Modern AU | Love Triangle | Post-Divorce | Stalker / Obsessive Hiromi Higuruma | Possessive / Controlling Kento Nanami | Dark Romance | Psychological Tension | Tragedy & Suicide | Life Imprisonment
Synopsis: Three months after escaping the chaos of Tokyo, Y/N has rebuilt a quiet, structured life with Nanami on the misty coast of Denmark. The danger feels miles away, the routines are comforting, and the case finally seems closed. But absolute peace is an illusion. At exactly 8:00 AM, a heavy navy envelope bypasses Nanami's fortress—carrying a final, delayed message from Hiromi. Standard procedures won't save them from the ghosts of the past, because even from across the world, a brilliant, broken mind always keeps the final word.
Word Count: ~0.6k
Three months had passed since you left Tokyo for the misty, sea-swept coast of Denmark. True to his promise, Nanami had rebuilt your entire world. Your new home was a masterpiece of minimalist architecture, isolated from the rest of the world, where the rhythmic crashing of the waves replaced the relentless neon rain of Japan.
Nanami had softened. A new, hard-won peace settled into his eyes every time he saw you reading by the fireplace. The structured routines of your life had become a comforting ritual. You thought you were safe. You thought the case was closed.
Then, on a Tuesday morning, at exactly 8:00 AM, a letter arrived.
It hadn't been sent through standard mail. It had been held by a prestigious Tokyo notary firm, under strict instructions to be couriered internationally only after a specific duration of time had lapsed. The envelope was a heavy, dark navy paper. The elegant, slightly trembling cursive script turned your blood to ice before you even broke the wax seal.
Nanami, who was busy preparing tea in the kitchen, noticed the color instantly drain from your face. He set the cup down, his sharp eyes locking onto the paper in your trembling hands. "Darling? What is it?"
You couldn't answer him. Your eyes were already racing across Hiromi's final words.
My dearest love,
The court has handed down its verdict, and I have accepted my sentence. You said I wanted to drag you into the grave with me. You were wrong. I simply wanted us to live. But if my presence condemned you to live in a gilded cage, then I have chosen to adjourn the session permanently.
Monsieur Nanami believes he has won because he bought my debts, my firm, and your future. He thinks life is merely a sequence of numbers that can be erased or replaced. But blood is not ink, and memory is not an asset to be liquidated.
By the time you read these lines, my body will have been found in Courtroom Number 3 of the Tokyo District Court. Right where it all began. I am leaving, but I am not leaving you. Every time you look at that man, every time you attempt to feel entirely happy, you will remember that the price of your freedom was paid with my life. I am ensuring that you can never, ever forget me. I am becoming your eternal case of conscience.
The trial is over, Love. But I keep the final word.
A sudden, sharp chime echoed through the quiet room. Nanami’s phone vibrated on the marble counter, displaying an international news alert from Japan: Prominent former Tokyo defense attorney found dead by suicide in Chiyoda courthouse.
Nanami stepped toward you, his usually unreadable face fracturing with a sudden, rare flash of pure panic. He threw his arms around you, pulling you against his chest with a force that bordered on painful, as if he could physically shield you from the ghost that had just entered the room.
"Do not read it, darling. Do not listen to him," he whispered urgently, his voice trembling for the first time in your memory as he pressed desperate kisses into your hair, trying to anchor you back to his perfect, structured reality. "He lost. We are here. You are mine."
But as you buried your face against Nanami’s chest, you could no longer hear the steady, reassuring beat of his heart. All you could hear, echoing through the cold silence of your perfect sanctuary, was the distant, definitive strike of an iron gavel hitting the wood.
Hiromi had lost the battle. But in taking his own life, he had sentenced your mind to life imprisonment.
And that is the final verdict… Please don't kill me guys, I know this is a devastating ending! Hiromi really decided that if he couldn't have her, he would make sure she could never fully belong to Nanami either… absolute psychological warfare!
