mangowright

[mangowright]

I made it through April, May, June; it seemed I had outsmarted grief but pulled the hanged man card repeatedly—the self-same sorrow said a different way.

— Maya C. Popa, from “Signal”

[mangowright]

I try to find you, yet you are not here. / I’ve studied absence, fought to fill it in—

— Denise Riley, from "Hiding in plain sight," Say Something Back & Time Lived, Without Its Flow

[mangowright]

can i request "wait, don't go, please.." for j/7?

think of this as something vaguely set around post-one (4.25)

she must’ve fallen asleep. janeway knows–feels this in a way her neck feels stiff, yet it’s awfully strange how her right arm felt numb and there seemed to be a significant weight keeping her from rising to her feet. there is a blinding source of light that keeps her from proper wakefulness and forces her to lazily slump her one free arm to the side

“computer, what time is it?”

it is now 0200 hours. wait, if it was 0200 hours—

(janeway faintly recalls inviting seven for a dinner-slash-picnic on the holodeck she’d asked tom for help with–somewhat an exact replica of her home in indiana, complete with the farm and all. her intentions were to introduce seven to her life on earth—particularly because the social lessons the doctor had been giving seven, were at most, mediocre and if not….too city-like for janeway’s preferences. seven deserved to experience both worlds.

tom paris had outdone himself with even incorporating just the exact smell and feel of indiana weather, something seven found to be peculiar. janeway had gone so far to encourage seven into replicating some clothing that would be comfortable and less restricting—what she did not calculate for was the choice that seemed to have enticed the younger woman.

it was a flattering sun dress—even more so on seven— complete with the sandals and hats. seven had replicated one for her too so they walked around with matching hats. janeway couldn’t help but feel underdressed—merely clad in a cardigan, jeans, and a pair of boots.

eventually, they reach the nook. by the time they were done with the affair of eating, janeway had chosen to lay down–enjoying the breeze and the temporary illusion of home. she recalls hearing seven chuckle at her futile insistence to take a 15-minute nap only.)

it takes her a while to get acquainted to the light, the tree she’d tactfully placed the nook under was finally serving its purpose. she supposed it had just been her body feeling too comfortable—until she looks that someone had certainly made themselves comfortable but not her.

seven seemed to have fallen asleep right next to her and cuddled closely for warmth. a logical explanation. to assume, otherwise, or to consider any other explanations would be going off on a tangent.

janeway struggles to move out of the ex-borg’s grasps. seven only clings tighter, pulling her in closer by the waist.

“don’t go…” it was a faint whisper followed by the unmistaken twitch of seven’s eyebrows. “please stop fussing, captain.” she doesn’t open her eyes, chiding janeway with merely a furrow of her brows.

“okay, what would you have me do, since you’re so comfortable now?”

“i am trying to commit to my memory the way your heart beats.”

“seven, am i to assume you have been doing that for what… the past two hours?”

“no,” seven’s embrace becomes tighter on her. it was not unwelcome. janeway wasn’t just certain if this was her last day on the world of living and someone out there was looking out for her too much. “it would be amiss to lie to you. i have fallen asleep at some point. but as you’d woken up, so did i.”

that was an answer. janeway got it. she just does not know what to do with it along with the overwhelming reality of a sun-dress clad seven of nine, comfortable in her arms.

“how soon will you be done ‘committing the way my heart beats’ to your memory?”

“five more minutes.”

[mangowright]

can i request a prompt from the hurt/comfort list for j/7? <3

set vaguely around ranger!seven time: "there's nothing you could have done" janeway did not need a medical tricorder to assess how terribly injured her ex-borg was. the bruises and the lacerations spoke for any speculations about what hell seven could have crawled out of. any remnant of consciousness in the blonde seemed to have been working towards homing her soul back to safety.

she’s alive. janeway thinks–almost persuading herself. she’s alive and incredibly stubborn. seven carried a weight unbearable and impossible to get rid of–the inability to forgive herself which always ends up in her repenting and bleeding on janeway’s doorstep. the older woman knows only seven could help herself–so she does the second best thing, care for her. only this time around, they had traded their 2 am philosophical debates for 4 am ‘i hope you are home because i am bleeding at your doorstep’ conversations.

either way, janeway’s door was always open to seven.

“if you’re going to tell me off, ” seven starts, when gentle fingers are done passing over her split lips and janeway is looking less angry at her predicament. “there’s nothing you could have done about it…”

i wasn’t going to let you resign your commission for my sake.

it was always a layered conversation between them. even when janeway is hyperfocused on tending to her wounds and all seven could do is feel. guilt and shame. she feels like time had pulled her back in voyager. conversations where she’d inadvertently fish for confirmation of her assumptions–that she’d disappointed janeway, broke janeway’s faith on her—that she had failed janeway.

“i know.” arguing with seven about the rangers had been a moot point–at least that’s how janeway looked at it given that seven is a straightforwardly stubborn individual. so she observes instead–keeps tabs on where seven could be, in official and at an unofficial capacity. because it’s convenient–it also helps janeway remember to refresh the stocks on the safehouses she’d shared in confidence with seven.

“promise me this, darling,” the healing hands stop hovering above her bruises—and her breath hitches. seven had come prepared with a whole argument and there was not going to be any. “don’t force my hand to drive another ship through a binary pulsar to get to you, okay?"

[mangowright]

Prompt from the list Protective

so i used random gen to get the number and it gave me number 23 "are you alright?" (and without a doubt, j7)

same phrase. same person. scattered across time yet it catches seven in surprise each time. this time around, it left her with little breath in her lungs–something was keeping her upright, or instead someone was. her regeneration cycle was interrupted–that much she could put together.

what did not quantify was how she’d ended up in captain janeway’s arms–embrace more like it, hands holding her firmly, despite the staggering height difference. she’d instinctively clung on janeway’s arms with little desire to let go as the redhead scans her face, worry furrowing her eyebrows together.

her last memory of having been around janeway was during their lunch together. unless her memory has been tampered with, there was no logical reason on how she’d ended up in her captain’s capable arms.

“your vital signs were fluctuating. what happened in there, seven?”

“i..i do not know.” that was as good as a conclusion she could reach. it felt pathetic that was all she could offer but janeway is always gentle with her, beyond reason. her body temperature did not feel normal at all. maybe this was what b’elanna called “payback’s a bitch”, after all, seven (along with janeway) had been party to locking the chief engineer out of her turf, due to possibly the same sickness, seven was suffering from.

“do you think you can beam to the sick bay right now?”

seven shook her head. every system in her body did not appreciate the idea of being suspended in thin air and rearranged like a puzzle. janeway immediately responds, steadfast, letting her hands circle around seven’s waist and gently guiding her down in a sitting position, seven still cradled against her.

“i’ll ask the doctor to make a house call.” janeway presses abruptly on her combadge. “my ex-borg has come down with a fever too.”

maybe it was the fever fogging her rational mind–or simply the fever at fault on why seven becomes redder than what’s plausible for a human being.

