#tw mugging

Egg is a bright light in your life. Sudden and special as a shooting star. You have loved having him with you, even if the events leading to his joining were the most terrifying and distressing of your life. You’ve come to care for the boy like a brother, taking him under your wing in your own crafts. You teach him how to identify the plants in the forest and on roadsides. Which leaves can be brewed into a tea for headaches, which roots can be crushed or ground to yield salves for cuts and scrapes, which mimics are so deadly they can kill you within seconds of touching your tongue. He soaked everything up with supreme eagerness, and though he did like to complain about food and occasionally long days, his presence was entirely positive.

Tonight was an inn night, the first since Ashford. You may have had a hand in it. Dunk had been careful about his sudden notoriety since the trial, and you had agreed that it may be best to lay low while the gossip inevitably sweeps through Westeros. But he is also still suffering the bout of injuries he sustained in the battle.

“You need a bed,” you had insisted one night while applying a cooling salve to his now barely swollen eye. “Your body will not be able to fully recover if you are constantly jostling it and making it sleep on rocks and tree roots.”

“I’m alright,” Duncan murmured, though it held a weakness that you knew meant he was lying. “Can’t waste the money on an inn just for me,”

You gave him a stern, wary look, lips pursed into a line. You sighed, pretending the conversation was entirely over, but had later casually mentioned over your shoulder that you wished you could give your hair a proper wash. You even made a slight show of trying to detangle the ends with your fingers. One of the many good things about travelling with such an earnest, caring, and truly foolish man was how easy it is to get him to do anything at all. You only smiled when Duncan suggested stopping in an inn the next day.

The hot meal they serve for dinner is a welcome treat for all of you, and Egg especially made it clear that this was better than anything you had ever made on the road. You flick a crumb of your bread roll at him, and he sticks his tongue out at you. You hear Dunk huff an amused sound, and you go soft with a barely concealed smile when you meet eyes. You both return to your meals as Egg looks on, his eyes flicking between the two of you.

A minstrel starts up some old lyre song in the corner as you finish your food, and you perk up immediately. You’ve always been fond of music. You’ve warm memories of line dancing with Dunk when you were younger, awkward and blushing as you linked arms and each tried desperately not to overstep. Ser Arlan seemed to get a lot of amusement from that, if his red-faced laughter was anything to go by. You rise, casually mentioning that you are going to go stand closer to listen to the song, and leave the boys to their ciders.

The song is about love, as many tend to be. You lean against a wooden beam near the wall and listen intently to the lyrics; gentle but true in their passion, depicting a couple who have loved one another for years but have never felt the courage to speak it. You sigh softly to yourself, entirely entranced by the gentle plucking of the chords and the smooth voice of the minstrel.

“Fair music?”

Your head turns quickly to the side, and you instantly wonder where this man came from. He is handsome, with dark brown curls and tanned skin that makes you wonder briefly if he isn’t Dornish in some regard. But mostly you are surprised you did not hear nor see him approach you.

“Y-yes,” you feel your soul deflate and curl at the stutter, and your head dips. “Sorry, yes, it is lovely,”

He chuckles with so much warmth it makes your stomach flip.

“Don’t apologise for having an opinion. If anything, I’m sorry I startled you,”

You look back up, finding him smiling and leaning close to you in an easy manner that somehow doesn’t feel strange, even though he is a stranger. You manage a relieved little chuckle. At least he is kind about it.

“No, it is my fault for not paying much attention to my surroundings,” you say. “Likely the music is too fair, and I have found myself ignoring everything but.”

He chuckles again, his eyes glimmering low in the lantern light.

“I could not blame you. Love songs always pluck at my heart strings as well. Are you travelling and staying the night, perhaps? Or a local simply here to enjoy the lyre?”

“Travelling. My companions are sitting just over there,”

The stranger glances in the direction you gesture, his eyes sweeping carefully over Duncan and Egg, who only stare back when you send them a small wave. Your brow ticks in confusion, but the man quickly distracts you from the odd sense of rejection.

“I hope I’m not stealing you away from your family,”

“Oh!” You go warm, chest fuzzy at the assumption, however wrong it may be. “No, it’s not like that. Though I understand why you might think it. We are an unlikely band, but not related by any means,”

“Truly?” He quirks a brow, interest clearly stoked. “So the beaten giant is not your husband who earned his injuries defending his dear spouse from bandits, perhaps?”

You give a flustered laugh that is perhaps a touch too loud, and you instantly recoil as you cringe to yourself.

“No, no, not at all. Though it is an entertaining guess,”

“And what is the story behind his condition, if you would not mind me asking?”

You hesitate. Laying low, you remind yourself. Besides, you are not by any means eager to relive the trial.

You simply give a smile and a placating shake of the head. “A story for another time perhaps,”

He hums, obviously curious, but doesn’t push.

“Well then, if that’s the case, what’s say you join me for a dance?” Suddenly your heartbeat is skipping like a child in your chest and becomes the only thing you can feel. His hand has come to yours, gently raising it from your side. You stare, lips parted, head fogging up with the giddiness.

You’ve met many people in your life. That happens when you are always journeying. But despite that, you have never felt like anyone has ever really seen you. It was peculiar maturing slowly as you went from place to place, slowly coming into your body and losing the odd gangle of limbs for a surer form. And as you grew, you kept waiting for someone to notice. For someone to stop and stare, to look on longingly like in fairytales. For an expression of interest, even just a little one. You never understood why no one ever did, and you have carried the quiet sting since adolescence. Maybe you are just plain, you thought. You supposed the dirt and grime of the road never helped. But even after you learned how to properly style your hair, and what colours look best on your skin, it never changed. As an adult, it is not the sort of thing you dwell on. You are too old to care anymore, you tell yourself, chiding the ache in your chest and folding it away.

You’re nodding before your brain even catches up. Because the ache is back, but now it is being enveloped in a warm, tingling sensation so gratifying that you can only chase after the man giving it. The handsome, charming man looking at you with twinkling eyes, who wants to dance with you. You bite the inside of your cheek to stop from smiling too wide.

Across the floor, Duncan’s jaw tightens. He sees the elated smile on you, of course he does. He sees everything you do. But right now, he doesn’t want to see you spun and giddy in the arms of somebody else. So he frowns at his cider and downs the rest of the mug.

Egg is less satisfied with resigned drinking.

“You should go smash in his skull,” Egg begins, carrying all the urgency and anger a boy of nine can. “Show him that you’re the hedge knight who prevailed against dragons by shoving your greatsword up his asshole!”

