#( i had to retrieve a draft from this account so i took the time to let u know

[irishironclad]

Chapter Four - I’m So Sorry

The days dragged on as they normally did in Cienma, or as normally as things could be. The Guard grew more agitated and bold, stopping folk to question them on the street. Whatever leniency that was given to small infractions was cracked down on. The Overseer’s called more and more drafts, Natasha found herself called to labour almost every day rather than the usual four days of the week. Those who dodged the draft and lived as vagrants on the streets were driven from their holes and made to work the machines, Even Niko and his boys weren’t able to dodge the Red Guard for long. 

There were rumours of course, men huddled around their cups of workbrew and whispered about why this was. Brudna District was left alone for the most part, so when there was a sudden increase in production, or more guards, folk wondered why. 

Some said it was punishment, the bluecoats reminding everyone who was in control. Others said it was because of shortages elsewhere, though folk pointed out that there were always shortages and that they hadn’t done anything about it before. Some claimed the Commonwealth was at war, and they just hadn’t told them yet. One man had exclaimed to anyone who would listen he saw soldiers leaving Cienma by the trainful, no one took him seriously until he suddenly couldn’t be found and never turned up again. 

Natasha dragged herself through the front door of the café, it was late at night, the hours demanded by the draft having crawled further into the evening. She took her coat off and shook it, casting all the dust and debris from it. She then pulled her boots off, sighing in relief as she did so, stretching her legs and flexing her toes. A series of cracks could be heard as she stretched. 

Solotovich was not home, but he’d left cold soup behind. Natasha stirred the fireplace awake and heated the leftovers. It was a heavy, thick broth with precious little else but onions and some fatty strips of canned beef in it. Natasha ladled two bowls of it and carefully carried them upstairs to Edward’s room. 

He was sat up, reading a book Natasha had retrieved for him from the library. The kerosene lantern cast long shadows over his face, exaggerating how gaunt and thin he looked. Yet did not rob his eyes of the kind light they had when he saw Natasha enter, or the crickles around his eyes when he smiled. 

“You look exhausted, my dear,” he said. 

“I’m fine, you must be hungry,” Natasha said, she didn’t want to admit that she felt like collapsing. She offered the soup to him. “I’m sure you’re getting sick of Solotovich’s cooking by now.” 

“I’ve had much worse, not to worry.”

They ate in silence for a while, Natasha absentmindedly stirring the thin film of oil that lay on top of her soup into itself. She glanced at the book Edward was reading, he was halfway through it. 

“Are you enjoying it?” Natasha asked, gesturing to the book. “I don’t know what it's about, I just found the biggest one.” 

“Well, it seems you have a keen eye, my dear,” Edward said. “It’s a first-hand account of the Battle of Sostabre, Eighteen-Eighty.”

“Sostabre? Eighteen-eighty?” Natasha asked, leaning forward. History was rare to hear, and even rarer to learn of. Natasha had spent long hour squinting at pages of text she couldn’t read, looking at the pictures accompanied; trying to discern which were story and which were fact, and what had happened in years past. Edward must have seen the look on her face because he smiled again, his eyes took on a glint that Natasha had learned was a sort of pride. He loved teaching, telling stories, giving information, it was the only time Natasha saw him smile. 

“Ah, would you like me to tell you about it?” 

“Please!”

“Well it says here,” Edward touched the words, tightly printed on the page. “That Sostabre was a fort to the south, sat on a valley called The Scar, in Dunlavia-” 

“Dunlavia?” 

“It’s what the southern province of the Commonwealth used to be called, this was before it was conquered by Cassimiria.” 

“Cassimira,” Natasha said thoughtfully. “That's here right? Cienma, everything around it?” 

“Yes, Cassimira is the home province of the Commonwealth, the Iron Tower likes to pretend we are all one nation, but in truth there are many people’s under this flag.” 

“Have you been to Dunlavia?” Natasha asked, all she had known was her small corner of Cienma. Factories, diesel, iron, and stone. Sometimes her books would show open fields of green and gold, it scarcely seemed real. 

“Once, rolling hills of wheat and barley, the air is warm, all the water clean, my comrade Jon Checklov missed it often.” 

“Another bluecoat?” 

“Yes… Do you not know who Jon Checklov is?” Edward looked at her with concern, a look Natasha had quickly learned to recognize. He was upset with how little Natasha knew. It made her upset too. 

“Not at all, is he famous?” 

“Among us, yes, he’s responsible for nearly every major technological advancement the Commonwealth has seen in the last twenty years.”

“Like what?”

“Two-Stroke Diesel Engines, which power every vehicle and much of our industry, many contributions to metallurgy which makes Commonwealth steel cheap to produce, he was also instrumental in-” Edward cut himself off, his eyes widened in fear. Natasha knew the look, and she instinctively looked over her shoulder to see if anyone was listening. At this time of day, the sun cast the Iron Tower’s shadow through her window and across the floor.

“So it’s the same for bluecoats?” she asked. 

“What is, my dear?” 

“Not being able to speak, say certain things, looking over your shoulder to see if someone's listening.” 

“It’s that way everywhere,” Edward said. “I’ve watched you, and the other browncoats for a while now, and I can tell you that I have never known the same manual labour as you but… My knowledge and skills may make me more valuable to… them, but this brings greater scrutiny. Why, I would never have this conversation in my apartment - it is most certainly being listened to.” 

It made sense, bluecoats were educated, they could read, learn, think. Natasha couldn’t speak her mind out in the street, but at least in her home it was safe. Being able to bemoan the Iron Tower when no one was looking was a time-honoured tradition for those in Brudna. Natasha could hardly imagine what Edward was describing. 

“So you get more shit from the Red Guard?”

“The Guard? Hardly, I’ve seen more down here than I have in a lifetime, no they don’t bother with that with us… down here you lot stick together, you trust one another, many of my comrades would just as soon turn me in as feed me a meal.”

“Why? Why would they report you?” Natasha asked. She tried to think of any time someone had reported another, and it was only occasionally in the most extreme circumstances. But over words? Never. 

“To climb the Tower, my dear, that's what every single one of them wants. To get a little higher, to be just that bit closer to the sky.”

“No Red Guard, though? I can't imagine.”

“We are watched far more closely and by unseen observers,” Edward looked off into the distance at nothing. “A colleague of mine… well, he frowned, that’s it, that’s all he did, he stared up at the Iron Tower and frowned in displeasure… and then he was gone without a word spoken, or a sound made, and everyone just acted like he didn’t exist, his desk was filled by someone else promptly enough.”

Folk disappeared like that in Brudna, though if it were over frowning at the Tower then half the district would’ve been gone by now. Still, Natasha remembered the first time it happened to someone she knew. A boy, his name was Arnold, he had been one of Niko’s, and always ran his mouth; all full of rage at life. They didn’t know exactly what he said, but one day he was just gone. Arnold had been thirteen, Niko had looked for him for three days, barely sleeping until he collapsed into Natasha’s arms and had wept. It had been years ago, it still hurt. 

“I’m so sorry,” Natasha said. She looked over his thin face, his eyes which held grief for his friend. Then she noticed the stack of documents stuffed protectively inside his shirt. “Will they make you disappear too, when they find out you’ve stolen those?” 

“Almost certainly,” Edward said. “And I’m no fan of it, and no heroic, just a man who had no other choice.” 

“I want to keep you safe,” Natasha said. Edward had come to her door, hurt, and in need. She’d quickly grown used to his voice, his eyes, the way he always called her ‘my dear.’ He was her responsibility, and Natasha considered him as one of her own. Like Niko, Issac, Alexi, Ewa, Ana, Solotovich. Adrien and Julia, strange little Aurelian, even Charles had a place in her world. They belonged to Natasha, and without meaning to, she gripped onto them tightly. 

“You’ve done enough, my dear, any more, and I would be putting too much onto you.” 

“Edward, you risked your life to do something right,” Natasha reached out and placed her hand on his arm. “I don’t know what they made you do, but I know you’re a good person, and I’d like to help you.” 

There was desperation in her voice, a tightening in her chest. An energy that pushed through her exhaustion, she wanted to help, to do something, to make a difference. Anything other than sitting idle.  

“Did you not hear what I just said? A frown was all it took for my friend, do you not understand? Simply knowing shall condemn you, I cannot subject you to that., my dear, don’t throw your life away for me,” Edward said, his voice quivering, his hands clenched tight, bunching up the blankets that covered him. 

“Edward-” Natasha stopped, she could see the sheen of sweat gathering on his brow, the strain in his face. He was stressed, not something he could afford in his condition. So Natasha swallowed her protest, and squeezed his hand. 

“Red now,” she said, and left him with the book. She realized a moment after they’d forgotten the book, and she wondered what happened at Sostabre. 

Natasha moved back to her room, shutting the door behind her. Her exhaustion caught up to her quickly and her legs crumbled, and she allowed herself to fall face-first into her bed. Her muscles screamed, and her stomach twisted in hunger.  All along with the worries of Edward, the Red Guard, and the fact that she would likely have to get up soon yet again to toil more in the factories. 

But for the moment she forgot all that, and let her mind run totally blank. She couldn’t sleep, not this hungry, but she fell into a drowsy stupor for what felt like an hour but in reality was three. 

She woke to a sound at her window, and irritating tapping that woke her with a violent rage. She pulled her head up from her pillow, saliva crusted onto her face and her hair a mess. She fully expected to see a crow tapping at her window, they loved to annoy her especially sometimes. 

What she saw perched at her window was Niko, his feet delicately balanced on the narrow ledge like it was solid ground. Natasha rolled out of bed and opened the window. She was glad to see him, but still made a show of being grumpy for the sake of it. He grinned at her. 

“Morning, gorgeous, can I come in?” he asked. Natasha rolled her eyes but stopped aside to let him in, he leaned against her bookshelf as Natasha fished out a wooden comb and went to work at the knots in her hair. 

“Been asking around,” Niko said. “Medicine, even the herbs, aren’t making their way into Brudna, Ana can only offer broth and peppermint tea.”

“So you went to less friendly sources?”

“You know me, I checked with everyone, every two-bit razor gang or big shots I know, The Tarcs, Tsapok Gang, even Ermolai Atremov.” 

“Nik,” Natasha said with concern. “Tell me you didn’t rope the Tusks into this.” 

The Tusks were the biggest gang in Brudna, primarily they were Fodder dealers. Natasha knew Niko did jobs for them from time to time, and she hated it, but kept her mouth shut. You did what you needed to do, but she couldn’t ignore the fresh pit of anxiety which reared its head. Dealing with the Boar of Brudna was never a good idea. 

“I know Tasha, I know, but I needed to try; if the Boar can’t get his hands on something no one can, and Ermolai hasn’t been able to get any medicine in either. Looks like the usual shipments he’d skim off of haven’t been showing up.” 

“Bet he’s still getting Fodder in though.” 

“Not the time to be breaking your back over that, Tash.” 

They’d never fully agreed on this, and argued about it before. It was just one more thing keeping them just slightly apart from each other, and Natasha hated it. 

“There is some good news, though.” 

“Could use some.” 

“Ermolai thinks he can smuggle our friend out of Brudna and to another part of the city, from there he’d be on his own.” 

“Edward’s not going anywhere on that leg.”

“That bad huh?” 

“You can look if you like, he’s resting now.” 

“Probably best I don’t know what his face looks like.” Niko took off his cap and ran his fingers through his hair. Natasha liked watching it curl back around his face. “So, there is one way we can get medicine for him.”

“I thought you said no one could get any?” 

“No one that we could deal with no, but the Red Guard stock medicine to deal out as they see fit.” 

“I think Edward would prefer if we didn’t go to the Guard for help, so would I.” 

“We’re in agreement, which is why we’re going to have to steal it.” 

“That’s a lot bolder than you usually are,” Natasha had meant it as a question, but she felt her chest swell and a smile light up her face. Niko and his schemes, her worries dashed away, he had a plan. He saw her look, and he winked. 

“Anything for you,” Niko said. “Besides, it’s just a triage station, just exactly the most guarded place in the world, though still, could be dangerous.” 

“You’ve handled worse.” 

“Don’t I know it, after all I got you,” he laughed, and Natasha could barely pretend to be annoyed. 

“So, you in?” 

“You want me to come?”

“Never do this sort of thing alone, not the first time you’ve snuck out in the night with me now is it?” 

Natasha flushed red but maintained her composure. 

“When?” 

“Tonight, so you should sleep, I’ll meet you after the midnight horn,” Niko said. Natasha didn’t need to ask where they’d meet, she knew he meant the library. She felt warm, and safe, Niko assurance and scheming ways a cloak around her. Which tightened into a need within her heart. 

“You could… stay,” Natasha said, her face was on fire, she didn’t even know what she was asking for. Niko smiled, his own want in his eyes. He leaned over, and his lips brushed Natasha’s forehead. 

“Not tonight, gorgeous, get some rest,” and then he was gone. Natasha laid back down, the weight on her gone for the moment. And she slipped into sleep, the only thing still haunting her was Niko’s lingering touch. 

She woke up a few hours later, when it was well past dark. Natasha sat up and put her hair into a braid, she dressed warmly and headed out her window. She got to the library just before the midnight horn blew. 

“We’ll wait for the shift to change,” Niko said. Natasha nodded, despite herself, a knot forming in her stomach. She’d helped Niko here or there with something illegal, but this felt different somehow. The risks were high, Natasha knew Niko had a plan, she knew things would be okay. But she still slipped her hand into his. 

“What's the plan?”

“Sneak in, grab what we need, get out.” 

“Oh well, in that case.” 

“Relax, we’ll use the gutters like the rats we are, or the rooftops. Guard never looks up or down.” 

There was a whistle to signal the beginning of the shift, Niko squeezed Natasha’s hand. 

“Let's get going.” 

There was a little side door, well more of a collapsed portion of wall concealed by a bookcase, which they both squeezed behind and out into the adjacent alleyway. Cienma was consumed by an inky blackness at night, the stars and moon shut out by an overcast sky and the endless industrial smog. Only the oil street lamps managed to cut through the haze, and then only just. 

The two of them stuck to the shadows as it suited them, the fog cloaked them from sight. The Guard couldn’t see them, and they couldn’t see the guard. Fortunately, every guardsmen always felt the need to stamp his boots loudly onto the cobblestone as he walked. 

Niko grabbed Natasha’s sleeve and stopped her. To their side, in the cone of light of a lamp, wandered two Guardsmen. They huddled together against the cold, one shivering as he lit a cigarette. 

“Damn, why aren’t we allowed to light fires again?” one asked. 

“Because this entire district is soaked in petrol, you want to burn to death?” the other answered. “Even that smoke is against regulations.” 

“You gunna report me?” 

“And do the paperwork? Please.” 

“I don’t know why we gotta be out here in this damn cold.” 

“You know why, top fucked up.”

“I don’t even really know what we’re looking for.” 

“What else is new? Let’s hope we can get back in time for chow.” 

The two guardsmen moved on, passing right by where Niko and Natasha crouched in the gloom without so much as a look. They quickly moved on, heading carefully towards the familiar din of the factory floors. 

The noise grew as they approached, allowing them to move more quickly without fear of their footsteps being overheard. Production never stopped in the Commonwealth, not even for dark. The night crew worked away, guiding the molten iron as it passed through the processes. Getting assigned to the night shift was often a punishment, but sometimes it was just bad luck. 

Niko led Natasha around, using the twisting back alleyways to get close to the factory floor. There they found a pair of stairs to a lowered section adjacent to the street. It was really a large gutter, home to some bins and dumpsters and sizeable rats, which scurried away. Guardsmen patrolled just above them, unaware that more than just rats scurried underneath. 

The gutter ran along the edges of the factory floor, all the way to the backside. There was no way out except to climb up onto the grated iron floor; carefully, Niko poked his head up to take a look around. 

“There,” Niko pointed, towards a metal locker unassumingly sitting against a warehouse wall. “That should be it.”

“Won’t they notice?” 

“Guardsmen are focused on the workers, plus tired, they won’t notice anything,” 

“So what do you need me for?” Natasha asked. 

“I like having you around,” Niko winked. “Keep an eye out, whistle if one of them happens to look.”

Natasha didn’t have much time to argue as Niko silently climbed up onto the raised factory floor. She watched him sleuth, admiring how he could move so quickly and quietly. Like he said, the Red Guard that were stationed around were all overly tired and more focused on watching the night shift work, or at least pretend to. 

Niko appeared like a ghost next to the medicine locker, his hands moved deftly, and Natasha couldn’t help but watch in admiration as they coaxed the lock open in mere seconds. Niko swiped what he could, and Natasha glanced around to check if he’d been spotted. Astonishingly, no one so much as glanced around, and in a moment Niko was sliding back into the gutter with Natasha. 

“You look surprised,” he said. 

“Not really,” Natasha said, trying not to look impressed. “Let's get out of here.” 

They began to go back the way they came, but before they exited back the far side of the gutter; they both froze as they heard yelling. 

“Oi! Who took all the supplies from the locker!” 

There was the stamping of boots, then the industrial noise suddenly was cut off as all the machines were shut off. 

“Line up! Line up, all of you!” They heard a Guardsmen shout. “Which one of you ingrates stole from the locker!? You! Biedranov! I bet you took them, you addict scum!” 

Natasha could almost see his face, old and worn but friendly. Samuel Biedranov had been a Fodderhead back in the day, as well as any other numbing drug he could get his hands on. Natasha remembered a day when he’d come into the café, his hands shaking from withdrawal. Natasha had wanted to throw him out, the sight of him made her skin crawl, but Solotovich had taken pity on him and given him a cup of Workbrew. 

There was the sound of a heavy strike upon flesh and a cry of pain. They heard the pained voice of Biedranov pleading for mercy, as more blows could be heard. Natasha felt a pain in her chest, she wanted to cry out. 

After he’d calmed down, Samuel had promised to get clean and repay Solotovich’s kindness. Natasha was surprised to watch as he really did as he promised, he never touched Fodder again, and helped repair the roof of the café when it had begun to leak one winter. 

Now Natasha stifled a cry as she heard a rifle butt strike his head with a crack!

She was shaking as Niko grabbed her arm and led her away. Natasha pulled and struggled, desperately wanting to run out there and stop it. The blows echoed off of the iron and stone, Samuel Biedranov didn’t cry any more. Natasha’s jaw clenched, her head pounded, she didn’t even realize that Niko had gotten them all the way back to the library. 

Natasha tore away from him, her head pounded, her jaw hurt. All she could hear was the sound of the strikes against Samuel’s head, and she indulged in the imagery of her jumping out and taking down the Red Guard with her bare heads. Again and again her fist pummelling into their faces, their shocked scared faces. Just once they would taste what it felt like to be scared, to be powerless, and Natasha would be the one to remind them that they could be hurt. 

Her hand hurt, and she embraces the pain. The bookshelf splintered where Natasha had punched it over and over, her knuckles were bloody. She breathed heavily, her lungs pained, everything hurt. She shook, the rage subsiding, and that's when she began sobbing. Because it was her fault, all her fault. 

Niko had been standing by, he knew better than to try and stop her from releasing her anger. Only when Natasha began to cry did he step in, he gently took her hand and brushed away the splitters that stuck to her skin. He kissed her bloody knuckles and pulled her into a hug, Natasha hugged him back, holding onto him as everything span around her. 

“I killed him, I got him killed,” she cried. It felt like some small piece of her heart had been ripped out, and grief was pouring from the wound. No matter how small, no matter who, the people of Brudna District were hers. And now one of them was beaten bloody because of her, because Natasha decided to help an outsider, a bluecoat. 

Niko didn’t tell her it wasn’t her fault, or there was nothing they could have done. He knew she wouldn’t listen. 

“I’m so sorry,” was all he said. 

Niko had to basically carry Natasha back through her window, after the tears stopped all energy just drained from her, her limbs simply couldn’t carry her weight anymore. Niko laid her down on her bed, she pressed her thumbs hard against her eyebrows, trying to relieve the pressure in her head somehow. 

Niko ruffled through the various bottles, ointments, and pills. He found a wipe that stank of medicinal alcohol, and he dabbed Natasha’s bloody knuckles with it. She hissed as it stung but kept still as he cleaned her wounds. 

“I don’t know which of these pills are good for pain,” he said, peering at one of the bottles. 

“Edward, he can read, bring them to him.” 

Niko hesitated for a moment, there was fear there. If he saw Edward, he could no longer be telling the truth if interrogated and asked to describe him. Still, he stepped away to go to Edward all the same. Natasha distracted herself by wondering what the two of them would even talk about if they had the time. They were near total opposites, separated by education and experience and the colour of their coat. Yet strangely, Natasha felt like they could have been friends. 

“These should help your headache,” Niko said when he returned. 

“How’d you know I have one?” 

“You always get headaches when you get upset, take one of those, you’ll be fine.” 

“Was there anything for infections?” 

“Handed him one of the wipes and an ointment he said was mercury or something.”

“So he’ll be okay,” Natasha breathed a sigh of relief. She chewed one of the tablets from the bottle, it tasted like nothing as well as acidic chalk at the same time. 

“Maybe… Tash, he can’t be moved on that leg, not for a while,” for once Niko didn’t sound assured, and it returned the weight to Natasha’s heart. 

“There’s been a lot of talk,” Niko said gently. “Among us gutter types, and the guard are getting angsty, bad rumours, and I think it might be because of our friend.” 

“I can’t just throw him out in the street,” Natasha said, setting her jaw in place stubbornly. 

“We’ve gotta be smart here… I don’t mean anything against the man but… Tash, he’s not worth losing you over.” 

“Then we get him out, we get him to safety, that's the right thing to do,” Natasha went over these statements in her head. We do the right thing, over and over, that was what she was going to do. 

Before Niko could reply, there was a loud creaking from the floorboards and then Solotoivch was standing in the doorframe. 

“Boy,” he said, somewhat sternly, to Niko. 

“Good to see you, sir,” Niko removed his cap for him. They’d never say it, but they respected each other fiercely. 

“Sorry to interpret, but I need a word with Natasha,” Solotovich said. Natasha felt small again, like a child, only time Gregory ever called her anything other than ‘girl’ meant there was a problem. 

“Of course, sir, I was just leaving,” Niko replaced his cap. He looked at Natasha as if to say something but thought better of it. And like a ghost, he was gone in a moment. 

Solotovich sighed, he reached over and took the lamp from atop Natasha’s bookshelf. He lit it with a match before placing it back, he then moved past Natasha and sat on her bed, he rubbed his eyes. He sat down next to Natasha, she remembered when she used to sit in his lap as he told her stories to get her to go to sleep. 

“You’re trying to do the right thing, you’ve always done that,” Solotovich said. “I remember when you were little, you used to steal buns from here and bring them to your friends out on the street, and I pretended not to notice.” 

“You left the buns out where I could take them, and you could pretend not to know,” Natasha countered with a small smile. 

“Perhaps, but it’s different this time Nat, this isn’t like your little adventures at night, or the extra money you get and slip into my safe without telling me.”

“Never realized you knew about that.” 

“I notice everything you do, Nat.” 

“Here I was thinking I was subtle.” 

“You’re a lot of things, Natasha, but subtle isn’t one of them.” 

“Harsh.” 

“Point being, the boy is right, and he’s far more willing to stiff the Red Guard than I am,” Solotovich. “This is too far. It's not stolen food or a quick scam, this is keeping someone the guard wants, it’s treason.” 

“Don’t tell me you want to throw him out too?” 

“I don’t… but I don’t want to lose you,” Solotovich said. “If I wake up one day, and you’re gone, and you don’t come back… I don’t want to think about that.” 

Natasha felt her chest tighten. She sat in silence for a moment, then she had a thought, and she reached forward and took a book from her shelf. One rife with pictures, ones that dominated the page, they told a story you didn't need words to understand. 

“I remember you showing me this when I was little, since I was five, probably longer,” Natasha said. “You’d make up a slightly different story each time, but the one I remember most… you told me the knight chose to slay the dragon, even though he knew he would die doing it, because he would save his home from destruction.” 

“I was just trying to get you to go to sleep,” Solotovich grunted. 

“I also remember how you used to toss bread out back, for the children to take, so they wouldn’t go hungry,” Natasha said, and she gently leaned her head against Solotovich’s shoulder. “Sometimes you’d pretend to drop a coin purse, so beggars could grab it, or how you’d add a few more pastries to someone's bag; more than they paid for… all these things, if you had been found out, would have gotten you taken away too.” 

Natasha placed the book down, and she gently took Solotovich’s hands in her own. Gently, she kissed one of his knuckles. 

“You taught me to do good things, even when you know it could get you into trouble,” Natasha said. “That’s who you are, and I’d like to be like that too.” 

“When they first handed you to me, I thought it was a damn curse,” Solotovich sighed. “Maybe you are, but damned if you aren’t usually right. So be it, I only hope we don’t both end up thrown in the gutter for this.” 

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[snicketstrange]

"The TSS secret letter explained" theory

So, after many years, I can finally face my greatest nemesis again. The TSS secret letter. I think it is very appropriate to talk about it again here. There were many theories, and there were many discussions. And I think I found the best way to explain it. Let me copy the letter in full.

"My dear sister, I am taking a great risk in hiding a letter to you inside one of my books, but I am certain that even the most melancholy and well-read people in the world have found my account of the lives of the three Baudelaire children even more wretched than I had promised, and so this book will stay on the shelves of libraries, utterly ignored, waiting for you to open it and find this message. As an additional precaution, I placed a warning that the rest of this chapter contains a description of the Baudelaires’ miserable journey up the Vertical Flame Diversion, so anyone who has the courage to read such a description is probably brave enough to read my letter to you. I have at last learned the whereabouts of the evidence that will exonerate me, a phrase which here means “prove to the authorities that it is Count Olaf, and not me, who has started so many fires.” Your suggestion, so many years ago at that picnic, that a tea set would be a handy place to hide anything important and small in the event of a dark day, has turned out to be correct. (Incidentally, your other picnic suggestion, that a simple combination of sliced mango, black beans, and chopped celery mixed with black pepper, lime juice, and olive oil would make a delicious chilled salad also turned out to be correct.) I am on my way now to the Valley of Four Drafts, in order to continue my research on the Baudelaire case. I hope also to retrieve the aforementioned evidence at last. It is too late to restore my happiness, of course, but at least I can clear my name. From the site of V.F.D. headquarters, I will head straight for the Hotel Denouement. I should arrive by—well, it wouldn’t be wise to type the date, but it should be easy for you to remember Beatrice’s birthday. Meet me at the hotel. Try to get us a room without ugly curtains. With all due respect,

Lemony Snicket

P.S. If you substitute the chopped celery with hearts of palm, it is equally delicious."

Note again it:

1 - "My dear sister, I am taking a great risk in hiding a letter to you inside one of my books, but I am certain that even the most melancholy and well-read people in the world have found my account of the lives of the three Baudelaire children even more wretched than I had promised, and so this book will stay on the shelves of libraries, utterly ignored, waiting for you to open it and find this message."

