Taffer Notes: This chapter is rated somewhat M. And please kids, don't do this at home kids. Bad idea. Someone's probably gonna have a really bad time tomorrow.

Where does this fit in the timeline? Post Ending and before the [Hide and Seek] drabble, which references this scene briefly.

Blueberry.

The Magic Fortress doesn't have electricity. When there's nothing but the tinge of dark red creeping in through the windows barred with iron, the place gets awfully dark and I'm left flicking my flashlight through the halls.

It doesn't have running water either, but Harran is having itself a rainy season with summer gone and fall on the rise, so Rupert asks me for a favour, one that carries me up the steps and to the flat roof. He almost doesn't at first, but there's a tell on him, even past the grief that sits heavy on his head, weighing it down as he steals looks at the picture of his Jasmine. A self inflicted torment I cannot really blame him for.

First, he looks me up and down. Careful, with just the faintest twitch of his eyes. Weary eyes. Old eyes. Broken eyes. As if there'd been hope still while he'd ignored the rattling voice of his wife trapped behind the basement door. Hope, which Crane snuffed out. A sliver of a gentle dream, crushed underfoot. Now there's just grief left.

He asks. Then he changes his mind when his eyes catch my left hand, back-pedals real fast and makes excuses. Tells me he can do it himself. Tells me it's all good, there is probably no water there anyway.

'Cripple.'

I bristle.

"Water. Roof. Got it."

The mortified wizard opens his mouth to protest, but I'm already out the door.

I wear a glove on my left, a sturdy piece of leather, the fabric sliced off at the first joint of my thumb and index finger. The others I had stiffened up by stuffing cotton inside, faking a full count of five perfectly normal digits, because I didn't want people to see. To know. To look at me funny. And for a little while it kind of worked out.

"You're gonna get caught in something with this—"

Crane. Stupid, professional wanker. The next day he gave me needle and thread, and I sewed the tips shut around the nubs. Now everyone 's privy to my faults. Wanker. Muppet. Ass.

'Not a cripple.'

Night brings terrible things, but it also brings dew, and sometimes the unexpected shower. And since Rupert had himself distracted by the arrival of two numbskulls (and the passing of his wife), he hasn't had the chance for his water gathering routine— or maybe his bones ache and he's tired of the trek up and down the stairs. Who am I to judge.

Buckets and basins and bowls collect on the last steps up to the roof access door. Most are empty, but there's a few that remind me I'm thirsty, and how thick my tongue feels against the roof of my mouth. I swallow, an exercise harder than it should be, and I know there's more to it, to how my right hand dives into the confines of a pocket and the tips of my fingers find the hard edge of plastic packaging.

"Later," I tell the dark, stuffy staircase and head outside, a stack of empty containers gathered in my arms. Later, but soon, because I can feel the ache building, coiling up my left arm.

I righten buckets and arrange what I've got in a neat circle, all the while fighting the urge to move to the edge of the roof and look for Crane. A flutter of concern sits at the base of my heart, bumps it uneasily, because he doesn't have much time left before it gets dark. For a moment I even consider my radio, but then I can hear the delight in his voice and the words to match it. An "Aw shucks, I didn't know you cared, Paper Tiger." thumps through my head, and I focus on the water.

Of course I care, and he bloody well knows. He's still a muppet though.

It takes me three trips before I've got all the water dumped into the bathtub of the Fortress' wash room. A moment of weakness almost gets me to slump right into it, but that water is for drinking first, not flopping around in. Even if it's bloody tempting. There's an itch crawling over my skin as I stare at the water, a want for clean, and catch the tail end of a memory diving out of sight. Bubbles. Warmth. The scent of rose and vanilla— and a razor. Oh I bloody miss shaving my legs. Not like anything 's stopping me from doing it, it's just that it doesn't serve much of a purpose.

