Authors: Danika Stone
All the Feels (31 page)
A woman appeared from behind the transport. She had a headset hung around her neck and a clipboard in hand. “Over here, Xander!” Liv shouted.
His face contorted in surprise, then joy. “Heavens, Liv, I thought I’d misplaced you again.”
“No.” She laughed, coming forward and hugging him. “I was still here. Got to get my notes done before they start the next scene.”
“Sorry it took me so long to get back. The soundstage is huge! I need a map to locate anything.”
“You’ll get used to it,” she said with a grin. “I did.”
Xander’s brows knit together, his anxiety visible beneath the stage makeup.
“What’s wrong?” she asked.
“Liv … I don’t know about this.”
She put her hands on his shoulders. “Stop it. You’re going to be fine. You’ve done this a million times before.”
“But not for real!”
“The vids we created were totally real. They’re racking up views even now.” Her smile softened. “Relax, Xander. It’s only two lines.”
He closed his eyes and leaned into her, his arms wrapping her back. “But it’s still lines in a
real
film, and if I mess it up—”
“They’ll have you do it again. And again … and again.” Liv laughed. “No big deal. Life is full of second chances.”
“That sounds like a fortune cookie.”
She shrugged. “Maybe, but it’s true.”
He put his hand to her cheek, moving in for a kiss. “And I’m glad for every”—he kissed her forehead—“single”—he kissed the tip of her nose—“one.”
And with his words, a bittersweet swell of
Starveil
music began, the house lights fading until only the silhouette of the two lovers could be seen, and then, finally, nothing at all.
The writing of a book is a lengthy process, but I could not release
All the Feels
without expressing my sincere gratitude to the many people who have shaped it along the way.
Thank you to my husband, my most enthusiastic collaborator, for reading aloud every iteration of this project from beginning to end, so that I could make sure the language sounded “just right.” I’m so proud to be part of our personal OTP. Thank you also to my children, for tolerating long periods when I couldn’t play, as I wrote, and rewrote, and rewrote again. I owe you one.
A grateful shout-out to my fellow fangirls—far too many to name—who kept me going when my own “Spartan” died. Thanks to Morty Mint, my agent, for his unwavering support and levelheaded advice. And a very enthusiastic thank-you to Holly West, Lauren Scobell, Emily Settle, and the entire Swoon Reads team for their tireless efforts in bringing this project together.
All the Feels
is yours as much as mine!
Finally, a special note of appreciation to Erin, the very
real
woman behind the @CoulsonLives phenomenon, who skipped out of D*C to spend an afternoon with me as we talked about writing, life, the universe, and everything in between. You are one of my dragons.
Title:
Shadow Soul
Author:
JoesWoes
Word Count:
~ 6,000 words
Primary Characters:
Spartan, Tekla, Malloy
Pairing:
SparTek
Rating:
NC-17 for sexuality (NSFW)
Warning:
Mentions of suicide, death, and war atrocities
Tags:
#SpartanSurvived #SparTek #Malloy #ShadowSoul #Hurt/Comfort #JoesWoesFic
Summary:
Leaving the memories of the Fight for Io behind is harder than Spartan had believed. Malloy helps him come to terms with the horror.
The dream begins with a memory: searching for Malloy while the attack begins. Lost. Terrified.
Spartan jerks awake, Tekla pressed against his side, their hands tangled together. Beyond the metal walls, the Hyperion’s hyperdrive begins to hum. They’re jumping again. (They’re
always
jumping these days.) If they stop, they’re dead.
“What is it, love?” Tekla whispers. Her crimson lips are pressed against the blond curls of Spartan’s hair.
Spartan frowns. (He doesn’t
want
to remember.) “I had a nightmare.”
“About what?”
He doesn’t answer.
* * *
Lanky and underfed, Spartan stands at the side of the grassy field, his eyes on his feet. He hates this new elementary school—one in a line of many—but he hates his father even more for leaving them behind. He hates his grandmother’s shadowy house that he and his mother now share. Hates the mothball-scented living room and the dusty attic where he sleeps. Today he particularly hates his snot-faced schoolmates, eager to show they’re tougher than the new third grader who has joined them. Spartan’s already seen the principal once, but he suspects that he’ll be there again before the dismissal bell rings.
Hating’s easy. (Fighting’s even easier.)
A blur of shadow appears in the corner of his eye. Spartan doesn’t move, just stares at his newly scabbed knuckles, rolling his hand to release the tension. A scab pops open, and a berry of red blood appears. He lifts it to his mouth, sucking.
The shadow moves again, followed by a voice. “You’re that new kid, aren’t you? The one that got kicked out a Miss Tran’s room.”
Spartan looks up to find that one of the boys from his class has appeared at his side. He’s small and dark, with eyes that glitter with mischief.
“You figured that all out yourself?” Spartan sneers.
The boy frowns. (Spartan tenses.) And then, oddly, the strange child begins to laugh. “You really are as piss-mean as they say!” The boy grins and offers his hand. “I’m Reginald Chance Malloy.”
“You gotta mighty big name for such a puny kid.”
“I might be puny, but I could kick your sorry ass,” he says, lifting his chin.
Spartan rolls his eyes. There’s no prestige in fighting a kid small enough to be in kindergarten. “You and whose army?”
Before the boy can answer, screams from the far side of the field reach them, and both turn. For a few seconds, they watch as a group of students surge around two fighters, scuffling in the dirt. A red-faced teacher heads into the fray, chest wheezing, leaving the boys alone. This is the time for an attack, but Spartan doesn’t.
“So what’s your name?” the boy asks.
“Spartan.”
“Spartan?” He laughs. “What kinda name is that? Sounds like a candy bar or … or … or a washing detergent.”
