Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Christopher was a religious man. He believed in God, angels, the Devil— all of it. By the standards of his small Arizona town, though, he was definitely more laid-back in his approach to anything of supernatural or divine nature. While his neighbors muttered about the attacks on New York (at this point, their civil engineers really should’ve figured out that they needed better safety codes), Christopher busied himself with managing his grocery store.

   “Why worry about heroes?” He reasoned. Christopher would often be asked why he remained unfazed by the presence of inhuman creatures and pagan gods, and he always gave a variant of the same answer: “When trouble comes to our door, I’ll pray for one of them to help us. Until then, I don’t see why we should criticize them for helping other folks trapped the situations we might find ourselves caught in.”

  There was no secret behind Christopher, no hidden belief. He was who he was, and if that changed, he’d be that new thing and wouldn’t waste time worrying about it.

  Christopher was steady, steadier than most— though he hadn’t always been that way. He knew what it felt like to not have solid ground or footing, and if there was anything he could do about now, it was to help the people around him so they could someday reach the same steadiness he felt. So Christopher smiled and laughed, and kept an eye out for any changing winds. He knew he’d find them eventually (he’d done so before, and eased their passing all the same), but he just didn’t expect the next change to be so… quiet.

  The girl showed up, unannounced and caked in dust, near the end of September.

  It’d been a slow Thursday morning. Not much travel passed through Welton– well, not until winter really hit, and then Christopher’s store would easily be a dozen times busier. But so far, only a few folks had passed through, chatting with Christopher for a while and then pacing back into the heat lurking on the outside of the glass doors.

  Christopher himself was sitting at the second of two cash registers, idly working his way through book of crossword puzzles, when the small bell above the doors chimed.

  “Nice to—” Christopher’s usual greeting died on his lips as a downright freezing gust of air washed over him. His body locked up in a shiver, the pencil nearly tumbling out of his fingers. He looked first to the vents above the door, where the air conditioner ran during the summer— and then his eyes fell on the solitary stranger below.

  She’d been on the road for a while, that much was obvious. Between the Sun and the ever-present Arizona dust, her clothes and skin were almost stained tan; but in a few places where the dirt hadn’t stuck, he could see fair, unblemished skin. Her long hair was scraped back into a braid— dark brown or black, it was hard to tell under the grease and dust. A jacket was tied around her waist, and her hands were tucking into the front straps of a plain green backpack that’d definitely seen better days. The girl— eighteen, maybe?— was staring over Christopher’s shoulder, pointedly avoiding eye contact. She seemed almost… frightened , he wanted to say, but there wasn’t any fear in her eyes. Determined, maybe. Alert. Apprehensive.

  “Don’t think I’ve seen you ‘round before,” Christopher said slowly. The momentary burst of cold air had rapidly faded, but the goosebumps across his arms remained. “I’m Christopher. Let me know if you need any…”

  Without blinking, the girl spun towards the first aisle and disappeared between the rows of boxed cereal and granola bars.

  “… help.” Christopher couldn’t help but stare at the place she’d vanished from.

  There wasn’t a single other soul in the store beside Christopher and the stranger. He caught a glimpse of her every now and then as she flitted between aisles, hands beginning to fill with small boxes and bags. Christopher didn’t move from his seat, but kept a close eye on the girl (or wherever she’d been last; her clunky boots made no sound on the floor and he couldn’t tell when she’d moved on). Shoplifters weren’t unheard of and Christopher’d had to deal with more than a few in past. But after five minutes of silence in the store, the girl reappeared at the other end, making her way towards the register.

  Christopher set down the crossword book as she approached.

  “Find everything alright?” He asked in a friendly tone.

  The girl’s head twitched in a nod as she carefully set out each item on the counter. As Christopher began scanning the items through, he noticed that her hands were by her sides, palms turned slightly out— an intentional gesture, hands kept in sight so he wouldn’t think she was going to pocket something at the register.

  Christopher glanced up at the girl’s face (turned towards the stack of chewing gum, avoiding his gaze like the plague). He looked back to the register after that. It didn’t really matter to him if she tried to steal something. With the way her shirt hung baggily off her frame, she’d need the extra food.

  It didn’t take Christopher too long to scan the items— trail mix, hand wipes, bottled water, jerky— but with the girl just standing there, the silence started to put him on edge.

   Thirty-eight dollars, forty cents read the register.

  “Thirty-three forty,” Christopher said, eyeing the girl’s gaunt form and too-sharp collarbones. His voice ran out in the empty store; despite his uneasiness, it seemed wrong to break the silence now.

  He blinked, and suddenly one pale, relatively-clean hand was holding out a few crumpled bills. Christopher slowly reached out for the money; she yanked her hand back as soon as he had it, like the gesture burned her.

  “Here you go—” He handed her the paper bag. She still didn’t look him in the eye when she took it. And then, hesitantly: “Excuse me if I seem rude, but–”

  Before he could even finish his thought, the glass door was swinging shut, the gust of air already fading in the girl’s wake.

  She came back a week later; again, when the store was completely empty. Christopher glanced up from the puzzle book, and gave her the customary smile and “Let me know if you need any help!”, but his words fell short as she disappeared among the aisles. This time, he didn’t keep as close a watch— he’d checked the inventory after her last visit, nothing was missing that she hadn’t paid for.

  Scarcely five minutes later, the girl all but popped out of thin air next to the register.

  “Christ!” Christopher swore reflexively, jumping up from his seat.

  The girl’s eyebrow quirked up— the only actual expression to cross her face since they’d… well, “met” implies they talked, so that was clearly off the table.

  “… Sorry.” He fumbled with a cereal box before finally pulling his nerves together.

  The girl stood silently as she’d done the week before. Christopher risked a glance up every so often; she looked just about the same, though a bit cleaner. Her hair had been washed— it was definitely black, the same disturbingly dark shade as her eyes— and her skin wasn’t so caked with grime. She’s young, younger than I thought , Christopher realized. Can’t be past seventeen, poor thing.

  Between items, Christopher’s eyes flickered down to her hands. She was staring out into space, but her fingers twitched almost constantly.

  “You play an instrument?” The question slipped out before he even realized he was thinking it.

  The girl’s head shot up. For one alarming moment, she stared straight at him.

  Christopher did not like it.

  He felt pinned to the spot— her eyes bored into him, slicing through every physical barrier and thought. Christopher couldn’t help but lean backwards, unable to break away, unable to feel anything less than vulnerable.

  Then she looked away, and Christopher could suddenly breath freely again. He quickly reached for the next box (more cereal, nothing sugary), a shiver trickling down his spine. “I just—” he stammered, and the girl’s head twitched in his direction. “Lydia— my sister’s wife— she plays the piano, and her fingers are always tapping out melodies, whether she knows it or not.”

  Christopher was in the middle of ringing up the total when he heard a soft hum. Startled, he looked up once more.

  The girl hadn’t moved, but the sharp edge in her eyes had eased somewhat. She angled her face down, observing her fingers flicker and play out little rhythms of their own making. She hadn’t spoken , not really— but a hum was a response nonetheless, even without words.

  Christopher smiled again, and when he finally handed over her bags, she walked away seven dollars heavier than a regular customer should’ve.

  The third time Christopher saw the girl, he was technically on his lunch break. “Technically” because, as the owner of the store, Christopher could set his puzzle book of the week down and close up for a minutes anytime he wanted. And although he wielded such power over his own working hours, he still liked to be inside when people showed up; he knew practically all his customers by name (the blessing and curse of a small town), and so it felt unjustifiably rude to not be there when they came around. However, than didn’t mean he was averse to heading out for lunch, when he knew that no one would come by the store.

  Christopher sat on a picnic bench under the shade of a particularly large ash tree, enjoying his sandwich and watching a pair of ducks paddle around the nearby pond. The town of Welton didn’t suffer from an overabundance of parks, and Christopher liked to stop by the one near his store and appreciate the fact that it was a possibility for him.

  He’d set out the Tupperware and the bottle of water, careful not to rest his arms on the spots of the table where the plastic coating had worn away to reveal metal; it was scalding at best, and Christopher had accidentally grabbed the Sun-heated seat-belt buckle one too many times to not be cautious of such things.

  A flicker of movement caught his eye— too sudden to be one of the ducks, too small to be a passing car.

  Christopher paused mid-bite, squinting out across the brown-baked grass and gravel. There, on the opposite side of the pond, stood the girl. She was rising to her feet, having just fallen straight out of the tree besides her. Christopher watched in startled wonder as she jumped up a good distance and yanked down her tattered backpack from the branches.

  Normally, he wouldn’t have been bothered by it. Kids climbed trees around here all the time; Lydia, with a ten year-old boy and eight-year old twins, could attest to that fact with great exasperation. But the girl jumped up again, and this time pulled down a thin excuse of a blanket.

  Christopher slowly set down his half of the sandwich, worry creeping into his mind. He wasn’t sure where the girl had come from, or where she went when she left his store— but to be sleeping in a tree—

   Across the little pond, the girl turned around as she adjusted the straps on her backpack, and saw Christopher sitting there. For a moment, her eyes widened in surprise. And then her face smoothed into a perfectly blank mask. She lifted her chin, raised an eyebrow, and marched straight towards him.

   No— not towards me , Christopher realized belatedly as she rounded the corner of the pond, a few degrees off course from where he sat. Towards the road behind the benches .

  Christopher was tempted to let her pass, to not provoke her obvious pride. But she was barely older than one of his other nieces, and she’d been sleeping in a tree . So against his better judgement, he lifted a hand in greeting.

  “Didn’t think I’d see you here!” He called out, trying his best to seem friendly.

  The girl slowed her pace, glancing over at him. Despite her cautious demeanor, Christopher caught a hint of curiosity in her eyes. An idea struck him—

  “Hey, while I’ve got you,” he reached into his pocket. The girl tensed, fingers twitching at her side. So Christopher slowed the gesture, taking out his wallet. “I didn’t give you the right change, last time you were at the store.”

  Both eyebrows shot up. It was a weak lie, they both knew, but Christopher’s heart was telling him to do something kind for her, whether she accepted it or not.

  “Come on.” He nodded at the spot across the bench from him. “Get out of the heat for a while. I promise I’m not a serial killer.”

  Christopher cringed internally as soon as he said that. He wanted to be light-hearted, but sometimes his humor didn’t go over well with sensitive people— and the girl was a lot more flighty than others who’d eyed him weird after such a joke.

  But to his shock, the girl slowly took one step towards the bench, and another and another. Soon enough, she stood only a few feet away from Christopher. Her shoulders were tense, but not in a wary way— like she was hesitant to sit down.

  “I don’t want to be a nuisance.”

   Her voice was that of a strained singer: at one point it’d been clear as a silver bell, but now there was a faint rasping note underlying the pitch. The girl didn’t blink or go so much as another sign that speaking bothered her. But Christopher was quiet for a moment, mind catching up with the fact that the girl who’d been silent for a solid two weeks had just spoken up.

  It wasn’t until her eyebrows knit together in a frown that Christopher realized he’d been staring. “Oh!” He jumped in. “Right– I mean no, no. You’re not a nuisance at all. Just... caught me unawares, is all."

      Evidently, it was acceptable. In a smooth, cohesive motion, the girl took a seat opposite from him. After a brief pause, she set her backpack down right besides her, and pulled out a crinkled water bottle.

      ”So,” Christopher started, picking his sandwich back up. “Are you—“

      ”Just passing through,” she interrupted, taking a sip of water. It was painfully obvious that she was saving as much as she could, in spite of the brutal early-autumn heat that blanketed the whole South-west.

      Christopher shrugged, her blunt manner having no effect on him. “Headed east?”

      Suspicion clouded her gaze, twisting her indifference into frightening caution. She leaned back— for a second, he thought she planned on running— but instead, her hands folded neatly in her lap. The perfect posture struck sideways against the accumulated dirt that pressed into her clothes and under her fingernails.

      ”Headed somewhere,” she replied evenly.

       Coming from east, then. Christopher hummed in response, finishing the last of his lunch. “Well,” he started rummaging through his wallet. “I’d say if you were looking for a town that wouldn’t remember you when you left, you’ve found it.”

      The girl’s fingers tightened around each other. Above their heads, the branches of the ash tree swayed; Christopher glanced up at the sudden movement, but the girl sat as still as a grave.

      Christopher believed in God, angels, and the Devil. He also believed that there existed some creatures on the Earth that were none of those things, and every bit as fearsome. ”Not tryin’ to upset you,” he slowed his words, striving for a sense of calm, “but I know what it’s like to have to think about those things.”

      She didn’t speak, but she wasn’t running. Christopher took that as a good sign.

      ”I... I made some choices when I was younger,” he began, choosing his words carefully. “Led me down some paths and highways that I didn’t like. Traveled around, slept in trees—“ his face split in a dry grin. “— finally came to the conclusion that I needed to settle.”

      Her dark eyes studied him closely. “So?”

      ”So I’m not gonna chase you outta my store.”

      ”And... to what do I owe this vote of confidence?”

      The answer was simple, at least to him. “Faith,” he replied. A startled exhale burst out of the girl’s mouth— not quite a laugh, too surprised to be a sigh. “I’m serious. I have faith that you won’t do anything... untoward.”