Considerations: When Lemony wrote this letter, Kit was already dead. And Lemony probably knew it. As I already explained, Lemony published all his books over many years, even though he started writing TBB during the main events described in Asoue, he only managed to publish TBB a few years later, and after that each book took time for research and preparation of the manuscript, and the period of time between the publication of TRR and TMM was particularly long, what I call a great hiatus. This great hiatus lasted for many years. So Kit was certainly already dead when this letter was written. Lemony was doing some event confirmation research as he had access to the Baudelaires' writings which is where he discovered events that only the Baudelaires could know about from private conversations to what happened in the caravan in TSS (which Lemony explicitly did not find to be able to deduce what happened inside). This whole concept is very important to asoue, and it is clear that this was the author's intention in several parts of the story. So instead of undoing an important component to the story (the fact that Lemony is researching the past from his point of view while writing asoue) it is more logical to believe that the true recipient of the letter is not Kit Snicket, but rather someone who assumed her identity. After all, just like Count Olaf, Kit died on a desert island with few witnesses and her death was simply not a fact known to the general public until then. 

It is significant that Lemony explicitly spent several weeks searching for the caravan. It is already evident that the moment of search for the caravan cannot be the same moment that the main events of asoue are unfolding. Some people say that this letter was written during the main events of Asoue, but in this excerpt Lemony explicitly quotes what he had just written. So he's writing the letter right after writing about the Baudelaires' climb to the VFD base. And he could only have written this after having written everything he had written before. Lemony also hopes that the book will be published and will go to bookstores so that her "sister" will eventually find the book and read the message. It wouldn't make sense for all of this to happen in the few days that pass between the main events described in TSS and the main events described in TPP.

The meeting at Hotel D must be in a Hotel rebuilt after many years. 

2 -  (Incidentally, your other picnic suggestion, that a simple combination of sliced mango, black beans, and chopped celery mixed with black pepper, lime juice, and olive oil would make a delicious chilled salad also turned out to be correct.) 

This description of the salad is the same salad that Beatrice made, according to Lemony's memories. Evidently, this is evidence that points to a friendship between Beatrice and the true recipient of the letter. Canonically there is no evidence that Kit Snicket and Beatrice Baudelaire were close friends. On the other hand, canonically there is evidence that Beatrice and R were close friends in LSTUA and TBB. In fact, there is evidence in LSTUA that R had disguised himself as a member of the Snicket family previously. So, the person most likely to be the true recipient is R, not Kit. After all (it cannot be repeated enough) when Lemony wrote this letter, Kit had already been dead for many years. In fact, as I have shown previously, Beatrice JR's search for Lemony Snicket took place before Lemony published TWW, since the young girl was in Lemony's office in the building where Lemony lived (with a description identical to what Lemony described in TWW) she didn't recognize what the shape of the paperweight was. If Lemony had already published TWW, it is extremely likely that Beatrice Jr would have already read it because she is like a fan of Lemony, explicitly claiming to have read books that Lemony had already published. This shows so much that when Lemony published TWW Beatrice Jr had already been born many years ago and evidently Kit had been dead for many years, and when he published TSS, Kit had been dead even longer.

3 - "I am on my way now to the Valley of Four Drafts, in order to continue my research on the Baudelaire case"

When Lemony wrote this letter, he explicitly stated that he had not yet reached the Valley of Four Drafts. Evidently he is referring to the fact that he is writing many years after Asoue's main story took place and confirming the events little by little. He couldn't have not reached the Valley of Four Drafts and at the same time described the Baudelaires' ascent to the VFD base. In fact, by writing TSS so many years have passed that Lemony knows that if the women with their faces painted white died when they came down from the mountainous region, the rest of them were just bones. And when writing the ending of TSS, Lemony explicitly states that he spent some time collecting bones and taking them to a specialist. Evidently, Lemony's research to be able to write TSS took a long time. Imagine how strange it would be to do all this in time to show up at Hotel D a few days later!

[gravelish]

RAGBRAI Part 2 (Iowa)

22-29 July 2023

This is Part Two of my account of this year’s ride across Iowa. These posts have been festering in a ‘drafts’ folder for a month and a half and now I’m determined to just get them out. This one is more of a chronological account of the last few days of the ride, combined with some overall observations of the whole spectacle.

Day 5 of RAGBRAI began with a beautiful pre-dawn ride through downtown Des Moines and out of the city to the east. This was the longest and hilliest day of the week-long ride, covering about 90 miles and climbing 4000’. We passed through Newton, where I’d stayed on my eastbound ride in 2019 and Grinnell before ending the day in the twin towns of Tama and Toledo.

Day 6 included Marengo and the Amana villages, but Oxford has become the most memorable pass-through town of the whole trip for me, simply because of the heat. The fire station doors were wide open and there were tables lined with folks enjoying shade and cooling fans and ice cream. There was an old fire truck parked outside and an open hydrant spraying water across the passing riders (all walking their bikes through town). The final 15 miles to Coralville was miserable but misery shared among thousands. It was hilly and hot and humid (‘feels like 113’). People, including me, were stopping at virtually every hilltop farmhouse to sit in the grass under the trees and to empty water bottles over our heads. Everyone was checking on everyone else for signs of heat stroke. And there were clearly several riders along side the road getting attention (from other cyclists and from occasional ambulances).

I arrived at the Pork Belly camp in Coralville around 3:00. I was not looking forward to pitching my tent in the hot sun, so when I heard that they had opened up more space in the nearby Xtreme Arena for a small donation, I jumped on it. I set up ‘camp’ on the concourse, amidst many others. I didn’t even hear the sirens and commotion outside when the storm arrived two hours later. Strong winds were tossing tents around and sending folks fleeing for the arena (which they had opened for everyone by then). Pork Belly moved the dinner service and the band into the arena which was wonderful (this was still mainly just the Pork Belly crowd, so while it was crowded, it was pretty spread out given the size of the facility. Things were crazier in the main RAGBRAI camps). It was so nice to spend a night in an air conditioned space.

Saturday (Day 7) was a very early start because of the potential heat and the urgency about getting to Davenport in time to get the afternoon shuttle back to Omaha. Route finding out of Coralville and through Iowa City in the dark at 5:30 was confusing, in part because the route was designed to go through the University of Iowa and Kinnick Stadium, but that wasn’t actually open until 6:00 am and instructions weren’t clear. The 70 miles went fast and was one of the nicest rides of the trip, in part due to cloud cover. We reached the Mississippi River in Muscatine, but then followed it the final 25 miles to Davenport. I stopped for ice cream at a Beekman’s stand along the way and joined others on plastic chairs along the shoulder cheering the crowd as they rode by (in previous days, the lines at Beekman’s had always been prohibitively long and the lack of cloud cover meant little interest in sitting anywhere without shade).

I dipped my wheel in the Mississippi around 11:00 (I’ve never ridden 70 miles by 11:00 am before!). The boat ramp was crowded, but it was only a few minute wait (I heard that by afternoon the line was much, much longer). I took my time riding along the riverfront park - this is where I crossed the Mississippi River in 2019 on my way west. Then it was a mile uphill to the St. Ambrose campus, where Pork Belly was set up. I put my bike on the ‘Stupidity’ trailer, retrieved my bags, visited the shower truck, grabbed a burger and a drink, and made it onto the first (of 8?) coaches headed back to Omaha that afternoon.

The bus trip was 5-6 hours, all on I-80, but it went by quickly. Everyone was excited about finishing the 7-day ride (and having already ridden 70 miles just that morning). I think we all let our guards down, since I’m pretty sure that’s where I picked up COVID, which I proceeded to share with M and C when I arrived home two days later!

Aside from the heat and the crowds and the lines, RAGBRAI was an amazing experience. I’m really glad I did it. Once. I appreciate that many people will want to do it again and again. But it’s just not the kind of experience I ride for. I like solitude. I like the interaction with locals in their normal lives, not during a traveling festival that has turned their lives upside down for a day. I don’t like heat and mugginess and damp gear that never dries out and sleeping in a tent when the temperature never drops below the high 70s. I’ve always been a bit bugged by the collegiate focus on partying and drinking - which may not accurately characterize most participants, but which was a dominant theme leading up to and during the event. Serving up vodka lemonade slushies in front yards and crowded beer gardens and countless Facebook posts about riding from beer stop to beer stop along the route contributes to this.

I talked to a lot of other riders on this trip. They came from a wide variety of places and personal histories and biking backgrounds. It was a great reminder of how different we all are, in what we’ve done, what we enjoy, and what inspires us, despite the fact that we all share an interest in the same thing and look sort of the same in our Lycra and our helmets.

I spent the week thinking how this ride compared with 2019. That was a tough five days, but if I ever want to ride across Iowa again, that’s the way I’d do it. And while I enjoy the landscapes of the Midwest, I’d rather be riding in the mountains or along the coast, through the forest or in a dramatic urban landscape.

[so-litudinal]

i miss it here, kinda

main two reasons i haven't been around are 1) my phone died a few weeks ago and 2) my only consistant thought these days(?) is that i wanna disappear, as in i don't wanna/can't live, and i feel bad about only posting depressing, suicidal stuff (which is ridiculous, since i created this blog over 10 years ago as an online personal diary — but i guess shame follows me anywhere i go). 

my phone had been messing up for a long while, i know i should've gotten a new one at least a year ago. but it had been holding on (barely) anyway so i kept putting it off, as i do everything you know. but then one night i stupidly dropped it in the stairs. it only fell down a couple of steps and i seemed to be able to turn it back on just fine (albeit slow). but the day after it kept turning off randomly, until i couldn't turn it on anymore at all. anyway. guy at the repair shop couldn't do anything. and since i'm the worst, i hadn't backed up anything. i thought i'd lost everything, but turned out at least pictures and videos were saved to my cloud. still, i lost all my notes + audio recordings. i don't care all that much about the audios except for one i took two years ago of junko purring in my bed a few days before she died [now that i write this…i have a vague feeling i might’ve posted the audio here at the time… but i’m kinda scared to go back and look, only to be let down again]. thought/hoped i'd saved it somewhere on a hard drive with all her pictures but couldn't find it. 

what i'm saddest about is losing my notes. repair shop guy said that if i’m lucky (big lol….) and if my phone was connected to a google account (??? idk, my mom told me cuz of course i didn’t go myself), i might be able to retrieve them once i got a new phone. i’m not sure if that was supposed to be about my notes being saved to a google drive or something, cuz that wasn’t the case anyway. so yeah. years and years of notes. i’m dumb, so dumb that i kinda deserved this happening to me (watch it not be a learning lesson, just like anything else). the notes i really cared about were the fanfiction drafts + artwork ideas. speaking of, sorta crazy that i’m ashamed to talk about writing fanfiction on this blog. i’ve always had this compulsory need to “split” my personality and interests across different online platforms—irl too. don’t really wanna dig into that here and now but yeah, it probably all stems from shame and deeply rooted self-contempt + fear of judgement from others, even though most of my online presence has consisted of my existing in and talking to the void. some of those notes dated all the way back to 2020. there were some that i wrote on my pc but the large majority stayed on my phone for easy access when i got random ideas in the middle of the night or in the shower. i really liked most of what i wrote, even the stuff i didn’t necessarily have the intention of finishing. took about a week to buy another phone but it’s been 2 weeks since that and i still haven’t used it. been using a tablet. i guess i get used to not having a phone cuz with the way i live, like a hermit, i don’t even have much need for a phone’s primary functionalities anyway. i don’t go out at this point and i pretty much never contact anyone anymore. but also, every time i think about those notes i’ve lost, i feel like “what’s the point?” what’s the point of a phone if i’m gonna be so dumb about it. also—and that’s even more pathetic—what’s the point of writing at all. i’ve had ideas and things i’ve wanted to write about in that time but even on the occasion that i do start (on pc), i systematically get to a point where i lose interest, or rather the motivation to continue and finish. i’m aware that this mindset is not only worryingly cynical and pessimistic but also sounds ridiculously dramatic, even to myself. but i think the reason why is because when anything even mildly inconveniencing or upsetting happens, that plays into my depression and lack of purpose/will to live, and vice versa. vicious circle and all that, you know. everything, including the positive actually, ultimately brings me back to the same point, the same conclusion—it’s not worth it, because all of it is wasted on me, whose my life isn’t worth much at all, and all of it goes away or ends up in the same dumpster of despair, nothing will last, whether i stay alive or disappear. not that i necessarily believe this way of thinking is reasonable, or even truthful—more that it doesn’t matter whether i believe in it or not, because it so strongly influences, if not dictates my perception of all things in life. so yeah, all of this over a dead phone and a bunch of lost writings, but also not really. worst thing is i haven’t even had the motivation to kick my butt and at the very least save the images and videos from my cloud onto a hard drive yet. i’m gonna regret this. …i say, as i sit back and once again consciously watch myself doing the thing that will only lead to more regret and self-hatred. heheh. queen of self-sabotage.

speaking of things that i seemingly can’t react to in an appropriate, normal human way… on the 31st of last month, the gacha i game i’ve been playing every day for the past 3.5 years was announced for eos by the end of september. i mean. there’s more than one valid reason to be upset over this, for just about any other fan. and the series it’s based on has been so, so important to me for the past 4 years (see how i intentionally don’t name it like "here is not the place for that”? yeah). but idk. the fact that i was so shell-shocked by the news and once again left with the feeling that nothing is worth getting attached to…. i know this kind of response is disproportionate. pathetic. not healthy. not normal. i’ve gotten a bit more used to the perspective since—at least for now, cuz i can very well envision going back into full woe is me mode as the date of eos gets near.

there are 2 other observations, or whatever i should call them, i can make from this reaction. 1) not being able to access something (probably even more so since it’s a form of escapism) that’s been part of my life, without missing a day since creating the account on december 31st, 2020, makes it glaringly obvious how empty and repetitive my days are and have been for an embarrassing amount of time now—the worst part being that i’ve found some sick, sick sense of comfort in it being and staying so (anything else is….terrifying and something i can’t allow myself to aim for).

2) i’ve had this vague feeling for a while but never really bothered to put it into words until recently but the more my interest about a certain thing grows, the more i’m susceptible to become unsatisfied, not with the thing itself, but with myself and the way i engage with it. very passively—like i effectively let it pass me by like i do anything else in life. i don’t usually want to admit it cuz it’s a bad character trait of mine, but i’ve kind of accepted that i find no real joy in sharing an interest with other people, engaging with them over this thing we presumably have in common. i’m the worst, so ugly for that, because it’s obviously an envy/jealousy thing. but also i tend to wanna cut myself some slack (self-indulgent?) regarding that specific thing cuz i’m pretty sure it also comes from my overall lack of social skills—which, at its root, is not my fault (severe bullying at a young, crucial age + prolonged and repeated child neglect). i know that it has now, in my adult age, become my responsibility to address and grow past those traumas and their consequences, especially assuming i still have hope for a life worth living (not taking the “do i?” factor in consideration here for the sake of this argument). my generation wasn’t exactly born with the internet but we did, at least partially, grow up with it, and it’s now such a(n unnecessarily?) huge part of our daily life, just like younger generations. i mean, talking about generations is probably pointless—what matters is that this was effectively my experience with the internet. so yeah, all that to say that i’ve had an “online presence” (not just as an occasional user of computers/the internet as mere practical, communication, sometimes educational, even more rarely entertainment tools) from my early teens, if not earlier, via blogs and now ancient forms of social media lol (msn, i’ll always have nostalgia for you—but please don’t come back). anyway. my point being… i’ve been using the internet as a hyper-social shared space for a long time, and there’s something that i’ve come to realise has been true, if not from the start, at least more and more over time, and that i’ve had, still have a hard time recognising and accepting: i can’t connect with people online any more than i can in real life. i think i wished myself to be one of those people who, however socially awkward in real life, or even downright social outcasts, managed to find a place online. i never truly could. it’s gotten worse over this past decade (the worst these past 4 to 6 years), as i progressively lost touch with the outside world and became more and more isolated. all these factors, dating long back or recent, are reflected in my ongoing online experience. with social media, “online communities” (niches, fandoms, circles, etc.) as a concept are so prevalent, and it’s hard cuz never in my life have i had the feeling that i could belong to one in real life. i grew to even regard the idea of a community as something i had no desire to partake in (i don’t know if i still feel that way but thinking so is self-preservation). i remember for example, the lgbt community is one i never quite felt i wanted to identify with, beyond my orientation being what it is, even in my adolescence, and sure, that might’ve had something to do with my own internal struggles with my identity, but in a way, it also circled back to my aversion to social groups (which is very much based in trauma and not just me being an introvert). that naturally, and unfortunately, extended into my experience with online communities of all sorts. that being said… i think that as long as i accept this as a fact about myself, even a little, it’s tolerable and not that big of a deal. if it changes over time (that would require my irl circumstances to change first and, well…), fine, i guess. but if it doesn’t… idk. It’s still a bit sad. cuz the internet is a big part of my life, one that supposedly brings me joy in various forms (the most prevalent being escapism—and i refuse to let that go, why would i hurt myself in that way).

all that to say that this gacha game closing is just one of the instances that have brought me to think more about how to engage with the things i like in a more fulfilling manner. since connecting with others is not a viable option at this point (or maybe ever), i think the only way would be to be more proactive. make or acquire something—something of my own—out of those interests. like putting more effort into writing. learning how to draw/make art. become normal and earn money to collect more merch (tie-ins) so i can be physically surrounded by things that make me happy. create the space i could never find outside, inside. i don’t care if it’s not fully enough to make up for everything i feel like i’m missing out on, because it would still be better than the loneliness and bitterness i’ve been stuck with for the longest time.

i don’t really have any definite conclusion i draw from those observations, much less a plan of action, but i just kind of went off and wrote about them anyway, i guess. there’s that.

so yeah… well, you know.

aah it’s gonna be such a chore to read over this before posting…..probably won’t (or else i might just give up on posting entirely)......nevermind, i'm doing it now lol.

rare good news is that paimon seems to be on the tail end of a very long and intense moult. last time it was that bad was when i got her and she immediately underwent the very first moult of her life. at the worst of it, last month, maybe even the month before, she was so down. so quiet and skittish. i never even had an opportunity to touch her. and as always, i was scared it might be something else, like an illness, or even a stressed-induced moult. i’ve been scared that my own irregular, unhealthy lifestyle might start to impact her. i know i don’t deserve her. at the same time, i was hesitant to take her to the vet. she can be a pretty fearful bird to begin with, so i feared that having to go through that kind of stress (the trip itself, being in an unknown place, handled by a stranger) would only make her worse. in the end, the risk of that didn’t seem worth taking cuz there was a good chance the vet would’ve just said that it was indeed just a moult and it would’ve been all that anxiety for nothing. during the time it got really bad and she was completely distant, i started to wonder if this was a glimpse into what it would be like without her here anymore. i’d already been thinking before that i would probably not want to go on after her death and this… well. it feels very real. but she’s better now. i cried when she sat on my shoulder for the first time again, and when we started playing and she tried biting my fingers or my ear. the absolute best was getting to sniff her (there is not one better smell in the world than that of a bird) + petting her until she falls asleep in my hand. I love her very much.

going back to the whole notes and writing thing… i don’t easily let myself admit to positive thoughts and feelings (fear and defeatism, i guess). still, i wanna put out there, somewhere—here being as good a place as any—that i really like writing. it’s fun (especially when it “works” lol). and it’s one of the rare things i genuinely like doing for myself, regardless of the purpose, the quality, the destination. not even talking about what comes afterwards…

it’s one of the “better,” as in tangible, ways to distract myself i can think of (goes back to what i was saying about engaging with interests in a more productive way).

at least when i’m in the middle of writing, i’m having fun.

now that i’ve started, i don’t even wanna finish this right now. i could write more, too. but then it’ll get late and i’ll be frustrated for different reasons. and if i “leave it and come back later”... well, i know there’s a good chance it’ll end up in my drafts never to see the light of day again lol. and i did want to post something on this blog specifically cuz it’s a place dear to me on the internet. 

closing remarks: i’m thankful for cloud servers and birds always.

[bitchinbarzal]

Truth | M.Wood

summary; “they say what they really think of you after you’ve broken up”

-

You’d met in 2013 during a weekend visit to Boston College. You’d been on the same tour and Miles wouldn’t stop flirting with you.

He slipped you his number before you left, you never called.

That was until you were watching the NHL draft with your dad in the background one night and you heard his name before a series of pictures came up on screen of him.

You text him that night.

hey, weird of me lol but congrats on the draft today hey you’re pumped! It’s y/n btw.

He replied,

feeling even better now I’ve got a pretty girl messaging me.

He made you his girlfriend not long after freshman year started, he was enamoured. Nobody could understand it, he was the player so how had you gotten him to settle down?

You followed him to Jersey, we’re right there as he put pen to paper and signed his life away. There when he scored his first goal against Winnipeg.

Now nine years after meeting and you’d just broken up.

You felt weird, in denial almost like this wasn’t really happening. It was.

He moved out of your shared apartment, it was easier for the devils relocation team to find him a place.

There was still stuff to sort out like your dogs, Frankie and Arlo. They were with you for the time being but you were sure Miles would want to at least take one of them.

Your shared bills, cars and bank accounts.

“You can still use the account-“

“I don’t want your money Miles” you only snapped, cutting up your hand in front of him.

To be honest, if you were to be asked why you broke up you couldn’t give them a reason. It was probably a bunch of little things.

The fact you were together so long with no ring? No family prospects? That he didn’t really seem so interested in you as of late?

Miles always seemed interested in something else, never you and it started to take a toll.

Your self confidence plummeted. You noticed him on instagram liking bikini pictures and other things that made you insecure.

You felt horrible about your body.

Sitting in the box at games you’d be thinking about the comparison between yourself and these others wives and girlfriends. 

He had made you feel like you weren’t enough.

About three weeks in, Nico came round. An unwelcome surprise.

“Nico if you’re here-“

“I came to say hi I promise!” He interrupted, his hands up on his defence as he walked into the apartment.

“What can i help you with, cap?”

“Just came to um, check on you see how you were doing” he replied, sitting on the couch making himself comfortable.

“I’m fine Nico” you grumbled, retrieving a drink for each of you from the fridge and returning to give it to him.

“We’ve just been worried is all!”

You both took a prolonged sip before you asked “How is he?”

Nico hissed softly “He’s um… he’s okay I guess. It’s kind of like he’s lost his right arm? He’s learning how to be Miles again and it’s hard for him but we’re all here”

You nodded silently “Yeah… it’s good he has the team”

“Oh yeah for sure!”

“Does he… does he talk about me?” You weren’t sure you actually wanted to know the answer to that but you asked anyway.

Nico nodded “Um yeah i guess? You guys were really sickeningly in love I think some of the guys have been waiting for this moment so they can hear what he has to say - they say what they really think of you after you’ve broken up”

You nodded curtly, not wanting to think of the bad things Miles would be saying about you.

Nico realized his mistake when he saw the look on your face but never said another word.

Nico hung around a little longer, playing with the dogs and just generally checking you were ok before he left.

Later that night you received a text while in the middle of your TV show.

from: nico hischier

if you want to know how he really feels, watch this.

You clicked through the link and it took you to YouTube to see a hockey podcast, one you had heard before whenever Miles would have it on in the car.

Miles sat in the guest seat, giving insight on what they asked, talking about the devils season and Nico’s leadership.

“So man apart from professional side of hockey, what about personal? We don’t see too many guys in long term relationships in this sport you’re like what? eight, nine years with your girlfriend now?” The guys asked and Miles chuckled softly.

“Ex girlfriend now”

“Oh man, I’m sorry I didn’t know-“

“No, dude it’s fine don’t worry about it I’m happy to talk about it anyway” he interrupted, assuring him it was alright.

“Yeah i mean, we were nine years in a relationship which was a long ass time to be together. We met when we were in college and I was just some stupid kid I wasn’t making millions or whatever, she just liked me for me and that’s what I love about her” he explained, a common habit he had was talking with his hands and you laughed as his hands bounced around the desk.

“She Is the love of my life, one hundred percent. I don’t have a bad word to say about her. She’s there for every loss – I’ve never had a loss fully sit on my shoulders it’s always on hers too. I remember when it was a possibility that Seattle were gonna take me in the expansion and she was online looking at houses for us just incase, she’s crazy but she’s amazing”

The interviewer interrupted “if you don’t mind me asking, what ended it?”

“Me” he answered simply “I’m a hockey player man I let everything get to my head, the attention, the money, the fame it all went right to my head and I forgot that I had the woman of my dreams, the girl I love more than anything willing to do anything for me right there for nine whole years without so much a ring. Given the chance now, I’d put a ring on her finger tomorrow”

“Thanks for taking the time to speak to us today Miles”

You sat there for a moment while the phone screen went blank, tears rolling down your face.

You unlocked your phone and pulled up his contact, opting to text not sure you’d trust your voice.

to: miles 🤍

come over? I think we need to talk…

read at 6:43pm

Twenty minutes later the door rang. You opened it to find Miles stood on the other side.

“Hey…” he trailed.

“Come in, please” you urged.

He awkwardly maneuvered himself into the house and pandered to the dogs who had missed him ever so much.

“Hi buddy! Hi!”

You stood smiling at him and their obvious excitement to see their dad again.

“Do you- do you want a drink?”

He straightened up “No, no I’m good thanks”

You gestured then to the couch and he took a seat very awkwardly.

“I watched the podcast” You said, still fiddling with your hands.

He nodded “Nico called me, said he’d come to see you”

“Why would you say those things Miles?”

He looked at you like you had grown another head “Because it’s true? It’s like everything I wanted to say to you and never got the chance”

Your bottom lip quivered, his voice, his words playing back in your mind

“say it, please” it was almost a beg.

Miles looked almost in pain hearing your voice “Don’t cry babe-“

“Miles just say it” you snapped.

Sighing, he grabbed your hands and said “I let a lot of shit get to my head and as a result of that, I lost you and that was one of the most painful, gut wrenching things I’ve ever experienced in my life. I will forever be ashamed of how I treated you”

You nodded, thumb running soothingly over his knuckle “You said given the chance, you’d put a ring on my finger. That true?”

“So much” he breathed, letting go of your hand and walking over to the tv console, opening the drawer that held his Xbox and pulling out a small box.

You gasped “Miles-“

“I’ve had this for almost eight years”

“Eight?!”

“The day I signed for Jersey and you said you’d come with me, I went out and bought this ring with my first pay check because I knew I wanted you to be my wife” he mumbled, opening the box and showing you the ring.

A few tears rolled down your cheeks and you sniffled before you said “Do you still want that?”

“Huh?” His head shot up.

“Do you still want me to be your wife?”

“Of course i do-“ You stuck your hand out towards him and said “Well then put a ring on it and I’m yours, Wood”

He shook his head, almost trying to wake himself up from this dream “y/n… you can’t be serious”

“Do you love me?”

“Yes of course!”