“captain, won’t you be in trouble for…having me in such proximity?”

“consider this,” janeway leaves hypnotizing strokes on seven’s scalp, she didn’t even notice the older woman had undone her updo. “if we both get sick, we won’t have to argue about each other overworking anymore.”

[mangowright]

[mangowright]

ACADEMY PHILINDA cause why not -- " She is cunning and clever as hell. "

“She’scunning and clever as hell.” His roommate, John Garrett, sat beside himby the mats, watching fellow cadets spar with one another. There was not acorner of this room they sat in that had not been touched by sweat. Every agentwas required to have some sort of combat training regardless of their division,for their own good, at least. Phil watched, the sudden bleak in the atmospheregetting to him. He only ever watched one person—and it was not because he fanciedthe said person, it was because…well he was simply enthralled.

Theirbatch knew who are the prominent recruits, hell, he’d even gotten on thatlist, people would laugh at you if you didn’t include Melinda May inyour list. He’d go overboard and say she was just…phenomenal. When shefought, she fought. Phil wondered if fighting was supposed to look asgraceful as she executes it like so, yet the precision of her blows and theintentions on her movement were simply nothing but baser instinct.

Melindahad fancied him as her sparring partner a couple times, he’d outright told hernot to pick on him, getting defensive all of a sudden when in reality hewas just in awe that she even saw him. She threw him to the mats in mereseconds.

“Youhave a unique way of thinking, Coulson. Unique is a challenge and challenges arefun.” Then she puts her hand out to help him stand right back onto hisfeet. He took it willingly, his admiration only heightening especially whenshe’d smiled at him. Her dark brown eyes twinkled and her hands, forsomeone so well-trained in fighting, he was taken aback by how soft they were—

Garrettsnapped his fingers right in front of his eyes, startling him out of hisreverie.

“—Andout of your league, Phil.” Garrett shook his head in his direction. Philonly turned away, trying to wave him off but feeling absolutely abashed hisfascination is so blatantly obvious. He liked to think he had a greatpoker face.

“Imean, I just, she’s great—”

“Who’sgreat?” You. Phil would say, if the confidence in him was on par withGarrett’s bolstering ego. Instead he swallowed his words, his attentionredirected back to Melinda. “—Get up, Coulson. Let’s spar. I’ll teach you amove that’s good for your form.”

Hewas no petulant child, Phil had simply gotten up—letting Melinda pull him up tohis feet—but not without promptly turning to Garrett’s direction, he didn’tstick his tongue out but it was their equivalent of it. Garrett justgave him the middle and shook his head at him in laughter.

[mangowright]

homesick wonders [philinda]

series : agents of shield pairing:  Phil Coulson/Melinda May summary: Coulson misses May. He just hasn't reached that conclusion yet. Set between season 3 and season 4.

also posted at AO3

“Sir, who likes drinking green tea in the old band?”

“May.”

“What are you drinking?”

“Green tea.”

Mack waits for the penny to drop. He waits for five, ten seconds, thirty even until it doesn’t and all he gets his Coulson throwing his hands to the side as if asking what was the problem with it. He shakes his head once again, puts his mug in the sink and takes one look at Coulson again. And he leaves.

i.

“Hey, Mack. Do we still have green tea?” He’s puttering around the kitchen in Zephyr One. Not as homey as the one on their Bus (their—his and May’s—bus), but it’s useful nonetheless. He’s been craving green tea for reasons he couldn’t explain for the past two weeks they’ve been off-base.

Green tea also made him feel less anxious.

(Made him feel less—alone.)

He supposes chamomile does that too but, green tea.

“Check the upper cupboard, sir.” Coulson stops himself from turning around to chide Mack for the honorary term. He was not Director anymore, hence, no need for the sir. But he’s been saying it over and over again for the previous days and he was sure Mack would have his head already. So, he neglects the chiding look and nods, says his thanks and points his attention towards the cupboard.

He nearly jumps in excitement when he sees that they do still have green tea. Of course, it came out in a strained yet happy tone, muttering ‘yes’ to himself before his bionic arm picks it out of the cupboard. Mack is lounging, living on coffee, he was on his third cup, Coulson thinks, it’s a diet May would kill him for.

(Eat properly on Z-one, Phil. He could still hear her voice. If he was being honest, she was the voice inside his head, keeping him grounded. The feeling lingers, and he knows he can’t go there. This was enough. He had to settle, not with everything that happened. He can’t let himself feel this now.)

As he’s preparing his tea, attempting to be elegant and graceful about his movements, he sees Mack looking at his general direction, shaking his head.

“What?” Coulson asks, he truly didn’t know why Mack had that incredulous expression written all over his place. He was only making himself tea. Was it because he wasn’t drinking coffee, for the first time in ages?

(May loathed coffee.)

“You’re drinking tea, Coulson. We’ve only been out for two weeks.”

He cocks his head to the side, what was Mack getting on? “The point is?” There’s an expert grace when he pours the scalding water to his mug, the waft of green tea filling the room. It smelled like home.

Mack chuckles. “Please, Coulson, you know what I’m talking about.” He notes in his version of conspiracy tone. Sometimes, he didn’t miss Daisy at all (but he does, he does miss Daisy a lot. And he’ll get her back. They’ll get her back.) because of Mack’s tendency to be a running mill of crazy theories too.

“No, I do not.” Coulson takes the seat across from Mack, mug in hand, unknowing of where the conversation is heading.

“You really want me to say it?”

Coulson sips on his tea. “Yes, I really have no clue what you’re talking about.”

Mack stares at him intently for what seemed like the longest of times. Coulson kept his furrowed eyebrows still, almost adjoining in his forehead.

Suddenly, he asks. “Sir, who likes drinking green tea in the old band?”

“May.”

“What are you drinking?”

“Green tea.”

Mack waits for the penny to drop. He waits for five, ten seconds, thirty even until it doesn’t and all he gets his Coulson throwing his hands to the side as if asking what was the problem with it. He shakes his head once again, puts his mug in the sink and takes one look at Coulson again. And he leaves.

“Odd.” Is all Coulson notes from the whole exchange. Maybe he should read the Captain America comics that May stuffed in his bag when he had to leave all of a sudden. He gets up promptly and opens his bag. He smiles. It was his favorite issue too.

  ii.

They touchdown base. This was a short stop. Z-One needed a refill. Still, it doesn’t stop Mack from seeing Coulson zoom past him as soon as the cargo bay opens. His gaze follows Coulson, currently unaware of everybody’s gaze as he runs towards the strike team commander.

May.

They’re talking about something. They always were, Mack notes in his head. And then Coulson’s hand lands on May’s shoulder, a friendly pat. No…wait, friendly pats don’t linger that way. If someone were to ask Mack about Coulson and May, frankly, he’d tell them to bite their tongue. He has no answer for them. And even now, as he was watching this display in clear sight, not only does he have an answer, he’s even more confused.

