#... twice. two whole times. both in reference to using his memories for information

[cowboybrunch]

chapter 20 of Burden of the Reluctant Death is up on AO3!

Andrew never wondered about his soul except to quote Brontë at me. He'd sneer if I told him the truth. "You and me," he'd say. "We'll give them nasty heartburn."

and a song from rosalie's playlist!

"and look at you, a killer / with a jaw for news / i always feel like a tourist / only came here for you"

hi taglist i hope u had the best week!! <3

@vyuntspakhkite-l-darling @autism-purgatory @rosesonneptune @cartoonghosts @dyrewrites

@whoevenknowswhatimwriting @jev-urisk @mrbexwrites @saturnine-saturneight @gioiaalbanoart

@tragedycoded @the-golden-comet @wyked-ao3

@deanwax @leahnardo-da-veggie

[lalune9x]

SCTIR Translation - Chapter 467: Even A Good Person (3)

“What the hell.” Moon Hyuna’s expression twisted. “What are you doing here?”

Chapter translation under the cut.

Story context: The terrorists who attacked the Association building used firearms and bombs. They delivered a message that they were a 'fan' of Director Song. That's why a certain character makes those references in this chapter.

---

“Isn't it time to tell the kids?” Moon Hyuna pressed the elevator button as she spoke. “Or at least Director Song. Even if Hyung-nim gets rejected as expected, we still need to assess her rank, right?”

Lowering one's Hunter rank honestly wasn’t a major issue. On the other hand, falsely inflating one’s rank was strictly forbidden because entering a dungeon beyond one's abilities could endanger not only oneself but also the entire team.

However, this case was different. This involved someone meeting with an F-rank who had already been targeted multiple times. Even if there were special circumstances, they should have at least informed someone like Song Taewon or an S-rank Hunter contracted to the Mount Rearing Facility for protection.

“Not yet,” said Sung Hyunje.

The elevator doors closed, and they began to ascend swiftly to the top floor.

“Well, I don’t how the others will react, but the young master would probably be the first to draw his sword,” Moon Hyuna said. “Hyung-nim might fail anyway. He might end up just talking about business the whole time.”

She chuckled and leaned casually against the elevator wall. Then she stopped laughing. After listening to the mechanical hum of the machinery, she spoke in a low voice.

“Something must have happened to Han Yoohyun. For Han Yoojin to go back to the past, I mean.”

“If not for a reason of that magnitude, he’s not the type to easily give up on the present and the people around him, is he?” Sung Hyunje replied.

"Not just that. There were times when he seemed almost desperate. It’s less so now, but… it was like, I don’t know, like he was a parent who’d lost a child.”

Even though Han Yoojin had only been Awakened less than half a year ago, he already knew a lot about hunters. Yet at the same time, he worried excessively about Han Yoohyun, an S-rank hunter. Even though Han Yoohyun was much stronger than him, despite being the little brother he’d cared for since childhood. Even though Han Yoojin wasn’t ignorant of what S-rank Hunters were capable of.

The elevator doors opened, and the two of them headed straight for the emergency exit. With no guests or staff around, the surroundings were quiet.

“Five years from now, you guys said? I’m curious, even if it doesn’t have much to do with me now, but how would I even ask?”

Hyuna furrowed her brows slightly as she opened the emergency exit door with the key she had obtained in advance. A dim stairway appeared before them. 

“Hyung-nim still has some insecurities, doesn’t he.”

They ascended the stairs in one go, their footsteps barely making a sound. They unlocked door to the rooftop and pushed it open. The sky was already pitch-black as the sun had long since set.

“The wounds from losing something truly important don’t heal easily.”

Even if one went back to the past, with memories and experiences intact, things couldn’t remain the same.

“Especially for someone like Hyung-nim. If the situation became dire, he might throw his life away. He can’t afford to lose something so important twice—it would be too hard to bear.”

With a bitter expression, Moon Hyuna walked to the edge of the rooftop, overlooking the terrace garden to where Han Yoojin was headed. Although the difference in elevation was big enough that not even an S-rank hunter could hear the conversation from this distance, it wouldn't be hard to observe Han Yoojin’s facial expressions and lip movements.

Perhaps because of the considerable distance from the lounge to the terrace and their slow pace, Han Yoojin was only now emerging into the garden. His tense face was clearly visible to both observers. He glanced around a bit before stopping in front of the terrace railing.

“He must’ve liked her a lot to even remember her exact height.”

“He seems frightened,” Sung Hyunje remarked.

“Isn’t that normal? Getting rejected would be better. At least the person he likes would remain the same. Oh, they’re talking. Seems they’re still just discussing the broadcast.”

As Moon Hyuna slightly bent forward to get a better look, her body suddenly twisted sharply.

Thwack!

Her raised hand caught something in midair. Blood faintly seeped from her tightly clenched fist. It was an arrow.

“Now, what’s this?” 

Moon Hyuna’s eyes sharpened. The arrow had come from the opposite building. Her cold gaze quickly scanned the line of buildings beyond the eight-lane road. 

“Is sniping trendy these days? You don't need me, right? Or should we let the ones below know?"

Moon Hyuna’s feet touched the edge of the rooftop. At the same time, the Searcher’s Chain appeared. Unlike its usual appearance, it was currently a faint silvery chain that hadn't absorbed any electricity, stretching outwards. Moon Hyuna jumped into the air, stepped on the chain and then leapt higher. In an instant, she landed on the roof of the opposite building.

A faint killing intent emanated through the air like a signal. Without hesitation, Moon Hyuna dashed toward the source. She swiftly crossed the gap of more than ten meters between buildings, having drawn a long spear into her hand, and then came to an abrupt halt.

Someone was standing in the long shadow cast by the adjacent building. Still holding a bow, they seemed to have no intention of concealing their crime. Their eyes curved in a slight smile behind their glasses.

“What the hell.” Moon Hyuna’s expression twisted. “What are you doing here?”

“Hello, Breaker Guild Leader,” Evelyn Miller greeted her nonchalantly.

Moon Hyuna threw the arrow she had been holding. Thunk! It grazed the tip of Evelyn’s shoe and embedded itself into the ground. The arrow’s fletching quivered from the impact. A faint scent of blood lingered in its wake.

“What kind of game are you playing? Don’t tell me you’re here to confess to being one of the Association’s terrorists.”

“Do I look like Director Song Taewon’s fan?” Evelyn asked. Then she murmured in a low voice, “You still have no discerning eye,” which made Moon Hyuna’s expression grow more severe. “You know I don’t like the smell of metal and gunpowder.”

“Whatever,” Moon Hyuna retorted coldly, "As you said, I have no discerning eye. I can't tell what's real and what's fake with you."

“Still holding a grudge?”

"No. We just don't match—our dispositions. I like honest people.” Moon Hyuna’s foot dragged slightly as she stepped backwards.

“I like you,” Evelyn said.

“Cut the crap.”

“Moon Hyuna is someone who’s hard not to like. That’s why.”

“So that’s why you shot me? Alright. I’m leaving.”

Realizing it was pointless to continue the conversation trying to learn Evelyn’s motives, Moon Hyuna turned to leave. But Evelyn’s voice halted her.

“If you jump, I’ll shoot you down.”

A pale finger rested on the bowstring. There was no arrow, but Moon Hyuna knew well how quickly an arrow could be nocked by that fingertip. Thanks to the inventory, arrows could be instantly drawn into a Hunter’s hand. Evelyn was even faster than that, with the drawing of her bow and releasing of the arrow happening almost simultaneously. Rather than nocking and drawing, the arrow was nocked, drawn, and released at the same time.

It was a speed difficult even for an S-rank hunter to keep up with, and the power of the skill-imbued arrow was not to be underestimated. For Moon Hyuna, who didn't have a flight skill, it would be hard to dodge the arrows while airborne.

“At least tell me why,” Moon Hyuna demanded, not hiding her irritation.

Evelyn shrugged lightly. “I was just asked to hold you back for a while.”

“Asked? By whom—don’t tell me it was Sung Hyunje?”

“Who else could it be?”

“...What’s that guy plotting?”

Moon Hyuna ran a hand roughly through her hair. Evelyn's eyes seemed to convey that she sympathized with Moon Hyuna, at least at the moment.

“I’m curious too,” Evelyn said. “He opened the candy box, peeked inside, closed it again, and now he’s just shaking it. Normally, he would have already tried one of each flavor before tossing it aside.”

Even if there were a variety of candies, he’d lose interest halfway when they all tasted pretty much the same.

"Is he hoping for the candy to offer itself?" Evelyn wondered.

"...Who knows. I’d rather just leave than waste time standing here."

Baring her teeth fiercely, Moon Hyuna leaped over the rooftop railing. Instead of jumping to the adjacent building, she dropped straight down and soon disappeared between the buildings.

I hadn’t expected much. Rather, I’d thought the possibility was high, so, this... this. I swallowed a small breath. I reactivated my Fear Resistance. The trembling in my chest subsided, but the complex mix of emotions remained the same.

Yeah, things could definitely turn out this way. That was possible, right?

Come to think of it, things had gone well with most people until now. I had reconnected well with those I knew in the past. Needless to say, my relationship with Yoohyun improved. The people I went through dungeons with—though we weren’t as close as before—had reestablished good relationships with me. I was able to repay them. Even with people I’d had bad ties with, like Seok Shimyung, Kim Sunghan, and others from Haeyeon, I was getting along well this time. The people who had harmed or threatened me were either estranged before the regression or were people I had never known.

So, of course, this kind of situation could happen too. If things can change for the better, they can also change for the worse.

‘...From the beginning, it was just me liking her one-sidedly.’

And she’s still a good person. I wasn’t sure if it would have been better if the image she’d crafted for her broadcasts had been fake all along, or if it had been real.

“...I just wanted to say it.”

My gaze naturally dropped to the ground. It hurt inside. I wanted to take out the cigarettes still left in my inventory and light one. I should have drunk more.

No, now wasn’t the time for this. I needed to organize my thoughts. The conclusion was already clear.

The same message appeared as it had with Park Hayul. In that case, it was likely that Chloe had also received help from that so-called ‘noonim’ just like Park Hayul had. I still didn’t know that noonim’s identity, but for now, it seemed she was part of a faction different from the cult and the Pious.

‘They kidnapped me to China, but didn’t cause any further harm beyond that.’

Could they have made a deal with the Chinese military? So, although I’d been kidnapped, it was too early to judge them as definite enemies. If they weren’t part of Chatterbox’s faction, there was still room to negotiate. After all, there aren’t many people who actually want the world to end.

“Director Han Yoojin.”

“...Yes?”

“Since you’ve been honest, I’ll answer you just as candidly.”

My fists clenched reflexively. How was she going to respond? Would she try to persuade me? Or maybe—

“I don’t like people like you,” she said.

“... Pardon?”

Startled, I raised my head. On my shoulder, Gyeol fluttered his wings restlessly. Well, I’d heard people say they dislike me plenty of times before, but…

“It’s not right to judge someone I’ve only met a few times, but I just couldn’t see you in a good light.”

“R-really?”

Had I done something wrong? Publicly, I’d only been kidnapped a couple of times… Was it because I was weak? But Chloe didn’t seem like the kind of person to dislike me for that.

“Asking for a mere pet monster in exchange for a mount-rearing contract doesn’t sit well with me,” Chloe spoke with a slightly cold tone. Well, I… that was… “I don’t necessarily criticize luxury. But treating such a unique power as a personal indulgence leaves a bad impression on me.”

… I could understand why Hyuna-ssi had said Chloe was somewhat similar to Director Song. Director Song had also seemed to be a bit wary of me, though for different reasons.

“It wasn't a trivial request. I had a reason for it.”

“Does the Gold Hamster have some kind of special ability?”

“...No.”

It was really just a pet. I was trying to draw in Do Hamin, but even so, I could see why Chloe was still uncomfortable with it. She wasn’t wrong in thinking I was too cavalier. And since I couldn’t explain Do Hamin’s abilities, it probably just seemed like I was trying to win someone’s favor.

“I have no defense for that.”

I cradled the fairy dragon in my arms, trying to calm his irritated tail flicks. At least it wasn’t for some other reason. Just like how I liked Chloe from watching her on broadcasts, maybe she disliked me after seeing only part of my actions...

“Thank you for being honest with me,” I said.

Well, I was cleanly rejected. So cleanly that it was hard to believe she was associated with Park Hayul. Could it be that she knew a dozen other people who could grant growth buffs, and wasn’t telling me? The Irreverents had made such a fuss about how rare Caregivers like me were that I had assumed there were only two of us.

Still, she had hidden her true rank. But to go that far... wait a minute.

“Then, why did you come all the way here?”

If she had disliked me from the start, it didn’t make sense.

“Why did you accept the request to capture the Gold Hamster? There was no reason for you to help…”

It was strange for her to go out of her way to help capture the hamster, travel to Korea, and conceal her rank when she wasn’t even a guild member. If she had other business here, she could’ve just entered separately. Besides, concealing her rank wasn’t an issue unless she was meeting low-rank Awakened people like me or others who needed protection. It wasn’t like in Japan, where we fought duels with rewards on the line.

So, why did she come all this way?

At that moment, the glass door opened. A familiar face appeared and the man stepped inside. Chloe moved aside, and Sung Hyunje approached me.

“...What is this?” I asked. The little fairy dragon in my arms flattened his ears warily.

“Shall I offer you some comfort first?” Sung Hyunje said.

“Just get to the point.” I still couldn’t grasp the situation. "Were you two acquainted? From before?"

“Not exactly. Hunter Chloe didn’t come here to meet Han Yoojin-gun, but to see me.”

“To see... you?”

“When it comes to matters involving Director Han Yoojin, it’s easier to approach through the Sesung Guild Leader,” Chloe said.

So that’s why... But, then, when did they meet, and what exactly did they discuss? I wanted to step back, but there was only the railing behind me. I stared at the two of them, mentally preparing myself to jump if I had to.

[dustedmagazine]

Jonathan Cott — Let Me Take You Down: Penny Lane and Strawberry Fields Forever (University of Minnesota Press)

Whether you adore, loathe, or are indifferent to the Beatles, it seems fair to ask in 2024 what exactly could be left to say about them. Surely at this point the most written about, discussed, mythologized, demythologized, simply covered band (although to be fair, have they blown up on TikTok yet?), it’s understandable both that people would feel compelled to express themselves about the Beatles and that the rest of us might have our eyes glaze over in response. Jonathan Cott has more bona fides in this area than most, having written about and interviewed the band from the 1960s on (including an interview with John Lennon a few days before his murder), and he’s made two smart choices in putting together this particular book: narrowing the focus, and going in a more idiosyncratic, personal direction.

That focus is apparent from the title on down, and it’s a relief to see the scope reduced to two songs. Who needs another general overview of this particular band? (Yes, it’s good those exist in general, there will always be new, curious people as time passes, but it feels like that category is pretty densely populated at this point.) The Beatles are also one of the few acts that could conceivably sustain (in a financial sense) a whole book on one of their singles, even a double A side. But Let Me Take You Down is only partly a history of the two songs. The first section here covers, in 50 pages, the circumstances of the two songs’ creation. It looks at the first period where the four members tried taking a break from the Beatles (and, in some cases, had existential crises about what not being a Beatle might mean), Lennon and McCartney’s artistic partnership/slight rivalry, the personal history that fed into both songs, and so on. It’s well done and moves briskly; someone who knew nothing about the Beatles would probably come away wanting to know more, and those already deeply steeped in the lore won’t feel their time has been wasted.

The second and final section here is nearly twice as long as the first; Cott, clearly a seasoned interviewer (with an impressive ability to either quote other myriad other works and authors out of thin air, or an impressive dedication to keeping potentially relevant quotations on hand to refer to), sits down with “five remarkable people” to discuss the single. Only two of them, Laurie Anderson and Bill Frisell, are primarily known as musicians. The other three are the urban planner and Gramavision Records founder Jonathan F. P. Rose, Jungian analyst Margaret Klenck, and actor (and, more significantly for his section, noted Buddhist) Richard Gere. These conversations feel like they make up the heart of the book, and are where it will succeed or fail for most readers.

The tone throughout all five conversations is loose and friendly, with everyone involved engaging with the songs (lyrics, sound, historical context, personal context) deeply but informally. It’s worth noting that the median age of all six interlocutors is in the early 70s, and all come at “Strawberry Fields Forever”/“Penny Lane” from the perspective of people who were there at the time and who’ve been playing and thinking about these two particular songs ever since. Although Cott does have a bit of a thesis (based on James Hillman’s The Dream and the Underworld, with Paul as Zeus taking you “back” and John as Hades taking you “down”), he doesn’t impose it on any of the conversations and they all go in their own directions. Are these songs about depression? memory? love? the illusion of the self? all of the above? Let Me Take You Down’s most cardinal virtue is the way it might remind you of your own deep conversations with friends about music (Beatles or not), digging deeply into shared passions and volleying insights and theories back and forth.

The result is a book small in scope that goes to surprising places. If there are quibbles to be had, they’re along the lines of wishing “Penny Lane” got as much space from any of the people involved as “Strawberry Fields Forever” (but then again, isn’t the underworld something most of us find more fascinating, and easier to talk about, than our pasts?), and that the dense repetition of “said,” “explained,” “commented,” etc. might make one wish these interviews were presented in a more transcript-like style. Those small issues aside, the only big issue Let Me Take You Down really has is the obvious one, that most can answer for themselves instantly: in 2024, do you want to read another book about the Beatles?

Ian Mathers

[loosesodamarble]

The Truth About Marx's Magic

Tagging @luminouslion because Melissa is the resident Marx lover.

Memory Magic or Communication Magic? That is the question.

Now because Marx is a character that's pretty far into the background most of the time, he doesn't get many chances to appearance use his magic. Let's review what we know of Marx's Magic.

Marx can read/project the memories of others as well as force them to speak truthfully.

Marx's memory reading is infallible. (Do take the statement with a grain of salt since we've only seen this spell used to its fullest twice[-ish]. And the spell was only used on people who had their memories protected/sealed and not altered in some way.)

One of Marx's spell can erase the most recent memories of an individual (although the spell never successfully landed on the intended target [Yami] so we never actually saw it used).

Marx's magic can be used to project his visual image and his voice to others (primarily Julius!) in order to perform long distance communication without the use of a magic tool.

The image and sound projection isn't limited to one-on-one either. In episode 151 of the anime, it's called out that it's thanks to Marx's magic specifically that allows the whole kingdom to view the captains' battle. (Note: this is an anime original event and will be coming up later.)

So Marx's magic deals both with memories and communicating with others. It's been referred to as Memory and Communication (to most people's recollection from what I've gathered). But which is it exactly?

The answer?

NEITHER! It's neither Memory nor Communication Magic.

Let me explain.

The first place to look for information about Marx's magic attribute was the original manga. Luckily for me, I have both the original Japanese volumes as well as the English translations of the manga (up to volume 35 in JPN and up to 32 in ENG as of the writing of this post).

However... Looking through both the Japanese and English, I found out that while explanations and references to the powers of Marx's magic were made, there was never any instance of Marx calling out a spell name and with it his magic attribute (as is customary when a spell is written in the manga).

But then I remembered an ace I had.

Volume 16.5: Marque-page de Grimoire. It's essentially a databook for the series up to volume 16 (thus being 16.5). And in this volume we get profiles and information about various characters in Black Clover, which includes their place of origin, their likes, their ability parameters, and of course their magic attribute. And what is Marx's attribute listed as in his profile?

記憶交信。(pronounced ki-oku kou-shin)

Okay, I know most people on my blog don't understand Japanese so this means nothing to you.

記憶交信 isn't a singular word unto itself but two words put together. 記憶 means "memory, recollection, remembrance." 交信 means "telecommunication, correspondence." So essentially it's "memory correspondence" magic. And that tracks with what Marx's magic is capable of: it effects and interacts with memories as well as allows for long distance correspondence.

Or perhaps a better way to put it is that Marx's magic allows memories to be communicated. Memories are communicated when he uses the spell that reads them. So when Marx projects image and sound, it's as though he's sharing his immediate, in-the-making memories. If that makes sense...

Anyways.

I can further back this up with content from the anime. Specifically the movie. Remember how Conrad stole Marx's magic? Well look at what Conrad says about it.

記憶交信。

But that's in Japanese. So what's the actual English translation?

In the English subtitles, Marx's magic is referred to as Memory Exchange Magic.

See again the movie.

Or we can look to episode 38 of the anime.

As for why it's called "Memory Exchange" and not "Memory Correspondence" or "Memory Communication" Magic, it's simply a matter of some translation liberties. "Exchange" is a synonym for "conversation." You have an exchange when you talk with someone. And when you have a conversation, you communicate your thoughts with that other person. Thus the use of "exchange" rather than "correspondence/communication" in Marx's magic attribute to convey what it does.

But if it was always Memory Exchange Magic, why do people recall Marx's magic being just "Memory" or "Communication" Magic?

Is it a case of the subtitles saying "Memory Exchange" but the dub saying only "Memory"? No actually. If you listen to the dub of episode 38 and the movie, they will say "Memory Exchange" directly. (I'd share the sound clip myself but I have zero idea how to isolate a snippet of video and all that so anyone reading this will have to go see for themselves that I'm not making this up.) I think the "just Memory" recollection of the fandom is a result of the human mind making things easy on itself. Why remember two words when you could remember one and still get the same idea essentially? Thus, the fandom remembers only "Memory Magic" rather than "Memory Exchange Magic."

As for "Communication Magic"... Remember episode 151? Well within that episode, Julius refers to Marx's magic as 通信 (tsuu-shin) magic. Which is translated as "Communication Magic."

What created this discrepancy in the anime though?

The timing of releases.

Where was Marx's magic first named? In the 16.5 volume. Which was released on May 2 of 2018.

The next thing to be released was episode 38 of the anime. And when did it originally air? June 26 of 2018.

Episode 151 didn't air until November 10, 2020.

Now I don't know how far in advance Studio Piero was making episode 38 to the original air date. And since I'm not doing an in-depth research paper on this topic, I only took a cursory glance online to see that a general estimate is 2 months minimum. Could’ve been a longer period, can’t say for certain.

So... It's possible that Tabata was in the process of putting together the information for volume 16.5 while Studio Piero was in the midst of working on episode 38 and when it came to scripting the episode, they wanted to use proper names for Marx’s Magic rather than silently skipping over it like the manga. While Tabata isn't normally involved in the anime's production, the production team might've consulted him on the matter since they had nothing to go off of in the manga. And that's when Tabata could've shared the intended name for Marx's magic.

Then, later on, when episode 151 was being made, the content was an anime original. Tabata wasn't directly involved and the production team might not have consulted with Tabata during that time. Leading to the name of Marx's magic attribute being called the wrong thing.

And earlier this year, we got the Black Clover movie. And the movie does correctly call Marx's magic Memory Exchange. See, unlike the TV anime where Tabata wasn't really involved, he was the chief supervisor of the film. So while not directly in charge of the script, he likely would've been able to review it and make sure that Marx's magic was referred to by the right name.

With that, the post is over. I've officially explained the truth about Marx Francois' magic!

Sorry to make this so long and rambly. I just had a bit of fun solving this kinda sorta fandom mystery. But now we all know the truth.

Marx has Memory Exchange Magic~!

[longformeditions]

LE021 Rimarimba Sea, Shore, See, Sure? 17.4.2019

Robert Cox was born in 1953, and grew up on a farm a few miles from where he now lives in the UK. During his working life he was a shipping agent, van driver, ice cream salesman, record shop owner and builder in various parts of the UK. An interest in music, electronics and guitars began in his teenage years which I have not been able to shake off yet.

Cox formed Unlikely Records in the early 1980s, released records and cassettes of his and other people's music. Rimarimba albums have been released on Unlikely, Cordelia, Hamster and most recently RVNG Intl. Retirement from paid work has enabled Cox to return full time to being a minor cult artist. He has been married twice, has three children and three step-children. His wife, Viv, says her role is to keep Cox grounded, remind him to eat and take him for walks by the sea when he has been in the studio for longer than is good for him.

Artist notes: I live on the coast. The inspiration came from daily walks by the sea. The background ever changing drone is the restless sea, the cellos are the breaking waves, their gritty sound quality is the pebbles washing back down the beach and the higher pitched twiddly things are the circling sea gulls. Although 'real' waves have a frequency of 7–8 per minute and, yes, approximately the seventh one is often the biggest I have slowed mine down as they sounded too fast at 7–8/m. Think of these as long Pacific rollers breaking on a distant shore.

Unlike most of my compositions this one has no percussion. The whole beast was made from acoustic and electric guitar parts recorded onto a Tascam DP32. Many had their initial attack removed and some were looped on an Electro-Harmonix 45000 looper. The strings were produced by feeding some parts through an Electro-Harmonix Mellotron pedal. A Yamaha SPX 2000 processed many of the parts in various unspeakable ways until they 'felt' about right. A Lexicon Reverb worked its magic as only Lexicon can. About half of the parts play in reverse at various points. The guitars used were a Furch SJV 121 Lux acoustic 12 string, hand made in the Czech Republic in 1997, and a Gibson ES335 electric, made in Nashville, USA in 1987. Both were tuned in open C—CGCGCE.

This is an age of ever shortening attention spans driven by the constructs of our online world. News is delivered as headlines to skim across with little in the way of in depth explanation or examination. The so called ‘long read’ pieces in online news sites are no more than the first two columns of a four page article in the Sunday newspapers from a few years ago. Ebooks do not convey the same experience as print on paper. Without the physical presence and weight of a book digital information can feel as ephemeral as television advertising. Wikipedia, good though it is, does not allow for the chance discoveries that come from turning the page in a reference book or encyclopedia. Saving a link in order to return to an online article is not the same as remembering the piece about electrons is about one third of the way through the volume E–G a few pages after the picture of the Egyptian statue. Whilst static art is still, well, static and you can gaze upon and contemplate a painting or a sculpture for as long as time permits how many do so when we are conditioned by the predominance of moving images.