You smiled “Well that’s all that matters then, I know you and I know your heart Miles”

He stood frozen for a moment before he moved to take the ring out and put it on your finger, lifting the hand to kiss it before kissing you.

“I love You” You mumbled against his lips.

“You have no idea how much I adore you” is all he replied, the strength of his kiss has every one of his emotions in it “and I’m so sorry, baby so sorry”

As tears rolled down his cheeks and landed on yours he tried to hold back his sobs, the sobs of relief.

After all, the truth will set you free.

[21burritoseavey]

Going Public (d.s.)

a/n: Hey! I'm sorry this took so long, but here you go, really hope you enjoy this! also i guess you could say secret relationship is pt.1, hollywood fix is pt.2 and this is pt.3 but you can read them on their own:) sorry if this is a little unedited! and...bad lol

Summary: Daniel and Y/n have a little movie night and do the TikTok trend of “I hate all me, but when he loves me I feel like...” and post it, confirming their relationship.

Y/n always stayed over at Daniel’s place at the end of the school week. After her shift at work, she’d head over to his house so they could spend the evening together. Sometimes when Christian wasn’t around or Daniel was home alone, she’d just let herself in and greet Kobe as he ran towards the front door, and she’d see Daniel in the studio or in his bedroom. They’d cuddle under the blankets and have the TV on in the background, gentle chatter flowing between them. Those nights were easily Y/n’s favourite part of the week. 

 One Friday night, Y/n had plodded to the front door. Her muddy footsteps followed her to the welcome mat, testament to the slight chill and light autumn drizzle outside. She wiped the souls of her boots against the grimy, brown strings with her hand gripped onto the door handle and was surprised to see the house strangely clean and empty when the door squealed open. If she didn’t know any better, she’d have thought no one was home, but Daniel’s text fifteen minutes earlier told her otherwise. I mean, even the gentle pitter patter of Kobe’s paws didn’t fill her ears when she kicked off her shoes. 

 “Daniel,” She called softly, brushing her fingers against the marble countertop. Y/n walked over to the kitchen cabinets and started rummaging around for a snack. Her movements were comfortable and unashamed, the sight of her had the corners of Daniel’s lips instantly turning upwards into a smile. He had emerged from his bedroom silently, having just gotten off a phone call with his manager, Randy. 

 His footsteps creaking along the floorboards had Y/n snapping her head to the sound and she jumped back in fear as she saw him. “Oh God,” She breathed, pressing a hand to her heart in momentary embarrassment. The packet of chips in the cabinet toppled over the edge and Y/n spun back around. “Okay, this house is haunted or something.” She laughed. Daniel chuckled quietly and walked over to the counter. One mug of hot chocolate sat on the tabletop, steaming, and swirling with a sweet aroma. “Oh, is that for me?” She asked Daniel, walking towards him to drape her arms across his waist and give him a hug. 

 He let a gentle laugh fall from his lips. “No, it’s for Kobe over there,” he joked, looking over Y/n to gaze at the small puppy curled up on the blanketed sectional sofa. Y/n looked over her shoulder to follow gaze, noticing more than just Kobe in the corner. The living room was illuminated with warm light by two small lamps on opposite sides of the couch. Blankets and pillows were brought in from Daniel’s bedroom to scatter throughout the little space and a bowl of caramel popcorn - Y/n’s favourite - sat amongst a plethora of snacks. 

 Y/n walked towards the couch, letting out a quiet, “what’s all this for?” before she faced Daniel again. 

 He shrugged. “I don’t know, I just thought it would be nice since it’s cold and rainy tonight.” He set the hot cup of hot chocolate on the coffee table.

 “Well, thank you, Daniel.” Y/n tugged a corner of her lips into a shy smirk and padded towards him. Daniel willingly wrapped his arms around her shoulders and pressed his body against hers, the feeling of her sinking into his soothing embrace had smeared a smile onto his face. 

 “Do you want to pick the movie?” He asked, his whisper muffled by her hair. 

 “Yeah,” Y/n stepped back gently and looked across the room to the TV remote. 

 Daniel chuckled, “m’kay, but if you spend twenty hours trying to pick a movie…” He trailed off, picking up the TV remote with a raised eyebrow. 

 “Okay, that was one time.” She defended, snatching it from him.

----

“What’s with the photo?” She smiled towards the camera behind a sip of her drink. The movie Y/n chose was Pride and Prejudice, and she was proud to tell Daniel it only took her five minutes to pick it out. Ribbons of yellowy light shone over their faces as they slumped back on the couch, blankets wrapped around them, and a bowl of popcorn shared between them in the middle. 

“Just ‘because I love you,” Daniel uttered, biting his upturned lips. He dropped his phone to his lap. 

“Y’ sure” 

“Okay, I have to tell you something,” He beamed, eyes ablaze with zest and heart beating with excitement. He set her face in his palms and kept his calm smile, he watched her eyes lit up at his statement. Y/n drew back his hands and dropped them to her lap with his fingers entwined with hers. She shuffled to devote her attention to him completely. 

“What is it?” 

Daniel giggled and leaned in for another kiss. “Something...” He glanced everywhere but her, knowing well that he said something that would absolutely drive her crazy. 

“Stop being so mysterious,” Y/n huffed, dropping his hand to cross her arms.

“Okay fine,” He chuckled breathily. “I think we should tell my fans we're in a relationship.” He said, shifting his gaze to rest on Y/n while she processed the news. 

“Yo-you mean like-” Y/n gaped, “like really tell them. Like say: we are in a relationship?”

Daniel nodded swiftly. “Yeah,”

“How should we tell them?” Y/n asked, reaching across the couch to retrieve her phone. Kobe shifted sleepily in her lap and stretched his paws, tickling her arms and she giggled at the feeling. “Kobers, Dani’s fans are going to know about me.” She cooed, scratching his soft stomach lightly. 

“I was thinking I could just post a-” “Oh! Oh! Oh! Should we make a TikTok?!” She exclaimed, answering her own question before he could even comprehend her sudden excitement. “Yes! We really should make a TikTok!”  Her fingers led her to her TikTok app, and she scrolled through sounds to find out what video they should make. Random sounds filled the quiet space every once and a while as she sampled the audio. She wanted it to be perfect. The most perfect announcement video there ever was, and since the young couple had thought about this moment for a long time, Y/n already had a few ideas brewing in her mind. “Look Daniel, this one’s cute, right?” She said through a wide smile, facing the dimly lit screen towards him. A little montage of another couple came into view as Daniel glanced up from his own phone. 

“Yeah, that’s cute.” He shrugged, plopping a fistful of popcorn into his mouth. 

“We have to be that cute.” Y/n spoke, “You have to be that cute,” She bit back her smile, watching Daniel’s head whip towards her in fake offence out of the corner of her eye. 

“Hey! I’m always cute!” ----

By the time Daniel and Y/n had finally finished filming their TikTok, the natural light outside had diminished completely, leaving the dark sky aglow with mere city lights in the distance. Daniel lifted himself off the couch towards the doors and windows to draw the blinds. Y/n watched him tiredly from the couch, eyes drifting to his ocean blue eyes and brunette hair dusted with blonde and-

“What are you thinking about, baby?” Daniel asked through the quiet room, kneeled beside her on the floor. He leaned back on the edge of the couch and rested his head on her lap. Y/n giggled, watching his eyes drift to the ceiling before meeting hers. She leaned in and giggled onto his lips before they shared a quick kiss. Daniel groaned tiredly as he lifted himself up onto the couch again, hands habitually falling into Y/n’s and head resting on her shoulder as he gazed at the blank screen. The movie had been abandoned ever since Y/n had the idea of making a TikTok - paused on a sweet scene of two lovers together, just like the young couple on the couch in real life.

 “Are you sure you want to do this, Daniel.” Y/n asked again, glimpsing up from her phone to really see if, he was sure. The TikTok remained in the drafts of Daniel’s individual account. 

“A hundred percent, Y/n”

“I’m scared about what they’re going to say.” She frowned. 

“Don’t even worry about it,” He consoled her. 

“Okay,” She gave a half smile, although the slight fear lingered in her voice. 

“Let’s just watch our movie and check it out later,” Daniel pressed the post button, sending Y/n into a fit of nervous giggles at how easy it was for him. Her eyes lingered on the video for a few long seconds, but Daniel whisked gaze away from the screen to meet him. Endearing and relaxed. He leaned in and bumped their noses lightly before letting their lips meet for a soft kiss. Y/n pulled him closer, tugging the blanket draped across his back higher up so it could envelop them both. Daniel’s giggles pulled them out of their lingering kisses and pressed one strong kiss to her lips again before continuing the movie. For a while, it was just them, together. In Daniel’s living room. Lights off. Lamps on and a movie playing quietly across from them. And for the first time in a long time, Y/n didn’t let the external opinions of everyone else get to her.

taglist:  @chilling-seavey @marthagryffindor @randomlimelightxxx @hiya-its-amber @the-girl-who-cried-wolf @hackerXavery @jonahlovescoffee  @onlyangelavery​

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[justfandomwritings]

She’s Got A Friend (Bucky Barnes)

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Reader

Word Count: 9.9k

Warnings: Fluff, Angst and nongraphic “off page” minor character deaths 

Summary: Happy endings are a matter of perspective. At some point in every story, there will always be some glorious, shining moment of hope, love, redemption, success. No good story is complete without it.

And if you end the story then, if you end it on a high, you can almost forget that anything came after that.

Notes: Hospital AU for @captainscanadian​ 1k follower writing challenge! I have taken the “Hospital” in hospital AU rather liberally to mean a field hospital in WW2. I thought I’d try a bit of a different writing style for this. Let me know what you think.

The condolences came in the mail only a few days after the official notification arrived on her doorstep from the mouth of some general or another.

She didn’t bother to remember the man’s name, and why should she? He wouldn’t remember her brother’s, let alone hers.

It was hard to stem the tide of her anger in the face of a man so visibly faking his sympathy for her pain. It was harder still to unleash her anger on him; she pitied him almost as much as he faked pitying her. It was just before sunset, and she was his sixteenth stop of the day, with a further 5 to go before he got off that night.

She imagined that, at some point, months ago, he had cared. He had sympathized and cried with grieving widows and orphaned children. No doubt, he had written them letters and checked on their wellbeing, asked after their emotions and made sure they were well. No more. He’d grown numb to the pain his presence inflicted, and with it less sympathetic to the plight of those around him.

By the time he reached her door, by the time he said “Ma’am, we have received word that your brother’s plane was shot down over Occupied France last week. His body has been recovered from the wreckage and will be on route home at the earliest possible date,” to her, he didn’t mean the “I’m sorry to be the one to tell you this news. Your brother died a hero, and if there is anything I can do to ease your pain, it would be my honor to do so in his memory,” that followed.

The nameless general had never met her brother. He called every soldier a hero when he met their families, whether it was true or not. If they asked him about how their loved one died, or if they began to cry on his shoulder, he had a practiced speech about how their son or brother or husband had died fighting, died bravely, died to save the lives of millions, died to protect them all.

(Y/n) knew all of that because, even though she didn’t remember his name, she remembered his face. They’d met before. It wasn’t the first time he’d knocked on her door. He was the same general who had come to inform her of her father’s tragic end a few months prior. The general hadn’t remembered her father’s name either, nor hers.

She didn’t bother to point out their association to the man. She thanked him for his service and left him standing on her front step as a door closed in his face.

It was easier for both of them that way.

The letter that came from her brother’s commanding officer was more heartfelt, (Y/n) assumed, but she didn’t read it.

“Ms. (Y/n), By now you have no doubt received word of your brother’s tragic end. Selfishly, I am glad that I was not the one who had to inform you. Your brother was a flying ace in my squadron and a good friend. Retrieving his body brought me to tears for far longer than my commanding officers would like me to admit…”

That was as far as she read. Her brother was dead. They had his body. She was numb to everything else, as numb as the general who showed up at her door, as numb as her brother’s corpse in the grave.

She couldn’t feel, couldn’t think, couldn’t speak.

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(Y/n) walked into the hospital the next day and handed in her resignation. She was just the next in a long line.

Dorothy had resigned the week before. Her husband had been killed in North Africa. She could no longer afford to live in New York, not that cost of living was at the front of her mind. She was moving back South with her two children, both under 5 years old, to live with her aging parents.

Vera had gotten married to a hotshot factory owner and resigned to plan her wedding. The rest of the ward had scorned her as she trotted out with her chin held high and a smirk on her face. She’d never done the work because she loved it like the rest of them, and she had no qualms about letting them all know it.

Ruth was on her way out the door in a week. She was following her husband to England where he’d be training pilots at an RAF airfield. Normally, that sort of thing wouldn’t be allowed, wives being stationed with their husbands. Ruth, however, was a pretty good mechanic and often worked on her husbands planes in her free time, and without any children to worry about, the Army was really getting two for the price of one.

Juanita’s departure had no doubt hit the hardest. With so many men dying overseas, crime on the home front had been virtually forgotten. Juanita’s son brought it back to life. Too weak to be enlisted in the army, her son had taken up work at the docks that he never would’ve been physically qualified for if not for all the men being drafted. Three weeks on the job, he was mugged by a group of drunken sailors out for their last night of freedom. He died in the hospital with his mother only a few doors down in a different wing.

The most senior nurse on staff, Juanita used to run the ward, but after her son died in the building, she couldn’t even look at the hospital anymore.

“(Y/n),” Mary sighed and scrubbed the heel of her palm into her eyes to try to wipe away the sleep. “We’re short staffed already.”

There was a begging to her tone, and any other day the pain etched across her face would’ve been enough to convince (Y/n) to stay. Mary was her friend, by some accounts her best friend.

“I know Mary, and I’m sorry. I just can’t stay here anymore. I can’t walk past my brother’s room. I can’t ride down the streets my brother and I used to play in. I can’t go in the shop he used to own. I just can’t.”

Mary swallowed hard; when she spoke the lump in her throat became more apparent with each word. “I understand that you’re in pain, but this hospital…”

“That’s just it,” (Y/n) cut her off, slipping into the seat across the desk from her friend. She’d refused to sit when she first came to see Mary, hoping to be in and out quickly, but not now. “I don’t feel anything, Mary. I can’t look at his room because I know I should be heartbroken. I can’t travel down the street because I know I should be in pain. I can’t go in his shop because I know I should be crying. But I’m not. I don’t feel hurt or worried or upset. I don’t feel anything; I’m just numb.”

“Numb?” Mary furrowed her brow. “You’re leaving because you think you should be in more pain?”

“I’m leaving because I loved my brother, because I should be feeling something, but I’m not. I feel nothing, and that scares me even more.”

“Where will you go?”

“I don’t know yet. Somewhere I will feel something.”

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Her brother had been Air Force, but her father had been Army.

She couldn’t bring herself to go to one of the Air Force’s recruiting offices. Part of her was worried she would have an emotional breakdown speaking to the men in charge. A larger part of her was worried she would feel nothing at all, a sign she was heading in the wrong direction.

The Army felt safer. She hadn’t been numb to her father’s death. She’d cried and mourned, and though the thought still overwhelmed her with sadness, she knew she would one day move on. About her brother, (Y/n) didn’t know what to think.

“What experience do you have?”

(Y/n) found herself sat in front of some captain or another responsible for organizing the Army Nursing Corps. He looked bored with her; she doubted managing a bunch of women was what he’d had in mind when he joined the war.

“I’ve worked at Wyckoff Heights Hospital on St. Nicholas in Brooklyn for eight years. I have copies of all of my reviews that show exemplary performance and no reprimands on record.”

The man took the stack of papers from her hand and began flipping through them. He stared at each of them for a long time, occasionally giving a ‘hm’ or ‘huh’ to show that he was thinking.

(Y/n) noticed after two pages that he wasn’t actually reading. His eyes weren’t moving from where they looked thoughtfully at the center of the page, and the noises of contemplation came randomly, even on pages that wouldn’t require much consideration.

(Y/n) turned away from the show to glance around the room. To the left was a door to the waiting rooms. Occasionally, when it swung open she could see the rows of shirtless men waiting for their number to be called up for evaluation. There didn’t appear to be many seats open.

She wondered, to herself, how many of them would be accepted, how many of those would make it back alive.

There were family members milling around the hall. A young woman was already weeping near the exit, and she hadn’t even been rejoined by the man she was waiting for. One of the doctors, (Y/n) assumed the portly, greying man was not one of the recruits, was trying his best to comfort her, but he didn’t seem to be having much success.

For the overwhelming number of men waiting to be evaluated and find a place in this war, there were a surprisingly few number of nurses. (Y/n) hadn’t been shown to any waiting room. There was a bench in the half she’d first entered with half a dozen or so women occupying it when she arrived. By the time her name was finally called only two more had come in behind her. The recruiters desk was in a notch in the hallway, not even its own room. The women were forced to state their credentials and make their case with no privacy to his judgments.

At least a dozen of the people milling around, including the old man and young woman by the door, could hear what was being said to her.

The man snapped her file closed with sharp flip of his wrist. “On your application, you’ve marked that you’d like to be assigned to a field hospital. I’m assuming you know nothing about the war. Field Hospitals are on the frontlines, girl.”

“I’m aware.” (Y/n) smoothly replied.

He raised an eyebrow, but none of his other features changed. (Y/n) couldn’t tell if it was condescension or confusion. “Are you now? The nurses in Field Hospitals are shot at almost as much as the soldiers. You think the Germans will spare you because you have a pretty face?”

“I don’t expect to be spared by anyone.”

His grilling was catching eyes from those milling around.

“And why would a girl like you want to find herself on the front lines?”

“I just want this war to end with as little bloodshed as possible. Helping where the men need it most seems like a good start.”

“Excuse me, ma’am.”

German.

(Y/n)’s eyes whipped around, as did many others in the hallway. There was a German here.

“My name is Dr. Erskine,” He proclaimed, more quietly this time, “I may have a job for you.”

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Erskine didn’t try to replace her father.

He offered a guiding hand out of the goodness of his heart. He offered a shoulder to cry on because he could see she hadn’t yet grieved. He offered insight, advice, from the wisdom of his own experience.

Erskine wasn’t trying to replace her father, and yet he did so many things she wished her father was there to do.

He offered her a job because he could see she wanted to find her purpose. He put her up in the barracks because he knew she needed space from her past. He accompanied her on walks at night to keep her nightmares at bay. He filled her waking hours with work when she needed distraction and took the load away when it became too much.

Erskine didn’t try to replace her father. No one could ever replace her father. He was a good substitute though. In times as dark as those, family was what she needed.

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

He reminded her of her brother.

That was the first thought that came to (Y/n)’s mind when she met Steve Rogers.

Her brother was younger than her by two years, and as a child he’d always been the smaller of the pair. For most of their childhood, her brother could barely reach her shoulder. Stretching his arms as wide as he could, he’d be lucky if his reach went from (Y/n)’s wrist to wrist. Short and scrawny, he’d not caught up to his sister’s size until he was a teen, but once he’d caught up, there was no looking back.

Steve reminded her of him. The size, for one thing, was an unmistakable similarity, but there was an air to Steve, an air of familiarity that made her feel at home. Every time she looked at him, she saw her baby brother. Not the strong, handsome man he was when he died, but the fearless, young boy she wished he would’ve stayed forever.

She monitored the health of all of Erskine’s candidates in the Strategic Scientific Reserve, but she couldn’t deny she paid special attention to Steve.

They all paid special attention to Steve.

Erskine liked his sense of justice. His conscience oozed out of his every pore. No one had ever argued with Steve and been right about it. They were talking about making a superhero here, and yet there was a very real sense amongst them that Steve already had a superpower: always doing the right thing.

Peggy had an immediate fondness for him. He was determined, beyond belief, and she admired that spark in him that refused to be snuffed out. He knew, in his heart, what he believed, and he was more than willing to die for it. Peggy was too.

Only the Colonel, Chester Phillips, doubted Erskine’s decision. He paid special attention to Steve, but he did so only as a foil. He liked to compare Steve to other men in the camp, men he’d chosen for the project, rather than the one Erskine had brought on. “Brown is stronger,” or  “Donalds is faster,” were common phrases in his office.

In truth, they were all stronger. They were all faster. On paper, any one of them would’ve made a better super soldier than Stever Rogers.

“That’s what Phillps does not understand,” Erskine told her one day while they worked in his lab. “It isn’t about what’s on paper. It’s about what’s in his heart.”

“So it’s going to be Steve?” (Y/n) asked.

Erskine nodded. “Do you agree?”

(Y/n) hesitated. She didn’t want to blindly agree with the accolade simply because he reminded her of her brother. She also didn’t want to naively dismiss it to save him the risk because he reminded her of her brother.

She knew Steve Rogers; she would like to think she knew him well. They were friends. Yet the more she got to know him the more she saw her brother in him. That chest cold that wouldn’t go away when her brother was eight, the fight he lost with a boy who’d made a lewd joke about her skirt, the way he’d adamantly stood up for their father’s memory as a soldier; their kind hearted mother teaching him to temper his words.

She knew Steve Rogers well, and the more she knew him the more she saw him as her brother. The more she saw him as her brother, the more she knew he had to do this. He needed to do this.

“I agree.”

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“Steve, you may as well ask her out. If you’re going to spend this much time ogling her, she at least deserves dinner out of it.”

Steve’s face turned as red as the apple she was chewing, and (Y/n) couldn’t hold in her smirk.

“I-I wasn’t…” Steve glanced over his shoulder, checking that Peggy wasn’t within earshot of (Y/n)’s ribbing.

“It’s all right, Steve. I won’t tell her, but you really should.”

Steve shook his head, definitively turning his back to Peggy. “Please, my entire life girls like that have passed me by.”

(Y/n) rested a hand on Steve’ shoulder. “Your entire life girls who look like that have passed you by, but Peggy isn’t like those girls. If you don’t ask her out, you’ll never give her a chance to prove it.”

Steve chuckled and looked off into the sky. “My friend said something like that to me about this girl, Maria, not long before he left for the front.”

“And did you listen to him?”

“No,” Steve admitted. “He was the one the girls always passed me by for.”

“Well, did he ask them out?” (Y/n) chuckled.

Steve hesitated a second before saying, “Yes.”

“Then that’s why they passed you by. Your friend sounds like he has a good head on his shoulders. You should listen to him.”

Steve gave (Y/n) a fond smile. “You remind me a lot of him. It’s easier, having you here.”

“It’s easier having you here too.”

(Y/n) didn’t know if that was true, but she was starting to think it might be. She was starting to feel something. Steve was helping her remember the good times with her brother, before the Army and the War. Back when they were just two kids in Brooklyn.

She missed him.

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Erskine. Gone.

Would this war take everyone from her?

(Y/n) kneeled in a pool of his blood, his body splayed out in front of her.

She’d dedicated years of her life to Erskine’s work. She’d dedicated time, money, opportunities. She’d dedicated everything she had and more. Gone.

His work was gone. Erskine was gone.

He was her friend, her family; and he was gone.

She summoned a tear, more than one.

They came slowly at first and then spiralled uncontrollably. Sobs racked her body as she gripped at his hand.

Someone tried to help her up, but she didn’t want up.

Vaguely, she recognized Stark’s voice. He was calling out to her.

“(Y/n), he’s gone.”

Yes, she already knew he was gone. What good was all of his genius when he could only state the obvious.

What good was all of her years in a hospital, all of her years of training, if she couldn’t save a life when it mattered, the one life that mattered.

It felt like hearing her father was gone again.

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They were taking Steve too, as if she had anything left to give.

“Phillips would just as soon send me home. I’m just a lab rat to him.” Steve spat the word out in disgust. “That’s all I am, an experiment, Erskine’s experiment. They wanted an army, but they got me.”

“That’s all you are to him.” (Y/n) quietly corrected.

“And what am I to everyone else?” Steve turned on her, his eyes as red as hers were. “What am I to you?”

“His legacy,” she answered immediately.

She’d been thinking about it a lot. Erskine had been dead for two days, and all she’d been thinking about was him and Steve and the little family she’d made for herself at Lehigh. Erskine the father, Steve her brother, Peggy her sister, even Phillips, the grumpy uncle who didn’t want to be in the picture.

What did it all mean?

“You are his legacy. If you were any other soldier you’d be just another experiment, but you’re not. You’re Steve Rogers. Erskine chose you. You carry on his legacy; you carry on his work.”

“And how am I supposed to do that?” Steve asked in a desperate tone. He slumped onto the bench and let his head fall into his hands.

“I don’t know Steve,” (Y/n) sat down next to him and put a hand on his shoulder. “That’s for you to figure out. You don’t have to know now. No one’s expecting you to know now, but when you do piece it together, I’ll be waiting.”

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“Stark says you’re going to have your pick.”

Steve was lying on his back next to (Y/n), tossing a ball in the air and catching it repeatedly with a satisfying thunk as it hit his palm.

A few weeks ago, he wouldn’t have been able to catch it once. He had all of the coordination of a newborn foal and would’ve whacked himself, or her, in the face the first time he tried to throw it.

It reminded her, again, of her brother. After his growth spurt, when he finally caught up to her, passed her, when he got tall and filled out. The girls started to notice him; the guys started to respect him.

“That’s what they tell me.”

“Any Allied hospital in Europe…” Steve stopped tossing the ball and glanced over at her, “Know where you’re going to go?”

(Y/n) didn’t meet his gaze. She kept her eyes on a cloud floating by overhead. “I hadn’t really thought about it,” She confessed. “When I applied, when Erskine took me in, I was planning on going to the frontlines.”

“You don’t have to now.” Steve rolled onto his stomach and watched her expressions carefully. “You could go to the evacuation hospitals or England…”

“Would you?”

“What?”

“Would you go to the frontlines? If they let you?” (Y/n) asked. She already knew the answer, but she needed to ask.

“You know I would,” Steve admitted.

“Then that’s where I’ll go.” She’d joked, when Erskine was still alive, that Steve’s real superpower was always doing the right thing. If he’d go to the front, then that’s where she’d be, waiting for him to find his way.

(Y/n) met Steve’s eye finally. “You said your friend was in the 107th?”

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It was only about a month before (Y/n) was running the field hospital attached to the 107th.

They sent mostly inexperienced girls out to the frontline. Supposedly, it was an easy job. They didn’t have time for complex treatment or procedures, so in theory, it was all triage and wound treatment. They claimed anyone with a little bit of training could handle it.

Early on when the fighting had just begun she imagined there might have been some truth to that claim, but as the war slogged on, it wasn’t so simple anymore. Every soldier had some kind of injury. The Army couldn’t afford to send everyone with more than a bump or bruise back from the frontline to an evacuation hospital. There wasn’t the time, manpower, money.

The field hospitals were overflowing with infected wounds, illness, bullet holes, broken bones, and there weren’t enough experienced nurses to go around. Not only did they lack the know-how, many of the inexperienced nurses were just young woman, some girls even, who didn’t properly know what they’d signed up for. They were shaken by the crack of every bullet, the boom of every grenade, the scream of every dying man.