He sees Coulson beckoning for him and May nodding her head once at his general direction. Mack gets up, now he has to go to their bubble where you could physically cut the tension in the air.

“Hey, May. Looking good.” May scoffs at him, a kind one. They all know each other better now.

“Not so good. If I hadn’t noticed, she would still be throwing down rookies with a bruised rib.” Coulson chides May in a way that surprises Mack. He sounded…mad.

“I’ve had worse and you know it, Coulson.”

And Coulson was apparently Coulson to May today. Mack almost smirks to himself, this should be interesting.

“I’m sure May can take care of herself, Coulson.” He takes May’s side. Her good side. In such a kissing ass manner that May might kick him for it. He wouldn’t mind really, just to see the look on Coulson’s face. If curiosity killed the cat, then curiosity is May.

May looks a bit impressed when he takes her side. Gloating, even, at Coulson. She doesn’t chide Mack for taking her side but instead revels on it.

“Mack knows what he’s talking about.”

“Did you even put warm pressure on it yet?” Coulson seems to disregard the whole conversation happening and the odds not being in his favor. His hand hover over May’s arm gently, and Mack’s certainly not oblivious enough to not miss the look May gives Coulson when he steps into her personal bubble.

Who was Mack kidding though, even May’s personal bubble was something she shared with Coulson.

“Well, I’ll leave you two here, I’ll go over inventory again.” Mack’s not even certain they heard him bid his farewells. The last thing he sees is Coulson and May walking inside the base, probably on the way to medical with the way Coulson has one hand hovering over May’s back. Probably to apply that warm pressure for the bruise.

A load of confusing bullshit it was, at least, that’s Mack’s opinion. First thing Coulson does when they land: check on May.

  iii.

“Phil. You’re being stupid again.”

Mack overhears from the cargo bay. May’s voice. It could only be Coulson calling her.

“But, May, it’s the only way and you know it—”

“I am not hearing the end of this, Phil. You know, you can’t, we can’t—”

Mack’s eyebrows furrow at that, his attention currently shifted to the conversation. He really shouldn’t eavesdrop.

“But we have to get her back, Melinda.” The name sounded so soft whenever Coulson said it. Such a light tone to fall off one’s lips for such a lethal force of a woman. There’s silence and it somehow lulls Mack back into doing his work, his tinkering, honestly.

“…I know. But we also need patience…you know how it goes….”

Mack pretends he doesn’t get that part. And if he was being honest, he really didn’t—he only knows what he read, and what he read sometimes cannot be trusted but he knows it cost May greatly—of her humanity and of her conscience.

“…I do.” He hears Coulson note weakly, his voice suddenly tired and hopeless.

“I trust that you’ll get our Daisy back, you know that, right?”

Our Daisy. Their Daisy. It wasn’t far-off, to the civilian eyes they’d passed off as family. Mack even made a mistake of thinking it his first time around.

“I do.”

“Get some rest, Coulson. Go drink the chamomile I stuffed in your bag.”

“You’re amazing.” If this was heard by anyone else, some rookie agent would’ve been fooled into thinking these two were in a relationship. Married isn’t such a farfetched notion too. Mack chuckles to himself, knowing if he was in the cargo bay, Coulson would have that helpless puppy eyes at the tablet screen.

“Get out of my screen, nerd.” And he doesn’t know May as much as Coulson does, but Mack knows well enough she’d be waving him off with a scoff, the scoff reserved for Phil Coulson, though. He’d classified that in his head, caught it a couple moments.

Honestly, he’s a well of speculations about these two. Maybe Elena would care to share hers and then they could both have May haunt them and kill them in their dreams.

  iv.

It had been 4 months and 7 days that Daisy had been gone. He was counting. All the members of the old band were. Mack had missed the kid and her bubbly personality. The space felt empty. Utterly empty. He’d only seen glances of her, in the tv, and in the field, in their pursue of her.

None of them would say the obvious words. They missed Daisy.

This mission, this encounter they were so close. So damn close. But Daisy had to be smart, had powers, had options to get herself out even when they were close. She didn’t even give them a second glance. She ran.

It was also the first time he’d heard Coulson curse so hardly under his breath.

They needed to debrief, so they go home. Their base, infiltrated by strangers legally kept by the government to govern over their asses. He should call Elena as soon as he touches down, after debriefing.

He stands in the same line as Coulson, making the most neutral expression as Mace runs his mouth again and again about another one of their failed attempts to capture Quake—Mack grits his teeth at that—the title is dehumanizing the most human person he’d ever met. Coulson seemed cool in the exterior but that many missions with him, Mack could tell his tic. Clenched jaw and clenched fists. Sometimes, he noticed his bionic hand with streaks of light when clenched tightly.

They part after debrief. At least that was the intention, they both end up going in the same direction. Same direction where May was and it only took her one look on Coulson’s face to go heading down the corridor. Mack’s room had been there too—so if anyone were to blame him on his sudden stop on one of the rooms that had the door opened slightly—well not a soul ever occupied the room, as much as to his knowledge.

He’ll speak to no one about how Coulson had just crumbled into May’s arms. He’ll speak none of the way May had just let Coulson found security in her comfort. He didn’t look for much longer than ten seconds before it felt like he was invading their privacy—Mack understood the feeling.

So, he went, retreating to his quarters, seeking Elena’s voice and comfort.

  v.

This is his fifth voicemail. Well, it was a tradition. A tradition well-kept in the depths of his mind and something he made sure to make time for, lest an already worried soul would eventually be exhaust from worry. It was one of the days his worries about Daisy fleets and gives him peace, so he’s in a much lighter mood, feeling less of the weight of the world on his shoulders.

Before he even gets to start on his rambling, his phone rang and flashed the user ID of the person he didn’t mind calling the most.

“Sorry, I just saw like your fourth voicemail after training.” He missed this voice, post-training which was code for post kicking all the rookie asses and her not sweating a tiny bit.

“It’s fine, May. How’s it going down there?”

“There is nothing going on here and it is killing me.” He doesn’t miss the grumble that escapes Melinda, and he laughs. He laughs not at her frustration but at the undertone of impatience under her voice.

“I hope you didn’t break anyone’s bone today?”

“Hey, that was one time.”

“Only because the cadets wear twice as strong armor when they train with you now.”

“Don’t be a smartass, Coulson.”

Coulson chuckles, that was a long time coming.

“Anyway, did you even notice the bag I threw in the plane?”

“Yeah—you put my favorite Captain America issue when I thought I forgot it and I think I just ran out of chamomile, thank you, I get very anxious when you’re not the one flying the plane I’m on.” He hears her chuckle. “Apparently, Mack finds my pacing annoying. Who would ever say that?”

“I would, because it is annoying.” Coulson could see her rolling her eyes at him right now. “—you owe me a lot, nerd.”