Duncan turns his glare to the boy.

“Don’t start,” he warns lowly. “’M not doing a thing. Let them have their fun,”

Duncan purses his lips at the sour taste in his mouth, waving down a server for a tankard of ale this time.

“’sides, I’m in no state to be pickin’ fights,” He gestures to the crutch sitting beside him.

Egg only shrugs. “Then shove the crutch up his ass instead,”

That makes Dunk huff, and he takes a mighty gulp of ale as soon as it arrives. He spends the rest of the night bitterly pretending not to glance over at you, lovely bright you, laughing and hair bouncing as you dance.

-

You’re attached to the stranger’s arm, giggling as he leads you away from the dance floor. You’ve spent several songs in his arms, and you don’t think you’ve felt this good in years. The excitement is intoxicating, and the attention tenfold more so. You lean closer eagerly to hear him better when he begins to speak.

“I believe I’ve taken enough of your time tonight,” he offers another dazzling smile. “Let me walk you to your room,”

So you do, because you’ll take every bit of consideration you can get. But when you unlock the door, intending to turn back to him and say thank you for the dances, you feel your breath wrench from your lungs. He has shoved you; you realise only when you lay dazed on the ground. It wasn’t a particularly hard hit, but combined with the complete and utter surprise, you are stuck on the floor as your mind catches up to the image of the handsome stranger moving swiftly past you into the room.

“Hey-,” you protest breathlessly when he drags you by your arm, just far enough into the room to close to door behind you. He drops you like you’re dead weight, his eyes scanning over the possessions you had put away before dinner. He is quick, hands flying through bags and opening drawers. He pulls your meagre coin pouch from your bags, stuffing it in his pocket. But your heart plummets into the floor when he tears through Duncan’s bag next.

“Hey!” You call again, finally regaining your strength despite the poisonous swirl of nausea taking over your body. How could you be so stupid? You put yourself back on your feet, lunging forward. He only rolls his eyes, annoyed and dismissive in a way that stings so much more after all the smiles and warm touches to your hands and back. The stranger kicks at your legs, forcing you back down to the floor and this time slapping you for good measure. Disorientated, sick, and shaking, you can only grip the notches between the wooden floorboards as he makes off with two pouches of coin.

Egg frowns deeply when he spots the man flying down the stairs and slipping back into the crowd.

“Isn’t that…,” his eyes widen and he shoots up, suddenly shouting. “Ser Duncan!”

Upstairs, you have managed to upright yourself, though you remain on the floor, coiled in shame. You feel yourself tremble, skin prickling with the heat of the humiliation. He was profiling you. You see it all now. Asking about you, whether you were local, assessing your companions for threats. How foolish could you be? How stupid to think someone genuinely liked you? Wanted you? Has your entire life not been enough of a lesson? The hot embarrassment boils over when Egg and a hobbling Duncan urgently rush into the room. They both cry your name.

You only shake your head, trying not to look as pitiful as you feel.

“I’m alright. He took our money, all of it, he ran off,”

Duncan’s jaw tightens, and he suddenly looks caught between chasing after the rogue and ensuring you are well. His fists are clenched, near shaking from anger.

“Get him, Ser Duncan! I’ll stay here,” Egg cries. It is all the assurance he needs.

Duncan flies down the stairs, standing up straight as he looks over the heads of the crowd. He travels faster than he should on his bad leg and bad everything else, but he can barely feel the hot shooting pain now. His mind zeros in on the image of you curled on the ground, shaking, and all else fades but his purpose. To protect you.

Duncan practically careens out the back door, head whipping side to side to spot the thief.

“You!” His voice booms. The image of the stranger rushing to saddle a horse is red, and Duncan barely feels his body cry out in protest when he runs forward. Spooked and quite shocked at how fast the giant is despite his obvious injuries, the thief forgoes the reins and mounts the horse, gripping its mane. But when he tries to force the horse into a sudden gallop, it whinnies in panic, raising on its hind legs.

The thief slips from its back, crying out as he crashes into the stable. The hay makes a soft enough landing, and he is able to right himself. Duncan, still charging forward, takes his crutch and throws it like a spear. It hits the stranger’s chest with just enough force to make him stumble again, which gives the hedge knight enough time to close the distance. He grabs the stranger by the hair to give Duncan a straight shot at punching him in the nose. There’s a clean snapping sound as the thief cries out.

Upstairs, Egg is sitting against your side, hand clutching your sleeve and brow furrowed in distress as hot tears prick at your eyes. You have your arms curled around your head, which is sitting against your tented knees, too deeply ashamed of both your own naivety and your childish crying.

“It’s not your fault,” The boy says firmly, curling his fingers around your bicep. “He’s a rotten bastard!”

“I was such a fool,” you hiss breathlessly at yourself. “I can’t believe I let this happen. And now Duncan’s running off to fight despite his condition because of me,”

“Ser Duncan’s strong, you know. And he cares about you. He wants to go churn that bastard into paste because he knows he can, and he wants to avenge you,” Egg is tugging at your arm now, insisting that you stop being sad because it tears at him seeing you so shaken.

Your heads both shoot up when the door opens again.

“Dunk,” you practically sob, scrambling off the floor to place your hands on the sides of his head. You frantically inspect him, noting how his brow is furrowed in barely concealed pain. The consequences of his bravery. Though the results speak for themselves when he gently passes two pouches of coin into your hand.

“It’s alright,” he says warmly. “We’re at no loss as long as you ain’t hurt,”

You shake your head, carelessly tossing the coin bags behind you onto the bed.

“You’re hurt,” you whisper, hands trembling as they hover at his temples. “You’re in pain because I was being a naïve fool. And my stupid, stupid head let me delude myself into thinking that man was interested in anything more than robbing us blind,”

Dunk frowns deeply, and he looks over your shoulder. You can tell by the nod of his head that he’s dismissing Egg. The boy clearly goes to protest, but the hard look he receives makes him trudge out, closing the door behind him.

Duncan briefly touches your hand with his, the warmth instantly soothing the low trembling.

“’M sorry he was a bastard. And he’s a rotten fool for looking at you and seeing anything more than someone who deserves all the kindness and goodness in the world,” he murmurs, seeming to be talking to himself, almost. “I… I know you wanted him to be more. I’m sorry it didn’t work out,”

You blink, a little embarrassed that Dunk of all people saw it, it was so obvious.

“I don’t think I did. Not really,” you sigh softly, hand migrating from his temple to his cheek slowly. “I just got caught up in feeling seen for once. Gods I really was an idiot,”

Dunk frowns again.

