to address her but Rish settled by the stove to check on the food. The kitchen smelled amazing, and she could tell right away that her mother was cooking her favorite—Three Sisters soup with fresh baked harvest bread.
“Grab the wine from the fridge,” her father said absently as he searched for the wine screw. Maya crossed the kitchen and pulled open the fridge door feeling like she was transported to just a year ago—before college, before the imprint, before Paul. When it was just her and her parents and her heart momentarily ached for that warm nostalgia. Paul was watching her carefully from his place next to Rish by the stove, murmuring quietly to her mother about the meal and how wonderful it smelled. Maya opened a drawer routinely and found the wine screw, making quick work of the cork. She handed the open bottle to her father who made a delighted sigh.
“It’s so good to have you home, My-pie,” he said, taking the wine bottle from her and kissing her forehead. He began pouring white wine into the glasses and started carrying on at Paul’s inquiry about his work. Maya watched her mother’s straight back as he bent over the simmering soup. Paul, next to her father now, handed Maya two glasses of the wine her father poured and nodded over his shoulder toward her mother. Maya rolled her eyes dramatically and walked over to her mother at the stove before saying in what she hoped was an even tone:
“Smells good, mom.” She held out the wine glass and watched the side of her mother’s face tick with stress. Maya let out a withered sigh and set the wine glass down on the counter taking a long drink from her own. “I saw Chief Black yesterday at Sam and Emily’s.” Her mother nodded as she lifted the wooden soup spoon to her mouth for a taste test. “He seemed in pretty high spirits all things considered. I assume that means the DeSota renovations are going well?” Maya offered. She only knew about the updates to the council projects because of her father, but she thought it would be an easy subject to broach with her mother.
“Grab some bowls,” her mother said quickly, turning away from her to grab more spices from the cupboard. Maya set her wine glass down a little too hard and drew Paul’s attention who glanced over at her with mounting worry while still talking to her father. Maya pulled some bowls down from a cupboard and clapped them onto the counter before digging in a drawer for some spoons. Her mother glanced at her, but the look on her face was unreadable and Maya felt a weight settle in her stomach like the one she felt upon arriving back in La Push. That same feeling of separation—she felt like she didn’t recognize her own mother at that moment.
Without any prompting, Maya shuffled toward the dining room and began setting the table. Behind her the kitchen began to bubble with more conversation as Rish turned to ask Paul how his business was going, making Maya’s irritation grow. This was going to be a long night.
By the time dinner was drawing to a close Maya’s hands hurt from clenching her fists so hard. Paul had begun worriedly rubbing the back of her neck with his broad hand every so often, sensing the tension between her and her mother mount as the dinner went on. Maya had tried, she really had. She tried making conversation with her mother, telling her parents about Columbia, talking about the extension progress on the house, on Jacob and Becks’ plans to build in the land he bought early next spring—everything. But to no avail. Anytime Maya tried to directly address Rish, she’d change the subject or keep eye contact with Paul. Maya didn’t understand and as the dinner dragged on, her father trying to uneasily keep the peace, Maya spoke louder and louder when her mother would cut her off to ask Paul for the hundredth time about his work for the Treever’s.
Paul was polite, as usual, and tried to keep Maya looped into the conversation with follow up questions and compliments to her ability to stay focused at school with everything going on back on the rez, but again, Rish would chuckle and compliment Paul instead, or get up to get water. It was torture. So, by the time Rish asked if anyone would like some tea, Maya had excused herself hastily, pushing back roughly from the table and jogging up the stairs to her old bedroom.
The sound of soft murmurings could be heard below but Maya paid them no mind as she ran her hands up her waist and neck to roughly comb through her hair. It took all of her self control not to scream.
Maya couldn’t understand what her mother was doing but it felt like punishment. She paced her bedroom feeling the warmth of frustration and anger creep up her throat. She wanted to tear the dark cranberry red sweater dress that clung to her shape from her body. Instead she tucked at the short turtle neck and crossed her bedroom to wrench open the window and let the rush of cool air wash over her.
