harvestshope

[harvestshope]

This time she braces herself for a long wait. She wishes she could go back to sleep. But if she closes her eyes now, she knows what waits for her. What will maybe always lie in wait for her. In every life on earth and in the next.

I shouldn't do this makes her brow furrow. Her brain seems to be limping along like a lame horse. She reads the message twice before she registers it.

Her name.

With a sound half a gasp, half a sob, Polyxena scrambles up out of the chair, casting the blanket off on the floor. Her legs wobble when she stands, but she runs out of the room anyway. A moment later, she returns to send another quick message.

finding phone wait for me!!!!!

She doesn't spend much time praying these days. Not because she doesn't believe in the gods, or think they hear, but because her life isn't scaffolded around the temple and the altar as it once was. But when she prays, she prays to the gods she knows, and right now she prays that her brother doesn't have his phone in his pocket.

She neglects to flip lights on when she enters the kitchen. Her vision is still murky from computer blindness, but the window blinds are open over the table. As her eyes adjust once more, she zeroes in on a neat pile of paper bills, beside a ring of keys, beside the oversized block of Héctor's phone. She has never been more happy that he still has one of the biggest, clunkiest cell phones known to this century. It being here feels like him doing something for her, even if he's going to be mad later.

She's been repeating Alekos' number under her breath, hoping to commit it to memory. Murmuring, "Please, please, please," she dials.

It's Achilles.

The hum of conversation around him from the other guests seated at the café's street-side chairs turn into a roar. It washes away individual voices and noises into a single entity, which fills Alekos to the brim, out to the tips of his fingers and toes.

Achilles who ran Mestor down in the foothills of Mount Ida. Achilles with Troilos' head. Achilles spearing Lykaon by the Scamander. Achilles chasing Hektor around Troy as dust coats his throat, makes his eyes itch. The herald Achilles sent, his voice rich and reverberating in the hall as it interrupts the meal, a buzz in his ears. My lord wishes to marry the youngest of your daughters, King Priam. He will refrain from the battlefield, if so. Achilles in the distance, the metal on his chariot and tack flashing as he nears the temple of Apollo Thymbraios, for the graceful, wedding-dressed girl standing inside, next to the god's statue. Achilles, dead on the floor between statue and doorway, an arrow in his heel, arrows in his chest and back.

Achilles, Achilles, Achilles.

Always fucking Achilles. A monster still hunting - haunting - a little girl who has done nothing to deserve it. One among many, but one of the ones closest to his, to Alexander's, to Paris' heart and soul.

The roar in his head matches the fleeing drumbeat of his heart, and Alekos - Paris - can't breathe, can't see, is nauseous, but he absolutely cannot let his little sister be afraid.

Pressing a shaking hand over his eyes in an attempt to hold back the tears falling, Paris takes a shaking breath.

Fuck it.

I shouldn't do this, but we can both delete the numbers afterwards and pretend it didn't happen until Hektor can oversee. Polyxena, call me.

He includes his phone number in the message after that, shaking fingers meaning he has to erase and retype it a couple times before he even can press send.

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Expecting him to take the easy way out, not daring to hope he won't, she can't look away. Keeps burning the screen onto her eyelids.

The words blur and (blink) come into focus again. That doesn't matter. For a moment, she is reminded strongly of the Alexander who told her she didn't have to watch Hektor being dragged behind the chariot. She had wanted to watch, but that wasn't the point. It was whatever she needed, if he could help. If she would accept his help.

Tears again. She wipes her face.

ok

The dream is still sharp enough to reopen wounds. She doesn't know what she can say to dull the edge.

it's achilles. he's always there. everyone else is gone but he's still there and i'm running and i can never get fast enough

That is not 'I'm fine now' (whether that would be true or not). It also isn't 'I don't want to talk about it'. That's 'I want (maybe need) to talk about it but it involves something you don't like'.

There's any number of things he could send in response. So many easy things, gently stepping away from even this oblique mention of a topic they've not touched since the first few weeks. It's very, very tempting, because he doesn't want to hear about it, doesn't want to have to acknowledge---

But the thing is, Alekos has plans for what he wants to do after his lyceum graduation, and one of them involves the possibility of telling Xiomara to bring her brother in and talking of maybe visiting. And if he does that, if he takes that step, then... then he has to admit why he wants to do that.

Why it'd be worth it to go halfway across the world to meet some random little girl and her older brother.

But far more important right now is that they're having a moment of chatting back and forth at a time of day they usually wouldn't. Because Xiomara is up way, way too late. Because she'd had bad dreams.

That doesn't matter. Tell me anyway, if you want, or need to. I'm here, okay?