“Stop that. You’re the furthest thing from a fool,” he says sternly.

“I was profiled and tricked as easily as a babe,” you huff in a self-deprecating manner.

“Because he’s a bad man, not because you’re stupid,” he insists. “I… I know a thing or two about being a fool, and you’re the farthest thing from it. You’re clever, bright as anything. You’re always figuring out ways o’ doing things I never would’ve thought of,”

His voice has gone soft and warm, and you stare up at him as the ache starts to make itself known again.

“You think that?” you whisper, eyes going wider.

You feel his ears go hot near your fingers, and you watch as his lips purse and his eyes sweep the ground.

“Course I do,” he murmurs, embarrassed but no less sincere. “I know you,”

Something in your heart gives way as you stare up at him, warm realisation pooling in your chest.

“You do know me, don’t you,” you murmur, thumb tracing over the subtly of his cheekbone. Dunk goes hotter under the tender touch, and he stutters for a second before managing a confused whisper of your name. “You’ve always been so good to me. If I didn’t know you, I’d be shocked at your willingness to run after a thief in your state. Thank you, for always looking out for me. For seeing me when no one else does,”

“It’s not hard,” he swallows thickly, readjusting his crutch. “You make it easy,”

It’s so earnest and simple and so Dunk that you melt. Your hand slides quick but gentle to the back of his neck. His brow furrows, but he leans down willingly. You feel his entire body go taut when your lips softly press into his.

Dunk’s body trembles, and he drops the crutch. It clatters to the floor as his hand moves to catch your waist, grounding himself in you. The kiss is sweet and careful, and you can feel your heart beating out your chest as you pull just far enough away to look into his wide, ocean-blue eyes. You can feel his heart too, when you place your hand over his sternum.

“Dunk? Are you alright?” you ask softly, sobering some as you watch him grapple, jaw loose.

His head moves in stuttering nods, and his eyes close and reopen a few times like he’s sure the image of you will dissipate any moment.

“You… you um, you didn’t have to… do that,”

“I wanted to,” you admit, feeling your face burn. “N-not just as thanks, but because I feel so much for you. I think I always have,”

The confession draws Dunk from his trembling, and he instinctively leans closer, his hands meeting at your lower back.

“I know I always have,” he confesses with a shaky exhale. “It’d be hard not to, the way you are. Seven above, you’re everything. You’re strong and smart and good. I-I can’t believe you feel something for me,”

You smile, arms wrapping around him.

“How could I not? You’re the most honourable, kind, giving man I’ve ever met,” you say breathlessly. “I’m so glad it’s you. I can’t believe how lucky I am that I have you with me,”

“Believe me,” he laughs in soft disbelief. “I’m thinkin’ the same,”

You’re both beaming at each other now, staring in barely suspended disbelief as you both lean a little closer.

You giggle breathlessly together as your lips meet in, one, two, several more quick little kisses. Your head moves to rest against his chest, and you stand there for a while, both soaking up the moment in its entirety.

The next day, out on the road again, you and Dunk stay close, exchanging barely hidden giddy smiles that turn into fluttering laughter when you meet eyes too many times. Egg only looks onward knowingly, watching from a pace behind.

“I’m glad you two have finally figured it out,” the boy notes from behind. You both turn to blink at him.

“What, were you waiting for this?” Dunk questions, his brow scrunching.

“I suppose that makes sense,” you laugh softly, smiling at the boy. “You always have seen things plainly,”

He preens at the compliment, chest puffing.

“Obviously. Someone has to, besides. It took the two of you much too long.”

You and Dunk laugh as you shake your heads.

Everything was normal, really. The three of you travelling along as you had been just a day ago. But happier, now. Lighter. Like the sun is shining in your favour. As you glance at Dunk again, and share yet another smile, you can’t help but think that it will keep shining down on you. If your man has anything to say about it, of course. You know now that he’d do anything he can to give you all the warmth and happiness there is to be felt.  

The ring wasn’t all that pretty, Nicky thought. It could be cheap costume jewelry, for all he knew. But apparently, this thing costed a fortune, and that’s why he had it in his hand.

Nicky McAllister had a few bad habits. All of them were to provide for his family, of course—if his little sister Penny and sort-of-friend, sort-of-lover (he had no clue anymore) Ivan counted as family. How else was he supposed to get cash in their situation? Stealing and trading was all that was available for a young man with no other connections in this city.

Nicky threw the ring up in the air and caught it a couple of times in his hand. The gem was bright red, probably a ruby (he didn’t know, nor care), and the band was a matte gold. The one thing that interested him about the tiny thing was the engravings around the inside of the band. Little vines with leaves and thorns. He wondered about the ring’s possible history absentmindedly as he strolled to the agreed-upon meeting spot. Soon, that little ring would be exchanged for a wad of money. Enough to feed himself, Penny, and Ivan for a month. He needed this.

Nicky stopped at a corner in the alley, reaching into his pocket to examine the crumpled up sheet of notebook paper once again. He was in the right place, that was for sure—the alley on fifth street in the abandoned town next to the city—but no one was there. Nicky rolled his eyes and leaned against the wall. He waited, staring at the yellow sky, for minutes on end. For how urgent the letter had been about the trade, he didn’t think the buyer would have the nerve to be so—

“Late! I’m late! My bad, kid!” A voice broke through Nicky’s thoughts. He lifted his head to see a man jumping the fence nearby, followed by two other, larger ones. The man, who looked about ten years older than him, didn’t seem at all bothered by his own tardiness—he was carefree as ever, hands stuffed in his pockets as the other two men flanked him.

Nicky shoved the paper back in his pocket. “Took you long enough,” he muttered. He raised an eyebrow when he noticed the other men with him, gesturing to them. “What, you scared of me or something?”

The man laughed. “Nah, just precaution. I don’t believe we’ve met—I’m Marty Hughes.” Marty held his hand out, and Nicky shook it hesitantly. He wanted to get this deal over with, not make a friend.

“…Nicky,” he replied shortly, ending the handshake as soon as necessary. “Anyway, I’ve, uh…” He reached in his pocket, holding the ring, but not removing it just yet. “I’ve got the ring.”

Marty smiled. “And I’ve got your money. Look at that! All the two things we need for a trade.” He held his hand out and one of his bodyguards put a small satchel in his hand. He opened it and revealed a bundle of money.

Nicky’s eyes went wide. A break from stealing and bartering, even if only for a little while, was extremely enticing. Trying to keep neutral and hide his anticipation, he removed the ring from his pocket and held it out.