This was Part 4 of our 4-chapter mini-series, which means the trial is officially closed. Thank you so much for following this dark journey with me! ♡
Read the full series here
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summary: one late night message, a flood of memories and a love that still haunts him - John can’t escape your voice.
wc: 1123
content warning: no comfort, slightly angst
John sat on the edge of his bed, elbows on his knees, the faint glow of his phone stretching shadows across the bare walls. The barracks were quiet, too quiet, except for the low hum of the base and the occasional shuffle of boots in the hallway. Outside, darkness pooled like something alive, a restless curtain that seemed to listen to him. He should’ve been asleep by now. The briefing tomorrow wouldn’t forgive a foggy mind. But sleep had slipped away hours ago, like water running through his fingers, leaving only the tightness in his chest and the dull throb behind his eyes.
The phone’s screen glowed, stubborn and accusing: Missed Voicemail — You.
He stared at it longer than he should have, thumb hovering, hesitant. The moment he pressed play, he knew he’d cross a line he couldn’t uncross. Still, he did it. And then your voice filled the room - fragile, trembling - the kind of voice that makes you flinch because it remembers you too well.
“Hey… I don’t even know why I’m recording this.“
The words were soft, uneven, fading in and out beneath the faint creak of furniture and the static hum of a quiet apartment - your apartment. A world that kept on moving without him. He froze, gripping the phone as if it could anchor him back there.
“I didn’t leave because I stopped caring. I didn’t leave because I stopped loving you. I left because… I couldn’t keep living like I was always waiting for the next call to hear you were gone.”
He swallowed, hard. The memories hit sharp - mornings with sunlight slicing through blinds, the bitter smell of burnt coffee, your half-smile when he finally got the ratio right. Arguments that went too far. Doors slammed, then reopened. Forgiveness that came with a tired kind of love. He remembered you standing at the doorway one last time, eyes weary but still soft. That smile that always, always undid him.
“I miss the mornings with you… even the stupid arguments. I miss how you’d roll your eyes and I’d stubbornly make coffee anyway. I miss… everything. I hate that I miss you.”
His breath caught. The sound of your voice pulled the air straight out of him. For a moment, he could almost feel you beside him - the warmth of your hand, the scent of your hair, that quiet companionship that needed no words. He pressed the phone closer, as if distance could dissolve through proximity.
“I hope you’re okay. I hope you’re eating. I hope… you’re still alive, really. Not just existing out there.”
Your voice trembled on that last word. The silence that followed was unbearable. He could hear his heartbeat echoing in the small room, the way the air felt heavier now, saturated with things he never said. He replayed the voicemail. Once. Twice. Again. Each time, it sounded different - another breath, another inflection, another tiny hesitation that twisted the knife a bit deeper.
He wanted to call. Needed to. But fear was a quiet, stubborn thing that held him still. What if you’d moved on? What if you hadn’t? Maybe this message wasn’t meant for him at all — just something you had to release into the void. And yet here he was, making it his lifeline.
The memories grew clearer, crueler. Your laugh echoing in the kitchen. Your shoulder against his when the night was long and the world outside seemed too loud. The quiet apologies after stupid fights, the way you’d mumble his name half-asleep. He could almost smell the coffee again, hear the soft rustle of you turning over in bed. The ache in his chest tightened until it felt like it might split him open.
“Maybe… maybe I shouldn’t have left. Maybe I should’ve stayed. But I was scared.”
When the message ended, the silence felt wrong. He pressed the phone against his chest, eyes shut. Your voice lingered there, a phantom heartbeat. He sat like that for what could’ve been minutes or hours. The room didn’t move. Neither did he.
The barracks felt smaller now, like the walls were leaning in. Every shadow seemed alive, whispering back the words he couldn’t forget. He stood, pacing the narrow space, phone clutched tight. But no matter where he turned, your voice followed.
“I didn’t leave because I stopped loving you… I left because I couldn’t keep waiting to lose you.”
The sentence cracked something open inside him. He sank to the floor, knees drawn in, the phone pressed to his ear again, again, again. The base around him vanished - no hum, no footsteps, nothing but your voice looping like a confession that refused to fade.
He let himself remember what he’d tried to bury:
The first time you’d walked out after a fight, and he just stood there, freezing, waiting for a sign you’d turn back.
The nights when your breathing filled the silence and he’d lie awake thinking he didn’t deserve it.
The mornings that came too fast, when you’d smile anyway, like forgiveness was second nature.
