#threat

you'd been hyper aware of everything since you were young whether it was a glass about to fall, a gunshot seconds before it went off, or the exact spot the first raindrop in a storm would land.

no one ever knew why, but they knew you were special, so you were thrust into a dozen "gifted" programs when all you could really do was see a few seconds into the future. not a big deal.

okay—maybe it is a big deal, but you don't want it to be. you're trying to be normal. you're just the girl who works at the barnes & nobles on campus, helps her brother with homework, and visits her family on the weekends. really.

tonight, it's december first, eight pm. you're walking home from your night shift, the streets of seattle dreary and empty. the only sounds are your footsteps echoing on the pavement and ocassional puddle—and then someone else's.

"hey! wha—" you start, just before you're shoved to the ground and everything gets white and heavy and hurting. whoever it is, they're on top of you, pinning you down and trying to drag you somewhere.

your eyes flutter open long enough to see a blur of brown hair and red fabric streak past.

"that's no way to treat a lady," someone jokes, and just like that, the weight lifts off of your chest. you scramble back until your spine hits the side of a van, your hands scraping the concrete as you do so. you're shaking, panting, watching.

spiderman–yes, the real one, fighting for you.

just as relief and excitement start to kick in, someone else grabs you and pulls you up by the arm.

"spiderman!" you shout, thrashing. In what looks like a single motion, both men are webbed to the sidewalk along with the van tires, their limbs stuck and squirming.

"damn," spiderman mutters, a slight texan tinge to their voice, before brushing hair out of their face. "oh, hey. sorry I didn't introduce myself. I'm spiderman, y'know, if you couldn't tell by the suit." they say before dialing the police.

"yeah, I can see that," you say, breathless.

"oh, fuck off," they laugh, nudging your shoulder with theirs. "I was trynna be nice."

oh.

oh.

your bodies touch—and suddenly, your head goes quiet for the first time in your entire life.

"wait," you whisper, reaching out and gently hanging up the phone in their hand.

"wha–hey! that's my phone, what the hell? are you okay?" they ask, trying to grab it and failing.

"no–but I think I will be if you don't leave."

they laugh before snatching it back with a web. "okay, no time for jokes, short stuff. I mean, I know I'm cool and all, but I can't be that cool and I really gotta drop these guys off. uh, maybe I'll see you around?"

you try to speak—but before you can they're gone. the webs, the blur of red and brown, and the relaxed voice.

and just like that, the visions are back.

the next week, you searched everywhere for them.

you put up flyers with your number. scoured local seattle forums. talked to their biggest fans. you even read the newspapers–printed, crinkly ones still being made in 2025, and you still had no luck.

your last hope was that road. yeah, that road—the same place you'd almost gotten kidnapped. let's just say you don't have the best survival instincts. the same stretch of pavement where everything had gone quiet in your head.

maybe it was stupid or foolish or desperate, whatever it could be called–but you had to find her. you needed to.

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It's thursday when it happens.

you're walking that same road—coffee in one hand, other shoved deep in your hoodie pocket, hood up, head down. the winter air stings your cheeks, and you're honestly not expecting anything after three days of radio silence. just walking, just thinking, and just trying not to think too loud.

and then someone nearly knocks into you, shoulder clipping yours so hard you stumble.

"shit—sorry," she says.

you freeze.

that voice.

you know it. sharp, sarcastic, always like whoever it belongs to is trying not to sound nervous.

you look up, and she's already turning like she's going to keep walking. a gray hoodie's clinging loosely to her body, her hair looks tussled, and there's a grocery bag in her left hand like she's any other college student.

but then she sees your face.

"… oh. fuck," she mumbles.

your mouth opens, but nothing comes out. you blink. twice.

"you."

"me," she says flatly, eyes darting around.

"spiderman?"

"spiderman."

you step forward. "It's you."

"I didn't think you'd—uh—hi," she says awkwardly, looking around. "please don't scream."

you furrow your brows. "why would I scream?"

"you did last time."

"you were saving me from being kidnapped."

"fair," she pauses, "okay, but—why are you here again? like, here specifically? most people don't like almost being kidnapped."

you sighed, eyes not leaving her face. "I was looking for you."

a moment passes.

her eyes widen.

"dude."

"what?"

"you—you said that. the okay thing—oh my god," she runs a hand down her face. "I literally thought I hallucinated that part."

"yeah, no, I'm real, and you touched me, and you touched me, so the world really did stop screaming in my head, and then you left. so now I'm kind of going crazy."

she winces. "that's… my bad."

"'your bad?'" you laugh, mostly in disbelief.

"I didn't really know! I was saving you and you distracted me while I was trying to call the police, I wasn't trying to, like, break your brain or whatever."

"well you didn't 'break' it, you fixed it. just for a few seconds."

that shuts her up. she looks at you, quiet, and something in her expression softens like she’s trying really hard not to let herself care and failing a little anyway.

"no," she pinches the bridge of her nose and shakes her head, "I can't talk to you. my mentor, uh, joel–fuck, I'm saying too much–said to never get attached to civillians. but you're cool. but should I?"

"too late, I already know what you look like, and oh, that's smart," you laugh, "your backpack has your name on it."

"oh," she looked over her shoulder, "c'mon! that's totally not fair. you wouldn't."

"I would."

"fine… not like I was really gonna stop talking anyway. you wanna... go somewhere?" she asks, wincing like it'll hurt if you say no. "like, to get a coffee?"

"I already have a coffee."

she sighs. "fine. I'll get a coffee and you can watch me drink it like a weirdo. or get another one."

you grin. "deal."

she looks at you like she doesn't get why you're smiling, but part of her likes it anyway.

so the two of you walk together, side by side, shoes hitting the pavement in rhythm. and for the first time in days, your head isn't so loud because she's right there.

