Mina In Fashionable Outfits Ayyeee

mushishi

:D

write fanfic that three people in the world will read, because those three people are going to be fucking pleased that it exists

Transformers Prime: Optimus + Reader. Chapter 1.

So, I read @lovinglonerhybrid 's post here. And it absolutely had me in a chokehold, so this is based off that premise. I'm in the UK so please excuse my ignorance of American states lmao.

So, there is a part 2 to this, but I'm going away for 4 days and wanted to get some of it posted before then.

You've broken down fifteen miles short of Jasper's city limits in the dead of night. Deciding to hike in to town, you feel the earth rumble beneath you, and over the horizon, something enormous approaches...

Chapter 1: 9352 words.

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It’s a rare and covetous thing, to find even a single moment of peace in the midst of an intergalactic war.

The gap from one of those precious moments to the next seems to grow wider and wider every time, until their frequency is so negligible, it becomes hard to recognise them for what they are anymore.

For everything Earth could have offered Optimus Prime, he hadn’t been expecting it to relinquish the gift of peace so willingly. But he’s glad – more than glad – to accept them when they come, even if he’s only stealing glimpses of tranquillity on the sand-swept road leading out of Jasper.

Low-beam headlights lazily trace over the faded tarmac ahead of Optimus’s tyres as he trundles along Highway 49, one of only two roads that surround the small, sleepy city of Jasper. It’s a very routine patrol, one he obligingly excused Bumblebee from taking after his poor scout all but begged Optimus to give it to someone else, beeping out promises that he’ll take double shift tomorrow night, if need be.

All this on the back of Miko announcing another of her ‘slumber parties’ at the base, much to Ratchet’s noisy chagrin and Optimus’s private amusement. And, of course, when Bumblebee found out that Rafael would be staying the night too… Well…

‘You’re too indulging,’ their old medic had admonished from his workstation, the broad expanse of his back turned to the Prime, ‘He ought to learn he can’t always have his way.’

But it was a harmless indulgence, and Prime was more than happy to take over the patrol in this instance.

Besides, he had an arguably selfish reason for doing so.

If he’d admitted as much out loud, Ratchet would have scoffed and sent a pulse of chiding dismissal crashing into Optimus’s EM field. ‘You don’t have a selfish component in your body,’ he might say.

But this… Optimus muses, gazing skyward as he trundles down the highway in vehicle mode, letting the crisp, night air slide through his grill and cool his powerful engine… This is the appeal of a solo patrol.

Every now and then, there are times when the Decepticon activity goes quiet, Fowler has nothing to report, and Optimus can almost pretend that he’s just another Cybertronian enjoying a long, quiet drive through the Mojave wilderness. And while he remains ever vigilant, keeping every sensor poised outwardly in a constant surveillance of his surroundings, the old bot still permits at least one sense to wander.

Somehow, it’s always his sight.

Oftentimes he catches himself doing it. Other times, on nights that are quiet and still and clear like this one, there’s a wire-deep longing that overrides his logic gates, and the Prime won’t notice that he isn’t keeping his processor and his optics on the dusty road ahead of him. He’s too busy stealing long, pensive looks at the stars above him, scattered like a-hundred-billion souls sprawling across a curtain of crushed velvet.

It’s out there… somewhere… riding a lonely orbit on the furthest reaches of the galaxy’s Centaurus arm.

Cybertron.

Home.

Their first home, he amends gently, depressing his accelerator to speed up when he realises he’s starting to crawl. Earth is as much their home now as Cybertron ever was.

Sagging on his suspension with a low hiss, Optimus drags his hidden optics back to the road ahead, and all at once, he nearly lurches to a halt, his exhaust pipes sputtering out a hollow sound to betray his surprise.

There, parked several feet from the road a few hundred yards ahead of him, is a vehicle.

Prime’s senses sharpen to a startling focus.

Pumping his brakes, he slows down again, and the roar of his engine fades to a fluctuating hum.

A Decepticon…?

He doesn’t feel anything trying to breach his EM field, nor does he pick up on any resistance when his scanners hone in on the vehicle – ‘Ford. F250. A Pickup truck.’ Year….? Optimus’s focus narrows to a pinprick… ‘Eighty-seven.’

It’s red - a faded, dusky red like some of the sun-baked sandstone at Red Rock Canyon. As Prime’s massive form rumbles on through the night, looming closer and closer to the mysterious truck, his lights reflect off something situated above its rear bumper, the presence of which quells his flaring codes and eases his rigid frame.

A number plate.

Thick, black numbers and letters stand out against the white rectangle, though it isn’t the sequence that alleviates Optimus’s suspicion, it’s their mere presence.

No Decepticon he knows would ever suffer the ‘indignity’ of having a human number plate stapled to their bumpers.

Primus, even the Autobots have foregone the accessory after Fowler gave up trying to keep Bumblebee from losing his, Ratchet from ‘misplacing’ his, and Bulkhead from bending his irreparably whenever he transformed. Optimus had given it a go, for a time… mainly because he was growing worried that their overworked liaison would quite simply combust if he had to intercept one more phone call from ‘concerned civilians’ who were reporting a semi-truck driving through Jasper without its registration.

The Prime’s number plate came to its own crumpled end when he sat down on his berth one evening without removing it first.

One genuine, slightly sheepish apology to a very fed-up liaison later, and Optimus was informed that he and his team no longer needed to wear the plates.

So, the presence of one on this truck is a good sign. It’s less likely to transform and cause an incident.

That does, however, open up an entirely new avenue for concern to creep in.

A crash, perhaps?

Several dark skid marks indicate that it must have veered off the road after a hard, panicked brake.

He can’t pick up any biological signatures either. Even when he casts a wider net, all his sensors catch are the heat signatures of a few tiny, Earthen mammals scurrying about over the sand before they dart into various rock formations when he rolls by. But just because he isn’t picking up the presence of a living human, it doesn’t negate the possibility of a human being inside…

Frame suddenly taut, Optimus trundles to a cautious halt on the road alongside the truck, his engine idling like some great, murmuring beast in the quiet of the desert.

A throaty hum seems to escape his smokestacks as he peers down at the smaller truck, contemplative… considering… Then finally, relieved. There doesn’t appear to be anyone inside, judging by what his headlights illuminate through the cab windows.

What is it doing out here?

It definitely wasn’t here yesterday when he made the drive into Jasper. It isn’t a vehicle he recognises either, and he’s been doubly vigilant of late regarding all the civilian cars, bikes, trucks, vans, and even agricultural vehicles in and around the town.

Privately, he’s been compiling a catalogue of them all, for his own reference.

If there’s a threat to his human charges lurking about in their hometown, Optimus needs to know about it. A Decepticon disguised as a civilian vehicle would be an effective method of infiltration.

Casting one more, cursory ping out into the night to check that he’s definitely alone, he at last begins to unfurl himself into his bipedal mode. Metal plating slides away from his grill, pulling back and rolling along the body of the semi as he rises onto newly revealed pedes. The mechanical whines, whirrs and buzzes are terribly loud and alien amongst the desert’s natural ambiance, but soon enough, the air falls still once again, and a monolithic Cybertronian stands in the place where a Peterbilt used to be.

Soft, cerulean light spills over the abandoned truck as Optimus settles his optics upon it, easing his enormous frame down into a crouch and draping one arm across his knee with a ‘clunk.’

At first glance, he hadn’t noticed anything especially odd about the truck save for its unexpected presence. Leaning sideways, he casts an optic over the front bumper and finds nothing out of place, no damage to indicate a crash, no broken headlights or crushed bonnet.

It’s the same story with the truck’s bed. Only when Optimus hauls himself upright and treads carefully around it to inspect the other side does he notices the glaring problem.

The whole vehicle is canting onto its offside front tyre, a tyre that sports a rather sizeable puncture, considering how flat it is. And from the looks of it, this one was only ever meant to be used as a temporary spare. A quick glance into the truck’s bed reveals what he assumes must be the original tyre, flat as well, with the silver head of a nail jutting from the centre tread block.

Optimus clicks his glossa softly for the owner’s run of bad luck.

Right away, he sends a ping to his team, advising them to be wary of stray nails along this stretch…

He receives several pings in return. Immediately comes Bumblebee’s frustration, buzzed over the airwaves like a sulking sparkling who’s been told his toy was broken. Given the Scout’s inclination to race at top speed all over these roads, Optimus doesn’t doubt he’s just vexed at the shuddersome notion of having to slow down.

Arcee and Bulkhead respond in kind as their leader absently moves his attention to something strange obscuring part of driver’s window, letting their concern wash over his field.

‘Popped a tyre, Boss?’ Bulkhead’s message hits his comm, informal and probing, but with the warmth of care behind it.

Optimus is quick to send a pulse of reassurance back through their shared channel. He’s fine. If one little nail was all it took to take a Prime out of commission, they’d all be in serious, serious trouble.

The channels go quiet after Arcee and Ratchet send their short, concise responses, and once again, Optimus is alone on the road, peering down at a small sheet of paper that’s been taped to the inside of the truck’s front window.

Gradually, he furrows his optical ridges until they almost click together into one, solid line, the apertures inside each optic whirring and shrinking as he reads the words scribbled on the paper.

He recalls the first time he encountered the languages of Earth as they were written. The looping letters, graceful and elegant, chasing one another across the front of the letter Agent Fowler gave him as part of an unofficial welcome to the United States.

Optimus had held the paper so delicately between two of his digits, blinking down at the dark ink soaked into repurposed cellulose fibre. It was beautiful.

When he remarked as such, Fowler made a noncommittal comment that you could tell a lot about humans from their handwriting.

Optimus would sometimes find himself glancing over the children’s homework when they left their books out unattended on the table in their recreational area.

