sissy-the-siren-writes

[sissy-the-siren-writes]

Ten Years From Now

Rating: Teen And Up Audiences Fandom: Dragon Age Relationship: Anders/Hawke Characters: Hawke, Anders Summary: Varric is thrilled to have Hawke officially back in Kirkwall after thirteen years, but Blondie? Not so much. As the eighth anniversary of Divine Victoria’s ascension and the dissolution of the Circles approaches, old friends reunite for the first time in over a decade, bringing along scars, grudges, kids, and, hopefully, some really expensive wine. Link(s): AO3, FF

Chapter 1

If Marian Hawke had a bit for every time she’d had to sneak into her family’s estate through the cellar, she’d only have two bits, but it was weird that it had happened twice.

“Very weird,” Marian murmured to herself as the ghosts of yesteryear shivered past her, ripples in the darkness.

The small flame that was barely doing its job of lighting the way through the maze-like vault beneath the Amell’s ancestral home flickered as its wielder whipped around, summoned by her idle comment. Marian was certain that if the flame had been a normal flame, a flame born of stone striking stone, it would have sputtered and died in protest of the reckless carelessness with which it was handled. Luckily—or unluckily, depending on how one looked at it—for Marian, however, the flame was not a normal flame, and the man wielding it was not a normal man. 

She squinted as the quivering flame and its summoner approached her, what she had initially thought to be a pitiful little excuse for a light now blazing with the brilliance of the sun. Whether it was because her eyes had become so adjusted to the oppressive darkness that they couldn’t handle direct confrontation with the darkness’ antithesis, or because her under-the-breath remark had pushed the flame-wielder’s anxiety past its frayed limits, his adrenaline-fueled fear spilling into the magic used to create the miniature inferno cradled in the palm of his hand, boosting its light-the-way powers to new and glorious heights with each passing thump of his heart, she couldn’t say. She suspected it was some combination of the two though.

The man, now close enough that she could smell the two weeks’ worth of salt and sweat he had accumulated over the course of their long boat ride, lifted the dancing flame slowly from her chest to her cheek. Marian’s skin buzzed with that unpleasant tingle one only experienced when they were being scrutinized, and she imagined that the man’s honey-brown eyes were narrowed in concentration, his thin lips pulled into a severe line, brow as wrinkled as her laundry. The part of him that was the clinician, the healer, had taken over, inspecting her from head to toe, searching her and the precious cargo held securely against her breast for signs of harm or distress. Of course, there was nothing wrong to be found—externally, at least—and when the flame-wielder-slash-healer discovered this, he asked, “What was that?”

Marian wasn’t about to admit that she’d briefly hallucinated an event two decades old, watched apparitions of her sister, her best friend, and her lover—him—charge into the labyrinth beneath the sprawling estate with the recklessness of youth. The last thing he needed was something else to worry about, and the last thing she needed was someone else worrying about her—well, worrying about her more than they already did. What she did need, however, was that Maker-damned fire out of her face; not answering him would only encourage his alarm and feed the blighted fire though, and so, in her most convincing voice—which wasn’t all that convincing—she said, “What was what, Anders? I didn’t hear anything. Did you?”

Anders—for that was who the man, the wielder of the flame, her lover, was—didn’t budge. “Marian.”

Marian’s lips stretched wide in a crazed grin as the flame in Anders’ hand brightened, orange-red tendrils licking at the skin lining her jaw. 

Definitely anxiety powered.

“Your fire is very nice, Anders,” she cooed, “and while I'm very proud of you for making something so wonderfully radiant to light our way, I would like to retain the use of my retinas.” She shrugged. “You know…. Watch Leah grow up, stab a person or two, walk down the aisle, save a city from a rampaging hoard of Qunari…. Normal things that normal people do with their normal kids.”

“Watch Leah…what? You—oh.” The flame dimmed to the size and strength of an abnormally large firefly. “I’m sorry, I—”

“That’s another bit for the Sorry Jar,” she singsonged as she blinked, clearing the dark spots that dotted her vision.

“Another bit for the—but I wasn’t—this has nothing to do with—that’s not fair.”

“A sorry is a sorry. I don’t make the rules.”

“You do, actually.” Free of the black splotches popping in her eyes, Marian could see the affection in Anders’ gaze as he looked down at her, his words robbed of any bite they might have had.

“Do I? Always considered myself more of a rule breaker than a rule setter, but there’s a first time for everything I suppose.”

“Yes—like staying on topic.”

“We were on a topic—a topic about rules and about how I set them, apparently. You’re the one trying to derail us. At least, that’s how it looks from where I’m standing.”

“Marian, that’s not—”

“And before that, we were talking about normal things that normal people do with their normal kids, your fire in my eyes—my retinas thank you, by the way—and something about you hearing voices and me definitely not hearing them.” She tilted her head to the side. “That about covers everything we’ve discussed in this brief interlude, does it not?”