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the shop is comforting in an almost artificial way. Its overhead lights are a little too warm, its name "aroom" on the menu in big letters, and its music a little too good. you claim the small booth in the corner while she orders, her hood still up, and there she is at the counter. bouncing on her heels like it’s taking every ounce of strength not to turn invisible.

you watch her. you can't help it. there's something so strangely familiar about the way she moves. something endearing and elusive at once. like she's been carrying the weight of a city and still doesn't know how to hold a conversation, or thinks she loves the city but also thinks her job's like picking glass out of her teeth.

she slides into the booth across from you and sets down a coffee with a flourish.

"for your viewing pleasure," she says, sipping dramatically.

"nice, I can't wait to watch you hydrate, williams."

she chuckles. "so, what's your name again? I'm bad with 'em, sorry."

"you never asked me the first time."

"well I'm asking now."

"why? so you can forget it?"

"okay," she glares in mock-offense, the wolfish smile pulling at her lips contradicting her. "I was mid-fight and also, I'm really, really forgetful. you can't expect perfect manners during an attempted kidnapping and definitely not good memory from me."

"I can expect some things after, though. like your name."

she grins, rests her chin on her fist. "you already know that. It's ellie. ellie williams."

you blink. "no, the real one."

she blinks. "what?"

"I don't know, I figured maybe the name on your backpack was fake. you know, a coverup? no seriously, what's your real name? wait, no, let me guess."

"..."

"..."

"sarah?"

"sarah?" she repeats, wrinkling her nose. "God, no. I don't look like a 'sarah.' that's my sister's name."

"wow. ellie. I like it but, I feel like your parents could've done better."

"wow, you're rude, and confident... or dumb enough to be rude to," she looks around and gets quieter, "the spiderman."

"well you're avoidant, I would know after looking for you for, like, forever, and being spiderman doesn't mean you're invincible," you say, smiling into your cup.

she leans back, laughing a little at you. "I haven't talked to someone like this in a long time. 's kinda, nice? being a superhero doesn't come with many friends."

"yeah, me either. It is."

there's a silence that settles between you. not really awkward, just a strange quiet that lingers beneath the surface of your chest. you take another sip, and she picks at the sleeve of her hoodie.

"you really meant it, huh?" she finally says, voice a little lower. "the stuff about your head."

"yeah. It's like constant flashes or trying to talk with ten tvs playing inside your brain. It's always there, even when I sleep, and then you touched me and it all just... went away."

ellie's face falters for a second. just a blink. like your words hit something she didn't know was sore.

"shit," she mutters. "that sounds—awful."

you shrug again. "It's my normal."

"and I interrupted that normal," she says like it's her fault.

"you didn’t interrupt it. you gave me a break from it."

"… and then I bailed."

"you didn't know."

"I should've stayed."

you look at her, and you can tell she means that.

"It's okay," you say. "you're here now."

ellie looks away, biting back a smile. "damn, you're kinda nice when you're not being a smartass."

"and you're kinda charming when you're not running off rooftops."

"I don't 'run,' I swing."

"right. my bad."

she chuckles, eyes crinkling. "this is weird."

you nod. "yeah."

"I should go."

"already?"

"If I hang out too long, someone's gonna figure it out. me. spider stuff."

you nod again, trying not to let the disappointment show. "right, of course."

she stands, lingers awkwardly by the table, then slides a napkin across to you.

her number scrawled messily, like she was nervous.

"call me," she says. "If you wanna. or if the tv thing gets loud."

you pick it up carefully.

ellie starts to walk off, then stops and turns around. she looks like she’s about to say something dramatic. instead:

"also, don't put up any more flyers. that was embarrassing."

you blink. "wait—you saw th—"

"bye!" she grins, already halfway out the door.

and you just sit there, heart too loud, head finally quiet, staring down at the ink on the napkin like it might burn through your hand.

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⠀

you don't call her right away. you try, more than once, even. thumb hovering over her number, pulse tapping in your throat. but what do you even say? "hey, come turn off my brain again?"

but it doesn't matter because she beats you to it.

three nights later, your bedroom window creaks open.

you jolt upright in bed, heart in your throat, grabbing for anything remotely weapon-shaped—only to freeze when a familiar voice whispers "relax, crazy. It's me." she's crouched on the sill, hoodie up, mask shoved halfway in her jacket pocket, cheeks flushed from the cold. and she's smiling.

"what the hell?" you asked. "how do you know where I live?"

she shrugs. "spider senses. and a little stalking."

you stare.

"I made sure you got home safe the other night," she explains, hands and eyebrows raised in mock surrender. "you went into the apartment building on 6th. I narrowed it down, then I followed your scent."

"you wha—"

"I'm kidding," she grins. "mostly."

"you're insane."

"you didn't call," she says, like it's the most obvious thing in the world. "I figured you might be dead."

"I'm in pajamas."

"thankfully you're alive in pajamas."

you stare at her.

she smiles.

"I brought snacks?"

you sigh. "get in."

she hangs around that night but doesn't say much. she sits on your floor cross-legged, absolutely destroying all the food. at one point, she reaches out, fingers brushing your wrist like she's trying to see if it'll work again.

and it does.

the silence crashes down like waves. gentle, warm.

you feel your body relax for the first time all day.

ellie raises a brow. "still happening?"

"still gone," you say, voice soft.

she lets go—and the static comes back immediately, like a switch flicking on.

"Jesus," she mutters. "okay, that's kind of freaky. and kind of cool."

"tell me about it."

"guess I'm your like, off switch or something."

you give her a look. "don't flatter yourself."

her mouth twitches. "too late."

after that, it becomes a thing. she shows up more. sometimes at your window and sometimes in weird disguises around campus.

"that hoodie does not make you less suspicious."

"shhh, I'm blending in."

