Entry tags:

ag fanfic, all fanfic, fest fanfic, shadow/wednesday, slash

FIC: I'm Just a Soul Whose Intentions Are Good
Title: I'm Just a Soul Whose Intentions Are Good
Pairing: Shadow/Wednesday (American Gods)
Rating: R
Warnings: This is set after the short story Monarch of the Glen, but there are no spoilers.
A/N: Originally written for makishef at slashfest, here. Thanks to catnamedbuffy for the amazingly fast beta.

I'm Just a Soul Whose Intentions Are Good
(Please Don't Let Me Be Misunderstood)

::

After Iceland, after Scotland, there was America.

Shadow had never thought he'd go back, but somewhere between the whistle of a train barreling though the Scottish countryside and a conversation with Smith, Shadow had realized he had to.

Iceland had been discovery and Scotland had been beauty, but America -- America was home.

--

The pilot announced their arrival in the bored, wooden voice possessed by all people who worked the graveyard shift. Shadow stretched in his seat, but he didn't peer through the window to watch Chicago happen. He thought of Scotland, all gray and green, and the fog that had wrapped around everything like a blanket.

He walked through O'Hare with his bag slung over his shoulder, heavy from two changes of clothes and an extra pair of shoes. He bought a cup of coffee from a kiosk near the exit. The girl working the register handed him his change with a thank you that sounded strange in his ears after Scotland -- not harsh or rough, just different.

The cab was an elderly Caprice Classic just shy of school bus yellow, and the driver watched Shadow as he climbed inside. The gray face under his peaked cap was vaguely familiar, and he smiled at Shadow like Shadow should have known his name.

"Welcome back," he said. He had a heavy, Eastern European accent. Shadow was reminded of Czernobog.

"Do I know you?" Shadow asked.

"No," he said. He faced forward, pulled the cab away from the curb, and glanced at Shadow through the rearview mirror. "I know you."

"Do you?" Shadow asked, frowning.

The driver flashed Shadow a mouthful of discolored teeth in the rearview and headed right out of the airport parking lot. "Yes," he said. He pushed the cigarette lighter on the dash with fingers as yellow as the cab. "We've been waiting for you."

Shadow kept quiet, drummed his fingers on his bag in a staccato rhythm. The cab turned a corner and Chicago became an industrial area, gray buildings with grayer windows looming over dingy, littered sidewalks.

"I never told you where I was going," Shadow said finally, glancing out the window. Ace Appliances was boarded up with graffitied plywood, and a man and his shopping cart sat in its doorway.

At the next red light, the driver turned toward Shadow again, his arm stretched across the cracked leather of the passenger seat. "I know where you go," he said. "You visit daylight, twilight, and midnight."

"The Zoryas?" Shadow asked.

"My daughters," he replied. He lit his cigarette with a soft hiss. "I am Dazhdbog."

The light turned green, and they drove in silence. Grand Funk Railroad fought the static on the radio with We're An American Band. Dazhdbog hummed along quietly, pausing to hit his cigarette and swear at other drivers. Shadow was nodding off when Dazhdbog stopped the cab with a jolt in front of a familiar black brownstone.

"Why don't you live here?" Shadow asked. "With your daughters?"

"This is bad land for Gods," Dazhdbog said. "Worse land for families."

Shadow thought of Laura, and decided he couldn't argue. He handed Dazhdbog a good deal more than the fare, waved off the change, and refused help with his bag.

--

Zorya Polunochnyaya opened the door just as Shadow started to knock. She wore the same thin, white nightgown from his last visit, and the apartment was still smoke-yellowed, still smelled of over-boiled cabbage and catbox.

"You come at a good time," she said. "My time." Shadow's smile turned into a yawn, and she laughed. "You sleep in Bielebog's room."

"I thought Bielebog was here now," Shadow said, remembering his last conversation with Czernobog.

"He comes, he goes," she replied, shrugging slightly. "Depends on time of year." She lead Shadow to a sparsely decorated room that smelled musty, as if it had been shut up for part of the year. "For now, we have Czernobog. He sleeps."