“Here.” Nicky stepped forward a little, eager to get the trade finished. “I’ll hand it to you, and you give me the money at the same time. Standard practice.”

Marty chuckled. “So serious. Talking like it’s the end of the world or something.” The other men laughed along with him as he shook his head and stepped forward.

Nicky tried not to roll his eyes. For him, not getting this money WAS the end of the world. Biting back his annoyance, he stood across from the older man with the ring.

He expected the trade to go agonizingly slow or straight-up wrong, but surprisingly to Nicky, it went smoothly. Marty handed him the money just as Nicky handed him the ring.

“See? Easy as that. No need to be all worked up, Nick. Pleasure doing business.” Marty patted Nicky on the shoulder a couple of times. Nicky cringed at the gesture, but he brushed it off and began counting his money.

“Yeah. Pleasure,” he muttered. He was just glad to have his money and be out of there.

Except, something was wrong.

Nicky turned around, having counted his money. “Hey,” he announced, stopping Marty and his men. “This isn’t the amount we agreed upon.” He held up the bundle of cash. “This is 250. We agreed on 400.”

Marty, still with his infuriating grin, turned around. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. Did you go to school? Don’t you know how to count?” He taunted.

“This isn’t a joke!” Nicky yelled, finally fed up with the man. He approached the three again. “You may have the money to fool around like this, but I don’t! I have to feed myself with this!”

“Then 250 should be just fine,” Marty replied calmly. “Look, kid. You seem new to this business. How many trades have you done? Two? Three?”

Nicky didn’t humor the man’s conversation. “Give me my money. I don’t have time for this.”

“This happens all the time!” Marty continued. “Every good barterer knows that whatever the agreed amount is can…slip a little.”

“I’ve been trading for months,” Nicky bit back. “And this has never been an issue. You’re just a crook.”

Marty raised an eyebrow and snorted a laugh. “I’m the crook?” He took the ring from his satchel. “How do I know this isn’t a fake, huh? You’ve been in the business for so long, how do I know you’re not the scammer?”

Nicky stared at the ring in Marty’s hand. A million thoughts and possibilities ran through his head. He could hear Ivan reprimanding him, and Penny egging him on. What consumed him most, however, was his anger. Whatever rationality he had went out of the window.

He swiped the ring from Marty’s hand, shoved it and the money in his pocket, and ran.

Nicky almost tripped as he turned the sharp corners of the alley. He bolted for the streets of the abandoned town, praying he didn’t forget the route out of the alley. He heard three steps of footsteps behind him. He didn’t dare look back.

Nicky faced the fence that led him to the streets and quickly hopped up to climb it. His foot got stuck for just a moment, sending a jolt of panic through his body, but he got it loose and jumped down. He heard the rattling of the others climbing it soon after, followed by the thuds as they hit the ground. Shit—they were faster climbers than him.

Nicky dashed through the streets, heading for the road that would lead him back to the city. At least with more people around, he’d be able to save himself somewhat.

As he ran, he felt something small hit his back. “Ow!” He yelled out, and quickly looked behind him. Marty’s bodyguards had rocks, picked from the cracked asphalt of the street. A jagged piece nearly missed his head. Nicky cursed and kept on running.

Another piece hit his back, then his shoulder, then his neck. They slowed Nicky down, but it didn’t stop him. At least, not until a particularly large chunk of concrete hit the back of his knee. He yelled out and his legs buckled, sending him to the ground.

“Months as a trader, and you pull something like that?” Nicky heard Marty’s voice approaching. He scrambled to get up, but his bodyguards were too quick. They held each of his arms, holding him at eye level with Marty.

“See, rats like you are why I bring backup,” Marty said with a smirk.

“I wouldn’t have taken it if you were a fair trader!” Nicky spat, struggling and pulling against the men. “You’re the rat!”

Marty looked Nicky up and down for a moment, his smile faltering a little. He sighed and decidedly stepped back. “Beat him and take his things,” he ordered.

“Wait—” Nicky had no time to prepare before he was thrown roughly back to the ground. The two larger men began kicking him, leaving no part of his body unharmed. One of them knelt down to use his fists instead. Marty watched, the smile having returned to his face.

When Nicky was bruised and bleeding to Marty’s liking, the men stopped. They handed Marty Nicky’s belongings—the money, the ring, and his wallet. The two men held Nicky up again.

“There’s nothing in there,” Nicky croaked weakly, trying to keep his head up. The sound of blood dripping from his nose sickened him. “Please, my wallet, lemme have it back, t-there’s nothing in there.”

Marty ignored Nicky’s pleas and filed through the pockets of the old leather, finding no money. “Huh. You’re right, you’re dead broke. You really did need this cash, didn’t you?” He kept skimming through until he found a small, grainy photograph. He raised an eyebrow. “What’s this?”

“Don’t touch that!” Nicky yelled, as much as he could. “It ain’t yours. Leave it!”

Marty examined the picture. “Well, isn’t this a nice little photo? That one in the middle looks like you…and who’s this pretty little thing?”

“Give it BACK, you maniac!” Nicky wanted the man’s eyes off of Penny. Off of the whole photo. It was his. It was private.

“And this other boy…sure doesn’t look enough like you to be a brother.” Marty smirked and peered up at Nicky.

Nicky swallowed. “He’s my—a friend, he’s a friend, just—just give it back, it’s no use to you!” That photo meant more to him than money. Those two were his world.

“Must be a real good friend to have a picture of him on ya.” Marty chuckled dangerously and stuck the picture back in the wallet. He threw it at Nicky’s chest, and the men dropped him.

Nicky crumpled to the ground, quickly grabbing his wallet and holding it close to him. Before he was able to stand up again, his hair was suddenly grabbed and his head was wrenched up. He only had a moment to see Marty’s face before he punched him back to the ground one more time.

Nicky groaned, holding back tears as he listened to the three men walk off with his money and the ring, laughing to each other at their success. He should have just taken the money, he thought. He’d be going home with nothing. Tasked with stealing some other expensive artifact.

Slowly, he made his way home before dark—as much of a home as it was, anyway. He lived with his family in a small portable shack they’d found in a trashyard. It was shelter enough for them.

He knocked a specific rhythm on the door and waited for the door to open. He heard footsteps quickly approach, and the door opened to reveal his sister, who gasped at the state of him.

“Don’t ask,” Nicky grumbled, pushing past her and collapsing on one of the mattresses.

“Of course I’m gonna ask, idiot!” Penny retorted. “What happened to you?!”

Nicky stared at the ceiling, saying nothing. When he felt himself tearing up again, he sighed and rolled over. “Where’s Ivan?”

