Rated E | 39,268 words | roommates era buddie, there was only one (bunk) bed, grieving for Bobby Nash, feelings realizations, love confessions
by @justonebigbee and me!
Eddie tries to peek out the windows to see what's out there as he approaches the door, but Buck moves to obstruct his view. "Hey, uh. So. I found … uh, this piece of furniture, on Marketplace. And if you hate it, it's fine. No biggie! I just … it was such a good deal!"
They don't need more furniture. In fact, they actively need less, so Buck wouldn't buy something new without a really good reason.
"Okay, Buck, I trust you. What did you get?"
"It's … I guess, I mean, um. Well, I think you should just come see." Buck turns around before Eddie can reply and heads out the front door.
Eddie stays hot on his heels for barely even one square of sidewalk, stopping in his tracks when he sees the bright red metal frame that's strapped down in Buck's truck bed. It's upright, so Eddie has a clear view of what Buck picked up for them.
It's bunk beds.
Buck and Eddie try to process their grief about Bobby's death and figure out what they mean to each other, all while squeezed into Eddie's two-bedroom house.
Summary: Reader is Elliot's new girlfriend, with a dark past and some difficiulties with his daughter Kathleen. They find themselfs in a bad situations but everything works out in the end
Words: 4130
Warnings: kidnapping, violent boyfriends, drowing, little mention of blood, lots of worries and fears,brief mention of drugs, "run like a girl" theme
Author's note: i am not completly happy with this but it had to be published, maybe i could have developed some things better but it's out now. Feel free to critic, as long as it's constructive
*dividers from @saradika-graphics
*requested by and cowritten with @eminelul
By working in a gym it was natural to see fit men all day everyday, even more when the gym is directly across from a police district and almost every policeman and woman goes to it after or before work.
A very good motivation to get up everything, should we say.
The cherry on top came when detective Elliot Stabler joined the group. The most handsome man that ever crossed your vision, who smiled at you since the first time he entered the gym and keeps doing it every day.
The day one of his coworkers noticed you were staring -evidently for too long- at him and not at the machine he came to you and said “you know he’s been divorced for a while, you could ask him out instead of drool from afar”. Now, Finn was always straightforward and funny, actually, you grew a sympathy for him but that was madness : you could never ask Elliot out, you barely talked to him aside from stupid niceties and things about his gym subscription.
It took him three months of longing stares and stupid conversation to finally approach you, “I really hope what I'm about to say isn’t gonna be inappropriate, and if it’ll be I’m sorry…” he seemed so nervous, “would you like to grab a coffee?”
You don’t remember your answer, nor what you talked about over that coffee, you could just say that was the first of many more.
It all seemed so natural with Elliot: talking about your days, ordering for each other at lunches, walking under one umbrella in the rain and so and so. The difficult things started when Elliot wanted to take things to the next level in your relationship and felt terrible for even initiating it with your age difference; it wasn’t that much, just four years -he always had to specify they were four and a half- and just for this it took him another three months just to kiss you.
It was the best kiss you ever had though. It happened casually, you were watching a movie at his apartment, you were braced on his side -the most contact you had up until that moment- and were so focused on the TV that you didn’t notice Elliott watching just you, getting closer by the second. At that moment, Elliot could only admire the light on the TV on your face and how it made your freckles pop and your lips appear more pink. He moved your face with his fingers and directed to him and put his lips to yours; he kissed you slowly, gently, with purpose, as to be sure you wanted it as much as he wanted it. When you finally realised everything and put more passion to it your worlds finally started to move together.
Everything was going so well he actually decided to have you meet his family.
When the day finally came you couldn’t be more nervous, you changed dress three times and called Elliot to convince him you weren’t ready five and a half times -the last went to voicemail because he was already in the car to come and pick you up-
Turns out that Kathy was lovely and so were their kids, lunch was super nice. Except for the oldest one, Kathleen, who tried to ignore you at first and then throwing nasty comments your way every now and then -just how every teenager would do if their father introduced them to his new and young girlfriend, you would say to yourself-
Nevertheless her sympathy for you, you were part of her father’s life now so she had to tolerate you sometimes.
The first time Kathleen was to stay at Elliot’s when you were there she was driven off by some guy, he looked older than her and so much more inclined to use tongue in a kiss than Kathleen was. You really tried not to overstep, but as a woman -more specifically a woman who suffered- you couldn’t get this go and so you asked her about it, “Says the one who sleeps with my father” was the simplest of the many things Kathleen said to you so you decided to let it go for the time.
About a week later you were woken up by your phone, the most shocking part was Kathleen’s name on the screen : “Can you pick me up? I’m at one of Jake’s friends ’house”
You were on your feet in an instant.
When you arrived at the address she sent you, you found one of the loudest and crowded parties you’d seen in quite some time, but your only worry was Kathleen and her safety. Someone directed you to the backyard where you found Kathleen, visibly uncomfortable, sitting on the back of a car and surrounded by Jake and his friends, smoking and drinking. She ran to you immediately, “thank you, I couldn’t call mom or dad and you were the first one I could think of”
Oh.
“Don’t worry sweetheart, let’s get home now”
Being accommodating was the right thing to do, right?
