Blackshot Ghosts [Closed]

[MysteriousStranger]

Jaxon felt his heart skip a beat, watching as Kara’s legs succumbed. He moved automatically in response; one of his knees hit the floor beside hers, discarded grains of salt grinding against the fabric of his worn jeans. Reaching out to wrap his arms around her, carefully avoiding any tender spots, he pulled her body against his.

He had seen enough movies, heard enough rumors, to make an assumption about the strain put upon her own body from what she had just done. And though he would need more time to consider it, pull at it within his thoughts, he did note the energy and finesse she had fought with, almost as if it ascended the natural. But then again, nothing about all this was natural.

“I’ve got you,” he whispered, his voice hoarse. With a grunt that turned into an extended rumble resonating within his throat, he lifted her up, cradling her within his arms, and pushed off his bent knee to stand. His muscles complained, but with his iron will, he forced them into submission, ignoring the dull ache that radiated from his left set of ribs.

“I’ve got you, valkyrie,” he repeated softly.

He could hear footsteps behind him, and tilted his head in Leo’s direction. The Viking was making his way toward them, slowly but surely. When the big man spoke, his tone lacked the usual bravado it carried, replaced instead by a tenseness not native to him: “Asher? I don’t-…faen.”

“It’s over,” Jaxon stated. He couldn’t offer Leo more, not with Kara to attend to, not with his own rampant emotions that he was doing his best to chain and lock down, throwing away the key. He didn’t want to-couldn’t-risk losing his own control by explaining who the banished spirit had previously been. And he couldn’t lie. Not to Leo. Not now. With a tired exhalation of air, the former SEAL gave the Viking direction. At least then he could postpone the inevitable, give himself time, and get some use out of the man. “Look, we’ll talk later. Right now, I need you to get your ass downstairs, and make Kara something to eat.” It wasn’t a request, but the sternness in his voice was so subtle that the order could have been missed, had it not been for the unwavering hardness in his gaze.

Studying Jaxon’s expression, Leo tugged at his thick, blonde beard, before letting go a sigh. “All right, lille bjørn.” As he squeezed past the two, he patted Jaxon on the shoulder, and then descended the stairs, disappearing into the bar.

His sore deltoid tensed at the Norwegian’s absent-minded gesture, his brow twitched, and with a few muttered curses aimed at his friend, Jaxon turned on his heel to carry Kara into the apartment. Littering the floorboards, the goofer dust marked the progression of the beginning of Jaxon’s struggle. Kara’s coat was spread awkwardly upon the back of the grounded stool, which had scratched a few marks against the wood and wall during its tumble and roll.

He didn’t want to be here, he realized, and the thought made a weight drop inside his stomach.

“The sheets probably smell like sweat and sex,” He told her as he entered the bedroom, and gently laid her upon the tousled bedding. “But that’s only half my fault.” Humor was easier than anything else, though his voice was still dry, and his mouth didn’t grin around the words; he spoke with it because it was currently the only way he was capable of speaking.

 

[CastoffCaptain]

Kara clung to Jaxon. He was far more battered than she at this moment; mentally, emotionally, physically, and yet she couldn't even bring herself to whimper a refusal at being picked up like a child. The sudden expunging of her higher self left a hole so deep that she wanted to weep. Nausea overtook her, beading her brow with sweat, and the fingers clamped around Jaxon's shirt would have trembled had they not held on so tightly.

Why am I so sad?

Not her thought. A memory, rain-soaked by Spring forever ago. The woman she knew to be her mother-- her, in a different room--it had been her question.

Because that's how it ends.

A man's voice, all leather and whiskey, muffled by a door. Kara pressed her face into Jaxon's chest and squeezed her eyes shut. She'd forgotten it was a voice she hadn't wanted to hear again.

The conversation wasn't just about the gift--she knew that now, although time faded the details of the recollection. This was about the lows that dragged Elizabeth to the needle again. This was as close as Kara would get to the desperate, all-consuming, throat-shredding need to rise up out of the darkness her mother had battled every day and lost herself to. The exorcism was rapture. The after-effects were sickening. It was its own drug.

Blame began to splinter, forgiveness pushing its way through a barrier she'd erected years ago. She understood. She could finally understand.

Leo spoke and the air tensed like a knuckle on a bruise. Without looking, Kara sensed Bernard's protectiveness; Jaxon was the only person she imagined B would allow near her at the moment, but the Northman's appearance and speech didn't help the situation.

"No," she whispered so softly that it might have been missed by human ears, but after a hitch and a heartbeat, the monk backed down, albeit thornily.

The sheets brought comfort, smelling not so much of the subject of Jaxon's joke but of Jaxon himself, and Kara wrapped her arms around his pillow just to keep him close in some manner now that he wasn't holding her. She wouldn't cry, not here, not now. She wasn't capable of it. But her sorrow wasn't important.

"J," she rasped, staring at the seam on his shirt sleeve, "I'm sorry. I'm sorry, I didn't want to--"

to stop

Her eyes dropped a crinkle in his jeans. It didn't matter that Ayden needed to be dealt with. She'd wanted to do it, had wanted him gone early on, and she couldn't determine if it was her innate, hibernating sixth sense that had clued her in to his devolving nature if she just hadn't liked him. He'd tortured Jaxon for so long, had twisted the knots so tight J had almost broken, and for that, he deserved to--

"--to have you get hurt. Now everything's fucked up and I was the one who--"

who killed your brother for the second time. Right in front of you.

"He was going to kill you, J," she murmured, and saying it burst open the dam holding back her fury. Before she could stop herself, the words erupted, scorching her tongue with their heat. "I couldn't let that happen, and I'll do the same fucking thing to anyone else who tries."

 

[MysteriousStranger]

Jaxon hadn't known what to say on the heels of Kara's apology, and he simply ran his tongue over the back of his teeth, finding that perhaps it was because he couldn't speak at all. He knew he should reach out, reassure her that he didn't blame her, that he wasn't angry, but to do so would be directly acknowledging the events of the last few minutes. Would let his brother's fate drill through the carefully placed, though hollowed, wall upholding his composure. There was a siege a phone call away, and he couldn't risk coming undone now, not when he didn't have the anger that had defined his life to fall back on.

But her rage broke through his defenses as if they had never been there at all, and with one statement, he began to free-fall.

'He was going to kill you, J.'

The numbness that burned cold within his stomached began to edge away into an infectious, white hot pain. And it-everything-became real.

Yet Kara hadn't ended there, spilling out next a fury fueled promise, and it echoed the same one that had fallen from his lips the day before. Had it come from anyone else, he would've felt the need to puff out his chest, assert his capability for taking care of himself, and reject the notion that he'd ever need someone at his back. But she was hardly just anyone else.

The pain was still there, spreading more freely now because he wasn't trying to contain it. But it reminded him that he wasn't dead, that he could still feel something. He had spent a lifetime staring into the dark with a single, dangerous question at the back of his mind, eating away at him: why?

His head tilted, searching with his unshielded green eyes for her own. His hand reached out to stroke her cheek, and explore the lines of her face with his callused fingers.

The fire on her tongue. The heat of her skin. Kara was unquestionably alive. And so was he.