“Not important. What happened?” Penny demanded, sitting on the mattress next to him.

Nicky swallowed and tried not to let his voice waver. “I fucked up. They skimped on the cash, I got mad, and I tried to take the ring back.” He sat up and gestured to his beaten face. “This is what I got. They took the money, too.” He slumped back down, ashamed of himself.

Penny looked down at her brother. “We…we’ll be fine. We’ll live,” she told him, trying to stay optimistic. “You stood up for yourself, right? That’s good. You wouldn’t—” She paused to cough. “…Wouldn’t let them cheat you.”

“But they did,” Nicky muttered, his voice muffled by the mattress.

“Well fuck ‘em,” Penny said back, crossing her arms. “I would’ve done the same if they tried scamming me.” She put a hand on Nicky’s shoulder. “We’ll be fine. Ivan’s out trying to get some food.”

Nicky sat back up. “Buying, or stealing?”

Penny looked to the side. “Um…well, we’re broke, so…”

Nicky groaned. “Ivan’s horrible at stealing. Why didn’t you go?”

“He insisted!” Penny threw her arms up. “He thinks I’m still sick. I mean…I am, but I’m well enough to go get food.”

“Fox?”

How long they’d been cooped up in their room, Bree wasn’t quite certain. They sneaked out for fresh air only when they were feeling courageous, and when it was quiet enough outside that no one was around or busy enough that they wouldn’t stand out in a crowd—a risky request of his to which she had eventually capitulated when it became clear that being inside all the time was doing him no favours. It hurt her, she’d realized, to look at his pale skin and jittery limbs, as if his need to be outdoors was more than just a childish request, but a physical necessity.

“Yeah?”

Their eyes met over their plates of food—a pork roast and mashed potatoes drizzled with gravy, and a pile of green sprouts that her companion was pointedly avoiding—she’d retrieved from downstairs, doing her best to avoid the gazes of the other guests who surely burned with curiosity about why she never took her meals in the dining room.

Bree dreaded the answer to her question, and yet it had been goading her for days now. She didn’t think she could stand another minute of not knowing. “There’s something I want to ask you.”

“Okay,” he said, looking relieved to take a break from his vegetables. “Shoot.”

“You came with me,” she said. “And I know you were so hurt at first. But you’ve mostly recovered now, and I…I know you have people out there. They must be wondering. Waiting.” She pushed her potatoes around, her appetite fading quickly. “Why are you… Why didn’t you…”

He snorted, putting his plate beside him. When he folded his arms and met her gaze, Bree watched his face for irritation. “Are you asking me why I’m still here?”

“Well,” Bree said, her face heating, “I suppose I am.”

“Thought you liked having me around?”

“I do!” she said, her pulse quickening. “I didn’t—I didn’t mean it like that. Don’t start a fight. I just…”

“Just what?”

Oh, she didn’t. She didn’t want to say this. “I thought you’d go looking for them the first chance you got.”

He pointed toward the wanted posters staring at them from a stack on the desk; Bree had been tearing them down as she saw them whenever she went outside. “Aren’t you the one reminding me all the time my face is all over the place?”

“Honestly,” she said, “I really thought you’d just leave the moment you were well enough.”

A quietness took hold of him then, and as she’d known she would, she regretted asking. He tugged at his hair, thinking, and after some time, said, “I don’t know if they’re still here.”

That was not what she’d expected him to say. “What? Why not?” With horror, she watched his jaw grow tight. God, why did she always find the worst things to say? She never should have asked, never should have tried to pry, and now he was angry that she’d reminded him of his loneliness. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean—I didn’t want to—I wasn’t trying to—”

Frowning, he asked, “What are you apologizing for?”

“I wasn’t trying to upset you,” she said quickly. “Please don’t be upset. I’m sorry. I wasn’t. I shouldn’t have said anything—shouldn’t have brought it up. I’m sorry.”

He answered at first with silence, letting it drag on between them. His head tilted slightly to the side, and that hazel-eyed gaze roamed over her, calm but puzzled.

And sad.

“Bree,” he said. His voice was mournful, heavy with cruel imagination and with memory, as heavy as the metal that had once adorned his wrists. “I’m not him.”

The words hung between them, and Bree found she did not know how to answer, for he was right. It wasn’t Fox who grew so terribly furious with her at the slightest provocation, who was impatient and violent and cruel.

“I know,” she whispered.

“And I’m not mad.”

She nodded, suddenly finding she couldn’t think of a single word to say except, “Okay.”

His throat bobbed as he waited, it seemed, to see if she would say more. When she didn’t, he went on, “At first, I couldn’t. Even if I had wanted to. Leave, I mean. To go find them. But now…” His gaze pointed out the window. “I mean, how long’s it been? Weeks, for sure. They’d have expected me to…” She watched every muscle in his body tighten again. “Crack. Ages ago. So. There’s…there’s no way they’re at…” He paused. “Home.”

Home. Bree knew little about the world from which he’d careened into hers, but she had never imagined that a gang of thieves might have a place they called home. A hideout, maybe. What would Baden call it? A snake pit. A criminals’ lair. A—she almost smiled—fox den.

“Do you have a way to contact them?” Perhaps it was a hopeless, pointless question.

Fox looked away from the window, studying her now as he once had in a cold and filthy prison cell—curious and assessing.

“Yeah,” he said slowly. “There is.”

As if he weren’t quite aware that he was doing it, he traced the lines of his tattoo: the roots and the tree, the circle, the letters she had stared at so many times when he wasn’t looking—I.A.

As his fingers moved over the black-ink curves on his arm, his eyes went to hers. “You gotta promise,” he said. “If I tell you…” Bree’s heart pounded, and for a moment, she felt utterly giddy. “You gotta swear you won’t tell anyone. Ever.”

“I won’t,” she breathed. “No one. Ever.”

“Promise?” he asked, holding out his hand.

She extended hers. “I promise.”

***

Flip the coin.

“No, not like that,” he’d said, chuckling at her look of confusion. “Not in the air. As in, turn it over.”

Bree reached out and turned the wooden coin so the side with the letters I.A. were facing upwards and the tree with the ringed roots faced down.

Drop the message.

A short note, written in such atrocious hand, she hadn’t been able to read it.

“What does it say?” she’d asked, watching him blow on the ink and cut a piece of string so he could tie it around a stone to weigh it down.

He’d laughed when she’d confessed she couldn’t read his writing. “Well, I mean, it’s kind of on purpose. Don’t want just anyone reading it, right? But it says I’m alive. And out.” The smile he wore had faltered as he went on. “If they’re still around, they’ll know it’s me. Hopefully.”