“I fear for the day you come collect.” He says melodramatically into the call, earnest in hearing May laugh again. And she did. And maybe that’s enough for him. Enough to not miss home that much.

“You better.” There’s a pause and then he hears shuffling. “Shit, where are you about to land?”

“Uhm…Beijing?”

“Perfect. I need tea.”

He could never refuse her. And even if his Mandarin was shit, somehow, he’d get it. He was persuasive after all.

“Phil?”

“Y-Yeah, sorry, I was just thinking.”

“One could wonder.” He rolls his eyes at that. She never let that go. “Come back, okay? I need my tea.”

It was May speak for, I miss you but I’d miss my tea more, Phil. And it’s enough for him.

“Yeah, I know.”

I miss you too. But he’s certain she doesn’t hear it.

  vi.

Coulson doesn’t chide himself when every time they land, he finds his eyes searching for a tiny Asian woman in the crowd. Then again, there was no one else whom his eyes would rather see. It was the worst kept secret in S.H.I.E.L.D., he remembers Maria saying to him. He waves her and the whole notion of it off.

Every day makes it feel a little bit more real.

Especially when he barely has to make any effort to find her because she always finds him.

Maybe he forgets the rest of the world then, forgets the grief they share at the moment, the loss—because this is what his second chance was. Coming back home. Something he was not able to do then. He thinks she sees it too, know the whole worth of it, because she doesn’t shy away from him anymore. Doesn’t shy away from them anymore.

He smiles. A syrupy smile one, he remembers her saying at one point, and she doesn’t brush it off and instead returns her own version of it. Training would always be taken over by Piper whenever he arrives, that was kind of the routine they found. And then sneaking into one of the empty unused secret rooms in the base. It sounds juvenile. But it had been their space, before all this legalizing and Sokovia Accords had forced them to shed their skin into the light.

No one had said a word about it. Honestly, they don’t even think anybody knows.

Melinda had already opened a bottle of scotch for the two of them. She always knew. She takes the seat beside him, two glasses of scotch in hand. On the rocks too. He lets her invade his space, one arm spread on the back of the couch as he turns the television on, absentmindedly.

They had days, nights like these in the academy. Though, they were much more naïve then, unknowing of the horrors the life they’d chosen had put them through. Cold, unkempt safe houses with nothing but macaroni and a broken heater. Some days were lucky. Most days were otherwise.

Today was lucky. And if Melinda invades his space just a little bit more, he lets her. He lets her know he’s still alive. He lets her know he came back and that he’s with her. He holds onto those thoughts for a little bit longer before he finishes his scotch, pulling her closer to him and burying his nose in her hair as they sit side by side.

She’s trailing her fingertips at his hand rested on her knee. They were incomplete. A broken band. He plants a kiss on her forehead, a reminder and a promise. This intimacy isn’t far fetched from both of them, it only ever wandered in their own safe space they built and burnt and put back together again throughout the years. They shared beds, all-nighters—they’ve been through so much and frankly, enough.

The moment he breathes in her scent, he stops missing her.

He was home.

[mangowright]

angsty philinda: “What did you do to him? …What did you DO to him?!”

somewhere around messy season 3 

There’s pulsing in her ears that can’t seem to be tamed down by the ‘calming’ exercises that she’d racked into herself. One, two, three. Her feet took her as fast as she could through the wall of damp grasses obstructing her view, crackling of little rocks crushing under her feet. She ran. Melinda May ran like hell like her life depended on each stomp she took herself off under the seeming gloom of the skies above her.

Not turning blue at any moment, only growing darker as each second passed by but it could also be her clouding vision—she was exhausted. But she had to run.

“May—May, you have to slow down—” The voice in her ears pleaded. God, she would throw the goddamn earpiece if she had time for it. It was annoying. Incessant noise in her already panicking mind. If something happened to Phil—she would never forgive herself.

(It happened once. And even now, she still hasn’t forgiven herself for it.)

“Can’t. How long—”

“Keep running—” The line gets choppier the further she reached the place. Daisy warned her about this. They must be using some signal jammer that prevented them from getting a clear point of where the Director was. Director, she called him for now. To keep it impersonal. To keep it professional. To keep the fear clawing at the back of her head from reaching the deepest vaults of her heart.

It wasn’t long before her tiresome feet took her to what resembled what was once a well-kept warehouse. It smelled of gunpowder, only faint as the rain had dampened her senses and slipped through the cracks of the roof of the warehouse.

“May—Coulson—nearby—by the storage room- “

It was surprising that no one had gone out for the noise. Maybe it was because of the rain. Lucky her.

“—May wait—don’t—”

There’s swift shadow reaching out—or rather intend to knock her out but she barely dodges, sliding down from whoever it had been and incapacitating them with a low blow to the knee and to the back of the head. She immediately reached for his sidearm and noticed the familiarity of the model.

“Daisy, the SVR’s got Coulson.”

One.

A sudden shadow reaches out in front of her and then again—eventually in a momentum she could catch and flip the figure back down to the ground with ease, regardless of what their weight was. It was never a problem with her. Look for the pressure points. Incapacitate. Rinse and repeat. In hopes that it does not come down to having to cross someone off.

They were people still. Humans. Mortals. She had to remind of herself that before red completely consumes her heart.

Her gut had told her to not show mercy. Her mind told her to be calm. But it isn’t the mind that functions when she fights. It’s just her—and her body tells her to do whatever it takes to get Coulson back to safety. Back to her.

She steps over a few guards she’d eliminated and immediately hides as soon as her eyes caught two guards heading towards her general direction. The bodies. Oh well.

Two.

Melinda does a side-step as soon as the barrel of their rifle was in her sight, using her small statute to elevate herself using one of the guard’s body and twisting her body in the most fluid manner—almost like a program she’d once performed but rabid and with intent to kill—as she snaps one neck off and the other one breaking free. Not for long. She immediately gets into a stance as he tries to lunge a punch to her stomach, making her take a rough step back before knocking him out with the pipe that had been her choice of weapon.

There had been rattling and a voice in the door she was approaching. She knows Phil’s at the other side of that door. But he was fussing. (Thank god he was conscious—alive) Something had to be up.

Three.

“No—Lin, don’t take another step—”

Her vision blurs for a moment as she’d realized that the sides of the door had been rigged with small explosives—all of her. God fucking damn it. She does not have to worry about the pulsing from her ears anymore—her sense of hearing had been rendered non-existent from the blast. She could feel shrapnel at the back of her neck, her feet, her palms, everywhere in fact.

She’s still conscious even after that. A scoff from an unfamiliar voice makes her gather that very fact. Goddamn Phil Coulson. Always getting kidnapped. It was a recurring thought throughout their relationship—their partnership. Knowing Phil, he must have gotten something worthy out of them—he had his ways—

The crackle that electricity makes jolts her out of her dazed reverie, her feet barely able to keep her standing up straight, her shoulder was bleeding from the glass shard buried deep within. She knows it’s Coulson that was the receiving end of it. And he was bleeding too. Not a lot like her—not as worse as her but he had bruises—one of the worst bruises she’d ever seen on him and maybe, maybe her blood boils.