Apparently it was working because she gladly took your arm and started following, just before one stupid tall guy stopped in front of you “nahh don’t just leave yet” and then another next to him “yeah, the party’s just started”
You tried to wriggle out of them “thank you guys, but we really need to go”. It all lasted two minutes of phrases of persuasion before a gunshot was heard. Kathleen flinched next to you.
It was Jake who had shot in the air, a warning. “Now you shut up and come with us”
Now, you shouldn't have been surprised : Kathleen’s voice was trembling on the phone and her eagerness to leave right that moment was only another proof that you had got right the first time, Jake was nothing a person would want near them.
The drive was painfully scary, you didn't know what to do or what to say; you had only two things in mind : protect Kathleen and stay alive.
Your worries only increased when you understood that Jake was driving towards the woods and in that moment you decided it was time to do something, as dangerous as you knew it was, you had to do it.
You squeezed Kathleen’s hand and made sure she knew that whatever was going to happen you’d be okay, “when I look at you, run faster than you ever did” she took a deep breath and nodded.
Jake was so distracted by driving and imagining what he would have done to you that he noticed you opening the door and jumping out just because you were loud about it.
Jake abruptly stopped the car and immediately got out to get you, you got up from the road and waited.
It wasn't the first time you'd be in a rough situation with a guy, so you thought you were prepared… how wrong you were.
When he stopped in front of you, red in the face, a furious look in his eyes, you searched for Kathleen's eyes and finally nodded. She was hesitant at first, but when she saw you ran in the opposite direction she finally got out and ran herself.
Your legs were moving without you could gather anything, all you could concentrate on was the fact that you couldn’t let him reach you, not this time, not again.
Flashback from a past you thought were buried passed in front of you and you feared you were about to give up.
You knew you couldn’t run much, he was stronger and faster, but you kept moving nevertheless.
You were out of breath and panting but nothing mattered.
You dared to look behind you for a moment and had to do a double look because Jake was gone.
Jake was gone?
You couldn’t answer your thoughts because you were knocked out from behind. Your knees gave out and your hand reached behind your head in automatic.
It was wet, red.
Jake stood over you with a rock in his hand and a devious smile.
“You thought you could escape? Oh I'm gonna destroy you”
That was it.
You had to fight for real now.
Jake threw you on his shoulders and started walking; you were left to wonder, analyzing the space around you so you would have been prepared for anything. You couldn't see much but from the smell and the sound Jake's shoes made you were nearing water.
“You think you’re so smart, don't you?”
He put you down
“I'm gonna show you how smart you could have been”
He started to unbuckle his belt, threatening you.
Your head was hurting so much more now, guessing what was about to happen to you. He got closer to you and took your legs in his hands, tying them together with his belt.
He moved on top of you to reach your face and whisper “no one's gonna find you here, bitch.”
That was the last thing you saw before he threw you in the water.
While you sank deeper and deeper in the lake you thought about Kathleen, hoping she was safe now, in the arms of her father.
You thought about Elliot, how worried he must have been, how many officers he would have put on the move if he knew.
You counted every second you hold your breath underwater, your record was of three and a half minutes. You could do more, right?
When you started to see Elliot underwater, reaching to you, you were sure you were about to pass out but you wouldn’t. You didn't go through all that just to die.
You slowly made your way to the surface, finally breathing again.
No one was around.
It took you way too much time to finally arrive near the city again and call Elliot from a gas station.
You were safe.
The following days passed as if they lasted an eternity and the aftermath of everything that had happened felt like a suffocating presence that clung to every glance, every hesitation, and every word spoken in the house.
The walls seemed to echo with the weight of unspoken tension, and even the smallest movements felt charged with a lingering sense of dread. Conversations stumbled, awkward and strained, as if the very air around them held the ghosts of what had happened, refusing to let go.
You weren't the one that felt this pressure the most - for you it was a familiar feeling. You were already used the worried looks, the glances that lingered way too long on your bruised skin and the whispered silences that followed your every step, as if they all feared what might spill out if they spoke too loud. But all of that would pass eventually, you already got over it once. In your eyes, Kathleen was the one most shattered by what had happened. Guilt weighed her down, an invisible burden that you could see in every fleeting glance Kathleen stole in the mornings, in the way her voice softened, almost trembling, whenever they exchanged those awkward, forced words that used to be so simple.
So as you decided that night that she would have lived, now it was time to make her surviving a good thing and not a bad memory.
"Morning!” you said as you heard Kathleen entering the kitchen, you invited her to sit and offered a mug.
“Your dad got an early call this morning so it’s just us for now. Are you hungry?”
“I think I’ll pass. But thank you” Kathleen murmured before forcing her lips into a painful smile. You sighed as you poured coffee in the mugs. “Coffee sounds good, though”, she adds, finally sitting down at the table.
As you looked at her you couldn’t help but notice her dark circles, which made her remember every time she heard the cries coming from her bedroom whenever she would find herself laying awake at night.
Kathleen looked lost, her gestures slow as if she was dreading moving at all.
You understood how it affected her but she never would’ve wanted her to feel guilty.