      Her head tilted to the side. Something silver glittered by her collarbone— a necklace, maybe, catching the sunlight that speckled the table — but the girl shifted in her seat, and the hem of her worn t-shirt covered the flicker of silver before Christopher could get a good look.

      Eventually, she spoke in that not-quite-crystal-clear voice. “I don’t know your name, mister...”

      ”Christopher,” he replied immediately, dipping his head in a nod. “Christopher Farfield.”

      ”Mister Farfield.” She pronounced his name with the faintest lilt. “Old name. Important family?”

      ”Nope.” He leaned back, gesturing to the park around them. “Not much importance here in Welton. So, just-passing-through, do you have a preferred moniker?”

      Christopher meant for the question to be casual, not put the girl on edge. But she shot back into that indifferent pose— a defensive move, he realized, not a rude one. The girl obviously was not comfortable talking about herself, much less handing out such personal information. That’s alright , Christopher though as he packed away the remnants of his lunch, there’s no need to press.

      “I’d say Rachel.”

      The girl looked taken aback by the sudden swing in conversation. “Excuse me?” She asked, unsure.

      Christopher let out a deep breath, picking at the edge of the plastic coating on the table. “Except you don't really look like an 'R' name. Maybe a Joan...” He peered at her. “No... Jean?”

      She shook her head, but the suspicion was long gone. “ Definitely not.”

      Then a name floated up from a long-forgotten memory. As it rolled around in Christopher’s head, gaining momentum, a smile tugged at his lips. “Leah,” he mumbled softly. He glanced at the girl, whose features smoothed at the sound of the name. This one is young , his thoughts whispered. Younger than she acts.

        ”Leah.” The name fell quietly from the girl’s lips. Her eyes grew unfocused as she ran it through her mind, testing how it felt in her mouth. Then, to Christopher’s joy, the girl’s frown eased. It wasn’t a smile or even a grin, but she seemed less pained than a moment before, and that’s all Christopher wanted. “Yeah.”

      Then she suddenly got to her feet, slinging her backpack over her shoulders. “You don’t owe me any change,” she— Leah— called back as she trod towards the main road, never once looking behind her.

      The ash tree above Christopher's head creaked in the breeze once, twice, and grew still.

      Over the next two weeks, Leah started popping up more often. Christopher couldn’t tell if she genuinely was spending more time outside of the park or if she’d always been sort-of there and he was just now recognizing her. But either way, Christopher made sure to wave or smile in greeting if they crossed paths. There are enough cruel things in the world , he knew, the least I can do is be friendly.

        Leah still stopped by the store every now and then, but the two met up in the park more often than not. The second time they’d shared the picnic table, Christopher nearly voiced his surprise— and then noticed the police car lurking by the edge of the park and Leah’s tense frown, and quietly acted as if he’d expected her to show up all along.

      Christopher knew how it felt to be unsteady, to seize any excuse to avoid authority or the threat of being run out of town. So he offered her the other half of his sandwich, and they sat under the ash tree until the patrol car drove away.

      Leah wasn’t a talker, not by any means, but over the weeks she’d spoken enough to Christopher a good reason why she was on her own— and why he shouldn’t pry at her:

      First: Leah was accustomed to living in parks and eating less than two meals a day. She never complained about being cold (or hot), tired, or hungry. It wasn’t pride, he could tell— it was just normal for her.

      Second: She was, in the past or currently, in trouble. Leah chose her words and steps with the utmost care. Her eyes flickered around every corner; she refused to sit or stand with her back to the door or window. Leah quietly drank in everything that surrounded her, and evaluated every detail for the threat of danger. Leah was not afraid— but she was very good about keeping her guard up.

      Third, and most concerning: Christopher could not mention her parents.

      He did, exactly once.

       “Was the necklace a gift from them?” He asked one day as she lined up the boxes on the counter. Her hand was playing absentmindedly with the collar of her shirt; another hint of silver gleamed under the fluorescent lights, and Christopher, fooling himself into not watching his words, asked her a seemingly innocent question.

      ”Sorry?” Leah’s hand fell back to her side, eyes snapping into focus from her daydream.

      ”The—“ Christopher scanned a bag of trail mix with one hand, gestured to his own neck with the other. “The silver. It’s pretty. Was it a gift from your parents?”

      The air rushed out of Leah in one fell swoop. Every ounce of color drained from her already too pale face; her veins pulsed a sickly violet through her skin. She stumbled back a step— the most uncoordinated he’d ever seen her act.

      Christopher, without thinking, reached forward to place a hand on her shoulder. Faster than he could blink, Leah lurched backwards, nearly pinwheeling into the other register. “Wait— Leah!” Christopher yelped, already darting around the counter—

      Leah dropped the handful of bills she’d had at the ready and darted for the door. Before Christopher was even clear of the register, she was gone. Christopher raced out to the parking lot, heart hammering in his chest, only to see the back of a dirty jacket vanish around the corner of the block.

      She didn’t show up for three days.

      Christopher nearly called the police several times over, but he couldn’t get Leah’s terrified expression out of his head. She’d run , he understood, no matter who was chasing her. As long as there’s someone at her heels, she’ll take off.

       So he waited. He walked by the park, but Leah’s stuff wasn’t up in her tree. She didn’t stop by the store, she wasn't on the few corners that the other vagrants shared (Christopher knew for sure, he checked every one of them). Leah had simply dropped off the face of the Earth— here one moment and gone the next.

  On the fourth day, Christopher resigned himself to the probability that Leah wasn’t coming back. That Tuesday morning was slow and unbearably quiet in the store. The cool air wafting down from the vents did nothing to ease Christopher’s mind— in fact (and he couldn’t articulate why this was) it felt… wrong. Sterile.

  The glass doors swung open, the bell chimed, and Leah stood there, eyes fixed on a point somewhere above his shoulder.

  Christopher didn’t say anything (apologies were a strong suit of his, but he didn’t have the right to reopen that old, festering wound he’d accidentally grazed), and just reached below the counter. He pulled out the bag of food that she’d abandoned, set it down, and asked for ten dollars even for it. Leah knew exactly what he was doing— she was the farthest from stupid than anyone he’d ever met— but she accepted the deal without fuss.

  As she reached for the bag, the sleeves of her jacket rode up, revealing a pattern of purple bruises littering her forearms like fallen leaves. Leah didn’t look him in the eye, but there were dark bags under hers, and Christopher’s silence reaffirmed itself.

  Leah did not need his worry, but she had it nonetheless. Christopher understood how it felt to be unsteady, to throw yourself into conflict just to have some semblance of control over what hurt you. So the next time he went to the park on his lunch break, he brought a serviceable First-Aid kit and slipped it into her backpack while she was throwing away her trash. When he got home that night, his wallet held a few more crumpled bills, despite it being on his person throughout their whole meeting. Christopher almost laughed.

  Five days after Leah’s disappearing act, Christopher found himself sitting in the pews, fingers running over the stamped letters on the cover of the Bible.

  Someone further in the back coughed, the sound rebounding from the arches above the pews. A deep breath flooded in and out of Christopher’s lungs. The brass pipes of the organ gleamed dully in the light, reflecting a hazy rainbow of colors that filtered in through the stained glass windows. Despite being cleaned regularly, there existed a constant film of dust that hovered in the air, kept cool by the stone walls even in the brutal autumn heat.

  Christopher didn’t know if Leah was religious. He never asked her about it— she hated talking about herself, and faith was an infallibly personal subject. But Christopher dealt with faith more often than most, and so today, he wasn’t here for himself.

  Quietly, so as to not disturb the other folks or the hazy air, Christopher began to mumble a prayer to his namesake.

   “Bad luck ,” his grandmother prattled when he was younger. “Naming a child after the patron of travelers— he’ll run away, just you watch. What were you thinking, Jan?”

  Christopher’s mother would shake her head and let the old woman mutter about bad omens. Neither son nor mother payed her much mind; Christopher inherited his mother’s patience, afterall.

  “Look over her,” Christopher prayed now, his voice soft but sure. “She’ll leave, and when she does, let her settle— if not in one place, then with herself.”

  The brass pipes did not answer him. Neither did the book in his hands.

  Christopher bowed his head, and quietly made his way out of the church.

  When he pulled into the parking lot in front of his store, there wasn’t a single car in sight. Christopher fully intended to head into the back room and finish the long-overdue inventory list, but just as he pulled out his keys, his eyes snagged on something just around the corner of the store.

  There, barely visible, was the edge of Leah’s jacket, draped haphazardly over a small concrete table next to her backpack.

  Christopher tucked his keys back into his pocket and ambled around the corner of the store. When he’d bought the place, there’d been a set of picnic tables scattered around the back; over the years, he’d managed to finally drag them out, one by one, save for this stubborn table that’d been bolted into the ground beneath it. It grated on Christopher for a while (some folks sat back there and left broken glass bottles all across the dirt, glittering like mica in river silt), but there wasn’t much else he could do about it, so the table stayed. And, evidently, it’d found a new occupant.

  Leah sat backwards on the bench, facing out towards the expanse of Arizona desert unfurling from Christopher’s store all the way to the northern horizon. Her eyes were closed, face turned up toward the sky in a rare moment of peace.

  That peace was dashed as soon as Christopher’s feet left the asphalt, gravel grinding against the soles of his shoes. Leah’s head twitched in his direction, creepily dark eyes suddenly open and locked on the canyon ridges far north.

  “Stopped by earlier,” she began in her once-clear voice, elbows propped up on the table behind her. “You weren’t here.”

  “Church.” Christopher sat down on the other end of the bench. He couldn’t remember exactly when he started giving one-word answers, but Leah had a way of leaving a faint trace on everything around her. “Something you need?”

  Leah shook her head. The curtain of black hair hung strangely by her neck— with a jolt, he realized that parts of it had been hacked off just above her shoulders.

  Something in Christopher’s chest tightened. He wanted to reach out, but wasn’t sure how badly she’d react. “What happened?”

  Leah shrugged. One pale hand drifted upwards, fingertips brushing against the ends of a roughly cut patch. “Some boys thought it’d be funny to mat chewing gum in my hair while I slept. ‘Course, I woke up and chased ‘em off, but…”

  “Who do I need to talk to?”

  “You’ve done enough. I’ll deal with it.”

  “Leah—”

  She stopped him cold with a glare. Despite her stick-thin form (she looked constantly on the verge of starvation), Leah possessed a sharpness unrivaled by any. Christopher wasn’t on her bad side— at least, he didn’t think he was— and by every force he worshiped, he prayed he’d never find himself there.

  “I’ve been here too long,” she eventually spoke as she turned back to the sky.

  It didn’t surprise Christopher, but part of him already missed this odd, quiet girl. “I figured as much.”

  A frown flickered over Leah’s face; her eyes narrowed in concentration. “I don’t—” she started, breaking off in frustration. “I— I can’t stay. Part of me wants to, part of me likes this place. But I love the cold, and winter is coming up fast, and…”

  It was the most she’d ever spoken about herself. Christopher, in an effort to not make her defensive, schooled his expression into a more neutral one. “Leah…” he uttered her name carefully. She wouldn’t look him in the eye. “Speaking from experience, I wouldn’t fight it.”

  A short staccato of a laugh burst out from Leah’s lungs, bitter and harsh. “ Fight it? Fight what ?”

  “Your calling,” Christopher replied calmly. “Some of you likes Arizona, some of you craves the wind.”

  Leah went utterly still, fingers deadly motionless. Her necklace glittered under  the collar of her shirt— she wasn’t even breathing .

  “I’m not blind,” he hastily continued, desperate to keep her steady. “You’re always outside when it’s windy, you never wear your jacket—” he gestured to where the clothing in question lay across the table— “and you seem more at peace when there’s a cloud or two in the sky.”

  Leah didn’t reply straight away. Christopher thought he’d lost her for sure when— “What’s that got to do with anything?”

  “It means you’re forcing yourself to pick a side,” he explained slowly. The words came to him easily; they were the same thoughts he wished someone had told him when he was younger, before he found himself trying to figure everything out on his own. “Arizona in autumn is about the furthest thing from cold there is— well, there’s Vegas, but you’re a little on a the young side for that. My point is, Leah, that you can’t rush this. You’ve gotta let things unfold, let them settle.”

  Leah scoffed at that. Her fingers resumed their restless twitching, drumming a tattoo on the edge of the table. “You sound like Brokkr.”

   A broker? Who the— never mind . “What’s the harm in that?” Christopher asked after a beat. “Would it really be that bad if you let things settle?”

  Leah, as expected, didn’t answer right away. She stared out at the dusty, sun-baked land, a careful frown drawn delicately across her severe features in its usual fashion.

  “I think,” Leah began slowly, a deep breath rushing out of her lungs. The ends of her now-ragged hair fluttered back in the end of a soft breeze. “There are some storms we can avoid, and some we cannot weather, no matter how deep in the ground he dig our heels.”

  Another pause, another lungful of parched, metallic-tasting air.

  “Wouldn’t hurt,” Christopher repeated. He leaned back against the table, the mirror image of Leah.