His hands were shaking now. He wanted to scream - to do something - but all he did was press the phone closer until it hurt. The room felt suffocating. Your voice was both comfort and punishment, wrapping around him until he couldn’t tell if it kept him alive or was slowly undoing him.
“Maybe I should’ve stayed… I just wanted you to hear it. Even if you never do.”
He listened until the words blurred, until your voice became rhythm instead of meaning. Tears slipped down his face unnoticed. It didn’t matter. Nothing did, except the loop of your voice and the small, dim light that refused to die.
By dawn, the phone’s glow had dimmed to a faint pulse, like a heartbeat on its last repetition. He was still sitting there, exhausted, unblinking, your voice echoing in the back of his mind.
You were gone.
And somehow, you were still everything he had left.
It's fun to write different perspectives in the Pitt.
I clearly enjoy Yolanda Garcia quite a bit. I need more of her and Frank having the banter next week.
https://archiveofourown.org/works/76599451
Links are not behaving themselves at all today!
Trinity learns of a divorces and proceeds to panic.
There was nothing like being settled on your couch, favourite snacks at the ready, an excellent glass of wine in hand and a new journal to absorb. For some people that would be a lame Friday night in but given Yolanda’s girlfriend was apparently stuck late on shift – three hours at this stage. She wasn’t complaining too much.
Shit. She and Trin were domesticating each other.
She sipped her wine staring at the collection of Trinity related books on her bookshelf. They’d been together nearly... two years? Maybe domesticity suited Yolanda than she thought it would. Besides they still had their own spaces. Yolanda was happy to have Trinity – she was not adopting the Victorian child as her own. Whitaker was perfectly acceptable as Trin’s bestie, stray, protegee queer whatever. But Yolanda was and always would be childfree. No adoptions of any age.
BANG!
‘Fuck!’ Yolanda nearly jumped out of her skin. Barely keeping the wine within the confines of its glass. Trinity never moved quietly. At work, at home, in bed. She was loud as could be. However on the scale of Trinity noise levels this was about a 10. ‘Trin??? What the-’
‘Did I break up a marriage?’ A rush of sounds. Panic and pain.
The words were words. Of the English language but the meaning... no that didn’t make any sense. Trinity skidded before falling to her knees next to Yolanda’s perch on the couch. Green eyes wide and full of genuine panic.
‘Am I responsible for a marriage and a family fucking breaking down Landa???’ Yolanda grabbed Trinity’s freezing hand. She was in some sort of shot. Pupils tight. Pulse erratic.
Yolanda tried to use her most reassuring voice. Unfortunately as a surgeon she wasn’t the most skilled, but better than some. ‘Babe I need context. What marriage? What family?’
‘Langdon.’
One glass of wine could not explain why thoughts seemed to be moving at the rate of a lethargic snail in Yolanda’s head. Again the word was coherent, understandable but it wasn’t registering.
Trinity clearly getting annoyed with her girlfriends stupidity snapped loudly. ‘It’s all over the hospital. Langdon was in today – no ring. Overheard talking to Melissophobia and Mohan and yeah papers were signed this morning???’ Shockingly Trinity was now fighting back tears. A loosing battle by the looks of it.
Yolanda pulled her up to lie on her chest, soothing her as best she could. Scratching at her scalp and smoothing out her hair. ‘It’s not your fault okay. He’d mentioned having a lawyer-’
Trinity’s head shot up. Her fast aghast and betrayed. ‘Langdon didn’t ask me not to tell you. In fact he told me I could...’ Her girlfriends argument died at her words. Surprise dancing in her bright green eyes. ‘But he was clearly keeping it on the down low. If people asked how things were at home, he’d say. That’s how he told me. But given how much scrutiny he’s still under... I didn’t want to add any fuel to the fire.’
Trin buried her head into Yolanda’s boobs. ‘That’s fair.’ Voice cutely muffled and pouty.
‘I know. But it has nothing to do with you Trin. He made that very clear to me.’ Trinity froze in Yolanda’s arms. Trinity and Langdon weren’t exactly friends, they weren’t enemies either. One the dust had settled on his return he’d politely asked Trin if they could talk. She hadn’t gone into details as to the conversation but the hatchet had been buried more or less. Polite. Professional but there was a very understandable distance.