Slow cooking is a healthy reaction to fast, commercialised, food. Likewise both walking and cycling (slow travel) rather than driving make for a deeper experience of the journey.

A long piece of music be it a symphony, an ambient work or a jazz suite creates a mindscape in which the listener can lose and find themselves as their attention wanders and returns. It can trigger a memory in that moment at 37 minutes which is different the next time they hear it because they almost inevitably arrive at that moment having taken a different path through the piece. Today the bass line, tomorrow the percussion figures, the day after the unfolding harmonies. This takes time to achieve, time that is not available in a three minute pop song. The listener who allocates enough of their time will find an hour immersed in a piece of music is at least as beneficial as a long soak in a warm bath.

[iviarellereads]

The Fires of Heaven, Chapter 19 - Memories

(THIS PROJECT IS SPOILER FREE! No spoilers past the chapter you click on. Curious what I'm doing here? Read this post! For the link index and a primer on The Wheel of Time, read this one! Like what you see? Send me a Ko-Fi.)

(Dagger icon) In which a queen sings some Queen.

PERSPECTIVE: Morgase hasn't left her room all day, and it's almost noon. Tallanvor (properly Guardsman Lieutenant Martyn Tallanvor) brings her news, surprised she hasn't heard yet. There's rebellion in the Two Rivers, someone's raised the old banner of Manetheren, the Red Eagle. Morgase thinks on how she's struggled to keep both the Two Rivers and the mines in the Mountains of Mist under Andoran control, and the 2Rs had to slip lower on priorities.

She asks if Gaebril has been informed, and Tal says he has, and he laughed, saying the 2Rs throws up trouble, but it's a minor annoyance at best.

Morgase drops her book and sweeps past Tal, who may or may not be smirking grimly at her reaction. She finds Gaebril with lords and ladies gathered all around him. She demands to speak with him about the 2Rs and he says it's been handled. She says absolutely not, he will leave and speak with her, and all these nobles will clear out or she'll have them exiled. He says no, she will go and wait for him to come to her this evening.

She's opening the door to her sitting room before she realizes where she is and what's happened. She feels the urge to go in and wait for him anyway, but she fights it, and walks away, cringing at the idea of Gaebril's disappointment.(1)

The seven nobles who had been gathered around Gaebril are the seven she would have chosen not to pardon, after her succession to the Throne, if she could've done so and not risked civil war against herself. She realizes Gaebril must be plotting against her, probably trying to make himself Andor's first king. And even still, she feels part of herself wanting to go and wait for him as he told her to.

She finds herself going to visit Lini, the woman who had served as nurse for Elayne, Morgase, and Morgase's mother, Maighdin. Lini isn't in, so she looks around, seeing how everything is perfectly organized. She notes portraits of all three of Lini's charges, her own of herself at fourteen looking so innocent.

Lini comes back and says, well, Morgase always had a habit of coming to see her when she needed to work out a problem, but she hasn't been for a while. Morgase says she visits every week, but Lini says she hasn't been here since spring. Must be the trouble with Gaebril, right? Morgase is surprised Lini knows about any trouble, but Lini says the whole castle knows, just nobody's willing to bring it up with the Queen. It's the kind of thing a woman won't believe until she's faced with it herself.

Morgase asks what Lini's referring to, she's the last to know and it may be too late to stop it. Lini says it's not too late, just bundle up Gaebril, Alteima, and the others, and you're all set. Morgase is shocked to learn that Gaebril's been cheating on her, with Alteima and six others. Shocked, and then enraged. Morgase asks where her various allies are, and Lini points out that Morgase had them all exiled last spring. Even had one flogged for asking why. Morgase has only shadowed memories of any of it.

She asks if Lini would recognize Tallanvor, and at confirmation, she asks her to bring him here, but tell nobody that she's in Lini's quarters. When Lini leaves, Morgase dares not stand up from her chair, knowing that if she moves, she might not stop until she's in her sitting room, waiting for Gaebril. If she didn't know better, she'd think he'd used the One Power on her somehow, but no man survives to his age using the Power.(2)

She thinks back on her lovers over the years. Taringail Damodred was cold, though she found joy in their children. Thomdril Merrilin was witty and funny, but twice her age(3) and one day just vanished without a word, so when he returned, her temper got the better of her.(4) Gareth Bryne had turned out to be a treasonous fool. And Gaebril, the crown on her bad life choices.

Lini returns with Tallanvor, and Morgase begins asking questions. She finds that he is the only man left who's truly loyal to her, not to Gaebril. Even the new oath is to throne and law, not to the Queen.

Morgase says she needs to go elsewhere, and begin reestablishing her rule. Tallanvor overrules Morgase's suggested escape route, and suggests she disguise herself and go to the Queen's Blessing inn, where Basel Gill is as loyal to her as Tal himself. When he's gone, Lini asks why she keeps calling Tal young, he's got a few years on Galad and Galad's too old to be Morgase's in the first place.(5)

At any rate, Lini insists on coming, too, so they both dress in simple coarse wool, with some soot to darken Morgase's red-gold hair, and slip out a side gate. As they go, she realizes her reputation is taking the blame for Gaebril's changes.

They reach the Queen's Blessing, and Morgase realizes Lini is breathing hard. Lini waves her off, saying if she can't keep up with Morgase, how will she ever tend Elayne's babes? They go to the stable, where Tal, Basel Gill, Lamgwin (one of Gill's men) and Lamgwin's wife Breane all swear fealty and to accompany her. They ask where she'll go first, and she realizes she hadn't thought that far. All her focus was on getting out of the castle, on defying the urge to go back to Gaebril. Tal suggests they must go to Gareth Bryne first. With him on her side, the rest will reswear allegiance if only because they know he'll win every battle he's in. She almost protests that he's a traitor, but he has a point.

PERSPECTIVE: Padan Fain sneaks to the storage room where the ruby hilted dagger is being stored, guided by his connection to it through Mordeth. He finds the plain iron lock on the door, his precious isn't even guarded by any magic. He picks it, finds the dagger, and is surprised by an Accepted such that he slashes at her in the darkness. She dies quickly, in agony.

Alviarin calls him a fool, thinking there would be no guard on the room, no watch kept. If she'd done as she was supposed to, he'd have found a dozen Warders and Aes Sedai each.

He realizes Alviarin could have raised the alarm herself, and that she must be Black Ajah, saying so aloud. She says that's a dangerous accusation, and Elaida won't hear of it either way.(6) She asks if he means to steal the dagger, saying the ruby's not worth that much and the blade is tainted. He says he could dispose of Elaida for her, but she says if she'd wanted to be the Amyrlin Seat, she would have done so.

Fain spouts all kinds of stuff that means he's been to Shayol Ghul, and Alviarin is impressed. She asks who he is, and why he's here, did one of the Chosen send him? He says his tasks are not for the likes of her to know. She says they'll see, but for now, she'll clean up his mess. She leaves him bound in Air until she's well away, though.

He decides there's no time to find the Horn of Valere just now, he's got followers to meet and work to do, to find al'Thor now that he's whole again with his dagger.(7)

=====

(1) Since we know this is Rahvin, it's all the more heartbreaking and heartening both to see her struggling against his Compulsion like this. She's so strong that she can overcome a Forsaken's weaves on her mind. (2) She's so close to it here. So close! She's gone full Freddie Mercury here, she wants to figure it out, and she wants to break free. (3) Here's a fun fact: we don't have a birth year for Thom, but he was already about twice Morgase's age when they were together, which was the better part of twenty years ago. Morgase is 42. Taringail was assassinated 15 years ago, and Thom's nephew was gentled 14 years ago. So, Morgase was about 27 when they were together, perfectly old enough to make her own choices even with a much older man, especially considering she had the social power as queen. But, even if she was exaggerating a little, that makes Thom at least 50 then, and at least 65 now. Puts poor Dena in a different context. (4) And of course, he couldn't tell her what happened with his nephew, the stigma attached to all aspects of it. She's a queen, and has greater concerns. (5) On the one hand, the lady definitely doth protest too much. On the other, if there's one thing that unites the fandom it's hate for Gawyn, if there are two things it's hate for Gawyn and Tallanvor. (6) Not a denial! So, when Nynaeve thought about the White Tower under Black Ajah control a couple of chapters ago… she wasn't exactly wrong. (7) Just… keep this in mind. Fain was last seen with Whitecloaks, and he's making plans.

[doctorstethoscope]

Fighting Crime || A. Hotchner & Reader

Back at it again with another one shot for @ssahotchswife ‘s soft Hotch Saturday! No smut this week sorry folks. 

Warnings: alcohol consumption, canon-typical mentions of kidnapping/violence, pregnancy, suggestive content

Word count: 1.7k

You finished your paperwork first, which wasn’t unusual. Gathering up your files, you trekked up the steps and knocked twice on the door to Aaron’s office before letting yourself in. 

“This is done,” you said, extending the folder towards him. “And luckily for you, I left out the logs of what exactly occurred in my hotel room between the hours of 12:38AM and--” 

“Trust me, my memory is plenty fresh on that.” He smirked up at you. 

“JJ and Penelope have called for a celebration of our heroism at the bar tonight,” you informed Aaron, who peeked over your shoulder at the clock hanging on his office wall. It was 4pm.  “We can have a couple drinks and still get Jack for dinner. It’ll be good to have some non-work related adult time.” You told him, 

“I think that if you refer to the log of what happened in your hotel room at 12:38AM, you’ll find my preferred non work related adult---”

“Aaron!” You cut him off with a laugh, and your smile seemed to relieve some of the tension in  his jaw.

“You go ahead,” he tells you. “I’ll see what I can do here. Either way, I’ll come pick you up and we can get Jack together.” 

“Okay boss,” you smiled, leaving his office to go check on Spencer, who usually finished around the same time as you. 

“I’m going to be a little while longer,” he sighs. “Why don’t you go to the bar and grab our booth?” He suggested, and you took his advice. 

It had been a long case, but a successful one-- the unsub confessed, and none of the hostages were hurt, so it was one worth celebrating for sure. You walked over to the team’s normal spot, enjoying the warmth of the DC sun on your face. Jimmy, the bartender, spots you as soon as you make your way into the bar. 

“Hey, princess!” He calls out to you with a smile.

“Hi Jimmy,” you greet him as you slide into a barstool 

“What are you doing here all by yourself?” He asks as he slides you your usual-- a vodka tonic with lime.

“I’m just getting a headstart. The rest of the team will be here soon, so I’m going to grab our booth before it gets crowded.” You explain to him.

“Okay doll, I’ll be by to check on you in a little bit.”

True to his word, Jimmy swung by with another vodka tonic about fifteen minutes later, and JJ walked in shortly afterwards. 

“Damn, you beat boy genius!” You congratulated her.

“I know, it has to be a new personal best,” she agrees with a laugh as Jimmy reappears, placing two shots on the table for you both. 

“Cheers to a successful case” you smiled, extending your shot glass in her direction. She bit her lip. 

“Oh, I’m not drinking tonight, actually,” she tells you.

“You’re pregnant!” You exclaimed, downing your shot. 

“How did you know?” She asked, laughing as she passes you her shot.

“Well, I didn’t, but it was a good guess.” 

“I’m not really ready to tell the whole team yet.” She tells you shyly, and you’re quick to reassure her. 

“Of course, Jayje. They won’t hear it from me.”

“Thank you. Now take that, because they’re coming and they need to think I drank it.” She says, gesturing to her shot. You downed it quickly before the rest of the team could make it to the table. 

“Ladies, ladies, you started without me?” Derek grinned as he slid into the booth next to JJ. 

You were pleasantly surprised to see Aaron slip in next to you. You took his hand and squeezed it in your own before kissing the back of it. “I thought for sure you’d be holed up in your office to avoid this,” you confessed. 

“Yeah, well, my girlfriend is a cute drunk,” he said, leaning in to press a kiss to your cheek and taking advantage of the proximity to whisper, “and I caught you drinking for two.”

You and Aaron were coming up on a year of dating, and had told the team a few months back. There was a novelty to being a couple in front of the people you loved most, somehow even more exciting than the sneaking around them, that hadn’t worn off yet. Aaron wrapped his arm around your shoulders and you put a hand on his thigh as Spencer and Emily went to get another round of drinks. 

“No one knows yet,” You whispered back to Aaron, but you knew he would keep JJ’s secret. He was good like that.

You attempt to keep up with the flow of conversation, but between the cocktails and the shots, you’re beginning to feel the effects of the alcohol, particularly on your empty stomach. Emily and Spencer return and pass you another vodka tonic, and you make a silent determination to nurse this one more slowly. You tilt your chin up towards Aaron, who is listening to Penelope tell Spencer about the new frozen yogurt place that opened up by her apartment.

“You okay?” He asked, lowly, so no one else would hear. 

“Yeah,” you smiled back up at him.

“You’re drunk.” He states, chuckling at you.

“Noooo,” you argued, drunkenly. Luckily, Derek saves you from yourself. 

“Hotchner, you can’t monopolize her just because she’s your girl now. We all remember who took care of her when she first got here.” He teases Aaron, and you laugh. It was true. Aaron had been hard on you at the beginning, but Morgan took you under his wing. He took good care of you. “Come on pretty thing, we’re dancing.” Derek extends his hand towards you, and you see Emily and Penelope waiting for you as well. 

You sat up, untangling yourself from Aaron before giving him a quick peck, grabbing your drink, and practically racing the three of them to the dance floor. It felt like college, in all the best ways. The job was so stressful, and you didn’t let yourself get away from it nearly enough. Throwing your arms up in the air with Emily, letting Morgan catch you when you stumbled, and laughing with Garcia as she brought you another shot of who-knows-what, it felt like the Friday night after you turned in a term paper. Total bliss, fuck the consequences. 

“Guys, we have a case. It’s urgent, and it’s bad.” JJ came to pull you all off of the dance floor. 

Well, so much for fuck the consequences. You put a hand on Morgan’s wrist, a silent sign for him to support you-- you weren’t even sure if you could make it back to the office without stumbling. He placed a hand on the small of your back and guided you out of the bar, where the team was waiting in the street. You reached for Aaron and linked your arm with his. Even with his support, you stumbled at the brisk pace and the uneven ground of the cobblestones downtown.

“You can’t work like this,” he said once you were back in the elevator at Quantico. He wasn’t judging you or being mean-- but as both your supervisor and your boyfriend, he was concerned. “Maybe Jess can swing by and take you home, you can read Jack his bedtime story and sleep some of this off--” He said, as you all stepped out of the elevator and back into the office.

“Noo, Aaron!” You whined. “I want to fight crime!” You protested, pouting. If there was any doubt that you were drunk before, it was gone now. You heard Emily stifle a laugh from somewhere behind you. 

“Hotch, you’re going to send her home just to have her take a nap to sober up and then meet us out there? That doesn’t make any sense,” Morgan argues, but there’s no bite behind it. 

“Yeah, plus you need me to help you fight crime,” You add helpfully as Aaron directed you to your desk and all but placed you in your chair. 

“It’s a four hour flight. She can sleep on the plane,” JJ suggests as she brings you a cup of coffee, which you sip on gratefully. 

You could tell, even in your drunken state, that Aaron was torn, and you felt bad. As your supervisor, he knew he should send you home. As your boyfriend, he would certainly feel better if you were nearby, not to mention the fact that leaving you here meant you’d have to fly commercial to Montana the next morning, not on the safety of the team’s jet. He took a deep breath before making a determination. 

“You are going to eat something now, when we brief, and then you are going to sleep on the plane. You will not go into the field or to the crime scene until I say so. You will go straight to the police precinct, talk to no one, and start on the geographic profile with Reid. Is that clear?” 

“Yes sir,” you squeaked out, and the team erupted in giggles.

“Good girl,” he whispered for only you to hear.

45 minutes later, you had all but inhaled the fast food that Reid had brought you, and you were following Aaron out to the jet. You were the first ones on, and Aaron led you over to the couch, foregoing his normal spot for one where you’d be more comfortable sleeping. He pulled your favorite throw blanket out of your go-bag and covered you up, your head in his lap and your legs splayed out over the other end of the couch, 

“I’m sorry,” you mumbled, and he pushed a stray piece of hair out of your face.

“You don’t have to be sorry,” he tells you. “You didn’t know we would be called on another case.” 

“I know. That didn’t make it any easier on you, though.” 

“You shouldn’t worry about me so much,” he’s quick to correct you. 

“Says the man who’s letting me sleep my drunkenness off on an FBI jet so that he doesn’t have to let me out of his sight,” you teased him.

“Well, you wanted to fight crime so badly. How could I say no?” He smiled down at you. 

“I love you.”

“I love you too, sweetheart. Get some sleep.”

[nowandajenn]

Can i ask for a fic wich chris and reader had a fight and broke up and chris really want to take her back but can't find her because she was mad and change her adress and number but he didn't give up and finally find her but also find out that she has their new born Triplet ?!

So I’m finally just now getting around to writing this, and I apologize for it taking so long to get done! I did decide to make it twins instead of triplets, because triplets is a fucking lot lol. I hope you still enjoy it!

Not proofread. All mistakes are my own. 

It had taken months to find you. After the break up, you had essentially become a ghost. You changed your phone number, you moved, and it seemed like nobody knew where you had gone, and the ones that did know sure as hell weren’t about to tell him how to find you. He had been a complete idiot; going to lunch with Jenny and spending time with her while he had a girl that he was slowly falling in love with waiting for him. They had such a strong history together though, and so many memories shared together, that he couldn’t seem to just walk away from it all. 

Of course, they had been snapped out at a restaurant together, talking and laughing, and it wasn’t long until the pictures hit the internet and your friends and family had been blowing up your phone, asking what the hell was going on. Your relationship with Chris was still fairly new, as you’d only been seeing each other for about eight months or so, and you were trying to enjoy just being with Chris and being happy while also worrying that you were a rebound for him after he and his ex had broken up a second time.

Chris had come home later that evening with flowers for you, only to find you going around the house packing up all of the stuff that you had kept there. He had recently been bringing up you moving in with him since you spent most of your time there anyway, but you felt like it was too soon, and you didn’t know if he was quite as ready for that step as he said he was. Now you were really glad that you had held off. 

The two of you had stood there and fought and argued, you telling him that you deserved more than to just be a rebound to try and help him get over the girl who he once claimed was “the love of his life” and you weren’t going to stick around if he was going to go behind your back and spend time with her and try and rekindle things for a third time. You told him that he was an idiot to think that the third time would be the charm when it hadn’t worked out the first two times they’d been together. He tried to explain that even though they had broken up, he still cared about her and just because they spent time together didn’t mean that they were getting back together. He told you that you absolutely were not a rebound, and he was falling in love with you, but you weren’t hearing it. You had picked up your duffel bag, and with a kiss to his cheek and hugging Dodger around the neck and stifling a small sob into his fur, you had walked out of his life. 

It didn’t take long to see what a huge idiot he had been, and how wrong he had been to see Jenny and not tell you about it or have any sort of conversation about it. He hated that you had been blindsided, and he hated that he made you feel like he was using you as a distraction or something to fill the void left after Jenny left. He tried to text you and call you, but all the texts were left on “delivered” and you would reject his calls, until one day he tried calling you and a stranger answered and told Chris that he had the wrong number. He finally psyched himself up enough to try and swing by your apartment to see if you would at least see him and let him try and apologize, but when he showed up, your apartment was empty and the landlord said that you had moved out and hadn’t left a forwarding address. He was heartbroken. He had tried talking to your friends, but they were unfailingly loyal to you, and wouldn’t tell him anything. 

It had taken just over seven months, and a lot of failed tries, but he finally had an address in his hand. It was in Chicago, where you had grown up, and he had booked the first flight that he could. He wasn’t sure if you would slam the door in his face or punch him or even open the door to him, but he had to try. If he didn’t, he knew he’d regret it. 

Chris takes a deep breath and knocks on the door, nerves suddenly overtaking him and making his stomach turn itself into knots. After a few seconds, he knocks again and hears a male voice yell “Coming!” His heart drops, immediately assuming that you had moved on from him and he lost his shot. 

The door swings open, and he’s surprised to see an older man, probably in his mid 50s, standing in the doorway. 

“Can I help you?” 

“Uh.....sorry, I think I have the wrong address. I was looking for y/n y/l/n. I’m Chris.” 

The man steps forward onto the porch, making Chris fall back a couple steps. 

“Oh, I know exactly who you are. You’re the one my daughter wouldn’t shut up about for a few months, and then never wanted to speak about again.”

Chris swallows hard, his mouth dry as the desert and feeling a little scared, because  your dad looks kind of mean and like he could lay him out if he wanted to. Your dad turns around and walks back into the house, slamming the door behind him. 

He exhales hard and turns around to walk back to his rental car. 

“That went about as well as I thought it would.” he mutters to himself. 

He’s halfway back to the car when he hears your front door open. He looks up and his breath catches when he sees you standing there, your arms crossed over your chest. You’re wearing a pair of jean shorts that show off your legs and a baggy Tshirt, your hair thrown up in a messy bun. You look like you’ve gained a little bit of weight since the last time he saw you, but it looks good on you. 

“Hey.” he breathes out. 

Your jaw clenches. “How did you find me?”

“Well, you didn’t make it easy. I had Josh track you down. It took a lot longer than I wanted it to. I would have been here about seven months ago if I had known where you were, but nobody would tell me.” 

You scoff. “Yet here you are. Because Chris Evans just doesn’t know when to give up.” 

He winces slightly, knowing that you’re not just referring to his search for you, but the whole thing with Jenny that caused your breakup. 

You both stand there in silence for a few minutes, unsure what to do next, when you breathe out a heavy sigh and wave your arm towards the house, gesturing for him to come in. 

“Come on. We have a lot to talk about.” you tell him.

Your dad shoots him a glare as you lead him into the house, and he swallows hard and follows you into the kitchen, taking your offer of a bottle of water and sitting at the table with you. He’s so focused on you that he doesn’t really take in his surroundings. If he did, what comes out of your mouth wouldn’t have almost shocked him into a heart attack. 

“I tried calling you a couple times over the past few months, but every time I did, I got your assistant, or a P.A. or someone else. I left a message with my number with someone, but I’m assuming that you never got it, or you just didn’t care.”

He shakes his head almost violently. “I never got it. I don’t know who you gave it to, but it never got back to me.” 

You lean back in your chair and take a deep breath. 

“About a month after we broke up, I found out I was pregnant.”

Chris is pretty sure his heart stops beating for a few seconds, and then he realizes that he’s holding his breath. He lets it out in a deep exhale and his heart starts hammering in his rib cage. 

“You.....we.......what?” he gasps.  

“The doctor said I was 7 or 8 weeks at the time. I......I was due to get another shot but I had been so busy that I forgot about it, and.....well. At first, I wasn’t sure I was even going to keep the baby, honestly. We had just broken up and I didn’t know if you even wanted kids right now, or with me, and it took me a while to come to terms with everything. I tried calling you once I decided that I was going to keep it. I knew you had a right to know, even though I was pissed at you and hurt.”

I look over and Chris is just staring at me, gaping like a fish. 

“So....you had a.....we have a.....” he takes a deep breath. “We have a baby?”

“Uh, well......I guess you must have some really strong sperm because we kind of.....have two.” 

Chris looks like he’s about to pass out, and I shove his bottle of water towards him and he drains the rest of it in one go. 

“Look, I don’t need anything from you. We’ll be okay. We’ve been staying here with my dad and he’s been helping out, and I’m getting help from the state. We never talked about having kids, and I know that this is just being dropped on you out of nowhere. If you want a paternity test, we can go today if you want. I’m not trying to trap you into anything or trick you. You have your own life and you’re.....well, you’re you. And I’m nobody. Nobody outside of your family and close friends even knew we were together.”

I know I’m rambling, but I’m nervous and I know I should just stop and let things sink in. We sit there in silence for a while, and I can tell that Chris’ brain is working to try and digest all of the new information and the fact that he’s a father twice over now. I need to do something to keep myself busy, because I can’t keep just sitting there in silence, so I go over to the sink and start washing dishes. 

Chris gets snapped out of his reverie when he hears a sharp cry ring out. He looks around wildly before realizing that it’s coming from a baby monitor on the kitchen counter. You drop the dish your holding in the soapy water and wipe your hands on a dish towel before turning and running upstairs. 

Chris isn’t even really sure he realizes that his feet are even moving before he finds himself upstairs in the doorway of the nursery. He stands there, feeling like his head is disconnected from the rest of his body, watching as you lean over the crib and lift out an impossibly tiny baby who can’t be more than a month old. 

“Shhh, it’s okay. You’re okay.” you whisper, holding the baby against your chest. You turn around and see Chris standing there in the doorway, still looking shocked out of his skin. 

“Come here.” you say softly, beckoning him over. 

He walks over to the crib slowly, his eyes on the infant in your arms and then on the one still sleeping. 

“This is Steven Lucas Evans” you say softly, kissing the baby you’re holding on the forehead, “and that is Christopher Michael Evans.” 

Tears immediately fill his eyes and he inhales deeply, his breath stuttering. 

“How old are they?” 

“Three weeks and two days.” you tell him. 

Chris can’t keep his eyes from drifting in between his two sons, and not wanting to be left out, his namesake wakes up and starts making soft little noises. 

“Go ahead. Pick him up.” you tell him softly. 

“Yeah?” he asks. 

You nod. 

Chris leans over the crib and gently lifts Christopher out, holding him gently against his chest. He’s soft and perfect and has that amazing baby smell that drives people nuts, and Chris feels like his heart is about to explode. He walks a few steps over to you and gazes down at his other son, taking note of both babies’ bright blue eyes. 

“How can you love someone so much you’ve just met?” he breathes. 

You give a small, watery laugh. “I ask myself that every day.” 

Watching Chris with his baby sons is everything you didn’t know you needed. You told yourself that even if Chris didn’t want to be involved, you would get through it and you would be fine. But seeing him sitting in the cushy armchair in the nursery with a baby in each arm is more than you could have hoped for. 

“Tell me about when they were born.” Chris pleads. 

