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Chapter One

Chapter Two

1. marcus brooks

It's a Saturday morning when he comes in. You're busy wiping down the laquered wood counter when the bell atop the door jingles, so it takes you a moment to look up. By the time you've put away the rag, he's standing in front of the glass case, eyes scanning the various baked goods with more intrigue than you'd usually see beyond folks figuring out their order.  You let him muddle in it for a few more minutes before awkwardly clearing your throat. It's a slow morning, and the silence only makes it worse. "Good morning, sir," you offer up, a warm smile spreading over your face as his head snaps up to follow your voice. "Is there anything I can help you with?"

He matches your smile, albeit with a sheepish readjustment of the beanie donning his head. "Yeah, my bad - I was just looking." After a few seconds of scanning the case again, he turns back to you. "Do you guys make all of this in-house?"

You can't help but brighten at the prospect of talking about your pastries. "Yes, we do! I - well, we - source everything locally and use all our own recipes." He's smiling back at you, clearly psyched by your eagerness to chat with him. He's looking at the case once more, eyes taking their time assessing each item. After a beat, he jumps in with an explanation. 

"I'm a - I do pastry, too. For a restaurant in the area, we're renovating right now. As of now, I've mainly been on cakes, and, like, messing with donuts, and stuff. I'm staging in Copenhagen in a couple of weeks, but I've been on the lookout for other stuff in town lately. To get inspiration, flavor ideas kind of thing." 

You nod, brain already running through the mental catalogue of what you've got available today, what's going to be seasonal soon, what kind of flavors a restaurant might look for in a dessert. It must be a nice one, because apprenticing in Copenhagen? That's the real deal. You've listened to Syd enough times to know that staging internationally is an insane opportunity. "That's...wow, that's amazing. Well, these are all my recipes, and as you can see, there's a lot of stuff to choose from," You say on a laugh, elbows resting on the counter as you follow his eyes across the case. "Just let me know what you want to try, or if you have any questions, and I'll get it boxed up for you!"

"Yeah, for sure!" He acknowledges enthusiastically. You wait, turning your attention to a few lone customers who purchase coffee before he comes back over, counting things off on his fingers as he lists them. "Okay, can I get a honey cardamom bun, a rhubarb and orange blossom tart, the blackberry-lemon pavlova, and...a chocolate chip cookie, please, chef."

Chef. Usually, in a situation like this, you'd be overly humble to the point of lowering expectations; say something along the lines of well, this isn't the big leagues or something equally as modest. But, the only other person you've ever heard use the title so casually outside of a professional setting is your girlfriend. More evidence toward Mr. Copenhagen being the real deal. 

"Chocolate chip cookie?" You find yourself asking. "Not a very complex flavor, chef." You do what you think Syd would, and parrot the title back to him as a sign of respect. It's followed by your playful grin, one that gets him laughing.

"Nah," he agrees, smiling widely. "It's for my roommate. Figured I should bring him something back so he doesn't kick me out onto the streets."

"Ah, survival skills, got it." You reply, smiling brightly back. You box up his order and ring it up, thanking him kindly for the tip and the conversation before he heads out.

The bell rings again to signal his departure, and you return to tidying up the bakery, thoughts occupied by the kind of amazing things one might bake and eat in Copenhagen.

2. natalie berzatto

Today feels like the most Monday of all Mondays, in your opinion. Nothing that bad has happened, exactly, but definitely nothing good - the L was delayed, so you were fifteen minutes late to work. The sourdough you prepped last night was overproofed when you pulled it out of the oven. Your produce guy had an issue with his growers, so you got half the raspberries you ordered along with some consolatory blackberries. You can use them, of course, but they wouldn't exactly work for the berry and pistachio tarts you were putting out for the season. 

The long and short of it was, by the time lunch rush was underway, you're about ready to start pulling your hair out in frustration. 

The only saving grace is that everyone else seems to be experiencing this generational Monday right along with you. It's a windy day, and most of you patrons come in looking frazzled and miffed in your own right. Syd doesn't seem to be doing much better, either, judging by the fact that her reply to your latest text checking in on her work day was something along the lines of knocking walls down. 

You debate how the hell to respond to that during a momentary lull, tsking empathetically at your phone screen when the bell rings for the millionth time today. You pocket the phone and look up just in time to see a pretty blonde woman whisking through the door, momentum carrying her all the way to the counter with a slight thud. Jesus, she's mumbling under her breath before morphing her face into an apologetic smile. "Hi, sorry," she says breathlessly, and you watch with slight concern as she brushes off the sleeve of her jacket and runs a hand through her windblown hair. 

You're wondering what she's already apologizing for as the woman continues to speak. "This might be a weird question - do you have any drinks you'd recommend without caffeine?" You're about to chime in that it's not weird at all, but her rambling hasn't stopped yet. "I'm expecting, so I'm not supposed to have a lot of coffee. But I need something to wake me up, and today is just not my day."

Your eyebrows shoot up at the same time that your first real smile today spreads across your lips. "Congratulations!" you tell her genuinely. "And don't worry, I get it. It's really one of those days, I think." Her whole body seems to breathe a sigh of relief as you commiserate with her.  

"Right?" She agrees, nodding emphatically. "Everything that can go wrong is going wrong. Friends, family, work - and I work with my family, too. It's especially mind-numbing."

"Like the universe is taking every opportunity to throw a wrench in your plans? Because same." You supplement, earning a light laugh from the woman while you ponder her original request. 

"Well, let me think," you start when you've both caught your breath. "Are you good with something fruity? I could make you a lemonade or something...I feel like stuff that's kinda sour always wakes me up."

"Could you? That sounds perfect, actually. I feel like fruit is the only thing that consistently doesn't sound gross recently." She gushes while you nod. 

"I'll get that right out for you." You set out a large cup before crouching down to get the lemonade jug out of one of the fridges under the counter. You're about to pour it when a stroke of inspiration hits - the blackberries. You get some from the back, putting them at the bottom of the cup and mashing them a bit before adding ice and the lemonade on top. You put the top on and grab a straw before finding the woman at the end of the counter. 

"Here you go," you say. "I added some blackberries, they're fresh from this morning - hope that's okay!" You're about to assure her you can remake it if she'd rather have it plain, but she's already taking the drink and swiping her card on the pay pad. 

"No, it's amazing, thank you," she implores before taking a sip while you both wait for the receipt to print. "Fuck, that's good," she says around the straw before catching herself, smiling a little sheepishly when you hand her the receipt. "Sorry, it's really good, thank you so much!"

“Anytime,” you say with a grin, “I’m glad you like it.” You bid her goodbye with a wave as she heads for the door, calling out “Have a good rest of your day!” over the chime of the doorbell. She makes a fingers-crossed motion, and your smile mirrors hers until she slips past the door and out of sight. 

3. richie jerimovich

It’s an inconsequential Wednesday, but your mood is high. The reason? It’s one of your favorite parts of the workday - that time around 3:30 pm when kids of all ages come in after school, usually toting a parent or older sibling behind them. You’re a firm believer in the fact that nobody on earth can enjoy food in a more heartwarming way than a little kid could. They might not have the most refined palette, but who cares about the nuance of flavor over watching a seven-year-old get frosting all over their face without a care in the world?’

You’ve shared this observation with Syd many a time, which is why you’ve just received a (now daily) text from her telling you not to let the kids eat all the scones. If you had a dollar for every time you’d tried to explain to her that young children don’t even like her precious scones, you’d seriously be rich by now.

You can’t help but smile when the doorbell chimes, watching with amusement as a little girl around six or seven comes rushing into the already kid-filled shop, tugging who you presume to be her dad forcefully behind her. The guy’s muttering under his breath all the while, rubbing a hand up over his face and cropped head of hair as he clearly tries not to be annoyed by his daughter’s antics. “Hi, there,” you say when they finally reach the counter, addressing the girl specifically before turning your smile to the man. “How can I help you?”

“Hey,” says the man, a bit gruff but not unfriendly. “Uh, Eva- this is Eva, my daughter,” he puts his hands on his daughter’s shoulders, not even taking a breath as he amends his response. “She dragged me in here ‘cuz some kid in her class-”

“Simon,” Eva chirps, nodding as if to be clear that this is a crucial piece of information for both you and her dad to have. You’re sure to nod back so as to appease her.

“Right, yeah, Simon, whatever,” the man is continuing, squeezing her shoulder affectionately as he steamrolls onward, “it was his birthday or somethin’ the other day, and his mom brought cupcakes to Eva’s class to celebrate. She’s been pesterin’ me all week to ask where they were from, which I made the mistake of saying yes to - that woman is a fuc- not very nice.”