(Y/n) had a sneaking suspicion that the real reason the Nurses Corps didn’t send out any of their trained nurses was that they want to risk their better nurses dying on the frontlines.

(Y/n) had watched a stray bullet tear through the chest of a young girl named Lydia only a week into her time with the 107th. She’d been reliably told by another nurse that Lydia was the fifth to die so far that year.

The second most experienced girl in (Y/n)’s unit had been a midwife for a few years before she shipped out, not exactly a skill that was necessary in an army full of men, but it came with some transferable knowledge. Her name was Maria, and it only took a few weeks before she was happily handing over the reins.

“They’re bringing in a batch of men from the front,” Maria reported to (Y/n). “Nothing serious, a couple broken bones. They took a fall to avoid a grenade; I’m told.”

(Y/n) motioned for Beverly and Viola at the other end of the tent. “We need to clean down some beds.” (Y/n) turned to Maria, “Did they say how many?”

“Not exactly, but I think it was only a few.”

(Y/n) only had a few beds to spare anyhow. There were a dozen cots set up in the field hospital, and six of them were currently occupied by men waiting for transport to the nearest evacuation hospital back West, another two by men with leg fractures. When she’d arrived, the beds were first come first serve, but (Y/n) had quickly started a process of dismissing anyone who could walk back to their own tents to come in to the hospital for regular checks on whatever ailed them.

“They’ve already reached camp; they’ll be here any moment.”

“If the bones aren’t through skin, then I don’t want them hanging around here. We’ll set them and send them on their way. We haven’t had free beds in a week, and I don’t want to take them up with something trivial.”

“Trivial? Glad to know you care about my leg, nurse.”

The tent flap was being held open by two soldiers, a sergeant and a private, around the girth of a much larger man propped up between them.

(Y/n) ignored the jab, “Get him on the bed.”

The two men helped their friend onto the nearest cot, and (Y/n), Beverly, and Maria quickly descended on him.

(Y/n) was the most experienced one there, but she’d made a point of having Beverly watch every bone she set. When things got busy, she might be needed elsewhere, and it was good to know that Beverly knew her way around things well enough to take a few bones off her plate.

“What happened?”

“Bit of an ambush, ma’am.” She recognized Gabe Jones immediately. She’d treated a broken finger of his on the first day she’d got here, followed by a number of bumps and bruises that probably wouldn’t have required her attention if Gabe weren’t such a flirt. “We had to jump into a ravine. Sergeant, here, did a number on his knee, and I got grazed by a bullet.”

“Maria, will you clean Private Jones’ wound?” (Y/n) began inspected the Sergeant’s knee.

“Of course,” Maria motioned Jones away to another open bed.

The third man took a step back towards the tent flap, but before he could get more than a few paces, he crumbled.

“Barnes!” The sergeant in the bed bolted upright. Beverly held him still, as (Y/n) rushed to his side.

“Are you alright, Sergeant?” (Y/n) slipped her arm around the man’s back and helped him stumble back to the nearest bed.

“I guess I’m not,” The man winced as he slumped back against the metal bed frame. “My side is killing me.”

(Y/n) nodded at the other sergeant, “Relocate his knee, while I do this, Bev. Maria can help when she’s done cleaning Jones’s wound.”

With deft fingers, (Y/n) unhooked the buttons down his uniform to check his complaint.

“I’d normally take you to dinner first, Doll.” These men hadn’t seen a woman in a long time, and usually they acted like it. She’d heard every bad joke in the book from the soldiers around camp and a couple from Jones in the bed next to them, but his tone was far more lighthearted, less learing than the others. He was teasing, trying to lighten the mood of how much pain was written across his face.

“Well, the rations around here aren’t very appealing, so you’ll have to settle for…” She found what she was looking for. A bruise spanning his entire right side. “You carried him back like this?” Her fingers probed gently at the edges of the dark blue stain.

“Someone had to; not like Dugan carries his own weight around here.” He winced as she touched a particularly sensitive spot.

“Broken ribs,” (Y/n) told the other girls over her shoulder, “three from the looks of it. He’s not going anywhere anytime soon.”

“That’s alright, Doll. I’ll just get to see more of your smiling face.”

(Y/n) wasn’t smiling. She hadn’t smiled in quite a while.

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“You’re healing well,” (Y/n) observed Barnes’s side, peeking out of the sheets, a few days later. “Right on schedule. You won’t need to be on the next train to the evacuation hospital.”

“Of course not,” Barnes scoffed, “How could I ever leave your lovely company?”

(Y/n) cocked an eyebrow. “That work on the girls back home?”

“Depends on the girl really,” Barnes confessed. “Most of the time a smile and a dance does the trick, but I like the ones that make me work for it.”

(Y/n) rolled her eyes and went back to inventorying the supplies she’d spread out on the cot next to his.

“Where is home for you, (Y/n)?”

It was the first time he’d called her by her name, also the first time he’d asked her a genuine question. “Brooklyn.”

“Brooklyn!” He exclaimed, “I knew there was a reason I liked you. I’m from Brooklyn myself.”

“Really?” She glanced back at him, pausing cataloging the rolls of gauze. She had to remember to put in for that. They desperately needed more gauze.

“Born and raised,” With a wince, he adjusted pushed himself higher in the bed. “My whole family and my best friend still live there. I’ll go back there too, if I make it out of your care in one piece.”

(Y/n) snorted; she couldn’t help it. Her care? They were in a war, and he wanted to joke that he wouldn’t make it out of her hospital. “I’ll have you know my care is perfectly fine. I served 8 years in ambulatory at Wyckoff.”

Barnes’s brow furrowed. “Can’t say I’ve ever been to Wyckoff, but I was a frequent guest at Beth Moses Hospital.”

“You break ribs running from Nazis often in New York?” She jabbed.

“No, but my friend may as well have. He picked a lot of fights. Didn’t win many, but that never stopped Steve.”

(Y/n)’s head jerked around and she dropped the papers in her hands. “Steve? Steve Rogers?”

“Yeah,” Barnes had her attention now, and she had his, “you know him?”

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“I swear, Bucky, next time you come in here you better be losing an arm. You’re wasting my time with these little scrapes.”

Bucky rose to his feet in front of her.

She came face to chest with his shirtless torso, and her ego absolutely refused to allow her to turn her head away or take a step back. Even as she felt her cheeks coloring from his state of undress, she adamantly met his smirking eyes.

“It’s okay to admit you’d miss me, Doll. Around here, I’m like a little slice of home, a breath of fresh air, a…”

“The smell of maneur wafting out of the stables,” She cut off.

Bucky chuckled and began buttoning back his uniform. “One day, Doll, one day.”

Bucky always said things like that. ‘One day, when we’re both back in Brooklyn’, ‘When I finally get the chance to take you dancing’, ‘Me, you, Steve, and a friend’.

(Y/n) never took any of it to heart. Bucky had popped in and out of the medical tent on many occasions since he’d broken his ribs, and he flirted with all of the girls who treated him. She never let it get to her heart, and she tried not to let it go to her head that his flirtations were infinitely more personal with her. He’d teasingly compliment the other girls’ uniforms, make observations about how nice they looked that day, wink suggestively as he ducked out of the tent. She was the only one he made plans for: Brooklyn, Steve, Coney Island, dinner, dancing.

The thought was nice, but she left it all there, just a thought.

“Don’t be a stranger, Doll,” Bucky called as he made his way to the door. “I’m sick of faking injury just to see you.”

He gave her his signature wink before he turned and left the tent.

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The SSR had moved in. She saw Phillips riding in from a mile away.

She stood side by side with the commanding officers; everyone over the rank of Sergeant filled in a pseudo welcome party for the reinforcements as they rode in.

None of the men could figure out why she was there, at the front, out ranking them. She wasn’t even properly in the Army. She was just a nurse, a field medic, nothing more or less.(Y/n) couldn’t say she was expecting any sort of comraderie from the Colonel. She’d expected a firm handshake, an acknowledgement of their acquaintance, and a swift dismissal back to her duties.

When Colonel Phillips jumped out, the men behind her became painfully aware of who she was, and she became painfully aware how things had changed.

“(Y/n),” Phillips ignored the officers in charge and marched straight for her. “Good, you’re here. I need someone with a head on their shoulders.” He clapped her on the back and led her towards the truck.

From the back, they came filing out, the men she and Erskine had rejected for the supersoldier program. Each of them a hand picked reminder of her lost companion. All of them could’ve been the poster boy for a ‘join the army’ campaign if things had gone a different way.

She had to remind herself that these men were Phillips choosing, that, even if Erskine lived, none of them would have ever been Steve. These were good soldiers, but that didn’t make them good men. There may well have been a few good ones in the bunch, but being strong, being able, didn’t make them so. She preferred the men behind her, the 107th.

“There’s someone else I know you’ll be happy to see.”

It took a moment more of men filing out of the truck bed before Phillips’ surprise came to face her. She felt her heart building up hope, anticipation, excitement.

Peggy. It was Peggy.

She hid her disappointment well as she smiled and hugged the Englishwoman.

She loved Peggy, but she was no Steve.

Where was Steve? It had been so long since she heard news. She was worried.

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“So you’re a hotshot then?”

Bucky had swaggered up to her the moment she stepped outside of the hospital tent.

“You must be if you have the Colonel’s ear. Everyone’s been talking about it. My little Brooklyn in league with the bigwigs.”

“Your?” (Y/n) chose to ignore the rest of the sentence. She stopped midstep and crossed her arms over her chest. “I don’t think you’ll find me ‘your’ anything, let alone all of Brooklyn.”

Bucky smiled mischievously and matched her stance. “Of course you’re not mine, but who do you think’s been keeping the rest of these scoundrels off your back?”

“Oh?” Her lips quirked up instictively in response to his smile. She really couldn’t help it. Steve had told her once that Bucky had that affect on women, that they couldn’t help themselves arounf him. “You’re protecting me from the wandering eyes of your fellow soldiers in hopes that someone will kindly cave into your flirtations.”

“No,” Bucky drawled, taking a step closer. “I’m protecting all of our dear nurses from the wandering eyes of my fellow soldiers because you have more important things to do like treat the broken ribs of a cocky sniper trying desperately to keep from crying like a child in front of his men.”

“Well your service is greatly appreciated.” (Y/n) chuckled, turning back to her walk, “If you must know, I’m not a bigwig at all.”

“Really?” Bucky fell into step by her side. “Didn’t look that way to me.”

“My mentor was a bigwig,” She confessed, her smile turning stale on her lips, “I was just in the right place at the right time.”

Bucky looped his arm through hers and dragged her to a stop, rounding her to face him. “That can’t be true.”

“It is.”

“If your mentor was that important, then you must’ve been pretty great to catch their eye.” Bucky gave her an encouraging smile.

She saw it in his eyes then. She hadn’t seen it before, not even when he was making her laugh with his flirting. She could see the kind heart, the trusting nature, all the things she admired about Steve. They were there, just buried deep beneath a layer of bravado and natural charisma.

She finally understood why Steve would be his friend.

“Have you heard of the Strategic Scientific Reserve?” The question slipped her mouth before she could stop it.

“No,” Bucky’s expression furrowed. “Why?”

It was top secret. She really shouldn’t be mentioning it. She’d already lied to him about how she knew Steve. She should just lie about the SSR, forget she said anything. She should…

She didn’t. “It’s a program my mentor and I founded…”

She told him everything. Everything about the SSR, about Steve, about Peggy, about Phillips, about Erskine.

He led her off to the edge of camp, away from stray ears and wandering eyes. He sat with her under a tree.

She told him about signing up for the war, about the general who delivered the news about her brother and before that her father. She told him about her mother leaving. She told him about her childhood.

She couldn’t help it. Once she started, she just couldn’t stop.

She understood why Steve would be his friend. She hadn’t meant to, but she’d inadvertently trusted him with everything.

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“(Y/n),” Maria came running through the tent flap, not even bothering to push it aside as it draped her shoulder. “Come quick. It’s Bucky.”

(Y/n) was in the middle of handing out rations. She dropped the box on the cot in front of her and bolted for the door.

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“What happened?”

She found Peggy first.

“The regiment was ambushed by Schmidt.” Peggy liked to talk as she walked. In that moment, (Y/n) appreciated that about her. “Only a third of them made it back. We’re doing rolls now, but the men in the yard are all that’s left.”

(Y/n) burst into the square field that functioned as the town center of camp.

There were men, dusty, beaten, bloodied men everywhere. Her small staff of nurses would be overwhelmed by the numbers, but that wasn’t what was on her mind now.

“Where is he?” She left the question and Peggy in her wake, running through the clusters of soldiers. Some supported their injured friends, others laid groaning side by side, a few stood in the center, completely fine. They looked the most lost of them all, as if they were asking God why he had chosen to spare them.

Hodge was there, in the center, one of the men surveying the damage around him. He was fine, completely fine.

“Hodge,” She marched up to him with a fury, “Where is Barnes?”

“Barnes? That kid that’s always following you around?”

Hodge had come in with the other Super Soldier Candidates. He hadn’t had the time to learn everyone’s names, not that he ever would have anyway. He was Hodge; Hodge thought he was too good for that sort of thing.

“Where is he?” She demanded again, not intending to repeat herself a third time.

“He was in the flank with his buddies. They’re gone. All of them, gone.”

Hodge had the decency to look sorry that he was giving her the news.

(Y/n) imagined it was the first decent thing he’d done in his life.

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Was she cursed?

She felt like she was. She felt like a ghost walking through life, doomed to haunt everyone she touched.

Her mother left her. Her father was dead. Her brother followed not long after. Erskine died just as she’d come to think of him as family. Steve was forced to tour around the country like some kind of sideshow because of what she’d helped do to him. Lydia was dead almost as soon as (Y/n) arrived. Now, Bucky.

She hadn’t confided in anyone in a long time until she met Bucky. She’d chatted with Lydia, Maria, her fellow nurses, made nice with them. She’d only told Peggy things she was sure the woman had already read in her file; she told Phillips even less. She told Steve bits and pieces, but she tried not to burden his plate more than it already was. She hadn’t needed to tell Erskine anything; the old man could read it for himself in her eyes.

She’d told it all to Bucky.

Whether it was the heat of war, the charm that came to him so effortlessly, that kind smile or those trustworthy eyes, it didn’t matter. She’d told him everything there was to tell, and as quickly as he knew he was gone.

Caring about her. It felt like the kiss of death.

She was a nurse, and her father bled to death on the battlefield. She was a nurse, and her brother died of injuries from a plane crash. She was a nurse, and Erskine died of a gunshot in her arms. She was a nurse. She was supposed to save people; she hadn’t saved them.  And now, she couldn’t save Bucky either.

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Steve. She knew those eyes anywhere. Even behind that stupid mask, she knew it was Steve.

She watched the show with blank eyes and a blanker expression. Steve didn’t look much better.

Back in Brooklyn, (Y/n) had been rather a catch. Boys had taken her out many times, and often times, when they wanted to seem smarter and more cultured than they actually were, they would take her to a show. (Y/n) had watched more plays than she could count, and none of them had been nearly as bad as this.

Steve couldn’t fake excitement if he tried, and he was clearly trying.

(Y/n) didn’t care about the show though, bad acting or not. She cared about Steve, and she cared about what he could do.

“Steve,” She barged into the dressing rooms backstage.

The girls, the dancers, squealed and made to hide or cover themselves, but they quickly regained composure when they saw it was another girl.

“Steve!”

Steve looked up from where he was sat in a corner doodling.

“(Y/n)?” He dropped the paper aside and got to his feet, hesitantly, disbelieving that it could really be her.

“Steve,” (Y/n) threw herself at him, hugging him close. “I’m so sorry, Steve.”

He held her close. “Sorry? What for?”

“Steve, you have to help,” She pulled back and looked him dead in the eye. “It’s Bucky.”

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(Y/n) didn’t join them on the plane. How could she? Every time one buzzed overhead her brother came rushing back to mind.

She still hadn’t buried him; his body was waiting for her back at home. She was going to bury him beside her father, beside an empty plot she’d reserved for herself, just in case something happened on the front.

She wondered, to herself because Bucky was not there to wonder out loud to like last time, if she couldn’t mourn because he had not been laid to rest. She wondered if she needed the confirmation of seeing his body for herself or the resignation of a coffin and a deep grave.

That hadn’t been true of her father. She’d mourned him the moment the general knocked on her door; she’d wept for losing him. Perhaps, she’d been able to weep because she had more to lose. Perhaps, she wept for her father because with her brother alive she still had a reason to feel. Perhaps, she wept for Erskine because, by the time he left her, she’d found other reasons, a new family.

She wondered if she would ever cry for her brother the way she had her father or Erskine. She wondered, if she started crying for him, if she would ever stop.

Maybe she was just full of it.

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“He should’ve radioed by now.”

She was in the hospital tent, pacing nervously in front of the only cot void of soldiers. Peggy and Maria had sat cross-legged on the flimsy mattress and were watching her with anxious expressions.

Howard Stark stood angrily tapping his foot near the bit of canvas at the head of the bed.

He was the only one who seemed to share (Y/n)’s nerves.

How Peggy was holding it together, (Y/n) had no idea. It wasn’t like she didn’t care. A blind man could see how much she cared about Steve. She had a composure to her though.

(Y/n) envied her that; she wasn’t ashamed to admit it. She wished she were as composed.

“That’s no guarantee that anything happened,” Maria’s voice was a calm guiding hand in the storm. She cared about the missing men, about Steve, but no more than every other soldier. She cared deeply for everyone under her care; it was part of her nature. Their absence didn’t sway her.

“No guarantee,” (Y/n) conceded,”but one hell of a coincidence.”

“Well what can we do?” Howard asked. “Ride into Occupied territory and offer our assistance?”

(Y/n) haulted midstep and looked up at Howard.

“No!” He immediately shot out.

“Yes.”

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She packed a bag of all the essentials: bandages, needle and thread, alcohol, small bottles of antibiotics and medicines she could sneak out of the tent.

The bag was heavy, bulky, but it would fit snugly on the back of one of the motorcycles that that night's messenger had left near the edge of camp.

He wasn’t scheduled to make his next delivery run for three days. She had every intention of being back by then. Either she’d be back or dead.

With all hope, and a little help from Maria, she’d be entirely unnoticed until she rode back into camp. Maria had managed well enough on her own before (Y/n) got there. She could handle a few days.

“Do you even know how to ride one of those things?”

(Y/n) froze. She knew the voice, but she didn’t turn. If she didn’t turn, maybe she could pretend he wasn’t there.

Phillips stepped up to her side. “Is this what Erskine would want for you? A suicide mission?”

“It’s not a suicide mission. What Steve did, that was a suicide mission. I’m just trying to help the odds.”

“And how do you plan to do that?”

“He’s trying to free hundreds of your men from a Hydra base where they’re being held prisoner. At best, he succeeded, and they’re headed back this way.”

“Unlikely,” Phillips butted in.

“At worst, he failed.” She continued without acknowledging his interruption. “There are a lot of scenarios in between worst and best that involve your men out there, injured and dying.”

“And you think one nurse is going to help?”

“I’m not going to hurt!”

Phillips snorted, “Is this about that boy?”

“What boy?” (Y/n) turned back to securing her bag to the motorcycle. It was a tell. Phillips wasn’t stupid. He knew that. She knew that.

“The one Rogers is friends with. The one you sent him on this fool’s errand after. I thought it was just because they were friends, but the men told me you two were close.”

(Y/n)’s hands clenched around the strap of her bag.

“Is that why you want to go? You’re chasing after some lowly soldier.”

“I want to help!” (Y/n) spat, turning on Phillips with a vengeance. “Who cares if it’s because I’m feeling guilty or because I care about him! They are my friends, and I want to help them.”

Phillips watched with a cool, calculating eye for a long moment as (Y/n)’s chest heaved with anger. She looked as angry as he’d ever seen her, and he’d seen her angry many times at Lehigh.

She cared about Steve. There was no denying that, but whoever this sergeant was he was something else, something special.

Reluctantly, he sighed out in defeat. “Your bag’s going to go flying off the back if you tie it down like that.” He turned and started knotting the ropes for her.

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She was seven miles out when she heard it. Something big and loud and powerful barrelling down on her.

(Y/n) stopped her motorcycle in the street and went silent, listening.

Tanks.

She rolled the bike off the road, muscling it behind some trees. It was clunky, weighty, and she didn’t have the strength to get it properly hidden back in the woods. Still, she found a patch of dirt flat enough to roll the bike off the road and made due with laying it on its side behind a bush.

Whoever it was was coming closer. She found the thickest tree there was and stood straight and tall behind it, sucking herself in to be as narrow a target as possible.

She could hear shouting now, though she couldn’t make out the voices. There was a melody to their tone even though the words were indistinct. They were singing something.

It went on for a verse or two, judging by the pauses, before whoever they were were finally close enough to make out words.

English words. American accents.

“The Star Spangled Man! With a plan!” Horribly out of tune male voices echoed through the tree tops without a care in the world for who heard.

“Steve!” (Y/n) rushed out of the trees.

They were at the end of the road, making their way around a bend a few hundred yards ahead, but she’d recognize that God awful costume from a mile away. It stood out plain as day against the swath of brown and green forest and the drab, colorless look of the men at his side.

“Steve!” (Y/n) raced for him.

Steve realized who it was almost instantly. “(Y/n)!” He jogged forward and met her halfway.

“I thought you were dead!” She choked out.

“Come on, little Brooklyn, you have to know we’re made of tougher stuff than that.”

(Y/n) pulled away, positively beaming to hear that drawl of her nickname. “Bucky!”

Bucky tipped a nonexistent cap her direction. “At your service, Doll.”

He dropped the hat charade just in time to catch her as she flung her arms around his neck.

“One day, Doll,” He mumbled into her ear.

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Frenchie was in the bottom of the tank with a seriously mangled stint strapped to his arm.

“I did the best I could,” Bucky was hunched over (Y/n) as she treated his fallen companion. “I’ve watched you enough times, you think I’d have it down by now.”

“Maybe if you were actually watching her hands you would have,” Jones jabbed an elbow into Barnes ribs.

“Hey now,” Barnes chuckled. “I watched her hands.”

“Sure you did.” (Y/n) bit back a grin. “The stint isn’t pretty, but neither is the break. This will take a while to heal.”

Jones prattled off in French, alarming (Y/n) to no end.

Bucky knelt down next to her and explained. “Frenchie doesn’t speak English. We make Jones translate to earn his keep. Only way he’s been useful so far.”

“Oh,” (Y/n) went back to the arm in question.

“I promise I was watching your hands,” He murmured to her with his usual heart-stopping smile.

(Y/n) rolled her eyes, “And I promise you were too busy flirting with my staff to notice what my hands were doing.”

“Not your staff, just you.” He corrected her. They both knew that wasn’t technically true. Bucky Barnes was nothing if not a flirt. That didn’t mean he meant it though. They both knew he meant it with her, and they both knew he didn’t mean it with anyone else.

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“Rogers, I’ve been with these guys on the field for months,” Bucky smacked him on the shoulder and pointed to the table in questions. “They’re all utter morons. Of course they’ll say yes.”

Steve gave his friend a worried look but let Bucky’s smile reassure with enough to take the next step. “Wish my luck,” he patted his friend on the back and marched over to the group of men getting drunker by the moment.

Bucky chuckled to himself and circled around to the far side of the bar to order himself a drink and find a quieter table. He wanted a beer, and he wanted as much distance between himself and that piano as possible. It was giving him such a headache. The beer would help with that.

He wasn’t actually sure that was true. He wasn’t a doctor or a nurse to know, but he was going to tell himself it would. Mostly he just wanted the beer. He’d earned it after the last couple months he’d had, after the last year honestly.

He heard the booming voice of Sergeant Dugan over everything else in the bar and couldn’t help a chuckle. They’d all earned a round.

They’d earn a couple more if they said yes, and as Bucky watched them from over the rim of his glass, he knew they would. They were fighters, like Steve, and like Steve, they wouldn’t back down from that.

Bucky kept his eyes on the men as they all considered Steve’s offer. He could tell the moment the words left Steve’s mouth, the moment they all froze at the proposition. He could tell, one by one, as they all agreed, like he knew they would.

It was written on their faces. It was written on Steve’s face.

He tried not to sound too cocky when Steve came back around to him. “See, told you; they’re all idiots.”

“How ‘bout you?” Steve took up the chair next to Bucky.

Bucky didn’t meet his eye. He knew the question was coming, and he already had his answer.

“You ready to follow Captain America into the jaws of death?”

“Hell no,” Bucky sighed with a smile. “That little guy from Brooklyn who was too dumb not to run away from a fight, I’m following him.”

Steve smiled, relief washing over his features as he took the drink in front of him.

“You’re keeping the outfit right?” Bucky couldn’t help but tease.

“You know what,” Steve looked back at the poster, “It’s kinda growing on me.”

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The singing at the front of the room fell quiet, to almost a murmur.

Bucky and Steve turned to the door, to the woman in the vivid red dress.

“Captain,” she greeted with a formal note to her voice.

She was beautiful. Bucky would’ve been blind not to see it, especially in that shade of red. She looked like one of the girls Bucky used to go dancing with, tight dress hugging her curves, matching lipstick and perfectly styled hair. She was a woman on a mission, and he had a sneaking suspicion that mission was a man, specifically a man named Steve Rogers.

Bucky’s eyes wandered over assessingly. She was way out of Steve’s league, or at least the league he used to be in. He hadn’t been out with Steve since this new transformation; he had no idea what Steve’s league even was anymore. He was taller, stronger; he was famous apparently. But he was still an absolute dork, clueless around women.

It was written all over his darting, nervous eyes.

“I see your top squad is prepping for duty,” she observed.

“You don’t like music?” Bucky smiled.

“I might even, when this is all over, go dancing.” Peggy didn’t bother to look in Bucky’s direction for even a moment.

“Then what are we waiting for?” He asked her.

“The right partner,” Her tone was suggestive; her eyes watching Steve expectantly. For the first time in his life, Bucky wasn’t in on the joke.

“0800 Captain,” She said as she whisked herself away.

“I’m invisible,” Bucky turned back to Steve, “I’m turning into you,” he scoffed, “this is a horrible dream.”

Steve smirked as he turned to walk off, “Don’t take it so hard. I hear she has a friend.” Steve motioned over Bucky’s shoulder towards the doorway Peggy had just left.

Steve took up his old seat as Bucky turned away.

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

What had possessed her to come here, (Y/n) couldn’t be sure.

She knew what she’d told herself. That Captain America was assembling a team of his own, that his team was leaving for deployment, that she wanted to be on the ship when it did.

She could’ve asked him all of that before he left for the bar, or when he came back. It’s not like he’d be drunk; she knew that couldn’t happen.

Hell, she could’ve asked him the next morning. Steve would’ve made it happen.

But when Peggy told her she was going down to the bar to check on the men, something had possessed her to follow.

Maybe she wanted a drink. Maybe she too wanted to check on the boys. More likely, it was how clearly Peggy’s excuse was a rouse to get dolled up and see Steve, and there (Y/n) was, right by her side getting dolled up too.