“Babe,” Paul said from the doorway to her bedroom. Maya straightened and turned around taking deep breaths and shaking her head. Her patience was gone, she wanted to leave, and that deepening pain at the rift between her and her mother was going to tear her apart if she stayed here for any more torture tonight.
“Paul, I can’t. I don’t understand what she’s doing,” Maya sucked in a sharp breath, willing the tears to abate from the corner of her eyes. Paul’s face drew into a deep frown as he crossed the room to her, bringing his hands to either side of her face and running his thumbs over the course of her cheeks as a tear escaped. He kissed her forehead and said gruffly,
“She’s just hurt, Maya,” he whispered into her hair. Maya let out a frustrated laugh.
“Me too. But she’s the parent, can’t she just get over it so I don’t have to feel this way anymore?” As the words came out of her mouth she shut her eyes tight and cringed at how she sounded. God, she was 19 but she had never acted like such a kid. She was right to feel hurt and the way Rish was treating her might not be fair, but Maya hadn’t exactly extended any kind of olive branch for what she had said either. Paul watched her as Maya took some deep breaths and nodded at herself before looking up at him, still obviously frustrated.
“Try again,” he said softly. Maya focused her gaze on him and watched as the earnest look in his eyes melted into soft adoration, that playful smile breaking across his mouth and leaving her breathless again. Paul pulled her closer to him, tilting her face up to meet his lips and Maya let out a small moan. His kiss became hungrier at her sounds and he slid a hand down her body to wrap around her back and knead the thick flesh of her ass.
Another small sound escaped Maya and Paul pulled away momentarily to let his eyes dart around her face, “This dress drives me crazy by the way. I can see every fucking curve but it’s all covered by this tight little dress.” Maya smiled and Paul dove in for another taste of her pushing her flush with his body so she could feel his hard weight on her stomach. As he nibbled on her lower lip, he continued, “Go try again with your mom so I can take you home and rip this thing off of you.”
He let her grow roughly and Maya, thoroughly rocked, gave him a shocked grin. He raised an eyebrow and let that playful smile reach his eyes. With a quick swat to her ass, Maya rushed out of her childhood bedroom and down the hall toward the staircase taking a deep breath and shaking her hair out with her fingers.
Maya found her mother alone, wrapped in a shawl out on her back porch scrolling through her phone. Maya opened the door to the porch and slipped out, swathed in darkness. She could hear the ocean rushing nearby and the sweet smell of salt mixed with cold winter night made her crave the warmth of her and Paul’s bed.
“Mom?” Maya said after closing the sliding glass door behind her and crossing her arms over her chest. “We’re leaving. I wanted to come say goodbye.” Maya heard the tapping of Rish typing something on her phone but she didn’t say anything. “Mom.” Maya said a little more forcefully this time. “Are you going to say anything to me tonight? Or do I still not exist?”
Silence. Tapping. It was rattling her. Try again. She heard Paul’s voice in her head. Maya threw her head back and heaved a great sigh before saying, “Mom, I know I hurt you with what I said at the bonfire. Parts of it I meant—the stuff about my relationship with Paul not being any business of the council’s...But I didn’t mean what I said to you. I would never keep you away from my family. And I’m sorry that I hurt you.”
Rish had set down her phone during Maya’s speech and looked at her. “I never tried to push the kid thing.” Rish said unexpectedly. Maya scuffed her shoe on the patio.
“I know mom, but you were pushing us. This stuff with Paul is already complicated enough. I need you on my side,” Maya said, tears threatening to spill again.
“I am always on your side, Maya,” her mother said severely from her place in her chair. Maya stared at her through the dark, the only light coming from the glow of the kitchen. Rish’s face was hard, her eyes pained, “And I will always choose you over this council, over everything. I’m sorry if it felt like I was pushing you or not on your side, but I am. No matter what,” her voice cracked at the end of her sentence and Maya felt the hot tears fall freely down her cheeks now. Rish was standing now and crossed to Maya who was nodding quickly, trying to stifle the sobs rising in her throat, “I won’t ever push you like that again.”