Whitaker had taken longer to come around. And pretty much only did after King scolded him for setting a better example to the medical students. Not that he wasn’t wrong to be mad at Langdon. An interesting distinction. Just that he was better than he was acting.
They worked together. Worked fairly well as a team really. Pushed the other to be better. Langdon more than anyone else worked to utilise Trinity defensive nature (which typically reared it’s head as arrogance) into better outlets. Trin made him justify his choices to understand his treatment plan without pissing him off. Got him really thinking things through. They were competitive. Much like Yolanda and Langdon. Just EM inter warfare not surgery versus EM. Different. No connection outside of work, the medicine.
‘You know I’ve known him a long time.’ Trinity murmured a vague noise of agreement. ‘I knew him before he started dating Abby. That’s the wife- well ex wife.’ Trinity curled further into Yolanda, cool hands sneaking under her sweatshirt, up her back. Legs intertwined as they lay back on Yolanda’s bed like couch. ‘They just sort of fell together. The relationship worked well, then, don’t get me wrong. And they loved each other. But to me anyway there was always a note of it being born out of convenience as opposed to any passion.’
‘Doesn’t sound like Langdon. He’s opinionated as fuck.’
Yolanda couldn’t hide the laughter in her voice. ‘Reminds me of someone else I like.’
‘Like?’
‘Love.’ Trinity placed a gentle kiss against her jugular.
‘You love Langdon?’
‘Like a pain in the ass sibling. He grows on you.’
‘Like a tumour.’
Yolanda chuckled. ‘He’s said the same thing multiple times. Anyway... it just seemed all their actions as a couple stemmed from outside forces rather than the absolute need to be in each others lives. When they moved in together it was because both their leases were up. Timing did seem to sync for them. And he was a complete dork for her. Frank told me that one of the reasons they got married so early was because she got pregnant and they both felt that was a sign. Like everything seemed to be.’
‘Oh.’ Yeah that’s how Yolanda had felt when Frank told her about it. Doing her level best to hide her scepticism.
‘Yeah. They were equally bad about looking at the whole picture instead of just reacting to things as they came.’
‘Two kids before thirty during residency seems like a lot.’ Trinity’s voice was absolutely mystified. Frank wasn’t exactly known for his patience. Like either women on the couch. So the rush felt appropriate but the timing was shit.
‘Yeah and Abby’s been doing the law school route through all that as well.’
‘Shit.’
‘Neither of them are ones that shy away from a challenge.’
Trinity didn’t answer. Yolanda felt some of her tension ease but not all of it. ‘I’m not shocked they’re getting divorced. After everything that’s happened... I think it’s better for both of them.’
Rehab.
Both women were skirting around the issue. Trinity had exposed him when no one else had seen it. No. That wasn’t really true. When no one else had wanted to see it. Admit that they’d missed their colleague, their friend in trouble. That he felt that he didn’t have a lifesaver to cling to. That he had to try to help himself alone. A fucking moron as Yolanda had yelled at him during his rehab stint.
The real moron was the Doctor who over prescribed him and didn’t have a scrap of reasonable pain management strategies. During the opioid crisis? It was only sheer dumb luck that someone wasn’t dead already.
‘You know he’s actually grateful to you babe?’ Trinity huffed. A fake one. ‘It sucked what happened. But you did what any one of us should have done. You saved his life.’
Trinity turned and snuggled into Yolanda neck. ‘I would do it differently now. If given the choice I would try a better approach.’
‘You were a neon green intern. An extremely hot one. But bright green never the less. If you knew everything, we’d have nothing to teach.’ Trinity nipped at her neck in protest. Yolanda ignored it. ‘Maybe you should talk to him. Have an actual conversation with the man that isn’t about crikes and STEMIs. Something real. He’s actually pretty fucking charming.’
Trinity still wasn’t her fiery self. Yolanda groaned loudly, in irritation. Just hiding in Yolanda’s body. Which ordinarily would be great but the likelihood of her girlfriend getting in the mood from this melancholia was piss poor. Blindly she groped for her phone. Idly wishing that Trin would start groping her. No such luck.
It took a few goes but eventually she grabbed the device. Trinity tried to stop her but the call was already live.