He swiftly leaned over her, lowering his torso so that his lips could reach hers. The kiss burned without lust, spoke of desire for something that went deeper than skin. It served better than muttered, broken words to let her know that he was still all in, that he accepted her warning to the world that there would be hell to pay if it fucked with him. He would do the same for her; he'd fight until his knuckles were bleeding, every bone in his body was broken, and he was physically incapable of going further.

Because she gave him purpose.

With a reluctance, he pulled away for breath, and shifted his weight to one arm.

"I don't blame you, Kara." His jaw clenched slightly, trying to keep his voice strong. "It had to be done." He lowered his eyes, felt his throat become dry. "But being simple doesn't make it easy."

 

[CastoffCaptain]

It wasn't that she flinched at his hand's movement; Kara wasn't expecting him to strike her, nor did she have the kicked-dog response that would have caused her to shrink from him. But her body tensed and her breath seized in her throat, because a caress didn't always guarantee safety. He still could have condemned her. Ties could have been frayed, needing only time and a lack of trust to sever them altogether.

His kiss caught her off guard.

Kara squeezed her eyes shut tight and twisted herself so that she could wrap her arms around him, unable to stop the tears from burning her cheeks. It had been so much, so sudden, all of it. The life, the death, the destruction, the becoming and the undoing. So much gained and so much lost, with everything at stake. His answer was in the kiss; the words that followed were window-dressing of the same color, while containing the truth she knew all too well. With her fingers still twined in the fabric of shirt, she took a long and shuddering breath while she searched his face.

Hold my hand against the night
Show me all the demons left to fight

I will carry you home​

"J," she said, then stopped, cleared her throat, and repeated herself, mildly embarrassed that his name had come out as little more than a croak. "J, you... you may be dumb, but you're not simple."

It was a delayed parry against his earlier stab at humor, and thoroughly inappropriate. To deflect potential disapproval, Kara pulled back a little and sat up against the headboard, her finger leveled at his chest. "Are you hurt?" She laid a palm on his forearm. "Is anything broken?" She paused, chewing on her bottom lip, then barged on without waiting for his answer. "Because B just went downstairs and it's just the two of us, and you need to come here."

One arm invited him in. She couldn't manage the stern look that would have normally accompanied the command, and so she simply let the invitation speak for itself. He would allow it or he wouldn't, but she would offer him sanctuary. She would offer him home.

 

[MysteriousStranger]

It took a moment for Jaxon’s mind to link together Kara’s jab and his earlier attempt to downplay the unavoidable, yet still will-breaking circumstances they’d found themselves in. What else was there to say, besides what was already known? He didn’t see the point in rehashing it; talking wouldn’t bring Ayden back, and even if it could, he wasn’t certain that was something he wanted. Though others might have taken it as stumbling blind around the problem, Jaxon was grateful for the strained humor. It offered him a chance to slowly slip back into his own skin, to fake a sense of normalcy, and to simply hold himself together.

The easily-missed smile that barely tugged at the edge of his lips was tinted with a surreal sorrow that hadn’t truly manifested yet. His eyes focused first on the clear, liquid lines that streaked down her cheeks, before finding her own. His smile lost strength, and with a slanting of his jaw, he lowered his gaze until he was examining the dark nails that rested against the sleeve of his shirt.

She asked him a few questions, and he was glad she didn’t give him a chance to answer. He wouldn’t lie to her, but it wasn’t the damage to his physical body that plagued him. He couldn’t put into words what bled buried beneath his surface, and he didn’t want to. What he wanted was to forget, for whatever time he could, the image of his brother’s broken form, the feeling that had ripped through his being as the wraith had been torn from this world.

Stop.

His teeth pressed into one another, not hard enough to grind, but enough to ground his mind.

Swallowing, he didn’t immediately move closer. Scared, because the back of his mind was overly cautious in the aftermath of his loss. Because he was afraid to admit that he needed comfort not to her, but to himself. Yet the scar on his chest was proof that he wasn’t invincible, no matter how much he didn’t want to acknowledge it.

She had pointed out it was just the two of them.

“Mm,” his throat rumbled. Falling against the sheets of the bed, he reached out an arm to hook around her waist and drag her with him. “Only after you, beautiful.”

The two of them against the chaotic burning of the universe, the unforgiving cycles that enslaved their lives.

He’d take those odds.

***
And I'll use you as focal point
So I don’t lose sight of what I want
And I've moved further than I thought I could
***​

 

[CastoffCaptain]

Softly, as gingerly as she could, Kara nestled into the crook of his arm, all too aware of the wounds to his heart and overly-cautious of the ones upon his body. The world owed them a moment to catch their breath, no matter who might say otherwise, and she'd pull columns down just to make sure Jaxon could rest. Moreso than she, he'd overpaid his dues and he was going to keep paying until there was nothing left to give; Leo was downstairs without an explanation. The cops were hours away. The impact of what she'd just done to Ayden might finally hit home, and if nothing else, J's muscles were going to rebel against movement once they realized what had happened to them.

Kara stroked Jaxon's sweat-streaked hair while she whispered a prayer of contrition against his neck. The words didn't matter, not anymore, save to remind him that she was here--a strange and tuneless lullaby meant only for him. Its rhythm brought her comfort, its cadence stability and she hoped the same for him. She cradled him in the quiet that fell around them, fighting to ignore the anger coiling inside her. It would do no good to rail at whatever karmic machine had pitted itself against Jaxon, but exhaustion and a throbbing headache kept her rational side from having much of a say.

Exhaling, she closed her eyes and willed herself into a place of peace, if only for Jaxon's sake. Or as close as she could manage, for as long as this precious respite might last.

In the stairwell, the temperature dropped. It formed into a centralized column that slid toward the first floor in a rush, only to hesitate on the threshold. Silence held less sway here among the battered stools and booths. Leo's redoubled efforts at breakfast brought a semblance of normalcy back to the building. A neon sign hummed a single note to itself left of the door, safe for now from the specter who passed beneath it. Outside, a snow plow grumbled through the street, shaking the walls with its weight.

Bernard didn't waste energy on materalizing in full. Still little more than a hazy blur, he would be undetectable to all but a trained eye--but perhaps not his fellow dead. He gave Alessandro only the barest glance in passing, although that was done with an arched brow and a scowl, the gangster's character sussed in an instant. Drawn to the sounds of the kitchen, the monk peered in through the plexiglass window at the Northman who'd joined in Kara's fight.

Time flowed around Bernard without touching him, as if he stood outside its sphere. He inclined his head, heavy lids half-closed, masking what thoughts might lie behind them.

A moment later and he was inside, hovering a foot away from Leo's exposed back.

 

[MysteriousStranger]

It felt like a lifetime since he’d just stopped. Took a breath. Closed his eyes.

It pulled at Jaxon’s soul, an exhaustion that was more spiritual than physical. The consequence of living every moment in a fight, a struggle against the world, bruised knuckles pounding against the forces that’d keep him down, blood-coated teeth grinning in denial to be broken. There was pride in the battle, even if in the end it was hopeless, so deeply defining that he had painted it into his skin, but it was so tiring. And in the quiet, it begged the question: ‘was it worth it?’.

He remembered the nights he couldn’t sleep because of the arguing, the slamming, the muffled crying.

He remembered the nights he couldn’t sleep because of the pain that came in the aftermath of his mother’s death, the unheard pleas from a damaged boy that thought he was a man.