Rish’s warm arms wrapped tightly around Maya and she sagged into her mother’s body, feeling the relief rush through her. Rish pet the back of her head and let her cry into her shoulder as Maya clung tightly to her mother, letting the anger and sadness she had felt these past few months to fall away as her mother held onto her tightly, “I’m so so sorry Maya,” her mother whispered into her hair and pressing kisses to the top of her head.
With only a few days to go before she was headed back to New York, Maya finally felt like she had come home.
A/N: Another day, another chapter! I had a lot of fun figuring out where I wanted to go with every step of this chapter, and in the end, I'm really happy (and heartbroken) with how it turned out! So, as always, I hope you enjoy and happy reading! Skål!
Summary: When Ivar takes the throne of Kattegat, Lagertha flees to Wessex along with Björn, Ubbe, Torvi, and the Bishop Heahmund. There, they seek the aid of King Alfred. This aid comes in the form of his sister, Aethelind, who agrees to travel to Kattegat and try to reason Ivar, who she spent some time with during their youth, when her grandfather King Ecbert hosted Ragnar Lothbrok in their castle. Now, she is the only hope for Lagertha and her supporters to retake Kattegat from Ivar the Boneless.
Masterlist
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She couldn’t get that image out of her head, however hard she tried. Sitting alone the way she was now wasn’t any help, but she didn’t particularly feel like she wanted company in that moment. So, sitting alone on the beach was probably in her best interest. After all, no one could remind her of anything there.
Asta swallowed as she watched the sea, so deceptively calm after everything she had just experienced. Her hands were caked with blood, the same blood splattered across her face, and matted in her hair… Battles didn’t get easier, she was beginning to think. Perhaps they never would. Perhaps she was born into too peaceful a life to be suited for this. Perhaps growing up as a princess, always safe and at home in a well-guarded castle, meant she would never be prepared to be a shieldmaiden, spilling blood on a cruel battlefield to keep her own from being spilt.
The image flashed again in her mind, and she whimpered, drawing her knees up to her chest and burying her face in her arms, which she rested on top of them. How could this have happened? Was this the price of victory Freydís had warned her about? The price of having been able to see her one last time? Could the price really have been a battle that would haunt her dreams for the rest of her life?
Clashing swords and the screams of dead and dying men rang in Asta’s ears, soldiers falling on both sides of the battle. She had long since lost Ivar, Hvitserk, and Igor, and she hadn’t been able to find them again. The very thought of something happening to one of them because she’d lost them was driving her mad, but there was no more she could do than fight with everything in her so she might find them when it was done. And hopefully, they would still be there.
She also knew that, somewhere on that battlefield, Björn Ironside was there, one of the men who had trained her, and a man she had come to care deeply for at one point in her life. But now, she knew he would kill Ivar without a second thought, and she couldn’t let that happen. If it meant Björn died… she had made her peace with that before they’d even left their camp, even if she knew she would still mourn his loss. But he simply wasn’t, and couldn’t be, her priority anymore.
Climbing the cliff up to the top of the mountain had been brutal, clambering to reach Vestfold as she dodged various rocks and other items thrown down on her, but in the end she had succeeded, and ended the lives of those who had launched that assault in defense of their town. Part of her, a softer part of her that remained even after all she’d done, wanted to apologise for killing them, for trying to take their home from them. But Kattegat had been taken, and she was fighting with Ivar to take it back, and they couldn’t do so without first taking Vestfold. She apologised for nothing.
Unfortunately, that hadn’t been the end of the retaliations she had to fight off. Large balls with protruding spikes in them were rolled down the hill, coated in oil, and lit on fire as they reached the base of the hill that led up to Vestfold, and they claimed the lives of many fighting beside her. Her heart hammered in her chest as she fought to get around them, and dodged them as she climbed the- rather steep- hill. After the initial wave of them, it appeared they had run out, and so the soldiers of Kiev overran those of Vestfold, flooding into the town with every intention of taking it. They were almost there, Asta knew, they just had to get into the town, and be prepared to defend it.