“You signed it?”

“No,” he said, rolling his eyes. “J—” Suddenly, he’d stopped. “They know my shitty handwriting. They’ll…they’ll know.”

Bree dropped the messily tied note next to the coin. He’d said there were a few places around the city that Iustitia aecum used for sharing messages and dropping goods, but there were some he thought his friends would be more likely to check than others. After some thought, he’d narrowed it down to two—and after some arguing, they had agreed that he would drop a note in one and she in the other.

“You’re going to get caught,” she’d said, her heart in her throat.

“I’ll be careful,” he’d promised. “I didn’t get busted just walking around. I got ambushed meeting with someone.” His expression had soured. “It was a trap for my…”

She hadn’t been able to get more out of him on that, but he’d seemed to waver somewhat in his conviction to keep his IA secrets from her. It hadn’t escaped her notice, that bitten lip, that pause, that glance over her when he thought she wasn’t looking. She’d chosen not to mention it. 

Bree also hadn’t voiced the other concern that beat painfully against her ribcage: that Fox would never return for a different reason—that him being rearrested was not the only thing that might prevent her from ever seeing him again. Perhaps his friends, by chance, would find him dropping the message. Perhaps he would slip away and go to the home he said existed somewhere in the city, and there they would be, delighted to find him alive and whole, and they would welcome him with open arms, and Bree would never lay eyes on him again.

She pushed the thoughts from her mind. If he wanted to find his friends and rejoin them, wasn’t he free to do so? Hadn’t she been the one to ensure he had that freedom?

Get the hell away from there.

The last instruction in Fox’s list of three. Bree glanced around, praying no one had noticed her pause by the sill of a broken window in an abandoned storefront, and then headed back toward the inn. The wind whipped around her, and for the first time, she was grateful for the trousers—better if you don’t look like you, he’d said, and she’d agreed. She had to admit, as much as she missed and preferred her skirt and petticoat, it was nice to not have them tangling around her legs.

God, what if Fox really didn’t come back?

As she hurried through the streets with night falling gently around her, tears struck, so sudden and so sharp, they took her breath away and blurred her vision. Furiously, Bree wiped them from her eyes. What was she crying for? Why on earth should she weep at the thought of never seeing him again? What a fool she was.

Bree took a moment to catch her breath and regain her composure, to force back another slew of silly, girlish tears. She’d set him free. She’d made that choice. What he chose to do with that freedom was up to him.

She stood, watching the evening rush ebb and flow around her, and her eyes fell upon a now-familiar piece of paper fastened to a lamppost up ahead, and her stomach turned. Heavens, but she was so sick of tearing down the posters—his and hers. Terribly sick of the lies splashed across them, terribly sick of the needling feeling ushered in by the sight of them—that awful fear that Baden knew full well she had not been abducted, and that he nurtured his own reasons for telling the world she had.

Heaving a furious sigh, she darted forward and ripped the poster from the pole.

“What—hey—look!”

An affronted cry rang out behind her, but Bree didn’t bother to turn. Whatever had upset that woman, it surely wasn’t her business; she had other problems to worry about.

“That boy’s taking down Breanna’s poster!”

Oh.

Oh, no.

It bowled into her, much too late now, that it was not the voice of some unknown woman shouting at her—rather, shouting at the “boy” who was so wickedly disrupting the constabulary’s search for her missing friend.

It was Alice.

And Alice was at her side, grabbing her arm with the force of a furious adult disciplining a misbehaving child.

“What on earth are you doing?” she demanded. “How dare you? Don’t you realize we’re still looking for the girl on that poster?”

“He probably can’t read,” a passerby said. “Most street kids can’t, can they?”

“That’s no excuse!” Alice said. Her lovely eyes were wild and fuming, an expression Bree had never seen there. “Explain yourself!”

Alice, eyes glistening, forcefully pulled Bree toward her—and her face changed. Her grip loosened.

“Breanna?”

Bree’s chest grew tight, too tight, and the cold air turned to shards of ice deep within her lungs, so frigid and piercing that she could hardly bear to draw a single breath.

“Breanna? Is it…is that you?”

Without thinking, Bree tugged Alice to the side, away from the curious eyes that were collecting around them, terror lending to her grip a strength she’d never wielded before. “Shh! Don’t say my—”

Alice’s eyes came close to overflowing. “How—why? Where have you been?” Her voice shook. “You sent that note—all those passages you marked—your note—” She took hold of Bree’s hand, wrapping her fingers tightly as if she might never let go. “And your cousin! You never had a cousin named Lucy! Why would you—”

“Alice, please.” Breanna squeezed the gloved hands wrapped around hers. “You must understand.” Her voice broke. “I know you do.”

Alice stared at her, her face ghostly pale. Almost as grey as the sky above them. “Where have you been?” she repeated. “Are you hurt? Are you safe?”

“I’m safe,” Bree said. “And I’m—I’m gone. And I’m not going back.”

“What?”

“Never, Alice.” Bree’s fingers twitched tighter. “Please. You—you never saw me. Please.”

Alice remained still now, her eyes wide and frightened, and ever so confused. “Breanna, you’re scaring me. You’re talking—you’re talking—”

“I’m never going back to him!”

The vow erupted out of her, rending the air between them like thunder.

“I’m never going back.” Bree’s chest heaved, her breath spinning beyond control now rather than frozen in horror. “If you have ever thought of me as a friend, Alice Wright, you’ll let me walk away, and you’ll never tell another soul you saw me here.”

Breanna Hatchett, cowering somewhere in her subconscious, quailed at the force behind her words: she fell to her knees, in tears, and she begged for Alice’s forgiveness. After all, what kind of girl would speak to her friend that way?

The girl who had become Bree Scarlett, however, did not take her eyes from Alice’s, and she did not back down.

The tears Alice had been so obviously and valiantly trying to contain spilled free.

“Promise me,” she whispered. “Promise me you are safe.”

“I promise,” Bree said. “I’m safe. And I’m h—hap—”

The truth of that stuttered, unfinished word—happy, for she was, wasn’t she, against all odds?—struck with such violence that Bree was almost relieved when a familiar voice cried out, equal parts harsh, concerned, and irritated.

“Alice? What on earth are you doing? We’re going to be late!”

Breanna spun around, and the woman calling Alice gasped.