He remembered the nights he couldn’t sleep because of the sound of gunfire and war, and the fear that monsters were real, but they hid inside men instead of under beds. The fear that there was a monster inside him.

He remembered the nights he couldn’t sleep because he would wake up with wounds that had healed years before and a sweat-drenched brow, sometimes screaming and thrashing, wondering why God decided to leave him behind.

Tightening his arm around Kara’s waist, he breathed in her scent, took comfort in the sound of her soft voice, found sanctuary in her presence, and with a heavy exhalation of air, deemed it safe enough to let his guard down.

Paying in rest long overdue, his breathing and heartbeat slowed, and for the first time in years, his mind was silent.

*****​

Everything had gone to shit. His world had been turned upside down, and he had been left without a single clue, sent downstairs to prepare a meal. Like that was more important than figuring out what the hell was happening in the bar he had spent the last decade of his life building up from nothing but the brick that formed the walls.

Scooping out the blackened remains of what had been his first attempt to fry an omelet for the strange gal at Jaxon’s side, Leo hesitated, staring into the pan with consideration. The grumbling part of his mind that was discontented with the situation, and wanted to show it so desperately, told him to give the charred bits to the grown man that deemed it necessary to act his shoe size instead of his age. And he might have done just that, had the mood been different.

Whatever happened upstairs…It had been significant. He didn’t understand how, at least not yet, but he’d bet everything he had that things would never be the same again. Then again, he knew that the day Ayden went missing.

Scratching at his beard, the Viking looked upward at the ceiling, eyes narrowing as if to send an accusing glare toward the Heavens. With a grousing sigh, he stalked through the kitchen to gather more supplies, stopping at the spot on the counter that Kara had climbed upon to wipe it down, muttering under his breath that he could’ve grabbed the salt for her.

Back at his cooking station, he continued to fulfill his given task, grateful for the distraction. It helped to wipe the unpleasant events from his mind, at least until he was given what he needed to make heads-and-tails of the shitbucket he’d stumbled into.

Needlessly said, the sudden drop in temperature and the crawling sensation down his spine was not a welcome intrusion. It brought with it images of people tossed around a hallway by an invisible force, the smell of rot and death, the breaking down of reality, or what he perceived to be reality.

Paranoia set in.

Uncertain eyes looked over his shoulder, and at the sight of nothing, his jaw clenched, brows furrowed. He cleared his throat, jerked his head back around, and turned on the nearby CD player, the only source of music around that hadn’t been claimed by Jaxon, since it was in the kitchen.

As The High Strung song filled the enclosed space, battling the silence, Leo began to hum along, quietly singing the lyrics:

“Think of all the luck you got
Know that it's not for naught
You were beaming once before
But it's not like that anymore”​

 

[CastoffCaptain]

But release me from my bands
With the help of your good hands.
And my ending is despair,
Unless I be relieved by prayer.
As you from your crimes would pardon'd be,
Let your indulgence set me free
....​

Before her, there was Hell. Golgotha, the place of skulls, existence without His love. There had been but two hues to shade most of his days. They were crimson and grey, the backsplash of his end and the totality of his hope. Mindless, wounded, and in agony, he'd abandoned prayer as thoroughly as his god had abandoned him.

But she had pulled him up. She had shown him light and reworked his spectrum until he could see in color again, a man instead of a bloody and screaming beast. Through her, he had regained his humanity. Thankful was too grubby a word. Grateful was threadbare. Neither could encompass his debt to her--the debt he carried gladly and paid out with joy as often as he was able. And so it was that he gave her space to be with the man who called himself Maverick, despite the emotion grinding at the back of his hindbrain, driving him downstairs.

He had forgotten it until now.

Bernard measured his time on this earth not in years but by milestones, three in total: the night he'd murdered, the morning he'd died, and the afternoon he'd bloodied Kara's first enemy. Wrath connected them all, whether cold and calculating or erupting from necessity, it was his anger that had not so much guided him as controlled him. Today marked the fourth.

Miguel.

Wrath was a sin. Enjoying it was worse. There had been no small measure of satisfaction in what he'd done to the boy, and that selfishness had produced a cluster of troubling consequences.

Because of it, he felt more himself, the Bernard he once called human, confident and clear-headed, prideful and alive, for he'd gained a measure of payback for a past he couldn't change. Yet he could sense cracks beginning to crawl through his consciousness. Here and there were fissures that needed to be patched lest he gradually crumble into madness again, and the urge to fill them with malice instead of peace was growing. He was a wraith of vengence as much as sorrow, and he needed to--lusted for--another chance to lash out.

But that was what had nearly gotten Maverick killed and Kara hurt in the process. His fury. His need. The breaking down of what she'd built, thrown away in a moment of self-centered thoughtlessness that had drained him of energy so thoroughly he thought he might never come back.

Bernard watched the Northman with hooded eyes, his hands in fists that wouldn't quite uncurl. For all his modern clothes and English speech, the man was nothing but a Viking.
A plate chittered against its mates on a shelf.
They'd unmanned him with a hunting knife.
But he'd run to help Kara against Ayden, not retreated.
Aethelwulf's head had been cleaved in two.
The CD player crackled, whispered mutterings slithering in under the song.
his tongue
She wouldn't want this.
he couldn't save them
The lights flickered.

She wouldn't want this.

Alarmed, Bernard stepped back. He raised a hand, fingers splayed, and forgetting he was non-corporeal, murmured to the man called Leo.

"Peace, brother."

 

[MysteriousStranger]

Leo’s brain rushed to rationalize the unusual happenings in the small kitchen. He could’ve blamed the CD player’s malfunctioning on the fact that it was about just as old as CDs themselves, and had a built-in radio that might have flipped on, causing the strange mutterings that overlapped the now distorted voice of Josh Malerman. He could’ve blamed the dimming of the light overhead on the aged building, its electrical guts long overdue for a checkup. Small things of this nature had happened before, and he usually shrugged them off as harmless.

Or so he had thought. Hadn’t he just witnessed a bear of a man be grounded multiple times, like he had been nothing more than a rag doll? Felt the shaking, gut-clenching presence of something vile and dark and inhuman?

Part of his mind wanted to shift blame onto Kara, whose appearance gave the impression of being closely tied to the shit that had gone down within the last half-hour. But he knew that was unfair. Had it not been for that tiny, yet frighteningly furious woman, he might’ve lost his second brother. The one he now felt it his duty to watch after in the absence of Jaxon’s blood sibling. Even still, he couldn’t help but grumble, “You sure know how to pick ‘em, jackass.”

Jerking out his hand and grinding his teeth together, he yanked the cord of the source of static noise free from the wall, and went back to frying the omelet. His pace had quickened. He wanted out of here as quickly as possible, and had it not been for his stubborn pride, which refused to give in while he stood on the foundation of the business he had built himself, he would’ve growled “fuck-it” and called in pizza.

But this was his damn bar. His sister would call it stupid, yet she’d do the same goddamn thing if it had been the tattoo shop she worked in a few streets over. Stubbornness was magnetically drawn to these walls it seemed; Leo wondered sometimes with baffled amusement how the place was still standing.