  She hummed. That cool breeze picked up speed, sweeping through the abandoned picnic area, off-setting the heat of the Sun. Leah’s hair twisted up around her neck, and Christopher caught another weak glimpse of silver.

  A thin patch of a cloud skittered across the Sun like a kitchen curtain— substantial enough to dim the light, but lacking sufficient weight to provide much relief. Christopher shivered in the sudden drop of temperature. Leah didn’t blink.

  “You know,” he started hesitantly. Leah’s fingers curled slightly, but the tension eased from her shoulders. If there was ever a right moment, this was it. So Christopher took a deep breath, prayed she wouldn’t take it the wrong way, and plowed ahead. “I’ve been thinking about hiring another worker. Nothing fancy, just someone to restock and close up each night. Pays well enough.” He very badly wanted to look at Leah, to gauge her reaction— but the momentary shade send goosebumps rippling across his arms, and it unnerved him more than her silence. “You wouldn’t have to talk to anyone.”

  The next phrase died on his lips: I just want you to be steady, to know what it feels like.

   Leah was quiet. He finally turned his head—

  She’d shifted forward from her reclined position, forearms on her knees. Her eyes flickered across the horizon, scanning the distant canyon ridges. If Christopher didn’t know better, he’d say she was expecting to be followed.

  When Leah spoke, she did so with a delicate uncertainty, as if the silence were sacred to her. “I don’t think you want someone like me staying. I’m not…” She trailed off, absentmindedly tracing a pattern into the center of her left palm. “I’m temporary.”

  “But you won’t know unless—”

  “I try?” Her tone suddenly fell sharp. “Do you really think I’d be here if I hadn’t?”

  Christopher flinched back before he could stop himself. Leah settled back, the momentary bitterness fading; and he almost apologized, but Leah’s face was calm and far from guilty—

  She’d expected that reaction. And he did not disappoint.

  Warmth hit his skin, bright and clear. Christopher glanced up only to watch the meager clouds peel away from the Sun, pulled towards the horizon against the will by the wind.

  Leah’s face turned to the sky, eyes fluttering shut. She looked very much like she wished to join the clouds on their long, horizon-bound trek.

  “You don’t belong here,” Christopher told her, words weighed down with an odd sort of grief. Here was this specter of a person, this black and grey wisp, and Christopher felt nothing but sad.

  There wasn’t so much of a twinge of grief on Leah’s face, the only undisturbed bit of the landscape among the cracked earth and jagged mesa outcroppings. She made no motion to deny his statement; and even if she did, the lie would be painfully obvious.

  Arizona was a sharp patch-work of rust and parched soil. It left your throat dry and your lungs full of dust. Clouds never lingered and the wind didn’t bite so much as burn your face, but never as strong as the unrelenting Sun. Grass grew brown and scraggly, and the trembling bushed weren’t quite loud enough to mask the rustling of rattlesnakes underfoot. It was every shade of red and copper, worming its way under your fingernails and into the wrinkles at the corners of your eyes. Arizona was bright and scalding and ever on the verge of exhaustion.

  And Leah was grey.

  She was sharp, yes, and bright. But not like Arizona. Not like Christopher’s home. Everything sharp about Leah was quick, everything bright was a flash of white teeth or silver jewelry. Shadows and night-time coolness had nothing on the girl. Leah, when Christopher thought about it, was the last tenth of a painting— a pencil sketch that hadn’t been covered up in color quite yet.

  So it was unignorably, painfully obvious that Leah did not belong here.

  “Thanks,” she said simply. Even her tone— clear, ringing, cold— stuck out like an inkblot on a map. “Not for the job offer—” her head tilted to the side, the ghost of a grin tugging at her lips. “Well, I appreciate the gesture. But I’m talking about the advice. About settling.”

  A little bloom of happiness skittered in Christopher’s chest. He may be tied to Arizona, she may be silver in a sea of dirt, but at least he could help. At least he could lead to a steady place.

  “So where’ll you go, then?”

  She shrugged. “North, most likely.”

  “Just that? No city, no state, just—”

  “North.”

  Christopher nodded to himself. “Be careful up there.” He tapped the bench between them so she’d turn, making sure she payed attention. “Winter’s coming up quick. Traveling on foot won’t be easy once the first snow falls.”

  Leah shook her head. Her thumb was still running over the lines in her palm, tracing an imaginary ‘H’. Maybe that’s her real name , Christopher mused. Something like Helen, or Hannah.

  “‘ Preciate the concern,” she replied, shaking Christopher out of his thoughts. “But I don’t get cold.” The silver chain glittered above her collar for a moment before sinking back below sight.

  Christopher chuckled, the sound sticking to the back of his throat. “Try Alaska then, why don’t you?”

  And then, for the first time since he’d met her, Leah laughed. It wasn’t a deep sound, it didn’t roll from her gut, it didn’t swell from her whole body. But it rang out like a bell, with the faintest rasp underlying the note. That solitary laugh hit the air like a breeze buffeting the low hanging branches of an ash tree.

  Christopher felt a wide smile slide across his face. A second, replying chuckle rolled out of his lungs, and for a single, glorious moment, the world was light.

  Leah’s laughter floated up above their heads and dissolved in a gust of dry desert air. Her head tipped back, elbows propped back on the table behind her; Christopher’s mind supplied the image of his sister’s cat, lounging in the afternoon Sun.

  Then, in a carelessly elegant motion, Leah rose from her seat and ran her hands through her uneven hair. She stretched her arms over her head, spine arcing into the movement. “Well,” she sighed, hands falling to her side. “I think it’s time to go.”

  Christopher nodded, and with a polite smile— actually, more of a not-frown— Leah gathered up her jacket and backpack, and began walking around to the front of the store.

  “Bring some winter clothes!” Christopher couldn’t help but call after her, anxious to depart any wisdom on the young girl before she left. “And lots of water!”

  Leah lifted a hand in acknowledgment, still set on her trajectory. Every step sunk into the ground but her face was turned to the sky, searching for the next tailwind to spin her somewhere new. Her feet made no sound on the gravel; it probably should’ve been unnerving, but Leah was Leah, and Christopher didn’t bother trying to understand why.

  He’d turned back to the open desert for only a second before another thought struck him. Sucking in a deep breath, Christopher lifted his head to call out once more—

  And Leah was gone. Silent and swift, she’d caught the end of a breeze and vanished from sight.

  The dry autumn heat struck Christopher like a sledgehammer. Sunlight blared into ever corner, no clouds left to provide relief or sanctuary. He nearly winced, throwing a hand up to shield his eyes from the Sun. Pulling himself to his feet, he scanned the horizon for any sign of the girl.

  But Arizona had finally chased out that last anomaly, and now it was complete in all its Sun-scorched glory. No clouds, no cold, no silver.

  When Christopher walked back towards the store, it wasn’t to look for her. Instead, he ambled inside, flipped the sign to the ‘OPEN’ side— and carefully folded the brand-new vest lying on the second register, taking care to tuck the name tag in so that the black letters spelling ‘Leah’ wouldn’t chip.

  It was going to be a good day. He could feel it.

♜

  Three weeks later, Christopher was back at the cash register. Everything was calm, per usual; the hum of the vents and scratch of his ball-point pen on the puzzle book blurred into a perfect, lazy afternoon. All was in its place. Arizona was quiet today, and so was Christopher’s store—

  The door crashed open.

  “Jesus!” Christopher jumped to his feet, hand shooting under the counter to where a thankfully (so-far) unused pistol sat.

  A tall man, dressed in black jeans and a purple shirt, all but ran towards Christopher. Blue eyes narrowed, the stranger reached into his jacket pocket— Christopher’s fingers tightened around the gun— but the man pulled out a thin wallet instead.

  “I don’t want any trouble,” Christopher said in a warning tone. Two feet from the phone. Twenty from the back door. Police could be here in—

   The stranger yanked out an ID card, shoving it in Christopher’s face. He leaned back reflexively, but as soon as his focus adjusted he could make out the small letters reading… SHIELD? Oh. He is the police.

  “Good. I’m not here to cause any.” The man’s voice was as tense as his posture. “How’s the weather?”

  “ Excuse me ?” Christopher gawked openly at the man. “Look, Mister—” He glanced at the ID card. “Agent Barton. What in the name of all things holy—”

  “It’s been weird, right?” Agent Barton interrupted him. He wasn’t glaring , per se, but Christopher stood at least half a foot shorter and forty pounds lighter; if the agent planned on doing anything, Christopher doubted he could stop him.

  “Weird how?” Christopher asked slowly, hand still resting on the gun.

  Agent Barton exhaled sharply. “Should be ninety degrees easily, right? Boiling Sun, tires melting, wailing and gnashing of teeth and all that?”

  “I suppose.” Christopher risked taking his eyes off the agent, glancing out into the parking lot. Besides a strange SUV— the agent’s, clearly— there wasn’t a single other person there. “The police station is a few blocks south, I’m sure they’ll be happy to answer your questions.”

  “I know. They did.” Agent Barton’s eyebrows drew together in a frown, doing absolutely nothing to ease Christopher’s nerves. “And they said the only strange thing ‘round town in the last month was a horse having twins and a couple of vagrants passing through.”

   Leah.

   Christopher tried to keep his expression blank, but something must’ve given him away, because Agent Barton eyes narrowed like a hawk’s. He leaned forward towards Christopher, bracing his hands against the counter.

  “Mr. Farfield, I have had a very trying summer,” Agent Barton said in a low, dark tone. Even Christopher’s name sounded like a threat. “I’ve spent the last several weeks driving through every state between here and New York. I am tired, I am irritated, and my patience is wearing thin. So believe me when I say you want to be completely honest with me.”

  Christopher’s eyes flickered toward the phone on the other side of the register.

  “You can certainly try.” Agent Barton smiled humorlessly. “Same goes for that pistol. Both will have very counterproductive results.”

  Christopher took a deep breath, prayed his nerves wouldn’t make his knees go out from under him, and took his hand off the gun. “What’s the weather got to do with anything?” He asked, throat dry as the desert outside.

  “So you agree?” Agent Barton raised an eyebrow, his unwavering gaze pinning Christopher to the spot. “Been a little colder than usual, right? Little more cloud cover, little more wind?”

  Christopher didn’t trust his voice at the moment, so he just nodded.

  Agent Barton leaned back from the counter. It didn’t ease Christopher’s nerves. The agent reached for his wallet again, this time pulling out a small, folded picture. He held it with far more care before holding it out for Christopher to see.

  It was Leah. Skin cleaner, clothes that weren’t falling apart, body less skeletal— but Leah all the same. Her gaze bored through the paper at Christopher; there was an edge here he hadn’t seen on her before. Or maybe it was the absence of the exhaustion that seemed to follow her with every step, threatening to pull her down into an early grave.

  Christopher didn’t realize he’d been staring until he glanced up at Agent Barton, only to see the man calmly observing him. Christopher jolted backwards, but it was painfully obvious that he recognized the girl in the picture.

  “She wants to be left alone.” Christopher tried to dissuade the agent, but his attempts fell in vain.

  The agent’s stare didn’t falter. “Where is she?” He asked quietly, failing to beat back the urgency in his voice.

  “I don’t think I should—”

  Agent Barton slammed his open hand down the counter with a bang. Christopher flinched heavily, heart jumping up several beats. The agent backpedaled a few steps anxiously, dragging a hand over his face.

  “Is she alone?” Agent Barton demanded, posture coiled tighter than a bowstring.

  Christopher knew he wasn’t leaving the store until the agent did. “No,” he caved in. It struck him as a betrayal, as treason on every small kindness built between him and Leah.

  At Christopher’s reply, Agent Barton pulled himself back to the counter. His hands were twitching at his sides in a frighteningly similar pattern. “But she was here.” It sounded like a plea.

  Christopher nodded mutely.

  “Was— is she hurt?”

  Christopher shook his head. “Not… not that I could tell. Nothing that wouldn’t heal up on its own.”

  A great sigh rushed out of Agent Barton’s lungs. He tipped his head back, closing his eyes for a second. The agent’s fearsome shell cracked, revealing frantic concern. Concern? Is that what it really was?

   Christopher had seen that kind of threatening worry before, on Lydia’s face that Fourth of July when one of her sons ran off to chase the fireworks. Christopher and his sister-in-law tore Bellegar Park apart looking for the boy; they found him unharmed, but Lydia would’ve ripped everything to shreds if he hadn’t been there.

  “I’m gonna ask you one more time,” Agent Barton said in a precarious tone. “Where is she?”

  Christopher didn’t want to answer him. But a memory came to him unbidden: Leah reappearing after those three days, with bruises on her arms and bags under her eyes. Leah, silent and sharp, so clearly in pain but admitting none of it.

  And even then, it was indeed a betrayal when Christoper opened his mouth to speak.

  “North.” Christopher’s voice fell softly in the empty store. Agent Barton’s frown eased, the man hanging on every word. “Left three weeks ago. She never said where exactly, just that: north. I… I told to her find someplace she could settle. Somewhere she didn’t feel like she was choosing one part of herself over the other.”

  Agent Barton didn’t speak right away. They obviously knew each other , Christopher thought. Leah has a way of leaving her mark on everyone around her.