Shadow yawned again, and set his bag on the bed. It had the kind of dark-pattered ecru bedspread that belonged in a low-budget motel, and two pillows that looked a bit worse for wear.

"You like coffee?" Zorya Polunochnyaya asked. She was leaning against the doorjamb, studying him.

"No, thank you," Shadow replied. "I should sleep."

"Milk, then," she said firmly. "With chocolate. Warm."

She ushered him back into the kitchen with cold hands on his arm. She heated milk on the stove in a small, dented saucepan, heaping in chocolate powder from an unmarked canister, and she served it to Shadow in a chipped, black mug with Great Lakes Packing in red on one side and a cartoon rendition of a cow on the other.

"Is good," she said. "It was time you came home." She sat with him at the table, but did not drink any cocoa. Her hair seemed white in the moonlight through the window.

"Am I?" Shadow asked. The cocoa was too thick, and tasted like the powder had been stale. "Home?"

"Yes," she said. She reached across the table and patted his arm lightly. "You have the coin I gave you?"

"No," Shadow admitted. "I left it with my father."

"Wednesday?" she asked.

"No," Shadow replied. "His..." he trailed off, and made a vague gesture with his hand.

Zorya Polunochnyaya titled her head, considering this. Shadow wondered if he should tell her he saw her father.

"Is good," she said finally, patting his arm again.

--

Shadow slept, and went to war.

He dreamed of men in hides and furs on dragon boats that stormed rocky, white sand beaches with battered swords and homemade spears. He dreamed of sacked homes and burned monasteries, of stolen livestock and kidnapped women, brought back to a homeland of ice and snow.

It was a fishing village, no different from any other fishing village that dotted the coastline. Small and poorly built, with tiny, thatched-roofed homes on either side of the dirt path that led to the dilapidated dock. Off to one side, what passed for a church stood on a low rise, crude, roughhewn and burning.

Everything was burning. The homes were in ruins, reduced to smoldering piles of rubble. Flames crackled on thatch and wood alike, and smoke hung thick and heavy in the air, mingling with the moans and pleas of the injured. The priest bled quietly, dead from a spear through his side, his body crucified to the church's front door.

The attackers had never read the Scriptures, but they had heard the stories.

The dragon boats were filled with everything there was to be had. Plunder was loaded into heavy, burlap sacks, and barrels of fish were rolled on board. Sheep and cows were taken, as well as a handful of women, the villagers' wives and daughters.

A woman walked through the village as the men scavenged, tall and pale, beautiful in an almost ethereal way. She wore a spotless white dress, free of blood and ash and dirt, and if the men noticed her, they paid her no heed. She picked over the bodies amidst the wreckage, pausing over each. She laid a small hand on the foreheads of some. The men she touched rose, following her as she worked.

A man stood at the top of a nearby hill, watching the scene below. He was cloaked, his face hidden under a wide-brimmed hat, and he held a heavy walking stick in one hand.

The Vikings sang as the boats were launched, songs of Thor's strength and Freyja's beauty. They sang of Odin's prowess on the field, and they prayed to Njord to send them enough wind and waves to carry them back to their own shores.

--

Shadow woke thirsty. His throat was dry, and his tongue felt thick, woolen. It was late; the view through the window was of a pitch-black sky and a heavy, silver moon, almost full.

He got a glass of water from the small bathroom in the hallway. The water was cold, but metallic tasting, and Shadow was still thirsty when he was finished. He could hear Zorya Polunochnyaya pottering around in the kitchen as he walked back to his room.

Shadow froze in the doorway. Wednesday was sitting next to his bed, in a chair Shadow didn't think had been there when he went to sleep. Wednesday looked the same as he always had, but different from the last time Shadow had seen him. He was dressed in slacks and a sweater-vest, and his gray, red-shot beard was clipped short. He looked tired and pale, but he was solid, substantial.

"You died," Shadow said.

"I did," Wednesday agreed. His voice held a note of amusement.