Recommitted to his task, and seemingly determined to not give his surroundings the light of day, Leo did his best to ignore whatever was causing the chill at his back, besides giving it an occasional muttered curse under his breath.

He didn’t hear the spoken words. Yet someone else did.

Having succumbed to his natural curiosity and desire to pay visit to the other phantom who could share with him his own existence, Alessandro appeared within the kitchen, a foot or so next to B, angled toward Leo’s back. The gangster’s arms were crossed, his hat tilted upon his head.

“I know,” He stated, tsking his tongue in disdain. “These children just don’t have taste anymore. You should hear the noise the other one plays.” He waved a hand dismissively. “And apparently grooming has become taboo. I fear for this generation.”

 

[CastoffCaptain]

"You sure know how to pick 'em, jackass."

Bernard's head ticked back on the thick column of his neck. Brows puckering, he turned the phrase over in his mind for a moment, wondering what context the jab had when it came to him. He had no control over which objects were affected by his moods, and therefore couldn't possibly pick any of them, but then, those who hadn't died couldn't possibly understand that. The Northman must have meant the radio, for he silenced it by yanking its tail, although the voices which had found a mouthpiece continued their undead chorus a sliver of a second after the music ceased.

Jaxon's friend was like most humans; his mind wrestled against the supernatural. He'd just seen its underbelly and the ramifications of carrying on after death had snuffed out all but the basest of emotions, and yet here he stood, puttering over breakfast. Like a child who'd toppled a vase but caught it before it shattered, guilty relief flooded the monk. There were still graces to be had. Leo could continue pretending the last ten minutes didn't happen, Kara could have her peace, and there'd be no blame to take for upsetting any of it. Lips closed, Bernard let his jaw drop, then snapped his teeth together, a habit held over from a thousand years. It was time to make his exit and sit quietly in wait for her to return.

But nothing was ever that easy.

The phantom he'd ignored in the ale hall's main room had flitted in. Too eager to make a show of his own importance and needful of approval, he was a moth drawn to a kindred flame. Crisp clothing, fuzz on his cheeks, and a cockerel's swagger masked what lay beneath. The boy was a blade. With agonizing slowness, his body rigid, Bernard peered over and down at the youngling.

And blinked.

He didn't need to, of course, being dead. The time it took to do so while still maintaining eye contact exaggerated that fact. Craning his neck a little, he stared at Alessandro. With no pretense or invitation, he popped his eyebrows toward his hairline, turned on his heel, and faded through the door.

 

[MysteriousStranger]

Not even a word. Barely a look.

Another in Alessandro's position might have taken to mind the saying 'beggars can't be choosers', but that was an idea foreign to him, and one he inwardly sneered at. He had never begged in his entire life, and neither had he ever asked. He gave demands, hidden behind a devil's smile, phrased and coated in his soft, pleasant voice as a request. And his reputation did the rest, carrying him through life until his untimely demise. He was a man used to attention, craved it, for didn't the gangster who tamed the city deserve it? Perhaps it was God's perfect punishment for his sins, entrapping him so in this silent purgatory, yet, despite the fact he was raised a Catholic, he couldn't fathom that idea: the thought that he ever did anything that wasn't within his birthright.

"Three I can converse with," he told the flannel-clad back of the blond-haired giant that had ripped his establishment out of his dead hands, taking no measures to lower his voice, as if he wanted the monk to hear, "and I still prefer your company, my disheveled friend."

As the foreigner angled away, oblivious to his company, Al took a step forward, and with a draw of energy, shoved the spatula just out of reach to mildly annoy Leo when he grabbed for it.

Immediately afterward, the boyish phantom straightened his jacket as he exited the kitchen, stepping out behind the bar and walking the length of it. Fingers running across the countertop, he came to the end, knocked his knuckles against the wood, and raised the same hand to tilt his hat back. His slightly narrowed eyes searched out the image of the other deadman that had entered his domain, before traveling over the rows of empty booths and tables set out in front of him.

The edge of his lips tilted downward.

With a sigh, he resigned himself to his predicament, deciding that speaking to someone else who certainly heard him was better than just doing so to hear his own voice. "You know, old sport, my mother taught me to mind my manners while I was a guest in someone else's home."

 

[CastoffCaptain]

Snowfall had done its best to cleanse the city. Although Bernard had been gone but a matter of hours, plows and vehicles had blackened the piled-up slush along the curb. Clouds peeled away from the sun, scattering patches of shadow across sidewalks and storefronts, promising illumination without quite delivering it. The scenery did nothing to elevate Bernard's mood. It was as if the whole world were struggling along with him in an attempt at betterment, and failing. Standing at the edge of the plate glass window, fingers twined behind him, he watched the passers-by without expression.

He'd done as much during the decades he'd been trapped in the attic where Kara had found him. Part of humanity but withheld from it, close enough to touch it but incapable of doing so. Such an existence forced a serenity upon him that was tinged with longing, although that longing had narrowed its focus to one bright and shining point. Peering up at the rough-hewn ceiling as if he could see through its source, Bernard frowned.

Things were different this time.

His fourth milestone had changed him, infusing him with life and need and strength, and he'd done nothing with it but nearly served his darker urges. Now, with the dust clearing from his brush with Leo, Bernard didn't want to put a name to the larger beast chained to his heart. He would not be that man again. There was glory in working toward perfection, love in servitude. If he couldn't be perfect, he could at least be better, even if he wanted to shake the walls apart because of it.

The young specter's knuckles on the bar top knocked on the door of his brooding. Swiveling a fraction, chin inclined toward his breast, Bernard watched him approach out of the corner of his eye, his lids so low that his lashes meshed. He'd seen so many like him in the past. In his old life, his first life, when gold and position made excuses for barbarity. When being a fourth son meant being invisible yet indulged, neglected but pandered to, free to let jealousy turn deadly. And there were so many things to be jealous of.

Like companionship and being seen.

I see you. I hear you.

Bernard turned to face Alessandro, lips tightening into a small smile at having been corrected--chastised-- by the man who was his junior. Motioning to the nearest table, he waited for the young man to accept his invitation, then shifted his palm to chest with a pat.

Although he spoke Saxon, the word hadn't changed much in over a thousand years. "Brother Bernard."

With his back to the window, he didn't notice the old Cadillac pull into the space across the street, its tailpipe spitting vapor into the atmosphere, windows tinted to veil the driver inside.

 

[MysteriousStranger]

The monk turned to face him, and a faint slither of life sparked within Alessandro’s pale eyes. His lips parted slightly in a small, contained smile, and at the offer of indulgence, he replied, “Good man.”

Waiting a clock-tick before accepting the invitation to make sure his enthusiasm wasn’t mistaken for desperation, the gangster fell into the old habits he had possessed when warm blood still ran through his veins. He made his way around the bar instead of through it, reached down to unbutton his suit jacket, and once seated, removed his fedora, placing it to the side of the table, though the hat vanished as soon as his hand was removed from its crown.

Yet God didn’t give without taking. Al could relate with the sentiment; playing his small tricks on the crew that had commandeered his bar served to keep him sane and entertained during his eternity. Even so, the fact that the one man who shared his particular predicament and had deigned to speak with him couldn’t communicate in a common tongue served to challenge that sanity.

His brows lifted in disbelief, his smile slanted just so as if he wanted to frown, and he tilted his head toward the table, looking down at the scratched surface of the top to keep from rolling his eyes.