Anders sighed, his non-flame carrying hand rubbing at his tired face. For a heartbeat, Marian felt her gut roil with guilt—she was the one putting those creases of stress in his forehead, she was the one causing the crow’s feet around his eyes to deepen, she was the one responsible for the slump of his shoulders—but the feeling passed as quickly as it had come, reflexively grabbed and shoved down beneath conscious thought, buried in her unconscious mind where it would fester and boil and rot her from the inside out. “Love, please. What’s wrong?”

Marian held on to her smile. “Nothing, Anders. Nothing is wrong.” 

Disbelief radiated from the mage, his mouth screwing to the left.

“Really.” Marian’s electric-blue eyes fixed him with their piercing stare. “I’m fine. Leah is fine. We’re fine. Everything is…fine.”

“If you’re certain…” His tone of voice suggested that he, at least, was not certain.

“Yes!” Marian exclaimed, a bit too aggressively. Anders lifted an eyebrow at her in suspicion and she cleared her throat. “Yes. Yes, I am,” she said, much calmer this time. “Certain. Certain that everything is fine.” It was, of course, at that exact moment that their dreaming daughter—Leah—decided to shift in Marian’s aching, overused arms. A hiss escaped from between her clenched teeth, her biceps screaming that they, at the very least, were not fine. “OK—I take it back, I’m not fine.” It was her turn to lift an eyebrow at Anders. “But unless you plan on carrying Leah, this giant, two-handed sword strapped to my back, or, better yet, both…it’s best we move forward before I fall on one or both of them.”

Anders’ mouth twitched at the corners. “If you’re carrying Leah up front and the sword is on your back…how could you fall on both of them?”

“It’s me, Anders. I’d find a way.”

The ghost of a smile slipped across Anders world-worn face, amused despite Marian’s stubbornness. “No doubt you would.”

Satisfied that Marian and Leah were at least not it any immediate physical danger, Anders turned around, his back to Marian once again, the flame returning to its former strength as he resumed his trek through the darkness. With some effort, Marian forced her burning legs after him, the bone-gnawing exhaustion born from living a life on the run for thirteen years—a life of light sleep, kidnappings, ransoms, assassins, and confrontations with Prince Piss—doing little to take the edge off of her discomfort at being the follower instead of the leader. It was only logical that Anders was the captain of this leg of the journey, however, as, despite the fact that the estate belonged to her, she hadn’t spent nearly as much time exploring its depths as Anders had, hadn’t memorized its layout, its twists and turn. She’d never had to flee into its maw to escape the templars prowling Darktown, hunting for their prey—hunting for him.

Anger spiked her blood, quickened her pulse, a new set of ghosts rising unbidden before her.

How many times had Anders emerged from the underground beaten and bloody, his robes ripped, skin bruised? How many times had Marian discovered him sitting in front of the fireplace, drenched in cooling sweat and steaming entrails, his normally expressive eyes vacant? How many times had she woken to find him slumped over a desk, his hands stained night-black with ink and bright, sticky red with poultice, mud and sewage crusting his clothes?

He’ll never have to run again. We’ll never have to run again, Marian told herself firmly, eyes trained resolutely on Anders’ too-thin shoulders, reminding herself that the ghosts were just that—ghosts. The Inquisitor finished what he—what we—started. Sister Nightingale is Divine Victoria. The Circles are gone. Mages are free! Mages. Are. Free. It’s over. It’s done. No more running. No more templars. No more late night manifesto editing sessions. All is right with the world! All is right with the world. All is… All is… All…

Despite her super-convincing self-reassurances, the angry thing that lived inside some hidden part of her, buried so far down she hadn’t even realized it existed until she had had to make what was supposed to be an impossible choice between her love and the so-called greater good, stirred. Her grip on Leah tightened, vision tunneling until all she saw was the too-lean man before her. She took a deep breath in, felt her chest expand with dank cellar air, held it until she felt like her lungs would burst, and then let it out, trying to root herself in the present.

All is right with the world. All is right with the world. All is right with the world.

She kept consciously breathing in and breathing out, kept focusing on the man that was alive—alive, despite it all!—in front of her, kept reminding herself that the weight in her arms was his—her—their daughter, as the angry thing reached up towards what remained of her soul, gripped its fractured edges, and pushed.

“We’re nearly there,” Anders announced, his voice cutting into Marian’s increasingly frantic thoughts like a hot knife through butter. Startled, Marian gave a violent blink and looked up to see Anders observing her over his shoulder. He must have noticed her agitated mien, assumed it was his fault—as he always did—and felt responsible, as the next words out of his mouth almost robbed him of another bit for the Sorry Jar. “Sor—I mean….” He paused, considering his next words. “It’s taking so long because it’s been…awhile…since I last had to do this.”

Marian barked a short, sharp laugh, the angry thing still smoldering in her veins, causing Leah to stir in her sleep. “Yes, how dare you have been forced to play so much hide-and-seek with the templars that you memorized the location of every rusted nail and loose floorboard of my basement.”

“Is that what upset you earlier? Thinking about—”

Marian bristled. Nope—she was not having this conversation. Not now. Not ever. “I think I know where we are!” she declared, brusquely brushing past him.