Alekos' thumb trembles briefly as he presses send, because having said that, he knows where this will end up. And he doesn't... really want to, still. Especially when a couple days ago he dreamed of warm dust swirling in the air, of his brother hurling insults at him and yet he then agreed to face a man he knew he couldn't defeat.

He doesn't want to think about it. Doesn't want to admit it means anything at all, because if he does then Xiomara's Héctor will probably tell him no. And why shouldn't he?

But he can't let his little sister suffer after her nightmares without trying to do something about it. And the message is sent now, anyway.

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celebrating my birthday thinking about Him

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🫴 // for Hardison

"Naw, but you sure I can't just keep making people so afraid of being racist that they let me go? 'Cause the shame-based approach is working for me so far."

She seems determined to push him outside his comfort zone. It's a perfectly sized comfort zone! It comfortably fits Alec Hardison and his computers! What he thinks is, Sophie is spending too much time critiquing his (only) grifting technique and not enough time doing... whatever it is she does in her free time. Hobbies are important, people.

But she tips his chin up, and he obeys because he can't quite help it, straightening his chronically-online posture.

"Ohhh, you think I'm not classy enough for this one. Is that it? Something on my face?"

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🫴 / eliot for hardison

He isn't sure what happens first, him opening his eyes, or Eliot holding his face, turning it so he's not breathing in dust on the ground. Despite hazy vision, he knows the touch is Eliot's, because he's also saying Dammit, Hardison...

(Like he detonated the bomb. Hardison did not detonate the bomb, thanks. He did not want the bomb to detonate. When in doubt, assume he prefers to be unexploded.)

He coughs. Gotta find his voice. Gotta say something.

"Hey, 'm aight. 'M awake."

As his vision clears, there's Eliot, barely an inch away, presumably searching for signs of concussion in his eyes. If they're at that stage already, he must not be bleeding anywhere serious.

Or maybe Eliot's just worried. Too scared to look away.

Hardison lifts a hand. (Hands working! Fingers not crushed. That's good. Save his career that way.) He finds and grips a forearm that's all muscle. Goddamn this man is strong. The arm isn't shaking as it supports him. His hand isn't shaking as it holds on tight.

"Are you gonna make eyes at me all day, or—" In complete faith that Eliot can and will— "Is it time to get us outta here?"

[harvestshope]

The Weekend in Paris Job (S03E01) LEVERAGE: REDEMPTION (2021—)

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i liked the leverage redemption s3 finale a lot but it is sooo funny that they didn't follow up on hardison's crisis at all

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She flinches from the flicked water, but only from reflex. His gesture is very brotherly. Her heart aches for Troilos so much. She didn't think it could hurt that much and she could still smile.

"It—would be funny, though," she says, not really expecting to convince him. Funnier than making them drink. Maybe she could get them close enough to splash.

It would surprise them for certain. Troilos was the one who thought of all the jokes; she has heard herself described as a serious child more times than she can count. Maybe she just wants something else foundational to be broken.

But if it's a blessing, she ought to accept the gift. She cups water in her hand and raises it to her mouth. Then waits to find out how she's supposed to feel.

She looks so serious and so doubtful for a moment, the contrast to her wide-eyed gasp is as night and day. The smile is more of a reward than he was expecting he might get as a reaction.

"Why would I put one there?" Ganymede asks, but as soon as he's voiced the question he understands very well what Polyxena means with it. He shakes his head. "I don't think that'd be a very good idea, though. Everyone is used to what that space looks like, how and where they can run across it - besides, if you'd like them to believe you, just ask them to drink."

Teasingly, he flicks water at Polyxena, but only so far up as to have the drops land on her arm. A distraction, hopefully - he really doesn't feel like drawing attention to the need to keep the courtyard as it is and always have been for war-related safety reasons.

"The other water around here might come from the hot or cold springs, and especially having warm water so easily accessible made bathing an ease, I sure appreciated. The water from this little spring, however, will make you feel good. Like the blessings nymphs give the land around which they live."

His mother, as well as his river god grandfathers, had been so very proud when he'd found out he was now not just capable of creating springs, but that the water in it came with same sort of blessing she might give through her water. She'd called it a fertility blessing, and that had been... kind of awkward. Ganymede had settled on calling it a life blessing, because there was no proof the spark of refreshing energy and everything had anything to do with literal fertility.

Just as well, otherwise he'd feel even more awkward making this spring for his little niece and then inviting her to drink.

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where the hell is zoe: a guide.

@whinedarksea : absent father, con artist, career backstabber. homer's odysseus.

