Cameron To Candy

Marcus shook the mercury down with a flick of his wrist, the glass rod gleaming faintly in the morning light. “All right,” he said, steady as ever. “One more check. Just to be certain.”

Candy groaned into the pillow. “Again? You can see I’m fine.”

“It's procedure,” Marcus reminded her. “The Ministry likes numbers on a page, not guesses. Now, lift.”

She had been sick for a few days, with an on-again off-again fever. The worst part of that, sadly, wasn’t the temperature itself; it was how Paddlewick females had their temperatures taken.

Candy swung her legs off the bed. “Nope. I’m not doing this again. You said I was better, so I’m better.”

Marcus caught her wrist with one hand, barely shifting his weight, and guided her back down onto the mattress as if she weighed nothing at all. “Whao, hey hey! Sorry, but I still have to confirm it,” he said apologetically while dipping the thermometer into a small jar of clear lubricant with his free hand.

“Oh come on!” she snapped, wriggling under his grip.

“Candy,” Marcus said, that patient voice that always felt like another pair of shackles to Candy but to anyone else would have signaled true exasperation. “I know this sucks but please stop fighting. This will be easier for us both if you just hold still.”

The cold kiss of glass between her cheeks silenced her, then she let out a hiss. She clenched the sheets in both fists, cheeks flaming, caught between the childish urge to kick free and the awful knowledge that Marcus knew the laws, and she should listen.

The shame she’d never admit? Last night, when he inserted it into her ass, Marcus’ face flittered into her mind and for a moment, rod up her butt and Marcus in thought, it had felt like they were… ugh, she shook the memory off.

He checked the sandglass on the table, adjusted the angle a fraction, and said nothing. The silence pressed harder than the thermometer. Candy’s toes curled against the quilt, her body hot with shame, while her mind spat out the only words she could find: this is my life now, lying still with a rod in my ass until a man tells me what to do next.

Finally, mercifully, he withdrew it. The feeling as it slid free made her wince, and she yanked her nightie down the instant his hand lifted.

Marcus wiped the instrument clean, consulted the tiny numbers etched in the glass, and nodded. “Back to normal.”

“Wonderful,” Candy said, her voice muffled against the pillow. “Now maybe I can claw my dignity back.”

“Go for it,” Marcus replied, setting the glass rod back into its case. He stood, stretching his shoulders. “I’m going to change for the outing. Greg’s meeting me for axe-throwing later down at the trolley stop.”

Candy peeked out at him, hair mussed, glare sharp. “Great. Have fun. Hope you throw better than you measure temperatures.”

He smirked faintly, already turning for the washroom. “Axes don’t squirm.”

The door shut behind him, leaving Candy flat on her back, seething in silence, every muscle still prickling from the mix of cold glass, warm hand, and the thought that they used to be a trio, Cam, Marcus and Greg. Now she stayed back while the guys threw axes, and she waited for the feeling in her rear to go away.

With a groan, she swung her legs off the bed. The cold floorboards made her shiver, grounding her back in the ordinary. Downstairs, the cold box offered leftovers. She forked out a wedge of shepherd’s pie onto a plate, too annoyed to heat it, and ate it standing up at the counter. Salty potatoes, cold gravy. Somehow, fitting.

She was still chewing when a knock rattled the front door. Marcus was upstairs, waging a heroic battle with his cufflinks and losing badly, so Candy brushed her skirt flat and went to answer it herself. She pulled the door open, craned her neck up and froze.

“Greg?!”

The 6’4 tall man on the stoop, his sandy brown hair looking like he’d been in the wind for 2 hours, boots scuffed from a long walk, raised both brows. “Yeah. That’s me. And you must be Candy.

“Oh, um, yes, yes I am,” she stammered.

“Well. It’s very nice to finally meet you,” he said, bowing in uncharacteristic politeness.

“Oh, likewise,” Candy managed, giving a slight, awkward curtsey.

“Wait… how did you know who I was?” Greg asked.

Candy recovered fast, leaning casually against the doorframe. “Oh, Marcus has shown me pictures of all his friends—you, Owen, Luke, etcetera. Also, I knew you were meeting him today. Although I thought you were connecting at the trolley stop.”