You’re surprised by the way he starts to say it with his chest, correcting himself when Eva looks up at him knowingly, almost as if he’s avoiding her scrutiny rather than feeling guilt for swearing in front of his kid. The image is surprisingly funny, and you have to bite your lip to keep from laughing. Even now, he’s still going. “Anyway, there’s no way I was gonna deal with her and then not come, so here we are.”

You’re still in a state of half-shock, glued in place as you blink a few times before finding the words to respond. “O-kay, yes, I do remember doing a cupcake order recently.” It is coming back to you, the more that you think about it. And, honestly? The woman you’d been in contact with - Simon’s mom, you’re sure - had been, for lack of a better word, a bitch over the phone. The memory paired with this man’s comment makes you smile.

You turn back toward Eva. “I think I have some cupcakes still. Would you rather have chocolate or vanilla, hun?” She shrinks behind her dad’s hip a bit, suddenly shy in the way that you’ve witnessed a lot from kids her age. Her dad huffs, but it’s more fond than anything else. “It’s okay, baby,” he tells her, soft but firm. “Tell the nice lady which one you want.”

It takes her a few seconds of both you and the man smiling gently at her before she finally pipes up again. “Chocolate, please.” You nod, her dad scooping an arm around her shoulders to bring her back in front of him. He looks up to you. “Alright, we’ll take two of those. Thanks.”

You head behind the case, scanning the bottom few rows where you know the cupcakes should be. The slot for chocolate cupcakes is almost empty, but as if by a miracle, there are two left all the way at the front of the case. You pull them out with some tongs and put them in a little box, drawing a smiley face with a Sharpie before pushing the box over the counter and ringing it up. “Last two. You have good taste,” you tell the man, although the last part is directed at Eva. She smiles, the tops of her ears going slightly pink. Her dad smiles at her and pays, guiding her to an empty table with a call of “Appreciate it!” over his shoulder to you.

You go back to business as usual, cleaning up a bit since it’s over halfway through the day, as well as boxing up some carry-out orders. By the time you look up again, Eva and her dad are almost done with their cupcakes, and you have to swallow another laugh at the fact that his face is sporting practically as much chocolate frosting as hers. Eva catches you looking and sends you an enthusiastic thumbs-up, nudging her dad with her hand until he does the same. You do laugh at this, grin splitting wide, and pull out your phone to text Syd back once they’re out the door.

[ you :: the scones are safe. cupcake supply has run dry tho

4. carmen berzatto

It’s the ass-crack of dawn on a Thursday. You didn’t get as much sleep as usual - you’d told Syd you’d wait up for her, but she’d been home late, promptly spending another hour ranting about the stress at The Bear and how Carmy kept flaking on her. Her admiration of him as a person was paralleled only by her frustration with his behavior, and you’d take spending time with her where you could get it these days, even if it meant listening to her complain. Although you might regret the decision slightly now that it’s 7 am and you’ve been awake for two hours and at the bakery for one already.

You’re stocking the tray of eclairs when you look up, startling with a yelp and almost dropping the entire tray. A guy is standing there, deathly quiet and looking slightly apologetic in response to your reaction. You hadn’t heard him come in, so zoned out from the lack of sleep that you didn’t even register the bell.

Jesus Christ, you breathe, hand on your chest as you shuffle the jostled eclairs back into place and slide the tray in, straightening up. There’s a hesitation, and you’re about to open your mouth and try to think of something to say when he finally speaks.

“Sorry,” Good start, you suppose. He’s scratching his neck awkwardly now. “I didn’t mean to scare you.” You swallow the sharp response fueled by your sleep deprivation, because he does actually look a little kicked by the whole experience.

You settle for a sigh. “It’s okay. It’s early - my brain’s not all there yet.” He nods as if to say same here as you straighten out your apron and shake off the adrenaline high. “What can I get for you?” 

It takes him a second to register it, and he clears his throat once the words process. You’re not surprised he’s in the same boat as you, considering it’s early and you’d only unlocked the door about three minutes before he showed up. “Uh, can I get two medium lattes? One hot and one iced. And- how many shots of espresso are in them?”

You smile, already able to see where this is going. “The medium size would have two shots, and then three in the biggest one.” He nods, eyes scanning the menu behind him even though he’s already ordered his drink, like he’s trying to keep them busy.

"Okay, can I add two more to the hot one? Please.” He adds hurriedly, like asking for more than the usual amount of espresso and not following it up with manners might make you chase him out of the bakery.

You smile and nod. “Sure. That one for you?” You ask as you get to work on starting the lattes, opting to keep the conversation going since he’s the only other one in the shop and it’s much less awkward than him standing there in silence. He huffs out a short laugh, a small smile tugging at one side of his mouth.

“Yeah, yeah, that’s mine.”

“Long day ahead of you?”

You can see half of his head around the espresso machine as he nods. “Seems like they all are, lately.” He responds, running a hand through his already askew curls. He sounds so fatigued that you don’t even blame him for wanting four espresso shots.

You finish his first, sliding it over the counter before brewing the next espresso for the other latte. “Whoever this second one is for doesn’t need the extra energy?” At this, he sighs. Not in an I’m tired of you dragging this conversation on type of way, one that almost sounds a little guilty.

“Nah, uh, this one’s- kind of an apology.”

“Peace offering?”

“Something like that.”

“For who? If you don’t mind me asking.” You’d presume girlfriend, but hold out hope that if it were, he’d find a more sufficient gift to earn her forgiveness.

“Ah, a coworker.” He looks fully sheepish now, like he’s already gearing himself up to get the iced latte thrown on the ground in defiance. “Yikes,” you aren’t able to stop yourself from saying in time. “What’d you do?” “Well, I– I just owe her a lot, recently. She’s been picking up a lot of my slack.”

You nod slowly, pouring milk over the ice and espresso before capping the drink and handing it over to him. He’s mid-sip of his already, and you grin as you ring him up. “Enough coffee in there for you, y’think?” He half-laughs again as he pays, taking the other latte in his free hand once his wallet is back in his pocket. “Yeah, just enough, thanks.”

“Well, I hope the apology goes well. And that she likes the coffee. If she doesn’t, you were never here.” It’s a joke that earns you another smile and a thanks before he heads out the door.  

With the store once again empty, you head to the back room, fishing your phone out of your tote bag to check for any calls from the couple who’ve commissioned their wedding cake. Your heart lifts a bit when the screen flashes to life and reveals an unready text message from Syd. 

[ syd :: carmy is late - praising god and also preparing to kill him

You can’t help but grin as you type out a response.

[ you :: how tall is he? 

[ you :: just asking for the grave dimensions

[ syd :: too short to be acting like this.

[ you :: heard chef!!

[ syd :: love you

[ you :: love you too <3

5. family dinner at the bear

It’s Sunday evening, and you’ve just locked up the bakery. Syd’s standing next to you, hands crossed over her chest as she stares at you with a look of growing concern. Probably because you haven’t acknowledged her since she showed up to walk with you to The Bear, besides echoing her hi and allowing her to peck your cheek. 

Okay, sure, maybe you’re freaking out a little. 

But who wouldn’t be? Syd gave you a few days’ notice about joining her at the restaurant for family before dinner service tonight. It was initially meant for you to come for dinner at The Bear, stay behind after service, and meet everyone. Unfortunately, one of your employees bailed on opening the bakery last minute, so now you have to wake up extra early tomorrow. When you told Syd that, it apparently constituted the change in plans because she didn’t want you to be stressed about getting enough sleep. 

Sweet in theory - Syd’s always looking out for you. But somehow this feels worse. Less casual, more like an interrogation or a job interview over dinner than a meet-and-greet with her coworkers. In your opinion, at least. 

You shakily slip the key into your tote bag, letting Syd slip her hand into yours and follow her as she heads up the street. The silence stretches as you zone out on the familiar buildings passing by, not even registering any other stimuli until Syd’s free hand reaches toward your neck, making you jump. 

“What are you doing?” You ask, hand coming up as if to swat her away, but she’s already retracting hers. 

“Checking for a pulse,” she responds. It’s a joke, you know it is, meant to loosen you up. It doesn’t exactly feel like it’s working, though. “Are you breathing over there, babe?”

You debate trying to minimize your nerves, but you know lying to Syd is no use - she’s got your tells down to a science. “Just nervous,” you admit. “I don’t know - is it, like, weird that we’re doing this? Like a formal introduction, and stuff? It feels really intense.”