“Marian, we need to—”

“Yes, I definitely know where we are.” She squinted into the shadows that lived beyond the flame’s warm halo, examining the support columns and spider-webbed casks. “Usually sent Bodahn to fetch…whatever it was we kept down here, but sometimes he wasn’t around, and Orana hated the cellar.” She continued on ahead, not caring how obvious it was that she was simply talking to fill the void and steer clear of Chantry-Go-Boom Day discussions and anything related to it—templars and the angry thing simmering inside her included. Anders remained silent behind her, the only evidence that he was following her the fact that she had not yet been plunged into darkness. “It was because of the spiders—Orana wasn’t just scared of them, she despised them. I tried to help her get over her fear-slash-hate—told her the spiders in the cellar were very small compared to what we ran into in just about every cave, forest, thaig, and other giant-spider-friendly place. Didn’t help her much, if at all. Actually…I think it made her fear-slash-hate worse. Couldn’t even get her to think of going near the vault door for weeks. Speaking of the vault door…” She whirled around, flashing a mad, triumphant grin at her mage. “There it is.”

Anders returned her grin with a somber, tired smile that wasn’t really a smile, but more of a “We’re totally talking about Chantry-Go-Boom Day and Related Matters later” grimace. “Yes—there it is.” The flame winked out of existence as he moved to the bottom of the wooden stairs that led up to the vault door.

Marian resisted the urge to shoulder him aside and rip open the vault door, bursting into the mansion with a scream so loud that the residents of the Fade could hear her, warning any unwelcome visitors that lurked within that they had less than ten seconds to flee before she did her best imitation of Fenris and sent her gauntlet-clad fist through their chest. Fortunately for any unwelcome visitors that may or may not have been lurking, she had agreed with Anders that whoever wasn’t carrying Leah should do a sweep of the estate before the Leah-carrier entered, confirming the safeness or unsafeness of the abode. It was only logical that Marian be the Leah-carrier, seeing as how, despite the strength it took to wield a stave with as much flourish as Anders did, she was stronger, and, since he had also been stripped of his Warden stamina thanks to Queen Cousland’s Cure for the Taint, Marian also beat him in that regard now. This, therefore, logically meant that Anders would go first into the unknown, but, in that moment, as they were on the precipice of their success—or doom—Marian damned logic.

“Don’t.”

Marian looked up in the direction of Anders’ voice. “Don’t what, Anders? I’m afraid you’ll have to be more specific—I can’t read minds.”

“Don’t even think about doing what I know you’re thinking about doing,” he chastised, Marian smirking at the frown she could hear.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she lied, the tension between them thickening like the mud on the bank of Lothering’s river after a good rain. “Also…since when can you read minds?”

“I don’t need to be able to read minds to know what’s going through yours.”

“Enlighten me then. What am I thinking?”

Anders sighed heavily, and she pictured him pinching the bridge of his nose in frustration. “Please, love. Please. Not now. Not when we’re so close.”

Marian opened her mouth, a witty retort ready about how at least one of them was close poised to leave her lips, thought better of it. “Fine.”

“Thank you, love.” The lock on the vault door clicked as he unlocked it. “Stay put. I’ll be back.”

“Unless you’re not.”

“Marian—”

She gestured with her elbows at the door, even though he couldn’t see her. “Go on! I won’t move a muscle. Pinkie promise.”

“Why does that not fill me with confidence?”

“Because you know me.”

“To your detriment.”

Before Marian could respond, Anders was gone, the door creaking as he slipped through and shut it behind him. She let out an exasperated huff, frustrated at the need for their clandestine return to Kirkwall, at herself, at him, at…everything.

The angry thing lifted its head, waiting to see if it would be fed. 

Marian kicked distractedly at the wood-planked floor, cringing as the pointed tip of her Champion boots dug into the recently replaced boards.

So much for Varric’s restoration—already ruining it. Just like you ruin everything else you touch. How long will it take you to fuck things up this time, Marian? A day? A month? A year?

She took her bottom lip between her teeth and worried it, doubt curdling her stomach.

Was she doing the right thing? Bringing Anders back to Kirkwall—the city where he’d lost his first love, where he’d nearly lost himself, the city that hated him, where his sins—her sins—watered the very ground they stood upon in the blood of a hundred innocents, the very ground that their daughter—

Leah.

Marian glanced down at her golden-haired child, tucked safely against her breast.

How many mothers had lost their daughters that day? Their sons? What about the daughters that had lost their mothers? Sons their mothers? Marian was no stranger to loss—her father had been taken from her by illness, her brother ripped apart by an ogre, her mother mutilated by a madman—but to know that she had played a direct part in the immense death and destruction that day…

Leah’s weight became unbearable, and Marian staggered forward, her vision growing faint as her breaths came fast and quick.

You kill, Marian. That’s what you do. What’s the difference between a Mother, Sister, Brother and a mother, sister, brother? Chantry, Qun, templar, mage, prince, citizen…everyone is something to someone. And everyone is guilty of something. No one is truly innocent—not even children. Especially not children. Children are bastard coated bastards with bastard filling.