Jones had cornered her the moment she’d walked in. Gabe kissed the back of her hand like an old-school gentleman and asked her to dance. She politely declined.

“That’s all right,” Gabe smiled knowingly and pointed in the direction of the room Peggy was leaving. “Sergeant’s right in there.”

(Y/n) followed, anxiously, in Peggy’s retreating footsteps with only an encouraging nod from her friend to bolster her courage.

She’d chosen the purple dress, a more understated shade than Peggy’s red but a far more modern cut. She wasn’t there to grab the attention of the entire bar like Peggy was, but she hoped at least to keep one pair of eyes on her.

Steve spotted her first and immediately smiled. He waved a hand in her direction and retreated back to the tables.

Bucky’s back was to her, but whatever Steve said made him turn.

His face went slack, and a little space opened between his lips, as if his mind had formed words his tongue couldn’t speak.

“Well, now I know what Peggy meant,” He mumbled as she approached him.

“About what?”

“The Right Partner.” Bucky offered her his arm, “Would you like to dance?”

“I’m not very good,” she confessed smoothly.

Bucky smiled. Not his usual cocky grin that swept girls off their feet, or the warm, reassuring smile she’d come to trust. It was gentle, somewhere between kind and loving. “I’ll teach you.”

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Taglist

Forever Taglist:

@maybe-a-fangurl / @libbymouse /  @geeksareunique / @deathbyarabbit​ / @spilltheearlgrey / @ryanbarnesrogers / @bloodorangemoonlight​

Marvel Taglist:

@the-high-queen / @iamverity / @darktownairspeed / @radicalstars​ / @hermione-is-my-queen 

[drwcn]

The tragedy of a touch screen is yesterday at 3:08 am I thumbed the little “x” on my screen and deleted an entire answer I’d already written for this ask by closing the browser........I..........am an idiot.

This time, I will save draft.

See, three days ago, I wasn’t gonna even make this lil hc of mine into a thing, but because I am a spiteful creature already living off of coffee and desperation, I thought hell, what else do I have to lose? So it’s a thing now.

“The Price of Promise”!Verse: The first time Lan Qiren saw the woman who would one day be his zhang’sao, the woman who he would proceed to hate and blame for more than half his life, he was just sixteen years old. And she - she was just an assassin dressed in black, perched atop the shingles in Cloud Recesses, on a dark moonless night.

Characters: Qiu Baiti (Madam Lan), Lan Cenrong (Qingheng-jun), Lan Qiren, Zhao Zhuliu (Wen Zhuliu).  

Foreword:

The story, as Lan Xichen knew it, came from an account of this:

“Lan Cenrong, do not force my hand. If you take another step, you will meet the same fate.”

Lan Yueling was there when they finally found Elder Lan Yang, lying crumbled there in the dense wooded valley outside of Gusu.

Lan Yueling was the first on scene, and this was what she saw: the rogue cultivator known as Qiu Baiti stood over Elder Lan Yang’s body, their sect master Lan Cenrong’s sword in her hand, its point at his throat.

Other disciples arrived, one after another, juniors and seniors alike. They froze, gasped, and collectively became witnesses as Qiu Baiti swung Kunlong through the air and pierced Lan Yang with a single, lethal stroke.

The blood that coated Kunlong’s gleaming steel dripped black and thick into the earth.

The witnesses screamed, drawing their weapons and lurching forward, but one gesture from the rogue cultivator had them all flying backwards, like paper dolls caught in the easterly wind. Only Lan Cenrong stood his ground.

You murderess. The disciples cried. You murdered Elder Lan Yang!

Apparently the old man was beloved. Hm. 

Qiu Baiti did not deny their accusations, but Lan Yueling, having gotten there first, was pretty sure Lan Yang had already been dead before they arrived.

Sect Master disarmed Qiu Baiti. Or more truthfully, she allowed herself to be disarmed, choosing to offer no resistance. Sword in one hand, Lan Cenrong took a step closer, his arm coming up to wrap around her waist. That, she allowed too.

Concussed from being thrown back so forcefully,  Lan Yueling struggled to lift her head, but even so, she managed to catch the last sight of Lan Cenrong and that woman before they disappeared in a scatter of pale blue light. There were tear tracks on both their faces, but for what, she could not know. Frankly, she did not want to know.

If Elder Lan Yang were not slain by Qiu Baiti, then....then... The alternate was too frightening to think about.

Soon, Cloud Recesses learned of the murder. Lan Yang’s body corpse was retrieved and honoured, and Qiu Baiti’s guilt was deemed irrevocable. For a week there was no news and they all feared the worst, until on the eighth morning, Lan Cenrong returned with the murderess of his en-shi, who was by then, his wife.

-- The story, as Wen Zhuliu knew it, started much earlier.

Some twenty five years before Lan Yang met his end in that forest, he went on a three-year long journey away from his home in Gusu to cultivate somewhere far and removed from the secular and the distracting. In the mountains of the south, he met a kindred spirit named Guo Lei, a cultivator like himself, but sectless, wild and free.

What happened between them...no one knows, but it had left Guo Lei wasted, decrepit, and bitter until his last days.

That was the man Wen Zhuliu remembered. Neither he nor his da’shijie Qiu Baiti ever knew the bright young man who had invited a rain-soaked Lan Yang into his humble abode in the mountains. The man who had taken them in, raised them, fed them and trained them, the man who they had loved as dearly as a father, was post-Lan. This was a man betrayed, who had the worst happen to him, and had no more forgiveness left to offer the world.

Wen Zhuliu’s da’shijie melted her first core when she was just eleven years old. Shifu had been so proud. He padded her on the head and treated them both to a lamb leg roasted on the open fire. Zhuliu and his sister fell sleep that night under the open stars. Shifu brought them inside to be warmly tucked in, carried them on his back despite his bad leg.

Back then Wen Zhuliu was just Zhao Ming, just xiao-Ming. xiao-Ming was small for a five year old, his golden core barely taking form inside him. Shifu had found him when he was very young, and he did not remember a life before shifu, before shijie.

Those were happy days.

Eventually, xiao-Ming grew up. On his tenth birthday, shifu named him Zhao Zhuliu, and then within a month, shifu died.

They, Guo Lei’s only disciples and only family, buried their shifu behind the house where once he hosted Lan Yang. Shijie dressed them both in hemp mourning robes, and taught him to give his four bows of goodbye before Heaven and Earth. On that hot summer afternoon, they burned stacks upon stacks of joss paper, and when the papers turned to ash, shijie wiped away his tears, took his hand, and led him - led them - onto their path of revenge.

Shifu didn’t leave them much; he’d already given them everything he had. Now, it was their turn to give back, to fulfill the one wish that Guo Lei still had unrealized.

Tear-choked, shijie had knelt by their shifu’s death bed, holding his thin weathered hands in her own and swore upon her life. Lan Yang’s reckoning was coming and she would be the one to deliver it. This, she promised. 

If Zhao Zhuliu had known then that this was a mistake, that as youths they really didn’t know the world for what it was, that sometimes evil disguised itself as kindness and kindness appeared evil, he would have begged his sister to leave it all behind. Powerful as they were, they could’ve gone anywhere, done anything. But shijie was a filial disciple, a good daughter, and above all, she kept her words.

I promise, shifu, I promise that bastard Lan Yang will pay for everything he’s done.

Zhao Zhuliu hadn’t known, but it was a promise that would cost Qiu Baiti everything.

-

Or perhaps, the story could be told like this:

Qiu Baiti came to Cloud Recesses the same way that she left: silently, Bichen at her side, on a dark moonless night.

Lan Qiren remembered both nights well. He remembered the latter because one simply did not forget the sight of one’s beloved brother being utterly destroyed. Lan Cenrong had held his deceased wife in his arms and cried and cried and cried. But Lan Qiren remembered the former because of the terrifyingly embarrassing fashion Qiu Baiti had, within seconds of crossing swords with him, knocked him off the roof, sending him crashing into the shrubbery below, flat on his bottom. 

 Young Qiren had never been so humiliated, so enraged, and so impressed in his sixteen years of life.

He gave chase, across roof tops and watch towers, but the assassin donned in black was fast and agile and impossible to see in the dark. Very quickly, he lost all track of her. He realized then as he desperately searched the ground that he was near his brother’s quarters. A jolt of fear shot up his spine.

xiongzhang!

Panicked, he rushed to Lan Cenrong’s chamber and knocked harshly, mindless of the rules.  

The door cracked open ajar. His brother blinked sleepily at him. “Qiren? What’s wrong?”

“Xiongzhang, forgive the disturbance, but an intruder was spotted while I was patrolling. Are you well?”

“An intruder? In Cloud Recesses? How did he get through our wards?”

“That, I’m not sure, and...I’m not sure it’s a he. As the security officer, this is my oversight. I’m very sorry, xiongzhang. I will call for a thorough search immediately.”

“Ensure our disciples and Elders are safe. Qiren,” Cenrong placed a calming hand on his on his shoulder. “You could not have predicted this. Do not be so harsh on yourself; you’re still young.” 

Qiren smiled, comforted, and rushed off. Through just a half open door, he could not have known about the sharp point of Bichen pressing threateningly into the back of of Lan Cenrong’s neck this entire time. 