“Oh, yeah, that was the plan, but I got in early and it's only a few blocks away. Figured I’d stretch my legs and meet 'em here. Well, in truth, I was kinda hoping to meet you. You two got married months ago. Thought for sure we would have met by now.”

He shifted his weight, gaze running over her once, then pausing. Squinting a little.

Candy stiffened. “Uh. What?”

Greg shook his head, almost sheepish. “Nothing. Just… you’ve got Cam’s eyes. Like, it’s almost spooky how much they’re the same.”

The comment hit heavy. She’d heard it recently, from Penny too. Her fingers twitched against the doorframe, but she forced a small, polite smile. “I guess the family resemblance runs strong.”

Greg chuckled, stepping inside when she gestured. “Makes me wonder why Cameron never mentioned having a cousin from Cleavendale. Known the guy my whole life, only thing he ever said about extended family was some great-aunt with questionable soup recipes and an uncle that ran out of Paddlewick.”

“Oh, well, yeah, we were never close. I’ve only met him two or three times. And I’m not actually from Cleavendale. My dad was a diplomat so we got stationed around the Cone. We traveled through Cleavendale a few times, but mostly we stayed in Floatsome, Skintara, a bit in the Garmouth Confederacy toward the end.”

“The Garmouth Confederacy! Holy smokes, that is not a place I’d want to be. Always trying to cheat you out of your soul!”

Before Candy could respond, Marcus appeared on the stairs, buttoning his cuff. “Greg,” he said, voice even.

Greg’s grin widened. “Marcus.” He clapped his friend on the shoulder as Marcus reached the bottom step. “Figured I’d come early, meet your wife properly. Since you know… she’s married to one of my best friends and cousin to the other.”

Marcus sighed, shooting Candy a look that said sorry about this.

He grabbed his coat and keys with a clipped “let’s go” and ushered Greg out before Candy could say more. The front door shut softly behind them, and for a few steps, the only sounds were boots on cobblestone and a distant trolley bell clanging over the hill.

Greg finally broke the silence. “So… that was Candy, huh?”

Marcus nodded once, hands in pockets, stride even.

Greg whistled low. “She’s pretty hot. If that’s the kind of girls in the trouble girl program, I might just sign up too!”

Marcus’ head shot up. “What?”

“I mean that ass? Daaammmnnn!” Greg said with a smirk.

Oh, if only he knew he’d just called Cameron’s ass hot. If he ever learned the truth, he’d be mortified. Marcus’s head turned sharply. “You’re gonna regret that.”

Greg blinked, thrown. Then grinned like a man who’d just scored a point. “Whoa, already getting all protective of her huh? Ok, easy now, my mistake.”

Marcus smirked. “Right. That’s… exactly what I meant.”

Greg chuckled, shaking his head. “Man, you really settled down. Crazy. One day we’re sneaking off base to watch corset-crab fights at the Brassiere Bay pit, next thing I know you’ve got a wife and bills.”

“Yeah, well, you know how the programs can be. When they hit, they hit fast.”

“I actually don’t even remember you signing up. I didn’t think you were ready for marriage yet.”

Marcus’s lips twitched, the closest he got to a smile. “Neither did I.”

They reached the station just as a trolley screeched up, pulled on by the giant grombolonk beast, sparks dancing under its enchanted wheels. Greg clapped Marcus on the back and stepped aboard with his usual swagger, none the wiser about what his friend had really meant.

The trolley rattled over iron rails, glowing sigils flashing underfoot as it climbed toward the lodge district. Greg leaned against the window, watching Paddlewick’s neat rows of magic lamps flick past.

“Man,” he said, “this city’s got way more rules than I remember. Last time I came through, some guard yelled at me for standing too close to a public paddle case. Said it was for emergencies only.”

Marcus grunted. “Yep.”

Greg shook his head, smiling. “Place hasn’t changed. Guess that’s why we love it… or tolerate it, anyway.”

The trolley screeched to a stop, and they hopped off, boots crunching on the gravel path to the axe lodge. The building was a blocky, timbered affair with warm light spilling from every window. Inside, the smell of resin and beer hung thick. Rows of throwing lanes stretched toward painted targets, axes thunking rhythmically.