The feeling doesn’t subside, not as long as she examines her partner. This was always the hard part. Listening to her feral instincts that screamed to make the bastards who’d dared do this pay, or to her good conscience that’s in the existence within her head in the voice of Phillip Coulson.

Always has been.

But her good conscience is slowly fluttering towards unconsciousness and something else entirely that even she would not be able to bring him back from.

(Or she might. God knows what she’d do if the world wills it so again.)

Adrenaline rushes through her once again—never failing and her feet catches up to the murderous impulse that is clawing at the back of her mind. He’s the last one. He will be the last one. Melinda will make sure of that.

Actions were always her forte. She did not ask what they’d done to Coulson—she knew what they’d done to Coulson (And they dared so.) But she’ll ask in each blow she can get until this godforsaken man that was twice her weight is unconscious—or beaten to death. It depends on how long her fists will hold up. There’s a faint voice in the background that’s begging for her to stop but her madness drowns it out.

And the only answer she’d want is the hollowing breath and shout that she manages out of him if he can still breathe—though right now, it’s just hollow. She’d broken larynxes before and some.

“—May!”

Daisy’s voice forces her back into reality. She inhales a sharp breath, the red clouding her mind slowly dissipating and enabling her to assess what she’d done. Almost killed the man who was torturing Coulson just earlier.

Not even a hint of remorse within her.

She loosens her grip of the man’s collar, almost torn to pieces. Both the clothing and the bloodied face of the man.

“May—is Coulson okay?”

She lets the man pummel to the ground before her and immediately went to Coulson’s aide. He was barely conscious. Barely breathing. Barely hanging on. And this was all too familiar. For both of them honestly. She never took a breath until she’d freed Coulson from his restrains—barely taking one at all even if she has him cradled in her arms.

“H-He—” She feels a sudden loss of her voice. She was quiet but she’d never felt so choked up before that she could barely speak coherently. Phil looked like he was in so much pain and it hurt her.

“—Lin?”

He’s never called her that for a long time. And if he even intended to—it meant it was not well. It meant that she almost broke her promise to him again. And another.

“Phil—don’t speak, we’ll get you help. I’m here.” She doesn’t expect the barrage of reassuring words from herself but there they are, in the open. He has to be okay. He has to be or she’ll never forgive herself. She hasn’t even forgiven herself from the first time.

Melinda doesn’t let the tears fall. But it threatens her so. And she knows he can see it too.

“…hey, Lin, don’t cry…”

She’s not aware if Daisy could hear any of this. But it ceases to be the number one concern in her mind—Phil was barely conscious and help just does not will itself to existence as sooner as she would like.

“…I would if you stopped being at the brink of death—”

I let them hurt you this much.

“—and I’m alive…hey, hey. You did good. You came back to me.”

She doesn’t honor his words with a verbal response and only held him in her arms, tighter but not so tight that it would hurt him. Melinda had thought it was always a given that she’d come back to him. Though she supposes, with them, it was never what was happening, it was what happened and what had been done.

Melinda keeps him in her arms, enclosed in the protection of her arms and whispered words she thinks he wouldn’t hear, “…I’ll always come back to you. And for you.”

And it was the truth. Bahrain. His death. Her vacation to Maui. His almost-death—this.

She supposes he hears it anyway, seeing as he has the most ridiculous grin painted on his face. She didn’t mind.

[mangowright]

how they worked [philinda]

series : agents of shield pairing:  Phil Coulson/Melinda May summary: what might have happened after Coulson watched the video May dug up from his grave.

also posted at AO3

“Oh.”

His reaction wasn’t entirely unpredictable. Melinda had watched the video past the point that it would be healthy for her. She racked her brain over and over about the many ways Coulson would react. It was either those or just complete utter shock. At least, she was certain he was still himself. The freezing from shock had always been his signature.

Melinda wasn’t quite aware that she had that effect on him. Once she gauged that he’s not going to close the laptop himself, and to keep it from playing back again, she reached out, closing it shut.

She heard him heave one of the deepest and longest sighs she’d ever heard him do. He was tired.

“Phil?” Soft-spoken. Gentle. Was this apology enough? They never say it, it wasn’t how they worked. Phil, despite having been an expert in communications, had his mouth gaped open and unable to utter a single coherent thought. Melinda thought it was ironic and she waited.

A few moments passed and the only coherent thing Coulson did was to stand up from his chair and sit by the one king-sized bed. Rest. Maybe that’s what he needed. Her gaze trailed after his actions, all tensed shoulders and dry mouth.

“Can we not talk ab- “He’d finally mustered up the will, or rather the voice to speak. It probably wasn’t necessary as Melinda cut him off. Knowing full well what he’d say. Can we not talk about this tonight?

She always knows.

“It’s fine.” Melinda fixed the chair and started pacing towards the door. About to go out. Sleep was the least thing in her list right now. For Phil, he needed it. More than anyone else. And god knows she does too but—well she hadn’t initially assumed Phil would want her to stay.

Her plan was entirely show him the video and go dark. She forgot to put Phil Coulson’s effect on her in the equation.

“Don’t go.”

She must have fooled herself. She did not just hear those words. It was the complete opposite of what Phil had implied in his shouts—when she left. It was all still raw. Still reverberating through her ears and poisoning her thoughts. It didn’t make her heart ache as much as Bahrain did.

She’s still paying the cost of her secrets. And maybe she will forever.

“Please stay.”

A pause. Melinda turned around to look at him. Was he serious? Were her ears fooling her once again? Maybe, she got knocked out and she was dreaming—maybe.

“The kids got the adjoining room and I hoped you’d come back but they didn’t have anymore—”

“Coulson, I can go—”

“-You’re the only one I trust, and I don’t trust myself right now- “Melinda’s heart broke as she heard Coulson’s voice be mindful of a whimper. A plea.

“Okay.”

“Okay.”

Silence threatens to swallow up the little space they have between each other. It wasn’t the first time they had to share a bed. Melinda could physically feel the way Phil shivers ever so slightly, turning around, making the mattress sink beneath him. She wasn’t facing to his direction but she knows—so she turns around.

She’d decided to speak because reaching out or even the most ridiculous thought of wrapping her arms around Phil was just the unthinkable. “Phil. Talk to me.”

“-I have nothing to say.”

I’m afraid of what I’ll say. What I’ll do.

“I’m sorry.”

Melinda knows Phil. Knows the way his voice breaks when he’s at his lowest. Knows the way the crease lines in his forehead would worsen. She knows the way his eyes drooped with grief, with sadness, with guilt. She knows he’d be comfortable enough on his side.