  “ If you see her,” the agent finally spoke, picking his words carefully. “Call one of us.”

  Without looking directly at Christopher, Agent Barton reached forward and tore off the end of an unwanted receipt from the register. He snagged Christopher’s pen and quickly scrawled a number on it, leaving both the receipt and the pen on the counter. Christopher made no move to pick them up.

  Agent Barton locked gazes with Christopher for a moment, blue eyes scanning for any sign of deceit. But the agent took a step towards the door, leaving that conversation— interrogation, really— as it was.

  Half-way out the door, Agent Barton paused. Christopher tensed instinctively, but the agent just threw out one last question. “What was she going by? I mean, her name.”

  Christopher had always known it was nothing more than an alias to the girl; still, it felt wrong to give away so much of what he knew about her when she was so stingy with personal details herself.

  “Leah,” Christopher sighed.

  Agent Barton’s head tilted slightly to the left as he ran the name over in his mind. Then, disturbingly quiet for a man his size, Agent Barton exited the store. The SUV tore out of the parking lot scarcely a minute later, and then Christopher was left alone once more in the empty store.

   Let her settle , he prayed as the plume of dust behind the car slowly drifted back to the ground. If not in any place, then with herself.

   Christopher sat back down, and let the cold air wafting down from the vents chase away any trace of the Arizona desert waiting outside.

Author's Note: AAH I didn't mean for chapter 1 to be this long but there really wasn't any place I could stop it before the end. On that lovely note, welcome to Never Moderation Knew, where the OC deserves a hug and we spend several pages on exposition alone!

(also sorry if the weird update thing freaked any of y'all out, Quotev decided to publish the wrong chapter for me but it's fixed now).

Chapter Text

  I leaped back from the edge of the road as quick as I could. But, as the recent trend of my life dictated, my attempt came a heartbeat too late.

  The pickup sped down the highway, kicking up loose earth that flew and plopped back into the ground, leaving little craters in their wake. I’d felt the truck approaching— it made an unignorable slipstream that all but screamed at me, yanking my thoughts back from the gathering clouds. But in that split-second it took to refocus on my surroundings, the truck hurtled past me, throwing up a plume of dust and damper earth as its tires grazed the sides of the unpaved road. I had just enough time to throw my hands up, shielding my face— but the spray of dirt hit me nonetheless. It rained down the back of my jacket, landing in my hair and in the few cases where a pebble struck, a dull ache grew under the sickly pale skin.

  Christ. I’d just washed my clothes two days ago.

  My steady pace slowed to a halt. Slowly, I raised my hands and started to brush the silt off my clothes. It stuck to the thin layer of sweat coating my palms, smearing over my jacket for three more pats before I realized it was a futile attempt.

  Irritation swelled up from my gut, bright and bitter. That emotion came a lot easier to me nowadays— for better or worse, I couldn’t tell, but I had a sinking theory.

  The breeze at my back wavered, a loose rudder in a strong current. Without thinking, I leaned into it, eyes fluttering shut for a moment. The cold air (thank God it was nearly winter, I couldn’t stand the heat) wicked away the now-dirty sweat. It was a balm to my skin, comforting and cool, promising that everything will heal, everything will slow for the winter and thaw come spring, everything will be alright will be alright will be alright—

  “Move forward.”

  I barely recognized my own voice at this point. Even now, I caught myself glancing around for any other sign of life, searching for who that voice belonged to. Then, carried by my words, the weight of the world slid back over my shoulders, illogically heavier with the loose dirt dusting my clothes and hair.

  “Move forward,” I repeated for my own sake. The rasp in my voice stuck out like an ink blot on a map, so unlike the old bell-tone I used to have, that used to be mine.

  But there’s no use in pretending you’ve still got what you’ve lost, is there?

  “Three more miles,” I told myself, glancing over my shoulder at the marker I’d passed a few minutes ago. “Let’s get there before dark.”

  My feet scraped over the ground, kicking up a cloud of dirt. An echo of the one the truck left behind, and a pitiable reflection of the grey curtain slowly drawing closed over the afternoon sky, blotting out the light and sending intermittent flashes of comforting cold through my bones. The breeze at my back steadied. With every heartbeat, a spot on my cheekbone where a pebble struck throbbed louder and louder. I didn’t need to dig through my backpack for the broken compact mirror to know that an angry purple bruise was rapidly forming on my cheek; in the last handful of weeks, I’d discovered (unfortunately through experience) that my skin bruised a Helheim of a lot easier than it should.

  But I need to move forward.

  The breeze kissed my cheek softly, and I continued down the well-worn road.

♜

  By the time Grand Junction came into view, it was nearly dinnertime. The Sun hovered dangerously close to the horizon; far off to either end of the visible world, sunlight clipped the tops of mesas and receding mountains, spurring the first shadows of dusk at the feet of those rocky behemoths. It reminded me of Arizona— just enough dust in the air to taste it, each grey-green bush dressed in copper at sunset.

  But here in Colorado, the wind blew far sharper. It slid over my bare skin like icy water, trailing needle-thin lines of silver in its wake, combing through my hair like a thousand invisible fingers—

  A bolt of sudden sadness lanced through my chest, scraping against my ribs. My hand drifted upwards, carefully running over the uneven ends of my dark hair.  The hollow sensation twisted up into my lungs. It hit me as heavily as it did in Arizona, that morning when I woke up and—

  “Run! Run!” One of the boys cackled, pulling his friend up the small hill by the elbow.

  My hands shot out to either side, swinging through the air as I pinwheeled backwards. Barely awake, I couldn’t think, couldn’t breathe, everything around me was blinding and deafeningly loud and every nerve in my body was screaming silver—

  Through the swirling mess of green and blue and dusty brown, a bolt of trembling air lanced towards the two retreating boys. Not thinking it through, I lunged forward and snatched it mid-flight. With nowhere else to go, the force of the wind tossed me backwards down the hill, tumbling over scratchy grass and sharp bits of rock that dug into my sides. Hundreds of small aches and stings burst into bloom all over my body— another hazy layer of sensation between me and the world.

  A dull ringing sound filled my head. Eyes squeezed shut, I took in a shuddering breath. My ribs creaked in response, pressing against the dry earth.

  ‘At least it was still,’ a thought slurred. ‘At least I’m grounded.’

  And then that same breath rattled out of my lungs in a wheezing chuckle. Grounded, huh? Since when did that describe anything about me?

  I honestly didn’t know how long I lay there, curled around myself and just breathing through the forming bruises and cuts. Slowly, slowly, the heartbeat pressing through my skin receded into a more tolerable pounding. The boys were probably on the other side of town by now, laughing amongst themselves and picking their next victim.

  Christ, I didn’t want to move— but I needed to, needed to move forward.

  So I pressed my palms against the dirt, ignoring the spikes of pain shooting through scraped-raw skin, and pushed myself to my feet. All the blood in my body  rushed to my feet; the tension flooded out of my bones… it felt kind of nice, I could close my eyes for a second, I deserved it…

  The tell-tale brush of moving air on my skin yanked my head back into focus. I was careening towards the ground— I threw my weight to the other side, lurching off-balance but thankfully not kissing the dirt for a second time in as many minutes.

  “Christ,” I groaned. My head was killing me, holy Hela—

  My hand froze mid-way to my temple. It’d brushed through my hair and…

  Swallowing past the lump in my throat, I pinched my thumb and middle finger together. With less resistance than ever before, the air hardened into a quivering blade.

  ‘Don’t think about, don’t give yourself a moment to second-guess.’

  And in one swift motion, the sharpened breeze chopped through the matted clump of gum and duct tape. The wad of dark hair— God, at this point it was so dirty it looked brown— plopped to the ground.

  My eyes stung. I told myself it was just the silver hue fading back into my skull.

  It was silly, I know. It was just hair. But it was my appearance, it was one of the few things I had control over. Even when I had nothing to hold onto, even when another nightmare woke me up screaming murder, I would always comb through my hair. Sorting through the tangles was so much easier than sorting through my problems, and the gentle, repetitive motion of braiding over-under-over never failed to quiet my head. But now, now those boys had taken that simple mercy from me, that one element of control…

  So I did what I do best. I took a breath, and locked the pain back somewhere it would eventually boil over. Afterall, it was one of the few things I could control.

  A bone-deep shiver rattled through my spine. My head jerked up, eyes locking onto the city lying before me. It was disturbingly close; I knew I had a habit of going on autopilot, but trudging through a memory and a good mile was a first.

  Squinting at the city, I could see the beginnings of golden lights switching on for the night. Even making good time, I was still on the tail-end of twilight. But if I picked up the pace, I could probably find the cheaper part of town, maybe scout out a good place to bunker down in for a stretch.

  So I took a moment to catch my breath. Glancing down at my hands, I watched as a delicate ring of silver wound around my thumb. On the other palm, a slow silver eddy crept down towards my fingertips. Usually, the wind-marks would only surface when I called them, or when my legacy burst into use. But now…

  Now, this was my new normal.

  Deep breath in, deep breath out. The marks glittered and faded, and I prayed they wouldn’t reform in public.

  The next half-hour passed like the days before: dirt turned to gravel to asphalt, cars sped by more often, light faded and the wind picked up. I’d just passed into the official limits of downtown when the pleasant white noise of engines and breezes shattered with a piercing whistle.

  “Hey!” Some man shouted down the road behind me.

  Jeez, it was colder than I expected. Lost in thought, my eyes bounced over the trees lining the street. They’d strung up little lights in the branches, casting a soft glow over the sidewalk. Christopher was right. Winter sets in quick northwards. Why didn’t I think of Colorado sooner?

  “Hey darlin’! Come on, baby, over here!”

  Maybe I should head for Montana after this. It’ll be colder, sure, but there’s less people. I’m smart, I can probably find an odd job or two.

  Beep–beep!

  A sudden car horn jarred me out of my head. Confused, I stopped dead in my tracks, glancing behind me.

  There was a Jeep on the narrow street, no more than ten feet back from where I stood. It rolled to a halt in the middle of the road a second after I did. Three guys sat inside; both the passenger and the one in back were leaning out of the open window. At first, their grins seemed playful enough to be innocent—

  “There you are, baby,” the passenger crooned. In one of his hands was a crumpled beer can. My heart either froze or lurched into action— either way, my limbs suddenly felt very numb.

  Eyes forward. Keep walking.

  The well-memorized list ran through my head as I scraped forward a step, hurriedly twisting my gaze away from them. The sound of tires over asphalt quickly picked up behind me. Something in my chest tightened, burning fever-bright.

  “Ah, no, don’t be like that,” the other one called out. His voice was clearer than his friend’s— it might’ve been reassuring if not for the fact that it meant he was in full control of his faculties at the moment.

  Don’t reply. Don’t stop.

  “Baby, you look tired. We’ll give you a ride, how ‘bout that, huh?”

  Duck into a store if it’s open. (None on this block). Look for kind strangers. (They’re all having dinner or inside their homes). How far is the next corner? (Too far).

  The first man’s voice turned uglier, sending another shiver up my burning skin. “Don’t be like that, give us a smile. Bet you’re pretty under all that dirt—”

  Out of the numbness and fear, rage flashed bright and hot, lancing down my spin from the back of my skull in a vicious How dare they—

  A hiss of air, and then with an ear-splitting CRACK, the back tires of the Jeep gave out. The car tilted backwards, the bumper scraping against the asphalt and throwing up sparks.‌‌ The men cried out in varying degrees of confusion and anger.

  Don’t look back.

  Without waiting for them to get out of the Jeep (and potentially follow me), I darted towards the next corner up ahead, hanging a quick right. I broke out into a full sprint, boots slapping against the sidewalk louder than I liked but I had to get away, I had to run until their slimy voices didn’t drip over my head, sticking to my skin, staining and corroding—

  The Sun finally tipped below the buildings surrounding me. Shade hit me sideways, cold on my skin. Lungs heaving for air, I slowed my frantic pace, leaning into the comforting chill.

  A quick look around me soothed my nerves further. I was out of downtown by now; the buildings had turned from storefronts and restaurants to houses. Chain-link fences sprung up against the sidewalk in lieu of the light-strung trees. Overhead, the last traces of sunset, coral pink and copper, faded into a deep iron gray. A handful of stars peeked out from behind the veil of clouds, brighter than the crescent moon rising in the east.

  Find an old house, bar the doors, set up for the night.

  A different list, but welcome nonetheless. It was easy to follow, to go through the motions; or maybe I was just good at separating movement from consciousness. Either way, it didn't take me long to trek further into the maze-like neighborhood. All winding streets and trees, tamping down the streetlamps and porch lights.

      Eventually, the wooden pickets turned to chain link fences. Against the darkening sky, the edge of a heavily slanted roof loomed a few houses ahead. Bare patches reflected what ambient light remained in the places where part of the roof had been stripped away, whether through time or half-finished construction.

       Finally, I sighed, readjusting my grip on the backpack straps. The gesture made my skin prickle unpleasantly-- I must've been clenching the fabric so tight it cut off the blood flow. I'm ready for this day to be over.