Jack’s neat and sensible cursive. Miko’s chaotic, glittery script that rose and fell and ventured outside the lines because she was usually paying more attention to her music than the words she wrote in her textbook. And Rafael, of course, with his quick, almost frantic stokes of the pen as he tried to scribble his thoughts down as fast as his brain could make them, only to end up losing his confidence halfway through a sentence, doubled back, drew a single line through the words, and started again on a fresh page.

This handwriting though… written in blue, splotchy ink and stuck with a piece of scotch tape to the truck’s window, makes Fowler’s words ring true in Optimus’s processor.

He can tell a lot about the human who wrote it.

‘Please don’t steal/break into my truck,’ it reads. The word ‘please’ has been underlined several times. ‘Not worth much, it’s all I’ve got. Tyre is flat, spare tyre too, so can’t get far anyway. Walking to town to find help bcos phone died and I don’t have a charger. Be back soon. Thanks.’

The ink has run in several places and rendered some of the letters illegible, as if water has been dropped on them from above.

Optimus isn’t naïve. He’s seen the children cry, more times than he can bear.

Then underneath all that, in much smaller writing stuffed underneath the first message like an afterthought they forgot to leave enough space for…

‘P.s, if the truck is still here in 3 days, assume I’m dead.’

With a sudden groan of his metal frame, Optimus braces a servo on his knee and hurriedly pushes himself to his pedes once again, helm swivelling sideways to stare down the length of the road.

The truck’s nose is pointed in the direction of Jasper, but the town itself is still about a fifteen-mile drive…

Surely they wouldn’t make the journey on foot…

But if the note is any indication, then…

His processor flashes again to the children; Miko in particular, and the alarming disregard she has for her own safety. The boys are guilty of that as well, though to a lesser degree.

Suddenly, there’s a very high likelihood that there might be a human wondering through the vast Mojave, alone. Worse still, Bumblebee had reported just last week that there’s been an increase in Decepticon patrols in the area around Jasper. No doubt Megatron has been ramping up his efforts to locate the Autobot base. Their growing presence in the vicinity of town makes these roads particularly treacherous…

Optimus ex-vents roughly, more troubled than frustrated.

Blue optics narrow at the road ahead, and once again, the peace of the desert night is filled by the sounds of living metal collapsing back in on itself.

A powerful engine roars to life. Somewhere nearby, a startled jackrabbit darts beneath the safety of a sagebrush, hiding herself amongst its silvery leaves.

Unblinking, her wild eyes stare after the great, thrumming beast as it moves on down the road.

—————-

You’ve had a lot of ideas in your life.

Some good. Some bad. Some that have paid off, but most that have gone nowhere at all.

Perhaps you were growing tired of going nowhere…

What else would have possessed you to up and move all the way to the middle of Nevada state on the back of a job offer that came from a man your uncle purported to know?

‘Oh yeah, Terry? Did a job with him a few years back for some cattle baron out in the sticks. ‘Course, Terry always wanted his own dairy… Want me to tell him you’re lookin’ for work?’

Turns out, Terry did end up getting that dairy he always wanted. And as it happened, he was looking for a farm hand.

Does it count as nepotism if you’re fairly sure your uncle had only met your future employer once?

Beyond a certain point, you simply couldn’t care less.

A job is a job, even if it is out here in the desert near a town you’d never heard of a month ago.

Dust-caked trainers trudge to a weary halt in front of a large, green road sign.

The moon, thankfully, hangs fat and luminous in the cloudless sky. So at least you don’t need a torch to see, not now that your eyes have had time to adjust the darkness cloaked over the desert.

With your run of bad luck, you half assumed the heavens would have opened by now and given the Mojave a nice, little dose of rain.

“Well,” you mutter aloud to yourself, peering up at the green sign with a grimace, “Could be worse…”

‘Jasper – 10 miles,’ reads like a slap to the face.

Still… It’s better than the fifteen miles.

You must have walked at least five already, dragging your legs behind you like extra baggage that doesn’t want to cooperate.

It has to be beyond midnight now. Well beyond, you suppose.

You’ve been walking for the better part of two hours, slow and sluggish and exhausted. The journey getting to Nevada had been tiring enough, then as soon as you crossed state lines, your tyre caught a puncture going over a particularly nasty pothole that had snuck up on you.

After an hour spent in the blazing sun jacking up the truck and changing to the spare, you set off again for another several hours of travel. Then, twenty miles out of Jasper, just as you dared to celebrate being home-free, the unthinkable had happened.

Who hits a pothole and drives over a nail in the same, damn day? Apparently, the same person who forgot to buy a charger adaptor for the truck.

No charger? No phone.

No phone…? No calling for help…

Your chest expands and deflates with a bone-tired sigh, turning your gaze back onto the long, dark road ahead of you. Tears sting at the inside of your eyelids, and for a moment, you consider letting them fall, if only to ease some of the pressure building up behind your temples. But crying hysterically about the unfairness of the world hadn’t un-punctured your spare tyre, so why would it help the situation now.

“Come on,” you coax yourself, hauling one leg out in front of the other. Rinse. Repeat. “Not far now.”

Just a few more hours…

The going is slow, tough, draining. Even the dark shapes of rocks start to look enticing as you pass them, letting your eyes slide over to them as you wonder just how safe it would be to fall asleep in the desert by the side of a road.

Ever since you broke down a few hours ago, you haven’t seen one, single vehicle out here.

‘Which,’ you hum, pursing your lips and tipping your head back to peer up at the bleary sky far above you, ‘Isn’t so bad…’

The stars are numerous, and startlingly clear out in the wilderness. The moon as well seems brighter here, unobscured by clouds. She makes for a quiet companion on your journey towards Jasper, her starry brethren endlessly stretching out to each corner of the horizon.

Suddenly, you feel very small. A hopeless traveller trying to find port in a sea of sand and rock.

Swallowing roughly, you hike your tattered rucksack high onto your shoulder and tear your gaze from the stars.

It’s quiet out here, save for the rustle of sage bushes disturbed by the warm breeze, and the skittering of rocks as night-time animals go about their hunts.

Perhaps that natural silence is why the sudden introduction of an entirely new sound unnerves you so much.

You jerk to a halt, ears straining to hear something approaching from the distance. Underneath the thin, worn soles of your shoes, you start to feel it; the road thrumming with gentle vibrations, growing stronger every second.

Lighting quick, you whirl around to face the way you’d come, hands flying up to grip anxiously at the straps of your rucksack.

You’d have thought you’d be excited to see those headlights rise up above the horizon line. At last! A stroke of luck! A potential ride! Potential help.

Instead, it’s as though the sudden appearance of two, dazzling lights blooming into view as they crest over the hill finally jar some sense back into your dizzy head.

The haze of fatigue lifts slightly, pushed away by little bursts of adrenaline as your brain fights to wake you up to an unconscious threat.

You’re alone out here. Defenceless, phoneless. You don’t know the area. Nobody knows you’ve broken down… You try so hard to think the best of people, but now that you’ve had one doubt, a hundred others start to scurry around in your brain, demanding attention.

You can see the vehicle, or their lights at least, but you doubt they can see you yet, this far down the road. You wonder what it is. Car? Truck?

… Alien spacecraft? Despite yourself, you let out a snort at that. Isn’t that infamous military base supposed to be in Nevada? The one hiding alien activity?

Right. Sure.

Despite your scepticism however, a thrill of fear rushes down the length of your spine as if to say, ‘Oh? But are you sure sure?’

 Gulping audibly, you take a few steps sideways off the road, stealing a glance at a cluster of large rocks that sit conveniently just several yards to your rear.

You have a decision to make.

Maybe you’ve been alone on the road for too long, and isolation has bred a paranoia in you that’s so deeply rooted, you can’t shift it at a moment’s notice. If the sun was out, perhaps you’d be less apprehensive, but the night, no matter where you are, makes everything seem so much more… treacherous. It hides things. People, motivations, monsters.

And though it pains you to do so, you swiftly decide to err on the side of personal safety.

The vehicle is closer now, and your blood trembles as the roar of a loud, formidable engine thunders over the tarmac. Yet you’re still certain it isn’t close enough to have caught you in its high-beams.

On sluggish legs, you haul yourself about and make a clumsy dash for the rocks, clenching a fist around one strap of the rucksack and using your other hand to grab the closest rock and swing yourself behind it. Dropping to your backside, you flatten your spine against the cool, solid surface, eyes wide, heart beating hard against the cage of ribs keeping it from leaping up into your throat.

‘Coward,’ a voice in the back of your head scoffs, sounding suspiciously like your father. You shake it loose. Now is not the time to be bothered by old ghosts.

The thundering engine draws nearer, rumbling in your chest as it seems to creep towards your hiding spot at a pace even a glacier would be impressed by.

Around the corner of the rock, you can finally see the glow of its headlights smoothing over the tarmac, illuminating the sand and brush all around you. Hurriedly, you tuck your toes right into the shadow cast by your rock, keeping a breath held hostage behind clenched teeth.

“Come on… Come on,” you urge it frustratedly, aware that every second you spend not moving is another second towards sunrise. If you’re not on the dairy ready for work by then…

The vehicle rolls to a stop.

It stops.

The temptation to let out a frustrated scream is only held in check by your tongue getting stuck to the roof of bone-dry mouth.

They saw you. They must have seen you. There’s no way they could have known you were here otherwise.

Idiot!

Wasting time on the decision has only taken it right out of your hands in the end.

A bead of sweat escapes your hairline and rolls down the side of your face, following the curve of your cheek. Should you run? Keep hiding? Did they stop by coincidence? If they meant no harm, they’d have seen you hide and kept on driving, wouldn’t they? Stopping is suspicious. It conveys a desire to engage.

And then something really strange happens.

“Excuse me?”

And… Well, you’re… not entirely proud of the choked gasp that jumps out of you, nor the way you flinch as if you’d been struck.