Greg grabbed a pair of house axes, spinning one casually before handing it to Marcus. “Feels like the old days, huh? Except we used to throw real ones at trees and had no clue what we were doing.”

Marcus set his coat aside, rolling his shoulders. “Still don’t.”

Greg barked a laugh, lining up his first throw. The axe whirled through the air, clunking halfway up the target. “Solid start,” he declared proudly.

Marcus’s throw landed dead-center with a deep thunk.

Greg eyed him, mock-offended. “Show-off.”

Greg signaled to the waitress to bring beers. They traded throws for a while, laughter and light ribbing bouncing between them. Then, during a lull, Greg grabbed his mug and leaned on the table near their lane.

“Hey,” he said, tone shifting just a hair, “got a letter from Cam.”

Marcus’s axe stopped mid-spin. He lowered it, schooling his face into something neutral. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” Greg said, sipping his beer. “Seemed… kinda down. Said the deployment’s dragging.. You know Cam usually bounces back from anything. Eventually. I dunno, it just, sounded a bit worse than normal.”

Marcus nodded slowly. “Cameron was never good with long-term assignments. Gets restless. He’ll push through.”

Greg scratched his jaw. “I wrote him back already, tried to cheer ‘em up. Just sucks how slow those ministry channels are. You can’t have a real conversation, just these delayed, stiff letters.”

“Yeah,” Marcus said softly, staring at his untouched axe. “It’s slow.”

Greg frowned, watching him. “You get one too?”

Marcus nodded once. “Yeah. Same deal. Told him to hang in there.”

Greg raised his mug in a small salute. “Here’s to hoping he’s okay.”

Marcus clinked mugs with him, the sound sharp against the background thunk of flying axes. Neither of them threw for a long moment. Then, Greg snorted into his beer.

“Hey, remember that time Cam got that front shield panel? What was it called?”

“Impact breastplate,” Marcus said.

“Yeah, that. He swore it would save his ribs in a melee, but he could never get the straps right. Always twisting them, getting the whole thing crooked. And the laches on them. Ha! Never, he never could hook them right! It took two people just to buckle ‘em up. The man couldn’t armor himself to save his life.”

Marcus nodded once. “I had to hook it for him half the time.”

Greg chuckled. “Would’ve died of frustration before the enemy got to ‘em. I bet he’s out in the field struggling to get a war vest on right now!”

Meanwile…

Candy glared at her reflection, bra strap halfway up her spine and nowhere near a clasp. She felt like a pretzel, moving her arms in ways they shouldn’t be, trying to get the hooks on. “Damn,” she cursed out loud. “Okay, pull it down, to the side, oh oh! The clasp is almost … NOOOOO!” she yelled out as the hook missed and the whole strap fell.

“Every damn morning,” she muttered. Her elbows were killing her from the strain. “Stupid lack of mirrors.” She could only half see in the one; a second behind her could really help.

She tried again, fumbled, slipped, recovered… Yes! Yes! She got one and…. DAMN IT! She’d hooked the bottom hook into the top clasp!

“God’s damn hooks!” she cursed.

***

Greg wandered up to the bar for another refill, his gait a little looser now, more swagger in his step than earlier. Behind him, the low clink of darts, the wham of axes and the friendly ribbing faded into the hum of tavern conversation. He was halfway through motioning for two more when a pair of off-duty Ministry officers caught his ear. They were slouched against the end of the bar, uniforms unbuttoned just a bit.

“I’m tellin’ you,” one of them said, swaying slightly, “there’s moles. In Paddlewick. Real ones.”

“Pfft. What, like Cleavendale moles in ruffled bloomers? Are we talkin’ therians or just big moles that wear glasses?” the other mocked.

“No, I mean spies! Deep cover types. Whispers in the Ministry walls. Fake wives, forged vows, forged bottoms even.”

The other scoffed. “Pffft. What the hells is a forged bottom?”

Greg snorted into his refilled mug.

“Spies,” he muttered to himself. “In Paddlewick. The tightest damn nation in the Cone. That guy’s been hitting the gravi-tea too hard.”