      As I neared the old house, each step sent a jolt through my body. Exhaustion tugged at my bones, heavy as the clouds gathering above the city. For some reason, the backpack still needled at my bare skin; I'd say it felt cold, but that neverhappened. Just need sleep, I told myself, the words slurring together in my head as I turned into the walkway of the house. A little rest and then I'll be fine.

       By the front door, there was a lonely sign propped up. Some real estate agent's face plastered across it with far too-white teeth, swinging in the breeze with a creak each time the hinges moved. I ignored the door and with a careful glance over my shoulder, headed quietly around back. A decent number of the windows on the first floor had already been broken, and fading spray paint told me that I didn't exactly need to worry about paying rent. No one would find me here, as long as I kept my head down.

      "Come on, don't make things difficult," I grumbled under my breath as I reached through a shattered pane of glass, fumbling for the handle. After a few tries (and more than a few scratches from the glass), my fingers grazed metal, and as I twisted my hand the door suddenly gave in with a soft *click*.

      If I were superstitious, I would've called this house "haunted" and then ran back out.

      A good layer of dust coated the floor and the desolate bookshelves. Everything in this small living room had been looted, save for the furniture affixed to the walls (and it was almost certain that the same held true for all the other rooms). Between the dusk and lack of any light fixtures, the room was nearly pitch black. From the kitchen to my left came the undeniable scent of something rotting, and mixed with the smell of damp wood from a recent rain, it was no surprise when my eyes began to water. But for some reason, I didn't feel repulsed by the oppressive darkness or the stench-- I'd never been here before, I couldn't begin to understand–

      It feels like the alley.

      The realization hit me like the truck that nearly drowned me in dirt this afternoon. That's why this didn't bother me... because I'd lived in a place nearly identical to this for a year. Back in New York, back before–

      A sudden bolt of heat lanced through my skull. It stuck right where my spine met the back of my head, throbbing in that little hollow. I reached up to touch it, and since when was the floor so close–

      Eyes flying open, I threw my weight to the opposite side, stopping myself right before I crashed into the musty wooden boards. A sharp inhale brought clouds of dust racing into my lungs and a violent hacking cough broke off any thought of regaining my balance.

       Christ, everything is too dirty and hot and cold all at once– bed. I need to sleep, that's what's wrong with me.

      It didn't happen right away. The coughing fit took another minute to pass, and I waited a while to get my breathing under control. Eventually, slowly, I trudged towards the staircase. Thank God this place was abandoned, because in the dark my feet caught on the bare floor just fine without other junk to trip me up.

      At some point on the stairs, I just stopped thinking.

       Breathe in, breathe out. Creak, creak, go the floorboards. Breathe in, breathe out. Ignore the ache, ignore the discomfort. Breathe in, breathe out. First door at the top of the landing, bedroom. Breathe in, breathe out. Stumble in, hope the tunnel vision isn't blocking anything important. Breathe in, breathe out.

      The pain in my head hadn't eased. Even lying still on my back– when'd that happen– didn't reap much of a change. The ceiling above me was littered with water stains, and I'm pretty sure sleeping in here wasn't the best of ideas but the alternative was getting up, and I really didn't want to fall back down. So I fumbled with my backpack, dragged out a ratty sweater, and tried to fashion that into a cushion. It didn't exactly turn the floor into a tempurpedic mattress, but it was better than nothing.

       Breathe in, breathe out.

       The house shuddered, settled, and grew silent once more. Every bone in my body felt heavy and numb-- the last bits of energy I'd clung to turned to sand, trickling out of my skin and into the dusty floor. If I focused past the not-quite-chill in the air, I could hear little shifts and creaks in the wood.

       Breathe in, breathe out.

      Eyes closed, heart steady, house quiet. Outside these walls stood a new city, full of strangers and the threat of being known, being rediscovered (I’d left people behind, I couldn’t risk thinking about them– it felt like they’d hear my thoughts from miles away, with how loud my head was right now). Then a distant peal of thunder broke overhead, shooting a tremor through the air that sent my nerves buzzing; there was a storm rolling in, close on my tail.

       Breathe in, breathe out.

       The storm could wait until morning.

Author’s Note: In all honesty guys, I had this chapter almost ready to go for a few weeks now. However, it’s been brought to my attention that another person here has copied my work. Guys, I’m not gonna make this another whole chapter like I did last time (that message itself holds the same sentiments I’m feeling this time around, so if you’re new here just check the last book for the chapter that says “ATTENTION” or something like that).

I’m not gonna take this story down. I still plan on writing until Gale’s entire arc is through. But for the everlasting love of God, DON’T STEAL OTHER PEOPLE’S WORK. That’s not just for books, it’s for anything that a creator decides to share or even make. Not only does it betray the creator’s trust in their audience, it feels terrible to realize that the thing you’ve spent literal years on has become someone else’s cheap way to recognition.

I’m gonna leave it at that. I hope y'all are staying safe and remembering to take care of yourselves and the people around you-- even if you're not in a risk group for the Corona virus, not everyone is. We gotta watch out for each other in this world.

Chapter Text

        The storm cleared up by the time that morning rolled around. The air warmed, the wind eased, the clouds parted like the spirit of a dead lion wanted to impart some life wisdom upon their twenty year-old unemployed son. Sunlight poured down from the heavens, the faintest echo of the raw power lying in the center of our solar system, a beacon of cosmic fire—

        Right in my eyes. Pinpoint accuracy. Honestly? Screw the Sun. Let’s all be vampires.

        But in spite of waking up to pan-fried retinas, it took so long for me to come fully to consciousness that I seriously would call it shameful. Things hadn’t improved much for me, despite the— nine, ten?— hours of sleep. My head felt like someone was holding it underwater and every sound and sight took three times as long to reach me under the surface. The room was way too bright and stuffy, and every shift made my clothing scratch uncomfortably over my dry skin.

        “Christ,” I groaned, pushing myself up on my elbows. “Give me a break.”

        Unfortunately, Christ or whatever powers be at the moment, refrained from replying. Rude.

        Well, it’s not allergies, I reasoned as I kicked off the meager blanket. And I’m pretty sure that in order to get food poisoning, you actually have to eat something in the recent past. It’s not regular poison either, I think. 

        One hand clutching the decaying windowsill, I hauled myself to my feet— and instantly regretted it as the room decided to pull a ballerina and spin in perfect circles. A sickening bolt of nausea hit me from gods know where.

        Oh.

        Oh no.

        Oh no.

        “I,” I said firmly, glaring at the empty room as soon as it decided to be reasonable and stop moving, “am the most powerful person in this city. In the next ten miles. You know what, it’s freakin’ Colorado— in the next hundred miles. I do not get—“

        Something bitter shot up the back of my throat. I barely had enough time to wrestle it down, much less finish my spontaneous declaration. A few seconds passed and with no further sign of distress from my stomach, the coast seemed clear.

        “I am fine,” my voice warbled on the last note. “I am perfectly healthy.”

        And right after that, to the world’s immense amusement, the wooden floor became very well acquainted with yesterday’s dinner.

        Ten minutes, three paper towels, and a quick change in sleeping arrangements later, I was down in the kitchen.

        “I don’t get sick!” I told the faucet, trying to find some semblance of running water. “It doesn’t happen. Ever.” 

        The faucet remained unmoved by my current predicament. So did the trash can, refrigerator, and backdoor. Jury was still out on the bookshelves— I hadn’t gotten to the living room yet but that was mostly because of the dust (even though I totally wasn't sick, I knew better than to combine sneezing fits and the threat of lightheadedness).

        I’d originally planned to head out today. Having never been in this city before— actually, I’d never been on this side of the Mississippi River until now— there was a good chance that I was completely out of my depth. New York was alright for me because of the sheer amount of people there, providing me a never-ending smokescreen to hide behind. In a pinch, I could always duck into an alley or vanish into a crowd. There’s safety in numbers, whether the numbers know it or not. But here, there were no skyscrapers hemming in the sky, no plumes of smog to fade into. Instead, the horizon stretched out further than I’d thought possible, so incredibly vast that when sunset fell, half of the heavens were cast in coral and gold, and the rest were shrouded in a blue so deep you’d think you knew now what the word “fathomless” really meant. 

        There was so much sky it hurt.

        “Christopher had a point.” Giving up on the faucet, I trudged towards the front door. “I think I can stand to settle a bit.”

        Going out today… wasn't exactly an option for me now. If anyone saw me like this— well, that was a risk I’d never been willing to take. I knew better than to expose a weakness like that, especially after the events of the last few months. But if I wasn't going out, then at the very least I could make sure that no one was getting in.

        Unfortunately, there was no furniture to be found, which meant no barricading the front door. But maybe there was something out in the yard— part of the fence, that could work. Ignoring the unpleasant chills that shot through my hand when the cold doorknob hit my skin, I had to lean into the door to push it open. The hinges rattled, bits of rust flaking off and drifting into a pile at the base boards. 

        Outside, it’d only gotten brighter since I woke up. A few clouds loitered overhead, slowly tumbling end over end through the sky. The trees lining the street bent carefully in the wind, their leaves scraping together in a gentle hiss that ran under the distant sound of cars on the main road nearby. 

        Blinking in the harsh light, I lifted a hand to shade my eyes. To my dismay, the fence was surprisingly intact; no luck there, but the ‘For Sale’ sign remained on the porch, a stubborn monument to this lonely house. 

        If I’m smart about it... Reaching for the sun-faded sign, I let my free hand drop from my face. It can’t be that hard to DIY something—

        The clouds shifted and for the second time that morning, an obnoxiously bright ray of sunshine smacking me with all the grace of an Atlantic cruise ship in a tutu.

        “Why in the name of all nine—” I squeezed my eyes shut but they’d already started watering. Scowling furiously at the empty street, I scanned the sidewalks for the perpetrator of my suffering. There wasn't a single person outdoors (right, workdays were actually a thing for most folks), and every driveway was vacant save for one, which…

        A Jeep with new tires and no rear bumper.

        The door slammed shut and my lungs were breathing dusty air before I even realized I’d moved. Back against the wood, my heartbeat shuddered through my entire body and into the floor— the Earth itself was trembling and I could do nothing but try to keep my footing. 

        They were here, they knew where I was, they were going to find me and—

        With no small effort, I pulled myself out of that black hole of thinking. “You were outside for two seconds,” I told myself. The rasp in my voice was just the illness, definitely not fear. “It’s not logical to assume that they saw you.” Despite logic, my legs refused to move. Carefully, as to avoid stabbing myself to death on splinters, I slid down the door. Bringing my knees up to my chest, I let my head rest on them for a moment, shielding my eyes from the decrepit house.

        I just want to sleep. I want to wake up and not be sick— not that I’m sick, I never get sick. Gods above, this is a stupid world.

        I allowed myself two minutes to freak out and mope. Two minutes, and then I’d get up and start preparing. Then I’d face the stupid world.

        Two minutes quickly turned into five, which sort of grew into ten. And then it was basically lunchtime and I didn’t really feel like facing my problems just yet, so I curled up in my makeshift bed and ignored the fact that I couldn’t breathe through my left nostril. Avoiding the world was a lot easier when I felt miserable and therefore had an excuse for said avoidance. But in all honesty… yeah, I’ll say it: I have some issues. 

        I also had no Kleenex. Which, if I were sick, would’ve made blowing my nose a lot easier. But I was not sick and therefore the lack of Kleenex was no cause for alarm. Just cause for mild annoyance.

        Some point after the two hour mark, I admitted that it was, in fact, time to get off my butt and do something. So I did what I do best: turned an emotionally charged situation into an unfeeling list of facts and goals.

Fact : A bunch of butt-wipes live across the street and know my face. 

    Evidence : Jeep sustaining identical injuries as the ones I caused last night.

Fact : Said butt-wipes get drunk and catcall young women. Their comfort in doing such suggests that they have done such activities before numerous times.

    Evidence : Logic.

Fact : Drunken catcallers do not have any respect for their targets.

    Evidence : All patriarchal societies ever.

Fact : Drunken catcallers are more prone to violence.

    Evidence : Women found dead in alleys all around the world.

Fact : I am not physically capable of defending myself against three grown men without resorting to my legacy.

    Evidence : Look at me, a corn stalk has more muscle mass.

Fact : My legacy can and most likely will… overreact.

    Evidence: (Mama, Papa, Alexei, Konstantin, …)

Fact : If there’s any more blood on my hands, I will drown in it.

Conclusion: I need to leave Grand Junction.

        Okay, so how was I going to do that? I mean, obviously on foot; I learned my lesson last time— there are ways of tracking people in the air, thanks to all this new drone technology. And last time, I got shot out of the sky. Not too eager to repeat the experience.

        With the Jeep parked directly across the street, there was too great a risk of me being seen if I tried to leave during the day. Despite the fact that there’d be more people out and about that’d be able to help me if things went south, that would mean someone else would know my face. The whole point of larger cities was to be anonymous in a crowd, not to become some doe-eyed girl in need of protection. No, I worked best in the dark— so in the dark it’d have to be.

Goal : Be ready to leave late in the night, maybe even early morning.

    Reasoning : The buttwipes were drunk and out driving after the sunset. They’ll be sleeping off their hangovers closer to dawn— that’s the time to leave.