“Don’t. Move.” 

~~~

zhangsao 长嫂 - oldest sister in law.  en-shi  恩师 - esteemed/respected teacher 

Lan Yang - 蓝杨 Guo Lei - 郭磊 Lan Cenrong - 蓝岑嵘 Qiu Baiti - 丘百啼 Zhao Ming 赵明， xiao-Ming “little Ming”  *don’t @ me, I know Ming is literally the laziest name I could’ve come up with but I’m tired guys*

《kunlong》 坤隆 - name of Qingheng-jun’s sword  《bichen》 避尘 - Qiu Baiti’s sword, which she left to her son Lan Wangji  

Note: I had originally intended for this to be a background story to my Discordance verse, but then I thought... to hell with it, it works as a canon divergence on its own. I mean... it still is the back story of Lan parents in Discordance, the only thing that is changed is what happens to Wen Zhuliu. Without Wen Ruohan, Wen Zhuliu is alive in Discordance and we’ll get to see him there. Soon. >:) 

[rumbelleshowdown]

Author: Overpraised Lasagna

Prompt: Aphrodisiac; room full of chests

Group: A

A/N: This is a continuation of my Round One fic, The Book's the Thing

-

The Legend of the Dark One’s Dagger

“You wanted to see me?”

Weaver looked up at the police officer peering in at him from his office door. “Yes, come in.”

Rogers entered the room, his nerves on full display despite his best effort to hide them.

“Get rid of that uniform. We have work to do,” Weaver growled.

“What?”

The look of pure confusion on Rogers’ face put Weaver at his ease for the first time that morning. He hadn’t been himself since the previous afternoon when he’d met Belle French, or rather, when his murder investigation had intensified.

“You’ve been promoted to detective,” Weaver informed him. “At my request.”

“I, uh, I don’t know what to say.” Rogers stood shell-shocked by the news. “Thank you.”

“Don’t thank me yet. This job’s about to take us into some very dark places… Now let’s get moving.”

Rogers hesitated before replying. “I was just on my way to the Pirate Cove Amusement Park. They were vandalized overnight.”

Weaver rolled his eyes. “Well, unless there are occult books involved, I don’t want you wasting a lot of time there. Get that squared away and get back here. I have an appointment with Miss French this morning to review photos of the usual suspects. I expect to see you by the time I’m done.” He felt the heat rising up his neck when he mentioned Belle by name.

“Yes, sir.” Rogers replied without moving. “The librarian?”

“Yes, the librarian,” Weaver answered curtly without looking up.

As Rogers started to leave after what seemed an eternity, he suddenly stopped. “Is that a new shirt you’re wearing?”

Weaver glared at him. “Is there a point to your question, detective?”

“Uh, no… just an observation.” The corner of his mouth twitched upward ever so slightly.

“Then go use those observational skills of yours to solve a case.”

“Yes, sir,” Rogers replied and left without further ado.

Weaver sighed. It was pointless to be irked by the very skillset that made Rogers such excellent detective material. So what if he was wearing a new shirt? It was practically a replica of every other white shirt that he owned. He’d purchased it over a year ago and it had been sitting unused in his closet. It’s not as if he’d been influenced by the thought of seeing the lovely librarian again today or by the fact that he’d fallen asleep to visions of her and awakened this morning to the same.

The memory of the morning jolted him back to reality. He almost blushed at the state in which he’d found his mind and body. Desires that he’d successfully subverted for years had resurfaced. He’d been convinced that the tea he’d shared with Miss French the previous afternoon had acted as an aphrodisiac on him. There was no other explanation for the desires that had overwhelmed him and the urgency with which he’d had to attend to them. Just thinking back on the pleasure he’d felt at his release made his body twitch with desire again.

Weaver pushed back from his desk and rose abruptly. He needed to concentrate on the case right now and nothing else. Once the librarian had reviewed the photos, he would have no reason to see her again and that was for the best.

He put on his leather jacket, grabbed the mugshot photo albums and headed out the door.

_________________________________________________________

Weaver cleared his throat as he approached Belle French’s office.

“Detective Weaver! Good morning!” He turned to his side to find the librarian waving to him from the acquisition room.

“Good morning, Miss French,” he said, relieved that the sight of her was not triggering his body to react in any unwelcome ways. In fact, the warmth that seemed to engulf him was more of a balm than a stimulant.

“I just finished taking inventory and I have something to show you.” She beckoned him toward her with a smile that seemed to exert an unmistakable pull on him.

Weaver shook his head to clear it. Obviously the pull was his impatience to see what she had uncovered. This could be the very evidence he needed to crack the case.

“Were you able to identify any missing books?” he asked.

“Unfortunately not. Everything is accounted for…” She bit down on her lower lip and looked at him with a hint of shyness in her eyes. “But I did find something that might be connected to your case.”

Weaver was immediately interested. “As I mentioned yesterday, sometimes the least obvious detail can be the most helpful.”

“Oh, I remembered,” Belle replied. “That’s why I thought this might be important.”

The detective noted the slight blush that had risen to her cheeks reminding him of just how attracted he was to this beautiful woman. He smiled to encourage her to continue while attempting to squash his attraction.

“There was one book that I recognized immediately because I’d read it many years ago. It ends with a mystery and a poem that I wanted to read again, but when I turned to the last page of the book, it was missing. Someone had torn it out.” She looked at him to gauge his reaction.

Weaver’s senses were on high alert. “This could be a mere coincidence, but in my experience that’s quite unlikely. May I see the book?”

Belle appeared pleased with herself as she retrieved the volume and handed it to him.

“The Legend of the Dark One’s Dagger,” Weaver read aloud before raising his eyes to hers. “Do you have an interest in the Dark Arts, Miss French?” Every one of his instincts told him she wasn’t a suspect, but he had to consider everything to do his job thoroughly.

“Not if you’re referring to practicing something that’s truly evil! But I do like myths and magic and legends and fairy tales. The book is about the legend of the dagger that controls the Dark One, a being who’s cursed with extremely powerful dark magic. It’s just a legend of course, but the story is so real that it gives you pause.”

“Do you have any recollection of what was written on the last page?” He knew the question was a long shot.

“I do. The book is about the various people who were the Dark Ones over the centuries, but the book ends after mentioning the last Dark One. He was supposedly a very poor spinner who took on the curse to save his young teenage son from the certain death that would come from fighting in the Ogre Wars.”

Belle giggled when she saw the incredulous expression on Detective Weaver’s face. “Yes, I know this is all far-fetched.”

Weaver laughed at her observation.

“But, anyway,” Belle continued, “the last page contained a poem about the whereabouts of the dagger.”

Weaver was once again on high alert. There was no doubt in his mind that the thieves were looking for this dagger. God only knew why. “You wouldn’t remember anything about the poem, would you?”

“I remember every word of it. I wrote it out for you.” Belle gave him a sheet of blue paper with the words to the poem written in beautiful script.

Once again he read aloud:

Deep within a room of chests

the dagger can be found

To she who holds it in her hand

the Dark One shall be bound

A cold draft passed through him, making his whole body shudder.

“H-How did you remember this?” he asked in an attempt to shake the unsettling feeling that had gripped him.

“The poem was a mystery beckoning to be solved. Something about it fascinated me and I read it over and over again. I always wondered if the dagger itself really existed even if there was no Dark One. There’s always some grain of truth to these legends.”

As he’d expected, her voice and words soothed his nerves. He attributed the chill that had gripped him to the realization that his case was even darker than he’d anticipated. The thieves most certainly believed that the dagger existed and they wanted it enough to commit a murder to find it.

“Thank you, Miss French. I can’t tell you how helpful this is. Would you allow me to take the book with me as evidence or do I have to sign up for a library card and check it out?” He grinned at her even as he admonished himself for his pathetic attempt at flirting.

Belle beamed. “Well, I can allow you to take it, but I’d much prefer it if you’d sign up for a card. There are many other good books in the library that may be of interest to you. I’d be happy to recommend some.”

Weaver’s heart stuttered when she chewed on her lower lip again. Was she flirting with him?

A harsh buzzing sound shattered the mood. It took Weaver several seconds to realize that it was his phone. He fished it out of his pocket.

“Excuse me, Miss French, I have to take this call.” He held the phone to his ear and turned the other way. “What is it, Rogers?”

“I’m going to be delayed. The vandals destroyed all of the treasure chests in the hull of the pirate ship at the amusement park and it looks like the same gang also vandalized all of the caskets in the showroom at the Sunset Funeral Home.”

Weaver’s heart almost stopped beating. These weren’t vandals; they were murderers looking for the dagger in rooms full of chests - just as it stated in the poem.

“Don’t move until I get there!” Weaver barked. “Both incidents are related to our case.”

“They are?” Rogers sounded as confused as he’d looked earlier that day.

“Yes, I’ll fill you in when I see you.” With that he hung up and turned back to the librarian.

“I’m afraid I have to leave, Miss French. There are new developments in my case that need my immediate attention.”

“Oh, I understand, detective. I’m just sorry we didn’t get a chance to fulfill our deal. Maybe we can share a cup of tea and I can tell you my story another time?” Her eyes pleaded with him.

“Of course. I was looking forward to it,” he admitted to both her and himself. “I can come by tomorrow at the same time.”

“That would be perfect! And you can sign up for a library card while you’re here and I can review the suspect photos.” She rewarded him with a smile that was like a beacon of light amidst all of this darkness.

His heart, which was already beating rapidly from the break in his case, seemed to threaten to burst from his chest. He thanked her again for her help and abruptly took his leave.

He drove recklessly to the amusement park, anxious to try to tie these events together. But even in his urgency to get to the scene of the crime and gather new clues, he couldn’t stop thinking about Belle French. There was no doubt that the woman had bewitched him - and she’d done it all without the aid of magic or a spell or a crazy dark curse.

[scaredandbored]

androids cannot act without premeditation

this ones for @datalaur , i hope it’s ok! it will be ooc, as i’ve only done one story with characters that aren’t mine before, but i did try! doing it as a data-centric one was a bit of a mistake, he’s v e r y difficult for an emotional wreck like me to get right lmao. i’m so sorry it took so long, i really am. not only did i have difficulty with the characterisation of data, i also decided to try and make it a small collection of shorts that tied up nicely at the end, which took me waaaay longer than i anticipated, i’m sorry! i hope it’s ok (it’s also a little rushed at the end because i was working on it for ages but nothing seemed right and i just wanted to get it done aaaaaa i’m sorry)

word count : 2’292 (and a whole lot of errors because the final draft was done on my ipad at two thirty am i’m so sorry lmao)

i) when he “short-circuited” (not literally)

It was a routine check on a peaceful outpost, there was no need for Data to accompany the away team while he still had responsibilities aboard the ship, and when he had voiced this opinion to Riker, the first officer had agreed. Geordie had rested his hand briefly on Data’s shoulder as he gave his hurried goodbye before dashing off to transporter room 3 with Riker, Barclay, and an engineer from the outpost that had beamed aboard to explain the situation on the ground. Data was surprised when the loss of the heat from Geordie’s hand sent a slight chill through his system, the same way it did when the environmental controls in his quarters malfunctioned.

Shaking his head lightly, he ran a quick diagnostic on himself while he made his way to Engineering, a diagnostic that came up clear, which was puzzling. Data made a note to discuss the irregularity in his thermal controls upon Geordie’s return to the Enterprise. While monitoring the repairs being made to the dilithium chamber from the last skirmish the ship had engaged in, Data began to plan an evening meal with Geordie. Knowing his friend would likely be tired from an extended shift away with no access to his painkilling hyposprays, a low light intensity level was absolutely necessary, especially since Geordie seemed reluctant to remove his VISOR in the presence of his friends, including Data, for reasons the android could not fathom. Of course, Data would have to retrieve Geordie’s hyposprays from his quarters if the meal as to commence immediately after Geordie’s work planetside was complete, and if he would not take off the VISOR, perhaps some of his preferred scented oils would alleviate some of the tension headaches he preferred not to discuss, again, even with Data, once more for reasons unbeknown to Data.

The repairs were running smoothly enough for Data to feel secure in leaving them to run unattended while he carried out some basic structural repairs in the Jefferies Tubes, when the captain’s voice came barking out of his comm badge.

“Commander Data to the bridge, immediately.”

“Acknowledged, captain. I am on my way.”

As he made his way briskly down the corridor to the turbolift that would take him to the bridge, Data ran a list of the most statistically likely scenarios that would require his presence on the bridge. It would, of course, depend hugely on wether the captain required him at the navigation console or the science console, but based on the fact they were not due to leave orbit for another few days, Data concluded the scenarios requiring he be monitoring the various scans and probes while making various calculations (most probably pertaining to time restrictions enforced by a radioactive leak or electromagnetic flux of some sort) were most probable.

What he was not expecting, was to be completely blindsided by the tense order from Captain Picard, delivered without the man turning away from the view screen.

“Mr.Data, I need you to send a probe to scan for any signs of life on the outpost.”

It took Data a few seconds to process the order as his neural processors struggled with the implications of it.

He terminated the program which formulated various potential outcomes of his actions on the bridge, along with the one that had kicked in long before his motor functions had responded to the captain’s order, the one that was calculating the likelihood of Geordie’s survival.

While launching the probes, Data took a careful look at the sensor logs which detailed what had befallen the away team.

The details of the collapse of the cavernous system that made up the outpost.

The cave-in which had trapped Geordie and hidden him from the ships sensors, hidden his vital sign from the crew.

The earthquake that had made it impossible for Data to ascertain whether or not his best friend was alive.

It did not occur to Data until the away team was beamed back to the enterprise unscathed that he hadn’t spared a thought for Riker or Barclay, both men he would have considered to be his friends also. An intriguing matter, one Data wanted to look into before bringing it up with Geordie.

ii) when he acted without thinking (more than once)

Data had extensive experience in the science field, so when the majority of the science department were beamed planetside by a species of unknown intentions, it only made sense that Data be assigned to the ecological research team that were to beam down and learn all they could about the planet while a smaller away team attempted to retrieve the science department. Data could not see why Geordie insisted on beaming down, as he had neither experience with ecological research nor extensive search and rescue training, but Geordie insisted nonetheless.

Data’s memory banks suddenly assaulted him with images of Geordie in sick bay, in various states of physical and mental stability after away missions gone wrong while Data had been unable to assist him. Before he could stop himself, he found himself making a proposal for Geordie to join the research team, highlighting the importance of having someone well versed in physics while exploring the surface of the planet so that variables such as atmospheric pressure and wind patterns may be accounted for as much as possible while making notes on the planet’s ecology.

His lengthy explanation was cut off by the familiar pressure and warmth of Geordie’s hand patting his shoulder before settling just at the junction between his shoulder and neck, the warmth from the palm of his hand seeping into his circuitry and spreading a pleasant sensation throughout his body. “I’ll join your team, Data, no need to try and convince me.” His friend’s smile jolted another wave of warmth round his circuits, and while Geordie listened to Commander Riker’s plan for the retrieval of the scientists, Data ran another diagnostic on his thermal regulators, and one on his memory recall systems, only for them to show no signs of malfunction. “Hey, where are you, Data?” Geordie’s voice snapped him out of his reverie, wherein he had just begun to compare his responses to stimuli provided by Geordie to stimuli from his other friends, theorising perhaps it was the nature of his relationship with the chief engineer that was the cause of these flushes.

“I am in the briefing room, along with the rest of the crew who are due to be transported planetside.” Was his response to Geordie’s inquiry, but his friend’s bemused smile and good-natured laugh told Data the question had not been literal long before Geordie mentioned it being another one of those ‘figures of speech’ Data just couldn’t seem to get the hang of. He made a mental note to ask Geordie to assist him in further research into the use of such colloquialisms.

Geordie had removed his hand while they made their way to the transporters, resulting in a chill running through his sensory systems. Data filed the sensation away to run in comparison to his responses to similar withdrawals of stimuli from his other friends. 

O’Brien engaged in some tense small talk with the two away teams, reminding them they would need their tricorders operating at full capacity in order to boost their signals in the event of an abduction similar to the science crew’s. 

Data acknowledged O’Brien’s cautions with a fractional incline of his head, fiddling with a tricorder he, oddly, couldn’t remember picking up.

“Hey, Data, I know how to calibrate my own tricorder.” Geordie did not look angry; if Data had to guess, he would’ve said the look on Geordie’s face was amusement. Data blinked once, then looked down at his own tricorder, hanging from his hip. Looking back at the tricorder in his hands, he began to run yet another diagnostic on his memory banks.

“My apologies, Geordie.” He handed back the tricorder, a slight frown tugging at his mouth. “I...” He paused for a moment, paying particularly close attention to the result of his internal scan. All clear. “I did not think before acting.”

Geordie shook his head, but his smile never faltered. “That’s not like you, Data.” He clapped his friend’s upper arm briefly before hopping onto the transporter pad. “Thanks anyway.” His smile widened before he nodded at O’Brien and was beamed down.

Data decided he would have Geordie take an objective look at his circuitry later that evening.

iii) when he risked violating the prime directive

It had been two hours since the entrance to the cave had collapsed, trapping Geordie inside, alone. He had lost all communications with the rest of the away team, the Enterprise’s scanners were unable to penetrate the strange, rock-like substance the surface of the planet seemed to be covered in. 

Data and the rest of the small away team had been in disguise as the native species while they attempted to take some samples of the very rock that had condemned Geordie to his confinement. Data had attempted to convey the situation to the nearest village, but was unsuccessful, considering they had not yet developed an effective means of communication, making it impossible for Data to secure their assistance.

He had initially disregarded the option of using his phaser to burn a hole in through the dirt surrounding the cave-in to prevent further danger to Geordie as it would risk violating the prime directive. He had established almost immediately prior to his first encounter with Geordie that under no circumstances could he die while Data had the capability to prevent that outcome. Data’s neural pathways lit up with a continuous, almost painful feedback loop as he was confronted with this paradox.

The prime directive must not be violated. To rescue Geordie, one must violate the prime directive. Geordie must be saved.

He had not noticed Riker taking his phaser from his hand, he had not noticed him giving an order for transport, he had not yet worked his way through the paradox.

He could just about make out the transporter room fizzling into his view before the pain pulsed through his entire body before he shut down, unable to solve the problem.

....

When he was reactivated, Data felt the familiar warm sensation throughout his entire mainframe a few milliseconds before he registered Geordie’s hands frantically darting around his head, where he could tell his access terminals were wide open and under intense scrutiny by his friend. “I seem to have returned to an operable state, Geordie. How long were was it before the Enterprise could retrieve you?”

“Data!” Geordie’s exclamation of his name should have left Data confused as to why his friend had not answered his question, but instead, the relief he could hear in Geordie’s voice was... almost comforting. The thought puzzled Data. How could he be comforted if he had experienced no upset?

Mirroring Geordie’s hand on his shoulder, Data accidentally applied more pressure than anticipated on the engineer’s shoulder, and before he knew it, the android found himself completely engulfed by Geordie, his system flushed almost scalding hot, and his arms moved up to press Geordie closer, closer, until his friend started to mutter something about not being able to breathe properly. Data attempted to relinquish his hold on Geordie entirely, but Geordie kept his arms firmly around him as he sighed, “We thought we’d lost you, Data.”

“And I thought I had lost you, Geordie.” Data frowned. He had, once again, acted without thought. He had meant the words, but he had not processed them before delivering them. “Geordie, I have been experiencing-“

When Geordie drew back from their embrace, frowning and reaching for his scanner, a constant stream of questions for Data regarding his recent malfunctions, Data felt... bereft. Cold. The lack of contact with Geordie had returned his systems to their usual, less comforting temperature, and the worry in Geordie’s posture and words had chilled Data. It made sense, therefore, to initiate further contact with the human.

Data wrapped his arms around Geordie, clutching his hands together just below his diaphragm, and rested his chin on his shoulder, watching closely as the engineer’s hands fumbled with the familiar scanner before coming to a halt. “Data?” Geordie sounded even more tense, which did not make sense. The lack of physical contact between Data and Geordie had seemed to distress them both, particularly in this encounter, and Data had thought that by initiating a more intimate contact would result in a positive reaction from both of them.

He decided to make one suggestion before he withdrew completely, worried if he removed contact with Geordie without warning it might upset the human further. “Geordie, would you consent to being kissed by me?”

When his question was met by silence, Data moved to extract himself from Geordie’s quarters, but the well-known sense of warmth flooded him as Geordie grabbed him by the crook of his elbow and applied pressure intended to turn Data around to face him. He complied.

When Geordie’s lips connected with his, the sensations were something similar yet different to that provided by the other forms of contact they had experienced together.

And unlike his recent Geordie-related-malfunctions, Data found himself perfectly within his faculties, able to position his hands with purpose- one at the base of the back of Geordie’s neck in order to hold him close, and one runnng up and down his arm, which seemed to cause Geordie to relax into him. The warm sensations from Geordie’s much more mobile hands complimented the fizzing sensation caused from the new calculations Data had begun: formulating the ideal combined angles of their heads, how much force to use when backing Geordie against the wall in order to better maximise their contact...

Geordie was just glad he had brought Data back to his quarters for repairs instead of Engineering.

[saltybaltic]

Natasha Romanoff X Carol Danvers - WORK OUT

Natasha Romanoff / Black Widow X Carol Danvers / Captain Marvel Fanfic

Synopsis: Carol has agreed to stay on earth for a little while to work with The Avengers to deal with a new enemy threat. She seems to have caught Natasha’s eye in particular

Warnings: Language, smut

Words: I dunno, a few. Maybe 1000. Maybe more

So it turns out peer pressure works. I errr .., yeah I’ve kind of had a half a skeleton of this story sat in my drafts for a little while and I wasn’t sure about posting it but it seems the people want it. I reblog one (1) carolnat fic and I have literally never had so many messages in one night for one thing. I haven’t been able to reply to all of them because I didn’t wanna spam everyone but believe me when I say YOU HAVE BEEN HEARD. Please please let me know what you think of this, I was super unsure about posting this, so if you enjoy it. Let me know! Behold: CarolNat

Ps. And do not even COME AT ME AGAIN about Carol being a bottom. It’s a fact, let’s move on

Carol had been sure her tactics to get the other woman’s attention for the last couple of hours had been working. She was almost positive that she had seen darkened green eyes follow her around the room as she went about her work out routine in the gym. She was also certain that she had felt someone watching her while she lifted weights for the last fifteen minutes and her suspicions were confirmed as she bent down to pick up her towel and caught the eye of the red head on the other side of the room, daring to maintain eye contact as the other woman wet her lips before turning away.

It was impossible for Carol not to feel a little smug that her efforts hadn’t gone unnoticed, slinging her towel over her shoulder before making her way out of the gym and heading for the showers. She hadn’t gone to work out with the intention of flaunting herself so openly. However when she walked in and saw Natasha training alone as well, it had seemed like much too good an opportunity to miss.

Granted this was probably not the best of plans; to continue with what had been branded by both women as a ‘terrible idea’. It was messy and thoughtless and it only added another account to an already extensive list of complicated situations Carol’s impulsiveness has gotten her into in the past. But stopping herself from acting in the moment had never been Carol’s strong suit and with the mission at hand getting harder by the day, sources of comfort were in short supply.

A small part of her hoped that the other woman wouldn’t follow her. That it would just make everything easier if the opportunity was simply taken away from her and she wouldn’t have to resist alone. Throwing her work out gear onto the bench and retrieving a fresh towel from her locker, Carol wondered if it would just be for the best if Natasha ignored her this time and she was left to deal with things on her own.

Was that what she wanted though? Definitely not.

Her mind was plagued with memories of the times Natasha had helped her deal with the toll this mission was taking. Teeth sinking into her shoulders followed by lips sucking and teasing darkened marks into her flesh. Carol bunched her eyes closed and gave her head a shake before stepping onto the tiles beneath the shower head, pointlessly trying to banish the images from her brain. But still they kept coming. Hardened nipples pressing into her back and a hot breath on the back of her neck as slender fingers slipped between her legs and were plunged inside of her. Slamming her hand against the nozzle on the wall, Carol pushed out a long breath and looked down as the water began to fall over her. She rubbed at her eyes and then over her forehead to push the wet hair out of her face as she attempted to compose herself and just think straight. She was supposed to be here to help The Avengers. This was work and that meant being professional and making sure the job gets done. Natasha was a team mate and getting too personal with co workers was always destined to end badly, never mind sleeping together.

After several minutes of pep talk, Carol finally felt like she could feel her heart rate returning to normal, thoughts of naked, writhing flesh and moans of pleasure no longer consuming her mind. It was a bad idea.

Her stomach dropped when she heard the faint sound of a footstep on the wet tiles behind her, her heart beginning to hammer again as she sensed the presence of someone close to her.

“We shouldn’t.” muttered Carol quietly, her statement sounding weak enough that it must have taken all of her effort just to say it.

There was no response, but she heard someone taking a few steps closer until eventually she felt the touch of someone else’s skin graze lightly against her back.

“Hands ... against the wall.”

Carol huffed, leaning forward enough so that she could rest her forehead against the tiles and look down at the ground. She tried to focus on the water going down the drain in an attempt to ground herself and not succumb to what was about to happen.

“Nat, really ... this isn’t a good idea.”

Her eyes fell closed as she felt soft lips press a lingering kiss to the back of her neck followed by words spoken lowly into her ear, “I said hands on the wall Danvers.”

Pushing out a shaky breath, Carol shook her head from side to side against the wall of the shower as she tried to ignore the burning heat of arousal that was taking over her body. She knew it was pointless, already sure she was soaked just from thinking about what Natasha was capable of doing to her. There was no use fighting what she was feeling, her body already acting on impulse as she raised her arms to rest her hands either side of her head on the wall. She could practically hear the smirk on Natasha’s face when she spoke again,

“Feet apart.”

This time she didn’t hesitate before doing as she was told, shuffling her feet along the ground as she pushed out a shaky breath. The feeling of Natasha’s fingers sinking into her hips to hold her in place only served in making her lose the last of her resolve.

“That’s it.” said Natasha quietly, giving the inside of one of Carol’s feet a gentle kick, “Bit further princess.”

Carol swallowed thickly as she did as she was asked, another wave of arousal washing over her at Natasha’s words. She could only shiver and release a low moan as fingers skimmed over the inside of her thigh and she felt the other woman’s breath hit her ear.

“You still think we shouldn’t?” Asked Natasha, her tone taunting as she dragged her fingers a little further up Carol’s leg, leaning forward enough that her breasts were pressed to the blonde’s back.

Carol laughed quietly, the hairs on the back of her neck beginning to stand on end as Natasha’s contact got heavier on her skin, “I still think it’s a bad idea.”

Humming in response, Natasha pressed her lips to the side of Carol’s neck, covering her skin with bites and open mouthed kisses as her hand reached the top of Carol’s inner thigh and paused.

“So you think I should stop?” Asked Natasha quietly, teeth scraping against Carol’s shoulder as she brushed a finger lightly over the length of her pussy.

Carol could only moan in response, fingers wiggling against the tiles as she tried to stop herself from just giving in entirely and pushing down onto Natasha’s hand.

“I asked you a question.” Natasha paused to press a kiss underneath the other woman’s ear, “Do you want me to stop? I was under the impression I had to follow Captain’s orders.”

“God I hate that you’re so good at this.” groaned Carol, her tone only half serious. Already she felt like she had never been more turned on in her life, sure that evidence of her arousal had to be dripping down her thighs at this point. Natasha’s fingers were continuing to move slowly, occasionally dipping lower just enough to graze her clit or tease her entrance before moving back, and each touch was causing Carol’s hips to move involuntarily in a bid for more.

“No you don’t.” Teased Natasha, finding it harder and harder to mask her own enjoyment as she felt how wet Carol was already. “You want it or not?”

Blowing out a sharp breath, Carol turned her head so she could just about see the red head out the corner of her eye, “Yes, shit Nat just fuck me already.”

The last thing Carol heard was a low chuckle from Natasha before the pulsing of blood in her ears blocked out everything as she felt the other woman push two fingers forcefully inside of her. If it hadn’t been for her hands and forehead pressed against the tiles, she was positive she would have toppled over at the overwhelming sensation of pleasure that took over her as Natasha started to fuck her. The sounds of her moans already deafening as they echoed off the bathroom tiles but Carol couldn’t bring herself to care as Natasha buried her fingers inside of her pussy again.

Each thrust and curl of her fingers felt incredible and Carol was struggling to think of any reason at all why she would ever have tried to fight this. A loud groan of Natasha’s name sounded through the showers as the red head slipped her other hand around Carol’s waist towards her breast so that was able to pinch at one of her nipples, lips and teeth and tongue continuing their assault on the blonde’s skin.

Carol’s fingers scratched and scraped against the tiles in the hope of finding something, anything to hold onto as Natasha dipped her other hand lower so she was able to circle over her clit. She had found herself completely trapped between Natasha’s body and the wall that she was near enough being pounded into, grateful for something holding her in place as her legs started to tremble beneath her.

“Do you wanna come for me?” Asked Natasha tauntingly, sinking her teeth into Carol’s ear lobe and pressing harder against her clit as the other woman merely moaned and nodded her head eagerly. Her head was already spinning, body beginning to tingle as each push of Natasha’s fingers brought her closer to the edge. She was desperately hoping Natasha would just allow her to come so easily, not failing to forget previous encounters when the red head would have her begging for it. But another curl of her digits as she circled over her clit again told her that this time, she wasn’t going to be disappointed, “Come on then pretty girl, I wanna hear how good I make you feel.”

Allowing herself to be so desperately at someone’s mercy was a new experience for Carol but the most bizarre thing about it all was how totally and completely she was into it. The almost mocking tone Natasha would use with her sometimes would send a shiver down her spine and it only made her moan out louder in pleasure. This, she had discovered, usually spurred the red head on more and would result in Carol getting exactly what she wanted. It seemed this time would be no different, the blonde groaning out loud in pleasure as Natasha slammed her fingers into her harder and she could feel her orgasm beginning to build in the pit of her stomach.

“Oh my god, fuck-“ Carol dropped one of her hands from the wall as she felt herself tightening around the firm brush of fingertips inside of her, using it instead to grip Natasha’s wrist both for something to help her keep upright and to make sure there was no risk of her stopping. “I’m so close Nat, just a little...”

She didn’t get a chance to finish her sentence as another buck of her hips against the other woman’s hand was enough to push her over the edge, Natasha’s fingers angled perfectly to hit the spot that made her see stars. The red head released a low groan of satisfaction as she felt Carol’s pussy clench around her, a loud moan of her name sounding throughout the shower as her body shuddered and she came hard.

Allowing her to ride out her high, Natasha didn’t stop the movement of her hand completely, slowing her pace as she rested her forehead against Carol’s back and used the other hand to stroke gently over her hip.

Carol was still attempting to regulate her breathing when she spoke, barely stuttering out words between pants for breath, “Okay we really need to stop doing this.”

“You said that last time.” Muttered Natasha, lazily withdrawing her fingers and unable to suppress a grin at the jerk of the hips the movement caused, “And the time before that.”

She was unable to hold back a laugh, gulping in air in a bid to catch her breath, “I mean it this time.”

“You sure about that?” Asked Natasha, raising her hand to the top of the other woman’s back and pressing her index finger between her shoulder blades. Carol tilted her head from side to side, resisting the urge to squirm under the red head’s touch as she dragged her finger slowly down her spine, “Cause I think it feels like you want me to fuck you again.”

The noise that left Carol’s lips was closer to a growl than anything. She so badly wanted to do the right thing, but in a post orgasmic daze and with the feeling of Natasha’s fingers buried inside of her still so fresh, it was impossible to do anything but arch herself into the woman behind her. Who was to say this was so wrong anyway?