Or wouldn’t.

His eyes and smile lifted. He considered the thought behind a mask of pleasantness. The puzzle that the monk had just presented him with rivaled the pleasure of company. Alessandro was a man who noticed things, what was said, what wasn’t said, what was seen, watching people like birds, and using those things to his advantage.

“Brother,” he repeated, rapping his knuckles against the table as he settled back in his chair, relaxing his posture. “I assume you’re a holy man of some sort. Oh, the headaches my brothers and I gave our priest growing up. Dio perdona.” He flicked his fingers upward with a chuckle, before resting his palm against his chest.

“Alessandro Capitani.” He proclaimed the name like it had the power to move mountains, and once it had. Lowering his chin, the smile on his lips was tinted with amusement meant only for himself. “I was in the profession of-well, when it comes right down to it, I was a businessman.” The words were phrased in a manner that suggested he hadn’t thought about them before speaking, but he didn’t stumble as they left his mouth.

 

[CastoffCaptain]

Bernard had never played poker. He'd heard it mentioned, seen it in passing on the picture-box Kara put on the background as noise, but hadn't had the pleasure of sitting down to learn its intricacies. That didn't mean he didn't know the one rule that governed it: bluff or lose. Sitting in the quiet bar gave him the advantage of focus. Knowing Alessandro's type lent him a decent... what was it? A decent hand to play.

And they were playing a game. Although there was no proof, Bernard could feel it in his, well, marrow, even if he no longer possessed any. How many boys had tested his mettle in his lifetime as cantor? How many had thought themselves cleverer, imagining him either too old or too naive to know what pranks they were up to? Almost as many as had had their ears boxed for their troubles.

But what sort of trouble was Alessandro capable of? Youthful appearance aside, he was no child. His mind wouldn't turn toward sneaking out of Lauds to scatter the sheep on the hillside or to mingling with the lay brothers' daughters--especially not if what he boasted of once being was true. Bernard didn't like casting the first stone, but during the brief decades that blood had pumped through his veins, he'd lived among brutal men with brutal ambitions. Even the walls of the monastery weren't a shield entirely. He knew this man's type.

Bernard rested his hands on the table, fingertips splayed but touching, thumbs pointing toward his body. Underneath his pinkies, someone had scrawled two sets of initials and framed them in an imperfect heart. He studied them for several moments, considering the situation with a placid expression.

Aces and eights.

Alessandro had been witness to Bernard's slip-up in English.

Aunties and houses and flushing things.

The boy would tie him to Kara--there was no reason not to. As of now, however, those were only two of the four words the lad had heard him speak. English or Latin or Saxon--a step toward any angle could point to his secret, yet that significance couldn't be known. That didn't mean Alessandro wouldn't make a move if he sensed an opening, even if it he did it merely out of boredom.

Poker.

Light rippled through the monk's frame when he sat back and smiled blandly at his fellow ghost. Using the precious little energy he had at the moment, Bernard reached out and separated the salt shaker from its mate on the table with a nudge, then slid it an inch forward as though maneuvering it across a checkered field.

That wasn't his game.

Repeating Alessandro's name with just as much importance as it had been spoken, he tipped the edges of his lips down and nodded, seeming impressed if not knowledgeable about his past. A sweeping gesture encompassed his companion's former empire before his face fell. Slowly, Bernard lowered his arm, a look of empathy deepening the natural melancholy that tinted his features, and indicated himself and Alessandro with a single back and forth of his hand.

"Et tu, Caesar?"

 

[MysteriousStranger]

Not a muscle moved on the smiling gangster’s face. He was watching the monk, that was obvious, but Bernard’s gesture was given neither a glance nor tilt of his head. He knew it was happening, sure, by the sound of sliding glass, the image of the moving shaker out of the bottom of his vision. But this was part of the way he played, cloaking his mien with a sort of cordial naivete that invited walls to be let down, for steadfast guards to be weakened. All the while, he noted that it had been salt sent in his direction, and, being a possible, subtle threat, was catalogued and filed within the reaches of his mind.

Most people went through life with the notion that they should hide their weakness, play to their strengths. Yet Alessandro had learned to turn his personal downfalls into something that could be used. There was a certain invisibility that came with being young, small, and of a boyish frame, at least in what had been his world. And there was power in being able to remain hidden. With a charming grin, he’d offer reassurance, making it safe for backs to be turned, and when they were-Well, a good businessman always took advantage of an opportunity.

He missed the game. More than he missed women, wine, perhaps even his status itself. This situation hardly carried the risk, the reward, but it was the most enjoyment he’d had for a good handful of years, at least since the man upstairs had stopped bringing those around who he played the game with himself.

The monk’s question was simple enough to decipher; the phrase was a common enough one uttered, though the name had been switch out, suggesting fall instead of betrayal. The monk wanted to know about his death, Al assumed. His grin widened. He welcomed the comparison to the great General, even if it did little to encourage his answering of the question.

“Ah, yes. Well, old sport,” he replied in a voice as soft as silk, adjusting his posture just a fraction so that he could lean forward, arms folded across the tabletop. “Death is the unconquerable.” In the pause that followed, his head tilted. “But when one door closes, another always opens, doesn’t it?” There was a dangerous, yet subtle spark within his iris that came with the suggestion, and just a slight tilt of his brow.

It wasn’t like the rush that came with reigning over a city, but he had gained a new kind of invisibility once death had called, and with it a new kind of power, in a way stronger, more thorough, than what he had possessed in life. His domain was smaller, his reach restrained, yet the access he now had was undeniable and absolute.

Like God watching over His flock.

He knew everything.

 

[CastoffCaptain]

The blink Bernard had affected earlier in the kitchen had conveyed a message; he had no use for such theatrics now. Staring across the table for a frightfully long time, the monk kept his expression so blank that one might doubt it had ever been shadowed by distrust, disapproval, or outright irritation. He sat in beatific impassiveness like the saint he'd once been mistaken for, untouched by Alessandro's covetousness. And indeed, the boy wanted by both definitions of the word. Need and lack the were the twin gaping maws that most likely tied him to this place, starved for acclaim, desperate to make something of himself no matter the cost. If he couldn't be the Leviathan in deep waters, he'd nip at every ankle he possibly could in this little pond... and it didn't seem Kara was going to quit this place any time soon.

Bernard eventually nodded a tad, although it wasn't a nod of accord. A decision had been reached and an assessment made, punctuated by a knuckle tapped against the tabletop. No sound accompanied the motion. Gazing out at the Cadillac that still idled outside, the monk watched a thread of cigarette smoke slither out of the partially-opened window, then snapped his eyes back to Alessandro. His head followed suit a second later. Tracing out the misshapen heart etched into the table top with his thumb, the monk spoke gently, deep and low in his chest like thunder on the horizon.

"Lāda meċ, Iċ besorgie hit, êower hwônlic scitte," he smiled to allow the succor in his tone whitewash the insult he'd just paid his companion, then uttered the only agreement he felt would ever arise between them, "Ne mæg mīn līchama wiþ dēaþ gedlan." Pale, his hand flitted to his chest, indicating that with this last, he spoke of himself, then did the same for Alessandro. You, too, it said. Without preamble, he switched to Latin--let the boy struggle to follow, if he thought he might add the monk in front of him to the list of priests he'd bedeviled.