"If it's opposite day then I guess you're right. get it? right?"

"shut up."

you test it together—her walking away down the street, the buzzing returning. her stepping close again, and everything going still.

It's a strange kind of trust. a closeness neither of you talk about but both of you feel.

and, slowly, without meaning to, you start to count on her being there.

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david was the kind of nice that got under your skin without you noticing.

you met him in your work-study program. he was friendly, soft-spoken, and the kind of guy that was always offering to carry extra boxes or cover someone's shift. there were signs, like when he'd stare too long at highschool girls just looking for books, but he was nice. enough. when you had your first dizzy spell in the library—visions slamming into your skull like a migraine from hell—he was the one who walked you home and waited with you on your steps until your hands stopped shaking.

he never asked questions. just smiled.

"don't worry," he'd said, tone gentle. "I've got you."

and you believed him.

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It's a week later when you see him again. you're just trying to get groceries before your shift. rain drizzling, your head buzzing faintly in the background. then—

"hey," a voice calls, and you turn.

david. smile crooked, hands shoved in his coat pockets.

"I found your favorite creamer," he says, holding up a bag. "figured I'd drop it off."

your shoulders loosened maybe for the first time all day.

"thanks. you didn't have to," you say, almost shy.

"c'mon," he grins, stepping closer. "you look like you haven't slept since freshman year. let me walk you."

you make it two blocks before everything goes wrong.

you're not sure what shifts first—your breath catching, the creeping nausea, or the dull ache turning sharp behind your eyes.

It hits you like a wave: too many futures. too many paths. his hands on your arms, his voice splintering into echoes. but not in protection.

In force.

"sorry," he murmurs as you start to panic. "I really didn't want to do this again, but you're not safe out here. not with what you can do. It's okay, I'll be all you're seeing in a few days."

you stepped back instantly, hand on the knife ellie, no, spiderman gave you for safety.

"what—what are you talking about?"

he steps forward. you recognize the change in his expression now. not kind. not even cruel. just clinical and focused.

"we were supposed to bring you in on the first," he says. "I didn’t know she'd show up. I didn't know spiderman would be there."

your stomach drops.

no. no no no no no. not him. not him.

"you helped set that up?" you whisper, eyes wide, backing into the wall behind you.

he sighs, almost apologetic. "you're not just a student. you're an anomaly. everyone's looking for you. I thought... maybe I could keep you from being hurt."

you go to stab him, just deep enough so you can get away, but then your vision shatters—

literally. image split and spiral in your mind, versions of him hitting you, drugging you, dragging you into a van, chaining you down. every second fracturing. you can't think. you can't breathe.

then—

"hey!"

a red blur drops from above like fire, slamming into him and sending him crashing across the rooftop by the clocktower you somehow didn't realize you'd ended up on. concrete cracks, debris flies.

ellie.

It felt good to see her, but not in the situation you were in. she's panting, crouched low, hair wind-tossed and wild beneath her half-up mask. she doesn't even look at you yet. her eyes are locked on him.

"I've been looking for you for weeks," she yelled out. "I didn't realize you were with the assholes who tried to get her."

david staggers up, pulling a gun from his jacket.

ellie doesn't hesitate.

the fight is brutal. fast. loud is what you register the most, really. her movements aren't elegant—just rough and raw. you can barely track them through the splits in your vision and static in your head. while you're clutching your head and biting your lip to try and deal with the pain, he grabs you, using you as a shield with a knife to your throat.

ellie has his gun.

david has her girl.

then david screams as a bullet tears through his shoulder.

he falls–

and lets go of you as he does.

you scream and there's a moment, barely a second, where you see gears and metal and how far you are from the roof and think, this is it. this is how I die.

and then you're so close to the ground, you're close and close and close and–

close, but thankfully not close enough.

a web meets your stomach, arms wrap around you, and the wind howls in your ears as you're yanked toward something or someone in a blur of motion. It's a body, you can tell now, and it wraps around yours as you both swing down and back up—

and fall hard, but with your lives.

ellie's breathing is ragged, her lungs shaky and arms still around you.

"gotcha," she breathes, voice shaking. "I got you."

your eyes are still squeezed shut and your head is ringing so hard you can't hear, but for the first time in what feels like hours, the visions stop.

"hey, hey."

ellie says frantically, letting go of you and hovering atop you. "please? hey, hey," she says, and it's the first time you've ever heard her really, genuinely scared. she's running her calloused hands all over you as if her touch could bring you right back from wherever you'd gone, and then,

"ellie."

"oh my god."

and before you know it she's squeezing you so, so hard, like if she doesn't you still might hit the ground, like she still might not catch you.

but she did.

you stare at her after she pulls away, laughing a little. "wow," you say shakily, swallowing thickly, "I don't, I don't know what to say. thank you–I'd be dead without you."

ellie just looks at you.

"me too," she says quietly.

and then she kisses you.

not some soft, withheld kiss.

bruising in the way you've wanted for ages and ellie and feeling the way you always thought it did.

and you're stuck in the feeling, but you kiss her back.

"so, fast food tonight?"

"shut up," she laughs, gravelly and rough from the tears threatening to fall from her eyes, "of course."

⬤ Sirius is the more playful of the brothers; he’s the type to put bunny ears behind Orion and wonders why he gets pissed.

⬤ I see Sirius as a huge tease; he leaves a trail of respectful, fleeting touches just to get a reaction sometimes. (Think harmless side swipes, arm touches, the brushing of hands)

✦ Orion is the clingier of the two, even if he doesn’t show it all the time. Sirius def gets kicked harder when Orion hasn’t had his elected Drifter time and hovers over Drifter like a cloud when they’re out and about on the relay. They both do, but Orion has to be that inch closer.

✦ I picture Orion as being more demanding with his touches, pulling at the edge of your sleeve, grabbing your hand, and maneuvering you as he sees fit.