Turning on the spot, Carol grabbed Natasha’s face in her hands and pulled her body flush against her own, “I’m being stupid right?”

Natasha smirked, “Totally stupid.”

“Thought so.” Carol nodded her head frantically, tugging the other woman’s lips to meet her own and mumbling into her mouth, “Just keep fucking me until I stop being stupid then.”

Her smirk broadening, Natasha dipped her hand to plunge her fingers eagerly back inside of Carol, “Whatever you say Captain.”

[birbleafs]

[fic] Strange Creatures

Series: Artemis Fowl Rating: G Genre: Friendship & Humour, Post-series Character(s): Beckett Fowl, Myles Fowl, Mulch Diggums, Juliet Butler, Holly Short and Artemis Fowl II Summary: Mulch Diggums finds himself abruptly enlisted by the Fowl twins, Myles and Beckett, to create the best Eldest Brother’s Day gift for Artemis, much to Holly and Juliet’s amusement. A/N: Here’s my full piece for the Artemis Fowl Fanzine: A Fowl Mood! It was really fun to be part of this project - many thanks to the mods & fellow contributors for all their hard work. Thanks also to my bro Digi for being a wonderful beta ♥  There are still some leftover merch for sale if anyone’s interested. This fic is set a few years after The Last Guardian, without taking into account the events in The Fowl Twins (as I’d finished writing it last July). Fic can also be read on AO3. _______

“What strange creatures brothers are!” -Jane Austen- ~.*.~ Mulch Diggums was once again on the run and back to his old habits of skulking among dastardly rich Mud Men, pilfering trinkets and valuables from their homes. And once again, word of his not-quite-earnest—or legal, for that matter—endeavours soon reached the LEP’s ears. In fact, his current whereabouts had turned up as a flashing blip on Foaly’s screens when the centaur had been running one of his routine surveillance sweeps of the surface. That, however, is another story altogether, one that Foaly would happily indulge in if you let him. But Captain Holly Short is a busy elf—short on time and even shorter with patience. So alas, Foaly’s tale would have to be shelved. For now, at least.

So it was that Mulch found himself abruptly cornered by an LEP Retrieval squad in his own home—well, he was house-sitting at the moment, but hey, same difference—just as he was settling into a nice, warm mud bath. That’s the thing about the LEP. Always with the atrociously bad timing, never an ounce of tact. So much for being role models, upstanding fairies of the People. The last thing Mulch saw and heard was a deafening blast as the bathroom door burst wide open, and the zipping sound of a fabric-like netting whirling tight around him. There was a flurry of movement as he struggled in the velvet darkness enclosing him, before he found himself promptly hauled back to Haven City and into the dimly-lit interior of a drab holding room, sitting once again before Captain Short. “Holly! Mon chéri… Compadre!” Mulch cooed, tuning his natural dwarfish charm up a notch. “How’s my favourite elfin lady today?” “Cut the chatter, Mulch. I’m sure you know exactly why you’ve been detained.” Truthfully, Holly didn’t have any hard evidence for Mulch’s arrest this time—not yet, at least. But Mulch had hardly ever been innocent, even when he wasn’t actively committing a crime, so it wasn’t too difficult for her to pretend the LEP knew of his most recent of illegal endeavours (which they didn’t). Besides, she’d lost a stupid bet during a party several weekends ago, and—well. You reap what you sow. Holly made a mental note to never take another sip of a certain centaur’s home concoction of sim-alcohol, recreational study or not. Anyway, back to the plot: She had lost a bet and now she had to pull this dumb prank on Mulch in return for a favour for a certain Mud Boy’s family. Holly could almost hear said Mud Boy’s tired sigh of disapproval upon hearing of his friends’ latest shenanigans. Still, she’d also promised Artemis she would visit the twins soon and she figured this was a nifty way to kill two birds with one stone. Technically, it would be two Fowls and a dwarf. Holly chuckled at her own joke, certain that Artemis wouldn’t have appreciated that quip at all, figurative murder or not. Before Mulch had a chance to explain his innocence this time, Holly began listing down the years he’d have to serve, the cell block they had carefully picked out for him this time, the terribly cold draft they had made sure would pass into said cell every night. And just as Mulch was about to get suspicious, Holly shifted gears and offered a compromise instead. Even though he was still confused and rightfully wary of the sudden turn of events, Mulch tentatively accepted Holly’s deal. And soon, he found himself whisked away on a shuttle topside, piloted by the Captain herself. “So where are we headed?” Mulch asked once he’d settled comfortably into his seat. “Now that it’s just you and me, Captain… I’m allowed to be privy to the details of said ‘deal’, right?” Holly was tempted to reveal the truth then, but she figured it’d be funnier if she let the dwarf discover it for himself. Mulch was a crafty one, after all—it wouldn’t take him too long to realise what was really going on. She only gave him a knowing smirk and murmured ominously, “All things in good time, Mulch.” * From the E1 shuttle port at Tara, it was a quick jaunt to the Fowl Manor. Holly could already hear the voices of the twins drifting over the wind as they made their way past the last cluster of Artemis’ fairy roses and to where the twins and their nanny Juliet Butler were seated by the fountain in the courtyard. Seven-year-old Beckett Fowl was the first to glance their way; Holly could’ve sworn the child had canine-like senses, what with the way he had whirled around at their near-silent approach. He was the very picture of innocence as he bounced up to them, his radiant curls and bright-eyed stare reminiscent of an eager golden retriever puppy. “Holly’s here! And S’Mulch Dinggus!” Beckett squealed happily as he launched himself at her. Holly embraced him warmly, before waving a greeting to Juliet who stood patiently behind the boy. The dwarf tutted, unimpressed at the butchering of his name. “We’ve been through this the last time, little Mudskipper. It’s Mulch Diggums.” “That’s what I said,” Beckett giggled, turning back to look at Juliet. “S’Mulch Dinggus. Funny he can’t remember his own name.” Before Mulch could get a protest in edgewise, he was interrupted by a small, polite cough. He turned and saw a bespectacled, raven-haired Mud Child appearing by Beckett’s side. Myles Fowl had the same piercing blue eyes as his free-spirited twin, but unlike his twin, he was the seemingly more precocious and finicky of the two. He looked every bit the likeness of his eldest brother, Mulch noted humorously—from the meticulously pressed suit and tie to the neatly-combed dark hair. Heck, the kid had even perfected the infamous Fowl glare to an art form, crystalline and frigid as an Arctic winter. “You’re finally here as summoned, Mister Mulch,” Myles greeted solemnly. He ignored the wet, icky sounds of Beckett blowing raspberries beside him. “Took you long enough.” “Summoned?” Mulch frowned, before a thought struck him. He grinned toothily at Holly. “So that’s what this is about, eh, Captain Short? ‘Detained’, my hairy as—” “Language, Mulch,” Holly said, stepping on the dwarf’s toes all while matching his grin with a serene, innocent smile of her own. “Okay, okay. I’m sorry I had a Retrieval squad jump you back there in the house. But it’s not like you were likely to be agreeable and come quietly if you knew the Fowl twins had extended an invitation and personally requested for your…er, assistance.” “Is not invitatitions,” Beckett chirped as he chewed on a piece of purple beeswax crayon. “Arty said summons would do in the tongue of magicks, so we summons S’Mulch!” He gave a sagely nod, his mouth stained and flecked with purple now. Mulch gave Holly a look of disappointment. “Frankly, I’m hurt you think I’d even pass up the chance to humiliate my favourite Mud Boy, and what’s more, by teaming up with his own cute brethren. Okay then, little Fowl nuggets. What dwarfish advice would you need this time?” “First of all, we’re not nuggets,” Myles said coldly, just as Beckett clucked like a gleeful hen and made flapping motions with his arms. “I assure you that we are still one-hundred percent Homo sapiens, even if Beck has gotten very good at animal mimicry of late.” “I see this one’s got a great sense of humour,” Mulch observed drily. “Definitely Artemis’ brother.” “A-hem. As I was saying...” Myles scowled at the interruption, and Mulch held up a placating hand in apology. “Secondly, Beck and I, we thought it through for many weeks—Well, I did anyway. However, we weren’t able to make any significant progress in the lab even with Professor Primate’s expertise—” “Not quite sure where you’re going with this riveting story, kiddo,” Mulch muttered. “But I’m still listening, if that helps.” “—and after several failed attempts, we have conceded that we need help from someone with the right skills. Skills we do not yet possess.” Myles paused, his young face pinched with doubt. But his hesitation was fleeting, and he met both Mulch and Holly’s curious expressions with a determined gaze once more. “We want to throw Arty the best surprise Eldest Brother’s Day when he gets back,” the boy said. “So, would you please honour us, Mister Mulch, and teach us how best to make—” “Flatulence!” Beckett crowed as if on cue, punching a fist victoriously into the air. “Please, brother. Not this again.” Myles groaned. “You boys want me to teach you how to let a mighty rip?” Mulch asked, incredulous. “No, that’s not it!” Myles cried, exasperated. “Beck has gotten it all muddled! He means the fettling process used in pottery, not the crude effusion of intestinal gas!” He tugged frantically at Beckett’s sleeve, trying to stop his twin from belting out his favourite self-composed tune called A Song of Gas and Fire, to no avail. For two whole minutes, the group was forced to listen to Beckett’s high-pitched singing of “Pbbthh, pbbthh, rattle-boom! Gas and fire, gas and fire! Heave-ho, the window’s blown!” “Thanks, little Mudskipper, for that, uh, delightful performance,” said Mulch, wiping tears of mirth from his eyes once Beckett had finished his song. “I gotta say, you sure are a natural. But there’s still something I don’t really get. Why would you need my help for the surprise? Like don’t get me wrong, kiddos, I like you two enough. But what’s wrong with Holly or Juliet here, or even Butler himself? If anything, they’re better suited at picking out the mushy gifts...” He trailed off, thinking hard. “Well, I trust the Big Man’s taste for the sentimental, at least.” “Wow, thanks for the vote of confidence, Mulch,” Juliet deadpanned, with only the slightest roll of her eyes. “It’s true Butler had some good suggestions for gifts, but this is a Fowl twins initiative, so we figured we’d let the kids decide on their own. Besides, Beck had other ideas.” “My ideas the best ideas!” Beckett chanted, beaming brightly. “We decided that we want to make Arty a sculpture for Eldest Brother’s Day.” Myles supplied, glancing at Mulch once again. “We know that Mister Mulch is highly attuned to the necessities of good clay work by virtue of his biological make-up— “S’Mulch is good with muds and gas! I wanna learn how to blast clay backwards too!” “—therefore, you are best suited to teach us how to sculpt and—” “And flatulence!” Mulch tried his best, he really did, but he couldn’t hold back his laughter any longer. He didn’t know which was funnier: the thought of the twins gifting Artemis Fowl, ex-criminal virtuoso and menace of the People, a squishy caricature blob of his miniature being or Beckett performing a pompous and fartastical symphony of A Song of Gas and Fire for his dear eldest brother. Either way, he was rightfully tickled and the twins were in luck. Unbeknownst to many, Mulch had spent some time dabbling in pottery and sculpting with clay when he’d lived amongst the celebrity Mud Men; he had chalked it up as weird hobby of sorts.  “You Mud twins are hilarious,” he said, once his laughter had subsided and he’d managed to straighten himself up again. “All right, I’m sold on this crazy venture. I’ll help with the sculpting of a masterpiece for ol’ Arty-boy.” From the corner of his eye, he caught a glance of Juliet’s smug expression. Her lips were curved into a wide Cheshire grin as she tapped Holly’s shoulder expectantly. The elf only groaned, before she reached into her back pocket to fish out a single gold coin and slipped it into Juliet’s fingers. Mulch frowned at the exchange, throwing them his best hurt-puppy look. “Running a betting pool on me and for only a single gold coin? I’m affronted, ladies.” “You only wish your crooked mug is worth half a penny,” Holly shrugged. “I’m being generous because Juliet’s a friend.” “Aww, I knew you were a big old softie inside!” Juliet sighed happily, reaching forward to teasingly pinch the side of Mulch’s face. “Now that that’s settled, someone can finally knead clay with the kids and get some work done before Artemis gets home from his conference this weekend.” She quickly stepped away, disappearing into the nearby garage for several minutes before she returned carrying a craft box packed with an assortment of smaller items inside. “These rascals had me running to art stores all over Dublin the past two weeks looking for all kinds of overpriced play-dohs, and yet hardly asked if I could help them to sculpt!” She grumbled, not quite unkindly, as she shook the items out from the box, laying them out on a patch of grass before them. Holly looked over at Juliet in surprise. “I didn’t know you were into sculpting.” She thought of all the hours the young woman had spent whooping over her favourite wrestling matches on TV as a teen. “Never pegged you as the artistic type.” Juliet snorted. “Pfft, me? Nah, I don’t sculpt. That’s more a pretentious Artemis thing.” “Why would you expect the twins to ask you to teach them, then?” “Well, I’d like to be asked first, at least! I took the time to buy all these fancy play-dohs for them, didn’t I?” Mulch leaned forward in interest, looking over the packets of “play-dohs”. He spotted several labelled as Creative Paperclay—at least Juliet managed to get some of the good stuff. He grinned toothily as he rolled up his sleeves, feeling a spark of excitement at getting to work with clay again. “Okay then, kiddos. Let’s get cracking and moulding.” * “What’s this Eldest Brother’s Day thing you Mud Men celebrate like anyway?” Mulch asked. They’d made their way from the courtyard into the Manor basement where Artemis had set up a work space for Myles’ messier experiments and tinkering projects. The group stood now before the large experiment bench. Juliet covered the top with a large plastic mat, and turning the craft box over, shook packets of Creative Paperclay and several plastic and wooden crafting tools out on the bench. At Mulch’s question, she turned and gave him a strange look, brows furrowed. Then she let out a short laugh when she realised he was actually being serious. “Silly fairy,” she snickered, glancing over the top of Myles and Beckett’s heads before she lowered her voice to a conspiratorial whisper: “There’s no such thing as Eldest Brother’s Day. It’s just something the twins came up with but I’m not going to ruin it for them and tell them it isn’t actually a thing. I’m not a monster, you know.” “We know it, Juliet,” Beckett said suddenly, blinking up at her with those large blue eyes filled with mischief and daring. “But Artemis’ a simple-toon—” Myles giggled at his twin’s use of their brother’s old nickname, even as he fought to keep his expression stoic. “—and simple-toons need Eldest Brother’s Day. So we celebrate.” Beckett finished with a nod, as though he’d just gifted both his human and fairy nannies with his brand of enlightenment. “Riiiight,” Mulch said, shaking his head. He figured some things were best left unasked and unexplained, especially when dealing with incorrigibly irreverent Fowl children. He gave himself a mental pat on the back for that impromptu alliteration (it was the playwright blooming within him, he was sure of it) and turned back to the project at hand. The twins had already decided early-on the sort of sculpture they had wanted to create. After ruminating over it weeks before, Myles had settled on recreating a 5-inch figure of Jayjay the silky sifaka, the fluffy white lemur whose whimsical escapades were often included in the bedtime stories Artemis read them. Beckett, on the other hand, had chosen to fashion an honorary tribute to Artemis’ late Syrian hamster, Lady Maeve, poised upright on her hind feet in an impassioned stance, gnawing away at a two-headed wyrm. Once the twins had sketched out their preferred designs on paper, Juliet pinned the sketches up on the cork board on the wall for easy reference. Then they got to work. Mulch placed two cups of water on the bench, and proceeded to show the twins how to gauge the amount they needed for their sculptures and how to knead the clay to warm it up and make it more malleable. “It’s a bit like baking extravagant pastries,” he said as he cut a block of clay into various-sized pieces. “You roll the individual shapes out like this and then stick them together to form a whole creature. Like an animal jigsaw puzzle, so to speak.” “They aren’t edible or taste any good though, not like pastries,” Holly added quickly when she noticed Beckett staring a little too longingly at the piece he’d been kneading. She tapped his fingers away just as the boy lifted the clay to his mouth for a quick nibble. “No tasting?” Beckett asked mournfully. “No tasting.” The elf shook her head. “But I do have some special treacle and espresso power bars from Haven City. It’s much better than consuming bland clay. I’ll let you have a bite later when we finish sculpting Lady Maeve, okay?” It seemed like a good bargain, so Beckett closed his mouth and chewed at his lower lip instead, rolling his clay pieces under his palms with renewed fervour. They continued shaping their pieces. Mulch showed the twins how to score the ends of the individual pieces they’d made for the limbs with a plastic knife. Then they connected the scored ends of the limbs to the body, blending the seams and smoothing it down carefully with their fingers and dabs of water. They continued in a similar fashion for the heads, noses, ears, and tails. Once the twins were satisfied with their sculptures, Mulch carefully placed the pieces on a cool, clean shelf to gradually dry and set over the next 24-hours. When they returned later to check on their work, the twins found the dried sculptures were now off-white and grainy to touch, quite unlike the squishy beige blobs they had been pinching and moulding with their hands the day before. “And now for a good splash of colour to make your pieces really pop,” Mulch said, dumping several tubes of acrylic paints and brushes on the bench with much more flair than necessary. He had a paint brush stuck behind one of his hairy ears—it helped him feel attuned with the art connoisseur in him. “Jayjay has a mostly pure-white coat,” Myles mused as he picked out a few choice colours, “but I think a gold accent to his fur tips, ears and tails would bring out his features more.” “Gold, huh?” Mulch looked over the boy’s chosen colour scheme with approval. “Good aesthetic you got there, Mudling.” “A very Fowl aesthetic for sure.” Holly couldn’t help the quip, her eyes twinkling with mirth. Artemis would certainly appreciate the touch. “Lady Maeve wants to be purple like rain,” Beckett declared solemnly, having been uncharacteristically silent for five whole minutes. “Purple? But Beck, Lady Maeve was a golden long-haired Syrian.” Myles tilted his head towards his twin. “If you paint her fur purple, Arty might not recognize her.” Beckett’s attention, however, seemed to be two steps ahead of the conversation. He’d already dipped his brush with paint and was dabbing streaks of purple all over the hamster’s body. “The Lady requests a cloak of purple rain, so purple she shall be.” The adults could barely stifle their chuckles while Myles groaned once again in defeat. He decided it was probably for the best and turned his attention back to painting his lemur. It was nearly noon when the twins added the last dabs of paint, after which Mulch proceeded to spray a coat of clear acrylic varnish over the sculptures to preserve and seal the colours. Then, he stepped several paces back from the bench to marvel at the fruits of their labour. “We have finished at last.” Myles’ voice was soft, awe pooling in his eyes. Hesitantly, he turned to Juliet and Holly, and then glanced back at the dwarf, searching for reassurance. “What do you think, Mister Mulch? Will Artemis like it?” Mulch rubbed at his beard thoughtfully. Both sculptures looked very much like what you would expect of two seven-year-olds’ valiant attempts at artisanal clay work. “Hmm.” He clicked his tongue lightly as he paced around the work bench, reaching into his inner art critic for the right words. “Now, Myles: Despite the crooked tail, you did a fairly good job at carving the fur textures on your lemur. Plus, adding gold accents to the white fur is very innovative and makes Jayjay glow nicely under the light. A very regal and classic touch overall.” Mulch came to a dignified pause before the second sculpture, rubbing his palms together as if in deep thought. “As for Beckett’s recreation of Lady Maeve: It seems far more… robust than the original, almost challenging anatomy and even physics itself. But the bright mixes of purple and gold contrasts nicely with the green and gore of the flailing wyrm, adding a surprising dynamism to the entire piece. All in all, two very good attempts, my young apprentices.” Holly and Juliet were already sighing halfway through Mulch’s needlessly opulent commentary, but even they agreed with the dwarf’s final assessment, much to the relief and delight of Myles and Beckett Fowl. * When Artemis Fowl the Second arrived home from his two-week long conference on Wildlife and Biodiversity Conservation, he was surprised to be greeted only by an unusually silent living room, devoid of the typical sounds of playful bellowing and childish laughter. Leaving Butler to unload his luggage from the Bentley, Artemis wondered briefly at the absence of his two brothers and Juliet, their sitter, before he noticed a strange sort of rumbling noise and vibration coming from somewhere below him. Curious, he headed for the basement, moving cautiously towards the noise. It was there that he found the twins asleep and cuddled around a familiar rotund shape sprawled upon an old velvet sofa. The fairy had his head thrown back against the cushion and was snoring rather noisily. “Ah,” Artemis said, eloquent as ever. He steepled his fingers together, taking a moment to process the scene before him. “Arty…? Oh, you’re finally back.” Holly’s soft voice broke him out of his reverie. He turned to see his old friend curled up on a second sofa, blinking the sleep from her eyes. “Welcome home,” she yawned a greeting. “Juliet’s in the kitchen fixing up some snacks, I think.” “Hello, Holly. It’s good to be back among familiar faces again. It seems that I’ve missed quite a party while I was away…” Artemis trailed off when he caught sight of the strange creatures placed on Myles’ experiment bench. “They’re supposed to be a surprise for you when you returned. For Eldest Brother’s Day.” Holly explained when Artemis raised a delicate eyebrow. He lifted up one of the sculptures for a closer inspection, his forehead creased in confusion at what looked to be a purple rodent gnawing on a plump string of green linguine—Beckett’s. “Eldest Brother’s Day?” Artemis echoed. He reached for the second sculpture—Myles’ lemur—before walking over to take a seat beside Holly on the sofa. Holly stretched her arms as she sat upright. “It’s kind of a long story.” “I expect so. Do enlighten me, if you will.” “Well, let’s see...” Holly began, brushing the side of her cheek with a finger. “Once upon a time, there were a pair of twins who, Frond only knows why, admired and looked up to their chaotically unhinged older brother greatly.” Artemis gave her a slightly wounded look, pressing a hand to his chest in a show of mock offense. “I’m appalled, Holly. You of all people know I prefer calculating to chaotic. There is a method to my madness, after all.” “Ever the theatrical misunderstood genius, aren’t you?” Holly rolled her eyes, even if she couldn’t help the soft laugh that escaped her lips. She nudged his shoulder playfully with her own, a show of affection. “Myles and Beckett adore you immensely—you know that, right?” Artemis beamed, warmed by Holly’s laughter and the comfort of being close to friends and family once more. He watched his sleeping brothers, curled closely towards each other much like two peas in a pod, before he turned his gaze back to the sculptures in his hands. “I know,” he said softly, still marvelling at the twins’ recreations of Jayjay and Lady Maeve. And for the barest of moments, in the quiet that stretch comfortably between them, Artemis Fowl knew that this may only be the start of the first (of many) Eldest Brother’s Day he would experience, but it was already a very good day nonetheless. And he was content. —End—

[makeste]

BnHA Chapter 199: One Whole Bird

Previously on BnHA: Aizawa’s winning class A team reflected on what they could have done better. Tsuyu and Kirishima were unexpected bummers due to their recent internships still weighing heavily on their minds. Shinsou was also frustrated with his performance, despite everyone telling him how good he did. Aizawa and Vlad told All Might and Midnight that today’s exercise is also a test for Shinsou to see if he should be admitted into the hero course. It’s not clear whether or not Shinsou is aware of this, but we’re all rooting for him! The second round of battles got underway, with Team KendouKuroMangaToadette facing off against MomoYamaTokoKure. Class B’s Kuroiro was revealed to have a quirk that allows him to move freely within anything black. This applies even to quirks like Dark Shadow, and once the match began, he basically dove into DS and rode him back to Team A’s location. Now he’s getting ready to throw down with Tokoyami, who has dramatically thrown his cape aside and is preparing to unleash the new technique he developed during his internship with Hawks.

Today on BnHA: Hawks is back! In flashback form. But he’s back, you guys! So apparently Tokoyami first interned with him after the sports festival, only to learn that Hawks mainly selected him to get the good gossip on the whole USJ attack. This frustrated Toko enough that he redoubled his training efforts, and when he went back to intern at Hawks’s agency for real after getting his provisional license, he impressed the #2 hero by being able to keep up with him. So Hawks took him on a cute lil nighttime flight above the city while A Whole New World from Aladdin played, and then they landed on a tower somewhere and Hawks was all, “hey dude you should learn to fly for reals,” and then the flashback ended. Back in the present, Kuroiro sneaks up behind Aoyama and grabs him and hauls ass. Tokoyami then reveals his new technique: Flying For Reals. He retrieves Aoyama, who fires his laser to break up the shadows around them, making it impossible for Kuro to hide. Things are looking good for Team A, but then a mushroom suddenly sprouts from Momo’s nose, reminding everyone that there are still three other Team B members to take care of, and things are only just getting started.

(As always, all comments not marked with an ETA are my mostly-unspoiled reactions from my first readthrough of this chapter. I’m caught up with the manga now at chapter 222, so any ETAs will reflect that.)

ooh, and we’re opening with what I assume is an internship flashback!

well yeah, Mighty Wings is the type of quirk that allows you to do that. when you can individually control hundreds of little godmode wings that are strong enough to even carry people to safety, you don’t really need much in the way of backup

ah, so it’s confirmed this is Tokoyami’s narration

apparently the U.A. sports festival earlier in the year was the first time Hawks had ever taken place in the whole drafting process

hold up, so did Toko intern with him for both the jr. internship and the real internship? like, he did the weeklong thing following the sports festival, and then went back and interned there for real later? or was it only the first and not the latter?

lol Hawks is flying off to go save some other hapless soul. some out of control drunk dude at a bar in Cantina

I assume Cantina is a specifically a reference to the very famous Mos Eisley Cantina in Star Wars, even though it’s also a common enough word in its own right

lmao his sidekicks are all “yeah so Hawks is just generally better than us in every conceivable way and we just have to live with it”

these guys crack me up

so during his workplace experience Tokoyami just spent the whole time chasing after Hawks with these guys and handling the cleanup with them. so naturally it wasn’t long before he started having doubts about the whole thing

I was literally just about to say “because you’re both birds” and then Hawks was like “yeah, duh”

Tokoyami is asking if he’s joking, because Tokoyami doesn’t have a sense of humor so he probably genuinely needs to know

Hawks says he’s 20% serious. holy shit. that honest to god is what he said lmao

he says he wanted to talk to someone from class 1-A about the League of Villains, and he figured if he had to do so then he should pick someone he thought could keep up with him and who showed promise. and since Tokoyami finished in the top three he went with him

and of course we know from chapter 186 that he had selected Todoroki as well, but Endeavor got him instead

interesting that both he and Bakugou picked the highest ranking agencies on their list and ended up being disappointed. it seems like the people who had the most fulfilling internships were the ones who went with agencies that hadn’t necessarily made huge names for themselves, but were perhaps a little better at this whole teaching thing than some of the big shots

ah, and then Hawks did agree to take him on for a For Reals Internship later on, though

that means Tokoyami actually reached out to him despite his lackluster previous experience. makes me wonder if Bakugou would actually decide to go back to Jeanist’s agency once he gets his provisional and once the kids are allowed to do internships again

(ETA: so I’m honestly not sure if we’re even going to get back to internships again, at least not for a while, but one theory I’ve seen floating around is that Bakugou will intern with Miruko instead of Jeanist, and I gotta say, I really like the idea of that. for so many reasons. but basically it makes a lot of sense; Jeanist is still laid up, Miruko is a top 5 hero, and her personality aligns with Bakugou’s a whole lot more than Jeanist’s did. all this plus Fuck Yeah Girl Power, so hell yeah I’m all for it.)

-- YOOOOOOOOOOO

he can -- you can fly, dude? since when lmao what the fuck

(ETA: what is he doing here, though?? I thought he was flying but then a couple pages later Hawks is like “you should learn how to fly” and then a few pages after that everyone is shocked by his new “bitch I can fly now” special move. so it seems like that’s something he came up with after this scene. is he just jumping with style here or what)

Hawks likey! kid’s got some potential

now it’s later that night and Hawks is telling Tokoyami he did good

OH MY GOD

THIS IS THE CUTEST AND BEST THING THAT’S EVER HAPPENED. OH MY GOD. YOU GUYS. I CAN’T IT’S TOO FUCKING PRECIOUS OH SWEET JESUS

(ETA: so as you can see I was enchanted by this scene even before I learned about its significance as a beloved fandom meme. anyways so we all agree that this internship was destiny.)

TOKOYAMI IS SO OVERWHELMED. HIS POETIC SOUL IS SOARING LIKE AN EAGLE

OH MY GOD!!

HOW DOES HE REMEMBER THE CORRECT PERCENTAGE BREAKDOWN FROM A JOKE CONVERSATION THEY HAD LIKE SIX MONTHS AGO

SERIOUS QUESTION WHY IS HAWKS THE BEST CHARACTER IN BNHA. ANSWER ME. SOMEONE

AND LOOK AT TOKO’S FACE OMG

AHHHH

it’s so personal, though. like I honestly feel like he’s baring a bit of his soul to this kid, and for someone with a personality like Hawks’s that is huge

he says he’s not especially interested in nurturing the next generation, “but...”

well that’s fine dude. you’re practically still a kid yourself and you’ve got more than enough on your plate

but the fact that he does have so much on his plate makes me wonder what’s going through his head right now. because the whole workplace experience was before he started his undercover mission, but this scene is taking place afterward. and he always plays it cool, but that shit is dangerous, like one-wrong-move-and-you’re-dead-or-worse types of danger. and that’s not even taking into account the bad-for-your-soul parts that come with having to turn a blind eye to certain things for the sake of maintaining your cover for the greater good

so basically, despite what he says, he may just be feeling a bit more sentimental or brooding or whatever than usual, and maybe that’s what brought this on. he never particularly wanted to be a mentor, but hey, might as well give it a shot. life is short

so Toko’s asking what he meant when he said Tokoyami was wasting his potential

and Hawks says that while Tokoyami is doing a lot to cover his weak points, he shouldn’t neglect improving his strong points

one moment please while we process these Hawks feels ladies and gents

aaaaaaand done

my boy just wants to be free. okay. that’s fine. I’m fine it’s all good

nothing to see here, just some solid mentor advice pulling some double duty as a deeper look into Hawks’s psyche at the same time. just Horikoshi things

and we’re back in the present!

that was a much lengthier flashback than I anticipated, and thoroughly enjoyable! very nice!

so Kuro is blending back into the shadows and for some reason everyone is surprised

what else would he do. I mean. if it ain’t broke

so now he’s mocking them from somewhere in the piping, bragging about how they can’t tell where he is

oh shit!

so he’s planning on targeting one of the others? tbh that probably would have worked just as well even without the red herring, since they can’t see him coming

like, this would have worked no matter what though. but I guess it did get Aoyama to lower his guard

LOL MY POOR GLITTER BOY

FIRE YOUR DAMN LASER KID

ooooh

it’s so gross that he refers to it as an umbilical cord and now I’m never not gonna be able to think of it as that

so anyway, I’m guessing that this special move works by having Dark Shadow fly somewhere and then instead of retracting the shadow back to him, he pulls himself toward Dark Shadow

LOL

what, y’all didn’t see those flashbacks with Hawks just a few pages ago. pay attention to other characters’ life stories

ah, here are the mechanics explained to us in a cute little comic

“Dark Shadow can fly so one day I was like, ‘ohh... pick me up so I can fly too. fucking duh’”

also has the bonus advantage of distracting opponents with how shockingly adorable it is

so now he’s plucking Aoyama out of Kuro’s clutches

I bet Aoyama’s pissed that his cape broke in the process though

LISTEN HERE BITCHES, Y’ALL ARE GONNA NEED PLAN B, C, D, ETC. BEFORE YOU CAN EVEN COME CLOSE TO TAKING OUT MY GIRL MOMO HERE. YOU’RE GONNA RUN OUT OF LETTERS OF THE FUCKING ALPHABET YOU AMATEURS

she said, but also I’m still pretty sure they’re gonna lose fffff

since Aoyama and Tokoyami are now perfectly positioned, Momo’s telling Aoyama to use his navel buffet

ah I see, eliminate Kuro’s potential hiding places by blinding him with Aoyama’s splendor

so Dark Shadow is covering himself in Kuro’s cape and Aoyama is letting ‘er rip

this is such an odd and perfect sound effect and I’m really impressed with Horikoshi for coming up with it in English

aha!

GOTCHA MOTHERFUCKER

now Momo’s calling Hagakure to action, and for a moment I was like ‘why’ but then I remembered her special move

but before we get to that, please enjoy this Yaoyorozu Momo “just as planned” panel

yessssss now get ready for --

...

okay what is plan B

...

and the chapter ends. of course

chapter 200 is gonna be some wild times isn’t it. lol

[snicketstrange]

What is the explanation for a secret letter in TSS?

This is part 8 of the Strange Interpretation of Jean Lúcio from Brazil

To understand this text, it is necessary to read my previous texts.

 Today we are going to talk about my interpretation of the secret letter found in TSS. The letter is as follows:

"My dear sister, I am taking a great risk in hiding a letter to you inside one of my books, but I am certain that even the most melancholy and well-read people in the world have found my account of the lives of the three Baudelaire children even more wretched than I had promised, and this book will stay on the shelves of libraries, utterly ignored, waiting for you to open it and find this message. As an additional precaution, I placed a warning that the rest of this chapter contains a description of the Baudelaires' miserable journey up the Vertical Flame Diversion, so anyone who has the courage to read such a description is probably brave enough to read my letter to you I have at last learned the whereabouts of the evidence that will exonerate me, a phrase which here means "prove to the authorities that it is Count Olaf, and not me, who has started so many fires." Your suggestion, so many years ago at that picnic, that a tea set would be a handy place to hide anything important and small in the event of a dark day, has turned out to be correct. (Incidentally, your other picnic suggestion, that a simple combination of sliced ​​mango, black beans, and chopped celery mixed with black pepper, lime juice, and olive oil would make a delicious chilled salad also turned out to be correct.) I am on my way now to the Valley of Four Drafts, in order to continue my research on the Baudelaire case. I hope also to retrieve the aforementioned evidence at last. It is too late to restore my happiness, of course, but at least I can clear my name. From the site of V.F.D. I will head straight for the Hotel Denouement. I should arrive by - well, it would not be wise to type the date, but it should be easy for you to remember Beatrice 's birthday. Meet me at the hotel. Try to get us a room without ugly curtains. With all due respect, Lemony Snicket P.S. If you substitute the chopped celery with hearts of palm, it is equally delicious. "