Yes, I’ll admit that some children are rather…unpleasant, but—

No buts! You never felt bad about it before—about what Anders did. About what you did. Why start now? Is it because you’re back here, after all this time? With Leah? With him? Or is it because you—

“Marian!”

Anders’ voice pulled her back from the brink, like it always did. Blinking, she focused her eyes on where he stood at the top of the stairs, the warm glow of the candle on the wall behind him lighting his black-feathered shoulders. Marian felt her heart skip a beat as she stared at him—he was why she had done what she had that fateful day. Why she’d do it again in a heartbeat, too. She would never, ever let anyone take Anders from her. Or Leah.

“Marian?”

Marian plastered her trademark Marian Hawke grin across her face. Yes, she would do it all again. She would do whatever it took to keep Anders and Leah safe. The angry thing inside her agreed. 

“Ready or not, here I come, Anders!”

Varric hadn’t been lying when he said he’d returned the Hawke Estate to its former glory. 

Placing both hands along the top lip of the banister, Anders leaned forward to survey the spacious great room below. Even with only a handful of the manor’s candles lit, their inviting, homey glow trapped firmly inside the house’s towering walls by massive rich red curtains, Anders could tell that his—no, Marian’s—friend had spared no expense in restoring her family’s home, returning it to the exact, if not better, condition in which they had left it that fateful night thirteen years ago.

He pretended not to watch as Marian slowly picked her way towards the stairs, her face a carefully arranged mask he couldn’t read, her sharp blue eyes absorbing everything and betraying nothing. The urge to seize her face between his scarred hands and force her to look him in the eyes and tell him what had disturbed her earlier was strong, but he resisted. That wasn’t how one went about getting Marian Hawke to talk—Marian Hawke would talk when Marian Hawke was ready, and that’s all there was to that.

Marian paused at the desk directly beneath where Anders stood, her eyes narrowing in concentration as she leaned over to read the message that Varric had left her. Anders averted his gaze to give her some privacy; having discovered the letter during his preliminary inspection of the manor, it had taken naught but a glance for him to recognize the dwarf’s handwriting, and, seeing as how he was still on Varric’s shit list, had assumed the words were not for him, and immediately moved on.

No longer searching for threats, Marian preoccupied, Anders allowed himself a moment to appreciate the finer details of the restored estate. To his left, the marble-white fireplace stood quiet, freshly chopped wood stacked neatly inside its firebox, hearth swept clean of all debris. A writing table and chair sat to the left of that, though whether or not they were the exact same pair he had frequently used during his previous stay at the estate, he couldn’t tell from his vantage point. Across the octagonal-patterned stone floor lay a light-red rug, two sets of golden lines embroidering the length and width of it near its out-most edge. Even the plants were the same, their leaves faded to the exact calming yellow-tinged green shade as their predecessors.

Anders’ fingers curled into a vice grip, fingernails digging into the granite.

It was as if time had stood still at the Hawke Estate and he had returned to the night he had nearly destroyed everything he loved.

Guilt twisted his insides into painful knots.

After all he’d done…after every lie he’d told, every person he’d betrayed, every life he’d taken…. Did he deserve this? Did he deserve a partner that loved him? A daughter that adored him? Did he deserve…did he deserve…

...to live?

Anders closed his eyes, screams—always, the screams—ringing in his ears. Even now, over a decade later, the smoke still clogged his nose, the blood still filled his mouth, the ash still burned his skin. He remembered it all with stunning accuracy, could recall with perfect clarity every single detail—the flash of Hawke’s Key, the wet tump of Varric’s arrows burying into the chest of a frantic mage, Aveline’s shield clanging as she deflected a Templar’s rapid blows. He remembered the anger—no, the hate—roaring in Sebastian’s sky-blue eyes as he’d sworn his vengeance, the disgusted sneer in Fenris’ voice as he reminded Anders that he was helping the mages for Marian and Bethany but not for him, Isabela never failing to remind them all that she absolutely did not want to do this but was anyway with exasperated groans. He remembered the pity with which Merrill—Merrill! Who had been responsible for her Keeper’s death, who had been banished from her clan!— had regarded him, the stern reproach in the thin line of Nathaniel’s lips and draw of his brow that had been directed at him, Bethany a perfect mirror of her mentor. He remembered Donnic, the assassin Zevran Arainai, and even that wretched Templar Samson, all stepping in to fight on their behalf. He remembered them all and more—the wounds of that night had sunk into his bones, his marrow, his soul.

He would never allow himself to forget—even if there was some way to erase that night from his memory, some potion he could drink that blotted it all out, some spell he could cast that overwrote the pain, he wouldn’t use them. No, he would never allow himself the dumb comfort of ignorance, would never allow himself to live a life blissfully unaware of all the carnage he and Justice had left in their wake. 

And he would never let himself be forgiven, either.

“Isabela’s stairwell carvings are gone.”