⁠ʚɞ I like to imagine if the brothers ever danced with the Drifter, they’d purposefully make them dizzy, and the Drifter, all the while, is trying not to lean onto one so as not to make the other jealous.

⁠ʚɞ Sirius and Orion find the appeasement amusing.

⁠ʚɞ They both have jealousy issues. Bad jealousy issues.

⁠ʚɞ You're telling me they kick each other around just so one can be in transferrence for no reason? Bah humbug.

⁠ʚɞ Their fights may or may not have been over the Drifter in the past, and the Drifter knows nothing of it.

You’ve kicked Joseph out of your pub enough times to know he’s got a bad habit of riling up the wrong people. Brazen, bold, and downright foolish at the worst moments... But he’s also twenty-four. Frightened by the new world you’ve all woken up in. And prone to doing stupid things if his so-called ‘friends’ put him up to it.

As war had started lurching across the room towards the babbling young man, he’d sent tables, chairs, and people scattering like papers knocked from a desk.

Wood splintered, everyone was shouting or gasping, and with murder written plain as day across War’s snarling face, you’d thought nothing of scooting out from behind the bar and jogging directly into his path, head tipped back to look him right in those weird, glowing eyes.

“Can I help you, Horseman?” you’d asked disarmingly through gritted teeth, less surprised at your own gumption, and more that he’d come to an abrupt halt just before crashing into you.

War stops for nobody. You and everyone in that room had heard the mantra repeated a thousand times before by various sources.

The glare you were subjected to at that moment was almost hot enough to melt through solid steel. But even beyond the rage, there was the flicker of a blink and a fleeting glance from left to right that betrayed one thing; He was just as shocked as you were to find you standing there.

You thought he’d knock you aside. You thought he’d simply bulldoze right on through you like he had the rest of your pub.

Hell, you thought he’d just straight up kill you for the crime of getting in his way.

Which is why it came as such a shock that the hulking, stoic brute didn’t immediately resort to violence, and instead chose to speak.

“Stand aside, human,” he boomed authoritatively, raising his eyes over your head to stare down the kid behind you, “This is none of your concern.”  

You must have had a death-wish that evening because you’d drawn yourself up to your full height – still woefully small compared to the Nephilim – and snorted at him, the over-friendly smile on your face wavering like a mirage.

“Actually,” you bristled, “This is my bar. That was my furniture…“ Here, you throw an arm out in gesture at the destruction he’d left in his wake, and War actually turned his head to look, blinking as if he was taken aback by the ruination behind him.

“And these-“ you added sharply, jabbing a thumb over your shoulder at the young man sinking lower and lower in his seat, “Are my patrons… So, I’m afraid it is my concern when a Horseman comes stomping in here looking like he wants to tear this place up from the foundations.”

Later, your patrons would ask if you were looking to die. Not really, you assured them, but the thing about dying is, after you’ve done it once, the next time doesn’t seem quite so daunting. And when it became public knowledge that a soul will go on forever even if the present host won’t, suddenly death stops seeming like the End.  

But perhaps, more to the point, you’d been sampling the whiskey that evening, and a dose of the old liquid courage was enough to drown your inhibitions. What more could you say?

“Perhaps I should,” War had posited, leaning forwards to smother you in his shadow, a promised threat, “Perhaps I should raze this hovel to the ground for sheltering a coward and a thief.”

… The ‘hovel’ comment aside, what he said set off alarm bells at once.

You craned your neck over a shoulder immediately to send Joseph a withering glare of your own. “Joe? Why is one of the Horsemen accusing you of theft?” you asked, strained voice dripping saccharin.

To his credit, Joseph didn’t really try to deny anything, though he had gone exceptionally pale, eyes darting everywhere except for your face.

“I-… It was just a joke!” he insisted indignantly, sending a ripple of exasperated groans cresting through the pub.

And there came the dread, that awful realisation that this idiot might have just doomed your entire clientele on the back of a joke.

“I was gonna give it back!” he continued, floundering, “But then he chased me and threatened to kill me!”

“Fucking Hell, Joe,” you seethed through your teeth, turning around to face him, “Now I’m thinking of killing you. What the Hell did you do!?”

You can still recall the heat rolling off War and across your back as the Horseman swept his gaze to and fro between you and his quarry.

With all the reluctant concession of a dog giving up the bone is stole from next door’s yard, Joseph heaved a contemptuous sigh, peeling his rucksack off and flipping open the canvas lid, where he proceeded to pull out something long and –

“What the-… Is that some kind of drinking horn?” you’d gawped.

Behind you, War’s guttural timbre reaches your ear. “Earthcaller,” he groused, shifting his weight from side to side as if to move around you.

It was a long arm of bone, carved with strange, demonic faces. An instrument that definitely looked like it would belong to a Nephilim, not a human.

“Jesus, Mary, Joseph,” you’d groaned, commiserated by most of the other patrons, “Do you want to die? Because pulling stupid shit like this is how you die.”

“It was just a joke,” he mumbled again as you snatched the horn out of his limp grasp, resisting the urge to rip out your hair.

“Jokes are meant to be funny,” you snipped, “If this is your idea of one, you might be comically challenged.”

That had earned a few uncomfortable titters from people who still had most of their attention fixed on War.

The Horseman in question was still livid, even as you turned back to him and held the horn out for him to take.

“I’m really sorry he did that,” you said with utmost sincerity. Because you were sorry, though even War seemed belligerent on your behalf.

“You were not the one who stole from me,” he pointed out in a deep, thrumming growl.

“Like I said; my pub, my patrons , my problem,” you offered pleasantly, shrugging a shoulder as the Nephilim reached out a gauntlet and all but tore the thing out of your hand.

You swallowed down the urge to ask how a young human had managed to pickpocket something so large from one of the Four.