"Dominus," drawing up the shattered half of crucifix dangling at his waist, he showed the figure to his companion, then let it go it before continuing, "mortificat," his thumb sliced a line beneath his chin. He then laid one hand over the other on the table, palms together, and swung the top one away from the bottom like a lid. The lower of the two then stood upright, wrist to the table, fingers aimed at the ceiling. "Et vivificat." He paused to make certain Alessandro listened, if not understood. "Deducit ad infernum et reducit." A gesture toward the floor, then Heavenward.

Peering around at their surroundings again, Bernard swirled a finger at the walls, the ceiling, the furnishings, "Purgatorium." Neither Heaven nor Hell, this non-life. A place for redemption, should one choose it. "Alessandro rex?" A shake of his head, the blue of his eyes deepening into cheerlessness; this lesson would be for naught, he knew, and yet he forged on, toppling the salt shaker so that it scattered a thousand crystals between them.

Bernard scanned them closely, searching every granule. Glancing at his companion, he shook his head one last time, his brow wrinkled. "Alessandro, Alessandro...?" Where among so many? asked the palm upturned over the colorless multitude. "Purgatorium," he repeated, and this time his knuckle bounced the table off the floor.

 

[MysteriousStranger]

Alessandro watched. The same grin rested on his lips. His eyes contained the same spark from before, though his brow had lowered. In life, his irises had been the color of cool stone: an almost lifeless, yet furious grey, like the calm before a storm. He sat like a statue, frozen in the same position he had assumed moments before the monk began speaking. And for the duration of his speech, he remained that way; the monk was met with no reaction, no change in posture, not even a slight nod or tilt of Al's head to give light to what-if anything-the gangster was thinking. But the unwavering stare was enough to show Bernard that he certainly had his attention.

Al went as far to refrain from flinching away from the spilt salt, though the holy man's action was tacked onto the mental file made just moments before. It wasn't until the ending parlor trick did the gangster finally move, removing his crossed arms from the table, and leaning lazily back in his seat, one palm resting against his leg.

Purgatory. That much was easy to gather; the monk was pointing out how He had banished their kind to the time between eternities, and how his words had the reek of the beginning of a lecture. Al had heard it before, the accusations thrown at him and his family, made by lesser men too weak, too afraid, too incompetent to reach out and take what they wanted.

The gangster's smile widened just so.

Or in his case, what was rightfully his.

Hovering his hand facedown near the napkin dispenser, the crown of his fedora reappeared between his fingers. "My father used to say that the difference between a hindrance and an opportunity is but a man's perception."

There was a change in the air, a sharpness to it. Al's chair scooted back, though he certainly didn't need to move it to stand. Rising to his feet, first he placed the fedora upon his head, tilted back so that his eyes were still visible, and then re-buttoned his jacket, before sliding his hands into his pockets in a casual gesture.

There was beauty in subtly. In his short time as King, he had perfected his methods, knew how to make a threat that was taken as a compliment, send a message, warning, without ever causing suspicion or raising hackles, yet they never lacked for clarity. This had been simpler: a friendly reminder that he too had capabilities.

As he leaned against an adjacent table, arms crossed, he didn't skip a beat in his speech, sliding easily into his next thought, "Indulge me, Brother. I find it curious that an educated man such as yourself has neglected to learn but two words of this country's modern tongue."

 

[CastoffCaptain]

Of all the kindred souls to be stuck with in this great and dirty city, it had to be this one. Neither student nor son, Alessandro wouldn't care a jot if Bernard let his disappointment at such poor behavior show. The lad had nothing to lose if there was no love gained on the monk's side, but he was attached to the bar and the bar was attached to Maverick, and Maverick-- well. The next chapter in his time here was going to be... interesting... to say the least.

Bernard could have played dumb, tried to offset Alessandro's razored question with a blunt answer and claim he didn't understand. He could've put on a mask of confusion and asked him to Please, speak more slowly, in Latin. My English is bad. But a lie was an admission, and if the boy had no grounds for his suspicion that something was odd other than just that--a gut feeling--then Bernard wouldn't feed into it.

Besides. Lying was a sin. This was a fraction of his Purgatory, penance paid for further patience to be learned. That last, in part, kept him from making a display of either force or horror that the little businessman deserved. Violence begat violence and one man's monster was another man's mirror. He would no more make assumptions about what Alessandro might have learned to do in his comparatively short time in the afterlife than he would about what might inspire fear within him. He was no Miguel.

He was no longer human.

But discretion didn't equal fear. Peace was a harder road to navigate, took braver men to maintain, and Bernard's love of learning extended well past the avenues of amity. What might be read as weakness was simply... keeping things in reserve for now. How did the saying go? Walk softly, but carry a big stick. There would be no more incidental shows of power. The less Alessandro knew, the better, and if he intended to turn every action into a subtle pissing contest, then he could piss down a hill by himself. Lifting his chin, a little sadness for the gangster's choice of words filtering through his mien, Bernard rose from his seat and stood an arm's length in front of him. His lips pursed upward in something not quite a smile, although it wasn't exactly resignation, either.

He spread his broad hands, lifted his shoulder the tiniest bit, then spoke the truth without guile or threat. "Id est quod est, Alessandro." With that, Bernard stepped away. There was a corner by the window waiting for him.

Outside, the Cadillac's driver killed its engine and opened the door.

 

[MysteriousStranger]

Even while his heart had still beat, Al had possessed the uncanny ability to remain motionless, as if he were lifeless, though then it had been impeded by the need to breath, blink, the annoying, uncontrollable flinching of a muscle. Death had granted him the freedom to perfect the skill, and he watched the monk approach with cool, still eyes, and a body carved of marble.

It is what it is.

The gangster’s head angled to the left, and a single brow lifted toward the ceiling. It was joined by the curving of his lips into a smooth smirk. “Is it, old sport?”

The answer was unimportant in the grand scheme of things, even if it was one Al didn’t expect to be given, at least freely. What mattered was the underlying message, hidden behind his devil’s smile. He was a man who paid attention, and he wanted that known.

Tilting his fedora forward, shading his eyes under the brim, the gangster knocked on the wooden tabletop beneath his knuckles. The quiet noise made him miss the resonating racket caused by the metal ring that had once rested upon his finger. Straightening his back, Al adjusted his collar, before making his way across the bar to take a seat within the booth that had once been his throne.

A minute or so after the bar settled, the kitchen door flew open, and out walked a giant, both hands occupied with two plates. A third was balanced upon his outstretched arm. After freeing himself of the burden, having carefully sat his prepared meal of omelets, sausage, and toast upon the counter, he hurried into the hallway that lead to Jaxon’s apartment.

Not bothering to climb the stairs, the Viking bellowed in a voice that boomed like thunder, “Breakfast’s ready!”

*****​

Black had fallen over him like a blanket of snow. Silent and pure, he found peace in emptiness.

It was ripped violently from his grasp.

The blaring noise jarred Jaxon from his rest. Forcibly dragging himself to consciousness, his eyes snapped open. For a heartbeat, he couldn’t remember where he was. His breath lodged within his throat. Mind hazed by its sudden emergence into reality, it took him a moment to filter back into his surroundings.