“Are you up for a little walk?” you found yourself asking, knowing full well that you had to do something about it and you had to do it now.
Kathleen looked at you and then glanced out the window.
“Sure. But I can’t stay too long. “ Her response took you by surprise, which made her smile almost immediately. “I need to finish a project I’ve been procrastinating on”, she adds after taking a sip from the coffee mug.
“I’ll go get dressed. This is already my second coffee this morning anyway” you chuckled before getting up
“Are we leaving town?!” Kathleen asked, her face showing confusion as she glanced at the street sign.
“Yeah. I need to show you something” you replied, your voice calm, yet reassuring. “Don’t worry, I already texted your dad about it…and you’ll be back just in time to finish your project. It’s worth it. I promise” you add, glancing over at Kathleen, a soft smile tugging at the corner of your lips, as if to ease the confusion in her eyes.
The next twenty, maybe thirty minutes felt awkward although the radio was on and you hummed to the songs silently. None of you knew what to say other than the occasional it’s so crowded today - and you both had your reasons.
It took a moment for Kathleen to realize you had parked across from a cemetery, and her confusion only deepened. This time, she didn’t ask any questions, she simply followed you out of the car and toward the gates, hands tucked into her sweater pockets—not because she was cold, but because she didn’t quite know what to feel.
You two walked for a few minutes until you stopped in front of a headstone that read “Here lies Daniel Moretti. May he find in death what he never found in life.”
You took a deep breath as you kneeled down, looking at the engraved words with a weighted gaze on your face.
“Why are we here? Who’s this?” Kathleen broke the silence, her tone being as unsure as her words were. She didn’t want to come off as nosy, but she was curious.
“This…” you hesitated, taking another breath before continuing your sentence “This is my ex fiancée.”
You almost choked on your own words as you closed your eyes, not being able to face what’s in front of you.
“I - uh, sorry. I don’t really understand why would you bring me here” Kathleen replied, her voice catching slightly on the last word.
Knowing what she was referring to, you got right back on her feet, this time facing Kathleen, “Because I’ve seen myself in you right when you walked through that door with your boyfriend”.
You paused for a moment, not sure how to word your thoughts.
“I saw it in you—the way you flinched when he raised his voice, the way you tried to laugh it off, the way you made yourself small so he wouldn’t notice you weren’t happy. And I remembered what it felt like. The exhaustion. The humiliation. But most of all, the fear” you added, looking right into Kathleen’s eyes. You noticed how her eyes grew wider and how she bit the inside of her cheek to prevent herself from crying. That’s why she tried to keep her voice as calm as possible, although she wanted to scream the words so loud that her lungs would feel like they were on fire.
“It wasn’t like that, he -…” Kathleen tried to reply, instinctively covering for the man who put them both through hell. “I just…I don’t know how to process all of this. I thought I was smarter than this, that I could see the signs. I should’ve seen the signs.” she gasped for air as the realization sank in, leaving her breathless. “I grew up around them. How did I manage to miss them?”
“No. Don’t you even dare blaming yourself for this. It only takes one man, Kathleen. And the worst part? He doesn’t have to be a stranger lurking in the dark. He can be someone you trust. Someone who calls you ‘baby’ while tightening his grip. Someone who tells you he loves you while making sure you know there’s no way out.”
You then took Kathleen’s hands into yours, leaving a deep sigh out before looking right back into her eyes, “It’s not your fault for not seeing the signs. It’s that awful, creeping voice in our head whispering that maybe this was just how it was supposed to be. But it’s not. It never is.”
You watched as Kathleen shut her eyes closed, finally letting her emotions show as tears fell down her face. It was only a matter of seconds before she dried up her cheeks, looking straight to the headstone next to you. “Is this why you brought me here? Did he…Did he do the same things to you?” she asked hesitantly, not knowing if it was appropriate to ask this directly.
“The same things and then some more” you laughed it off but it was clear as day that your laugh hid pain that maybe nobody in Kathleen’s family knew about. “Sometimes, when the memories come rushing back, I find myself coming back to his grave. Just to make sure, you know? Just to see the dirt, packed down and untouched. Needing to see for myself that the nightmare is buried six feet under” the words fell through your lips while she stared at the dirt beneath your feet.
“Does it help?" Kathleen finds herself asking, her question feeling almost hopeful that the response would be an affirmative one.
“Yes. It does. At least for a while. But the nightmare is never over, right? The memories are still there, haunting me, grinning with their sharp teeth at me and waiting for the best moment to catch me with my guard down.” You knew that you couldn’t sugarcoat the truth, It wouldn’t be fair. You could feel Kathleen’s disappointment as you finished speaking but you thought that it was better than twisting the reality.
You needed to get that out of your chest, not being able to let Kathleen take the blame for what her boyfriend did to you.
“We met at a party back when I was in college. At first, he was sweet, caring - the poster child for a loving boyfriend, the kind you only hear about in fairytales, not even movies. It didn’t take a look, though. He consistently acted this way just enough for me to get attached - too attached”, you continued and watched Kathleen look at you, her expression filled with something that made you realise that the way their stories wasn’t much different.