For a second, Spartan wants to hit him. He’s ready, his small hands tightened into rocks, but he’s tired of being alone, and this is the first boy who’s spoken to him in more than grunts.
He shakes his head. “Spartan’s my last name,” he admits. “My
real
name’s Matt … Matthew.” His expression grows dark. “But then so’s my dad’s.” His fists release. “And I like Spartan better.”
“Your last name…” the boy murmurs. His eyes widen, and a gap-toothed smile appears. “You could call me Malloy,” he says. “Yeah! Malloy!”
For the first time in days, perhaps weeks, Spartan begins to laugh. “Malloy, huh?”
“Yeah.” He shoves Spartan’s shoulder. “Malloy’s a hell of a lot better than Reginald.”
“Better than R. C., too.”
The boy grins, like that’s the biggest compliment in the world. “Ain’t that the truth?”
“So whadya do around here for fun, Malloy?”
“Fight mostly. But I like tag better.”
And like that, Spartan gains a best friend.
* * *
Spartan wakes, shaking, body slick with sweat. He rises slowly from his bunk, pulling on clothes with trembling hands and heading into the corridor of the star freighter. He could go to Tekla’s quarters, ask her to help him forget. (He has done it many times before.) But he doesn’t today. It’s too hard to endure her pity. His memory keeps going back
there
, and he doesn’t want to.
Instead, he walks to the central command center. They are tracking the Imperial Fleet again, preparing to destroy it. (As they’ve done every day since Darthku’s attack on Io.) Usually, Spartan would at least make a point of arguing for combining forces with some of the other rebel ships—that was the point of the Rebellion, after all—but lately he’s been too tired to fight it.
His will died long ago.
With this thought flickering through his mind, he turns another corner and stops stock-still. Tekla is standing in the corridor, waiting for him. He keeps trying to leave her, but she always finds a way back. He doesn’t
want
her kindness, but sex is his weakness, and she knows how to exploit it. (There’s a reason she’s a leader in the Rebellion.)
“You didn’t come to my quarters last night,” she says, approaching him, hands outstretched. “I was worried about you, Spartan.”
He doesn’t answer, just stares at her, his mind drawing in details: pale skin and long waves of silver-blond hair. That worried smile. Pain.
She is exactly the same as the day Darthku destroyed the base.
“I need to figure this out on my own,” he mutters, then turns and walks away.
* * *
Spartan and Malloy have been drinking for hours, the two of them one-upping the events of their short lives, earning their ranks at the Imperial Academy, when
she
shows up. Curvy, fresh-faced, red-haired: all the things Spartan wants … and knows his friend wants, too.
Malloy lets out a slow whistling breath, his gaze dragging up her body. “Well, would you look at that,” he murmurs.
“Mmm…” Spartan chuckles. “She’s quite a sight for sore eyes.”
“The kinda girl you don’t see too often,” Malloy agrees.
“She’s a little above
your
game, I think.”
“And yours,” Malloy snorts in easy good humor. “Jeez, though, look at her legs. Go on forever.”
The woman is utterly out of place. She’s wearing a black dress with a string of pearls, rather than the fatigues of the standard military clientele the bar tends to attract. Both men watch her as she moves through the room, apparently searching for her friends. When she pauses next to their table, she catches sight of Spartan and Malloy, and a dimpled smile breaks across her face.
“Two for one.” She giggles. “The Imperial Academy must have a special on tonight.”
Malloy does a quick salute. “Two of the best, ma’am.”
Her tinkling laughter hits Spartan right in the chest. With even white teeth, smooth skin, and a freckled nose, she’s even prettier up close. He pats the semicircular bench where he and Malloy sit side by side. “There’s plenty of room, you know. Take a load off those pretty feet.”
“Oh, no. I’m just waiting for the people I’m meeting,” she says. “But thank you.”
“Waiting goes faster when you’re with friends.” Spartan chuckles. “And someone as lovely as you deserves more of them.” (Malloy rolls his eyes, but the woman doesn’t see.)
“Why don’t you have a drink with us while you wait?” Malloy suggests.
The woman gives one last look to the teeming bar, before sliding into the bench seat between the two men. “I can’t stay long. Just till my friends arrive. Okay?”
“Then we’ll try to make it worth your while,” Malloy says with a chuckle. “You ready to put up with two military cadets? We can be a little rough around the edges.” Spartan smirks and takes note. Malloy’s self-deprecation is an art form. Women love it.
“Oh, I don’t mind military. My dad’s in the fleet. Vice admiral to Darthku.” She flashes another dimpled grin. “So what’re we having tonight, boys?”
“Whatever you’d like, darlin’,” Spartan drawls.
“My name’s Selena.”
“Selena then.” He winks. “Beautiful name for a beautiful girl.” She’s going home with him tonight. He’s already decided. (The fact that he’s doing this to compete with Malloy—his best friend and closest competitor in everything—is only an afterthought.)
Malloy is almost as quick, gesturing to the waitress near them. “Your finest whiskey for our lovely companion, Selena.”
The server stares at him. “Finest?” she repeats. (They’re two dirt-poor cadets. Finest isn’t a description they ever use.)
Malloy winks. “The one behind the bar. Gold label with red writing. Glen something-er-other.”
Selena gasps. (She apparently recognizes it.)
The waitress shakes her head. “That one can’t go on your tab.” She puts out her hand, waiting until Malloy drops a wrinkled bill into her palm. “That’ll get you one shot,” she says, raising a brow. “You sure about that?”
Spartan almost laughs when Malloy’s smile wobbles. But Selena moves closer to him, pressing her breasts against his arm. “Thank you so much, honey. You don’t have to do that, you know.”
“It’s nothing. And you deserve the best.” He tugs on the front of his hair in an Old Terran gesture of formality. “Please allow me, ma’am.”