“But, if he does something stupid like this again,” you added, “He’s on his own. Whether he tries to hide in here or not.”

The warning was aimed at a very contrite Joseph cowering behind you, who appeared to be quite literally shrinking under the burden of everyone’s attention.

War had regarded you for several, terse seconds during which you counted no less that seven, hard blinks – the only sign of uncertainty he’d ever offer - until eventually, his lips started to curl.

“I do not need your permission to exact justice,” he warned you, even as he turned his back on you and began to storm right out the way he came in, massive fists clenched into bludgeons at his sides.

He didn’t even attempt to pick his way around the debris, apparently riled enough to tread the splinters into your carpet and make the whole mess even worse.

But… against the odds, he left.

You survived. You stepped in the way of War and lived.

And most miraculously of all, nobody got hurt!

Well, Joseph might have disagreed with that one… He was forced to flee behind your bar with his arms slung protectively around his head, trying to escape the clips and blows landed upon him by several, righteously furious patrons.

But so long as they didn’t kill the daft bastard, you couldn’t care to intervene…

-------------------------------------------

The second time you saw the Horseman was the very next morning.

Once again, War’s recognisable frame had come striding into your pub, though in this instance, rather than kick the door off its hinges, he ducked beneath the frame you still hadn’t found a moment to repair, bowing his shoulders inwards so as not to scrape the wood with his massive pauldrons.

You just counted your lucky stars that you’d had the wherewithal to put up a sign outside declaring that the pub was unofficially ‘closed’ for the day, leaving it devoid of unsuspecting humans, save for yourself.

He looked so different from the rampaging beast you saw prior that you might have believed him to be a demon in disguise.

He spotted you at once, zeroing in on your stricken face where you hovered behind the bar with a dishrag in one hand and a smudged glass in the other, caught like a deer in headlights whilst the blood-red hood of a pickup truck comes bearing down on you.

When he started making his way over, decidedly avoiding the remnants of tables and chairs he himself had left broken, you expected some retribution for your boldness yesterday.

You didn’t expect a fist-sized sack of gilt to be unceremoniously dumped on the bartop, spilling golden coins all across the polished, black surface when the twine holding it closed came undone.

“To replace what was destroyed,” he rumbled, and when you peered up into his hood, you were staggered to find that he wasn't meeting your eye. The shadows cast by the scarlet fabric did much to conceal his complexion, though you suspected he must have been exerting himself just before he arrived because there was a ruddiness to his cheeks that hadn't been there the day prior.

Blinking stupidly, you glanced down at the pile of gilt, then lifted your gaze back up to the towering Horseman, gobsmacked.

Of all the impossibilities the Universe has ever thrown at you and proven possible, this was never even in the cards. You've seen angels, demons, the dead walking around like they still have a pulse. You've seen beyond the realm of what you thought you knew, but this?

A Horseman of the Apocalypse... War, no less. Trying to make amends for the damage he'd done....

You actually had to steal a peek at the glass in your hand just to check it wasn't suddenly full of liquor.

“I… This is… enough to buy a whole new pub,” you’d huffed out in an incredulous laugh.

War’s expression didn’t shift in the slightest. All he did was roll his shoulders once and turn his head to the side, glowering hard at a spot on the wall opposite as he declares, “It is of no concern to me what you do with it.”

“Oh, well then, you won’t mind if I give some of it back,” you replied crisply, pressing your knuckles to the bar top and watching his snowy brows creep together as he pivots his focus back to you.

“Seriously. This is…” Pausing to shake your head in disbelief at the gold glittering against the ebony surface, you finally scoffed, “Way too much.”

Once again, the Horseman got that look about him, like he was trying to follow a script and you just weren't sticking to your lines. He must have decided you were talking nonsense because after shooting a few glances between your face and the pile of gilt, he simply turned his back on both, likely deciding it wasn't worth his time to try and argue with you.

Bemused, you just watched him cross your bar, not missing how he - again - weaved around your overturned furniture... Not that it would have mattered if he'd bulldozed through it again. You could only chuck it out anyway.

You'd merely shrugged to yourself and resumed your task of cleaning the glass, the cloth squeaking against it as you wiped lipstick smudges from the rim.

“Well look, feel free to stop in for a drink some time. This-" Again, you nodded at the gilt. "- more than covers a pretty hefty tab!”

Your offer brought to a standstill, twisting his hood around to frown at you from the corner of a single, scrupulous eye.

"I am not in the habit of consuming human beverages," he scoffed.

"Then just stop in to say hi," you offered easily, "Everyone's welcome to walk through those doors... Even if it's just to escape the rain."

-----------------------------------------------------

The third time you met a Horseman, it wasn't War.

You very nearly swallowed your tongue to see the dreaded Fury strolling in through your doors, her hair aflame and her eyes roving the pub as if in search of something, much like her brother had before her.

When she spotted you behind the bar, through the throng of people who were just beginning to notice her presence and subsequently threw themselves towards the exits, her pale gaze lit up and she strode towards you,

"You," she barked, towering over the bar, "Are you the keeper of this shambles?"

Once again, you didn't much care for the assessment, but faced with a famously more volatile Horseman, you managed to swallowed your pride and gave her a tight-lipped smile. "That'd be me... What can I do for you?"

Scrunching up her nose, she gave you a slow, disdainful once-over....

... And then she promptly burst out laughing.

It was such a jarring sound that you stumbled backwards, crashing into an array of bottles behind you and sending one of them toppling off the side to smash on the ground.

This only served to make her laugh even harder. It was low, grating, a barbarous sort of sound that raised your hackles and left you wondering how many she's slain who have heard that same, mocking roar.

"This?!" she exclaimed to nobody in particular - almost all of your clientele had fled by that point - "This is the human who has my brother so ensorcelled!?"