Anders’ eyes flew open, his attention snapping to his immediate right where Marian had come to stand next to him. When had she ascended to the second floor? How long had he been lost in his own thoughts?

Always wrapped up in yourself, never paying attention to the ones that matter most. Typical.

Adrift in her own memories, Marian seemed to not have noticed the alarm she had raised in him. “I wonder if Varric replaced the stairs because of the carvings, or because someone else vandalized them with something even more unsavory.”

Anders was proud that he was able to keep the panic out of his voice, his heart slowly calming from his fright. “Is that sadness I hear?”

“Yes, it is sadness.” Marian sighed. “She had some really, ah, unique…etchings.”

Anders offered her a consoling smile. “I’m sure she’d be happy to ruin your furniture once again.”

“Gleefully,” Marian agreed. She pursed her lips, thin eyebrows bunching together as she glared at him out of the corner of her eyes. “And it’s our furniture.”

Anders opened his mouth to correct her—he had no right to claim this life of luxury—only for Marian to quickly cut him off.

“Yes, it’s yours, too, Anders. I don’t care what you say. If something happens to me—”

“Nothing is going to happen to you.” Anders let go of the banister, his cramping fingers thanking him, and turned to face her. He set his jaw, brow furrowing. “I won’t allow it.”

“You won’t allow it? Ha! I’ll let the Maker know, next time I see Him.”

Anders’ mouth went dry. “Next time you see Him? I thought you said—”

“Sarcasm, Anders! Sarcasm.” Marian laughed a laugh that did not quite reach her eyes.

Anders closed his eyes, forced himself to swallow. “Please don’t joke about that.”

“About what? The part about seeing the Maker, or the part where I—”

“I don’t give a blighted rat’s ass about the Maker.” Anders opened his eyes as he clenched his fists, Marian making an exaggerated, faux-offended gasp at his blasphemy. “I do give a blighted rat’s ass about you, however, and you…you died Marian.”

Marian lifted her shoulders in a shrug, seemingly indifferent about her own demise. “I got better, didn’t I?”

“That’s not the point!” Anders shouted.

Marian shot Anders a warning glare as the five-year-old in her arms whimpered and curled into her chest.

“That’s not the point,” he repeated in a whisper, determined not to let the topic slide—again. “You died because of me. Because I….” The words got stuck in his throat, tears welling in his eyes.

“Because you what?” Marian picked up ruthlessly. “Knocked me up? Lost control to Justice? Couldn’t stop me from knocking Justice-you out because he was burning you up from the inside out and I couldn’t bear to see you die?”

“I—”

“Is it because your actions led to the Wardens—Nathaniel and Velanna—no longer trusting you?” Marian pressed relentlessly on, her voice gradually increasing in volume. “Because you were dozing comfortably in Nathaniel’s strong, muscled arms while I held Prince Piss and his pissy posse at bay? Or is it because you couldn’t make that grand sacrifice you’ve been dying to make since the Chantry exploded and finally—”

Leah groaned again, shutting Marian up mid-tirade. Both froze as their daughter moved, mumbling something that was almost coherent as she snuggled further against her mother.

“It doesn’t matter,” Marian said, quieter this time, eyes downcast.

Anders swallowed the urge to scream. It did matter. It mattered quite a lot, in fact. To him. To Leah. To everyone else whose life Marian had touched. How could she not see that? How could she not understand that she was the thing that had held them all together all those years ago, that was still keeping him in one piece now,  a stubborn, persistent sap that valiantly refused to be dissolved no matter the agent used against it?

Because you broke her.

“Marian, we need to talk about—”

“It. Doesn’t. Matter.”

“It does,” he insisted, frowning. “And we need to—”

“We need to sleep. Before we say things we’ll both regret. It’s been a long day.”

He couldn’t argue with her there. “….Fine.”

She smiled a smile that reminded him of a particularly mischievous cat. “There; that wasn’t so hard, was it?”

“But we will be discussing this later.”

“Discuss wh—oh! Don’t glower at me.”

“Marian, please.”

“Alright! Alright. If it means that much to you—”

“It does.”

“—then we’ll discuss it later.”

“Thank you.”

“Please, don’t mention it,” Marian grumbled.

Truthfully, Anders didn’t believe that she would discuss it later, but he also knew that further argument was pointless. Shelving his objections for the time being, he opened his arms. “Here—give Leah to me.”

“Gladly.” With a carefulness at odds with the enthusiasm with which she spoke, Marian maneuvered their sleeping daughter into his arms, chuckling slightly as Anders let out an, “Oof!” Wincing, she stretched her arms above her head, mouth opening wide in a yawn. Despite the bulky Champion armor clinging to her toned body, their mini-fight, and the extreme exhaustion threatening to claim him, Anders felt a stirring in his loins.

“Didn’t your mother teach you its rude to stare?” Marian teased.

Anders tried to shrug as nonchalantly as Marian had while carrying Leah, failed. “Probably.” He grit his teeth as his upper back screamed in protest from the attempted shrug. “How did you manage both Leah and your two-hander?”