Because of this letter many fans believe that Daniel Handler made chronological mistakes in ASOUE. The reason they think so is evident: in this letter Lemony Snicket states that he will meet with his sister at the Denouement Hotel. Lemony said the hotel was fully operational. However, in TRR and TAA, Lemony implies that several years have passed between the major events reported in the books, and the publication of the books themselves. However, the main events reported in the books happen in full in a maximum of 2 years. (To confirm this, just remember which books Klaus and Violet celebrated their birthdays.) The first of these two years is recorded from chapter 1 of TBB to chapter 13 of TE. At the end of chapter 13, the death of Kit Snicket is recorded. At the end of TPP, there is a fire that destroyed the Hotel Denouement. So how could this letter, which was written at the time of the publication of the book TSS, be considered with the recipient about the hotel Denouement still in full operation? And how could this letter be destined to Lemony's sister, since she died in a maximum of one year after the fire at the Baudelaire mansion?

In order to try to justify this apparent contradiction, some fans created the following theory: Lemony wrote ASOUE during the main events recorded on them, hence Lemony sent these originals to Kit. From there Kit sent Lemony back, Lemony revised the books and then, many years later, books have been published in their current format. Dante explained this theory to me recently. I will call this theory "The theory of writing ASOUE books shortly after the main events and publication in the final format many years after these events".

 Frankly speaking, I do not like this theory at all, and I do not believe it. I respect it, of course, as a possibility. But I do not agree with the theory. Nor do I agree with the statement that Daniel Handler made chronological errors. If you have accompanied all my Threads, you know that I created the theory of the Great Hiatus, which is very logical and coherent from my point of view. The theory of the Great Hiatus results in the assurance that many years have passed between the events recorded in the books TMM until TE, and the publication of these books in Lemony's universe.

 On the other hand, "The theory of writing ASOUE books shortly after the main events and publication in the final format many years after these events" leaves several points loose. And I'm going to list some of the loose spots here.

1 - In writing this letter, Lemony does not know the location of his "sister".

There is only one reason to hide a letter in a book that will be published in various parts of the world. Lemony explains: "this book will stay on the shelves of libraries, utterly ignored, waiting for you to open it and find this message." If Lemony knew where her "sister" is, he could send her a message by letter, using some code. But instead, Lemony expected his "sister" wherever she was, to buy a copy of the book and then get the message.

2 - In the secret letter printed in TSS, Lemony demonstrates that it intends that the letter be printed in what would become the final version of the book TSS.

Note these excerpts: "this book will stay on the shelves of libraries,"

"I am certain that even the most melancholy and well-read people in the world have found my account of the lives of the three Baudelaire children even more wretched than I had promised"

These excerpts show that Lemony was convinced that this book would be sent to various parts of the world. If he really did draft the book early, this letter was not sent in advance draft, but the letter was sent in the final version, where readers around the world would have access to that letter. Thus, the letter could only be referring to relevant events many years after the major events recorded in the book. So this letter does not help prove that Lemony wrote the books, sent them to Kit, and these were returned to him by Kit and then revised by Lemony to be published in the final version years later.

I am not saying that I do not believe that Lemony began to write what would one day become ASOUE a few months after the main events recorded in TBB. Or even some time before the events recorded in TBB. According to The UA pag. 177 and 178, before the Heimlich Hospital was destroyed, Lemony was already trying to write what would one day become the introduction of TBB. However, his plan was to write a story about his own life, the plan was not to write about Beatrice's children.

"" The writing theory of ASOUE books shortly after the main events and publication in the final format many years after these events "does not explain how Lemony knew the content of the particular dialogues of the Baudelaire siblings.

This theory depends on another theory that does not make sense to me either. I found out about this theory by reading some posts here. The theory says that Lemony was following the Baudelaire siblings, and listening to what they were talking about, which is why Lemony knows the contents of the dialogues. But that does not make sense.

 Some places where the Baudelaire siblings only talked to each other were completely isolated, such as an elevator shaft, a caravan about to fall off a cliff, a trunk of a car, a jail cell or a submarine at the bottom of the ocean. Also, in TBB the rare edition, Lemony says that access to Count Olaf's house was hindered, so Lemony did not enter Olaf's house to be able to write TBB. Thus the dialogues that took place inside Olaf's house, as recorded in TBB, could not be heard by Lemony if he were following the Baudelaires siblings.

"" The writing theory of ASOUE books shortly after the main events and publication in the final format many years after these events "does not explain how Lemony knew the content of the particular dialogues of the Baudelaire siblings.

This theory depends on another theory that does not make sense to me either. I found out about this theory by reading some posts here. The theory says that Lemony was following the Baudelaire siblings, and listening to what they were talking about, which is why Lemony knows the contents of the dialogues. But that does not make sense.

 Some places where the Baudelaire siblings only talked to each other were completely isolated, such as an elevator shaft, a caravan about to fall off a cliff, a trunk of a car, a jail cell or a submarine at the bottom of the ocean. Also, in TBB the rare edition, Lemony says that access to Count Olaf's house was hindered, so Lemony did not enter Olaf's house to be able to write TBB. Thus the dialogues that took place inside Olaf's house, as recorded in TBB, could not be heard by Lemony if he were following the Baudelaires siblings.

Another theory states that Lemony invented most of the dialogues. This theory I heard in my own country, which in case you do not know, is Brazil. The people who created this theory agree with me in stating that Lemony is an unreliable narrator. But I disagree that Lemony invented the dialogues because he assured himself in TUA that he would make an accurate record of what happened to the Baudelaire siblings.

(Personal note: It is interesting that these people believe that Lemony may have invented part of the main story, but they severely criticized me for believing that Lemony lied about Beatrice's death. They called me crazy several times. I do not force anyone to agree with me, but my theory is well grounded and deserves respect as any other well-founded theory. I promised myself that one day ASOUE fans from around the world would hear about my theory, and I thank J. and her friend F., N. his twin brother E. from Brazil and D. F. from 667 Dark Avennue very much for giving me support. And I thank SS for being my example, and for now he is evaluating my work.)

The more I think about it, the more I'm sure that Lemony read the book on the island, where the Baudelaire siblings recorded their dialogues, and the events they lived through. But for this to be so, Lemony must have written and published all the books of ASOUE after the Baudelaires siblings had left the island. If you accept this as fact, you will allow yourself to think of other possibilities to explain the secret letter in TSS. That's what I did. And I found the following possibilities.

1 - The true recipient of the letter is not Kit. Because Kit was already dead when the letter was written.

2 - Lemony can call other sister people besides Kit.

See the dictionary definition:

www.merriam-webster.com/dictionary/sister

"Sister: a girl or woman regarded as a comrade."

A similar definition was used in THH chapter 3:

"I'm confused," Klaus said. "I always thought that brothers and sisters are people who share the same parents." "Not always, brother," the bearded man said. "Sometimes brothers and sisters are just people who are united for a common cause."

3 - Hotel Denouement was rebuilt during the many years that have passed since the first destruction of the Denouement hotel until the publication of the book TSS. And between the publication of TGG and TPP the Hotel Denouement was destroyed again.

If you have understood the Great Hiatus Theory, you must have noticed something important about how the ASOUE books were published in Lemony's universe. The natural consequence of the Great Hiatus theory is the need to accept that most of the ASOUE books were not published in a short time between one book and another in Lemony's universe.

ASOUE contains two stories that do not happen simultaneously. When Lemony Snicket narrated the main story, he told events of the past. But when Lemony recounted the events of his own life during the publication of the books, including how his research was conducted, Lemony was talking about events that occurred over many, many years.

 According to Lemony, he devoted most of his life to the investigation of what happened to the Baudelaires.

Note the excerpt below TSS 10 Chapter 13:

"Even for an author like myself, who has devoted his entire life to investigating the mysteries that surround the Baudelaire case, there is still much I have been unable to discover."

Lemony spent several months of his life only to discover or confirm some details of the history of the Baudelaires.

In THH Chapter 4, Lemony states that he spent more than 9 months just to be reasonably certain that Hal was not a spy. In TSS Chapter 13, Lemony states that he investigated the whereabouts of the two white-faced women. He even searched for bones and took these bones to a specialist several times. Imagine how long it took Lemony to carry out the verifications of every detail of what is recorded in the main story of ASOUE! It is interesting that Lemony to write TSS spent a lot of time looking for the caravan where Violet and Klaus were and did not find the caravan.

The world in which Lemony is publishing his books undergoes great changes over time. For example, after the publication of TRR, Prufrock Prep closed. Valorous Farms Dairy was burned down. Mamba du Mal was killed.

So, all this leads me to believe that the Hotel Denouement was rebuilt over the period of many, many years that Lemony took by writing and publishing each of the books of ASOUE. Accepting this helps to understand that the letter is talking about another quest for another sugar blow at the Denouement hotel.

In addition, D. helped me by explaining to me a something about The Bad Beginning Rare Edition. The Author's Notes says:

p.2 The three Baudelaire children lived with their parents in an enormous mansion at the heart of a dirty and busy city, and occasionally their parents gave them permission to take a rickety trolley-the word “rickety”, you probably know, here means “unsteady” or “likely to collapse”-alone to the seashore…

P.2 - ... That the trolley has since collapsed, and its remains were recycled into the foundation of a hotel.

D. said to me: "At the time of publication, the hotel in question was widely assumed to be the Hotel Denouement; and indeed the idea of the last safe place remaining hidden from the fire-starting side of the schism simply by merit of having only been built recently made a lot of sense. But there's no suggestion in TPP that the Hotel Denoument is of recent construction; indeed, the existence of the underwater catalogue and the sheer quantity of evidence stored therein strongly implies that this is a location with extensive history."

Thanks D.!

However, between the day Lemony published TSS and the day he published TPP, the Hotel Denouement was destroyed again. Remember, "Daniel Handler doubles events to confuse you." The evidence that I have that the hotel has been rebuilt is as follows: Lemony states that he wrote ASOUE many years after the events in ASOUE, including the destruction of the Hotel Denouement. Still, when Lemony published TSS, he wrote a letter to a woman reserving a room at the Hotel Denouement, the only way to make sense of it, is to accept that the hotel has been rebuilt. There is other evidence:

You should remember the secret signal to tell one of the hotel managers that a VFD member is on the outside calling for him. Kit explained:

TPP chapter 3:

"Frank should be watching from one of the windows of the hotel, unless of course Ernest has intercepted my message and is watching instead. In any case, when you're ready to meet him, you can throw the rock into the pond, and he'll see the ripples and know you're on your way. "

 Now notice what Lemony says:

"... even after months of research, and many sleepless nights, and many dreary afternoons spent in front of an enormous pond, throwing stones in the hopes that someone would notice the ripples I was making, I have no way of knowing if the Baudelaires should have been sad or relieved to see him go either. "

Lemony was at the hotel doing his research on the Baudelaire case. In the letter, he said he would go to the hotel and actually went there. When Lemony went there, he picked up some papers from some notepad at the reconstructed hotel desk. Lemony used these papers to write letters to his editor, which are printed at the end of TGG.

However, probably while writing TPP, the Hotel Denouement was again destroyed. Notice what Lemony said:

TPP Chapter 11:

"If you were to put this book down, and travel to the pond that now reflects nothing but a few burnt scraps of wood and the empty skies, and if you were to find the hidden passageway that leads to the underwater catalog that you have remained secret and safe for all these years, you could read an account of an interpretation of sausages that went horribly wrong. "

It is interesting that Lemony again makes a point of emphasizing that years have passed since the events narrated, and the moment in which he is writing history. Daniel Handler made that clear from TRR to TPP. At no point was there a change of plans in this regard. And by the time Lemony wrote Chapter 11 of TPP, the hotel was again destroyed. But the Secret Library was intact.

So briefly. From my point of view the best way to interpret the letter is as follows:

1 - Lemony is writing to someone else, not to Kit.

2 - The hotel Denouement has been rebuilt.

3 - Lemony arranged a meeting with the recipient of the letter, in the hotel where he would find the proof that would clear his name.

This proof is probably inside another sugar bowl. It's not the same sugar bowl Olaf had been looking for years before.

Who could be the other person to whom Lemony wrote this letter? Speaking frankly, all the evidence points to Beatrice. As explained in the last Thread, Beatrice remained alive for many years after the fire of her house. According to TSS chapter 6, Sunny recalled that her mother could prepare a salad exactly with the same ingredients as the recipient of the letter. Lemony states that the recipient of the letter could remember Beatrice's birthday. And Lemony asked the recipient of the letter to book a single room for himself and her. All this points to Beatrice as the recipient of the letter. But now think of a few more details: Lemony made a point of pointing out that Beatrice should arrive at the Denouement hotel before him. Lemony was probably throwing rocks at Pond to get Beatrice's attention. But he could not get her attention. Soon after, the hotel was burned down. Lemony had said that the evidence that would clear his name was in the hotel. But apparently the proof was from the secret library. The wrong question is, "Did someone who read that letter try to destroy the hotel again to destroy the evidence that would clear Lemony's name?" However, Count Olaf was already dead by then. So the other wrong question is: "Did the proof inside that sugar bowl indicate that someone else had started the fire at the Baudelaire mansion? Was this person doing everything for Lemony not to find out the truth? "I will talk about these my hypotheses in a future text.

But we have come to an important part of our research. There is strong evidence that Beatrice survived the fire at her house. There is strong evidence that Beatrice is the true recipient of the secret letter in TSS. But in addition, there is strong evidence that Lemony, in calling her sister Beatrice, was collaborating to conceal Beatrice's identity. There is evidence that Beatrice was pretending to be Kit, many years after Kit's death. Remember that Kit died on a deserted island where few witnesses witnessed her death. Few people in the world knew Kit was dead. So Beatrice took advantage of this to pretend to be Kit. Miss K's account of Prufrock Prep is evidence of this, as I have already explained. But in addition, in TGG, Lemony told a purposeful lie.

Lemony wrote in TGG chapter 10:

"As the hook-handed man circled the brig, it was as if the baudelaires were picking through the chef's salad, mostly of dreadful - and perhaps even poisonous - ingredients, trying desperately to find the one noble crouton that might save their sister, just I am, among the paragraphs, am picking through this salad in front of me, hoping that my waiter is more noble than wicked, and that my sister, Kit, might be saved by the small, herbed piece of toast I hope to retrieve from my bowl. "

Lemony states that Kit is alive and could be saved by him. Lemony is lying because Kit was dead long ago. He's protecting Beatrice's secret identity.

It is very important to understand this part of my theory. The sugar bowl that Lemony said he was picking up at the hotel while he was writing TSS is not the same thing Olaf had been looking for many years before. Do not forget: "Daniel Handler duplicates events to confuse you." In the next Thread we will answer the question: "What was in the sugar bowl that belonged to Esmé, according to the Strange Theory of Jean Lúcio from Brazil?" and "What has to be that Beatrice survived the fire with the contents of the sugar bowl? "

[minuete-blog]

Philes’ Xmas Advent Calendar Prompt Day 25: Christmas Day

🎄 Merry Christmas!!!🎄

The very last advent prompt story is finally here. It is the first and only multichapter I’ve drafted for a series on AO3. Thank you to all who traveled through this journey of various degrees of angst (there were only 5 stories?) to the early msr fluff. Special thanks to @only-txf-fanart for the Advent Calendar Prompts. My writing muse came back in time to participate.

🎁 For those of you who haven't read the series, it can be found here. 🎁

❤️For those who just want to read the subtle romance that blossomed from this advent calendar series, read in this order: I’m Offering You The World, Last Minute, The RomCom Gift, and Christmas Offering. ❤️

Tagging @today-in-fic @txf-prompt-box

Christmas Offering

Chapter 1. Movie Missed

Scully feels warm and cozy as she sinks deeper into the couch. She hears Mulder calling her from a distance, strands of hair being swept away from her face with a gossamer touch. She hums in defiance, wraps the afghan blanket more securely around her.

“That won’t do.” She hears Mulder chuckle. She furrows her eyebrows and manages to crack open her eyes making out a blurry image of Mulder kneeling on the ground, his chin resting on the crook of his right elbow upon the couch, facing her at eye-level. He smiles softly.

“Hey there, Scully. The movie just ended.”

“What?” She asks confused, disoriented as she sits up, her hair plastered on the left side of her face. Pouting a little, still groggy from sleep, she remembers what happened. “I missed the movie?” Mulder nods and gets up off the ground to run his fingers along her left cheek and loosen the strands of hair stuck to her face. She thinks she felt a featherlight kiss on her left temple.

“Come on. Go freshen up. I’ll have coffee ready for you before you head out.”

“Mmkay,” she mumbles and untangles herself from the blanket. A few minutes later, she re-emerges from the bathroom looking somewhat awake and decent, her hair looking more windswept than bedhead. She can smell the pot of coffee brewing in the kitchen as she sits down on the couch to put on her boots. Mulder reappears in the living room, and hands Scully the travel mug he just gifted her a couple hours ago filled with coffee. She offers her thanks as he walks her to the door. She turns around.

“Mulder, are you sure you don’t want to come to my mom’s? You’re always welcomed.” He shakes his head.

“Nah, I’m good, Scully. I won’t be the best company considering how tired I feel.”

“Well, what are you going to do the rest of the day?”

“Once you leave, I intend to fully pass out since I hadn’t slept yet. I’ll be okay, Scully.” She frowns a little, looking up at him from behind her shoulder as she opens the door. Mulder leans against the door frame as she exits. “I kept you long enough away from your family. I need to be nice and share.” Scully gives him a small smile.

“Merry Christmas, Mulder.”

“Merry Christmas, Scully.”

Chapter 2. Scully Christmas Gathering

Scully arrives at her mom’s home on time with 15 minutes to spare despite the fresh snowfall. She gulps down the last of the coffee in her travel mug before stepping out into the cold, and retrieves the large shopping bags containing the presents in the trunk and backseat of her car. Just when she reaches the front door, it suddenly opens revealing a man standing nearly six feet with ruddy brown hair and dark green eyes clad in a burgundy plaid shirt and jeans.

“Charlie?!” Scully exclaimed surprised and excited to see her little brother. She drops the bags and gives him a huge hug. He laughs.

“Hey, Sis.”

“That’s it?! A ‘hey, sis’ after years of not hearing from you, and you decide to show up on Christmas Day?!” She playfully punches him in the arm.

“Hey, now! You get photos of my whereabouts. They’re a small fortune, you know.” Scully rolls her eyes at him, though she’s not the least bit irritated by his remark. Her free-spirited brother found his true calling as a freelance photographer right after college, landing assignments every so often from travel guide magazine publishers.

“Those don’t count. You’re not even in them.”

“Yeah, but I took them.”

“I still can’t believe you’re here.”

“I know. Mom’s pissed at me right now for not telling her I’m in town. She’s upset that I won’t have any presents to unwrap. Come on, let me help you out.” Charlie reaches for the bags and brings them inside as Scully follows him to the tree. The house smells like holiday spices from the mulled spiced cider their mom prepared in the kitchen the night before. The living room looked picturesque with a roaring fireplace, complete with hung stockings and a fully decorated tree with all the ornaments handmade and collected over the years. She notices Melissa’s stocking with her favorite horse sleigh ornament hanging on the mantle. Scully smiles a small bittersweet smile as she heads over to the tree to place the gifts underneath. She sees a light flash from the corner of her eye.

“Charlie, really?” She turns to him only to be greeted with another flash of light.

“I’m creating memories, Dana. Just go about doing what you’re doing and pretend I’m not here.” She scoffs.

“Don’t worry, Dana. I’ll be turning off the flash once daylight breaks.” Scully hears footsteps coming down the stairs and sees their mom in cozy, festive flannel pajamas and a fluffy robe. Their mom smiles at the two of them beside the tree.

“I see you two are catching up. I’ll make some coffee. I already woke up Bill and Tara. They’re getting Matthew ready. The King’s Mass is held at 9 this morning. That should give us more than enough time to unwrap presents and get ready.” Their mom looked at them amused by their dubious expressions. Both Scully siblings seemed to have forgotten about the Christmas Day mass they hated attending as children. Bill hosted Christmas last year, and Scully’s previous holiday seasons had been overshadowed with life-altering events. Their mom shakes her head smiling as she heads to the kitchen.

“Shit! Crap! Sorry for cussing on Baby Jesus’ birthday. I totally forgot all about The King’s Mass. This is probably why I subconsciously avoided visiting during Christmas season,” Charlie murmured to Scully, “I guess I’ll have to don on some khakis.” He glances over at Scully, “and you look like you’re a government agent. Shouldn’t you dress in something more festive?” Scully shrugs.

“I packed an overnight bag, but I didn’t account for Mass this morning. I’ll be fine. I’m sure Tara or Mom bought me a nice scarf or something this year for me to throw on.”

Within the next couple of hours, the Scully family festivities went underway filled with chatter, coffee, spiced cider, cinnamon buns, and Christmas music playing in the background. Matthew is the main star as he wobbly walks to his Nana, allows Auntie Dana to hold him, and pats the shiny boxes that keep coming his way. Charlie stays in the background taking photographs. The adults exchange presents, with mostly Tara and their mom oohing and ahhing over presents they unwrap. Scully merely grins and offers her thanks until she opens a box from Tara that housed a royal blue blouse tunic with a scoop neckline. She gasps in amazement; she hears a click and shutter from Charlie’s camera.

“Looks like you have your festive outfit,” he says. Scully admits to her family that she plans to wear the tunic for mass as her family breaks out in laughter. She excuses herself to quickly change.

As Bill, Tara, and their mom get ready for mass, Scully tidies up the living room while Charlie entertains Matthew. “So what’s up with Fox? Why doesn’t he join us?” Scully looks at Charlie in surprise.

“He goes by Mulder and he doesn’t celebrate Christmas.” Charlie hums.

“I’ve been taking photos this whole morning, Dana. You’re here, but you’re not here. It shows.”

“I just have a lot on my mind.” Charlie shakes his head as he lets Matthew study his camera.

“No, you have this far-off look in your eyes. A restlessness about you. I recognize that look anywhere.”

“What are you trying to say, Charlie?” He purses his lips and shrugs, their conversation ending as they hear the rest of the family returning downstairs.

Bill rented an SUV that could transport all of them to the church, but Charlie insists that they take two cars.

“I wanna catch up with Dana!” Charlie announces as he runs to the passenger side door.

“Really, Charlie? I’m tired of driving,” Scully whines, but she walks to the driver’s side and unlocks her car.

Chapter 3. The King’s Mass

The Kings’ Mass at St. Mary’s Church was full of generational families much like the Scully clan. Their mom waved at many of the churchgoing ladies, offering well wishes and season’s greetings as she led them to her usual pew. Tara, Matthew, and Bill sat in the row first, followed by their mom, Scully, then Charlie. The service started with the usual procession of the pew boys, then the priest, Father Bennett, and the deacons. They had a larger than usual choir having some of the Sunday School children participating in today’s service. Just when the priest welcomed everyone to the church and encouraged all to greet their fellow brothers and sisters, Charlie turns to Scully and says, “I think you should head back home after service.”

“What?” she hissed through a fake grin as she waves at a family two pews ahead.

“You heard me, Sis. Just go.” Scully gives him a look as she sits down waiting to listen to the choir sing before the liturgy. Charlie pesters her again when they stand up to recite the hymns from the church bulletin. He causes enough commotion for their mom to give them a pointed look. Scully glances at her apologetically.

“You two are worse than Matthew,” she whispers leaning back for the two to see Matthew passed out in Bill’s arms. They sit back down again for the sermon after a deacon recited Isaiah 9:6 where Father Bennett spoke in detail of the miraculous birth of their Lord and Savior, symbolizing hope and love to mankind, but not without the struggles and sacrifice that Joseph and Mary had to endure to travel to Bethlehem.

“...so let us be reminded of His enduring love for us as we celebrate his arrival with loved ones. To not forget the road traveled for all of us to be here in this room. Let us honor his arrival with a giving spirit, full of compassion and empathy towards our fellow man,” Father Bennett concluded, “Now, as we begin communion, let us feel His loving spirit surround us.”

“Now’s your chance, Dana,” Charlie says as the pew rows were systematically dispersing to line up for communion, “Just make a break for it. You heard what Father Bennett said ‘celebrate with loved ones.’”

“I am celebrating with loved ones!” she responds a little too loudly as they stand at the ready for the church volunteer to beckon them to get in line.

“Mom, can you talk some sense into Dana, please?” Charlie says turning around giving their mom a knowing look, “I know you saw what I saw this morning. You can’t deny it.” She sighs in resignation, lips pressed together.

“Dana, I’m glad we got to spend time with you this morning, but Charlie’s right-- a part of you isn’t with us, it’s someplace else.” She gives Scully a fierce hug. “We’ll see you later this week. Charlie is staying for a couple more days before he flies out to the Netherlands. Now, go. You have some matters to attend to.” Scully’s eyes turn glassy as she manages not to cry. She smiles against her mom’s shoulder and gives her a quick peck on the cheek. She mouths and waves goodbye to Bill and Tara who each had a curious expression on their faces. Charlie gives her a quick hug and waves goodbye to her as he stands aside to let her out of the pew. She can hear Bill asking their mom where she’s going, and her mom answering that she has to attend to matters of love. Scully walks out of the church with one destination in mind.

Chapter 4. Give vs. Offer

It seems that no one left Hegal Place as Scully had to park a block away nearby a liquor store. She quickly runs into the store and purchases some items for the day. The afternoon weather is nippy, but tolerable with a heavy coat she had placed in the back of her car as she briskly walks on the sidewalk, being careful not to slip. She doesn’t know whether Mulder is at his place or not; it didn’t occur to her to give him a call during her trip. The early snowfall that morning had covered all the parked cars, making it difficult to identify which car is his. She finally arrives at his building, promptly taking off the heavy coat from the extreme temperature change. She knows her hair looks unkempt again from the weather as she takes the elevator up to the fourth floor. She can’t decide whether her heart was rapidly beating from the brisk walk or the notion that Mulder might not be home. Scully raps on the door sharply, causing the “2” in “42” to be slightly askew. To her relief, she hears muffled footsteps behind the door. The door cracks open revealing a disheveled Mulder dressed in sweatpants and a white t-shirt. He braces himself against the door frame with his right forearm as he rubs his eyes. His left hand still on the doorknob.

“Scully? What are you doing here? Shouldn’t you be with your family?” he asks in a gravelly voice, eyes squinting from the hallway light. She realizes she must have woken him up from his sleep. His eyes come into focus, and she can see him take in her appearance. “Is this how you usually dress at family gatherings? Maybe I should accompany you next time you go.” She feels a blush forming on her cheeks.

“I couldn’t stop thinking about the movie this entire morning,” she says, averting her gaze away from Mulder’s form, staring down at her boots. “It’s been bothering me, how Sandra Bullock’s character is in love with what looks like a huge asshole.” She looks up at him slightly flustered, “And Mulder! Even if I had watched ‘While You Were Sleeping’, I wouldn’t have caught on with the line you misquoted. The character’s mom gave her dad the world, which by the way is not a snow globe but a regular globe. So, I can only deduce that the actual line is ‘I give you the world’ not ‘I offer you the world.’” Mulder looks amused.

“To be fair, Scully, I only watched the movie once on cable. I thought I got the gist of the phrase, especially when paired with the snow globe I grabbed at Grand Rapids to show you. It appears much later in the movie by the way.”

“But ‘give,’ and ‘offer’ are two very different words, Mulder,” she continues, “Their meaning is completely different in context. ‘I give’ means that there are no strings attached to this phrase, no conditions set in place, while ‘I offer’ allows the other party a chance to accept or decline the option.” Scully knows she’s rambling, but she can’t stop herself. She holds up the plastic bag in her hands.

“For instance, I’m offering you this bag full of items I purchased at the corner liquor store. It contains components to make delicious hot chocolate—you still owe me hot chocolate, Mulder--”

“Of all the things to begrudge me for, it’s hot chocolate?”

“Hot chocolate, milk, whipped cream, chocolate sprinkles, marshmallows, and peppermint sticks. And since it’s around lunch time, I even purchased some gourmet frozen dinners because I know the state of your fridge and pantry, Mulder. A man can’t suffice on sunflower seeds alone.” Mulder’s grinning at this point. He unbraces himself from the door frame and reaches for the bag, but Scully holds it away from him.

“Mulder, this is an offer. Offers usually come with conditions from the party presenting it.”

“State your conditions then, Scully.” He drawls as he leans against the door frame crossing his arms.

“I want you to be the one to prepare hot chocolate for the both of us. I also want to finish watching the movie. I want to see how Sandra Bullock’s character goes from thinking she’s in love with an asshole to falling in love with Bill Pullman’s character.”

“Well, what are you waiting for?” Mulder’s eyes shone brightly as he stared at her intently. Her eyes slightly widened at his question. He straightens himself up and fully opens the door. He motions with his head as he says, “Get in here, Scully.”

She exhales a breath as she crosses the threshold. Mulder murmurs, “I was thinking about you all morning too” as he closes the door behind her.

[freakwiththeknifecollection]

Tumblr ate my first draft so HERE WE GO AGAIN. Thank you @petrichoravellichor for tagging me!!

Nickname(s): Em, Emma, Emmy, Emilia

Gender: Female

Zodiac:  Aquarius

Height: 5′7"

Time: 12:50am

Where I’m from: California (I don't live there anymore though)

Hogwarts House: Hufflepuff and proud!

Favorite show: if you can't tell you're not paying attention lmao

Favorite animal: BEARS!! Panda bears, brown bears, black bears, sun bears, polar bears, ALL THE BEARS! (Also dogs, cats, and wolves)

Favorite band/artist: Fall Out Boy!!

Song stuck in my head: I don't have one

Last movie I saw: Seven Pounds (don't watch that if you don't want to cry)

Last thing I googled: "what are the prime numbers" (checking if I was right)

Other blogs: Oof... Okay don't judge me I like a lot of things and like having them organized into separate blogs @artistic-pandamonium @fus-ro-dovahqueen @detective-jokeperalta @tony-stank-industries @deepdishpepperwood @thisistheforkingbadplace @arfur-pendragon @kylo-ren-has-an-8-pack @animatedstuffandjunk @theallmightydeku @dogsofdisney and my dogblr @shado-and-sunshine-ig

Do I get asks?: Rarely :/

Why this username?: I had a good url before too but I thought of this joke one day and I was so amazed that nobody took it that I had to

Number of blankets: 1-3 depending on the weather/temperature of my room (I somehow always end up with the bedroom with no climate control)

Followers: 859

Following: 4600-something

Average amount of sleep: 9 hours

Lucky number: 9 (this has nothing to do with my sleep schedule)

What am I wearing: A deep blue t shirt and flannel penguin pajamas (it's cold in my house and I'm on cold medicine)

Dream job: I... Have no idea yet it could be any number of things. I want to get a job at Petco soon!

Dream trips: So many! Japan, Holland, Italy, England, Ireland, Scotland... Probably more

Favorite food: pretty much anything with chicken or pasta or both

Instruments I play: none but I would LOVE to learn piano and guitar!

Eye color: forest green

Hair color: natural? Dark blonde/light brown whatever you wanna call it. Current? Light auburn

Aesthetic: sunflowers and Golden Retrievers

Languages I speak: English and I can understand and speak a handful of Spanish words

Most iconic song: this is a little vague lol. House of Memories by Panic! At The Disco resonates with me on a deep level, the haunting nostalgia of the song, I just love it

When I created this account: 2014

Why I created this account: wanted to check out Tumblr, a friend of mine had one. Never left

Best memory: picking up my puppy in 2017. My dream dog I wanted my whole life. The breeder owned a farm and the puppies were in a stall in the barn. He opened the stall and five Golden Retriever puppies FLOODED out and climbed all over me. I was in heaven. Especially because I had never got to actually pet a Golden Retriever puppy before, they ARE as soft as they look by the way. Three were reserved, I got to pick between two. Whichever one I didn't pick the breeder was going to keep as a family dog. Two girls, one was the runt. I watched them run around and play and the runt was away from the pack, exploring and sniffing around. I liked that. A few minutes after that I sat on the grass and the runt came up so I started petting her and she sat on my lap. That was it. She was the one. I had a name picked out already, Sunshine. Two years later her name couldn't be more fitting, I'm so glad I picked her. That whole day was probably the happiest day of my life.

Best pun: bold of you to assume I can just pick ONE best pun

Random fact: I have a scar from making taquitos

I TAG: @rkai800bts @foreshadowingclouds @acealistairs and whoever wants to do this, consider yourself tagged by me!