‘Ahhh Yoyo you heard the news.’ Frank never bothered with pleasantries with her. His voice was neither depressed or exuberant. But he did sound lighter. Less burdened.
‘May have made it’s way around the Pitt gossip circuit.’
‘Faster than F1 baby.’
He was with someone. Two someone’s actually judging from the overlapping and horrifically indistinct voices. Something familiar but she couldn’t hear them well enough to full identify who they were. Yolanda glanced down at Trinity. Trin who was determinedly, with all her immense reserves of stubbornness acting like she wasn’t listening to every word.
‘How are you?’
Frank sighed a little. Yolanda knew that his head was dropping forward. The weight of the question settling on his shoulders. Hair bouncing in that stupid way it did. ‘It sucks. But my heart doesn’t feel ripped out of my ribcage if that’s what you’re asking.’
‘Frank.’
He knew a rebuke when he heard it. ‘Okay. It’s really fucking weird that my marriage is over. And it’s weird to say those words. But it is and my world isn’t over. In fact it almost felt like the natural next step for me and Abs.’
Abs. So clearly the pair were still on good terms.
‘We really sped run the relationship at every chance we got. Might as well finish it out with an amicable divorce.’
Well that was a very healthy way of looking at this. Too healthy. Suspicion flared.
‘What did I say to you the first night I met you?’
‘Are you seriously security checking me Yoyo?’
‘Answer the question before I assume you’re a pod person or in a fucked up cult?’
‘Those are the options?’ Exasperated. And confused. At least she was distracting him from his day?
‘Langdon!’
‘Fine. The first stellar line of Yolanda Garcia to I, Frank Langdon was “I have no interest in anything dick related fuck face so please think carefully before approaching me”. We were in a library and I needed an anatomy book behind your head.’ His impression of her wasn't horrendous. In fact it was a good but he was impersonating greatness. It rubbed off.
‘Hm.’
‘Did I pass the test?’
‘Just about.’
‘Like you weren’t anticipating this Yo.’
Trinity could hear his voice pretty clearly if the cycle of facial expressions was anything to go by. No doubt wondering how she and he got off on such a bad footing if he liked his friends as spicy as possible. That was for them to figure out. Also she knew the answer, just didn’t want to admit she fucked up her first day.
‘Yeeeeah I think the pandemic really stretched things out.’
‘Possibly.’ But he agreed with tone, if not words.
There was a faint strain of music on his end. Christmas music? It was the middle of May for fucks sake. Frank spoke to someone else, hand muffling the conversation more than Yolanda liked. Who was he with post divorce??? ‘Yeah yeah I’ll go into another room.’ There was some joke at the end judging from the tone of voice of voice.
Her foot bounced as Frank too his sweet fucking time going into the order room. The dog making himself know. Tripping him up. Good. ‘Put me on speaker Yo.’
She hesitated for a second. Trinity eyebrows twisting in confusion and a little panic. ‘Do I need to be in the room for this?’
‘You’re my reference.’
Once again Yolanda was cursing the day that Frank Langdon stomped all over her life. She loved him, but most of the time it was the reluctant sort. So she tried to claim. ‘Urgh fine.’
‘Santos.’ Trin just hid in her boobs again.
Yolanda laughed a little. ‘She’s hiding in my tits man.’
Frank hm’d mockingly. ‘That’s not a lot of cushion.’
Trin’s head was up like a shot. Her glare so withering it probably should have melted her phone a little. His replying chuckle just irritated Trinity even more. ‘Bigger than your dick.’
‘Awwww you think about me.’
Both lesbians gagged. Frank was far too amsued with himself. ‘But I digress. Santos. None of what happened is on you. I am sure Yoyo there has given you her totally objective opinion of the situation.’ The pause was melodramatic. No doubt his eyebrows hitting his hair line. Face that punchable level of smug. He knew her so well. ‘And she’s not wrong about any of it. I don’t regret most of the choices in my life. Benzos aside.’
Trinity’s face darkened. No doubt seeing her friend. But his words were having an effect. The tightness in her body easing with each word. ‘Abby and I will never actually be fully apart. We have two kids, it’s just that... we’re better parents and friends than husband and wife. That’s the truth of it. Again I will always love her but things change. I’ve changed. A fuck ton. Yo will provide you a thesis with scientific evidence of my stupidity-.’ Yolanda bit back the retort. ‘-You have some yourself. But this... don’t own it. It’s my house. Well no actually Abby’s bought that out...’