“I went into labor on the 23rd of last month, but they weren’t born until about 6pm the next night. I was in labor for about 20 hours. The doctor wanted to go in and get them, but I knew they’d come on their own time. Christopher was born first, and then 15 minutes later, Stevie showed up. He was screaming before he was even fully out.” 

He squeezes his eyes shut. “I’m sorry I wasn’t there. I wish I could have seen it.” 

“You still can.” 

You pull up a few videos on your phone from different stages of your labor, and one of Christopher being born and then Steven coming along. Tears are running down Chris’ face as he watches, and he’s laughing and crying at the same time, completely overwhelmed with emotion. You flip through a ton of pictures on your phone of you through the pregnancy, and then of labor, and the first pictures of you and the babies. 

“Can you sent these to me? Just....everything you have?” he asks. 

“Yeah. Not a problem.” 

After making bottles and feeding one while Chris feeds the other, a double diaper change, and laying them back down in the crib, you both sit back down. 

“You didn’t get two cribs?” Chris asks. 

“No. I couldn’t really afford two, and when we were in the hospital, they would cry if they weren’t near each other, so the nurses just put them both in the same bassinet and they would calm down. So it all worked out.” I tell him. 

“Come back to Massachusetts with me.” he blurts out. 

He says it so suddenly and with such conviction that I’m speechless for a minute. 

“Chris.....” 

“No, just please.....I love you. I love you and I was an idiot and you had every right to leave me. But being without you has been hell, and I don’t want to be without you. And I can’t go back and not have you or them there with me. I want to be there for everything. I want to see everything. I won’t let you do everything on your own. You don’t have to struggle and get state aid. You can move in with me, or I can get you an apartment close by........just......please come home with me.” 

“Chris, slow down. Listen, you’re their father. You can have as much access to them as you want. I’m not going to take them away from you or keep you from seeing them. That’s the last thing I want. But moving back to Boston......I don’t even have a job right now. I’ve been doing freelance articles for the last few months to get by. And we have all this stuff....and there’s furniture and......” 

“You can write from anywhere. You’re so talented; you’ll find a job in no time. I promise. Until then, I can take care of you guys. That’s my job now. As for all the stuff, I can get a UHaul trailer and we can drive back. Or I’ll get a moving company to move it and we can fly back. It doesn’t matter. We can make this work.” 

I can see the desperation in his eyes and how badly he wants this, and it’s enough to break my heart, and I don’t have it in me to tell him no. 

I sigh heavily. “We have a lot to work out and talk about.....but I don’t want you to miss out on anything with the boys. So.......I guess we’re taking a road trip.....with two infants........halfway across the country.” 

Chris grabs me and hugs me to him tightly. 

“It’ll be our first family vacation. I can’t wait for Mom to meet them. She’s going to lose her mind over them. And you.....she’s missed you so much. You have no idea the verbal ass kicking I got from her after you left.”

You smile. “Glad to know that a grown man is still afraid of his mommy.” 

 The Usual Suspects: @averyrogers83 @wordywarriorwrites @imanuglywombat @joannaliceevans-fanficblog @hlkwrites @reminiscingrogers @mom—nicole @jtargaryen18 @alexakeyloveloki @kelbabyblue @sarahp879 @moonlessnight14 @mojean13 @mrskokitztelford @artisticrogers1972 @southerngracela @star-spangled-man-with-a-plan @mybesttobobcratchit @gracethegeek9902 @mdemontespan1667 @marvelfansworld @capslut2014 @dispatchvampire @jamielea81 @jamesbarnesappreciationsociety​ @nerdy-bookworm-1998​ @southerngracela​ @what-is-your-plan-today @letsdisneythings​ @theladybiers @lexeeehhh @sweater-daddiesdumbdork​ @autumnrose40 @donutloverxo​ @harrysthiccthighss​ @jessaywahh-blog​@smediumsmeatbae @before-we-get-started​ @lizette50 @littlegasps @rageshots @what-is-your-backupplan-today @clairebubbles @patzammit @sweet--catrastophe @pandaxnienke @redhairedfeistynerd @hails270105 @syms-things-5 @chezdricks @denisemarieangelina @christ0pher-evans @supersquirrel1996

[captainsimagines]

To Topple A Giant || Finale

Summary: You had made it your mission to destroy even the smallest evils. When the opportunity arises to finally take down your own family after years of gaining their trust, you reach for it. And so does Steve, the man who represents a symbol of everything you hate.

Pairing(s): Steve Rogers x Reader || Avengers x Reader

Part 10 of 10 ~ Mini-Series

Warnings in this Chapter: strong language; slight reference to past sexual abuse; fluff 

Word Count: 6,700+

Author’s Note: Guys... the finale! I’m crying actual tears lmao. Thank you for reading my words. It means the world.

~

The New Compound, July 2025, 7:09pm

      The extra hour of sunlight this time of year was the easiest excuse to use for lounging on the roof to watch the sun set slowly. The compound no longer touches the clouds, but it still provides a rich view of the landscape across. There is no blowing of horns or shouts of the road hecklers; it’s a simple hour of solace to rest your chin against your arms, eat your snacks, and watch the sky change colors until nothing remains but the possibility of counting the stars. 

“Hey… can I sit here?”

Your heart does a little jump at the sound of his voice. Traitor, you want to say to the pesky organ, but remain quiet as Steve wanders over to stand by you. He’s close enough that you can feel the warmth radiating from his body. 

“Do what you will, Captain.” It’s simple enough of a response, you figure. You look down at the granola bar in your hand, turning it over a few times before rolling your eyes at the silly gesture. “Granola bar?”

He nods, watching as you snap it in half, and grabs the piece. “Thanks.”

You eat in cooperative silence. You take small bites, saving the granola bar so you have something to focus on during the length of time Steve decides to stay up here. He seems to be doing the same. “So what brings you out here? Another depressive episode?”

“I happen to have the perfect amount of depressive episodes, thank you very much.”

You snort, “Ditto.”

He takes a small bite and rolls the granola over his tongue. “No, I uh… I actually came out here to watch the sunset.”

“That’s sweet.” You shrug and admit your reason to him without a second thought. “I came out here to be sad, so.”

“Thor’s visit isn’t doing you any good?”

Thor is genuinely looking better. He’s started braiding his hair again, exercising with the help of Quill and Bruce, and participating in conversation without being addressed first. Seeing him makes you happy, but there’s still a glint in his eyes that reminds you of the lowest point of his life. And his lowest point was also yours. Sometimes you just want to forget. “He looks better. Healthier, got some light back in his eyes. It’s just whenever we look at each other we think of the same thing, I guess.”

Steve hums low and his shoulder brushes yours. “Loki.”

“It’s good to reminisce and all but I’ve got my limits,” you say.

“What was the special connection between you and Loki anyway?”

You grin at such an innocent question. Steve had never been close to Loki, didn’t really like him much, but he tolerated the God wandering about. You figure he genuinely wants to know. “I met him a little bit before I was assaulted. Everyone in the compound had their suspicions but no one asked. It was like they were avoiding me but also trying to help, I don’t really know. It was a weird time. And Loki, after we caught that dragon thing and really, really properly met, just straight up asked me why I was so distant all of a sudden.” Your chest warms at the memory.  “I told him. And you know what the first thing he said to me was?”   

Steve shakes his head a little and his eyes follow the tilt of your mouth. “‘What a cunt’.”  

He startles himself into a laugh, the rough word not expected. You continue, “It was the first time I laughed in four months.”

Steve follows your gaze out to the sunset. He suddenly feels guilty, out of the loop, sad. You had only mentioned your assault to him once when you discovered Tony’s afterlife gifts, and he never brought it up again. “I’m sorry I didn’t notice you were-”

“Bucky had just moved into the tower and all of your attention was on him. I don’t blame you for not seeing me.”

It’s true, but Steve doesn’t forgive himself. He’s had two years to check up on you and because of his own selfish choice, he’s let you slip from his fingers. A question bubbles from the back of his mind — one that he doesn’t think twice about finally asking. If he does, he won’t ask.  “Do you miss… me?”

“That’s a stupid question.”

“Sam put the idea in my head and—”

You sigh, “Steve, it’s the fact that he had to put the idea in your head. I can lie and say I’ve been all fine and dandy, or I can tell the truth and say I’ve been all fine and dandy. Take your pick.”

Steve stares at you for a long moment, mouth parting around invisible words. You’re staring at the sunset, avoiding his gaze but aware of his eyes on you, and he misses you. He truly, terribly, misses you. He decides he’s got nothing more to lose — he’s already lost you. “Well, I miss you. Do with that what you will.”

The two of you sit in silence for a few minutes: wind in your ears, legs shifting when too much weight has been applied, tiny sniffs of the nose. You don’t really know what to do with that information. Steve misses you. And you miss him. But he doesn’t deserve to know that. There’s been no apology from him, just things he’ll do to appease Sam. 

At the three minute mark, you groan quietly and turn to him. “Are you seriously still going to watch the sunset up here?”

Steve smirks and watches you from his peripheral. He really has missed being on the receiving end of your various tones of voices. “I have been told that I’m impossible to get rid of, so yeah.”

His company isn’t all that bad.  

Present Day, 2025, 9:07am

      Perhaps there were good things that came from being locked up for over two weeks, alone. Last time you were locked up with the team and there was absolutely no special treatment after that. Now you’re resisting the urge to burst out laughing as Steve piles on the seventh massive pancake on your plate; or rolling your eyes as Sam keeps asking if you want more maple syrup — ‘What flavor? We’ve got six!’ — and Peter’s drowning Bucky with questions about who he encountered at the wedding. 

“Is it the same as Netflix Narcos?”

“No,” you say bluntly. 

“Is the Amazon series legit? Like, did Omar really kill the DEA agent?”

“No.”

“Is Omar as evil as they say?”

“No.”

“Damn,” Peter groans, piling a forkful of pancakes into his mouth. “Nothing’s as exciting as it seems, huh?”

Everyone looks to him, then to each other.

Steve clears his throat, “I was literally shot.”

Mouth full, you follow. “And I was abused for years.”

“And I had to deal with them while with HYDRA,” Bucky says with his mouth full too.

“Man, they shot at me. That counts,” Sam adds.

“And I finally got to use the shield. While being shot at,” Scott says.

You interject, “Technically I was being shot at.”

Even with such a cloud of violence, with gruesome memories — memories that would just be shoveled into the pile of things that no one is ever going to talk about again  — you all begin laughing. Poor Peter missed out on a lot, but he can put two and two together. He knows this is his only chance to ask before you all lock it away and call it just another mission. It doesn’t hurt to humor him. 

And even though you won’t mention it to any one else unless they ask — this wasn’t just another mission for you or Steve. Things have changed and the both of you know it. The aches within your chest are no longer negative or a bother, but instead are blooming flowers that have laid dormant for years. You’ve been plucking petals for as long as the two of you can remember, and it’s about damn time you both end up on the same page. 

Everything has been quiet. Sure, there are bounties on everyone’s head but when is there not? You’ve pissed off more cartel leaders and gang leaders and political enemies than you can count on two hands, so this enemy territory is not all that foreign. You recognize the high trees, the gray skies, the mud beneath your boots. But you’ve got friends on your team that know how to climb those trees; friends on your team that know how to move the clouds and make the sky the talk; friends on your team that would hump through mud and snow watching your six. 

You can’t believe you even thought about leaving after the mission in the first place. This is where you belong, where all of you belong, because you’re the only ones with good hearts who qualify for the job. 

As breakfast winds down, Steve takes the opportunity to sprinkle in moments of long-awaited public displays of affection. When you go to refill your orange juice, he sneaks a kiss on your cheek. When you go to wash your plate, he makes sure Peter is looking the other way before patting your ass. And when you’re the one to envelope his slim waist from behind, he melts in your combined warmth.  

“So, about our date,” Steve inquires, cheeks turning pink but voice unwavering. He looks brand new, refreshed, and there’s a shine in his eyes that you haven’t seen since forever. You can’t remember the last time you have, but you figure it must have been back when the world hadn’t yet swallowed him whole. Now, he’s burning bright with the youth his soul has missed. 

You jump up and down, “Ooo, exciting!”

Steve takes you by the waist, swinging you in every direction. It’s uncoordinated, messy, and not exactly dancing but it’s pure. “Chinese? Pizza? Just fries?”

“¿Por qué no los tres?” Pursing your lips, you wait for his answer. 

“That can be arranged.”

You gasp dramatically, “You’re spoiling me.”

“Well I have two years to make up for it.”

That startles a laugh from deep inside your chest. “That’s gonna be our inside joke now, huh? Two of the worst years of our lives and we’re joking about it.”

He blushes along with you. “I think that describes our relationship perfectly.”

“Our relationship…” Your voice comes out like a melodic whisper and Steve feels it in his bones.

He grins down at you but before he can respond, someone enters the common room rather cautiously. 

“Oh, now what the hell are you doing here?” Steve demands, pushing you to stand behind him. The gesture is nice, but completely unnecessary. Friday would have alerted the team if someone entered the grounds armed. 

Agent Kavert raises his hands, “Relax. I’m not here to arrest you or anything.”

Steve tries to move his shoulders in a way where Agent Kavert can’t see your head. But you maneuver around him, somehow ending up peeking your head through Steve’s underarm. “If I know the law, and I think I do, you can’t really arrest someone in their own house anyway, right?” You pat Steve repeatedly on his side. “Right?”

Before Steve can respond, Agent Kavert speaks. With Steve guarding you, it seems the only thing Agent Kavert wants to do is get in and get out as fast as he can. “I just came to apologize. Ballistics came back and the evidence does show that you didn’t kill Ernesto Vega. It was Ramirez’s issued gun.”

Yeah, you think. The gun Seda stole.

“Oh, what a breath of relief! I almost forgot I was there.”

He sighs and his lips pull into a small smile. “You’re not gonna tell me where Ramirez is, huh?”

Steve takes this as his cue to leave you two alone, but not before squeezing your hand on his way out. He nods over to Peter, who’s still crouching in the kitchen, unseen by Kavert. Peter gives him an enthusiastic thumbs up,  happy to spy for his Captain. But you know he’s really asking Peter to take care of you while he’s gone.  

You let out a heavy sigh. Omar has been wanted for years for another murder he didn’t even commit. And now, he’s wanted for another. He may be a giant with morals, but even he can’t escape the gruesome reality that plagues the wicked. 

“I don’t even know where he is. If you came looking for answers—”

“No, I just… Everything’s been so fucked up since half the universe came back. And the possibility of an Avenger being bad, having played us for years — I think it just scared a lot of people.” Agent Kavert actually looks sincere. He adjusts his footing and chuckles a little under his breath. There’s a fine line creasing his forehead, but it isn’t formed from stress. He’s smiling, an honest look, and his eyebrows pull inward. “And Shakespeare? Really?”

Rolling your eyes, you shrug and lean back against the counter. “When half the world disappears and takes your family and friends with it, there’s really not much else to do.” 

And besides, Loki was really into Shakespeare.

You continue, deciding at the last second to throw Agent Kavert a bone about your past. “Shield didn’t know but Nick Fury did. So did Pierce. And when Shield fell, Fury just hid it even more.” You give him a half smile. “We weren’t helping the cartel. We were slowly taking it apart.”

Agent Kavert nods, thinking it over. “The deal Jackeline made with us was pretty simple. She’d tell us all the inside secrets that she knew and in exchange, no charges against her and none so serious for you.”

Your shoulders slump and you shoot him a blank stare. “Was it really that simple? Like, I could have just used her as my one free call?”

“Joke all you want. You should have called us when Shield fell. The double agent thing was risky and everyone needs help taking down a giant like that.”

“I did have help. Involving more people was never planned.”

“He was just as much our mission as he was yours.”

Agent Kavert, as sorry as he looks, still doesn’t seem to get it. But that’s fine, you think. Not everyone can. And you’re not in the mood to argue anymore. “No… he wasn’t.”

He seems to read your mind because he simply accepts your answer. “I really am sorry for accusing you. And for the government arresting you alone and letting the white man go free.”

A tiny snort tickles your nostrils. Agent Kavert is white, and it’s even more amusing considering he’s being serious. “Thanks… I guess.”

He turns to leave, seemingly normal, until he spins on his heel and claps his hands. “Oh! And by the way — don’t leave the country. The charges of conspiracy and murder have all been dropped. But there’s evidence of drug smuggling. So, you’re on house arrest.”

Your eyes widen and you reply with a sarcastic yell. “Thanks!” He turns to leave again. “You’re fucking with me, right?”

He glances over his shoulder, “Could not have let you just get away with it. Some of that smuggling was under no order from Shield at all.”

“You know I can easily disable that ugly ass ankle bracelet you’re about to give me?”

He chuckles low, and finally waves goodbye. “Goodbye, Agent Y/LN.”

You stand dumbfounded, slightly annoyed, but you figure it’s better than actual jail time. Peter rises from his hiding spot and walks over to you, blowing air from his mouth. “Friend of yours?”

You whip around to point a finger, scream and laugh mixing into one. “No friend!”

Peter finally hears that accent Steve can’t stop talking about.

       It’s a tiny portrait, sealed in a tiny frame and hidden in a tiny room. The frame is black with professional wooden carvings that make the sides look like perfectly detailed tree trunks. It’s in between the portrait of Tony and Natasha’s bracelet. Tony wears the same AC/DC shirt Steve has somehow stolen and claimed as his own. He’s got this sarcastic grin, some type of wrench in one hand while his other rests on his hip. He stands in his lab, glasses pushed up onto his head and black soot smudged on his cheek. You think Peter snapped the photo back in 2017. 

But the middle portrait is your favorite. It’s the only photo he ever allowed to be taken of him. Brushing your index finger against the glass, you trace the small outlines of Loki’s jawline, to his thin pink lips, to the bulb of his nose, to the waves of his hair. He sits caught off guard, book in his hand and in regular human clothing. He shoots a rather annoyed but joyful look over his shoulder as the camera was shoved in his face. You know for sure Wanda took that photo.

“You’re not dead,” you say as you study the blue of his frozen eyes. A God doesn’t die, you remember him saying. Loki was wrong about a lot of things, but you pray he wasn’t wrong about this. There’s a small part of you that wants to speak the same words to Tony and Natasha, but there’s only so many times the world’s axis can shift for a miracle. You tap the glass, sighing a breath of acceptance, and finally let go. “Whenever you’re ready.”

Smiling up at the ceiling, you think you’re right about this one.

      It’s quiet. The only sounds are the mild ripping of wrapping paper and small ‘thank you’s’ from the team. Everyone got each other something — granted, everyone got something small for everyone. No matter how much Tony joked about still splurging on Christmas shopping, his promises weren’t exactly kept. He’s gotten everyone things they actually need or wanted. Steve, a new drawing pad; Natasha, a bright pink knit sweater; Rhodey, a new watch; Bruce, a pair of sunglasses; Nebula, a dark blue knitted sweater that she immediately presses against her cheek, eyes focused on the ground as she savors the soft brush; you, the full collection of Shakespeare's plays and sonnets. And he finally presents the baby’s crib to Pepper, constructed three weeks after she originally asked him to. 

“I know how much you like to reenact A Midsummer Night’s Dream in your room,” Tony grins at you. Biting your bottom lip, you throw yourself at him and hug him tight. He returns the hug with just as much strength, if not more. 

As the night goes on and midnight rings, your small group exchanges tight-lipped merry Christmas’s and happy holidays. Natasha retires to her room, a distant look in her eyes as she says goodnight. No one knows where Clint is.

Steve nudges your elbow with his once the room empties. He holds out a box with festive wrapping — snowmen with carrots for noses and a variety of pebbled smiles. “From me and Okoye.”

“You got me a gift?”

Steve’s brow furrows as he nods like it’s obvious. “Of course. You’re my friend.”

“Well, now I feel inadequate,” you laugh. It comes out wet and it’s then that you realize you’re tearing up. “I promise to reenact Midsummer for you, okay?”

Steve chuckles, “You got it.”

You unwrap it slowly, half wondering why Steve and Okoye teamed up to get you a present. You. Your stomach churns an innocent whirl. 

It’s a long sleeved vest… or sweater. You can’t really tell until you pull it from the box. It’s intricately designed and it takes a moment for you to finally see it, to finally understand, and the moment you do you exhale a wracked breath. 

It’s not Wakandan fashion. It’s threaded with the colors and swirls of a place you haven’t called home in years. It has red flowers down the vest portion and multicolored rows down the sleeves and back. It’s made from a thick fabric that’s rarely used this century. Vintage — home.

“Steve…”

Steve clears his throat, “Now, I only did the flower parts. Okoye found it unfinished in… um…”

And there, where tags from brands would usually be, is a small threaded engraving. 

‘From Bucky, To our muñeca.’

“He didn’t get to finish it so I thought I would — you know, help? — so it’s really from Buck. Probably an apology for not letting you visit him in Wakanda.”

Steve tries to push out a laugh at his poor joke, but you can see how he’s faltering. You reach up and wrap your arms around his neck, dragging him down so his knees bend, and pour as much nonverbal thank you’s into the hug. He hesitates at first, arms floating awkwardly, until he swallows his fear and wraps his arms around your waist. He holds you to him tightly and breathes in the sweet scent of your vanilla shampoo. 

“Thank you.” Your voice is small, but Steve regards the delivery as powerful.

You wear it once, that Christmas night, enveloped in its warmth as you slept. In the morning, you hang it in the back of your closet. 

        A knock on your bedroom door sounds through your headphones. Bucky peeks his head in, “Is now a bad time?”

Sitting up, you pull the headphones from your ears. “Nope. Just thinking about how I’ve lived several years in the span of one week.”

Bucky lugs in a sports bag in one hand and a manila file in the other. He places them at the edge of your bed and proceeds to bounce in the available space near you. “Yeah, that can be annoying.”

You attempt to shove him away as he tries to steal your blanket. “Did you need anything?”

“Yeah.” He lets you take it, and simply turns on his side to face you. “What’s gonna happen between you and Steve?”

It’s an innocent question, but you know Bucky well enough to notice when he’s stressed. Steve probably told him to mind his business. “We’re good.”

He inspects your face with squinted eyes, “I know what you’re thinking so cut that shit out. This isn’t one of those missions where the feelings will just go away.”

“Funny thing is, I believe you,” you admit, watching as his face does something unexpected. His smile drops suddenly, like he didn’t expect you to agree with him, and then it’s immediately back full force. 

“Peggy and Steve - right person, wrong time. You and Loki - right person, wrong time. You and Steve, all those years ago — right person, wrong time.” A weird thing happens: you agree with him again. “But now, after everything — right person, right time.”

“It’s just weird feeling like it’ll actually work.”

“That makes us seem like we’re all broken, doll. We’re not.”

You turn so you’re facing him; two mismatched parentheses. “We’re just tired.”

“We’re just tired,” Bucky agrees, smiling. “I’m not saying don’t look over your shoulder whenever you feel like it. Hell, I still look over mine.”

Snorting, you roll closer to hug him. He pulls you into his chest. “You give amazing pep talks.”

“Yeah, I don’t know why they gave that trophy to Steve.” Bucky shares the intimate moment for as long as it takes before the blanket starts overheating. He groans as he sits up to retrieve the things he brought with him.  “By the way, our mutual friend sends one last warm regards.”

Bucky throws the sports bag onto your lap. “What’s this?”

“Your shit.”

You don’t even want to ask him how he packed your things without your knowledge. “Kicking me out, Barnes?”

“Clothes, toothbrush, shampoo and conditioner, pads, the quilt I just finished knitting thank you very much,” Bucky lists and hands you the file. “Maribel found him.”

“Ramirez?”

“Your dad.” 

You snap your head up to look at him. Bucky expects to see anger, hurt, maybe even betrayal. He was prepared for it. But you just look confused, lost for words, maybe even scared. “Goes by Richard these days. Lives with his wife in Wisconsin, no kids, keeps to himself.” 

You flip through the files, holding your breath. The file is small, Richard’s information only covering the first page, the rest just drabble. He seems relatively normal, looks normal even; normal job, normal credit score, normal upbringing. It doesn’t even seem real. You close the file and set it aside. “So you are sending me away?”

Bucky smirks, “It’s a suggestion. But I took the liberty of doing the hard part for you.”

“Yeah, because packing my lady products is the climax of this story.”

It didn’t go unnoticed that Bucky called Richard your ‘dad’. Everyone either referred to Ernesto as ‘your father’ or by his name. Steve had said ‘dad’ a few times before he met him, then he never said it again. Hell, even you did sometimes. 

It’s a sweet distinction and you’re certain Bucky said it on purpose. Bucky takes your hands in his, “It’s been a long time coming. But at least we can both say that the people who hurt us can’t hurt us any longer.” 

You can. You really can.

       Bucky’s already packed Steve’s shit as well. Steve’s just shoving extra socks into his bag when someone knocks on the door. He expects Bucky or Sam, final words of encouragement, but it’s Scott. And he’s standing there grinning like a mad man. 

“So, what’s the verdict, Rogers? You going after her or not?”

Steve huffs a laugh, “Think you already know the answer to that, Lang.”

Scott closes the door behind him and leans back against it. He shoves his hands in his sweater pockets, “Not that it should matter, shut me up if I cross any line, but everyone supports this.”

“Weirdly, I think it does matter. We’ve had you guys picking sides for two years. Selfishly. Like we were having a fucking civil war after everything.”

“Yeah, well.” 

Steve huffs a laugh. It’s always going to surprise him just how comfortable Scott is around him now. Not afraid to tease him or call him out on something he doesn’t agree with. It’s refreshing.

“I’m not giving up on her, Scott. Not again.”

Scott nods. Perhaps breaking the mission ethic code wasn’t a bad thing after all, Scott thinks. He gives Steve a proud smile, genuine. “Then I hereby declare our hanging conversation officially closed.”