“Right after he had me where he wanted, he changed. I wasn’t allowed to go to college, talk to my friends - even my family. He completely shut me off from the world and had me thinking that I didn't need anyone but him” you swallowed hard as you spoke, trying to force down the lump that was already forming in your throat. “He judged me over and over again, belittled me to the point where I started questioning my worth. Somehow, this was worse than the beating and everything else that he put me through because this was his way of making me stay with him.” your jaw clenched as you let the last sentence leave you lips and then inhaled deeply before giving Kathleen a soft smile.
“But- you left, didn’t you? Or did you…” Kathleen asked as she pointed to the grave, not knowing how to word the question.
“Oh!” you laugh, only this time it was actually a genuine laugh “No, although sometimes I wish I did. He died in a car crash almost two years ago. And yes, I left. Eventually. He was an addict and started making me take the drugs he used to take so that we would get high together” as you remembered that part of the story, you cringed and shook your head. “I only did it two times because I thought that it would ease how I felt but it only made everything worse. So I kept faking it. He would always up the dosage so he never caught on. That’s how I escaped. I left as soon as I saw him drift away from reality.”
“That was brave, you know? I don’t know if…if I could do it if I were you. Did he ever find you?” Kathleen said as she was looking down, digging a boot into the dirt, as if she was trying to ground herself.
“No. I left this city without telling anyone. I got on the first bus and got off here. I eventually told my family about it and they understood. They just… They were relieved that I was even alive” you answered softly while staring again at the gravestone with a hollow expression, lost in thought.
For what seemed like an eternity, none of you said a word. It was a lot to process and maybe you haven't reached half of what happened to you.
“I’m really sorry for what happened to you. I never wanted this to happen. If I had known that you wanted to stay behind, I would’ve never left you alone with him” Kathleen eventually broke the silence, her words being full of pain and regret.
“I should’ve never left you alone with him. You almost died because of me!” she cried, not being able to hold herself together anymore. You immediately pulled her in your arms and stroked her back with your palm. “Sweetheart, stop it. Stop blaming yourself. The thought of this being your fault never even crossed my mind, alright?” you spoke calmly as Kathleen kept sobbing in your arms.
“How could I not blame myself? You almost died trying to protect me from something that was meant to happen to me” her words stung you in ways you couldn’t even comprehend which made you bring Kathleen even closer, as if you were trying to shield her from all this pain.
“I would do this a hundred times over for you. I would run into that dark again. Don’t you dare apologise. And don’t you dare feel guilty.” you spoke firmly, letting Kathleen go before cupping her face into yout palms. “And do you want to know why?”
Kathleen nodded, unable to use anything other than some small gestures.
You could feel that, that pain and you had enough of seeing her like this. Kathleen never deserved to feel like this.
“I would do all of this all over again because it means that you won’t have to. That’s all that matters to me. You’re safe”, you gently dried the tears of Kathleen’s face and smiled at her as soon as you felt her gaze softening.
“And I never regretted anything less I’m my life. That’s why I brought you here. I wanted to remind you that you’re safe and that he can’t hurt you anymore.”
“Thank you. I guess I never realised how much I needed this” Kathleen says and she then lets out a deep, shaky sigh, releasing the last bit of tension.
Back in the car, there was some sense of relief for both of you. Of course, everything that had happened still felt heavy on your minds, but it wasn’t like you could do anything about it other than trying to move forward. It couldn’t be erased and most definitely, nobody could act as if it never happened.
You pushed the radio button and turned up the volume, then looked at the passenger’s seat, where Kathleen was and smiled as the next song played.
“Can I ask you something?” she asked softly, still trying to process the whole conversation that you had at the cemetery.
“You can ask me anything. Unless it involves math. I never liked it” you laugh, trying to make Kathleen feel more comfortable given the circumstances.
“Do you feel safe now that you’re here? With us?” her look turns at you, studying your face as she waits for an answer.
“You have no idea” you assured her, taking her hand from the setting wheel for a few seconds so that you could stroke Kathleen’s shoulder.
“This is the safest I’ve ever felt” you add, seeing the worry fade from Kathleen’s face.
(No longer looking for beta readers and proofreaders right now)
Hello!
My name is Chaos and I'm looking for co-writers, proofreaders and beta readers.
I have a bunch of stories I've started writing but haven't finished. I find that it's easier for me to write a story when I have someone to bounce Ideas off of. So if anyone has a Archive of Our Own account please sent me a message.
Here's my archive account : Obsidian_Paint
I usually write undertale fanfiction, but I also have some original works that i'd love a beta reader for.
All of my stories are on google docs, I've only posted 2 on my Archive account.
I was tagged eons ago by @epiphany-jones and finally getting around to it, so thank you <3
For this WIP, I thought I'd share a lil something my lovely friend @woodlandeelf and I are working on
(and... before you ask, we started this before Heated Rivalry... We're just hockey fans.... but we also do love HR so sssssHHHHH)
lightly tagging @grad-writes (even though you're on a writing ban oops) @sorrygoldfish @onlyslightlypsycho @ttrevelyan @brainwyrmz @woodlandeelf (double tag heh) @morrriigan @khayr @nimblefox66
The man before him is tall, lean. Suited in a loose long-sleeve shirt and cargo pants, his hair wild. It isn’t the uniform Atlas has come to know, would have recognized well, with its green lining and sharp edges, an insignia resting above the breast pocket. If anything, this man’s silhouette is soft, the rounded edges of a muscled yet undisciplined body. A civilian’s body: Nothing to suit a soldier.