It was after that she’d first seen him fighting, truly something incredible to witness. She’d never seen Björn Ironside fight, aside from the twice she’d fought him herself, but now she could see what all the fuss was about for herself, without the added danger of being the one taking the force of his attack. And yet, though she had already said goodbye to him in Kattegat, with the full belief she would never see him again, she found herself drawn to make two times three.
Getting to Björn hadn’t been a difficult thing at all, it was only waiting her chance to attack him herself that tried her, having to keep people off her back who wanted to say they’d defended the great warrior theirselves. But they fell easily, and soon enough she saw an opening where they both were unchallenged, and so she challenged him.
It came as no surprise to Asta how easily he caught her blade with his own, but clearly the sight of her being there at all came as a surprise to him. His eyes had widened, and he stumbled back just a bit.
“Aethelind,” he said, blinking a few times, and then he’d had to lift his sword to keep hers from coming down and burying itself in his body. “Aethelind, what are you doing here?”
“Thought you’d appreciate the rematch,” she snarked, and grinned a bit at the confusion on his face.
“You are angry that I attacked you in Kattegat,” he surmised. Another swing, and he blocked her again.
“Of course I am angry!” she yelled. She hadn’t quite realised it until then. “You tried to kill me for a chance at Ivar! How could I not be angry?”
“Aethelind, you don’t understand,” he said, reaching out and grabbing her arm with his hand, overpowering her with sheer strength and forcing her to step back. “Ivar was- and still is- too dangerous to allow to go free.”
“Is he?” she asked, a wild fury beginning to grow in her eyes. “You should have warned me of that before I spent every night in the last months in his bed.”
That had stunned Björn into releasing her hand, and she’d pushed back, now putting him on the defensive. “Perhaps you should have told me that instead of fighting me to stop me from going with him! Perhaps you should have told me that before I fell in love with him!”
With every time she suggested he should have told her, her attacks became more and more fierce, and vicious, until Björn was rapidly losing ground against her.
“Aethelind, stop!” he tried to tell her, but instead of answering him, she screamed, “Don’t CALL me that!”
He missed her sword with his, and instead was forced to grab her hand with his free hand again, twisting her around and making her drop it, yanking her back so that she couldn’t escape his grasp. “I won’t fight you,” he said. “I won’t fight you anymore, Aethelind.”
“My name is Asta,” she hissed, and stomped hard on his foot, making him release her. She stumbled forward away from him and grabbed her sword, lifting it and turning just in time to see Björn’s back to her, and a sword pierced his body.
Everything stopped.
Time itself seemed to freeze as Björn Ironside fell to his knees, and Ivar the Boneless was revealed on his other side, his sword pulling back out of Björn’s body as he fell. His presence alone had been enough to tell Asta what had happened, but seeing the weapon in his hand, wet with Björn’s blood, solidified it. Ivar had killed him.
Maybe her first move should have been to drop to her knees beside Björn and see if he would be alright, but her concern for Ivar’s whereabouts and safety overwhelmed her concern for Björn, and so she dropped her sword right there and crossed the space between herself and her lover.
Ivar pressed his forehead to hers, and Asta’s hands came up to frame his face between them. “My love…” she breathed, and he shushed her soothingly.
“I know,” he almost whispered. “I know, I’m here. I’m okay. I promised you I would be.”
Asta wrapped her arms around him then and held him tightly, leaning into the kiss he pressed to the side of her head. “I lost you on the battlefield,” she said shakily, closing her eyes. “I didn’t know if I’d find you after, and if I did… I had no idea what state you’d be in.”
He pulled back to look at her then with a wide grin. “A victorious one,” he told her. “Hvitserk is leading the final push into Vestfold. We cannot lose now.”
A grin split Asta’s face at this news, and in her sheer relief, she pressed her lips to Ivar’s in an elated sort of way. They’d done it. He and Hvitserk had survived, and that only left Igor. If two of the three of her prayers had been answered, what were the odds that the third had not been?