Syd shakes her head in answer, squeezing your hand. “No, no, it’s good - it’s gonna be good, I promise. I just want you to meet everyone, especially since I’m so knee-deep in the restaurant now. I don’t want you to be this, like, nameless and faceless entity to them. Or for you to worry about coming to see me at work or coming in for dinner because you don’t know anyone. It’ll be better to meet them all at once.”

You nod back, trying to digest the words and the rationality in them. She’s right, of course, she usually is. You try and tell yourself that they’re going to be nice - however much shit Syd might talk about Carmy or Richie or any of them when she’s upset, she wouldn’t be so invested in the business if they weren’t good people. She’s told you they are a million times. Your whole train of thought is basically repeating that like a mantra.

She bumps your shoulder softly with hers, her fingers slipping from yours so she can wrap her arm around your waist and walk closer to you. “They’re going to love you. They’re just - they’re fucking weird, but they’re just regular people. You can talk to Marcus about baking the whole time if it gets awkward, seriously.” Her thumb rubs into your hip in another attempt to comfort you, and you almost hate how well the proximity works to soothe your anxiety.

“Okay, okay,” you say, the echo more of a begrudging giggle as Syd playfully prods your side with her fingers. “I trust you. It’ll be fine.” The two of you complete the rest of the six-block journey arm in arm, making conversation about your day at the bakery to keep your mind off of things as best as possible. 

But eventually, you do reach The Bear. Syd extracts herself from you to get the door, holding it open as you tentatively step inside. It’s going to be beautiful inside, you can tell that immediately - the setup is gorgeous even though it’s half finished. They’ve pushed some tables together in the main room to fit everyone, and several heads are crowding around it, shoulders hunched as they finish setting out plates and silverware. 

“Guys, hey.” Nothing happens at first when Syd speaks, the hustle and bustle continue until she pipes up louder. “Hi - hey, guys! Hi.” She repeats the greeting when all the heads in the room snap up to follow your voice. You can vaguely hear her introducing you, your name on her lips - but it’s not computing, because you’re standing, frozen in place. So are the people around the table, like all of your individual brains are working overtime trying to catch up to the facts displayed before them. 

Four of the people staring back at you are gobsmacked - you process the beanie, the buzzed brown crop, the tattooed arms, the baby bump, and the matching golden heads of hair in record time. 

Copenhagen. Blackberry lemonade. Eva and the cupcakes. Apology coffee. Snapshots of the past few weeks roll through your head like a movie montage, and it’s not until Syd’s saying uh, guys? that you snap out of connecting the dots. 

“No way,” is the first thing that slips out of your mouth. “There’s literally no way.”

And then everyone bursts into laughter. The process of elimination of who’s who is incredibly easy when coupled with Syd’s nightly commentary - Richie’s cackling, head thrown back, and arms folded over his stomach like he’s never going to recover. Marcus is shaking his head. Nat’s got a hand covering her mouth to hide her giggles. Even Carmy is struggling to suppress a smile. 

It all gets abundantly more hilarious as you witness Syd flitting around the room, waving her arms as if trying to get a plane’s attention instead of a room full of her coworkers and girlfriend. “Hey! Hey - quick question - what the fuck is going on right now?” You’re laughing too, about to try and catch your breath to explain, but Richie’s already gesturing wildly, pointing between you and Syd with the largest grin you’ve ever seen on his face. 

“How the fuck did you not tell us your girl’s bakery was the one on Wabash?” Syd’s clearly trying to catch up, eyes narrowed and chin stuck out like she’s reading fine print.

Nat’s crossing the room already, pulling you into a hug before you fully register what’s happening. “She basically saved my life the other day,” she says over your shoulder to Syd, squeezing you tight before letting you go.

You can’t help but giggle again as you watch your girlfriend slowly process what all this means. “Wait-” her eyes are darting between you and Nat, then you and Marcus, then Richie. “So, wait- you’re saying…you’re saying that you all-” She’s caught Carmy’s eye, and he’s finally unable to stop the grin catching his lips. He just shrugs. “The coffee."

Syd’s eyes are bigger than the plates on the table now. Richie’s losing it again, crowing things like you serious? and didn’t recognize coffee from your girl’s place, huh? She looks equal parts shocked, exasperated, and amused when she finally turns back to you. “There’s no fucking way. Please tell me you're kidding.”

You shake your head. “Not kidding.”

“You’ve met them? All of them?”

You grin as Nat steers the two of you toward the table so you can actually do what you came here to. “Yep. Well, as my patrons, of course.”

“Loyal patrons, now,” Marcus chimes over the dull roar of conversation. “I’m definitely coming back, man, your stuff is insane.” 

You beam, trying not to let his compliments get to your head now that you know the caliber of work he does. Richie and Nat are nodding in agreement as the former starts doling out food. You catch Carmy’s eye across the table, giving him a joking look. “So, wait, did the coffee work? She spared your life?”

Syd groans, head in her hands, muttering I can’t believe this, I can’t believe this, I can’t believe this, I can’t believe this, over and over into her palms. Carmy smiles, huffing out one of his short laughs. 

“So far,” he allows, trying not to look so amused at Syd’s reaction to this whole thing. “I think we might be regressing after this, though.”

Dinner commences, and you’ve never been happier to be wrong about a situation in your life. The food is beyond good, of course, some coriander chicken thing Syd had told you she and Carmy were workshopping. You get introduced to the members of the staff you don’t know randomly - Tina hugging you from behind your chair, Ebra extending over the entire table to shake your hand, Sweeps and Fak giving you fistbumps and making jokes at the others’ expense.

At some point, you find Syd’s hand under the table, lacing your fingers with hers and letting your thumb glide over her knuckles. “And here I thought I was gonna be the one out of the loop,” you tease under your breath, which has her kicking your leg lightly under the table. “I seriously cannot believe this is happening. Okay, I get them, but how did you not know? I never shut up about them at home, feels like.”

You can’t help but grin. “Well, it’s not exactly like you’re giving me an in-depth physical description every time you compl– talk about them,” you quickly correct when Marcus raises an eyebrow at you down the line of chairs. 

“Yeah, I guess.” She wipes a hand over her face, centering herself somehow before moving on from the surprise of it all. “So, not nervous anymore?” Your smile softens, your knee meeting hers under the table. “No,” you tell her. “Not nervous. Deeply enjoying this actually. Dinner and the whole situation.”

She smiles too, pulling your hand out from under the table and pressing a kiss to the back of it, earning an aww from Fak in the background and a subsequent yelp as Richie punches him in the shoulder. “Good. ‘Cause it’s really nice, having you here.”

“It’s really nice being here,” you respond. “Getting to see the place in person, not just from pictures on your phone. And putting faces to names - or, names to faces, I guess.” This gets a groan out of her, and she’s leaning into you, pressing her shoulder against yours. 

“You’re never going to let me forget about this, are you?”

“No, they’re never going you forget about this.” “Jesus Christ.”

As dinner comes to a close, Richie pipes up from the end of the table. “So, wait, does this mean we can get a friends and family discount now? ‘Cuz Eva’s already pesterin’ me about cupcakes again.”  You smile, shrugging. 

“Dunno, we’ll see. I’m sure something could be arranged.” Richie and Fak are high-fiving, even though the latter hasn’t even been to the bakery anyway. 

You glance at Syd. She’s already looking at you - smiling, basically glowing while she watches you interact with her friends, fitting in like it’s nothing at all. You know this is one of her favorite places to be; not just at The Bear, but in a room full of people she loves - albeit if you all tease her relentlessly the entire time. 

Marcus nods in agreement to Richie’s reaction. “Well, either way, I’m coming back. Need to try all those crazy tarts you got.”

You take one last look at her, mirroring her smile before tearing your eyes away and meeting Marcus’s gaze. You’re already positive Syd’s gonna rib you for a detailed run-down of each interaction you’ve had with your coworkers the minute she gets home tonight. Luckily, you’ve been reminded of pretty much all of them tonight. 

“You can try anything you want,” you assure Marcus. Your hand finds Syd’s knee this time, squeezing it under the table. “I have a strict policy on scones, though.”

taglist :: @melonlovesthings @dumbbandpoetic @bigblueworld

a/n :: there was an ask in my inbox for this and idk where tf it went but hopefully whichever anon that was finds this!!

You couldn’t help the way your eyes fluttered in and out of consciousness as you laid in bed.