Atlas knows that for certain. This man, he isn’t a soldier. Not one of Eden’s. From his laugh to his cocky attitude; his lack of care, or discipline. His leering, his bared smile. He was not raised inside Eden’s quarters, nor was his foolish human hubris stripped from him in training. He is no soldier. He’s a wildcard, Atlas realizes, something different entirely. An attempt to throw him off his game.
The man is smiling as he stands again. A shit-eating grin, he can almost hear Wren say. Laughing a little, dusting himself off. He no longer holds the gun, it having fallen a few feet away, but he doesn’t seem to care. He hasn’t even seemed to register Atlas as a threat. The thought itself is strangely infuriating. Atlas bites back his anger. His eyes narrow.
Focus.
“Nice trick,” the man says through his teeth. His hand lingers on his collarbone, where the dissipating wisps of the illusion have begun to fade. An exact replica of the knife Atlas now holds. His fingers curl around it and it disintegrates, the spot where it had been embedded, where blood had appeared to seep through, now bare as if nothing had even happened in the first place.
Atlas bites his tongue, cursing at himself for not following through the illusion with a real attack. He’s been too distracted by Wren lately, too caught up in their mess; he keeps making stupid mistakes. Ira would laugh at him, if she saw him now. The chosen one, fallen from grace.
He blinks. Ira. Why is he thinking about her? He needs to forget about Ira.
He swallows, planting his feet. He realizes far too late that he’s been standing here for much too long. He’s given the man time to catch his bearings — to recuperate. Stupid, stupid. He’s being so very stupid.
He tightens his grip on the knife in his hand. His eyes flicker towards the gun the same time as the man’s do. They both tense. Waiting, watching. Quiet, still, for a moment. Gaze locking with the others. He has the eyes of a hunter, Atlas thinks to himself. Sharp, narrow, burning with such an intensity he only thinks he would be able to recognize in his own. The comparison doesn’t sit well with him.
And with that, the moment is over. He darts, feet smacking against the gravel, kicking up dust. The man is taller than him, longer legs, breaking the distance with more ease. But it becomes quickly apparent: Atlas is faster.
They crash into each other with full force, tumbling and fumbling, gripping each other sloppily. Atlas knocks against the gun and it slides against the pavement, screeching painfully. He eyes it for only a millisecond, feels the man scramble against him, reaching, fingers outstretched, swiping against bare air. His gaze refocuses, and he delivers a swift kick to the soft of the man’s stomach, knee pressing into his ribs. He twists, locking his other leg around his waist, propelling himself forward, and they both go teetering over in a flurry of motion.
The man lands on his back and Atlas hears him wheeze as the breath is knocked from his lungs. He gasps and Atlas unsheathes the knife, plunges it into his shoulder, twisting, blood spurting. The man lets out a hollow breath of pain, eyes wide, alight in agony, and Atlas relishes in it. He wrenches the blade from out of his shoulder blade, an explosion of crimson painting across his face, and slices the knife in an arc across his chest, fingers moving with artful technique.
The man screams, wrestling with Atlas, and swings a heavy fist into the side of his head, knocking him loose. He kicks him and scrambles away, hands moving on instinct, and Atlas has to throw himself out of the way as a barrage of blades comes flying in his direction.
“Not bad,” the man laughs, voice tinged by pain. You talk too much, Atlas thinks to himself, a dull throbbing in his head. He darts towards the array of knives left scattered where he was crouching a mere two seconds ago, twisting to dodge another attack as he sends three back the man’s way, satisfaction swelling through him when he hears the telltale wince and spurting of blood.
The fight continues like this. Dodging, taking hits. The man is better than Atlas wants to give him credit for. The notion that an outsider could be so skilled feels so utterly wrong, it sickens Atlas. He’s obviously not trained. He fights sloppy, takes hits when he should be able to dodge. Within minutes of fighting, skirting around each other, the man is more marked by blood than Atlas is. His chest is heaving, out of breath. He’s not used to this, the back and forth. He’s barely better than even Wren.
And yet, it’s undeniable, his talent. Atlas struggles to keep up with his shots, slices from his knives shredding the worn material of his shirt. Each attack is careful, skillful. Nothing like his fighting style. He’s trained himself, and his shots are unlike anything Atlas has come to face with before. That, he thinks, is the worst part. This man is a rogue, and he’s a better marksman than Atlas could have ever wished to be.
He shakes off the thought. Failure isn’t an option.
Atlas closes the distance between them once again, dragging the tip of his blade along the flesh of the man’s upper arm, only to be met with a kick to his knee. No matter how close he gets, the man always prefers to fight long-range, drawing Atlas out further and further away. It’s frustrating, he has to admit. His cocky attitude only seems to aggravate Atlas further. He for once feels grateful that Eden beat out the sarcastic quips of the others years ago.