When did they – He? It’s a low voice, deeper than anything you’ve heard in a long while, full of bass but soft like distant brontide.

When did he get out of the vehicle? You didn’t hear a door open, nor close.

You nearly jump out of your skin when he speaks again.

“I’ve frightened you…” Despite how gentle the timbre is, his voice is loud, like he’s speaking all around you, not just behind you. “I apologise,” the stranger continues, “That is the last thing I meant to do.”

What the Hell is he talking about?

There’s a long, unpleasant stretch of time until he speaks again.

“Was that your… Ford?” he asks, like he’s testing the word on his tongue, “Up the road?”

Shit. You’re starting to regret leaving that note. He must have read it and knew someone would be walking into town, alone and vulnerable.

The engine of his vehicle is still idling, strong and steady, buzzing through the ground and up through your feet.

It goes against your nature to ignore someone when they’re talking to you, but there’s still a part of you clinging to the hope that he’ll just give up and move on if you don’t respond or show yourself. Perhaps he’ll think you were just a figment of an overtired imagination…

Of course, instead, he persists. “Please.”

Jesus, he almost squeezes the word out, oozing dejection.

“You have nothing to fear from me… I’m a friend.”

A friend indeed. You huff quietly to yourself. You don’t even know him. He doesn’t know you. He’s trying to coax you out of hiding after watching you flee from his vehicle. Hardly the foundation for a good friendship. Still, you have to wonder why he doesn’t just come around the rock to stand over you if he’s so keen.

After another few seconds of stubborn silence on your part, the voice speaks again.

“Will you at least step back from the rock?”

What?

“There are scorpions on it, and I fear you’ll get-“

You don’t think you’ve moved so fast in quite some time. One moment you’re pressing yourself to the rock, and the next, you’re scrabbling to your feet with gusto, lurching away from your prior hiding space and spinning around, skin already crawling.

Sure enough, a pair of giant scorpions are scuttling around on the flat top, their tails held aloft, proud and large in the moonlight.

“-Hurt,” the stranger finishes.

Snatching your head up, you find yourself staring right into the vehicle’s headlights, and you instantly grunt with discomfort, raising a hand to shield your eyes from the light.

“Oh.” There’s a pause, the vehicle’s engine skips, and the lights suddenly dim, plunging you into almost darkness save for the dim glow of residual light. “Forgive me. Is that better?”

“Much. Thanks,” you respond automatically, only to turn rigid once you realise you’ve spoken aloud.

Well. He’s already seen you. No point pretending you can’t talk either…

Again, the stranger’s vehicle makes an odd noise, it’s engine hums gently, and as you lower your arm to seek out the man you’ve just opened a line of conversation with, you finally see what you’d been hiding from.

A monstrous Peterbilt sits squarely across the width of the road, entirely alien in the barren, natural landscape. Smokestacks on either side of its cab reach towards the sky, glinting silver in the moonlight. It looks red under the meagre glow, with lighter panelling on the main body and dark, blue accents on the wheel trims and storage compartment. The grill is, in a word, massive, standing taller than you are, sporting a logo you don’t recognise on the front.

All in all, it’s a hell of a truck. Powerful, you imagine. Expensive too.

You try not to let your mouth hang ajar.

“Where-” Your voice cracks, still dry. “Ahem…! Where are you?”

Glancing around, your hackles start to rise. You can’t see the speaker anywhere. Which is why you let out an embarrassingly shrill yelp when his voice rumbles directly from the semi.

“I’m right here,” he assures you, polite enough not to show his amusement whilst you flap your mouth open and closed.

No, you shake your head. No, that is too weird. “What, are there like… speakers on the outside of your truck or something?”

There’s the tiniest of pauses, followed by a simple, concise, “There are.”

Oh. Well, then. That answers that burning question.

“Okay? So, um… Can I… help you?” you ask awkwardly, screwing one side of your face up.

The man seems to hesitate, allowing a pregnant pause to hang in the air between you before he replies, “I was going to ask you the same thing.”

Somehow, your expression twists even further south, and you begin casting your eyes over the semi, squinting through its dark windshield to try and catch a glimpse of what’s on the other side.

“I saw your truck on the side of the road,” the unseen man continues, “I feared you might have been hurt in a crash, so, I stopped to check you weren’t still inside the vehicle. Then I found your note.”

He falls silent, and the air is dominated once again by the purring of his semi’s engine.

“Okay?” you prompt, still unsure of his motivations.

“It said you need help.”

He trails off, waiting. You’re promptly struck by the idea that he’s trying to guide you to some conclusion he hasn’t yet revealed. Finally, just as you start to grow restless, he forges ahead, “These roads can be hazardous for a lone hu-“

Suddenly, the truck’s engine revs, drowning out his voice for a second and sending you leaping backwards, startled.

“- A lone traveller…” he clears his throat just after the roar of its exhaust cuts out. Then, “Ah, If I may be so bold...”

All of a sudden, the passenger side door unlatches and swings open, and you’re presented with a clear invitation into the darkened cab. “May I offer you a ride into town?”

You wonder if he can see you turn stiff at his suggestion. Your body all but pleads on hands and knees for you to accept. What’s the worst that could happen, after all?

Well. You’ve watched several documentaries and movies that give you a pretty good indication of what ‘the Worst’ entails, thank you very much. You don’t like that he’s inviting you into his truck without showing his face to you yet. You’d like to gauge the person you’re speaking to. Get a bead on him. Is he big? Strong? Tall? Could you overpower him if it came down to it? Does he look like he’s hiding a weapon on him?

All these questions only serve to dry the moisture in your throat.

“I… That’s… very kind of you,” you admit, wringing your hands together as you take a small step away from the semi, “But I’m sure it’ll be okay, it isn’t that far.”

“At an average speed of three miles per hour, you will reach the outskirts of town in just under three and a half hours.”

You blink, caught off guard. ‘And they said we’d never need to use equations after we graduated.’

“Maths guy, huh?” you cock a hip, laying a hand across it and shooting the truck’s windshield a tentative smile, “Maybe I walk at four miles an hour.”

“Two and a half then,” he quips back just as smoothly, the door to his semi still hanging open. When he continues, you can’t help but notice that the cadence of his baritone voice rumbling through the speakers has turned to something a little more sombre, quieter, like he’s trying to impress upon you the gravity of a situation you don’t yet know about. “But time and distance aside, I do not wish to leave you to walk into Jasper by yourself, particularly at this time of night.”

He speaks like he’s been to elocution lessons. Every word seems to be carefully selected, every vowel and consonant articulate and refined.

It’s disarming. He’s disarming. But you’re still not convinced.

“Listen… Thank you, again. But…” It feels rude, like you’re committing some kind of faux pas in turning your back on the semi, yet you can’t shake the nagging voice at the back of your head, telling you that there’s something not quite right about the man in the truck. Not bad, just… off.

“It’s a kind offer,” you tell him again lamely, turning on your heel. And so, you recommence your weary march for Jasper, tossing one last sentiment over your shoulder, “But I’m sure I can make it on my own. Take care, okay?”

You almost expect him to argue, but all you can hear is the now familiar drone of the semi’s almighty engine. For several paces, you can feel a pair of eyes watching you, scrutinising and pensive, if a little baffled by your short yet polite dismissal.

When you make it another ten feet, heaving your tired legs after you over the tarmac, your ears perk up to the sound of an engine revving.

Smokestacks chugging, the massive truck pulls out of its standstill, unseen behind you.

Chewing on the inside of your lip, you keep your gaze fixed to the ground ahead and raise a hand, flapping it about in an apologetic farewell as you meander further off the road and onto the sand, giving him plenty of space to get past.

You start to frown when you make it twenty paces without being overtaken by the truck.

That frown only grows deeper when the engine keeps churring away behind you, rubber tyres crunching tiny particles of sand under their treads as it crawls along in your wake.

Is he…?

Tearing your eyes off the toes of your shoes, you send a fleeting glance over your shoulder, surprised – but not much – to find the nose of the Peterbilt creeping slowly along in your peripheral vision, keeping pace with you.

Your frown eases back, and you quirk a brow at him instead, calmly asking, “What are you doing?”

And just as easily, the voice returns, “If you will not allow me to drive you, I will happily escort you to your destination.”

You can’t help yourself.

“Ha! ‘Escort.’” The snicker jumps out of you faster than you can raise your hands to press your fingertips against an unbidden grin. “Sorry,” you immediately try to amend, “You just sounded so serious.”

“… I… am serious?”

Letting your hand flop back to your side, you give your head a shake, still grinning. You really do meet all sorts on the road.

“Regardless, I’m sure you have far better things to be doing with your time.”

How the truck matches your walking speed without his engine faltering or sputtering, you’ll never know.

A strange noise gurgles from its exhaust, almost perfectly reminiscent of a troubled hum.

“On the contrary,” the driver responds, pulling forwards a little until only the grill overtakes you, and for a moment, you worry he’s about to drive across your path, “There is nothing at the moment that concerns me more than getting you safely where you need to go.”

Huh. Of all the genuine, stubborn…

“Look.” Your shoes scuff up a cloud of sand as you draw to an abrupt and decisive halt, turning bodily towards the truck. Hands splayed on your hips, you glare at the windscreen, aiming approximately for the driver. A second later, he must have hit the brakes because the semi lurches to a stop as well, hissing noisily.

Still, he doesn’t step out.

“You seem like a nice guy,” you start, trying to keep your chin raised and your tone stern. You fail, of course. Your voice cracks nervously, but at least you try. Taking a deep, steadying breath, you finally elect to stop beating around the bush and just address the elephant in the room – or desert, as it were.

“But I don’t make it a habit to get into random trucks with strangers.” You make it a point not to directly accuse him of having ulterior motives, but you hope you’ve at least driven home your main concern. At best, he’ll grow offended that you’d think him capable of such a thing and – hopefully – move on. At worst… Well. You brace yourself for that, teeth grit so tightly, your jaw starts to ache as you flick your eyes over towards the truck’s driver-side door, waiting.