“Breanna? Breanna Hatchett? You’re here? Where have you been?” Marguerite’s mouth dropped open. The frustrated quality to her voice changed, its target shifting from Alice to Bree, and her pitch rose to piercing shrillness. “And what in heaven’s name are you doing dressed like that? Goodness gracious, what’s happened to you?”

The stares of the surrounding townsfolk were only growing.

“Why are you dressed up in boy’s clothes?” Marguerite asked. “And—why are you here? Half the city’s been looking for you. Your husband has been so—”

Bree observed rather dizzily how her friend kept her distance, as if she did not wish to get too close, as if coming near might sully her lovely dress or her spotless white gloves. As if she were worried that Bree might do something unseemly or rash.

As if she were afraid.

“Everyone says you were kidnapped,” Marguerite said nervously. “You don’t look hurt. You just look…”

Bree backed away. Something she did not trust, something she feared, glittered in Marguerite’s gaze.

To Alice, all she could think to say was, “Please, say—say nothing—”

“Alice?” Marguerite interrupted. “What is she talking about?”

And sweet, lovely, kind, and caring Alice glanced between Bree and Marguerite, stuttering out a few anxious, incomprehensible sounds. “Well—well—I—”

“Look at her. What is she doing?” Marguerite’s face drained of colour as Bree backed up even further. “I think—I think she’s gone quite mad. She’s going to hurt herself, or—or even someone else. Someone fetch the pol—”

Bree turned on her heel and ran.

Icy wind scraped at her skin as she fled, the rush of air in her ears drowning out the surprised shouts of strangers and the worried calls of Alice and Marguerite. Perhaps Alice believed her; perhaps she would have held her tongue—turned away and pretended they had never crossed paths.

But Marguerite?

She’s gone quite mad.

Whether or not that was true, Bree thought grimly, was rather beside the point. What was far more concerning: what Marguerite had been about to say.

Someone fetch the police.

No doubt, somewhere behind her, someone had called for the constables. What other choice did they have, believing there to be a madwoman roaming the streets, spurning the aid of her dear friends, pretending to be someone else, and tearing down her own “Missing” posters?

They didn’t understand; they could not. Marguerite had done as she thought was proper, and if there were police seeking her now, the search for poor, missing Breanna Hatchett urgently renewed, those officers also did what they believed to be right.

As did Bree.

She stopped running when the stitch in her side grew to be too much to bear, and the uneven stones beneath her feet threatened to trip her and send her smashing to the ground. She laid a shaking hand against a wall and allowed herself to rest.

Listen. Pay attention. Look for pursuers. All things Fox had told her would be imperative during, as he called it, the drop.

“Gotta stay…uh…” He’d paused, scratching his chin. “What’s the word? V—vi—”

“Vigilant,” she’d supplied, and he’d grinned, repeating the word after her with a wholly unembarrassed chuckle.

His voice faded from her mind, replaced by the sounds of the still-hidden high street. Perhaps someone had given chase, but she heard no furious shouts, at least none that seemed to be related to her flight from Alice and Marguerite.

Slowly, Bree let out a breath.

So she’d made it away without getting caught.

Now what?

The quivering Breanna Hatchett inside her wanted to spin around, terrified at how unfamiliar the area was, and to fall to the ground and weep, because even Bree Scarlett recognized that she was, in all likelihood, very lost.

She swallowed her tears and took another deep breath. She wasn’t lost; rather, she was just off the main street, and once she made her way back there, she’d be able to find her way. Ask for directions from someone who seemed kind. Someone who didn’t believe her to be a criminal or a madwoman or a helpless victim of Iustitia aecum.

Once the pain in her side had faded, Bree pushed herself forward, keeping one eye on the darkening sky. The wind churned up dust, dead leaves, and detritus as it rushed through the alley, threatening to loosen her tied-up hair and dislodge the woollen hat Fox had “found” and given to her to hide her face. It was dark and cold, yes—and getting darker and colder—and she was lost, yes, but that did not mean all was lost.

Find the high street.

Regain her bearings.

Make it back to the inn.

Reunite with Fox. He would be there.

He would be there.

Wouldn’t he?

***

Listen. Pay attention. Stay vigilant.

Somewhere behind her, she heard the muttering of two boys, and fear flared in her chest, but as she tried to catch their conversation, she realized that while they seemed to be talking about her, they kept saying “boy” and “lad.”

The disguise, at least, was working.

She made her way toward the main road, shoving her hands deep into the pocket of her coat in a desperate attempt to retain some warmth in her fingertips.

She’d make it back and find her way. She could. Breanna Hatchett would have already given up. Bree Scarlett was stronger than that.

She paused at a corner, uncertain of which way would point her toward the inn.

“Hey, you. Kid. You lost?“

When Bree glanced back, she saw that the young men were still about, one poised to walk away, the other with his eyes on her.

“No,” she said. Goodness, she must really have looked confused, if they’d noticed her pausing and looking around and wondering what to do next. This was unfortunate, for they looked rough, certainly not the sort of people she’d usually find herself speaking to.

Except recently, she supposed. Since her only companion of late was a wanted criminal, and despite what the poster said, so, in fact, was she.

“Where you headed?” the boy asked. “You need a hand?”

Bree shook her head. Some cautious emotion prickled at the back of her mind. Yes, she’d been looking for someone to ask for directions. These two didn’t quite seem like who she had in mind, not with their sly mouths and beady eyes.

“You sure?” The boy approached quickly, confidently. “’Cause you’re looking a little lost there, friend-o.”

“Well, I’m not.” Bree turned away, blood ticking a little faster through her veins. Why wouldn’t he take no for an answer and just leave her alone? “Good…” She let her voice trail off. Was goodbye too formal for this conversation? How did boys speak to one another on the street? “Go away.”

The boy’s blue eyes reflected back at her the light of the nearest lamp, shining yellow and lurid. “What was that, kid?”

“Kinda rude,” the other one said.

“That’s what I was thinking.”

“Just leave me alone,” Bree said. “I don’t need your help, all right?” She began to walk away, gaze trained on the gas lamps in the distance. It would be fully dark soon, with only the lamps to light her way, and she was wasting time.

“Uh, where do you think you’re going?”

Keep walking—that was all she had to do. She didn’t turn around. What would Fox say if he were here? “I told you to get lo—”

Addressing his friend, the boy interrupted her, his voice snide. “Did you hear that weedy little asshole tell me to go away?”

“Sure did.”

“And I was just offering to help him, wasn’t I?”

“Yeah, you was.”

“Kinda feels like he needs to be taught a lesson…don’t he?”

“Yep.”

None of this sounded good at all. Bree ducked her head, hastened her footsteps—and walked directly into a bulky form that seemed to materialize out of thin air.