A knife embeds itself in his thigh and he bites his tongue, sending another twirling in the direction of the man’s head. He charges, pushing himself forwards despite the pain, and the man moves a little shakily, failing to move to intercept both attacks at the same time. Atlas smiles, a fake-out, and moves lower, slashing a blade across the underbelly of the man’s stomach. There’s a howl, and Atlas falls back, using the injury as a distraction.
He can’t help but notice the man’s movements are growing slower as the fight drags on. His reflexes becoming less sharp. He’s tiring out, he realizes. The blood loss must be getting to him. From the pained look upon his face, he wasn’t prepared for this. It was a reckless decision, a stupid decision. He didn’t expect this.
Atlas almost laughs.
He snatches the gun up from where the two had initially discarded it, feeling it within his palms. Its heavy, sturdy, a good fit. He levels it at the man’s head, breath coming out in short stops. It’s time to end this.
The man cracks a smile, flashing his bloody teeth. He grips his stomach, crimson spreading through his shirt, dripping from his fingers. He’s out of breath, slouched over, his eyes flickering faintly. “Whoo,” he breathes, sighing, body shaking with the stress of it all. Atlas’s finger closes around the trigger, and the man raises a hand, perhaps in retreat.
Atlas doesn’t know why, but he hesitates.
The man straightens. Blood pours down his belt, splattering the pavement below him, but he doesn’t seem to really notice. He cracks his neck. “Well,” he says, almost softly, wheezes accompanying his breaths. “This was fun.”
Atlas feels the urge to argue, but he doesn’t. He works at his jaw, a strange sort of frustration brewing inside of him as he raises the gun higher, finger moving to slowly press down on the trigger. The man’s expression betrays no glimpses of fear.
“You live up to your name, Zieliński,” the man says. From inside his pocket, he withdraws a small, oddly-shaped gun, a bright silver in colour. He replicates Atlas’s pose, only this time, the barrel is pointed at his neck. “I’ll be sad to see you go. We should meet up sometime, really.”
A chill runs down Atlas’s spine. The man’s grin has stretched, unnaturally wide, and it dawns on him that he won’t be able to dodge this one. It’s more of an instinctual feeling, this realization. The look in the man’s glowing eyes. He has a feeling he’s been left uninjured so far due to no choice of his own. The man wanted it that way. He missed on purpose.
The man laughs. “I’ll tell your little friend goodbye for you, alright?” He says, tongue pressed against his teeth. He is still bleeding heavily, and he doesn’t seem to care. There is something wild about him, something foreign. It causes Atlas’s trigger-finger to tremble. He is sinister, in a way Atlas has never known. Sinister, unlike the cruel metallic nights of his childhood. Sinister, in a way Atlas only remembers from a place very far away, a place he thinks Wren must understand. “I’ll make sure it’s quick.”
His finger presses against the trigger of his misshapen, silver weapon, and Atlas closes his eyes, understanding, at once, there is no getting out of this. He prays, despite himself, for Wren. He hopes they had the brains to leave him behind. He’s not worth dying for.
It is strangely funny, his two weeks of freedom are to end like this. Staring down the barrel of a gun, the shame of failure burning his insides for the first time in his life. He wonders what he’ll tell Cato when he sees her. Wonders if he’ll feel relieved.
The gun clicks.
And then the strangest thing happens.
Atlas is not met by the sound of a gunshot, but instead, the screech of tires against pavement. He jolts, eyes opening, as he just manages to catch a blur of white come into view, speeding towards the very spot the man stands at. The van comes to a shuddering halt just as the man goes flying, launched through the air with a distant, shocked yell. His body slams into the brick wall of the building with a sickening crunch, and Atlas is left to gape at his crumpled figure as the van door swings open, Wren greeting him with a wild scream.
“Atlas!”
· · ───────── ꒰ঌ·✦·໒꒱ ────────── · ·
Wren’s eyes are wide as they lock with Atlas’s. Everything is a whirlwind of motion, startling them, and they can barely process it fast enough to keep up with it. Fear courses through their veins.
Holy fuck. Holy fuck. They hit him. They really hit him.
Their foot hovers over the gas pedal in anticipation, yet Atlas makes no move to get in. He's wide eyed, gaping at them. The gun in his hands has fallen to his feet, forgotten. It almost seems like he's seeing them in an entirely new light, changed. It’s not until the sound of gunfire rings out again, distant, and the peppering of bullets stings the side of the van, that he startles. Flinching, as if just coming to; his pupils blown and the violet of his irises glowing with supernatural iridescence. Wren doesn’t even take the time to roll up the window as he clambers in, fist clenched around gearshift, knuckles popping, as they shove it into reverse; tires skirting as they speed between buildings and then drift around the corner, spinning towards the main road. The man is but a blimp in the distance, crumpled under their dust.
Wren realizes now they’re breathing too hard. Heavy breaths coming with the rise and fall of their chest. Their face is flushed, adrenaline buzzing in their every limb. Fear. Fear is all they can feel.
“You okay?” they ask weakly, fists clenched around the wheel tightly. It’s meant to stop the tremor shaking their entire arms but it doesn’t. There is nothing they can do to stop the panic from gripping them, bending them smaller. They wish very very badly they could be anything like Atlas is. They wish they were brave.