It was creeping into the early hours of the morning and Luca had yet to come back from a work-do for somebody or other’s birthday.

You had your duvet cuddled up to your neck as you tried to resist the urge to sleep. Just a few minutes longer… he’d be home soon… you could wait it out.

You drifted off again, head seeking out your pillow like a knight on a devoted quest, only to snap awake again at the sound of keys in the door.

You blinked sleepily as you heard the rustle of your 6”2 boyfriend trying - unsuccessfully - to sneak back into the house unnoticed.

A colossal crash sounded from the corridor followed by a string of whispered curses. The shoe rack had fallen over.

“Luca?” you called quietly from bed. The swearing subsided and, a few moments later, footsteps approached the bedroom hesitantly.

Luca poked his head into the room, squinting in the dark, “Darling?”

He made out your open eyes in the dark, blinking back at him. He frowned slightly.

“What are you still doing awake?” he cooed softly, making a beeline for your side.

He perched on the side of the bed, gently rubbing a hand over your cheek as he looked you over, “Thought I told you to sleep and I’d see your pretty face in the morning?”

Your eyelids flickered open and closed, open and closed, tired beyond comprehension and still fighting sleep. You nodded, “Yeah, you said, but I wanted to wait up for you. I couldn’t sleep.”

“I see,” Luca murmured, fingers sliding over your shoulder and beginning to trace a lazy pattern up and down your spine, sending tingles through you.

“Well, I’m home, now,” he said softly, “Do we think we can try and get some sleep?”

You nodded, reaching for his free hand. He held it out to you and you wrapped both hands around it. He smiled fondly at the sight, “You seem very tired.”

“Cause, I am,” you mumbled, pressing your cheek against the mattress, and revellling in his touch and voice both.

“How about…” he purred gently, pulling back slightly, “I go and get you a nice cup of water, and get changed out of these clothes, and then we can cuddle up properly, hm?”

You liked the sound of that. You nodded, rolling over with a yawn.

Luca gave your hip a soft pat and stood again, “Don’t fall asleep on me, darling. I’ll only be a few minutes.”

You grumbled incoherently as he disappeared down the hallway, in search of a water for you.

He returned a few minutes later, as promised, a glass of water in each hand. He was now in only a grey t-shirt and boxer shorts, padding quietly towards you.

“Still with me, gorgeous?” he asked, setting the cups on the nightstand.

You nodded, pulling the blanket back for him, “Quick, get in, before we lose all the heat.”

Luca climbed into bed, pressing himself up behind you, and tucking the covers over you both once more, “I’m in.”

He leaned down to your neck and breathed you in, happy to finally be home.

Your own nose scrunched as you smiled tiredly, “You smell like beer and your fancy cologne.”

“Do I?” he chuckled, pressing a lazy kiss to the back of your neck, “I’m sorry, beautiful.”

“S’fine,” you mumbled, sinking back into him. Before long, you shifted fussily, dissatisfied with your current arrangements.

You pushed up onto your hands, looking at him expectantly, “Shift.”

Luca laughed quietly at your demanding tone, the sound rumbling deep in his chest. He sat back against the headboard and opened his arms for you.

You turned and wormed your way around until you rested your head on his chest.

“There you go,” he said, his bicep curling beneath your head, like a soft pillow, letting you nestle your cheek into his thick arm.

You hummed appreciatively and Luca lent down, pressing a kiss to the top of your head.

You nuzzled closer to it and felt his arm flex subtly around you, tightening his grip on you. You relaxed as you felt him do so.

He noticed the sunken look in your face, exhaustion quickly taking over. He whispered reassuringly, “Close your eyes, gorgeous. I’ve got you.”

His big hand began to run over your head, gently caressing your scalp and moving with a tender touch through your hair.

You sighed against him, the smooth motions of his hands lulling you to sleep, slowly but surely.

You let your face bury into his chest, breathing Luca in and letting him absorb you completely. All the tension seemed to drop from your body.

His arms tightened around you, pulling you inexplicably closer to him and cradling you close to his heart. He kissed the top of your head again.

“Just sleep, darling,” he said, letting his own eyes close as he simply held you, “I’m here. I’m not going anywhere.”

The sound of his heartbeat, the gentle strokes of his fingers, the warmth of his body. It all had your eyelids fluttering shut for good.

With a final, soft sigh, you let go. Your body relaxed completely against his, the weight of the day finally lifting as you succumbed to sleep.

Emery observed you quietly. She watched as your eyes flitted back and forth, scanning the pages of your current read, and as your nose scrunched up in reaction to some confusing plot point. The beams of light from the setting sun shone through the half-closed shades, warming the living room. Emery swore there could never be a prettier sight than her wife reading a book, enveloped by the warmth and glow of the fading day.

The two of you had a routine for nights like these, when your work schedules allowed for little overlap. When you got home from work, you’d wake your wife. While Emery was getting up and ready for the hospital, you would make dinner, which was more often than not breakfast food—your signature dish, and her favorite, was shakshouka. After you both ate, you’d drift over to the couch, where you’d spend whatever time you had before Emery had to leave. Sometimes you’d talk and laugh about random stories, and other times the two of you would simply just lie together, content just being in each other’s presence.

Tonight—after throwing together a couple bacon egg lettuce tomato sandwiches on some Costco croissants—you slouched back into the corner of the sectional, threw a blanket over your legs, and flipped open your book. After washing the dishes, Emery joined you, lifting your feet into her lap.

She was dressed in her scrubs and her bag was already slung over her shoulder. If she wanted to make it to rounds on time, she probably should have left already, but Emery couldn’t bring herself to leave you yet.

Mindlessly, she rubbed your calf, earning a satisfied hum from you, and Emery smiled. Her eyes couldn’t stay far from your face for long, and she noticed your eyelids drooping, the setting sun and quiet music putting you to sleep.

This was her favorite place to be, and she wanted nothing more than to stay in this moment forever, but glancing down at her watch, she knew she’d already pushed her luck five minutes too long.

She sighed and gave your feet a squeeze before moving them off her lap. “Time to go save the world.”

Her smooth voice cut through the reverie and caused you to pout. “Don’t go,” you whined. “I hate when you work nights.”

“So, like all the time?” Emery raised her brow as she stood up and rounded the chaise.

You nodded, looking up at your wife, who was now leaning over the back of the couch.

“’M sorry, love,” she mumbled against your forehead, giving you a kiss before standing back up. “I have this weekend off though.”

“Oh, yeah.” You pushed yourself to a more upright position. “Remember, I got tickets for us to see Project Hail Mary on Saturday?”

Emery paused, her hand stilling on the door handle. Turning on her heels, she frowned. “Wait this Saturday?”

“Yeah, why?” You tilted your head. “Do you have other plans?”

“No,” Emery replied, frustration knitting her brows as she remembered you telling her about these plans. “I just—I haven’t even started the book.”

You stifled a laugh, an amused grin tugging at your lips. You knew your wife’s disdain towards movie adaptions and her insistence on reading the book if she was going to watch the movie.

“Well, you better get reading,” you sang teasingly.

“Right—” she gave you a sarcastic stare as she turned to open the door— “because I have so much free time.”

“I hear the audiobook’s really good,” you called after her.

“I’ll check it out,” Emery responded over her shoulder, closing the door behind her. But before it could shut all the way, she stuck her head back in. “I love you.”

You grinned softly, all playfulness gone. “I love you too.”

For the next couple of days, Emery found herself listening to Ray Porter’s voice every chance she could. Even during surgery, her usual 80s soft rock playlist paused and replaced by the Project Hail Mary audiobook playing on one point five speed.

By Friday afternoon, picking up a day shift before her weekend off, Emery was about three quarters of the way done and was ready to finish off her day charting with her headphones in. Of course, being a trauma surgeon, something else always came up, which was how she found herself in the ED elbow-deep in a man’s abdominal cavity, once again cleaning up one of Abbot’s messes.

“Hey,” Garcia greeted as she entered the trauma room, rubbing her hands together with sanitizer. “Aren’t you supposed to be off?”

“I was,” Emery answered, still focused on suturing this man’s liver, something she really should have been doing in the OR. “But somebody need their ass saved. Again.”

She gave a pointed glance at the ED attending across from her, who smiled sarcastically in return.

“You know,” Yolanda started, a mischievous tone creeping into her voice as she peered in on the procedure, “everyone was talking about your routine appendectomy earlier.”

“I’m that good.” Emery shrugged, causing her fellow surgeon to raise her brows.