“Sounds like,” the boy said, taking hold of the collar of her coat, “we got a problem here. Don’t it?”

A brick wall pressed against her back.

“You gotta know whose turf this is,” the boy said. “And I never seen no pansy little shitheads like you around here before. ’Specially not a mouthy little bastard in a fancy-ass coat like that. So, where the hell’d you come from, fella?”

“I certainly don’t know whose turf this is,” Bree said, pushing weakly against him and remembering too late that she wasn’t supposed to sound like herself. Her attempt to shove him away did little but dredge up memories that were neither comforting nor helpful. Baden had cornered her like this at times when he really wanted to shout in her face about something—never using such language as that, of course, but it felt familiar all the same. Her breath hitched. “Get off me, you—you—you brute—”

“A brute, huh?” The boy snorted, holding more tightly to her coat and thrusting her back into the wall. Even through her clothes, the rough brick stung on impact. “We’ll see. Empty them nice pockets of yours, kid, and maybe we’ll let you pass through with a warning. Maybe.”

A knife spun in between the fingers of his free hand, glinting bewitchingly in the lamplight that trickled in from the road. Bree watched the reflected glow swirl in the air and turn from green to blue to yellow, then disappear entirely as he caught it again.

“Do it,” the other one said, voice drenched in gleeful malice, and Bree could not tell if he was speaking to her or to his friend.

In agonizing, mocking slowness, the knife lowered and rested against her neck—and there it stayed, grazing the skin of her throat with teeth as cold and razorlike as ice.

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@starlit-hopes-and-dreams

@clairelsonao3

@gala1981

@pleasestaywithmedarling

@kixngiggles

Your best friend and part-time neighborhood vigilante had been out on patrol as you were walking back to your shared apartment from the night class you were enrolled in. Walking back home, you had your headphones in listening to your favorite podcast. It was about ten p.m. at this point, but you didn’t mind. You had always been more of an evening and night person, hence why you elected to take evening courses. You also found them less crowded than other classes, which was a bonus. Walking down the street, you were pulled out of your thoughts by a strong arm grabbing your waist and pulling you down a dark alley, before being thrown to the ground.

Across town, Peter was dressed in his Spiderman suit, lowering a sewer grate back into place after saving a mother cat and her two babies who had been washed down by a recent storm. Suddenly, Karen speaks.

“Sir, I have eyes on a mugging taking place in an alley off of 7th street,” the AI informs Peter as she shows him the grainy and dark video showing two shadowy figures in the alley. All Peter could make out was someone lying on the ground, as a much taller and sturdier person beating them.

Peter quickly made his way to the alley, swinging and jumping from building to building before creeping to the alley and taking stance behind the attacker. He deployed his webbing, wrapping the attacker from head-to-toe in the strong substance, subduing and eliminating the threat quickly, and then turning to the victim. Who he saw made his heart stop.

“No, no, no, no, no,” He muttered to himself in quick succession as he kneeled next to the victim. It was you, laying there unconscious in a pool of blood, a bruise already forming under your left eye.

“K-Karen, run a diagnostic scan on them, please, and tell me how to get to the nearest hospital” He asks, this voice full of emotion, scooping you up gently, ready to get you to the nearest hospital. A map with a route to the fastest trauma center appeared in his mask, giving him an optimum way to get you there within just a few minutes.

“It appears that they have multiple contusions and cuts, two cracked ribs, and a concussion, sir” Karen informs Peter, as she continually updates him on the route to the hospital.

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

It was now past midnight, and Peter found himself sitting in a small hospital chair next to your bed where your unconscious form laid. Luckily, he had been able to call Ned to bring him some normal clothes to him to he could come in to see you. Listed as your emergency contact, which surprised him, the doctors had been able to tell him your condition, which was exactly what Karen had reported to him. Peter looked over to you, taking in your appearance. He hated himself for not getting there sooner.

“You are my favorite ‘what if’, and my best ‘I’ll never know’” He whispers to himself as he holds one of your hands in both of his, bringing it to his lips to kiss gently.

At the noise you stirred, turning your head to face him and squinting at the stale white light in the hospital room.

“Wha?” you ask softly.

“Honey, are you up? How are you feeling? Can I get you anything? I’m so sorry,” Peter quickly rambles, his hold on your hand tightening.

“What did you say?” you ask again.

Peter swallows. He had come close to losing you tonight, and he refused to go another day without you knowing how he felt, even though he was sure you wouldn’t feel the same.

“I said, ‘you are my favorite what if, and my best I’ll never know’, I love you. I know you don’t feel the same, but I need you to know that,” He says, tears in his eyes.

You smile softly and remove your hand from his hold, resulting in a hurt expression on his face briefly before your hand reaches up to caress his cheek and wiping a tear away that falls.

“I love you too, so I’m not a something you’ll ‘never know’” you tell him softly, smiling as he moves his head to kiss your palm before leaning his face back into your hand.

“I’m so sorry I didn’t get there sooner, sweetheart,” He tells you, sounding absolutely heartbroken as more tears fall.

“No, Peter, please. Don’t you dare be sorry. You most likely saved my life. I remember that guy had a knife, he could have killed me. You got there, you got me here, and I’m going to survive. I don’t think I’ll be taking night classes again for a while, but I’ll be alright.” You tell him sternly. You don’t want this precious human and your personal hero now ever doubting himself. While it is true you feel anxious even imagining being out at night now, you know that’s the new trauma talking, which you will work to address with your therapist to continue to heal emotionally and mentally as well as physically from the attack.

“I’m making you something, a ring,” He tells you with conviction.

“Well, I know we proclaimed our love for one another just now, but it might be a little soon for a ring, honeybun,” you joke, making him smile and shake his head as he laughs with you.

“Then a bracelet or something. I’m making you a personal panic button. I never want this to happen again. I’m going to make it so it looks completely normal but if you press it I’ll know where you are immediately and that you need me,” He tells you, softly brushing a hair out of your face.

Normally you’d object to gifts, but this one sounded perfect. You would know he’s always going to be there for you if you’d need him. You nod in agreement.

“Okay, sounds good to me, I’d like that a lot actually,” you tell him before yawning, the pain medication starting to kick in more, making you feel drowsy again.

Peter leans in and kissed you on the cheek before caressing your face with the hand not holding yours at the moment.

“Go to sleep, sweetheart; I’ll be here,” He whispers to you. His soft smiling face is the last thing you see as you slowly drift into a peaceful sleep, knowing your hero was there to keep you safe.