        Steve wanders from his bedroom, to the conference room, to the main living room without an end destination in mind, seeming to just follow his quick feet as they lead him around the halls of the compound. He’s proud of himself, really, because he truly believes he’s learned to swallow his pride, has opened himself up to the possibility of being happy, and accepted that the world has changed and will continue to alter whether he likes it or not. He was, is, and will always be a man out of time — he’ll never fit but goddamn does he feel settled. He hasn’t felt this sane since before the war — which one? — so he relishes in the feeling for a few calm seconds. 

He feels tears well-up on his water line and feels the pressure in his temples. He’s at a crossroads — both proud of himself for finally choosing the path he wants and relieved that this week, this mission he has dreaded for almost ten years, is over. He doesn’t know if he should sleep for a month or occupy his time with other things awaiting repair. A build up of five years, grief and loss and happiness all weirdly mixed into one pot, and Steve simply hasn’t noticed the improper portions of each ingredient. 

It’s too much.

He thinks about his mental health. Shot to Hell, he jokes with himself. He’s already got the virtual therapy appointments scheduled. He figures he’ll get better with time and if Steve knows one thing for sure, it’s that he’s got a whole lot of that.

He thinks about Sam and Bucky and Scott — his three best friends that have gone to the ends of the Earth and back for him, and who would proudly do it all over again. He thinks about their kind words, their gentle touch, their devotion that Steve still sometimes feels he doesn’t deserve. 

And he thinks about you. To anyone else, this was written in the damn stars. No, there wasn’t anything extremely obvious in the first few years. You were friends. Friends that grew to consider each other teammates. Teammates that drew a drop of blood while fighting on opposite sides. Teammates that recognized the true endgame, teammates that helped each other escape, teammates that went silent for two years. Two years of no contact, no signal of survival. Then again, teammates who stood by as their world crumbled around them. Teammates who grew to be friends again, leaning on free shoulders and seeking help through happy conversations and long nights. Friends that brought the world together again, only to rip each other from their own. Friends into the most bizarre of enemies. And enemies back to teammates. 

Steve wipes a hand down his face as he fixes the strap over his shoulder. The common room is empty — he likes it this way. That means everyone is either napping, getting food, visiting friends or family, simply living life. The silence is therapeutic. 

His eyes fall on a crooked picture frame near the television. He tries to ignore it, almost to the door and ready for another road trip, but he steps back. Then forward, then back again. He groans in frustration of himself and moves to turn the frame back in place, holding it for a few seconds until it stays. But as he lets go, it tilts once more. He tries again — it tilts back. 

He pulls the frame from the hook and turns it over. He rightly freezes, the presence of a small pink paper airplane taped near the edge knocking the wind from his constricting lungs. He pulls it off, careful to not tear the delicate post-it. 

He never found it. Natasha probably placed it behind this very picture frame in the other compound for him to find. Surely the explosion should have destroyed it — but it didn’t. It’s right here, perfectly intact, just a smudge of dirt on one of its wings. The frame hadn’t been damaged either. It’s real. 

He holds the thin piece of paper like it’s the most precious thing in the world. 

Steve turns it over between his fingers a few more times, before he carefully folds it back in half and puts it in his wallet. “You’ve got some nerve, Nat. But I hear ya.”

       Steve decides to write you back. He hides the letter in that sweater he knows you don’t wear anymore, in the far back of your closet, and marvels at the intricate stitching while he can. He poured his heart out, even if it’s not guaranteed you’ll ever see it. 

     ‘Yes, I found your letter. I found it when I was looking for perfume in your suitcase. The tape was loose and I violated your privacy. I’m truly sorry for that. 

But I felt compelled to write you back, in case the reverse happened and I died instead of you. I didn’t write it then, when you were drying your hair in front of that impossibly small mirror you so weirdly called ‘a stupid little bitch’. And you looked so beautiful. But I’m writing it now and maybe I’ll share it with you in person when we’re both ready.      

When the world turned to dust, I held on to you. I know exactly why. Natasha bugged me about it also, teasing me whenever I would glance at you too long, or give you the last remaining Oreos I was planning on eating, or whenever I would leave your room in the mornings after a nightmare. She knew nothing was happening between us, but she had this smile whenever she caught me. Like she was happy I was comforting you, and in turn seeking comfort for myself. 

You remember how her smile would tilt up more on the left side? 

There isn’t a proper way to truly apologize for hurting you. But I will spend the rest of my life trying to make up for it. You at least deserve that. 

I returned a different man. And I think that was for the better.

Yes, I wanted the quiet life. I still think I do. And I think you know this — you have always seen right through me.      

I now know what Natasha saw. You irritate me, you damn near make me want to choke myself out, but I care for you. We hold each other up, and I’m always rooting for you, and I’m always by your side. No matter how annoying and smart-mouthed you may be.      

You’re my best friend — I hope I’m one of yours.

Steve.’

       There’s no one currently in the compound who really knows how to change the battery in your car. Bucky tries, does a rather good job too, but he claims he’s winging it and that you should call a mechanic just in case. He leaves you there with two random batteries on the ground, hood of your car open, and without any idea of what to do next. So you chill and wait for the mechanic you hope isn’t going to jack up the price just because he knows who you are. 

But he doesn’t seem fazed by you at all — or at the fact he just had to drive through countless checkpoints and security checks just to get on Avengers property. He changes the battery and changes the oil, hooking you up with as many upgrades he can. He even offers to wash it until you thank him repeatedly and that Really, really, you don’t have to do that. Thank you so much!

“Quite a garage you got here.”

There are unfinished projects and random wires falling from the ceiling and enough tools to supply five garages. It’s messy, but it was Tony’s. You accept the compliment and see him out. 

“Eh, make sure those windshield wipers work. I hear it’s gonna rain tomorrow.”

You thank him again. The clouds to the west are gray, getting darker as the expanse stretches, but from where you’re standing everything’s blue. You figure the mechanic was right: it’s gonna rain, and it’s gonna rain hard. 

The mechanic did good, all things considered. You never thought your old, beat-up Honda could look a few years younger. You flick one of the wipers lightly, testing its strength. It holds, as does the other, but when you go to lift it up it stops halfway. Without wanting to break it, you don’t force it. There’s something blocking the switch. 

You grab it before it can accidentally fall into a deep slot; the figurehead of a man, curly hair and beard that matches Steve’s, who also has a prominent and strong nose. You turn the coin over a few times before looking around the garage, down the street, at the remote area where the mechanic has just left. Standing there, mouth agape, you wonder just how in the world you missed the mechanic placing it there.

You were lacking in the spy department nowadays. Oops.

You know you’re not going to find Ramirez. But him giving this back to you? It was his way of saying he’s alright and that he owes you many thanks. 

You pocket the coin and accept the fact you just got bested.

It should take a few hours before you hit the first motel. Wisconsin isn’t that far, but you do have to pass through about hundred “middle of nowhere’s”. You pull out of the garage and check your mirrors — completely unaware of the super soldier running full speed to the passenger door. Steve carefully throws it open, somewhat aware of his strength, and lands into the seat beside you.

You hit the brakes hard. “Oh my! Rogers!”

Steve sucks in a few heavy breaths, like he literally ran across the compound to make it. “What? I startle you?”

“What are you doing here?”

“What are you doing? Aren’t you on house arrest?”

You squint at him, “Touche.” Putting the car in park, you turn your whole body to face him. “Answer my question.”

“Thought you were just gonna leave without saying goodbye?” Steve asks, expression much more teasing than serious.

“I’ll be gone for three days tops,” you say, waving your hand in the air. Steve smiles at you, seemingly waiting for you to speak again. You roll your eyes, “You’re coming with me, aren’t you?”

Steve lifts up the small duffel bag you hadn’t seen when he first got into the car. He throws it into the backseat and smiles lovingly at you. “I’ve been told that I’m impossible to get rid of, so yeah.”

“Rhodey said that the ankle bracelet they gave me wasn’t a trusted model. Easy to break off, like they did it on purpose.” You lean toward him, holding your chin up with the palm of your hand. “Should be able to drive free for a few weeks before they suspect anything.”

“Already booked us a cabin for Thanksgiving.”

“What makes you think that I even want you to accompany me on this road trip? Did you like the first one?”

Steve clears his throat and mimes like he’s writing on paper. The next words out of his mouth make your legs turn cold. “No matter how annoying and smart-mouthed you may be, there’s nowhere in the world I’d rather be than here, there, and everywhere with you.”

You blink multiple times, as if that would fix your ears. “...You. Fucking. Didn’t.” Steve reaches over to try and hug you. “No, don’t.” He squeezes harder, smooshing your face in his chest. “Steeeeve!”

“It fell out of your suitcase during the mission and I just… looked,” Steve reasons. He allows you to escape his grip.

“You just looked?”

Steve sighs. He really does look guilty. He pushes a strand of your hair behind your ear, letting his fingers tickle your skin. “I’m sorry I read it. I’ll get out of this car for real if you want me to.”

You arch an eyebrow, “You’re a little shit, but I’m not mad. No one understands privacy these days.”

Steve smiles wide enough for his dimples to pop and his eyes to crinkle. “I’d follow you anywhere, doll.”

“Anywhere?”

“Just name it.”

Humming low, you lean forward. He follows your direction like you’re a lighthouse beaming with light, capturing your lips with his in a sweet kiss. He hooks a large hand behind your head to press you to him harder. You smell like that vanilla scented shampoo he loves so much and feels his heart constrict with a pleasant pulse. 

You pull back for air and smile against Steve’s soft lips. 

“Well, I’m headed for the middle of buttfuck Wisconsin—”

“Just drive!”

Bursts of laughter fill the car until you’re past the checkpoints and well onto the long roads. The clouds continue to turn darker but they’re inviting, alluring, and it’s not insane that both of you desire thunderstorms because they remind you of family. 

Steve watches you from the passenger seat, memorizing the contours and edges of your profile. The roots in his heart begin spreading again; the meat of his heart filling with a soothing promise that his time on earth is no longer rootless. He’s dug his feet in, he’s watered all he’s needed to water, and he feels it spreading within him like newly blossomed flowers in the spring. He has a sudden urge to take out his drawing pad to immortalize the way your mouth tilts higher up on the right side when you smile, to record it forever. 

But he’ll remember it. He’ll remember well into this timeline, several years down the road, and even when he’s resting in his grave. So he leans his head back against the seat and chooses to watch the curves of every expression you grace him with. He immortalizes the sound of your voice, the taps of your fingers against the steering wheel, and the accented way you say his name. 

There’s a long drive ahead, but he’s excited for it. He’s excited for you. Steve promises himself that he’ll ask you a million questions, and give you a million answers, and share a million more stories. 

Right now, he just needs to sleep.

~

THE END.

Taglist: @dumb-ass-3 @justab-eautifulmess @supraveng @mycosmicparadise​ @missnighttigress​

[luninosity]

Time for @whumptober2020 prompt 8!

The theme today is “Where’d everybody go?” - specific prompts: abandoned/isolation.

Content/warnings: Bucky trapped alone underground, starting to be afraid no one’ll rescue him this time; eventually Steve does, of course, though Bucky’s kind of shaken...minor warnings for some minor injury (broken legs), not too gruesome.

#

They’re in France, picking their way carefully through enemy territory, when Bucky triggers the trap.

 He’s on his own, covering Steve with his rifle as those ridiculous red-white-and-blue shoulders pick their way through an abandoned Hydra base. They’d been meant to raid the place; someone must’ve known they were coming. The self-destruct’s recent, only a couple of hours old, but impressively fireball-laced.

 Steve had wanted to search anyway, to look for anything useful to bring back, any scraps of information, any references to prisoners being held. Bucky had said nothing to that last one, though Steve’s eyes’d cut over to him; he’d only nodded.

 Hell, all the Howlies’ve been prisoners. Bucky’s no different. Not special.

 He’s here at this vantage point up on the low rise because he doesn’t trust Hydra not to’ve left a few foot soldiers behind, knowing Captain America’s on the way; someone needs to keep an eye out for threats Steve doesn’t see. Bucky’s watching the whole scene, the rubble, the dwindling flames. Might be some suspicious sparks. An evil gleam of metal coming out of the trees.

 Dum Dum says something to Morita, holding up a piece of lab equipment; they confer. Steve moves, steps behind a broken building, ducks out of sight.

 Bucky mutters a curse or two under his breath. Pushes himself up. Starts to adjust his position.

 He hears a sound. Almost a sound. A click or a catch—

 Steve, is his first thought; but it’s not Steve in danger, no, it’s the hillside vanishing under Bucky’s own feet, dropping away and dropping him—a goddamn Hydra booby trap, and he walked into it, he heard it but not fast enough, even as he dives for the too-far side of the crumbling hill—

 He falls. Fast, and hard, and far.

 He lands wrong and badly, and a series of sickening snaps burst through his body, his head. And the world goes black.

 He wakes up, gradually, agonizingly.

 He’s cold. And in pain. Those’re the first two realizations.

 He’s cold and in pain and alone in the dark—hurting and trapped and taken away from Steve and his men because of Hydra, all over again—and he can’t breathe, can’t make himself inhale, lungs not working, throat making small frantic airless sounds, heart slamming into his ribs—

 No, he shouts at himself. No. You’re Sergeant James Barnes, you’re in love with Steve Rogers, you’ve got a squad of good men and Captain America himself. You’ll get out of this. It’s not the same. Not like before.

 Memory whispers across his closed eyelids: his voice, raggedly mumbling, and a sharp needle sliding under his skin.

 He forces himself to breathe by thinking of Steve. Of himself, back home in Brooklyn, kneeling on the floor at Steve’s bedside on a vicious winter night. Counting Steve’s breaths: in and out, in and out.

 He does it for himself now. In. And out.

 He opens his eyes. Tries to look around.

 Everything’s dark and dim, nearly black. Bucky in fact has a vague sense that it should be all black, that he shouldn’t be able to make out the distant edges of mechanisms or tree roots. He thinks he might be able to see in the dark a little better than he used to.

 He chalks that up next to maybe a broken toe shouldn’t heal that fast and I haven’t gotten even a cold, not even when the rest of the Howlies caught that bug and were puking up their guts, ever since that room and that table on the list of things he hasn’t told Stevie and probably should. Sometime. No rush. Wouldn’t want Steve to worry.

 His rifle’s come down with him, which is good. The hillside appears to’ve sealed itself over above him, which is bad. He guesses Hydra doesn’t care too much about captured intruders running out of air. The idea’s most likely that—if the base was still operational—they’d come pick him up for interrogation or else simply let him die.

 He shouts, “Steve!” He doesn’t expect the sound to carry far, and it doesn’t. He’s pretty far down, twenty feet at least, and that’s an ominous metal plate up above.

 He’s avoided looking at his legs, so far.

 He catches his breath as pain washes over him. Steve knows his approximate location. Someone’ll come. Someone’ll notice the trap and release the catch and find him. Steve will find him.

 He lies very still, staring up at the blackness above, waiting. The pain comes in waves, building, cresting, ebbing.

 No one’s coming, not yet. He feels something sticky on the side of his face; he touches his temple. Blood, he thinks: a smoky smudge over his fingers in the dark.

 When Steve comes for him, he’ll need to be in shape to be rescued. It’s that thought that makes him struggle to sit up. To confront the ruin of his legs, snapped white bone and mangled flesh. The left one’s worse than the right; he’d landed harder on that one.

 He’s feeling dizzy. He closes his eyes again. Maybe some sort of splint, something—his jacket, his belt—

 It won’t be enough. It won’t be enough, because his legs are—and he’s bleeding so much—and when Steve finds him, he won’t be able to get up, he’ll be a liability—

 Bucky, alone in the dark, can’t quite force back the sob. Fingers pressed into dirt. Digging in, futilely.

 When Steve finds him—

 If. If Steve finds him. The possibility swims up out of the shadows along with  silent mocking laughter. It inquires, all friendly malice: you think he’ll guess what happened? He can’t hear you. No one can hear you.

 “Shut up,” Bucky snaps, aloud.

 Do you think, asks the dark, that you deserve a second miracle? That you have any right to be saved again? After you’ve already needed it once, sad little useless toy soldier that you are? Pathetic.

 It has Zola’s voice. Bucky bites his lip hard enough to taste blood there too, copper and iron as opened-up earth.

 The pit murmurs silkily: you think Steve will be happy to rescue you another time? Over and over? When he has better things to do, he’s meant for more, he’s Steve Rogers and you’re Bucky Barnes?

 “No.”

 It says: You know you keep dragging him down, holding him back. You know he resents you for it. How could he not, when you’re so needy, so helpless, so desperate to stay with him?

 “He doesn’t,” Bucky whispers. “Steve’s not—Steve’s not like that. Steve’s…”

 Gas, he wonders. Some hallucinogen. Some trick. Noises in the pit. Blood loss. This isn’t real. It isn’t true. Steve cares about him.

 Steve does care about him. Steve loves him, though they rarely say it—twice that Bucky can recall, never when anyone else can hear, always careful—they say it in touches, glances, Steve’s brush of fingertips over the back of Bucky’s neck or a sketch of Bucky napping in lazy summer sunshine on their old sagging sofa…

 The two times they’ve said the words, Bucky said it first. Once the night before he shipped out, the two of them entwined in bed, both of them thinking about the cold grey light of dawn. Once the first time Steve slipped into his tent after saving him the last time, and Bucky’d felt so shaken and raw and unlike himself, and he’d just needed to say it, to cling to Steve and say it as Steve held him and made him feel good and reminded him how to feel good…

 Steve had whispered it back, into his hair, holding him.

 Steve’s never said it first. Only when Bucky needs it—when Bucky needs him, needs saving…

 What if Steve doesn’t come for him now?

 Steve will want to, he believes—Steve doesn’t abandon people. Against the law of that big golden leonine heart. But that doesn’t mean Steve will come.

 Steve might not find him. Might give up. Might have to make a tactical decision, if there’re other booby traps around. Might not keep trying.

 Steve might finally, this time, at last and inevitably, consider this an acceptable if painful loss, and move on.

 Bucky’s fingers are cold. He’s cold all over. He doesn’t know how long he’s been down here, in the dark.

 He whispers, “Steve?” And then he whispers the names of his squad, he shouts their names, all of them, one by one: but no one answers. Nothing changes.

 His legs still hurt but something’s starting to feel different. He doesn’t look.

 He tries to think. To plan. If no one’s coming, what can he do? He’s got a rifle and his coat and spare ammunition and some field rations in a pouch, enough for a day, or four if he stretches them out. He knows that the pit’s mostly dirt with some metal gears and slabs, covering the roof and part of the sides, making them too slick to scale.

 It’s not an insurmountable problem, surely. He’s good at angles and aim and calculations. He can figure this out. He can get back to Steve, and go right on watching Steve’s back, and nothing has to change.

 He eyes the walls. Is digging possible? Under or around the metal?

 Hydra would’ve thought of that. Anyway, moving’s tricky.

 Shooting something, a gear or lever? Maybe. Might bring the whole place down, though.

 He pictures being covered by an avalanche of metal and dirt, being buried by it and smothered slowly by it; and then he has to stop thinking about it and make himself breathe again.

 His right knee itches. He scratches it absentmindedly.

 His fingers come away tacky with blood, and for a split second his stomach lurches and he’s afraid he might be sick, but then he makes himself stop and take it in.

 His knee looks like a knee. A little misshapen, twisted, smeared with dull red under the shreds of his pant leg, but healed over. Closed up. No bone visible at all. The shape of it shifts more as he watches: closer to normal, less bent.

 He swallows hard. Forces himself to look more.

 His lower leg’s healing too, putting itself back together. He can see it; he stares, fascinated in a gruesome way. Bones and muscles and veins knitting, repairing, weaving. Blood pumping. It’s almost pretty, in a churning awful way. The left leg’s doing it too, not fast but obviously on its way.

 So, he thinks, half-hysterically; so, I was right about the whole not getting sick part, look at that, look at me; and he laughs helplessly, and then he puts an arm over his face and lets himself cry, quietly, coming apart as his body fixes itself.

 He stops crying at some point. He curls up in the dark with his rifle, because he can do that now, he can move, though his legs feel weak and won’t hold him yet.

 How long’s it been? Minutes? Hours? Days? Enough time that he’s got ankles again. His head doesn’t hurt, either, at least not physically. It probably should. His hand had been very wet, earlier, touching there.

 He shuts his eyes and sees the table, the injections, the self-satisfied cruel curl of a smile—

 That was then. This is now. He’s not there. He’s here.

 But here is there, here is right back in a Hydra trap, here is knowing he’s been changed somehow, he’s something different somehow, and no one’ll save him and no one’s coming, because why would they? Even if they could find him, why would they want him back? Someone altered and made different, someone with this secret…even if they don’t know the secret, he’s still a problem, in need of care and rescue…

 Steve looks at him sometimes as if afraid, as if worried, as if Bucky’s fragile and damaged…and of course Steve’s right, of course Bucky’s not good enough…but that’s always been true, Bucky Barnes’ ordinary little loves of comics and science fiction and sunshine in Steve’s hair could never be enough for the real Steve, Steve who would take on the world if he could and make it better through sheer force of will…

 But Steve’s needed him, sometimes. Once or twice. A shot defending Steve’s six. A scouting mission with important information. That’s mattered, hasn’t it?

 If he can get out, he can get back to Steve. He can try to go on being useful. He can lift his rifle and protect Steve and love Steve, silently, hopelessly, and that’ll be enough, if he’s allowed that much. He’ll take it. Please. Just that. He won’t ask for more.

 He can sit up easily now. He can stand, with one hand braced on the wall of the pit. He hobbles around it, pacing, testing. He thinks the light’s dimmed even more; nighttime, maybe?

 He eyes the dirt, and the metal panes above. If he can gouge some handholds into it—

 Something shakes. Dirt moves. The metal above wobbles.

 Is someone here? The Commandos, or Hydra, or—Steve? Someone?

 Bucky sucks in air, yells, “Hey!” and scrabbles around for a rock. Throws it, hard and accurate, a fastball. It clangs off metal and drops back.

 More shaking happens. Excitement. Voices? Maybe? Indistinct, they’re hard to make out. They move away and return.

 A whole lot of dirt starts sliding in. Walls collapsing. Whatever they’re doing up there, it’s making his pit unstable.

 “You’re not helping!” Bucky yells upward. They kind of are, though. At least they’re trying.

 Metal creaks and groans. Being battered. Bending under an onslaught. More clanging sounds boom, the kind made by angry apprehensive vibranium being wielded by angry apprehensive muscles.

 The top of his pit screams and shrieks and breaks open. A metal sheet and half a tree clatter downward; Bucky swears and dives out of the way, and narrowly avoids snapping a reconstructed ankle in the process.

 A whirlwind of heroic passion plunges down through dirt to land beside him. “Bucky!”

 “Oh, hey,” Bucky manages, coughing, through dust and the strange aching sensation in his own chest. Maybe that’s only breathing. Oxygen. Fresh air. “Nice of you to drop in.”

 “Bucky—” Steve’s hands reach for him, but falter; Steve’s eyes are wide and blue and abruptly scared, raking over his body. “Bucky, don’t move, don’t—you’re hurt, you’re bleeding—how bad—” He cuts himself off to shout up, “Throw us a med kit, something, anything, but hurry—” Back to Bucky: “That’s—there’s so much—don’t try to move, Buck, don’t try to get up—your head, your legs—”

 Steve’s hands shake. Steve’s voice shakes. Steve’s face is pale, horrified, trying not to panic. “Don’t look at it, Buck, don’t look down, just look at me, keep looking at me—”

 “ ’M fine.” Bucky pushes himself up. Sees Steve’s expression snap from terrified to uncomprehending. “Really, Steve, I swear. Just kinda bled a lot.”

 “You…” Steve’s hand hovers over his shoulder. “You’re…okay? But—you look…”

 “Head wounds,” Bucky attempts, “they get messy, Steve, you know that.” His hip’s sore because he landed on that; he rubs it gingerly as the soreness drains away.

 The sky’s dark blue, not black, and speckled with stars and ringed with trees, above. Only about an hour, then. Not longer. Just a small amount of time. So small.

 A medical kit and a rope come flying down, and worried Commando faces appear at the rim of the pit. They cheer, seeing Bucky’s wave. Steve waves up too, belatedly.

 “So,” Bucky tries, “want to get out of here? Hey, how’d you know where to look?”

 “I knew you were up on that hill.” Steve’s eyebrows have that tight furrow between them, the one that means he’s trying to work something out. “And then you stopped answering. And when I got there the ground looked wrong. We guessed it was some kind of trap, just had to work out how it opened and where the weak point was. Are you sure you’re—”

 “I’m great, except for the whole bein’ dropped into a pit part.” He starts to get up; Steve dives in to steady him, arm going around him. Bucky doesn’t admit to being grateful for the touch, the anchor, the reality; he doesn’t cry, either, just says, “It’s okay, Stevie, I’m okay, let’s go before Dum Dum decides to throw anything else at us—oh, grab that med kit, we shouldn’t leave it—”

 “Bucky,” Steve starts, but then shakes his head: practicality first, getting them out first. “Come on, here, I got you…”

 They make it out, courtesy of ropes and supersoldier muscles and a shield for leverage. They make it back to their camp, gingerly: Bucky has to reassure everyone that he’s fine, that he’s not hurt, that he’s willing to joke and laugh and take goodnatured ribbing about being a sniper who can’t see a trap under his own feet. He nods and grins and takes steps on his rebuilt feet, which none of them know about, under the stars.

 He jokes along. He laughs. He accepts the teasing.

 Steve stays at his side as they walk. Steve looks at him as if wanting to say something, as if uncertain, as if not knowing how. Bucky’s never known Steve to be afraid of jumping into messy situations before. But Steve is now, because of him.

 He’s not really hungry, even though there’s Morita’s stew. He makes himself eat a few bites, being there, being part of the squad. He listens to a summary of what they’ve found—some equipment, some notes, stuff they’ll send back for study—and nods along. He wants to change; he’s wrapped in a blanket because his clothes are likely unsalvageable. Those don’t appear to be self-healing.

 He’s trying to figure out how to tell them all he’s tired and could use some rest, when Steve’s hand lands on his shoulder, and Steve says, “I know you’re okay, I just kinda think I should make sure, y’know? Want to let me take a look?”