@harvestshope : you are here. multi. mostly the polyxena show at the moment but you know, theoretically other things too.

@thrownsoul : librarian, superhero, best girl in the world. blue beetle oc, but you don't have to know about blue beetle.

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the urge to create dr who ocs out of spite is so strong rn. sighs

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havana rose liu sylphrena. yeah

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Send 💃 for our muses to dance together.

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happy pride from my bis, my lesbians, my aces, whatever death is, and i guess hektor is also here though whether he can said to be an "ally" is up in the air

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may i present : baby Polyxena

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Something much older than Xiomara takes over her body. She knows she doesn't need to question the order. That something, which watched a war creep closer and closer from a high wall, until it slipped through to the other side, becomes very quiet. A semblance of calm. She walks as straight as she can, making up for her height with a sense of purpose.

But she stumbles a little, descending from the bus to the pavement. The instinct to run prickles at her. Running has saved her life before.

I'm right behind you. She's heard that before, too.

She reaches blindly behind her and, by some miracle, finds her companion's wrist. "Don't let me lose you. It's following us."

Then, as another thought occurs, quick with dread, "Us. Or one of us. Probably me. I don't know. I'm sorry."

NAHIA CAN ONLY tear her gaze away from the intruder to stare dumbly at her seat mate. Clearly, she isn't the only one who can see this horror, which prompts Nahia to scan the entire bus to see if anyone else is having the same reaction. But the footballer who goes to her school is still scrolling his phone, and the two girls in her younger sister's class are still giggling at a magazine. Their ignorance paints a brutal background.

"Yeah, I know." Nahia's gaze has returned to the horror moving towards them, and despite the open fear on her face, her voice remains steady. Yes, it makes sense. No, she doesn't know how. She pulls at the girl's elbow. "Come on. We have to get off."

Sure enough, as the two girls pick their way through people carrying groceries and tourists clutching their backpacks, the creature's not-eyes pinpoint directly onto them, and a jolt of fear pins Nahia's spine like a cold metal rod. She keeps moving. She doesn't need to look at it to know that it will follow them. When they get to the open door, Nahia pushes a hand into her new companion's back, prompting her to exit first.

"Don't worry. I'm right behind you."

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She can only tell the truth. She can't make him talk to her if he doesn't want to. If he doesn't want to think about it.

If he doesn't want to be her brother again.

That's what she braces herself for, though it gives her a shivery tremble in her chest. The waiting dots appear and disappear. Appear and disappear. She can feel herself drifting off again and white-knuckles the arm of the chair. When she blinks, there's a square of white light behind her eyelids. Which is better than seeing the monstrous helmet and armor and blood that was Achilles.

When she opens her eyes again, there's a surprising question.

It didn't cross her mind to want to talk about it. He's probably not really asking.

u don t want 2 hear about that stuff

Bad dreams.

Alekos stares at his phone screen, the words repeating in his head, growing louder the longer he sits there. He can't feel the thick warmth in the air, and his fingers grow numb enough he has to clutch more firmly onto the phone lest it slip out of his grasp. Not that it'd have fallen far, just down onto the metal tabletop of the café table, but the idea of the clatter of metal-on-metal suddenly makes him sick.

He's being stupid.

He's not the one who had bad dreams, for god's sake! And poor Xiomara is waiting for a reply, right now when she undoubtedly needs such to not take time. Taking a breath, Alekos still hesitates over the touch keyboard, finger hitting one or another key several times.

He has the burning urge to just dive off straight into another topic entirely, because surely she'd want to be distracted! But. Doing that without asking, would be just as good as giving the impression he doesn't give a shit.

He does. He's just--- afraid.

Which is stupid. He's not the one who had a bad dream.

Those dots have dropped away and popped up far too many times, now; he needs to actually send something.

Do you want to talk about it, or would you like me to distract you?

Briefly, he wonders where her older brother is, because surely Héctor is much closer than he. But the fact that she took the chance to reach out to him first? instead? warms Paris' limbs back up from the earlier chill, even if it doesn't chase it away entirely.

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lack of understanding is not a lack of love. not always. - Leia to Luke!

"If I could explain it in a way you would understand, you know that I would do it."

He eyes Leia as steadily as he watched Vader's funeral pyre burn, despite the smoke stinging his eyes. She has made her feelings very clear. She does not forgive, and she will not mourn for Anakin Skywalker. Whereas Luke can't stop.

He has no desire to stop.

"But I won't ask you to talk to me about him. Not if you don't want to."

He was our father.

If that is not true to her—Luke reaches out with his right hand, his cybernetic hand, to touch her elbow, to accept this—then still, there is another: We are a family. You are my sister.