So, she doesn’t expect Phil to turn around and face her. His face exactly the way she hoped it would not be. Phil inches closer to her, and she knows this. Except it had been her—at one point. Mirrors they were. It terrified her. Yet, she willingly welcomes him. Lets him rest by the crook of her neck—they oddly fit that way. She doesn’t really know what comfort she could possibly provide Phil at these times—after everything—but the way he basically nestles himself with her.

Too close she thought they’d meld together.

(Maybe they have.)

This night will be unspoken. Just like the many nights they had to face the familiarity of guilt, grief and pent-up emotions. It was always like this.

This was how they worked.

[mangowright]

silence [calex]

series : law and order: special victims unit pairing:  Alex Cabot/Casey Novak summary: words left unsaid, forever suspended into silence ; loss and post-loss

i

It’s the last thing she wanted. The mere illusion of a noise in her head. Flatlining. The gun shot. White noise resonating in her mind. Her eyes open in shock. The blood is seeping through her clothes.

Alex knows Olivia’s saying something. Yet she cannot hear.

Silence keeps meeting her thoughts halfway. And she berates it.

ii

She had been stuck in tons of cases. Casey could not careless for any as she went through them with efficiency. The balance in the system she had so desperately clung to are about to be crushed. As soon as the word Branch, McCoy and office came into the mix.

She waits at the door. Fidgeting. Waiting for a signal. It’s idle for a moment. Silent for a few moments she could hear the nearby water jug’s machine humming. Then there’s a knock and come in.

They talk but Casey does not listen. Had stopped listening as soon as her worst nightmares had set into reality. It’s mainly what made her throw half her files at the door of her office today. Why she’d shouted. Why she’s out of voice.

ADA Alexandra Cabot, to our utmost regrets, died while pursuing a top-profile case.

Her mind ceases hearing and only curls itself, false sense of hope crumbling into pieces and failing to cloud the façade she’d perfectly set up. They sent her out of the office. Nearly after three minutes, maybe they noticed. Maybe they noticed the tears pooling in her eyes.

She ran, crying. In silence.

iii

Murmurs. It’s all she hears. The smell of medicine and mass dry-cleaned sheets. Unmindful beeping. The voices get louder. Or was it closer? She supposes she wouldn’t know until she opens her eyes. Even that is pain. Even the simple gesture of opening her eyes sends strain to her whole body.

It takes her a few moments to open her eyes. She could not see still. What with her eyesight and apparent case of myopia. It’s all just blurs of blue and blacks. Her morphine drip is probably set to the highest possible setting, she could barely feel pain on any part of her body unless she tries to move.

When it clears, the two unknown figure just look at her. If she looks closely, the bald guy in the suit looks familiar. Seemed familiar. God, it strains her mind too much. There’s a futile attempt to sit up but it only urges pain suddenly shooting from her shoulder and a held back groan, biting he inside of her lips. It’ll bleed.

They stare at her. As if examining her. She wants answers.

“What hospital is this?”

Alex manages. She’s been in multiple hospitals but never one that looked like this. Hospitals felt like a prequel to solitary confinement. The room she’s in, might as well be the real deal.

“Need-to-know, Miss Cabot. There’s only two things you have to know: you’re officially dead and we’re putting you in Witness Protection.”

True, she got her answers. Alex Cabot got her answers and she died. Her soul suspended into silence and the desolation settling in her blue eyes. Suddenly, the pain on her shoulder did not compare much to the inevitable pain the new circumstance presents her.

iv

The words hover above her, in paper but suspended in the air as if it was mocking her. The whole office had been silent. Mourning. Some had been the absolute worst. Thinking it was a good thing. Casey had held back every bit of her anger just so she does not end up smashing some ADA’s head through a window.

She was mourning too. She was mad. At Alex. For taking this case in the first place. Their argument did not end with reconciliation. Also not with the possibility of it as they’d pushed each other so far to the edge—Alex, whom usually would be the one running her mouth of—only met her eyes, silent, not knowing it was the last time. She had to do it. And Casey knew then, she knew and she felt—she understood the sacrifices of the job they have.

She just did not understood well enough how far does the sacrificing go and to what point where it’s not Alex she meets halfway in the end but silence.

Her tears falling, helplessly, as she stands in front of Alex’s grave.

[mangowright]

MAKE MORE CALEX FICS.

Ooofff anon go check my ao3 or ff net my user is Antarktica on both sites if you want to read some of them i havent put on here. But yes I WILL

[mangowright]

homesick [calex fic]

series : law and order: special victims unit pairing:  Alex Cabot/Casey Novak summary: alex is half the country away and is missing her home.

It isn’t long before she’s checking on her phone. Dragging her eyes lazily as she scrolls down from any response from Casey. Any updates from Casey. At least that’s what she thinks but her hand tightens when a familiar ringtone resounds and-

           You sleeping in the flight?

Her face immediately lights up the moment the ding sound goes off. Casey seems to be typing still-

           You should rest if you’re not. The office hasn’t burned down yet, if that’ll lessen your worries. By that I mean I haven’t burnt it down yet.

The sides of Alex’s lips completely rises up into a smile. Her fingers hovering over the text box and the keyboard sliding up.

           I’m going to try and sleep. Glad to know everything is still fine there. It sucks I have to go on this trip by myself.

She didn’t want to make it sound so needy of companionship but she already sent the message when her regret and urge to reword came in.

           I thought you brought the Mr. Softee keychain I got you for your last birthday?

Alex chuckles. She did bring the keychain Casey got her, out of obligation-no she’s lying, well Casey gave it to her, so it’s only appropriate she makes good use of it. That’s a convincing excuse she tells herself and settles with in her skin but she picks on it a little.

           I’d rather my company the one who gave it to me.

Now there was no going back from there.

           That’s sweet, I wish I wasn’t buried in cases too. Your flight is so long though you better get sleep. Sweet dreams, Alex.

She relaxes her back into the seat. She’s flying first class, according to the plane ticket they handed her. It’s a bit impractical and disobedient for the thought of her not sleeping and just talking to Casey pass by in her head though she minds it no attention, it was still a thought. She heaves a sigh as she flutters her eyes close in exhaust.

           You should’ve just went with me. But fine.

Alex knows she’s sounding like a disobedient child who compromises but is never satisfied with about anything at all when things don’t go their way. She huffs under her breath, frustrated that Casey’s right, kicking herself in her mind because she’s incapable of saying no to Casey and the fact it’s a good point.

Her voice is brief and calculated on the business phone. Some seminar slash gala-apparently the office wanted to widen their influences and connections so they send Alex Cabot, who looked around the room sleazily and forced smiles that pass off as genuine to people who don’t know her.

Her back immediately flops onto the couch as soon as she’s back, feet kicking off the god awful heels she had to wear and still in the black wavy dress she was wearing. Her hand immediately reaches for her pouch, for her phone which had been endlessly buzzing since the start of the event.

           3 messages from Casey

Sometimes she doesn’t know why she expects to see Casey’s name to be Novak instead of simply just Casey-then she remembers Casey basically changing it herself because it sounded way too formal and they were beyond that already. It’s still quite surreal to Alex but it’s a great kind of surreal.