With a wink that weakened his already shaky knees, Marian turned sharply on her heel. “Put Leah to bed and I’ll show you what else I can manage.”

Anders shook his head, a breathy, incredulous laugh escaping him. He followed after Marian, turning left towards Leandra’s old room while Marian continued on straight to the master bedroom. “What was that about needing to sleep?”

[sissy-the-siren-writes]

Holiday Blues

Rating: Teen And Up Audiences Fandom: Halo Relationship: John/Kelly Characters: John-117 | Master Chief, Kelly-087 Summary: Before they were SPARTAN-IIs, they were kids. After they were SPARTAN-IIs, they were adults. But regardless of before and after, they were human first and foremost and sometimes John needed Kelly to remind him to come up for air. Link(s): AO3, FF

John blinked as Kelly pressed her lips to his. They were warm despite the cold, her pale cheeks flushed a delicate pink.

It was a chaste, innocent act. John had been kissed before by playmates, in the way that children go about such things, playing house with their friends, copying expressions of affection they had witnessed shared amongst the older kids and adults.

John had always been ahead of the other children his age in terms of physical prowess and mental acuity, so he himself had never bothered to initiate such a tender display; he had seen his parents kiss before, and it seemed not right to treat such a thing so flippantly, even if just for a game of make believe.

But there was something different about this, this kiss with Kelly.

He couldn't put a finger on what, but the warmth of her breath against his frozen face and pressure of her mouth against his was right in a way that nothing had been right since he'd first laid eyes on Dr. Halsey.

Just as quickly as the kiss had started, it ended, Kelly drawing back so quickly that John stumbled forward. Kelly laughed—really laughed—as he caught himself before tumbling into a snowbank, the cold, dark world that they were in suddenly very real once more.

John couldn't help but crack a smile at the lightness in Kelly's eyes, the full moon above sending shafts of light through the snow-heavy clouds above. The wind stirred, rustling skeletal branches as an animal of some sort cried in the distance. Somewhere out there in the night Sam and Linda were looking for them; perhaps they had found the rest of the SPARTAN-IIs, perhaps they hadn't. Being the leader, John should have probably cared, and he did, but right then—

“Merry Christmas.”

John blinked again.

“Huh?”

Kelly smiled and pointed up to where the stars would have been had it not been for the weather's stubborn desire to prove meteorologists wrong. John followed her direction, his breath coming out in puffs as he breathed deeply. His lungs burned and the air hurt his face, but he wanted to remember this moment for some reason.

“Out there...somewhere...on some planet...it's Christmas.”

Christmas...

John felt his eyes lose focus and he made a half-attempt at forcing them back to clarity, but then the smell of heavily seasoned, cooking fowls tickled his nose. His dad's deep voice rippled around the trees, followed by hearty laughter that seemed to shake the snow from the trees above, and he was being pulled back into a comforting embrace, rich vanilla-coconut scent soap enveloping him in a cocoon of safety and security—

“John.” He heard his mother say as she pressed something into his small hands. “Merry Christmas.”

John looked down, searching for the present—the mother—that wasn't there, and for a second he was afraid he was going to black out as the searing agony of loss rippled through his gut. He missed his mother. He missed his father, too, of course, but he missed his mother so, so much.

Why was he there? What was he doing on Reach? Why had he been taken from his home, his mother? It wasn't fair. It wasn't right.

But then Kelly was there again, her hands filling the void left by the phantom present and he understood why he was there, why he was doing this, why if Dr. Halsey had walked away from him that day and never returned he would have torn the galaxy apart searching for her, the question “Why? Why not me?” his eternal torment.

And so he took Kelly's hands in his, frostbitten as they were, and held onto them tight, because Dr. Halsey was right about him, because Dr. Halsey was right about Kelly, because Dr. Halsey was right about having chosen them. And he knew why Kelly had said, “Merry Christmas”, why she had reminded him of what they'd lost, of what they had been given, of why she had brought up a holiday now of all times.

“Merry Christmas.”

oOOo

Kelly blinked as John pressed his lips to hers. They were warm despite the cold stale recycled air that pumped throughout the ship, his deathly pale cheeks tinged with a light dusting of red.

It was a passionate yet innocent act. Kelly had been kissed before by John, in the way that adults go about such things when their desires are stirring in their gut, laying down to affirm physically what they feel for one another emotionally.

Kelly had always been on equal footing with John in this regard, their thoughts aligning perfectly in a way she didn't know was humanly possible.

But there was something different about this, about this kiss with John.

She couldn't put a finger on what, but the warmth of his breath against her scarred face and pressure of his mouth against hers was right in a way that nothing had been right since she thought she'd lost John to the stars on those damnable Halos.

Instead of drawing back—they were in someone else's bunk for God's sake—John pushed forward, his large hands digging into her back, pressing her flush against him. There was nothing sexual about the act, not this time, but something else, something that transcended the physical plane.