By the time she'd cackled herself out of breath and draped her armoured forearms over your bar, the last of your regulars had slipped out the back door.

You let the silence seep back in from the corners as she heaved a satisfied sigh.

Only then did you pipe up. "Wow... Don't think I've made someone laugh that hard since I asked Dan Symes to the school dance."

Fury blinked across at you, her face falling open as if she'd only just remembered that you were even in the room with her, let alone actively speaking to her.

"So," you added, trying to ooze the kind of nonchalance you definitely weren't feeling, "Your brother's mentioned me, has he?"

You'd heard along the grapevine that Fury was the Horseman with most experience interacting with humans. Something about assigning herself the role of Protector to a handful of survivors after the Destroyer launched an assault on their sanctuary. Perhaps that's why she slipped into conversation with you more easily than her brother had.

"Mentioned you?" she parroted, clicking her tongue, "He hasn't shut up about you. 'The human who stood in his path to protect a young thief from his righteous wrath!' Ugh. It's beginning to drive my brothers and I to drink..."

You had to consciously stop your jaw from falling open at the knowledge that War hadn't been more unflattering in his description of you, or that he'd talked about you at all. With the other Horsemen no less...

Slapping on a commiserating grin, you gestured at the bottles lining the wall behind you and said, "Well then. Seems you've come to the right place."

She eyed your selection dubiously, even went so far as to curl her lip in distaste.

"I doubt you have anything strong enough to merit me spending the gilt."

"As much as I'm loathe to correct one of the Four," you ventured cautiously, "The amount of gilt your brother gave me to repair the damage he caused has pretty much bought him the next fifty rounds, so-."

Her head snapped up like the crack of her famous whip, eyes suddenly glittering with intrigue. "He... repaid you?" she demanded, incredulously, sparing a glance over her shoulder at the last of the broken tables you've since shoved against the far wall, "War?"

There was a deafening pause, and then swivelled back to the bar, brows raised high up her forehead as she muttered to herself, "Oh this is an exciting development..."

You just pretended you hadn't heard her.

"I could extend the offer to members of his family, if you like," you shrugged, bending down and reaching for the cupboard below the bar, notably out of your regulars' line of sight.

"Hmph," she snorted, "If Strife ever bumbles his way into this place, do not tell him the same. He will drink your whole stock dry."

"Well, he'd be welcome too," you grunted, stretching your arm right to the back and grabbing the neck of a black bottle that was always strangely ice-cold to the touch, "War isn't the first who broke some furniture in my pub, and I doubt he'll be the last. But he is the first and only one who actually tried to make things right. So..."

Popping up again in front of the Horseman, you slid a shot glass across the bar top until it bumped into her arm and held up the bottle for her to see. "As for something strong enough... I got this off a demon who owed me for a favour. I've been told that this stuff can knock a Trauma on its ass."

She glowered dubiously at the impenetrable darkness swirling within the bottle, opaque from top to bottom, no label, no year, just a simple cork in its top.

"Buying spirits from a demon? " she huffed, squinting at you for a moment before she added, "... What's it called?"

Pursing your lips, you replied, "He called it Hair of the Hellhound. Said it's got one heck of a bite."

"Perhaps it does," she conceded, though not before letting out a quick barb, "For a mere human."

You could see the cogs in her head churning around as she flicked her piercing gaze between you and the bottle, no doubt wondering if the consequences of taking the mystery shot will be worse than losing face in front of a 'mere human.'

At last, as you stood there waiting for her verdict, she rolls her eyes and lets out another petulant scoff. "Fine," she agreed, waving her hand at the bottle and beckoning you forwards to pour the shot, "I suppose I can at least tell you if you've bought a dud. What was the name of the demon?"

You screwed your face up as you tried to remember the shady merchant who you sheltered last year during a demonic purge carried out by a very vengeful angel. "Vulgrim? I think he said?"

In an instant, she looked a hell of a lot less eager to go through with the challenge. But in her own mind, she'd already committed.

When you tugged the cork free, an absolute deathly aroma rose into your nostrils, hitting your gag reflex when it settled at the back of your throat.

"Shit, that's rancid!" you gasped, pivoting your head away and watching the pour from the corner of an eye, "Are you sure you want to drink this?"

"If it's Vulgrim's, it'll be better than the rest of this swill you peddle," she admitted begrudgingly as she picked up the glass - comically small in her hands - and regarded it with a cautious glare of trepidation. "You're not joining me?"

Puffing out your cheeks, you blew a long, low whistle through your lips and shook your head rapidly from side to side. "Ah, I don't have a successor lined up in the event of my death," you pointed out with a lopsided grin, "And I'm pretty sure one sip of that stuff will bury me six feet under this place."

"Humans," she huffed, raising the glass to her lips, "Is there anything about you that isn't pathetic?"

You hadn't thought of a witty response in time.

She knocked back the entire glass, slammed it down on the counter so hard you nearly leapt forward in anticipation of shielding her from a wayward spray of shattered fragments, then proceeded to lean there with a focused look on her face, shoulders hunched, arms tense.

You just watched her, the breath in your lungs going still.

“It is good to find somewhere that serves real drinks for a change….” she rasped through a tight throat, turning on her heel and marching stiffly towards the door.

Before she reached it, she slowed to a stop, tilting her head around just enough that you caught a glimpse of her painted lips pulled up into a loose smile.

“Perhaps you should tell Strife that concoction is ‘on the house,” she smirked, “But make sure he doesn’t drink all of it. I might find myself coming in for a glass, if I’m in the area.”

And then she, like her brother, was gone, ducking through the doorframe and disappearing back into the overcast city beyond.

—— ————

The downpour started this morning.

People have been dipping into your pub all day just to escape the lashings of rain, shaking their umbrellas out in the foyer and squelching on sodden shoes all the way up to the bar.