The truck in question does something odd then. It… sinks? At least you think it does, lowering on its axles by a few inches like the wheels have just deflated. It’s difficult to tell in the dim moonlight though, and it’s over so quickly, you can’t be sure you saw anything at all that wasn’t just a trick of the desert.

How long have you been awake?

You’re busy calculating the hours you were driving when the stranger’s voice is kicked out over the speakers again.

“You assume I mean you harm…” he utters.

And just like that, the stern, rigid scowl is instantly wiped off your face.

He sounds…

…sad.

Not offended. Not angered by your thinly-veiled implication.

Just sad. Dispirited, even. As if it’s only just occurred to him that you might have perceived him as a threat.

It’s almost painful when the pair of you dissolve into an uncomfortable silence that lasts for several beats of your rapid-fire heart.

Biting down on the inside of your cheek, your brows drift apart whilst you try to think of something to say. Trouble is, you’re afraid that speaking again will only make things worse.

You have no idea what’s going through his head. What if his dejected tone is followed by something worse?

“I’m sorry,” you backtrack, pressing your lips together and chiding yourself for faltering, “It’s nothing personal, just… I-I should probably get going before I fall asleep standing up.” You give a stilted laugh, but it soon turns into an awkward sound made at the back of your throat, lips pulled over your teeth in a grimace.

Dipping your head, you swallow thickly and grip the straps of your rucksack again. But just as you make to turn away, the semi’s wheels abruptly twist towards you. It’s ever so slight, just enough that the truck rolls a few paces in your direction before it stops again, its grill pointed straight at you.

With an audible gulp, you go to take another step back, staring at the metal in anticipation. Your retreat is soon halted by the mellow rumble of his voice.

“I understand your hesitation. And I know that the word of a stranger may not hold much weight,” he begins slowly. The Peterbilt inches forwards again. “But I can assure you, you have nothing to fear from me…”

Shifting on your feet, you let go of your bag and clutch instead at your elbows, brows tipped up indecisively. He’s persistent, you’ll give him that. He also speaks with a candour you’ve never encountered outside of a film or a storybook. Frank and forthright in a way you’ve never been privy to. Is that why you’re hesitating? Is that why he seems ‘off?’ Because his level of sincerity doesn’t have a place in your world?

Perhaps you’ve been spending so much time by yourself, it’s turned you distrustful. Maybe you’re just getting cynical. Looking back on your journey here, you realise that only other person who you’ve spoken to was a disinterested server who took your order at a drive-thru… That was four days ago. How long before that did you listen to someone who wasn’t the people on your truck’s radio?

Why is it so suspicious that this trucker wants to help? Hell, you’d be concerned as well if you saw some poor bastard hiking alone through the desert at night without a friend in the world.

Christ, you need some perspective.

The driver must see the conflict painted like a brand across your expression.

“Would it reassure you to know that this vehicle is operated entirely remotely?” he pipes up.

You blink once. Then again to wake yourself up a little more, pulled from your inner turmoil. “What?”

“This vehicle,” he tells you, “It is an unmanned vehicle.”

Curiosity overtakes suspicion faster than you can uncross your arms and stare at the grill dumbly, face opening up in surprise. “Wait. You mean it’s one of those self-driving things?”

“In a sense.” The semi’s engine rumbles softly, and the not-driver adds, “I am what you might call… the safety driver.”

Now that is curious.

You don’t even realise you’ve taken a step closer. “Really? But I thought that sort of tech was still in testing?”

“It is,” he replies, “We are, however, attempting to advance to field-tests, to see if these vehicles can autonomously haul freight in areas with sparser populations, to minimise the risk of collision.”

“Hence why you’re driving it out here in the middle of the night,” you realise aloud, raising an inquisitive brow at the windscreen, “So you’re really not in there? You’re driving it from somewhere else?”

“Would you care to see for yourself?” he asks kindly.

Your wide eyes flit to the passenger door when it eases open once again, though this time, it seems far less foreboding than before.

Tugging a loose piece of skin between your teeth, you give the silver steps leading to the door a scrutinising glance.

That does reassure you…

Slowly, still at least a little wary, you coax your legs to move, and they begrudgingly carry you onto the road. You approach the semi-truck with all the caution of a doe crossing an open meadow.

As you venture closer, its engine kicks up a notch, emitting a steady, gentle purr as if the vehicle itself is pleased with your acquiescence.

Suddenly, as you move along to the open door, you’re dazzled by a light flickering on inside the cab, bathing what you can see from this angle in a calm, golden hue.

From down here, it looks… just like an ordinary interior.

And lo and behold, as you stand on your tiptoes to see in, you find the driver’s seat is eerily devoid of its occupant.

You let out a breath that emerges shakier than you would have liked it to.

“Wow,” you laugh, impressed.

Maybe just a quick peek…

A vast chunk of apprehension breaks away from your chest and vanishes into the ether as you shuffle towards the steps, raising an arm and stretching your fingers across the space to the grab handle that sits invitingly just beside the open door.

This side of the truck is bathed in silver moonlight, and it’s only now that you’re this close that you happen to notice something you hadn’t before.

You almost wince when you spot them.

Although shiny and speckled with only the lightest dusting of desert sand, the metal panelling on the semi is covered in signs of wear and tear.

Enough to give you pause, at least.

For a moment, you’re taken aback, turning bodily away from the open door and cocking your head at the myriad of scratches that criss-cross their way up towards the semi’s roof.

All the paint in the world couldn’t hide some of those shallow nicks and lines that have been scraped out of the metal. In any case, something big must have scuffed it. Perhaps another driver in their own Peterbilt? Or perhaps it’s all damage sustained in testing the vehicle’s automated capabilities.

Clicking your tongue, you absently raise a hand to stroke your fingertips gingerly along the length of a particularly prominent scratch by the door.

“Oh dear,” you tut softly at the side of the truck, “You’ve been in the wars, haven’t you?”

Without warning, the engine that had been buzzing so gently suddenly ramps up and starts to vibrate firmly beneath your fingers, so strong you can even feel it judder the ground through the soles of your feet.

Recoiling like you’ve been zapped, you whip your head around to peer through the open door, half expecting the driver to admonish you for touching his vehicle.

As swiftly as it started however, the thrumming engine dies down, and the truck returns to its soft, benign idling. “My apologies,” comes that gentle voice again through the speakers, “Just an overactive combustion chamber.”

“Is it... safe to ride in?” you retort, giving the back of the truck a sidelong glance.

“You will find very few vehicles safer than this one,” he tells you patiently, “I will not allow any harm to befall you, as I would not allow it to befall any of my passengers.”

Your shoulders jump with a silent laugh. “Befall,” you parrot, fighting a smile, “I love the way you talk.”

“… You do?” His speakers buzz with a pleasant hum.

Fingers flexing anxiously, you reach out once again and slide them around the grab handle beside the door, finding that it’s unexpectedly warm under your palm.

“So, I just… get in?” you ask, only to cringe immediately, realising you probably sound like a fool who’s forgotten how to get into a truck.

Before you can rebuke yourself harshly though, the absent stranger offers his response. “Do you require assistance?”

“No, no,” you rush out, placing one foot on the first, silver step and hoisting yourself up off the ground, bringing yourself level with the cab’s seats.

Your eyes grow wide with wonder as you take in the interior.

“Oh, wow,” you breathe, suddenly hesitant to pull yourself up those last few feet.

“Is there something wrong?”

“It’s just… It’s so clean!”

Laid out before you is a perfectly ordinary truck cabin. Soft, grey leather covers the seats, with the same dark colouration on the roof, doors and most of the glovebox, interspersed by a rich, black steering wheel. The soft light, you discover, is emitted by multiple strips of blue neon LEDs that the driver must have fitted underneath the radio dials and dashboard, casting the truck’s interior in a cool, soothing glow.

But most astonishingly, for as much as you search, you can’t spot a single thing out of place. It’s absolutely immaculate. There isn’t one receipt stuffed in the door pockets, no traces of sand or gravel dirtying the footwells, no loose change tossed into the centre console…

Dumbfounded, you glance into the back, but all you find it a dark, grey panel and a shelf set back into the semi’s rear wall, meant for use as a bed, you surmise. It’s empty, unsurprisingly. Not a blanket or a pillow in sight.

Finally, your suspicions are put to rest. This truck doesn’t look lived in at all. He really is operating it remotely.

“God, it looks brand new in here,” you marvel aloud, suddenly hyper-conscious of the abysmal state of your old pickup. The scratches on this semi’s exterior play briefly on your mind but you brush your musings aside, too fatigued to consider the contradictions of a worn exterior but an immaculate interior.

Instead, you feel a frown crease the skin between your brows.

It really is immaculate in here…

Glancing down, you scowl disdainfully at your filthy shoes, the tank-top that’s stained irreparably by dropped food and greasy finger-smears, and trousers that are tattered and worn at their hems.

“Is everything all right?” the ‘driver’ asks again. His voice must emerge from the speakers on each door, low and warm, filling up the cabin.

“My shoes are dirty,” you admit out loud, your grip on the handle turning slack until you sink a few inches back to the first step, “I’m dirty. I-I don’t want to get sand and crap all over your truck.”

“I don’t mind.”

Spoken with more consideration than you’ve heard in a long, long time.

You pause at once, brows tipping up in the centre of your forehead.

A deep inhale through your nose brings with it the unobtrusive scent of leather, with the faintest undertone of adhesive sealers, giving the interior that ‘new truck smell’ that so many drivers try to replicate artificially.