 Bucky’s bones hurt, not physically. He’s exhausted, empty, whittled down to nothing. But it’s Steve, so he says sure, the way he always will if Steve needs reassurance.

 The Howlies, rather surprisingly, only nod and grin and elbow each other but don’t say much. Bucky’s not sure whether they’ve guessed he’s in love with Steve and they just don’t mind, or whether Steve’s impressed them all enough that they’d follow him regardless of anything. They’ve never mentioned a word about him and Steve sharing a tent.

 The firelight brushes his back, as he moves away from the heat.

 In their tent the world’s quiet and lamplit and anxious. Steve’s set out bandages and cloths, but hesitates. “You don’t…need much of this.”

 “No,” Bucky says hastily. “No, Steve, I’m good.”

 “I just…” Steve exhales. His shoulders droop a fraction. The shield’s leaning on his pack, in the corner where he’s set it down. “Can I at least…help clean this up? Some of this…” His fingers touch Bucky’s temple, Bucky’s neck.

 Bucky, who’d sort of forgotten about the head injury, has to remember; and then nods.

 A muscle in Steve’s jaw jumps; but he only finds a cloth and some water, and comes back over. “Tell me if anything hurts, okay?”

 It won’t and it will. Bucky nods again.

 Steve flinches as if the nod’s been a blow, and squares his shoulders. Picks up damp cloth, and touches it to Bucky’s temple.

 Slowly, gradually, under low golden light, the blood washes away. Under Steve’s touch. Cleaned from Bucky’s skin.

 He strips off his jacket and shirt and even pants when Steve asks to see him. He stands laid bare and exposed because Steve’s asked. He glances down and over to the side, where he’s set his torn-up boots. They’ll need stitching.

 Steve’s hand draws back. The water in the bowl’s pinker and grittier now, from red and dirt. “Bucky…”

 “I’m okay,” Bucky promises immediately. “Nothing’s hurting, Stevie, I swear.”

 “Would you tell me if it was?”

 “You asked me to, right?”

 “Yeah, but…” Steve’s eyes do that complicated wince again, some sort of tangle of summer-storm emotion. “Buck…oh, Jesus, Bucky. I can’t—I just can’t—God, I couldn’t find you and I thought—”

 “It’s okay.” Bucky puts both arms around him. “Hey, punk, I’m still here, you came and got me.”

 “How many times…” Steve’s voice cracks. “How many times do I have left? Before someday I can’t—before it’s too much, before you hate me, before I can’t save you enough and I’m not there when you need me—so much blood, Buck, when I saw you, it was—I thought you were—”

 “I know what you thought.” Bucky rubs his back, the way he’d done when they were kids, when Stevie was small enough to hold and fierce enough to punch anyone who wasn’t Bucky for trying it. “I know, Steve. But it wasn’t that, okay? It’s not.”

 “I can’t lose you,” Steve whispers. His face is buried in Bucky’s hair, words landing against Bucky’s ear. “I can’t do this without you. Don’t go. Don’t leave me alone.”

 “I won’t. I never will. I promise, Stevie. You and me, right? To the end of the line.”

 Steve lets out a broken half-sobbing sort of noise and clutches him, and then pulls back to look him square in the eyes, and says, earnest as a vow, “I love you, Bucky.”

 Bucky, shocked, can’t answer. That’s not real. Is it?

 Steve’s expression crumples. Despair tattering all flags and banners. “I love you, and—and sometimes I think—you wouldn’t even be here if not for me, you could’ve gone home, you could’ve been safe…how can you even look at me, Jesus, everything I ask of you…everything, since we were fuckin’ kids, and I know it’s not fair to you, it’s never been fair…just keep hoping maybe if I love you enough it’ll make up for at least some of the shit I’ve dragged you through, but it doesn’t, it never does, it’s not enough, is it.”

 “You…love me,” Bucky repeats.

 “You don’t believe me.”

 “I do. I just—” He can’t think. He presses fingers between his eyes. “Of course I fucking love you, Steve. I’m head over goddamn heels in love with you. I’m sorry, my head’s fucking splitting in half.”

 Steve swears, short and self-castigating. “Shit—sorry—of course you should rest, come here, lie down—you want water, something—”

 “No. But could you…” He breathes in, gathers courage. For himself, for Steve. “Stay with me? So I can touch you? Hold onto me, kinda.”

 “Oh, Buck.” Steve’s voice wobbles. “Yeah, of course—of course I will, I’m here.” And he does: stripping off his own shirt, grabbing a blanket, lying down right there with Bucky, gathering Bucky close, folding their bodies together. “This okay?”

 “Good,” Bucky answers automatically, and then thinks about that answer for a minute. Steve’s large and solid and real. Steve’s imperfect and scared and afraid of not being enough. Bucky’s also imperfect and scared and afraid of not being enough, so maybe they’re on the same page with that one, like a mirror image, sort of.

 Steve’s hands are warm against his skin. Steve’s heartbeat’s fast and concerned and audible where Bucky’s head’s come to settle against his chest. The bed’s uncomfortable in a familiar way, the way they both know. The tent’s hushed, and lamplight’s found its way into every corner, banishing shadows for the moment.

 They’re both here. Whatever else happens, whatever comes, they’re here. They’re not alone.

 He doesn’t want to be alone, to feel alone. He wants Steve here with him.

 He doesn’t mention uncannily healing injuries, or seeing in the dark, or the way he can’t quite find equilibrium, as if something’s shaken out of true, made unrecognizable deep inside. If he’s off-balance Steve can be his balance; if Steve needs an anchor Bucky can be that.

 And they won’t be alone. Right?

 He whispers, “I love you, punk. Just makin’ sure you know.” He’s got an arm around Steve’s waist, where they’re clinging to each other: still mostly dressed and. He tightens the hold. “Not going anywhere.”

 “Good,” Steve mutters into his hair. “Good…so…okay. Okay, I’m not either. You’re here and I’m here and I fucking love you. Jerk. Bucky. Don’t fucking disappear like that, ’cause I can’t—just don’t, all right?”

 “Blame Hydra and their love of dumbass supervillain booby traps. You’ll find me, anyway.”

 “Always,” Steve promises, “always, Buck, I’ll always come for you,” and Bucky holds onto him, holds him, and lets himself listen to the words.

[uwuwriting]

Homesick recordings

This is the first part of my 1.5K celebration. I present to you the sequel to “Moments in the life of Y/N L/N”, the angstiest piece of trash I’ve ever written. Thank you 1.5 K guys it means a lot, thank you for being here and reading my crap writing and thank you for supporting my blog. Love ya 💖💖💖

masterlist II rules

When Y/N learns that her little girl is gonna leave for high school she suggests she tries recording herself when she’s feeling homesick. Sky believes that she won’t need it but as time passes she realizes that she might need her mom more than expected. 

Monday, April 4th 20XX

“Okay so how do I do this exactly? *camera falls from its spot* Ah crap crap Jesus! Is it still working? Yep yep it is there’s my ugly face hehe. God why is my hair like that? Anyways um…. Hi, I guess? Do you say hi to a recording? This is weird to say the least. Today was the first day of school as you might have guessed and it was ….awkward. I got lost in that huge building twice and I ignored some kids by accident because they called me by my last name! I’m used to people referring to you when they say our last name ugh this is gonna take some time getting used to. The teacher is ....unique. He came into our classroom in a yellow sleeping bag and proceeded to worm around the room like a caterpillar. I don’t think he is the really giddy giddy fun teacher; he wrecked us during training. Gave us a freaking heart attack with a so called prank he pulled. *exasperated sigh* Who says that you’ll be expelled if you score last?? I don’t get it!! His name is Aizawa-sensei and I already believe he doesn’t like me. He stared at me for a solid five minutes with a frown on his face during training. If I’m being honest he was watching me the whole day which is kinda weird. I don’t know how to take that. Is he interested in my quirk or is he asking himself why they put me in his class? I can hear his voice saying ‘why do they keep sending me imbeciles?’. Well mister you can’t get rid of me now I got in and I’m staying! HA! *bang on the wall* YO SKY KID KEEP IT DOWN MAN! SORRY TOYOMI-SAN…..That was one of my roommates….She is a social worker I think. Oh I almost forgot, the apartment I found is nice. It deserves its price I mean. But you already know that since I called you once I got back from school…. See why this is stupid??? I’ll keep telling you things you already know because I have Alzheimer and I don’t remember what you know. *sigh* Oh well I guess you’ll have to endure this torture, you are my mother after all and I’m your precious only daughter so what can you do really? I finished my costume design. It turned out pretty cool, I like it. The jacket you suggested makes it ten times better. I look like a pilot. Well technically I am a pilot. I pilot clouds and now that you’re not here to scold me when I’m flying around I’ll take full advantage of it. You can’t stop me mother! Anyways, it’s getting late and I have school tomorrow so I’ll end this here. I don’t know when I’ll record next…. Most likely when I’m feeling home sick again. Haha it's the first day away from home and I’m already missing you and those two idiots. *soft snort* Goodnight mom, love you.” *recording ends*.

Wednesday, April 27th 20XX     

“Hello again, it’s me, your neighborhood cripple. *wince* You could say I’m a sight for sore eyes because I’m sore all over. You’ve seen the attack on the news. Of course you have, everyone’s shaming UA high for lack of security. Why you haven’t called me yet is a mystery, I guess you’re at work? And before you start throwing a tantrum about me not calling first and blah blah, I wanted to record this first, let you see the actual injuries before I minimize them when I call you. *stares off* Something weird happened during the attack. Apart from the fact that well we were attacked and our homeroom teacher was almost beaten into a pulp, the villains were ….. interesting. When they first appeared I was teleported by this minecraft portal looking ass to another part of the USJ and to be honest I kicked some serious ass. That *wince* that was not the weird thing. While I was fighting I saw Aizawa-sensei facing some type of giant ostrich? Although that that thing wasn’t an ostrich…. I don’t know what it was but mom it was terrifying. *visible shiver* It just grabbed him and mopped the floor with him and I just couldn’t sit there and do nothing. So I went to help or at least that was my goal. That person who teleported me at the beginning tried to do it again and I may have snapped a little bit. I got so angry when he moved me to the other side of the arena that for a moment I totally forgot about what was happening. While I was fighting him his quirk kinda connected with mine. It was strange. Every time I shot a cloud at him the mist that surrounded him kinda engulfed it. It wasn’t only happening to me. I could manipulate his mist. Not every time just like he couldn’t sabotage my clouds every time, but it still happened. I don’t know why it happened or how it happened and I have no idea what I’m gonna do about it.  Maybe it was part of his quirk but it didn’t happen to anyone else…..*wince* God I have a headache. *chuckle* You do realize you are never going to see these videos right? Seeing me like this would send you into a comma and then you would come back to haunt me and my classmates. Anyways, I’ll call you and then I’m going to sleep. Love ya mom.” *recording ends*

Tuesday, June 3rd 20XX

“*walking back and forth in her room* You know how I said that Bakugou is a really fun person to tease? Well that was before he exposed me to the whole class.*laugh* In reality I’m not really mad, it was a nice comeback and if I’m being honest it was hilarious but it was still a shocker. We were going back and forth with that tik tok challenge where you expose your friend’s flaws. So I was standing there pointing out his superiority complex when he dropped the bomb…… ‘It’s the daddy issues for me’......THIS KID. THE AUDACITY. I thought my daddy issues were kept on the down low!!! I’ve done nothing to trigger this comment!! Sure I may or may not have told Mina that you raised me alone and about that counselor incident but that doesn’t mean I have daddy issues. *grumble* You need to have a dad to have daddy issues. Ughh God I hate him sometimes so very much. Thankfully the summer camp is tomorrow. I’ll get to wipe the floor with him in volleyball. I’m gonna draw those anger issues out…. I need some air. *three hours later* I’m back… yay. It’s weird to think about it you know. What you must have gone through when he passed. I know you don’t really like talking about him or anything before I came along but I would love to know what he was like. I’m not gonna ask you in real life of course, I would never do that to you. I know it hurts. I just wanted to say it out loud…*barely audible sniffle* … Well this got sentimental real quick. I think I should go to bed. I love you mom, goodnight.” *recording ends*

Friday, March 14th 20XX

“Of all the things that could’ve happened, this one was the last one on my list. Actually it wasn’t even on the freaking list, dammit! *sniffle* You know things like this don’t happen to everyone. I must be a really lucky person. Tell me one other person who gets to meet their dead parent in a high surveillance prison?? And above that I got an explanation why he was like this. Amazing right? God this is so stupid! I hate it. I hate this situation, I hate that I can’t tell you about it, I hate keeping you in the dark because at the end of the day I’m not the one who was in love with him. He may be my dad but I don’t have a connection with him! I never met him! He wasn’t there when I started walking or talking, he wasn’t the one who dropped me off on the first day of school, he didn’t teach me how to ride a bike, he-he * sob* I shouldn’t-shouldn’t be upset over this. Aizawa-sensei and Present Mic should be the ones sobbing on their floor. Not me. He doesn’t - I don’t- ugh - I don’t mean anything to him in the end. He died 15 years ago. That’s it. He was in love with you, he knew you, I was nowhere to be found. If he could reach out to us more than just a few words he wouldn’t know who the hell I was. *sobs* I have a picture of you two you know….It’s the one I had found when I was five. When you told me that that was my dad I felt like I could form a connection with the person in that photo. So I kept it, you never went through your old photo albums anyway and you never looked for the missing photo. And I kept it with me. I tore a small pocket in my backpack and put the photo there. I thought that having both of you with me at all times would bring me luck. I liked the fact that I looked like him. Now I realize how painful that must have been for you, seeing him in me everyday….and Aizawa-sensei, god, having me in his class must have been torture. He didn’t know that I was his friend’s daughter of course but I looked enough like him to bring back memories. God this sucks…. *deep breathes* I-I have practice so I gotta go. Love you.” *recording ends*  

Thursday, March 20th 20XX

“Hi, it’s me again. I know that I’m recording almost a week after the previous one but… mom I have been assigned a mission and it’s major. It’ll be an attack at a hospital where we believe that experiments are being conducted. We got that information from um what do I call him? *shakes head* from a prisoner in Tartarus, the high surveillance prison I was at last week? Yeah that one. The mission will be really dangerous, that’s what we’ve been told and I can understand that. I mean we are attacking a major operation of AFO, of course it’ll be dangerous. Since we are students we are to stay away from the hospital and monitor the surrounding area but…. I asked Present Mic to go with them in the hospital. I can help keep things in place and I can move people in and out quicker than any of them, plus this is personal. I think Present Mic understands that. He said he’ll talk to Aizawa-sensei about it but regardless….. I’ll find who did that to him, I promise you that. I want to know if...if this was all some grand plan because what they did to him they did to dozens other people and as much as I hate them for taking my father away, I also hate them for what they’ve done to all those other families…… I’m recording this because I don’t know if I come back in one piece or if I come back at all. This is very dangerous and we don’t really know what to expect. What we are getting ourselves into. I wanted to say thank you. Thank you for giving me everything that I needed in life. Thank you for being the best mom anyone could ever have. You raised me by pushing your own sadness and grief to the side and doing the best job you could. So thank you for being my mom and I’m sorry for the pain I caused you. I love you mom, so very much. Bye, bye mommy.” *recording ends.*

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

TAG TEAM AY:

@iwaqchan @the-arcana-fan-fic @angelwritings @axerrri @reinyrei  @dnarez-mangetsu @bemorefiction

[herding-octokittens]

Tumblr is being Tumblr (or maybe my computer is being weird) so I can’t do a fancy link, but here it is! Mechtober prompt 4: vampires! 13 days late!

ao3

Raphaella La Cognizi had spent millenia exploring what the universe had to offer. She had spent millenia traveling with her crew, her friends, to see as much as she could. She had spent millenia unearthing and discovering everything she could get her hands on. She had spent millenia on learning what others had deemed unknowable.

She was positive she knew more than anyone else could ever know, than anyone else would ever know. She was positive that even though she had so much more to find, she had already found more than anyone else.

It was three days until their next planetfall, and Raphaella had spent nearly a year of travel studying her newest fixation. 

Most of what she knew was based on outdated information from Earth and a few vague references from nearby planets. Best as she could tell, the species in question was either entirely fictional, or very, very extinct. Any space faring technology they may have had was long since lost. They had likely traveled to at least two systems, as the old stories and histories were widespread yet consistent. Most interestingly, they appeared to be immortal, or at least extremely long lived. For all the people she had met who wished for and reached for immortality, none (save her friends) had actually ever achieved it. A species that was naturally that long lived was well worth her interest.

Given how much of the information came from well before her time and the other side of the universe, Raphaella had decided that inquiring into the others’ knowledge would be worth her while.

~~~

“So, what are your thoughts on vampires?” Raphaella thought the question was innocent enough.

As she was quick to discover, it wasn’t.

Jonny choked on his drink, quickly turning to the sink to avoid spitting everywhere. Nastya fell out of the vent she had been relaxing in with a startled yelp, crushing the Toy Soldier, who had been attempting to bake cookies. Tim had immediately looked up from his latest incendiary device, fixing Raphaella with a solid glare mixing hatred and incredulous surprise in equal parts. She was half convinced his eyes were about to burn holes through her skull. Ashes, who had been casually leaning against the bar, attempting to mix a drink that would actually kill them in one go, burst out in pained laughter as they slid to the floor.

“I take it they’re real, then.”

Ashes continued laughing as everyone else attempted to regain their bearings. Even the Toy Soldier seemed flustered.

“You’re asking-” They cut off with a choked giggle. “You’re asking if vampires-” Another giggle, this time less repressed. “You’re asking if vampires are real?” The incredulity in Ashes’s question made Raphaella recoil, wings rustling behind her.

“Well, yes. The lore on them is sparse, but I figured given how many alternate dimensions and time jumps-”

“Jonny, Nastya, she’s asking if vampires are real!” Ashes had turned to the First Mate. “You lot heard it too, right?”

Jonny tried to wheeze out a response, but his face had gone rather blue as he continued trying to cough up whatever it was he was still choking on. Nastya merely grunted in what may have been humor, still lying atop the Toy Soldier. Tim was the first to actually verbalize a response.

“I heard it too, Ashes,” he replied, voice stiffly neutral. After a brief moment of consideration, he turned a question to the Science Officer. “Why on Earth do you think we would know if vampires are real?”

This was too much for Nastya, who burst into tears of laughter. The Toy Soldier, who for all appearances had resigned itself to remaining crushed under Nastya, joined the laughter.

“I mean, you’ve all been alive and travelling for quite a bit longer than I have, and everything I’ve found points to the species being extinct but rather widespread, so I figured you might have encountered some in the past. Or the future. Or a parallel dimension. Whenever.” She paused, taking a deep breath. “So, are they real? Have you met any?”

Jonny chose that moment to finally choke to death, so her question was accentuated by a loud thump as his body fell limp. Ashes had managed to climb back up to lean on the bar, but was once again laughing too hard to be functional. Tim hadn’t taken his eyes off of Raphaella, but she thought he was beginning to crack a smile. Nastya and the Toy Soldier had begun extricating themselves, each covered in flour and egg. This process was made difficult by Nastya’s tendency to collapse every time she began to laugh again. The Toy Soldier, expression as unreadable as ever, appeared to be attempting to join in the humor.

Raphaella couldn’t tell if this was the whole peer pressure thing they’d been working on with it, or if it actually found the situation entertaining.

“I really can’t tell if that is a yes or a no, guys.”

“It’s a-” Tim’s careful neutrality gave way to a cough that was almost certainly stifling his own giggles. “It’s a-” Another cough. “Oh, God, I’m not gonna be able to say it with a straight face.” A coughing fit this time. Raphaella frowned.

“It’s a binary question. Vampires are real. Yes or no? This really shouldn’t be that difficult.”

“I know! I just still can’t get over the fact that you’re asking if vampires are real!” Ashes wheezed. Raphaella wasn’t sure how they could run out of oxygen, but they had made a pretty damn good effort at it. “Vampires! Of all the things!”

That was evidently enough to break Tim, who almost immediately fell off the couch he had been precariously balanced on. His bomb came with him, landing on his stomach with a satisfying thunk, cutting off his choked laughs.

“You all are the least helpful- you know what? I’ll go ask Ivy. Save myself the trouble of dealing with you lot.” Raphaella turned away from the rec room and began to stalk away.

Behind her, she heard the scrambling of four people and one thing frantically trying to get up and follow. She didn’t dignify them with an acknowledgement, until Tim appeared in her peripheral vision, bomb in hand.

“So… You’re gonna ask Ivy?” His mask of apathy was long since replaced with manic humor.

“Yes.”

“Can you wait for like, three minutes, while I go find Brian?” Raphaella turned to glare at Tim. “Please? He’ll want to be there.”

“No.” Raphaella turned back to face forwards, and picked up her pace.

“Ugh, fine. Be back in a bit,” Tim shouted from down another hall as he sprinted off. A few smothered giggles sounded from behind her from the four others in her wake. 

“I really don’t get why this is such a funny question, and I really don’t like being played for a fool,” Raphaella stated, trying to gauge their responses. From the squelching sound, she would guess Nastya or Ashes had stabbed Jonny. A second squelching sound and sudden thump implied it was both of them, and that Jonny was currently dead. A muted conversation between Nastya and the Toy Soldier confirmed her thoughts. The conversation was followed by the sound of heavy running as they all attempted to catch back up to her, Jonny presumably flung over the Toy Soldier’s shoulder.

“If I’m being honest, I doubt Ivy will be able to answer you any better than us,” Nastya said, attempting conversation. Ashes snorted behind the two of them.

“Are you saying she won’t know, or that she won’t tell?” Raphaella cursed her curious nature. She had now failed twice at not talking to the others.

“Hmm, the second. She may not be as scientifically oriented as you, but she’s got an air-tight memory. I don’t think she’s ever forgotten anything. Ever. Not since-” Nastya cut off with a stifled cough. “Not since the doctor-” Nastya had to pause again, and Raphaella groaned. “Not since the doctor replaced her brain- Tim was right! I can’t do this with a straight face!” Nastya cried as she burst into laughter once again, falling back to laugh along with the Toy Soldier and Jonny, who appeared to have finally woken up.

“You can all go jump out the airlock,” Raphaella called over her shoulder as she made the last turn towards the library. “Just, fuck off into the void. You’d be just as helpful floating lifeless as you are right now.”

“I found him!” Any response from her followers was cut off by Tim’s triumphant shout, echoing down a corridor a few meters ahead. “I got Brian! And Marius. He just kinda tagged along. But Brian’s the important one. And I got him.” Tim exited the side passage just as Raphaella passed by. True to his word, Brian’s wrist was held tightly in his hand and Marius popped out a few seconds later, confusion etched into his features. “You haven’t asked Ivy yet, right?”

“Go die in a hole.”

“Charming as ever, Raphaella. And I’ll take that as a no.”

“You still haven’t told me what I’m doing here,” Brian groaned as Tim dragged him along. “We’re flying through enough gravitational variation right now that I really should be up on the bridge-”

“No, you’ll want to be here for this,” Nastya interjected. “It’s going to be worth it.”

Brian hummed noncommittally, but didn’t pull away from Tim’s grip. Raphaella rolled her eyes and continued stomping on towards the library.

As she finally, finally, reached the open door, Raphaella tried not to breathe a sigh of relief. Ivy would understand her curiosity. Ivy would be able to help her research. Her library was, after all, the largest and most complete in existence. Ivy would be able to answer her question.

“Ivy? Are you here?” she called out. “I need your help!”

“Raph? What’s the problem?” The archivist appeared from around a corner that none of the rest had even realized was a corner, causing at least two of them to jump. She paused, eyes scanning the entirety of the crew crammed into the small welcome area. “And why did you bring so many people?”

“I have a question. I have already asked Jonny, Nastya, Tim, Ashes, and the Toy Soldier, and they have been murderously unhelpful.”

“But not Marius or Brian.”

“Hmm, no. They weren’t in the room when I first broached the topic, and I have since been trying to ignore everyone because they are all being assholes.”

“Fair.”

“Thank you.”

“So,” Ivy hops up to sit on a small desk. “What’s your question?”

“Are vampires real?”

Ivy falls off the desk.

~~~

Raphaella swears to herself to never ask any of the rest of the Mechanisms anything ever again.

[t-o-m-hollands]

A/N: Cointens violence and mentions of injuries, war and blood. Also swearing and drinking. Smut in future parts, nothing in this. 

“It seemed like a nice neighbourhood to have bad habits in.”  

― Raymond Chandler, The Big Sleep  

When Tom’s grandfather passes away, he inherits an office in the middle of a buzzling London. He has no idea what to do with it.

The year is 1947 and Tom is restless after the war. After a chance meeting with his old comrade Harrison and a drunken lunch at the local pub they decide to open up a detective agency. After finding you huddled up in a library while chasing an unwilling witness Tom decides to hire you as the agency’s secretary. You, reluctantly, take up the offer from the charming stranger.

Together the three of you face some of London’s most hard-boiled criminals and lethal femme fatales.  

You have to navigate your way through adulthood, life after war and your growing feelings for your boss.

***

The pub was unusually crammed with people, workers meeting up with each other for a pint before heading home to their families. He could see them through the muted windows, cheering and laughing, pints of beer clutched in their hands. Now, it certainly wasn’t the nicest pub in London, a thick cover of mud covered the floor, the walls were so dirty that it was hard to tell what the original wallpaper had looked like. But then again, it was the Bugle, a pub well hidden in the Shafto Mews in London. It was not a pub you just happened to stroll in to, looking for a place to eat or a friendly place to catch up with a long-lost comrade in. It was a seedy and dirty place, where the beers came cheap and the brawls started easy.

The barman, a Mr. Eric Brew, was a brusque and quick-tempered elderly man with a beer belly so large it made it hard for him to steer his way through the many bottles and glasses behind the bar. Luckily for him it was unusual for anyone to ordered anything other than a pint or perhaps a glass of cheap and watered-down whiskey.