Each person, you greet with an affable smile and a warm "What can I get you?"

"Quiet in here today," the woman you're currently serving chirps as you set about getting a round of beers for her and her friends.

Humming in response, you fall into the conversation easily. "Yeah but it's no surprise. People aren't keen to venture out in this god-awful weather. And it's not like any of us can drive yet."

"Ugh, I can't wait for someone to get cars working again," she commiserates, slouching her shoulders.

"Never realised what we had until we don't have it right?" you chuckle, placing the last tankard on a round, black tray. "Total's fifteen."

Smiling at you, she digs her hand into a pocket and rummages for a moment before extracting a handful of gilt. "Right... That's... Which coin means what again?"

You can't help but grin ruefully. Yet another thing humans had to get used to in the aftermath of the Great Awakening - using an entirely new and universal currency.

A palm slaps hard onto the bar top in front of you just as you're leaning forwards to point out the different glyphs on each coin.

"I'll be with you in a minute," you drone out on autopilot, barely sparing a glance at the trio of men who've clustered against the bar.

With the payment away and the till closing noisily shut, you help the woman pick up her tray and give her a parting nod.

"Cheers," the woman says before sauntering away towards the table where her friends sit waiting.

"Now then." You swivel about to address the newcomers. "What can I get for you?"

The one in front, flanked on either side by two other men sporting similar jackets with the hoods pulled low over their eyes, rests a palm on the counter, putting his weight on in and flashing you an unsettlingly wide, toothy grin.

"Nothing too difficult, love," he drawls, "Just after some information, that's all."

"You know, despite my profession, I'm not one for gossip," you tell him evasively, already on edge.

"Oh I'm sure that's not true. See me and my friends here-" He nods his head at the man on his left, then swings it lazily around to the man on his right, "Well, a little birdie told us that you're the reason we're short one rare artifact..."

Recognition snaps straight into place at the very forefront of your mind. You have the sneaking suspicion that these men are after the horn Joseph pilfered from War. Damnit, you knew Jo has been getting into some shady business lately, but this is the icing on a shit-cake.

Outwardly, of course, you just purse your lips and quirk a brow, moving forwards to brace your hands on the bar, mirroring the ringleader's posture.

"Artifact?" you repeat, "Can't say I've come across one of those. As you can see, my inventory is made up of liquid stock."

One of the man's eyelids twitches, and his friend's fists begin to clench and unclench in the corner of your vision.

You acknowledge neither.

"Listen," he purrs, "It's obvious you're the owner of this... fine establishment... And my sources don't get things wrong unless they want to answer to me. So cut the bullshit, and give me what you owe."

Ah. Takes a bullshitter to spot a bullshitter, you suppose. Still, it seems you won't be lying your way out of this one.

"Owe?" Scoffing, you narrow your eyes and add, "Not sure how you figure I owe you, all I did was stop a Horseman from tearing your man to pieces before he took his artefact back. Or perhaps you think I should have let the Horseman torture the poor kid into telling him who ordered the swipe."

The men on either side of the stranger shift their weight uncomfortably, and even their leader clenches his jaw, the smile falling off his face for just a second before he slaps it back on.

"Be that as it may," he says, fingers drumming obnoxiously on the bar, "Fact remains, your interference cost me a tidy sum. So, I'm not an unreasonable man-"

Something in the way he gestures to himself as he says that makes you doubt his claim very much.

"I'm willing to overlook your transgression if you're willing to ease my monetary troubles..."

God, he talks like a sleazy salesman, slow and casual yet somehow with far too much pomp and magniloquence.

"Maybe some of that liquid stock ends up coming home with me and my boys here," he chuckles, "Or maybe that till there opens up so we can see just how much we think losing that artifact set us back..."

Shit...

Nobody is coming up to buy another round yet, and most of the patrons have already been served, slowly nursing their drinks in the comfortable - strong - seats you'd purchased with War's gilt.

Nobody has even noticed anything is amiss. For all they know, you could be giving these people directions to the nearest safe house for how nonchalant he's being.

He must have seen your resolve wavering right in front of him, because his smile becomes a slimy thing, and he stares at you, his eyes unblinking.

"I think it would be in your best interest to comply," he murmurs under his breath, and as he moves an arm back, his hand just so happens to brush back the hem of his coat, and there within the shadows is the tell-tale glint of a short, silver barrel, "It would be such a shame if bad things started happening to your pub..."

Son of a bitch.

You're so busy keeping a close eye on where his hand is moving that you don't even register the shape moving under the doorway beyond your foyer, scarlet and gunmetal grey that would have alerted you to danger were it not for the clearer and more present danger taking up your allotted senses.

Ever since you built this pub up from its ruined foundations, you've tried to project a rather unflappable front for your customers. As it is now, that façade is starting to crumble. Heart in your throat, your breath hitches violently when the man's fingers slide around the grip of his gun, and when you dart a glance up at the face grinning out at you from under his dark hood, you realise he doesn't look like the kind of man who bluffs.

"... Would be such a shame," he repeats purposefully, "If bad things started happening to y- GHK!?"

For a man so immense, you're staggered that War could move in with such unparalleled stealth.

One second, you're watching a man pull a gun halfway out of the waistband of his jeans, and the next, that same man's head comes crashing down onto the bar, pinned there by the base of his neck by a metal gauntlet that spans the width of his shoulders as well.

"Christ!" you exclaim, leaping backwards and colliding painfully with the shelf behind you.

The remaining two men are already scrabbling sideways and away from the colossus heaving between then, blue eyes on fire, scarlet hood dripping dark with the rainwater from outside.

War's teeth are on display as he snarls savagely at the man trapped by his hand, whose limbs are flailing uselessly in an attempt to free himself, muffled shouts cried through a mouth pressed flush against the counter. Frantic palms slap against metal, grabbing at the Horseman's fingers to try - and fail - to shove them away.