"You were supposed to stay dead," Shadow said. He approached the bed on the side opposite of Wednesday and sat, watching him. "I stopped your war."

"You did," Wednesday said. His tree tie-pin was fixed to the collar of his vest, and it glittered in the moonlight.

Shadow paused, rubbed his eyes. Wednesday was still there when he opened them. "How did you come back?"

"You brought me back, my boy," Wednesday said, and Shadow shook his head slowly. Wednesday fished in his pocket, then extended his hand. Zorya Polunochnyaya's coin rested in his palm.

"I didn't give that to you," Shadow said. "I gave it to him," he added, and Wednesday smiled. "He's not you."

"But I'm him," Wednesday said lightly. "Funny how that works." He flipped the coin, and it flashed silver as it wobbled. "My blood is still thin, and I'm still hungry, but I'm alive."

"I dreamed," Shadow said. "I dreamed of war." He was suddenly tired. He leaned back into the pillows and closed his eyes. "You were there. Or he was. Watching from the top of a hill."

"Freyja never would let me watch from below," Wednesday explained. "She thought I'd cheat."

"You would've," Shadow said thickly, his eyes sliding closed.

"Of course I would have," Wednesday said. "Easiest way to win." Wednesday sighed, and Shadow heard the chair creak, as if Wednesday was shifting. "Go back to sleep, my boy. You've had a long day, and you've been gone too long."

"I'll dream of war," Shadow argued.

"Of course you will," Wednesday said. "It's in your blood."

--

Shadow slept, then woke, and was cold.

A chill wind whipped through the room, and Shadow tried to open his eyes. He didn't remember opening the window. He wondered why he'd fallen asleep on top of the blanket, why it seemed like his shirt had disappeared.

Shadow felt hands on him, large and rough, with square fingers that smoothed across his chest, traced the lines of his ribs. They were cool against his skin, and he shivered, gooseflesh rising on his arms.

There was a buzzing in his ears, something like humming, or chanting. It was rhythmic and monotone, but underneath it, Shadow knew there were words, even if he couldn't understand them.

The fingers trailed down his sides, hooking in the waistband of his boxers. His hips lifted off the bed involuntarily, allowing the material to be eased down. The hands moved up his thighs, over his belly. He opened his eyes again, but it was too dark for him to focus on anything. He tried to speak, but it came out thick and garbled with sleep.

"You in there, my boy?"

The familiarity of the voice gave Shadow a jolt, but his response was no less coherent.

"Wake up." The hand dropped low, inching between his legs, and Shadow could hear his heart beat. "I have to do what I have to do. The result will be the same, but I'd prefer it if you were with me."

Shadow felt breath on his neck, heavy and humid, then a mouth, the soft slide of lips coupled with the rough scratch of facial hair. A hand skated over his cock, which stirred, hardening, and he arched off the bed at the feel of fingers curling around the base.

"What're you doing?" Shadow asked, finally able to make his mouth work.

"I should think that's fairly obvious." The mouth was on his jaw now, tongue peeking out to taste.

"Why?" His eyes were wide open, but it was still too dark to see much of anything.

A chuckle, then a flicker of tongue at the corner of his mouth. "I never paid you to ask questions."

The kisses were strange, different, the slick slide of lips and tongue, the prickle of a beard across his jaw. The hand wrapped around Shadow's cock began to stroke, fingers sliding up, thumb swirling over the head, and Shadow moaned quietly, warmth coiling low in his body and rushing over his skin.

"Have you done this before?" There was a note of wariness there, and Shadow wondered which answer was the wrong one.

"No," he said, and it was the truth.

"Good," A pause, and a sound that could have been a sigh of relief. "This might hurt a bit."

The finger was slick somehow, and warm, and then it was in. It did hurt, but not much, not once he relaxed into it, not with the hand working over his cock. The finger was joined by another, pressing in and out of his body slowly, and Shadow started to welcome the feeling, started rocking his hips to meet him.

"You still with me?"

"Yeah," Shadow said. "Where are we going?"