He paused doing the mental math. Yolanda hadn’t know that Abby had bought him out. But she was a talented lawyer. So it did make sense. ‘Long story short. Get over it. There’s no point carrying a weight that is actually weightless. Can we go back to feuding? I know what to do with that.’
‘You’re a dumbass Langdon.’ Trinity finallysounded like herself.
Yolanda dropped her head back against the pile of cushions. ‘Ahhh she’s back.’
‘That’s it. We’re not having sex later.’ Trinity sat up, eyes bright with fury and heat. They were so having sex later. Yolanda wiggled her eyebrows. And then loudly smacked her ass. Trinity wiggled in her lap.
‘I did not need to hear that.’ Frank, who’d they both forgotten was on the phone just cleared his throat. ‘Any of that. So we good? Santos?’
Trinity pondered for a minute. ‘As we ever are.’
‘Truce?’
‘Until the next sparring match.’
‘You’re on.’
Classic Frank gone without a goodbye. Yolanda tilted her head at the phone. He was in a bit of rush. Who was he with? Half tempted to pull up his location on her phone. Just out of curiousity. If he had been cheating on Abby, she would have known. It wasn't his style. But there was something going on. Something.
‘You were right. I should actually talk to him.’
‘He’s a bastard, but a funny one.’
‘I’m a funnier bitch.’
‘Hotter too.’
‘That goes without saying.’ The hair toss was hot. No lie.
Yolanda shifted a little. Trinity immediately slipping in between her legs. ‘I still feel like I need to make it up to him though.’ Her approach to reporting Langdon on Labour Day hadn’t exactly screamed finesse or discreet. It’s wasn’t like she’d screamed it from the roof but... hospital gossip. People talked.
Trinity’s hands were moving with much more intent now. With the conversation a little conflicting. ‘You could get Whitaker off his dick. Back I meant back.’ Both women recoiled at the inadvertent implication. Frank had never limited himself based on gender but no that was not a pleasant image.
Trinity hummed. ‘I was just going to try and encourage Melissophobia to jump him but if you think getting Huckleberry to stand down would better.’
Yolanda’s brain stuttered to a halt. Then again her girlfriend was working her top off. ‘King?’
‘You can’t tell me you don’t get it.’ Not Yolanda’s choice of dirty talk. But when her girlfriend had made quick work of her clothes. Hot woman on her. In underwear she’d let her talk about whatever she’d wanted to. ‘They are totally into each other.’
‘Oh no she is completely his type. Believe me. But babe can we stop talking about Langdon. Just please stop talking.’
8/11/2025 — recognition/misunderstanding, word count: 101
How many vampires? Not many, I’m afraid. Maybe 100. 101.
-To See You-
The mind identifies immediately his punctured stitching. Here, Louis was in the same city. Work getting overtaken by old connections. Who'd reach out first? Would either? Would it so happen that legs have a will of their own?
How ridiculous this was - a park.
Armand looked there as he had left him. Dusted clothes in black. He took a seat beside and pretended for a moment to be strangers. Both of them asked of the other. Neither said.
Nothing could explain why he let the man walk him home -
Flufftober/Angstober/Whumptober Crosstober Day 30 (late, completionist)
Fandom: Thunderbolts (non-canon compliant), Marvel, MCU
Pairings: Thunderbolts!John Walker/Lilu McLovin (OC)!Reader
Relationships: John Walker/Lilu McLovin – romantic
Prompts: Alt. Prompt 8 Moving in together (fluff)/last chance (angst)
Word Count: 1.8k
Lilu McLovin (OC): female, Latinx, 27, 5’9”, 160lb, curvy but strong/fit, light/med brown complexion, red hair (color enhanced) in a bob), size 10-12. Former US Army Ranger, Sgt 1st Class, Sniper, now CIA operative assigned to team Thunderbolts.
Warnings: Mature language, referenced prior marriage, implied jealousy.
Summary: Lilu isn’t fond of Olivia coming to the Watchtower all the time after John since she found out John and Lilu are a serious thing. So Lilu wants to live somewhere else.