“Oh, so it has nothing to do with your sci-fi audiobook playing in the OR?”

Emery paused, looked up, and gave her a deadpan glare.

Yolanda laughed. “You guys going to see the movie soon?”

“Yeah, tomorrow,” Emery replied before explaining how she forgot until you reminded her earlier this week, and how she was trying to finish the book before then.

“She’s a saint for putting up with you,” Yolanda joked with a certain fondness.

Abbot, picking up on who they were talking about, interjected, “How is the missus?”

“Good,” Emery responded shortly, glaring at him again.

McKay, who had been listening in on the conversation while monitoring the airway, mustered up the courage and said, “You’re going to see Project Hail Mary? I took Harrison to see it last week. They did a really good job with it.”

Emery simply hummed as she refocused on her sutures.

“Fist my bump.” Cassie grinned, her eyes crinkling above her surgical mask.

Pausing her movements, the sutures already tied up, Emery stared at the other woman, almost squinting into a scowl.

“It’s–it’s a line,” Cassie stuttered as she awkwardly unclenched her fist and lowered her hand. “From the book.”

Emery felt the corners of her lips twitch up and was grateful her mask was hiding her smirk.

“Usually you not stupid,” she said as she held out her hand for the forceps Perlah had been holding. “Why stupid, question?”

Understanding the reference, Cassie chuckled and shook her head.

The alien bellows into the thicket, sending a flock of birds fleeing. It garners a laugh from the tatted-up, blue woman with a tail and an— AR, Jake reminds– the ghost of him that has been speaking to her long before his death.

The barrel is flush against her temple, not digging in, but relaxed in a way that is nonchalant, unbothered. That makes it worse. It makes her feel disposable, like cattle, like garbage. A confirmation of all the things she already believed herself to be.

She floats.

She feels so disconnected from this that she really can’t do anything but stare and breathe. As if her body just decided that her mind did not need to be here, be aware, and it was fine to stay put. Let the world blur and the noise turn into listening through a wall. It’s almost comforting— not knowing how to feel because it is too much, so she defaults to nothing.

She settles on the dense green. Green, when has she ever seen so much of it? In old movies. In century-old documentaries watched from the back of an aging classroom, bitter and wanting? In the glimpses she’s had of Tommy’s course material? When she was young enough to love digging through her older brother’s things, and then old enough to sign to put them in storage, post-mortem?

“It’s come to our attention that you had you a little loose end back home. Well, we did’ja the mighty kind favor of tyin’ it for you!” Suddenly, his hand is a vice on the base of her neck, rattling her like bait on a line. Her brain rattles in her skull, and it tugs her back into her body with a force so strong that she has to catch her breath.

It’s the purest thing that’s ever filled her, and it’s so strange and scary that she feels like she’s going to choke on it.

A beat.

His hand on her jaw, twisting, showing “You know this face!” He sounds smug, like an asshole. “ ‘N we saved you a trip and brought it all the way to hell just for you!”

Another.

Too many after that, and then, the alien peels back with a sigh, gesturing to another, “Cross this one off the list.” Then, she’s manhandled into arms that are the first to hold her in years, and before she can hate herself for almost reaching for the comfort of flesh, she’s strapped back into the helo, and she is in the sky.

Flashes of it. blue. clear. More flocks of birds? So many. A million sounds that strain under the whoop whoop whoop-ing of a rotor blade. She’s flying. Jake, Tommy, I’m flying! Look!—

For hours, she is cargo. Brought out, shoved down, picked up, and strapped in.

“Prick her.”

A pinch on her arm after every landing.

The more it happens, the more she is convinced this is the strangest form of purgatory. They fly, they land, the man does his spiel, and when nothing happens, they leave.

They call to Sully, Sully— But the last Sully is already here, under their knife. She wades through a fog, her mind not sharp enough to connect the dots, unwilling to form, to react—just observe.

She feels the passage of time in the strain that begins to press down, strong enough to begin to coax her from apathy and begin to entertain the onslaught of questions that begin to bubble to the surface.

“Request for data retrieval. Three clicks westbound. How copy?”

“Solid Copy.” The alien grunts and looms over her. Dog tags brush her hair, and the clinking of them is comforting. He signals to the man in the pilot’s seat. Human. A man. She wants to call to him, ask him something, anything, but she can’t speak, can’t move. Whether it’s cowardice, or self-preservation, or the way that your throat locks up in your nightmares when you scream, she does not know.

Her addled mind has yet to question why he looks so small from where she sits.

Grunts of reluctance, but they end up landing anyway, and this time, here, she sees something so distinctly human that she feels almost spiritually drawn to its presence. The fleeting sight of metal, of structure, grips her soul tight. It begins to nudge her into a level of consciousness absent from her in the green and blue fever dream.

It is lost when the pinch in her arm returns.

Cycles of varying awareness, in a spindle of an uneven spool of yarn. 

The alien, the one with sunglasses—who wears her like a backpack— goes to undo the million buckles that hold her together, and the alien they call colonel, the loud one, the mean one who shakes her, tells him to leave her there.

With a nod, he backtracks. With the final click of a sealed restraint, he follows his team into the brush. The rhythmic beat of rotors slows to a halt.

And then, in the deafening silence, too loud for the unfamiliar titters of nature’s peace, she is alone with the only man who looks like her.

She does not know that her hands, if she’d had the chance to see them, were as blue as the ones that pressed that gun to her temple, the ones that strained her neck and tied her like a hog.

It’s a moment— long or short, she doesn’t know. Her lips move for the first time since she’d come alive from the long dark.

“H…elp.”

It takes everything. All the energy stored, little it was. The man in the front seat hears her; she knows he does. He shifts, head turning, but not enough to reassure her of his attention. As if he’d heard a noise and filed it as an afterthought.

Her eyelids grow heavy, and it becomes so enticing to let the dark take her once more. Perhaps then she could try her chance at a different dream. A different hell. Maybe it would suit her more than this.

—But it’s nice here. Would be nicer without the aliens. 

Deep breaths. Deep and slow. Three things you can hear, see, smell— irritation, as childish as it feels, fills her when she struggles even to do this. 

Come on, kid.

Jake?

Didn’t raise a quitter.

I’m scared, Jake.

A shot rings out.

It doesn’t so much startle but slowly coax her attention towards where she thinks it might have come from. Maybe from where the aliens—the blue aliens—let the forest swallow them whole. Parted the leaves like the Red Sea, and left her to wonder.

It brings the pilot more concern than her plea, though, because he’s barking something loud and fast, a gun already in hand, head half out the window.

More follow, and more, and more— shouting, rustling— enough to get the pilot to start the helo up again, sending the foliage that surrounds them into a loud dance.

She watches the sway of color, of earth, and can only think pretty. She figures that whatever is to happen next is fine, because she doesn’t think she’s ever seen flowers this close before and is okay to leave now, happy to rest.

She wonders if Tommy knows the names of each one and the bugs that live in them. Maybe she can ask him soon.

They’re back, she thinks, when a bright flash of tall and blue bursts into the clearing— but no, because the pilot raises his gun, and pulls the trigger.

There’s shouting, movement, nothing she can understand— but what she can is that the man in front of her has died, because he is now skewered— once, twice? with poles? No.

Arrows?

The death startles, but her body fails her. Doesn’t so much as twitch. She has no time to process, can’t, because suddenly, in the corner of her eye, she sees them.

Right at the side door, as if they were about to throw themselves in. Two sets of eyes, staring, blinking, confused, yellow, like the sun. A million things that filter into incomprehension of the scene they just stumbled upon.

She doesn’t know what does it, will never know, but the words leave her lips without effort or prompt, as if possessed.

“Help.”

Strained, painful, horrifically grating— but enough. She doesn’t feel anything after that, just a sudden calm that soothes her heart, that tells her to lay back and let it happen.

“Help me.”

They blink, and blink, and exchange looks and biting words she can’t understand— but then—Hands, blue, but smaller and more nervous than she’s seen from the others. Pulling and tugging at the straps, jostling her, checking, saying things she can’t understand.

“Please. Help me.”

Is she still talking?

The other one, the taller one, keeps his head in a fervent swivel, looking back at them with greater frustration the longer the smaller one takes. He sounds urgent, pleading— eventually he tosses him a knife, and she closes her eyes, and waits.

There is no pain, no metal sluicing through her gut— only snapping, clunking, and relief from a great pressure she didn’t realize was suffocating her. She breathes deep and full, letting a smell so very strange fill her nose. It’s nice, she thinks, sweet. It doesn’t bite back or feel thick and sludgy. Nothing you could get at an air bar.