        Which gave me… ‘round three o’clock now, so thirteen-ish hours. Minus a few for sleeping, or trying to at least. I could relax for the rest of the afternoon, take a breather, gods know I deserved it.

        Or, fear whispered, curling around my heart like vines up a trellis. They could be waiting too. They could’ve seen you, you weren’t being careful, you know what happens when you think you’re in the clear.

        With a groan, I pulled myself to my feet. Sometimes, I really hated my mind, but there was no denying that it’d kept me alive this far. So, keeping Murphy’s Law in mind, I pushed my achy, creaky body to the side and focused on keeping myself guarded against anything that’d walk into this junkyard of a house. 

        At the end of the second-story hallway, there was a fairly large window. Quickly glancing out to see if anyone was watching, I shielded my face with one hand and pushed a breeze through the panes. The glass shattered, wooden frames splintering— it wasn't perfectly Gale-shaped, but I figured that if I needed such an escape route that I’d have greater things on my mind than jumping through a few splinters and shards.

Fact: I have a solid exit plan.

        Evidence: Good gods, it'll take hours to pick these slivers of glass out of my jacket sleeves.

        The other rooms on this floor were much like the one I’d slept in: bare, creaky, and reeking of mold. Nothing to salvage or repurpose, unless a bacterial infection was on the list. In the end, it was the downstairs area that proved trickier. Too many windows and doors, and nothing to block them with. I checked the living room, the study, the kitchen— nothing. Well, nothing besides the family of mice living behind the space where the fridge went (who were lovingly named Stinky, Moldy, Dirty, Grumpy, and Huntington Ingram Nathaniel van Arendonk the Fifth).

        I started carefully removing the mostly-intact window panes and breaking them up; the shards were scattered at the base of every window and door, a la Mission Impossible. It wouldn’t stop anyone from coming in, but between the glass and creaky floorboards, I’d be able to tell if someone decided to pay me an unannounced visit.

Fact : The house is as ready as it’s ever gonna be.

    Evidence: Used all resources available in the house, unsafe to search the yard.

Fact : I still can’t breathe out of my left nostril.

    Evidence : The wheezing sound emanating from my face, accompanied by the less than pleasant vacuum sensation in my sinus cavity.

Fact : I am not sick.

    Evidence: …I'm not.

        As the Sun began its descent, I broke into my last box of granola bars. Sitting on the floor in the kitchen, legs sprawled out in front of me, I watched the sky turn red outside the mostly broken window. A few grey flecks of clouds dotted the heavens, edged in flaming gold with the passing Sun. It seemed like a beautiful sky; shame I couldn’t fly up to meet it.

        The mice were creeping out of their den, entranced by the smell of prepackaged oats and peanut butter. I broke off the corner of my granola bar and flicked it towards them. They scattered, but Stinky quickly overcame prey-animal instinct and raced to claim it. A brief tussle later, and the piece was more or less split up between the mice. Huntington Ingram Nathaniel van Arendonk the Fifth seemed particularly hungry, so I tossed them another piece while the others weren’t looking. They seized the granola happily; I winked and held a finger to my mouth in a silent ‘hush’.

        The sunset didn’t last forever, like the billions of its predecessors. Soon enough the house plunged into an inky black chill that felt like a balm against my uncomfortably hot skin. I dragged myself up the stairs. Avoiding the floorboards that creaked (I’d memorized them earlier, out of slight necessity and mostly having nothing else to do), I all but collapsed into my tattered blanket, drawing it close around me. 

Fact : I’m tired.

    Evidence : My bones are heavier than they used to be. Should that worry me? Won’t it be harder to fly?

        But I could worry about that in the morning. Like every day, every year before it, I knew I’d wake up early. The wind would blow through the broken windows, stirring me from my dreams.

        The minutes ticked by as I lay there. With every breath, my limbs sprouted roots, tying me to the floor, beckoning me to give into the siren-call of sleep. Barely conscious, I watched through half-lidded eyes as wind marks trickled back and forth across my skin. As the world grew quieter and blurred at the edges, the silver curls resembled moonlight maybe, or like the faint light that reached the bottom of a swimming pool… ebbing, flowing, dancing silently over my arms like the light was trying to trace out letters and words for me to read… and as I lay at the bottom of this imaginary pool, everything was so wonderfully calm…

        I exhaled, and let the afterimage of silver ribbons float on the back of my eyelids, sending me off to a peaceful sleep.

        My eyes fluttered open.

        The room didn’t feel real at first; it’d been dark when I went to sleep and so it remained, as if I’d never close my eyes to begin with. A cool breath flowed in and out of my lungs, clarity inching back into my head. I didn’t know why I was awake, only that I was. Had I been dreaming? Sometimes I didn’t remember my dreams; I’d woken up suddenly before, it certainly could happen again—

        creeeeaak

        My blood ran cold.

        Something had shifted downstairs. It was barely audible— the give of a floorboard under a careful foot. If I hadn’t been… me, I wouldn’t have woken up. In fact, I don’t think I was supposed to hear it at all; there was quiet and then there was careful, and it’s really hard to give people the benefit of the doubt when I’d used both to do very sneaky and hypothetically illegal things. And when something was on the very edge of my radar, that kind of sneaky couldn’t be anything but intentional.

        As quietly as I could, I rolled over and pushed myself up into a crouch. Despite the sparse moonlight, I could barely make out the outline of the door. The dark hallway beyond might as well have been an abyss for all I knew; and that thought didn’t make the idea of someone lurking downstairs any less sinister.

        My fingers curled around the edge of my backpack. Fraying threads caught against the calluses on my skin like silk on velcro. I reached out for the ratty blanket before snatching my hand back a moment later— there was no time to waste, someone was downstairs, someone was looking for—

        Creeeak.

        Me.

        Quickly slinging the backpack over my shoulders, I abandoned the blanket and slowly rose to my feet; my knees popped, far too loud for my comfort. I couldn’t hear anything else downstairs— did they hear it, did they know where I was? What was I thinking, of course they knew I was here. Why else would someone creep into this dump, obviously trying not to be heard?

        Three someones, a helpful but not necessarily calming thought piped up. You poked your head out of this hidey-hole, you really should’ve known the consequences. 

        I forced myself to take a deep breath. Breathing meant air, air meant I wasn't helpless. Silver wires wound around my fingers, gleaming in the dark room twice as bright as the bare moonlight. Something cold pushed at the edges of my vision, and although I already couldn’t discern any color in the room, the grey felt more familiar than it did a second ago.

        Minute and a half to the window if I’m being sneaky. Just have to make it past the stairs.

        I tucked my uneven hair behind my ears, not stopping to tie it back. Listened carefully for a moment, and took the first step towards the door. I didn’t want to risk cushioning my feet with a little wind-work— it would overreact, it always overreacted now, after the Tower.

        No sound from below. I passed through the door into the cold abyss of the hallway. The shadows stuck to the silver marks like iron dust to a magnet, tamping it down to a faint glimmer in the dark. I held my breath as each foot touched the floor, apprehension coiling around my spine like a fist. But two steps turned into four— I blinked, and suddenly was standing by the edge of the stairway. Five feet from end to end. I could clear it quickly, hope for the best and sprint for the broken window. But between the three of them— it was them, I knew it couldn’t be anyone else— one was bound to hear me. Or, with my luck, be close enough to the stairs to stop me before I got anywhere.

        I peeked my head out, just far enough to glance down at the first floor. Couldn’t make out anything, not definitively at least, but in the variations of grey and black there lay the edge of a doorframe, the corner of the bookshelves—

        A form flickered in and out of view at the base of the stairs. Large, imposing, impossibly silent.

        Shade among shadows, the night air hissed in my ear.

        I jerked back behind the corner, heart beating so loud surely they’d hear it, hammering out a trail right to where I stood. Eyes screwed shut, my lips mouthed a quick prayer up to whoever was listening. The man’s silhouette stuck in my head like the remnants of staring into a blinding light… and he’d been carrying something. I didn’t get a good look at it, didn’t want to risk another glance, but it’d been clutched in one hand— long, with a curve at the ends. Crowbar?

        Tire iron, the both helpful and terrifying thought suggested. After what you did to their car, it certainly would be fitting.

        Maybe I’d go into cardiac arrest instead. At this point, a heart attack was definitely on the list of possible exits from this house.

        But first I have to make it past the stairs.

        I took another slow, deep breath in an effort to calm my nerves. But the musty air stuck to my throat, sending a fever-hot flash through my chest— and a dry hacking cough exploded from my lungs, dashing the silence to pieces. I clamped a hand over my mouth but it was too late.

        Absolute silence downstairs.

        And I bolted for the window. Each step threw clouds of dust and splintered wood into the space behind me. All hope for a stealthy exit vanished— now I was fighting to make it out the house before they caught up. The floor shook, from how many sets of feet I couldn’t tell. My heart beat louder than the crash of boots on old wood, my lungs burned harder than my aching muscles— everything was pain and fear and I had to make it out of this house.

        The end of the hall drew closer and closer with each reckless stride. I could see the window frame, the panes glittering like broken stars leading into the pitch black night. Almost there, my fever-burning lungs wheezed. Almost there, almost there, almost BEHIND—

        My body lurched to the left on pure instinct. A half second later, something very solid whistled through the space where I’d been a moment before and nicked the edge of the window. The remaining glass burst into a silver kaleidoscope, piercing the silence and lancing through my head. I nearly cried out but my lungs wouldn’t work, wouldn’t inflate; instead I stumbled through an open doorway.

        A cold, sharp sensation twisted up between my ribs. Unbidden, the wind marks pulsed above the skin on my bare arms. 

        No, no, I can’t— 

        I shook my hands, the marks dying as quickly as they’d risen. I can’t risk it, can’t risk overreacting, not again, not like the Tower. I can’t risk another life on my hands.

        Footsteps pounded down the hallway, only a few precious moments from reaching me.

        I couldn’t reach the window, not if they’d brought… guns? Glass bottles? Whatever they were throwing— I couldn’t risk being hit in the back, my physical body was fragile enough as it was. But if I could… yes, if I got downstairs then I could run for one of the doors; I was faster than I looked and it was dark, at least it was a chance. 

        One of the men was almost to the door. I could hear every shift in the wood, betraying his steps. Nearly there, nearly there…

        Five feet from the door, three feet, one foot… His shadow drifted across the floor, weapon held at the ready.

        RUN

        I burst out the room, feet barely touching the floor. The shadowed figure lurched backwards in shock— and I didn’t spare a moment to watch. Legs stretching as far as they’d go, I raced towards the stairwell. 

        “Hey!” A rough voice snapped behind me. The man immediately gave chase, sending a bolt of white-hot fear through my heart. 

        Don’t look back, for the love of the gods don’t look back—

        I was three stairs down when a terrifying thought struck me: there were three men, and only one was up here.

        I knew I couldn’t abandon this plan now, but that thought was just enough to make my body freeze up. And in that single moment of weakness, the man caught up.

        His hand curled around the top of my backpack, fingernails grazing my bare neck. Suddenly my shirt and the backpack straps bit into my arms and throat, yanking me backwards as my legs tried to keep moving. My body was pulled back at an angle that made my spine scream. I was choking, there was no air I was helpless.

        But I’d been trained better than that. Even if my mind spluttered and froze, my body knew what to do. One elbow flew back, cracking against soft flesh. The man recoiled, a pained grunt slipping through, and I twisted down and around. My arms slipped out of the straps and the man was left with a broken nose and a backpack. I was free—

        And without anything to temper my wild momentum, my body lurched towards the bottom of the stairs.

        Pukta.

        My back hit the stairs first. I rolled heels over head down the unforgiving wood, each edge cutting deep into my skin. Vaguely conscious, I threw my arms around my head in a vain attempt to protect myself. But when everything finally went blissfully still, there was no doubting it: this was catastrophically bad. Something stabbed into my chest with every breath, accompanied by a harsh rasp that grated on my throat. Every inch of my skin hurt with this bone-deep ache, like someone was taking a chisel all over my body.

        The floor shuddered as the man jumped the last few steps. My head knocked against the wood once more, sending the world into a white fog. It cleared after a second, just in time for me to watch the dark figure stalk over to where I lay prone.

        “No…” I wheezed, pushing myself to my knees. The movement pushed a thousand splinters deeper into my palms but it was insignificant compared to the torrent of sensation threatening to blow over. “Don’t…” Don’t make me do this.

        The man didn’t hear or didn’t care. He took another step towards me, and something metal solidified in my mind. Please, I prayed as my hands clenched into fists. The air around the man immediately tensed— he saw the gesture, he was reaching back towards his shoulder. I don’t want to hurt you but I will.

        I tasted something new on the air: metallic, bitter… familiar? 

        Electricity.

        Instinct seized my body again. Silver flashed in my fingers, brighter and sharper than broken glass. It lit up my fist like a beacon; something sparked in the corner of my vision and with the last vestiges of strength I possessed, I leaped to my feet and swung the gleaming wind-razor at the man’s throat.

        But my forearm struck something solid. 