I frown, shake my head, and settle into the faint comfort of my evening ritual. My pack already sits waiting on a broken down dryer and I pinch out toothbrush and toothpaste. They get laid out and then I rifle through the drawers Rupert mentioned. Colorful plastic baskets line them front to back, filled with all sorts of bibs and bobs, and my flashlight sniffs at all of them.

"Candles… Candles…"

I find soap first, a whole drawer full of blocks and balls. They come in all sorts of colours, and I pick some up to give them a sniff. Strawberry. Peaches. Blueberry. Banana? The scents turn my stomach, because they're just the right amount of off from the edible kind that it gets all confused and yet wants me to try and take a bite anyway.

I bounce one of them in the palm of my hand and place it against the edge of the sink. Blueberry.

Two more drawers later and I've found the candles, and I mumble at the dark while I set them up and light them, and eventually stand in front of a cracked mirror with a toothbrush in my mouth and soft light flickering through the room.

It's not much of a routine, really. But it helps. Somewhat. For a few minutes I might as well pretend I'm back home. Boom. Blackout. Oh no, what am I to do? Stumble about my flat, hit my toes, curse and mutter and dig out the candles— and then curl up on the couch while squinting at a book.

More importantly though it's a routine that serves a purpose (unlike shaved legs). No one wants to need a dentist in Harran, since no one 's bloody found one yet.

I spit into the sink, slosh a bit of water from the Wash water bucket around in my mouth, and spit that out, too.

A moment later I'm staring at the mirror again, a pill pinched between my fingers. I already know that today isn't the day I stop taking them. Though I tell myself tomorrow, just like I did yesterday. And the day before— and the one before that— and dread grips me at the thought of running out.

I pop it into mouth. Swallow it dry. That hurts a little and I pick up a waiting cup to get some water, just as my radio clicks.

"Fuck—Uh— Shit—" Something rumbles and cracks and there's a roar, and I'm already at the top of the stairs before Crane adds: "Uh— A little help here?"

Goon: A bully, an arse of some magnitude. Or, as Harran had it, a tall and heavy limbed Biter, slow and dumb, but unbelievably tenacious and tough. We like to put labels on things, I suppose. It helps us understand them better, helps us set them right in our head. Even if they make no sense at all, at least we'll have a name to tack to the insanity. Viral, because they're… viral? I don't know. Biter, because they bloody bite. Volatile— now that one I never got, because how's it they are more volatile than the rest of the freaks. There's Toads too, those spit and they're green and covered in welts. Bombers (or as Crane keeps calling them Boomers ) are just downright nastier than anything should ever be, and the Screamers break my heart.

This thing that's hurtling itself at Crane though? Not a Goon, and I've got a problem with finding the right tag to snap to it. Until I remember Troll, and that fits. It's two heads taller than him, almost trice as wide, and it's got thighs as thick as my hip.

The gear on it (or what's left) gives me pause, a second of hesitation and regret, but I drop from the tall wall ringing the parking lot anyway, and nock an arrow.

A fireman.

It used to be a fireman.

A hero.

The sort that tried to help. The sort that went first. Died first.

Now it's hunched over and it thunders across the pavement, thick arms swinging at the air, and Crane barely steps from its path. Steps. He doesn't throw himself out the way, or roll for dear life. He takes a long, calculated sliding step, like it's the easiest thing ever, and his crowbar snaps down against the Troll's knee.

Thing staggers, but doesn't fall, just pounds to a halt and turns to face him, an angry bellow spilling from a slack jawed maw.

My first arrow gets it in the neck, lodges itself just where the heavy suit splits against swollen, corded muscle. Nothing. Bloody brilliant. I try again, draw as I walk, and let the steel tipped arrow fly just as it turns to face Crane. This one misses and I hiss after it, because it's not like these things are easy to make.

The third one hits. Bullseye, I suppose, or somewhere close enough, but the bloody Troll still keeps thrashing about, now with an arrow bobbing from the side of its blocky head.