“Merry Christmas,” he murmured briefly before plunging back into the kiss and Kelly was suddenly a little girl again in the snowy mountains of Reach with a much shorter and younger John. The snow was falling and the moon was shining, and it struck her how fantastically similar every planet was, how her birthplace was not so different than this one, that someday there might be houses where they were standing, that someday they wouldn't need children like her to go and fight in some terrible war.

It was easy to forget that, sometimes. That they were all children. That they were human. John, the stresses of leadership already carving deep lines in his still-cherubic face, forgot that more than any of them.

It was just the two of them as she kissed him, as she wished him a merry Christmas, as she told him with actions rather than words that she was here, that she saw him, that he was not alone.

That memory had been one of her favorites throughout the stretches they had been apart. Many things had changed over the years—augmentations, deaths, aliens, glassings—but many things hadn't.

John was still John, Kelly was still Kelly, and they were both still alive and they were both still human.

And so she took John's face in her hands and gently maneuvered him onto his back, trespassing in someone else's bunk though they were, because John was right, because Kelly was right, because they were right together.

“Merry Christmas.”

[sissy-the-siren-writes]

Hands

Rating: General Audiences Fandom: Halo Relationship: John/Kelly Characters: John-117 | Master Chief, Kelly-087, Olympia Vale, Edward Buck Summary: Vale openly gaped at the sight before her, of the Master Chief—the Master Chief—and the woman beside him, Kelly-087, doing what she could only assume was some sort of Spartan display of affection. Link(s): AO3, FF To say it had been a long, weird day would have been an understatement.

But this.

This.

Vale openly gaped at the sight before her, of the Master Chief—the Master Chief—and the woman beside him, Kelly-087, doing what she could only assume was some sort of Spartan display of affection. Thankfully, her helmet kept her her open gape from being too open, but that she had not moved from where she had been standing at the Gateway when Blue Team had descended unharmed from their Cryptum prison was plain for all to see. Again, thankfully, no one was paying her much mind.

Locke was talking in hushed tones with Fred, about what Vale wasn't sure but prayed was something along the lines of a way to get them off of the organically artificial planet that was Genesis. Linda was on watch, her sniper raised, Tanaka standing opposite her with her DMR. And Buck was—

“Didn't your mother ever teach you it's rude to stare?”

Vale nearly jumped out of her skin, spinning around and bringing her SMG to bear without a second thought. Buck threw up his hands and took a step back.

“Whoa, easy there, now. It's me. Buck. Your teammate.”

“Damn it, Buck,” Vale snapped. Holstering her weapon, she let out a shaky breath. “Don't scare me like that.”

“Don't scare me like that,” the former ODST countered. “I merely said hello. You nearly filled me with bullets.”

Sighing, Vale ran a hand across the top of her crimson helmet. “I'm—I'm sorry, ok? Today has been...weird. And...and that...” She nodded her head back at the living legends behind her. “Are they...allowed to do that?”

Buck's head moved ever so slightly, his shoulders moving up and down in a slight shrug. “I don't see why not.” She could just imagine him raising a curious brow. “Why? Jealous?”

“No, I—” Vale stopped short. She what? Hadn't expected the myths, these gods amongst men, to be...human? It was a ridiculous thought, one she dared not voice. Because logically she knew that they were human, flesh and blood, made the way they were through science and a clever mind; there was nothing mystical or magical about them. They could bleed and die just like the rest of them, like her. And yet...

Buck cocked his head to the side, waiting. When she failed to respond after a full minute had passed, he opened his arms.

Vale blinked at the gesture. “What?”

“You look like you need a hug. And, to be honest with you, I could really use one too. Completely platonic and teamly of course. But, to be on the safe side, just….don't tell my girlfriend.”

Vale rolled her eyes.

~*~

Despite the combat exoskeleton that separated their skin, John was glad for the light, reassuring pressure that was Kelly's fingers twined around his. The contact, simple though it was in nature, was all that was keeping him tethered to reality in that moment.

She stood before him, silent and caring, waiting. There was little that needed to be spoken between them, and now was one of those times, when her presence was enough, when their years of service together exchanged words for them in the form of body language and touch.

The part of him that was the Master Chief was telling him to pull it together, to join Locke and Fred as they conspired to escape this planet that he had foolishly dragged them to in an attempt to right a wrong he'd never had the power to correct in the first place. Guilt—over putting his team and Locke's in jeopardy for a whim, for breaking a promise, for failing to stop her—held him back. His judgment had been compromised.

The part of him that was John was just happy that Kelly, Fred, and Linda were alive.

His fingers twitched, Kelly's hold on him becoming more solid in the form of her entire hand clasping his firmly. His helmeted stare lifted, meeting hers.

That she was there, that she was alive, real…

He took a centering breath, concentrated on the facts.

They were stuck, without a Pelican to fly or even a Covenant ship to commandeer.

Exuberant Witness and her Constructors had disappeared inside her reclaimed installation for purposes unknown.

Ammo was of short supply.

Everyone was, miraculously, uninjured.

And Cortana was—she was—

“John.”

And there it was. His name. So much said with so little.