“Just go.” Atlas says urgently, his expression tight with pain, blood smeared across his cheeks. The van whines, tires screeching again, as Wren accelerates, heart pounding faster with every kilometer they increase. There’s a deafening bang and a bullet nearly misses them as it skims against the vans side, denting it, metal warping. Wren screams, almost jumps, as Atlas glances back to see the small, blurry figure, eyes glaring down into his from a rooftop above. They point a gun at his head and he whips around, face pale.
Wren grits their teeth and pushes their foot harder onto the gas pedal. A loud ding sounds as a bullet skims the side of the van. “Shit!” they cry miserably, driving around a corner and through a yellow light. There are more cars on the main road and they have to slam on the breaks to avoid slamming into the back of one. Another car is to their left and so they can’t swerve around. With a frustrated huff, they slam their fist against the horn, glancing at the figure fast approaching in the rear view mirror. “Come on, come on.” they grit, frustrated and near tears.
The sound of the gun firing and re-firing becomes a hollow drum in Wren’s ears. Atlas is bleeding onto the seat. His blood is getting onto the worn leather. Slipping down the side, onto the floor. Bullets ricochet against the van, narrowly missing the walls, the windows, the tires, and Wren almost bites through their tongue in an attempt to not scream.
“Fuck,” Atlas mumbles from beside them. His eyes are focused on the rearview mirror, set cold on sleek, dark car that shadows them. Hands clenched, blood trailing down his arm; Wren barely has time to glance his way before he’s reaching for their gun, switching off the safety. They swerve hard to the left as they narrowly dodge another shot, and yelp when they hear him get up, leaning outside the window, body tilted dangerously.
Blood rushes through their ears. “What are you doing?” They shout, swerving in and out of cars, biting their lip as they bounce over a speedbump. Wren swears he is almost knocked loose.
Atlas’s grip tightens around top of the car. His eyes narrow and he raises the gun, steady, points, and fires two bullets — only two. It is quick, faster than Wren would ever be capable of. He’s ducking back inside, satisfied, before they can even think to shout at him again.
The car from behind them spins as the tire is blown to shreds. Atlas huffs a breath of relief.
“Slowing them down.” He replies.
Wren can only stare at him for so long before they have to turn their eyes back to the road. The sound of screeching tires drums in their ears and they are not trembling any less as they sit next to him, threat temporarily removed. They feel like as if the gun pointed at their face had never been lowered, as if the man still is grinning down at them, cruel. As if they never got out.
There are no words spoken between the two of them as they trail down the highway, Wren keeping a steady foot on the gas. There is nothing either could even begin to say. Yet it's only minutes of this before they feel themself slowing, the gap between the cars in front of them closing with rapid speed. They hold down the horn as the person before them creeps forwards into an impossibly slow turn, frantic with every vehicle that pulls up beside them. Any could belong to Eden. Any could belong to Eden.
The thought is enough to steal the breath from their lungs.
Panicked, Wren swerves into the traffic, items tumbling in the back; they take a sharp right, narrowly missing a truck that honks repeatedly. Wren ignores it, speeding over the bridge, crossing the bay. Their pupils are dilated and they are breathing too fast as they turn to Atlas, their steel grip still on the steering will. “I’m going to drive to the harbor. There’s too much activity there. That’s bound to slow them down. It’s not like they can attack openly in a huge crowd of people.”
The last part comes to them like an after-thought.
Atlas offers them a curt nod, not looking at them, his gaze instead focused straight ahead. The gun rests in his lap, active. He doesn't even seem to notice the steady stream of blood that still leaks from his bicep. Wren cannot find the words to comment on it. The sight of his blood has begun to make them nauseous.
It is just as they are about to depart off the bridge that they encounter another interference. Before them, a light that was previously green changes to red without any signal. It is a blink-and-you-miss-it moment, faster than anything Wren would be able to catch on a normal day. But the adrenaline has left them jumpy. As cars slow to a stop, Wren feels their airways beginning to close up.
“What the hell!” They practically sob, desperate, face flushed and eyes narrowed as they sit anxiously trapped between cars. Atlas’s grip tightens around the gun, finger sliding effortlessly over the trigger, readjusting his position in his seat, and Wren bites their lip, a chill running through them. More blood. More destruction. More to run from. There’s something anguished in their eyes as they glance from car to car, scanning, in a way Atlas so often does, for some sort of disturbance, something out of the ordinary. Atlas has begun to prepare for a bloodshed when they spot it, eyes drifting to the impossibly small, black devices positioned just beside the lights.
Traffic cams.
“Atlas, wait!” Wren barks, wild-eyed; their jaw is chittering with fear, barely controlled. The memory of guns and Atlas's eyes, cold and black is the only thing driving them forwards. “They’re watching us, look,” they direct, pointing. “Put up an illusion.”
Atlas is efficient. He does so wordlessly, the van fading, invisible, with a simple flash of his eyes. He’s quiet as they maneuver around cars, manage to sneak past another set of lights. Drive down the off-ramp, a metallic scent filling the car. There is no music to break the distance between them this time, silence thick and unsettling as they make their escape, just barely. Wren cannot find it in themself to sigh in relief. They do not feel any safer here than they did five feet away from that stranger.