Comparatively, it’s been several days since you passed a rest stop that had showering facilities. Those that did asked for a hefty charge. You’d glanced down at the handful of coppers in your centre console and decided you could go without. Now, you’re starting to regret that decision. Every now and then, whenever you raised your arms to stretch or flip the visor down in your pickup, you’d catch an unpleasant whiff of yourself wafting out from under your light, cotton shirt.

Embarrassed as you are to confess that you’ve been severely neglecting your personal hygiene, you swallow past a lump in your throat and croak, “I… haven’t exactly washed for a couple of days… I wouldn’t want to make your truck smell…”

And in a tone so kind it threatens to brings a tear to your eye, the stranger answers consolingly, “I think your scent is perfectly fine.”

It’s so damnably genuine, you can’t even find it in yourself to point out that he isn’t here to smell you, so his point is moot.

“I…” One more cop-out strikes you. “I don’t have any money,” you murmur truthfully, ashamed, “I can’t pay you for the fuel, or-“

“-I ask for nothing in return but your company,” is all he says, cutting you off as gently as his profound voice will allow.

And just like that, you’re out of viable excuses. Or perhaps your body has noticed the comfortable seats right in front of it and you don’t have enough fight left in you to deny it a sit down. Besides, any reasons you come up with to dip are likely to be met with a counterpoint.

Even so, you can’t help but hesitate for one more question, hand clasping and unclasping around the grab handle. “Are you sure it’s okay? I’m not going to get you in trouble or anything am I?”

The next sound that hums through his speakers is so soft and rich, you think it’s the truck’s engine playing up again, at least until the stranger cuts the noise off by saying, “You do not look like trouble to me.”

If he only knew.

The sound prior, you realise, was a chuckle, the first one you’ve heard out of him yet. Something in the measure of it settles the last of your nerves, only slightly, just long enough to have you throwing caution to the wind. With a final heave, you pull yourself the rest of the way inside, sliding gingerly into the comfortable passenger seat. You never notice how the metal below your foot shifts microscopically, lifting you closer to the cab.

It takes a lot of restraint not to let your eyes drift closed, nor to slump backwards into the wondrously giving material on your spine.

Instead, you sit stiffly with your rucksack keeping you upright, legs pressed together, hands folded neatly in your lap. If you make any kind of mess in here, you’ll be mortified.

After a moment, you remember to close the door, but just as you turn and peel a hand off your thigh, you jolt, staring agog at the door as it swings slowly shut with a dull ‘click.’ All of its own accord.

“Full remote access,” the voice pipes up as the engine below you roars to life, and then you’re moving, and all you can do is stare through the window at the desert drifting by whilst trying to ignore the uninvited ache in your chest.

“Seatbelt.”

His gentle prompt spurs you to reach over and grab the fabric near your shoulder, tugging it across your body and fumbling a little to slot it into place. Suddenly, you feel an invisible pull on the belt, and the metal buckle finds its way into the socket on your next pass.

‘Must be magnetic,’ you muse distractedly.

“Are you comfortable?”

Blinking back the moisture in your eyes, you turn to glance at the empty driver’s seat. It’s bizarre, and more than a little unsettling to see the steering wheel turn itself around as the truck pulls back onto the road, driven by unseen hands.

When you don’t immediately respond to his query, the man continues just as patiently as before. “If it is too cold, I can turn up the heater. Or… perhaps you are too warm…” He hums to himself, thoughtful. “You have been exerting yourself.”

You instantly become aware of the light sheen of sweat that hasn’t quite dried on your forehead. Puckering your face up into a solemn smile, you shake your head and at last respond. “Not to worry. It’s very comfortable in here.”

What follows is a poignant moment of hesitation before the voice speaks again. “Forgive me if I’m overstepping, but… You do not seem comfortable…”

The open-ended statement fades into silence, and you’re left casting nervous glances around the cabin again. “How do you-?” you start, tugging your shirt further down your arms, “Can you see me? Like… in here?”

Again, there’s a pause, barely longer than a second, yet long enough for you to notice it.

“Cameras,” comes his measured response, “Both external and internal. They’re how I spotted you on the road.”

“Oh, I hadn’t even considered that… Of course.”

Suddenly self-conscious, you reach up and begin to paw uselessly at your dishevelled hair, humming though a thin-lipped smile. “I must look a sight,” you half joke.

“You look tired…” he replies diplomatically, and there’s nothing in it for you to be offended by.

Rubbing a thumb over the wrinkle slowly carving a home between your brows, you heave a dreary sigh. “It’s been a long journey.”

“I can only imagine… And… Where does it culminate, if I may?”

“Terry’s Dairy?” you offer, “Uh, it’s this little farm just on the outskirts of Jasper.”

The truck beneath you gives a reverberating thrum. “I know the pastures, but I’m afraid you will find they lay beyond the ‘outskirts’ of the city.”

Letting out a groan, you knock your head back against the seat behind you, staring bleakly up at the ceiling. “Of course… How far?”

“Only a few miles, to the East of Jasper. We’re coming in from the Northwest highway. I can get you there in twenty-five minutes.”

“Twenty- Oh, no, no. You really don’t have to do that,” you protest, shifting in the seat to frown at the empty driver’s seat in lieu of anywhere else to look, “Just drop me off in town and I’ll walk the rest. You’re already going out of your way for a stranger.”

“I am dropping you off at your destination and not a mile before,” he tells you steadily.

His uncompromising tone brooks no argument.

You stare at the spot a person should be for several, long moments, debating how much you could push an argument. He’s already coaxed you into his truck, his powers of persuasion are rather good. What chance do you have, sleep-deprived as you are?

Conceding sullenly, yet appreciatively, you let your back touch the seat, settling into it a little less hesitantly. “You won’t be taking no for an answer, I assume?”

He only lapses into a stubborn silence, an answer in and of itself.

That quiet is broken, however, when you suddenly let out all the air from your lungs, a smile growing across the width of your face as the breath escapes your nostrils in a sigh. “Thank you for this… Really. You’re saving me a lot of grief.”

The blue neons on his dashboard seem to flare a bit brighter for all of a second before they dim again. “I am glad to be of service,” he replies warmly.

“Oh my god,” you blurt without warning, leaning forwards in the seat and staring through the windscreen with wide eyes, “I’m so sorry, you’re being so nice and I’m so rude – I never asked your name.”

“Nor did I yours,” he points out, “You may call me Op-“

Suddenly, a burst of static buzzes through the radio. You shoot it a funny look.

“Optimus,” the stranger admits over the static with a hesitance you pick up on right away, drawing your gaze from the dash, “My name is Optimus.”

“Optimus?” you repeat incredulously, a small smile quirking at the edges of your mouth, “Wow… You must have had creative parents.”

“I appreciate that it might seem… an unusual name…”

“It is,” you agree pleasantly, “I like it. Makes you sound cool. Unique. My parents just stuck me with Y/n.”

At once, Optimus echoes your name, and you’re jarred by the sound of it coming from someone else’s lips, reverberating around the truck. It’s been a while since anyone used it.

“Y/n,” he says again in his velvety timbre, “It’s a fine name. I like yours too.”

Bruh did I just get clocked wtf

Mr. Sexy

Sailor Moon Skylines

I just thought of something cute.

Also, friendly reminder that although this is a sfw drabble, my blog is 18+, Minors and Ageless blogs dni

.・。.・゜✭・🦷・✫・゜・。.

Y'know how Ghost pulls out some jokes here and there and is generally good at quips?

Imagine that the boys are out, just having a little get together at a bar after a successful mission and Simon pulls out one of his shit jokes.

You happen to sit nearby, your friend in the bathroom so you have nothing to do other than drink and listen to the environment around you.

"What's the difference between an oysterman and a prostitute with diarrhea?"

...

What?

Slowly, you set down your drink and listen carefully as a deeper, gruff voice behind you starts off a bit.

The Scotsman of the group groans audibly, "Steaming Jesus... What?"

"One shucks between fits, and the other fucks between shits."

Immediately, your forehead hits the counter as a fit of giggles bubble up and spill from your lips, uncontrollable, especially with how the joke, so fucking stupid, keeps replaying in your head. Your laughter is highly contagious as it seems, as the group of men behind you begin chuckling along.

"LT, ah think they liked yer joke."

Through little giggles, calming down from that little fit of yours, you throw a peek over your shoulder, catching onto the darkest yet equally shining pair of eyes, crinkling with a small grin as the large blond regards you with amusement and intrigue.

.・。.・゜✭・🦷・✫・゜・。.

Reblogs are highly appreciated :)

Hoh my god they are so wonderful and soft and heartachingly sweet together. Holding the hopes of a good end for these two clenched in my fist right now.

Also, the ambiguous confession-that-was-kinda-is-and-not-a-confession???? Perfect

a world alone

the killerverse masterlist

pairing: luke castellan x daughter of ares reader

word count: 6.6k

summary: set before luke’s quest. you and luke take a well deserved day off at the lake, and you talk about the future

content: happiness. me waxing poetic about luke castellan via killers inner monologue about him lol, talks of having kids

notes: title from a world alone by lorde. this is probably my favorite chapter lol i hope you enjoy as much as i did!

Luke’s hands burn hot where they rest on your shoulders. You wonder if they’re going to leave behind marks in the shape of his palms, like brands pressed onto your skin forever.

The slight breeze coasts past your arms, tickling the bare skin of your arms and legs. The sun beats hot on your backs, but the excitement outweighs whatever discomfort it could bring. You can hear the sounds of the lake already, and you can’t help but turn to Luke with an uncontrollable smile.

The two of you speed up, listening to the sounds of nature and the crunching of dirt and gravel beneath your feet. Luke has been planning this day for forever, and even though he’d be stuck with two weeks of extra dishwashing, he swears it’ll be more than worth it.

The Hermes campers would officially be under Chris’ rule for a day, and you and Luke were free to take a day off.

“How much do you bet your cabin will be on fire when we get back?” you can’t help but ask.