I gnash my teeth. Got four more in the quiver. Better not waste them.

Crane keeps its attention focused on him, which isn't difficult, since it's daft as they come, goes for the fly buzzing around it, rather than the one taking potshots from a distance. He's slowing though, paces himself, and I catch a stagger here and there when the thing isn't about to lunge for him. Tired. He's tired, and I want to tell him he's a stubborn mule and that he's going to get himself killed over it one day.

I close the distance a little. Crane's eyes cut up to me, then back to the Troll, and my next arrow finds its knee, the same one that had gotten worked over by the crowbar before.

The Troll takes one more heavy step, and the knee buckles under its weight. It tries to stand again and the leg twists awkwardly under it, followed by a snapping, tearing POP. A moment later the ground shudders, gives a good buck at the slap of I-don't-know-how-many-fucking-stones against the pavement.

Crane is on it before the Troll can recover, gets in close, and runs the pointed edge of the crowbar through its skull.

Troll 0. Crane 1.

"What took you so long?" He asks first, but there's a flash of teeth in the dark shadow of his beard. A grateful flash. Then he winces and his steps falter. I see it, and he knows I do, but he shakes it off and pretends he's fine as we head back to the Magic Castle, the remains of a slain monster lying behind us.

We don't even loot it. We're terrible at this.

He doesn't look fine.

His shirt is a mess, and at first my heart squeezes itself silly because I think it's blood that collects in a thick swath down his spine and against his stomach. But once I show him the washroom and he slows down (because fuck that man, I can barely keep up at this point), I notice it's just— well— stuff. Motor oil and grime and grease, and whatever the bloody hell else he landed in while trying to keep himself from being smushed.

"Nice place," Crane says, his eyes cutting through the room, wandering between the sink and tub and the candles. I "Uh-huh," my agreement while I haul myself atop the broken down dryer and sift through my pack for disinfectant, because there's a gash on his right arm that's bleeding and he'll want that looked at.

For a while I sit in silence, the blueberry soap rolling around in my hand, while he fumbles around with getting his shirt off and spends a bit of time borrowing from my routine. We've only got one toothbrush with us when we're out and about (why risk losing two) and I remember how that took me a while to get used to. Now it's just about as normal as morning tea (which by the by, is still very normal).

"What's my reward?"

I lift my thoughts away from tea and shared toothbrushes, and look at Crane standing in front of me. My brow twitches. He's moved a wash basin close, placed it on the washer next to my dryer, a piece of cloth soaking in it. I lop the soap at him and he catches it against his chest. A dirty chest, all painted and smudged.

He squints at the soap and then at me, a small smile on his lips. "That's it?"

"You didn't get the quest from me. Go bug Rupert."

An amused chuckle makes it up his throat, which gets his stomach all worked up, tenses the lean cords of muscle that I'm definitely not looking at, because that'd be staring and staring is rude. And I'm not rude.

My eyes skip up, catch him waving his wrist at me, the blue bandanna still tied to it. He's grinning. Taunting. Teasing. His I know what you're looking at grin. I hate it. Sort of.

With a sigh I get to undoing the knot, and he does that thing again where he gets his finger against my skin while I work, and just like that the last forty minutes or so condense themselves to irrelevant distractions.

Maybe being a Biter wouldn't be so bad after all, if it means not having to deal with the flutter in my gut. A flutter that turns into a wild flurry when he catches my chin between his fingers and I flinch. It's not a jerk the other way, or me recoiling with fear. I don't do that and more, not with him.

Not sure what I expect when I look up, but it's not the pinch in his brow and the downwards tug of his lips at any rate. A bit too thoughtful for my taste, gears turning behind is light brown eyes, professional concern wrestling with things less business and maybe a little more play. Flickering candle light plays tricks on me, casts him in sharp shadows that go well with all the angles on him, and it takes me a moment before I drop my eyes away and settle them on his shoulder. No way I can keep up with the heavy stare, the one that pushes down into me, taking hold of things it shouldn't be allowed anywhere near.