Tom loved this place, because no one ever bothered him here. This was not a place to talk to strangers in.  

On this particular autumn afternoon the air outside was crisp and full of the smell of pavement after rain, it smelled of London. Currently though the sky was bluer than it had been all summer and the leaves on the trees had just started to change their colours. There was a distinct chill in the air. Tom shivered in his dress shirt, thinking to himself that this was sure to be the last time that year he’d get away with not wearing a jacket.

As he stepped inside, he exchanged the almost impossible fresh autumn air for a cigarette smoke fog. It was unusually busy for a Tuesday afternoon, and the sound of loud voices and clinking glasses filled the air. Tom gathered it must be payday. It was long ago that he stopped to bother about the days of the week or when pay was due. Not because of an abundance of money but for the lack of a steady job.

Walking up the bar he told Eric to pour the usual and handed him a coin. Eric grunted and started to pour into a glass that looked like it hadn’t been cleaned in months.

“Busy today, mate” Tom stated. Eric grunted again and handed him his drink.  

As Tom sat down in the far, and well hidden, corner of the pub he thought to himself that his so-called conversation with the barman had been his longest conversation in days. After the war had ended, he’d stayed out in France, despite his mother’s letters begging him to come home he hadn’t. It wasn’t that he didn’t miss his family, on the contrary, being apart from them felt more torturous than anything he’d lived through during the war.

Still, he thought as he gulped down on his drink, he had been through war, and that does change a person. He wasn’t the same care-free boy who’d so gladly enlisted, desperate for some preconceived idea that the war would satisfy his deep-rooted need for adventure, to please his longing for glory. He’d happily waved his younger brothers and his parents goodbye on the platform, surrounded by sad looking boys saying farewells to their loved ones.

The war had not given him what he wanted. There had been no glory or sense of adventure.  And even though the worst injury he’d suffer was a broken nose that had more to do with his own stupidity than actual fighting he had still seen the suffering of others. Walked through villages so bombed there was nothing, no human nor animal left. Nothing but ruin and corpses left to rot. He’d seen the torn apart remains of what had once been children on the street. He had had to breath trough the smell of decaying flesh as they walked by. He had lost friends and comrades.  

The war had changed him, and he still wasn’t sure if it was for better or worse. All he knew was that he couldn’t face his father, or his mother. Not yet. He thought of his little brothers, how much five years must have changed them. He quietly wondered if he’d recognise them if he passed them on the streets today. He tried to convince himself that he would, and only after half a bottle of whiskey did he feel brave enough to admit it to himself that he probably wouldn’t. Too long had passed.  

The only reason he had come back to England at all was for a surprise visit from a solicitor, who had tracked him down somewhere outside of Cannes, informing him of the passing of his grandfather. Tom had few memories of said grandfather What he could recall was a fearsome and stern figure, Victorian in his manner. Tom could remember looking up to the damn near giant as he looked down at Tom with disapproval written all over his face as Tom stood in front of a broken vase, he’d accidentally shattered while chasing the cat. It certainly had not been a man fond of children. Tom had always kept his distance from the man whenever they had visited, scared of the scolding the older man was more than capable of.

Therefore, it had been, to say the least, a great surprise when said grandfather had left his entire inheritance to his oldest grandson.

Sure, there hadn’t been a lot of actual money, not after all the death-duties and inheritance taxes had gone through, but he’d gotten his office and the apartment above it, placed bang on one of the busiest streets of London. What his grandfather had used the office for he had no idea, and the solicitors refused to tell him anything about is grandfathers’ dealings, but judging by the state of the place it must have been an awfully long time since anyone sat their foot in the place, probably not since before the war, the first one. The entire place was, like this very pub, filled with dirt and dust and long abandoned forgotten things. Most of which was nothing more than trash, a chair that surely would break as soon as anyone sat down on it, a desk with one broken leg and a filing cabinet full of mouldy documents.

The only distinctive feature was a rather well-made painting. Not only was the portrait of the young lady striking, but the gold frame surrounding it was solid gold. Something that had chocked Tom greatly. For he had never seen anything look quite so out of place than that gold framed picture of a young, beautiful women with seemingly shining eyes –

“Surely it can’t be – Tom Holland, OI! Tom!”

Tom instinctively looked up, only to meet the eyes of a dearly beloved friend.

“Mate! As I live and breathe!”

“Where have you been, buddy?” Harrison happily exclaimed, pulling out the chair opposite of Tom and before pretty much falling down on it, a pint of beer in hand and a massive grin on his face.

“I haven’t seen you since Monte Cassino– ” he silenced himself. Maybe because of the look in Tom’s eyes, maybe because of memories of his own.

(I haven’t seen you since the war, I haven’t seen you since we were crying in the bunkers, thinking we would die. Hoping that we would. Hoping that we wouldn’t.)

“Yeah” is all Tom can manage to get out, lungs suddenly feeling too tight.

They both take large gulps from their glasses, avoiding the others eye.

“So how you’ve been, mate?” Harrison asks, sounding more mellow now, less cheerful.

“It’s been good, bud” Tom says, trying to sound happy, trying to raise the mood a little. He can see the dark clouds of the war in Harrisons eyes, can see it clear as day even in this smoke-filled, god forsaken pub. It’s still haunting him. And he doesn’t quite know what else to say, doesn’t know how to voice the fact that he himself is hardly sleeping anymore, that he spent two years in France living as a wanderer and picking up odd jobs wherever he could find them, not even trying to pick up the pieces from the past. Not knowing where to begin

(At home, the part of him that’s braver than the rest seem to always whisper. Start at home and build from there.)

“Yeah?” There’s a note of hope in Harrison’s voice and as he looks at him the clouds in his eyes seem to clear, if only a little, and Tom’s heart breaks for his old friend. He knows that desperation, saw it all over France in the soldier's eyes. A desperate longing for proof that there was something good in the world, even after everything that had been done.  

“Yes, mate! It’s been grand. I came into an inheritance and all!” And upon seeing the look of pure surprise in Harrisons now cloud-free face Tom bursts into genuine laughter, not caring to think about how long ago it had been since he had made a whole-hearted, genuine laughter.

“Alright, let’s order some food and then let’s catch up, yeah?”

And they did. The food at The Bugle was awful. Tom knew this, since coming back to London he’d drink away his consciousness in this pub and once or twice he had given in and ordered what The Bugle’s chef referred to as food. He knew this but did not care, for the company was excellent.

It turned out Harrison had come home immediately after the war. Had tried to pick up the pieces from before. He met up with his old friends (the ones that’d survived), he dated a different girl every week, unable to settle and now lived in his parent’s townhouse in Belgravia while they spent most of their time on the family estate out in Norfolk. He too was currently out of a job, however the difference was that Harrison had no need for work, the allowance his parents gave him and his own grandparents inheritance (which, although Tom never asked, but presumed) far exceeded his own.

Tom sensed that Harrison, just like himself, felt a deeply-rooted restlessness since coming home. It was in the way his left leg wouldn’t stop tapping, his regular glances around the room, in the way he just shovelled the food around his plate, not eating much.

Tom in return told him, although with far less detail than his friend had given, of staying out in France, of a surprise visit by the solicitors. He told him of the abandoned office and apartment he now was the owner of. He even told him of the portrait hanging above the broken desk.

They talked about old times, of old friends and past lovers, and every time the name of one of those comrades that didn’t make it to the end of the war was mentioned an awkward silence spread between them before the other one quickly started a new story.

(Harrison noticed that Tom never mentioned his parents, or his brothers. Not once. But he doesn’t say anything. He think they’ll get to that eventually.)

A loud crashing breaks their conversation and both Harrison and Tom are on their feet before either one of them has even registered where the sound came from.

“YOU FUCKING SWINE, I’LL GIVE YOU NOTHING!” The screeching, and surprisingly high-pitched voice, comes from Eric the barman, who’s standing arms raised above his head behind the bar. A young man, not even wearing anything to mask his face, is holding a revolver and pointing it right at Eric’s chest.

Before he’s even fully comprehended what he’s doing he’s halfway across the pub, people scattering out of his way, and out of the robbers aim. He can sense Harrison’s presence right behind him and then they’ve both tackled the young man to the ground. All Tom can think about is to get his hands on the man’s revolver, so that he can secure it. He sees how Harrison tries to get a hold of the young robbers’ arms as he’s waving them around, trying to fight them both at once. Unfortunately, he gets in a lucky swing that hits Tom right over his nose, a nose that’s already been broken once, and blood gushes out. The man looks surprised by this, partly because of the sudden stream of blood falling over him and partly because he actually just hit someone. Tom quickly uses this for his advantage and dives down for the revolver as Harrison secures the burglar’s arms behind his back.  

They manage to hold him down until the police comes. They give them a quick rundown of what happened. Eric, furious and face alarmingly red, fills in when he manages to find words, shaking from fury. One of the policemen offer to drive Tom to the hospital to have his nose looked at but he refuses. Then they ask if he’d like to press charges. Tom takes one quick look at the young man now sitting in a police car and shakes his head. The boy, for on closer inspection he’s nothing more than a boy, looks terrified, and honestly, he’s already in enough trouble with the law. During the past few years crime in London has been on the rise. Young and restless men all coming home from the war, looking for jobs where there are none and haunted from memories from the battlefields. It’s no wonder there’s desperation in the air.

So, Tom and Haz walks away, leaving the two police cars and its officers, a furious pub owner with an unexpectedly high-pitched voice, and an entire pub of people with their noses pressed up against its foggy windows.

As they walk, without discussing where they’re going, Tom suddenly bursts out in laughter. He doesn’t know why, but the restlessness that’s done nothing short but haunted him for years now has suddenly vanished. There’s a pause and then Harrison joins in and Tom knows, knows that he feels the same. That this sudden rush of adrenalin was just what he needed too.

They practically double over with laughter, leaning on the other to keep upright and when they finally stop a comfortable silence fill the quiet as they walk on.

Before long, and before having reflected on where his feet are leading him, they’re standing outside of 15 Sloane street.

“Is this it?” Harrison asks, voice filled with curiosity as he looks up at the red-bricked building.

“Yeah” is all Tom manage to get out as an answer. Because suddenly he feels almost shy, like he’s showing Harrison some long kept secret. And for a moment they just stand and admire the building. “Can I look inside?” Haz asks, curiosity colouring his every word. So, Tom unlocks the door and they step inside.

Inside the air feels heavy, not like in the pub where it had been full of smoke, but instead it feels old, and if it hadn’t been so damn cold outside Tom would have opened up the windows.

The ground is as covered in mud and dust and dirt as the pubs floor. The walls look dull too. But the space is good, a large foyer to receive visitors, a guest bathroom, an office, a kitchen and a staff bathroom too.  

“So” Harrison finally says, having taken in the place in silence. “What are you going to do with it?”

And Tom doesn’t know what to say because honestly – is that not just the question that’s frequently been on his mind since he first got here. “Dunno” ha answers lamely. “I suppose,” he starts but stops himself, feeling too embarrassed at his childish idea.

“What?” Haz encourages.

“Well” Tom begins, and then before he loses his gut he rambles out “It would be cool to be a detective though, wouldn’t it?” He doesn’t look at his old friend as he says this. He should though, because he misses out on the massive grin spreading across Harrison’s face.

“Oh totally!” He all but yells. “Like Sherlock Holmes, or Phillip Marlowe?”

“Phillip Marlowe, surely!” Tom responds, finally looking at his old comrade. He feels light as air, having finally put words on a wish that’s long been on his mind.

But now Haz looks awkwardly down, down on his well-polished, hand-made shoes and the muddy ground. “What?” Tom asks, worry threatening to blow his happy bubble.

“Look, you don’t have to, it’s just, like if you don’t want it or you find me lacking you could just sack me bu–“

“Of course, you’ll join me” Tom interrupts Harrisons awkward attempt at asking to work with him. “Really?” He asks, eyes gleaming with happiness. “You, ‘course mate, wouldn’t wanna do it without you”.

***

And so, it begins.

They start with trying to make the place habitable. After all, the office space needs to be a presentable enough environment for clients to feel comfortable to share their troubles with them and preferably the apartment above needs to be clean enough for Tom to live in without contracting a disease. It’s hard work, and Harrison loudly complains and gruntles and questions why they can’t hire someone to do it. Tom just laughs and tells him to shut his over-privileged mouth and keep mopping.

The truth is they could easily get someone in to do the cleaning for them, it’s just that Tom doesn’t want to, feels like they really ought to do this by hand, by themselves. To build the business from the ground up. And quite frankly, some real, good hard work is just what he needs. For the first time in ages he’s so physically exhausted by the time he goes to bed that he falls asleep as soon as his head hits the pillow. He still has nightmares, but he gets in a couple more hours sleep every night and that makes it worth it.

Even though Harrison loudly grumbles about the rough labour he is a hard worker. Tom teases him a lot about it. Telling him he didn’t expect to end up doing this when he was sent to that posh public school as a child. Telling him that this is what good honest works feels like. Informing him that the pain he had in his knees from scrubbing the floors is what heavy labour feels like. It’s all jokes thought, for even they grew up worlds apart on the social scale they still fought on the same battlefield and as children they fought the same imaginary dragons.

In the end aid comes in the form of Lady Lauren Osterfield herself.

Tall and lean and dressed from top to toe in fine silk and fur in soft colours and with hair, the same shade as her son, in soft waves. She sways into the office one day, unannounced, as Tom’s trying to scrub the dirt from the walls and Harrison’s sprawled out on the floor, fighting a particularly stubborn piece of dirt. A hard a look of deepest disapproval is written all over her face as she takes in the scene.

“Darling” she drags out the word and make the endearment sound like a loving, but stern warning. “You simply cannot do this on your own”

“But mommy we-” Harrison begin but she stops him with a raised hand. “I will hear none of it, sweetie. If there is one thing I know it’s potential, and this place has got spades of it. However, I will not see my darling boys like this” she huffs, then adds “also, the rate you two are going at you’ll be in your 50’s before you even had your first client.”

She walks over to where Tom stands, now leaning against the broken desk, hands in pockets and covered in dust and sweat. “Sweetheart, it is wonderful to see you again” And she strokes his cheek with a satin gloved hand and Tom can’t help but to lean into the touch.

He had spent many a school holiday at the Osterfield house. Although, house wasn’t the right word. Technically it was a manor house – Osterfield manor was in fact its name. It had been built by Lord Ashley Osterfield in the early 1600th and had stood proudly on its green fields ever since. Tom had lived in the village, in a small cottage with his mother, father, three brothers and a half-blind cook/nanny named Cully. Harrison, since it was the family tradition, had been sent away to Eton whereas Tom had gone to the village school.  But whenever summer holiday rolled around, they’d play on the grounds to the manor and in the forest surrounding it. They had played thief’s and robbers, Robin Hood and Peter Pan. Life had been blissful and full of light. He can still remember how the last month before summer break had seemed endless, how he’d counted down the days until his best friend would return, staring out of the window during class, not listening to whatever Ms Frank was going on about. They sent each other letters of course. About what was going on at home, what tricks each had played on their friends, or on their teachers, how awful school was or about the latest mystery novel they’d read.

His memories of the Osterfield family were many and fond. Lady Osterfield, with her loving but stern ways, never looking anything less than perfection, bringing them meringues and freshly made lemonade to the treehouse where they sat people-watching, spying on the garden parties going on below. Memories of Lord Osterfield, reading his newspaper outside in the warm summer sun, dressed in linen suits and with a great moustache covering his upper lip, teaching Tom tennis and playing croquet with them. And then little Charlotte Osterfield, Harrisons little sister. With her long, blonde hair neatly combed and braided, always carrying around a teddy bear, following them wherever they went. Harrison would get rather annoyed with her for that, but Tom had always said that she could join them if she wanted to.

He remembers Christmas eve at their house. A ginormous three in the hall, neatly decorated by Lady Osterfield herself. Countless of cousins and great-aunts and uncles coming over. The staff running around cleaning every corner. The chef, Mary her name had been, yelling orders and shouting herself blue in the face. The end result had been incredible though, and as snow covered the entire manor and its grounds there was a fire lit in every room, the smell of ham and turkey in the air, glitter and light and mistletoe and presents in overload. He remembers still, being sent home in the horse driven carriage on Christmas eve, belly full of delicious food and sweets, and presents from Lord and Lady Osterfield to every member of his family, including one to Cully, surrounding him as he watched the snow fall over the pretty little village outside the carriage window.

“Hello, Lady Osterfield, it’s been a while” he manages to get out. Because this is, has always been, his second mother. And it hurts even more to see her now, despite the fact that war doesn’t seem to have aged her a day. But seeing her reminds him so much of his own mommy, and his stomach seems to revolt.

“That” she says, and he thinks her eyes are wet with unshed tears “it certainly has been”. She doesn’t ask how his war had been, why he hadn’t return sooner, or sent them letters. Probably understands that he cannot give her those answers. Not yet at least. She lowers her hand and take a step back.

“So” she announces and there’s a level of authority to her voice that makes both Harrison and Tom stand up straighter. “I will send Georgina over, hopefully she can start tomorrow already, because this really is urgent”. She looks around her surrounding, the broken furniture, the floors and ceiling that refuse to give up the dirt they’ve been holding onto for years, despite Tom and Harrisons desperate scrubbing.

“Sorry? Mommy, who.... who on earth is Georgina?”  

Tom smiles, for he can almost hear the curse word Harrison so nearly lets out.

“Oh darling, it’s Georgina Brewster, she is simply marvellous and really the only one who can save this place. I shall call on her immediately, she will work wonders, just you see”.

*

Georgina Brewster, as it turns out, would have put fear of the devil into any and every one of the generals Tom had met during the war. She practically comes in as a steamroller into the office the very next day and before either Tom or Harrison know what’s going on they’ve been thrown out of their office with strict orders to “keep out of the way, for gods sake, and don’t come back until next Friday at least!”

And because neither Tom nor Harrison dare to contradict her, even though Tom’s apartment is above the office and he now has nowhere to sleep, they listen and keep out of her way, spending their time at Harrisons, or rather Harrisons parents, place in Belgravia.

There they plan out and strategize, trying to agree on what exactly their business should be and how they should conduct it.

Their first hurdle is the name of the agency.  

“So”

They’re at ‘The Bugle’ again and Tom is swirling the liquid in his glass back and forth, holding a lit cigarette in his other hand. Around them the air is filled with smoke and conversations. Tom had, rather cheekily, asked the barman if they shouldn’t get their drinks for free, seeing as they did save his ass just the other night. The barman had done his usual ritual of mumbles and grumbles before pouring them some watered down Irish whiskey.

“So?” he asks, implying that Harrison should continue his unfinished statement.

“What should we name it, mate?” Harrison is leaning back against the wall, his long legs sprawled out. He looks as exhausted as Tom feels.

“Name what?” Tom dumbly inquires, only half his mind on the conversation, the other on the gorgeous woman at the bar. She looks strangely out of place, wearing a respectably coat, dark hair neatly organised in curls and a soft smile on face as she’s conversation with the infamously grumpy barman, who – and Tom can hardly believe his eyes – is smiling back at her.

Harrison snorts and with a voice practically dripping in sarcasm he answers “Oh the golden retriever puppy we’re adopting! The fuck you think, mate? The detective agency of course!”

Tom gives his friend a kick on his sprawled-out legs.

“Holland Detective Services” he then states.

Harrison goes quiet for a second, rubbing the aching spot on his leg where Tom managed to get in a perfect hit, the bastard had always been good and noting soft spots. “Not Holland & Osterfield?” he asks, only half joking.

“Nah, too posh mate, we’ll sound like some solicitors’ firm, you know, like ‘Bundle & Alfredson & Alfredson & Bundle”, too ridiculous. Plus, no one trusts solicitors with their secrets, they’re too posh and proper. We need people to feel like they can come to us with things they can’t go to the police with.”

He looks over to the bar again, but the beatiful lady is nowhere to be seen.

*

And so, Harrison Detective Service is founded. The office (the apartment miss Brewster luckily left him handle himself) is revealed to them.

It’s perfect. There’s no other word for it. It’s looks professional but not over styled. The two large desks made from oak, the bar table with its whiskey decanter, the filing cabinets strategely placed in the little backroom, the lamps giving the office an almost golden and mysterious lightning, and on the wall hanging above his own desk, the painting of the woman that his grandfather left him. The only thing remaining from the original office.

*

It doesn’t take long until their first client arrives. He’s a perhaps not the ideal client, Tom notes. The man is in his late 50’s, wearing an ill fitted suit and smelling distinctly of B.O. He is however willing to pay.

Thus, this is how Tom ends up chasing a, to say the least, unwilling witness all down Euston Road. The man he’s chasing is fast, and Tom’s side is hurting and he feels out of form. He really should have had something other than whiskey for lunch. The man does a quick turn left, right over the road and Tom’s right at his heel.

A car horn blows and there’s a blinding light and for a moment Tom’s back on the battlefield in France, he throws up his arms, trying to shield himself for whatever is coming at him. His entire body tenses up and he waits for the inventible crash. But it doesn’t come, and there’s shouting but he can’t hear what they’re saying, the blood rushing through his head too loud for anything else to sound real. His lungs feel too tight and his breaths are shallow.  

Slowly he regains control of himself, as he tries to take the world around him in.

The shouting is coming from a very angry driver, half hanging out of his window telling Tom to get out of the way, waving his arms in fuming gestures. People on the pavement have stopped what they’re doing, some mid conversation or mid walk, all just staring at him. He jumps into action again, desperately trying to push down the part of his brain that’s still in France. He can’t see his witness, but there’s only one place he really can have gone.

He runs up the marble stairs, ignoring the glaring stares around him.

The foyer is impressive to say the least. It’s a large circular room, marble from floor to ceiling. Right in front of him, but all across the room, is a reception and an elderly woman sitting behind it.

“Excuse me sir, we close in twenty minutes,” she calls after him, but it’s all she manages to get out before he’s gone, having made his way all across the hall and into the large oak doors with a sign simply stating ‘Main Library’.

The doors slam behind him and the sound eco in the silence. At first he’s taken aback, for this is nothing like the marble mausoleum he’s left behind, and if he thought the reception area had been large then this room is massive. It’s nothing short of a labyrinth of oak bookshelves, reaching from top to ceiling and filled with large volumes of books that look as if they must be older than queen Victoria.

He can only assume that this is where his witness is hiding, somewhere in this maze he has taken cover, wrongly assuming that Tom will just give up and leave. His witness is in no such luck. Tom does however remember noting the lineament of a revolver inside the other man’s jacket, and by now he’s had more than enough time to take it out, perhaps just waiting for Tom to be close enough not to miss.

The library looks empty and surely it must be this late. On slow but quiet feet he makes his way to the left side of the room, deciding to start there. Careful not to make a sound he removes his own revolver from its holster. Slowly he starts to make his way down the aisles, every time he turns a corner he knows it’s about whoever is the quickest with their trigger that will win.

By the time he’s made it down aisle three he can feel his heart beat so hard in his chest he finds himself wondering if it’s going to leave a bruise on his skin with its violent beating. Adrenaline has been running in his veins since the near contact with the automobile outside.

And then he hears it, a sound, what might be the noise of shuffling, and he starts to move with even higher awareness of the danger of the situation. Any second now he could stare down the barrel of a gun.

Before he can be a coward about it, he jumps around the corner of the shelf, gun in hand and pointing it straight at the witness.

Except it’s not him.

It most certainly is not him.

A pair of enormous and breathtakingly beautiful - but also terrified - eyes stare at him and for a second the whole world seems to stop, or crash, and Tom can’t help but feel like he’s a planet that completely unexpectedly has gotten knocked of its axis. He goes still, not just his body but his mind too. Everything just seems to stop, and Tom can not remember anytime that has ever happened to him before. All he sees is a pair of hauntingly beautiful, and vert familiar, eyes.

“I’m sorry sir, but weapons are not allowed inside the library.” Her voice is soft and even, but Tom can hear the slight tremble behind them, he can tell she’s playing braver than she feels. He knows that trick all too well. So, he lowers his revolver, but doesn’t unload it, still ready for his hostile witness to pop up, and if he does Tom will be ready for him.

“I beg your pardon, miss” he says and looks her up and down, trying to take in the rest of the woman in front of him. He’s pretty sure she is the same woman he saw at the Bugle the other night. She’s only a few centimetres shorter than he is, but then she’s wearing a pair of kitten heels. Her black pencil skirt and white blouse practically scream out respectability and woman. Around her neck hangs a thin, golden necklace with a little golden heart attached to it. A fleeting question of who has given her this pass his brain. And then there’s her hair, brown and styled in and fashionable curls.

“Sir” she says, and she sounds sterner now, a little wrinkle between her eyebrows “could you please pu-“ but before she can finish the sentence, before she can even finish her though Tom’s pushed her down on the ground, trying to cover her with his body as bullets fly around him. He swears under his breath, and he feels the librarians still body under him and he can practically feel her heartbeat. He tries very hard not to react to how close their bodies are to each other. His hyper focused mind hears her hitched breathing even above the sound of a firing gun and he sends a silence prayer to whatever god might be listening that she’ll get out of this unharmed.

The witness is far away from them, all across the hall and if it wasn’t for the fact that he didn’t want to leave this woman unprotected he would just hope for the best and rush against him, firing as many bullets as he had and if he survived this, and if Harrison found out he would just have to take his scolding later. Still trying to cover the women underneath him he raises his gun and fires. He knows the chances of him aiming right are damn near zero from here, but he wants to make it clear to the other man that he sure is not going to give in without a fight.

Still keeping his eyes on the bookshelf the witness has hidden behind he whispers to the librarian, “when I move off you, go hide behind the bookshelf, do not run for the main entrance whatever you do, but if there’s another way out, and you get a chance to leave, I suggest you fucking take it miss”. He hears a hiss of breath and then, a quiet “alright” and that is all he needs.