Then, she’s a backpack again, except the body beneath her feels smaller than hers, younger. Still, it compensates for her dead weight, harried and with the helping hands of the one who’d cut her loose.

Then they’re moving.

There is no sudden fade. Instead, she grows. The skin of her legs begins to sting. It becomes less of a simple pain and more pointed, more recognizable—if not from experience, then from ideas. From concepts of things that she can only conjure from her imagination. The prick of thorns, the scrape of bark, the brush of nettles. Somehow, she feels fond, happy to know what existing amongst life felt like. Not flat, smooth, and bent around her. Rather, unyielding, unrepentant, and loud in its existence.

The noise comes second.

The loud tremors of a heart pushed to its limits, right up against her ear. Things she’d only hear through busted laptop speakers. Bugs, rustling, crooning, the flap of wings, the titters of life. The slap of leaves as they carve a nervous path into the earth.

Then Nausea, full and hot in her throat.

Injection recommended. Please press and hold.

Injection recommended. Please press and hold.

Injection recommended. Please press and hold.

Beeping, loud and urgent.

It makes them panic, running turns into a flurry of hands patting her down, following where the sound is loudest. They land on the right side of her arm, and at the sight of whatever they find, they begin to argue.

She doesn’t understand, but it’s a good sound, a fond one, a very strange thought forms—her brain wondering if the aliens are brothers, somehow.

Injection recommended. Please press and h—

She feels it, the pinch, and can only be glad they figured out how to shut it up.

They readjust her, the blip over, and continue. Pace quickened. Silence loud.

Everything lulls into blotches of light and color, her tongue thick in her mouth, her face tingly, and her skin sensitive against belts that pin her arms to the small of her back. Just feeling, with no fight to react to it.

For some reason, she wants to hum, wants her headphones. Maybe a coffee.

Then, there is so much noise. Talking. They’ve stopped moving. She’s satisfied enough to ignore it. Complacent with her tingly face shoved into skin.

Then, she’s somewhere else.

On her back, lying on top of bound wrists and elbows, itchy, uncomfortable with the sharpness of her bed? No? Definitely not her bed.

When the itch amalgamates with the rest of her pains, she is met with the sky again. The Beautiful sky.

                          ﹢⊹・                        

When Lo’ak and his brother burst into the clearing, heaving and sweaty and legs caked in mud, from following the sounds of their mother’s song, Lo’ak does not think he’s ever seen them so relieved.

Across the way, she cries to the great mother, running to them with Tuk still in her arms. The pound of her feet a comforting rhythm. Their father, so hard and stoic, different now in his love, now calls to his sons with a reverence and affection and worry that makes his chest hurt. 

Lo’ak savors it; their fleeting ignorance of what he knows is going to very quickly turn into a situation.

And it does.

Explanations spill from their lips before their dad can pull out his knife. It’s disjointed, rushed, harried, and addled with events they have yet to truly grasp. They’re not even done talking before he’s grabbing the woman off Neteyam like she’s a disease, shucking her into the grass, checking them over, their heads, their backs, their limbs. When he finds nothing major, he presses their foreheads into his chest— just like when they were boys— and they fold so quickly that they would be embarrassed if they had not almost died.

He chances a look up, and his mother has tucked his sisters behind her, bow drawn and so very still. Lo’ak startles then, because if they’d just give him the chance to really explain—

“Neteyam.” His mother rasps, her throat hoarse. “What is this?” It’s weary and confused, from a body that has already begun to drain the adrenaline, only to have it spike again.

“Mother—“ he begins, breathless, almost. He looks like doesn’t really know where to start. Doesn’t know what to say that’ll make sense or make them understand. “Ah. She— she—“ he gestures to her, weakly, and he can only exhale a defeated breathe.

“We— ah— found her on the way here—“

Lo’ak, loud, jumps in, looking up at their father, nearly vibrating. “In a scorpion, dad— she was all tied up and shit— fuck— I mean, sorry— and she, she was asking for help. I mean, we couldn’t just leave her…” he trails off, momentum gone, once he realizes that that’s all they really have.

He begins to panic.

They saw her, took her, and ran like hell— back to their parents so they could make everything better. Tell them what happens now. Try not to think about how maybe if they’d saved one life, maybe things wouldn’t be so bad.

A pressure behind his eyes. He shakes it away. Hand itching to grip at his dad’s cummerbund like a baby. But he wants to, so badly. His heart flutters loud in his ears, knuckles aching for the familiar cling of leather.

His dad’s jaw sets hard, like it always does when he has to decide something when he has no good choices. Which is every day, now. 

He locks eyes with their mother.

“Baby.” His dad says, heavy. It’s a look, just one— but it raises their hackles, sets them on edge. They’ve seen their parents have entire conversations without even needing to speak. Whatever he tells her to do has her squeezing Tuk in her arms, closer, and ushering her children to follow.

The air changes, becomes foreboding— just like at the shack. Lo’ak doesn’t know why he feels like he knows what his father is going to do— but actually, maybe he does. The evidence is miles away now, in a place they were forbidden to go to, but Lo’ak went anyway. Dragged his whole fucking family with him. Where Spider was taken, and their parents took the lives of many to save them. Their dreamwalker bodies were left for the great mother to decide what to do with. 

No one to place Atokirina to guide them home, to visit them at the spirit tree, no memories to relive but violence.

He and Neteyam share their own glance— and he looks…troubled. Torn. Different. Doesn’t know whether to trust his father with the life they’d just hauled ass to save, or push. His big brother, the mighty warrior, the pillar of the Sully children, whose hands are trembling.

Lo’ak presses closer, just enough that their shoulders brush.

Later, he will tell Lo’ak it’s because he had to carry a grown woman half across the forest on his back, with an assurance that does not reach his eyes.

He doesn’t want his brother to see more death, to feel it on his hands. To reep what Lo’ak had sown. That alone makes Lo’ak speak before his brain can catch up.

“Dad, please don’t kill her.”

—And what a thing to ask your parent.

Lo’ak thinks it is too much. What if she were with them? Then what? They’d just saved an evil sky person? One who has killed Na’vi? Burned their homes and destroyed Eywa’s gifts? Killed his aunt Sylwanin, his uncle Tsu’tey, his grandfather, Kiri’s mother? Erased generations of his Omaticaya heritage in a single afternoon, to steal the precious metals of Eywa’s flesh?

Still, it presses on him. He feels his stomach curdle and his heart race at the thought of it. It feels wrong. It doesn’t make sense because he does not feel this way about the people his parents just killed. That Neteyam—God, Neteyam too, huh?—Had to kill.

When they burst into the clearing, Lo’ak hadn’t even noticed the sky person aiming for them before Neteyam had shot an arrow, then another, and then he lay dead in the front seat of a Scorpion. Where they expected to find guns, a chance at a level playing field, they instead found a woman bound, unable to move, whispering for help.

“She looked scared. I don’t—“ he pauses, doesn’t know why he’s so choked up about it, he feels bile in his throat, and a pressure behind his eyes. “She doesn’t even look like she knows what’s going on—“

“Son.”

It’s soft, coaxing, and that scares him more. 

“Dad, she begged us.”

Silence. Mulling. The flicker of ears, the work of a jaw. 

A soft inhale, then–

“Lo’ak, go with your mother.”

He panics, heart racing because that isn’t an I won’t.

“Dad!”

“Lo’ak.” His mother steps in, leveled, but unrelenting. “Ma’itan. Your father will be fair in his judgement, and do what is best for our safety.” She lets out a breath, and a hand suddenly presses against his heart, her lip quivering, before she bites it down. “My good boy. My sweet, soft-hearted boy. Please, come. Trust.”

And that does it.

Like the final give of a bowstring, he takes one look at his mother’s face and relents— buries his head into her neck and tries not to feel ashamed when he lets her comfort pull him away. He tells himself it’s the exhaustion, a coercion greater than him.

He glances at the woman, lying in the grass, eyes half-lidded, looking so…helpless. Like a Palulukan could come and start gnawing at her ankles, and she wouldn’t mind, nor be able to do anything to stop it.

Eywa, please give this woman the chance to die with honor.

He turns away, teeth already gnawing on his lip.

                           ﹢⊹・                        

Jake’s wife, his other half, catches his gaze and nods, eyes hard and permissive– to do what needs to be done, if he has to. It is okay. It is right.

A father protects.