I know what he's looking at, bit like he did with me. Staring at. His thumb rides down my cheek, the calloused skin hitching lower until it rests against the scar on my chin.

He's got one of those too: A bite mark. An expiration date.

Oh. Yeah. Right. Jasmine. I've almost forgotten. Well— bugger. Crane is getting sentimental, so I nudge his leg with my foot and puff at his chest.

His hand falls away and he takes a small step back, stays close, his thigh knocking into my leg, and starts cleaning himself off. Doesn't take long and he smells like a walking blueberry. A tall blueberry, made of angles and muscles and a set of dirty jeans.

A hush sits between us while he swabs the grime away and tends to the gash. Not the uncomfortable sort, the one stretched taut and wanting to snap, but a practiced and mellow one. Day done— Still alive— Time for rest— "Mind getting that for me?"

I grab the soggy cloth he's holding up, and he turns around, presents me with a grubby back. It could be worse. There are still a lot of bruises on him, but they've started healing, if a little slowly. My eyes cut between them as I set the sponge down, but there's something wrong with how they land, and more so with what they do with what they see. They register skin and the play of muscle underneath, the ridge of a shoulder blade and the knobby spine— but I'm not seeing his back in front of me.

Instead my mind takes itself for a spin, and I catch a question redhanded in the pot of indecencies. What would he be like?

My lips snags on my teeth. 'Relax. Focus.'

It's pointless.

The cloth rides down along his spine and I wonder if he's the slow type. If he teases and promises and doesn't deliver until things have gotten thoroughly out of control. A sort of inching forward kind of approach, maybe even make use of those fingers he keeps claiming are magic. I still don't buy that. He can pick locks, so what? Doesn't make his fingers anything special.

"Falling asleep back there?"

'Oh.'

I press my hand down against the cloth and swallow thickly, stop thinking about fingers, and move on.

Alternatively he might be the type to rush things, not bothering with warm up and getting right to business. It'd fit the restless itch on him.

The cloth comes away dirty and I wring it out. By now I smell like blueberry too, and there's soap everywhere.

He's strong. I know that. Could mean a lot— could mean he's one to take what he wants. Fling me around, put me wherever he so pleases.

No. Strong doesn't necessarily mean brute. I know that, too.

I work on my bottom lip. Fourth wring of the cloth and more soap, and I admit I've been surprisingly thorough, considering the state I'm in.

'Quiet or loud? Maybe he's one of those that squeak—'

"Oh god."

I wheeze, unable to keep the chuckle in while my mind works on a fairly detailed visual and audio representation of that particular thought.

His head snaps around and he's looking at me with his brows up in his forehead.

"What's so funny?"

I shake my head. Bite my lip. Lower the cloth and nod at him. You're done, is what this is meant to say, but he turns around, rather than walking away.

He stands there, up against the dryer, and I'm back to dabbing the wet cloth at him, even though there isn't much left to clean. I do pay attention though, trace it up along his side, then wander back down, right down the middle of him, following dark curls of hair until they dive out of sight in his jeans.

My heart is a proper mess. My ears are burning. My everything is burning, and for a while I think I'm going to suffocate, because breathing requires thought all of a sudden. At this point I'm pretty sure my heels are about to run dents into the dryer and I'm about to have a leg cramp or some other such untimely nonsense. And my mind keeps hiking.

Halfway through an image involving his hands on my hips and lips against my throat, I realise I'm not the only one having themselves a crisis.

There's water collecting at the band of his jeans. His belt is all scratched up. So 's the buckle, the dull silver block with a sideways smile stamped into it. A piece of red cloth is wrapped around the leather off to the left. The belt holes are worn, uneven. There's a lot going on and I try to focus on the small details, not that I can see a bugle at the front, which he's not even trying to be subtle about.

Of course that stirs things.