His sheets. His apartment. Kara within his arms; her scent was welcomed, grounding him in the present.

Grunting, he made no immediate attempt to move. His muscles forbade it, his torso throbbing with an embedded pain that would only be amplified by motion. His will did not grant him the strength to overcome it, wanting to instead stay put in his little paradise, safe from the other hurt that surely awaited him.

But he knew it was inevitable.

He inhaled deeply. Gently running a knuckle along Kara’s spine, he chuckled dully. "I need quieter friends."

 

[CastoffCaptain]

Bernard, too, had learned stillness. The gangster wasn't forgotten, nor was he ignored--B wouldn't have his ankles gnawed upon due to negligence--but he was simply put into the background as the monk settled into a holding pattern. His body shifted to half-solid, gauzy-thin but unwavering. His fingers rested atop a partially-exposed junction box by the window, soaking up the electricity flowing through it. Once again, time washed around the ancient ghost, unable to touch his towering, static form. Only his eyes moved. He tracked a cloud of chimney swifts heading east across the city, then watched as the man in the Cadillac unfolded a leg and planted his cowboy boot dead in the slush by the curb.

Everything was changing. He couldn't predict the future. He couldn't preserve the present. All he could do was weather the storm and fight like an archangel to protect the ones he loved.

The one.

***

"Snnrrkwha-- what, whhappnd?!"

Yanked back from the edge of sleep, Kara flailed, one foot caught in the covers, the other wedged under Jaxon's leg. She hadn't expected to drift, but the fight had taken more out of her than she'd realized--or perhaps it was the coming down off the high of eliminating Jaxon's brother--and the grey line of slumber had crept closer and closer while the minutes passed until she was nearly napping.

Rubbing a finger under her nose, she peered around the bedroom first for Leo, hoping beyond hope he might have graced them with a breakfast they didn't have to walk to, then for Bernard. Neither were present, but at least it didn't take much to locate the dead man. It would take a few days before she stopped the knee-jerk reaching out to find him with her sixth sense when he wasn't around, but for now, it was the only way she'd patch over the fear left by his temporary disappearance.

They'd ignored reality until now. He could be lost for good.

And so could Jaxon.

Kara didn't invite the next thought that invaded her muzzy mind, but it barged in, nonetheless. Would he come back for her?

Thoughts like that were dangerous. Worse than that, they were bullshit. She'd never ask for that. She'd never want it. It wouldn't be fair.

Sitting up, she groaned at her already-stiffening muscles. Her head throbbed from the knot she cupped in her palm. Twisting gingerly to give Jaxon a narrow-eyed stare, she sniffed and cleared her throat before saying, "I guess we can't leave Leo in the dark." They would have to answer questions over brunch--not an appetizing thought. She paused, then continued. "Would you actually tell me if anything was broken?" and jerked her chin in the general direction of his ribs, "or would you brave-ass it like a dick until you bled out internally?"

 

[MysteriousStranger]

It was small and weak, the smile that graced Jaxon's lips as he watched Kara's less than elegant return to the waking world, but a genuine smile nonetheless. Firmly but without force, he placed his hand against her knee that jerked underneath his leg: a precaution to guard his more sensitive area, should it accidentally advance upward.

His first grunt was one of protest. Heavy lids kept his eyes partially closed, yet he tracked her movements, eventually resting his gaze upon hers once she stilled. The second was dismissive. Brows lifting, he huffed as he rolled fully onto his back, head tilted in her direction. His throat rumbled a 'hm', and then nothing else; he took his time to answer her, trying to turn a moment into eternity.

"More considerate than bleeding out
externally. Less of a clean-up." Blinking slowly, his smile lifted tiredly.

Showing weakness was not something he was accustomed to. 'Brave-assing it', as she so creatively put it, was less about being a tough guy, and more about the survival instincts he had developed long ago, such things hard to shake, because they had regrettably become a part of him. But he would tell her anyway, if she asked, because he couldn't-wouldn't-lie to her.

Dropping his hands, he lifted his shirt until the area in question was completely exposed, revealing large patches of discolored skin. To dispel worry, he reached out to take her hand, and guide her palm to his troublesome set of ribs. "Feel. Bruised, maybe, but whole." He knew because he had once felt that sharp pain. Body pinned on the ground, he hadn't been able to breathe. He had tasted his own metallic blood on his tongue, and in that moment, for the first time in his life, he had believed he was going to die. It hadn't been the last. "I've recovered from worse. I'll be all right."

With an exhalation of air, he commanded his body to lift. The strain caused his brow to furrow, and the expression only deepened as his eyes turned toward the bump on her head. Frowning, he chastised himself for not considering the risk of a concussion earlier, even if she currently seemed coherent and functional enough to throw insults at him. "You?"

Reaching his fingers out to gingerly brush back her hair, he asserted, "Take off your shirt." A heartbeat passed before he clarified with a small smirk, "So I can see where you got hit."

 

[CastoffCaptain]

You're a boy and I'm a girl
But you know you can lean on me
And I don't have no fear
I'll take on any man here
Who says that's not the way it should be
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------​

God, but men were...

Kara sucked in a breath, stretched her lungs, then blew it out again. Less of a clean-up my ass, she wanted to snip, but let it go, considering the circumstances. She had to give Jaxon leeway, couldn't not let him have his snark. Something had to ease the tension before they headed downstairs and he had to face reality. She believed he'd tell her the truth about his injuries, but trusting him not to break down when it finally came to admitting to Leo his brother was dead...and dead twice?

Not something she'd bet on.

He was too hard in places to bend. Kara shifted her jaw left and slid her tongue between her incisors. She couldn't risk him shattering, not now that she'd found him.

Leo didn't have to know the full truth. Not yet. Maybe never.

What a change in perspective. All of it. Jaxon. The exorcism. Her... elevation and the fall from what she'd been. It was all happening so fast and tracking it all was like snatching at fireflies in the dark; brief bursts of illumination followed by blackness and confusion. But if all of it could come together, Jaxon and Bernard and the dead and closeness and purpose...

Sweet Mother Mary.

It was too much to hope for.

Fuck it. She'd take what she could get and she'd fight like hell to keep it whole. And right now, that didn't involve stalling.

Kara muttered something under her breath that might have rhymed with sick. Then, "My bruises run farther down than what my shirt covers and I'm not getting naked to show you. It'd hurt too much," she added after a moment, and pointed to each body part now turning purple under her clothes. "Besides my head, I hit the wall here," shoulder, elbow, "here," the outside of her hand was scraped and angry, "my hip, my knee, and I'm pretty sure my left pinky toe. But I'm fine. I've recovered from worse."

Her smirk lightened the words she threw back at him, although they were no less true for the expression. Freeing herself from the sheets, she stood up and maintained a stoic exterior, but inside, she was spilling out curses like a full navy fleet. Every. Inch. Hurt. And she'd only been hit once.

Gears raced. Calculations were made, a decision reached. Patting Jaxon's foot, she started for the door.

"Stay here. I'll bring up breakfast."

There was nothing in her tone to indicate an and after that.