The harbor comes into view and they drive right into the heart of it, parking the van in an alley barely wide enough for it to fit in. They turn it off with a switch of the keys, tucking them into their pocket. Reluctantly, they let go of the steering wheel, crashing back into their seat.
“Let’s get out. We need to get into the crowd.” Atlas says and Wren doesn’t have even a moment to even their breathing as they nod, silently stepping out of the van. He accompanies them, tucking the gun deep into the pockets of his jacket. He sticks close to Wren, a watchful guard dog, alert and tense, ears perked and eyes sharp.
“Come on,” Wren mutters, swallowing roughly. They grab his steady hand in their quivering one and pull him towards the crowd of people wandering past street carts and vendors. Wren’s pace is fast and panicked as they pull a slower, more calculated moving Atlas through the masses. Every now and then, they glance up at him or over their shoulder to ensure they aren’t being followed. “Think we lost them?” they ask under their breath.
He quickly shakes his head. “No.” He responds almost silently, still looking around for some sign of an Eden soldier following them.
With a sigh, Wren’s hand tightens around Atlas’s. “We need to.” They glance around the crowd, feeling almost curious as their eyes pass by different blurry faces, all insignificant, before moving in close to a particularly busy fish cart.
· · ───────── ꒰ঌ·✦·໒꒱ ────────── · ·
The noise of the street behind them is a loud hum that fills their otherwise silent interactions as they breeze between the crowds, flitting in between dwindling groups of people, the sun long having set beyond the horizon. No one seems to notice them, as if they are covered by an illusion. Even with the splatters of blood on Atlas’s clothes, none of the civilians surrounding them make any moves to bother them.
And yet, despite the lack of presence of the Eden soldier, Wren still can’t shake the jitter in their bones. Atlas’s total lack of movement or speech beside them does not aid in calming their nerves. They would take anything right now but they already know there is no time in which they would receive it from him. Whatever. The two of them being alive is enough for now. It has to be.
Minutes pass on, spreading into the next hour, Wren wandering aimlessly further. They itch to fill the silence but there is nothing they can say that will relinquish the sickening dread that swells larger and larger inside them by the second. Today has been yet another reminder that they could die doing this. Instead of trying to distract from that horror as they usually would, Wren directs it outwards.
“I’m scared.” Their voice doesn’t tremble as much as they think it will. In fact, it’s eerily level. “We almost died today.”
This time their voice cracks at the end and they cringe. They feel so small when put beside Atlas, unwavering and brave. He sits across from them, both of them seated at an outdoor café — the safest cover they could muster. His posture is straight, muscles tensed; the coffee pressed between his fingers has begun to turn cold, but he doesn’t seem to mind. He does not even complain about his injuries, which Wren knows are plenty. They don’t think they’ve ever heard him complain about anything for all the time they have known him. Being tired, or hungry, or hurt. He is never scared, and Eden is never too much. He takes it with such a grace Wren cannot even tell if it was trained into him or not.
His eyes linger across their face, yet he makes no move to speak. It forces them to sit with their own words, digest the very thing they have been so avoidant of. Their throat has begun to close up and they blink rapidly, peering into the dark, past the shine of the streetlights. The night feels strangely hollow, the sky dark and bare. The breeze has begun to grow uncomfortable, biting through the weak barrier of their sweater, and Wren chews at the dead skin on their lip to distract themself from it. They fold their fingers inwards, cradling the little heat left inside their hands. They don't know how much longer they'll be able to go on.
“That back there isn’t going to stop happening. Not until we finish what we started.” Atlas speaks finally, and his voice is steady yet quiet. It does not carry any warmth, but Wren finds that it isn’t cold, either. “You need to be ready for it.”
His words leave a sour taste in their mouth and the feeling in their throat turns sharp as their eyes sting with tears.
He speaks again, eyes locking with theirs. “But I have a plan. You won’t die.”
The proclamation is said with a level of certainty Wren did not know Atlas still had. His words are not much as far as words of comfort go and they know that despite his certainty, he cannot actually ensure anything. But yet the assurance is enough to quiet their thoughts briefly. They take a deep breath.
“Okay. Thank you.”
The street has grown quieter now. They feel a sort of faux protection, slouching underneath the shade of the night with him. It is growing later, and despite their growing paranoia, there is something personal about being here, with him. There's a softness when he stares at them, and they know that despite their circumstances, they could not be more lucky. Despite themself, Wren smiles.
“I'm glad I have you to protect me,” they begin, voice soft. They are whispering, despite the lack of an audience. There is something in the air that feels strangely tender, special, with the fade of their adrenaline. The aftermath of an attack always leaves them sentimental.
But looking up, it is not Atlas's face they see. It is not a face they ever thought they would encounter again. It is foreign, and strange, so, so completely wrong. Their eyes widen, true, real fear sparking from within their chest. They open their mouth, any words of warning dying on the tip of their tongue. Their voice comes out shouted, surprising both them and he.