But it stirs them sideways, sends me careening off into a confusing flurry of things, the rights and the wrongs and a guilt for being me.

My jaw sets itself. Tight. Too tight. I try to work it loose, to breathe through the pressure in my ears, the one that's spread to the rest of me and threatens to break me in half.

For a moment there it works, and I put the washcloth down next to me. It slides right off the edge and flops to the floor. Way to go— but not really altogether important. There's still water on my fingers, and soap, so it's a slippery business when I reach for the stupid sideways grin on the buckle.

Crane freezes. His breathing stops— literally. Not a pull of air, he stands stock still, and when I don't take the hint his hand lands on mine.

"What are you doing…?"

'Wow, you're dense,' I think and continue battling the belt for a while, because there's all that soap and all that water and my fingers are shaking. I all but forget jeans have buttons and those are even worse. They keep snapping out from under my fingers until I'm sure I'm going to start ripping off a nail. He tries to help, but come on man, I'm "..not a cripple," I mutter and eventually win my little clash of clothing versus woman.

Belt 0 Zofia 1

He shuffles closer, and I get a nose full of chest, and a warm exhale down my neck. There isn't much room to breathe for me any more now, with all the air being made of Crane, so I breathe him in instead. It's something I'd gotten used to anyway, and I'm not going to pretend I haven't grown to like it. Mingled into the blueberry is all of him, the sharp and earthy scent he carries around, and I'm okay with that.

He helps me pull his trousers down a little and I don't stare (because I've already decided that's not polite), but I do look and the stirring turns into a wild chase of emotions that sits at the helm of a burning— need?

I'm not sure. I can't tell. I glitch. I phase out from in front of him, and find myself an observer to the act, a bystander of sorts, sitting at attention and close by.

Curious and terrified.

Wanting.

Not wanting.

There's one good hand left on me and I'm worried it won't do, because there's only so much you can do with it— so maybe yes, a cripple —and for a while I struggle with the concept. The me that sits on the sidelines finds this droll and I grit my teeth a little and show her that she can stuff it, because I've got this.

A little clumsy at first, overthinking things, but one hand is enough to get things moving, and I've got a good palm to slip over his head and a thumb to ride the ridge of it. Might be I'm doing something right, if his breath running hard against my ear is any indication to the fact. Or the grip of his hands on my knees. They tighten. Loosen. Tighten again— and then they fall away and start moving.

So he's the fair sort. Or wants to be, with his fingers riding up my thigh. Not questing, but very much knowing where he wants to go, and I make a noise at that point, because the me that's sitting on the reserve bench is ready to take off into the other direction.

I don't want that.

The noise gives him pause, freezes his breath halfway up his throat. His hands stop moving. He stops moving. The whole bloody lot of him. For a moment, anyway, because he's stubborn and he has himself another go. Cute. An optimist. 'NoSirNoToday.' I swat the hands away, let my teeth nip at the skin stretched over his collarbone.

That earns me two things: A frustrated growl rumbling up his chest, and his fingers curling in my belt loops. As if he can't quite believe the nerve on me.

Okay: Likes to be in charge. Not a big surprise, since he sets his own tune for everything else, too. Sets the pace. Likes to be in control of matters.

Half of that he reclaims, at least he tries to. He sets one hand alongside mine on him, while the other busies itself by resting warm against my neck. Holding on without the whole holding part of it, a thumb loosely nestled by my ear and the tips of his fingers pressing gently into my scalp.

Not a brute. Gentle. My silly good hand gets itself a helper, but he doesn't go and crush it, or rush me for that matter. Slow and steady, with a firm grip that doesn't leave up, but doesn't impose itself on my plan. If I had a plan, which I don't. I wonder if I ever had one.

My eyes are closed at this point, forehead settled into his chest, and reduce the world to what he's made of, the scent on him, the taste of salt and soap on my lips. The beat of his heart. The drag of air into his lungs.