READ ON AO3 or CONTINUE READING BELOW
Taking You Home With Me
“Sorry, Auntie Val, I’m out. I’ve already been looking for a place. I just can’t stay here anymore.” You march across the lounge, pissed off and resolute.
“Come the fuck on, why are we doing this again?” John Walker said, giving chase. “You know you’re not going anywhere.”
You spin on your heel and point in John’s face. “Fucking try me, Johnny.” And you spin back and continue your angry stormtrooper’s march towards the hallway to your bedroom.
“What the hell is going on?” Valentina Allegra de Fontaine asked to no one in particular and yet everyone at the same time.
Bucky sighed. “John’s ex keeps sniffing around ever since she found out he has a serious girlfriend.”
“Yeah,” you say, “and I’m not gonna be here to watch it on the regular. If he wants to fuck around with her again, I’m gonna be somewhere else, looking for someone else. Fuck. This. Noise.”
John stops and stares down the hallway, and shrugs helplessly. He turns back around to face Valentina, who’s looking at him in frank disgust.
“You know, John, either Lilu’s finally a real grown-up now… which, to be honest, came about maybe 5 years too late but whatever… or you’re so stupid you managed to drive off one of the easiest girls to get with in Manhattan. Holy Christ. Well, I’m gonna let her go. Hopefully one or the other of you will figure something out. Or she’ll hate being by herself and decide to come back.”
“Wait, you can’t just let her go,” Walker protested.
“Whyever not? She’s an adult, more than adult, she’s almost 30 years old. What’s the problem? You think she can’t take care of herself?” Val stood with her hands on her hips.
“Well, yeah. She’s not almost 30, she’s only 27. And, I mean, who’s going to remind her to take her contact lenses out before she falls asleep? And who’s going to make sure she’s taken her meds?” His face was so earnest that Bucky honestly felt for him. These were such little things, but they were things that mattered to one who looked after someone they loved. He could see the heartbreak on Walker’s face now, and it hurt him.
“I don’t know that she’s breaking up with you, John, she’s just moving. If you want to see her, just go to wherever her apartment will be once she finds it, Christ, what drama. “ And Val got back onto the elevator and descended back to the bowels of hell from whence she came. Or the ground floor, but close to the same thing.
You come back out of your room dressed for walking, with a loose white t-shirt, a denim mini skirt, and white Nikes, with your sling bag, shades, and water bottle at the ready.
“Where are you going?” Walker asked, a little urgently.
“To look at apartments, and out to Queens to look at a little house. Thought about getting a dog.”
“A dog?” There was a wistful note in Walker’s tone that Bucky caught instantly.
“Yeah. I was going with Chuy but he had to cancel on me so I’m going on my own.”
“Are you moving in with Chuy?” Another urgent query from Walker.
“No, John, I don’t want to hear him and his hookups. I don’t mind Chuy but not all guys are so clean.”
“Well, do you want some company?” He turned into a shy, 6-year-old boy on the spot, looking down at the ground and shuffling his feet, prepared to deal up an “aww shucks, that’s ok” for when he was rejected. You looked at him amusedly, without malice, because you found it endearing to spite yourself.
“Come on, then,” you sighed. You couldn’t have grown up with an English dad without occasionally sounding like him, right?
“Wow, this one is pretty far,” John said.
“I know, that’s what I like about it. Plus it’s like a quarter mile from Belmont Park. I’d been thinking about getting my bug’s license back, but if nothing else just catching some exercise rides for shits and giggles,” you say.
“’Bug’s’ license?”
“Apprentice jockey’s license, although to be fair, I’m far too heavy to ride in actual races but it’ll open the door to more opportunities.” You stop and think about it. “Shoot, I’d even walk hots, it’d be something different than running around with a gun in my hand.”
“Walk ‘hots?’”
“Hand walk hot, sweaty horses until they’ve cooled off. You know, the old adage of ‘You never ride a horse hard and put him away wet?’ Anyway. That’s what that means.”
“Huh. Hey, look at this yard,” and John goes off exploring while you greet the realtor.