She walks away with their youngest son tucked under her chin and their baby girl at her hip. The others follow like lost ducks, dragging their feet, exhausted, changed. Still, she will shield their ears, their eyes, their hearts. Preserve— even if they’d just been hostages. Threatened with death, their own and their siblings. Leverage, to get to him, to make him pay for choosing good, for once in his goddamn life.

Even if Neteyam, his baby boy, not even an hour ago, shot a man clean through for aiming a gun at his mother. Saved her life, had no choice, no time to think on it.

It’s the sharp, sudden realization that nothing will ever quite be the same. Jake knows this because Jake has been to hell and paid every price. Aware of the rot that takes hold and never really lets go, just hides until it decides to remind you of its existence when you’re at your weakest.

And he fucking hates it with every ounce of his being.

It should be him, him only, doing the dirty work. The things that the Na’vi don’t want to fucking do, never want to do.

His kids should be singing, dancing, beading, being silly and sweet, and being utter nightmares. Living, loving, and giving their parents a hard time without the fear of a greater consequence.His family, his babies, still so small, still growing into themselves and the world, have no choice— because of who their father is. What he is.

He glances behind his shoulder and sees the last flash of blue disappear behind the thickest tree. As if it changed anything to cover more of what they knew their father might do on the other side.

He pulls the pistol from his hip, heavy and scuffed, checks the mag, and presses forward.

                         ﹢⊹・                        

She’s staring down the barrel of a gun.

It’s different, at this angle— more intimidating, she thinks. It was easier to pretend when the colonel pressed it against the side of her head, just out of sight. Her face, she feels, doesn’t move. Just a slow, automated blink and the blurred edges of metal, and a steady, circular dark hole that her eyes begin to focus on.

“Name and rank.”

If her mind was here, if she wasn’t more drugs than person, she would hear how it’s bitten out, ground in a way that seeps into the air, makes your baser self, your animal self, prickle with fear– making you afraid before you even know why, because your body knows that it’s going to die before you do.

And it’s in English.

She chops the question in two. She doesn’t have a rank. She has a name, but can’t bring herself to move anything but her eyes, and still, they are not truly looking anywhere.

To her now-self, his voice is mean. Way meaner than the first man. Yet, the cadence, the tone, the texture. It wraps around her and holds her tight. She feels years of confusion, of loneliness, slough from her back. It makes no sense. None of it does.

She feels the sudden, cool press of it against her brow, soothing in the unnatural heat that begins to burn her from the inside. She leans into it, feels like it’s okay to do so.

“Answer the fuckin’ question.”

Her eyes wobble, her ears starting to ring. She wonders why an alien, of all things, would speak English and have that accent. So distinct, so personal, straight from the slums of The Bronx, of all things.

You sound like my brothers. She wants to say, to laugh with the huge blue man that shields the sun from her eyes so she can keep looking at the sky without it hurting too much. Laugh like it’s the funniest coincidence in the world, and then cry her heart out until she follows wherever her family went, so everything can be okay again.

A hand grips the sides of her face, the smushing of her cheeks together. She lets him. It feels better than when it was by the scruff of her neck. This feels more personal, like she’s a human.

Over his shoulder, the beautiful sky. Blue. A blue that she’s never seen before, but is suddenly in abundance now. On skin, on plants, above her, in the water she’d seen in the haze of the helo to this place she’s in now, surrounded by alien strangers who saved her from the other alien strangers.

Oh yes, the water. Loud. It flowed free and bountiful, unconnected to a meter that racked up bills she couldn’t afford.

The man is pressing her into the itchy grass as if he tried hard enough it’d save him the effort of digging a grave. It's okay. She keeps her eyes on the blue. It’s okay.

So pretty she thinks, again, for the millionth time, and how she wishes she could reach up and touch the clouds— they’re white, not black, or brown. They swirl into each other in a way she never thought clouds could do. 

. ﹢⊹・

One of the things that Jake had always been assured of was whether or not he needed to pull the trigger.

Because hesitation in the face of death will have you at the end of someone else’s. Your wife, dead, your children, dead. Your village, burned.

But right now, watching this woman, this girl (all the avatars come out young. Who knows how old she is? Maybe they made her young on purpose.) stare down the barrel of a 45 Cal without even a hint of how close he is to blowing her brains out with his children tucked away behind a tree?

And the thing is, Jake isn’t stupid enough to use a gun, give away their position, lose the anonymity that the forest provides. Those grunts were trained to raid homes, buildings, concrete, and iron— Not the Na’ring. Not Ayram Alusing.

When did green ever stop us, Jake?

It’d be with his knife, clean, or with his arm around her neck, squeezing until he heard that familiar clean click. No mess for his family to see, a body dragged into the brush, and a dip of his hands in a stream.

He looks into the eyes of the stranger below him, wrapped up in RDA-issued restraints, looking too innocent, too docile. The stranger his sons saved because she asked for help– tied up in the Scorpion they had used to come down here and threaten his children. Make them hurt, make them beg for their lives, make them feel fear like a child never should.

He looks at her and sees all of them.

“Name and rank.”

He’s quiet, both for the sake of the tiny ears behind that tree. Ears that are too sharp for their own good, and because Jake knows that volume does not get through to people. Words do. The conviction behind them.

And he lets the anger, the hate— putrid and so utterly human, seep into his inside voice. A steady volume that his endless list of foster fathers, teachers, and drill sergeants worked so hard to get him to learn.

He presses the pistol further, letting her head tilt back, her lips part. Not with fear, no, just reflex. Jake looks, really does, mouth a hard line. A time of being on the other side allows him the knowledge that there is nothing these people wouldn’t do. His babies, his mate, they don’t get it. They really don’t understand that nothing is sacred. There is no line, no horizon, no ‘surely, not this.’

Not when money is God.

They could’ve trained her for this—the sole purpose of getting a mole into all he holds dear. Get his guard down through the goodness of his sons’ hearts. They could’ve drugged her, stuck a tracking chip where no one could reach. Laid her out on a table, gut her, put a bomb in her fucking stomach— a long distance detonation. Pumped her full of bags of Sarin so when she threw up, all she had to do was poke a baggie, and they’d all die. Slow. Of chemical sickness— something Jake could not defend them from.

They know the people have rules, integrity, humanity– more than they ever will— And how they love that, knowing the Na’vi will only go so far.

So he fights back the human way, the way they understand.

“Answer the fuckin’ question.”

Whatever light is in her eyes begins to dim, and he finds himself reaching out to pull her from wherever she thinks she’s going, because he has questions. Important ones that will decide how this lady’s story ends, how he and his family move on from this grove. Go home and rebuild themselves from the ground up.

“Hey.” He bites out, instinctually, and her eyes refocus. Still unbothered by the fact that he’s grabbing her face with a kind of disrespect people like him could never tolerate. She stares beyond his shoulder, far, far away into the skies he knows and loves.

He wants to hiss and tell her not to look, to stop looking at where she is, charting a mental map in her head right back to his home.

He stares, searches for what feels like forever, and sees…

Nothing.

Just two, dilated eyes that wobble when the light hits them.

Is there anybody even in there?

A husk, maybe? An avatar without a driver?

Lo’ak said she asked for help. Pleaded for it.

She could’ve disconnected, severed the link when she realized things didn’t look like they were in her favor. Went to report something to someone who had the clearance to initiate a strike, the positioning of the attack was enough to give them a search box.

But her eyes are open.

Why else could she talk then, and not now? Not when he’s about to——

Jake is unsettled.

He takes a deep, deep breath and then lets her go. Her head hits the ground like a stone. He tucks the pistol back into his holster, hand steady. Eyes on her, alert, even if she’s got her arms flush against her back in a way he knows is painful. He grabs her by the strap that digs into her shoulders, and is met with no resistance, no fight, when he maneuvers himself behind her. His chest pressed against her back. Her breathing is slow. It doesn’t hitch. Her eyes remain on the sky.

He waits, again.

She blinks, again.

Then, the crook of his arm slides over and hooks itself under her neck.

—-and nothing.

He doesn’t press down; rather, looks to her side profile, as if it would change anything from this angle.

He also begins to ask the only fucking person who’d know what to do right now.

He never really knew how to start these things, but he meant them. If you got him to get on his knees and beg to a god he couldn’t even see? There’s a desperation there, raw and ugly. It’s taken the entirety of his children’s lives for him to even get to the point where he asks her for stuff in his head, simple things. A good catch, good weather, time with his kids when there’s none to give.

Eywa.