Both are a bit erratic now, a bit more laboured. Not the I'm running for my life sort, the frantic thump of panic and strain. There's a different sort of heat on him, too. Not the Harran sun baking him, or overreach of a fight dialing him up. No, this is a smouldering warmth, and it's tempting. Almost worth being here for, but I can't quite find my way back in, so I settle for what I've got.

The sound of his breathing is a decent enough distraction, and gives me a scale to work towards, tells me where to set my fingers, how to flick my thumb. Especially that, so I follow the cues, until he tries to pace me.

Tries.

Fails, and there's a little whine in his chest and words on his lips, both of which make me laugh out there, even though I've got no idea what he just said. Something about fair and not and please, and I just fill in the blanks as I see fit.

His hand on my nape tightens. His breathing turns ragged. Each pull of air comes a little harder, until there's a hitch, a throaty stutter— and I figure out he's the quiet sort.

Polite, too. Cups a hand around mine, preventing a terrible mess, and then there's nothing for a while.

A lot of silence gnaws at the dark. Gnaws on my insides too, where I find nothing worth mentioning. No Oh what the hell did I just do? or Rawr. Sexy. Not even a Yuck. An echo is what I'm made of, resonating off myself while I try to get myself back to where I'm supposed to be: In front of him, sitting on the broken down dryer. Not the sidelines.

Crane rearranges his breathing while I try to sort things out, lets it settle back to a hint of normal, and forms muted words against my hair. Evidently I am not allowed to be privy to those, because he keeps them pressed tightly against me. But that's okay. More than that— I latch on the touch of his lips, follow it until I'm ready to let my eyes fall open, my lashes catching on his skin.

He shuffles back, and now there's a hint of 'Hell no..'

My shoulders sag. My chest deflates. Great, I'm a tick away from muttering Sorry. From Sorry, shouldn't have. From Please forgive me, I've got no idea what came over me.

I snort.

Not very flattering, but it sits right up there with a laugh, and if I'd been anyone else I might have done just that. Laughed. Not felt guilty. Or like bursting into tears.

Crane's chin jerks at the sound and he looks at me like I've just come swooping in on the back of a unicorn, but then he decides not to press the matter and goes to be all mindful about things. More water. More soap. Then a whole lot more water, and a passably clean corner of his busted shirt (which he then promptly chucks out the window), and he's all belted up again and standing in front of me.

Okay. I can do this. I can be here.

'Eyes up.'

Even in the flickering candle light I can see the flush on his chest, climbing his neck, and sitting in feverish, heavy lidded eyes. He doesn't butt into the hush, doesn't run his mouth or crack a joke. He stands silent, one hand on my right knee, the other on the left, and that's the one he's drumming on, fingers tapping out his secret rhythm.

Okay. I can still do this. Maybe. Except I don't know what this is. Maybe I'm the one that's supposed to say something. Or flail my arms. I don't know. And that I don't know is pathetic. I'm pathetic. The lot of me that sits here, staring up at him until he moves closer again, his thighs bumping into the dryer.

He knows what to do of course, and he kisses me. It's a shy imitation of a kiss, a brush of his lips against the corner of mine, and I'm aching because I can't give him more. I want to, and I try to tell him, but the words only get my lips to open slightly and then close, scraping against the rough surface of his stubbly cheek.

Pathetic. 'You're pathetic.'

I hate myself for it, for being me. For being broken, inside and out, for not knowing how to give him what I'm dying to offer.

A frown is all I got for him.

And he smiles.

I try that on too, but it doesn't come out right. It sits askew and I can't straighten it out, but he doesn't let my failings stop him. He just smiles a little brighter for the both of us, and whispers (somewhat hoarsely): "I'm tired."

Oh. So this is what it takes to get Kyle Crane to admit he's done?

How bloody perfect.

Taffer Notes: *groans* Please someone tell me I didn't absolutely muck this one up :D Any feedback is greatly appreciated.