When you get inside, the little cottage style home is cozy. There’s a wood pellet stove in the family room, the little kitchen has one of those louvred herb garden windows. John comes in through the back door, looming large and tall through the opening; after all, many of these homes were built near colonial times and meant for smaller people. And for a second you could see it, him coming in from doing yard work, or from a long day on the job… and just as fast, you jam the vision out of your mind immediately.
Until he comes up behind you and hugs you and says, “This is nice,” in perhaps one of the most pleasant tones you’ve ever heard him use. You twist a bit in his embrace so you can look up at him, a bit incredulously. “The living room is nice, too, looks comfortable. Let’s look upstairs.”
He takes you by the hand and leads you to the staircase, and once again you can picture it: a warm summer evening, a bit too much wine, him leading you up the stairs to make love, no one in the house but the two of you, passion all night, and sleeping in on a lazy morning. No, wait, that’s not what you had intended with all this. You were moving out, remember?
But of course, the small master bedroom had to have the bed tucked into a nook, the kind you liked, where it felt like a little den, where you could sleep next to the wall for added security. Where John could sleep right behind you to make it safer, and you could really rest. Oh, hell, you knew where this was going, didn’t you? You had just talked yourself into it. But you needed to let him make that move first.
When you both went back downstairs, you were deep in thought when the realtor said, “So, what do you think? It seems like your husband really likes the place. You two would be very happy here, I think, it’s a safe neighborhood and a community where everyone looks out for each other.”
You take a breath and start to say, “He’s not my husband,” but John says to you, “I really like it,” and you turn to look at him.
“Uh, John, I thought it was…” and then you paused and said to the realtor, “Can we have a moment, please?”
“Oh, of course.” The realtor sensed something was up but she had no idea that John wasn’t supposed to be picking the rental and you were trying to move away.
When she was out of earshot, you turned to John and said, “I appreciate your enthusiasm in helping me look, but…”
“Liluana, listen…I know this is crazy and you have every right to say ‘no,’ but… well, the more time we spent looking around apartments today, the more I kept picturing myself living in one with you. But when we came to his house, I knew this was it, this was what I wanted, to live here in this house with you, just me and you. A normal life. They can call us back when they need us but in between live like regular adults.”
“Look, John, this all sounds great, but there’s one thing that we have to put to rest right now, and that’s the matter of Olivia. What happens there? I don’t want to move out of the Watchtower only to have her come here.”
“I’ll handle Olivia, I promise. She won’t come here. Anything she needs to talk to me about, she’ll have to meet me at the Watchtower.”
You eye him skeptically. “I want you to understand that this is your last chance to make things right. I just want to… I mean… are you sure about this?” On the inside, this was what you had started to envision so you were beginning to feel hopeful. But you were also a little apprehensive. “Do you want to give up being with our friends? Do you want to be with me all the time? Domestic drudgery and all?”
“You think I don’t know how to take out trash and do laundry? Yes, I want to do those things again, and come in the house hot and sweaty and fuck you over the kitchen counter,” and he grabs you and pulls you close, biting your neck and making you giggle. “Come on, let’s do it, let’s get this house together. Besides, Val will shit herself.”
“I guess if that’s a perk. I’ll get the realtor back in here.”
Val did indeed shit herself, figuratively. She complained to your Dad that you’d gone off the deep end and taken Wacky Walker with you. You had explained that you were near enough that it wouldn’t be an issue for most missions and that there were toys aplenty in the Watchtower to come get one or both of you if needed.
Walker really did have a thing for random sex around the house, exulting in the freedom of their newfound privacy and the ability to get naked whenever he felt like it. You found that rather surprising, he always seemed a little bottled up with his Southern upbringing, but sometimes that’s how those kinds were. Once let off their leash, they got a little freaky, and who were you to stop him when he wanted to let his freak flag fly? The number of orgasms you had was insane before he started to run out of steam.
One night, laying back on the sofa in front of the television, you nesting on top of him, wedged between his legs and lying back on his chest with one of his arms around you, like Russian nesting dorks in hoodies and shorts, watching football, John says, “I’m glad you decided to move out on me,” for probably the tenth time in the two months since you’d moved into the house together.
You reach back with one hand to lightly scritch the beard along his cheek and say, “Me too, John. Me too.” And he squeezes you a little bit tighter.