        The man’s hand was in nearly the exact same motion, a foreign object clutched in his grasp. Our arms connected and blocked each other, the two weapons just inches away from digging into their targets. I pushed against the man with all my might but height and muscle were on his side; it took all I had to not buckle to the floor. Scents of ozone and frost permeated the air, crackling with tension— wait, actually crackling—

        Electricity sparked from the end of the man’s weapon, nearly grazing my cheek. Blue-white energy lit up the side of my face, prickling my skin like tiny needles. I nearly squeezed my eyes shut against the harsh light, but the sharped breeze in my hand pulsed and…

        Unlike the flickering electricity, a soothing grey light from the wind-razor cascaded over the man’s face, illuminating him from the throat up. Even though half his face was thrown deeply into shadow, even though the faint but steady silver coated his skin, his eyes flashed blue, reflecting the popping sparks from his weapon. My heart, previously beating faster than a hummingbird’s wings, froze into solid granite. It dropped so quickly I thought the floor had disappeared out from under me. But no, my skin was tied so tightly over my bones, it burned sickly-hot and anchored me to this moment.

        The man’s fearsome glare evened out into shock. Mine might’ve turned to shame— he’d seen it, both of our faces were so clearly illuminated that there was no mistaking the other.

        “Barton?”

Author's Note: AAAAAAHHHHH oh my gods guys i'm so sorry you had to wait for this chapter for FOREVER. Now that's closer to summer, hopefully I'll have a lot more time and inspiration for this story. Also, y'all, I'm giving you permission to keep me to my word. Seriously. Send me messages. Ask me questions about my characters or my pets (of which i have three. two of them are lovely. one of them is a demon masquerading as a cat). Poke me about my stories. I'll respond to you, I promise I'll do it as timely as possible. My goal here is to stay motivated (which, if you've stuck around long enough to live through a several month-long hiatus on one of my stories, you'll know I have severe issues with that), and while we're all holed up in our homes, it's important to reach out to other people. So if you just have to know which Hogwarts house Gale or any other character is in, or if you just wanna say hey, hit that comment/message button! I promise a response (and absolutely no proper grammar, i'm garbage at that in individual messages).

Have fun, stay safe, and I hope to hear from you soon!

Much love, Véra

:)

(P.S.: i added this PS just so that the word count would read over five thousand words, so i can feel better about this chapter. disregard all thoughts you have concerning my professionalism)

Chapter Text

So, last chapter, I asked y’all to bug me with questions, and you did not disappoint. In regards to all of you who so desperately needed answers, here are the responses to the questions I got the most, whether they came from the comment thread or personal messages:

1. Is Gale capable of turning into wind now?

   Nope. That whole “dissolving” thing is less of an ability and more of a threat. If Gale truly turns into a wind, there’s no going back— she loses everything that she as a person had. That’s why it’s so dangerous for her to be wind-drunk: she’s channeling so much power, if she goes too far then she dissolves permanently. When she escaped from the Tower, she didn’t dissolve, she flew away as quickly as possible (even if Gale’s unconscious, there’s still like an area effect around her, so she was able to get away as weak as she was in that moment).

2. How long has it been since the end of last book?

   For reasons unclear (read: the author got lazy with marking time and royally screwed herself over as soon as she looked at her notes), the exact time-lapse is difficult to determine. The best estimate I can give you is late October— I know it’s inconsistent, but from this point on, expect to be going into the colder months. The autumn’s passed, and now we can continue on your symbolically relevant trek through the seasons.

3. Will we meet other characters like Sam, Pietro, Wanda, etc?

   I can’t say much without spoiling anything. However, I will tell you that I plan on continuing this story to the very end, which means that we’ll be meandering through movie canon and back to the AU highway. Events like the fall of SHIELD and everything will happen as planned in the story, according to the timeline, so characters like that will exist in the world but it’s unclear whether or not Gale ends up interacting with them. But expect to see non-MCU canon characters showing up in the recent chapters (including but not limited to: Lucky the Pizza Dog, Barney Barton, etc).

4. Will we meet other members of the Teneo, like Gale’s old team?

   Once again, spoilers. But I haven’t created an entire community of individual characters with complex powers and goals just to shove it to the sidelines :)

5. Will Gale ever get a break?

   All I’m saying for this one is that the first book had a lot of turns, and not all of them for the better. The hero’s journey isn’t meant to be easy, and Gale didn’t start in a good place to begin with— but the darkest hour is before the dawn, right? Gale’s got the promise of something good now, whether she knows/accepts it or not. Also, I really like writing fluff so expect some of that getting thrown your way in the future.

6. What’s your update schedule?

   Buddy, even I don’t know. The long gaps between updates are due mostly to me being a perfectionist, and then realizing that three weeks have passed while I’ve been focused on this one setting, then stress-writing and begging for my readers’ forgiveness. Here’s the deal: I have a lot of other projects going on right now (a conlang, some other fanfics, and an original story I really want to get published someday), and apart from losing the last half of my senior year, I’m worrying about starting college next year. So there’s a lot going down in my life (mostly in flames, Hindenburg style), but I’m getting better at devoting time to just writing. And most of my planning is done on notebooks, like outline then dialogue then setting then symbolism— it’s the equivalent of doing thirty layers of line art before sending your artwork into the Internet for all to judge. It… takes a while to make a single chapter. And I don’t like giving y’all anything less than a chapter I’m proud of, which means lots of editing, which means lots of time. Long story short, there’s no set schedule. Only the gods know when the next update is coming.

And now, the Fandom AUs!

• The Potter-verse:

• First, a disclaimer. I DO NOT support the author of those books. She-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named is transphobic, anti-Semitic, and racist. I am including this fandom because of how much the Harry Potter world impacting me as a kid, and hope that those like me who loved the series can make it better than the author who founded it.

•  

          Gale is solidly a Ravenclaw. The girl literally would fight someone over access to any knowledge she deemed important enough to warrant her attention. Also, nothing says “intelligent, resourceful, and just a hint of a-hole” like Ravenclaw (for all you in Ravenclaw, I mean only the best, I’m just saying that most of my own family belong to that house and I know how you act, you can’t escape my judgement).

          That being said, if Gale ended up in Ilvermorny, she’d be offered entry to both the Horned Serpent and Thunderbird houses, but she’d choose Thunderbird. Gale’s got too much sky-hunger in her to deny herself adventure; no matter what she chooses, she’ll always find herself looking for the next horizon. (On a slightly unrelated note, I think Barton might be a Thunderbird too, although I can see a strong argument for Wampus)

          But realistically speaking (based on where the Teneo are located), Gale would’ve gone to Durmstrang. Imagine how terrifying that would be. Imagine.

  And as for the other various Potterworld things (I actually took the quizzes, y’all, this is what Gale got):

  Patronus: Wild Rabbit. It’s weird until you realize that Gale’s happiest memories center around her parents and their house out in the middle of nowhere, where Gale would certainly have met many little critters, and then it’s just sad.

  Animagus: Wandering Albatross. Look up the wingspan and be terrified. Just imagine that thing swooping down from the heavens to steal your french fries like an ungodly harbinger of death.

  Wand: So the Pottermore quiz gave me an answer that didn’t fit, and I was like “hey, I don’t wanna write something I don’t think works with Gale’s representation” and then I was like “I’m the AUTHOR i can do WHATEVER” and yeah. So here's what I've got for you-- the core's dragon heartstring, because nothing screams volatile and powerful like that. And in terms of the wood-- before she fled the Teneo (let's just say it's an isolated wizard community in this AU), it was blackthorn (there's a lot of lore on wand woods on Pottermore if you wanna check it out). Then the whole Konstantin thing happened and when she finally cut herself off from her entire life (I mean, the Teneo was everything she knew and had after her parents' death), the wand would've broken (syyyyyyymmmmmmmbolism). And I looked it up, this is a legit thing that can happen to wands that break-- she would've mended her original wand instead of finding another, so the handle would still be blackthorn but the body would be more brittle and susceptible to cracking if not cared for properly.

• Star Wars

  Gale is neither a Jedi nor a Sith. Not even a Grey Jedi. No, my friends, Gale would be a Mandalorian. Let that sink in for a minute. Gale, who would willingly stab someone over the last smore, who is already incredibly prone to violence, would be a Mandalorian. And her legacy would translate over into being Force-sensitive. Believe me, I checked the lore— it’s possible. So imagine your worst nightmare times ten— and that’s Gale, a force-sensitive Mandalorian. God help us all if that were true.

  Timeline-wise? I feel like she’d be born during the Old Republic. The original trilogy, although it is a masterpiece, just doesn’t fit right with her, and the same goes for the sequels.

  (Also, for you folks that watch the Mandalorian show, this means that if Gale really were in that world, she’d be an adult when Din was taken in by the Mandalorians, so she could very well be a teacher/instructor. Now that’s a scary combination.)

• DND

  (Going by 5e because i don’t know anything else)

  Sorcerer, multiclassing a little into Bard. The magic and bad jokes, that’s what we’re getting at. Background would probably be noble. It’s not much, but that’s what I’ve got.

  But for all you Critical Role fans out there (I’ve mostly watched Campaign 2 so that’s what we’ve got), Gale’s either an Empire kid or a Xhorhasian drow. On one hand we’ve got the surprisingly similar backgrounds between Gale and Caleb (I did NOT plan that, believe me), but on the other we’ve got an awesome aesthetic that really works with Gale’s whole vibe. I’ll let you decide on that one.

Last but certainly not least: Someone made fan art! And! It’s! Beautiful!

lh6.googleusercontent.com/ugHt-gNjCUcWzRvn5uUZcTIqZSscp2DtCWM_8P3pGBhVtLeO7SBYA56XGI_RwAx8yy0-5cR2h-0Zwc2Y3eq8sgqQHBS5rKr6VqQzX1QCFfuKTuSjLF37P4EPVOSazy3MGBRubhzu

All credit goes to SwirlsAndGuts, thank you so much for the time and effort you’ve put into this, it’s incredible :)

And as long as y’all keep asking me questions, I will continue to answer them. So keep it up, y’all! I live for feedback! Thank you guys for helping me stay motivated, it means an incredible lot to me to have such a spectacular fan base.

❤️❤️❤️, 

Véra

Chapter Text

Author’s Note: Really quickly here, I just wanna add some fan art that Haze made, featuring Gale and her OC Jamie! (On the road again, Jamie and Gale) Okay, now enjoy your cliffhanger resolution!

            “Barton?”

            A heavy silence draped over the house. I didn’t dare breathe, couldn’t tell if the one person I’d been desperate to avoid was as petrified as me. Neither of us broke eye contact though; his face lit in silver, mine in electric blue, there was no mistaking exactly who we were. The arrow— gods, it was almost touching my cheek— gave a deafening pop. And like my body’d been waiting for an invitation, it suddenly spurred into action. 

            The wind-razor evaporated as I threw myself backwards, away from Barton, anywhere but away. I vaguely knew where I was in the room, there should be a wall behind me, something solid to keep him back. My back— Christ, it was aching— hit a wall… and another. A corner. I’d cornered myself.

            Barton’s shocked expression remained as he reached out to me with his free hand. His mouth fell open, about to speak—

            Panic welled up in my chest, bright and hot as the fever coiled under my skin. I flung my arms in front of my face in an attempt to ward him off; and a chill ran down my spine as a faintly-silvered shield appeared between me and Barton, the breezes composing it tugging at the fragile leash, begging to be set free and rip through stone, wood, flesh, bone—

            It’d overreact.

            Just as quickly as I’d summoned it, I dropped my hands and the barrier dissipated with an irritated hiss. I can’t afford losing control, I knew, I can get past him but gods, I don’t want to know how. Without my legacy, I didn’t stand a chance against Barton. With it and the best of intentions, I’d kill him.

            I can’t go through that again.

            A heartbeat away stood Barton. His dirty blond hair shone like a beacon in the dark room. The rest of his clothes (dark, tough, layered— mission gear) bled into the lightless house; no wonder I didn’t recognize him sooner, the last time I’d seen him like that was when—

            Barton moved without warning. He slowly bent down (despite that my muscles still locked up in fear, at any second he could attack, he could hurt me) and set the arrow down on the wooden floor. The electric tip didn’t go out; it crackled threateningly, waiting to bite through my skin. I tried not to focus on it, but it was the only source of light in the room.

            “I didn’t think you’d be here.” Barton’s voice was even as it’d always been, but he couldn’t keep that underlying note of tension from infecting his words. “But you’re… you’re actually—“

            Pain shot through my chest as I sucked in too deep of a breath. My body hunched over on itself in reflex, I leaned heavily against the wall, seeking any support I could find. Just breathe through it, the rational part of me said. In, out. 

            Barton’s hands twitched at his sides; he obviously wanted to approach but held himself back for fear of… retribution? Yeah, I’ve earned that.

        “I’m sorry.” Barton’s apology rushed out of him like he’d been holding it for months. “I wouldn’t have attacked if I’d known it was you— honestly, thought it was another squatter.”

        Maybe if I don’t respond he’ll disappear, a delusional thought suggested. But I knew better than that; this wasn't a dream, this wasn't a fever-induced hallucination. “So your first instinct was to shoot me?”