He gave the bartender a nod after receiving the mugs, then turned back toward their table where Marcus was lining up a throw. He let the axe fly and thunk! It hit the board, but low and off-center.

Greg handed him a mug and stepped up. “Alright. Let’s see if the beer gods bless my aim.”

He threw. Thunk. Dead center. Marcus raised an eyebrow. Greg sipped, then threw again. Thunk. Just off the bullseye.

“Look at that,” Greg said, pleased. “Getting better with every sip. My hands are relaxed, my eyes are fuzzy. It’s perfect.”

Marcus missed his next throw entirely. The axe bounced and landed on its side. "Damn,” he thought. “Maybe the other beer was a mistake.”

Greg whistled. “Wow. Well, there’s a miss.” Greg lined up again, chuckling. “Watch out. I’m entering my peak form. One more beer and I ascend to Axe Dad. You’ll know it because my dad jokes it'll come out.”

Thunk.

“Yup. Call me Lumber Greg.” Greg squared up for another throw, wobbling just slightly now, grin wide. “Alright, here it comes. Call this one the Splinter Whisperer.” He let the axe fly. Thunk. Right in the second ring.

“Eh, close enough,” he said, sipping. “Hey, Marcus. What did the lumberjack say when he finally broke up with his axe?”

Marcus sighed. “Please don’t.”

Greg raised a finger. “He said… ‘It just wasn’t cutting it anymore.’”

A long pause. Marcus stared at him.

Greg added, “...But you know, he logged the whole thing in his journal.”

Marcus put down his mug. “You’re going to be stopped at the city gate for that one.”

Greg took a bow. “I live to serve. Axe puns are my wooden calling.” Marcus face-palmed. It was definitely time to call it quits.

Marcus returned home late, smelling faintly of pine sap and beer, boots dragging on the step. Candy was curled up on the couch, flipping absently through a housekeeping pamphlet she had no intention of reading.

He dropped his coat on the rack and gave her a tired half-smile. “Hey.”

She glanced up. “Hey. How was axe-throwing?”

Marcus loosened his collar and sat across from her. “Good. Greg’s still Greg. Bread-poor, bad aim… until he’s drunk. Then, full of jokes.”

Candy managed a soft laugh. “Sounds about right.”

Marcus’s expression gentled. “He’s worried about you, though. Well… about Cameron.”

Candy’s fingers tightened around the pamphlet. “Does he… suspect?”

Marcus shook his head firmly. “No. The cover story holds. To him, you’re just… Cam’s estranged cousin, my trouble girl wife. It’s plausible. Greg believes it.”

Candy exhaled, shoulders slumping. “I hate that it’s hurting people. Him writing letters to someone who doesn’t… who, some might say, doesn’t really exist anymore, and who is never coming back...” Her voice trailed off, quiet but sharp around the edges.

Marcus leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “Hey, Cameron does exist; they’re just not letting you be him publicly.”

“You really believe that? You still see me as Cameron?

“Of course. I mean sure, things have changed but, look, I’ve been reading about Skinterra. I figured if it’s part of your cover story, I should learn a bit about it. They have this thing… a phil-osss-py, I think it’s called,

“Philosophy,” Candy corrected automatically.

“Er, right. Anyway, they say that every day you are a new person, because every day there’s something different about you. You learn something new, or forget, or grow a new mole or what have you. We are always changing. You’re not the Cameron you were a year ago, but spell or not, you were never going to be. This was just a bigger change all at once, is all.”

“That’s uh, an interesting take,” Candy said, in mild surprise.

“And besides, he believes Cameron’s coming back, as you were. Maybe… don’t take that from him yet. If you’re concerned about it worrying people, just make the letters a bit more upbeat, maybe?”

She nodded, eyes low, throat tight. After a moment, she cleared it with a soft, “I wish I could tell him.”

Marcuc thought for a moment. “You have eight spots,” he said. She looked up at him, surprised to be reminded of it. He looked back at her gently. “You could.”

Candy swallowed. “Maybe I will. I’m just… not ready yet.” She looked over to her ministry file. “I don’t know how. But…” She paused, reaching out to touch the level four seal, stamped in wax.

“Yeah. Maybe… someday.”