Metanoia, a Ghost Bird Fanfic

Hero boxes

Hi!! So guess what? I'M ALIVE.

I know, shocker. 

Ok I'm super sorry for not updating for so long, I'm going to try my best to get back onto updating on a regular schedule, we'll see. 

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"So," Blake starts with polite friendliness, voice slightly labored while we lift up the second box, "I'm not trying to be nosy but, why are you walking through North Charleston at 5 in the morning without any shoes?"

"Fashion statement?" I say, keeping my eyes focused on the box.

He chuckles softly, obviously thinking I'm joking. Well you know what I'm a trendsetter! If being a crossdressing shoeless vampire isn't a statement I don't know what is.

I just focus on getting the next box up, there's more inside his garage that I couldn't see when I walked past him. this one weighs the same as the first, over 100 pounds but their size makes it difficult to grab.

"So, Blake" I mimic, "not to be nosy but why are you putting mystery boxes into a van at 5 a.m in North Charleston?"

"These mystery boxes... save people's lives." He grunts as he reaches for the third box.

I try not to laugh, I really do, but the morning sun reflects off of his hero hair and his strong jaw as he said that sentence so solemnly... like some angsty superhero. Soon I'm giggling hard and the longer he stares at me questioningly the harder it is to breath.

His eyebrows furrow, "What is it?"

"Blake" I force out between laughs, "Wh-what even are you? Who says that?"

He looks at me confused, "What do you mean?"

"Oh! I got it! You're Captain America, the durrito hero" I say, recalling the valiant character from some comics I found in the library. I could totally picture Blake running into the depths of battle with the sun shining on his shield, saving lives with one box at a time.

What is my mind?

He doesn't look quite as amused.

"Slate I'm serious, there's some new drug that's being distributed through Charleston that has serious side effects. Some people have even died, these sedatives can help alleviate the worst of it."

I sober up at that. We continue lifting boxes as I lull over why he's telling me, a complete stranger, this.

I pretend to ignore how artificial this all seems and go with an obvious question.

"Why do you have them? Shouldn't this be something that officials deal with?"

He takes a pause to answer. I pay attention to him so I can piece things together, my mind is still foggy but I have a strong feeling I'm missing something important.

I try to be discreet, looking at his spotless leather shoes that don't match his worn shirt and jeans. His haircut is immaculate and new, dirty blond hair trimmed short with the top slightly longer. There's slight tan lines around his left wrist from a missing watch, his fingernails are groomed, reminding me of Mr. Blackbourne's.

I briefly hope they get mani pedis together.

It's clear he doesn't belong in this part of town, so why is he here? And why put in the effort to wear a dirty shirt? If he's as rich as I think he is why not hire people to do the heavy lifting?