As it turned out, all three of her prayers had indeed been answered, but it was the death of Björn Ironside that still weighed heavily on her heart. Apparently, she hadn’t made her peace with it as well as she’d thought she had.
Asta eventually looked back up again, her cheeks wet from the tears which had run down them, eyes glassy with those still unshed, and she swallowed hard. “We both know I was angry,” she said softly, almost mumbling the words as opposed to fully speaking them out. “I didn’t want you dead, not really, though. I was glad you stopped me from killing you. But now…”
She took a deep breath in and let it out, but was interrupted by a new voice, even if still familiar. “Why do you think I am dead? Huh? You think I am killed so easily?”
Asta’s eyes widened and she turned toward Björn with shock in them, having clearly expected him to be dead. “In truth, I hadn’t,” she confessed. “It caught me by surprise when Ivar…” She paused, swallowing. “You’re Björn Ironside. That title came to you for all the battles you made it through unscathed. I don’t think it ever occurred to me there would be battles that scarred you.”
“Everyone’s day will come,” he told her. “Perhaps this will be mine, perhaps it will not be. Who can say? Only the gods know.”
“So you aren’t dead?” she asked, turning to look at him again. He shook his head.
“And you are with Ivar?” he asked in return. She nodded. “Did he really kill his wife, Freydís?”
“He did,” she confirmed with a heavy air about herself. “I came in a few minutes too late.” Asta let out a soft chuckle, one that sounded far too bitter coming from her. “Do you know I almost went and checked on them before I did? That I made myself stay and fight for just a few more minutes before it hit me, what had happened? I knew Ivar would have figured it out before me, and that he was in there with her, and… that’s when I finally went. Not when I initially thought to go to be sure they were both alright. I should have gone then, she might still be alive.”
“You cannot blame yourself for what he did,” Björn said. “He should have never done it.”
“And yet he did,” Asta stressed. “He did, Björn, and I could have stopped him if I had gone just a moment before! I could have saved her. I could have saved Freydís, and I wouldn’t be so terrified of losing anyone else. I wouldn’t still grieve her. I wouldn’t have to face the fact I will grieve her all the days of my life, as I have since I left Kattegat. I wouldn’t have to know this world lost one of the most beautiful people God put on it. I wouldn’t… She wouldn’t be gone.”
Björn watched her thoughtfully, frowning at this expression of guilt from her. “She would not be,” he confirmed. “But it is not your fault that she isn’t.”
Asta broke at these words, and when she blinked, tears leaked down from her eyes, staining her cheeks as her hair whipped around her in the wind. “Then why do I blame myself for it?” she sobbed out.
He wanted to sit up and comfort her, but while she was on the beach, and doing so might have seemed as easy as scooting over a bit to her, that wasn’t so. For him, he saw her sitting at the foot of what would likely be his deathbed, and he didn’t have the strength quite to sit up and do it. So he was forced to sit there and watch her endure this alone. Unfortunately, he didn’t quite have the words for her either, and so he simply sat there in silence. What could he say that she likely didn’t already know? She was a smart woman, and wiser to the world now than when she’d left Kattegat. He wished now that he’d never agreed to it, seeing how it had been the beginning of a path that had clearly led to heartbreak.
Her head suddenly lifted, and she looked up, as if seeing someone else approach. She offered whoever it was a shaky smile, the kind meant to obscure pain but that did a horrible job at it, and nodded. Ivar, if Björn had to guess. She looked back to him once more, and he nodded. As much trouble as he had with his brother, he suspected he would take care of her. Freydís had betrayed him, yes, but Asta… She had grown stronger than he’d ever imagined she would, and had clearly stayed at Ivar’s side no matter what. That sort of loyalty would be the sort Ivar repaid with his own loyalty. He would take care of her.
Asta stood, and disappeared from his room. When she left, he laid his head back, and he closed his eyes. The vague sound of Gunnhild’s voice reached his ears, his beautiful wife. He wondered if she would miss him, and all the pain he’d brought her.