Springing to his feet he rushes seven meters ahead and then throws himself down behind another bookshelf. Daring to cast a look behind him he just about manages to see the secretary hide behind another bookshelf. Good, he thinks to himself, at least he doesn’t have to worry about her. And so he sprints out from the bookshelf and runs for all his might straight against the bookshelf the witness is hiding behind. It doesn’t fall, but he can hear countless of books falling, hopefully all over the man with the gun. He hears a shout of surprise and despite the situation he can’t help but smiling, the all too familiar rush of adrenalin runs through him and he jumps around the corner. However, before he can even raise his weapon something hard hits his temple and the world goes white for a moment as he stumbles over.

The other man is above him, throwing punches, hitting different places of Tom’s face with every hit. Tom tries kicking and luckily enough the stupid idiot above him has mounted him at chest level and haven’t taken his legs in consideration. One of Tom’s kicks hits the shelf and as he grabs the man's arms with his, stopping the flow of punches he sees a thick book (Dostoevsky’s The Idiot, he notices with glee) fall down and hit the man straight on the head. This time it’s his turn to stumble and Tom shake him off him with ease, but the other man quickly recovers, and lunches over him again, arms stretched out to grasp around his throat. Before he can even try to fight the bigger man off him, the loud sound of the shot of a gun echoes against the walls of the library and he stills. Then he feels it. A bright burning in his side and then, another shot.

He manages to turn around trying to make sense of the situation. On the floor lays the hostile witness, clutching his leg, where he’s clearly just been shot, and above him stands the librarian. Arms shaking as she’s clasping the gun in her hands.

For a moment Tom forgets about everything else. The mess they’ve made. The fact the police must be on their way. The bleeding man beside him. The fact that he’s bleeding too. All he sees is he terrified but impossibly brave woman in front of him.

Slowly, trying to ignore the pain in the side of his stomach, he gets up and walks over to her, arms stretched up in a gesture to show that he means her no harm, for she looks terrified to the point where she’s trembling all over. Her eyes are still fixed on the man on the ground, who’s shouting in agony.  

“Look at me” he says, and his voice is firm and calm “Hey, miss, look at me”. She does, and something in his stomach churns. Once in the woods he and Harrison had all but stumbled over an injured deer, it had had the same look upon its face then as the woman had upon hers now. But he doesn’t flinch, don’t want her to lose focus but keep it on him and not the bleeding bastard on the floor.

When he finally reaches her, he takes the gun from her still clasped hands, unloads it, and put it in its folder by his chest.

“You’ll be alright, yeah? I promise you’ll be alright” he tries to reassure her but she keeps looking at him with that utterly terrified look on her face.

“Just hang on for a second, alright?” He doesn’t want take his eyes off of her, but he knows he has to, so he turns away from her and walks over to the injured man. Leaning down over him he whispers in his ear “mate, the police and probably the ambulance are on their way. They will be here any moment. Now, listen up, alright, ‘cause I’m only saying this once. You will be a fucking gentleman about this and when the police ask what happened here you’ll tell them it was some randy bugger trying to nick your stuff, yeah? You defended yourself, ‘cause you’re a lad and all that bullocks. They won’t believe you, but they can’t prove anything else.” His voice is low and threatening and he knows he has the witness full attention. “And in return” he continues “in return, I’ll stop hunting you over this Faulcon business, yeah? I’ll go after someone else, and when I finally have enough to turn that bastard over to the police, your name won’t be mentioned anywhere, yeah?” The man looks up at him with bloodshot eyes and nods.

Moving away from him he swiftly walks over to where the other mans’ revolver got lost in the fight and he takes it, places it in the inside pocket of his jacket. Then he walks over to the librarian, who, apart from her shaking hands has not moved a muscle. She’s staring at him, but not at his face this time, but eyes fixed on the wound at his right side. It’s pretty much only graced him. It still hurts though, and a bloodstain is growing ever larger and larger, staining his white button ups to the point where he doubts he’ll ever get the red out.

“Miss, look at me, yeah?” He tried to get eye-contact with her again, because even if she’s been incredible brave so far, she looks as if she’s about to pass out “Just focus on me, I’ve got to get us out of here thought, do you know any other way then the main entrance? Some back door?”

As he’s talking he buttons up the suit jacket, effectively hiding the wound. He sees her eyes flicker down for a brief second as he does so. Then, as if she suddenly wakes up she takes a breath so deep he can’t help but to wonder if her lungs had been empty. “Yes” she then says, and he feels the immense relief over the fact that her voice sounds clear and controlled again. “It leads straight out into a back alley and then out on Gordon Street.”

He stares at her, taking her in again. Her dark hair still in perfect curls framing her, perhaps somewhat paler, face. Her back is straight, her hands still somewhat shaking. He notices her red fingertips, and no gold ring to be seen. At least he doesn’t have to deal with some unknown husband, who probably wouldn’t be too happy with him if he’d heard what Tom dragged her into.

“What’s your name?” he asks, because he has to know.

“Laura” she breath out.  

Just a first name then.  

“Well Laura” he says “let’s leave”.

He takes one of her shaking hands in his, and she leads the way out of the chaotic scene, leaving behind them a massive hall and a labyrinth of bookshelves and in that labyrinth an injured man slowly losing consciousness.

***

A/N -  Harrisons family is of course entirely fictionalised. As is everyone in this story.  

Also, my sort of face claim for Laura in this story is Gene Tierney, but imagine it as whoever you like.

[fuckyeahharryhart]

PART 3 HARRY HART FAN FICTION Because they better give him a good story for the last Kingsman. In case they don’t, I wrote something myself.

PART  3

FAN FIC

KINGSMAN III: REDACTED

MULTI PART SERIES:(My version of Kingsman 3)

Harry Hart x Original Character

Warnings: Reference to violence

Word Count: 5,000

OVERVIEW: After the events of Kingsman, The Golden Circle, Harry, Eggsy and the rest of the survivors rebuild their agency to it’s former level of integrity. A new player arrives unexpectedly, carrying memories of the past that will change the future of Kingsman.

CHAPTER SUMMARY: Gwendolyn, having played her last card, shares a drink with Harry and Eggsy while she tells them who she is, where she came from and why she was spying on them.

------

The Black Prince Public House stood on a quiet corner in South London’s, Kensington. The pub dated back to the early 20th century and its name referred to the road where it stood. The wall were painted a dark forest green with black trim. Its name was displayed in gold. It was the place to go, its sign stated, for FINE ALES AND STOUT, but the three patrons inside, seated at one of the booths at the rear, decided that something a little stronger was appropriate after the evening’s turn of events.

Gwendolyn decided this was a drink she was waiting for her whole life and, therefore, if she was going to “celebrate”, was not the right word, perhaps “commemorate the occasion” was a better term, she was going to do it properly. She had acquired a taste for fine scotch and chose accordingly. She was quite sure the two men were slightly taken aback when she ordered three The Macallan 25’s, neat, for the table. She was fairly certain that this warm, friendly, unassuming neighbourhood pub would not carry The Maccallan M Edition, or the Silver Jubilee, or the Dalmore 64.  so she didn’t inquire, but even the cost of the three glasses would be relatively extravagant. The price wasn’t a concern of hers and she was sure it wasn’t a concern of the Kingsman, whose coffers went deep. She wasn’t beyond offending any gentlemanly sensibilities this evening. They were beyond chivalry. And she wasn’t about to tolerate either of them possibly ordering for her.

The two men regarded her if she were a new species of female. She probably was. There were female Kingsman agents, but they too, followed Kingsman protocol, regardless of gender. The behaviour, actions, mannerisms of all Kingsman were consistent, familiar, reliable, while she was under no such constraints.  If her behaviour this evening was unseemly, “unladylike”, she really couldn’t give a rat’s arse. She was here for a reason and her methods got her job done. Perhaps with less grace and finesse than she was hoping for, but she got her results.

The three short tumblrs of scotch were placed in front of them. It had been a very long time since The Black Black Prince had poured not one, but three from that particular bottle. As it was custom that the host, or hostess for this matter, make a toast and she didn’t yet make a move toward her glass, the two men waited to follow her lead. So now they decide to be polite, she thought.

“Well, then.” she began. She was slightly irritated at their seemingly perfect presentation, at least on Harry’s part. Eggsy was not beyond taking a more relaxed shape and leaned back into the booth. His tie was loosened and his suit coat unbuttoned. His hair slightly mused even though he did not participate in any of the more physical aspects of their evening, as if that was its natural state. He would have shrugged out of his jacket if it weren’t for his shoulder holster.

Harry Hart, returned back to his gentlemanly demeanour, sat straight, but comfortably, his suit and tie still perfectly in place. Even his hair had somehow returned to its initial state, smooth waves brushed back into shape. It made her feel somewhat uncomfortable to see him so poised after the physical contact they had made. She had flipped him over her head, had a knife to his throat, kicked him fairly hard in the shin, and he looked none the worse for wear. Only his expression, equal parts indignant, concerned, and vaguely offended, revealed that anything of interest had occurred.

In contrast, even turning toward him was likely to throw her off balance. A feeling she did not enjoy one bit. Just her quick glance in his direction and she could feel him behind her again, pressing against her, the long line of his legs, the broadness of his chest across her back, the sheer size of him, the smell of his wool suit and the cologne, soap or whatever made him smell so good and she felt a rush of blood rise up to her cheeks. She clenched her jaw and flushed. She was hoping that they would take it for her high emotional state after their confrontation, not the fact that she found herself neatly attracted to a man she only just met and almost twice her age.

His refined manner only made her that much more aware of her own disheveled state. Her hair, a black cloud that had been blown all over, her pedestrian attire, though not unattractive, in no way matched the elegance of their Kingsman suits. No cosmetics, no adornment, not that those elements of her outward appearance were particularly important to her, in the face of their stately masculinity, she felt decidedly unfeminine. And regardless of her feelings, she knew that her looks were as much of a tool for a spy as her words or actions. She convinced herself she wasn’t concerned just because she wanted Harry to find her attractive.

Her personal feelings seeped into her professional persona. She reeled back her thoughts and replaced them with a cool, calm, collected mindset with a specific objective. If she kept her personal feelings at bay now, she could let it all out after her mission was accomplished. She drilled into her brain, be smart now, feel later.

Until she felt differently, she approached this as she would any other meeting of an asset or target. What she needed from the relationship and how could she get them to do what she wanted was just as much about finding out what they needed, and how to make it seem she was giving them what they wanted.  Almost every relationship was based on a desire to be heard and understood. Wants and needs were always self-revealed, unwittingly or intently. She just had to listen.

Unfortunately, for this first meeting, she would be the one doing most of the talking. She knew being genuine, sincere, and honest, would be in her best interest.  The more and better we are heard and understood, she thought, the more we are willing to and want to engage and respond. The sensation of being listened to was a powerful motivator and feeling enhancer to all people, it was human nature.  It was why we befriended those that listened to us, worked for those that heard us, and fell in love with those that understood us.

——

“Well” she repeated, refocusing. She shifted her posture, drew her shoulders back, lifted her head a little higher, and held the space around her. Composing herself just as she would with any new asset would put her back on target. Remember your training.

“I’m sure you have many questions.” She opened up the table.

Harry, as direct as she, got right to the point.

“How are we to trust that you are really Merlin’s daughter? He never spoke of family.”

He folded his hands together, looking stern with a slight narrowing of his eyes, his brow with just a hint of a furrow.

Harry’s eyes roved over her, her posture, hands, the angles of her face. He listened to the inflections of her voice, searching for any tells that might indicate she was being less than honest. He looked for any hint of the tall Scotsman in this young woman. The loss of Merlin was still a wound that was raw. For both he and Eggsy. He wouldn’t tolerate anyone using his death as an excuse, no matter the reason, but especially if it was a false one.

“He wouldn’t have.” She replied bluntly. “

“ How much did you know of Hamish?” She asked.

She emphasised the pronunciation of his given name. Hay-mish.

“That is, before he came to Kingsman.”

The two men glanced at each other, but did not speak. Admittedly, they did not know of Merlin’s past. He never offered, and as gentleman, they never asked. They both knew that spies usually became spies because of something dark and fucked up from their past, and Harry had no doubt this was the same for Merlin. Hence, he never questioned his unwillingness to disclose his life prior to Kingsman. Harry was the same, just as unwilling to divulge his own personal information.

Eggsy, “That doesn’t mean anything. Anyone can say that.”

Harry leaned forward slightly, emphasising the importance of his words. They were low and sharp.

“If you really are who you say you are, then you know that his loss is one that we still feel every day.”

He shot a glance toward Eggsy, who more than anyone, felt the weight of his death.

“We will not condone anyone using his name for their own motives. Have you proof?”

She surveyed them for a moment. She considered her words and chose them with care. Her words were all she had and they carried a heavy weight. They had to be strong enough to deliver the message she was about to send. He eyes moved to her drink, still untouched.  Mindfulness was key. As was paying attention to their responses, observing them with the intent to understand. Through her words, she would see how they felt, what they were thinking, and most of all, what they wanted or needed.

She cleared her throat. She met one pair of eyes and then the other.  She poised herself to say something that, to her, held the utmost honour and importance. She took a deep breath in. At the end of her exhalation, she spoke. Her voice was low as well. Her words were even more powerful for her lack of emotion.

“My father’s favorite song was ‘Country Roads.’ by John Denver.”

The entire room seemed to suddenly quiet with stupefaction.

“My father was singing it, when he stepped off of a land mine to save both of your lives. And to save your mission. For my father, the mission always came first.”

For the two men, this was an impossible statement. No one, set aside Eggsy and himself had that knowledge. Not even other Kingsman.

Harry spoke, this time with frank disbelief. He wasn’t even questioning her. He was asking himself. Out loud. Without his familiar strength and surety.

“That is impossible. There is no possible way you could know that.”

With the same poise, the same simplicity, she explained.

“I was there when he died.” Observing their state of bewilderment, she clarified. “Via satellite and reconnaissance drones.” Which didn’t ease their confusion.

“If you worked with my father, you knew he was a brilliant strategist. He wasn’t merely good, he was gifted. He had the talent of an artist. Some of that talent filtered down to me. I’ll never be as good as he was, but I was good enough to hack the communication band that Statesman had in place for reconnaissance and I had access to audio and visual of the events that led to, and after his death.”

Impossible would never have the same meaning for them again. Because this young woman’s story was utterly impossible. Yet, here it was, an impossible situation.  

She turned slightly toward Eggsy and held his blue eyes with her grey. Her voice took on an undefinable emotion, “I know that he took your place on a land mine, Eggsy.”

And with that confession, he was forced to drop his gaze. Is this how Harry felt when he had to tell him that it was due to Harry’s own mistake that Eggy’s father died? Guilt was physical. It was a crushing weight on his chest that made it hard to breathe.

“I know that he died in the way that he wanted.”

She added with a note of empathy and understanding to slightly ease their guilt and their shock.  

“He was able to give his life for those close to him.”

Neither of the men could think of anything to say. Harry Hart, who was never at a loss for words, found himself unable to find a single word that would be appropriate for a time and situation like this.

Gwendolyn sighed internally. At least now she had their full attention. She was quite certain that she would not be interrupted this time around.

“Perhaps,”  she said. Her voice now carried a softer note. It was not the voice of an agent. It was the voice of a daughter.

“Perhaps, I should start at the beginning”.

“But first.” she paused and picked up her glass, holding her arm out toward the men, the glass in her hand.

Harry and Eggsy, first exchanging a look in the other’s direction, followed suit. Each man took a glass and waited, with the warm golden liquid breaking up the lines of dim light that hovered over their table.

She suddenly felt overcome once more, as she had been when she first stepped off the train and onto the concourse on her arrival. She channeled that emotion into her toast, which was brief and heartbreaking in its simplicity.

Holding up her glass, “To my father, Hamish Mycroft.” She paused. “And to Merlin.”

Each of them held the gaze of the other two as their glasses touched with a light, crisp ring. Each drank back its contents.

——

As three glasses hit the hardwood of the table. Gwendolyn began to speak. Her story was a long and complicated one. And unfortunately, the two men could tell, it would be a sad one. An unknown daughter of a colleague that you’ve known for most of your adult life doesn’t suddenly appear after his death with good news.

“My father, whose given name was Hamish Mycroft, was married. He had three children. Two boys and a girl. I was the youngest.”

The slightly blank, yet confused faces made it seem like she had already given them more information than they could process. She paused, gestured to the barkeep for another round. The scotch would do good to kick in soon, because her story was not going to get any easier.

“Before he had a family, he worked with far east intelligence, recruited after his time in the army, where he had been stationed in Tibet, Bhutan, and other East Asian territories.”

She nodded her thanks to the barman, who delivered their second round of drinks. The scotch should have been savoured, but she felt at the time, a tip back for her father was right, even though he would have been horrified to see her shoot back a scotch of such high quality. This one however, she would sip.

“While he was working as a field operative at the station in Bhutan, he met a very beautiful Bhutanese woman, Evelyn, my mother, who was also working intelligence, but as a handler. Based on their skill assessment, they were assigned to work as a team. They would run missions together. My father as the operative. My mother, his handler. Hence, I myself am half Scottish, half Bhutanese. If you’ve had difficulty pinpointing my ethnicity. It’s not a common pairing.”

“Even though the agency opposed ‘close and continuing’, inter-agency relationships and relationships in general, Hamish believed that he could live a normal life. That he could have a wife and family despite working in intelligence. They were an example of having a successful home life in addition to a successful career and they were very happy for a long time.”

Merlin as a husband and father were the farthest roles that Harry and Eggsy could imagine him in. The brusk, often testy, disagreeable scotsman, with all the warmth of a potato, with a wife and children.

Gwendolyn continued with her story. Pausing after a long stretch for a sip of her scotch, but for the most part, continuously and without any interruption from the two men. They were both a bit stupefied that one of their closest, most respected and trusted colleagues had an entire past of which they had no knowledge.

—

Hamish was smitten at first glance. On Evelyn’s side, it was more appropriate to say that she tolerated his presence . And even that was putting things kindly. Eventually, he was able to win her over with his rough Scottish brogue, his biting sense of humour and dry wit. Underneath the sarcasm and abrupt, even gruff personality, she sensed a very kind soul who possessed a good heart. It was simply being protected by a shield designed to keep people at arms length.

Though as handler and operative, there could be no shields. There could not be even a hairs breadth distance between a team, let alone an arms length. The operative’s life was literally in the hands of the handler. If they weren’t working, existing, breathing as one, it would be only a matter of time until the operative would find himself in a position where he needed his handler, but the handler wouldn’t be able to provide. Or the agent, not fully trusting his handler, withheld crucial information, therefore setting up his handler to fail in the case where he needs life threatening assistance. These relationships often ended in the death of the operative, as he had to fully entrust not only the capability of his handler, but also fully trust the person behind his earpiece. The relationship had to be based, on not only on professional compatibility, but on a personal and emotional connection as well.  Whatever jesting nature, or standoffish front either of them first presented to each other dissolved when they were on mission. The trust was profound. It was scary to know the circumstances they had been through together and how much each of them put their lives in the hands of the other.

Their relationship was highly personal, intense, and emotional. The nature of their relationship was a powerful force behind their choice to be together and to devote their loyalties to a single agency, with a singular mission, to preserve life and to protect the innocent. However, this often resulted in taking out some very bad, very large, very powerful players off the world’s stage. When they both proved themselves more than capable individually, and even beyond exceptional as a team, they were brought on to the Maximum Threat, Maximum Risk Special Operations Division, or MTMR.

The MTMR, only dealt with the worst of the worst, and then the unthinkable of the worst. These were the terrorists, the warlords, those with enough power and influence to bypass almost any law, any treaty and any world decree. Those who would violate human rights and the rules of engagement. They were the worst of the worst, but also the lowest of the low. In their eyes, life was a commodity to be traded, abused or without value and discarded at will. This is what happened when psychopaths achieved power. Without empathy, without a conscious, without a sense of right or wrong or any moral accountability, without any value of life. These were the most dangerous and most difficult enemies to engage. Not only could they commit the most horrible atrocities, they were usually narcissists as well, dynamic, charismatic, even charming. Therefore, their inner circle was comprised of sycophants who provided his narcissistic supply. They eliminated those that were either immune to their charms, or were beginning to understand the true nature of their personality, which was that of a very highly functioning psychopath.

In this division, Hamish did not operate in the field, but joined Evelyn in strategic planning and outcomes. They worked as a team. Hamish, with his knowledge of the field as a Special Operations Officer, possessed the skills to operate weapons and explosives, to take on missions to gather intelligence and destroy targets in hostile environments. He knew the dangers, the variables, the best strategies.

Evelyn provided critical thinking.  She had the ability to predict outcomes, to make the most difficult life and death decisions without hesitation and be a leader to her team . The pair became an invaluable asset to the division. It was proof to them, when the agency acknowledged their value, not as separate agents, not as a handler and operative, but as a team, that they could be in the world of espionage as husband and wife with a family. The agency saw that their success was based on not only their expertise, but BECAUSE of, not despite their relationship. The closeness, the sheer absolute trust that they had in each other, and their love kept them committed to each other and their work. They experienced both a fulfilling family life and successful professional life for longer than anyone could hope for in their line of work.

During their successful tenure in the MTMR Special Ops, one operation took precedence over all others. They were both actively involved, not only in gathering intel, but in the entire intelligence cycle.  First, with planning, identifying possible threats and what they needed to know about the threat with world leaders and decision makers. Collection, which was the division they both began in, the physical collection of target information through operations. Analysis, examining the new information, looking for connections, key points, new developments, and combining it with what they already knew, creating useful and actionable intelligence. Lastly, was Dissemination, where the new intelligence was discussed with politicians and decision makers who then decided whether to take action or if more information was needed.

It was during one of these cycles, where Evelyn and Hamish were assigned as head officers of a mission. It was a mission that resulted from intel that their team had collected, analysed and produced. The target was an international underground world leader, not of any established or recognised government. He threatened to destabilise society. Not through government or any means of authority. He wasn’t targeting positions of leadership. He wasn’t engaging in the trickle down theory. He was starting at the bottom. First, was taking out crops, tainting water supplies, poisoning livestock. He did not bother with small areas. He targeted the largest ones. Locations with the most impact and the widest effect.  Civil unrest was next. Which turned into peaceful demonstrations. Then came active protest. Followed by violent protest. Then it was rioting, looting. And when fear took hold, it was domestic terrorism. He was using the countries own people to destabilise the structure, the foundation of civilisation, which was based on people working together.

Apparently, he was not one to follow the saying, “The fish rots from the head down.” Meaning that without sound leadership, the people will eventually turn bad and die off. When in actuality, the guts, the contents of the fish begins to rot first. Perhaps the warlord followed this philosophy. Corrupt the innovators, the providers, the creators of sustenance, essentially the life givers, and civilised society will begin to rot from, not the head down, but from the inside out.

In conjunction with the US, the British Armed Forces and other key international allies, they were able to coordinate an airstrike. It was successful in so much that they destroyed their enemies home base, their world HQ and well as almost all of their high level leadership. However, they missed their main target. Also on the strike list, was the home of Azal Aamon, which was where he was supposed to be at the time of the strike. His family, wife and two children were to be collateral damage. Unfortunate, but sometimes unavoidable in times of war. But after reviewing the DNA evidence to confirm the targets as deceased, his family was identified, but Aamon’s DNA was not found. No one had knowledge of how he was able to avoid or survive the attack. The last piece of intel that they had verified, was his location at the time of fire.

———

Inside the Black Prince, Gwendolyn paused. She reached for her drink, lifted the glass to her lips, and took a small sip. Harry saw her jaw working as she let the scotch rest on her palate, allowing it to reach all the areas of her tongue so she could appreciate its aromatic notes before she swallowed.  It was a gesture he was familiar with, one that he made every time he enjoyed his own drink, but it was especially interesting to see this decidedly, he was not a sexist in any way, shape or form, but this particularly male gesture take shape on her extremely feminine and delicate face. He felt decidedly uncomfortable. So he simply took her lead and followed suit with a swallow of his own. As did Eggsy, who was leaning forward at this point, his elbows on the table and his tie even more undone, as were the few top buttons of his shirt. Harry as always, remained properly attired.

She looked at both of them, her eyes inquiring, silently asking if they had any questions, if they needed any clarifications, to see if they understood. To confirm that they believed her.

Harry was particularly intrigued. Out of all the coincidences that seemed to be happening, he knew precisely, the mission she was referring to. The British Armed Forces did take part in the Aamon mission and he knew this because he was part of the BAF at that time.  He had been directly involved in the operations side of the mission. How was it possible that he had this experience in common with Merlin and it never came up in conversation? He thought back to the rare times where they would share stories, sometimes while waiting out a mission, or after a successful one, over a drink just like this. He recalled sharing a few stories from his time in the military, but thinking back, could not recall a single instance that Merlin even mentioned his time in the army, or anything really prior his employment with Kingsman. Harry only knew that he had been military. Out of all the possible connections that they had, one of the biggest ones that they shared remained unknown until after his death.

Gwendoyn was regarding him thoughtfully, knowing that he had made some kind of connection or realisation, but she didn’t mention it and he was grateful. He tipped his head, asking her to please continue.

“As you can imagine, this was seen as a failed mission on paper, since they did not terminate their main target. But in many ways it was a huge success. An operation of this scale, with multiple targets on the board, with international military and intelligence coordination, with minimal collateral damage, is typically unheard of, and my parents were honoured to have lead their intelligence division. I’m not sure if Kingsman participates in this particular tradition, but after high risk missions of this nature, officers and operatives, if it is feasible, are offered time off, mostly to decompress. The agency is aware that if their officers and operatives work at that level of intensity for prolonged periods of time, they will burn out. It’s not possible to sustain that level of stress at length without a chance to wind down.”

It was quiet. Gwendolyn has stopped speaking. Harry could see that she was taking time to collect her thoughts again. He wasn’t sure why she needed to. She was recalling a very complicated and personal story with an eloquence, a clarity and a dignity that he respected very much. She wasn’t just reminiscing about a story, reciting history, or a past event. Their comprehension was important to her. This wasn’t about her “getting something off of her chest”. He had the feeling that she could be very happy never having to say any of these words ever again. She wasn’t looking for support or understanding. She was making sure that THEY understood her story. It wasn’t sympathy for her that she wanted. She was looking for absorbtion  Particularly from Harry. Most likely because he had the longest relationship with Merlin. But she was fixing him with a very intense gaze that he was not quite sure what to do with.