He laughs quietly by your left ear, and it sends chills down your spine. “I’m trying not to think about that.”

The trees begin to grow sparse as the lake comes into view, so Luke slips your backpack from his shoulders, swinging it and letting it smack into his calves. The moment his feet hit the dock, the bag falls to the ground with a metallic thunk, and you sigh out his name, annoyed.

“I slaved over those sandwiches, you know. I’m making you carry me back to camp if they're flattened.”

He smiles, guilty, his hands frozen over the main pocket of the bag. The towels he’d packed are already hanging halfway out of it, the mat you’d brought to lounge on tucked under his arm. He’s practically halfway in the water already. “Sorry, chef.”

“You can relax. The lake’s not going anywhere,” you tease. Your shoulders brush when you nudge him away from your bag to rifle through it yourself.

Even though you poke fun at him, you can’t help but feel the same way. It’s been too long since you and Luke have had any personal time that wasn’t surrounded by other demigods. Your break’s been long overdue.

Luke surveys the best spot for swimming while you scrutinize the wooden dock. The old thing is riddled with splinters and nails and wobbly pieces of wood, but you find a good spot just on the edge of the structure.

The second your mat is rolled out, you collapse right on top of it. It’s an old plastic thing that one of Luke’s brothers stole from who knows where. The dark blue material folds into the shape of a bag so it’s easy to lug around, but years of lakeside lounges have worn it down — the strap that makes it into an actual bag snapped off a while ago.

You have to shove your hand to the very bottom of your backpack to find Luke’s sunglasses, but you’re quick to throw them over your eyes as you lay back down. The sun hits your skin and seeps the tension straight from your body. You wish Apollo were here so you could thank him personally; if it was possible to sunbathe forever, you would.

The rays on your skin are perfect. The lake is perfect. Being here with your best friend is perfect.

Luke moves from his spot by the other side of the dock and steps in front of you, eclipsing the sun. You peer at him over the rims of his glasses, unable to see much of him with the way he’s standing against the light.

“You look comfortable,” he says, rocking back onto his heels.

You prod at his ankles that are parallel with your face. “I am. Now move over, you’re blocking the sun.”

Something hard drops onto the wood beside your head, and your eyes shift to the container by your side.

It’s Luke’s sticky tube of sunscreen. The cartoon sun printed onto the front of the plastic is enjoying himself, his own shades pasted above a smug grin.

Luke nudges it towards you. “Could you get my back?”

You’re about to complain. He knows how much you hate the greasy feeling the sunscreen leaves on your hands and on everything you touch afterwards, but he’s making you do it anyway. Your eyes trail back up to glare at him, and you make it through a single syllable before your complaint evaporates in the heat.

He’s still looking at you expectantly, and he nudges the bottle closer to you with the point of his sandals again.

He’s trying to rush you, but you don’t really care. You’re thinking.

Yeah.

Thinking.

You’ve known Luke through everything. The terrible twos, your fear of the dark at six, his obsession with Pokémon cards at eight, and both of your awkward, gangly, preteen years.

In your head, Luke’s still your best friend that’s trying to relearn how to use a sword after he’d hit a growth spurt at fourteen. Whoever the fuck is standing in front of you now is not him.

Sometime between when you’d first arrived and had gotten settled on the dock, Luke had stripped himself down to his swimming trunks, eager to get into the water. Sunscreen he hasn’t fully worked into his skin leaves a white cast down his chest and arms, and you have to blink to see if the shadows are playing tricks on your eyes.

Luke had always been strong. But fighting off monsters thirsty for demigod blood generally did not require having abs.

Fed up with your staring, he pushes you over on the mat and places the sunscreen into your hand himself. His biceps shift and grow taut as he leans over.

“Have you been lifting?” you say, instead of anything normal. The tube of sunscreen feels like a thousand pound weight in your hand.

“Oh.” Luke looks down at his arms, as if he hasn’t even thought about how different he looks. He flexes just to show you, and your eyes actually widen at the definition of his arms. You trace the pathways his veins make from his wrist all the way up, feeling like you’re seeing muscles for the first time ever. “Yeah. A little.”

“A little?” you repeat, before actually laughing. “Dude.” You prod at his stomach, and he swats you away, red creeping up his neck. “Back in the day, they could’ve used your chest as like, one of those old laundry washboards. Since when do you work out?”

For a second, his face falls. The light air that’s been sitting between you two feels tainted. Luke shifts his eyes from your face to a spot behind your head, and you realize you’ve been walking carelessly through a landmine.

“Just, since…” He goes quiet for another few seconds. “Since Michael’s quest.”

Luke’s voice twists in a way it only does when he talks about things revolving around his dad. Your heart sinks with the weight of guilt.

Months ago, Luke’s older brother Michael had received a quest from Hermes himself. Him and his quest group had emerged victorious, finishing the quest with tons of time to spare. The three of them were treated like royalty the second they’d stepped through the entrance to camp.

Luke had never outright told you, but you know he’d been jealous. His relationship with his dad has always been rocky, but you think he wants to prove himself, for one reason or another. The bulking and the additional training… All of it must be to show his dad he’s ready. For his own quest, or something else.

Comfort has never come easy to you. But it does when it comes to Luke. A lot of the time, he just wants to be reminded that you’re there for him, even if you’re just sitting in silence. Words don’t usually work when he’s upset about things like this, so you finally pop open the sunscreen to give your hands something to do. He turns around without a word.

There’s a spot of white on his back in the shape of a smeared handprint where he must’ve tried putting it on himself before realizing it was no use. As you apply some more properly, the sunscreen disappears under your fingers, and you don’t even think about how gross your hands will feel later. You put on more of the lotion, rubbing slow circles into the broad stretch of his shoulders and then the dips of his back.

It feels weird touching the expanse of his bare skin like this. You’ve felt the warmth of him countless times, but always through a shirt or a jacket or that one sweatshirt that’s now yours. Luke’s skin is so warm it makes you want to slump forward and let him hold you until sleep takes you away. Absent-mindedly, your hands reach out to trace over a spot on his shoulder blades that’s covered in freckles.

“Killer,” Luke says softly. He pinches the skin just above your knee and your hands stop moving. “You’re supposed to help me put sunscreen on, not give me a massage.”

“Oh.” You realize his back has been thoroughly covered two times over. “Sorry. I got distracted.”

“That’s okay. It’s your turn, though.”

You sigh, slumping back onto the mat. He turns around to face you again, the harsh lines of his frown already disappearing off his face.

“You need to invest in better sunscreen,” you say as he works to undo the buttons of your old Hawaiian tee. “This one makes me feel so gross.”

Luke doesn’t say anything about your complaining. He’s too busy looking perfectly sun kissed, a light dusting of red across his cheeks glowing against his tan. He motions for you to turn over, and you oblige.

You don’t mention how you haven’t even put sunscreen on the parts of your body you can reach, but he doesn’t bring it up, so neither do you.

You’ll give him this. He needs something to do that isn’t sitting and thinking about his dad, and you’re willing to let it slide even if it’s at the cost of feeling greasy and gross.

“You know what’s even worse than the sunscreen?” he asks.

“What?”

“Skin cancer.”

Luke’s already grinning when you tilt your head to glare at him. “What even possessed you to say that?”

He laughs, squeezing the bottle of sunscreen directly onto your back. You flinch at the coldness, but it’s quickly remedied with the warmth of Luke’s hands. He doesn’t let the sunscreen sit for a second before he’s working it into your skin. You can feel every single movement of his fingers and every shape he traces there.

The slowing of his hands when he lingers at the scar on your back nearly causes a full body reaction.

“Thought we weren’t giving each other massages,” you choke out, just so he stops dragging his nails over the raised skin.

He hums. “Your scars look really badass.”

(Luke does this a lot — says something offtopic in lieu of responding. He doesn’t mean to do it to ignore you, and you don’t take offense, especially if it's during quiet moments like these. When you sit in silence like this, his off topic thoughts tend to morph into compliments.)

You feel flushed all of a sudden. “Thanks, hero. But keep going, please. I can feel my skin withering away under the sun already.”

You can hear the smile in Luke’s voice when he says, “Told you.”

A bit higher up, closer to your spine, he presses a finger into your back twice, each prod an inch apart. And then, just below, he drags his finger in the shape of an arc. He leans back on his heels to look at it.

You push yourself off of the dock, trying to crane your neck around to look at your spine. “Did you just… draw a smiley face?”

“What?” his left hand pushes your face away while the other swipes quickly over your skin again. “No. Stop moving around.”

“So that wasn’t you trying to wipe away the evidence?”

He scoffs. “I’m not five years old.”

“Sure.”

He wipes away the last of his sunscreen art once and for all. As quick as he can, he smears more into your shoulder blades, and the back of your neck, and the tops of your shoulders.

Luke pauses for a second, and for a second you think he’s finally done. But you can feel his hands move out of the dip of your back and higher up, his touch feather light. His index finger ghosts over the band of your top, and he pinches the fabric between his fingers.

“Is it good if I lift this for a second?”

“Yeah.” You clear your throat of whatever’s blocking your windpipe. The fraction of space between you burns with heat. “You’re good.”

The split second he spends passing his hand over the skin there feels like it lasts an hour. A moment later, the fabric is snapping back into place, and he pats your back twice to let you know he’s done.

“Want me to get your arms for you?” he asks.

A weird wave of restlessness washes over you. You shove the cap back onto the sunscreen, your hands fumbling to toss it back into your bag with his sunglasses.

“We’ve been up here forever,” you groan, Luke’s impatience from earlier suddenly infectious. “I’m trying to spend at least some of our lake day in the actual lake.”

“Great.” Luke lifts himself to his feet and extends a hand.

The mat is warm under your feet when he helps you up. You can feel his hand squeeze yours a little too tight, and your stomach nearly drops when you realize he’s looking away from you, towards the water.