Kelly reached for his other hand, catching it in her unbreakable grasp. He could feel her penetrating stare behind her visor and imagined that her sharp blue eyes that saw everything, saw him, would have been beautifully offset by the stone cold caps that surrounded the platform on which they stood.

When this was all over—and it would be over and they would survive—maybe they'd find some peace for a change. Maybe they'd visit some world not torn apart by war. And maybe—just maybe—he'd get to see all the colors the universe had to offer reflected in her eyes, bringing out the flecks of grey, the shadows of silver, the highlights of baby blue.

He felt her grip tighten, and he squeezed back in response.

Together.

That's what she was saying. What he was saying back.

Together.

They would face it.

Together.

Their lull was interrupted by a shout—“Stop it, Buck!”—by the Osiris member known as Olympia Vale, and then the Master Chief was back, purposefully striding over to where Fred and Spartan Locke stood, leaving his heart in the capable hands of Kelly-087.

[sissy-the-siren-writes]

Blessed Curses

Rating: General Audiences Fandom: Halo Relationship: John/Kelly Characters: John-117 | Master Chief, Kelly-087 Summary: It was inevitable, this aging, one of the curses of being human. It was a curse she had never thought he—or she, for that matter—would ever live to experience. Perhaps having once entertained that thought, the thought of an early grave, made her morbid, but no one would blame her. He and she were soldiers after all, Spartans, and early graves were a part of the job description. Link(s): AO3, FF

Blue eyes blinked, tracing mental fingers across scarred skin. The skin was pale, though not as pale as it had once been when it had been hidden behind green, stalwart armor. The tank top that covered the pale skin did little to hide the muscles of the chest, fully exposed those in the arms, though, like the skin that had once been deathly white, the muscles had lost some of their bulk.

He was getting old.

She smiled.

Old. He was getting old.

It was inevitable, this aging, one of the curses of being human. It was a curse she had never thought he—or she, for that matter—would ever live to experience. Perhaps having once entertained that thought, the thought of an early grave, made her morbid, but no one would blame her. He and she were soldiers after all, Spartans, and early graves were a part of the job description.

So no, she had never thought they’d live long enough to look in the mirror and see shocks of grey where there had once been dark brown. And yet there they were, in their bed, soft puffs of breath escaping his parted, scarred lips, a strand of drool dripping down his chin.

He was getting old.

And it was glorious.

Wrinkles traversed marred flesh, and while he had developed crow’s feet relatively early on in life, there were more lines now, due to time rather than stress.

Her smile grew wider.

Well, most of the wrinkles were now due to time. Some had been born of yet another curse she had never thought they’d live to see—parental worry.

She bit her lip, her smile stretching her cheeks to the point that they hurt, and buried her head in her pillow, keeping one gleaming blue eye on him.

They were parents.

It still amused her to this day, nearly thirty years later when their son was grown and had a family of his own, that they were parents. If it had been taboo for her to think of him growing old, it had been against god for her to imagine him—to imagine her—with children. And yet a child they had. Grandchildren, too. And it was amazing.

He slipped one eye open suddenly, his mouth quickly curling to mimic hers in its joyous display. She had known he hadn’t truly been sleeping, and he had known that she had known, but neither had been willing to disturb the pristine silence. It had been enough to just be.

The sheet fell down to his torso as he sat up and extended one large hand towards her face. She leaned forward, anticipating his touch, closed her eyes as he ran his rough thumb across her scarred cheek, breathed deeply as he lightly brushed her lips.

The sun had begun its ascent; she could feel its warmth on her back as its rays slipped inside their sacred haven. But the sun wasn’t responsible for the fire burning inside her.

Soon they would have to rise and greet the day. Soon they would have to report for duty for, old as they were, the job was never really done. But for now it was just them.

“Kelly.”

A shiver worked its way down her spine.

“Kelly.”

It felt good to hear him say her name. There had been a time long ago when she had been afraid she would never hear it from him again.

“Kelly.”

Something inside her chest tightened.

It was only her name, but with it he said so much.

She opened her eyes at long last, gaze softening as she placed her hand on top of his, could feel the shakiness with which he held it against her.

She swallowed hard.

It was the greatest enemy that they had ever faced and one day…one day…it would win.

There would come a point where he would reach the end of the aging process and there was only one thing left for him to do. It was something he couldn’t shoot or blow up, something he couldn’t outrun or outsmart. Hell, she couldn’t even outrun it, though she’d certainly give it all she had. She’d run until she was beyond breathless, pulling him along with her until her legs gave out beneath her, and even then, she’d damn it all and keep going.

As if he could read her mind—and he probably could, long as he’d known her—he took her hand in his and gave it a gentle squeeze. Her smile returned and she placed her free hand on top of his, their fingers intertwining.

“Kelly.”

Yes, one day time would win.

But not today.

And when it eventually did, she would welcome it, curse and all, with open arms.

For any time was better than none.

[sissy-the-siren-writes]

Going to start sharing some of my fanfics on here! Please note that some of them are....very old, to say the least, and don't necessarily reflect my current writing style! Regardless, I hope you enjoy! (*^‿^*)