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

I'll stand in front of you
Take the force of the blow
Protection
I'll stand in front of you
Take the force of the blow
Protection ​

 

[MysteriousStranger]

Kara tossed back at Jaxon his own words spoken moments before, and though her smirk was a welcome reprieve, like a warm fire in the dead of winter, it did little to bring him comfort on the matter. His lips fell and his eyes followed suit, tracing out the exposed bits of her beaten skin. Like his own bruises, they mapped out the course of a battle he didn’t ever want to fight, even if it was one that had been building up for half of his life.

His brother did that. He would’ve done more.

The thought broke through as an intruder, and was discarded and buried as soon as it had appeared, for fear of the avalanche that could fall on its heels. Yet it left a bitter taste in his mouth, blood mixed with ash, ringing so close to the one comparison he was trying so damn hard not to make. Denial, avoidance, whatever others might call it, he didn’t care; he wouldn’t ever go back there.

But she still had been injured under his watch, and that didn’t sit well with him. Anger was easier to process than anything else. Anger at Ayden for not staying dead, himself for not being able to rein in his brother. He should’ve seen it coming. It wasn’t rational, he knew that, but the last time he didn’t see something coming, his world went to shit and people had died.

He wanted to keep her safe. His protective instinct for her had formed so quickly, yet didn’t lack for strength. He doubted that she needed it. After all, wasn’t he the one who spent the most time on his knees during their brawl in the hall? But it wasn’t about her toughness, a trait that he admired vehemently, and it wasn’t about need, or logic, or gender, or pride.

It was about closeness.

He cared for this woman in a way he couldn’t put into words. Bloodied and broken, she served as his second wind. She gave him purpose, and for that, he’d burn the world for her. He’d tear out the last remnants of his humanity should he need to, if it meant keeping her out of harm’s way. And it wouldn’t put a dent in the debt he owed her. Because she gave him a reason to stand and keep fighting.

But not now.

With a tilt of his head, he rubbed his jaw, and grunted in acknowledgement of her statement. Forcing his lips to lift, even if it just so, he answered, “Don’t let Leo bite.”

His body was demanding rest, and the Viking could wait a few extra minutes for an explanation. Watching as she exited, it wasn’t until she was out of sight did he submit to his muscles. With a sharp inhalation of air, he fell back into the sheets.

 

[CastoffCaptain]

Going downstairs wasn't pleasant. Every footstep caused her pain. Kara did a mental check to assure herself she'd missed a concussion, knowing the effects could slide in stealthily, but shrugged off the idea when her boot hit the last step. Without hesitation, she strode into the bar, her gaze snapping over tables and booths until it landed on Bernard. He was already drawing near, his anxiety radiating off him. Leo was a footnote she'd get to in a moment. Al didn't exist. Grasping the back of the nearest bar stool, Kara allowed the monk a weary smile.

He asked her a question, low and gentle in Latin, his fingers tracing near the lump on her head.

Normally, she would never reply to him in public where she could be seen. She knew how bizarre it would look, but Leo had been upstairs with Ayden and the fight and the exorcism, and quite frankly, after all this, Kara just didn't give a shit.

"I'm fine. It's not bad." She paused, her expression softening. "All down my side. Nothing broken. Promise." A little shake of her head, lips downturning for a second. "He says he's fine. I'll believe him until something falls out one of his holes." The silence lasted a little longer this time, and it was clear that she struggled to keep an overwhelming emotion from breaching her cool. "You too. I'm glad you came back. I was... I thought you... Just. Thanks, B, for coming back." Whatever was said next, it surprised her. Swallowing, a grin just touched the corner of her eyes and no lower. She started toward Leo, still looking over her shoulder at the six-foot-four point in the air she'd been talking to. "You should tell him that when he comes down."

The smile vanished the moment she faced the blonde barman. Putting a foot up on the rail, Kara folded her arms on the well-polished countertop, her mouth watering at the scent of breakfast. She locked eyes with Jaxon's friend, unblinking, trying to suss out where he stood in the midst of his new reality.

"What you saw up there was real," Kara said without preamble, sparing him nothing. "No tricks, no theatrics, but you know that deep down. I see the dead, Leo, just like the kid in that movie, and what you experienced upstairs was a pretty nasty one that'd attached itself to Jaxon. He came to me for help. It's gone now, but because of it, J can do what I do." She huffed air, partway to a laugh. "Mmm. Maybe not as well as me, but whatever. Anyway. You got questions, now's the time to ask them." Her un-bruised elbow jumped a few inches as if nudged by an unseen hand. Nodding impatiently, she hissed. "I'm getting there, hold your ponies." To Leo: "And thanks for what you did up there. All of it."

 

[MysteriousStranger]

The bar was still and settled, tranquil and silent, as if the events that had occurred above hadn't happened at all. With time edging closer to midday, the sidewalk outside was gradually becoming more active, and a few brave rays of light battled their way past snow-heavy clouds, cascading through the windows to give the space an almost warm glow, at least in appearance. Or perhaps it was simply the effects of Leo's mind, bringing to life how he envisioned the walls around him: a center of support and consistency during troubled times.

And the sound of the ticking clock of their time--his, his sister's, Jaxon's--had certainly become lower, darker, like the sound of the trigger on a gun being pulled, but the boom was left spinning in the air. Everything had been cracked the day Ayden got the call, but then, at least, Leo had hoped that maybe broken ties--things he had seen and known, yet didn't speak of--could be healed, because when death knocked on the door, that's how things were supposed to go. But life was hardly that simple. And then hope, everything, was shattered the day Ayden went missing.

It was a role he found himself in often: the man left in the aftermath, trying to pick up broken pieces. The core of stability among agents that normally wanted to tear each other apart.

Watching Kara out of the corner of his eye, head just angled a nudge in her direction, he wondered, as he picked at the food on the plate he had prepared for himself and the woman carried out a conversation with thin air, how she would fit into things. He could read Jaxon easily--knowing the man for just shy of twenty years had given him that, along with the general people experience under his belt from tending a bar for the junkyard dogs of society--and the SEAL's body language, his defensiveness, the pointed glare that could make a grown man shit himself, all asserted during the woman's introduction, hinted at a relationship that was more than just a handful of days worth of distraction.

It could be a good thing. It could be a bad thing. Only time would tell, and with how it was treating them recently, that gave Leo little comfort.

She approached the bar and spoke, cutting out the bullshit and getting right to the matter. He could appreciate that, at least. Brows lowering, making lines appear in his forehead that suggested a number of years above her own and Jaxon's, his mouth formed a tight line, and his blue eyes dropped to the omelet that was torn apart more from the picking of his fork than eating. Like so many other things in his life, he had known beforehand, but needed to hear it to truly see it. But, damn, this one changed so many things.

With a heavy and grumbling sigh, Leo sat his utensil down, and ran his palm over his jaw; fingers digging into the blond hairs of his beard, his chin came to rest in the crook of his hand.

Questions. He had many.

Eyes flickering first to narrow at the empty space at her side, they finally settled on her face.

But only after he reined in his worry.

"You're fine?" He asked, though it was barely a question. He had eavesdropped unintentionally on the answer before, he assumed given to someone, or something, he couldn't see. Nudging one of the plates forward as an offer, his chin lifted upward. "What about our hard-headed friend?" Another answer he could assume he had already been given, but Jaxon hadn't come downstairs, and Leo couldn't hear any movement above; the stubborn fool was fond of shifting endurance into stupidity.