"War!?" you blurt, drawing his eyes up to meet yours.

It's fast, blink and you'd miss it, but you could almost be convinced that for just a moment, the steely glare on his face softens by a fraction when he sees you.

It's gone as soon as it appeared however. A deafening 'BANG' rings out across the pub, people shriek, and those who hadn't already dived for cover the second War strolled in throw themselves to the floor, hands flying up to cover their heads.

Something pings off War's shoulder pauldron, tinkling to the bar and rolling to a stop just in front of you. You can see it plain as day, standing out against the black surface.

A bullet.

War's chest suddenly begins to vibrate with a thunderous growl you can feel deep inside your chest. Slowly, his head twists around, the tendons in his neck flexing with the grinding of his teeth.

Clutching your chest, you follow his gaze to the front of the pub near the entrance, where one of the men has paused, breathing hard, eyes bulging like they're about to fall out of their sockets.

In his trembling hand is another gun, a trail of smoke rising gently from the tip of its barrel.

The words come out before you can think to stop them.

"Did you just shoot War?" It's said as a scoff, a mote of incredulous hysteria. What kind of idiot would think shooting a gun at a Horseman of the Apocalypse was in any way a good idea?

The man's rolling eyes snap towards you at the sound of your voice, but by the time you realise you probably should have ducked behind the bar several seconds ago, your vision is blocked by an enormous bulwark of red and grey armour.

War, to your astonishment, has stepped in front of you, a very deliberate move that has him dragging the first man off the counter and letting him dangle by the scruff of his jacket from a clenched gauntlet, sputtering all manner of curses and threats to an impervious Horseman.

The third man, you note, is nowhere to be seen, having apparently decided that loyalty isn't worth as much as he thought it was. And his fellow lackey isn't far behind. The one who took a shot at War promptly turns on his heel and scrambles for the door.

You can't see the Horseman's face anymore, just the up and down heave of shoulders as wide as you are tall. To your surprise, he doesn't make a move to follow the runners, not at first.

Instead, his hood shifts slightly as he turns his head beneath it, angling it sideways in your direction.

"They will not evade me for long," he tells you resolutely, hoisting the first offender off his knees and onto his feet, "What would you have me do with this one?"

"You're... asking me?"

There's a pregnant pause, broken by the sound of wet, miserable blubbers of the man in question.

When War speaks again, you're caught off guard by the hesitation in his thrumming voice.

"This is... your patron?" he murmurs, "This is your bar."

Oh. You blink, recoiling slightly. He remembered what you told him when you first met...?

And he's trying to adhere to it? Granted, in a slightly misguided way.

... War?

"I... I mean, if he didn't have a gun, I would have told him to get out of here anyway, so... once he's out of that door, he's all yours."

You think you hear a subdued grunt of approval from somewhere within that hood, followed by an even quieter, "They will not trouble you again."

And without another word, War drags the man towards the exit, showing no signs of slowing as his quarry begins screaming in earnest and trying to yank his jacket free.

When the door swings shut behind the Horseman, you strain your ears to catch any sounds of violence. Part of you harshly tells yourself that you should be ashamed for letting that man be subjected to whatever punishment War sees fit to inflict.

But the other part of you, the older, sadder part, thinks, 'Well, he shouldn't have come in here to find trouble if he didn't like it when trouble turned up.'

It remains eerily quiet for several minutes whilst you watch the doorway, eyes fixed to the little window, through which you can only see a glimpse of the grey, rainy street outside.

The pub sits empty. Again. Nothing left behind but full glasses and spilled bottles that were knocked over on the tables as people fled, trickling alcohol all over the carpets.

What a mess... But you much prefer this kind of mess to the blood and carnage you'd been expecting...

You wonder if anyone will return to ask for a refund. 'Acts of Horsemen related hijinks' probably isn't covered by your policy....

Just as your rigid limbs start to unwind, the door is shoved open once again, and you snap back to attention in a split second, fingers digging nervously around the edge of the bar.

War steps back inside, rivulets of rainwater pouring off his armour and dripping to the floor.

You find your gaze immediately trying to seek out any sign of blood, but the vast blade he keeps perpetually strapped across his back doesn't trickle anything other than water onto your carpets as the Horseman strides towards you, his gaze as locked onto you as yours is to him.

"Are you hurt?" is the first thing he asks before he's even come to a stop in front of you on the other side of the bar.

"No," you tell him honestly, chewing on your lip as he gives you a none-too subtle once-over before you add, "Thank you, by the way."

The snow-white brows that had been screwed together into a scowl promptly spring apart, and he stares at you incredulously, as if you'd said something far more racy than a simple 'thanks.'

Breezing past his surprise, you let out a long, gushing sigh and spare a glance out the front-facing window, think aloud, "I wonder why they'd want your Earthcaller thing...?"

War just cocks his head to the side, confusion etched clearly into his expression. "Earthcaller?" he asks.

"Yeah?" Giving him a cautious smile, you add, "I mean I assume that's why you followed them here? Cos you found out they were the ones who wanted it stolen from you in the first place."

A muscle in his jaw twitches violently, nostrils flaring with barely contained irritation as he flings a filthy look behind himself at the door. "I was not aware that they were the culprits..." he spits.

Slowly, it dawns on you that a Horseman of the Apocalypse hadn't intervened to serve his own interests.

Had he really just stepped in to help you?

Bewildered, you shake your head and scrunch your nose up, asking, "Wait. If you weren't here for them... why'd you come back?"

Turning back to you, the Horseman's expression is once again marginally gentler than it had been a mere second ago. "It was raining," he tells you simply.

His response takes you a few moments to parse, but when you finally recall the context, your face brightens with a sincere, if baffled, grin.