        Some of the tension in Barton’s face eased when I spoke (which was saying something, because I winced hearing my own voice— I sounded like lukewarm death, to be polite). “I noticed the glass, ‘s clever,” he nodded towards the front door, so tantalizingly close, “Thought it’d mean trouble, ‘specially in this part of the city. You know the guy across the street? Criminal record longer than a Costco receipt.” Barton cleared his throat, consciously keeping himself in a non-threatening pose. “And besides, I’m always— until now, I s’pose— I’ve been a few weeks behind you at best. You’re… trickier than anyone really expected.” He ducked his head a little, trying to maintain eye contact with me. “Gale, what—“

        Maybe it was his deceptively lighthearted tone. Maybe it was hearing my name for the first time in months. But either way, the pain and fear gripping my body felt a lot more like steel than poison all of a sudden.

        “How’d you find me?” I interrupted, quiet but firm.

        Barton’s neutral expression wavered. “Look, I don’t think now’s the time—“

        “How did you find me?” 

        His mouth set into a tense line; whatever the answer, he didn’t like it. “Christopher. In Arizona, ‘bout four weeks ago.”

        It shouldn’t have bothered me, I wasn't attached to that town or that man. But hearing that Christopher sold me out… it tasted bitter, stinging down my throat and sitting at the hollow between my collarbones. Thought he’d understood. Guess I was wrong, again.

        Barton shifted his weight to the other side, the movement drawing my attention back. “I don’t mean to worry you,” he said hastily, “but… well… that was a big fall you just took. Are you sure you’re alright? There’s a first aid kit in my car, I’ll be back in two seconds—“

        I pressed back further into the corner, pointedly ignoring the stabbing pain in my spine where the stairs had dug in. No, no help, I didn’t need someone close to me— I can’t say that, he’ll worry, gods there’s no good answer. So I settled for a half-decent glare, eyes flickering between Barton’s face and the arrow snapping maliciously on the floor.

        Barton paused mid-step towards the door the moment I reacted. “Okay, okay, that’s cool with me.” His head tilted to the left, the way it did when he was thinking; then he reached towards his back pocket. I tensed up again and Barton slowed his movements, telegraphing them so I knew exactly what he was doing. He pulled out a small flashlight, set it carefully upright on the floor, and turned it on. Immediately the room was cast into a harsh mixture of shadow and angled light; I had to look away but there were already bright spots dancing in my vision. Still, it was better than the electric arrow, which Barton was quietly stowing away. A heartbeat later, Barton tentatively took a seat on the other side of the flashlight, crossing his legs. His joints popped and Barton let out a reflexive grunt— the sight was so normal, so reminiscent of the Tower that it made me pause.

        Then, no longer bound by the electricity, my eyes slid over to the door. It was so close, and Barton was sitting; I could make it if I tried, if I wanted to. But my back ached, my skin ran dry and fever-hot, and… gods, I was so tired.

        I looked back to see Barton watching me with careful indifference. He didn’t say anything, didn’t even glance towards the door. He just waited.

        The pale yellow light gave his posture more dimension. I could make out the stitching on his jacket, the edges of knee pads, the silhouette of a quiver behind his shoulder. For some reason, it didn’t strike me as frightening. And then it hit me as heavily as I’d hit the stairs— it felt like Ashi, when we’d toss blankets onto the floor of her room and she’d arrange her collection of phosphorescent rocks around us; with a tap of her finger they’d glow like little flashlights, and we’d stay up all night and talk and pretend we were friends that acted our age, pretended we wouldn’t die young.

        A wave of exhaustion surged up through my bones. I only realized I’d started sinking down the wall when my butt hit the floor in a very undignified fashion. As soon as I was off my feet, my limbs all but sighed in bliss; getting up would no doubt be difficult, if not impossible. Well, I was already here. Might as well get comfortable.

        I pulled my legs out from under me, letting them lay half-curled. Putting my back fully to the corner, my head tipped to rest on the wall beside me. The oppressive heat pulsing through my skull began to ebb into the colder plasterboard. Deep breath in, ignore that slight wheezing sound, deep breath out.

        When I’d stopped squirmed around, Barton took that as a sign to continue. He clasped his hands in front of him, arms propped up on his knees. And, like it’d been two hours and not two months since we’d seen each other, he spoke with undeserved casualness. “Jesus, Gale. When’s the last time you ate?” His analytic stare bounced from the baggy shirt to the other bags— namely those under my eyes. “Or even slept?”

        “First of all,” I began crossly, holding up a finger. “I was sleeping until you barged in here. Second, you’re acting like I’m the one who’s overreacting. Wake up call, agent, you said yourself that this is a bad part of town. You were looking for trouble, so was I. I’ll admit, I thought it was the three ex-convicts across the street— and I could’ve handled them, believe me— but then you show up, dressed like that, which isn’t exactly helping my state of mind…”

        Barton, to his credit, looked torn between surprise that I was talking so much and confusion with what I was actually talking about. When I didn’t follow up my mini-tirade, his eyebrows knit together in a frown. “I don't… am I doing something wrong?” He glanced down at his jacket, inspecting it like he’d spilled mustard somewhere and was only now figuring it out.

        I resisted the urge to smack my forehead. Professional assassin, and he’s still an idiot. “The last time I saw you dressed like that, you shot me out of the sky.”

        Barton’s frown cleared and then reformed twice as intense. He looked at the space where the electric arrow had rested not one minute ago, strangely silent. I couldn’t tell if that was an improvement or a red flag; just thinking that made the silver marks push up against my skin, begging me to use my legacy— but Barton wasn't doing anything yet, and I hadto better than I was before, I had to better than who I was in the Tower.

        Barton still wasn't speaking, wouldn’t meet my gaze. His fingers twitched, attempting to sign something and then aborting the effort, an endless stream of half-finished words. So I sucked in another lungful of dusty air, pushed the pain in my ribs to the background, and braced myself for the worst. “What are you planning to do with me?”

        Ripping off the bandaid did the trick. Barton’s eyes snapped to mine, but instead of malice or panic, I saw… guilt.

        “I… my orders…” Barton started in a heavier voice, running a hand over his mouth before trying again. “We didn’t know where you were after you left. Not physically, not… mentally. So we prepared for the worst case scenario. And from what we’ve seen from you, that’s catastrophic. You’re capable of so much— Gale,” he said carefully, watching for any sign of a negative response. “You are volatile.”

        Volatile.

        The word struck me softly. It was confusing, because I’d always hated that term, hated the way it fell like poison from others’ lips. But sitting here in this dark house, sick and in pain, I just wanted to move past everything that’d brought me here. I abhorred the notion of lying to myself; maybe I’d finally accepted that simple word as the truth.

        Barton disguised his surprise pretty well when, instead of snarling and returning fire, I lifted one shoulder in a halfhearted shrug, agreeing to his statement. A silent “oh” formed on Barton’s lips; then he readjusted and with new confidence, plowed on. “There’s no room for questions, not in the director’s eye. He… Gale, he actually admitted he should’ve handled everything differently. Never thought I’d see the day, but lately the world’s been turnin’ in strange ways, so I guess it isn’t much of a stretch. But the director… he didn’t spend months living around you, starting to know you. He’s only seen you in a file, and Gale— on paper you’re a threat. No one can control what you have inside you… and based on what happened at the Tower, neither can you.”

        “That’s fair,” I said, voice as hollow as my lungs. Now it was clear: Barton wasn't sent here to be my friend, he was sent to negate a threat. “Why haven’t you just finished the job, then? Follow orders instead of talking to me?”

        “Why haven’t you run for the door?” Barton fired back, a dry smile teasing at me. “Gale, if you wanted to leave, you could’ve tossed me through the wall and been in Montana by now without breaking a sweat. No, actually you would’ve hurled me out of the second story window the moment you knew someone was in the house.”

        Against my better judgement, I couldn’t help but mutter, “You are very weak.”

        “And you haven’t even gotten close to intentionally hurting me.”

        “But I—“

        “Dropped the blade once you recognized me.”

        “But then—“

        “Banished the barrier before I got within ten feet of you.”

        I glowered at him from under copious layers of dirt and grime. Barton was not fazed in the slightest; that smile twisted into a sigh, almost impatient-like. 

        “Gale, I…” He ran a hand over his mouth again, obviously a nervous tick of his. “This isn’t a worst case scenario. So why on Earth would I treat it as such? Besides, I don’t see anyone else making the call around here.” He gestured to the empty room with unnecessary theatrical flair— and giving me a minute for his words to sink in.

        Instinctively I wanted to fight him on that. We both knew what I’d done, why I fled, why he was ordered to track me down. 

        And yet you didn’t hurt Christopher, you didn’t hurt those men from yesterday even though they deserved it. You’ve barely used your legacy to twist a wind into something stronger than a hair-dryer.

        “Gotta say, though,” Barton added with more cheer in his voice than the situation warranted. “I thought you’d pick someplace with, I dunno, running water? A functioning door? This place is a literal dump, Gale, why’d you settle here?”

        Settle.

        “My point is, Leah,” Christopher said, sitting backwards on the picnic bench. He looked entirely at home in the lasting heat, like he’d been made of dust and red clay and simply existed to live here. “That you can’t rush this. You’ve gotta let things unfold, let them settle.”

        The memory nearly made me laugh. Instead I felt inexplicably defensive of this cruddy house— sure, it was more suited to housing raccoons than people, but I’d chosen it as my temporary home nonetheless. “Okay,” I started indignantly, “it’s not like there’s an over abundance of well-furnished households ready to welcome me with open arms.”

        That wrangled a sort-of laugh from Barton; more of a punctuated exhale, really, but I’d take what I could get. But then the easy humor on his face faded. Panic crept back into my head, tightening my muscles and whispering run, run, before you never get up again—

        “What if there was?” Barton asked quietly, without a hint of ill-will.

        “What?” I said, very much taken aback by the sudden change in attitude.

        “If there really was a place like that, what would you do?”

        A short bitter laugh popped from my lungs, a shade away from the arrow’s crackle. “Wake up.”

        Barton’s eyes gleamed gold in the light, sharp but in the way they did when he finally locked onto a         target. “Look, I’ve got… I’ve got a safe house. No one at the Tower even knows about it,” he said with mounting confidence. “It’s a little east of here— pretty calm weather, nothing strange, not many people around. Good inbetween sort of place. Seems to me like—“

        Tires crunched over gravel outside, shattering the cautiously amicable conversation. Headlights swept through the broken windows like the maw of a demented lighthouse, bright as the Sun compared to the pen flashlight. I shot back into the corner, curling my arms over my head— as if that’d help anything. But instead of cowering, Barton leaped to his feet; I blinked and suddenly he was standing by the side of the window, one hand clutching his bow and the other hovering an inch above the quiver. Two pairs of eyes rooted to the broken window, ears straining to find any threatening footsteps. Neither of us so much as twitched. I didn’t know what was running through Barton’s head at that moment, but gods it was nearly impossible to hear anything over the relentless pounding in my ears. Every bone in my body was screaming run, run, find shelter but I couldn’t move.

        I have to leave. That was indisputable now, I had to go, run, fly— whatever it took to get out of this house.

        Ten seconds passed in agonizing silence. Twenty. Thirty. No one moved. If I hadn’t seen Barton all but teleport next to the window, I would’ve assumed he was a scarily lifelike statue.

        He’s offering you a way out, a thought rose out of the fear. You know you can’t make it past him without regretting it— but really, what are you without regret?

        The hint of a breeze trickled in through the window. I felt myself lean into it without trying, eyes half-shut. Any scrap of comfort I could find, I was all too eager to chase. Outside lay gods knew what, but as long as the air held a taste of silver, I’d be okay. If I could breathe, I could escape. And there really wasn't an alternative, was there? Without or without Barton, I was leaving this gods-forsaken house.

        “Wouldn’t hurt to settle,” Christopher had said. “Don’t force yourself to pick a side. Sometimes in-between is for the best.”

        By the window, Barton’s rigid posture eased a little. “False alarm. Drove right by, down the street now.”

        Thank god.

        Barton’s head swiveled in my direction, face lit from what moonlight pierced the overcast night. The absence of caution was what did it, I think— before I could even get a word out, a veritable tsunami wave of relief came crashing down on me. If I hadn’t been hunched in the corner already I would’ve fallen; the vestiges of adrenaline-fueled fear drained into the floor along with the last of my energy. My head tipped back against the wall— since when was the house spinning?

        “Gale?” Barton’s voice cut through the haze, if only for a second. “Seriously, is everything alright? You hit the ground pretty hard, if something’s wrong, you gotta tell me—“

        I forced my eyes open (gods, my eyeballs felt too hot in my own skull), and Barton had finally moved from the window back towards the corner. He was crouching on the other side of the flashlight, keeping a respectful distance; nice of him, really, even when I couldn’t threaten a mouse without keeling over.

        An old grin tugged at my lips, faint enough that it didn’t show. I shook my head, careful not to make myself lightheaded. Barton’s eyebrows drew into a frown, taking in a breath to protest.

        “I’m fine,” I jumped in before he could. “Really, it’s nothing. I’m just… just tired.” Then, warily: “I… I can sleep in the car…”

        For a frightening moment, Barton’s expression didn’t change. Then the realization dawned on him, and a small, genuine smile appeared on his face. Still crouching, he held out a hand to help me to my feet.

        “Let’s get out of here.”