Harry already felt a particular sadness. He knew where this story was heading. He might not know the specifics yet, but you didn’t need to be a spy to know there was no happy ending for her. Out of a family that was once a mother, a father, and two brothers, this woman was the only one sitting in front of them. His respect for her was growing with each moment. He was feeling quite sorry now, for treating her so roughly.

She picked up her story, dusted it a little, found where she left off and resumed. Her voice became detached once again, but her words never faltered.

“We were all on break. Because they both got time off, that meant the whole family was on break. It was very rare for us. For the family, for me, those times were very special.  I don’t remember many other times we had that kind of chance. Of course, outings were still agency outings. I was really too small at the time, six, but that was our life. I didn’t know any different then. But my parents, because of their positions, were at high risk for retaliation and we always had protection with us. My brothers and I had protocol, even back then. No speaking to strangers, at all. Never speaking about my parents, never offering any personal information. Never giving out my name. If we were ever to get lost, we were never to ask for them or speak their names. We had one number to call and it was not even theirs. It was the agency’s number, created just for us to have in case of an emergency. There was actually a person whose job it was to be prepared if they ever received a call from us. Very few people, and only those with high security clearance, had information about our family. We were referred to as assets. Not by our names.”

As she continued, The more emotion left her voice, the more matter of fact she became, as she became more composed, more stoic, Harry felt his sadness slowly turn into inevitable dread. He was also aware of the second mission that followed up the first air strike. He was also assigned operations support for the BAF’s involvement. He had heard stories about what had happened at intelligence HQ, but never anything confirmed. If she had been involved in that, it was worse than he thought.

------

Look for future posts :) If you made it this far, thanks for reading! Feedback, likes and reblogs are always helpful and much appreciated. If you have a chance, would love to hear your thoughts!

[bonesaldente]

Caliginous I Darth Maul x reader

Chapter 12: The Desert

read this on ao3

last chapter

chapter overview

words: 3200 +

____

“I know what you’re thinking, but my master was highly pleased with our work on Cato Neimoidia. And now that Gunray is Viceroy, we can finish one more job for them, to ensure their future cooperation.”

“But two Jedi, not to mention her own guards? It just seems like an awfully risky job.”

“They won’t be expecting me. I’ll catch them off-guard.”

“Wait a minute.” You straighten your posture that was previously slouched over, leaning on the pilot seat’s backrest. “What do you mean ‘expecting you’? We’re gonna take them on together, are we not?”

Maul heaves a sigh and turns to you.

“You said it yourself: Force users don’t fight fair - It would be dangerous for you.”

Your jaw drops.

“So you’re telling me I should stay behind and watch as you face them? Like some kind of helpless damsel?”

“I know you’re far from helpless. But they have an unfair advantage.” He pauses. “Please.”

You didn’t expect him to sound so pleading, so sincere, and the anger in you dies down, leaving room for rationality: He isn’t entirely wrong, and the fact that he obviously worries about you induces a fuzzy feeling in you.

Your scowl turns into a grimace. “I have one condition.”

He looks at you expectantly.

“You have to keep helping me practice with the lightsaber. I want to be able to at least defend myself. Just in case.”

His face relaxes again, obviously not minding the request one bit.

“We’ll have time on Tatooine for that.”

Tatooine. You’ve been on the outer rim planet only once, but one time is one time too many if you are asked.

Wearing heavy equipment makes one try to stray far from desert planets. The kriffing sand makes you slow, gets into your boots and blasters, makes your knives go dull, and it is still found inside your pockets for weeks after.

Needless to say, you are not thrilled to be flying to Tatooine.

“How much time do we have?” You hope it’s not too much. The sooner you get off that rock again, the better.

“A day or two, most likely. Depending on how quickly we’ll be able to locate them.”

You exhale audibly, praying you’ll make quick work of the two Jedi.

“So we- You kill the Jedi. Then what?”

You are slightly displeased still, having been left out of the planning, getting all information on a ‘need to know’ basis.

“We take the Queen of Naboo and bring her to Theed. The Trade Federation wants her to sign a treaty there.”

“Wonderful. Politics,” you mumble, then proceed to rub your temples. “Let me know when we arrive, I’m going to lay down for a while.” The prodding headache from the intrusion to your mind still hasn’t faded and serves as a constant reminder that your thoughts and memories don’t belong to you alone anymore. Weird; Before meeting Darth Sidious, you never really felt that way - like your thoughts would be used against you. Not even in the beginning, before you … got closer to Maul. But now, every idea, every little daydream (especially the ones surrounding a certain zabrak and his athletic body) is accompanied with a surge of embarrassment when you picture the dark lord of the sith going through your mind again.

You can only hope he won’t deem it necessary all too soon, if at all.

Maul shoots you a slightly concerned look.

“I wish he hadn’t invaded your mind like that.” He admits after a pause.

“So do I… ” Is all you say in response, scrunching up your nose. “So do I.”

*

You have hardly even stepped out of the ship and you already want to turn around and go back.

The suns are searing hot and the day hasn‘t even set completely yet, there is not even the tiniest breeze and nothing but desert safe for what looks to be a settlement in the distance, a mere dot on the horizon. You are still standing on the ramp and already feel sand settling in the wrinkles of your layered clothing.

“I despise this,” you mumble, “so, so much.”

Your companion swooshes past you, two probes levitating ominously behind him. He presses a few buttons on his wrist panel and they soar off into the distance.

“With the help of those we should be able to locate them soon. Then we can leave this place.“

“Marvellous. I think I‘ll just stay on the ship for as long as it‘s still cool inside.“

He shoots you a glance. ”You know, if you want to practice, this is as cool as it‘s going to get today.”

You groan inwardly, knowing that he is right, but also not feeling like stepping out into the desert at all.

”Probably,” you agree unwillingly. ”Give me a second and I’ll be ready.”

You disappear into the ship, gathering your lightsaber (you’ve taken to referring to it as ”yours” in your thoughts, despite the fact that it’s stolen from somebody who, too, stole it). In wise anticipation you take off your jacket, already knowing you‘re going to get a heat stroke if you wear anything over your tanktop. It’s bad enough that you don’t own any shorts, only heavy utility pants that - while much more practical and protective - get very, very hot.

 It’s undeniable that your lightsaber combat skills have improved considerably. You are starting to feel confident enough to incorporate some of the moves you learned with a sword in your fighting style, and you now have an accurate enough sense of the lightsaber to know how you can move and jump without letting the blade touch you. This changes up your technique vastly, going from awkward, shaky strikes to much more controlled, agile movements. Are you any match for Maul? No. Will you ever be? Probably not (and you can’t deny the fact that you feel frustrated that after training your whole life, there is a level you will never get to).

But will you be able to give any assailant hell?

You are certain of it.

 It doesn’t take long, however, for you to become agitated with the sand that keeps on giving in under your steps, slows you down and piles up inside your boots, as well as the heat that is making beads of sweat appear on your forehead.

Maul is executing a series of strikes that, despite you blocking them, are forceful enough for you to have to take a few steps back - and this is where the uneven ground becomes a real problem: Unaware of the deepening behind you, you yelp and stumble backwards, thankfully having the sense to deactivate your lightsaber before you fall once and for all.

As soon as your body lands in the sand, it is everywhere. In your eyes, between your toes, in your hair, under your shirt. You lie still for a moment, trying to calm the frustration, but to no avail. While pushing yourself off the ground with little grace, you are angrily shaking the hem of your top in an attempt to feel less restricted, less hot, and most of all less sandy. You kick at the sand, once, twice, as if every grain has personally done you wrong. A curse in your native language escapes your lips while you are quickly undoing your braid, trying to shake at least some of the forsaken substance out, but knowing well that you are still going to find it after multiple showers.

“I hate this!”

You kick your boots off and toss them somewhere close to the ramp. There is this pressing desire to destroy something pulsing through your veins - you need to take your frustration out on something.

“Come at me again.” Maul instructs you calmly upon witnessing your aggravation.

Now everything is boiling up, not only your hatred for desert planets but also your frustration at having to work under a ‘master’ again - feeling like somebody is always trying to control you. You don’t mind working with Maul, at all, but you do mind the fact that this Sidious is basically holding your life in his hands like a little bird; alive only because he chooses to let you live, still always ready to be crushed between his fingers. If you wanted to, you’re sure Maul would let you leave, but Sidious wouldn’t.

You allow yourself to let out your anger through jumps and hits and twirls, and the satisfying sound of sabers clashing is like music to your ears. The handle starts to feel like it’s attached to your body, an extension of your arm, the way it fits snugly in your hand and moves to your will. All inhibition out of fear of hurting yourself with the weapon fades away, and with it your ability to pace yourself - another jump, another backhand slash, your lightsabers colliding, and your energy is drained. It doesn’t take Maul much more effort to push you away.

You retract the blade in defeat, your legs wobbly with exhaustion, both physically and mentally.

Collapsing onto your knees, you exhale shakily.

“You have improved,” he remarks, stretching out his hand to help you back to your feet. “You learn fast.”

Still trying to catch your breath, you only manage to nod in appreciation of his praise. How is he so unaffected by both the heat and the physical exertion, while you are reaching the limits of your body?

A grain of sand that has snuck into your eye causes you to start blinking rapidly, rubbing your eye in an attempt to get it out. But your hands, too, are covered in sand.

“I really need a shower now.”

 The water does wonders in terms of instant anger and stress relief. It’s tempting to just stay in the refresher, where the temperature is controlled and where not everything is immediately covered in a layer of dust and sand.

But you can’t stay forever, so with a heavy sigh and in fresh, clean clothes, you open the door and reenter the ready room, surprised to find that the ramp is closed.

“Trying to keep the heat out.”

Maul’s voice from your left startles you. He is standing in the doorway that leads to the small storage space, still in the black robes he wore outside and looking like he himself is coated in a thin layer of dust.

“Oh. That’s good, that’s …” really considerate, when you think about it: He didn’t seem to mind the heat, and seeing as he was born on Dathomir, that makes sense too - but he knows you mind the temperatures. You gulp. “... nice,” you finish your sentence.

You notice water dripping from the ends of your hair, creating a damp spot on your shirt.

“Blast,” you mumble, rushing to your bag to find something to tie your hair up with.

You don’t even notice Maul is standing behind you until you lower your arms again, having thrown your hair in a lazy updo. Looking up over your shoulder, you give him a questioning look after seeing his concentrated gaze.

He catches a strand of hair that you missed between his fingers, holding it up to look at it intently.

“Your hair,” he mumbles, slowly stroking his thumb over it to feel the texture. “It’s soft.”

You never considered that the sensation could be new for him, but looking back, his hands did always end up buried in your hair whenever the two of you… got distracted. Heat rushes to your cheeks at his obvious fascination when his fingers graze the skin on your neck, but your flusteredness quickly subsides when you realize that he is still covered in dust.

You jump away from him, pointing your finger in a mock-threatening way.

“I just got cleaned up, so don’t even think about touching me.”

He flinches for the fraction of a second, then looks at you with arms crossed and mischief glinting in his eyes.

“You never seemed to mind me touching you before.”

Oh, you bastard.

You scowl.

“Well, I do now. There’s dust and sand all over you, and I just managed to scrub it all off of me.”

“If you say so,” Maul shakes his head in amusement, then proceeds to the refresher.

 With the water running again, you realize you have some free time.

“What to do, what to do…” you mumble as your eyes scan the room for a distraction.

Your gaze gets caught on an empty wooden crate that is standing in a corner innocently.

It’s been a while since you’ve done some target practice (For safety reasons you’ve decided it would be smarter not to throw knives in the confines of a moving spaceship), and that crate would make an excellent target.

Quickly you carve a small ‘X’ into the wood to replace the bull’s eye, then you place your makeshift target on a shelf to get it to a proper height.

Target practice has always been one of your favorite kinds of training. Probably, because you are good at it, and it doesn’t involve people, as opposed to sparring.

The first three throws are good and land in the center, right where you want them. For the next round, you decide to change things up and spin before throwing, giving yourself less time to aim but more momentum.

Quickly, you find yourself getting lost in the monotone practice, tunnel vision on your target the only thing that occupies your thoughts - it’s almost meditative

Time passes faster than you expect it to, and midthrow, you catch sight of Maul leaving the refresher.

Without a shirt on.

You miss the ‘X’ by a couple of inches, the blade boring itself into the very corner of the crate; the furthest you have missed it today. An annoyed sound leaves your mouth, though you can’t fully bring yourself to be frustrated with it when the reason for your miss is so well built.

You desperately try not to stare at him, though it certainly isn’t easy.

The final knife you throw hits the target dead-center again, and you mentally declare your practice session over, only now allowing yourself to look at him.

Maker, he’s attractive.

The black inkings on his crimson skin only seem to enhance the lines of muscles spanning across his torso and with the way his pants are sitting so low on his hips-

‘Don’t you dare read my mind,’ The thought is loud and insistent in your head - an attempt to protect your pride, because you would probably die of embarrassment if he knew you really found him this appealing.

To be fair, it’s been a while since you had some… alone time. You are hesitant about doing anything in the shower, because you are almost certain he’d be able to tell through your heightened emotions. But it is getting to you.

And his upper body being on display like that is not helping.

“Now that I am clean enough for you,” He takes slow, self-assured steps toward you, until he is so close that you are forced to look up to face him, his voice dropping to a rumble. “Maybe you’ll finally let me ... ”

He doesn’t finish what he is saying with words, instead meeting you halfway when you stand up on your tiptoes, lips melting together. Your hands roam over his bare torso, feeling old scars, but also raw power in the hard muscles that contract and relax under your touch.

Suddenly, he freezes.

“What’s wrong?” You breathe against his lips, sensing his abrupt unease.

“There are people nearby,” he pulls away with a frown, summoning his lightsaber and a coat with the force. “Stay here, I’ll go check the area and keep them away.”

You snatch a dagger from under your bed and place it on your belt, just in case someone gets close to the ship, while he opens the ramp and rushes off to the right, where you assume he can sense lifeforms closing in. You follow him down the ramp and stay just a few feet away from the ship, watching him cross a dune and disappear.

 It is quiet for a few minutes, whoever it was Maul felt must be far away enough to be out of your earshot.

A sudden clang from the front of the ship alarms you and you whip around, but see nobody. Cautiously, you crouch down and sneak around the ship, watching for an attacker, but the place where the sound originated is abandoned. Footprints in the sand trail the other way around the ship, meaning whoever is here could very well be…

behind you.

You catch the assailant’s hand just before it can wrap itself around your neck, twisting the wrist and forcefully throwing the creature to the ground, immediately recognizing the ghastly appearance of a Tusken Raider.

The sand person gets up before you can finish him and swings his spear your way, wildly, primitively. It’s easy to evade his attacks, and before the savage knows what’s happening, you’ve slit his throat.

The short lived fight leaves you slightly out of breath and on alert, your heart thumping fast in anticipation of another attack, but your gut tells you that this was the only danger lurking here.

“Ugh.”

You nudge the grotesque body with your foot, testing to feel its weight. The decision that the corpse is much too heavy for you to move without considerable effort is made fast, so you elect to leave it where it is and wait until Maul returns.

If it was really only the sand people, then you are not overly worried for his safety. They are brutal savages, yes, but they are not much of a threat for somebody like Maul (or you, for that matter).

 As expected, Maul’s return is fast.

“Sand people,” he utters.

“I know,” you say, gesturing to the leg that sticks out from around the corner. “I’ve had the pleasure already.”

His eyes widen in surprise.

“I did not feel the presence of one so close. I must be more vigilant in the future.”

It is evident that he blames himself for leaving you behind with an imminent threat, so you try to ease his mind.

“It was more annoying than anything else. I have faced bigger challenges than a Tusken Raider, believe me. Now, would you do me a favor and help me get rid of the body?”

He nods absentmindedly and lifts one hand, using the force to raise the body into the air while at the same time creating a hole in the ground, where the body lands with an unceremonious thud.

‘Convenient,’ you think to yourself, remembering all the times you’ve had to drag and lift bodies that by far exceeded your own body mass.

It’s around noon right now, and the sun is beating down on you two mercilessly. You are about to go back inside the ship, when a quiet whirring catches your attention.

“The probe!”

It flies straight to Maul, where it stops and starts a series of beeps that you assume are its way of transmitting information.

“We have the location of the Jedi,” Maul declares finally with a certain gravity to his voice. “Wait here. Please.”

You sigh. “You be careful, yes?”

“I don’t need to be careful,” He lifts his chain proudly, “It’s them who should be afraid.”

“I don’t doubt that. Just… come back fast, won’t you?” You can’t mask the fact that you feel hesitant to let him go on his own - that you feel worried about his safety.

“I will.” He sounds softer now, seeing your concern for him. “Until then,” he pulls you closer and presses a kiss to your forehead.

Then he’s gone.

____

next chapter

____

Reader doesn’t like sand. It's coarse, and rough, and irritating... and it gets everywhere.

I’m a sucker for throwing knives ever since I played Assassin’s creed syndicate (can you tell?). The stealth? The coolness? superb. Mwah.

This time less of a wait, though I can’t promise the same thing for the next chapter. I’m going to try to post it in less than one week, but you know how things get :,)

As always, thank you for reading and have a lovely day <3

____

@princessayveke​ @spaghetti-666​ @noiralei​ @bagpipes606 @secretnerd00

[rachelkaser]

Stay Golden Sunday: On Golden Girls

Blanche’s rebellious grandson visits, and the Girls help straighten him out. Also, we get more information about St. Olaf.

Picture it...

Blanche is upset and a wreck -- and not, as Dorothy initially assumes, because she has cellulite. Her daughter Janet is attempting to fix her ailing marriage with a second honeymoon to Hawaii, and Blanche will have to look after 14-year-old grandson, David, for two weeks. Dorothy initially grouses about having a teenager in the house while she’s studying for a French exam, but they all agree to help Blanche look after David, including taking him to see Rambo.

SOPHIA: I sat through it twice, you’ll love it. He sweats like a pig and doesn’t put his shirt on.

The next day, the girls prepare for David’s arrival, while Sophia complains about having to put up with Dorothy snoring. Blanche comes home in a panic, saying David never got off the plane. A police officer arrives with David moments later and says he stowed away on the plane while it went onto the Bahamas. David talks to the girls for a grand total of two minutes before skipping out to go hang out a burger joint, despite Blanche’s pleas for him to stay. Sophia says Blanche should have smacked him for his disrespect, but Dorothy thinks the St. Olaf story Rose was about to tell would be punishment enough.

At night, Dorothy is trying to study while Sophia goes about her very noisy toilette (which for some reason involves patting Nivea onto the backs of her hands and immediately scrubbing it off with tissues). Dorothy can’t study with the noise, so both of them turn in for the night. They argue over the amount of topical ointments Sophia’s wearing, and the hacking sounds she makes as she’s sleeping. Dorothy reminisces about how she would crawl into bed with Sophia when she was a kid and had a nightmare. They bid a fond goodnight and finally settle down.

Suddenly, loud music booms through the house, waking everyone up. They run to the living room, where David and a few other teenagers are listening to rock music on a stereo. Dorothy sends the strangers on their way and tells David to clean up. David starts to throw what can best be described as a hissy fit over not being able to have his new friends over, and starts to mouth off to all of the girls. As soon as he gets into Sophia’s face, she lands his with a resounding slap. This quickly shuts him up and sends him running from the room.

Blanche goes to check on David, who’s still reeling from Sophia’s smack. He says he wants to go home, and when Blanche tells them he can’t because his parents aren’t there, David says it’s no different from when his parents are there. He breaks down and tells Blanche how his parents neglect him because they’re always fighting, and angrily rebuffs Blanche’s attempts to comfort him.

The next day, the girls give Blanche a collected list of chores David can start doing. Blanche isn’t sure how it’ll help, but Rose and Dorothy talk about how the chores they did growing up gave them a sense of responsibility. Blanche realizes the way she raised Janet -- not having to do anything, just as she was raised -- may have contributed to David’s current behavior, and decides she’s going to make up for these mistakes by doing what’s best for him.

ROSE: Did they have chores in Sicily? SOPHIA: Are you kidding? They invented chores in Sicily. Crossing the street without getting pregnant was a chore in Sicily. DOROTHY: Rose, never mention Sicily.

One night, Dorothy catches David trying to sneak out and asks him where he intends to go and what he’s going to do. David doesn’t have an answer, but protests all the work he has to do. Dorothy accuses him of wimping out and says life is going to get a lot tougher than some chores at his grandmother’s house. David finally opens up and talks about how upset he is. Dorothy reminds him that he’s surrounded by people who care about him and he’ll always be welcome, good-naturedly negotiating a chore exchange and cheering him up.

Some time later, the girls are having dinner with David, celebrating Dorothy passing her French exam. They also toast David’s improved attitude. He says that it “hasn’t been half-bad” and earnestly asks the girls to let him live with them permanently. Sophia hustles him out for ice cream and tells Blanche to call his mother. Blanche gets Janet on the phone and says David’s so happy at her home that she’s going to keep him. While we can’t hear Janet, she naturally protests. Blanche acknowledges she can’t keep him against his parents’ will, but gives Janet a stern warning about the consequences of neglecting him further.

BLANCHE: If you and Michael don’t straighten up and given that boy the love and attention he deserves, I will kick your uppity butt ‘til Hell won’t have it again!

The girls say goodbye to David, who’s going to join his parents in Hawaii. Blanche tells him to give his parents a chance, and Dorothy reassures him that he’ll always have a place with them. After he’s gone, the girls hope he’ll be okay. Sophia, meanwhile, will be happy not having to live with Dorothy’s infamous snores anymore.

“What are you trying to do, pickle yourself so you’ll live to be 100?”

I’m swiftly going to run out of ways to say “this is the first time the girls do X” but it’s the first season, so there are a lot of first times. While this isn’t the first time we’ve seen the girls with one of their offspring, this is the first time we’ve seen them do some parenting and discuss parenting.

ROSE: I just fixed a special treat for David. It’s the same little afterschool snack I used to make for my own son: A triple-decker BLT, a hearty helping of homemade potato salad, and a great, big slice of double chocolate fudge cake. DOROTHY: Oh, where was he going after school? The electric chair?

It’s actually kind of heartbreaking that it’s in a case of child abuse that we get to see them show off their parenting skills -- but I do appreciate that they cut David some slack and get to the root of his issues. I think a lesser show would just have the rebellious teenager “learn something” from his grandma and her friends and shape up, but Blanche instead gets him to open up about the real problem, which is that his parents are too wrapped up in their own problems to take care of him -- not to mention, as Blanche keeps mentioning, his father’s a Yankee.

I mean, this poor kid is so emotionally starved he thinks his parents would be thrilled to get rid of him -- and that’s unambiguously shown to be their fault, not his. Dorothy’s little speech challenging him not to give up on the people who’re actually making an effort to help him is a believable exchange between a teenager and a teacher. Fun fact: Billy Jacoby, the actor who plays David, was 16 when this episode aired.)

While I know it couldn’t happen within the confines of the show, part of me wishes he really could live with Blanche and the girls. I’m not sure if it was not as common for kids to be raised by their grandparents in the late 80s, but it certainly wouldn’t be unusual today. Still, if anything, this is the first time we get an idea of how hands-off a parent Blanche was, and how much she’d like to make up for that -- that’s definitely something that’ll come up again later in the show. 

For what it’s worth, she strikes me as one of those people who’s a better grandparent than parent, but she does do some parenting in this episode: namely, her harsh correction of Janet, who’s too wrapped up in her own problems to take care of David. Blanche may not approve of Sophia’s more brutal forms of correction, but her going off on her daughter was no less impressive than that slap.

Now I’m gonna go on record to say I disapprove of hitting children. While I don’t have any of my own yet, I don’t believe children should be hit on the face or anywhere else as a punishment or preventative measure -- nor should anyone, if I’m being honest. However, I will say that I don’t think that’s what Sophia was doing. Her smack was more akin to when you slap someone who’s hysterical -- David was clearly whipping himself into a froth and any attempts to talk him down or intimidate him weren’t working, so Sophia administered a little… percussive intervention to bring him back down to earth.

Like Dorothy says later, it comes from a place of caring, and I think Sophia of all characters knows when something like that will help rather than hurt... melon baller notwithstanding. I do appreciate that Dorothy and Sophia’s interactions, both when they’re arguing and when they’re sharing fond memories, shows a healthy dynamic between parent and child to contrast what poor David is going through. There’s not much of a B-plot to this episode aside from Dorothy’s French exam, and much of it centers around the single scene of the two arguing in bed, but it’s by far the funniest scene in the whole episode.

Having watched all of the episodes up to this point -- and spending roughly a week over-analyzing each episode -- I think this is the first time we’ve ever gotten some true St. Olaf stories. Given that Blanche, Dorothy, and Sophia have their assigned “tasks” in the episode, the writers decided to give Rose the job of adding a little color and humor to the episode.

They do this by having Rose describe some stories from her home life on the farm, including Alice, the cow you had to milk while sitting on a stool -- as in, she sits on the stool. It’s our first indication that something isn’t quite right about the place where Rose comes from, though we only have her responsibilities as a child to go by. It’s not going to be the last time we hear about it, by a longshot, but it’s a great teaser of the sort of bizarro logic that St. Olaf runs on. And I really want to hear now what the heck happened to Alice that she had to sit on a stool.

By the way, the title is a reference to On Golden Pond, a film which also features a teenage boy bonding with grandparents -- and part of me wonders if this whole plot happened because they just couldn’t resist the reference to another well-known “Golden” thing.

Episode rating: 🍰🍰🍰 (three cheesecake slices out of five)

Best part of the episode:

BLANCHE: Is that all you Italians know how to do -- scream and hit? SOPHIA: No, we also know how to make love and sing opera.