There’s an unceremonious noise and it startles Alex that she almost drops her phone—even more when she figures out the source of the noise was from her phone. She scrambles her hand over the accept call button. Wu-Tang Clan, she remembers—that was the name of the group that sang this song that’s loudly blasting itself off of her phone.

She now regrets giving Casey full command of her phone that day, because apparently she had accidentally downloaded an album and why not use it as a ringtone for my caller ID, Alex? Her breath hitches when she hears the familiar click and she takes a pause for a moment. She could clearly hear Casey’s breathing, her heartbeat pulsing through her ears.

           “I miss you.”

There’s a pause from Casey; contemplating. “I miss you too but you’re just homesick, Alex. You’ll be back soon.”

Soon isn’t soon enough. And she feels her patience chipping away every second she’s stuck in this place with all the boring bureaucrats. In fact, her face hurt from smiling too excessively. But she brushes all that off, fluttering her eyes close and just sighing as she pulls the phone closer to her mouth, whispering, “You are home.”

[mangowright]

hope for the hopeless (upstairs downstairs fic) [agnes/blanche]

series : upstairs downstairs ( 2011 ) pairing:  Agnes Holland/Blanche Mottershead summary: Blanche Mottershead knows many things. Beyond the realms of undiscovered artefacts and the dust and the rocks they’re buried in. So, it is only proper, she knows that she could only be Agnes’ rock as the other had been for her on her own trying times. Because she remembers looking like that.

AO3

        There’s an unmistakable sadness in Agnes’ eyes that Blanche picked up on recently. She notices and pays enough attention to gauge Agnes’ mood whenever she walks into the room. She knows when the other would sit on the study and read, and when it would be a great time to hand her a glass of whiskey, no matter what time of the day it is. Blanche can never blame Agnes for the sadness that lurks beneath her façade. Her sister committed suicide and her marriage was ruined, beyond repair, only a legal document now

        However, Blanche will blame herself if she lets Agnes venture deeper into destruction in these dark times. So she distracts her from it--she had stayed for Agnes to make sure she takes care of herself after all—often dragging Agnes to the museum and simply talking. About the Egyptians. Making Agnes remember the happy times of her life. Occasionally telling her how wonderful she is—Blanche sees the sadness passing away, even for few short moments, for it haunts Agnes in between walks from an exhibit to another.

        The urge to get rid of it is overwhelming to Blanche. It stains Agnes beautiful face, creates unnecessary wrinkles and creases on her forehead and Blanche finds it distasteful and feels slight scornful towards Hallam for he had caused all this (at least a part of it). Now he’s hiding away in Buckingham Palace. Men, Blanche sighs. They think women are some sort of comfort, to serve them, to be their companion-but Blanche always thought otherwise.

        There’s always been that endearing quality about women that men can never break as long as they go on with their faux masculinity and petty prejudices. They think women dress for them—the men. Blanche often found herself rolling her eyes at that. Such thought was incredibly preposterous, at least for her, which is why they’re a tad tight-lipped around her. Afraid of her knowledge, of her peculiar candor, that Maud finds quite disagreeable yet also agreeable. Blanche thinks a lot would benefit if the world would choose to zip its mouth if its only purpose is to spat prejudices towards their own.

        Blanche Mottershead knows many things. Beyond the realms of undiscovered artefacts and the dust and the rocks they’re buried in. So, it is only proper, she knows that she could only be Agnes’ rock as the other had been for her on her own trying times. Because she remembers looking like that.

        Forlorn. Towards a long-lost and a beloved. It’s often what happens to the left besotted. The one who’d thought better to care and not to hate. She’d seen Agnes façade crumble, perhaps, she had imagined Agnes saw Persie’s body lying down the hall. Blanche remembers helping her up, taking her to her room and cradling her sobs and cries of how life is unfair.

        One morning, Agnes drags herself into the study, smelling of alcohol, and stumbles on the way in and Blanche was thankful she was alert enough to help her. When Agnes was settled, she goes back to her work. Observing the other occupant of the room, in this case. Hangover. She apparently drank herself to oblivion, much to Blanche’s dismay. So the archaeologist gets up, sets down an aspirin and a cup of water for her friend.

        Blanche returns to her seat and pays limited attention to the book she was reading, glasses perched on her nose, often wrinkling when coming across something interesting. Her mind thinks otherwise and digresses when a phrase about blaming comes up. She opts it best to not look for someone to blame now but whenever she closes her eyes and thinks of whom caused such distress within Agnes, her unfortunate nephew’s face pops into her head and it’s absolutely unbearable.

        Blanche is glad that she accepts it. It doesn’t take long before life is back on Agnes’ face. She smiles a ‘thank you’ to Blanche, which she reciprocates. Agnes deserves so much and she does not realize one bit of it.

        “I wouldn’t really know that, Blanche.” It’s only when Agnes responds she realizes she said those words out loud.

        There’s no shame in it, Blanche tells herself, but she really wanted that thought to herself alone.

        Blanche shuts her book and looks at Agnes, who sat on the other couch, idle and still out of her depths. “I’ll make sure to inform you of it every waking day.” A response which makes the other smile a little bit more. (Blanche loved seeing Agnes smile, it shines a light on days she feels rather knocked out from seeing piles of letters from people wanting to enter England and think that those piles may be the same volume as the dead bodies lying around in this kind of war.)

        She intends to make a point of this and walks to where Agnes is saddled, leaning down before her and taking her hand in hers.

        “You deserve to be happy, to be able to live despite what has transpired. You deserve to be happy solely because you’re Lady Agnes Holland, perhaps the most wonderful, amazing and particularly beautiful woman I ever had the chance to associate myself with.”

        Even Blanche herself is taken in surprise with the words that escaped her mouth—as much as Agnes was. Certainly, she could have worded it in a tame manner but slipping into extravagance seemed to be the theme of the day. Not saying that Agnes was anything less than what was said but, perhaps, she should’ve exerted a little bit more control.

        But Agnes was polite, proper and perfect. She accepts the sincerity of Blanche and does not attempt to shove it away.

        Agnes smiled. “You always had a way of lifting my spirits, Blanche, and I thank you for that.” And squeezes her hand. Blanche reciprocates the gesture, smiling and then letting go to go back to her business. If her peripheral vision wasn’t fooling her, she’d swear on her artefacts that Agnes’ smile dropped and her eyes turn lonely than it is sad, but Blanche ignores it—because there’s no road to cross beyond this line.

        She’ll make do with this. The loving aunt. The caring friend. The reliable rock. As long as the day that Agnes becomes happy again arrives, Blanche will be happy and she’ll hide whatever feelings she may have in order not to lose this friendship and break the foundation and support they built for each other.

        This is enough.