“Luke,” you warn, planting your feet and trying to resist the way he pulls you forward. “No.”

When he turns back to look at you, his eyes glint the same way it does when he’s waiting for one of his brothers to fall for one of his stupid pranks. And of course, he’s grinning at you the same way he does when someone doesn’t realize he’s nicked something straight out of their pocket. It’s the always mischievous face of a son of Hermes.

Ever innocent, he asks, “What’re you talkin’ about?”

You stumble when Luke uses his other hand to tug you closer. Dread spikes in your chest. He pulls you right into his chest at the edge of the dock, locking his arms around your waist.

You’re stuck. “The water’s cold, Luke, please—”

“You’ll warm up,” he promises, his voice sweet and low.

A second later, with his firm grasp around your middle, Luke tip both of you backwards off the dock.

The cold water jolts you out of the peaceful state you’d been in just a few seconds ago. The air is effectively shocked straight from your lungs, the water rushing past your ears and bubbles dancing across your vision. He releases you so both of you can resurface, and his laugh is the first thing you hear when you come up for air.

You make sure to splash him in the face the second you gain your bearings. “Asshole.”

The dark mess of curls on his head hangs over his eyes, heavy with water. He shakes it out like a dog, sending droplets straight at your face.

“Maybe if you didn’t always take fucking forever to get in, I wouldn’t have—”

You drop your tone and mock him accordingly. He splashes you again, grinning. The water has washed every remaining part of his frown away, the quest slipping from his mind.

This spot by the dock is shallow enough for both of you to just be able to stand. Sated with happiness, Luke lets his guard down enough to let you come closer and wrap your arms around his neck. You seize the opportunity to shove his head underwater, managing it for a few seconds before you feel his hands go under your arms.

You scream, your hands slipping off of his wet shoulders when you try to hold onto him. Armed with a steady grip, he tosses you straight over his shoulder and head first into the water.

His smile is what greets you when you resurface. He slicks your wet hair away from your eyes, laughing at the scowl on your face.

“I’m sorry, I swear,” he insists, pulling you closer. He’s using that stupid starry eyed look he always uses to get you to forgive him. “I’m done now, no more fighting.”

He puts both of his hands on your face, swiping away drops of water that track down your cheeks.

“Luke Castellan.” You sigh, leaning into his palm.

His eyes follow a droplet that runs down your neck. “Yeah?”

“I hope you can swim fast.”

When you catch him halfway down the lake, his laughter echoes throughout the clearing, joining the sound of the wind rushing through the trees and the choir of birds over your heads.

—

The sun has long moved from the high point of the sky when you decide to get out. Luke calls it a day when he can barely move his legs, thighs burning from swimming. You’d been clinging to his side for a while at that point, teeth chattering without the hot sun to warm the water.

Luke pushes himself up onto the dock and nudges his waterlogged hair out of his face. When he extends a hand to you, water runs down the slopes of his arms and drips down his fingertips.

He snaps his fingers in your face when you don’t reach for him. “The hypothermia get to your brain already?”

You grip his hand in yours, tugging him forward like you’re going to pull him back in. “Funny. I was actually deciding whether or not I should make you face plant.”

You dry yourselves off before Luke disappears into the woods for firewood — not without a comment about what happened the last time he let you go get it — and you set up your stuff on a soft tuft of grass as close to the water as you can get.

He reappears after a few minutes, his arms full with sticks that he drops at the foot of the mat. “There wasn’t much dry wood out there. Might only have enough for an hour or two.”

“That’s okay. It’s more wood than I ever managed to bring back by myself, anyway.”

Luke freezes from where he’s starting the fire, the flame of his lighter dancing in his cupped hands. He turns to see the shit-eating grin on your face. “That was a good one.”

“Thanks.”

Luke busies himself with the fire, letting the kindling catch while you take out the sandwiches you’d brought. Thankfully, only one of them is a little smushed from Luke’s reckless bag handling, but you set aside the nicer one for him anyway. You work your hands over the aluminum wrapping as you sit back.

“It’s been a while,” you say, just loud enough for your voice to carry over.

Luke tosses another piece of wood into the fire to feed the growing flames. “Since what?”

Since this. Everything’s the same. There’s the silhouette of Luke’s back, a shape you’d recognize even without the light of the sky. There’s the familiar warmth of the fire at your feet. And there’s that summertime buzz in the air — a sound you can’t place, but know like the sound of your own voice. It’s the sound of you and Luke’s nighttime lullaby from all those years ago. It’s been so long since you’d been out here alone together.

“Eating sandwiches by the fire. The woods. Us.”

He mumbles something that you can’t hear. Louder, he says, “At least the sandwiches are good this time around.”

You crack a smile. “That’s true. No more old peanut butter and crumbly bread.”

Luke had hated eating those things as a kid, but he’d toughed it out for you. The sandwiches reminded you of home. Even though the dry crust tasted nearly powdery in your mouth, you would close your eyes and imagine sitting under the tree in Luke’s backyard, eating a plate of sandwiches and drinking your mom’s lemonade.

You reach for the sweater at the bottom of your bag, tugging it over your top. When you pull out the blanket you’d brought, you’re surprised to see the bottom of the bag. You turn to face Luke.

“You didn’t bring a jacket?” you ask. He shakes his head no, calm and collected like he can barely feel the breeze that whips his hair around.

“You’re gonna get cold,” you chastise.

Satisfied with the fire, he finally settles down next to you. “It’s not even that bad out. You’re just cold-blooded.”

You hold the back of your hand against his neck, and he cringes away. Teasingly, you say, “You know what they say. Cold hands, warm heart.”

He tugs the blanket over both of your laps and opens his left arm for you to lean against him. You’d slept like this as kids, too, his left arm over your shoulder and his weapon of choice sitting in his right hand. You would switch when it was your turn to keep watch, the familiar weight of your knife in your dominant hand and Luke’s warmth coming from your other side.

But you’re at home now. You no longer have to sleep with the handle of your knife imprinted into your hand, and Luke is free to take your hands in his. He rubs his thumbs over your skin, his hands hot and soothing.

“If that saying’s true, my heart must be made of ice, then,” he says, no doubt feeling the warmth seeping back into your hands from the heat of his.

You smile, watching as he turns your palms over in his until they feel normal again. You probably would’ve turned into a demigod popsicle without Luke all those years ago, and the same is true. The mutual body heat was often the only source of warmth you’d have in the colder months.

Keeping each other alive is all you two seem to do.

After a few seconds, Luke tugs you back to lay on the mat with him. You turn further into him, soaking up every ounce of comfort he offers.

With your head tilted back, you can see the makings of stars in the sky, just beginning to fade into the blue with the sun setting. You’d have to ask someone to teach you the constellations visible this time of year.

Luke taps out a rhythm on your forearm, and then on your bicep, and then up to your shoulder. His hand finds its way into your hair, rubbing at your scalp before slipping down to the ends.

There’s a glowing form brighter than the rest just above the treeline. A planet, maybe. Or a star. You’d probably be able to remember if you weren’t so tired.

You can feel light tugs at the end of your hair — Luke, playing with the ends, twisting strands around his finger before letting it go.

“We’re gonna fall asleep,” you warn, but you’re much too comfortable to actually do something about it. His chest rises steadily at your side, the even movements drawing you closer and closer to sleep.

Luke’s eyes have taken on a faraway look to them, his hand still messing with the tips of your hair. While you stare skyward, he’s focused his eyes on the setting sun right ahead.

“Hey.” You link his restless hand with yours. “Can you start talking about something? I don’t want to fall asleep yet.”

He squeezes you twice. “You cut your hair.”

You wilt, your face already beginning to heat up. “Preferably anything but that.”

“Why?” he asks, turning to face you. His eyebrows knit in genuine confusion. “It looks great.”

“Not really.” Your own hand slips from his to pull at the ends self-consciously. “I love Junia, I do, but she cut it way too short. I can’t look at it.”

He tilts his head to look at you head on, a frown on his pretty face. He nudges a strand behind your ear, deep in thought, like he’s trying to look for something. “Don’t say that. It looks good. You just haven’t had it this short in a while.”

“I know, which is why I hate it,” you lament. “It’ll be a while until it grows back.” You’d been mourning the lost length all day, and thought Luke wouldn’t be able to notice the difference.

He flicks your forehead, eliciting an ow from you. “Always so stubborn. You look cute, killer.”

You let your hair that you’d worried between your fingers fall back into place. You squint at Luke for any sign of a pity compliment.

“You really think so?”

He seems to take offense at your doubt. “You really think I’d lie to you?”

It’s crazy how much weight Luke’s words hold in your mind. You know the next time you look in the mirror, you’ll rethink everything about the way you look.

When you settle back down without a word, Luke knows he’s won. He tugs at the fabric of your sweatshirt.

“You talk to your sister lately?” He asks, just to change the subject.

You look down at your sweater. Emblazoned across the front are letters that spell out UC San Diego.

“Kinda. She sent me and Clarisse a postcard and some merch from school. Clarisse refuses to wear the t-shirt she got, though.” Luke’s hand reaches out to trace over the embroidered letters. “Mel says she wants to visit soon. I can’t wait to see her.”

Mel was the Ares cabin counselor up until last summer, when she’d left for college on the other coast. You’ve missed her terribly, but you heard all about her life out there and knew she was having a great time.

“She’s almost done her sophomore year. I think she switched her major to nursing, or something,” you add on. “Kinda ironic, isn’t it? A daughter of Ares healing injuries instead of causing them.”

Luke smiles. “I can see it. Mel’s always been the nicest Ares kid I know.”

You huff. “Well, thanks.”

He pretends to think it over again for a few seconds. “Don’t worry. I’d say you’re tied with Clarisse for last.”

“Ha ha,” you drawl. “Fuck you.”

“Actually, you rank just above her, I think. She would definitely drown me if she found out she wasn’t at the bottom of the list.”