"Now is not the time for jokes, my boy." The fingers slid out with a soft, wet sound, and Shadow found he missed them. "This is serious business. Very serious business."

Pressure, a slow burn, and then it was in, long and thick and almost too much. The hand on his cock redoubled its efforts, fisting him hard, fingers curled tight. Then a long, slow thrust, brushing against something at sparked liquid fire under Shadow's skin, and he arched off the bed, pushing himself into the stroking hand.

"God," Shadow managed.

In a slice of moonlight, Wednesday smiled like a knife. "Yes, I am."

--

Sunlight streamed through the window, warm, golden, and entirely too bright. Shadow closed his eyes tighter against it, but it was no use. He opened them, and succumbed to a large yawn.

"He lives."

Shadow looked over. Wednesday was sitting in the chair of dubious origins again, dressed in the same slacks and sweater-vest. He was still solid, still substantial, and he also looked considerably healthier.

"You died," Shadow said. It was the best he could come up with just after waking up.

"We went over this last night." Wednesday said brightly.

The apartment smelled like food, cooking oil and strange spices. Shadow was as tired as he had been when he went to sleep, and naked under the hideous ecru bedspread. He had the itchy, unwashed feeling of being covered in dry sweat, and when he shifted, he discovered he was sore.

Shadow paused, remembering rough hands on his body and the scrape of facial hair over his skin.

"Yes," Wednesday said, answering the question before Shadow could ask.

"How?"

"A sixteenth charm I know," Wednesday said. "If I need love I can turn the heart and mind of any woman."

"I'm not a woman." Shadow ignored his protesting muscles and sat up, glancing around for his shirt.

"I'm allowed a bit of artistic license," Wednesday said, smiling. "As are you, apparently. I didn't work quite the same on you. It made you amenable to the idea, but you could have said no at any time." Wednesday stood and straightened his trousers. "For you, I might've even listened."

"We're a bit too related for that, don't you think?" He located his shirt under his pillow and pulled it over his head.

"Remind me to show you the family tree one of these days," Wednesday replied. "You have a couple of brothers who are also your uncles, and you have a sister I don't even want to talk about."

"But why?" Shadow asked. His boxers were still missing, but he tossed back the blankets anyway. At this point, it hardly mattered.

"You'd never done it before," Wednesday said, as if that explained everything. He'd moved to the door, and his hand was hovering over the knob.

"And?" His boxers were under the bed. He fished them out with his foot and pulled them on.

"A sacrifice of a son is a very powerful thing," Wednesday said. The sunlight bathed him, glinting off his glass eye. "Or a sacrifice from a son, as the case may be."

"So you're back."

"Good as new."

Wednesday opened the door to Zorya Vechernyaya. She eyed Wednesday suspiciously, then smiled at Shadow.

"You're up," she said, nodding to herself. "We thought you sleep all day." She opened her arms wide. "There is breakfast, and for you, no charge." She turned back to Wednesday and frowned. "For you, ten dollars."

"Three."

"Nine."

"Five."

"Seven."

"Six."

"Seven," she said, turning to leave. "Is good."

"Hurry," Wednesday said, as soon as she was gone. "We need to get an early start."

"Where am I going?" Shadow asked. His jeans were a rumpled mess, and he shook them before pulling them on.

Wednesday smiled. "We have a man to see about a violin."

"No."

"Yes."

"No."

"I'll toss you for it," Wednesday offered. "Heads or tails?"

"Heads," Shadow said.

He stuck his hand in his pocket, but Wednesday was quicker. Zorya Polunochnyaya's coin spun in the air, flashing silver in the sunlight. Wednesday coughed, and it landed on the carpet on its edge.

"You cheated."

"I always do, my boy," Wednesday admitted. "I always do." He stepped into the hallway, and looked back at Shadow.

"You coming?"

This is bad land for Gods. Worse land for families.

The coin toppled over, hitting the carpet with a soft plink. Shadow put it in his pocket without checking to see how it landed.

"Yeah," he said. "I'll be right out."

FIN