[mangowright]

the only thing i can animate atm ha hahaha 

[mangowright]

okay i couldn’t resist drawing alana as woman clothed with the sun mkay mkay and actually expect more of this 

[mangowright]

darling, stand by me

series : nbc hannibal pairing:  Alana Bloom/Margot Verger, marlana summary: marlana + pregnancy 

AO3 

a/n : apparently my first fic of this two and i dont know -- i just wanted to write them 

Clothes were never an issue in Alana’s life. Buying one, finding one—is—was fairly an easy feat. The moons pass and it completely turns the tides over, tackling her clean record of not having any complaints about it.

Pregnancy proved her that she could find and buy clothes but they will never fit the same way again. At least for a few months or so. Suits she owned were fitted to her pre-pregnancy figure so she digressed from wearing them, unfortunately.

Wrap dresses were Alana’s old friend; dresses in general as they don’t feel restricting. The weather’s too humid to walk around in a suit; one would be foolish to expect not to be a bundle of sweat at the end of the day.

The bump was showing now, she thinks, turning around in front of the large Rococo-style mirror in hers and Margot’s bedroom. Her flowy sky blue dress treaded after her. She missed her suits, which hanged dormant right besides Margot’s own collection in their closet, still open and obviously mocking her of the inability she only decided to confront today.

(No complications, yet, however there are moments of aching but they’re normal based on what she remembers from what she studied in university.)

There was an unknown rustling from behind which made her turn around almost immediately.

(Dark swarming behind my eyelids. I dream darkness comes into me. It comes and it's insidious—)

It was Margot. Her wife. Not—

Margot raised her hands in a defensive manner. “It’s just me.” She says, leaning her weight on the side of the door, now with crossed arms and enjoying the sight of tossed dresses on their bed and the open closet. “What’s with the expression?”

Alana tilted her to the side, facing the mirror—indeed she was frowning and Margot noticed it before she did—and then turned back around with face lit up into an impish smile. Her hands finding their way to her belly, rubbing gentle circles on it. Defense mechanism, now she’s making observations on herself and she doesn’t even know why.

“It’s nothing.” Alana lied. Margot lifted her weight back up and walked over to her, near the mirror.

“Bugged cause the clothes don’t fit on you anymore?” Lies had no place in the household they’re building and Margot always saw right through her girlfri—no, wife’s lies. She trailed a hand to Alana’s waist, whilst the other found itself on her shoulder, brushing off the strands of hair that got caught by the strap of the dress. Margot made a humming sound when she looked at Alana’s eyes—she knows—causing her to avert her gaze. Internally, Alana was shaking from the realization that Hannibal may suddenly be here. In their home. He’s locked in a cell somewhere, she reminds herself almost every single time she opens her eyes.

(—damp fingers prying at me...finding every way inside. Margot knows. )

“Sorry for surprising you like that, I was just—“Alana shook her head, gesturing for Margot to stop speaking and that it was fine, I know you didn’t intend to have that impression. The heiress understood; it was odd how they both barely spoke a word to each other and know a message was conveyed.

The questioning look in Margot’s eyes remained and Alana knew there’s no way to segue her way out of this and said, “Fine, I surrender…” She flutters her eyes close when Margot presses a chaste to her cheeks, her hands still on her belly whilst Margot’s on top of hers and intertwined. “Yes, bugged and...” She takes a pause, momentarily glancing at her suits. “I miss wearing my suits.” She finished with a wistful tone.

Margot chuckled. “You look equally as great and powerful whether you’re in a dress or a suit,” She smiles, leaving another peck to her wife’s cheek (she’s doing this frequently today) and pulled her closer, arms wrapped around Alana. “—or nothing at all, for that matter.”

It was Alana’s turn to chuckle. If anything, it lit up the mood and urged laughter out of her. Margot’s often the one leaving such remarks and it doesn’t surprise her anymore. Though, it does not mean that it’s not capable of rendering her speechless even for just a second and making her blush like a high school girl out with her inappropriate girlfriend.

She turns back around, facing Margot and pulled her into a kiss. The other indulged by pulling her closer but also was the one to pull away, in an apparent need for air.

“Is he giving you a hard time?” Margot asks, still heaving for oxygen.

Alana shook her head no. “Besides the small aches, which is normal—I’m fine, Margot.” They’ve been through this conversation a lot. In excessively unknown numbers since Alana told Margot she’d very much be glad to carry ‘their’ child.

(That was the first time she saw a tear fall off Margot’s eyes. In happiness. Most of the tears that fell of her eyes were of suffering, during one of Mason’s experiments—but this time she was certain it was happiness that Margot felt when she cried. And she almost tackled Alana to the ground with the weight of her embrace, if not for her cane. She dropped it to the side and let herself be enveloped in the arms of the other. Whispering Shh, I got you… and sweet-nothings to her ears, cradling her closer and pressed quick kisses to her hair until she’d overcame her happiness and retract back to reality. She locked gazes with Margot and knew she realized the weight of Alana’s words—complications. It’ll be fine; we’ll make it work out, okay? She remembered herself saying, and is still holding on to that fact. )

Her defenestration was always the first point of the subject. Whatever it left of her—broken bones that made her lay in a platform with a ship wheel-like metal rods that kept her waist in place, months in physical therapy to get back onto her normal life with the assistance of a cane. She only used the wheelchair for about 3 months, taking into consideration its limitations despite some things that make it seem it doesn’t have one, she went with the cane. Her whole life she didn’t expect to first-handedly know what it was like to have a broken pelvis, until Hannibal—an achievement that branded her with words that ached—and even more so at the moment—

(They went to multiple specialists for insight about her past injuries—due to her pelvis being fractured and some other bones nearby the area, it will present her with complications in the middle of child-bearing and perhaps after it—she made the doctor stop after that. It was her second time hearing this. But this time a hand intertwines with hers and holds it dearly. Margot’s. Her resolve is firm, she’ll go through this, because she wants to and she loves the one who is holding her hand—not because she wants to do it for Margot, as if it was some favor—it would seem like that at first but she thinks otherwise at the moment, and smiled at her loving wife.)

And here they are, in front of a mirror, like a normal domestic couple, ecstatic and expectant. Perhaps a few months or so—a rough three before her due date.

“Thank you,” Alana says, and is afraid she doesn’t say it more to Margot. “—for everything.” She buries herself by the crook of Margot’s neck, sinking into a deep embrace while she still could. It wasn’t that long before Margot actually has to settle with hugging her from behind, after all.

“No-no, not everything yet, Alana.” It sounds like a line from a soap opera but it’s the best words Margot can manage at the moment. “Thank you for everything.” Its moments like this that makes Alana wonder what she had done to be able to witness Margot’s radiating smile and then decides not to ponder on the subject further—as long as Margot’s happy.

Alana’s lips curve into a smile and pulled her into a kiss. And also the one who pulled away and grinned at her wife who seemed surprise at the abrupt pull, she was committing on it and Alana feels a bit sorry for Margot.

“I love you.”

“I love you too.”