A prayer, a ridiculous concept twenty-odd-something years ago. Still is, sometimes, because he’s nothing if not walls built upon eachother in the shape of a man. He clears his throat and steels himself.

Great mother– he starts, deep inside where the doubt is, eyes searching, looking around the grove already before he’s even asked the question. I need a sign. Anything.

His ears flicker with the sudden, loud chirping of nantang. No, that can’t be it.

He continues, knee pressing into the earth, keeping the small of her back straight. This woman cannot defend herself, and I need you to do it for her. He feels the conviction so strongly. Something not just for his son, but for him, Jake’s own conscience.

His bicep flexes, instinctual, wondering why it hasn’t moved yet. He exhales, clearing his head. He grounds himself, loosening the knots that rile him up. Neytiri promised his son that he would be fair. The Olo’eyktan Jake, and not the angry, distressed father Jake. 

Another breath, Guide my hand. He urges, begging. The arm he holds feels less sure the longer she makes him wait.

A minute passes, and then another, and another, and Jake finds himself continuing to add time to the counter. 

                          ﹢⊹・                        

The thing is, Neteyam does not expect the silence.

If he couldn’t smell his dad, and the distinct, strange, sickly-sweet cloy of the woman, he would think that nothing was happening. His mother’s ears flicker now and then– to check, bow in hand. She looks beyond the tree more than once, growing more concerned as time bleeds on. His father is not a lingerer; He decides with discipline, efficiency, and experience. Every second wasted is another life at risk. 

But he doesn’t even hear talking.

Just the wind, the Na’ring, and the titters of their Ikran that wait for them in the trees, alert sentinels.

Then, the rustle of the grass, and the drag of tired footsteps that make him so very afraid to look at what he left behind.

His brother, who stands beside him, who, too, has also brought out his bow. Even if mom told them both that they did not need to, that they needed to rest with their sisters. He has that same hesitation. It shows when Lo’ak, the one he’d expect to charge toward the mess, attempts to meet their dad halfway around the tree, but can’t bring himself to do so. 

Then, Dad appears. His gun, holstered, his knife, too. There’s no fresh iron on the wind, no bite of steel. Dad looks exhausted, so unsure. For a moment, all he can do is stare at the ground.

Then, he crosses over to their mother and gently ushers her around the tree, murmuring. She relents, ears flickering, tail swishing, and places a sleeping Tuk into Kiri’s arms. Gripping her mate’s arm as he leads her to where their children can’t witness.

What happened?

It is only in their absence that he feels safe enough to look up and lock eyes with his baby siblings. There could be a discussion if they knew what to discuss, but there are no clues, no hints, just shots in the dark of what became of the strange, silent, bound woman he’d hauled on his back like a fresh kill, adrenaline thick in his veins, and left in the itchy grass that always leaves his ankles bothered.

He looks into his sibling's eyes and sees fear, uncertainty. The sight itches more than any grass could. 

He makes himself get up. Even if the blood rushes to his ears and he has to fight not to sway– in an effort to soothe them with answers they could not reach for themselves. To soothe himself and smother the images of the arrows he’d fletched for an Angstik hunt buried into one dream walker, one human. The beginning of a list he knew he would have, but did not think…it would be so…

Neteyam steels himself, stands without a word, and goes to disappear behind the bend where their parents had only moments prior. He hears the faint, worried calls of Kiri and Lo’ak and silences them with a gentle, raised hand.

He presses forward.

When he rounds, he looks fully, eyes straining to see across the berth. There is a moment where he’s so sure he’ll see her dead, or somehow worse, just gone– the only memory of the strange woman a divot where her body had lain. He tries to prepare himself for it, in the moment but pushes himself to just look.

–And she’s where they’d left her. 

Adjusted, now, so that her limbs are less awkward, more dignified, but she's there, her chest still rising and falling with fragile life. He sees his parents’ forms looming over her, weapons holstered—

And then, something small, so much so that he almost misses it— 

A single, newly sprouted Atokirina perched atop her nose. 

Huh.

Then, a shrill, ear-piercing wail. Familiar. One that has everyone’s ears lowering, his mother giving a startled hiss, bow knocked, his dad with his rifle already in hand, and Neteyam rushing over before his parents begin to rescind their decision of peace. 

INJECTION RECOMMENDED: PLEASE PRESS AND HOLD

“Son, stay back—!“ 

“Kehe Ma’itan!”

“No–I got it! I got it!“ He already feels breathless. He strings his bow around his chest on the way, the itchy grass already irritating his feet. He slides near the end, tail swishing, crouched.

INJECTION RECOMMENDED: PLEASE PRESS–

He’s lifting up her shirt sleeve and pressing on the bright red, obnoxious-looking circle that had previously silenced the yelling from the woman’s arm. It had freaked him and Lo’ak out so much earlier, and it is only because of his brother’s impulsive need to touch everything and act first that they’d gotten it to stop so quickly.

“Neteyam— son, what?”

He lets out a breath, gesturing to the device. “It stops making noise when you press it—“

“Yeah, but—“ his father is squatting, rucking up the shirt sleeve past the woman’s shoulder, and giving the now uncovered device a long, inquisitive stare, his brow furrowed deep.

It’s a thick, grey, and yellow, flat brick glued flush to the side of her arm– Reminiscent of some kind of fucked up Insulin pump. Jake pinches his brow, massaging into the cartilage. He exhales heavily, his gaze flickering to his eldest, who looks like he’s trying his best to look okay. God, his kid is exhausted; he should be at home, stuck in his Grandmother’s tent until she drills it into Jake’s head that he’s fine. 

“Do you even know what it’s saying?”

“To…press the button?” His eldest gives weakly, shrugging, unsure now. He starts scratching at his ankle, eyes darting from the device to her father’s stare. 

“Yeah, but it’s asking you to do that so it can—-” he shakes his head, sighs, and places his AR back in its holster, adjusting. He points to the device “Injection.” He says, slowly and in English, “It means there’s probably a needle or somethin’ hooked up to her bloodstream. Every time you press it, I reckon that’s what’s making her all—“ Jake gestures to all of her “Y’know.”

His ears drop, and all the remaining energy seems to sap from him. The way his shoulders slump, Jake has to stop himself from slinging an arm over his shoulder, pressing his head into his chest. “We were hurting her?”

“What, really?” He hears over his shoulder and looks to find that the rest of the kids have come running over, too. Neytiri, the only thing keeping them from joining the fray, has her hand pressed against Lo’ak’s chest, keeping him from surging forward– and the look on his boy’s face…Jake works his jaw.

He sets his voice hard, “No, no. Listen, we don’t know that for sure. Even if it is like that, then it’s nobody’s fault but the people who put it in there, got it?” 

“But…”

“Got it?”

Two, poorly unison-ed yes sirs is the response. Jake nods, even he if can still see them chewing at their lips, thinking too hard. He takes a moment to look at the device again, committing it to memory, before he pulls her sleeve down. Then, his eyes flicker up on their own, and he is once again surprised to see that hers are still open, cross-eyed, staring at the floating seed like it's her entire world.

Might as well be, it did save her a whole lotta trouble…n’ gave it to us.

“Alright.” He starts, coughing, standing, ignoring the crick in his knee. “Family meeting.”

The kids start converging on him, but he shoos them– “Away from the body, away.” he walks a couple of feet, his little ducks on his heels, his wife corralling them, Tuk in her arms once again. He shrugs on the pelt of the marine, Olo’eyktan, letting it settle— just to see this through. Let them get home.

“Alright. One, no pressing that button again. We’ll wrap the arm, stifle the sound until Norm and Max can either disable the sound, or get rid of it.” They all nod– Kiri already pulling off her poncho, bunching it up in her arms. 

“Two, straight to your grandmother– all of you. I don’t wanna see you walkin’ in any other direction but her tent, y’ hear me?” Nobody has the fight to refuse– Just silent nods, sloped shoulders, and Neytiri triple-checking her children with her eyes, letting out a click when she sees something she doesn’t like.

He sighs. “Okay, good. Three. We’re…we’re gonna talk about…this. Okay? Today was hard– just– jus’ c’mere. C’mere.” He relents, opening his arms and reveling in how they all pile in, and how it feels like his first real breath of air in hours. 

It’s all limbs and elbows and suffocation, and he loves it. He’d never let go if he could, lest it slip away. 

He holds on tighter, eyes shut. Just a little longer.

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҂ AUTHOR’S NOTE ⫿ Feel free to reply if you want to join the taglist!