“Probably.”

Luke’s hand is still pressed to the letters on your sweatshirt, his eyes trained on the words there. Something begins to form in the back of your mind.

“Maybe we could take another trip,” you suggest. “Me and you. California.”

The amusement is written on his face. “As if Chiron would let us take another vacation. We barely got him to agree to the last one.”

“But he caved eventually!” you remind him. “And wasn’t it great?”

“I guess.”

“Oh, please. That was the most fun we’ve ever had, and you know it.”

(For your sixteenth birthday, you and Luke had managed to charm your way into letting Chiron and Mr. D set you loose in New York City. You’d been on your own for a day, spending your allowance of a whopping fifty dollars on two small meals at an even smaller restaurant. You had also managed to score sight-seeing tickets on a rickety boat that didn’t look safe to ride.

Luke had rubbed your back for you when you’d gotten seasick, and given you Dramamine he’d pilfered from the bag of a man a few rows ahead of you. You’d given each other an awkward look when the guy got sick over the side of the boat an hour later.

“Here, man,” Luke had said. He placed the foil of Dramamine tablets in his hand. “We have extra.”

The man nearly got down on the floor, thankful out of his mind. There were tears in his eyes when he said, “Thank you so much. I seem to have forgotten mine, and I get so terribly sick on boats.”

You and Luke were silent for the last ten minutes back to the dock.)

“We might have to wait a while to ask,” Luke says, giving in. “Chiron’s not gonna be too happy when he finds out we skipped out on everything today.”

“You’re like the camp golden child. I’m sure if you flashed your pretty smile at him, he’d give in.”

Luke turns away, smug.

The two of you settle into another bout of silence, thoughts of the sunny California beaches running through your minds. You can picture the both of you there already — a little older, a lot happier. Luke would probably take up surfing, because he’s that kinda guy. You’d have a Jeep, or something, driving to the beach with the top down to watch the sun setting over the water.

“We could always say we’re touring schools,” you offer. “We should probably be thinking about future colleges, anyway.”

Luke sits up abruptly, so you do too. When you see the look on his face, fear strikes in your chest. His eyes are shining with something unreadable, and it’s beginning to dawn on you that you and Luke haven’t discussed this before. You have no idea if he even wants to go to college, and you’re already roping him into your fantasy of school on the west coast.

“You want that?” he asks, quiet.

“I think so,” you say honestly. “I kinda just assumed we’d go somewhere together.”

Luke is silent, his face a complete mix of emotions that you can’t tell are good or bad.

It sounds beyond dramatic, but it feels like the rest of your life is riding on the rest of this conversation. There’s no future for you without Luke in it.

Your voice is quiet when you speak next. “Do you want that?”

You can’t imagine what would happen if Luke suggests something like the two of you splitting up, finding your own ways after camp. He’s in every plan you have, a permanent mark on the rest of your life.

Your attachment issues are serious. You’re barely able to imagine yourself as a person without Luke Castellan.

The way he smiles makes it feel like someone’s pumping air back into your lungs. It dispels every single doubt you’d ever had.

“Do I wanna go to college? Sure,” he says. The grin on his face lights up his eyes, gorgeous pools of dark brown. “But if you’re asking me if I want to be with you?”

Luke laughs in disbelief, like your question is the funniest thing in the world. The sound makes something in your chest constrict. “I hope you know it’s been a definite yes for the past decade.”

You don’t even realize how much you’re grinning until Luke leans forward to knock your forehead against his.

“Can I be honest with you?” you whisper, serious as ever.

The joy is written on your face, plain as day. It’s like you’ve ascended into the sky and merged into literal nature all at once. The wind rustles the taller grass blades behind you. A dove chirps over your heads.

Luke nods.

“Even if you decided you didn’t want to go to college, and just wanted to fuck off and live in the Canadian wilderness or something…”

You slide your arms around his neck just so you can hide your smile. You’re embarrassed out of your mind, knowing he can feel your grin against his skin. “I’d still go with you, honestly.”

A shocked laugh bursts from his throat. Luke’s arms link behind your lower back, and you fight the urge to do something stupid. “Fuck. Are you proposing, killer?”

You feel like you’ve been set on fire.

“I think we should go ask Chiron about plane tickets, like right now,” you say, no trace of a joke in your voice.

His chest rumbles against yours when he laughs. “Sure.”

The two of you stay like that for a few more minutes, and Luke only lets go of you to add the last remaining sticks into the fire. He sits back again, this time dragging you against his chest. He slumps onto your back, resting his chin on your shoulder.

It’s weird, knowing for a fact that you’re going to spend the rest of forever with your best friend.

“Do you ever think about, like, the other parts of the future?” you press, your curiosity getting the best of you.

His shoulders lift against your back in what you think is a shrug. “Like what? Up until now, I had no idea I even wanted to go to college.”

Of course.

“Like anything after college. Where you wanna live. If you want kids.”

Luke’s taken to rubbing the skin of your thigh through the blanket over both your laps. “I have, actually.”

His answer surprises you. He’s thought about stuff like that, which is a million years from now, but not college? Something that could very much happen in the next few years?

“Care to share?” you push. “I haven’t really thought about it yet.”

Luke hums, and you can tell he’s thinking everything over. You watch the fire dance in the pit while you wait for him to speak.

“I’ve always wanted to live by the water,” Luke admits. “I liked that about where we grew up.”

His voice takes on a quiet tone, always awkward whenever he mentions Connecticut. You’d lived in the suburbs about ten minutes from the coast, and so many of your summers and few weekends were spent down by the water.

“I think that’s why California sounds good to me,” Luke continues. “It’s not New England, and it’s different in a good way.”

You would love to go back to your mom’s house — see the place that shaped you and Luke into people. But you know he could never consider it. Westport haunts him even now, his own personal ghost.

“And I want a big house,” he continues. “With one kid. A boy or a girl, I don’t really care.”

“Luke Castellan, girl dad,” you tease, everything about it sounding fond.

In a few years, the same boy who used to chase you through his backyard with worms in his hands will be an adult. Your best friend, pressed against you right now, could one day be a dad.

“Maybe,” he answers. He squeezes your knee two times, and it keeps you from drifting off into your thoughts.

“I don’t know if the world could handle a Luke Castellan Jr. running around. You were a crazy kid.”

Luke pinches you in offense. “Big talk coming from you, killer.”

He draws out the syllables in the old nickname to drive his point across. The joke had come from somewhere, of course.

“It wasn’t like you were the angel between the two of us,” he adds.

You smile because you know he’s right. You’d been a handful for your mom, always causing some sort of trouble in one way or another. And Luke had been right there with you, every step of the way.

Beyond college, you don’t know what you want for yourself. You just know that you’re going to have Luke, no matter what happens.

You think of the two of you a few years from now with your college diplomas and your families in the audience. Years of laughter and sunscreen and your big house on the California beach. And then the two of you, old and tired but with a lifetime of stories to tell.

You sink further into the cradle of his arms. “I just can’t wait, Luke. For all of it.”

Straight ahead, the last of the light from the sun gets consumed by the darkness of the night. You and Luke lay there, alone under the stars.

He mumbles his answer into the quiet of the sky. “Me too.”

The fire goes out sometime later.

—

Luke dreams of you that night.

You’re about sixteen years younger, but it still looks just like you.

You’re both sitting on the beach, though it doesn’t quite look like the one from your childhood.

The water is so blue and the sand is so fine and white and Luke knows he’s never been here before. When he turns around, he can see nothing else but more sand behind him, an eternal beach his mind has drawn for him. In front of him is a stretch of water that goes as far as his eye can comprehend. And to his left is you.

He knows it has to be you the moment he sets his eyes on the back of your head, the same messy hair of his youth.

It’s the same kid he sat with on the back steps of his porch, hands sticky with melted popsicles. The same kid he’d watch late night cartoons with on his couch, asleep with a half eaten bowl of ice cream on the floor.

You turn to face him, and Luke knows if he had full control over his body, his face would’ve split into a grin.

You’re just a baby.

You’re so tiny that even the version of him in his dream reaches out for you. It seems that Dream You is still a baby, but Dream Luke isn’t.

There’s a ridiculous sunhat on your head, the kind his mom would make him wear as a kid. It’s in your favorite color, and when you toddle closer, he sees you smile with all three of your baby teeth.

There’s a few things different about you that don't feel familiar to him. Something about the curve of your nose is off, and your hair looks curly in the way that his is. There’s a look in your eye that reminds him a lot of one of his younger brothers, the makings of a mischievous smile new on your face. You waddle right into his arms, and he lets you clamber onto his left thigh. When you throw your tiny arms around his neck, he realizes you smell like his sunscreen and salt water.

You pat his face, your eyes wide and glittering. He wipes a bit of drool away from the corner of your mouth, and you jump a little.

“Mama,” you babble, since it’s probably the only world you know.

He thinks of your mother, all the way back in Connecticut. He thinks of her big smile and warm hands and her freshly squeezed lemonade and her empty house.

She was like a second mother to him. He thinks of how she likely saw this same thing — this tiny version of you, unable to talk and lacking motor skills.

“Mama,” you say again, insistent. You pat his face again, like you’re trying to get him to understand. But Dream Luke can’t do anything but hold you, it seems. So he does.

There’s a shift, and you notice it too. The hairs on the back of his neck stand up as he feels movement behind him. Luke knows he should feel on edge, but his body physically refuses to. Baby Killer goes crazy, blabbering excitedly as familiar arms go around his shoulders.

Luke recognizes the feeling immediately. They’re the same arms that he feels curled around him when he wakes up from his dream.

my commentary on the ending

the killerverse masterlist

notes: and somehow they still aren’t together… idk. this was definitely my favorite chapter to write so please oh please leave feedback if you enjoyed!! it means sooo so much.

tags in the rbs!