And, as his eyes closed, he faded from the beach, leaving Asta alone with Ivar, who noticed the tears running down her cheeks. “What are you out here thinking about, huh?” he asked her, worry evident in his voice as he reached up to wipe her tears away. “What does a fierce warrior like you have to mourn tonight? We won our battle. You should be celebrating with us.”
“I miss her,” Asta confessed, looking to the ground. Ivar swallowed hard at her words.
“Freydís?”
“Who else?”
He sighed, and brought her closer, hugging her tightly and holding the back of her head with his free hand. She rested it against his chest, letting the familiar sound of his heartbeat comfort her. “I miss her too,” he confessed. “Every day. I am not sure a day will go by I don’t miss her.”
“I know there won’t be for me,” Asta said. “After she died, I told her I would mourn for her, every day until I died, and even now I still believe it. Ivar, I loved her so much…”
“I know you did,” he whispered. “So did I.” His chest ached as he opened himself up entirely to Asta, even as he felt he shouldn’t say those things. After all, what right did he have to do so? He had killed her, and if he’d restrained himself, Asta wouldn’t be crying in his arms just then.
She might not have been in his arms at all, but that was a tricky train of thought, full of theories he couldn’t prove short of outright asking her, and he wasn’t about to do that. So instead, he held her, hoping to comfort her. He’d turn back time if he could, take it all back, but he couldn’t. This was all he could do. This, and he could follow through on the vow he’d silently made to himself, that he would never do to Asta what he had done to Freydís. Even if she turned her own sword against him, he would let her do what she needed. He certainly deserved it.
“We should get back inside,” she eventually said, whispering more than she was outright speaking. “It’s cold tonight.”
Ivar hummed his agreement and nodded, wrapping an arm around her and shifting so he could use his crutch while he kept her safely tucked up beneath him, where he could try and keep her warm.
They walked all the way to the Great Hall that way, and Asta stayed closer still to him as they entered to find the feast still in full swing, celebrators eating and drinking to their heart’s content. But Asta clearly didn’t have the constitution for it that night, and she wrapped her arms around Ivar’s waist, letting him lead her out another door to head back to where they would sleep that night.
Not that they got very far.
Hvitserk had seen them walk through, and he quietly got up and slipped out after them, not liking the look on Asta’s face. No one else in that room knew her the way he and Ivar did, and no one else would have recognised it for what it was- grief. He wanted to check on her.
The pair stopped when they heard his voice call out to her, and Asta looked over her shoulder to find him walking worriedly towards her. “Hi, Hvitserk,” she greeted, her voice far softer than it usually was. He frowned as he noticed this.
“Asta, what’s wrong?” he questioned her, worry seeping into his voice.
“I’m just tired,” she tried, making him lift a brow and look at Ivar. Clearly, he didn’t believe her. Ivar returned his confused expression with one which promised he would explain when they got a moment alone. Hvitserk still frowned, not quite satisfied, but looked back to Asta.
“Get some sleep then, yeah?” he suggested. “It won’t be long before we move on Kattegat. We need you well rested. Asta nodded, and allowed him to hug her, swallowing a bit when he kissed the top of her head. “And if you need me for anything, come find me?” She nodded again, and he copied her. “Alright,” he finally said, and released her again into Ivar’s care. It felt a lot like that last night of theirs in Kattegat, he realised, as he gave Ivar a look which again warned him, Take care of her.
And just like that night, Ivar looked at him in such a way as to answer, I will.
Hvitserk nodded and watched as Ivar led her away. He had a sinking feeling in his chest as he watched them go, and for once, he found it wasn’t because he worried about her with Ivar. No, Ivar loved her, and probably more than himself. But he hadn’t ever seen her like this. Whatever was on her mind, it was pulling her far further down than he’d ever seen.
The flash of golden blonde hair and deep blue eyes slipped through his mind, and his heart broke for her just a little bit more.
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